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[daylighted]

─ FRIEND FROM COLLEGE, dad's best friend ! jackles

your welcome home party from college is joined by none other than the man your father based all of his warnings about boys around: his estranged best friend from college. little did he know that it wasn't the signs you needed to be warned away from, but the man himself.

warnings. ( 18+ ! ) pls for the love of god don't interact with this one if you're a minor. hefty age gap. unprotected p in v. semi - public sex (maybe?). choke kink. daddy kink (lite edition). spit kink? maybe? manhandling. creampie. romanticization of sneaking around. mentions of alc/hol & drinking. word count. 6.7k (SORRY.)

happy birthday to my bree bree, @titsout4jackles <3 thank u for forcing me back into writing smut with this one HAHAH.

OF COURSE YOU'D HEARD ABOUT JENSEN; an infamous character from your dad’s past, a faceless name that frequented in all of the stories that he ended with, don’t try that, or don’t repeat my mistakes. you’d heard infinite stories about your dad’s time in college involving that man, his name spoken around an exasperated sigh, so at adds with the story in mention. your father, wistfully telling you at the dinner table to not do any keg stands while you were away at school, because of the time jensen had done three in one night, somehow, and ended up in the emergency room.

it was just one of those things you accepted about your parents’ lives, before they met and made the family that was you: jensen was either a scapegoat character made up to teach you obscure life lessons, or those three keg stands in one night killed him, considering you'd never met him once in all of your twenty-something years. either way, those stories did have some sort of influence on you, because your years away at college went by without issue, or hospitalization from alcoholism. 

you were so happy to be back home. your term was up for the year, landing you back in the summery sunset heat enveloping your parents’ home, coating everything in a thick sheen of inescapable warmth. your mothers rose bushes in the front yard were blooming flowers of beautiful shades of pink and red, loose petals scattered across the bright green of their front lawn, the floral-and-pollen smell a warm greeting as you walked up the front steps. 

music drifted outside from the open windows, the navy blue shudders rattling against the creamy white clapboard siding on the house. you could see, just faintly, through the blinding white of the sun’s glare, the outlines of people in the sun-darkened interior. 

were you supposed to knock? this was the house you grew up in. your heights over the years were etched into the doorframe of the closed off upstairs staircase, the graphite of the pencil faded with time but the grooves in the wood a permanent staple. the living room’s cream paint job was dulling, too, except for that one spot by the warm brown skirting board, where a littler you had just learned that crayons and markers worked as well on the paint as they did on the papers you colored, and your parents had to cover it up. 

were you meant to knock on a door that held so many memories within its grasp? did it suddenly stop becoming your home just because you’d spread your wings and flown south for a little while? 

the debate is interrupted when a hush falls over the chatter inside, even the volume of the music dropping to a low murmur. before you can even process that your presence had been noticed by someone, the front door pulls open, putting a final end on the internal debate racking through you and gnawing on the inner workings of your mind.

“honey!” your mom exclaims, her arms tossing around your neck, dragging you in for a tight hug. she smells like the solo cup she has in her hand around you: malibu rum, with a twinge of sweet pineapple juice. when she tugs back away from you, the cup in mention is offered to you. "finish this for me, will you? your father's cutting me off."

your lips tilt up in amusement, taking a little testing sip from it. expectedly, your mother's unmistakable heavy hand is evident in that one sip, the burn of alcohol slipping down your throat with the faintest trace of coconut on your tongue. "i wonder why."

"hey," your mother scolds teasingly, her arms folding across her chest in a way so similarly to how you do, it almost aches, "you can't scold your mother before you give her a proper hug." you remembered a time when you were as tall as her hip, and attached to it too. growing up was as much a blessing as it was a curse, the memories of the simpler days like wounds that didn't ever fully heal. you supposed it was something that got easier to manage when every year circled around again.

you laugh, reaching around her to set the cup down on the entrance table in the living space, right beside the bowl of keys filled halfway, before you properly hugged your mother. you'd known that they were throwing you a welcome home party, but this many people? you can't draw your eyes away from the bowl, trying to pick apart the ones you recognized.

your father's and your mother's, of course; you were pretty sure that was your aunt's, with the frilly pink puff on the key ring, and one of your dad's friends, your honorary uncle tom—

caught up in the impossible task of assigning names and faces to a bowl of keys, you miss your father's booming voice, echoing through the scattering of people in the living room, eyes locked in your direction like they were waiting for their turn to say something to you while you were caught up in the embrace of your mother. "there is my little girl!"

you were hardly little anymore, you were over halfway through your college experience by now, quickly approaching the final year. like you looked at this house and saw all the remnants of your youth, it seemed that your father didn't look at you without seeing the girl you used to be.

your mom releases you, and you wait with bated breath to be crushed into your father's chest— but he's interrupted, and you're stuck holding your breath for no reason, by a voice you don't recognize.

"so this is her?"

he has a beer bottle between big fingers, a smirk poking through the scruff of dark facial hair smattering across his cheeks and jawline, dusting across his upper lip. his eyes are a piercing tea green, framed by dark eyelashes that only prove to emphasize their paleness. his hair is slicked out of his face, a couple of loose straggling strands hung over his eyes.

your mouth runs completely dry. somehow, like a piece fitting into the gap in a puzzle, you know without being told that this is—

"jensen," his free hand shoots out in greeting, and stirring you away from the muddle of your thoughts and out of the silent stupor you'd gotten stuck in, "it's nice to put a face to the name i've been listenin' to this guy rave about for the last few hours."

it wasn't embarrassing, per se, but you found your face warming with it, anyways. had your father shown him the doorframe with your heights etched into it? did he see the baby pictures on the coffee table photo album, and the ridiculous number of times you'd had birthday cake smeared all over your face in it?

you manage to find your voice at the same time as you clasp his hand, but it feels awkward in your mouth, like none of the right words are coming forward to claim the sentence you try to force out. "it's— yes. it's nice to have a face."

his mouth twitches. this was not supposed to happen. jensen ackles was never supposed to be real, or, hell — alive. you'd come to terms with the fact that he was as imaginary as the tooth fairy, a figure for life lessons like smoky the bear or something. he wasn't supposed to be standing in front of you, letting you make a fool of yourself in front of the entirety of your family and friends.

jensen keeps his hand around yours for a few longer seconds, the bigger palm hugging yours sending a rush of chills up your arm. he was so warm. and tall. and real. wasn't that crazy? "yeah, it is nice to have a face, sweetheart." he shoots you a wink that takes a detour from your eyes to your chest, sending your heart racing in a frenzy. "you've got a real pretty one, too."

your dad's lips thin, prying jensen's fingers out of yours. "that's enough of that," he grumbles, stepping in jensen's place in front of you to tug you into his chest. "welcome home, baby."

it's a wonderful distraction from whatever that was, clawing at your ribcage and threatening to steal your stuttering heart along with it. you take a deep breath and sigh, eyes closing. it was nice to be home. "i see you guys started without me."

"your lovely mother got excited," your dad explains, shaking his head as he steps back and releases you, "you know how excited she gets about a party."

hence why she'd disappeared, inevitably looking for the digital camera to document this. this was why the photo album was splayed on the coffee table, and why you had a picture for every birthday, every swipe of frosting smeared around your hands and face. hopefully, there wasn't any cake this time around.

like a warm balm to the racing beat in your chest, you could feel jensen's gaze on you still. you refused to meet it head on, though, knowing innately that the entire world would tilt on its axis and never return to its natural state. like the butterfly effect; something so small was capable of changing the world.

you're saved by your father's hand on your shoulder, guiding you toward the glass screen doors that opened up to a fully decorated back patio. fairy lights strung between the trees and over the navy blue awning, a full fold-out table underneath the awning with a big bowl of icy punch, and a cooler sat next to the table with bottles of beer coated in ice water and sweat.

snacks of all kinds lined the opposite side of the table. bags of chips lined out by flavor, a cooking tray with barbecue and hamburgers laid out on it, condiments on the opposite side. the air smelled like charcoal and food, and beneath it all was an underlying scent of—

"oh no."

your dad laughs brightly, clapping you on the shoulder. "your mom insisted. you know she couldn't have a party without her little girl having a cake."

"is she expecting me to drop headfirst into it again?" you weren't planning on doing that anyways, hadn't since you were too little to know how utensils worked, but with jensen here? you were definitely not doing that in front of him. no way.

he shrugs, slipping around you to steal another bottle from the cooler. "doubtful. she will want a picture of you with it, though." he tips the neck of the bottle toward you in acknowledgement. "mom's got more alcohol inside, if you don't want whatever the hell they tossed in that punch bowl or beer. i'm gonna start bringin' the smores stuff out, if you want to get situated by the fire."

you wave your hand in a polite dismissal, stepping out of the way for your dad to disappear inside again. standing in front of the refreshments table, you bend to grab a beer for yourself, cracking it open as the sweat coated your palm. it was a welcome distraction from the sun blazing one last time before it clocked out and the moon took its place.

you were a few steps away from the bonfire pit in the center of your backyard, the patio chairs entangled in with metal foldouts in a circle around it, when you sensed him behind you. it was impossible to not know it was him; he was the only person here whos eyes you weren't familiar with how it felt to be watched from. across from the patio chair you chose, the grill still smoked with the last of the charcoal cooking away, and in the haze of that smoke, he dipped into focus.

under the golden light of the sunset, he looked even more devastating, somehow. a maroon button-up with the top two buttons undone, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. khaki shorts that hugged his thick thighs, leaving little to the imagination as he closed the final remnants of distance.

"already so quick to run away?"

your back straightens, as if the idea of slouching in front of him was something detrimental. your fingernail swirled patterns in the dripping sweat on the bottle, eyes locked on the motion to avoid looking at him. you still heard it, though, when jensen's weight collapsed into a chair across the fire from you, his legs spread wide as he makes himself comfortable in his own patio chair.

"for your information," you say, your eyes flicking up to meet his finally, and it's just as intense as you remember, "i was not running away. i got told to sit out here."

"okay, princess, stand down." his eyes are sinful, raking up and down the length of your body. he was so shameless about it, like he didn't feel an ounce of guilt at all about the fact that you were his best friend's daughter. sure, he'd never met you before, but didn't that thought enter his head at all? wasn't he clinging to that little reminder like you were?

your eyes dance over to the patio doors, split open and inviting, letting the breeze into the interior of the home, deep blue curtains flapping. it was comforting for you, in a way, just as much as it was suffocating, knowing at any moment, someone else could step outside.

the nylon of the patio chair creaks across from you, and you glance over at jensen again, just to see him shift forward with his elbows on his knees. "what are you so scared of, beautiful?"

you were not scared. where he got that assessment was beyond you, considering you were ramrod straight in your seat, unable to look at him at all, finding every blade of grass in the lawn much more enticing. see? definitely not scared. "maybe," you start, tilting your head to the side in mindless thought, "it's because you're a stranger, following me around."

"do you want to get to know me?" his smirk cuts a dimple into his cheek. he’s captivating, utterly captivating. there was something so enticing about him, about the forbidden nature that came with everything about him.

you arch an eyebrow at him. “what’s to learn?” your finger circles the mouth of your beer before you lift it to your mouth for a quick swig of it. his gaze is locked on the bob of your throat. “dad told me plenty of stories.”

“i thought i was a stranger.”

“i thought you were smoky the bear.”

jensen’s laugh is music, echoing in the growing dark of the night. the golden cast over his face was now a warm orange, casting a darker shadow of the deep dark of his gaze. "smoky the bear?"

"i thought he made you up," you were not biting back a smile. jensen was your dad's former best friend, something potentially had gotten revived, considering he was here. off-limits echoed in your head like a mantra, growing quieter with each passing moment you tried to pretend that he wasn't looking at you like that. "since i never got a face to the name of the guy who supposedly ate a worm for three dollars."

you expect him to deny it. his mouth curves in a crescent, his eyes glimmering in the deep amber light. "three dollars and seventy five cents."

"no."

"bought myself a gumball that day."

your head tips back in a laugh, the harmony of yours atop of his sending a chill up the arch of your spine. you open your mouth to say something, beer bottle tilted in his direction in a half-attempt at a cheers, but voices start to filter outside behind you.

whatever you planned to say is swallowed down, the intoxicating energy of your banter sucked up like a vacuum. your mom hooks a hand on your shoulder, tugging your head toward her to kiss your temple. "i see you've been getting to know jensen," she hums, taking the metal foldout chair next to you. "i hope he's not giving you too much trouble."

you don't look away from him as you shake your head. "nothing i can't handle."

"of course," she agrees, taking up one of the metal prongs and sliding a marshmallow on each of the ends. "you got that from me, you know. your father was unbearable back in the day, to everyone but me."

jensen's chiming in draws your eyes back to him. "it's true. she domesticated him."

you cock an eyebrow at him. "who's domesticating you then?"

his only answer is a wicked grin. your mom, thankfully, says nothing about it, her attention on the marshmallows warming over the lick of the flames, stretching and sticking to the heated prongs.

"m'gonna go get another drink," jensen sighs, palms patting the spread of his thighs as he rises. after a long term of simplicity, no time to even ponder the idea of doing three keg stands, or something disgusting for a couple of bucks, the leash that jensen had around your interest was tight. you couldn't look away as he walked up the wooden steps of your patio, disappearing through the fluttering curtains.

next to you, your mother has captured the marshmallows between two squares of graham crackers, a piece of chocolate melting into the sticky sugar. "want one?" she asks, offering one out to you through the light pinch of her two fingers.

you wave your hand before you can think any of this through. "actually, i'm gonna go run to the bathroom, i think."

"of course," she says with a little smile, and you almost feel bad for denying her, knowing she just wanted to spend time with you on your first night back home. there was plenty of time still in the night, the fire only having just started, and the night having only just now dipped from warm oranges and pinks to deep blue.

the stars winked at you, knowing exactly where you were heading as you stood and started toward the sliding glass doors. they'd keep your secret, whatever that secret turned out to be.

somehow, even after having heard him announce where he was going, you're surprised to see jensen at the mahogany countertop, a crystal tumbler between his fingers that nurses a finger of bourbon. outside, you can hear the cackle of your uncle tom, followed by the hollering laughter of your father. the rest of the guests had settled into the spread of chairs around the firepit.

it was you and jensen in the dim dark of the house, the natural light having disappeared behind the horizon, drenching the both of you in a pale light that danced in the open space between the curtains.

"naughty girl," jensen drawls, his voice low and guttural at the base of his throat. he hasn't turned his attention away from his drink, watching you out of the corner of his eye. "runnin' from the party in her name to hang out with the big, bad wolf."

your heartbeat stutters in place in your chest, but you aren't so easily deterred or riled. your head tilts up in an air of defiance that only makes the wolfish expression on his face widen. the dull point of his canine clamps on his bottom lip. "for your information," you echo from earlier, "i'm going to the bathroom."

"this ain't the bathroom," he muses, nodding back toward the hallway like you were the one who needed directions in your own home. "gone so long you're gettin' lost in your own home?"

"i think you wanted me to come in here with you." you don't know where the words bubble up from, but they're out of your mouth before you can swallow the soap of them back down. "you had beer earlier. you could have gotten another."

jensen laughs, the sound of it pooling like heat in your lower belly. "dictatin' what i drink now? that's bold, naughty girl. we just met."

you stutter on a response. "i'm just saying—"

"maybe i wanted somethin' richer," jensen rasps, turning to face you now, the base of his spine pressed back into the edge of the countertop, "to try n' get another flavor out of my imagination."

every rational thought leaves your head. anything you could have said dissipates into vapor, floating back up toward the sunless sky. the innuendo is clear, written in vibrant shades like words atop a birthday cake — or, for today's sake, a graduation cake.

you're speechless, neither of you breaking the intense eye contact you shared. maybe he was a big bad wolf, what with the way he eyed you, all of you, like he was looking for the treats you'd tucked away underneath your red cloak.

"i'm gonna go to the bathroom now," you manage to breathe out, the crack in the center of your sentence shifting like tectonic plates. the earthquake was bound to hit any moment.

his eyebrows raise in his own amusement. "use mine."

the illusion cracks. the earthquake doesn't yet hit. you're both on one side of the plates, waiting to see who stumbles into the other first. "what?"

"your dad is a helluva host," jensen hums, downing the rest of his bourbon in one fell swoop, "invites me to a party and offers to let me stay a couple of nights too, to catch up."

you still don't say anything, the realization like a knife. you were home for three months; jensen was here for a few days, rekindling an estranged friendship with your father, assumedly going to be over often. your mouth felt like cotton, like you'd swallowed a handful of cinnamon, choking on the dry sweetness.

"do you know what he said?"

the glass clinks on the countertop when jensen sets it down, his footsteps echoing heavily on the linoleum beneath his boots. "he said," he continues without your prompting, close enough that his breath ghosts over the shell of your ear, "he had a pretty daughter he wanted me to meet. thought i'd like her."

your voice is weak when you say, "he didn't say that."

"i took creative liberties."

your mouth opens, closes. nothing eradicates the dryness in your mouth, the plague of it starting to curl down your throat. finally, you manage to choke out in response, "what other creative liberties have you drawn about me?"

jensen smells spicy. cloves and musk and bourbon and cinnamon. you wonder, in a brief, fleeting thought, if he tastes like it, too. "little things," he finally breathes, "wonderin' if that mouth of yours sucks as good as it runs. how those legs would feel wrapped around me when i bury myself so deep in your—"

"there you are, jens," your dad's voice nearly makes you jump out of your skin, his head peeking through the open glass doors of the back entrance, "everything okay?"

jensen settles back on the heels of his shoes as if he wasn't all but tracing the shell of your ear with his tongue. "all good," he agrees, giving your father a smile that gave nothing away of how he'd been talking about burying himself in you. "we were talkin' about school. i held her up on goin' to the bathroom. that's my bad."

he lies so easily that you know it had to be a reason why he and your dad fell out. your dad hated liars, hated secrets. everything happening underneath his nose with this was soon enough going to break his heart when it came to light, but the thrill of that possibility sent electricity jolting down your spine.

"actually, i think i'mma head in for the night," jensen sighs, that smile of his becoming something lazier and more tired than what it'd been moments before. "thanks for invitin' me to stay the weekend again."

weekend. today was thursday. that meant...

you barely manage to move out of the way before jensen brushes past you, his fingertips ghosting along your ribs that were turned away from your father. the invitation was clear when you met his eyes for a final time. go to his bathroom.

"sorry about him," your dad says with a bemused shake of his head, "i've been invitin' him to come around again since we graduated, didn't expect him to actually show up today. hope he's not givin' you too much trouble."

your mother said the same thing. you wondered idly about what sort of trouble they must be referring to, and why it seemed to trail him. "he's fine. i was asking him about which of your stories were true."

he winks at you. "all of 'em."

"well, i learned that," you laugh, ducking your face in a useless attempt to hide the fact that he was more right than he knew. troublemaking womanizer from my time at college that once did three keg stands in one night, who spent his weekend in the hospital. nothing but trouble, doing anything for a dime or a laugh.

you nod behind you to the hallway. "i'll be out in a few, okay? i'm just gonna run to the bathroom and get a little snack first. i haven't eaten all day."

maybe you were doomed to fall out of your close relationship with your father, too, the easy way you lie to him.

he nods, patting the glass doorframe. "okay, sweetheart. mom's makin' enough smores to feed the town, so save some room."

over your shoulder, you smile warmly at your father. "okay, dad."

the house falls silent again. there's nothing but the thudding heartbeat in your chest, punctuating the decision you were dooming yourself to make.

all the bedrooms were upstairs. the guest room and its bathroom and your bedroom were on one side of the hallway, the main bathroom upstairs at the very end, and your parents' and the other guest room were on the other. you bypass your bedroom and hesitate in front of the cracked door of the guest bedroom.

anxiety ripples through you. bad decision, your head says again, one final time, before it vanishes completely, your subconscious giving up on trying to offer you the chance to back out.

you push the bedroom door open, and there was jensen ackles, the maroon button-up discarded, leaving the expanse of his abdomen on display in the reflection of the mirror he stood in front of. your eyes trace sinew and muscle in his back, how his shoulder blades shift beneath his skin as he stands a little straighter at the sight of you.

he doesn't say a word. doesn't move an inch. he can't be as bad as everyone says, you can't help but think, because he's letting you call the shots here. you could stand in this doorway and tell him goodnight, and he'd let you go.

you could do what you already were without realizing: step inside the bedroom and close the door behind you again.

again, he doesn't yet move from where he was, only turning around to fully face you. he was so broad, the muscles indenting his stomach sturdy and solid. he was shameless in how he eyed you up, so you didn't shy away from returning the favor now that you felt safe enough to do so.

there's a heated moment when nothing happens except the air in the room charges. heats and heats until it bursts through the wire coating and catches flame, burning everything in its path.

one moment, he's a couple of feet away, watching you like it was your turn to act on the chessboard. the next, his feet are carrying themselves over to you, his lips crashing against yours like a hurricane.

jensen kisses like he, too, knew that this was doomed. his palms slip under your thighs and hoist you into the air, and you break apart from him in a harsh intake of breath, your hands grasping at his shoulders for stability.

your back collides with a wooden door, and neither of you move for a split second. his tongue laps into your mouth, meeting yours stroke for stroke, his fingers squeezing handfuls of the skin of your thighs between them. he shifts after a moment, knees bending to reach better as he plants your ass on his forearm, his freed hand gripping tight on the doorknob and shoving you both through it.

two doors between you and someone who could catch you was better than one. this one, too, jensen locked behind him, before he slid you onto the marbled countertop of the sink.

there was no time for the simple luxuries of teasing. you were on a time crunch, and jensen seemed to guess such, too, as his big palms slide underneath the skirt of your dress and shove it upwards. the glossy marble is cold on your bare skin, but he doesn't give you any chance to adjust to it before he's shoving your legs open and stepping between them.

"i knew you were a naughty girl when i met you," he rasps into your throat, two fingers dipping into his mouth before he pops them free, a string of saliva following the motion. "show me how naughty you can be, baby girl. open up."

you would have on your own, but he pushes those two fingers between your lips and presses them against your tongue. his eyes are hooded, heavy and dark, as they take in the sight of your lips wrapped tightly around his fingers.

the thought enters your head on its own, like for once, your subconscious has decided to work in your favor tonight. wonderin' if that mouth of yours sucks as good as it runs.

your cheeks hollow as you suck on the digits, the taste of his saliva coating the inside of your mouth. it does taste spicy, the subtlest taste of bourbon burning as you swallow the mix of saliva down your throat.

jensen's head tips back in a groan, shoving his fingers farther into your mouth, enough to make you choke on a cough. his laugh is breathy, the sound of it intermixing with another sound, something metallic jingling.

his belt hits the floor and the sound stops. his fingers don't. "who would have guessed such a pretty little thing had such a filthy little mouth?" jensen muses, popping his fingers free from your mouth and thumbing away the tears that sprung in the corners of your eyes. "might just have to keep you. you'd like that, huh?"

his free hand shoves the dark, tight boxers hugging his legs down, and before your eyes can drift down to see what springs free, that hand comes up and holds your jaw between his thumb and index finger, making you nod in answer. "yeah, baby girl would like that."

you swallow thickly, your lips red and swollen from his kiss, parted to try and suck down a solid breath. you weren't sure you'd breathed since he kissed you, your chest aching with it.

the grip he has on your chin tilts it downwards, shaking it gently until your eyes drop his gaze and land on what you'd tried to get a look at before, and were denied. "might have to keep you regardless," he murmurs, tracing his thumb over your bottom lip, "'cause i don't think anyone else's gonna live up to me."

your lips twitch, some semblance of control reentering your system. "you're cocky."

his head dips downward, brushing his mouth over the swell of your bottom lip, the stubble of his facial hair tickling and electrifying the skin of your upper. "you don't know cock yet."

his two fingers, still wet with the mix of both of your saliva, are back under your dress, the cool wet of them tracing a line up your inner thigh. "say yes," he breathes, stopping just above where your panties cover the evidence of your arousal, "daddy wants to hear it."

you're not breathing again, at least not solidly. instead, your mouth opens and closes fruitlessly, a choke of a "yes" loosing from your throat. those two fingers curl underneath your panties and tug you closer to him by the hold on the fabric.

"good girl," he murmurs in his approval, and one more harsh yank draws a whimpering gasp from your lips, along with the sound of the thin fabric tearing.

the roughness is put on pause as jensen's hand grabs one of your thighs and hooks it around his waist. his two fingers stay between your legs, smearing your wetness along the slit of your folds, not dipping his fingers in like you wish he would.

you catch yourself watching his face again, like every microshift of his expression is something you want to witness. especially as you move your other leg for him, hooking your ankles behind the lower half of his bare back.

"i knew you were trouble," he says, nosing your chin up to take your bottom lip between his teeth. "stay quiet for me, yeah?"

it wasn't something you needed explained to you, but you don't argue with him. not when his fingers finally slip into the creamy folds of your pussy and drag upwards, lazily circling over the sensitive bud of your clit, and not when he captures your mouth in a proper kiss to swallow the squeak of a noise that breaks free from your throat, anyways.

jensen takes his cock into his hand and replaces the drag of his fingers with the sensitive tip of it, keeping up the slow circles with deliberate slowness. you're about to beg, your lips parting against his, when finally, with that same agonizing slowness, he pushes the tip inside of you.

and doesn't move.

when your eyes open, jensen is already staring at you, his pupils blown. "keep goin'?" he asks, as if this is something leisurely to him, as if you can't feel the throb of his hard cock just barely granting any sort of relief to either of you.

"don't be an ass," you breathe, your voice cracking on the words.

jensen's mouth quirks at the corners. "baby girl, asshole is my middle name."

there's no warning to the way his hips jut forward in one harsh movement, filling you completely. your back arches, pressing your chest into his, a choked gasp of a moan stuttering out of your mouth.

his pace is set and relentless, the obscene sound of his balls slapping against your skin as he ravishes you and forces you to stretch around his size. each thrust, your walls grant him more reprieve, the wet squelch of you squeezing around his cock joining the onslaught of obscene noises in the room.

jensen's eyes are laser focused on yours, watching the curve of your mouth to make sure nothing slips free. it's almost more intense like this, being fucked in silence than if he were making you scream and mewl.

you didn't doubt asshole was his middle name, either; not when his palms slip under your ass and squeeze handfuls of the flesh, lifting you off of the countertop. the shift in the position has you clawing at his shoulders for purchase, the only thing keeping you from stumbling to the ground being your legs around his waist and his guiding hands on your ass.

he held you like you weighed nothing, the muscles in his biceps flexing with ease, veins outlined beneath the skin. you were helpless to how he moved you around, using his grip on the supple flesh between his palms to bounce you up and down on the hard fullness of his cock.

the pace slows, just enough for him to maneuver your body down the entirety of his length, the tip of it buried in your cervix. it's almost enough to make you crack, your head pressing into his shoulder, but you bite it back. it was too detrimental to risk being caught just because he was right; he was ruining you for anyone else.

but jensen starts to move you again, starting that deep within you and guiding you back down to that spot, over and over again. you weren't going to be able to walk after this, didn't know how you planned to get back outside to enjoy your party, not with how you could feel the bruising pleasure of him splitting your puffy walls open and grinding into your cervix like this.

you can't even help it when the sharp moan falls out of your mouth, your lower stomach pooled with heat that only seemed to deepen each time he sheathed himself deep inside of you.

"shh," he rasps, the gravel in his voice an intoxicating mix with the strain of it, "don't make me make you quiet. don't want your family hearin', do we? wonderin' what their baby girl's doin' up in here with me?"

your whines are embedded with each harsh thrust of his hips into you. "can't help it," you try to answer, but you aren't sure at all if it came out in a coherent sentence.

his one hand stays cupped firmly over your ass, fingers denting the skin as they dig in. the other comes up to take your throat into his palm, thumb and index pressed hard enough to your pulse points to make you see stars.

"shh," he echoes, the same rasp to his tone as the last time, but much more gentle now, his voice only a whisper, "daddy's got you."

your eyes are wide when they lock onto his, every sound you want to make cut off with the grip he had over your skin. not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to make your pulse beat harder beneath his touch. "y'wanna come, baby?" he watches your eyes, hissing in a breath when your nails bite into his shoulder again. "go on, baby girl, give daddy all y'got."

the heat builds and builds in your lower stomach, the pleasure roiling through you intensifying until you choke on a little sob, only barely heard over the pressure on your throat. everything explodes into clarity, every color in the golden-lit bathroom growing more vibrant, your body going slack in his grip. your legs tremble around his waist, each thrust past your orgasm making you soundlessly mewl and writhe against him.

jensen lets out a low groan, his head burying into the curve of your neck, his relentless pace stuttering to something slower inside of you, the warmth of his cum filling you and dribbling down the length of his cock, and your thighs. he doesn't fully stop, still driving into you, fucking every drop of cum back into you.

his nose traces across your cheekbone as he lifts his head from the smooth skin of your neck, his fingers loosening around your throat in the process. for a moment, he's gentle again, every trace of the man who defiled you for anyone else gone and replaced with a side you didn't have enough time to figure out.

his thumb brushes lightly over your pulse point, his gaze taking in the mess that he'd made you: flushed cheeks, swollen lips, fingerprint marks ever so slightly evident on the soft skin of your throat, the tears welled in your eyes.

"you should get back to your party, naughty girl," he whispers, wiping away a stray tear that'd slipped from your waterline, "they're probably wonderin' where the girl of the hour went."

all of the softness is clamped down again before you could catch a final glimpse of it. jensen, at the very least, helps to readjust your dress and clean you up, sweaty hair clinging to his forehead that he doesn't pay any mind to, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his skin. it's when you look presentable enough again, when you spin around to say something, anything, and his back is to you in the bathroom, closing the scene you'd both had without so much as a cut.

he doesn't meet your gaze in the mirror this time, either. you didn't think he was shutting you out for good — he couldn't, he was staying three more days — but you recoiled regardless. whatever he was going through, you weren't close enough with him to be a part of or know about.

you were just his former best friend's daughter, who he'd just thoroughly wrecked, in that friend's own home.

what had you done?

notes. IF THIS IS CRAZY I'M SORRY BUT NOT REALLY. pls let me know if u guys want part twos & threes & fours for this bc i have so much lore about dads best friend!jensen i cannOT BE FORCED TO KEEP IT IN. & IF U WANNA REQUEST STUFF FOR HIM PLS DO. HE'S TAKING ME OVER LIKE A DEMON. IF U READ THIS FAR GO SAY HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO BREE RN. ───ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤfeedback & reblogs appreciated <3 !!

tags. @deansbeer @figthoughts @ultravi0lence14 @whyyouegg @honeyryewhiskey @angelblqde @angels-silhouette @seven7lee @rositaslabyrinth @rubyvhs @theosaurous @beausling @soldiersgirl @mahi-wayy @unfortunate-brat @losers-clvb @jensenacklesballsack @chevroletdean @h8aaz @stereotypicalbarbie @sunsbaby @samslovebug @chiierful @cowboysandcigarettes @bejeweledinterludes @bluemerakis @briisbananass @fuckedupfate @losers-clvb @blossomingorchids @bitchykittenconnoisseur @faiszt @moonstruks @chiierful @collywobblvs @severe-mental-illness @doublecrazyyymofo @whyyouegg

[dmitriene]

lowhonor arthur and his pretty girlfrienddd <3

cw: lowhonor arthur, implied sexist language but not from him, description of minor wounds.

arthur morgan and pretty things go apart from each other, there's nothing pretty about him as a man, there's nothing pretty that could be attached to him or either his side, but there's you, he sees you as a flower, something so delicate and fragile that it can crumble into particles blown away by the wind just from the single brushing touch of his rough, dirty fingers, something that he cannot afford to do, to stain, even if not on purpose, even if you yourself reach out, neat, dainty hands are stretched out to him.

he sees you as those landscapes sketched in his diary with a fragile pencil graphite that breaks and smears over thin paper, each of them alive like you, bright to the point that sunbathes his so often cold gaze, softening with your warmth of the sinking sun, waving grass, soothingly singing birds, you are like all that living things that he considers wonderful to himself, each new day in which a dog of a man like him is alive is nothing more than luck, and the sight of your radiant smile directed at him is one of the wonders of this exact world.

people around you are cruel, maybe because of a difficult time, maybe because they were born that way, but they allow to take out their cruelty and the pettiness of their own soul on you, reproach you for something that is a reason for arthur to worship you, your feminine principle, your tenderness, sensitivity to the living and the dead, the good and the cruel, to give gratuitous smiles and help, to get a spit in the feet that you do not understand anything, because you are a woman born to be silent, to serve.

arthur comes to you with blood on his bare, calloused hands and tightly pursed, pale lips, one from cruelly given blows, the other from the received attempt to repay him his own violence, but he will never return to you as a loser, so when he sits down next to you, it is for you to patch up the visible damage from the defense of your honor on his broken, raw bleeding knuckles, the flesh sensitive, torn, but he doesn't even twitch at the touch of your own hands and the burning sting of alcohol, his gaze is like tobacco gum, riveted to your face, the blue pooling to green in those kaleidoscopic eyes simmer with devotion.

you engender an animal fear in him, the fear of never returning, of not waking up to your exposed, limp body pressed against the hard curve of his larger, muscular one, not to feel the gentle, almost tickling warmth of your passion bruised skin beneath his scarred fingertips, your bright smiles, to which even the rising morning sun smiles, those careful, playful kisses lingering lingering over the rough skin of his unshaven face, the rasp of his stubble practically burns, but you only giggle, pressing closer with your body and fidgeting nose, loose limbs tangling in one.

arthur knows his way to you by the subtle smell, he will come back blind, wounded, near death, but he will never allow himself to leave you alone, you can learn from him sharp words, self defense, an escape plan if something suddenly goes wrong, but he will still not let you face any situation where you'd need such knowledge, he'll fight and growl and hide you behind him until he can't anymore, and even so, he will hide you in his palms like the dearest bird to his heart.

more intoxicating than any cheap, disgusting booze, and even expensive, seasoned, sweeter than wild berries freshly grown on the bushes, enchanting with the mere sound of his name falling from your parted, bitten lips in a drawn, almost gasping breath, with your fingers pressing, instead of scratching, into the fair skin and moving muscles on his broad, arching back, with your face warm, eyes closed under the weight of drooping eyelids, nuzzling into the crook of his burning neck, breathing in his scent with a moan.

even if the stars begin to fade and rain down in a hail of precisely cutting bullets, nothing will take you from arthur, he will not allow.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[cryptotheism]

My favorite piece of Discworld lore is that Pencils are not made of wood and graphite. They actually grow on a particular kind of bush. The bush was discovered by a guy named Osric Pencillium and that's why they're called pencils.

[bpbomegaverse]

Omegaverse Master Scent List

Scent description can be a big part of omegaverse. This is a master list of Alpha, Beta and Omega scents I've compiled. I will add to them when new things pop up for me.

Note: Just because I've put a scent in a certain category, doesn't mean you can't use it for one of the other second genders. 🫶 I kind of like that alpha a little more savoury, musky and deep. And omega are more sweet, fresh and light. But that's just my interpretation.

I'm starting with Alpha. I'll update the other two a little later.

Alpha - α

Gardenia

Orange Blossom

Lavender

Black orchid

Violet

Bluebell

Rosewood

Elderflower

Ink

Sparklers

Black Tea

Green tea

Resin

Saffron

Leather

Bark

Pine tree

Burnt wood

Coal/charcoal

Oak Barrel Whiskey

Cedar

Agar wood

Tobacco

Oudh

Driftwood

Oakmoss

Amber (labdanum)

White wood

Rosewood

Musk

Sherry oak

Match (blown out)

Rye Whiskey

Mahogany

Cegar

Wood sage

Almond

Walnut

Tar

Rubber

Moss

Iron

Bronze

Gold

Rust

Ash

Graphite

Vinyl

Smoked meats 

Coriander

Basil

Cinnamon

Nutmeg

Paprika (smoked)

Aniseed

Black cherry

Clove

Allspice

Fenugreek

Ginger

Black pepper

Roasted Garlic

Blood orange

Grapefruit

Blackberry

Bergamont

Lemon

Blood Plum

New car smell

Hay

Pesto

Balsamic Vinegar

Sauteed brown onions

Fruit cake

Eucalyptus

Teatree

Wet Dog

Blood

Soap

Fish oil

Marijuana

Lemongrass

Thunderstorms/Petrichor

Smoke

Mud

Wet forest floor

Limestone

Cobolt

Ore

Cactus

Molten rock

Shampoo

Wet cement

Cork

Bush fire

Egyptian dukkah

Jamaican Jerk

Recado rojo

Cajun spice

Chinese five spice

Baharat

Brown sugar

Toffee

Molasses

Apple pie

Tequila 

Dark chocolate

Bacon

Dark roast coffee

Petrol

Gunpowder

Gravy

Cola

Burnt caramel

Bone marrow

Syrah/Shiraz

Cabernet Sauvignon

Port 

Toasted bread

Buttered Popcorn

Dry dog food

Sulphur 

Mustard

Ginger Beer

Meatballs

Olives

Chipotle

Teriyaki

Peri-Peri

Sesame

Jalapeño

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Hello! May I request a reader x Keegan drabble where the reader is an artist in secret?

Sure, they roam the wake of no mans land in a ravaging war, but in the moments they are not on missions they capture the scenery around them. Wether it be on rooftops, surrounding woods or abandoned shelters, the reader revels in the few moments of silence they have before another bombardment of bloodshed is thrown their way to remember places or things around them before they eventually move again

How would Keegan react, let alone if he caught reader sketching him?

Thank you for your time, have a good day :D

—Paint The Dawn; Paint My Eyes

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [In the midst of war and death, there's little time for pleasure. All you had was a ripped-up sketchbook to call your own, its contents littered with the rough face of your comrade.] ❞

The camp is quiet, and you are tired. 

Looking out along the wreckage of this wasted world, there seems to be no end to the broken valleys or the craters of rock—this desolation remains as if an angry God had thrown a tantrum, and smashed the earth to bits. Trees grew sideways, wreckage that could be bits of houses or even remnants of bone breed in the little spaces under moss and bush; where the rest died, nature took back what was hers. Thus, the cycle continued.

What breathes, dies, and with that firm and undisputable reality, you find beauty in moments like these. 

You blink down at what still breathes of the patchwork lungs of No Man’s Land, pencil in your hand still for but a moment of red-eyed concentration. The deer was down in the dip below the Ghosts’ quiet camp for the steadily growing night—white where it should be a tawny-blonde shade. Barely breathing, you watch with half of its albino form sketched out in short bursts of graphite on your sun-bleached possession. 

A sketchbook, old, and worn to the very binding of its pages, and yet to you a more prized possession had never been held in your grip. 

So focused on the deer and its white shadow; its lithe body as it grazes along the forest floor amidst a soft rustling of leaves, you don’t notice the man behind you—a man supposed to be sleeping. 

It’s a minute of looking at your awe-filled face before Keegan clears his throat, speaking in a low grumble. “Not every day you see that, huh?”

You startle back so quickly that your pencil slips out of your hand, bouncing off your thighs before clattering to the flat rock that serves as your lookout platform. A clink of metal on stone is all it takes, the pencil falling down into the lower land and striking through greenery as you gasp and snap your eyes away. The flighty heart of the deer all at once sparked in a puff of air from its nostrils and a flair of a raised tail. 

It disappears into the bushes and its white flash is seen until the thick foliage swallows it again. You look back just in time to grace your eyes with one last glimpse. 

A deep disappointment blooms and you level out a sigh as Keegan clicks his tongue, guiltily rubbing a hand on the back of his neck.

“Shit, Sweetheart,” he hums, “didn’t mean to…” Keegan tapers off with a low groan. “I’ll, uh, get you a new pencil when we’re back, yeah?” 

You stare at the forest a moment longer before huffing out and shifting—you turn and glance at the Sergeant before grumbling out, “You have a nasty habit of sneaking up on people, Russ. I don’t like it when it’s me.”

Blue eyes meet yours, his body still in gear and armed just like yours. Even sleeping, Ghosts bore the fangs of the living. Keegan’s face is down a mask, though, so you’re privy to see his built jaw and strong features in the moonlight. Black hair like a void. 

He sighs. 

“Again, didn’t mean to. Thought you knew I was there.” Your eyes roll, but a small smirk snaps your lip.

“Of course you did.” Huffing and shaking his head, the man comes to lean against your rock. 

“What ya workin’ on anyways? Seen you scribblin’ in that thing every chance you get. Got curious enough tonight to ask when I saw you up during Ajax’s watch.” He blinks at you, swirling with curiosity and dim intrigue. “You take over for him?”

You smile, shrugging. “Maybe.” Keegan stares and raises a dark brow as your form leans closer, presenting your object of patience and smudged graphite. “You gonna wake him up?”

The man takes the object and studies your half-finished work with an acute eye, taking in the lines and erased bits that indent the paper. He tilts his head at it and a moment later he grunts an answer, lost in thought. 

“Depends.” Blue meets your vision in a slow sweep. “You tired?”

Face burning, you clear your throat and begin to stutter a negative before the worst moment of your life takes place. 

Keegan grabs one page of your sketchbook and starts flipping. Heart lurching and eyes wrenching open to the size of dinner plates, your hand snatches at the old cover—but not before the damage is done.

The dead-gazed Sergeant locks onto a perfect image of his own sleeping body from hours earlier. Drawn face soft and calm in the gray of blended material that you’d had to use your finger to achieve, and limbs loose; he almost seemed to come off the page in an intensive display of detail. 

Keegan pauses and feels his jaw slightly slacken, eyes going that bit wider before his brows lift in shocked pleasure. Your hand latches onto the top of your book and rips it from the man’s grasp easily.

“Did anyone ever tell you it’s rude to go through people’s things?!” Your heart is racing, palms going clammy. At your chest, you hold your belonging with a tight scoff of embarrassment.

Keegan’s lids move up and down three times in quick succession before he replies. A tease is so deep in his words you cringe with a burning face.

“Anyone tell you it’s rude to watch people sleep, Sweetheart?” Glaring, you have to look away. 

It wasn’t exactly common knowledge to others that you liked the gruff man, but if anyone took one look into your sketchbook they’d know the truth. Pages were dedicated to finding the perfect slant of his eyes—that structure of his jaw and his broken-one-to-many-times nose. 

His lips and how his skin looked when he smirked. 

Shame tightens your face and you stare hard at the trees a few feet away; the sleeping forms of your comrades. Until a smooth chuckle leaves you breathless. 

A puff of air spreads over your cheek but you don’t dare turn your head. 

Keegan whispers to you slowly, that gravel in his tone and his lips brushing against your ear as he leans closer to you—arms crossed in front of him.

“If you wanted me to pose there, Doll, all you had to do was ask me. No use watchin’ from a distance…I’ll give you the full tour.” 

He walks off back to his mat of leaves and grass and you’re left gaping and choking on your own thoughts; honied vision dripping shock.

Keegan calls easily over his shoulder as if his comment hadn’t made your pulse pound, “I’m waking up Ajax—go back to bed. Scenery’ll be the same come morning.” 

You breathe in his sly quip, “trust me.”

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatos, @waves-against-a-cliff, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @I-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

[approximateknowledge]

who is graphite edge: for real this time

ok so no more beating around the bush

the avatar is definitely generated from the mind of *a* kirito-isotope, itd be hard for that part to be any more obvious

the question then becomes "which isotope are they", right? well yes and no; the question is actually "which isotope *generated the avatar* because

player and avatar-origin aren't necessarily the same person! source: ash roller exists

so then!

if we posit that the neurolinker(-equivalent) from which graphite edge got generated was originally the same kirito-isotope we follow in unital ring (as opposed to star king any of the uploads), that doesn't necessarily mean the graphite edge we know is kirito

it'd have to be someone close to them though!

there's a multiple options here, but let's go over a couple!

for a direct parallel to ash roller you'd expect it to be sugu, but that feels unlikely

asuna and alice don't fit the personality at all

yui seems like a promising option but im not sure if she *can* connect to a neurolinker that way, given that she's a pre-fluclight ai

now i mentioned "personality" being a factor just now

that's actually one of the main reasons i feel like the irl human behind graphite edge can't be kirito, the personality feels *different*, like i can't see kiri behaving like we see graph in the novels

so who could it be?

we'd need someone who is

close to kirito

tends to be rather hyperactive and prone to being a bit of a jokester

really good at reaction speed and acrobatics on top of being used to fighting with both hands (ambidextrous< which afaik, kaz isn't!)

fond of being in a kind of "teacher" role despite their rogueish behaviour

seemingly always more informed than anyone else but gives out information sparingly

gives everyone they meet a cutesy little nickname wether they like it or not

sound familiar?

yeah

ARGO

graphite edge is argo wearing kirito's neurolinker

*drops mic*

[eirinstiva]

Art for fun's sake

Halloa! New letter for my friend Bertie and it's pure chaos: there's rain, a swan, a possible job and a escape! No engagement, tho~

The story:

Every young man starting life ought to know how to cope with an angry swan, so I will briefly relate the proper procedure. You start by picking up the raincoat which somebody has dropped; and then, judging the distance to a nicety, you simply shove the raincoat over the bird’s head; and, taking the boat-hook which you have prudently brought with you, you insert it underneath the swan and heave. The swan goes into a bush and starts trying to unscramble itself; and you saunter back to your boat, taking with you any friends who may happen at the moment to be sitting on roofs in the vicinity. That was Jeeves’s method, and I cannot see how it could have been improved upon.

My brain: "Jeeves versus the Swan". Graphite pencils on paper.

The story:

“It might be the most judicious plan not to meet her, sir.” “But how can I help it?” “There is a good, stout water pipe running down the wall immediately outside this window, sir. And I could have the two-seater waiting outside the park gates in twenty minutes.”

My brain: "Bertie and the drain pipe dance" Ballpoint pen on paper.

While drawing these Bingo was still lost in a tennis match. Pip-pip!

[skyheld]

Then... may I choose you to be in my family? - casadh for ameridan

THE BEEKEEPER’S PICNIC | not accepting | @aestuum

The house takes shape one line at a time. Small, squat, with a thatched roof with drooping eaves like a deep frown. Orinna said the house was perpetually scowling at the amount of visitors it had to accommodate. She said it with love, though. It was a grumpy house, but it was their grumpy house. As Ameridan draws it's sour expression, Casadh lets their head come to rest on his shoulder. Their own journal lies beside them, opened to a fresh page with just a few lines added to it. There's grief in the way they keep their face half-turned from his, in the shine of their eyes as they look over Ameridan's shoulder at the home drawn from memory. He isn't sure if something has happened, or if it is just one of those days. It doesn't matter; he's there anyway.

The angle where the roof meets the far wall looks odd, so he extends a branch of the hydrangea bush at the corner to cover it. The house was always overgrown in the summer. They paid a neighbour to care for it when they were away, but she loved plants too much to cut them, so the first thing they had to do when they got back from long travels was always to cut the house out of the forest that had grown up around it. They still paid the neighbour. It was the thought that counted.

"This was our home", he says, lifting the journal up to blow graphite dust from the paper. "Telana's, Orinna's and mine. Though I traveled so much, home was always more people than a place to me. Family." He turns the page over, careful not to let it close completely for fear of smudging the drawing. Orinna looks thoughtful as she strings her bow. There are multiple studies of Telana's hands, lovingly done though he struggled with the anatomy of her fingers. His parents are drawn from a distance, sitting on a bench in their own garden. Haron has been drawn in profile, and Ameridan remembers the moment of drawing: he was trying to capture Haron smiling in spite of himself at one of Telana's not-Chantry-friendly jokes.

He turns to press a kiss to the top of Casadh's head, then rests his own head on theirs. "I lost my family in the Frostback basin", he says into their hair, listening as grief makes their breathing brittle. "Not just Telana and Orinna and Haron. I lost all the people that were still waiting for me, everyone who'd been home, every place that had been home. And I thought..." His voice catches, and he draws a steadying breath. "I thought that was it. I could not possibly replace the people I'd lost with someone else. I did not know why I survived, why I kept surviving. I had nothing. And then..."

He can't speak of it, so he shows it. Lifting his head again he turns a page in the journal, and another, going backwards through the months. Past sketches of Arlathan forest, Assan and the Ligthhouse spirits, there are the children of clan Lavellan, a few of its hunters, the carvings around the doors of their aravels. "I lost my old family", he says, pausing at a sketch of Dhavi, bare-faced and proud and smiling, "but I found a new one. Or I... choose a new one. It is... something you are allowed to do. It isn't wrong. You're not replacing the people you lost. There'll be room for new ones in your heart."

He doesn't know if Casadh struggles with any of this; he only knows he did, and that what troubles them today is their family, the loss of it. Another page is turned and there is Abelas, stretched out across a full spread of the journal (it wasn't intentional; he is just that tall) asleep in the shade of a tree. "My family... my old family, the one I lost, is still with me", Ameridan says. "This is what I chose for now. I hope you can do the same. I want you to do the same."

Casadh is quiet a long time. When they raise their head to look at him, Ameridan feels like they're staring into his soul. "Then... may I choose you to be in my family?"

It strikes him like lightning. For half a heartbeat he's frozen, staring. Something tugs the corners of his mouth down before he's even processed what they asked, as if his body knows before his mind, and maybe it does—maybe family isn't in the mind or even the heart but in the hands and the arms and the skin, in the way Casadh fits so perfectly against his chest and how there's a home in his lap for their head. "Oh", he says, "Casadh, I—" but of course there are still no words. So he does as before, and shows them. Closes the journal so he can put both arms around them, pull them into that perfect spot. Holds them as tight as home as his tears fall into their hair.

"Yes, Casadh", he manages to say, voice thick with a joy so great it is painful. His hand holds the back of their head like he would press them into his own body and keep them safe. Maybe he would, if he was able. There would be room in his heart. "You can choose me to be in your family. It would be my honour."

[dksartz]

New small work in progress piece! Little unicorn in some woodlands. I'm using photo references I took at botanical gardens for the plants and bushes.

I just varnished the pencil lines so that when I start painting the graphite won't mix into the acrylic, but it means I have to wait 3hrs for the varnish to dry and then do clear gesso (since it's a gloss varnish) and then wait for that to dry, too, before I can start actually painting. But I'm excited for this one.

[buttsandboltguns]

Cold Blood, Star's Heart

Officially speaking, RAKU-0793-1-MIL-CMDO “Anti” was a combat unit. Her cerebral simulation unit was mounted within a Neohuman Assault Chassis Mk.23, one of the most advanced milspec commando type frames available to the North American Coalition. It contained all the systems developed for the Special Emulation Response Effigy Mk.5, as well as additional improvements to the CSU interfacing and fine-motor control systems.

Unofficially, she was a search and rescue unit. But when most heard that, they laughed - a NAC.23 couldn’t do SAR operations. They were too sharp around the edges. Too rough. Not gentle enough. Too much like a dragon and not enough like a beloved hound. Not friendly enough. Not calming enough.

Not Human enough.

Her unit mates had nicknamed her “Antikythera”, for her ability to always guide them back to their extraction point by the stars and a compass alone. Although she had an internal compass subsystem, she used a physical one. It was more Human. They thought it was quirky and funny, and so she continued to carry a compass, despite the weight being better suited towards things such as bandages or an aluminum splint. But equipment efficiency meant little to being Human. She didn’t know what it was that she lacked that they had, but she would try to make up for it. Maybe the compass helped.

But her job didn’t require a compass. Her ocular array focused, zooming in over hundreds of meters as she picked out a major disturbance in a series of trees and foliage. With a single line of process code, her vision switched from visible spectrum to infrared, the bushes at the bottom of the rubble-covered hill glowing a harsh white from their radiant spectra. That must be the injured mountaineer. Introspection could wait until the rescue was complete.

Her servos whined gently to balance her as she slid down the rocky hill, then breaking into a jog along the pathway along the slope of the ridgeline. She felt her internal gyroscope compensate for the odd sway to her gait - right side secondary electrohydraulic system, 2% inefficiency, low on graphite lubricant - and ignored the system report that popped up in her vision range. It was promptly dismissed. Prioritize the rescue.

The bush readily yielded to her as she pulled it away from the injured individual. She did not bother processing their face - her sensory suite was already complaining about the detectable levels of saline in the air, along with the hormonal cocktail that was readily matched to cortisol. In the fraction of a second before she was fully noticed, she remembered - SAR means prioritize the rescue. Prioritizing the rescue meant preventing panic.

“There is no need to be alarmed,” she started, her voice monotone and delivered with a flat cadence, “I am with the search and rescue team. You are safe now.”

The Human startled, as expected, and she finally shouldered the bush out of the way. Now she could see the injury - a badly sprained ankle. Locally treatable with topical and oral anesthetic for the pain and an aluminum splint for transport. Time to get to work.

“You are injured. I am equipped to handle your injuries. Do you consent to this treatment?”

The statement always felt stale. Offputting. But it was required for droids - like her - to administer any sort of assistance. She felt off. Less Human.

The Human consented visually.

Her chestrig, riveted to the modular outer layers of her abrasion plating, contained the items she required. The topical anesthetic would be first - a spray, one designed to numb the locally affected area. The rescue target would typically complain about the chilliness of the spray.

Carefully, she gripped it with her right side manipulator array. Gentle pressure. There - exactly 3lbs of force. Just right. Pop the cap off with the other - oh, she cracked the lid. A later problem. Spray. Slightly too much force - the spray nozzle was jammed now, stuck in spray mode. Striking the nozzle against her forearm broke it off and unjammed the internal straw, letting the flow stop. It was a wasted can, but it would be a waste anyways. She let go of it into her drop pouch.

Next was the aluminum splint.

In the process of forming it correctly to the rescue target’s leg, she pinched with one pound too much force. A yelp and an utterance of “stupid effigy!” came from the Human.

The mistake was understandable. A civilian not in the field of simulacra, cerebral simulations, and Smart AIs couldn’t be expected to know the difference between an effigy and a droid.

That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt anyways.

She fixed the slightly-too-tight splint. It was optimal and bound to the leg properly. Behind her, she could hear her unit mates approaching - she would let them handle the rest of it.

The Human seemed to be more at ease being tended by their own kind, anyway.

She had to pretend that didn’t hurt as she stepped away, fading into the shadow of dusk. They wouldn’t be able to find her if they didn’t utilize a communicator module, but she could find them. It was better this way - watching over them all from a distance. Ensuring they got back safe. Every rescue reminded her of that.

She was a mispurposed unit. Designed for war and destruction, yet permitted to roam among the civilians of the N.A.C. Every rescue reminded her of that.

Each time she moved a little too fast and set everyone on edge reminded her of that. Every time she remembered details a little too clearly and made everyone uncomfortable reminded her of that.

Every time she didn’t pick up on some “implication” and messed up the joke reminded her of that.

That she would never be the same as them.

That few would deal with her as she was.

That she wasn’t Human enough.

And Antikythera slipped into the night.