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ofyorkshire · 3 months

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Whump is really good but there's also something about the "end" of it where the whumpee is rescued. The firm hands of the rescuer, the "You're gonna be okay" / "I'm here now" / "I'm going to get you home" / "Hey, just focus on me" etc. is sooooooooooooooo so so so so so

#wild actually how even when bj is rescued by jobson he doesn't get the verbal reassurance #i dont think he *needs* to but thats like one of my favorite things about rescues gidjfjd #out of fairy tales [ooc];

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movietonight · 2 years

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3 idiots for the wip game!!

Based on the Bollywood film which I think everyone should watch :)

In Korea, Hawkeye and Charles got into a fight that ended with a bet: X years after the war, they will meet up and compare their success. BJ is supposed to mediate.

This time is now, and the only person to not have turned up is Hawkeye. As BJ and Charles talk, they realise neither of them has heard from Hawkeye in a while. Worried, they set off to Crabapple Cove to see if he's okay. On the way, they pick up Margaret. When Hawkeye isn't there either, they have to follow a string of clues across the continent with growing worry that something has happened to Hawkeye, with flashbacks to their time in Korea and immediately afterwards and the mental health issues Hawkeye experienced.

#mash #wips #I am kind of combining Chatur with one of the idiots in this to make this work #neither BJ nor Charles really fits as Farhan or Raju but its more about the like friendship itself and the way Hawkeye influenced them #some of the mental health aspects stay the same/similar #Margaret also isn't literally Pia but I do think its funny if they rescue her from her wedding #anyway watch 3 idiots

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ichayalovesyou · 1 month

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Why Do Old-School TV Duos Have SUCH MLM Vibes?!

I think there’s something very specific about the formula and writing style of non-serialized/semi-serialized shows from the 60s to 80s that featured two grown men going on wacky dangerous adventures that makes my gay little literary analysis brain go absolutely off the wall bonkers. I’m trying to figure out why!

I’m writing this on my Trek blog because I don’t think this pattern in people actually shipping these types of relationships the way they do if fandom as we know it wasn’t born via TOS in syndication. That being said! I also think it has to do with the way these shows are designed that makes myself and others OBSESSED with a specific character dynamic that feels (to me) damn near impossible to replicate in modern television. In a way that’s more than just fandom, it’s in the way TV like this was written at the time!

Further explanation under the cut!

🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍🌈

I think what it usually boils down to is this. There’s a charming protagonist whom without the series could not operate, frequently top billed or the title character! (See: Wild Wild West, Starsky & Hutch) BUT he doesn’t have anyone to play off of! So what do they do pretty much every single time? Give Mr. Idealized Vision of Time-Period Masculinity For Genre a second guy to rhyme with!

See but the other guy has to play opposite but parallel to our hypermasculine protagonist. So what frequently ends up happening is that in order to play off our “normal” guy, even though he’s also a white dude, is that he’s still somehow Other.

They’re always perfect for each other, and they always get into scenarios that would be written, shot and interpreted by conventional audiences as romantic IF either one of those characters were a woman! Especially at the time these shows were made in.

If the one is aggressive, the other is gentle. If the protagonist is violent, his counterpart is intellectual. If the one is stoic, the other is emotional. Which (while one size def doesn’t fit all) usually makes the second guy come off as much more queer-coded (and sometimes other minorities like neurodivergent/disabled etc) than the other because of the traits associated with masculinity vs gayness at the time! Our prime examples in these gifs are Spock, Hutch, Artemus, and also *BJ!

*(M*A*S*H is a bit of a unique case since the show flirts with queerness more openly in ways that people more into the series have explained better than me but I think it still fits the formula I’m discussing.)

Here’s the thing though right? We’ve got two best friends, and the show NEVER really feels right if one of them is missing unless the focus of the story is how A & B operate without each other while trying to find the other one. They stick with and rescue each other unfailingly in scenarios that might destroy a regular friendship.

Hell, there’s often stuff that would emotionally/physically destroy a regular person/character in modern media. But because it’s not serialized they always seem to pull through seemingly through the power of friendship alone or dealing with it off-screen! Emotional consequences? Yuck! (Unless it’s M*A*S*H or Starsky & Hutch, like I said, not monolithic)

Here’s the thing that some people might say throws a wrench into the interpretation I’m discussing. What about the absolutely non-stop parade of conventionally attractive women the main protagonist (and less frequently the supporting man) goes through?

I would reply: how many of those female characters actually emotionally impact our protagonists as characters long term?

The answer is of course, because it’s NOT serialized, almost none! Kirk can watch Edith Keeler get killed by a car accident and still be making eyes at Spock the next episode. Hawkeye can have a “life changing” romance with a Vietnamese humanitarian woman, then share a blanket with BJ next episode like she never existed!

The Doylist explanation of course is not just the fact it wasn’t serialized but also just, constant, blatant 20th century sexism. Which SUCKS!!! As well as not wanting a long term love interest to throw off the character dynamic of our duderagonists. It’s the 20th century tv equivalent of bros before hoes.

However the Watsonian explanation always seems to result in no love interest EVER being more important than what the two protagonists have no matter whether you think they’re queer or not. No attractive woman could make our reputed babe-hound protagonist abandon his buddy. There’s no earnest romance our more queer-coded supporting man doesn’t end (or get ended for him) often for the protagonist’s sake.

Now some of these women are incredibly well written and straight up GOOD matches for our guys. So why wouldn’t they get involved in something long term UNLESS!! They were in love with each other the WHOLE time?

What if protagonist (frequently the babe hound) doesnt know he’s queer, or knows but doesn’t know he’s in love with his bestie, or any number of similar fruity explanations? The supporting man also runs into this explanation but people tend to believe he’s already aware that he’s queer but either also doesn’t know he’s in love or is keeping it to himself because time-period homophobia and/or thinking (probably not unreasonably) that babe hound is straight?

Between the inherent closeness of being narrative foils. The regularly scheduled life or death drama creating sometimes insanely romantic (in the narrative if not a literal sense) drama between the two. The revolving door of weekly women they never seem to get attached to enough to leave one another. The non-serialized nature resulting in sparse personal information/history about the protagonists as a result.

I think between the very NATURE of the way tv shows were written at the time. Plus the way fandom was shaped by a dynamic that has rippled through how media works and is interpreted by fans for decades upon decades. It’s not hard to imagine getting really emotionally invested in the possibility of the protagonists being in love is a fantastic way to enjoy the media!

In conclusion, it’s really fun and easy to go “these bitches gay! Good for them good for them!”

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hawkeyeslaughter · 5 months

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Do you have any (minor) headcanons that you have little to no evidence for but you just believe them as if they were the truth?

oh god of course i do

— the nurses taught klinger how to hem , alter , even make some of his own clothes ; he gets so good at it that sometimes they just come to him with their needs

— the uke ( ? ) that hawkeye has hanging in the swamp ? he knows how to play it surprisingly well , he just never does unless drunker than usual

— radar put soles in his boots one time that made him taller and it took even hawkeye like a solid week to figure out what was different about him ( once he did , though , radar had no refuge from the teasing )

— the nurses hold regular gossip sessions and sometimes compare notes on the guys of the 4077th

— margaret knows how to cut hair , taught herself how to cut her own ( because she got sick of barbers not cutting it the way she wanted ) . has more than once had to come to the rescue of nurses who have marred their hair by taking the scissors to it

— in college bj was a relentless and revered hazer ( which is funny considering he barely got through his own hazing )

— hawkeye’s use of petnames ( “ darling “ , “ sweetheart “ , “ baby “ , etc etc ) are all picked up from trapper . prior to meeting him he hardly ever used them

— when oliver got his orders home , trapper and hawkeye threw him a rager in the swamp and were very badly hungover for their actual goodbye the next day

— father mulcahy has that thing where he hears a tune and can instantly play it on the piano

— charles falls asleep regularly during movie nights hawkeye and beej drag him to , usually on hawkeye’s shoulder

— trapper is colorblind . not like , drastically colorblind , but hawkeye finds out one day and teases him absolutely relentlessly for it

— trapper and oliver always did this bit where they pretended they were whispering things and wouldn’t tell hawkeye what they were saying because it was funny to watch hawkeye get all huffy and annoyed with them

— henry has to do the right / left things with his hands all the time ( PLSASE ITS SO STUPID )

— margaret has a crazy sweet tooth + sometimes bj asks peg to send sweets back specifically for margaret

— potter’s horse or pet names in general very rarely alter because he just can’t be bothered to come up with new creative ones . besides , tried and true always works

— klinger is a pool shark . idk why he is he just is . he has pool shark vibes

— trapper briefly considered going into pediatrics

— charles sometimes has very serious conversations with the camp strays ( mainly just voicing whatever he may be thinking of at the particular moment )

— radar sometimes likes to imagine he’s the protagonist in a superhero world and i mean why not . little dude is literally psychic

— hawkeye has a habit of ripping at his nails , klinger regularly checks them and manicures them for him

— the nurses and swamp rats regularly get involved in prank wars . the nurses are far more clever than some people realize

— hawkeye and trapper stood back to back once to see who was taller and had radar judge ( hawkeye tried to bribe radar to say it was him )

— one time margaret made frank cry so hard he threw up . good for her

— bj has weirdly good reflexes and can catch things while barely looking up , he has a habit of saying “ i knew i should’ve gotten into baseball “

— charles does that thing where someone asks him to do something and he says “ no “ while actively doing it

— the swamp rats are all actively ready to swing on anyone who upsets one of the nurses and that goes double for margaret . sometimes they actually do

— hawkeye has a pair of roller skates . do with this information what you will .

— father mulcahy is a self - taught painter

— henry tells the same stories more than once and hawkeye , trapper , and radar have a mutual agreement to pretend they’ve never heard them whenever this happens

— hawkeye and radar have made many a pinky promise , and never once did one get broken

— charles is surprisingly a god awful secret keeper , he tells most secrets to margaret

— henry is scared shitless of cats

#sorry i had so many i got started and i genuinely could not stop #i hope you guys like my silly silly headcanons #holds hawkeye and charles and trapper and margaret and henry gently : they do this because i say it #my friends my closest friends #townes answers asks !#m*a*s*h #mash #mashposting #mashblr #mash 4077 #lgbt #lgbtq

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homiesexual-or-homosexual · 7 days

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Inappropriate Touches

Pairing: Steddie x reader

Warnings: King! Steve Harrington, Personal Knight! Eddie Munson, light to heavy petting, unprotected p in v, bj's, exhibitionism, nipple sucking, fondling, cunnilingus, male masturbation, they get caught (technically), bodily fluid eating, let me know if I missed anything

———

You’d been married to King Steve Harrington for about six months now. It’d been sort of an arranged marriage so your family could become allies with the Harrington royal family.

King Harrington’s parents were still around, but had stepped down to allow their son to take over so they could go off and “see the world”, whatever that meant.

It’d taken awhile for you to get warmed up to the newly made king, and his personal knight who seemed to follow the king around like he was a second shadow.

Both men were intimidating. At least six foot with broad shoulders. King Harrington was more intimidating when he was dressed in all his king attire, fancy dress clothes and shoes with a flowy cape that hung from his shoulders, and often accompanied with a simple crown on his head. And the king’s personal knight, Eddie Munson. He was often dressed in full body armor, a sword on his hip, and a white cape down his back that showed his authority.

Both men seemed to take advantage of your timidness when dressed up, which was often for Knight Munson. They often backed you into a corner and or sandwiched you between them and showered you with praise while their hands roamed.

Overtime, these praises and simply touches developed into more. It was a slow process that you barely took notice of until you were on your hands and knees in your shared bed in King Harrington’s quarters, your eyes blurry with tears as Eddie shoved his cock down your throat and Steve used you from behind.

And as you got more comfortable with these inappropriate touches, the more often they came, especially outside the bedroom.

You’d been called to something important this early morning, so early that the sun hadn’t even risen yet. It was so important that you don’t really remember what it was about. And you were so tired, but you refused to go to bed cause you knew that if you undressed you’d just be redressed the next time someone needed you. So you were in the castle’s library, huddled over in a empty corner as you read a book on a rather comfy couch.

The doors to the library squeaked open and thud shut. You paid it no mind until two sets of footsteps came your way. Before you could see who it was, a curtain of dark, curly hair blocked your view.

You leaned your head back to see Eddie, dressed casually but still with his sword around his waist.

“Whatcha reading?” He asks, a smile on his face.

“Something about dragons,” You answered.

“One where the princess is captured and a knight in shining armor rescues her?”

“Sure,” You tell him, barely even remembering what the book was about cause you were so tired.

Eddie hums, standing to his full height and resting his large hands on your shoulders.

“Where were you this morning?” A voice asks in front of you.

You look up and see Steve standing in front of you wearing a loose, white shirt with some soft looking pants.

“I was called to something this morning,” You answer him.

“Before the sun rose?”

You nod.

Steve hummed, his eyebrows furrowing, “I’ll have to talk to whomever needed you so badly this morning that you were woken up before the sun.”

“Something about trade routes,” You tell him.

“Well they should be able to wait until sunrise for that, or until I get up,” The king mumbles, obviously not too happy about his wife being woken up before him.

“Well, we found you and that’s all that matters,” Eddie reassures Steve, leaning down to kiss along your exposed neck, wrapping his arms around your front to grope at your chest.

You watch as Steve crouches to his knees, sliding his hands under your dress to squeeze at your thighs.

“Oh, this is what you wanted?” You poke at the two men, making eye contact with Steve.

“Of course,” Steve purrs, hands pushing up and up. “We missed you this morning.”

You only hum in response as Eddie starts popping open the buttons on the front of your dress, stopping just below your sternum, he unties the string of the front of your under shirt as well, exposing you. The curly haired man pulls the collar of both shirts so your shoulders are exposed and he starts leaving open mouth kisses along the skin, occasionally stopping to nip and suck at the skin, groping your expose chest as he does.

Steve leans forward and takes your left nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue and sucking on it. He slowly inches his hands around your waist and gently pulls your underwear down your legs. You watch as he stuffs them in his back pocket, a sliver of the lace sticking out. The man meets your eyes, mischief dancing in his eyes before he puts his full attention back on your breast.

Steve switches over to your nipple, leaving your left one wet and exposed to the cool air.

You’re fighting hard to stay quiet, lips pressed together and hand gripping the nape of Steve’s hair. You jump when you feel two fingers venture between your lower lips, feeling the slick that’s been threatening to spill out onto the fabric of the couch. A whimper slips past your lips when Steve’s fingers easily find your clit, gently pressing against the button.

Before you can get too lost in the pleasure, both men pull away from your body.

Eddie moved to stand at the arm of the couch, blocking the view from any prying eyes of the library, and he pats the arm.

You place a bookmark in your book that you’d forgotten about and set it on the nearby end table, awaiting instruction.

“Come here,” The knight instructs. “Hands and knees, sweetheart.”

You do as told, face heating up when you realize you’re face to face with Eddie’s crotch. You glance up at him and await his next movements.

Your attention is drawn backwards when you feel your dress move. You see Steve leaning down to lay on the couch under you, scooching upwards to disappear under your dress. Before his upper body fully disappears under your dress, you watch his hands untie the knot at the front of his trousers and pull them down just enough for him to pull out his erect cock. Steve’s hands disappear down your dress once more, moving to grip your thighs and pull you down.

“Sit,” You hear a muffled order.

You do as told, vulva meeting Steve’s awaiting tongue. Your breathing stutters and you almost slip into that certain headspace but fingers taps your cheek.

Your met with another erect cock, the head tainted a deep read.

“Open,” Eddie tells.

You do, watching Eddie’s cock disappear into your mouth. He stills when a comfortable length is in your mouth.

“Go on,” Eddie nods, encouraging you to move on your own.

You start, bopping your head up and down his length. Every movements back up brings your hips down onto Steve’s awaiting mouth. In which, spurred on by your movements, he starts his ministrations and licks up and down your vulva, dipping in between the folds and flicking against and around your clit.

You feel fingers join his tongue momentarily before a hand disappear from your legs and you being to hear a wet “schlick”, you assume Steve is jerking his exposed cock, simply turned on by the process of eating you out.

You turn your attention back to Eddie, sucking in every time you pull on his cock, earning moans from him and a hand on the top of your head. You feel saliva collect in your mouth and slowly slip from your slips, soaking into the plush cushion below.

You feel Eddie start to move with you and you adjust so your forearms rest of the arm of the couch and you arms can grip at Eddie’s trousers.

The longer you three go on, the louder you three seem to get.

Steve’s moans vibrate against you, making you jerk and grind against him with every noise. With the building pleasure in your abdomen, you can’t help but let moans spill past your vocal chords, the pleasure urging you on for Eddie. And with the harder sucking and faster bopping of your head from you, Eddie can’t help but groan and moan above you, eventually gripping your head with both hands.

The more the knight’s pleasure builds, the more prominent his thrusts into your mouth are. It ends up at the point where Eddie holds your head in place with both of his hands so he can fuck your throat at his own pace.

You sputter and gag, tears blurring your vision and saliva coating his cock and puddling onto the cushion below you. You’re gripping Eddie’s trousers and grinding down onto Steve’s mouth. The moans from both men and the sound of Steve jerking himself off spur you on, and you barely sense the knot in your lower abdomen until it snaps and white hot explodes from between your thighs.

Your moans build in pitch and volume as you cum, thighs shaking and your gripping at Eddie’s thighs, pulling at his pants.

Steve eats you out with vigor and he follows you soon after, the “schlick” growing in volume and speed, breathy moans vibrating against your center. His free hands grips your thigh. You can feel his trimmed fingernails digging into your skin.

As if on cue, Eddie follows both you and Steve in finishing. His thrusts are sloppy and hurried as he fucks in cum down your throat. His moans are more vulgar, groaning and cussing to himself as he rides out his high.

Slowly, even as Eddie stills rides out his high, Steve removes himself from under you. Fixing your dress so it’s not all crumpled up at the back of your knees.

Eddie slowly calms down, pulling himself from your mouth. He gives you a moment to swallow any remains cum and saliva before tapping your lips with the head of his cock. You open and watch as he squeezes the remaining cum from his cock.

As you close your mouth and swallow, Eddie pats your cheek with his fingers and you take that as a sign to settle down, still aware of Steve not fully removed from under you.

You watch as Eddie takes a handkerchief from a back pocket of his and as he wipes off his cock. You keep watching when he tucks his half-hard cock back into his underwear, and when he adjusts and ties his trousers back into place.

Eddie leans down to clean up your face, using a clean area of his handkerchief to clean up your face.

It’s when the handkerchief is back in the knight’s pocket and when he’s in the middle of a deep sigh does a someone clear their throat from around a bookcase.

Both of you jump and whip your heads around to the person.

It’s castle staff, looking nervous and awkward and he just caught you two in a rather intimate moment. He clears his throat again before speaking.

“Have.. uhh… either of you seen the king?” He asks timidly.

Said king removes himself fully from underneath you, his face is flushed and his forehead and cheeks are sweaty. He doesn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed as he sits up and turns to face the staff member.

“Yes?” He asks.

You notice he’s tying his trousers back into place. You had no knowledge of him cleaning himself up or tucking himself away.

The staff flushes and stutters, “Your parents are here, my king. They wish to see you.”

“Very well,” Steve sighs.

He moves to pull you to him so you sit back on your legs. He kisses you on the lips for a few seconds and hums at the taste before getting up, wiping his pants of imaginary dust. Steve moves around the couch to fall in beside the servant as he leads the king away from your corner of the library.

Before following, Eddie pats your cheek and gives you a wink before trotting after the king, curls bouncing on his shoulders.

You watch for a few moments before settling back into the couch. You take a few moments before realization settles in your chest and heats up your face.

You’d just been caught by a servant with both the king and his personal knight.

You heat up some more and bury your face in your, previously forgotten, book as you try to stave down the embarrassment.

#aj posts #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #king! steve harrington #knight! eddie munson #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagines #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagines #steve harrington imagines

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captainhunnicutt · 1 day

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BJ desperately wanted to return from the war the exact same man that he was before. He was tethered to Mill Valley, mentally and emotionally. It kept him from losing sight of who he was and who he wanted to leave Korea as. Having control of a situation, or himself, is a blatant reminder that he is not falling victim to becoming an actively used militaristic chess piece. He's still just BJ.

So when he cuts a soldier's life line (a physical tether to safety) potentially killing the boy, the ramifications are even worse than one would initially suspect.

I think there's a reason the "Bombshells" plotline for BJ is what it is. The symbolism is absolutely insane. BJ had control of the situation. He was going to go and rescue the guy, even under heavy fire. It was the right thing to do. BJ was making the choice. But then suddenly, when he absolutely least expected it - he was forced to make a split second decision. And in split second decisions, control or rationale take a backseat. And there's a reason BJ never finds out what happened to the boy. BJ will never know how long he could've gone on pretending the war hadn't touched him. He will never know what would've happened to him if he had made a single choice, somewhere along the way that cut his mental tether earlier in his time in Korea. He will never know what his life would've been like had he chose differently in the chopper that day.

That's the funny thing about life lines and ropes. They serve a purpose. They can get you out of a situation - but there's no promise of coming out of it unscathed.

BJ didn't just cut the rope that was attached to the solider. He feels like he simultaneously cut the life line, tethering him back to Mill Valley. There was no turning back at that point.

He wouldn't be returning as the same person he left as. And ultimately, not knowing what that means for the future is on par for BJ of not knowing what happened to the boy that was left behind.

Two potential deaths in one day, and all because a rope was cut.

#analysis #someone tell me to shhhhh

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whumperofworlds · 2 months

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(SPOILERS) BARNEY & FRIENDS WHUMP LIST

(NOTE: this is a joke post, in case it's not obvious enough. April Fools!)

(Also gonna do just season one because fuck that not gonna do all 14 seasons)

1x01: Kidnapped, held hostage, bank robbery, tied up

1x02: Barney gets fucking shot, bleeding, passing out, wake up in the hospital

1x03: kidnapped, used as bait, bound and gagged, comforted after rescue

1x04: BJ betrays Barney, stabbed in the back, gets brought back to life by Baby Bop

1x05: Crying, argument with Baby Bop, torture

1x06: Drugged, forced to watch, crying

1x07: Barney is fucking dead, grief, funeral, gets brought back to life by Baby Bop

1x08: Kidnapping, used as bait (again), hostage situation, near death

1x09: got caught snooping, tied to a chair, tortured, threats of life

1x10: Crying, forced unmasking, betrayal, blood loss

1x11: Gagged, captivity, near drowning, experimented on

1x12: Lab whump, needles, blood loss, rescued

1x13: Displaced by time travel, kidnapped by cowboys, tied to a pole, left out in the sun

1x14: Baby Bop's blankey ripped out of her hands, beaten up, rescued, thief tortured for information, escaped from bonds by breaking hands

1x15: Broken bones, left to die, crying, traumatic flashbacks

1x16: Drugged, nearly shot

1x17: Forced to watch someone die, shot in the head, brought back to life by Baby Bop

1x18: Argument between BJ and Baby Bop, parting words regret

1x19: Captured and thrown in separate cells, forced to listen to others get tortured, escaped by breaking the bars but broke hands, finding friends bloodied and beaten

1x20: Threats of life, threats of torture, forced to give up blankey

1x21: Screaming, bloody hands, crying

1x22: Trapped in a video game, captured and put in a cell, forced to leave behind an ally, returned to real life bloodied and beaten

1x23: Traumatic flashbacks, past torture, nightmares, comfort

1x24: Sick, kidnapped while sick, rescued

1x25: Swept away by the river, near drowning

1x26: Hostage situation, held for ransom, gun to head

1x27: Running fever, coughing up blood

1x28: Capturing the thief who stole Baby Bop's blankey, thief begs for his life to no avail, broke free by slipping through his bonds, holds Barney hostage via knifepoint to make the others back off before fleeing

1x29: broken leg during chase, knife thrown and hitting Barney on the chest

1x30: The thief (Keme) is the final battle who caused all the suffering, holds Baby Bop at knifepoint, gets shot in the leg by BJ, begs for his life, Barney stomps him to death

#whump #whump humor #crack whump #blood #captivity #hostage situation #kidnapping #held at knifepoint #held at gunpoint #guns #injuries #keme #...i'm sorry

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ephemerasnape · 8 months

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My Little Angel (Audio)

In this continuation of Goblin Supremacy, Rookwood rescues you from Ranrok and takes care of you... and himself, of course. Hurt/Comfort, Dubcon, Soft!Dom

🎩 Rookwood x You

"Let Daddy Rookwood make it all better."

EXPLICIT AUDIO 18+

(Don't worry - Ranrok's appearance in this one is brief and entirely non-sexual.)

Hurt/Comfort / Aftercare / Dubcon / Seduction / Age Difference / Daddy Kink / Praise Kink / Teaching You How to Please Him / First Time Blowjob / Smut / Excessive Talking During Sex / Nice!Rookwood / Soft Dom / Vocal BJ Recipient ❤

Possibly the hottest audio I've made to date..

🥵🥵🥵

It drove me absolutely crazy to make this, and I have no outlet for my frustrations, so the least you can do is like or share it!

Part one: Goblin Supremacy

Presented in collaboration with @rookwoodswife who voices Listener/MC! 🎩❤

More where that came from.

#victor rookwood #ai audio #hurt/comfort #i like making the bad things happen #victor rookwood smut #ranrok #victor rookwood x reader #daddy rookwood #dark wizards #hogwarts legacy smut #rookwood smut #rookwood #victor rookwood x listener #x female listener #female!listener #female listener #female!reader #tw dubcon #cw dubcon

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bigmouthlass · 2 months

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Title: A Strange Detour

Series: Holler Me Home, part 1

Author: BJ

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader

Synopsis: 'You' are an Omega fresh off a daring rescue of Alpha!Dean. Fate wouldn't be so cruel as to bring on a heat when you're seeing him home-- oh wait.

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, ABO, Omegaverse, Alpha Dean Winchester, Omega You, Omega Reader, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Knotting, Dubious Consent,

AN: If I've misused any of the ABO tropes, I apologize. There's a lot about ABO dynamics that bother me, I tried to play with it a little so it doesn't come off quite so . . . squicky. There is content referencing sexual abuse of minors but it's offstage, non-explicit, and not meant to be in any way titillating. All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

---

The first flush hits as you climb through the door and lock it behind you. "Oh shit!"

The body stretched out on your bed murbles something.

"Never mind, go back to sleep."

An affirmative grunt is the only response, and you shut yourself in the RV's tiny bathroom. Pinching in your back dispenses with the notion that you can get by using regular drugstore suppressants; the damn things don't work when the show's already on the road. Instead you reach for the neutralizer and smear it over your scent points. Not much you can do about your privates, except stick a thick pad there and hope for the best. Cussing, you eat some aspirin with a cup of coffee, get in your captain's chair, and hit the backroads.

Your guest wakes up about the time you pass the state line. Tall, very handsome, stiff with the aftermath of an ass-whuppin’, the bruise on his cheekbone turning a nice shade of plum and lilac. "Morning sunshine. There's coffee in the cupboard over the stove. Make yourself useful."

Dean Winchester grunts something obscene but he goes to do as he's told. "What's with the cigarettes? Thought you quit."

"I did," you confirm, crushing your cigarette out and lighting another. "I've been up for thirty-six hours since I got the SOS from Garth to come save your dumb ass. Cigarettes keep me awake. Next step up is speed and that shit makes me sick." And the smoke should cover any scent that gets past the neutralizer.

"Alright you've made your point. Open a window or something."

"Can't. We'll lose the air conditioning."

"Don't care. Those things reek."

Conceding his point, you get him to open the windows. Whether or not that improves the air quality is debatable. Downwind of Gary stinks of burned oils and bad decisions. On top of that it's one of those overcast days where the world feels like a steam room on half power. Dean's flannel and your jean jacket get tossed up into the upper front bunk within minutes. Lord have mercy but why did he have to pick today of all days to wear a tank top? In his mid-thirties, Dean looks his age, and his age looks pretty damn good.

Of course short sleep is only part of the story. Thanks to the scrambling your hormones got from ten years of experimental suppressants, your heats are hard and painful. You scrap the plan to escort Dean back to Kansas yourself and make a new plan to hit up a fixer you know who lives in Illinois. Izzy’s got a bunch of beaters with clean titles and he owes you a big one.

Dean's not in a much better mood than you are. With how often he gets kidnapped and thrashed you'd think he'd be used to the process, but no. The ride turns into one giant bitchfest, Dean ignoring your growls to shut the fuck up as he complains about everything-- how much his back hurts, how he mashed his fingers in the cupboard door, how the radio isn't picking up anything but bad country western and whiny preachers. Battling the backroads of Indiana in a C-class RV in ninety degree weather and no air conditioning, with a bad heat coming on and the world's biggest fussy baby whining in your ear, is going in the books as one of your special Hells. You wish Sam was here. Nobody's better at Dean-wrangling than he is. You should be so lucky; Sam's holed up at the Winchesters' super secret hideout, fresh off surgery to repair a torn tendon in his knee.

A stop for gas and some fried chicken helps. "I'm sorry," you apologize, swallowing a big hunk of drumstick. "I don't think I've eaten since lunch yesterday and I'm a total bitch when I'm hungry."

"'M sorry too," Dean says around a mouthful of coleslaw. "I try to be nice to people who save my ass."

"Dude," you say, "saving your ass is not only a service to humanity, it's my distinct pleasure." Your reward is a blinding grin and an eyebrow waggle, and you try not to blush. The man is hot as a lit match and if things were different-- well, you'd have to take a number, people a lot cuter'n you have drawn blood for the pleasure of his company.

Your pussy clenches and a brutal cramp seizes your innards. Fresh slick oozes, the sensation making you cringe. You seize on Dean's casual, "So what's the plan?" like a drowning woman grabbing for a life ring. "Well my nearest fixer lives outside a little town name of Union Hill. He can hook you up with transportation and gas money." And you can park the RV in the middle of nowhere and howl out your heat in peace.

"You don't want to come back and visit?" Dean asks. If you didn't know better you'd think he looks a little . . . hurt. "Sam would love to see you. He told me to say thank you for that print you sent."

"Everybody should have a Van Gogh in their first house," you say, smiling. "It's like a national law." Your smile breaks on a massive yawn.

"Hey-- go get some sleep," Dean says. "I've got a CDL, I can drive this tin can."

"Watch it Winchester, this is my home you're talking about," you grouch. A power nap sounds nice right now, if for no other reason than it's a excuse to put some space between you and Dean. Far as he knows you're a Beta, and you intend to keep it that way. "You know how to get to Kankakee from here?"

Dean gives you a look.

"Sorry, my bad. Wake me when we hit the city."

"Yes ma'am," Dean says.

"Salute me when you say that."

Without looking back as he settles into your captain's chair, Dean flips you off. "Hey," he asks as he fires up the engine, "you know of a good barbecue joint around where we're going?"

"There's a truck stop on 57, maybe two or three exits south. They've got a pit out back. Why?"

Dean makes that dunno shrug sound. "I could seriously go for some ribs.”

---

You're deep under, dreaming of plush lips and -- of all things -- chocolate fudge and cheesecake when the RV lurches.

"Sorry," Dean calls back as you climb out of bed. "We're making a pit stop. I gotta find a pharmacy."

The RV lurches again, damn near throwing you off your feet. The coffeepot crashes to the floor. "Fuck-- Dean!"

"Sorry," he says, unconvincingly. Someone outside blares a horn and Dean hollers something you're sure he didn't learn in church. You peer out through the curtains and see a Walgreens. Dean wheels into a bank of parking spaces and cuts the engine.

"Wait a-- Dean! chill!" Too late, he's out the door and jogging across the parking lot. You stare at the remains of your coffee maker, source of the bitter fuel of life. How Sam has not strangled Dean in his sleep, you have no idea.

Well as long as you're here-- grimacing through the intensifying cramps you pick up a new coffeemaker and stock up on protein drinks and bottled water. Omegas can, and have, died of thirst or hunger while deep in heat. As you leave the store you see a Confinement Notice posted on the wall. Shit. You forgot, Illinois is a Confinement state-- unless you get your horny ass inside the cops can pick you up and stash you in a closet next to the drunk tank until your heat runs its course. For Your Own Safety, For Their Own Safety. It's tempting to rip the damn thing off the wall and burn it.

Dean's in the bathroom when you get back, grunting something about an upset stomach. Whatever, Dean locked in the bathroom means less chance you'll do something dumb. Maybe, just maybe, you can get out of this with your dignity intact.

If you can fight through the haze drifting across your brain. Thick killer fog, smothering logic and reason, turning off anything but a fierce longing for bare skin, lips, hands, knot. Your skin is burning, clothes are starting to chafe. You’re running out of time.

When you get to Izzy’s hideout -- a cozy basement cave on an abandoned farm with a yard full of rustbucket cars, the house and barn lost to a fire years ago -- you're in a state. Febrile, trembling, every erogenous zone on your body aching. You have to take a minute to get your knees under you when you climb out of the RV. Jesus, you've never had a heat hit this fast.

"No." With shaking fingers you touch the note caught in the storm cellar door, staring wide-eyed and disbelieving at heavy duty padlocks. "No no no no no no, Jesus fuck no--" you dash back into the RV and pound on the bathroom door. "Dean get out here! My fixer's gone, you gotta see if you can get one of his beaters running--"

"I can't." Dean's voice is even hoarser and deeper than usual.

"What? Why the hell not? Your legs broke?"

A choke of laughter. "If only."

"Dean this isn't funny," a crinkle of plastic gets your attention and you pick a shopping bag up off the floor. The receipt is inside and as you read the brand names your insides collapse into a void. Neutralizer and suppressants, Alpha formula. Oh Jesus died in vain and legally changed his middle name to Fucking, Dean is in rut.

"Why didn't you tell me?!?" you shrill. "Dipshit, it's really not a good idea to be riding around in a mobile home full of fucking guns when you've got a rut coming--"

"I didn't know!" Dean roars and you flinch. "My rut's not due for another three fucking weeks! Maybe one of those assholes dosed me. Maybe those painkillers you gave me did something-- I don't know." Dean goes on, oblivious to your silence. "Fucking thing comes every thirty-three days, has ever since I was fifteen. I could set my watch to it. I wake up this morning, I feel fine, three hours later I start getting the shakes. I thought if I loaded up on suppressants I could hold it off until I got home but the fucking things aren't working!"

"How bad is it?" you ask.

"I could pole-vault over myself right now," Dean says. "Look I know you're probably exhausted but you gotta get me back to the bunker--"

"Dean you see the bag hung over the towel bar on the door?"

A pause. "Yeah?"

"Open it up and look inside." The bag, an old army medic first aid kit, is where you keep the stuff from the drug trial-- copies of questionnaires, doctor's exam notes, charts of the side effects, the empty glass vials with their color-coded labels. You listen as Dean opens it up and rifles through the contents, and cringe when the anvil drops and he starts snapping out swears. "What the fuck?!? Omega?"

The contempt in the word gets you mad again. "Because it wasn't your business and my heats aren't regular. I wouldn't have shut us up in a box together if I thought I wasn't safe!" Your uterus clenches into a hard fist and your knees buckle, your palms smacking on the kitchen counter.

"Oh fuck. Do not tell me you're going into heat."

You cough out a laugh. "You tell me. Alpha."

Dean sniffs. "Oh Jesus Christ. How-- oh God you smell good. How did I never notice?"

"The shit I was on worked." There had been side effects of course-- your hair falling out all over, a uterus full of fibroids and scar tissue, the increased cancer risk, irregular and painful heats . . .

Not fun. But a breeding Omega is a liability as a Hunter, and you need Hunting more than you need a mate and pups. However vehemently your body disagrees right now.

"I knew you were something," Dean says, surprising you.

"Oh fuck off Winchester, I'm not one of those slobbering Betas you pick up in bars who want a walk on the wild side with a real-life Alpha. Did any of them ask you for a bite?"

"You're a vicious bitch when you're in heat, you know that?"

Your reply is lost in a high squeak of pain. The latch on the bathroom door rattles and you lock it from the outside-- you'd installed the bolt years ago. Just in case. Dean throws it a shoulder. Panicking, you shriek, "Dean stop!"

He slumps against the back wall. He takes a deep sniff, like a little kid smelling a flower. You can't help it, you pull a deep breath and moan as Dean's scent hits your brain, filling your senses with fudge and leather.

It takes every bit of your disappearing willpower to stagger to your bed.

---

The next hours are pure misery. Wave after wave of need racks your body, your cunt clenching around nothing, every fiber of your being desperate for a knot, for seed. The tiny little space left where you live is just as desperate, cracking you with a whip of you are not your biology, you are not some hole for an Alpha to hump their come into, you are not some fucking brood mare, you are not, you are not, you are not--

Again and again you cry out as the words fail you. Your own hands and the toys in the nightstand drawer work overtime, wringing climaxes out of your body to the point of pain. They just make it worse. Your body doesn't want to come, it wants Alpha. Surrounding you, holding you down, pulling you close, knotting, biting, marking, mating-- just in time you sink your fangs into your pillow and howl.

When the first wave recedes it's dark outside. Your body feels like a clenched fist and you hiss in pain as you unwrap yourself from your pillows and pull yourself straight. It's agony but you know from bitter experience that you have to use these lucid periods productively. Your knotting toy lays at the foot of the bed, sticky and stinking. Tears of frustrated rage in your eyes, you pick it up and hurl it overhand, hard enough to dent the wall.

"Jesus!" Dean snaps from the bathroom.

"Sorry. Are you okay?"

"Well," Dean says as you lurch to the kitchen table and crack a bottle of protein drink, "I've got a hard-on that won't die and a really embarrassing mess to clean up--"

"Dude!"

"You asked, genius. And I am starving. I could eat a dead skunk if you put some onions on it first."

"There's a box of ration bars under the sink and the clear water tank is full. Just in case," you add, "there's a pistol and a silver knife in the toilet tank and some holy water in the medicine cabinet." You do what you can to clean off some of the sweat and slick, the cool water soothing on your skin.

The next wave hits and you're on the floor dragging the washcloth back and forth through your pussy, spread out on your front with your ass in the air. Dean's crouched down on the bathroom floor. You can see his face pressed against the little slats in the door, hear the hissing of breath through his nose. Gobbling up your scent like a kid with a sackful of Halloween candy. Shuddering, disgusted with yourself, disgusted with him, you crawl back into your bed for round two.

---

"You gotta let me outta here," Dean says, several hours later.

"You can't leave," you tell him tiredly. "Illinois has Confinement laws." You getting caught with an RV full of unregistered firearms, pipe bombs, drugs of all functions, magic supplies both holy and otherwise, and maybe one or two satchel charges is one thing. Dean getting picked up? The FBI would put him under the jail.

You hear Dean sit on the toilet lid. "Shit."

"Yeah. Don't suppose there's anybody you can call--"

"Phone's on the table. Besides," he adds, "everyone I can think to call is-- they shouldn't be coming here."

You hear the unspoken point. Garth's a Beta but there's a full moon coming and he won't risk being caught away from home. Sam is out of commission and an Alpha besides. Castiel is . . . well, he is what he is, but he's in the wind. "Shit.”

"I just said that."

"Hoho, very funny. Ha ha, it is to laugh."

Dean snorts. “Look, ‘Mega--”

“Don’t call me that! Don’t you ever call me that!!!” you yell.

“Okay okay okay-- just listen. Is it really so awful?”

"Do I have to dignify that with an answer?" you snap back. "This shit fucking hurts, you dick."

"That's not what I meant," Dean says. "I mean-- the thought of me. Is that really so awful?"

Oh God, what a question. "Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? I'd have to fight for you with anyone with eyesight and a libido that works."

Dean doesn't say anything for a moment. "So. Any Alpha that's good-looking?"

"Fuck you," you spit. "You have any idea how fucking demeaning this shit is? I'm going on about my day and all of a sudden I wanna drop my drawers for any twitching dick that walks by? When I was in school I had fucking Betas grabbing me in the halls. 'Present for me Omega.'" Your voice almost breaks. The memory of your first heat is one you don’t want back. "One of them was my fucking history teacher. Said it was his duty as an Alpha."

A bitter sound that might've started as a laugh comes from the bathroom. "Librarian," he says. "Dragged me into the science wing supply closet. Said her husband went noseblind and she was dying for a knot."

"Jesus." Would they? Of course they would. Young, attractive, bad reputation, mostly on his own-- to a certain kind of scum Dean would've been catnip. "How old were you?"

"Seventeen." Dean pulls a breath. "There were some others at that school. I got passed around like a fucking trophy." Or a whore, you think but don't say. "I never said nothing to anybody but I kept getting these looks from some of the seniors. Big bad Alpha, even the teachers want a piece. I tried-- I swear, I tried to stop. One of them, she taught one of Sammy's classes-- he started taking high school English when he was in sixth grade. She told me if I didn't fuck her she'd call the cops and get Sammy taken away."

You touch the surface of the locked door. The one threat Dean would never, ever take as anything but serious, the one thing that would scoop his guts out and make him nice and tame. "They can go straight to Hell," you say. Your tongue hits your fangs, fully descended. As if you could go back in time and rip the bitches to pieces for daring to lay a hand on your-- on him. "Every last motherfucking one of them."

Silence, no engine noises, no crunch of tires in the distance. Just insect wings and an owl hooting in the trees. Just you two and the angels right now, and you hope to God they're not paying attention.

"You're the first person that didn't instantly make a joke about it," Dean says finally.

"I make jokes about funny shit. That shit ain't funny."

"Yeah." You hear something light, leaflike-- Dean flipping a page. "Did someone hurt you? Is that why you signed up for this?"

"Omegas get hassled. It comes with the territory," you dodge the question. "I volunteered because--" you think a minute. "I went into heat once when I was tracking a tseste. Damn near died. OTC meds weren't strong enough, so I started doing some digging. Pfizer’s been working to develop heavy-duty suppressants for a while now. High dose hormone regulators. I sighed up for a clinical trial. Stuff works great-- no scent, no mating drive. The drug part of the study ended about a year ago. I just have to go to the doctor twice a year for follow-ups."

Dean snaps his fingers. "That's why you didn't take that case in Buffalo. That ghost ship."

"Yeah. I was parked outside Sault Ste Marie scaring the mosquitoes." Ashamed, you add, "I really am sorry about that, I heard you and Sam damn near drowned."

"Wasn't your fault." That leafy sound again. Of course Dean's read through everything in the bag. Nothing else to do in there but play with himself, you think and wish you hadn’t. Those big hands and nimble fingers, strong enough to bend iron, gentle enough to suture a wound or wipe a tear. "Did the jerks from the drug company tell you how bad the side effects could get?"

"They had to," you reply. "This isn't a super secret project to neuter all the Omegas in the world. Pfizer gets a suppressant formula that actually works, they'll be the richest bastards since the Pharaohs. I'd sell my soul not to have to deal with," your lip curls in revulsion as you take yourself in, soaked in sweat and slick and ready to throw yourself at any swelling knot, "this."

"Please tell me that’s a figure of speech."

You roll your eyes. "Even I'm not that desperate. It's not you, Dean. If it were just us--" why in God's name are you saying these things?

"It is just us," Dean points out. "Nothing here but you and me."

"You, me, and a mating instinct that still gets people off the hook for murder in 36 states." The words flow, like blood from a deep cut. "I took a shitload of drugs that killed my uterus and will probably give me cancer because that's better than pumping out pups by the boatload until my body gives up and dies. And don't tell me it doesn't have to be that way. It might not be legal to throw out job applications from Omegas but it still fucking happens. You know what I wanted to do before I had my first heat? I wanted to go to West Point. Be the first woman on the Joint Chiefs. But nope, the Corps loves Alphas but Omegas are too much fucking hassle--"

"You're not hearing me," Dean interrupts your tirade.

"And you aren't hearing me. I can't afford to forget I'm a fucking sow. It's gonna get me killed one of these days. You got the same classes I did Winchester, you know the life expectancy of Omegas tops out at fifty-five. Fifty for male Omegas."

"And thirty-five for female Alphas. That's not the point."

You gulp. Dean in rut and out of patience was not something you ever wanted to see. You clutch your midsection, another wave of heat stirring, sucking at you, pulling you under.

"I wanted you the minute I looked at you," Dean says, making your eyes pop wide. "I didn't make a move because I thought you couldn't stand Alphas. Remember that night, when Sammy and me met you?"

You nod. "The harpy nest."

"We had to pull you off that frat boy Alpha when he grabbed your ass." Shit. You remember the incident, sort of, you were pretty drunk at the time. You'd forgotten about the part where Dean had to drag you kicking and screaming off the premises while Sam talked the bouncer out of calling the cops.

Dean's voice goes even rougher, lower. It feels like he's speaking right to that surging, stinging want spreading through you. Your hind brain plucks the same old song on your nerves, mate-knot-breed, mate-knot-breed, the same old breedslut’s waltz. The animal inside wants to dance, and relishes the thought of taking Alpha’s lead. "If I wanted to knot you 'til you bleed I would. I can break through this damn door in a New York minute and you know it. And for the record," you shudder, "I can feel exactly how much you're hurting right now and you have no idea what it's like having to feel my mate in pain and just stand here with my dick in my hand."

The sensation of total stop gets underlined by another murderous cramp. Curled with pain, you shout, "MATE?!? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?!?!?"

"It's the only way this makes sense," Dean says. "You said you've never had your heat take you this fast. I've never been more than a couple days off-schedule. Either we've been hit with a curse and fuck I hope not or we're a match and our cycles are synching up."

"You don't honestly believe in that true mates crap," you say, digging your nails into your sides hard enough to break skin.

"I've seen it. There were these two guys. Hunters. We ran into them on a case. I saw the claiming bites. Sam asked them when they got together and Jose said they met on the streets. When they scented each other, they knew. Jose said it was like somebody distilled happiness. You know what you smell like to me right now?" Dean takes a long sniff. "Grape popsicles.” Another sniff. You can picture him scenting, head back, lips parted, skin flushed and shadowed with beard, a Renaissance angel in bluejeans, those eyes looking at you, wanting you. “Barbecue, with brown sugar and lots of pepper.”

You aren't aware of scenting and the words just sort of come out. "Mackinac Island fudge.” One hand slides down and between “My mom's old motorcycle jacket."

Faintly, you hear the clink of a belt buckle. "Cinnamon."

Your fingers glide over slicked flesh. "Cedar shavings."

A soft groan, a breathless voice. "Irish whiskey."

Both hands, seeking, circling, inside. "Toasting marshmallows."

You can hear the rhythmic sliding of skin against skin. A soft plosive sound, Dean spitting into his hand. "Hot engines."

Your body clenches at your fingers, the bands of muscle meant to lock behind Alpha's knot flexing and fluttering. "Gunpowder."

Dean's panting as he sinks to his knees. "Peanut butter--" he moans your name.

Climax breaks over you and you curl your fingers into a bony knot, your other hand rolling your clit like a marble in oil. "Baked apples," you cry out as Dean gasps from the other side of the locked door. Scent and seed and slick and tears. You crawl away from the bathroom crying out in pain as the heat rips and drags you under.

---

Never ask if things can get worse. God takes it as a personal challenge.

You didn't even make it into the bed. Instead of climbing up onto the sheets you’d curled up into a tight ball on the floor, and there you remain. You'd assumed the scent of an Alpha in rut made heat as bad as it could possibly get. Misss-stake. The paradigm has shifted, your instincts have seized on the idea (the truth, a little part of you cries) and that's not just an Alpha in the other room (mine!), it's Dean. You can't pretend the Alpha, the man, you're scenting is just some knot that happens to look like your friend (mate). Dean's hands on your blazing skin, Dean's mouth kissing yours, Dean's knot locked in your cunt, Dean's seed pumping into your body. Oh the things he could do to you, body and spirit so much stronger than he lets on.

Your scents have intensified to the point where you can taste them on the air, bite them off and chew them. A filmstrip voice from fifth grade sex ed class drones in your memory-- 'like their animal counterparts with similar mating cycles, Alphas and Omegas in season produce pheromones to indicate their status to potential mates. In the correct conditions, pheromones can be detectable up to a mile away. An unmated Alpha or Omega's pheromone production will increase the longer a breeding cycle continues without a successful mating.' The sound of hateful sniggering, always in your ears. Breeder, cum sink, momslut, Omega.

The sense of Dean's presence drags across your senses like fish hooks over your skin, and cruelest of all it's not demanding, it's begging, pleading. Alpha feels your agony and longs to take the pain away. Faintly you can hear Dean's voice, thick with his own need. He keeps asking you to answer him, laugh at this, say something at that, breathe like a train engine, anything to help you emerge from the Hell of your own body.

And something just . . . gives. Breaking strain, tipping point, limit reached and breached. "Dean!" you cry, sobbing so hard you can't breathe. "Help me! Dean, please--"

A crack like a gunshot, and the bathroom door splinters into matchsticks. You turn your head and there he is, barechested, jeans hanging open, his cock jutting up and out, the knot at the base dark and pulsing. You look for Dean and instead it's all Alpha and your heart crumbles to ash. Weeping, you do what's expected; head down, spread your knees as wide apart as they'll go, press your chest down into the floor, arch your back to flare up your rear. A proper presenting, showing Alpha you're ready for breeding. Like a stinking beast and worth half as much.

"Please," you cry into the floor. If dignity is cheap why does it hurt so much to lose? "Please, it hurts, it hurts so bad."

"I know baby, it's okay, I got you," instead of spreading you wider or grabbing you by the nape Dean takes your shoulders and pulls you gently upright and against his chest, the heat of his skin matching the heat under yours, "c'mere, it's gonna be okay, shh," softness pressing to your face, your head, your mouth, "can you stand? c'mon, put your feet down--" he pulls one of your limp arms over his shoulders and stands, drag-marching you the last step to your bed. By the time he's got you laid down he's shuddering almost as hard as you are.

You whine when Dean pulls away, gasping out pleas, grabbing his hand and interlacing your fingers. Whatever he was going to do gets abandoned and Dean drags himself overtop you, jeans boots and all. You wind yourself around him, soaking up the feel and the smell and the everything the way cracked skin soaks up lotion-- pain and relief all at once. His cock drags across your belly, leaving a hot trail. A hand gropes your cunt and you let out a high whistling gasp. "Hang on baby," Dean says. He tries a smile. "Left my lube in my other pants."

You smack him somewhere meaty. Dean grunts but his attention doesn't waver. Two fingers slip inside and wiggle while Dean murmurs how tight, how wet and warm, how good it's gonna feel, how good he's going to make you feel. The tip of his cock brushes you and before you can freeze he rolls his hips and oh.

There's no resistance at all. He just glides, fitting up into your body like a key in a lock. Every single muscle in your body pulls tight tight tight and you scream, Dean half-sobbing a curse against your lips. The spasm lets go just as you feel yourself starting to pass out and clarity returns to the feel of your Alpha painting your face with kisses, your bare skull held gently between his hands. Blood and sensation surges back and you moan as Dean puts an arm around your back and thrusts.

He's big inside you, and the way he's got you tipped makes every movement light sparks along your nerves. Gentleness goes by the boards as your body clutches at him, as your claws cut furrows in his back and your heels dig into his butt. The rest of reality doesn't exist, all that matters is Dean in your arms, Alpha's knot swelling, starting to catch.

The world goes upsie-daisy as Dean grabs tight and rolls the whole works over. "Wanna see," he pants, holding your hips until you get your balance. "My knot-- oh my God you're beautiful, you're so goddamn beautiful."

You don’t have words, just touch, your hand pulling Dean up for a kiss. Your bodies find their stride and you’re rocking hard together, moaning against each other’s lips. Hours on the edge has you in a place beyond, need and pain and bliss all smashed and melted together. You’re desperate for the end, you want this to never end.

“NO!” you scream in denial when Dean’s knot pops and your cunt locks him in place. His back arches as he comes and the pain in your body drains away as his cock pumps you full of seed. You start to cry, your own peak denied, release out of your reach--

Beneath you, Dean sprawls, crying out at each pulse of his cock. His hands clamp on your hips hard enough you can feel him clutching bone. Unconsciously you follow his unspoken lead, rotating your body around Alpha’s knot, making every millimeter of him stroke and drag. Jaw clenched as your pussy pulls at his overstimulated cock, Dean strokes your clit, his touch light as bird wings and intense as fireworks. His eyes lock with yours and what’s left of the world fades to nothing. All that’s real is this, Alpha and Omega, you and Dean.

Everything in you stops and flashbulbs pop behind your eyes as you finally come, crying out Alpha’s name, and the last thing you hear is Dean shouting as another load of his seed bursts into your womb. Your body folds over and everything goes black.

---

Just before dawn, when the terminator passes and everything is shades of blue, you open your eyes, flat on your back. On his side, curled up next to you, Dean sleeps. One of his arms lays across your belly.

Well. You lie still, utter peace rubbed up against utter shock. 24 hours ago you were giving your wounded friend two Oxycontin with a bourbon chaser and worrying about gas money. You take a whiff, noting the change in your mingled scents. Lord it's weird, relaxing and tensing up all at once.

Dean mumbles a little and you shut your eyes, going boneless. You don't want to see his face when he opens his eyes and realized he's not in bed with a gorgeous, well-fucked, ready-for-more Beta. He'd said he wanted you and he wasn't lying -- you give yourself at least that much credit -- but an Alpha in rut would find an Omega in heat attractive no matter what.

Dean takes a deep sniff at your neck. Is he purring? Moaning? Whatever it is, it's going right to that worried place, soothing it away. "Hey," he says, so softly. "You awake?"

"Mmm," you grumble, turning on your side and into Dean's arms. Dean doesn't turn away, doesn't grope you, doesn't mutter obscenities as he rolls you over to present. You can feel him moving around you, making his body into a safe little harbor, and you can almost believe there's nothing else in the world he'd rather be or do.

For all that he's a Hunter and one of the strongest personalities you know, for all that you'd never doubt for a minute that Dean's an Alpha, the thought of Dean being Alpha as you understand Alphas doesn't click. Alphas don't get all soft and googoo face when they're holding someone else's pup. Alphas don't turn down sex from cooperative partners even when said partner is a little short of legal or too drunk to tapdance. Unmated adult Alphas don't exist cooperatively for years on end even when they're related. Sam behaves more Alpha than Dean does and Sam's a sweetheart most of the time.

Another wave of heat swells in you but there’s no pain, just want. You nuzzle your way up Dean’s throat and meet him for a kiss.

Both of you pull away with a disgusted noise. “Ew. Dragon breath,” you say.

“Yours is worse,” Dean, no gentleman, tells you. “Least I don’t taste like an ashtray.”

“Hold your breath,” you order, reaching down and feeling him rise to attention.

Pouting-- he’s actually pouting-- Dean pushes your hand away. “Sorry baby,” he says, kissing your forehead, “but I gotta piss like a racehorse.”

“Charming. Make it fast.” You make a face as you roll out of bed. At least these aren’t the good sheets. An Alpha in rut leaves behind one fuck of a wet spot.

Dean picks up a piece of wrecked door. “Holy shit.”

“You’re paying my deductible,” you tell him, reaching around the doorframe and snatching your toothbrush.

Ten minutes later and you’ve got minty fresh breath, a protein drink in your system, and your butt squeaking a brisk one-two beat on the kitchen counter as Dean fucks you to within an inch of your life.

---

“Well this is awkward,” you say.

Dean pants out a laugh. “Ya think?”

You try to shift yourself off Dean’s knot and hiss in pain. “Um . . .” you give him a pained grin, “I like Captain Solo where he is?”

That gets you a glare. “Seriously?”

“Sorry. Pop out on three-- one, two--”

“No no no no no, you’ll tear.” Over your protests, Dean picks you up off the counter, careful of your knotted together bodies. He sits on the dining table, draping you over his lap and making your mewl as his cock shifts around inside you. Dean sighs as you get your knees on either side of his hips. “That’s better.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“Why the hell not? I’m not going to just rip out of you. What kind of an asshole do you think I am?”

“An Alpha. And you’re not an asshole you’re a dipshit. There’s a difference.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” You can’t help it, your lip curls in a snarl. “Not much I could do to stop you.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Oh am I offending you now?”

That’s worth a glare. “Yeah, kinda, it pisses me off that you think you gotta prove something to me.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, confused.

“I mean--” Dean cuts himself off, thinking, holding you still when you try that swivel trick around his knot. “Stop that.”

“Whyyyy?”

“Because I’m trying to have an adult conversation--”

“Whyyyy?”

“Because you’re starting to remind me of Sam when he was ten and it’s annoying--”

“WHYYYY?”

“Because I really do not want to be thinking of my brother right now--”

“WHYYYY?!?”

Dean’s fighting a grin and losing. “Animaniacs references will not save you--”

“WHYYYY?!?!?”

“Knock it off!”

You suck in a breath for the whine to end all whines, only to breathe crosswise into coughing as Dean starts tickling you. Swearing through your giggles, you attack his ribs.

Somewhere in there tickling’s led to stroking, caressing, kisses, soft bites. Gently you drag your lips across Dean’s collarbones, down to mouth a nipple, up to nibble over his tattoo. Just touching him feels good.

His mouth slips down the side of your neck and pauses on the mating gland. You stiffen. Hurt shines in Dean’s eyes, before he covers it in irritation. “Jeez-zus Christ I’m--”

Making a decision, you touch his lips and shush him up. “Look. When this is over we’ll talk. For real talk, I promise. Until then, can we table the deep soul-bearing heart-to-heart shit?”

“You’re regretting this already?” Dean asks, the hurt shining through more strongly.

“God no.” Pounding the point home with a kiss. “I just don’t want you to. If you’re right, about us I mean.” You stare into his eyes, nearly lost in shining green, one of your hands over his beating heart. “I don’t wanna fuck this up.”

Dean takes your face between his hands and kisses you, deep and sweet. You barely notice when his knot collapses and he slips out, leaving a mess of mingled come all over you both.

---

It’s getting hot, sweat making your bodies slide deliciously as you gently, softly, agonizingly move against Alpha. His cock fills you beautifully, the fat head rubbing against a spot inside that brings tears to your eyes. Slow, stoking the heat burning through your body.

Dean lifts your leg a little higher, goes a little deeper. “Hold your leg like that,” he whispers. His newly freed hand goes to your belly and presses down against the shallow curve of tummy fat. “Feel that?”

You can. Your insides fluttering as Dean pushes against them. From inside. Makes every movement more there, more immediate. Head, ridge, shaft, knot-- you moan when Dean starts gently rubbing your clit, making him answer in kind when your cunt spasms around him.

It lasts, Dean makes it last, until you can’t anymore and he flips you to your back and fucks his knot into you. You cry out as your body takes another load of seed and you lie there, bodies heaving for air, the two of you glued together with the heat.

---

“You’re a genius,” you tell Dean.

“I know, I know,” he smiles, almost too beautiful to look at in the rich sunset light. Your nose can still pick up his scent, mixed with green leaves and burning citronella. The two of you sit on your old air mattress, sharing some dried fruit and venison jerky, passing a jug of water. In the west the sun vanishes in a riot of rose and orange and purple. High up on the roof of your little home on wheels, it really does feel like a tiny slice of Heaven.

“I still do this, whenever I hit a hunt away from the cities,” you tell Dean. “Especially out in the desert country, like Lake Taos? I always freeze my ass off in the morning but the sky’s just . . .”

“Yeah,” Dean chuckles. “We were on our way across Nevada once and we got caught between towns. Dad had to stop and get a little sleep. So Sammy and me lay on the windshield and watched the stars. I was dozing and Sammy woke me up when he saw a whole buncha shootin’ stars-- we must’ve caught the tail end of a meteor shower.”

Dean’s gaze has gone inward, his voice rough and loose with that bit of Texas that comes out sometimes. When Dean reminisces, it’s usually centered on Sam, or him and Sam as a unit, the Winchester Boys, Butch and Sundance, Martin and Lewis, Heckle and Jeckle. Truly impactful memories aren’t something either of them talk about much. You know why. The truth of who people are is a treasure and it’s shockingly easy to steal. This is a gift you’re being given, and you give back silence and space.

“Sammy started poundin’ on the windshield to get Dad to wake up. I thought sure he was gonna rip me a new one for not keeping him quiet. But instead he got out of the car and climbed up on the hood with us. He put his arm around each of us and we all just watched the stars.

“We woke up at dawn half-frostbit and with this Highway Patrol cop writing a ticket for-- shit, I don’t even remember. Sammy talked him out of it by telling him about falling stars.” You can tell Dean’s disappointed in his story. The most important things are the hardest to say. “Anyway. It’s nice to be under an open sky sometimes.”

“Yeah.” Camping out with your dad, learning how to fish and build a fire and find cattails and aim a rifle. And then your body turned traitor, to you and your dad both.

“You know what?” Dean says, as though he knows the channel of your thoughts and wants to divert it, “I’m hungry.”

“You can have the rest of the jerky, man, I’m cool.”

“Nuh-uh.” He kisses you, pushes you back on the mattress. “I need something . . .” he kisses over your heart, “nice . . .” trails kisses down to your bellybutton, “sweet . . .” licks down to the patchy stubble, you haven’t shaved in a while, “mmm, juicy . . .”

“Oh real subtle Winchester,” you groan as he parts your legs and settles his head between them, “honestly that’s just--”

---

Later, under the light of the moon and stars you ride Dean’s supine body, pleasure and joy and the sense of height making you feel like you’re flying, or falling, or perfectly suspended in the moment God made the light. Nothing connecting you to the world of blood and pain except Dean, and since he’s flying with you that’s okay. His knot lodging firm in your body pulls you back, and for the first time the thought of being locked together seems . . . right, needed even. You don’t need a knot to be locked together and coming back to Earth with Dean is a Heaven in itself.

---

“Gonna rain today,” you say as Dean hands you a bottle of water.

“Yeah,” he agrees. He points to a scar on his leg. “Broken tibia. Aches a little when it rains.”

“Mmm. Prosit,” you clunk your bottles together. As you reach to drop yours in the wastepaper basket, Dean takes your arm and starts gently nibbling at your wrist, where all the lines and blood tangle together. Tingles and sparks fly along your nerves.

A phone rings and you both jump halfway to the moon. Dean picks up his latest burner and groans. “Sam.”

From the volume and Dean’s wince, Sam is not using his six-inch voice. “Calm down man, I’m fine, I’m just laying low.”

“Oh is that what the kids’re callin’ it?” you whisper.

Dean waves you off. “I don’t know, maybe a couple more days? We’ve got some weather moving in.”

Irritated at getting the brushoff you go for the soft underbelly. Well, the not-so-soft part of it anyway. Dean coughs out a “Shit!” as you sluck up his cock, feeling it jump to life in your mouth.

Through the phone’s ear speaker you can hear Sam yelling. Dean glares down into your wide and totally not innocent eyes, as you let your lips stretch obscenely up his shaft, lash at the head with your tongue. “I don’t know! Somewhere in Illinois? We had to pull over-- yes, we, as in I am not alone, as in she might be coming down for a visit--” a choked moan pops out of him as you swallow him down, down, so far down your lips can kiss his knot. You hope he appreciates this, it took a lot of popsicles for you to get this trick right.

“No! Shit Sammy-- whatever-- which one of us is acting like he’s twelve?” A surprised laugh makes you choke and you pull away from Dean, coughing like you’re gonna hack up a lung. “I’m fine, Sam. You shouldn’t even be walking. How the hell you gonna work the double-clutch on that old truck with no left leg?”

“Sam wants to come here?!?” you scream-whisper.

“--you don’t even know how to ride the damn thing,” Dean continues. “No. I am fine, there’s nothing but trees for miles-- hey! I didn’t say anything when you wanted to take a detour to see the Impressionists--”

Your patience dies and you snatch the phone out of Dean’s hand. “Sam,” you cut him off. As the oldest of five girls, you know how to give orders to baby sibs. “Dean is fine. He will be home in a few days. If there’s a hunt we will deal with it then. Unless the house is burning down, chill. You got it?” You don’t even wait for Sam’s response, flipping the phone over, picking out the battery, and throwing the whole mess into the nightstand drawer.

Dean stares at you, mouth hanging open, dick visibly throbbing. The reality of what you just did hits you and you hide your face in your hands “Oh Christ. Sam’s gonna fucking kill me isn’t he?”

Clicking his mouth closed, Dean orders, “Put some clothes on.”

Your heart breaks. “What? Why? I’m not safe to drive yet.” Goddamn it, you’ve got maybe five seconds before you start bawling like a fucking crybaby.

Ignoring you, Dean goes upfront. Your fingers numb, you reach for your keys. Jesus-- your heart’s not breaking, it’s ripping itself to pieces like a dry piston engine. Any second now it’ll crack your chest open in a shower of blood and bone.

Dean snatches your wrist, yanking you away from the keyhook. “What are you doing?” he demands.

“You want to leave, I’ll--”

“We’re not leaving. Put this on.”

Present for me Omega, whispers out of a memory and you shudder as you drape the green on black plaid fabric over your shoulders and do up the buttons. The shirt fits you like a tent and smells like Dean, leather and chocolate and all things safe and good.

“Now that you’re wearing something,” he says, in a voice like velvet and whiskey, “I’m going to rip it off of you, and fuck your brains out.”

Your voice is very small. “Oh.”

---

Cool humidity soothes the inferno under your skin, as rain patters on the RV like pebbles on a tin can. Dean has you sprawled wide over the bed, with your knotting toy in one hand and a pocket massager in the other.

“I think I like this,” Dean says to himself, tickling your clit with the vibrator and making you squeak. “Your pussy’s still hungry.” You know it is, you can feel yourself pulsing around the knotting toy. Dean can see the flexing, smell your scent and your slick. “Doesn’t wanna let go. You wanna play with your titties for me?” His gaze goes unfocused as you caress yourself, thumbs flicking at your nipples. It’s just debauched, the picture you imagine you make, shamelessly naked and lounging on a stack of pillows being pleasured by your Alpha.

Or teased. Dean puts the vibrator aside and slowly drives Doctor Knotts into and out of your cunt, just enough to be nowhere near enough. A breeze from the window brings out goosebumps and pulls your nipples to attention. Indecent, slutty, perverted, degenerate-- under Dean’s gaze the shame under those thoughts disappears. You feel alive. You feel like a fucking goddess.

From the tangle of hair at his groin Dean’s cock rises, ready for duty. An idea percolates to the surface of your lust-fried mind. When you explain it to Dean, he just smiles, sticks his bare feet into his boots, carries you out into the rain, and takes you against the side of the RV. His skin is warm and his mouth tastes like rainwater. You run your tongue up the big tendon in the side of his neck and you feel Dean freeze when your mouth touches the pheromone gland, the mating gland.

You don’t, but oh God you want to. Instead you hold him tight as you come and let the rain handle your tears. Dean’s big hand cups the nape of your neck and he holds you back just as tight. His face is wet too, from the rain.

---

Dean’s on the back end of his rut, you can tell because his coloring is getting back to normal and his knot doesn’t take long to unlock. As though you needed more proof-- you think your heat is passing too. Needs matching one another, the way a mated pairs’ should.

So when Dean reaches, you come to him and meet his kiss. And you’re the one that turns over. You shiver as he takes his place behind, kissing up your spine, lingering on the scar of a ghoul bite he and Sam had cleaned and dressed together. You turn your head and find his seeking lips, trying not to feel your heartrate double and memories stirring like angry spirits.

Dean doesn’t bark it like a trainer correcting a dog. Heel, sit, speak, take it like a bitch. It’s soft, like he cares. Because he does. Dean Winchester is a man you trust, and you’re so tired of never trusting. “Present for me.”

You shift your knees apart and spread open your well-fucked Omega pussy. Dean’s breathing is ragged, like he just took a punch in the gut. You cry out as he touches you, finding heat, slick, slippery as warm oil.

“Is all this for me?” he asks, and you can just imagine-- slick pooling in his palm, trickling down his wrist.

“Yes,” you moan, “for God’s sake don’t tease--" you look up and see your own reflection, in the mirror hung on the inside of the closet. The door must’ve come off the latch again. Sitting on his knees behind you is Dean, your Alpha, studying you with an expression so nakedly vulnerable you almost look away.

“Tell me,” he asks. Pleads. He glances up and sees the mirror, sees you watching. With that vulnerable look, Dean says, “Tell me what you need.”

It’s like you’ve been waiting to give the answer your whole life. “You. Please, Dean, you. Please.”

Lining himself up, Dean presses into you. Dying coals of heat flare and you moan in relief and joy. One of his hands curls around yours while the other helps you sit up against his chest. In the mirror-- holy fuck there you are, bracketed by Dean, supplicant and lover and protector all in one. “You,” you whisper. “Need you. Always need you.” Dean hides his face behind your shoulder and moans.

Dean brings this to the best conclusion there could be, worshipping your body with his, tenderly, gently. So much of him is hard, strength called on too early and too often and pounded into iron by years of loss and impossible choices, but his hands on you are careful, gentle, reverential. Those hands have taken on Gods and won, and they touch you like something delicate and beautiful. “Got one more for me?” Dean asks, the flirty teasing threadbare as you tremble through another orgasm.

“I-- I don’t--”

“Come on, you can do it, I believe in you.” Dean does this weird grippy thing, something that makes your clit feel like it’s got roots all the way to your knees. Every clench and flutter of you cunt muscles makes your clit twitch in Dean’s grip, making you gasp. Bliss so intense it hurts. “There it is,” Dean says as you pitch forward. You lace your fingers through the top of his hand as he braces himself; he grips back and drives into you, broken voices matching as you fall over the edge together.

---

The next day is all tension and awkward silence. You’re both sore from using muscles that don’t get used much. Normal you stands on reserve, truly engages with few, shows weakness to almost no one. For Christ’s sake you begged--

It’s an awkward crew that sets sail, the hot sun turning the moisture left from the rain into wring-out-your-clothes humidity. Dean spends most of his time in the passenger seat focused on his phone. He doesn’t try to engage in conversation beyond the strictly necessary. You don’t know if that’s a relief or just something else to piss you off. Christ, he’s not even coming near you. Pretty big turnaround from not being able to keep his hands off you for two days.

It’s that last thought that makes you clench your teeth and try to think rationally. God damn it, this’d be a lot more straightforward if it wasn’t for your fucking hormones. It adds a layer of mistrust to every intuition you normally rely on. Any judgement call is potentially tainted.

And how much right do you have to crash-land in his life anyway? Being a mated pair goes deeper than any legal or spiritual bond, it’s a physical thing. If you take that step it’ll severely curtail your freedom of motion. His too. And there’s the whole serial philanderer thing-- you know you’re monogamous and a bad experience has taught you that you can’t be in a relationship with someone who isn’t. And what about a family? Just seeing the way Dean comes alive around kids tells you he was born to be a father, and no matter how much you-- you can’t do that for him. You don’t even want kids. And there’s Sam. Where Dean is concerned, Sam is like the earth, no way around him.

Muscle memory has you reaching for your coffee cup and your hand touches Dean’s. Instead of snapping it back, you make yourself squeeze his fingers. Not much. An unscheduled bit of human contact. The strength of Dean’s return grip surprises you. You don’t want him to let go. When he does he gets up and goes in the back, avoiding you--

Dean’s leaving you your space, you realize. But you don’t want a space that doesn’t have him in it.

With that, you make a few decisions and take a turn. “You hungry?”

“Yeah,” Dean calls.

“There’s one of those Mongolian barbecue places up ahead. Wanna go and give the grillers a workout?”

---

“Six months.”

Dean’s chopsticks, heavy with beef and onion, pause on the way to his mouth. His already full mouth. Not that you’re being dainty; heats always leave you starving. He asks with his eyes.

You are not a coward. You refuse to behave like one. “If you’re willing,” please God let him be willing, “I want to give this a try.”

“What this?” Dean grunts around a swallow.

“This. Us.” Just like that Dean’s poker face slams into place. You’ve gotten so used to his unguarded, trusting affect it hurts to see his defenses go up like that.

You’re not gonna, so he doesn’t get to either. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That’s your Cop face.” You flash yours right back at him. “Don’t do that. If we never talk straight again we have to do it now.”

Dean purses his lips and looks away. “What’s there to talk about--”

“Don’t. You. Fucking dare. Try to brush this off.”

“Look, we’re cool, okay? You don’t have to spare my feelings.”

“Huh?”

“You’re gonna make me say it,” Dean says after heaving a sigh.

“Negative copy on that Midnight Rider, say again?” You smile as you say it, it tickles you that Dean picked the Alman Brothers Band, it suits.

“I had sex with a woman when she couldn’t say no. The law calls that rape.”

You can feel the smile fall off your face. “Dean no, don’t even think that.”

“Why not?” he asks bitterly.

“Be-cause I was fucking begging?”

“You weren’t in your right mind. When I saw you on the floor-- God, I’ve never seen a woman cry like that. But I didn’t care.” His great green eyes burn with horrified shame. “I wanted you so bad, I didn’t care.” That’s the other part of Dean’s personality, the part that exists in a perpetual state of Fail. That part is incapable of internalizing any kind of praise, nitpicks every decision for flaws, and eagerly agrees with anything negative anybody says about him. Of course he’s taken your ambivalence to mean you hate him. For Dean, there’s no other conclusion possible.

That ends. Right now. You slip your fingers into his hand, pull it across the table to hold it in both of yours. It’s his gun hand, you can feel the hard spots. “Look at me, Winchester.” When you have his attention, you say, “I just had two days of the best sex of my entire life,” not a lie, that’s not even debatable, “with a man who made it his mission to not hurt me, not degrade me, made sure I enjoyed every damn minute, and was never anything but exactly who I needed. No matter where we go from here, I’ll always love you for that. And grateful. God, you have no idea how grateful. You took care of me,” you’re starting to get misty, the depth of that gratitude shocks you. You lift his hand and kiss the back. “Thank you.”

Dean clears his throat. “I don’t want to be one of those Alphas that made you treat any Alpha like the enemy,” he says.

“That would be most of them,” you say. He deserves a better answer than that, though. “My dad always wanted a son, but all Mom could ever give him were girls. I was the oldest, so after Mom had the twins I guess he decided God made me a tomboy for a reason.”

“Oh God he didn’t--”

“No,” you cut that thought right off. “My parents are Betas. So are my sisters. When I Presented, dad just refused to believe it. Said God wouldn’t do something so heartless, make his tough little girl into a breeder. He kept on saying that right up until my first day of eighth grade.”

“Your first heat.”

“Yep. It was . . .” fuck, two decades later and certain things -- girlish cackles of laughter, the smell of floor polish, pressure on a certain spot on your back -- still send you into an irrational panic. “I wasn’t prepared. The story came with me when I got into high school. Small town, the really humiliating crap never dies.

“But anyway. Dad stopped acting like dad after that. A couple weeks later I asked him about going to deer camp-- it was supposed to be my first year there. He beat the shit out of me.”

“Jesus!”

You wave that aside. “Not the first time, dad had a heavy hand with us kids. But he kept calling me things. That’s the first time I ever heard most of the bad names Omegas get called. From my fucking father. Who I worshipped. You get it?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Absolutely.”

“So when the inevitable started happening--”

“You said your history teacher?”

You nod. “And my sister’s softball coach. And my first boyfriend.” You shudder. “And my cousin. His wife told me that’s what Omegas are for and the sooner I got that the better. Doesn’t help that the law agrees, pretty much.

“I met Peg when she was pretensing as an agent for the DNR.” Dean nods, he knows the story of how Peg Dmitriev popped your hunting cherry. “She came and got me the night I graduated. Dad was prepping his big throwing me out of the house speech when Peg pulled up, told dad to go fuck himself, sat me in her car with a bottle of vodka, and next thing I know it’s tomorrow and we’re halfway to Atlanta.

“Anyway,” you pull yourself back to Now, Dean’s hand warm in yours. “Me being an Omega’s been nothing but a source of pain and bullshit, all my life. Until two days ago.”

“Then why didn’t you ask me to claim you? Because--” Dean hesitates, then plunges on ahead, “I mean, it hurt to hold back from doing that.”

“Because I didn’t want to do anything permanent. I still don’t.” Dean flinches, as though you’d slapped him. You hurry to explain yourself, ease the hurt. “I-I mean, I’m a bitch to live with, I drink too much, I’m a loudmouth schnook, I can’t cook for shit--”

“Untrue,” Dean cuts in. “Your campfire stew is awesome.”

“I can’t give you pups,” you tie the whole thing off with one big one.

“I know,” Dean says. At your look he clarifies, “It was on the paperwork in your bag.”

You nod. “It’s not just-- the lab guys aren’t totally sure what the hormone blockers did to my eggs. If kids are something you’re gonna want, they can’t come from me.”

“You’re talking like kids are even an option.”

You think a moment. “Did you ever hit a point, where one day you wonder if maybe you’re not gonna die young’n’pretty? One of the reasons I agreed to do the study was I thought for sure I wasn’t gonna live ten more years.”

You’re not sure if that thought has occurred to Dean. The Winchesters’ relationship to mortality is . . . complicated. How many times they’ve for-real died is a topic of debate in some dark and smoky bars. Some even say the stories are all bull, that old man John was just dinky-dau and his boys aren’t any better. You’re not one of them. You’ve met Castiel.

“Yeah,” Dean admits. He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t. “I can live with kids being off the table, but-- look. Every time I’ve tried for anything good, someone gets hurt. I damn near got Ben and Lisa killed.”

“I’m not a civilian Dean. I’ve been Hunting solo for almost twelve years now. Still here, still sane, still a better shot than you.”

“With a rifle, anyway.”

“Whatever. The point is, you don’t have to stash me in a safehouse in Assfuck, Kansas and hope I remember not to wash the graffiti off the walls.”

“Well what about me?” Dean asked. “I kind of like having a permanent address. I’m not going to throw a ruck in your RV and just hit the road.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” you say, bringing up the biggest thing of big things. “For one thing, I’m not going to ask you to pick between me and your brother.”

“What?”

“Sam comes first, I get that.” You’ve been around them long enough to know that’s true. The Winchesters are a package deal. Anybody with eyes can see it, and anybody who challenges it loses. For Christ’s sake, the Devil bet the farm that he could break that, and lost. “That’s the other reason I don’t want to bond right now. If Sam can’t stand having me around--”

“What do you mean? Sam loves having you around.”

“I did just tell him to fuck off.”

“He deserved it. Cockblocker. Look,” he says, turning his hand over so he can hold yours, “if it were up to me, we’d be mated already.” Dean’s doing that thing he does, when there’s no bullshit nowhere. Focused, direct. Part of you wants to run, but another part just wants to wrap yourself up in it, soak it in, exist within that intensity. “But I totally get why you want to take it slow.”

“Yeah. But,” you put the words together, “I don’t want to stand in front of St. Peter yanking claws outta my ass and admit that I left a chance at being happy with you on the table.” You’re not ready to say the words yet, but neither is he and you can live with that for now.

Dean lifts his beer. “Six months.”

You lift your glass of pop. “Six months.”

Clink.

---

One Year Later

“You’re Red’s kid aren’t’cha?”

You nod at the bartender as you pull an ashtray close. Because if there was ever a day you needed a cigarette--

The bartender passes you a pack if matches. “Just get back from the wedding?”

You nod. “Stuck around long enough to get told we weren’t needed for pictures.”

She pulls a bottle of Scotch off the wall and pours. “On the house. You guys look like you could use it.”

“Oh bless you,” Dean sighs.

“No problem. Been listening to Red’s bullshit for years.” You notice a slight flaring of her nostrils and your hand meets Dean’s halfway. You have to remind yourself to take it easy; you’re both off the market. Sam on the other hand . . . the bartender sidles over to get a better sniff at Sam’s Alpha scent, eucalyptus and ice tea and fog, fresh cut green apples. Cool scents, total contrast to his brother’s warm ones.

The original plan -- you and Dean get drunk as skunks and Sam stays sober enough to pour you two back in your motel room bed around 0230 -- gets tossed in the wastepaper basket. “C’mon Dean, we gotta go do the thing.”

“Right, the thing.” You finish your drinks and leave Sam and the bartender to their dance of mutual interest. “Ten says we don’t see him again until Tuesday,” Dean says as he slides behind the Impala’s steering wheel.

“Sucker’s bet,” you reply. Spending as much time in the bunker as you do, you know Sam’s due for a rut. The Omega bartender’s about to have an interesting weekend. “Anyone watching?” At Dean’s negative you get in the back and change out of your for-nice dress. It feels like taking pressure off an infected wound.

“You okay?” Dean asks as you climb into the front seat.

You check the urge to cover with a token I’m Fine-- you and Dean sailed past that a while ago. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard from him before. I’m sorry you and Sam had to hear it.” Your father’s got some fucked-up ideas, but the notion that you’re playing breedslut to a pair of siblings-- that’s low even for him.

“Like we were going to let you deal with this shit alone,” Dean snorts. “Besides, it’s not the first time somebody got the wrong idea about me’n’Sam.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. There was this guy once-- he offered us a grand if we let him film us double-teaming his wife. Two grand if he could put the camera on a tripod and join in.”

“Shit dude. Did he even know you’re brothers?”

Dean shoots you a grin. “Twenty-five hundred. Each.”

“Oof.”

At your direction Dean swings by the party store up the road for a couple six-packs, to the Guiseppe’s for a pizza, and to the park by the lake full of old-fashioned playground equipment rusting away next to the newer, safer, less fun plastic crap. After polishing off the pizza you stretch out next to Dean on Baby’s front end, the windshield hard against your back. The sun going down over the water makes the place pretty as a postcard. You wonder a moment if the view is as nice from the VFW reception hall, as your sister and brand new brother in law take their first dance.

“I think,” Dean says, pulling you from your thoughts, “I owe you an apology.”

“What for? You didn’t treat anybody like a red-headed stepchild.”

“For ever saying anything about how hostile you are to Alphas. Because that--” he tics his head at the road back to town, “explains a lot.”

“You didn’t know.” People you’d gone to school with sniggering behind their hands, gossip exchanged just loud enough for you to hear every word. Your dad, a five-foot-six human bull, regaling Dean and Sam with humiliating stories about your early heats. Your cousin’s angling for God knows, constantly bumping into the guys as they stuck with you like white on rice. Bless them.

Worst of all, your baby sister glowing in white, her eyes fixed on your feet, asking you to please leave. A promise to call later, that she’ll never keep. Rosie never could lie for shit.

Unconsciously your hand goes up, touching the scimitar-shaped bits of raised scar tissue bracketing the mating gland. Dean’s hand slips under yours, gently stroking over his mark. A light touch, like a warm hug or a quick kiss. If he rubs a little harder, you know, it turns your blood to fire, makes you wet, makes you hungry. You remember vividly, you and the guys damn near dying from an ambush of vampires, Dean tossing his car keys to Sam and taking you on the ground outside. He’d begged for your bite first, and your ears had rung with his howl as your fangs tore into his skin.

“I love my sisters,” you say, “but if they’re going to keep being dad’s partisans, I can’t be around them.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Leaving hadn’t been a hard choice. The three of you stunk up the place, literally, and your sisters’ protests that you should just give dad a chance, he wasn’t cruel just old-fashioned, et cetera et cetera et cetera . . . it was bullshit when you left home and it’s bullshit now.

You look at Dean, remembering another sunset. A year’s put one or two more lines around his eyes; other than that, he’s still almost too beautiful to look at. Moved by a wave of tenderness, you pull him close and kiss him, soft and slow.

Later you lie next to him in your motel room bed as he drifts off, lazy in the afterglow. Life isn’t perfect, but with your mate it’s a helluva lot more fun. Unconsciously Dean shifts towards you, his mouth curved in a slight smile.

For your entire life you’ve been coached to feel worthless, a hole for an Alpha’s pleasure and a sack for an Alpha’s pups. You’ve done terrible things to yourself, living your life otherwise. But then Dean fell into your bed and you took a chance that’s paid off every day since. Every smile that’s just for you, every weapon tossed into your waiting hand, every stitch in a bleeding wound, every gripe about how the fuck do you even do that when you take some rifle practice-- you can’t be worthless and have someone like Dean Winchester feel that way about you. And if your kinfolk won’t see that, it’s not your duty to feel bad about it.

With that logical leap, it feels like something broken inside you sets back together. Dean wakes up when he feels you crying. “Hurgh?” he grunts.

You wipe your face as both your phones chime. “Sam,” you say, scanning the text. “Looks like he and the bartender are staying in.”

“That’s my boy,” Dean grins. “What’s wrong?”

“Permission to get girly?”

“Go for it babe.”

“Just realized mating with you’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. That’s all.”

Dean mulls that over a minute. “I feel exactly the same way,” he tells you quietly. “I love you.”

You laugh as Dean kisses you. “We gotta knock this shit off. We’re supposed to be the badasses here.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Dean promises. “Any plans for tomorrow?”

“Not really. You?”

“Well,” he grins, that impish smile that makes him look fourteen and up to no good, “I did kind of want to see that equipment shed--"

You groan. “Shouldn’t have told you that story.”

“Nope, probably not. And isn’t the World’s Largest Pie Pan around here somewhere?”

Only Dean. “Four-five hour drive. Then I say we swing by the Thrifty Acres, pick up a couple of bathing suits, and hit the beach.”

“I love it when a plan comes together.”

---

AN2: "Jesus died in vain and legally changed his middle name to Fucking."

-The Angry Video Game Nerd

The World's Largest Pie Pan is in Traverse City, Michigan.

Feedback and constructive criticism welcome. Subscriptions to Author yearned for with deep and desperate longing:

[email protected]

#supernatural #fanfiction #ao3 #dean winchester #reader character #ABH format #ABO #alpha/beta/omega dynamics #omegaverse #alpha dean winchester #omega you #omega reader

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yourwinchesterbros · 2 years

Text

Rule Breaker - Part Two

Word Count: 5.3K

Summary: Part two is here, for all you Sons of Anarchy lovers! After being confronted by Damon Hale, Jax and the brothers in cut come to your rescue, and more importantly... Mr. Mayhem.

Authors Note: In so excited to be back, writing stories again. The SONS and the Winchesters have a special place in my heart and I'm open for any future requests within those two fandoms!

Warnings: Use of y/n, Some use of Gifs, Use of weapons, Mentions of r*pe, Death, Violence, Blood, and Angsty Smut - Oral, BJ, Some Aggression, Daddy Kink.

Damon before you, with wide eyes, is abruptly slammed to the ground. Your vision still blurred, everything seemed to be in slow motion. You zone in on Jax’s messy hair. Slicked gelled strands out of place, with what seems like razor sharp ends. You see his balled-up fist lifting in the air striking down, making blunt punches to Damon’s face. An explosion of maroon combusting from his nose. His blows become relentless, creating deep shades of purple and black to Damon’s appearance.

You hear his voice, enraged. “Put this on her!”

Tig catches Jax’s cut. You’re not sure when he arrived by your side, but there he was. You feel Tig wrapping warm leather around your shoulders. With a jump to his sudden touch, your eyes drift to meet his.

“Oh god y/n” he says, wincing at the sight of your fresh wounds. You come to realize that he’s placing the cut onto you, to cover your modesty.

“Get her out of here!” Jax yells never breaking his focus from Damon.

You move your attention back to Jax. He’s glaring down at the man who must’ve had a death wish. While he drags his limp body out the door, Chibs is at his assistance on the other side, his arm under Damon’s shoulder to help tow the weight. You blink slowly, only to catch the last sight of Damon’s heavy uniform boots exiting the doorway.

“Hey sweetheart” Tig whispers “Look at me”

He looks deep into your eyes, his wrinkles crowded with worry.

You feel yourself regaining consciousness.

“Tig…” You stir “I can’t leave, ... I-I need to watch”. You start to pull down your skirt which was still raised to your hip from when Damon violated you earlier.

“Oh baby, no, I’m sorry but no, we need to get you back to the club house, come on”. Tig helps you slide off the desk onto your feet. With one arm around your waist and the other reaching in his jean pockets for his keys, you position yourself. He tries to guide you towards the door, but you dig your heels in, standing your ground in silence. Tig looks down at you, analyzing your expression. He sighs.

“Tig listen, just listen to me” You plead to him as he tries to win this fight.

“It would’ve been one thing to threaten the club or even hit me, b-but he fucking raped me” Your voice cracks.

With your dry eyes, Tig sees the anger that resides within them. Looking down, you grab his hand, rubbing your thumb over the freshly open wounds on his knuckles. He must’ve been in the box ring at the clubhouse party before they got the call that you were in danger.

“I wanna see him in pain Trager” You barley manage to say the words.

He sighs heavily, closing his eyes at the sound of you calling him Trager. It wasn’t often that you used it.

“Look what he did to me” You whisper as you look down at yourself. Blood droplets from your head, stain down your neck from the sheer force of your face being slammed in.

Tig takes his hand and smears away the blood under your bottom lip, careless of the crimson covering his thumb. That was Tig though, he never cared about mess, in fact he loved creating mess. When it came to him, the bloodier the better. As he was Clay’s right hand for years, he mastered the art of killing.

He cupped your face lightly, moving a loose strand of hair out of the way. It pained him to see you in this state and it only added fuel to his desire to make Damon suffer. He wanted to be in that garage too.

“Alright” He whispers. Defeated instantly by your passion for revenge.

He pats the back of your head as you guys exit the office and continue down the hall, following a trail of blood leading you both to the reaper.

The garage is dim, only a single bulb hanging down to shine an orange hue onto Damon. His pants still unbuckled with his belt hanging out. He sways as he’s on his knees, still dizzy from Jax’s repercussions. His wrists bound behind his back by duct tape.

You’re startled by an arriving shadow, and instantly you know it’s Jax’s. Not far behind him in the darkness, you see a small dot of light growing brighter with every drag Chibs takes of his cigarette. The only thing breaking the silence is the sound of Damon’s labored breathing, and a sweater unzipping. Jax is now left in his famous white T shirt. God, the way he preys on Damon, eyes never breaking away from his sight while he circles a dead man, its truly terrifying. And you love every minute of it.

Damon spits his blood onto the ground “We gunna be here all night or what?”

Jax chuckles, instantly sending shivers up your spine.

Without warning Jax stops in front of Damon. The sharp sound of a switch blade is released, and Damon’s breathing grows heavier with fear. What follows next makes you turn into Tigs shoulder.

“Fuck!” Damon screams as the blade pierces his cheek, slicing his tongue inside his mouth. With a swift pull, the blade is yanked back out. More screams fill up the room.

“I plan to keep you here all night, until I’m done, and guess what? I’m taking my time” Jax growls as his nostrils flare, his eyes falling darker with a thirst to kill. He wasn’t going to be satisfied until Damon’s heart stops beating, but not too quickly. No, he doesn’t get the easy way out. Your president moves towards him again.

“Jackie boy” Chibs says interrupting Jax mid stride.

“What, chibs?” His glare zones in on his partner. His brother in cut, walks over gripping Jax’s shoulder to pull him away from the bleeding man under the light.

“We’re under heavy watch as it is boy, we can’t be responsible for killing another Deputy” He whispers.

“Chibs, brother, I’m not interested in a fucking history lecture, I really don’t give a shit. He touched my wife.” He states through gritted teeth. “That’s a fucking death sentence” He turns his glare back to Damon, locking eyes with him.

“He meets Mr. Mayhem, tonight” He delivers with raised eyebrows and a stare that could cut through ice. Chibs sucks on his teeth and pauses. He looks over at you and Tig near the entrance of the garage. His eyes absorb your condition, looking so small in that cut, his heart breaking at the sight.

“Alright Boss” he huffs, his head hanging down. He wallowed in the guilt that suddenly rose, for ever considering letting this rapist breathe another second longer.

“Aye, fuck him” the words slip out with his Scottish accent. You watch him make his move to Damon, grabbing his arms to hold him out on display for capital punishment. Jax looks over at you once again, almost as if he was going to order you to leave but the expression across your face reminded him of who you are. You’re a Teller now, an old lady of the club. You’ve proven time and time again, no matter the cards dealt, you always came through stronger. He knew you wanted revenge.

He inhales with pride, knowing he’s the one delivering it to you. He strikes Damon square in the face, with his SONS rings left on. Slicing his skin with every punch.

“God damn it!” Damon yells in pain, blood pooling out of his mouth.

Through his growls, Damon speaks. “You know what Teller; I didn’t even have to ask”.

Jax stands back, waiting for his elaboration. After too long of a pause, Jax strikes him again, Chibs holding the lifeless body in place.

You hear a deep loud inhale. “Don’t you wanna know!?” Damon spits out, almost smiling. This sick fuck you thought.

Jax being relentless, pulls out the switch blade again.

“Wait, wait! God damn it!” Damon pleaded.

He continues, “I didn’t even have to ask... our whore got down on her knees for me. Without a single thought, like the good girl we both know she is.” He sneers at Jax.

Fuck. You watched Jax’s focus shift from his to yours.

“What the hell is he talking about?” Jax’s eyes narrowed on you, his jaw clenching. Before you can explain, Damon proceeds.

“She wasn’t even going to tell you Teller; she thought she was helping your club” he says, uttering the last word with tones of disgust. He could never understand what the club really meant to the SONS.

“She simply helped herself, slobbering all over this cock that she clearly missed so much” he laughs. Chibs strikes down across the back of his head.

Jax never breaks his gaze from you, listening to the words echo in the concrete room.

Damon uses what energy he has left to look up again.

“And the kicker all together y/n” he mutters. You shudder at him saying your name. You see Damon shift his face towards you, trying to capture your eyes. You don’t dare look in his direction, staying locked in with Jax’s.

“I’ve been fired from the station... have been for a while now”

The words sink into you. You suddenly feel yourself shrink, the darkness in the room taking over your vision.

There was never a warrant issued. Never a squad waiting for a phone call on Pine Road. You can’t stop the tears building in your eyes.

“Fuck you Damon” You lightly sob, lips trembling, transferring your eyes to his.

“You got on your knees for him?”

Hearing Jaxs voice sent razors to your heart. You could hear the sadness drifting throughout the words yet hear the anger overriding them.

“You dumb bitch!” Damon screams, hysterically laughing. “Tell him! Tell him how you loved it when I fucked your mouth, how you squeezed your tight pussy around my cock. Fuck Teller, you should have seen it, her eyes rolled so far into the back of her head when she was cumming, it was so fuc-“

“Chibs move” Jax ordered. And in one swift movement, Jax reached for his Glock tucked into the back seams of his jeans.

You nearly fall over at the sound of an entire clip being unloaded into Damon’s chest.

“Oh, my g-god” your breathing ragged. Eyes wide at the sight of Damon’s body littered with holes, splayed on the ground, blood creeping towards his maker.

You all stand in silence, Jax staring at Damon’s body.

Chibs slowly makes his way over to calm down the president. You see Tig to your right, hands on his hips, head nodding at the circumstance of the situation.

“Had to happen” you hear Tig whisper to himself.

Frozen, you wait for the love of your life to say something. You analyze his stance, feeling the power that resides within him. You examine his back, lines of his perfectly carved body showing through the sweat of his shirt. You scan his shoes. His perfect white sneakers, that he always upkept. Yet tonight, they’re dipped in red from the puddle before him. Your body flinches involuntarily at his voice, eager to hear what he has to say, what he needs.

“Take her to the hospital Tig, I need to finish this up.” He speaks with an eerie calm. Never looking in your direction.

As you make your departure, with Tig guiding you, you listen to Jax strategize with Chibs, his plan to pin the murder of the outcast officer on Lobos. The last thing you hear, is his side blade being unsheathed as you can only imagine will be used to carve “LS” into Damon’s flesh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After a brief argument with Tig, he agreed to take you home rather than to the hospital. The helmet he gave you to wear was too big, as it was his own. However, it still allows you to comfortably press your cheek up against the cold of his cut. As you both ride in the night against the wind, your arms squeeze him tightly around his waist while drowning out the noise of the Harley.

Still in shock from everything that had happened, which seemed to happen so quickly, you replay the scenes in your head. You often came back to the moment Jax looked at you with complete disappointment, him knowing that you tried to handle a club issue on your own. Him realizing that you were planning on lying to him, that you broke the one rule he asked you to follow. Holding back tears, you hug Tig tighter.

“We’re here” Tig announces as the Harley dies down.

You both hop off the bike and make your way up the driveway in silence. As you open the front door, Tig makes himself comfortable in the kitchen, raiding the liquor cabinet.

“I need a fucking drink” He mumbles to himself.

“I’ll take some of that” you mutter as Tig takes a swig of your favorite gin.

“Are you sure you want me to do the stiches?” He questions you. As your argument before the ride consisted of your refusal to be tended by the hospital, your solution was for Tig to fix you up.

“Yes, Tig” You respond sternly. “Nothing is broken, I just need a few stiches on my forehead and maybe my lip”. You reach to your face, feeling the texture of your bottom lip to see just how bad it is. It stings at the touch and its definitely split, but no longer bleeding.

The two of you get positioned at the kitchen table. You hand yourself over to him, who you trust with your whole heart. With your legs pressed together on the chair, Tig scoots his chair closer to you. His legs spread wide as you nest in between them to bring your face to his hands. Your first aid kit is splayed on the table, with many items out of place as Tig digs into it. He finds what he assumes is a good size suture and thread. With immense focus, he starts to prick at your wound to get the needle through your skin. You get lost in his bright blue eyes, feeling an overwhelming sense of appreciation for this man.

“Hey... Tig” You whisper.

“Mhm yeah?” He whispers back biting his bottom lip in concentration to your wound.

“Thanks... like, for everything tonight. Well not even just tonight, just in general. You’ve always been there for me so, yeah... thank you” you say sincerely.

“Don’t start crying on me babe” He snickers. You smile at the words.

“But yeah. You know it’s not just me, right? It’s the club too. We’ll always be here for you, well cause you know, you’re always there for us too”. He says as he looks into your eyes, trying to figure out your thoughts. Sometimes Tig could see right through you. After joining the club, you and Tig just clicked. Whether it was the fact you both loved dogs, or being at brothels, or that he loved just how witty you could be. The two of you simply bonded over your short time knowing him.

Tig watches your face, reading your expressions as you look down, waiting for another prick in your flesh. He sighs.

“Listen, I know you’re worried about Jax and everything that happened tonight... but just give him some time, okay? Tonight, was A LOT” He speaks louder with his words before returning to aid you. Your lip starts to tremble.

Yes, you were worried about Jax. He never really got mad at you, but it was more than anger tonight. He was hurt. You’ve never seen him this way, and you never saw him do his dirty work. It was always club business. Nothing an old lady should ever be a part of. You were unsure what to expect from him, and that made you uneasy.

“Ow” You wince at Tigs attempt to dig through your eyebrow. When he’s successful, he tightens the suture.

“Hey, I told you to wait for Chibs to come. Tara taught him how to do this kind of stuff” he says defensively but with hints of apology.

You smirk.

“Its fine Tig, you’re doing great” you comfort him as you break away to take another swig of what’s left in the liquor bottle.

He takes the pair of scissors to cut the leftover thread sticking out of the knot he made.

“There, you’re all set” he says with a proud smile.

“You’re the bes- “you jolt mid-sentence as the front door opens.

It’s Jax.

He strides in, his white shirt covered in red. With a quick glance around, he finds you both at the table.

He analyzes the two of you, his sight lingering on your stiches.

“Tig, you can take off” he says waiting at the open door. Tig gives you a peck on the forehead before shifting out of his chair to Jax.

“You all good?” Tig pats Jaxs shoulder before giving it a squeeze and a shake.

“Yeah man, I’m good. Chibs will let the others know about church tomorrow. I gotta fill them in on what happened tonight” he explains.

“Sounds good brother, I’ll see you at church” Tig says with a nod at Jax before leaving. Jax pats his back before closing the door.

You watch as he holds his position, hand on the doorknob, head down. You can see his jaw clenching, aware of the fact that he was thinking.

“Jax, I never expec- “You start but you’re quickly interrupted.

He slips both hands into his jean pockets, his stance making you feel small.

“I’m going to make a few phone calls, and then we’re going to sit down and have a talk” he tells you with his eyes softening as they lock into yours.

You nod watching him make his way to the bathroom to wash his stained hands. To shake off the nerves, you start tidying up the kitchen, then the living room, then start the laundry.

After some time, listening to him moving around the house, you hear the front door open as he steps out with his cell. You imagine he’s calling his VP Opie to quickly fill him in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Sit down”. His voice surprises you as you turn to him from the dishes in the sink. He pulls out the kitchen chair, and slides into it. He’s changed into his clean pair of jeans and his Blue SAMCRO hoodie and black reaper crew hat. Your stomach flutters with butterflies.

He pulls the ashtray from the center of the table towards him, scraping it into the wood along the way and lights up a cigarette. He takes a few drags, watching you approach him, still in his cut, still smeared in blood. You sit yourself across from him, your throat suddenly dry.

He stares at you in silence, his eyes slowly tracing over your wounds. You see the tears start to form in his eyes, his bottom lip trembling. He puts his half-smoked cigarette out before reaching across the table to grab your hands. A wave of relief washes over you as you desperately grip his. After a deep breath in, he lets out a heavy exhale.

“I’m so sorry for what happened babe” He whispers, shaking his head while holding your gaze. The tears start spilling out of his bloodshot, icy blue eyes.

“Fuck, are you okay? Are you sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?” He asks you with concern.

“Jax, I’m fine” You try to reassure him. To hold back the needs to be hugged and reassured, you try to be the old lady he deserves. You pull every fiber of your being into having the strength that Gemma taught you.

“Babe, you’re not. Look at you” He starts to cry, wiping away his tears.

“H-he hit you, he raped you, why, just why would you try and take care of a club threat on your own?” He stutters. “You should never be in harm’s way. You never try and take on the club’s burden” he says, his voice regaining stability.

“Jax, how was I supposed to know it was an empty threat?” You try to explain yourself.

“y/n, even if that threat was real, you let him do what he needs to do, and you call me” he says as his voice gets lower, and words come out slower. His tears start to dry, his forehead forming wrinkles. He takes off his Reaper Crew hat and tosses it down the table. His fingers glide through his hair before he brings his focus back to you.

“But you never, ever get on your fucking knees for someone else again, do you understand me?” He growls, his stare piercing your very soul.

Deep down you smile at his words of jealousy. You love how protective he is. He has always been a leader, effortlessly commanding in nature. He is the picture of strength and order. His actions are always riddled with immense power.

“I promise Jax” you say with a hint of submission, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

“You promise what?” He asks demanding an answer from you.

You feel the heat rising within you. You respond eagerly, needing to please him. As it’s your favorite thing to do.

“I promise, I won’t get on my knees for anyone, but you.” You plead.

“For who?” he commands as he sits back, griping his beard.

“For you, daddy” you say with a small smile. Unable to conceal that you’re loving every bit of this.

“That’s right” he responds his jaw clenching. His eyes shifting from anger to desire. It was so obvious how badly he wanted to claim you, to make sure you knew you were his. To mark his territory once again. You stand up, reading his expression and take his hand to kiss his SONS rings.

He watches you, eyes heavy with the passion you ignite inside him.

“Let’s go shower and wash off the history of tonight” he orders as he takes your hand and guides you to the bathroom.

He turns on the faucet, letting the hot water run. Steam starts to form in the little space between you two. With one motion, he peels off his blue SAMCRO hoodie and tosses it to the ground revealing his strong, muscular chest. His eyes getting lost in yours, he reaches out to your face and cups your cheeks, careless of the dried blood that resides there. You hopelessly gaze at him, getting lost in his eyes too. Jax brings his lips to yours, ever so gently, to ensure he doesn’t hurt your wound. You feed right into his kiss, allowing your lips to dance with his, ignoring the sting from your cut. He slides his tongue into yours, loving the animalistic reaction you give as you grab his neck to deepen the kiss. His hands move from your face to his neck. He pulls your small hands down and moves his to find your hips. Jaxs fingers then slide up your sides, underneath the heavy cut. He reaches your shoulders and shoves the leather off you, revealing your torn bustier. You shudder to his touch, already getting intoxicated off lust.

He grabs behind you, to untie the ribbons of your corset that pull the fabric together. As the pressure gets looser and looser, your nipples involuntarily harden, begging for his lips. The corset falls from your breasts, sliding over your skirt to the ground. Jax begins to kiss down your neck, knowing exactly what you’re anticipating. He absorbs the longing you have for him to grip and squeeze your breasts. To feel his breath as he kisses each nip. He takes his time, calculating just how bad you need it from the whimpers that escape your mouth.

Without warning, he slides down surpassing your chest to your skirt. His head against your torso, he pulls down your skirt slowly. The bridge of his nose brushes the inside of your bare thighs as he places your skirt on the ground. Your body tingling at every breath of his making contact to your skin. His fingers slide up to the string of your thong sitting on your hips.

“Up” He commands through a growl. You obey, lifting your leg up ever so slightly as he pulls your G string down. His gaze never parting from your damp crotch. You swear you can hear him growling as his manhood stiffens in his pants just by staring at you. Inhaling your scent, He leans into your pussy, burying his face. He slowly pushes your thighs further apart with his hard grip. Allowing himself to cover his face in your dripping juice. Your breath hitches as he teases your folds, with a surprise lick in between his worship.

“Oh, fuck Jax” You purr as you grasp his hair. He slowly rises back up to meet your eyes, licking his lips.

“Get in the shower” he orders. His musk taking over your senses, causing your blood to rush.

“Mmmhm okay” You respond, your eyes heavy with sin.

Without hesitation, Jax grabs your face, your cheeks in his hard grip. His eyes narrowing in yours, his scowl making a gradual appearance.

“Try that again” he rasps harshly, seething through his teeth, eyes burning.

“Yes… Daddy” the words slide out like silk, causing Jax to twitch at the sound.

He holds your face in his tight grip a few moments longer, his eyes exploring your naked body. Watching your wetness drip down the insides of your legs. He bites his bottom lip, then clenches his jaw once his eyes capture yours again. With a rough push of your chin, he points to the shower. His rings emphasizing the protruding veins in his hand.

You smirk as you make your way inside, goosebumps rising as the warm water falls onto you. You stare back at him like the goddess you are. You watch him slip off his baggy jeans and boxers simultaneously allowing his well-compensated manhood to spring out. You feel your body grow with excitement at the sight of his cock. Your pussy tightens at the absence you now feel within you. His movements sending shockwaves through your body.

He strides towards you, like a predator ready to devour his prey. With a click of the glass door closing, you’re now confined in the small shower with Jax, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. His hand strikes through the steam, gripping your throat. Your knee’s buckle at his aggression. You love this. Abruptly, he pulls you to his face, pausing at the little space between your lips. As if he’s inhaling the dizziness escaping from your arousal. You cave, closing the gap to meet him with yours. Sliding your tongue into his, the two of you dangerously consume each other, engulfed in wet heat. He moans as you tug on his bottom lip with your teeth, causing his senses to go into overdrive. Sharply, he slams you against the tile walls. You arch your hips towards him, and feel his hands explore your back, supporting you as you lean back exposing yourself to him. He licks one long stroke up your neck, instantly making you dig your nails into his back, dragging them downwards.

“Fuck baby girl, you make me so hard” He groans as you claw him again. He leans down, hungrily cupping your breast, squeezing them in his hands causing you to roll your eyes back.

“Oh god Jax” you moan biting down your lip to hold back the sounds.

He sucks at your nipples, tugging at each one with his teeth. Making you buckle more.

“I want you Jax” you whimper. “I need you inside me’” you gasp as he slides his leg in between your thighs. He grabs the back of your head, gripping a ball of wet hair, forcing you to look at him through your seductive eyes.

“Ride me” he growls in between his heavy breaths.

You succumb to his demands and slide your wet pussy up and down his thigh. Grinding into him as you feel the tingle intensify.

“Ohh daddy” you moan “This feels so good” your voice is music to his ears.

Jax controls your motions by the grip of your hips, pushing you down harder on him.

“Tell me you’re mine” He orders, eyes dark. You take your time to utter the words, to tease him.

He pushes you off his thigh as you near your orgasm. Robbed of all sensation, you cry at him.

“Fuck me Jax, claim me like you’re my daddy. You want me to only get on my knees for you, then make me” you say the words through gritted teeth, your pussy throbbing, begging for him to fill you.

His expression changed from grim to straight savage. His jaw clenched biting back his anger, nostril flared. With a glare that could slice you, you see a smirk start to form on his face.

“You asked for it” He whispers in his low, growly voice.

He shoves you, slamming you down on your knees. He grips his hard cock, and grabs your head, sliding himself into you, your mouth rapidly getting fuller with his length. Your eyes wide, nose flaring to breathe he starts to fuck your mouth.

“This what you wanted? Huh?” He asks you mockingly as you watch his expressions turn orgasmic.

“Guess you can’t fucking answer me?” He talks, looking down at you. You gag at his force but don’t resist.

He pulls you off by your hair, holding you in front of his cock. “Who’s your daddy?” He asks, his glare locking onto you.

“You are, you’re my daddy” you say breathless, trying to get close to lick his cock.

He pulls your head further away, his head shaking. “You don’t get this until I say you can” He snarls.

Before you can answer, he slams himself back into you, groaning at your tongue. The way you swirl it around his shaft. He releases you to let you have the full wrath of his cock. You grab his base, hard in your fist and continue to lick the tip, the slit underneath the head causing him to throw his head back in pleasure. As you continue to rhythmically suck at his length, looking up at him with your doe eyes, he begins to start unfolding.

“Fuck y/n” He moans as you continue pumping him with your swollen lips. He slams his hands against the wall to brace himself as you’re still kneeled before him, treating him like the king he is.

“Ohh baby, I’m gunna cum... Ohh God” he groans “You’re so fucking beautiful darlin’” He pants, watching you as you keep working him.

“You’re mine, no one else’s…” He drifts off in a head of sensual dizziness “Ill fucking kill anyone who touches you baby, like I did tonight” He growls.

He looks down at you again sucking him, buried in his warmth, “You’re mine” he states through clenched teeth.

And just like that, you watch as his mouth becomes agape, zoning in on your stare as you make him blow his load into your mouth.

“Fuck y/n!” He twitches inside your mouth, filling you with his juices. Hands still on the wall as he catches his breath.

You stand up, whispering in his ear “My turn” while griping his cock, which jerks up at the touch.

He chuckles “Oh tsk tsk.. no baby” He smirks. You look at him with confusion riddled with growing annoyance.

“Sorry darlin’, but this is your punishment” he says slyly. Your mouth drops open, eyes narrowed in on him.

“Think about this next time you decide to break my rule” He whispers as he softly kisses your puffy lips, pulling back to flash you his Jax Teller grin and a wink.

#jax teller #jax teller x reader #sons of anarchy #soa #soa imagine #tig trager #chibs #fanfic #romantic

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youngpettyqueen · 10 months

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@hawkp so this isnt really a proper fic this was just a warm up exercise so its very quick and not polished but it was fun to jot down

Thunk.

A weight suddenly drops against Charles’ shoulder. Were he not so deeply exhausted he might’ve startled, but instead he only has the energy to glance down and see a distinct mop of silver hair.

Charles’ brows raise. Hawkeye’s fallen asleep, which isn’t particularly surprising- it’s just that he’s fallen asleep on him. It’s preferable, he supposes, to Hawkeye falling asleep in his breakfast, but still. He should probably wake him.

And he’s about to do so, except then he remembers Hawkeye didn’t sleep at all last night. He’s coming off a double shift. A double shift at the tail end of 4 days of OR sessions that lasted a minimum of 12 hours.

He considers his fellow surgeon for a moment. Then he sighs, shaking his head as he turns his attention back to his breakfast. He switches his fork to his other hand and takes another bite of his eggs. Luckily he’s too tired to care about how gritty they are.

After a few minutes of silent eating, the peace is disturbed by BJ coming to join them. He raises his coffee mug in greeting, then glances at Hawkeye as he takes his first sip.

“I see Captain Sleepy is ready for duty.” He remarks lightly. He’s smiling, but his eyes are dull, and the bags under them dark.

“Yes, now I’ve been reduced to a bloody pillow,” Charles grumbles, “The indignities never cease.”

BJ rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry, Charles, I’ll rescue you,” He assures him. Reaching over, he starts to say, “Hey-“

But Charles brandishes his fork at him, glaring. “Wake him and it’s the last thing that hand ever does.” He threatens.

BJ’s brows shoot up in surprise as he freezes in place, reaching halfway across the table. “Well,” He says, drawing back, “Someone’s feeling protective today.”

“He didn’t get any sleep last night,” Charles reasons, “Let him have a few more minutes.”

“Aw,” BJ grins, “Look at you, being sweet.”

“I’m not dignifying that with a response.” Charles replies.

#mash #fic bitching #shorts #charles winchester #hawkeye pierce #otp: and their sons #I might take this warm up and make a proper fic out of it at some point #but for now here it is!

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marley-manson · 2 months

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10 First Lines

I was tagged by @eveningalchemist, thank you! Doing this on my main because only two of them are Berserk. Fics can be found here.

Potter looked like he’d just been told Sophie needed another enema and there was no one available to do the honors for him, so Hawkeye figured he hadn’t been invited to his office for a surprise party. - Army Style

It wasn’t until supper that Casca realized she hadn’t seen Guts all day. - Snowmelt

Less than an hour after Trapper confessed to the disappointment of the century, the O-Club started to empty. - Precipice

Hawkeye placed the next chip of beef atop his growing tower with the precision and focus only a surgeon who hadn’t slept in over forty-eight hours could have. - War Bonds

The tables clattered and squealed as they were pushed across the wooden floor, wheels leaving trails of sticky blood behind them. - Presumed Dead

Hawkeye was on his fourth glass of the evening when Frank stormed into the Swamp looking like a toddler who’d been told “no.” - Under the Influence

His desired was burning for him just over the black horizon, hooked deep in his bones and pulling him closer irresistibly. - Refraction

I only have 7 fics posted but since @eveningalchemist mentioned wips as a possibility, I'll throw in three of those as well, subject to change:

The house wasn't like he'd imagined. - BJ visits Hawkeye fic

It happened on the way back to the Swamp. - disaster Beejhawk fic

The scent of frying bacon caught him when he opened his front door. - sequel to Presumed Dead

tagging: @rescue-ram @majorbaby @undecimber-of-joy @bisexualdawnsummers @pigtailedgirl

@quordleona03 @morewyckedthanyou @machihunnicutt @bornforastorm and anyone else who wants to do it!

#ask meme #text post #stuck to tagging people who i know have at least a few fics posted somewhere and sorry if i missed anyone this is just #real quick off the top of my head #ugh tumblr's being weird about the @s idk it'll only show the links for the first five in a given paragraph it seems?

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parameddic · 6 months

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@ofyorkshire (x):

"Oh. Well, excuse me for giving a damn, then." BJ clucked his tongue disapprovingly. It was easy to parade it around, his annoyance. It broadcasted out from every inch of him, from the curl of his lip to the sharp cock of his hips, and he looked one more offense from turning and leaving TK to lick his own wounds. BJ didn't know how much experience TK had with men--really with men, not just the ones he worked with, or rescued, or met on dancefloors--but there were times that BJ thought he was terribly naive. He didn't seem to understand that luck couldn't last forever, and you're not half as invincible as you think you are. Men are cruel, that is their nature, and there would come a day when a cruel man won't stop when TK falls. He'll beat him until he's down, but then he won't stop. He'll be too angry, or too drunk, or too mean to find the self-control or care to stop. Or maybe it won't be a fist; maybe it will be a knife, or a gun and he won't have the time to consider whether he really wants to kill TK or not, but either way, TK won't come home. Irritation was a good cover for fear. And, god, sometimes TK scared BJ. So, for the same reason BJ wanted to leave, he stayed. "It isn't babying you, you know," he said, finally. He dropped the bloodied wipe into the trash and brought a pack of frozen vegetables from the freezer, which he offered. "It's just... No-one needs to take care of you, but... it's nice, isn't it?" There was a silent I'm worried about you tucked somewhere between those pauses. BJ wasn't sure it would be welcome. "What did this 'jerk' do?"

OK, that was it. TK rolled his eyes as he stood up from the chair, ready to go and treat his own wounds, thank-you-very-much. It wasn't like he'd asked BJ to worry. It wasn't like there was any reason to worry at all anyway! Sure some idiot had been rough with him, and sure TK had provoked him a little, and you know what? He was standing here picking through the freezer for an ice pack just-fucking-fine, thanks. The realisation BJ had already nabbed the vegetables gained some sharp look, but fine. Whatever. Okay.

He tried hard not to listen when BJ continued on with his stupid mother-henning. TK crouched in front of the kitchen sink to dig through a cupboard for a towel he might be able to wrap the veggies in. It's nice, isn't it? Like he had not, in fact, had the exact experience that constantly lingered all around TK everywhere he went, which was that he lived his life in someone's space and suddenly he managed to be a burden just by, like, he didn't know, existing, he guessed. (He did not say any of this aloud, aware that -- in fact -- he had a long history of saying things he knew didn't make sense, when he was feeling like this, and it only ever made things worse.)

A short, tight sigh. "He was hitting on the bartender." He'd play the 'what was the jerk doing' game. Sure. "She wasn't interested but she couldn't leave. I told him to back off." He'd told him a few other choice things, but the big one was to leave the lady the fuck alone.

... He had the towel, now. It sat, folded comfortably in his hand. The split lip was still bleeding, when he poked at it with his tongue. Black eye was gonna suck ass, all night. He didn't want to do this night alone and angry. Not for the rest of it, anyway.

"... I don't..." this - finding the words - was so. Frustrating, sometimes. He was talking to the kitchen cupboard initially but now he turned around, to face BJ, hopefully maybe (he wanted to be) less moody, "Look, I. I appreciate you caring, BJ, I really do. But I am just so... ready to just go to bed and forget about it, OK?"

#ic #ofyorkshire #so! messy! with his emotions #emoting all over the place #emotions times ten to the power of n

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