Yeah, you all should have known this was coming… They don’t call me Cowgirl for nothing…
(This gif was made by my gorgeous friend Pam @saucynewf - and is being used with her permission)
Seriously, how much
is a girl supposed to take? You share rooms with these guys, watch
them walk around half-dressed, banter back and forth with them. You
take Dean’s suggestive, flirty comments and respond in kind,
telling yourself it’s all part of your friendship.
And then he does
Of all things, a
mechanical bull. You thought those things died out with Urban Cowboy.
But now, as you stand watching with your jaw clenched, and your nails
digging into your palms, and your thighs clamped together, Dean is
riding the fuck out of Larry, the centerpiece of the bar you went
into for the sole reason of grabbing some burgers.
You can’t tear
your eyes from him as his body sways, looking like he’s part of
that saddle. The muscles of his thighs are tight, holding firm, his
torso lean and lithe as he moves with it, sinuous and sexy as hell.
One arm waves above his head, giving him the balance he needs, the
other bicep bunched and bulging beneath the plaid shirt, unbuttoned
at the front to allow your eyes to cruise over where his t-shirt
clings to his pecs, his ribs, his belly.
“Do you know him?”
the waitress whispers, and you nod, your lips parted and your eyes
glued to Dean as the ride ends, and he slowly lowers himself back,
sprawled and smiling. “Lucky you,” she says, turning to go back
to work, and you blow out a breath, closing your mouth and lowering
ok but side note can we not use words like “threw herself on him” or god forbid slut for dot like ??? she got a little boozed up and got carried away; magnus stopped her and she respected that. you all rly do the most when it comes to woc lmao.
Imagine: You have a major crush on Peter Hale, but, because of the Pack, you have to keep it a secret. One day, when he comes to your house injured, you are not able to hide it any more and comes clean to him.
((I know you didn’t specifically ask for this to be a fic, but heck I got carried away. This is actually the first fic I’ve written on this blog, being a new mod and all. I hope you enjoy it!))
It was early in the morning at the Overwatch headquarters, and you were the first to arrive, as usual. That was alright, though, you enjoyed tidying up the place before anyone else had arrived; they always complimented you on how nice it looked, saying things like “You’re quite the overachiever” and “I’m glad we recruited you”. Something seemed wrong when you had come in, though. There was a strong, musty scent in the air, and a few more bottles of whiskey laying around than usual. You had a sinking feeling in your stomach, and your mind couldn’t help but race with what could have happened last night.
You gathered two bottles from the table and turned around to collect more, but a dark shape against the wall caught your eye. You turned your head and saw a body sitting on the floor, propped up against the wall, head facing straight up, legs out in different directions, surrounded by various types of alcohol bottles and cans. You were so startled by this that you dropped one of the bottles you were holding on the floor, causing it to shatter loudly and the person who was passed out on the floor to wake with a jolt and jerk their head around frantically.
Once you had steadied your breathing and gotten over your initial shock, you recognized the person as Jesse McCree, one of your allies in Overwatch. Although, “ally” was putting it lightly. Over the year-and-a-half that you had been a part of Overwatch, you had developed a crush on the cowboy.
McCree had come to his senses and realized you were in the room with him. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and attempted to greet you.
“Oh hey, (Y/N). I forgot you worked mornin’ shift around here,” McCree joked, rubbing his face as he began to stand up. He was trying to play it cool, but it was clear to you that something had happened last night. You knew McCree was a fan of the occasional bottle of whiskey, but this was the most bottles you had ever seen.
“Are you okay?” you asked as you put the bottles you were holding back onto the table and walked over to him.
“Yeah, I’m fine, darlin’,” he said to you, leaning against the wall. His breath reeked of alcohol, which made you hold your nose. “Just a little tired.”
“McCree, are you…” You hesitated. It felt wrong to flat out ask if he was drunk. You tried to find a way to reword your question. “Did you stay here last night?”
McCree, leaning against the wall and smiled at you with the dopiest grin you had ever seen. “Eeyup, had myself a lil party. Guess I got carried away,” he chuckled. “Yeah, I sure had a blast. Man, was that tiring…” he began to fall, but you caught him before he could embrace the floor. You nearly fell over with him, but luckily he was able to stand with your support.
“Come on, McCree, let’s get you to bed,” you sighed, and began to walk with him, his arm slung over your shoulders and your arm around his waist. You were leading him to the infirmary, thinking that he would be able to rest in one of the spare beds.
You walked in silence, when suddenly you hear him say, “Y’know, you’re awful cute when you’re determined.” The compliment caught you off guard, but you brushed it off as the alcohol talking, and kept looking forward. But he continued to speak. “When you first came here, I wasn’t too sure about you. I admit, I can be a bit cold on newbies, especially with how many wannabes we’ve had. But you…” He stopped, and you looked at him. You were shocked to see a deep sorrow in his eyes as he gazed at the floor. “You’re so determined to make a change, (Y/N). And you always have so much optimism. I don’t know how I even found the will to fight before you joined us.” He looked at you and smiled, but this time, it was a sincere, wholehearted smile that made your heart begin pounding.
“You… you’re my reason to fight, (Y/N).”
You had reached the infirmary, and McCree had sat down on one of the beds. You looked down, too nervous to meet his eyes. “Do you… do you really mean that?”
He grabbed your hand, and you looked up at him, seeing in his eyes a sincerity that could not be denied. “Of course I mean… I get it, you think it’s the booze messin’ up my sense, but it’s not. I’ve wanted to tell you this for so long, and I hate that it had to be like this, but I love you. I wanna be with you.”
Your throat tightened. It was hard to believe this was happening. You were at a loss for words, so all you could do was nod your head and smile. McCree understood what you meant, and he smiled back. He let go of your hand and laid down, but as you turned to leave, he said, “Wait.”
You turned back around and it seemed as if his melancholy had returned. He patted the empty space beside him, letting you know he wanted you with him. How could you refuse?
You laid down next to him, your faces inches away. He brushed your hair aside and kissed your forehead, and you realized how incredibly warm he felt. He put his arm around your waist and pulled you closer, and you put your hand on your face. Both of you were lost in each other’s eyes, before his began closing, and yours, a sudden fatigue coming over you, followed suit. Soon, you were both fast asleep, dreaming together in each other’s embrace.
The circus went through town every spring right around my birthday.
There was this guy.
Him and my mom used to drink and fornicate and beat the crap out of me.
They’d make a whole night out of it. And I remember one
time; it was my ninth birthday… him and my mom had just finished
round one of boozing, boning, beating up Jerome, and were deciding to
take a little break.
I was outside the trailer, and you were there and you said, “Why are you crying, Jerome?”
“It’s my birthday and my mom and the snake guy are
Then you said, “This world doesn’t care about you or anyone
Better to realize that now.”
This is my second offering for A/B/O Appreciation Day July 31st 2017. It features Alpha! Dean. YES, you read that right, LOL!
This fills my “Alphas Challenge for an Omega” square on my A/B/O bingo card
Characters: Alpha! Dean Winchester, Omega! Reader, Readers friends, Unnamed Alpha! bar patron
Bars, as a rule, were not a safe bet for Omegas. Even if you weren’t close to your heat, you were always taking a chance that some boozed-up Alpha would scent you no matter how many blockers you used. That’s why I typically avoided them like the plague. It was safer that way.
Tonight was different. When my bestie Darcy had found out that her Alpha was cheating on her she had called me in hysterics and begged me to gather the troops. My girlfriends and I were here to support Darcy, so I put on my big-girl panties and took one for the team.
I had noticed him watching me from the next table out of the corner of my eye. Great. Darcy was in the middle of telling everyone how she had caught her bastard of a husband banging his secretary when the waitress approached the table. She handed me a drink.
I looked at her in surprise. “I didn’t order this,” I said, eying the drink warily.
“Compliments of the Alpha at the next table.” She told me with a wink.
I sighed and pushed it back towards her. “I don’t mean to be a bitch, but we are here to comfort our friend, not to pick up guys. Thanks but no thanks.”
The waitress picked up the drink and put it back on her tray. “Your call, hon.”
I saw her return the drink to the guy’s table with an explanation. He looked over at me and frowned. Whatever. Tonight was about Darcy. Some guys just couldn’t take a hint.
“Next time get one of us to go with you, Ponyboy. Any of us will.”
“I was plannin’ on getting boozed up tomorrow night. If I don’t, I’ll walk over and find y'all.”
“Okay, greasers, you’ve had it.”
“Who’s this, your great-aunts?”
“Sorry, kid. I forgot.”
“Shoot. You’re ninety-six if you’re a day.”
“Brother, you’re a sharp one. Where’d you two ever get to be picked up by a couple of greasy hoods like Pony and Johnny?”
“Five. They don’t talk Arabian, I don’t think. Say somethin’ in Arabian, Johnnycake.”
“Hey, where is ol’ Dally, anyways?”
“He’ll probably find the fight. That’s why I came over. Mr. Timothy Shepherd and Co. are looking for whoever so kindly slashed their car’s tires, and since Mr. Curly Shepherd spotted Dallas doing it…well…Does Dally have a blade?”
“Good. Tim’ll fight fair if Dally don’t pull a blade on him. Dally shouldn’t have any trouble.”
“A fair fight isn’t rough. Blades are rough. So are chains and heaters and pool sticks and rumbles. Skin fighting isn’t rough. It blows off steam better than anything. There’s nothing wrong with throwing a few punches. Socs are rough. They gang up on one or two, or they rumble each other with their social clubs. Us greasers usually stick together, but when we do fight among ourselves, it’s a fair fight between two. And Dally deserves whatever he gets, ‘cause slashed tires ain’t no joke when that was his fault. Our one rule, besides Stick together, is Don’t get caught. He might get beat up, he might not. Either way there’s not going to be any blood feud between our outfit and Shepard’s. If we needed them tomorrow they’d show. If Tim beats Dally’s head in, and then tomorrow asks us for help in a rumble, we’ll show. Dally was getting kicks. He got caught. He pays up. No sweat.”
“You dig okay, baby. Anyone want a weed?”
“Me, too. Get Johnny some, too. I’m buyin.”
“You must make such interestin’ conversation, you keepin’ your mouth shut and Johnny not sayin’ anything.”
“Who is it? The F.B.I.?”
“And a few other of the socially elite checkered shirt-set.”
“Who’s acting? I’m a natural normal.”
“Don’t get mouthy, Ponyboy.”
“No…no, Ponyboy, that ain’t right…you got it wrong…”
“Shut your mouth, kid. If you wasn’t Soda’s kid brother I’d beat the tar out of you. You know better than to talk to Johnny like that.”
“He didn’t mean it Johnny.”
“Shut up talkin’ like that. We couldn’t get along without you, so you can just shut up!”
“I know. The chips are always down when it’s our turn, but that’s the way things are. Like it or lump it.”
“Who you callin’ bums?”
“Then pity the back seat.”
“Why? We ain’t scared of them.”
“Well, those were two good-lookin’ girls if I ever saw any.”
“Marcia’s number. Probably a phony one, too. I must have been outa my mind to ask for it. I think I’m a little soused.”
“Y'all goin’ home?”
“I don’t know why I handed you that busted bottle. You’d never use it.”
“Gonna go play a little snooker and get hunt up a poker game. Maybe get rip-roarin’ drunk. I dunno. See y'all tomorrow.”
“Hey, Ponyboy. Long time no see.”
“Man, dig baldy here! I wouldn’t have believed it. I thought all the wild Indians in Oklahoma had been tamed. What little squaw’s got that tuff-lookin’ mop of yours, Ponyboy?”
“What I like is the ‘turn’ bit. Y'all were heroes from the beginning. You just didn’t ‘turn’ all of a sudden.”
“Why is it very bad?”
“I’ll babysit him. I haven’t got anything better to do.”
“Work? And ruin my rep? I wouldn’t be babysittin’ the kid here if I knew of some good day-nursery open on Saturdays.”
“…anyway, I was walking around downtown and started to take this short cut through an alley…and I ran into three guys. I says ‘Howdy’ and they just look at each other. Then one says 'We would jump you but since you’re as slick as us we figure you don’t have nothin’ worth takin’.’ I says 'Buddy, that’s that truth’ and went right on. Moral: What’s the safest thing to be when one is met by a gang of social outcasts in an alley?”
“No, another social outcast!”
“This house ain’t messy. You oughtta see my house.”
“Shoot, kid, if I ever did that my mom would die of shock.”
“I would drive us, but the breaks are out on my car. Almost killed me and Kathy the other night. You oughtta see Kathy’s brother. Now there’s a hood. He’s so greasy he glides when he walks. He goes to the barber for an oil change, not a haircut.”
“You know the rules. No jazz before the rumble.”
“They treatin’ you okay, kid?”
“Don’t talk. Just listen. We’ll bring you some hair grease next time. We’re havin’ the big rumble tonight.”
“It’s too bad you and Dally can’t be in it. It’s the first big rumble we’ve had—not countin’ the time we whipped Shepard’s outfit.”
“Did you know you got your name in the paper for being a hero?”
“You want anything besides hair grease, kid?”
“Okay. Don’t y'all run off.”
“I wish it was any one of us except Johnny. We could all get along without anyone but Johnny.”
“No wonder he hates your guts.”
“Oh, lordy! He has to live with that.”
“We just left him. I don’t know about stuff like this…but…well, he seemed pretty bad to me. He passed out cold before we left him.”
“You feel okay? You’re awful hot.”
“All right. But Darry’ll kill me if you’re really sick and go ahead and fight anyway.”
“You know somethin? You’d think you could get away with murder, living with your big brother and all, but Darry’s stricter with you than your folks were, ain’t he?”
“You know, the only thing that keeps Darry from bein’ a Soc is us.”
“I never knew you to play chicken in a rumble before. Not even when you was a little kid.”
“Somethin’ is gonna happen. We’re gonna stomp the Socs’ guts, that’s what.”
“What’s up with the big-times?”
“Welup, I see we’re in prime condition for a rumble. Is everybody happy?”
“Get thee hence, white trash. I am a Soc. I am the privileged and the well-dressed. I throw beer blasts, drive fancy cars, break windows at fancy parties.”
“I jump greasers!”
“Shoot, everybody fights.”
“They’re running! Look at the dirty —— run!” (Ponyboy isn’t sure if Two-Bit says it or not, but we could count it as him.)
“So he finally broke. So even Dally has a breaking point.”
“You really would have used that bottle, wouldn’t you? Steve and me were backing you, but I guess we didn’t need to. You’d have really cut them up, huh?”
“Ponyboy, listen, don’t get tough. You’re not like the rest of us and don’t try to be…”
“What in the world are you doing?”
“You little sonofagun.”
“No, but that’s what I’m wishing was all that’s bothering me.”
(Based on something that actually exists at my old school.)
The Tunnels (1/?)
The Tunnels were built back during the height of the Cold War. They wound beneath a good portion of campus and the football field. Most of the entrances had been blocked off, due to “safety concerns”. The majority of students assumed that meant the Tunnels were not kept up and in danger of collapse.
But Cor had iron in both ears (to keep the whispers from overwhelming), and on her fingers (to keep her writing her own), and a small stud through her tongue (to allow her to speak the truth). Going into journalism, she always knew how perilous it could be. She simply assumed it would get bad once she went overseas to war zones, not while she worked on her major. (Nothing can prepare you for Them trying to distort your stories.)
She considered Them to be the greatest of contradictions. They had to live in truths, lies were against Their very nature, and They reveled in forcing humans to live by the same, and yet They hated that requirement of Their existence. They would twist and turn words, use them like weapons or spiderwebs, keep them just this side of truth while being utter falsehoods, everything the wrong way round. And the journalism majors… well, They would prefer the “speakers of truth” told it from a bent perspective.
That was not to say that Cor, or any of those who shared her major, were able to write completely unbiased. But Cor tried.
(It was why she had picked her second name. Cordelia, daughter of King Lear. When the king had been intent on dividing his kingdom, he had asked his daughters to prove who loved him best. Her sisters had flattered and lied and exaggerated, while Cordelia had spoken only the simple truth: “I love your majesty according to my bond; nor more nor less… You have begot me, bred me, loved me: I return those duties back as are right fit, obey you, love you, and most honor you.” If Cor had remembered the consequences of that, instead of merely taking pride in the princess’ honesty, perhaps things would have been different. Then again, perhaps not.)
And the Tunnels were fascinating.
The truth (because it is important) is that she did not plan to go. (You may not know exactly what there is Underhill, but you can guess. The quiet stories about the chemistry department stealing back a professor give everyone who hears them goosebumps. You do not go Underhill without a clear purpose, or at all if possible.)
It was another member of the department. A freshman (Isn’t it always?) who had heard enough about the Tunnels to be curious, but not to be cautious. He was 18 years of age, and he went by the name Youngest. (The last kid in his family, he explained once. What Cor would find out later was that that also made him the fifth son of a fifth son, stretching back five generations. If she’d known then, she would have refused to go. He may have been born for quests and breaking curses, but she wasn’t.)
He had been trying to study up on the history of the Tunnels and found the records in the campus library archives lacking. The Tunnels had been mentioned in the university paper when they were being voted on, and when they announced the construction start date. There were no blueprints and no financial records. There were no minutes from the council meeting that decided to go forward with the building plans. There was no list of provisions to be kept in the tunnels, nor even a list of where to enter them.
And Youngest wouldn’t accept that. Cor wasn’t the first to try to talk him out of his obsession. (It didn’t help that he was a low-key conspiracy theorist. And not in a useful, fairy tales and old stories way. No, he was all about secret government bunkers and drugs in the water supply and money being stolen from institutions like Elsewhere U for illegal testing facilities.) He refused to listen. He started asking indelicate questions of the librarians and the campus administration, and he apparently had enough luck on his side to keep him from asking just the wrong person.
In the end, the big break came from a boy he was dating, a theatre major. Prior had been drunk, the two had gone back to Youngest’s room for the night, planning to fall into bed after a party and sleep off the booze. Youngest had brought it up, and Prior muttered something about an entrance in one of the costume closets at the main theatre on campus. When he woke up the next morning and realized what he’d said, he tried to take it back, to convince Youngest that he had been drunk and didn’t know what he was saying.
Youngest didn’t listen.
Youngest grabbed his phone for video and audio, and a pen and notepad in case something happened to his phone, and a flashlight and a bottle of water. He kissed Prior, was effusive in his thanks, and then walked away.
Prior panicked and called Cor.
And Cor, she was so damn tempted to let the stupid, oblivious moron just go. Unfortunately, her conscience was apparently stronger than her sense of self preservation.
She caught Youngest as he was putting aside a pair of bolt cutters he’d grabbed from a props room, and yanking off the old iron padlock holding the small door shut. He pushed open the entrance as she grabbed his arm to yank him back, and in a rush they were both somewhere new.
Cor quickly stood and checked her fanny pack. (It looked stupid. Cor didn’t care.) Creamer cups and seeds and campus-made oat bars soaked and crystalized in honey were held in a plastic ziplock baggie. Her little velvet drawbag of possibilities was net to it. Cor had collected the bits and bobs while scouring thrift shops and yard sales for unused baby shoes and abandoned love letters and half-finished quilts. (She cut them into small pieces, recognizing potential power, and kept them close.) Packets of salt and ground vervain tucked in another pocket. Then she shook her leg and heard the little jingle of her anklet. (It was silver, with four tiny shards of crystal, and it had been a gift to Cor’s great great great grandmother from her sister. It was a promise, a last resort, a nuclear button. Cor didn’t want to use it, because she knew the consequence. But if there was no other way…)
Then she took in the tunnel. It was dark before and dark behind, roughly hewn, strange shaped rocks pressed into dirt made up the surface, with two torches lit and glowing brightly on the wall to either side of them. If there had been a door, it wasn’t there anymore.
And when Youngest finally pulled himself upright, staring around in disbelief, Cor gave up being nice and smacked him on the back of the head. “Why do freshmen never listen?”
Mention of the chemistry department revolt is borrowed from “Feathers” by runwildwithme on tumblr. It was just too good a noodle incident to pass up on referencing. ((Additionally, I don’t have a tumblr, but if anyone wants to follow this story for updates, I’m planning to post it on ao3. Author name is TornThorn.))
I love Cor (And if you want to send me a link to the A03 story I’ll post it!)
You meet up with your fellow frat members and discover that they’ve all experienced much the same treatment Hunter gave you. At least one of them, a stout little football player, is nearly spherical with his unborn lumberjack child still, but everyone else seems normal. A little shaken, a little unnerved or disturbed but in good condition otherwise. The general consensus seems to be “let us never speak of this thing again.”
But as a send off, the raucous group of jacks has prepared a banquet with all the food you could ever want and an all-you-can-drink smorgasbord of alcoholic beverages. And like Hunter’s wine, it’s all handcrafted right there in the woods. Part of you worries that you’re all about to get fucked and impregnated again, once the jacks have got you nicely boozed up. But they don’t. It’s just a happy celebration of life. A mass birthday party if you will.
As Hunter said earlier, his fellow jacks shower him with praises for the simple fact that Chase grew to be bigger than his father. He wasn’t kidding; the other lumberjacks act like they’re seeing him in a whole new light. He makes sure you receive ample credit as well.
That last pregnant frat member gives birth, right there in the clearing, in the arms of the gigantic lumberjack who knocked him up. You’re too drunk to pay attention to the details, but by the time the “adult” lumberjacks send the newest additions into the woods to start their own lives, that last little boy has already grown to be the size of your average teen. The hours pass you by quickly and the moon is high above the clearing when Hunter and a couple of the other jacks gather up you and your frat bros and lead you away.
You’re back at your campsite before you know it. You wonder if you didn’t fall asleep at some point and were carried. There’s double the amount of frat brothers than jacks, but if they’re all as strong as Hunter…
Your tent is exactly as you left it, and it’s not the only tent still erect. Even the other frat brother’s tents are still standing, untouched.
And so is yours.
Hunter makes an effort to cover his, smiling sheepishly under the moon. “So. Guess this is goodbye?”
You hold a hand out to shake. You don’t resist when he pulls you in and squishes you in his slender arms, because you were expecting it. He hugs you for a few seconds, grunting happily and lifting you up. Your back cracks and that feels ok. He makes no effort to stop himself from grinding against you as he sets you back on your feet.
He’s just a little guy. Full of love and happiness and life. So full, you consider, that it all sometimes overflows and bursts out of him in the form of his burly, hairy alter-ego.
After the bonfire and the celebration of the new jacks, you and the rest of the frat are all in no condition to drive, though some of them attempt it anyway and you’ll worry about their safety in the morning. You elect to stay in your little tent.
And biting your lip in slight apprehension, you hold the flap open for him to join you.
With a tiny high-pitched yelp like an excited puppy, Hunter scrambles in after you, tackling you on your thick sleeping bag. You wrestle out of his grip and turn to him. “Just for tonight, ok? Cuz, uh. I’m just, y’know, gonna sleep this off and go home in the morning.”
“Sure!” Hunter looks around your tent. “Uh. Where do I sleep?”
You both look at your sleeping bag. It’s a big, expensive, weighted model made for survival, with a built-in pillow, soft woolen insulation and a heat-encasing insulation.
Hunter smirks at you.
You sigh and unzip it and toss your shirt and jeans in the corner of the tent. It’s gonna be warm in that bag even if all you do is share it with him.
You’d never do this with another dude. Not a friend, not a best friend, not a frat brother… unless, like the alternative was freezing to death. Maybe then.
So… maybe Hunter’s special. Or maybe it’s like he said, maybe his presence is just slightly irresistible.
He slides in next to you. His skin is so soft and smooth. You almost, if you close your eyes, can imagine you’re cuddled up next to a nice little sorority girl. With no boobs. And a bit more muscle than usual.
And who smells slightly of pine and cedar and campfire and maple and sweat and the tiniest hint of musky cum.
The bag’s nice and snug around you both, and you’re too tired and boozy to stay awake very long. Before you fall asleep, you vaguely register the sensation of one of Hunter’s strong hands gently sliding up your ribcage and rubbing your abdomen.
That’s definitely one of his fingers slipping inside your bellybutton and rolling around.
You blink awake in the early morning before the sun rises. You’re on your side, and Hunter must have decided to spoon you because you can feel both of his arms wrapped around your body. He may still be sleeping but you can hear a few soft grunts under his breath, and intermittently he squeezes you slightly, like he doesn’t want you to go.
His breath smells like syrup and juicy spit-roasted meat, and woodsy booze.
He nuzzles the back of your neck and head. He takes a breath with his nose in your hair. He’s definitely awake. But maybe he doesn’t know… you’re awake?
So you’ll pretend to be asleep. And maybe he’ll climb out, and leave, and you won’t have to face him once more, won’t have to say good-bye, because you’re just not sure if you can do that. He’s so nice, and he likes you so much and he makes you feel so loved and wanted and why would you want to go back to fucking college where you’ve got to do WORK all the time??
Useless, worthless bullshit! Calculus! Microbiology! Nothing that will help you in your life. Requirements to pass, but utterly meaningless to you beyond that.
Nothing that Hunter needs to know in his life either… he doesn’t think about mitochondria when he’s carving furniture. Doesn’t think about 17th century philosophers when he’s building and working. No equations. No proofs. No chemistry.
Just tough, rugged, manly work and the glory of thriving alongside nature itself.
He must feel your tension, because he moans in sympathy and his hands roam your chest and belly and he mumbles “havin’ a bad dream.”
And you realize he’s naked. Because… his dick slides up your back as he squeezes you close. “…wanna breed you again…” he whispers, so quiet you almost aren’t even sure that’s what he said.
But you know that’s probably what he said.
“Don’t get horny,” Hunter whispers to himself. “C’mon. Don’t get horny. Don’t get horny. Don’t transform. Don’t get big. Don’t get horny. Don’t get big. Don’t grow… ohh…” he moans, pained, and clenches up around you.
You wince. You know what’s coming.
Him. The big. The beefy. The beastly.
The bulging and the blooming and the bloating…
“Rrrrr,” Hunter growls in his throat. You feel his frustrated growl vibrate from his belly, against your back. “I… can’t…”
You feel his arms grow bigger around you. You feel his biceps on yours, puffing up with power. His flat boyish chest bulges forth with beefy pecs. His increasing musculature grows around you, encasing you.
“N–… nooo…” Hunter whines. “I didn’t…”
And you pretend to be asleep.
Because what’s the point? He’s got you now. You can’t get away! Even if you tried. You’re already in his clutches. You’re feeling his pecs pushing you forward into his arms, which are pulling you back, compressing you in a tight cocoon of muscles.
Maybe this is what he intended.
“No… nooo… not while he’s asleep, c’mon!” Hunter berates himself, grunting and grumbling against his own growth. His face is next to yours. You can feel his smooth skin becoming bristly against your cheek, neck and shoulders. His beard comes in thick and gets thicker.
Just like the rest of him. His slippery shaft slathering slime on your spine is swelling to the size of your spine.
You shift and whimper as you pretend to wake up, feeling that broad blunt tip dragging down your back to your waistband. “… wha…”
“I’m sorry. Little. Buddy.” Hunter growls at himself. Feeling him transform around you is the most terrifying yet awe-inspiring feeling, his featherweight build exploding all over with brawn, arm by arm, muscle by muscle, his legs growing longer than yours and bigger and locking around you like a vise.
You shiver and squirm. “…Hunter… Hunter??!”
“Sorry! Sorry! Sorrysorrysorry… I tried…” he snarls. “I tried. To stop. I couldn’t…” his chest presses against you and scrubs your shoulder blades with his rapidly thickening bush of hair. One of his hands slides down your ribs and tugs your boxers away, lower, revealing your ass.
“I thought… you were gonna let me go home?”
“I was gonna!” Hunter chokes out. He sounds like he wants to cry. His voice booms, bold and bassy, right in your ear, deeper with every word. “I’ve… I can’t… I gotta knock you up again!”
You thrash, if only for ceremony. “Dude no what the fuck!”
“I’m SORRY!!!” Hunter cries out. He plunges inside you and you yelp and your body spasms. He’s slippery and so is the inside of your sleeping bag where he’s been oozing copious gobbets of precum everywhere. He slides to hilt; you swear he’s poking your navel from the inside out…
How did you do that? He didn’t have to wriggle inside… he didn’t take it slow at all, he shoved straight in without stopping and you…
You let him.
“I’ll… I’ll take care of you… again…” Hunter murmurs, but his usual joy and mischief isn’t in his voice. Only shame and regret. “I’m so sorry lil buddy…”
“Can’t you just! Pull! Out!” you holler in rhythm as his thrusts begin. He’s scrambling your insides. He has to be.
“Just. Gotta. Get it. Over. With.”
It’s hard to breathe. He’s squeezing the breath out of you. His arms are so huge. You feel so tiny. The sleeping bag has no room left inside it at all, every last inch of space taken up by your body or his. You’re compressed by his muscles and his cock and the tight fabric all around.
“We’ll go… see Chase…” Hunter says. “Tell him. He’s gonna have… a new brother…”
“Hunter please,” you say in quiet defeat.
“You’re so good,” he gasps, his beard tickling your ear. “So good. Good for babies.”
“I’m a MAN, HUNTER,” you try to twist back and snap at him. There’s no denying or ignoring the truth of that statement.
No matter how good it feels. He’s slamming into your fucking stupid gay spot with each thrust and you start cumming on the inside of your sleeping bag. And then you go limp. Your abdomen flexes in anticipation of the incoming load it’s about to be injected with.
“I know. I know. Little buddy.” Hunter’s great big hands slide down your belly and rub in circles and then his cum arrives on the scene like a tsunami.
You gasp and choke and grunt and jerk in his hands, in his powerful arms. He clamps down tight to hold you still, to ensure maximum impregnation.
“Ooooooo…” you can’t help it. You can’t stop your mouth, your throat. The pleasured, submissive moan erupts with all the force of Hunter’s ejaculation. Each pulse makes your feet twitch, your fingers flex and curl in; your belly is thrusting out bigger and bigger, and the sleeping bag gets tighter by the second.
Your mind is breaking, you’re sure of it. These past few days have surely driven you crazy. Because you’re recalling the nightmare, only it’s not a nightmare anymore. It’s a fantasy. A rather… erotic fantasy.
The bigger you feel your belly getting, the more erotic it seems. You’ve never known a man alive who could pump out so much jizz… maybe…
You could just be Hunter’s… mate?
And whenever he’s horny, or wants to make another baby, he could come and fill you. Make your belly nice and bloated and happy and round. Fuck a big fat healthy lumberjack baby into you, like Chase, and then that baby will come out and grow into another nice big strapping lumberjack boy… like Chase…
You could fill the forest with your SONS.
You’d never have to pay bills. No more taxes. Do the lumberjacks pay taxes? They certainly don’t live in luxury, but they also don’t seem to have many living expenses, period. And Hunter’s SO manly. He’s a provider. He’s tough and strong and knows how to survive and thrive in the wilderness, living off the land…
Really, it’s a whole community of survivalists to live with.
And it doesn’t seem so bad anymore.
You think about your family and your college courses and your friends and shake your head, but your belly is still bloating with fat blobs of cum blasting rapid-fire from Hunter’s impaling member. He’s grunting and huffing against your neck. His hands are on your gut to feel you grow, his fingers splayed on your skin.
“So big,” he moans.
“Biiiigggg…” you murmur in reply.
Why do you feel like this?
Your mouth is half open in a dazed smile. Your eyes are rolling. Every time you feel his thick muscles twitching and flexing against your body, your dick bounces and tries to squeeze out another droplet. So BIG…
You could just be pregnant. All the time. No one would care here. Hunter would love you all the more for it. He’d keep you well fed, warm, cared for, and pregnant.
You actually let out a sheepish little giggle of your own as you imagine yourself round, plump, hefty from years of taking in gallons of cum and birthing countless sons… your fellow frat brothers are probably all going to get fat after college anyway, and some of them are already getting a headstart on their middle-aged burnout potbelly, so why not beat them to the punch by doing something useful with your own?
Passing the days in ease. Nobody telling you what to do. Hunter tending to you, living in leisure, letting him nail that spot, draining your own cum… and filling you with seed so potent and manly that despite you not having a womb or ovaries or fallopian tubes or a VAGINA to catch it… you still swell with a baby. A rapidly growing baby… you could populate the forest and turn it into a town, a city…
You’re surely going crazy. Your mind is almost blank with pleasure and thoughts of starting a… a tribe. A civilization… a nation of lumberjacks… all bred by a mighty patriarch…
You come back down to earth whining and whimpering, your belly having engorged and distended with heavy cream, boiling and bubbling as the baby attempts to form. Hunter snuggles against you, slowly shrinking down again. “Ohhhh lil buddy I’m so sorry,” he says, and his voice is getting bright and boyish again. “I didn’t mean to but…”
“I wanted you to,” you admit, mostly to yourself.
“… what?” The shock in his normally cheerful voice startles you.
“I… I was thinking about it and uh. I… I wanted to feel it again.” You bury your face sideways into the sleeping bag’s pillow. Thankfully as he shrinks, there’s a little more room to maneuver, especially once he slides out of you.
You roll over. Your belly makes a very audible sloshing noise, shifting heavily like the bloated sack of seed it’s become.
Hunter’s staring at you in awe. His shoulders and neck are slimming down, his jawline smoothing in shape and skin. He opens his mouth as his beard disappears. Out of curiosity, you place your hand on his cheek to feel the skin losing its stubble and smoothing over. Like shaving, but so much more thorough and stress-free.
“You… wanted me to.”
You close your eyes. “… I liked it. I, uh. I fuckin’ liked it. I wanted to try it again.”
There is a radiant light of hope and joy that ignites in his eyes, and his smile returns in full force. “You… you liked it. You like, uh. Bein’ pregnant?”
Slowly you clench your eyes shut, and then nod exactly once. “I. Uh. I think I do. At least. With you. You were nice. You didn’t like… uh. I mean. You made it… enjoyable. At least, you tried. And… yeah. I…”
Hunter pulls you close. He buries his face in your neck and laughs. “I… don’t know what to say, I just… you wanna have babies?? Really? Haha! Really! I…” he slowly grinds his semi-solid shaft against your stuffed belly and giggles. “Heh. I told you already… most people don’t, well most WOMEN don’t wanna bother with us beyond one time… and most men are so angry or humiliated or disturbed…” he actually reaches up and wipes a tear out of his eye. “They think we’re disgusting. And I try so hard not to be. And you… wanna have more. With me!”
“Is that uncommon?” you whisper.
“No, but.” Hunter squeezes you tight. The pressure of his flat, solid abdominals against your bulging belly feels soothing. “No. But uh. Uhh… it’s just, the other guys might get jealous. But maybe some of your friends will wanna stay, too?”
“Uh. I’m not sure if I wanna stay, like, forever,” you say, trying to bring your fantasies to reality again. “But, maybe a few more days, and uh, you can help me get this one out… give Chase a little brother…” You pat your own gut. “And uh, maybe after, I mean I’ve got to get back to my life, but… I can come visit you sometimes?”
“You can come visit me WHENEVER YOU WANT!” Hunter says loudly and grinds his shaft upwards; you feel some cum ooze into your navel. “I’ll… I’ll fuck the FUCK outta you. I’ll fuckin’ impregnate you over and over again…”
“Careful there, uh, ‘buddy,’” you chuckle, “Don’t get all excited… I don’t wanna have twins in here…”
“Don’t worry, I won’t transform again,” Hunter says. He smiles up at you. “I got you pregnant for sure. There’s no need, uh… how to put it. I’m ‘satisfied,’ if you catch my drift.”
“You’re like an animal,” you shake your head, smiling back at him.
“Yeah, a fuckin’ BEAST!” He growls as deep as his teenage-boy voice will let him and puffs his chest out against yours.
Your classes don’t start until the fall. You can afford to stay a few days longer. You can afford to visit. It’ll all work out. You’ll just have to try to avoid getting pregnant when your classes start back up. No way do you want to be sitting in a lecture desk and have your husky lumberjack baby start transforming inside you…
You pack up your campsite and tent… mostly with Hunter’s help, as you’re still sodden and swollen with a very heavy load in your poor tight belly. You’ve been sloshy with liquid before—you are a frat boy, after all—but this is ridiculous. Hunter turned you into a walking cum-balloon this time! You can barely bend over with such a big belly in the way; you’re reminded of that one night when the frat bought a massive stack of pizzas and two of them found their way down your throat and put you to sleep for twelve hours.
You’re so bloated that you don’t even bother putting a shirt on, not that you’ve got any shirts that would fit. And your bros are all gone. Thankfully.
He helps you get your belongings and camping gear in your car. You sigh as you stare at your driver’s seat—there is no way you’d be able to squeeze that belly in there and still be able to turn the wheel.
Hunter hefts you like a bride and carries you off into the woods. Back to his homestead.
You spend the next couple of days much the same as the first two, but this time you don’t squash the fantasy. You indulge it.
You pretend like you’ve already agreed and
Hunter pretends like this
is the first of many times he’s going to
crack your legs open
like a turkey.
And when the new baby lumberjack comes out he names himself Logan, and rapidly grows into a big strong boy like his older brother. He smirks when he hits his final growth spurt and suddenly he’s staring down at not just Hunter, but you as well; hell he’s actually got a fair amount of bulk like he’s partially transformed! and with a scream of self-esteem Hunter literally swells with pride, transforming and striking a copse of trees down as easily as a farmer harvests wheat, as if to show his new boy the meaning of life.
You head back to your old life soon after, but you stop thinking of it as your “old life” quickly enough. It’s just your “normal” life.
And then there’s your “secret” life, with a lot less technology, a lot more syrup, and a lot less inhibitions.
AN: hello fellow pervs :3 this is one of TWO(2) “non-canon” alternate endings I wrote for Lumberjack Fantasies… well I suppose whichever one you prefer to read the most would end up being canon for you haha thanks for reading the next one will be submitted shortly for your bepleasurement
STILES AS A COLLEGE BARTENDER??? tell me everything
OKAY BUT LIKE??? THIS IS SO REAL AND I LOVE IT?
Stiles is at GWU and he wants to help with the money a little bit but also wants some pocket money. Solution? Get a job.
But he knows he’s not patient enough to be a waiter, or coordinated enough, and he doesn’t want to do any type of labor work because he’s lazy. So he signs up for bartending classes the summer that he starts college and he gets certified.
He gets a job a little bar off campus– one of the many in the area.
It’s kinda dark, kinda dingy, but also he loves it there.
Stiles is such a night owl that the late hours don’t bother him– he’s been living with insomnia for years, and compared to what high school was like, college is Insomnia Lite.
He stands behind the long wooden bar in a tight black shirt and red jeans and black converse and convinces people to buy more booze.
Stiles makes up new drinks when he’s bored. Freshman year, he’s terrible at it. By senior year, he’s really fucking good.
Stiles seriously thrives under pressure (gee, I wonder why) so when the bar is craziest is when he’s at his best.
The girls love him because he’s funny and nice and they always try to flirt with him
The guys love him because he doesn’t give preference to the girls and serve them first– he’s an equal-opportunity Stiles.
Whenever Lydia comes to visit, she always spends the whole night on a barstool in front of him, watching him work through the rush with a towel over his shoulder and an easy grin splitting his mouth in half.
They both take way too much enjoyment from making fun of the college bands that the bar gets to play on live music nights.
Stiles always tries to swap his shift out on karaoke night, and when he doesn’t succeed, he basically always comes home grumpy. He hates karaoke night.
He becomes really, really good at making fruity, delicious drinks and basically vows never to touch scotch or whiskey ever again because… um… ew?
Stiles also makes it his task to always serve Lydia drinks that are as pink as possible.
Whenever he goes home to California at Christmas or for summer, Lydia throws a big party at her house or her lake house and everybody chips in for tons and tons of booze and Stiles is designated bartender.
He only hangs up the towel after he graduates and starts working full time, but whenever they have pack events or holidays, he’s still designated bartender.
“You don’t want to get rusty, just in case you have to take up bartending again,” explains PhD Lydia Stilinski as she invites fifty people to their modest home for a summer soi·rée. “Yeah, seems like a very likely scenario,” replies Special Agent Stiles Stilinski, who knows so many secrets about national security that he’d probably get murdered by a hired hitman before they fired him.
A hundred years, a hundred worlds, a hundred stories. The seventy-first starts off poorly (though not nearly as poorly as some) and honesty, like violence, can be brutal.
Taako is fed up. Magnus feels guilty. Lup lashes out. Merle saves the day.
Taako woke up to a bucket of cold water in the face. He yelped comically, sputtered, and spat.
That’s when he realized his hands were bound – no, hands and feet both – to a metal chair, in a dank stonework room he’d never seen before. There was no light, but since he was an elf it didn’t matter; he could see the four people standing in front of him just fine.
He shook his head roughly, water flicking from his bangs. Think, stupid, think. Last thing he remembered was getting tipsy in a particularly boisterous bar. He was doing reconnaissance, which was a fancy word for scoping the nightlife in the capital city of whatever fucking world they’d landed on this time. Hylia? Hyperborea? Who cares. They’d all be so much interplanar chum in a year’s time if they didn’t find the Light.
Stop. Tangent. Refocus. He was in a bar. The booze had caught up to him. He’d gone to the bathroom. Then… fuzzy. He’d blacked out, or got a sack thrown over his head, or something. He vaguely remembered a sharp pain in his head? Now he was here.
So, unless that handsome tiefling he’d been chatting up was into some seriously kinky shit…
“I hope you’re fucking happy,” Taako said to the group of four. “My hair is ruined.”
One of them, a big, broad-shouldered type with a shaved head, walked up and punched him in the mouth. A short, sharp strike, clearly pulled, and it still had Taako seeing stars. He tasted blood, copper in the back of his throat.
“Who are you?” one of the other three asked in an accented voice. Probably the leader? Shorter, much shorter, and leaner than his big bruiser buddy. No horns, but a tail. Part tiefling, maybe.
Taako shook his head to clear it. “I’m Taako,” he said. “Y'know, from TV?”
The big man punched Taako across the forehead, this time with his other hand. That one made Taako dizzy.
“Where are you from?” the short one asked.
Taako’s head lolled on his shoulders. He shrugged and breathed out a laugh. “I mean, where are any of us from, really? When you think about it–”
The big one hit him again, clean in the side of his head. Taako’s ears rang. He didn’t hear the next question the short one asked. Not that it mattered. Like he was going to tell them anything. Whoever the hell they were. They’d probably kill him, of course, which would suck. But it was a temporary problem at best, and as strong as his self-preservation instinct was, Taako’s spite was, at this point, far, far stronger.
He’d very much like not to die, though. So he’d have to escape. Problem: he was still a bit hazy from the drinks. Or maybe they’d dosed him at some point. It was hard to focus, and he couldn’t even cast a cantrip. He didn’t carry anything like a weapon on him, and if he did, they’d have taken it anyway. Times like this he really wished he had a way to contact the ship. Hopefully Lup would get worried and come looking for him before these sons of bitches finished their Q&A sesh.
After he took too long to answer, the big man hit him again, a short jab to the nose that didn’t hurt nearly as much as the last couple. Taako laughed out loud, and it must have looked downright ghoulish, because he saw the big one tense uncomfortably. Taako rolled his head in his direction and spit on the floor between them.
“Look, bub,” he said with a smile. His voice sounded dull and muffled in his ears, like a recording played in another room. “You’re gonna have to hit a whole lot harder than that–”
The next hit nearly knocked him out clean. It certainly loosened a tooth. Cool, now even if didn’t die, he’d have to go an entire year without an incisor. Fun day he was having.
At the point in time where the story takes place, we know the ins and outs of Claymore physiology pretty well. Little details about their regeneration and limitations are revealed with time in the series, and there’s a lot to suggest that we understand their half-yoma bodies about as much as we could ever hope to. But when you think about it, even though the Org has scientists, most of the information had to come from the Claymores themselves, as human scientists can only learn so much through observation. Most of what we know about them has come from a decades-long process of self discovery on their part. And that makes sense, given that most of their special abilities shine through in combat, and they do a lot of fighting. Of course they’ve learned a lot about themselves that way.
But you know what isn’t combat related? The weird way their body processes alcohol. Now, it’s not strange that they would drink and eventually figure it out, but you’d think that they’d assume they just have much higher alcohol tolerance than humans, and not that they can completely control how much alcohol effects them. The fact that they understand it to the degree they do speaks of some form of deliberate research effort.
So like, what I’m getting at here is, at some point in history, at least one Claymore set out to get absolutely shitfaced for science.