#and probably...presumably...other...activities...maybe?

[hanshenrykcd]

[secret--history]

the whole 'there are not very many Great Causes worth fighting for these days' from Julian scanned as WAY more out of touch than the moon landing thing for me the first time i read tsh

[arolesbianism]

It is my new life purpose to add the most questionable song choices to the Jackie section of my oni playlist. Hey at least one of them is a rabbit universe Jackie song so I have sort of an excuse, but spoilers it's not keep your head up so uhhhhh lol

[toxicanonymity]

Mama's Boy, 18+

slasher Joel masterlist | problematic playlist | AO3

PAIRING: Slasher!Joel x f!reader LENGTH: 7.2k words and none wasted tbh SUMMARY: Dinner at his mom's house, mostly. WARNINGS: 18+ dark, unsafe PinV, gunplay, degradation, a bit of angst, a whiff of incest, choking-adjacent, dark!reader, major revelations (!), feelings maybe? (god help us), mommy and daddy issues, slasher Joel needs a hug. NOTES: Today is not only mother's day, but also the 2nd anniversary of his first fic. This is packed. @flawssy-227 ty for your activism. And @thesummerpetrichor, I thought of you 🖤. Joel can carry reader.

It's Sunday. He lets himself in. 

“Still in bed? Must’ve been ass up face down pretty late last night, huh? Told ya i'd pick ya up… ”

You squint at him as your eyes adjust. “What are you talking about?” He has something draped over his shoulder.

Too much talking. Not enough fucking. 

He scoffs, “Really? Sunday dinner, slut.” He marches over to your nightstand with a snarl, picks up a folded piece of paper, and tosses it at you like a frisbee. 

Oh yeah. 

You unfold it as if it's the first time you've read it: “pick u up sunday.” There's a sketch of his fat cock and a thinner outline of what's presumably a dong next to it. “p.s. u need a real toy.” 

Well, here he is. Picking you up on Sunday, and he's even kinda cleaned himself up. A plaid shirt and jeans tighter than his work uniform. Looks like a normal guy you could pass in the supermarket, none the wiser that he’d shove a huge tool up your cunt.

He stands by your bed holding up one dress in each hand. Neither of them yours. 

“Now put on somethin’ decent.”  

He throws them onto the bed, then pulls a gun out of the back of his pants.  “What do you think? ” He gestures between them with the gun. 

One of the dresses is simple, clean lines, not far off from something you might normally wear. But it has a brown stain and a frayed edge. It doesn't feel right. 

The other dress is a strawberry plant pattern with short sleeves that puff out. It's faded and outdated, but clean and in decent shape–from what you can tell, at least.

“Got my own clothes,” you tell him.

But he insists, “This ain't the street corner, sugar. You're gonna pick one of these.”

“I'm too tired for this,” you complain, then add, “I dunno what makes you think I wanna go to your mom's house.” 

“Come on, baby…” He looks at the gun. “I don't wanna use this… unless I'm stuffin’ your muff with it later ”

After looking at both the dresses, you can't bear to put on the stained one and choose the strawberry print. You feel unexpectedly cute in what could have been plucked from a mid century catalogue for housewives, although it’s probably from modcloth circa 2015.

Turning around in the mirror, it’s actually really flattering, and there’s something kinda sexy about dressing up like this degenerate's pretty little wife…Yep, you're really doing this. 

Maybe it’s partly out of morbid curiosity, wanting to know where he came from. 

How he…. happened. 

He brings you a pair of your own shoes and puts them down for you to step into. 

“Yeah, that's my girl,” looking over your right shoulder at the bathroom mirror, he grabs your ass, then sticks his hand between your legs from behind, hooking his hand under you to reach your clit. Your feet spread reflexively, giving him more room. Still holding the gun in his right hand, the hand between your legs tents the dress as he strokes you, and your gut begins to swell with need. He spreads his feet and angles himself slightly toward you, getting close enough to press himself against you, letting you feel the warm log in those tight jeans, gun held against his meaty thigh. Your chest heats up and you adjust your tits in the dress, copping a feel of yourself while you’re at it. 

“Good girl ” he mutters. With a glint of affection in his eyes, he says, “You were born to wear this dress, kitten.” Now that he’s got you dripping, his fingers slip into the crotch of your panties and he shoves one, then two, inside. “Mm,” he grinds against you as he stuffs you with his fingers. Then he pulls them out and squats down. He lifts the skirt of the dress and yanks the panties down to your ankles. You lean forward and brace yourself on the sink. He stands up, slides the gun between your legs and the smooth, cool metal of the top of the barrel rubs through your slippery seam. Your hips tilt and he slides it forward one last time, before taking it away.

He pats your ass, and says, “Now c’mon, let's go.”

Not even the decency to fuck you first. Not even with the gun.

You scowl at him in the mirror. 

He asks, “Am I gonna have to drag you, kickin’ and screamin’?”

“Yeah, actually,” you reply. 

“Alright,” he agrees, all too happy to oblige. He puts the sticky gun in the back of his pants, bends his knees. and lifts you over his shoulder with a grunt. 

He steps through your open back door and slams it behind him with one hand, his other arm braced over the bare backs of your knees. 

You yoink the gun from the back of his pants and he says, “God damnit, be careful with that,” without putting you down. 

“You seem pretty sure I won't shoot you,” you observe. 

“Course ya won't. Be like a … like a drug addict shootin’ their dealer… nah, shootin’ the drug cooker. Yeah. And he's the only cooker.”

He's getting slightly out of breath as he walks. Or maybe it’s the effort of all that thinking. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” You ask.

“Cock hungry whore ain't gonna kill off the biggest cock she's got.” 

You press the edge of the barrel against the small of his back and nudge it into his jeans, then demand, “Put me down.” 

He groans in exasperation, stops, and sets you down in the side yard. 

You almost forget to point the firearm at him. Almost. With the gun raised, you ask, “What’s with the gun anyway? Thought knives were your thing.” 

He shrugs. “Special occasion?”

“Why do you want me to come to dinner so bad?”

“Cause I told her we were comin’, okay? Told her ya liked the casserole.”

For the first time, you notice his hair is a little bit combed. You ask, “What'd you tell her about me?”

“Uh,” He scratches the back of his neck. “She knows we met when I was workin’. Knows I gave ya a ride….knows ya ain't like other girls.” 

“What’s that mean?” You ask, adjusting your grip. 

“I dunno… ” He shrugs, then gets frustrated.  “I ain't brought home a girl home in a long time, okay? And she's gettin’ older, and…” 

When you've lowered the gun, he lunges forward, muttering, “Gimme that,” as he disarms you with ease that makes your heart skip a beat. He grabs you by the arm and marches you to the Volvo. He opens the passenger door and manhandles you into the seat. 

When he gets in the car, he leans over and buckles your seatbelt for you. He smells clean and minty. 

As he puts the car in drive, you ask, “What else did you tell her?”

“Uh…. She knows we ain't been on many dates.”

“Not many?” You ask with a laugh. “You mean none?”

He glances at you twice, suppressing a flattered smile at the implication he perceives. He wets his bottom lip. “That mean ya want to?” 

He holds the gun against his thigh and steers with one hand.

-

-

When you get to his Mom's house, he warns, “Just don't talk about all your whorin’ around, okay? She won't like it.” He checks his hair in the rear view mirror.  

You laugh, “What whoring around?” 

“All those skinny dicks in your phone,” he mutters, getting out of the car.

“Excuse me?” You ask, still sitting. 

“Just tell her about your day job instead,” he says, as if you genuinely don't think or talk about anything other than cock without prompting.

Wait--skinny dicks in your phone? Your train of thought dies when he puts the gun in the back of his pants, and in doing so exposes a few inches of skin, and the tail end of a scar. After he shuts the driver side door, you open yours while he hurries around to help you out. 

“Come on,” His big hand wraps around your inner elbow again. “We're gonna be late.”  He's slightly in front of you 

“Bringing a gun into your mother's house?” you ask as he pulls you along.

He freezes, then mumbles, “You're right. Don't want her to think you're a bad influence. Even if ya are.” 

What a gentleman. 

He goes and puts it in the glovebox, then jogs to catch up with you again. 

-

-

When she opens the door, Joel's mother beams at the sight of her son. She steps outside, frail and slow moving. She's pretty, with silky white hair that looks older than her face. The storm door creaks to a stuttering close behind her.  

At first, it's like you're invisible. He lets go of you, and they embrace. She reaches for the back of his neck and says,  “C'mere, baby,” pulling his face to hers. He kisses her on the cheek, then she kisses him, and then, as they separate, Joel gestures toward you. Her eyes are curious when they meet yours, then her face comes to life as her gaze falls down your body. She puts a hand on her hip as she checks you out, her other hand rising to her mouth for a moment, then resting on her chest, fingers centered in the hollow of her collar bone. 

“Joel,” she half-laughs in flirtatious accusation, then narrates, “Well, there she is…”

“Don't she look nice? ” Joel asks with a subtle smile and blush. 

His mom admires you with an air of disbelief, then goes in for a hug. Her fragrance isn't entirely new to your nostrils, and the sensory recall brings an unsettling tingle to your loins: The night Joel brought the leftovers.

She holds you close, pressing her body all the way against yours without fully relaxing. Firm and in control, and yet , she feels softer than she looks. Her bosom is like a warm pillow. Like a relic of young motherhood, reaching through time, tickling your inner child awake. 

As the hug ends, she gently pinches the puffed sleeves of your dress and says to Joel without looking at him, “Yes, baby. She looks real pretty.”  Then, glancing up from your dress, she tells you with a smile, “Can't promise strawberries, but I do have cherry pie. Come on in.”

“Thank you, ma’am” you nod. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” she chuckles, “You can just call me Mama.” 

It sounds like you should know better. Like ‘Mama’ is the most obvious option. You glance at Joel, and he nods with a little smile of permission, as if that's what you’re looking for, and he's glad to give it.

Might as well rip the bandaid off: “Okay… Mama… well, it's nice of you to have me over.” In the back of your mind, you hope Joel doesn't think this is any special effort on your part. It's more like, your job requires manners, and this is your default setting with older folks. 

She holds the door open with her body and you have to graze past her. “Smells delicious,” you observe with genuine hunger, having slept through the first two meals of the day.

She straightens her frilled apron with a smile and suggests, “Joel, why don't you give your girl a tour while I finish up?” 

This is a relief - you hadn't been consciously dreading it, but worst case scenario, she would've asked you to help in the kitchen. She seems like that type. 

–

It’s a humble brick ranch. Dimly lit. Everything is out of style, but tidy.  There are a few bedroom doors, but he doesn’t open any of them, and you don’t pry. The paint in the hall is disrupted over a poorly repaired dent in the wall. You try not to look at the stains on the ceiling. 

One of the living room walls has a fireplace, and one wall is lined with pictures. There's a bare corner with nothing but a crochet rug – a rounded  rectangle, with raised crosses. The paint is newer over there. Bubbling and wanting to peel as the wall approaches the perpendicular wall, the one with the fireplace.

Before you can get a good look at anything, Joel steers you outside. In the small backyard, a wooden garden bed has overgrown with weeds. The lawn is nice and trim. “You help out with the yard?” You ask.

“Uh, sometimes,” he answers. “ She's got somebody else too .”

He rocks forward on his feet, arms crossed. 

“So... you gonna fuck me in your boyhood bedroom?” You ask, and he clears his throat with a forced smile, brows knitted.

“What?” you ask. “Why the hell else would you take my panties?” 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, allowing himself only a brief glance at you, until he does a double take and admits, “Fuck, you look good.” He seems more distressed by it than anything.

No such luck, you guess, raising your eyebrows at the visible outline against his thigh. Never would've pictured him in jeans. 

He runs his hand through his hair, puffs out his cheeks with an exhale, and adjusts himself with effort before leading you back inside. His boot grazes the side of a metal bowl, sloshing water into dark spots on the cement.

-

-

She pours Joel a glass of milk with dinner, and when you politely decline, Joel says, “One glass won't hurt ya, baby .” Mama seems pleased to bring over the old fashioned bottle of milk. She rests her free arm on the back of your chair, with the fine lines of her cleavage near your eyes as she fills your glass. 

The meatloaf is delicious, with sauce that reminds you of barbecue. The mashed potatoes are over-buttered, but they hit the spot. She smiles to herself, satisfied to watch you eat. 

“So tell me about yourself,” she says. “Do you work?” 

You swallow your food, nod, and tell her which clinic you work at. 

“Oh,” she recognizes the name. “The one over on Main Street?”

“Yes, that's right.”

“That's nice,” she says. “Joel's going to own his own business one day. Do you ever want to own your own practice?” 

“Oh, no, I don't think so,” you answer, then ask Joel, “What kind of business?”

“Joel, I'm surprised you haven't told her,” his Mom says, then lowers her voice to a conspiratorial volume to tell you, “He’s too modest.” 

“Ya know, I guess a tow and repair one-stop shop,” Joel says. “Not a lot of guys do both, but I can really take care of ya. Same night, even. Late hours, too.” 

His mom nods. “I always knew he'd be successful,”  she says. “Even in the darker days.” 

Joel tenses and begins to tap his heel. “ How about you, Mama? ” he asks, “ What have you been up to? ”

“Oh, you know, this and that,” she says. “Crossword was a doozie today!” she laughs. “What are you two gonna do this week? Anything special?” 

You shrug and look at Joel. 

He starts, “Uh… ”

His Mom bails him out, “You oughta take her to the drive-in like I said, baby,”  then she asks you, "Would you like that, honey? You like the drive-in? We used to go, it was so nice.”

“Sure, I like movies,” you answer. 

“See, Joel? She likes movies.”

-

Joel finishes his meatloaf relatively quickly, and his mother puts another generous slice on his plate. 

“I don't need any more, Ma,” he says, but she doesn't listen, and he digs into it anyway. By his third slice, he’s pushed back in his chair, adjusting his belt. He pats his tummy and says, “There's nothin’ she makes that ain't good.”

“Only the best for my boy,” she agrees, then asks you, “Ain’t that right?” 

“Of course,” you agree.

“Oh! I saw Randall Junior earlier,” she says. “He came by and did the lawn.”

“Randy,” Joel corrects her. 

“Yeah, Randall’s son.”

“Randy,” Joel repeats. “He ain’t even a Junior, Ma. He’s the third.”

“Well, it was nice to see him,” she reminisces, fiddling with the corner of her placemat. She catches herself, smooths it down, then brings her hands together, fiddling with her left ring finger. “I swear, that boy’s an inch taller every time I see him.” 

“He’s in his thirties,” Joel tells you, drawing a genuine smile to your lips. One that brings a sparkle to his eyes. 

“Well, anyway,” she goes on, “A face like that belongs in the movies,” she chuckles to herself.  “Of course, he’s nowhere near as handsome as my Joel,” she looks at you reassuringly as she says it. Lest you pine after Randy the third . 

A silence stretches on until you say, “Well, this was delicious. I’d love the recipe…” You dab the corners of your mouth and put down your napkin. 

“Oh, it’s not a recipe, honey,” she boasts, “It’s somethin’ ya do from the heart.” After a moment, she adds, “But I can write down the ingredients! Now, how about some cherry pie?” 

She stands up, puts her apron back on, and you help her clear the table. “Go on Joel, we’ve got it,”  Mama tells him, and he goes to sit in the living room.

“Okay,” Mama whispers to herself as she plates the first slice, a generous one. “This one’s for him.” You take it to Joel and he sits up from the couch to accept it with a thank you, reading your face for signs of how things are going. You flash him a small, unrevealing smile.

“Gonna take a piss,” he mumbles, and his eyes ask if that’s okay. “Sure,” you say with a little curtsy, trying not to smirk as you turn and head back to the kitchen.

Mama’s about to plate the other slices of pie when she lifts a finger in the air and says, “Oh, let me write this down before I forget,” then retrieves a notecard and pencil from a drawer. She puts on a pair of glasses and smiles to herself as she jots down the ingredients. You dwell in the threshold of the living room.

She looks up like she’s trying to remember something, then looks down and keeps writing on the notecard. 

You begin to look at the pictures on the wall. Some are of Joel, and he’s straight-faced. Some are of cats. Charmingly, a blurry photo of a black cat has been deemed frame-worthy. It sits within a bigger rectangle, the shadow of where a different frame used to be. There are a few spots like this. There are a few relatively recent photos of Joel and his Mom. None with his father, as far as you can tell. None now, and none then. But when you look closer at the older ones, it’s clear some of them have been trimmed. 

“He hates having his picture made,” Mama startles you from less than a foot away. 

“You two seem really close,” you offer. “Just the two of you?” 

She raises her eyebrows in amusement and lowers her volume. “Oh, Joel made sure of that .” 

A chill in her voice hardens your nipples and dries your mouth. You search her face for more, but her eyes have wandered, and her face has fallen. “Been about thirty years, just the two of us—well, just me for a while…” You follow her eyes to the corner with the crochet rug, and she squeezes your arm.  

“Are you okay?” you ask. 

She eases her grip and manages a little smile. “Yes, dear.” She hands you the notecard.

Her handwriting is beautiful. Captivating. 

You stay there, eyes scanning the photo wall, while she finishes plating your pie and hers. 

One of the frames catches your eye. It’s the first one you’ve really zeroed in on, looking at the faces and not just the context. The picture is faded and yellowed.  

Joel is young and smiling, with a pin-up looking woman hanging all over him.

A rush of begruding jealousy begs the question, who is that?

And then, your stomach turns before the realization sets in. 

It’s a much younger Mama, with dark, loose curls befitting of a centerfold. All dolled up and glowing, with her arm around his middle. And god damn, her tits are swelling up out of her neckline. She looks…. Hot. Your lungs go hollow, then your chest expands with a deep breath. Something's stirring in your gut. Arousal? Attraction?  

Your eyes pan down to her Mary Jane heels, but the swell of her breasts, those bouncy curls… your eyes are pulled back up her body. The dress is cute, and proper. Innocent, even. But the way she wears it… Sweetheart neckline, puffed sleeves… You squint for a closer look, and your breath hitches.  Heat rises to your face, to the tips of your ears. Your heart races. You pull your eyes away, chest burning, and pretend you don't notice anything.  

Something soft brushes your calf and you gasp and jump as you look down to see a black cat thread between your legs. 

“Oh, it’s Daniel!” Mama says. “He must’ve come in behind you. Not allergic, are you? Here’s your pie, honey.” She sets down your plate on the coffee table.

“You good, baby?” Joel asks. 

-

Taking your place on the sofa next to Joel, you sit like a lady, one foot tucked behind the other ankle, minding your lack of panties. The dress is just long enough to cover your knees. 

The three of you finish dessert in silence aside from forks scraping good china and Daniel purring from that rug in the corner. Joel finishes first, and stretches his arm behind you on the sofa. When you finish, you sit back with him, knee brushing his. You will yourself to relax. You will yourself not to ogle his mother in trying to reconcile her fragile frame of today with those curves of yesteryear. 

She looks back and forth at the two of you sitting side by side and smiles. She puts down her plate, crosses her legs toward you, and clasps her hands. A smile rises through her pretty cheekbones as she looks directly at you. 

“Ya know, Joel was top of his class.” 

You raise your eyebrows. 

Joel takes his hand off the back of the sofa and leans forward, forearms on his knees, full belly filling out the plaid against his lap as he wrings his hands.  “Mama.” Joel’s tone is cautionary, but his face is more pleading. He shakes his head ever so slightly. 

Ignoring him, she smiles proudly at you.

You try not to sound as skeptical as you are when you ask, “Really?”

She nods. 

“Mama,” he whispers. 

“Mm-hmm,” she smiles. 

He sits up straight, wipes his hand down his whole face and sits back in defeat. His arm doesn't return behind you. 

She continues, “There were a couple other boys, went in ‘round the same time – took’em three tries to get their GED. Three tries, at least. Not my Joel. He got his on the first try,” she beams. “The warden shook his hand.” 

“Okay,” Joel mutters. 

The Warden. Your heart skips a beat and your face goes cold, but you pray it doesn't show. 

You turn and congratulate him, “That’s great, Joel.”

He doesn't meet your eyes. He’s looking at the carpet with a defeated scowl, jaw flexing, chest heaving, arms crossed limply over his stomach.  He tries to manage a smile of acknowledgement. You can see the effort, but humiliation prevails.

You feel for him and add, “Really, babe.” 

His face softens, but his posture doesn't change. After a moment, without looking up, he mumbles, “Long time ago.” 

“Yeah,” his mother nods. “He's always been a smart boy.” She starts talking about his favorite subjects, and how he could have gotten his bachelor's too, three times over, if the program was worth a damn, and state funding, and blah blah blah, riots, and understaffing, and shanks hidden in law library books, and a few bad apples spoil it for everyone…

Your eyes are on him, tuning her out, best you can, despite your curiosity. You rest your hand on his knee, and he relaxes a little. And then, once your face turns toward his mom again, Joel looks at your face, assessing the damage. 

You want to hear it all– how long he was locked up, how he ended up in juvie. You're afraid you already know that part. 

Daniel purrs loudly from the crochet rug, and you will yourself not to look in that direction. 

Joel's Mom looks at Daniel and gets quiet as her eyes wander up that wall that must've been painted over, God how many times in the past thirty years? She idly caresses her ring finger. 

You squeeze Joel's knee, slide your hand up his jeans a couple inches, and squeeze again. You tap your thumb, and his hand joins yours.

“We oughta get goin’, Ma,” he announces. 

“Oh,” she frowns, slumping in defeat. 

“I'm workin’ tonight, and she's gotta work early.” 

“Okay,” she whispers to herself, stands up, and smooths her dress. 

—---

“It's nice to know there's a good woman looking after my son,” she says as she bids you goodbye with another hug. 

Your heart swells at the praise, you can't help it. Her apparent sincerity weakens your eyes, makes you shake away your own memories and steel yourself as she says goodbye to Joel. 

“Chin up, baby.” She holds Joel's face, makes him look at her. “Give your mama some sugar.” She gives him a smack on the lips. He doesn't kiss back, but he does accept her hug. 

He pulls up his jeans on the way to the car. Almost forgets to open the door for you. 

He doesn't look at you, even when he buckles you in, which you would have done yourself if you hadn’t froze.

He swallows more thickly. His posture is less proud.

For the first few minutes of the drive, you ride in silence. Then you ask, “Are you okay?” 

“Why wouldn't I be?” He grumbles. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask, tummy tickling with a pang of sympathy for the man. 

“No,” he answers flatly with no hesitation. 

“You don't have to,” you reassure him. 

“I know I don't have to,” He snaps. “God, it's all anybody ever wants to talk about.” 

You watch him scowl at the road, clenching his strong jaw.  His gaze is so dark. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. As if noticing this himself, he stretches one hand out, spreading his fingers before assuming a more relaxed grip.

You wonder… was he born a killer? 

He's got this tough, violent shell about him, and now you know there's something else under there. Is he sorry he brought you to dinner, you wonder? You don't want him to be. 

“Well, it was nice meeting your mom,” you remark. “Meatloaf was fantastic…. The pie, too.” You cradle the Tupperware stacked in your lap. “You wanna hang out for awhile?” you ask. 

“Gotta work,” he answers flatly and swallows with his eyes still on the road. 

“Well, that's too bad.” It really is. 'Cause you're not any less horny than he got you in your bathroom two hours ago. Wetter, if anything, you realize, and warmth blooms in your cheeks. Now the sun is going down. You reach back and put the Tupperware on the back seat, then shamelessly turn toward him. You lean your temple against the headrest and watch him drive. 

He’s hard-working. Complicated. Private. And his mom’s right, he is successful, all things considered.

You wonder where his dad is buried. Whether he was handsome, like Joel. Maybe . But with or without him, Joel got those looks from Mama. 

Joel glances over and shoots you a dark look. A warning.

“You don't gotta play nice,” he says.

“I'm not playing anything,” you protest. 

He lets out a dismissive chuckle.

“Pull over,” you tell him. 

“For what?” He asks.

His meaty thighs are spread, swelling in those tight jeans. He follows your eyes and squints at you, then slides his hand under his belly and adjusts his belt, annoyed. 

“Just pull over Joel,” you repeat.

“Ain't in the mood for your games, sweetheart,” he says.

You open the glove box, then close it with the gun in your hand.  You point it at him. “Pull over, god damn it,” you tell him.

He squints and looks at you up and down before dismissing you with a silent, condescending laugh. 

Keeping the gun trained on him, your free hand unbuckles your seatbelt, then slides between your legs. You pull the skirt of the dress all the way up to expose your cunt.

“You serious?” He asks. 

“Serious as a heart attack,” you confirm. 

And that's not what killed his dad, you think. 

It must've been messy. 

He must've deserved it, by the looks of Joel's back. The way the moonlight skidded over his scars, that night in your bedroom.

Joel shakes his head, keeps driving, and you lift the gun to his temple. “Pull over right now,” you repeat, quieter.

“Jesus, FUCK,” he relents, neck vein bulging as he veers toward the shoulder. 

It's close to dusk now, on a suburban road, and you're half way out of the seat before the car's in park.

Stretching your leg over the center console, you help yourself into his lap, straddling him, still holding the gun. With your free hand, you begin to unbutton his shirt. 

For a moment, all he does is stare at you and breathe heavier. “You're fuckin’ with me,” he tells himself out loud, not wanting to fall for a joke. He has his elbows back and out of the way, one arm on the door, one on the center console, but he’s itching to have you. You can see it in the way his biceps twitch. His stomach rises and falls with heavier breaths under his white tee. 

“I’m not,” you assure him. 

He lets you pick up his hand, and you guide it between your legs so he can feel how wet you are. 

His face darkens, and his hand reflexively grabs your cunt. 

“Somethin’ wrong with you?” he asks.

“That’d make two of us,” you answer.

You glance at the gun to make sure the safety's still on, then point the barrel at his chest and reach down to grab the massive bulge in his jeans. The largest you could imagine, for a cock that’s not quite hard. And he chubs up quick under the lustful pressure of your palm. 

“You're into this shit,” he says. “ Like some kinda kink.” 

Ya think?, you manage not to say out loud.

But you get the subtext: He’s a real person... With a real big cock that swells harder in your palm as you massage him slow with your breasts heaving. He cups your bare ass cheeks. You slide your hand up the front of his jeans, and his hips lift under you, chasing your palm. The heel of your palm presses into his gut as you unbuckle his belt. You rest your wrist on the seat, gun pointed toward the back of the car as your hand continues its work between your bodies.

With his belt buckle out of the way, you grope at his cock through the denim again, then unzip his jeans and rest your hand on the curve of his belly, splaying your fingers out before sliding your hand down into his jeans. As your hand engulfs the mushroom shape of his cockhead, then his swollen shaft, you moan at the girth. “Yeah,” you breathe, “You gonna fuck me in your mother’s dress?” You end the question with a firm grab of his package, and he grunts, nearly breathless, then sighs as you palm his cock hungrily through the cotton of his boxer briefs. 

“Looks really fuckin’ good on you,” he answers with a nod.

Blood’s still rushing to his cock, responding to its need to stiffen up and plug whatever gaping hole appears in front of it. 

“Looks good on her too,” you note. 

“Fuck,” he breathes under your slow but aggressive massage. His eyes pour over your chest and he says, “Looks better on you.” If he’s not lying–and it feels like he’s not–-it’s quite a fucking compliment. His shaft plumps with as much as blood as it can hold, stiff as a rod, fat and juicy, hard as hell, spilling precum in his boxers. 

“Ohh, fuck,” he moans. His hips lift and his abs tense and his belly swells against your forearm. 

You slide your hand up again, and under his waistband. You brace your wrist on his shoulder, pointing the gun toward his neck as your hand slides into his warm boxer briefs to feel the smooth skin of his aching manhood. 

“You wanna put that down?” he asks. 

“No,” You reply, unable to connect your thumb fingers around his girth. 

“Man, when ya need it ya need it, huh?,” he murmurs, eyelids heavy. “Need this cock real bad, don’t ya? ” 

“Yeah,” you answer.

“Need to pack that droolin’ gash,” he says. “ Pack it full. ” 

“Yeah,” you nod and raise yourself a few inches. You get his tip at your entrance, then slide it through your dripping pussy.

"Oh, fuck,” he moans, “God damn sex kitten.. . FUCK, youre hot” 

He breathes audibly, watching you with forced patience as you notch his broad tip at your hole. You start to sink down on him with some difficulty, face scrunching, biting your lip in frustration, eyes watering with need. 

“What's the matter, sweetheart? Forget how to take a cock all the sudden?” 

You lift yourself up and sink down a little more, swallowing the tip. 

“Oh fuck,” he moans. He puts his hands on your hips and pulls you down with an upward thrust, spearing you on his monster girth.

“Yeah…oh, fuck,” he breathes, not quite bottomed out. “Ugghh,” he groans, pulling you down more with an upward thrust to the hilt, fully seated in you at last. 

“God, you're filthy.” He wets his bottom lip, admiring what a mess you’ve become in his lap. “Hot little slut like you…. Oh, you're trouble,” he says. 

You begin to lift yourself, letting most of his meat out of you, tip dragging thick and tight through your walls, your slick beading under the crown and sliding down his shaft. Then you sink back down, splitting yourself open on his girth with a sigh. 

The sky has erupted into shades of pink and purple as it begins to sink past the horizon. 

Electricity runs through your blood. Your skin hums. His neck glistens with goosebumps and the hues of his shirt look brighter in the almost-dark. 

He grabs your hips as you ride him, then moves his big hands to your waist. Each time you slide up his cock, it’s easier to sink back down. Your body’s hungry for more each time. You can feel it pulsing wider around him, welcoming his girth, hungry for more. 

“Yeah,” he encourages you as you find a rhythm. “Like that.”  

You seize one of his wrists to move his hand to your neck.

“You're a real freak, baby,” he taunts you, brushing his thumb against the delicate skin of your neck before carefully positioning it and raising his eyebrows at you. He closes his eyes as you sink down on him again and his girth slides easily through your soft walls. When he opens his eyes, his massive hand gives your neck a little squeeze, and you moan in appreciation. 

“Guess it takes a freak to fuck a guy like you,” you spit back.  

He scowls, and his nose twitches. 

You go on, “Mighta picked the only freak in town who’d fuck you by choice,” you tell him. “Lucky call,” you say. “Lucky you have such a fat fucking cock,” you taunt him and study his face, hopeful for a sign that he could snap.  “What else do you have?” You ask, and it feels almost too cruel. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s a lot to have… fuck,” you breathe. “Mmm,” fully stuffed by his girth. 

“Quit runnin’ your damn mouth,”  he snaps and grabs the gun by both ends at once, smoothly disarming you with an effortless twist of his hands. He places the barrel against the hollow of your neck and asks, Is “That what ya want, ya dumb slut? Tryna get yourself killed?” 

You freeze, half-way on his cock, getting lost in his eyes. 

“Well God damn, if you're gonna ride it, ride it. I'm gonna lose my goddamn patience” he warns. 

When you don’t sink down fast enough, he gets rougher, putting you in a bruising grip, one arm wrapped around you, tightening like an anaconda. 

He fucks up into you from the bottom, both arms behind you, with the gun held vaguely to your neck.

“Yeah,” you moan. 

He growls, pushes his back against the seat, and his stomach pushes against your front, pushes and rubs as he fucks you harder, rocking the car. 

The windows fog up.

He unzips the back of the dress and tears it down to reveal your breasts. 

He watches them move as you’re bounced on his thick manhood. He snarls and grunts like an animal possessing his prey. 

“I see you,” you whisper, intoxicated by the rhythmic stroke of him up in your guts.

“Fuck you,” he rasps.

“Fuck me ,” you retort,  “Fuck me,” you repeat, “Fuck me, killer,” your cunt spasms with the word. 

“Knew what I was, don’t act fuckin’ surprised.” 

"Fuck," you moan, swallowing up his cock. “I'm -mmm- m’not,” you say. “I'm turned on.”

“You’re sick,” he says, burying his cock in you fully, once again.  

Your nipples harden, you moan, and he looks at you skeptically, even as he feels your walls twitch around his absurd girth. 

“Know that pussy's hungry for something bigger,” he says. 

“Like what?”  you ask and feel the gun leave your neck. 

“Get up.” He checks the safety.

When you rise up, he holds the gun near his dick, making the barrel of it look like a twig. 

“Best I got here,” he says with your gummy walls clinging to his shaft as you let out all but the tip. 

“Think she can take it?” he asks. “Shit, we know she can.” 

You lift all the way up onto your knees, letting his cock fall out. It bounces, bringing a string of slick with it, and stands stiff at attention. 

He works three fingers into you with ease. 

“Gimme your hand,” you ask.

“Hand's fuckin’ busy,” he says, referring to the one holding the gun. 

“No, gimme your whole hand,” you demand greedily, and grab his wrist with his fingers still buried in your cunt. 

“Attagirl,” he says, then works a fourth finger into you.  “Best I can do here, sweetheart,” he winces as he fucks you with four clustered fingers. 

“Fuck this,” he decides, unable to stand his throbbing cock growing ever colder outside your cunt. 

He positions you over his dick and the gun, uses his fingers to spread your pussy around both, then pulls you down. 

“Uh–ughh,” your mouth is agape as you sink down the shaft and barrel, taking them both. 

You’re a quivering mess. 

He holds the handle steady and says, “Good girl.”

You don't go all the way down. The cool barrel slides against one side of your walls. 

“God damn, this hungry pussy,” he pants, cock stiff against the gun.  “God damn, i know she can take more,” he says, frustrated without much more to give you.  

“How do you know?” you ask 

“Cause I've seen ya gapin’ wide open, sweetheart.” 

You moan at his words, pussy quivering around his cock and gun. 

“Wide fuckin’ open,” he repeats. “Ya take my fist… take two dicks…fuck ,” he twitches inside you. “ Took my goddamn wrench…. greedy fuckin’ cunt,” he goes on. 

Then you're seized by a swell in your lower belly…. The pressure that’s been simmering quickly boils over, and you whimper as you come on his cock and the gun. 

“Yeah,” he pants as your walls flutter and your thighs quiver. 

He lifts you up with one arm, and takes out the gun, putting it aside. Then he slams you all the way down on his cock. “Oh god, yeah,” he pants, “Freak nasty whore ” 

You moan and let it ride, clenching around his cock, your walls hugging it tighter each time, with the girth of the gun no longer holding you open.  

Your climax wanes and your legs are weak. “Oh fuck,” he pants, “Gonna fill this dirty snatch,”  He sweats and grunts. “Gonna stuff her with my load,” he warns, “Bout to fill this gash right up .”  

“Fuck,” he breathes heavier and grunts with each thrust up into you, then slams you down, and with an upward jolt of his hips begins to drain his massive balls. “Fuck,” he sighs as he comes inside. “Fuck, you're crazy,” he says with another rope, warm and sticky, hitting your womb. 

“Tryna get knocked up by some psycho killer ya picked up on the side of the road,” he says. “ Fuck, you goddamn freak .” 

Still milking his cock, something possesses you to cradle his face as he slows down. Another burst of warmth in your core, as your face approaches his. He starts to turn his cheek, but your hands become forceful. “C’mere, asshole,”  you demand, grinding into him with his cock pulsing deep inside again. His neck begins to relax, and he sighs with his eyes closed. You hold his face steady and bring your face to his. When your lips meet his are limp and open. 

Another warm spurt into your womb, and when you moan against his mouth, he moans back. His lips soften, then cradle yours. Your tongue slips into your mouth, and his pushes into yours. He grabs the back of your head, pulling you into his face as he kisses you, releasing a final burst of hot seed. “Mm,” he grunts into your mouth, hands holding each other’s faces. Glued together, consuming each other in the dark. The passion simmers to something gentler as your loins twitch with aftershocks, becoming over-sensitive. 

You break away to breathe, gasping for humid air in the fogged-up car. 

He pants, looks up at the ceiling. His neck vein pulses. His skin is clammy looking, dewy with cold sweat, 

“Fuck,” sighs, his chest heaving, “Still got your goddamn tits out.” He admires them, then feeds himself one. He tongues your nipple, and when your cunt squeezes him, he winces, letting it out of his mouth. 

A tractor trailer whizzes by, shaking the whole car. 

“Alright,” he says, and nudges you off his lap. “Now pull yourself together.” 

He takes the gun, wet with your juices, puts it on the dashboard near him. He looks over at you skeptically when you've climbed back over the center console into your seat.

“You better stuff that dress between your legs,” he warns. “Don’t want ya leakin’ all over the goddamn place.”

-

-

-

THANK YOU FOR READING.

Believe it or not, I cut two scenes from this lol so I might put them in a little bonus visit between Joel and his mom soon.

Look, this took me a year and I feel like I've finally done my mental vision justice lol. So, please interact 🧎‍♀️🥺🖤

anon is fine if you're shy!

[moonstruckme]

hey sooooo I have a fic request for u babe! What about reader with Remus and it's like the first time she's sleeping over and she unexpectedly gets her period and she's like sorry I ruined our night I can go home and Remus is just like what?? No stay and just him soothing her through the cramps

Thank you for your request ml!

cw: period pains, mention of blood, brief allusion to mdni activities (though they truly could just have been making out if you want)

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ♡ 960 words

It’s rare, this early in your relationship, that you and Remus can sit down to watch a film and actually watch it. But it seems you’re both thoroughly spent from partaking in those other activities so frequently during the day, and now you’re both just winding down for the night, waiting to see who will admit to wanting to go to bed first. 

Remus is just as content with this, your arm pressed against his and your head heavy on his shoulder, feeling your ribs expand and contract with relaxed breaths. He could get used to having you here. It’s taking more restraint than he could have imagined to keep himself from just offering you his spare key and begging you to come and go as you please. 

“Oh, shit.” 

It’s a whisper, not particularly alarmed, but the way your muscles go stiff tells Remus it’s not nothing. You sit up, taking your weight off of him. 

“What is it?” he asks. 

You don’t answer him at first, squeezing your eyes shut. Your expression is one of unmistakable mortification. You look agonized. Remus tries to let you have the time you need to think, but a worm of unease eats further into his gut with every second of your silence. 

You push out an exhale that sounds laborious. When you open your eyes, there’s enough apology in them for a capital crime. Remus thinks that he’d probably forgive you if you told him you’d committed murder (and maybe that should scare him more than it does). 

“I think I’ve just stained your couch,” you admit. 

“Okay,” he says slowly. He doesn’t see the cause for such distress, but he also isn’t sure what you’re talking about. You’re not holding a drink, so how could you…oh. “Oh, is that all?” 

His nonplussed reaction doesn’t seem to affect your unease. “I’m so sorry,” you say, wincing. 

Remus tuts. “Don’t be, you can’t help it. Do you have anything with you, or do I need to nip to the store?” 

“I’ve got stuff.” You stand to get your bag, turning to grimace at where you’d been sitting on the couch. 

Remus’ reaction skews in the opposite direction. It’s only a splotch; by your response he’d been half convinced you were sitting in a veritable puddle of blood. 

“I’m so sorry,” you say again. “I’ll be right back.” 

“You’re alright, love,” Remus promises you. “Take whatever time you need.” 

While you’re in the bathroom, he addresses the stain. Truly, it’s no great hassle. With friends like his it’s hardly the first trial his couch has faced, and besides that Remus has an unusual amount of experience with getting blood out of things. 

It’s soaking when you come back, a small rag covering the spot from your view. You’ve changed into your pajamas, presumably because you’d stained your pants as well, but this is far from an unwelcome development. You look terribly cuddly. 

“You alright?” Remus asks as you come back to stand by the couch. 

“Yeah,” you say, somewhat quietly. You seem suddenly timid, like a guest in his home. He wants to hug you. 

“Does it hurt?” he presses. 

Your mouth pulls to the side, which is answer enough. “A little. It’s been hurting for a while, I just didn’t recognize it for what it was. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting it this early.” 

“Oh, sweetheart.” He reaches for you, hiding his disappointment when you only put your hand in his. “That’s not a very nice surprise, is it?” 

“No,” you agree with a halfhearted smile. When Remus squeezes your fingers, you squeeze back, and you at least seem up to holding his gaze even if you still look sheepish. “I’m sorry to ruin our night. I can go home.” 

“What?” A bit of hurt bullies its way into Remus’ tone. Your expression changes like you’re surprised to hear it. “No, I think you should stay.” 

You look hesitant, so he tries again, gentler this time. 

“I mean, if you’re hurting and you want to be in your own home, I understand,” Remus says, “but I hope you’re not leaving on my account. I’d like for you to be here.” 

You watch his face as though looking for discrepancies. “Really?” 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he says earnestly. “Of course I’d love to keep you. Getting your period doesn’t change anything, except that now you’re in pain and I’d like even more for you to stay so I can be with you.” 

The muscles around your eyes relax, your expression softening into something so tender Remus feels his own heart turn to mush. 

He gives your hand a little tug, and you take the cue, sitting back down on the couch between his open legs. 

“Can I put my hand here?” he asks you, touching your stomach. 

“Sure,” you say, still somewhat timidly. You take his hand in yours, moving it down a couple inches until his fingers are skimming the soft fabric of your pajama bottoms. “But it’s more like here.” 

“Oh, okay. Can I put my hand there?” 

With your nod, Remus slips his hand beneath your waistband, to that plush stretch of skin between your belly button and your panty line. He presses down gently. 

“Oh.” Your body goes lax. 

Remus chuckles, dropping his head to kiss your shoulder. “That helps?” 

“Yeah,” you sigh contentedly. “A lot, actually. Thank you.” 

“Don’t mention it.” He pushes on a tense spot experimentally, rewarded when you sink further into his front. “Just don’t try to run out on me the next time something like this comes up, yeah?” 

You agree readily. “Mhm. I wouldn’t have, if I’d known this was going to happen.” 

Remus smudges another kiss onto your shoulder, smug. “Just remember this then, I suppose.” 

[zepskies]

Maybe More Than Enough

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F. Reader

Summary: You’ve been a friend and ally to the Winchester brothers for years, but you and Dean break new ground while on a stakeout to catch a witch.

AN: Here’s another entry for @jacklesversebingo! It’s also based on a request from one of my lovely Patreon members: @lacilou. 💜

Prompt: Window—Letter Opener—Binoculars

Request: I'd love to read about Dean and the reader who's his age or even a little older.

Song Inspo: “Over the Hills and Far Away” by Led Zeppelin

Word Count: 2.9K

Tags/Warnings: A bit of angst, bit of hurt/comfort, bit of spice.~

💜 Jacklesverse Bingo Masterlist

Discreetly from the passenger side of the car, you peered through the binoculars again. Your target was in view through the unusual circular window: an average looking white man in his fifties, peeling a tangerine from the comfort of his kitchen.

According to his driver’s license, his name was Martin Reynolds. Sam was investigating the sudden death of his wife, Laura, and the wives of two other men in the small town of Whitebury, Mississippi. Laura was the first victim, so you and Dean were watching Martin for any suspicious activity.

Your companion shifted in his seat. You could hear the give of the well-worn leather against denim. The Impala wasn’t exactly inconspicuous for a stakeout, but he refused to be trapped in your “tiny-ass” Toyota Camry all afternoon. You preferred the term compact.

“What’s our he-witch up to?” Dean asked.

Your lips twitched at a smile.

“We don’t know if he’s a witch,” you said, but you passed him the binoculars.

Dean’s mouth quirked to one side before he took a look. “Well, he probably isn’t a shifter.”

“What makes you say that?”

He gestured back at the window and gave you back the binoculars. You peered over and saw that Martin had half the tangerine in his mouth while he opened his mail with a letter opener. It flashed like silver in the afternoon light.

“If that is silver, it would rule out a lot of things,” you agreed, “but it still wouldn’t tell us why he killed his wife.”

Dean looked over as a white Porsche pulled into Martin’s driveway.

“Hmm, well, I’d say motive is comin’ in hot. Literally,” he said, watching intently when a young woman stepped out of the car. Her dress was as tight as the ponytail tied high on her head, a coil of blonde bouncing down her back.

You sighed, with a roll of your eyes. “Typical.”

You noticed the way Dean’s smirk wiped the boredom away from his eyes. It was annoyingly handsome, along with the neatly trimmed stubble across his cheeks, framing a strong jaw and the enticing bow of his lips. You had to resolve to ignore all of it, heaving a small sigh.

You wedged the binoculars between you both and toyed with the silver rings on your fingers—both a fashion statement and a safety precaution.

“Could be a demon deal,” you said. “Three men sporting Touch of Gray, three wives over 40.”

“Damn. That’s cold,” Dean shook his head, crossing his arms from the driver’s seat. Always from the driver’s seat. “That’d be pretty cut and dry though. Downright stereotypical.”

You gave him a smile. “Since when do you like it complicated?”

“Like it?” he scoffed. “What I like and what I get are on two different fucking hemispheres.”

You sensed bitterness there, underneath the dry remark. You looked away from the scene in the kitchen where Martin was pouring Barbie, his presumed girlfriend, a glass of white wine. Just like you thought, Dean’s brief good humor faded, falling into his resting state. It was a harder look than you were used to seeing on him over the years. His lighter, devil-may-care attitude in his younger days seemed to gain a little bit of edge every time you saw him next.

A few decades of bullshit, blood, and loss will do that to you.

But every time he called, you answered.

“You okay?” you asked. You tried to hide the depths of your concern, but maybe you just weren’t good enough. Dean glanced at you and forced his crunched brows to relax, as if he’d caught himself opening the hatch a little too much. Letting his true depths come to light a little too long.   

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good,” he replied.

Sure. Always good.

You met him with a long look, your head rolling onto your shoulder.

“Hey. You can be honest with me, you know,” you reminded him. “What, you think I’m gonna tell Sam all your secrets?”

Dean smiled a little, but he shook his head, remaining stubborn.

“Look, I’m fine. Just the usual bullshit,” he said. “Nothing you gotta be dragged into.”

You frowned. “What, aside from this hunt? Aside from the last ten years of bailing your ass out?”

That last part was more joking. The truth was, Sam and Dean had helped you just as often as you’d tried to help them.

Now, Dean just shook his head. The fact that he didn’t levy back a smartass response further let you know that something was off with him. 

You bumped his arm lightly over his jacket.

“Come on, tell me all about your man feelings,” you teased. It had its intended effect, bringing a reluctant smile to Dean’s lips. He shot you a look, and you couldn’t help but admire how the dimming sun caught in his eyes, that pale green.

“Whatever. Like I said, I’m good,” he said, deflecting further by turning up his music. Yet another Led Zeppelin song was playing, but at least this one was more mellow. The guitar riff filled the car at a moderate volume. You guys were still on a stakeout, after all.

You shook your head, despite your smile. “You sound like a grumpy old man.”

His brows popped up. “Old?”

You shrugged impishly.

“‘Cause if I’m not mistaken, you’ve got a bit more mileage than I do,” he retorted.

You laughed, shoving his shoulder.   

“Well, that’s just rude,” you said. “You’re not even a year behind me. Matter of fact, you’re just a few steps shy of Touch of Gray in there. I can even help you find your shade. I’m thinking, what, medium brown with a hint of silver fox? Could be very George Clooney.”     

The disgruntled look on Dean’s face had you dying.

“Now that’s just uncalled for,” he said, even though his lips were curving upward at the sound of your laughter. Without you knowing, he took in the infectious sound, and the way you pressed the back of your hand against his arm while you tried to get ahold of yourself. It was everything he’d ever liked about you.

Easy. That was what it was, being with you.

The hard part always came afterward, watching you leave.

Letting you leave.

“It’s just…I don’t know,” you said, biting into your lower lip. You smudged your lipstick there, a dark, juicy red. It was distracting enough that Dean almost missed what you said next.

“You seem weighed down.” Your eyes were more serious then, beautiful and warm in their honesty. “Every time I see you, it’s like you’ve got fifty more pounds on your shoulders.”

Dean didn’t have an answer for you, even as he held your gaze.

His cell phone ringing cut through the guitar melody slowly fading into the next song. Dean fished it out of his pocket and answered Sam’s call.

“Hey, what’cha got?”

Your hunch proved correct. Sam tracked down the demon that made soul-claiming deals with a handful of men from the same golf club. All of them bored of their wives, and all of them with too much money on their hands—enough that they refused to lose any of it in a messy divorce.

It was like the opposite of the First Wives Club, and you were sickened.

When you and Dean questioned Martin, he felt just guilty enough to spill his guts.

Sam managed to gank the demon on his own, which left you and Dean with a conundrum: what to do with the marked men who sold their souls. No matter how much justice you thought they deserved, their souls were still damned to Hell either way. As Dean pointed out, that would be price enough to pay.

You were sour about it, but you let Martin and the rest of his scheming bastard friends go…after leaving him with a well-placed knee to the nads. At the very least, he wouldn’t be making any more scheming bastards anytime soon.

Dean was still smirking when you two piled into the Impala. Sam was waiting to be picked up at the bar across town, where he’d found the demon.

“Shut up already,” you laughed.

Dean shook his head, still grinning as he put the car in Drive.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Your smile remained, but not for long as you stared out the window. You liked the evening time, where there was still light enough to see, but the world was winding down in shades of orange-gold and violet. The streetlamps were slowly coming on, lighting the way along the road.

The car pulled to a stop at the red light, there at a busy intersection.

“Hey.”

Dean’s voice, deep and a little tired, caught your attention.

“You okay over there?” he asked. He was side-eying you again, this time in concern. You could see it behind the usual gruffness.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you said. “Just makes me glad I never got married. Else I might’ve gotten shivved just so he could get out of paying alimony.”

Dean sucked his teeth. “Apparently it’s a bitch.”

You gave him a dry, withering look. He chuckled and briefly reached over to squeeze your arm.

“Hey, come on. That shit’s not happening to you,” he said. “He’d have to be dumb, deaf, and blind.”

You tilted your head at him, a small smile lighting up your face again. You couldn’t help the way your face warmed in a blush, especially with the way he was looking at you, all smirky and charming and unequivocally Dean.  

“Green light,” you reminded him.

He returned his attention to the road. His right hand was molded onto the steering wheel casually. His left rested on his thigh, while his fingers bounced to the beat of a song off his second favorite Zeppelin album. And you knew that, because he’d been playing it on repeat all day.

Many have I loved, and many times been bitten. Many times I've gazed along the open road…

You watched his profile, for a moment spellbound. The sky dimmed over his shoulder, casting him in both light and shadow, gold and dark.

“Have you ever…” You didn’t even know where you were going with this, but you’d already opened your mouth, and Dean was already glancing your way, with half his gaze on the road ahead.

“You ever gotten close to having something real? Someone who's not gonna shiv you when you’re fifty,” you said.

A laugh caught in his throat. “Hell, I never thought I’d see my forties, but here we are. Apparently I’m old.”

He shot you a wry look. You smiled.

“That’s one hell of a way to avoid the question,” you said.

Dean shook his head, this time with a sigh under his breath. For a second, you didn’t think he would answer you. You almost didn’t blame him.

The music filled the silence in between.

Mellow is the man who knows what he's been missing. Many, many men can't see the open road…

“Once,” Dean admitted. “I thought I had it, but uh…didn’t take.”

“Was she a hunter?” you asked.

Dean shook his head, his eyes staying on what lied ahead.

“Just wasn’t my life,” he said. “Couldn’t keep dragging her into mine.”

There was a lot there, buried deep. You couldn’t even begin to find a shovel, so you let it be. Though you should’ve predicted the way he turned it back on you.

“And you?” he said, brows raised. “Never had a douchebag in a sport coat, playing Caddyshack at the club every weekend?” 

You shook your head as you laughed. If nothing else, Dean could paint a picture.

“Definitely fucking not.” You rested your chin in your palm, your elbow finding purchase above the door handle. “You know me. I’m either too much or not enough.”

You didn’t notice it then, but Dean looked over at you with a frown tugging at his lips. He didn’t like the melancholy in your voice, or the way you turned to look out the window, like you were trying to hide from him.

Instead of putting voice to any of the thoughts rolling through his head, he kept driving.

The Impala rumbled to a stop in the parking lot in front of the bar. You were ready to meet Sam for a couple of beers inside. You grabbed your bag resting on the floor between your feet, but Dean’s stayed your hand, his own wrapping warmly around your arm.

You looked over at him with blinking, expectant eyes. He met you with sincerity.

“Anybody who says you ain’t enough, doesn’t know you,” he said. And then, his smile was back, quirking up at the corner. “At least, not like I do.”

Slowly, you smiled back. Your blush fairly radiated down your neck as well as your face, but you crossed your arms.

“So I’m too much. Is that what you’re saying?” you said.

He chuckled. “I plead the Fifth on that one.”

You fell into a fit of laughter along with him, and you both climbed out of the car feeling a little bit lighter. The blaring red neon sign above the bar blinded you for a moment. You turned to see Dean fiddling with his keys, trying to pick out the right one to lock up the car.

Some deep-seated feeling compelled you to go to him. You made your way around the hood and stopped just behind him. You called his name softly.

Dean turned to look at you over his shoulder. He was surprised to find you there so close. It led him to turn around all the way.

You didn’t give him, or even yourself time to think.

You grabbed the edges of his jacket and pulled yourself up to press your lips to his. It was more or less a gentle kiss. Just a sweet, slow meeting of lips. You pulled away just as slowly, the heels of your boots lowering back down to the ground.

Dean blinked his eyes open. When he came back to himself, he looked down at you in surprise and with a hint of a smile. He had the imprint of your lipstick smudged across his plush mouth.

“What was that for?” he asked.

You smoothed your hands over his jacket. It was a bit too hard to meet his eyes, so yours landed somewhere around his chest. It was also too hard to say what you really wanted to say, so you settled on half of the truth.

“A thank you, I guess,” you said. “And maybe the next time I see you, you’ll have a little less weight on your shoulders.”

His calloused hand cupped your cheek, and he earned your gaze, blinking up at him through your lashes. You couldn’t name everything you saw in his eyes, but it was more than just surprise or lust. In fact, he seemed to be debating with himself, fighting something deep inside.

You saw the exact moment he made his decision.

“Maybe we should make it count then,” he said, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.

You didn’t even trust your voice, but your gaze drifted down from his eyes, to his mouth. Your shallow nod in agreement was like releasing him from his chains.

Dean framed your face with both hands and drew you into his kiss, like he was breathing life into you. You certainly felt alive.

You clung to the back of his shirt, to his arms, while he gathered you flush against his chest. His strong hands glided their way down the small of your back, eliciting tingles down your spine. All the while, he drew you in deeper and deeper with each new sensuous glide of his lips against yours.

You yelped in surprise when he turned with you in his arms, just to press you into the side of his car. Dean pulled open the door to the backseat, and you climbed in willingly. He followed after you, at the same time you dragged him over by the front of his shirt. Soon his jacket was wrenched off his shoulders along with yours, both tossed somewhere in the front seats along with his shirt.

While you explored the new expanse of tanned skin, roaming your hands over his strong, broad shoulders and dipping down his back, his lips had fastened to your neck, teasing and grazing with his teeth along your pulse point.

You were already moaning and panting in his ear, your body arching to meet his as you slung a leg across his lap. He grabbed onto your thigh and squeezed, pulling you even tighter against him.

Still, you couldn’t help but smile in amusement.

“Aren’t we a little old to be making out in the backseat?” you said.

“You can be a little old for a lotta things, sweetheart,” said Dean, his voice gravel and deep as sin. “But this ain’t one of ‘em.” 

AN: Some spicy flangst there for ya! It was honestly refreshing to write some Dean after working on so much Soldier Boy. I love that guy, but he gives me stress sometimes. 😂 Trying to cure Dean's angst is a fun break! 💜

Read the Sequel:

Bonus shot! Resless Nights:

Summary: After a tryst you instigated in the backseat of his Baby, you and Dean have started something new. He’s just not sure that you’re as “all in” as you claimed to be.

▶️ Keep Reading: Restless Nights

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[lies-unfurl]

I know everyone has been talking about the SamBucky photo in Sam's Cap Cave, but some of the other set details are also really interesting! First, this letter:

"Dear Captain America,

You're so cool I wish I was as strong and brave as you. You were definitely my favorite Avenger. Thank you for keeping us safe. PS" and I think the first three words are "You are very," but I'm not certain.

I'm sure Sam gets a lot of fanmail; I wonder what made him frame this letter? It's also kind of interesting in that it shows that, despite the Avengers not actually being active, people are already viewing Sam as an Avenger.

Then there's this drawing. First word is obviously "I" and it looks like the last two are "Captain America," but I'm not sure of the two in the center.

I think this is probably a self-insert picture. Again, it's sweet, but I wonder what made Sam frame this one. Maybe he has various pieces of fanmail that he rotates through, idk.

And lastly, this plaque, honoring Sam as "Mentor of" the month? The year? Who knows! But I thought this was a nice detail: it shows that Sam has been mentoring people presumably since he was working at the VA, which is a nice bit of consistency, given how this movie shows him mentoring Joaquin.

[kurishiri]

are there any official ages or age ranges for the ikemen villains characters? 🤔

expect updates and edits!

helloo anon! i dont think official ages have been posted, but they have dropped some info so we could make some guesses or ballpark ages. jus be aware as a disclaimer, i’m ballparking in the dark for some more than others, so don’t take my word as the be all, end all. there r probably others with more accurate ideas abt ages. but that said, i’ll try to provide as much explanation as i can under the cut bc spoilers-

ellis: 24

kate: at least 24, maybe around 25-26

ring, nica: 25-27 (?); definitely older than 24

liam: 26

jude: 26-29

elbie: 27-30

william: 28

alfons: 30-31

harrison: likely 27-30, but could in all technicality be anywhere from 20-31

roger: 32, as the median

darius: ??? likely a bit older than the twins but the possibility of being the same age or younger than them isnt completely off the table either

victor: 32, as the minimum

explanations under the cut

ellis is the youngest member of crown. he was 12 when he ran away from home, and that was 12 years ago. hence, that would make him 24

kate calls ellis with the —kun honorific in japanese as he is her kōhai (junior), so kate is older than 24. but as ellis is the only one she uses this honorific with in crown, she may be the 2nd or 3rd youngest

liam was 9 when he set fire on his house and lost his parents, and it was mentioned his dad was supposed to be dead 17 years ago, hence making liam 26

if ellis is 24, then roger is probably around 32— we know bc alec, the previous bearer for the curse of the thorns, died when he was 8 or 9 at the oldest. in roger’s rt its implied that one is born with a curse and is first activated from an event, and no two ppl can have the same curse simultaneously, so ellis was born (and received the curse of the thorns) after alec died. so we know from there that roger could be around 8, 9 years older than ellis

it was mentioned roger is slightly older than alfons, though there is not a solid concrete number as to by how many years, but maybe it’s around 2 to 3 years difference

jude is definitely older than ellis, though presumably not by many years. and although this is an if event, in his dark if, kate mentions that jude is a boy around her age. if we give some leeway into that and assuming that part also applies to canon, then he would probably be around 26, if kate is around 26. it is also mentioned when oswald, the doctor who saved jude, was talking about jude’s past, he was talking about a time around 20 years ago, and kate thinks to herself he couldn’t have been older than 10. this puts a cap at jude being 29 in present time.

elbies mom took her own life when he was 6, and that’s around when the doctor started examining his dad. if alfons was still on the streets at 7 years old (implied in rogers past records), he was taken in by the doctor after he was 7. it would make alfons a little older than elbie, but its unknown by how long, but not too many years and no more than 3, because the doctor was killed when elbie was 9

i feel in general, alfons age is a bit wishy washy considering we dont even know his “true birthday” .. he jus picked a date (specifically the day he met elbie!) and was like “ye thats my bday now 🙂‍↕️”

will was 14 when he formed crown with victor (it’s unknown how old victor was), and 14 years have since passed. this would make will 28

heavily corrected: harrison’s dad was killed when he was 17, and that happened when william and victor were the only two members of crown. so it could have happened when crown was just founded 14 years ago, making harry possibly 31. and elbie and al were probably the first ones to join crown, for sure at least 3, 4 years ago. that would set the actual age range to 20-31. but he is likely at least 27, considering kate doesn’t use —kun with him (if we assume she’s around 26) and how i believe it was mentioned the case of the murder happening “over a decade ago” in present time, assuming kate is correct in this

now the twins and darius r probably like the most wishy washy guesses out of all of them. for one there’s just not much info abt them out bc theyre v new chars. buut there is some tinie clues.

there is a scene in rogers rt where he asks nica if they met before, and nica replies that he forgot. now it is just as likely that nika is lying here (as its implied he has a good memory), maybe bc he doesnt want to talk abt it or it may also be for ring, but if he is truthful then its probably the case that it was from a time when he was too young to really remember anything, which would probably make him somewhat considerably younger than roger

on rings end, during the “don’t look at anyone but me” event, ring basically asks kate to not be so formal and feels weirded out she uses —san with him (.. as she does with nearly everyone else, with exception of ellis, i think liam, and for one time only, alfons). maybe a part of it is like its in his char to not like formalities, but on the other hand, he never asks alfons to drop —san or use a different honorific with him the same way he did with kate, in the crown vs vogel event. so it may be a reasonable assumption to make that ring may be similar in age to kate .. or at least, more similar in age to kate than he is with alfons. so i ballparked them around 25-27

darius is kind of a mystery— we do know that he has, in some way, saved the twins in the past (presumably from experimentation), so the twins r indebted to him. its probably reasonable to think he is older than the twins .. probably in his 30s even?

that said, seeing as he is of a noble upbringing, as he mentioned this in one of his bond stories where hes like “ik how table manners work bc its been taught to me but i jus choose not to apply them” or smth along those lines. so he could be capable of “saving the twins” even when younger than them or the same age as them if that makes sense

ty to friends @.natimiles, @.valkyyriia, @.candiedcoffeedrops, @.drachonia, @.memoria-99, @.romromi, @.groovylita, @.shatcey, @.dark-frosted-heart, @.an-aroaces-harem who have helped with this! also if anyone else has any more info to drop — or correct — feel free to lmk! i will be sure to credit :>

[sweeneydino]

Hi!! Love all the stuff you have on this blog!! I was wondering about your wrong parent AU, how would this change how the boys grow up, like with more of a motherly presence than their rat dad (though maybe she is just as a “sensei” as splinter…who knows XD) or is this like a time travel situation? AAA sorry im excited about this awesome AU!!!

Anywho, sorry for my ramblings I don’t write asks very often and there is no pressure to answer! Thanks so much for all the cool things you do! Lol I love seeing your stuff on my dash :D

It'd be a lot different! I guess I can list a few I thought of,,,

So, Rat!Mom.

She’s still a bit paranoid (how can you not be with the Shredder actively trying to find out what happened to you, where you are, and if you're actually dead), but shes more focused on trying to give her kids as normal of a life as she can and definitely not hiding all her stress underneath endless piles of work.

Mikey plays alot of games and is more adept at cooking, Raph's painting more often and always trying to help his mom with cleaning(yes, hes a mama's boy), Donnie is creating and creating and always wanting to go bigger, and Leo and Karai(yes, Karai :]) play fight alot(so many wars...) when they aren’t watching Space Heroes 24/7 or trying to explore outside the home.

Then, maybe during one of her dumpster dives, she finds some convenient "Chris Bradford" training tapes that they start to gain an interest in ninjutsu. She's not too pleased with it, but since they enjoy it, she tries to be more open to it(she conflicted)

They do go out and about earlier than Canon(with a curfew), meet April earlier too(her and her dad are a little different), and Karai and April become BFFS. (Unless...)

The kids still call her sensei or variations of mom, which ones? Probably all depending on what they did.

Now, fighting bad guys? She did not raise them for that /hj

In reality, when she sees her kids scratched up from fights topside, they are usually pretty quick to inform her what happened(except for two). They get carefully patched up, and scolded before being told to rest for a while(grounded). Which is definitely not so she can keep an eye on them.

And she is certainly not stressed whatsoever👍

Also…

“She was as beautiful as she was kind, and as kind as she was intelligent”

- Splinter

…probably meaning emotional intelligence, or somethin but i think itd be fun if she was just…. Fred.

As in Traps galore, I mean imagine it-

You're Chris Bradford, greatest actor (and martial artist ig) of all time, and your chasing what you presume to be your bosses stubborn former lover,(who you kind of hate ngl) and then you think you have her cornered, just for the ground to cave in beneath you cause whoops, she boobytrapped the whole place.

She can still be emotionally intelligent too, but the traps are staying.

Other than the traps, I do think Rat! Shen will have some other types of self-defense training during the time she was in hiding. Girl is not risking shit.

When it comes to VS. Shredder bits, she'd definitely use everything she can to her advantage, especially her rat abilities. Climbing, gnawing, scratching, hissing; just get the fuck away from her and her kids.

There’s no planned ships atm (other than Shen x Yoshi, but that's the point- hes ded anyway)

Lastly, Im thinking of probably at least three separate versions or “alternate timelines” for the WP au, or two divergents of the wp au canon lol. One where the original turts find Shen and her turts pre-adventure, one post-adventure and/or during the shredder kidnap arc(i will not elaborate) and the least timefuckery timeline where Rat mom and her babies gotta march on without future “assistance” 🤷 im sure they’ll be fine(they willllll)

Thank you all for being interested in this ^ ^ "

I actually don't have much planned for this since it was just another random idea(you can probably tell hdgdhdg), but I'm always happy to see everyone's ideas! It helps a lot with my scattered-brain--

And one FINAL, final thing

Im not sorry.

[thatbadadvice]

Dear Advisor,

I tend to be a very reserved and shy person so making friends is super hard. Recently I’ve been wanting to socialize more , but I genuinely don’t know how. Is there any advice that you have that can make me look more approachable and not be scared to talk to people. I’m so stressed about being alone and not having any friends, but I just find it so hard to go up to people and make a conversation. I tried once but it became super awkward. I just really need good advice from someone on how to approach a person and continue a conversation.

Dear Awkward Anonymous,

It would be so easy to get into a whole deep let's-skeetshoot-therapy-on-the-internet session and try to help a total stranger unpack all of the GA-FUCKING-ZILLION ways in which social awkwardness shows up in a person's life. It seems easy, and it even seems meaningful and worthwhile, but to do so I would have to presume a bunch about your life, and make a bunch of assumptions about the ways in which my own experiences maybe/probably track with yours, and it would be a whole big wank-fest, and frankly ... it would be awkward. I'd be like you, standing there at the party, hoping that what I'm saying resonates or lands or even vaguely tracks with anything a stranger has ever known or experienced, presuming (probably rightly!) that it doesn't, and then flailing and blaming myself when I didn't emerge from the interaction with all the world's gold stars.

So here's what: stop talking to other people as a primary social occupation. Going up to people and just talking is fucking terrifying. The Bad Advisor says this as a Certified Extrovert™ who rarely shuts the fuck up.

Instead, find a thing to do with other people that involves some sort of task or goal or activity. Talk about the thing you're doing together, when you're doing it. If it feels okay, maybe introduce one or two of your own relatable-to-the-activity experiences in the process. See who picks up on it. Ask the people who pick up on it genuinely interested questions in response. This is what we awkward people call: engineering a conversation. It is the way, I am told, humans make connections with other humans. I have seen it work in my own life.

Depending on where you live and your ability level and skill set, I bet you have some options! You could seek out an open board game night, pub quiz session, knitting/quilting circle, or mutual aid meetup that's looking for volunteers. Especially look for social activities with strangers that involve a dedicated, pre-prescribed activity (such as a hiking or mall-walking group, stuffing envelopes for a political candidate or cause you care about, planting trees at your local park, or tasting tea/wine/beer/etc.). (Somebody is going to say join a ballroom dancing club or suchlike; I am personally terrified of this, but if you have a higher tolerance for strangers touching you and fewer than two left feet: it's literally an option. Line-dancing, on the other hand ... absofuckinglutely.)

Even if what's available in your area isn't your precise and specific interest, it might be worthwhile to check out something you are decidedly meh about -- you might not be the only meh person there. You can bond over shit that's boring or shitty with other people who find it boring or shitty! Some of my best friends, arguably my very best friends, came out of experiences we mutually loathed or found at least moderately and mutually miserable.

Consider especially finding an activity where you yourself are the manager of operations and/or have a designated task to take care of that is unique to your position! This doesn't have to be complicated or skill-dependent; can you become a voter registrar in your area? Well, bam! You've got paperwork people have to fill out and a good reason to jibber-jabber with folks who have to ask you the questions. Other ideas: join your local neighborhood association board, become a notary public, or see if your local pet rescue is looking for intake line volunteers. Do you have a trustworthy, especially outgoing friend who might agree to play "social glue" for you a couple of times at their activity-centric events? Make it explicit! Ask them if they'll play friendly wing-person for you at their D&D game, fantasy sports league, or some such.

Alternately: Do you have a unique and fun and shareable skillset you can share with others? Are you pretty good at drawing, programming? Simply a font of endless Merlin or NFL or Real Housewives knowledge? You might start a local Discord or other online social group to discuss and share your interests, then move it to the real world in a few weeks once folks get comfortable. You get the idea.

Most of all: Look for stuff that has more-than-just-talking opportunities available outside the designated group jam for you to maintain connections. Perhaps a group chat, a Discord, a Slack, what-have-you, where you can take more time to consider and draft your responses and posts? Connections with humans get made a thousand ways, and talking raw-dog with strangers is but one.

It takes a true social unicorn to be simply good at talking and only talking to other people. There are some of these one-horned wonders out there, to be sure — but let me assure you that the vast majority of folks want to be accepted and seen just as much as you do, and they're staring at the ceiling at night thinking just as much (more, probably) about all the weird, wonky shit they themselves threw at you than they are anything you ever said to them.

[ereawrites]

Hey gurl✨ I’m in my wife era rn so maybe some Shisui and/or Tobirama husband/jealous husband hcs?🫣 I loooovee your writing and tbh your thoughts are my thoughts so no pressure😩 If you not feeling it feel free to ignore me babe🧚🏻‍♀️

YOU HAVE FED ME SO GOOD MISS GIRL! under the cut for length

shisui

this isn't too relevant but I have to include it. it's too cute. I definitely see shisui getting married pretty young, like early 20s. if he finds his person he's going for it. probably gets a lot of shit for it from his family, but he doesn't care

loooong honeymoon period. in part because they're still a young couple but also... shisui is just a really devoted husband. he loves the married life. insists on kissing her goodbye every morning, eating together every night, stuff like that

LOVES DECORATING THEIR HOUSE are u kidding me. let's say they get a kinda shitty place right after they get married, and put a tonne of work into doing it up. he gets so into painting, building the furniture, even starts up a little herb garden in their kitchen

finds so many ways to drop his wife into conversation lol. he's down bad even after the honeymoon period ends, so he wants to show her off. his FAV is when she swings by his workplace to bring him his 'forgotten' lunch. he turns around to the rest of the guys like. yeah. that's my WIFE. isn't she hot.

very much a believer in keeping the romance alive. he wants to keep making the effort with her until the day he dies. veryyyy good at remembering anniversaries, scheduling regular date nights, etc. always makes sure she has fresh flowers in the house

obviously it isn't all perfect though. especially while they're young (and presumably both still active, high-ranking shinobi) their schedules keep them apart a lot. and this hits shisui really hard tbh. he hates coming back to an empty home after a long mission, knowing he might not even see his wife before he has to leave again

work is probably where most of their arguments stem from, actually. I don't see it being a regular thing, but it's easy for resentment to build in those kinds of situations. shisui is very torn between his love for his village, and his love for his wife, and the fact he can't prioritise both. thankfully shisui is a good communicator so they make things work.

in terms of jealousy... I don't see it being a common thing. maybe before they get married he tends towards it a bit more, but once she's his wife, why would he worry? she's his entire world and he knows she loves him just as much

the only way I rly see him getting jealous at all is if they're going through a bit of a rough patch for the reasons mentioned above. maybe they haven't seen each other in weeks, and they both get back from a mission on the same day. and there's some kind of event/function that evening that they have to attend

so they barely have a chance to acknowledge each other, before they're pulled apart again by the crowd. so if shisui sees some random guy getting a little too close and flirty with her, he gets more annoyed than he'd like to admit

even then though.. he's not necessarily jealous as much as he is upset. like goddamn just let this poor man have his beloved wife to himself for a night. in this situation he's more likely to behave more rashly than usual, and he might just make some excuses and take her home lol. he gets a little bit pouty until she gives him some attention

overall, though, he's very chill. he trusts her implicitly, and expects the same from her. they need to have a very honest, respectful relationship if he's going to wife her up

god okay and in old age they're so cute together. I bet they have a bunch of kids (probably accidentally tbh lol) so then they end up with a whole squadron of grandchildren. he's that fun grandpa who sneaks them sweets when the parents aren't looking. all the grandbabies want to sleep over at their house. and they LOVE it.

to sum up: very good husband. very relaxed, communicates well, makes her feel loved every day. why did he have to die I want to throw myself off a bridge.

tobirama

first of all. good job to this woman. wrangling tobirama into marriage is not an easy job. he's so fucking ANNOYING. it probably takes him years to confess he even has feelings for her, let alone ask for her hand in marriage

but once he gets there. it's pretty cute. he doesn't really act very differently for the most part - he'd already decided his heart belonged to her well before they married, and wholly committed. so his behaviour doesn't change much, and there isn't much of a honeymoon period. sorry. he's like marriage is just a contractual agreement why would it change anything between us

he does make a few little indulgences though. he gets this smug little look every time he introduces her as his wife. he's actually just a lot more prone to 'showing her off' in general, and more likely to show some physical affection in public. for tobirama that's maybe a peck on the cheek lol. but it's progress

he's definitely a lot.... gentler?idk. with her once they're married as well. he makes an effort to be more patient and less snippy, and shows his appreciation for her in a lot of quiet little ways. for example, he'll be sure to leave work on time no matter how busy it is if he knows she's putting a lot of effort into dinner that night. or if she spends a second too long looking at a new dress in the store, he's buying it for her

on that note. tobirama is such a provider once they're married. he does have that traditional idea of providing for his wife. he'll probably ask her if she wants to become a stay at home wife tbh. if she says yes, he still expects her to get out in the community of course. he'd love if she did volunteering work, maybe at the hospital or with kids or something. but he's also equally happy for her to keep working. power couple vibes very strong

they have a nice, quiet little house away from the village where no one bothers then and they loooove it. especially tobirama, his wife and their home are his sanctuary. everyone else gtfo

other than that, not much is really different from before their marriage. they probably actually lead quite independent lives, to the point where people don't even know they're married until tobirama drops it into conversation a few months later. they're very private and lowkey.

unfortunately for her, tobirama's paranoia also persists. he's a bit delulu sometimes lol and she knows this going in. but it does inevitably cause some issues, especially if she's headstrong (which is definitely the type of woman he ends up with)

he trusts his wife more than anything. he would never doubt her for a second. but other men? the enemy. not to be trusted. they're all dogs. it drives him absolutely batshit crazy to watch them ogling her, or god forbid trying to flirt with her. which is actually kinda common bc they're such a lowkey couple, so people assume she's single

tobirama isn't one to make a scene per se, but this definitely leads to a few awkward situations in public, and she probably ends up embarrassed a few times. and there's 10000% arguments behind closed doors. I don't see either of them being good with this lol. he acts like she's his political enemy he's ridiculous

but because he loves her so much, and he actually really wants to put work into the longevity of their marriage, he'll come around. he's a lot softer and more willing to compromise when it comes to her. but she can't point that out because he's mortified

over time, he chills out a lot more. they're one of those couples that just get stronger and better with time. they grow a lot together, and although they probably continue to disagree a lot throughout their marriage, it's always in a way that leaves their relationship stronger. and he only gets softer for her. people (hashirama) even start to point out how devoted he is and he can't even deny it. cute

overall a kind of difficult husband, because he is an exceptionally difficult man, but my god he loves her so much. he would do anything to make her happy.

[yuurivoice]

Seth doing boxing presumably as a hobbies to maybe like cope and express his anger and frustration in a more healthy way is SO AMAZINGGG! First off.. he looks great in that thumbnail omg, second it's so nice to see the man having a safe space to work through his emotions through a way that's comfortable with him, and through his own pace. He doesn't HAVE to do anything, and he doesn't have Derek kind of pressuring him into hurting people. HE chooses when and wear to pick up the boxing gloves, and he chooses when to put them down and it's just so great I love seeing characters healing thank you for your service man

I love fans like you because tbh, it really was just a case of "he'd be hot if he was sweaty and punched stuff" but yes you did identify why my brain told me it was a logical choice to make and I didn't hit any road bumps writing it into the plot.

The meta of it all is that I used to have a shitty garage that was a club house with a punching bag in it, and it makes sense for my Southern Queer Projection to get another slice of the inspirational pie because that was a big part of me for a while.

But any sort of martial art is actually a great combo for characters that seek control in healthy ways. Being able to defend yourself and others, especially when you've been used by others as a weapon or have been physically taken advantage of, is a big deal. It just makes sense. Seth mentions that the actual boxing skills were a thing he picked up while locked up, also makes sense that he might not have been trained until then. Seth probably made a friend who trained him up a bit while imprisoned.

So, Seth taking some of that with him into this new chapter of his life is cool. But him basically recreating a small, stripped down living space with a handful of comforts that happen to be tied to his incarceration probably means that even though he's in a much better place (certainly than Alphonse is in Chapter 4) he is not quite ready to reintegrate to an entirely normal setting. Maybe it's lingering guilt, shame, or fear. Probably a little bit of all of that. He probably feels like he's still got a price to pay, and nowhere that feels quite like he's earned the right to be just yet.

And if I psychoanalyze myself a little bit, I think it could be a projection of how I spent a lot of my adult life. I was very isolated, lived in a single room, avoided contact with others in the house, etc. and as I became more financially stable I hardly knew what to do with a whole apartment or home. I often recreate several individual spaces that are built with the ability to entirely isolate in rather than have designated spaces for individual activities around the house. Everything is made to be able to shut yourself away in and not have to run into any other housemates. So that's...probably where that came from.

That's next level shit, analysis on a video that doesn't come out for another week. Hot damn!

[wittywallflower]

In s2e7 ‘Headspace’, it’s framed to make us sympathetic to Keeley, and make Roy’s ‘clinginess’ a flaw of his.

But I’m rewatching it closely and like… there’s no sin committed, wanting to spend time with someone is not a crime. He's desire for closeness is equally as valid her wanting space. Not every person's not-getting-enough-space is because of another person's problematically clingy behavior.

Like we start off Keeley being startled by Roy in her kitchen. idk why, it’s morning, where else is he going to drink his morning cuppa? but he’s unexpectedly close all of a sudden and so she gives a little jump. And sometimes we get annoyed with ppl who startle us, for no real reason, even if the startling was accidental. No one’s fault.

They ride to work together. Of course they do when their schedules align. It would be stupid, expensive, and bad for the environment not to.

They walk in hand-in-hand, Roy gives her a kiss and heads off - note the absolute zero fuss about separating, no "when can i see you later?", just a quick and completely normal peck of goodbye.

Asking about her detour immediately after they separate - I get how people could read this is a little clingy or controlling. But I’ve also been in enough working environments long term to know that you learn your coworkers habits without noticing. And you don’t even have to be actively paying attention to them to notice when they deviate from routines. If they are walking the opposite direction of where they are supposed to be going, you wonder why. And if you’re close with that person, you ask about it. even more normal in a relationship. This situation is both coworkers and relationship. (My ex was super chill, not clingy or controlling. but if he saw me heading away from my home office when it was reasonable to expect me to be going to the room where i spent most of my time, he'd be curious and just casually ask "what are you up to, baby?")

Roy asks to go with her to get tea. Doesn’t make assumptions, doesn’t presume like ‘good idea, me too, let’s go’. And it’s a simple question “can I come?” no pleading, no passive aggression, no facial expression I read as anything that would guilt Keeley into accepting. There's nothing to suggest Roy has ever made a fuss when Keeley tells him no. I think a Keeley who was on top of her game in that moment would have thought of a smooth excuse that would deflect him without hurt feelings, like “you can if you like but I’m heading to [the opposite direction of Roy’s locker room] right after” or “I’m just grabbing a quick one, then I have to rush to make a conference call in time”. And hey!! Maybe Roy really did just want a fucking tea of his own at that moment. We know he loves it.

Keeley mentions to Rebecca that things were easier when they didn't work together. But Keeley was the one who chose to work there, Roy was not involved, didn't ask her to come work where he works. We see her doing work at home so she probably doesn't need to spend all day every day at Nelson Road.

Roy is not bothered when its obvious that Keeley is gossiping about him to Rebecca or Higgins. He doesn't ask what she was talking about, or try to grill them on it, or really stress out at all about what she might be saying about him. He respects that she has her own feelings/opinions/ideas about her life to talk about and might prefer to talk to other people about them sometimes. He doesn't need to know every conversation she has with other people, even if its about him.

Roy is being all kissy and affectionate while she is trying to get some work done... its sweet, its kinda in her way - neither of them are wrong for that. Its not unreasonable for him to love on his girlfriend when he is at her house for the express purpose of spending time with her. If you have someone over to your house, its not weird that they might expect some of the host's attention.

When Keeley puts her foot down, "no seriously, stop kissing me and let me alone to work" Roy immediately does! He goes and sits quietly with his book! He did exactly as she asked. without complaint or even a grumpy(er) expression on his face about it. Keeley could have gone back to work while Roy read, no problem. Keeley distracted herself there. She chose not to focus on her work.

Keeley hiding in the boot room is also her own choice. Rebecca was correct that Keeley needed to tell the one person who could do something about it. And once again Roy raised no objection to Keeley talking about him to others, even when its a room full of people, some of whom he definitely would prefer not know too much private information about him. (Jamie for sure, and probably Ted just out of principle)

Roy had shit timing in talking about his book, but its not exactly bad boyfriend material to want to share excitement about something new. She is watching a 20 year old show so its highly unlikely its an episode she hasn't seen before and really wants to focus on.

When Keeley finally expresses in words that sometimes she needs to be by herself, Roy is upset not about that fact, he's upset that she was discussing it with others, and about how it made him look, when he never had the option to act any differently because he didn't know she wanted him to act differently. He thought they were enjoying their time together! He was happy! and his "I'm an idiot" was, i think, about that, about blindly going along thinking they had a great thing. Thinking he's doing a great job at this boyfriend thing. (and he probably needed some validation a little bit after his retirement woes) He was really blindsided and hurt, and Keeley really didn't want to hurt him like that, but communication needed to happen a lot earlier, before she built up feelings of resentment about not getting what she didn't ask for.

Ignoring her in the parking lot the next morning was some petty shit, yes, but it is far from the first time the 'clingy' side of the 'i need space' argument has responded with passive-aggressive levels of distance. Its not like anyone elaborated on what 'more space' and 'time to myself' means in concrete terms. Plenty of people might interpret "i need space" as "wait for me to come to you". And whomst among us hasn't practiced awkward avoidance after a confrontation, for any number of reasons? its not 'right' or therapist-approved, but its relatable. Its how many human beings tend to act in similar situations.

We all think Keeley is the cat's pajamas, yeah? And her need for space is perfectly valid. But if we were going to pick sides on this issue...

[arolesbianism]

Look deep into my eyes. Olivia probably oversaw the production of all the brain in jar shit in oni. They were 100% a part of the duplicant memory recovery efforts. This doesn't actually matter much but it does 2 Me think of the imagery think abt it I think abt it so hard everyday imagine how sick Olivia brain imagery art would be please I'm so alone in this world

[baixue-temple]

(edit: for the sake of clarity, I changed "Shen Qingqiu" to "Shen Jiu" cause the relationship between transmigrated Shen Yuan and YQY is different, and on a back read I found it confusing)

A take I keep seeing is that Yue Qingyuan never ever doubts that Shen Jiu is in the wrong, and only wants to enable whatever he's up to when... I don't think that's true in the slightest!

And that the tragedy lies in that he knows he's in the wrong!

I believe what we see instead, and what personally makes their whole (vague hand waving) Deal all the more interesting, is that he actively knows that what Shen Jiu is doing is harmful for him, himself, and others around them.

But his nature is ultimately to be the calm mediator at best and self-appointed whipping boy at worst, and it slowly grinds him down until at the very end of PIDW he is left questioning if he can even do it anymore -- and then comes back anyway.

We see that pretty early in everyone's favorite scene where Shen Jiu threatens to brick a kid in the face (affectionate)!

Yue Qi tells Shiwu "oh he's just joking" but it's pretty obvious that he's just trying to defuse the situation before it gets worse. He absolutely knows that Shen Jiu can and will beat the shit out of this kid, so he puts himself in between them physically and verbally before that can happen, even when Shen Jiu kicks and steps on him in the process.

(I see you, foreshadowing)

It's interesting how in the intro to this, Yue Qi definitely had a more authoritative tone with Shen Jiu that slowly degrades over the course of the Extra.

The next time we see him so openly forceful is at the Pavilion:

This is a side of Yue Qingyuan that I have seen referenced in fanworks probably only enough times to count on my hands: a Yue Qingyuan who's openly mad and frustrated at this bullshit.

And honestly for good reason! He doesn't know Shen Jiu's issues with the dorms -- his only context is that a head disciple was found at a brothel where he's presumably having sex, severely injured a martial sibling, and nearly got into another fight with another head disciple. It's, uhhhhhhhhhhh not a good look for anyone involved, and Yue Qingyuan knows who's primarily at fault even as he tries to cover for him:

Once again, he is does not think Shen Jiu is being victimized here. He directly thinks and tries to persuade him that if he didn't pull this shit, he could maybe even be friends with Liu Qingge, if he bothered to try.

I personally felt like there's also an undercurrent of "why are you behaving so recklessly" because at the time, they are still disciples. Shen Jiu even notes directly later that "luckily" the Qing Jing peak lord likes him. What would it mean if the lord didn't like him? Would he still be a head disciple? Would he even be allowed to remain in the sect?

Yue Qingyuan seems to be taking this into consideration too; he worries about Shen Jiu not having any social support:

He has a lot of anxiety about Shen Jiu being happy in the sect! Even when Shen Jiu is all but guaranteed to be the next peak lord and probably not at risk of any of these things being an issue, Yue Qingyuan wants to be reassured that he's getting fed and housed properly.

But this is not to say that the state of their relationship isn't wearing on him.

An interesting note later on later on in the Water Prison scene, it's noted that Yue Qingyuan is apparently not one to sigh like this very often, but does so when he's struggling.

It's an indication that he's starting to hit the limits of what he feels he can do or say to fix things, and we've already seen it several times. It happened first in the brothel:

And then in the Lingxi caves:

And then finally when they meet for the last time.

These scenes where Yue Qingyuan is increasingly and visibly exhausted emotionally is an interesting comparison to the very first part of the extra where he has to tamper down a smile, where he's telling Shiwu that he's just joking, where he's talkative and promises to take Shen Jiu somewhere fun instead. The energy of that early section feels so much more light-hearted, much more "ahhh I know he's misbehaving but it's okay I can handle it :)". There's no mistaking the affection.

But then that loving energy begins to slowly drain from each following scene until we come to this:

Rock bottom. Yue Qingyuan has gone from telling people that Shen Jiu's joking when he knows he'll do it... to point-blank asking Shen Jiu if he did it because he isn't sure anymore.

He's considering that Shen Jiu really did murder Liu Qingge. I think he doesn't want to believe it -- but Shen Jiu's spiral of self-destruction has gotten to the point where he doesn't know if he would or not, and if he can defend his actions either way.

Because if he really did do it, then that means Yue Qingyuan (in both his I'm-always-responsible-for-other-people's-actions eyes and quite literally as a sect leader) let him do it.

Phew!

This is Yue Qingyuan at his absolute lowest. It sucks man, it hurts! Facing off against the person he once loved and trusted the most, trying to get some reassurance that this same person didn't kill their martial sibling in cold blood, that he feels some remorse over what he's done all these years -- and getting nothing.

Once again, Yue Qingyuan is not thinking that Shen Jiu deserves to do these things, or that others are misinterpreting him.

This is bleeding heart, big brother vibes, earnest Qi-ge coming to terms with the fact that all his years of loyalty and penance have been squandered -- and got people under his leadership, some that he cared about, others that he knew were innocents, abused or killed along the way.

But even then.

EVEN THEN!

He wants Shen Jiu to prove him wrong!

There's a really great meta from @chuckduckling about how contradictory Shen Jiu's words tend to be -- and probably nobody knows this better than Yue Qingyuan.

I've seen other folks take this Xuan Su convo as Yue Qingyuan saying earnestly "I deserve to let you kill me, vent your anger on me instead".

But I think it's a test.

He's just heard Shen Jiu say all these horrible things, that nothing could've gone different, and that especially he can only be happy when others around him are unhappy-- Hey wait a minute, we're at the start of the chapter again:

He didn't take that jab seriously back then, and he doesn't want to now. So he offers Xuan Su to Shen Jiu and says, "Prove it. Prove to me right now that all you want is to hurt others, kill me since you hate me so much".

And when Shen Jiu doesn't do it, that's enough for Yue Qingyuan to decide that he's not entirely lost:

Yue Qingyuan's still heartbroken for sure. He even slips and calls Shen Jiu by the nickname that he more than likely hasn't spoken out loud in many years (note: our Yue Qingyuan literally only says it when he's bleeding to death, so there's a comparison to break your heart on).

But he then tries to alleviate Shen Jiu's pain, to help him live a little longer. He's made his choice. As he leaves, Shen Jiu thinks that he's finally driven the man away -- when in reality all he did was give him one more thread of hope to hold onto.

By the end, it's become an ouroboros of self-blame and guilt for Yue Qingyuan. For every action he perceives himself as or is genuinely allowing Shen Jiu to do means he has an extra obligation to stay by his side to try and stop it from getting worse and to shield him from others, each incident getting bigger and bigger in scope until finally he realizes it's out of control... and possibly that he doesn't even know this person anymore.

Shen Jiu gives him the out that he needs.

But because he does that... Yue Qingyuan chooses to come back again.

All in all... this is a long-winded way of saying that for me Yue Qingyuan gets a big disservice when he's flattened down to "he's always down to clown for Shen Jiu's crimes, he never questions his Xiao-Jiu!" when the text shows us that in actuality Yue Qingyuan knows that Shen Jiu was volatile, and that he's betraying his own morals in attempts to repair their relationship until their actions/inaction inevitably come back to haunt them.

That's the big irony of it all: Shen Jiu thinks Yue Qi forgot about him and abandoned him so he constantly pushes him away to keep from being hurt again, while Yue Qi is silently trailing behind him trying to pick up the pieces because to him this silent loyalty is his penance.

I find a Yue Qingyuan who sees all Shen Jiu's flaws but chooses him anyway, out of love or guilt or whatever combination of both, is so much more interesting and complicated than a Yue Qingyuan who doesn't see anything wrong at all.

It means he saw the trap being set up a long time ago and walked into it anyway.

[rainsoughtflowers]

lifesaver

tw/cw - brief mentions of ptsd and bullying.

a/n - finally some development between the cuties

pairing - kang woo-young x reader

you exit the room with a slight limp in your steps, directing your body towards the nearest bathroom. if you remember correctly, there should be one around the corner, and it shouldn't be too busy at this hour now that lunch is nearing the end. perfect for avoiding any unnecessary attention.

as you round the corner, however, your footsteps automatically slow, until you come to a complete stop. because several paces down the hall, walking in your direction, is kang woo-young.

this is the first time you're seeing him since confirming your current partnership. not because you've been avoiding him, but simply because you and the boy don't frequent the same areas in the school. you're in different classes, in different activities, and it's not like you go out seeking his presence. not unless necessary, and that usually takes place outside of school.

so to run into him so suddenly, purely out of chance, startles you so intensely you don't know what to do with yourself. where to look. how to act.

his eyes easily find your own, and while he looks just as surprised to see you there, that's all it is. he doesn't stop walking. doesn't say anything. he just stares at you, indifferent, bored, as unreadable as he always is.

your initial instinct is to pretend to not to know him. you'd prefer to keep your relationship strictly transactional after all. there's no need to hang out for any reason other than to work towards your revenge. you guys aren't friends after all. and it's better that way. if you keep him at arms length, you won't be disappointed when he eventually leaves.

but kang woo-young must have other plans. for when you brush past him, continuing down the hall, he stops, angles his body towards you, and calls out your name.

you halt all movements, hesitating for a moment before slowly turning around. woo-young studies you for a moment, his expression even more indecipherable than several seconds prior, before shifting his attention to an unknown point over your shoulder. then he glances down, eyeing the fresh bruises on your legs, your soaked clothes.

understanding dawns upon his eyes, like he finally put the pieces together, like he knows exactly what just transpired. why the smell of milk lingers on your clothes. why you wince with every step you take. it widens his eyes and parts his lips, subtly enough to miss if you aren't paying attention, but you notice it.

and the fact that he knows, the fact that he was able to figure it out so quickly, makes your chest feel heavy with discomfort.

everyone else does a good job of ignoring it. why can't you?

"do you need something?" you ask, your impatient tone causing him to glance up.

woo-young tilts his head towards the side ever so slightly, considering, then glances back down to your blazer, "aren't you hot?"

the sudden switch in conversation catches you off guard, enough to make you fumble for a response, "what?"

"your uniform," he clarifies, gesturing vaguely towards the article of clothing with a nod of his head, "it's summer, but you're wearing the winter uniform. isn't that uncomfortable?"

you blink, not registering his question until several seconds later, when they have long since sunk beneath your skin. you glance down, staring at the brown blazer covering your frame, the long, thick socks pulled up to your knees, the sweater vest peeking out from beneath the buttons.

while the fact that you wear the winter uniform makes you stick out like a sore thumb, no one acknowledges it, let alone questions it. they've probably presumed that you're self conscious, or maybe your body just runs cold, and you prefer this uniform over the summer one. not because your scars and bruises would be visible with the short sleeves and short socks required of the other outfit.

at the reminder as to the reason behind your preference of clothing, you start to grow restless. your burns start to feel itchy, even though they aren't fresh, the sensation spread throughout different parts of your body. to quell it, you curl your fingers around your wrist, briefly fluttering your eyes shut to focus on something else.

for some reason, kang woo-young doesn't press the issue any further, despite you being almost positive that he noticed your discomfort.

"catch."

the sudden shift in conversation once more makes you snap your eyes back open, finding the boy reaching into his pocket to reveal a carton of milk. his previous word is all the warning you get before it's flung in your direction, forcing you to focus on catching it between both palms of your hands. sure enough, when you lower it from where it landed against your chest, an unopened container of banana milk rests in your hands.

despite what occurred in the storage room, the sight of it doesn't fill you with a sense of fear. hesitantly, you curl your fingers around it, feeling the cold substance seep through the plastic.

a lump forms in your throat, clogging it with an emotion you can't name. you swallow hard to find your voice, "why are you giving me this?"

woo-young shrugs, "you like banana milk, right? i had an extra one. if you don't want it then throw it away."

you glance back up, staring at him carefully, noting how unbothered he looks, bored even. it's not the first time he's noticed a detail and pointed it out. what confuses you the most is why. why take notice when it's easier to just pretend that you don't exist? why catch sight of these characteristics and file them away in his head for later use?

you feel something strange form within your chest, filling the space between your ribs. it feels oddly similar to the feeling one gets when drinking something hot. a warmth? but the soft kind. the one that doesn't burn. that doesn't bring pain.

you don't thank woo-young, but he doesn't seem to expect any gratitude either. you just stare at each other for another moment, something unspoken passing through the air, until it's interrupted by you turning to leave, woo-young's own footsteps echoing in the hall shortly after.

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