#and this know-how might actually be good to have...

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 52: The Rucking Princess

Summary: Events lead to a hard decision having to be made, but in the end it might be good for everyone.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 7,129 words

Warnings: Alpha/beta/omega dynamics, a/b/o, alternate universe, military inaccuracies, angst, nightmares, PTSD, emotions, panic attacks, language

A/N: This one beat me up and stole my lunch money. Not entirely happy with it but enjoy!

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It’s too hot.

Sweat is sticking your sleep shirt to your skin, dampening the fabric uncomfortably. You’re squished up against Simon, Johnny’s back against yours. You’re not quite sure when you moved across the nest...or how for that matter. All you know is you’re too hot.

It’s suffocating in the room and for a moment you consider cracking the window just to get some air flow. That would leave things too open, too vulnerable though, so instead you suffer, laying there against Simon’s chest. You reach across Simon, grabbing his phone to check the time. Two in the morning. The cascade of alarms will start in a couple hours. You wonder if you’ll get a chance to lay in bed again this morning, or if John will decide today is a good day to hit the gym in the morning.

You actually managed to sleep a bit, judging from your migration from one end of the nest to the other. You won’t get back to sleep with the heat, though. You’re too awake, too aware of how warm it is in the room. Stifling, sweaty. You need freedom.

You wiggle your way out from between Simon and Johnny, Simon rolling onto his side in your absence, his arm stretching out to brush against Johnny’s back. For a moment you worry he might wake up from your movement. He’s quiet for a moment before he starts to snore again, the pillow shoved in his face muffling it a bit.

You sit back on your knees, tugging your damp shirt over your head. Gross, you think as you drop it onto the floor. You climb back into the nest into the empty space between Kyle and Johnny. They’ll migrate to you before they wake, but at least this way you won’t be so hot when they inevitably do.

You lay on your back, stretching your arms up overhead to try and cool off your body as much as possible. You stare up at the ceiling, tracing the shapes outlined from the nightlight on the floor next to the bed. Despite the thoughts racing in your head, your eyes begin to flutter shut, sleep starting to seep into your brain.

You’re jolted awake when an alarm goes off. Bodies move, quiet groans filling the room. It’s only one alarm this time, one coming from behind you. An arm peels itself off of your side, stretching up and over your head. You’ve cooled off significantly sans shirt, the blanket shoved down to your waist.

A body moves in the semi-darkness, John you think, and heads for the door. “Light.” He says seconds before the overhead light turns on. You bury your face in your pillow, groaning with the others at the sudden brightness.

The bed shifts in front of you, warm hands touching your skin. “Fucking hell yeah.” Johnny says, his voice rough with sleep. His hands have cupped your breasts, squishing them together. “I’d wake up at 5 every mornin’ if it meant I’d get bare tits in my face.”

You push against his shoulder, rolling yourself over onto your stomach. “Leave me alone.” Your voice comes out muffled thanks to the pillow you’ve burrowed yourself into.

“Up and at ‘em, muppets.” John says, moving behind you. A foot nudges yours. “You too princess.”

You groan, but refuse to move. The one morning you actually feel like sleeping and he’s trying to drag you out of bed. What happened to Mr. I’ll Do It Later? Where is he this morning?

The mattresses shift on either side of you, Johnny and Kyle rising from the nest. You groan again as your foot is nudged a second time, begrudgingly pushing yourself up to sit. The blanket pools around your waist, your hair in your face as you sit there, squinting in the bright light.

“C’mon princess.” John says, squatting down beside you. He drops a pair of cargo pants and a t-shirt in your lap. “No sleeping in today?”

“Why?” You whine, still sitting there. You can’t quite bring yourself to move yet.

“Long day ahead of us.” John says, digging through his dresser. “Got a lot of ground to cover.”

You don’t put much thought into his words, pouting but relenting. You push yourself up to stand, standing there in nothing but your panties. You barely remember owning the cargo pants. You’ve only worn them a handful of times, and you seem to remember them being in your own closet the last time you saw them. When had John grabbed them? Why had he grabbed them?

John pauses as he closes the dresser drawer, staring at you. You turn your head to stare back, your brows pulling into a frown. “What?”

“Nothing.” He smiles, stepping closer to you. “Just admiring the view.” He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before stepping over the nest to the bathroom.

A small smile tugs at your lips at the compliment. Still a charmer even at ass-o’clock in the morning.

You pull on the clothes, the t-shirt a plain black cotton shirt you also don’t remember owning. Granted, the last time you were here, you wore primarily stolen shirts from the members of your pack. They were more comfortable, and more comforting.

John leaves the bathroom, stepping back over the nest. He pauses to press another kiss to your forehead, his hand cupping your cheek. “Wear good socks.” He says before releasing you, heading out of the room.

You stand there for a moment, thinking over his words before shrugging, heading into the bathroom. You brush your teeth and wash your face, pulling your hair up before heading back out to the room. The barracks are quiet as you step over the nest, finding your boots waiting in the doorway. You slip them on and tie them before straightening up, looking down the hallway. It’s eerily still and quiet, your heart starting to thump hard in your chest. They wouldn’t leave you alone. They wouldn’t, even if it was just for a short while.

You step out into the hallway, moving slowly and quietly, almost as if something might jump out at any moment. Kyle’s door is open, the light on inside. You tiptoe towards it, eyes flickering between the doorway and down the hall, as if something might appear before you can get there.

Kyle’s sitting on his bed, lacing up his boots. He’s dressed similarly to you, cargo pants and a black shirt.

“Hi, love.” he says, glancing up at you before he finishes lacing his boots. He pushes himself up to stand, wiggling on his feet to ensure his shoes are tied just right.

“What are we doing?” You ask, picking up that something is going on.

“We’re rucking today.” He says, grabbing a very full looking backpack from his bed before approaching you.

“Rucking?” You frown, stepping back as he turns off his light.

“Nothing too serious.” He says, closing his door. “John wouldn’t drag you along a 20 kilometer hike.”

You haven’t quite mastered converting miles to kilometers, but that doesn’t sound fun either way. “Have you hiked that far before?” You ask, following him down the hallway.

“Further.” He says. “Out in the field you can go for a long time on your feet through forests, jungles, deserts.”

“Doesn’t sound very fun.” You say. “Can imagine it gets boring.”

“Sometimes.” He says. “Usually you’re so focused though that time flies.”

“Are you going to miss it? When you retire?” You ask, pausing with him at the door outside.

“I think there’s a part of me that will.” He says after a moment. “There will always be a part of me here in the military. I won’t regret it, though, if that’s what you’re worried about. I want to be there for you and John. Career soldiers don’t always adjust well.”

You’ve already thought about that. It’s going to be hard for John, and you’re not sure you’re prepared to give him what he’s going to need.

“Come on.” Kyle puts a hand on your back, steering you out the door. John, Simon, and Johnny are outside, standing around their own giant bags.

John turns as the door opens, you and Kyle stepping out. John picks up a much smaller bag, approaching you. “We’re rucking into the hills.” He says, helping you put on the backpack. “You’ve got a bladder, food, and a first aid kit.” He does the buckles for you, making sure it’s situated properly. “Much lighter load than us.”

“Do I have to go rucking?” You whine, tugging at the straps of the backpack.

“Would you rather stay here alone?” John raises a brow.

You think on it for a split second, debating in that moment whether it would be worth it, whether you could handle it. “No.” You say quickly. Rucking is better than being alone in this nightmare place.

At least you hope so.

“Move out.” John says, taking your hand before the five of you start walking towards the entrance gate.

It starts off well. You keep pace with John easily at the head of the pack, Johnny and Kyle behind you and Simon picking up the rear. It’s your usual formation, though you’re usually somewhere in the middle, protected from all sides. There’s less threats out here, though, out in the wilderness. Well, not really wilderness. You can still see the lights of the base when you look behind you.

The world around you is green, alive and blossoming in the cool spring air. It’s still a bit cold this early in the morning, the sun just breaking the horizon. Goosebumps form on your arms, but you know later you’re going to be thankful for the cool air around you.

John leads you on a path through the trees before you reach a road. He looks both ways before leading your pack across to the other side. A hill looms ahead of you, rising high into the purple sky. You’re going to climb to the top. You can tell already.

How hard can it be?

Hard.

Your legs are burning and you’ve barely gotten uphill. You’ve slowed a bit, fading from John’s side to somewhere between Kyle and Johnny. There’s a dull ache in your feet, the boots far from comfortable but you understand why John had chosen them. Anything else and you would have given up and gone back to the barracks by now. You’ve been chugging water, trying to keep yourself hydrated and you don’t even want to think about the food in your backpack weighing you down. Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. It’s not very heavy, especially not in comparison to what the guys are carrying.

The redeeming factor is you can see their own struggle. There’s beads of sweat sliding down the sides of Kyle’s neck, his own steps slow and calculated. They’re still out of shape, not quite as much as you are, but still out of shape. You wonder if John will keep making you hike, even after retirement. He’s going to want to keep himself fit even if he doesn’t have to anymore, and you assume that’s going to mean a lot of running and hiking.

There was a time when you would have enjoyed that.

Now is not that time.

As the sun starts to move from the horizon up into the sky and the day starts to warm, you continue to slow down. You’re in front of Simon now, Johnny having gotten ahead of you as you stopped for a breath. Trees have surrounded you, and you had paused to lean against one for support. You’d love to sit, but you’re not sure you’d be able to get back up.

At least you’re on a real path. You suppose you could be fording through the underbrush like you did when you hiked with Price during that training exercise not long after your arrival on base.

How long ago that feels.

How easy it had been then.

By the time John finally stops, you’re the one at the back. Simon had passed you as you stopped again, and he’s constantly looked over his shoulder as you lagged behind them. You’re breathing hard, legs starting to shake from the effort of dragging yourself up this hill. It is a hill, nothing more, but to you it might as well be Mount Everest.

You’ve broken through the trees and found a clearing. You can see the areas below, mostly farmlands and the base in the distance. You don’t spend too much time looking at the view, instead you remove your backpack before flopping down on the ground. You don’t care that you’re getting dirty and wet in the damp grass. All you care about is taking a moment to rest your aching legs.

“You broken?” John asks, coming to stand before you.

“Yes.” You groan, closing your eyes. “My feet hurt.”

“Been a while since you’ve had to walk long distance.” He says, squatting down beside you. “Take a breath.” He says, opening your backpack. “And think about what you’d like for breakfast.” He pulls ration packs out of your bag. “You can have BBQ Breakfast Beans, or Breakfast Burrito Filling.”

Breakfast beans? You mouth in dismay. You thought mushy peas were bad but the idea of beans for breakfast? Appalling. The last thing you want to do right now is eat, much less eat baked beans first thing in the morning.

“Burrito please.” You say, continuing to lay there for a moment.

John rips open the MRE, getting set on making it for you. You’re grateful for that, your omega stirring happily at the thought of your alpha taking care of you while you’re in such a state. You’re sure you could figure it out, but in this state you’d be more likely to just skip eating entirely.

John’s not about to let you go hungry. Something about that has your stomach fluttering.

You push yourself up to sit, your back damp from the grass. The others have taken seats, working on their own MRE’s. You do feel a bit like you’re out in the field with them, the serious, concentrated looks on their faces, the full packs, the clothes. The only thing missing are weapons, though you assume Simon snuck a knife in somewhere. You know he almost always carries some kind of weapon, though you don’t doubt he has the ability to make anything into a weapon.

John hands you the MRE, the smell coming up from it rather interesting. It’s not necessarily bad, but you assume you’re not about to eat a gourmet meal. You’ve heard tales about MREs and how famously bland and plain they are. You can’t imagine living for days off of them.

If it wasn’t for your need for fuel you might not have eaten at all. The first bite takes a while to go down, the food chewy yet somehow dry. It tastes like cardboard with a hint of seasoning. The others eat without any problem while you attempt to look past the taste and texture of your “breakfast burrito filling.” What you wouldn’t give for a real breakfast burrito right now.

“Now I get why you don’t mind the mess food.” You say, dreading another bite but you’ve started to feel the pangs of hunger after your long walk.

“It’s not bad once you get used to it.” Johnny says with a mouthful of food.

“I’d rather not have to, thanks.” You say, taking another bite.

“Spoiled rotten, that one.” Kyle says playfully.

“Hey, it’s not my fault I got used to home cooked meals.” You pout.

“We all did, princess.” John says. You’re not sure where this new nickname came from, except perhaps that you are a spoiled princess. You’re certainly acting like one. To be fair, though, this isn’t your life. It will never be your life. In a few weeks you’ll never have to think about it again.

John helps you put on your backpack again once the brief respite is over, despite the fact you’re perfectly capable of doing it yourself.

You’re prepared to turn back when John announces a forward march and starts walking further away from base. You let out a whimper, turning back to look at the direction you’d just come before staring at Simon’s back as he starts to get further away.

“Come on.” He says, turning back to look at you. “You heard him. Forward march.”

You pout, standing there dejectedly for a moment before you start moving, falling in line with the others.

You’re not sure what time it is. The sun is high in the sky, beating down on all of you as you trek along the road through farmlands. It feels like it’s been a year since you stopped for breakfast, sweat beading on your forehead and sliding down your face. Of course today had to be one of those rare hot spring days. What you wouldn’t give for a little breeze, just a little air movement to cool the sweat on your skin.

You’ve fallen behind, moving slowly at the back of the group. Simon keeps his eyes on you, turning back to check every once in a while to check that you’re still following. While just parking it on a rock and letting them disappear sounds like a great idea, at the same time you’d rather not be left alone in an unknown place on the side of the road.

So you march on, legs burning and feet throbbing.

When you’ve begun to feel like stopping and staying on the side of the road is a good idea, John finally calls the group to a stop. You don’t hesitate, shuffling off your backpack before plopping in the grass next to the road. You’re not entirely sure you’ll be able to get back up, but your feet thank you for the relief.

“I think that’s enough for today.” John says, approaching you.

“How far did we go?” You ask breathlessly, wiping your forehead.

“Roughly three kilometers.” John says.

“Three?” You stare at him in shock. “Coulda swore it was at least ten.”

“Just three.” He smiles, squatting down in front of you. “Think you can make it back.”

You stare at your own feet, your legs trembling just a bit under your pants. Can you make it back? Probably if you have to. The prospect of going back is enticing, though the idea of climbing the hill again has your toes twitching.

“Yeah.” You say unconvincingly.

“I’ve got an idea.” Johnny says, taking off his pack. He hands it off to Kyle before approaching you, holding out his hand.

You hesitate but take it, letting him pull you up to your feet far too easily. He turns around, behind down before motioning to you. It takes your heat exhausted brain a moment to realize what he’s doing.

“Are you sure?” You ask, staring at his sweaty back.

“Aye.” He says, motioning again. “Easier tae carry than the gear.”

You shrug before putting your hands on his shoulders, jumping up. He catches you easily, adjusting you as he holds you on his back. You wrap your arms around his neck, holding on tightly.

“We’ll swap every so often.” Johnny says as Kyle straps his pack on his front. “One of us carries our lass, the others the bag.”

“You don’t have to do that.” You say. “I can walk.”

“We’d rather do this than listen to you whinging all the way home.” Simon says.

“I wouldn’t whinge.” You pout, but you’re secretly glad you won’t have to walk as far.

John picks up your pack, carrying it in his hand as you set off, finally heading back the way you came.

Johnny’s body is slick with sweat as he adjusts his hold on you every so often. It’s quiet among them as they walk, all of them staring to feel it, no doubt. It’s been a while since they’ve had to exert themselves like this, and you can imagine it’s a bit humbling. Months ago a six kilometer hike would have been easy. Now, you can imagine, it’s proving to be a bit exhausting. You probably could have managed a six kilometer hike a few months ago too, but now you’re certain your feet are bleeding in your shoes.

How far you’ve fallen.

Johnny is panting by the time you reach the base of the hill, his hands slipping from the backs of your knees. You slide off his back as he bends down, putting his hands on his knees as he tries to breathe.

“I’m startin’ tae think ye did this on purpose.” He grunts.

John glances at you over his bent over form, giving you a sly wink.

Of course.

They all share glances, assessing which one of them is in the best shape to pack you up the hill. You almost feel bad, almost offer to walk it yourself, but you know better than to say anything when they’re offering to carry you.

“I’ll get her up the hill.” Kyle says, passing Johnny’s pack back to him.

“No, I’ll do it.” Simon says, unclipping his pack. “I’m in better shape.”

If you hadn’t been so exhausted, you might have laughed at Kyle and Johnny’s faces. He’s not wrong. He looks the least exhausted, though he was also the one that tried the hardest to keep himself in shape during your time at the cottage. He’s still in his mask, though how he’s kept it on in the hot sun you’re not sure.

Simon passes his pack off to Kyle who puts it on his front before he bends down, motioning for you.

He’s just as sweaty as Johnny, maybe more so. It’s definitely the mask, you think, as he adjusts his grip on you before picking up the rear of the column again. He smells like sweat, musky and damp, but you’ll take it over having to walk. Especially back up the hill. Anything but the hill.

Simon keeps pace with them as he carries you, not lagging behind a bit like Johnny had. He’s still breathing hard, deep and even as your pack climbs back up the path up the hill. It’s steeper on this side, and you’re not sure you would have made it. You feel bad for putting them through this, but at the same time, it was always the plan.

Could have been 20 kilometers.

You wouldn’t have made it that far. You’d have turned back and hiked on your own back to the barracks if John had decided to push that far. You’d risk being alone in the barracks over that. You’re kind of regretting not staying back now.

John stops at the top of the hill near the place you stopped for breakfast. Lunch, he says, before you hike the rest of the way to the barracks.

The MRE isn’t bad, not as bad as breakfast had been, but still not great. You eat it though, tired after a long day of hiking and being carried. You’re going to sleep great tonight, you think. You all will.

Despite your protests, Kyle carries you down the hill. You could have made it begrudgingly, but he insisted. He didn’t want to be the odd man out and not pull his weight too. So you gladly hitch a ride back to base, even as you cross the road to take the short path back to the main gate. How long ago it seems that you crossed that same road this morning.

Kyle carries you all the way back to the barracks. You get looks as you pass groups of soldiers, but you ignore them. Of course they’re talking about you, so weak you have to be carried by a member of your pack. Of course you are, though. You’re not a soldier.

You’re a princess.

Kyle finally lets you down as you reach the door of the barracks, John pulling it open. For the first time you’re grateful for the cool air inside, sweat still sticking your shirt to your back. You feel gross and sticky from your sweat and theirs. Normally you wouldn’t mind it, but the context of being covered in their sweat is different from what it usually is. Mixing sweat while fucking is one thing, mixing sweat while being packed along a three kilometer hike back to base is something entirely different.

“Showers and then meet back here.” John says, grabbing your hand before tugging you towards his room.

He kneels down in the doorway, picking one of your feet up. You grip the door frame to stay steady as he starts to untie your boot.

“How do your feet feel?” He asks, pulling the boot off your sore foot.

“Sore.” You say, wiggling your toes.

He pulls your sock off, rubbing your foot as he checks it for blisters. “You did good.”

“Were you planning that the entire time?” You ask, switching to your other foot for him.

“I figured one of them would offer at some point.” He says, pulling off your other boot. “It’s good practice for them.”

“Have you ever had to do that?” You ask as he peels off your sock, rubbing your left foot.

“Once.” He says, letting your foot go before standing to his full height. “I don’t like leaving men behind.”

He moves past you to take his own boots and socks off. You think over his words for a moment before you start to strip, piling your sweaty clothes with his.

He takes your hand once you’re down to your underwear, pulling you towards the bathroom.

Dinner that night tastes amazing.

You never thought you’d say that about the food from the mess.

After a day of eating MREs though, you’re more than happy to see mushy globs of food. It’s amazing how much perspective can change your opinions. You don’t complain, clearing your tray as hunger gnaws at your stomach. You’re exhausted and you can feel the ache of soreness starting to blossom in your legs and feet, yet you eat contently. The guys eat well too, scarfing down as much food as they can get. No doubt they’re feeling the effects of a long hike fueled by MREs. You’re not sure how they do it regularly after this small glimpse into what their lives are like in the field.

Well, sort of.

You weren’t being shot at.

You imagine their jobs contain a lot of that too.

Good thing you weren’t added to this pack to be part of that. You’d have died so quickly.

After dinner you head back to the barracks to settle in for the evening. John and Simon retreat to their offices saying something about paperwork and research while you, Johnny, and Kyle all head to the rec room. It’s been a while since you’ve sat in the rec room with anyone. You have missed the once safe space and its clinical charm. Its uncomfortable couch and stacks of varying genres.

“Let’s play cards.” Johnny says, pulling a pack out of the stack of games.

“You’re just going to cheat.” You say with a pout. You’re tired and you know you’re not going to be as sharp as you might have been otherwise.

“Will not, just for you.” He grins. “I’ll even let you cheat.”

It’s a tempting offer.

“Fine.” You say, taking a seat at the table with them. “Only I get to cheat.”

“No promises, princess.” Johnny gives you a wink.

You play a few rounds with them, losing every one despite your attempts at cheating. They’re too good, though you suppose that comes with a lot of practice. What else can you do during your downtime out in the field and here? You never were very good at games to begin with, but playing against strategy masters it was entirely hopeless.

John arrives as you lose your fourth game with a pout.

“You boys being mean?” He asks, approaching the table.

“We’re letting her cheat and she’s still losing.” Kyle says.

“I’m not very good at this, I told you!” You say, trying to defend your honor as much as possible.

“Here,” John says, motioning for you to move.

You get out of your seat, letting him take your place. He pulls you down onto his lap, wrapping an arm around you.

“Deal another round.” He says.

Johnny and Kyle share another look before doing as he says, dealing out another round of cards. You hold your hand up, John looking over your shoulder. He plays the cards for you, not even cheating and still the two of you manage to win.

“No fair.” Kyle says. “That doesn’t count.”

“Of course it does.” John says, shifting you on his lap. “Our girl got her first win.”

“How’d ye get so good anyway?” Johnny asks, stacking the cards back in the box.

“Practice.” John says simply.

“Yeah, you’ve had a lot of time to play, huh sir.” Kyle says with a smirk.

“Careful, Sergeant.” John warns him playfully. “Hate to make you run laps tomorrow.”

Kyle gets a worried look on his face, his lips sealing shut. You’re tempted to laugh, but you’re not certain you would be safe from that threat either. Not after your little hike today.

“Come on.” He says, standing from the chair. “Bed time. Early morning again tomorrow.”

You groan, pouting again but you know there’s no changing his mind. Gone are your days of sleeping in. He’s back in Captain mode, back in the mindset of the military, even if it is temporary. There’s no taking that side out of him. Even once he retires you know he’ll always carry those mindsets. Early mornings, set routines, that knowledge that if anything ever happens it might have been preventable had he been there.

While you’re excited to leave this world behind, you also know you’re in for a struggle once that time does come. The fight is far from over.

You’re pulled out of sleep by a sound. It takes your foggy brain a moment to fully wake up, to fully become aware of what’s going on. You’ve shifted from the middle of the nest to John’s side again, tucked up against his chest. It’s hot in the room again, sweat beading on your forehead.

There’s a breath of silence where you think you were mistaken, that you were woken abruptly from a dream when you hear it.

Footsteps.

You can hear them, quiet thuds in the hallway, the creak of doors as their opened. Your eyes train on the door handle of the room. You’re not sure if its locked. Did Simon lock it when he shut the door? You want to get up and check, you want to move but you can’t, locked in place by the fear. Your heart is hammering in your chest, rising up into your throat, cutting off your air.

Someone’s in the barracks.

You reach a shaky hand out, fumbling beside you as you find John’s arm. “John?” You whisper, listening to the footsteps getting closer. You shake him, fear bubbling in your stomach, rising up into your esophagus. “John.” You say his name louder, the footsteps getting closer and closer.

He grunts, lifting his head and rubbing his eyes. “What?”

“Someone’s in the barracks.” You stumble over the words, your lips trembling from the adrenaline rushing through you.

Somehow he understands you, pushing himself up to sit. He tosses the blankets off, pushing himself up to his feet. He’s still for a moment, listening before he moves towards the door. You hold your breath, wrapping your arms around yourself. The others are stirring, sensing the disturbance.

You’re nearly hyperventilating by the time he reaches the door, his hand closing around the handle as he listens. You can’t hear much of anything besides the rush of blood in your ears. Your fingers and toes have gone numb, nails digging into the sides of your arms in panic.

John throws open the door, stepping out into the hallway. You nearly choke on your breath in fear, his body still as he stands halfway out of the room. You can’t hear anything, your ears starting to ring. You half expect him to fall back, a bullet wound in the middle of his forehead, or for someone to appear and attack him, but all he does is stand there.

He disappears from view, closing the door behind him. Your heart is thudding in your chest almost painfully as you wait for John or someone else to come back through. You’re panicking, shaking where you sit frozen in the bed.

John is gone for what feels like a lifetime. You should wake Simon, let him know what happened, that something could have happened to John. Why he’d go alone and unarmed, you’re not sure. Sure he’s probably more than capable of defending himself, but what if this person was better? Stronger? More prepared?

You nearly scream as the door opens, John appearing again. Relief floods through you, calming the racing of your heart just a little. John’s here, he’s alright.

“What is it?” Simon asks quietly.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.” He says as he approaches you again. “Come on.” He whispers, grabbing your arms.

He hauls you to your feet, wrapping an arm around you as he leads you out of the room and into the hallway. Fear flows through you. What if John is in cahoots with the person that broke in? What if he doesn’t want to retire and this was all a lie and now he’s going to get rid of you? He wouldn’t do that...would he?

“John?” You whimper, unable to do anything but follow him as he leads you down the hall.

“Shh.” He shushes you gently, leading you into the rec room.

You half expect someone to be there, but it’s empty. Even the blinds are drawn down over the windows. John sits you down at the table before kneeling in front of you. He takes your face in his hands, thumbs wiping the tears sliding down your cheeks. When they started, you have no idea.

“Breathe.” He says, taking a deep breath in. “Nice and slow.”

You can’t. There’s too much going on, it’s all too much. Your fingers have curled in on themselves, twisting into mutated shapes from the lack of blood flow to your extremities. You’re panicking still, hyperventilating.

John rises from the floor, going over to the sink and running a paper towel under the water. He comes back, moving your hair out of the way before pressing it against the back of your neck. It’s cold, shocking you just slightly.

“I know you’re scared, but I need you to breathe.” He says firmly, holding the cold, wet paper towel against your neck. It feels good against your heated skin, sweat dripping down your face, mixing into a salty cocktail with your tears.

“I can’t,” You gasp, trying to mimic his breathing but you can’t. “I can’t.”

He pushes on your neck, bending your upper body down until your head is as close to your knees as it can get. Your hands fall limp at your sides, fingers starting to uncurl as the position forces your blood pressure down.

John hovers over you, keeping his hand over the back of your neck, guarding you in your most vulnerable state. Snot drips onto the floor along with droplets of tears and sweat. Neither of you care, John focused on trying to ground you as you come down from your panic attack.

Eventually you do calm, your breathing slowing back to normal. The tears don’t stop, still streaming down your face as John places a mug of hot tea in front of you. He takes the seat across from you, staring softly at your face.

“I checked every room.” He says quietly. “There’s no one here.”

“I heard them. I swear I heard them.” You say, your voice cracking.

“Dreams can be weird.” He says. “Sometimes you don’t realize you’re still asleep.”

“You don’t believe me.” You say.

“I didn’t say that.” He defends himself. “I’m just saying there could be other explanations.”

You sniffle, looking down into your mug of tea. It’s plain. The milk in the fridge had long ago gone bad and no one has gotten a replacement yet. You probably won’t drink it, but it’s a comforting gesture.

“I hate it here.” You whisper, closing your hands around the warm mug. It’s almost too hot to the touch, but you don’t care. It reminds you that you’re real, that this is real, that you are awake and this hasn’t been just one big bad dream.

“I know.” John says quietly. “I wish you didn’t have to be here.”

“I want to go home.” You say. You’re not entirely sure where home is. The cottage? Texas? Somewhere unconnected to any geography?

“We will.” John says. “Soon.”

“I don’t want to be here.”

He’s quiet as he takes a sip of his tea. His shoulders are hunched, hands curled around his mug, a mirror of your own position. He’s stressed. You can tell by looking at him. You’ve done nothing but cause him stress since you got here. Shame burns through you. How simple his life would have been if you hadn’t been introduced into it.

“We’ll figure something out.” Is all he says.

You take a sip of your tea anyway. Chamomile, to help you sleep. It’s late, the world outside the curtains dark and black, threatening. You can’t ignore the fear that someone might appear in the doorway of the rec room to take you away from them, to do them harm. To do you harm. You can’t shake that irrational fear that’s been plaguing you since your return to the accursed barracks.

You’re not sure you ever will.

It’s Friday, the promise of the weekend ahead of you looming closer and closer with every minute. What you’re going to do this weekend, you’re not sure, but you hope it involves getting away from the barracks. You’d take a weekend hiking trip if it meant you got to spend as little time in your nightmare as possible.

It’s just past lunch and you’re returning from the mess hall. John had sent the rest of you on ahead and hadn’t appeared during the meal. Fear strikes a chord in you at the idea of them having to leave so soon to go on a mission. That was always a possibility, something that you tried to ignore.

Would they force John to go too? He’s still their captain, still their leader until his paperwork is finalized. Will he be sent away? Will they all be sent away again? What will happen to you?

John is packing a bag when you get to his room.

Fear twists in your stomach, those thoughts continuing to flash through your head. They’re leaving. They’re being called away and you’ll be forced to stay here alone.

“Pack a bag of some clothes.” He says, tossing you a duffle bag.

“What’s going on?” You ask, letting the bag hit you before dropping to the floor. This is unexpected. Will you be going with them? Would they risk something like that.

“You’re going to stay with Johnny’s parents.”

The words take you by surprise. That’s not at all what you were thinking was happening. Of all the horrible ideas floating through your head, that was not one of them.

“What...what?” You frown, trying to process his words.

“Johnny’s parents have agreed to look after you for the next couple weeks while the paperwork gets processed.” John explains, stepping closer to you. “I’m sorry I was so selfish trying to keep you here, that I didn’t take this into consideration. I was so afraid of separation I didn’t think about how this would affect you.”

You blink in surprise at the apology, your brain still caught on the first half of the news. Johnny’s parents? You’re going to stay with Johnny’s parents?

“What?” It’s the only thing you can think of to say.

“Tomorrow we’ll be making the drive up to Scotland to Johnny’s parents’ place.” John says slowly. “They’ve agreed to let you stay with them.”

“Away from you?” You ask, finally starting to process his words.

He nods. “I know, separation is hard but you need to get away from this place.”

“Are you leaving on a mission?” You ask, your fears starting to twist in your stomach again.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I just want to make this as painless as possible and that means getting you away from here.”

Tears gather in your eyes. “But...I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t have to do anything.” He says. “But I think this will be better for you in the long run. I know separation isn’t ideal, but it’s better than you being stuck here in a nightmare.”

This is coming from last night, from your waking nightmare. He knows how unhappy you are here, how much this place frightens you now. You don’t want a repeat of last night, how horrible you felt, how little sleep you got after that. It will be easier for them and for you if you do this, if you agree to go to Scotland. It’ll just be a couple of weeks. You’ve been separated longer than that before, but you’d had the rest of your pack with you. This time you’ll be alone with Johnny’s parents. You’ve never met his parents. You’ve never met any of their families.

“I’m...nervous.” You admit.

“Don’t be.” John says, pulling you into his arms. “They’re wonderful people. They’ll take good care of you, and I’ll be there before you know it to pick you up.”

Tears gather in your eyes as you hold John. You’re touched by this decision, by his willing separation. You are grateful at this opportunity to get away, even if it does mean leaving your pack behind. Your time with Simon and Johnny will be lessened, but it’s not as if you would enjoy the last few days you have with them here. You’ll be too stressed, to worried, too panicky to really appreciate it before you’re separated from them. Better to rip the bandaid off now and go somewhere you’ll be happier in the long run.

“Thank you.” You murmur against John’s chest, holding onto him tightly.

“I’m sorry it took this long.” He says quietly, kissing the top of your head. “But I know this will be good for all of us in the end.”

You know he’s right, even if you don’t want to admit it.

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[hwnglx]

pick a pile - what's your fs' first impression of you?

hi lovely reader. let's peak into the first impression your fs could potentially have of you. remember this is a general reading, so not everything will resonate with everyone! breathe slowly, take your time and use your intuition to go with the pile that speaks to you the most. remember to take what resonates, and let the rest flow. 𓂃♡

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ pile 1 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

immediately heard the word “magnetic”. you will have a powerful impression on your future lover. you will stand out to them. a lot. there is something about your energy, the way you carry yourself, the way you look, the way you act, the way you speak; it's hypnotising, captivating and incredibly intriguing to your fs. it will be an instant attraction. first time they spot you, you just catch their eye right away, and something about you will mesmerize them.

i see this potentially happening in a setting where's there's several people around you, perhaps a party or celebration of some sort. the atmosphere is nice, enjoyable. likely to take place in an environment that's easygoing and pleasant, perhaps among friends or people you feel comfortable with.

your fs could spot you in a position where you're communicating, and the way you articulate yourself could pique their interest. you might give off this very intelligent and witty impression. like you just know what you're talking about, or you're good at what you do.

i see this person perhaps feeling inferior to you, and intimated by your strong presence. the way you make your fs feel could result in them feeling small, like “damn, never knew i could feel this crazy about a person without even getting to know them.” i keep getting the feeling you will stay stuck in this person's mind for a long time. the thought of you will follow them around constantly, and they could get hooked really fast.

there might be hesitation when it comes to actually confronting you, because of this potential inferiority complex they might experience. this person reads as quite hard on themselves, they might not be entirely confident or see themselves as a catch; but you definitely are a major catch in their eyes. that's why it's possible that they could have issues seeing themselves on the same level as you, which could hold them back from approaching you more confidently.

though i have to note; their first impression also consists of you seeing you in a light of empathy, gentleness, kindness. a part of what draws them in to you, could be that they see you as a person capable of providing them with what they don't have, especially in terms of their emotional world. you could bring them the sense of comfort they lack in life. something about you just screams emotional maturity to them. like this person would understand me the way no one else does.

the queen of cups always gives me very cancerian energy. (though you could just have prominent water/4h/12h placements in general!) cancerian people (especially cancer suns, venus' and risings) often have this beautifully feminine energy to them. you might have gorgeous curves, features that are more on the rounder side, like your face shape, which your fs could feel drawn to. something about your eyes could pull them in too, they could be very expressive.

additional physical features they might notice

dark skin

black clothing

white or bleached hair

medium hair

brunette

channelled songs

je te laisserai des mots by patrick watson

“i will leave you words,

under your door

and when you're alone for a moment

pick me up whenever you want

kiss me whenever you want”

nobody gets me by sza

“how am i supposed to tell you?

i don't wanna see you with anyone but me

nobody gets me

you do”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ pile 2 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

your fs' first impression might include seeing you in a crowded place. this is random, so take what resonates, but for some of you it could be a school, a university; just a place where's a lot of different types of people, whose opinions, words or personalities potentially clash a lot.

your future lover could first perceive you, as a calm, quiet and reserved person, who's more of a lone-wolf. someone who prefers withdrawing, doing their own thing, and living in their own little dream world or bubble.

there is this feeling of you liking to doze off into your own fantasies, detached from the things that are going on around you. they could look at you as someone who doesn't enjoy being around people all the time, and feels more comfortable detaching themselves from fights, conflict, drama, gossip.

your fs could think you're the type to be easily overwhelmed, perhaps more insecure too, which could lead to this tendency of yours to distance yourself from everything that is going on. they might see you as someone artistic and introspective. the type to sit off to the side, quietly sketching or listening to music, while the crowd buzzes with noise.

they might be unable to read you at first, with you giving off more of a complex vibe they can't exactly decipher. they're under the impression that you're likely to have so much going on in your head, which could result in them wondering. there's mystery in your stillness.

the energy in terms of your fs' first impression of you, is more naive, shy, innocent, youthful.. it's likely your future lover is either older than you in age, or just thinks you're probably someone who's younger or more immature than them. you might even look younger than you actually are.

some of you might be quite petite in size. i can also see some of you liking to dress up in a dainty way, which your fs could take note of. some of you might have shorter hair, a bob, bangs or light brown or dirty blond hair.

your fs might not really be sure how to behave around you. it's likely they could look at you as someone very sensitive and soft-hearted, which could cause them to be slightly hesitant to be around you. they might be under the impression that you're someone who needs to be dealt with gently.

this impression you made on your fs doesn’t fade quickly. your presence lingers in their mind, not because you were loud or flashy, but because your quiet mystery made them want to know more.

something about you might give your future spouse the impression that you're well off. this could be in a financial sense; some of them might assume you come from a stable family background that supports you (even if that’s not actually the case, remember this is their subjective impression).

it could also reflect how they see you as someone who’s focused on their long-term goals and building a secure future for themselves. there's a quiet sense of success around you, like you're the type who works hard without needing attention, and is likely to achieve a lot because of that.

your energy reminds me of winter from aespa a little bit. she's a capricorn sun with a pisces moon, which gives her this blend of being a dreamy, head-in-the-clouds hard worker.

additional physical features they might notice

coloured eyes (green, blue)

white or bleached hair

beauty marks

freckles

baby face

square face

channelled songs

my future by billie eilish

“cause i'm in love

with my future

can't wait to meet her”

only love can hurt like this by paloma faith

“and when you come close, i just tremble

and every time you go

it's like a knife that cuts right through my soul”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨ pile 3 ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

wow, safe to say you will make an impression on your fs. this person will quite literally be head over heels obsessed with you, from the moment they meet you. it's like “this person awakens things in me i've never felt before” there’s likely to be an intense, almost magnetic physical pull toward you, that they might not even be able to explain.

when your fs first encounters you, they could view you in a very flirty and charming light. there's just something about the way you carry yourself, the way you speak, the way you look at them, that makes them go crazy inside. even your sole eye contact has the ability to light up not just butterflies, but entire fireworks inside of them.

this person's energy is increeedibly emotional, and very passionate. they could be a bit of a player or womanizer. or perhaps just someone who flirts with a lot of people.

i see them falling fast for people, but hard at the same time. it's likely they'll romanticize the heck out of you in their head. definitely a case of rose-colored glasses, where literally everything you do is ✨captivating✨ to them.

interestingly, their first impression of you might come with a moment of humbling. the attraction will absolutely be there. it will be strong, immediate, even overwhelming, but so will a flicker of doubt. they might wonder if they'd even stand a chance with someone like you.

some of you might genuinely give them a little bit of a harsh reality check and blow to their ego, whether intentional or not. again, it's hard to tell if what i'm sensing is actually of substance, or just your fs' extremely emotion-based perception (this person is a big F in terms of mbti, i will tell you that) but something about the way you act, could make humble them, pull them back down to the ground.

some of you might just not pay much attention them, ignore them, give them the cold shoulder, while some of you could literally tell them to get down their high horse, to slow down or friendzone them. some of you might even be taken already, at your first encounter with your future lover. either way, there's a brief moment where their spirit takes a hit... and then they go right back to dreaming about you.

the star card speaks of dreams and idealism, but it's also about distance and longing.

think of what stars are like.. they're beautiful, so so dazzling and radiant, but unbelievably far away. that's how your fs will see you. beautiful and magnetic, but not easily attainable. they'll think of you as someone who rightfully has high standards, and wouldn't just settle for anyone.

physical features they might notice

sharp face

red head or coloured hair

make up

the way you dress

beauty marks

blue eyes

channelled songs

spicy by aespa

“you want my A to the Z

but you won't get it, not a chance

pulled in in a blink of an eye, you'll be mine”

rude boy by rihanna

“come here rude boy, can you get it up?

show me what you got now

baby, if i don't feel it i ain't faking”

thank you for reading! i'd love to hear you guys' feedback on what resonated for you

[justwinginglife]

The LADS Men React To You Saying You Can't Have S*X Because Of Mismatching Underwear

NSFW WARNING

Sylus

Sylus knows in an instant that you’re messing with him but he plays along, a sly smirk sitting pretty on his lips. “Oh NO- your underwear set doesn’t match? Whatever shall we do?” After clicking a few buttons on his phone, he stands to grab his car keys (one out of many).

“Wait! What are you doing, where are you going?” You ask, brows furrowing. The sudden change in the atmosphere has you feeling like, at any moment, you might get whiplash. One minute, he’s kissing up your neck, squeezing at your thighs, grinding his raging erection into your crotch, and the next, he’s throwing on his jacket, zipping his pants back up, and getting ready to leave. 

“You mean where are we going, kitten.” He speaks like it’s only obvious. 

Your eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why are we leaving? I thought you just wanted to have sex not two seconds ago.”

“Of course, dearest, but we can’t have sex if you’re feeling embarrassed, now can we? So I thought I’d just buy the nearest lingerie store and we could go pick out whatever you like.” 

You choke on your spit. “You did WHAT?”

“I said I bought the store. So let’s go.” His eyes are daring you to continue with your little charade.

“Well I…I kinda wanted to stay home tonight.” You say weakly. You know you’re making a pathetic case for yourself, but he’s really not allowing you the wiggle room to be more convincing.

“Then allow me to have all of their stock delivered to the house. Unless… you think that the mismatching underwear is no longer an issue?” 

Oh, this son of a bitch. “You… you really don’t have to do all of this just for me.” You say with an awkward laugh. He knows you’re all out of moves and you’re just pivoting at this point. He knows and he has the audacity to be amused. 

“Oh, but I did, kitten. I wouldn’t want to overlook this very important issue. What’s important to you is important to me.”

“It’s, uh, not actually that important…” You confess meekly. 

“Say that again, sweetie?” He cranes his head to hear you better but you know damn well he can hear you just fine.

You glare at him. “I said it’s fine.”

He chuckles, sweet satisfaction clear on his face. “So then. Does this mean we can pick up where we left off?”

Caleb

You’ve been teasing Caleb all day. 

Dancing into his field of view with that low neckline of yours, wearing a dress that’s so short, it’s a wonder it’s covering anything at all. Touching him here and there, your fingers grazing his skin with a feather-light touch, trailing up his biceps, or down his back, before flitting away like you’d never been there in the first place.

So, of course, after hours of edging him towards an excruciating erection, his self control still intact (though holding on by mere splintered pieces), you decide to reward his good behavior. You straddle him on the couch, and slowly begin to slide your hips back and forth, dragging your clothed cunt across the admittedly-impressive bulge in his pants.

He swears he’s seeing heaven, when you finally allow his aching cock some much needed friction. He’s not proud to say that a little dry humping is all it takes to get him coming into his pants, but he’s sure you’ll continue to show him such endless bliss as the night goes on that he won’t even remember how many times he’s come, let alone that the first time was in his underwear. His head dips forward, steadying itself on your shoulder as he allows the wave of euphoria to wash over him. 

But the second the wave has come and gone, his arousal is already flaring back up in his gut, ready for round two, round ten, round however much you want. All he can think about is how perfect it’ll be when he finally sinks himself inside you, your wet heat enveloping him until all he can feel is you. He doesn’t even think that maybe you’re more devious than he gave you credit for.

After he’s come, you retreat almost immediately, pulling yourself off of him.

He whines pathetically and he fumbles as he attempts to grab hold of you.

“Baby, we can’t tonight.” You say, innocent as ever.

He tries to keep the disappointment from his voice, tries to restrain his very evident need for you, but desperation is quickly rising within him. “Why not?” 

You try to keep the smirk from your lips. “It’s just…I’m not…”

“You’re not what, love? Not feeling well? Not in the mood?” He hopes you don’t notice how badly he just wants you to spit it out. 

“I’m not wearing matching undergarments tonight. So we can’t.” And there it is. The goal you’ve had all night. The little trick you couldn’t wait to play on him. You’re thrilled to see how he’ll react.

His eyes darken in an instant. “Oh, you little minx. You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?” His tone has dropped to a low growl. 

“I haven’t the slightest idea.” You say, feigned ignorance dripping from your lips. 

He gives a short laugh. “Sure you don’t. Well, if your mismatching underwear is the only issue-” He begins to kiss down your neck harshly, not bothering to take care where he leaves his marks, “-I’ve got just the solution.” His fingers find your dress’s zipper with expert precision and before you can even process that he’s taken ahold of it, the dress is already laying in a pile on the ground. Along with your bra and panties. 

“There. All better. Now your underwear matches- they’re both on the damn floor.” 

Rafayel

You’re starting to think that you lie just a little too well.

You had only meant to tease Rafayel when you had told him that the reason you couldn’t have sex tonight was because you were embarrassed that your bra didn’t match your underwear, but you didn’t expect him to take you completely seriously. What was even more unexpected was that he would go on to give you an entire art lecture in the process.

“Take Picasso, for instance. Brilliant artist. One of a kind. You know him, of course you do, everybody knows him. His work is asymmetrical, and yet you don’t see anybody telling him that his work isn’t beautiful because it doesn’t match.”

“Raf-”

“And take my work. My work isn’t always symmetrical either, but would you tell me that I’m anything less than a true genius? No, because I am. See?”

“That’s besides the point-“

“The point, cutie, is that you’re gorgeous no matter what you’re wearing. It’s okay that you didn’t plan a matching outfit today. Some of nature’s most stunning scenes are spontaneous. You wouldn’t complain to the sunset that its pink doesn’t match its orange, would you?”

“No, but I-”

“Exactly. So it doesn’t matter to me if you’re wearing mismatching underwear; you could be wearing a trash bag and I’d still want you. Do you understand now, cutie?”

“Raf, baby, there’s nothing to understand, I was just jo-“

“Okay, if you don’t understand, let me put it in simpler terms for you. I’m hard for you regardless. That make sense now?”

When he puts it that bluntly, you really want to jump his bones. At this point, you figure you might as well. It’s useless to try and explain to him that you were only joking- not after he’s given you such a lengthy (though thoughtful) monologue. Though he’s a bit dense today, he’s still the same sweet Rafayel you fell in love with. So you think you’ll reward him for his kindness.

“You know what, baby? You made me feel so much better, thank you. I think, to show you just how much better I feel-” You strip yourself naked for him and his jaw drops, his eyes hungrily raking over your bare form, “-I’ll even let you come inside me tonight. What do you think?” You purr seductively.

You really didn’t have to try so hard to seduce him.

He’s already dropped his pants and begun stumbling towards you, rapidly hardening cock in hand.

Xavier

You’re in the middle of a very heated makeout session with Xavier when you decide to pick on him a little. You can tell where this is going, but you want to drag it out a little longer.

“Xav-” You whine breathlessly. “I think we should,” You return another one of his hungry kisses, “Probably stop for the night.” 

He pulls back to examine you. He can’t tell if you’re messing with him or if you’re genuinely not in the mood. Of course, if you want to stop, he’ll stop. He can just fuck his hand later; he’s not so selfish that he’d make you do something you don’t want to do. But just in case he did something wrong, he decides to ask. “Any particular reason you want to stop?”

“It’s just…” You bite your lip, hoping it makes you appear timid, when really you’re trying not to grin. “My bra and my underwear don’t match. I’m a little embarrassed to show you.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Oh, is that all? Feel free to change them then. I won’t look.” Before you can even respond that it’s a joke, he’s turned his back to you to give you your privacy.

You shake your head, smiling softly at his back. You didn’t expect him to be so sweet. You may as well strip naked while he’s allowing you the time; you had planned to have sex with him anyway. 

What the both of you don’t realize is that your bedroom’s full length mirror is angled just right so that he can still see you even when you’re behind him. He looks up only to get a perfect view of you undressing. When he realizes he’s seeing something he’s not supposed to, he starts to look away. But then he catches a glimpse of your mismatching underwear. Cherries decorate the soft material of your panties, while your bra is littered with little bows all the way around. Heat surges through his groin and he realizes that for some reason, this combination of mismatching underwear is doing something to him. 

You finish pulling your shirt off all the way and reach back to unhook your bra. “You know, I appreciate you being so understanding, my love, but I have to admit- I was completely kidding about not wanting to have sex just because my underwear didn’t match.” 

In an instant -you honestly don’t remember him even having the time to turn all the way around- he’s at your side, gripping your wrist tight and locking you in place. “That’s a relief. Now you don’t have to take off any more.”

You raise a curious brow at him. “What do you mean? Didn’t you want to have sex? I kinda have to take my underwear off for that.”

“No. You don’t.” His tone is low and thick with lust. “The undergarments stay on.” Before you know it, you’re pinned down to the bed.

You don’t know if it’s his teleportation ability or just his pure, unadulterated need, but he seems to be moving rather hastily today. You’ve barely even had time to blink before he’s slipping his cock under your bra, fucking your cleavage while it holds his cock in place. 

Something about you, the girl who always settles for function over fashion, wearing the cutsiest, girliest underwear he’s ever seen makes him harder than he’s ever been before and he’s not stopping until he’s staining this particular set in his cum. 

Zayne

“So we don’t strip naked then. That doesn’t mean I can’t still make you feel good.”

When you originally decided to play this joke on Zayne, telling him that you were feeling just a little too shy today to reveal to him your mismatching underwear, you thought he would see right through your little act. This is the man who has known you almost your entire life, after all.

But after you’d come so many times IN YOUR GODDAMN UNDERWEAR ALONE, all because he had insisted on tending to your needs even with your clothes on, after your clenching walls began to feel rather bruised, your clit increasingly more and more overstimulated with each passing second, as he fingered you through the (soaked) fabric of your clothes yet again, you were starting to regret this decision to mess with him. 

You tried to confess so many times, to tell him you’d been lying, to beg him for his cock instead, but it was almost like he knew what you were trying to say, because he’d kiss you so deeply until you were so dizzy from lack of breath that you forgot what you wanted to say, and then he’d dry hump you until you forgot how to even breathe in the first place. 

When you finally stutter out a pathetic, “P-please Z-Zayne…can’t t-take it anymore. Wanna f-fuck you,” Your hips thrusting desperately against the unsatisfying, thin air, he grins.

In that moment, you realize he’s known you’ve been lying all along. 

He leans over to you and you think he might kiss you. That, or scold you. But either result turns you on, so you hold your breath, waiting for him to respond.

He merely peers down your shirt before tugging your pants down slightly to confirm something. “So your underwear does, in fact, match. What an interesting development. Now then…how should I punish you for such dishonest behavior?”

Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @tbaluver @minasfwoopyponytail @ouiouimochi

[classyrbf]

super horny babymama!reader with babydaddy!suguru tending to her every needs no matter how dire or casual they may be.

thank you for the request pookieeee, i hope you like it <3

you sat there staring at your phone, an unamused look on your face as you read the text from your supposed to be date tonight.

hate to do this, but I gotta cancel last minute…

all you can do is sigh in disappointment, rolling your eyes and tossing your phone onto your bed. You didn’t have the energy to respond, quite literally drained from scrolling on dating apps twenty four seven and having dates canceled. Getting back into the dating life was harder than you thought, especially now since you were single mother. It’s been tough finding someone, wanting a long lasting relationship and a nice guy who’ll also prove that he’s good enough for your kid too.

Even if you can’t find someone for long term at the moment, you were definitely in need for a good fuck. You couldn’t remember the last time you actually had someone in your bed. The built up sexual frustration added to your stress. You were so excited for this day too, even got Shoko to babysit for you after begging and begging. You frowned, heels clicking against the floor, getting a good look at yourself in the mirror, dress hugging you in all the right places and your makeup enhancing your features. It was a complete waste.

Whatever. You’ll just use the time to have some fun for yourself, reaching into your drawer to pull out your vibrator, hoping that it’ll help take some of the edge off. Any longer without cumming and you feel like you might explode. Unfortunately a horrible idea pops into your head the second you reach in your drawer. An idea that involved calling your baby daddy for a quick fuck.

You and suguru were great at co parenting, but getting too close would always make things messy and confusing, but would it really hurt to have him back in your bed again after a few months. The more and more you thought about it the nastier your thoughts became. He knew your body like the back of his hand, knew all your sweet spots, what made you tick and how to make you cum within minutes. Your pussy throbbed at the thought, and you broke.

You dialed his number, the phone only ringing twice before you heard his voice on the phone. “Hello?” He answered.

“Hey, Suguru.” You bit your lip.

“Hey, baby. Everything alright?” Despite not being together for a while, he never dropped the nickname despite your comments about it.

“Mmm, yeah. I just…my date canceled on me and I was wondering—”

“Need to me to come over?” He finished your sentence, letting out a breathy chuckle. “Anything for you, baby.”

“Yeah, but…I’m just feeling really fucking horny right now,” you take a deep breath, “and I need you so badly. I’ve been pent up for so fucking long, Sugu,” you whine.

“I know, baby, I know. Just be ready for me when I get there.”

Now twenty minutes later, Geto has you riding his cock, his hands squeezing at your hips. You’re bouncing on him with such intensity, greedily pleasing yourself, using his cock to get off. And he lets you without a care in the world. He watches your pussy cream around him, your pretty tits bouncing in his face, tempting to suck on. “That’s it, ride that dick,” he pants, reaching down and rubbing your clit with his thumb.

“Nnnghh, Sugu,” you cry, lewd moans bouncing off the walls and straight to his ears. “I love your cock…feels so fucking good,” you whimper. Your hips are slamming down harder, eyes rolling back at the pleasure coursing through your veins. Your chest heaves up and down with each breath, falling back on your hands and spreading your legs more, grinding your hips against his cock. “Mmmph,” your teeth catch your lower lip.

“Ohh yes, show off that pretty pussy to me,” he groans, still messily rubbing your clit. He feels your cunt clench down on him, a broken moan escaping his lips. “Fuckkk, I can’t get enough of you.” He bucks his hips up, fucking you back. The sound of your pussy squelching makes his cock throb even harder, your juices gathering at the base of his cock with each lethal thrust.

“Shit, shit, right there!” You moan. As you grow closer to your orgasm, your body grows tired from riding, making it hard to catch your breath. Geto notices how much of you slowed down, brows furrowed in concentration before he pulls you up and holds you against his sweaty chest. His arms wrap around you, holding you tightly as he takes over, plunging his cock into you. “Ohhhh shit. Oh my god you’re so fucking deep, Sugu!” Your nails claw at his shoulders, your moans pouring into his ear.

The sound of skin against skin echoes through the room, his cock thrusting in and out a rough and selfish pace. It’s like he needed your orgasm more than you with the way he was fucking you. He always knew how to do it just right, making your toes curl, leaving you speechless and a drooling mess. “Cum, baby, fucking cum,” he whimpers, gritting his teeth as his movements grow sloppier. “No one else can make you feel this good, huh? Fucking you so deep and raw, making you cum harder and harder round after round,” his sultry voice sends shivers down your spine. “This pussy is mine. Say it.” You can hear the cocky smirk in his voice.

“Ah, yes, it’s yours!” You cry out, biting down on his shoulder as he continuously pounds into you, satisfying your every craving and need to be fucked. He knows exactly how you need it, and puts it down just right. Maybe that’s why it’s so hard for you to stay away, and he plays right into each time because he can’t stay away either. He’s there at your every beck and call no matter what.

Your pornographic moans grow only louder, dripping cunt clenching around his thick cock before your body begins shaking from the intensity of your orgasm. “I’m cummingggg!” Your eyes roll back, incoherent mumbles leaving your lips while he fucks you through it.

“Fuck, yes, you feel so good!” His grip on you is bruising, your pussy creaming more than before as his thrusts grow stronger. “Ohh shit, you’re bouta make me fucking cum,” he breathes heavily, quickly making the decision to pull out before he ends up making a rash decision and getting you pregnant again. The warmth of his sticky cum coats your pussy lips, geto making sure to smear it between your folds. “Damn, baby,” he breathily chuckles.

“Oh my god,” you lay there on his chest, trying to catch your breath. “God, I haven’t cum that hard in so long. I feel like I blacked out for a second,” you giggle. His fingers hook under your jaw, pulling you in for a kiss, his tongue sliding against your lips and into your mouth. Your hands travel down his toned stomach, pulling away. “Fuck me again,” you whisper, your hand sliding lower, wrapping around his hard cock. Geto wastes no time, flipping you onto your back, your knees pushed up to your chest.

You were ready to be here all night.

feel free to support me <3

[sknyuz]

hi r u doing smut fics? but anyways if u do pls make about how whc 2 characters would react if you give them a bj 🤭

anyways i luv ur whc fics keep it up thanks xoxo

weak hero class headcanons — going down on the boys of weak hero class 🔞

synopsis — how the boys of whc... well, anon’s ask is pretty self-explanatory

pairing/s — (all the whc boys here are in senior year/18+) sieun x reader, suho x reader, baku x reader, gotak x reader, juntae x reader, baekjin x reader, seongje x reader, beomseok x reader

a/n — >< everyone’s been waiting for something a bit more... out there for the whc boys, and since i rarely do smut, this was definitely a challenge !! i hope everyone has a fun time. disclaimer: this is pure smut, mdni. if you’re a minor in the taglist, don’t interact pls. i removed who i know are under 18, but might have missed some.

masterlist | join the taglist | request a fic

⤷ yeon sieun

he doesn’t say a word when you kneel, just watches you with that intense, unreadable stare. it’s not until your lips wrap around him that his breath hitches—barely audible, but sharp. his fingers curl into the arm of the couch, the only giveaway that he’s actually unraveling.

you go slow, wanting to see what kind of reactions you can pull from him. he swallows hard. his thigh twitches. then, finally, a sound—low and breathy: “don’t stop.” he doesn’t guide you. doesn’t push. but when his hand cups your jaw, there’s something raw in it—like he’s grounding himself with you. he finishes with a tight exhale, eyes fluttering shut, and when he comes back down, he murmurs, “come here,” like he’s desperate to hold you, to take back the control he just gave up.

⤷ ahn suho

he watches you kneel in front of him, his expression shifting from surprised to almost amused. “you sure about this, baby?” he asks, voice still calm, but you can hear the hint of anticipation beneath it.

but the moment your mouth wraps around him, his teasing demeanor fades. “f-fuck—wait—” his hand flies to your hair instinctively, not rough but firm, guiding you just the way he wants. his hips buck upward just a little as he tries to hold himself together, but it's clear he's losing it.

"shit, you feel so good," he groans, voice thick with need. “y-you’re gonna make me—” he cums with a sharp gasp, eyes fluttering shut, his grip tightening in your hair as he shudders. afterward, he pulls you up into his arms, kissing the top of your head with a soft laugh.

“you have no idea what you just did to me,” he whispers, his breath still unsteady, holding you close like he never wants to let go.

⤷ park humin (baku)

“oh my god, wait, wait—holy shit—” he’s already whining before you even start, half laughing, half panicking. you press your mouth to his length and he melts, one hand flying to his hair like he needs to pull it to stay conscious.

he talks through the whole thing—loud, flustered, ridiculous. “you’re so hot, oh my god, i can’t—babe, babe—your mouth is actually insane—” he keeps trying to look down at you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second. every time you suck a little harder, he moans like he’s being possessed.

“i’m gonna cum, oh fuck, i’m—ah, shit—” he whimpers, hand flying down to cover his mouth as you take all of him in. afterward, he lies flat on the bed, panting. “i literally saw god. was that even real? or did i hallucinate?”

⤷ go hyuntak (gotak)

he doesn’t say a word—just watches you silently, jaw clenched. when your lips wrap around him, he inhales sharply through his nose, gripping the edge of the couch so hard his knuckles go white. his voice comes out low and strained—“don’t tease. if you’re gonna do it, do it.” and when you take him deeper, a groan rumbles out of his chest—so deep it makes your thighs clench.

he doesn’t fuck your throat, doesn’t move much at all—but you can feel the tension in his body like a live wire. he cums with a stifled grunt, holding your head there as he spills down your throat. afterward, he leans back, breathing heavy, eyes glazed. “…fuck. that was something else.”

⤷ seo juntae

he looks like he might pass out when you kneel—eyes wide, hands flying up like he’s about to protest but forgets how. “w-wait, you don’t have to—i mean, if you want to, i’m not gonna stop you, but—” and then your mouth is on him and he chokes on a gasp. his hands hover awkwardly in the air for a second before he grips the blanket, knuckles white.

“ohmygod—th-that feels—” his voice is high, barely coherent, broken between moans and shaky breaths. you glance up and his face is flushed, lip caught between his teeth, eyes behind his glasses already watering. he cums with a whimper, hips bucking up with his thighs trembling, immediately covering his face. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to go that fast, i just—holy shit, you’re really good at that.”

⤷ na baekjin

he doesn’t speak when you kneel, but his expression changes—sharpening, almost curious. maybe a little hungry. he stays perfectly still as your mouth wraps around him, but his breathing falters, eyes darkening as he watched his length disappear against your lips, hand twitching once before it settles gently on your head. he groans—quiet but intense, jaw clenching every time your tongue swirls around him. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, hand tightening in your hair.

you feel his thighs tense under your touch, and his voice breaks when he tells you, “just like that.” his body shivering as you hollow your cheeks. he cums with a gasp, hips barely jerking, breath catching like he didn’t expect it to hit so fast. after, he helps you up, kisses you slow and deep, he touches your jaw gently and pulls you into his arms, forehead to yours and whispers, “thank you, darling.” like you just saved his life.

⤷ geum seongje

he smirks the moment you drop to your knees, eyes glinting with something dark. “damn, baby. didn’t think you had it in you.” but when your mouth sinks down on him, that smirk vanishes—replaced by a look that’s feral.

his hand fists your hair, not rough at first, but when you moan around him? he pulls—hard. “fuck—keep doing that,” he growls, “you look so good like this. fuck, you’re mine.” keeping you there as his hips twitch forward. he pulls—not to hurt you, but to keep you there, like he needs it. his other hand wraps around the back of your neck, firm and possessive, holding you close as he thrusts shallowly into your mouth.

“look at me,” he growls. “i said—look.” his pupils are blown wide, gaze locked on yours like you’ve got him under a spell. “you’re fucking perfect like this,” he pants. “mine. you get that? mine.”

“fuck, you’re gonna make me—” he cums with a sharp gasp, head tilting back as his muscles tighten, breath ragged. the moan he lets out is raw, needy, almost desperate—the kind that lingers in your ears long after.

and afterward, he yanks you into his lap, kissing you sloppily, breathing you in like he needs you to live. “don’t ever do that for anyone else,” he whispers against your lips, “i’ll lose my fucking mind.”

⤷ oh beomseok

he stares when you kneel in front of him—eyes wide behind his glasses, mouth slightly parted like he can’t believe what’s about to happen. “a-are you… really gonna—?” his voice is so quiet, it barely comes out. he shifts back on the bed like he doesn’t know where to put his hands. but he doesn’t stop you—he can’t. and the moment you wrap your lips around him, he breaks. “f-fuck—wait—” his head falls back instantly, a choked gasp punching out of him as his fingers grasp at the sheets.

his glasses slide down a bit, his breath stuttering as the heat rushes straight to his face. he whimpers when you take him deeper, soft and sharp, his thighs trembling slightly as he tries so hard not to move. “you look so good like this,” he pants. “fuck, you’re gonna make me—” he cums suddenly, hips twitching up into your mouth before he can warn you. it’s high-pitched, needy, almost embarrassed as he moans through it—his glasses fogged, his whole body tensed and shaking. afterward, he reaches for you with trembling hands, pulling you against his chest like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “how am i supposed to act normal after that?” his usually deep voice is slightly higher now, still recovering from the high.

if u liked this, a reblog would be greatly appreciated to help my work reach other people as well >><< !! thank u thank u sm

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[muffinpink02]

Pottery

A quick one shot. Alexia and R in a pottery class. Thank you anon, I don’t know if it was really a prompt but I liked your description 😂

Warnings - smutty not smut 18 wc - 1573

You’re staring. You know you are, but you can’t help it. 

She’s doing it on purpose.

You didn't think it was physically possible to get wet during a pottery class. Well, you weren't sure anyone could get wet during a pottery class, but here you are defying the odds. Sitting in a pair of damp knickers all because of Alexia. 

No, she hadn’t touched you, kissed you, hugged you, talked dirty to you, she hadn’t even looked at you. She was just simply using her hands.

But in your defence, you were just a girl, a girl who was obsessed with her girlfriends hands. 

A girl who clearly couldn’t control her hornyness because her stupidly sexy, smart and pretty girlfriend was fingering clay like she was part of some weird underground sex show somewhere in the red light district for people who were into that kind of thing. 

Maybe you were ‘people’.

You watch as she gently caresses the wet clay, her large hands cupping the moist material as it leisurely spins round on the plate. You watch the way the watery mud sticks to her fingers, seeping into the groves of her knuckles. Your own fingers twitch from muscle memory, memory on how those very same fingers feel on your body. And in your body. 

It’s a fucking pottery class and she makes it look pornagraphic. 

“Amor, you’re doing it again.”

You jump in your stall, like you've been caught stealing from the cookie jar.

“What?” You grunt.

“You’re staring.” 

There's no accusation in her voice, she actually sounds amused.

“I’m not.” You close your eyes in frustration when you hear the slight strain in your own voice.

You catch the slight smirk at the curve of her lips. She hasn’t taken her eyes off of her clay, too engrossed with her own art. Though, smut is what you'd call it. Most countries would even call it public indecency. 

“I can feel you staring.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not. I’m just watching your technique.”

You were never a good liar.

“Hmm. Is that all?” She smiles. She smiles because she knows what she's doing to you. 

“Of course.” You breathe through your nose as you squirm in your seat. 

You train your eyes back to your own mess of clay, it's completely lost whatever shape it had. If you ever had one. The pottery teacher walks by and gives you a pitiful look.

“Are you struggling?” She smiles sympathetically as she approaches you.

‘Yeah, I’m struggling, struggling while I watch my girlfriend finger clay like she’s trying to get it to squirt for her. And I think she might actually do it.’

Is what you want to say.

“Yeah, I just can’t get it to hold.” You huff.

“Oh, your clays looking a little dry. Maybe add some more water, get it a little more moist. Remember, the wetter the better.” She nods encouragingly before she walks off to look at the other students.

You nearly laugh. 

You spot Alexia biting her lip as she holds in her own laugh. Bitch.

“Oh, this is lovely! You’re a natural with your hands. Well done!” The teacher praises Alexia as she walks by.

“Thank you.” The blonde beams with pride. 

You wait until the teacher’s out of earshot.

“Thank you.” You mimic your girlfriend in the most childish way you can muster.

“Hey! What have I done to get that?” She pouts. 

“Nothing, sorry. I’m just a little frustrated.” 

“Why?” She raises an eyebrow at you. 

“Because…” You nod your head towards her clay. Her hands.

She slowly looks down at the clay, she genuinely looks confused. Scrunching her brows as she looks back at you.

“Què?”

Oh god. Maybe she wasn't doing it on purpose. Maybe you’re just a sex crazed maniac that can’t go an hour without making the most innocent of tasks sexual.

“Nothing. Ignore me.” You force a smile. 

You try to put your pent up frustrations into your clay, but you only make the mud look sadder. If that's even possible.

After a couple of minutes of frustrated grunts and a stupid amount of tuts, Alexia has enough.

“Here, let me help. What are you trying to make?” The blonde stands next to your table like a clay making superhero. 

You smile up at her. “A bowl. But I can’t get it right.” You slump your shoulders dramatically. 

The Spaniard rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide the smile that pulls at her lips. 

“Let me get it ready for you, then you can take over, sí?”

“Yeah, I can work with that. Thank you, baby” 

You move from your stall to allow Alexia to sit. 

Alexia frowns as she looks at the mess you've made. “She’s right, your clay does need a lot more water. You can’t shape it like this.” 

“One class and you think you’re Michelangalo.” You mumble to yourself. 

“Hmm?” 

“Nothing.” You save yourself as you kiss the side of her cheek.

Alexia begins to mold your clay. You watch as she dips her long fingers into the water bowl, grabbing the small sponge and holds it over your clay, squeezing until water escapes, moistening the grey mud. She repeated the process until the clay turns into a smooth and shiny substance that she can easily mold to her will. 

You’re completely captivated by the way her hands move, how her fingers knead and press into the clay. Pushing and pulling, gripping and thrusting. You shouldn't be too shocked that she’s such a natural. It’s second nature to her, making things move the way she wants. Bending and forcing things to her liking. Like she does with you in the best way.

You’re not just horny now, you’re actually impressed. Impressed and turned on.  

Come on, get a grip of yourself. You can’t be getting this riled up over an innocent task.

But, you don't even notice the way your tongue sweeps at your lips as you catch her veins bulging under her skin. You know the way they feel, the way they tense under your touch. Your eyes travel up from her hands to her biceps, you can see her firm muscles as they slightly flex under her t-shirt. You continue to watch on, staring at her as if she’s your own personal show. Like it's just you and her and not 10 other randoms in the room. Like you paid a front row ticket to that show in Amsterdam. 

The sound of a cupboard door closing brings you back to the present, you take a quick glance around the room, hoping no one notices the utter mess you’ve become. 

But then Alexia makes it just that little bit harder. Because of course she does.

Your breath catches as she gently but firmly slaps the mud with her large palm. You don't even realise you're biting your lip until you feel a slight sting. 

“Oh, come on!” You mumble to yourself.

It shouldn't make you blush, but the sound of the slaps take you right back to yours and Alexia’s activities last night. 

And It really shouldn't make you wetter. But you’re just a girl.

You’re fucked. 

“Okay, I think you’re good to go. It was a bowl you’re making, sí?” Alexia turns to you. 

“W-what?” You blink a few times, staring at the girl who just officially ruined your underwear without even touching you.

Alexia smirks, that all knowing smirk “A bowl, amor. You want to make a bowl, sí?” 

You nod your head, but no words come out.

“Let me just…” 

And that's when you watch Alexia gently push two long thick fingers into your wet clay.

“Oh, my god.” 

Alexia doesn't answer you, she slowly parts her fingers, forcing the clay to open up for her. The sound that comes from her movement is filth, it squelches between her parted fingers, you swear you almost hear a faint moan from the lifeless object. Or maybe that was you. 

“Ale…”

She slowly pulls her fingers out, making sure to curve her digits just right. Spreading the clay like she does this everyday. 

You guess in some ways she kind of does use her fingers that exact same way most days.

You’re well aware your nipples are straining at your shirt now. You look around the room once more as you try to control your breathing, but then Alexia turns to you. A mischievous smile spreads across her face. You notice a small smudge of dry clay sitting on her cheek. A few strands of her hair have fallen out of her bun and she gives you that all knowing look. 

It's a sight to see.

“You okay, cariño?” She smirks.

You nod your head, but once again you're lost for words. You look down at her wet fingers, still dripping from the clay. You can feel your clit twitching, aching to have the same treatment as the clay. 

You watch as her eyes roam your chest, spotting the way your nipples strain. She arches an eyebrow, like she’s proud. Her smirk turns devilish and you feel you cunt clench on nothing. 

“Toilet. I need the toilet.” You blurt out.

And before Alexia can say anything you’re gone. Tripping over stalls you swore wasn't there a second ago, but still apoologising to the inanimate object like a true Brit.

Alexia shakes her head as she chuckles to herself. “I think I like pottery.”

[gloomwitchwrites]

you've done 'in the rain'...what about "snowed in"?

I know snowed in during a mission is a pretty popular trope...but what about also a 'snowed in' while on base and everyone else is out or while on leave together.....or like neighbors who decide to keep each other company while they wait it out

Could be platonic, romantic or even a teammates who didn't get along till they actually talked kinda thing?

Jokes on you! I made the whole thing naughty! Sometimes, I really cannot help myself, and the idea of being "snowed in" with the 141 made the smutty gears turn. Some of it is cute and romantic, some of it borders on dubcon. Either way, this was completely self-indulgent.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: 141!reader, apocalypse au (Ghost’s), making out, dry humping, unprotected piv, intimacy, hurt/comfort, friends with benefits, neighbor!Price, oral sex, dubcon (Ghost), creampie, shower sex, mechanic!Gaz

Word Count: 3.1k

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

“Stop your banging!” you shout as you wrap a blanket tightly around you. “I’m coming!”

Someone is at your front door, their knocking insistent and loud, stirring you from your mini-coma on the sofa. It’s late in the evening, bordering on bedtime, and there’s a goddamn blizzard outside. A brutal one that’s knocked out the power.

Flipping the deadbolt, you yank the front door open, ready to berate the person on the other side. As your eyes adjust to who stands in front of you, every snarky remark evaporates into the air like steam.

“John,” you breathe, startled that it’s him.

John Price.

The man who lives next door.

The man you’ve been hooking up with but aren’t actually dating.

Without asking—or even speaking—John steps forward, forcing you to move back as he enters. Grasping the edge of the door, John shuts it behind him. Closing out the cold does little to warm you. The power has been out for hours and all the head in the house has evaporated.

“What are you doing here?” you stammer.

John tugs on his scarf, revealing his mouth. “Came to check on you.”

“That’s sweet of you,” you murmur, stomach flipping over in excitement. “Thank you.”

He glances around, frowning. “It’s bloody freezing in here,” he mutters.

“Powers out,” you reply.

“It’s out for the whole damn neighborhood.” John returns his attention to you, the middle of his brow creasing with concern. “You should come to my place.”

“I’m doing good on my own.”

John continues like he didn’t hear your passive rejection. “That’s where we’re gathering.”

“We?”

John turns away from you, heading for your entryway closet. “Where’s your coat?” he asks, reaching for the handle.

“We, John?” you prompt.

“The street,” he replies, peering into the closet. “Johnny and Simon have been going door to door. Taking people to my home.”

It makes sense. John’s home has several fireplaces and a large backup generator. No one needs to try traveling in this weather to a warming center.

“Hopefully the power won’t be off for long,” you muse.

John holds out a large coat. “This the one?”

“It is,” you answer.

He offers it to you with silence. This isn’t an optional request. He expects you to go with him.

The coat is taken, the two of you braving the blizzard together. John might be next door but the wind is brutal, creeping in to freeze your bones. By the time the two of you make it inside, you’re shivering. Inside, dozens of people loiter in the front room and kitchen, bundled up in blankets. Snow-damp coats, jackets, gloves, and scarves hang near the roaring fire to dry. On the coffee table is an arrangement of food that people pick at.

“You weren’t joking about the whole street,” you observe, fingers reaching to undo the front of your coat.

John beats you to it. “You’re shivering,” he murmurs, opening your coat and helping you out of it. “You should shower.”

You smile at him. “The power is out. Your water heater won’t work.”

He leans with a sly smile. “Hot water is a luxury I can’t live without.”

“It’s hooked up to the generator, isn’t it?”

His smile widens, and you nearly jump with joy.

It’s a sprint upstairs with John following. You don’t even care that you’re not dating him, or that there are people downstairs. The clothes come off quickly, and when you’re bare, you reach for him, urging him to join you with gentle tugs.

The hot water is delicious, but it’s John’s kisses that truly keep you warm. Pressing you against the shower wall, John holds you by your throat, seeking demanding kiss after demanding kiss. Your pussy aches with the desire of wanting him inside you. Grasping his cock, you stroke until he’s hard in your hand. John groans, nipping at your neck.

With a little shift of your hips and a lift of a leg, you guide him to your entrance. John grasps your waist, and pushes forward, sinking in until your bodies are flush. Pinned to the wall, you’re at his mercy, taking his cock as he rocks his hips forward and back. At this angle, his pelvis rubs against your clit. You keep kissing him, seeking tongue and lips, whimpering his name as John’s thrusting increases.

“Can I come inside you?” he growls against your mouth. He sounds desperate. Needy.

“Yes,” you breathe, surrendering to him.

A few more thrusts, and then John grinds forward, sealing your bodies together as he empties inside your pussy.

He goes in for a kiss. Another. Eases his cock from your body.

As the water starts to cool, John shuts off the tap, but you’re no longer shivering from the chill.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

“Can—can you help me?”

Your voice stutters in time with a shiver. A burst of cold air hits Kyle in the face as he opens the door wider, allowing you entrance into the shop’s small lobby.

Minutes ago, Kyle flipped the deadbolt, intent on closing up. A snowstorm rages outside, and all of his mechanics are stuck at home. He sees no reason to keep the place open in these conditions. But here you are, shivering and stranded, your broken-down car smoking slightly in the parking lot.

“Thank you,” you stammer, rubbing your arms. You’re not even wearing a coat, just a threadbare hoodie. “My phone is dead. I can’t call anyone.” You shake your head, clearly frazzled. “I pulled in here hoping someone would answer.”

“You’re lucky,” replies Kyle. “Planned on leaving.” Not that he has to go far. His house is attached to the car shop. “I have a phone you can use.

“And my car,” you gasp, pressing your hand to your forehead.

You’re a pretty thing, especially with the half-melted snowflakes covering your lashes.

Kyle offers a gentle smile. “Give me your keys. I’ll bring it into the bay.”

At the moment he might be a one-man show, but Kyle manages all the same, rolling the vehicle into the bay. It’s no longer smoking, but perhaps it wasn’t to begin with. There isn’t a burning smell that Kyle can detect. With how bad the wind is, it’s possible that the smoke Kyle glimpsed was just a trick of the eye.

While you stay wrapped up in blankets and warming your toes in front of the space heater in the lobby, Kyle checks the car over. Everything appears fine until he checks the oil level.

“When did you last get an oil change?” he asks as he takes a towel to his fingers, rubbing at a bit of grease.

“A what?”

Bloody hell.

Kyle tucks the towel in his back pocket. “Won’t take me but half an hour to do one. Should be fine after that.”

Your face falls. “I—I have no way to pay you.”

Kyle might think you a sweet thing but he’s not going to take advantage. You’re stranded and cold and he has nowhere to be.

“I’ll take care of it,” he replies gently.

“Are you sure?” you ask, standing, moving toward him.

“Positive.”

“I can’t…make it up to you?” You lean into him, batting your eyelashes.

Oh. Kyle’s in goddamn trouble.

“You don’t—”

“But I do,” you croon, gaze roaming up and then down his body.

Blood rushes straight to his dick. How long has it been since he’s fucked something other than his hand? And you’re willing?

“Sit down,” you murmur, and Kyle doesn’t need to be told twice.

As he settles into the chair your just occupied, you allow the large blanket to slide off your shoulders, revealing nothing understand.

“Fuck,” he whispers as you kneel on the crumpled blanket before him. His legs spread and you settle between, hands sliding up his thighs to toy with the front of his jeans.

A quick tug. A pop. And then you’re reaching inside, fingers wrapping around his hard dick. Kyle groans. Your fingers are no longer cold from the storm. You’re warm, and it feels fucking good.

Kyle’s eyelids flutter, head tilting back as you stroke him. But it’s your mouth suctioning around the head, tongue lapping over his slit that forces his attention back on you. The snowflakes on your eyelashes have melted, leaving behind wet lines that make it appear like you’ve been crying.

You swallow him down, and Kyle’s ball tighten.

Grasping the back of your head to ground himself, Kyle watches your lips, how they move up and down his length, how to the vein disappears and reappears with each bob. It doesn’t help that you’re completely fucking naked, or that your hand is between your legs playing with your pussy.

You slowly ease your lips upward. Kyle’s dick pops from your mouth.

“You want to come inside me?” you ask, but Kyle can tell that you’re begging—that you want this too.

“Fucking know I do,” he growls.

With a lusty smile, you place your hands on his knees using them as leverage to stand up. Kyle takes in your naked body, and then your gorgeous backside as your turn around. Leaning forward, and spreading your legs just a tad, Kyle receives a clear view of your pussy. It’s glossy with arousal.

He grasps your hips, shifting you back, lining himself up, and then you’re sinking on him. Kyle watches as his cock perfectly pushes in, disappearing into warmth and snugness.

“Fucking hell,” he gasps as you take every fucking inch of him.

You rock back, and Kyle thrusts up, both of you groaning loudly. He doesn’t give a fuck that you’re a stranger—that he doesn’t know your name. Your pussy is perfect, and the snow is thick and raging.

Kyle’s release rises. His fingers tighten their hold, digging into your skin. You try to move, but he holds you fast, sealing your bodies together, filling you with his cum. As you keep still, fingers teasing your orgasm from you, Kyle knows that you could easily stay for the evening.

No one should be driving in this weather.

And he can do the oil change tomorrow.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Ghost finds you in a net, snow-covered and half dead.

When he cuts you down, you hardly move. It’s a shift of the eyelids and a little puff of breath that tells Ghost anything. He puts you on his sled beside the stag he’s downed, traversing the cold and knee-deep snow back to his cabin. The years have melded together, becoming one continuous understand. Ghost hasn’t come across another human in ages. He hasn’t used his voice at all. He’s not even sure if he still knows how to talk.

Not that there are many humans left in the world.

Ghost hangs the stag in the shed behind the cabin, securing the door to keep out any hungry scavengers. You he brings inside, stripping you down until you’re naked, placing you in front of the fire on a nest of worn blankets. He wraps you up, taking extra care to look after your toes and fingers. Though your limbs are cold, you appear to have staved off frostbite.

It’s a lingering quiet where Ghost holds vigil as you warm.

And when you open your eyes, you peek out from your sanctuary of blankets.

You do not scream. You do not scuttle back and away like a beetle. There is…curiosity. Ghost’s cock twitches, wanting attention, liking the way you peer at him. It’s a staring contest, the two of you watching the other without speaking.

Another human. Life. Warmth.

The tips of Ghost’s finger twitch. He reaches out, but you do not flinch. His hand slips beneath the blanket, cupping your bare breast, fingers teasing the nipple. You remain calm, gaze fixated on Ghost. The nipple between his fingers hardens. Ghost moves to the other.

But you surprise him, finally moving, grasping his wrist.

Ghost stills, but you do not draw his hand away. Instead, you bring it down, down between your thighs. You guide his fingers to your pussy, thighs opening slightly to accommodate him.

Ghost strokes, teasing your clit. Dipping into your pussy, he spreads the growing slickness around, returning to your clit. Your eyelids flutter, mouth parting slightly. A shiver runs through you, and your thighs quiver against his hand. He’s already shoving his pants down, opening the blanket to come above you.

You blink slowly, shifting onto your stomach, resting your cheek against the blankets. Ghost settles, rubbing the head of his cock against your pussy. Without ceremony or warning, Ghost thrusts deep. The only sound you make is a small gasp.

Ghost grunts above you, hips snapping, your ass bouncing with each thrust. He loses himself in the warmth and tightness of you. With his face pressed to the back of your head, Ghost pins your wrists above you.

His pace increases, the need to finish a rushing, pulsing shiver beneath his skin. You spread your legs a bit wide, giving him better access.

He doesn’t ask—only grinds his hips against your ass, his cum oozing out around his dick.

The wind kicks up, rattling the covered windows.

A storm is brewing.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“He’s not coming.”

“Willing to put money on it?” asks Johnny, his mouth quirked into a sly smirk.

Matching his energy, you present a few pound notes. There’s a handshake. A verbal agreement. If Captain Price isn’t here by midday, he’d not coming in. And why would he? It’s a bloody blizzard out there. No one is driving in this.

“Without Price around to give orders,” muses Johnny, slowly counting the cash you handed him. “How should we…occupy our time?”

Johnny says occupy slowly—almost deliberately as if he already has something in mind.

You tilt your head to the side as if in deep thought. The two of you will have the run of base for the rest of the day, possibly even the next if the predicted snowfall is correct. You and Johnny can do whatever you want while everyone else is stuck elsewhere.

The soft smile on your lips widens. “I have a few ideas.”

Ideas can be foolish. Spontaneous. Silly.

Neither of you grab your coats. It’s a simple burst of speed and sheer joy as the two of you go rushing out into the blizzard with only your fatigues on. Snow crunches under your boots, and the wind kicks up white waves that stick to your clothes and soak in until the cotton adheres to your skin.

With a screech of glee, you dive into the snow, scooping up a massive clump. Hurriedly, you shape it into a ball. Turn. Hurl it at Johnny. It strikes the back of his head, and he stumbles forward.

“Fucking shit!” he laughs, launching a snowball right back at you.

This one you dodge, giggling hysterically as the two of you dart and dance in the falling snow, slinging heaps of it at each other.

When your fingers grow cold and your cheeks burn, you somehow manage to drag Johnny inside with you. Snow-covered and shivering, it’s all warm smiles, a hot shower, cards in the rec room with the kettle on. It’s shitty jokes and board games with missing pieces. It’s an old television with poor satellite reception and a communal oven that doesn’t want to hold temperature.

“It’s a ghost town out there,” observes Johnny, glancing out the window.

There are no moving cars. No planes or helicopters taking off. All is silent and still. It’s odd really, like the two of you are locked in a snow globe.

“Yes,” you agree, shuffling the deck of cards.

With a heavy sigh, Johnny walks over to his bed, flopping down onto his side. The neat stack of cards explodes, scattering everywhere.

“Really, Soap?”

“I’m bored,” he replies, falling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. Your only response is a muted grunt. Johnny turns his head to look at you directly. “Want to make out?”

You freeze; fingers just shy of lifting some of the scattered cards. “Do I what?”

With a mischievous grin, Johnny turns on his side, leaning on his elbow, resting his chin in his hand. “Just a snog. Won’t mean anything.”

You flick a card at his face. Johnny retains that flirty smile.

“Come on,” he croons. “Just one.” You roll your eyes, then give him a quick kiss on the forehead. “Not what I meant, lass.”

As you draw back, Johnny grasps the back of your neck, tugging you to him. At first, you resist, but then Johnny’s lips meet yours, and you realize it’s not so bad after all. It’s slow and sweet. No tongue. No shoving. It’s passionate but with a hint of restraint.

“Like that,” he murmurs against your lips.

Oh. Oh fuck.

You don’t resist when Johnny goes in for another, or when he pushes you onto your back. The fatigues are gone, replaced with sleepwear. Johnny’s fingers slide beneath your shirt to cup your breasts. He pebbles one nipple and then the other, eliciting a little moan from you as he seizes yet another kiss.

There is nothing gentle about these. Johnny demands, and you surrender, allowing him everything. Boredom is melting, turning into lust, turning into panting heat. Shirts are gone, and then pants. His lips move down to taste and tease. Your thighs fall wide, and Johnny kisses your pussy before tonging it. Your fingers thread through his mohawk, and Johnny groans as your nails scrape across his scalp.

The snow falls in thick sheets outside, crusting everything in a damp cold.

But your blood is heated, and Johnny is warm.

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @xllizs @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3 @sans-chara @all-by-myself98 @hisuccubus

@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving @carbonnite-copy @sobbangchan @codeseven

@youre-a-wallflower-charlie @tiredmetalenthusiast @sporadicpizzainternet @tessakate @mistresssolana

[slythernim]

I think it might be because people don't listen to their teachers anymore.

which is like... fair, really, because the quality of education standards, at least in the States, seems to have caught fire even relative to its low starting point (in a systemic way, I'm not necessarily saying any individual teacher is at fault for doing what they've been told is the scientifically proven correct way to do most right by their students, though certainly many of them are at fault for being power tripping assholes who don't think schoolchildren are people) and the burnt ashen remnants have lost control of their classrooms. (partly, as I understand it, because teaching has become an increasingly lower status job and parents feel more entitled to push back/complain/cause problems if their child ever receives a bad grade regardless of whether that grade is/was justified, and partly because school grades have become so insanely life-threatening that even many good, reasonable people feel like they have to to do that and if their kid, as the obvious and natural result of this, doesn't actually learn anything, they can fix it in post, as it were)

teachers used to tell us not to cite Wikipedia as a source, and they could meaningfully enforce that because they could see the citations list we submitted, so we had to actually learn to read and cite sources. now kids get told not to use the hallucination machine and they all hear it in the exact same voice that says they need a permission slip to use the bathroom and five minus eight is undefined because we're not in the part of the curriculum where you're allowed to know about negative numbers yet, and half the adults they know are using it too, and they know that every tool that purports to detect whether generative AI has been used in the writing of an essay has been comically even less accurate than the generative AI, so obviously this must just be another bullshit power trip and not really a problem, right.

which is really a shame because there's ... not zero valid tool uses of the hallucination machine? (brainstorming, unsticking an exdys failure to start a first draft, it's probably a pretty good rubber duck...) and if the system were functioning these kids would probably be learning actually useful skills that way, like how many of us learned to "get around" the no Wikipedia rule by using Wikipedia and then consulting its bibliography, which maps very neatly to the healthy, useful academic habit of reading an article and then browsing its citations list for follow-up reading.

but instead. well. [gestures broadly at everything]

[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!

[dancingaliensfics]

Remmick NSFW Alphabet

This is pretty self explanatory. I haven't really formatted this or proof read it, I'll do that tomorrow. Right now I'm tired and need to sleep lol but I wanna get this posted since it just came to me. Wrote this in my notes app bc I couldn't be bothered opening docs, thats how quick this came to me lol so theres not even spell check really.

I do personally prefer sub remmick but I've tried to have a mix in here of both because I think it's more realistic to him as a character. I might add some more stuff it tomorrow idk.

Warnings: nsfw content, mentions of drinking blood, one section with gore mention that you can skip, idk i can't remember tbh

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He doesn't like to clean you up after sex. Not because he doesn't care but because he likes how you look all dirty and messy. So cleanup is out of the question unless you're willing to wait 30 minutes for him to have his fill, by which point he's usually ready to again lol. He does like to cuddle though, he's quite a physical guy and keeping contact with you is important to him.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He really likes your hands. I've made a post already about how he likes to have your fingers in his mouth and i stand by that. So i wont say too much about it again here.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He's nasty guys. He like to cum on you. His favourite place is probably your stomach but he doesn't really care where as long as he can see it dripping down you. He cums a lot and because he's a vampire he can go again pretty quickly, probably after like 10 minutes, so by the end of the night you're covered. He also likes to spread it around with his fingers cause he's a weirdo.

He will absolutely eat his own cum. When he cums in your mouth make sure to kiss him afterwards because he loves it, it gets him hard so quick. Or you can just scoop it up with your fingers and push it into his mouth.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Ok I have two things for this. The first one isn't particularly scandalous but it is something I think he'd be embarrassed by. When he's alone and feeling himself he imagines you and him back in his home town from when he was alive, living a quiet life in his childhood home. He loves to imagine you in the dresses the pretty girls used to wear when he was young. Honestly he creates pretty vivid scenarios, bringing you flowers back after a day working on the farm, putting your children to bed after dinner, undressing you slowly, pressing soft kisses to your shoulders. Climbing into bed together and just making gentle love before falling asleep in each other's arms. He keeps this a secret because it goes against his whole philosophy that vampirism is a gift. You two can't have children, atleast not in that way, and he'll never be back in that little house on the farm.

Now for the actually dirty one. I'm not really sure how to explain this but I'm gonna try my best. Basically he likes being told to use parts of you. Like for example, being told he can only use your thighs or your hand to get off. There's something so degrading about it that just really gets him going. It's another one that he wouldn't be able to verbalise, but having to make himself cum while only being able to rut against the sole of your foot or the space between your thighs is humiliating in a hot way. He doesn't have specific body part fetishes, he's not into feet or anything specifically, it's just being told he can only touch that part of you i guess.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Very but also not. He's had a lot of sex and he's very good at it, but he doesn't have much experience being vulnerable and having that Intimacy he would have with you if you're in an actual relationship. Remmick is also not very experienced with being cared for by someone and wanted in a way that goes beyond the physical. So yes, he can give you the best night you've ever had, but hold his hand and promise to stay with him forever and he's a bit stumped.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He likes to look at your face so you'll often find yourself in some variation of missionary. Tbh I don't know all the fancy names and neither does remmick, he just wants to look at your eyes. He's quite fond of prone bone though and anything that let's him look up at you.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He definitely goes back and forth. I think simply through his nature or being a vampire, sex isn't always serious for him. He's very old and doesn't view sex in the same special way mortals might, especially in the 30s. But that doesn't mean it isn't special when he's with you. He always values your Intimacy together and often will be quite serious, especially if he's in a more melancholic mood. But he's a Goofy guy, he doesn't take things very seriously and he makes jokes in inappropriate situations that don't usually land. Obviously a lot of his silly guy persona was fake, but i think it's also clear from other interactions where he's trying to really connect with people that remmick is quite an odd guy and that does bleed through into sex. Sometimes he just does weird or random stuff. So yeah I think sex with remmick is a real mixed bag when it comes to seriousness.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He is not groomed at all. He is quite hairy and doesn't see a problem with that. He does trim every so often, but being from a time where shaving body hair just wasn't a thing, he doesn't often think about it. He has a lovely happy trail that leads right from his navel all the way down. He has thick dark curls down there that run wild. If it really bothered you, you could ask him to groom more but I don't think he would. He likes a hairy bush and doesn't get the modern fascination with hairless pussies and balls so he has no interest in it on himself. I just really isn't something he thinks about.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Sex with remmick is always very intimate. Even when it isn't serious, the Intimacy is always there. There's a few reasons for this really. The first is that sex with remmick using involves one of you bleeding, and the exchange of blood is something he sees as very meaningful. It's not only his food source, the thing he survives on, but he also still has many old world believes about humours and the transfer of energy through blood. The second reason is that sex is one of the few times remmick will be vulnerable. You can really break down those walls and see another side of him, especially if you've been at it for a while. And the last is that if you're also a vampire, you and remmick have a mental link that connects all of your feelings, sensations and thoughts. There's really nothing more intimate than that.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He does it a lot lol. Being in a relationship does nothing to slow him down. Whether you're away from each other, in another room or sat right in front of him, it doesn't matter, he loves to feel himself up. He actually is quite a voyeur and loves to Jack off while you watch, especially if you give him instructions on how to do it. He also loves to have your smell around him while feeling himself, whether it's by just straight up sniffing you or from something of yours he has with him. He always takes something of yours with him when he goes on trips away, usually underwear or a scarf since those have the strongest scent but he'll even take a handkerchief if you offer it.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Honestly, it's probably easier to list things he isn't into. But I'm gonna touch on one isn't haven't really seen or talked about before. Remmick is a masochist. He's also a sadist but there's plenty of fics about that. He loves being hurt. Honestly sometimes he goes too far with it, and he really needs a partner who cares about him enough to draw that line. He talks a big game but he has a lot of self hatred he refuses to acknowledge and pain is a good way for him to ignore that. So its good to put him in a control environment where you can make sure he doesn't go too far. Slap him, choke him, bite him, scratch him. He loves it all.

He also likes to be treated like a dog. I've mentioned this a few times on my blog now haha so hopefully I don't become that girl, but he is really into that. Make him crawl on his hands and knees, tell him to pick your hands, let him hump your leg, he loves it. He likes to lick your face a lot which can be a bit icky but indulge him. He like to be punished and rewarded, it's a good way to keep him in check. And he likes this dynamic outside of the bedroom as well. Send out on errands and call him a good boy when he does well. Give him head pats when hes good and smack him when he's bad. Ah I can't get carried away here.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Anywhere and everywhere. I've already talked about this but he will fuck you on the side of the road or in the middle of a bar he doesn't give a shit. He likes for people to watch and he likes to be dirty. But there is something special to him about a private bed, it's somewhat nostalgic and makes his old man brain feel good or something I guess.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Again, anything and everything. This man is so horny, he is ready to go 24/7. But simple things like the wind blowing through your hair, watching you walk barefoot through a field or the smell of you as you walk past, are often the ones that do it the most him. Oh and watching you perform, if you're some kind of artist. That really drives him wild.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

I don't thing he likes the thought of really degrading someone he's actually in love with much. Don't get me wrong, he can be a mean dom when he wants, but I don't think he would ever do something that would actually make you feel bad. His whole world revolves around his partner, they're his god in a weird, possessive way, and he wouldn't do something like brand you or insult your physical appearance. He would also never make you feel bad about your personality. While he might call you a slut or pathetic, things like insulting you for being needy he just wouldn't do. I think he also would be interested in others degrading you. So while he enjoys bringing others into your sex life, it's purely for them to service you. He'll never tolerate someone insulting you in anyway.

He also won't let any of the fresh vampires near you because he doesn't think it's a good idea. Even if you're also a vampire, they can be too rowdy and he doesn't like it so yeah there's a waiting time for anyone freshly turned.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

HES A MUNCH.

Cmon we all know that. This man loves eating pussy, day and night. If it was possible he would never stop. He loves the taste, the smell, the feeling of your legs squeezing his head. He just can't get enough. He eats like man starving, and he laps that shit up like a dog. He also moans so loud while eating you out. He honestly doesn't like 69 very much because he wants to focus on the task at hand lmao.

I also have to say, he loves sucking dick. He find it so relaxing, he could honestly fall asleep with a dick in his mouth. He loves to struggle on a big cock and he loves to take a small one fully into his mouth. The one thing I'm sad about is that I don't have a dick for this man to suck because it really is one of his favourite things.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Ah it really depends. His mood changes quite quickly and that influences how he fucks. A session can start out one way and change up half way through. There's not much consistency with Remmick.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Remmick loves a quickie. He'll ask for them all the time, at every opportunity. God forbid you have to be somewhere on time because he will stop you at some point to ask for a quick fuck. Most of the time he asks for a quickie though, it isn't so he can fuck you, it's so he can get a taste of your pussy.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Yes yes yes. He will give almost anything a try atleast once, although most things he's already done. He's also a massive voyeur as I said before so he doesn't care about getting caught. I mean he shares a hive mind so it doesn't really matter to him anyway.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

He's a vampire so his Stamina is very good but not impossibly so. He can if he wants to last a long time each round but remmick is not a patient man so he usually doesn't. You can tell him to hold out though and then he's happy to. But to him it doesn't matter because whether he's cum or not, your fussy is getting eaten. He can go for quite a lot of rounds honestly, probably 4 or 5 most days but stretching up to 7 if he pushes it. But he still needs time between and he doesn't like to over do things so most days it's gonna be more like 2 to 3.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

What toys did they have in the 1930s? I'm not sure i need to do some reading on that. But I think remmick quite likes involving toys both on himself and you, whatever they are. He especially likes bondage on you both although he keeps breaking all the pretty rope you get.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

This man is the king of teasing. Good luck if he gets in one of these moods because there is no escape. It will start at dusk as soon you're up, with light touches and coy looks and continue right up until dawn when he finally let's you cum after hours of fucking you.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Remmick is so loud jesus. If you have neighbours, they hate you. And if you're trying to stray hidden you'll have to gag him. Even then you can still hear his panting and muffled moans. He also talks none stop during sex, I mean really runs him mouth. The man does not know how to shut up.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Big gore warning here, i personally feel a bit sick reading stuff like this even though I wrote it so just warning you guys first.

He wants you to bite him. Ok yeah that's obvious. But not just a few times, he wants you to cover him all over in deep, bloody bites. He wants it to hurt. He wants people to look at him and think he's been attacked by some wild animal. Honestly he wants you to eat him. To tear chunks off and swallow them. To crack his bones and tear parts off him. Break open his ribs and pull out his heart and rip pieces out with your teeth. He finds the idea of being consumed deeply erotic and also very intimate. It makes him feel very safe, knowing pieces of him are inside of you.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

Nice and thick. Probably a solid 6 to 6.5 inches with a good girth. He stretches you out just right. Uncut and a red tip. Heavy balls that hang low.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

All day everyday, ask and you shall receive. He really is hungry as a dog lol.

You know he's ready for it when he starts drooling. The drool really isn't something he can control, it just happens when his body decides its time to eat which often gets mixed up with being horny. So yeah, it's pretty common for you to look over and see him covered in drool, mouth open and shameless.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall  asleep)

Depends. Some days he's straight to sleep while others he gets kinda sad and wistful after sex and stays awake watching you. He also gets kinda stressed you're gonna disappear or leave if he closes his eyes sometimes so you might occasionally find him staring at you for a long time. But your presence is very comforting for him and he always sleeps better with you.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

If You Need To Hear It

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, pre-established relationship (sort), light fluff, light angst, lotta smut (fingering, p in v), humor.

Summary/Warnings: After a tense case, Dean decides to remind you of what you mean to him on the roof of the Impala.

Author's Note: Request from @grosskyjaja! Once again, I can't just be horny, I gotta have feelings too. Enjoy!

Word Count: 4.4k

You’re drenched in things that should never be outside of bodies. Your hair is stuck to your brow, and your fingers are caked in dry blood. Something thick is spattered over your jeans, and there might be hair that isn’t yours in your mouth.

And that was a good hunt.

No deaths. No major injuries, either. Just a few traumatized housewives, and fingernail marks on your palm from when they’d been flirting with Dean in front of you. So you have no real reason to feel horrible. You’ve been covered in worse. You’ve killed more things, and come a lot closer to losing Dean—and actually lost him—in a much realer way.

But you were tired. The week had been filled with women—who had teeth that were straighter than yours, and hair that was better kept—shooting you bitter glares as you stood a little closer to Dean than you needed to. Now, you just want to go home.

And Dean hasn’t fared much better, in the aftermath. At least he remembered extra clothing, though. Clothing that he ditched in favor of his stupid fake-fed suit, in favor of you—after a long, hot shower and a lot of scrubbing your skin until you skin is raw and untouched by blood—wearing his extra shirt and too big boxers.

“They look like shorts-“

“Not they don’t.” You’d grumbled, and Dean had sighed.

“We can stay the night,” he’d said your name, not fully looking you in the eyes. “Most places are closed, I’ll go out and get you a new shirt and pants in the morning.”

“From where?”

“Store.”

“Dean.” You’d given him a flat look, shoving your bra—the only thing you’d been wearing that wouldn’t have to be burned—into your bag. “We’re in Northern Idaho.”

He shrugs. “They got stores. Don’t be classist, sweetheart-“

“I’m not. They won’t have anything I’ll wear twice.”

“They might-“

“They won’t.” Maybe he doesn’t want you to keep wearing his shirt. The thought just makes you more exhausted. “I’m being pragmatic, not elitist.”

Dean frowns. “I didn’t say elitist.”

You shrug, wrapping your arms around your chest. “I know. Elitist is what you meant.”

He snorts. “I love it when you talk dirty-“

“Dean.” You’d snapped, and he’d stilled. Your distress must have been audible. “I just want to go home.”

That had been enough. You had fresh clothing at home, and a bed without lumps, and—if you were lucky—maybe Dean would let you crawl into his arms and not let go until morning. 

He’d packed everything up and into the trunk of the Impala without another joke, and when you crawl next to him on the bench, his arm goes over your shoulder and stays there. He doesn’t stop touching you for the entirety of the drive. Lots of fields and forests and sky, Dean’s hand either rubbing small circles on your upper arm or resting on your thigh.

You know he’s pushing Baby to her limits, just to get you home. Or get away from your sulking sooner. You can’t blame him. You’re glaring out the window as if the trees are responsible for your exhaustion.

And it’s so stupid. It was a good hunt. It was an objectively good hunt. And Dean didn’t even flirt back. 

But you’re not his. Not officially—though through your whole body you’re only ever sure of one thing, and it’s that you’re Dean’s—and not in a way that gives him any claim over you. 

Which means that Dean’s not yours. And you have no claim over him. So if he’d decided to indulge one of those housewives, you’d have no good reason to stop him.

You try not to think about it too often. How Dean could, on any day, just decide that he was done with you. You’d wake up, and suddenly last night would be the last night. The last time you’d touch him. The last time he’d touch you.

And you really, really try not to think about it. But the floodgates have been opened, and now you can’t stop.

Dean might be able to sense it. 

Maybe that’s why he’s touching you, even as the air becomes wired with silence. He’s trying to remind you that for now, he’s here with you.

For now.

“It’s gettin’ late.” He mutters, and you only hum. You’d left at dawn, but Montana was a big state. You’d only just crossed the border into Wyoming, and the sky is already dark and scattered with scars.

“You know where we are?” 

Dean shakes his head. “Think it’s nowhere. Haven’t see a sign for miles. And I can soldier through, sweetheart-“

“No.” You sigh. “It’s fine. I can-“

“You’re not driving.”

“Dean-“

“It’s not cause I don’t trust you,” he says your name, giving you a pointed look. “It’s cause you’re tired. We’ll just sleep out here.”

“Out-“ You blink at him. “In the car?”

“Yeah, Baby’s safer than a motel. I used to sleep in her all the time, when it was just me-“

“But it’s not just you-“

“We’ve been closer than squished in the car, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice is a drawl, and he squeezes your thigh like a reminder. As if you could ever forget. “It’ll be fine. I’ve got a gun, and you’ve got me.”

You don’t have him. 

You give in anyway.

And it’s only an hour before it’s too much. Dean pressed up right behind you—there wasn’t any cold to huddle against, but he hadn’t seemed interested in hearing that—with his knee almost between your thighs, his face near your neck, and his arms wrapped around your stomach. 

Everything smells like him. Even the blanket he’d pulled from the trunk. And you’d thought it would be good for him to hold you like this, but this isn’t in the sanctity of his bedroom. No one but you has ever been allowed in his bedroom. You know for a fact other girls have been in this position.

In the Impala, Dean wrapped around them like he’s never wanted to be anywhere else.

You used to be jealous of them, and how they got to be close to Dean, even for a night.

Now, you know it’s never enough. And you’ll never be able to admire those girls more, for having Dean once, then walking away.

There’s a chance they didn’t have him quite like you do. His laughter and company and stupid blanket, his shirt over their body and his total vulnerability as he sleeps.

You’re trying not to think about it.

But it’s hard with Dean pressed right behind you. 

It’s another hour before you squirm away and climb outside. You need the air, the isolation, the anything but Dean holding you like he’d like to keep you, when he doesn’t. 

You just need space.

And there’s a lot of it, above you. Glittering in the sky as you climb onto the roof, and seemingly infinite with the flat skyline. You lay flat on your back and watch it until you feel sleepy again. And Dean will be pissed if you fall asleep outside, but you’re so tired-

“Come back inside.” 

You feel a tap on your knee, and push up to see Dean frowning at you.

“You’ll get sick, sweetheart-“

“I’m fine.” You mutter, lying back down. “I’ll be in soon.”

Dean makes an odd sound. “Will you.”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d you come out in the first place.”

“I- Just wanted to watch the stars.”

“Could’ve woken me up.”

You rise back up, and Dean’s almost glaring at you. As if you’ve offended him. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

His jaw twitches. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“What I-“ You frown at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He lets out a long sigh, rubbing his brow with a hand. “Alright. We’re doing this.”

“Doing- Dean!”

He’s yanked you forward until your knees are dangling off the side, and he’s standing between your legs. Pressed between your legs. Pressed into you, and barely a breath away as he scans over your face.

“Dean?” You whisper, unable to move away, and his face tightens. “What’s-“

“You’re avoiding me.”

“I- I’ve been in the car with you all day-“

“But you’re not talking!” He snaps, his tone heavy. Like this is painful. “Ever since we did the interviews, you haven’t talked to me or let me touch you, and I don’t know what I did wrong, baby, but I can’t fix it if you keep-“

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” You grab Dean’s face between your hands, shaking your head. He can’t be allowed to think that. “I- It was me. And it’s stupid.”

He frowns. “Not stupid if it makes you upset.”

“It is,” you mumble. “It’s- Don’t worry about it. You didn’t even do anything, or pretend you would, but I- Never mind.”

Dean’s not pulling away. He’s just examining you. Like the answer will be written all over your face. 

It might be.

Because you can see the exact moment he gets it. His eyes widen, he lets out a sharp breath, and then he presses in closer with a small smirk.

“Were you jealous?”

“I- no-“

“Yeah, you were.” He shakes his head, letting out a dry laugh. “You were upset I might- Son of a bitch-“ He says your name, and looks far too amused for how your face might be burning. “Why didn’t you say something-“

“Because it’s dumb!” You snap, and he doesn’t even pretend to flinch when you shove at his chest. “You weren’t doing anything, and it’s- it’s not like we’re together-“

Dean catches your hand and tugs you forwards, all but pinning you to his chest and scanning over your features with a small frown. “Say that again.”

“I- It-“ You voice is going a little hoarse, but Dean won’t stop staring at you. “It’s not like we’re together-“

“Wrong.” Dean certainly looks offended now, shaking his head with a tight frown. “I got two women in my life, and it’s her.” He pats Baby’s hood with a grin, and it’s hard not to roll your eyes at him. “And- Hey. Saw that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You’re starting to smile.

You’re not sure how he always pulls that out of you.

But he’s Dean. So he does.

“Stop getting smart with me,” He mutters, leaning forward to bump his nose with yours. “I’m trying to be helpful-“

“You are being helpful.” You sigh, dropping your head into his shoulder. “I told you it was stupid.”

“Wasn’t stupid.” Dean’s hand finds its way into your hair, running it carefully through his fingers. “Nothing you do is stupid. Can be dramatic, but not stupid.”

“Thanks.” You mumble, and he shrugs, his fingers stilling suddenly in your hair. 

When he speaks again, his voice is impossible low, and rough, and right in your fucking ear. “You still doubting that I mean it, babygirl?”

“Mean what?”

He chuckles, and god, his voice is getting deeper. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“I-“

“Don’t play dumb, sweetheart,” Dean’s palm starts to rub right over the cloth of your shorts, and your breath hitches against his skin. “You’re not that good at it.”

“‘m good at it.” You’re already a little dizzy, but Dean’s all around you and pressing down. “You- I-“

“I know. You need some extra attention? Need me to fuck you until you get that I damn mean it?”

There it is. The deepest voice. The sex voice, that he’ll almost growl in your ear on a case before pulling you into a closet, or hum at you in the kitchen before herding you back to his bedroom.

Asshole. 

He knows you’d jump off a roof if he asked you with that voice.

“Answer me,” he mutters your name, teasing his thumb up and down your still-clothed slit. “Gotta hear it.”

“Ye-“ You let out a breathy moan into his shoulder. “Yes, please-“

“There she is.” He’s almost crooning at you, and it’s enough to make you start grinding onto his hand. “Never anything stupid with you, my smart girl.”

You squeak as Dean tugs you back by your hair, and even in the dark of the night, he’s the best thing you’ve ever seen. Pretty green eyes darkened and focused wholly on you, an expression of something dangerously close to reverence all over his face as he scans over you. 

His hand moves away from your core, bracing him on the hood of the Impala, but you don’t get a whine in protest before he’s pulling you into a long, deep kiss. Taking his time, pressing his tongue into your mouth and humming when you part without a thought, never coming up for air because you don’t need it. You have Dean, grunting when you almost fall over his body, moaning his name against his mouth because if he’s going to let you have this, you’re going to take all of it. 

“Son of a bitch.” Dean mutters your name, pulling you back with a lazy grin, and you can only pant and drop your brow against his. “Never think I want anyone but you. Ever.”

“Dean, you-“

“No.” He shakes his head, pressing a softer kiss and mumbling against your lips. “You’re my girl, baby. Don’t forget it.”

You sigh. “I can’t tell if you’re talking to me or the car.”

Dean barks a laugh, and it pulls a smaller smile onto your lips, that splits into an almost stupid grin when Dean grabs you back into another long, slightly rougher kiss. More teeth and spit, a little bruising and mind-numbing. He might be trying to sedate your brain into not overthinking.

If he is, it’s working.

“Right now I’m talking about you, pretty girl.” He hums, the outline of his cock pressing against your inner thigh, and you can’t even think of a quick comeback.

All you can really think is Dean, handsome and somehow yours. Against all odds and reason, Dean seems to think he’s yours.

And you could never hate yourself enough to deny him.

“That’s good.” You whisper, and Dean chuckles.

“Yeah, it is. C’mon,” his hand goes back to pressing between your thighs, and your hips buck. “Lemme show you, sweetheart. Gonna make you feel so good.”

You nod, already humping his hand as he rubs around your clothed clit, and Dean hums your name.

“Words-“

“Yes, please.” You whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

“Hold on.”

 Dean hooks his fingers on your underwear, pushing it to the side before shoving one finger right into your pussy, and you let out a high squeak.

“Jesus.” He mutters, glancing down to where you’re squeezing around him. “You’re fuckin’ soaked, baby. This all for me?”

You nod, your brow pressed back to his. “Only for you, Dean, only ever for you-“

“Fucking-“ Dean groans, pulling your lower lip between his teeth. “You’re so perfect baby. Always so ready for me-“

You moan as two fingers slam into you, scissoring and pumping with a rough, precise speed, Dean grabbing your chin and angling your head to the side. His kisses fall to your neck as you start to hump against him, scratching at his neck and whining whenever he lets his thumb flick over your clit. You’re already going out of your mind, Dean’s somehow still tucked into his pants, and you want more. 

You must have said it aloud, because Dean chuckles against your neck. “This not enough for you, sweetheart?”

“I- It is- I- Feels so good-“ You moan, your hips jerking as Dean crooks his fingers against the deepest spot inside of you, and his grip tightens.

“Gotta stop squirming, baby.”

“But I want you-“

“You got me.” Dean starts to rub over your clit, and you shake your head, your voice almost a whine.

“But I want you,” You repeat, grinding over his bulge, and he lets out a long hiss, his fingers in your cunt picking up to a brutal pace. “Please.”

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, pulling back to watch you with that reverence again. “This not enough for you, babygirl? You wanna take my cock too?”

You nod frantically, squeaking when his fingers start to rub on that deep spot, his thumb teasing feather-light touches over your clit, and you’re going to fly out of your skin-

“One time.” He holds your gaze, and you might fall apart just from the sight of him. Blown-out pupils on yours, his jaw set as he watches you, so handsome and somehow yours- 

“Dean-“

“Just one, babygirl.” His thumb presses down and starts to roll firm circles around you, and your mouth falls open in a silent moan. “There you go, wanna see you cum one time before you take my cock, you can do it-“

It’s like he flips a switch. Your orgasm crashes through you with a high, wanting sound of Dean mixed with pleas, and he swallows it with another rough kiss. You’re only seeing stars and feeling an impossibly good rush of pleasure through your whole body. There’s a brief moment where Dean fingers are gone and you whimper at the lost, but Dean’s knee presses right against your cunt, and you let out a soft, easy sigh.

“Feel good, sweetheart?”

If his question is teasing or mocking, you really don’t fucking care, and nod dumbly as he pulls away. 

Dean only laughs, his fingers—the ones that had just been fucking in you—coming up to his mouth. He licks them clean, his gaze never leaving yours, and your hips roll against his knee.

 “I- C’mon, Dean, please-“ 

“Christ,” Dean mutters your name, brushing some of the hair stuck to your brow away. “You’re like- My dream girl. You know that, right?”

“I- I think I do.” You lean forward, continuing to grind onto him as your hand wanders down to squeeze his cock, straining through his pants. “Can you show me?”

His eyes flash, and he swats your hand away, pinning it to the hood. “You still need my cock, sweet girl? Still need me to fuck you on the roof, make you scream so all of Montana can hear?”

“We’re in Wyoming,” you whisper, and Dean shrugs.

“They can hear too. You want it?”

You nod, not breaking Dean’s gaze. “Yes.”

He’s so fast you almost aren’t ready. Kissing you so harsh you think he’s trying to meld his lips to yours, before pulling you right into his chest and sucking a sloppy line along your jaw and neck. Your fingers dig into his shoulder in a desperate play to keep steady, but it’s not needed. 

Dean won’t let you fall.

There are a few things that break through the haze of Dean’s lip, nipping on your neck. The sound of the Impala door opening and the rustle of a belt, as well as the feeling of big, calloused hands kneading up your thigh before pulling down your shorts, and taking your panties with them.

It’s a quick second, where you’re completely bare and shivering from the cold air on your pussy. But then you hear the door close, Dean’s mouth slams back over yours in a demanding, harsh kiss, and you’re never going to be cold again.

His dick slams into you in one, movement, and your mouth falls open at the perfect stretch of him inside you. Dean takes advantage of it, pushing the kiss further until you’re melted over him, fluttering slightly around him as a second, tiny orgasm rips through you.

“God, fucking-“ Dean groans your name, pulling all the way out before slamming back in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know baby. You’re so fuckin’ tight, feel so good wrapped around my cock, wanna-“

“Do it.” You mumble, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Wanna feel it, please. Need to feel it.”

He groans, his hand moving back to brace himself against the Impala’s roof. “You sure-“

“Yes.” It’s the easier question to answer. 

And the certainty in your voice pays off. Dean’s will snaps with a half growl of your name, and you’re gone.

Usually, Dean lets you lead with sex. And you almost always make it slow. You’ve wanted to savor it as much as you could, to stretch out the stolen moments because you’d thought, one day, you’d never have them again. You’d give Dean everything you had—on your knees and riding him and splayed out below him, trying to put on a show when he’d bury his face in your cunt—because you’d thought it was what you needed to do for him to come back. 

He’s going to come back no matter what. 

And it seems to be your turn to take.

Dean’s almost feral against you. Hammering his hips into your sensitive cunt, splitting you open and pressing against that needy spot over and over until you’re a moaning, writhing mess in his arms. His lips never leave your skin for a second, kissing and biting over your shoulder, nipping at the base of your neck before rising back up to mutter filthy praise against your lips.

“Takin’ me so good, sweetheart, fuckin’ made for my cock,” his thrust are already starting to grow uneven, and when you bite on his lower lip, he slams into you so hard stars start to form behind your eyes.

“Dean.” You gasp, and he groans as you squeeze around him. “Feels so good, you’re- God-“

“You like takin’ my big dick, baby?” He drawls against you, adjusting your hips to hit you impossibly deeper. “Shit, you feel like heaven, wanna- Fuck-“

There’s a tension in his voice, even if he doesn’t stop moving, and you frown. “What’s-“

“Forgot a condom.” Dean grunts, rutting against you as he drops to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “I’m not gonna last, sweetheart- I gotta-“

“Inside.” You mumble, your breath hitching as he bottoms out again, the angle making your clit rub against his abdomen. “Dean, please- I said I wanna feel it-“

“Shit,” he moans your name against your skin, cock twitching in your cunt. “You’re so- Fuckin’ love you, baby, I’m gonna-“

He moves back up to kiss you as he chases his release, still fucking moaning down your throat as he fucks you desperately through it.

But then he doesn’t stop. Dean’s cum is dripping out of your pussy, down your thighs and onto the roof of the car, but he’s not slowing down. Still half-hard and grabbing your waist until you’re sure it’s going to leave a bruise—you hope it does—and fucking his cum back into you, until you’re so impossibly full you think you’re going to fucking die from it, and he- He’d said-

“Dean-“

“Last one,” he mutters against your lips, rolling his hips in a sharp circle that makes your squeak. “You can gimme one more, pretty girl, c’mon,” his thumb moves to your clit, and your hips jerk off the bed.

“God-“

“Not god. Just me” Dean laughs at his own joke, pinching you and rolling the nerves between his fingers, and there’s a tight coil deep in your gut that about to snap, and-

“Dean, please-“

“I know,” he hums, and this is too soft a kiss for how he’s still bruising your cervix, how you’re on fire and he’s still using his sex voice. “Squirt on my cock, baby, you can do it, so fuckin’ gorgeous all fucked out ’n full of me-“

He gives a small, harsh slap to your clit before pressing his palm and rubbing it back and forth, right as his cock presses on that hypersensitive place inside of you, and you cum with a scream that echoes through the night.

Something is flooding out from between your thighs, but in the white-hot daze of your orgasm, you really can’t tell if it’s pee or Dean’s cum-

Not Dean’s cum. He’s still buried inside you, mumbling low words as he kisses all over your face, holding you as you shake slightly against him. 

“You fucking soaked me, sweetheart.” He chuckles, kneading gently against your skin. “C’mon let’s get you inside before you catch a cold.”

There’s no way you’re in danger of catching a cold. You’re all warm as Dean slowly pulls away, making a movement like he’s considering diving between your legs and licking you clean, but deciding against it and hauling you fully into his arms instead.

You’re grateful. Right now it feels like one touch could set you over the edge again, and you’re not sure you’d be able to take it. Dean’s mouth on your still aching cunt might actually kill you. It can be an experiment for another time, when you’re not in the middle of nowhere.

Because there will be another time. Dean wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t want more times. Wouldn’t be cleaning you up with his own shirt, and grinning at you so affectionately when he tries to replace your shirt, and you shake your head in a cock-drunk daze. 

“Sweetheart, it’s covered in-“

“I know.” You mumble. “I like it.”

He laughs, kissing you once with a grin. “Alright then, dirty girl. Keep the freakin’ cum shirt, see if I care.”

You smile like an idiot as he pulls away—likely cleaning the roof—and then it hits you again. There will be more, because Dean- He- He said-

You sit up suddenly, pushing open the door, and Dean is running back in a second. He doesn’t get to bend down to your level, though. You wrap your arms around his waist and bury your face in his stomach before he gets the chance.

“I, uh-“ He clears his throat, tugging on your hair until you look up to meet his gaze. “What’s- Are you good?”

In the dark, with all the shadows and lights, and the vast night sky above him, he looks like an angel. Not the real kind, but the story kind. That only protect and care and guide you home, even if—as long as Dean is here, with you—you’ll never need to be guided.

Dean is home.

“I love you too.” You whisper, and his eyes widen. “And you don’t have to say anything. I know you feel it too, and I- you’re mine, and I’m yours, and that’s it.”

He nods slowly, his thumb dropping to trace over your lips. 

“Only competition I have is Baby, right?”

Normally, Dean would laugh at that. But tonight, his throat just bobs as he shakes his head.

And his voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“Never any competition for you. I feel it.” He mutters your name with that same reverence returned. “Always feel it. And I- Thank you.”

You can’t stop your smile. “Of course. I love you, Dean. I mean it.”

His lips twitch. “I know.”

End Note: God, help me. I'm giving myself impossible standards.

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[uncle-fruity]

[Image ID: tags from Tumblr user strawberri-syrup that read: #how do u translate knowing u do this into actually fixing it #my lack of communication has killed all my friendships and idk where to start /End ID]

Hey, good question! It's one thing to know about what your behaviors are and another thing to know how to change them into new (hopefully helpful) behaviors. Idk if this will help you, but I'm going to bring up some strategies to help folks break free of their people pleasing habits.

Let's focus on you, first. Being a people pleaser requires you to objectify and dehumanize yourself in the process, so that is what you're working against. When you people please, there is a part of yourself that has decided your comfort and your needs are not as important or worthy as other people's comfort and needs. This isn't usually a conscious decision, but rather learned through past experiences and current insecurities. It's why a lot of people pleasers have a history of emotional abuse: the abuser requires you to shut down your emotional needs and predict their moods, and when you can't do that (no one can forever) they punish you. So you might very well have picked up the message that you are only as good as you are useful or only as good as you are patient/nice and that any amount of "negative emotion" (anger, sadness, disappointment, etc) will not be tolerated even by people you love.

That is a hard cycle to break out of. So, to start, I think it's good to take some time to reflect on what emotion or belief drives your need to people please and bottle yourself up. Working against feelings of insecurity, fear of abandonment, fear of ridicule, fear of conflict... that's the hardest part of this, but it's also the most important thing to practice. But there are things that will help you.

So let's say you've already figured out why you act like this. You know why you tend to people please and you're in the middle of processing your feelings about it. Good! That will be an ongoing process. But reflection and wanting to change aren't much without action behind them, and that is much harder than just thinking about things.

So! First really actionable thing you can do is set some boundaries! You don't have to do the scary telling your friends part yet, you just need to know what your boundaries are. A lot of people pleasers don't know what their boundaries are. They might have boundaries, but they let people walk over those boundaries because they don't recognize that they were boundaries to begin with. So, define those. Maybe you don't like being touched in certain ways. Maybe you get anxious and need to leave in certain situations. Maybe you need to have a dedicated time for just yourself without anyone contacting you... idk what your needs are; I'm not you. But you are you and you know what you need and want -- or at least have a better chance of figuring it out than I do.

Remember!! Boundaries are something *you* enforce for yourself. Obviously, a good friend will respect your boundaries, but if someone doesn't respect your boundaries, it is your job to respond to that. Let's say you have the boundary, "Don't yell at me/raise your voice in anger when we're having a disagreement." Well, you can't control someone who doesn't care about your feelings and will walk over your boundary even after you told them about it. What you can do is control your response. So, when you think of the boundaries you have, you should also consider what you will do in response to someone crossing that boundary. In our example, perhaps a good response would be to walk away, leave the conversation until the other person can talk to you with respect for your needs.

I've spent a long time on boundaries, but that's because it's one of the most important things for a people pleaser to understand about themselves. Think of people pleasing like muscle memory. If you do it enough, it will be your default mode of action. You won't have to think about it to do it. But breaking your current muscle memory and rebuilding that memory into something else will require intention and dedication. Boundaries help you focus your intentions and define your needs. Many smarter people than me have talked about boundaries before, so look into some resources about how to make and maintain boundaries if you want to learn more.

Next, setting expectations. This is about understanding where your limits are and having conversations with the people you love before it becomes an issue. Best example I have is one of my own experiences. I am very bad at responding to texts and messages when I'm overwhelmed or busy. I can go weeks without responding if the matter isn't urgent. But this can be a problem in my relationships if that behavior goes fully unaddressed. People start to feel like you're avoiding them or blowing them off. So I started setting expectations for folks -- I was open about the fact that my response times are bad. I was clear that it was not a personal thing when I didn't get back to people. And I made sure to reassure people that even if I'm not responding, I am *looking* at the messages soon after they're sent, and I *will* respond if there is an emergency or if there's a time sensitive question. I haven't had a problem with this since having open and honest conversations up front *before* it became a real problem.

All that to say, if you know you have preferences or behaviors that might conflict with your relationships, talk to your friends about it and make sure y'all are on the same page. A lot of times, people pleasers feel like they need to anticipate the needs of the people around them. That can be good and bad, depending on how you go about it. But it is much easier when you actually talk to them about their needs and expectations. This should be a two-way conversation. Everyone involved should state their needs and together you should define expectations within the relationship.

The communication part is really the key here. It isn't bad to want to care for your friends. It isn't even bad to occasionally put your own preferences aside in order to compromise. But if your friends don't know that something is upsetting you, they can't do anything about it. Which cycles around to the emotional abuse pattern of "mind reading." When you hide your anger or resentment, you are essentially making your friends read your emotions and anticipate your needs. It destabilizes the friendship. If your friends don't know what upsets you, how can they know that they're upsetting you if you don't speak up? Not only that, but if they're trying to figure out why you're upset, they might read it wrong and find solutions for problems you don't have while the original problem continues to churn inside you. That is ALSO a thing people pleasers do.

Another example. I have a people pleaser friend who has the history of emotional abuse etc etc. There was a time (years ago) when she'd get drunk and show me her tits and like. Yeah. I appreciated looking at tits. Love that stuff. But what she anticipated is that I would want to have sex with her. So she offered one day (she was sober, fwiw) and I said sure! But I always like to have a conversation about what people are into and all that. She dodged so many of my questions about what she liked, what she wanted, etc. Not only that, but I felt like she wasn't really listening to me when I was talking about what I liked and she didn't ask any questions to get to know my preferences better. So when we finally got to the sex part, I was stressed out. She sounded like she was faking her pleasure. She didn't want to touch me in any way that really felt good to me. She just expected me to use my strap and have my fun. It made me feel absolutely terrible about myself. Like, I didn't need to have sex with her. I didn't think that her showing me her boobs was naturally going to lead to sex. Looking back, this was a particularly rough time for our friendship, so we eventually had a conversation about it. It came out that she only had sex with me because she assumed that's what I not only wanted but expected from her. I honestly felt extremely hurt. I'd originally thought she *wanted* to have sex with me, and that was the only reason I agreed to do it. I felt ugly and undesirable when she didn't want to touch me. I felt like her fake pleasure sounds were condescending. Not to mention she tried to dirty talk in a way that supremely turned me off, which might have been avoided if she was actually engaged in our conversation talking about what we wanted/liked in bed.

The point of that story, though, is that it really damaged our friendship and was a blow to my (at the time) fragile self-esteem. These days, I'd be able to spot some of these red flags and choose not to have sex under those conditions, but at the time it was hard to recognize what was happening until it was over. I learned that she would not be forthright with her own needs and desires and whatnot, so I had to start checking in with her when she offered to do certain things. Questioning her like, "Do you really want that? Do you *know* what you want right now?" And being clear that she could not read my mind and that I didn't appreciate her trying to. That if I wanted something from her, I would ask directly and respectfully and that she was always allowed to say no if she didn't want to and I wouldn't get angry at her for refusing me. Years later, we are still friends. There are still rough spots we need to work out, but she has gone to therapy and is finally dating someone who doesn't treat her like an emotional support girlfriend. It has taken her years, but she is finally working to correct some of her people pleasing behaviors, and we have a better relationship for it. It took her awhile to believe me when I said I would tell her directly if I was upset and that she didn't need to worry about me dropping subtle hints at her.

Which, I think, finally brings me to my last point. So far, I've talked about defining your boundaries and setting expectations within your friendships. I've explained through example why the behavior can actually recreate patterns of abuse or cause harm. A lot of this stuff you can work on alone, but there is another thing you need to be able to work on changing your people pleasing ways: a good, trustworthy friend.

I started being able to talk about my emotions, my needs, my annoyances, my angers when I finally felt like I had someone who would listen to them without getting angry and flying off the handle. When I first started dating my current partner, I was in awe of how level headed our conversations were when there was conflict. They listened to me. They told me how they were feeling. We worked together to see where the issue was and what we could do to address the issue in the future. It was my partner who brought up problems they had, and it was those direct conversations that made me feel safe enough to speak up when I had a problem. It gave me a space to practice being vulnerable with someone I knew loved me and wanted the best for both of us. On the other side of this, I believe my friend that I mentioned above really started to make progress when she started therapy and when I showed her that I was serious about being open and honest with my emotions and that she wasn't obligated to fix my problems for me. It also helped that she got out of a cycle of dating toxic fuckheads who enabled/encouraged her people pleasing behaviors so they could take advantage of her.

The fear of abandonment, fear of ridicule... the stuff I talked about up front. Those are not illogical fears when most of your life you've been taught that you will be punished for your emotions. You need to surround yourself with people who will encourage you to speak up for yourself. You need a friend who will check in with you and make sure you're not just saying "yes" because you feel like you should. You need people who are clear about what they want and need from your friendship.

Standing up for yourself, expressing your emotions, stating your needs, setting boundaries -- you can only do so much alone. The hardest part is deciding to take that leap of faith in your friends and gritting your teeth hoping for a good outcome. Hopefully, you have decent friends who care about your feelings and who will make an effort to support you. But let me be clear: if your friends treat you badly because you've done the hard emotional work to start setting and maintaining boundaries, those are not good friends. I am a big believer in cutting toxic people out of your life when you can, because you *do* deserve better. And, thankfully, most people are not going to react badly to you having preferences and opinions and feelings. It's normal for someone to have their best interests in mind, and as long as they aren't hurting other people, it's okay to have hard emotions like anger, disappointment, sadness, etc. But it's okay for you to have standards for how you are treated in your friendships/relationships. It's not just okay, but it's absolutely essential for healthy relationships to thrive. And it is hard to trust when you've had a lifetime of feeling like you can't trust others to treat you with respect, but you still have to try. And you don't have to be emotionally invested in people who treat you like an object whose job it is to keep them happy. Even just having one friend that you feel safe to be vulnerable with can make a huge difference and give you a way to practice these things.

Tl;dr -- define your boundaries, have a plan for how to respond if someone crosses a boundary, have conversations with your friends to set expectations within the friendships even if there is no current conflict, and believe that you deserve to have a voice and that you are worthy of the full range of human emotion. Ultimately, you have to find a way to convince yourself that you are worth caring about, and you need to surround yourself with people who do care about you and who will help you learn healthier behavioral habits.

Sorry for the long post, but hopefully there's something you can take away from it. Perhaps others will have other strategies they'd like to add, but knowing your boundaries and learning to care about yourself are at the core no matter what.

You're not actually a better friend for not articulating and respecting your own needs, limits and boundaries. Your lack of communication and boundaries is not some impressive sacrifice. You're not doing anyone any favors by acting like you're okay with things you aren't okay with. You're just building burnout and resentment that will eventually damage the relationship in question. And when you eventually snap and walk away because you silently overburdened yourself to be a "good friend", it won't be the other persons fault

[fruitiesss]

bob reynolds NSFW alphabet !

as requested lol, i listened to the people and the people want bob smut.

MINORS + AGELESS DNI. SMUT.

send requests in! characters are on my pinned posts, just give me a hot minute to write them ^^

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) Bob's very into cuddling and being close in general, he's also a human heater so if you're not cold you're gonna have to push him off until you are (his pouty face ensues). If it was really messy, he'll run a bath and get in with you situated on his lap. He keeps water bottles by the bed and isn't above running quickly to the store to grab some food if you need it.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) Bob likes his hands. They're almost constantly in use because he likes to fidget and read, so he's more than capable with them, and he loves the way you come apart under them.

He'd like your thighs and hips, it's something to hold onto while he fucks into you or when you ride him. He also loves the squishiness of them, much better than any stress relief toys you buy him.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) Bob's never been in the place mentally (or physically) to risk having a kid at his age. He's always used condoms or pulled out when he's been in quick hook-ups before (though not many, he's quite inexperienced). You would have to sit him down and discuss kids with him first, but even then he's still hesitant and nervous.

He prefers to cum on your stomach or back if you'd let him. He cleans it up fast though, knowing the stickiness when it dries is less than desirable.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) He rarely watches porn - why would he need to, he has you! - but does when you're away on a long mission or a trip. He takes inspiration from it and tries to incorporate a position or kink he'd watched that he thought you might like.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) This boy is inexperienced. As I said before, he's had a few hook-ups here and there but he's never been interested enough to learn. You're gonna have to teach him a few things and he is so eager to please you in any way you want. He's incredibly good at following orders.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) COWGIRL. FUCKING RIDE HIM HE WILL CUM INSTANTLY. Just the way he can see you - all of you - makes him harder than a fucking rock. Ugh, this man will have his hands anywhere, eyes half lidded in pure bliss as he watches you bounce.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) Bob's a mix of both. He's serious when he's concentrating, trying to reach the spot that makes your toes curl, but he laughs and jokes with you when he's not. He can't take himself seriously and neither can you, it feels so good but it's also really funny.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) He's never taken care of himself properly before. Now that he's clean, he probably trims a little down there so it's not completely unbearable but he won't be smooth or clean shaven. He dyed his hair blonde ONCE and nobody will let him forget it, so YES the carpet matches the drapes thank you. He also doesn't mind if you shave or not. Hair is natural and he understands that, he actually prefers if you don't shave, as long as you're clean.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) Sex for him is all about connection. He's done the unfeeling, unromantic stuff before and he hates it. You are his everything and he needs you to know that. He's complimenting you with every other word, letting you know how much he loves you or how good you make him feel. He is all about you.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) He rarely jacks off because you're right there all the time. Though when you're out of town or on a long mission he will do it a couple of times just to keep himself sated until you can come back. He's needy for you always.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) BOB LIKES HIS HAIR BEING PULLED. Grab it by the roots and pull and he will give you the sweetest sound you've ever heard. He loves praise too, call him a good boy and he's already on his knees for you so he can do anything you want. He's a switch 100%, will do anything you want but likes to be dominated sometimes.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do) He likes being in bed with you, he's very hesitant to do anything in public because you're his to see and he's yours to see. He will if you really want to, but he won't like it. When he's really needy, he'll corner you wherever you are in the tower until you take him up to one of your rooms, with him following like a dog on a leash.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) You. If you're in the mood, he's in the mood. If he sees you, he's in the mood. Wearing something revealing? He's on you. You opened the floodgates when you first laid with him now lie in the bed you made.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) He's not into any kind of bodily fluid (other than cum, obviously) or anything where he hurts you or you hurt him. He refuses to lay a hand on you. Unless it's a soft slap. Impact play is a big no no.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) He likes to get his dick sucked. He loves it, actually. You look so pretty on your knees with his cock in your mouth. He prefers giving, though! He wasn't so good at it when he started out but he has definitely gotten much better since he started out and he is a MUNCH. This man will spend hours between your legs if he can, his intense eyes staring into yours.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) Bob as a person is very soft and sweet despite everything he's been through. He would take it slow and sweet with you, afraid to break you as if you were made of glass. He could take you fast and rough but he wouldn't be able to keep it up.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) He doesn't like them. Too fast, it blurs in his head. He needs to know you're satisfied before he can leave you. He will take you for a quickie if you really, really beg him and only if you're in a place where you can't get to your beds.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.) He likes to experiment with anything you bring to him. He'll do anything (other than his nos) at least once.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?) Thanks to his powers, he has very good stamina. He'll last about 6 rounds with water breaks in between but if you wanted more, he will give you more. Anything for you. He'd last the whole day for you.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?) He's never seen the need for them. His hand did the job just fine when he was low on money (or needed the money for drugs) and even now he doesn't see the need for toys. He doesn't get jealous if you have any toys either, he'll use them on you if you're into that.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) He thinks he's a tease but really he gives in whenever you so much as pout at him or whine. He's so smitten for you and wants to provide everything you need.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) Bob will be quiet at first, biting into his hand to stifle any of his moans or grunts so he can fully hear the beautiful noises he elicits from you. But that's when he's on top. Get him submissive and that boy is LOUD for you. Pull his hair and he WILL moan. Overstimulate him and he WILL whine.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character) He likes to bite and suck marks into your skin. Especially in those spots that are hard to cover up. It gives him a sense of pride, knowing that he did that to you. He's also very bitey in general. Very cute.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes) He's not small at all but he'd not HUGE. I'd say he's 6 inches, nice and thick. Knows how to use it once he gets the hang of sex in general. It curves slightly to the left and has a nice pink tip, cut.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) This guy is super needy. He's ready for you at any time, you just need to ask and he's already pouncing on you.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) He only lets himself fall asleep once he's sure you're comfortable enough to. He is very sleepy after, though. He's falling asleep as he's scrubbing you in the bath, head slumping forward onto your shoulder until you nudge him. Once you're taken care of though, he's out like a light on the bed.

[mahmahmahmysharona]

When you and Bob try to stay away from each other and fail miserably.

(Bob Reynolds x Avenger Reader) Part 4/?

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3

Over the next few weeks, you found yourself falling apart. Not enough for everyone to notice, but enough for you to feel it.

You missed him. You missed your friend. And unfortunately, now that you knew you loved him, Bob's absence hurt you.

Maybe you did something wrong. Maybe you didn't. Bob is a complicated person with a complicated past. Perhaps he just changed his mind about wanting to know you.

You found yourself staying in your room to avoid accidently coming across him (you didn't need to bother: Bob was also hiding out in his room for the same reason), and this raised questions from the others. But you shrugged them off, not wanting to spill your secrets and worries when it looked like they might not even matter anymore.

Things aren't helped by the fact that Bob was getting worse. Not that you witnessed it, but the others made sure to mention it to you. He seemed more agitated, more careful than usual. He was talking to himself again. He was jumpy, too. It scared you. You wanted him to be okay.

Finally, you could both stand to be in the same room again. But there was little eye contact, and only conversation when necessary. ("Can you pass the milk?") You hated it.

If you had more courage, you would have told him that you couldn't stand him not being around you, and how unfair it is to lose someone just when you realised you loved them.

You would happily pretend not to if it would make him come back to you.

Things came to a head one afternoon when Bucky and Walker came to blows. Walker, resorting to pointing out the flaws of other team members in order to defend himself, ended up using Bob as collateral damage, calling him "the world's worst house pet."

Bob was standing right there. Walker didn't mean it. It was a cheap shot. But Bob took it personally. You should see his his fists curl up and a sadness wash over his eyes. He slipped out of the room, unnoticed by the others in the chaos of the fight.

You were furious. Raging. If you couldn't help Bob like you used to, you could sure as hell still stick up for him. You crossed over and knocked Walker to the ground, slamming your fist into his nose.

Walker yelped, but he fought back. He always fought back — you made him promise never to go easy on you in training, so why should he now?

The fight lasted a good while, and the others even got bored and wandered off. Eventually, you both called it quits, somewhat unsure of who actually won. But you were fairly certain he got the message you were trying to send.

Afterwards, you headed back to your room, your cheek scraped and jaw bruised from the scrap. You were about to go inside when you heard a crack from across the hall. Bob.

You rushed inside his room without knocking. He was pacing the floor, rubbing his wrists together. Talking to himself. To him. Behind him, a fist-sized patch of the wall crumbled inward.

"Bob," you said, stepping forward. His fist wasn't bloody — he doesn't get injured as easily as you — but he looked shaken. When he saw you, he stepped backwards. God, it hurt you to see him look at you like that.

"Please, don't come any closer," he said. "Something's happening to me."

The tremor in his voice and the self-hatred you felt even from where you stood was enough to make you move towards him again. "You're upset, that's all," you said. "Ignore Walker, he was just heated. You were in his eyeline, and you're an easy target. He was out of line."

"Except he's not out of line," Bob said. When you reached out for him, he shifted away, suddenly alert. He told you again to stay back. It was the worst he's been in a while, and he didn’t know what would happen to you if you touched him.

"I'm here with you," you told him. It's the best you could do if he wouldn’t let you go any closer. His eyes were red with restrained tears.

He continued, "I'm the most useless person here, and even if I weren't, I'd be the most dangerous."

"I don't believe that. I don't believe it for a second."

"None of you are safe with me."

"I'm safe with you, Bob."

He looked at you. You could practically hear his heart splintering into a thousand pieces beneath his ribs. "How can you be sure?"

You once told him that if he ever got lost, you'd find him. You'd crawl through your worst memories to bring him back. He was lost now, right in front of you, and you needed him. He needed to know you trusted him, that you'd give him everything on blind faith alone, because you believed in him.

You reached out, grabbed him by the shirt, and pulled him into you. You kissed him. His body stiffened under your touch, but he didn't pull away. Your lips moved against his, trying to say a hundred things without speaking at all. I'm safe. You're safe. We're safer together.

You kissed him for god knows how long, until you needed to come up for air and you heard him choke out, "I—I don't know if I can—"

But he could. You knew he could. You took his arm and wrapped it around you, holding onto him for dear life as you did so. His hand hooked onto your shirt and grasped the fabric tightly. A lifeline. He was coming back to you, out of the darkness.

"Don't let go of me, okay?" you told him, your lips grazing his mouth again. He nodded, tightening his grip on you. You kissed him, and his time, he kissed you back. At the feeling of it, you became undone. Suddenly, it was you who needed to be held. You'd never felt like this, and it was almost too much. Between kisses, you heard yourself begging him, "Don't let go of me.”

He held you firmly, and when he pulled away to speak, his voice was calmer. He pressed his forehead against yours, lips skimming your own as he said, “I won't.”

And he didn’t. He didn’t even when you had to pull away from the kissing for good, dizzy and breathless. When you finally looked at him again, he was flushed, his nostrils flaring with loaded breaths. But he was calmer. He was back. And more importantly, he was holding you steady. Weren’t you supposed to be supporting him right now?

“Are you okay?” you asked.

“Yeah. …How did you know to do that?”

“Honestly, I didn’t know if that would do anything. Worth a shot.”

He caught your eye, and before you knew it, his thumb was touching your cheek, just below the fresh grazing.

"Did you have this before?" he asked.

"I beat the shit out of Walker. I'll admit, he got some good punches in."

Finally, he laughed. Then you. When you both regained yourselves, you worked up the nerve to say something — something you’ve been wanting to say since that day in the elevator.

“Bob…” you began. “I’m not sure I can be your friend anymore.”

His first reaction was one of hurt, and it’s one you’re far too used to seeing on his face. But once he understood what you were saying, he nodded.

“I don’t think I can either.” You felt his hands tighten at your back, and he whispered, “I'm going to ruin this.”

“No, you won’t. And even if you wanted to, I wouldn’t let you.”

“How can you be sure?”

When the words landed, you both caught each other’s eyes and smiled. Right before you pulled him down to you, your lips meeting again, and the world disappearing once more.

Next time: When it’s yours and Bob’s first time…twice.

Tag list: @purplefluffycows @i-shall-abide @avengersinitiative2012

[amielbjacobs]

I have to admit I was immediately suspicious of these results, just on the face of them. I consider myself a proficient reader despite my patchy educational background (GED, no college education, moved schools a lot, homeschooled, etc), and this is, as the OP mentioned, exactly my cohort - 28-32, not "kids these days." While I've noticed that other people my age typically don't have the same vocabulary as I do, it beggars belief to say that the average college-educated person in my age group can barely read at all. People my age are chronic texters and tweeters, how is this possible if they're so confused by unfamiliar text that they hallucinate dinosaurs into it?

With that prejudice out of the way, I went into the study with two questions: 1) Would I be considered a problematic reader by this study? and 2) Is the average person as bad at reading as this study presents?

I think it's fair to say that the study has demonstrated some kind of difficulty reading in the study sample, but I also think that the methods of the study have exaggerated the severity of this difficulty. A couple things that stuck out to me:

The sample chosen. I would say that the language used here is pretty abstract, even by the standards of Dickens. It's also a sample from the Victorian era, which causes both linguistic and historical problems (i.e., it's easier for a reader to parse the bits about "Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets" if you understand that they used gas lighting in the Victorian era). The use of this sample as the only sample means that the researchers can't distinguish between difficulty reading texts from the Victorian era and difficulty reading modern texts. I agree that it's reasonable to ask English majors to be able to understand a passage from this book, but from a scientific perspective, it robs the researchers of the ability to make fine distinctions.

The time limit. I timed myself reading 3 paragraphs of this text, and came up to about 3 minutes. That means that likely it would take me 7 minutes to read the sample paragraphs. (I couldn't time myself reading the sample paragraphs because I already read them while I was reading the study, so I moved on to the next few paragraphs.) I am a much faster reader than a lot of people; I don't think it's unreasonable to assume that the average person might take 14 minutes or more to read this text in ideal conditions, which isn't too far off from the total 20 minutes allotted for the interview. With this in mind, I think that 20 minutes is too brief of a time limit to get a good view of people's reading abilities. When you introduce time pressure, people will read in a different way than they would ordinarily. I know the study says that they didn't have to get through the full seven paragraphs, but they presumably knew that they only had 20 minuted allotted, and they could see the seven paragraphs presented to them. Essentially, introducing time pressure robs the researchers of the ability to distinguish between bad readers, and very slow readers. It also increases the risk of the subjects becoming very nervous - more on this in point #4.

The "talk-aloud" method. This method strikes me as very different from the way in which one normally reads a text. Several times, the researchers describe the subjects treating each sentence separately and being unable to carry context forward from one sentence to the next. But is this weakness inherent to the subjects, or is it created by the methodology of the study? Surely a method in which you stop after each sentence to discuss and interpret encourages the reader to take each sentence separately rather than as a whole. It also forces the subjects to use multiple different types of skills at once: first, they have to understand the passage, then they have to put that understanding into words comprehensible to other people, and lastly they have to actually speak those words. In my opinion, it would have been better to give the subjects a choice of methods (recording or writing) and then let them create a translation of the passage in their own time.

The Researcher Is Present. This is, imo, the biggest problem with the study. The facilitators are present all the way through the interview, leaning over the subjects, prompting them for more info and even, at one point, laughing at the subject's misinterpretation of the text. I'm not saying this to judge the facilitator who started laughing; what the subject said is funny. But people are social animals and having to explain yourself to another person who might laugh at you is inevitably going to affect what you say and how you feel. Being a subject in this study sounds like hell! It's an incredibly awkward setting, and you can see in every excerpt how nervous all the subjects are. Are the subjects always this bad at reading, or only when they're nervous? We don't know, and we can't know, because of the methodology.

The Researcher is Present, pt 2. With any study that has any kind of self-reported element, the researchers run the risk of being told what the subject thinks the researchers want to hear - that's unavoidable. But by putting the researchers physically in the room, one on one, with the subjects, you crank that element to 11. The researchers repeatedly criticize the subjects for not stopping and looking up more words or concepts that confused them - but they don't consider the possibility that the presence of the facilitators is what's stopping this. In an ordinary social setting, it's socially unacceptable to just stop and google every word that you can't understand, and I would argue that the setting of these interviews caused the subjects to feel this social pressure. The researchers also take the subjects' assertion that they could read the rest of Dread House with no difficulty at face value, and wonder at the source of this false confidence. But they're not considering how humiliating it would be, as a college english major, to admit "no, I don't think I could make it through this book" to a person who's just watched you struggle through seven paragraphs (and who might have laughed in your face about it!). Of course 100% of the subjects claimed they could read it with no problems!

In conclusion, I think the researchers are probably right that these subjects exhibit some degree of difficulty reading, which isn't great for English majors, but I think their methodology has significantly exaggerated it. I hypothesize that some of the more sensational interviews (the women who thought whiskers belonged to a cat, the woman who thought there was a megalosaurus roaming the streets of 19th century London) might be explained by subjects absolutely panicking and losing the ability to think rationally. I would also be interested to know if the facilitator's expectations about each subject shaped the interviews; I couldn't help but notice that all of the problematic and competent readers were described with she/her pronouns, while the only "proficient" reader cited had he/him pronouns.

i appreciated this study: "They Can't Read Very Well: A Study of the Reading Comprehension Skills Of English Majors At Two Midwestern Universities"

essentially, a pair of professors set out to test their intuitive sense that students at the college level were struggling with complex text. they recruited 85 students, a mix of english majors and english education majors - so, theoretically, people focusing on literature, and people preparing to teach adolescents how to read literature - and had them read-while-summarizing the first seven paragraphs of dickens's bleak house (or as much as they made it through in the 20 minute session). they provided dictionaries and also said students could use their phones to look up whatever they wanted, including any unfamiliar words or references. they found that the majority of the students - 58%, or 49 out of the 85 students - functionally could not understand dickens at all, and only 5% - a mere 4 out of the 85 students - proved themselves proficient readers (leaving the remaining 38%, or 32 students, as what the study authors deemed "competent" students, most of whom could understand about half the literal meaning - pretty low bar for competence - although a few of whom, they note, did much better than the rest in this group if not quite well enough to be considered proficient).

what i really appreciated about this study was its qualitative descriptions of the challenges and reading behaviors of what the authors call "problematic readers" (that bottom 58%), which resonated strongly with my own experiences of students who struggle with reading. here's their blunt big picture overview of these 49 students:

The majority of these subjects could understand very little of Bleak House and did not have effective reading tactics. All had so much trouble comprehending concrete detail in consecutive clauses and phrases that they could not link the meaning of one sentence to the next. Although it was clear that these subjects did try to use various tactics while they read the passage, they were not able to use those tactics successfully. For example, 43 percent of the problematic readers tried to look up words they did not understand, but only five percent were able to look up the meaning of a word and place it back correctly into a sentence. The subjects frequently looked up a word they did not know, realized that they did not understand the sentence the word had come from, and skipped translating the sentence altogether.

the idea that they had so many trouble with every small piece of a text that they could not connect ideas on a sentence by sentence basis is very familiar to me from teaching and tutoring, as was the habit of thought seen in the example of the student who gloms on to the word "whiskers" in a sea of confusion and guesses incorrectly that a cat is present - struggling readers, in my experience, seem to use familiar nouns as stepping stones in a flood of overwhelm, hopping as best they can from one seemingly familiar image to the next. so was this observation, building off the example of a student who misses the fact that dickens is being figurative when he imagines a megalodon stalking the streets of london:

She first guesses that the dinosaur is just “bones” and then is stuck stating that the bones are “waddling, um, all up the hill” because she can see that Dickens has the dinosaur moving. Because she cannot logically tie the ideas together, she just leaves her interpretation as is and goes on to the next sentence. Like this subject, most of the problematic readers were not concerned if their literal translations of Bleak House were not coherent, so obvious logical errors never seemed to affect them. In fact, none of the readers in this category ever questioned their own interpretations of figures of speech, no matter how irrational the results. Worse, their inability to understand figurative language was constant, even though most of the subjects had spent at least two years in literature classes that discussed figures of speech. Some could correctly identify a figure of speech, and even explain its use in a sentence, but correct responses were inconsistent and haphazard. None of the problematic readers showed any evidence that they could read recursively or fix previous errors in comprehension. They would stick to their reading tactics even if they were unhappy with the results.

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

like, i've said this before, but the year i taught third grade i had multiple students who told me they loved reading and then when i asked them about a book they were reading revealed that they had absolutely no idea what was going on - on a really basic literal level like "didn't know who said which lines of dialogue" and "couldn't identify which things or characters given pronouns referred to" - and were as best as i could tell sort of constructing their own story along the way using these little bits of things they thought they understood. that's what "reading" was, in their heads. and they were, in the curriculum/model that we used at the private school where i taught, receiving basically no support to clarify that that was not what reading was, nor any instruction that would actually help them with what they needed to do to improve (understand sentences) - and i realized over the course of that year that the master's program that had certified me in teaching elementary school had provided me with very little understanding of how to help these kids (with perhaps the sole exception of the class i took on communications disorders, not because these kids had communications disorders but because that was the only class where we ever talked, even briefly, about things like sentence structures that students may need instruction in and practice with to comprehend independently). when it comes to the literal, basic understanding of a text, the model of reading pedagogy i was taught has about 6 million little "tools" that all boil down to telling kids who functionally can't read to try harder to read. this is not productive, in my experience and opinion, for kids whose maximum effort persistently yields confusion. but things are so dysfunctional all the way up and down the ladder that you can be a senior in college majoring in english without anyone but a pair of professors with a strong work ethic noticing that you can't actually read.

couple other notes:

obviously it's a small study but i'm not sure i see a reason to believe these are particularly outlierish results (ACT scores - an imperfect metric but not a meritless one IMO for reading specifically, where the task mostly really is to read a set of texts written for the educated layperson and answer factual questions about them - were a little bit above the national average)

the study was published last year, but the research was conducted january to april 2015. so there's no pandemic influence, no AI issue - these are millennials who now would span roughly ages 28-32 (i guess it's possible one of the four first-year students was one of the very first members of gen z lol). if you're in your late 20s or early 30s, we are talking about people your age, and whatever the culprit is here, it was happening when you were in school.

i think some people might want to blame this on NCLB but i find this unconvincing for a variety of reasons. first of all, NCLB did not pass because everyone in 2001 agreed that education was super hunky-dory; in fact, the sold a story podcast outlines how an explicit goal of NCLB was to train teachers in systematic phonics instruction, because that was not the norm when NCLB was passed, and an unfortunate outcome was that phonics became politicized in ed world. second, anyone who understands anything about reading should need about ten minutes max to spend some time on standardized test prep and recognize that if your goal is truly to maximize scores... then the vast majority of your instructional time should be spent on improving actual reading skills because you actually can't meaningfully game these tests by "practicing main idea questions" (timothy shanahan addresses this briefly near the top of this post). so i find it very difficult to believe that any school that pivoted to multiple choice drill time in an attempt to boost reading scores was teaching reading effectively pre-NCLB, because no set of competent literacy professionals would think that would work even for the goal of raising test scores. third, NCLB mandated yearly testing in grades 3-8 but only one test year in high school; kansas set its reading and math test year in high school as tenth grade. so theoretically these kids all had two years of sweet sweet freedom from NCLB in which their teachers could have done whatever the fuck they wanted to teach these kids to actually read. the fact that they didn't suggests perhaps there were other problems afoot. fourth, and maybe most saliently for this particular study, the sample text was the first seven paragraphs of a novel - in other words, the exact kind of short incomplete text that NCLB allegedly demanded excessive time spent on. i'm not really sure what universe it makes sense in that students who can't read the first seven paragraphs of a novel would have become much better reader if everything else had been the same but they had been making completely wack associations based on nonsense guesses for all 300 pages instead. (if you read the study it's really clear that for problematic readers, things go off the rails immediately, in a way that a good program targeted at teaching mastery of text of 500 words or less would have done something about.)

all but 3 of the students reported A's and B's in their english classes and, again, 69% of them are juniors and seniors, so like... i mean idk kudos to these professors for being like "hold up can these kids actually read?" but clearly something is wack at the college level too [in 2015] if you can make your way through nearly an entire english major without being able to read the first seven paragraphs of a dickens novel. (once again i really do encourage you to look at the qualitative samples in the study, lest you think i am being uncharitable by summarizing understandable misunderstandings or areas of confusion that may resolve themselves with further exposure to the text as "can't read.") not to mention the fact that most students could not what they had learned in previous or current english classes and when asked to name british and american authors and/or works of the nineteenth century, roughly half the sample at each college could name at most one.

the authors of the study are struck by the fact that students who cannot parse the first 3 sentences of bleak house feel very confident about their ability to read the entire novel, and discover that this seeming disconnect is resolved by the fact that these students seem to conceptualize "reading" as "skimming and then reading sparknotes." i think it's really tempting to Kids These Days this phenomenon (although again these are people who in some cases have now been in the workforce for a decade) and categorize it as laziness or a lack of effort, but i think that there is, as i described above, a real and sincere confusion over what "reading" is in which this makes a certain logical sense because it's not like they have some store of actual reading experiences to compare it to. i also think it's pretty obvious looking at just how wildly severed from actual textual comprehension their readings are that these are not - or at least not entirely - students who could just work harder and master the entirety of bleak house all on their own. like i don't think you get from "charles dickens is describing a bunch of dinosaur bones actually walking the streets of london" to comfortably reading nineteenth century literature by just trying harder. i really just don't (and i say that acknowledging i personally have had students who like... were good readers if i was forcing them to work at it constantly... but i have also had students, including ones getting ready to enter college, who were clearly giving me everything they had and what they had was at the present moment insufficient). i think that speaks to a missing skillset that they don't know are missing, because they don't have any other experience of "reading" to compare it to.

just wanna highlight again that although they don't give the breakdown some of these students are not just english majors but english education majors a.k.a. the high school english teachers of tomorrow. some of them may be teaching high school english right now, in case anyone wishes to consider whether "maybe some high school english teachers can't read the first seven paragraphs of bleak house?" should be kept in mind when we discuss present-day educational ills.

[revelboo]

Inhaled through your fics like I'm doing a line, you write like a god 🙌🙌

Fave has got to be the angst portion of your LL/ MTMTE series where the humans got transported back, it's just so interesting seeing all their stories connect all at once

And I know it follows a different flow but how do you think the TFP cons would react if the same thing happened to their humans? At the very least, I just know TFP Megs will go berserk mode considering he's all sparked up too

Oh, yeah. They’d not be okay at all. Except for Breakdown if he’s not actually attached to the human yet. He’d think it’s funny up until realizing that Knockout is legitimately upset

Maybe try the stuff under Lost Light- the humans get yeeted to wherever Cybertronians are by accident. The Vehicon story is pretty much reader being adopted and fawned over by the TFP Vehicons. You might like ES Bumblebee, too. Blaster, the human accidentally kidnaps him in his boombox mode. Waspinator pretty much adopts his human, too and just won’t leave.

Gone

TFP Decepticon Scenario

• Primus, there’s another one. Frozen Smokescreen grimaces as the alarm klaxons scream, because you’re staring up at him, tensing and standing on Soundwave’s berth, little fingers fisted in a blanket. Obviously terrified and probably traumatized. How many is this? Feeling absolutely awful as he approaches and like all of the rest of them, you try to bolt even though there’s no where to go. And you scream when he catches you. “I’m so sorry, but you’re safe now,” he says, subspacing you with the rest. Poor things, doesn’t even want to imagine what the Decepticons have been doing with so many humans.

• Snarling in outrage as he charges through the Nemesis, Megatron’s spark constricts. Alarms going off everywhere, but no one can seem to even find the Autobot intruder. And Starscream almost runs into him, the Seeker frantic, yelping when Megatron grabs him by a wing, intending to take his frustration out on someone. “Lord Megatron,” Starscream gasps in pain, twisting. “The humans are gone.” And he feels it. Feels the loss of his bond, cutting into his spark. Venting raggedly, he shoves the Seeker away from himself, not running. But striding for his habsuite, servos flexing as fear seizes him by the throat. Shoving the door open hard when it doesn’t open fast enough and staring at where you should be.

• Roaring out his fury, Predaking smacks a Vehicon out of his way with his tail, mandibles flaring as he chases the scent of the intruder. And Knockout swears as he barrels past him, not caring who gets in his way. Needs to find you and punish whoever has you, because if you’re hurt? Death would be far too kind. You’re so small and he’d left you unprotected, assumed you were safe here.

• Staring at the chaos over a handful of little organics, Breakdown clears his vents. Because, honestly? Good riddance. Humans have no place among Cybertronians. But turning toward Knockout, it’s a shock how blank his friend’s expression is. He looks lost almost. Knew Knockout was soft on you, but didn’t expect him to care this much and swearing, Breakdown joins the search for the intruder. Because if Knockout needs you, then he’s going to have you.

• “Little one?” Servos trembling, Dreadwing flattens a palm against a wall. Trying to get his worry under control. You’re just so small, fragile. Still so weak from your ordeal and someone snuck into his habsuite. Took you from him. You were supposed to be safe there, trusted him to care for you. Venting raggedly, he keeps looking for any trace of who took you from him.

• Can’t move, standing at the door of his habsuite, your blanket in his servos. Aware of the klaxons, the yelling about an intruder, an Autobot taking the humans. Servos crushing your blanket, Shockwave’s antenna flick, cannon smacking against the wall as he staggers slightly, processor in chaos. Frantic with the need to find you, hold you. Needs to move, to help in the search and he can’t move. Coming apart without you there to keep him together.

• Tendrils lashing as he pulls up feed after feed, trembling, Soundwave watches the Autobot sneaking through the Nemesis. To his habsuite. Slipping inside. Taking you. Stealing what’s his. His family. His little mate. Where did the Autobot go? What did he do to you? Where are you? The intruder leaves his habsuite with empty hands, but you’re gone. Can’t even sense you and he can’t stop trembling. Teetering between fear and rage, unable to get himself under control. Where are you? Are you hurt? Crying out for him?

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