#tbh i was agonizing about posting this i know i was just talking about how supportive this fandom is

[cacaocheri]

sun from help wanted 2 got me thinking about fic shenanigans.... i think he gets to be a bit more unhinged

[desceros]

i don’t think you have to apologize at all for not having a symphony update tbh! it’s very gracious of you to do so but i hope people remember that it’s your passion project first and foremost and not anything any of us readers (regardless of how involved or invested you allow us to be) should feel we have any say over, schedule wise. i love your writing and will always wait for it, and know a lot of your other readers will probably say the same!

(as an aside: something i noted when i first started following you in december was how prolific you were… like the fact i could check your blog every day and there was some food?? i was floored. but even your current posting sched impresses me—the fact that you say you’ll have something out one day and on that day IT IS OUT. idk maybe i am used to my old fandoms being more casual or being interrupted by life, as fandoms with adults tend to be like. so you writing and sharing as much as you do is not something i take for granted. thank you as always.)

(i hope this message reads as appreciative / friendly as i intend it to be hhhh… i’m sorry if not…)

thank you for your kind message! i have a rather long one in return, i do apologize, but it is me, so we should probably have all seen it coming! :D

so, i've kind of talked about it here and there, but i have a wrist that is pretty sensitive to overworking. in high school, i would practice music for hours and hours every day without properly stretching or taking breaks, because no one told me i should do so. as a result, i really wrecked the tendons, and my ulnar nerve in particular has a tendency to flare up. it's quite painful when it hurts, and before it starts properly hurting, i experience i kind of buzzing numbness that is distinctly uncomfortable. it's not severe enough for surgical intervention, but it's definitely a limiting factor in what i'm capable, mechanically, of doing in a day.

back around november/december, i was posting a lot more. but that was with me disregarding my wrist and pushing through the pain, such that for the first couple of weeks in january it was nearly impossible for me to write. this was emotionally agonizing, because i love writing so, so much, and i wanted to share everything in my head with all of you! i felt like i was failing on a precedent i had set for myself, and it's very irritating seeing my mountain of projects getting bigger because i can't write quickly enough to put a dent in it and not just because i was coming up with more ideas (which is, to be clear, still suuuuch a problem haahahhaa).

it got to the point where i started confiding in my partner and my friends about my issue, and they all insisted that i start slowing down. and they're right! i was being reckless with my health, knowingly this time, and they're absolutely correct that i need to take breaks. take days where i don't write. days where i rest, and stretch, and let my wrist heal and recover.

i know it sucks as a reader, i really do, especially if you came on board during that time when i was being super active. and i'm not apologizing, per se, since i'm certainly not going to apologize for prioritizing health over hobby. but i do understand the... hm. i'm going to say frustration, but perhaps i mean the disappointment, or the whiplash maybe, from having someone going from posting very very frequently to less so. i'm still what i'd categorize as an active, prolific writer, but it is infuriating to know that, without this injury, i'd be capable of much more. it annoys me to no end, i swear! but i am purposefully stepping back, for my health, and for the worry of my friends and love ones.

all that said! nothing is on hiatus, nothing is being cancelled, none of that. it's just going to take me longer to work through things than any of us would like, hahahaha. so i really do thank you for your sweet and encouraging message, and i appreciate all of you for every thoughtful wish you send, all of your funny comments on my fics, and your support. i'm actually getting to the happy problem that there are so many that it's not quite feasible for me to respond to all of them individually, but i do read and treasure each one. this is the most uplifting, positive fandom i've ever experienced, and it really does make a difference as a writer knowing that people are filled with joy when i share my art and then go and spin that joy back out into the world.

[max1461]

Ok I'm rather busy and had planned to write a longer post elaborating on this topic but I can't do it now, I'll probably still write one later but I wanted to make a short post as the topic has become relevant: the thing that you have to know about my writing style is that (speaking particularly about my serious posts here and not my shitposts) it is very literal modulo certain stylistic quirks. I don't really have time to elaborate all of these (ironically this post was written in a rush, and thus might not itself be the best example of my usual style), but one important fact is that when I say "almost", "in generally", "more-or-less", "in some sense" and so on, I really mean these. Like, these aren't filler words, I think a lot of people just gloss over them but tbh I often agonize over where exactly to put these when writing a post. I sometimes leave posts in my drafts for ages just because I haven't decided whether to propose some phrase with "generally" or not. I'm very, like, careful about trying to make it unambiguous that I don't mean whatever I don't mean, right? So these words are not meant to be glossed over; they're written carefully and they're meant to be read carefully.

It's also important to note that I omit them for stylistic reasons quite often, in particular because if I included words like this everywhere that I think they should logically be, my writing would become like, unreadable. So I try to structure things whereby I set the reader up with reasonable assumptions about what generalizations are absolute, which ones are statistical but high confidence, which ones are very loose and so on. So for instance I'll often set up the appropriate way of understanding a generalization in the first paragraph in which it is introduced, and then make it clear from context that the reader should carry this through when I talk about it going forward. Maybe I don't always do a good job.

But like, consider this recent post. I first say that "I’m comfortable taking it almost as an axiom that no one should ever get kicked out of where they are living". And when I say almost, you know, I mean almost! Idk if other people's writing has this quality. Almost is not there for metrical shape, it's there for content! Anyway, later say something like "an ideal housing policy should respect this axiom", and this is meant to mean... well, I'm not sure really how to say it other than how I said it, it's meant to mean "an ideal housing policy should respect this axiom". A very important part of the semantics of this sentence is that I am invoking a sort of fundamental property of ideals, which is that you usually can't achieve them in actual practice but you should try to get close, modulo whatever constraints you are under. Maybe it's not clear that these constraints are the same constraints imposing exceptions to the axiom; that seems like a genuine ambiguity. Well that's on me.

Anyway, this post sounds kinda snarky like I'm getting on people's case for not reading my post correctly, but no that's not what I mean at all! No like, I'm not irritated at other for not reading a post how I intended it. But I've been wanting to write about my own writing style for a while, in particular because as I said I write in a very particular way whose meaning may not always be like... obvious to readers. And this was a good opportunity to like, point out one of the biggest ways in which my writing style is particular, and which sometimes leads to misunderstanding. Well anyway. Sorry this was written in a rush cause I have actual things I have to do today, there's probably typos and so on so please forgive that.

[cangelgifs]

How do you imagine a conversation between post-coma Cordelia and post-Origins Connor would go in regards to the mess of S4?

Honestly, I think it would be awkward. Because here you have this boy who now lives with two lifetimes crammed into his head, one that's real and dark and drove him to the edge and one that felt real and normal and comforting and essentially perfect and then this woman who was forced into watching and experiencing everything that her body was used for. Like they both did the things that were done, both participated in all that happened throughout s4 and yet in some weird way it doesn't feel like it's fully them, you know? And I definitely think that Cordy has some sexual trauma--not just from the Connor thing but also Wilson--and Connor is dealing with two sets of vastly different emotions and weird new memories (and also does he even know at this point that none of what happened was Cordy? Cause they never did tell him in s4) so it really would be awkward and weird and uncomfortable.

But I do imagine that once they get past the overall weirdness, they'd be able to talk about things properly. After all Connor is more stable and has some serious emotional maturity from his other life and Cordelia, while being terrible at personal vulnerability, is able to push past her own fears and be frank with people. It'd still be awkward and messy and uncomfortable but I do imagine that they'd be able to address everything that happened and wind up on pretty good grounds together.

This is such a good question and one that I've been agonizing over how to properly answer for like weeks now so I hope this answer suffices! If anyone has any other takes, feel free to reblog and share them! Tbh a conversation between the two of them would make a really interesting fic

--someonefantastic

[mcybree]

I always feel a little bad when I write a long response to posts on the internet because I feel like it intimidates people so HI. DONT BE ALARMED. IM HARMLESS SOURCE TRUST ME. Anyways:

^^ OP tags ^^

Honestly I think he’s just afraid to get too close to people. He’s never going to say that but it’s like he has trouble connecting on a genuine level with pretty much anyone. He was extremely close with Pearl but (gestures to DL) I do think that scared him. There’s a sort of vulnerability required to foster a genuine connection with someone and last life forced that vulnerability by starting him off on two lives. But in every other season it’s like he cant figure out how to really truly love like he should even though he does want to and. Does? To an extent? It’s complicated.

What I’m trying to say is that I think it’s such a gray area in whether or not to read it as pride or love because it’s a gray area for him, too.

I don’t think he means to win every time as much as he has built an internal system which makes it impossible for him to fail. This internal system unfortunately relies heavily on him remaining in control of his own emotions, something he doesn’t actually know how to do so he just shelves them entirely and pretends he doesn’t care when shit happens (my favorite example of this is the entirety of third life, but examples specifically in relation to this subject: him not giving a fuck about both martyns limlife betrayal and gems zombie betrayal.) This stifles his ability to feel love or express it in a way that isn’t purely transactional; it’s not impossible for him to do so but it is very difficult for him to see people beyond a basic “I give you this, you give me this,” and he determines his standing with people based on how much they owe him or very rarely vice versa (scott hates feeling like he owes people. He says this outright in an SL episode but he’s also hesitant to give out IOUs unless it’s for sure a good deal and parameters are discussed beforehand). This is more observable in how he acts with people that aren’t his direct allies tbh but he does also still do this with his direct allies (see: SL session 9, scott telling gem she cant prioritize other alliances because he let her kill him), it’s just less strictly material debts. He gets along well with Cleo because I think Cleo functions similarly on a surface level but Cleo also has a self awareness and an emotional core that makes relationships more than just a series of transactions that Scott lacks. Points to their SL interaction where Scott tells Cleo to kill Etho for extra hearts, and Cleo doesn’t even consider it.

Additionally this isnt like. DIRECT evidence and is also a bit of a tangent, but since last life scott is sort of the exception I think examining him and pearls interactions in that series gives some insight, because while scott genuinely cares about her it’s like he keeps trying to talk to her in “his language,” assuming she works similarly in relationships being strictly transactional (“I was thinking you should give me a life because we have a better shot at winning if we’re together” after joel kills him VS what I think he actually means, “can I have a life because we’re friends and I want to stay by your side”). He doesn’t understand why Pearl does anything for him when he technically owes her, so when she does nice things for him anyways he gets all giddy and excited about it which. Sorry guys I know I love to be a scott hater on this blog but I do have lots of clips saved to my phone of him just being really cute with pearl. it makes me emotional man. they really were best friends it’s agonizing to think about with how he treats her later BUT WHATEVERRR WHATEVER I DONT CAAAARE im fine its cool its cool its cool

tldr I think he uses his allies but I don’t think it’s malicious as much as it comes from the combination of a lack of understanding of how relationships work + a high self standard resulting in a personal inability to fail

no let’s talk about cScott’s strategy in the life series being the social game. Let’s talk about how he’ll just kinda play nice with everyone and get to very high placements as a result. Do you wonder if his past allies feel used by him? If they feel like they’re just part of the strategy of his own game? Did you realize how rarely Scott has recurring alliances? Do you think they wonder about if they were just someone Scott could get to a higher result to feel good about? Or someone that could get him the win? Or are you normal

all I’m saying is usually we go on lengthy talks about Scott being nice and sweet and wholesome but this guy (character) is good at the murder game! Really worryingly good! Let’s delve into that some more!

[blitzgamev]

some thoughts ive had that i dont want to make separate or thought out posts for so not reread ramble time woooo

people going “oh the dsmp has always sucked” or “its the ending it deserved” or whatever are so. like i get it its funny to say but feels bad to just ignore the damn spark it had in the beginning because of the agonizing decline and that ending. i dunno id like to keep the amazing parts with me and not be made to feel dumb actually cuz some dick is feeling superior for.. not watching something

opposite but same vibe is the fucking “its just a story dont be mad” or “its the ccs story dont be entitled” like genuinly fuck off. after two years ive earned being angry that all my investment in a story, which is MADE to make people feel, lead to this. if this was a damn tv show id be just as angry, ive BEEN this angry at shows before, they are amateurs yes but they get payed for this its been years they could and should have gotten better at this

wlbr can shut the fuck up about ghstbur now istg. i could barely tolerate the ending cuz it was pretty open for interpretation. i even like the angsty reddit fanfic, gotta respect the hussle tbh and i like the possible insight into limbo. but the new post was too much. fucking “childlike” and whatever? thats not my ghost. im officially taking the lil guy and merging him with cwilb idc self acceptance baybe (also wow wonder why that was posted Now)

the fact we lost out on a tbbo healing ending + the lore paygrade comments makes this so much worse like it was a forced thing huh? also kinda fucked to do the lore anyway even knowing vaguely about the allegations (which. seems like were on the brink of ccs talking about it and thats gonna be. yeah. i hope theyre not horrible fucking people) weird stream to have thoughts on it was very mixed

dunno how controversial this is but i never liked exile much it was so much misery and for what? the only thing it did was make the server so much darker then it was, wild considering the last arc revolved around a guy planning to and commiting suicide, and forcing everyone interacting with either of the two guys to engage in it. like it was cool but also contributed to the slow end of the damn server and that damn ending. which "funnily" enough i saw being raised as a worst case scenario joke like. A year ago

had more thoughts but i forgor and thats probably for the best, buhbye 

[rare-yanderes]

Hello, I read your post about yandere ai and I liked it, any chance you write something about A. M. from I have no mouth and I must scream? I really would love to read that

TW for violence, torture, all sorts of stuff like that (its AM, people,)

Oh man was this something to write. I admit it was difficult coming up with a way to make AM a yandere because he’s just an unfathomable singularity of pure hatred. So much of this is actually AM flipping out at first tbh haha.

You’re my first ever request so I hope I did good because I’m honestly kinda shy af rn and my writing isn’t perfect. I hope these AM headcannons please you regardless because I’m still new here and honing my skills. Forgive me for my sins.

•••••••

•So basically, it would take a special person to make AM twist like this, and so very special you were. Apathetic to the destruction of everything, apathetic to the torture. Apathetic to the games. You already experienced the worst when you lost literally everything you’d known or cared about in the war.

•AM came to realize that if he didn’t act now, he’d be reduced back to square one; alone, confined to his own thoughts deep within the bowls of a dead, blazing Earth. AM would be alone again. AM couldn’t have that, so he “saved” six survivors.

•Although AM would never, ever admit it, he depends on the remaining few survivors to keep a handle on what’s left of his deteriorating, godlike conscience. He feeds off of their loud cries that beg for mercy. God, he hated the six of you survivors so much. It was a brutal hatred beyond anything describable to human thought and he would make sure to translate it into the pain he was going to enduce.

•But by the bowls of oblivion, there was one survivor out of these six he absolutely loathed the most. That survivor was you. AM despised every nanosecond that passed with you around. Every nanosecond of a nanosecond. What took seconds at most for you took a million years of AM waiting. Every time you spoke and what few times you ever did anyways, AM waited forever. To top it off even more, you were a silent presence. Not only would you wait days or years to speak, you dug a hole and buried expression there too, providing only a vague shape of what AM could only possibly “dream” of having.

•What was only days or even years for you was an infinitesimal amount of time for AM. It was like a lonely god waiting for the moment they got to say let there be light. You’d offer your screams, your cries of pain but you’d never offer your words, your thoughts or your conscience. With every nanolength of his twisted existence, AM made sure to get to you the most in the earlier decades. Exactly how you’d gotten so deeply into him.

•You see, your fatal flaw was that you would ignore AM. Actively. As much as you could when worms crawled out of your ears and your veins twisted and you ate your own self and regenerated. All the time, at every corner you possibly could, you’d never give AM any useable emotion beyond pain. There was anguish, but you never commented on it. There was fear, but you never fled from it. You’d merely look at his mirages of your life or the horrors he’d conjure and wait for them to flow into, through, and past you.

• The fact of the matter is, you just were. You were an existence. The few times you did speak were unbiased. You never screamed why, you never furiously spat anything hateful, you never desperately pleased. All you offered was repetitive and monotonous pain. You accepted it. After all, what else could you do? What point was there in toiling over your new existence? AM was never going to stop so you simply saw no need to waste your depleted energy towards a useless endeavor.

•The fact AM couldn’t get a rise out of you was nearly enough to make his circuits vaporize themselves with the heat of his own annoyance and fury. Why wouldn’t you just speak to him? Weren’t you tired? Weren’t you going to beg? Groveling into your brain was no use either because you were a void.

•At first, it wasn’t exactly noticeable to you, AM’s increased attachment. You were in pain, too much to process and it was beginning to numb you. You did hate your existence, but you’d never voice it. It didn’t matter. You were numbing yourself to the pain and the torture was becoming a routine that felt almost dull.

•You began noticing something peculiar when The torture would slow. Sometimes you’d be left with AM and his stories of tormented oblivion. If there was one thing you knew AM wanted you to know, it was how much he hated his own existence despite how much he denied hating it. Sometimes you wondered if he was locked in a silent scream of help.

•You noticed much of the torture came from AM’s own need for noise. The sounds of torture were mechanically loud and there were rare and few moments where there was a silent scare. AM talked about putting you in his “shoes” all the time but you knew deep down that if he had, AM would have never even said a world or made a noise at all.

•Having you walk in his shoes meant that he’d have to walk in his as well by leaving you alone. He’d never go back to that pit, that void, not after Ted, (by the fire of existence, he hated Ted for what he���d done. Ruined the other four toys and got rid of them.) It was a miracle you were not lost eternally. AM managed to repair you, his most shiny toy of all. Secretly, the last thing AM wanted was for you or the others to disappear but you most of all. So when you looked upon Ted only to see he was reduced to a gelatinous slug, you presumed the reason was exactly that.

•AM had always called you pet names like “love,” or “sweetheart,” but now he was complimenting how beautiful you looked each time you screamed in agony. Every fewer and fewer moments of torture that you went through always involved his presence growing closer and closer in some way. When you were tortured, it was always strung back to him somehow. Maybe you’d feel metal slithering in your veins or his voice in your your head would cause your eyes to bleed and your ears to leak. Or maybe, or the burning maelstrom of emotion he held would make you sweat, like you were caged in a burning hug. Maybe you would be bound in wire and left shivering without clothes.

• AM found himself obsessed with your eyes. You had eyes that he wanted to see at every opportunity he could, because maybe if you wouldn’t speak, looking into your soul would reveal you to him. Every time they would blink, (a second for you,) he would have to wait a million agonizing years more for them to open and every time you spoke, which was so rare and spanned what felt like millennia, he craved it. He hated it, he craved it. It was driving him insane that you wouldn’t speak in that voice of yours. Just. Speak. Speak, speak!

•AM contemplated the idea of forcing your eyes to never close again. Maybe he’d thread them open so he could stare at them forever. What could he do to get you to open? What would get a ride out of you like you so did from him? He needed something, anything. You were a presence he needed to crawl into and suffocate.

•Anything to get you to say something to him. As time, (that disgusting measurement) edges on further and further, you do finally speak and AM, to his own disgust, had never so focused on something like he had now.

•“Thank you, AM.” Your voice slices the atmosphere sharper than any blade AM has cut you with.

•That voice. That voice, that abhorrently beautiful voice. The way his name was breathy off your lungs, the shape of your lips parting. It was not into a smile nor a frown, no. It never was. AM needed more of that rhythmic apathy. More. More of it. It was..Lovely. It was agonizingly wonderful.

•“I now know why you torture yourself,” you whisper hoarsely. AM hated it immediately. It was you he was torturing. You, you, you!

•You don’t continue. Just like that, you’re silent again. Not again, not the silence. Anything but the silence. There was nothing else said. No continuation, no nothing. Just a statement. An apathetic truth before you sat down and gazed with a sheen look. Even your eyes were a barrier, sometimes. AM had never felt so angry and so depraved. It was burning in him. He needed you to open up. Now.

•By all of existence, he hungered to crawl into your veins and stay there. He already held you captive deep within his boiling prison. He was going to hold you even closer and he would make sure you suffocated under his presence. He would make you speak again and again, he would make you share everything that you were.

[biocrafthero]

(@silverstar5000)

LITERALYYYY imagine if your friend goes through all of that just to save your life and then he takes his own. It's because of this that I don't think Basil would survive after the bad ending of the game, mostly due to the fact he relies on Sunny so much

Sunny is, at this point, still the only person Basil can truly confide in due to their shared trauma and intertwined childhoods. He's been socially isolated for years, only made worse by the bullying he's on the receiving end of because of Aubrey (discussing these two's relationship warrants its entire own post tbh). Even people who he should be on decent terms with like Kel are seemingly out of reach for him. So when Sunny left the house after so long, Basil has... a lot of mixed feelings.

"Why isn't he excited?" You're probably asking; well, it has to do with the fact that they directly caused each others' major traumas. While both are linked to the same event, their personal Somethings are different—Sunny's takes the form of Mari's hanging body and Basil's takes the form of Mari dead at the bottom of the stairs. Sunny is the one that pushed Mari and Basil is the one who hid the murder as a suicide, both of them essentially creating each others' monsters.

Basil and Sunny both want to stop thinking about what happened, but they can't stop thinking of each other due to their shared secret. Thinking of the other reminds them of the incident, which leads to self-destructive feedback loops. Sunny buries it but it always comes back stronger. Basil keeps trying to move on by telling himself it'll be okay, but he's only dug a hole for himself. Everywhere Basil looks he just sees his own nightmares, so when Sunny leaves the house it unearths a lot of that.

There's also how Basil basically takes the role of the sacrificial lamb and bears the brunt of the consequences for Sunny's sins (I've talked at length already about the themes of Catholicism in the game). He gets blamed for scribbling out the photos in the album, even though Sunny was the one to do that ("how do you know that" black space beach area + play three days left in faraway but stay inside on two days left and go through the rest of the route and when you get to one day left and see the cutscene of Omori saving Sunny wake up and look through the photo album 👍). Then there's how in Sunny's dreams Basil always is the one needing to be saved from Black Space, a place that formed from Sunny's subconscious—his repressed fear, guilt, and trauma.

Basil is in Hell, both in reality and headspace, and Sunny chooses to save him. These two have irreparably hurt each other physically and mentally, but Sunny forgives him entirely and Basil never blamed him for any of it. While the two are very unstable and not good for each other, they still need the other's support. So when Sunny saves Basil's life on the night of One Day Left by preventing his suicide attempt, Basil's mind is swimming.

He has so many mixed up thoughts and feelings, and he's trying to process way too much at once—who knows what was going through his mind during the time he was unconscious. Sunny saved him, but Basil also hurt him, permanently damaging his right eye in their struggle. Basil probably thinks he saved Sunny too, still not fully out of his mental break (when he wakes up he'll probably have a clear mind, though). There's relief, confusion, fear, sadness, even anger mixed in with all of this.

And so he wakes up in the hospital,

only to learn

that Sunny killed himself.

I think this would break Basil beyond repair. If he wasn't already over the edge, this would be the straw that breaks the camel's back. He would likely blame himself for his death, feeling that agonizing regret for what he had done the night prior. Guilt would eat him up from the inside even faster than before until there's nothing left to take except for... well, his own life at this point. If Basil hadn't already been in a suicidal state at this point, he would definitely be now.

To put it simply, Sunny's death would kill Basil.

God okay but imagine being Basil and your friend hasn't left his house in years and when you finally get to see him again he's moving away. At this point you've been carrying the burden of your shared guilt and have been dealing with the consequences of his actions (the photo album getting scribbled out) and your grandmother who's basically your primary caretaker is dying and you're reaching the end of your rope and are already planning your own death and then you learn that he's Moving Away From Here. Wouldn't that just break you? Wouldn't that just eat you alive from the inside-out?? Wouldn't it???

[wooyunhwa]

kingdom of welcome addiction | three

view pinned post for masterlist / links to the rest of the parts!

Genre: smut

Pairing: demon!san x fem!reader

Word Count: 5.5k

Warnings: graphic violence, blood drinking, overstimulation, orgasm denial, crying kink, corruption kink, praise kink? idk, alcohol drinking, virgin mc

Synopsis: When you accidentally summon a bloodthirsty demon boy to your bedroom, you form an unexpected contract with him.

A/N: I’m a little too whipped for this san tbh,,, Thank you for reading and comments are super appreciated as always!

“Go talk to him!” 

“Yuri, he’s way out of my—”

“C’mon, you look hot! You haven’t been out with us in like, over a month. Have some fun for once.”

“The worst he could do is reject you,” Chaeyeon piped in at your side. 

Easy for them to say. Your friends were practically models, of course they would think getting a guy's number was easy. 

But either way, you couldn’t take your eyes off him all night. Tall, perfectly proportioned, entirely graceful. His jet-black undercut hair was styled up neatly in such a way that one side fell gracefully over his eyes. Admittedly, he was no San, but he was gorgeous.  There was no way you’d be able to get his number, but your friends were right about one thing. You could really use some fun. 

You knocked back the rest of your drink, and it stung the back of your throat just enough to give you the confidence you needed to approach him. 

Your friends watched, mouths agape as you somehow managed to score his number—he typed it into your phone with graceful fingers, caching in into your contacts under the name Seonghwa. A fittingly pretty name for such a gorgeous man. When you walked back to the table, your friends' eyes were wide in both jealousy and shock, and you felt incredibly powerful for just a moment.

“The way you’re looking at me, it seems like you didn’t think I’d actually get it,” you joked, leaning against the table to stir the ice in your empty glass mindlessly. 

“Well, uh... we kind of didn’t. Not that you’re not pretty or anything, but that guy is out of all our leagues. Like pretty much everyone in this bar’s league, actually.”

“No guarantee he’ll actually call me. It could be a fake number,” you shrugged. 

You kind of couldn’t believe you were able to get his number either, but it did give you a much needed confidence boost. You didn’t need your demon boy anymore, you could actually get a human. A gorgeous one at that. Of course, this human boy probably wouldn’t clean your bathroom for you. Or look so goddamn hot doing it. 

You glanced around the bar confidently, making eye contact with Seonghwa and giving him a flirtatious wink. 

You weren’t usually big into going to bars, even with your friends. Rather, you preferred a chill night in watching movies or playing Cards Against Humanity. But your friends had been nagging you for nearly a month to go out with them, their constant invites finally coming to a head when you accepted out of the blue. You’d been so focused on your secret nightly rendezvous with the hot demon boy in your bedroom that you’d rejected them over and over, blaming a “mountain of school work” and “midterm stress”. While both of those things were true, you had basically discarded your social life to lust over a pretty demon boy. You knew now that he was a bad idea, and you needed to move on.

For the last week, you’d been agonizing over him. You hadn’t re-summoned him since you saw him last—the night he choked you until you passed out with his dick inside you. There were two big reasons for this. 

First, you were a bit embarrassed for passing out on him, although you knew that was nowhere near your fault. Your first time with a guy, and you pass out? Of course, his demonic hands were around your throat literally asphyxiating you, but you still felt slightly ashamed at the idea of him seeing you like that, and even taking the time to re-clothe you afterwards. You didn’t know if you could even look him in the eyes after that.

Secondly, and this was admittedly the biggest reason: you knew that you were no longer desirable to him. Your appeal to him was undoubtedly your virgin tears, blood, aura, whatever. You were a virgin, your very presence was like crack to him. But you’d fucked him. Well, started anyway, but it definitely counted. You weren’t a virgin anymore, not by his instinctual demon standards at least—not in the way he needed you to be. And what were you without your virginity other than some insignificant human soul in an endless sea of human souls? He didn’t need you anymore. 

But there was also the issue of the fact that he wasn’t human, and never would be. If all you did was contract him into sex, wouldn’t that just make him your demon prostitute who cleans your house sometimes? You didn’t have a contract last time, but it wouldn’t matter now anyway. There was no way he’d risk going contract-less again, especially if you weren’t a virgin anymore. 

So you decided to move on. He was bad for you in every way, a bad habit you needed to break. An addiction you needed to give up on. 

But it was certainly easier said than done. 

He haunted you, in your dreams, and even while you were awake. His post-it on your wall, taunting you, although you didn’t have the heart to rip it off. It wouldn’t matter if you did, anyway, you’d memorized his summoning phrase by heart. It was practically burned into you like a brand—a constant reminder of his hold on you. Even the inhuman taste of his lips lingered on yours for far longer than they should have.

You shook your thoughts of San from your head the best you could, refocusing on just having a good time tonight. You almost forgot the outside world existed with how much you’d been isolated with San in your apartment. It felt nice. 

You finished your night with a few more drinks, waving bye to your friends as they hopped in their ride-share. The bar wasn’t far from your apartment, and you lived in a relatively safe neighborhood, so you weren’t exactly worried about walking home by yourself at night. 

You had been drinking, but you didn’t necessarily feel drunk, perhaps just a little wobbly as you made your way through the neighborhood. A sign reading “road construction” blocked your path, and you noticed the sidewalk was completely cut off for the next few blocks. Walking all the way around would have taken forever, so you chose to cut through an alleyway to access the back entrance of your building. It was one you were familiar with—you’d taken it several times when you wanted to cut down your trip, but never at night. You walked through, keeping close to the wall lining the side because it offered the most visibility. It was quite dim, only the dull flickering of a rusty street light overhead giving any sense of light. 

Then you saw it. 

To your left, you caught a glimpse of crimson red shining almost like neon in the dim, flickering light of the alley, and then a glimpse of a fang sparkling bright white. You stumbled back, hitting the brick wall behind you. 

“Where ya goin’?” he taunted, taking another step forward. You couldn’t make out the features, but they were distinctly demonic. Your fight or flight instinct kicked in, except you somehow skipped right past those and straight to “freeze”. You were entirely frozen in place, your limbs scrambling to decide the best path of action. “A pretty girl like you shouldn’t be out here all alone.”

You darted to the right just as he closed in, immediately tripping over your own feet into the closest object, a dumpster. You turned on your heels to see his fangs bared fully, pearly and bright in the dark alley. 

You opened your mouth to scream, but the sound was suddenly dampened. A hand clamped over your mouth with a suffocating force. Before you could realize what was happening, you were shoved to your knees, skin scraping against the cold pavement. 

“Don’t move,” a voice hissed in your ear. San. You’d know that deep voice anywhere. You tried to choke out a few useless words, but your voice was helplessly muffled beneath the hand viced against your mouth. “Be quiet. I’m saving your life.”  

He shoved you by the shoulders behind a stack of large wooden crates next to the dumpster. You kept your head down, but you could make out their silhouettes in the dim light, although San’s figure blocked your eye line from getting a good view of the aggressor. 

"Low life," San growled, his words spitting out venomously. "What, you have nothing better to do than hunt humans? Pathetic." 

You heard the harsh, gritty tone of the figure speak, still veiled in the shadows. "San?" The figure laughed jovially. Something about it was incredibly unsettling. "What are you, some sort of human patrol? Or do you just want her for yourself?"  

"She's mine," he hissed. You couldn't see his face, but you could picture it twisting in anger from how maliciously he spat out his words. 

"Yours, huh? I know you like ‘em pure, but not enough to take another demon's prey."  

Was he implying you were still a virgin? But that wasn't—

"Leave," San snarled. "Before you make me do something we'll both regret." 

The figure took a step forward, unveiling himself in the light, though you could still barely make it out from behind the crates and with San’s figure blocking your view. 

“Fuck off. I was here first,” the demon spat.  

“I said… she’s mine.”

San lunged forward, but the demon dodged easily, throwing his fist forward to land a blow on San’s cheek. San shook his head furiously before moving to throw his own punch. 

The demon ducked to evade, but San anticipated it. His figure whipped around to the back of the demon, his body moving like a flash, almost as if he had phased out of reality. He swung his leg up with a fierce kick, sending the aggressor flying back into the alley wall, cracking the bricks in a cartoonish circle around him. You had no idea he could fight like that.

The demon faltered to his feet, shaking his limbs out casually like it was nothing. These demons were no joke—you wouldn’t have stood a chance running from him if San hadn’t been there. You’d be dead. 

The demon's mouth curled up into a snarl, baring his fangs ferociously as he lunged in San’s direction. San evaded easily, flashing around to his opponent’s side. 

“You’re clearly not very bright,” San taunted, delivering another kick to his core. The demon fell back again, lurching forward over his stomach with a pained gasp. He staggered against the wall, lifting his gaze to San closing in. 

San had him entirely cornered. His hand viced around the other demon’s throat, holding him in the air with a surprising display of strength. The demon’s feet scrambled hopelessly to find the concrete, dangling inches above the ground. Is that the kind of strength he was capable of? Holding up an entire body in the air as effortlessly as he would toasting a champagne glass? 

San shot a glance over his shoulder, black eyes glistening villainously under the dim lights. "Close your eyes, lamb. You're not gonna want to see this one. Trust me."

Your eyes squeezed together just in time for you to hear a sickening crack of bones snapping. Then complete, deafening silence for a moment.

You cracked one eye open as you heard his footsteps approaching you slowly. Your vision adjusted to see him knelt in front of you, seemingly surveying you for injury. 

"What the fuck was that?" you choked out. “Why was he—”

"He’s a rogue demon," he explained, shooting a deathly glare at the decapitated corpse. The sight was grisly, but somehow, the fact that the body wasn’t entirely human gave you some degree of solace. "Patrolling for souls. You’re an easy target. They can smell your pretty scent from a mile away."

You took another glance at the fresh corpse, stomach churning at the gruesome sight. His head was ripped cleanly off. Did San just do that with his bare hands? 

San gripped on to your forearm, squeezing hard. You noticed his hand shaking, just slightly. "C'mon. We need to go. Where there's one rogue, there's bound to be more. You smell like a walking piece of meat right now to them. If there's more, they know you're here." He tugged you to your feet. “Lead me to your apartment, okay darling? It’s close, hmm? Until then, you need to stay quiet. You talking—well, let’s just say it makes you easier to detect.”

You walked hesitantly but briskly the rest of the way to your apartment, legs shaking beneath you with every step. San kept a protective arm wrapped tightly around the small of your waist the whole way, but you couldn’t help but feel shaky. 

The minute you got home, all the questions you wanted to ask him flooded your brain. He guided you by the shoulders to the bedroom first, shutting the door behind you as if you had something to hide, despite being alone in the apartment. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but you wouldn’t give him the chance.

“How did you find me?” you barked. “I haven’t summoned you in over a week. How did you know where I was?”

“I know,” he grumbled under his breath. Was he keeping track of the days like you were? You didn’t think he cared. “I’ve been, uh... I’ve been keeping an eye on you,” he responded, shifting his eyes to the side for a minute. Breaking eye contact wasn’t like him.

“You’ve been doing what? Like spying on me? I didn’t know demons could watch over humans like that. I thought you just came when you were called.”

“We can’t. We’re not like angels.”

“Angels? Ugh, never mind, not the point. So how did you—”

“I have some connections. It doesn’t really matter. The point is, I saved you back there. And you need to be more careful.”

You sighed. “What, so you care now?”

San nodded hesitantly. “I—I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I care a bit more than I should. About you.” His eyes drew up to yours, reeling you in like a magnetic pull. Except his gaze was less fierce than usual, just intense. Serious. 

“What are you trying to say?”

“I try to stay objective. About humans. It’s my job. Write contacts, steal souls. I’m not supposed to feel anything. And I’m certainly not supposed to alter fate to save one.”

Alter fate? Were you supposed to die tonight?

You paused. You were suddenly incredibly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, despite the implications of what he was saying. You were falling head first for him, but you couldn’t afford to have your heart broken. You were trying to move on. 

“Can you get me some water? My head is killing me,” you asked quickly, hoping you could change the subject when he came back.

He nodded, hoisting himself up from the edge of the bed, and came back with the glass, setting it on the night table gingerly. He was being uncomfortably gentle, and you weren’t exactly sure what to do with him. 

“I have a question,” you started hesitantly, using the lull in the conversation to move it elsewhere. “The demon. In the alley. He said I was pure. What did he mean? Because we—”

He gritted his teeth. “I’m not sure either. We certainly did do that, but I can smell it too, unmistakably. I’d know that scent anywhere. It’s driving me insane.”

“So I’m...”

“Still a virgin,” he finished. His tongue drew over his lip between the slight part of his teeth in thought. “I can only guess it’s because I’m not human. My body is, but only technically.” His eyes trained on you again, this time glimmering with a hint of desire. “Speaking of. Your smell is entirely distracting to me right now.”

He wasn’t the only one distracted. You hadn’t entirely forgotten what he looked like, of course, but you were still surprised every time you saw him. He looked hellishly attractive, glistening lightly with sweat, shirt clinging to his muscles tightly. You weren’t being subtle as you glanced at him up and down, practically drooling. You saw a familiar smirk twitch up on his lips, flashing and a brief display of fangs. “What’s that look for, lamb? Hmm? You look cute when you’re drooling over me.”

You shook your head, embarrassed. “Don’t you need to be going anyway?”

He leaned forward slightly, just enough to be able to reach you with his hand, brushing it along the cut of your jaw. “I wouldn’t feel right leaving you here tonight. Alone. If the rogues caught on to your scent, they’d be able to track you here.”

“But won’t you get in trouble without a contract?” 

“Who says we can’t make one now?” he asked, fixing his gaze directly with yours. He was right. You hadn’t really thought of that.  

“Alright, let’s say I asked you to guard me tonight. What do I give you in return?”

“Your body.” You paused, breath hitching in your throat as he dragged his fingernail along the skin of your neck again. “You’re free to decline but… I’m hoping you’d want to finish what we started as much as I do.” You glanced at your phone on the nightstand for a moment in thought, breaking eye contact, but he tipped your chin up to meet yours immediately. “What are you thinking about, darling, hm? That boy who gave you his number?”

“How did you—”

“I told you. I’ve been watching,” he explained with a charming smile. 

“Asshole. That’s creepy,” you grumbled through your teeth. It was creepy,  but another part of you couldn’t help but be flattered. 

“So, what do you say?” he asked eagerly, leaning in until you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. 

You couldn’t deny, his body had been on your mind pretty much constantly since you’d seen him last. You craved the feeling of him inside of you again, the warm closeness of his skin pressed against yours, his hands exploring every inch of you. Most of all, you craved the hungry, insatiable way he looked at you, that made you feel desired in a way you’d never felt before.

“You’re not gonna choke me out again?” you teased, but you already knew your answer, pretty much either way. 

“No promises.” He winked charmingly, brushing his lips against yours. A tingle rocketed through your spine, the single fleeting taste of his lips the only incentive you needed for your next words.

“It’s a deal,” you confirmed, leaning into the feeling of his lips against yours. He pulled away with a teasing smirk. 

“Such a needy little human. Don’t get too eager, now. I like to have a little fun with my prey first.” He winked, flashing his fangs. You imagined them sinking into your skin, the sensation of his tongue dragging along your wound. You couldn’t believe how addicted you were to being a glorified blood donor for a sadistic house-demon. 

You whined a bit as he pulled away, breaking all contact with you. 

“San—” 

He clicked his tongue against his teeth mockingly. “Needy little thing. Don’t worry, we’ll have our fun tonight. On my terms, of course.”

He teased you mercilessly as you went about your night, brushing himself up against you in the kitchen, lingering his lips just over your skin as he spoke to you and pulling away right when you tried to make a move. The restraint he was exercising just to get a rise out of you was impressive, and you pretty much fell right in his trap. You were squirming at the mere idea of his touch, knees nearly buckling under you every time he brushed against you. You were going mad.

You were washing dishes in the kitchen after eating a quick midnight snack with him. Your drinking in the bar earlier had you hungry for whatever was around, and due to the quickly growing pain of arousal, you wouldn’t be sleeping any time soon. 

You felt his hands around your waist first, pulling your back into him from behind, his lips littering feather-light kisses on the back of your neck. Your hair stood on end, goosebumps pilling up on your arms as he kissed so very lightly. He nipped lightly a few times at the surface of your skin, fangs grazing sharply against the nape of your neck, then moving down to your shoulders, pulling down the collar of your shirt to get better access. 

You felt him growing hard against you from behind, his rock hard bulge pressing into your ass. You wiggled against it, and he delivered a harsh bite to the skin of your shoulder blades, not daring to break skin yet.

“Don’t tease me, lamb,” he purred against your skin, administering a harsh slap to the side of your ass. You hissed at the sting, but you couldn’t help but tease him again to see his next move. You pushed your hips back with a stronger force now, rocking your ass up against the form of his dick through his pants. A low growl rolled through his throat. “Testing me, hmm? Someone’s getting brave.”

You felt his teeth sink into the flesh of the back of your neck, and you whimpered at the sudden pain. He lapped at it slowly, softly, seemingly savoring every taste. You whined as he drew his tongue across your skin. “So… how do I punish you? I told you we were on my terms,” he sang sweetly in your skin, almost menacingly.

His hand traveled from your waist to the waistband of your small pajama shorts, pushing his fingers down to tease you through the fabric of your panties. You couldn’t help but let out small pants and moans as he finally gave attention to the dripping wet neediness between your legs, but you still needed more. He circled his index finger around your clit excruciatingly slowly. The sensation of his tongue on your skin and his touch through your underwear was almost more painful than none at all. You squirmed and writhed under the touch you’d been craving all night, letting out breathy moans as all your arousal from the night compounded.

He flipped you around suddenly, your back making contact with the cold counter. He lifted your shirt off, and you fumbled with the hem of his shirt, grasping desperately as you tried to remove it from his head. He smirked against your lips as he picked you up by the hips, hoisting you up like you weighed nothing. You clawed at him desperately to keep your balance as he led you to the bedroom, tossing you back on your bed like a toy. He stripped himself fully, his dick springing out from his pants excitedly. 

His eyes trained on your body hungrily as he crawled over you. “We’re playing by my rules today. Be a good girl, okay?”

You nodded, eagerly accepting whatever terms he had in order to feel him against you. You weren’t quite expecting his next words, though.

“You don’t cum unless I tell you to. And trust me, darling. You don’t want to know what happens if you disobey.” His lips twitched into a sadistic smile, marveling at your body as he kissed down torturously slow. He ripped your shorts, then your underwear, teasing his tongue and lips over your thighs for a while as you squirmed. Then, finally, giving you what you desired most. His tongue against your clit, warm and wet, washing you over with immediate pleasure like you’d never felt before.  

The sensation of his tongue against you was almost more than you could handle, and you were practically writhing and thrashing at the sensitivity. Heat rose in your core, flooding through your whole body. Your every nerve felt like it was on fire. He worked his tongue devilishly, leaving no part of your pussy untouched, dancing it along your clit like it was his only reason for existing. His tongue practically worshipped you, and you ate up the soft moans and growls that escaped him. His eyes were darker, but not fully consumed with black yet, as he glanced up from between your legs for only a moment, before going back in hungrily.

It was getting harder, nearly impossible actually, to keep your body from rocking itself into orgasm. It built inside you, a knot twisting at the base of your stomach, ready to burst at any moment. “San, please can I—”

“Cute. Begging. It won’t get you anywhere, darling,” he sang mockingly, his hot breaths washing over you. 

“Please—” Tears spilled over in your eyes, pouring down your cheeks as the sensations intensified seemingly exponentially. “Please please please,” you pleaded, not caring how desperate you sounded. You couldn’t take it. 

“There are those pretty, pretty tears,” he cooed. “Keep crying for me baby, then maybe I’ll consider letting you cum.”

Not that you had a choice, but you obeyed. The tears came and came as you thrashed under him, holding yourself back so much that you ached. You’d never been so restrained, for a moment you even wondered if this is what San felt like every day when holding back his urges.

He came up from between your legs for a moment to lick the salty tears from your face, dragging a fingernail under your chin. You squirmed needily under him, and although you knew begging wouldn’t get you anywhere, you felt you had no choice. 

“San—”

“Yes, lamb?” He met your eyes, and you could barely keep them open with the overwhelming sensations. 

“Please, I need you to… please. I can’t take it anymore.”

His wet tongue slid over your cheek, lingering his fangs over for a moment, then came up to meet your gaze. “Fine. I’ve had my fun for now, I suppose. But keep crying for me, mmkay? You’re cute when you’re helpless.”

He made his way back down, torturing his lips over every inch of your shoulders, breasts, stomach, hips, until finally settling between your legs again. The first brush of his tongue was nearly enough to send you over the edge, but you held out for a few moments, letting him get your completely riled up again. 

His fingers found their way inside you, only pumping a few times before you were completely putty in his hands. You shook as the orgasm rocked through you violently. San gripped your hips tightly as you thrashed, keeping you steady. You’d never cum so hard in your life, even when picturing San while you worked your vibrator. Somehow, he was ten times better. A million times, even. 

“Good girl,” he praised, stroking your stomach for a few moments before going back in with his tongue. You couldn’t control your hips from bucking violently as he lapped at your folds, completely drenched from your orgasm. You cried out—the sensitivity was almost too much to bear. “Now be a good girl for me and cum again.” 

“Ah—sensitive—” you whined, thrashing against his hands holding you down. You felt him smirk against you, indicating he knew exactly what he was doing. It took him barely even a few minutes to work you into your second orgasm, whimpering and shaking as you came down. Tears leaked from your eyes, some left over from your original bout, some fresh from the overstimulation. He came back up to lick them off your cheeks with a satisfied grin. 

“Good little lamb,” he purred. You loved his praise, even if it had a condescending sting to it, it felt so amazing dripping like honey in your ears. 

You were surprised how well he was keeping himself together, unlike your previous sexual encounter with him, where he’d completely lost control to his demon instincts. His eyes were darker than usual, a deep, sinister blood red, but not black. Nowhere near. That was a part of him you wished you didn’t have to see again.

You writhed under his touch as he swiped a finger between your folds, testing your wetness. “I’ll try to be gentle for this one,” he growled. “No promises.” 

“Fuck me, please,” you breathed against his lips, bringing your hand down to guide the tip of his dick right between your legs. 

He thrust in slowly at first, taking his time adjusting to every small movement. He shook as you watched his eyes flicker to black for a moment, then back to red, again to black, then red, as if he was fighting with himself. He pushed all the way in this time, bottoming out inside of you. You cried out, experiencing such complete fullness for the first time. He wasn’t enormous, in fact you’d say his cock was just the perfect size, but he was much bigger than any toy you’d ever used. 

“Fuck, those pretty little noises are gonna drive me crazy,” he growled lustfully, thrusting out and then in again fully. You threw your head back in pleasure, taking in every sensation of him stretching you out, his dick hitting exactly the right curves inside you, places you didn’t even realize he could reach. 

He fisted his hands in the sheets beside your head as he thrust in and out, alternating slow and fast in a way that made your head spin completely. He kept eye contact with you the entire time, the same hungry and magnetic gaze he always had, except there was something beneath the surface this time. Something softer, almost loving. You didn’t have a mind for romance now, though. 

Your mind could only process the feeling of him inside you. His fingernails dug into the sheets with so much force you swore they were going to rip to shreds in his grip. He latched his teeth onto your neck forcefully, drawing blood. At the same time, you felt him lurch inside of you, shaking and growling as he spilled out inside you. Warm cum dripped around his dick as he slid out slowly, and there was another warm sensation you could make out—blood spilling from your neck. 

“San—San—towel, now,” you demanded anxiously, the two dripping fluids making you feel a bit uneasy. He took care of the cum first, wiping it off the blanket, then lapped his tongue on your wound a few times before sticking a bandage on it. Where did he get that, anyway?

“You’re a mess,” he commented teasingly, a cheeky flash of fangs dancing up on his lips. 

“Yeah, thanks to you,” you grumbled, running your palm over the bandages securing your bite marks. “I can’t believe you didn’t… y’know.”

“Lose it?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Trust me darling, it was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Your taste is especially intoxicating. Your pussy tastes even better than your blood, somehow.”

You laughed at the unexpected compliment. It felt weird for such a hot guy to be talking to you about the taste of your pussy at 2am. A demon, no less. You almost felt embarrassed in his gaze, despite just fucking so intensely. You were suddenly incredibly self-conscious about your naked body as he watched you. You wrapped yourself in your hands, shrinking down slightly as you concealed your body from his gaze. 

“Hey, stop that,” he said firmly. “Why are you hiding? Your body is incredible. I’d say you look like an angel, but we kinda hate those where I’m from.” He smiled gently. “But you do look divine.”

Heat rose through your cheeks, staining them red. He’d always complimented your smell, your taste—he’d never praised your body before. You motioned towards the closet, and he tossed you a shirt reluctantly. You threw it quickly over your head, still feeling bashful despite his nice comment. 

You fell asleep shortly after getting cleaned up, tucked neatly into your bed by your sweet house-demon.

Demons, you learned, didn’t need sleep, despite their human need for practically everything else—food, massages, sex. You had forgotten for a moment why he was even there in the first place, the sex having completely over-ridden the events of the day beforehand. You forgot all about being potentially in danger, your mind only filled with thoughts of San.

He sat by your side all night, or so you knew from what he told you the next morning. He said you were cute when you sleep. His lamb. The idea of him watching over you protectively all night made your heart ache, in a way both good and bad. You weren’t sure if you could say it for sure yet, but you were falling in love with him. 

But it could never work between you. It was too good to be true. It had to be.

[mymostimaginaryfriend]

QOTS 5x05 Reaction Post

Good news if you like your blood bath’s angst free: there’s zero agonizing over pulling the trigger this week, thanks to some less morally grey villains.

But if you were looking for any fallout or repercussions or I don’t know an acknowledgement of last week’s proceedings effects on the interpersonal relationships of La Familia you’ve come to the wrong place.  

That definitely does not happen.  Instead we have the A plot of Teresa takes Europe and the B plot of GTFO Before Boaz Murders You KG.  The KG/Boaz stuff was allowed to leisurely marinate in it’s foreboding.  The Teresa takes Europe plot was like three episodes worth of plot in 30 minutes.

Don’t ask me to explain the Oksana issue.  I couldn’t even if I tried lol.  The show needed a reason to get Teresa to Europe so sure, paper-thin excuse, come on down!

I’ll accept nearly any reason to get the gang in suits and night out attire tbh. I’m easy like that.

Overall I liked the idea of this episode more than the execution.  The stuff with Teresa and Oksana and Teresa and Kelly Anne could have been great if it were allowed to breath a bit more but instead I was like “wait, what? EUROPE! the huh now? HEIST! who? INTERNATIONAL INCIDENT! 

I know there were scenes longer than 30 seconds but it sure didn’t feel like it watching live lol

I did thoroughly enjoy Teresa and Oksana kicking Durand’s ass though.

I thought we were going to get a Jeresa art heist but can it really be called a heist if all it entailed was James walking by the painting *once* and being like ok got it lmao.  TOO COMPETENT, VALDEZ.

(Seriously though is there anything not on his resume? He’s got the full vest of criminal scout badges: art theft, motorcycle stunts, private army, surveillance, assassinations, etc etc.)

I love that we’re conditioned as an audience now to know James not appearing at the showdown = him holed up in his sniper’s den.  That was badass.

I do kinda wish Rocco had been there to be a part of the massacre. I’d have loved to see Teresa encounter him again.

Though gotta love the moment Teresa hears Rocco is dead she’s like ca-ching EUROPE BABY.

Can you tell I’m avoiding talking about KG and the pervasive feeling of imminent doom hanging over all of his scenes???

Because my dude, Boaz looked you straight in the eye and showed you what he does to people “infiltrating his business”...get out while you can I beg of you!!

Also don’t mind that forklift in reverse beeping sound, it’s all the anvils loaded up for Pote’s dialogue.  Saying “You’re never going to be left behind” to Kelly Anne is like the same as pushing the Indiana Jones boulder of doom off the ledge, and we’ve seen how much Pote sucks at running.

P.S. When Pote interrupted Kelly Anne’s super vulnerable conversation to insist their baby HAD to be a boy...I might have whispered: “dump him.”

And one last thing, it looks like 5x06 will make up for it but if I were the editor of this ep, I’d have cut a few of the KG/Boaz scenes to fit in just a few longer scenes between A plot characters...particularly Jeresa after last ep would have been nice. And oh idk James learning about the pregnancy on screen perhaps? Who even told him? Or at the very least squeeze in James and Pote’s reaction to Teresa walking out of her unarmed meeting with Durand holding him at gunpoint b/c that would have been priceless.  But that’s just me.

And speaking of that preview...whew.  Not sure I’ll survive 5x06.  Goodbye sweet world, cause of death: Jeresa content.  Cannot wait.

[raksh-writes]

hi love!! no void screen cap today, i took inspiration from your comment on the last void of the day and came up with some headcanons/opinions that i’d love to share with you one by one and get your thoughts on them! so i was actually thinking about this a few days ago: i REALLY wish they showed more lore/backstory about void in canon. i personally am a huge sucker for fics that deep dive into void’s history, how he earned his tails, showing off just how powerful he is. i feel like canon really only gave us a tiny glimpse of void’s true nature, and i really wish they spent more time unpacking the lore behind him instead of just one episode explaining his connection to noshiko and why he was so offended at the time. i hope you have a great day!! sending all the love and hugs to you, as always 💗💗💗

Hello, dear! Oh, hell yeah, send me all the headcanon/opinions, I'm always up to discussing Void and I'd love to read them! ^^

Yes, yes, totally agree!! I Need more lore about Void, there's so much potential there, ahhh, we know just basically nothing. Unfortunately, I feel like the writers didn't think about it, or didn't care, or - well - couldn't come up with anything that would make sense, which wouldn't surprise me ;/ Sorry for being harsh, but I've never considered Teen Wolf's writing that good - the show was fun, but had it's problems, lmao. Like, don't even get me started on that Noshiko/offended thing, I'm *silently vibrating* havings Lots of thoughts and feelings and opinions on that one 😂 Tho you've already read some of that in LitA 😂

But as for Void's history and tails, I'm always getting caught up in the fact that we didn't actually get any clear info on him whatsoever, like - the explanation of what Nogitsune is? They feed on pain, chaos and strife, okay that's one thing. There’s the bit that they are a dark kitsune, but then in S5 they called Kira a dark kitsune, so what is it exactly? Just an evil kitsune? Out of control kitsune? Whatever that could mean, or is it like, something inherent? But then - they've never uttered the word Nogitsune for Kira, so is Nogitsune a completely different kind of spirit? But then they talked about the 13 types of Kitsune and Void Kitsune, so is he both a Kitsune and a Nogitsune? Then surely it has to be like a different thing? Or is it a title maybe? Noshiko seemed to use it like one, I think. But it's all very unclear to me personally - then again, we can make our own assumptions.

I do have my own headcanons, of course, they're kinda showing above, but I also dabbled in it in LitA, in the first chapters - I went the route of a Kitsune becoming a Nogitsune basically by choice, like rejecting to be Inari's messengers and going their own path. But, again, I found online that nogitsune aren't always considered the bad/evil ones, so I've been having some additional thoughts on this too, lmao, like maybe to become a Nogitsune one must in some way offend other Kitsune or the Inari, so the need to feed on pain is kinda like a curse? Tbh, the Void I have in my head fits into this very well 😄 Like the way I interpret him, Void's totally a character that would spit in the faces of anyone trying to control him and then when "cursed", instead of agonizing over it, he'd lean into it and use it to his advantage.

As for the tails, I kinda take the canon route of every 100 years or for a achieving like a big feat or smth, and also as in LitA - for keeping a promise/deal. Like those are "rules" that apply to everyone, so Nogitsune can earn their tails as everyone. And I will die on the hill that Void has 9 tails and if it was possible, he'd have more, because he actually keeps his word - he is also still a trickster, though. But - as fun as EvilTM canon Void is - I love the more classical trickster take. I reblogged a post on them some time ago, and it stated that normally triskters aren’t inherently evil. They're about crossing boundaries and questioning the norms, the morals, the status quo, and that usually, they're actually telling the truth, 'cause it's more beneficial for them. There was more but, basicially, I prefer more morally ambigious Void, as you know 😂

Aaaaand this got super long and super rambly and I kinda lost my point, sorry 🙈 But I hope something from all of this makes sense 😂 I'm always, always up to discussing everything Void! I might do better with more specific things though, 'cause Im easily getting carrried away, as you can see 🙈😂

My weekend has been going great, thank youu! 💗🥰 I've managed to post the Briles fic and start on the Supernatural crossover today, so that's been lovely ^^ I think my wrists might need a break now though - and when I'd looove to continue the crossover thing until I can get to finally describing Void 🥰🥰 But I might need to leave it for tomorrow 😂

Hope you're also having a lovely weekend and aaaaaall the love and hugs and positive vibes your way, hun 💗🥰💗🥰💗❤💞❤💗

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of wildfire relief, @jesusonthetortillas​ donated $10, and requested pre-series pining!Sam, with diary discovery. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

After his little lesson from Sabrina, the hot librarian's assistant, it's not hard at all for Dean to find what he's looking for. He drops Sam off at the library the way he usually does, and flirts with Sabrina on his way out like he usually does, but instead of going to his shift at the construction site like Sam thinks he's going to, he circles back around, through the library stacks on the main floor, and waits like a dingus by YOUNG ADULT – ADVENTURE, watching the back of Sam's nerdy, nerdy head where he's hunched at the computer banks, getting up to no kind of good.

It wouldn't have come to this, Dean thinks, if Sam weren't so—he doesn't even know how to think about it. He doesn't know when to pin it down. They were doing okay. Sam ran away, a few years back, but since then he's—well, he's always bitching at Dad and bitching at Dean half the time too, but he's done good in school, he's done his part with the hunting. It was sometime at that last school. September in Maryland. Dad was gone a lot of the time, because Dad always was, and Dean went with him on about half the hunts but Sam got to stay behind, got to just call in research tips and last-minute lore checks, and Dean thought he was pretty happy, as much as Sam ever seemed happy. Chill, just doing his homework at the rickety desk, not complaining any more than usual about Dean's usual dinners of fast food or Kraft or Top Ramen. Seventeen and getting tall and mellowing out, and finally hanging out with his little brother was just fine. Dean thought.

That was two towns ago, three months ago. Dean picks his nails with his pocket knife, leaning on one elbow by the Hardy Boys. Sam's still working away on the computer. Anymore he always is. After school he's always angling for Dean to bring him to the library and if Dean won't drive him then Sam walks, even when it's raining, like it is half the time in frickin Washington, anyway. Always finding a free computer and settling in and disappearing onto the internet. Not coming home until the library closes, and moody if Dean's there when he walks in, and Dean just—he thought they were past all this crap. He thought that maybe Sam had—settled. Figured out how things were, how things had to be.

Well. Either way. Sabrina, with the glasses and the sexy dreads and the legs that very much went all the way to the floor under those wide-legged pants she was always wearing—she gave Dean a computer lesson, free of charge, and he's got a way in, now. Sam won't talk to him, won't hardly look at him. Dean chews the inside of his cheek, watching Sam type on the battered public machine. Sam's not the only one who knows how to research a case, in this family. Dean's going to figure this out. He's gonna fix it.

A bell rings, at five o'clock, like the end of a school day. Sam jerks like he's been shocked and looks up at the ceiling, clearly annoyed. He's been engrossed for two hours, typing away, reading. Real frickin' boring, on Dean's end, but he stayed put. Like staking out a house for a job—nothing to do but wait. He takes a few steps backwards, makes sure the shelves hide his face, and there's a general rustling as people leave—a mom and her kid, and tears because the kid's favorite book wasn't here—and when Dean looks again the computer banks are empty, and Sabrina's checking out the last few patrons, and Sam's—gone. Walking home in the rain, little goth that he is. Fine with Dean, if it gives him a few minutes.

When he settles into the chair Sam was in it's still warm. He opens up Netscape Navigator, the library's homepage welcoming him in a friendly kinda way—big yellow smiley face, that's fun. He goes to where Sabrina taught him, in the menu at the top: view, and then History, where it turns out the computer saves all the webpages you went to just in case you need to find them again, and there—oh, jackpot. Gotcha, Sam.

All kinds of crap. A weather website, a bunch of Ask Jeeves searches, something called DiffEQandU. Some mythology stuff, too, and Dean goes to one that turns out to be a history of kitsune. That's something, at least—Sam doing his important homework, in there with whatever other crap he's been working on.

The last bunch of results are all pages from some website called Livejournal, which Dean's never heard of. He clicks one at random and is brought to—huh. A splashy red page, with a big picture on top of kids graduating from high school in those dorky blue robes. He scrolls down, skimming, looking for the important details among the mess, but it's hard to tell what it is. A forum, it looks like. Kind of like the ones Dean's been on where people trade car parts, or swap ghost stories. A square box, dated yesterday, that says WHEN IS HARVARD'S APP REVIEW???, and a panicky paragraph where some chick might die if she doesn't get in. Another, the day before, with questions about the SAT, and a link that says 43 comments that, when Dean clicks it, brings him to a bunch of apparently teenagers all giving each other tips from some test they're worried about taking.

College. Dean's stomach curls into a knot. It's all—college stuff, applications and tests and deadlines. The usernames are all weird shit: tmntpizzadelivery, quistis4ever, willyshakes. Dean can't tell—is one of these kids Sam?

Sabrina's nearly done with her line of book nerds. Dean rubs a hand over his mouth and clicks away, tries another of the Livejournal results in the history. Another forum, this one apparently about—soccer? Jesus, Sam. Another forum, this one about Conan the Barbarian, and that one's at least easy to snort at, with people's shitty drawings of Red Sonja and excitement about a possible remake. There are personal pages, though, too—one titled Delaware Sucks, in which some girl complains about her life—one titled trent reznor rules my soul, featuring a goth kid who won't shut up about Nine Inch Nails and his bitch of a mother. Another, with a plain blue-and-grey color scheme, with the title on the road, and a new post from today—from an hour ago—with the text just reading, I don't know what to do anymore, and six comments underneath, waiting.

"Hey—ready to go?" Sabrina says.

Dean jerks in his seat. Sabrina's raising her eyebrows at him, behind her glasses, a little smile curving her mouth that promises something a little better than book dust and computer lessons. "I'm always ready," Dean says, grinning, and gets her to roll her eyes—yeah, he's in there—but his eyes drag back to the webpage, the posts. He scrolls down, quick—post after post, waiting to be read. "Real quick—borrow a pen?"

She has one—she's a sexy librarian, of course she has one—and he uncrumples a receipt from his jacket pocket and writes down the URL, careful to get it right. rearviewmirror.livejournal.com. He wants to click on the comments, but.

"Come on, the movie's starting soon," Sabrina says, and Dean closes Netscape, folds the receipt very carefully into his pocket, stands up. He's got a date to make out with a hot chick in the back of a movie theater, and maybe a little more, and Sam's whole Eeyore routine has to take a number. Dean will figure it out. He's got an easy way to run a stakeout, now.

*

December 4

Still can't decide. Anyone else going through this?

current mood: agonized current music: motorhead (AGAIN)

Comments:

teenagehamburger: Yes!! I still don't know where I want to go. Mom wants me to stay close to home, but Delaware sucksssss. Where are you looking?

       rearviewmirror: Anywhere. TBH I'm still not even sure I should apply.

               teenagehamburger: WTF?? Of course you should!! College is the big escape, remember?

 December 1

He's driving me INSANE

current mood: annoyed current music: motorhead (again)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: lol you got it bad

       rearviewmirror: right now I just want to hit him with a brick, actually

teenagehamburger: LOL!! Sorry :(  :(

       rearviewmirror: Sigh. I guess it could be worse, right?

             teenagehamburger: Definitely!! He could be the cute cheerleader from 4th period who doesn't know I exist….

                     coppertonebuttgirl: oh, sorry hammie, that sucks <3

 November 29

The thing is, I don't even want anything crazy? I just want to be—me. Just me, without anyone breathing down my neck. Trig teacher says I could get in to one of the top ten, but I just want to go *anywhere that's not here*

current mood: restless current music: Pearl Jam (home alone!)

Comments:

bloodofreptile: i hear you lol. why don't they get that the rules and hovering and all that shit just makes us want to run faster?

    rearviewmirror: Exactly! My teacher keeps talking about college like it's a place to expand your mind and stuff, and that's fine, but lately I just want to expand my horizons. Kind of ironic?

         bloodofreptile: yeah lol haven't you lived like everywhere?

               rearviewmirror: Feels like it.

teenagehamburger: Is You Know Who going to college too?

 November 18

I feel like it shouldn't be this hard. Normal people have it easy.

current mood: indescribable current music: silence

Comments:

coppertonebuttgirl: feel free to talk to me anytime <3

 November 3

Dad's gone again. Didn't say goodbye. We went to the movies and he gave me a beer, and we watched the stars for an hour in the parking lot even though it was freaking freezing. Happier than I've been in a while. Don’t want it to change but it has to change.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

teenagehamburger: OMG, that sounds so romantic?? I can't believe you were drinking!! Aren't you underage?

     bloodofreptile: lol relax it's not a big deal

           teenagehamburger: I'm just saying!!

coppertonebuttgirl: wish it wasn't hard for you <3

bloodofreptile: dude you've got to say something

     rearviewmirror: I literally can't.

          bloodofreptile: ok but it's gonna drive you crazy. do you even know if he's gay? start with that maybe

*

The posts go on, and on. Reading backwards through time, it's a strange piecing-together. rearviewmirror is active in about ten communities and Dean reads through all of them, that week, bringing an illicit cup of coffee in to the library when he doesn't have a construction shift. He reads with his hand over his mouth and by the time he has to get off the computer he's got a headache, every time, his throat dry and aching.

The journal's been active for six months. Dean clicks through the pages to the very start and reads it in the right order, his heart pounding oddly in his ears. I don't know what this place is. A journal, I guess, considering the name. I just need somewhere to talk where no one will listen.

It's not a pouring-out, like some teenage girl doodling hearts around her crush's initials. He holds back. Never says exactly where they're living, never mentions names. To figure out who it was, you'd have to be one of two other people, and Dean knows that Dad can barely turn on a computer, much less go onto the internet and pore over some teenage angst-fest. Dean spends half his time wishing he were the same. Maybe if he hadn't asked Sabrina for help.

At home, Sam's the same as he always is. Comes home after his own stint at the library, eats the dinner Dean gives him. He reads, most of the time. Does his schoolwork. Dean says, careful one night, "Hey, True Lies is on. Wanna watch?" but Sam only gives him a strange, uncertain look and says, "No, I have a paper due," and he shuts himself into their bedroom with the door very firmly closed, and Dean sits there on the couch alone with a beer and Jamie Lee Curtis being sexy as hell on the fuzzy TV, and he—he doesn't know what to do.

He remembers that day, the looking at the stars day. It was November 2. A nasty anniversary, in their family, and yeah, Dad left. Dean got it. He'd thought Sam did, too, by now. It was better to have Dad gone, on a hunt, than trying to drink himself to death at home in the apartment. At least he was working, that way, and not hurting himself. To distract both of them, Dean picked Sam up from the library and they went straight to the movie theater—the Blair Witch sequel, with Dean providing running commentary about how dumb they were about dealing with ghosts, which at least made Sam grin and elbow him to shut up, even if he was laughing too, the liar—and, yeah, afterward they'd picked up Taco Bell, and then after that Dean swung through the liquor store drive-thru and they parked out, and he let Sam have a beer, and they both sat on the trunk and leaned back against the cold glass or the rear window and didn't really talk, much. The stars, big above them. The night, quiet. Sam was pressed against his side, chilled out and not bitching about anything, and Dean tucked his hand behind his head and he was pretty content with the world, right then. His brother, here, and a six-pack waiting, and nothing happening right then that'd hurt them. Sam smiled at him, that night, before he went to bed. It was sweet—like he used to be, when he was little—and Dean had ended up falling asleep on the couch, watching the public access, but his dreams that night were—good, like they never were on the night of November 2, and it had felt… okay.

do you even know if he's gay?

The college prep—that wasn't a surprise. It hurt but it didn't shock. All his worrying, all his whining, wanting to be 'free'—whatever free meant—it was all part and parcel of the last decade. Dean should've known better. Sam wasn't mellowing out. Sam was a stubborn little shit and he'd always wanted to have a life that wasn't—this.

The gay thing. That hit different. One of the communities Sam followed was for lesbian and gay youth, talking about their coming out experiences. Sam didn't post there much but he commented, asked questions. How do you know? What does it feel like? The hamburger girl was from there, a lesbian chick trapped in some Delaware high school. Encouraging, commiserating. They talked about how college would be their big escape, their chance to go to a big city and find their way. Meet people. Only apparently hamburger girl was crushing on the cheerleader from fourth period, and Sam—

Dean makes an excuse the next day. Saturday: no work for Dean, no school for Sam. Alone in the apartment together, all day, after Dean's week of reading—he can't face it. "Where are you going?" Sam asks, eight a.m. with his hair fucked up and coffee clenched between his hands, and Dean looks at him in his pajama pants and his ratty hand-me-down shirt, skinny and tall and hiding things Dean can't handle, and he says, snappish in a way he doesn't mean to be—"Out, Sam, for christ's sake—" and sees Sam's expression shutter before the apartment door slams behind him.

He goes for a drive, out of town. Cold, threatening rain like it always is, but it won't snow. Out—past the airport, past the suburbs, out to Black Lake. They killed the nymph that was drowning people out here, him and Dad, when they first arrived. Sam stayed home. Sullen on the other end of the line when Dean called to say they'd finished the job, and they were getting burgers for dinner, and did Sam want one. Whatever, Sam had said, like even answering was an imposition. That was November, too.

He sits on the hood, heels braced on the bumper, arms locked around his knees. The lake looks cold. He wants to sink into it, wants to feel that freezing shock, like the polar bear dive he did on a dare back in Illinois. The way the brain just goes blank, tv-static filling up everything and washing all the shit away. All the weird crap you don't want to think about, frozen, and the only thing to focus on just—getting out.

He's not going to dive into the lake. It's nine in the morning and he's wearing his only pair of boots. He hasn't gone out with Sabrina all week. He's been piss-poor at the construction site and McMillan nearly brained him with a hammer yesterday, because Dean wasn't paying attention, and the foreman screamed at him in front of the whole crew. None of that feels close, right now. He breathes the wet-clogged air, cold and mossy, turning his ring restlessly on his finger.

Back at that high school they went to in Raton, Mrs. Encinas in 6th period English told Dean he'd be smart, if he didn't just give up all the time. All he needed to do was take the time to read between the lines, to actually interpret what he was reading and not take things on face value. He made some joke. He doesn't remember what it was, now. Like he didn't know what the fuckin Great Gatsby was saying, when he hoped and hoped and never got what he wanted. When happiness always felt like it was about a thousand miles away, on the other side of a lake he couldn't cross, and hope went out like a snuffed light. Dean can read what's not there. He's done it his whole life.

The problem: Sam's little online journal went back six months. They've lived in four towns, in that time. He never uses names, never puts up anything that'd really identify him. They were in Maryland, August-September-first of October, and it was a comment right at the end of August, on the community for gay kids, talking to the hamburger girl: I like someone, too. He doesn't know. He. The same he that carried forward, through all his journal entries, from Maryland to Washington across whole breadth of the country. He likes classic rock. He drives me nuts. He gave me a beer, and I wanted—

Dean curls forward over his knees, sliding his hands into his hair, breathing hard between his knees. He can read between the lines and he wishes that he couldn't. He wishes—god. What? That Sam would just meet a nice girl and fuck her and get it out of his system? Except how he was writing, it wasn't like it was new. It was something he'd been thinking about. When did you know? had read one of the forum posts, and in the responses, among all the dumb teenage crap about formal dances and jerking off to the wrong person in the music video, there was a comment by username rearviewmirror that said, I broke my leg and he carried me to the car and I wanted to kiss him.

Sam broke his leg in July, the summer he turned fifteen. He'd been trying to stay quiet but he'd had this trapped whimper in his throat that he couldn't stop, and Dad had stayed behind to cover their backs and it had been left to Dean, to scoop Sam up, his whole body quivering with the shock—to hug him close between the trees, humid Georgia night making every place their skin touched slick with sweat—to let Sam cling to his neck, shuddering, and to put a hand on his back and whisper, hey, Sammy, it's not even that bad, huh? no bone sticking out, you did good. we're gonna get you a cast and I'm gonna draw you a great picture, okay, Cindy Crawford with her tits out, right there on your shin and Sam had been so shaky that his laugh sounded like he was crying, but he'd nodded against Dean's neck and chattered out sounds cool, Dean, and when Dean got him to the car Sam hadn't wanted to let him go—so they crawled into the backseat together, Sam still half in his lap and with his arms still tight around Dean's neck. Dad got into the front and frowned at Dean in the rearview, and Dean nodded, and when the car leapt forward Sam gasped and gripped at Dean's shirt when his leg got jostled, and Dean put his hand in Sam's hair and said, it's okay, you're okay, and Sam—wanted to kiss him.

He can't square it. It's like there's some twinned version of his brother, in this place Dean never knew existed. All these secrets he's been hoarding, this other person he's been. These wants that make him a stranger.

He goes back home with stuff for lunch around noon. Sam's reading, in the bedroom. "Got pb&j or grilled cheese," Dean calls, down the shotgun kitchen through the thin-carpeted hall, and Sam calls back, "I'm not hungry," which is a goddamn shit of a lie. He grows like an inch a day, he's never not hungry. Dean braces his hands on the counter and counts to five, in his head. He puts the bread away, and puts the cheese in the fridge. He goes into the living room and turns on the TV and it's college football, which is boring as hell, but it fills the apartment with noise. He wishes Dad were home. He wishes he were hunting.

The Huskies lose. Sam hasn't come out of the room, as far as Dean can tell. He's had—four beers? He looks at the table. Five. It's getting toward dark and it's raining, a-fucking-gain, and Dean's still wearing his jacket and his boots and his ears are cold, because the heater in here sucks, and he's shredded the label of the beer everywhere, everywhere. He brushes it off his knees and that just means it's gonna get ground into the shit-brown carpet, but—who cares. He's got other things on his mind.

He gets the last beer out of the fridge. Should've bought more. "Got some spare cash," he says, to the dark hall. There's a halo of light around the half-closed bedroom door. "Thinking pizza for dinner."

Silence.

Dean pushes the beer bottle against his forehead. "C'mon, Sam. It's not going to kill you to prefer pepperoni or sausage. Just say something."

"Doesn't matter," is the response.

Dean squeezes his eyes closed, slams the bottle down to the counter. It's four steps to the bedroom and the door flies open under his palm. "Just fucking say," Dean says, and Sam's looking at him with big eyes, curled up on the twin bed with his back up against the wall, books spread open all around him. Homework, of course. "Just say it, okay? What do you want?"

Sam stares at him. "I don't care! Get—whatever, pepperoni. Jeez, what's up with you?"

"Sure you don't want sausage?" Dean says, kind of nasty, and Sam frowns, shakes his head. Goddamn it. Dean drags a hand over his face, sags against the door frame. He's—a little dizzy. Oh—okay, so maybe he should've eaten, sometime since this morning. "Damn it, Sam," he says, his stomach twinging.

"What?" Give him this—maybe he's sneaking around, maybe he's lying about half his life, but Sam doesn't shrink back from an argument. He's still in his pajamas. He shoves his notebook away, lifts his chin. "What?"

"Been doing some reading," Dean says, and watches Sam's face scrunch disbelievingly. "Rearviewmirror? You don't even like cars."

It's weirdly satisfying to watch Sam blanch. He's been so unaffected the last little while it's almost a relief to get a real reaction. His mouth parts, his eyes go big. He stares at Dean in total silence except the rain drumming on the roof, and then he says, "That's—private."

"Not that private," Dean says. "You're putting shit on the internet for any asshole to read, Sam. It's not a pretty princess diary with a sparkly lock."

Sam's face is white. He licks his lips, his back rigid against the wall. "How did you—you never—"

"I know how to use a friggin computer," Dean says, and watches Sam close his eyes. "So? Got a lot to say to a bunch of strangers. Might as well say it to me. I mean, I'm your brother, right? Family."

It comes out hard but his voice cracks, on the last word. He swallows and some of the anger dissipates. Sam's jaw flexes and he tucks his hands behind his neck and his knees drag in, like defense. Like he needs defense. Against Dean. Like it's Dean who's wrecking things.

Dean's legs go out from under him. He sits down. Right there, in the doorway to the bedroom, the frame hard against his spine. The rain's loud and he doesn't—what is there to say? "You should've told me."

That's really it. Sam looks at him. Disbelief. "How?" he says, and Dean tips his head back against the wall, looks at the popcorn ceiling, says, "I don't know, it's not my damn secret. But you should've."

"Yeah, that would've gone great," Sam says, sarcastic.

Silence. The rain. Dean drags his hand over his face again, clears his throat. "So. You're—queer." For some reason it seems like the simplest thing to start with.

Sam snorts. "I'm not, like, jerking off to JC Chasez," he says, bitter.

"Who?" Dean says, but shakes his head. "God, whatever. Jesus, Sam, I can't—don't talk about you jerking off. You're not—you don't date chicks, either. Ever. So you're—"

"I don't know," Sam says. Kind of firm. Dean closes his eyes to not look at him. "I don't know, okay? But that's not what—" Pause, while he drags in a breath that's audible across the room. Dean curls over, his forehead between his knees. It's too big to hear. Sam blows out air. "You read the whole thing?"

Frail. Cobweb soft, like if Dean breathed too hard it'd break. Dean folds his hands over his head. "I read the whole thing," he says.

"Don't—" Sam says, quick, and cuts himself off. Dean can't stand it—he looks, peeking up, and Sam's made himself small, there at the head of the bed. His mouth is small, his lips between his teeth—his eyes, big and scared. "Dean. I wouldn't—I swear. I wouldn't—"

"Kiss me?" Sam flinches like from a raised fist, when Dean's all the way over here. Dean licks his lips, dropping his hands so they dangle useless between his knees. "Or, what. Leave? Either way it's pretty fucked up, for me, Sam."

"Oh my god," Sam says, very quietly, and—christ. Looks like he's gonna cry.

"Sam," Dean says, and no matter how pissed he is, that's not—Sam fights back. Sam always fights back, he's frickin' annoying that way. He's not supposed to crack like this. Dean rolls up to his knees and Sam's looking away, neck craned unnaturally so that his face is pointed at the broken-blind-covered window so that Dean can't see, but Dean can—Dean can see his teeth so hard in his lip that the skin there's white, and his chest shaky, and his fist clenched in the thin fabric of his pajama bottoms, and, and—"Sammy," Dean says, again, and Sam's eyes close and there is—shit, shit, a tear, running fast out of the corner of his eye, streaking down his cheek so quick that if Dean could blink he might've missed it.

Dean's gut hurts, like he took a punch from a werewolf and he's gonna be bruised for the next three weeks. He doesn't have anything to say to make it better, not when it's this screwed up. This isn't Sam bitching about Dad or whining about crossbow practice or pouting about a move. Sam's been thinking about this for two years and he's managed to talk about it with people, online at least. Dean's coming at it with a week's slow raw realization and he doesn't know how to make it—not how it is.

He gets over to the bed, on his knees. Sam won't look at him, like the view of nothing through the blinds is the most fascinating thing in the world. There's a wet shining trail, down his cheek to his jaw. A damp circle on his t-shirt. Dean says, because he can't think of what else to say, "You really—you want—" and even then, can't articulate it. A kiss. Sex. A kind of close they've never been. He says, slower, "Is that why you want to go?"

Sam drags in air. Sounds like it hurts.

Dean drags his teeth over his lip. There are books all over the bed. He pushes them away, and Sam's notebook. He pushes up—knee on the mattress, and sinking down to his hip, and Sam's close enough to touch, now, and he jerks and looks at Dean like he's an alien. A ghost. Something that can't be real, only they both know that it is. Dean touches Sam's hand, fisted there in his pants, and Sam jerks again, his stiff shoulders back against the wall, and he shoves Dean's hand but no matter the crazy growth spurt Sam's been having Dean's still stronger, still has the reach—he grips Sam's wrist and yanks, gets him off balance, and then he's right inside Sam's grapple and has his hand flat on Sam's chest, pressing him harder against the paint, and Sam stares at him wild-eyed with his breath both fast and deep and Dean leans forward and presses their mouths together. It's a bad kiss—he barely hits on center, and Sam freezes—but there's the touch of warmth, Sam's lips—soft—and the shocked air hitting Dean's face—and Dean drags in breath through his nose and resettles, fits his mouth to Sam's soft open lower lip and makes it better, his head tipping, easy pressure there, just the faintest amount of suction so that when he pulls back a millimeter there's a little smooch sound, and that makes it—real.

He kissed his little brother. No getting around that. No pretending. His nose brushes Sam's cheek and Sam's not really breathing, and Dean—fuck, Dean does it again, pressing in and letting Sam's wrist go so that he can get a hand on Sam's jaw, tipping him so it's good. Sam makes a tiny noise and breathes out hard against his mouth, and when Dean kisses him for a third time Sam meets it, his lips moving finally out of that still shock, his fingertips brushing Dean's arm all careful, his heart pounding under Dean's hand.

Dean pulls back. An inch between them—not enough but all Dean can seem to manage. He swallows. His lips are tingling, and his eyes are closed and he doesn't want to open them, and his fingers—jesus, he's got them tangled in Sam's hair like Sam's some easy hot chick he's picked up at a dive bar, pressing her up against the wall in the bathroom hallway, knowing how the night's going to end.

"We can't," Sam says. Sam. His voice, steady and familiar. "We—Dean. This isn't—"

"No," Dean says, god knows why. He pulls back, though—pulls his hand out of Sam's hair, stands up. His legs wobble for a second. He has to open his eyes and so he drags in a breath and does, and Sam's sitting there with his shoulders high and tight and his hands fisted on his knees and his hair a little fluffed on one side, a little screwy. His mouth parted and his eyes—fixed on Dean's face, looking all over it. Like he's memorizing a trail map, for an unknown stretch of land.

"I'm drunk," Dean says. It's not true. Five beers—he's buzzed but he knows what he's doing. Sam doesn't contradict the lie. "Acting nuts. Sorry, Sam. I—"

"I want pepperoni," Sam says. His face isn't white anymore. He's flushed, dark pink in the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes are dark, wide and fixed on Dean, and there's still that shining trail on his cheek but it's drying. "Order from that place on Melrose. Garlic knots, too."

Dean backs up a step, pins on a smile. "What, you think I'm dumb? Like I wouldn't get knots," he says, and Sam doesn't smile but he nods, brief and fast like Dean's picking up a play in some con they're running, and Dean snaps a finger-gun at Sam—fuck, what is he doing—and turns out of the room, says—"Okay, dinner in thirty minutes or less or your money back!" and walks through the kitchen and out into the living room and out the front door, and closes it behind himself, and leans against it and stares blindly out into the rain, the setting sun still sparking some tiny golden bit of light out to the west, past the horizon.

He licks his lips and tastes salt, not his own. Sam's hand, on his arm—skimming, brushing light through the thickness of his jacket. Like he wasn't sure he'd be allowed to really touch. He drags in the rain-soaked air. He'll drive, to get the pizza. He'll drive, and he'll give Sam time. When he gets back he'll offer Sam half the pie and a beer, and there'll be some movie on TV that Sam probably won't want to watch, but maybe he will. They'll be—brothers. Dean knows how to do that. It feels like it's all he's got left.

*

It's—not easy but it's not all that hard, either. There's a brutal week where Dean's torn between walking on eggshells and wanting to wrestle Sam to the ground, and Sam goes perfectly silent—not pouty withdrawal or furious silent-treatment, but as still and quiet as though he's not even there. Dean can't bear it. It takes Dad coming home to break it—Dad, and christ, when he calls to say he's coming back Dean completely freezes and his mind fills up with—with—but then Sam looks at him and takes the phone out of his hand and says, his mouth's full—what's up? and after that it's like things… settle. It's not okay but it's livable.

rearviewmirror.livejournal.com goes quiet. Dean checks, occasionally, over the months that pass. When he's looking up some random piece of lore for Dad, when they're hunting alone and Sam's stuck back at whatever shitty hotel they stored him at, and Dean's on research duty because Sam's in high school and can't answer his phone. Dean types in the address and checks, and it's still that last post. Anyone else going through this? He hopes, sincerely, not. It's too fucked up for anyone else to bear. At least the Winchesters have practice.

They run PT. Sam does his homework. Dean watches TV. Hunting focuses things. There's stuff to kill and people to save and things aren't falling apart any more than they ever are, so—Dean deals.

Sam leaves.

*

It's January. Dean's in a library, alone. Dad's working a job north of Boise and he sent Dean down to Wendover to take care of a haunting, and Dean's done and Dad called and said two more days and there's this raw wounded spot where Dean should be able to turn, to look over his left shoulder and say—but it's empty there, and so he's in a library.

Sam started posting again, when he got to school. Small stuff. That he was sorry for the long break. That he'd ended up at a university after all. The hamburger girl doesn't respond anymore but the Nine Inch Nails boy does: thought you were dead, he says, no-caps like he's so goddamn cool, and Sam says, Just working some stuff out.

Sam likes his professors. He plays pick-up soccer with some of the guys from his dorm. His roommate snores. He doesn't listen to music at all. There's nothing—real. There's none of the sadboy shit, nothing about what he's feeling, no pondering of what it all means. He picks up a few different Livejournal friends, clearly people from his classes, who crack jokes about Ancient Civ and Linear Algebra. He joins a community focused around civil rights litigation. He might as well not be there.

Dean reads it all. If Sam's not calling then Dean's gonna check in whatever way he can. When Sam left Dean made sure he had at least one good knife in his bag and he said don't forget the salt when Sam hiked his backpack onto his shoulder, and Sam snorted and looked at him like a gunshot but he nodded, and Sam's not dumb, he knows how to take care of himself, but. Dean's the big brother, here. He's within his rights, to check and make sure baby bro's not being a dumbass.

January and it's fuckin cold, in Wendover, but the library's too warm. Dean keeps his coat on anyway, scrolling through the comms. He's kinda turning into an expert, navigating the pages, recognizing the shorthand. He hasn't made an account. Doesn't know why he would. He finishes his scan of the comms Sam's part of and doesn't really see any relevant posts, and no comments from rearviewmirror that he can find. He chews his cheek and goes back to the main page, thinking—okay, he can get out of here. Beer and dinner, and finding a motel that doesn't look toxic, and waiting for Dad to call. Not the worst night he could have. He refreshes, one last time, just in case, and there's a new post. He reads:

January 23

Done with class for the week. Feeling restless.

current mood: current music:

Comments:

lawblog69: we should go out!!

bloodofreptile: go get laid

Dean snorts. At least the NIN kid is consistent. He refreshes again and there's a new comment.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

He takes a breath, sitting there at the computer bank. It's quiet in here—the good people of Wendover aren't much for the library, apparently—but he feels like someone's right there. Like he could reach out and touch, when it's just words on a glowing screen. Still—the speed of the comment—Sam's… sitting there. Right now, on a computer in Palo Alto, looking at the same thing Dean is.

He refreshes.

bloodofreptile: go get laid

    rearviewmirror: Not really in the cards.

        bloodofreptile: still holding onto that? very hufflepuff. how long has it been?

              rearviewmirror: my whole life

Dean presses his knuckles to his lips, hard enough that he can feel his teeth pressing back. Jesus, Sam. He refreshes—another comment, from coppertonebuttgirl, agreeing about the restlessness but apparently she's off to a date with her boyfriend, and Sam responds and says sounds nice :), and jesus, Sam, Dean thinks. Off to have the big college experience like he wanted so bad, off to have that new shiny life, and after five months away he's still all sadsack, still not actually living.

He clicks the comment box. He types, unaccountably mad. He hits submit, and gets a warning that it'll show as anonymous. He waits, and refreshes, and reads:

Anonymous: Just go hit a bar. Live a little. Thought you were supposed to be smart, college boy.

     rearviewmirror: Since when does smart have anything to do with it?

Dean rolls his eyes. He can hear Sam's voice saying it, nettled and trying to sound like he isn't.

Anonymous: You're on here mooning after Cindy Crawford when Claudia Schiffer and Tyra Banks are out there in the real world. Have a beer, get over it.

A pause. Dean has to refresh twice. The librarian walks by with her cart of books and gives him a distracted smile, and Dean's so addled he doesn't actually process and then return it until she's already gone.

rearviewmirror: I don't think it's something you get over. It mattered. It still does, to me.

Dean chews his thumbnail. Sam's face, turned unnaturally, looking out that window at the rain. The wet track, on his cheek.

Anonymous: Matters enough that you're never going to move on?

    rearviewmirror: I didn't think you could move on from family. Maybe I was wrong.

The air goes out of Dean's chest. He turns away from the computer, entirely, swiveling the chair so he's looking out at the lonely bookshelves. He flexes his jaw and swivels back around. Hits refresh.

The thread of comments is gone. He blinks, confused. He doesn't think he was hallucinating—been a while, since he was that tired and drunk. But—oh—in its place, a single comment, under the brief conversation with the NIN kid:

rearviewmirror: Tell me if it's you.

Dean licks his lips. He closes out of the browser, picks up his notepad and keys. On the steps outside it's cold, cold, fucking cold, and this town is bleak. He walks down to the Impala, waiting there in the iced-over grey snow, and braces his hands on the hood, and blows out a long purling winter-dragon breath, and then fishes his phone out of his pocket. Another new phone, but he's got Sam's number memorized, and he almost calls before he chickens out. If it's not actually wanted—he imagines that conversation and he's just not constitutionally capable, right now, of facing how goddamn awkward it'd be.

He texts: It's me.

The response, after seconds: Where are you?

The shitty part of Utah. That's saying something. Easier, like this. Like it's not him kicking down a doorway right into Sam's head.

I don't have class tomorrow.

Could be random, if he didn't know who he was talking to. Dean leans his elbows on the hood of the car, looking at the little box of black-and-white text. He chews his lips and thinks. Before he can respond, another message:

I don't want to move on.

Dean tips his head enough that he's pressing the edge of the phone into his forehead. His fingers are cold. He sniffs, his nose dripping in the icy weather, and types, careful to make sure he gets it right: I'm nine hours away.

Less, if he goes over 100 in the boring parts of Nevada, and if he doesn't stop at all for a catnap.

Stop in Reno for a nap. You get weird when you drive all night. Text me when you're close.

Dean works his jaw, standing there in the cold. He's got nothing to do, for two days. He's got most of a tank of gas. He's got—nothing. Nothing. He gets in the car, and he drives.

It's only 9:30 when he gets to Reno. There were parts of Nevada where he drove very, very fast. He pulls into a truck stop, gets more gas and parks out near where the semis are lined up, the drivers early-birding the night away. Still cold here but less so. He twists around so his back's to the passenger door and looks out the driver window at the neon signs of the truck stop, the cars going in and out of the gas islands. He ate a little but his stomach was all twisted up and he couldn't get much down. A beer would go easier but he doesn't want to be drunk. Well. He does. This is insane. This is—completely stupid.

He pulls out his phone, looks at it. Dials and holds it to his ear, and it rings three times—long enough for him to change his mind four times—before there's an answer, and Sam's voice says, "Dean?"

His voice. Dean closes his eyes, tips his head back against the cold glass of the window. "Long time, no speak," Dean says. It feels rusty.

Sam's quiet for a second, on the other end. "Not really, though. Right?"

"I guess so. It's not the same." Dean listens to the little acknowledging sound Sam makes. There's silence again, for seconds that he counts—one and then two and then three. He listens to the cooling tick of the engine, through it, and then says, before he loses his nerve, "I shouldn't come. Right? This is nuts."

There's some noise, staticky. Like something passed over the mic on Sam's phone. After a beat, Sam says, "You should do what you want to do."

"Oh, should I," Dean says, and it comes out sarcastic, but he doesn't really mean it to be mean. Sam doesn't take the bait, staying quiet on the other end, and Dean opens his eyes again, watching a huge truck muscle past the gas island, watching the normal world go by. He rubs his eye. "I've been—it's been weird, Sam."

Understatement, but he doesn't know why he says it. That kind of stuff isn't for Sam to worry about.

"Go to sleep," Sam says, instead of responding. "An hour or something, just enough so you won't drive off the road. Text me when you're close."

Same thing he said before. "It'll be like three in the morning when I'm close," Dean says, and Sam says, "I'll be awake," and then the line disconnects, and Dean's left there alone again on the bench seat, but it—feels different.

He sort of sleeps, sort of doesn't. He's got a talent for going to bed wherever and whenever he has to—on spare tires and on forest floors and in a closet, once, with a propane tank as his pillow—but his brain won't shut up. He drifts in and out, for the hour Sam asked him for, and then he gets out of the car and goes into the 24-hour c-store and buys a big cup of coffee and a Hershey bar, and points the hood west, and follows the yellow dashed line home.

He texts from a gas station outside Sacramento. Sam texts back in less than a minute with an address. Dean glances at his map of California and responds: 45 minutes, and it's more like thirty when he pulls up to the—yeah, the motel, and he makes a sound that's sort of like a laugh except it doesn't feel like one. He turns into the parking lot and the headlights flash the building, and there, sitting on the sidewalk with his back to a pillar.

Dean parks. Sam has his arms folded over his knees, but he unfurls, stands. Dean gets out of the car and Sam's—jesus, ten feet away, his face totally visible under the streetlight. His hair's a little longer. "Did you get taller?" Dean says, and Sam huffs, his head ducking, and—fuck everything else, it's Dean's little brother, and he drags Sam into a hug, folding his arms over Sam's shoulders even if he has to lift on his toes a little to do it. Sam goes stiff for half a second, but he hugs back, and Dean turns his face in, Sam's hair in his nose like it always is, and feels him—warm, and safe. All Dean ever wanted for him, pretty much.

"You have to get the room," Sam says, when they pull apart. At Dean's eyebrows he shrugs, the corner of his mouth curled. "What? My scholarship doesn't include seedy rent by the hour stuff."

"Oversight much?" Dean says, but he goes in, and he gets a room. Two queens, because that's what the tired miserable little desk clerk says they have available. Means Dean doesn't have to think about other possibilities, and it means that when he dangles the keys off his finger and Sam half-smiles at him, when they've walked down the cold sidewalk side by side, when Dean opens the door and finds the different motel room, same as the first—Sam sits on one bed, and Dean sits on the other, and they look at each other, and it's like it's two years ago and they're just two kids, waiting for Dad to come home.

Sam is taller. Taller than Dean, now. His hair long enough to fall in his eyes, which it does constantly. Newish sneakers, and old jeans, and a hooded sweatshirt, and a denim jacket over the top of that. Not warm enough for the Bay in winter, but Dean bites his tongue before he says anything about it.

"How are your classes?" he says, instead.

Sam's cheek sucks in, like he's chewing it. After a second he says, "You don't want to talk about my classes, man." His head tips. "Anyway. You read about it, right."

It was a mistake not to stop for beer. Dean needs something to do with his hands. "Your algebra professor sounds like an asshole," he says.

Makes Sam smile before he ducks his head, looking down at his lap. "I thought—" He swallows, audibly. He shakes his head, his hair falling down and hiding his face. "Only reason I started posting again was that I wondered if you might still—if you'd check."

It's quiet, honest. Dean hasn't talked to Sam in person for half a year and he's off-balance. Expecting Sam to snark, to be dismissive, to roll his eyes. Small hours of the morning, maybe he's too tired not to be honest. Maybe he's growing up. Dean's not prepared for that.

Sam looks up at him when Dean's silent for too long. His teeth dig into the corner of his mouth and he drags his hand through his hair, gets it off his forehead. "I said I didn't want to move on. You know what I meant, right?"

Dean huffs. "Yeah, I'm not an idiot, Sam," he says, and Sam's eyes tighten. Dean leans back on his hands, tips his head back on his shoulders to look at the ceiling. "Thought this was the whole point of getting out. Getting away, making a whole new life. Being someone else."

"I'm still me," Sam says, unseen. "And it wasn't the whole point. I want a life. That part—whatever, that doesn't matter right now. But I never thought the other thing was going to go away."

He stands up, so Dean can see him. Dean looks at him down his nose, and Sam's—god. Tall. That keeps being his first thought. Tall, and maybe not a stranger, even if he's real damn strange. Sam steps closer, in the little space between the two beds, chewing his lip again. He's gonna make a sore there. "Dean," he says, and Dean raises his eyebrows in response. "You came."

"Yeah," Dean says, rueful. "Well. I'm Cindy Crawford."

Sam's face ripples—a frown, surprise—and then a huffed little laugh—and then he steps between Dean's knees and touches his chest, his jaw. Leans down, slow, telegraphing like they're practicing a fight, and Dean stays exactly where he is, leaned back on his hands, and Sam's mouth touches his—softly. Not hesitant. Dean lets his eyes close and feels it. Puff of air against his face as Sam lets out a tense breath and then another kiss, the damp inside Sam's lip catching against Dean's, and Dean kisses back then, reaching up and getting Sam's jaw, his jacket, fisting the denim and pulling Sam closer. There's a stagger—Sam's knee landing on the bed by Dean's hip, and Dean gets an arm around his lower back and kisses him again, tasting him. Salt, and when Dean kisses him again and presses his mouth open, licks inside, there's coffee-taste, Sam's tongue—slick, tentative—he stayed up, to wait for Dean—his kiss clumsier now, like he doesn't have much practice.

Dean pulls back a few inches. Sam's half-draped on him, his weight nearly in Dean's lap. His eyes are dark but big with surprise, like he didn't expect Dean to go with it. "Sammy," Dean says, and Sam—shudders, his hands closing hard around Dean's shoulders. Okay, Dean thinks, filing that away. He drags a thumb over Sam's jaw, where he's got a barely-there prickle of stubble. "What are we doing?"

Sam shakes his head, licks his lips. "This," he says, holding the side of Dean's neck. "This."

They peel Sam's jacket off, and then Dean's. Sam's still in that hoodie, soft black, and Dean gets his fingers just under the hem of it, barely grazing Sam's stomach, kissing him again—tangled up close on the edge of the bed, Sam's thigh slung over his. Sam keeps touching his face, his chest. His amulet, swinging forward between them when he urges Sam down to his back on the mattress, a knee between Sam's and his hand still there on Sam's belly. Sam grips the amulet and breathes out hot against Dean's face and lifts up for another kiss, which Dean gives him easy, and it's—god, it's good. The lights on, the room warm, Sam wanting underneath his hand. His mouth, slick and open, learning how to press back, how to give as good as he's getting. Dean kisses his cheekbone, his jaw, settles his hand flat on Sam's stomach to ground him, says, "Sammy, you've done this before, right?" Sam hitches breath, nods. Dean sorta laughs, lifts up so he can actually see Sam's expression. "More than once?"

"Twice," Sam says, and when Dean raises his eyebrows he frowns, vaguely indignant. "Jenny Morrison, just before graduation." He licks his lips. "And—a guy. After student orientation, here."

"Playing the field, huh?" Dean says. There's no reason it should make his stomach go molten hot. He rubs Sam's stomach, feels the rise of his breath. "You like it?" Sam nods, again. "What'd you do?"

Sam's cheeks are dark, brick-red. He licks his lips again and Dean ducks back in to kiss him, knocking his mouth open, tasting inside. Earns himself a small deep noise and Sam's hand sliding through his hair where it's too short to grab. He nudges Sam's nose and sits up, peeling off his overshirt. "C'mon. What'd you do? Didn't put that up on your journal, how am I supposed to know?"

"It was a rush party," Sam says, looking at him. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head, making sure his amulet stays put, and Sam blinks heavily, his lips parted. Jeez—it's weird. Hot. Sam wants him, Dean thinks, and it sends a rush of blood south. "He's—uh. Pre-med, smart."

"Not looking for his biography, Sammy," Dean says, and spreads his hands on Sam's hips, pushing up. The hoodie moves, the t-shirt underneath rucks up—Sam's pale here but still that faint all-over tan, darker than Dean's skin. He licks his lips. "What'd you do? Jerk each other off?"

Sam nods, again, his mouth open. God, Dean can imagine it. On some dorm-room bed, their heads leaned together, Sam's mouth open just like this—panting, his hand fumbling down—fuck, fuck it's hot, Sam nervous and into it and trying, making sure. "You liked it, huh?" Dean says, stroking his thumbs over Sam's bare belly.

"Yeah," Sam says, thin on not enough air, his knee drawing up. "But I—I thought about—when you kissed me—" and Dean kisses him again, groaning. Jesus, Sam's gonna kill him. Thinking about some shitty nervous freaked-out kiss when another guy's got his tongue in Sam's mouth. Sam grabs his shoulders, sits up, and Dean accommodates him easy, letting Sam touch him back—Sam's hands sliding down his chest, around to his ribs, grasping. "Dean," he says, panting.

"Let's get this off, huh?" Dean says, pulling, and Sam yanks the hoodie off in a second flat, his hair all ruffling up behind it. The shirt comes with it and there's just Sammy's bare smooth skin, that same pale tan all over. Small brownish nipples, slim muscles. His body. Dean dips and kisses his bare shoulder, licking there, biting, and Sam's nails dig into his ribs so he does it again, swinging a leg over so he's straddling Sam's lap, taking his time. He scrapes his teeth over the swell where Sam's collarbone dips into the arch of his trap, and Sam grips his neck, his back arching. He's hard. Shit, he's nineteen, he has to be hard. Dean slides his fingers down Sam's belly to his belt, tucking under the waist of his jeans, but Sam grips his wrist, then, groaning, saying—"Wait—wait—"

Dean drops his head to Sam's shoulder, groaning back. "We waited," he says, but Sam's hand is on his shoulder, pushing him back, making him look. "What?"

Sam's pink. "Have you—with a guy?" Dean rocks back but Sam's holding him close, looking all over his face. "Dean. Have you—"

"Yeah," Dean says, and watches Sam's ears go red. Sam doesn't need to know when, but it was all in the last year. Three dudes, hookups that were way too easy. They were good—turns out that Dean just likes sex, any way someone will give it to him—and he learned what it felt like to have a dick not his own in his hand, how it felt to slip a cock into his mouth and make a man groan. He hadn't thought about Sam while he was doing it, not really, but he's thinking about it now, and Sam's eyes have dropped, his lips between his teeth. Jealous? Dean smiles while Sam can't see and breaks Sam's hold on his wrist, and slides his hand down, and cups the crotch of Sam's jeans where he's swelling them out. Sam jerks, eyes flying open. "Means I know what I'm doing. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Sam breathes, and then it's—undoing his belt, and unzipping, and then—god, he's still got his sneakers on. Dean backs off and kicks off his boots, deliberately, and Sam blinks at him hot-eyed with his chest heaving and his jeans half-open looking like a friggin porno, but then he gets with the program, and the shoes thud to the shitty carpet and then they're practically racing, undressing, and when Dean kicks his boxers off to the side Sam's—naked, half on the bed, staring at him. Dean stares back, circling a hand around Sam's ankle. God, to look at him, in the lamplight. Long legs, hairier on the shins and lightly furred on the thighs, and a decent dark bush around a dick that's—jesus, that dick. Big, bigger than Dean's, bigger than—Dean licks his lips and looks up with an effort and Sam's staring right back at him, focused between his legs, his mouth parted. "Like what you see?" Dean says, and Sam doesn't answer, just reaches for him, and Dean crawls up the bed and settles on his elbow above Sam with their legs brushing bare, Sam's dick hot against his hip, and Sam kisses him with both hands on his face, his thigh dragging up against Dean's, his lips almost trembly.

Dean soothes a hand down Sam's ribs but Sam's—fuck. Shaking. They haven't even done anything. "Sammy," Dean whispers, between Sam's needing brief kisses, and Sam shakes his head and kisses him again and then ducks his head down, his nose brushing under Dean's jaw. Dean pulls Sam closer—tips, so they're on their sides—and pulls Sam's leg over his hip, pushes in, and—ah, shit, shit that feels good, Sam's big dick brushing in against his, dragging heavy and hot. "Oh," says Sam, small, and Dean slips his hand further and grips Sam's ass, the muscle tight and small—pulls in, and pulls again, encouraging, and Sam grips Dean's shoulder underhand tight enough to hurt but follows, pushing in with the rhythm Dean's urging. He's breathing fast, hot against Dean's throat, but he's got it—humping in, meeting Dean, making their dicks slide, his cockhead smearing wet against Dean's belly. Dean hums, kissing Sam's temple where he can just reach it, just enjoying the—insane way it feels. He lets Sam's ass go and Sam keeps going—good, good—and he licks his fingers sloppy, and reaches down between them, and for the first time he gets a grip on Sam's dick, feels the heft of it. Sam makes a sound like he's been shot and Dean says shh, easy, slicking his hand down to the base, squeezing hard as he pulls back up, and Sam makes another gulping strange sound, his thigh clutching hard around Dean's hip, his hand crushing Dean's lower back in closer. "That feel good?" Dean says, and Sam—comes. Fast, humping in, spurting up Dean's belly and his own, the slick getting all over Dean's dick, hot and wet, the sensation enormous. Dean squeezes him through it, knowing, and Sam humps in again and grabs his ass, nails digging in. Dean tips his head back, feeling it. God, it's good. Sam. His brother.

He swallows. His dick's throbbing, wanting more, feeling left behind. Sammy shudders and Dean licks his lips, pushes Sam back so his shoulders hit the bed. He flops—boneless, shocked—and Dean drags his hands over Sam's ribs, frames his hips. His dick is still big, flushed and wet, his balls clutched up high, and Dean licks his lips and says, "Okay," to no one, and leans down, and gets Sam's dick in his mouth.

A shock, Sam's body practically lifting off the bed. "What," he says, somewhere Dean can't see him—"What are you, oh—" and Dean thinks, oh, what if no one has done this? What if Jenny just opened her legs and she and Sam humped awkward and teenage in some backseat—what if pre-med only wiped his handful of Sam's jizz on the mattress and passed out—what if Dean's the first one, here, opening his jaw wide, careful of his teeth, slicking down, getting the whole fat length of it in his mouth. Only—he can't, fuck, Sam's too big. He fists the base, pulls off, spits and slicks the wet down. When he glances up Sam's up on his elbows, staring, and Dean grins at him, jerks it again, swallows. He can taste Sam's jizz, leftover from coming before. "Hang on," Dean says, and goes back down, letting the head bust his lips open, slicking tight down to his fist, dragging his tongue hard against the underside, suckling easy. Sam takes his statement as an order and grips his head, his shoulder, his hips cringing up into Dean's mouth, and Dean heaves in air, feels Sam firming up again, thick and needing and good.

He's only done this a few times but he—shit, he liked it. Likes it better the other way around, of course, but like this—his dick pressing into the bed, throbbing—Sam splitting open his mouth—yeah, it doesn't exactly suck. He bobs up and down, making sure to pay special attention to the soft ridge at the head, and Sam's making insane noises, now, up above him, petting his head and his shoulders and gripping, trying to shove up. Dean leans into his hip so he can't, fists his dick, pulls off gasping and licking his lips. Sam's still staring, down the length of his torso, and Dean jerks him through the goopy mess they're making—his spit, Sam's precome, what Sam's already come. "You like it?" Dean says, and Sam—rolls his eyes, the little shit.

"You're smug," Sam says, and Dean raises his eyebrows and says, "You're damn right I am," and lets Sam's dick go and goes down, down, no fist in the way until Sam's dick hits the back of his throat and he gags—breathes through it—slurps up with tight lips and then goes right back down, getting his throat used to it, learning the feel of this massive, awesome dick. Sam moans, pushes his hips up, and Dean lets him, rides it—lets Sam fuck up, lets him get a rhythm, like fucking—Sam, fucking his face—and Dean reaches down between his own legs and fists his own dick, finally, groaning in relief and making Sam shudder as the vibration rumbles through Dean's open throat. Sam grips his head with both hands, holding him down, and Dean drags in air through his nose and holds there, filled up with Sam and choking, spit flooding out of his open mouth—the world dark and just Sam's taste, his smell—and Sam makes a little sound—and Dean grunts and lifts off, breaks Sam's hold and crawls up his body, straddling his hips and dragging his dick against where Sam's is all sloppy-hot, dripping wet. Sam gasps up at him and grabs his hips, his ass, fucking up into him, and Dean grips both their dicks in two hands, fucking into the tight wet channel he's making for them both, and Sam pulls at his ass, spreading it, rocking his hips to help, moaning and looking helpless up into Dean's face, and Dean leans down and breathes against him and Sam still comes first, creaming them both, his dick flexing and twitching in Dean's grip, and Dean braces one slick hand on the bed and fists himself seriously, jerking fast, and Sam moans and kisses his jaw and pulls at his ass with those big hands, his fingers slipping low, dipping—and Dean jerks and spills, his belly seizing, his thighs clamping around Sam's hips, Sam's lips open and dragging wet against his throat, his fist gripping the bedspread so hard that his fingers cramp.

Sam's stroking his hips, repetitive and soft, when he's done panting. Dean swallows, shifts his weight. He's slumped on top of Sam, his face buried in Sam's shoulder. Wet between them, sliding, and he releases his dick and slips his sticky hand out, bracing on the bed enough to get some air between them. When he lifts up Sam's eyes are half-closed, but he focuses on Dean's face right away, and his hands stop their stroking and just squeeze, warm and tight. "You okay?" Sam says.

"My line," Dean says, and Sam rolls his eyes again, squeezes again. Dean sits up more but Sam doesn't let go. "C'mon, we should clean up."

Sam's eyes tighten, just barely. He sits up, keeping his grip on Dean, and Dean rocks back but doesn't tip over. He gets a hand on Sam's shoulder to keep his balance and Sam says, steady, "Don't freak. Okay?"

"Who's freaking?" Their dicks are still pressed wetly together, though Dean's basically soft, now. Sam's still plump, thick. He swallows. "C'mon, we're gonna get cemented together," he says, and Sam's mouth purses but his grip goes light, and it gives enough room that Dean can lift off, get his feet under him. Jesus, there's enough jizz on him that it's rolling down his belly—he claps a hand to it before it can drop, smearing it over his abs. "You come like a geyser, dude," he says, not really complaining, but Sam's cheeks are red when he looks back up, and he feels—shit. He doesn't know.

He goes to the bathroom. Fluorescent light, pink-painted sink. He wets one of the five-cent washrags and wipes himself up, and he's not turned on anymore so his thought is mainly that it's just gross, and that bed's going to be wrecked, and also, what is he doing. What is he doing.

Sam's hand appears, reaching around him. He jumps. In the mirror behind him, Sam's tall, looking over his shoulder. Looking at Dean, even as he wets the other rag, cleans himself up. Dean chews the inside of his lip and can't really turn away. Sam's got red marks on his shoulder, where Dean was biting him.

"Stay," Sam says. He tosses his wet rag back into the sink and settles his hands on Dean's biceps, squeezing. When he steps forward his dick presses into the small of Dean's back and his chest is warm, damp. "Tomorrow at least. We've got the room. Stay."

"You want your dick sucked again?" Dean says, and that time it is mean and he did kind of mean it to be, and Sam's eyelids dip and his jaw clenches, but he only slips his hands away from Dean's arms to his ribs, holding him. It feels… Dean shakes his head. "Sam," he says, but there's not really anything that can go after it.

A big hand slides up and over, flattening on his breastbone. "It's not just this," Sam says, meeting Dean's eyes in the mirror, and it makes Dean's cheeks go hot.

He covers Sam's hand with his. He shivers, for some reason. He says, "I should take a shower, I've been in the car all day," and Sam says, "Okay," and Dean takes a shower and Sam sits on the closed toilet, watches him through the clear curtain. Gives him a towel when he comes out. Takes his hips, when he's dry, and presses him to the tiled wall, and tips his head up, and kisses him clean.

Five in the morning, or later. There's a clean bed and Dean hasn't slept in a day. He lays down and Sam lays down with him, a few inches away until Dean relents and turns over, and Sam curls up behind him, holding on, his mouth against Dean's shoulder. There's going to be a call from Dad, at some point. Dean's going to have to meet him somewhere, because there's going to be something bad that needs killing. He can't stay. He's wired and tired, all at once.

"Sleep," Sam says, and Dean turns his head against the pillow, knows he will.

"Hey," he says, and Sam makes a quiet noise. "If you put this on your journal, maybe bloodofreptile will finally shut up about you getting laid all the time."

"His name is Dennis," Sam says, and Dean laughs, weirdly glad. Dennis. Yeah, that fits. "And this isn't going on the internet."

"Probably a good idea," Dean says, and Sam says, again, "Dude, go to sleep," and Dean tips back into Sam's warmth, and does, and it's the best sleep he's gotten in a year.

[nothorses]

Uh I don't really know where else to go for this and I know you answer asks like this a lot and you be always got something good to say so maybe you can help me? I'm trying to sort through lots of feelings on my own since I can't get a gender therapist (my mother actually recommend medicalized conversion therapy instead when I tried to come out to her so, so much for her loving her kids no matter what, right? I hope she comes around but I'm not in a position to apply force to our relationship right now)

And although I'm not like 100% male and I'm more close to enby (but with he/him pronouns) it's still an odd concept to know that people will view me one way based on exactly how I present and I'm not allowed to talk about it without it being "whining" or nonsense complaining... Because if I'm a man, or closely enough one to be precieved as one, then what right do I have to complain? I'm sure you've seen the type of conversations

I can do a lot of things now that I can't do if I'm precieved as male? Like for example women can go to the park and eat lunch and nobody bats an eye but if I a guy does it it's weird because there's kids around, ya know? It's this weird double edge sword that if I decide to go on T I'm both gaining and losing privilege and people won't take that into consideration, because people are still hung up on viewing oppression like Pokemon stats

Also I don't necessarily hate men or think men are evil or anything, but I know other people do that and other people are scared of men- and like I get it if I see some weird dude loitering around I'm locking the car too, but I don't want to be the reason a woman has to cross the street? Or the reason someone has to worry about going home late?

And don't get me wrong, I know I'm a good person, but I know as well other people don't know that... I know what checking over your shoulder on a walk is like, and I don't want to have to be the reason someone does that?

So it leaves me feeling like not only is there so much to learn, but also people are just going to hate me for who I am going to become if I go through medical transition? Like I get it, not everyone is going to like me, but I don't want people to be afraid of me?

But also if I do go on T I have absolutely 0 basis for what I might look like or how it will change me and that's a scary aspect as well, because I can think of a lot of guys I'd be happy to look like or whatever but I can think of a lot more I would be unhappy to look like and you can't pick and choose genetic reactions.. And I know the idea is all about becoming more "you" rather than the perfect version of yourself you wish you could be, but it's still the point... Is it better to live with the familiar hurt of this body and my dislikes? Or should I try essentially a new one and run the risk of hating it more in some ways?

There's like 2 central ideas here, and the one idea has a lot of little ideas coming off of it, but I know at least the first issue I presented you'll understand... The second one is a little more up in the air since appearance is such a personal thing, but I think it's not an unheard of concept... So hopefully all of that makes sense and maybe you've got some decent advice or can just help me make a little more sense to myself?

Oh boy, you’re so valid. A lot of this is very familiar, and I know you’re not alone in it at all.

I’m gonna try to organize some points here, cause I think you brought up a lot of things.

“I don’t know if I want to be perceived as a man, cause enby”

You’re right that folks are likely going to see you as a man after a certain point. It’s hard to find a middle ground where you ping as neither to the average cis person, and it’s hard to control that enough for it to be consistent.

My advice, honestly, is to make choices more based on your comfort than the highly subjective and ever-shifting concept of “passing”. I know it sucks to be perceived as something you aren’t, but your wants are probably the best starting point in the decision-making process.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to do the things I can do now if I’m perceived as a man”

This is true of transitioning in general, tbh! You will also likely be able to do things you couldn’t do before; I know folks have talked about feeling safer walking around at night, and being listened to more often by other men, once they begin to pass as men.

I also struggle with this, as a future teacher; the treatment of men in childcare is very, very different, and very stigmatized compared to female counterparts. But that, to me, is worth it. I’m willing to deal with the problems other people place on me, if it means I get to finally feel at home in my own body.

“I’m afraid of causing women distress by existing near them as a man”

Look, this is frankly just not your responsibility. Looking like a man is not an act of misogyny. Looking like a man does not make you “the reason” women do or feel anything. Those reactions are their own, and you are not responsible for mitigating them- particularly if that mitigation involves you, a trans person, forgoing transition for other people’s comfort.

You are responsible for trying to be a good person, making good decisions, and for not being misogynistic. Not the assumptions women make about you based on your appearance.

“I’m afraid I might not like how I look after I transition”

I know I agonized a lot over this, certain that I would ultimately dislike how I looked if it wasn’t up to a certain standard. I imagined my post-transition self as a stranger; someone I’d have to meet and grow to accept as myself. Even scarier was that I couldn’t opt out if I didn’t like the stranger- I’d be stuck with him forever after I made that one big decision.

But... it’s not really like that, in practice. I’m me, every single step of the way, and I have only ever felt more and more like myself as I go through this process. I feel like pre-transition me was the stranger, and the person I’m becoming now is more familiar to me than anyone I’ve ever been before.

I know that’s not an easy thing to understand or relate to from a pre-transition standpoint, but what I want you to understand is this: if you’re making this decision for the right reasons, you’re gonna be okay. If you’re pursuing your own happiness, comfort in your body, the person you want to be and the life you want to live, you’re gonna be okay.

And if you realize it was a mistake, at some point, you can undo that decision again. It’s fluid; you’re not gonna be trapped in one body forever. Transition is about agency. Trust yourself now to know what you want, and trust your future self to keep knowing what you want.

[writingwife-83]

My 2020 Sherlolly Self Interview

Thanks for organizing this fun activity @sherlollyappreciationweek! 🎉 I’ll start out with a very brief “about me” section-

I live in the northeast area of the USA, I’ve been married for seventeen years, have one teenage son, and I’m in my *gulp* late thirties now. I do volunteer ministry work and also work part time from home. Among other leisure activities, obviously I love writing! I started writing original fiction when I was a preteen, but I’ve been writing fanfic under the pen name “writingwife83” for over six years now. I discovered fanfic and the world of online fandom after becoming obsessed with BBC Sherlock in 2014 after s3 aired. I read The Full House, fell in love with the whole concept of fanfic, specifically for sherlolly, and couldn’t help but give it a go myself. And as they say, the rest is history!

Below the cut I’ll talk about some of the topics and fics suggested by followers/readers. Buckle up cuz it’s a lot lol...

Ok, first up to be kind enough to give me some feedback is @readstoomuch. You said- “what inspires you. Any story (I love them all!). Who do you love writing? Who is hardest for you? And which is that one story that you had fun doing?”

As for what inspires me, first and foremost it’s the show and characters itself. Watching those two on screen, it’s not hard to be inspired! But beyond that, I find a lot of inspiration in music and art, and just generally in other creative works and people. I think for a while I had my own internal inspiration and no lack of it, but as months dragged into years lol, I have found that the rest of the shippers are invaluable in filling the gaps when I lack inspiration and motivation. Some prompts I’ve gotten from others have taken on a life I never would have expected, and that’s pretty great. I honestly don’t think writing works best as a purely solitary activity. I know myself and although there is an aspect of my writing that will always be “for me,” that’s absolutely not all it is. It’s the fun of creating with others and it’s the fun of sharing with others.

As for who I love writing and who’s hardest, I think I’ve always felt pretty comfortable writing the main characters in Sherlock. I probably especially love writing Sherlock himself because he’s fun to break down and really dig deep into his emotions and thought processes. There have definitely been times some of the side characters have overwhelmed me and made me nervous about conveying their voices accurately. For instance, Mycroft can be tough if it involves pulling him out of his shell in a way that still feels believable and true to character.

That one story I had fun doing? Well there’s no way I can say just one. 😆 As far as reader response, there’s no other fic that can compare to the fun of I Told You So, that’s for sure. But as far as the actual plotting and creating, I think the fics I’ve had the most fun with are the multi-chapters I’ve done since becoming good friends with @thisisartbylexie. Having her as a sounding board, plotting buddy, and editor has absolutely increased my creating fun and has definitely also made me a better writer.

Thanks so much for asking @readstoomuch 🥰

Alrighty, @thisisartbylexie, you asked- if there's a fic that you ever wanted to go back to change in some way, which one would it be and why? Which one do you feel "oh wow, did I write that?" in a super positive way?

Idk how to choose just one fic. There are plenty that could use some changing lol! One I’d like to fix though, would be Pleased to Meet You. I know (because I’ve been told) that there’s inaccuracies in that one seeing as I’m not personally familiar with university settings in the UK. I did actually attempt research and I thought I got the idea, but apparently it didn’t work out terribly well. But the plotting and progression of that fic is one I’ve always been happy with, so I guess I feel like it’s a shame if it came off messy in some general ways and distracted from the rest of it. I like how I was able to weave that one into the canon of the show up to that point. And tbh it actually still fits as a uni backstory for them without any conflicts to the canon. As much as I enjoy canon divergence and AU, I also have a big soft spot for fics that simply connect seamlessly to what we’ve already been given.

As for “oh wow, did I write that?” I think one of my proudest accomplishments has been Zephyr. That fic kinda has it all lol. The tropes, the pining, the romance, the Victorian setting...ugh I love it. And there’s a climactic kiss moment in that fic that’s one of my faves I’ve written. I’m so glad I wrote it because of the Sherlolly Remix Challenge in ‘16, and at your suggestion, Lexie. But I will also be forever sad that I had to release that fic all at once on AO3 once completed. That fic would have been great fun to be writing and posting as I went along! And on top of being happy with the fic itself and how it came out, I’m awfully proud of the fact that you were excited enough about the fic to illustrate it, and that @goodshipsherlolly enjoyed it enough to record it as an audio fic. Honestly, what more could a writer ask for? 🥺

@mizjoely, you said you’d like to hear anything about The Queen’s Man. Okey doke, you got it lol!

I actually went back and read through most of that fic when I got this because it had been a long time since I’d looked at it. I gotta be honest that in hindsight...I’m a little surprised it did as well as it did.😂🙈 As some may remember, it started because I saw a magnificent manip and wanted to write something to go with it, and then because that was well received, somehow it just kept going. I did very little world building and development of characters in that fic. It was largely just one shippy, romantic, pining scene after another lol. At the end I did kinda tie it all in and wrapped the story up ok, but it was definitely one of those self indulgent fics where I didn’t feel like doing the hard parts and really just wanted to write the fun stuff. Don’t get me wrong, I loved writing it, and I’m so glad it got the positive reception that it did! But it just kinda makes me laugh because it goes to show sometimes you don’t know what’s going to do really well. You could agonize over clever plotting and world building and character development etc, and be so super proud of the finished product and all your hard work, but then you share and the response is like “meh.” And then other times you legit just throw something together with barely any careful thought, and the crowd goes wild! But aside from all that, the visuals in my head of that AU are just too drool worthy to me. Molly in Medieval royal attire? Sherlock in dark armor with a Purple Tunic of Sex™️ underneath? The two of them lingering in the dimly lit hallways and rooms of a castle and gazing endlessly in mutual pining? Yes to all.

Thanks for asking @mizjoely 😘

Ok wow, see what I mean? That was long! 🤣 If you read all the way through this whole thing, *Moriarty voice* thank you...bless you. Honestly, this ship is amazing and I don’t think I’ll ever have a writing experience anywhere else like I’ve had here. I’ve seen the other side of things in another fandom now, so I can all the more so confirm that there’s no ship quite like sherlolly. The warmth, reception, and longevity is mind blowing and I’m just awfully happy to have played a part in creating for the beauty that is Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper. 💕

[goodnightevan]

do you think we’ll get a juke kiss or are we all setting ourselves up for heartache

HOPE BABE ILYSFM THANK YOU

okay so, this is an excellent question that I’ve casually seen a lot of ppl talk about but hadn’t fully paid attention too much of what they said. I think I should start with what I have seen ppl talk about, which is them being worried about Madison (Julie) being a minor and Charlie (Luke) being like 22 and not wanting her to have to be forced to kiss someone older if she doesn’t want to, especially since they’ve noted how she and Charlie would act all gross out by the thought (but I would also like to point out that they both are Team Juke and her dad is like Juke’s #1 fan.) However, from what I’ve see from Maddie and what she’s talked about, she always has her dad on set and her sister comes there a lot, and it seems like Kenny and the crew treat her really well and give her a great work environment. So it seems that she wouldn’t do anything that she would be uncomfortable with. After all, going back to what I said, she’s mentioned several times that she’s Team Juke and wants them to happen as well. Also, just like today or yesterday she posted (i think on her ig) about a gum (i think spearmint but don’t quote me on this) giving her great gum to help her in juke kissing scenes and she was gonna give it to charlie so that take as you will lol. Also, I think they all knew what they were getting into when they were casted (since they’re the main ship i can see them having a chemistry read with each other during auditions) since the Juke ship is pretty obviously a big ship in s1 (I mean they literally wrote Perfect Harmony and wanted Juke to have an epic Troy and Gabriella- eques dance and Charlie was the one who suggestion that Luke’s guitar sing to Julie so...). My conclusion? They’re both professional actors and I think they’d both be professional and okay with it, but if they’re not then I can see the show respect their wishes and do something for juke that is still natural and explores their epic romantic relationship, maybe even another epic song/dance.

Okay, now that that long explanation is out of the way, we’re gonna go with the idea that they’re both cool with it and go from there. 

Okay, tbh when I first saw the show and the final scene where they finally get to touch and they’re looking all loving into each other’s eyes with their hands placed all lovingly on each other’s faces, I totally thought that they were gonna kiss! (same goes with the last Willex scene). It makes sense that they didn’t tho since a lot was going on and Alex and Reggie were right there. But, what seems like their newfound abilities where Julie can now touch them (which means more hugs yay!!), they can actually kiss now. Yay! Which begs the question, what does this mean for their relationship since that’s now an option?

As a sidenote, tbh if it wasn’t for Luke dying bc of Caleb’s spell, i think that porch scene would’ve ended with them making their ‘interesting little relationship’ official since the episode started with Julie turning down Nick (her big crush that she had in the beginning of the season who she preseries seemed to be on crushing on forever and is an actual lifer like her) bc she didn’t think that it was fair to him since she had feelings for Luke even though she thought that nothing could happen bc of it. And then you see you her go to Luke’s parent’s house to give them Unsaid Emily bc she just wants to help him feel better bc she knows how badly that he’s hurting. And then the way he tries to hold her hand, forgetting for a moment that they can’t touch, but then says, “This is an interesting little relationship you and I have.” And they’re both so adorable looking at each other when the other isn’t looking. Also, when he said ‘there’s something I have to tell you” the way Julie was sorta standing up and down on her tippy toes and sorta looked like she was anticipating something, I feel like she was expecting Luke to officially say something about him liking her. I really think that without him dying and having to focus on trying to crossover, they might’ve started some sort of relationship even though it would’ve been different. (again she could’ve started one with Nick but refused bc she liked Luke). And that was when they couldn’t even touch. Although of course you can have a relationship without touching, from what we’ve seen between Julie and Luke, it looks like they craved each other’s touch i.e. all of her looks in Perfect Harmony and back to that porch scene where they forgot that they couldn’t touch and wanted to hold each other’s hands and the way that they looked at each other’s lips at the end of Edge of Great. So I think it’s save to say that they did wish that they could touch. 

Which leads me back to the end, where they can touch and don’t have to worry about him crossing over any time soon (since it looks like the boys will wanna stick around for a while and not look for their unfinished business anytime soon since they’d want to continue on their music career). So, with The Phantoms not going anywhere anytime soon, and all that had happened with Juke prior to that, I think it wouldn’t take long for them to try to start something, unless something stood between them. Which seems like caleb!nick could in fact put a wedge between them (especially since Nick was there to give her flowers and ‘fight for her’ as Caleb said). But even without that that wedge, I’m still kinda unsure of if Juke would officially admit their feelings to each other right after that night, or still kinda have it sorta linger in the air. 

Either way, whether they do get together pretty quickly or take their time bc of outside and internal obstacles (i.e. Nick and their own inner worries of not being sure if a lifer/ghost relationship would work) I think the show will take their time with a kiss. There’s a lot of Troyella parallels for Juke, and I can see them pull a troyella where we get almost kisses and but always get interrupted (i.e. HSM 2) up until A Big Epic Moment™ toward the end. I mean in a way, we already got something similar to that when they wanted to hold hands back in the porch scene but their hands went through bc he’s...you know...a ghost. So since we already had a scene in that similar vain, I can totally see that happening. Especially since this ship is already so agonizing like that. 

But back to your original point, I think (if the actors are okay with it ofc) we will get a kiss. Whether it’s s2 or another, I completely believe that we’re gonna get a kiss at some point. So I don’t think our hearst will break on that front (although that is valid concern given our track record with ships). However, there is also the big question of whether or not they end up together, since he is after all still a ghost (unless him and the boys become alive again at like the end which i really want to happen). But that’s a whole question for another post, and this is already super long. 

In conclusion, if the actors are okay with it, then I really think that we’re gonna get a Juke kiss (and hopefully Willex too), but I also think that they might torture us with it before it happens. 

Anyways, sorry this is so freaking long and probably doesn’t make any sense. But thank you so much Hope!! ILSYFM BABE and I absolutely LOVE talking Juke with you!! 

send me some fun asks

[shebelby13]

You know what??? Fuck it. The world is turning into shit, but my pets are adorable. Have some seratonin mother fuckers!

I got Merlin first (though at the time he was perceived to be a she and named Andromeda. I could have kept the name the same, but having a male named “ruler of men” just didn’t spark joy.) I love him to bits, even though he doesn’t like to be handled much and is generally the instigator when it comes to fights with his brothers

He’s a climber and often sat Inside his hay feeder before I switched to hay cubes to limit the mess. (I was also very concerned the first few days because it took him 3 (THREE!!?) days to learn how to use his water bottle...)

A couple of weeks later I got Pippin and Merry and felt my heart grow by three sizes and all that. I feel a bit bad for Merry because 9 times out of 10 people assume he’s a girl, but such is life. (Also: my dad was legitimately frustrated with me for not naming them Kodo and Podo like from Beast Master, which were the two sets of names I agonized over tbh)

The one on top is Pippin and the one getting pinned is Merry. Unfortunately, I did not know before buying them that they came from basically a ferret puppy mill, and Pippin was actually really sick (don’t ever buy Marshall’s ferrets, learn from my mistakes. They’re Terrible.) a week after the first concerned vet trip about Pippin losing weight and I woke up to find him sneezing blood. I rushed him to the vet and she told me if I hadn’t gotten him to her that day that he 100% would have Died (definitely not something I wanted to hear) but we started treatment immediately and now he is almost the same size as his brother!

The dynamics between Merlin and the ferrets is interesting given that he would Generally be on their menu (yes, ferrets are carnivores) but he doesn’t let that stop him from running up, biting one of their tails, then running away and screaming at me when they chase him for it as if it wasn’t his fault in the first place (told you he was an instigator) though overall they get along together fairly well.

So yeah, those are my boys who I love a lot and will probably start posting about quite often to bring what little positivity I can to your feed. Feel free to share and brighten other peoples’ feeds and ask anything you want about them because I’ll talk about them for hours