#How To Find Options To Trade

[xskyll]

After Rei is hospitalized, Endeavor realizes he needs someone to take care of Shouto. Also, the house needs cleaning. Fuyumi helps, but she can't drive or take Shouto to doctor's appointments or things like that. He especially wants someone who can drive to take care of him because he doesn't like the idea of people gawking at his scar on public transport and spreading gossip about what happened. So he decided to hire a nanny.

Meanwhile, Midoriya Hisashi has stopped sending money to his family. Inko wants a divorce, but he won't return to Japan, so it's a drawn-out legal process for the separation to happen, and the lawyer fees are costing money. Even once they're separated, she knows Hisashi won't pay child support. As long as he stays in America, it'll be next to impossible to hold him accountable. She needs money, so when she hears the Endeavor Agency is hiring, she applies, fully expecting not to get it. She does.

Option A: She can now afford her apartment, and she drives to work every day in time to take Shouto to school. However, Izuku has come home a few times now with burns. He lies and says there's a disgruntled salaryman on the train that singes people with his fire quirk when they don't give up their spot. Concerned, she starts driving him to school. This is easy because his school is on the way to Shouto's private school. The boys just have to ride together. For nine years, Shouto and Izuku share twenty-minutes a day together in the back of Inko's car, driving to and from school. They become hesitant friends, and by UA are both in love and both just as certain it's unrequited.

Option B: Endeavor wants a 24/7 nanny. If Inko agrees to move in, he'll allow her to bring her son with her. They'll even both get their own room, and he'll pay for their food, provided Inko does the shopping and cooking. And thus, Izuku finds himself living with Shouto when they're both six. They become hesitant friends, and by UA are both in love and both just as certain it's unrequited.

[shiny-meowstics]

pokemon: yeah, we've added more and more shiny locks to starters, legendaries, and mythicals bc we don't want players wasting hours and hours of their time in front of the screen not playing the game the way we want them to play it

also pokemon: let's start distributing shiny mythicals, but only after players have wasted hours and hours of their time catching/trading for every single pokemon for specific dexes, which means they'll also need to literally invest hundreds of dollars into a bunch of half finished games and their dlc's. that or they waste literal weeks of their time if its one of the shiny mythicals that are/have been distributed through Go through paid researches

[saccharine-pink-lemonade]

being a writer has me googling some wacky wild things

[mangora]

Who cares about ship and character discourse. Frolic. Be free. Valid criticism is important but also don’t be afraid to look on the bright side for once. Think about Svetlana ‼️

[glynder]

parthos lion.... im THIS 🤏 close to making him real, I just need the onyx feline applicator and then I'll have everything ready.

[bweirdart]

nearly oc-tober time again - time for some prompts for 2024

F.A.Q

do i have to draw?

not at all! you are free to participate with any medium that suits you... writing, artwork, free bases and templates, simple text posts, in-character-as-your-oc roleplay, whatever! (just no stealing or AI)

do i have to make new content?

nope! re-uploading old stuff that fits the prompts is allowed (and encouraged) ... old art that didn't get the appreciation it needed always deserves a chance to be shared again, it's a fun throwback!

do i have to post every day?

nope! only 10 days are mandatory (the ones in red with a star symbol) and everything else (yellow) is 100% optional! if you're busy or tired, please skip as many as you want

can i start early?

you can prep your posts in advance if you need to ... but please wait until the right day in october to share them!

can i re-upload your prompt list to another site?

i would prefer if you dont - i have accounts on most sites, so just reblog/retweet/share from me!

event tag?

#bweirdOCtober

have fun!

image desc/text version ↓under the cut↓ or on bweird.art/october

prompts:

WEEK 1: OC INTRODUCTIONS

⭐ 1: FAV OC

what makes them your fav?

2: NEW OC

how recently did you make them?

3: OLD OC

how long ago did you make them?

⭐ 4: UNDER-APPRECIATED OC

an oc you feel like you don't talk about enough, or you haven't fleshed out as much as you would like

5: RE-DESIGNED OC

an oc who has changed a lot (what changed about them?) or, if you haven't redesigned an oc: is there anything you might want to change about an existing oc?

WEEK 2: BUILDING BACKSTORY

⭐ 6: PAST

where is your oc from? what did they look like as a child?

7: LIKES

what do they like (and why?)

8: DISLIKES

what don't they like (and why?)

⭐ 9: RELATIONSHIPS

doesn't have to be romantic! can any kind of relationship (frienship, family, rivalry etc)

10: PERSONALITY

what are your oc's main personality traits

11: SYMBOLISM/THEMES

what represents your oc? is there a specific colour you associate them with, or a specific animal?

12: FUTURE

what will your oc look like in the future? do they have any plans or goals?

WEEK 3: FUN + GAMES

⭐13: MEMES

do any memes remind you of your oc? are there memes your oc would find funny? maybe you want to redraw your oc as one?

14: WHO/WHAT INSPIRED YOUR OC

are there existing characters that your oc looks like? was your oc based on yourself? is your oc originally from a specific fandom?

15: MUSIC

share a character playlist, write a songfic, post lyrics that remind you of them, etc

⭐16: EYES CLOSED or NON DOMINANT HAND

draw a picture of your oc with your eyes closed or with your non domminant hand, write or type a paragraph about them without your eyes closed, etc ... have fun, and don't worry about it looking "bad" -it's meant to!!

17: DnD ALIGNMENT CHART

put all your ocs into a DnD alignment chart, or any other similar chart if you prefer

i've compiled a few templates on my site, but you can find more easily if you google "oc alignment chart"

⭐18: SWAP

swap something between your ocs - their role in the story, hairstyles, personalities, fashion taste, species ... whatever you want! how would this difference change them?

19: PALETTE CHALLENGES

draw your ocs with as many of these colour palettes as you want (or just skip if you don't draw/don't like doing these!)

hex codes for the colours:

palette 1 - #3C1E81 #6D1EA2 #B059E8 #FE0876 #FE5284 #FE7C96 #E0CFE3 #FFD5C3

palette 2 - #352823 #673F28 #AB541C #BA8233 #897128 #A68B2F #F7BF6A #DAC3A4

palette 3 - #A42E25 #D7412B #E47C29 #F7A233 #FCC02D #FCE4A6 #486548 #FEFDE8

palette 4 - #2F4769 #39597E #53779C #94D1E7 #AADDE7 #D48DB7 #D498B5 #D2BABA

WEEK 4: COMMUNITY

20-26: A WHOLE WEEK OF SOCIAL STUFF

if you don't have the time/energy to do every day this week, ⭐ day 23 is the only one marked as mandatory! you can skip the rest!

some ideas for what you could do: talk about a friend's oc you like, make gift art/writing of them, collabs, trades, reblog/appreciate ocs in the event tag, make interactions between your ocs and other people's

WEEK 5: HALLOWEEN

⭐27: FEARS

is your oc scared of anything? do they have any phobias? are they startled easily? would any of your ocs try to scare ppl on purpose?

28: MONSTER

what would your oc be if they were a monster (eg: werewolf, vampire, eldritch beast.. whatever) or, do you have an oc who is already a monster?

29: PUMPKIN CARVING

your ocs carving pumpkins, a drawing of a pumpkin carved to look like your oc ... or even carve it in real life!

30: GHOST

this can be literally a ghost, or a concept that haunts your oc! up to you!

⭐ 31: COSTUMES

what are your ocs wearing for halloween?

[bluejulius]

more of httyd cowboys AU (I will never shut up about it <33)

(yap below the cut)

Hayden Hickok (AKA Hiccup) befriends a wild black stallion which he names Toothless

Set in a romanticised & fictional Old West.

Fishlegs is Hiccup’s best friend. The Ingermans are a wealthy family. They paid for Fishlegs’ tutoring as a kid, so he grew up to be a scholar, feeding his fascination with botany and animals. Fishlegs has a pet pony named Meatlug, who he adores. Fishlegs is the one to urge Hiccup to talk to Astrid and her group when they first arrive in town because he needed a wingman after laying eyes on Ruffnut and being enamoured with her. Later on Hiccup drags him and Meatlug along on their cowboy adventure.

Astrid and Hiccup were friends in their childhood. Astrid’s family was not well off, and realising her only option for things to improve in her hometown was marriage, she left the town of Berk when she was 13 to earn money as a cowgirl. She returns for a job in Berk years later, with her new band of cowboys (Ruff, Tuff and Lout). Hiccup, ecstatic on her return, is about to tell her about his new horse, when they hear of Drago Bludvist, a man who wreaks havoc across the country in search of the legendary Night Fury. It is said that the one who tames the Night Fury has tamed the spirit of the west itself.

At first Hiccup tries to hide Toothless from the newcomers in a barn, but Astrid catches him in the act. She runs off to tell her gang but Hiccup and Toothless catch up to her and Hiccup, after sharing a trail ride with Astrid on Toothless, convinces Astrid to escort them to Drago to change his mind about capturing Toothless.

The other cowboys are reluctant about the whole idea. With Hiccup only having one leg, a long day of horse riding would require frequent breaks and the group doesn’t want him to slow them down. But Astrid insists on him coming, and defends him if they push too far.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut make a lot of meta western movie jokes (I suspect they’re aware they’re in a western AU). They also have a lot of useless random knowledge amongst their ramblings that jumpscares Fishlegs many times. They enjoy wreaking havoc when they can, wearing disguises and scamming random travellers for extra coin (they have sold many people Thorston&Thorston miracle snake oil). They have been known to cross dress, which doesn’t help people mistaking them for each other. Astrid and Snotlout can tell them apart and know not to fall for their tricks, but Hiccup and Fishlegs are more gullible. The twins are in charge of the chuckwagon. Barf & Belch are their quarter horses that pull their wagon. Ruff & Tuff often fight over who is the actual boss of the wagon (they still haven’t decided).

Snotlout is a cowboy purist. He idolises the Vaqueros and leans more into their fashion, and the stereotypical Hollywood ideal of what a cowboy should be. In this AU his mother is also Mexican, and growing up he learned Spanish. (This helps the cowboy gang a lot make trades and take on more jobs) Before Hiccup came along, Snotlout considered himself very close to getting with Astrid. He gets jealous and defensive when Astrid finds Hiccup in her hometown, but denies being intimidated. Hookfang is very hot blooded and enjoys annoying/not listening to Snotlout.

While on the trail to find Drago they encounter many familiar faces such as Dagur, Heather and Eret!

Since I started the AU I’ve been down so many rabbit holes, learning about cowboys, horses and history. As someone who does not live in America it’s been really fascinating to learn about the old west. For me the goal with these redesigns is to make the characters seem more believable within the realms of a cowboy story, not just riding off of stereotypes from movies. It’s also helped me learn the limitations of the setting but at the same time given me so many new ideas for how to better fit the characters in an old west setting. Let me know what y’all think of their new looks!

[bucketofpaint]

Danny is Damian's clone.

He's well aware of it. He wasn't just any clone. He was the very first. That was the difference between Danny and other clones. He was made before the League started using brainwashing and stuff into their cloning process.

When Danny was fresh out of the tube, the League had sat him down and explained his the purpose of his existence, gave him some intense training, and immediately tossed him out into the world.

But the thing was, he just didn't care. He had absolutely no loyalty to his creators, and he had no desire to kill/kidnap his original. So he just started walking. The next thing he knew, he was at some orphanage in Illinois.

And then the rest was history. He got adopted by a pair of enthusiastic scientists and their red-head daughter, got his own name, and he could finally start living his own life.

Danny had put the past behind him and had barely even thought about it at all for a long time. That was unill his original showed up at his school.

----------------

Damien was annoyed. He was stuck at some random Illinois town (supposed to be the most haunted place in the world, which was a bunch of ludicrous.) On a transfer program. He tried convincing Father how illogical it would be, but Father had told him it would be good for him to meet new people.

___

Danny was annoyed.

"I don't understand what the big deal about him is anyways," Danny complained.

"He started being the ceo of Wayne Enterprise when he was a teenager." Sam countered.

"Ok, so, nepotism."

Sam rolled her eyes. "I still don't understand why you're so against him."

"One, billionaire. Two, Tucker is way cooler than Tim Drake.

Sam's eyes soften. " Tucker is just gone for a few weeks."

Danny's cheeks felt warm. "I never said anything about that. I just want Tucker to find a cooler role model, is all.

Sam gave him an all-knowing look. "Well, if you say so. I'm going to get in line."

Sam, all ways waited last to get in the lunch line. Claiming she didn't want to hold up line when the lunch ladies had to get the vegetarian option. Which was fine, but now that Tucker was doing the dumb transfer student program, all he could do was eat his mediocre lunch and mindlessly play on his phone.

Untill someone grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the cafeteria into the hallway. Danny turned around to face the person. He froze at the sight of his own face. Or well, a glaring rich kid version.

"Oh, it's you." Danny said nonchalant, even though he was screaming inside.

"You're not going to play dumb, clone?"

"No, why would I, The resemblance is uncanny.

"What are you doing here?" His original demanded

"You dragged me here."

His original scowled. "You know what I mean, clone. I won't hesitate to end you."

"Just trying to go to school, honest."

Original glared at him, scanning him with his eyes. The grip on Danny's arm loosened. " I'll be watching you, clone."

" Whatever you say, template."

Danny walked back to the cafeteria, blocking out the yells of rage behind him.

___

It was about a week of Damian watching his clone, and he was confused. At first, he thought the league sent the clone to trade places with him before he went back to Gotham, but now he wasn't sure. The Clone seemed to fit in the community to well to have show up recently, but that didn't disprove the theory entirely. It could be a long-term plan from the League. They could be responsible for putting the transfer program in place in the first place.

The other theory was that the clone escaped and made a life for himself, but that didn't explain how he got past his programming.

After the last period, Damian found his clone and pulled him aside.

"What do you want?" His clone asked, irritated.

"You're different then other clones, explain."

"I don't know. I didn't really stick around very long to find out."

"What about your programming?"

"I didn't have any?"

Damian thought about it before giving a small nod. "You don't seem to be a threat, but I'll still keep my eye on you, clone."

"I've got a name, you know." He held out his hand. "Danny Fenton, nice to make your acquaintance."

Damian heistently shook his hand. "Damian Wayne."

That started their unsaid agreement. You don't mess with me, I don’t mess with you. They interacted with each other sometimes, but not very offen. They were impartial to one another, and both sides weren't very keen on getting to know each other. And that was their relationship till the day Damian was leaving.

Damian was waiting for the bus when Danny approached him.

"What do you want, Daniel?"

"I told not to call me that, but uh, here." Danny handed a piece of paper to him. "It's my phone number if you ever need help from the League or anything."

Damian slipped the paper into his pocket. "Give me your phone." Danny handed over his phone, and Damian started typing.

"What are you doing?" Danny asked.

"I'm putting my number in. If you ever require assistance."

Danny smiled, "Thanks."

____

A few months later.

Tim was peeking over a corner.

"What are you doing?" Dick asked.

Tim didn't say anything and just waved him over. He walked over and stared in aw at what he saw. Damian was slouched on the couch, his hair messy, playing on his phone.

A few minutes later, Jason joined.

"Am I hallucinating?" Tim whispered.

"Nah, I don't think so... unless we're all hallucinating." Jason whispered back.

"Do you think he has brain damage or been possessed or something?" Tim asked.

Dick shook his head. "That seems unlikely."

"This is so trippy. I've never seen him wear anything that casually like ever.

"What are you imbeciles doing?"

"We're watching Damian."

All three of them froze and turned to look at a glaring Damian.

Damian walked past them and went right up to the second Damian.

"Daniel, what are you doing here?"

The causal Damian 'Daniel' pulled out a letter. "Your pops invited me, and I didn’t want to risk the chance of batman showing up at my front door."

Damian scoffed, "Of course, Father found out."

Alfred walked in. "Master Daniel, I'll be taking you to Master Bruce."

The double got up and went to Alfred.

"Cookie, Master Daniel?"

"Sure, and call me danny."

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Only I Can See

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, light angst, shapeshifters, first kiss, emotions, very light fluff, romance, love confessions

Summary/Warnings: Dean knows you. He knows you better than anyone, better than you know you, better than he knows himself. He'd lay down his life for you in a heartbeat, and knows you'd do the same, even if it's not in the same way.

But something's… different.

Author's Note: Request from @maddie0101! Many feelings here. Enjoy!

Word Count: 5.8k

Something was off.

Dean couldn’t place it. He didn’t have words for it. And She was speaking and moving as she always did, but something was off.

It was more of a feeling, deep in the cavity of his chest. Dean knew Her. He knew everything about Her. He knew Her every tone and habit and expression, he could read Her better than a book and watch Her for a million lifetimes and never get bored. She was the only person he trusted as much as Sam, the only person he protected as much as Sam, the only person he-

That was a thought Dean wasn’t allowed to have. He’d drawn that line long, long ago when it had first wormed its way into his brain and heart, taking root without permission and infecting him with rushing blood and a trapped mind that only circled around Her. It led to a path that only ended in destruction and grief, because he’d weighed the options and She’d either walk away and he’d lose Her like that, or She’d stay until Dean pushed his luck too far and he’d lose Her with his guard down and a body cradled in his arms.

Dean couldn’t afford to lose Her. He known that, somewhere deep, deep down, from the very start. She’d smiled at him, drenched in blood and aiming a gun at his temple, and he’d know this would be someone he’d have to keep.

Someone he’d never get to hold close enough, someone he’d watch move through the world as always feel guilt gnawing at his organs for craving more—for a minute he’d once entertained the idea of getting Her without strings, just to have Her closer, but she deserved far better—and who’d he’d do anything to keep.

He didn’t get to keep people. So far, She’d managed to be a rare exception to the unspoken law of the universe that Winchesters don’t get nice things.

Dread always circled through his every breath that one day, if he pushed it, that would change.

So he didn’t allow himself to have the thought. And he accepted that what he had with Her—companionship with only words, lips that traded grins and nothing more, and a deep, deep knowledge of each other that could never go as deep as he wanted—could be enough.

It couldn’t be.

But had to be.

So Dean just knew Her. Knew Her like She was scripture, and everything about Her had been printed on his bones.

And they itched. She brushed past him in their motel room, just a little too close, and Dean’s bones itched.

So something was off.

“Dean.”

He grunted as he nodded at Her, trying not to stare of dwell on how She’d said his name. It wasn’t right. Too much emphasis on the Da, and not enough of the een. She wasn’t looking at him, either. She always looked at him when She said his name.

“I don’t think there’s a case here.” She hummed, bending over their motel table to flip through the case papers. “I know Sam said werewolves, but we haven’t seen anything-“

“We haven’t been looking that long,” he muttered Her name, watching her carefully. “People are going missing, no one’s finding bodies until weeks later, we’ve got werewolf written all over this.”

She shrugged. “It’s probably just a psycho human-“

Dean frowned at Her. “Since when are you willing to risk lives on probably? You’re the one who told Sam you wanted this case, you could’ve just stayed at the bunker like we planned-“

“No- I just-“ She sighed, giving him a strange look, and rolled Her eyes. “Forget it. We’ll finish the case.”

“Forget-“ He shook his head, taking at firm pace forward. “Forget what? I don’t know what the hell his going on with you, sweetheart, but-“

“Don’t call me that.”

Dean blinked. “What?”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” She mumbled. “It’s not nice.”

“I- I’ve calling you that since we met-“

“And it’s always been mean!” She snapped. “You- It’s- I said forget it, Dean. Just-“

“Forget what? I don’t what the hell is pissing you off so much, I can’t just forget something I didn’t even do!”

His voice was raising, and he didn’t know what was happening. They never fought like this. Every argument they’d ever had was built up over months and months, and he’d see it coming. He’d walk into the War Room, She’d be glaring at him, and they’d snap in perfect tandem about whatever the hell was fucking up their lives. Then the dust would be settle, and Dean would see every single crack that had begun to form fuse perfectly back together, now lined with gold. 

This was blindsiding him. Everything had been fine this morning. And in the months leading up to the morning. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong. And there had always been a fear—rooted deep, deep down in his gut and festering whenever Her gaze wandered or She got bags under her eyes—that She’d realized he wasn’t worth fighting for, but he’d expected to see that coming too. He’d prepared for that. Planned for how he could change Her mind, and how he’d learn to live with himself when he failed to.

But this was out of nowhere. And She was hissing and sneering, and the only thing that was heavier and more burning than the feeling of off in Dean’s bones was that rotting fear. 

“You- God, Dean, you can be really dense sometimes-“

“How?! I-“ He groaned, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know what the fuck is happening, sweet-“ He cut himself off with a swallow, taking two steady paces back. She looked like She was going to hurt him. “Look, whatever it is I’ll do better, but I’m not a damn mind reader-“

She laughed. It was a little cruel—She was never cruel—and colder than Her normal laugh. Off. “No shit, you can’t even pick up basic signals-“

“What are you talking about-“

“Why do you think I wanted this hunt?” She braced Her hands on her hip, raising Her chin at Dean with a challenging tone. “It wasn’t because I love werewolves. I don’t even think these are wolves.”

Dean started at Her, saying her name slowly—he felt like he was walking on a minefield, and that was off too, because She was supposed to be the safest place in the world—but She cut him off with a shake of her head.

“No, Dean. Guess. Why do I take all these cases with you, and tell Sam not to come with us?”

“Uh-“ He shifted on his feet, suddenly incredibly uncomfortable. “Free wifi-“

“We have wifi at the bunker, dumbass.” She snapped, and the words pierced through his skin. She always called him a dumbass.

She never said it like that.

“I-“ He swallowed, and the feeling of off was quickly shifting into wrong. Something was wrong. “I don’t-“

“God, Winchester.” She rolled Her eyes again, and suddenly She was walking forward. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

Dean opened his mouth to protest, but suddenly She was on him. Kissing him.

She was kissing him.

His body was faster than his brain. Stronger as well. It caved to Her in a second, because She tasted like honey and peppermint, and Her lips were soft against him—if a little more demanding than he’d thought they’d be—and She was holding him closer than he’d ever dared to dream he’d be to Her. 

She bit his lower lip and deepened the kiss, and Dean tried to pull Her hair or walk her backwards, but She wouldn’t let him.

And She wasn’t molding right into him. Dean had always thought She’d mold right into him, let him please Her rather than fight him on everything with demanding movements and fists in his shirt, and maybe that had been a fantasy, but he’d been so sure. She always curled right into him in the Dean Cave, and let Dean guide Her through the dark, and—when She was sick but wouldn’t say it aloud—Dean was allowed to care for Her. He was barely allowed to touch Her here, only permitted to let Her keep kissing him, let Her try and claw at his chest when his own desperation was starting to wane and falter in a way it really fucking shouldn’t be-

“I love you, you meat-head.” She hissed against his lips. “That’s why I’m here.”

And the world crashed down.

Dean’s body was still faster. But it wasn’t numbed by desire anymore. It had been washed in ice-water and shocked into an almost rabid state, because he’d been right.

Something was very wrong.

She could never love him. It was the only thing he knew better than Her. That he was fundamentally unworthy of only Her attention, so love would never even grace the table. Nobody loved Dean, not like that, and certainly not enough to swallow it and never demand a single thing of him, so She could never love Dean. 

And he had to fight.

Dean slammed his body forward, and forced himself not to flinch as the woman with Her voice screamed. It wasn’t Her scream. It wasn’t high enough, and it was a little off-key, and Dean knew it wasn’t Her.

From there the world moved too fast. He didn’t know what he was dealing with yet—how strong it was, if it had any quick and easily exploitable weaknesses—but he had the upper hand of surprise and pure, furious, almost righteous feeling anger, and it served him well. That wasn’t Her, which meant he’d just kissed someone that wasn’t Her, and the real Her could be in danger—She had to be, because She’d never just leave Dean–and he was blinded. He couldn’t kill this bitch, not until the real Her was safe, but he could really fucking hurt it. 

He aimed his gunshot for the foot, and the scream the imposter let out was guttural. He didn’t care. Nothing else mattered but hurting them, because he needed to get the interrogation over and just find Her.

There was a brief, terrifying moment after he knocked the imposter down, started to tie it up, and heard a low, soft moan escape it’s lips where he was almost paralyzed with a new type of fear. Fear that he had hurt Her. That it was the real Her in front of him, just some demon son of a bitch piloting Her words and movements.

Dean swallowed, and pulled Her shirt down, keeping his eyes carefully averted from any cleavage or visible parts of the breasts that looked like Her’s—the ones he dreamed and fantasized about every single night—but weren’t, and trained his focus on Her unbroken anti-possession tattoo.

Unbroken. 

She wasn’t possessed. 

That just wasn’t Her.

It would be up soon. He grabbed a silver knife from his jacket to test the most obvious theory, sliced it into the imposter’s forearm, and nodded when the cut began to blister. 

Shifter.

He could work with a shifter.

Dean left It tied up as he went out to Baby’s trunk and grabbed an array of weapons, because since he didn’t have to worry about hurting the real Her, he could very easily make this quick.

“Hi, Dean.” It was up when Dean returned, giving a wide smile that was truly so much worse than Her’s. “Don’t suppose you’ll let me out if I say please?”

He ignored It, kept looking through his weapons, and It sighed.

“I know the jig is up,” It nodded to its burning arm, then looked to Dean with a pout. “But I promise I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

“That so?” He let out a dry laugh. “Real sad that promises from your kind don’t mean shit then.”

It sighed. “You know, that’s not very nice, Dean. I didn’t choose to be this. And if you actually got to know me-“

“Only thing I need to know about you,” He grunted, grabbing out his longest, pure silver knife. “Is where you stashed my real partner.”

It rolled its eyes, even as Dean began to approach the chair. “C’mon, don’t be like that-“

“One chance.” He snapped. “Where is she.”

“She’s fine-“

“Where.”

“I’m not going to tell you until we have a real conversation, Dean-“

It cut itself off with a scream, and Dean got to work. It dragged on, with blood and screams that weren’t Her’s but sounded too close, and he was starting to feel little sick. The longer this went on, the more She was alone, the more she was in danger-

“Time-“ It spat out blood, shaking its head and recoiling as Dean raised his third knife of the night. “Shit, time out, please-“

He lowered the knife, but didn’t step back. “You ready to talk, bitch?”

“I-“ It coughed, and gave him an odd look, its voice suddenly pleading. “Can you at least tell me where I slipped up?"

Dean frowned. The question didn’t sound like a trick, but it also didn’t seem right. “Slipped up?”

“How you knew.” It whined. “I did all the things that loud bitch did-“

His eyes narrowed, and the knife raised again. “Don’t fucking talk about her like that-“

“But I did! I didn’t use anything that wasn’t in her brain, and I-“

“You said you loved me.” He grunted, and he didn’t know why he was indulging It. Maybe because It would be dead soon, and he was tired, and he really fucking missed Her. The real Her. The Her who would have done this faster, with smarter words and less blood on the carpet. Fuck, there was so much blood on the carpet. They’d have to skip town, once he found Her. 

It's eyes had widened. “But I do love you!”

Dean rolled his eyes. “No, she doesn’t-“

“No her. Me. I mean,” It snapped Her name, and Dean’s whole body tensed. “That whore is in love with you too, but she doesn’t love you like I do.”

“Shut up-“

It cut off Dean’s words—pushed through gritted teeth and sour on his tongue—with more high, pathetic and vile whines.

“I’ve been looking for you forever, Dean. I love you. I brought you here, killed all those people to get your attention, planned this out so well so you’d be mine.” It sighed. “I just want you to be mine.”

He gaped at it. “You’re a fucking psycho bitch-“

“And we’re made for each other!” It leaned forward in It’s chair. Dean was going to vomit. “We could be monsters together, I’d be so much better for you than any other woman, I could even keep this one’s skin on if it made you happy-“

“Shut your fucking mouth-“

“No, Dean, you have to see it.” Its eyes looked like Her’s, but the difference hadn’t been this obvious all night. The real Her would never look at him like that. Like food. “We’re made for each other, I’ve been in love with you before I even met you, and I’d do anything for you. Don’t you want someone who’d do anything for you, who’d always give as much as you did, who’d be devoted to you and no one else-“

Dean ran a hand over his face, his eyes squeezed shut, and It cut itself off.

“Are you-“ It sounded disgusted. Dean didn’t have time for this. “You’re not in love with her.”

He swallowed. “I told you to shut up, or I swear to god, I’ll cut out your tongue-“

“You are. You love the whiny little whore I’m wearing-“

His eyes snapped open. “Don’t fucking call her that-“

“Why?” The shifter sneered. “She’s obsessed with you, it’s fucking pathetic-“

Dean snorted. “That’s rich-“

“Well at least I did something about it! She was going to,” It scoffed, shaking its head. “God, the slut was ready to get on her fucking knees for you every single second, but she was going to just brood and mope about it for the rest of her life. She knew she didn’t deserve you, and she was right, because I-“

It’s words were taking a moment to sink into Dean’s skin, and when they finally lighting struck down his spine, and the whole world flipped. 

He knew, firsthand, how shifters work. 

This one didn’t seem smart enough to lie about something like this.

The knife returned to It’s throat, and Dean’s words were a low hiss. “What the fuck are you talking about.”

It said Her name in another sneer, but the cockiness was gone. “She so in love with you it’s sad. You know the very first thought I downloaded from her? Where’s Dean.” It almost cackled. Dean’s skin felt like it was going to curl and mold off his body. “I mean, you can take care of yourself, and I would never coddle you. I’d never want you to be different-“

“Different?” Dean snapped. “What the fuck do you mean, different-“

“I mean your bitch seems to think you’re some sort of angel, that you deserve better.” It rolled its eyes. “I will say, she’s right there. You deserve better than her, you deserve me.” It raised It’s chin holding Dean’s gaze. “I know you’re not an angel, Dean. Look at you. We’re the same, we’d be perfect for each other, if you just tried to love me-“

Dean laughed. A real, loud, full laugh. He didn’t need to try to love anyone. Loving Her, his Her, was easy. It was like breathing, and effortless, and so natural he’d think he’d been damn near born to do it.

And all he wanted–whether what It was saying was true or not—was Her back.

Dean leaned down until he was spitting in It’s face. Until It could feel the full, unyielding fury burning off of his body. 

“I do not love you. I could never fucking love you, and we are nothing,” Dean pressed the blade further into It’s throat, narrowing his eyes. “Alike. And you are going to tell me where the fuck the woman I do love is, or I will make your death long and painful, until you’ll be fucking praying for Purgatory.”

It swallowed, and finally shut up. 

Dean grinned. He was going to get Her—his Her, the real one who’d follow him to hell and deeper—back. 

He angled It’s head up with the knife, raising his brows. “Talk.”

——————

You don’t want Dean to save you. 

He shouldn’t have to. He’s always saving you, and you always owe him a little more than your life—whatever part of you he’d take, whatever piece of your soul or mind you could offer him to settle this intangible and massive debt—and you love it, but it needs to stop.

Before he gets hurt.

You don’t know how he keeps doing it and asking for nothing in return. You don’t understand it. He’d saved you that first night, when there had been screams and empty eyes ghosting over your ears and vision, and he’d stared at you with the prettiest face you’d ever seen, repeated your name back to you like it could mean something, and looked at you like you could be more than a body.

Like you could be a person. Who mattered.

To Dean.

And you’d heard of him before that. Every hunter who walked the earth knew about the Winchesters. You’d tried not to waste your time on celestial and infernal politics—you didn’t really have interest in falling to the orbit of anything you couldn’t handle—but then you met Dean, and nothing had been more vital than staying at his side. You could be good at hunting demons and angels. You could be as useful as Dean needed you to be, and nothing more or less.

He could keep looking at you like a friend, and you could keep pretending it didn’t rip open your chest and dissolve your heart, because you were a good hunter, but a better actress.

Because you’d met Dean, and he’d allowed you to be his friend, and you’d never dared to ask for more. 

“How come I never see you walking off at the end of the night?” He’d asked once, and you’d raised your brows at him.

“As opposed to what? Swaggering off?”

He’d rolled his eyes, even as he smiled. “You know what I’m talking about, smartass. You always leave with Sammy if I’m out, or with me if I’m not. Why?”

You still hadn’t understood. “Wha-“

“He’s asking why you don’t do one-night stands,” Sam had said from across the table, not looking up from his computer. “Because he thinks with his dick and wants to-“

Dean had slammed his elbow into Sam’s gut, and you’d been pretty sure you were going to burst into flame.

“I- um- I just-“ You’d swallowed, crumpling up your napkin and unable to look Dean in the eyes. “I’m not a one-night stand girl. I guess.”

Dean’s jaw had clenched slightly—you don’t think you’d been meant to see it, but you had, you always did—and he’d nodded slowly. “So nothing, uh- You’d never just be casual with a guy?”

“No,” you’d mumbled. “I- I’ve never known how to just-“ You’d sighed, frowning at your hands. “Can we please talk about something else?”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.” Dean’s voice had been filled with a tone you couldn’t identify, but when you’d looked up to study his expression he’d already turned back to Sam.

You’d been so thrown by that—by not knowing something about Dean, when you always knew everything about Dean, and he knew everything about you, because you both didn’t know how to stop telling each other stuff—that the ache of him calling you sweetheart had been dulled.

You hated when he called you that. You hated how intimate it was, but how you never felt further away than when Dean used that name. He called everyone sweetheart. And when he called you sweetheart, it was because you were his closest friend and nothing more.

And you’re really fine with that. You are. You don’t get all of Dean, but you get more than the other women who share his bed. You get to see him with spiky hair and a grumpy expression in the morning, and you get to bring him coffee and feel his knuckles brush casually against yours, and fall asleep at his side when you’re watching a movie. You get to have him carry you to bed, because that’s what friends do for each other. You get to share more than one drink with him when he needs it, and have him sit on your bed when you need to the company.

You love being Dean’s friend.

Almost as much as you love Dean.

But you can survive keeping that to yourself. You’ll die with that fact locked away deep in your chest, because you are more than okay just being Dean’s friend.

It didn’t stop the longing. The plague like, haunting thoughts of if. 

If Dean ever loved you, how would he do it. Would it be soft, or harsh, or something in-between. If it was soft, would it mean he touched you like you were delicate—like you’d never been touched before—and if it would rough, would it be rough with the same violent, rushing fervor you felt for him, and if it was in-between would it be because you were everything to him, and everything was always complicated, so of course wasn’t on way or another.

If you slept at the foot of his bed like a dog, would he notice, or would it just be an extension of how you could be his weapon, his shield, whatever the fuck you needed to be to mean something to the man who meant too much.

If he called your name, would you ever not turn around and run to him, or could you learn to freeze yourself in place and plant roots that kept you sturdy if he left.

If you left, would he care, and miss you all the time, or would the feeling fade and pass.

If he knew you loved him, would he sweep you off your feet or cast you down like an angel that had spoken a little too loud.

And he would never know. So these little thoughts were more designed to torture you than they were to actually dwell on the answers. Dean would never know you loved him. Not if you continued to be more careful than you’d been today.

Because today you’d been sloppy. You’d been tired and you spinal cord felt like it was on a thin wire, and the tension had been so fraught only in your head that your tongue had been bleeding by the time you’d gotten to the diner.

You’d excused yourself to go to the bathroom, because you needed to glare at your reflection in the mirror and remind yourself that the girl gripping the sink would never be worthy. That you could take all the stupid cases you wanted and find every excuse to spend time with Dean, but at the end of the day the job mattered more than anything else to Dean, and Dean mattered more to you than the whole universe. 

So you’d have to focus on the job. 

The job that you’d been pretty sure Sam had been wrong about. This wasn’t a wolf. A wolf wouldn’t be this clean. This felt purposeful and careful, and you hadn’t been sure what it was, but it was worth exploring other options-

You’d been so lost in your thoughts you hadn’t seen the woman behind you. Not until it was too late, and the rag was already over your mouth.

The upside to all this—to waking up the basement of the diner with your hands tied to a pipe, your head spinning and pounding as the chloroform wore off—was that you’d been right. Not a wolf.

Werewolves couldn’t turn into a picture perfect reflection of you. 

Werewolves couldn’t make you worry about Dean like this. Because Dean could handle a werewolf.

This shapeshifter was batshit crazy and insane, and you were terrified for him. 

“You know,” She’d told you as she’d shifted around in your body, examining your hands and bouncing on your feet. “This is one of the better bodies I’ve occupied. I know you don’t like it that much.” She’d tapped her head, raising her brows. “But I promise you, if you weren’t such a desperate little slut, you might have actually gotten Dean Winchester’s attention.”

She’d laughed to herself, you’d narrowed your eyes, and she’d scoffed.

“Don’t make that pouty face. I’ll treat him well. Better than you could, at least.” The shifted had smoothed out your clothing on her body, and rolled her neck. “I don’t really have a plan, but we’re made to be, you know? Soulmates. I knew it from the first time I heard about him, then even more after I saw him. And all the other shifters told me to stay away, but they didn’t get it.”

You’d rolled your eyes, and it had been her turn to glare.

“Please, like you-“ She’d paused, then smile at you. It had crawled over your skin and left you shivering and cold. “You do get it, actually. You feel the same way, you’re just- Fuck, you’re pathetic. You really think he’d look at you like this. Like he’s going to look at me? You know,” she’d leaned down, sneering in your face. “One day I’ll tell him, and he won’t even wonder what happened to you. Because he’ll have me.”

You’d tried. Dean was in danger, and this bitch as horrifying, so you’d thrashed and pulled at your bounds, but it had been pointless. The shifter had done her job well, and you were almost immobile.

“Aw,” she’d patted your head, giving you a sweet, mocking before turning around and calling over her shoulder, “Try not to die too fast! I need you for now!”

For now. 

The shifter had needed you for now, so you were still alive. 

But you didn’t think she’d come back for you. And Dean was in danger, and if the shifter had all your thoughts and memories, she’d just have to play her cards right to get him out of time. Finish the hunt fast so Dean thought everything was resolved—maybe push the not a wolf thing you’d mentioned earlier, and find a different scapegoat—and leave you rotting in the basement as Dean drove her back to the bunker.

The bunker.

Where Sam was, and years of lore were stashed. The place that was supposed to be secure from all monsters and evil, that Dean would be leading a shifter into thinking it was just you

And he wouldn’t know. You couldn’t blame him—the shifter knew everything you were, and Dean might know you well, but the shifter was, by all intensive purposes, you—and he would only be able to question it when it was far too later.

You don’t have time to see if Dean—yet again, because you’re weak and never learn—saves you. You have to move.

You have to save Dean.

It’s long, and rough, and painful, but you get out of the bonds with sharp glass on the floor and rope burn on your wrists. When you pull down the gag from your mouth you’re already screaming for him, even though you know he’s not here.

You vault up the stairs, yank open the door with another shout of Dean’s name, and slam right into something steady and warm.

You’d have toppled down the stairs if they didn’t wrap an arm around your waist and hold you up.

And you know that arm.

That arm belongs to-

“Son of a bi-“ Dean cuts himself off your name, his eyes on wide yours. “You’re-“

“Fuck, Dean-“ You grab his face between your hands, turning it to examine it at every angle, to check that that’s him, even you’d have no way to be sure, you’d have to find one, there would have to be a way because you know Dean better than anyone so surely, you’d be able to work this out-

“I’m me,” he catches one of your hands, nodding to the watch on his wrist. “Silver watch, remember?”

You let out a long, slow breath, and nod. “Okay, yeah, are you okay-“

“I’m good.” Dean’s nostrils flare slightly, and you swallow. He’s looking at you the same way he looks at pie or the Impala. Like you’re his. “What would you do if I kissed you?”

“I-“ You couldn’t have heard him right. You’re gaping and breathing heavily, and just that word from Dean is making you short-circuit and ascend and fall apart. “I’d- yes-“

Dean slams his lips into yours, and you must have died. You must have rotted away in that basement, because there’s no other explanation for why Dean’s kissing you like this. With a fervor and passion and care—like he’s practiced and practiced elsewhere but it’s all just for been this, like everyone before you had been paper in comparison, and you’re set into stone—and holding you so close that you can’t tell when you ends and he begins.

“De-“ You gasp when he squeezes your hips, your fingers curling on his shirt as you hold on for dear life. “Fuck- I- More-“

He responds with a growl down your throat, and this isn’t heaven.

You’ve been to heaven.

This is better.

It’s Dean everywhere. All over and around you, muttering your name like a prayer against your lips as he presses his tongue on your lower lip and groaning when you open for him without question. You’ll never need to kiss anyone else. You’ll never need anyone else. Dean’s touch and kiss are fire in your blood and it’s waking up parts of you that you hadn’t known existed. Nerve points deeper in your body that start to sing for Dean as he pulls at your hair to give himself further access, and lighting up your whole body from within when he pressed you against the stairwell wall, and you felt holy.

“Yeah,” he mutters against your lips, as if he can’t bear to move. “That’s right.”

You hum, opening your eyes to find him already watching you. Neither of you bother to pull away.

“Right?” You ask, and he nods.

“It’s- uh- You’re you.”

“I am.”

He nods against your brow. “Good. I love you.”

It hits you like lighting. It’s bigger than the kiss. It’s bigger than anything, and it steals your breath all while shooting your veins up with a newer, brighter life that you’re more than happy to die for.

“You-“ Your voice is barely a breath, and Dean’s not pulling away or flinching. He said it. To you. He should be shaking his head or something, because Dean doesn’t do love—especially not with you—but he said it. “You love me?”

“Yeah.” He swallows, leaning back just enough for you to see his every handsome feature. His tongue swipes over his lips as he stares at you, and you almost fall over. “Do you- uh- you don’t need to say it back-“

“I love you too.” You say it without a thought. It’s the only thing you’ve ever been sure of anyway. “So much. Always. All the time, and after that, and maybe before too, I love you, Dean, please don’t think I don’t love you-“

He cuts you off with another, longer kiss, and it’s not as arduous as the first one, but it’s almost more devout. 

“I’ve got it, baby.” He traces his thumb over your cheek as he pulls away, and fuck, that’s so much better than sweetheart. “Don’t go hurting yourself, I only just got you.”

“You’ve had me. Forever.” You whisper, and he chuckles, mostly to himself.

“I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I.” He sounds like he’s asking, watching you so closely you think he’s looking right into your soul. “Thinking you- That you didn’t feel this.””

“Yeah.” You smile, and he almost folds over you as the relief visibly washes over his body. “But I think it’s cute.”

He scoffs. “I’m not cute-“

“Yeah, you are.” A thought tugs at your head. “What happened to the shifter-“

Dean makes a face. “It tried to come onto me.”

“It what-“

“And I turned it down.” He gave you an amused look. “Jealous, baby-“

“Shut up, you dumbass.” You roll your eyes, whack at his chest, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him grin that wide. “Is she dead?”

“Shifter-soup.” He offers you a hand. “You want to help me bury the bitch?”

“Of course.” You tangle your fingers in his, and squeak as he pulls you right to his side. “Cn I spit on the grave?”

Dean laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, and the tingle it leaves on your skin is the most natural feeling in the world. “Baby, you can do whatever you want.”

End Note: Had a lot of fun with the small details on this one. Once again proving a whore for knowing every single part of someone you love.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[whatsupsonnyboy]

the first time || Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: The first time you and Joe meet, something clicks—quiet but unmistakable. Like the start of something that doesn’t need to be explained. And really, who were you trying to fool?

wc: 7.3K

warning: smut (mdni!!), p in v sex, protected and unprotected sex, fluff, midly slow burn (but not really lol), there's just lots of sweet boy joe and amazing sex

a/n: hey, so as i've already post about, i've been writing a bunch of one shots of how it might feel (in my mind ofc) to be in a relationship with this golden boy... so here it is, the first one. I'll post more eventually, it’s not really a story with parts but more like a collection of scenes that pop into my head (find the rest here). They’re not directly connected, but they all belong in the same universe. Hope you enjoy it! 🫶🏾

Feedback is welcomed <3

request are open  | masterlist

You hadn’t planned to stay long.

Just a drink or two. Say hi to Wes. Smile politely, maybe sneak out before midnight with the excuse of a fake early morning.

But then he was there.

You didn’t even notice him at first—just another face in the mix, half-shadowed by the glow of string lights and the low thrum of music. But then he laughed. God, that laugh. Low and rough and golden around the edges. And when you turned to look, really look, he was already looking at you.

That was the first hit. The first crackle of something electric and new.

Wes introduced you. Casual. Effortless. And suddenly you were standing closer than necessary, drinks in hand, eyes locked, trading names like they meant something more.

He was funny. Way funnier than he had any right to be. And warm. Charming in a way that wasn’t performative, but lived-in. Like he didn’t need to impress anyone but couldn’t help doing it anyway.

You asked about his work—half curious, half testing. He didn’t dodge, didn’t show off. Just smiled, scratched the back of his neck, and said, “I love it. Even when it’s a mess. Maybe especially then.”

You nodded, because you got it. Because you were already thinking the same thing about him.

Time blurred after that. Drinks refilled. Conversations spiraled—music, books, worst dates ever, the best breakfast food after 2 a.m. You laughed so hard at one of his stories you had to cover your mouth with your hand, and he just grinned at you like you were his new favorite thing.

When people started leaving, neither of you moved. You were leaned into each other now, shoulders brushing. His fingers drummed absently on his glass. Yours curled around the edge of the sofa like they wanted to close the space.

So when he offered to walk you home, it didn’t feel like a decision.

It felt like the natural next breath.

You walked through the quiet streets, city humming softly around you, your conversation dipping into silences that weren’t awkward, just charged. Your arms bumped once. Then again. And neither of you apologized.

By the time you reached your building, the air felt thicker somehow. Like it knew.

You paused outside the door, keys in hand, heartbeat tapping like a warning or a dare.

“Do you wanna come up?” you asked.

And he—of course he did.

The elevator was quiet, slow, and small enough that your shoulder brushed his again. This time, he didn’t pretend it was an accident.

He looked at you—really looked at you—and that was it.

You kissed him.

There was no hesitation. No awkward pause. Just the sharp inhale before your mouths collided, hot and eager, like you’d both been waiting for permission all night.

His hand cupped the back of your neck. Yours slid into his hair. You kissed like the elevator could betray you at any moment, like you only had seconds, and every one of them mattered.

When the doors slid open on your floor, your lips were still touching, your breath caught between kisses.

And you have no idea what you were doing, but it felt so right that questioning yourself about it wasn’t even an option. 

-

The door clicked shut behind him, but he barely registered the sound. Your hand was still in his, and your smile—soft, a little crooked—was the only thing anchoring him.

You tugged him gently into the apartment, fingers laced with his like it had been that way for years.

No small talk. No tour. No hesitation.

Just the unspoken hum that had been building all night, finally breaking the surface.

When you turned to face him, your lips already parted, he didn’t wait. He kissed you like he needed to. Like the moment he’d felt your mouth in the elevator hadn’t been nearly enough.

You tasted like wine and something sweeter he couldn’t name. Your arms circled his neck, pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth when your hips pressed into his.

It hit him all at once—how good this felt. How easy. The way your bodies seemed to move in sync, like instinct, like muscle memory from a dream he hadn’t realized he’d been having.

You gasped into his mouth, and that sound—sharp and breathless—lit him up like a live wire.

His hands found your waist, then your back, then slid lower, gripping your ass as he pulled you closer. He was hard already, pressed up against you through his jeans, and when you shifted just right, grinding into him with a little roll of your hips, he swore under his breath.

“Fuck, okay,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded, mouth dragging down to your neck. “You—god, you feel insane.”

You laughed, but it caught in your throat when he bit gently just beneath your ear.

Then everything sped up.

Your jacket hit the floor. Then his. His fingers were under your shirt, warm and demanding, tracing up your spine as if memorizing you. You didn’t hesitate—you lifted your arms, let him peel the fabric off you like a second skin.

He stared.

Because shit.

You stood there in a bra that barely held you in, chest rising fast, eyes blown wide. You looked wrecked already—and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

“You’re...” He exhaled hard. “Jesus, you’re unreal.”

And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t sweet. It was starving.

He backed you into the couch, hands everywhere—pushing, pulling, gripping, needing. You tugged at his shirt until it was gone too, and your hands ran across his chest like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. He loved that. The urgency. The want in you.

When your mouth landed on his jaw, then slid lower, biting down on the edge of his collarbone, he groaned—loud, filthy.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he panted, rutting against your thigh without even meaning to.

Your hand dropped to his waistband, teasing. “Yeah?” you whispered, voice wrecked and dangerous.

He nodded, helpless.

“Then let me.”

The way you said it—it wasn’t a question.

You palmed him through his jeans, slow and confident, watching the way his breath hitched, the way his eyelids fluttered. He wasn’t used to being this undone this fast. But you had him—already.

His hands slid behind your back, unclasped your bra with practiced fingers, and when the straps slipped off your shoulders, he barely gave you time to react before his mouth was on you. Tongue and teeth and lips, worshipping, making you moan—fuck, that sound, he’d chase it forever.

The way you arched under him, like every touch was too much and not enough.

The way you gasped his name like it was the only word you remembered.

It was pure heat. Messy and fast and real.

And when you whispered, breathless, “Come to bed,” your lips swollen, pupils blown wide, he didn’t even hesitate.

He didn’t care about tomorrow. Or what this was. Or where it might lead.

All he knew was that he needed to feel your body under his. Needed to hear you fall apart.

And if he was lucky, he’d get to wake up beside you.

You led him by the hand, your steps quick, your breath even quicker. The apartment wasn’t big, but every second it took to reach the bedroom felt like an eternity stretched tight with want.

The moment you were through the door, you turned to face him, pulling him in again like you couldn’t stand the distance. Your back hit the edge of the bed and you kissed him like you meant to steal the air from his lungs.

He smiled against your lips when you fumbled with the button of his jeans, your fingers slightly clumsy in your rush. You cursed softly, laughed under your breath.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“Don’t be.” His voice was low, rough. “It’s perfect.”

And it was.

Every little misstep, every shaky inhale, every wide-eyed second of wonder—it was perfect.

His jeans hit the floor. Then yours. You tugged at each other’s underwear with a mix of eagerness and surprise, and when he finally kicked his off and you stood in front of him completely bare, his breath caught in his throat.

You were stunning. Not just beautiful—though, fuck, you were—but alive. Lit up from within. Chest rising fast, lips parted, looking at him like he was something you couldn’t wait to taste.

And god, he wanted to be tasted.

You lay back on the bed, pulling him with you, and he followed without hesitation, settling between your legs, both of you skin-to-skin for the first time. It was overwhelming. It was right.

Your hands roamed his back, his shoulders, your mouth brushing along his jaw, and he felt everything. Every inch of contact. Every trembling breath.

And when he dipped his head to kiss your chest again, slower this time, your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips lifted into his without thinking.

“I don’t have—” he began, breath hitching.

“In the drawer,” you whispered.

He reached blindly, found the condom, tore the wrapper with shaking fingers. You helped him roll it on, your touch so tender it nearly broke him.

He looked at you once more, one hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“You good?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded. “Yeah. I want this.”

Fuck. So did he. More than he could admit out loud.

The second he pushed into you, slow and deep, your mouth fell open with a gasp that echoed straight through his chest.

“Fuck—” he groaned, breath catching, head dropping against your neck. You were tight, so wet around him it was almost unbearable. His fingers dug into your hips, like anchoring himself was the only way not to lose it too fast.

And you—you arched into him, legs curling higher around his waist, nails dragging down his back.

“You feel so good,” you whispered, voice already wrecked. “So fucking good.”

Joe swore under his breath. He could barely think. Could barely hold back. The heat between you was blinding, raw, something feral clawing at his insides.

He pulled back, thrust in again, and your body met his with such perfect rhythm that his control slipped a little—hips snapping harder, breath rough in your ear.

Your hands roamed down his back, fingers brushing the dip of his spine, then slipping between your bodies until they were there—on your clit, teasing yourself as he fucked into you.

“Oh fuck, yes,” you moaned, back arching, head thrown back. “Right there, just like that—”

Joe looked down at you, eyes dark and hungry, and the sight of your hand moving against yourself while he was buried deep inside you… it undid him.

“Jesus, you’re gonna kill me,” he growled, grabbing your wrist, replacing your fingers with his own. “Let me.”

You whimpered, hips jerking as he rubbed slow circles, watching you unravel for him. Your face. Your breath. The way you bit your lip to muffle the sounds that wanted to break free.

“Let them hear you,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t hold it in. I want every fucking sound.”

You obeyed.

You moaned like the world was ending. Like no one had ever touched you right until now. His name on your tongue, over and over, like a spell that made you shake.

He was losing it.

You clenched around him, again and again, dragging him deeper, and he couldn’t stop the filth that poured out of him.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he muttered, voice shaking. “So perfect. Taking me like you were made for it.”

You whimpered beneath him, hips rolling in rhythm with his, and then your hand was on him, cupping the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss you like it was the only way to stay grounded.

You kissed him open-mouthed, messy, tongues sliding together, both of you panting, slick with sweat, chasing something neither of you could name.

When you broke away, your voice was hoarse, breathless.

“Harder, Joe. Please—fuck, don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

He grabbed your thigh, lifted your leg higher over his hip and started thrusting harder, deeper, until the sound of skin against skin filled the room.

You cried out, high-pitched and desperate, and your walls tightened so suddenly around him he swore.

“Oh my god—” you gasped, and then you were falling apart, shaking, clenching around him so tight it pulled a raw, broken moan from his chest.

Your orgasm hit you like a wave, and he felt it—watched it—his fingers still working your clit through it all, not letting up.

“Fuck, you’re so—so fucking perfect—” he stuttered, barely holding on. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

Your mouth brushed his ear, breath hot. “Come inside me, baby. Come for me.”

And that was it.

He came with a groan, hips stuttering, pulse racing, holding you so close he thought he might crush you. You took every second of it—his shaking, his panting, the broken way he whispered your name like it was salvation.

Then silence.

Then breath. Tangled limbs. Sweat. Skin against skin.

And the most beautiful fucking quiet.

He stayed inside you, forehead resting against yours, both of you trembling.

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “Holy shit.”

He smiled, dizzy and wrecked. “Yeah. Holy fucking shit.”

-

Your breathing was still uneven when he collapsed beside you, chest rising and falling in erratic waves. His skin was warm and damp, and yours probably wasn’t any better. But when his arm instinctively reached for your waist and pulled you closer, it didn’t matter. Nothing did.

There were no words. Just the soft rustle of sheets and your fingertips drawing lazy, invisible patterns over the curve of his bicep. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head—gentle, almost reverent—and you let out a quiet sigh, one of those that come not from tiredness, but from fullness. Overwhelmed in the best possible way.

And you stayed like that. Breathing together. Letting your bodies cool down but your connection settle in deeper. There was nothing awkward. No pressure. Just warmth. Familiarity. His thumb brushing your side. Your knee nudging his softly under the sheets.

You didn't mean to fall asleep. But you did.

And somehow, when your eyes blinked open hours later, he was still there.

The light was pale and golden, sneaking in through your curtains. Your bedroom looked dreamlike, still hazy with sleep and the remnants of the night before. You turned slightly and found him already looking at you, face resting on the pillow, eyes still heavy-lidded, hair a mess of curls flattened on one side.

And it didn’t feel weird. Not at all.

“Hi,” you whispered, voice still raw from sleep.

He smiled, lazy and crooked, and it made your stomach do something ridiculous.

“Hi,” he echoed, voice low and warm and sleepy. “You drool a little, you know.”

You gasped, pushing at his chest with the back of your hand, laughing despite yourself. “You liar.”

“Swear on my life.” He grinned. “Just a little. Cute though.”

You groaned and buried your face in the pillow, but he only laughed, that soft, raspy morning laugh that already felt too intimate. Too familiar.

Like you’d heard it a hundred times before.

When you peeked out again, he was still watching you, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to memorize something.

“I usually hate sleeping next to someone,” he murmured.

Your heart skipped.

“But with you…” He shrugged slightly. “Didn’t even notice. Slept like a baby.”

You smiled then—slow, genuine, a little unsure. Because what were you supposed to say to that?

He shifted closer, his forehead gently bumping yours, and you felt his hand stroke slowly up and down your arm. His thumb brushed over a spot on your shoulder, then traced lazy circles on your skin.

Neither of you said anything else. There was no need. 

Eventually, you turned, slow and careful, until your back was pressed to his chest and his arm slipped around you without hesitation. His hand settled on your stomach, warm and still.

You let out a soft sigh and nestled into him, your legs tangling under the covers. For a moment, everything was quiet—breath and body, shared warmth, the steady thud of his heart against your spine. Then his fingers shifted, just slightly. Slid lower.

The first thing you felt was heat—his chest pressed against your back, the slow roll of his hips, still half-asleep but already there, already hard. Your breath caught as his hand skimmed your stomach, fingers brushing lower, exploring like he hadn’t had his fill last night. Like he’d only just begun.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick, scratchy with sleep. “You’re already—”

“Yeah,” you whispered, shifting your hips back against him, shameless.

He groaned, the sound low and desperate, and you could feel it vibrate through your spine. His lips found the spot behind your ear, open-mouthed, warm, lazy like everything about that morning, but hungry in a way that made your pulse spike.

“You sure?” he murmured, fingers sliding between your thighs now, stroking through the wetness he found there, drawing a sound out of you that was all need. 

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, and he looked wrecked already—his curls a mess, his gaze still soft with sleep but blown wide with want.

“Yeah,” you breathed, not hesitating. “Just finish outside.”

He stilled for a moment. Just a beat. Long enough for the gravity of it to flicker in his eyes. But then you reached back, guided him to you, and that flicker turned to fire.

“Fuck—okay. Okay.”

The first push inside was slow, careful, but deep—achingly so. You both gasped, your body stretching to take him, his hand gripping your hip like it was the only thing anchoring him to the planet.

“Jesus… you feel amazing” he whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief. 

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, forehead dropping to the pillow as he began to move, drawing back, then pressing in again with that maddening control. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

And he didn’t. He couldn’t have even if he tried.

It wasn’t frantic—this wasn’t a race. But it wasn’t slow either. It was deep. Focused. Like he was trying to memorize every inch of you from the inside. His hand slid under you, fingers finding your clit, stroking in tight circles as he thrust, eyes fixed on the spot where your bodies met like it might disappear if he blinked.

“You take me so fucking well,” he muttered, voice shaking. “So good like this. So—shit—warm. Wet. Fuck.”

Your mouth dropped open, hands gripping the sheets as the pressure built, deep and consuming. Every snap of his hips sent sparks up your spine, every stroke of his fingers wound you tighter.

“Joe—”

“Say it again.”

“Joe—oh my God—”

He bent over you, his chest flush to your back, lips brushing your shoulder, your neck, your ear.

“Feel how deep I am?” he murmured, cock pulsing inside you. “I can feel you gripping me, baby, fuck—don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”

You came with a strangled cry, your body locking around his, muscles fluttering, your whole self unraveling in waves. He thrust once, twice more, desperate now, but then pulled out with a groan—messy, hot, and helpless as he came on your lower back, one hand braced on the mattress, the other gripping your hip like it might keep him from flying apart.

His breath was ragged, your name half-formed on his tongue, and for a second, all you could hear was the rush of blood in your ears and the high-pitched whine of satisfaction in your bones.

You lay there, both of you trembling, panting, your bodies still joined, sweat cooling between your skins.

There were no words. Just the beat of your hearts, too fast and completely in sync.

He kissed your shoulder, once, twice. You reached back to touch his thigh, his hip—anything to anchor him to you. To keep him right there.

And for a moment, neither of you moved. No guilt. No fear. 

Just skin. Breath. Fire. Somehow, trust.

You lay there, breathing together, warm and safe beneath the quiet weight of morning. Your legs tangled again. His hand resting on your hip. His thumb started drawing circles along your arm as he could memorize you by touch.

And when you finally started drifting off again, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, he pressed one last kiss to your temple.

Soft. Unthinking. Like second nature.

You smiled against his chest.

Neither of you meant to fall asleep again. But you did.

And somehow, that felt like the most intimate part of all.

- 

The second time you woke up, it was to the scent of coffee and the quiet sound of someone humming off-key in your kitchen.

For a moment, you thought you’d dreamt the whole thing—until you stretched, and the ache between your thighs reminded you vividly that you hadn’t.

You reached for a hoodie, padded barefoot into the living room, and there he was—standing by the stove in nothing but his boxers and one of your oversized mugs in hand. His curls were still a mess. His back was turned, but when he heard your footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder and grinned.

“Morning, again,” he said, handing you the mug without missing a beat.

You took it, fingers brushing his for a second too long. “You made coffee?”

He shrugged, modest and smug all at once. “Well, I didn’t burn anything, so technically I made magic.”

You laughed, shaking your head, and sat on the edge of the couch as he poured his own cup.

It was easy. Too easy.

The kind of morning where you both felt like you’d skipped a few steps. Like you were already past the awkward stage. You talked about nothing in particular—your mutual distaste for early mornings, how Wes never mentioned either of you to the other (the bastard), the fact that you both hated people who didn’t rinse their dishes before putting them in the sink.

He made you laugh. A lot.

And at some point, still barefoot, hair wild and shirtless, he leaned against the counter and said, “Last night was… not what I expected.”

You looked up from your coffee, raising an eyebrow. “Disappointed?”

“God, no,” he said immediately, then softened. “It was just—better. More. You know?”

You nodded. Because you did know.

There was something about it. About him. About this. And you could both feel it pulsing under the skin, but neither of you tried to name it.

Eventually, the time came. He went to grab his things—shoes, phone, jacket—and you trailed after him, not quite ready to say goodbye, but not wanting to be that person either.

He stood by the door, pulling his jacket on, one arm still half out of the sleeve, when he turned to you with a smirk.

“So… am I allowed to ask for your number, or is this one of those magical one-night-stand rules where I disappear like a gentleman and we pretend we don’t exist?”

You blinked, then laughed, genuinely caught off guard. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Flattering,” he replied. “But I’ll take it as a yes?”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your phone. “Give me yours. I’ll text you.”

He rattled off the digits, and you sent a simple “Hi” before he even finished spelling out his last name.

He looked at his screen, smiled, then looked back at you like he was about to say something else—but didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. Soft. Warm. Familiar, again. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“See you around,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the edge of your jaw.

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut, and the silence he left behind was anything but empty.

It was full.

Full of something unnamed but very, very real.

-

You never had the talk.

No labels, no declarations, no drawn-out conversations about what this was or where it was going. It just was.

He texted you that same afternoon. Something dumb and funny. A meme you still had saved in your camera roll. You answered. And he answered back. And suddenly, you were talking every day. Not constantly, but consistently. Steadily. Like the kind of tide that always comes back to shore.

The first time you met up again, it was spontaneous. He was nearby. You had an hour to kill. You grabbed coffee and sat in the park. He stole your cookie. You punched his arm. He kissed you mid-laughter, with your cup still in hand, and just like that—there it was again.

That thing.

And then came the nights. The way his hand would slide against the small of your back as you opened the door. The way he’d kiss you like he’d been waiting for days, even if it’d only been hours.

You’d fuck on the couch. In your kitchen. Sometimes barely making it to the bedroom.

It was intense. Messy. Addictive.

But never rushed.

He made you laugh mid-moan. You pulled his curls just to hear the sound he made when you did. He always made sure you came first—sometimes second—and then held you like he couldn’t stand the idea of leaving. Sometimes he stayed. Sometimes you did.

You shared breakfast. Showers. Bad TV. Inside jokes. His hoodie. Your leftovers.

Somehow, he learned how you liked your tea. You learned what cologne he wore. He kept a spare toothbrush in your bathroom. You found one of your scrunchies on his nightstand once.

And none of it felt like a big deal.

It was just natural.

You’d text him something random at 1AM. He’d reply with a voice note that made you laugh out loud in bed. You'd call him when your day sucked. He'd show up at your door with snacks and that face that made everything easier.

You never talked about exclusivity. You never needed to.

Because even if no one had said it aloud, you both already knew.

It wasn’t casual. Not really.

And still, neither of you used the word "relationship."

But it didn’t matter.

Because every time he kissed your forehead before leaving, every time he whispered “sleep tight” like a secret, every time you caught him staring like he was still surprised you were real—something in your chest softened.

Something in you knew.

And maybe you weren’t officially together.

But your hearts hadn’t gotten the memo.

-

He didn’t really notice when it started to change. Maybe that was the point.

There was no sudden shift, no dramatic realisation. Just a quiet accumulation of small things that began to matter more than he expected.

Like the way his phone would light up and he already knew it was you. The way your name on the screen felt like a hit of dopamine—something in his chest unclenching without him even realizing it. The way the days stretched a little too long when he didn’t hear from you.

He started keeping snacks you liked in his apartment without thinking. He started recognizing your routines—how you stole his hoodie when it got cold, how you took your coffee with oat milk and exactly one sugar, how you always asked if he’d eaten after a long shoot. He noticed the way you hummed softly when brushing your hair, and how your laughter lingered in his apartment long after you'd gone.

He hadn’t planned to stop seeing other people. It just happened. Not out of obligation. Out of instinct.

You stopped replying to those flirty messages. He stopped swiping right out of boredom.

It wasn’t something you ever discussed. There was no awkward conversation, no labels. Just a quiet understanding—like turning down the volume on a song that didn’t hit the same anymore.

One night, Wes texted him asking if he was going out to their usual bar, and Joe found himself replying, “With her tonight.” He didn’t even think twice.

“You seeing her now?” Wes asked.

He stared at the screen for a while. Not officially. Not technically. But yeah. Yeah, he was.

And maybe the most surprising part was that none of it scared him. Not like it used to.

There was this night—you were curled up on his couch in his shirt, eating cereal at midnight, laughing at something stupid he’d said. And he watched you, spoon halfway to his mouth, thinking, Fuck. I really like her.

He didn’t say it. Of course not. But it was there. In the way he touched your back without thinking, or the way he waited for your laugh to fade before kissing you.

He got used to you without realizing.To the way your shoes sat by the door when you stayed over. To the way you wrapped yourself around him in your sleep, like his body was where yours belonged. To the way the silence between you didn’t press down—it settled around you both, warm and easy, like a shared blanket.

He hadn’t realised how much space you'd taken up in his life until he was scrolling through his photos one night and found more of you than anything else. Pictures you didn’t even know he’d taken—your head thrown back in laughter, curled up with a book, sleeping against his chest.

He remembered waking up before you one morning, the light slipping through the blinds, your arm thrown across his stomach, your hair a mess, your face half-buried in the pillow. He just laid there, watching. Not because he was having some big epiphany. Just because it felt nice.

Then came that Tuesday. You were in the bathroom, hair up in a messy knot, brushing your teeth with one hand and scrolling on your phone with the other, wrapped in his old t-shirt like it belonged more to you than him. Joe sat on the edge of the bed and watched.

Not in a creepy way. In a shit, this feels good kind of way. In a please don’t let this go anywhere kind of way.

You caught him staring—of course you did. You always did. Mouth full of toothpaste, you raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He just grinned. “Nothing.”

But he meant everything.

Because it wasn’t just the way you looked in the morning, or how you always denied stealing the blanket.It was the way you’d become his soft place to land. It was the cardigan draped over his chair. The mugs in the sink with your lipstick on the rim. The playlist on his Spotify titled hers.

The lines between you and him had blurred so gently, it didn’t even feel like change.

It just felt right.

And no, he hadn’t said it out loud yet. But when you fell asleep with your head on his chest and his arm pulled you closer like instinct, he didn’t need to.

You probably already knew.

-

He’d been pacing around the apartment for most of the afternoon, fingers stained with ink from scribbled notes, corners of scripts folded and dog-eared, empty mugs lining the coffee table like some modern art installation of a man losing his grip. The flat smelled faintly of coffee, highlighters, and the Thai food box he had grabbed in that small local in front of his gym and barely touched.

His phone buzzed earlier—your name lighting up the screen like a small calm in the storm.

“hey, out for a bit but I’ll swing by around eight?”

He’d smiled when he read it. A quiet kind of smile, the kind that tugged at the corners of his mouth even as his eyes were half-glued to a page of dialogue he couldn’t get right.

“Perfect. I’ll order pizza.”

And then he forgot about it. Not you, exactly. Just the time. The waiting. The worrying about whether you’d show or not. You’d said you’d come, and that was enough. You’d always done what you said so far. He trusted that. Trusted you. It was himself he didn’t quite trust lately.

The new script was a minefield. The director intimidating. The pressure building behind his temples like a storm he couldn’t quite outrun. Somewhere between scene fourteen and seventeen, he pulled his hair back into a tie and rubbed his face with both hands, muttering something half-human under his breath.

He hadn’t even realized the sun was already setting when Wes’s name lit up on his screen.

“you bailing on us tonight?”

He blinked, thumb hovering over the keyboard. “Had plans. Next time i swear”

A beat. Then another buzz. Wes had sent a photo.

Dim pub lighting. Clinking glasses. And you—laughing. Head tilted toward someone familiar. Keith. A friend of a friend. All easy charm and textbook good looks. The kind of guy who always had too much confidence and not enough shame. His arm wasn’t touching you, not exactly. But it was close.

“well… maybe you should reconsider”

And that—that—was when it hit.

A flash of something ugly and electric shot straight through his gut. Not quite anger. Not quite panic. Just that instinctive, animal sting of I don’t want anyone else that close to her.

He tossed the phone onto the couch, harder than necessary.

Fuck. He didn’t want to care. Hadn’t planned on caring. You weren’t his girlfriend. You hadn’t talked about exclusivity, or commitment, or any of that. You were just… seeing each other. Spending time together. Sleeping together.

But still.

He ran a hand over his mouth and stared at the photo again.

Just a few hours ago, he hadn’t had a single thought like this about you. You were the one thing not stressing him out.

Now, you were burning a hole in his brain.

He flipped his phone face down. Then face up. Then picked it up again. He’d stared at the photo so long it had burned itself into his vision. The way you were laughing, the exact curve of your shoulder leaning toward Keith. The lighting didn’t help. It could’ve been a casual moment, an ordinary conversation. But in his head, it had already become something else. A whole story.

Keith. That charming asshole with an ego bigger than his biceps. The kind of guy who calls waitresses “princess” and still manages to get dates. It wasn’t jealousy—at least, not exactly. It was a sharp, nagging sting of insecurity. Of fear. Fear that you were out there realizing you could be with someone easier. Less complicated. Someone who didn’t have their brain split between you and a script that read like ancient code.

He stared at a fixed point on the floor, leaning back on the couch, arms crossed, legs tense. The script beside him felt more like a threat than an opportunity. The notes he’d taken—now scattered across the table—looked like pieces of a mind that didn’t know where to begin.

He went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, stared at himself in the mirror. Didn’t like what he saw. Came back to the living room. Sat down. Stood up. Turned on the TV. Turned it off. Checked the time: 8:04 p.m.

Not late. Not really. Four minutes was nothing. But to Joe, it felt like a century.

He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge without knowing what he was looking for, then closed it again. The pizza he’d ordered—maybe a little too early—was already getting cold. Like him. Like everything.

He forced himself to sit back on the couch. Put on an old record—one of those he used when he needed to focus. But the needle barely hit the first chords before he got up again, restless. He went to the window. Pulled back the curtain. You weren’t there. Closed it. Opened it again. Closed it once more.

8:11.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his hands down his face. He didn’t want to be that guy. The one spinning drama in his own head. The one building stories before the movie even started.

But there he was.

And the knot in his chest was pulling tighter by the minute.

Everything about the new film was overwhelming him. He wanted to scream at the ceiling. Throw the script against the wall. Nothing made sense. And the only thing that did—was you. It was you, goddammit. The one thing that didn’t need decoding. That felt simple, and somehow, impossibly huge at the same time.

That’s why it hurt. Because exactly for that reason, the idea of losing you—or worse, realizing you weren’t as in it as he was—felt unbearable.

And then, at 8:16, the doorbell rang.

His heart did this stupid little jump. He got up too fast. Felt that ridiculous urge to pull himself together, to act normal, to pretend he hadn’t been falling apart on the inside.

He wanted the sound of your arrival to reset everything.

But it wasn’t enough to quiet the noise. Not when the doubt was already echoing in his throat.

And when he opened the door… he didn’t know if he wanted to pull you into his arms or put you on the spot. If he wanted to kiss you or yell.

And that—exactly that—was what pissed him off the most.

-

You knew something was wrong the moment you saw his face. 

It wasn't the kind of wrong you could smooth over with a kiss or a joke about the pizza going cold.  It was the kind of wrong that sat heavy in the air, thick in your throat.

"Hey," you said, stepping inside. Smiling, out of instinct, even when your gut already knew better. "Sorry I’m late. I stopped by the pub for a bit, lost track—"

"Yeah," Joe said. Short. Sharp. Already turning away.

You shut the door behind you, heart picking up speed. The living room was a mess hunched over, papers scattered around him like a small, personal storm. 

He laughed, low and humorless. "I didn’t know if you were still coming."

You blinked. "I told you I was."

"Right," he muttered. "But maybe you were grabbing pizza with Keith instead"

You stared at him. "What?"

He grabbed his phone from the couch, tossed it onto the table. The screen still lit up with the photo: you, standing close to Keith, laughing over something stupid, a drink in your hand. Frozen mid-smile.

"Are you checking up on me now?" you said, a little sharper than you meant.

"Wes sent it." He raked a hand through his hair. "He was concerned."

Your stomach twisted. "No. You were concerned."

He laughed, but it was hollow. Bitter. "Yeah, well maybe I was, especially when I saw you smiling at him like that."

You stared at him, anger flickering up, hot and defensive. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to throw that at me when we never—"

"I know!" he cut you off, standing up suddenly, voice breaking. "I know we never said anything, okay? I know we were both just... assuming things and pretending it was all casual and cool and whatever the fuck, but it's not. Not for me."

The words hung there, raw and electric.

You stepped back, heart hammering, because it was true for you too. You just hadn’t said it. Hadn't dared.

"I’m not seeing anyone else," you said, almost without thinking. "I haven’t even thought about it since you."

He stared at you like you’d just said something unbelievable. Like maybe he didn’t deserve to hear it.

You swallowed hard. "And yeah, I was talking to Keith. Didn’t realize that’d be a fucking crime”. 

Joe closed his eyes for a second, like the weight of it physically hit him. When he opened them, he looked wrecked. And beautiful.

"I’m sorry," he said, hoarse. "I’m fucking scared, alright? I’ve got this project that’s swallowing me whole and half the time I think I’m gonna fail, and you’re the only thing that makes me feel like maybe I won't. Like maybe I’m not a complete fuck-up."

You felt your chest tighten, emotions crashing all over you.

"Then don't push me away," you said, stepping closer. "Don’t look for reasons to doubt this when I’m standing right in front of you."

He shook his head, almost helpless. "I don't want anyone else," he said, voice rough. "I don't even see anyone else anymore. It's just you."

You could feel your throat tightening, that sting behind your eyes, but you forced yourself to stay steady.

"It's you for me too," you whispered.

The silence felt thick and heavy and full of everything you hadn't said before tonight.

Then Joe moved — fast, almost clumsy — closing the space between you, pulling you into him like he couldn't bear the distance for a second longer. His mouth found yours in a kiss that wasn’t soft or careful — it was desperate, claiming, full of everything that had been burning between you for weeks.

And you let him. You let yourself fall into it, finally, completely. Because you knew. He knew. It was real.

You didn’t make it to the bedroom. You barely made it past the couch.

Joe kissed you like he meant it now. Like every inch of his mouth on yours came with a promise. No more holding back, no more ifs. Just you and him, here and now, and whatever the hell this was that had already swallowed you whole.

He pressed you against the wall, hands threading into your hair, breath hot and ragged against your cheek. "Fuck, I missed you," he groaned, like the hours apart had been unbearable.

"You had me yesterday," you gasped, tugging at the hem of his shirt, needing him bare, needing him now.

"Not like this." He pulled it over his head and dropped it to the floor, eyes hungry and tender all at once. "Not after hearing you say it."

You stilled for a second, chest rising too fast. "Say what?"

He leaned in, mouth brushing your jaw, your cheek, your ear. "That you wanted me. That you weren’t going anywhere."

You cupped his face in your hands, staring into those stupidly beautiful, frantic eyes. “I didn’t say it tonight, Joe.”

He blinked.

“I’ve been saying it every time I’ve come back.”

And then he lost it.

He picked you up, hands under your thighs, your legs wrapped tight around him, and carried you blindly through the apartment until you crashed into the edge of the bed. He didn’t even bother pulling the covers down.

Clothes disappeared like they were on fire.

His mouth was on your neck, then your chest, then lower—devouring, tasting, worshipping. You were already shaking by the time he slid inside you, both of you gasping like it hurt, like it healed.

“Jesus—fuck—you feel like home,” he choked out, burying his face in the crook of your neck, thrusting deep, slow, relentless.

You grabbed at his back, his hair, anything to ground yourself. “Don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop.”

He didn’t.

He moved like you were the only thing keeping him together. Like if he stopped touching you, he’d fall apart entirely. The rhythm grew rougher, faster, but still so full. Not desperate. Claiming.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You gasped, eyes wide and wild. “I’m yours, Joe—fuck—I’ve been yours.”

He groaned into your mouth and slammed into you harder, and it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was real. It was raw and feral and exactly what both of you needed.

Your orgasm hit like a wave you didn’t see coming—hot and electric and blinding. And he followed almost instantly, moaning your name like it was a sacred word, collapsing on top of you, chest heaving, heart pounding against yours.

Silence.

Just the sound of breath and skin and the world finally slowing down.

You felt him shift, just enough to look at you. His eyes—open, vulnerable, like he’d just been cracked wide.

And then, softly, so softly—

“I love you.”

You blinked, breath still uneven.

And smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I love you too.”

And just like that, there were no more questions.

Only answers written on skin, on sighs, on mouths still swollen from too much kissing.

[lynnieverse]

fresh out the slammer // rafe cameron

oneshot

first love!rafe cameron x heartbroken!reader

synopsis: you just ended things with your boyfriend and find yourself driving to the only person you'd ever called home...

𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚, 𝒊'𝒎 𝒓𝒖𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖…𝒇𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒉 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓, 𝑰 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒐...

♡

The rain pelted against the windshield in waves as you white-knuckled the steering wheel. Deep breaths kept the sobs at bay, but they still clawed at your throat. 

Stupid, stupid, stupid, you thought. How could it have taken so long to leave?

The soft melody of a familiar tune began, causing you to shakily twist the volume knob, letting the lyrics wash over the ache. 

Another summer taking cover, rolling thunder, he don’t understand me…

He never did. Never would. 

Flashes of awkward conversations and forced laughter blurred together, a montage of things left unsaid.

Splintered back in winter, silent dinners, bitter, He was with her in dreams…

A tear trailed down, taking you back to the moment everything changed. The front door swinging open, the stupid excitement bubbling in your chest, the bright smile that disappeared the second the bedroom door cracked open. 

Him. Her. Together. 

Her breathy moans echoed in the back of your mind. Seeing his face contorted in pleasure as you watched, horrified. Your name had been on his lips that morning. Hers was now.

And now here you were—alone, cold, licking wounds all the way back to the place you swore never to return. You’d moved away for a reason, trading in the tight-knit community for big city life. You thought it’d be good for your writing, getting new life experience and being close to the big publishing houses. 

You’d left OBX in the dust, gone, never to be seen again. Except here you were, on your way back after your whole life blew up in a matter of hours. 

The thought of dragging yourself back to the front door of your parents’ house made bile rise to the back of your throat. Mom’s pity. Dad’s quiet disappointment. No, that wasn’t an option. Not yet.  

Before the decision had fully processed, the car veered down a familiar street. Your heart pounded harder with every turn, every streetlight leading you back to him. 

Then, there it was. 

The nerves started then, going haywire. The car eased to a stop by the mailbox.

One knock away. 

Fuck.

He probably wouldn’t even want to see you. 

The stone steps were slick with rainfall as you approached, the tiny droplets seeping through the thin fabric of your shirt. You’re shivering as you raise your fist to the door. 

Tap tap tap. 

You waited for what felt like years, arms crossed over your stomach. Suddenly, the door swung open, and there he stood. Your eyes rake over his figure, taking in the low-hanging sweatpants and black tank top. He’d been working out, muscles more defined than you remembered. But his face, his eyes, they were the same. 

His mouth parted slightly, surprise evident as he stared, like he was unsure if he could trust his own eyes. A beat of silence stretched between you. Then another…and another. Doubt clouded your mind, embarrassment creeped in. Your voice trembled, barely above a whisper. 

“I…I’m sorry. This was stupid, I should go.” You turn around on your heel and start jogging back to the car, eager to get out of the rain, and away from Rafe. You’re almost at the end of the driveway when a warm hand encloses around your wrist, pulling you to a stop. 

“Wait,” his soft voice pleads. You close your eyes at the sound, having missed it all these years. When you turn around, he’s close enough that his face is inches from yours. Muscle memory begs you to pull him closer, to feel his skin and taste his lips. The water had soaked you both to the bone by now, causing full body shakes. Rafe wordlessly pulls you back to the front door, urging you through the threshold and into the dryness of the mud room. 

Droplets dripped from the stringy strands of hair cascading down your back, a small puddle forming. Rafe disappeared for a moment before returning with two towels, draping one over your shoulders. His hands linger for a moment, like he wants to touch you, pull you in, but he doesn’t. You hug the soft material close, looking up and watching him dry off. 

“Come on, I’ll get you some clothes.” You follow him up the stairs, knowing the route like the back of your hand, before stopping in his doorway. It felt weird being in his space again, almost taboo, but one wave of his hand had you by his side in a heartbeat. He stacked sweatpants and a hoodie in your arms, and left you alone to change, closing the door behind him. 

You marvel at how things have changed; the old Rafe would have never kept this clean of a room. Even his bed was made. Shaking your head you strip, toweling off and forcing the large hoodie over your head. It smelled like him. Sandalwood and whiskey. Intoxicating. 

The sweatpants were a little long, and you have to tie them pretty tight, but they fit, instantly warming up your goosebump ridden legs. When you swing his bedroom door open, Rafe looks up. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, and in dry clothes. He looks you up and down, something flashing in his eyes, before clearing his throat. 

“So…” 

You break eye contact, suddenly all that embarrassment flooding back. “I didn’t know if you’d want to see me,” you mumble. He moves, standing right in front of you. Gripping your chin, he tilts your head up, forcing you to keep eye contact.  

“Of course I want to see you, baby. Why wouldn’t I?” His voice is quiet, careful, like the answer might break him. That name. You hadn’t heard it in so long, not from his lips. “I thought you’d never come back.” The sadness in his voice, the way his hands moved to caress your cheeks…it was too much. All at once, the dam broke. Your broken sobs fill the silent hallway, tears soaking your cheeks. Without hesitation he wraps you in his arms, resting his chin atop your head. 

You’d been locked away for so long, judgement clouded by the perfect fantasy life you’d built up in your head. You thought you were happy, but then why was he swirled into all of your poems? He had always been your muse, and that never changed no matter how far you strayed. You nearly laughed at how blind you’d been. But you did your time, and ran back home. To him. Rafe. The arms tightly wrapped around you confirmed what you already knew––you should have never left. 

So you let him lift you up, wrap your legs around his torso, and carry you to his bed. You both know a conversation is well overdue, but at this moment, nothing else matters. You have each other, and everything’s going to be alright. 

[willbyersabyss]

So what are Will's flaws?

Is Will totally perfect in every way? Is he a jealous saboteur? Or a secret third option... neither. Let's discuss Will's flaws and nuances!

1. Emotional suppression

Will avoids his problems. He hates talking about both his emotional and physical danger because he doesn't want to be treated differently. From a young age, he was taught by Lonnie that he shouldn't express his emotions because that makes him "sensitive" and "weak." So now he likes to hide.

This emotional suppression causes his feelings to worsen over time. Once he finally lets it out, he explodes. Instead of healthy conversations, he says and does things that he'll probably regret later. He blows up at Mike, he yells at Jonathan, he destroys Castle Byers, he shows his hand (what about us?)

Will's avoidance doesn't only have consequences on him, but others. If he had told someone he was feeling the Mind Flayer earlier, they might've been able to save some of the Flayed. But he couldn't tell someone because that puts him in a place of emotional vulnerability. That's exactly why he waited until after he fought with the boys to mention the supernatural. He traded one vulnerable situation for another, allowing him to avoid opening up about his true feelings. It was a distraction.

This also doesn't let others to heal from their altercations. Both Lucas and Mike try to apologize to Will, but he brushes them off. Will thinks he doesn't deserve consideration. The walls he puts up forces others to hold onto their own guilt, leaving a sore spot in their relationship. We can see this soreness in Will and Mike's relationship in s4. They never healed from the rain fight. Well... not that Mike tried to apologize after the Mind Flayer debacle. Again, distraction on Will's part.

Will’s inability to handle change is also due to him bottling up his feelings. His trauma and suppression makes him stuck in the past. He doesn’t let himself move through each day where these emotions would be felt.

It's interesting how Will is deemed the emotional one when his sensitivity is actually a result of him keeping his emotions in. Once that dam is opened, it's hard for him to stop. He breaks, just as he fears.

2. Self-hatred

And all that emotional suppression leads to Will internalizing other people's view of him. Will's self-hatred stems from bullying and his father's abuse. He thinks he's to blame, that he's a mistake. As more people distance themselves from Will, he believes there's something wrong with him.

When he thinks he deserves mistreatment, his relationships crumble more. They're unable to reconcile. True forgiveness can't be achieved if he doesn't think he should be apologized to in the first place.

Will's hatred is the reason why he tried to sacrifice himself in s2 to save his friends. He doesn't think he deserves to be saved. This makes him an easy target for Vecna. It's very likely that Will's self-hatred will factor into his upcoming supernatural plot.

The more Will hates himself, the more he hides, the more he suppresses his emotions.

3. People pleaser

If Will is anything, he's a people pleaser. He's selfless. So much so that this is the first thing we find out about him. While admirable, it actually leads to more bad than good. His people pleasing tendency goes hand in hand with his emotional suppression. Will doesn't like to take up space and inconvenience other people.

Will's never ending effort to please others leads to him making assumptions. Wrong assumptions. Whether it be letting Max join them on Halloween or pushing Mike to give a love confession, Will tries his best to use his mediator role to give people what they want.

But he doesn't know what they want, does he? Will wanted to make Dustin and Lucas happy, but this created a rift with Mike. He thought Mike was itching to profess his love for El, but that wasn’t what either of them needed. In an attempt to help, he's making it worse.

He must be successful sometimes, though, because there's an expectation from his friends that he'll fulfill their needs at the flick of a wand. This vacancy from Will makes him a pushover. They think they can make fun of him and he'll just take it because that's what he does. When Will finally stands up for himself, they're shocked. That's out of character for him. It's like they want to say: “Why isn't he letting us be mean to him? :(”

Mike even expected Will to tell him that his own girlfriend was being bullied. Will's people pleasing explodes in his face. So now when he's unable to read their needs and fix it for them, he's to blame. Will takes on the weight of their problems too much. While it's good that they rely on him, there shouldn't be pressure for him to judge their every whim. But it's not exactly their fault because Will set the stage for this behavior.

Weirdly, Will's need to please others is the reason why he didn't call Mike. He thought Mike wanted nothing to do with him, so he didn't reach out. There he goes assuming things again! But Will was there, waiting for the rare occasion where Mike did want him. He went so far right that he ended up left.

Will's behavior towards El is also an instance of wrong assumptions. Will didn't like being treated differently in s2, so he assumed El would feel the same way. He used his own experiences to inform how he should treat others. Babying El would make her feel more ostracized. Instead, he offered emotional comfort, similar to the comfort he received, after the bullying. This doesn't really help her because she doesn't have the same emotional mechanics as Will.

So Will assumes things, pushes his own wants down, and lets people walk all over him all in the name of being pleasant.

4. Freeze, fly, fight. In that order!

When Will is scared, he freezes. This flaw is so significant that they talked about it textually multiple times. I'm not sure I would consider it a flaw since it has saved him more than it's harmed him, though.

The few times Will has decided to fight instead of freeze, he was kidnapped and possessed. Confrontation isn't an option for him. His body believes he'll be put directly in danger if he does anything but freeze/fly. Fight is only used as a last resort.

It only really enters flaw territory when it's an inconvenience. He froze during the sauna test, when El was being bullied, and when he should've shot the creature in the shed. Will is unable to help himself and others when he's scared.

When he snaps out of it, he cries and feels guilty for being so hesitant. He wishes he could do more but he can't. This wraps back around to his self-hatred.

5. Jealousy

When his best friend of 10 years that he's in love with starts to ditch him for some random girl, it's not shocking that there would be some jealousy! Will is the silent jealous type. His jealousy doesn't really manifest into resentment or outward action against the other person. Unlike a certain someone...

Will only shows it through rolling eyes, a snarky comment here or there, or an outburst at his most emotionally vulnerable. I mean, if Will really wanted to see El crash and burn, he could've kept his mouth shut the entire Rink-O-Mania day. Or he could've ignored her in the courtyard as she picks up the pieces of her project. But he didn't.

The worst we've seen Will's jealousy was during the rain fight. He called El stupid. There's no beating around the bush, he was in the wrong for that. But this came out of Will because his emotions were at an all time high. Why? Emotional suppression!

A lot of Will's snarky comments towards El are out of genuine confusion. He doesn't understand how El can have exactly what he wants, but she's willing to ruin it by lying. Unfortunately, he later learns that exact lesson. He's envious that she can do what Mike hates without major repercussions, while he's somehow blamed for her lies. And why does he get blamed? People pleaser expectations!

Will waited until a quiet moment to inform El of her mistakes. Will's goal isn't to humiliate El. He doesn't let his jealousy lead to resentment. Instead, he tried to (snarkily) lead her to make better decisions because it's not fair! It's not fair that she can have it all without working for it!

And now we're back at self-hatred. Some of his jealous moments make it bubble back up. He bends his painting, something he put his blood, sweat, and tears into, because he isn't enough for them. Their ideal day is without him. Will's art is an extension of himself. He's aiming his anger back at himself by hurting his art.

All of his flaws connect back to his low self-esteem in some way. This is why it's important for Will to receive and accept love in his life. A big part of his arc is self acceptance.

So there it is in all its glory! All of Will's main flaws in one post. What did we learn? Will suppresses his emotions, hates himself, pleases others to a fault, freezes, and is green with envy. And he wouldn't be Will without 'em!

[remember-the-fanfics]

Gen-Z!Overlord!Reader

• Died at 18, been in hell for a few years.

• Came in after Alastor disappeared, just before Vaggie showed up.

• You were never one to follow what everyone else did. Killing, drugs, theft, or porn.

• Kept to yourself for a few months, getting use to being dead and in hell.

• Accidentally became an Overlord after you killed one in self defense.

"In my defense, she was like super creepy and an asshole. A big one."

• The souls were free but you kept your new territory nice so they didn't leave.

• You made jobs and kept the housing in better shape, only made deals to help souls.

• Gave them a job, house, and protection. You give them a limit of a few years of the deal and if they don't mind it, they can renew it.

"Well I don't want to force them to do something, its rude."

• In return, they keep your territory nice, clean, and less violent than most. Work the jobs you made and protect your little town.

• There's been occasions were you trade souls to other overlords, either the soul did something against them or just an asshole.

• The time on the contract would restart

• To every other overlord, you are a child with a knife and to much power.

• You demolished another overlord because they thought you were weak and tried to destroy you territory.

"You ass eatting bitch-"

• You let others fight for new open territory because you're fine with what you have.

• Panicked when you got invited to an Overlord meeting.

• Apparently you had enough power to be one, then you realized you actually were one.

• It was awkward to meet the most of the overlords. Not knowing who you were to begin with.

"This is for overlords only."

"Oh, I'm (Y/n). I got invited."

• Chatted with Rosie before and after it.

• Camilla likes how you run your territory but you seem so young.

• Did apologized afterwards, introducing you to her daughters, apparently you were around the same age.

• Zestial wanted to know how you took over you territory, interested on how you did it.

• You've only meet Velvette because you need some clothes. She recognized you as the up and coming overlord.

• Throwing the clothes you had in your hands away, saying you need to be in the best lastest trend of clothes.

• You were now stuck having a fashion show as she decided what look good on you.

• While not enjoying all the clothes she had you try on, you kept being nice having conversation when she wasn't yelling at everyone else.

• Velvette learned that you were around the same age so she decided that you were acquainted enough to have her number.

• Apparently it wasn't optional for you.

• You brought back way to much clothes for one person, atleast now you have style.

• Chaotic neutral energy

• Charlie meet you after she heard that you improved a part of hell, wasn't expecting someone so young looking.

"Dying just after I turned 18 just means I look young forever."

• Laughing at your own dark humor.

"Ha...ha.

• Charlie did not find it as funny.

• Told you about the hotel idea and you were right on board.

• Thought it was a good way to stick it to the man and help people.

• Vaggie was surprised when Charlie brought back a child.

• More surprised that you're the Overlord that Charlie wanted to meet with.

• Definitely said Vaggie's name wrong for the first time reading it.

• Meeting Angel Dust after he decided to crash at the hotel.

• Not knowing what he was known for but definitely heard his name from someone.

"You're a kind of actor?"

"Of the sorts."

• After you heard what he was famous for.

"Well, he'll do him and I'll do me but never do each other."

• There was an awkward silence of confusion from everyone.

• Having to explain every reference you make.

• Vaggie made jar for everytime you make a dark joke.

• Charlie has asked you why you were in hell. You shrugged, never living a truly bad life but probably just too chaotic for heaven to handle.

• You leave every few days to check back in your little town to make sure everything was running smoothly.

• You know when something happens, feeling the souls you own in a panic.

• Having to let everyone remember why you were in charge a couple of times.

• Either with your words or actions.

• Luckily Rosie just adores your mannerisms and how you don't completely turn away from her with what or who she eats.

"You could say the food was to die for!"

• She finds your dark humor funny.

• So she keeps an eye out for you, sending letters to you every few days.

• You vist her every other week to just chat, she tells you about easy territories that you could get. You say you would rather show up some punks than have more responsibility with more souls.

• Offers food everytime, you say no thanks everytime.

• Rosie would tell you all the tea about the other overlords or her own town.

• Yay! You have an allie with an another overlord by being friends.

• Also with offering truly worse souls sometimes. On a rare occasion.

• Rosie knowing when you offer a soul to her, she would take her time with it. Enjoying every bite.

• Anyway- Sinners would come up to asking for deal when they are completely down on their luck.

• But whats following a couple of rules for free house and job.

• You give them enough warning before you would shake hands then saying you would know if they even thought of fucking your shit up.

• Putting an add for Charlie's hotel in your territory.

• Charlie almost hugged you to death after seeing it.

• When Alastor showed up, the two of you would have a intense staring contest.

• He wasn't expecting another overlord here, oh wait, you're new.

• Alastor not actually taking the hotel serious, pissed you off but he was more powerful.

• Charlie having to keep you and Vaggie from trying to fight him.

"I didn't know there was a new overlord! Charmed to meet you. Whose territory was up for grab?"

"She was a bitch-."

"I know who exactly you speak of, that's good. She never had any manners."

• Watching him summon Husk and Niffty and was shocked.

• Tried it and summoned one of your workers.

• Excited that it worked! Apologetic for interrupting their day.

"Ah ha! It worked! Oh shit it worked! Sorry!"

• You and Niffty vibe on a similar level. Charmingly violent.

• Vaggie has to make sure either of you give the other one a bad idea to do.

• Husk question your age when you went to the bar. Making you do the math.

"Well I died at 18, it's been a few years so old enough."

• Gave you a hard drink which you spit out after tasting.

• You decide hard alcohol wasn't for you.

• Knowing how technology was when you died making you the most technical advance Sinners in the hotel.

-

That's enough for now, just a thought I had when working.

[maniculum]

A post of mine from several months ago about the Perlesvaus self-rearranging forest just wandered across my dash again and made me think about it some more, so I wanted to talk about it a bit.

Perlesvaus, for those who don’t know, is a 13th-century French Arthurian romance. It’s intended to be a continuation of Chretien de Troyes’s Perceval, but it’s mostly known for being completely batshit when it’s known at all. (There’s an old book on Arthurian texts that dedicates a chapter to Perlesvaus and repeatedly speculates that the anonymous author had Something Wrong With Him. This is the longest scholarly treatment of Perlesvaus I’ve been able to find & read.)

Anyway, there’s an odd worldbuilding detail in the text. See, it’s a Thing in chivalric romances that the questing knights happen upon castles & lords & damsels & such that are unfamiliar to them and have to be explained. You know, “this is the Castle of Such-and-Such, where the local custom is as follows. It’s ruled by Lady So-and-So, whose character I shall now describe to you.”

This is a genre convention that largely goes unquestioned, but it’s a bit odd if you think about it. All these knights are at least minor nobility. They don’t know the other nobles in their region? They don’t know what castles are where? Don’t they have, like, diplomatic relations with these people or at least attend the same tournaments? Even if they’re all fully committed to the knight-errant lifestyle and don’t really engage in courtly diplomacy, you’d think they would share information with each other and get the lay of the land. But instead, to use TTRPG terminology, it’s like they’re all on a hexcrawl that was randomly generated just for them to have these adventures.

The author of Perlesvaus decides to address this. In what’s kind of a throwaway paragraph late in the text, he explains that God moves things around so knights always have new quests to do (and, presumably, is also making sure they always arrive at the right narratively-significant moment). So the reason they’re always encountering people & places they have no knowledge of is because those people & places really weren’t there yesterday. They didn’t know about the Castle of Such-and-Such because it’s normally a thousand miles away and the forest path they followed to get there used to lead somewhere else.

And I think that would be a really interesting thing to stick into a novel or a TTRPG or something. When a knight rides into the forest with the intent of Going On A Quest, at some point they go around a bend in the path, cross an invisible barrier, and wind up in the Forest of Narrative. This is a vast forest with no set geography, filled with winding paths and populated almost entirely with questing knights, damsels in search of questing knights, friendly hermits, strange creatures, and allegorical set-pieces. Then, at the narratively-appropriate time, they cross back over the invisible barrier back into the regular world, and find themselves wherever the Narrative has decided they need to be. This could be a different country, a different continent, or a different world entirely.

Whether anyone involved is actually aware that this is how it works is… optional, really. Though if it’s not a Known Phenomenon, the people whose jobs it is to handle trade & diplomacy & god forbid, maps, are going to end up tearing their hair out in frustration.

[merrinla]

Trying to recreate what left behind the scenes. There was supposed to be a cutscene at the Lighthouse where Rook and Neve were returning to the camp late at night. After a walk in Minrathous, which ended in a brawl. I'm not sure if the fight in the Cobbled Swan was removed or just mentioned. At the camp they had a short conversation with sleepless Lucanis. The ending varied depending on romance status. This is mostly Neverook stuff. All I could find was the flag "Date_WhatHappened" and convo lines.

Lucanis: What happened? Lucanis: How did that building catch fire?

Neve: Oh, it started just fine.

Option: Then there was a demon. Rook: Then a demon got loose in the Cobbled Swan. Neve: Cida—the singer—wasn't thrilled either. It ruined her solo. Rook: And tried murdering the crowd. Point is we stopped it.

Option: Then there was a Venatori. Rook: Then some Venatori tried a revenge hit on Neve. Neve: What can I say? The job comes with enemies. Rook: That was a lot of enemies. They had demons. And a chicken. Really disorganized though. Neve: Are you complaining? Rook: No. I've just seen better efforts. Either way, we stopped them.

Option: I don't know what happened. Rook: And then... I don't even know. There was a splash. I swear something was down there. One of the docks collapsed. Rook: Point is we stopped it. I might have hit my head, though.

Neve: With style! Give us some credit here.

Lucanis: Sounds fun. Neve: It was fun.

Option: We met the Shadows too. Rook: We met the Shadows after. Tarquin. The Viper. Neve: Tarquin thought we did a good job. Rook: He said that? Neve: Not out loud. But in his heart... he knew.

Option: That wasn't even the end! Rook: I didn't even get to the part with the— Rook: I'm pretty sure there was more, but I was also very dizzy.

Lucanis: I can't say I'm surprised. Neve: If you were, I'd be worried.

Lucanis: The price of your company. You two attract chaos.

Option: But I'm worth the price. Rook romancing Lucanis Rook: But it's a price you're willing to pay. Lucanis: For you? Always. Neve: Well look who's dreamy-eyed.

Rook: Some things are worth the price. Neve: You know you love us. Lucanis: I... (Coughs.) Neve: (Laughs.)

Rook cut off romance with Lucanis and Neve Option: But you like Neve's company. Rook: But you like a little chaos. Might be time to admit it. Lucanis: (Coughs.) Neve: Well look who's got you blushing.

Option: Don't we all? Rook: Is there someone here who doesn't? Neve: Rook's got a point. Lucanis: You have me there.

Option: Come with us next time. Rook: You could join us next time. Lucanis: You think that would keep you out of trouble? Neve: No. You'd probably bring more. Lucanis: (Laughs.) True.

Lucanis: Mierda! Now we have wisps.

Rook romancing Lucanis Neve: All right, lovers—I've got notes to take and loose ends to follow.

Rook: Neve—thanks for the trip. Neve: Any time.

Lucanis: Fun night. I'll leave you to it. Neve: Suit yourself.

Neve: Funny thing about plans...

Option: I knew this would happen. Rook: What are you talking about? That was classic Rook and Neve. Neve: Facing disaster?

Option: It's fine. Don't worry. Rook: That's life. I'm not worried if you're not.

Rook: We got a story out of it. Neve: We get stories out of everything. Rook: True enough.

Neve: Rook—thanks for the trip. Rook: Any time.

Rook romancing Neve

Neve: So, dates go as smooth as my cases.

Option: You make the city exciting. Rook: The talk of Dock Town! I didn't expect to find someone like you... Neve: Can't leave the city without trading intrigues.

Option (Shadow Dragon): Typical Minrathous. Rook: That wasn't a normal Minrathous date? I thought disaster was the new trend. Neve: Well aren't we fashionable? Rook: I suppose so.

Option (Mourn Watch): It was a lively date! Rook: What? I thought it was lively. Neve: If that's Mourn Watch humor... Rook: No. Well, kinda. It's just... I love the Mourn Watch, but it's solemn. Our focus lies on the intangible, the beyond... Rook: But with you, everything's so present. It's happening in this world. Now. And... it's just nice.

Option (Grey Warden): Dating as a Warden was hard. Rook: Antoine and Evka were lucky. I never thought... Neve: Never thought what? Rook: With the Wardens, you're always on guard, always moving. Rook: To meet anyone, to go out for a night... it's nice.

Option (Antivan Crow): Dating as a Crow was hard. Rook: In the Crows, half the people you meet are assassins, the other half you're supposed to... you know. Neve: I get the picture. Rook: I don't know. This is just... it's nice.

Neve: Well then. Glad I showed you a good time.

Option (Lord of Fortune): What's a date without mayhem? Rook: This could be the Lord of Fortune talking, but what's a date without mayhem? Rook: Just feels like a good date to me. Neve: Well that's almost flattery.

Option: So what now? Rook: So what's next? A night in a cursed mansion? A duel on the docks? Neve: I'm in if you are.

Option (Veil Jumper): We'll go to Arlathan next. Rook: We'll try Arlathan next. A picnic. The wind in the trees, the scent of flowers, halla grazing nearby. Neve: That's sweet. Until the magic anomaly hits. Rook: It's still you and me on this date. What else would you expect?

Option: A smooth date's in the cards. Rook: I think it's time we had a proper date. Neve: Just a visit. No Venatori. No Thread plots. Rook: That's the plan.

Option: Just being here is nice. Rook: Look, I know tonight was... tonight. But if it ends here, like this. With you... Neve: Someone's easy to please.

Option: The night's not over. Rook: We're alone, night's not over. Neve: And where's this charm going? Rook: If you wanted this date to continue... Rook: It's got a few hours. Neve: You know, I think I would.

Rook: So the night went sideways. You know what that means? Neve: When I pull off the perfect date, we'll both be stunned.

Rook: (Laughs.) There's that sunshine. Neve: You bring it out sometimes.

[justdiptych]

There's a scene in Fallout: New Vegas that I find really interesting in how it uses skill checks in dialogue. A merchant company, the Crimson Caravan, want to buy out one of their rivals, Cassidy Caravans, and they hire the player character to negotiate the deal. The player has likely already met the rival company's owner, Rose of Sharon Cassidy, by this point - in fact, it's entirely possible that she suggested they ask the Crimson Caravan for work in the first place.

Cass is propping up the bar at a truck stop on the border near the game's opening area. She's heard that her caravan has been destroyed in her absence - her employees killed and their wagons burned in an attack on the road - but she can't investigate because of a bureaucratic hold-up. The man in charge of the border post, Ranger Jackson, has halted all commercial traffic across the border because of dangers on the roads - wild animals, bandits, and enemy soldiers - that the authorities are struggling to get under control.

When the player brings the Crimson Caravan's offer to Cass, she refuses on principle. Her business may have effectively been destroyed, but she's too proud and too stubborn to sell her surname for any number of messes of pottage. Convincing her requires that the player employs one of either their Speech or Barter skills - there are two options for each, requiring either moderate or high investments of skill points. Skill and Barter are the game's two Charisma-based skills, and it's not uncommon for them to appear side-by-side like this, but here, they diverge in application.

The easier Speech option is simple - the player just reminds Cass that, if she sells the business, she won't be commercial traffic anymore, so she'll be able to get across the border. She's itching to get on the road again, so this convinces her. (She will ask the player to help Jackson clear the roads for the benefit of her fellow merchants, but this is a very simple quest that they likely already completed hours ago.)

The more challenging Speech check is to tell Cass that there's no way her business can survive, so it's her duty to do the merciful thing - shoot it in the head, bury it, and move on with her life. This, naturally, brings her close to socking the player in the jaw, but she sees the truth in it. She's been holding onto the forlorn hope that there might be something left to save, but she really has lost everything. This bypasses Jackson's quest - she just wants to walk out and not look back.

The Barter options approach things differently - from the Speech options, and from each other. The more challenging one involves making some sport of the offer, challenging Cass to a drinking contest. The player has to supply the booze, and they run the risk of getting embarrassingly drunk if their Endurance stat is too low, but, either way, this will impress Cass enough that she'll sign the contract.

The easier Barter option, though, is, I think, the most interesting. It requires the player to sweeten the deal with their own money - a not insubstantial amount of it, in fact. Cass is still hesitant, though, which allows the player to make a very interesting point. With the money from the Crimson Caravan plus the player's contribution, she'd have enough to restart her business - buy new animals and equipment, hire a new crew, start trading again.

Further, the player can point out that the Crimson Caravan are unlikely to continue using the 'Cassidy Caravans' name after buying it. They're only buying her out to try to monopolise local trade, after all. If they don't use the name, they'll forfeit their rights to it - meaning that Cass can, as she puts it, take their money, give them nothing, and go back to running her business as if the attack never happened.

Cass, naturally, accepts this offer, though she's staggered that the player is so willing to sell out their employers to help her like this. (The player needn't feel any moral misgivings about doing so. A little investigation reveals that the attack on Cass's business was actually engineered by the Crimson Caravan themselves, in collusion with a crime family, in a conspiracy to wipe out their competition.)

I think this entire interaction represents how well New Vegas uses skill checks. Barter, in RPGs, is often a very barebones skill. Its use is letting the player earn more and spend less - as part of an equation determining shop prices, or in dialogue options that boil down to asking for money. It's not uncommon for Speech to be the skill of the peaceful, benevolent diplomat, while Barter is for common mercenaries.

Here, though, the Barter options actually cost more than their Speech equivalents. The player ends up out of pocket for a sizable chunk of change or at least a lot of booze. Instead, the Barter skill represents the character's understanding of common business practices and relevant laws. It allows them to convince Cass to accept a deal by finding a loophole that benefits her more than if she refused.

The equivalent Speech options, meanwhile, are effectively free, but do involve making Cass feel that little bit worse. They emphasise what she's lost, how trapped she is by her circumstances, and convince her to give up and let the Crimson Caravan win. In the long run, this doesn't make a real difference - once she leaves the outpost, she and the player can discover the conspiracy and get their revenge either way - but I think the choice does let the player say something about their character.

Part of the brilliance of this game is how little details, like Cass being stuck at the outpost, tie into other details all across the story. Caravan traffic is halted, in part, because deathclaws have nested near the roads to the north. They've nested there because the local quarry has ceased operations - the noise caused by the digging and blasting had previously scared them off.

The quarry closed down because escaped convicts raided it and stole the workers' stash of mining explosives. The convicts escaped because the government was using them for forced labour on the railroads, and foolishly entrusted them with enough dynamite to stage an uprising, seize control of the prison, and turn it into a fortress and a base of operations for banditry.

Similarly, the threads of Cass's story spread outwards, ultimately affecting the entire future of New California. When she learns that the Crimson Caravan and their allies killed her friends, Cass is furious. She wants to march over there and beat the snot out of the people responsible. The player can convince her to instead settle things legally - get proof of their crimes, pass them on to Ranger Jackson, and hope the justice system gets revenge for her.

If Cass does things her way, the criminals pay with their lives, but their bosses end up better off for it. With their regional execs murdered, the trading companies can claim that the government isn't doing enough to protect them - so, they don't have to support the government's interests, either. They withdraw trade, demand special treatment, and end up making their shortfall everyone's problem.

If the legal option is pursued, though, the evidence becomes blackmail material. The government has the trading companies over a barrel, and that lets them pass stricter trade laws. Given the choice of accepting regulation or facing criminal investigation, the crooked execs choose to stay out of jail. Those responsible for the murders technically avoid justice, but their hopes of a monopoly are dashed - and their superiors are unlikely to be pleased with them having hurt long-term profits so badly.

Cass's story is political and economical all the way through. It's about the influence of wealth on government, and the fundamental injustices of the carceral system. It's about revenge, and reform, and how to hit people where it hurts - their bottom line. And it's about how, sometimes, skills in an RPG aren't about making numbers go up - they're about how a character understands the world around them, and how they can apply that understanding to help someone out of a jam, or help reshape the trade lines of a whole nation.