#I don't know if I'll use this but putting a snippet here ~

[ficsbb]

Moments with John Wick II

》 Pairing: Loving!John Wick x Reader

》 Warnings: pet names, gross misconduct of lovey doviness

》 Word Count: 1.3k+

Part 1

Note: I've been overthinking about these snippets for too long, so here I go, I release them! 🤭 Enjoy! Apologies for any error in tense use, spelling, grammar etc. Credit to @toastray for the cute dividers!

It was hard at first, getting to know him better. You could feel the heaviness of his grief all around him. It was in everything he looked at and everything he touched, lingering in doorways after he'd walk through. He knew you could see it. It was all in your eyes and how you interacted with him during moments the sadness gathered in his throat.

“I'm okay,” he says, “I promise.” You put your hand on his cheek and nod.

"I know."

He doesn't know what it is with your touch, but it unravels that monstrous grief with ease. You watch him close his eyes briefly and bring your palm to his lips, letting out a sigh, followed by a kiss.

“You save me.” It's genuine, and every part of you knows it's true. There's been a lingering doubt with others, but never with him. When John tells you this, time and time again, it makes you feel lighter and warm.

“What do you think?” You're leafing through a pamphlet for a train vacation. It's not something you would have expected John would like. In fact, you were the one more inclined to do something like this.

“When are you thinking?” He lets out a sigh of relief, happy that you're interested at least. He's waiting for you to spot the destination on the trip he circled, the one he knows you've always wanted to go on. John pauses, waits a moment and then sees your eyes glow.

You look up at him, “Is that the one we're going on?” He nods. “Like, we're actually going, for real?” You watch as he laughs, head tipped back and adam's apple moving slightly. It warms you up just as a nice cup of hot chocolate always does.

“What about work?” John shakes his head, knowing you'd ask.

“I can work anywhere, but I'm taking a full break for the trip. I don't want to miss a moment with you.” He watches your eyes flutter, your breathing change. For a second he's worried he said the wrong thing. He worries about that all the time, but when you pull him into a tight hug, arms around his middle, he feels that pull of the string. The way it snaps straight from the center of his chest to yours and he wonders if you can feel it too.

“Thank you, John. Thank you.”

“You never have to thank me, beautiful.”

A phone call comes through in the middle of the night. It startles you awake and you feel John put his arm over you. He knows when your nervousness or anxiety is heightened more than usual. It didn't take long for him to notice your mannerisms when you're under stress while you've been together. These things were part of his work and work has had some ways of bleeding through. Whether it was through his clothes or in the ways he could keep you safe, it bleeds through.

“Is everything okay?” You ask, voice laced in sleep. You rub at his arm as he pats your stomach a couple times before he sits up. Your eyes are adjusted to the dark as you sit up with him, watching his hand sift through his hair. He hates these moments. Similar conversations come to mind, blurred and racing as the quiet around you both becomes deafening.

“A job. I have to go.” 

“Oh.”

“I know.” 

He hates these moments. He hates the way your sleep is interrupted and the sadness so easily conveyed in the ‘oh’s’, ‘right now?’, ‘when will you be home?’ gnaws at him. 

“I'll have to be on a plane soon.” You nod, quiet, rubbing at your arm. Self soothing. John turns over to look at you and it doesn't get any easier for him when he sees that shimmer of tears gloss your eyes.

“Come here, sweetheart.” You take a deep breath to brace yourself and get out of bed to go to his side. He leans back slightly as you stand between his legs, both hands on either side of his face. His eyes close. You know he loves when you do this. It calms the both of you down in a way and any chance to touch him is a chance you'll grab at greedily.

“How long will this one take?” 

“Not long. A couple of days.” You kiss his forehead as he pulls you in closer. When he rests his head on your chest, he can hear your heartbeat. It's a little fast, but it's comforting. It's a song to him, the melody striking and forceful always swallowing him up. As he pulls back, he looks up at you and wipes at the rest of the tears you seem to have messily swept away.

“How about you come with me?” 

“Is that allowed?” You're genuinely surprised since he's never asked. John tells you very little about these things, hoping that sparing you details will keep you safe.

“I'm allowing it.” A rush of heat goes to your cheeks and he smiles when that twinkle is back in your eyes.

“May I kiss you?” He pulls you both into bed so you're lying down again.

“I'll allow that too.” You laugh, and he kisses you.

You slam the back door behind you and walk purposefully to the shed. It's a crisp and foggy evening. You've left John in the house somewhere, calling after you.

“Fucker,” you say under your breath, exasperated. He knows you hate big gatherings being popped up on you. While it's exhilarating being at his side at events, it also comes with your own anxieties about being seen. Apart from that, you've already made plans with close friends that you hadn't seen in a long time and it makes you angry that he's forgotten again.

“I'm sorry.” His voice startles you a bit, your thoughts swirling in an irritated bubble around you. John's voice always breaks through. You grab a bag of dirt to prep for the plants in your greenhouse.

“I'm sorry,” he says again, his voice closer than before. You sigh and pause scooping the dirt from the bag into your own mixture.

“I hate this.”

“I know, I'm sorry. I really am.” You continue what you're doing, preferring to stay quiet instead of saying something you'll regret later on. It's not long before John is right next to you, bringing his sleeves up and mixing the dirt by hand. It softens you up. The sight of him helping you always has really, and it makes you smile despite yourself.

“I can do it, John.” 

“I know you can. Let me.” You stop what you're doing and watch his hands. Watch how they sift through the dirt like he was mixing butter into a short puff pastry. So delicate and without any thought, just as natural to him as it is to breathe. John can see you from the corner of his eye. You've seemingly forgotten the mixing altogether and are leaning closer, almost shoulder to shoulder. 

“I like being here with you,” he starts, taking a used rag nearby to wipe his hands, “I can lose my focus and it doesn't cost me a life. It feels freeing.”

“I didn't know that.” You move things out of the way, cleaning as you go.

“Well, I know this is your space to get away so I try not to barge in.” He wipes some dirt from the tip of your nose.

“I always love when you're here with me.”

“Even if I upset you by being a dumb, forgetful man?” He sort of pouts and a giggle bubbles out of you. John smiles, hoping to hear that sound every moment of his life. He finds a wayward hair falling out of place and tucks it behind your ear.

“I love you.” 

“I love you too.” He pulls you into him, enveloping you completely. There's nothing else for you to do but fall in deep, deeper still. The smell of him calming all of your senses and somehow, some way you feel that peaceful quiet making you sleepy.

“How about this? We go inside, warm up with some hot chocolate and put on a spooky movie.” 

“Yes, please.” You say, taking his hand and following him back to the house.

You’ve never been one to push him on expressing his feelings. You learned quickly that John would come to on his own, as did you whether you realized it or not. It took an accident, a simple fall really. You were out on a walk and something struck you in how these tiny flowers, or weeds, really, stuck out from the side of the road you were walking on. The Sun shining pointedly at them and they seemed to have pointedly been reaching out to you. John had a meeting to take somewhere in town even though it was supposed to be your vacation together, so as soon as you woke in the morning to find him gone and a beautiful note at your bedside, a walk was due.

You only meant to pick a few to press when you got back to the rental, but before you knew it, your ankle rolled and you found yourself tumbling in the ditch. It wasn’t deep or far off at all, but when John found out, you might as well have fallen straight to the Earth’s core.

“You should’ve waited until I got back,” he started, pacing in the hospital room. The nurse was tending to your ankle, gently. “What if you got really hurt? How would I have known?”

“I was clumsy. I can be clumsy, John. I’m okay.”

“And if you weren’t?”

“Then I wouldn’t be.”

For some reason, that stops him. You still wonder what it was you said that calmed him down, but you remember him kneeling down in front of you and softly, deftly, taking your sprained ankle into his hands. You were going to stop him from unraveling the nurses' handiwork, but stop yourself and let him, curious. He looks you over, careful not to cause any pain or discomfort, and wraps it back better than it just had been.

“You’re okay.” You nodded, understanding what he needed at that moment. He sighed heavily, looking up at you and saying, "Getting that call scared me. I don’t want you getting hurt ever again.” And there it was.

“I can’t promise that.” You both laughed quietly. He placed a kiss on your ankle and stood up.

“I know, but do it anyway. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

You'll never forget that look in his eyes. Brown eyes, matching yours, shimmering with so much love. You swore in that moment that if you had reached out to put your hand on his chest, your hearts beating would be indistinguishable from the other. Not a single wave, lurch, or pulse different in any way. How curious all of this was. How lovely. How lucky.

"I promise, John." You remember saying again and he kissed you. A soft and sweet kiss that always lingers, still.

[akawifeyy]

risk! | smau & fic (FC43)

description: franco colapinto is a playboy — everyone knows that — but he does have some boundaries that he’s unwilling to cross. that is, until he meets you. the younger sister of oscar piastri. then he’s willing to risk it all.

tropes: forced proximity, mutual love, forbidden romance, age gap (18 and 21), op81 sister!reader!

face claim: gracie mckenna

trigger warnings: suggestive content, swearing

| note: this is a combination between a smau and a fic, meaning that some social media snippets are mixed throughout, along with blocks of prose. hope you enjoy!

tagged: @ williams, @ francolapinto, @ f1

comments (2718):

@ user1: this is so ridiculous, he's literally just being used to get girls to watch F1 🙄

-> @ user2: I agree, he can't even drive

@ user3: CONGRATS FRANCOOOO #argentina 🇦🇷

@ williams: We're so grateful to have Franco on our team, and can't wait to see what he will achieve in these upcoming races!

Melbourne, Australia (2025)

There was no way you could ever do this. Get in a tiny metal race car and go spinning around in circles against nineteen others for almost two hours? That was a tall order for anyone, yet your brother always exceeded expectations. You watched him glide through the track, his papaya car shedding sparks as he pushed the engine to the max. He was incredible, carefully looping around and setting records.

It was his home race; nothing lesser would have been expected. Oscar needed to excel, to survive against the pressure. Over the past few weeks, it was like he was glued to the sim, practicing this circuit repeatedly, making sure every movement was executed flawlessly. This was the final countdown: FP2, meaning that in less than a day, Oscar's skills would be put to the test.

Behind you, your best friend Georgia, wolf-whistled. Lando Norris, Oscar's teammate, had just entered the paddock. His curly hair was obscured by his classic neon-green helmet, his race suit hanging loose around his waist. "I'm so ready..." You heard him say to Zach, and then you turned your attention back on Oscar, who was on his final practice lap.

The car moved around as if it were a dagger, slicing through the track like the weapon it was. When he finally slowed to a halt, you rushed to meet him. He exited the car, removing his helmet, chest heaving with exertion. "Hey, Y/N," he said, smiling.

"Hi, Osc! You did amazing!"

He flushed, not one for compliments. "Sure. Where's Mom?"

"I think she went inside because it was too hot. I'll go get her," you said brightly, trailing after him.

Oscar shook his head. "It's OK, don't worry. Stay out here a bit, I think Lando's about to go on."

"I don't really care about him," you blurted. "I was waiting until you were done to go walk around the track."

Oscar raised one eyebrow, but didn't say anything. Even though you were younger than him by only five years, he acted like you were still a child. You were eighteen, and just one semester away from going to uni! You wouldn't have constant supervision there.

"Mom said I could," you pouted. "You're not in charge of me, I'm an adult now."

"Yeah, but you can't read a map, and you're naive," Oscar pointed out. "You trust everyone."

You gave him a look. "Like that's a bad thing. Anyways, I'll see you later!"

Oscar hugged you quickly, his eyes watching you concernedly, and you rushed off to explore the circuit.

Melbourne, Australia (2025 / continued)

You exited the McLaren paddock, tugging off your jacket and tying it around your waist securely. It had been a while since you'd been able to go to a Grand Prix; your parents hadn't let you because of all your studies. But this was Oscar's home race, and it was monumental. After months of arguing (and failed attempts at bribery), you'd finally convinced them to let you tag along.

The sun beat down on you, warming you from head to toe. It felt nice to finally feel a bit of a breeze, since you'd been cooped up in your room all week, prepping for your finals.

As you wandered through the grounds, you watched as fans cheered for their favorite drivers. You saw a few Australian flags here and there. One even had Oscar's face on it, next to a koala on a eucalyptus tree and a kangaroo, and you laughed.

You passed the Mercedes and Haas motor homes, where you saw Kimi Antonelli and Ollie Bearman talking. They were close to your age, and potential friends, but whenever you tried to talk to them, Oscar ushered you away.

"They're guys. And F1 drivers. They can't be trusted," he told you.

You rolled your eyes. "So that means I can't trust you."

Eventually, you found yourself in the Williams paddock, watching as they prepped the car for its final practice before the race. A man with the most attractive dimples you'd ever seen was talking animatedly with his race engineer, discussing potential strategies.

You were enthralled by his lilting accent, caught on every word and phrase. He finished with the race engineer and turned to his car, but then he stopped, noticing your presence.

You were wearing a bright orange blouse, and the jacket wrapped around your waist had Oscar's number on it, immediately incriminating you.

"Hello there," the man said, a grin dancing on his lips. "I'm Franco. And you are?"

Seven words, and you were hooked.

Text messages between Oscar and Y/N (2025):

@ yourusername: home is where the heart is 🩷

tagged: @ oscarpiastri, @ f1

comments (182):

@ yourbffusername: had sooo much fun w you!

-> @ yourusername: i love being with youu

@ oscarpiastri: I already miss it

-> @ yourusername: go kick ass in china 😼

@ user4: Just dropped to my knees in the middle of the grocery store. She's just that beautiful

Two weeks after the Melbourne Grand Prix

You flopped down on your bed, feet kicked up in the air as you texted none other than Franco, the same driver you'd met in the Williams paddock. He was funny and flirtatiously silly, but he was smart too. You had a lot of conversations about your upcoming university days, and he gave great advice on the topic.

"You don't always have to listen to your brother," he texted you a few nights after you'd met. "You're your own person, cielo."

You two had bonded over your mutual love of horse riding, a hobby of yours that you were trying to continue despite all the stress of the past year. Franco sent you a few photos of his horse, and one where he was shirtless. You spent more time ogling that picture than you'd care to admit.

Talking to Franco was therapeutic, and you didn't want to hide the blossoming friendship (or more?) that you two had. But you knew how overly protective Oscar was of you. You didn't want to spark a rivalry that could play out poorly on track. It wasn't worth the drama.

You weren't going to avoid telling your brother forever, but you wanted to wait a while to make sure that you didn't give him an aneurysm for nothing. Franco had a reputation as a playboy, like all other F1 drivers, but he was still young and a rising star. He could be using you — at least, that's what the little voice in the back of your mind warned. It spent too much time listening and believing everything Oscar had told you.

There was a knock on your door, and you jumped, turning the screen off so that no one could see the conversation you'd been having.

I've never met a girl like you before.

You're my princesa, you know that? All pure and perfect. I wonder how long it would take for me to absolutely ruin you.

"Dinner's ready," your mother called through the door.

"Thanks, I'll be there in a minute!" you responded. Once you heard her footsteps recede, you texted Franco that you had to leave, and hurried outside, your cheeks blushing red.

@ francolapinto: ¡P8 en el Gran Premio de China! Es muy emocionante ver todo el progreso que ha logrado Williams. Estoy agradecido de ser parte de este equipo. ¡Hasta la próxima carrera!

(P8 in the Chinese Grand Prix! Very exciting to see all the progress Williams has made, I'm grateful to be part of this team. Until next race!)

tagged: @ williams, @ f1

comments (489):

@ user11: Amazing work, Franco!

@ yourusername: podium coming when???

-> @ francolapinto: Soon 😏

Text messages between Franco and Y/N (2025):

The Confrontation:

You fidgeted under Oscar's heavy stare. Even through a phone screen, his brown eyes pierced you. "I need to tell you something, but you can't flip out, OK?" you said.

"Oh God, what did you do now?" Oscar responded, preparing for the worst.

You shook your head, putting your palms up in a gesture of surrender. "Nothing bad! I swear!" You hesitated. "Well...I've been talking to someone. A guy, for a bit now."

Oscar sucked in a breath. "Not Lando."

Your jaw dropped. "Absolutely not."

"Good. Who is it, then?"

You closed your eyes, praying to God that Oscar wouldn't explode from anger. "Um...Franco?" You waited for the name to register.

Oscar blinked. "The new Williams driver?"

You nodded. "Yeah, that's who it is."

"That's who you chose?"

"Yeah?" you questioned, cocking your head to the side in confusion. "Is there something I should know? I mean, other than the fact that he's a supposed playboy and —"

"— He's fine, I suppose," Oscar mused under his breath. "Just be careful, alright?"

You froze in shock. "Yeah, I will be. Thanks for not freaking out."

"You're eighteen, I can't stop you from being romantically interested in someone. All I ask is that you don't engage in activities that should be done after marriage." Oscar pursed his lips. "I love you, Y/N. I'm always looking out for you."

"I know, and I'm thankful. You're the best older brother in the world."

@ francolapinto: Felices tres meses para mi hermosa novia, Y/N. Gracias por escucharme hablar y estar siempre ahí, incluso en los momentos más difíciles. Hasta pronto, corazón mío.

(Happy three months to my beautiful girlfriend, Y/N. Thank you for listening to me speak and always being there, even in the most difficult moments. See you soon, my heart.)

tagged: @ yourusername

comments (5895):

@ user11: I KNEW IT 🥳🥳🥳

@ user12: we weren't delusional guys!!!!!

-> @ user7: I love clowning and then being right

@ yourusername: hard launchhhh ‼️

-> @ yourusername: love you so much franco, i don't know what i would do without you!

-> @ francolapinto: Muchos besos, mi amor 💋

─── ୨୧ ─── THE END ─── ୨୧ ───

[godoreo22]

Saja Boys x Manager reader part 1 snippet

(Name) walks past a few missing persons posters and frowns before entering the cafe they works at. "Sorry (Name) but we're so short staffed I'm gonna have to close this place down but i appreciate all the time you've put into working here." Mrs. Yoon hands (Name) their last paycheck with a sad smile.

"Thanks Mrs. Yoon" (Name) bows her head before walking out the front door and turning back to see Mr.Yoon flipping the closed sign and holding Mrs.Yoon close with a deep frown.

(Name) sighs before walking back home to their small apartment to look for another job. (Name) pushes her apartment open and crashes onto their couch with a groan.

"Poor Mr and Mrs. yoon. Poor me, how am i gonna stretch my last paycheck to cover my rent and food. I can more than likely kiss those Huntrix tickects goodbye." (Name) sighs before going on their phone and looking through job offers and applications.

They scroll for what feels like hours but was realistically ten minutes.

They groan in frustration because all the jobs they see are either have crazy hours, seem sketchy, or have unrealistic qualifications. They prepare to put their phone down but come upon a job offer that catches their eye, Band manager.

It looks sketchy but it is the best they can find so they apply and put their phone down hoping to get a confirmation soon only for their buzz a second later. "Okay, that was a little too soon."

They pick up their phone and see their application was approved, and they received an address and a time to be their. "This gets sketchier the more i get into it but I've gotten this far in so i guess I'll be meeting this band tomorrow at noon."

They sigh and put it into their calendar before preparing their dinner.

It looks like most of the votes voted for Saja boys x Manager reader. Hope everyone likes this but this is only a snippet of the first chapter, if you guys have any feedback or ideas i could use or add please let me know. I don't write as much as i wish i could, so i could def use some improvement in some areas but please let me know what you all think. OH and if anyone wants to be added to the taglist please let me know.

[rooksamoris]

this is an analysis of jamil's solo song snippet!! im going by the fan translation of the wonderful @winterspellsfrozenkit who has provided fan translations of the other snippets as well!! without further ado, here is a copy of their translation followed by the analysis.

蛇と瞬き-JAMIL: 

Jewels and magic cannot Fulfill the wishes in me Knowing no end To days filled with misery. Gasping as I just try to breathe Desires creeping out, trying to leave The more that I desire,  The more narrow this place is The light will never fade in me My anger will never cease to be If only I could expose it all Ah ah ah!  A shadow is dancing Listen to the insatiable voice Freedom’s in my hand,  Like I’m cursing and To the end I’ll FLY-yah-yah Ah ah… Not enough to get by-ah-ah The Snake and Blink

let's do a line by line analysis of the song and then i'll share my thoughts!!

"jewels and magic cannot/fulfill the wishes in me" immediately what comes to mind is marx's theory of commodity fetishism which he writes about in capital volume one.

"A commodity appears, at first sight, a very trivial thing, and easily understood. Its analysis shows that it is, in reality, a very queer thing, abounding in metaphysical subtleties and theological niceties. So far as it is a value in use, there is nothing mysterious about it, whether we consider it from the point of view that by its properties it is capable of satisfying human wants, or from the point that those properties are the product of human labour" Karl Marx, Das Kapital

basically, commodity fetishism is what happens when we value commodities outside of the labor that goes into creating them. it is most blatant with things like designer items because we are so separated from the labor and yet put some idealist value onto the product for the label. commodity fetishism begins in the supply chain when the capitalist, who owns the means of production, separates the commodity from the laborers who make it. it happens when you purchase clothes and don't acknowledge the labor and raw material extraction that went through making those clothes.

in this case, jamil is acknowledging that commodities are not what he wants, even though in his book seven dream we see that he merely replaces his hierarchical position with that of the al-asim family, whom he is loyal to through the caste system. deep down, jamil knows that it is not what will fulfill him which is why in the wish event all he asks for is one trip where he can go some place where no one knows him and the curse of his caste lineage cannot oppress him. what jamil wants is freedom, not wealth and power.

jamil himself deals with commodity fetishism, in which his labor/labor power is the commodity. his time, effort and his very life are commodities, and because of this, he is heavily alienated from his work and others. jamil's position in society allows for him to be dehumanized and that is an alienating experience. he is nothing more than what he can bring kalim.

"Presupposing private property, my work is an alienation of life, for I work in order to live, in order to obtain for myself the means of life. My work is not my life. Secondly, the specific nature of my individuality, therefore, would be affirmed in my labour, since the latter would be an affirmation of my individual life. Labour therefore would be true, active property. Presupposing private property, my individuality is alienated to such a degree that this activity is instead hateful to me, a torment, and rather the semblance of an activity. Hence, too, it is only a forced activity and one imposed on me only through an external fortuitous need, not through an inner, essential one. My labour can appear in my object only as what it is. It cannot appear as something which by its nature it is not. Hence it appears only as the expression of my loss of self and of my powerlessness that is objective, sensuously perceptible, obvious and therefore put beyond all doubt" Karl Marx, Comment on James Mill

the last line heavily applies to jamil since his work, serving the al-asim family, is a loss of himself. he lowers himself, his intelligence, his abilities, and his strength for the sake of kalim. he is powerless in this situation, as he has stated previously, since upsetting kalim's father could drag his entire family into the streets or worse. his work is not something he does because he sees value in it for the betterment of society or for personal enlightenment, but because he is forced to.

a lot of this can be attributed to the english translation being so bad and censoring so much?? here's some examples that come to mind!!

chalking things up to just "im loyal to kalim" really lowers the stakes and it blurs how bad things truly are for jamil.

"Knowing no end/To days filled with misery" i find this issue comes a lot with the fandom, but we forget that jamil born into an unfair caste system and has no real way out of it. his suffering is endless and if he marries and has children, he will just be dragging them down with him.

unlike a wage laborer, jamil is stuck working for the al-asim family because of his lower caste. we don't know if he earns money at all, but i highly doubt it. his situation is like other caste situations in which he and his family have their home tied to the al-asim's. jamil is doing "well" but at the price that his family serves kalim's. sure, he is housed and fed, but at the cost that his life be at risk to save kalim's. since caste is tied to lineage and tradition, there really is no escape for jamil from this.

also, reminder that if jamil literally dies taste-tasting something for kalim, there will be no consequences. imagine being a child and learning that another kid's life is more sacred than yours because of your unlucky birth?

"When one individual inflicts bodily injury upon another such that death results, we call the deed manslaughter; when the assailant knew in advance that the injury would be fatal, we call his deed murder. But when society places hundreds of proletarians in such a position that they inevitably meet a too early and an unnatural death, one which is quite as much a death by violence as that by the sword or bullet; when it deprives thousands of the necessaries of life, places them under conditions in which they cannot live – forces them, through the strong arm of the law, to remain in such conditions until that death ensues which is the inevitable consequence – knows that these thousands of victims must perish, and yet permits these conditions to remain, its deed is murder just as surely as the deed of the single individual; disguised, malicious murder, murder against which none can defend himself, which does not seem what it is, because no man sees the murderer, because the death of the victim seems a natural one, since the offence is more one of omission than of commission. But murder it remains." Conditions of the Working Class in England, Friedrich Engels

i share this quote with you guys because i want to remind you all, if jamil dies in service of kalim, it is murder since people knew it was possible that he would die. i remind you of this argument because further lyrics have a more revolutionary spirit to them. what jamil did was wrong, but violence only creates more violence, and violence against one's oppressor and oppressive state is a reaction, not unwarranted. poverty and caste are violent. it is my belief that if someone dies in poverty because of the state's refusal to provide these people with healthcare, housing, or food, it is murder with the blood being on the hands of the state.

in this case, the violence done to jamil is due to caste. there is a constant threat of his family being thrown to the streets if he dares to rebel. jamil has been doing an adult's work since before he could properly even reach over the stove. what jamil did was cruel, knowing that kalim trusted him (or at least he assumed kalim trusted him/believed kalim to be naive enough to not see through his bs), he betrayed him, but that betrayal did not come from a place of pure malice. as a child, he knew kalim was deemed more important than him and was stripped of his autonomy because of it.

"Gasping as I just try to breathe/Desires creeping out, trying to leave/The more that I desire,/The more narrow this place is" here, jamil is restarting his desires and depicting his life experience as suffocating. he desires just as anyone else does, but he has no means of reaching these desires.

marx writes a lot on the way "want" is a motivation which keeps the workers alienated and working for the possibility of earning enough to enjoy the things that bring true fulfillment in life.

"Self-renunciation, the renunciation of life and of all human needs, is its principal thesis. The less you eat, drink and buy books; the less you go to the theatre, the dance hall, the public house; the less you think, love, theorise, sing, paint, fence, etc., the more you save – the greater becomes your treasure which neither moths nor rust will devour – your capital. The less you are, the less you express your own life, the more you have, i.e., the greater is your alienated life, the greater is the store of your estranged being. Everything ||XVI| which the political economist takes from you in life and in humanity, he replaces for you in money and in wealth; and all the things which you cannot do, your money can do. It can eat and, drink, go to the dance hall and the theatre; it can travel, it can appropriate art, learning, the treasures of the past, political power – all this it can appropriate for you – it can buy all this: it is true endowment. Yet being all this, it wants to do nothing but create itself, buy itself; for everything else is after all its servant, and when I have the master I have the servant and do not need his servant. All passions and all activity must therefore be submerged in avarice. The worker may only have enough for him to want to live, and may only want to live in order to have that." Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts of 1844, Karl Marx

ultimately, these wants further push us into positions of submission to capitalism and labor. it is like the concept of working to live. you do labor, have your surplus value extracted, and maybe eventually you'll get the chance to take your family on a nice vacation. since jamil is not a wage laborer, and instead a member of a servant caste, this manifests a bit differently in his case, but marx's point of self-renunciation still applies. jamil is a creative person, like we know he is good at dancing and cooking, but the latter is in service of kalim and the former he tries to lower to not outshine kalim. he has the ladder to reach for the stars but he isn't allowed to.

he is alienated from himself in this way. i don't think anyone just performs their creative arts for the sake of praise, but praise is nice. artists post their art, writers post their writings, dancers and actors and singers perform, because art is something to be shared. art is also something which is infamously bought and gate-kept by the wealthy.

how much has jamil really been able to explore his creative passions? every waking hour is spent making sure kalim is alive and satisfied. kalim can dance and make music because he has the time and resources to, jamil has much less of that since his existence is tied to the well-being of kalim. his "passions are submerged in avarice" because it is through wealth and visibility that kalim get the time for his art, which is exactly what jamil does not have. it makes the point of his book seven dream so much more interesting, because even though he truly does not wish for wealth, but instead freedom, subconsciously, he acknowledges the power and blessing that is great wealth.

what jamil is saying here is that the more that he wants, the more that he yearns and longs for things, such as freedom, the more suffocated he becomes. capitalism creates the disparities for this want to exist, waves possibilities around, and then pulls the goal post further and further from us. jamil sees the freedom of others every day, he sees the privilege of kalim all the time, and the finish line just gets farther and farther away from him. "this place" becomes more and more narrow the bigger he dreams, so he may as well make himself and his ambitions as small as possible to fit into his caste.

"The light will never fade in me/My anger will never cease to be/If only I could expose it all" here jamil acknowledges that despite his attempts to not want, to make himself smaller for the sake of kalim, his desires will truly never cease, nor will his anger.

"if only i could expose it all" is a rebellious cry and it makes me wonder if the caste system is deemed unacceptable by others. is this, like in our world, an archaic form of oppression that people deem barbaric? or is he talking about exposing his resentment and finally taking back his autonomy by violent means?

"The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles. Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master and journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes." The Manifesto of the Communist Party, Marx and Engels

marx is not saying that revolution is inevitable, but that it is always a possibility, and if revolution does not happen, the oppressed class will just be further oppressed. jamil is the oppressed and the al-asim family are the oppressors. as we see, he is fearful of what could happen of kalim's father got wind of him rebelling. jamil's overblot was the manifestation of all the violence done to him, releasing in a violent revolutionary act. what he did was cruel, but i would argue it is even more cruel to let a child believe that his life is lesser than that of his peer.

now im gonna get into frantz fanon and the wretched of the earth, i couldn't help myself </3

"And it is clear that in the colonial countries the peasants alone are revolutionary, for they have nothing to lose and everything to gain. The starving peasant, outside the class system, is the first among the exploited to discover that only violence pays...The exploited man sees that his liberation implies the use of all means, and that of force first and foremost... non-violence. In its simplest form this non-violence signifies to the intellectual and economic elite of the colonized country that the bourgeoisie has the same interests as they and that it is therefore urgent and indispensable to come to terms for the public good." The Wretched of the Earth, Fanon

these lines read to me like a cry for freedom. it is the young revolutionary raising his gun in the face of his oppressor, it is the peasants arming burning down the manor, the villagers destroying the basileos's estate and taking the economy and politics in their own hands. his anger will never be satisfied until he gets what he is owed, his very own life. all those years spent taking care of kalim have just been years of the constant reminder of his status.

under a caste system, your lineage is what decides your fate, and for jamil that means he will serve the al-asim's till he dies. he cannot escape this. many caste systems, such as the one in yemen, make it so that you cannot even marry out of your caste, and no matter how much wealth you accumulate, you will still be considered a member of the servant caste. while it is fun to imagine jamil marrying out of his caste and moving away somewhere, the reality is that it is most likely not plausible. his parents probably married because they were both in the same servant caste, and if he ever ended up married, it would probably be to someone in his same caste.

i've repeated it a million times, but there is no escape. he is suffocating and violence is the only way out, it seems.

"A shadow is dancing/Listen to the insatiable voice/Freedom’s in my hand, /Like I’m cursing and/To the end I’ll FLY-yah-yah/Ah ah… Not enough to get by-ah-ah" for the sake of time, i'm going to analyze this all together since i feel like i've been writing this since the release of those snippets.

now, the shadow can be many things. im most convinced it is referring to the manifestation of his resentment, the overblot phantom. @estcaligo has this post discussing blot as a physical manifestation and the cultural depictions of negative emotions as something physical. and i reblogged it with this post adding onto the islamic/sufi depiction of nafs and how it relates to overblot.

here's what i said on the topic and i will relate it back to these last few lines of the fan translation:

"the word nafs is derived from nafas which means breathing. nafs, colloquially means self/person. for example, in my dialect of arabic, we say "nafsi" to mean "myself" since the "ee" sound makes a phrase possessive. theologically, nafs is most often referring to the soul. i think the idea of nafs coming from the word nafas/breathing is important in this case. you breath in and out. you take in and then you release. in islam, nafs is cannot be bad or good or beautiful and so on, but it is more like your health, something you nurture. you feed your nafs bad things, it will have a bad reaction and release bad into the world. when it comes to the blot and overblot in twst, we can imagine the blot accumulation is their nafs being corrupted and their overblot is the release of their tainted nafs. the whole idea of the phantoms being created from the blot, and the characters having to fight them off (like jamil arguing with his phantom that he is not imprisoned like a genie). this concept exists within the quran, the idea of battling that which corrupts your nafs through jihad. and no, not jihad like the crusades, but general struggle. jihad just means struggle... ultimately, this struggle is what helps clear the nafs of corruption, and when we battle the mages who have overblotted, we are faced with the negative emotions which led them there, and they struggle against them to survive."

the blot is fed by external experiences that deepen the negative feelings of the mages, which corrupts their magic. for example, leona has a scene of blot accumulation when jack says something that reminds him of his elder brother, who he resents.

right after this, the ink spills.

like leona and the others, jamil's blot has been fed by all sorts of negative experiences which nurtured the seeds of his resentment until it grew too much to be held within the confines of his soul, and so it burst and released into the form of the phantom. this is exactly the way nafs is depicted in islam. to counteract it, you try to feed your nafs good things.

the negative voices in jamil's head, the voices of his parents and the figures of authority who keep stacking heavier things onto the boulder he's rolling up the mountain fighting against his reason. the "insatiable voice" is the urge to just say 'fuck it' and go wild. to attack those who oppress him, to hurt kalim, the symbol of his disenfranchisement, and forget about his responsibilities to his family. it's tragic. "freedom's in my hand" at the cost of so much, but he has been pushed to the point where it seems worth it to just release it all. he wants to drop the boulder and let it crush whoever was climbing the mountain behind him. "cursing" may refer to the cost of his freedom.

like he says, he cannot just drag his family into the streets for his own freedom. imagine the devastation of his family, of his sister if he decided to defect. they would face the consequences of his actions, cursed by his need for freedom, while he was off away doing whatever it is that he wanted. the cost is a curse, and it is too great.

of course, "fly" is commonly used to depict a state of transcendence and escape, so i won't stick too long on it. the next part, "not enough to get by" reminds me a lot of the story of icarus. it seems like that despite his desire for freedom, jamil subconsciously sees it as a doomed ambition. even if he does fly, his wings will melt. something will pull the ladder out from under him as he reaches to grasp the stars, something will grab him by his hair and drag him back down the hellish life he's been living.

i've been wracking my brain for a while about "the snake and blink" part of the song and here's the ideas i've got so far before i conclude:

a) the usual christian symbolism of snakes being the temptation of knowledge, corruption--you guys know the garden of eden story. john milton's paradise lost snake.

this analysis suggests that the snake is some sort of temptation, and the moment jamil blinks, it disappears.

b) other cultures don't view snakes in a negative light. i talk about it more here, but in islamic culture, snake iconography is used in hospitals and some art depicts snakes stinging away evil spirits. the islamic story of adam and eve does not feature a snake and instead the whispers of iblis/satan.

there's the middle eastern folktale of shahmaran, queen of snakes. she is a half snake half woman creature who is never portrayed as good or bad. sometimes she is an oracle and other times she is respected or tricked into being killed. kurds specifically have her symbolize good luck and many depictions of her death regard her sympathetically.

in ancient egypt, wadjet, the cobra goddess is a protective goddess who was the nurse to the infant horus, and protected isis. in many iterations, she symbolizes greenery and fertility. the aztec deity quetzalcoatl is a "feathered snake" whose domain is rain, wind, learning and agriculture. he brings life and had a role in bringing about the world. the naga is a half-human half-cobra who is often depicted as the protector of siddhartha gautama and the buddha. they are powerful and dangerous when angered, and protective.

im gonna make a full post about snake symbolism and jamil some other day, but for now, these interpretations of the snake make things seem less sinister and more hopeful.

these snakes are instead symbolizing life, protection, and the possibility of a future, but these hopes are gone away in a blink "snake and blink" as he says at the end of the snippet.

for just a quick conclusion of my overall thoughts. i think the rest of this song will further play on this idea of freedom and desire. i like it a lot. no, i LOVEEEE it omg the vocal performance??? that high note is constantly replaying in my mind like jeez the rent was due. the themes are loyal to jamil's character and i wonder how the song will end, yk?? will any of these songs have a positive/hopeful conclusion? personally, i think i prefer the ideas of all the threads not being completely tied. as much as i felt sad during the kalim and jamil interactions in book five, i felt like it was best that it ended that way. i agreed with silver's "let them fight it out" sentiment during book seven as well because i dont think anything can truly fix the issues between them.

IM DONE!! hope you guys enjoyed this long ass analysis of that like less than two minutes snippet of jamil viper's solo song!! idk if i have the energy to do the other ones as well, but malleus' and leona's brought some interesting eco-criticism stuff to mind.

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

Infected x reader angst, where the two of them were dating before the virus, and Infected doesn’t remember the reader? He feels drawn to them, though he can’t quite remember them. There’s flashes here and there- bits and pieces, the occasional snippet. Someone’s laugh, a pretty smile, late nights playing Mario kart or whatever. But he can’t ever quite seem to remember them

I apologize if this is TOO specific lmao . Angst moment

In light of the floppy disc update--my Regretevator interest has come back (and it got me out of my writer's block yippee) I finally got the "noise complaint" one so that gave me a lot of inspiration for this

........

You and Kasper once made a promise.

To be there for each other.

For better or for worse.

In sickness and in health.

But...

What do you do when that sickness made him forget that exact promise?

Although you've come to accept his new identity as "Infected", sometimes you think he's just playing a huge prank on you. And that the next time you swung by his apartment, he'll be resting and actually taking his illness seriously, and you'd have your old boyfriend back.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the case tonight, as you invited yourself inside with a duplicate of his key that he gave you long ago. As you closed the door, he didn't immediately run out to greet you like he used to. Instead, all you heard were the rapid taps of his keyboard and mouse.

Entering the living room space, you saw him sitting at his usual spot in front of the PC, intensely focused on some game. He had his headphones on, his face mere inches away from the bright screen, scowling--totally unaware of your presence.

You could've been an armed intruder for all he knew.

"Dud3s!! DUD3S!! Y0U SUCK!! WHY AM I TH3 0NLY 0NE C4RRYING TH3 TEAM?!!" He shouted into the tiny mic. "EITH3R GET G00D OR G3T 0FF THE G4ME!!!"

With a sigh, you made yourself known to him by stepping into the room, just within his peripheral vision and leaning against the wall

The moment his eyes flickered to you, he got startled, especially as his character made the dying sound. The other team was taunting him in the chat, but for once he ignored it, his cheeks flushed pink at your unexpected arrival.

"0h, h-hey, [y/n]! Wh4t brings y0u here, bab3?" He quickly removed his headphones.

"I sent you a message an hour ago. You said you wanted to play Mario Kart tonight, right?"

"I did....? 0hhhh, right! Right...s0rry. I'll be re4dy in a sec0nd. I just..." For a moment he paused, looking down at his lap and realizing he just had his pink shirt and a pair of boxers on. "G0tta put on s0me pants-"

"I've seen you in those nyan cat boxers before." You chuckled, shaking your head.

He blinked owlishly. "Y0u have?"

"Yeah. You don't have to change if you don't wanna."

"...g00d, 'cuz I was t00 lazy t0 do that anyways." After standing up, he stared at you. "Wait, h0w did you g3t into my r00m?"

"You gave me a spare key when you first moved in here." Holding up the item in question, your smile faded a little as you saw his eyebrows furrow, struggling to recall when he did that. "I don't expect you to remember, but-"

"Don't w0rry, babe. I'll take ur w0rd for it! I w0uldn't give a sp4re key to a str4nger." With a grin, Infected walked over to hug you and kiss you on the cheek. "I'll g3t the snacks. Sh0uld I make popcorn or hot p0ckets?"

"Surprise me."

"0kay!" While he dashed off to the snack pantry, you headed to the couch to get the gaming console set up for Mario Kart. You made sure to bring the wheel-shaped controllers for a fully immersive experience.

You had little hope that tonight he'll be able to remember something--or anything about his relationship with you as Kasper...so you don't know why you've kept them so high.

After the virus took ahold of his brain, you couldn't comprehend how it could make him forget ever dating you. In fact, you scared him a bit when you mentioned being his partner and got extremely upset at his confusion. He even called you "creepy" once.

Yet despite that...he still felt drawn to you, wanting to always hang out with you in the elevator or go to a skate park or bowling. He couldn't stand to be separate from you and didn't fully understand why.

That made him question whether he's known you before...

You're sweet, you like the same things he does, you've tried helping him find Poptart, and you never made a big deal about his sickness unlike most people.

Eventually, he asked you out (again, from your perspective), and you couldn't say no.

It was both flattering and sad that he fell in love with you twice, as you now had two cheesy confession letters hanging up at home. One signed with a K, the other with an I.

You'd look at them from time to time, seeing how differently he wrote between his life then and his life now.

He can't remember ever writing the first one, no matter how hard he tried...

From the first signs of this sickness, you've kept Dr. Retro on speed dial. She once visited the apartment to inspect the virus scripted into the couch while Infected wasn't home, hoping to collect even a tiny pixel-sized sample to study.

But there was nothing. It completely attached itself to your boyfriend and infiltrated the valve system, making the entire complex hazardous to live in--so much so his next door neighbors had to leave.

By some miracle, you haven't caught it yet, and you hope to god it'll never come to that. He's gotten better about his hygiene since dating you (again), so maybe that's why you've been so lucky.

Everyone else says you should've stayed away from him, and even Lampert urged you to abandon all hope that he'll remember who he was and the relationship you two had.

But you refused to.

The fact that Infected was willing to let you back into his life showed that deep down...he knew you meant something to him. You used to be someone special in his life.

Someone he couldn't let go of, no matter how hard the virus tried.

.............

"Sec0nd place again?? Bummer.."

"I told you, babe. You gotta expand your horizons beyond Roblox PVP games." Laughing in triumph, you set down the controller, brushing your hands against your pants. "Whew..I'll admit that got me sweating." You looked to your sulking boyfriend. "C'mon. Nobody likes a sore loser."

"I'm n0t a l0ser," he huffed, putting down his own controller. "N0t g0nna lie, that was fun." His smile turned right side up as he looked back at you. "S0 what d0 we wanna pl4y next? It's 0nly midnight."

"........."

"[Y/n]?" Infected blinked at your sudden change of expression, worried. "What's wr0ng? W4s...it s0mething I s4id?"

"No, it's just..." You hesitated, unsure if you wanted to bring it up so late in the night.

But after what you found taped to his door, you knew you two needed to have a serious talk.

"Wh4t?"

"They gave you another citation." Taking a paper out of your pocket, you skimmed it over and sighed. "For noise. This is your twelfth one. Why do you keep throwing them out? I thought you said you were gonna take care of these complaints."

"Ugh, I k33p telling them it's n0t me.." He groaned, deciding to lay his head on your lap. "Th3y're all addressed t0 Kasp3r...must be the guy from bef0re."

"Baby, nobody rented this space before you did. It's specifically talking about this apartment here. 007. Maybe they just couldn't put "Infected" as a valid name into their system."

"....yet th3y chose that n4me. Why?"

"Look, can you please just...read this over? And maybe take it seriously this time? They're close to evicting you."

His eye suddenly went wide. "Huh?? N0 way..."

"Yes way."

After some hesitance, Infected took the paper from you and read it, a frown crossing his features as he saw that the first words were "Dear Mr. Kasper".

Why couldn't they get his name right?

Why couldn't anyone?

What was wrong with "Infected"?

For a minute or so he was quiet. While he did admit to raging during late night gaming sessions and calling for Poptart since the day she went missing...it was the note that people next door could hear him "wailing in his sleep" that left a pit in his stomach.

He forgot how thin the walls were, but did they seriously hear him during all those nights where you weren't here, and he was alone, crying in his sleep over bizarre dreams and-

"I know they got your name wrong, but you gotta stop ignoring their letters." You lightly ran your fingers through his hair. It was a little greasy, but he did tell you he took a shower today, so it didn't bother you at all.

"Ye4h, alright. I'll em4il them b4ck, and t3ll them to go [CONTENT DELETED]---"

A bit startled by the sudden static garble that spilled from his mouth, you briefly took your hand away from his head. And he noticed, frowning up at you now. "Did I sc4re y0u??"

"I think you missed the part where I said "take it seriously"." You mirrored his expression, annoyed at his lack of maturity. "If you get evicted, I'm not sure where we're gonna put all your gaming stuff. So you need to figure something out, and fast."

"Why d0n't y0u tell them t0 get my nam3 right....and then I'll be willing to m4ke changes?"

"Excuse me? The lease isn't under my name. I'm not the one renting here and making my neighbors feel unsafe. You need to take responsibility for yourself."

"Why are y0u lecturing me?? Th4t's n0t cool.." Infected sat up from your lap, no longer feeling comfortable as he felt like you were being mean to him for no reason. "M4ybe moving out of here w0n't be so b4d. I'll be away fr0m that gradient fre4k, and-"

"God, that's NOT the point, Kasper--!!"

Suddenly, you realized your slip up and immediately silenced yourself. But it was too late, as you saw the dejected look in his eyes and the way his shoulders slumped. "Infected..I'm sorry-"

"Even y0u can't get my n4me right...." He scratched at his arm, feeling the virus' glitches pricking his skin like thin needles as he shuffled to the other end of the couch. "Y0u keep acting like h3's still here."

You remained silent, knowing you couldn't really say "because he is". He just wouldn't believe that. He couldn't.

"Was Kasp3r really...better than me? Was he he4lthier? M0re mature? N0t burden y0u with all this cr4p?" He looked down at his lap now, sniffling. "I'm s0rry I can't be him, [y/n]. I'm s0rry that I can't rememb3r anything. But..w-why can't y0u just acc3pt me? Am I n0t g00d enough?"

For the longest time, you stayed quiet, and he was afraid to look into your eyes, unsure of what you were going to say next.

Then you spoke.

"You're right about him being more mature."

His shoulders tensed.

"But..." You paused as he perked up. And you just gazed at the guy you fell in love with, wishing you could go back ten minutes ago--when you two were sharing laughs, hot pockets, and a round of Mario Kart--and not now, with you being the reason for those tears in his eyes.

Maybe...

You had to just forget about trying to bring back Kasper. There wasn't any cure yet, and Dr. Retro isn't even close to finding one.

It wasn't worth all this effort and arguing.

"..maybe I'm hanging onto the past too much, and not seeing what's right in front of me." Shifting closer to him, you sighed as you placed a hand over his, relieved that he didn't pull away. "Kasper and I had some good memories together. But you and I made some pretty awesome ones. When you begged me to rescue that cat in the minefield, I did and nearly got my legs blown off. But seeing your smile was worth it."

"......."

"When we visited Crem with Lampert and Melanie, you remembered my favorite flavor. Like any good boyfriend would." You added with a small chuckle, noticing his subtle nod.

Yet he stayed quiet, his eyes downcast once more so you kept talking.

"The point is..I love you, and you're good enough for me, Infected. I'm not angry at you for forgetting things. That's not your fault. I just..don't wanna see you get kicked out over some lousy complaints. That's all, okay?"

For a few long moments, there wasn't a response from him, although he sniffled a few more times. You worried he was about to sneeze, but when his gaze met yours again, you saw tears and pink snot dribbling down his face, his eyes red and puffy.

"Infected?"

"I-I still d0n't kn0w what's wr0ng with me, [y/n].." He mumbled, trying to bite back the sobs that wanted to escape. "Deep d0wn, s0mething tells me that...th-that I've always known y0u. It tells m3 th4t we've d0ne all this fun stuff bef0re. I want t0 remember, but..I-I d0n't know how. And...and..."

"And what?" You gently coaxed, squeezing his hand.

"And th4t's what keeps m3 up at night. N0t just the gam3s. It m4kes me feel like a [CONTENT DELETED] B0yfriend, and...I...owww--" Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his head, and he brought his other hand to it. "My h3ad's killing me.." Chills ran through his body, and he felt himself growing feverish.

"Again? Oh jeez.."

"Wh-What d0 y0u mean "again"?" He coughed.

"You keep having these flareups. I guess your sickness doesn't like our deep convos that much." You frowned a little. "Come here."

Once more, he laid down in your lap again, only this time curling up and shuddering with small sobs. You could see the virus attacking his body and senses again as he groaned in pain, trying to shelter his face from the suddenly harsh light.

In the early stages of his infection, he used to get these bad flare ups every other day, sometimes even calling you in the dead of night crying and whining. But they never became this bad while you were present.

'Is it..hurting him so he stops remembering?' You wondered, deciding to make a mental note to ask Dr. Retro about that. But for now, you just grabbed the blanket that was hanging over the couch and set it down on him, hoping it would help him rest.

For the first time, he was willing to accept that something is in fact wrong with him.

He wanted to remember all the things that you did together.

So maybe...Kasper wasn't really gone just yet.

Maybe there's hope after all.

[womanofwords]

is the neglect!reader series finished if so, can we have alil reaction that they finally relies on that they actually lost us and when they go spy, they see us with our family all happy then they go sulk back at the manor

plus, Alfred visiting us alone

Wrote an extra snippet just for you, honey! Writers are nourished by comments and compliments, and I hope nobody forgets it. So here's your snippet!

"Y/N . . . is cutting us off for life?" Damian spluttered. "But I had so many things to do with them!"

"Nobody's surprised that they're cutting you off, Damian. Tim, Jason, and I were running bets that you were possessed. But me?" Dick clutched at imaginary pearls. "I'm the resident sunshine one!"

"And they could have talked to me about business instead of Penguin," Tim said. "I would have loved to finance their ice cream franchise. People love the Ice Block! Y/N really knows their stuff."

"Don't worry about it. We actually have a bit of an out," Stephanie said. "Y/N only banned our legal identities. Our vigilante identities have no such restraints. We'll . . . swing by Cobblepot Manor and see why they love it there so much. Barb, I'll keep a livestream on for you."

"Thanks."

The Cobblepot Manor was filled with villains, all . . . playing poker. Through a conveniently open window, they watched as Y/N played poker with all the biggest villains in Gotham. A shadowy, unseen figure in the corner was winning. Since when could Y/N play poker?

"Damn, Alfred, where the hell did you learn all this from?" they heard you laugh. Alfred removes the shadows from his face, laughing heartily. Not only was Y/N playing poker, they were losing to Alfred? Since when could he play poker?

"I had a life before being a butler for the Wayne family, Y/N," Alfred said. "And I liked that life."

"Alfred's . . . with Y/N," Jason said. "There was never a restraining order against him. I forgot about that."

"He looks so happy," Barbara said over the livestream.

"Y/N looks happy, too," Dick said. "We should have learned how to play poker so they would never have left."

"Dick, enough." Bruce put a hand on his shoulder. "You have to accept that Y/N is gone. All the poker and gymnastics and the affection now won't bridge the gap. All they want is . . ." Bruce forced down bile and tears, "their papa, their aunts, and their uncles."

We are all too late, Cassandra signed. They interpret our attempts to bond and apologise as covering for ourselves. All they remember are our failures. All we have are our failures.

"Alfred, I'm so glad you came," you said, hugging Alfred tightly.

"They never hugged me that tightly," Damian said.

"They never hugged any of us like that. Don't try to make it about yourself," Tim snapped.

"We should go," Stephanie said, as Penguin started dolling you up with jewellery. "It hurts me to watch."

Without warning, you got up and went towards the window they were watching you from. Locking eyes with each of you in turn, you smirked and closed the curtains with a flourish.

That would be the last time they ever saw you.

[aihoshiino]

chapter 166 thoughts

As of chapter 166, Oshi no Ko has finished a roughly four-and-a-half year run started back in 2020. While there's some speculation about an epilogue or some extra content in volume 16 when it drops, this is where the main story ends. And you know what that means!!!

OSHI NO KO HAS OFFICIALLY ENDED WITHOUT ADDRESSING OR ACKNOWLEDGING THE FACT THAT RUBY KISSED HER BROTHER IN CHAPTER 143

please understand that this is FUCKING BOGUS

I'll probably do a longer post on this subject specifically, but my main critique of 143 when the chapter dropped was that while I liked the individual beats in it and I was really glad to see Akasaka finally addressing this tension bubbling underneath Aqua and Ruby's relationship, the immediate swerve away from showing us the aftermath of that kiss felt to me like an admission that the story was going to needlessly draw this out even more. Now that the story has ended and we can see that moment had literally no impact on the plot or even the character dynamics, I'd like to revise that statement - it feels like an admission of compromise. It feels like crumbs thrown to AquRuby fans to tempt them to keep reading and to stir up the waters of the ship wars, so people would keep reading and stay invested in the manga right to the very end. But most of all, it feels deeply disrespectful to both Aqua and Ruby as characters. Rather than exploring their feelings and giving both of them interiority and complexity in relation to incest or even just fucking acknowledging that the kiss had happened and letting their dynamic evolve, the series just memory holes the entire event and asks that you do too. Rather than letting Ruby have any development whatsoever as pertains to that relationship or, god forbid, let a female character move on romantically from the male lead, the series ends with her feelings so up in the air that I literally could not tell you what she thinks of Aqua by the time he dies.

ANYWAY… FINAL CHAPTER. BREATHES OUT VERY HARD.

I really can't believe it's taken us until the final chapter to actually deal with Ruby's grief over Aqua lol. We got a snippet of it last chapter but it was so brief that it really just felt like a tease. I also just think it's kind of bizarre that we're spending this little time on Ruby having feelings about Aqua's death to the extent that I have no idea how or when she found out about it.

It's also kind of hard to feel particularly strongly about Ruby's grief when the chapter doesn't really bother to explore it all that much. It's just a montage of Ruby quite literally Screaming, Crying and Throwing Up while Akane dispassionately narrates it all. The art also doesn't really help in terms of connecting with the emotions at play - I usually really like Mengo's expression work and the way she depicts extreme emotions but this all just felt like of… I don't know how else to put it. Goofy??? Is that an insane thing to say about Ruby grieving her brother???

Idk, something about both the panelling and just the extreme on-the-noseness of Ruby, again, literally Screaming, Crying Throwing Up while she's wearing a Burning cosplay Just In Case You, The Audience, Didn't Get It only for her to abruptly be done crying with no exploration or insight as to what's going on in her head that allows her to move forward.

Honestly, this is kind of the issue with everyone in the cast. The resolution is just sort of "Aqua died and we were sad about it but then we stopped being sad". I know what the story is trying to go for here - it's trying to express that even when you're in pain, life goes on and so you have to find a way to go on with it. But the result is that we spend all this time oogling at their pain without spending equivalent or even meaningful time on their recovery process.

It feels both excessive and undercooked at the same time and I'm left with the same icky, voyeuristic feeling I got from Aqua's funeral last chapter. This should be the point in the story at which we empathize with Ruby the most, but she remains a frustratingly distant figure right to the final pages. Part of this is an unfortunate consequence of Akane's narration directing these final chapters meaning that we're hearing about Ruby from an outsider's perspective and thus don't really see what's going on in her head… but if I can be frank, this has been an issue of Aka's with Ruby in particular basically nonstop since chapter 123.

As others & myself have noted, despite the absolutely catastrophic downward spiral Ruby is in at that point, Aqua revealing himself as Gorou basically flips it all off like a switch. There's some mild lipservice paid to the idea that Ruby is just using her dependency on Gorou to prop herself up and it's pointed out that the issues that contributed to her breakdown haven't actually been resolved - but none of these issues are ever even acknowledged again, let alone resolved. So, functionally, that reveal does fix all Ruby's problems in the space of a single chapter and the result is, again, that we spend multiple chapters gourging on depictions of Ruby's absolute rock bottom only for her to ping back to normal like a lightswitch. As such, the depictions of her pain feel less like explorations of Ruby's interiority and more like voyeuristic oogling at Ruby's misery and trauma and the effect is that the resolution to it all is both unsatisfying and a little gross. The result is that it feels like Akasaka is just indulgently mining the imagery of cute girls suffering because it causes simple thoughts neuron activation but doesn't respect these girls enough as characters to build them back up.

It doesn't help that this is basically the in-universe excuse for Ruby's career further skyrocketing. Instead of Ruby becoming a star on her own merits as the story keeps insisting she was supposed to, she's artificially buoyed by the public's morbid fascination with her tragedy. If I was feeling charitable towards the story right now, I would say this is an avenue of intentional critique but… well, I don't feel super charitable about the story right now lol

I WILL say that the one part of this chapter I did just uncomplicatedly like was the beat of Mem trying to suspend activities (presumably in the wake of her grief for Aqua) only for Kana to basically immediately explode into her room and help her get back on her feet. It's a beat that would've been much more effective if we'd, you know, seen it, but I otherwise enjoyed it and I thought it was sweet.

But. pbbbbtttt. I guess I can't talk around it any longer… let's get into the Dome concert.

To start things off on the immediately worst note possible, Akane describes Ruby performing at the Dome as being 'everyone's dream', including Aqua's. I'm reminded once again of the strange turn the story took in insisting that um, actually, performing at the Dome was totes Ai's dream all along (even though she literally didn't give a shit even a week before she was due to perform there herself) so Ruby performing there is fulfilling that dream for her!!! and I can't help but wonder if this abrupt shift in focus is an attempt to make readers forget what Ai's actual dream was - to see her beloved children grow up happy and healthy. Hell, it wasn't even really Aqua's dream, until the story suddenly had to try and convince us that his entire purpose for existence was to kill himself so Ruby could be an idol for slightly longer than she would've otherwise. The only people whose dreams she's textually fulfilling are Ichigo and Miyako and Ruby herself, but…

Honestly, is this really Ruby's dream anymore?

Who is Hoshino Ruby? What does she want? Why does she want it? These should be the very least of what we can concretely say about not only a protagonist but a character who has become a central figure of the entire story as Ruby has, but with the way Oshi no Ko has warped and distorted her, I find myself increasingly unsure of what the story wants her to be or how I should answer those questions.What does Ruby feel about Aqua? Was she still in love with him? Had she moved on, romantically? Was she still waiting for a response to her confession? Did she finally realize it was probably kind of shitty to respond to her brother going "lowkey wanna kms" by sticking her tongue down his throat? I Guess We'll Never Know.

This extends to whatever the fuck Ruby's relationship with idols and being an idol is. Almost the entirety of Ruby's time in the story has been spent reiterating over and over that Ruby cannot just be an idol who imitates Ai and that to truly shine, she needs to step out of her mom's shadow and shine in her own way. Ruby even literally tells Kana in no uncertain terms in 137 - "I'll be a star in my own way. I won't be like Mama."

While this has always been the text of the story, as I've pointed out before, the actual art with which Ruby's idolhood depicts her basically just as Ai 2.0. It relies so heavily on mining the imagery of Ai's charisma and personality as an idol and using them as the measure of Ruby's success as an idol that Ruby essentially has no visual or conceptual identity of her own as an idol. She's just Ai, But Arbitrarily Better, For Reasons The Narrative Fails To Actually Establish But Hopes That You Just Accept Anyway. This was always kind of annoying, but now that friction seems to have been resolved by… just making her Ai 2.0, But Arbitrarily Better (etc, etc) in the text as well. The fact that we're given no further insight as to Ruby's feelings and continue to just have Akane Explain Ruby's Character Arc to the camera also doesn't help.

All this combines to make the Dome concert and the final few pages feel exceptionally cold in a way I really don't think was intended by Akasaka. Yes, that splash page was nice and flashy but… I just felt nothing. I have no idea if or why Ruby cares about this. And even though the Dome concert has been hyped up through the entire story as the peak of Ruby's achievements as an idol, I feel no sense of accomplishment in her finally being there - not just because her journey to it was basically sneezed at us across two panels, but because it just feels hollow as a victory lap for Ruby. Again, she feels so distant and abstracted as a character that I can't bring myself to feel very strongly about her good or bad.

I think the perfect encapsulation of this are the final four pages of the story. Ruby's words here are very clearly intended to be a callback to Ai's words to Gorou in chapter one but as @all-of-her-light pointed out in our initial discussions of the chapter, Ruby very much does not have an equivalent to Ai's conclusion that she nevertheless wants and values the opportunity to find personal happiness and fulfillment outside of being an idol. Are we supposed to believe that simply being an idol is all that Ruby needs to achieve a similar degree of happiness and fulfillment? Is there no more to her than that?

I've seen a lot of people interpret this ending as exceptionally bleak and, as usual, gleefully predicting Ruby's immanent suicide because her beloved oniichansensei isn't around but this is indulging in, if you'll allow me to be frank, some pretty transparently ship-motivated flanderization. Despite what certain sections of the fandom would like to believe, Aqua and Ruby's lives, past and current, have never revolved around each other to the exclusion of every other relationship in their life. Ruby has a massive support network of people who love and care for her and actively want her to get back on her feet. I can one hundred percent believe that she does not need Aqua in her life to be happy and content.

The issue is that we don't see enough of Ruby to understand that ourselves. Again, she has become such a distant figure with so little insight into what she's thinking and why that this ending is basically a Rorschach test in which you can interpret basically whatever the hell you want or assume because we have so little canon basis to support or debunk our assumptions.

and yes. don't think i didn't see them. it IS both grimly hilarious and weirdly tonally appropriate for this ending that ruby has a bunch of oshi goods of ai and aqua including their fucking autographs set up to say goodbye to every day.

AND…… WE'RE DONE!!! THAT'S OSHI NO KO, BABY!!!! well, technically, there's going to be a 20 page extra chapter in volume 16 but I don't see it being big or substantive enough to meaningfully change my feelings about the ending so… I guess we're leaving it here. Damn. Feels crazy to be done with it.

I'll probably do a bigger post down the line about my thoughts on the ending as a whole but in terms of just How This Chapter Made Me feel, I guess the word is just… meh! It's definitely not an ending I like and I think the execution is sloppy and rushed but I also just don't really have the energy to feel angry about it. Maybe that's sad in its own way but tbh… I still really love Oshi no Ko! I still find it engaging and I find the characters I enjoy rewarding to talk about. I like the artistry of the anime adaptation. I don't blame anybody else for being so turned off by this ending that they're done with the series but for me, I like what I like about OnK too much that this ending could retroactively ruin it for me. Whatever else happens with the OnK franchise, whatever directions the anime and live-action take, this will always be the series that gave me Ai and the Hoshino family and. look at me. look at what she's done to my brain. could I really ask for anything more than that?

That being said, I'm definitely not done with discussing the series! I have fics to write (including a VERY exciting large scale project lined up with some friends), my Ai analysis post to finish and I also want to do a re-read of the series and finish my anime rewatch. I'll be here to discuss Oshi no Ko as long as I have things to say about it and as long as you guys will have me! Despite how the series ended, I've had a genuinely wonderful experience in the fandom and I really don't want to let go of the little community we've built together just because the series is done. I'm Ai's fan for all eternity!!!

[hyenafu]

Hey Hyena, you have years of experience when it comes to making a webcomic. Do you have any tips or advice for someone who has been thinking of starting their own with their original characters? That someone is me.

Though I do have a lot of advice to share, I will preface this by saying that general advice can only take you so far. I'm not familiar with you, your work, or your goals. It feels a bit like trying to tell someone how to play video games well when you don't know what game they're playing. But I'll try to share some practical wisdom that I hope will help folks who are just starting out.

Research: I've been recommending Scott McCloud's "Making Comics" to new creators for years, and I stand by that recommendation. It contains a ton of useful information about how the language of comics works while being a comic itself. McCloud talks about character design, the balance of words and images, pacing, backgrounds, and all sorts of subjects while pulling examples from many different types of comics, including European graphic novels, webcomics, manga, and American newspaper stripes. Whether you're just starting to appreciate comics or you've been making them for a while, I think it's a great source of inspiration.

Planning: I would do some research into how other webcomic artists plan. You're going to find a plethora of answers. Some people are really organized, others fly by the seat of their pants, and there's all sorts of valid approaches somewhere in between.

Slightly Damned is a mix of planning and improv. It's a very slow-moving story, and I've literally changed as a person with the passage of time. I have very clear goals with only a vague idea of how I'm going to get there or how long it's going to take. I just point myself and my characters in the direction I want to go and procedurally generate art and dialog along the way. This way, I'm able to set up story beats that actually (eventually) pay off, while keeping things fresh and interesting enough that I actually want to keep making it.

My usual process involves maintaining an outline in a text document. The advantage of keeping the outline in a digital text document is that I can edit and rearrange things as needed. It's a jumble of notes and snippets of dialog in rough chronological order.

When I need to make more Slightly Damned pages (usually a few weeks in advance), I adapt my notes into sketches of comic pages called thumbnails that I keep in a small notebook. Then the thumbnails are what I base the actual comic pages on when I start penciling them.

A warning against too much planning: Planning only works up to a point. At some point, you just gotta get started and gain some experience.

I think the most common problem people have when planning to make comics is that they're planning too much. It makes sense to want to be prepared, and it makes sense to be afraid of messing up. But there's a lot that you can ONLY learn from putting your art-making tool* to use and seeing where you end up.

(*Just to make sure we're all on the same page here: GenAI is not an art-making tool, it's a plagarism tool. If you rely on it, you'll only be robbing yourself of learning anything or discovering your style.)

For example: do you even like making comics? I feel like you can't really know this unless you've spent some time making them. Comics are excrutiatingly labor intensive and notoriously bad for making money.

If you don't enjoy the work of making comics, I don't think there's any reason to force yourself to make them. There are so many awesome ways to express yourself: visual novels, animatics, prose, video games, modeling, music, cosplay, concept artist, etc. I don't want anyone committing themselves to an art form because they think they have to; I want them to commit themselves to an art form because gosh dang it it's just SO rewarding to do it!

And when you start making stuff, you can look at what you've done and start asking questions about how to do it better next time. You can show the stuff you've done to others, and their reactions can help you find your direction. You can do all sorts of research based on what you think you want, and what you think you can do, only for all of that to be thrown out the window once you get started.

It'll also help you find what you're good at, which is usually whatever you think is the most fun to make.

Practice: Everything gets easier with practice. And I mean everything. If you want to get better at doing something, then you have to actually do it. Suck at drawing elbows? Draw some elbows. Bikes are impossible? Draw some bikes. Wanna write fantasy? Write some fantasy. Wanna write sci fi? Write some sci fi.

Do it bad, do it scared, and it will become easier. I can't guarantee that you'll be able to, say, freehand the skyline of San Francisco with total confidence after trying it a couple times. But you may stop giving a shit about doing it badly, and then the attempt can be fun regardless of the result! Doesn't that sound powerful?

Art is hard, and we can all be hard on ourselves. Try not to overly focus on the results. Practice mindfulness and enjoy the process of making things. Others will be able to see the spark that fuels your creations even if you feel your technical skills aren't exactly where you want them to be.

Putting it online: Don't rely on social media to be around forever. Being online since the 90s, I can tell you that it's been a long process of jumping from one sinking ship to the next. You want people to be able to reliably find you and your work.

I've know people whose layouts were destroyed when tumblr pushed an update. Creators had to scramble to make new sites for their webcomics when SmackJeeves suddenly went under. Who knows when the next billionaire or hedge fund will threaten the livelihoods of thousands for the sake of filling their already-bursting bank accounts?

If you know how to make your own website: look into Wordpress, which has several plug-ins that work with it, such ComicEasel and Toocheke, for making websites specifically for webcomics.

But if you don't know how to make your own website: use ComicFury. I've heard nothing but good things through the grapevine about how good it is and how passionate the owner is about webcomics. I've heard it's very easy to set up and I'm strongly considering making a Slightly Damned mirror on it myself.

What about Webtoon? Well… ymmv, I guess. They definitely have shady business practices and encourage unhealthy, overly demanding amounts of work from their creators. Their rating system was also another point of contention (I think ratings systems encourage a narrow-minded view of art), but they recently got rid of it, I think?

Other problems include limited control over comments section, no ability to flesh out your account with interesting side content for your comic, how much the site pushes people to jump from comic to comic, ads, content restrictions…

I do have friends who use Webtoon with the attitude of "being where the people are". That makes total sense to me. Ultimately, it's a decision you just have to make for yourself based on your values and comfort levels.

If you're a furry, then FurAffinity is a good place for your first archive. You can make (a) folder(s) for your comic, then set up navigation links in the description to help people read comic pages in order.

Places like tumblr and Bluesky are good for sharing stuff regularly, but they make terrible archives. Social media is very much about being "in the moment" and sharing new things regularly. It has its uses, but it's not the best for reading through a comic archive.

I'm not going to pretend that FA is perfect, but it is independently owned and anti-AI, and that's something to celebrate.

===

I feel like I could go on forever, but I hope that's a helpful start. If you or anyone else would like some more specific advice, shoot me a question in my inbox. It can be hard to know what to talk about when giving general advice because there is SO much talk about.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - He's Back - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

A confrontation long overdue.

(Happy Valentine's Day, folks :'D)

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

tw: angst

"I trust," Silco says, breaking the quiet, "you didn't take that personally."

"What, you bailing midway?"

"Hm."

She doesn't frown. But her dipped eyelids shield a stormfront. "...Look. This arrangement? If it's not working out—"

"You know that's not the case."

"No?"

"I only needed..." To put my pieces in back together. "...Space."

"Yeah?" A flash a familiar vigilance.  "Sure it's not because of her?"

"Her?"

Does she mean Nandi?

Her sister's specter has ceased to interfere in the peripheries of their intimacy.

Or—gods, has she learnt about his dalliance with Medarda, the long-game laced together in exquisite deception?

Silco doubts it—he covers his tracks—but sometimes he underestimates the razor edge of Sevika's perceptiveness.

Too late to dissemble if that's the case. But before he braces for impact—before the blowback of her judgement leaves him a smoking crater—he prays for a chance to plead his case. To explain that Medarda balances on the precarious axis between personal proclivity and political leverage. To beg Sevika—

(Beg? That's unseemly for both.)

—convince her, that his attraction is a complicated calculus. His goals are on track, even if the rest's tangled in desire's gilded strings.  He'll not deny the thrall Medarda exerts; the fascination of her nimble wit; a rare gift in reading people, even the darkest facets of his own nature.

But it's survival—not need—that shares their bed. It's common ground—not devotion—that drives their bargain. It's the irrevocable necessity of circumstance—not goddamn choice—that turns him to the enemy as he once turned to drugs, drink, dissipation.

There is no tether there. Only game after bloody game, Sevika, and if you give the word, I'll burn the board to the ground—

"Sevika," he begins.  "I—"

As always, she preempts him.  "Jinx."

Silco struggles to conceal his surprise. "...Jinx.."

"You miss her. Miss her so much you'd rather be here, with me, than alone in your penthouse."

"That's not true." It is, and isn't. "I'm not here for—"

"Don't deny it. There's a piece missing with her gone.  And that piece won't be filled by any of us here."

"If by piece—," he dares a cautious sidestep "—you mean peace of mind—"

"You barely talk about her," Sevika cuts in. "Don't like to hear her mentioned. When I bring her up, you either ignore it, or change the subject. As if she's locked up somewhere too fucking precious to share with the rest of us. It'd be fine if you were at least drinking like a fish and smoking like a fiend and throwing yourself headfirst into anything involving disembowelment. Instead, you've been..." she gropes for a second. "Distant."

"Distant."

She gives him a meaningful look. "Like you're still in the Deadlands. Still… somewhere I can't follow."

Inwardly, Silco marvels. Outwardly, he says nothing.

It's true; he's kept himself to himself. Not because he's subsumed everything into his work—he has—but because he's lately sensed himself at a crossroads.

Not of Zaun but his own convictions.

Self-concept's not been in the cards for a while. It left when Jinx crashed into his life. Without her, he's not lost the measure of the game, but the measure of himself.

A father.

Except he's still Jinx's father. It defines him like a chalk outline around a corpse; a name carved on a gravestone. He'll always belong to her. No matter where their paths uncross into separate tangents, or where their roads lead together.

But Silco, himself? Beyond Zaun?

He's yet to find the answer, though tonight's left him on surer footing. 

From the streets, fireworks spiral, then fade. In the spreading silence, Sevika says, "You can be not-okay, you know. Nobody'd fault you."

Her gentleness unsettles. His deflection is reflexive. "No, they'd simply kill me."

"They'd have to go through me," she says matter-of-factly, "And nobody gets through me."

They trade a brief smile. Tight as tethers go.

Sevika says, "I figured… that was why you let them stay over."

"Who?"

"Pearl’s girls." She sips slowly. Her chest—still faintly sweat-sheened—rises and falls in measured exhalations. "The entire time they were over, you were so... unlike you. Or maybe you: times ten. Like you'd be with Jinx, only... safer." Her eyes meet his. "You must miss it. Taking care of a kid who looks up to you like you're Janna's godsdamn gift."

"Pearl's kin look to the future. Not to me."

"You care about them." A beat, "Same way you must've cared about Pearl."

Silco steels himself against his habitual response: Admit nothing, deny everything, destroy everyone.

Instead, he takes a long swig of tea, buying time before the final draft.

"Yes," he says.

"Yes, what? Which part?"

"All of it." A deeper swallow; tongue weighing each word. "I did care for Pearl. She was fine company. Generous with herself, and patient with my inadequacies."

Sevika scoffs. "Those being?"

"We both know better than to enumerate." A shadow of a smile slinks across his lips, then fades. "It was good, what we had in the Ditch. Not a matter of what my body needed. More... what my self required.  With Jinx gone, there was so little to steer me except survival. Except survival is a stalling tactic. It allows you to continue existing. But life, really living, requires meaning. And meaning demands engagement beyond oneself. Pearl gave me a second chance at that."

Silence from across the table. He waits her out: a stubborn force brooding in place. Finally Sevika shakes her head.

"I should've been there," she murmurs. "Should've gone with you."

"How could you have known I'd vanish?"

He thinks of all the things he could tell her of that time. His psyche-marred misery in wake of Jinx’s departure. His rage and emptiness. How he'd been left with the topsoil of his soul stripped bare. All that was left was a doppelgänger sustained on the fumes of memory.

A soulless medium compelled to descend to the darkest core to mine his purpose from stone.

Quietly, he says, "You pledged me your loyalty. Loyalty isn't grounds to follow a leader beyond death's door."

"Is that where you went? Six feet under?"

"A thousand fathoms deep."  Draining the mug, he sets it aside. "That's where Pearl found me. Her, and her girls. And from there... they guided me back. In their ordinariness, they were extraordinary. They had such little in the world. Yet they fought for everything in it. Tooth and nail;, blood and bone. Life took nothing from them without paying a price."

Sevika regards her own mug. "So they helped you figure out how to live again." 

A cogent summary. He nods.

"Were you and Pearl...?"

"In love? I'd not take it that far." Silco exhales. Pearl's presence is between his ribs—a vivid ache—but not a mortal blow. Her quintessence was pure steel; it'd steeled and purified him in turn.  Even in his blackest mourning, he'll carry that unyielding framework into the future. "We suited each other. A simpatico of spirit and flesh. In another life—perhaps that would've sufficed.  In this one..." He traces a fingertip down his left cheekbone: the rough corrugation of scar tissue like tear-tracks. "I'm grateful our paths crossed. But I'll always regret the way they did."

"Because she didn't make it."

"Because in seeking her out, I abandoned you."

Sevika doesn't flinch. But her expression, in tiny increments, softens. For the first time since his return, he sees forgiveness. Forgiveness, and a strange species of sorrow: as if she's bracing herself against worse to come.

She's already lost him in more ways than one; to war, to prison, to something else entirely.

To Zaun itself: the loss that keeps on giving.

"Do you ever wonder..." she falters, as if casual discourse might veer the night dangerously off-course. "...if it would've been better if we'd chosen a different path? Stayed apart, in Nandi's wake?"

"If our lives hadn't met at Zaun's center?"

"If the ...grief... hadn't changed us. If we never became this."

"This?"

"Us." She gestures: copper fingers singing on oiled servos. Their everlasting entanglement; their perpetual estrangement. "What if we'd kept it strictly business. No strings attached."

"Strings can be severance. Or safety ropes."

"What's the difference if both'll strangle you?"

"Have they?"

"Don't pretend." Sevika sets down her emptied mug. The knuckles of her good hand are pale on the handle. "If we'd kept it straight business, maybe we would've moved on. You with Pearl. Me with whoever this city threw my way. Instead it's always been this weird limbo. The life we're living, and life we could've been living. Except—it's not living at all. More like the coffin's nailed shut six ways from Sunday. But the grave's still yawning open. Open to chance. But ...never closure."

Hope's not a commodity Silco trades in. But right now it's rushing in like a high tide over sandbags.  

"Then—" he swallows, "—is it closure you're after? Or an escape clause?"

Sevika shakes her head. Her sigh is edgy.

"Escape," she says, "isn't freedom. Freedom's a choice."

Silco nods, but says nothing. The silence, seconds ticking by, is an unspoken invitation:

Step through, and show me what you'd choose.

"It's why we work," Sevika goes on. "We didn't choose each other. We chose Zaun. That was the big picture, and we were both in it, and the rest didn't matter. For the longest time, that was all I needed. It was enough. But then... then you were gone. Zaun fell apart, and everything else fell to me, and fell fast. And as it fell, I started thinking: what if things had been different? What if we hadn't been so afraid? Of failure; of fallout? Of... each other? What if I'd stopped staring at the big picture, and taken the risk on getting caught in close-up?"

She meets his stare dead-on. Silco forces himself to weather the spotlight of her scrutiny.  He feels, inordinately, like he's facing a firing squad, and his shirt's half-buttoned.

"The days dragged on, and there was no news of you. But even so—even though we'd been finished longtime—I kept wondering. Kept wishing. Just like the night we'd lost on the Bridge. Me, searching and not finding. Me, left waiting and not knowing where to stand."  The deep-seated hurt in her eyes—a flicker, then a flame—makes Silco want to gut himself.  "There were other offers. Same as last time. Other options. I could've taken 'em and escaped that fucking loop. But instead—fuck. I kept on waiting. I waited, and I waited, and I got sick of the waiting. And it hit me:  I wasn't waiting at all. I was stuck. Because I couldn't bear to start again, after losing so damn much. Because moving on meant stepping into the dark, and having nothing underfoot if I fell."

Silco starts to say something. He doesn't.

This is about honesty—not eloquence.

"You know what makes Zaun stand apart?" Sevika says. "We're all about change. About action, not inertia. Me? I wasn't acting. I was going through the motions. Surviving. And in my survival, staying in stasis. Meanwhile the gangs kept warring. The chem-barons kept demanding. The politics kept getting bloodier. My world was coming apart at the seams, and there I was, clinging to scraps like my sanity was worth less than a potshot to the skull." A hard smile surfaces: tough as nails, and molten bright. "It'd be easy to blame you. Say it all led back to you abandoning us. Except we both know the score. You taught it to me, over and over. Cost and reward. Win or lose.  Surrender—or fight like hell to keep going."

"You did," Silco says. "This city owes itself to your fortitude. Not mine."

"I tried," Sevika counters, blunt. "I held the center, until I couldn't. But that's the point. Holding the center isn't going anywhere. It's stalling in place." The smile fades, but the fire lingers. "I don't know what threw us together. Chemistry, or karma, or fate playing games. But I do know this. I'm done holding the center. I'm ready to move on. But I can't—won't—unless I know you're moving too. Unless I know you coming back is a choice. Not a dead man marking time."

The ultimatum is brutal. But he reads between the lines. She'd kept it together, and kept herself intact. Survived, not as his second-in-command or factional proxy but as a person.

Just Sevika, fighting for life in a universe of atoms.  Just as he had done in the Deadlands.

Tonight, closure's not un the cards. But choice is.

And upon that choice, the groundwork for the next stage of revolution.

"Sevika," Silco begins. "I never considered—"

"I'll bet."

"I meant—I never understood, either. That holding the center meant staying in place."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Why?"

"Because you're always ten steps ahead of everybody."  Her eyes flash a semaphore of secret admiration. "Every option weighed; every factor calculated.  No errors. No exceptions."

Her faith nearly fells him. He's never been more unworthy of it. Never more terrified of knowing he's unworthy.

"I'm not," he says, "as clever as you think I am."

Her snort snags between his third and fourth rib. "Bullshit."

"It's true. I'm—"

Gods, what does he tell her?

That for all his sturm and drang—laying waste to a city and resurrecting it into splendor—he's a fucking coward at heart? Too gutless to let himself bleed; too feckless to let himself hurt. That for ten years, he's held onto himself by the skin of his teeth, and kept a city in his crosshairs—only to be undone by a little girl's tears? Unmade by fatherhood and the promise a legacy more lasting than the wreckage in his wake?

That he's still unmaking himself, putting the pieces in patterns yet unseen?

And still, there's no promise the pattern will cohere into a whole. Into a man who is halfway worthy of a woman willing to be his spine, his shield, his tether. A woman who has been through her own hell, and yet embodies every quality forged from that hellfire: tenacity, toughness, truth. A woman who manages ninety percent of her life effortlessly and the other ten percent ruthlessly; who fights harder for Zaun than anyone but him; who demands respect without begging for approval; whose tolerance for bullshit ends at the doorstep.

Who grants him access to her body, but whose boundaries are uncompromising. Who compromises daily, for his city's sake, and his own, and still sticks around when she has no cause to care.

Silco starts to speak. Stops. His throat's seized up. Ten fingerprints; Vander's phantom chokehold.

And beyond that chokehold: choice.

Silence crawls between them: tense, terrible, tetherless.

At last, Sevika gusts a sigh.

"Forget it." Her chair scrapes across the tiles. "I shouldn't have brought it up." She rises with military precision: all the momentum, with none of the grace. "Let's call it a night. I need some shut-eye, and you need to be at HQ. I'll radio the crew—"

The mind-body connection reinstates with a wallop.

Before she can withdraw, he's cut off her egress. For some reason he cannot fathom, he finds himself kneeling, though what he has a right to profess at her feet is beyond him. 

Daddy, he thinks, proposed to Mother like this.

The recollection's absurdly random, and strangely relevant.

Stunned, Sevika backs into the chair, her elbow banging off the wood. "...What're you—?"

"I choose."

The dark lashes flutter. The tough exterior conceals a flashpoint of panic:

He's lost it.

He's gone mad.

Gone for good, oh gods—

"I choose," he repeats, compelling her stare with his. "I'd choose all the choices that brought us here. Because that's what it was: choice. Not karma, or fate, or sheer dumb luck. I'd still choose to crawl out of that river, and stick a knife in Vander's back. I'd still choose to ally with you, because there was nobody else worth allying with. I'd still choose Jinx, and all the wins and losses that followed. I'd choose freedom; I'd choose Zaun. I'd choose to march the streets with my army—every misfit soldier, every broken soul. And you by my side, leading the charge. As you've led everytime I couldn't.  As you've led me through the hardest parts of our journey—whenever I failed to light my own way."

The fear shifts to something else: half-formed, fiercer in its vulnerability.

"You—you don't mean that," she stammers. "You never would have chosen this. Not me, not us—"

Silco takes her good hand in both of his.

Sevika tenses, but doesn't tug away. Plainly her first impulse; to save them both from something irreversible. He recognizes that fear; it's his own. 

In another life, he'd never give credence to its silhouette. He'd take her hand, twine her fingers through his, hold on tight—all without a single red lie. He'd have cupped her head, smoothed her hair, then dragging her close, so their foreheads met in a familiar circle of warmth.

That'd been the go-to, once. When touch was easy, and trust a matter of course.

Replicating the gesture now seems a forgery. Worse, a travesty of what once was.

Except what once was is no more. Neither are they. Whoever he is—he must learn it all from scratch.

Starting now.

He stays his knees; he keeps her hand in his.

"I don't care," he says. "I don't care if the odds don't stack up. Or what probability matrix I'm fucking over. All I know is: I choose. Us—whatever us means. Whatever it doesn't. Whether it's you jettisoning everything we've built, or me burning it to ground zero—I'd still choose where it's led us. I'd choose whatever path lies ahead.  Even if it takes us out of Zaun's orbit altogether—or down to the last circle of hell. No matter where we fall on that spectrum: I choose, Sevika." He breathes, steadies. "I choose whatever's left."

The silence spins like a roulette wheel: a freefall between extremes.

Her hand's a tether. He holds it tight between his fists, until the subdermal tremor stills.

"Silco..."

"Yes?"

Her eyes are burningly dark. "I'm what's left."

"You are." He skims a thumb over her lifeline, where blue veins branch across her wrist. Life coursing beneath: vital, raw, real.  "And you're what I choose. Fuck the rest."

Her breath jitters on a rare laugh.  "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Funny."

"How so?"

"'Cause that's exactly how I feel."

He lifts her palm to his lips. Feels the pulse quickening at the base, overflowing with all he's lacked; with all he needs.

Warmth, want, wholeness.

Unexpectedly, her fingers flex; she twines them through his. The cybernetic hand reaches out to seize his jaw. Gently, then not. She drags him in even as he flows into her embrace. The kiss is like whiskey left mellowing over the hearth-flames: fiery, smooth, familiar. Cardamom lingers in the gaps; the rest's doused in the residue of adrenaline.

Then desire simmers back into the brew: a low smolder, but with the capacity to roar should they pour a stiff shot into the equation. Her arms span his shoulders; his teeth catch her lower-lip. The kiss drags them down deep.

 Love's like revolution. An entire paradigm rewritten from the ground up.

In the aftermath, there's always blood.

When they break apart, it's only to breathe. Their skins are pinked with inner-heat; pupils dilated. Sevika's grip is unyielding; her thighs have gone from a rigid V to a needy cinch. His body, fitted between, has traded languor for livewire greed. Memories of earlier burn viscerally bright. Himself inside her, a cock thrust deep; a body on fire against another starved of heat.

He lays a kiss, openmouthed, at her breastbone. Her throat vibrates against his ear: purr, chuckle, moan.

"You should get going," she breathes, "before this gets ugly."

He laps the words from her throat. "That's the idea."

"Tomorrow's schedule... is a shitshow."

"All the better to end on a high note."

"Silco..."

It's a quaver of syllables. Halfway to futility—all the way to surrender.

By nature, Silco presses his advantage: cool palms coasting beneath the hem of her nightshirt, blunt fingernails ghosting goosefleshed flanks. Her breasts fill his palms like decadent teardrops: nipples pebbling into silky little hellos as he rolls each with delicate intent, then roughly pinches. Her startled groan fills his mouth.

Gods above and below—the way she arches; the way she rocks. Her own kisses have gone from scalding to incandescent. He knows they're no longer going to make it to her bed—at least, not immediately. He'll have her here, first: in the kitchen, on his knees. With his tongue, then his fingers, then his cock in her cunt.

Nothing romantic to it, but what he wants is far more real.

"Sweet Janna," Sevika gasps, as he rucks up her nightshirt and fastens on her bare tit like candy, "do you ever ease up?"

Silco hums the negation between her breasts. "...You?"

"Gods, no—" She cups his skull, drags him closer, "but tomorrow—"

"Fuck tomorrow."  The crudeness earns him a grin. Her fingers tighten on his crown; her knee hikes higher around his torso. "Tonight's Jubilee. Not your father's bloody funeral. Save the damp squib for when it counts."

 Her spiky smirk was spreading. But somewhere, he's hit the wrong note. The spark douses into stillness. Her arms loosen; the Valkyrie wilts.

In her absence, there's only the shape of a wary woman: heavy-boned and hard-lined; scars all across the skin.

Breaking their embrace, she tugs her top down. Self-conscious; unlike herself.

"C'mon," she mutters. "Don't play roulette with the cards you're dealt."

"I thought that was our calling." Bemused, he searches her face. "Unless there someone else you're hedging your bets on?"

"No." An old exhaustion creeps into her eyes. One that prefigures Zaun in its entirety. "Just... no."

"No?"

"I need to be counting sheep tonight. Not stars."

 Rising, she gathers the empty mugs, ferrying them to the sink.  The shift is sudden and inexplicable. His XO is carved from bedrock, with all its obdurate depths.  Moodiness is a character flaw she rarely indulges. 

A premonition prickles along Silco's nape. The monster stirring awake. He's never handled disappointment well. Rejection, worse. It makes his knucklebones lock around a blade's hidden heft; ready to dish out whatever collateral damage is necessary until his goal is within reach.

Mine, the monster hisses. Mine.

Ours, he counters, and wills himself to stillness.

"What's wrong?" he says, as mildly as possible. "A minute ago, you were ready."

"I was." She rinses the mugs. Her movements aren't tense, only sharply efficient. "But... tonight's not ideal."

"Bad head?"

Her sidelong smile is wan, but warms her eyes.  "Nobody'd level that critique against you, sweetheart."

The Sweetheart is a token; Silco pockets it as compensation. They don't do endearments; haven't in years. Perhaps, tonight, it's one of many rules they're unwriting.

Or perhaps Sevika's setting new parameters for intimacy altogether.

Not his strong suit: abiding by limits. But, then, neither is sharing.

Yet here he stands. Near enough for her heat to soak into him; not so close as to invade her space.  He's in no position to inveigle, especially after laying his cards at her feet.

The dice is hers to throw.

"If we're going too fast," he says, "say so. I'll match whatever pace you set."

Her head pivots. She looks—truly looks—as if he's an anomaly she's never encountered.  Something enthrallingly new, and far too dangerous.

"You're not angry," she murmurs.

"No."

"Why not?"

His shrug isn't effortless, but it's honest. "We've had a string of long days. We deserve to take the edge off, however we like. If that means shut-eye instead of screwing, so be it. But," and here the devil seeps to the surface, "I'd be lying if I said a quickie wouldn't put a spring in my step tomorrow."

She doesn't laugh, but it's a close call. "I think I'll manage without the extra bounce."

"Are you sure?"

"You know me. Always on the ball."

"You're not. Though you do a damn good job hiding it." He reaches out, thumbing a tangle behind her ear. "You're wired. You're always wired. But this is the first time it shows."

She tenses. But the touch, lingering, softens something within. Her eyes drift half-shut. "...It's nothing."

"No?"

"Just... there's too much riding on the line."

"We're the line, remember?" The caress drifts lower, cupping her nape. She arches into his palm: a dragon seeking shelter.  Yet within their closeness is  sense of something sinister. A splinter of truth, caught in between. "Unless, in honor of Jubilee, you've chosen abstinence for the month."

"Hardly." There's a trace of a smile; a shadow of bitterness. "That was Nandi's cup of hemlock."

"Hyssop."

"Huh?"

"Hemlock's the killer. Hyssop's the healer." Off her stare, he tips a shoulder. "Your sister taught me the finer points of herblore. During our courtship, I was always bruised, bloody, and bone-deep in doom. She couldn't steer me tidy, so she choose to teach me how to triage a broken arm."

Sevika's scrubbing slows. "That sounds like Nandi."

"A born dogooder."

She laughs—a frayed but genuine sound—just as he suspects her mouth may be running short on indulgence.

"Nah. She had a wicked streak. Only difference is that hers came with a heart of gold. Whereas mine..."   She performs a neat sidestep to hang the mugs off their hooks. "Got mine from my old man. Not a lick of shine in sight."

"I disagree."

"Your eyesight's one flaw worth enumerating."

"If I had to list yours, self-deprecation wouldn't feature among them." He catches her wrist, but lightly. "What's wrong? Because something is."

"Something." Her shrug's an imitation of his, but a poor one. "I guess... I'm just being superstitious. Thinking: if I let myself go now, I'll slip up at the next critical juncture. Or get so fucking pissed when you're back to being Zaun's reigning bastard, I won't be able to keep a lid on it? Because—" She swallows. "That's the deal between us. There's always a catch. Cost; reward."

He lets her wrist go. "You think I'm playing games."

"Everything's a goddamn game with you. Same way everything's a game with Janna her-own-damnself.  And those games always end up at cross-purposes—and into clusterfucks."

Her silence doesn't quite sit right; Silco feels its surface ripple like a sine wave. There's something vulnerable inside. Something, conversely, walled-off.  It recalls the gloss in her eyes when they'd been going at it before. A stormfront brewing north.

Now it occurs to Silco the storm may not entirely be his doing.

"What is this?" He's prowling a circle around her now. "And if you say 'nothing'—"

She nixes the warning with a sharp headshake. "It's not."

"What, then?"

Outside the flat, fireworks: scalding showers of garnet red and verdant green. The eerie fractals dance through the blinds.

On the last ebb of colors, Sevika swallows.

"I can't—" Her voice snags; her lips pull taut. "—trust a single thing about tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because you're you, and I'm me. Between us, there's always a flipside. Some wrench in the spokes. Some debt overdue. That's how this game works. That's how it's always worked." Her chin lifts, defiant, but the eyes hold a haunted sheen. "You drive a hard bargain, Silco. But tonight? This deal feels too good to be true. And whatever I have left... I'm not ready to lose. Not if—if you mean what you say. And not if this is the only shot I get at—at—fuck."

Abruptly, she punches the wall. The lapis tile cracks like ice beneath her cybernetic fist.

Dazed, Sevika stares at the damage, the copper knuckles flexing.

A heartbeat later, she's in tears.

Silco's at her side before he registers it. The monster—always slithering, always shapeshifting—is lured to the stress chemicals wafting in the air. The rest of him—the vestigial organ pumping the barest heat to every extremity—pulls rank over roiling appetite.

This isn't a foe to fight. Nor prey to penetrate.

This is Sevika baring a bellyful of hurt.

"Sevika." He catches her shoulders. "What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing." Furiously, she backhands the tears. "Look, forget it. Just—forget it. It's been a long fucking day. I'm tired. Tomorrow, everything will be fine. You'll be the terror of the deep, and I'll be the stone-cold bitch. Same old, same old. We'll move on; move forward. Like we always do."

"We will." His grip tightens, anchoring her in place. "But not tonight. Tonight, I want the truth."

"Nothing worth sharing." 

"Let me be the judge of that."

Abruptly, she wrenches loose.

"Since when do we swap sob stories?" she erupts. "Since when does the Eye of Zaun care what's going on between my ears, and not what deal's brewing in the the backrooms? Since when do you care about anything beyond the big picture, and not what's right in front of you? And why now, Silco? Why tonight, of all nights? When I'm at the end of my fucking rope, and it's just a matter of time before I slip up and strangle myself?"

"Because," Silco snaps, "I do care."

"You don't." She's breathing hard, as if she's sprinted miles to get here. "You're not Sil. You haven't been Sil in over ten fucking years. I was fine with that. Fuck, I was better than fine. I was grateful. 'Cause Sil was mine, and he'd stay mine, even if the rest fell, and our bones rotted. None of this—the dirty deals, the politics, the backstabbing—would touch him. He'd always be that dreamer with a big speech, and the best intentions, even if the worst came knocking.  But you—" Her mouth twists. "—you're the fucking monster, remember?  The goddamn anti-Sil. You're not supposed to care. You're not supposed to feel a thing. Except lately... you look at me like Sil used to. Like he's still in there, under fifty feet of icewater, and I can't take it. I can't stand you pretending to be him. You can't be. Because him, I knew. Him, I've I believed in. Him, I fought for, and for him, I'd gladly die. You—you're a changeling who stole his skin, and I hate you for it. I hate myself more for wanting you. Because it's too risky to want you. Not if it's all or nothing, and nothing's my most likely bet."

She's barely breathing by the end. The fury's spent itself. Her body's deadweight.

Silco's the one lost at sea.

"Is that what you think?" he says, low. "I'm a pretender in my own skin?"

"I think the last ten years have been a fucking nightmare. I think, whatever you are—whatever you've turned into—that you've still got a long way to go before you're a man I can trust."

"But you want to trust me." He's inching closer. "Trust us."

"I can't!" She jerks back. "I can't go back there. I can't let myself hope."

"Why not?"

"Because—" The bravado cracks. "Because what's left isn't worth losing. You're never gonna change, and neither will the game, and we're both too fucked up to make this work."

"You're wrong."

Inexorably, he advances; she retreats, until he's caged her against the counter. The monster's wide awake, instincts primed to strike. It's Silco's way; coercion as conversational art; proximity as pressure valve.

But here's neither advantage to be extracted, nor damage to impart.

Only his refusal to let her suffer alone.

"I won't," he repeats, softer, "And I'm going to prove it."

"How? By threatening your way into my pants?"

"By owning the truth. Whatever that truth is." He doesn't touch her. Only breathes the salt-scented air between them: stress, sex, tears. The sensory olio solidifies the stakes. "I'm not Sil, and I'll never be again. But he's what I became, Sevika, and he's in me. All the pieces, and none of the pretty. But whatever's left, you can have it all.  So long as you'll give me the same."

She shivers. Doesn't move a muscle. Doesn't lash out.

But nor does she run.

"You're asking a lot," she says, raggedly. "What if it's not worth it?"

"Let me be the judge." He holds her eyes. "Tell me what's eating you alive. Because whatever it is—whatever's got you so scared—it won't be the end of us, Sevika. I swear."

Sevika resists; a muscle quivers in her jaw. But the tears are relentless.  Each drop's a surrender, unmaking hard-won stoicism by stages.

Finally, she sags. Her voice is uncharacteristically small.

"It's my old man. He's back."

[man-i-love-fanfiction]

W.I.P - Pride and Prejudice AU

happy pride month! i received another request from my queen Bea, so i've started a pride and prejudice au fic! i have a lot more free time on my hands, and this fic will be written more long term. anyways, i'll drop this little snippet here. i hope you guys like it.

p.s. format inspired by (stolen from) @pendingnomdeplume, i love your work so this was coming eventually

You looked over at Charlotte, knowing she'd be able to offer you the explanation.

“What about the man by his side, with the unshaven face?”

“Ah, that is his good friend, Mr. Hozier-Byrne.”

You looked him up and down, noticing that the poor soul seemed to long to be anywhere but this room.

“He looks rather miserable, doesn't he?”

“Miserable, he may be, but what he lacks in happiness, he seems to make up for in funds.”

“How so?”

“10,000 a year. I’ve heard he owns a property in County Wicklow that's 50 acres.”

“How does a man even come to possess such a fortune?”

“His father is a musician, and his mother a painter. Both successful enough to have showcased their art for the Queen herself. Very lucrative for the both of them, and it helped him make his way up in society.”

After a quick inspection of his seemingly dissatisfied face, your head twisted back to Charlotte.

“If his father's a musician, why does he look like he detests the mere sound of music?”

“Oh, I don't believe it's the music he detests.”

You couldn't tell the cause of the scowl that was fixed on his face. He seemed pretty displeased by almost every aspect of the room he had entered; every soul in the room shrunk under his gaze, turning away, afraid or put off by his presence. All the while, he was the only thing you could find yourself to look at. Even when the music returned, starting up for another round of dancing, you couldn't bring yourself to move, locked into place as you stared at him from across the room.

“Y/N? Can you hear me?” With a shake of your shoulders, Jane snapped you out of your daze. “Come. Mother says she'll introduce us to the bachelors of the evening."

[storiesssbyhopfullysunny]

Not Sorry

Dean Winchester x My personal OC

This is my own personal work please do not steal it or use anywhere else! This is mine character within the plot line of Supernatural. All rights to Supernatural and its storyline belong to Warner Brothers. This is my first story like this and I’m very proud of it. Please be kind and compassionate.

Warnings: Smut!! And lots of it!!, fluffy Dean, mentions of blood, dying and hell, awkwardness, 18+ mature content, some funny moments

This is my first snippet of a bigger story with my original character Evelyn or Eve. It takes places early Season 4 after Dean returns from Hell.

Gif by @fallencrackships

——————————————————————————

I should've died. I would’ve died. If it wasn’t for Dean.

The thought kept looping through my head, quiet and insistent, like the ringing after a gunshot. Even now, back in the motel with the door locked and my body stitched back together, the ache in my ribs didn't compare to the way he looked at me in that field—blood on his hands, jaw clenched, eyes wild.

Dean hadn't said much since.

He stood by the window now, shoulders squared like he was ready to fight off the next attack, even though we both knew the danger had passed, for now. The lamplight painted his profile in gold and shadow, and I couldn't tear my eyes away.

I sat on the bed in one of his flannels, too long for me, warm in a way that made my chest ache. It smelled of gunpowder and leather. My hair was still damp from the shower. The room was warm and smelled like soap.

"You gonna look at me tonight?" I asked, voice low, timid. A softness I reserved for the Winchesters boy and not many others.

He didn't turn. "Not if I can help it."

That stung. "Thanks."

I couldn’t help the huff that left my lips. A beat of silence. Then he exhaled through his nose. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean, Dean?"

He didn't answer.

I stood, and walked over to him slowly. "You don’t gotta pretend with me Dean.”

He glanced at me, just once, but it was enough to see it. The fire. The restraint. The way his hands flexed at his sides like they didn't know what to do.

"I thought I lost you," he muttered. "You were bleeding out."

I stepped closer. "But you didn’t, I’m right here."

"That’s not the point," he said, almost too quiet to hear. "You could have."

My fingers brushed his arm. He didn't flinch, but he didn't move either. I could feel the tension rolling off him—too much want wrapped in too much guilt.

"I'm not made of glass, Dean."

"Didn't say you were."

"You act like if you touch me, I'll break."

He finally turned, jaw tight. Something burning behind is eyes. "No. I act like if I touch you, I won't stop. And that changes everything."

That landed somewhere deep in my chest. I couldn’t think before. "Maybe it should." Flew out of my mouth.

He looked at me then, really looked. His eyes were raw, dark, full of things he'd never say out loud. I reached up and touched his face. The stubble on his chin pricking against my skin. He caught my wrist gently, like he wasn't sure if he should hold me or push me away.

"I'm not good at this," he said, voice gruff.

"I know."

"You've been in my head since you showed back up at Bobby’s. Hell, since before that."

"You think it’s different for me?”

His silence told me everything I needed to know.

"I watched you die, Dean. You think I don't still wake up hearing that scream? Putting you in that grave?”

He swallowed hard, gaze flicking to my lips, then back to my eyes. "I'm not who I used to be."

"Neither am I."

"I don't want to be careful with you," he admitted, jaw tight. "I don't know how to make this sweet. I want to feel you, need you, like I've been trying not to for years. And if I do that..." He exhaled sharply. "There's no going back."

"Then don't go back." I wasn’t thinking anymore, the words that had sat at the tip of my tongue time and time again finally rolling off with no control. I carefully reached to put my hand on his cheek, fully aware he could push me away at any moment. I moved closer to him, carefully watching his every move. "I've waited long enough." The words were almost a whisper but sounded much louder in the silence of the room; but we both knew the weight they held.

Testing my limit I cautiously closed what little space was left between us looking up at him as I rested my hand on his chest. Feeling the rise and fall of his breath hitch against my touch.

He reached for my hips hesitantly before he settled them right below my bandage. I winced as his grip on my waist tightened, and for a second, I thought he'd pull away. I couldn’t help the thoughts that started to flutter through my head. He stared down at me intensely. Almost as if I’d disappear if he let go. Our difference in height glaringly obvious now that we were basically chest to chest.

My breath caught in my throat as Dean pressed closer to me. I could feel the heat of his breath fan over my face and it was then I realized how close Dean really was to me. His eyes flickered from mine to my lips. I shuddered under his gaze.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t kiss me. Didn’t pull away.

Just stared. Like he was memorizing ever inch of my face. I stared back taking in every single freckle or scar that adorned his face. He was beautiful.

“Dean…” I whispered, unsure what I was asking.

His jaw clenched. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m something good.”

I swallowed hard, my voice barely steady. “You are.”

He exhaled through his nose, rough and shaky, like the words wounded him more than comforted him. Then, slowly, like he was giving me one last chance to stop him, he leaned in.

His lips brushed mine.

Just once.

Feather-soft. Hesitant. Devastating.

And then he kissed me again, harder this time. Like he’d given up fighting it. Like he needed to prove something in the way his mouth claimed mine.

I gasped against him, and that sound undid him.

His hands slid into my hair, threading through the strands as he kissed me deeper, fuller. My fingers gripped his shirt, pulling him against me. Every inch of his body against mine made me ache more. I couldn't believe I was doing this.

He pulled his lips from mine slowly and I couldn't help the soft, desperate whine that escaped my lips as he rested his forehead to mine, both of us breathless. My cheeks burning in emabrassment.

His mouth found mine again, this time with no hesitation.

There was something wild in the way he kissed me now, like he’d finally surrendered to how badly he wanted it, wanted me. His hands cupped my jaw, thumbs brushing my cheeks as he tilted my head back and took his time. His lips feathered over mine and I swore to myself if his hands wearn’t holding me. His lips began to wonder, slow and searching, dancing over my chin and along my jaw. I gasped again.

My whole body lit up under his touch.

He moved carefully at first but when I slid my hands under his shirt and felt the heat of his bare skin, he groaned low in his throat and everything changed. My restraint fading alongside his.

He pulled me tighter against him, hands gripping my hips like he didn’t want there to be a single inch between us. I could feel how hard he was already, pressed hot and heavy against my lower stomach. The dirty thoughts going through my head were plentiful. He leaned further down burying his face in my neck and kissed along the skin there, teeth grazing lightly.

“Been trying not to think about this,” he muttered against my throat, voice rough and broken. “But you’re everywhere, Eve. Always have been.

His words sent a thrill through me, sharp and sweet.

I fumbled with the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward until he helped me pull it over his head, revealing the scarred, sculpted body I’d patched and stitched plenty of times.

I ran my hands down his chest, slow, tracing every line and scar. I breathed, studying him gently.

Dean froze for a half-second, shifting under my gaze. I leaned up, on the tips of my toes, and kissed the space over his heart. Where his tattoo laid.

He leaned into my touch.

His hands slid under my shirt then, pushing the fabric up until I lifted my arms to let him take it off. His gaze dropped to my bare skin, and his hunger sharpened, but his touch softened. His hand slid down my side. Calloused fingers traced the curve of my waist, then paused when they reached my ribs. He brushed his thumb over the ink there.

“You’re gonna wreck me,” he whispered, pressing a kiss just below my collarbone.

“Then let me,” I murmured, backing up slowly toward the bed, pulling him down with me.

He followed, every inch of his body lining up with mine, his mouth finding mine again, deeper now, hotter. His hands roamed, fingers skimming over my breasts, my ribs, my waist, across my thighs like he was learning me by feel. I gasped when his palm slid between my thighs, teasing, stroking.

“Dean—” The word barely made it out, my body jolting as his touch landed with devastating precision.

He growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against my skin. God, I almost crumbled beneath him. “Say my name like that again, and I swear—”

“Dean,” I whispered, slower this time, eyes locked on his, a wicked smile peeling across my lips.

He kissed me hard, almost bruising, and slipped his fingers inside me. I thanked myself silently for wearing the thin shorts.

He moved with purpose, curling his fingers just right, his eyes never leaving mine as he watched me unravel. My back arched and I couldn’t help the soft, desperate whine that escaped my lips as his fingers moved just right. The sound was involuntary, high-pitched and needy, and the second it left my lips, I froze.

Dean stilled, just for a beat, like he was stunned.

Then he groaned, head dropping to my shoulder like the sound physically hit him.

“Fuck, Eve,” he rasped. He looked up at me, eyes blazing, lips curved into the faintest, wrecked smile. “That little whine you just made? Cutest damn thing I’ve ever heard. And the hottest.”

My skin burned. “Dean—” his lips found the curve of my neck again kissing up my jaw.

“Do it again,” he muttered against my skin “Make that sound for me again.”

I couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. All I could do was shudder in his grasp.

His mouth on my neck was maddening, soft, slow kisses that turned to open-mouthed heat, I could taste the hints of wishkey on his tongue, his stubble scraping just enough to make me shiver. One hand stayed between my thighs, working me open with aching precision, while the other pressed firm against my right side, keeping me close, like he needed me right there.

I whimpered again, barely a sound, and felt him twitch against me, harder now.

Dean groaned, deep and guttural. “Shit, Sweetheart, you have no idea what that does to me.”

I buried my face in his shoulder, another whine escaping my lips, fingers digging into his back as he curled his fingers again. A small smirck decorated his face “Dean, please…”

His breath hitched, He pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes dark, jaw clenched like he was holding himself together by a thread. “Say it again,” he murmured, voice rough and wrecked. “Say my name like that. Beg for it.”

If I had any resistance left in me, it melted away. I arched beneath him, legs parting instinctively as he curled his finger again, making me gasp—sharp and breathless.

“That’s it,” he murmured, lips brushing mine. “Let go for me, Eve.”

I met his gaze, trembling, wrecked, and whispered, “Dean… I need you.”

And that was it.

The last thread snapped.

He hesitated, just for a breath.

Then he leaned in, voice low and wrecked.

“You already have me.” He curled his finger in that moment and I cried out, a sound that that seemed so far away but yet so loud.

He kissed me again, deeper this time, teeth grazing my lip before his tongue slid against mine and I groaned into his mouth. My hands fumbled with his belt, desperately, and he stilled me.

"Let me," he said, voice dark. He slipped his fingers out, and I bit back a whimper at the sudden ache of emptiness.

I let go, watched as he stripped for me, jeans, boxers, all tossed aside like armor. His body was scarred and strong, and God, he was beautiful in a way he'd never believe.

He knelt between my thighs and pulled off the thin bed shorts, slow and focused. His gaze drank in every inch of me.

"You've been killing me for years," he said. "And I let you."

He leaned down and kissed my chest, my stomach, trailing fire as he went. When his mouth found the wet heat between my legs, I gasped, hips rising. He groaned against me, tongue moving in slow, devastating circles until I was whimpering, fingers tangled in his hair.

"Dean—please—"

He pulled away just enough to speak. "You taste so good, Sweetheart." I whined again, this man would be the undoing of me.

He kissed his way back up my body, fingers guiding himself to my entrance. I looked up into his eyes, no fear, no hesitation anymore. Just a storm of need and something deeper.

He pushed in slowly, watching me the whole time. Every inch stretched, burned, filled, until he was fully inside me and I couldn't breathe.

We stilled there, forehead to forehead, hearts hammering.

"I've got you," he whispered. I whined in despiration jutting my hips against his in the slightest attempt to create friction.

And then he moved.

It was desperate. Raw. A rhythm forged in years of repression and longing. His thrusts were deep, rough, perfect. My name on his lips wasn't a word—it was a prayer, a curse, a confession. Something I had never thought I'd hear falling off his lips In a gasp.

“Fuck, Eve—”

His voice broke on my name, rough and guttural. I could feel him unraveling, feel the exact moment he couldn’t hold back any longer. His rhythm turned frantic, hips snapping into mine, deep and desperate, chasing the edge like he couldn’t stop if he tried.

And God, I didn’t want him to.

“Dean, oh my God, Dean,” I moaned, high and breathless, my nails digging into his back as everything inside me coiled tight, pressure building with each perfect thrust. “I’m—please, I’m so close—” I whined, giving in fully to the seering sensation run through my body.

He groaned into my neck, voice wrecked and trembling. “Come on, sweetheart… give it to me… let go…”

That name—sweetheart—sent me over the edge.

My entire body arched into his as pleasure slammed through me like a lightning strike, hot and bright and blinding. I cried out, loud and raw, his name broken on my lips.

He wasn’t far behind.

Dean cursed under his breath, thrust once more, then buried himself deep with a low, guttural growl as he came, shaking against me. “Fuck—Eve—” he rasped, clutching me to him.

We stayed like that, tangled and breathless, skin damp with sweat and aftershocks, hearts hammering in perfect rhythm.

And then—

The motel door creaked open.

“I got burgers. Hope you didn’t eat alre—”

Sam.

Dean froze. My blood turned to ice.

Sam’s voice cut off. Paper bags rustled.

And then a beat of complete, stunned silence.

“Oh my fucking God,” Sam muttered, and I could hear the instant horror dawned on him. “Nope. Nope. I didn’t see anything. Did not see a damn thing.”

Dean blinked, still inside me, then dropped his forehead against my shoulder with a groan. “Son of a bitch.”

I covered my flaming face with both hands as the door banged shut behind Sam. His footsteps pounded down the hall.

“I’m going to the Impala!” Sam’s voice called faintly through the wall. “I’m living in the Impala!”

Laughter bubbled out of me—delirious, mortified laughter. Dean shook with it too, his shoulders trembling, face still buried in my neck.

“Well,” I gasped between giggles, “at least we know he brought food.”

Dean looked up at me, eyes glassy and stunned, lips curling into a crooked grin. “We’re never hearing the end of this.”

Dean's breath was heavy, chest rising and falling against mine, but there was something fragile beneath the fire now. The way his eyes searched mine, like he was trying to find a way to put all the words he couldn't say into just one look.

I traced lazy circles on his back, still slick and warm, and felt the tension in his muscles slowly ease—just a little.

"I'm sorry about Sam," I whispered, voice hoarse.

Dean snorted, a rough, tired sound. "He always picks the worst times. Like he wants us to star in some bad motel porno."

I laughed softly, the sound shaky. "Yeah, real classy."

He shifted, finally pulling out and rolling beside me, his skin prickling where it had been pressed against mine. The quiet between us was heavy but not empty. It felt like the space where everything we'd been holding back could finally settle.

"You good?" he asked, voice low.

"Better," I said honestly, my fingers finding his.

He gave a half-smile, like he wasn't sure if he deserved it. "Me too."

We lay there, hands tangled, for god knew how long. It felt peaceful for a moment. Something neither of us were used to. Dean was still quiet, but his gaze kept flicking to my face—like he was memorizing every line, every curve. Occasionally he'd reach over placing a soft kiss against my lips, making my heart flutter each time. Even after the most passionate night if my life I still couldn't believe I was here.

With Dean.

When I finally broke the silence, it was with a question I'd been holding onto for years. "Why’d you avoid me after you got back, Dean.” He winced, like he knew it was coming, but he'd hoped it wouldn't.

He exhaled sharply, eyes darkening. "Cause I'm not good for you, Eve."

"You're wrong."

He shook his head, voice low but fierce. "I've seen what I can do. Hell... what I did."

Dean hadn't talked about hell, not to anyone else at least, I reached out, cupping his cheek. "You're here."

His hand covered mine, warm and steady. "That's not enough."

"It's all I need."

Next day

Dean was never good at mornings.

He never stretched or yawned, never lingered in bed the way normal people did. The second his eyes opened, he was up, defensive, alert, already half out the door before the rest of the world had caught up. Like rest was a luxury he wasn't allowed to want.

But this morning, he stayed.

I leaned against him, warm under the covers, as the motel air tried to sneak past the window seams. His arm was around my shoulder, his hand absently tracing the top of my thigh like he didn't even realize he was doing it. I could feel his thoughts spiraling—quiet, but relentless.

"You're doing that thing again," I murmured against his collarbone. He shifted a little pulling me closer to him.

"What thing?"

"Where you disappear, even though you're right here."

He tensed for half a second. "Just thinking."

"That's always dangerous." I kissed his collarbone softly.

His breath hitched into a small laugh, but it didn't reach his eyes. I leaned up on one elbow, searching his face.

"You regret it?" I asked gently. The fear, this would all be pulled away in a second, a faint buzz in the back of my head.

He didn't answer right away. His jaw tightened, his hand stilled on my skin. For a moment, I thought he'd lie. That he'd brush it off or change the subject.

But he surprised me.

"I regret waiting so long," he said quietly. "But I'm scared shitless I'm gonna ruin this. That I already have."

My throat tightened and my heart skipped a beat. "You didn't ruin anything, Dean."

He looked at me then, really looked. "You think I don't see what this is? What you are? You're light. And I'm... hell."

I reached for him, fingertips brushing the mark on his shoulder, the one he never talked about but always guarded like it might burn through his skin.

"You're not what happened to you," I said. "You're not what they made you do."

"I was good at it, Eve," he said, the words low and rough. "Down there, I stopped counting. I didn't just survive it, I became it. I don't know how to come back from that."

My chest ached. He had been through so damn much. I touched his face, thumb brushing the shadow of his stubble. "You already are."

He shook his head. "I can't protect you and keep you and love you, not without one of those things breaking."

I didn't flinch, even as my heart skipped at the word love slipping out without permission.

"I'm not asking you to be perfect," I whispered. "I just want you to be you."

"I don't want to watch you die," he said, voice cracked and low.

"Then stop wasting time pushing me away."

We were quiet for a long moment. I could feel him unraveling beside me, inch by inch. Not dramatically, not all at once, just quietly letting the weight shift, letting it settle on both of us, instead of carrying it alone.

Finally, he reached up, fingers threading through my hair. He pulled me to him, slow and deliberate, kissing me like a man still unsure if he deserved it. There was no urgency in it now, just something tender and aching.

"I'm not gonna say it," he muttered against my lips.

"I'm not asking you to," I whispered back.

"But you know it's there."

I nodded. "Yeah."

He sighed, forehead pressed to mine. He leaned into kiss me again, this time more passionate then the last. Not quite the same sense of urgency as last night. I sighed into it giving in to his lips that swallowed mine in a searing delicious rythm.

But then, there was a knock on the door.

Not a pounding, not angry, but unmistakably Sam.

Dean tensed beside me, muscles going rigid as he pulled back, a airy whine leaving my lips from the loss of connection. His expression was caught somewhere between guilt and instinct. Like he wasn't sure if he wanted to cover me up or shield me from something.

"Dean," I said, voice still low from everything we hadn't quite said.

He looked down at me, jaw flexing. "This... this is gonna be a thing now, isn't it?"

I gave him a faint smile. "You mean reality?"

He huffed. "Yeah. That."

The knock came again, a little more pointed this time. "Dean? Eve? You alive in there?"

Dean groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Barely." He knew his brother couldn't hear him but he groaned again letting his grip on me loosen.

I reached for the thin motel sheet and wrapped it around myself. Sliding out of the bed, and padding to the bathroom mirror to try and look like I hadn't just had the most emotionally and physically intense night of my life.

Dean was slower to move. He sat at the edge of the bed, bare chest rising and falling like he hadn't quite caught his breath since last night. The bruises on his side—old and healing—stood out in the soft morning light. He didn't bother to cover them. For once, he wasn't hiding.

"Are we opening the door?" I asked softly.

He looked up, gave a crooked, tired smile. "You're braver than me." He tossed the flannel I had been wearing last night at me.

I slipped on the flannel making sure I was completely decent before I crossed the room and kissed his forehead. "I've always been braver than you."

He chuckled as I turned to open the door. Reaching for the Nob.

When I opened the door, Sam stood there holding a paper bag and three cups of gas station coffee, his eyes immediately catching the state of me, hair a mess, shirt that wasn't mine, flushed skin.

His eyebrows lifted. "So... uh. I guess that explains the noise."

I froze. The emabessment burning hot in my ears.

Dean, from behind me, grumbled, "Jesus, Sammy."

Sam held up his hands. "Hey, not judging. Just—next time? Lock the damn door."

Dean came to stand beside me, now in his jeans but still shirtless, running a hand through his hair. "Next time, maybe knock louder."

I stifled a laugh, stepping back to let Sam in.

But as the three of us stood there in the tiny motel room, something unspoken passed between the brothers, and between Dean and me. It was a shift. A quiet, seismic one.

He didn’t deny it, didn’t make a joke to brush it off.

And when he looked at me, just for a second, I could see it. All of it.

The guilt.

The hope.

The terrifying possibility that, after everything, this might be real.

We didn’t say anything else. We didn’t have to. The silence between us felt less like avoidance and more like surrender, like we were both too afraid to speak the truth out loud in case it shattered the fragile thing forming between us.

Sam could feel it too, just in a different way.

Later

After the world's most awkward breakfast with cold diner eggs and forced small talk, and the lingering embarrassment of Sam walking in on us. Dean said he needed to hit the gas station for ammo and snacks, really just an excuse to get air.

The moment the Impala rumbled out of the lot, Sam gave me that look. Not judging. Just... knowing.

I sat cross-legged on the motel bed, sipping my second coffee of the day, trying not to meet his eyes. But of course, he waited. Patiently, like he always did when he knew I had something I wasn't saying. Sam could always read me like a book, some days better than myself.

"I'm not gonna give you the protective speech," he said finally, sitting across from me. "He's not exactly fragile."

"But?"

"But," Sam said, lifting his brows, "you are. And you've been in love with him since, what... 1998? Maybe earlier?"

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. "God, was it that obvious?"

Sam chuckled. "You used to stare at him like he hung the damn moon.”

"I did not."

"You did." He leaned back against the chair. "And he was too far up his own ass to notice."

I smiled despite myself. I could almost still feel the heat of his hands on my skin. Big and calloused. "He noticed. He just ran from it."

Sam nodded. "He's good at that."

There was a moment of quiet between us. Something me and Sam had always been good at. Comfortable silence. This time though, He let out a sigh that broke throught the air.

“You okay?” I asked, standing from the bed I was sitting on an moving to sit next to him at the small table.

He half smiled, a faint hue of pink dusting his cheeks. “Yeah. Just… trying to unsee things.”

I snorted. “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry,” he muttered with a wry smile, sipping his coffee. “But it’s fine. Honestly? I’m glad. He’s been… different since he got back. Not worse. Just… heavy. Like he’s carrying all this crap and pretending he’s not.

My throat tightened. I knew exactly what he meant. Hell wasn't exactly a vacation. I swallowed hard around the lump forming in my throat at the thought of Dean.

In that place.

Sam leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “But with you? He breathes again. It’s like he remembers he’s still human.”

I swallowed hard. “It’s not always easy with him.”

“It never will be,” Sam said, glancing at me, with a small reausrring smile.

“I know, but its worth it.” I said softly.

The door creaked open behind us. Dean stepped inside, the paper bag in his hand crinkling slightly, the smell of gas station coffee and something fried trailing in after him. His eyes swept over me, then flicked to Sam, lingering just a second too long.

“Got your crap,” he muttered, dropping the bag on the table. Sam reached for the bag, uttering a small thank you, before the room fell quiet.

Silence stretched between the three of us like a tightrope. I could feel Dean’s tension from across the room, saw it in the way his jaw ticked, in the way he avoided looking at me too long.

Sam stood suddenly, grabbing the nearest book off the cluttered table. “I, uh, should check something in the lore, something Bobby mentioned yesterday.” He backed toward the door like he was escaping a fire. Eyes darting from me who was watching Dean and Dean who was looking at him confused.

Dean blinked. “You can’t do it here?”

“Nope,” Sam said, already halfway out the door. “Need… better Wi-Fi.”

The door closed behind him with a click.

Dean looked at me.

I was already looking at him.

And the room, once again, was too quiet.

Dean hadn't moved much after Sam left, just stood there, leaning against the dresser, pretending like touching me hadn't just become the thing he needed most in the short gap of time.

But his eyes told a million stories. He watched me carefully as I got from the table and closed the short gap between us.

I stepped into him until there was no more space between us. My hands slid under the hem of his henley, palms gliding up the warmth of his stomach, his chest. He twitched at my touch, like even now he didn't trust that I wanted this.

"Still thinking?" I asked, voice quiet.

His eyes darkened. "Trying not to."

"Then don't."

I leaned up and kissed him before he could answer, deep, and a little greedy. Dean caught my waist with both hands, his thumb brushing absentmindedly, over the top of my tattoo peeking out over my jeans, gripping like he didn't know if he wanted to pull me closer or push me away. But I didn't give him the chance to run. I pressed against him.

His breath hitched when I bit gently at his lower lip. "Eve..."

I leaned back enough to meet his eyes. "You're allowed to want something, Dean."

"I always want you." The confession fell out raw, almost angry, like he resented how easy it came.

I slid my hands down his back, under his waistband, tugging him flush to me. "Then take me like you mean it." I couldn't believe those words had left my mouth. I had gotten a taste of Dean Winchester and I don't think I could ever go back.

That did it.

His mouth crashed to mine, all restraint gone. Hands gripping hard, almost desperate, he lifted me up a small squeal dancing of my lips, I wrapped my legs around his waist as he carried me to the mattress. He laid me on the bed and I gasped, as Dean came down over me, hot and solid and everywhere.

His mouth dragged down my throat, stubble scratching, tongue chasing the marks he left like an apology. My shirt was gone before I even noticed him pulling it over my head, his lips finding every inch of skin like he'd never get enough.

"Been thinking about this since before Hell," he muttered, voice gravel against my skin. "Since the first time I let you walk away."

"You thought it was the right thing."I breathed.

His fingers slid beneath the waistband of my jeans, slow and calculated, his lips brushing my ear. "It wasn't."

I arched into him as he pushed them down, heat rolling over me in waves. He kissed his way down my stomach, every touch more worship than lust. But still—when he groaned against my thigh, I felt how hard he was holding back. For me.

I curled my fingers into his hair, tugging gently. "Dean."

He looked up, wrecked and beautiful. "Yeah?"

"Don't hold back."

And this time, he didn't.

His mouth was everywhere, his hands grounding me as the room spun. It was hot and rough and so slow, the kind of build up that made my legs tremble long before he even moved inside me.

When he finally did, when our bodies locked into something deeper than rhythm, he pressed his forehead to mine, breath ragged.

"Tell me this is real," he whispered.

I kissed him hard, “It’s real, Dean. I’m yours.”

His breath hitched the moment I whispered I’m yours.

Dean groaned, wrecked. His hips surged forward, deeper, more desperate. His rhythm shifted, no longer controlled, but needy.

His hand slid between us, fingers finding the ache between my thighs like he already memorized the path. He circled that spot with maddening precision, each pass making me cry out, breathless.

My hands clutched at his back, nails dragging down muscle and scar as I arched into him. My body was trembling, overwhelmed, begging.

Every sound I made only seemed to push him further, like he couldn’t get enough of it, of me.

“Just like that,” he murmured, lips brushing mine. “I’ve got you, Eve.”

The heat built fast, coiling low and sharp. I couldn’t bite back the soft, desperate whines tumbling from my throat.

Dean shuddered.

His forehead pressed to mine, gaze locked with mine like he needed to watch me fall apart.

“Let go,” he whispered.

And like I was waiting for his permission I did.

My whole body arched, hips bucking, the climax tearing through me in a flood of heat and sound. I gasped his name dragging him over the edge with me.

He groaned voice catching as he thrusted into me one more time before he stilled deep inside me.

“Fuck… Sweetheart—” The word tore from his throat as he came. His whole body trembled with it, breath ragged against my neck.

Something in me cracked wide open at the sound of it—sweetheart—said like it meant everything, like I was everything. He had said if last night but it felt bigger in that moment.

I held him tighter, arms around his shoulders, legs wrapped around his waist like I could keep him there forever.

He didn’t move for a long moment. Just breathed into the curve of my neck, chest heaving, like the world had finally gone still.

And for once, it did.

Eventually, he shifted just enough to rest his forehead against mine. Our skin was damp, sticky, warm. Our breathing still unsteady. But his hand found mine in the tangle of sheets, fingers lacing through like it was instinct.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “You okay?”

I nodded, too overwhelmed to speak at first. Then, quietly, “Yeah. Are you?”

He gave the smallest huff of a laugh. “Ask me again when I can feel my legs.”

I smiled, brushing a hand through his damp hair. “You called me sweetheart.”

He froze for a heartbeat. “Yeah… I guess I did.”

My heart swelled. “I like it. You did it last night too.”

He looked at me then, really looked at me. Whatever shield he usually wore, it was gone. There was nothing in his eyes but warmth, exhaustion, and something that scared me in the best possible way.

Something close to love.

But he still didn’t say it.

Instead, he eased onto his side, pulling me with him, pressing kisses to my shoulder and jaw as we settled into the aftermath. His arms wrapped around me like a cocoon.

I traced slow, idle patterns across his chest, just feeling him breathe.

“You always make those sounds?” he asked eventually playful but serious.

My cheeks burned. “Dean—”

“No, I’m serious.” His hand slid down my spine. “Thought I was gonna lose it the second you started whining like that. It—” He stopped, biting back the rest.

I smiled into his chest. “Good to know.”

He chuckled, low and soft. “Gonna be thinking about that forever.”

We lay there in silence for a few minutes. Just… holding each other. I didn’t know what we were now. What would happen tomorrow, or next week, or what would happen when we walked out that door.

But right now?

Right now, we were this,a tangle of limbs and bruised hearts and shared breath. And it was enough.

His fingers danced along my spine. There was a kind of poetry in his hands, each scar a stanza, each line a memory of battles he had fought before, but yet they still held a softness. Something I hoped would be reserved for me from now on.

Dean moved slowly, careful as he slipped out of me, and I let out a soft, involuntary whimper at the loss. The ache between my thighs was sharp and sweet, the kind of soreness that would linger, but I didn’t regret a single second.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” I managed a breathless smile. “I’m good.”

He didn’t look convinced.

“You’re literally shaking,” he said, eyebrows drawing together as he looked me over like he was checking for damage. “And not in a fun way.”

“I’ll live,” I said, trying to sit up, and immediately flopping back with a wince. The pain in my ribs once a forethought now aching up my left side.

Dean gave me a look that was part smug, part worried. “Jesus. I broke you.”

“You didn’t break me.” I let out a breathy laugh.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he muttered, but there was a flicker of guilt behind the teasing. “Stay there. I got it.”

He got up, still shirtless, jeans tugged back on haphazardly, belt undone, no shoes, and headed for the bathroom. A moment later, he returned with a warm washcloth and a bottle of water. No fanfare, just doing what needed to be done. That was Dean: save the world, clean you up after he wrecks you, pretend like none of it mattered too much.

But it did.

He knelt beside the bed, not saying anything as he cleaned me up with slow, careful hands.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, reaching for the water.

He handed it over without looking up. “Yeah. Don’t say I never take you anywhere nice.”

I snorted. “Five-star treatment.”

“You know it.” His lips twitched. “Warm towel, fine linens, and a free concussion if the headboard gets involved.”

I laughed, breath catching, and he finally looked at me.

Something quiet passed between us. Something heavy.

He climbed back into bed, pulling the blanket up over both of us, and settled behind me, one arm wrapped tightly around my waist. His chin dropped to my shoulder, breath slow and warm against my skin.

For a while, we didn’t say anything.

I could feel the press of his body behind mine, the weight of him. His fingers traced lazy shapes on my stomach, dipping low, then back up, like he couldn’t stop touching me, even if he wasn’t ready to talk about it.

“Dean?” I asked after a minute, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Mm?”

“What happens now?”

His hand stilled.

He didn’t answer right away. Just shifted, pulled me a little closer, like that was the only answer he had.

“I dunno,” he said finally. “We check out of this crap motel, hit the road, probably almost die again by Thursday.”

I smiled faintly. “Sounds romantic.”

He huffed against my neck. “Best I can offer.”

“You say that like this wasn’t…”

I didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t make me.

Instead, he said, “I meant what I said earlier.”

I turned in his arms to face him.

“That you’ve got me,” he said, voice low and rough. “You still do. But if we go out there—back to all the crap waiting for us—I don’t know how long I can be this guy.”

“I don’t need you to be anyone else, Dean. Just this… whatever this is. It’s enough.”

He stared at me like he didn’t believe it. And then he kissed me again, slow and deep, like it was the only thing that made sense in a world where nothing ever did.

We stayed wrapped up in each other. The clock ticking by, the sun rising, but neither of us moved. Not yet.

Because out there was reality. Monsters, death, guilt.

But in here… it was just us.

And for once, neither of us were ready to let it go

Eventually, the silence turned too deafening to ignore.

Dean sighed behind me, long and reluctant, then pressed one last kiss to the bare line of my shoulder.

“We should… probably move,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Before Sam gets back and starts asking questions I don’t feel like answering.”

I hummed, not quite agreeing, not quite disagreeing. Reluctantly I moved to let him slide out from behind me. He stood up stretching and I couldn't help but admire the way the muscles in his back flexed.

“He walked in on us mid-” I gestured to the bed, that laid in disarray once again. “Trust me, he knows.” I couldn't help but laugh a little as I said it.

Dean shot me a look over his shoulder as he reached for his jeans for the second time today. That earned a laugh out of him, weak but real. I finally sat up, the chill in the air a stark contrast to the warmth we’d wrapped ourselves in moments ago.

We dressed slowly, each movement deliberate, like pulling on armor. Every zip, every fold of fabric was a reminder: time to go back. To the road. To the weight of saving people and the truths we carried with us.

I missed the smell of his flannel as I shrugged mine on over the tank top I had worn yesterday now crusted with dried blood, I almost forgot about.

Almost.

Dean tossed me my bag from the chair in the corner and I caught it with a small nod of thanks.

Neither of us spoke much as we moved around the room, packing up, brushing teeth, gathering weapons and laundry and the pieces of ourselves we’d left scattered across the sheets.

He paused once, watching me fold a shirt, something unreadable in his expression. “This wasn’t just a one-time thing.”

I looked up. “‘I’d like that .”

He gave a single, solemn nod, then grabbed the last of the duffel bags, just as the door creaked open.

Sam.

Hands full of books, hair tousled like he’d had one too many close encounters with a stack of dusty books.

“Hey,” he said casually, stepping inside. “Library was dead. Found a few things that might help with that case in Canonsburg”

Then he stopped. Noticing the half-zipped bags, Dean’s flushed face, my hair still vaguely wild despite my best attempts at taming it.

His eyebrows lifted.

“Oh,” Sam said, voice catching with secondhand awkwardness. “You guys are… packing.”

Dean didn’t miss a beat. “What gave it away? The packing?”

Sam blinked. “Right. Okay. Cool. Well—I’m just gonna…take this back to the car then. Call Bobby.”

He was gone before either of us could respond, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click.

Dean snorted. “Think he needs a second to bleach his brain.”

I sank onto the edge of the bed, trying not to laugh. “Think he’ll ever look either of us in the eye again?”

Dean tossed the last bag toward the door and crossed the room to stand in front of me, brushing my hair behind my ear with a tenderness that nearly undid me.

“Eventually, Doesnt matter,” he said. “I’m not sorry.”

I looked up at him, heart pounding. “Me neither.”

He bent down and kissed me again, soft, sure, the kind of kiss that said: We’ll figure this out. I couldn't help but melt into him. He felt like home like Ive belonged here the whole time. Like I was made for him and him for me.

Then he pulled back with that half-cocked smirk and offered me a hand.

“Let’s go, sweetheart.” I tried to hide the shiver that ran down my spine but he noticed a small chuckle flowing from his lips. He grabbed our bags with one hand and opened the door with the other, ushering me under his arm.

I could feel his eyes burning against my back as walked down the hallway and into the parking lot.

Sam was already in the passenger seat so I slid in behind him tossing my bag on the seat next to me. Dean climbed into the drivers seat firing the impala up and pulling out of the lot.

And just like that, we were back on the road.

But something had changed.

This time, we were gonna do it together.

[mer-acle]

Snippet: Silent Wars

~Home Sweet Home~

Pt. 1 | Pt.2 | Pt.3 | Pt.4

Aphrodite gets some more insight on Ares' family

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

Ares was just as glad as his sister when they were done eating. They helped clean up, then he waved Aphrodite over.

"Come on, I'll show you the house."

She slipped her hand into his, feeling giddy and younger than she was, it never stopped being exciting to see someone's home, where they'd become the person they were today.

"Beep beep," Hephaestus called, overtaking them. Athena followed more slowly, her hands buried in her hoodie pocket. Aphrodite guessed that a part of her wanted to sleep more than anything else, but her brother had clearly waited eagerly for her, so games it was.

"He's so cute," she said to Ares when the boy had disappeared. "So much energy."

"Takes after me," he replied with a laugh. "Here's a bathroom by the way. And that's the laundry." He touched the back of his neck. "Not too interesting."

She puffed his arm.

"Aww, you're so nervous, baby. I want to see, you know? This is where you grew up, it's a part of who you are."

"I suppose." He moved to the next door, opening it. "That's the living room. I think it's changed the least out of everything over the years."

Aphrodite stepped into the room, light filtering through the curtains. The walls were painted a warm old rose, and like everything in the house so far, it looked like Hera had been responsible to furnish it, and then had let the kids take over. It was largely orderly, but Hephaestus clearly spent time here. Someone also had taken a crayon to the far-off wall near the floor. She guessed Ares, but imagining a small Athena doing so was also adorable.

She was naturally drawn to the photos on the wall, different ones than Ares and Athena had in the apartment, more so a timeline of the last 20 years.

"Is that you or Athena?" she asked, pointing at the photo of a sleeping infant.

"Ath, I think," Ares said, brow furrowed. "At least I don't remember this blanket, I had a different one, I think." He pointed at the picture below. "That's me... at least I believe it is. Gotta ask Mom."

"You look way too alike," she said with a chuckle, then looked at the photo beside the baby ones, showing Ares, this time recognizable by his dark eyes, playing in a sandpit, and next to that, with a slightly older Athena, brown hair in a stubby ponytail.

Aphrodite thought to herself that she would have taken Hera as someone who put an even number of pictures of both children, but she supposed she was being pedantic.

"So adorable," she said. "I demand seeing a baby album of you, babe."

"But then I get to see one of yours, too."

"You make hard demands."

She giggled when he hugged her from behind. 

The next pictures were about a year later, she guessed, showing little Athena peaking out from underneath a table fort like a small ghost, Ares covered in finger-paint - gaining another 'aww' from Aphrodite, then both kids being carried by their father, though Ares made a valiant attempt to use him as a tree substitute. Athena was holding on properly, calmly sitting on his hip.

Another time jump, this time jarringly obvious. Ares was no longer a toddler but maybe 5, and Athena - Athena was smiling, for the first time, not the mild camera smile her current pictures had, but genuinely. They were on a sandy beach, maybe the sea or a lake, building a very muddy sandcastle, hair frizzy from the salt and sand, Ares standing in the middle of it with a small shovel, and Athena half-turning to the camera, grinning.

Aphrodite bit back the comment that she had never seen her this openly happy. She supposed life happened to everyone but she still would have liked to see more of this Athena.

"Where's this from, what place I mean?"

"We went down to the coast, near Syracuse, Lousiana," he replied. "Was a cool trip, judging from the pics, I don't remember it that well, but I do remember the food was very good and being at the beach was great. This sandcastle became so epic, you could think Heph helped build it."

Aphrodite looked at him.  "Sorry if that's a stupid question, but could he? With the sand and all?"

"Not with the wheelchair. We haven't been at the beach in years anyway, Athena is not big on it anymore, but we would make it work, I'd say. Handcart would probably be fine, something with wider wheels." He nodded to himself thoughtfully. "Might bring that up to Mom and Dad actually, I think he'd like it."

He pointed at the next picture.

"That was my birthday, don't remember which one. We went to the carnival all day. Thena was there because it was a weekend day, and we had a lot of fun. Rode a rollercoaster for the first time."

"I can never ride one of those again," Aphrodite said with a laugh. "I watched Final Destination 3 and Ride the Cyclone and I'm too superstitious to test my luck."

"Put both of these on our movie list, I haven't seen either yet."

Aphrodite tried her hardest not to jump around with joy. She knew it was normal to have a boyfriend that was willing to watch what you cared about, but Ares was the first that she felt genuinely comfortable dropping musicals on. She had clearly dated too far in the star-quarterback-spectrum before, but ever since she had come into her kitchen in the morning to find Ares humming a song from Hamilton, she knew this was what she wanted. Not just concessions, genuine compatibility.

"Noted and moved along. Signing Thena up too."

"Doubt she'll complain."

They moved a little further ahead. There was Hera, clearly pregnant, with her arms around the older children, there was Athena with a Greek Language Translation Trophy, Ares upside down on some monkey bars. A picture from a party with some relatives.

"Those are my aunts," Ares said. "Hestia and Demeter, my Mom's sisters. Demeter is the mother of Persephone, the cousin Mom mentioned earlier."

"The one with the baby?"

"Yep. And there is baby Heph, look."

"Oh, he's adorable." Aphrodite meant it. The baby wore soft braces, gently nestled in Hera's arm, completely safe. The pictures beside it were of him with his father, and both of his siblings. Athena looked more serious again, holding her brother with quiet reverence. Ares beamed at the camera as if saying 'Look, that's my brother, isn't he perfect?'

"You look complete there," Aphrodite said softly. "I love this picture."

"Me, too." Ares smiled. "Even though I still remember Thena endlessly lecturing me to be careful with him. She read books on how to take care of babies in general and babies with physical disabilities in particular. At age 12. Thea in a nutshell, really."

"That's so sweet, and so her. But you're both so good with him, it's so clear he adores you."

She took another step, again seeing the children grow, one of the first professionally taken portraits among the snapshots, then Athena reading from a thick carton book to Hephaestus, Ares playing with blocks with him, the family at a historical archeology exhibit or something similar.

Ares slowly growing from a child to a lanky teenager, Athena gaining subtle curves, much less hidden than now, though Aphrodite supposed she mightn't cover up as much as right now if this summer wasn't so pitifully cold, Hephaestus now decidedly a toddler.

"This was one of Thea's birthdays," Ares said fondly. "We visited an owl sanctuary. It was a surprise and Mom was really giddy about it because she knew she'd love it. It was cool." He shrugged. "I'm not as obsessed with owls as Thena but they are goofy and badass which is my favorite combo."

She smirked.

"Mine, too."

The graduation photos from the kitchen weren't repeated, but the family photos from both were hung up, instead showing more from the summer two years ago, the siblings in carefree freedom. Then lastly, clearly recent, a picture from Athena in the apartment that Ares had clearly taken in secret as she was studying, one from Ares on the apartment rooftop and one of Hephaestus crafting in his room.

Aphrodite turned to her boyfriend with a smile.

"I love that all these pictures are there. Your Mom doing that?"

Ares snorted. "Yeah, it's not my father, that's for sure. There are photos all over the place."

He slipped his hand back into hers.

"Wanna continue?"

She nodded, letting him lead her out of the living room.

Ares opened the next door.

"This is like a playing space. It looks way different than when I was little, Thena and I had a playhouse and a rockclimbing wall, but obviously we remodeled for Heph."

Aphrodite nodded.

"You actually have your own playground," she commented.

"Would never complain about a lack of toys," Ares said, slightly embarrassed.

She puffed his shoulder. 

"I'm just mad I didn't get to play here when I was a kid."

He chuckled. "Fair."

He didn't take her to the elevator next to the play room, but back down the hall.

"We don't really use the elevator unless with Heph. Leave it on the floor he's at because it's his way to get around. It's not really a hard rule and we would have taken it up either way, but you know... small things that just are like that."

She nodded.  "Totally, noted."

"This is my parents' room," Ares said upstairs. "There's a study, and this is the proper bathroom. Nothing to see, really, you'll check it out later after all. This is Heph's room, or inventor's lair, really. Athena's room is that one at the end of the hall, and I'm square in the middle."

He opened the door to his room, shyly waving her inside.

Aphrodite grinned. It was red, of course, with accents in dark grey and black, a bed, couch, TV and wardrobe. She sat down on the foot of the bed like she did at the apartment. 

"I thought your childhood furniture was all in the apartment."

He sat down next to her.

"It is. I had very little to do with this furniture. After Thena and I moved out properly, with all our furniture, our rooms were completely bare. Mom wanted us to come home to something nice, so she refurnished them how we would like it. I think she did a stellar job honestly, my old room never looked this cool."

"That is so sweet," Aphrodite said, considering briefly if her parents would have repurposed her childhood room if her furniture hadn't stayed there. She decided she didn't care to have that question answered. "And it's so fun that you, as the middle child, have the middle room."

Ares dropped backward onto the bed, sprawled comfortably.

"I didn't always. I used to be in Heph's room, but it's bigger, and he can navigate it more easily. And obviously now I don't live here, it'd be silly for the big room to be empty anyway. So yeah, the natural order was achieved."

She chuckled.

"I like it," she said then. "the house I mean. It's homey."

"I'm glad." He wrapped his arm around her, and she rested her head on his chest.

"You want to take a walk around town, or is this enough exposition about my life?"

She giggled.

"Of course I want to see the town," she said, and kissed him.

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

I have the house built in the Sims and a tour recorded, I only need to edit it... sighh I hope this makes some sense.

Also pictureess (Aph, you're SO close to clocking Athena, just a little bit more and you'll get she's depressed)

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

Tagged for updates:

@firinnie , @pikachiee , @yourfavtexan , @witless-winion1 , @wickeddisney55 , @flyingonions , @aikya-kat-44 , @therapybard , @electricpirateduck , @greekmythologyjunkie

(ask if you want to be included :3)

[mirrorcatcreditcard]

It's clicked! "What are you doing up here, little guy?" A voice echoes in her head. She doesn't know the voice. The sister to the glasses person has powers that can speak when she's not there. They might be her parent. "I'm finding a grown-up," 100100 replies simply and slips to the side, staring intently at the lock before they do. "You lied to me," they sound hurt. He shrugs, "You're probably a grown-up, and grown-ups put restraints on you whenever you tell the truth." A thoughtful silence—she carries on. Grown-ups are silly. They get big and puffy but never considered someone else exists. All the time. "If you tell me the real reason you're here, I'll tell you who I am." "Really?" He knows grown-ups will lie to anyone, so he plans to use the same amount of deception as he knows the average adult to show. This mystery voice doesn't know his personality yet though. He can fool him at least once if he's sharp and many times if he's not. "I promise." And I promise you're another tricky sticky grown-up. 100100 smiles, "I told you the reason already, so tell me." If they try to argue, I'm gonna know they're a sticky. They laugh loudly in her head. She doesn't appreciate it. "My name's Dazai Osamu." Their surname reminds the child of pudding when she gets to make it with her own hands. "That doesn't mean nothing," she points out. He hears their question noise and shrugs. "I don't know what that name means, so you didn't tell me who, really. Tell me something else." Maybe he is being a sticky kid, but shea doesn't care. Shea knows that a grown-up who breaks the rules to talk to a test subject was sticky long before she ever was. "What a saucy child…" Dazai muses, "I am also trapped in this facility like you." Why would he say someone climbing through vents without detection is trapped? "I'm not trapped, silly. I can just leave if I use my powers." "Ah, no, you couldn't. That's why I'm here." That perks his interest some more. "What does that mean?" "My ability cancels others out. They have me hooked up to a machine that stops a person from using their ability if they pass a certain area." "That must be sad. Being hooked up to a machine is very very sad. Only the sick kids have to do that." "I get to leave on weekends." "Can you take me?" "Absolute not." "I'm finished with the conversation." Adults are so annoying. Why do they think kids are?

Snippet from my Lab AU (WIP)

[noobsydraws]

Here's another little snippet of the modern AU.

It's a follow up to the first post accompanied by text. It really helps me put these little comics into perspective. 🙈💕

Also I think it's my first time drawing them actually kiss haha!

So here's the text:

Sunshine warms Vanders hands as he kneads bread dough on the kitchen counter. It's the warmth of the early summer sun, falling in through the window. It will develop into unrelenting heat, in a few weeks, which perhaps will beckon them to take a trip to the beach. He looks forward to it. A little bit of normalcy after their lives have been turned upside down by the fire that took two lives and brought two children into their household.

The key turns in the lock of the apartment door. Vander turns around and finds his partner walking in. He has left right after breakfast and Vander hasn't asked where he planned on going. He's still walking on egg shells around Silco, even though things have massively improved since he too started his therapy sessions.

Silco still wakes up at night but rather than fleeing to the living room he has begun to seek comfort, a thing that Vander is more than willing to offer. There are of course still nights he spends in the armchair, holding Powder while she cries. But Silco also finally started to talk to him. Witnessing his friend going almost completely silent, after that night of horror, has to be one of the scariest things Vander has witnessed. Even the smallest expression of needs is progress.

Vander halts. Only now processing the drastic change in appearance.

" You like it?" Silco says as he approaches the open space kitchen of the small apartment. A playful smirk twists the corners of his mouth upward. Vander feels like he hasn't seen this expression in years.

"Looks good. Professional."

Vander eyes the new hair cut. Silco has gotten his hair shorn short on the sides and back and longer on top. Surely there's a term for that kind of cut, but Vander isn't aware of it.

Vi uses all kind of fancy slang words for things and he has to constantly ask what they mean.

"For the interview tomorrow?" Vander asks. Silco has reached him and puts his hand on Vanders cheek when he bends down for the welcome - home - kiss.

"Don't put those flour hands on me." Silco takes a step back and smoothes his hair back. That gesture is more attractive than it has any right to be.

"Don't know what to do with it yet. But it will go great with the suit."

Silco steps back and takes a cup out of the cupboard to make himself coffee.

Vander remembers the suit. Silco has shown it to him a few nights back and the whole ordeal has ended with Vander peeling it off of him again. The first time they've gotten that intimate since... - The grinder of the coffee machine roars to life and snaps Vander out of the memory.

He continues to work his bread dough, while Silco leans against the counter next to him, sipping his coffee.

"I've been thinking."

"Have ya?" Vander asks without looking up.

"If I score this job, I'll earn enough for us to get by. Enough so you could stop working late nights at the bar." Silco pauses and adds. "If you want."

Vander puts the bread bun on a tray and covers it with a towel.

"I wouldn't want to put all that pressure on you."

"Think about it, Vander. You could take care of the girls. Do the community and charity work you always talk about."

He hates that he likes the idea and chews the inside of his cheek. They also need go find a bigger place and that costs money.

"Plus." Silco continues. "It only makes sense it is you. You're the one who can drive a car."

There's bitterness in his voice when he speaks the last sentence, but he is correct.

"The girls need someone who drives them places. School, check ups, play dates."

Vander doesn't answer and begins to scrub his hands in the sink.

"I'm not that fragile, Vander." Silco says. He has sneaked closer and slides a hand on Vanders shoulder. The familiar gesture loosens something in the big mans chest.

"I can handle it." Silco says

When Vander looks down he finds Silcos gaze burning with determination. If he wants to proof himself, he's allowed to. The things he has seen Silco do out of spite and succeeding are legendary afterall. Still... Vander dries off his hands with a kitchen towel, he then flings over his other shoulder.

"If it gets too much, you'll talk to me, right?"

Silco nods. Vander feels his weight pushing against himself. He's leaning on him. God... How long has that been? He makes a mental note to bring that damn therapist a box of chocolate.

Vander slips an arm around his partners waist and relishes in the warmth of their bodies touching.

"The hair suits you, Hot Sauce." Vander chuckles and Silco weakly slaps his chest.

"Cease that." But his voice betrays Silco. The retort is infused with a smile.

[arminsumi]

Imagine Gojo taking the students all out in Tokyo for the day and the reader goes and buys everyone ice cream and then hands Gojo one and he’s shocked that one of his students considered him and she’s like “because you’re my favourite teacher” 😭😭😭😭😭 I think he’d low-key be so excited

˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

𝐒𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡

A/N: (my lactose-intolerant crying noises in the distance) ahh so cute!! i hope i wrote it as you imagined 💗

Wc ≈ 600

Pairing: GOJO Satoru x gn.reader

Summary: during a day out in Tokyo, you decided to thank your favorite teacher in some small way. Of course, he kept those words you said to him close to his heart for years.

Warnings; a little bit of flirting 👀😳, a little cheesy, i'm pretty sure it's gn but if you catch smth not gn lmk!!

A bright sun blazed in the Tokyo sky. You put your hand to the crown of your head to act as a shield from those blinding rays as you disembarked the train.

The station felt lively; people were buzzing around purposefully on their own little missions, just like you and your fellow students of Jujutsu High.

Gojo towered over you four, keeping a watchful eye from the back of your little formation as you headed out the train station. It was always you and Yuji in front, talking so fast it sounded like a crazy chattering noise to passers-by. Nobara interjected when she disagreed with Yuji. Megumi interjected when he disagreed with you — Gojo silently listened to it all and tried not to laugh.

"Hold that thought — who wants ice cream?" you asked, eyeing out a store that was packed between two others.

While you four argued about the best flavors and bought cups of double servings, Gojo paced around the bright stretching street with long legs, like he was observing the world from behind a film of his memories.

"Gojo!" you called out to him. Your voice brought him back to reality, he turned to face you, hands in pockets as they so often are.

"Y/n!" he jokingly replied with reciprocated enthusiasm. "Enjoying yourself today — ?"

"This is for you." you said, handing him a cup of the biggest serving of mochi ice cream he's ever seen in his life.

He seemed a bit too taken aback at first to register that it was for him, even though you clearly stated that it was.

"For me...?" he asked surprisedly.

"Yeah, for you." you assured. "Do you not like ice cream...? I'll eat it with Yuji if you don't want it, he was eyeing out the mochi but it was too expe — it — uhhh anyways!" you stopped, trying to cover up the fact you spent a lot of money on his ice cream.

He chuckled, "Ah, you shouldn't have blown your savings, I'm right here y'know you could have asked for me to pay."

"But you brought us out here today, I wanted to thank you, and um... I anyways wanted to get something for my favorite teacher." you said, throwing in 'favorite' just to test his reaction.

" 'Favorite' huh?" he smiled teasingly, "That's very cute." his response made you lower your head, cheeks feeling warm, heart racing a bit.

He took the cup of ice cream from you. "Thank you, Favorite Student. Though you're really fueling my sweet tooth."

"I'm sorry!" you laughed.

Roaring Tokyo noises filled your ears, you barely heard a snippet of what he said next — but he also said it so quietly, like a mumble, as if he didn't mean for you to catch it.

Something like... " ... 'got a sweet tooth for you, too."

Your friends crashed the atmosphere right then.

Yuji had stolen a bite of Nobara's ice cream, it was a whole scene. Gojo calmly watched it play out while scooping mouthfuls of ice cream into his mouth.

For the walk back at the end of the day, you noticed that Gojo stuck a little closer to you — when crossing train tracks, in crowded places, through the station, all the way up to the mountain that Jujutsu High was sat on top of.

He was so excited and flattered to know that he was your favorite. You could tell, because he teased you about it for the rest of your life.

"I'm Y/n's favorite." he proudly boasted whenever he could. Oh you just know he especially rubbed it in the other teacher's faces.

Years later, he brought it up to you in the middle of a late-night conversation. "But I'm still your favorite, right? Good, good. No one else better take my place."

[yazthebookish]

I loved all of what Sarah highlighted in her interview today and I'll elaborate a bit especially on the romance part:

In Maas’ fantasy worlds, love interests often exist as fated “mates,” with invisible strings between them that are powerful and often poetic. Readers can see the literary metaphors, like complementary powers between two characters. But other times, there are no metaphors, with their connection initially seeming random.

She's too attached to the mate trope and I like that she gives us different cases and scenarios for it, otherwise it'll be boring.

“Sometimes, I will write a scene with two characters that I’ve planned for them to get together, and then they have no …” She shakes her head slightly at me. “It’s like holding two dolls and being like, now kiss! And they won’t. … And then sometimes a different character will walk in and they will just” — she snaps.

I yelled at this part because it's as if she plucked the scene from Azriel's bonus chapter and used it as an example. Those parallels between Elain and Gwyn are intentional. It doesn't mean Elain is bad it's just their dynamic doesn't work as a couple and it was obvious to the author. I know she didn't specify who this was about but like, come on, who tried to kiss and which character showed up in a bonus chapter after that depressing scene and gave a glimmer of hope?

“It feels like magic in a way where, as much as I tried to plot out things years in advance, I let my characters guide a story. And they usually wind up with the people that they need to be with and who offer them the most growth and joy.”

I love this so much and allow me to speak about my favorite ship and its because the snippets we saw of Az and Gwyn together especially in the bonus chapter brought out a lighter version of Az. His scenes with Gwyn were light-hearted and the bonus chapter ends on a hopeful note for them. It's hard to deny that connection between them whether you theorize she's luring him or they're mates, those theories wouldn't exist if she had no ties to him (she's in his own chapter like come on).

I go the philosophical route with my next question: We’re talking about fate here, but at what point is a character the agent of their own fate? What happens if someone rejects their mate? (Listen, if I were Fae and I didn’t like my mate, whatever God chose for me is not my business.)

People are jumping the gun and assume this example is set to be Elucien but... we have Helion and Lady of Autumn likely being an example of a tragic rejected mates story (if you read ACOWAR and their history it's obvious they're mates). Maybe it's Mor and Eris and that's the secret that ties them to each other. We have other characters from other series too.

For a convincing mate rejection story in my opinion, it needs more than one book or it's a case that we see with side characters where we can see their history and the long-term implications of a rejected bond.

It's too easy of a story to have one person's central conflict be the words "no I reject you" and they're done. Again, this is not exclusive to ACOTAR but also her other series.

“That’s something I find to be very interesting,” she replies. “What if the forces that be put you with the wrong person? Or what if you just decide, eh, I’m not interested. … There’s a lot to explore within the concept of mates and your agency about it.

The concept of agency is something many readers in the fandom discussed especially when it comes to mating bonds and there were arguments on (would Rhys fell for Feyre if she wasn't his mate or would have Cassian fell for Nesta if she wasn't his mate). We know that some mates don't work out but stay together because their dynamic is unhealthy (Rhys's and Tamlin's parents). We got examples of a loveless mating bond already.

We also saw that Nesta didn't immediately accept the term "mate" because it would mean cutting off her last tether with humanity. It's not a matter of "you're my mate" "yes I'll be with you", the dynamic between the mated couple is important to explore.

“I’m not going to say if I am exploring it in future books or not,” she continues, “but it definitely offers a wealth of things to explore with this concept of freewill and what is true love. Is it something that’s destined? Or is it something that you make? Is it both?”

This part aligns with what I think about Elucien. We never had a mated pairing who knew they were mates but are not in love with each other. Every mated couple found out they're mates when they were already in love.

Can a destined love turn into true love? Or do you settle for a destined love without love being in the equation. Love wasn't in the equation for Rhys's parents, but love was the equation for Feysand and Nessian. Elucien was left unexplored for a reason and both Elain and Lucien view each other by label "mate", they didn't have a chance to get to know each other. So it's going to be very interesting to see them navigate their feelings for each other despite the mating bond.

I didn't expect her to elaborate a lot on this but I love that she did and I hope in future interviews she gives us more good bits about her writing and examples of the decisions she took for some characters and couples.

Didn't expect this post to be long but happy reading! I'm still reeling from HOFAS 🥲