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cuttoothed · 3 years

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A little fic for @jonsimsandcats and also inspired by some adorable art on discord! Featuring notes on kitten rearing, and of course some Jmart because it’s me.

Jon works at the Institute here, but a non-spooky version of it!

Martin is doing a final check on the fish tanks when he hears the bell above the front door jingle. He sighs; he knew he should have locked up first. Just his luck.

“This is your fault,” he tells the angelfish balefully. They don’t seem contrite, too busy nosing in the fine gravel for any food they’ve missed. Martin walks out to the front of the shop, preparing his best customer service smile to tell whoever’s come in at—he glances at his watch—three minutes past eight that they’re closed, and no, they can’t just wander around for a few minutes to look at the animals. Honestly, some people seem to think there’s no difference between a pet shop and an art gallery.

There’s a man standing at the front counter, looking around anxiously, a bundled up jumper clutched against his chest.

“Sorry, we’re—” Martin begins, and that’s as far as he gets before the man unleashes a frantic tirade.

“Please!” the man says, “I need your help, I-I’m not sure they’re breathing and they were out there for hours on their own, I know you’re not supposed to move them in case their mother comes back but I couldn’t just—just leave knowing they were still there, and all the vet offices nearby are closed, this was the only place I could think of!”

The man is wild eyed, almost panicked, and Martin lifts both hands in an appeasing gesture.

“Woah,” he says, “Uh, maybe start from the beginning again? Slowly?”

“Right, ah, sorry. Sorry. I spotted them this morning, under a bush just outside my work.” The man sets the bundle of jumper down on the counter, and unfolds it to reveal two tiny scraps of fur: one gray, one black. Kittens, Martin realizes, so small they can only be a week or so old; certainly not old enough to be without their mother.

“I left them alone, because I’ve heard that the mother usually comes back after a little while. A-and I meant to go and check on them again during the day, make sure.” The man sounds anguished now, his face miserable. “But I—I got caught up in work, forgot about it. It was only when I was leaving that I remembered. And they were still there, on their own. Barely moving. Please—is there anything we can do?”

Martin looks down at the tiny creatures in their nest of wool; he can just about see the shallow in-out of their breathing. All day outside alone, at their age, the odds aren’t great. But he’s met enough kittens to know that they’re shockingly resilient little sods, and he’s never given up on a so-called hopeless case before. He’s not about to start now.

“You did the right thing moving them,” he assures the man, moving to flip the sign on the door to CLOSED. “We need to get them warmed up and get some food into them. Body heat is the best thing for them right now—can you start warming them with your hands?”

“Oh—ah, yes,” says the man, turning to his bundle of jumper with a worried frown. Martin leaves him there while he rushes around the shop, grabbing kitten milk replacer and nursing bottles, and then into the back to heat two mugs of water in the microwave while he makes up the bottles. He pops them into the mugs to warm, and brings the whole lot out to the front. The man now has a kitten in each hand, and is holding them pressed carefully to his chest for additional warmth; his expression is still worried, but also desperately tender, and Martin feels a pang of something behind his ribs at the sight.

“One of them is moving,” the man says eagerly as Martin sets the bottles down. Martin can see the gray kitten wriggling weakly in the man’s grip, responding to the heat. Its sibling is still motionless, and Martin’s heart sinks a little.

“That’s great,” he says. “Hold onto her for another minute, and let me see if I can get her sister moving too.”

He holds out a hand, and the man almost reluctantly passes him the black kitten. Martin doesn’t try to notice that the man has lovely hands, with long, slim fingers, narrow wrist jutting out of his shirt sleeve, but, well, he notices a bit. He turns his attention to the kitten; he can’t make out the motion of its breathing anymore. He takes it in both hands and starts to massage it gently. It lies limp in his palms, head lolling, and Martin starts to feel despair crawling cold up his spine.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “You can do it.” The man is watching him anxiously, the gray kitten cradled against his chest, and Martin knows he can’t give up. He keeps rubbing the kitten’s small body, trying to will warmth and life back into the tiny, fragile form. At last, after what seems like an eternity, the kitten squirms in his hands and a faint, plaintive mew escapes it. An answering mew comes from the gray kitten, and Martin laughs, relief washing over him.

“Right, let’s see if we can get them to eat.”

After checking that they’re not too chilled to feed, Martin tests each of the kittens with a drop of formula on their tongue; thankfully they both seem able to swallow without difficulty. He shows the man how to feed the gray kitten, holding its body in a neutral position with the bottle tilted for a gentle flow. It doesn’t take long for the kittens to figure out the process, and Martin can feel the tug on the bottle as his kitten begins to suckle.

“Oh,” he hears softly from beside him, and turns to see the man gazing in delight at the gray kitten, whose tiny, unfurled ears are twitching as it sucks.

“She’s doing great,” Martin comments. “Good job.” The man gives him a tentative, pleased smile, and Martin still isn’t trying to notice but it’s a very nice smile. “I’m Martin, by the way.”

“Jonathan Sims—Jon,” says the man, and then gives a small, tense laugh. “God, I haven’t even apologized for storming in here while you were clearly trying to close up for the night.”

“That’s all right, I didn’t have any exciting plans tonight anyway. I’d much rather be spending time with these little beauties.”

Jon smiles again, more sure this time, and all right, maybe Martin deliberately notices the dimple in his right cheek. Just a bit.

Once the kittens are fed, Martin shows Jon how to stimulate them; both of them only pee a little—poor things are dehydrated—but it’s a good sign. They clean them up and tuck them back into the nest of Jon’s jumper, where they curl up into a small puddle of black and gray. Jon gives a sigh that’s somewhere between relieved and exhausted.

“Thank you,” he says. “I, ah, I think I forgot to say that as well. You know a lot about this.”

“I volunteer at a shelter, there are a lot of kittens. If you like, I can take them for tonight and bring them in tomorrow?”

“Ah,” says Jon. “Do you think that’s—I mean...I-I’m not sure I’d feel right, handing them off to someone else. Not that I think you’re not capable!” he rushes to add, and Martin finds himself smiling.

“No, I get it. You found them, you want to take care of them. I’ll warn you, though, it’s a big commitment. For the first couple of weeks you have to feed them every two hours, even during the night, and then it’s every three or four hours until they start weaning. It’s like having a newborn baby.”

“I don’t get much sleep generally,” says Jon. “At least this way I’ll have something to do while I’m up all night. And my work is—well, I’ll explain the situation.”

He looks set on it, brow furrowed with determination. Martin considers arguing more: that a shelter will be better equipped to care for the kittens, that there’s no guarantee they’ll survive in any case, that Jon doesn’t know what he’s signing up for. But the shelters are always crowded, and kittens this young have simple needs, and really, a dedicated foster parent—armed with the right knowledge—is probably the best thing for them.

“Right,” he says, “Let’s make sure these two are well wrapped up before you take them home.”

He scrounges a cardboard box from the back and they settle the kittens into it, still wrapped in Jon’s jumper along with a soft fleece blanket printed with cartoon fish. Martin gathers a couple of cartons of liquid formula and extra bottles to get them started, and shows Jon how to pierce the nipple so the flow isn’t too strong.

“It should be warmed to body temperature,” he explains, “But not directly in the microwave—put the bottles in heated water, like I did earlier. Do you have a hot water bottle?”

“Yes, I do,” says Jon, frowning intently as he listens. Martin nods.

“It’s better than a heating pad at this age, they’re less likely to get overheated. Don’t make it too hot—body temperature, again—and wrap it in a blanket so they’re not touching it directly.”

“Got it,” says Jon firmly, and Martin believes him. He bags up the formula and bottles and an extra pet blanket, and presses them into the hands of a startled Jon; the till is shut off for the night, but Martin can explain and pay for the items tomorrow.

“What’s your phone number?” he asks, and Jon looks even more startled.

“S-sorry?”

“Or your email. I’m going to send you some links—videos, a couple of good blogs that should be helpful.”

“Oh, ah, right. Of course.” Jon recites his number and Martin saves it under “Jon (Kittens).” He peeks into the box one last time before Jon scoops it up, and sees the kittens snuggled in the folds of the jumper, paws waving in little kitten dreams.

“Thank you again, Martin,” says Jon. “I honestly don’t know what I would have done without you tonight.” His tone is shy but genuine, and it sends warmth through Martin’s chest and up into his cheeks.

“Any time,” Martin says. “And feel free to text me if you need anything—if you have a question or...anything. Or call me if you like.” He’s aware he’s rambling a bit, but it’s not every day an attractive man says that he doesn’t know what he would have done without you, so he can hardly be blamed.

“I will,” says Jon solemnly.

He doesn’t text Martin any questions that night, but when Martin sends him the links to a youtube channel and three blog posts on kitten care, he replies:

Thank you :)

Martin spends most of the rest of the night wondering what that smiley face means.

He doesn’t necessarily expect to see Jon again, and certainly doesn’t expect to see him the very next day. But just before one o’clock in the afternoon the bell above the door jingles and there’s Jon, looking tired and more than a bit sheepish.

“I got all the way into work this morning before I realized I’d never paid for any of the things you gave me,” he says, reaching for his wallet.

“Those were gifts,” Martin tells him firmly. “Sort of a “welcome to foster parenthood” care basket?”

“No, I couldn’t let you—” Jon starts to protest, but Martin shakes his head emphatically.

“It’s no big deal, honestly. I get an employee discount anyway.”

“I...well, then I suppose I need to thank you yet again,” says Jon.

“It’s becoming a bit of a habit,” Martin jokes, grinning, and Jon smiles in return. He hesitates a moment before continuing:

“Maybe I could buy you lunch instead, then? To pay you back.”

“There’s no need, honestly,” says Martin, even as his brain berates him: What are you doing, idiot, he’s asking you to have lunch with him? Say yes!

“Please, I’d like to,” Jon says, and then gives a thoughtful frown. “Only if you want to, of course, don’t feel obligated—”

“I’m on lunch in five minutes,” Martin blurts out before he can overthink it.

“Great!” says Jon, sounding pleased. “If you have time, we could go by my office as well and visit the kittens. I just fed them before I came to see you.”

Before I came to see you, not before I came to pay you back, and Martin feels that warmth crawling up towards his cheeks again. Even if Jon’s intentions are purely friendly rather than...anything else, well, Martin could always use more friends.

“How were they last night?” he asks, and the smile that spreads across Jon’s face this time is pure delight.

“Oh I barely got an hour’s sleep,” he says, waving a hand. “And today they’re sitting under my desk reminding me every couple of hours that they need attention and that they are far more important than whatever I’m working on. They’re perfect.”

“Sounds like cat parenthood suits you,” Martin teases gently, and Jon laughs.

“I think it rather does.”

Lunch is...nice, and only slightly awkward in the “getting to know a new person” sort of way. Jon is serious, but also funny in an understated, acerbic way, and there’s a gentleness to him that wouldn’t be immediately apparent, if Martin hadn’t seen him cradling two tiny, fragile lives to his chest last night. He’s the kind of person Martin would like to know better, he thinks.

Afterwards they go to Jon’s workplace, which is extremely academic with a brass nameplate by the door and everything, and down to the basement office where Jon works; Martin doesn’t really know what archiving entails, but it looks like mostly a bloody great pile of paperwork. Jon’s two colleagues give Martin friendly and extremely curious glances as they pass; Jon pointedly ignores them in favor of directing Martin to his desk and the cardboard box sitting beneath it.

When Martin glances inside, the two kittens are curled up in the folds of the fish-print blanket, lying against the shape of what he assumes is the hot water bottle. Their bellies already look rounder than they were last night, thanks to regular feeding, and their limbs twitch as they sleep.

“I’ll take them to the vet for a check up after work,” Jon murmurs quietly, gazing down at them with a soft expression. Martin recognizes that look of adoration, and he knows this pair won’t be going to a shelter or anywhere else; they’ve found their home with Jon.

“They’re lucky you found them,” he says, and Jon smiles self-consciously.

“I think I’m the one who was lucky,” he says.

They spend a bit more time with the kittens, and then Martin realizes that it’s about time he got back to work if he doesn’t want to get in trouble. He excuses himself, waving goodbye to Jon’s still curious colleagues, and Jon walks him out to the grand front entrance of the building.

“Thanks again for lunch,” he says. “And—you have my number, right? The offer is open, if you need anything, just text me.”

“I will,” says Jon. “And, ah, let me know if you’d like to come and see the kittens again. Any day. Well, most days,” he corrects himself. “We could, ah, maybe have lunch again?”

“That sounds...really nice,” says Martin. Jon smiles, pleased, and Martin isn’t trying to notice the faint flush that spreads across his face, but it’s very cute anyway.

As he walks back to work, Martin’s phone vibrates with a text. It’s a picture of the kittens, curled up on top of each other, with the message:

Come back and see us soon!

Martin grins; the kittens, he thinks, weren’t the only ones lucky to be found last night.

#the magnus archives #jonsimsandcats2021 #my fic #jonmartin

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griffintail · 3 years

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Hello! So I was new at your blog and I feel like ive discovered the 9th cloud of heaven 🤯 so I don't know if youre in the mood but i loved your technoblade child reader fics and i really wanted to ask if you could write a overprotective!tecnho x f!child reader? i feel like it sucks so im not pushing you to do it-

I probably took it a different way than what you were thinking but I hope you still enjoy!

Utmost Care

Pairing: Technoblade X F! Reader

Warnings: Overprotective nature, Light Angst, Mentions of Swords, Mentions of Scars

~~~~~~~~~~~

Techno didn’t hold a lot of things with value but when he finally did, they were protected with the utmost care. That goes the same for living beings. His daughter certainly was one of those beings.

All of (Y/N)’s life, Techno always kept his eye on her or made someone he trusted with his life was watching her, meaning only he or Phil watched her. If Phil couldn’t watch her at the time, Techno then took her with him, keeping her close the entire time. And, if (Y/N) could tell the truth, as she got older, it was tiring.

She was thirteen years old but she wasn’t allowed to go off on her own. She either had to go with Techno and Phil, the only time she could be alone was in her own room. It was extremely tiring when she couldn’t learn new things that could be considered dangerous. Techno wouldn’t teach her to fight or brew or enchant because he said she’d never need it.

She just wanted to do something without the need for approval. She just wanted to be her own person and live her life as she wanted.

So…that’s how she started sneaking out hours at a time. She was only allowed her own peace and quiet in her room? Alright, she used that to her advantage and locked her door when she knew Techno was busy either tending to things and wouldn’t check on her for hours. When she left, she went to the one place she knew mischief was encouraged.

“Uncle Tommy!” (Y/N) grinned as she walked in the door.

“Here comes trouble!” Tommy grinned.

Tommy indeed encouraged the things Techno considered bad. He helped teach the girl how to fight, taught her to brew, showed her a few things with enchanting, and most certainly let her go off on her own around L’Manberg or the SMP, though he did warn her to be more careful in the SMP lands.

(Y/N) felt free and felt like her own person finally without a weight of watchful eye on her.

It was one of those days once more. Tommy was teaching (Y/N) the ways of the sword.

“Come on, stop trying to hit me and hit me!” Tommy grinned cheekily, then yelping as (Y/N) swung as hard as she could with a smirk.

It was just another day for the pair, they just didn’t know it wasn’t another day for Techno. (Y/N) always left when Techno was on his own because he did get distracted when Phil was around or Phil tended to help him. So, if Phil was around, going out was a no-go. Phil usually showed up in the early mornings so she could tell if she could sneak out pretty early in the day.

But, today, Phil had been held up in L’Manberg and came late.

“Hey mate!” Phil called as he walked over to Techno’s.

“Phil, you’re pretty late,” Techno said.

“Yeah, had to help with some things in L’Manberg first.” Phil shrugged. “Farming all by yourself today?”

“(Y/N) said she wanted to read and she might come out later,” Techno told him as they went into the house, Techno resting his hoe by the door. “(Y/N)! The old man’s here.”

“Fuck off mate.” Phil laughed.

Techno smirked as he cleaned off his hands but frowned when he heard no movement in the rooms above.

“(Y/N)!” Techno called once more.

“She might be sleeping in, let her be.” Phil waved it off. “She’s alright.”

But the voices whispered worry, only fueling Techno’s.

“She doesn’t usually sleep in. I’m going to check on her.” Techno said before going up the ladder.

He went to (Y/N)’s room knocking, but there was once more silence. He didn’t like that.

“(Y/N).” He said trying the door handle, but found it locked. “What the-Hey. What’s with the locked door?”

“Techno?” Phil called up concerned by the conversation he was hearing.

She wasn’t saying anything though and the voices whispered panic and Techno reacted. He took a step back before kicking in the door. Phil jumped before quickly coming up the ladder as Techno went into the room.

“Techno!” Phil shouted as he followed after.

Techno’s breath came quicker out of his nose as Phil came in.

“(Y/N)’s not here. Someone took her.” Techno moved past Phil.

Phil looked at his son leaving the room before looking at the teenager’s room. The only mess was the door but (Y/N) indeed wasn’t here and his wings puffed before he rapidly following after Techno.

“You know, the last thing I thought Techno would do was not teach you how to use a sword,” Tommy said as he leaned back on the bench overlooking the river below his base.

(Y/N) sat next to him, both of their training swords laying down close by.

“I always ask him to teach me but he just tells me I don’t need to learn how to fight. I’ll be fine.” She huffed. “What am I going to do if a mob manages to get in? Can you imagine if a creeper managed to come into our house? It could just blow me and the house up because I couldn’t do anything, I might as well just stand still.”

“Ah, he’s always had a stick up his ass.” Tommy waved his hand. “And an ego. He probably thinks he can keep everything from hurting you.”

“But that’s the point uncle Tommy!” (Y/N) exclaimed. “If he taught me, it’s almost a guarantee I won’t get hurt. I could protect myself and go out and meet people. Do whatever I want.”

“He’ll figure it out eventually,” Tommy assured her.

“Alright!”

Both of them jumped as they looked around wildly, Tommy giving a scream, hearing the voice of said man. Then, a moment later, they realized it was their walkies and shared a look.

“Whoever has my kid can bring her back now and have a painless death.”

“Uh oh.” They both muttered.

(Y/N) scrambled to get her things as Tommy stood up in a panic.

“Bye!” (Y/N) shouted before sprinting towards home.

How the hell was she supposed to explain this? Oh no dad, I just decided to wander in the forest with no warm clothes?

“It’s going to be a shitty day.” She muttered as she slipped into the portal and sprinted down the pathway towards the home portal.

Deciding it was better before her father started searching homes, she took out her walkie.

“Dad!” She spoke. “What’s the problem?”

Techno froze in his path, looking at Phil before taking off his walkie. “(Y/N), where are you right now?”

“I just…went for a little walk. My legs were starting to cramp up.” She lied, wincing slightly.

“Your door was locked (Y/N). What happened?”

“I don’t know the door handle must have broke.” She tried as she felt relief seeing the home portal.

“(Y/N), what’s going on?” Techno asked in frustration.

None of this was adding up. What the hell was going on?

“Nothing dad, everything is—” She stepped out of the portal and froze when she was met with two netherite decorated family members. “Fine…”

Phil’s eyes were wide as Techno stood there quiet for a moment.

…

“YOU WENT IN THE NETHER!?” Techno shouted throwing up his arms.

“Dad, look I can explain—” She tried.

“No! I-What were you thinking?!”

“I—”

Techno looked her over. “Is that a sword?! What—You don’t fight! What the hell were you doing?!”

“Look—”

“Mate—” Phil tried to even cut in.

“No! We’re going home.”

Techno went to grab her arm but she moved back.

“LISTEN TO ME FOR ONCE!” (Y/N) shouted as she shook.

Techno stood in shock as Phil took a step back, this was between father and daughter.

“I-I-Yes! I snuck out! And yes! I have a sword! But its-I just wanted to live for once! You don’t let me go out on my own! You don’t let me train or learn anything you do! I stay at home! And read and learn about farming and crafting basic ass shit! And that’s it! If I’m lucky I get to go out to the village with you keeping a close ass eye on me! And I’m tired of it!”

Techno was quiet as (Y/N) took deep breaths before he came towards her.

“You know that to keep you safe.”

“Oh, shove it, dad! What’s the point of being safe when I don’t know anything! I felt like I was going crazy and I-I can’t do that anymore daddy. I can’t.”

(Y/N) had tears in her eyes. She hated it; she was so tired of it. She was so tired.

Techno was stood in shock hesitating before coming over and hugging her tightly.

“I’m sorry.” He muttered to her. “I…I didn’t know it was hurting so much…”

It was a bit awkward of a hug with his armor on but (Y/N) hugged him back regardless.

Techno had wanted to just keep her safe. He had so many enemies and seen so many things in his life…He just didn’t want his little girl to see all the same things he had and he didn’t want her to carry the same scars. But all the while, it seemed he was hurting her in a different way.

“I’m sorry. We’ll figure it out, ok?”

“Please.” She nodded.

He’ll figure it out, he’ll still make sure she was safe, but he’d figure it out for his little girl to be happy…

====================================

General Taglist: @devilchicc @technoblades-sword

(WHY CAN"T I TAG YOU)

#technoblade x reader #mcyt reader insert #mcyt oneshots #mcyt imagine #mcyt fanfiction #dreamsmp x reader

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obscureamor · 4 years

Text

𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬

❥ sugawara koushi x fem! reader

❥ t/w | nsfw, dubcon, manipulative behaviors

» request | “imagine yandere sugawara blackmailing reader and making her go to the summer festival with her, telling all his friends that their dating and then fucking her in a secluded area during the fireworks”

» a/n | oh fuck yes! whoever sent this in... i love you.

You remember when you first met Sugawara. It was an honest mistake, bumping into him on your way down the hall after someone shoved you. You never thought he’d want to become friends, but you regret it. You regret agreeing to eat lunch with him in your empty classroom. Sure, the bullying stopped but was it really worth it?

Asking you out publicly in front of your whole class was the best idea he could’ve come up with. You were such a docile person, your eyes blown wide in embarrassment. He knew you wouldn't say no, not with all the spectators watching the both of you.

Saying yes was the best option because nobody would want to mess with Sugawara Koushi’s hopeless girlfriend.

“You guys are really cute together.” Kiyoko’s voice rings through your ears over the sound of everyone bustling about to do what they wanted. You could see people moving around swiftly as they tried to find their friends, food to eat, or activities to do at booths.

“Ah! Thanks, Kiyoko! That means a lot coming from you,” Suga gushed.

You already knew he was wearing that warm smile on his face as he thanked her. You could feel Sugawara’s hand tighten around yours as a small warning. At that, you found yourself giving Kiyoko a small smile before thanking her.

When you pictured yourself at the summer festival this year, it certainly wasn’t like this. It wasn’t with a boy who practically trapped you into being with him. It wasn’t with his group of friends cooing at the two of you, happy that Sugawara finally confessed to his crush and it all worked out.

This year you wanted to be with your friends and the boy who you really had a crush on.

Not this.

“The fireworks should be starting soon. Don’t you have somewhere to be, Suga?” Daichi poked Suga in his side.

Where was he going? Hopefully, this meant you could sneak away and spend some time with your friends.

“Mhmm,” he hummed. “Come on babe... I have a surprise for you.”

He dragged you along before you could even mutter a goodbye to his friends. They all seemed to understand though, soft laughter leaving their mouths.

It felt like minutes of walking uphill before you two met a clearing. In the center, you could see a blanket laid out and a bouquet of flowers just to the side. It was simple but thoughtful nonetheless. There’s a smile on Suga’s face as he speaks, gazing at the sight before him, “Daichi and Asahi set this up. They said this was the best place to see the fireworks. No one knows about it... well except them.”

He lead you to the blanket, sitting down right beside you. Your hands are fiddling with your skirt as you stare straight ahead at the open view of the festival grounds down below. You can feel his gaze on you. He takes your hand, disregarding the way he has to uncurl your fist from the fabric as he rubs his thumb across your knuckles.

“y/n?”

You don’t look at him and instead, you find yourself closing your eyes in thought. You can feel the breeze blowing lightly, the air not too warm but not too cold either. It’s soon thwarted by the feeling of his warm hand meeting your skin. Sugawara grabs your chin to turn you to look at him. His lips are soft as he kisses you, but it’s overridden by his desire to do the one thing he’s been dying to do.

It’s the one thing that’ll tie you two together in his mind.

He’s kissing you feverishly, teeth nipping at your bottom lip before his tongue makes his way into your mouth. Sugawara finds his way on top of you, hands now on your waist while yours are gripping on to his chest as you fall back onto the blanket.

Things are moving too fast.

“Suga,” you say as you pull back breathless.

“Hm?”

His eyes are on you as one hand makes its way to caress your cheek. He’s marveling at you, eyes studying your face as if he hasn’t seen it a million times over.

“You’re so beautiful. You know that, right?”

You don’t say anything, too busy wondering what’s going to happen and why you couldn’t just stay to watch the fireworks with his friends. At times you wish you got with Daichi instead. You knew he wouldn’t exploit your circumstance to guarantee you being together. You knew he wouldn’t do… this.

“The fireworks should be starting soon,” he murmurs when you don’t respond.

He presses a chaste kiss to your lips before his focus moves to your neck. You can feel his hands move from your waist, fingers occasionally dipping into your skirt's waistband. You open your mouth to speak, to tell him to stop, but the only thing that leaves you is a moan as he nips at that spot right below your ear.

You can hear the zipper on your side being opened.

You already know what he wants. You’ve always known, but it’s at this moment where you decide to acknowledge it.

“Sugawara, I-I haven’t done this before,” you stammer out.

Maybe if you voiced your reluctance, he’d understand.

“It’s okay... I’ll take care of you, pretty girl.” He presses another kiss to your skin. “You don’t have to worry about anything.”

He’s speaking into your neck. Occasionally, sucking and biting the surprisingly unmarred skin. It was always his way of marking you since you guys hadn’t had... sex yet. You can feel his hands run up your legs, only to settle on your thighs. There’s bile rising in your throat as his calloused hands massage the soft flesh. It makes you cringe when you feel your pussy getting wetter by the second from only a simple touch. His hand moves upward before he swiftly shoves it down your panties, cupping your mound. You can feel him smiling into your neck as his fingers stoke your lips, occasionally dipping into your entrance.

“I knew you’d want this,” he breathes out.

Suga pulls back, nimble hands pulling off your panties and then working on his belt. It seems like everything is amplified as you can hear the clicking of the metal and the way he uses your slick to lube up his cock. You watch as he lines himself up, running the head of his cock along your entrance before slowly starting to push in.

“Suga, please… I don’t—!”

You cut yourself off as he swiftly pushes in, your head falling back against the blanket. Your hands grip onto his shoulders as he starts to move. Sugawara leans forward placing himself right on top of you as he thrusts sharply into you. You can’t help but hyper-focus on the foreign feeling of him being inside you. So you distract yourself the only way you know-how. You catch his lips in a heated kiss, giving out a pained whimper when his hand comes up to paw at your still clothed tit.

He pulls back, panting before he speaks, “Say ‘fuck me harder, Koushi.’”

“What?”

“Say ‘fuck me harder, Koushi.’” he repeats through gritted teeth.

Your eyes widen at the meaning behind his words. You feel as if your body is heating up, tears gathering in your eyes.

“N-No!”

“Come on just say it!”

He wanted to hear the lewd words come out of your pretty mouth. In all his time watching you and then knowing you, Sugawara doesn’t think he’s heard you say anything remotely explicit.

“P-Please... I don’t— Suga!”

You couldn’t take it. The way Sugawara’s dick was drilling into your pussy was too overwhelming.

“y/n please say it, baby. Make me proud. Please?” he’s speaking so softly as if he isn’t balls deep inside your poor cunny.

You can tell his patience is running thin. Tears are leaking out of your eyes as you shake your head.

“y/n,” he bites out, a smile with tones of irateness behind it on his face. “Say it!”

“Fuck me harder, Koushi!” you scream out.

And the fireworks go off.

The sound of squelching and papping is heard loud in your ears along with your rapidly beating heart. You’re staring straight up at the sky looking at the different variations of blues, reds, and greens as they burst into each other sporadically. When you look at Sugawara you can’t help but note that he looks different. He looks handsome for once as the mingled colors light him from above and you find yourself thinking that maybe if he went about this the right way you’d be with him willingly.

You can’t control yourself as your arms loop around his neck bringing him closer. He notices how the blues reflect off your tears giving them an ethereal glow. Your lips are parted and the reds with hints of green that catch onto them remind him of strawberries.

He’s crying too.

No one says anything because no one needs to. He hides his face in the crook of your neck as he cums. You can hear the low groans that escape his mouth. You can hear the ‘I love you’s and the ‘I’m sorry, y/n’s that he mutters into your neck. You know he means it because before this Sugawara you knew Koushi.

But you also know that you’ll never forgive him...

#haikyuu x reader #sugawara x reader #yandere haikyuu #yandere sugawara koushi #yandere x reader #yandere sugawara x reader #yandere haikyuu x reader #sugawara koushi x reader #haikyuu #request #tw dubcon

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canary3d-obsessed · 4 years

Text

Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 07 part two

(Masterpost)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

Lantern Lighting

Now we have the famous lantern scene, where everybody gets to express their character and have dates, ranging from disastrous to delightful, with the objects of their affection.

Wei Wuxian continues to be ridiculously good at drawing.

We’ve all seen Lan Wangji’s lovely first smile in the show a million times, so...let’s look at it again!

This scene is important not just because of the smile, but because there’s a distinct shift in the way they talk about their growing relationship. In the pond, it was “come visit me” and “never!” “I want to be your friend” “No need.” Basically Lan Wangji firmly saying no to Wei Wuxian’s offers of friendship.

This time, Wei Wuxian says “let’s do this together” and Lan Wangji says “I’m used to being alone,” which is not actually a No, just an explanation. And WWX says, you can change that. And then Lan Wangji DOES change it, sharing the lantern and the promise with Wei Wuxian.

Whoever painted this flower is even better than Wei Wuxian at plein air painting.

(more after the cut!)

Everybody’s wishes

Nie Huasang makes a practical wish. Wen Qing prays for her brother and Jiang Cheng notices how she’s like Yanli. Jiang Cheng isn’t very intense about Wen Qing, which could be a sign of his shyness but could also be a sign of his gayness or aceness. After all, later in life he’s an apparently wealthy clan leader who is hot as fuck, and needs an heir, since his nephew is a Jin. But he’s still not married, 16 years after breaking up with and uh, helping to kill and cremate, the girl he liked in summer school.

The Promise We Made Together

Wei Wuxian makes an ultra-idealistic wish/promise while Lan Wangji watches and falls the rest of the way in love with him, and silently makes the same pledge inside his head. Later they will each refer to this as a promise they made together, which is a really super high level of face-reading by Wei Wuxian, to understand that he really is speaking for both of them here. While making this promise, Lan Wangji brings out his Yin Iron Magic Bag and waves it around in front of everyone, but nobody notices.

Let’s take a moment to consider *why* this moment is so powerful for Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji is a boy whose emotions are always on the boil. He’s 100% upset all the time, at this age, and he keeps it clamped down all the time. His cultivation level is probably as high as it is partly because of all the work he does in emotion regulation. (note: if you haven’t read all the meta at @howpeacefulislwj , go read it; it’s awesome and hilarious)

Wei Wuxian doesn’t GAF about emotion regulation; he just expresses what he feels, all the damn time.

He is openly bored, lusty, playful, hungry, whiny. He straight up tells Lan Wangji “you’re boring and you have a stick up your ass” as part of saying he wants to be friends; no deference and also no falseness.

And he can see right through Lan Wangji’s reserve, barging into his loneliness and isolation without any regard for all of his wards. Wards are made to be broken.

(Unrelated note: Young Lan Wangji's rare moments of contentment seem to come from looking at something beautiful--the moon, falling petals, these lanterns, his mirror.)

But Wei Wuxian is also good. Lan Wangji desperately wants to be good. And here’s Wei Wuxian embodying this awful, amazing, tempting alternative path, in which all the interesting things in life get explored thoroughly, all the sweetness and beauty gets consumed unreservedly, all the pain and ugliness gets confronted and endured without hesitation.

In this moment, Wei Wuxian tells Lan Wangji “you can change,” and then offers up this prayer/promise that is just pure chivarly, speaking straight to Lan Wangji’s heart. Very simply, I want to spend my life doing right. Not 3500 rules; just one.

This infuriating boy, who breaks rules and who flirts indiscriminately and who pushes and pushes and pushes, reveals himself in this moment to be a hero at the beginning of his journey, and Lan Wangji sees it, and his heart goes right over the cliff.

The Girls’ Room

The girl cultivators all rush over to Yanli to get in her business about her betrothal, inspiring Jin Zixuan to act like a jerk to her and get even further onto Wei Wuxian’s bad side.

Talk Shit, Get Hit

Yanli’s wish was that Wei Wuxian would grow up and be good. He promptly launches his own personal Sunshot campaign, punching her fiancee so hard that the sun falls out of the sky and the previously well-lit scene transitions to full night.

So, in English, “don’t mention it again” is really mild, akin to “I don’t want to talk about it.” Wei Wuxian’s reaction makes it seem like Jin Zixuan said something really shitty, like “don’t you dare mention that woman to me!” So I’m assuming something is being lost in translation.

Lan Wangji tries to calm him down. He grabs Wei Wuxian’s sexy arm muscle and basically holds it until the Jiangs exit the scene.

Nie Huaisang has placed himself between the opposing factions, which is unusually direct of him. In the future he’ll stick to being an unindicted co-conspirator when Wei Wuxian starts trouble.

Ants in my Pants

Lan Wangji thinks kneeling can make Wei Wuxian cry, which is adorable of him.

He really relishes this opportunity to be a pedantic tool to his new boyfriend that annoying boy he hardly ever touches, and it really doesn’t work out for him, poor lamb.

Jiang Fengmian stops by to show exactly how deep his affection for Wei Wuxian runs, and to give him whiplash from constantly changing parental expectations. In a couple of hours he’ll be laughing over WWX & JC’s hijinks.

Wei Wuxian takes this opportunity to fantasize about bad things happening to the other boy in the fight, which is in no way foreshadowing of anything.

Douche Dads Conference

We now convene this meeting of the douchebag council. Jiang Cheng is also invited even though he’s a prick, not a douche. <--important distinction

This is our first time meeting Clan Leader Jin Guangshan. He's actually the most sensible and best parent in this scene, but his smug self-satisfaction hints at his true nature. This actor, Shen Xiaohai, has been active in cdramas for a long while now. I wonder what he looked like 15 years ago?

...Holy mother of god.

Jiang Fengmian is the worst dad and the worst husband here. His clan believes in letting children do what they want - uhh YOUR child wants to marry Jin Zixuan. “I wrote a letter to her mother, who arranged this marriage.” Uhhh she arranged for her sickly, low-cultivation-level, sweet and vulnerable child to marry the heir of a rich and powerful clan, with a powerful mother-in-law who’s looking forward to loving and protecting her. Basically she’s guaranteed her daughter’s safety and comfort, and even potential happiness, since her husband may learn to appreciate her (and in fact, does, thanks to soup and repeated beatings from WWX).

Mom worked hard and probably spent a fair amount of social capital to achieve this. And you’re going to toss that aside because the boy thinks he’s too good for her? What the everloving fuck, how are you a clan leader in the first place?

You can see that Jiang Cheng understands all of this and what a terrible choice his father is making here.

So do the other adults in the room.

Jin Guangshen: our wives are going to kill us

Lan Qiren: I'm looking at a couple of dead men

Jiang Fengmian pointedly won’t listen to Jiang Cheng or let him speak, showing that all his talk about being free is actually bullshit, that only applies to other people’s children.

Jiang Chang vaults off of the deck to tell Wei Wuxian about it. Hottt

Sorry Sis

Wei Wuxian goes to Jiang Yanli to sorta-apologize and sorta ask to be let off the hook for fucking up her engagement, which he absolutely did. He knows it, which is presumably why he bows to her in paperman form while hiding outside.

At no time has Jiang Yanli indicated to anyone that she doesn’t want to marry Jin Zixuan, as far as I can see, or said she wanted to be defended from insults with punching. Look how good SHE is at defending a person from insults, for comparison.

Yin Iron Blah Blah Blah

The senior Lans meet with Jiang Fengmian to talk about the Yawn Yin Iron. Yawn.

Jiang Fengmian addresses Lan Xichen as Lan Gongzi, which is adorable, since he is a big boy to everyone else. His family calls him Xichen and other people call him Zewu-Jun.

Farewell and Fuck You

The three Jiang kids come to say goodbye.

Lan Quiren says goodbye with a heap of criticism for Wei Wuxian and the horse he rode in on, and Jiang Fengmian basically says, yep, that’s what he’s like, all right.

Good thing Wei Ying gets so much verbal abuse at home he doesn’t take it very hard when he finds it in the field.

Wangji doesn’t say goodbye properly, which will be a recurring theme for the two of them.

I don’t know if this is because he has a problem with goodbyes, or is just being a jerk, or because he’s so bad at lying he doesn’t dare talk to Wei Wuxian lest he reveal his travel plans.

Indulgent Dad Continues to be the Worst

Jiang Cheng complains at Wei Wuxian for wanting to say goodbye to Lan Wangji, and WWX says he likes him because he is equal to WWX in fighting, whereas JC sucks. JC hits him tries to hit him--gosh, he DOES suck, comparatively.

Yanli, who has been keeping these boys in line all summer, sighs deeply at her Dad’s tolerance for their hijinks. OP has five brothers and this sibling-hijinks behavior is 100% accurate, except for the part where it is happening at someone else’s house in front of the hosts.

WWX pretending to be Lan Qiren where Lan Wangji can see him doing it, in front of Lan Qiren’s colleague and supposed friend, and just earning a laugh from the patriarch? Good lord. Dad Jiang tolerating this is shocking, particularly in the in-show culture where corporal punishment is as common as tea.

We’ve tried Nothing, and we’re all out of ideas!

Uggghh why are you like this?

Here in the real world, OP uses “positive discipline” with her child, and encourages other parents to consider it, particularly if your child is neuroatypical or asynchronous. That said, JF should be punishing the crap out of both boys for this behavior every time it happens, or should quit being a clan leader. He’s relying on Jiang Yanli to keep them in line while he gets to just be amused by them. And he’s letting Lan Qiren discipline Wei Wuxian instead of doing it himself. He suuuuuuucks.

Lan Wangji watches all of this. Lan Xichen reminds Lan Wangji that without Wei Wuxian, he’s completely fucking miserable. Lan Wangji still doesn’t plan to bring him along on his trip, though.

Time to return to our lives of crushing loneliness

Rabbits

At this same moment when Lan Wangji is staring down the barrel of future loneliness, Wei Wuxian is already deciding to leave the (forbidden) rabbits in Cloud Recesses “In case Lan Zhan gets lonely.” This small decision by Wei Wuxian - breaking the rules of Cloud Recesses for the millionth time - is kinder than he knows. Because what is the job of these rabbits? Let’s have a desaturated flashback.

Lan Zhan spent 3 years in the ice cave. The rabbits kept Lan Yi company in the ice cave. So...did the rabbits sneak in to keep Lan Wangji company in the ice cave as well? I’m going to say yes. By ep 43 they are following him to the gate of Cloud Recesses so they are very attached to him. Well done, Wei Ying.

Where my bitches at? Seriously, our warren needs bitches

(Is Watership Down still a thing people read? If not, just go ahead and assume all of OP’s rabbit jokes are about Watership Down because OP ain’t going to stop making them)

While Wei Wuxian annoys the bunny he has a flashback to the scene that happened 4 minutes earlier. The Untamed editors assume the viewership has the attention span of a goldfish, and I personally appreciate that they understand me so well.

Wei Wuxian figures out that Lan Wangji is going on the road alone, and tells the bunny immediately. The bunny is very concerned.

Writing Prompt: What do next-generation cultivators Lan Sizhui and Lan Jingyi wish for at lantern-lighting time?

#fytheuntamed #the untamed #wangxian #the untamed gifs #cdrama #chen qing ling #restless rewatch the untamed #canary3d-original #my gifs #the untamed spoilers

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peach-the-owl · 3 years

Text

Tainted Innocence

Percy & Younger Sibling!Reader

You let out a fit of coughs, being sick sucked, you couldn’t move without getting dizzy, you couldn’t join the family for dinner or else you might get someone else sick, and worst of all you couldn’t leave your room to play. So here you lay on your bed wishing to get better soon so you could play outside under the sun. A sudden commotion could be heard outside your door, shouts and screams ringing down the halls, you ever curious would’ve loved to investigate if it wasn’t for the fact that your dizzy head would make you nauseous the second you got up. The sounds only got louder until they were right outside your room, you throw the covers over your head in an attempt to hide from whatever the scary noise was. You hear your door open and try to stay as still and quiet as possible, unfortunately your hit with another fit of coughs making your presence known to whoever had entered.

"My my, what have we here?" The woman’s voice was vaguely familiar, making you peek out from under the covers to see only the darkened outline of a feminine figure. "Poor, sweet little (y/n), caught a fever have we?" The more they spoke the more you could recognize the voice as Delilah Briarwood's, you’d met her a once before and she seemed nice but now her tone sounded almost sinister for some reason.

"Yeah, I’m not feeling very well. You probably shouldn’t be here, I don’t want you to get sick too." You say innocently, before going into yet another fit of coughs. She lets out a chuckle, by now it seemed the sounds from outside your room had faded into nothing.

"How considerate of you to think of my well being. What if I were to tell you I knew a way that could… cure you of your ailments." The ominous undertones she had went right over your head.

"Really?! You can do that!?" You bounce excitedly in place, quickly stopping from the dizziness in your head.

"Not only that, but you'll never have to worry about getting sick ever again." The offer almost sounded too good to be true.

"That sounds awesome! Let’s do it!" You were brimming with excitement at the thought of never having to worry about sickness again.

"Calm down now, all will be well in due time. For now you should rest, my husband and I shall handle everything and I guarantee you’ll wake up like a brand new person." You give her a nod and are hit by a sudden wave of exhaustion. "Sleep now… my child." You don’t have time think about why she referred to you like that before your vision goes dark and your mind goes blank…

Lady Delilah was right, when you awoke again you no longer had your fever and felt completely different, but even though you did feel all better now you still weren’t allowed to leave the castle. You were only allowed to wander the wing where your room was or explore the catacombs, even then there wasn’t much you could do but that's what you were told you were allowed so you had to follow the rules. It was strange though to be told all this by the Briarwoods, wondering why it was them instead of your parents to tell you all these new rules and why one of the rules was you couldn’t see anyone else in your family. You had asked about this once but Delilah only told you that once you were ready they’d tell you everything, so time went by and you stayed alone, forced to play inside away from any sunlight, almost completely isolated from social contact. You don’t know how long it’s been, no longer having a way to tell day from night made it really hard to know how many hours or days had passed, everything just blurring together. There was one other thing that really bothered you and that was this strange sensation you’d get from time to time, it was almost like you were hungry but also not because you’d eat like normal and the feeling wouldn’t go away. You told the Briarwood's about this but Lord Sylas just told you that if you’d ignore it then it would go away by itself, what he didn’t tell you is that you’d pass out and wake up with a strange metallic-y taste in your mouth, at least the feeling went away though, right?

Another day, or what you thought might be a day, goes by as you wander the tunnels having mapped them out to memory by now. You brought some toys with you to play around with for some entertainment and hoping deep down that one day something new or different might finally happen, then you heard something faint hit your ears. It was different but at the same time it could’ve just been another rat scurrying around with how faint it was so you ignore it. There's another sound like quick footsteps approaching getting louder until it comes to a halt close to where you were playing making you glance over your shoulder at the man staring at you. He looked very familiar you just couldn’t place why right away, you turn to fully face them and have a better look.

"Hi there mister. You look familiar, do I know you?" You ask them with a slight tilt to your head. They just stare at you in silence their eyes wide in horror, you look behind you to see if they were looking at something behind you but find nothing and look back at them in confusion. "Is something wrong?" You step towards them and they step away in retaliation furthering your confusion.

"No no nononono. This isn’t real, you can’t be real." He presses his hands to his head, his voice also sounded familiar, who was he?

"You’re really weird." You then poke your arm to as a way to show you were really there, then let out a giggle. "See, I’m real, if I was fake I couldn’t poke my arm." You place your hands triumphantly on your waist but the man didn’t look impressed, instead he looked like he was going to vomit. "Are you okay? You don’t look well." You take another step towards him out of concern.

"Don’t come any closer!" He holds up a strange item you’ve never seen before, there’s a slight shake to his hand. You stop and stare interested in the strange item, it had fancy engravings on it, six hollow slots and some odd mechanism the man warily held a finger over.

"What’s that? It’s so cool and fancy, what does it do?" You lean in closer to it curiously.

"This isn’t real, you’re just an illusion to mess with my head." He sounded hesitant, like he was trying to convince himself of something. Having been able to look at the man this long it finally clicked in your head why he was so familiar.

"Wait a second… Percy?" This fully draws his attention back onto you. "It is you! What happened? How did you get so big and why's your hair all white?" He looked so different, no wonder you didn’t recognize your own brother right away. He doesn’t answer you, just stares with a look of conflict in his eyes and continues to hold the strange object in his hand towards you, you paying no mind to it. "This is great! Lord and Lady Briarwood said I wasn't allowed talk to anyone, I don’t know why though, but you’re here now so who cares! I miss talking to people, the guards are no fun and there’s hardly anything to do anymore…" You start to ramble on about how boring things have gotten and how you made due, still wondering why or how Percy got so tall and looked so much older. "Where is everyone else? I want to ask mother and father why the Briarwoods seem to be in charge." This statement really got to Percy, making his eyes go wide in realization.

"You… you don’t know?" You tilt your head in confusion, what where you supposed to know. There’s a strange wispy or smoky substance that trails up Percy's arm, then the sound of a loud bang followed by ringing fills your ears, something grazed past your cheek, cutting into it a little and leaving a lingering stinging sensation behind. You quickly place a hand on your cheek where it hurt, recoiling away only hearing a clattering and soft thud after a moment of silence. You slowly turn back and see your brother had dropped the item from his hand and was on his knees, holding his face in both his free hands now, his entire body physically shaking and he lets out a series of coughs.

"P-Percy? Are you okay?" You approach with much more caution this time, trying to ignore the throbbing pain still in your cheek. More footsteps can be heard hurrying towards your location.

"We heard gunfire and came as fast as we could." A half-elven man was the first to reach your location, he looks over seeing you and takes a step back in surprise.

"Hi there, are you a friend of Percy's?" You ask, rocking back and forth on your feet.

"I am. Did you do this to him?" There was a threatening tone to his voice that made you feel scared and uncomfortable.

"I don’t know, I was just playing because I was bored, then he showed up and I didn’t recognize him at first, then I did and got really excited because I haven’t seen anyone in what feels like forever, then there was a loud bang and now my cheek hurts and he was just like this." You try to explain as best as you could. By now others who were most likely with the half-elf showed up, having heard at least some of your explanation, they looked at you with wide eyes. "And why does everyone look at me like that, is there something wrong with my face or something?"

"That’s one way to put it." A half-elven woman who looked very similar to the male one talks slowly. "Do you mind telling us your name little one?"

"Of course! I’m (y/n) de Rolo." You reply proudly.

"You’re a de Rolo?" The glowing gnome sounded sad for some reason, why was everyone sad? Shouldn’t this be a good thing?

"Yeah… why are you all acting so weird? What’s going on? Who are you?" You cross your arms, getting a little frustrated from your lack of answers, just wanting to be in the know. They whisper among themselves, you barely catchy anything coherent before they turn back to face you.

"Do you mind giving us a minute alone, please." Percy having finally gotten a better hold of himself asks, you give a small nod and step away, picking up your discarded toys to mindlessly play with. You discovered if your really focused you could hear what they were whispering about, though it was hard to decipher who’s voice belonged to who.

"Is it true? Are they really your…"

"I-I’m not sure anymore." You were able to at least tell your brothers voice apart from the others.

"How could you not know!?"

"They seem pretty clueless themselves, it’s like they not only still have the body of a child but also the mentality of one too."

"Perhaps that’s from the lack of social contact, they did say they’ve been alone for a long time."

"Percy… this changes everything we know."

"No, this changes nothing, it only makes it more complicated."

"How can you say something like that, they’re your family!"

"They’ve been turned into a monster, whether they’re aware of it or not!" You frown when you hear this tuning out the rest of their conversation, that couldn’t be right you’re not a monster, sure things were weird and you’ve felt different since your illness was cured but that didn’t make you a monster… did it? You sit aback and look yourself over, holding out your arms in the dim lighting which you now realized you could see rather well in, you always thought that was just because you were so used to coming down here that your eyes adjusted quickly, but now you didn’t know anymore. Focusing back on your arms you also notice that your skin was extremely pale then what it normally was. When was the last time you’d seen yourself in a mirror? You’ve passed some in the halls of the castle but never payed much mind to them, and now that you thought about it when was the last time you’d seen the sunshine? You really missed playing outside but always just followed the rules the Briarwood's gave you because they were the grownups and they knew what was best, right? The sound of footsteps coming back your way slightly pull you from your thoughts, but you don’t bother looking up and just stare at the ground in front of you. You hear a shaky sigh but before they can speak you beat them to it.

"There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there." Your blissful joy was gone, replaced with doubt and sadness.

"I-how much did you hear?" Percy's voice wasn’t as angry sounding as it was earlier but there was still tension in it.

"I don’t know, you said something about me being a monster. I thought you were just saying that because you were angry for some reason, but I don’t know anymore. Am-am I really a monster?" You turn and look up at him seeing him flinch slightly, but not quite intentionally. Your lip quivers as you shrink more into yourself. "When we used to play pretend the monsters were always the bad guys… I don’t want to be a bad guy." You whimper and tears start trailing down your face as you try to hide in your arms.

"I didn’t… you’re not… it’s just…" He lets out a long breath followed by a cough and a longer pause. "(Y/n) look at me…" another pause, you don’t move. "Hey, look at me." You feel warm hands pry your face up to make you look at your brother, now you were the one to slightly flinch from the slight sting that was still on your cheek. The two of you have a small staring contest before he speaks up again. "Listen carefully, things are no longer the way you remember them to be, a lot has changed for the worst and for some reason or another you’ve been left to be blissfully unaware of all of it. I don’t know why they decided to do this to you, but I swear we'll figure this out together one step at a time."

"We will?" You give him a hopeful look, he nods slowly

"I hope so… I don’t know who I can all trust here anymore. Things are stressful right now, but if you don’t want to be a part of the bad guys, as you put it, my friends and I are going to need your help. Can you do that, can I really trust you?"

"Yes! I want to help my brother stop the bad guys." You put on your most serious look, Percy then releases his hold on you and you stand up. "Hey Percy?" He lets out a slight hum of acknowledgement. "When we're all done, does that mean I’ll be able to play outside in the sun again?"

"One step at time…" He trails off with a somber sigh. The two of you now heading over to rejoin Percy's group so you could be properly introduced.

Should I continue something with this for a part 2?… or just leave it as is…? Idk, you tell me

#critical role #critical role & reader #vox machina #vox machina & reader #percy de rolo #percy & reader #nothing romantic here

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forasecondtherewedwon · 3 years

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The Great Madripoorian Snake Off

Fandom: The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Pairing: Sam Wilson/Bucky Barnes Rating: M Word Count: 3950

Summary: All Sam argued was that Bucky shouldn't have to pretend to be the Winter Soldier. He never suggested Bucky pose as his husband instead.

The Baron—with his garage of vintage cars and his popped-collar bullshit—starts getting a little too comfortable. Somewhere between his prison cell and his private plane, he begins to act as though he’s the one running the show, so when he states, despicably blasé, that Bucky will need to go undercover as the Winter Soldier, Sam tells Zemo no. Not as forcefully as he forbade him from speaking earlier, but firmly enough that Sam thinks it’s clear that he won’t be changing his mind.

“But it’s the only way,” Zemo says, spreading his hands. “As the Winter Soldier, he is a very believable bodyguard.”

“Maybe he doesn’t need to act like a bodyguard,” Sam argues.

“A show of strength is—”

“Is that really what we need? I thought we were trying to fly under the radar. If we’re advertising Bucky’s capabilities like that, doesn’t that make us a target?”

“Yes,” Bucky mumbles, mostly staying out of it.

Sam’s irritated that Bucky’s not standing up for himself, not pushing back against Zemo’s half-baked plan. Having Zemo here is a lot to deal with, Sam gets that, but if they don’t fight him on this shit now, he has a bad feeling they’re going to regret it when they end up in a firefight. Whatever. He’ll speak up on Bucky’s behalf to save them both grief in the near future. He hopes Bucky would do the same for him.

“Whether or not you acknowledge what he is…” Zemo begins again.

“Who,” Sam says, gaze flicking to Bucky’s face, which is tilting down as he avoids eye contact. “Who he is.”

“…you have the risk of aggression.”

“Buck?” Sam checks. He stares until Bucky’s eyes dart up to meet his. “You gonna keep your cool in there?”

“Best behaviour,” he promises. His blue eyes are suspiciously steady, like always.

“That means,” Zemo translates with a finger raised to complement his interjection, “he’ll react whenever and however he feels he needs to. There is no guarantee it will align with your own conduct.”

“Yeah, man, I know,” Sam snaps.

Like he needs Zemo to explain Bucky to him; Sam knows Bucky. He knows he’s stubborn at best and a reckless hot-head at worst, but he also knows Bucky’s working on that. There’s no need to state how little Zemo expects from Bucky right in front of him. If anybody’s gonna complain about Bucky’s aggravating habit of doing the opposite of whatever Sam wants him to, it’ll be Sam.

He’s still glaring at the Baron when Bucky shifts in his seat, hands clenching in his lap. Sam’s eyes go to the fists, then up to Bucky’s face.

“You see that?” Zemo asks, sounding deeply amused as he nods towards Bucky. “He’s going to insist on playing a bodyguard.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ignore him,” Bucky says, quick and low like a kick to the ankle.

“He’s ready to jump to your defense,” Zemo says. He’s grinning, propping his elbows on his armrests and lacing his fingers—looking like the villain he’s already been sentenced for being. “He shows a strong instinct to protect you.”

“Put Bucky with me then,” Sam says reflexively. He glances at Bucky. “If that works for you.” His gaze slides back to Zemo after Bucky’s subtle nod. “If you don’t dress him up like he’s the Winter Soldier and make him act like he’s the Winter Soldier and have him take goddamn orders from you like he’s the Winter Soldier, who’s gonna know? We’re counting on people not being too perceptive, right? That’s why I’m using this Smiling Tiger dude’s identity instead of a made-up one.”

“That’s true,” Bucky says. His tone is gruff as he backs Sam up. “You can’t have it both ways, Zemo. Either we’re both pretending to be real people or neither of us is.”

“I don’t understand,” the Baron says affably, looking between them with a smile. This plane’s gotta hurry up and land before Sam gives in to the urge to stick Zemo’s head in the toilet and flush. “Smiling Tiger and the Winter Soldier are both real people.”

“No. They’re not.”

The silence strains with the pressure behind Bucky’s words. It feels to Sam as though Bucky’s just thrown up a forcefield between himself and Zemo, forbidding him access to the Winter Soldier. Sam can see the disappointment on Zemo’s face, but that asshole will have to wait to express it because the plane’s easing into its descent, circling over Madripoor before setting down on a private airstrip outside the city.

From the hangar, Zemo conducts a short, hushed phone call while Sam watches him with crossed arms. Doesn’t seem to be anything sinister for the moment, because the only result of the call that he witnesses is the arrival of a narrow selection of men’s clothing—including a pair of garish suits. The man who brings the garments laughs with Zemo while Sam and Bucky change in the bathroom off the hangar’s office.

When they see each other, Sam appraises Bucky. His outfit is dark and nondescript. Pricey in its details, but forgettable to anyone who doesn’t have good reason to look closely. (Sam tears his eyes away.) In contrast, Sam’s been urged to choose between the brightly-patterned suits. Layers of fabric and layers of necklaces to top it off. Not exactly Sam’s choice if he were to dress himself in anything on Zemo’s dime, but the Baron insists, flashing him a photo of Smiling Tiger to strengthen his case for bold fashion choices.

“I thought we were making characters up,” Sam says when he looks away from the screen, fiddling with his jewellery.

“This will be easier,” Zemo swears.

He dismisses his contact and the three of them—Zemo, Sam, and Bucky—walk out of the hangar, heading for a bridge with swooping arches and the lights of Madripoor beyond. Apparently, a car will catch up with them. They have until that time to work out their cover without anybody listening in.

“So I’m supposed to be Sam’s bodyguard?” Bucky checks. “Is that what’s happening?”

“You can’t be Smiling Tiger’s bodyguard,” Zemo answers, dismissing it with a wave of his hand.

“Why not?” Sam demands.

“Smiling Tiger is never seen with a bodyguard. Everyone knows he has them, but they remain at a distance.”

“Why’s that?”

“Arrogance, most likely,” Zemo says with a smile that Sam would definitely call arrogant. “Smiling Tiger affects an untouchable persona. The presumption of invincibility may not allow him to enjoy a terribly long life, but what committed criminal does?”

“You’re doing alright so far,” Bucky remarks flatly.

Sam sighs and gets them back on track. He’s already fed up with Zemo and these heeled shoes suck, so he’s losing what patience he had.

“What’s Bucky’s role then?” he asks. “We’re sticking together. If you get us some clandestine meeting with somebody who can tell us about the super-soldier serum, we’ll have to be able to explain who Bucky is.”

“Whoever he is, he’s in your orbit, not mine,” Zemo says. “That’s what you decided on, even though my plan would have worked flawlessly—”

“I don’t have any sympathy for you not getting to play puppet master with the Winter Soldier. It’s not necessary, just you looking for any chance to fuck with Bucky’s head. How about you get over it and show a little of the craftiness that helped you break out of prison?”

“Thanks to me,” Bucky notes.

“You want a new plan?” Zemo asks. “Ok. You’re together.”

“No shit we’re together. Like Sam said.”

“No, no,” Zemo says, smiling like he’s about to be a real dick. “You can be Smiling Tiger’s boyfriend. No—husband. That could be useful.”

Bucky stops in his tracks and Sam grips Zemo’s arm to force him to halt as well.

“But...” Bucky says.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, though Bucky doesn’t get any further in words. His eyes are considerably more expressive, but Sam can’t read them, the emotions flying past too quicky, a kite flipping around in a strong wind.

“It allows James to be near you,” Zemo tells him, “and would explain any protective gestures. It’s the simplest solution. Tell me I’m wrong. I know you enjoy doing that.”

“You’re wrong.”

But Sam isn’t so sure about that. They all begin walking again and, by unspoken understanding, allow Zemo to drift slightly ahead. Bucky moves silently to Sam’s side.

“You think this is a good idea?”

“For the record, I don’t like it,” Sam says.

“Neither do I. We’re almost outta time though.”

Sam looks sideways and narrows his eyes at Bucky’s determined expression.

“You’re not fighting this very hard. Is it because you and Zemo have been in cahoots since the prison?”

“We’re not in cahoots.”

“Then why are you so fine with this?”

“It’s better than being the Winter Soldier,” Bucky says.

“The nickname’s a downgrade though,” Sam quips back. Could be a bad time for a joke, but if they’re doing this he can’t have Bucky going into it with that bleak attitude. They need to be more at ease with each other.

The thought alone makes him want to shove Bucky from this bridge and lean over the side to watch the splash.

“Mr. and Mr. Smiling Tiger,” Bucky says miserably. “Fuck.”

“For all I know, Zemo’s making this guy up,” Sam hisses, glancing at the Baron’s back, “so I have to use a stupid name and wear a stupid suit.”

“Seems a little petty for Zemo.”

“He’s gonna try to break us with the small stuff, just you watch.”

“You’re being paranoid,” Bucky tells him.

“That’s exactly what somebody who’s in cahoots with Zemo would say,” Sam accuses. “He’s been working on you since you left me out in the hallway and went in to meet him in his cell alone.” He tugs on the hem of his fitted jacket. “Gotta be vigilant.”

“Whatever you say, Smiling Tiger.”

“You know, I don’t want to hold hands with you, but I’ll do it just to irritate you more than you’re irritating me.”

Bucky glares at him.

The hand-holding is supposed to begin and end as a bluff, but when they get in the back of the car together and Zemo twists around in the passenger seat to give them a significant look, Sam figures he’s trying to get some show of affection out of them. Zemo’s obviously paid the driver—and the hired guns flanking the car on their motorcycles—but this is Madripoor, where competing interests pay competing sums for tip-offs; Sam can admit to himself that, not too far from here, multiple somebodies probably already know Baron Zemo and Co. are in the city. Any one of Zemo’s hires could be reporting on them. He swallows and inches his hand across the middle seat towards Bucky’s.

Zemo gives him an approving nod and a dorky ok sign that makes Sam roll his eyes. When he’s facing forward again, Sam bumps his hand into Bucky’s. With a jerk, Bucky goes from staring out his window to down at their hands.

“Just do it, man,” Sam says under his breath, glancing at the side of the driver’s face.

“Nothing I want more,” Bucky says with zero enthusiasm. He flips his hand over for Sam to grasp and adds, “Babe.”

Just for that, Sam intertwines their fingers to make the hold as intimate as possible. He sees Bucky’s jaw tighten, but before he can probe his staring eyes for meaning, Bucky’s looking out the window again.

Not letting go immediately goes from part of the act to a competition between them. Sam catches the driver peering at the two of them in the rear-view mirror and yanks their joined hands over so the back of Bucky’s rests on his thigh. In obvious retaliation, Bucky clamps Sam’s hand securely when the car rolls to a stop in Low Town, forcing Sam to scoot across the back seat and climb out Bucky’s door.

“You could look a little happier about this,” Zemo suggests, motioning to their rigid arms while they maintain a squeezing hand-hold, as if the Baron’s about to attempt to red-rover his way between them.

“That better not be you telling me to smile,” Sam warns.

“I thought Sam’s nickname was supposed to be ironic,” Bucky says.

“What do I know,” Zemo says. He raises his hands in a gesture of harmlessness—that Sam absolutely does not buy—and leads them up the street.

“He’s not wrong,” Bucky turns his head to mutter as Sam’s gaze roves over a series of seedy deals conducted right out in the open. “You could loosen up a little. You look mad. It’s suspicious.”

“Oh, I could loosen up?” Sam shoots back. “Try wiping that death-stare off your face for five minutes.”

“Hey, I’m allowed to look like this. I’m acting protective, remember?”

“Well, maybe I look mad because your hand’s all sweaty.”

“It’s your hand that’s sweaty!”

“Uh, no.”

“You want me to switch hands?” Bucky asks, eyes boring into Sam’s and startling him because, beneath the exasperation, there’s unmistakable fear. Could be the situation, or the fact that they’re kinda putting their lives in Zemo’s hands here, or that he expects Sam to recoil at even the suggestion of clasping his Vibranium hand like a lover would.

“Yeah,” he says. “Gimme the other one.”

They stare each other down until Bucky shrugs it off, refusing to switch. Sam hopes he knows that he would’ve, that it doesn’t need to be a big deal, and that it’s probably just all Zemo’s talk of manipulating Bucky into playing the part of the Winter Soldier that has him extra wary of his own prosthetic. His Vibranium hand is currently covered by a leather glove and Sam’s glad the Baron can’t see the sleek metal when he looks back at them with greedy eyes full of an agenda Sam’s certain they only know a piece of.

“Almost there,” Zemo tells them.

“I’m gonna try not to attract attention,” Bucky says quietly, making Sam stop with him before they can enter the bar. “I might not talk much.”

“That’s fine,” Sam assures him. “We’ll let Zemo take the lead. You just stay close, alright?”

Bucky nods and they duck inside, following the back of Zemo’s high collar as they weave through a crowd of disreputable characters. It’s packed in here. Sam tries to keep his chest out, his head up, his body moving like this suit is type of thing he wears all the time. Bucky releases his hand to walk behind him, leaving Sam’s palm clammy and cold.

When Sam stops abruptly to let Zemo reach the bartender first, Bucky walks into him. Honestly, his solid presence is a relief and Sam shuts his eyes to reset for a second before turning his head partway.

“That a knife in your front pocket? I thought we were being inconspicuous.”

“It is inconspicuous,” Bucky replies, brushing past him to stand at his side instead of right against his back. “Nobody’s gonna know it’s there unless I have to pull it out.”

“I know it’s there.”

“I wasn’t counting on you pressing your ass against it.”

Sam opens his mouth, but all he can do is make a disgruntled noise before Zemo’s turning away from the bartender with a smile to wave Sam and Bucky forward.

“Ah,” says the Baron. “Will you join me, Smiling Tiger?”

Repeatedly telling himself to keep his shit together, Sam comes up to the bar, leaning an arm on the surface. He isn’t expecting pushback from the bartender, but maybe Zemo doesn’t have quite as much clout in Madripoor as he imagines; the bartender holds Sam’s eyes for a moment before glancing pointedly to Bucky. Sam can feel Bucky hovering at his back.

“My husband,” Sam states. Probably best to keep his answers short. He might look like the real Smiling Tiger, but he has no idea whether or not he sounds anything like him.

The bartender just stares back, then drops his gaze to Sam’s hand, splayed on the bar top. Shit. He knows what the man’s thinking: no ring. Although Sam’s totally good with leaping out of the back of airplanes, being required to improvise with words has him panicking. If he and Bucky had thought to come up with an excuse for why a guy like Smiling Tiger—who’s evidently comfortable being decked out in jewellery—wouldn’t wear a wedding ring, he could deliver it now, but without rehearsing? He’s not a smooth or practiced liar.

Defensively, he draws away from the bar and feels his shoulder hit someone. Bucky. Sam looks from where his shoulder is pressing into Bucky’s chest, then up to his eyes. Wordlessly, he asks for assistance. Bucky leans forward to make his voice heard over the noise of the room and Sam exhales slowly in swift relief. But that’s until Bucky says to the bartender, “Just between you and me, Smiling Tiger says he won’t wear a ring until I find him something that looks better wrapped around him than my mouth.”

The bartender doesn’t react. Sam’s trying not to either, but the expression Bucky petrified onto his face when he spoke can’t look natural. He glances at Zemo, who appears to be unequivocally enjoying their sloppy storytelling. Lifting a glass, the Baron toasts Sam and Bucky.

“Newlyweds,” he says.

With titanic effort, Sam manages a tight approximation of a smile, then angles his face away to speak to Bucky.

“Why the hell would you say that?” he groans.

Bucky gives him a brief glance before returning his gaze to the inscrutable bartender. He fucking beams at him, at the same time replying to Sam from between his clamped teeth.

“Because we’re deeply in love.”

“According to you, the only thing I’ve been deeply in recently is—”

“The usual, Smiling Tiger?” the bartender asks, cutting off Sam’s mumbled conversation.

He nods and the man puts his back to them as he prepares whatever Smiling Tiger’s signature drink is.

“I believe it,” Zemo offers, murmuring into his drink as he tips it back.

“We didn’t ask,” Bucky tells him.

Sam can still feel Bucky standing there, making casual contact that alters slightly as he speaks. What is he doing? Shifting to put himself between Sam and Zemo? The Baron might’ve been right about his protective instinct, though Sam’s sure as hell never noticed this before. No, Zemo’s gotta be wrong. These are extreme circumstances—stressful circumstances—and he and Bucky are just putting their backs together (figuratively), ready to defend against an attack from anyone but each other. That doesn’t mean anything except that they’ve been in combat together and developed a certain amount of dependability and, alright, trust.

“The chemistry is there,” Zemo continues casually, dissecting after being blatantly told not to. “The history, the tension. It’s absolutely electric.”

Zemo is spared the merciless comeback forming in Sam’s mouth when the bartender slaps an entire dead snake down in front of them and starts to gut it. Even Bucky flinches against him. Sam can’t remember the last thing he ate, but he has a bad feeling he’s going to be reminded any second when he ralphs it up between his fancy shoes.

“Hey,” Bucky says, grabbing his arm and turning him away from the bar.

Sam wants to knock his hand away because he can’t break character now. This could be some kind of test, ordered by the person Zemo brought them here to make contact with and carried out by the bartender. Sam needs to be unfazed by this and he’s taking shallow breaths through his mouth (because what he doesn’t need to do is find out what that snake’s corpse smells like), striving to regain his composure.

And Bucky… well, Bucky just has to fuck that up for him.

Vibranium fingers take gentle grip of Sam’s jaw as Bucky tilts his head and plants a firm kiss on his lips. Sam hates that this is easier to improvise than a spoken lie. And he’d be lying to himself if he couldn’t admit that he’s thought about this. A dozen times, just today. He grabs Bucky by the hips, hauling him against him. In his head, thoughts and stimuli are unfolding and collapsing like his wings—the thick slicing sound of the bartender’s knife, Who the hell does Bucky think he is, kissing me out of nowhere?, the puff of air leaving Bucky’s nose and hitting Sam’s cheek, All of this is Zemo’s fault, the soft feel of Bucky’s bottom lip between his teeth, Fuck that, Zemo’s not getting credit for this, the ridge of the knife in Bucky’s front pocket as it pushes against Sam’s thigh. That is still the knife, isn’t it?

When Bucky breaks it off, he looks a little dazed. Sam wants to laugh and tell him, Hey, that was your idea, but there seems to be a lag in his ability to banter. At the sound of a glass being set on the bar behind him, he recalls what was going on right before Bucky initiated that kiss and from what, therefore, Bucky was trying to spare him.

“Thanks,” Sam mouths.

Holding his gaze, Bucky nods.

Sam rotates to find a shot glass with something distressing floating inside. His stomach lurches like a student driver’s ride as he stares at the slimy lump in the glass. Bucky moves around him to prop an elbow on the bar, excitement in his eyes, clearly ready to watch Sam swallow whichever organ the bartender just harvested for his consumption. What a dick. So much for Bucky protecting him.

It makes Sam shudder just to close his fingers around the glass, but when he catches Bucky looking like he’s suppressing a laugh, he suddenly knows exactly what’ll make him feel better.

“I hate for you to waste a good snake,” Sam tells the bartender. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bucky’s face fall. “You’ve got plenty of choice pieces left. Pour another one of these for my husband.”

With the final word of his order, he takes his hand from the bar to smack Bucky’s ass.

“I was just starting to think about forgiving you for breaking Zemo outta prison and you had to look at me like you can’t wait for me to down this snake drink,” Sam says, focusing on Bucky while the bartender takes his knife to the snake a second time.

“So this is the punishment?” Bucky asks.

“I believe it’s more of a trust exercise,” Zemo offers. Oh, that’s right, he’s still here. Between the nastiest drink-making process he’s ever witnessed and making out with Bucky, Sam actually stopped being aware of Zemo. “Really, it’s symbolic, James. Sam would like for the two of you to go through this together, to strengthen your bond with a shared experience. The gesture is quite moving.”

“Can we get one for the Baron too?” Bucky requests as the bartender sets his drink in front of him. “Wouldn’t want him to feel left out.”

Zemo attempts to wave it off, but Sam piles on with an “I insist,” and apparently an insistence from Smiling Tiger is worth more than the manners of a backpedalling Helmut Zemo in this city. Or the bartender doesn’t like the Baron either.

“We’re gonna talk about that kiss later,” Sam informs Bucky, ignoring Zemo’s expression of pure dread.

“Why don’t we talk about it now and skip the—”

“Because I said so.” Sam raises his shot glass in Bucky’s direction. “Cheers.”

Watching Bucky reluctantly lift his own drink from the bar, Smiling Tiger finally smiles.

#my writing #tfatws #tfatws spoilers #The Falcon and the Winter Soldier #Sam Wilson #Bucky Barnes #Helmut Zemo #Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes #sambucky

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crossdressingdeath · 3 years

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I was reading your comments on how if JZX and JYL were gender flipped? had the other’s feelings in regards to their arranged marriage? and got to thinking about how in just about every pseudo-historical fiction there’s a teenage girl/young woman who is very vocal about how she doesn’t want an arranged marriage, she wants to marry to love instead. And obviously we, the audience, nod at this very reasonable (by our standards) wish, even though in the setting of the story this is considered ludicrous, and every one around this woman are saying she should just accept her approaching marriage to a man she has hardly met and doesn’t particularly like. Like, the woman who doesn’t want to get married to whoever she’s supposed to is basically a stock character, and in MDZS JZX is the one filling that role, with everyone around him pressuring him to accept this marriage that he doesn’t want. I think you’re spot on with people being more sympathetic towards JZX if he was the woman in that situation, because the only thing that stops his teenage self from being that stock character is that he’s a teenage boy rather than a teenage girl.

Oh, absolutely! "Arranged marriages suck" is a pretty common theme in any historical (or historical-ish) fiction! It's a thing that comes up a lot, because in modern times we recognize that arranged marriages do in fact suck and that's a thing that frequently bleeds into fiction. We cheer the young women who get angry and insult the totally unappealing man that's being forced on them! And yet with JZX it's always "How can he say those things about her, doesn't he know he's hurting her, what about her reputation" and like... guys, come on. For one thing he doesn't actively insult her until WWX and JC pretty much force it out of him when they start going after him for not talking about how much he adores the young woman he doesn't like who's being forced on him while everyone else is talking about girls. But other than that it's like... yes! He's not exactly making JYL look appealing! But frankly even the woman a great sect's heir passed up is a good match for a lesser sect just because she was considered. Especially since I'm pretty sure the betrothal falling through was fully blamed on WWX, not JYL. And you know what, that's not JZX's problem. He's not obligated to play house with a woman he wants nothing to do with before the marriage even goes through because she might look slightly less appealing and might feel a bit bad!

And you know what? People always seem to forget one thing, which is that JYL is the only daughter among ALL the great sects. She is, without question, the highest ranking eligible young maiden in all the sects. If she had anything going for her she should have been inundated with marriage offers the second her betrothal was called off. And if JZX not being happy about his forced marriage destroyed her reputation that much then people would've talked about it. I get that the way the story is framed makes it easy to take WWX's view of JYL as this near-holy being who can do no wrong, but... seriously. An all but guaranteed alliance with the Jiang sect at the height of its power would have been invaluable to every lesser sect that didn't already have one. And it's not exactly unheard of; neither Madam Jin nor YZY are from a great sect, so presumably great sects often marry their spare children off to more minor sects. So I find myself wondering, if JZX didn't slander her enough for it to be worthy of mention (which... he's a bit arrogant, but he is not that much of a dick and it would take a lot more than a lack of interest to kill all desire for a marriage to the one daughter among the great sects), why is there no mention of a single offer of marriage coming in, or the Jiangs trying to find someone for her to marry (as would be expected as far as I can tell)? It's an interesting point, is all I'm saying. A minor point, but an interesting one.

#mdzs #lotus sister #jin zixuan

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justmenoworries · 4 years

Text

Fate: The Winx Saga - How Not To Reboot A Beloved Franchise

Okay, I think I speak for everyone here when I say: We saw this coming.

We saw this coming as soon as that godawful trailer dropped on youtube. But because I hate myself and because I wanted to give this pile of shit a chance, I watched it.

All of it.

It sucked and I won’t do it again.

The End.

....

Nah, I’m kidding.

Here’s why Fate: The Winx Saga sucked ass.

(Spoilers under the cut! Pfft, like anyone cares.)

The Story:

I suppose now you’ll expect me to tell you that F:TWS was a generic, boring slog-fest.

That it offered the most clichéd take on a Chosen One-story since Eragon and that it’s half-assed attempts to be scary through bringing in a zombie apocalypse made it even more painfully obvious just how hard the story was trying to be edgy and ‘’’’’’mature’’’’’’’’.

And, yeah, that’s pretty much how it went.

...Oh, I’m sorry, did you expect something fresh and surprising?

So did I when I watched this garbage.

The title says Winx, but honestly the story is more about Bloom than anyone else. At least they were faithful to the source material in one aspect, am I right fellow Winx-fans?

I hope you like Alfea, because you won’t be spending time anywhere else! Gone are the dozen colorful, unique worlds with their own eco-systems and culture.

Now we have The Otherworld, which is just earth, but with magic.

Oh yeah, and remember how each magic and non-magic users had their own, specialized schools to got to?

Cloud Tower, Alfea, Red Fountain?

Yeah, that’s all Alfea now.

Remember how Winx Club juggled great, charismatic villains and everyday teenage-drama in a way that made both seem interesting and neither obnoxious?

Fate fails miserably at that.

The subplot about the zombies- Oh, sorry, The Burned Ones ™ slowly invading Alfea couldn’t be more dry and uninteresting if it tried. You have hints of political intrigue in the background with the Solarians scheming and taking over in the end, but trust me when I say: You won’t care.

And since the character are either miserable, unlikable or both, you also won’t care about the teenage drama.

Because it’s every single teenage drama plot-line you’ve already seen in edgy reboots like Riverdale, Chilling Adventures of Sabrina, etc.

To add insult to injury, season 1 ends with the villains and antagonists taking over Alfea with Solaria’s help, as if anyone would be baited into a season 2 after you just dragged us through a worse version of The Walking Dead.

I would say this is what you watch to lull you to sleep, but all the incessant whining and belly-aching wouldn’t let you.

And because this is the ‘‘‘‘‘‘mature’‘‘‘‘‘ reboot, there will be no transformations and no bright colors. Just some nice effects for magic and that’s it.

Because, you know.

No one watched Winx Club for those, am I right? /s

And because in modern, edgy reboots women can never just be friends, the Winx Club start out hating each other, until suddenly they’re the best of friends in episode 4, Stella included.

Cool, huh?

The Characters:

I’ll get straight to the point: The main cast is horrible.

Not acting-wise, the actors are doing the best they can with the script, but the way they’re written...

God, the way they’re written.

For starters, Stella is a Karen now. In the very first episode she attempts to get Bloom killed, then runs away to cry into Sky’s shoulder rather than apologize.

Flora was replaced by a white character named Terra, who the writers probably thought would be received well solely because she’s awkward and makes a lot of Strawman-Feminist statements.

Techna got straight-up written out.

Musa was white-washed and is a Mind Fairy instead of a Music Fairy now, because her being the Fairy of Music wasn’t ‘‘‘‘mature’‘‘‘ enough for this reboot.

Bloom is a whiny, spoiled brat who is willing to endanger absolutely everyone around her to get what she wants. And in the end, the plot rewards her for it.

Aisha is the only Winx Club-member who remains likeable, but she’s firmly planted in the supporting character-role.

Most of the Specialists got written out too. No Timmy, no Helia, no Nabu, no Brandon.

Sky is still there, but he serves mainly as a boy toy for Stella and Bloom to fight over, because that needed to be a thing, I guess.

Riven was changed from Jerk with a Heart of Gold who learns to be better to just a one-note jerk who never changes and never learns. He’s also not with Musa in this story. Even though their romance was by far the most engaging one in the original series, aside from maybe Aisha and Nabu.

We get a new character named Dane, but he’s just there to be either a bully-victim or a side-character for others to take advantage of. Did I mention he’s the only black guy in the main cast? Yeah. There’s also this really asinine running gag that he might be gay, to tease a possible relationship with Riven, but nothing ever comes off it.

The teacher-characters are all pretty much the same: Duty-driven, want to protect the ones under their care, but end up alienating them by not being entirely honest with them because they think their students aren’t ready for The Truth, blah blah blah, moving on.

The villains don’t fare much better.

The Trix got fused into one single character named Beatrix (haha, get it?) and she’s just... The Worst. And not in a good way. She’s obviously supposed to be the Charming Bad Girl-type but you’re more likely to laugh your ass off every time she opens her mouth than be intrigued. Whoever wrote her dialogue clearly has no idea how teenagers talk. She hooks up with Riven and Dane for no reason in particular and it’s heavily implied these three are going to be the new Trix. Which is...no. Just no.

The headmistress’ secretary gets killed off in the third episode and doesn’t do much in the first two, so I have nothing to say about him.

Rosalind is a worse, female Darth Sidious who is trying so hard to get Bloom to join the Dark Side and I guarantee you, you will not care. The story also tries to present her as something of a well-intentioned extremist, but forgets to actually let her have a point in her murders and genocides.

Hey, remember when Winx Club characters were different and unique?

The writers of this reboot clearly don’t.

The Aesthetic:

Hey kids!

You know what’s better than bright colors and nice, comforting palettes?

Slapping a dull grey filter on everything and calling it a day!

If I had to list all the reasons why Fate’s lack of style is so heartbreaking and disappointing, we’d be here all day.

So I’m just gonna show you a few screenshots from both the original series and the reboot and let that speak for itself.

The Original:

The Reboot:

Honestly, what do I even need to say?

The reboot sucked out everything that made Winx Club Winx Club and replaced it with “YA-novel palette #17247845453″.

Thanks, I hate it.

In Conclusion:

Fate: The Winx Saga could have been a new take on Winx Club’s story.

Maybe even introduced new concepts and characters tat could have been just as iconic as the original ones.

It chose to be every reboot ever instead, made everything grimdark and fundamentally misunderstood the meaning of “Gray Morality”.

Do yourself a favor and re-watch the original instead.

It’ll be a much better use of your time.

#fate the winx saga #review

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rizlowwritessortof · 4 years

Text

The Devil Made Me Do It

Shea is in a reckless mood. Demon!Dean is happy to help her indulge that mood.

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Shea (OC)

Word Count: 3238

Warnings: Just smutty-smut, Demon!Dean (he gets his own warning)

She knows his eyes are on her the moment he enters the bar, feels that distinct spine-shiver that tells her someone is watching her. She bends low over the pool table to take her shot, acutely aware of how well it displays her cleavage in the halter top she’s wearing. She’s in a reckless mood tonight, wants to drive someone to desperation, and whoever is feasting his eyes on her assets seems like a good target.

She takes another shot, misses the next one, and steps pretty to the side, her very short skirt flipping with the movement, swinging around her thighs and teasing a glimpse of the red lacy panties she wears underneath. She picks up her drink, tipping her head back as she swallows, letting her eyes finally search the room for the man she knows will be staring back at her. When she finds him, her fingers go numb and the glass almost slips from her grasp.

“Shea, your shot. You drunk already?” her friend razzes, and she blinks, turning her attention back to the game.

“As if.” She looks for her shot, smiling a little as she takes a position with her back to him, bending to send the eight ball home and giving him a little more incentive to approach her. “Game. I’m getting a booth, you coming?”

She turns away from the table and finds her way blocked by a burgundy-covered chest. Her eyes travel up slowly, the terrain very inviting. Broad shoulders, sculptured jaw, sinful lips that make her clench her thighs together, and finally the eyes that have been devouring her. Framed with lush lashes, they are green and lust-filled without a hint of apology, as if he already owns her. “Shea. I like that. I’m Dean. So you know what to scream when I make you come.”

She’s melting on the inside, but determined not to show it. “Well, somebody’s cocky.”

He bends towards her. “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea.”

She looks into his eyes, acting more confident than she feels. She was feeling predatory tonight, but now – she’s definitely the prey. “I think you might be a little bit dangerous, Dean.”

His smirk sets her blood on fire. “I think that’s exactly what you’re looking for tonight. Isn’t it, Shea? You were all ready to pounce on some poor unsuspecting guy, but instead – you got me. And if you’re honest, I think what you’ve been looking for is someone you can’t control.” He puts a finger beneath her chin and lifts her face, bending to brush his lips over hers, and her knees almost give. “So – you ready to get outta here? Go have some real fun?”

She stares back at him and smiles. “I’ve never had a problem taking control with other men. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The grin on his face makes her heart skip a beat, and she wonders for the first time if he’s going to be too much to handle. “Oh, baby girl, I guarantee you’ve never met a man like me.”

With a raise of his brow and a sweeping gesture of his arm, he ushers her towards the door. His hand on her back is hot, and it feels as if he’s branding her, staking his claim even though he’s barely touching her. There’s an air of menace about him, but he’s overwhelmingly tempting, a dangerous combination - but she’s in just the right frame of mind to go with him anyway.

He guides her back to the farthest corner of the parking lot where a black beauty of a classic muscle car sits waiting. She lets out a low whistle, trailing her fingers along the gleaming beast, admiring. “This is a thing of beauty. Looks like sex on wheels.”

“Occasionally,” he smirks, and then he’s looped an arm around her waist and pulled her hard against him for a ravenous kiss that steals her breath. One large, warm hand slips under the hem of her skirt and kneads at her ass, and she feels a very impressive erection as he pulls her tight against him.

He hums softly into their kiss, then pulls back, letting his eyes rake over her slowly, finally stopping at her chest. “How about you untie that halter and take off those sexy little panties. I like to play while I drive.”

“Here?” She blushes, taking a step back.

He smirks, shrugging. “Well, I can’t say I’m not disappointed. It was nice meeting you, Shea.” He reaches for the car door, and she puts a hand on his arm.

“Wait. I didn’t say I wouldn’t. It’s just a little – public...”

“I thought you liked dangerous, baby girl.” He takes a step closer, trailing a finger across her collarbone, then along the edge of her halter top, slipping his hand inside to cup her breast. “If you’re afraid, you can go back inside to your safe little friend and I’ll be on my way.”

She raises her chin, glaring back defiantly, undoing the ties at the back of her neck and letting her halter drop. Then she reaches beneath her skirt, still staring into his face as his eyes darken, pulling her panties down and stepping out of them. He grins, grabbing them from her hand and stuffing them in his pocket. She smirks as she moves in close to him, reaching out to squeeze at the bulge straining against his zipper. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He opens the driver’s side door with an arrogant smile on his face. “Night’s not over yet.”

For a split second she actually thinks about running back inside, but she slides under the wheel and scoots over to give him room to climb in. Dean’s right, she has craved someone she couldn’t wrap around her little finger, as fun as that usually is. She wants to free fall into the unknown, let him take her places she’s never been, because she’s always been the one in control. She wants it, but she’s nervous as hell.

“I knew you had it in you,” he chuckles, pulling the door shut and turning to yank her close. He grabs her breast and kisses her hard, a sharp twist to her nipple making her gasp, allowing him to thrust his tongue inside. She’s panting for air when he finally releases her, both of his large hands squeezing and kneading at her chest. “Beautiful, baby girl – I bet you’re fucking gorgeous when you come.”

He turns back to the steering wheel reluctantly, starting the engine, and she revs right along with it as his hand slides up her thigh. He steps on the gas, spitting gravel and fishtailing a little as they speed towards the street. He has two fingers buried knuckle-deep in her as they hit the highway, and she can’t hide her trembling any longer. He’s got her wound up tight and ready to burst, and he’s barely touched her.

He takes them out of town, turning onto a gravel road away from lights and prying eyes. She clutches at the taut muscle of his thigh as he finger-fucks her, stopping once to take a taste and letting out a low moan. “After that appetizer, I’m gonna need the whole meal, sweetheart. You taste just as luscious as you look.” She can’t respond as he jams those thick digits back inside her, homing in on her sweet spot like he’s got radar. Her head is back on the seat, her hips bucking into his thrusts, and when he adds a third finger, she shouts, lights exploding behind her eyes and heat rushing through her. She hears him laugh with delight, his voice muted as her heart beats loud in her ears. “That’s one!” he says with a grin, pulling his fingers free and cleaning them off with his eager tongue.

She turns her head after a moment and can’t help but smile up at him, a little high from the alcohol she had earlier and the endorphins. “Wow, you don’t waste any time, do you?”

“Let’s just say I like to indulge myself. And I’m pretty sure you had a good time.”

He’s definitely cocky. Speaking of… she suddenly has the urge to give him a little shock of her own. She moves over on the seat and bends over, unfastening his jeans as he looks down at her with a surprised laugh. “What? I like to indulge myself, too,” she says, then slips his boxers down beneath his erection and dives in. It punches a shout from his gut as she just sinks down on him, gagging herself a little but fighting it off. She sucks hard, pulling back slow, her tongue working over him as she moves, and he’s groaning, his hips raising up off the seat as he swears.

“Fuck, doll, you want me to wrap this car around a tree?”

At the moment, she really doesn’t care. She’s determined to take him apart, show him she’s not some little innocent thing to be debauched. She’s done some debauching herself. So she hums around him, forcing herself down until she can feel the soft hairs tickle her nose. He swears again, his fingers diving into her hair and gripping a handful, but she just sucks harder, then pulls up and nibbles gently at the head with her teeth.

This time he full-on yells, cussing a blue streak as he jerks the wheel to the right and takes them through the shallow ditch and into the trees along the gravel road. Both hands are buried in her hair now, and he’s fucking up into her mouth, taking control. She braces herself on his thigh and lets him take what he wants, satisfied with herself at how quickly she drove him to this point.

Soon he’s coming, spurting hot and thick down her throat, and she keeps working him through it until he collapses against the seat, his arms dropping to his sides. She suckles at him gently, gradually moving off with a tender kiss to the tip, sitting back on her knees with a smile as she swipes the back of her hand over her mouth. “At least you missed all the trees,” she teases, and he narrows his eyes at her, then grabs her close for a heated kiss.

He shoves his door open, still kissing her. “Come on, baby girl.”

“I thought you had a room?” she asks, confused.

“Not waiting any longer. I’m bending your ass over this car and fucking you till you scream for me.”

He climbs out from behind the wheel, his large hand encircling her wrist, and she stumbles along behind him to the front of the car. He doesn’t give her a chance to get her footing before he’s jerked her close, his arms crushing her to his chest as he devours her with his kiss. He lets go long enough for her to catch a breath as he sweeps his hands down and behind her thighs, lifting her into his arms, letting her wrap her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. He’s biting at her throat, sucking marks into her skin that she’ll wear for days, but she doesn’t care.

“You got anywhere to be tomorrow?” he rumbles into her ear, and she shakes her head. “Good. Because you’re gonna have a hard time walking by morning.”

She whimpers as he latches onto the slope of her neck, sucking and biting as she grinds herself against him, smearing his belly with her arousal. He growls, carrying her to the Impala and setting her down on the hood, bending to attack her breasts with his tongue and teeth as he lays her back against the gleaming black surface, still warm from their drive.

Her fingers clutch uselessly at the metal beneath her, her back arching at the blissful torture. He finally raises his head, a wicked smile curving his lips as he gazes down at her. “Look at you, all marked up for me, like you belong to me.” He bends closer. “You want to belong to me, baby girl?” The full moon is their only light, but she can still see the darkness of his pupils bleed out into his eyes until they are nothing but glittering obsidian, and she cries out in terror.

“What… what the hell are you?”

He grins, his eyes slowly fading back to green. “I’m a demon. But don’t worry, I’m at the top of the food chain. Knight of Hell. No slumming for you, baby girl!” She shies away as he bends to kiss her again, and he shakes his head, clucking his tongue at her like a child. “Now, you wanted dangerous. So are you gonna enjoy the ride, or are you gonna be a whiny brat and never know what it feels like to walk on the dark side?” He bends to kiss her neck, his tongue against her skin, and he continues until he feels her relaxing, surrendering to his touch. He laughs softly, moving to tease at her nipples again until she is writhing beneath him in spite of her fear. “Knew you had it in you. Well, you will have.” He laughs at his own joke, then pulls her forward until her ass is almost hanging off the edge of the car. “But first – I’m gonna taste that sweet pussy.”

He gets down on one knee in front of her, his hands gliding over her legs from ankle to thigh, caressing, kneading gently. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby.” He leans in close, inhaling and letting his breath out in a long, low moan. “You’re just gorgeous everywhere, aren’t you, sweetheart? Fucking beautiful...” He lays his tongue flat against her, licking a wide stripe between her thighs, then exploring her, plunging his tongue deep inside before moving up to circle her clit. He repeats the same pattern, over and over, until she is whimpering, fingers clutching at his hair. When he finally closes his lips around her clit, she cries out and bucks up into his mouth, and he begins to suck, thrusting his fingers in deep and stroking until she screams his name.

He shows no mercy as she thrashes against him, not letting up until she sags weakly against the car, her arms dropping helplessly at her sides. He stands up, towering over her, dragging his forearm over his face and then bending to kiss her hungrily. He watches her until her eyes open, a smirk on his lips. “You with me? Still know your name?”

She can’t smother her smile. “Wow, you really are cocky.”

“Well, I think it’s about time you find out for yourself, don’t you?”

He puts his arms around her and helps her up, turns her towards the car and bends her forward over the hood. He spreads her legs, and she splays her fingers over the now-cold metal, shivers as she remembers just who is doing these things to her. He nudges against her entrance, hot and hard, and her mouth drops open as he pushes in, slow and relentless. He watches her take him in with predatory gleam in his eyes. “You might be a little scared, but you’re so wet, baby girl. You want this, and I can feel it. Feels good, my big ol’ demon cock splitting you open, doesn’t it? You’re so tight I can barely move. Just relax and take it, baby, and I’ll fuck you so good...”

She’s finally starting to breath again, her body adjusting slowly to his impressive size, when he starts to move. She tries to brace herself, up on tiptoe, but her strength is exhausted and he’s so damn strong. Before long, he just clutches her hips in his hands, her feet not even touching the ground, and pulls her back into every powerful thrust. She’s helpless in his grasp, has no choice but to take the aching pleasure as it builds and builds, feeling him so deep inside she swears he’ll break her in two.

He shifts his hold just a bit, then slams back into her with an animalistic growl, and she begins to wail into the dark, her body quaking uncontrollably as she comes apart in his hands, blind and deaf to everything but the fiery ecstasy blazing through every nerve. She slowly becomes aware of him throbbing inside her, a shouted curse leaving his lips as he fills her with heat.

He stands there, still buried deep within her, for a moment, then bends over her, nuzzling into her neck, placing hot kisses against her cooling skin. “Gotta say, I’m glad you didn’t run back to your bestie back there. That was a hell of a ride. You gonna make it?”

She nods slowly. “Mmmmmmm. Yeah. I’m good,” she slurs, and he laughs softly.

“You took me so good, baby girl. I might have to come visit you again sometime.”

“As long as it’s not tomorrow,” she smiles, and he grins as he helps her to her feet, winking down at her as he turns her to face him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll give you a little time to recover.” He looks down at her, eyes raking over her marked-up skin and swollen nipples with a little groan. “Damn, girl, I could fuck you for weeks and never get tired of you.” He reaches for the ties to her halter top and pulls it back in place, pushing her hair out of the way to knot them before bending to kiss her. She feels desire begin to flicker inside her again before he pulls away, his gaze warm and lustful. “I think I’d better take you back before I decide I can’t.”

She takes a step, wobbly on her legs, and he chuckles, sweeping her up into his arms and carrying her to the passenger side door. He opens it and bends to put her in the seat, smiling as she winces a little and then looks up at him with a weary smile. “Thanks.”

Before he starts the engine, he picks up her phone and types his number in, then shoots himself a text so he has hers. She’s almost asleep when he pulls back into the parking lot at the bar, a few people straggling their way out to head home.

He gets out and comes around, opening her door and giving her a hand out. Her friend is just coming out of the bar, and her eyes widen as she sees her, but she stays where she is, waiting. Dean bends to kiss her, almost gentle, his hand on her face, and she looks up at him with shining eyes. “I’ll be seeing you again, baby girl.”

“I hope so,” she whispers, and kisses him again. “Bye, Dean.”

She watches him get back in the Impala, doesn’t turn away until he’s out of sight, and her friend runs up to her, grabbing her arm. “Oh my god, Shea! Are you okay? Look at you - fuck, girl! You’ve got marks all over you!”

“I know,” she sighs, smiling.

“Seriously, Shea! You go running off with some guy you’ve never even seen before, disappear for hours, I was worried sick! For fuck’s sake, woman, what the hell is wrong with you? What were you thinking?”

She’s still smiling as she shrugs. “Let’s just say – the devil made me do it.”

@saenalife @deanscarlett @jensensgotyoudean @jinkieswouldyoulookatthis @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog @geeklibrarian @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @aprofoundbondwithdean @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @mrswhozeewhatsis @littlegreenplasticsoldier @sleep-silent-angel @darcia22 @winchesterprincessbride @cavillanche @ellen-reincarnated1967 @eyes-of-a-disney-princess @deanslittleangel2y5 @melanie451 @lovin-ackles @spectaculacular-sammy @bookchic20 @jodyri @selma-jean @savingapplepie-eatingthings @angelofwinchester17 @kittenofdoomage @masked-maiden42 @lean-mean-deanwinchester @ericuhlorain @undecided-garden @ceeceewinchester @typicalweirdbookworm @callmesweetheartifyoumeanit @youtoldalie @tanithlowisabamf @deandoesthingstome @jxackles @nerdwholikesword @soivebuiltupaworldofmagic @kreweofimp @gabavaldman @chaos-and-the-calm67-blog @darkx143 @disassociativedogma @ioanashalala @jencharlan @deansthirstblog @dorky-and-i-know-it @mischief-maker1 @winchestersandwordprocessors @percussiongirl2017 @bringmesomepie56 @akshi8278 @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @torn-and-frayed @sandlee44 @wingedcatninja @evansrogerskitten @emoryhemsworth @peaceinourtime82

#the devil made me do it #demon!dean fic #demon!dean x oc #demon!dean smut #thank you talesmaniac89 for the divider!

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laundryandtaxes · 4 years

Note

I get where you're coming from, but I think in this instance with Elliot Page it's more about the specific accomplishments/actions/statements made before transition and the rush to erase them and/or remold in terms of the new identity. I think people in the public eye have a bit of a different circumstance surrounding them since people/society have this weird thing with public figures where we consider them sorta authority/important figures above regular people and emulate or idolize them, so it's not quite the same as an average person living through the same situation. I feel like I wouldn't even bat an eye at an acquaintance or local person I've met before transitioning and I certainly wouldn't bother a stranger, but a celebrity is putting a certain message out there with their actions and how they handle their lives. It comes with being famous, and this whole thing with abandoning the past, changing the nature of past roles and works, and disavowing any statements made before transition as associated with womanhood or lesbianism is not exactly a good look. I also think that by becoming famous and choosing to live in the public eye, you open yourself up to public critique and you don't (and shouldn't) have the ability to fully control that. Honestly I think this situation could have been handled better or something if this is them living their truth, but it's not like you can change things that already happened anyway so 🤷‍♀️ it is what it is.

This is probably the only time I’ll address this because I honestly don’t care all that much BUT I do want to respond because I think you’re being honest and normal here instead of dishonest and weird, and I appreciate that, but there are several points where I disagree. I’m gonna pull and highlight different parts because I’ve been spending a lot of time on reddit and it seems the easiest to me.

it's more about the specific accomplishments/actions/statements made before transition and the rush to erase them and/or remold in terms of the new identity

That may very well be the case with SOME reactions, but I’m very much referring to people who, within a few hours of that social media post, were whining in public about someone they don’t know using a new name and pronouns.

I think people in the public eye have a bit of a different circumstance surrounding them since people/society have this weird thing with public figures where we consider them sorta authority/important figures above regular people and emulate or idolize them

I totally agree with you here, but if people are doing that then frankly they are acting stupid and that is their own fault. Celebrity culture is stupid. Buying into it is stupid. As grown adults it is stupid to be invested in what strangers do because they’re decent actors, or because they’re famous and gay or famous and black or whatever. If someone is engaging with celebrities in this way, that is their own fault, and it is a poor decision and it is honestly just...stupid. And I say that having been on the other side of that weird relationship on tumblr on a scale that is obviously about a million times smaller, where people will just assume because they’ve followed you for a long time that they can talk to you in ways that are disrespectful if you’re not a friend, or have the right to have input on your life, or place stock in you being a certain kind of way.

a celebrity is putting a certain message out there with their actions and how they handle their lives

Again, the issue here is that you THINK they are putting a certain message out there when in reality they’re just living a life, with good decisions and bad decisions like everybody else. They are literally just people, just like the other 7 billionish people on the planet. Was Paul Walker putting a certain message into the world when he crashed his sports car into a tree in a residential neighborhood and died? No, he was just being stupid and making a stupid decision and doing something to have fun. It truly is not that deep. Celebrities are nothing except human beings that some people choose to keep up with. They’re literally not even special. There are musicians as talented as all your favorites who you’ll never have the opportunity to listen to. There are actors as talented as whoever won the last big acting awards (I get them mixed up) at your local theater, I guarantee it.

this whole thing with abandoning the past, changing the nature of past roles and works, and disavowing any statements made before transition as associated with womanhood or lesbianism is not exactly a good look

I haven’t seen any of that, and if it is happening then yeah I agree it is stupid but also people say and do stupid things literally every single day and I shrug and move on. But even if it IS the case, it is not what the people I’m referencing here were bothered by. They were bothered by someone transitioning because they had an investment in that person (who again, is only special in the way that any other random human being you pull of the street would be special) not transitioning, and it is stupid to have that kind of investment in a straight up stranger. It is one thing when you have a buddy that you think is transitioning for the wrong reasons or with unrealistic expectations, and it is one thing to look at the rates of masculine female people who transition and just scratch your head because the rates of us who can only find dysphoria mitigation through transition cannot possibly be this high- both super reasonable imo. It is another to find out some random person is transitioning and whine about it on the internet and expect people not to regard that behavior as ridiculous when it is, in fact, ridiculous.

by becoming famous and choosing to live in the public eye, you open yourself up to public critique and you don't (and shouldn't) have the ability to fully control that

Agreed here. I also think that if you believed you were x and millions of people made fun of you for it, since again celebrities are literally just random people, you’d be upset by it. But agreed, at the end of the day you cannot and should not get invested heavily in attempts to control the way people look at you.

Honestly I think this situation could have been handled better or something if this is them living their truth

All due respect, I think the kinds of people complaining that I was referencing agree with you that the whole thing could have been handled better, but I think that “handled better” in their opinion means not coming out. Which, fair enough, but you have to own up to that and just cop to the fact that you generally oppose transition- it is much more reasonable to say that than it is to say you don’t generally oppose transition but every time you hear about it you assume it is coming from self hatred.

I’ve been pretty open about what I think about nonbinary identity (and, while I try to stay very uninformed on celebs in general, it is my understanding so far that that’s how they are identifying) AS it is expressed and discussed by the majority of people I’ve seen fully embracing it- I think the majority of the time it implies really antifeminist things about what men and women can do and like and look like and be like, I think it very often appeals to women because it sucks to know that the world hates women and to be one, let alone to be one who doesn’t fit the image of what women are supposed to be, I think it very often solidly reinforces gender roles by insinuating that people who do not fit the prescribed gender role for their sex are in fact a whole different entity because real women are straight and pretty or whatever, I think it very often hinges on this idea that the majority of people in the world are walking around with a gender identity when the vast majority are absolutely not- like I am not coming at this from the position that all kinds of identities are good and valid and reasonable and that there is NOTHING TO SEE HERE when it comes to the politics of how nonbinary identity is most often presented. I’m just saying that, if a random person who happens to be a celebrity picking a new name and pronouns really deeply shakes you then that probably indicates that 1) you have a baseline issue with transition in and of itself, which, okay but don’t pretend that that isn’t the case, and 2) you have a problem with celebrity worship and that is nobody’s fault but your own if you’re a grown adult.

#Anonymous

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michellejackson · 4 years

Link

Fandom: Druck

Pairing: Fatou Jallow/Kieu My Vu

Wordcount: 1559

PART ONE PART TWO

Fatou’s POV

Fatou had known she was in love with Kieu My ever since they first met. At first, before she really got to know her, Kieu My’s smile would be so few, secretive and small, and she would always be closed off to whoever talked to her. Getting to know her was hard at first, but when she was finally let in, she knew it was all worth it. Her smiles had turned big and radiant, no sun could even compare. Most importantly though, she would give you all she had, all she was, unapologetically.

This is why Fatou meant it was a privilege to know Kieu My well, to see sides of her no one else would. It’s also why she knew she could never tell Kieu My that she was in love with her.

Kieu My had been acting strange lately. Fatou couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it started, but in the last few weeks she’s been really closed off somehow, and it worried her. She had begun to recycle the same excuses, school, work and her parents. And while Fatou believed her at first, she started to doubt her after an afternoon spent accompanying Kieu My’s parents, because Kieu My wasn’t dressed yet. She quickly found out that none of these things were an active issue. She was way ahead on her schoolwork, work was quiet, and her parents were supportive of her as always. So, what was the problem?

“What are you daydreaming about now?”

Yara’s voice snapped her out of it. Fatou forgot she was there for a bit and now she felt guilty. They were laying on the ping pong table in the middle of the school yard, wasting away the free hour. She laughed and apologized for not giving Yara enough attention. Yara didn’t seem to mind though.

Fatou liked hanging with Yara and had grown close to her the last few weeks. She guessed their similar situations of unrequited love had made them close.

It all started on New Year’s Eve.

Fatou and Kieu My had been sitting on a sofa far away from the rest of the party. Kieu My had been laying in Fatou’s lap, rambling about space, and Fatou had fallen in love with her all over again. It was beginning to feel like a curse, really, her unrequited love. And then Kieu My had stopped talking and started to look around.

“Who do you think should have the honor of being my new year’s kiss?” She’d said it jokingly, but Fatou knew she was really looking. So, she made a big show of pretending to think. “What about…… Nora”

“She has a boyfriend, you know this, she’s your friend” she smiled her big smile, with teeth and everything. “Indeed, it was a test, my dear Kieu My.” She laughed, waiting for Fatou to find someone else.

“Ava?”

“Are you trying to set me up with your friend group? Who’s next? Mailin?” Fatou pretended to think about it before she answered, “no, I don’t think you would be a good match to be honest” she said innocently and Kieu My snorted.

“The guy from biology?”

“No”

“William,”

“no”

“Constanti-”

“hard pass.”

“oh, so the others aren’t a hard pass?”

“Shut up.”

“What about one of those folks who already graduated? Nora’s sisters’ friends? That dude in the grandpa sweater is kind of cute”

“too old”

Fatou lets out an exasperated sigh and throws her hands up in the air to symbolize that Kieu My is impossible. Kieu My just laughs. “God, I’m gonna end up alone” she throws herself onto Fatou’s lap again and Fatou’s hand automatically goes to play with her hair.

Hours later she loses Kieu My and ends up walking around looking for her. It was almost midnight and she wanted Kieu My’s face to be the first one she saw in the new year. Pathetic, she knew. She found Yara instead.

“Hi, Yara, have you seen Kieu My?”

She had to look down at her, seeing that she’s crouching, trying to set fire to a rocket. She looked up at her when she spoke and smiled, her eyes red. Before Yara gets to answer, Fatou opens her mouth again,

“are you okay?”

The girl had clearly been crying. She brushed her off though,

“I’m fine. You know how it goes, you fall for someone, they fall for someone else, they spend the rest of their existence talking about them to your face until you have to excuse yourself to cry and then in an effort to let out all of your frustration you want to fire up a rocket to go up and away with your sorrow, but your lighter doesn’t work-” she sniffs “you know, the usual”.

Fatou didn’t know what to say, so she just stood there like an idiot. She did know. So she had offered the only type of support she could think of, “want a hug?” She opened her arms and Yara accepted immediately.

“So who’s the lucky person?” Fatou asked softly into her hair. Yara buried her face into Fatou’s neck.

“Ava”

Ahh, “Marc, huh?”

She nodded.

“I don’t like him either, to be honest” she’d said then, in an effort to brighten the mood.

“He fucking sucks”, Yara had mumbled back.

“You’ve talked to him?”

“Nope”

Fatou laughed and let go of the hug then, cupping Yara’s face instead. She stared to brush away Yara’s tears, and she didn’t plan on saying these words to anyone, let alone someone she barely knew.

“I’m in love with Kieu My” She said, almost deflating as the words left her mouth. She’d finally admitted it out loud. She still hadn’t looked away from Yara, and she could see as her face twisted into something close to confusion. Frankly, she was not expecting the response she got.

“You’re not dating?”

Yara gave her a puzzled look, and Fatou gave her one in return, “what? no.”

“Oh, I’m sorry”

They both just looked at each other for a while, the silence dragging out, until they both just burst out laughing.

“You wanna dance?” Fatou asked, and Yara said yes.

As they danced, waiting for the clock to strike twelve, Fatou felt free somehow, with her truth out in the universe. And Yara looked happy too as they both danced closer to each other, until they were inches apart. She looked up at Yara, and Yara looked down at her, their noses were brushing and Yara looked to the side before opening her mouth to speak,

“She’s looking at us”

Fatou knew who she was talking about, and she knew it was ridiculous, but some part of her wished for Kieu My to be jealous, wished for her to want her, just a little. She didn’t know what compelled her to do it, maybe she wanted Kieu My to see her with someone, or maybe she just wanted to confirm to herself what she already suspected, that Kieu My would never want her like she wanted her. Well, for tonight, she could pretend.

She knew it was ridiculous, but she did it anyways, she closed the gap between their lips and focused of Yara, forcing Kieu My off her mind.

“Is it Kieu My again?” Yara asked, all knowing as always. Fatou just nodded. Yara sat up and gestured for Fatou to do the same. She looked at her with a serious look as they sat cross-legged across from each other.

“I think you should tell Kieu My how you feel.”

She said this with a straight face, and if Yara hadn’t looked so serious as she did, Fatou would’ve laughed.

“What makes you think that’s a good idea?”

“Because she’s totally in love with you, Fatou!” Fatou just looked at her with utter disbelief.

“No, okay, listen, she’s always looking for you, ALWAYS, and she’s always looking AT you, like,, like right now, she’s literally staring at you right now,”

Fatou turned and met with brown eyes. Well… she got one thing right. She smiled and waved before turning to Yara again.

“That proves nothing.”

“sure it doesn’t, well, she didn’t kiss anyone on new year’s eve so that must tell you something!” Yara looked at her with wide eyes.

“Because she got too drunk, I took her home after, she didn’t feel well”

Yara looked at her as if to say “aha!”, but Fatou just rolled her eyes, “that doesn’t prove anythi-”

“did she get drunk before or after we made out?”

That made her stop to think. Did she get drunk before or after they made out? Kieu My hadn’t been drinking much when they were together… but that didn’t prove anything, right? She really couldn’t afford to get her hopes up for this.

“let’s talk about something else…” she tried to dodge the subject, but Yara looked at her with a look that said that she got her.

Fatou tried to look back in time, she had noticed that Kieu My had been acting strange, but could it have started after NYE? After the kiss? Could she be jealous? No… and even if it did start after NYE, it didn’t guarantee that it was because of her and Yara. But… what if that was the case?

Maybe… maybe she should try to talk to Kieu My about this after all.

#druck #fatou x kieu my #druck fic #kieutou fic

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the-apocryphal-one · 4 years

Text

Next of Kin

Summary: A special kind of pain squeezes her heart. The soft question that emerges from her lips is only natural. “Do you have any family?”Astarion x Isaniel

Also available at AO3 and ff.net!

A/N: Merry Christmas to all your lovely readers!

She should have done this before now. She knows she should have.

But there just hadn’t been time, at first. In the earliest days after her infection, she’d been teetering on a tightwire of panic and desperation, hastily cobbling together plans to get this thing out. Even when they’d stopped to eat or make camp, the thought of writing a letter to her son had never entered her mind—much to her shame.

Then, as days passed and nothing seemed to happen, she’d grown complacent. Maybe their parasites were defective. Maybe the ceremorphosis had failed. Maybe they could walk away from this with nothing more than some trauma and psionic abilities.

Then the sickness came and slapped her in the face with the reminder that nothing about these parasites is normal, nothing can be taken for granted, and nothing is all her son will know of her fate if she’s not careful.

But how do you do it? How do you say goodbye to your only child across hundreds of miles with no body language or facial expressions?

For the past few nights, Isaniel has been trying and failing to figure that out. Each time, she has pulled out parchment, stared at it for an indeterminate amount of time, laboriously pushed out a few words, stared some more, then folded it back up and returned it to her pack.

Tonight, she vows as she sits near a large, flat rock that will substitute as a desk, she’s not getting up until this letter is done. She pulls it out of her jerkin, smooths it out, places it on the rock, and uses a few pebbles to hold the corners down.

Selakiir, it says.

If you’re reading this, I’m very likely dead or worse. We can never foresee our fates, but I have a reasonable certainty as to what my particular ‘or worse’ is. The details are included in an additional, enclosed letter. That had already been written, perversely coming easier than this one. You may ignore it if you wish. I would not hold it against you if you did.

That was as far as she’d gotten. Now, she dips the quill back in the inkpot, sucks in a breath, and pens, I hope that the person who delivers this will be able to give you a first-hand account of my fate, so they can

Soothe you? Selakiir is bafflingly, wonderfully outgoing…but he is also private in his grief. When his father died, he withdrew from adventuring, his friends, even her. He’s not the type to accept banal well-wishes, especially from strangers.

answer any questions you have.

Her quill stalls. She stares at the drying ink, trying to muster up something else to say.

When she writes letters, they always end up much like her: detached and logical. But this is supposed to be a goodbye letter. The last thing her son might have of her. It…it has to be right. She can’t leave him feeling like she saw this as some sort of duty. If there’s one thing she’s always wanted to make sure Selakiir knew, and was always afraid he didn’t, it was that she loved him.

Remember: my love for you is like the moon. There are nights when it doesn’t know how to show all its self, but it is always there.

No, that should be in the closing paragraph. It’d be more final, more poetic. A lovely note to leave things on. But she can’t make herself scratch it out. There’s this foolish, superstitious fear that Selakiir will find out and be hurt. Isaniel grimaces, struggling to wrestle small talk, emotion, something onto the paper so it’s more than this dry thing.

It’s almost funny that I ended up adventuring like you

We’ll meet again in Eilistraee’s

I’m sorry I won’t be there for your wedding. The present I was making is in

Don’t you dare try to avenge me. Stay far away from

Isaniel presses her head against the heel of one hand and bites down an uncharacteristic scream. The paper’s empty spaces and crossed-out lines mock her.

“If you stare at that any more intensely, it’ll burst into flames.”

“Iblith!” she curses, startling so fiercely she upends the inkpot. She’s still thinking in Undercommon, so her next few words come out in it before she catches herself and switches back to Overcommon. “Dos olist mzild taga—stop that.”

Astarion is bent double with laughter, guffawing so hard some of the others are glancing their way. There are actually tears in his eyes. “And miss out on the chance to see you jump like a wet cat? I could never.”

Gods, he can be so juvenile sometimes. Something dangerously close to affection laces that thought, banishing the bitter frustration of failure.

Ever since that day he recoiled from her hand, Astarion has haunted her thoughts more than she would like. She has sought him out more frequently, asking questions, trying to understand him, trying to sort out what she should feel. He is dark and dangerous and cruel—and yet there is something in him, raw, genuine pain that mirrors what she once knew, that she cannot turn away from.

So, Isaniel is not surprised that Astarion’s bouts of childishness have become something she can think on with almost-fondness. Empathy, revulsion, confusion, curiosity already spin together in a whirlpool; what’s one more emotion on the pile?

That doesn’t stop her from shooting him a dour look as she rights the inkpot, though. “I will remind you that I have a rapier and that someday, I’ll be so startled I’ll stab first and ask questions later.”

“Ha! Duly noted.” Astarion gingerly—because of course he’s still worrying about getting stains on his clothes—sits next to her. Unabashedly, he peers at her pathetic letter. “What are you writing?”

She lets him peek. There’s no way he knows Undercommon…and even if he does, he won’t break her cipher. “A letter to my son. In case I die or transform.”

“Your son? That is a very important letter. Who will you entrust with its delivery?”

“Whoever among us is still alive, I suppose.”

“My, don’t you have a low opinion of our abilities.”

It’s not quite that; more like she’s just not picky. But he’s clearly preparing to launch into some spiel, so she chooses to simply wait rather than argue the point.

He doesn’t make her wait long, gesturing dramatically with his hands as he speaks. “Not that you’re wrong. Without you keeping his thirst for revenge and delusions of grandeur in check, Wyll will run off and get himself killed. Lae’zel and Shadowheart will kill each other before the sun goes down. Gale—” He chuckles. “Well. Need I go on?”

Irritation nips at her. Eilistraee knows her companions’ colorful range of personalities have given Isaniel more than one headache, but she still feels protective of them. “Yes, actually—or am I supposed to believe you wouldn’t be leaping into situations fangs first?”

“Ah, but if there’s one thing you can trust me to do, it’s survive those situations. I can see that letter to your son, darling.”

She snorts at his transparency. “You just want to read it.”

He just shamelessly grins, unapologetic about being found out.

Isaniel toys with and discards the idea of chastising him. The matter is too small to make a fuss over, and his cat-like tread and nimble fingers mean he can very much lift the letter off her if he wants. Although…hm. Maybe she can twist this back around on him. She shrugs with feigned disinterest. “Well, it’s not like you could, anyway.”

Astarion inspects his nails. “Oh, I’m sure I can get a scroll of Comprehend Languages somewhere.”

“It’s not just in Undercommon. It’s encoded too.”

He’s visibly taken aback by that. It’s childish of her, but she can’t help thinking, That’s a point for me. Gods, it’s too fun to match wits with him. “You write to your son in code?”

“It was a game we played when he was little.” It had simultaneously been a way to teach him and soothe her paranoia. “We’ve kept it up since.”

In a calculated move, Astarion twists and leans in close. His voice drops, becomes husky. “You do know there’s nothing more tempting than something you can’t have, yes?” His eyes deliberately trace a path up her neck and settle on her mouth.

He’s trying to knock her off balance. Isaniel would rather walk barefoot on hot coals than let him know he has—though not, she suspects, for the reasons he intended. Let him stare at her mouth or neck, he’s a flirt and a vampire spawn. No, the feel of his breath tickling her skin, the way his hand is almost but not quite brushing hers, is more alarming. It’s too intimate. Distracting.

She hastily delivers the coup de grace before he can spot the rapid flutter of her pulse. “What better way to guarantee your delivery? Stubbornness or curiosity will make you hold onto it until you crack it. But you won’t, so you’ll have to bring it to Selakiir to find out what it says.”

A heartbeat. Two. Then Astarion laughs, throaty and deep, sits back, and shakes his head. “Well played, my dear.”

With fresh distance between them, Isaniel exhales in relief. She hastily tries to cover it up by pretending to shift in her seat, but there’s a certain twinkle in Astarion’s eyes that tells her she failed. She clears her throat, praying that her face doesn’t betray her fluster. “I’ll give it to you when I’m done.”

She expects that to be the end of it, for Astarion to fire a parting quip and wander off to tease someone else. But her surprise, he doesn’t. Instead, he props his chin in his hand and studies her.

That look in his eyes…is that actual curiosity?

Like paper thrown into fire, her own is fanned. She hasn’t bothered to ask how old he is, but she can make an educated guess. The Underdark’s abusive culture forces drow to mentally mature well before their twenties; surface elves like Astarion can afford to wait until their first century or so. Of course, magistrate isn’t the type of position you typically get straight out of adolescence, so there could be anywhere from a rough fifty years to another two hundred on top of that. For some reason, she doesn’t peg him as any more than three hundred, pre-turn. Post-turn adds another two centuries.

For humans, several hundred years encompasses several generations. But for an elf… His parents and siblings could still be alive. So could his possible children. Unless he, like her, had a half-human child. They would have died in the time he spent enslaved.

Selakiir’s warm brown eyes and smiling face flash across her mind. A special kind of pain squeezes her heart. The soft question that emerges from her lips is only natural. “Do you have any family?”

A shadow briefly flickers across his face; then, like a rat fleeing for its life, it is gone. He smiles brightly and waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, let’s not exhume the past. There’s nothing interesting about it.”

Isaniel furrows her brow, but before she can say anything, Astarion rises, brushes his trousers off, and struts away. As is all-too-common of late, her gaze lingers on him until he disappears inside his tent. She exhales slowly. If he departed with such alacrity, it’s probably for the best she didn’t get to push him. Eilistraee knows how well that went over last time, and she’d just been clumsily trying to comfort him.

She glances down at the letter. Inspiration strikes. Spontaneously, she pens in another sentence. If accompanying this letter is a pale, white-haired elf named Astarion, point him to the Dancing Haven.

It’s unusually risky of her. If Cazador really will stop at nothing to get Astarion back, she could be bringing a vampire lord down on her congregation. And Astarion just might be callous enough to repay them by selling them out or abandoning them. He does not deserve such risks, the old Isaniel insists.

But then, she wouldn’t be here now if an Eilistraeen hadn’t taken a risk for her over a century ago, when she hadn’t deserved it.

She adds, I don’t know if he’ll actually go there, but like me, he’s fled some sort of dark past. I hope that, in absence of my aid, he can at least find refuge.

Bantering with Astarion seems to have unlocked some wellspring of words from deep within her; the mention of her past gives her the subject. Speaking of which, you may have all my belongings, including the forge and the new house. The password to disarm the magical traps is the same as our old one—I hope you remember it? Your father was always fondly exasperated by my insistence on having them, but you loved to show them off to your friends. My memories of you two are the best in my life…

The next day, she hands Astarion several pages and a “thanks” that holds more meaning than he knows.

Drow isn’t officially a language in 5e, but it was in older editions. So even though Isaniel was technically speaking in Undercommon for a bit, I went ahead and borrowed words from their dictionary. Rough translation:

Iblith: shit

Dos olist mzild taga: You stealth (intended to be akin to sneak or skulk) more than— (“a drider” is what she would have finished with)

Also Overcommon is just Isaniel’s name for Common.

#baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion x mc #astarion x charname #isaniel gelin #fanfic #my fanfic #my writing

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sketchguk · 5 years

Text

in your atmosphere; knj

➳ pairing: businessman!namjoon x traveler!reader

➳ genre: online dating AU, smut, fluff

➳ wc: 12.6k

➳ synopsis: the prospect of settling down has never crossed your mind because there’s no such place you can consider home. sure, traveling solo gets lonely sometimes, and that’s how tinder has become your best friend. a date at 7pm, and a flight at 7am: that’s your weekend routine. but how did namjoon manage to keep your heart on lockdown in the state of oregon?

➳ warnings: explicit language, mention of a bad date experience (it was traumatizing, trust me), dry humping, titty sucking, hand jobs, fingering, cock warming, fluffy unprotected vanilla sex

➳ a/n: inspired by a true story. besides the fact that I didn’t end up with the guy lol

Whoever says “online dating is fun” is a liar. Tinder horror stories from Buzzfeed and Reddit are more than just works of fiction. They’re hilarious to read through, entertained by the fact that these situations have not yet happened to you. Emphasis on yet. But once these anecdotes become a reality, they’re no longer amusing.

And maybe that’s the problem with modern dating.

People no longer know how to socialize. They spend an entire meal with their eyes on their phone. And when they do talk, they’re handing over self incriminating evidence, oversharing about the fact that they used to be delinquents, stealing the family car without a license to drive across state borders. Or perhaps they think it’s appropriate to tell you about the time the police knocked on their door to question them about drug possession. It’s still unclear as to whether or not they’re trying to convince you or themselves that crack cocaine is too hardcore for them to do. To top it all off, they want to impress you with the abundance of wealth they seem to have, but still insist that they go dutch on the meal. Sure, it’s all about having good company with you, and it isn’t about securing a free dinner. But this was the furthest thing from good company. And the least they could have done was pay for your food, right?

That probably should have been your cue to deactivate your Tinder account, but you somehow still have hope for the male population to redeem themselves. It’s New York City after all. With a population of over eight million people, there’s bound to be a decent man out there. But alas, you’re grateful that Tinder doesn’t have a limit of left swipes because you seem to hand them out like candy. Your expectations aren’t even that high when it comes to swiping right.

Men seem to think that having an empty bio will guarantee a match. Or one that tells you absolutely nothing substantial about them other than the fact that they think with their dicks. It’s really just another sign that society strays further away from God one dating profile at a time. Not only are their personalities lacking, but so are their photos. Men don’t seem to have any idea as to how to work a camera. Is a decent picture too much to ask for? One in which you can actually see their face? And not just a grainy image of a shadow?

Growing frustrated with the never ending profiles, you’re this close to giving up. Your thumb has been working in overdrive, mindlessly swiping left without even taking a careful look at each image. A deep sigh escapes from your lips as you shake your head from side to side. Your eyelids are falling shut, overcome with tiredness. All you need is one decent contender, and then you’re off to bed.

There’s no way you’re going to let one bad date ruin your outlook on love. Good things are on its way, and you just have to believe. So maybe Tinder isn’t necessarily the best place to find it, per se, but it’s definitely a start. With the amount of planes you catch on a weekly to monthly basis, it just happens to be the most accessible place to meet someone. More often than not, guys are looking for a quick fuck. Their intentions aren’t always clear from their bio, but a quick exchange of messages can help to diagnose their personality and discern their ulterior motives. It’s not like you’re opposed to sex, but a one night stand isn’t exactly what you need right now.

You need something more than that. Something meaningful.

Seeing people fall in love all around the world is probably the most beautiful sight you could ever witness. It’s more thought provoking and heartwarming than any wonder of the world. It’s a spectacle that exceeds every masterpiece from any museum across time and space.

Couples walk hand in hand, strolling down the concrete streets of every metropolitan city. Lovers place a gentle kiss upon their significant others’ cheek, forehead, nose, anywhere you name it. A busker at the fountain of Washington Square Park was just singing a song to serenade his girlfriend at the foot of the crowd. There’s guaranteed to be at least four marriage proposals happening in front of the Eiffel Tower at this very moment.

Public displays of affection. It’s sickeningly sweet.

And you can’t help but crave love, especially because you can’t escape from it.

But it isn’t about having just anybody to hold you through the night. A relationship isn’t formed on the basis of chocolates and flowers. None of that superficial bullshit. There’s no need to show off your significant other on social media, not when there are parts of your relationship you wish to keep private from the populace. There’s no need for everyone to stick their nose in business that doesn’t belong to them. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. This yearning for a lover goes beyond the loneliness in your heart.

Love in the city is cheap. Easy to come across, but hard to hold on to. Actually, it could be lust more so than love. Maybe this idea of love was just conjured up in your head, and you have no idea what it actually is, basing it off of rom-coms and romance novels. It’s a warped perspective.

Nevertheless, it’s something nice to think about.

Love sounds great in theory, as long as it’s with the right person. Of course it would be nice to share the world with your partner, explore every crook and cranny of the universe. To be able to revisit all the cities you’ve been to and share your little secrets would be a blessing. To share parts of yourself that nobody else will ever have the pleasure of knowing. Whispering about your deepest fears and your brightest dreams beneath the stars is all you could ever hope for. To grow side by side with the love of your life and to support one another with ever breadth of your being sounds like an absolute dream. A hopeless romantic is what you are, but you’re hardly to blame.

Downloading the app started out of pure boredom, but after some thinking, it developed into something more than that. Wishful thinking. It just isn’t easy when the sun, the moon, and all the stars are leading you to a dead end thus far. Destiny just isn’t on your side tonight, or so you think.

Kim Namjoon, 25

3 miles away

Wow. This guy might just be too attractive. Not to mention, his pictures are beautiful, and they perfectly display his deep set of dimples. A valley on either side of his cheeks. Your absolute weakness. Tapping to and fro between the photos, you’re captivated by his smile. With the curve of his lips, his eyes crease into crescent moon shapes. It’s endearing. Intoxicating. And totally infectious. You don’t even notice the smile that has been plastered on your face since coming across his profile until there’s an ache at the apples of your cheeks.

Kim Namjoon? Unreal. A part of you believes that he’s a catfish, too beautiful for this world. But another part wants to believe that it isn’t true. Pray that he has a semblance of a personality, otherwise all hope will be shattered.

🌱 Nature lover

💌 Wordsmith

⚠️ Grade A klutz

I have late night conversations with the moon. He tells me about the sun, and I tell him about you. - s.l. gray

Charming.

There’s a lot to learn about this Namjoon character. His profile isn’t the most telling of his personality, but it’s enough to keep you interested. It leaves you wanting more.

(6) TINDER 8 hours ago:

Somebody likes you. 😍 Open Tinder and Swipe Right to see who!

You got a new match! 😍😍😍

You have 3 new messages waiting 💌

Of all people in need of your attention, of course they’re strangers from the internet. No missed calls from mom or dad. Not a single voicemail. Not even a text message from your childhood best friend.

They got your message, didn’t they? They should all know that you’re back in town for the next week, but this isn’t exactly a surprise to you.

It’s no wonder you get a little lonely when you’re traveling. It’s not like there’s someone at your side whom you can share your adventures with. There’s no one to talk to about the little details of your day and vice versa.

Call it pathetic, if you must - having to search for companionship when the people in your life don’t seem to offer any. But you really wouldn’t have it any other way. There’s no reason to invest your time and emotions into people who can’t do the same for you.

Kim Namjoon (12:34 am): I love your photos! You’re a great photographer :)

Your cheeks heat up, blushing at the compliment. For whatever reason, he’s mutually attracted to you, and he swiped right on you. He must have really looked through your profile if he saw your Instagram account linked at the bottom.

That’s definitely not the opening line you were expecting. Typically, guys open up with the dreaded “hey,” making it impossible to carry on a conversation that goes beyond the surface level. At least you can work with this. You’re determined to make it work.

You (8:33 am): Oh trust me, I have no idea what I’m doing when I take pictures haha

You (8:33 am): It’s impossible for my pictures to not turn out god-awful when the world around us is so beautiful :)

After hitting send and reading your message over, your automatic response is to cringe. Did you really just say that? Did you actually double text him? Hopefully he doesn’t see that as a sign of desperation. It’s just a habit to get your thoughts across. Getting to know someone over text is always so awkward. It’s like your freshman year of college all over again, doing ice breakers for the entirety of syllabus week. Maybe you’re stressing over nothing, and he won’t analyze your text as much as you have.

A deep sigh is released from your lips before locking up your phone and placing it back on the night stand for you to get ready for the day. It’s nice being able to work from home, hence why traveling is so feasible to you for most of the year. Perhaps you can answer a couple of emails today. Come up with a couple of new ideas for articles. Edit some of the old pieces you started months ago, but were too unmotivated to complete.

With the local cafe in mind, you pack up your laptop and cellphone into your tote bag and head out the door. Indulging yourself in an iced coffee and a freshly baked muffin might be a bright idea to get yourself started on your work. It’s quaint and quiet here, exactly how you like. There’s nobody to distract you from your work, not even the lady at the cash register who won’t give anyone the time of day beyond the minimal interaction she has to do for the purpose of customer satisfaction. The freshly baked goods are warm to the touch. Admittedly, it’s overpriced for what it is, but you can’t complain given the convenience.

Most people rush into the cafe to grab a fix of caffeine and then race out before they have to run some errands. Midtown is usually jam packed with men in suits and briefcases in tow. It’s quite typical. Nothing ever unexpected. But it’s a weekend, so most people are probably sleeping in, trying to catch up on the sleep they never get throughout the week. Perhaps you should have done the same, but nothing would have been done if you were to stay home.

Your phone vibrates on the wooden table and a notification pops up on the illuminated screen. Your eyes wander to the device out of curiosity. The smart thing to do would be to put your phone on do not disturb mode, but you obviously don’t have any self control.

Kim Namjoon (9:10 am): Don’t be so doubtful, you have a creative eye

You’ve heard so much about the different types of love languages, and perhaps words of affirmation is yours because your heart flutters at the text. A smile graces your lips. Instinctively, you reach for your phone and begin typing away.

You (9:10 am): I thought this was my co-star app telling me my daily horoscope

Another message comes in from Namjoon before you can even hit send.

Kim Namjoon (9:10 am): Do you travel a lot?

Debating on whether or not you should delete your words, you decide against it and send it anyways.

You (9:11 am): I love traveling!! So I try to do it as much as I can 😊 I work from home too, so that makes my life a lot easier. Wbu?

Kim Namjoon is typing…

Surprisingly, he’s a quick responder. You were expecting him to take hours to get back to you at the very least. Clearly, the date from the other night has left you high and dry, keening for affection, but still apprehensive of other men and their interactions.

Kim Namjoon (9:11 am): Haha it’s too early for co-star notifications. And I haven’t had much of a chance to travel, but I would really like to!

Kim Namjoon (9:11 am): I’m actually going to Portland next week for a work opportunity

You (9:11 am): Portland? Oregon or Maine? lol

Not that either state really makes sense to you. A move from the big apple to a relatively much smaller town is quite unheard of. Often times, people strive to move to New York City, not away from it. There are just way more opportunities here, despite the risk and cost of them. But growing up here, it just makes sense to stick around.

Kim Namjoon (9:12 am): Oregon, haha it’s random I know. But it’s just a few weeks. I’ll be back in a month :)

The idea of him being away for a third of the season disappoints you a little. You won’t be able to meet him for quite a while in that case. Your shoulders slump, but it’s not like you have any reason to be let down. Long distance just isn’t something you ever considered. It takes a lot of dedication to maintain a relationship, especially when your partner is thousands of miles away and three time zones over. And perhaps it’s a bit hypocritical of you considering you’ll be on a plane next week to Seattle, leaving behind the city you once called home.

You (9:12 am): Aw that’s exciting! What kind of work is it?

Kim Namjoon (9:12 am): I work in advertising

Kim Namjoon (9:12 am): The company’s headquarters is in Portland, so I’m just gonna attend a few conferences and conventions over there. Professional development things

Business isn’t a field you’re very well versed in, but from the sounds of it, Namjoon seems well accomplished.

You (9:13 am): Let me know how you like Portland!! I’ll be sure to visit one day then 😌

Namjoon (9:13 am): Yeah for sure, and I can be your tour guide 😃

A big, dumb grin forms on your face. You’ve never really considered yourself a flirtatious person, but these exchanges feel a bit more than just friendly. Scanning over the text once again, you’re excited by the idea of meeting Namjoon in person.

The entire day is filled with back and forth exchanges with Namjoon. Your work completely forgotten. Although you’ve only scratched the surface with getting to know one another, there’s so much more you’re dying to know about him. Insatiable. And you can’t help it.

Namjoon is a gentle giant but also a complete and utter mess. The fact that his friends refer to him as the God of destruction is telling enough. You once thought that you were clumsy, stumbling over your own two feet when climbing up and down the stairs. But it makes you proud to know that you’ve never tripped on stage during a school production, nor have you ever broken your belongings to the point of no repair. He claims that he doesn’t know his own strength, but you’re convinced that it’s an excuse for all of his mishaps. Yet it’s adorably captivating in your eyes.

Somewhere along the way, you let it slip that you’re an editor. An avid writer, actually. Originally, you were a bit nervous to admit it, knowing from Namjoon’s bio that he considers himself a wordsmith. But it’s nice to know that he’s not pretentious about it, but rather very modest. In an impractical world, Namjoon thinks that he could have made it as a lyricist. He’s sure that he’s already doing that in some other dimension. In this cosmos, however, he writes poetry when he’s not busy making campaign ads for Nike. He’s inspired by all the books that he’s read. His favorite being The Catcher in the Rye. It’s a basic choice, but he made you promise that you wouldn’t judge him for it.

There’s something that’s just so special about Namjoon. He’s one of a kind. Even just from his outer appearance, one can tell that he’s not like most people. His fashion sense is unlike any other, and it turns out, fashion is one of his many hobbies. Although his closest friends call him old fashioned, and sometimes a “dad on vacation,” he’s confident in the way he styles himself. He loves an oversized outerwear piece, and even though he doesn’t realize it, his black baseball cap is a signature article. That is, of course, when he isn’t decked out in a suit in tie for work in which you’re dying to see.

His Instagram feed is brimming with aesthetic photos of himself exploring the city. He looks so damn good in all of them, and it’s truly a curse. He’s been to practically every art museum on the island of Manhattan, yet he still wants to take another trip inside the Metropolitan. He loves to sit down in cafes, much like yourself, to read novels and write some poetry. Sometimes he takes nature walks along the Riverside Park on the upper west side with his dog, Monie. Truthfully, if he doesn’t bring Monie on your first date, it’s over for the two of you.

Exchanging phone numbers and social media handles has made communication much easier. You’re more likely to be on iMessage than on Tinder. But if it was for Namjoon, you’d use any platform he’s on.

Throughout the week, his responses are much more sporadic. His busy work schedule has been keeping him occupied this entire week, but he still manages to send you a message here and there. Not to mention, he’s been doing some last minute shopping, totally unprepared for the upcoming trip. Although you have a flight leaving for Seattle the same day, you’re much more experienced when it comes to packing.

It’s cute how clueless Namjoon seems to be, wondering whether or not he’s overpacking. He’s not ready to go through the embarrassment of exceeding the luggage weight limit at check in. The impending panic is settling in, and it’s evident through his texts.

Joon 🐨: Can I FaceTime call you? I’m dying here

If Namjoon thinks he’s in panic, then he should see your face the moment you receive his message. It shouldn’t be as big of a deal as you make it seem, but a video call is a rather big step. You’re hardly even presentable, having spent all day at home in your pajamas. Turning on your front camera, you eye yourself through the screen. Examining the state of your skin and running your fingers through your tangled hair, you’re certain that Namjoon cannot see you looking at your worst like this.

You’re this close to texting him back that you can’t, for vanity reasons of course, but your device turns black for a second. The next thing you know, your phone is vibrating in the palm of your hands, and Namjoon’s name flashes on top of the screen.

Joon 🐨 would like to FaceTime…

Your body stiffens and your heart stops momentarily. A breath is stifled from your mouth, and you nearly choke on air after muttering a string of curses. With clenched fists, you’re stuck in a dilemma, debating whether you should answer the call. Your heart says yes, but your brain is shouting no. All sense is lost, and you hit accept, but you leave your phone facing up on the bed, camera pointed to the ceiling.

“Hello?” He questions through the speakers. He calls out your name, as if he called the wrong number by mistake and wants to make sure. Oh man, his honeyed voice is deep and his timbre is so full. It’s not quite how you imagined, but it’s not unexpected either. At least you can finally put a voice to his face.

“Uhm, hello?” You respond back with a wavering tone, and you’re this close to slapping yourself in the face because of the crack in your voice. But Namjoon probably would have heard that and questioned your sanity.

From your point of view, you’re able to see his perfectly sculpted face. His medium brown hair is just as messy as yours, but he was most likely pulling on the strands out of stress, and his eyes are soft through the lens of his black tortoise shell glasses. You really do wish that he would forego the contacts in some of his pictures because the dark frame is quite sexy resting atop of his rounded nose. His hand comes into view to run through his mop of hair before pushing his glasses back into place, higher up on his bridge.

At least you can confirm that he isn’t a catfish.

“Hey, I wanna see your pretty face.” He pouts, his lower lip jutting out and his cheeks expanding like a chain reaction. As simple as the compliment is, you can’t help but to feel flattered by such kind words.

“I don’t look my best right now,” you’re whining out, still adamant as to not show your face on camera. You let out a dry chuckle, poking fun at your own appearance.

“I’m starting to think that you’re a catfish,” he jokes. A laugh erupts from the pit of his stomach. His chest heaves up and his shoulders rise from the action. A toothy grin is present on his lips. His smile is the most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen, and it’s not just because of the dimples. But his eyes crease at the corners, and you know for a fact that he’s being authentic. His smile makes you believe that everything will be okay. It’s comforting in that way.

“I’m really not a catfish!” You quibble, “You promise you won’t make fun of me if I show my face?” Your voice is small, and you really wish that you hadn’t picked up the call moments ago.

A crease forms over Namjoon’s forehead, confused as to why you would have such thoughts. “I wouldn’t ever do that. Come on, now.” That’s easy for him to say. His palm is resting below his chiseled jawline, and he looks like an absolute angel with a cast of light illuminating behind his head.

You utter out a sigh, and mumble underneath your breath, cursing yourself for agreeing. Picking up your phone, you angle it so that your face is visible to the camera. You offer a shy, tight lipped smile and a slight wave. You whisper out a greeting, but it’s barely audible to even yourself. Namjoon can just make out the words from the shape of your lips. He’s enamored by your mannerisms, but he hopes and prays that you’ll come out of your shell for him.

“Ah, there she is,” he smiles to himself, “beautiful as ever.”

Your head turns to the side and your hands come up to hide your features. “You don’t have to lie to me,” you say, shaking your head. But your elbow lowers to reveal your face once again, this time with a genuine smile, your shoulders in a more relaxed state now. He really is too kind for his own good.

“I promise you, I’m an honest man.”

Your giddiness is evident from your expression. A fond smile present on your lips. This feels like a schoolgirl crush all over again, staring in awe at him like you’re completely infatuated.

“What do you need help with?” You ask, shaking yourself out of your daydream.

“What don’t I need help with?” He says exasperatedly. His concern is palpable. If only you could physically relieve some of the stress that he’s feeling, but your words will have to be comforting enough for now.

“I’m afraid that I’m forgetting something, I know I am, but I can’t figure it out,” he continues. His eyebrows furrow, hard at thought. His pupils flicker back and forth, mentally searching for said item.

“Toothbrush? Phone charger? Your passport?” All great suggestions coming from you, a veteran adventurer. All necessary items. Common things that people often leave behind when they’re traveling.

His eyes widen as if he’s just had an epiphany. He gasps, and his mouth drops slightly, his jaw loosening up. “Oh my god, I forgot about my passport.”

Suddenly, there’s a lot of rustling over the line. Namjoon is no longer present on the screen, too busy running around and searching for his passport. There’s a dopey grin furling at the corners of your mouth, amused by his quirky absentmindedness. A good minute passes by when you hear a crash over the line and a mutter of curses.

“Are you okay?” You raise your voice, hoping that he can hear you loud enough over speaker phone.

“Yeah!” He shouts back in affirmation. “I slipped, but I’m fine!”

You chuckle at his expense, but you’re glad that he’s fine. It’s typical of him to have fallen, but this is the first time you get to experience it first hand. Namjoon comes back into sight, picking up his phone and flashing a gold embossed symbol on the front of a blue booklet at the camera as if he’s just won a prize at the fair.

“Hey, don’t laugh at me, I could have been hurt!” He feigns offense, but you know that he’s only teasing you.

“Please, your only kryptonite is Monie.” The back and forth sarcasm is endless. As you soon discovered, it’s the only way you can openly flirt with one another. Taking innocent, light jabs to consolidate this relationship.

“True, but actually, you’re my kryptonite,” he confesses. Namjoon beams, his smile meeting his eyes with a crinkle at the corners. He’s flustered by his own words, his face hiding in his hands out of embarrassment.

“That’s so cheesy!” And it definitely is. He knows it too, but it was worth it to see you smile back at him.

“I think that’s your cue to leave,” you laugh at him. Although you don’t really want to say goodbye, it’s certainly getting late for his early flight tomorrow.

“I wanna keep talking to you though,” Namjoon practically begs with puppy dog eyes, a pout forming on his lips.

You’re this close to letting up, unable to deny yourself the pleasure of having late night conversations with him, picking at his brain to hear about his philosophies and intellectually inspiring ideologies. He’s so well-spoken over text, and your curiosity rises, wondering how he would craft such beautiful sentences in real time. They say that conversations after midnight are significantly more profound than the ones that occur in broad daylight, so you’re ready to put that to the test. But maybe you should save that for another day. A day in which you can finally see one another face to face. To finally see the stars in his eyes, a reflection of yourself through his warm, umber irises.

You’ve never been a fan of alcohol, but it’s so easy to get drunk off Namjoon’s words. His charisma leaves you feeling tipsy, high off of the serotonin induced state of your brain.

This time, you let your senses rule over your desires. “Me too, but you have a plane to catch,” you mope, putting your head down to avert your eyes from him, instead picking at the hem of your t-shirt, a seam coming loose from the stitchings. If you were to look at him any longer, you’d surely never hang up.

Namjoon agrees with a groan, “Ugh you’re right. But promise me we’ll video chat again soon? You’ll text me right?”

The prospect of calling him again makes you feel warm on the inside. Of course you’d want to speak to him again. You’d be a fool not to. So you nod your head, “Yeah, of course,” and flash him the purest smile. He exchanges the same sentiment to you through the digital screen. Your heart is now bursting at the seams, overfilled with infatuation.

“Goodnight, have a safe flight to Seattle tomorrow,” he says with a yawn.

You wave back into the screen, saying your goodbye. “Night, enjoy Portland!” With that, Namjoon blows a kiss into the camera, and he grows shy by the display of affection. A huge grin is left on your face for the rest of the night.

The universe must have been trying to tell you something by sending Namjoon over your way. Although you’re not one to believe in destiny, it just seemed a little too easy to cross paths with him. After one awful dating experience, it’s like God gifted him to you personally. It’s all coincidental, you tell yourself to prevent getting your hopes up. A small world, actually. Being in the same city. During the same week. Traveling cross country on the same exact day.

It’s as if timing and location are in your favor. Except it isn’t whatsoever. They’re precisely the problems. One whole week spent in New York, a place in which you have a love-hate relationship with. Somewhere you swear you’d never return to, yet it continues to call your name like a siren. You’re here, in the heart of Midtown, and Namjoon simply isn’t. So close, yet so far. Three miles and counting. A busy work schedule preventing either one of you from meeting.

While he waits to depart from Laguardia Airport at 7 in the morning, you brew yourself a fresh cup of coffee. The terminal gates are closed and secure, standing by for the arrival of the plane. Looking to kill some time, Namjoon presses the call button beside your contact name, a dial tone rings through Namjoon’s headphones. This time, you’re actually prepared to pick up. A quick good morning and a wish of safe travels are exchanged as well as a story of how Namjoon nearly left his passport behind in the yellow taxi cab.

A woman’s voice is projected over the loudspeaker, announcing the boarding of flight 613 to Portland, Oregon. Neither of you express your goodbyes until the last minute. Until he’s settled down into his seat and the flight attendant requests that everyone turn their cell phone on airplane mode. By the time the plane takes off, Namjoon’s travel anxiety is no longer apparent, his thoughts are too occupied by the girl who puts the sun in the sky.

By 7pm, you’re at the doors of the airport, headed towards Seattle on the same exact airline Namjoon was once on hours ago. Your thumb hovers over his contact information, dancing around, wondering if it’s a good time to call him. Two calls in one day might be a bit excessive, but the desire is impossible to combat when he’s the only thing on your mind.

This feeling is brand new to you. There’s never been someone whose caught your attention quite like this. Every wandering thought to Namjoon breaks out a little smile. His effect on you is beyond your own imagination despite never having met the guy. It’s puppy love. This burning crush has evolved from an ember into an all consuming conflagration, engulfing the entirety of your heart.

You: Hey, are you busy?

Immediately, a set of ellipses appear at the bottom of the screen in the form of a gray chat bubble. It makes your heart soar - the idea that he’s just as eager to talk to you as you are, him. It’s not that Namjoon was waiting for your text or anything, but he’s sitting down in a cafe on the outskirts of downtown Portland with a notebook splayed out in front of him and a pen in hand. He’s lost in the thought of you, writing down lines of poetry inspired by the girl in the city that never sleeps.

Joon 🐨: I’m free. Why, what’s up?

You: Can we FT?

Joon 🐨: Yeah :)

Without any hesitation, Namjoon accepts the video chat. At once, you’re greeted by the craters he calls dimples.

“Hey.” He’s soft spoken, looking at you with stars in his eyes. A reflection of light casts over his iris, a glint present over the thin film. You swear you can see the entire universe in them, even from the shitty pixels of your low resolution iPhone.

“Hey,” you answer back with equal amounts of admiration. Your hand comes up to rest beneath your jaw, feeling relaxed by his presence. That smile of his is like a warm hug, engulfing you into a welcoming abode that makes you feel safe and finally at home.

“What’re you doing now?” There’s some hustle and bustle on his side of the line, but the foot traffic isn’t nearly as bad as the floor of the airport.

“Drinking coffee, doing some writing,” he responds, wagging his pen up in the air for you to see. His smile is proud and gleaming, given the fact that he hasn’t had a chance to write leisurely in a while. But the inspiration just seemed to have hit him lately, jotting down cluttered thoughts in intermittent sparks. And now he has the time to piece it all together into something greater.

“Oh, you should have told me,” you start apologizing, “I don’t want to bother you.” A wave of guilt washes over you.

“No, you’re not a bother,” he protests against you, his voice urgent, unwilling to let you go. “Tell me about your day,” he asks, moving on from the conversation so you’re unable to object.

You lick over your lips, collecting your thoughts. “My day? Uhh… Kind of boring. I finished up that article I told you about, and now I’m waiting to board the plane,” you explain. “What about you? How was your flight?” You inquire, eyebrows raised, more interested in hearing Namjoon talk.

“I slept the whole time, but it was kind of uncomfortable because my legs didn’t fit, even in the business class seats,” he chuckles. He leaves out the part where he dreamt of you throughout the five hour flight.

“Ah, but at least you got there okay, that’s all that matters.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t get to experience the beautiful city of Portland,” he jokes, his arms spread wide to gesture at the space. No offense to Portland. It has its own kind of charm to itself. It’s definitely nothing like New York though. Maybe New Yorkers do have some sort of superiority complex, but Namjoon’s just poking fun. He’s fortunate for the work opportunity, allowing him to see a new city and experience a whole new subculture of the Pacific Northwest.

“Yeah, you have to experience it all first before you can show me around,” you wit, cocking your head to the side, a grin flashing on your face.

“I’ll be sure to scout out all the good date spots.” His dimples are prominent now, so deep you could get lost in them. Much like his eyes, if he wasn’t squeezing them shut out of bashfulness.

Blood rushes to your face with heat dusting itself over the high points of your cheeks. The chemistry between the two of you is brewing, the infatuation at its peak.

“Oh yeah, I’m just putting this idea out there, but…” you trail off, looking down and playing with the scrunchies that sit on your wrist. “I want to visit Los Angeles after I spend like two weeks in Seattle” you mention to him.

“L.A.? That’s so cool, you’ve been wanting to go for a while. You should totally do it,” Namjoon suggests. He’s so attentive, somehow keeping track of where you’ve been and where you want to go better than you can yourself.

You grow shy, wondering if you should finish up your thought or disregard it completely, considering he doesn’t know about your plans. But you think it’s worth a shot anyways.

“Yeah, I was looking it up earlier, and there were a few options,” you nod to yourself, looking down and continuing to play with the thin, black elastic bands. You swallow, clearing your throat, “and the cheapest ones had a layover in Portland,” you finally let out, in a casual tone, or so you hope.

The sound of Namjoon’s voice has you looking back up at the camera, “Wait are you for real?” He questions incredulously. “You definitely have to come now,” he lets out like it’s the brightest idea.

“Really? D-do you think you want to meet up then?” You ask, eyes hopeful.

He nods his head enthusiastically, “I really have to start exploring now if I’m gonna take you around the city.”

“Okay, okay, yeah, I’ll look more into it tonight.” You try not to sound too excited by the idea, wanting to maintain a calm composure. Yet the cheshire grin on your face gives it away.

“Oh by the way, did you know that Portland is known for strip clubs? That’s what Google says at least. Maybe we can put that on our itinerary,” you suggest, a chuckle tumbling out of your lips as Namjoon’s laughter fills up your headphones.

The rest of the conversation carries out easily like always. Speaking to Namjoon is just so effortless. He has this warming personality that makes it so easy to open up to him. The topics that you discuss flows from one to the other, never sticking to one subject matter for too long. And for the next two weeks, nightly FaceTime calls with him have fallen into your routine.

There’s a lot to love about Seattle. First of all, the transit system is much more efficient than the MTA of New York. Secondly, the locally brewed coffee is the coffee of your dreams. Thirdly, the people of the Pacific Northwest are generally a lot nicer than you’re used to. However, you wouldn’t necessarily consider settling down in Seattle in the future. It’s nice and all, but there’s something missing to it.

With every city comes a new adventure, exploring the world with no bounds. But this time around, there’s something that gravitates you to lie down in the bed of your hotel room. Or to spend an extra hour in a diner near closing time instead of venturing out to experience the Seattle nightlife. The common thread between all these occurrences is the chance to talk to the man who puts the moon in the starry night sky. A feat you don’t have the pleasure of seeing in the black, polluted atmosphere of New York.

Every day of this week, you’ve ended up eating dinner with your phone propped up against a cup of iced water, your FaceTime application draining your battery until it’s nearly dead. Typically, you’re used to having meals in silence. Enjoying the comfort of your own company. But whenever Namjoon was back home, relieved from his 8 hour shift, you’d jump at the chance to hear his silky voice, lulling you into a tranquil state. It’s calming to hear about his eventful day, albeit muddling, not understanding the business jargon he uses. Yet hearing him ramble puts a smile on your face.

Although your departure from Seattle doesn’t necessarily sadden you, you’re delighted to move on to your next stop. So maybe an all nighter isn’t the ideal way to start off a day of travel, but it was definitely worth it to catch the sunrise with Namjoon over video call. The only thing that would make it better is to watch it by his side. And an hour nap on the plane is better than nothing, right? The city that never sleeps has trained you and Namjoon well enough to traverse through any barriers. Time, distance, and most of all, sleep deprivation.

Joon 🐨:

This eternal night with no end in sight

It's you who gifted me the morning

Can I now hold that hand?

I can make it right

Joon 🐨: Have a safe flight btw! Sorry I can’t pick you up from the airport :(

Joon 🐨: No driver’s license, lol

Joon 🐨: Can’t wait to see you 💞

A flood of text notifications appear on the screen as soon as you turn off airplane mode, your phone vibrating nonstop. After opening your messages, you can’t help but to radiate with joy, a broad smile plastered onto your features.

You: Omg did you write that? Who’s it about? 🥺

You: And it’s okay! How am I gonna be a true Portlandian if I don’t figure out the public transit system?

Joon 🐨: It’s for this girl I’m dying to meet. She’s a caffeine dependent insomniac who lives out of her suitcase. She’s pretty cool. I should introduce you 😁 Great photographer. Good taste in music. Really talented writer. Absolutely stunning, especially when she’s lying around in her PJs

Joon 🐨: She’s also a wannabe Portlandian

There’s probably a smug look on his face right now, too proud of his witty self. But his charm has definitely worked on you, your heartbeat accelerating at his words.

36 hours in Portland is not enough time to see all the sights you want to see. And 36 hours with Namjoon is definitely not enough time for your liking. After settling into your AirBnB, you crawl into your plush full size bed so that you could catch some shut eye before noon. Before your long awaited meeting with Namjoon.

Even though you begged him for his supposedly well crafted itinerary, he would much rather surprise you. Apparently he has a busy day planned considering you hardly have two full days in Portland. So here you are, at the first stop of the day, waiting for him in front of the cafe he texted the location of. An empty bench at the front entrance awaits you, so you decide to take a seat given that you’re a bit early. The nerves start to catch up to you as you play with your fingers, not knowing what to do with your hands. You pull out your phone, hoping for some kind of distraction when a text from Namjoon comes in.

Joon 🐨: I’m a block away!

Now your heart is truly racing straight out of your chest. You put your phone away into your back pocket, turning around to face the glass window to peer at your reflection. Your hands fly to your hair, trying to fix up the strands that have fallen out of place. Smacking your lips together, and giving yourself a pep talk, you swivel back around waiting for his arrival. You rub your palms across your thighs out of nervousness, turning your head left and right, you’re unsure which direction he’s coming from. And suddenly, in your peripherals, he turns at the corner of the block.

Your eyes widen at the sight of him, stunned by his appearance in all the best ways. He’s tall, towering over you at nearly six feet. As he approaches closer and closer, he visibly gets taller as if that’s even possible. He’s so well built with wide shoulders and a well sculpted chest. Not to mention, his khaki pants are pretty loose, but when he walks, his taut thigh muscles fill up the material rather well, stretching out the fabric in all the right places. You certainly don’t mean to gawk at him, but it’s difficult not to.

“Hey! It’s so nice to see you,” he greets you with the most welcoming smile you’ve ever seen. God, his dimples are even more beautiful in person.

“Hey, how are you?” You ask as you both go in for a hug. His scent engulfs you as you make contact. A woody scent. Sort of like a campfire in a pine filled forest. The hug is a bit awkward at first, with you being unfamiliar to one another’s touch. But after a good second, you melt into his embrace, his arms wrapped snugly around your upper back as yours circle his slender waist.

“I have to admit, I’ve never flown across the country for a date,” you joke with a dry chuckle, pulling away, but still holding onto him with outstretched arms.

“I could say the same,” he says with the shyest smile, “let’s go inside, yeah?”

His arm wraps around your shoulder tentatively with a soft graze, turning you around as he leads you in, opening the door for the both of you.

The cafe is quite cute, the decor being the highlight of it all. There’s an abundance of vines hanging across the ceilings, knick knacks strategically scattered across all the shelves, a tiny library sitting in the corner of the room, and pastel blue chairs to tie it all together. The space is a bit eclectic, but if you were to describe it, it would be Namjoon’s personality all in one room.

As you settle in to the window seat, he grabs two paper menus from the counter and hands one back to you. Your eyes scan across the paper, overwhelmed by the amount of choices you have. Meanwhile, Namjoon’s eyes are aimed at you, his lips curved into a soft smile.

“I’m not sure what to get, what about you?” You ask, casting your sight back up at him. As for you, your smile never seems to leave your face, finally content to be around Namjoon for the first time.

He shakes himself from his reverie, careful not to get caught staring. “Uhm, I- uh, I think I”m gonna get the California omelette platter,” he stutters out, “I haven’t had that here yet. I usually get the waffles.”

“Oh! I was looking at the waffles,” you exclaim passionately, as if you and him were thinking on the same wavelength “Do you come here a lot then?” You ask curiously.

“Yeah, basically every morning,” he chuckles, “I can’t cook to save my life.”

You gasp lightly, and clap your hands together, “We’re gonna change that together,” you declare.

“You’re gonna teach me to cook?” He inquires, an eyebrow raised.

Your index finger comes up to prove a point disconcertingly, “No,” you let out sharply. “Are you crazy? That’s why we’re gonna change that together,” you snicker.

And in Namjoon’s mind, not only does the idea of Sunday morning, home-cooked breakfasts with you become a hopeful wish, but so does the idea of having every single meal with you, whether or not he’d be the one burning the pan.

According to Namjoon, you’re running behind on your itinerary, but it isn’t a big deal because the extra hour spent chatting with you, long after your plates are cleared, means so much more to him. He’s mesmerized by the shape of your lips. The way it moves when you’re rambling on about your passions. Your hopes and your dreams. He’s enamored by the way your speech speeds up when you rant, raving about the things that get your riled up, and the softness of your tone when you grow shy at his compliments, stuttering out your excuses and rationalizations.

You would think that you’d run out of things to talk about, considering you’ve been texting and calling one another non stop since you matched on Tinder. It would seem that you’d cover all the basics, but this man truly amazes you with how great of a conversationalist he is.

Even after walking out of the cafe, your passionate, but fitting discussion over your love of literature carries on to the next date spot. Namjoon scoured the city to find a vintage book store because he knew that you would probably lose your mind in there. And he was absolutely right. Walking up and down the aisles, your hands simply cannot stop running across the spine of each book. You’re magnetized to your favorite section. Romantic fiction.

You’re sure that you could spend hours upon hours in this section alone. And if only you could purchase every book on the shelf, but you only limit yourself to one book. Two, max. You’re already so close to reaching the luggage weight limit, so you’re here struggling to pick just one.

“Namjoon, I really can’t decide. Can you pick one out for me?” You plead.

“Do you really think I could make a decision?” He counters. His love for books extends as far as yours, so of course you’d be stuck in a predicament.

“How about this,” he proposes, “pick a letter.”

Your mind goes blank for a second, but then you sputter out the first letter that comes to mind, “F… because I don’t freaking know,” you shrug.

He takes a few steps, locating the shelf he has in mind. “Okay, now say stop whenever,” he says as he starts running his index finger across the hardbacks.

“Sssss- stop,” you announce with your eyes squeezed shut, finally opening them when Namjoon places the book in your hands.

It’s a hefty book. Navy blue. There’s a set of eyes on the cover. An iconic image. An American classic.

The Great Gatsby.

“Oh my god, wait! I love this book,” you exclaim, not disappointed whatsoever.

“I thought you said that my taste was basic,” he says with a light push on your shoulder. You’re still not wrong about that. But your mutual love for F. Scott Fitzgerald allows you to make an exception. And maybe it isn’t just about the author, but the book itself is a reminder of New York. The Valley of Ashes. East Egg and West Egg. All too familiar to you. It hits “home” just a little too close.

The capital of the world. The center of the universe. The “greatest city in the world.” It’s the city of dreams, but it’s also the city of broken dreams. The place that has broken you down countless times with the never ending expectations. It’s where you’ve had shattered your own heart and learned to build it back up. It’s where you’ve been pushed to your limits. A community that has made you feel small and insignificant. Living there alone is like going through hell and back, all in a proximity of 302 square miles. Despite your tough exterior, New York has definitely put you to the test. The Empire State of mind stomping all over you, its skyscrapers towering above your head.

But for whatever reason, you owe your entire life back to this city. You can trace your whole upbringing back there. From all these hellish experiences, you’ve built yourself up from the ashes to become the person you are today. A strong minded woman. A hard worker. An empathetic individual. It’s built your character in spite of the circumstances. A never ending tug of war. Push and pull. The epitome of the American Dream as false as it may be.

“It is basic,” you playfully argue back, a chuckle escaping you. “Are you gonna get anything?”

“Nah, not today, I don’t think.”

“Okay, I’ll go check out. I’ll come find you after.” With that, you scurry off with one mission in mind. A little surprise for Namjoon just because. You’re quick to find exactly what you’re looking for, so you pull it off the shelves and head to the cashier. While making your purchase, you ask if they could gift wrap one of the items which they so kindly do - simple brown kraft paper with white twine wrapped around it in a perfect bow. Carefully placing your items into your bag, you skip your way back into the fiction aisle on a search for the gorgeous man with a big brain and an even bigger heart.

He’s too busy enraptured by some random book he picked off the shelves, reading word by word the blurb at the back of the sleeve. You attempt to sneak up on him, snaking your arms around his waist, the side of your head resting on his shoulder blade. Namjoon is startled, but he softens at the sight of you when he cranes his neck to look at you.

“Got everything you needed?” He questions.

You just nod your against his back. Your eyes are bright and big, looking like a child who just received a bag of gummy worms at the candy store. “Thank you for taking me here,” you smile, elated by the new piece you can add to your book collection.

Pulling away, you take a hold of his hand and you both make your way out to the exit. “Where to next?” you ask, bouncing up and down.

“How do you feel about your bike riding abilities?” Namjoon queries with a cock of his head.

“I can ride a bike, but I’m gonna be honest, I have trouble getting started on it.” You’re playing with his hand, swaying it back and forth as you walk.

The bike share racks aren’t far from the bookstore. The bright neon orange vehicles are impossible to miss. You adjust your seat to the proper height before rolling it off the rack. Namjoon is quick to attend to you as you straddle your bike on either side, your feet planted on the ground. His hands wrap around the handle bars, with you trapped between his embrace so you can get yourself up on the seat while still holding the bike up on its tires. The heat radiating off of him is intense, his warm breath cascading goosebumps over your exposed neck. A shy smile braces itself on your lips as you turn to look at him, his proximity closer than ever before. Quickly, you angle your head back down to your feet, making sure that it’s resting over the bike pedals.

Once you’re on properly, he counts down, 3… 2… 1, and he propels your bike forward. His right hand shifting over to your lower back so he can walk you more easily. Once you’re off, you start riding around in circles, waiting for him to get on his own bike.

“Where are we going?” You ask, trailing slightly behind Namjoon to let him lead the way. You pass by Washington Park, a trail of red rose bushes appear on your right side. A pleasant scent filling up your nostrils. Although Portland isn’t the city that comes to mind when you think of romance, the city of roses definitely adds a nice ring to it.

“What’s with you wanting to ruin all these surprises?”

You shake your head, realizing that he’s right. You should just go with the flow and let him be spontaneous.

Arriving at your destination, you’re definitely pleased by his choice in date spots. It’s Portland’s famous Japanese garden. You’ve been looking it up prior to planning your trip, and you've been meaning to take a visit here on your stopover.

The miles of stone paths lead you across all twelve acres of greenery. It’s like you entered a completely different world upon first arrival. There are Japanese styled pagodas at the cultural village, nothing like the concrete jungle you’re used to. The little bridges floating over the koi ponds are special treats to you. The fresh air is definitely what you need to feel more at peace. With performances and tea tasting, you and Namjoon are kept occupied for a majority of the day. Namjoon’s favorite part has to be the exhibition at the main entrance. His love for art and design definitely shines through there, his attention captivated by all the stunning artifacts.

Taking a break after what seems like hours of walking, you’re sat at a bench beneath a pink cherry blossom tree. Considering the time of year, you would have thought that the blossoms would have all fallen off, yet they’re still holding on strong.

Namjoon’s arm slings across your shoulders, resting coyly over your skin. You scoot a little closer to him, letting him know that the physical contact and proximity are more than okay with you.

“Hey, I have a gift for you by the way,” you look up at him with a grin.

Opening up your bag, you pull out the wrapped present you picked up from the bookstore and place it on top of Namjoon’s lap.

“What? You really didn’t have to get me anything,” he says with modesty.

“Just open it!” You beg of him excitedly, your hands clasped over one another over your chest.

Namjoon carefully undoes the ribbon and opens up the packaging, his eyes lighting up at the sight. “No way, I can’t believe you did this. I didn’t even see you pick this up?”

It’s a first edition copy of The Catcher in the Rye in its original dust jacket. A rusty orange color surrounding the entirety of the book. It resembles the foliage of his favorite season and he’s reminded of all the things he loves.

“I grabbed it when you weren’t looking.” You smile up at him, and there are tears in his eyes. There’s a reflection of you over the sheen, much like how the moon glows bright white because of the sun’s illumination across space.

“Oh my god, please don’t cry,” you nearly panic, your hands cupping his cheeks in an attempt to console him.

Namjoon gives you a giant bear hug, whispering a thank you into your ear. Your hand rubs up and down over his back instinctually. He pulls away momentarily and gives you a light peck over your cheek before returning back to the crook of your neck. Your cheeks heat up along with the rest of your body, a blush forming over your skin.

“I promise I’m not crying. It’s all this pollen in the air,” he says, his voice muffled as his lips hover over the skin of your neck.

There’s definitely something in the air today. It’s not pollen, but love.

Namjoon and you walk around the city, hand in hand, looking for a place to have dinner. He didn’t expect the date to last as long as it did, but time seemed to have escaped the both of you. Arriving back at the city center, you come across a street fair. There are crowds of people walking around, intrigued by the attractions. A giant carousel sits at the center of the space, it’s lights brightening up as sunset is upon you and the daylight dwindles.

You decide to walk through the food carts they have to offer. The rows of pods are endless, the options ceaseless. One cart in particular, however, is rather appealing to Namjoon. It’s a Korean-American fusion cart, merging Korean street food classics with southern BBQ. The lack of Asian food in Portland makes him miss home, where the buffet of ethnic cuisine is infinite. You decide to try it out, sharing bibimbap topped with spare ribs and oyster mushrooms as well as pork and cucumbered steamed buns on the side. It’s definitely an American take on the dishes, but they’re satisfying enough, considering how starved you both are from a day of walking.

You can’t quite put your finger on it, but Namjoon’s love for New York, hearing him talk about his homesickness, makes you yearn for it a little more day by day.

The sun rests over the horizon, indicating that the night is coming to a close. A sea of pink and purple cascades through the sky, a sight nearly as beautiful as the man beside you. The waning light is mocking you, as the countdown gets closer and closer to you having to leave for L.A.

Namjoon walks you back home like a gentleman, slowing down your footsteps so you can spend as much time as possible with each other, dragging out the moments. Standing at the footsteps of your entryway, both your hands are interlocked with his, his thumb rubbing over the top of your hands, where your thumb meets your knuckle.

“So uh, this is it, huh?” He asks, his eyes staring into yours.

“Yeah, this is me,” you say in a whisper, only loud enough for him to hear you. You swallow deeply, not wanting this moment to end. Your eyesight shifts downwards to his lips, as does his. You’re both too shy to make the first move, licking over the flesh of your bottom lip.

“Uh... d-do you wanna come upstairs?” You decide to take a leap of faith, your inhibitions getting the best of you.

Namjoon’s thoughts go blank momentarily, for the first time in forever. He’s awestruck by you. An enigma he wishes to uncrack.

“Uhp- uhp- upstairs?” He hesitates, blinking at the thought of it, his skin paling, his expression shocked.

You nod your head, your hands squeezing a little tighter over Namjoon’s grip, “Only if you want to.”

“Yea-yeah, I can come inside for a bit,” he stutters out. It’s uncharacteristic of Namjoon to turn into a stuttering mess. The well spoken, charismatic guy who seems to know the answers to everything, reduced to a smitten buffoon.

The AirBnB isn’t very large, given how last minute you booked the place. It’s a studio apartment, just right for one person. Or maybe two. The loveseat couch sits at the center of the room. While Namjoon faces forward, you turn to your side to better initiate a conversation with him. He turns to you, his mouth curling up into a euphoric smile. There are no words exchanged between the two of you, the tension too high. It’s just two love sick idiots staring at one another. Only the sounds of cars passing through the open window fills the atmosphere.

Breaking the silence, you decide to ask, “So uhm, what do you want to do now?” A deep breath escaping your lungs.

Namjoon continues to gawk at you, a lazy smile present on his lips. “This is good.” He caresses your forearm, dragging his fingertips up and down your skin.

“You just want to keep staring at each other?” You tease.

“We could do other things too,” he lets out softly, eyes meeting yours and then constantly switching back to the plumpness of your lips.

“Like what?” You ask innocently.

Namjoon’s body is more oriented towards yours now, allowing for easy access. His soft hand pushes your hair back. He places a delicate hold at the juncture of your jaw and your neck while the other one rests at your waist. He leans in a little closer to you, his plush lips brushing over yours. You swallow at the skinship he’s showing, his breath fanning over your sensitive skin.

“Like this,” he murmurs, finally meeting your lips in a gentle kiss.

It’s not long before he pulls away, unsure if you’re willing to take this any further. He’s testing the waters, gauging your reaction. But of course you want to take it further. You invited him inside in the first place. Your boldness jumps out as you lean back in, placing more pressure into the kiss as if it’s urgent. Your hands rest over his broad shoulders, allowing you to lean your weight onto him as you place a leg on either side of his thick, muscular thighs, mounting on top of his hard member. You gasp at the feeling of his bulge digging into your skin.

“Fuck,” you whisper, pulling apart from his mouth momentarily, resting your forehead on his so you can cast your sight to his lap. Your hips are on autopilot, grinding over his groin. Namjoon’s jaw is tense, his chin jutting out as he looks down at all the action. His grips at your waist, propelling you back and forth over his crotch so that the friction is more intense. Your breath is stifled as you feel your wetness seeping out of you. It’s evident through the khaki color of his pants, a damp spot forming over the fabric.

Your clit runs over the rough material, stimulating you just barely enough. You’re grinding on one another like two horny teenagers discovering sex for the first time, but you need more. You need the clothes to be completely off. You need Namjoon’s hands on you, making you fall apart by his own ministrations. You need to come on his fat cock.

“J-Joon, I need you,” you sputter into his collarbone, sucking dark purple marks into his outstretched neck. There’s a thin layer of sweat forming over his forehead, dripping down onto his jugulars. You lick a stripe over his skin, the taste of salt exploding across your tastebuds.

Eager to take off his clothes, your hands rush to remove his outerwear. It falls off his shoulders effortlessly, given that the jacket is rather loose. Following his jacket, you remove his plain white shirt from his torso. Your run your palms over the expanse of his chest. His pecks are firm to the touch. Strong and sturdy. But what surprises you the most is the robust strength of his enormous biceps that were once hidden underneath his jacket.

You hurry to undo the button of his pants and to pull down the zipper. Hovering over him so that you can release his shaft from its confinement, you tug down at the material over his thighs. There’s a struggle to smoothly pull off his pants in one go, as his legs stretch out the cloth so well. But once his dick is released, you’re greedy to take a hold of it. His dick is huge, with you unable to fully wrap around his length. Your mouth drops open at the sight of it, standing tall and proud, sticking up as far as his navel.

Namjoon leans his head back against the couch, his hands lazily groping over your breasts. He cranes his head to see why your motions have stopped, only to see you staring down intimidatingly at him. Namjoon cups your cheek endearingly, making sure that you’re comfortable.

“Are you okay?” He questions, and you nod your head dubiously.

“Yeah, sorry, you’re just... really big,” you admit with a blush forming over your cheeks.

“We can go slow, okay? We don’t even have to do anything,” he reaffirms you.

“No, no no, trust me I want to do this,” you implore, eyes glossy. Your walls suddenly clench around absolutely nothing. “Don’t leave me hanging now,” you banter.

You grip the hem of your shirt, pulling the material off of your torso. You hear Namjoon clear his throat, enchanted by the swell of your breasts. You take his hand in yours, urging him to unclasp the hooks at the back to free yourself from the material. And so he does.

There’s nothing obstructing his view now, your breasts bare and exposed to his sight. His lips find his way back to yours in a rough kiss before assaulting your neck, sucking, biting, and licking down to your breasts. He litters dark purple marks over your skin, matching the hickeys you left on him. His plump lips wrap around your nipple, suckling on the soft flesh while the other one is rolled around and pinched between his thumb and index finger.

Your left hand has an ironclad grip over his shoulder, fingernails digging into his shoulder blade. The other hand is pumping up his thick length, your thumb rubbing over the slit at the head of his cock. Meanwhile, your pants are strewn across the floor, mindlessly tossed in a fit of excitement. Namjoon’s digits find their way beneath the waistband of your panties, rubbing your clit and stuffing you full with two fingers. Your walls dilate around him as he pushes in and out of you. A string of moans are released from your lips, your body aching for your release.

“Fuck me already, please, please,” you’re crying out. A choked sob ripping from your throat.

You rut yourself against Namjoon’s cock, slicking his length with your arousal. His head rubs up between your folds, and you push yourself down on him. Your velvety walls feels so warm around him, making room to accommodate his girth. You wriggle above him, hoping that the discomfort subsides, turning itself into pleasure.

Namjoon is pressing sweet kisses onto your lips, silently reassuring you that everything will be okay. A hot tear streams from your face, an intense sensation overcoming your body. He’s quick to wipe it away with the pad of his thumb.

“Relax for me, baby,” he murmurs against your cheek.

You swallow a glob of spit that’s been forming in your throat, nodding your head up and down with a fucked out expression on your face.

His hand travels down your body, his thumb moving in tight circles over your sensitive bud. You sit on his cock, waiting to adjust yourself. You clench around him absentmindedly, falling victim to his touch as your head rests on his shoulder. Your teeth marks are etched into his skin as you gnaw on his muscle in an attempt to anchor yourself.

Namjoon’s thumb works quicker on your clit, switching from circular motions to criss crossed shapes. The torment is almost too much for you to handle, so your hand settles over his wrist, signalling him to slow down. A whimper falls from your lips as you glide yourself over his shaft. Your boobs are bouncing up and down from the force of your rhythmic hips. The slapping of skin soon fills the air, breaking up the hushed breaths.

His grasp is tight around your waist, putting you to a halt, before lifting himself off the couch. Your arms wrap around his neck, holding him closer than before, chest against chest. He supports your weight, his hands grabbing a hold of your ass. You’re still stuffed to the brim as he switches location, plopping you on top of the plush, white mattress.

Namjoon swears that he’s never seen anyone so beautiful. Seeing you in broad daylight was definitely the highlight of his day, but there’s something different about the way you look spread out beneath him, begging for him to ram his fat cock into you.

You’re blubbering, crying out for him to fuck you. Namjoon slides out of you momentarily so that he can lift your frame up higher on the bed. So that your head rests comfortably over one of the two pillows. He takes the other one and situates it below your ass, elevating your hips so that it meets his.

Your eyes are glued shut, your back arching and keening for his contact. Namjoon slides himself back into you slowly, and you can feel every ridge and vein of his member. All of your senses are heightened, a rush of blood moving to your head. You can quite literally hear the pounding of your own heartbeat in your ear drums. If only you could take a peek at the God above you, but your eyes are half-lidded, and they cannot be opened no matter how much you will them to.

Namjoon leans down so that his body veils yours. Intuitively, your legs wrap around the small of his waist, crossed at the ankles. His movements start out slow, but slowly picks up speed until he’s at a consistent but moderate pace. Your sopping wet cunt sucks him in as soon as he pulls out, thrusting into your hole incessantly. He’s drowning in your pussy, your juices spilling out from your entrance. The lewd sounds of his slick cock fucking into you raw ring across the air. The vulgarity of it is pornographic.

His lips are pressed against your ear, his hot breath ventilating into the cusp. He nibbles on the supple flesh at your earlobe, and you quiver at the action. Namjoon’s breathy moans feed your addiction to him. You’re nearing your high, your filthy cunt pulses around his length. High pitched cries tumble out of your mouth as you’re unable to express your emotions. He knows your close based on the way your walls swallow him deeper and deeper. Namjoon is near the edge as well, his balls tightening with every thrust.

You’re spasming below him as your fingernails form crescent indentations into his back, holding on for dear life. A ripple of ecstasy washes over you, shuddering each time he rams into you. Your toes curl, convulsing from the earth shattering orgasm. Namjoon doesn’t stop there, as he’s still chasing his own high. Your cum creams over his thick length, and he fucks it back into you. A milky ring takes shape at the base of his dick, at the point where your hole can no longer take him in. Coming down from your own high, the final contraction of your walls brings him to the edge.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he curses, regretfully pulling out from your warm heat. His fist wraps around his pulsating member, jerking himself until completion. Hot, sticky spurts of cum spurt out of his slit, landing over your stomach. It shoots out so quickly, projecting as far as the top of your breasts. His eyes are squeezed shut, enraptured with a rippling of pleasure. His vision nearly fades to black, but he’s quick to reopen his eyes to catch the most angelic sight. Your fingertips drag over the surface of your skin, collecting the cum that he shot out, and bringing it up to your lips to have a taste of his viscous semen.

Namjoon rests his body beside yours, unable to hold his weight up any longer, growing weak from exerting all that energy. His chest heaves, his diaphragm inflating and deflating in order for him to catch his breath. He promises to clean you up later, but for now, all he wants and needs is a kiss from you. He turns over to his side, his arm slinging over the top of your chest. His hands come up to gently touch your jaw, turning your head to face him. He meets you in the middle with a soft and passionate kiss.

Your eyes are fluttered shut, too tired to open them. At least your mouth still works, but just barely.

“What’re we gonna do tomorrow?” You ask, muttering into Namjoon’s chest.

He responds, half groggily, “Wanted to go hiking,” he sighs out, trailing off the end of his sentence as if he has a different plan in mind now.

“Let’s just stay in bed,” you manage to grumble, your hand clasping the pillow tighter.

“Yeah, we can definitely do that,” he agrees with a kiss over your temple.

As Namjoon’s loving arms wrap around you, you come to the realization that home isn’t found in the safety of four walls and a roof, but rather in the warm embrace of someone whom you love. Whether in Portland or in New York City, home is wherever Namjoon is.

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ifyoulovemeletmebinge · 3 years

Text

We’re All Monsters

destiel au where everything in canon is used at the wrong time and oh also cas is a monster

RATED M

read it on ao3 here:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

The next time they see each other is that night.

Dean spent the whole day avoiding the monster he welcomed into his house like a fucking pro, if he says so himself. He watched three different 80s action movies (because he needed some familiar blood and gore and explosion to distract from his own need to crush something), and he only left his room to play a few rounds of chess with Eileen while she took a break from research (he only won once after begging her to go easy on him), and now he is back in his room, after making one of the frozen pizzas he found in the fridge just for himself.

He stuffs another big bite of a 4-cheese slice as the credits roll on the movie he’d paused earlier and just came back to finish now. It was past 10:30 at night. He hears a knock on his door.

“‘Ome ‘n” he yells around a mouthful of cheese. He almost chokes on it when the door opens to reveal Castiel. He looks like a scared little child, but that’s not what made Dean choke. Castiel is wearing normal clothing.

Whoa.

That’s Dean’s flannel. His black, navy, and sky blue colored one that makes up the patterns on the cloth in a way that matches Castiel way better than it does Dean. He’s also wearing jeans, only socks on his feet.

Dean balks because there’s no way this guy is half-abomination. He’s too cozy.

“I apologize,” Castiel looks down, folds his hands together in front of him. “I didn’t think you were busy, I can--”

“No, no I’m not busy--”

“--come back tomorrow, I’m sorry--”

“Cas.”

“Yes, Dean?”

“Stay.”

Castiel blinks, shyly looks down and then nods. He closes the door behind him, and just stays there. Dean wipes his hands on a napkin and swings his legs off the bed.

“What’s up?”

“I wanted to let you know Sam allowed me to borrow some clothes,” Castiel looks down at himself sheepishly, tugs at the bottom of the flannel he’s wearing. “I will return them after tomorrow.”

Dean’s nodding so fast his neck cracks a little. “Yeah. That’s—Cas, that’s fine. Wha-what’s tomorrow?”

At that, Castiel actually smiles. Dean’s never seen this before. Granted, he’s known the guy for less than a day, and has been actively avoiding him, but anyways. Castiel’s smile shows gums and square little teeth. Dean feels his entire chest glow looking at it.

“That’s the second piece of news I came to tell you. Sam and I have found something. He needs the day to acquire the correct ingredients for it, and we want to try it tomorrow. We think it will work.” It’s impossible, but it’s like his smile is growing even more with every word he says. Dean finds himself smiling too.

“Man,” Dean clasps his hands together; a quiet clap. “That’s… I mean. That’s something, Cas. You’re-you’ve-how long have you waited for this?”

Castiel’s smile falters, crooks and falls. He says quietly, “All my life.”

Then he’s walking forward and sitting at the edge of Dean’s bed. Dean’s hand on the mattress is the only thing that separates them.

“I need to tell you something else.”

“A third thing?”

“Yes,” Castiel looks down at his hand on the bed. He takes a moment while Dean holds his breath.

Castiel puts one of his hands on top of Dean’s, covering it. Dean glances down, and this close, he can clearly see the scar on the back of Castiel’s hand. All the breath in Dean’s lungs rushes out at once.

“Dean. After your father saved me, and I decided on what I was to do, I grew up with you. I followed you. I learned from you. I even saved you a few times. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if he’d killed me too, or if he hadn’t killed my father at all, what would have become of me—”

“Cas,” Dean interrupts hoarsely, spinning his hand around to grasp his fingers gently at Castiel’s wrist. “Whatever you think you know about my dad, it’s not true,” he shakes his head. “I’m absolutely sure the only good thing my dad ever did was accidentally let you live.”

Castiel averts his eyes, frowns. “On some days, I disagree.”

“Is today one of them?” Dean tilts his head to catch Castiel’s eyesight again. He shivers when blue meets green.

“No,” Castiel answers softly. “Not today.”

“Good. Because if there’s one thing you need to learn about being human is that you gotta learn to forgive yourself, man.”

Castiel’s smile looks sad. “After all these years, I am still learning from you, Dean Winchester.”

“What do you mean?”

Castiel hesitates. “With how savagely my father was raising me, to kill and feast on others, on innocents, I kept my humanity in check by watching you live Dean. You taught me to be human.”

Dean can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips.

As the seconds pass in silence, he can feel them inching closer, like tectonic plates moving after centuries. Their noses brush together and their lips are practically touching. Dean vision is reduced to alluring blue and widening pupils. He’s so afraid of what will happen if they collide.

Dean tilts his head down, leaning their foreheads together, avoiding the kiss.

“Cas.” His whisper is broken and defeated.

“I understand, Dean. If I had never told you, would you—”

Dean interrupts him, pulling his head away and covering it with his hands. “I can’t answer that. I-I don’t know. That was before I knew. Before I knew what you were and how that relates to me. Damn it, Cas. I’m going against everything I stand for, everything I am, for you. And there’s no guarantee.”

“How is that different than if I was a human you met at a bar?”

Dean swallows. “It just is,” he argues gruffly. “You’d just be a human. But you’re not, you’re someone who knows too much about me. I don’t know you at all, Cas. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. I don’t know if I should have killed you already or not.”

Dean sucks in a breath then, regretting the words immediately. His throat feels thick. When he tentatively looks at Castiel, he sees he is taken aback, mouth agape.

Castiel blinks. He stands up and makes his way to the door, his steps almost silent. Dean wants to reach out but his arms are frozen and still, and there’s something burning in his veins.

“I felt for you.” Castiel whispers, hand on the doorknob.

Dean looks up, meeting his eyes, feeling too much and not at all. He’s numb and exploding inside. He misses Castiel’s hand on top of his. He wants to feel his palm encase his hand again. Dean’s throat clogs up when he realizes, whoever he is, whatever he is, Dean wants Castiel.

Castiel is staring at him, jaw clenched, and posture too tight. “If I may… ask you for another favor?”

Dean can’t speak.

Nonetheless, Castiel continues. “If tomorrow doesn’t yield the best results, I’d like you to make sure I’m gone, Dean. For good.”

****

Sam is an organization freak. He has a whole corner of the basement scrubbed down and set up for the spell he’s going to try on Castiel. He has bowls (organized by size), and the vials of blood from the day before (organized by size). He also has extra needles (organized by size), some weed looking plants (organized by color), and other instruments for smashing and mixing (say it with me, organized by size). Dean stuff his hands in his jean pockets, fearing being yelled at because he might accidentally touch something he’s not supposed to.

Dean doesn’t know this stuff. All he knows are his gun, his machete, and his beloved rocket launcher. All he knows is the thrill of the final swing, the force of the punch, the blood on his knuckles, the cuts on his temple, and the last drop of the beer at the end of the night. He’s been a hunter all his life. John used to joke with him that he “fell out of the womb hunting.” Eventually, Dean taught himself to laugh at that. Meanwhile, Sam got to play around with his magic, or whatever.

Dean couldn’t complain, though. Because of Sam’s dedication and practice and knowledge they had saved many people over the years. People Dean wouldn’t think twice about shooting first and asking questions later. Sam had a talent for it, a knack. And Dean could see he thoroughly enjoyed it too, which was always a plus. You don’t want your younger sibling being unhappy because you dragged him back into something he tried to run away from. Ultimately, Sam was practically the only family Dean had left. He’d do anything to keep him content.

Thus why some of their hunting trips weren’t hunting trips at all. They were more like Dean-so-get-this-there’s-this-crystal-from-Colorado-that’s-supposed-to-heal-wounds-with-the-right-spell-could-we-go-find-it road trips. Dean grumbles for show, but he is always happy to be the Designated Driver.

Looking around the basement, Dean furrows his eyebrows as he spies two notebooks, sitting atop one another on the table. Eileen appears from behind him, and Dean nods at her.

She follows his eyesight, chuckles and then says, “He filled them with notes last night.”

Dean can’t hide his surprise. “He had a lot to say, then.”

Eileen shrugs. “He was trying to get all he learned from Cas somewhere concrete. Just in case.”

“In case of what?” Dean turns to her, leaning down a bit.

Eileen sighs, seeming a bit hesitant. “Sam told me the spell is for erasing memories. But he’s going to try and incorporate some additional spells to sort of… erase his monster side?” she scrunches her nose. She ends up mouthing and signing her suggestion,You should ask him, because Sam is in the room with them, meticulously drawing something in his corner.

Dean frowns, but nods anyways. He doesn’t want to talk to Sam. Not right now, anyways, because Castiel is right there too, right next to him, sitting almost daintily in his dentist chair from the day before. His hands are wound together over his stomach (he’s still wearing Dean’s flannel), and his foot is tapping lightly on the air, like he’s impatient.

He’s definitely avoiding Dean’s eyes.

Dean does feel bad about how it went down with them last night. He doesn’t want to admit, not even to himself, really, that he wants to try something with Cas too. The history is too complicated, too filled with gaps, and secrets, and when he really looks at it objectively, it just doesn’t seem worth it.

But, god. The way Cas looks at him, and the way he feels when he’s around. That’s not something he’s felt for a while now. It goes deeper than the night they were at the bar. That was lust filled, and drink dazed. Now, Dean is aware that Castiel knows him, has been with him all along, since the very first night they met. Dean is aware he doesn’t know this half-man, half-monster who knows him, but he is aware he wants to know. How fucked up is that? He’s pushing it down, deeper into the crevices of his chest, but he wants to know Castiel. He knows he does.

He needs to make sure he can. Dean is still appalled at Castiel’s request. He is the best hunter in history, he knows his worth in the game, but he doesn’t think he can follow through with what Castiel wants. He just feels it in his bones. Dean can’t kill him.

When Sam starts the spell, it takes all of Dean’s muscles working to make him keep still; make him wait.

Sam has drawn a bunch of symbols on various pieces of paper. Perfect circles and diagonal lines and swirls and cross-looking things that come together in loopy images. He sets the pieces of paper down one by one on the table in a specific order to form a circle. Then he picks up the biggest bowl and puts it in the middle of the circle, within the paper circumference. He puts the rest of the smaller old wooden bowls around the bigger bowl, forming its own circle.

With careful, practiced hands, he picks up the colorful weeds, undoes the string that holds the thin branches of leaves together, and drops them in their rightful smaller bowls, spreading them out. He picks up a sleek wooden smasher and flattens each weed in its own bowl, one by one. Dean holds his breath as he watches Sam do the next step.

Sam picks up the smaller vials of blood, rips away the seal, and drizzles the contents over each small bowl, on top of the smushed weeds. Eileen probably senses Dean’s stress, because she hooks her hand under his forearm and holds him. He starts breathing again after the gesture. Sam finishes off with dumping the entire largest vial of blood into the main greater center bowl, covering ¼ of it.

Sam pushes the extra instruments to the side, giving him more room on the table, and then he takes a small match box out of his back pocket.

He turns to Castiel and looks him directly in the eyes. “It’s ready. Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“More than anything,” Castiel assures him, jaw set, chest puffed out.

Sam sighs and nods. “Right. Okay. If this goes wrong, I suspect the worst that can happen is you losing your memory, which is what the notes we took yesterday are for. Unfortunately, that’ll be irreversible, but you’ll still be… you.”

Castiel’s eyes flash to Dean’s for a second. “It’s worth a try. I have contingency plans, Sam. Do it, please.”

Sam’s lips turn downwards in a frown, but he still nods. He wraps Castiel’s wrist with leather, tying him to the chair. Dean can see the stark contrast between the almost white scar on the back of his hand, and the dark brown leather.

Sam steps away and fishes out a single match. He’s poised over the table where the spell is set up. He rolls his shoulders back, stands up straighter, closes his eyes and tilts his head up, mentally preparing himself.

Dean admires how he’s in his element, and then Castiel speaks: “At any rate, I wanted to apologize for my inappropriate behavior during your lives, and to say that I am glad I met you all. Thank you for helping me, truly.” He’s looking at Dean as he finishes, and all Dean can do is swallow his feelings down. He’s fearing for Cas. For himself, too.

“We’ll see you on the other side, Cas,” Sam grins, then strikes the match. Dean’s worldview is reduced to that flame.

Sam starts quietly chanting, “Dedisco. Dono. Dissulto.”

The papers start glowing immediately. As in, the drawings themselves start to shine a muted orange color, growing in reach upwards as Sam continues chanting, “Dedisco. Dono. Dissulto.”

When the light is shining about at Sam’s chest, he drops the lit match in the center bowl.

“Dedisco. Dono. Dissulto.”

Castiel’s blood ignites in the bowl, red-orange. The temperature in the basement escalates.

“Dedisco. Dono. Dissulto.”

The center bowl is aflame. It catches onto the smaller bowls that surround it.

“Dedisco. Dono. Dissulto.”

Each small bowl lights up with the color of the weeds Sam smushed earlier. There’s a red, a green, a yellow, a blue, a purple, a white, and a black fire surrounding the main orange flame.

“Dedisco. Dono. Dissulto.”

The lights of the illuminated drawings start to move, curve to the center, closer to the main bowl.

“Dedisco. Dono. Dissulto.”

They connect to the orange fire in the middle, making a sort of cone shape; pointy end at the top.

“Dedisco. Dono. Dissulto.”

The colors start to darken, looking more pronounced. They are trapped inside the confines of the orange cone. Dean takes Eileen’s hand in his.

“Dedisco. Dono. Dissulto.”

It’s then that Castiel sucks in a gasping wheezing breath. His veins, visible on his head and neck and hands light up in orange hues from under his skin. He pinches his eyes shut and throws his head back, groaning. Dean wants to run to him, but Eileen keeps him grounded by squeezing his hand.

“Dedisco! Dono! Dissulto!” Sam yells, then drives his palm straight down into the pointy end of the cone, like he’s stabbing his hand with it. It shatters the structure completely.

Castiel gives out a last cry, his skin glows brighter than ever, and then he’s falling limp in the chair. The flames are doused out at the table, like Sam threw water at them.

The room is cold again, and when Dean finally takes his eyes off Castiel, he sees Sam is smiling like he just heard the ice cream truck pass by.

****

Castiel wakes up almost a week later. Of course, it’s exactly within the hour that Dean leaves his bedside to go make some mid-afternoon pancakes for himself.

He’s in the kitchen, dripping a shit-ton of syrup on top of the large thick stack (he likes them fluffy) when he sees Eileen run in from the hallway.

She signs, He’s awake.

Dean is too tired to understand for a few seconds, and then she signs it again and points behind her, smiling. The lightbulb goes off in Dean’s head and then he’s running with the plate of pancakes and the syrup bottle still in his hands, giving Eileen a kiss on the cheek as he passes her. He hears her giggle.

When Dean bursts into his room (he insisted they put Castiel in his room), he sees Sam standing next to the bed, hands on his hips, frowning down at Castiel who is sitting on the edge of Dean’s bed, head hung low and tucked in his chest.

Dean doesn’t know what the fuck is happening, but he knows it shouldn’t be. He goes into Mom Mode.

“Cas! Welcome back to the world of the living!” He sets the plate of pancakes and the syrup bottle on his desk, and then walks over to crouch in front of Castiel’s legs. Dean tries to catch his eyes, “Hey, man. What are you doing sitting up? Sam told me this spell should have killed you, take a breather, rest for a bit more. You deserve it, dude.”

Sam shuffles next to him, silent, but Dean is not paying attention to him. When Castiel finally looks up, he squints and tilts his head at Dean. Dean beams. It’s so familiar, and he didn’t know he missed it so much. He’s smiling so hard it hurts.

Then Castiel says, “Who are you?”

Dean’s stomach drops like an anvil. His head floats for a second, and when it attaches back, all he can think of is how he’s lost Castiel. Fuck, he’s lost him. Forever.

Dean is feeling the burn in the back of his eyes, and he thinks he’s going to cry, but then he hears Sam from above him. Dean stands up and turns to his brother, who has one hand covering his mouth, and he’s… snickering. He is. Sam is laughing!

Dean whips his head to Castiel, who’s switched his confused squint to a warm gummy smile. He’s chuckling. His eyes are bright and blue and shining. They recognize him. Dean breathes again.

“Fuckin’ assholes!” Dean turns to punch Sam in the arm lightly, crossing his own with an angry huff. “I can’t believe you pulled that with me!”

Sam is still chuckling, dimples showing. “I’m sorry, dude! It was too good not to.”

“It was purely Sam’s idea,” Castiel defends himself.

Dean puts his whole body behind his eye roll. “Don’t go having anymore of those, Samuel. They suck.”

Sam claps him on the shoulder, and Dean irritably shrugs him off, making his brother smile even wider. “It’s Sam, and you love me anyways.” He turns to look down at Castiel. “Well, Cas--can I call you Cas?”

Castiel nods, grinning. “Of course, Sam.”

Sam is an excited puppy. “Welcome to humanity, Cas! We’re lucky to have you.” He saunters out of the room, still smirking to himself, leaving Dean with a wink.

After Sam closes the door behind him, Dean sits down in the chair right next to his bed, the one he’d been occupying for the last week, watching Cas sleep, like he was perching over his shoulder. He’s right in front of Castiel, still sitting on his bed, hands clasped around his kneecaps.

“So, it really worked? Sam cleared you? You-you’re…” Dean can’t finish the thought. His brain is racing.

Castiel looks proud, maybe a little emotional. “I am. I am human now.”

They meet eyes, and the world is suspended again. Castiel looks soft, and a little tired, but strangely, he looks the same. Dean knows he won’t be able to lift heavy things, knows he won’t crave humans anymore, but he also knows Castiel is still going to make tea and gently hand him the warm mug. He knows Castiel will still tug on the hem of his clothes, and he’s probably still going to wear that trenchcoat. Something in Dean’s heart breaks as he realizes Castiel is the same, apart from the blood running in his veins. Dean feels a little ashamed.

Castiel breaks the stare, and clears his throat. “Thank you for helping me, Dean. You’ve saved my life, but I won’t say I am forever in your debt, because I now realize that it’s the same toxic sentiment that has dictated my life for the last 15 years. I won’t bother you anymore, but I offer my services, if you ever come to need them.”

“Cas--”

Castiel holds him in a serious stare. “I’ll go, Dean. As promised.”

Dean grabs Castiel’s hand, the one with the scar, when Castiel stands up to leave. He forces himself to say, “I don’t want you to.”

Castiel furrows his eyebrows, and after a moment, he sits down on the bed again. He lets Dean hold his hand.

“I was wrong. Cas, I was so wrong.”

“In what way?”

Dean swallows. “We’re all monsters.”

Castiel huffs. “Dean--”

“We are,” Dean doesn’t let him speak, he needs to get it out before he gets too scared. “You may have literally been one your whole life, but you fought against it. You forced yourself to be better, and you were of service to people. You fuckin’... gave up your life to watch me! To protect me, and Sam! But you don’t actually know us. Especially me. I’m not who you’ve been seeing from a distance. I’m not who my father made you think I am.”

Castiel nods, pursing his lips, eyes turning down at the corners. “Of course not, Dean.”

Dean takes a shuddering breath. “I’ve done things in the past because I wanted to be violent. That’s all. They might have been monsters but I just wanted to be violent, and I shouldn’t be thought of as a hero because of that. In my own way, I’m just as much of a monster as you. Maybe I’m worse. I gave into it,” he mumbles.

Castiel squeezes his hand. “You were never a monster to me. And you were never a perfect hero. And you were never what your father made you seem. You are just a man, Dean. Just a human. That’s what I admired about you. That’s what I wanted to be. Imperfect, but pure of heart. And now, thanks to you, I am,” he smiles.

“Cas, I’m sorry. I really am.” Dean doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, but he thinks Cas understands. He always seems to.

“I know, Dean. I am sorry as well. I should have contacted you sooner. I’ve lived in the shadows for too long. I almost forgot my human side.”

Dean grins. “Now you don’t even have a human side. You’re all human.”

“I am.”

“Maybe you always were, Cas. Thanks for not killing me 15 years ago.”

Castiel chuckles. “Anytime.”

“So, what now?”

“Now… I guess I make something of myself,” Castiel sighs.

Dean smiles, feeling once again like he’s on leveled ground with Castiel. Feeling like they’re leaning against a wall at the bar again. Feeling like the moment Castiel hesitated to kill him. Feeling hopeful.

“Well, you can’t do that on an empty stomach.” Dean lets go of Castiel’s hand, stands up and goes over to the plate of pancakes and syrup. He brings it back and puts the plate on Castiel’s lap. “You must be starving. Here, I made pancakes, I hope you like syrup,” he says sheepishly.

“I don’t know if I do,” Castiel says slowly, shyly. Dean realizes what he said and almost facepalms, feeling his ears burn with embarrassment.

“Right. Right. Sorry, yeah, duh—um. Why don’t you-uh. Just try it.”

Castiel cuts a small piece, soaked in syrup, and pops it in his mouth. Dean bites his lower lip, watching as he chews, and he’s wondering if he put too much butter or flour and that’s why Cas doesn’t like it, but then Castiel’s face lights up. He blinks at Dean, reaches over and takes the syrup from his hand, and dumps more on top of the pancakes.

Castiel looks into Dean’s soul when he says, “I love it.”

#BELOVED HANNAH <3333333333333333333 #A HAPPY ENDING FOR YOU BC YOUR METAS ARE SO DEPRESSING AND SO IS THIS SHOW #I HOPE THIS WAS THE MONSTER!CAS FIC OF YOUR DREAMS <33333 #THE MOTHERFRICKING END MY FRIENDS 11K WORDS AND 4 DAYS LATER #ok. now i gotta go do homework :((((#my destiel fanfic #destiel fanfic

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