#bitter Cas hour

[vaicomcas]

Rewatching S12e23.

At the begining, Lucifer didn't know where Cas was.

Because Cass has warded the house he and Kelly were hiding in.

Then Sam tracks down Cas using technology. Technology Lucifer wouldn't have knowledge of.

And then Lucifer found Cas.

OMG. Lucifer followed the Winchesters to find Cas.

They not only called Cas stupid, denied him his free will ("you think we are gonna give him a choice?"). They decided they know what's best for Cas, they know how best to protect Cas.

And they led Lucifer right to Cas. They as good as killed him themselves. Just to prove a point that Cas needs their rescue.

[bisaster-energy]

something something the cop-ification of the winchester bros. that one post about how dressing up as custodians or plumbers is 100% more effective than g men. the way they think should be trusted by all others and those that do not trust them with everything are untrustworthy themselves. the mentality that is pushed in law enforcement shows that cops should be allowed to do whatever break rules violate rights "for the greater good." dean would literally have said acab if given the chance. im not connecting shit but gimme a break it's almost 3am

[dean-smiths-suspenders]

the thing that confounds me about scoobynatural is that the little scene with cas getting back from the whatever tree of whatever is So Bad like . acting? where

[dcxdpdabbles]

DCXDP FIC IDEA: The Dauntless Matchmaker

Danny Fenton is short on cash. He has been short on cash almost all his adult life, but usually, he can pull through untill the last minute before breaking and asking his family for help.

It's a pain in a half trying to find a job that is flexible enough to accommodate his "Health" issues.

He needs time off to keep his agreement. See back when he was sixteen, he realized that the ghosts that had been bothering him were all trying to challenge him for his power.

At first he looked like easy prey- being new and all- but the more fights he won the more his reputation rose and that made the ghosts attack less frequently.

They just became harder since the big guns wanted a crack at him. Danny proposed that the fights be in neutral grounds- the ghost zone- since fights in Amity Park were ruining his haunt.

Haunt Rights were highly protected and respected in the Infinite Releams.

His adversaries agreed under the condition that Danny responded to the battles within two hours; otherwise, they would haunt him in the human world.

Ghost fighting in the Infinite Releams to keep the ghosts busy, and nowadays, only the strongest bothered him like a bi-weekly challenge from dead beings that don't understand scheduling.

It worked out.....until he couldn't explain why he was missing so often in the human world. With the help of some friendly ghosts, he was able to fake a diagnosis of some muscle disorder and has been living with the excuse that he would go MIA because of it. He missed a lot.

Often enough to have almost every job he's gotten to fire him.

This brings him to his current problem. Yes, Danny can argue that he has a disability but to do so would mean having someone look into it and realize it's not real.

So when Charlie from the Tea MadHouse tells him not to bother returning tomorrow after a four-day-long battle, he can only sigh and turn in his tea maker apron.

He might have to call his parents to ask for help on this month's rent. That's a bitter pill to swallow.

If only there was a job that he could do that had no problem with him taking multiple days off without notice.

"Pardon me. I need a moment of your time." a voice calls out. Danny twists around, turning his neck slightly downwards to meet the green-eyed stare of a young boy.

"I have a proposition for you. My elder brother requires a fake lover to fool our family butler into thinking that he has moved on from the heartbreak of his last disastrous relationship. Not that anyone could blame Dowd for ending things with Drake. In any case, seeing as I have witnessed your unemployment, I figured you would do well for the job."

Danny blinks "I'm sorry?"

The kid pulls out a wad of cash. Danny can practically hear the ca-ching sound surrounding the boy as he raises a brow.

He gapes as the youth slaps the cash into his hand without so much as a blink.

"Do we have an accord?" The boy asks while Danny slowly turns the money in his hand.

"Whatever you say, temporary in-law," He says after flipping through the bills only to realize it's a hundred-dollars. A quick count of how many he's been handed causes his eyes to almost pop out of thier socket.

It's more then enough for this month's rent-hell he has some left over for at least four months!

"Excellent, we are expected at dinner. If Drake acts surprised to see you merely tap the table six times, then four. He shall fall into line and build off our lie."

Danny scrambles after the kid, nodding to himself. "Six, then four. Got it. Ugh, does the dinner have a dress code?"

It sounds like it would since a young boy just gave out hundreds like it was nothing. Danny would feel bad showing up in an old pair of jeans and a faded t-shirt.

Maybe he has a formal shirt somewhere.

The boy's green eyes flickered to him, then his watch on his wrist. "An impressive observation. Pennyworth will not be impressed by a poorly dressed paramour. We have time to purchase a suit. Come along."

Danny has no idea how someone so small can walk so fast. He feels his breathing is coming in quick bursts, but the boy doesn't seem winded at all. He winces when the boy enters a well-known suit place that is very pricey. "Is this coming out of my pay?"

"No. This shall be covered by the company card," The strange child says, holding up a black card with a quick flick of his wrist. At the sight of it, two store attendants appear at their side, offering assistance. Danny has never seen such power.

"W-wait we have a company card?" He shutters, overwhelmed by the attendant pushing him into a changing room and a light blue suit in his arms.

"Yes. However, you have a limit on what can be spent with it. I shall review the details later regarding your medical, dental, and vision benefits."

"I GET DENTAL?!"

"Of course. America's ridiculous health programs will mistreat no employee of mine simply due to lack of funds. " The boy scoffed, sounding offended by the very idea.

Danny doesn't care how long he needs to pretend to be this boy's boyfriend, and he'll sign a contract right now.

_______________________________________

Damian waited for Fenton to finish trying on all the suits the personal sellers had pushed onto him. He personally thinks the light blue was the best but it doesn't hurt to try other options.

They need Fenton to look his best to woo Drake and get him to stop acting so pathetic.

Yes, Dowd had broken up with him for reasons Damian is unaware of, nor does he care enough to find them, but Drake has had plenty of people break up with him before and remain on good terms with him.

Just look at Brown.

Drake had also always bounced right back after the breakup, usually because he would get tied up in either work at Wayne Industries or Red Robin.

Yet, for some reason, unlike all the others, Dowd leaving has not only been messy it also threw Drake into a downwards spiral.

He has refused even to get dress- walking around in a bathrobe and fluffy slippers- eating ice cream and sobbing over photos of Dowd for hours on end. He taken a leave from Wayne Industries and mostly stayed on monitor duty as Red Robin.

At other times, he plays sad songs and watches romance movies with a dead look in his eyes. Usually there were crumbs of some unknown spicy chips all over his face too.

Really it was unseemly.

It's been four months of this, and Drake does not seem to be getting it together. Damian had researched online, and all of the articles indicate that he should have felt better by the third-month mark.

He would have left the fool well alone only Pennyworth is beginning to worry. And Damian refuses to let Pennyworth worry over something fixable.

His research showed that a "rebound" was highly recommended (if done correctly), in the healing process of a breakup. Drake refused to find one, so Damian assigned himself the task of finding one for him instead.

He considered Drake's past lovers' looks, interests, and personalities. Then creating a list of what was considered a good candidate he wandered around Gotham in search of someone who would be a perfect rebound.

His efforts led him to Tea MadHouse- a tea shop with a surprisingly good coffee menu- where Daniel Fenton worked. Over three weeks, Damian had watched him, categorizing the pros and cons that Drake would find within Fenton, and concluded that he would be perfect.

The fact Fenton has lost his job now only worked in his favor. He'll convince Drake that Fenton is a decoy for Pennyworth - since Drake was getting fed up with all the hovering- and he would never notice that the real target of this fake relationship would be Drake himself all along.

Fenton will woo him, sweep him off his feet, make him forget Dowd and ride off into the sunset with Drake none the wiser. It was full-proof.

Damian will make Drake rebound on Fenton, even if he has to throw the idiot at the other teen. He is getting awful tired of the concerned glances whenever Drake slumps his way into a room.

No other reason. He certainly didn't care about Drake that much nor did does he lay awake at night wondering how Drake is doing now that he does not have someone to hold him.

Drake doesn't sleep well alone.

"How do I look?" Fenton stepped out of the booth wearing the light blue suit. It made his eyes pop and framed his body well.

Yes, muscular. The body of a boxer. Drake will lose his mind over those biceps.

"Ravishing." He tells the nineteen-year-old. Damian barely bites back a smirk as Fenton flushed, painting a pretty picture. Drake enjoys talking his lovers up, and Fenton will do well to receive plenty of compliments. "Let us be off."

Drake won't know what hit him.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

It’s been twenty years since my Microsoft DRM talk

On THURSDAY (June 20) I'm live onstage in LOS ANGELES for a recording of the GO FACT YOURSELF podcast. On FRIDAY (June 21) I'm doing an ONLINE READING for the LOCUS AWARDS at 16hPT. On SATURDAY (June 22) I'll be in OAKLAND, CA for a panel and a keynote at the LOCUS AWARDS.

This week on my podcast,This week on my podcast, I read my June 17, 2004 Microsoft Research speech about DRM, a talk that went viral two decades ago, and reassess its legacy:

https://craphound.com/msftdrm.txt

It's been 20 years (and one day) since I gave that talk. It wasn't my first talk like that, but at the time, it was the most successful talk I'd ever given. I was still learning how to deliver a talk at the time, tinkering with different prose and delivery styles (to my eye, there's a lot of Bruce Sterling in that one, something that's still true today).

I learned to give talks by attending sf conventions and watching keynotes and panel presentations and taking mental notes. I was especially impressed with the oratory style of Harlan Ellison, whom I heard speak on numerous occasions, and by Judith Merril, who was a wonderful mentor to me and many other writers:

https://locusmag.com/2021/09/cory-doctorow-breaking-in/

I was also influenced by the speakers I'd heard at the many political rallies I'd attended and helped organize; from the speakers at the annual Labour Day parade to the anti-nuclear proliferation and pro-abortion rights marches I was very involved with. I also have vivid memories of the speeches that Helen Caldicott gave in Toronto when I was growing up, where I volunteered as an usher:

https://www.helencaldicott.com/

When I helped found a dotcom startup in the late 1990s, my partners and I decided that I'd do the onstage talking; we paid for a couple hours of speaker training from an expensive consultant in San Francisco. The only thing I remember from that session was the advice to look into the audience as much as possible, rather than reading from notes with my head down. Good advice, but kinda obvious.

The impetus for that training was my onstage presentation at the first O'Reilly P2P conference in 2001. I don't quite remember what I said there, but I remember that it made an impression on Tim O'Reilly, which meant a lot to me then (and now):

https://www.oreilly.com/pub/pr/844

I don't remember who invited me to give the talk at Microsoft Research that day, but I think it was probably Marc Smith, who was researching social media at the time by data-mining Usenet archives to understand social graphs. I think I timed the gig so that I could kill three birds with one stone: in addition to that talk, I attended (and maybe spoke at?) that year's Computers, Freedom and Privacy conference, and attended an early preview of the soon-to-launch Sci Fi Museum (now the Museum of Pop Culture). I got to meet Nichelle Nichols (and promptly embarrassed myself by getting tongue-tied and telling her how much I loved the vocals she did on her recording of the Star Wars theme, something I'm still hot around the ears over, though she was a pro and gently corrected me, "I think you mean Star *Trek"):

https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=4IiJUQSsxNw&list=OLAK5uy_lHUn58fbpceC3PrK2Xu9smBNBjR_-mAHQ

But the start of that trip was the talk at Microsoft Research; I'd been on the Microsoft campus before. That startup I did? Microsoft tried to buy us, which prompted our asshole VCs to cram the founders and steal our equity, which created so much acrimony that the Microsoft deal fell through. I was pretty bitter at the time, but in retrospect, I really dodged a bullet – for one thing, the deal involved my going to work for Microsoft as a DRM evangelist. I mean, talk about the road not taken!

This was my first time back at Microsoft as an EFF employee. There was some pre-show meet-and-greet-type stuff, and then I was shown into a packed conference room where I gave my talk and had a lively (and generally friendly) Q&A. MSR was – and is – the woolier side of Microsoft, where all kinds of interesting people did all kinds of great research.

Indeed, almost every Microsoft employee I've ever met was a good and talented person doing the best work they could. The fact that Microsoft produces such a consistent stream of garbage products and crooked business practices is an important testament to the way that a rotten organization can be so much less than the sum of its parts.

I'm a fully paid up subscriber to Ronald Coase's "Theory of the Firm" (not so much his other views):

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theory_of_the_firm

Coase says the reason institutions exist is to enable people to work together with lowered "coordination costs." In other words, if you and I are going to knit a sweater together, we're going to need to figure out how to make sure that we're not both making the left sleeve. Creating an institution – the Mafia, the Catholic Church, Microsoft, a company, a co-op, a committee that puts on a regional science fiction con – is all about minimizing those costs.

As Yochai Benkler pointed out in 2002, the coolest and most transformative thing about the internet is that it let us do more complex collective work with smaller and less structured institutions:

https://www.benkler.org/CoasesPenguin.PDF

That was the initial prompt for my novel Walkaway, which asked, "What if we could build luxury hotels and even space programs with the kind of (relatively) lightweight institutional overheads associated with Wikipedia and the Linux kernel?"

https://crookedtimber.org/2017/05/10/coases-spectre/

So the structure of institutions is really important. At the same time, I'm skeptical of the idea that there are "good companies" and "bad companies." Small businesses, family businesses, and other firms that aren't exposed to the finance sector can reflect their leaders' personalities, but it's a huge mistake to ascribe personalities to the companies themselves.

That's how you get foolish ideas like "Apple is a good company because they embrace paid service and Google is a bad company because they make money from surveillance." Apple will spy on you, too, if they can:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/11/14/luxury-surveillance/#liar-liar

Disney and Fox weren't Romeo and Juliet, star-crossed lovers making goo-goo eyes at each other across the table at MPA meetings. They were two giant public companies, and any differences between them were irrelevancies and marketing myths:

https://locusmag.com/2021/07/cory-doctorow-tech-monopolies-and-the-insufficient-necessity-of-interoperability/

I think senior management's personalities do matter (see, for example, the destruction of Boeing after it was colonized by sociopaths from McDonnell Douglas), but the influence of those personalities is much less important than the constraints that competition and regulation impose on companies. In other words, an asshole can run a company that delivers good products at fair prices under ethical conditions – provided that failing to do so will cost more in lost business and fines than they stand to make by cheating:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/24/record-scratch/#autoenshittification

Microsoft is a company founded and run by colossal assholes. Bill Gates is a monster and he surrounded himself with monsters, and they hired monsters to fill out the courts of their corporate palaces:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/14/patch-tuesday/#fool-me-twice-we-dont-get-fooled-again

To the extent that good things come out of Microsoft – some of its games products, the odd piece of hardware, important papers from MSR – it's in spite of the leadership; it's the result of constraints imposed by competition and regulation – and that's why Microsoft pursued such an aggressive program of extinguishing its competitors and capturing its regulators.

In retrospect, I think one of my goals in that talk was to convince those people doing good work for a rotten institution to go elsewhere and do other things. Certainly, that's one of the goals I pursue in the talks I give today. At the time, some of Microsoft's highest-profile technologists were publicly resigning over the company's war on free/open source software, so it wasn't an unrealistic goal:

https://web.archive.org/web/20030214215639/http://synthesist.net/writing/onleavingms.html

What I did not expect what that publishing the talk on my site and blogging it on Boing Boing would spark a wave of public interest that would get its message in front of several orders of magnitude more people than I spoke to at Microsoft that day. Partly, that was because I released the talk into the public domain, using the brand-new Creative Commons Public Domain Declaration (which was later replaced with the CC0 mark, due to legal issues withBu its drafting):

https://web.archive.org/web/20100223035835/http://creativecommons.org/licenses/publicdomain/

Some mix of the content of the speech, the spirit of the moment, and the novelty of that wide open license sparked a ton of interest. Jason Kottke recorded an audio version that Andy Baio hosted:

https://kottke.org/04/06/cory-drm-talk

My brutalist ASCII transcript was quickly converted to beautiful HTML by Matt Haughey and Anil Dash:

https://web.archive.org/web/20040622235333/http://www.dashes.com/anil/stuff/doctorow-drm-ms.html

For people who needed a hardcopy, there was Patrick Berry's printer-friendly stylesheet:

https://patandkat.com/pat/weblog/mirror/cory-drm/doctorow-drm-ms.html

Multiple people recorded (and sold!) audio versions, and then there were all the fan translations, into Danish, French, Finnish, German, Hebrew, Hungarian, Italian, Japanese, Norwegian, Polish, Portuguese (both EU and Brazilian), Spanish and Swedish. I stayed in touch with some of those translators, and they helped me translate the position papers I wrote for UN WIPO meetings. Those papers were so effective that ratfuckers from the copyright lobby started to steal them and hide them in the UN toilets (!):

https://web.archive.org/web/20041119132831/https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/archives/002117.php

Re-reading the speech for my podcast on Sunday, I expected to be struck by the anachronisms in it, and there were a few of those to be sure. But far more clear was the common thread running from this talk to other talks I gave that took on a significant life of their own, like my 2011 "War On General Purpose Computing" talk for CCC:

https://memex.craphound.com/2012/01/10/lockdown-the-coming-war-on-general-purpose-computing/

And my work on Adversarial Interoperability:

https://www.eff.org/deeplinks/2019/10/adversarial-interoperability

And my most recent work, on enshittification:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/27/an-audacious-plan-to-halt-the-internets-enshittification-and-throw-it-into-reverse/

In other words, I've been saying the same thing – in different ways – for more than 20 years. That could be depressing, but I actually found it uplifting. Two decades ago, I was radicalized by a fear that the internet would be seized by corporations and governments and transformed into a system of surveillance and control. I found my way into a job at EFF, where I worked with colleagues across multiple disciplines – coders, lawyers and activists – to fight this force.

At the time, this was a fringe cause. Most of the traditional activists I'd come up with in the feminist, antiwar, antiracist, environmental and labour movement viewed digital rights as a distraction and dismissed its partisans as sad, self-obsessed nerds who mistook fights over the management of Star Trek message boards for civil rights struggles:

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2010/10/04/small-change-malcolm-gladwell

I thought I was right then, and I think history has borne me out. The point of waging these fights – both in the wide public sphere and within political movements – is to get people activated before it's too late. Every day that goes by is a day when the internet becomes more inhospitable to political organizing for a better world – more surveillant, more controlling. I believed then – and believe today – that the internet isn't more important that the other fights I waged as a young activist, but I think that the internet is fundamental to those fights.

Saving the planet, smashing patriarchy, overthrowing tyranny and freeing labor are all fights that will be coordinated – Coase style – on the internet. Without a free, fair and open internet, those fights are infinitely harder to win.

The project of getting people to understand, care about, and fight for digital rights is a marathon, not a sprint. When I joined EFF, it was already 12 years old. There were six people in the org then (I was the seventh). Today, there's more than a hundred of us, and we're stretched so thin! The 30+ year old idea that internet policy will intersect with every part of every fight has been utterly vindicated.

Back in 2004, I asked Microsoft why they were willing to fight the US government to the death over antitrust enforcement, but were such wimps when confronted with the entertainment industry's demands for DRM. 20 years later, I think I know the answer: Microsoft understood that DRM would let them usurp the relationship between creative workers, entertainment industry companies, and audiences. Their perfect instincts for seeking out and capitalizing on opportunities to seize monopoly power drove them to make deliberately defective products, in the belief that their market power would let them cram those products down our throats:

https://memex.craphound.com/2004/01/27/protect-your-investment-buy-open/

Here's a link to the podcast episode:

https://craphound.com/news/2024/06/16/my-2004-microsoft-drm-talk/

And here's direct link to the MP3 (hosting courtesy of the Internet Archive; they'll host your stuff for free forever):

https://archive.org/download/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_470/Cory_Doctorow_Podcast_470_-_My_2004_Microsoft_DRM_Talk.mp3

And here's the RSS feed for my podcast:

https://feeds.feedburner.com/doctorow_podcast

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/18/greetings-fellow-pirates/#arrrrrrrrrr

[gilverrwrites]

“If you will have me, I am yours.” 

Pairing: Human!Castiel/Fem!Reader (Season 9)

Reader has AFAB body parts & feminine pronouns' are used.

Plot: The reader is a retired hunter, who develops feeling for Cas after he moves in with her. After living in domestic bliss for a while, its only a matter of time before feelings are confessed, and sex is had.

Please remember: to keep going, and keep growing.

Content: Rough/Kissing, blowjob, rough blowjob/face-fucking, vaginal fingering, p in v sex, dirty talk (Cas doesnt really have a filter) rough sex, swearing, accidental cuddling, intentional cuddling.

Rating: M/18+

Words: 3,377

Notice: The follow up: Takeout Tuesday is now available here.

Excerpt: You vaguely recall falling asleep around 40 minutes into a Capra film, but when and how you’d nestled yourself against your flatmate was a mystery. Despite your instinct to jerk away, you remain still when you feel his fingers brushing against your bare shoulder. Between the warmth of his skin on yours, and the soothing beat of his heart, you are soon lulled close to sleep once again. Until the sound of Cas’ low voice in your ear rouses you. “Are you awake?”  When you nod, he continues, “Is this okay?” You nod again, and quietly add, “This is wonderful.”

Having Castiel around was pleasant, if a little surreal. You’d always considered him a friend, but it wasn’t the same. Previously you’d only really been around each other on the hunt. Or if Cas was involved, more like stopping an apocalypse. Your relationship had been entirely based on proximity, and necessity. There was never really time to bond beyond that. Until now. 

You’d decided to attempt retirement a while ago. You’d found a job and started subletting a decent apartment from a friend of a friend, on the preface that they could still crash on the couch when travelling across country. The hunting trade was a small world after all. 

In fact, your new landlord was exactly who you’d expected to see when someone came knocking on your door in the middle of the night. Not a tired, bloodied, and bruised Angel. Confused, you’d let him in, patched his wounds, cleaned him up, and let him sleep it off in your bed. After almost 48 hours of continuous sleep, he’d explained everything to you, thanked you for your hospitality, and told you he’d be out of your hair soon. You’d assertively informed him that the only place he would be going is from your bed, to your couch. 

From there you easily fell into a routine together, effortlessly bonded over shared experiences, old and new. It was nice, seeing his toothbrush next to yours, bringing home his favourite takeout every Tuesday. When he worked the early shift, he’d always make you a coffee before he left, on the late shifts he’d bring home a bottle of your favourite. He did the dishes, and you did the laundry. You were a secure little domestic team.

The surrealness came when you realised just how much you enjoyed it. You welled up with pride whenever he complimented something you’d cooked him from scratch. Starting your morning in his presence calmed any nerves, and on stressful days, coming home to dinner and a film with Cas was your respite. 

You were confused by the bitterness you felt when he called you one night to say he would be home late, citing a date with his boss, Nora. You were truly sad, but relieved when he informed you he had misread the invitation. That he was actually there to babysit. That’s when it hit you. Somewhere along the way, in between all the household chores, and the late-night Hulu binging, you’d fallen for him. 

You’d always thought he was hot, ever since he’d introduced himself as ‘Castiel, an Angel of the Lord’ all those years ago. However, you no longer needed to accidentally catch him leaving the shower, or bending under a table to feel flushed. Ever since the figurative penny dropped, all it took was a smile, or the brush of your chests in a tight hall to make you blush. 

Thoughts of Castiel and your myriad of complex feelings now plagued you, particularly as you lay in bed at night, knowing he was only feet away from you, just on the other side of your paper-thin walls. Paper-thin walls that did nothing to protect you from the sudden and deafeningly loud sound of the TV at 2AM. 

Not bothering to throw on bottoms, you stumble to your bedroom door in just a camisole and panties. The sight of Cas sitting on the couch, clad in nothing but boxers, desperately fiddling with the remote in an attempt to turn down the volume greeted you upon entry to the living room. 

Upon noticing you, Cas drops the remote and hastily reaches for his discarded comforter to cover himself with. In turn you rotated your entire body, averting your gaze in favour of the wall, primarily to respect his privacy, secondarily to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks. 

“I’m so sorry!” You blurt.

“It’s okay.” He responds quietly. “I’m sorry for the noise. I couldn’t sleep, I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“It’s okay.” You repeat back to him. “I was awake, I couldn’t sleep either. You just made me jump.” 

“You can look now.” He informs you. Hoping the dim light from the TV doesn’t reveal too much of the colour in your face, you spin back. He was now covered from the waist down, but you couldn’t help noticing his bare chest, particularly the definition between his pecs, and the sharpness of his collarbones.

“I guess I’ll leave you to it.” You say, trying to re-direct your eyes to any other part of the room. 

“Unless…” He gestures to the television. “Would you care to join me?” 

“Sure.” You answer hesitantly. You weren’t sleeping anyway, what was the worst that could happen?

Castiel smiles amiably at you before returning his attention to the remote. You linger in your spot as he begins flicking through the different apps. When he makes no effort to locate and put on trousers you slowly settle down next to him, careful to leave enough distance to prevent any accidental skin-on-skin contact. 

“So, what are we watching?” 

 ————-

You vaguely recall falling asleep around 40 minutes into a Capra film, but when and how you’d nestled yourself against your flatmate was a mystery. Despite your instinct to jerk away, you remain still when you feel his fingers brushing against your bare shoulder. Between the warmth of his skin on yours, and the soothing beat of his heart, you are soon lulled close to sleep once again. Until the sound of Cas’ low voice in your ear rouses you. “Are you awake?” 

When you nod, he continues, “Is this okay?”

You nod again, and quietly add, “This is wonderful.”

You can’t see his expression from your current position, but he exhales, and you think he sounds relieved. 

It could be the scarcity of sleep, a ‘mind after midnight’ mirage, but this is when it occurred to you that maybe, just maybe, he could be interested in you too. Why else would be lying beneath you, half-naked and seemingly completely at ease? Doubtful that you’d ever have this courage again you tilt your head up to look at him and ask; “Do you ever think about us?”

“I do.” He responds, he looks perplexed, which admittedly was his default expression.

“Do you ever think about us, as more than this?” When he doesn’t immediately answer, you resume. “You know, like romantically? Or even intimately?” 

“I frequently think of you amorously.” He speaks tentatively, each word spoken very deliberately. “When Metatron took my grace from me, I never imagined that this was how my life would go. Of course, I never thought that my grace would be taken, or that I would live among humans as one of them in the first place.”

He seems to take a moment to compile his thoughts, sucking his bottom lip in concentration. You remain silent. Hoping he can’t feel the rapid thrum of your heart.

“I thought at first that I was broken. The fall, losing my wings was bad enough, but now, without my angelic abilities, I can’t do anything. Well, nothing of merit, at least where the needs of humankind are concerned.”

“That’s not true.” You interject, you move to sit up, to be at eye level with him, but due to your already precarious position, the only way to do so is by shifting a leg over his lap, thus straddling him.

“I know that now.” He says as he grips your wrists and brings them to his shoulders, offering you extra support. “Without meaning to overstep, or make you uncomfortable, but living with- existing beside you has been a far more fulfilling experience than most of the things I have accomplished in the many billions of years I have existed.

I have very little practice in the ways of human sexuality, and even less so with courtship. However, I would be honoured, and extremely happy if you would allow me to explore such things, with you.”

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“If you will have me, I am yours.” 

There's a tense moment of silence between you both in which neither of you dare to break eye contact before you surge to him. You instigate the kiss, but Cas is fast to take control, his arms pull your body to him, driving your lips to press hard against his. When he rocks his hips up, kneading his semi-hard cock against your clothed core, you gasp. Cas immediately slips his tongue between your lips. You can’t hold back the groan that escapes you. His mouth tastes like coffee and artificial grape. You savour the feel and aroma of his lips before pulling back momentarily. 

“Only if I can be yours too.” You finally respond before he’s on you again. You freely open up for him, allowing him to explore your mouth once more. His tongue eagerly swirls against yours, exploring every crevice. His hands drop to clutch your waist, holding you in place as he ruts against you from below. 

It was you who broke the kiss again, locking your eyes with him as you climb off his lap. 

“Let me take care of you.” You chime as you drop to your knees on the floor below him. Cas quickly follows, sitting up straight, and planting his legs on either side of you. The comforter banished to the other end of the sofa.  

“You… You look so beautiful like that. On your knees.” He smiles down at you and reaches out to cup your face, strong fingers gently brush along your jaw before his thumb extends up to your lips. You press a kiss to its pad before parting your lips and taking him in. His skin tastes clean, with a hint of salt, and something florally. 

“Let me suck your cock.” You state, voice muffled by the pressure on your tongue.

His cheeks are tinted pink. You’re unsure if it's from arousal or nerves but he stands to pull off his boxers and settles back down. You can’t help but lick your lips when his cock is revealed, it's long and already hard. 

You don’t waste any time, immediately situating your tongue on the underside of his shaft and running it from tip to hilt. You stop momentarily to plant a kiss on his balls, before running back up his length. When you look back up Cas is watching you intensely, brow furrowed, lids heavy, lips between his teeth. You smile before wrapping your mouth around his cock. Pausing only slightly when you feel Cas cup the back of your head. 

You inch yourself down his length slowly, getting a feel for him, his thickness, and how much you can take at once. When you feel his tip hit the back of your throat, you pull back, before bobbing back down. The sound of Castiel’s’ hitched breathing drives you until you’re relaxed enough to take him completely. His thickness stretches your throat, making your eyes water, his pubic hair tickles your nose, and the look of bliss on his face makes your pussy drip. 

After a few seconds, you come back up for air, but the relief in your lungs only lasts a second before you feel Cas’ fists tighten against your scalp. 

“You look even better with my cock in your mouth.” He grunts as he pushes you back down. “You feel so good.”

Unable to respond, you hum your affirmation, drool escaping the corners of your mouth. Cas moans his approval, eyes and head lolling back for a moment before he plants his other hand firmly on the back of your head, holding you in place as he shifts to the edge of the couch and begins bucking his hips into your mouth. 

You plant your hands around his calves to steady yourself, and keep them out of the way as he continues to use your mouth. His thrusts grow heavier, his moans raspier, as you fight your need for air. Your cunt growing hotter, wetter every second, while your throat closes, and your head grows dizzy from the lack of air.

When he finally lets you go, your lungs are burning. You lean back, unable to control the wild rise and fall of your chest as you pant for air. Your lips feel sore, swollen, but your pussy aches. 

“I’m sorry.” Cas reaches over to cradle your face, tentatively brushing the tears from your eyes. “Was that too much?” 

“No! No not at all.” You whisper between breaths. You reach out for his hand, and he takes it. His head tilts to one side as he looks down at you sceptically. You smile back as you guide him between your legs. You brush his fingers against your panties, encouraging him to feel the wetness soaking through the fabric.

“I did that? I made you this wet?” He asks. When you nod his mouth cracks into a smile.

Within seconds he drops to his knees before you, pulling you in for another hot, open-mouthed kiss. Your tongues meet in another fierce, uncontrolled kiss. You cry out into his mouth when you feel his fingers press firmly against your clit, rubbing you through the thin fabric of your underwear.

Without warning Cas clutches onto your panties and pulls until the elastic snaps. He releases the offending article and quickly returns to your wetness. He strokes your clit repeatedly, swallowing your moans, holding you to his chest to prevent you from involuntarily withering away.

You break your lips away from his just long enough to plead; “Fuck me Cas, please fuck me with your fingers.”

He doesn’t hesitate to do as asked, immediately delving two fingers into your pussy. Once situated inside, he massages them against your walls, feeling you out and making you sputter. You grip his shoulders for support, digging your nails into his skin as he starts to thrust in and out of you.

“Like this?” He questions, you’re not sure if he’s being coy, if he’s teasing. Or if he truly is curious. Either way, you’re too gone to really answer. You open your mouth but all that comes out are a series of strangled whimpers. The feel of his thumb returning to your clit, gently brushing just the right spot, pushes you to breaking point. 

“I’m- I – ahhh.” You cry, trying to warn him. When you jerk your head back there is resistance. Cas releases his hold on your back, to grips your head forward. You peek up at him through half-lidded eyes, Cas stares, his blue eyes bare down on you, unblinking. If you weren’t already cumming, that would have been enough. 

You lean into Castiel’s body as you come back down, limp, and incoherent. A low hum escapes you as Cas languidly removes his fingers from inside you and brings them to his lips. You watch lazily as he gives them a tentative sniff before placing them in his mouth. His face seems to melt, and he closes his eyes, visibly savouring the taste. 

When he’s done, he grins at you and ponders aloud; “I’m not sure which is better.”

Still unable to string two words together you watch him, waiting for him to continue.

“The way you look when you reach orgasm, or the way you taste.” 

Instantly your cheeks begin to burn, and heat pools between your legs again. Without a second thought you reach down, grabbing your cami by the hem and lifting it over your head, your entire body now exposed to Castiel. 

He’s on you again in an instant. His mouth latches to one of your nipples, rapidly but lightly his tongue darts over the sensitive nip. Both hands come up to cup each breast. His fingers pinch and roll at your other exposed nipple. When you feel his teeth grazing the sensitive skin you flinch, fisting your hands into his hair. 

“Cas, please!” You gasp.

“Please what?” He responds, speech distorted by his refusal to remove his mouth from your body. 

“Please take me to bed.” You whine, needlessly pulling at his hair to garner his attention. “Please Castiel, take me to bed-”

You’re interrupted by the jolt of your body being lifted. Cas continues his oral assault, kissing, sucking, nipping at your neck as he carries you back to your bed. He sits himself on the edge of your bed and positions you to straddle him once again. You pull his attention back from your neck, sinking your lips onto his as you guide him down, until he’s lying face up.

You lean back and he sucks in a breath as you wrap your hand around the base of his cock. You line him up at your entrance and he begins gradually rocking into you. You steadily sink down, the feel of his cock stretching you out making you shudder. Cas’s head rolls back, he bites his lip and grips your hips, barely fighting not to slam you down onto him.

When his cock is fully inside, you pull back up until only the tip remains inside before you drop back onto him.

With a loud moan, Cas engulfs your body with his own and flips you over. He holds you beneath him with the weight of his own body as he gives a few shallow, testing thrusts. Satisfied he begins building pace and force, until the sound of skin slapping against skin can be heard between ragged breaths and moans. You raise your lower body, trying to match his rhythm but his hands lock onto your hips and push them down, pinning you to the bed.

His lips are tight between his teeth, his brow furrowed, and his skin glows with a sheen of sweat. You can’t help but paw at his shoulders, bringing him down so you can plant kisses on his face and neck.

“Cas, fuck. Castiel that feels so good.” You praise.

In response, he catches your lips in a desperate kiss, all tongues and teeth and jumbled sounds that may once have been words. Your toes begin to curl, as your climax grows near. You lock your fingers in Castiel's hair, pulling his face away as you arch your back. Your eyes close tight as you chant his name.

“I love it when you moan my name.” He murmurs in your ear. He releases your hips, and grips your face, forcing it back up. Your eyes peek open as growls his next words. “Look at me, and don’t stop saying my name.”

At that, the tension in your cunt snaps. Your body jerks and your walls clench around him as you hit your climax. Castiel rides you through it, his strides slowing, but he continues fucking into you at a steady pace until he’s seemingly overcome by his own orgasm. His movements becoming laboured and erratic, he pants your name through gritted teeth as he spills his cum inside you.

You remain wrapped up in your position as you come down from your highs, the warmth of his breath tickles your neck, and your chests collide as you fight to catch your breath. Your mind races, trying to find the right thing to say next, not wanting to spoil your post-orgasm bliss. Eventually, you nudge his shoulder, and he moved away, allowing you to sit up. His cum seeps out of you as you do. Before you can make a move to clean it up Cas attains the tissues from your dresser and begins delicately wiping you down.

“Thank you.” You smile at him as he finishes and begins to clean himself up.

“I… ah.” He smiles back at you, still flushed from your activities. “I feel I should be the one thanking you.”

You laugh at the absurdity of his statement, especially after the performance he’d just given. Cas soon reciprocates your laughter. You stretch your arms out, inviting him back in for an embrace and he eagerly obliges, wrapping his arms around you and falling back against your mattress.

“Will you sleep in here, with me tonight?” Your eyes catch the clock on your bedside, and you note that it is almost sunrise. “Or, for the rest of the morning?”

He kisses your forehead and pulls you in close. “I would enjoy that very much.”

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

LOVE IS COMPLICATED - PART VII

summary: the trials and tribulations of falling in love or two idiots who can't get their shit together.

pairing: pedro pascal x actress/singer!reader.

word count: 6.8k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). angst!!! cursing, age gap, mentions of alcohol and covid. feelings of hopelessness, anxiety. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!

a/n: hello again, here's the next part!! also here are a few songs i listened to while writing this one: salt in the wound - boygenius, flume - bon iver, the gold - phoebe bridgers, for emma - bon iver, forever winter - taylor swift and calgary - bon iver.

happy reading <3

masterlist!

January 19, 2020

Los Angeles, CA

There have always been two versions of you: the person you once were and the person the world has decided you are. The first is the one who existed long before the spotlight, the one with a bit of adolescent angst, dreams bigger than herself, and a heart still learning to shield itself.

This version was taught by her parents that she was special, but the world hadn’t yet caught on. She was the girl who felt small and out of place, who wrestled with who she was and where she belonged.

And then there’s the second version, the one who stands in the center of magazine covers, on the glossy side of fame. She is everything you once dreamed of becoming—and more. You’ve spent the last decade perfecting her image, carving her out of raw ambition and countless hours under the hot glare of cameras. Her Wikipedia page reads like an epic: awards, accolades, achievements—flawless. She’s a masterpiece.

This side of you is never tired. She never shows frustration. She knows how to angle her face when the camera flashes, to smile when the questions sting, and to cry beautifully when accepting awards. She can gracefully discuss the sexism she’s faced in the industry, yet she knows better than to name names or point fingers.

She always sticks to the narrative.

For the longest time, you hoped you wouldn’t need to split into two people. That the version of yourself from years ago would be good enough for the world. But the divide wasn’t gradual—it was sudden. It happened four years ago, the day your ex decided to make you the centerpiece of a bitter, ugly breakup that splashed across every tabloid in the country. Since then, you’ve been caught between these two identities, juggling the woman you once were with the image the world expects of you.

As you sit in the back seat of the car, your eyes linger on your reflection in the tinted window. Tonight is the SAG Awards, another high-profile event where your public persona will take the lead. You watch yourself in the mirror, a familiar stranger, and wonder: Does anyone truly know you? Do you even know yourself anymore?

“There's a line of press when you get out of the car,” Taylor, your manager, says without looking up from her phone. “You know, the usual stuff.”

“Got it.”

You nod, trying to focus on the task ahead, but your thoughts are far away. You look out the window, the city lights blurring into a kaleidoscope of color. No matter how many of these events you attend, it never gets easier.

The car slows to a stop, the muffled sounds of the crowd growing louder through the windows.

“Why isn’t Daniel here?” Taylor asks, breaking the silence.

“He had to fly back to Enstone,” you reply, a pang of disappointment in your chest. “The season starts soon. He’s prepping.”

Last year was a challenging one for Daniel—his racing season wasn’t what he hoped for, and he’s determined to make up for it this time around. His commitment to his craft mirrors yours in so many ways, but tonight, you wish he was here with you.

“Oh, that’s too bad, babe,” Taylor says, her hand resting on your knee in a gesture of sympathy. “When will he be back?”

“I’m not sure; he didn't say,” you murmur. “Hopefully soon.”

The door opens, and the roar of the crowd hits you like a wave. Flashing cameras, the shouting of photographers, and the glittering red carpet stretch out before you. “Looks like we’re here,” Taylor says, stepping out and extending a hand to help you.

You take a deep breath, steadying your nerves. It’s always easier with someone by your side, but tonight you’ll have to do this alone. You follow Taylor’s lead, plastering a smile on your face as you step out into the chaos. The cameras flash, posing and waving, but inside, you feel detached—like you’re watching yourself from afar.

After what feels like an eternity, you finally make it inside the venue, your body relaxing slightly as the noise of the red carpet fades behind you. You’re greeted by familiar faces and smiles, but the exhaustion from keeping up appearances lingers.

“I thought I was going to be the coolest person here, but clearly, you've beat me to it.”

The voice pulls you from your thoughts, deep and teasing. You turn and find Pedro standing there, dressed in a sleek silver suit jacket with black pants, his expression warm and playful.

His presence doesn't faze you; you've been filming for the Mandalorian since November last year, seeing each other here and there, not really spending time together between takes, and not acknowledging what happened at the wedding. You didn't hear from him since production stopped mid-December, only to get back on set early January. Although with everything else he's doing, you barely see him there anyway.

“You look amazing,” he says, his eyes lingering on you.

You glance down at your outfit—a sharp, stylish suit you picked for the night. It fits perfectly, giving you an air of confidence even though, inside, you feel anything but. “Thanks,” you say. “You don’t look so bad yourself, Pascal.” You gesture to his getup, offering a kind smile.

Pedro smirks, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I came over to congratulate you.”

"Yeah?"

“The Achievement Award. That's huge.”

You laugh softly, a little self-conscious. “That sounds like an overstatement for someone who’s only 28.”

He studies you for a moment, his gaze piercing. Pedro has always been able to see through you in ways that others can’t. You can hide from the world, but not from him.

“Don’t do that,” he says quietly, his voice firm.

“Do what?” you ask, but he cuts you off before you can finish.

“Don’t invalidate your accomplishments. You deserve this.”

There’s something in the way he says it—a weight to his words that makes you pause. Part of you wants to argue, to downplay everything like you always do, but his sincerity stops you.

Instead, you nod, offering a small smile.

“Thank you, Pedro,” you say softly. “That means a lot.”

Does it?

He sees right through and holds out his arm, a silent invitation. “Wanna walk in with me?”

For a moment, you hesitate. There’s an unspoken tension between the two of you, a history that neither of you has fully acknowledged. But as your eyes meet, the air shifts. You loop your arm through his, holding onto his bicep as the two of you make your way into the theater together. A camera flash goes off, and you smile. But this time, with Pedro by your side, it feels a little less lonely.

•••

You were sitting at a table when a fellow actor and friend started talking about you on stage. It was surreal, like time had slowed down, and you found yourself lost in thought. You’d been to countless awards shows and accepted more than your share of accolades, but this one felt different. A recognition of not just a role or a single performance, but a lifetime of work—or at least, a decade of it. And you were still young. Too young, part of you thought, for this kind of tribute. Yet here you were, about to be honored in front of your peers, the people who had seen your highs and lows.

The screen flickered to life, and a montage of your work began to play. Scenes from movies that had shaped your career, close-ups of moments that had shaped you. A smile here, a tear there, moments of triumph and vulnerability.

It was oddly like watching your life flash before your eyes—a strange out-of-body experience, as if you were looking back at someone else's journey. The montage moved through the years, capturing not just the characters you played but the changes in you—subtle at first, then more pronounced. The younger you, still full of raw hope and untamed energy, compared to the more seasoned version, who had learned how to navigate the treacherous terrain of fame. It felt like a snapshot of your life in fast-forward, as if you were witnessing your own eulogy.

You breathed in deeply, trying to stay present. It wasn’t the end, you reminded yourself.

The applause was thunderous as the montage ended, and it wasn’t until your name was called that reality snapped back into focus.

You stepped out into the blinding lights, the weight of the moment settling in as you approached the podium. The sea of faces before you blurred slightly in the brightness, but you could make out familiar ones. Peers you respected, younger actors looking up at you with wide eyes, veterans who had paved the way before you. And somewhere out there, you knew Pedro was watching.

With trembling hands, you held the award, the metal cool against your palm. You took a breath, steadying yourself before speaking.

“This is... overwhelming,” you began, chuckling, your voice breaking slightly from the emotion of it all. “I don’t even know where to start. Thank you to everyone who believed in me and to the people who supported me through the ups and downs. This means more than I can put into words.”

You paused, scanning the room, catching sight of Pedro for just a second, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that grounded you.

“When I started this journey, I was just a kid with big dreams and very little understanding of how hard this industry could be,” you continued, feeling the words flow more easily now. “But I learned early on that dreams don’t work unless you do. It’s not just about talent—it’s about determination, grit, and pushing through even when everything seems impossible.”

Your eyes drifted toward the younger faces in the audience. “To the younger actors out there, keep going. I know it can feel like the world is telling you no at every turn, like you’re not good enough or that you’ll never make it, but don’t stop dreaming. Don’t stop working. This industry can be brutal, but it can also be beautiful. Find the beauty. Hold onto it. Work for it.”

A wave of applause broke out, but you weren’t finished yet. You felt a pull, a need to say more, something from the heart. Something real.

“And through all of it,” you said, your voice softer now, “keep the people who truly love you close. In this business, it’s easy to get lost in the noise, in the hundreds of things that try to tear you down or make you feel like you’re not enough. But the people who love you for who you are, not what you can give them, are the ones who will keep you grounded. I’ve met some of my forever people in this industry, and for that, I’m grateful. Despite all the bad and all the heartache that comes with this life, it’s those relationships that make it worthwhile.”

Your gaze wandered again, unconsciously searching the crowd for Pedro, and when your eyes met his, something inside you softened. He knew what you were talking about. He knew the weight of those words better than anyone.

“I’m grateful,” you continued, your voice a little more vulnerable now, “because I’ve been able to hold on to those people. Even when things get complicated even when it feels like the world is pushing us apart. You have to fight for those connections. They’re what make this crazy, beautiful life worth living.”

You felt a lump in your throat but pushed through it, finishing with, “So thank you. To the people in my life who have stuck with me through the good and the bad. This is as much yours as it is mine.”

March 5th, 2020

Calgary, Canada

Life after the awards ceremony didn’t feel much different than before. It was still the same relentless rhythm—work, events, travel, more work. The brief moments of peace in between became rare and fleeting, like whispers in the storm of your career. Daniel’s season was supposed to start soon, and though you’d seen him twice after he flew to France for preparations, something between you felt... off. His distance was palpable, but you hadn’t allowed yourself to dwell on it too much. It was easier to stay busy, keep moving, and brush it off as a phase. After all, the both of you were pulled in so many directions—when was the last time anything felt normal?

A quiet dinner in your NYC apartment, one of the few times Daniel managed to swing by in between training sessions. The table was set with takeout boxes instead of a home-cooked meal—neither of you had the energy for anything more.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said softly, watching him as he absentmindedly poked at his food with a fork. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I miss this,” you added.

“Yeah, me too,” Daniel said, but the words were like dust on the air—insubstantial, weightless.

“Is everything okay? You’ve been quiet," you trailed off, unsure of how to breach the distance you felt growing between you.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, just a lot on my mind with the season coming up. It’s…you know, a lot of pressure.”

You reached across the table and placed your hand on his. “You’re going to be great. You always are.”

He gave you that familiar smile, but it still felt like something was slipping through your fingers.

•••

By March, you had flown to Calgary to shoot a horror-adjacent film. The setting—a desolate cabin in the snow, miles from anywhere—was perfect for the kind of chilling atmosphere the director was aiming for. You’d always loved working with indie directors; their stories had depth, innovation, and a sense of grounded reality that the big-budget productions sometimes lacked. It was a reminder of why you fell in love with acting in the first place.

On set, things moved fast. Between takes, you found a quiet corner of the cabin and pulled out your phone to FaceTime with Taylor. She was mid-ranting when she answered.

“There’s a potential shutdown happening, babe. Something about a virus…COVID, or whatever they’re calling it. Have you heard anything about it?”

You’d heard whispers from the crew, but nothing had been confirmed. “I’ve heard some talk around set, but no one knows what’s happening yet.”

“Well, I’m telling you now, it’s serious. This might be the last project you get to work on for a while. Everything else is likely to be delayed. Keep your eyes open.”

You sighed, looking around as the crew moved around with their usual buzz of energy.

“Guess I’ll enjoy this last bit of freedom while I can.”

Taylor chuckled. “Yeah, enjoy it while you’re in the middle of nowhere. Call me if you hear anything else.”

You ended the call and pocketed your phone, the unease settling into your chest. Everyone around the set seemed unfazed, but the air had undoubtedly changed.

By the final days of production, the world was different. Everyone wore face masks, and hand sanitizer became the reigning deity on set.

•••

Reality hit hard. Flights were cancelled. No one could leave. You were stuck in the cabin, snow piling up outside like a barricade against the world, while the virus barricaded you from returning home. You made a grocery run the minute things got a little hectic, filling the place with more supplies than you’d ever seen yourself buy—just in case. The panic in the air was contagious, and chaos reigned for those first two weeks.

You FaceTimed your mom as you unpacked. “I’m stuck in Canada,” you said, laughing softly despite the anxiety that gnawed at your insides.

“Are you serious?” her voice was a mix of worry and exasperation. “You should’ve been back by now. What about New York?”

“I don’t know when I’ll be able to get back. Airports are closed.”

She sighed heavily, the sound crackling through the phone. “Just take care of yourself, honey, alright? Don’t be reckless. Are you alone?”

“Yeah, but I’ll be fine."

Her voice softened. “Be careful, okay?”

“I will, Mom. I promise.”

•••

It was a particularly dark, cold afternoon. The kind where the sky hung low with thick clouds and the cold crept in through the cracks of the cabin no matter how many layers you wore. You had wrapped yourself in a blanket, the silence of isolation pressing down heavier than usual when your phone buzzed on the table.

Daniel’s name appeared on the screen.

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the answer button, but you couldn’t ignore him. Not yet. So you swiped to answer and brought the phone to your ear, forcing a soft, casual, “Hey.”

His voice on the other end was calm, but there was an undercurrent to it—a kind of distance that had been growing for months. "Hey," he replied, his Aussie accent tinged with something heavy. "How’s it going over there?"

You shrugged, even though he couldn’t see it. “You know… same. Snowed in. A lot of waiting.” There was an awkward pause. You filled it with a half-hearted laugh. “How about you? Everything alright?”

He cleared his throat, and you could feel the shift before he even said it. “Actually… I don’t think we should keep this up.”

The words hit you like the cold outside, seeping into your bones, but not with shock—just a kind of muted inevitability. There it is, you thought, the final crack in what was already falling apart.

Your brain hummed with white noise after that. You don’t remember what you said in response, something vague like, “Yeah, I get it.” The words came out on autopilot, and you weren’t really listening anymore. It wasn’t traumatic; it wasn’t the kind of breakup that destroyed you. It was like slowly waking from a dream and realizing it had already ended before you even opened your eyes.

His voice was kind, soft—too soft. “You’re so great, you know that, right? This just… it wasn’t working anymore. For either of us.”

You nodded, though he couldn’t see it. Your mind was elsewhere—on the conversations with Pedro, on the way your heart leaped when you heard his voice instead of Daniel’s. You had known, deep down, for a while now where your heart really was.

“I guess we knew this was coming,” you finally managed, voice steady, as if you were discussing something as simple as the weather.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “But still… I didn’t want it to hurt.”

The niceties and the polite words that followed hurt more than any fight ever could have. It was the kindness of it that made it sting—the acknowledgment that neither of you had it in you to fight for something that had already drifted away. There was no anger, no raised voices, no accusations.

Just two people who had loved each other briefly, now saying goodbye like they were parting ways at an airport terminal.

“Well, take care of yourself, alright?” Daniel said softly.

“You too,” you whispered, already feeling the weight of finality.

And then it was over. The phone went silent in your hand, and you stared at the screen as if it could offer you some kind of closure that you weren’t sure you needed.

•••

The days began to bleed into one another. You were alone in that cabin—snowed in and quarantined from the world. The only connection you had was through your phone, through calls with Sarah and Oscar, who checked in on you daily.

Most days, you found ways to pass the time. You read, you cooked—burned some things, too—and found yourself sitting by the old piano that had come with the cabin. Your fingers brushed against the keys, unsure at first, after so much time spent focusing on acting. But the music came swiftly, like muscle memory. The songs poured out of you, stories in lyrical form, shaped by the silence and solitude around you.

But some nights, the quiet was too loud.

The breakup with Daniel lingered in the back of your mind like a dull ache. You had been okay with it for the most part; you knew it was coming, and neither of you were in it anymore. But there were nights, like tonight, when the weight of it crashed down and the loneliness felt too heavy to carry. You lay in bed, tears wetting the pillow, thinking about how everything had ended in polite goodbyes when maybe you needed the screaming.

•••

One day, in the middle of baking—flour dusting your hands and a bowl of half-mixed batter sitting on the counter—you received a text: “I hope you’re doing okay.”

You stared at it, your heart skipping a beat. You had thought about him every single day and wondered how he was coping and whether he was safe. Anytime Sarah called, you asked about him, telling yourself that it was enough to know from a distance. But now, with that simple text, you caved.

“I’m okay. Are you?”

His reply came almost immediately. “Not really. Mostly lonely.”

Your heart broke for him. You knew how hard it was for him to be alone. He thrived off people, off energy. And now, the world had gone still.

“Wanna talk?” you typed, holding your breath.

“Would love to hear your voice,” came the reply.

So you called him, and the hours melted away as you both talked about everything—about the virus, about work, about how isolating it all was. He asked, finally, “How’s Daniel?”

You hesitated. “We’re no longer together. Haven’t been for a while.”

There was a pause, then a soft, “Oh, I’m sorry.”

You quickly changed the subject, but it lingered between you, the unspoken acknowledgment of what that meant. After that, you spoke almost every day. The isolation became less suffocating, and with each call, you both felt a little less alone.

•••

On Pedro’s birthday, you baked a cupcake in his honor, lighting a single candle before FaceTiming him. When he picked up, he laughed, “You made me a cupcake?”

“Of course I did,” you said with a grin, holding up the tiny treat. “Now, pretend to blow out the candle.”

He played along, puffing his cheeks and making a ridiculous show of it. “Thank you for this. It’s not much of a birthday without people.”

“Well, you’ve got me,” you said, singing an off-key version of Happy Birthday. His laughter filled the space between you.

Later that night, he posted a screenshot of your call on his Instagram story, and the internet lost its mind. Comments flooded in—"Omg, she baked him a cupcake!"—“My favorite best friends!”—and you laughed at the attention it brought.

•••

One evening, as you sat at the piano again, your phone propped up with Pedro on FaceTime, he listened quietly as you played a new melody. “I think the lyrics need work,” you said, biting your lip.

He smirked. “Let me hear them.”

You hummed the first few lines, fumbling over the phrasing. “See, it doesn’t quite flow.”

“Let’s try this,” Pedro suggested, offering a line.

By the end of the night, the song felt whole, and you felt lighter.

The days passed—isolated and cold—but your connection with Pedro was alive and warm again. And as the weeks stretched on, you couldn’t help but wonder: How long until you fucked this up again?

October 5, 2020

Budapest, Hungary

Pedro had always known loneliness. It was a quiet, persistent companion, but in Budapest, it had taken on a new form. The city was beautiful, its streets old and layered with history, but none of it could distract him from the hollow ache in his chest. The early mornings on set, the long hours of filming—the work was steady. But outside of that, the hours stretched endlessly.

He had been filming in Europe for months, and though he loved his job, the thrill of creating something special—the distance—both physical and emotional—was wearing him thin. He had been keeping in touch with you, his constant thread of connection. The texts, the occasional FaceTime calls, were easy and comforting. But he could never shake the weight of what he hadn’t told you. What you didn't allow him to say. It felt like a brick in his stomach.

You lived strangely in his head.

He still hadn’t found the courage to say the words. I love you. They haunted him—a truth he couldn’t bring himself to speak. Every time he thought he was ready, he backtracked, swallowing the confession whole. His cowardice infuriated him. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d been in love with you for years, the feelings growing stronger and deeper, but now… now you were thousands of miles away, and he was stuck in this self-made purgatory.

His thoughts often drifted to his mother lately. She had always known how to comfort him, her voice soothing, her advice simple but profound. What would she have said about you? About his inability to speak the truth? He could hear her in his head, telling him to stop being such a fool, to just go for it. But she wasn’t here anymore, and he felt lost without her, more than he ever let on.

The days on set were repetitive but engaging. The crew was tightknit, and the project was exciting. He threw himself into work, hoping it would distract him. He laughed with the cast, bantered with the director, but when the camera wasn’t rolling, his mind was elsewhere. It was with you.

•••

A few weeks later, after wrapping up in Budapest, he found himself in Switzerland alone again. He didn’t know why he’d come. The scenery was breathtaking, the mountains vast and quiet, but the isolation magnified the emptiness he felt. It was as if everything had come to a standstill.

The stillness weighed on him. The quiet, once a solace, now felt oppressive. He spent his days wandering the small towns, drinking coffee in hidden cafés, trying to convince himself that the solitude was a gift. But he felt shattered, more broken than before.

One night, the loneliness became too much, and he called you. Desperation tightened his throat as he waited for you to pick up, his mind screaming at him to just tell you. The phone rang, and when you answered, your voice was soft, familiar, and full of comfort.

"Pedro," you said, and it was enough to stop him in his tracks.

His breath caught, and the confession lodged itself in his throat again. He had been ready, so ready, but hearing you—he thought better of it. What could he say that wouldn’t ruin everything?

"Hey," he replied, his voice rougher than intended. "Just wanted to hear your voice."

You chuckled softly on the other end. "You good?"

"Yeah, I’m good," he lied, the words heavy on his tongue. "Just…miss talking to you, that’s all."

"I miss you too," you said, and it broke him a little more. The call went on, but he had already retreated into himself, too afraid to say what needed to be said. He listened to you talk about your day, your laugh filling the silence on his end, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was failing—failing himself, failing you.

•••

The next day, he went for a walk. The air was cold, biting, but it didn’t bother him. He needed to clear his head. He walked along the cobbled streets, past quaint houses with shuttered windows, and let the weight of his feelings wash over him. It was overwhelming. His history with you, all the unsaid things, all the moments when he should have acted and didn’t. It crashed over him like a wave, leaving him breathless.

He found a bench and sat, his head in his hands. One day, he thought. One day, I’ll tell her.

December 31st, 2020

New York, NY 

The phone call from Oscar came two weeks before New Year's Eve. His voice was warm, as it always was, but there was an unmistakable edge of hope in it, the kind that crept in after months of isolation.

“It’s just something small,” he had said. You could hear his smile through the phone, that charming grin he always wore. “Not a lot of people, you know. Just family and close friends. After the last few months we've had… I think we need this.”

You hadn’t seen Oscar in person in what felt like forever, and the idea of being with people—Oscar’s people, your people—sounded like a balm to the soul. You agreed before he could finish the invitation, the excitement bubbling up despite the world still not feeling quite right.

You got tested later that week, making sure you were safe to attend the gathering.

When you arrived at Oscar’s apartment, the city had an eerie quiet to it. New York was never still, even during the pandemic, but tonight it felt subdued, like it was holding its breath for something more. You headed for the entrance, and the soft sound of music spilled out the moment the doors opened.

Oscar met you with his arms wide open, pulling you into a tight hug. “Look who finally made it,” he teased, his face lighting up in that familiar way. “You look good.”

“You too,” you said, stepping back and taking in the warmth of the room. It was intimate—just the right amount of people to make you feel at home, but not so many that it felt overwhelming.

Before you could take another step, Sarah swooped in, stealing you from Oscar’s embrace with an exaggerated squeal. She enveloped you in a hug so tight you could barely breathe.

“I missed you so much!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with delight. You hadn’t seen her in ages, and the reunion felt like a weight lifting off your chest. The two of you spent the next few minutes catching up, your laughter blending in with the soft chatter around the room.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him. He had arrived a little late, typical of him, but the sight of him sent your heart into a dizzying spin. It had been almost a year since you last saw each other in person.

He moved through the room, and when he finally made his way toward you, your breath hitched. He wore a simple black t-shirt, the fabric clinging to his toned chest. His hair was longer, fluffy from the months of lockdown, and his big brown eyes—usually so full of light —looked tired.

But when he saw you, the weariness seemed to lift for a moment.

He said your name softly, stepping close. His arms opened, and you fell into them without hesitation, wrapping yourself around him in a way that felt too familiar, too safe. He held you tight, his grip lingering longer than necessary, like he was afraid to let go.

“Hey,” you breathed against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him—pleasant, familiar, grounding. The world seemed to fall away for a moment, leaving just the two of you. You pulled back slightly, looking into his face, wanting to say something—anything. You couldn’t live without thinking about him. He consumed your every thought, and somewhere along the way, you had come to terms with how you felt about him.

But the words stuck in your throat.

“At last, we see each other,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, his hand still on your back.

“At last,” you repeated, your heart pounding against your ribs.

You both opened your mouths to speak, then laughed in unison.

"You first," Pedro said, his eyes twinkling with amusement, though there was something deeper there—something lingering just beneath the surface.

But before you could say anything more, Sarah reappeared, her arm hooking through yours as she dragged you away. “Sorry! I need to steal her for a sec,” she said with a laugh, oblivious to the quiet intensity of the moment she’d interrupted.

Pedro smiled at her, though his eyes flicked back to you. "What I wanted to say can wait," he said softly, his voice carrying a promise that sent a jolt through you.

You promised yourself you’d find him later.

•••

In the kitchen, you and Sarah were rummaging through cabinets for more drinks when you heard Oscar’s booming laugh. Turning, you spotted him and Pedro, who now had a ridiculous pointy birthday hat perched on his head. You burst into laughter at the sight, unable to resist.

“Cute hat,” you said, pulling your phone from your back pocket. “Let’s document this moment.”

He grinned, grabbing Oscar by the shoulder and pulling him in for the picture. Pedro tilted his head, drinking from his beer, and Oscar looked up at him with a puzzled expression as you snapped a photo.

“Perfect. That’s going on Instagram for sure,” you teased, and Pedro groaned.

Before anyone could respond, Oscar’s wife walked by, eyeing the hat on Pedro’s head with mock suspicion. Pedro took his cue, unlocking from Oscar and jokingly attacking her with the pointy hat, poking her side with the plastic tip. You snapped another picture, laughing as she swatted him away.

“Send that to me,” she called over her shoulder, and you nodded, tucking your phone back into your pocket just as Sarah handed you a drink.

•••

The night continued, the energy in the room bubbling up as the countdown to midnight approached. Karaoke had started in one of the rooms, and you couldn’t resist.

Pedro avoided it at all costs, standing in the doorway with a bemused expression. After your rendition of Losing My Religion, he caught your eye.

“That was something, huh?” he said, a smirk playing on his lips.

“I was extra terrible just for you,” you shot back, walking over to him. “I know how much you hate this.”

“You’re so thoughtful,” he said.

Just as you were about to respond, a woman’s voice broke through the moment. “Oscar said you were in here,” she said, stepping forward. “Hi.”

You turned to see her approach Pedro, and before you could fully register what was happening, she leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips. A casual, intimate gesture that sent a shock of realization through your entire body.

You blink, dumbfounded, as Pedro shifted slightly to make introductions. “This is Julia,” he said, his voice a little too calm for the turmoil suddenly spinning inside you.

Your mind raced, trying to place her. And then it hit you—she was in the group photos he posted from the crew of the movie he was filming in Budapest. One of the producers, you think.

Oh.

Julia greeted you happily, oblivious to the terrible ache now pooling in your chest. You felt your throat tighten, the words you had wanted to say earlier were now swallowed by this unfamiliar wave of jealousy and disappointment. You went mute, unable to find words that wouldn’t betray how much this hurt.

Pedro’s voice broke the silence again, almost too nonchalant. “This is what I wanted to talk about earlier.”

Your stomach twisted. “Oh, great,” you managed to say, forcing a smile that you didn’t feel.

“And you?” Pedro asked, clearly trying to keep things light. “You said you wanted to talk, too.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, and your mind screamed for you to say something—anything—but all you could muster was, “No, um, it was nothing, really.”

Something stung deep inside you. It was a dull ache, gnawing away at your resolve. You needed a way out. Fast.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” you said to her, your voice tight. “If you’ll excuse me…”

And before either of them could say anything more, you slipped away, making a beeline for the kitchen where Oscar stood.

“Hey,” you blurted, pulling him aside. “He’s fucking dating someone? And you didn’t say a thing?”

Oscar looked at you, taken aback. “I—it wasn’t my news to share.”

You pressed your fingers to your forehead, trying to swallow the embarrassment. “I know. I know, I’m sorry. I just… I can't believe I was about to confess my love for him and make a fool of myself. Again.”

Oscar stared at you, his eyebrows raised. “You were what?”

You laughed, though it was tinged with bitterness. “Yeah. But now? I mean, clearly, it’s just another sign. The timing’s never right. Never.”

Was it punishment? you thought.

Oscar opened his mouth, then closed it, clearly uncertain of what to say. Instead, he walked over to the counter and grabbed another drink. “Here,” he said quietly, offering it to you.

You took it, staring at the liquid swirling in the glass.

"It’s fairly new, you know," Oscar said softly, his voice tinged with hesitation. "Like two weeks or something. It’s not serious yet."

“I just don’t get it,” you muttered, almost to yourself. “I don’t.”

Oscar sighed, his hand finding your back, a comforting weight that helped ground you. “I know. I know.”

You knew there was else nothing you could do right now, so you poured the drink down your throat, feeling the burn as it went down.

•••

“There you are,” Pedro called softly, his voice muffled by the cold air as he stepped through the glass doors onto the backyard patio. The wind hit him immediately, sharp and biting, but the bitter cold felt fitting, almost poetic.

You stood there, your back to him, a silhouette against the frozen horizon. For a moment, he was transported back to the first time he saw you in this very spot, under a much different sky. That night, the air had been warm, filled with the kind of anticipation that crackled with every glance exchanged. You had stood just like this, dressed similarly too, arms crossed against the world, hair cascading down your back like a curtain he desperately wanted to pull aside.

But tonight was different. Tonight, your shoulders were tense, hunched against more than just the cold. When you turned around, your face wasn’t full of curiosity. It was distant, your eyes heavy with an emotion he couldn’t quite name, but that he knew he was responsible for.

"You bolted out of there," Pedro said, his voice strained as he tried to sound casual, but the worry leaked through.

You gave a soft, bitter hum, a sound he couldn’t decipher but felt in his bones. "I was a bit shocked, honestly."

He swallowed, suddenly nervous, fumbling with the words he had rehearsed in his mind so many times but never managed to say. "I know. I wanted to tell you about her, I just... I don’t know. It’s new. I didn’t think it was important enough yet. I thought I’d find the right moment, but it never felt... appropriate. And I didn’t want to make things weird, you know?"

Pedro kept talking, words spilling out as he tried to explain. He mentioned her name—Julia—said they had met on set, that it wasn’t serious yet, that it had barely even begun. His voice grew quieter, more unsure with every sentence, as if he was trying to convince himself as much as you.

See, Pedro hadn't planned on getting into a relationship, not when his every thought was consumed by you, not when he knew he loved you, and yet here he was. He didn't know what he was doing anymore.

But your expression had already changed. He could see the way your face shut down, the way your gaze hardened, and it twisted something deep inside him.

“Don’t apologize to me about your relationship,” you said, the words sharp and cutting. “That’s the kind of thing that makes me feel like I’m some kind of Machiavellian villain.”

Pedro winced, his breath catching in his throat. He hated this. But before he could say anything, you spoke again, your voice lower, more controlled.

"Our time never seems to align, does it? It never has, and it never will. It's funny, even.” You paused, looking away, your voice a strained whisper.

Pedro wanted to scream. He wanted to tell you that he felt trapped between his own heart and the razor-sharp edge of what was right, what was fair. The guilt and longing were choking him, twisting his insides until all he could feel was the jagged ache of wanting something that was always just out of reach.

You took a deep breath, the cold air clouding in front of you like smoke.

"Are you happy?" you asked, your voice barely audible. A mirror of his very own "Do you love him?" from last year.

Pedro looked at you, his heart hammering in his chest. “I’m trying,” he said quietly, the truth in the words landing hard.

You nodded, your lips pressed together in a sad, resigned smile.

“Then that’s good enough for me.”

It was an unspoken agreement—a quiet acceptance that, once again, you were not meant to be. That your lives had written this story long before you’d ever had a say in it.

a/n: enough sadness, their time will come soon ;)

a like, reblog or comment, anything is very much appreciated <3

[mothhball]

II – VIRIDIS

viridis – marked by youthful vigor

JONATHAN CRANE X FEM!READER

summary Drinking your woes away was a temporary solution, and it ends up in tears. But even in the darkest night, there's the chance of a silver lining. Just be sure you're well-informed about your shiny spark of hope.

warnings NEEDLES, BLOOD SAMPLE, very mild medfet (a whisper for now), alcohol, reader gets drunk, some mildly foul language, unhappy relationship,

notes oooo longer chapter! and things are MOVING

! MINORS DNI !

story masterlist • main masterlist • taglist • kofi word count: 5.2k

The news themselves were already bad, but even worse was the pity from everyone you told about the rejection. Behind every sympathetic smile and half-hug was a hidden “I told you so” that no one said out loud, but was obvious enough.

Despite what people told you, apparently no one had believed that you could make it in the first place, and that realization caused a rage to burn and fester within your guts. A rage which found no outlet since that wretched Thursday that you since then blacked out with a fat sharpie from your calendar. Reading that letter felt like repeatedly getting hit over the head with a steel pipe, beating you into a pathetic, bloody pulp right where you were standing in your kitchen. Your boyfriend tried to rub your back, but you bristled and immediately turned away from him, scowling like it was him specifically who sent the rejection. His little pout disgusted you. But what made you actually nauseous was the relief in his eyes. Never once, in 3 years of this relationship, did you resent him like you did on that Thursday afternoon. Bitter, seething resentment which almost caused you to lash out at him like a riled-up dog.

But instead, you chose to take the high road. Or rather you fled, left the apartment and drove over to your best friend Mina’s to cry and shout into one of her lovely couch pillows. The smart, admirable choice would’ve been to write an email to Potomac. To timidly ask Dr. Rabin to turn a blind eye and allow you to send in a late application. But every time your fingers hovered over the keys of your old, ratty laptop, the embarrassment was too much, and you slammed it shut once more, leaving the unfinished request behind. But your boyfriend Tristan, in his seemingly endless quest of half-heartedly trying to manage your future, urged you to send the email. So, you did. At least that’s what you told him. A little white lie to let him keep his peace of mind. 

Your mood only got worse towards the weekend, prompting a few of your friends and your boyfriend to drag you off to do the responsible thing. Get drunk and shake off the tension during a night out. And now here you are, downing shots on a Saturday night in an attempt to forget your woes at least for a little while.

The club is packed and stuffy, and the lights flicker over a mass of people that seems to have grown into one hive mind of an entity, allowing you to feel swallowed and anonymous for just a few blissful hours. Every mouthful of alcohol that you swallow works in your favor to numb the anxiety gnawing at your bones while the bass gently licks at your feverish skin, causing your heart to vibrate in your ribcage. It’s easy to lose yourself in sips of colorful shots and cocktails. At least until a firm hand on your shoulder prevents you from placing another order. Turning your head, you’re met by Tristan’s disgruntled eyes, and before you can shake off his grip, he’s already pulling you away from the bar to a relatively quiet spot in another hallway of the club. Still, he has to raise his voice when he speaks to you, already laying the foundation for a screaming match.

“What are you doing??” he asks, giving you a once over that only serves to further sour his mood.

“What do you mean? I’m just having a couple of drinks,” you slur back at him, returning that nasty look he’s sending you. Tristan scoffs, shaking his head like you’re a lost cause, even though he’s not exactly sober either.

“You’re getting wasted. Are you still sulking over that rejection? Jesus…”

That actually makes your jaw drop, and you’re speechless for a few seconds, which your boyfriend takes as his cue to continue.

“Just let it go. Some things aren’t meant to be. It’s better this way”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” you hiss back at him, curling your fingers tightly into the fabric of the little dress you’re wearing.

“I… Listen, we both know Arkham isn’t… your style. You… you’re not that kind of person –“ Tristan sighs, somehow trying to make his statement seem less insulting and vague by waving his hands around in your face.

“The kind of person to what??”

“The kind of person who’d make it there! You would’ve quit after two weeks! Let’s be real for once. And then you’d have to start over again and you would have to wait yet another semester to graduate!” Every word that leaves his mouth pisses you off even more, and a truly ugly emotion rears its head within you. Things are escalating. You still have half a mind to realize it. You should call it a night, go home and talk things out in the morning. But this is the first time that Tristan is being brutally honest about your career choices.

“Oh, I didn’t know it was a race, Tristan! How silly of me! I’ll make sure to plan every future decision around your life schedule from now on!” You get in his face, venom dripping off of every shouted syllable that slips from your tongue a little too easily.

“You’re putting words in my mouth! I never said I wanted you to plan your life around me! I’m just worried! All of my friend’s girlfriends –“

“So that’s what this is about? The girlfriends of your little business school friend group?? Am I part of some weird dick measuring contest?” You continue before he gets a word in, asking a question that’s been burning in your throat for a few months now.

“Are you ashamed of me??”

You’re met with silence. Silence that’s so obviously an answer in itself that it causes your heart to slip out of your chest and shatter on the sticky floor below. Tristan notices the devastated expression on your face, but his drunken audacity eggs him on to double down. 

“I wouldn’t have to be if you just acted like an adult! You can’t always get what you want! For fuck’s sake, just be happy with what you have for once!” You wish you had a drink you could throw in his face. But your hands are empty, shaking with anger and disappointment. You can’t look at him anymore.

“Screw you, Tristan.” And with that, you turn, leaving him standing there while you rush to find an exit as tears well up in your eyes. He doesn’t make a move to follow you, and it simultaneously calms and saddens you even more. 

Navigating the club is even more complicated with your blurred vision, and you bump into a few people, no doubt spilling a few overpriced drinks in the process. But you’re either too fast or they’re too drunk to really do anything about it.

Finally, finally, you make it outside, choking out a strangled noise that’s a pathetic mix between a sob and a whine, and you quickly duck into a nearby alley to give way to the tears. You’re drunk and overly emotional, you try to rationalize with yourself, but it doesn’t lessen the ache in any way. So, pressing a palm over your mouth, you reluctantly allow yourself to cry. The night air is icy, but fresh enough to comfort you and slowly clear up the lump in your throat, and after some cathartic five minutes, you start to calm down again. Your tears run black at this point, dragging your favorite mascara down your cheeks, and you sniffle as you into your purse to grab a compact mirror and assess the damage. 

It's in that moment when your phone display lights up, alerting you to an incoming call. Your stomach twists into knots as you fish the phone out of your purse. A call from Tristan might make things worse, and you’re not really in the mood to talk to him right now, so – 

But the call isn’t coming from your boyfriend. Your eyes widen before they narrow into slits, and annoyance bubbles up within your chest. There on the phone display, proudly displayed as the caller ID is Dr. Jonathan Crane’s name. Your thumb hovers over the glass before you decide to pick up the call. As soon as you hear his voice, annoyance gives way to a little spark of hope. It also serves to sober you up a little. You barely have time to rasp out a “Hello?” before he speaks, sounding almost relieved that you picked up.

“I know that calling at such a late hour is quite unusual, but I’m glad I could get ahold of you before it was too late. Believe me, I was just as surprised as you most likely were. To be frank, I was so certain that you'd be joining us that I didn't even check the list to confirm it.” Papers rustle on his end of the line. He must still be in his office.

“Yeah, I… I was optimistic as well. Maybe… Maybe a little too much,” you admit softly, trying to concentrate on your words to avoid slurring. Crane hums, and you can’t tell if it’s in understanding or amusement. Reading him in person was already hard enough, but it’s nigh impossible over the phone.

“Tell you what, I believe you dodged a bullet. I clarified with the other staff members what the responsibilities of those interns will be, and that wouldn’t be right for you. Sorting files and sitting in on group therapy sessions at the Low Security Wing? No, that would be a waste of your time. You’re not that kind of person. Which is why I’m offering you something else.”

You lick your dry lips, still tasting the salt of your tears and some last traces of your lipstick. For a second, you’re unsure if you heard him correctly. “Something else?”

Crane glosses over your question, and in your mind you understand. This might be sensitive information. Drunk-You feels a little like a spy, keeping a secret from Tristan who would surely be mad that you’re even talking to the director of Arkham Asylum right now.

“Are you free to come in tomorrow? I know it’s quite late already –“

“Yes. Yes, I am,” you interrupt, feeling brave. 

“Good. Then let’s meet in my office at… let’s say… 10 am? Is that alright?”

“I… uh, absolutely.” You quickly rummage through your purse, using a lip liner and an old receipt to haphazardly write down the appointment. “I’ll be there.”

“Perfect. Enjoy the rest of your night,” he says before he hangs up right after. You have no chance to say goodbye properly as the line clicks. Maybe it’s for the best. Knowing yourself, you would’ve wished him a great night as well with the addition of a plea to “get home safe”, which would’ve been a little much.

When you head back inside, you’re spotted by your worried friends and an indifferent Tristan, and dear GOD, the urge to boast and gloat has never been this strong before in your life. But you stay quiet as you put on a smile, avoiding to look at your boyfriend. You stay quiet as your group gets into a taxi, and stay quiet as you get back home and head straight for your bed. “You’re not that kind of person” was something you heard twice in one night. And only once did it feel right.

The pounding ache in your skull serves as your alarm clock the next day, tearing you out of a restless sleep only 10 minutes before you were supposed to get up anyway. A frown finds its way onto your features as you tiptoe out of the bedroom, catching a glimpse of the still sleeping Tristan on the couch in the living room. Neither of you have said a word to each other since the fight, and you'll be damned if you start the conversation about something he messed up in the first place.

You walk past him, feeling the cold surface of the floorboards beneath your feet as you head into the bathroom to try to make yourself look (and smell) presentable. The stench of alcohol leaves your tongue after brushing and rinsing with mouthwash thrice, and an overindulgence of body wash in the shower solves everything else. The final touch is a generous amount of concealer under your eyes, and you're surprised that you actually pass off as someone who doesn't have an awful hangover right now.

Getting dressed is another challenge, though. You can't exactly say that Drunk-You had the gift of foresight to pick a suitable outfit for your second meeting with Dr. Crane, so you dig through your closet to make yourself look presentable. Your fingers wander over the different fabrics, tracing cotton and polyester, wool and tweed as you grumble to yourself. Christ, this shouldn’t feel like rocket science.

This dreadful indecisiveness eats up a sizeable chunk of your time, and as you button up your blouse, you realize how late it suddenly is.

Breakfast consists of an aspirin and a large black coffee, and you make sure to let the coffee machine shriek as loudly as it wants just to spite Tristan a little more before you rush out of the apartment. 

This time around, the drive to Arkham Asylum feels a little more familiar. You still depend heavily on your GPS, but you remember some of the turns and streets, and you don’t feel as tiny and insignificant as you did a week ago. You’re here with an explicit purpose now. Crane knows who you are and asked you to come back nevertheless.

Upon entering the still intimidating building, you stop by the reception again, spotting a familiar face. The receptionist seems just as surprised to see you, sharp eyes flicking down to a visitor's list that seems to confirm the validity of your return before she points a manicured nail towards the security check. You raise your hand to wave at her as you pass. She doesn't wave back. Oh well, you can't get them all.

The maze of a third-floor feels straightforward as well today, made possible by the ever-present red lines guiding you to your destination. This time, you're able to meet Crane in his office, and his request to enter can be heard through the door after the first knock.

Everything still looks the same as you enter, save for his now orderly desk. The chaos of files from back then is now a neat stack that the doctor rests his folded hands atop. You open your mouth to greet him, but Crane speaks first, completely catching you off-guard.

"The bunny is back. I'm glad to see it."

"Excuse me?" You blink at him before you look down at yourself. No, no bunny-themed clothes or accessories anywhere that might have given him the idea to call you that. You’re drawing a blank. Unsure whether this is part of a hazing process or an inside joke you must’ve missed, you lift your gaze back up to him. There’s a fleeting look of sardonic amusement on his face before he reels himself back in to elaborate.

“That's what you reminded me of the first time you came here. Glancing around, all skittish and frightened in the hallway…” he explains, already turning his head away from you to reach into one of his desk drawers and retrieve a folder. Your folder. “Please, close the door and take a seat. We’re already running low on time.”

After following his instructions, you find yourself sitting in the same chair from a week ago, foregoing the act of presenting yourself as a confident person. It’s no use, anyway. Crane already knows you’re desperate. It’s seeping out of your every pore, giving your worries a rich and sweet taste that the director of Arkham seems to indulge in for a moment. At least, that’s what you assume based on the expression in his cold eyes. You’re no fool. It’s basically a guarantee that his offer will bite you in the ass in some way or another. 

“You must be a little put-off by this meeting. It’s not exactly orthodox to ask you to come in on a Sunday, but I read the list of this year’s interns just minutes before I called you last night. And that was purely by chance. Like I said, I was positive you’d be one of them.” Crane opens your folder, but his eyes stay on your face. “I have no idea what goes on in the heads of my staff sometimes, and now I’m fairly certain it can’t be much. But I don’t intend to waste a person like you.”

You shift in your seat, listening intently to every word that leaves his lips. It’s your lifeline. And he knows it.

“So, I am making you an offer. Just promise to listen first,” he says, and one of his eyebrows twitches upwards at the intensity in your gaze. “The position I’m offering you would be exclusive. It won’t be approved by anyone else but me and it technically didn’t exist before I made up my mind about it. I am offering you the position of intern assistant.”

Your eyes widen. Even in his darkroom of an office, it feels like the air just became lighter and the colors brighter. Crane lifts a finger, continuing his offer.

“No surface scratching – You’d be my shadow. Which means more work and responsibilities, but also more privileges, more insight, more knowledge. I’ll teach you what you need to know to get ahead in this field, and by the end of it, your fellow students will eat your dust. Your professors as well, if I’m being honest.”

Before you can even respond, he’s already reaching back into his desk, pulling out a massive stack of paperwork. And then the rushing begins. Crane checks his watch, clicking his tongue before he pushes the documents over to you, along with a fountain pen.

“How long would it take you to read this? I have to hand this in within the next 50 minutes to make sure you’re cleared in time. If you even accept my offer, that is. It’s a terrible time crunch, I know, but I’d really like to have you as a member of staff in one week.”

Tentatively, you reach out for the fountain pen, twirling it around in your fingers for a moment as you think about his offer. This hesitancy only causes him to lean forward and flip through the first pages, pointing out a handful of sections for only a few seconds each before he moves on.

“It’s the regular stuff, I guess. Everything I just told you in cumbersome wording. I really wish I could take my time and go through each page with you, but the circumstances just won’t allow it. If you have any questions, I’ll gladly answer all of them once you’ve signed.”

It’s shady as hell. A red flag that’s so glaringly obvious that it makes you wonder how Crane can keep a straight expression. But this is your one chance of getting a look behind the scenes. Your one chance of proving them wrong. Professor Campbell, Tristan, everyone who doubted you could do it. This could go horribly wrong. But it could also be your ticket into the big leagues. Shadowing the asylum’s director would be a privilege that no one else gets. A chance to make connections and grow. Not to mention that your résumé would look incredible with Crane’s recommendation attached to it.

Hell, he may be exploiting you, but who says you can’t exploit him right back? It’s your good right to milk this opportunity as much as you can.

Meanwhile, the psychiatrist continues to ramble on, rattling off half-apologies and made-up reasons why you have to sign as quickly as possible once he reaches the last page of the contract. The page where you have to place your signature on the intended line. Both of you are surprised by how quickly you sign it. 

As you place the cap back onto the fountain pen, it feels like the air has been sucked out of the room, creating a vacuum in which both of you seem to grapple with the reality that you’d be stuck to Dr. Crane’s side for a few months, following every step and instruction of his. You manage to break the silence first.

“There. I have questions now.”

“Of course. I already expected as much,” Crane says as he pulls the freshly signed contract back to his side of the desk, staring down at your signature as if he’s half expecting it to jump off the paper. But then he places the thick document back into the drawer it came from, letting out a quiet breath. You notice that he seems significantly more at ease now, movements once again patient and effortlessly measured, and your brows furrow a little as you speak.

“What’s my hourly rate?”

“There’s nothing of the sort, I’m afraid.” Your blood runs cold at his nonchalance, and your lips part to protest when he cuts you off. “You will be working the same hours as me. And since my overtime and schedule is a little unpredictable at times, we will just have to see. You will be paid at the end of the month, however. The amount will depend on how much we actually did.”

“I… alright.” You bite your tongue, even though your displeasure is obvious. Nevertheless, you proceed with your second question. “You mentioned more responsibilities. I guess there’s a catch, then? Or a few?”

Crane chuckles, getting up from his chair to walk over to a cabinet in search of something specific. He speaks to you from over his shoulder.

“Right to the point. Wonderful. But yes, there are a few peculiarities that come with the position. Starting with – You’re not afraid of needles, are you?”

He closes the cabinet, returning to the desk with a little tray containing various items.

“We’ll start with a mandatory blood sample. I hope this isn’t a problem. I just need to know that my assistant is in peak condition. And didn’t smoke anything on the way here.”

You want to scoff, but swallow the sound at the last second. The fact that you took offense to his unspoken accusation is written across your face, and Crane doesn’t comment any further on it as he sets the tray down on the desk and pulls his chair closer to yours.

“I’m fine with needles,” you murmur, already pulling up your sleeve.

“No trypanophobia? A shame,” Crane chuckles, sitting down again before he reaches out for your arm. Your doubts whether he’s even qualified to do this as a psychiatrist vanish the moment his hands come in contact with your skin. He’s cold. Almost uncomfortably cold as his fingers brush over the bend of your elbow in search of a suitable vein. Once he’s successful, he picks a tourniquet from the tray of equipment and fastens it around your upper arm. His movements seem too perfect to be experienced. As if he’s a green med student working with the textbook perched on his lap. As if he’d burst into flame if he did something wrong.

“So, about the catch,” he continues, grabbing a bottle of disinfectant and spraying it over the spot he picked on your arm. Surprisingly, the liquid isn’t much colder than his touch. “Since you’ll be my shadow, you’re also required to accompany me to appointments outside of Arkham. Conferences, meetings… so on and so forth. I also have some upcoming court dates within the next few months. Obviously, I’m not the defendant. I’m just an advisor.”

You nod along to his words, eyes following his hands as he rubs disinfectant into his own skin before he pulls on a pair of blue nitrile gloves. Crane stretches the material over his hands until it’s taut, making it squeak before he shifts closer until his knees touch yours. At this proximity, you can smell his cologne, and the combination throws you off a little. It’s mainly sandalwood and bergamot, but there’s a hint of something else you can’t quite grasp. Something chemical, almost acidic. The psychiatrist continues to speak, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Another catch is that there’s a required dress code for you. As my assistant, you need to always look presentable. You can’t be running around looking like a hobo since your actions and appearance will reflect on me as well. And I’d rather not be associated with… any of those cheap trends that seem to be popular with the bottom of the barrel nowadays. You’ll have to give me your clothing size so I can prepare a new wardrobe for you. It’ll just save us time in the long run.”

Your brows furrow, but his request seems reasonable. “Alright. I suppose that’s fair,” you say, watching closely as he runs his thumb over the bend of your elbow. Then, he presses down to anchor the vein. It’s right in this moment when he decides to drop another bombshell.

“Which brings me to probably the biggest drawback in all of this.”

Your eyes flicker up to meet his. He’s already looking at your face, watching for the slightest twitch in your expression.

“You’ll have to stay at my place for the duration of your internship.”

What follows is a solid minute of deafening silence. Your pulse races, thumping softly against the pad of Crane’s thumb. He can tell you’re displeased, and he frowns a little, surprisingly empathetic.

“What?” you manage to croak out, swallowing dryly.

“Believe me, I spent all night trying to come up with a better solution. Sometimes, I get emergency calls in the middle of the night and it’s vital that you’re there with me. Those cases are the real deal. They’re raw and unfiltered, often much more than incidents that happen during the day. And as you told me during your interview, you live quite far away from here.”

You nod stiffly, gaze dropping to where he’s still pressing his thumb down on your arm. Crane can see and feel how uneasy this condition makes you, and he tries to lessen the blow.

“You’ll have your own bathroom and bedroom, of course. We will only share the kitchen and living room. And the laundry room, but I suppose that is the least of your worries. I won���t bother you.”

When he sees that you’re still not too happy, he quickly adds, “You can also tell me to be quiet whenever I mention work after hours.”

This at least gets a reaction from you. You force yourself to crack a smile, meeting his eyes once more.

“Okay. I’ll hold you to it.”

“Perfect.” The psychiatrist nods, wasting no time uncapping a butterfly needle and puncturing your skin with it. The sudden sting almost makes you flinch, but his grip suddenly is so tight that you don’t get any wiggle room. You watch as your blood travels down through the attached tube, filling up a small sample bottle and shortly after, a second one.

“You’re pretty brave for a bunny,” he jokes, setting your blood samples down on the tray before he releases the tourniquet and reaches for some gauze. His eyes stay on yours the entire time as he pulls out the needle and presses the gauze against your arm, soaking up your discomfort in a way that only fascinated scientists are capable of. 

“Press down.”

You mutter a “sure” as you obey his instruction, relieved when he finally turns away from you to discard the needle and his gloves. The final touch is a little band-aid over the tiny puncture wound, and you keep your hand over it as Crane pushes his chair back into its rightful place and takes a seat once more. He studies one of the full sample tubes as he speaks up again.

“You must be a little overwhelmed right now. Which is understandable, don’t get me wrong. But I’d like for you to go home and start packing your most important belongings. I’ll text you my address and will take care of the rest. You just need to show up next Sunday and get started on Monday.”

“Do I need to bring anything in specific? Like… a notebook or something?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “You’ll get your stationery and other supplies here. I’ll make sure to try to organize you a separate desk. Maybe even one of the more comfortable office chairs. But I can’t really promise any luxuries.”

“I know this establishment oftentimes seems like a revolving door when it comes to staff applying and quitting. But I don't want that with you.” Crane tears his eyes away from your blood sample, giving you his undivided attention again. “There won't be an easy way out, however. Either you prove yourself and do your job until the end of your internship, or else there will be no certificate and you'll have to try your luck elsewhere. And I hate to worry you, but getting a job without one of my letters of recommendation might be a little tricky. But I assure you, that's the absolute worst-case scenario."

You let out a little breath and nod, straightening in your chair. Your mind is already racing, spinning around in a colorful variety that ranges from dread to genuine excitement. The biggest problem, however, is that you will have to break the news to your boyfriend. The thought makes you a little nauseous, but if Crane notices it, he’s generous enough not to mention it. 

Your goodbyes are brief, and you’re still holding your hand over the band aid as you leave the building and reach your car. Dark clouds are brewing overhead, announcing one of Gotham’s common rainy afternoons, and it already smells earthy with a hint of wet concrete.

The drive home doesn’t take as much time as you would’ve liked, even though you’re stopped plenty of times by red lights or passing cop cars with their sirens turned on. No, you reach the apartment much too soon, climbing the stairs with a heavy heart and sweaty palms. The band aid feels like it’s burning a hole into your flesh, hidden away underneath your sleeve. A secret hint of the meeting with Crane. Your key hovers in front of the lock on your front door as you freeze. Telling Tristan about the internship would mean telling him about your impending new living arrangements. Yes, you’d get the satisfaction of proving him wrong about your capabilities, but he’d blow up about everything else. Even worse, what if he reports the conditions of your internship? What if he ruins everything before it has even begun? 

Another big fight doesn’t fit into your schedule either. Neither does a breakup. Taking a breath, you unlock the door and step into the apartment, almost immediately meeting Tristan in the hallway. Time freezes for a moment, and then you say the first thing that comes to mind.

“I need to pack. They want me back at Potomac.”

It’s okay, right? It’s no big deal. After all, it’s just another little white lie to let him keep his peace of mind.

@ellebelleshelby @cilliansprincess @mcumorningstar @x0xomady @mandies24

@detroitbecomevenom @pretty-bluebird @ink5ouls @flwrs4aust @vampmary1411

@ashdrinksoatmilk @nnattu @ptolemaniac @kiss-me-cill-me @celebrities-imagines

@hanawrites404 @ilovetoxicfictionalmen @nocturnest @biblicallyaccuratebee @red-riding-wood

@luvlloyd @ribbonystar @smxkyqvxrtz @bloodandglitter207

@rosiemarieyn @sagepixie @snickersmee @voltage-supernatural-art @feasibilities

@cilly-murphy @paradiseprincesss @oceanstem @your-nanas-house @fantasmitasolo

@cillianhead @xlostitx @kefi-meraki @ilovepeoplesdads @vegasisthinking

@ryecosse @strangeobsessed @xsweetcatastrophe @cillianslvt @ilovedottore

[autisticandroids]

belated fic rec list, part five: dabb era

so! this is for day 1 of @spnficrecfest (you will notice that that was yesterday two days ago. uh huh). and i am compensating by creating FIVE SEPARATE ERA-SPECIFIC LISTS. this one is for dabb era, which i'm lumping together because it has broadly similar vibes. i intentionally did not put any post-despair destiel fix-its on here because that's kind of a genre unto itself. mainly destiel, with some other pairings or gen as well.

other lists: endverse // seasons four and five // season six // season nine

my fave dabb era fics, in increasing order of length

still beautiful by filthyalleyway, .5k, mcd warning

dean makes a pretty corpse. destiel.

gaze into the distant sky by vaguesurprise, 2k

a jack character study, on the topic of bear traps. gen.

the first commandment by angelfishofthelord, 2k, chose not to warn

cas grieves jack, and he does what he has to for his family. gen.

carry on by goldmonger, 3k

a vicious little vignette of family life in the bunker. gen.

the last drop (makes the cup run over) by slopeslippers, 4k

jack isn't coping very well with being god. gen.

15x06 "golden hour" by hal_incandenza, 4k

what if golden time was worse. and more depressing. and crucially, what if jack was there, in cas' mind. gen.

frustration by bitterred, 4k

dagon and kelly play house. dagonkelly.

this was your child. i can't imagine the pain. by slipper007, 4k

cas grieves jack and learns to live with it. gen.

the center of the labyrinth by vaguesurprise, 4k, mcd warning

a horror story about being god's favorite. chuck/dean, minor destiel.

blood spins my head by vaguesurprise, 5k

dagonkelly lesbian awakening. now with demon blood!

no guts by adamwilliamsthevfxguy, 5k chose not to warn and mcd warning

cas lashes out at dean in season fifteen. destiel.

by your hand by slopeslippers, 6k, chose not to warn

moriah if it had gone the way cas wished it had. destiel.

chug jug with you (number one victory royale) feat. leviathan by wintertree, 7k

jack and crowley hanging out. gen.

hymnal by burningtea, 7k

cas and mary at christmas. character study. destiel.

samson went back to bed by piesexuality, 9k

one of my favorite fics in this whole collection. cas does what he must to protect jack. now with mindwipes! destiel.

and laugh at gilded butterflies by ireallydidthistomyself, 13k

a rework of jack's early childhood where cas was there, and then a rework of the malak box where both cas and jack go in it. destiel.

sometimes a kind of singing by adi_rotynd, 22k

an unflinching examination on tfw 2.0's family dynamic. technically wip but done enough to be fine. gen.

the trapdoor by hal_incandenza, 161k so far, violence warning

destiel. this is maybe my favorite on the whole list. a full rewrite of seasons thirteen and fourteen, with whole new episodes of supernatural contained within. what if instead of stupid, the meta storyline of supernatural was in fact good? and interesting? what then? what would happen?

[thepixelagora]

Dean had walked a little too much last night.

He could tell because now, hours later, after a longer research session for a local case, during which his knee joints had the time to stiffen up and set in place, it hurt to move them. Dean was sure that if he put his hand on that spot right above the knee, he'd be able to feel some swelling there.

He yawned, then stretched with a low groan at how his spine popped, the muscles in his lower back aching after being forced to keep him upright and then hunched over old books for hours.

Sam, who was sitting next to Dean, hands grasping some giant tome that seemed like the most boring reading ever, but which Sammy seemed completely invested in, looked up from the yellowed pages. He raised his eyebrow at his older brother.

"You good?"

If glares could kill, Sam would have long been a goner. Since that wasn't the case, all Dean could do was give it all he had, hoping he'd manage to cook up something looking suitably nasty.

The effort put into his glare seemed to have no reducing effect on Sam's smirk.

"I'm good," Dean scoffed at his brother, but his left hand traveled down to massage his aching knee, and fuck, yeah, it was swollen. Brow furrowing, Dean closed his eyes against the feeling of his fingers working away at the tender tissue, not really taking away the pain, but spreading it around a bigger area. It didn't help much, but it was something.

When Dean opened his eyes again, he was welcomed by Sammy's concerned look.

"Your knees giving you shit again?"

Dean chuckled bitterly.

It wasn't pretty.

His legs have been getting worse, letting him know loud and clear he wasn't young anymore. It wasn't entirely unexpected. Three decades of fighting, stress and, he was willing to admit this - poor dietary choices, had to catch up with him at some point. Still. It's a little different just thinking about it versus when it's actually happening to you.

The pain also served to make him miss Cas more. The angel was rarely around, and when he was, Dean struggled to ask for help. He didn't want to make Cas think he only cared about the angel's healing mojo (and the words to the contrary... wouldn't make their way past Dean's lips somehow) so often times Cas appeared and disappeared to Dean in pain, completely oblivious to it.

There was that small part of Dean, too, that still believed he may have deserved it.

"Yeah..." he nodded in response to Sammy's question. No reason to hide it, someone standing fifty feet away could see how swollen and sore Dean's knee looked now. There was bitterness to his voice when he said: "I'm getting old, Sammy."

Somehow, that didn't earn him the grimace he was expecting, or the bitchface he could see in his mind's eye. Instead, Sam looked thoughtful for a minute, then simply smiled fondly.

"Yeah," he agreed, going back to his book. "Yeah, you are."

---

I'm pretty sure I'll never finish 90% of what I started writing, so I'm gonna subject you to the unfinished bits.

[shxtodxroki]

𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚝𝚑

Summary: It’s been just about a day since Izuku’s return to U.A. after exiling himself for the sake of you and the rest of your classmates, and you’re determined to help him warm up and feel safe once more with a cup of hot cocoa and some cozy cuddles.

Flufftober Day 7 Alternate Prompt: Hot Chocolate

Warnings: Mental health struggles in line with Izuku’s mental state during the vigilante arc

Pairing: Izuku Midoriya x Gender Neutral! Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Check out my full Flufftober masterlist here!

He’s doing better now. Or at least, he looks to be doing better, in comparison to the frail, exhausted, beaten down boy you had dragged through the doors of the U.A. dorm just 24 hours ago, seeming so lonely as he clung on to your warm frame oozing with worry despite his insistence that he shouldn’t drag you down with his presence. You had barely left his side since the moment he returned to the dorms, struggling to let go of him even long enough to bathe himself though he desperately needed it now that you finally had him back.

He had spent most of the day resting, catching up on the sleep he had clearly been deprived of while out on his own. You were working with your classmates to keep him well-fed throughout the day, seeing how frail and worn out he looked after his brief life of solitude. All Might even made a point to bring food for the boy, his guilt shining through as he blamed himself for your boyfriend’s initial departure and the burden weighing him down. It had been a combined effort to get Izuku to where he was now, snuggling into your side with a blanket over his frame while you hold him close and run your fingers through his fluffy hair as he finally seemed somewhat content to be back in the dorms. 

“How are you feeling, ‘Zuku? Do you need anything?” You ask for what feels like the millionth time since the previous night, your hands gliding smoothly through his forest locks since you had long ago worked out any tangles. His wide, beautiful eyes look up at you as he hears your voice, his voice soft and gentle as he responds.

“Mmm…. I’m still a little cold…” He mumbles quietly, not meeting your eyes out of guilt. He feels bad putting so much on you, feels bad that he left you to worry about him while he was out on his own, and most of all, feels bad that just being with him puts you in even more danger than you would have been in otherwise as a U.A. student and future hero. Your brow furrows, not out of annoyance but rather concern, at his response. You had hoped your body heat and the thick blanket would be enough to warm him with time, but it seems that the cold from the outside him had managed to chill him to the very bone during his time away in a way that wasn't easily remedied, marking him with these lonely and bitter chills.

Luckily for both of you, you believe you just may have the perfect cure for his shivers and iciness.

“...I think I have something that can help you, baby. Can you stay here for a second? I want you to keep yourself bundled up as much as possible, and I’ll be right back.” You look at him with a soft, loving gaze as you speak, your hand moving to cup his cheek as your thumb gently brushes against his rough skin. Safety and security are what he needs right now, and you’ll be damned if you can’t give him that, at the very least. You’re gentle with him, maybe gentler than he needs, but you can’t stand anything else but the softest touches to his broken down frame right now as you carefully make your way out from his hold while still leaving him cozily wrapped up in a pile of blankets.

“Alright…” He practically whispers, seeming so unsure and dull, so unlike the bright, eager Izuku you used to know. This fight, the impending war against the villains who have been looming over the school and the world for so long, seems to have sucked out his joy like a leech. You need to find a way to bring it back, to return to him even an ounce of his happiness from before. You just have to. You can’t stand seeing him like this.

You don’t clue him in to what you’re thinking, however. You don’t want him to worry about you right now, not even a bit. So you simply offer him a soft smile as you make your way to the kitchen in the dorms, pulling out two mugs as well as two small plates as you temporarily exile those concerns from your mind. Even if you can’t do much, you can at least do something small for your boyfriend. He deserves it, he deserves the world right now and you would give anything to bring it to him.

You know the kettle takes around 10 minutes to boil, so you quickly turn that on as you set two packets of hot cocoa mix aside for the moment. The bag of marshmallows in the communal pantry is thankfully fresh, not yet fallen victim to Denki’s persistent habit of leaving them half-open until they go stale, and you set two large marshmallows onto the small plates on the counter before closing up the bag and returning it into the pantry.

The marshmallows spin and inflate in the microwave for a few seconds, growing puffy and gooey and perfect for s’mores before you swiftly pull them out once they've cooked enough to finish assembly. Sandwiched between a graham cracker on either side with a layer of chocolate in between, within five minutes you’re staring at two delectable sweet treats for you to share with your boyfriend, setting them aside as you turn to the kettle to see if it’s heated up yet.

It is, you realize as you see steam brewing and flowing from the lid, though you nearly jump out of your skin before you even get a chance to pour the water into the mugs. Two rough, calloused arms encircle your waist from behind as hands work their way beneath your shirt to gently brush your stomach, and after a moment the realization dawns on you that Izuku’s come to see you in the kitchen despite you asking him to stay on the couch.

“I missed you.” He mumbles pitifully, burying himself into the thin fabric of your shirt as he pulls you into his hold. Your heart melts at the touch, knowing he means more than just today with those words, and tears spring to your eyes at the thought that he felt so lonely and needy after so many days out on his own. You refuse to let them fall, though, as you turn to face him and hug him in return, still so relieved to have him back in your arms again after so much time apart. "I always miss you."

“I always miss you, too. You can stay here with me if you want, baby. I’m almost done anyways.” You whisper with a voice brimming with love, your heart cracking and mending itself back together all at once as you press a tender kiss to his forehead and cradle him in your arms. “I made s’mores, I know you love them.” 

His eyes seem to brighten a bit at the sight of the treat on the counter, subconsciously leaning more of his weight into you as you carefully pour a sufficient amount of hot cocoa mix into each of the mugs in front of you with the chocolatey scent wafting into the air. You quickly follow up with the kettle of hot water, filling the mugs nearly to the top before adding a splash of milk into each just the way you know he likes. No words are exchanged between the two of you for a moment, just a simple hum of contentment from your boyfriend’s lips as he watches you pull out a packet of mini-marshmallows and let him relax and melt into you. You load both cups up to the very brim, adding extra marshmallows into his cup for good measure as your free hand brushes against his where it rests on your stomach.

“....Sorry I didn’t stay on the couch like you told me to.” He whispers into your ear, the feeling sending shivers cascading down your spine as you wipe down the counter and move to put everything away with Izuku trailing behind you.

“Don’t apologize, you know I’m always happy to be around you.” You chide gently, now lacing your fingers through his and squeezing his hand lightly. You’re delicate as you pry his hands from the hold he has around your torso, placing his mug in one and his s’more in the other as you grab yours as well. And finally, finally after days of worry and stress and pain, a small smile blooms on his face as he makes his way back over to the couch with you right by his side, at peace for a brief moment following so many months of unease. You’re careful to bundle the two of you up tight in your mountain of blankets as you cuddle up closely to one another, your mugs in your hands as you swipe a puff of marshmallow off of Izuku’s face with a giggle. He nuzzles gratefully into your hand in response, and that night Izuku falls asleep warm, cozy, and most of all, loved, tucked into your side with a belly full of hot cocoa and s’mores and a heart full or warmth.

Request - Anonymous said: Izuku for flufftober, he’s the fluffiest of the fandom

A/N: Sorry this is so late, the past few days have been super busy and I didn’t have time to write when I thought I would! I literally pulled an all-nighter and didn’t sleep until like 8AM yesterday trying to get some classwork done, but once I finally slept I had some time to write! I’m gonna try and catch up on the Flufftober days I missed super quickly, but I still had fun writing this and think it turned out super cute so I hope you guys enjoy it as well! :D Also my requests are open right now, so if you have any requests please feel free to send them my way! :]

Taglist: @flufftober @pasteldaze @papijean @deadmans-toe @trashy-bowtie @palenightmarepersona @eunoiasa @lady-juliette @swiftbyul @tsukkisukkii @shotos-angelic-whore

If you’d like to be added to any of my taglists, you can fill out this form here! Thank you for your support <3

[vaicomcas]

Castiel's own family members he cared deeply about, were also shown to only care about the Winchesters, not about him.

--God: As I wrote in my other post Castiel's relationship with (and belief in) God was a huge cornerstone of Castiel's storyline throughout seasons 4-7 that was foundational to his character. Then when God actually showed up it was all this big heavy emotional moment for Dean and later it turned out God actually was only ever motivated by his obsession with the Winchersters, and Cas never got to respond to that fact in any way.

--Gabriel: In Season 9 Castiel was so relieved and happy when he thought Gabriel was willing to return and lead him. Castiel was moved by Gabriel's trust in him. Then it was revealed to be Metatron's illusion. When later Gabriel appeared in the storyline again, it was Sam who got to comfort him, bond with him, not Castiel who was his brother for eons, who shared his language and his history, who demonstratably loved and admired him. Castiel was only there to conveniently translate enochian and for procedural assistance. He wasn't even present in the last Gabriel-centric episode.

--Jack: despite having chosen Castiel as his father before he was born, Jack cared only about the Winchesters before or after losing his soul; telling Cas he couldn't love him and threw him to the ground, but cared so much about Dean's forgiveness he asked Dean to kill him; then after getting his soul back wept about (to Cas of course) hurting the Winchesters but no acknowledgment of having hurt Cas. (Oh and when Jack said about Lucifer "he is my father", they showed Dean and Sam looking hurt, they never even showed Cas' reaction even though he was right there. Season 13 sucks btw).

[bangtanficsforyou]

They Reject You (hyung line)- part three

Pairing: BTS x Reader

Word Count: 8K

Warnings: swear words here and there, a little kissing scene.

Jin

"I told you, you should have done this sooner."

"Hey, if I had known this was gonna be this much fun, I would have."

"I did tell you, you just didn't believe me."

You huff. "Okay fine! You were right all along and I was wrong. Happy?"

Blair chugs down another shot and winces at the bitter taste. "I'll be happy when you listen to my advice."

"Asking for too much, now. Aren't you?" 

"Cool then, mop over a boy for over a month again. Why don't you?" She retorts with no real bite, rather genuinely enjoying the glimpse of the old you back. 

A wave of sadness hits you when you're reminded about the said boy and you sigh. "He isn't just a boy, he's also my best friend."

Blair immediately regrets her words when she notices the look on your face. "I understand that you would need time but if I hadn't dragged you out today, you would have not made any efforts to move on for at least another six months."

You feel an instant urge to deny it but end up not protesting because you know how true her words are.

Moving on would have been easier if you knew the answer to this one question; how does one move on from their best friend? 

How do you forget the moments that made you fall for him? Moments when he was the only one you could confide in. When you two would spend hours talking on the phone about random things. When the two of you would sit on the balcony and judge every passerby. The inside jokes, the tears, the hugs, the words of comfort. How do you forget those and tell yourself to not feel the way you do?

And even if you manage to do so, will the two of you really ever get back to being as close as you once were? Won't that result in you falling for him all over again?

You take hold of another glass of shot when you realise that you were overthinking again. Today your plan is to get enough alcohol in your system so that you do not overthink the little things.

"What is he doing here?" Blair whispers to herself.

"Who?" Your tipsy mind gets distracted by that and you start checking left and right to catch sight of the person she's talking about.

"Jin."

Your eyes widen in shock and you freeze in your seat. "Jin is here?"

Blair nods, feeling the same amount of disbelief as you. 

"Should I hide in the washroom?" You whisper shout. You don't even know why you feel the need to run when you and Jin have had a civil conversation just a few weeks ago. All you know is that you do not wish to face Jin. You are not ready to face the stir of emotions Jin would inevitably ignite.

"Fun fact, his eyes are fixed here," she quips with a mix of annoyance and amusement. "I'm also pretty sure, he's aware that we are talking about him."

You shut your eyes and groan audibly. "Fuck. Just what I needed."

"Fun fact part two, he's coming here."

As soon as she completes her sentence, you hear your name being called. 

"Y/N."

"Jin!" You put on a fake smile and try to seem as excited as you possibly can. You won't allow your spirits to dwindle so easily. "What are you doing here?"

Jin thinks for a brief moment if he should lie and say that it was a coincidence but then decides otherwise. "Well, Jimin texted me that you're here and I had something important to tell you, so,"

"Well, I don't feel stalked at all." You grin sarcastically.

Jin smiles. That's the first stage of you getting drunk; getting sassy. "Well, I'd be hurt if you were to call me a creepy stalker."

He says it with such a soft look of adoration that Blair has to clear her throat loudly to announce her presence.

"I'm Blair," she introduces herself.

Jin understands that Blair's words are directed at him and he politely puts his hand forward in greeting. "I'm Jin."

Blair nods and shakes his hand. From the look in his eyes, she already has an idea about why Jin might be here and if what she's assuming is right, she should really get out of here as quickly as she can. 

"Well, it's good that you are here, I have somewhere to go. Take care of her," as soon as the words are out of her mouth, Blair quickly leaves the spot knowing very well how you are going to react. 

You gasp dramatically, concerned about how quickly she changed her colours. What a traitor you have as a friend. 

Jin sits on the stool next to you before you can recover from your shock. "So what have you been drinking?" 

You look at Jin with your mouth parted open, still having a hard time understanding what just happened in the span of a few minutes. How you came to the club to temporarily forget about Jin and how now, you are sitting right next to him.

You blink a few times to let the shock subside and with Blair gone, you feel your adrenaline rush fade away.

"I don't know, Blair ordered it," you shrug.

He hums, fiddling with his fingers on the table. "Any special reason you are out here clubbing on a weekday?"

"Nah," you say just as casually as you had uttered the previous sentence. Maybe it's because of the alcohol but you don't find yourself feeling anxious in his presence. There's only a very little amount of unease but that's only because you don't want to get too into your emotions. 

Jin watches you closely. You don't look drunk, just tipsy. And thankfully, for him, you don't seem to be too bothered by the fact that he just invited himself. 

Someone might say that he's being overdramatic coming all the way to say something he could have said any other time. But when Jimin texted him that you're here, his thoughts started getting a little wild.

What if you were in a club trying to get over him? What if some hot bartender catches your eye? What if your friends are telling you that you deserve better? (The last one, Jin agrees with) 

It's fair to say that those thoughts made him rush to this place so that he can finally say what he figured out in the last few days.

Jin inhales deeply and asks the million-dollar question. "Do you– do you still love me?"

You choke on your drink and a series of coughs that follows. Jin immediately asks for a glass of water and helps you calm down.

"What kind of a question is that?" You ask in a raspy voice when your coughing fit subsides.

"A very important one?" He asks you back, his brows now furrowing in nervousness.

You mimic his expression, only that your brows furrow in annoyance. "What kind of people do you hang around with to get the idea that people's feelings change in the span of a few weeks?"

Ah, yes. You're sassy right now.

Jin's features soften and he looks at you with a look of disbelief.

"So you still love me?" He asks in a whisper, too scared to say the words out loud.

"Unfortunately, yes." You nod.

Before you can take hold of another glass of shot, Jin's hand comes to rest on yours. You look at him in confusion, wondering what even is he up to.

"Well, I love you too," a wide smile breaks out on his face as if the thought of you is enough to make him happy.

This time, you choke on thin air. "Excuse me?!"

He takes your hand and brings it to his lips. "I'm sorry it took me so long, but now that I know, I just want to be with you forever."

Your eyes follow his movements and you find your breathing getting shallower and only one question coming to your mind; Is this really happening?

Jin notices the way you seem to have run out of words. It makes him want to smirk in satisfaction but at the same time wrap you in his arms. Had he known you would react this way, he would have done this way sooner. But he was busy being a fool back then. 

You were always by his side, through the worst and the best. You were his only constant in the world of variables. He always felt so at home with you, that the thought of changing the dynamics never occurred to him. You two were perfect being best friends and he thought that was how it was going to be forever. 

But then he's also a hopeless romantic at heart. He has always dreamt of his perfect partner and what life with them will look like. He has also had his fair share of crushes and relationships but never did the faceless person from his dreams appear to be one of them.

Now that he thinks of it, he knows why that was the case. 

"You don't have to say anything," Jin adds, not wanting you to stress about it. "I just needed you to know that I love you and I'm sorry for realising it so late."

Now as sassy as you are when you're tipsy, you're just as bold. Without thinking any further, you lean forward and kiss him. It's odd and something your sober self would never do, but right now you're definitely not sober. Plus, you can leave the overthinking for her when she wakes up tomorrow. At the moment, the only thing that matters to you is that the man you so irrevocably love, loves you back. 

Jin freezes and his eyes widen in shock when he feels your lips on his. 

He knows you are only doing this because you are drunk. He knows that had you been sober you would have asked a million questions by now. He also, knows that he shouldn't be kissing you back but when he hears a whine of complaint from you at his lack of enthusiasm, his resolve crumbles. 

He gently puts his palms on your cheeks and kisses you back passionately. The warm sensation of your lips on his makes his head spin and he wonders how on earth has he gone so long without doing this. 

However, he pulls back when he feels your tongue against his lips. "We should get you home."

You shake your head like a stubborn child. "No, I don't want to go."

Gosh, he wants to kiss that pout away. How did he not realise that it's been you all along? 

Blair watches from a distance as you throw your hands in the air like a small child and a smile makes its way onto her lips. Guess, she won't have to worry about you moping anymore. 

Yoongi

As soon as the doorbell rings, you freeze. That must be Yoongi.

You have been looking forward to this moment and at the same time have been dreading it. But it's one of those things that you know just needs to be done.

You haven't had a single moment of peace since yesterday. It's tiring honestly. You don't know how the conversation with Yoongi will go, but you at least hope that after this you won't feel this heavy weight on your shoulders and will be able to have a good night's sleep. 

With that hope, you open the door and you're greeted by Yoongi in a purple suit and the sight itself makes you swallow. You really wish you could marry him.

Shaking the thought away, you welcome him in and ask him to take a seat on the couch. 

"Would you like some tea or coffee?" You query

Yoongi shakes his head. "Nothing really. I had coffee before leaving."

Well then, guess you won't get the time to figure out how to start the conversation. 

You take a seat on the opposite couch and play with the rings that adorn your fingers. "I called you at my place because there's something important we need to talk about and I thought that a public place isn't suitable for the conversation."

Yoongi nods. He won't lie but he shares the same view. It's difficult for him as it is to talk about his emotions. He doesn't want to imagine having to explain why he came across as nonchalant to your confession and how he respects your honesty, more than he could show.

However, nothing could have prepared him for the next words that leave your mouth.

"I think we should not go forward with this marriage."

Your words cause Yoongi to choke. Out of all the things he wanted to discuss with you, he never saw this coming. "What?!"

Seeing Yoongi react like this catches you slightly off guard. Usually, he always has his emotions in check and is unreadable. It always makes you feel like he's out of reach. However, right now, you can read him like a book, which oddly enough gives you a sense of satisfaction.

"We should not get married." You repeat your words and wait for Yoongi's shocked features to subside. 

Yoongi looks at you and notices how determined you seem, as if you have thought about this long and hard and only then have you come to this decision. The thought that there's probably no changing your mind, scares him. 

Clearing his throat, he tries to sound as calm as he can. "Why though?"

Now it's your turn to be surprised. Isn't it obvious why the two of you shouldn't get married?

Chewing on your lower lip, you ponder how you should frame your words. After a brief pause, you start with a gentle tone that somehow comes out sad.

"When two people love each other, they get married. Not because they have to, but because they want to. It's like this celebration of their love, where they declare to the world that they are each other's for the rest of eternity. But you see, that's the most important factor–" you look up to lock eyes with Yoongi. "–love."

Love. 

It's a word Yoongi has hardly ever given thought to.

Yoongi knows what it feels like to be loved. His parents love him, his sister loves him, his friends love him, his dog loves him. He also knows what it is like to love someone because he loves these people just as much. But love in the way you describe it? Yoongi has never felt that.  

From a very young age, he has known that it will be his parents who will choose who he is to marry. Which is why he has never felt or given much thought to what it is like to want to spend his whole life with someone. 

But clearly, you have. 

It looks like you know exactly what you want and he won't lie, he envies that. He wonders what it's like for someone to know what they want so clearly that they won't settle for anything less. 

"We can always fall in love," he says with a small shrug as if it's not a big deal. The gesture makes his words look insincere and although it's true that he doesn't realise the intensity of his words, it's also true that he had shrugged simply to hide how uncomfortable he feels. He has never had to talk to someone about falling in love with them. 

You chuckle humorlessly. "I don't think you realise what falling in love really means." 

Yoongi wants to feel offended by your words but he can't. Because you're right. "Well, it's never too late to learn."

You can tell that Yoongi is being genuine. But you don't know how you should perceive his genuineness. Should you feel flattered that he's willing to give your marriage a try? Or should you feel sad that he has to try falling in love with someone? 

You don't know what the answer to that would be but the thought of him falling for you because he had no other choice, does not sit right with you. Even if you two were happy one day, maybe somewhere at the corner of your mind will be the thought that he fell for you only because you two were forced into this marriage. 

"I don't think it will work, Yoongi," you say with a sigh.

Yoongi's brow furrows in frustration. Why are you complicating things like this? "I don't understand what exactly is the problem?"

Here goes nothing.

"We have been on ten dates so far and on none of those occasions, did you ever seem interested in getting to know me on a deeper level. You are a closed book and I respect that it might not be easy for everyone to be open, but what counts is the effort. We have never had an open conversation or proper communication." Your voice comes out even, not a speck of anger or disappointment lacing your words. It sounds like you're only reading out observations from a science experiment. "Why do you think that is? If you were to ask me, and I might be wrong, but it's because you were never interested in the prospect of marrying."

"Had I not asked to break the marriage, things would have been pretty much the same and I would have never voiced these thoughts. You would have made no effort and I would have been trying way too hard to fulfil my wishes. Don't you see how wrong that could go?" 

Yoongi remains speechless with his mouth parted. 

"It's not only that, though," a small smile appears on your lips. "When you believe in love as much as I do, you'd know that love is inevitable. Everyone deserves it, including you. And I hope that when you do fall in love, you get to walk with them with your head held high without worrying about the wife you had to marry to boost your business."

With each word that comes out of your mouth, you feel a weight being lifted off of your chest one by one. Last night, you stayed up with countless thoughts running through your head. Countless reasons and scenarios why this marriage won't work and would be painful for both of you. Especially you.

Yoongi takes a deep inhale and lets the silence linger. 

What else is even there to say? You have given this a whole lot of thinking while he has hardly ever thought about it. Which only goes on to prove your point and how different both of your views on marriage are. 

Indeed, he has never shown much effort towards establishing a connection between the both of you. There's no denying that, but he wishes he could tell you that it's not because he wasn't interested in forming one but rather that he does not know how to. 

He knows there's no point in clarifying that now though, it will only sound like he's making excuses. Hence, he settles for responding to you with the only sentence that he thinks is relevant. 

"We can't break this alliance."

"I know," you nod. "It won't be easy but I'm sure we both will come up with a way to convince our parents."

Yoongi huffs, sensing that you are underestimating his words. "Do you know that the deal has been signed?" 

Your eyes widen in shock and disbelief. "What?! H–When?" 

Your reaction is enough for Yoongi to know that you indeed, had no idea about the papers being finalised and signed. Your previous words make much sense to Yoongi now and why you thought that the two of you even had any other option but to get married to each other. 

"About a week ago," he replies, expression now turning sombre. "I got to know about it only a couple of days ago."

A week ago? That would be around the time you and Yoongi went on your last date where you had confessed to him your feelings. Was it around the same time that both of your doors to escape were closed? 

Panic shoots through your veins when the thought that there might be no way out, comes to your mind. No, no, no. There has to be some way. 

But is there really?

Yoongi's company is way bigger than your father's. If the two of you back down now, the deal will be cancelled but it will be your father's company that will suffer the most whereas Yoongi's will recover in a few days. It was one thing if the deal was not signed. No gains, no losses. But now, it would be no gain, only losses. 

How can you do that to your parents knowing how much stress it will cause them?

You can't.

"I don't have any other choice, do I?" Your voice comes out small, highly in contrast with how confidently you were speaking a few minutes ago. 

"I don't think we do," Yoongi sighs, a deep sadness looming over his chest at how dejected you look. "But if it makes you feel any better, we can make a deal."

An abrupt chuckle escapes your lips. "Another deal? Haven't we already had enough?"

"This deal gives you the choice to be free," he comments, noticing how a small hopeful glint appears in your eyes.

"How?" 

"Let's stay married for a year, if you still want an out after that, we will get divorced." 

Yoongi's words give you a pause. 

You can't say that the deal is ideal but it is better than nothing. It gives you the hope that the two of you won't be stuck in a loveless marriage. It also does not create the pressure of being happy with each other because that's the only option.

After thinking for a few moments, you realise that this indeed is what it has all come down to and you'll have to accept it whether you like it or not.

"What about the business deal?" You query, your brain jumping to the concerns of the after-effects of having a divorce.

"By that time, the majority of shares will be transferred to me, I'll take care of it so that there is minimal loss."

You nod and sit back, feeling exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster this conversation has been. You just wish things were simple. That you both could get married to people you were in love with. Or that you both were in love with each other. 

The thought makes you look at Yoongi. You can still feel the butterflies in your stomach but there's also this dread that tags along.  

Last night, you had considered every possible scenario, and each one of them convinced you why this marriage is not a good idea. But out of all those, there was one which stood out, one that scared you the most and was the most heartbreaking. 

The possibility of you falling in love with Yoongi but his response being the same as it was on your last date. You know that the pain you went through this time, would be nothing compared to the pain you would experience then.

You don't want that.

The thought scares you so much, that you make a promise to yourself to not let your guard down so that the situation never occurs. 

Hoseok 

"You went a little too hard on us today," you say, breathless as you take a bottle of water and uncap it. 

Hoseok chuckles. "You say that after every class."

"Do I?" You ask with a small smile, knowing very well that you indeed do. But can you be blamed when Hoseok loses track of time when it comes to dancing and the only thing he focuses on is perfection?

He raises a brow as if asking you to stop pretending and you raise your arms in the air in mock surrender. 

He chuckles and shakes his head in amusement. "That's what I thought."

"Oh by the way," you say all excited. "I binge-watched little women during the weekend."

Hoseok's grin widens at the thought that you took the time to watch his recommended show. "Did you enjoy it?" 

A thoughtful look appears on your face. "I think it would have been better if the girls had more wins throughout but then I guess it wouldn't have been realistic."

Hoseok hums, understanding where you're coming from. That's an emotion he shares as well. While watching the show, he too wished that the girls didn't have to go through so many ups and downs.

"But you know what I liked?" You say with sparkling eyes. 

"What?" Hoseok asks, the gleam in your eyes doing something to his heart. 

"Choi Do-il's character!" You say with a small smirk on your lips.

Hoseok finds your behaviour amusing. "Liked him huh?"

"How can I not? He's so cool! He was so loyal to In-joo and he has such a sharp mind, made such tough decisions on the spot." You blabber. "I wish there was someone like him in real life, I'd fall for him in the blink of an eye."

"I wonder what Henry would have to say about that," he replies in a teasing tone, trying to pull your leg. But his smile fades when he sees that your excited expression has now turned sombre. 

You shake your head with a soft smile. "Well, we have broken up, so I don't think he would have anything in particular to say."

Hoseok hates that his first reaction is that of joy, which is soon followed by a feeling of guilt. He had convinced himself that he wasn't waiting for this particular day but now, his reaction clearly proves otherwise. 

For the time being, he puts his emotions aside and puts your feelings first.

"Do you want to talk about it?" 

You sigh. "There isn't anything to talk about. The relationship had run its course."

And that's the truth.

Things were pretty smooth at first, but when the honeymoon phase faded, somewhere down the line, both of you realised that you two weren't right for each other. 

The breakup wasn't painful for either of you and maybe that's what acceptance is supposed to be like. It was coming to this understanding that the both of you make great friends but there isn't much hope when it comes to something more than that. 

Hoseok chews on his lower lip and wonders what's the right thing to say. 

It has been six months since that day in the club and five months and three weeks since he realised that his feelings for you run deeper than he had initially thought. 

The first three weeks that followed after his realisation was not easy for him at all. He tried his best to be in denial but with time, he couldn't deny it anymore and he felt anger. Anger towards himself for having the audacity to accept that he has any form of romantic feelings for you after you had been so brave about yours and had put your heart on a plate only for him to be a complete dumb wit. Which was soon followed by the feeling of loss. He lost the opportunity when he had it and won't probably ever get it again. 

But after that, it started getting better. 

He accepted the fact that you have moved on with someone else and are happy with them. But that doesn't mean he did not get jealous every once in a while when he stumbled upon a picture of you and Henry on Instagram. That little spark of jealousy would serve as the reminder that somewhere deep down, he still wishes for you to be his. 

There have been times when he had thought about what he would do if someday, years later you and Henry were to break up. But never did he prepare himself for it. Plus, now, he finds it ridiculous that he had always thought that this would be an opportunity for him to correct his mistake when you could have very well removed any feelings for him from the very root. 

Before he can figure it out though, you sense the awkward silence and make an effort to break it. "I'm over it though, it does not bother me."

Hoseok nods softly, his thoughts still muddled. "How long has it been?"

"About a month."

Hoseok observes you closely from his peripheral. He notices how relaxed your features are and concludes that the topic of your breakup isn't necessarily a painful one for you. You also seem, pretty okay with the idea of the two of you having broken up, which makes him hope that you have moved on from Henry. And if in case you haven't, he will wait as long as it takes for you to let someone new in and he will do everything he possibly can to be that someone.

"This might be inappropriate but are you planning to return to the dating world?" Hoseok tries to look as casual as he can by pretending to arrange the CDs on the shelf.

It takes a few moments for you to think about the question before you can come up with an answer.

Are you looking for someone you can date? Not really. 

When you had downloaded Tinder all those months ago, it was simply so that you can find a distraction from Hoseok and move on. Fortunately, you found that and more in Henry. But now, that chapter is over and you don't find yourself actively looking for someone to be with.

"Not at the moment, no," you reply honestly. "Maybe a few months later, I'll reinstall Tinder," you laugh at the thought.

Hoseok hums, with his back facing you. "When you decide to reinstall the app, do tell me."

You don't think much of his words and innocently ask, "Why?" 

The whole of Hoseok's body heats up in anxiety and he starts putting the CDs on the shelf at a much high speed. "Because then I'll install tinder too and will search you up."

Your frown morphs into an expression of surprise and your lips part to form a small 'o'. 

Is…..is Hoseok saying what you think he's saying? Is it his way of saying that he would like to take you out on a date? And say, if the answer to these questions is, yes, what will you do?

In the six months that you have been with Henry, you haven't thought of Hoseok in that way. The intensity of your feelings lessened and you could let yourself be friends with him without letting your feelings get in the way. 

But are your feelings for him gone? 

You don't know.

Hoseok is a great friend of yours. He is nice, charming, kind, helpful and talented. Not to mention that he is utterly gorgeous. Anyone would be lucky to have him as their partner. But do you still want him as one?

You look at Hoseok and realise that the thought of being with him doesn't feel weird. If anything, it causes a little bit of excitement to stir up in your stomach.

It's true that your crush on him is not as deep as it once was and you're not looking for a relationship at the moment, but for some reason, you feel like when you're ready, you may just fall for him harder than you have ever before. 

Clearing your throat, you come up with a response that you think is just right. "In that case, I'll have to make sure that I don't forget to tell you about it." 

Hoseok turns around immediately to look at you with a surprised look as if that was the last thing he had expected you to say. But when that surprised look turns into that of relief, your previous questions about Hoseok's intent are answered. 

A smile appears on his lips when his surprise fades and he makes a promise to himself to not waste the chance you have been kind enough to give him again. "I'll eagerly wait for that day"

Something in your heart blooms at the soft look he gives you and you nod. 

After that, both of your chit-chat resumes and you two giggle and laugh like never before while you pack your stuff. Once you're done, you get ready to leave. "I'll get going then?"

With a gleeful smile, Hoseok responds, "see you next Saturday."

As you're walking out of the door, a thought appears to you. "Oh, also, you can't search for people on Tinder."

And then you're gone. 

Hoseok watches your retreating figure and he has to try really hard to stop smiling like a fool. 

Maybe there will be no need for Tinder after all. 

Namjoon

"I love Y/N," as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he winces, anticipating and dreading Yoongi's reaction. 

Yoongi, on the other hand, merely blinks at Namjoon's words. ".....and?"

Out of all the reactions, Namjoon thought Yoongi would give, this was not one of them. This makes things way scarier for him because he thinks this is Yoongi's version of 'calm before the storm'. 

"Listen, you can be mad at me all you want. I understand but I just wanted to let you know." Namjoon rambles, his voice coming out high-pitched. 

A small frown appears on Yoongi's face. This is it, Namjoon thinks.

"Why do you assume that I'm mad?" Yoongi's question, however, leaves Namjoon perplexed. He searches for any form of pretence on Yoongi's features but when he doesn't find any, he sighs.

"I don't know–" Yoongi's frown deepening is enough for Namjoon to backtrack and start speaking the truth. "–you told me that if I were to ever try to show interest in your sister, our friendship would be over."

"I mean, I don't recall saying that but it does sound like something I'd say," Yoongi nods. 

Now it's Namjoon's turn to frown. Is Yoongi mad or not? "What am I supposed to make of it?" 

"Nothing," Yoongi shrugs. "I should rather ask you, what was your purpose in telling me that you have feelings for Y/N? Was it because you felt like you had to ask for my permission? Or were you scared that it would affect our friendship?" A chuckle escapes Yoongi's lips. 

Namjoom sighs, feeling his muscles relax as he finally lets himself realise that Yoongi isn't mad. "I think it's more of the latter."

"So you won't ask for my permission, before pursuing her?" A scowl appears on Yoongi's face which immediately makes Namjoon stutter.

"I–I–I didn't mean that. Of course, I would ask for your permission." 

Yoongi tries his hardest to hold back the satisfied smirk that tries to make an appearance. It's nice to see Namjoon being scared of him every once in a while. 

"That's better," Yoongi hums. "And you don't have to worry about ruining our friendship and all that shit. That's very high school."

Namjoon feels like he can breathe again. After weeks, it feels like he can finally be honest with himself and most importantly with you, without being scared. A wide dimpled smile appears on his face at the thought of finally confessing to you. 

"Gosh, that's annoying," Yoongi huffs, with no real annoyance in his tone. If anything, he's glad to see the wide grin on his friend's face. "If she does reciprocate your feelings and the two of you become a couple, I do hope that the two of you don't turn out to be one of those intolerable ones."

You find almost everything intolerable. That's the thought that comes to Namjoon's mind but before he can speak those words, a much scary thought appears to him which takes his breath away. 

"What if Y/N does not accept my feelings?" His voice comes out in a whisper, too scared to speak those words loudly. 

Yoongi thinks the chances of that happening are very low. But he chooses not to say it. It's your feelings, you're the only one who knows where they lie. Yoongi does not wish to assume. Instead, he chooses to assure his friend that even if he were to get turned down, he will be there for him. 

"I will order a bottle of champagne and soju, each. If things work out, then we will celebrate with champagne. If they don't, then we can have soju." 

Namjoon is grateful for Yoongi's words, he really is but the fear that courses through his veins makes it impossible for him to think straight. "You don't get it. She confessed to me and I turned her down."

This time, a genuine scowl appears on Yoongi's face. "Why would you do that?"

Namjoon lets out a heavy breath. "I thought you'd be mad and our friendship would get ruined."

Yoongi tries his hardest not to let his eyes roll but ultimately fails. "Now I remember why I had told you not to pursue my sister."

Namjoon's heart drops at the comment. Is Yoongi about to change his mind? 

"One because it was high school and you were going through your fuckboy stage," Yoongi says, with squinted eyes that make it obvious that he's judging Namjoon. "Second, you were dense as fuck at times. Which, clearly, hasn't changed even now."

That had been two days ago. 

After the very scary chat session with Yoongi, Namjooon needed some time to recover. Two days to be exact. Now he has finally managed to grab the courage to talk to you and be honest. 

His hands hover in the air for a few moments before he knocks. He hopes and wants this to go well, otherwise, he thinks, he won't be able to forgive himself.

You frown when you hear the knock. Who has decided to bother you on a fine Sunday? 

You set aside the book you were reading and begrudgingly get up. With heavy steps, you head towards the door and swing it open. The regret that hits you is instantaneous. You should have checked through the peephole before opening. 

Namjoon notices your features drop and it makes him feel terribly guilty for his actions and words. With that guilt, also comes the strong need to make things right. 

"Do you need something?" You keep your tone cold to avoid any display of emotion. It's not that you are mad at him for the rejection. You're hurt about it, sure. Mad? No.

However, you feel incredibly embarrassed about confessing the way you did. You are aware that you were under the influence of alcohol but that doesn't make it any less humiliating. 

"I need to talk to you," Namjoon replies shakily as he finds his anxiety increasing. What if you have decided to move on or have come to the conclusion that he isn't worth it? 

You'd really like to make an excuse as to why you wouldn't be able to talk right now but something in you makes you decide otherwise. Maybe it's because you don't want things to be awkward between the two of you as it would put Yoongi in a tough spot. Or maybe it's because you hate seeing Namjoon so anxious, that you find yourself moving out of his way.

"Can I take a seat?" He asks awkwardly, with his index finger pointing at the couch, when he realises that you are simply waiting for him to start talking about whatever it is that he is here for. 

You are aware that you are being rude but you honestly don't know how to behave 'normally' around him, anymore. So, you simply hum and wait for him to take a seat. 

"Uhm," he clears his throat, "I wanted to talk to you about what happened at the party."

"We can talk about anything but that," you say pointedly. There's no way you are going to talk about that night when all you want is to leave that memory somewhere far behind. 

Namjoon notices the discomfort that etches your features despite your attempts at hiding it and sighs. "Okay, then I won't bring that up but I need to tell you something."

"Go on."

Namjoon takes in a deep breath before closing his eyes to grab the courage to let the words spill out. "I'm in love with you."

At first, the words don't sink in. 

You stand there, leaning against the wall, watching Namjoon. However, when you see the scared and anxious look on his face, you replay his words in your mind. 

I'm in love with you.

He's in love with you. 

The thought makes you angry.

You scoff. "Do you expect me to take you seriously?"

Namjoon shakes his head. "I don't expect you to but just hear me out."

"I don't want to." You declare stubbornly.

"I know but give me just one chance to explain myself." He pleads gently, not wanting you to feel as if you have to hear him out. He has already caused you enough pain and if you choose that you do not wish to hear him out, he is going to respect that. 

You want to laugh at Namjoon's request. You can accept the fact that he does not have feelings for you, no matter how hard that might be. But accepting that he is in love with you after the pain that you have been through? You can't accept that.

You'd very much like to close this topic and never have either of you mention it. But you can't say no to Namjoon when he looks like that. He is one of your biggest weaknesses and not hearing him out would cause you pain as well.

Instead of telling him verbally that you will hear him out, you look out of the window and stare outside blankly, which is enough for Namjoon to know that you're listening.

"I never thought that my feelings would be reciprocated. Which is why, I did not know what to say and said what I thought was right, at the time," his voice comes out vulnerable. 

You feel your annoyance flaring. If that really were the case he could have just said the truth. Why lie? Whose first instinct is to lie about their feelings, upon realising that they are not one sided?

Namjoon's next words answer your unasked question. "After my last two relationships ended the way, they did, I thought that all my relationships were destined to be doomed. I was scared to commit to anyone, especially you."

He sighs. "If we were to date and break up, it would change everything not only for the both of us but also for Yoongi. And if that were to happen I'd never be able to forgive myself."

It was around the time that Namjoon mentioned his last two relationships, that you stopped pretending to not care about what he had to say. You know how sensitive the topic is for him and for him to bring it up now, it must be serious. 

To put it simply, his last two relationships ended terribly. But each time, Namjoon blamed himself and thought that it was entirely his fault, which you know isn't the case.

Now that Namjoon breaks it down to you, you find your anger fading and find yourself sympathising with him. You may not agree with his actions but you can understand where he was coming from.

What you don't understand, however, is why he is telling you these things. If you're understanding him right, he said what he said at the party because he was scared. But now, he is here, telling you that he loves you. But why?

"Why are you telling me this?" You ask and you are surprised by the lack of coldness in your voice. Maybe it's because he's being vulnerable with you that gives you the courage to put your embarrassment aside for the time being.

Namjoon smiles softly. "I had a chat with Yoongi and it made me realise that I am the only one who thinks this way."

He was indeed scared shitless of his feelings affecting the friendship between him and Yoongi. He had taken Yoongi's cautionary way too seriously and while he was under that impression, what scared him even more was that he would take the risk of being with you only to later wish that he had stayed in his lane. He thought that maybe Yoongi too shares the same viewpoint as he does and hence had asked him to stay from you.

When he had gathered the courage to talk about it to Yoongi, it was with the intention of getting Yoongi's approval. Namjoon already knew that he wasn't going to listen to the voice in his head and that you were worth the risk. 

However, when Namjoon went back to his dorms and thought about the conversation he had with Yoongi, it made him realise that he was the only one who was holding these beliefs. Not only that, but Yoongi's reaction made him believe in himself, because even if Yoongi won't ever say it out loud, his calm and nonchalant behaviour was him letting Namjoon know that he trusts him.

"Plus," Namjoon continues, "I know I would regret it forever if I were to let you go simply because I was scared." 

You swallow at his words as any remaining trace of anger is washed away from your body. 

You know it can't be easy to do something when your insecurities are constantly telling you to do otherwise. But him doing just that, serves as a testimony of his love for you. Hence, even though at the beginning you weren't willing to accept his declaration of love, now you find your heart melting.

"So," you fiddle with your fingers. "What does all this mean?"

"Well if you have forgiven me for my stupidity, I'd like to take you out on a date." Namjoon hopes it isn't too soon to ask you out. But more than anything else, he wishes for your forgiveness. 

His words make your chest hurt and you immediately rush to make things clear. "There's nothing to be forgiven, I never held a grudge against you."

"But you wouldn't even look at me?" He asks, with a pained look.

Your heart sinks further. You had thought that it was only painful for you clearly that wasn't the case. "That's because I was embarrassed. It's just incredibly stupid to get drunk because you saw the man you love kissing someone else and then going and confessing like that."

Aaaahhhh.

Right, that whole him making out with someone, thing. He now remembers you mentioning it at the party. 

"Sorry to break it to you, but I did not kiss anyone," a small amused smile plays on his lips. "I was only helping the girl to get rid of something that had gotten into her eyes."

Your eyes widen when you hear that. Gosh, could you be any more stupid? You close your eyes tightly and groan in annoyance. 

Namjoon gets up from the couch and slowly walks towards you. He understands why it might have looked like he was making out with someone, after all, parties have the worst lighting. But he doesn't want you to feel embarrassed about it. After all, if it hadn't been for that misunderstanding, you would have never confessed and neither would he. 

After a small moment of hesitation, he puts his palm on your cheek and urges you to open your eyes.

"Hey," he whispers. "I'm really glad you misunderstood things that day. But I can assure you, that yours are the only lips I would ever want to kiss."

His words make you gulp. Here you were drowning in embarrassment a few moments ago and here you are now, breathless from the close proximity.

"Prove it," you whisper back. 

Namjoon's eyes fall on your lips. As much as he would like to feel how soft your lips are, he wants to do things right. 

With great willpower, he brings his eyes back to yours and kisses you on the forehead. "Trust me, there's nothing more I want than kissing you right now. But I want to take you out on a date first."

You chuckle at his words. "Well then, take me out on a date and at the end of it, kiss me like you mean it."

Namjoon's heart does a little dance at your words and he already feels his mind coming up with ideas of how he can make the date one that you never forget. "I'll make the date as perfect as you are."

Maybe you two will indeed be like one of those couples, Yoongi finds intolerable.

A/N: I definitely plan to write a Ceo Yoongi series with these two, hence that's how I decided to write them for this part!

For early access to maknae line and for choosing what characters you want the maknae line to play, head over to my patreon! Hope you enjoyed reading this part!

[kerryweaverlesbian]

I wrote another soppy angsty romantic destiel fic 😇 read it here on ao3 or below:

Cas wakes, as he often does when he sleeps, on his side with Dean wrapped around him. It's the early hours of morning, although the room is lit just as it was last night; the lamp on Cas’s side of Dean's bed stays on overnight. Neither of them enjoy being plunged into darkness. 

Dean's arm hangs heavily over his bare chest, his nose is pushed up into Cas’s hair, and Dean's knees have caught one of Cas’s thighs between them. It's warm, not just from their body heat and the comforter, but from the inside. He's never felt more at home than in Dean's arms. 

On Cas shifting forward a little, Dean shuffles forward and nuzzles his nose into the back of his neck. Cas stills, then grips Dean's wrist, overcome. A certain self-knowledge has been uncovered in his head, like a delightful worm found under a lifted rock. He didn't mean to wake him, but Dean grumbles into his skin, "Cas." 

"Go back to sleep," Cas tells him, but when Dean's arm shifts it crosses over the left side of his chest. 

"Your heart's beating like crazy. What's up?" Dean's voice is still slurred with sleep, pressed up as close to unconsciousness as he is to Castiel. 

"I just realised something," Cas says, bumping his thumb across the back of Dean's knuckles slowly which makes Dean half-hum contentedly. "I love you." 

The fact blankets them further, soft but undeniable. Dean inhales and exhales deeply twice, and then says, breathy, "Oh." 

"It's a surprise?" 

"No," Dean says, pressing his forehead to the base of Cas’s skull. Then: 

"Can you stop?" 

"No." The first comes out annoyed - how can Dean doubt him, even now? - but when Dean's arm tightens around him, Cas gentles, "No, Dean. I can't. I've tried." 

He has. Early on, sent to Heaven for disapline over and over for perceived slights against the Host he could barely understand. When Dean was the only thing standing between Cas and angelic redemption. When Dean has been callous, and bitter, and cruel. He's tried. Dean is too lovable for it to ever stick. 

"I'm afraid I will love you for the whole of my life." 

"Don't," Dean pleads, and it's not clear whether he means don't love me or don't tell me. Either way, Cas is going to let him down. 

"I love you," Cas repeats, firmly, "I have loved you. I will love you. That's all." 

"That's all," Dean echos, with a little huffed laugh. His voice is shaking, "Just, 'I love you, that's all'. What the hell, man?" 

"It's a new thought, I don't have a speech prepared." 

"You didn't know before? Seriously? When you - when we ripped up the rule book? You didn't know?" 

"I had my suspicions," Cas admits, and he goes willingly when Dean pulls at his shoulder so that Cas is on his back, looking up at Dean in the golden light of the bedside lamp. Oh. "You're beautiful." 

"Cas," Dean grumbles, looking away briefly but then back to Cas's face, a conflicted expression set into his features. "Cas..." 

That seems to be it for several long seconds, during which they examined each other openly. It's Dean who breaks eyecontact again first, casting his gaze out into the room. He rubs a hand over his own jaw roughly, and Cas sees his fingers pinch despite him trying to conceal it under the bolt of his jaw. Checking if it's a dream. Cas doesn't blame him. 

Dean takes a deep breath, then says, with difficulty and closed eyes, "I don't want you to." 

Cas tilts his head, and puts his fingers to the place Dean had pinched. Dean lets out a little cut off sound, a dimmed whine. 

"Is that true?" 

"Yes," Dean says, his voice tight - but he clutches the front of Cas’s shirt just as tightly. When Cas gently slides his palm up to Dean's cheek, Dean presses into it hard, his eyes still squeezed shut. Cas gives him the time he needs, moving his pinkie finger in soothing strokes next to Dean's crow's feet. Love, yes, it is love. Patient, kind and stubborn. That's the feeling that rises in Cas every time he gets the chance to look at Dean. He wouldn't trade it for anything. 

"I'm not-" Dean says eventually, taking a sharp breath in partway through, "You shouldn't feel that way." 

"I've had quite a lot of people tell me what I should be feeling. It hasn't stopped me thus far. No one has changed me as you have." 

"Don't say that. Don't blame me. I didn't do anything." 

Cas shakes his head, though Dean can't see it. It's a little humanoid habit he's picked up. One of those little things Heaven can't stand about him. One of hundreds. 

"Dean, I'm not blaming you. I'm thanking you." The loneliness of Dean's closed eyes is becoming too much to bare. "Will you look at me?" 

He does, and the action frees tears from his eyelashes. One runs down to Cas’s palm, and Cas wishes he could kiss the drop, to keep it safe forever. The green of Dean's eyes stands out strong against his wet lashes, and he blinks back more rising tears. All this from three simple words. 

Dean has a few words of his own to say. He presses the heel of his hand down on Cas’s forehead, like he's smiting him, and says, brokenly, "I've ruined you." 

"Dean," Cas says, struck with a burst of love in his chest, "you saved me." 

"No," Dean insists, pressing harder. "I've made you vulnerable. Now you're gonna - you're gonna die and it's my fault." 

"What are you talking about?" 

"Everyone. All the time. Everyone I-" Dean shuts his eyes again, and Cas misses him instantly, "Everyone I love. If I start to think it's possible then it's too late." 

Cas thinks about it seriously. "Maybe I will die." Dean makes another noise of suffering, so Cas tries to mitigate his words with another sweep of his little finger on Dean's face. "Dean. I might die. I can't promise you otherwise, with the lives we lead." 

"Stop," Dean moans, "Stop it. Why are you doing this to me? What did I do?" 

"You cared about me. You believed I could be better than I was, more than a tool for Heaven's will. You were right." 

"What good has it done you?" 

Cas narrows his eyes. "Don't insult me. Look at me." Dean complies, and swallows, his throat bobbing with it. "I'd rather die than never live. I'd rather love than be silent. And if I die, I will return to you. Always." 

The tears are running thick and fast now, Dean's face is red and his chest heaving. 

"Cas." He says again, beseeching, then he leans down. He kisses the back of his own hand, still pressed on Cas’s forehead, and it's Cas’s turn to close his eyes, just for a moment. "You don't know what you're doing to me." 

Cas thinks he might. They have both been in this partnership for a long time. They know each other well. 

"I have my suspicions." 

When Dean's eye catches his, Cas smiles, just a little, and it grows when Dean kisses him on the mouth, once, quick. 

"I liked that," Cas tells him, and Dean groans, then kisses him again, and again, another groan coming through from the back of his mouth when Cas kisses back. 

They stay that way, kissing tenderly for a small eternity, until Dean's alarm goes off at 5am. Cas makes a noise of complaint when Dean turns away and untangles their linked hands to switch it off, which makes Dean laugh. The tension and fear had slowly receded as they made out, replaced with a quiet, sparkling joy. 

"Thanks," Dean says, holding himself off a little from Cas rather than coming back for more. 

"You're welcome," Cas says, with a confused frown, which gets Dean smiling, toothy, "What for?" 

Dean shrugs with one shoulder. "I dunno. Everything. All of it. I can't believe you just said it as soon as you knew, man. You're supposed to hold that stuff in until you're about ready to explode whenever the other guy looks at you." 

"Is that what you were doing?" 

Another shrug, and a sly smile. "Hey, it worked didn't it?" 

"Hm. Well then, thank you too." 

Dean huffs, and settles his head down on Cas’s chest. Cas pets through Dean's hair, marvelling at how soft it feels, and gets a sleepy, pleased hum in response. 

"You're welcome, Cas," Dean mumbles his eyes fluttering shut, and that same warmth that pushed Castiel's realisation of love suffuses him again. 

Truly, he considers while Dean's breathing evens out to sleep again, here, he has always been welcome.

[whumpcereal]

behavior modification, part twenty-one

masterlist here.

content warnings for: EXPLICIT noncon/dubcon, noncon drugging, forced nudity, cages, conditioned whumpee, multiple whumpers, intimate whumpers, bbu/bbu-adjacent, psychological whump

part twenty-one, easier

It gets easier. 

Jack doesn’t know how, but he does know why. It has to get easier, or there will never be any relief. It was the same with Bill, with all the others; the more he fought, the worse everything hurt. And this, this “arrangement” with Ivan is never going to end. He may still have his name, he may not have been obliterated by the Drip, but Jack is property of WRU now. Just as he was always meant to be. 

He is good. Sweet. Compliant. He is an instrument of pleasure, and he serves his master well. 

And so, it gets easier because it has to. It’s the only way he can face his future, such as it is. 

Ivan is a good master. Even if the first time he took Jack was painful, it was for Jack’s own good. So that he would know better than to resist again. And he does know better now. He won’t resist. He can’t. This is what he wants. It is the only thing he can want. 

In the morning, he swallows Ivan down with his breakfast. Then, if Ivan doesn’t have any clients, he is allowed to go upstairs. He crawls on all fours like the pet that he is, but Ivan doesn’t muzzle him. There’s no need. Jack slips under Ivan’s desk, and he waits for the tap on his cheek that lets him know he is needed. Sometimes, Ivan rests in Jack’s mouth for hours, but Jack doesn’t complain. He’s used to it now. 

If Ivan has clients, Jack is left in his cage, the beads thrumming inside of him and Joe’s hoodie puddled beneath his head. He doesn’t fight the beads anymore. Instead, he chases the sensation, letting his sweat bathe his bare body. He doesn’t come, though. He knows better; his body knows better. He rises, and he waits. Ivan likes to watch when he returns, likes to listen to Jack’s wanton moans. Sometimes, Ivan watches for a very long time. He likes to watch Jack go blind with want. But Jack knows: he is allowed to want, but not to have. Ivan only gives him release every so often–just to keep things in working order, he says. 

In the evening, Jack drinks his water from a bowl at Ivan’s feet. It is cloudy and bitter, and he knows it is drugged, but it doesn’t matter; it’s better than the hood or the leather sack. When the pall of the drug settles around him, when he is warm and pliant and fuzzy and faraway, Ivan carries him upstairs. It wasn’t that way at first. At first, he was restrained or bent over the steel table or forced into position ten–his hands and knees–on the concrete floor. But now, he is such a good boy that he is allowed in the bed. Ivan doesn’t even need to chain him to the headboard anymore. 

Sometimes, Ivan keeps him in the bedroom overnight. Not in the bed, because pets do not sleep in beds. But he has a special cage beneath the box frame just for Jack; the latest accessory from WRU’s new line, Ivan says. There is a pillow and a blanket, because Jack is such a spoiled boy. On those nights, Jack sleeps like a baby. He can stretch out, at least; it is better than his basement cage, better than the soiled hoodie. The hoodie doesn’t smell like Joe anymore anyway. 

Joe is going to be so proud of him. That’s what Ivan says. Jack hopes it is true. 

It is evening again. Jack knows because his bowl is waiting, Ivan’s wingtips shining beside it. He doesn’t look at Ivan’s face; pets show deference to their masters, and Jack is a good pet. But he hears the brisk pop of Ivan’s snap, and he lurches forward on his bruised knees to drink. 

“That’s a good boy, Jackie,” Ivan murmurs, scratching his fingers through Jack’s tangled hair. The pressure feels good on his scalp, but Jack knows better than to stop drinking. He has to keep going until every last drop is gone. Until he’s gone with it. Good boys let themselves go. 

“You know,” Ivan goes on, “you’ve done such a marvelous job lately. I can see that you’ve really adapted to the training protocol, that you understand your role. And you’re flourishing.” 

Jack keeps lapping at the water, but his cheeks color with something that might be pleasure. He’s done a good job. He is who he was always meant to be. 

Maybe he will be able to go home soon. He can show Joe everything that he’s learned. Start their new lives together. He knows his place now. He will make Joe so happy. And that will make him happy. He knows it will. There is no happiness but pleasing his master–his owner. 

“There are a few hurdles for you to clear before you’re done with training, my boy,” Ivan says. “But I know you’ll handle them with gusto. Won’t you?” 

The bowl is empty. Jack’s bare ass slides back to his knees, and he nods without looking up. “Yes, sir.” 

Ivan laughs. “Good to hear. Now, tonight, we’ll stay down here in the basement.” 

To his credit, Jack’s heart no longer plummets. It doesn’t matter where he is, so long as he is giving Ivan what he wants. That’s all that matters. 

“Have I done something wrong, sir?” Jack asks. His voice wavers, just like it is supposed to. 

“Not at all, sweet boy, not at all. I just have a very special surprise for you. A challenge. Do you think you’re up to the task, my darling?” 

“Yes, sir.” Jack folds over his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor. 

Ivan’s toe flicks against Jack’s ass crack, and Jack spreads his knees accordingly. 

“I can see that you are,” Ivan laughs. “That’s good. Now, Jackie, I want you to assume position ten.” 

Jack shifts to his hands and knees without a second thought. 

“Excellent, my boy. Now, you stay–” Ivan holds his hand flat in front of Jack’s face, “And I’ll be right back with your surprise, hmm?”  

Ivan sweeps out of the room, leaving the basement door open, and it doesn’t occur to Jack that there might have been a time when he would have tried to follow. To fight. But nothing occurs to Jack at all. He waits, because that’s what he’s been instructed to do. His head is empty. 

Ivan isn’t gone for long; only a few minutes have passed when Jack hears the patter of footsteps on the basement stairs. 

“You’re not going to believe how far he’s come,” Ivan says. He isn’t speaking to Jack.  

“Oh, I’m sure I can believe it,” another voice answers. 

The voice is familiar, but Jack can’t quite place it. Whatever Ivan laces the water with is starting to take effect; his ears rush warm and his joints feel like wax. His head lolls on his neck, but he stays on his hands and knees. He will not break position. Cannot.

“Well, Mr. Kenyon! Look at you!”

Mr. Kenyon. The name swims in Jack’s brain. No one’s called him that in so long. It doesn’t even feel like his name anymore. 

There’s a gentle nudge at Jack’s backside. “It’s alright, Jackie. You can look up. Show our guest your pretty face.” 

Jack looks up, blinking against the overhead light. The man’s face is shadowed, but even so, Jack recognizes him. The sharp chin, the beady eyes, the whispy mouse brown hairline. Immediately, Jack’s balance falters, and he sinks back over his feet. 

“Aw, now, Jackie. Don’t be scared. You remember Dr. Seligman, don’t you?” Ivan kneels beside Jack and runs a careful finger over the ridges of Jack’s spine. “He’s the one who helped bring you here to me.” 

Jack squeezes his eyes shut, even though he isn’t supposed to. He remembers, just barely. Carl’s low snarl, the smoke detector, the drinks–drinks that Seligman mixed. Snatches of foggy time. Being shunted down stairs. His clothes being cut from his body. Hands, shifting, groping, pulling. Waking up, bound in a straitjacket, in this basement. 

Because Jack was taken. Because this is never what he wanted at all. But now, he doesn’t know how to want anything else. 

“Open your eyes, sweet boy,” Ivan coos, but his hand rests heavy on the back of Jack’s neck. A warning. 

Jack complies. Seligman’s horsey face is just inches from his own.

“Dr. Peters was right about you, wasn’t he?” Seligman’s lips creep into a wet smile. “You’re just perfect.”

And Jack is perfect. When Seligman caresses his cheek with papery fingers, Jack lets his mouth fall open. When Seligman teases his soft palate with a jagged fingernail, Jack does not gag. 

“No alarm reaction at all,” Seligman says in wonder. He wipes his wet fingers on Jack’s cheek and swats at Jack’s chin, a silent command for Jack to close his mouth; Jack does. “This is extraordinary, Ivan.”

“Well, I appreciate that.” Ivan’s nails twine with the hair at the nape of Jack’s neck. “He’s almost ready, I think. But I’m still dosing him with a sedative on occasion. That’s part of the reason I asked you to come.”

Seligman stands, still studying Jack from above. “What do you mean?”

“I thought we’d run an experiment,” Ivan says. His touch withdraws, and Jack whines. Ivan only chuckles. “Good boy, Jackie. You just be patient while we discuss. Position five.”

Jack folds in half, a penitent at worship. He listens, but he doesn’t really hear. He is boneless and warm, any real understanding lost in the fog that gets thicker with every slow breath.

“What’s your proposal, Ivan?”

“He’s already been dosed tonight. I say we do what we discussed now, with his typical drugs, and then repeat the exercise tomorrow, without sedating him.”

Seligman sucks his teeth. “So you’ll know if his compliance is drug dependent or not.”

“Precisely.”

Seligman half-laughs. “I suppose I could be talked into it.”

“All for the sake of science, of course.”

“Oh, of course.”

Faraway as Jack is, his stomach still jolts. He knows he’ll do what’s asked of him—there is no asking, not really—but there is an unfamiliar pinprick of fear worrying his belly; he hasn’t been scared in a long time. Still, he stays where he is and waits for instruction.

“You’ll take his mouth,” Ivan says, his voice cool and matter-of-fact, “and I’ll take him from behind.”

No. They can’t do this. Jack can’t do this. He’s never done it before. He is so good, so good at everything else. He can show them, if only they’ll let him. He wants to raise his head, to protest, but he is too fuzzy, too well-trained. He doesn’t move.

“If you insist,” Seligman replies.

“He’s quite adept at oral stimulation. I’ve made note of it in his file.”

Jack closes his eyes again. Yes, he is good at that. He’s always been good at that. Even Bill thought so. But now, he is practiced. A professional. 

“I’m sure the agency will be pleased.”

Ivan laughs. “And so will you.” He claps his hands. “Up, Jackie. Ten.” 

Jack raises himself to hands and knees, and he keeps his eyes on the slate gray floor. Seligman’s feet move away, but Jack hears the gentle drop of a zipper. Ivan squats down in front of him, tucking his fingers beneath Jack’s chin. 

“Now, my good boy, you’re going to show off all of your training. You are so close to being ready for your next step, but we still need to assess, don’t we?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack whispers. 

“Good. Now, when Dr. Seligman is ready, you’re going to take him in your mouth, and you are going to make him come. You can do that, can’t you, Jackie?” 

Jack nods. He can do that. It doesn’t matter if he wants to. Of course he wants to. Of course he can do this. It’s what he was made for, isn’t it? What he’s been training for?

Ivan grips the sides of Jack’s jaw with punishing strength. “What’s that, sweet boy?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Ivan’s fingers relax. “Right. While you’re doing that, I’m going to fuck you. Doesn’t that sound nice?” 

The pinprick of fear tears into Jack’s gut, widening, burning. But he nods again, the world blurry in front of his eyes. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, my darling,” Ivan says. He presses a kiss to Jack’s forehead. “Isn’t this nice, Jackie? Letting others do for you. No choices to make. Just the simple kind of life you were always meant for.” 

“He’s a very lucky boy.” Seligman’s naked, downy-haired legs appear just beyond Ivan’s shoulder. 

“He is. And his Joe will be so proud.” 

Seligman laughs. “Prescott? Oh, Jesus. I’d forgotten.” 

Jack whimpers before he can stop himself. They shouldn’t make fun of Joe. Once Jack gets home, he’ll prove what a big man Joe is. He’ll let Joe do whatever he wants, the way he always should have. 

“Yes, Jackie works very hard for his Joe.” 

“Does Prescott even know–” 

Ivan pops to his feet. “Enough talk, I think. Jack knows what to do. Let him show you.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Seligman says. 

“Alright, Jackie.” Ivan’s voice drifts behind. “Position one. Let Dr. Seligman guide you.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Jack pushes himself to his feet, but before he can rise to standing, Seligman’s dry hands wrap around his shoulders, holding Jack’s trunk parallel to the floor. Jack hates the feeling of the man’s skin on his, but it doesn’t matter; what he feels is unimportant, and he knows it. Still, he shivers, and Seligman squeezes his shoulders. 

“Open that beautiful mouth, Mr. Kenyon,” Seligman says. 

Jack follows orders, and when Seligman slips himself–limp, pink, cold–between Jack’s lips, Jack immediately does what’s expected of him. He flattens his tongue, pushes himself down, lets Seligman guide him back and forth, back and forth. 

“My goodness,” Seligman breathes. “My goodness.” 

Jack doesn’t have any goodness of his own. He is almost grateful when he feels the familiar warmth of Ivan’s hands on his hips.

“That’s it, sweet boy, keep going. Don’t let me distract you,” Ivan murmurs. He kneads his thumbs against Jack’s tailbone, using his knuckles to tease at the cleft between Jack’s buttocks. 

Jack isn’t distracted. His cheeks hollow, and when Seligman’s grip grinds against the hinges of his jaw, Jack moans. The sound is protracted, muffled by the weight of Seligman against his tongue, but it doesn’t matter; Seligman laughs and pats his cheek. He’s hard now, and his hips thrust forward against Jack’s waiting face. 

“That’s right, Mr. Kenyon. You are the star pupil, aren’t you?” 

Jack knows the words are wrong, but just now, he can’t explain why. There is nothing but sensation, nothing but a body that floats in space, ready to be used however his betters see fit. He lets Seligman’s pubis press against his nose; he will breathe when he can. There’s no reason to fight. 

“He is quite teachable,” Ivan agrees. 

He slaps Jack’s ass, sending Jack’s body forward until Seligman is teasing his throat. Jack’s buttocks are cleaved apart, stretched so far open that he almost feels like he’s being ripped in two. But it’s alright. Ivan is only getting ready to prepare him; Jack is lucky. 

There’s a soft hocking sound, and then something warm and slippery drops between Jack’s ass cheeks. Ivan’s thumb slips between the mounds of skin and muscle, and then he circles Jack’s hole. 

“Hold him still for a moment,” Ivan says over Jack’s head, and Seligman slows his rhythm, smashing Jack’s face between his sandpaper palms. 

“Christ, Ivan. You’ve done a wonderful job.” 

One of Ivan’s hands finds purchase on Jack’s hip again; his grip pulses around the bone. “We’ll see, won’t we?” 

Ivan guides himself down, and then, with one sticky thrust, he is inside of Jack. He ruts forward, gently, just once. A kindness. Seligman eases himself forward too, laughing a little. But Jack isn’t afraid. He is just a good boy. The warmth spreads inside his head, and his throat flutters as Seligman pushes into it.

Ivan rocks against him. “Now, sweet boy, now, we’re going to see what you’re really made of.”

taglist: @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @sparrowsage, @aut0psy1, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @termsnconditions-apply, @darlingwhump, @squishablesunbeam, @dont-be-gentle-please, @deltaxxk, @irishwhiskeygrl, @keeper-of-all-the-random-things, @hold-him-down, @peachy-anime-blog-blog, @whumpyblogthing, @sowhumpful, @considerablecolors, @ramadiiiisme, @sunnie, @sadboysanonymous, @panic-whump

[vanillaxoshi]

Tanah's was a joy to write simply because theres some personal experience within it

Enjoy :D

––––––––––■––––––––––

In Tanah's opinion, he fully believes he isn't a petty person.

If he can avoid having negative feelings towards someone, he'll try his damn hardest

But he is the 3rd child of a sibling of 7; ex youngest, experienced older brother, and certified "mom" of the siblings. Most of all, he is a brother and BOI is he allowed to be petty to them

What got him in such a sour mood you may ask?

Wellllll lets just say he has not been having a very good day. And before you ask, yes it has everything to do with his brothers.

A scowl is formed on Tanah's face as he subtly clutches his stomach, he seems to be lost in his head.

Angin forcing him to try a new abomination (he won't even give it the dignity of calling it a "pastry") resulting in the countless trips to bathroom nation. His stomach still hurts and it has been HOURS, Yaya's deathly cookies are better than this..

...

Ok maybe not but hes spiteful right now

Api pranking him was not appriciated at all and HOW did he convince Shielda to help him is beyond him (you'd think she would be the responsible twin), no worries though because he already prepared revenge for him.

No he does not care that it was accidental and that he was not the supposedly "target" of said prank. It still happened.

Clearly this means war.

Daun and Cahaya blowing his EAR off did not help, look. He loves those two, he really does. But he did not need to hear 200+ remedies that can help sedate Angin's poison

Petir DITCHED him with these heathens that he has to call brothers

Now he was proud to be a very mature and level headed person.. but hes still a 17 year old

Air technically didn't do anything but his ignorance will be remembered that lazy panda bear, sue him for holding a grudge

..

..

'This walk has not been helping. For that, Remi you're also on my list'

Not only is his stomach killing itself, his legs are crumbling now too

'This day is just not my day'

Sitting down on the nearest bench he decides to distract himself with his surroundings before he starts planning murder. Looking around to fine other things to focus on

Like that dog covered in mud, boy he does not want to be its owner right now

Or that cowboy cat that's threatening a woman, now usually he'd help but hes compromised so best of luck lady you're on your own

The sun is really warm this evening, casting golden rays to the surrounding foliage, Mix with the wind thats blowing leafs around; it creates a beautiful artistry that he wished he could paint if he was an artist

'Maybe i should take up painting.. i could practice painting on my sculptures'

"Ta.. nah?"

That soft voice broke him out of his observation, looking to his side to find the little sunlight of the family.

As much as hes still annoyed by the younger's previous endeavors, he doesn't really have the heart to dismiss the little guy

'Trying to help shouldn't be rewarded by punishment'

Putting on a soft smile he looked to the little sunlight

"Hey bud, didn't see you there." he looks to the container Haya is holding, "what's this?"

Since Cahaya is holding the drink (at least he assumes it's a drink) he couldn't really write, his brow furrowed in concentration, Tanah could see the spark of hesitation and the troublesome look adorned on the youngest's face

Filled with renewed patience and understanding he went to grab the drink so Cahaya could write

"... its ca- chamo..mile green tea"

Surprise but also pride exploded inside Tanah, bitter feeling forgotten he pat the little sunlight's head as encouragement

"Good job buddy!" He praized, chuckling when he saw the ruby red shade that spread in Haya's face. "Why'd you get it though?"

Distress colors Cahaya's face this time, it seemed he'd reach his quota of words for today since he just shoves the drink unto Tanah's chest

Giggling even more at the youngest's display, fondness rose inside of him as he went to take the hot beverage out of the little sunlight's hands

"..for Tanah."

His hand stopped mere inches from the drink, shock adorning his face

'Did he just..'

It feels like an earthquake is happening through his whole body by how much hes shaking from pure joy

Though seeing Haya cowering and covering his face with the drink snaps him out of his cuteness aggression overload

'Dear God, i'm weak'

His face hurts from how much hes grinning, practically splitting it half

Showering the sunlight with so much praise and affirmation, screw whoever is looking at them weird; they probably have a sad loveless life

'He said my name, he said my name!' The only repeating thought he could comprehend right now

Looking around simply out of instinct to see if any of the other siblings heard, only for confusion and worry to consume him soon after

"Sunlight, thank you for the tea.. but why are you here alone?" Hugging the younger close, he looks around even more. "You're not alone are you? We've talked about this, why didn't you ask someon–"

Feeling the tapping on his side he looks to Cahaya who's raising his hand

He calmly points to a shop, a tea shop more specifically; the Jasmine Dragon

Narrowing his eyes he could barely make out the figure that seems to be in the shape of his 5th brother

'Oh right, him and Daun were talking about remedies for my stomach'

His whole body shook with how much love hes feeling. The unfortunate victim here is Cahaya, who is forced to accept the killer hug that he gives him

As he made his way to the shop with Cahaya leading the way, beverage in hand, he went to grab phone; a mission on his eyes for the perfect revenge presented itself on a golden platter

He might be the current "golden" child. But he's 17 year old with a grudge, and man is he petty

"Why does your face look evil, who's dying?" Daun questioned when they reached him. Sending the message, he beamed at Daun with practiced ease, "It's nothing don't worry about it, what have you two been up to anyway?"

Thoroughly distracted, the duo starts to go back and forth describing their day and how they tried to find the perfect tea to deal with his poison for him

Tea in hand and ironically stomachache completely forgotten, Tanah enjoyed listening with a fond smile on his face

.

.

.

✨️Old People Council✨️

"I win btw"

"WHAT"

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

"Congrats."

"Audio proof??"

"nice"

"I feel like i have a disadvantage this isn't fair >:("

"You all better pay up, you included Petir"

"Fuck."

This is such another sweet one

im guessing Angin is trying out new recipes but they turned out bad? poor Tanah, having to be the one to put up with everything, meanwhile, Petir's in college, just left him.

also old people council, is that their group chat and their group chat name?? ha-

loving tanah being mischievous, and petty, love those sides of him

the jasmine dragon reminds me of that tea shop from Iroh in ATLA is that what that is???

I could def imagine Cahaya's scrunched up face trying to answer, its adorable. and tanah, i relate to you with that cuteness agression.