#but hey at least it feels meaningful

[senselessalchemist]

finally have an actual job so maybe I can stop being a hermit and get officially divorced and feel sort of financially stable and possibly try dating again and get a cat ??? is that allowed? no I probably shouldn't unless I get a bigger place and can have two cats to be friends

downside is when the fuck am I supposed to draw dumb comics if I'm working for hours and hours a day? Hell and suffering on earth. maybe i should get an iPad or a whatthefuck ever and draw on the commute so I don't lose even more of my meager art skills

[brainrotdotorg]

thank you supereyepatchwolf for making me enjoy my failing major again because i get to make video games in it < 33333

[bare1ythere]

eepy

[floral-hex]

Writing is stupid! It’s dumb! It doesn’t make any sense! It’s all just jumbles that don’t mean anything and I hate it forever goodbye!

[kiingsroar]

I’m so tired of seeing cinco de mayo stuff this day annoys me so much.

[luveline]

spoilers for spider-man: across the spider-verse below

please don’t read any further if you are avoiding spoilers

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨’𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

miguel hops dimensions expecting a new family, and a new life. he’s not expecting you —featuring a tired miguel and his confused but adoring wife. or, miguel gets the comfort he so desperately needs. requested here. fem!reader, 2.5k

tw. gun mention/no graphic scenes

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Miguel seems different when he comes home that night. You've loved him for years, you know his face. He looks slightly younger and older at the same time, impossibly so. He looks like he has bad news and he doesn't want to tell you. Something harrowing. How else can you explain his expression? 

You stand up from the dinner table. "Hey," you say gently. "Is there something wrong?" 

He isn't convincing when he answers, "What? Uh, no. Nothing's wrong." 

"Something looks wrong." 

You step in front of him and lift your chin. Usually, he'd look down with a smirk, or at the very least a smile, but he seems weary. You lift your hand to his cheek, pinching it between your fingers without malice. 

"Smile, handsome. You have a lovely smile." 

He smiles. His lips part just slightly. "You… you really love me. You're happy." 

"We're happy," you correct. "Me, you, and Gabs forever, right?" 

"Gabs?" he asks. 

"Don't start with me. Gabriella's a mouthful. A beautiful mouthful," you concede. "I still think we should've named her Sofia. And yeah, Miguel. I love you. Really really. Don't forget it." 

You make him sit at the kitchen table. It's a selfish manoeuvre; you want him to sit so you can actually reach his hair. Your husband is the tallest man you've ever met. 

"Did you get a haircut?" you ask, running your fingers through his hair slowly. He shivers at your touch, and tilts his head back in question. "You did. That's such a betrayal, my love. I've been cutting your hair for going on six years now, I'm suddenly not good enough?" 

"You're good enough," he says. He really sounds so strange. 

"I'm joking. Miguel, if there's something wrong, you really need to tell me. I can make it better. Well, I can try." You bite your lip, unnerved by his quiet, solemn air. 

"Am I being weird?" he asks.

"No," you say, worried he thinks you're judging him. You never would. (He's being really weird.) "Of course not, you're just quiet tonight, that's all. Did you have a bad day at work?" 

"I– I got mugged. On the way home from work. I forgot the– the milk." 

"You what?" you ask, eyes widening in shock. Miguel's kind of gigantic. You've always said that you pity the fool who tries it, but apparently he's less hardy than you thought. A mugging explains his weird behaviour these last five minutes, at least. "What happened? Sweetheart, are you okay?" 

You take his face into both hands. He has dark circles under his eyes and a scratch along his jaw, but he seems unhurt. You suppose being attacked would age you instantaneously too. 

"Miguel, are you in shock? Should I take you to the hospital?" 

"I'm okay. I just feel strange." 

"Are you sure?” He nods hurriedly. You purse your lips. “I'll make you something warm to drink, that'll help. As long as you're not hurt, right? Did he take your wallet? We'll have to cancel your credit card." 

Miguel catches your shirt before you can go too far. 

"Hm?" you hum in question. 

Miguel visibly deliberates. His eyebrows lift ever so slightly. "Could I hug you?" 

The hurting and worry you have for him intensify before falling on the back-burner. You can shove your own feelings aside easily if he needs comforting. 

"I don't think you have to ask me," you say, offering your arms. 

Miguel is usually a short but meaningful hugger. You've hugged so many times and in what feels like every place on earth, and he's such a tall man that even if he doesn't mean for them to be, his arms are all encompassing.

It surprises you that this hug is different. He's tentative. When his hand falls to the small of your back it slots into place, and you can feel his relief like a palpable thing. 

"You’re okay," you say, your lips at his crown, your legs between his.

He's keeping space between you, and you don't like it. You press yourself as close to him as possible, your arms behind his shoulders, cupping the back of his head. Soft hair tickles your palm.

"Was it scary?" 

"Was what scary?" he asks. You don't mention his little sniff. He's smelling your hair. 

"Being mugged? Did he have a gun?" 

"Yeah, he did." 

"Oh, I see. There's no shame in being scared, you know that?" 

"I'm not scared. I wasn't scared when it happened. I just wanted to come home to you." 

You frown. His admission is like a barb in your chest, aimed true for your heart. "I'm so glad you did," you confess against his forehead, a murmur of sound. "So, so glad. I don't know what I'd do without you." 

You kiss his head three times in a row. The last kiss lingers, his arms slackening around you. 

You pull away, not wanting to smother him. Whoever's watching knows he's had enough of you these last few years. 

"Where–" Miguel clears his throat. "Where's Gabriella?" 

"She's in her room. Call her." 

You're hoping time with her will bring him back into focus. He's clearly more affected by this than he's willing to say. You don't know how you feel about it. Terrified, because you could've lost him. Euphoric that you didn't. You'd had this funny feeling all day long, and it's weird, you’d felt that something bad happened, a moment at the sink with Gabriella singing in her room, the clock ticking on the wall. Miguel late, but promising to bring the groceries you needed home with him before dinner. 

"Gabriella?" he calls up the stairs. You watch from the stove. 

You'll grab the pan and make him some hot cocoa. Just as soon as he stops looking scared. 

"Daddy?" Gabriella asks back. She's audibly ecstatic, and her footsteps are a stampede from her bedroom. You can see her from the kitchen when she gets to the bottom of the stairs. "Dad, pick me up!" 

"Oh, right," Miguel says, leaning down to hold her. 

He pulls her with all the grace of an elephant to his chest, and she nearly chins him. 

"Woah, careful." 

"Dad, you're super late. Mom said I can yell at you for being late." 

"You can yell at me, if you want to." He gives her a curious look. "I'm sorry for taking so long." 

Gabriella tilts her head to the side, dark hair shifting. She's a gorgeous little girl and her dad can't withstand it, melting as you hoped he would, the taut string of his back finally cut in two.  

"I don't want to yell at you," she whispers. 

"Good, because I don't want you to yell," he whispers back. 

Gabriella leans back in his arms and giggles thickly. He almost drops her, and has to readjust his hold on her back. 

"I'm so happy you're home!" she cheers, bringing her little hands up together from her chest and thrusting them out like fireworks. "You work too much! I thought doctors was s'posed to make everyone better and go home." 

"I'm not that kind of doctor," he says. 

You turn from where you've brought cocoa powder and milk to an emulsified simmer on the stovetop and beam at him. It's your favourite thing in the whole world when she mixes it up. Ever since she found his ID card with DR. written clear as day before his name, she's been under the impression that he works at the general hospital. Alchemex might break medical thresholds, but it is far from a hospital. 

"Are you having hot cocoa with your dad?" you ask Gabriella. 

She gasp in excitement and lists toward you. Miguel almost drops her for a second time. "Yes, oh my gosh!" 

"Well, come and sit. What mug?" 

Gabriella can't decide on what mug she wants; there's the orange cat with too many whiskers, there's the black one with bright white stars. After some deliberation, she decides on her and Miguel's matching daddy-daughter mugs.

"You're having some too, right?" he asks you. 

"Don't I always?" you ask. "Though I do want to protest the mugs. Where's my mug? Don't I deserve number one mom?" You kiss the top of Gabriella's head where she languishes in Miguel's lap, before placing their hot cocoa down far from her arm's reach. "It's hot." 

Miguel doesn't touch his. You blow cold air at Gabriella's and dip your fingertip into it periodically, content to spend some time with them both in amicable quiet. Gabriella just loves him to pieces, and she leans back in his arms with her eyes closed, basking in his closeness. 

She squints at you with one eye. "Dad?" 

Miguel doesn't answer. You nudge his foot. 

"What?" he asks.

"You're not doing the thing." 

"The thing?" 

You frown. 

"Yeah, dad." She huffs and curls his arm manually across her front. "Please, I want the kisses." 

He looks at you, completely lost. You're feeling similarly confused. "She wants you to kiss her hair," you say, wondering if perhaps he's suffering from stress related amnesia. 

He leans down carefully and kisses her hair. It's not the usual enthusiastic kiss, and he doesn't bother blowing in her ear after. 

Gabriella glares at him. "My ear!" 

"Blow in her ear," you mouth. 

He blows gently into her ear. She shivers, shudders, and laughs up a storm. 

When the cocoa's been drunk and the mugs washed and put away, Gabriella races upstairs, promising to return with a storybook and the drawing she made earlier in the day once she’s changed into her pyjamas. Miguel looks less lost than he had. In fact, he looks normal. The warm drink has put colour in his cheeks, and his daughter's cuddles have done their job. He's relaxed. He's forgotten the fear of the mugging, you're almost sure of it. 

You waver beside him. "Can I sit with you, or am I too heavy?" 

"Why would you be too heavy?" he asks. 

"You always say I'm too heavy," you say, sitting down on his thighs. They feel solid, a little different from usual. Miguel works out, but this is strange. He must be more tense than you thought. "It's your worst joke." 

"I'm sorry. I won't say it if it upsets you," he says, his voice rough and low. 

"Who said anything about that?" He's never called you heavy to be cruel. 

"Sorry," he apologises again. "I think all the excitement today messed me up." 

You spread your fingers wide across his chest, his heart beating a surface below. "It's okay. You don't have to react any one way…" You rub the tip of your nose against his jaw lightly. "I'm so glad you're okay. I had this weird feeling like something bad happened to you, you know?" 

Miguel laughs and coughs at the same time. It borders on being distressed. He's really worrying you. "You did?" he asks. 

"Mm-hm. But you're okay." You work hard to sound sure. 

His hand slides between your legs, fingertips digging into the soft inside of your upper thigh, though it doesn't stay there. He pulls away, looking flustered. "Sorry." 

"For what?" You blink. 

"I don't know." 

You laugh and press a kiss to the column of his throat, your nose squished against him. "I was thinking we'd watch that new movie tonight, with Harry Woodson, but it has guns and stuff. Would that still be okay?" 

He puts his hand behind your ear and guides your head back to look you in the eye. It's a familiar touch. He looks like himself again, though you truly are offended by his haircut. Maybe something happened at work and fried it off. 

"You're really something special," he says quietly. 

"How so?" 

His face softens with your flirting tone. "You're kind. You're so kind. I've never met someone like you." 

"What are you talking about?" you mumble. It's your turn to feel flustered, jellified by the earnestness lining his features. 

"You're sweet, and soft, and so pretty," he says, matching your tone. He's looking at you like he's seeing you for the first time. 

You understand the feeling. Sometimes you look at him and can't believe he's your love. 

"Soft," you repeat. "Are you trying to say something?" 

"Like that. That joke. You don't even sound mad." 

"You don't have to be so amazed. I've been like this since we met, haven't I? I'm hardly ever angry with you." You follow down from his eye to his jaw with your knuckle, tracing a tear he hasn't shed. He's spun you into thoughtfulness, and more than that —reverential fondness for him aches in the very centre of your stomach.  

"I must have some good luck," he says. 

His near death experience has inspired a wave of sappiness. 

You lean in until your forehead touches his, giving him time to close his eyes or lean away if he wants to. 

"I love you," you say simply. "You're not lucky, you're amazing, and all this good you see in me? I see it in you, O'Hara." You huff a laugh, breath fanning over his top lip as you steal a wonky kiss. You pull back. "You're sure–" 

Miguel kisses you. His hand flies to the back of your neck and his lips are eager, his head tilted to one side to accommodate your nose. He deepens the kiss and it's a mess, really, nothing like his usual kisses, no practised ease, nor confident touches. His fingertips push at the hairs lining the nape of your neck as though he's not sure what to do with his hand. It's like kissing him for the very first time. 

It's not a bad kiss. 

You kiss back slowly. You're the steadying constant to his hotheadedness, in kissing and in everything else, pulling time into an endless stretch of his mouth under yours, his body heat seeping into your skin. 

The sharp point of a tooth catches your bottom lip. You gasp into his mouth and flinch away from him. 

"Um, ouch? What was that, handsome, did you get your teeth filed to spikes?" you ask, probing your lip, a flood of giggles slipping between your fingers. 

He looks at you like you've lit the sky one star at a time. 

"Sorry," he says. "I'll be more careful, I swear." 

"Sure," you laugh. "Well, you'll have to be more careful later. You promised Gabriella you'd read her the Wishing Tree, and she's expecting a performance. Voices included." 

He adjusts you in his lap with more strength than you knew he had. "Will you help?" 

You'll always help him. He doesn't even need to ask. 

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!!

[kindestegg]

Okay, sorry. Sorry I haven't been able to sit down and make new analysis posts at all. But hey. Look.

I feel like people could stand to remember that this famous, wonderful little scene that has so much heart, is directed at The Collector.

Do you understand what that implies? Every single person happily waving here has to at least be acquainted enough with them to want to do this and know to do this. Yes, Luz calls for it initially, but she doesn't even NEED to say what to do, just goes "on the count of three". And reminder, she also did not know he would be doing this, there's no way she could have rehearsed it.

This means that they are on such good terms with everyone here that they know to wave them a happy goodbye, greet them, recognize them. They're his friends. Every single person here.

Collector did it. He has tons of friends who will always happily greet him whenever he comes by. And maybe that isn't the same as a found family, but isn't this also just as meaningful?

[emphistic]

Can't Relate to Desperation

A/N: requested by anon — i apologize for how long this took; this was fun to write

— just a heads-up: this is preschool!Sukuna

“—I was wondering if you could help me with a little favor.”

“Sure, shoot.” Your friend was surprised to see Sukuna — out of all people — approach them, but they didn't show it.

“Y/N’s birthday is pretty soon, and I don’t have any ideas on what to get her.” Sukuna had known you for a long while. But that didn’t mean he knew what you wanted for a birthday present. I mean, he obviously knows your likes and dislikes. Your hobbies and pastimes. Your favorite colors, foods, drinks, movies, even. But none of those gave him an idea for a meaningful birthday present.

“Ohh, yeah. I'm getting her a matching pajama set! Because we’re going to have a sleepover after her party.”

Sukuna mentally raised a brow at that, he thought you guys were already planning on having a sleepover. And he most definitely did not remember inviting anyone else to the sleepover.

“I didn't ask.” Sukuna wanted to get this questionnaire over with already, and go back to playing with you on the swings or something like that.

“Hey! That’s not nice. I’ll tell the teacher.”

“Can you help me or not?”

“No, because you’re a meanie. And meanies don’t deserve my help.” Your friend crossed her arms and turned away from Sukuna, emitting a little ‘hmph’ sound.

“Okay, okay. I'm sorry. Can you just help me?” He couldn't believe he just apologized to someone other than you.

“Fine,” your friend huffed out, turning back around.

All the while, you watched this exchange happen from afar. Earlier, you were back in the classroom, digging through your backpack to find the necklace you had purchased with your early birthday money from your parents. You had planned to give it to Sukuna, but it currently looked like he had acquired another friend.

And, what made it even more disappointing was the fact you spent at least ten minutes looking for him. You waited outside the restrooms, searched the playground, dug through the sandpit — in case he got buried, and even checked the cubbies. Then you took a lap outside, and found him talking to another girl, who happened to be your [second] best friend — (Sukuna being the first).

The smile plastered across your face immediately dropped, and so did the necklace in your hands.

It’s not like Sukuna wasn’t allowed to have other friends, it’s the fact that he doesn't — by choice, obviously — except for you. And it's been that way, ever since you complimented his hair, saying, “I love the pink! It is my favorite color,” which was contrary to many of your other classmates. Most kids actually made fun of him for it, albeit Sukuna would always glare in their direction and the laughter and teasing would stop in an instant.

You couldn't believe your eyes. He usually ignored people who tried to talk to him and pushed aside those who wanted to make friends. So why was he suddenly talking to your friend? Was he trying to replace you? Did he get bored of you? Why were they talking in such a secluded area behind the garbage cans? Was he trying to hide all of this from you?

You wiped your soon watering eyes with your sleeve, grabbed the necklace off the ground, and quickly ran in the opposite direction.

Coincidentally, as soon as Sukuna got all the information he needed from your friend, he saw your figure turning around. Why were you here? He thought.

“Thanks.” Sukuna ran away from your friend, and as soon as he caught up to you, he said, “Hey, where are you going?”

“Nowhere.” You didn't turn around to face him, continuing to run away.

Sukuna came to a halt, staring at your back. What's your problem? Sukuna decided it was probably nothing, and that you just wanted some alone time, so he left you to your alone time and resorted to playing in the sandpit by himself. But it didn't feel the same as when you played with him. The sand was too warm, the sandcastle was off-center with the hills made of sand, the birds’ singing was too loud. Nothing was right.

You had to admit, avoiding Sukuna was like avoiding the sun. You could hide out under roofs and loiter inside the restrooms, but you had to get out eventually. And eventually you did; recess had ended and you had to get back to the classroom to continue your lessons. And who did you sit next to? Take a wild guess.

When you sat down in your seat, you scooted your chair as far as possible away from the boy beside you — who stayed still, utterly confused at your actions, and wondering why the hell you were being this way.

Then, your class was assigned a group project. Sukuna turned to you, expecting the two of you to pair up, but to his surprise, you asked another classmate to pair up instead.

Okay, he thought. Maybe you just want to get social with other people; that's fine. That's normal.

What wasn’t normal was the fact that you continued to blatantly ignore the pink-haired boy even at lunchtime.

Sukuna asked you his usual question, “Do you want to share my juicebox?” And, thank Heavens, you finally looked him in the eye. But then you flatly said, “No,” before turning around and starting to eat your own lunch.

Sukuna frowned. “What’s your deal today? Are you allergic to apple juice now or something?”

“No.” Going back to what you did earlier, you didn't face him this time, choosing to eat your sandwich in peace.

Usually, you gave him the crust of your sandwiches to eat, because you didn’t like how they tasted, and he did, but you decided against that today. Which was a shame, Sukuna was looking forward to eating your sandwich’s crust.

“Geez, okay. Be that way, I guess.” Sukuna stabbed the straw into his juicebox and drank. But like the sandpit, it just wasn't the same.

This continued all day. And I mean all day.

Sukuna was starting to get real upset. This frustrated him deeply. He swore that if you kept on avoiding him and running away every single time he tried to approach you, he was going to end up with white hairs at the age of four.

Did you not want to be his friend anymore? Did you finally grow to dislike his pink hair that you once loved so much? He hoped the answers to those questions were a definite ‘no’.

He hoped the answer to those questions was a definite ‘no’.

Finally defeated and having given up on his searching for you all over school, he walked to the playground, hoping that swinging would clear his head. And God, he was so thankful he did just that. Because upon entering the play area, he found you, already sitting on the swings and swinging sadly, by yourself. You were swinging sadly on the swings, yes, indeed you were.

It was quite an amusing sight, to anyone who didn’t know the context. But Sukuna did, to an extent, at least. He knew you were upset, and that the likely cause was him. It was always him. Always. Good or bad, happy or sad, he was always the cause, for you. But you wouldn’t have it any other way, right?

Your head was low, focused on staring at the ground beneath you as you swung back and forth. Sukuna thought you looked cute like that — your braids dangling in front of your face, as you basked in the sun’s rays.

But then Sukuna remembered the task at hand, and made sure to approach you with caution and much needed confidence [in himself].

When he got closer to you — only a few feet apart — he quickly realized why your head was so low when you raised it to look at him, tears in your doe, yet angelically pure eyes.

He cleared his throat. “Y/N. What’s . . . wrong? What’s upsetting you? . . .Is it me?” He whispered the last part, to the point it was barely audible; but you heard him. You always did.

“Why don’t you go and talk to your other new friend, huh?” You spat out, stifling a hiccup as it came.

“Wait—what?” Sukuna’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Don’t play dumb. I know what you did. I know what you’re doing. You can replace me with whoever you want, I don’t care, not anymore. Now go away so I can play all by my lonesome.

“Y/N, I’m not replacing you. I know you’re a dummy sometimes but. . . Where’d you even get such a ridiculous idea?”

“Oh, so I’m the dummy?” you retaliated.

Then it hit him, you were referring to earlier this morning, when he was talking to your friend for advice on what to get you as a birthday present.

“I—you’ve got it all wrong, Y/N. All wrong. I wasn’t, I’m not, and I would never ever replace you. So get that stupid idea out of your head already. I was just asking her for help to . . . get you . . . something — for your . . . birthday, that’s coming up soon.” He didn’t want to spoil the surprise, but if it would make you feel any better, he couldn’t care less about keeping a silly little secret.

“Oh, Sukunaaa! You could’ve just asked me!” You jumped off the swings, swiftly wiping your teary eyes dry, and tackled Sukuna into a hug. The two of you fell into a giggling mess of tangled limbs on the ground.

And to your surprise, the following week, Sukuna gifted you a necklace at your birthday party. It was a cheap, dainty necklace, that much was obvious. But opening the heart charm revealed a poorly taken, bad quality, photo of you and Sukuna both. You two were smiling like idiots, embraced in a hug, and you recognized the picture to date back to when you visited Sukuna at one of his basketball games. The first game of his that you went to, actually.

The cherry on top was the fact that the necklace he got you was the same necklace you were planning on giving him before you saw him talking to your friend last week.

But, ah, it was whatever. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Taglist: @beyond-your-stars @sad-darksoul @mochimoee @r0ckst4rjk @lillycore @deepchromatose @yinyinyinyinyinyin @fivehoneyharg @desihopelessromantic @taiyakii @hannas16 @acroso @msvalsius @call-memissbrightside

[darubyprincx]

i think i've been cursed to wake up early on the weekends because it's 4am on a sunday and i feel like a sack of wet ass but HEY AT LEAST I GET BASICALLY EXCLUSIVE COVERAGE OF THE DOC MORNING TWEETS BEFORE THE REST OF THE AMERICAS WAKE UP!

alas it is also too early for me to write a meaningful funny joke about this. just take it

[howtofightwrite]

For a character that virtually can’t die and regenerates in order to keep living, how do you make action interesting? Emphasize they still feel pain, why they’re doing it?

I'm actually going to step back a bit from this question first, and complement it. This is a very honest question, and something most writers who include violence in their work, should really think about. Even if you don't think you have characters like this, you do.

Now, I'm going to dunk on Ben “Yahtzee” Croshaw for a moment. Ages ago (I think it was in one of his Resistance reviews), Yahtzee described, “threatening to blow up the world,” as the laziest form of raising the stakes. Because, “hey, I live on a world.” He's mostly correct. Threatening your protagonist's life is even lazier. In the vast majority of cases, your audience knows you won't go through with it. That you won't kill off your protagonists.

With that in mind, when you decide your protagonist is completely immortal, that changes less about how you write them than you might expect. The biggest difference is simply that they're directly aware of their plot armor, rather than them engaging in faux indecision based on their perceived mortality. Again, this is something that every writer who uses violence should think about, at least a bit. It is natural for a character to fear for their life, and have reservations about risking their life, but making the part where your character's lives are on the line isn't automatically suspenseful. In a lot of cases (consciously or not), your audience will call your bluff, when you threaten to kill off a major character.

If you think back to major character deaths where something drops them without warning, part of what makes those scenes work is the lack of (apparent) setup. The writer didn't spend pages teasing you with the idea, they just went for the throat and ended that character on the spot. This is more respectful of your audience, because you're not telling them, “well, I might kill this character, or I might not.”

To be clear, I'm not saying that there's no place for teasing your audience with a character's impending demise, just pointing out that in a lot of cases, this won't generate the kind of suspense you'd hope for.

So, to get back on topic, how do you make it interesting? Remember that while this character can't die, the same is not true for the characters around them. Depending on the tone you're going for, you could create an absolutely brutal crucible effect, where everyone around your immortal gets burned off, sooner or later. Whether that's literal, or figurative, is up to you. Even if your character can't die, watching people they care about suffer and die is going to have an effect on them.

You probably don't need to draw special attention to the physical pain they experience, but you do want to be aware of it. Especially in the context of how pain affects the victim's behavior. Beyond that, there is probably an element of pain being far more annoying to the immortal than it would be to a normal person. They know it's not telling them anything meaningful, but it is distracting.

Long-term, both of these can easily result in personality shifts. And, legitimately, this is a scenario where a character may be immortal, but they would still experience significant changes over time, and with the growing emotional pain, could have very adverse effects on your personality. This does have some very real, “live long enough to see yourself become the villain,” potential. How many friends can you lose before you stop caring? How many funerals can you attend before you start taking the phrase, “you're either part of the solution or part of the problem,” a little too far? How many times can you pick yourself up off the pavement a blood-covered alleyway, surrounded by corpses, before you start to forget what made you human in the first place?

And, that's not the only option. The simplest answer for maintaining tension when one of your characters is immortal is keeping your eye on what they're trying to accomplish. Keep track of their objectives, because I guarantee they can fail those. Even just keeping their own nature concealed from the mortal world is probably fairly important, because of the idea that men in hazmat suits will drag them away to some research lab and poke them until they figure out how to replicate their immortality, is a classic (and potentially plausible) threat. (Bonus points, if you're wanting to loop in something like the medieval inquisitions, or some other secret societies that could pose this kind of a threat.)

So, what do you do? To dig out an old cliché threat, “there are fates worse than death,” and it's probably worth exploring them. This also opens up new possibilities for threats. Finally, it's worth remembering that immortality does not guarantee success. If your character is hoping for that, it might be time to give them a very harsh lesson.

-Starke

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[yameoto]

TOP TEN BENEFITS. JORDAN, CATE, ANDRE.

synopsis ; you and godolkin's finest go out for some fun, just like any other night. little do you know, is that they have a little more in store for you than just partying.

oh. also, you're luke's girlfriend—not like that's going to stop them.

✗ warnings ; dark!jordan, dark!cate, dark!andre, cnc, dubcon, intox, foursome, cheating, strap-fucking. wc ; 1.9k

DISTANTLY, you can hear voices. you're not sure, really; your head's all dizzy and groggy, and your mouth is so dry you wonder if you’ve been chewing on cement. god.. you really can’t remember anything. how strong were those drinks?

"we sure about this, guys?" comes a voice, echoing on the outskirts of your mind. it's familiar. masculine.. or feminine? you really can't tell—not in this state, at least.

"of course we're sure." someone else interjects, gruffer, this time, clearly masculine. it sounds a lot like.. andre..?

"i mean, look at her," whispers another, voices so low—like they're trying not to wake you. this one's higher, more feminine and— oh that's definitely cate. "how could we not?"

how could they not what? nothing makes sense—not in your foggy, hungover brain at least; one that you're becoming increasingly suspicious is addled by something stronger than shots. but that can't be right—you hadn't blown lines with the others, had you? no, you definitely hadn't. so why does your head hurt so fucking much?

"guys..?" you mumble, trying to sit up on what you distantly realise is a bed, the edges of your vision still blurry. as it adjusts, you're met with the sight of jordan, andre and cate all standing over you, eyes strangely lidded, gleaming. "shit— she's up," jordan hisses, grip on your thigh tightening, and its then that you realise your skirt is gone—the entire stretch of your legs exposed to the three of them.

"fuck," cate sighs, lips drawing into a pout as you feel her hand, bare hand, hover over your other thigh, head jerking up to face the others with a frown on her lips. "should i do it again?"

"no," jordan and andre hiss in unison, exchanging a meaningful look as their fingers twitch, restless. "c'mon, you know you want her awake for this."

"awake for what?" you grumble, head throbbing far too much for you to wrap your head around the conversation. "i'm too hungover for this." you swing your legs off the edge of the bed, reaching for your discarded skirt before two pairs of her hands shoot out to stop you. your vision swims, and with a disconcerting lurch you realise you're so fucked-up you can't even tell whose is who's.

"you won't need that." jordan mutters, breath hot against your cheek as they curl their hand around your wrist, dragging it firmly into their lap. what the fuck?

"sorry about the skirt," cate hums affirmatively, eyes drifting to the poor, ripped thing on the floor and you swear you see the beginnings of a smirk curl her lips "someone got a little excited."

"hey—" andre puts his hands up, not looking too sorry at all. in fact, he looks like he's barely restraining a grin. "don't act like you two weren't drooling—"

"touché." jordan interjects, eyes rolling yet looking entirely too pleased with themselves as they play with your hand in their lap, inching it up their own thigh. “you look better without it, doll.”

"warm her up, jordan." cate's eyes flash, gaze boring into the sight of you, splayed against the pillows, and you resist the urge to whimper.

"don't tell me what to do," jordan grumbles, but there's a grin stretching at their lips and you almost wonder if cate used her powers with the speed in which they comply. their loose grip on your wrist becomes inordinately tight as they deftly undo their belt, dragging their pants and boxers down in one, swift move.

oh, fuck.

"hold on— i—" you splutter, stupidly, glancing between the three of them and jordan's throbbing, leaking cock. it gently bobs into your hand; head pink, glistening with pre-cum and you just want to—wait, what?

you're dating luke. you're dating luke. a spike of panic sends you twisting, surprisingly lucid for a moment as you attempt tugging your wrists away—to no avail, of course. top ten ranking aside; you don't stand a chance against three supes, especially not the three of them.

"hey— shh." jordan catches you, eyes flashing for a moment as they slowly, ever so slowly, guide your hand back to their cock—grunting when your fingers limply wrap around their tip. "fuck, that's it.." they groan, head tilting back. jesus fucking christ.

you don't even realise it when andre drags your panties down your thighs—and your flush only deepens at how fucking wet you are. that has to be the high, right? there's no way—why else would your cunt be dripping into the goddamn sheets, like that? for three of your friends? boyfriend absent from the room, no less. a feeble, embarrassed whine falls from your lips, as three hungry pairs of eyes have no shame in hiding how much they want to fucking devour you.

"look at you, so fucking wet." ande’s voice comes a deep rumble, belt unbuckling with a click as he inches closer. his hands slide over your thighs as he moves over, all the way, and you make another strained noise as his cock hits your belly.

"i think it's cute." cate hums, eyes glimmering as she leans across the bedspread, hands wrapping around the base of andre's eager, bobbing cock and directing it towards your splayed legs. andre’s basically fucking trembling with restless need, cate’s own breaths shallowing, picking up the pace. "luke ever get you this wet?"

your teeth tuck into your bottom lip, eyes squeezing shut because god, luke.. what the hell are you doing here? it feels like betrayal. it is betrayal—they need to stop—this is wrong—

you whine, making a choking noise as jordan’s grasp on your wrist steels enough to snap bone. you want to say; luke—? yes—he fucking has—i think—but you find you barely have the strength to moan, let alone protest.

“nah, i don’t think so.” jordan smirks, smug, as if they know exactly what’s going through your head as their hand guides yours; forcibly pumping your hand along their length. their frustrated growls of pleasure are enough to make you blush—let alone the feeling of andre’s hands roughly shoving your legs apart, spreading your folds open with two of his fingers. you whine, quivering, glazed pupils meeting his.

"fuck, luke's gonna kill us—" andre grunts once he finally rams into you, audibly groaning as you slam into the blankets with each thrust, inciting the most strangled little cries from your throat. it’s so much—you can’t help but thrash a little, under his touch. cate lets out a displeased hum, though at his words or his roughness you can't tell.

"what luke won't know won't hurt him." jordan counters from the other side of you, lips twisting into a grin as they bite into your shoulder, still moving your hands in thrusts along their length.

they keep shifting—each time you're distracted by cate or andre the feeling of their cock twitching under your hands changes to fingers sinking into sloppy, wet heat. it's ridiculous how hot it makes you, just jacking them off—but it’s not like you have any room to comment with andre thrusting into you like an animal, snarls coming out of his mouth as each movement sends you reeling with white-hot, carnal pleasure.

"move, you brute." cate interrupts, voice cutting through the blinding, purely instinctual pleasure of andre pumping you full like a rutting dog. her eyes glitter with an annoyance that give way to barely-restrained lust, and in your sex-drugs-cate induced haze (you're still not quite sure which it is, yet), you faintly register the plastic in her hand; long, thick, pink and fuck— is that a strap?

"not yet, cate, i'm almost done—" andre cuts himself with a guttural, bestial moan as his cock rams into you, again. you can feel it twitching inside of you; hear his breaths growing shallower as he grips your hips, so tight they might bruise. "oh, fuck—!" he groans loudly as he comes, thick, hot seed filling you up, hips still thrusting as he crams as much of his load into you as he possibly can. it takes a beat before he reluctantly pulls out, chest heaving.

"fuck, you felt so good," he groans, hands clumsily tugging you forward for a kiss before he's promptly pushed off before your lips can touch. "about fucking time." cate grunts, voice sharp, weight of andre on top of you replaced by two long, toned legs swinging on either side of your body, cate's hands running over that fucking strap at her hips. her lips curl into a smirk as your eyes—still glassy from andre's force—blink blearily up at her. you’re still so dazed, so adorable. she leans down to cup your chin. "you're such a pretty little thing," she murmurs, thumb brushing against your bottom lip, gaze darkening as she begins to prise your mouth open, gleam in her eyes giving away to sheer, unadulterated lust.

"open wide." she whispers, and that's the only pre-empt you get before you're choking on silicone, her hips bucking forward as she shoves herself into your mouth. her hands tighten in your hair, jerking you forward so that the entire length forces itself down your throat. tears spring to your eyes. you feel jordon's hands getting rougher as they use you to fuck themselves, teeth digging into your skin to muffle their own whines while your own, keening “mmfs—!” peter out to soft, quiet whimpers.

"you're so good for us," jordan moans, burying your fingers hilt-deep into their cunt, walls pulsing desperately around you. "so fucking good," cate assents with a breathy, pleasured groan of her own, back snapping as if it were her own cock that you’re gagging around. from behind her, andre’s hands are wrapped around himself, moving furiously as he arches over the bed. “you have no idea how long we’ve wanted this.” he hisses, one hand madly jerking himself off to the sight of cate fucking your face like she owns you, the other tangling in your hair. cate audibly moans, bucking into you further with a sharp inhale. "wish i could come in you for real." she mumbles, fingers running along your jaw as you splutter around plastic. she smiles, tilts her head up to look at jordon as they mutter something unintelligible, her thrusts increasing in pace, fucking your throat so raw, so good. "jordan's got something special to give you." she murmurs, voice honey sweet, hand dancing up your cheek.

you can hardly gargle a response through the strap in your mouth—but you don't have to. not when, with a resounding moan, all questions are answered with jordan promptly shooting their load all over your face, thick, hot strings of cum leaking around the edges of the strap and seeping into your mouth. they both groan, jordan slumping into your side with soft, intermittent pants.

"god.." they mutter into the crook of your neck, cate's thrusts slowing as she starts to loosen her grip on your hair; though not stopping, never stopping. "you're ours." jordan grunts, gripping your thigh with sudden, overwhelming intensity while cate continues jerking the strap down your throat, smile tugging at her lips. “ours." she echoes, voice soft—almost gentle if you didn’t know any better. she leans down, hand stretching out; smearing jordan's cum across your cheek in one, long, clean swipe. "fucking ours."

poor, poor luke.

[lecsainz]

TATTOOED

request: could you write something with lewis or daniel where there reader is a tattoo artist and she gives him a tattoo and he starts flirting and asks her out? if not its totally okay! sending all my love

pairings: daniel ricciardo x tattoo artist!reader

authors note: I can't even, but like carolina by harry styles was totally stuck in my head while I was writing! it's like, seriously playing on loop in my brain and I can't even deal with it

✩. . . masterlist !

Daniel Ricciardo had always been a fan of tattoos, and it wasn't just for show – he had thousands of inked stories etched across his body. He had a genuine appreciation for art, relishing the meanings they held for him.

He hadn't really planned on getting another tattoo during his off-time from Formula 1 while in Miami. But there he was, stepping into a small, incredibly cool studio – at least in his perspective – though who was he to judge what was cool.

"Hey?" he leaned casually against the wooden counter. "Anyone here?"

"Hey! How can I help you?" A petite girl with a few doodles on her arms seemed to appear out of nowhere.

His lips curl into a charismatic smile, "I'm thinking about adding some more art to this masterpiece," he gestures to his arm covered in ink. "What do you think?"

She chuckles softly, "Well, I think you've got a pretty good canvas already."

He laughs, her quick wit catching him off-guard. "True that. But I've got a spot that's feeling a little empty."

"And what kind of art are you thinking?" she raises an eyebrow, her eyes curiously tracing over his existing tattoos.

He taps his chin playfully, "You know, something meaningful. Something that'll give my other tattoos a run for their money."

She nods in understanding, "Got any specific design in mind?"

Daniel leans in a little, his playful grin not wavering, "How about a cheeky smiley face? Right here," he points to an empty space on his arm.

She lets out a laugh, clearly not expecting that. "I can definitely do that," she says, amusement dancing in her eyes.

As she sets up her equipment, they fall into easy conversation. He learns that she's not just a tattoo artist; she's a storyteller who helps people etch their tales into their skin.

Throughout the tattoo process, their conversation flows effortlessly. She shares stories about the tattoos she's done and the emotions behind them, while he tells tales from his racing experiences. He realizes that she's genuinely interested in people's stories, and it's something he finds refreshing.

As she works on his arm, he finds himself studying her, noticing the way her brows furrow in concentration and the occasional smile that tugs at her lips. He's captivated by her passion for her craft.

"So, what's the story behind this one?" she asks, her fingers gently tracing a scar on his forearm.

He hesitates for a moment, then decides to share. "That's from a crash a while back. Nothing serious, but it reminds me of how far I've come."

Her eyes meet his, and he can see a mixture of understanding and admiration. "It's amazing how life's twists and turns can leave marks that become part of who we are."

He nods, his gaze lingering on hers. "You get it."

As she finishes up, he examines the smiley face tattoo with a grin. "It's perfect. Might just be my new lucky charm."

She smirks, "I'll take credit for your future wins then."

He chuckles, "Deal. But I'll need a lucky charm in return – your name."

She blinks, her eyes widening a bit. "You want my name as a tattoo?"

He laughs, realizing he might have caught her off-guard. "No, just your name. I'm Daniel."

She smiles, extending her hand, "Nice to officially meet you, Daniel. I'm Y/N."

He takes her hand, his touch lingering a moment longer than necessary. "The pleasure's all mine, Y/N."

He leaves the studio that day with a new tattoo and something more – a sense of connection and curiosity about Y/N. As he walks out into the Miami sunlight, he finds himself debating what to do next. But, as always, he doesn't back down from a challenge.

Y/N looks up from her work as the bell above the door chimes. Her eyes widen in surprise as she sees Daniel standing there, holding flowers. "Hey," he greets, his voice a bit more uncertain than usual.

"Forgot something?" she teases, her voice holding a light note.

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepishly. "Yeah, I know it might sound a bit forward, but how about we grab a drink tonight?"

She chuckles, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Wow, smooth move, Daniel."

He grins, his signature charm kicking in. "I mean, we did establish a connection over art and stories. I thought it'd be a shame not to continue that."

She raises an eyebrow, teasing. "You must really trust me if you're inviting me to a dark alley for drinks."

He laughs, the sound genuine and carefree. "Oh, I'd never take you to a dark alley. It's a rooftop bar with a view – much safer."

She feigns contemplation, tapping a finger to her lips. "Hmm, rooftop bar, huh? Well, I guess I can make an exception for a charming race car driver."

He pumps a fist in the air, playfully victorious. "Yes! You won't regret it, promise."

She grins, shaking her head. "Alright, Daniel, you've got yourself a date. But you better not show up in a racing suit."

He feigns a pout, "But I look so good in them."

"Save the suit for the track. Just be yourself," she replies with a warm smile.

He nods, his eyes locking onto hers. "I'll see you tonight, Y/N."

[owl-bones]

I've got to ask what is Eos or swap nightmares type? And can we get a little more background on him please? Sorry if this was asked already

his type is someone that he feels safe around and that makes him laugh!

more info below the cut:

he’s a pretty standard swap nightmare, i think! he’s cynical and stand-offish, but craves connection with people. he’s just been dealt enough bad hands that he assumes the worst of everyone around him, so he doesn’t bother trying to form meaningful relationships. he does want to help people though, if only to feel useful and hold onto a glimmer of hope that maybe someone will like him. despite that, he takes his job as the guardian of negativity very seriously and tries his best to uphold the balance— even if his brother is constantly expanding his territory and eos is vastly outnumbered by his followers. this of course comes into conflict with his want to help people, as upholding the balance means often spreading negativity. so a lottttt of AUs consider him a menace/bad omen and he’s generally treated rather poorly. 😔 but hey, at least he has one friend (aka killer, who followed him one day and never left him alone)

there’s lots more to him and his brother but i want to expand on that in a fic someday so perhaps i will keep it secret for nowwwwwwww

also a plain version of the pic

[punkpandapatrixk]

❣️How Abnormal Are You in Love? ♦︎ Timeless Pick A Card

Don’t be too hard on yourself with this PAC. Everybody in this world’s pretty much abnormal anyway. We all want something that’s extremely rare in this world: Love. Sometimes, we go crazy after mistaking shit for Love. But we all heal. Eventually, we all learn to love more healthily and sanely. And really, that’s all that matters. The crazy is also part of the character development~♥︎

☆♪°・.

‘Hey, actually, when was it that I began to realise that there’s no such thing as forever? Even so, I’m prouder than anybody else about the fact that the days we spent together were at least not a lie.

Even though it’s true that the length of time we have lived is only slightly different, just the fact that we met, that we loved, though we may never love each other again… I won’t forget.

Hey, why do I still want you by my side, thinking that I won’t do without you, even though this is hurting me so much? Even so, I became a person who could be grateful for the smallest things in life. It’s because, even the most casual of words were so meaningful between us.

Because we met, because we loved, though we may never love each other again…I’ll be fine with turning all of it into proof that I’ll survive, whilst facing all of truth and reality.

I’m just glad that we met. I’m just glad that we loved. Though we may never see each other again… I won’t forget.’

☆♪°・.

Those are words from Ayumi Hamasaki’s legendary song, LOVE ~Destiny~. At some point in Life, Ayumi said in an interview, ‘I loved one man so much that I destroyed myself.’ I can’t help but think this song could be about…it? Maybe hahah Just a vibe, gals~♡

SONG: LOVE ~Destiny~ by Hamasaki Ayumi

MOVIE: Snakes and Earrings (2008)

[PAC Masterlist] [Part 1] [Part 3]

[Patreon] [Paid Readings]

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 1 – What I Can’t Let Go Of, Really, Is My Pride…

VIBE: kiss by Chara

what is, Love? – 4 of Swords

Well, it seems quite obvious your past was somewhat chaotic. I think throughout childhood you felt like you were crossing a battlefield or had to fight the stormy seas all by yourself. Because of this, you deeply crave a Love that can put an end to all of those noises. In fact, it’s only fitting. Deep down you’ve always known that Love is something that’s pure, sweet and gentle; that it’s supposed to put you at ease. You understand that the world is in chaos because nobody has Love in their hearts.

You, never wanted to be like those grownups who were fighting with their own spouses. Even if you’re young, you feel like an Old Soul—the only one who seems to truly understand what Love is and is not. And you see that 99% of people literally don’t know what Love is, let alone how to love right. And you’re afraid. What if you can’t find that one person who can love you right?

Deep in your subconscious, you have these standards and ideals you desperately want to maintain. But nobody you’ve ever met seems to understand where you’re coming from. What you want is something so pure. People are rarely pure of heart, so nobody gets it. And it feels incredibly lonely. And at some point, you might’ve begun to doubt if your standards are even fair…

why do you chase, Love? – King of Wands Rx

So you grew up a bit and began to wonder what might happen if you lower your standards…a bit? You want to experience passion, right? You’re seeing all these peers around you kissing and holding each other and you crave that, too. You know very well it’s not like they’re in love—they’re just silly, infatuated, hormonal fuckers; but you wonder how it would feel to be intimate with someone. To actually have someone want you like that. To be wanted. To be held. To be kissed. To be…loved. No matter how shallowly.

Now you’re willing to look for someone passionate. You could try with a puzzling character. You like that kinda shit. Any kind of an intriguing fucker with some semblance of a mystery; making you curious to dive deep into their side of crazy. How do I figure out your particular brand of bullshit? Anybody you can’t immediately figure out would excite you to a point of insanity. And you thought this was happiness. You thought, this level of excitement surely must be happiness. Perhaps…even Love? Otherwise…

How do you explain this feeling that suddenly strikes, rattling your heartstrings, making you realise that there’s somebody in this world you’d want to care for other than yourself? Just the idea that you even fantasise about growing older with this mysterious fucker… How is this not, Love? And if this isn’t Love…what is? How else are people supposed to know happiness if this excitement alone isn’t enough?

what happens when Love, dies? – 8 of Cups Rx

To begin with, you’re not one to trust easily. It takes a lot for you to allow someone to see your vulnerable side. And when you go in, you go all in. It may not feel like it immediately because you’re cautious, but once you’re in…because you feel sure of someone…you’re in deep. Too deep it feels like you’re drowning in this whole situation, if anything. And you’re proud of how much you’re able to give.

And…you’re generally proud of your boundaries and the standards and ideals you’ve imposed upon yourself and others. So, the fact that you’ve given so much, revealed so much to someone who wouldn’t be there for life, is beyond frustrating. It’s world-shattering, at least. What have I been in this situationship/relationship for if it ain’t gonna last?!?! I can’t just let it die like that! Maybe I’m doing something wrong?! I must’ve! Lest none of this would’ve happened…

When Love dies, it feels so shameful. It’s a shame you trusted the wrong fucker. It’s a shame someone was able to see you that vulnerable. It’s disgusting that you thought this was The One. What was I thinking? Now everything becomes clear. It’s not the loss of that person’s Love you’re crying about. If you’re being honest now, you couldn’t care less that such a loser’s gone from your world. If anything, it’s such a relief. It was just the shock from knowing you made a mistake that made you cry… It’s OK now.

MY HEART, MY PRIDE🔻💜

sacrifices I’d made – Green Magus (John Magus)

I’m glad I was able to love – Priestess of Ambition

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 2 – I Can’t Tell If I’m Passionate or Just Immature

VIBE: Boys & Girls by Hamasaki Ayumi

what is, Love? – Ace of Pentacles Rx

To begin with, you’re not exactly a rational person. Not saying you’re dumb! You just have a lot of passion for something that’s unexpected or foreign. You like mysteries and you aren’t afraid to dip your toe in uncharted waters. This desire could’ve developed from having a childhood that felt constricted tho. I think you grew up surrounded by so many rules and laws and forbidden things and that’s how you developed a taste for, DANGER~

It’s exciting, from time to time, to think about throwing all your caution to the wind and breaking all rules. You want to disappoint. If you’re being honest, you’re damn tired of following everybody’s whims and concerning yourself with their expectations. What about what I want?? You want to live. You want to feel alive. There are so many exciting things outside of your everyday Life, why can’t you have any of that? At some point, you could’ve dreamt of being rescued from your Tower by a handsome daredevil of any kind of a fucker.

If that fucker happens to be handsome and rich, even better. But that doesn’t really matter. You just want someone brave enough to approach you and actually uproot you from your boring Life. Surely, Love can do that to a person…? I don’t need stability, let alone predictability; what I want is a romantic hero who’ll take me on a grand adventure of Love! And if that daredevil happens to be dumb…

why do you chase, Love? – 9 of Swords

In many ways, you’re totally not an innocent person. You want to hurt. If whoever daredevil tries to fulfil your fantasies of being rescued from your miserable Tower happens to be dumb, you’re gonna be having a field trip! XD You want to terrorise and traumatise a person, really. It’s vengeance for all the years that you were serving others. Now, it’s your time to be served. It doesn’t even matter if they don’t worship you. You’re ready to find another dumbfuck to toy with. You’re hardly ever sincere anyway~

Why bother with sincerity? Ever since you were a kid, you’ve observed that none of the adults you knew was ever sincere. What even is Love? I think you know of it conceptually. But what exactly is its purpose? What exactly is so good about it? And how? How exactly must one be in order to attain it? You don’t believe in it some days. You deeply crave it some days. You could die for it some days. You want others to die for your Love most days.

Life is confusing. Love is confusing. Sex is easy. Money is easy. Food and jewelleries are easy. Let’s live easily. Life is exhausting if you think too much about everything that could go wrong. I’m done feeling terrible about my own existence, so I want someone to spin me around and make me forget. That’s ideal. Is generally your motto when chasing… Love♡

what happens when Love, dies? – 8 of Wands Rx

You don’t care about it. You don’t particularly care about losing people. It’s expected. If anything, because you’re never serious with quite anybody anyway, ghosting is the best way to go about it. You’re the type to ghost, block, and you don’t even mind if you’re the one ghosted or blocked. Basically, you just don’t want any contact with someone you’ve lost interest in anyway. So that only makes it easier for you.

In many ways, I think you sometimes regret being this kind of a callous person. There are days you wonder if you’ll become someone more sincere. You’ve wondered what it would take to actually love someone. To actually be loved back. Surely that must be so nice. You want to be happy, honestly. But it feels like a distant daydream. You don’t particularly understand how two people can be happy living together. After all, you find people exhausting most of the time.

All you know is that you’ve lived with yourself for the longest time. And if you have to compromise or sacrifice anything…you’re not willing. You’ve sacrificed shit before, a looong time ago, and you got nothing back in return. You gave someone a rose and they gave you back thorns and strangled you with it. Surely that can’t be happiness. Two people who don’t know how to love can’t be happy together. Life is better lived alone.

MY HEART, MY PRIDE🔻❤️

sacrifices I’d made – Red Alchemist (John Dee)

I’m glad I was able to love – Priestess of Innocence

Access full reading + cards on Patreon🌸

☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・. ☆♪°・.

Pile 3 – Damn, Why’s Everybody Crying for Love?

VIBE: Sunglasses by Utada Hikaru

what is, Love? – 2 of Cups Rx

Uhm…you’re a comical Pile for sure. Your psychology is so complex, although it’s also super straightforward (to you), but some people are not gonna have an easy time figuring out if you’re sincere or not. Most of us have got a lot of exposure to tragical romance, right? A lot of people get deep and insane in Love. And here you are wondering why everybody’s crying for Love. Why is everybody suffering in the name of Love? That’s not Love. People are silly for falling continuously for the wrong people. It’s all a Game for them. Me? I don’t play games.

But you do! Everybody does when it comes to falling in Love, to various extents. That’s what’s really fun about falling in Love. If you could face yourself, you’d realise you have a bit of a God-complex within this context. In the sense that…because Love and romance actually aren’t such a big deal to you, and somehow, you have an almost all-too-natural inclination to attract the right people, you can’t really empathise with those who cry in the name of Love.

For some though, if the above doesn’t really resonate, you’re the type that has an innate understanding that you must protect yourself from falling into those tragical romantic setups. You have a highly developed sense of boundary and you keep high standards for what kind of a romantic relationship you want. You’re kinda similar to Pile 1 in this case, but you most likely haven’t experienced sacrificing your standards for, EXPERIENCE~

why do you chase, Love? – 10 of Wands

In comparison to certain types of people in the world, you’re not exactly a dreamy type. When it comes to relationships you think straight towards building a matrimony with someone. You’re a traditionalist in a sense. You’re the based kid who knows that a girlfriend-boyfriend relationship is a training ground for a marriage. You think long-term. You’re realistic like that. But the problem is…you’re totally missing out on the passion of Love itself.

You don’t really see your partner(s) for the person—the Human—that they are. You care only for the practical, pragmatic facts surrounding their reputation or status or whether or not their physical appearance is decent enough. Stuff like that. And the dreamy ones who look at you, look at you with a pang of sadness in their chest, for although you seem responsible and blessed…you appear to them as someone who looks at another with an eye of business.

You’re the type that thinks love is an investment. An investment of attention, affection, time and money, and all that shit. That’s not Love; that’s something to be exchanged at the market. The dating market, OMG~

‘Freedom and love go together. Love is not a reaction. If I love you because you love me, that is mere trade, a thing to be bought in the market; it is not love. To love is not to ask anything in return, not even to feel that you are giving something—and it is only such love that can know freedom.’ – Jiddu Krishnamurti

what happens when Love, dies? – 6 of Pentacles

When Love dies, you celebrate. You’re wise enough to know that Life doesn’t end just because you broke up with somebody, even in terms of friendship. You’re spiritually mature enough to know you’ve learnt from the experience, and now, you’re just going to prepare for the next big thing to experience. Life goes on without a hitch like that for you, for the most part. I can’t tell if you’re really that spiritually mature or you just don’t give a fuck about emotions LMAO

Not saying you’re a bad person, btw. It just seems like you haven’t got a lot of crazy in your birth chart or that you haven’t experienced a lot of sorrows and soul-shattering heartbreaks, so…it’s kinda just a matter of not having, PERSPECTIVE? Coupled with the fact that you take Life very unseriously seriously…? Like, you’re serious about not being an asshole and wanting to do the socially right thing, but in doing so, you become an annoying insincere jackass in the lives of those who have (or will) dated you XDD

Basically, you’re not the type to get super crazy heartbroken when a relationship ends. You’ve got all of these other blessings anyway. Why would you focus on just the negative, right? In a sense, I believe that’s an incredible spiritual maturity which others are still struggling to figure out XD But yeah…rather than this being something abnormal about you, I think it’s just that your Higher Self designed for you not to experience the dramatic highs and lows of immature romance HAHAH

MY HEART, MY PRIDE🔻🧡

sacrifices I’d made – Gold Alchemist (Roger Bacon)

I’m glad I was able to love – Priestess of Luck

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[hollybell51]

Last night on Earth

^don't mind me going absolutely feral over this gif

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Cas x AFAB!fem!Reader

Supernatural (2005), s05e03 "free to be you and me"

Word count: 6.4K

Summary: following the hooker failure, you feel that sitting alone in a shitty abandoned house is not the best way to spend one's last night on Earth. Cas seems to agree with you.

Content: smut! Yay! First kisses, first time, making out, handjobs, hickeys, penetrative sex, safe sex (yay!), cowgirl, mutual masturbation, fingering, gags? if you squint? maybe? like a hand over the mouth. Discussions of sex work and sex workers (I'm not commenting on anything, it's just there as dialogue due to the nature of the episode, and all dialogue/internal monologue regarding the topic is purely for the furtherment of the plot). Talking during sex, Cas is loud. Sex on a couch, spooning, almost-love-confessions ("like-confessions"). Very light comment on body image, some very vague descriptions of scars (reader is a hunter). Cas is just Cas and I love him for it. He's also a virgin. Dean's probably a warning but I adore him.

Notes: Heyyyy how's it going? One day into my holidays and I churn out this bad boy. Couldn't get the idea out of my head, and hey, I'm a sucker for virgin angels. This show is rapidly taking over my whole life lmao.

It's also been a while so I just thought I'd remind people of the taglist form, and the existence of my AO3 (if you wanna read my stuff there for whatever reason). Anyways enjoy, stay safe out there xx

“That was quick,” you called as the door creaked open, Dean’s low chuckle echoing through the hallway. You closed the book you’d been reading – a shitty paperback you’d picked out of a bargain bin – and watched as the other hunter dropped his jacket onto a rusted dining chair. You’d expected them to be gone for a few hours, hence your foray into the realms of “downtime”, but it had barely been one since they’d left, Dean throwing an obscenely enthusiastic wink your way as he shoved an apprehensive looking Cas out to enjoy his last night on Earth. 

“We had to wrap it up pretty fast.” Dean glanced over his shoulder at Cas, laughter still clinging to his face. You hadn’t seen him look that happy in ages, not for this long. Well, that was something at least. 

You’d had your doubts about the whole idea from the moment Dean had mentioned it. Sure, sex was sex. It was something that could be pretty darn nice and that you were glad for in your life, but you weren’t sure if Dean fully grasped that it was never the same with a hooker. It would never feel as good, it would never be meaningful, it would be a service purchased from a provider. A business transaction. That wasn’t any way to experience it for the first time, in your opinion. 

“Good time not a long time, then?” you asked mildly. 

“Would you say that, Cas?” 

The angel stiffened, hands shoved into the pockets of his trench coat. 

You wrinkled your nose, suddenly wondering if you should feel bad. “Bad time?” 

Dean snorted. “I’m turning in. You tell (Y/N) about it, she’ll give you a pat on the back and tell you it’s alright. And don’t look so… grief stricken.” 

“G’night,” you waved to his retreating back, then turned back to Cas. “Really bad time?” 

He really did look grief stricken, standing stock still in the dimness. Even his hair looked droopier than usual, and you almost got out of your seat just to push it off his face. You settled for putting your book down and leaning forward. 

“She ran away,” he said after a moment. “I think I scared her.” 

“Geez,” you frowned. “How’d you scare a hooker?” 

He shrugged. “I told her it wasn’t her fault that her father Gene ran off.” Then, as if it explained everything; “He hated his job at the post office.” 

You laughed, but stopped quickly. “Oh, Cas. You know the whole–” 

“The whole industry is run on absent fathers, I know.” He sighed. “Dean found it hilarious.” 

This time, you did get up, crossing the room to pat his shoulder. You knew Dean wouldn’t have meant anything by it, wouldn’t have been laughing at Cas. Still, a pang of what was almost pity shot through you. It wasn’t about the sex, not really, as much as Dean played that aspect up. It was more all the coulds that never would. Cas wasn’t human, as much as he could pass it off (mostly), but there were so many things that he wasn’t going to get to try now. You just didn’t understand how he could so casually volunteer to die at the drop of a hat. It was either incredibly selfless, or incredibly selfish. Or maybe just stupid. 

But no, Cas wasn’t stupid. He was razor sharp, a soldier of God, even if you poked fun at him when he didn’t understand your and Dean’s pop-culture reference infused slang. It had only been the last time you’d seen him that you’d vowed to make him sit through all the Star Wars movies, something you hadn’t realised until afterwards had sounded a lot like a “movie and chill” proposal. Luckily, he wouldn’t have picked up on that. Just like he wouldn’t have picked up – like Dean had – the moments where you caught yourself watching him, or the smiles that were just too damned determined to break out on your face when he showed up – either in the real world or in your mind. And thank the heavens nobody but you noticed the tiny flurries of butterflies in your stomach you’d noticed increasingly often when he was around, the surges of warmth that would sneak up and rush over you unexpectedly when you thought of him, the tingles that flooded your skin when he stood that little bit too close to you.  

Which, when you thought about it, was maybe contributing to the ounce of vindication you were feeling regarding the hooker failure. It wasn’t all the “I told you so” type of satisfaction, anyway, and you weren’t too proud to admit when you liked someone. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you assured him now, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. 

“You’re giving me a pat on the back and telling me it’s alright,” he sighed, almost mournfully. “Dean said–” 

You reached up, pressing a finger to his lips and shaking your head. “You wanna know something?” 

He nodded, brows furrowed. He hadn’t drawn back, you noticed. 

“It doesn’t matter how much sex Dean has,” you whispered, hand still floating close by his face. “I wouldn’t take a damn letter of his advice in that department.” 

“Why not?” His breath tickled your skin, and suddenly you realised just how close you were standing. 

You shrugged, dispelling the shiver that had run up your spine. “I just know if a dude came onto me how he comes onto chicks, I’d kick him in the balls.” 

“I’ll make a point to not come onto you like he does, in that case.” 

It took a moment – past the words “like he does”, not that he wouldn’t come onto you full stop, but like Dean does – for the fact that it was a joke to sink in, then you smiled. Maybe there was, or had been, hope for him yet. You took a breath, turning the words over in your mind. It was now or never, you supposed. 

“I want you to know,” you said carefully, “if you die–” 

“When. Tomorrow, when I die.” 

“Uh, yeah.” You swallowed. How could he be so matter of fact about it? How could he just say it like that? It didn’t matter, you supposed. Whether he said it or didn’t, it wasn’t going to change the fact that it was happening. 

“When I die…” he prompted when you were silent. 

“I want you to know that I liked you,” you said simply, then shrugged. “I think I was on the way to really liking you.” 

He frowned, and for a moment you thought you’d made a massive mistake. “You don’t have to do that,” he said. “I don’t mind. I know I’m… a dick.” 

“Jesus, Cas,” you snorted. “Guess we say that a bit too much, don’t we?” 

“Maybe.” 

“And we don’t say ‘thank you’ enough.” 

He shook his head, still holding your hand. “You don’t have to do this,” he repeated.

“It’s not about that. Not all of it, anyway.” You smiled, glancing at your hand where it met his. It looked big, wrapped around your fingers, and it fitted painfully well. “But, you know, if it’s your last night on Earth…” You looked up, wiggling your eyebrows. You could play it off as a joke if you needed to, you weren’t too far in yet. 

That familiar almost-smile you’d come to look for danced over his lips. “You pity me, dying a virgin? Dying,” he added. “A virgin.” 

You laughed. “I don’t… pity you. Not exactly. Not because you’re gonna die a virgin, and definitely not because you’re a virgin.” 

“Because I scared away a prostitute?” 

“Her loss,” you laughed. “And anyway, if it’s your first and last time, it’d be nice to… y’know… feel good.” 

He frowned. “Surely a prostitute would know how to do that?”

“Maybe the technicalities,” you shrugged, “but there’s more to it than that. There’s feelings, y’know?” 

“Feelings?” 

Again, you shrugged, suddenly self conscious. What were you doing? “Two way street kind of thing,” you explained lamely. “Not just someone you want, but someone who wants you. Not just your money.” You were acutely aware of the unspoken words floating beneath the casual sentence. I want you. It could be me.

A pause, where his eyes seemed to bore into your soul. He had a knack for that, you’d noticed. Sometimes you felt like he could see right to the very core of your being. In the dimness, they looked even more startlingly blue than usual. He was so close, you could almost count his eyelashes, almost feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath the coat, jacket, shirt, tie… 

“When it’s…” He paused, his tongue darting over his lips. God, his lips. “Someone you want.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Someone who wants you.” 

“Mhm.” 

“Not just your money.” 

You hadn’t taken your eyes off his mouth through the whole exchange, and your voice, when you asked, sounded softer than you’d meant it to, breathy and faint to your own ears. “Do you want me, Cas? Last night on Earth, and all.” 

The corner of his mouth curled up, brows twitching into a thoughtful frown. No, you thought, not quite a frown. Something else, more curious than confused. Almost quizzical. “I think…” He paused, drawing breath. “I think I do.” 

“Ok,” you smiled, ignoring the butterfly rampage taking place in your stomach. This kind of thing wasn’t supposed to happen in real life. Not your life, anyway, even if it was Cas’s last night on Earth. It didn’t exist outside the pages of those shitty paperbacks. 

“Do you want me?” Cas asked. 

“Mhm.” It was all you could manage, really. Then you were stretching up the last few inches between your face and his, pressing your lips gently against his own. 

He was perfectly still for a heartbeat, two heartbeats, almost three. Then his hand tightened around yours and he pulled you closer, trench coat rustling where your chest met it. He kissed you the way you remembered the first boy who’d ever kissed you – a boy in your year level at school, at a party, playing spin the bottle no less – had kissed you. The want was all there, the enthusiasm and anticipation and the only half-conscious desire for more. His lips remained shut, but you could feel in it that he knew it wasn’t quite right. 

You pulled away briefly, just enough to raise a hand to his mouth and run your thumb over his bottom lip. “Like this,” you murmured, pushing just enough to part his lips. Then your hands were in his hair and you were pulling him down to you, and this time it was perfect. 

He made a little sound of pleasure as your tongue slipped beside his, stroking, caressing, gently as you could. Without any guidance, his hand had found the cloth-shielded contours of your breast, tracing the outline with a sort of awe. His fingers ran along the neckline of your top, dipping under the material, curving around your bare shoulder, exploratory and cautious. 

You let him explore you, his hands mapping out every curve he could touch, tongue darting into every uncharted depth he could find, tasting and learning and discovering parts of you you hadn’t guessed could be felt like this through just a kiss. Your mind spiralled as his hand eased under your shirt, cool fingers tickling the skin of your hip. He squeezed gently, pulling you against him harder, and you gave in completely. You weren’t sure if it was what he had been going for, but when you pushed your pelvis against his he gasped; a quiet, shuddering little sound that went straight to your panties. 

“Ok?” you breathed between kisses, then, at his nod, you did it again. 

His voice was strangled when he said your name, the pads of his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your waist. Oh Cas, you thought. A rush of affection washed over you at how eager he was, where just an hour before he’d been being literally pushed out the door by Dean, looking as terrified as you’d ever seen him at the prospect of sex. Now he was kissing you hungrily, kneading at your skin, inching your shirt up off your torso, his feet at risk of tangling with yours as he walked you backwards. Not to mention the increasingly noticeable bulge pressed against you. 

“Clothes off,” you breathed, already undoing his tie. “On the couch.” 

He paused, then he was shrugging off the trench coat, the blazer following suit – no pun intended – and landing with a soft rustling thump on the floor. You stepped back, just a little, as he deftly unfastened the buttons of his shirt, drinking in every inch of skin like a kid in a lolly shop. Fuck, maybe you had the hots for him even worse than you’d thought. 

“Are you going to undress too?” The question was mild, matter of fact, but something in the way Cas had paused midway through relieving himself of his pants and was watching you, hands still on the belt buckle, made you stomach flip. 

You cleared your throat, but your voice still came out too low, too husky. “Sure.” 

His gaze didn’t leave you for an instant – apart from when he kicked his discarded trousers aside – as you pulled your shirt the rest of the way over your head, slid your jeans as gracefully as you could down your legs. You shivered slightly in the cool night air, acutely aware of your hunter’s body. 

Cas’s eyes widened, scanning over you and taking in every inch of your skin. It wasn’t perfect, you were aware of that. It wasn’t like a hooker’s body, it carried you around as you fought monsters, and was littered with the proof of said monster fights. You wondered if Cas had seen other – normal – human bodies like this, if he’d find the painfully obvious reminders of your mortality somehow repellent. You suddenly felt very, very small and very, very human. 

“Sorry about… y’know…” You shrugged, patting your thigh awkwardly. “The meatsack’s a little dinged up. Most people don’t look like this.” 

“Don’t look like what?” he frowned, finally looking back at your face. 

You shrugged again, poking a long white scar over your side. The first werewolf you’d ever come face to face with, and nearly the last. “Scarred. At least not as much as I am,” you added. 

A shiver shot up your spine as Cas settled his hands on your bare waist, fingers running over the most noticeable marks. “Don’t apologise,” he said softly. “You’re human, and you spend your days killing monsters. It would be more disturbing if you were unblemished.” 

You laughed at that, a small breathy sound. “You think I’m disturbing?” 

He smiled faintly. “You’re not so bad.”

You felt your own mouth curve, matching his. “Neither are you.” 

He leaned down, his lips meeting yours once more. This kiss was softer, more intimate, maybe a little too intimate. You were vaguely aware of the couch behind you. Before your knees knocked against its side, you broke away – a difficult task, given that Cas chased your lips like a lab rat after cheese – and spun, laying your hands firmly on his chest. 

“Couch,” you muttered, giving a gentle push. 

He pulled you with him as he sat down, his hands running down over your hips, your thighs, back up again to your waist. He watched you carefully as his touch slid up the centre of your torso, over your bra, lingering momentarily on the anti-possession sigil tattooed over your heart before he moved on, across the line of your ribs. Unbidden, the memory of the last time he’d touched you there sprang to mind; the sharp, burning pain and throbbing after-ache of the Enochian sigils being literally carved into your bones. 

“I can see them,” he whispered, as if he’d read your mind. “The sigils.” 

You raised an eyebrow. “How do they look?” 

“Foreign,” he said after a moment. “They don’t belong.”

You shrugged, unsure how to respond to that. Sure, the sigils weren’t part of you, and you didn’t exactly know how you felt about angel writing being carved into your ribcage, but there was also something reassuring about knowing it was there, knowing you carried that kind of magic with you. In you. 

Cas’s eyes lifted from your body, fixing on your own. “Can you feel them?” he inquired. 

You shook your head. “Not really. Not physically. But I know they’re there.” 

“Perhaps I should have asked,” he muttered, almost to himself. “It’s your body, after all.” 

“No,” you smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I kinda like the idea of you scribbling on me. Bone graffiti.” 

“Bone graffiti?” 

You felt the smile grow, nodding. “Besides,” you added, “I’ll always have a little bit of you, even after you're gone. Like a… souvenir.” 

“Oh,” was all he said. You supposed people were right about impending death making people sappier. But still, what you said was true. Your own ribs had become a kind of lucky charm, a talisman, a locket of sorts. 

You dragged yourself out of that line of thinking before you went any further, turning your attention back to the angel currently underneath you on the couch. Underneath you and very shirtless. You’d placed your own hands on his chest in an attempt to not fall over on top of him, and now you let yourself touch him – really touch him. His chest heaved under your fingers as you swept over him, a tiny, strangled noise falling from his lips. 

“Alright?” you asked, pausing for a moment. 

He nodded, shifting slightly under you. “It’s good,” he said softly. 

“Keep going?” 

Again, a nod. Cautiously, gently, you spread your fingers over his chest. His heart beat fast, thudding frantically as you moved your other hand lower, down the centre of his torso, following the contours of his lithe muscles. You reached the waistband of his underpants, pausing. 

“Can I?” you asked, your hand hovering over his barely concealed erection. 

“Yes,” he whispered, tongue darting over his lips. His eyes flicked from your face to your hand, back to your face again. 

You smiled as you slipped your fingers under the waistband of his underwear. His dick was hot to the touch, hard and already damp at the tip. “You ever touched yourself?” you asked as you withdrew your hand, spitting into your palm. 

Cas’s breath hitched. “Once.” 

“Yeah?” 

He nodded, licking his lips again. “Dean said I wasn’t supposed to talk about it.” 

“Yeah, well…” You smiled again, wrapping your fingers around his cock and stroking languidly. “You can tell me.” 

He gave a sort of half gasp, half moan, his grip tightening on your thigh. “I found Dean’s magazine,” he confessed. “The one with the women, not the cars.” 

“Mhm?” You kept your voice mild, focussing on the steady motion of your arm and wrist, your fingers sliding effortlessly over him. You could almost see Cas flipping through the pages of one of those god-awful porn mags Dean insisted on carting around, picture his confused little head-tilt and his frown as he looked through the pictures, his hand creeping to where yours was now, his much larger fingers circling–

“It was uncomfortable,” he continued, jerking you back to the present. “Too hot. I really just wanted it to go away.” 

“And did it?” 

“Not until I– oh!” He broke off as your thumb slid over the leaking head of his cock, fingers digging into your thigh. 

You fought off the surge of heat the sound sent shooting through you, watching his slightly parted lips, his wide eyes. “Did you cum?” you asked evenly. 

“Yes,” he panted, hips twitching up slightly. “Oh, (Y/N), yes–” 

“Yes, you did cum?” 

“Yes, yes I did.” 

“Was it good?” 

Another soft moan, then he smiled. “Not as good as this.” 

Maybe it was the praise, maybe the moan, maybe the smile. Either way, the words went straight to your panties. You ignored it, stopping yourself from grinding against him with willpower that would have impressed Jesus. Although, you weren’t sure how he would have felt about you fucking a literal angel. 

You leant forward, kissing his lips gently, then his jaw, then his neck, then his chest. You kept going, tracing a path inexorably downwards, shuffling backwards to straddle his thigh as he shifted with you, now splayed along the couch lengthways. 

“Help me out,” you muttered, your hand moving beside your face as you attempted to pull his underwear off. Obediently, he lifted his hips and kicked them aside, the muscles of his stomach twitching as you placed a kiss on the junction of his hip. And holy shit, you could have just watched his torso moving like that forever. You kissed his hip again, sucking gently at the spot, licking over the mark you conjured. Then you added another beside it, and another, and another. A little belt of hickeys across his pelvis. 

“Do you, hm, touch yourself too?” he asked, breathless and raw. 

“Fuck, Cas.” You paused where you’d been about to kiss the base of his cock, raising your eyes to his. His chest rose and fell, rose and fell again, the skin almost glowing in the dim light. 

He frowned. “Am I not supposed to ask that?” 

“You can ask me anything you want,” you assured him, kissing the little trail of hair below his belly button. “And yeah, I do.” 

“Does it feel good?” 

You smiled. “Yeah.” 

“Do you…” He paused, searching for the words. “Do you want to do it now?” 

“This is about you,” you said softly, giving his cock a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry about me.” 

“I want you to feel good too.” 

You sat up, studying him. There was nothing by sincerity in his eyes, the genuine desire – and desire there was – for you to enjoy yourself. And why shouldn’t you indulge that? You were having a great time as it was, and there was no denying the throbbing ache that had grown exponentially between your legs. 

“You want me to touch myself?” you asked, double checking. 

He nodded. “Yes, please.”

“Ok.” You shed your own underpants, shivering as the cool air came in contact with your wetness. Slowly, you reached down and ran your finger over your clit, your breath hitching in your chest. You repeated the action, your hand moving further down to circle your entrance, slick gathering on your fingers. You’d done this countless times before, and you weren’t ashamed of it. Masturbation was natural, it was a perfectly normal perfectly human thing to do. This, however was different. You’d never had an audience before, never had anyone watch you with such rapt wonder and awe. 

Cas’s eyes flicked down to your bra, then back to your face. A question, almost a request. 

“Off?” you asked, already reaching behind your back. He nodded, watching carefully as you shed the garment and cast it aside to join the pile of clothes on the floor. Slowly, reverently, he stretched up and kissed your breast, his hand leaving its place on your hip to trace over the other one. 

A shiver ran down your spine and you bit down on your lip, attempting futilely to stifle your moan. Absently, your hand resumed its place between your thighs as Cas’s hand left your chest and found its way to his cock. You’d never in a million years have thought you’d be where you were now; touching yourself on top of an angel touching himself while he did his best to turn your chest into one giant hickey. You were hardly complaining. 

Something rustled in the next room over, and you both froze. Fuck, you thought. Dean was still (hopefully) asleep, only the wall and the hastily closed door to that room barring him from hearing you. Cas seemed to have had exactly the same thought, his head tilted slightly as he listened, his breath raising goosebumps on the spit-damp skin of your chest. There was another rustle, then a quiet snort, then nothing. He hadn’t woken, then. 

“We gotta be quiet,” you whispered. You shifted, biting back another moan. “Ok?” 

“Ok,” Cas nodded. He pressed his lips firmly together, eyes flicking down to where your hand disappeared between your legs. You hissed as you resumed your movement, acutely aware of every possible sound you or Cas made, ears pricked for any other disturbance from nextdoor. 

Cas’s free hand was still resting on your thigh, firmly holding you in place on top of himself. His wrist brushed your own with every stroke of his cock, the skin over his stomach and chest twitching ever so slightly. His own thigh tensed as he thrust into his hand, something that you could only describe as a whimper falling from his lips. Heat surged over you, your mind awash with desire. If only that hooker knew what she was missing. 

“Sorry,” he muttered almost immediately, eyes darting towards the door. 

“‘Salright,” you replied, swallowing hard. Being quiet was a much more difficult task than you’d anticipated, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy the possibility of being caught just a little bit. You grunted softly as your finger brushed over a particularly sensitive spot, the familiar rhythm and movements working just as well as ever, and even better when you had Cas to look at. Not to mention the warmth of his mouth where it occasionally found your breasts again. 

But you wanted more, you needed more. The same part of you that was electrified by your own touch craved his, especially when his beautiful hands were right there and his eyes were still fixed on you like you were the centre of the universe, his own movements becoming faster and more frantic, chest heaving. 

You paused, much as it pained you. “Do you wanna go further?” 

He frowned. “What do you mean?” 

Gently, you laid your hand over his and peeled it away from his cock. Wriggling forwards a little, you finally – finally – rocked your hips over his, revelling in the hot hardness of him against your slick. His mouth fell open, fingers tightening on your own. 

“Here, Cas. I want you inside me, wanna fuck you properly.” 

“Oh, (Y/N),” he sighed, his own hips matching your movement. 

“Will you let me? Let me fuck you?” 

“Yes,” he nodded. “Yes, of course.” 

You smiled. “Ok, one second.” You reached over the side of the couch, digging through the pockets of your jeans until you found your wallet – and the little foil package inside it. 

“What are you doing?” Cas asked as you tore it open and set the latex atop his dick. 

“It’s a condom,” you explained. “So I don’t get pregnant. No offence,” you grinned, “but I don’t really wanna have your babies any time soon.” 

“Oh.” He swallowed, processing. “That’s… understandable.”

“All good?” At his nod, you slid the condom the rest of the way down, spitting into your hand once more and resuming your earlier ministrations. “It feels a little different, I know,” you whispered as you moved to grind against him once more. 

“It’s still good,” he assured you, placing his hands gently on your hips. 

You smiled. “Ready?” 

“Yes.” The word was a breath, nothing more, but it was all you needed. Carefully, you lined him up and sank down, watching his face carefully. His eyes widened, his fingers digging into your flesh slightly as a deep groan reverberated through the space between you. 

“Gotta be quiet,” you reminded him, your voice not half as steady as you’d have liked. “Don’t wanna wake Dean up, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he echoed, “quiet.” 

You leaned forwards and placed a soft kiss on his lips, rocking your hips over his. He was everything you’d imagined and so much more. It was like he’d been made for you, the way his cock stroked every inch of your insides, sliding smoothly with how wet you were. You wanted to go back in time and kick your past self for having waited this long. 

“God, Cas,” you sighed. “Oh God.” 

His brows pinched together slightly, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he stretched up and captured your lips with his, moving down over your jaw to your neck, sucking gently just as you’d done to the skin of his hip. Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close against you as you lifted and lowered your hips, a faint whine somehow slipping from your lips despite your best efforts. 

“Is this, hm, ok?” he asked, his usually gravelly voice made even more so. 

“Fuck,” you gasped as his hand came to rest on your ass, kneading at the soft flesh, moving up over the front of your hips where your leg met the rest of your body. “So good, Cas.” 

“You’re so good,” he murmured, guiding your movements gently. He thrust into you, his hips meeting yours halfway, stomach muscles flexing.

“Let me,” you said, pushing him backwards into the couch cushions. “You relax, yeah? I’ve got it. I’ve got you.” 

He nodded, head tipping back as you bounced on his dick, the rough fabric of the cushion beneath you scratching at your knees. Fumbling slightly, your hands found purchase on his chest and you locked your elbows in an odd sort of imitation of CPR. If CPR was done from the front rather than the side, you supposed, but you weren’t exactly doing any resuscitation. 

His chest heaved under your touch, another low groan seeming to echo in the otherwise stillness of the night. The tiny part of your brain that wasn’t totally consumed with the wonderful pleasure-ache of his cock hitting deep inside you and the burn of your thighs was torn between telling him to be quiet and just listening to him, but then he was licking his lips again and his mouth was falling open and you were lost. 

“(Y/N),” he panted, his eyes fixed on your face. “Oh, (Y/N), oh my–” 

“Alright?” you asked, biting back a moan as you found a particularly good angle. 

“Yes, yes, of course. It’s, hm, so good.” He glanced momentarily down at where your body met his, another groan rumbling in his chest. 

“Sh–” you whispered, half tempted to press your hand over his mouth. Or maybe your own, given the struggle you were facing to remain quiet yourself. 

“Sorry, sorry I–” 

You cut him off quickly. “It’s alright Cas, you’re fine. Just, fuck–” 

“(Y/N),” he panted, the muscles of his arms and stomach flexing as his fingers gripped the couch cushion, luminescent in the dimness. Again, his eyes flicked downwards, this time to the soft mound of flesh currently on display. 

You smiled, reaching down to take his hand, drawing it up to rest over your pelvis. His skin was warmer than you’d ever felt it, faintly clammy and God his hand was big under your own. You couldn’t count the number of times you’d caught yourself picturing his hands in this kind of context, and you didn’t want to try. His fingers splayed over your skin, moving with you, covering the whole space below your naval. 

“That’s where you are,” you panted. “That’s where I can feel you, Cas, right there.” 

A small, strained noise you could only describe as a whine. “Is it, ah, good? Do you like it? Do you like feeling… me?” 

“Fuck,” you sighed. “Yeah, sure do, Cas. Do you like feeling me?” 

He smiled, biting down hard on his lower lip. “Of course. I like it immensely.” 

You felt yourself clench at his words, and this time you were unable to restrain the downright pornographic moan that tore from your throat. Any other time, you might have been embarrassed, but Cas seemed to like it. Pressing your lips firmly together, you glanced hastily towards the other room, but as far as you could tell there was no disturbance. 

“(Y/N), oh, (Y/N), I don’t think—” He swallowed hard, eyes wide and back on your face. 

“Yeah? What’s wrong?” 

“I can’t— I don’t think I can be quiet, (Y/N) I—”

Affection bloomed alongside the desire in your gut, and you had half a mind to tell him it was alright, he didn’t even have to worry about being quiet at all. It wasn’t like you didn’t love the noises he was making. But Dean was only one room over, and you didn’t want to wake him. 

“You can, Cas,” you breathed, “you can. You’re doing so well already, we just gotta— fuck.”

He’d bucked his hips up into you, the movement jolting the steady knot of pleasure forming low in your stomach. He was close, you could see it as much as hear it, but the thought of the thin walls and your friend sleeping in the next room over had taken root more firmly in your mind now. 

“It’s so much,” Cas gasped. “Oh, oh, (Y/N) it’s so much—”

You managed a smile, slowing down your movements a little. “I know,” you said softly. “You’re ok, yeah?” 

He nodded frantically. “Hm, yes, yes. Please, don’t stop. Keep going, please—” 

Another soft moan slipped from your mouth, Cas’s answering groan enough to make your legs shake. It was too loud, and any other time you’d have soaked up his praises and curses and everything, but not now. After a moment’s hesitation, you clamped your hand firmly over his mouth, sh-ing him gently. If possible, his eyes widened even further and he groaned against your skin. 

“Alright?” you breathed. 

Another frantic nod, an almost-whimper as your grip firmed up. Well I’ll be damned, you thought vaguely. Who’d have guessed he was into that? 

You felt him shiver all over as you continued to rock your hips over his, his hand where it rested on your hip tightening. You wondered if you’d have finger-shaped bruises later. It didn’t matter, you told yourself as he moaned again, his stomach muscles tensing, something that could have been your name squashed under your hand. 

“Sh, shh!” you gasped. Between holy shit I’m so close and holy shit he’s so close, the thought that Dean was right there and would hear you was still rooted in your mind. “Cas, sh, Dean’s right– ah, fuck, Dean’s–” 

You broke off as Cas’s chest heaved, his hips bucking up into you once more. His mouth had fallen open under your hand and he was gasping something, angel curse-words, maybe? It didn’t matter, not when his eyes were screwed shut and his head was tipped back, your name sprinkled into the litany of foreign words like a prayer. 

The sight was enough to make the bomb that had been building in your stomach explode, sparks of pleasure shooting through your aching legs right to your toes and back up again. You might have said Cas’s name, you weren’t sure, but the sentiment was there. You clamped a hand over your own mouth, nothing but the need to be quiet reverberating through your pleasure-blanked mind. 

After what felt like an age, your brain managed to find its way back into your skull and the aftershocks of your orgasm faded from your body. Gently, you removed your hand from Cas’s mouth and looked down at him, smiling. 

“Alright?” you asked. 

His hair was a mess, his brow lightly beaded with sweat, cheeks flushed. There was even a slight red mark where your hand had been, which you stroked gently. 

“I’m more than alright,” he smiled, turning to place a tiny kiss on your fingers. “Are you?” 

“Good,” you nodded as you slid off him, mourning the sudden emptiness momentarily as you peeled off the condom, tying it in a neat knot to be disposed of later. Then he was lifting his arm, wriggling with you as if he could read your mind, and you were being cocooned against his body. 

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment, “if I was too loud.” 

“You weren’t,” you assured him quickly. “Not at all. Sorry about… gagging you. I should’ve asked. That’s not what usually happens.” 

He hesitated, turning to meet your eyes. “I… didn’t mind.” 

“No?” 

He shook his head, a small, nervous smile dancing across his lips. “No. In fact, I quite liked it.” 

You felt your own smile widen as you placed a soft kiss on his cheek, taking his hand where it rested on his chest. “Good,” you said. “What about  the rest? What do you think?” 

He sighed, a beautifully satisfied noise that flooded you with warmth. “I think I should not have waited this long.” 

You laughed, pressing closer. “Mhm?” 

“Mhm. Thank you, (Y/N), truly.” 

“Oh,” you said softly, turning away to hide the blood rushing to your face. “That’s ok, Cas. Thank you.” 

He gave another little hum, shifting to drape his arm over your waist and pull you into him, fingers skimming your ribs. Getting spooned by a divine warrior of God, you thought with a thrill. Real life really was stranger than fiction. 

“You’re tired,” he murmured, his voice seeming to rumble through you in the best way possible. “You should sleep.” 

“Hold on,” you protested as you felt his arm withdrawing. You grabbed his hand, pulling it firmly back down to rest on your stomach, wiggling closer. “There was a blanket on the back, grab that. I’m staying here.” 

You could almost feel him frowning when he replied. “You’d not rather a bed?” 

You only hesitated a moment before bending to kiss his arm. “I’d rather you.” 

He didn’t seem to know quite what to say to that, but after a beat something heavy and slightly scratchy was being draped over you, and Cas’s arm was tightening around your waist, and his lips were pressing against your shoulder. 

“G’night,” you whispered. 

“Good night, (Y/N).” 

It was Dean who found his two friends curled together on the couch the next morning. He snorted, taking in the gentle rise and fall of your shoulders in tandem with Cas’s, his hand enveloping your smaller one where it rested just above the blanket, the assortment of what was very clearly Cas’s suit and your own clothes scattered over the floor. Well, he supposed, the night hadn’t been a complete failure. He had half a mind to throw something at you, the scene was so jarringly… sweet. 

“Rise n’ shine lovebirds,” he called instead, “we’ve got shit to do.” 

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

hey ari, i’m truly having an awful night. there’s a free pass for anything that involves someone being protective against a shitty guardian/parental figure. i wish jason todd would’ve kicked my dads ass tonight.

Lee took to Alfred much more warmly, peppering him with little boy questions about dinosaurs and oddly enough... piccolos? Which made the butler wonder if there was not a single neurotypical person in the entire family.

Adorable. He was enchanted. All dimples and curls. He'd carried Alfred a mug of tea managing to only spill half of it on the floor for the boxer and the wolf hound. And to get under your feet nearly causing you to fall twice- managing to get exiled to play outside with his dog.

It was a lovely afternoon. Watching Jason be so... soft. So helplessly in love with his wife and his children. Excited to be a new father. He enjoyed doting on his wife and fussing over his kids. He was comfortable in the vintage kitchen and the narrow halls. He liked the routine. Coming home to something stable.

When you started stretching your back in your kitchen chair, Jason smiled a little, "C'mon, let's get you on the couch."

"I'm fine, I just needed to-"

"Let's please not have to take you back to the hospital," Jason coaxed, helping you to your feet. "I'll tell Lee he needs to run in sight of the bay window every so often."

You snort and let him help you, grateful that he's strong enough to catch you if you need him to. It's comforting. He's comforting. Between his bulk beside you and Boris behind you. By the time he has you on the sofa you already feel better. At least until your phone rang.

"Hello?"

Jason frowned. He could tell from the look on your face who it was and he got Alfred seated listening with half an ear. Your biological father wanted money. Again. Either to have it put on his books or your sisters.

It hardly mattered. The divorce happened. Battle lines got drawn. You chose mom Mandy chose dad. Now you raised Mandy's kids and got "everything handed to you" as far as she could tell. Never mind trusts and adoptions. Or love. Or duty.

He gave Alfred a meaningful look and took a deep breath. Your biological dad and your sister were both banned. They both had no contact orders. And the second they upset you he'd be hanging up.

Your voice cracked. And tears fell.

And gently but firmly Jason plucked the phone from your hand, "If you're that fucking worried about Mandy's books use store brand instead of name brand for your meth and cut costs. Figure it out. Call here again and I'll report you to your PO." But before he could reply he hung up.

"Jay-"

"Shh," he soothed, "don't cry baby girl."

"God I hate it."

"I know," he hummed, wrapping his arms around you. "But you're doing good. Just breathe." He broke off and wiped your face, kissing your forehead, "I can't get you a shot but I can get the baby a snack," he teased, "what do they want?"

"Milk chocolate sea salt caramel truffles," you tell him.

He grinned and kissed your nose before standing up, "Alfred, did you feel up to going to the store with me or do you want to stay and keep Y/N company?"

"Well obviously," Alfred said sipping a fresh cup of tea, "I'm going to stay here and be nosey."

"Ky it is," Jason said, "I'll take a kid and a grocery list... then maybe we won't come home with half the cereal aisle."

"We hope," you tell him smiling.

"Shh," Jason said. "Be nice to me and I'll buy more than one bag of truffles."

"You should probably do that anyway," Alfred observed. "For practical reasons."