#horny&depraved book club

[tellywoodtrash]

immj2 19.04.21 lb

here's what you "missed" (lbr tho, not watching tellywood is not called MISSING, it's called "FREEDOM") last week on this shitshow:

kabir pehla mauka dekh ke vatttt liya. #livefree my love.

kiara died the most inglorious death - forcefed a peanut butter milkshake.

riddhima as per usual, the moment someone drops dead in their vicinity, turned to vansh and was like:

ghar mein saaaaare 90s bachche start playing CID-CID. kaabil detectives watching this bs like......

besttttt part is that none of these dumbasses are ANYYYYYYYYYY closer to opening the damn black box than they were 2 weeks ago.

meanwhile someone keeps threatening riddhima ki they're gonna tell vansh the whole 6 hours secret. ho hum. sansaaaar ko khatam ho jaana hai lekin yeh manhoos raaz nahi khulna.

aslkdjaslkdjlsakjdlaskjd anu mom and her new-found spirituality and daily meditation is actually sending me.

mummyji being super helpful and telling riddhima ki dadi has the torch now. love how the whollllllle family is just playing passing the parcel with this thing, getting their grubby fingerprints all over it, as if it's NOT A VALUABLE PIECE OF EVIDENCE IN A MURDER.

dadi meanwhile is burning a hole in her phone screen staring at kiara's tattoo. bachchon se leke buddhon tak sabne isko ghoora hai, lekin majaal hai, inmein se ek ko bhi kuch samajh aaya ho. why can't y'all just accept that maybe it means nothing, it's just one of those dumb foreign language tattoos, that probably say "ek plate gobi manchurian" or some shit.

riddhima's here asking for the torch and dadi is just like BHAKKKKK NIKAL YAHAAN SE while having flashbacks to brandishing the mashaal like some crazyass charlotesville nazi.

another flower delivery for riddhima that vansh is receiving at the door, and sis loses it. runs like PT USHA and grabs the flowers and note outta his hand thinking it's another threat and tears it up.

vansh here like:

but also she cut her hand so ofc he's using mauka to suck on her finger. MAN IN THESE CORONA TIMES, Y'ALL REALLY KILLING ME WITH THIS GANDAAAAAA NON HYGENIC BEHAVIOURRRR.

lmao the bouquet was from vansh, as an apology (for what? no like, we've lost count of all the shit you do on an hourly basis, so which exact thing are you saying sorry for right now????)

also what adbhut new way of being pregnant is this that the immj2 ladies have cracked, ki inka itnaaaaaa se bhi pait nahi nikalta????

anyway, some blah blah cutesy romance bakchodi that no one has time for. i liked it better when y'all were constantly horny.

angre as usual here with some manhoos khabar that has vansh frowning and storming away.

police aayi hai. excuse you, we don't recognize any cops here but our one and only KABIR. HAIN KAHAN HUMAARA LADKA??? MISSING HO RAHI HAI YAAR?!?!!!? KYUN LAGA RAKHA HAI FALTU KA YEH SHOW WITHOUT THE BEST CHARACTER THAT EXISTS IN IT?

anyway police is like we heard there was a murder here, and vansh is like huh whaaa here no??? no dead ppl here, no sir. you may leave. police waale bhaiyya is like bhak chutiye, aise thodi hota hai, warrant laaye hain, hatt saamne se.

angre taking out a rolled up carpet, a trick outta the vihaan book. but it's too small to have anything rolled up in it, so.......

doesn't stop the police from making a big deal of searching it though, while vansh side mein se taane maarta hai. waise bhai kaaafi good mood mein hai aaj kal. looks like someone's been taking their meds these days.

riddhima just randomly falling down behind them. like..... ???????

this police is literally too dumb to function. THEY CAME WITH A WARRANT TO SEARCH THE WHOLE HOUSE, JUST LOOKED INSIDE THIS ONE ROLLED CARPET (THAT TOO AFTER GETTING DISTRACTED BY RIDDHIMA'S RANDOM GIRRNA) AND WERE LIKE OK DONE THERE'S NOTHING HERE BYE. LMAO WHAT THE HELL, MY CAT PLAYS HIDE AND SEEK WITH MORE FOCUS AND PURPOSE THAN THIS.

husband wife and anu mom giggling over how riansh ke do takke ka pyaar is enough to chutiya banaofy everyone. kya hi bakwaaas.

the slightest of movement and vansh is dizzy. lol is he severely anemic like me???? join the club, bitch. we have iron supplements.

oh boy, cut to a while later and bro don't look too good. he's still smiling at riddhima's banter and all, but.......... idk man, he looks like he's having a daura of some sort.

riddhima's amazing medical knowledge (or just plain common sense???) finally kicks in and she's like, u ok dude? imma call a doc. and he's like nooooooo i'm fiiiiiiiiiiiine. ok whatever. maro apne iss stupid secret container room office mein. bewakoof.

ISKE BEECH MEIN BHI ROMANCE. BHAAD MEIN JAO YAAR TUM LOG.

asldkjaslkdjlaskdjlaskdj angre ne laash ko vyom ke ghar rakh diya. as if there aren't enough creepy things lying around in there in the first place.

ok vansh seems to be getting real breathless and sickly.

meanwhile idhar angre is doing some kinda depraved play with kiara's laash and........... man everyone in this show is a fucking psychopath.

also it's now been like 3, 4 days since the chick died and ..................... body's not smelling ripe yet?

vansh coughing his way through opening that stupid orange coloured black box and.......... abbe chutiye, zinda rahoge toh khol paoge?????????

anyway the tattoo code whatever only has 5 digits and he needs 6 and meanwhile anu mom has come yelling about how siya's gone missing. great. ek pallllllll ka chain nahi is pagal-khaane mein.

find some letter in her room. vansh's coughing is getting worse and worse. bro, time to get a covid test.

at least siya was helpful enough to tell everyone she's going to saste!bhaiyya.

asli bhaiyya is understandably very very upset. and thus coughing and huffing puffing even more. SOMEONE TAKE THIS DUDE TO A DOCTOR THIS IS GETTING DISTRESSING TO WATCH OML.

anu mom toh is full-on ignoring vansh actively dying in front of her rn and is like OH GOD SIYA KAHIN KOI "NAADAAANI" MEIN ZINDAGI KHARAAB NAA KAR BAITHE (meaning: OMG VIRGINITY KHATRE MEIN HAIIIIII!!!!!!!!)

riddhima is like dude you're not fucking ok and he's still like I'M FINE I'M JUST WORRIED FOR SIYA. idk man i'd be more worried about your obviously failing phepdein and dil than your sister's hymen, but that's just me i guess.

riddhima is calling vyom and threatening him, and nothing gets vyom hornier than being threatened, so ofc, bhai mood mein hai.

vyom, unlike all other tellywood baddies (and even goodies), is a big believer in consent. good on him. 10 points to him over every other chutiya man in this show.

he's informing her about how vansh thikaane lagaofied the laash at his place. oufffffff, y'all need to respect poor dead kiara instead of just shuffling her body back and forth like this. uski aatma tum logon ke upar mandaraaayegi, dekhna.

riddhima's like idc about all this i just want siya to be safe and he's like too late babe. sardi, khaasi, na malaria hua; humko love love love loveriaaaaa huaaaa.

vyom's like siya aayi apni marzi se hai, par jaayegi meri marzi se. guess he don't believe in consent so much anymore. (revokes the 10 points i gave hm earlier. also taking away 50 points for this uglyass suit. bhai tu shirt utar, wohi behtar hai.)

vansh has now progressed to coughing like the people from the pre-movie anti-tobacco ads now.

hides the orange black box in yet another secret room hidden behind some panel, where all the raisinghania wealth is hoarded like pirate's booty in all these crates. y'all crazy, its 2021, put that shit in offshore bank accounts you dumbasses.

anyway he tells angre all this shit kaafi detail mein, and lord idk how angre ke neeyat doesn't phisalofy to just off this fucker and take over the whole thing himself. zero ambition this boy has. ishani hoti isske jagah, toh pakka karti. precap: riddhima trying to console vansh about siya; vyom being a creepy ass monologuing loser as per usual; vansh pays a visit to vyom exuding hella lotta sexy energy.

[the-infamous-mister-gates]

The Fury of Mother Bangkok

          There’s a reason why you dream what you dream. It’s something you hope for, but know that you’ll never get it. It will never happen. I learned a long time ago that it wasn’t about capturing a dream…

          It was about chasing it.

         There was one dream I had, where I would be laying in a wide-open wheat field looking up at the orange twilight of the engulfing dusk.  A spacious blue sky littered with pink clouds shaped like mythic beings: dragons, slithering in the crisp air; a mighty phoenix, its wings spread over the horizon; angel eyes made of fire, burning with intense love and mystery. The poetic existence of all these mesmerizing creatures broke into obscurity in the wake of the night.

         There was nothing to chase in a peaceful dream like that. I could find books detailing symbolism, analogies, and possible meanings, but in a way that would spoil what I already have: A vivid realm different from my life that I could escape to.

.   .   .   .

         There were poets and dancers. There were male escorts and silver tongue pimps. There was the underbelly that smelled of cheap cigars, body spray fragrances, and ammonia. Neon lights reflected in marble polished columns and chrome bar counters. A jugular of festive business men stroking the legs of servers, who brought mixed refreshments poured in glittering glasses.   Entertainers were situated in the center of the abyssal ballroom where masked men and women copulated in a pit of velvet ambrosia.

         Many people came here to witness the cross-cultured display of feverous engorge; the execrable wonders of snakes molesting women in a pool of cloudy water.  Spotlights and stage lights spraying the bodies with a gleam of patronage, unwilling to remove their ethereal stare like a perverted God in the absence of an unforgiving way of life. Off-duty cops and underage girls drinking in leather booths where stains of blood and cum reside under their feet.

         I stand between it all, the lone American among the locals of a foreign city, with scars on my body hidden from sight until the audience is worthy to see them.  I don’t know what year this is or what day of the week it could be, let alone the month.  I did not exist for those things.  I lived in the now. Not the past or the future.  I traded a moment for a moment with brutality and blackouts; the occasional companion and the mornings after.

Excess, no less

Pushing fingers into flesh

Zealous, Jealous

Devil woman tell us

       Heavy synth music matches my pulse as I gaze over the occupants.  Some were laughing and talking, others motioning some to go under the tables and unbutton their pants.  Disco ball lights and shining stars reflecting in the glass frames of an elder gentleman petting a young man with cold sores on his lips and bruises on his face.

         My eyes see the truth in the complex feeding off of Mother Bangkok, the place where we go to die and be reborn in a stew of depravity. If I could cut open all these people and spill their guts, all there would be is sludge and gunk within. These incestuous machines eating and throwing up one another over candle lit tables, calling it love and nurturing, filling their wombs with worms and digesting fluids from oozing statuettes.

         I can see the show in the middle conclude.  A wave of applause scatters around as the horny little masked performers walk off the center stage. The custodian boys run quickly to clean the stage for the next act. I turn my head to the main bar.  The man there looks at me and raises his hand displaying five fingers to remind me of the time I have left until show time. I nod to him subtlety.  I walked away from the main scene to the bathrooms. I approached the urinal and relieved myself. I noticed graffiti on the rustic green wall:

Mother Superior sucked me off twice

And Daddy Vader put me in a vice

And so it all goes

Long live the show

It’s a maze and we’re the mice

         I flushed the urinal and walked up to the restroom sink.  My senses begin to absorb the surrounding nuances in the restroom:  The flickering of the half-broken florescent bulb above my head; the buzzing of the mating flies in the top corner window; the boosted bass of the outside bar music; the vacant reflection looking back at me in the fractured mirror.

   I crack my neck and my back loudly. I wash my hands thoroughly. I pull out some paper towels and dry my hands completely. I look at myself in the mirror.  I flex my arms and raise them in front of my asymmetrical face. I crack my fingers and my back again. I roll my shoulders and slap my face. I smack the paper towel dispenser and walk out. I go through the back dressing rooms. The blind masseur was loosening the muscles of the performers as I walk past the dark rooms where questionable things happen all the time.

   Before I walk out into the main stage, I look to my right and see her: a slim young woman in a blood red dress and dark make-up.  Her southeastern Asian complexion glossed with natural shine. She looked at me worrisomely.  I stared back and winked.  She forced a small smile in return. At that moment, ear-encapsulating electronica music summoned my presence into the small area of the central stage where just previously, seven people were fucking each other for a hundred people to see. As I walked out, cheers and hollers of praise could be heard, accompanied with an equal amount of boos and detestable rants. I removed my suit jacket and shirt when I walked into the middle stage. The spotlight beamed down on my body like an alien ship. I rolled my head and loosened my body, revealing the gratuitous scars over my muscular definition and vascularity, inflicted from past fights and brawls.

         My opponent was a massive South Korean thug for a local black market operation. He sat in a chair, infuriated and tense like some savage giant.  The bartender walks into the middle and calls for us to enter the center.  My opponent stands up. He’s tall, I’ll give him that, but there is no way he’s fast.

   The barkeep says his name is Dae-Su. As the fight is approved, Dae-Su lunges forward and tries to grab me with both his arms. Stupid first move.  I saw that coming a mile away.  I duck and swoop around, planting my hard knuckles into his side.  He swings around; I duck again.  He grabs a chair and hurls it towards me.  I raise my arms up and try to block the shattering wood.  I fall over, anyone would.  Dae-Su kicks me in the chest.  I can hear the cheering over the booming music. You would think this happens so fast, but to me, it’s like fighting on the moon.  I feel weightless and serene.  The sound is muffled over the vacuum of space.  Everything moves in slow motion: the blood, the fists, and the crowd; it’s beautiful.

         I grab a beer bottle and break it over Dae-Su’s fat head.  I see some blood fly as he yells in pain, trying to cover his face.  I raise my arm up and punch him right in the left temple.  He goes down but gets back up.  Dae-Su stumbles like a hippo with Down syndrome.  I thrust my knuckles into the side of his face and watch as a patch of skin is ripped open by the sheer velocity of my strength.  I knock him to the floor. The crowd demands I finish him.  They want me to fuel their bloodlust.

   I was their vicarious avatar for relentless rage. They didn’t see some goon getting beat up.  They saw their bosses, their daughter’s boyfriend, their wives, their school rivals, their wives’ lovers, their father, their mother, their church pastor. They even saw God there being pulverized and beaten to a pulp by me.  By the time I’m done, Dae-Su’s face looks like the inside of a cherry pie.

   I stand up from Dae-Su’s body. The cheering pencil-pushers and government officials soon begin to really look at what I’ve done.  The voices cease into an eerie silence that welcomes the feuding guilt to twist their stomachs.  Noticing the change in atmosphere, the club music of Mother Bangkok turns back on as a couple of guys take Dae-Su’s body to the back.  I look over the silent faces, all blinking and coming to terms with what they just experienced and how they felt about it: They enjoyed it.  They would be back for more no matter how appalled they might feel or how drunk they are.

Meretricious and vicious

Her lips so delicious

Crimson red, silky bed

Sins welcoming the dead

               I pull a towel from the back room and head upstairs.  I live in one of the many apartments above Mother Bangkok.  In my room waiting is my little diva singer.  Her red dress hung over my desk chair. She’s waiting for me on my bed.  She helps me in and puts me to sleep, watching me and cleaning my wounds.

   This place hidden from the all-seeing eyes, but seen from those with all views of humanity, my iron-crafted home where fury bludgeons the underground dwellers and profiteers as souls, deplete and run dry like a desert thirst.

   Among Elephant Kings and She-male prostitutes, I’m a wanderer and deserter with no dreams that can soothe the painful embrace of such a hell.  The diva’s touch keeps the wrath of the begging dragon at bay, but the dreams I pursue nourish my longing.

   How simple a dream is to obtain when it’s the sky of your home far away.  The voices of Mother Bangkok tempt and revitalize, never letting go, but infuriating my sole purpose to fight, to please and satisfy.  The Diva and I, both are children to a Dragon and a Fury that birthed the cataclysmic endeavor of lost dreams and never-ending brawls.

   My dream has been captured, and I go on chasing it and the ones that have claimed it.

[hale-of-stiles-heart]

High school au: sassy gay cas and jock dean

This turned into nerd!Cas more than anything, but I hope you still like it! (also on ao3!)

If the text had come from virtually anyone else, Dean would have immediately thought it was a come-on.

But seeing as it was from none other than Cas, the potentially suggestive statement was mollified into a matter of fact announcement. My siblings will all be out of the house this afternoon. You can come by around four o'clock.

Even knowing who it was from and the exact intent behind the words, Dean couldn't help but let his mind wander to the more provocative side of the message. He was a horny bisexual teenager for God's sake, who could blame him?

Especially since Cas was practically the epitome of sex. He had the dark, tousled hair of someone who had just been thoroughly fucked, the kind of perpetual five o'clock shadow that called to mind some kind of male model.

His eyes, big and bright and impossibly blue, would piercing and analytical. Dean wondered what they would look like when softened by pleasure, the light irises overtaken by his dilated pupils.

His lips were obscenely pink, plump and perfect and unbelievably enticing. They looked slightly chapped, constantly making Dean wonder if they would be rough if he kissed them. Among other things.

Essentially, Cas was like an angel come to Earth, gorgeous and ethereal and hot like burning. The only problem with that was that Cas actually acted like a little angel.

While Dean was a jock in every sense save for the stereotypical stupidity, captain of the football team and a proud grease monkey on the weekends, Cas was the embodiment of a nerd.

He was valedictorian of their class to the surprise of absolutely no one, not even people who deemed themselves too cool to care about class rankings. Dean wasn't sure what exactly Cas' GPA was but he had suspicions that it was near 5.0, if not surpassing it.

Needless to say, Cas was ridiculously smart. Mind-blowingly. Astonishingly. Sometimes overwhelmingly.

He knew about everything from ancient theological theories about the Bible to the most recent breakthroughs in the realm of astrophysics. And boy could he talk about anything and everything in between.

While usually soft-spoken and awkwardly taciturn, enough for people to have mistakenly presumed that he was mute, Cas could talk for hours on end. He just needed someone to spark the conversation.

That was part of the reason why the poor guy had a reputation for being painfully awkward. Of course, it was true and half the time Cas seemed a zebra amongst horses but it still provided fodder for all kinds of nasty rumors.

His heavy involvement in a whole score of school-sponsored clubs deemed nerdy by his peers didn't help, either. In true nerd form, Cas was on the debate team, chess team, and the quiz bowl team.

Hell, Cas even dressed like a nerd. He may not have worn glasses but he constantly showed up to school in button-ups and slacks and shined shoes. He was even known to wear a tie occasionally, sweater vests too.

But none of that mattered to Dean. Well, it did, but it took a backseat to the more important fact that Cas was amazing and Dean had it bad for him.

Which is why, when he received the perfectly innocent text from the dorky little guy, his mind took the expressway straight to a daydream full of depravity and wistful lust. His head immediately filled with all kinds of ideas about what two people could do in a big, empty house.

And not one of those things he imagined had anything to do with studying or tutoring. The latter of which was the only reason Cas was inviting him over in the first place.

While Dean was usually a rather good student himself — he was smart despite what many people expected from him, more than a pretty face who could play football ― he had wound up falling a little behind in English. He had been too busy practicing for the big homecoming game to study for his first big English exam of the school year.

In his defense, football might get him a scholarship that would actually let him go to college while knowing just what exactly Hamlet's tragic flaw was wouldn't. (It was his  inability to act, Cas had informed him.)

Because his grades had started to slip, his uncle Bobby had inquired with the school about getting Dean a tutor. Dean's English teacher had been all too happy to comply, immediately looking into the available student tutors.

Dean had dreaded it, at first. He had been sure that he was going to wind up with some asshole who treated him like dirt just because he wasn't in all honors classes.

But instead, he had been paired up with Cas.

Cas, who was patient and never faulted Dean for occasionally struggling with some of the more difficult aspects of their English curriculum. Cas, who was sweet and quiet and listened to Dean's stories about football despite admitting that he didn't care for sports.

Cas, who somehow managed to make boring plays and mind-numbing poems more interesting than the most recent storylines on Dr. Sexy. Cas, who took time out of his own day to help Dean with his projects even though the school only required him to tutor Dean eight hours a week.

Cas, who shared Dean's secret love of Star Wars and Vonnegut, who vehemently agreed with Dean that Batman was most certainly a superhero. Cas, whose smile had quickly become the most beautiful thing that Dean had ever seen.

Cas, who Dean had completely fallen for.

Which is why Dean had been unexpectedly ecstatic when his English teacher announced that they were adding a project to the curriculum. Because that meant he had another reason to see Cas.

He had already decided on the topic and, with the help from his buddy Charlie, the most computer savvy person he knew, he had already finished the presentation portion.  He just needed to finish the actual paper which gave him the perfect excuse to ask Cas for help.

He had messaged Cas about needing someone to proofread his paper and had, in turn, received Cas' unintentionally innuendo-laden reply.

He had a few hours to kill before four o'clock rolled around, giving him enough time to get some things in order before heading over to Cas' place.

He threw together a couple burgers for lunch, calling Sam down from his room before the little nerd got too engrossed in studying to remember to eat. It was a little disturbing just how similar Cas and Sam were.

Speaking of his tutor, Dean informed his little brother that he would be stopping by Cas' to work on his English problem. With their dad out of town, Dean wasn't too keen on leaving Sam home alone, claiming he would drop Sam off at Bobby's heading to Cas'.

Sam hadn't raised any complaints. He would probably have a blast at Bobby's where he could read all the books in their uncle's makeshift library.

So, after finishing lunch and making sure Sam had everything he would need to spend a few hours at Bobby's, Dean hopped in the shower. He scrubbed off all the dirt and grime from his day, making sure he used the fancy shampoo that Cas had offhandedly mentioned was his favorite.

After drying off, Dean had thrown on some faded jeans and a black t-shirt. And, because he may or may not have had a bit of a kink for the whole jock/nerd thing, he decided to throw on his varsity jacket.

Sam had rolled his eyes at him as they loaded into the Impala, muttering something under his breath about Dean being a horndog. Dean had gotten him back by teasing Sam about the cute new girl in his history class, Jess.

It was a short drive to Bobby's place, the salvage yard only a few blocks away from their house. Bobby and Ellen were there to greet them, Bobby busy working on the engine of his Chevelle.

After promising to pick Sam up before seven and complimenting Ellen's new haircut, Dean started towards Cas' house on the other side of town. It was nestled on the outskirts of the richie rich part of town where assholes like Dick Roman and Crowley lived.

A huge white colonial, the house was big enough to accommodate Cas' scores of siblings and then some. There was a willow tree in the spacious backyard by a wooden bench, a swing hanging from one of the thicker branches.

The street in front of the house was clear, Cas' siblings' cars gone as he had implied they would be. The only vehicle in sight was Cas' ridiculous pimpmobile that was parked in the driveway.

Dean rolled his eyes as he parked in front of the house, putting his baby in park. Grabbing his bookbag and pocketing his keys, Dean climbed out of the Impala and jogged up the stone walkway to the front door.

"Give me a moment, please!" Cas called when Dean knocked on the door, sounding a little flustered. It was kind of adorable. And by kind of, he meant it was beyond adorable and he was seconds away from swooning like a nurse on Dr. Sexy.

When Cas opened the door a minute later, he looked flustered, too. His hair was mussed and his cheeks were slightly flushed, tinged a light shade of pink.

Like the nerd he was, he was wearing a white button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a light gray and blue argyle sweater vest. It was Saturday and he looked runway ready. Fucking typical.

He greeted Dean with a polite smile, moving aside to let him into the foyer. Closing the door behind him, Cas asked, "You need me to proofread your paper, yes?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind," Dean confirmed, following Cas into the living room where they usually studied. The TV was on, the opening credits of some nature documentary about bees playing.

"It's no problem at all," Cas assured him, taking a seat on the couch. He gestured for Dean to do the same as he grabbed the remote from the coffee table. Handing it to Dean, he explained, "Feel free to watch something while I read through your paper."

"No problem, man," Dean replied, already digging through his bag for the rough draft of his paper. He presented it to Cas with a bright smile, disproportionately proud of it.

Pulling a red pen out of his pocket, Cas leaned back against a gray throw pillow, taking the essay from Dean's hands. Crossing his legs, he started reading, absentmindedly chewing on the end of the pen.

Just as absentmindedly, Dean flicked through the channels without even glancing at the screen. His attention was fixated on Cas, from the curve of his slightly stubbled jaw to the soft blue of his pretty eyes.

That was usually how their study sessions went. Cas would look over Dean's work, eyes peeled for any glaring mistakes, while Dean gazed at him dreamily.

Yes, it was pathetic and yes, it was a cliche, but that was the way it was. And it wasn't going to end anytime soon. Especially not if Cas continued to look that freaking good in a sweater vest.

Cas hummed occasionally, nodding his head as he squinted down at the paper, not for the first time making Dean wonder if he needed glasses. He circled a few things with his red pen, probably tiny grammatical errors that would get Dean a few points deducted.

Dean kept staring at him, captivated by every little thing about him. The way he chewed on the end of the pen, the way he smiled softly while reading through Dean's paper, the way he absently swung his foot back and forth in the air.

He was yanked out of his reverie when Cas cleared his throat.

"This is very good, Dean," he announced, flashing Dean a bright smile. Recapping the pen, he tucked it behind his ear and continued, "You make some very good points about Shakespeare. There are a few grammatical errors but they can easily be remedied."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, rubbing the back of his neck. There was something about being the sole focus of Cas' bright blue gaze that never failed to make him flustered.

"Yes," Cas confirmed, nodding enthusiastically. "I don't think you needed me to look over it all. I suppose you no longer need me to tutor you."

"We can still hang out though, right?" Dean squeaked, not even caring how desperate and pathetic he probably sounded.

Cas blinked in surprise, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He looked adorably confused as he announced, "Of course. But I'm surprised that you want to."

"What? Why?" Dean questioned, tipping his head to the side, a mimicry of Cas' habit.

It was Cas' turn to get flustered, his eyes widening as his cheeks flushed. He turned his head, lowering his eyes to the coffee table that was suddenly fascinating. Scratching his neck, he explained, "Because I'm me and you're you."

"Uh, yeah. That's kinda how life works, dude," Dean replied, beyond baffled.

Cas rolled his eyes before meeting Dean's gaze again. With a self-deprecating laugh, he clarified, "You're a quarterback, Dean. A jock. A 'cool kid'―" Dean tried not to laugh at Cas' air quotes "―I'm just a nerd. A weirdo."

"You're a lot more than that, Cas," Dean argued, feeling rather indignant on Cas' behalf. Someone had to be.

"Then what am I?" Cas inquired with a beleaguered sigh. He looked and sounded exasperated, resigned to his fate.

Sounding more confident than he felt, Dean puffed out his chest and boldly declared, "Well, if you want, you could be my boyfriend."

The result of Dean's words was instantaneous. Cas' jaw actually dropped, his face flushing a deep red. His voice was barely audible as he shakily warbled, "Really?"

"Of course, dude," Dean said, beaming widely. He shifted his hand to lay it over Cas', giving a reassuring squeeze.

As Cas leaned in to shyly peck Dean on the cheek, sweet and chaste and ridiculously nerdy, Dean resolved to send Bobby some flowers.