#my man if only you had a healthy coping mechanisms the next two generations of kids wouldn't be here fighting for their lives

[gojosbf]

no one would've had to suffer if Gojo Satoru knew how to fucking move on

[katehuntington]

Title: If The Bunker Had Windows Fandom: Supernatural Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reader Pairing: Dean x female reader Words: ±5250 words Description: When a Djinn case doesn’t go as planned, not everyone makes it. Dean, who is burdened by guilt, holes himself up alone in his room for days, until Y/N comes in to check on him. Will the girl who was his perfect world be able to pull him back from the darkness? Warnings: Angst/comfort. Mutual pining, some fluff. Description of canon typical violence and supernatural creatures. Mentions of injury, death and alcohol abuse. Depression, refusal to eat, grieving, crying. Satisfying ending. Author’s note: A one shot that will punch you in the feels, according to my betas @winchest09 and @deanwanddamons. Always grateful for you girls helping me out! And to my readers, I hope you enjoy my reading, thank you for your support.

     Serenity floats through the halls of the Men of Letters headquarters, like the morning mist on an autumn day. If the bunker had windows, the sun would have shone diagonal beams through the glass, warm and welcome, but instead it’s the light from the vintage table lamps that give this home its glow.

     Y/N moves down the hall towards the galley, her sock covered feet softly padding against the marble floors. Despite her stealth approach, Sam is waiting for her to appear in the doorway, his eyes already lifted from the tablet that lays flat on the mahogany table.      “Morning,” he greets, continuing to swipe through news articles, in his search for a case. “Coffee’s brewing.”

     She descends down the two steps and sets foot into the kitchen, the aroma of roasted beans flooding her senses. The night hasn’t been without worries and all the more without sleep, so she can use a good dose of caffeine.      “Thanks,” she returns.

     After pouring herself a generous amount of the dark beverage, her thoughts wander off to the other inhabitant of this oddly cosy concrete structure. Dean’s absence is obnoxiously evident, the air not filled with grumpy mutters before he had his coffee, neither with a lame joke that he found on the back of the cereal box, that only he finds funny.      With a deep sigh, she turns around with her favorite mug in her hand, resting against the counter. “Has he come out of his room yet?”

     Sam’s jaw flexes, the tall giant with a gentle heart glancing over. He doesn’t even have to shake his head for Y/N to know the answer. Shutting her eyes for a few seconds, she takes a sip from her hot drink, burning her tongue, but it doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the pain she knows Dean is in.

     It’s been three days since the brothers returned from a particularly tough hunt. She remembers Sam’s voice hollering through the bunker, and she instantly realized that something terrible had happened. When she found the Winchesters in the garage, Dean leaning on his sibling and barely able to stay on his feet, the air was stolen from her lungs. His skin was paler than those of the spirits she has faced and he seemed barely conscious. His eyes beheld an emptiness that faded the forest green of his irises, leaving nothing but a shallowness that reminded her of death, even though his heart was still faintly beating.

     A Djinn had gotten to him, and by the time Sam found his brother, strung up to the ceiling of the monster’s den, he was barely alive. It was too late for the young college student who the hunters were hoping to save, her corpse dangling in shackles next to Dean, drained of blood and life. She was all but a grim memoir of their failure, a reminder of the fate that would have befallen the hunter, had the younger Winchester sibling not found him. 

     Back home, Sam and Y/N carried Dean to the infirmary and thankfully got a hold of Castiel, who came to the rescue as fast as he could. The angel might not be at full power, but he was able to pull his friend away from the reaper, who was without a doubt waiting to claim his soul like the vultures that they are. 

     Even though Cas glued the shattered shards back together until Dean was physically whole again, something inside him remains damaged beyond repair. The mighty hunter, who faces his enemies head on and with guns blazing, who laughs Death in the face, is defeated, and there is not much the cosmic being can do to change that. A broken body is much easier to heal than a broken mind.

     Y/N puts her empty coffee mug aside and exhales, coming back to the present. “Did he eat, at least?” she wonders, a desperate hopefulness in her pitch.      Again, Sam shakes his head. “He left dinner by the door without touching it. I’m sorry.”      The younger Winchester doesn’t have to apologize, after all, it’s not his fault that the food was left untouched. Yet, he knows their female companion had put a lot of effort in making Dean his favorite burgers, hoping it would persuade him.     “It’s okay, Sam,” she assures, forcing a smile.

     While the younger Winchester brother returns his attention to his tablet, Y/N takes a moment to collect herself. She then turns to the kitchen counter and crouches down, taking a large frying pan from the lower cabinets. After lighting up the stove and carefully placing a second ceramic pot on the fire, the bunker’s second best cook opens the refrigerator and collects a carton of eggs, milk, bacon and cheese.

     Sam watches her move around the galley, his brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”      “I’m making Dean breakfast,” she states, matter of factly.      The hunter sighs, pity evident in the soft exhale. “Y/N--”      “I have to try, Sam.” She cuts him off, the tremble in her voice noticeable. 

     Their eyes meet when the woman glances over her shoulder, still stirring the milk and eggs in a bowl. The younger Winchester is well aware that this meal will most likely end in the trash like the others, but he understands why she feels the need to take care of his brother. It’s her way of letting Dean know that she’s not giving up on him, no matter how thick the fog grows in the mind of the tormented hunter. It’s her way of keeping busy and doing something, anything, because watching from the sidelines while someone suffers, is not in her nature. Especially not when that person is Dean, the man who she cares so much for, more than she would like to admit.

     Sam’s lips press into a thin line, the corners reaching up slightly. The crow’s feet by his eyes wrinkle and become a little deeper, despite the brown hair that frames his gentle expression. She and Sam have been friends for a long time and often don’t need words anymore. With just a look, he explained that he sympathizes with her, and that he’s thankful for her efforts. 

     She returns his small smile and focuses on her cooking again, laying out the bacon into the hot frying pan, watching the meat as it starts to sizzle.

     Twenty minutes later, Y/N walks down the hallway towards the dorms, a tray in her hands decked out with scrambled eggs, french toast and a fresh cup of coffee. Before the first room on the right, she halts, staring at the golden ‘11’ on the wooden barrier in front of her. Contemplating if she should leave the warm meal on the threshold or not, she looks down at her feet.      “Dean?” she calls out, hesitant. “Is it alright if I come in?”

     Her question remains unanswered, only fueling her doubt. Is he sleeping? Would she be crossing a line if she enters? Of course she wants to grant him his privacy, but he has been cooped up in there for three days now, without food, without social interaction. There have been many times when she was worried sick about the hunter who has already endured so much, and these past days only add to that count. What is the right approach here? Give him more time? 

     Closing himself off and pushing down the agony is his go-to coping mechanism, and although it isn’t a healthy one, she always respected the space he needed to move past the pain. She’s used to him being quiet, taking the Impala for late night drives, drinking more than usual and sleeping less. But at least he came out of his room, at least he ate. Now, everything is different.

     Before she can reconsider, she balances the tray in one hand, freeing the other to reach for the brass knob. Carefully, she pushes the door ajar, allowing the light from the hallway to bleed into Dean’s room. The state in which she finds the resilient soldier, who courageously charges into battle and has won wars on strength and will alone, almost brings her to tears. He’s in his bed, curled up on the far left of the mattress, leaving the empty space next to him vacant. His back is turned towards her as he lays in a fetal position, the comforter pulled up over his shoulder. The darkness that surrounds him only seems fitting for his frail state of mind.

     Y/N isn’t sure if the older Winchester brother is even awake, since he fails to respond to her presence, but she steps into the shadows nonetheless.      “Dean? I brought breakfast,” she announces, softly enough that if he is sleeping, her words will not wake him.

     The broken form in the bed shifts slightly. She might not realize it, but Dean has heard her, and has done every single time she has brought him something to eat. Her light footfalls passing his room, the hesitation on his doorstep, the soft knocks on the wood, the sigh when she turned away again. A part of him was glad she never came in before, yet at the same time, he was fighting the urge to call out, craving her company, her touch. Anything even remotely close to the way she was with him in his dreams, when held captive.

     “I’m not hungry,” he croaks, his voice failing after not having used it for so long.      “You’ve got to eat something,” she tries again. “It’s been a couple of days.”

     The beaten hunter turns into his pillow, leaving the woman who intends to make him feel better by the door. A shuddering breath falls from her lips, one laced with disappointment and frustration. He should be used to letting people down by now, but it still stings. Struggling to not give in to his own longing, he opens his weary eyes and stares at the empty bottle on his nightstand, the whiskey it once beheld long gone.

     Dean expects her to leave. It would do him justice, because he doesn’t deserve such kindness. But instead, he can hear her shuffle closer. She makes room on the side table, putting the remnants of his self medication down on the floor, the glass thudding softly on the stone surface, and sets down a tray. The smell of bacon fills his nose, and even though his stomach growls in response, he is sure the food would turn to ash in his mouth. Nothing can still the hunger that this perfect dream stirred up. Nothing can fill the hole in his gut that has only grown larger since Sam pulled him away from the world created by the Djinn he was supposed to kill. 

     He gave in to a fairy tale, even though he is well aware they are make-believe. He couldn’t leave that utopia, because for once, he just wanted to be happy. Instead of stepping up and slaying the monster at the end of the book, he was selfish, weak, and a girl died because of it.

     His self-destructive chain of thought is interrupted when the bed dips down, Y/N taking up the small space on the edge of the mattress. Her delicate hand reaches for him, moving his tousled hair from his forehead, running her fingers through his light brown locks. Closing his eyes, he swallows with difficulty, biting down to keep the tears at bay. He doesn’t want her to see him in this state, to see the fucked up train wreck that he is. 

     “Talk to me,” she says softly, her whisper breaking the silence, but Dean shakes his head.      “I can’t,” he returns, hoarse. “You should go.”      She stands her ground. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

     The tired hunter doesn’t have the energy to argue, and for a while, they just are. Dean on his side, huddled under the comforter, Y/N right next to him, one leg pulled under her, the other dangling from the edge of the bed. The motions of her gentle caressing almost lulls him to sleep, but he doesn’t allow unconsciousness to take him. The second he drifts off, he will be faced with either the same old horrific nightmares he has gotten used to, or return to the dream that will never be. Waking up from either will be too devastating for him to handle.

     Wishing she could offer him any kind of solace, Y/N allows her thumb to rub his temple, cupping his handsome face gingerly. The action draws his weary eyes to meet hers for the first time this morning. The slight improvement should be a relief, yet it is anything but. The sorrow that swims in his gaze breaks her heart.

     “It isn’t your fault,” she offers, her words so soft, that if the room hadn’t been draped in silence, the hunter would have missed it.      Dean looks away, however, shaking his head slightly, unable to accept her comfort. “It is. I could’ve snapped out of it.”

     The woman by his bedside furrows her brow, her expression soft and sympathetic. Why does he expect the impossible from himself? Why does he have to rescue everyone on this earth? No one can live up to that, not even the hero that he is. It’s a burden too heavy to bear for any being, a responsibility that sets him up to fail, because he can’t save them all. He would always beat himself up, whenever they would lose an innocent during a hunt, but this time there’s more to it. This time he can’t get up.

     “A Djinn put you under. How could you have known it was a dream?” she says, trying to help him see that this blame is not his to take.      “That’s the thing,” he sighs, the air that flows from his lungs substantial with regret and remorse. “I was aware it wasn’t real. I just… I didn’t wanna wake.”

     Without pausing, her gentle touch traces the scruff on his cheek as she analyses his words that raise so many questions. If he knew what he was experiencing was indeed a fantasy, then why didn’t his hunter instincts kick in? Coming back from a coma as such is anything but easy. Yet just like with a vivid nightmare, once one realizes the terrors are nothing but a manifestation of their deepest fears, they can fight their way back to the surface. What could Dean have possibly seen that would keep him from coming home?      “What did you dream about?” she wonders.

     His focus turns in a thousand yard stare, as if he can see it all again. Every reason that made him decide to lay down his weapons when the creature captured him. Every experience that was so tentative, that he was ready to swap that reverie for reality. Every vision, every touch, every smile, every laugh. Every wish come true. It is right there, just out of reach, displayed behind the glass that encases his memories, reminding him of what will never be.

     “Mom, Dad... they were alive,” Dean begins, the recollections causing his eyes to shimmer. “Your parents too. Sammy was married to Jess. She was pregnant.”

     Y/N listens to the fallen hunter breathlessly, trying not to blink, because she knows it would force the tears to fall from her lashes. Slowly, it begins to dawn on her why he couldn’t find his way back. 

     “There were no monsters, we didn’t hunt. Sam was a lawyer, I owned an auto shop. We had family barbecues, dinner during thanksgiving. It was…” he lets out a shuddering breath, drops brewed by bittersweet reminiscence rolling down from the corner of his eye. “It was simple, peaceful, without the constant worry. No sorrow, no regret. And you, the way you were smiling… I’ve never seen you glow like that.” 

     He breaks away from the perfect vision, glancing at the woman who he got to call his in that dream. The woman who he lived with, in a house by a lake, with a back porch looking out over the water. The woman who he married and gave him two beautiful children. The woman who he loves, and in that perfect world he allowed to love him back.

     Dean tries to swallow down the painful lump that obstructs his throat as a hint of a smile tucks at the corner of his mouth. He could tell her all that, but it wouldn’t do her any good. In fact, that illusion might break her, just like it broke him. Instead, he allows a final sentence to fall from his lips, but the emotion that has closed around his airway only allows a whisper.      “We were so happy.”

     Tears find their way down Y/N’s face, leaving shimmering pathways in their wake. Not a word has left her, not even the smallest sound. She doesn’t trust her voice to ease his dreadful affliction. 

      It makes sense now, why he couldn’t bring himself to pop that bubble. What Dean experienced, it sounds perfect. It is the definition of heaven, not just for him, but for all the people he cares about. It shouldn’t be a surprise to her that the selfless man only wants what’s best for his family, eliminating his personal desires, but it moves her nonetheless. Their happiness, her happiness, is Dean’s.      It’s only then that his choice of words begins to settle in her conscience.      “We?”

     Confusion adds to all the emotions that pass by in her misty eyes like frames of a silent film. The hunter’s gaze meets hers again, and he’s not sure if he should be terrified or relieved when he sees that puzzlement transition into comprehension. The puckered lines between her brows even out as her mouth opens slightly, her eyes growing larger, boring into his soul.      “We were together,” she realizes.

     Dean doesn’t have to confirm, it wasn’t a question after all. She has figured it out already, and that conclusion now hovers between them, neither of the two knowing what to do with the revelation.      “Doesn’t matter,” he eventually whispers. “It was just a dream.”

     The downhearted conclusion has Y/N tilt her head to the side, watching the man who she has loved ever since she met him. The memory is one she holds dear, the wide grin he flashed after witnessing her taking down two vampires with a machete, before he and his brothers even got the chance to make the kill. She didn’t think she needed saving, but when his emerald greens took her in, she felt a warmth flair in her heart. He did in fact rescue her that day, and now it was her turn to rescue him. Y/N breathes in, because in order to do so, she needs to be brave. 

     Her left hand reaches for his, which is holding onto the pillow under his head. She takes it, unfolding his clenched fist, and laces their fingers together.      “It doesn’t have to be,” she speaks softly.

     For a few seconds Dean beholds their entwinement, astounded by the gesture. Is she doing this because she feels sorry for him? Because she’s worried that her resentment would send him further into the dark? But when he glances up at her, the look she gives him stuns the hunter. There’s no pity, nor desperation. All he sees is a softness in her beautiful eyes, a calmness that tells him that it’s alright, that she knows, and that she feels the same way. 

     “Y/N...” he utters, unable to let go of her hand, but not ready to close her palm in his a little tighter. “We can’t. It’s only gonna end sad and bloody.”      She shrugs at that, running her thumb over his rough skin, the motion soothing them both. “Maybe,” she agrees, “but denying this, not giving in to what we feel, isn’t that worse?”

     His chest rises and falls slowly, his focus now locked on their hands again, while the woman still seated on the side of his bed holds her breath. It’s almost as if he’s too scared to look at her, aware how fragile this moment is. They are at a crossroads, and depending on the direction he decides to take, this instant might remain just that, a jiff, or it might be the start of something new, yet terrifying.

     “I don’t want you to get hurt,” Dean sighs, fresh tears glistening though his long lashes.

     Swallowing with difficulty, Y/N looks down, sniveling. She can feel him slipping through her fingers like sand in an hourglass, every passing second taking the battered hunter further away. But before she loses him all together, she strengthens her hold.      “I know you don’t,” she acknowledges, “but having to look back at some point, realizing we missed our shot and watched that ship sail by, that would cause me so much pain, that I--”

     The whimper that falls from her lips, draws his gaze up to study her expression. She’s crying silently, her mouth firmly closed in a thin line. The woman who goes out her way to make him feel better, is breaking in front of him because of his doing, and it hurts him more than anything he has felt in the past three days. Instinctively, he frees himself from her hold, only to take her small hand in his palm, protectively wrapping his fingers around hers. The reassurance gives her just enough strength to continue her plea.

     “After everything we’ve been through, the losses, the sacrifices. Hell, multiple apocalypses…” she begins, barely able to grasp how many battles they have survived. “We deserve this.”

     There is not a doubt in the hunter’s mind that Y/N has earned all the happiness the universe can offer, but him? No, he hasn’t. People have died because of him, lives ruined, families torn apart. He has made too many mistakes, and no amount of good deeds could set the record straight.      “Why would you wanna be with me?” he huffs, shaking his head slightly. “I’m such a fuckin’ mess...”

     Y/N takes him in, the man who has never believed he was good enough for anything. There is not a monster on this planet that could hate Dean more than he hates himself. If only he could see how Sam looks up to his big brother, how proud he would have made his parents, if they had still been alive. If only he could see her, and know how much she loves him.

     Taking a bold step, she begins to lower herself, leaning towards him. The action is rushed, afraid that the coward inside of her might alter the course, but once her lips meet Dean’s, she stills. She can sense him freezing against her and panic jolts through her body, the fear of rejection almost having Y/N pull back herself. But then he eases, his mouth moving with hers. The kiss is short and light. Neither of them intends to deepen the touch, the gesture adding enough depth to the situation as it is.

     When she opens her eyes, his are still closed. Almost as if he was still in the Djinn’s hold, and can’t let go of the bliss that surrounds him. A small smile adorns her soft features as she waits for him to look at her, which he only does when she lovingly brushes her nose against his.

     While his focus bounces over her features, taking in every perfect imperfection that makes the woman before him so unmistakably her, he mirrors her smile. No one wants to disturb this precious moment, but Dean has to let out the breath he was holding for some time. He shifts his head against the pillow, watching how Y/N pulls his hand closer, pressing her lips to the knuckles, lovingly. 

     “I’m a mess too,” she admits. “I’m just as scared, Dean. But, together it might just get a little more bearable. I know I’m just a fraction of that dream--”      “- Y/N.” The hunter stops her then and there, pushing himself off the mattress on his elbow. He might not think of himself as worthy, but he will not stand for her effacing her own purpose. The interruption silences her instantly, her wondering eyes still glossed over with emotion, awaiting. Now it’s his time to be brave. 

     He doesn’t let go of her hand, nor of her gaze. He doesn’t let go of the woman he wants to spend his remaining days with, no matter how many or how few.      “You are so much more than a fraction,” he expresses, heartfelt.

     Having made up his mind, Dean sits up and reaches for her, the warm shade of green only hooded by closing lids when his mouth finds hers. He allows himself to graze over her soft lips, drinking in the one person who he has longed for, but never expected to be with. The sensation that erupts in his stomach once the kiss intensifies is the equivalent to a firework show, the bright colors and sparks lighting up the black skies. Euphoria overwhelms him, the same sense that flooded his conscience when the Djinn lured the hunter into that heavenly hallucination. This is a dream too, and yet it isn’t, because this, this is real.

     The kiss leaves Y/N breathless, yet she is able to sense his warm hand coming up her side and sliding around her back to settle between her shoulder blades, hugging her tight without ever removing his lips from hers. Finally, they are here. After months, years of denial, they are ready to give themselves to each other. Sometimes you need to lose all that isn’t, to appreciate what is. 

     She has to pull every string not to cry in elation, but can’t stop the drops of emotion from rolling down. When Dean feels the wetness against his own cheeks, he reluctantly breaks the connection, cupping her face worriedly.      “Hey…” he hushes.      She shakes her head, dismissing his concern, and laughs through the tears. “I’m okay. I’m just - I’m so happy right now, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

     A twinkle reaches her eyes, making it impossible for Dean to look away. He never thought he would be able to witness her so content, let alone have her admit it out loud. Not in this world, anyway. An image of the custom made dream forged by the Djinn pushes itself to the forefront, Y/N on the porch of their house, comfortable in his arms, absolutely beaming. When he awoke from that coma, he thought that the illusion couldn’t be further from reality, but he was wrong.      “I’ve seen that smile before,” he says warmly.

     Y/N grin grows even wider at that, but before she can ask what the man who she just revealed her affections to means, a rumble rises from Dean’s stomach, causing them both to drop their gaze to where the sound is coming from. Once she realizes what caused it, she giggles, and it’s the greatest harmony Dean has ever heard. 

    “You must be starving,” she comments while wiping her tears, hoping he will finally take in some food after having gone three days without it.     “I could eat,” he admits with a chuckle.      “Well, it’s a good thing I made you scrambled eggs with cheese and extra bacon then.” She straightens her back and shifts to the edge of the bed, taking the tray with both hands. “Scoot.”

     Dean pushes himself up further and sits back against the headboard, his mouth watering when Y/N sets the platter over his lap. Only now does he realize how hungry he truly is. He picks up the cutlery and cuts off some toast, overloading it with egg before he has a mouthful, the delicious meal still warm on his tongue.      “Take it easy, okay? Wouldn’t want you to get sick,” she says kindly, reaching for him and rubbing her thumb over his stubble.      He looks up at here before taking a bite of the strip of meat, his eyes having gained some of that boyish sparkle again. Relieved by the sight, Y/N watches him, glad that she finally managed to get his spirits up. 

     “You want some?” Dean checks with his mouth full, pushing the plate of bacon in her direction.      She frowns at that. “Since when do you share food?”      “Since now, and only with you,” he admits. “Don’t tell Sam.”

     They share a laugh and continue to eat in silence until the dishes are so clean, they barely need washing. The pair leave the darkness of room ‘11’, Dean heading for the showers, Y/N turning the corner towards the kitchen. With a spring in her step, the giddy woman makes her way through the hallways of the enormous building. The tray in her hands feels much lighter, and not just because of the cleared plates she’s carrying. 

     With a smirk on her lips, she hops down the steps into the galley, finding Sam by the fridge, who is restocking it with the groceries he just picked up. It’s not until he notices the empty dishes which she sets down on the counter, that his gaze shoots up to their female companion’s joyful eyes.     “He ate?” he asks, hopeful.     “He did,” Y/N smiles, dropping the plates in the sink. “He’s feeling much better, he’s freshening up now.”      The younger Winchester continues to stare at her in awe, stammering something intellectual, before he pauses and blinks a couple of times.      “What happened?” he can’t help but wonder, surprised by his brother’s improvement.

     She remains silent for a few seconds while she runs the tap and adds dish soap to the hot water. What took place in his room is hard to explain. It required a long list of events, building up to this disclosure. It involved Dean opening up about what he went through, comfortable enough to share his grief and let it out. It included them both being fearless after being scared for so long. It comprehended two individuals, growing together, taking a leap to cross a gap that seemed impossible to overcome. 

     “He let the light in,” she states simply, meeting Sam with a meaningful smile.

     Grateful, the tall hunter huffs in astonishment, before he closes her in a hug and presses a kiss on her hair, not needing words to tell just how appreciative he is of her presence. He  assists her and takes up the task of drying the dishes, the two friends working side by side to finish the chore. They are storing away the plates, the noise of the china being stacked in the cupboards allowing Dean to wait in the doorway without being spotted just yet. He’s freshly showered, wearing his dark grey robe over comfortable clothes, leaning against the post and taking in the woman who has turned his life around. 

     If the bunker had windows, the sun would have shone brightly. The late morning rays would come in through the portals to the outside world, illuminating their home. The beams would have been warm and healing, burning away sadness and discomfort, like it would melt the snow on the last days of winter. 

     But the bunker doesn’t need windows.      The bunker has her.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page).

[my-bated-breath]

On an Immensely Popular Post

Disclaimer: What I’m writing here may not be completely accurate -- like most works of art, literature, and even STEM tend to be -- and as a new fan of ATLA, a few of the metas I publish may be obsolete or unintentionally insensitive. That being said, I like to believe that I can contribute something valuable to this fandom. In all my (real) metas, I wish to be as objective as possible and not rely on my biases, fanon, or common “knowledge” that may just be misconceptions. If anyone reading this finds something to be false or contrived, I am always welcome to constructive criticism. What I am not welcome to is senseless hate or bashing.

My first experiences with the ATLA fandom begun a long, long time ago, but the most recent and powerful revival of my love for ATLA started with me actually watching the show and soon after, with me falling into the endless abyss of ATLA metas on Tumblr. Sifting through the well-written analyses and the emotion-based rants had taught me a lot about critical thinking and the power of influence, so now I’d like to present a meta that critiques an extremely popular post with over 60,000 notes. And since it’s so popular, this is the part where I must make yet another disclaimer.

Disclaimer: I hold nothing against lesbians4sokka (whose name has now been changed to comradekatara). They have the right to share what they want, but since this particular post has become so influential that it’s still being reblogged regularly to this day, I believe it is within my right to criticize it - emphasis on “criticize,” which is different from “hate.”

Now that that’s out of the way, let us begin:

Lesbians4sokka/comradekatara covers 3 main subjects in their post, which I will quote/summarize below:

(1) Ma/iko: “...the entire foundation of mai and zuko’s relationship was built on how miserable they were together, and how they would just sit there and hate the world together— letting their misery fester as they enabled each other’s depression— and I think that’s really unfortunate because they would work so well as friends if they weren’t trying to make their dumpster fire of a relationship work.”

(2) Zutara: “similarly, what makes zuko and katara’s dynamic so compelling is that they share the same flaws, only as opposed to mai’s apathy and misery, it’s katara’s rage and guilt that zuko identifies with. they both share trauma over having lost their mothers, and both in a similar way (sacrificing themselves for them) and they both cope with their grief through rage, often misplaced… katara and zuko have a deep & profound friendship, but if they were to be in a relationship, they would only bring out the absolute worst in each other thru enabling each other’s rage and emotion-driven decision making.”

(3) Z/uk/ka: this pairing makes for a healthy and wholesome relationship because throughout the boiling rock, we see that “sokka and zuko make an excellent team, as they balance each other perfectly. sokka thinks big picture, and plans ahead, but zuko will charge into situations.” They inspire each other, they trust each other unconditionally, they become more open and supportive of each other, they share a lot of common interests and narrative parallels, and in general, just make each other happy (which could work both platonically and romantically).

As for my response: I’m sure many of you are expecting me to start to save the “best for last.” That assumption would be incorrect because I actually have the least to say about point 3.

I agree that Z/uk/ka can be a good relationship. Their dynamic is funny, playful, supportive, etc. etc. (there are so many positive adjectives I could use to describe their dynamic, the list could go on forever). And they could make a great couple.

…

What, did you expect more from me? That’s it, I’m done.

I’m not here to attack Z/uk/ka as a ship, because while I can never actively ship it (I’m a sad, narrow-minded exclusive shipper, always had been and always will be) I can objectively appreciate them as one. It’s points 1 and 2 I’m more concerned about.

Now, since we’ve already begun working backward, I’ll begin my critiques on point 2: I could write extensively about the parallels between Zuko and Katara, including but not limited to shared pain and a few shared flaws - and just a few, because their weaknesses diverge in many important places. However, since I’m trying to write as objectively as possible and since Zuko-Katara parallels have already been discussed to death, my analysis will focus elsewhere.

However, something from comradekatara’s post that I would first like to address is this-

[Zuko and Katara] both cope with their grief through rage, often misplaced. in the southern raiders, they both act deeply insensitively towards sokka by acting as if his grief over his mother’s death is somehow less valid simply because he is a lot quieter in his coping mechanisms and doesn’t project his rage & guilt onto everyone else.

- or rather, the idea that Zuko and Katara’s shared pain causes them to act insensitively towards Sokka (and though the post does not mention it, Aang as well).

(Note: these points have already been covered by countless metas before mine, so you can skip/skim this section to read a newer argument in the next section.)

Even ignoring the fact that the Southern Raiders had many out of character moments, Katara’s insensitivity towards Sokka is first and foremost a reaction against his insensitivity towards her.

_____

Dialogue from Season 3, Episode 16 “The Southern Raiders”:

Aang: Um ... and what exactly do you think this will accomplish?

Katara: [Shakes her head in dismay.] Ugh, I knew you wouldn't understand. [Begins to walk away.]

Aang: Wait! Stop! I do understand. You're feeling unbelievable pain and rage. How do you think I felt about the sandbenders when they stole Appa? How do you think I felt about the Fire Nation when I found out what happened to my people?

Zuko: She needs this, Aang. This is about getting closure and justice.

Aang: I don't think so. I think it's about getting revenge.

Katara: [Angrily.] Fine, maybe it is! Maybe that's what I need! Maybe that's what he deserves!

Aang: Katara, you sound like Jet.

Katara: It's not the same! Jet attacked the innocent. This man, he's a monster.

Sokka: Katara, she was my mother, too, but I think Aang might be right.

Katara: Then you didn't love her the way I did!

Sokka: [Hurt] Katara!

_____

While I believe that Aang’s principles of forgiveness are morally sound, the way he pushes his beliefs onto Katara undermines much of her grief. At first, Aang tries to relate to Katara’s experiences by comparing them to his own, but there is a forceful connotation to his dialogue that suggests that Aang considers himself to be the moral authority compared to Katara. Hence, Aang judges Katara (“I think it’s about getting revenge”) without trying to reach out and understand her, forgoing the empathetic common ground in favor of taking on the moral high ground.

Thus, when Sokka tells Katara, “she was my mother, too, but I think Aang might be right,” Sokka is not only saying that Katara should choose forgiveness, he is implying that Aang is the ultimate moral authority on this matter and that Katara should accept that. Moreover, similarly to Aang, Sokka’s opening line, “she was my mother, too,” had the potential to establish common ground between himself and Katara, but the added “but…” places Sokka on the moral high ground against her instead. Of course, when we remember that just two lines ago Aang equates Katara to Jet, Sokka agreeing with Aang seems even more thoughtless and unsympathetic.

So when Katara lashes out against Sokka, ostensibly “acting as if his grief over his mother’s death is somehow less valid simply because he is a lot quieter in his coping mechanisms and doesn’t project his rage & guilt onto everyone else,” it is important to note that Sokka undermines Katara’s louder, more visible way of grieving as well (though that discounts that for most of the show, Katara only uses her grief over her mother’s death to sympathize with others).

Moreover, Katara’s line, “then you didn't love her the way I did!” is hurtful, yes, but it is not necessarily equivalent to “you didn’t love her as much as I did.” Katara’s love for her mother is different from Sokka’s because her pain over her death is different -- after Kya’s passing, Katara had to carry the emotional burden of becoming a pseudo-mother to Sokka (see Sokka and Toph’s conversation in “The Runaway”), a burden that did not cease after she joined the GAang (see the entirety of “The Desert”). To Katara, Kya was not only her mother, but the representation of the childhood she lost and the sacrifice made to protect her life. Sokka simply does not have that same relationship with Kya.

I do not mean to say that Sokka and Aang unfairly taking on the moral authority in this situation means that this authority instead belongs to Katara (and Zuko) - “The Southern Raiders” is filled with questionable moments from all parties involved. However, TSR is an episode that delves into Katara (and Zuko)’s relationship with a mother’s sacrifice, so how Zuko and Katara respond to this specific trauma from their past does not dictate how they respond to painful circumstances in the present/future. Let’s see how this is true.

Sozin’s Comet, Part 1: The Phoenix King

No doubt Zuko and Katara felt some form of frustration upon Aang’s disappearance, so let’s see how they “[enabled] each other’s rage and emotion-driven decision making”:

Here, Katara and Zuko make a decision together that turns out to be calm, rational, and not at all emotionally-driven despite their mutual frustration and worry towards Aang.

Sozin’s Comet, Part 2: The Old Masters

Zuko holds immense pain and self-loathing over betraying Iroh, yet Zuko and Katara’s conversation does not enable/exacerbate negativity from any party involved (since Zuko often translates his grief into anger, and Katara was evidently angry at Zuko’s betrayal). Instead, their conversation is open, encouraging, and constructive.

(Note: this is where the review of points made by previous metas ends.)

Hence, to say that “[Zuko and Katara] would only bring out the absolute worst in each other [through] enabling each other’s rage and emotion-driven decision making” -  when we are given in-canon examples of the opposite being true - would be a sweeping and inaccurate generalization.

But for the sake of argument let’s say that, hypothetically, Zuko and Katara’s relationship would fail because they only bring out the worst in each other. And here’s where the argument falls apart for me - Is the argument here that Zuko and Katara have an incredibly meaningful friendship yet somehow this “friendship” causes them to enable each other, thus encouraging each other’s worst flaws and regressing each other’s growth? Is a healthy friendship - much less a “deep and profound” one - not one where two individuals can learn from each other in positive ways and balance each other’s shortcomings?

Or is it something different we’re saying here? Are we saying that two individuals can have a “deep and profound” friendship and yet the moment their relationship shifts from platonic to romantic, they are terrible for each other?

While many significant platonic bonds are stunted when they become romantic, I still believe it to be common sense that some of the best romantic relationships stem from a platonic foundation. But since much of “common sense” on the internet sees that “sense” is nonsensical and “common” is a nicer way to refer to mob mentality, I have done my research to show how Zuko and Katara could have been an excellent case of a friends-to-lovers relationship.

An excerpt from my meta, “Research Shows that Zutara Would Have Been the Ideal Friends to Lovers Dynamic.” (give it a read if you want to see references to relationship-research and an overanalysis on diction/tone)

The reason why Zutara is framed as a “toxic and unhealthy” relationship is that their romance would be a classic example of the enemies-to-lovers trope, a trope which modern media has not been particularly kind to. However, when executed correctly, enemies-to-lovers can produce a healthy and loving relationship, frequently relying on friendship as an intermediate between the “enemy” and “lover” stages in the most well-executed versions of this trope. Meanwhile, the trope of friends-to-lovers is just as popular as enemies-to-lovers, though the specific dynamic required between two individuals to achieve this transition is not well-known. Recognizing this, Laura K. Guerrero and Paul A. Mongeau, both of whom are involved in relationship-related research as professors at Arizona State University, wrote a research paper on how friendships may transition into romantic relationships…

According to Guerrero and Mongeau, “...scholars have argued that intimacy is located in different types of interactions, ranging from sexual activity and physical contact to warm, cozy interactions that can occur between friends, family members, and lovers…” Guerrero and Mongeau then reference a relationship model where the initial stages (i.e. perceiving similarities, achieving rapport, and inducing self-disclosure) reflect platonic/romantic intimacy through communication while the latter stages (i.e. role-taking, achieving interpersonal role fit, and achieving dyadic crystallization) often see both individuals as achieving a higher level of intimacy that involves more self-awareness.

In the rest of my research-based meta I demonstrate how Zuko and Katara’s platonic interactions in the show fit into the stages of communicative intimacy (i.e. perceiving similarities, achieving rapport, and inducing self-disclosure) that Guerrero and Mongeau describe as being mutual between friendships and romances. As such, crossing the line between friends and more-than-friends most likely would not cause a dramatic shift in the Zutara dynamic since much of Zuko and Katara’s platonic intimacy easily translates into romantic intimacy. I’ll end off with another excerpt from my meta.

Excerpt from “Research Shows that Zutara Would Have Been the Ideal Friends to Lovers Dynamic.”

“...it would be remiss to simply dismiss the Zutara dynamic as one that would instantly become toxic should they pursue a romantic relationship.”

With that little thought in mind, let’s move onto point 3: an exploration of friendship, romance, and why toxicity is not exclusive to the latter.

Let’s start with what I agree with:

“The entire foundation of mai and zuko’s relationship was built on how miserable they were together, and how they would just sit there and hate the world together— letting their misery fester as they enabled each other’s depression...”

I’m not sure how necessary it is for me to elaborate on this point given that it’s already been accepted by comradekatara and perhaps 60,000+ other users on Tumblr (a gross exaggeration but this remains unimportant), but in her essay, “Zuko, Mai, and the Nature of True Intimacy,” Araeph contributes more nuance to the concept of Ma/iko and mutual misery, stating that,

Unfortunately for [Zuko and Mai’s] relationship, Mai is and will always be a pessimist—a character trait, not a character flaw, in her. The key difference lies in how Mai and Zuko use their negative feelings. When Zuko sinks into negativity, he gives up on any actions that will materially change his world for the better; Mai, on the other hand, can remain negative even at the height of her character development, and it does not impede her ability to act.

So while Mai enables Zuko’s depression, Zuko does not necessarily do the same for Mai. Nonetheless, throughout their relationship for the first half of season 3, neither of them communicate constructively or push each other to grow as people.

This may be the third disclaimer I’m making, but I first want to say I have nothing against Mai. However, I do have something against the idea that “[Mai and Zuko] would work so well as friends if they weren’t trying to make their dumpster fire of a relationship work.”

Their relationship is a dumpster fire, yes, but will the flames cease simply if the amount of intimacy in the relationship changes?

comradekatara state themselves that their entire romantic relationship is quite depressing - they are only able to connect through empty physical intimacy and mutual hatred of the world. Without that, there is little left for them to bond over. Once Zuko overcomes his conflicting morality and inaction from the first half of season 3, he becomes someone who is strongly guided by his principles and beliefs. However, for the entirety of the series, Mai is characterized by her moral apathy. To cite from Araeph again,

It is moral intimacy that is the last and worst omission for Mai and Zuko… Zuko’s struggle to find and follow his principles is the most central aspect of his character, yet it is a struggle Mai neither understands nor respects…

Lack of moral intimacy (not sharing the same core beliefs) is something that applies to both platonic and romantic bonds. Thus, just as transitioning from a meaningful friendship to a romance does not inherently create toxicity in a relationship, switching from a romance that exacerbates one (or both, depending on how you interpret it) party’s misery does not necessarily erase the preexisting negativity in a relationship - perhaps some of it may subside, sure, but as long both parties continue to fail at communicating and understanding each other, even their friendship seems bleak at best. In this case, Mai and Zuko may work well as conditional friends, or in other words, friends who are only friends when they have something to mutually be miserable over. And this tiptoes the line of speculation, but they could be a formidable political team. But unless the Ma/iko dynamic shifts drastically in the lovers-to-friends transition, I’m not sure if there’s much potential in a friendship between them.

In conclusion, there is a lot I don’t agree with from comradekatara’s post, but if there’s one takeaway I want to impart onto everyone who’s read this far, it’s this: crossing and uncrossing the line between platonic and romantic bonds is not always a transformative experience for the relationship, and the nature of human relationships is a complex spectrum -- not a light switch that can only be set between healthy and unhealthy.

Thank you all for reading!

[olivia-anderson-fanfic]

A Miraculous TikTok Account

Part 5

First

Previous

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Pretending to be perfect would be so much easier if she was actually perfect.

Now, Ladybug absolutely knew that she didn’t need to pretend anymore. In fact, there was no way in hell that she would be able to keep up the act…

And so she’d told herself that this was fine, that she was okay with the fact that she was going to be incorporating her life as ‘Ladybug’ more into her actual life.

She’d tried. She really had. She’d worn her normal clothes for the first few days while she was unpacking…

And then she’d sat down next to Carapace on that couch to talk to him like normal humans do… only to find herself falling right back into her persona the moment she’d laid eyes on him. She’d pulled her ‘scared civilian smile’ to her face and lied about her progress on her room for seemingly no reason.

That night she went to the store to buy herself red and black dresses to match her usual Ladybug aesthetic.

They’d believe that she was just wearing the casual clothes as temps while she was settling in, probably, it wouldn’t take much to convince them that she actually acted like Ladybug at all times.

Now, she knew that this would only work for a limited amount of time. No one could be perfect forever, and the resident human disaster would have an even harder time keeping up the charade…

But she could keep it up for a while, and ‘a while’ was all she needed.

After all, she suddenly had a proper motivation to find out who Hawkmoth was (she hadn’t really cared before, things were always fixed at the end so she wasn’t all that concerned about it), and Ladybug was never one to do things half-ass.

She had to change everything about herself, though, because she couldn’t concentrate on Hawkmoth if she was constantly worrying about maintaining her facade.

She considered ‘Ladybug’s’ general traits and how to convince everyone of it:

Probably a narc, has her life together, perfect…

Yeah, that would probably be enough for now.

She started by learning the law. She found some cheap copies of law textbooks online.

(And promptly found out by reading them that many of the sites she’d used to buy them were technically illegal. She wrote out an apology in Google to the DGSI agent that might be watching her computer. Did they care? Probably not, but she figured there was no harm in being safe.)

Next was getting her life together…

Difficult, but she figured she’d be able to do it. People did it all the time, right?

… not right.

She stared at the article she found on getting your life together in a few simple steps. She was not at all fond of being called out for all her bad habits and coping mechanisms so bluntly...

Still, it was worth a shot.

She searched through her boxes and pulled out a whiteboard. She pushed a couple pictures of her civilian friends off of it, there were more important things to be doing (also the whole ‘secret identities’ thing…), and started making a schedule for herself.

Ladybug blocked out time for work, working out, and cooking/eating healthy food. It left… very little time to find Hawkmoth…

Unless…

Coffee! The ultimate ‘I have my life together’ drink AND it added a few hours to her day! It was perfect!

Speaking of perfect, she was now going to have to be perfect pretty much all day.

She wouldn’t get a break as a civilian because she worked with models and fashion designers and kwami knows that even perfect isn’t enough for them most of the time.

Even her room wasn’t safe, Chat had proved that by walking in and watching her faceplant (it was a good thing he was stupid or else that might have actually ended up being a problem).

No, the only times she could be herself was when she was 1) texting her civilian friends or 2) walking to and from work.

She was beginning to think this was a lot more trouble than it was worth…

Whatever. She was doing it anyways. Nothing, not even logic, was going to stop her from maintaining her ‘Ladybug’ persona.

~

She nearly dropped her coffee (which was mostly sugar and milk, let’s be honest) when she heard a knock on her trapdoor.

“Come in!” She said, pulling an earbud out of her ear.

Chloe poked her head through. “The akuma can fly.”

Ladybug fought the urge to groan. She looked down at the empty page in her sketchbook. Gabriel Agreste, the bastard, wanted a design by the next day and he didn’t grant extensions for akumas.

But she supposed saving Paris was slightly more important than her work --.

Wait, if she didn’t save Paris then she wouldn’t have to turn in her assignment…

She saw Tikki giving her a disapproving look, no doubt aware of where her thoughts were currently heading, and rolled her eyes.

She took out her other earbud and got up. “Alright. Tikki, spots on. Is it really a two person job?”

“Master Fu says so.”

“And Chloe says…?”

“Chlo -- I say that it’s a man made of sand. Guess how hard it’ll be.”

“Mr. Sandman, man me a sand…” mumbled Ladybug absently.

Chloe frowned a little bit. “Did you say something?”

She blinked a few times and then smiled. “Just that Master Fu needs to relax a bit more. We’re very obviously overcompensating.”

“True.”

Ladybug pushed open the attic window and they both flew out into the night --.

Wait, night? Wow, it was a lot later than she thought it was. She was soooo screwed on this deadline.

But there were bigger problems: there was a guy floating around on a pillow.

“The Sandboy just checked in! Now nightmares can begin!”

She rolled her eyes under her mask and looked at Chloe. “What does he do?”

“Creates nightmares. Obviously.”

They came to a stop a few buildings away and watched as sand slowly sprinkled down from the pillow that Sandboy was currently riding. The houses that he passed over erupted with screams.

Wow, the sand was really pretty, actually. Ladybug took note of the colors and the way it shone in the night. Maybe she could model the dress after it… she could do those colors, a bit of glitter…

Chloe nudged her shoulder.

“Are you alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, just thinking about what to do…” … for her assignment, but Chloe didn’t need to know that.

“Got any ideas?”

She forced herself to focus on Sandboy. “His cloud is shaped like a pillow, that’s probably the akuma. It also looks like the glitt -- sand -- the SAND is what causes the nightmares, so we should avoid that.”

Chloe nodded a little bit. “Obviously. What should we do?”

“Knock him off.”

“You’re so smart, I wonder how I’d never thought of that,” she said sarcastically.

“You ASKED me what we should do! I answered --!”

“Hello, ladies!” Said Sandboy as he came around the side of the roof.

Chloe scoffed. “Go back to saying your lame rhyme, will you? We’re in the middle of something!”

Sandboy frowned, his expression a combination of shocked and offended. His voice was much higher when he spoke next: “You think my rhyme is lame?”

“Yes.”

Sandboy looked at Ladybug for confirmation, and Ladybug just shrugged and nodded.

“Ouch,” said Sandboy. He cleared his throat and when he spoke again he’d deepened his voice: “We’ll see how lame you think I am when you’re fighting your worst nightmare!”

Ladybug and Chloe immediately jumped away, because usually people say that when they’re about to attack, and the sand nailed the roof right where they’d just been.

The two women met eyes briefly and an understanding passed between them.

“Still lame!” Taunted Chloe.

Sandboy gasped indignantly and floated after her. Chloe smiled and started flying away.

“I mean, honestly, who thought of that? What’re you ‘checking in’ to? Work?”

Sand barely missed Chloe and she took out her spinning top to get away faster.

A piece of sand hit her spinning top. Ladybug and Chloe gave pause. Would that count? Well, it didn’t matter, at least. The solution would be the same: keep running.

Chloe must have come to the same conclusion, because she shook her head and continued…

Except her strides were much slower now.

Ah. So it did matter.

Chloe whimpered a little bit.

Ladybug winced. Great. So it had taken away her powers, probably, or at least her speed. She needed to wrap this up…

She forced herself to fly faster and she launched herself at Sandboy’s back. He happened to glance back and see her, which wasn’t great as he ascended sharply.

Her hands managed to catch the pillow, and she held tight even when she got a facefull of sand.

She felt flames lap at her ankles and a strangled scream escaped her lips. Ladybug didn’t care how she went out for the most part, but it was not going to be through burning to death. She forced herself to not pay attention to the fact that the fire was travelling up and catching on the hem of her dress and it was creeping along her --!

Nope! Not paying attention!

She swung her legs back and forth a few times to wobble the pillow underneath him until he inevitably lost his balance and fell over the side.

That was the good thing.

The bad thing was that the pillow was apparently Sandboy powered and now Sandboy and Ladybug were both plummeting towards the flames far below. Ladybug flapped her currently burning wings and couldn’t help but mumble a curse when she realized that they definitely didn’t work as well when they were on fire.

As it was, she managed to slow her fall and miss the bulk of the flames by inches.

Still hurt like hell when she hit the ground, though.

She rolled around on the concrete streets to smother the flames and didn’t relax until she knew for sure that they were gone.

That done, she allowed herself to relax with a still smoldering pillow. She probably would have rested her head on it if she wasn’t somewhat worried that some leftover sand would touch her face and she’d have to deal with more fire.

Still, it was over… that was nice…

A foot nudged her side. 

She blinked the pain from her eyes and looked up at Chloe…

Chloe pulled the pillow from her weak grip and tore the case.

The akuma fluttered out of the pillow.

Ladybug forced herself to her feet before she was ready.

“Can you hit the akuma or do you need me?”

Chloe scoffed a little, and then paused. She considered for a minute before saying, “Yeah, it’s not like I just faced one of my worst nightmares...”

“Losing your powers is one of your worst -- know what? Doesn’t matter. You can’t even hit it without your powers,” said Ladybug.

Chloe frowned.

Ladybug ignored this. She pulled her yoyo from her waist and tossed it at the butterfly. The akuma gave a pitiful squeak as it was sniped out of the air.

Instantly, her pain melted away. She breathed a sigh of relief. Much better.

She slowly walked over to Sandboy, who was apparently just a kid.

Annoyance flared in her. Hawkmoth was going after kids? This one looked like a toddler!

She forced herself to relax and brought a smile to her face. “Hey, what happened?”

“I watched a scary movie and had a nightmare…” explained the kid.

She nodded a tiny bit and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Would you like one of us to take you home? We can read you a bedtime story and keep the akumas away…”

PleasesaynoIhaveworktodopleasesaynosaynosay --.

“Yes please!” The kid sniffled and wrapped his arms around her.

Noooooooo...

Chloe spoke up after a second’s hesitation, her expression thoughtful: “You were working on something before we left, right, ‘bug?”

Ladybug blinked behind her mask. “Yeah…?” Was Chloe really going to offer to help?

“Ha! Sucks! See you tomorrow!” Chloe smiled and stuck her tongue out at Ladybug, then took off.

Yeah, she should have expected that.

She rolled her eyes and looked back down at the kid. Whatever. She could go read him a story and get him to bed, it shouldn’t take long…

“Where do you live?”

“I don’t know.”

Fuck.

~~~

Taglist

@nathleigh @mialuvscats @sassakitty @th1s-1s-my-aesthet1c @blueslushgueen

[appleflavoredkitkats]

stagnant;

author’s note: been a while! this isn't as long as my other fics, but i wanted to write this because i just like the concept of fundy in las nevadas, okay? and smoke breaks. i love writing smoke breaks. and of course, i will be writing about fundy because i am biased and he deserves better lmao. this is all written before the las nevadas arc ever occurs, so if there are any discrepancies by the time las nevadas finishes, that ain't my fault.

also! all of this is platonic! i view schlatt as fundy's other father figure. for quackity, i don't necessarily view him as 100% manipulative towards fundy and schlatt, but you're free to interpret him in any way you want. and yes, i know the situation about schlatt, and i don't support the actions of the cc, but i do enjoy his dsmp character nonetheless.

DO NOT SEND THIS FIC TO ANY CONTENT CREATOR!! be nice!!

laslty, special thanks to my good friend dany from the dsmpanalysis discord server for beta-ing my fic!

relationships: platonic fundy & schlatt (father-son relationship)

warnings: trauma, smoking, gambling, drinking, alcoholism, substance abuse, self-harm (accidentally burning oneself), slight mentions of fire, parental neglect (from wilbur), unhealthy coping mechanisms, implied depression or mental illness, mental health struggles, addiction, references to past violence, death idealization, underaged gambling, arguments (in the background), and general angst!

word count: 1878

summary: fundy closes his eyes, taps on the quartz again, and leans forward on the metal bars of his balcony. he lets out another puff of smoke as he sinks into the lax atmosphere. he gives into the fantasy, the delusion.

a second pair of footsteps are then heard behind fundy, but even then, fundy doesn’t move from his position. he knows who it is anyway— there are only two or three people who had access to the five-star suites on the last floor, and only one of them frequents his room often.

“you know, smoking’s bad for your health,” schlatt tells him with a half-smirk.

or, it's midnight in las nevadas, and fundy has a smoke break with schlatt. he reflects on the state of the server, and he reflects on himself.

( ao3 link )

a click of a lighter, the tapping of dress shoes against chiseled quartz, the rummaging of pockets to fetch another fresh pack of cigs. his paws work automatically: slicing the plastic cover with his claws, fumbling the top open, and finally selecting a cigarette from the batch, twirling it between his fingers to the sound of muffled, jazzy tunes in the background.

with the smoke in between his sharp fangs, he guides the lighter to the end of the stick. there’s a deep inhale, letting the smoke fizzle into his lungs, latching onto every feeling of remorse, regret, guilt, sadness, pain, hurt, trauma, everything— 

and fundy exhales, all of those icky sensations evaporating into misty smoke.

this cycle of mindless smoking continues as fundy stands idly on his hotel room’s balcony. up ten stories high, fundy looms over almost everything in las nevadas. despite it being midnight, las nevadas’ visitors never relent. from above, staring with droopy eyes, fundy sees all four casinos lit up brighter than a neighbourhood during the holidays. no bulbs malfunction, thankfully; all of them flicker and twinkle as if there was something to celebrate about in this place full of deceit and temporary bliss. the bars, while more mellow, have the calmest of tunes blasting from their jukeboxes. when fundy first started working here, he remembers being fond of upbeat tunes like these, but they’ve quickly grown stale, or maybe fundy’s just grown tone deaf overtime. who knows?

everything about this place grows on fundy like a terrible rash. sometimes, he does enjoy the outgoing crowds and customers, but sometimes, the noise overwhelms him— ear-piercing, annoying, inharmonious. so, he ends up in places like his dishevelled room, unkempt from all the alcohol and exhaustion and the fact that he just doesn’t  want to give a fuck anymore. but as much as his room is reminiscent of the rubble he left in his original base, he at least feels at ease with the sounds he hears from above. there is the same jazz music, the same victorious yelling at jackpots, the same rolling from the slot machines, but it’s in diminuendo. 

it’s a symphony fundy will willingly listen to because he feels like he can separate himself from the chaos present downstairs. when he is with the others, when he serves tequila shots and shuffled decks, he feels like he is at the center of his own friends’ descent but from his own bedroom, he can pretend that he is fine, that everything is fine. he can live in the delusion that his friends are shouting from a well-deserved victory when deep in the back of his head, he knows that they’ve gotten inexplicably attached to machinery that he knows is programmed to bring about their demise.

fundy closes his eyes, taps on the quartz again, and leans forward on the metal bars of his balcony. he lets out another puff of smoke as he sinks into the lax atmosphere. he gives into the fantasy, the delusion.

a second pair of footsteps is then heard behind fundy, but even then, he doesn’t move from his position. he knows who it is anyway— there are only two or three people who had access to the five-star suites on the last floor, and only one of them frequents his room often.

the guy who enters pats his back twice gently as a greeting, settling himself next to fundy. fundy averts his gaze from the saturated lights to look at the goat hybrid. with a newly tailored suit and freshly manicured horns, schlatt has never looked more dapper, but his skin was still heavily scarred and immensely graying. 

“you know, smoking’s bad for your health,” schlatt tells him with a half-smirk. fundy lowers the smoke, coughing a little before raising an incredulous eyebrow at schlatt.

“i learned from the worst,” fundy replies as his free hand shuffles through his pockets, holding out the box of smokes for schlatt to get one for himself. fundy doesn’t need to ask schlatt if he has his own lighter; he somehow always does. he’s been used to his mannerisms ever since a darkened flag with glowing, orange lace loomed over a dying country.

schlatt easily raises the smoke to his chapped lips and lights it easily. he falls into the rhythm of the scenery, slouching against the metal railings as he watches the same fluorescent bulbs fundy had been watching. 

moments like these, no matter how incredibly fucked they are, are the closest fundy can get to tasting peace. his father once described peace as a taste of freedom. it is the image of bright-eyed soldiers under swathes of redwood trees, free from the shackles of tyranny and violence their oppressors have imposed on them.

but fundy knows, as always, that his father is a liar, because at this very moment, fundy connects the concept of peace with the disgusting taste of smoke.

it is a habit he’s picked up from a man he’d once considered perfect. back when the server first hit its grayest of days, sometimes fundy’s claws had itched to strike a match, to spark stones. the scorching blaze igniting was the most colorful thing  he’d had in that wasteland of grey. he’d kept doing it more and more and more, until his own fur and skin burned and he realized that he too is graying like the place he called home. when schlatt had first discovered it, fundy remembers a lot of talking—all kind, kind words that have tarnished his perception on what a caring guardian, or a father, may be—and then, out of the blue, fundy asks for a smoke. while a confused eyebrow quirks, schlatt gives him one to try out, saying that there is a first time for everything, especially since their lives have been as mundane as they possibly can be.

and here fundy is now, able to finish an entire pack in the span of a few days as if it is a part of his diet. 

but if all this substance abuse and addiction and self-sabotage and self-deprecation have become so widespread in the server, so normalized, would one even consider it awful? if everyone is traumatized or hurt, does the concept of trauma even exist in the first place?

“you know, i— don’t take this the wrong way, but i thought that you would be much happier to see all your friends reunited,” schlatt speaks, fingers gesturing to tiny specks on the ground that move in sync with the jazz. fundy hums non-committedly as a reply, not really knowing what to say. 

“well, sucks to be you, i guess. mopey ass,” schlatt jokes with the same half-smirk he uses whenever fundy is notably graying like he did in the past. fundy chuckles at it, at least, but his shoulders droop immediately after. the smallest bouts of happiness and joy make him unbelievably tired nowadays.

fundy attempts to lift his smoke again to his lips, but surprisingly, schlatt interrupts, forcing fundy to lower his arm. fundy stares at him acutely with furrowed brows. “fundy, i—” schlatt begins, and his lighthearted expression dwindles into something much more anxious and apprehensive. schlatt clears his throat and continues, “fundy, kid, i know i’m not the type to get all grossly emotional and whatnot—that’s more of tubbo’s thing—but you have to listen to me when i say that you need to leave.” schlatt grips fundy’s forearm now, firm yet slightly shaking. “kid, you’re not healthy here. it’s— you— this—” schlatt gestures towards the buildings, the lights, the entire shithole that they are stuck in, “this is not somewhere you need to be. you need to leave when you can.”

fundy blinks, and then he blinks once more before his free hand shrugs off schlatt’s grip. he returns to his original position of leaning against the railing, and through the reflection of the cold metal, fundy can see the unpleasant surprise on schlatt’s face transform into something more defeated. a pregnant silence precedes a long, exasperated sigh from schlatt. the edges of fundy’s lips slightly curve downwards.

“well, it would be easier if it weren’t for the fact that i literally have nowhere else to go,” fundy replies monotonously, as if this statement is something he’s rehearsed several times before. “i’ve hit rock bottom, schlatt. i have nothing else to lose,” fundy continues, huffing out a melancholic chuckle. he doesn’t think this situation he’s stuck in is anything comedic, but it sure is amusing how his life has continuously spiralled further and further for the past five years. he’s amused by the fact that he is still very much alive and breathing by this point despite the—fundy looks at his half-finished cigarette, the livid circles under his eyes, his furrowing ears as being exposed to multiple explosions has caused a permanent, high-pitched sound to ring in them sporadically—small, little missteps. 

it’s quiet again as schlatt stares at fundy uncomfortably. “you’re really out here wishing for god to strike you dead in front of a dead man— how very respectful of you,” schlatt replies sarcastically. fundy knows schlatt only wants to lighten up the mood. schlatt has been very persistent in helping fundy find the brighter side of things for a while, but lately, they’ve fallen flat. is schlatt’s eloquence gradually deteriorating, or is it fundy who’s only gotten more numb towards schlatt?

fundy doesn’t know, and both possibilities are undesirable, really, so fundy decides to speak. “i’m sorry,” fundy says, and he doesn’t know if it is for himself or for schlatt. maybe it’s for the both of them.

schlatt’s look softens, and he raises his free palm to grip fundy’s shoulder, thumbing it for comfort. a part of fundy wants to sob, to cry, but he chokes all his tears back with an inhale of smoke. “i’m sorry too,” schlatt murmurs, his voice the softest and the most caring it has ever been. when fundy exhales, he can feel tears prick the corners of his eyes as schlatt continues, “you deserve better.”

fundy hums and his eyes trail downwards to gaze at las nevadas’ visitors once more. he spots ranboo, possibly exhausted judging by his sloppy movements, forcefully pulling a crazed tubbo from a slot machine. fundy remembers that inside, he has seen purpled, foolish, and puffy shout over a simple card, a two of clubs, arguing on whether they should split the fifteen stacks of diamonds or not. he remembers finding sam outside the bar next to the trash bins downing his own personal bottles of alcohol, gripping tightly on a withered rose as he sobs uncontrollably. at the side, he can now see a distressed bad and ant incessantly begging the blackjack booths to accept their territory offers as they’ve lost all their possessions to far too many rounds of roulette wheels and texas hold’ems. he also spots a jovial yet sly quackity skipping through the streets energetically as a stern techno and phil trail behind him, ready to smite anyone who dares terrorize the place. 

and lastly, he stares away from the crowds and returns to gaze at schlatt—tired eyes, frayed hair, drying skin—with a bittersweet smile. fundy replies, “i think we all do.”

[yhwhsdaughter]

oh, in that chase could i get headcanons or Scenario of Deidara With a fem!S/o who is part of the royal family (of his respective nation) but it´s also (and opposite of how it has to be a princess) a ninja of anbu level and it becomes a traitor of her nation when they discover the relationship

I’m still not that far into Naruto, so apologies if Deidara is a bit ooc. Hope you enjoy ✨

𝔻𝕖𝕚𝕕𝕒𝕣𝕒 𝕄𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣

As a member of the royal family, you had to abide by the etiquette that was imposed on you at a young age. It was important that, as the nation’s only princess, you act graciously.

You never found the appeal of pretending to be someone you were not, often rebelling against these royal rules.

However, you wouldn’t have to worry about these for much longer. Near your sixth birthday, an assassin would infiltrate the palace killing all members of the royal family, except you, before he was intercepted.

Left as the sole heir, you were destined to take the throne but because you were too young to rule an entire nation, self-appointed leaders began to appear. A civil war ensued, tearing the once peaceful country into shambles.

You had been sent to live with your uncle, the Third Tsuchikage of Iwagakure while the aftermath settled down.

The village was surrounded by mountain ranges, built from the same stone as those. Villagers, especially shinobi, were headstrong. They had rock-hard attitudes they applied to their lives. In fact, many of them practiced Earth Release techniques.

You quickly took an interest in becoming a shinobi to distract yourself from the pain of losing those closest to you. It wasn’t a healthy coping mechanism but your uncle allowed it. He thought if you used that as an outlet to let your anger and negative emotions out, you would eventually healed.

He was partly right. The events that occurred during your youth marked you permanently and would have led you into a darker, self-destructive path if it wasn’t for Deidara.

You met him through training. He was rather talented and his presence brought you peace. Deidara always seemed relaxed, even in battle, but that wasn’t what attracted you to him. It was his passion. More specifically, his love of art.

The two of you were resting from practice. “You see (Name), art is a fleeting moment of beauty that vanishes gloriously.” Though you weren’t necessarily an artist yourself, you nodded, holding your chin like a wise old man with a long beard. “Hm, art is explosive?” “Exactly!”

Being the Tsuchikage’s niece, you had more insight than the average genin. From time to time, you’d eavesdrop in conversations between high ranking nin and your uncle. “(Name) we know you’re there..” “!!!”

Your skills as a shinobi had improved dramatically throughout the years. Still, you were forbidden from joining any type of elite force as you were still an heir. “(Name)-sama, your safety is a priority. One day, you might become the next Tsuchikage if not the Queen of your country.” “Ugh! Uncle Ōnoki will never step down. He’s too proud to choose a successor.”

Deidara reluctantly let you braid his hair. He knew you were upset and knew that this was one of your most peaceful ways of distressing. Had it been someone else, he would have blown them away. “Deidara, you’re so lucky you get to join the Explosion Corps” you sighed mournfully.

The man in questioned mediated on your words. “I like using my clay sculptures in missions—” You interrupted, “They are great.” “But I want to be greater than this. I want my art to be elevated, yeah?”

Your fingers threaded gently down his scalp, giving Deidara goosebumps from the pleasant sensation. For someone who behaved rather roughly, you sure were tender with his hair. “I heard uncle talking about one of the village’s kinjutsu. It’s only passed through generations..”

Intrigued, your blond companion shifted positions to look at your face. “Supposedly it allows users to knead chakra into objects. Perhaps with your—”

It seems Deidara was thinking the same as you. “I could combine that with my Explosion Release!” He grabbed your hands, “(Name), do you know this technique hm?” You shrugged, “No. Only when I become—if I become Tsuchikage, I’ll be taught this.”

Deidara, initially excited, slumped. “That’s too long.” You couldn’t help but chuckle at his change in demeanor. “Are you in a hurry or something?”

Looking into your eyes, Deidara closed the space between you both. His stare felt intimate, speeding up your heart. “If I were to leave the village, would you come with me?”

You blinked in surprise before biting your lip guiltily. “I would love to, but I can’t. As much as I hate it, my duties lie within the village and my country.”

Deidara looked down, absentmindedly playing with your fingers. He said nothing but he didn’t have to, his actions spoke louder. “Why would you want to leave the village anyways? And, how would the two of us live a-alone?”

At your naivety, Deidara stood up ready to go but you grabbed his hand, stopping him in his tracks. “Wait. Don’t leave me..”

“Would you be able to locate the location of the scroll that contains it, hm?” You stood up, still not releasing from. “I guess so, but why—”

“Could you just do it…please..”

Perhaps you knew from that moment what Deidara had planned but you pushed yourself to think otherwise.

As promised, you used your skills to find where the scroll was being kept before passing on that information to Deidara.

He ran his fingers up your arms before settling on your elbows. “This face.. its so beautiful it should be considered art..” one of his hands settled on your waist while the other cupped your cheek. You figured what he was trying to do and kissed him. Passionately.

It lasted a while. Before this, neither of you had made a move. There were always the longing looks and casual yet intimate touches. Everyone around you noticed the closeness between the two of you, even deciding that you’d make a good couple. “You should go to sleep.”

“Okay..” you bid him goodnight. “See you tomorrow?” He smiled, “Sure.”

It was the middle of the night when you were awoken by loud explosive noises. Some of them shook the tower in which you lived. Clicking your tongue, you detangled yourself from the covers, running towards the window.

Curses left your mouth as you connected the pieces together. “Damn him..!” He’d really done it.

You rushed to get dressed and chase after Deidara. Though you were technically not allowed to leave the village, you could sort that out with your uncle later. You struggled to put on your shoes, jumping around in the darkness with one foot while the other refused to enter the shoe.

You weren’t given the chance as shinobi filled the room. Meeting your eyes with the Tsuchikage, disappointment reflected in them. He knew. He knew that you were the one that had given Deidara the information. The two of you were practically inseparable.

Bringing your other foot down, you didn’t spare anyone a last look before running towards the window and jumping. Shinobi were quick to follow but Ōnoki stopped them. “Let her go.”

The Tsuchikage was showing you the ultimate mercy he could afford. He was never a father figure to you, he knew that Deidara was the only person left who you loved.

Besides, you were an extremely skilled nin despite not joining a special unit. It was probable you would make matters more difficult for them. Not to mention, that no one knew if you’d stolen any secret techniques either.

You tried. You desperately tried to find Deidara now that you were considered a traitor. A traitor to your country and Iwagakure. There was no use going back.

Truthfully, you were lucky the Tsuchikage allowed you to go without repercussions. Like Deidara, you were now a rogue nin without means to travel or survive.

Speaking of which, Deidara seriously considered taking you with him even if it was by force but upon further thought, he couldn’t.

You were better off without him. By stealing from the Tsuchikage, Deidara knew he’d become a traitor and a fugitive. It was safer for you to not be associated with him. Maybe you could find a prince to marry or finally become the Fourth Tsuchikage.

His heart would heal with time. Deidara would be able to forget you, your face, your mouth, your soft lips..

Two years would pass before you found information regarding the whereabouts of your beloved. Word had it that there was a bomber for hire. People’s description of this individual sounded incredibly familiar so you sought him out.

Deidara had been hired by a mysterious person. He’d been given an address to meet and discuss the deal but they hadn’t shown up.

The place was bare so it couldn’t be a trap, but as the seconds trickled by he couldn’t help but doubt. As he was about to leave, a certain figure tackled him.

Deidara had not sensed them. Were they in the room the entire time?? He could barely process this as the cloaked figure grabbed his wrist and pinned them to the side of his head.

During the struggle, the hood fell revealing the individual behind this attack. You smiled, though the anger behind your eyes was clear. “I thought..” your hands tightened around his wrists “I had made it clear that you wouldn’t leave me.”

Not a lot of time had passed but you had become even more beautiful. Deidara couldn’t help but stare. Your face showed signs of maturity; eyes sharp and those sensual lips molding into a straight line.

You had abandoned everyone, everything you knew.. for him? You’d become a traitor, a deserter, a rouge nin for his sake. Was your love for him truly that strong?

Upon spotting the tongues on his hands, you tilted your head curiously, bringing back some of your innocence.

“Well, we can work with that.”

[starkeristheendgame]

Hii I'm the anon that was looking for fics where Peter gets overwhelmed by his senses during sex, I would absolutely LOVE for you to write something if you want to!!

Oof, this gave me feels! I’m so honoured that you’d like me to write something! I hope I did this justice and I hope that I fulfilled your Starker needs! This is pretty vague in terms of age and canon as I didn’t know your preferences ❤️

TW: BDSM Dynamics | Emotional over-load | Sensory over-load | Ambiguous ages | Daddy kink

Peter had always been sensitive. At least in terms of physically. He had a thick metaphorical skin; giving as good as Flash or any other bully could give. But he’d always preferred the softer fabrics, the dimmer lights, that one spot on his bed where it was ‘sinkier’ than the rest.

Sounds always seemed louder, scents were always stronger, and the outside world was a plethora of experiences that Peter learned to grow accustomed to. It was annoying at times; painful at others, but generally something that became his normal.

So, naturally, when he was old enough to develop coping mechanisms and to understand his senses, he got bitten by a genetically modified, radioactive spider and his senses took a jump from a rough 7 to a hearty eleven.

Noises went from irritating but tolerable to deafening. Scents overwhelmed him and choked his throat and god. Lights. He could see every fucking headlight in New York. Tony Stark could laugh all he wanted at the $10 tinted goggled Peter had velcroed onto his suit, but for Peter they were the $800 Gucci shades that hid Tony’s hangover.

Being touched; though. Peter wouldn’t have expected that to be affected by the bite, but he both yearned for it and shied away. Aunt May’s acrylic nails catching on his arm was like a pin being dragged. Tony’s broad palm on his back sent rocket-speed signals to his dick.

Peter could cloak himself in all the gold-titanium alloy and $615,000 lenses he wanted. There was no escaping that particular problem. Not when 12 hour stints in the workshop ended with takeout on the couch, not when being driven home by Happy became being driven home by Tony. Not when the odd shoulder-check or pat on the back became lingering strokes, squeezes, Tony’s body against his as they grinned down at their latest project like proud parents.

The first time Tony kissed him, Peter actually came in his pants like a thirteen year old just hitting puberty. Gasped and mewled into Tony’s mouth, whole body locking up and mind going entirely blank but for TonyTonyTony in a sharp, white flash. Tony had caught him as he fell, startled and amused both, a witty quip on the tip of his tongue.

It had been shortly after that in which peter had been forced to admit he only jerked off once a month on average, because it was so incredibly intense that it usually took him out for a good hour or two afterwards. And that was to say nothing of the dildo under his bed.

And Tony…Tony had crowded him up against the wall, still supporting his weight, eyes dark and lips turned up into a lethal smirk. Fuck, kid. That’s so hot. Look at you, still shaking like a newborn colt. So intense, baby. Bet I could make you cry just from my mouth.

Peter’s (pleasure) pain was Tony’s favourite game. Laying on their stomachs on the fur rug, Tony’s arms wrapped around his hips and holding him down, listening to Peter’s screams get higher in pitch as dark pink stubble burn spread over his ass and thighs. Crowding him against a wall, squeezing firm between his legs, timing the space between Peter’s surprised yelp and his body dropping as he came.

Peter had blacked out the first time Tony fingered him, two thick, long digits spreading him open, rubbing relentlessly against that little pit of pleasure until he’d arched off the bed, eyes rolling, gasping even as he flopped limp into Tony’s arms. He’d woken up to Tony cooing at him, body wiped clean and tucked under the sheets in his arms.

Sex stopped there. And fingering was infrequent, at best. Though Tony’s favourite way to torture him; the older man took pity on how thoroughly it wiped him out and left it for ‘special occasions’ like Peter winning first place at the Regional Science Expo. Eating out, handjobs, blowjobs, grinding and a variety of other play was still fair game, however.

And as much as Peter dreaded finding out just how fucked over (heh) he’d be when he got fucked…He wanted.

Wrapping his fingers around Tony’s thick, long cock he wanted it buried up to his teeth. Suckling around it and listening to Tony’s moans, he wanted to feel it dragging along his insides. Grinding against it, feelings its weight on his hip, he wanted to ride it until they were both shaking.

So like any good strategist, he came up with a plan. Operation Fucked By Tony came into play the night that Stark Industries celebrated its 18th consecutive year of Business of The Year, Engineering Business of The Year and several other titles that rolled across a massive hologram screen in slow succession.

The moment they were alone in the penthouse, the party having moved to a local bar, Peter shoved Tony up against the elevator door with a soft whine and a slow grin. “Mmph, look at you. My big boss Daddy. Dominating the world” he hummed proudly, fingers already dipping to the button on Tony’s Tom Ford, hips rolling slowly forwards to ride the soft curve of Tony’s cock, which twitched against his hip in interest as the billionaire reached down, grasping his hips with an easy, confident smile.

“Only thing I wanna dominate is you, baby. You looked so good tonight, your little Industries badge and your suit” Tony purred back at him, fingers digging against his hipbones the way he knew would make Peter’s eyelashes flutter, pulling him closer until they were rocking together lazily, encouraging their partner into full hardness.

Peter pushed to his tip-toes, wasted no time in distracting Tony with his tongue. The older man gave a pleased sound against his mouth as Peter licked into him, teeth catching on his lower lip, the corners of his mouth already stinging with stubble marks. “Want you” Peter breathed against Tony’s teeth as the older man bared them on a pleasured snarl, hitching Peter higher up his body.

“Mm’kay, sweetheart. Anything for you. What do you want, hm? Want me to blow you, baby? Let you fuck my throat? Or do you want me to fuck you with my tongue, baby? See how quick I can make you cry?” Tony breathed against his ear, nuzzled into the soft curve of his jaw as he reached down, dragging his nails over Peter’s clothed thighs in a way that made the boy shudder and whine, fingers digging into Tony’s side as he fought the sparks of pleasure that threatened to short his senses completely.

“No. Want you. Wanna feel you; properly. Want you stuffed up inside me, filling me up. Want you to breed me with your cum and-” that was as far as Peter got, words cutting off with a sharp whelp as Tony practically threw him upwards into his arms, pushing at Peter’s legs to get them wrapped low on his hips as he squeezed him, sinking his teeth into the junction of Peter’s neck with an almost feral growl.

“Sweetheart” the older man rasped, clearly struggling to contain himself. Tony breathed out shakily over the indent of his teeth, soothing it apologetically with his tongue. “You can’t - Baby. You know it’ll be too much. And for once; that isn’t even my ego talking” Tony hushed, though it didn’t stop him from weighing Peter hips down, riding the plump curve of his ass with a quaking groan.

“Daddy” Peter whined petulantly, scrabbling at Tony’s shoulders, peppering desperate kisses along his jaw, grinding in a sloppy rhythm as little fireworks went off inside his brain. “Want it. Waited too long. You looked so fucking good out there. My Daddy; ruling the world” Peter panted, dragging one hand down between their stomachs, wiggling it between their hips until he could grope the thick bulge beneath him, relishing in the way Tony’s hips stuttered against his hand, eyes dark as coal when Tony tipped his head to look up at him.

Tony took several moments pause to decide, clearly battling between his concerns and the way Peter curled his fingers around his cock, stroking in bare fractions, teasing little rubs that had Tony pushing carefully away from the wall and towards the bedroom.

They undressed in a startling contrast to how they had begun; slow and lazy. Tony kissed and licked every inch of skin he revealed; swatting at Peter’s hands whenever the impatient boy tried to speed him up, or whenever the little sucks were sharpened with a gentle nip of his teeth. By the time Peter was naked he was squirming and flushed, hard as rock and already on the verge of cumming.

“I might not make it if you don’t fuck me within the next ten minutes” Peter panted, fingers curling hard in the silk sheets. Tony chuckled above him, braced on his palms as he looked down at Peter with a lustful gaze. Peter was around to prompt him again when Tony ducked down, kissing him so deeply that it stole his breath and left his lips wet when they parted.

“Sweetheart, if you make it at all, I’m gonna be proudly surprised” Tony huffed back at him, fond and teasing even as he leaned over Peter’s body and made for the healthy stash of lube that took up the middle drawer. Peter tried not to anticipate it, but it was hard (pun intended) not to as he spread his legs, felt Tony’s hands sliding slowly up his thighs, sticky fingers kept away from his skin.

He was trembling by the time Tony ran a fingertip lightly over his hole, sucking in a sharp breath, stomach muscles contracting. Tony cooed at him soothingly as he shifted, begun to push his finger inside on a slow, steady motion. Peter threw his head back, lips parting soundlessly even though it was nothing more than an index finger.

Tony crawled up his body, still knuckle-deep and kissed at his collarbones gently, trying to distract him as he pumped his finger, a bare fraction at first, but speeding up when it became clear Peter wasn’t gonna pass our or blow his load. The boy forced himself to breathe evenly, petting intently at Tony’s hair as he tried to keep his focus. It was nice; the steady drag, the slight resistance of his own velvet heat.

The gentle pressure of a second had him hitching his body up the bedding, held in place only by Tony sinking his teeth gently into his collarbone with a soft hum. His body held firm, and then gave all at once, swallowing Tony’s second finger greedily, sucking it into the tighthotwet softness of his body. Peter’s whine was smothered by Tony’s mouth as the older man kissed him, free hand petting at his hip. “Daddy’s got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you”.

Tony scissored him open slowly, careful and educated curls and spreads of his fingers that had Peter’s hips hitching up, rutting against Tony’s flank and chewing on his tongue in desperation. He felt like a live-wire, strung out and ready to explode. He could hear in ultra-definition the sharp little pants Tony breathed, the stutter of his heart, the thrum of electricity all around them, like a living being.

His senses were hitting that just-before-white-noise level, but he ignored it in favour of crying out as a third finger spread him wide, more than he’d ever taken. For a moment there’s nothing but white noise and the way he felt obscenely spread wide, gaping. And then there was Tony and his low voice and the slight ache of his ass being stuffed full and stretched open.

“Oh, baby” Tony rasped, and fuck. They’d barely done anything but Tony sounded fucked out already, free hand moving from his hips to cradle his head like he was fragile glass, pausing his movements until Peter’s heart no longer threatened to tear his ribcage apart. The encompassing blanket of soundtouchheatskinstretchscentlights became something a little easier to differentiate, Tony’s body an anchor he scrabbled at breathlessly, before he nodded.

“I’m good. Please. Wanna -” He cut off on a stressed out hiccup, nails dragging down Tony’s spine in a way that made the older man arch and hiss, eyes going molten as he carefully eased his fingers out of Peter’s writhing body, reaching for the lube again. “Please, Daddy. Need you. Daddy, please” Peter whined, fighting off the way his nose begun to sting with the scents, the headache that begun dull and heavy at the sounds and the intense physical sensations.

“Okay, sweetheart. Okay. Breathe for me, darling, okay? Breathe for Daddy. Iiiiiin, and oouuuut. Good. So perfect, sweetheart”. Tony coached him as he lubed up his cock, voice hitching and lashes dipping as he curled his fist around himself, stroking in slow but firm jerks. He was painfully hard and Peter felt guilty for needing so much time to prepare.

They didn’t need a condom. Tony and Peter had been exclusive for almost a year now, and Tony had been clean the day they’d first made it a ‘thing’. The bite also meant that Peter couldn’t carry diseases of most types, including sexual. He’d been tested; just the make sure, but it had come up as a neat blank for everything.

Tony positioned himself carefully between Peter’s thighs, doing nothing for the longest time but hovering over him and kissing him slowly, sweetly. It helped to somewhat dull the building avalanche of sensations, allowed Peter to focus solely on the scrape of Tony’s stubble, the wet taste of his mouth, the space between them filled with rapidly cooling air.

He’d almost, almost forgotten where they were until Tony shifted, sunk down into the space between their bodies, until his hips forced Peter’s thighs apart and the blunt, thick head of his cock just lay at Peter’s slick, red hole. Peter gave a whole-body jolt at that, teeth sinking into Tony’s lip none too gently, fingers squeezing around Tony’s biceps with only enough conscious thought not to break them.

Tony paused, but Peter shook his head, then nodded, unsure of what signal would engage keep going and not stop. Thankfully Tony seemed to get it, a sightless presence behind Peter’s tightly shut eyes as he begun to nudge forwards, seemingly millimetre by millimetre.

After what seemed like an age, he could feel when his body couldn’t bend any further, and begun to spread. Opening in an agonisingly slow movement around Tony’s thick cock, opening and aching and thick pressure that had him half-screaming, muffling his mewls into Tony’s shoulder as he gripped at him, knees digging into Tony’s ribs where his legs had wrapped around him of their own accord.

It clearly pained Tony, the boy aware enough to notice his wince, but Peter couldn’t find the brain capacity to loosen his hold, couldn’t do or think anything beyond openstretchingachingwantinghurtingtoomuchnotenoughtony.

“Peter” Tony gasped, breath forced from his lungs as he buried himself inside the boy with a jolt, eyes lanced with pain as Peter clung to him, eyes rolling and entire body curved and tense, arching up against Tony and trembling violently with the force of it. Distantly, Peter was aware Tony had spoken. But he couldn’t focus on anything except the crippling array of noises around him, the scent of the washing powder mixed with the chemicals in the lube and the tint of Tony’s sweat. The burning hotness that pulsed through his body, the rattle of his own breath in his lungs.

White. Dark.

Hot. Too hot. Too numb to be hot.

Gaping open. Split in half. Impaled.

The vague awareness of sound. Desperate sound. Wet sound.

Blank.

The first thing that came back to him was the rasped sound of his inhale, the drag of air over his tongue and between his teeth. Shuddered and greedy, because the next awareness was how tight and sore his chest felt, like he’d been holding his breath. Everything ached and hurt like it did after a battle, but there was also something floating in that murky darkness, something familiar and comforting.

Piece by piece, things came back. Intense but not as crippling as before. The salt of tears. The tackiness of drying water on his skin. Skin on skin. The softness of the sheets, unmarred by their activities. The low, thrumming background noise became a voice, low and rumbled in his ear, senseless words that soothed him nonetheless.

It felt like surfacing from being buried alive. Crawling up that last foot of mountain. Breathing after drowning. He lay there for a while, nothing but a breathing body in a state of semi-consciousness, before the first word fought through the haze of his mind, followed by each one after like a progression of soldiers.

“Peter, sweetheart. You did so well. I’m so sorry, can you breathe in again for me? That’s it, darling. So good. My precious baby. Daddy’s here for you. Not letting you go. In and out, baby. You’re so good, darling. And again. That’s it, Peter”.

Tony.

Opening his eyes hurt, left him squinty and shrinking away from the dim room, but it lent him a sense of orientation. He was on the bed, under a thin silk sheet, and curled against Tony’s body, cradled carefully like a doll. Tony was still talking, and when Peter found the brain function to tilt his head, Tony was gazing at him intensely, caught between concern and love.

“Hey, darling. Welcome back. You kinda did a little power down, but that’s okay. You did so well, so good for your first time” Tony greeted him softly, passing a cold cloth over his brow.

A power down?

He pieced it together, from the fragments his muddled brain could shove forwards. He remembered the building crescendo, the blinding force of TonyTonyTony and then…Nothing. The power down. He’d blacked out.

“You were shaking and crying, darling. Kept shouting my name and moving like a cat that didn’t wanna be held. You said it was too bright and too loud. I tried to pull out without hurting you, sweetheart, but I still put some cream on you, just in case” Tony soothed, petting at his hair, brushing it from his eyes.

Peter couldn’t even feel embarrassed, too tangled up and exhausted to do anything but let his head fall back to Tony’s shoulder, eyes falling shut on a heaved, jagged breath.

“That’s okay, darling. If you want to nap, you take a nap. I’ll be right here, sweetheart. Not gonna go anywhere. Take a deep breath, baby. That’s it. So good for me, Peter. Such a good boy for Daddy. Get some rest now. I won’t leave you” Tony continued, petting at him in feather-light touches, his own chest rising and falling against Peter in a series of slow, even movements. Exaggerated until Peter’s body fell into rank.

He would be embarrassed later, when he woke up from a six hour ‘nap’ to Tony still curled around him, glasses on and nose-deep in a Stark Industries document. But Tony would hear none of it, pulling his hands from his face and peppering him with a litany of soft, sweet kisses, cuddling him close and refusing to relent until Peter was breathless and giggling, still raw and sensitive but calm, contained.

Two months and a lot of practice and training later, Peter would lay under Tony on his birthday, eyes rolling and Tony’s name a broken prayer on his tongue, hips jolting as he came between their stomachs with the force of an avalanche, conscious and aware throughout it all, jerking with every white-hot spark of pleasure, every low, guttural moan in his ear.

It was worth every incident thereafter of Tony boasting about ‘dick so good it knocks them out’.

[joaquinfeed]

Snuggle Buddy (Arthur Fleck x Fem!Reader)

Prompt: Reader works as a professional cuddler at SnuggleBuddy. Arthur utilizes her service.  Also, for the sake of the story, Penny Fleck has already passed in this.

Warnings: Cursing, implied anxiety, descriptions of bad coping mechanisms (Arthur banging his head against the wall)…I think that’s it?

Word Count: Around 6,000. I know it’s a doozy. 

Arthur was nervous. His palms were sweating slightly, his heart rate was uneven, and his leg hasn’t stopped moving for the last twenty minutes that he has been sitting. His eyes trailed over the small print on the business card— “SnuggleBuddy.”

Arthur thinks back to early that day; he was at Ha-Ha’s getting ready for his usual shift when one of the guys—Randall— took a jab at his love life.

“Just in case you need to touch someone other than yourself, Art,” Randall laughed, handing him the card.

Although Randall’s comment bothered Arthur, he wasn’t entirely wrong. He hasn’t experienced human touch—real, genuine human touch—for a very long time. Arthur couldn’t even think of a moment when someone had given him a hug, or a kiss, or wrapped their arms around him. Not a single soul besides his mother dared to understand him in an intimate way.

As soon as his legs allowed it, he walked over to the phone and carefully poked in the number on the card.

“Hello, this is Pete from SnuggleBuddy. Are you looking for a cuddler, or are you looking to become one?”

Arthur faltered. “I’m looking to, um, find one. My name’s Arthur.”

“Okay, Arthur,” the man paused, and Arthur heard rustling in the background. “I have a few questions for you, and we can get you somebody in no time.”

Arthur answered every question that came at him, only letting out a yelp when Pete asked him if he’d like to pay for other activities. After declining immediately—and blushing profusely—Arthur had finally been paired up with a girl.

“Her name’s Y/N,” Pete said. “You will be billed for every hour that you spend with her. Your first session is scheduled for tonight at 7 PM at the address you gave me. Does all that sound correct?”

Arthur nodded before realizing that the man cannot see him. He stuttered out a ‘yes’ and hung up the phone.

His heart was thumping loudly in his chest; he couldn’t believe he went through with calling them. So many worries plagued his mind already— How would he afford this? What if you thought he was weird? If everyone at Ha-Ha’s found out…

He shook his head at that thought. He has absolutely no idea what’s going to happen, and there was no way for him to know.

And so, he waited.

—

A few hours later, a knock interrupted the Charlie Chaplin rerun that had been playing on his TV. Arthur pushed his freshly washed hair out of his eyes, making his way to the door. He opened it up, and his breath caught in his throat. Standing in front of him was someone he has never seen around Gotham—he would have remembered.

“Hi, Arthur,” you smile at him while giving a small wave. “I’m Y/N. I work at SnuggleBuddy.”

Arthur only gazes at you in shock. He definitely was not expecting someone like you; actually, he didn’t know what he was expecting. After a small bit of silence, you glance around nervously.

“Is this not the right apartment? Are you not Arthur?”

“No, I- I am.”

“Oh. This is your first time I’m assuming?”

Arthur nods, his mind finally catching up with him. He steps aside to let you in, and you move past him, checking out his apartment. Your eyes land on the TV, and you smile seeing “The Kid” playing across the screen.

You turn to Arthur. “Chaplin fan?”

“Huh?”

“Are you a Charlie Chaplin fan?”

He points over to the stack of tapes sitting by the small TV; your eyes follow his gaze until they land on the pile. You stand there, paused in thought while Arthur continues to watch you. Suddenly, you’re struck with an idea.

“Hey, if it would make you more comfortable, we could do the session on the couch? That way we can watch a film or two instead of laying in silence. Unless you’d be more comfortable with that. Whatever works for you, Arthur.”

He leads you to the couch, and both of you sit down.

“H-how does this work?”

You smile at him, trying to calm his nerves a little bit. “Really, it works however you want it to. Usually, people tell me what they like, what they don’t like, what makes them uncomfortable, what makes them feel relaxed.”

“I don’t know what I like,” Arthur says, looking ashamed at his lack of self-knowledge.

“That’s alright. We can figure it out,” you assure him. “I’m going to put my arms around you, okay?”

You wait for his consent before wrapping your arm around him. “Is this okay?”

He nods but stays stiff in your arms. “Do I…touch you?”

“You can,” you tell him, watching as he timidly puts one of his arms over your shoulders while the other one rests across his waist. You both stay like this for a little while, getting comfortable with the feeling of each other. After a few minutes, Arthur relaxes into your embrace, and you drop your head onto his chest.

Having this type of job was, no doubt, a little awkward at times. It was the only opportunity you were faced with after moving to Gotham city. You didn’t want to do this forever; sometimes, you thought about quitting after a long, hard day with some overly-touchy pervert. But sitting here with Arthur, his heartbeat steadily beating in your ear, you thought the job wasn’t so bad. 

“So, Pete, the guy you talked to when calling CuddleBuddy, he mentioned that you said something about not having this type of contact for a while,” you say. “How long has it been?”

You feel Arthur clam up at the question, and you immediately blurt out, “you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want. I was only curious.”

You look up at him and see his eyebrows scrunched together in concentration. His eyes are looking back at you, and you finally notice just how green his eyes are—like different hues of a forest. He seems to be studying you too, but as quickly as the silence came, it ended.

"For my whole life, I guess,“ Arthur says, breaking you out of your daze.

You frown. "Your- Arthur, that’s not healthy. We need to feel connections like this, you know?”

Arthur didn’t know. His mother—when she was living—was there to dance with him or hug him when the moment called for it. But he has never experienced anything outside of that. He briefly wondered if that’s something he should bring up with his social worker, but the thought left his mind when he felt your arms tighten around him.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad if I did,” you spoke up. “I was just surprised.”

He brushes off your apology, dispelling your fears of already upsetting him. When it’s clear that nothing else is going to be said on the matter, you lay your head back on his chest, content with only sitting with him for the remainder of the session.

Somehow, by the time the credits were being presented, Arthur was lying against the side of the couch, and you were lying next to him—your head still resting by his heart.

—

You could hear the TV playing in the background, your eyes fluttering open to the sound, only to be met with blinding sunlight coming through the windows. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

You shoot up off of Arthur’s sleeping form, and he wakes with a jolt, looking just as startled as you. "I am so sorry,“ you tell him, burying your face into your hands. "I swear, I didn’t even realize that I was falling asleep.”

“It’s okay. Don’t be sorry,” he says, his voice still raspy from the night’s sleep. “I can’t remember a time when I’ve slept like that. I-I have insomnia.”

“Oh,” you nod sympathetically. “I’m glad I stayed over then.”

Arthur gives you a small smile. Your caring demeanor felt fresh and generous compared to the other residents of Gotham. But it’s only for a job, he reminded himself, he hired you. At that thought, panic arose in him.

“I don’t have the money to pay you for all the time you spent here,” he says, looking at a clock that read 9:23 AM.

“Don’t worry about it. It was my fault anyway. Pete will be in contact with you about how to pay for the session.”

Arthur hopes his disappointed look wasn’t too obvious; he honestly didn’t want you to leave. Even so, he walks you to the door and gives you one last small smile.

"I hope this isn’t the last time I’ll be seeing you,“ you say, returning his smile.

He blushes slightly, ducking his head. "It won’t be.”

—

Arthur has never been so happy strolling through the streets of Gotham on his way to Ha-Ha’s. The subway ride was surprisingly uneventful and the sun was still out—an unusual occurrence for the dark and somber city. Although, Arthur wondered if the city was actually that uninviting, or his change in scenery was due to the happenings of the night and early morning.

When Arthur gets to work, everything runs smoothly. Randall’s jokes never cease, but this time, they don’t bother him as much. There’s a lightness in his steps as he carries out the rest of his shift at Gotham City Children’s Hospital.

The real trouble comes on his way home; he chalks it up to bad luck—his day going “too well.” A few teenagers poking fun at his make-up, messing with his clown cap, and causing him to hold his throat as he chokes out unwanted laughter. When he returns to his apartment, his steps are less light than before—the stress of the evening finally catching up with him.

His hands reach for the phone before he can stop himself, and dial the number for CuddleBuddy. This time, the process is short. He only has to ask for you, and the next session is booked. Luckily, you didn’t have any previous arrangements tonight.

“They were harassing you, Arthur, you should tell someone,” you say, once you are cuddled up with Arthur again for the night. “People can’t treat you like that.”

“Yes, they can,” Arthur mumbled. “There’s nobody to tell, Y/N. Everybody is just mean.”

“Not everyone,” you say against his chest. “Your not.”

He only hums as a response, before glancing over towards the kitchen.

“Would you like to eat something? I could, um, make dinner,” he suggests.

“Are you paying for more of my time if I say yes,” you jokingly ask.

Arthur stumbles over his words. Of course, he thought. Payment. He just had to keep reminding himself that he was paying for your time; you were not here voluntarily.

“R-right. I’m sorry,” Arthur apologized. “Let’s just stay here then.”

“I was kidding. Dinner actually sounds nice,” you smile.

You both get up and make your way to the kitchen. For the next thirty minutes, you watch him as he whips around the kitchen, making dinner. You offered to help, but he insisted that he had it. By the time it’s done, and in your mouth, you were pleasantly surprised.

“Mmm,” you moan. Arthur was a damn good cook, and it showed. You were too focused on the food in front of you to notice Arthur’s cheeks turning a bright red color. 

Poor Arthur sat on the other side of the table, his ears burning from the small noise of pleasure you let out. How was it possible for one to sound so melodic, he wondered.

“Do you like it?” He asks, despite knowing the answer.

“I do. It’s really good,” you say. “Any chance you want to be a chef?”

“No, actually, I’m pursuing a career in comedy,” he says proudly.

“Maybe I can hear some of your routine sometime.”

“Maybe.”

The rest of the dinner went smoothly. You two shared Gotham horror stories, talked about family, and discussed mental illness in-depth. Arthur told you about the parts of himself that troubled him and society’s inability to understand. Your eyes stayed on Arthur the entire time, even after he got up to put away the dishes. His tan long-sleeve shirt, paired with his baggy pajama bottoms, made him look incredibly adorable. You tried to stop your mind from thinking anything like that about the man. After all, he only hired you for a job. But you couldn’t help it if his curls fell around his face in the most perfect way, or his smile shined with warmth when talking to you, or his eyes—God, his eyes—looked so lovely in every light possible.

When he’s done washing the dishes, you both return to the living room to resume the session. You move to sit back on the couch, but Arthur stays standing, shifting back and forth nervously.

“Can we, um, can we move this to the bedroom?”

You arch an eyebrow at his statement. “Really?”

His eyes become frantic as he moves to explain further. “I-I mean, instead of the couch. We could, you know, cuddle on the bed. I- I definitely did not mean…”

He trails off, and you giggle before getting up. “I know what you meant Arthur, relax.”

He nods relieved. He gestures for you to follow, leading you to what you presume is the bedroom. As you enter, your eyes glance around to the flower-covered walls before landing on the soft-looking blankets that lay across the bed. You don’t waste any time standing; you climb in next to Arthur, letting your limbs tangle in the same way they had earlier in the evening.

Your fingers graze his slender figure; the feeling of his warm shirt against your fingertips was enough to make you shiver. He brought the blankets up over you both, still hesitating as his arms rested back against you gently.

“Tell me about Ha-Ha’s. I don’t mean your shitty co-workers or rude boss; I want to know what you love about it. What makes you happy about working there?”

“I like making kids smile,” he says softly.

“Does that happen a lot?”

“Yeah. Sometimes they’re just walking past me, sometimes I visit the children’s hospital.”

Your heart melted at the mental image of Arthur, fully dressed in his clown make-up, interacting with the kids. His clown persona, who he mentioned was named Carnival, was something that you’d love to see.

You could feel the smile on his face when he spoke his next words.

“I get to sing and dance with them,” he says. “They never look at me funny for dancing.”

“That’s amazing, Arthur,” you tell him. “I bet you’re really good with them.”

“You know, you could come with me sometime,” he suggests. “They wouldn’t mind.”

You nod slightly before letting your eyes fall closed. You both lay in silence, taking in each other’s shallow breathing. A calm sensation that Arthur’s never experienced washed over him. The rise and fall of your head on his chest worked to ease his anxiety about the subway events. He still couldn’t fully relax in your hold, which is why he stayed quiet about his wish for you to pull him closer. Almost as if you read his mind, your arms tightened around his midsection as you snuggled further into his embrace.

“Arthur,” you say quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to be friends?”

The room fell silent. You didn’t want him to feel pressured to say yes, but you wanted to give him time to think it over. After talking to him about his decision to hire you, plus his lack of physical intimacy, you could only assume that the man doesn’t have many or quite possibly any people he considers a friend.

“You want to be my friend?”

You pick your head up off his chest, gazing into his pools of green that are filled with curiosity and disbelief. You don’t even have to think twice before nodding your head.

“I do,” you say. “Do you want to?”

“I do.”

—

The next few weeks are gone before Arthur realizes it. Not only is he able to see you every other day, but his cuddle sessions haven’t stopped simply due to your budding friendship. As the weekend approaches, he uses his time off work to go pick up his medications as well as see his social worker, Debra Kane. Although the process was no different—Arthur sat down, she asked if he brought his journal, she made a few remarks about some of the content, then asked about his job—his experience seemed to be a lot more rewarding.

“I have a friend,” Arthur all but beamed at the woman. “Her name is Y/N.”

“Arthur, have you thought any more about the prompts I gave you for last week’s journal writing?”

“She thought that I was wanting to become a chef, which is funny because I’m actually trying to be a comedian,” he says, disregarding Debra’s question. “She wants to hear my routine.”

“That’s certainly good,” the social worker comments offhandedly. “Are you experiencing any kind of negative thinking?”

Arthur laughs a little, reaching for his pack of cigarettes. He slides one out of the box, rests it on his lips, and lights it. Some things never change, he thinks to himself.

As Debra probes him with more questions he hears every week, his mind wanders back to you. He can nearly see you on the other side of the room—watching, smiling, waving. He doesn’t want to get caught up in his perceived idea of you, though; he only wants to keep you in his reality.

Arthur thinks back to his childhood—images of him sitting alone in the school cafeteria flash through his mind. For once in his life, he had somebody besides his mother, who seemed to care about him. He had a few boys in his early years that tried to befriend him, but upon learning his idiosyncrasies and hearing his booming laugh echoed through the quiet halls, they quickly turned their back on him, leaving young Arthur to wonder what went wrong.

When he was old enough to work, he was out trying to help his mom keep up with rent. He took odd jobs with quick payouts to hold on to their life in Gotham city. By this time, Arthur stopped trying to make friends all together. He knew the things he needed to do to keep surviving in a city like Gotham, and going out of his way to get rejected again wasn’t one of them.

After leaving the social work office, he arrives home feeling both excited and apprehensive. His trip down memory lane had brought the feelings he held towards friendships up to the surface. You were bound to realize what a freak he was at some point; he wonders how long it will take you to figure it out.

A knock on the door brings him out of his thoughts. He’s even more surprised to see you on the other side when he opens it.

“Oh, hey,” Arthur says.

“Hey,” you repeat.

“Did we have a session booked?”

“No, no,” you tell him. “I just thought we could hang out—if you wanted to that is. Sorry to just drop by.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” he steps aside and lets you into the apartment. You make your way to the couch, and Arthur follows behind you. He stops short of sitting down and asks if you want anything to eat or drink. You decline his offer and pat the seat next to you.

“Come sit.”

He sits next to you stiffly, rubbing his hand over his bouncing leg. You raise an eyebrow at him, wondering why the man is so fidgety all of a sudden. Maybe you made him uncomfortable by showing up, you told yourself. He did say it was okay, though.

Before you could mull over your thoughts, Arthur broke the silence.

“Do you want to watch a movie? Um, or I could show you my stand-up routine? Or we could do something else. What do you want to do?”

You chuckle at his line of questions while tilting your head at him. “Watching a movie sounds fun, and I’d love to hear your routine.”

He immediately gets up and sprints to the bedroom, leaving you on the couch to smile at his behavior. He surely was adorable.

When he comes back, he’s dangling a few VHS tapes in one hand, and holding a journal in the other. You watch as he resumes his spot next to you and lays out the tapes onto the table.

“You can choose a movie, and I’ll pick out some of my jokes,” he says. You look over the different films ranging from “A woman of Paris” —a Charlie Chaplin feature— to one made by Ernst Lubitsch called “A Shop Around the Corner.” You finally land on one titled “Duck Soup” and pick it up to hand to Arthur.

“Good choice,” he gives you a small smile. “This is actually a comedy and a musical. This goofy man named Rufus—you’re going to like him—he becomes president of his country. The country beside them thinks Rufus is awful so they try and start a war. It- it doesn’t sound much like a comedy, but I swear it is.”

Your lips curved upwards, and your eyes twinkled with amusement. As you listened to Arthur go into extensive detail about the movie’s plot, you found your eyes dropping to his lips. As they moved with every word, you noticed how soft they looked despite them being slightly cracked. You wondered what it would be like to kiss-

“Y/N,” Arthur jarred you from your thoughts. “Is everything okay?”

Your face flushes red at being caught staring. You’re not sure if Arthur knew where you were looking, but he sure as heck knew you were distracted.

“Everything’s fine,” you reassure him. “It’s just been a long day. Did you want to show me some jokes?”

You gesture towards the journal still in his hands, and he smiles instantly. It takes a bit for Arthur to feel relaxed while presenting his material to you, but once he made you laugh a few times, he gained the confidence needed to finish. You were pleasantly surprised at the jokes he had come up with for the routine; they molded perfectly to your sense of humor and left you nearly in tears every time. You weren’t sure if they were actually that funny, or if you just wanted the beaming smile Arthur would shoot you after he made you erupt in laughter to stay there.

After nearly an hour of joke-telling went by, and some convincing on your part, you persuaded Arthur to put on the movie—insisting that you were not tired.

The film opens up with the flag of Freedonia—the country the movie takes place in. Straight from the beginning, you’re already invested in the storyline; your eyes carefully watch every movement on the screen, and you laugh when you finally meet Rufus—the new president of Freedonia. Rufus was just as Arthur made him out to be: goofy. As you watch the story unfold, you can tell why Arthur likes this movie so much. You look over to see if he’s smiling at the screen, only to see that he is, in fact, smiling, but not at the television. No, he is smiling directly at you.

You give him a questioning glance, and he ducks his head, immediately apologizing.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I was looking at you,” he explains.

“So? You’re allowed to look at me,” you chuckle, and his eyes meet yours again.

“I am?”

You can almost feel his breath from how close you’re sitting to him on the couch. Your shoulders are pressed together, while your thighs lay side by side. As a cuddler, you’ve been much closer to Arthur than you are right now, but somehow, this particular time feels more intimate than the others. Later, you’ll blame it on hormones, or maybe even your own mental stability, but just as Arthur was about to repeat his words, you leaned in and pressed your lips right against his.

The kiss didn’t last long, though. As soon as you felt the man tense up under your touch, you nearly flew off of him, sliding yourself to the other end of the couch.

“Shit. Fuck, Arthur. I am so sorry. That was so out of line for me to do. I wasn’t even thinking,” you slide your hand over your face, afraid to look over at Arthur in case he was glaring at you. “I should go.”

He didn’t say anything, and you assumed that was your cue to leave. You cursed yourself for being so brainless as you got up from the couch. As your hand reached for the door, you heard Arthur’s laughter from behind you. You felt tears sting your eyes as you left his apartment feeling foolish.

He found it funny; you found it heartbreaking.

Arthur scrambled to get up as he saw you leaving. His hand held tightly to his throat, as harsh chokes of laughter came barreling out of his mouth. He stopped just shy of the door, nearly toppling over as he tried to force himself to swallow the laughter. By the time he got the door open, you were gone.

He forced a pained smile at the empty hallway, turning back and shoving the door closed. The voices of his past cried out to him as he paced around the living room. You’re such a freak. What’s so fuckin’ funny? You were born by mistake. As more torments flew through his mind, Arthur stopped in front of the wall to lean his head against it. He didn’t know why you left in such a hurry, but he assumed it had something to do with him. He lifted his head back and slammed it against the wall with a sickening thump. Bang. You caused this. Bang. You made her feel like that. Bang. It’s your fault. Bang, bang, bang.

He slid down the wall, a single tear dropping from his eye, and just sat there. He couldn’t even feel his head throbbing; the pain in his heart was too high.

—

Days went by, and Arthur hadn’t heard from you. He picked up the phone several times to try and call your workplace, CuddleBuddy, but couldn’t bring himself to dial the number. He was too afraid of what you’d say when you had the chance. Not even a full month of friendship, and he’s already lost you. When he does get the courage to call the company, he’s only let down once again by the latest news.

“Sorry, man. Y/N quit a few days ago,” Pete tells him.

“Q-quit?”

“Yeah, she pulled her profile down from the bulletin, and said she was moving on.”

Arthur panics. This wasn’t supposed to happen. How would he get in touch with you now? Would he ever see you again?

He runs a hand through his curly locks before asking, “How can I reach her?”

“Uh, I’m not really supposed to give out her information, man.”

“But- but it’s Arthur. Arthur Fleck. I’ve been calling to book sessions for the last month.”

“Yeah, I know,” the man on the other line sighs. “But I don’t know who you are. I can’t really tell some guy her private business.”

“I’m not some guy! She’s my friend,” Arthur reasons. “Please.”

Pete groans and mumbles a 'fine’ before rattling of your address.

“If she ends up murdered tomorrow, I’m telling the police it was you.”

Arthur thanked him and chuckled lightly at the joke—assuming it was a joke. He took the piece of paper, which carried the address he had just scrawled down, and raced out the door. He grabbed the subway, recognizing your place to be near the Children’s hospital that he worked at occasionally. Once he was standing in front of what he had hoped was your apartment, his nerves were at an all-time high.

He was scared of rejection, scared of seeing your disgusted, disappointed, or aggravated face along with any words that might follow.

After three timid knocks, he waits patiently for you to open the door. When the door does swing open, he was met with an expression he wasn’t expecting—shock.

“Hi,” he utters shyly.

“Hi.”

Your heart thumps in your chest wildly at the view in front of you. You couldn’t believe Arthur was standing in your doorway right now; you half-expected this to be a dream. After you left his apartment that night, you felt the lightness you’ve been feeling for the past couple weeks drain from your body, only to be replaced by tightness in your chest and a dulling ache in your heart.

“You quit,” Arthur says, breaking the silence that loomed over you both.

“I did,” you open the door wider, letting Arthur walk into your apartment. He takes a look around, noting that the decorations you have chosen seem to be very you. He wants to marvel more at his surroundings, but instead, he turns back to you.

“I tried to book a session, but you quit,” he says, a hint of resentment in his voice. “Why would you do that?”

You sigh, offering him a small shrug. The ache in your heart hasn’t gone away, not since you saw him last. You wanted to give him a real explanation, but you didn’t want to bring up the kiss. You were afraid that his balled-up fist, quick-paced breathing, and twitching nose —all of which happened when the man felt anger— would be the result of your careless and selfish action.

“Why are you here, Arthur?”

“I- I want to know why you quit.”

“Because I knew you’d call,” you admitted. “I knew you’d call because that’s who you are.”

You sniffle quietly; the tears that have been threatening to fall since Arthur showed up were now spilling down your cheeks like a river.

“I didn’t want to see you,” you wiped harshly at your face.

Arthur gave you a troubled look. His expression was soft, but his eyebrows furrowed together in concern.

“Please don’t be upset,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

You gave him a bewildered look. “You’re …sorry? What on Earth are you sorry about?”

He only shrugged, so you took a deep breath and continued with what you had to say.

“I kissed you,” you looked away, still ashamed at the way you handled the situation. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I guess I just felt like I should in the moment; it was completely wrong of me. I apologize.”

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable, Y/N,” he mutters while fumbling with the zipper of his tan jacket. “I- I liked it.”

You smile sadly at him. “You don’t have to lie. I’ll be okay. We can continue being friends if you want; I just need some time.”

“But I’m not lying,” he says as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

"You- you laughed at me, Arthur,“ you whisper before chewing on your bottom lip, tears welling up in your eyes once again.

"I didn’t!”

Arthur tried his hardest to hold in whatever laughter that was always on the surface and bubbling over. He didn’t want to leave you feeling upset again, and he surely didn’t want you to think he was disregarding or making fun of your feelings.

“I have a condition,” he says. At your confused look, he shuffles around in his pants pocket to pull out one of his cards. He hands it to you, bracing himself for your reaction.

“Oh,” you say, reading the front before flipping it over and skimming over the back. “So- so you weren’t laughing at me?”

“No! I would never. Not unless you made a joke.” Arthur assures you before pausing. “Did you?”

“I would never,” you repeat to him. Both of you stay unspeaking, taking in the words that the other has said. You wanted to talk more about what happened, but you didn’t want to cross any more lines in the relationship.

“Y/N, can I ask you something?”

You nodded weakly.

“Why did you kiss me? Is that what friends are supposed to do?”

“No, Arthur,” you look solemnly at him. “Friends don’t do that.”

"I didn’t think so,“ he says. "So, why would you? ”

You shrug half-heartedly. “I don’t know. I think you’re funny.”

His eyes search yours for some clarification, but he finds none. “You kissed me because you think I’m funny?”

“Yes,” you say. “and because you’re sweet and easy to talk to, and- and handsome.”

Your face heated up at your comment, but there was no taking it back now. Arthur’s face matched yours, and he stumbled over his words to try and respond.

“What- what does this mean?”

He was pretty sure he knew what it meant; he’s seen enough movies to know precisely what it meant. However, he couldn’t be too careful. The mere thought of him getting it wrong, and you—his only friend in Gotham—leaving was too much for him to handle.

“I think you know what it means, Arthur,” you say to him.

“Can you please just tell me?”

You exhale. “Do you want to go out with me?”

Although you didn’t directly answer his question, it was almost better. He didn’t waste a single second before nodding his head.

“Yes, I’d like that,” Arthur musters up every ounce of courage he has and slides his arms around you in a hesitant embrace. You hug him back tightly, encouraging him to do the same. You stand there for the next couple minutes, the events of the last couple days catching up with you both. “Can we- can we kiss again?”

You pull back enough to look at him, your lips curving into a smile. “Thought you’d never ask.”

You lean into him, capturing his lips in a slow kiss. You could feel your heart explode with emotions; Arthur’s lips timidly sliding over yours as his hands came up to rest on your cheeks. When you pulled apart, you looked at Arthur with his crimson cheeks and slightly swollen lips, and you couldn’t think of anything or anyone more beautiful than the man in front of you.

“When can we do that again?”

You giggle at his question, your eyes sporting a playful gleam. “Well, if you were my boyfriend, we could do that all of the time.”

“Okay,” he agrees, and you nearly choke on the air around you.

“R-really? Arthur, do you understand what I just said?”

He nods, and you explore his face for any trace of uncertainty or humor, but there is none. He was completely serious.

“Don’t you think it’s too soon?”

“No,” he huffs. “I’ve spent my whole life thinking that the same apartment, the same questions from my social worker, and the same people were going to hold me back forever. I don’t want to be held back.”

You bite your lip, wondering how you’re ever going to keep this relationship going if he’s always this damn adorable.

“Okay,” you smile at him, not being able to control your happiness.

“So, Y/N,” he looks at you shyly, with a small smirk in place.

“Yes, Arthur?”

“Now that you’re my girlfriend, does that mean I get cuddle sessions for free?”

You laugh, playfully swatting him on the arm as joy tugged at the corners of his lips too. 

And you both thought to yourselves, how did I get so lucky?

[dweetwise]

day 21: i don’t feel so well

prompt from: whumptober pairing: felix x ace notes: the hanahaki au nobody asked for. i’m still a little confused about the trope but i tried <3 warnings: descriptions of illness, injury and blood, temporary character death word count: 3130

“That was awesome! She didn't stand a chance!” Steve cheers.

“That's what she gets for camping. What a bitch!” Nea laughs

Ace grins despite the pain, steadying himself against Jeff's sturdy form while the four of them are making their way back to the campfire after a successful trial.

His head is swimming and there's blood staining his teeth, his back stinging from numerous bloody gashes from the killer's katana. But he's alive, even if he had to crawl out through the exit, his teammates not letting the Spirit secure the kill on him.

When they get back to camp, Steve and Nea are off to spin the tale of their rescue to the others, and Ace can't help but smile when they generously color the experience; just like he would.

Jeff supports him to sit down against one of the logs, offering a somewhat awkward "There you go, buddy" in encouragement.

Ace sees Quentin hand Claudette one of his med-kits and then the group's resident healer approaches him with determined steps.

“Hey, sweetheart—” Ace starts with a grin.

“Stalling isn't going to work,” Claudette shoots him down quickly, seeing right through his act. So Ace sighs dramatically and shrugs off his jacket, and the girl immediately hikes up his shirt to start cleaning the wounds on his back.

Ace hisses from the sting of some kind of alcohol, turning his attention back to the others to try to distract himself from the pain.

Most of the others are listening to to Steve's and Nea's story while the rest are scattered around camp, doing their own things. Kate is tuning her guitar, Jake is stocking one of his toolboxes, and Cheryl seems to be practicing the card trick Ace taught her a couple of days ago.

And then there's Felix.

Finally giving himself permission to look at the handsome German, Ace's heart immediately starts beating faster. He's not even doing anything, just sitting by the fire engrossed in a conversation with Zarina, but Ace is so infatuated even just Felix breathing is almost enough to make him blush.

He thought he was too old for schoolboy crushes like these, but then again how could he not fancy Felix? The guy has some absolutely god-tier genes, a chiseled face and ice blue eyes and a body to die for. He’s also smart, and sophisticated, and filthy rich.

And god knows none of those qualities had ever been Ace's strong suit.

At first Ace had thought his hyperfixation on the man was jealousy, but then his body showed him that was definitely not the case; he didn't want to be Felix, he wanted to be in Felix. The realization didn't phase him as much as it maybe should have, because even the straight-as-a-board Ash had commented on Felix's good looks. And Ace sure as hell wasn't even straight to begin with.

No, his panic had come from when he'd caught himself looking at couples like Jeff and Adam being mushy together and imagined himself and Felix in their place.

Ace had a healthy amount of confidence, though the others might not describe it that kindly, but he wasn't blind. Felix was younger than him, maybe not by an impossible amount but still enough to be noticeable. He was also model-tier gorgeous with a body to match, and while Ace wasn't bad-looking he also had a crooked nose and a build solely used for drinking and gambling.

All in all, he recognized when someone was out of his league, and even though he couldn't resist a cheeky flirt ever now and then, he knew his feelings would never be returned.

But he still allowed himself to look; sue him.

He's in the middle of an indulgent daydream about laying his head on Felix's lap like Kate is doing to Yui on the other side of camp, all the while effortlessly keeping up small talk with Claudette tending to his wounds.

And then he starts coughing.

It's not a normal dry cough, it wracks his entire body and keeps going, and he curls in on himself because damn it’s making his throat hurts and his lungs ache something fierce.

“Ace, what's wrong?” Claudette's worried voice cuts through the attack. He tries to reply but it just makes him cough more, and it's not stopping—

Something slimy lands in the palm he's using to cover his mouth and then he can breathe again, taking sharp gasps of air while his throat tingles from the abuse.

He looks at whatever piece of his organs he managed to cough up, the Spirit's blade probably having rearranged some of his guts. He opens his hand and sees—

A flower?

It's absolute covered in blood, but there's no mistaking it, a single flower sitting in the palm of his hand with some loose petals surrounding it.

Why did he cough up a flower? Where did he even get it? It looks like some sort of cherry blossom, a far cry from the Entity's pustulas or the forest bouquets they pick and use for offerings.

“Are you okay?" Claudette asks, moving to kneel beside him in worry. When she sees the flower, she gasps in surprise.

“What happened?” Meg is quick to join her friend, coming up behind Ace to peer over his shoulder. “Uh… did that flower come out of you?”

“I… guess so?” Ace says, his voice raspy and throat protesting being used.

“So you just, like… ate it? Before?” Steve cocks his head in confusion.

“Come on now, I'm not that stupid,” Ace snorts, some of his worry giving way to amusement over the incredulous situation.

“Then what the hell was that?” Meg asks, scrunching her face up in thought while poking at the gross flower.

“I’m pretty sure I know what’s wrong,” Adam raises his voice from across camp, straightening his back when all eyes turn to him. “It’s an illness, I recognize the symptoms."

“Can't say I've ever heard of a disease that makes you barf petals,” Ash offers, clearly skeptical, and Ace shares the sentiment.

“Shh, hear him out!” Laurie scolds.

"It's a Japanese folk story,” Adam explains. “Flowers start growing in a person's lungs, causing coughing and bleeding and..." he hesitates.

“Well?” Meg demands.

"And ultimately resulting in death, unless the condition is cured," Adam says grimly.

“Are you talking about hanahaki?” Yui pipes up before anyone can question the weird statement. “You know that's just a shojo manga trope, right?”

“It's also mentioned in historical literature,” Adam argues, though from the way he refuses to meet Yui's gaze, he seems to be embarrassed over the subject.

“Dude, nobody cares if you read girl comics, just tell us what the cure is,” Feng snorts, and that's probably the most concern Ace has ever seen her display over his well-being.

“It's—” Adam starts, before faltering, awkwardly scratching at his neck while looking at the ground. “Supposedly caused by unrequited love.”

There's dead silence in the camp.

And then Nea bursts out laughing.

“Jesus, what a story!” the tagger snickers. “Can you imagine Ace as a fairytale princess?”

“Honey, I think you might have gotten some myths mixed up,” Jeff says diplomatically, patting Adam's knee affectionately.

“Yeah, you probably just inhaled a flower in your sleep or something,” Steve encourages Ace.

“I'm pretty sure this is just a practical joke from our dear spidery overlord,” Ace chuckles and pointedly doesn't look Felix's way. Come next trial, his injuries will have healed anyway, including the weird burn in his lungs.

But they don’t.

Trial after trial, the Entity resurrects him and heals all of his wounds but the coughing persists, more and more flowers following.

Even the others are getting worried.

“That's it, bud,” Ash offers, patting his back while Ace is wheezing for breath after coughing up some more petals. “It's just a weird flu, you'll be good as new soon.”

“At least the flowers go with my shirt,” Ace jokes, voice reduced to a rasp, clearing his throat. “Pink was always my color.”

He's trying to keep his and the others' spirits high, since there doesn't seem to be anything they can do to fix the situation.

“We need to do something,” Ace hears Laurie hiss to Dwight, apparently disagreeing with his sentiment.

“B-but how can we even help him?” their leader, bless his heart, looks genuinely upset over Ace's condition.

“Maybe we should try Adam's suggestion," Laurie says.

“Yeah, except you know he wouldn’t tell us even if he did like someone,” Yui huffs from beside them. “Good luck getting an answer out of a compulsive liar.”

Ouch, but also fair. Ace sure as hell isn't going to reveal his dumb little crush, especially since Felix has avoided him since this entire goddamn flower thing started. He knows there's only a slim chance that Felix realizes what's really going on, but it still feels like rejection nonetheless.

He can deal with this. Even if it kills him, the Entity will just bring him back anyway. It's not even that bad.

But then it gets so much worse.

After a week, Ace is laying on his side while black spots dance around in his vision and he struggles to draw enough wheezy breaths into his lungs. His chest hurts, and his throat is so sore even just the air passing through burns like fire. He hasn't been able to speak in days, and that's almost worse than the pain, not being able to use his only coping mechanism of running his mouth until something sticks to lighten the mood.

His head is cushioned on Kate's thigh and he gets a tiny bit of satisfaction from the knowledge that at least he managed to lay in one pretty blonde's lap before dying, even if it’s the wrong one. The touch is comforting nonetheless, though the fact that it’s accompanied by Kate's girlfriend practically screaming in his ear kind of puts a damper on the whole thing.

“I swear to god, I will make every single person in this camp kiss you, do not test me,” Yui threatens, one of the few who haven't given up on curing him. “Is it Jane? Bill?”

If Ace had the energy, he'd probably laugh about her choices, curious as to why those two were the ones she picked. As it stands, he merely stares at her, wondering if his eyes look as dull and lifeless as he feels.

“He's going to die,” Jake says from somewhere to his side, but Ace doesn't even bother turning his head or denying the statement. Hurried voices shush the saboteur while Kate starts humming a melody to distract him, Yui glaring absolute daggers in Jake’s general direction.

His next trial, Jake's prediction comes true.

Ace collapses to the ground in the midst of a coughing fit. The flowers are growing even bigger now, he can feel them tearing at his throat and vocal cords, retching when they trigger his gag reflex on their way out. His vision blurs and then goes black, body finally giving up as the illness consumes him.

He's not even injured from the killer, but the pool of blood he falls into is big enough to cover the entire side of his face. He lays there, not sure if he's even breathing, just thankful that the awful coughing has stopped for at least a moment.

When he comes to, he expects the small comfort of the campfire before he has to go through the same thing again. Instead, he doesn't have enough energy to even open his eyes, slowly realizing he's still in the trial.

It takes him even longer to realize he's being held partly off of the ground, his body hanging limply in someone’s grasp. He idly wonders if a killer is going to mercy hook him, but then he hears something.

Crying.

Focusing on the sound, Ace realizes he's not just being lifted, he's being held in someone's arms. Someone is holding his near-dead body and crying.

With both his mind and body broken from suffering for so long, he allows himself to imagine it's Felix, even though he knows it's not true. Felix has shown he doesn't care, not talking to him and being so grossed out by his symptoms he’s barely even looked at him—

“Das tut mir leid,” is whispered against his hair, and Ace wonders if he's hallucinating or if his brain has given up on speech comprehension, because that sounded an awful lot like German.

Suddenly, he gains some of his strength back, his chest not feeling nearly as tight as it has for the past few days.

“Felix?” Ace asks, and even though it comes out as a raspy whisper, it's impossible to miss in the stillness of the quiet moment. The surprised hitch of breath he gets in response sounds impossibly loud, and he manages to blink awake just enough to see the tear-streaked, wide-eyed face of the person he never thought he could have.

And that's when the Entity decides he's bled on the ground long enough and he blacks out from blood loss.

When Ace comes to, he's no longer in pain. He can breathe. And he wants nothing more than to get back to camp and be reassured that he wasn't imagining Felix being there for him in his final moments.

He runs to the campfire, panting from exertion once he's illuminated by the familiar glow and shocked faces turn to look at him.

“What the—did you run here!?” Meg exclaims incredulously.

“Yeah,” Ace says, eyes scanning the small crowd of familiar faces, so focused on finding a particular one he doesn't even realize the implications of managing to speak without issue.

“Your voice!” Kate exclaims happily, and Ace pauses to collect some of his thoughts.

“Shit, you're right,” he says, a smile tugging on his lips for the first time in what feels like weeks.

“Welcome back, you bastard!” Nea cheers and flings herself at him in a sideways hug, and Ace stumbles to catch himself from falling, chuckling at her antics.

Claudette is sobbing, looking impossibly relieved, and the others are cheering among themselves, though Ace can't make out the contents because he sees a familiar figure making its way to camp and his entire world zones in on that person.

Felix looks up at the sound of the commotion, and Ace's heart breaks a little over how puffy his eyes still look, but then their eyes meet and Felix looks so hopeful—

“Hey,” Ace says, and it probably gets drowned out by the others, but Felix's eyes widen in recognition and he starts walking faster.

“Are you…?” Felix asks, close enough for Ace to hear him over the others shouting.

“He's fixed!” Nea answers for him, finally letting go of the almost painful hug in favor of smacking Ace on the back encouragingly.

Felix glances at Nea but quickly looks back at Ace, waiting for confirmation.

“Yeah, I… guess I'm cured,” Ace says, and it almost feels weird to hear his own voice again. “Or... You know, I hope so.”

Because he's still not sure about Felix's feelings, and he has no idea where they're going to go from here.

But he doesn't need to worry, because Felix's face lights up in a way he's never seen before, letting out a disbelieving, genuine laugh. And then he's stepping forward and cupping his cheek and Ace only has time to blink in confusion before his head is tilted up into a kiss.

“Woah,” Ace hears Nea exclaim, her hand leaving his back like burned. “This, uh… this is new.”

Ace smiles into the kiss and tunes out the rest of her and the others’ surprised babbling, grabbing Felix by the collar of his dress shirt and pulling him deeper into the kiss.

When neither of them are making a move to pull away, their friends seem to be getting fidgety from the show.

“Why don’t we go for a stroll in the woods?” Kate suggests, and the chorus of “Sure!” “Great idea!” and “Oh fuck yes get me out of here” that follow are enough for a laugh to bubble up in Ace’s throat and get swallowed by Felix’s mouth.

When the last pair of footsteps have hurried away, Felix deems it appropriate to finally break away from the kiss. Though he doesn’t go far, burying his head into the crook of Ace’s neck and shoulder and wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug.

“Welcome back,” Felix murmurs against his skin, and the warm affection spreading through Ace’s chest is a welcome change from the constant pain he’s been in for way too long.

“Didn’t expect such a thorough welcome,” Ace can’t resist flirting, hands sneaking up to rest on Felix’s incredibly firm back. The chuckle he gets in return reverberates through both of their bodies due to how close they are, and Ace wonders if Felix can hear his heart frantically beating in excitement.

“I’m… shit,” Felix eventually sighs, lifting his head to meet Ace’s eyes. “I don’t know how to make up for being an idiot. I just watched you suffer and didn’t know what to do.”

“It’s okay,” Ace says, but now he’s curious. “Why did you avoid me?”

“Because I was afraid that I'd get the illness too,” Felix says, looking at the ground in shame. “I thought any one of us could get it, and because of how I feel about you… I was scared I was next.”

The confirmation that Felix had feelings for him even before this whole clusterfuck started is enough to make more butterflies dance in Ace’s gut, a flush creeping up his neck over how the other is openly spilling his heart.

“If I’d have known I was the one causing it, I would have done something sooner. I’m so sorry," Felix murmurs, looking at him with sad puppy eyes.

“Hey, it's not like I was being very cooperative,” Ace points out, giving his most encouraging smile. “It's not your fault, it's the dumb flower sickness.”

“I'm sorry you had to go through that, regardless,” Felix frowns. “But… I'm glad it lead us here,” he adds with a bashful smile that makes Ace’s heart do a couple leaps.

“Figures the best and worst things of my life would happen simultaneously,” Ace flirts, and apparently Felix enjoys being called the best thing in his life, because his sappy smile widens even further.

Ace can’t resist diving in for another taste, capturing smiling lips in a kiss that lasts even longer than the first one and makes their friends groan and complain about “Geez, you’re still going?” when they rejoin them at the campfire.

[dewitty1]

Redeem Me

Samayel

Chapters: 69/69 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Molly Weasley, Arthur Weasley, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Ron Weasley, Charlie Weasley, Bill Weasley, Percy Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Nymphadora Tonks, Remus Lupin, Original Male Character(s), Severus Snape, Portrait Albus Dumbledore, John Dawlish, Rodolphus Lestrange, Walden Macnair Additional Tags: Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Horror, Romance, Drama, Profanity, Implied/Referenced Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Bottom Draco, Dark Harry, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Prostitution, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse

Summary:

Two years after the events of Harry’s sixth year at Hogwart’s, Draco stumbles back into his life. Harry is a bitter and vengeful young man, Draco is a walking wreck…and who is helping who? (Explicit rating is for later chapters. This fic is HBP compliant with only very small adjustments to suit this plot.) OOC- is for semiDark!Harry.

Excerpt:

Harry woke early as always, eyes fluttering open and consciousness coming to him quickly. Consciousness regarding his surroundings. His warm surroundings. His unusually warm, pajama-clad, soft, blond surroundings.

Draco had curled very close during the night. His left arm was flopped across Harry’s chest, and the rest of his body was pressed flush against Harry’s left side, except for Draco’s left leg, which was almost across Harry‘s lap. Draco’s head was tucked into a corner of Harry’s left arm, and soft, even breaths brushed against his ribs when Draco exhaled. All of these things suddenly became real to Harry, and all of them were good.

The erection pressing into his left thigh was somewhat more problematic. Especially since it rather closely matched his own situation, which was reaching epic proportions and tenting the sheets above him, threatening to pulse its way right through the material of his pajamas. This was not to say that he didn’t entertain ideas about situations like this…he did…but they weren’t supposed to happen this soon, and Draco was supposed to be completely healthy and able to cope with it, and there was supposed to be candles…and music…and flowers…and maybe some wine. This was a little more reality than Harry could handle at this time of morning.

He hadn’t spent a lifetime fantasizing about particulars…he’d kind of been content with more general notions. The actual physical mechanics still unsettled him. To be specific, the fact that Draco’s erect penis was throbbing against his thigh was unsettling him terribly, whether he liked the idea or not.

‘Think, Harry! How do you gracefully get out of this, without a weird scene. Draco would be mortified if he woke up like this…never mind him noticing that I’m about to blast through my pajamas. This is great! Some poof I’ll make if I can’t handle a hard-on next to me! I’ve got to make this go down…at least then he won’t freak out too much. Concentrate on horrible things. Horrible, hideous things. Argus Filch doing a glossy color spread for Wicked Witch Weekly, in a pink thong, and smiling!’

His erection quickly flagged and Harry exhaled softly with relief. Then he looked at Draco’s face, peacefully slumbering beside him.

‘He’s so beautiful. Look at him. He looks so content…so at peace. He deserves that, after all that he’s been through. It would be nice, wouldn’t it…seeing him like this every morning. I never knew his eyelashes were so fine. I don’t think I even noticed that his eyebrows were just a little darker than his hair…until now. His nose is perfect…it looks so…noble. His lips…’

The erection was back in full force.

‘Great. I’m a moron. Now I have to think about Filch all over again! Damn it!’

Eventually, Harry’s rampant prick was back under control, and he managed to whisper a few words to Draco, who woke easily enough, being nearly as light a sleeper as Harry. For a remarkably pale person, it seemed impossible for Draco to sustain such a crimson blush for so long, but he managed it anyway.

Harry acted as though nothing had been out of sorts, launching into an impromptu workout on the floor, doing his morning standard hundred sit-ups while Draco hastily stammered out his intention to use the shower, and then fled from the room with towel in hand, looking completely mortified.

Draco made his way to the shower with all due haste, thanking the heavens for the small mercy of not finding himself sticky and sated by Harry‘s warm thigh…instead of just painfully erect and nearly sprawled across Harry’s body. The shower quickly began to steam as the heat kicked in, and Draco peeled away his pajamas and slid inside, letting warmth and comfort ease away the tension that was eating away at him.

’Oh, sweet fucking Merlin! I can’t believe that just happened. It didn’t. It was a dream. I woke up and it’s over. There is no way I just woke up practically humping Harry’s leg like an alley cat in heat! Didn’t happen, didn’t happen, didn’t happen!’

Draco rested his head against the cool tiles of the wall, and took a few deep breaths while the water rolled down his back. His penis hadn’t shifted gears at all. It was still stiff and waiting, demanding relief as soon as he acknowledged its presence.

’Who am I even kidding? It happened. Harry was sweet and let me off the hook for it, but I was just that close to coming all over myself…and his leg…and we both know it. I’ve got to switch to wanking before bed. One more goodnight kiss like that one and I’ll wake up glued to him by my own spunk. I am sooo not letting that happen. That settles it. I’m only wanking in the shower before bed…from now on.’

Draco’s cock twitched almost involuntarily, pulsing with need.

’Right after this.’

꒰♡ˊ͈ ु꒳ ूˋ͈꒱.⑅*♡

[farfromfickle]

Far From Fickle | JJ x OC

Trigger Warning: Mentions of suicide, death, etc. Mild panic attack. Drowning.

A/N: I wanted to write a fanfiction, I’m not really sure how long it will be. It’s through the POV of an OC named Payton, and I’m thinking her love interest is going to be JJ. Constructive criticism is always, always, always welcomed but if you’re mean to me I’ll probably cry. 

Payton Montgomery’s entire world is turned upside down when her twin sister is in a surfing accident and put on life support. The summer has arrived, and Payton is anxious to distract herself with anything she can: an apprenticeship at her father’s family owned funeral home, a newfound social life at the boneyard, a murder or two, and maybe even a summer fling with a certain wounded blonde surferboy.

Chapter one

Payton Montgomery stood at the edge of the surf, her gaze entranced on the waves crashing against the sand. Crashing had never been a word she would have used to describe the waves before the incident. But lately everything was crashing, or falling, or suffocating around her. Before, when she thought of the beach she thought of the silent and graceful waves, pushing and pulling. She thought of peaceful sounds and being lulled to sleep. These were not the same waves she’d watched countless times with her sister. These waves were violent. She flinched each time they fell against the shore. 

The sun was just rising over the shore, and Payton felt as if she’d gotten little to no sleep. Granted, falling asleep in a hospital chair was never rest inducing. 

“Standing there by the water, you look just like her,” a voice muttered behind her. “Like Carter.” 

“Well, we have practically the same face,” Payton muttered. She forced her eyes from the water. “Being twins and all.”

“But I’ve always been able to tell you apart,” the small brunette was standing beside her now. Payton wondered how she hadn’t noticed her approaching before. 

“Sarah Cameron,” Payton let out a small huff. “Let me guess, I’ve finally earned your pity.”

“Maybe if your sister actually dies,” Sarah replied with a nonchalant shrug. Payton could tell she was kidding, but the comment still felt like a slap in the face. She tried to stop herself from physically flinching.

“Well according to the doctors, you don’t have much longer to wait.” 

“Are you okay?” Sarah asked, her hand falling lightly on Payton’s shoulder. 

“What do you want, Sarah?” Payton asked. “Because the last time you gave a shit about me or my sister, it was seventh grade. I haven’t heard from you in nearly five years. You weren’t there when our mom died. I don’t understand why you’re trying to be here now.” 

“I just wanted to check on you,” Sarah muttered. “I don’t expect to be friends or whatever. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t--” 

“Gonna off myself or something?” 

“Right,” Sarah frowned. “That.”

“Rest assured,” Payton said, “I won’t harm myself or anyone else during this trying time.”

“I know I wasn’t the best friend to you…” she began, but Payton cut her off. 

“No kidding.” 

“There’s a bonfire tonight,” Sarah tried again.

“At the boneyard?” Payton raised a brow. “That’s right, I heard the kook princess had a pogue boyfriend.”

“He’s a person,” Sarah interjected with a slight eye roll. 

“You don’t have to lecture me on the humanity of each stereotypical clique,” Payton let out a sigh. “I’m friends with both.” 

“The invitation stands,” Sarah told her. She tried out a soft smile, but ended up dropping it. “I’m really, really sorry about Carter, Payt.” 

She wanted to scream at her to stop talking about her sister like she was dead. She wasn’t dead yet. She might not even die. She wanted to stamp her feet and kick the sand and throw herself into the ocean and make peace with the water that took so much from her two short weeks ago. She did none of these things, however. She simply said, “Thank you,” and turned her attention back toward the surf. 

***

Payton’s eyes fell onto her sister. She was lying in the hospital bed, the machines around her beeping erratically. Her chocolate brown hair fell in messy curls around her shoulders, wild and unkept. A splash of freckles lay across her nose. Her pouty, deep red lips were chapped from dehydration. It was exactly like looking into a mirror. A mirror that Payton wanted to smash. 

“I really wish you’d wake up,” Payton huffed. She took a seat next to her sister, a book in her hand. The Outsiders, a school reading project that Payton had coincidentally already read a handful of times out of boredom. After her sister's incident, she used the book as a coping mechanism. She had read and reread the book over and over again, distracting herself from the horror of her life. 

Carter Montgomery was an avid surfer and risk taker. Payton wasn’t the biggest fan of the water, but she loved to sit at the beach and read while her sister caught some waves. The first day of summer the two had gone to the beach. The waves were a little rough, and Carter fell off of her board. She washed up into the break zone and knocked her head pretty badly. She fell unconscious underwater and nearly drowned. Her sister was put on life support almost immediately. No one really expected her to wake up. 

“Hey Payton,” her father muttered, walking into the hospital room. “How are you this morning? I didn’t hear you come in last night.” 

“I didn’t,” Payton replied, flipping the page of her book. “I crashed here.” 

“That sounds healthy,” her father mused. “Listen, I hired some extra help this summer. What’s that boy’s name? Heyward? His dad runs that seafood place.”

Jason Montgomery was the proud owner of Montgomery Funeral Home, a small town family business that had been in the Montgomery family for several generations. He was a tall, built man with sandy hair peppered with streaks of gray.

“Pope,” Payton told him. “I thought he worked for his dad.”

“He wants to be a mortician,” her father explained. “Asked for some part time hours for the experience.” 

“So you’ve replaced her already,” Payton mumbled, slamming her book shut. 

“I didn’t replace her, Payt,” her father frowned. 

“Could’ve fooled me,” she replied, standing up and turning toward the door. 

“Where are you going?” her father demanded, attempting to block the door.

“I’m going to work,” Payton told him, raising a brow, “is that a problem?”

“No,” her father murmured. “No, I think that will be good for you.”

“Gee, glad I have your approval,” Payton rolled her eyes and shoved past him. 

***

“So I don’t think we’ve officially met, I’m Pope,” the dark skinned boy began, a soft smile on his face. “I’m sorry, which one are you?” 

“Don’t act like you’re unaware of Carter’s condition,” Payton muttered. Her eyes were glued on the elderly woman on the dressing table. She was carefully sculpting the pink foundation around a bruise. 

“Right,” Pope replied. “I’m really sorry about your sister, Payton…”

“Don’t be,” Payton brought her eyes up to meet his for a brief moment before bringing them back down to the woman. 

“So, what are you, um, doing exactly?”

“Pink takes out the black of the bruises,” she explained. She collected another brush, dabbing the tip in an ivory foundation. “They want an open casket.”

“What happened to her?”

“She fell,” she told him. “The majority of bodies we get around here are old people. They’re usually banged and bruised, you know, ‘cause they’re so fragile.”

“Right,” he murmured. There was a long awkward silence before he began again. “Are you going to that thing at the boneyard?”

“I don’t know,” Payton admitted, “Parties aren’t really my thing.” 

“They’re not so bad,” Pope told her, a shy smile playing on his lips. “Just depends on who you hangout with while you’re there.” Payton thought about this for a moment. Who would she hangout with? She didn’t exactly have many friends. Carter was her best friend, and when she thought about going somewhere without Carter she felt numb inside.

“Maybe I’ll check it out,” she told him. “I could use a distraction.”

***

The music was a little too loud for Payton’s taste. She began the party at the keg, accepting graciously as Sarah’s latest boytoy handed her a red solo cup. She stood around awkwardly for a few moments while John B attempted small talk. 

“And how about this weather?” he asked, motioning around him. 

“Beautiful,” Payton nodded, a small snicker escaping her lips. “Just beautiful.” 

“Are you making fun of me right now?” John B asked, cocking a brow at her. 

“Oh, never,” Payton shook her head. She took another swig of her drink.

“I would hope not,” John B mused, “Since I’m the one who so graciously invited you to this shindig.” 

“Shindig?” Payton nearly choked on her beer stifling a laugh. “Sarah invited me, actually.”

“Oh, he’s actually so pussy whipped they’ve morphed into one person,” a voice called from beside them. Moments later JJ Maybank settled beside John B, rustling his fingers through his hair with a sly grin. “It’s quite romantic, really.”

“Sounds romantic,” Payton agreed. She didn’t know JJ well, only that he came from the wrong side of the tracks as her father would say.

“Oh, it is. They’re planning a June wedding.” 

“Guess my invite got lost in the mail,” Payton fake pouted.

“Don’t worry, you can be my plus one, dollface,” JJ gave her a wink.

“Lucky me!” she enthused. She took a final swig of her beer and gave the boys a nod. 

Payton ended the party where she began her day, staring blankly at the ocean. The waves were crashing against the shore. She stuck one foot into the water and stumbled a bit. Was this what being tipsy felt like? She had never drank before.

“Payton Montgomery at a kegger?” a voice came from behind her. It was familiar. Kelce, her sister’s ex boyfriend. She let out a sigh. 

“What do you want?” 

“Are you afraid to get into the water, princess?” he demanded, taking a step toward her. Payton sucked in a breath, panic starting to set in. “Afraid you’ll drown like your sister?” 

“Yeah she is!” Rafe let out a dry laugh. “She’s terrified. Why don’t you help her out, Kelce?” 

“Please don’t…” Payton whimpered, but Kelce was already moving toward her. Topper and Rafe were on either side of him, blocking her only escape routes. Before she even had time to process what was happening Rafe grabbed her around the waist and threw her over his shoulder. 

“Don’t be such a pussy,” Topper hissed. “We’re trying to help you!” Payton let out another whimper, her eyes closed tightly as the water began to envelope her. Rafe waded deeper and deeper into the water and threw her off of him. Her nails caught around his neck, scraping the surface as he threw her. 

“You bitch!” he hissed, kicking his leg out at her, shoving her farther into the water. 

Payton’s head was hovering above the water as she silently spoke to herself. It’s okay. You can swim. It’s okay. She was kicking and flailing her legs around trying desperately to reach the shore. Her head began to slip and she began to panic. Her vision began to tunnel. Suddenly two arms were around her, pulling her towards the shore. 

Her breaths were near gasps when they finally reached the shoreline, her arms neatly wrapped around the neck of her savior: JJ Maybank. 

[trxxrpg]

Welcome, Lucent “Lucky” Lachlan to Tabula Rasa, He kind of looks a lot like Domhnall Gleeson please submit your character account within 24hrs

OUT OF CHARACTER NAME/NICKNAME/ALIAS: Slowner

AGE: 24

TIMEZONE: PST.

EXPERIENCE: Too damn long. 11-12 years. Started roughly when I was 11, writing my own stories and miniature novels. That progressed into literature based roleplays by the time I was 13.

IN CHARACTER CHARACTER NAME: Lucent “Lucky” Lachlan - His name directly translates into “Glowing”, “Radiant” and “Dauntless” in three separate languages, Spanish, Italian(Luciento) and Latin (Lucentine).

CHARACTER AGE: Roughly 26, doesn’t actually know his exact age due to being orphaned before any legal paperwork had been filed on him.

FACECLAIM: Domhnall Gleeson

GENDER: He’s a male.

SPECIES: They are a hybrid between a supernatural male being and a human female.

SUBSPECIES: Leprechaun

TRAITS: +++ Lucky, + Economically Inclined, + Efficient — Cocky, -Cheeky, -Coy (yes; those are all synonyms, no; you can’t complain.)

SKILL SETS: Lucent’s Luck is supernaturally modified by his Leprechaun heritage. Despite being a hybrid, most of Lucent’s biology and genetics were gained from his father - Resulting in a fairly potent and consistent stream of “Jackpot” style luck being present in Lucky’s life. These occurences are what ultimately earned him his monicre. Much like Domino from Marvel, Lucky’s luck is much more versatile than one would be lead to believe at surface level. In a practical sense, Lucent’s luck can provide a tangible and realistic field of awareness around him. Like a sphere of aura or energy, Lucky supernaturally and subconsciously affects reality to tilt the outcomes of events in his favor. From things as simple as rolling the right dice to something as elaborate as allowing one of his guards to be positioned in the perfect spot to cover his own blindspots. To be clear - A leprechaun’s luck affects observable reality to skew the chances of something happening or not happening. It affects people, places, things and thoughts on a nearly impossible to perceive level. Only someone who spends a lengthy and recurring amount of time in close vicinity to Lucky would begin to slowly begin to grow suspicious of how the man always seems to come out on top of any situation. Its uncanny and unsettling to some, but the ultimate ace up your sleeve to others.

Examples of “Luck” affecting outcomes: -Lucky is accosted by an aggressor, who mis-identifies him almost immediately as someone else, or said aggressor simply would trip over a crack in the pavement and fall flat on their face unconscious. -Lucky walks into a car lot and is told he is the 10,000 customer and is granted a free car. -In a fight, Luck is enough to see that Lucent dodges an attack completely or is able to misplace a normally fatal attack to a non-fatal area. A punch from Lucky, while being a punch from a biological human - Is packed with the physical manifestation of his ‘Jackpot’ - meaning if he hasn’t used his luck it becomes stronger. Since Lucent is not aware of himself being a Leprechaun, he wouldn’t be able to actively use or NOT USE his powers; Resulting in his luck averaging out to be noteably higher than other supernatural beings, but not high enough to garner Lucky any interest in most people’s eyes.

*His luck isn’t a slight tilt of the pinball machine, It turns the damn thing upside down.*

QUOTE/LYRICS: Personal: “Feelin’ lucky?” Philosophical: “Live for the moment lest you lose it forever.”

WRITING SAMPLE CHARACTER BACKGROUND: (I add bits of his background into the actual IC writing sample at the end of this app. I will mainly focus on the ideas and themes prevalent in his background in this section as we have discussed a lot about Lucky in person already.)

*Lucky was orphaned as a child. This results in him having severe trust issues, to constantly suspect people of betraying or abandoning him and generally results in his intolerant nature. If you can think of a young, impulsive irishman that is willing to headbut his way through things, that’s lucky in a nutshell. Hailing from Ireland, this is only further exasperating his short temper and spitfirey nature. He is mildly alcoholic and drinks as a coping mechanism for his depression and anxiety. He started drinking at 14. His mother left him on the steps of a wealthy businessman and politician’s estate. This decision ends up playing out amazingly in Lucent’s favor. At the age of 20 his adoptive parents pass away peacefully of old age and leave everything in their estate and portfolios to their son. Within 6 years Lucent would establish himself in the eyes of the public as a successful businessman and philanthropist. His casinos are widely considered the best around the globe and his name is often touted about in circles of celebrities and other high profile types. It stands reason that anyone with a gambling background would know of Lucky when he arrives. His opening ceremonies generate a rather large buzz, including celebrity style red carpet treatment and a “quality higher than anywhere else” guarantee. All of his employees seem happy and well paid. At least half of his success can be directly attributed to his supernatural luck, though it is worth noting that the man himself is also incredibly adept at getting what he wants from others.

CHARACTER BIOGRAPHY: Lucky is a half-leprechaun half-human hybrid. This means that he naturally retains the tenacity and adaptability of humanity as well as the deeply invested cultural beliefs and respects of an irish leprechaun. Honesty, loyalty and respect are what dictate his relationships and interactions with others. If people prove civil and abide by Lucent’s prestigious establishment’s rules then he generally is a kind and agreeable man.

However, Lucky is also a man with little to no patience for upsets to his perceived norm. People that stand out or rebel against his jurisdictions often get to meet the unpleasant side of him, a side that is fully aware of how deep the influence of his economical and societal status has. One might assume him a 'control freak’ on a surface level, but in reality Lucent simply has a plan in mind for how he wants things to go and gets frustrated when that plan is willfully ignored by others. As long as they do what is expected of their station or position, Lucent often lets his employees operate at a casual and comfortable pace - believing it instills a healthy work ethic and loyalty among his employees which shows to be effective as there have never been any scandals or secrets revealed about him or his organization.

Lucky runs a chain of Casinos with locations in popular tourist sites - His most recent endeavor has chosen Tabula Rasa as it’s destination. Lucky aims to bring the full experience of one of his casinos to the sanctioned city of Tabula Rasa. Why did he choose a city with unique political ties and perhaps abstinations due to it’s sovereignty? That much is simple - Lucky sees it as a ripe opportunity to perform two tasks simultaneously.

ONE: Open a casino in a predominantly supernatural economy, see how much money he can squeeze out of the 400-500 year old vampires with long lasting economic ties ;D or the werewolves that probably have drug money and fight ring money up the wazzooo. It’s a smart business decision.

Two: Lucky will have privatized cameras monitoring the internals of his casino. Potentially even some of the rentable rooms/suites. That’s right, Lucky may be planning to blackmail people if spicy shenanigans go down in his place of business. In addition to this, he has received contracts from several television companies wishing to get “an inside view” of the functionings of the supernatural city.

PARAGRAPH SAMPLE: Raindrops spattering against the blacktop, falling like tears from the very sky itself as a cradle lay at the foot of a door; mewling and balling - crying out into the cold, dark, unloving world. A child was orphaned that night, left alone without a mother or father by a woman weeping as she fled her shame. The shackles of guilt too much for her to bear she only hoped she could replace with the comfort of knowing she had picked a good home for her son. She didn’t look back, didn’t turn to have one last look at her child; for she knew that if she had, she would’ve ran back to him sobbing and begging for his forgiveness.

Or at least that’s how he liked to think it went. Cubes of ice stacked in fours clattered as they were swirled about in the glass clasped gingerly between his thumb, index and middle fingers. The next moment he banished the thought beneath a torrent of whiskey - hoping it was possible to drink oneself into amnesia, this was the typical Friday for the hotheaded irishman. His two-piece suit clung to his body, fitted perfectly to a pristine and refined crisp. Every crease was pressed that morning, both shoes polished independently. This man was dressed far too well to be muckraking at a bar, yet there he sat clanking his glass for another round.

“Again?” Called the bearded man from behind the bar, “That’s your twelfth in under 20. Trying to drown, buddy?”

“No ser, Just tryin’ not te’ think.” He raised his glass with as little effort as humanly possible before setting it back down. It would be then that the man did what every bartender did when serving him, They tried to cut him off. A large hand closed ontop of his glass and slid it from his hand.

“Well you’ll have to go not think somewhere else, you’re disturbing my business.”

“Disturbi- Oh… right.” The red headed male looked to his sides at the barstools full of his entourage; roughly six armed men dressed in deep black suits with verdant green ties and .45’s in their holsters. “Apologies, We’ll just make our leave then.”

And so they did, the seven irishmen stepped out from that establishment and would set out to their true destination - an establishment of their own. A right irish diamond here in the land of the affluent and esteemed. Gone would be the days of hoity toity bars with expectations and back would be the glorious days of pub crawls, brawls and throwing up in every bathroom stall from here to the piers! Though one thought kept rearing it damnable face in the recesses of his mind. And the words that haunted him were spoken in the voice he imagined for her.

“Nothing you do will ever be good enough. No matter how much you achieve, how far you go. You’ll always be undeserving of a mother’s love. Yer a right bastard ye know? Not even I wanted you.” The glass of a mirror in his suite would shatter later that night in response and within the fragments of glass he finally felt like he could see his true self; And he was a broken, bloody, mess of a man.“

[goofygoldengirl]

Ok Since I’m Now On A Roll Let’s Talk About The Ambiguity of Gabriel Agreste’s Questionable Romantic Displays Of Affection

So you might be asking, Goofy why the heck is there a subplot in my Y7 show about a single woman falling in love with an evil married man and who would do anything, including sacrifice her life for him? And why hasn’t this sadistic evil bastard taken a stance and flat out rejected her like a good married man should? Why are we, the audience, subjected to a multitude of scenes of borderline adulterous content, while the somewhat dead wife in the basement only gets a five second blurb?

Fear not, I have an explanation and it’s not “if this were an adult show, Gabriel and Nathalie would be already knocking boots because tropes” Firstly, let’s look at this sad, strange, little man.

Gabriel “you’ve had enough emotions go to your room” Agreste has trouble emoting. If this was a dude whose go-to for solving any problems was repressing his emotions until the breaking point, then Emilie’s coma-death made him go haywire man. I mean, this is a dude who picked up being a super villain as a coping mechanism for his wife’s illness. He has major anger management issues, and any emotion that isn’t that is coldness that makes you want to grab a sweater every time he walks in the room. Perhaps in the happier past, he might have been more emotionally open and stable, but isolating his only son from having any kind of social life for a good part of his life, suggests the contrary. And guess what he’s also lacking due to not being able to express his emotions in a healthy way? The joys of human contact and affection! Yes! Gabriel Agreste is touch starved. The scene from Jackaddy/Simon Says where Gabriel hugs Adrien was meant to be laughably awkward on purpose. His inability to keep his hands off of his secretary has a deeper meaning. If anything goes, then it’s safe to assume that unfortunately like how it is with most men who do not have deep friendships who constantly use their wives as a therapist, Emilie Agreste is probably his only source of emotional solace. Because duh, when shit hits the fan, you’re not gonna complain to your son are ya? And considering the distance between him and Adrien, he’s probably of that rich money belief that children should be seen, not heard, and definitely not emotionally coddled, or that he just cannot relate to people in general who aren’t his wife. Or Nathalie. Which brings us to the next point:

Does Gabriel love Emilie? The show has told us yes. He’s married to her. He’s trying to bring her back while falling deeper into the rabbit hole of chaotic villainy. But does it tell us what the dynamic between the two was like?

NOPE.

For all we know, Emilie could have been a saint. She would have been his inspiration, his muse for every design he ever created, he probably would have worshipped the ground she walked on, and every wish was her command. By god she was his queen, and no one messes with the queen. With that level of devotion and tangible passion, it sends every couple from all the romance movies you like to cry to at three am in the morning running. Or she could have been a nightmare where every single topic of discussion was an arguing point, a divorce was threatened at least once a year, but man the eventual makeup and that brief tiding over of bliss was so fiesty and raw that there was no way in hell that they’d actually go through with it. Or maybe even, their relationship was painfully normal. A married couple with ups and downs that is exacerbated by Gabriel’s poor emotional regulation and expression. So these possibilities tell us that either:

A) Gabriel is just a man who really loves his wife, has no emotional support, and is trying to get by however he can, but has no clue his secretary is hitting on him and thinks she’s just being really supportive, or is too caught up in grief to notice it. 

B) Gabriel is just a man who really loves his wife, has no emotional support, knows his secretary is hitting on him, but has no idea how to set boundaries because who else would he confide in? 

C) Gabriel is just a man who really loves his wife, no emotional support, knows his secretary is hitting on him, and is this close to having a breakdown because he loves his wife, but Nathalie has taken up that wife role and it’s tearing him apart Emilie! 

D) Gabriel is just a man who really loves his wife, has no emotional support, but just majorly fails in his relationship with Emilie. Lack of emotional regulation leads him to seek affection elsewhere, and boom! Gabriel not pushing away Nathalie’s every touch and embrace makes so much more sense. Also if you count the crack theory of Emilie’s twin sister he’s definitely Felix’s dad It’s the age old excuse of I’m a man and I’m definitely gonna cheat, but I’ll still feel guilty about it which maybe makes my quest to bring back my wife much more epic

In conclusion: Gabriel has the emotional range of a teaspoon, his interactions with both Emilie and Nathalie are questionable for a reason, and we won’t know for sure to what extent his love runs until we find out more about our dead wife in the basement disappeared mom

This character analysis was brought to you by a meatlover’s pizza, coca cola, and cinnamon monkey bread. Now ima go trick or treat! 

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @herewegohappiness!

hello! i didn't incorporate all of your likes, but from the ones that i did, i hope that you enjoy my take on them and this. thanks!

Read on AO3

*****

when one's eyes are crossed

Stiles has only just sat down at a park bench when Scott sits down opposite him and asks, "So are you ever going to tell Derek how you feel?"

He doesn't startle, he already knew Scott was going to ask this before he even uttered the words. He's been on the warpath for a while now and Stiles' pathetic pining is just the next thing for him to focus on instead of his own problems. Scott's just predictable like that. Or Stiles is just as extremely paranoid as he's been accused of in the past. Whatever. It doesn't really matter anyway.

"I don't think that would be a great idea," Stiles says.

Scott frowns at him, his puppy eyes wide. "Why not?"

"We've been over this a hundred times, man. Derek just isn't into me. And how could he be? We're in very different leagues," Stiles groans, thumping his head on the table in exasperation.

"That's a load of bull and you know it," Scott says. "Anybody would be lucky to have you, man. You're a catch."

Stiles sticks his tongue out at his best friend, full-on pouting now as he tries to think of another topic to distract Scott from Stiles' pathetic pining. "How's Allison?"

"She's fine. Don't change the subject," Scott snaps back.

Stiles groans. "Can we please just leave it alone? Derek doesn't and never will like me, dude. Plus, I thought you hated him."

"I didn't hate him. He was just really creepy and irritating when we first met him, but we're older now, Stiles, and despite everything, he's my Alpha. He wouldn't be my Alpha at all if you hadn't stepped in and whipped us all into shape. Anyway, weren't you the one who said Derek deserves good things in his life after all the crap he's already been through?"

"And what? Am I supposed to be a good thing?" Stiles teases.

Scott only shrugs. "Well, yeah. I mean, dude, you know that Derek can smell your attraction to him, right? He hasn't said anything because it's impolite to use our werewolf senses to our advantage when it comes to forming relationships with humans... His words, not mine."

"You're joking," Stiles flounders.

"I'm not. You should tell him," Scott says with a shake of his head.

Stiles bites his lip. "I'll think about it. No promises though."

"Well, think of it this way, if you confess and he does end up liking you back, those rumors about you being his mate will finally have some weight to them," Scott points out.

"Those rumors are only rumors because he made me pretend to be his mate when that female Omega came passing through around Christmas and she wouldn't take any of his noes for an answer," Stiles says. "Now most of the Northern American supernatural community thinks Derek and I are a thing. Even Allison's dad asked me how my 'mate' was doing the other day."

Scott rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that's 'cause it really isn't that hard to imagine you two together. I'm just saying, man. Tell him. I think you'll be surprised."

"I already said I'd think about it. I can't give you more than that, dude," Stiles replies.

"It's literally the least you can give me, but okay."

Stiles sighs and buries his face into his arms, hoping he looks pitiful enough for Scott to share the rest of his lunch with him. He must because a second later, Scott is handing him half of a sandwich and pats him on the back encouragingly as he sits up to eat.

Maybe he should take Scott's advice into consideration. Scott has been in the same long-term, committed relationship since he was sixteen while Stiles has never dated anyone and he's almost twenty-one now. It isn't for a lack of trying, but most people like it when their significant other is able to dedicate time to them. Stiles goes to school and works part-time at his dad's station during the summer, so he is spread pretty thin almost all of the time, but he always makes time for the pack.

No matter where he may be or what time of day it is, when the pack needs him, Stiles is there.

They are all older and wiser now. Plenty of nasty beings don't bother passing through Beacon Hills anymore because of their infamous reputation for not letting things leave alive, but there are still the stray instances of trouble here and there. Stiles generally doesn't worry too much about it anymore since he did his part in high school when he dragged the pack together after the Kanima incident and made them all work together until it felt like second nature. Even Derek stepped up and took responsibility as the Alpha, bettering himself and his social skills until they were up to the task of handling a group of hormonal teenagers.

Most of the time, Derek acts like a worn out, middle-aged father of seven where the pack is concerned - though you wouldn't catch Stiles dead admitting that out loud. Derek barely tolerates when Stiles refers to his pack members as Derek's "puppies" and there is no telling what the older werewolf would do if Stiles were to accidentally call them his "kids" instead.

Stiles has to admit though, Derek rarely gets physical with him anymore. Long gone are the days when Stiles would be slammed into a wall or a steering wheel or any other available surface near enough to do the kind of damage Derek would want done. Derek is by no means gentle, but he is more thoughtful and does his best to communicate which is a lot more than Stiles ever expected him to learn. That's probably thanks to all the therapy Stiles convinced Derek to get about a year or so back though if he's going to be completely honest.

It wasn't particularly difficult to get Derek to say yes to the idea. All Stiles had to do was imply that if the puppies saw their Alpha getting therapy to better himself, they would follow suit and develop healthy coping mechanisms that would require less of Derek's own time to deal with their inevitable breakdowns. Derek had growled at him but agreed to attend one, singular session and if he didn't like it, then Stiles couldn't do anything to change his mind. Stiles had grinned and nodded, knowing full well that Derek was going to go back for more and lo and behold, that is exactly what happened.

If it helps the puppies, then Derek will do it however reluctantly because just like Stiles, he is more than willing to do whatever it takes for the pack.

This is one of the biggest reasons why Stiles is head over heels in love with the grumpy sourwolf. To list all the other reasons would take up too much time and space, but it is kind of sad how enamored Stiles is with Derek. Well, actually it's sad how Derek still hasn't noticed how enamored Stiles is with him. Almost everyone else in the pack knows by now and even with his keen sense of smell, he won't do anything about it.

Maybe Stiles shouldn't listen to Scott's advice. After all, how good can it be when he and Allison have broken up three times before?

Very good, in fact, Stiles finds out when he stays behind after everyone else has left the following pack meeting and loses control of his brain-to-mouth filter once more.

Honestly, it's a wonder Stiles hasn't blurted his feelings out in all the years he has known Derek, but it must be the atrocious summer heat finally getting to his head this time. Only because he swears that when the older werewolf asked him how things were going down at the station, Stiles did not mean to say, "Fine. I'm in love with you."

Derek's expression falters for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes before he lifts a particularly impressive eyebrow at him and his mouth twitches with the promise of a smirk. Stiles doesn't actually realize what he just said until the silence continues and he mentally reviews the last few moments then panics.

"Oh, shit! I didn't mean to-" Stiles starts to say.

"You don't mean it?" Derek asks, his voice deceptively calm even though Stiles can tell from the hard lines of his shoulders that his Alpha is harboring hurt.

"No! Yes! Wait, I mean I do mean it, of course, I do. I just didn't mean to say it like that!" Stiles shouts, face aflame.

Derek's shoulders have relaxed now though so at least Stiles' embarrassment has been worth something apart from his imminent death after all. "How did you mean to say it then?"

Stiles balks. "Uh. Not at all, maybe?"

"Really?" Derek asks as he crosses his arms over his chests, completely unimpressed now.

"No," Stiles admits. "I meant to say it during a really romantic moment that would knock your socks off and save me the embarrassment of your rejection. Hopefully."

Another moment of silence that makes Stiles want to run away with his tail between his legs. The words are out there now and there's no taking them back, no matter how much Stiles may want to. He could never try to play this off as a joke just for his benefit if it meant Derek thought he really was just messing with him for the fun of it. Derek has had too many people do that to him almost his entire life and Stiles refuses to be one of them.

"Who said I was rejecting you?"

Stiles blinks and chances a look up at Derek. "Seriously?"

Derek shrugs, his mouth twitching again. "I don't know if you know this, Stiles, but I asked you to pretend to be my mate that one time because that was something I have wanted to be real for a while now."

"Am I dreaming?"

"I could pinch you," Derek offers.

"Ha, ha," Stiles huffs, before an impossibly wide grin breaks across his face. "You like me."

Derek nods even though Stiles didn't phrase those words as a question. "You like me."

"Nah. I love you, you big idiot wolf," Stiles says.

"I think the only idiot here is you," Derek shoots back.

"Nope! Let me enjoy this moment, I want our grandkids to smile when I tell them this story, alright."

Derek seems to falter at the mention of grandkids and them essentially having a long future together and Stiles winces. "Too soon?"

After a moment, Derek only shakes his head. "No."

"Can I kiss you?"

Derek laughs. "Funny. I was just about to ask you that."

Stiles grins at him, holding his arms out. "Come at me, sourwolf."

Derek comes.

[andonutty]

a fool’s guide to coping w bpd

ok so for the record im NOT a mental health professional, im just... someone with bpd who’s coping and thought i’d share my tips. i think making a post like this will a) reach more people, and b) help my friends more than me just offering advice when they come to me for help. bpd affects everyone differently, and i can’t claim to totally understand the struggles of everyone who has it, but if you’re struggling right now and you just don’t know what to do or where to go, i gotchu fam. so without further ado... a step-by-step guide for coping with bpd

tw for mentions of emotional manipulation, self-harm, and suicide. none of it is in-depth, but i figured i’d warn anyway.

1) decide that you want to cope in a healthier way.

this seems kinda strange as a first step, but to me it really is the most important step. living with bpd all my life and being in therapy since i was 10 taught me a lot about willingness. saying “i want to be healthier” sounds like a no-brainer, but it’s actually really difficult. you have to sit yourself down and ask yourself: do i really want to fundamentally change the way i think about situations, about myself, and about other people? am i willing to work on this, even though it’s hard? and am i willing to give up on the unhealthy coping mechanisms i’ve been clinging onto?

i’m being totally genuine here: it took me years to get to the point where i could say: yeah, i really, really want to stop emotionally manipulating people to get what i want. i’m so sick of basing my self-worth on what other people say and do. i’m so scared that i am my bpd, and that there’s nothing else inside me; i don’t want it to be that way anymore. i want to have healthy and fulfilling relationships with other people. i want people to stop being afraid of me. i want to love myself. i really and truly do. and only when you come to that (awful, gut-wrenching) revelation can you actually start helping yourself. if you’re not at that point, that’s totally fine. i had to go through a hell of a lot to get there, and i understand not everyone is there. i wish everyone who can’t make this decision yet the best, but i really don’t think this post will be the miracle cure you’re hoping for. you can still read it for sure! i’m just saying that this first step was an extremely necessary one for me, and the next steps get a lot easier once you make this decision.

okay, so you’ve come to the realization that you really, really want to learn some new coping mechanisms. where do you start?

2) look into dbt (dialectical behaviour therapy).

ok. i’ve been going through dbt for a while, and i swear to god, it’s good. dbt was made for people with bpd, and it’s different from cbt in that the skills aren’t just cognitive. there are four sections of dbt skills: mindfulness, emotion regulation, distress tolerance, and interpersonal effectiveness. it may seem overwhelming, but all these skills are very practical and don’t just focus on “hey you’re thinking this? stop it.“ if you have access to a counsellor or therapist, ask them about dbt. if you don’t have access, try to find some stuff you can work on online. i did a quick search and found three sites (one, two, three).

if you have a therapist or counsellor that you can talk to about this, feel free to skip the rest of this section (or read it so you can surprise your therapist with your knowledge). for those of you who don’t have someone to guide you through this, i’m aware all these skills seem incredibly daunting. my recommendations for beginner skills are the following:

PLEASE skill, or reducing vulnerability to emotions (under emotion regulation)

nonjudgmental stance (under mindfulness)

stop, tip, distraction, or improve skills (under distress tolerance)

dear man or myths about interpersonal effectiveness (under interpersonal effectiveness)

reducing emotion vulnerability was the first skill i started working on. when i was first diagnosed with bpd, i was working at a restaurant without any meal breaks. i’d have meltdowns at work and after work, and it took this skill for me to realize that i needed to pack a snack or eat right after getting off my shift, because i was most vulnerable to my emotions when i was hungry or tired. when you understand how food, sleep, exercise, mood-altering substances, etc. all play into how vulnerable you are to your emotions, you can start thinking more clearly about situations and you can start coping ahead to reduce that vulnerability ahead of time. you’d be surprised how much this one helps.

nonjudgmental stance is probably one of the most helpful skills i learned. one of my therapists put it this way: if bpd is an allergy, then invalidation is the allergen. meaning: the thing that’s going to irritate your bpd and trigger problem behaviours is invalidation of emotions. it’s shame, and judgment. everyone judges themselves (which isn’t really healthy, but it is a part of our societal structure), but for us? that shit hurted. i can’t count the amount of times that i’ve been crying and then thought something like “god, you’re just so pathetic“ and started crying even harder. our impulsive behaviour and the decisions we regret almost always stem from a core feeling of being invalidated. remember that time that you were talking about your feelings to someone and they seemed dismissive, so you decided you hated them with every fiber of your being? yep, me too. that’s us reacting to invalidation. in general, we don’t really validate ourselves. quite the opposite! most of the time, we tear ourselves down and expect others to fill that void for us. (a lot of people do this, but it’s really problematic for us in particular because of our generally self-destructive behaviour.) so learning to be compassionate with ourselves is a really important step to take. if you like meditations, look up loving kindness and self-compassion meditations. rain is also a really good meditation to do, but i think it can be really painful to do when you’re just starting out. i’ve linked it at the bottom if you want to check them out, but try not to overload yourself! just stick to one you really like.

stop, tip, distract, and improve are all really good skills to start out with because they’re skills you use for when your skills run out. if you find yourself really struggling with crisis situations a lot, these are good to start out with. they’re specifically meant to calm you down, to get your emotions and adrenaline to a manageable level. if you struggle a lot with engaging in problem behaviour under stress, this one is golden. i used to struggle a lot with substance abuse, and these skills were lifesavers. instead of going right for the substance, i’d use stop. i’d distract myself for a while, surf the urge until the wave of emotion passes. then i could use skills like please by getting something to eat, or dear man by addressing the interpersonal problem with a level head. and on that note...

dear man / myths about interpersonal effectiveness, which is a great skill if your main problem is about asking for help or establishing boundaries. i used to have a lot of problems about asking for things properly (hence my habit of emotionally manipulating others to get what i wanted or needed), because i felt that if someone said no to me, i wouldn’t be able to handle it. or that people would hate me if i asked for things, or that i should be able to handle things on my own. in a way, it felt easier to rely on making others feel bad for not doing more for me rather than to ask outright. these myths are hard to unlearn, but it’s a good place to start if your main trigger is about boundaries or asking for help.

ok, so you’ve started working on a skill. a skill. don’t burn yourself out here, it’s okay (and more productive) to just focus on one instead of trying to change yourself overnight. and on that note...

3) be kind. remember change won’t happen overnight, and keep going.

this one is difficult, because... like, it’s not gonna be easy. i remember i used to have meltdowns and think, “no. i’m tired of being skillful. i’m tired of being the bigger person. i’m sick of this.” and that’s why the first step is so important, because you’re going to need that resolve to say, “hey, i haven’t engaged in my problem behaviour for so long. let’s not start now. i know it’s frustrating, i know it’s so easy to go back to what we know, and at the same time, i want to be better. i know i can be better.”

and even if you do engage in that problematic behaviour again (which, let’s face it, you probably will, because no one is perfect and everyone messes up, and that’s 100% okay), you need to remember this and be compassionate with yourself. everyone messes up. everyone says things they don’t mean to. everyone does things that they regret. everyone falls into old patterns from time to time. what’s important here is to stop beating yourself up over it and start doing something different. if you went back to self-harm, if you started calling up everyone you know and threatening to kill yourself, whatever it is — don’t conflate yourself with the behaviour. instead, take ownership of it. make amends with those you hurt instead of running away or self-sabotaging, think about what happened and try to make sure it doesn’t happen again. slip-ups happen to everyone. literally everyone. so please try not to be hard on yourself if it happens. be disciplined, but not harsh. i promise, beating yourself up over mistakes is only going to hurt you and everyone around you.

conclusion

if you’ve read this far, thank you so much for doing so. i know that when you’re in the thick of it, it’s so hard to imagine yourself having a future, to imagine that you can make friends, keep people around, be anything but the sum total of your perceived failures. but you can. it’s difficult, believe me, it’s difficult, but it’s possible. and i believe you can do it. and trust me, there’s no way you’re going to disappoint me, no matter how much you feel like you’ve fucked up. if you can, just try it out, and i’ll be cheering you along every step of the way.

more resources, if you’d like them:

in general, this site is pretty good for handouts. and again, here are the three sites i linked above (one, two, three) that i found through a cursory search. 

also, look into unhelpful thinking styles if you want. this is the worksheet i have, and it’s genuinely really useful. i keep it in my workbook and look at it to remind myself of when i’m unintentionally using them.

russ harris, who talks a lot about living a fulfilling life. here are some videos of his that i really like (internal struggles, the choice point, the struggle switch).

jon kabat-zinn and mbsr (mindfulness-based stress reduction). seriously if you’re into mindfulness this guy is so good. 9 attitudes in particular is a video i personally really like.

the aforementioned rain meditation, by tara brach. this one is all about learning what you need and providing it for yourself. it’s part of the larger loving kindness and self-compassion umbrella.

kristen neff has a website with self-compassion exercises, as well as books and such that she’s published. if she’s not your style, search up loving kindness or self-compassion meditations and i’m sure you’ll find other people that you might vibe with more.

i know brené brown deadass exploded in popularity a while back, but there’s a reason she did. all of her stuff about shame is incredible. here are two of her ted talks that hit different for me personally (listening to shame, the power of vulnerability)

also, if you can... maybe invest in a dbt skills workbook. i use the actual marsha linehan dbt skills training book, which can be a little complicated, but it works for me because my therapist is there to explain it. i’ve heard good things about the dbt skills workbook by matthew mckay, but i’ve never used it personally so i can’t attest to how comprehensive it is. if you can go to like, an actual bookstore and flip through the pages, that’d be ideal. but since we’re in a pandemic, idk how feasible that is. i’m not really a self-help book kind of person, but i’d recommend authors like pema chödrön, brené brown, kristen neff, and russ harris (and jon kabat-zinn? does he publish books? if he does then i rec them). if you’re in a post-secondary institution, try checking your school’s library! i’ve found a few books there. also, public libraries tend to have some of these books too. so if you don’t have the money to actually go out and buy these books, i’d suggest borrowing books from libraries and photocopying the pages.

[naruhearts]

It’s Never Too Late to Start All Over Again

Now that @profoundzine Vol. 1 has been shipped out and released, public restrictions are lifted! I can finally share my published meta piece from the zine (written before S14 ended/14x20 aired. Now preconceived notions of FREE WILL and what constitutes it are being challenged re: TFW + Destiel, but I’ll tackle that next time!! We’re coming FULL CIRCLE here!). 

Accompanying artwork: the lovely @thedogsled who also tirelessly worked with me in editing this meta <3

- - -

Darkness. The phone call.  The glimpse of trench coat. And then there was light.

Cas’ emotive resurrection in 13.05 surprised general audiences, although no one was as shaken as Dean Winchester. The complex journey of these two men is one for the history books. It’s a narrative tango knitting them together like two intrinsic gravitational forces that found their match.

Castiel has come a long way since he first raised the Righteous Man from perdition. His very touch upon Humanity - in the form of the iconic handprint adorning Dean’s left shoulder - had sparked his Fall, and from that point on did Castiel’s self-democracy proliferate in the following ten years. His already humanistic predisposition warred with his sense of duty as the Angel of the Lord, yet Dean remained his one fixture of reason, anchoring him to human nature.

But let’s hit pause first. Rewind the tape to 4.01: Lazarus Rising. The episode title itself conveys the circular metaphor of human life, where Lazarus, the dead man of Biblical antiquity, lives again. Life is made up of flux, not permanence. The natural order of change wholly applies to personal human growth.

Dean’s starting point traces back to May 2, 1983 - the night John Winchester sent Dean on his first mission: take care of Sammy. Their Lawrence house is engulfed by yellow flame, and Mary Winchester burns. Mary’s death created her son Dean’s 14-year bildungsroman rife with many personal obstacles.

Dean then gets older. Embodying John’s ways of the Hunter, he internalizes selflessness, isolation, and wary pessimism against an evil world. Detachment is key. There’s no room for error, intimacy, or vacations on the beach with umbrella drinks and his toes in the sand - the latter a canonically ideal future that Dean let himself envision in 13.18.

Such Hunter ways cost him.

Toxic codependency offsets Dean’s repressive upbringing with Sam as the prioritized source of his personal bonds. Toxic coping mechanisms and emotional misarticulation govern his behaviour. Emotional dysregulation cripples his decision-making.

Dean is alone.

Then, on September 18th, 2008, Castiel meets Dean Winchester for the first time.

It happens fast. Sparks literally fly between the two men, with Dean frozen to the spot in simultaneous surprise and fear. After scathing words of disbelief are thrown in Castiel’s direction, the angel then offers his charge a perception that his charred soul never disclosed to anyone else: Dean doesn’t think he deserves to be saved.

He has been saved. By Castiel. And this is the unexpectedly beautiful outcome of Dean’s first rebirth: Castiel himself becomes the catalytic vehicle for his emancipation. Self-change starts from within, but Castiel lays important groundwork for Dean’s self-change. In other words, while Dean offers him free will, Cas offers Dean a compelling path: freedom to love himself.

During Supernatural’s 4th season run, we enter the newly minted age of Christian mythology. In Lazarus Rising, Castiel turns out to be an enigma of a creature: stoic, exclusively duty-bound, and having and wanting very little to do with human socialization. He’s on Earth for one purpose, and one purpose only: as an Angel of the Lord, Castiel obediently spouts rhetoric about the commands of On High - God’s plan. “Dean Winchester is saved,” announces Castiel, and the iconic phrase, in retrospect, holds no meaningful connotations. It is devoid of personality, with pure utilitarianism painting Dean as the means to an end.

Due to God’s absence, the 4th and 5th seasons show Heaven’s angels creating an authoritarian hierarchy. Dean and Castiel, both seeking their absent fathers, finally seem to be treading common ground with each other. In 4.07 the concept of free will - Humanity’s core strength - is introduced into Castiel’s narrative through Dean himself, where the hammer becomes the consistent metaphor for both Castiel and Dean’s automatic birth into subservience.

CASTIEL: We have no choice.

DEAN: Of course you have a choice. I mean, come on, what? You’ve never questioned a crap order, huh? What are you [...], just a couple of hammers?

Dean and Castiel also have their first intimate discussion. The audience observes that Castiel is opening himself up to Dean on the park bench, expressing his own vulnerability as he corrects Dean’s unfavourable impressions of him.

“I am not here to judge you, Dean,” Castiel says. “You misunderstand me [...] I am not like you think [...] I’m not a...hammer, as you say. I have questions. I have doubts.”

x

Castiel gripped duty in his palm. He has been subservient for years. And yet, from the point of first contact with his charge in Lazarus Rising, Season 4 wraps Dean and Castiel’s character arcs together - combines them into an extensive parallel narrative with self-actualization as their endgame.

Dean Humanity Winchester and Castiel then engage in their own scheherazade, each personal chapter shifting indelibly from reluctant allies to tentative acquaintances to fervent friendship to...something else.

Something profound.

Thibaut and Kelly, two prominent sociologists who brought interdependence to the forefront of healthy human relationship behaviour, would be flabbergasted with the potency of it in Dean and Castiel’s increasingly complex relationship.

Interdependence - known as the melting pot of dependence, respect, fairness, reciprocity, commitment, attraction, and satisfaction - unfurls between Dean and Castiel over ten years as the product of their personal development. Through trial and error, they decide that interdependence is achievable.

Their relationship has value.

And we observe how much Dean and Castiel value their deep friendship (heavily romance-coded relationship) numerous times. The classic mixtape of 12.19 is an illuminating example speaking to Dean’s perception of his relationship with Castiel. Audiences realize that mixtape gifting - long regarded as a conventionally romantic gesture - occurs between them offscreen, silently yet significantly indicating their closeness, and Dean rebuffs Castiel’s attempt to return it.

CASTIEL: Sorry Dean. I just wanted to return this.

DEAN: It’s a gift. You keep those.

The mixtape ‘Dean’s Top 13 Led Zepp Tra xx’ holds a major position in Dean and Castiel’s romantic narrative. Paralleling immortal elf Arwen gifting her necklace to human heir Aragorn in the Lord of the Rings when she tells him to keep it, the romantic symbolism of Dean’s mixtape is a testament to the interdependence surrounding Dean and Castiel, where Dean strips himself emotionally - shares the personal facets of himself - through music, Supernatural’s consistent medium for feelings and desires. Led Zeppelin, comprising the original soundtrack of Mary and John Winchester’s love story, forges an intergenerational romantic connection to their eldest son’s own life with the mixtape’s existence.

Now, Castiel coming back from the dead in Season 13 was nothing short of miraculous. His phone call to Dean harked back to Dean’s 4.01 resurrection in that after calling Bobby, returning to his family was tantamount. Yet Castiel’s own phone call is tinged with intimate quietness: the show does not expose what Castiel says to Dean. Privacy shields their conversation.

13.05 further transfixes audiences, because the narrative flow from Dean’s nihilistic grief pre-resurrection to optimism post-resurrection is blatant and deliberate. An emotional narrative rollercoaster, Dean’s internal state performs a rapid 180 over the course of the episode. The show takes much care in distinguishing the intense magnitude of grief between Dean and his younger brother Sam, where Sam’s positive functionality keeps up in the face of their recent personal losses (Castiel and Mary). Dean, however, internalizes these losses as extreme failures. Sam’s intentions to pull Dean out of self-destructiveness involve Dean’s usual performative coping mechanisms: ‘booze, bullets, and bacon’, but they are super unsuccessful this time around. Dean is not fine, and he subsequently backslides; his grieving psyche quickly spirals into depressive nihilism. Sam’s presence is no longer enough to stabilize Dean, and 13.05 contrasts him to Castiel, who is narratively defined as Dean’s anchor - his singular fixture of faith.

SAM: So now, you don’t believe anymore.

DEAN: I just need a win. I just need a damn win.

Sam and Dean are both affected by Castiel’s death, yet Season 13 minutely focuses on the narrative fact that one of these things is not like the other.

Love and...Love.

Indeed, Castiel is later framed as restoring light to Dean’s life; the visual narrative of bright lampposts permeating the dark of night - alongside the blue cross of faith - establishes the episode’s romantic context. The rich, tangible ambience of close-up camera shots between Dean and Cas, soft awash colours, and Steppenwolf’s It’s Never Too Late purposely evokes intimacy when the Destiel reunion finally takes place.

In 13.05 the show also reiterates the role of music in storytelling.

Tell me who's to say after all is done And you're finally gone, you won't be back again You can find a way to change today You don't have to wait 'til then It's never too late to start all over again To love the people you caused the pain And help them learn your name It's never too late to start all over again

Steppenwolf croons their relationship’s truth as Dean steps out of the Impala and locks eyes with Castiel at the telephone booth, no longer dead but alive.

Dean’s win.

The reunion is also both Dean and Castiel’s personal rebirth, where they are given the chance to push the boundaries of friendship - to enter an interpersonal relationship that features honesty and communication (represented by the telephone booth). 13.05 conveys their narrative aim to rectify the mistakes of their past. As Steppenwolf puts it simply, it’s time to love those they caused pain to. Know one another better. Practice interdependence.

Castiel later exchanges hugs with Sam in 13.06, which carries over the narrative interplay of familial versus romantic-coded interaction from 13.05. “I don’t know what to say”, Sam says. Dean, considerably more dumbstruck, states: “I do”, evoking wedding vows in that marriage is traditionally the lovers’ new beginning.

“Welcome home, pal”, Dean then murmurs, his wondrous green eyes wide. And he wraps Castiel in a crushing hug.

Dean is Castiel’s home.

Today, they are poised to navigate the waters of personal development in Season 14 by changing their internal dialogue. You know how the saying goes - you can’t freely love another person nor engage in a proper intimate relationship without loving yourself first. In Supernatural, Dean and Castiel are each other’s anchor for finding self-acceptance.

And like Lazarus, they are repeatedly reborn into the circular orbit of love.