#personal space is a foreign concept to these three

[waugh-bao]

THIS IS CRAZY!!!!!!!!!

This is my new favorite Stones photo, I love it so much!

As often as Keith gets teased for being absolutely incapable of leaving Charlie alone for 3 seconds, Mick is no better:

[vomitspit2]

concept with viltrumite! mark grayson.

for a while, it doesn’t fully settle in his brain.

some half of him sits chin-deep in denial, not connecting two and two. even after his generals and his soldiers put you in the chain of dead carcasses that wraps around his planet like saturn’s ring, he still expects another body to occupy (keep him company) his bed at night.

he knew how humans die. he was not a stranger to death. he just had grown so comfortable in death that was violent and grotesque that a death that happened silently and quickly underneath a quilted blanket (just one exhale and you were gone in your sleep) was a foreign type of death.

he had heard that slow lup-dup lup-dup lup-dup grow even slower; he caught the sight of your last breath leaving your lips as he squinted and sneered himself out of sleep.

at least, he didn’t have to put you down like a suffering old yeller.

mark knew it was going to happen eventually. human hair turns gray and falls out; hands twist up into wrinkled claws; if the epitome of weakness needed a spokesperson, you were the only one on viltrum who would be chosen for the role. some days, you couldn’t even muster strength to rise from bed.

he feels robbed. he never got to say goodbye.

viltrum has always been a tomb. he only resided on it for the last three years because you had been growing too frail for space travel. now there’s no attachment holding him back.

he departs off into space with nothing but the clothes on his back.

for a while, there’s no destination. there’s no contact with his people. besides the nebulous black and pinpricks of white, mark cherishes this solitude, mind and stomach grumbling with leftover regret and leftover grief. he is a lifeless body, a ship with no navigator, a lost piece of driftwood.

eventually, he touches down. the planet is a mud and clay wasteland, staining the bottom of his soles. uninhabited, mark continues his stewing of solitude.

by the time he has finally decided on what to do next with his body, the planet is covered in his pacing footsteps like mini highways. mark finds a groove of clay and kneels down in it. undeterred by the stains, he starts to gather some up in his hands and mold it.

molds and molds.

finger and thumb.

pinch and smooth.

scrape and add.

he takes his time. he no longer worries about how quick time is passing when you are no longer there to remind him with each new liver spot, each new gray hair, each new pain. he sits down for a foodless month and molds the dimensions of your once youthful face into clay.

eventually, mark believes he has replicated you without imperfection — a copy of what you looked like sixty years ago. you stare back at him with gray irises and frown your gray lips at him. you were never warm in your last months, bundled under blankets; your clay skin is cold too.

he waits through a sunset for you to speak through this sculpture.

he waits through a sunrise for him to find the words he wants to say.

both never happen.

when he finally stop thinking of what he wants to say, he says, “you … you were a good pe — person.” then, he softly slots his lips over yours.

the sun must be making his eyes sting; this planet has no clouds but it's soaked wet. the taste of sediment lingers on his mouth, earthy, and he smells the scent of tide curling up on the shore of a beach. saltwater. saltwater from him? saltwater from the planet? mark doesn’t want to know.

with one last look, the viltrumite crushes the clay in his hands.

some of it splatters on his face. the clay is warm on his cheeks, like a goodbye kiss.

[isshonihongo]

JLPT N5 - あげる

At its simplest, あげる means “to give”. At the N5 level, it’s used for giving physical things such as presents, money, water (to plants), food (to pets), etc. There is another way it can be used, but that is for a later JLPT level. For now, let’s get into ONE of the ways you can talk about giving in Japanese.

First, here is the vocabulary for this post.

【The Grammar of あげる】

Basically there are 4 parts to every あげる sentence that you should be thinking about. The first 3 are marked with particles and the last part is the verb.

Here is an example sentence:

① 【けんじは】【トムに】【腕時計を】あげた。

= As for Kenji, to Tom, a watch gave

= Kenji gave Tom a watch.

In a sentence like #1 it’s easy to see the 3 parts clearly marked with particles and then the verb at the end. Unfortunately you WILL NOT always see simple sentences like this, so let’s look at each part one by one, along with the cultural context behind あげる.

【The Giver】

Most of the time, the giver will be marked by the は (or sometimes the が) particle. This is because あげる sets up the action of giving from the giver’s perspective.

Sometimes, it is obvious who the giver is, so that phrase can be completely left out of the sentence.

② 【会社の人たちに】【お土産を】あげると思う。

= to the people at (my) company, souvenirs will give I think

= I think I’m going to give the people at my company souvenirs.

In this sentence it would be clear that the speaker is the giver. Therefore it’s not necessary to include a 私は phrase.

【The Relationship Between Giver and Receiver】

Before we move on, let’s get into a very big cultural difference between Japan and English-speaking cultures. When you use あげる, you have to think about the relationship between the giver and the receiver. In English, this doesn’t affect the words we use, but in Japanese it is actually very important when it comes to word choice. Take a look at this image:

The green circle would include close friends, family, your lover, etc. Pets and plants would also fall into this circle. Outside of the green circle are strangers, teachers, professors and depending on your job, your customers. This is because showing respect is directly connected to setting up a kind of psychological distance. You have to work hard and gain trust before you are moved into the green circle.

Some people, like coworkers and bosses, may be inside the green circle in some situations, but outside of it in other situations! A common example is when you go out drinking with coworkers. As the alcohol flows throughout the night you’ll notice that psychological space slowly disappearing - that is until the next day at work. They might act like the person you drank with was a COMPLETELY different person!

This way of thinking is called うちそと, and can be a very difficult part of Japanese culture for many foreigners. Here’s the thing: the culture of うちそと extends to the concept of giving as well.

【Giving Culture and あげる】

When it comes to giving, there are 4 situations where it’s appropriate to use the verb あげる:

① When you give something to someone inside your inner circle

② When you give something to anyone outside your inner circle

③ When someone in your inner circle gives something to someone outside your inner circle

④ When someone outside your inner circle gives something to another person outside your inner circle

Numbers 1-3 can be described as the act of giving while moving from a smaller circle to a bigger circle. Number 4 can be described as giving that doesn’t happen in your inner circle.

There are of course more possibilities when it comes to giving (and receiving). However, those situations won’t use the verb あげる!

【What Is Being Given】

In most sentences, whatever is being given is very simply marked with the を particle. However, there are times when the を particle or the positioning of what is being given will change. Take a look at these three example sentences:

Example 3a is the “default version”. The doll is marked with the を particle so we immediately know that it will be given to someone (the section manager’s wife).

For example 3b I want you to imagine that you are in a souvenir shop. You’ve bought a couple of things already, but you haven‘t decided which gifts will go to whom. All of a sudden, you see a doll that catches your eye. You immediately think to yourself, “that doll is perfect for the section manager’s wife”. Putting the item being given (that is, the doll) at the head of the sentence shows that 1) you are putting the focus of your sentence on that item and 2) there is a kind of impulsiveness to the giving. It’s kind of an instant decision.

Compare that with example 3c. Now I want you to imagine that you are in your house. You bought a bunch of dolls but you haven’t decided which one will go to whom. You pick up one of them and after some thought you say, “Ok I’ll give THIS one to the section manager’s wife.” Marking the doll with は serves to emphasize that there are several dolls, but you are highlighting one of them for a specific reason. It also shows that it WAS NOT an instant decision; some thought went into your decision.

This kind of distinction takes a really long time to understand and really “feel��� but I hope that by explaining it to you now, it might stay with you somewhere deep inside your mind. You might even experiment with using sentences like 3b and 3c and surprise your Japanese friends!

【Alternative Verbs】

Lastly, let’s talk about your choice of verbs. You can actually adjust the level of “closeness” that the reader / listener feels by changing the verb that you use! あげる, あげた, あげます, あげました, etc. is used for a “default” level of closeness.

However, if the receiver is someone in a higher social position (for example a professor, a doctor, a boss, a politician, etc.) you would instead use the similar verb さしあげる. This verb actually serves to humble yourself - and thus elevates the listener / reader.

④ 【この本は】ただでさしあげます。

= as for this book, for nothing will give

= I will give you this book for free.

From this sentence you can tell that the giver and the receiver are on different levels, socially. (This is a little different than うちそと.) The listener will feel an elevated level respect simply by hearing the さしあげる verb.

On the other hand, if the receiver is someone VERY close to you, you can show that closeness by using the verb やる instead of あげる. やる is often used with pets and plants.

⑤ 【彼女は】【犬に】【えさを】やるのを忘れた。

= as for her, to (her) dog food giving forgot

= She forgot to give her dog food.

As it turns out, this is why I keep on saying “what is given” instead of “a present” or “a gift”. Giving water to plants or food to pets is not a present or a gift.

Here is a visual representation of the 3 different verbs that you can use when talking about giving (from the giver’s perspective):

Here is 1 last example:

= as for apples I give to you, there are none

= I don’t have any apples to give you.

As you can see in #6, it’s possible to state a giver, a receiver and then あげる in order to describe what is being given. Once you do that, you will then have a topic which you can then go on to make a comment about!

【Conclusion】

So there you have it! あげる and its related verbs (さしあげる and やる) all express the idea of giving from the giver’s perspective. However, you have to keep the Japanese concept of うちそと in mind. Later we’ll talk about giving but from the receiver’s perspective. Stay tuned!

Rice & Peace!

-AL (アル)

👋🏾

[yumeyumemoss]

I sometimes use animal crossing bgm music to fall asleep, and I got to thinking, what would the lads boys be like playing Animal Crossing New Horizons? Well, here you have your answer !

✦ XAVIER ⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

This game makes him SO sleepy. he’s already a pretty drowsy guy, but this game’s aimless, relaxed atmosphere lulls him to sleep in less than 10 minutes.

This isn’t really an issue - you two play on a shared Island, and you just keep playing whenever he dozes off glued to your side, the controller slowly slipping from his hands. He enjoys seeing what kind of progress you’ve made on the island (and even if you haven’t, it’s no big deal, he just likes listening to you talk about anything and nothing) as you give him little tours of changes you’ve made to the environment.

His house on the island is (through some of your efforts no doubt) mostly sleep-themed and space themed. This means that every room of his house is required to have a bed. So his villager can also sleep.

His favorite villager is Ione.

✦ ZAYNE ⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

Actually really got into it, maybe a little more than you if possible. He’s by no means someone who plays every day given his busy schedule, but he’s made it part of his routine to play a little whenever he has a free moment. You’ll often co op together, and switch who hops to whose island. That part is his favorite - there’s nothing more relaxing than spending his time with you, and combined with a relaxing, low-pressure game, it helps him unwind after stressful weeks.

His island is more on the simpler side, but it’s very organized. He’s got clear sections, orderly streets, and lots of fencing. He also took a liking to bamboo, so one day, when visiting, a lot had appeared on the island. In his words, “It has a calming effect.”

His house is shockingly similar to your home, and attuned to your tastes. He won’t address it unless you do, but he’s not ashamed to let you know that you are still his favorite source of comfort. Why not model his home after his favorite person?

He doesn’t have a favorite villager, but he tends to gravitate to the peppy villagers. They may or may not remind him of you.

✦ RAFAYEL ⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

He didn’t really get the hype, but you got him hooked. It started by you just letting him watch you play, and over time is artistic sensibilities allowed him to begrudgingly admit the appeal. Still, he insists that your avatar in the game doesn’t even begin to match your beauty. That little round creature could never match your charm- well, now that he really looks at it, maybe it does.

You’ll occasionally relinquish the controller to let him go on mystery island tour sprees, just to see what he does. Maybe it’s his influence as a lemurian, but he somehow always gets lucky at least once when going to the mystery islands. You’ve never laughed harder than when he landed on a tarantula island, and screeched when two or three started chasing him. The ensuing pouting could only be rectified with at least a dozen kisses.

Don’t you dare compare him to one of the snooty or cranky villagers. Especially the cats. He will feign offense - or maybe he means it, who knows.

If he had to pick, his favorite would probably be Marina, or one of the other Octopi.

✦ SYLUS ⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

He’s not particularly invested in the game itself as much as he is invested in your enjoyment of it. He didn’t even own a switch before you introduced him to it as your latest favorite game, but he did get one afterwards, complete with the game. His playstyle is… certainly something. You’ve joked before that the concept of relaxation is a foreign concept to him, but he simply assured you that his concept may be different from yours.

This man’s relaxation is watching you blow his money on frivolous purchases, and fortunately for you, this includes fictional worlds too. You have no idea where he gets all this money from, but every once in a while, as he deems fit, he’ll visit your island, dump a bunch of bells on you, and then leave. You’ve tried finding out how he makes so much money in relatively short periods of time. In truth, he’s looked up strategies and is good at exploiting them, but leaving you trying to unravel this mystery is much more entertaining than telling you.

His own island? Lowkey barren. That’s just not the focus of his objectives. Most of the grinding for the money is done when he’s in his hotel rooms away on business trips. The game reminds him of you.

His favorite is the cat villager that most closely resembles you, and second comes Ken because he resembles Mephisto the most out of all the villagers.

✦ CALEB ⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

He already knew you got into the game before you even told him. How? Well, of course, you exchanged friend codes, and he religiously checks what games you’ve been playing on the switch. He also checks other platforms you use - you know how he is. He’s meticulous when it comes to knowing you. He seized the golden opportunity to get closer to you and bought the game shortly after you did, and got to work.

His island is one he’s made with you in mind. It’s not necessarily one made to your liking - you’ve got your own island for that, but when visiting the island, you’re reminded of childhood memories. He recreates places you both frequented together with an impressive amount of creativity considering the game’s limitations. Over time, this island has become something of a little time capsule for him. On rare occasions, he’ll just walk through it for the heck of it.

His catalogue of furniture is somehow much bigger than yours, so you often ask him to buy items you want for your island for you. He enjoys being the person you rely on for this. Or anything, really.

His favorite villager is ketchup. She’s like you (sweet and a little airheaded), in a way, though no match for the real deal.

╭──────────────────────.★..─╮ I hope you enjoyed it! If you did, let me know! ╰─..★.──────────────────────╯

[zepskies]

Devour Me - Part 1

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized/Latina!Reader 

Summary: When you and Dean start to press each other’s buttons, both of your tempers ignite. To make up for it, you give him an impromptu salsa dancing lesson…one he didn’t exactly ask for. (18+)

AN: This is a two-part sequel to “Midnight Espresso!” I would read that one first before you dive into this one. (It’s fun, I promise!)

Word Count: 3,800 Tags/Warnings: Supernatural shenanigans, tiny bit of body insecurity, hurt/comfort, fluffy fluff, and a cliffhanger...

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

Part 1: "A Takeover"

When Dean asked you to move in with him, he really didn’t think it would come to this.

Clearing a nightstand for you, half of the dresser, a section of his closet. Those things are reasonable. 

But this is a total takeover, he thinks, as he surveys the sheer amount of crap you’ve brought into his room.

Mind you, despite this still being a bunker, the décor is nice. You brought in sturdy, but stylish wicker baskets for his pile of cassettes (and your CDs) next to the TV, filing bins for the haphazard shuffle of papers on his desk, installed dark wood shelves on the wall for his various weapons and your collection of books. 

But he’d had his music organized—not alphabetically or chronologically, but by his own personal rankings of awesomeness. Now they’re all shuffled together by band name. 

Plus, he likes having his shotgun on the floor by the bed, within reach, not three feet above his head. And where the fuck is his collection of…magazines?

The point is, every time he looks for something, you’ve put it in a different place. Not to mention the damn bathroom (don’t get him started on all your shea butter lotions, makeup brushes, frilly-smelling soaps, and the army of hair products now taking up space in his cabinets and drawers). 

Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed, trying to figure out where the hell his cassette of Zeppelin IV is, when you breeze into the room he now shares with you. You’re dewy with sweat in a Guns & Roses shirt and some yoga pants you reserve for cleaning. 

And that’s another thing. You’re more anal than Sam about having the bunker smelling like Pine Sol. However, as you’ve expressed before (after nagging him to pick up his dirty, and occasionally bloody clothes from the floor), while you like a clean house, you are not in fact the maid.

“Hey, baby. Can you fold these for me?” you request. “I need a shower.”

He raises a brow as you dump a new basket of fresh laundry onto the bed. It looks like you washed your clothes mixed in with his, which he actually doesn’t mind. He fishes out one of your red, lacey thongs with a hint of a smile. He bought you these last week, and they already have a tear. (His fault.)

“By the way, next time you move one of my things, mind leaving me a post-it note or something?” he dryly remarks. “It’s like a scavenger hunt in my own damn room.” 

You pop your head out of the bathroom, though he can tell by your bare shoulders that you’ve already gotten undressed. Your mouth is quirked at the corner. 

“It’s called organization,” you tease. “Apparently a foreign concept to you.”

You disappear back into the bathroom, giving Dean the privacy he needs to grumble almost inaudibly to himself. But then he hears your voice behind the door.  

“Oh, by the way. Your vintage collection of smut is in the bottom of your nightstand,” you call out. “That 1996 edition of Busty Asian Beauties is particularly classy.”

Dean hears the wryness in your tone, and his face actually heats up in embarrassment. He frowns at the bathroom door, his jaw tensing, but he takes a breath. Deciding to let it go with a roll of his shoulders, he puts on the TV to catch up on Dr. Sexy M.D. He also neglects the task you gave him, just for a little while.

When you’re still in the bathroom an hour later, Dean starts to get curious about what the hell you’re doing in there. The shower isn’t even running anymore.

That’s when he hears the hairdryer go on. 

He knows he’ll never be able to concentrate on his show with all that noise. So with a sigh, he clicks off the TV and eyes the pile of laundry. You probably cleaned the whole freaking bunker this morning. Despite his annoyance, he figures folding your clothes along with his own is the least he can do. 

Dean scoops up the pile back into the basket and takes it elsewhere. 

He finds his brother at the kitchen table and joins him with his basket. Sam’s gaze raises from his laptop to meet his brother’s grumpy face. He watches in mild curiosity as Dean plops down across from him and dutifully begins folding one of your shirts. 

“You okay?” Sam hazards the question. 

“Fucking peachy,” Dean replies. “Looking for a new case?”

“Yeah. Nothing yet.” Though Sam raises a brow when Dean all but tosses one of your girly sundresses on the table after it’s folded. (It’s yellow, and it happens to be his favorite on you.)

“Everything all right?” Sam asks. 

Dean glances up, finds his brother’s knowing eyes, and doesn’t have it in him to lie. He lets go of a breath, as well as one of his undershirts to rub at his forehead. 

“She’s nosey, Sam. She’s all up in my business.”

“Your girlfriend?” Sam clarifies, with raised brows. “Of six months.”

“Yeah, that one,” Dean quips, with all due sarcasm. “Ever since she moved in, she’s been going through everything, moving my crap every which way, making it so I can’t find a damn thing.”

Sam’s mouth edges at a smile. 

“I’m tellin’ you, Sam, she’s damn near taken over,” Dean insists. 

“You done?” Sam teases. Dean just leans in, like he’s about to level his brother with a secret. 

“Matter of fact, she locks herself in the bathroom for like, forever. I just heard the hairdryer go on, meaning another hour at least. What the fuck is she doing in there, getting ready for prom?”

Sam finally has to chuckle. “Clearly it’s been a long time since you’ve lived with a woman, Dean.” 

Dean scoffs. “Right.”

“And she’s actually been a big help in cleaning up around here,” Sam says, with a growing smirk. “Which is, quite literally, a refreshing change.”

Dean snorts at that. 

“Of course, you’re happy,” he says. “A new damn dish rack turns you on.”

Sam shoots him a wan look. “The question is, are you happy?”

That manages to take Dean by surprise. He hesitates to answer…

But he’s saved when he hears someone approaching. He knows it’s you because he can smell the mix of your floral soap and coconutty shampoo; it’s a scent that often lingers on your pillow and has unconsciously infiltrated Dean’s nose. 

His reply to Sam dies on his tongue when he sees you.

“Hey,” you greet both men, all bright and smiley with your hair in wild curls down your back. 

A lot of the time you keep your hair straight or loose and wavy, so it’s rare for Dean to see your natural look. It’s a good one for you, he thinks. Along with those jean shorts hugging your curvy hips, and the V-neck top you’re wearing, which offers a nice peek of cleavage. 

Your hand falls on his shoulder, with your thumb stroking his neck. You then brush that hand across his back as you pass by on your way to the kitchen. If possible, you’ve become even more touchy since you two got together.

Dean holds fast to your hand, stopping you in your path. 

“So that’s what you were working on in there,” he remarks. “Thought I was gonna need to break out the fire extinguisher.” 

You grin in amusement and do a little twirl under his hand, shaking out your curls a little.

“You like?” you ask. Dean tugs you back over. He reaches out and fingers at the soft ends of your hair. 

“Beautiful,” he says.

“Looks real nice,” Sam adds.

“Why, thank you.” Your smile is contagious, and Dean can’t help reciprocating. You drop a hand on his shoulder again.

“I know you’re our resident Gordon Ramsay, but I kinda feel like cooking today,” you say. “Is Cas coming home anytime soon?”

Dean nods. “Yeah, he called this morning. Probably dropping back in tonight.”

You nod. “Good! I’ll make plenty then…oh, wait, he doesn’t eat.”

“What did you have in mind?” Sam asks. 

“Well, I know you guys haven’t had much Cuban food, so I thought you might like to try some ropa vieja,” you reply. Sam’s brows knit together. 

“Old clothes?” he translates. His two years of high school Spanish can give him that much.

“Yeah! But it’s basically shredded beef with onions, garlic, tomato sauce, and a bunch of other good stuff,” you explain. Then your eyes brighten. “Oh! And I can make my grandma’s famous black beans, white rice, some bread with crushed garlic and olive oil…”

By the time you finish listing the things you plan on making, Dean is already salivating. 

Later that evening, when Dean actually gets to sample said food, he’s eaten enough for three men in the span of forty-five minutes.

“Jesus, man. Going for a record on indigestion?” Sam cautions him, despite his amusement. 

Dean pointedly ignores his brother to look over at you. After he swallows another forkful of beef stew, he says, “Not for nothin’, this is probably the second-best meal of my entire life.”

“Oh, yeah?” You giggle. “What’s number one?”

“Diner called Slammies in Alabama. Best fucking pie on Earth,” he easily recalls. “Double applewood bacon cheeseburger, chili cheese fries, brick oven pizza. Bar none.” 

Sam inclines his head, remembering the food coma he and Dean had that night. They’d hit the rock-hard pillows at the motel and slept like they’d been on an all-night bender. 

“But this is like, right there,” Dean says to you, leveling his hand up by his head. 

“Well, let’s see if this moves the needle,” you reply as you get up from your seat. You answer the question in his eyes. “Forgot something, hold on.”

But before you can leave the table, Dean reaches over and takes your hand. 

“Thanks, sweetheart. For all of this. I mean it,” he says. 

A soft, genuine smile grows across your face. You lean down and press a tender kiss below his hairline, stroking his cheek before you go. 

Dean quirks a smile. It’s taken him time to get used to how open you are with your affections, but he likes it. All of it. Every time you reach for him, touch him, brush against him, intentionally or not. He always has.

Though he has to resist embarrassment when he notices the way his brother is watching him. Sam raises a brow, smiling that irritating smile of his. 

“Oh, yeah. You’re not happy at all,” he intones.

“Never said I wasn’t,” Dean says defensively. But he perks up when you return. Maybe you’re bringing more garlic bread. 

Instead, you’re holding a tin pan.

“What’cha got there?” he asks.

“Dessert,” you announce. It’s a Cuban flan: creamy, rich custard with a consistency smoother than cheesecake, and thicker than pudding.  

You haven’t even sat back down yet when Dean carves himself a generous slice. He moans when a large forkful melts in his mouth. You start to blush as you watch him with crossed arms and a hand over your smile. You don’t know whether to be amused or flattered.

Sam watches his brother stuff his face with a subtle shake of his head.    

“You’re enabling him,” he tells you. You shrug, but then you rest your hands on both Sam and Dean’s shoulders. 

“Now I have someone to cook for,” you say. You have tears in your eyes, but you quickly blink and try to turn away. Frowning, Dean takes your hand. 

“Hey, where you going?” he says, and aims to pull you into his lap. You hesitate, knowing you’re not going to be able to squeeze between him and the table.  

“It’s okay, these hips don’t fit,” you chuckle wryly, with a sniffle. But Dean just backs his chair up from the table a bit to make room. 

“What’re you talking about? You fit right here,” he says firmly, and he tugs you down. This is the one thing Dean has tried his damndest to break you out of—that self-deprecating streak of yours. 

You finally accept being guided into his lap, where you indeed fit snugly across his thighs. His arm comes around the front to hold you close by your hip, while his other hand rests comfortingly on your back.

Looking up into his eyes, you draw enough courage to be honest. 

“I was mostly raised by my grandma,” you begin to explain. Your father wasn’t ready to be one, and so wasn’t in the picture. Your mother died when you were in high school. So when your grandmother also passed away a few years ago… 

Well, you’ve been alone for a while.

You sniff and wipe at your face, but your eyes close as Dean’s lips press above your brow. When you next open your eyes and cautiously look between the brothers, Sam’s sympathy warms you. 

“If it isn’t obvious, you have a home here,” he says. “We can never replace what you’ve lost, but…we’re your family too.”

You know that Dean feels the same way by the way he brushes the tears from your cheek, thumbing at your bottom lip.

"You're right where you need to be," he says, with a hand squeezing your hip. His sincerity is in his even tone, in the firmness in his eyes.

You’re able to smile a bit.

“Ah…I’m interrupting, aren’t I?”

The three of you turn to the kitchen doorway, where Castiel stands awkwardly. He clearly senses emotional tension, but it breaks the moment you turn to him with a tearful laugh. 

“Hey, Cas. Have you ever eaten ‘old clothes?’” you ask. 

His puzzled expression is absolutely priceless.  

When Sam finds a possible hunt in Hope, Indiana, Castiel agrees to go with you all. It’s a small, corn-fed town in the middle of nowhere, and five people have gone missing over the course of a year. 

The latest is a nine-year-old kid named Andy Campbell. That alone upsets you; if you have one weakness, it’s for kids.

“Local farmers have been reporting dead cattle too, drained of blood,” Sam says from the passenger seat in the Impala. “I’m thinking vampires trying to keep a low profile.”

“Sounds about right, if a bit sloppy,” Dean remarks. They are in the Midwest though. If this is a coven, or even a rogue vamp who’s been here a while, maybe they got lazy. “So what, police station first? Get any details they might’ve missed.”

“I want to talk to the kid’s mom,” you say. It earns Dean’s gaze at you in the rearview mirror. “We can get the last time she saw him, where he went missing, anything she might’ve held back from the police.”

He nods and shares a glance with Sam. “I’ll go with her. You and Cas scope out the station.”

The angel has gotten better at pretending to be a Fed, but not by much. Sam agrees, even though Dean sees in his face that he’d rather be taking his brother. Dean tempers a smile and keeps driving to the closest motel in this dusty town. 

You don a sensible pantsuit to match Dean’s Fed suit, along with your badges: Agents Buckingham and Nicks. 

When Andy’s mom, Rachel Campbell, opens the door of her modest home to you and Dean, he lets you take the lead. You’re good at this part, connecting with the victims and getting them to talk. He sometimes worries about you though—that your soft, sympathetic heart will get the best of you. 

“How long has Andy been missing?” you ask, accepting a cup of tea from the woman. 

Rachel is around your age, maybe a few years older. She looks run down, a shell of a human as she looks at the carpet rather than at you or Dean. You can’t know exactly how she feels, but you have a vivid imagination. 

And from the various pictures of her and Andy on the wall, just the two of them, you deduce that she’s a single mother. Just like your mom had been.

“Almost four months,” she admits. “The police station doesn’t even return my calls anymore.”

That upsets you, but you keep a lid on your emotions to focus on the woman in front of you. 

“Andy’s father, he’s not around?” Dean asks. Rachel shakes her head, confirming your suspicions.

“No, we split up shortly after he was born,” she replies, her tone tired and resigned. “I was at work. I uh, I work at a doctor’s office. Andy was supposed to come home on the bus, like any other day…but he never did.”

She sucks in a shaky breath as the beginnings of tears make her eyes red and glassy. 

“His school couldn’t tell me why he wasn’t on the bus. But one of his friends said he was late getting out of class, so he must’ve tried to walk home. Even though he knew he could call me when that happens…anyway, somebody must’ve grabbed him.”

Rachel looks away as a tear streams down her cheek, followed by another. You feel your throat tighten with a sympathetic burn behind your eyes, but you keep it at bay long enough to set down your tea. You reach out and lay a hand on the woman’s hand. She meets your steady gaze. 

“I promise, we’ll find your son,” you tell her.

“What?” you ask Dean as the two of you leave the small house, walking back to the Impala in the driveway. You just know there’s something up with him by the stoic look on his face. It isn’t so stoic to you. 

He waits until the two of you are in the car before he levels you with a raised brow. 

“Look, I know you want to find this kid. I do too,” he says. “But watch out about making promises you can’t keep.”

You frown back at him. “What’s better, letting that poor woman have no hope at all?”

In his mind, Dean thinks it’s worse to give her false hope. But he sees how stubborn you’re getting, so he doesn’t push it. The fact that you care about people like Rachel is part of what drew him to you in the first place, but there’s a line, he thinks. A point where you can care too much. 

When you two eventually meet up with Sam and Castiel, they’ve been able to confirm from the body of a recent Jane Doe, with a row of lethal bite marks on her wrist, that this is definitely a vamp case. 

After narrowing down where each of the victims were taken, the four of you sketch out a perimeter of where the monsters could likely be hiding. It’s Dean who finds the old barn on the verge of a corn field, about three miles away from the school where Andy was taken. 

You all wait until high noon the next day to scope it out. Looking into the front windows is useless; all evidence points to an empty home.

The back of the barn is another story. Cracking the barn door open reveals a large storage area, where a nest of vampires are sleeping in their beds. Some are coupled off, but you note a few on single beds.

Then, your eyes narrow on the humans sleeping piled together in the corner—three women, a young man, and Andy Campbell on a twin-sized bed of his own.  

Dean carefully closes the barn door, and the four of you regroup back to the Impala.

“It’s a bigger nest than we thought,” Sam says, though he keeps his voice quiet. Dean is already opening the trunk for his favorite machete. 

“First, let’s get those humans out,” he says. You agree with a nod when he hands you a weapon.  

Dean shoots you a wink. “This one’s Brenda.”

“What happened to Lucille?” you ask, taking the knife from him.

“That’s the bat wrapped in barbed wire. Matter of fact, I should break her out.”

Dean reaches into the trunk and pulls out the blood-stained bat. He rubs the handle fondly. 

“Ahh, Dad loved this thing.”

You sidle up next to him and glance over wryly. “You want some alone time with your big stick, there?”

Dean flashes you a smirk, giving you a long once over in your form-fitting shirt and jeans. “Well, you’re certainly welcome to join me, sweetheart.” 

You snort in response, bumping into his side with your hip. Dean teasingly bounces one of your curls in your face. You smile and swat his hand away.

Sam subtly rolls his eyes, despite a small smile as he shares a look with Cas.

“All right. Can we go, please?” Sam says in amusement. Castiel awkwardly straps on a machete to his belt. He doesn’t believe he’ll need it, but Sam and Dean are always prepared. He wants to be as well. 

You’re ready to go, but Dean holds you back by your shoulder. You look up at him curiously.

“Hey, follow our lead on this one, okay?” he asks. 

You sense that he’s hedging at something more specific with that request. 

“What do you mean?”  

“The kid. I know you wanna beeline for him the second we get in there, but hold off,” Dean says. His gaze is serious. “He could be turned.”

He got a good look inside, the same as you. The kid was lying on a bed while the other humans were chained up on the floor. Still, you shoot him an incredulous look. 

“Why would they turn a kid?” you ask. “They have the others.”

“Yeah, and they were chained up. Why not him?” Dean asks, imploring you to think logically. He shares a look with Sam, who silently agrees. You look between the brothers with pursed lips. 

“Maybe they don’t give a fuck, because they’re cocky assholes,” you retort. And you walk past them to head back towards the barn. 

The brothers and the angel share one last look, with Dean letting out a subtle breath before he follows you.

You creep back into the barn, as quiet as possible through the room of snoring vampires. The brothers and Castiel go to the sleepy women in the corner. They look dirty and malnourished, wearing threadbare clothing. Sam feels the pulse of the man prone on the floor, but he’s already dead. 

When one of the girls wakes with a whimper, Dean holds his finger to his lips, warning them all wordlessly to be quiet. He looks over and doesn’t find you next to him. He nearly curses out loud when he sees you heading for Andy’s bed across the room. 

Meanwhile, you touch the little boy’s shoulder and shake him a little. He wakes with a small sound of reluctance, but you shush him gently. 

“Andy?” You grasp his shoulders. He nods, though his blonde brows are furrowed with confusion. 

“Who…who are you?” he asks. He rubs at his sleepy brown eyes. 

“I’m here to help,” you reply in a whisper. “I’m going to get you back to your mom, okay?”

After a moment, he nods and lets you pick him up into your arms. You hazard looking over across the room, and you find Dean’s annoyed gaze. Despite the uncomfortable churning in your belly, you ignore him for now and head for the back door.

You’re only able to take a few steps when you feel a hand wrap tightly in your hair and pull it away from your neck, just for rows of several razor-sharp teeth to sink into your neck.

AN: 😬 ...Sorry. If you don't know me by now, I love a cliffhanger. But how'd you like Dean getting used to sharing his space? (And having someone to occasionally put him on his toes.)

Part 2 will feature a good old fashioned "you should've listened to me" fight, some angst, some making up, some salsa dancing, and a healthy dose of smutty smut.

Next Time:

“I don’t care what that legendary gut tells you,” you sass back. “I’m not a little girl, and you’re not my damn father!”

Dean raises incredulous brows at the way you’re shouting at him. He crosses his arms. 

“What’s this, some kind of Latina temper?” he asks snidely. 

You truly become incensed at that. 

Keep Reading: PART 2

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[putschki1969]

hellooooo XD im just a quiet follower in the corner hereXD you occasionally mentioned "pseudo fans" can you explain who do you mean by those ?

Hi there!

Well...

If your existence as self-proclaimed Kalafina "fan" boils down to having zero respect for the individual members, then you are a "pseudo-fan" at best and a hater at worst. A big part of being a fan is a strong feeling of admiration for something/someone so your activities in fandom should ultimately be rooted in positivity. I know it's a foreign concept for many people but what is the point of being a fan if everything you experience and perpetuate is negative? Those who do not hesitate to hurl insults and accusations at the girls without having any concrete knowledge of the factual circumstances have lost every right to call themselves a fan.

The same applies to everyone who insists on seeing the Kalafina members as replaceable tools for Yuki Kajiura to use, nothing more than lifeless instruments without any agency or purpose of their own. This may have been how Kalafina was initially formed but they have long ago moved past that. You are free to exclusively love Yuki and her music but why call yourself a "Kalafina fan" if the vocalists don't mean anything to you?

Lastly, if you claim to love and admire an artist but refuse to support them due to petty reasons (e.g. agency is evil so I won' give them money) then you are also considered a "pseudo-fan" in my book. You are basically dropping this person like a hot potato because you don't actually trust or respect them. Whether it's about Wakana staying with Space Craft or now all three of them deciding to participate in this project under the management of Space Craft, we have to realise that they have made a conscious choice to place themselves in these positions. No one has forced them at gunpoint in the initial phases. They have weighed their options and come to the conclusion that this would be the best path for them. The fact that many things are not going according to plan is unfortunate but that's just a common occurrence in the industry. At the end of the day, the one thing that matters most is that the girls have made a commitment because they want those things for themselves and their fans (at least on some basic level) so it's only natural that I as a fan would try to have faith in their decisions and not simply abandon them. If that means giving money to a stupid agency, well, so be it...you will be hard-pressed to find any decent agencies in the Japanese entertainment industry so it's pointless to have unrealistically high expectations. I've said it before and I will say it again, no matter what horrible things you believe the agency to be doing, it doesn't even come close to the rough treatment many of those asshole "pseudo-fans" are giving the girls so always keep that in mind when you make your judgements.

[mariacallous]

Russian President Vladimir Putin has ordered Ukrainians living under Russian occupation to “legalize” their status by September 10 or face deportation. In other words, those who have not yet done so must apply for Russian passports or risk being expelled from their homes as foreigners. This March 20 presidential decree is the latest step in a campaign to pressure Ukrainians into accepting Russian citizenship as the Kremlin seeks to strengthen its grip over areas of Ukraine currently under Russian control.

Kremlin officials say they have distributed around 3.5 million Russian passports in Russian-occupied regions of Ukraine since the onset of the full-scale invasion just over three years ago. Residents are reportedly being forced to apply for Russian passports in order to access basic services such as healthcare and state pensions, while those without Russian documentation face the possibility of harassment and detention.

The enforced adoption of Russian citizenship is just one of the many tools being employed by the Kremlin to systematically erase all traces of Ukrainian statehood and national identity throughout Russian-occupied Ukraine. Wherever Russian troops advance, local populations are subjected to mass arrests designed to root out any potential dissenters. Those targeted typically include elected officials, military veterans, religious leaders, civil society activists, teachers, journalists, and patriots. Thousands have been abducted in this manner since 2022 and remain unaccounted for, with many thought to be languishing in a network of prisons in Russian-occupied Ukraine and Russia itself.

Those who remain are subjected to terror tactics in conditions that Britain’s The Economist has described as a “totalitarian hell.” All public symbols of Ukrainian statehood and cultural identity are being systematically dismantled. The Ukrainian language is suppressed, while any Christian denominations other than the Russian Orthodox Church face persecution or worse.

Moscow’s efforts to erase Ukrainian identity begin in the classroom. In schools throughout the occupied regions, Ukrainian children are being taught a new Kremlin-approved curriculum that praises Russian imperialism and glorifies the ongoing invasion of Ukraine while demonizing the entire concept of a separate and independent Ukrainian state. Any parents who dare to resist risk losing custody of their children.

The Kremlin is also accused of kidnapping tens of thousands of Ukrainian children from occupied regions and deporting them to Russia, where they are subjected to ideological indoctrination to rob them of their Ukrainian roots and impose an imperial Russian identity. In March 2023, the International Criminal Court in The Hague issued an arrest warrant for Putin due his personal involvement in these mass abductions of Ukrainian children.

The actions of the Russian occupation authorities are entirely in line with the vicious anti-Ukrainian rhetoric coming from Putin himself and other officials in Moscow. Putin has long insisted that Ukrainians are actually Russians (“one people”). Six months prior to the full-scale invasion, he took the highly unusual step of publishing a lengthy history essay that read like a declaration of war against Ukrainian statehood.

As Russian troops prepared to invade in February 2022, Putin sought to justify this act of international aggression by describing Ukraine as “an inalienable part of our own history, culture, and spiritual space.” He has since compared his invasion to the eighteenth century imperial conquests of Russian Czar Peter the Great, and has declared occupied Ukrainian territory to be “Russian forever.”

The Russian establishment has enthusiastically followed Putin’s lead. Former Russian president Dmitry Medvedev has stated that “the existence of Ukraine is mortally dangerous for Ukrainians,” while top Putin aide Nikolai Patrushev recently suggested Ukraine may soon “cease to exist.” Meanwhile, poisonous anti-Ukrainian language has become so commonplace in the Kremlin-controlled Russian media that UN investigators believe it may constitute “incitement to genocide.”

This week’s presidential decree threatening to deport Ukrainians from their own homes is the latest reminder that Russia’s invasion of Ukraine is no mere border dispute or attempt to address legitimate security concerns. It is a colonial war of the most brutal kind that aims to destroy Ukraine as a state and as a nation. In the heart of Europe and before the watching world, Putin is openly pursuing policies that almost certainly meet the definition of ethnic cleansing and may qualify as genocide.

The grim reality of Russia’s invasion should weigh heavily on the US officials who are currently charged with drawing lines on maps and attempting to create a realistic framework for a possible ceasefire agreement between Russia and Ukraine. While diplomatic compromises and temporary territorial concessions are now clearly inevitable, any future peace deal must also take into account the fate of the millions of Ukrainians who are likely to be left under Russian occupation.

[y2kuromi]

࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 LOVE LETTERS ?! prologue: dear nagi,

synopsis: love is a foreign concept, often hard to express in words. except your feelings poured into the sweetest letters, intended for your eyes only. when the saccharine envelopes are mailed out to the five boys you’ve loved sparks fly, hearts break and chaos ensues. “heavily inspired by tatbilb”

𝖎. series: seishiro nagi x f! reader (she/they) | wc: 2.8k | contents: semi-angst (if you squint) chaos, fake dating trope. kinda? forced proximity. toxic/fake friends, cheating! heavy pining second person (you/your/yours) flashbacks & swearing in italics .

𝖎𝖎. notes: (y/n)'s last name is adara-sawako although it's not entirely important, i just imagined her as mixed because lara-jean is mixed. the oc's only exist for plot. this chapter is a bit boring but it gets good i promise!

⇆ series masterlist next chapter: parallel lines

THURSDAY ,

. . . ❀ you vividly believed love existed far beyond the body. a bittersweet entanglement of the souls. you could find love in almost everything: the rain pattering gently on concrete, sliding intimately down flower petals. the sun bathing the universe in it’s golden haze. you gawked at the sky and you saw love. in truth, you found love in things a plethora of people wouldn’t understand

you’d found love in his spiky orange hair and the fuzzy undercut he took pride in. you found love in his twinkling auburn eyes and his broad arms that felt like the safest place in the world. you fell in love with how humble he was and you fell in love with his morals. you knew him like the back for your hand

despite all these intricacies, rensuke kunigami wasn’t yours.

kunigami was minai’s boyfriend and you adored him just as much as she did. maybe even more…before he belonged solely to her, the three of you had been peas in a pod. then they started hanging out without you and slowly drifted away.

you were pleasantly surprised when kunigami asked to hangout. just the two of you. no minai. your heart hummed in your chest and heat rose to your face as you agreed. your fingers trembled and the thought of spending time with the boy you loved ran rampant in your head. it all came crashing down when he sat down nervously on your bed in the middle of fifa ‘21

“i need your advice on something” his fingers splayed absentmindedly on the faded bonobono plush on your bed, “i like someone”

for a split second you thought it was you. everything would make sense then, maybe him and minai had been working on his feelings together. maybe he liked you. then you saw the way he looked into space, the soft blush that tinged his cheeks and you knew it wasn’t for you

you mentally ran through a list of girls it could be. kunigami didn’t hang around with a lot of girls. could it be sora? the girl from his history class? minai?

“who is it ren” you asked, ignoring the blood rushing to your head, “i’m sure they like you back”

his lips parted, and you wished you knew what it felt like to kiss them. the name was near dripping off his tongue..then his phone rang. and suddenly he had to go.

that night you wrote your letter to kunigami. dear ren…

your eyes prickled with tears that hurt to shed. it would be an understatement to say you cried a lot that night. you sobbed more than you’d even done before. you missed the days when the three of you were inseparable. you missed the days when you’d been a close knit group of six.

you, sei, rin, kunigami, sora and minai

you knew no one stayed forever, but goodbyes never got easier. they left you feeling hollow and broken, holding on tightly to memories that stung. so you let them go. you let go of all the hurt and made new friends. friends that did the clinging rather than you.

kunigami was the one clinging to the past now. minai moved out of the country and he’d begged to do long distance. minai had adamantly said no. she didn’t cry, her voice didn’t even waver. once minai made up her mind she never went back.

he made it your problem entirely, dragging you to the bleachers to talk about himself daily without fail. you were a bit irritated he’d encroached on your after school routine but you were too nice to complain to his face

“i just..i didn’t think she’d really leave me” he frowned. the two of you were sitting on the bleachers sharing seaweed snacks

“people don’t tell you they’re going to leave” you said pointedly, pausing to chew the salty flakes “unless they really mean it”

“i at least thought we’d do long distance” he frowned, “i didn’t want to lose her”

“maybe she didn’t want to lose you, long distance isn’t exactly child’s play” you mused, licking flakes off your fingers

“do you think she’ll change her mind?” he asked. his warm auburn eyes were filled with so much sadness, your heart hurt

“you never know kuni” you shrugged, gathering your books from the metal seat and standing up, “need to train for the semi-finals tomorrow, see ya”

“(y/n) wait” his thick hand grabbed at your wrist. as soon as he did it your heart paused. you forgot to breathe for that fleeting second “promise me you won’t leave me too”

“what?”

“just promise me please” your resolve weakened then. he needed you. rensuke kunigami, the boy you loved a bittersweet year ago, needed you

“i promise” you said feebly, “now let me go, i want to get in some practice before the other girls show up” much to your satisfaction, the sweet ginger let you go

you ran to the gymnasium with your heart crying out profanities. no. you couldn’t like him again. you just couldn’t. that would be really unlucky

you thought there was no such thing as bad luck. things happened. people come and go, no one lives forever. this notion helped you deal with the loss of your father.

you still missed him every day. when you lose your favourite person the emptiness is near impossible to fill. you drowned yourself in student council projects, part-time jobs and volleyball to fill the void. 

sometimes you wished you could go back to the simplicity of grade school. when your only problem was wondering whether you and nagi would play animal crossing: new leaf or read bonobono

but you knew that wasn't possible. nagi was a stranger to you now.

you slipped into the changing room, the air conditioning was permanently on and goosebumps rose to attention on your soft skin

you substituted your school uniform for the comfortable volleyball tee and shorts. you tucked the blazer with houndstooth lapels into your locker and stuffed the silk skirt and dress shirt under it. you slipped on your trainers and jogged out of the freezing room.

you drummed your fingers absentmindedly against the hard volley ball you picked up from the basket by the net.

hakuho's girls team had the semi finals tomorrow and you needed to be on top of your game. there was nothing harder than being the team captain and the libero. at the dying moment it all came down to you

the pressure made your limbs ache but you'd never give up. your dad had loved volleyball, he'd taken you to watch countless games as a child, swinging you on his broad shoulders so you could see above the crowds. you'd wear matching jerseys and get sticky ice-cream sundaes and steaming bowls of nikujaga at night markets to celebrate

you squeezed your eyes shut, bouncing the ball off the wall and digging it aggressively. you refused to cry despite the stinging in your wrists and the pang in your chest. pain was motivation rather than a weakness.

"christ (y/n) what'd the ball do to deserve that?" kiyomi’s voice echoed through the gymnasium. your (e/c) eyes shot open and your eyes settled on your teammates strolling towards you leisurely arms laden with duffle bags, bentos and crystal clear bottles of water

"no food in my gym" you said teasingly, stretching out of your stance and plopping down on the floor

“how long have you been in here for?”

“not too long” you said honestly, “i was stuck with relationship counselling”

“kuni?” kiyomi asked,sitting down beside you “speaking of break ups guess who broke up!”

kiyomi grinned, tucking her strawberry blonde hair neatly behind her ears. her green eyes sparkled as she basked in the attention of the team.

“nagi and sora! she dumped his sorry ass for a college guy she met over spring break. and i bet she was cheating on him too"

"no way!" you gasped, clasping a hand over your mouth. you'd never thought sora would grow to become a cheater. then again, that went to show people weren't really what they seemed

"why is everyone breaking up? is something in the air?”

“aww i feel so bad for nagi, he’s really cute”

“he didn’t deserve that, sora’s such a little bi-”

"the semi-finals against niiyama are tomorrow" you said quickly, cutting off the chorus of reactions, “as bad as we all feel for nagi, we’ll feel a billion times worse if we don’t bring our a-game tomorrow”

“you heard the captain” kiyomi sang, “two laps round the gym and then practice your serving”

your teammates obediently broke into groups, leaving you and kiyomi sitting cross legged by the wall

“is he okay?” you asked, nibbling on your bottom lip

“who?” she asked, shooting you a knowing look, “the first boy you ever loved? the ok to your lala? (y/n), i think you need a boyfriend, it’ll save you a lot of stress”

“cut it out kiyo” you groaned, burying your face in your hands, “i’m just worried, he was my best friend”

“i don’t think he’s in school today” she said, “he wasn’t in econs, and reo came in without him this morning.”

“shit” you grimaced, “she’s horrible, nagi’s a softie at heart and she probably shattered his-”

“he shattered yours” kiyo said pointedly, “i say karma bit him in the ass.”

“you’re horrible too” you said, laughing as you shook your head.

“you love me” she giggled, “can we hit the konbini before we go to your place? can’t have a sleepover without snacks”

“i’ll think about it” you mused, pushing yourself off the floor and jogging towards the court.

nagi seishiro was the first boy you’d ever loved. the only boy you’d ever kissed. and the first boy you’d written a love letter to. you were fourteen when you fell out of love with him. you were seventeen now and your heart no longer belonged the grey eyed boy. it belonged to no one.

at least that’s what you thought. before your thoughts were consumed by kunigami and nagi now.

long after training, long after the konbini run and long after kiyomi had fallen asleep. you’d crept out of your downy sheets and sifted through your closet.

satisfied when you stumbled upon the (f/c) box at the back. you trudged back to your bed — careful to not wake kiyomi up— and pulled the letters out. there were five in total. to all the boys you’d loved before. seishiro, rin, yoichi, meguru and rensuke. in chronological order. you picked up the first letter

a smile flickered across your face. you vividly remembered what it felt like to pour out your feelings for the first time and seal them in a lemon scented envelope. you’d picked out a bonobono stamp and written nagi’s address in your best cursive….

dear nagi,

it feels so so so weird to call you that. you’ve always been sei to me. i closed my eyes for a second and you became this popular soccer star i barely recognise. and you also got a girlfriend. right after kissing me at rin’s house two years ago.

did you know that when you kissed me it meant everything to me? you’ve always meant a lot to me in retrospect. but in that moment all i wanted was to hold your hand and never let go of you. but i did. i had to. because sora liked you, and you liked her. so why did you kiss me sei? it’s not like we were playing truth or dare or anything. you said i smelled like citrus and then proceeded to steal my first kiss. although i don’t think it really counts as stealing, it belonged to you anyway. it was everything i’d dreamed of and more. i felt like fireworks erupted from every fiber of my being but it was the most natural thing ever. only you made me feel that way. it was over just as suddenly as it started. you went back to playing call of duty like nothing happened. it meant nothing to you. i knew that. yet i thought about it every single second of the day for two years.

and those two years have been torture. i think i lost a few years of my life every time you kissed sora. which was a lot by the way. if i die young, you are solely to blame.

i blame you for a lot of things. it’s not entirely fair but leaving me wasn’t either. i couldn’t bring myself to hate you. i tried. believe me i did. it should’ve been really easy to. you’re the most selfish person i know. it’s honestly a mystery how we stayed friends for so long

do you even remember how we became friends in the first place? you’re never going to see this letter but i’ll remind you anyways. you’ve always been special. you’re amazing, it goes without saying. that’s what made you stand out to me. while other boys ran helter skelter in the playground you would read manga in a corner or play video games. i remember you were reading bonobono, which was my current fave because i was reading it with my dad. i told you everything under the sun about my life, my family, my interests and you just listened, not bothering to shake me off. i stuck to you like glue. we were only seven then. it’s been seven years and i guess the glue’s worn off

i miss you. as a friend more than anything. it sucks that you and sora chose to stop being friends with me, i didn’t deserve that. after all, you kissed me. i thought you were twisted for making me fall in love with you. but now i’ve realised it was inevitable. for a plethora of reasons

firstly, we were inseparable, you know that phrase i loved saying ‘two peas in a pod’ i swore they coined it just for us. we were practically joined at the hip. always there for each other, even if it was just companionable silence.

did you know it meant the world to me when you came to my dad’s funeral last year? i didn’t expect you to show. you never show up for anything. i think that’s one of your only flaws –you’re selfish. you’re unreliable and you’re confusing but then i saw you sitting way at the back, struggling to stay awake and knowing you cared about me enough to show up meant so much to me. it still means a lot to me sei

secondly, you just understood me on a fundamental level. you didn’t give a shit about anyone or anything, except yourself. it was refreshing to be around someone who was like that, sometimes. but mostly you were just likeable. you were cool, funny, smart. i could tell you whatever i wanted without feeling judged. you were so indifferent. it balanced me out. i care so much about everything. despite being polar opposites, you just got me…

and lastly, the most annoying thing about you honestly is how attractive you are and you don’t even try. your stupid messy hair is softer than fresh winter snow. i love winter. i loved you. and your lackadaisical demeanour, i loved your grey eyes, i loved that dumb :x face you always made. i loved sharing secrets and lemon tea with you. i loved sneaking off to the arcade with you. i loved picking out choki with you. i loved watching rom coms with your mom. i loved you nagi. you were the first boy i’d ever loved. i say loved because i like someone else now. 

i never thought i would. but i do! i met him a week ago at summer camp. and he’s everything you’re not. he’s sweet and kind, caring and considerate, and he makes me laugh. and he loves strawberry ice cream. not tangy lemon sorbet . and he likes me. the only thing you're incapable of

so i relinquish you from my heart seishiro nagi. it's something i should have done ages ago. i wish you the worst best with sora, i could care less now. the two of you deserve each other anyways. you’re a match made in hell heaven

(y/n) adara-sawako

p.s. i'm sure you're elated to hear it didn't work out with the guy from camp. his name was isagi and he's still ten times better than you. and you and sora are a horrible couple. what is it your ninth break up this week?

you set the letter down, face flushing with embarrassment. you remembered your feelings being intense but you’d almost forgotten how strong they were. you grimaced as you stuffed all the letters under your pillow and drifted to sleep. you promised yourself you’d get rid of them first thing in the morning

but when you woke up they were gone. and so was kiyomi

©Y2KUROMI 𝜗𝜚 2023 please do not plagiarise, repost, or translate any of my works on here or any other websites.

[lyramundana]

f!reader younger than minsung and they are really protective with her?? thank you! (I LOVED YOUR HEADCANONS it's still me lol) -🌻🌻

THANK YOU!!🤭❤️ These headcanons are my main source of serotonin currently, so you bet I'll keep making more. I hope to receive more requests too!

Both Minho and Han are already protective of their loved ones, especially their partners, judging by their personalities alone. But if you watch videos of them interacting (not only on stage or skz codes, everywhere) you can see how fierce they are about each other. I mean, let's not forget Minho is a fucking Scorpio and Han a Virgo. That's the epitome of intensity.

They never do things halfway. It's ride or die with them.

And so it's only natural for them to be protective of her, but if she's younger than them, those traits are intensified. Male Koreans already have the instinct of looking after females, even more the younger ones, so yeah. Hope she's blessed with loads of patience because these men are going to be exhausting.

If the Reader is younger, this would push Han out of his soft, childish persona to be this more mature, "manly" version of himself (but he's still funny and loud). They'll both want to provide for her in every way, take care of her and overall just treat her like the ground she steps on is made of gold.

The concept of "personal space" is foreign to them. Like, she shouldn't even try to explain it, they don't get it. Why would they prefer to be separated from the person they love? It doesn't sound right in their ears. They're never more than two steps away from her if they can help it. Their jobs keep them busy enough, so when the three of them are all together, they want to enjoy every second. They're glued to her skin. If they go out, they have to be touching her in some way every five minutes as reassurance or else they'll be moody. If she needs to get something from a high place, they'll reach for her, keeping a steady hand on her waist while their chests brush against her back. If she needs to go to the bathroom, one or both are waiting outside the door "just in case". Hell, if she has to go and shower, they'll storm in and sit besides the bathtub to speak to her like it's a normal thing.

Minho is the type to spoil her but without explicitly showing it. For example, if he hears she wants something, he waits until she's not looking and takes it. She refuses to answer why, but the red tip of his ears tell everything. Jisung is the attention-seeking one. He asserts his protectiveness of her by physical contact. Hugging her from behind, his strong arms surrounding her, chin on her shoulder and ocasionally kissing her exposed skin.

If someone bothers her or steps out of the line, well, good luck to that person, because have you seen these two's arms? Yeah, they can and WILL beat up a bitch for their partner if they have to. Also, they're very good at verbal attacks and Minho is perfectly capable of shaming someone's entire family line with a smile and not a finger lifted.

They've make her call them "oppa" more times than she wishes to admit. It gets them going...in plenty of ways. If she wants something, she only has to call them "oppa" and they're at her feet.

The types to give her their clothes to mark territory. They've replaced some of her clothing for theirs in the house so she has no option but wear those. If she's cold, she has Minho's jacket on her shoulder and Jisung's covering her legs. If someone is shooting their shot with her, the next day she's suddenly wearing an oversized shirt that doesn't belong to her with a pair of shorts that look longer than they should (and a few hickeys underneath to add spice)

They both love to baby her and take full advantage of the age difference.r. She's so cute and soft in their eyes. If they could, they'll put her inside their pockets and carry her around like that everywhere.

During her period, they're even more attentive. Minho cooks for her everyday and slaps her hand aways she tries to help, then Jisung snoops her in his arms and lays her down in the couch, saying she should be resting, that they'll take care of everything for her. Same if she's sick. At least one stays with her all times to check on her needs, regardless of the risk of getting sick too.

She never walks right next to the road. If they see her inching near it, they move her away fast. When one is driving and she's sitting as a copilot, they'll place a hand before her when they do slightly brute movements with the car.

Overall, Minsung would be extremely protective of Reader if she was younger than them, to the point they may seem to treat her like a child and a fragile thing. But they're hot about it, so I'm sure she can accept it.

[puppy-t337h]

EXULANSIS - I

GHOST X READER X SOAP (COLLEGE AU)

AO3 LINK - OTHER CHAPTERS

CW: DEPPRESSION, PTSD, RECREATIONAL DRUG USE, ALCOHOL, COLLEGE PARTIES, ONE NIGHT STAND, MAKING OUT, READER USES SHE/HER PRONOUNS, JEALOUSY, (ACCIDENTAL) HOMIE HOPPING

~~~

Douche.

Would be the word you would use to describe your next door neighbor.

You aren't one to hate people—not without first being provoked, at least. In fact, you usually actively went out of your way not to…hating people for things they said and did before their brain was even fully developed was always such a strange concept to you.

You had better things to do, anyway, than to spend time out of your day thinking about other people, most importantly unpleasant ones. Avoiding conflict like the plague got you through highschool and now—mostly—university. You were very protective of your quiet.

Moving day was the day you first met one of them. You didn't live in the dorms, instead opting for an apartment complex close by inhabited by many other senior students. It was quieter, and the rooms were bigger—the only downsides to it being rent and the commute you had to make back to campus for classes. They moved in the day after you did—and you only noticed after bringing home yet another box of belongings you had neglected in your car. It was late. You had procrastinated long enough.

Of course, he was in the hallway, moving his things into his apartment exactly twenty-three minutes before the semester began.

He was a brawny guy, slightly taller with a tasteful mohawk and kind eyes. Scottish. He was polite enough face-to-face; the kind of guy who was sensible on his own but seemed to lose ten I.Q. points whenever he was under the influence of his friends—carrying on in the hallway and moving four to five boxes like it was nothing. Broad arms corded with veins and littered with little scars…not that you were looking.

“Dropped this,” were the first two words he said to you, waving—to your complete horror—the bluejay stuffed animal you’ve had since you were ten. He had the biggest grin on his face, like he had just caught wind of one of his friends’ deepest, darkest secrets—and in some ways he had. A few other people on the floor turned to look at his declaration over their boxes as they navigated through the narrow hallway, drawn by his foreign accent. You were mortified for more reasons than one.

Immediately, his energy strikes a cord within you.  Something about his smile, his face, brings back memories that sting like hell.  Maybe that's why you hate him---because he reminds you of a past you can't go back to.  A person you can't go back to.

You swiped the stuffed animal from his grasp and stuffed it back into the massive box you balanced on your knee, muttering a strangled: “thanks.”

“Sure you don’t need any help?” Mohawk continues, padding after you a few steps. The request is genuine—you think—but it has that mocking undertone to it that sets off all the alarms in your brain that said he was, in fact, a total douche.

“No, thank you,” your back hits your apartment door and you kick it open with your foot, shuffling inside. “This is the last box.”

He stares after you for a moment, then shrugs and waves you off—opening the door across from you. He has something in his hand—a dog bowl, maybe—but not once does he shed that smug smile.

“Suit yourself, Birdie.” He says.

Birdie. The audacity of this guy.

For the first week or so, nights were peaceful. Or…close enough to it. School starts up as usual and, just like normal, you find yourself holed up in your apartment catching up on assignments you neglected to do until the last minute. The first month or so of school gets to you in that regard---too used to hearing voices of anothers in your space; a facet running, laptop typing, voices speaking. The lonliness is the worst part, you think, but the easiest to adjust to. Whatever angry God above must have heard your anxious thoughts about the quiet because, low and behold, that peace doesn't last long.

Your neighbors like to blast music. Loud. Why nobody else on the floor seems to complain about it is beyond you, but you can hear it loud and clear through the thin walls of your enclosure—shitty metal ringing muffled through the drywall.

Annoying, but not particularly malicious.

Since then, you've only caught glimpses of Mohawk and his roommate after the incident in the hallway; across the dining hall, carrying on at welcome week parties, and only occasionally in classes. Exchange students from Europe, some people say. Others say they're narcs of some kind. More say they don't even attend classes here at all and just show up for the frat scene every now and again which—honestly, would be believable. They’ve managed to wrack up quite the reputation across campus despite it only being a few weeks into the semester. Or, at least, Mohawk has...with blurry fights recorded on Snapchat and tales of hook-ups, flirting, and hilarious drunken rants from your more outgoing friends.

You’d pass Mohawk—or, more commonly known as Soap, for some reason—in the hallways sometimes or catch him in the elevator—occasionally with his roommate, who was an enigma. He stood a little taller than his Scottish friend with sandy hair, a stubble, and dark, concealing clothes. A hood was pulled over his head as he scrolled through his phone—a stark constrast to Soap who stuck to his usual t-shirt and shorts combo. You didn't realize the stranger caught you staring until your gaze raked up to meet his cold eyes already looking at you; piercing straight through your heart like a particularly sharp piece of ice. You immediately avert your gaze.

Fucking weirdo.

Halloween was the next time you had a substantial conversation with either of them—not that that day in the hallway or in the elevator could be considered substantial at all. You didn't initially plan on going out, but after a long-winded argument with a couple of your friends insisting that you take a break and live a little, finally, you cave. You need to let loose, anyway—feeling far too confined within your small apartment and seemingly endless statistics assignments. Maybe social interaction would help you get out of your funk.

Iota-omega-gamma something or other, the three symbols atop the giant house you're dragged to stare back at you as you clamber to the entrance. The inside is bustling with energy, Halloween costumes from niche internet references to the classic witch, vampire, and zombie catching your sight everywhere you look. You've gone a bit over the top—you will admit—with intricate skeleton makeup painted across your face and a tight black dress to boot.

You're a few drinks in whenever your friend group starts mingling with others, laughing and disappearing into the lights and the music and the people. The air stinks of today's beer and tomorrow's regret mixed with a tinge of marijuana that has long since made its home in the drywall; and you're tipsy and staggering to the backdoor. It's exaggerated, of course, all elbows and hands as you bump into your friends, laughing and talking over the noise as you look for somewhere quiet to regroup.

That's when you bump into him—quite literally. Chest to chest, your head hits the bottom of his chin, sending you reeling before his large, gloved hand grabs your wrist; steadying you. His drink spills, watered-down beer splashing against the floor.

"Sorry, sorry," you pull your hand free. Your gaze meets a shitty skull, painted over a balaclava. Grinning, you point to your own face. "Skeleton, right?"

He blinks—eyes piercing, familiar. His hand slides from your arm, noticeably shaky as he shoves it back into his pocket. His face is hidden, but the rest of him is ripped; in a tight black T-shirt and dark jeans, one arm blackened with a faded sleeve of tattoos.

"Ghost, actually," he corrects.

"But that's a skull."

"What about it?"

"Damn, sensitive," you huff, tilting your head at him as if that would help you see him better. Fidgeting, brow furrowed, eyes averting–-he's tense, for some reason, and with your latest psych assignment still fresh on your mind you recognize small signs of distress immediately. "You good?"

"Peachy," he mutters. His voice is gravelly and foreign—almost a growl—sticking out like a sore thumb against the music and the dancing and the laughing of your peers. He goes to shrug past with some lame excuse of: "just here for some friends."

You raise an eyebrow. "Some friends you got…ditching you at a party."

He sighs long and heavy, simply nodding before going to walk off towards the front door of the frat.

You don't know why, but you stop him.

"Wait," you grab his arm. "Let me buy you a drink."

He blinks, eyes narrowing.

"Why?" He draws out the word, his tone almost sounding suspicious of you—like he suspects you have ulterior motives.

"'Cause I spilled yours and bumped into you and I'll feel like shit if I don't replace it," you ramble, tugging him along before he has the chance to say otherwise. "C'mon. We'll find your friends."

Easily two-hundred pounds of muscle, he could pull free and you almost expect to lose him in the crowd—but he doesn't, letting you tug him along through the lights and the people for reasons unknown to you. He seems hesitant at first, resisting a little at before stumbling behind you; sticking out like a fish out of water in the sea of college students that surrounded you. The kitchen, thank God, is devoid of people other than the occasional student drifting in for another drink. For now, it's quiet, the sound of music and people slightly muffled from around the corner—and you swear your new acquaintance visibly relaxes, shoulders slumping and breath slowing, proving your theory right.

"Not a party person, Ghost?" You observe, plucking his cup from his hands again and turning to the counter. "People don't generally come to frats just to linger in corners."

He scoffs, "'Just got somewhere I'd rather be."

You hum, nodding. "Homework?"

He shrugs and crosses his arms indifferently as he leans back against the door. You feel his gaze on you as you turn away, and you don't think it's left once since you’ve met. You don’t think he realizes you can see his eyes through the skull mask and eyeblack. "Something like that."

You hum in acknowledgement, handing him his drink. "I was dragged here, too, if it's any consultation."

He hesitates, but takes it. "You don't seem too upset about that."

"I'm not. I needed a break," now it's your turn to shrug. You look away. "But, y'know, school comes first."

He huffs, loosening up more little by little as he lifts his mask up past his nose to take a long drink. You smile as he loosens up a bit.

"School comes first," he repeats, without an ounce of genuinity. It has you chuckling a little and, friends forgotten—you take to talking to the strange, gruff man you've encountered.

You learn a little about him. Like how he hates beer, and hates parties; but he believes they make eachother bearable. He’s from England; Manchester, to be more specific. An exchange student who needed a “change in scenery” and decided to travel abroad with a few buddies.

“So you came here?” You chuckle, “the middle of nowhere?”

“Wanted to be somewhere quiet.”

“Well, sure, but I highly doubt this school is on any program in fucking England of all places. Nobody goes here.”

He chuckles at that, for some reason; a low, rumbling sound that makes his broad shoulders bounce. He reaches over to grab his drink from the other end of the table and his sleeve rides up past the muscle in his arm. His pale skin is scarred to hell; with a few different kinds of scars dotting his thick arms.

Weird.

Everything about him is strange—contradictory. He hates parties and drinking, but he’s here anyway. He’s built like a brick wall but seems to tense every time he hears any sort of loud noise or anytime anything brushes his skin. His hands are calloused to hell. You couldn’t quite figure him out, but you think maybe that’s what draws you to him—the psych student in you absolutely fascinated.

Or, at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

Ghost doesn't seem happy you've latched onto him, but he allows you to drag him around just the same; returning your banter in a way that makes you grin. You think, maybe, he's doing it for the bit—you are matching, after all—but he makes no effort to shoo you away when you cling to his arm, and he stays close in the crowd; asshole friends forgotten. A few drinks in and you have him chuckling louder, steadying you when you lose your balance doing something dumb, talking, and joking like you've known each other for years—despite it only being an hour or two.

Finally, you’ve gotten him to loosen up.

Before long, you're both tired and you find yourself mingled into his group after he finally finds them again: a strange but charming combination of students including but not limited to another, friendlier Brit and—...oh, for fuck’s sake.

Your neighbor.

He's dressed as a zombie, you think. Honestly, he could be anything—shitty fake blood splattered across the front of a torn, white t-shirt and old jeans; quick and just as low-effort as his friend. The mohawk is messy and it looks as if Ghost took some of his eyeblack and smacked him with it; long lines drawn messily across his face.

"There he is!" The Scottsman slurs, nearly spilling his drink on his taller friend as he clumsily lays his arm across Ghost's shoulders. "'Thought you finally got tired of us."

"I did," Ghost grumbles. "But considering Gaz looks like someone fucking pepper sprayed 'em it looks like I'm on baby-sittin' duty instead."

Soap's eyes flicker to you as Ghost shrugs away your hold on his arm. The Scottsman grins, and suddenly it's you he's slouched against, and your heart jumps into your throat from the physical contact.

"See you've finally met Birdie, huh? Told ya' you'd enjoy it here if you gave it a chance."

"You!” you snap, shoving him away. "You’re the dick who keeps blasting music!"

"Aye! That isn't me! That's your fuckin' grim reaper friend over there---Jesus."

Ignoring his friend's jab, Ghost raises an eyebrow and turns to you as you wrestle with your opponent. "Birdie?"

"She's the lass I told you about," Soup juts a finger in your direction. "The neighbor with the bird stuffie."

Your face goes red. "Okay, douchebag, why don't you just announce it to the whole school since you're so fucking fascinated by it?"

Soap laughs, because of course he does. Loud, clear, and unapologetic---it strikes a nerve in you, lighting a familiar fire in your gut that makes anger coil in your chest, through no fault of his own. "Well…feisty. 'Gonna introduce me, Ghost?"

Suddenly, and unexpectedly, Ghost seems to shut down again—any ounce of playfulness you've forced out of him vanishes. He grunts, ducks away, grabs another shitty beer from a nearby cooler and flicks it open. He throws himself across the couch lazily before gesturing to Soap. "This pain in the arse is Johnny; Soap."

Then, he juts his thumb beside him where a rather confused-looking man with a baseball cap finally gets wind of the new person in the room, "Gaz."

Then himself;

"Ghost."

"Soap?" You repeat. "Fuck kind of a nickname is that?"

Gaz is the one who speaks up then. "It's 'cause he can clean out a room of armed hostiles faster than—"

"Thaaat's 'nough," Soap lays his hands steadily on your shoulders and you freeze up, slightly, as he guides you to sit with him and the others. He's inviting you to stay. Maybe it's the alcohol, but your cheeks feel warm and you hate how your stomach twists. “Ignore him. Video game talk.”

Grumbling, you stick with who you trust yourself with—sitting yourself next to Ghost who wordlessly passes you his beer to sip from.

If Ghost is tipsy and you’re drunk; Soap is wasted, stumbling over words, swearing, and giggling. You hate to admit it, but he’s a fun drunk—ditzy and crazy without being too out of control. Good looking, too, with a nice smile and a laugh that lights up the room. A smile that looks like his. Meanwhile, Gaz is perfectly content to linger, laughing at all the dumbassery the others pull with you—taking hits from a pen that sits on the side table every now and again and explaining a few inside jokes to you here and there.

Maybe they aren’t as insufferable as you thought.

The night continues on in a blur of lights and music. Your friends have left at this point, and you’re sure your makeup is smeared and your hair tousled—but you carry on anyway. You’re drunk. Wasted, even…irresponsible for the first time since being a teenager and the feeling is fantastic. You should probably take it up with your therapist—your habit of working yourself to death just to crash land into the ground in a flurry of lights and chaos, suddenly unable to do anything but chase that feeling of euphoria that comes with not caring.

You're too distracted to notice how late it is.

Too distracted to care about homework. Or class the next day.

Too distracted to notice how Ghost disappears. Too distracted to notice how the lines between past and present are blurring---and you're leaning a little too close to the Scottsman that reminds you of your late lover. Too distracted to realize that Soap has an arm around your waist, whispering to you, holding your drink, holding you—lifting you so easily up onto the back of a couch. Just as he always did. Soap smiles so bright up at you, and all your mind can see is his face; bright and happy and carefree---and you have to smile back.

You're too distracted to fully realize you never hated him---and that the cord of coiled self-hatred in your gut snaps as your resolve crumbles through your fingers.  You'll feel like shit for indulging in this later---in reliving memories where you were actually happy---but for now it felt like you were seventeen again, before you had to worry about a thing.

You realize how close you both are—giggling near a corner as he teases you with yet another beer. Your head spins with the static of the same alcohol you taste on Soap’s breath as he makes the same realization that you do; that all you had to do was lean in a little closer to kiss his lips. It’s almost like he can read your mind, because a smirk suddenly twitches onto those pretty lips of his as he stares up at you through his lashes. His strong arms tighten around the small of your waist. Warm. Secure. Just like he used to.

Suddenly, you see why he's the talk of the school.

“Careful, Birdie,” he whispers, suddenly stone sober as he smirks at you and God, do you want to wipe the grin off his stupid, douchey face.

You scoff and despite yourself---you're shamelessly looking at his lips. "Or what?"

"Or I might start thinkin' you want to kiss me."

“Do I?” You're still staring at his lips, tilting your head to feign cluelessness. "How do you know you don't just have something in your teeth?"

He chuckles, smiling. His fingers ghost your cheek and the other grazes against the bare skin of your thigh at his side—calloused, scarred hands gentle and feathery; but practically setting fire to everywhere they touch.

"I'll take my chances," he breathes against your lips—teasing, as he looks up at you, hazey and distant. His hand traces up the curve of your hip. "If you'll have me?"

Something in your stomach dips, and before you realize it fully, you’ve guided his face up to catch his lips in yours. It's soft, at first—gentle and hesitant, even—but your hands slide up his thick shoulders and the side of his neck and he seems to melt a little into the gesture.

The rumors are true, because he's good. His hand gropes your bare thigh, teasing at the edge of your dress as his breath gets heavier, pulling you off the back of the couch and out of the view of the public. He's rough, but attentive—breath fluttering across your face as he presses himself flush against your front. The button of his jeans catches the edge of your dress and his breath stutters with your own.

"Been thinking about this since the day ye' moved in, fuck…" He breathes near your ear, his accent and the alcohol making him damn near indecipherable as he presses kisses on that space behind your ear. You lean your head back against the wall with a sigh as his lips migrate down, past your jaw and down your neck.

"Since moving day?" You stammer dumbly.

"Since moving day," he confirms in a whisper.

God. So have you.

"If I do this…" You breathe, reaching up to grasp at the top of his mohawk as he nips your neck—earning a small grunt from him. "You stop blasting music at three in the damn morning."

"Deal," he doesn't hesitate, planting lazy kisses across your neck.

"My apartment or your's?"

"Mm…your's," he slurs. "Something tells me the roommate wouldn't be thrilled 'bout this. Only if you're sure, though, 'Cause if you're too drunk—"

"Jesus Christ, stop talking," you say, pulling him flush against you. Soap hisses at the contact, pressing his hips to meet yours as you kiss him once again—making him forget about the lights. The music. His friends…and whoever might be watching.

Across the room, Ghost's fist tightens around a can of shitty beer.

He watches his friend's hands grasp your waist, tight and sure of himself; hands calloused and rough from years of work and tan from the sun. He watches you smile into the kiss and he watches Soap bite your lip, your lipstick smeared on his face. The same lipstick still stuck to the edge of Ghost's can—gripped by pale hands littered with ugly scars and nailbeds raw from biting; hands a little too big to hold comfortably. He thinks about how soft the skin of your arm felt against the pads of his fingers, how you smiled at him the same way earlier…and God, does he miss being sure of himself. Being confident. He could take another man's life like it was nothing, but one smile and a kind gesture from a stranger and suddenly he's crushing a beer can in his fist—clumsy and unsure of himself.

Jealous.

Simon, for a long time, didn't think he was capable of the feeling. Not until recently. Not until the shift into civilian life had left his mind reeling and confused while his friends seemed to fit back into it like like an old glove. Simon didn't know people---didn't like them. He had never known peace before this, and it doesn't sit right with him.

He likes you because, he thinks, somehow…you carry that same feeling of restlessness with you—that feeling of displacement. A flicker of empathy in your gaze that tells him almost telepathically that you're not like the others. Clumsily navigating through life…running from something. Trying and failing time and time again to feel better—though nothing feels right.

How else could you have known he didn't want pity, just understanding?

He likes to think that's why you stuck by his side. He likes to think maybe you felt that same connection he did, that same solidarity. But, clearly, he was wrong—another thing that didn't used to happen before, but now has become the new normal.

Simon drops his can in the trash, shakes the foul liquid from his shaky hand, and leaves the party through the back door just as you and Soap leave through the front—giggling and stumbling your way back to the apartment complex.

[msweebyness]

MiracOlympus- Theatre Deities

Here’s the next batch of gods! The theater class! Enjoy! @artzychic27 @imsparky2002

Ayesha:

(Euphrosyne)

Goddess of joy and cheer

Can find a silver lining in any situation, negativity is a foreign concept

Personal cheerleader for any deity who needs it

Impossible not to smile around her

Great at talking people through their problems

Anthony:

(Thanatos)

God of death

Everything he says is morbid in some way, but he’s still a snark king

Only smiles around Jesse, otherwise he’s a dark cloud

Black Hair, black wings, black everything

SCARY when he’s mad

Jesse:

(Melpomene)

Muse of theater, specifically tragedy

Just as dramatic as his twin, Jean

Will start crying at the drop of a hat

Kind of a pessimist, worries a lot

Seeing him smile is a rare gift

Dot:

(Clio)

Muse of history and records

Keeps METICULOUS files of all happenings on Earth and Olympus

Can be a bit OCD about her records

Can recite an unbelievable amount of trivia

Can be persuaded to sing with her siblings

Petra:

(Iapetus)

Deity of Craft and artistic skill

Always working on some new project

Super critical of her own work

Loves visiting earth to find new materials

Can make anything into a fun art project

Roxie:

(Nemesis)

Godex of Retribution

Can be persuaded to forgive, but NEVER forgets

Believes very strongly in fairness and just punishment

Gives the most savage burns

Refuses to lose an argument

Candace:

(Eunomia)

Goddess of order and lawfulness

The Responsible One™️

Huge stickler for the rules of the divine order

Gets stressed when things go off course

Aggie, Alix and Ismael drive her up the wall

Brecken:

(Cybele)

God of wild creatures and nature

VERY protective of all wildlife

Sweet as a kitten with his friends and Evie

Doesn’t like being inside

Has some animal features, i.e. feline eyes, claws, etc.

Eri:

(Hecate)

Goddess of witchcraft and magic

Still gothic and theatrical as heck

Has a potion or spell for everything

Only likes to come out at night

Everyone is at least a little scared of her

Aggie:

(Atë)

Goddess of daring and impulse

Will NEVER turn down a dare

Harbinger of chaos

Giving the other gods heart attacks on the reg

Lacey’s parkour bestie

Margo:

(Eos)

Goddess of the dawn

Wakes up the world with encouragement and affection

Still a romantic, Rose’s matchmaking buddy

Biggest morning person ever

Dresses like the sunrise

Soo-Yeon:

(Eurus)

God of the east wind and fall weather

Quietest and most restrained of the winds

Still a nervous wreck, tbh

Tries to wrangle his fellow winds as best he can

Can be intense when it’s needed

Has wings like a falcon

Parker:

(Kratos)

Goddess of strength and fortitude

Can deadlift just about anything

Always up to fight for a good cause

Can be VERY stubborn

Best workout coach

Staci:

(Erebus)

Goddess of the ether and gloom

Emotions are impossible to read

Likes to hang out in the shadows

Still snarky like no other

Hangs in the Underworld most of the time

Evie:

(Erato)

Muse of song and lyric poetry

Voice so pure it will make you cry

Still very proper, but cuts loose when singing

Master of wrangling her siblings

Writes love songs for Brecken

Mona:

(Morpheus)

Deity of dreams

Half-awake 90% of the time

Things they say are confusing, but also profound

Cannot stop falling asleep

Keeps a dream journal for the whole world, great at interpretation

Eloise:

(Metis)

Goddess of prudence and deliberation

Consistent voice of reason on Olympus

Does complex math problems or puzzles to relax

Not the most versed in emotion, but a good listener

Always has at least three plans

Anais:

(Urania)

Muse of science and space

Spends hours locked in her lab, working on countless experiments

Never goes anywhere without their telescope

Infodumps about the periodic elements

Is very…intense when curious about something

Missy:

(Asclepius)

Goddess of health and medicine

Will punt any of her fellow deities if they’re not taking care of themselves

She cares, it’s just aggressively

Serves as Olympus’ doctor, nurse, physical therapist, nutritionist, etc.

Snarky, but it’s out of love

Leave your thoughts in the comments and reblogs!

[universestreasures]

@voiderequiem Sent: 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑-𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐃  𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓 (Accepting!)

CARNATION → A high-end florist shop with glass vases of colorful blooms. (canon, human forms. okay hear me out. they both saw displays with the flowers from their shared gay brain space and both went in to buy some for the other but at the same time LOL)

Valentines Day, another important Earth holiday, was fast approaching. According to the twins, it was a day where people gave those they 'liked' chocolate and flowers. At first, he thought they meant like in the general sense, thinking he must get flowers for all his friends. But Yuamu quickly clarified the distinction between 'like' and like was, a concept that was foreign to the warrior.

Velgearians were, by nature, a very close-knit people. Displays of physical affection were rather common and did not necessarily mean romance. And when it came to romance, well...his experience in exploring what feelings he did have were pretty much nonexistent. Not much time to really focus on that when you're a member of the military, after all.

This meant the holiday coming presented him a unique chance to get to explore that part of his heart he had yet to fully dive into. Fortunately, the person who he held romantic feelings for was also on this planet, in this very town in fact. And much like with his Rush Duel lessons, he'd put all he he had into this experience, which started with searching for the very gifts one was supposed to bestow when the day came.

His travels throughout the shopping district brought him to the local florist, her store having all sorts of special arrangements made for the occasion. The flowers that grew here on Earth were rather different than the cosmo daisies he was used to back in the cluster, but still beautiful and pleasant to smell all the same.

Teal eyes soon then find themselves looking at a particular display in the back, one adorned in a small but pretty purple vase with golden detailing. Inside the vase was three different types of flowers, one white, one purple, and one blue, he could not identify. They were beautiful. They were...just what he was looking for.

Though, it appears he wasn't the only one who thought so. For someone else came up next to him to examine the display, and all it took was a quick glance from Yudias to see that the fellow fan of flora was not a stranger but in fact...!

"Z-Zuwijo...?"

The name escapes his lifts softly as he gazes upon the other's human form. Zuwijo rarely was seen in it outside the bakery. So, the sight of it was a treat, his cheeks flushing the ever so slight color of the pink roses that were see on the other side of the store.

"I-I...I never expected to see you in such a place today. Are you here to make preparations for Valentines Day as well?"

[entitycradle]

Future Anime Girl Gestalt

As a breakthrough in silicon nanostructure materials makes photonics and near-eye displays cheap, smart glasses become the new ubiquitous computers, replacing smartphones. The always-on display provides unique opportunities for advertisers, as does new machine learning-assisted ad targeting. In the new omnipresent augmented reality, ads become personalized, three-dimensional, interactive displays, emerging from blank rectangles in subway stations. You see your facebook friends conversing animatedly, drinking budweiser.

As smart glasses become increasingly necessary for modern life, brands are able to invade further into perceived reality. Cars shine luxuriously. The name and price of your coworker's smartwatch floats above it. Of course many modern advertisements no longer directly sell a product or service, but rather create and maintain brand identities. Large corporations advertise on everyday objects--the plate at your favorite restaurant reveals the name of a software company as you finish your food. Your brother's anger turns him super saiyan, reminding you of the new episodes. A poor neighborhood turns into an alien-inspired techno-organic nightmare.

Many companies use characters to perpetuate their brand. These characters can be personalized--the insurance company mascot that shows up on your car dashboard during a harrowing rush hour is your favorite color, features large, expressive eyes, and is covered in shaggy fur.

Of course, machine learning algorithms can be unpredictable. And ad agencies could not anticipate the omnivalent memetic power of...

...anime girls.

The algorithm customizes your pepsi soda into a fizzy anime slime girl. They customize the call to your healthcare provider to raise the pitch of the representative's voice and translate the audio to Japanese (your glasses display English subtitles). The missiles you see striking a city in Iran are ridden by pale, northrop grumman-labeled anime maids.

As more human agency is ceded to enormous, power-chugging processing centers, the connections between everyday occurrences and brand presence become more abstract. Every character on a show you're not paying attention to, every old shoe you own, every person you interact with, every grain of sand on the beach, every floater in your eye, is an anime girl.

As humans do, they adapt. Generation Glass becomes accustomed to experiencing two entirely foreign sets of sense-data: one, their local, mundane world, of humming processors and concrete and scraggly trees. The other, the networked world, where your entire visual field is painted in overlapping anime girls of various sizes and your auditory vestibular nerve is drowned in high-pitched giggling. Each girl represents some object--pomegranate, sunset, friends, love, death.

As global civilization gently deflates under the pressure of climate change post-2100, so does the capacity to manufacture complex electronics. Within the space of a generation, billions of people are reduced to creating facile, vapid illustrations of the moving, living anime girls they once knew as bigotry and tarmac. Pictures of anime girls are used to label street signs, mathematical concepts, genders, religious texts. Ironically, anime girls become more incorporated into the real world than they ever were in the Glass period, because they adorn real surfaces. A post-traumatic behavior develops, in which a person destroys objects bearing anime girl images in an attempt to, according to one individual, "let them out," or otherwise restore networked consensus reality.

Thousands of years pass. Peregrine sophists of the Fifth Yyrzoc clan uncover an underground concrete structure. In it are glyphs of a single, big-eyed, pale, skinny, large-breasted woman with bright blue hair, surrounded by female figures in blood-red uniforms who are collapsed on the ground. The sophists are able to decode this message and avoid what we would recognize as a nuclear waste storage facility. They theorize that the figures are ancient feminine gods of radiation and death. Several etchings and illustrations are published by a notable scriptorium. Years later they are largely forgotten.

[ashprince-of-bel-air]

Well I Guess I'm A Fool For You: Finale

Part One Part two Part three

You were in your cabin, perched upon the edge of your bed, choking back the sobs that threatened to spill from your mouth. You hadn’t mean to resign from Captain Buggy’s crew, but you had done it all the same, your mind now split between crying from your past and your unsavoury history with pirates and now facing the fact you are potentially leaving the one person you had actually grown to care for, all because of your pride and insistence in keeping up the walls around you.

Outside of your cabin Buggy starts to pace the space outside of your door, he can’t help but hear the pained sobs you cry out and your attempt to choke them back. His hands clenched into tight fists as he wrestles with the thought of just barging in, however something holds him back, whether it be affection for you or guilt for causing you to feel this way he cannot decide. He can hear your soft sniffles as you attempt to compose yourself, the sound piercing his heart, his frustration rising knowing that you are the one making him feel this sort of way.

He continues to pace back and forth, sighing to himself as he argues with his own anger in his head, he wants to barge in and confront you but he also wants to be the one to comfort you and kiss the tears from your cheeks, if only you would let him close. He takes a long and deep breath to calm himself, a completely futile gesture as he sighs out the air and whispers to himself. “Damn it doll… why must you be so stubborn.” Buggy caves in and knocks lightly on the door. “Come on doll, just open the door… please.” You hear his soft voice and roll your eyes; you don't want him to see you like this and you were still half adamant that you were leaving in the morning.

“no. I’ve said my peace” you reply sharply, wiping the tears from your eyes you get up and rummage through the wardrobe in your cabin looking for your rucksack, making an effort to pack away any sort of belongings that you might still have with you. You noisily look through your wardrobe, frustrated that you cannot locate your bag. “God dammit where is my rucksack” you shout angrily.

Buggy hears your comment muffled slightly through the door, his eyes wide at the realisation of what you are now doing. “What the hell are you doing in there doll!? Don’t you dare start packing, you hear me!?” His voice raised and laced with authority and desperation, hoping that some part of you would actually listen to him, even though he knew that wasn’t a thing you ever did even on a good day, preferring to do as you wish.

“You aren’t my captain anymore; you can’t order me about!” You shout back in defiance, desperate to find your bag, throwing clothes out of the wardrobe in your attempt to locate it, cursing under your breath at this ongoing situation that you just wanted to end. Buggy’s heart starts to sink slightly as he hears you spit the words ‘my captain’ a once loved phrase coming from your lips, now spoken with venom stabs into his heart. “Just open the hell up, we need to talk” His voice now more insistent and desperate. You drop the items in your hands on the floor, making a heap of clothes in the wardrobe before you stomp over to the door and yank it open. “Apologise.” You say sternly and look up at Buggy, remnants of the blazing fire still in your eyes although now clouded with tears. For once he is taken aback and speechless, his heart rate quickening at your angry visage. “Apologise?” his voice laced with confusion. “Yes. Apologise.” You say curtly. “Apologise for prying and manhandling me and I may reconsider leaving.” Buggy’s eyes widen at your demand, he was not used to people demanding things of him, if it was any one but you he would have disposed the captain’s justice upon them. He stands there silently for a moment as you stare up at him as he digests your words, the concept of apologising is almost foreign to him, however he knows that he can’t lose you, not after everything you have done to him and everything you mean to him, however he refuses to be disrespected.

Buggy contemplates your demand and scowls, his pride and arrogance now taking control at the thought of apologising for anything. “I don’t apologise for anything and you knew damn well I didn’t tolerate secrets when you joined this crew” he says through gritted teeth, his hands clenched by his side. “Oh, well I will say goodbye to you tomorrow then” you say with fake happiness and return to rummage through your wardrobe for your bag. He stands there and watches you struggle to find your rucksack as he shouts to you. “You’d really throw away everything you have here because of you damn pride!”

You drop everything that you have in you arms and your body stiffens, you turn to face him with tears in your eyes. “Everything I have!? Everything I had was taken away from me twice by fucking pirates! I was left for dead once and the second time your crew ripped me away from my home! Don’t you dare act like I owe my life to you! “You shout through sobs, you didn’t dislike the life you had aboard The Big Top, you enjoyed it even, however you could not stop the raw emotion from spilling out of you at this point. Buggy was stood there speechless, he had no idea of your past and now learning pirates were involved in ruining your life he was more confused, who were you? He did not expect your story to be like this and it hits him harder than he would care to admit, knowing his crew had played a part in your unnecessary suffering.

“Oh, you want to be quiet now? That’s fucking rich” you roll your eyes. “The great Buggy the Clown has no words for once.” You say through sobs looking at him. Buggy stands there and doesn’t say anything, just clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides, looking at you, admiring your unbridled fury.

You walk up to him and stand before him; he was towering over you but at this point you didn’t care enough to be intimidated. “You know, after everything, I began to care for you, I was loyal and did ask you asked. Why wasn’t that enough, why did you have to pry into my past?” Your eyes watering again as you confront him. Buggy’s heart clenches at your words, of course you were enough for him, you were more than that, he said nothing but placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, hoping the gesture would show his softness and help calm you somewhat.

You feel his soft and affectionate hand upon your shoulder, your eyes close and you sigh, imagining how much you want to pull him close and hold him tightly, you lean your head against the hand upon your shoulder, you smile softly and affectionately against his hand, finally feeling his soft touch against you. “I don’t really want to leave…” you say softly and barely audible. Buggy hears this and pulls you towards him into a hug, something he should have done a while ago. He wraps one arm around your waist, the other cupped around your head, pulling your head towards him so that he is cradling his head against his chest. You respond eagerly by wrapping your arms around him, holding onto him like your life depends on it. You stand like this for a few moments before he breaks away, using his finger to lift you chin to face him, wiping the tears from your eye with his thumb, he presses his forehead against yours and smiles at this intimate moment you are now sharing.

“We look like a pair of fools stood like this" your face stained with tears and his still laced with the remnants of anger. You chuckle softly, loving the intimate feeling of him pressed against you, even though it is his forehead.

“Well maybe I am a fool for you, Doll” you hear Buggy whisper affectionately as you both share this intimate moment, curious as to what the future will unfold for you both.

[akehoshimystar]

Chapter 1

Ito: (……Ah.)

The usual station front was crowded with people waiting for their someone. Among them, a man holding “something” with great care suddenly caught my eyes.

Ito: ………

Mao: Ito.

Ito: !

Mao: You’re already outside, I see. Sorry to keep you waiting.

Ito: It’s okay. I was actually looking around and just came out.

Mao: What about Mika-sis and the rest?

Ito: I just got a message saying “two more stations,” so maybe they’re almost here... Oh. Maybe it's that train.

Mao: Can you ask them to meet us here?

Ito: That's what we're talking about now.

So, which of the three nail colors did you choose?

Mao: I was pretty satisfied after trying them out, so I bought all of them.

Ito: What a nice shopping trip.

Mao: That reminds me, did you see something before I called out to you?

Ito: Ah. Someone was standing there... Oh, I guess he’s gone now.

He’s holding a big bouquet of flowers, and that really stood out.

Mao: A bouquet? Seeing you making that face, I thought it was something weirder.

Ito: …….

Umm. Sorry if this comes out of nowhere.

Mao: Yeah?

Ito: Mao-san.….

“An interesting and profitable flower shop.” What kind of flower shop do you think it is?

Mao: ……Is that a riddle?

Yuzuru: .….With that said, I have completed the reservation for the venue we wanted yesterday.

The next event will be held as scheduled.

I would like us to start preparing from today on while focusing on our assigned role. Looking forward to working with you.

Ito: Same here.

After bowing slightly to Kise-san who was sitting next to me, I returned my focus to the laptop on my lap.

Ito: (When we started working on this project, I thought it was still a long way off. Things unfolded tenfold faster than I expected...)

The cafe's special business day, held irregularly. A one-day event where you can enjoy activities, experiences, and limited menus based on a specific concept. Of course, it’s nothing foreign to rent a venue just for a certain event. That’s just how particular we should be in order to create a desired space. The staff would get all dressed up in appropriate attire for the occasion, a very popular “Dress Up Event.” Due to a series of circumstances, it's been several months since the last time it was held.  For me, this is a first for two reasons.

Ito: (The last event was held before I joined, so this is my first time participating and preparing.)

(Also….)

Ai: The issue of bringing in the leased equipment the day before has been resolved, I assume?

Yuzuru: Yes. Since there's nothing we can do about it, I was considering changing the venue.

Riku-san happened to be free, so he went with me to directly negotiate.

Since this is Yashiro-san's precious “first project” she said she would like to cooperate to the best of her ability to materialize it as precisely as possible.

Ai: Realize something as planned, huh….

At the moment, there aren't enough of those things you want to materialize.

Ito: …………I'm very sorry for the inconvenience.

Yuzuru: No, don’t say that.

The concept I proposed this time was “Florist.” The visual aspect is inspired by overseas flower shops. The guests can enjoy a little fortune-telling and dishes with edible flowers. After reading through the proposal, Kosaka-san’s first comment was “For better or worse, it's a passing mark.”

Ito: (According to Kise-san and Riku-san, if I was given “GO” for the costumes and venue preparations = the project has no problem.")

(Even in the worst case scenario, there should be no problem with holding the event...)

"Adding to the 'interesting' aspect of this event to make it profitable”. I was instructed to work on that in parallel with my preparations. Obviously, I still haven't found it.

Yuzuru: Rather than thinking about going from 0 to 10, it's surprisingly difficult to think of what 1 you can add to a completed 9.

For now, let's just share ideas casually with “maybe this could work” in mind….

---Clack!

Roka: Ta-daaaaa!!!

Ito: !?

Yuzuru: Woah. Roka-san?

Ai: ……….

The person who came into the office while making the sound effect upon his arrival was Roka-san, who had finally made an appearance for the first time in a few days.

Ito: (This is the first time I've seen someone come in saying “ta-daaa”...)

Roka: Fufu, the surprise was a great success! Even AiAi was so surprised he couldn't speak.

Ai: More like I couldn’t care less. Do you remember how many times I have to tell you, who has done nothing but leave without notice and arrives late, to at least be quiet while entering?

Roka: As I always say, I’m not the president reporting for work, I’m the owner.

Because I'm such a friendly person, I have to casually show off something worthy of an owner in a place like this.

Ai: Do not show off what you don't have.

Roka: AiAi is harsh again today!

Hnggnnnhh... It's been five days and two hours. Is everyone the same? Rare-kun, what’s up~☆

Rare: What’s up! Food?

Roka: Oh yeah, I'm glad you're doing well. I'll give you some treats to commemorate our reunion. Here.

Rare: Munch.

Roka: Awch!! Rare-kun, the snack is not in my finger! Bad boy!

Yuzuru: I'm glad to see that Roka-san is still doing well.

Roka: As you can see, I’m doing awesome! Anyway, what have you guys been doing together? Gossiping about love?

Ai: If you're going to mess around, leave.

Roka: Relax, I’m just kidding. You were having a meeting, right? That much I know.

Yuzuru: We were just about to discuss the next dress-up event. 

Roka: Hmm?

Kise-san gave a brief explanation and Roka-san listened while nodding along. Just when I saw him folding his arms and looking down, he suddenly looked up after a few seconds.

Roka: In that case!

How about opening a flower shop, like literally?

Ito: Are we really going to open a flower shop?

Roka: I'll call it...

“Send flowers to your loved ones ☆ Florist Cafe”!

Chapter 2 >>

[tired-biscuit]

anerican here, in the us its rude to stare is taught to kids at the same time as hands to yourself, also any random person at any given time could have a gun so you tend to subconsciously be way more committed to not being involved in any conflict like any random mother of three who listens to too much true crime could decide that you parked in the space next to her to try to traffic her and decide to shoot you about it

fuck, i’ve never really thought about it that way…….. gun control is such a foreign concept to me and i’m happy that it is cos i wouldn’t trust myself with a firearm, much less a stranger