#the ‘I’ is not experienced as an object from the outside!

[ningternzzz]

drunk!beomgyu and stoned!femreader

word count: 1.7k

warnings: based on why’d you only call me when you’re high by the arctic monkeys :3, established ?situationship, experienced stoner reader, sub gyu mostly, no protection, small angst, pillow humping somewhere in there too hehe

notes: i swear i will write abt other members too i’m just on that beomgyu pill rn :3, i literally wrote this while tipsy pls bear with me ^_-

3am was always the perfect time of night—or morning—to sit on your patio and make your way through a joint (or a bowl, whatever the mood called for). It was dead silent, especially on a weekday, and all you could hear was the rustling of leaves and the very occasional car rushing past the main road. It was the perfect setting for some “you time”.

It never ended up being just you, though.

Your clothes felt heavy on your body, practically begging to be taken off, and you happened to know a guy.

Choi Beomgyu. Neither of you could put a label on what your relationship was. He was always ready, eager, maybe too eager, to answer his phone at the witching hour. From whatever nonsense you had managed to mumble out on the line, to him being a resident on your bed, it was a vicious cycle. He always pretended to act annoyed, but actions speak louder than words. He knew the code to your lockbox, he knew exactly which turns to make to reach your room, and through the smoky haze he knew how to make you reach cloud 9.

Which is why it was odd for him not to pick up, or even reply. He had been awol since the previous evening, which you hadn’t thought too much of. You scoffed to yourself. Maybe he finally left the house on a Friday.

No. That felt—wrong? You hated the way your heart sank into your chest when you thought about him out at a bar, a club even, eyeing up someone else. Maybe even taking them back to his and—

You shook your head and rashly put the joint out on a nearby ashtray to try and rid yourself of the thought of him touching anyone else that wasn’t you. But why is it bugging you this much? Neither of you had set boundaries or standards. He was just some guy that knew where you lived, what your favorite color was, what your favorite flower is, what your favorite position is.

There's a blurry number next to his contact name, indicating the amount of times you’ve called him in a row. You’re too stoned to care what the number says and click his name one more time, only to hear the line ring out until it goes to voicemail.

You clutch your phone and throw yourself on your bed, trying to figure out why the hell you care this much.

After a bit of “positive self talk”, you somewhat convince yourself that you don’t care. In fact you’ve never cared less. He’s just a man. One stupid, stupid, stupid man.

You manage a shaky exhale before hearing a commotion from outside. You check your phone again.

3:28 AM.

You sit up, trying to eavesdrop on the conversation the best you can. It’s mainly muffled nonsense. You’re about to throw yourself back down on your bed when you swear you recognize that tone. That tone, that deepness, that softness.

You swing your legs around and practically run to your front door, not really thinking much before you stumble outside your house in nothing but lounge shorts and a t-shirt. Your jaw gapes open as you watch your neighbor swing an unidentified object at Beomgyu, dressed in a white tank top and jeans with a flannel loosely tied around his waist.

He’s stumbling as much as you are, and slurring his words at your poor neighbor. Your movements trigger your front porch light, catching the attention of both your neighbor and Beomgyu.

Has he seriously gone to the wrong house? You think as you peer at Beomgyu, still unsure if it’s really him.

His eyes widen as he drags his feet on the floor making his way towards you. He reeks of liquor mixed in with his flowery perfume, which made him even more appetizing than usual. You make up some lie to your neighbor about your now “boyfriend” and drag him inside the house.

The door doesn’t even close all the way and Beomgyu is all over you, more than he ever has been, which is saying a lot given how needy he normally is. All you can do is rest your hands on his biceps helplessly as he pins you to the wall, unaware of his strength. He’s huffing and puffing into your mouth, and you’re barely touching him. He’s drunk off his own perverted mind as he’s the one leading you for once to your bedroom.

────୨ৎ────

What you didn’t know is that Beomgyu hadn’t gone out at all actually. He had barely made it through pre-drinks at his best friend's house without having to rush back to his apartment. He swore he’d meet them later, he “just forgot his wallet”.

Then why was his wallet in his front pocket, annoyingly poking at his length stuffed inside his pants barely constrained by a single button and zipper? With every step he took he felt the edge dig into his increasingly painful hard on, when he had unsuccessfully tried to swat down in his poor friend’s bathroom for ten minutes.

The trek back up to his apartment felt like ages. By the time he was in the elevator he had sunk into the walls, palming himself as he waited patiently (or impatiently) for it to get to his floor.

As soon as his door closed behind him he sunk into his sofa and pulled his jeans to his knees, squeezing onto a pillow beside him as he shamelessly moaned your name over and over and over again.

He presses the pillow beside him onto his face, attempting to deafen his ludicrously noisy moans as he strokes himself with no restraint.

The plush cushion is used for more than just a noise suppressant, however.

Unsure if when the idea hit him, Beomgyu goes the straddle the pillow, rutting into it like a helpless dog. He’s whimpering and whining with no thought of the sheer amount of noise he’s making for just one person. It was ridiculous how just thinking of you, being with you, touching you, fucking you (, being fucked) could make him this riled up. He’s practically drooling at the thought of you wrapped around him now, his grip on the cushion getting together but his movements more sloppy. He’s fucked out and flushed just from the thought of you, sweat dripping down his face as he cums violently onto the now-stained pillow.

Somehow his orgasm made the alcohol much more effective, and he stumbled over to grab his phone out of his jean pockets.

Instead of just calling you back like he usually would, he marched himself over to your house— or rather— your neighbors house.

────୨ৎ────

He stumbles forwards on your bed, holding onto your hips as he rolls over so you’re straddling him. He’s too inebriated to bother with the intricacies of clothing. He lets you help him unbutton and unzip his jeans, moaning at the friction of the fabric against his sensitive boner. He lets out a pathetic gasp when it slaps on his soft tummy, a line of precum already dripping from his pink tip.

He grabs you from behind as you both help him find your entrance. The noise that emits from the both of you when you sink down on him is not only loud but nasty.

“Oh fuck” is all he can make out before pressing you down even further inside of him as he lifts his hips up to meet yours. The squelching and plap-ing every time your hope met was sending him closer to the brink of cumming [again].

You both are lost in each other, looking at each other’s eyes humming sweet praises that maybe wouldn’t have come out so easily if both of you were sober. Every time you call him a good boy he looks at you with the most longing puppy eyes, and everytime he reminds you how you feel so good around me, you lose your composure.

And every time you do lose your composure he’s right there underneath you to catch you, one hand holding you in place so he can continue pounding into you, juxtaposing his other hand drawing shapes along your spine.

You fold on top of him and push his damp hair behind his ear, peppering kisses on his cheek and jaw, and sucking softly on his neck, earning vile whimpers and pants from Beomgyu. You feel his breath hitch and his hips miss a beat, and for some reason that was even more hot than if he had been going at a consistent rhythm. He was messy, untimely, even his hand holding you in place was barely doing its job—and you both knew, and loved it.

He wasn’t a pervert, but he couldn’t stop roaming his hands everywhere, he couldn’t stop moaning so loud just for you, because he knew how much you loved his puppy noises.

You weren’t a pervert, but you couldn’t stop licking his strained neck and pulling a lick of hair for easier access, because you knew how much he loved being your toy. Calling him a dirty whore lightheartedly makes him moan even louder with a cute smile plastered across his face.

It doesn’t take him long to cum anyway with you, but with you both inebriated and messy his doll eyes are already rolling back and you feel him trembling underneath you. His hands dig into your hips as his jaw drops open, his lips forming a pretty “o” shape as he whimpers profanities. He’s shuddering, begging you to “stop…..please….. please…..it feels so good….I’m gonna—“.

“So which one is it?” you say as you find his cheek in your palm. He pouts and nuzzles your hand, seemingly unsure of if he wants you to stop because he’s so sensitive or keep going because he’s so sensitive.

He’s incoherent now, any words he tries to form melting into breathless moans. His hair is stuck to his forehead and his eyebrows are furrowed as he tries his hardest to hold back. He always finds it so embarrassing how fast he finishes.

“Please tell me I can cum” Beomgyu somehow musters out in between breaths. You lean down and kiss him, the usual sign of approval. You see his ears turn red and his knuckles turn white as you help him ride out his high, feeling him fuck himself back into you slowly.

Maybe it’s the alcohol in his system, and maybe it’s the weed in yours, but you swear you could make out a lewd-sounding “I love you” escape his lips.

[akari-of-moonlight]

[Matchbox, Yearbook, Pen.]

Hasemura Week Day 5: [Tribute]

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Tetro Danganronpa Pink

Relationships: Kamimura Kazutoshi/Hasegawa Ken

Characters: Hasegawa Ken, Kamimura Kazutoshi

Additional tags: Hurt/Comfort, Canonical Character Death, Angst, Symbolism, Freeform-ish?, who knows it reads like a fever dream, there's some mild blood and stuff but if you're into tetro I don't think it should matter, I still don't know how to tag fics help

Hi guys I still don't know how to format these fics. uh I wrote this whole thing in one day and then spent three weeks editing it and not posting it because I got scared but HERE IT IS!!! Be warned it's very long I got a little carried away.

Thank you to @thewhimsicalenderdragon for betaing I love you

Kazutoshi sits at the desk next to Ken in an empty classroom. 

He’s just… there, arms crossed gently in his lap, like this is normal. As if the two of them were simply going through another day of school. 

Which is strange, because they never went to school together.

He is looking out the wall of windows, to something Ken can’t see. The sky outside is blindingly white. Looking at it, the impression of clouds sears into Ken’s mind, although there are no discernible outlines. And it burns as if it is the sun itself.

A simple arrangement of objects is laid out across Kazutoshi’s desk. A small matchbox and a yearbook, with a single black pen laying over them.

Kazutoshi doesn’t touch any of the objects on his desk. He simply looks out the window. Out into the light. Maybe it doesn’t burn his eyes.

He is beautiful. Fleeting and perfect, drawn in sharp lines and rimmed by that white light. 

His fingers tap light rhythms on the desk in a subconscious habit. He always did that when he was thinking. The small motion is so achingly familiar that Ken’s breath catches again.

Ken’s eyes fix upon those same small, angular, agile fingers that had traced over his hands and shoulders nervously or casually, like a light breeze, leaving burning prints behind in its wake. 

Kazutoshi’s hands look like paper in the light, pale and beautiful against the warm brown wood of the desk. A blue tinge afflicts them like a layer of time and decay, and Ken can’t focus on them for too long, he just can’t.

The light from the windows burns at Kazutoshi’s figure, yet he remains undesecrate, like the pillars of stone and cement left behind after flood or famine, burning disaster, bloody wars. Relics of before times. Untouchable.

Even though Ken can’t see his face, his very silhouette is beautiful. His posture looks relaxed, casual, his small frame curving perfectly in the light like the arching porcelain centerpiece that stood in the fountain outside of Ken’s favorite restaurant. 

Ken hadn’t thought about that restaurant in weeks. 

He wants to reach for Kazutoshi. He knows he shouldn’t. He knows he doesn’t deserve to be here, next to the brilliant cobalt singularity that had believed that Ken would never taint his hands with the blood of another. He knows this isn’t real, can’t be real. He knows he is dead.

Terminal Agitation: the tendency of one to experience disorientation or hallucinations before death. Not to be confused with one’s life flashing before their eyes.

As a child, Ken often used to worry that nothing was real. That maybe “he” was just a single flash of consciousness in the burning, ruinous slop that was some sort of a plane of existence. That maybe he was imagining everything, a fabricated universe built around the only consciousness the void would ever know. 

Maybe he was only ever experiencing this moment, and nothing else had ever been real. 

Maybe he hadn’t even really started that sentence. 

There wasn’t a way to know, and there would never be a way to know. He hated that. God, he hated that.

Back then, the brush of his mother’s hair would bring him back. Her touch, her soft voice, her words of reassurance. 

Now, the pain brings him back.

If he really is only living in a delusion of this one moment, then it’s a stupid fucking moment to gain consiousness for.

Ken finds himself crying. 

His body is crying, at least. Tears stream down his face as his limbs shake more than they should be able to, and his chest heaves in tempo with the ticking of the clock behind him. 

Why is the clock so fast?

Ken doesn’t cry in public. He could never understand people who could just let themselves go under the watchful eyes of others like that. Only three people in the world had ever seen him cry before. 

Well, that isn’t true anymore, he supposes.

The tears don’t stop his thoughts. They never have.

There is blood on his hands. There is death in his lungs.

He’s spent a lot of time around dead bodies lately. At a certain point you get used to it. 

Ken knows he is guilty, but he doesn’t feel guilt. He should, probably. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t feel much of anything anymore. He closes his eyes, and he sees it again.

Stilted rules that destroyed everything he had planned for.

Five rotting corpses, faces in familiar fixtures of horror.

Blue eyes that had asked a question he couldn’t answer, and the tears that refracted their light that had felt somehow soul crushingly familiar and incomprehensibly foreign. 

He had nothing to say to them.

A hand grabs his wrist, jolting him back to reality. 

Kazutoshi had turned around, red eyes piercing as the day they had been extinguished. 

“Ken.”

Kazutoshi’s grip is tight, almost fierce. Ken wants to look at him, but the light enveloping him makes it hard. He can only focus his eye on Kazutoshi’s hand, which pulls at his skin, nails digging into him like little pinpricks.

Ken is silent. He doesn’t try to pull his wrist back, or pry Kazutoshi off. Kazutoshi stares him dead in the eye as he whispers four words.

“What have you done?”

Ken closes his eyes. He deserves it, the scorn, the hate, the blame. Kazutoshi was innocent. Ken was guilty. It was as simple as that.

Kazutoshi pulls Ken’s wrist sharply, bringing it next to his head. Close, too close, to that luminescent celeste hair. Kazutoshi’s hand is tensed, still clutching, digging into Ken’s limp wrist. Ken is pulled forward, catching himself with his legs as he starts to lose feeling in his hand. Strange that he had feeling in his hand in the first place. Strange that he could catch himself with his legs.

Kazutoshi is so close to him now, but Ken still can’t see his face. He can only make out his small frame, his cerulean silhouette. His wrist hurts from Kazutoshi’s grip. 

“Say something, Ken,” Kazutoshi says, and it’s desperate and angry and hollow all at once.

Ken knows he should apologize. He knows he should fall apart in front of the boy who saved him, broke him. He knows he should beg for forgiveness or stumble to explain himself. He knows he should want to lean forward and embrace Kazutoshi. He knows he should want to hold him while he still could.

Instead, Ken stays silent. He stares past Kazutoshi, into the burning sky. He realizes that his right eye is still covered by bandages. 

The blazing light from outside tinges his vision red, his bandage only becoming an amplifier to the horribly beautiful, almost sentient light that comes from Kazutoshi and from beyond him at the same time. 

“What… happened to you?” Kazutoshi asks. His voice is raw and broken, and Ken feels dizzy. 

Dizziness is a common side effect of blood loss, due to a lack of proper oxygen in the brain. A human can usually lose about 30% of their total blood volume without a high chance of death. Vitals will likely be heavily affected.

Her body probably didn’t even have time to replenish the blood she’d lost.

“Say something,” Kazutoshi repeats. He sounds like he’s on the verge of falling apart. Ken’s head is throbbing in time with the clock, but he forces his eye to lock with Kazutoshi’s anyway.

“Please, Ken,” Kazutoshi begs. “I need to hear you. I– I don’t care if it’s an apology or some stupid fucking fact. I need–”

His breath hitches, and Ken should reach forward to comfort him. He should say something.

But he is tired. He is so, so tired. 

He was ready to go. He was ready for his consciousness to fade away. He was ready to not think anymore. He wanted to die. 

He didn’t want Kazutoshi back now. He wanted to never have lost him. He wanted to never have known how much he lost.

Why isn’t he allowed to die?

Matchbox, yearbook, pen. 

Hand around his wrist.

Sped up clock.

“I need to know you still care.” 

Ken doesn’t know how to reply to Kazutoshi’s plea. He doesn’t know how to be what Kazutoshi deserves. He doesn’t know how to be anything other than tired.

Kazutoshi waits. The clock doesn’t. It drones on, a cacophony in a single sound, and Ken wants to break it. He wants the broken glass to bite into his hand and tear into his body. He wants it to just shut up already.

“Do you care?” Kazutoshi asks. 

Ken doesn’t have an answer for him.

Apathy syndrome: categorized by indifference and emotional detachment. Sources from traumatic experiences. General apathy may also be a symptom of other neurological conditions.

Ironically, he doesn’t remember as much about this topic as he used to.

Kazutoshi stands up, still holding Ken’s wrist next to his head. Every part of his body is tense, drawn taught and shaking with pressure. His silhouette almost blocks the light from behind him. 

Ken lets himself slump to the side as Kazutoshi pulls his arm up instead of forward, standing over Ken and casting a shadow over his face.

Ken can make out Kazutoshi’s features now. His eyes, which before Ken could only make out the burning red of, are narrowed and marred with exhaustion. Blood drips from a few stab wounds on his face, but the rest of the damage Ken knows should be there is covered by his sweater. Tracks of dried tears trace down his face. 

Kazutoshi slowly lowers his hand, never loosening his grip. Ken’s elbow folds immediately, his limp arm giving Kazutoshi no resistance. Kazutoshi pulls Ken’s wrist into his shadow. Ken can see that his jagged nails have broken skin, and Ken is softly bleeding too.

Kazutoshi watches him, quietly. It is a different kind of quiet than what they know. 

The clock is almost louder now.

In his free hand, Kazutoshi grabs the pen. He lifts it, discarding the cap with a flick of his fingers. He places it on the desk momentarily, using his left hand to wrap gently around Ken’s wrist, right below where his other hand is. Slowly, he releases his tight grip, shifting Ken’s hand to rest much more lightly in his left hand. His gentle touch hurts so much more than his cutting grasp.

With Ken’s hand in his grip, Kazutoshi reaches for the uncapped pen, bringing it to Ken’s wrist. 

He presses down, hard enough that droplets of blood grow atop the cuts from his nails. Slowly, strokes form under the pen, as Kazutoshi drags it across Ken’s wrist.

When he is finished, he examines his work. He shakes his head disapprovingly, as if unsatisfied, and uses his other hand to wipe at Ken’s wrist.

Ken’s blood mixes with cheap pen ink, smearing across his wrist and onto Kazutoshi’s hand. Whatever Kazutoshi wrote is ruined by blood and ink. 

Ken’s eyes lay listlessly on his bleeding, ink stained hand. Kazutoshi still holds it softly in his left, gazing at it with an unreadable expression. Then he lets it fall onto the desk. 

Ken is jolted by the sudden impact. He meets Kazutoshi’s eyes. 

They both look tired.

A single word falls out of his mouth.

“Kazutoshi.”

Kazutoshi’s eyes widen, then he shakes his head, a small smile not reaching anywhere near his eyes slipping through his face.

“Ken,” he whispers back. It is not a question, but Ken answers anyway, reaching for Kazutoshi. He expects to be stopped before he can make contact, but his hand meets Kazutoshi’s face. He hesitates, still waiting to be slapped away. His hand brushes lightly over Kazutoshi’s cheek. 

Kazutoshi stares at him unflinchingly. The Kazutoshi he knew would never have let him do this. The Kazutoshi he knew wouldn’t be doing any of this.

Ken reaches for the trail of dried tears. Instead, he makes contact with warm blood. Kazutoshi’s blood. 

A small trail of it has dripped down from the small wound under Kazutoshi’s right eye. It is achingly familiar to the touch. 

Kazutoshi brings his hand up to meet Ken’s, guiding it to smear the blood away, and then letting go, still staring at Ken with something unreadable. 

Ken drops his hand, staring at Kazutoshi, in his blood stained, sunlit, opalescent glory. 

“Ken,” Kazutoshi says again, a little bolder. A little more commanding.

He takes a breath, pushing his chair back and stepping between their perfectly aligned desks. He gazes around the room, looking at the rows of perfectly aligned desks. With a simple eye roll, he pushes his own desk out of place, destroying the perfect lines of the room. Ken stares at the broken pattern, eyes tracing lines that don’t make sense anymore. 

It feels freeing, untameable. It feels broken and wrong.

The yearbook falls to the ground, opening to a white page. At the top, bold text labels it as a page for signatures. 

Small scrawling handwriting drowns in the white of the page. 

I’ll see you later.

No name. No signature. No goodbye.

I’ll see you later.

Kazutoshi picks up the matchbox from his desk, eyes tracing over it. 

He lights a match, letting it burn in the air for a second, before throwing it away, casting it off to the side. 

As soon as the match hits the ground, it lights up the floor, racing up the walls and forming a perimeter around him and Ken. He smiles another strange, sad smile at Ken, backlit by the searing light of the windows and the angry, hungry, all consuming heat of the fire.

Fire needs three things, fuel, oxygen, and a source of ignition. Heat. Classroom floors made of linoleum don’t provide enough fuel for the fire on their own to keep it going. It would have to use gasoline to burn like that.

Why is it burning like that?

Ken stands up, suddenly able to move again. 

Kazutoshi looks up at him. Ken almost forgot how small he was.

“Kazutoshi,” he whispers.

“So you feel the fire, at least,” Kazutoshi notes, voice softer than Ken had ever heard it before. There was something almost provoking to it, in a way unlike the familiar teasing that Kazutoshi usually took up. 

Ken knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Kazutoshi wouldn’t do this. That this couldn’t be him. Even if aching familiarity was imbued in his every movement. Even if Ken could swear the burning warmth of him was exactly as he remembered.

“I… Kazutoshi,” Ken’s voice cracks like glass under the heat of Kazutoshi’s gaze. The clock ticks, and no way is it going at the right tempo. The fire traces up the walls and envelops them.

Ken notices now that the room doesn’t have a door.

Strange.

Kazutoshi lets the matchbox fall to the ground, and the matches spill out across the floor. He kicks a few out of his way, then reluctantly gazes up at Ken. 

“A– Are you… What is this?” Ken chokes out the question, Kazutoshi’s piercing eyes drawing out the barbed words that should come easily to him. 

Kazutoshi smirks. “That’s a change. The quiz guy himself, looking to me for answers, I mean.”

Ken’s breath catches in the familiarity of Kazutoshi’s easy tone. He doesn’t find it so strange. He was always looking to Kazutoshi, after all. Even if Kazutoshi didn’t see it. 

Kazutoshi shrugs. “Maybe you just need a button,” he muses. 

Ken has had enough of buttons lately. He doesn’t think he could bear to stand at a podium again. 

“I– I don’t have the answers. Not anymore.” The words slip out before Ken realizes. “There’s… god, Kazutoshi, there’s so much.”

Kazutoshi nods like he knows what Ken means. He sighs, hands slipping into his pockets. Ken wants to memorize this moment. The soft curve of Kazutoshi’s shoulders, the brilliance of his colors in the light, the light, thin strands of blue hair that frame his face. He really is beautiful.

“You were so close,” Kazutoshi says softly.

Ken nods. He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows.

Kazutoshi shakes his head. “I guess I did mean something, then.”

“Everything,” Ken chokes out. “Y– You meant… everything.”

Kazutoshi is silent for a few seconds.

He glances past Ken, at the fire ravaging the classroom. 

“Funny,” he notes. “I never took fire to be much of our thing.”

His eyes trace the room’s slowly burning form. Posters with unreadable text blacken and crumble to ash. The fire spread across the floor and two of the walls. Only the windows and the giant chalkboard at the front of the classroom remain untouched. That, and the middle of the classroom, where the two of them stood. 

“It really is clean, huh,” Kazutoshi muses. “I mean, I never had to work on a fire scene before. It kind of just… takes everything. If there’s anything left behind, it’s not exactly something that can be cleaned or salvaged.”

He locks eyes with Ken again.

“You know something about that, yeah?” Kazutoshi prompts. 

Ken doesn’t respond. Kazutoshi shrugs and continues. 

“I mean, you’re a facts guy. You know a lot. Maybe too much. There’s got to be some facts about fire in there.”

Kazutoshi leans in a little closer, gazing at Ken. 

“I… I can’t…” Ken tries to choke out something, anything, as his vision blurs. “I don’t know.”

The heat of the fire claws at his skin, and the cuts on his wrist have started to throb. 

“Right,” Kazutoshi says, almost disappointed. He moves back, and Ken chokes. It’s like he can’t breathe without Kazutoshi. Or maybe it’s just smoke inhalation. 

Kazutoshi picks up the pen from the desk again. He brings it up to Ken’s face, and a part of Ken expects Kazutoshi to drive it through his flesh, making Ken a mirror image of him, bloodied and marred. A part of him wants that.

Instead, Kazutoshi slips it through one layer of Ken’s bandages. He places his other hand against Ken’s chest, bracing him, then pulls at the bandage with the pen. 

Ken doesn’t stop him, but something in his face must cue Kazutoshi to his lack of understanding.

“I want to see your eyes,” Kazutoshi whispers.

He slowly pulls at the bandage, tightening the other loops around Ken’s head. Something about the pressure makes Ken lightheaded. Kazutoshi pulls a little harder, and the bandage unravels, falling away.

Ken wonders if maybe the strips of gauze were the only things holding him together.

Kazutoshi pulls the pen back. Ken’s bandages drape over it, and looking at it, Ken realizes that the outer lining has cracked from the pressure. A single fissure traces down the side of the pen, and ink flows out, staining Ken’s bandage a dark, not-quite-black tone. Dark ink spills onto Kazutoshi’s left hand as he looks up at Ken.

Somehow, Ken can see out of his right eye. His vision is blurry for a second, before it focuses. 

He stares at Kazutoshi. Sea glass and coquelicot make up heaven itself in front of him. He breathes a little easier, just for a second. 

Kazutoshi stares into Ken’s eyes in return, then unwraps the now more black than white bandages until he’s holding a long strip of stained gauze in his hand. He motions for Ken to lift his hand, and he does.

Kazutoshi gently wraps his wrist with the bandage, pressing hard enough to close the cuts and allow them to clot. The gauze eats up the excess blood on Ken’s wrist, ink and blood mixing in every place and consuming the white material.

Every language has different words for every color. Black and white are almost always the first two colors given a name to in every culture, with red shortly after, making black, white, and red the three most basic color terms. This is theorized to be because these colors make up the most contrast in color as humans perceive it, making it not only a cultural phenomenon but a biological one, although full research on this topic is mainly theory.

The fire is burning closer and closer. It fills the air, hammering into Ken’s skull like the ticking of the clock. The yearbook sits dangerously close to the flames.

I’ll see you later.

Kazutoshi seems to track Ken’s line of sight. He leans over to the book, picking it up and moving to sit on the edge of Ken’s desk, like they’re just classmates who stayed late to chat after class. Like the room isn’t burning around them.

Kazutoshi flips through the pages, looking unimpressed. Ken leans over to look.

“We’re not in here, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Kazutoshi says. Ken doesn’t know how to respond to that. 

The yearbook is full of pictures. Terribly familiar faces greet Ken on the pages. 

Isono. Sasaki. Chiba. Harada.

Tsuno.

Okazaki.

Ken wants to throw the yearbook into the fire, but he isn’t the one holding it. 

Okazaki’s face fills a page, in vibrant colors and bright hues. Ken can’t look too long before his vision turns red. He coughs, and wonders how long it will take to die from smoke inhalation.

Kazutoshi flips through the pages, looking bored. 

Hama and Watari. Hiroaki, Ojima, Tamba, Wada. 

Yanagi. Hayashi.

Kazutoshi pauses on another page of photos with some over-the-top, flaunting caption at the top that Ken can’t get himself to read. Kazutoshi points to a small picture in the left corner. Blue hair catches Ken’s eye, and he sees the two of them, blurred and out of focus, in the background of a photo.

“I mean, it’s better than nothing,” Kazutoshi mutters.

Ken stares at it. His eyes burn, maybe from the smoke. 

In all the pictures, is all proof they existed a blurred memory of someone else? 

I’ll see you later.

Kazutoshi finishes flipping through the yearbook, setting it back down on his desk. Ken hopes it burns. 

“I guess we didn’t mean that much, in the end,” Kazutoshi says.

Ken stares at the fire. They didn’t, did they? 

Even when the others shared memories of their dead peers, Kazutoshi’s name lingered like a taboo. Even to Ken. 

And now the two of them are here.

Choking on smoke, and burning to death in an empty classroom.

Background features.

“You meant something,” Ken hears himself say.

“Oh yeah?” Kazutoshi prompts, almost detached.

“Kazutoshi, you–” Ken chokes out. He cuts off. 

He doesn’t know how to tell Kazutoshi that he was so much more than something. That he was the air in Ken’s lungs, the blood in his veins. That in his absence, Ken became a negative. He no longer was. He became an amalgamation of everything he wasn’t.

“You were everything,” Ken repeats, unable to say anything more.

“But I wasn’t. Not while I was alive,” Kazutoshi says, crossing his arms.

Ken doesn’t know how to respond to that. He truly doesn’t know if there was a time where Kazutoshi wasn’t his only tie to life. He knows there must have been, but…

“What do you think I am? What did you turn me into, when I died?”

Ken can’t say anything to that. 

Kazutoshi’s red eyes cut into him.

“When did I become everything, Ken?”

When I became nothing.

The fire burns. The clock ticks. Ken breathes in smoke. 

“I don’t want to be everything,” Kazutoshi says.

“I– I know,” Ken stammers. “I’m sorry.”

Kazutoshi’s hands reach up, and he pulls his hoodie a little tighter around his neck. 

“I… I wasn’t an angel. I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t your entire world.”

“I know,” Ken repeats.

Kazutoshi looks to Ken with something like a plea in his eyes.

“I… That scares me, Ken.”

“...It scares me too.”

Kazutoshi’s left hand is still covered in black ink. The wounds on his face have started to bleed again. The largest one leaves a trail of red down his face. It almost looks like a tear.

Ken reaches for him, wanting to wipe away the blood again, but he pauses. He doesn’t want to touch Kazutoshi. Kazutoshi wouldn’t want Ken to touch him. Even if this isn’t actually Kazutoshi.

“It’s okay,” Kazutoshi whispers, noticing Ken’s hand hovering like a hummingbird over his face.

Ken pauses, still unsure.

Kazutoshi’s ink stained hand rests on Ken’s wrist, and he can’t tell if the ink of his bandage soaks into Kazutoshi’s hand, or the other way around. Ken closes the distance, hand gently smearing the trail of blood off Kazutoshi’s face. 

Kazutoshi’s hand traces up Ken’s arm, drawing a trail of black ink along Ken’s white shirt. He pauses, then brings his hand to rest on Ken’s shoulder. Ken takes a step closer. 

Kazutoshi stares into his eyes, and Ken feels like he can breathe again, despite the claustrophobic fire ravaging the very air around them. Ken’s hand lingers next to Kazutoshi’s face.

“God… what happened to us?” Kazutoshi asks, letting out a dry laugh. Ken closes his eyes, content to burn with Kazutoshi, even for just a second.

Ken doesn’t know if he leans forward, or if Kazutoshi pulls him down, but in a moment, their lips collide. 

The burning classroom disappears, and all that is left is them. 

Kazutoshi’s lips move softly, but with warm urgency. Ken follows his motions, letting go of everything. He doesn’t think about what any of it means. He is only in the now, in the here, in Kazutoshi, as he finally breathes into what he should’ve done when they still had time. Kazutoshi feels warm, feels alive, and Ken lets his hand wrap around Kazutoshi’s head, gently intertwining his fingers with Kazutoshi’s cobalt hair. Ken feels his knees buckle under him, but he doesn’t dare pull away. 

The two of them kiss, slowly sinking to the ground in each other’s arms. 

Kazutoshi pulls away for air, not far enough to create any more distance between them. Ken only realizes then that both of them had slipped to their knees. The dropped matches lay scattered around and under them. Kazutoshi laughs into the gap between their faces, before kissing Ken again, pulling him even closer. Ken’s white shirt is stained with black and scarlet, and Kazutoshi’s beautiful face is marred with tears and blood from both of them like paint across his features. 

Ken pulls away from the kiss this time.

“I’m so sorry, Kazutoshi,” he whispers. 

Kazutoshi finds Ken’s left hand without turning away. His thin fingers pull Ken’s closer. Kazutoshi’s other hand shifts to wrap around Ken’s neck, soft but steady.

“It’s over now,” Kazutoshi replies, and it feels something like forgiveness.

Ken doesn’t know if he’s the one crying, or if maybe both of them are, but it doesn’t matter. The two of them fold into each other on the classroom floor. Ken can feel the fire burning closer and closer, and soon it is upon them.

Kazutoshi grabs for Ken’s stained shirt, and Ken pulls Kazutoshi into him, their bodies meeting flush, as fire and ink and blood and tears converge on the only thing that matters anymore. Even if it isn’t real.

As Ken’s vision goes black, his thoughts slow, for the first time that he can remember. He lets himself go as he holds Kazutoshi. 

It’s over now.

[francesderwent]

“People ask me this all the time, they’re like what’s it like to be male, and I say well I don’t know, because I am male. It’s not an object to me, floating out there, that I can observe…it doesn’t work like that because in my experience, I can’t abstract maleness into an object apart from subjectively living it, occupying it, being it….And this can appear in an age of vanity as a great crisis. Because it means that within me there is a detachment between who I am and my image that I just can’t heal. I want to consume my own image, and I can’t, and it’s frustrating. It’s like, how can I occupy this maleness when I can’t even describe it because I’m so intimately close to it, I am it, that I can never possibly buy it off a shelf or take it and do seven steps to become it. You see this in heterosexual behavior as much as homosexual as much as transgenderism, which is men trying desperately trying to push their masculinity out into a number of products that they can buy in order to confirm that they’re men. Which you wouldn’t even do unless it was some crisis within yourself, like you needed it to become distant so you could consume it again so you can have a life-image correspondence. It’s like, alright, I'm buying beard oil and I’ve got a truck….Within this, women can appear as an object of envy, because your sex, it seems from my perspective, is an object. It’s not something that I have saturated with myself. It’s not the thing that I’ve already eaten and now I’m looking for something else. It’s the thing I don’t have….The point is that when the woman appears, she appears as an object in a way that maleness to the male can never appear. And so she appears as a possible object of consumption, and in that as salvation. Because then everything that’s weird and subjective about gender in the woman appears to be solid, whole, and understandable. I can investigate it. It has parts, it wears these clothes, it tends to do this sort of thing, it has this kind of voice—all are things that are objects to me. Not what’s flowing out of me, not what’s happening whether I would or no, it’s something out there.”

—Marc Barnes, Gender in a Big Beige World, starting around 1:43:19

[aliusfrater]

similar cinematographic choices to portray the same imagery with insanely different circumstantial contexts

[sallowthingsinthedark]

.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

I'll Crawl Home

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, memory loss, angst, pining (unrequited love but not really), smut (blowjob, fingering, p in v sex, creampie), love confessions, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You don't know who these men are, but they seem to know you. Your body seems to like the Handsome one a lot. But the more you manage to remember, the more lost you feel.

Author's Note: This might be one of my favorites. Enjoy!!

Title from Work Song by Hozier

Word Count: 8.6k

You don’t know who these men are. 

There are three of them, all gathered around you with frowning faces and drawn brows, and they seem worried. The tall one in the middle keeps saying your name and asking the one in the tie and trench coat if he can figure out what’s wrong with you. Trench Coat keeps snapping variations of no, he can’t, because the object was guarded against outside interference. 

The third one is silent. He’s a little behind you and wearing flannel like Tall, but his hair is shorter, he’s less lanky, and he’s touching you. His hand is on your arm, his grip so tight it almost hurts, and you’d… barely even noticed. Not because he’s almost inhumanly handsome, or because when he does grumble something in his voice is deep and soothing to your mind, but because your body hadn’t seemed to really register it. And if it had, it hadn’t been worried at all.

But you’re worried. As your brain starts to kick into gear—dragging itself out of an odd, hazy sludge—you are very worried about why Trench Coat, Tall, and Handsome are so close to you. Why Trench Coat keeps saying you’re sick—you’re tired, but overall you feel fine—and why Tall knows your name. Why Handsome is still touching you, why he’s so quiet, why when he looks at you your skin heats and your heart does a little, happy hum.

Why when you yank your arm from Handsome’s grasp, he blinks at you in confusion. Why he says your name so slowly. Why when he reaches back out to you, your body leans forward of its own accord. 

“No!” You shout, and it’s more at yourself, but Handsome’s whole face falls, and he looks like he’s been shot, stabbed, and bled out.

“Shit, she’s talking- Hey,” Tall says your name, reaching to grab your shoulder, and you start to crawl away from him. “Can you- Wait, where are you going-“

“She seems to be experiencing panic.” Trench Coat tilts his head, glancing over your shoulder. “She is likely trying to get to Dean.”

You follow his gaze, and your body is moving to where Handsome—Dean?—had backed away.

“Fuck!” You try to scramble to your feet, ready to run for your life, but you barely make it to your knees before darkness clouds your vision and your head starts to spin.

All three men shout your name, but Dean’s deep voice is the loudest, and when the world grows clear again, he the one who’s holding you upright.

Your body is slumped into him. It’s the same way you’ve slumped into your bed. The same way you used to slump against you mom when you were a kid, because you never thought she could hurt you. Because she’d felt like the safest place to be in the world.

But you don’t know Dean. 

“Don’t- don’t touch me-“ You try to shake him off, but he doesn’t let go. He just lowers you carefully down and moves away, staring at you with an expression that makes your heart ache for reasons you don’t understand. “Who are you people?!”

Tall says your name again. How the fuck does he know your name. “It’s just us, it’s-“ Tall moves to touch you, and frowns when you flinch away.

At least you still know how to flinch away. 

“I don’t knowwho the fuck you are,” you hiss at him. “Or what the fuck is happening, but I want to go home.” You hug yourself, everything suddenly cold, your voice growing small. “Please let me go home.”

Trench Coat nods. “I am able to-“

“Cas.” Dean grunts from behind you, and Trench Coat—Cas—frowns at him. “Don’t.”

“She has requested something I can assist with-“

“She doesn’t fucking know who you are.” Dean snaps, stomping past you, never looking down. It makes the ache in your heart worse. “What the hell do you think is gonna happen when you zap her back to a home she doesn’t remember?”

Tall shakes his head. “We don’t know that she doesn’t remember the bunker-“

“Yeah? Hey,” Dean says your name, his glare and tone firm. Your body has a very confusing reaction to it, your thighs squeezing together as your stomach fills with heat. “You believe in angels?”

You blink. “Like, with wings?”

Dean gives Tall a pointed look, and Tall just shakes his head again.

“That doesn’t prove anything-“

“It proves enough, Sammy.” 

“No, it doesn’t!” Tall—Sammy—crosses his arms, glaring at Dean. “She remembers her own name, it’s not unreasonable to think she might remember her home!”

“That’s cause her name is her name! She doesn’t remember who we are! She’s not going to remember anything else-“

“It may be productive to find out what she does remember before we make assumptions.” Cas cuts Dean off with clipped words, and barely flinches as Dean glowers at him. You’re impressed. Dean seems scary.

Even if your body doesn’t seem to agree. 

“Good idea, Cas, let’s just-“ Sammy drops to the floor in front of you. “Hi, I’m-“

“Sammy?” 

“It’s actually Sam- wait.” Sam blinks at you. “You remember my name?“

“No.” You shake your head, nodding up to Dean. “He said it.”

“Oh.” Sam follows your gaze with a small frown. “Do you know his name?”

“It’s Dean.” You whisper, and another strange expression flashes over Dean’s face. “But I don’t remember it, I just heard it. I’m sorry.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Sam sighs.

“Don’t apologize, we’re just- It’s complicated.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, scanning carefully over your face. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

You nod—you don’t seem to have a choice, and you’re not nearly as panicked as you should be—and Sam swallows.

“Okay, you know your name, so how about- What year is it?”

You tell him, and he nods slowly. It goes like that as he asks you the date, the president, how old you are, and when your birthday is. It only flips when he asks you where home is, you answer, and all three men gape at you.

“What’s wrong?” You look between their identical expressions of worry. “That’s where I-“

Sam says your name carefully, his voice tense. “You haven’t lived there in almost six years.”

You blink at him. “No… I- I live there now.”

“No, you-“ Sam lets out a long breath. “How about this, do you know what your job is?”

“Yeah, I’m a librarian.”

That was clearly not the answer they wanted, but Sam pushes on. “Okay, what kind of car do you drive?”

“I don’t drive.” You glance up at Cas and Dean, and they’re exchanging a taut look. This is so fucking weird. “I, um, I take the bus.”

“Fuck!” Dean shouts suddenly, throwing his hands in the air. He sounds agitated. It’s making you agitated. “Goddamnit, she doesn’t remember anything-“

“Actually, she seems to remember selective things.” Cas lowers down as well, his gaze seeming to drive right into your soul. “Are you aware of how you arrived here, in this room?”

You aren’t. You try to remember, and it hurts. Your whole head lights up with pain and you double-over, but that seems to answer the men’s questions all by itself, and they exchange low, tense words as you lay on the floor.

Dean keeps looking at you. He’s not speaking to you, but he keeps staring at you, and your body always seems to respond to it. His jaw clenches as Cas helps you to your feet, and your legs want to walk right into him. Dean scowls as Sam explains that you do know them—that they’re your friends, and you’re cursed, and they’re taking you somewhere safe to help you—and your skin prickles under the feeling of it. As they move you into a sleek black muscle car and take off down the road, Dean keeps glaring at you in the rearview mirror and you want to reach out and touch him. You think it would be really good to touch him.

You really want to touch him. He’s beautiful, in the shadows and low lights of the highway, and right now it’s really just Dean in the whole universe. 

Just Dean. Here. With you.

The wind is cold in your hair and loud in your ears, but the Impala is warm, and the music is louder.

Dean is louder. Singing at the top of his lungs and drumming a little off beat on the wheel, his eyes alight and his smile wide. 

He’s warm, too. You giggle and roll your eyes when he makes a terrible joke, and he grabs your face with a strong, rough, warm hand to pulls you into a kiss, all as the road keeps rushing past you-

Cas says your name, and you blink at him. You’re not sure what the fuck just happened.

“Are you experiencing memory recall?”

“I, um, what?”

“Your eyes.” He says, and you notice Sam twisting around to watch from the passenger’s seat. “They began to move in a manner similar to human REM sleep, however you remained awake the whole time. Were you thinking of something you had previously forgotten?”

“I, uh,” you glance in the rearview mirror. Dean’s suddenly fixated on the road, his grip on the wheel white knuckled. “Have I been in this car before?”

“Yeah, you have.” Sam’s words are cautious, his eyes trained on you. “A lot. Cas, you don’t think-“

“I do. I believe it may be our best shot.”

And that’s how it begins. The moment you return to the bunker—a strange, underground building they claim you’ve lived in for years—you’re rushed through the grand tour in the hopes of triggering just a little more of your memory.

You’d consider it useless if it wasn’t working. If your hands didn’t already know how to sort through their strange classification of books. If you didn’t get flashes of laughter and visions of Sam and Dean around a table in what they call the War Room. If Sam doesn’t show you the kitchen, and suddenly your brain is washed over with a memory of sitting at the table, across from him and Dean.

Dean winks at you as Sam tries to show you something on his laptop. You’re going to kill him. He’s being obvious, and a little mean.

It doesn’t stop you from following him out of the kitchen only minutes later, even though it snaps your dignity in half.

“You’ve got something?” Sam’s almost jumping in front of you, and you give him a small smile. 

“You drink smoothies.”

“They’re healthy.” Sam shrugs, his voice raising to a shout. “Cas! It’s working!”

Dean shuffles into the kitchen, barely glancing at you. “Cas left. Said he’s going to look for a better fix.”

Sam frowns. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“He told me. And you should bring her to her room.”

Your eyes widen as Sam nods, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Shit, yeah, good idea. C’mon,“ Sam says your name, walking to the hallway. “This should be good for you.”

When you see your room, it does seem like your room. It’s decorated how you’d decorate it, clothing scattered on the floor that you recognize, the walls painted how you’d paint them, but there’s also a shotgun on the dresser and a knife on your bedside stand.

“Shit, sweetheart, this is an awesome gun, where’d you find it?”

You look up at Dean from your bed, fidgeting with your blanket between your fingers. “It was in one of the storage rooms. I can show you later, I think there were a few more.”

“Hell yeah,” he aims it at the wall, his smile easy and boyish. It’s adorable.

You wish he’d stop.

“Dean?”

He hums, still turning the gun in his hands, and you take in a long breath.

“Are we going to talk about it?”

Dean freezes, his eyes wide and almost panicked on yours as he sets the gun back down.

“I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. I mean, it’s us. We can be cool.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, cool. You have a problem, I take care of it. I have a problem,” he gestures between your bodies with raised brows, and you sigh.

“Okay.”

“Awesome.”

“Yeah.” You smile at him, and this might consume and destroy you. But fuck you, you’re going to let it. “Awesome.”

“You got anything?” Sam asks, and you nod. You might have too much. 

And none of it is making any make sense at all.

The week passes like this. More small memories come to you in visions, your head pounds and stabs with pain, Sam hangs over your shoulder and shows you countless places you can navigate but don’t recognize—their dungeon, their gun range, a place called the Dean Cave, a field, and a corner store down the street—all as Dean swirls around your head, but remains just out of sight. Barely crossing your path, looking like a deer in headlights when he does.

But you think you’ve sat with your legs over his lap in the Dean Cave. You’ve trailed after him—holding onto the sleeve of his jacket—in the corner store. You’ve had his body wrapped around yours in the gun range, his voice low and teasing in your ear as he guides your hands.

And the most memories come in your bedroom. Sitting on the mattress with him towering above you, lying on the floor with him under you, giggling as he pins you against the door.

He still won’t look at you. He doesn’t even acknowledge you anymore. He’s locking himself in his room, only coming out to get food, sort through the library, or take his car and leave for hours on end.

Sam is worried.

“This… isn’t like Dean.” He tells you, frowning at the door Dean had just disappeared through. “I don’t know what’s up with him, but you guys were really good friends before. Like, really good.” He gives you an odd look. You’ve been getting a lot of those lately. “There was a while where I was pretty sure that he was finally-“ He shakes his head, cutting himself off. “Never mind. I’ll talk to him later.”

You sleep in your room again. It’s felt strange, because your body doesn’t seem to like your mattress. It doesn’t relax into it like it should, if you’ve really been sleeping here for years. You keep waking up reaching for the other side of the bed. You keep being unable to fall asleep at all because something feels off. 

He’s still here when you wake up. His arm heavy over your stomach as he presses your back against his chest, his breath hot on your neck. 

You should’ve kicked him out last night. You try to never let him fall asleep next to you, let alone wake up in your bed. It’s cruel to you.

Because now you have to have this, and then let it go. You’ll never be able to wipe the feeling of Dean wrapped around you from your skin, and your muscles will never forget how easy it was to relax when he was holding you. 

When you roll over your hands will always know how to linger on his bare, warm chest. Your fingers will always know how to map his every freckle, even if you were blindfolded and submerged underwater. 

Your heart will always know to slow down when you look at him. Especially like this. He’s peaceful here. His eyelashes fluttering and his lips parted, his brow dropped to yours as he sleeps. 

As he has no way to know that he’s doing it.

He’s vulnerable. Dean’s body is letting him rest with you at his side. It’s letting him fall into a strong sleep with steady breaths and slack muscles, even though there’s something foreign pressed against him.

And that’s why this is cruel. It feeds your hope that this could be more. That Dean could ever see you as you see him, that he’d chose to rest with you because deep down, he loves you like you love him.

Deeply and powerfully. Irrevocably and brutally. Made of gnashing teeth and blood caking your nails, but also simple in loud music and wind, soft in golden streetlamps that cast halos around his head. Concrete. Dependable. You will always love Dean, even if you lose everything else you’ve ever had.

And he will not love you.

And this is cruel.

But you still let your face bury itself in his neck. You still let your nose memorize the evergreen and amber smell of him. You still let his skin leave burning marks on yours, as he stays asleep. 

And you just watch him. 

You have to drag yourself out of bed. You have to give Dean a close-lipped smile when he walks right past you in the kitchen, and not scream when his skin brushes yours.

It’s not foreign. 

It feels like you.

And you’re so lost. 

You don’t ask any questions. The few questions you have asked made Sam sad, like you should already know the answer, and he always does this puppy-dog face that breaks your heart. The only questions you’d really want to ask were questions about Dean. About if Sam talked to him, about why—if you’re as close as Sam claims, if these strange snapshots are true—he won’t even look at you. About how he’d looked at you before.

About how you’d looked at him.

But Sam’s too busy for you to even really consider it. He’s calling Cas and someone named Rowena all the time, he’s researching day and night to try and fix you, and he’s coming up with strange new ways to trigger your memory every day.

“Sit there.” He points to the driver’s seat of the Impala, moving around the hood of the car. “You’re driving.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know how to drive stick-“

“Yeah, you do, Dean- fuck.” Sam groans, rubbing his forehead. “Well, let’s try having you sit in it? Just to see if anything happens?”

You nod, and things do happen. When you put your hand on the gear shift, a phantom of a bigger, calloused one covers it, and suddenly you can drive stick. You don’t even have to think about it, you just can. 

It might be worse when you think about it. Sam makes you drive—telling you to go somewhere and refusing to specify any possible destinations—and whenever you try to actually dwell on what you’re doing, you make a mistake. 

So you let your body take over. You drive the Impala where your hands want you to go, and where they want you to go seems to be a dive bar parking lot.

“Huh.” Sam glances around as you both climb out of the car, a small frown on his face. “I’ve never been here before. I know it’s a stupid question, but do you know where you are?”

“No,” you sigh, letting your feet carry you to the edge of the pavement, letting your knees bend down as you sit on the curb. “Not at all.”

“Shit.” He mutters. “Well, you want a drink while we’re here?”

You nod, Sam goes into the bar, returns with two beers, and drops at your side.

“This is…” Sam glances at you, his voice soft. Apologetic. “I’m really sorry this is happening. I mean, Dean went through something similar a while ago, but at least we had an idea of how to handle that, you know? I’m- I don’t even know where to start here.” He says your name, rolling his bottle between his hands. “All we’ve got is Dean saying you touched a cursed object, but he’s being really weird and when Cas and I went back to the building there was nothing. We’re going to fix this, I promise, but...”

He sighs, trailing off, and you clear your throat. You haven’t just sat with Sam since this—whatever this is—started. This might be your only chance to try to get answers in a way that doesn’t make your skull cave in and your heart burn.

“Can I ask you some stuff?”

Sam nods, and you take a long, slow breath.

“How did I end up here? Doing,” you gesture vaguely to the air. “This.”

A small smile ghosts over Sam’s lips. “Dean and I were hunting a vamp nest, and you were one of the witnesses. You helped us out a little, we told you some stuff about how you deal with vamps, and then you got kidnapped. We- Well, we tried to save you, but by the time we got there you’d kind of saved yourself. You’d covered yourself in dead man’s blood from one of their discarded vics, and none of them would go near you. After it was done, you asked to come with us, and you haven’t left since.”

“And we’re… friends?”

“We are.” Sam says, rubbing his forehead with a sigh. “I mean, I know you and I are. You helped me organize the library when you moved to the bunker. I taught you most of the stuff about the lore, and we made up a game about it. Dean calls it dumb, but he just hates that he’s bad at it. Sometimes you go on runs with me, and then you say you’re never running again. You’re the one who convinced me to ask out my girlfriend-“

You blink at him. “You have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah, Eileen. You’re friends with her too. You’re friends with everybody.” Sam offers you another smile, and this one seems less painful. “Even Rowena likes you. We didn’t have to threaten her to help us out here.”

Even as you return Sam’s smile, a last question eats at your tongue, and you’re too tired, too confused to think better of asking it.

“What about Dean?” You whisper. “Am I friends with him?”

Sam sighs. He seems to do that a lot. 

“Yes. Kind of. I… I don’t know.” He mutters, frowning at the pavement. “It’s complicated. I’m not- This isn’t really my place, you know?”

You swallow. “Does he hate me?”

Sam laughs at that. A loud, full laugh that echoes around the parking lot. 

“No.” He shakes his head, clearly amused by something you don’t understand. “I don’t think either of you could hate each other if you-“

“I fucking hate you!” You scream, shoving his chest. He doesn’t flinch. He never flinches. 

Asshole.

“You’re drunk.” Dean grunts your name, catching your hand against his chest. “We need to go home.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Winchester-“

“Yeah, you are.”

Dean starts to tug you across the parking lot, back to the car, and you hate that you just let him. You always let him. He takes you somewhere and you just follow him like a fucking lapdog. Waiting for him whenever he leaves. Whining and whimpering at the door when he’s gone and lighting up from the inside when he returns. 

Barely getting a treat or a smile when he pays attention to you. Only really getting his attention in brief flashes that build your body to an explosion before leaving you to pick up the pieces yourself. Leaving you alone, wracked with a love he can’t return, mending your own heart until he asks to break it again, and you let him.

“You’re going to sleep it off.” Dean mutters from ahead of you, and there are little blond hairs at the nape of his neck that seem silver and gold in the low light. Just another piece of him that’s impossibly beautiful. Another piece you get to touch but never keep. 

“I don’t need to sleep it off!” You yank your hand from his grip as he tries to guide you into Baby, and drop on the curb with a dramatic sigh. “Just leave me alone, Dean.”

“I am not fucking abandoning you at some sketchy bar-“

“Why not?” You raise your chin at him, narrowing your eyes. “Afraid I’ll find someone else? That I’ll crawl into another bed, and they’ll actually like me, and you’ll lose your favorite pet?”

He scowls. “We’re not having this conversation right now-“

“Why not?! You know it’s the truth, Dean! I’m just, I’m your fucking toy and you hate sharing-“

He says your name in a low warning, but you can’t stop now. This pain has been building up and up in your chest and lungs for years, and now that it’s out it’s volcanic. You couldn’t keep it in if you tried.

“But you’ll never actually care about me! I’m easy for you! That was the fucking deal, right! We’re easy for each other and that’s it, just using each other until one of us fucking dies! You keep acting like I mean nothing and then you get all fucking possessive when I try to get over you-“

“You’re not trying to get over me.” He mutters, not fully meeting your eyes. “You don’t have anything to get over. You’re just fucking wasted-“

“Yeah, I am, because you won’t just say that I matter to you-“

“Of course you matter to me, you’re my friend-“

“You’re not my friend!” You scream, your voice echoing through the parking lot. Your head is starting to spin. “Friends don’t do this to each other!”

You’re dizzy. You feel a little faint. 

And you’d just spend an hour telling Dean you hate him. But he’s still grabbing you and keeping you steady.

You really wish he wouldn’t. It would make it easier to pretend you really did hate him. That just his touch didn’t make you feel safe and cared for, even when the dickhead didn’t really care. 

“You done?” He asks, and you hum, something hot and wet stinging at your eyes.

“I hate you, Dean.” You mumble, even as you slump into him. “I fucking hate you.”

He brushes some hair from your face, and your eyes flutter. “I know you do, babygirl.” He mutters, and you don’t think he knows you’re still awake. “Let’s go home.”

Sam’s frowning at you when the real world comes back into view. And when you whisper that you’d really like to leave, he doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t even make you drive, or try to talk to you as you stare out the window. 

He doesn’t push for the rest of the day. He shows you a few more things that trigger smaller memories, and you don’t see Dean at all. 

But he’s everywhere. In every memory. You walk through the library as Sam explains a system you allegedly designed, and a memory of you explaining this exact system to Dean flashes through your brain. He’d made jokes, and you’d giggled, and his smile had numbed your brain. You try to make yourself dinner, and suddenly you’re laughing and throwing food at Dean, right before he presses you against the counter with a searing kiss. You wander through the halls and you can hear heavy, controlled steps behind you. You return to your room, and he’s at your side in bed, wearing the same flannel from the memory in the parking lot. Making you drink water and helping you change, muttering low apologies you can’t actually really hear. Tucking you in bed and tracing his hand over your face, grabbing you a trash can to vomit in when you shoot back up, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. 

His whole face is set in that memory, but it’s all hazy. You don’t know if you trust it, because all the other memories have been sharp and clear, but this one is dreamlike. Like even before you lost your memory, you weren’t sure if it was real. The you who all this happened to might have just made this up for herself. Made up Dean holding her hair back and pressing a soft kiss to her brow as she lay back down, even though you can still feel the warmth of his chapped lips in that exact spot. She might have made up Dean smiling at her when she mumbled that she didn’t actually hate him. She might have made up him staying when she begged him to in a soft voice. 

You don’t know. You don’t know anything. You’ve never felt more lost, never been in more pain. Your body is where it’s supposed to be, but your brain isn’t. It’s restless and worried and tearing itself apart, and when you fail to sleep your body knows how to walk through the halls, even as your whole mind spins and shreds itself to pieces.

Sam was sorry this was happening to you, but you don’t know why. You don’t know him. Every time you’ve seen Cas since you’ve returned, he’s asked you questions you don’t know the answers to. Every day your body remembers things, but you don’t. You want to, you want to so bad, but you’re adrift and drowning in a vast, cold ocean and you can’t even remember how you got there. You keep feeling like there’s a lifeline, just out of reach, but you can’t grab it. It’s not in your room, or the kitchen, or the library. It’s nowhere Sam takes you, nowhere you remember how to go.

You feel like something had been guiding you, anchoring you in the waves, and now it’s missing. Vanished from your hands. 

And now you’re lost, and in pain, and alone. Wandering aimlessly through the depths of the bunker in the dead of night, searching for a lighthouse you’re not sure exists.

You walk into the War Room, and Dean’s already there. Glass of whiskey in hand, head tipped back and eyes closed, the fancy headphones you’d gotten him for his birthday blasting music so loud you can hear it from across the room. You walk up behind him and run a gentle hand over his cheeks, and he doesn’t flinch. His eyes just open slowly and find yours in a second, his attention soft as he tugs his headphones down, grabs your hand, and kisses your knuckles. 

“Hi.” You whisper, and he grins.

“Hey.”

“It’s late.” You run a hand through his hair, and he lets you. He’s amazing and horrible, so he lets you have this. “It’s bad for your back to sleep in a chair.”

“Bad for my back?” He chuckles. “I’m not that old, sweetheart-“

“It’s bad for everyone’s back-“

“Sam sleeps in his chair all the time.” Dean raises his brows at you, and you swallow. “You’re not on his ass about it.”

You sigh. You don’t want to entertain this. You’re too tired for the fight that it will lead to. “Please just go sleep in your bed, Dean.”

He hums, and you let him guide you around the chair, until you’re standing between his legs.

“Maybe I will, if you’re there with me.”

“Don’t say that.” You whisper, unable to move away. He’s going to break your heart again. You’re going to let him, because your heart is traitorous and loves being broken by Dean. It just likes that Dean has to touch it to break it. “Please.”

He shakes his head with a long, deep exhale, and doesn’t say another word. 

But he doesn’t go to bed either. He stands up until you’re trapped between his body and the table, and places his whiskey down, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s scanning over your face with an expression like he’s lost, like he’s looking for something he’s desperate to find but terrified to see.

You don’t know if he finds it. 

All you know is that he’s touching you, and you’re molding into him, and whatever he does to you, you’ll allow. 

As long as it’s Dean doing it.

He unplugs his headphone until the music is filling the War Room, picks up his iPod, and changes the song. This one is soft, a gentle melody drowning you in honey and a daze of Dean. You didn’t think he’d own a song like this. It’s slow and romantic, and it flows so easily as he takes one hand in yours, places the other on your hip, and moves you away from the table.

He starts to sway, holding you steady in his arms, and soon you’re dancing. Really dancing, in measured, easy steps that Dean guides you through. You didn’t think he’d know how to do this. You didn’t think he’d ever do it with you.

But you’re lost in him, and you’ve never felt like you’ve belonged anywhere else. You’re drowning in the song, but Dean’s drowning with you, so you know exactly where you are. Trapped in this infinite and fleeting moment, trapped in Dean’s eyes, trapped in the warmth of his light, casting over your body and guiding you wherever you’ll need to be.

When he leans in to kiss you, you don’t push him away. You could never push him away. Your hands only know how to curl in his shirt and your lips only know how to crash into his. Your tongue always craves Dean’s taste of whiskey and pecan, and your body always knows how to catch the small sparks of lighting his touch creates, then throw them through your whole body.

And Dean always kisses you with everything he has, but this is different. It’s not desperate and needy, it’s long and deep and feels like home. When he sucks on your lower lip, it’s like he’s trying to leave a mark. When his steps still and he dips you down, you gasp, and he breathes it in like it’s more than oxygen. When your arms wrap around his neck, he pulls you closer, like you could be absorbed into his body forever. 

When he pulls away—the song long over, the only sounds in the world his ragged breath and your heartbeat in your ears—he still doesn’t speak. And you don’t move. You’ll be a statue until Dean’s command brings your back to life. You’ll be cold marble, sinking down, down, down until he takes your hand and reminds your body how to be.

And that’s pathetic.

But when he squeezes your hand in his, presses a soft kiss on the space between your eyes, and starts to guide you out of the War Room, you don’t even try not to follow him.

Because Dean would never let you stray from where you’re safe. Next to him.

Your legs are carrying you out of the war room, down a path that they remember but you don’t. To a door that your hand aches to push open, into a room where the air is warm but fresh, and an overwhelming smell of amber and evergreen tints against your nostrils. They don’t seem bothered by it. They seem to relax into it, like it’s an anesthetic. 

This must be Dean’s room. If your body couldn’t tell you that, your increasingly fragile brain would still piece it together. It’s obviously lived in—clothing on the floor, sheets messy on the bed, small bits of evidence scattered on the shelves and dresser—and there’s only one lived in room you haven’t entered before. Dean’s.

Sam hadn’t even shown you where it was.

Apparently he hadn’t needed to. Your whole body had pulled you here.

And that’s your shirt, on the bedside table-

Dean peels off your shirt without a word, discarding it to an unseen corner of the room. You fumble with his belt, your need growing and growing with every second his hands map over your body—he’s already explored it, found places you didn’t even know existed yourself, but he never seems to get sick of you—and Dean just chuckles, keeping his brow pressed to yours as he takes care of it himself. His jeans have barely fallen around his ankles when he grabs your face between his hands and kisses you until your knees are weak.

Neither of you are speaking. There’s nothing to say that hasn’t already been screamed or sobbed or snapped, hasn’t been moaned or mumbled or whispered. 

All that left to do is touch each other, like you have a million times before. Like you will a million times again, because you can lie to yourself that one day your patience will run out and you’ll leave, but you know you won’t. Dean’s changed your body on a level that feels deeper than skin. Your heart only knows how to beat for him. Your brain only knows how to think of him. Your hands only know how to palm at his dick, tenting through his boxers, and your lips only know how to part as he groans down your throats.

You fall to your knees, free him from his underwear, wrap your hand around his proud cock, and look up at him with a soft smile. His massive, rough hand has tangled in your hair, his eyes hooded and throat bobbing, and when you take him in your mouth you know exactly how to play him like an instrument. How to suck when he bumps the back of your throat, how to flick your tongue over the head of him, how to squeeze and jerk off the base of his cock where you can’t get him between your lips. You know to keep going as he starts to groan your name in a low warning, because if he wants to cum in your mouth, you’d never stop him.

That’s another taste you’ll always crave. Salty and bitter and so purely Dean, marking you in a way he can’t take back.

But he pulls you off with a firm tug of your hair, wiping a little drool from your lips with his thumb before tilting your head up and crashing his lips into yours. When Dean hauls you to your feet you crumple into him, and when he tosses you onto his bed you giggle, crawling backwards and spreading your legs in a silent offering you’ve given him a million times before, and will never stop giving him as long as he takes it.

And he always takes it. Dean’s eyes always darken, and he always prowls over you. But it’s never like you’re prey. Never like you’re just a body to be taken and notched on a bedpost. 

It’s like you’re something he’s trying to bathe himself in. Like an external piece of him he’s trying to protect and tend to by covering himself in it. It’s why he always dives down between your legs first, keeping you pinned to the bed with a hand on your stomach, shoving his tongue deep into your cunt and pressing his nose on your clit until you’re writhing and suffocating him between your thighs. When he moves to pull that bundle of nerves between his lips—pressing his tongue flat against you and sucking—a coil in your gut snaps, and you drown his face in your release.

Your body only ever does that for Dean.

You don’t think he knows that. And every time you think to tell him, he’s always already moved on. Risen above you and shoving two fingers into your still raw and sensitive pussy, finding the deepest part of you like it’s a magnet, and rubbing on it as he watches you come undone once more. 

He cleans his hands with his mouth, licking them and smirking at you as you reach for him, trying to grip his body and pull it down over yours. He usually takes his time—teasing and edging you until you’re a whining mess—but tonight really is different. His smile on your flushed, already wrecked face isn’t taunting or lustful, it’s relaxed. And he still doesn’t speak, but when he kisses his way over your navel, up your chest—stopping to suck on one nipple as his hand plays with your other breast, because he’s Dean and he can’t help himself—it’s louder than anything else in the world. He’s taking him time because he’s trying to keep you in his bed. He knows that once this is over, you’ll gather your things and leave, like you always do to protect yourself.

So he’s giving you a reason to stay.

He nips and sucks up your throat and over your jaw, plants kisses everywhere on your face but where you’re begging for him, and pins your squirming body to the bed with his full weight before his mouth finally makes its way to yours. 

He’s kissing you into the mattress, kissing you until your lips are swollen and your head is spinning from oxygen deprivation. He only pulls back to watch his hand stroke his cock, right before he guides himself into your dripping, fluttering pussy and bottoms out in one thrust. He lets out a low grunt as you adjust, and when he rolls his hips, you moan.

And he falls right back into you.

From there it’s only Dean. Fucking you until you’re scratching at his chest and putty in his arms, your mouth is slack as he groans and grunts above you. He hikes your thigh up to push his cock in at a deeper angle and marks your neck and shoulders with bites and hickeys that you hope never fade, building his speed until you’re just a squirming, whining mess and he’s slamming into you at a brutal pace. 

He doesn’t slow down when you cum, clenching around his cock and screaming a high whine of his name. He only swallows the sound with a bruising kiss, plunging his tongue down your throat and rutting harder and harder into your cunt. All you can do is take it. You’ll always take it. If this is how to you get to have Dean, you’ll never push him away.

He cums with a roar against your lips, trigging one last, small, shuddering orgasm through your body, and collapses on top of you.

Dean rolls you over until he’s beneath you, caging you against his chest with big, strong arms. He doesn’t pull out—letting his cum drip down and dry on your thighs—and when your look up at him he’s staring at you with a drunken, awestruck expression. 

His eyes are already drooping, his breathing slowing to an even, steady pace as he keeps you trapped against his body. You wish your hands could remember how to pry him away before he falls asleep, because now you’re going to be trapped here for a long, painful night where Dean’s sheathed inside you and you can smell and taste him everywhere, but he’s still not yours to have.

Yet, you can’t move.

And right as his eyes close, he mutters your name. You almost don’t hear it. You’re not sure you did hear it.

“Dean?”

He repeats your name, and it’s barely a breath. 

“Wha-“

“I love you.” He mumbles your name one last time, and you gape at him. He doesn’t even know he’s speaking. “‘m sorry. Love you. Don’t leave.” He buries his face in your hair, and he won’t remember this in the morning. “Please don’t leave me.”

“What are you doing in here.” 

You drag your gaze away from the bed and turn to see Dean, wearing flannel pants and a white sleep shirt. He’s not glaring at you, even though you’ve invaded his room without permission. He just looks weary. Tired.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, rooted to the spot. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

Something pained flashes over his face, and you feel small cracks form across your heart.

“Whatever.” He mutters, walking right past you without another glance. “Get out.”

“No.”

You don’t know why you said that. This isn’t your place to be, especially when Dean doesn’t want anything to do with you. When he doesn’t want you here. But you don’t feel adrift here. And you don’t want to go.

Dean stares at you. “What.”

“I’m not going.” You hug yourself, your eyes moving back to the shirt on the dresser. “That’s my shirt.”

He huffs, rolling his eyes as he mutters to himself. “So a fucking shirt you remember. Awesome.”

You swallow. “Why do you have my shirt, Dean.”

He goes rigid, but doesn’t speak, so you keep going.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” You don’t realize you’re walking forward he’s closer. It feels right. “Sam said-“

“Sam doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.” Dean grunts, but he doesn’t move away. Even when you move closer. Even as you push on.

“Then you tell me.” You sound like you’re pleading. You kind of are. “Every time I remember something you’re there, but you won’t even look at me! I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what’s going on, and I keep thinking about you but you’re acting like you want nothing to do with me-“

Dean’s jaw clenches, his words pushed through his teeth. “That’s not true.”

“It is! You can’t even stand to be in the same room as me!” You feel like you’re going to cry. You haven’t even wanted to cry, not since this began, but something has crashed down inside of you, and this room feels like a safe place to fall apart.

Dean feels like a safe place to fall apart.

“I’m, I’m so lost, and I don’t know what’s going on, and everything keeps coming back to you but I don’t know who you are! You won’t tell me who you are, Sam won’t tell me who you are, and I feel like I’m supposed to know but I don’t! I know who I am but I feel like I’m missing something, and everything hurts, and I just- I need to know-“

Dean grunts your name, and you let out a choked sob.

You’re sick of being lost. You’re sick of not knowing. And when you meet Dean’s eyes they’re like a beacon, and you can’t help but float into them. 

“Who am I to you, Dean?”

“You’re the love of my life.” His voice is hoarse, and his eyes widen slightly at his own answer. You don’t think he expected it. 

“I’m-“

His hands grab your face—holding you so carefully, like he’s practiced this a million time—and you melt into his touch. 

“You’re everything to me, and I- I fucking failed you.” Dean’s thumb traces over your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. “I can’t fix it. I’ve been fucking trying, baby. I promised you I’d try, but I can’t. I- I can’t. I need your help but you’re-“ He makes a low, strangled sound, dropping his brow to yours. It fits perfectly there. “I can’t do this without you. I never tell you that, I never say that I need you, but I do, and I failed you, and now you’re-“

Dean’s whole body shudders, and your arms wrap around him on instinct alone. He falls over you, clinging to you like you’re going to vanish, and-

“You don’t have to do this.” Dean mutters in your ear, and his hug is going to suffocate you, but you don’t care. Maybe he’ll leave an indent on your body. “We can just fucking destroy it-“

“Because trying to destroy cursed objects has worked out so well for us, historically.” You give him a sad, dry smile, and he shakes his head. 

“There’s another way. There’s always another way-“

“We don’t have time for another way. And it won’t be permanent. All curses can be cured.”

“But we don’t even know what the hell this one does!” He shouts, and you don’t wince. He’s not mad at you. “‘Taking what you value most’ could mean anything, could fucking do anything-“

“I know. But it will kill you if I don’t-“

“We don’t know that-“

You do know that. So does Dean. This object latched onto Dean, and it will either leech his life slowly, involuntarily, or take something from you, along with a piece of your memory. And you’ll lose whatever you need to if it keeps Dean safe.

“Listen.” You hold Dean’s gaze, making your voice firm. “Don’t tell Sam and Cas. They’ll get caught on what happened, and you’ll all start fighting, and we can’t afford that. You just need to find what I value, bring it back to me, and I’ll be okay. Got it?”

Dean shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what you value if you won’t tell me-“

“I don’t know.” You sigh. “I- I honestly can’t think of what I value most, but hopefully you’ll notice something is missing, and you can track it down.” You give him a soft smile. “I believe in you, Dean. And if I’m awake, I’ll try to help you.”

“You won’t remember-“

“It should only take my memories relating the thing. I probably won’t even know anything is wrong.”

“But I’ll know.” He mutters. “And what if I don’t get the thing back to you-“

“You will get it back to me.” You say simply. He’s Dean. You trust him with more than your life. “And I’ll be okay.”

You start to move away, but he doesn’t let you go. He’s pallid and bloodless from the object draining him, but he’s still strong. And you don’t really want to leave him at all. 

“Don’t. Please.” He mutters your name, and it sounds like a prayer. “I’m not worth this, baby.”

“Of course you are.” You smile at him, tears stinging your eyes as you manage to force yourself away. “I love you.”

His eyes widen, and he looks like he wants to say something, but anything he can say will only make you hesitate.

So you turn away.

Right before you touch the object you have a thought. An epiphany that—if your hand wasn’t already pressed on the object’s cool surface—would have made you break down and scream for Dean to make you stop, to drag you away.

But it’s too late. And everything goes dark.

“Dean.”

He leans back to look at you, and you know him. You know everything about him, and it’s destroying your brain and body, trying to break out but trapped down. This pain is horrible.

But Dean is good.

“You love me?”

He swallows, but nods. He seems afraid. Tense under your hands, like you’re going to push him away and he’ll have to just take it.

He won’t. Because you do the only thing you’re certain you know how to do.

You kiss him.

It’s like fireworks, but there’s no electrically you haven’t felt before, no colors you’ve never seen. You’re swept up in his waves and wide fire, but it could never drown or burn you. You’ve adapted to move with it, to breathe in his water and smoke and trust him to bring you exactly where you need to be.

Against his chest, dipping and holding you steady, pouring his all and then some into your body. And your memory doesn’t crash back into you, it just washes over you like rain. 

Dean pulls back, and you smile at him like you always have. Like you always will.

“Hi,” you whisper, and he grins. 

“Hey,” Dean says your name, and you’ve done this dance before.  “Are you-“

You kiss him again, and you know exactly who Dean is. What he is to you, how he loves you in strong, unspoken silence that kills you and cures you all at one, and how you might be built to love him. 

You are.

And he’s built the same way for you.

End Note: Obsessed with love as a thing that happens to you physically, if you can't tell. Thank you for reading!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[paarksunghoon]

can you write something with soft dom bestfriend!jake eating out inexperienced!shy!reader after he finds out she’s never done stuff like that before (with lots of praise plz) tyyy

I shied away from the suuuper innocent/shy trope but kept some elements in there

***

“No one’s ever eaten you out before?”

“Jake!”

He throws his hands up like he’s asking an innocent questions. “Hey, I’m not judging you for it! It’s just that…you’ve hooked you with a few people, haven’t you?” Jake watches you hug one of your plushies against your chest.

“Once.” Your cheeks feel warm and you resist the urge to hide your face behind the soft object. “I don’t do it often. You know that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with not hooking up. What happened?”

You can’t meet your best friend’s eye. “He just…finished too soon and didn’t do anything else.”

“That’s deplorable.”

“Tell me about it.”

“He didn’t want to taste you?”

You sigh and lie back down on your mattress, shutting your eyes while keeping the plushie between your arms and pinned against your chest. Jake looks at you and sees your feet planted on the bed as you keep your knees bent. The sleep shorts you’re wearing aren’t nothing new. He’s seen you wear it plenty of times but tonight, it feels a little bit different.

You, on the other hand, don’t feel Jake’s wandering eyes. You’re too mortified talking about this kind of stuff because your best friend is far more experienced with sex than you are. He’s athletic, attractive, and someone who jumped at the chance to sleep around once he started university. You wouldn’t consider yourself someone people naturally gravitate towards and despite knowing Jake since the beginning of middle school, sex is the one topic you struggle to talk about with him.

But Jake, the ever persistent best friend who just wants the best for you, won’t let it go. He rarely pries into your sex life and if you’re talking to anybody because he’s typically the one who’s preoccupied with hookups or casual flings.

It’s currently the peak of spring and it’s starting to get warmer outside. One of your windows is cracked open and amidst your inner turmoil, you hear the crickets chirping outside. You don’t see Jake’s eyes glance over your bare legs and how he gulps when his gaze reaches the shirt you’re wearing that’s riding up to show a small portion of your stomach.

“Not all of us have a lot of experience, okay?!”

“Hey! There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with me.”

“No,” Jake says, pulling the plushy from your arms and throwing it beside him, “but I know you better than you know yourself. I know you compare how many people you’ve slept with to me.”

You evert his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with sleeping around.” Your best friend laughs.

“I know. It doesn’t make me happy anymore but there’s nothing wrong with wanting to have sex, Y/N.”

You huff and pull yourself up on your elbows to look at Jake. His annoyingly boyish charms and freshly dyed, dark brown hair make him look like a supermodel underneath your ambient lighting. The room is dimly lit with hues of pink and yellow, and you don’t know if Jake’s looking extra delectable because of the light or because you’ve started to look at him differently.

“Easy for you to say. People want to have sex with you.”

Jake bites back a retort. “I bet people want to have sex with you too.” You roll your eyes.

“If I were a guy, I’ll bet I could stare at a girl and know I’d be getting some.” You hear him laugh but that does nothing to quell your embarrassment. Jake sits up and scoots closer until he’s looking down at you.

“What is it that you really want?”

“Jaeyun.”

“I dunno, maybe if you say it then you’ll manifest it, or some shit.” Jake doesn’t know why but he likes that you can’t make eye contact with him.

“I…”

You finally look at him. He tilts his head and nods once. “Go on.”

“I just…I want someone to make me feel good, okay?”

“That can’t be all you want. There’s gotta be something more.”

“I want a guy to eat me out. Happy?” It’s embarrassing to say out loud. Jake grins.

“Very. Now you’re manifesting this into reality.”

“You’re really weird, Jake.” He laughs.

“So you tell me.” He brings his finger up to your bare knee and traces a random pattern that makes you feel tingly. It’s a new feeling around your best friend and you look at him curiously.

“More guys should eat girls out,” he says, cutting the silence abruptly. “Guys say they’re good at fucking but they never get anyone off.”

You groan. “Everybody sucks. It seems like no guy likes to go down on a girl, or whatever.”

“Some do.”

“You mean to tell me there are some guys who actually like eating a girl out?”

“Yes.” Jake looks down at you and holds your eye. He doesn’t move and you watch as his fingers start to grip the comforter. You speak after a long pause. He doesn’t break eye contact.

“A-Are you saying you like to do that?”

He doesn’t let up the eye contact. “I love it. Could do it forever.”

You gulp. “R-Really?”

Jake nods. “Yeah.”

“What do you like about it?” Your voice, ever so timid and testing the waters, makes him excited.

He licks his lips. “I like the taste the most. Always so nice and wet. Sweet, almost. I like the way it feels too. Makes me think I’m about to die.”

“Isn’t that a bad thing?”

“No. I’d be happy if eating pussy was the last thing I did.”

The look he gives you is unlike anything you’ve ever seen from him before. His mouth twitches while he sits in front of you and you’re beside yourself when you rub your legs together. Jake doesn’t make a move to touch you but his steady gaze makes you squirm.

“Are you…offering?”

Jake chuckles. “Would it be bad if I was?” Not really.

“Honestly? Not really…”

“Let me take your shorts off, mkay?”

Jake hooks his fingers around your flimsy sleep shorts and pulls them down slowly as you feel the fabric glide against your inner thighs. The cool air provides an electric shock to your mound and you realize then just how wet you’ve become.

Your best friend opens up your legs to little resistance and finds you too cute when you bunch up your pillows to rest your back against it. He toys with you for a moment, using his thumb to gently brush over your slit while grunting at how wet your panties have become. Jake pulls them aside and is met by the place you need him the most.

“Do you want me to eat your pussy, baby?”

“Yes,” you moan, feeling his warm breath over your wet folds.

Jake doesn’t answer you. Instead, he pushes his head down and spreads his tongue all over you and moans at the first taste. You’re so warm and tense underneath his touch and his hands come to your thighs to keep them pried open but at the same time, Jake rubs his palm all over your skin to soothe your rigidness.

His hands support your legs too, forcing them open when you start to close in. It feels like he’s spreading you apart across the board and looking down at him makes your heart beat even faster. Jake looks so lost in his own pleasure while making you feel good too. His eyes are closed and his lashes kiss his cheeks in a way that makes him look heaven sent.

His tongue feels amazing and this sensation is unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. The wet slurping and constant pressure feels like you’re about to burst into a million pieces at any moment and you’re sure you’d become addicted to this if every guy made you feel the way your best friend does.

It should feel weird to have him touching you like this. You’ve only thought about him in the bedroom a handful of times before shaming away these feelings towards your best friend but looking down at him with his eyes closed and tongue pressed so deep inside of you makes your legs shake and toes curl.

You come without a warning and Jake encourages your loud string of moans when he licks you clean, lapping your wetness up like a dog drinking water. Jake’s face is so messy and so wet with your sheen and his spit before he wipes himself with the back of his hand.

He looks up at you before you can get a word out. “Let me do that again.”

[mcrdvcks]

— butterflies

summary: You decide to blindfold yourself for the day to learn what the world is like for Matt. word count: 2.9k+ pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader notes: this was meant to just be a short, fluffy thing but somehow like half of it is smut? anyways, this is my first time writing smut for matt, so feedback is appreciated! warnings/tags: blindfold, fluff, smut (while blindfolded), oral (f!receiving), unprotected piv, creampie

“Sweetheart.” Matt said, as he stepped into the apartment. He could hear you somewhere in the kitchen, walking slowly and holding onto the wall.

You froze in place. “Matt? You're home early.”

He tilted his head slightly, brow furrowing. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," you said quickly. "I'm fine."

He smiled a little, setting his cane down by the door. “Then why’s your heartbeat going crazy?”

You sighed softly, turning toward the sound of his voice. “Okay, don’t laugh.”

He took a cautious step closer, grin widening. “Can’t promise that. What’s going on?”

“I... decided to spend today experiencing things your way,” you confessed, fingertips gripping the counter. “So I blindfolded myself.”

Matt chuckled softly, warmth spreading across his expression. “Really? All day?”

“Since you left this morning.” You shrugged lightly, embarrassed. “Figured it would help me understand you a little better. But I'm starting to regret it—I ran into the coffee table twice already.”

He crossed the distance slowly, footsteps gentle, stopping just a breath away from you. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Good unbelievable, or weird unbelievable?”

Matt reached out, gently finding your hands. “Good unbelievable.” His voice softened. “You're sweet.”

You smiled, relieved. “So, you’re not mad or anything?”

“Why would I be mad?” He laughed lightly, squeezing your fingers. “But you know you could’ve told me first. I’d have given you some tips.”

“Maybe I wanted to surprise you.”

“Consider me surprised,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along your palm. “Do you want some help?”

You hesitated, chewing your lip thoughtfully. “Just... show me how you do it. How do you walk around here without knocking everything over?”

“It’s mostly memory,” he admitted gently. “And paying attention.”

You smiled playfully. “You sure it’s not your echolocation?”

“Echo—” Matt chuckled, “I don’t have echolocation.”

You tilted your head. “Then what do you call using your enhanced hearing to guide you?”

"Listening carefully," Matt said simply, lips curling into an amused smile. "Echolocation makes me sound like a dolphin."

You laughed softly, squeezing his hands. "Alright then, Daredevil the dolphin."

He groaned, leaning closer to rest his forehead against yours. "Please don't let Foggy hear you say that. I'll never live it down."

"I make no promises," you teased, smiling warmly at his closeness. "So, show me how Daredevil—I mean Matt—listens carefully?"

Matt chuckled, gently sliding an arm around your waist and guiding you away from the counter. "First, relax. You're tense, and it's making everything harder."

"I'm tense because I've been tripping over everything all day," you complained lightly.

"Trust me," Matt murmured, voice soothing. "Close your eyes under that blindfold."

"They already are."

"Good. Now listen." He held you still in the center of the room, his thumb rubbing comforting circles at your side. "Notice the sounds around you. What do you hear?"

You tilted your head slightly, focusing carefully. "I hear... traffic outside. The hum of the refrigerator. And your breathing."

He smiled softly. "Good. Now, deeper. Listen beyond the obvious noises. The way sound reflects off objects, how it changes around furniture or walls."

You breathed deeply, brows knitting together as you concentrated. "How can you possibly hear all that?"

"Practice," Matt admitted quietly. "And necessity."

"It's amazing," you whispered softly. "You're amazing."

He chuckled again, shaking his head. "It's just a skill."

"Don't downplay it," you said gently, leaning into his chest. "I can't even manage one day like this."

Matt pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, holding you carefully. "I appreciate that you're trying."

"Just trying to understand you better."

He smiled into your hair. "You already understand me better than most."

You grinned, lifting your face slightly toward his voice. "Matt?"

"Hm?"

"Am I facing you right now, or am I about to kiss your chin by mistake?"

He laughed softly, cupping your cheek and gently angling your face upward. "Now you are."

"Good," you whispered, brushing your lips softly against his. "This I can get used to."

Matt's smile warmed, and he leaned in again, his voice a playful whisper. "Me too."

You scrunched your nose in thought. “Think I can make dinner like this?”

Matt laughed softly, shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”

You pouted playfully. “You don’t trust me?”

“I trust you,” he assured gently, fingertips brushing against your waist. “But I’d prefer if you didn’t accidentally set the kitchen on fire.”

“You cook blind every day,” you argued lightly. “If you can do it, I can too.”

Matt hummed thoughtfully. “True. But I’ve had years of practice and enhanced senses. You’ve been at it for...” he paused, smiling teasingly, “less than a day.”

“Fair point,” you conceded, smiling. “Alright, what if you help me?”

“I can do that,” Matt agreed. He gently guided you toward the counter, keeping his voice calm. “Step forward, carefully. Counter’s right here.”

You reached out slowly, fingertips brushing cool marble. “Okay, got it. What next?”

“What do you want to cook?”

You tilted your head, thinking. “Something easy. Pasta?”

Matt smiled warmly. “Perfect choice. Pot’s in the cabinet beneath you.”

You bent slowly, hands reaching hesitantly. “Left or right?”

“Left,” Matt instructed calmly. “Careful though, there’s another pot stacked inside.”

You grinned triumphantly as your fingers closed around a handle. “Found it!”

“Good,” he said gently. “Fill it about halfway with water. The sink’s—”

“I know where the sink is, Matthew,” you teased.

He chuckled softly. “Just making sure.”

Carefully, you moved toward the sink, guided by memory and touch. “How am I doing?”

“You’re a natural,” Matt praised, voice filled with gentle amusement.

You smiled proudly, turning on the water and filling the pot halfway. “Okay, next?”

“Stove,” he prompted gently. “Two steps to your right.”

You shuffled sideways, cautiously. “How do I know which burner to use?”

Matt moved closer behind you, his chest lightly brushing your back as he guided your hand. “This one,” he murmured, gently placing your hand over the correct dial.

You smiled softly. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” His voice softened affectionately. “Now, turn it halfway.”

You obeyed carefully, listening to the quiet clicking and hiss of gas. “Done.”

“Perfect,” Matt encouraged. He reached around, taking your hand in his and carefully guiding the pot to the burner.

“How do you always make this look so easy?” you muttered, shaking your head.

Matt laughed softly near your ear. “Years of frustration and burns, honestly.”

You sighed dramatically. “Great, something to look forward to.”

He chuckled gently, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’re doing fine. Better than I did my first time.”

You leaned back slightly, smiling at the feel of his warmth behind you. “Really?”

He nodded, lips curving softly. “I spilled boiling water everywhere. Foggy banned me from the kitchen for a week.”

You laughed, relaxing into his hold. “At least I haven’t done that yet.”

“Keyword being yet,” Matt teased.

“Hey!” you protested, elbowing him lightly.

He laughed warmly, holding you closer. “Alright, focus. The pasta is on your left, on the counter.”

You reached carefully, fingers finding the familiar box. “How much?”

“Half the box should be fine,” Matt instructed gently. “The water’s not boiling yet, though. You’ll hear it bubble when it’s ready.”

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, listening. “Do you always cook by sound?”

Matt hummed thoughtfully. “Mostly. Sound, touch, and smell.”

You smiled softly. “Teach me.”

“Okay.” Matt took your hand gently, guiding your palm toward the steam just starting to rise from the pot. “Feel the heat?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Listen carefully, the bubbles will start softly. Then louder.”

You tilted your head, listening intently. Gradually, the faint whisper of bubbles grew clearer. “I hear it.”

Matt smiled warmly, proud. “Good. You’re learning fast.”

“I have a good teacher,” you whispered playfully.

Matt chuckled softly, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. You jerked slightly at the contact, covering your mouth to hide a giggle.

He paused, grinning curiously. “Did I scare you?”

“No,” you muttered quickly, cheeks warming. “Well… I knew you were moving, I just didn’t know where you were moving.”

He hummed, clearly amused. “Still haven’t quite mastered that hearing thing yet, have you?”

“You mean my echolocation skills?” you teased gently, leaning back against him again.

Matt groaned quietly, forehead briefly pressing against your shoulder. “Please don’t call it that.”

“But it fits,” you said innocently. “And it’s adorable.”

“It's ridiculous,” he protested, chuckling softly as his hands settled comfortably at your waist.

You smiled, relaxing further. After a few moments, you heard the soft click of the stove turning off. You tilted your head in confusion. “Why’d you turn the burner off?”

Matt didn't respond immediately. Instead, you felt his hands shift, suddenly lifting you up effortlessly.

You yelped, arms quickly wrapping around his neck. “Matt! What are you doing?”

He laughed warmly, carrying you confidently through the apartment. “I just realized something.”

“What?” you asked suspiciously, gripping him tighter. “That kidnapping is easier when the victim is blindfolded?”

Matt chuckled, amusement clear in his tone. “No. That having you blindfolded could actually be a lot more fun than cooking.”

Your cheeks flushed deeper. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he whispered playfully, kicking the bedroom door open gently with his foot. “Oh.”

You laughed softly, your fingers gently sliding into his hair. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he murmured as he gently placed you down onto the bed, “you seem to like it.”

Smiling, you reached blindly for him, fingertips grazing his cheek. “Maybe just a little.”

Matt's breath hitched like you’d caught him off guard. Then you felt it—his smile, warm against your palm.

"Only a little?" he murmured, voice dipping low as he leaned into your touch. "I’ll have to change that."

You started to say something snarky, but his hands were already sliding down your sides, steady, careful. His fingers found your hips, squeezing gently. He kissed you again—soft, slow, lips dragging over yours until your breath caught.

Then he dropped lower.

You could feel him shift, the brush of his nose at your throat, the warmth of his mouth trailing down your sternum, kissing between your breasts, slow and unhurried. Your fingers hovered in midair, unsure what to grab onto.

"Matt?"

He didn’t answer. His breath skimmed lower, down your belly, and your breath hitched as he nosed at your waistband. Then he laughed—quiet and low.

"Relax," he said, his voice rough silk. "You look nervous."

"I can’t see you. I don’t know what you’re—"

Your words cut off in a sharp breath as he kissed just below your navel, slow and maddening. Then lower.

"That’s kind of the point, sweetheart."

You flinched when your waistband slid down. His hands were back, working slow, easing your pants down over your hips. You were still reaching out uselessly when he tugged them off completely, and then—silence.

"Matt?"

Nothing but his breath, hot against your thigh.

You tensed. "What are you—"

Then his mouth was on you.

A gasp ripped out of you, head tipping back against the pillows, hands clutching the sheets as his tongue flicked slow, deliberate. You bucked involuntarily and felt a hand on your stomach, grounding you.

"Jesus—Matt—"

He didn’t stop. Just a slow, relentless rhythm, his mouth moving like he could hear every twitch of your body, every gasp, every choked sound.

You whimpered, thighs twitching. "Fuck, I can’t—I don’t know what you’re—"

"Good," he said against you, voice muffled, smug. "Don’t think. Just feel."

You whined, fingers tangling in the sheets tighter, blindfold still in place, the lack of sight making every touch sharper, hotter. You could hear everything—the wet sounds of his tongue, his soft hums against your skin, your own breathless cries.

He licked up slow, then sucked—sharp, sudden.

"Ah—fuck!" You arched, breath stuttering. "Matt, oh my god."

"Mm," he hummed, tongue flicking cruel and perfect. "You sound so good like this."

You were unraveling, hips rolling helplessly against his mouth. He held you steady with an arm slung over your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

"I—I can’t—"

"You can," he whispered, the tip of his tongue circling you slow. "C’mon, sweetheart. Let go for me."

One more flick, and the world snapped.

Your whole body jerked, heat crashing through you like a wave breaking over raw nerves. A cry spilled from your mouth before you could muffle it, your thighs shaking, muscles tight. You felt the way he kept licking through it, unrelenting, dragging it out until you were gasping his name again and again.

Finally, finally, he pulled away. You could hear him breathing—steady, controlled. The mattress shifted as he crawled back up.

He kissed your cheek, your jaw, finally brushing his lips against your ear.

"Still think you only like me a little?"

You turned your head toward his voice, smiling weakly. "Okay... maybe more than a little."

His hand slid under the blindfold, thumb brushing your cheek.

"Then let me keep proving it."

You bit your lip. "Is that an offer or a threat?"

He laughed, mouth brushing yours. "Yes."

You were smiling, about to fire back with something snarky, when he moved again. Not a warning. Just his hands on your thighs, nudging them apart, slow and purposeful.

"Wait, what are you—"

"Shh," he whispered, the word soft against your lips. His body slid lower, fingers trailing fire down your sides, slow enough to make your breath hitch.

You reached out blindly, fingers brushing his shoulders, his chest, trying to figure out where the hell he was going next.

Matt's chuckle was low and maddening. "You're really not used to not knowing, huh?"

"No," you muttered, squirming under his touch. "I don’t like surprises."

"You will."

And then he was shifting up again, the heat of his body over yours, chest brushing your shirt where it was still bunched above your breasts. His hand slid under your thigh, lifting, guiding it up around his waist, his other hand braced near your head.

You could feel him now. Thick and hot, dragging against your thigh, teasing where you were still soaked from his mouth.

"Matt..."

He leaned down, lips grazing your jaw. "Still nervous?"

"Only because I can't fucking see what you're about to do," you hissed, hands fisting in the sheets.

He laughed softly, the sound warm and unfairly confident. "Then I'll make it easy. I'm gonna fuck you now."

Your breath caught hard, head tipping back into the pillow.

"Say yes," he murmured, mouth at your neck now, voice rougher. "Say it."

"Yes," you breathed. "Fuck—yes."

You barely got the last syllable out before he was pushing in, slow but steady. Your mouth dropped open with a gasp, the stretch burning and perfect.

"F-fuck—Matt—"

He groaned into your neck, the sound guttural. "God, you're tight."

You clung to his shoulders, digging your nails in as he sank deeper, inch by inch, until his hips were flush with yours and you couldn't breathe around the fullness.

"You okay?" he whispered, voice tight with restraint.

"Yeah," you managed, nodding, biting your lip. "Just—move. Please."

Matt pulled back, slow at first, then thrust back in with a sharp snap of his hips that made you cry out.

"Ah—fuck!"

He grunted, thrusting again, a steady rhythm that made the bed creak. You were so hyperaware, every sound amplified under the blindfold. The slap of skin, the ragged edge of his breath, the wet drag of your body clenching around him.

"You hear that?" he growled, fucking into you harder. "That's how wet you are."

You whimpered, fingers scrambling to find something to hold. He caught your wrists, pinning them above your head, fucking you deeper, harder, each thrust angled like he knew exactly what would ruin you.

"You're fucking trembling," he rasped.

"Because I can't see anything—"

"Exactly," he growled. "You can't brace for it. Can't anticipate. Just feel."

You sobbed out a moan, back arching, thighs shaking around his hips. "Matt, fuck—oh my god—"

His mouth was back on your jaw, your throat, kissing, biting. "C'mon, sweetheart. Let me hear you."

You did. Every snap of his hips forced another sound out of you. Moans, gasps, whimpers that spilled uncontrolled. You could feel yourself unraveling again, tighter, hotter than before.

"You gonna come for me again?"

You nodded frantically, barely able to speak. "Yes—yes, please, I'm—fuck, I'm close."

He let go of your wrists, hand sliding between you. Two fingers found your clit, circling, rubbing just right, and that was it.

You broke.

"Ahh—fuck! M-Matt!" You cried out loud, body locking up as the orgasm tore through you like a live wire, your hips jerking, thighs squeezing around him.

He groaned hard, breath catching as you clenched around him. "Jesus, you feel so good when you come."

You were still shuddering, barely conscious of anything but him still thrusting through the aftershocks.

"Gonna fill you up," he muttered, the pace faltering. "Fuck, I'm gonna—"

You barely managed to whimper a "yes" before he buried himself deep, hips grinding against you as he came, groaning low in your ear.

Neither of you moved for a long moment. You were still gasping, blindfold damp, your fingers twitching.

Matt finally shifted, brushing his nose along your cheek. "Still don’t like surprises?"

You let out a shaky laugh. "I might be warming up to them."

His smile was against your mouth. "Told you."

the title was meant to insinuate "butterflies in my stomach." anyways, weird fun fact about me, i'm terrified of butterflies. don't ask why bc i don't know i just am, lol

[fucktoyfelix]

This is actually a useful thing to understand how to spell out. What exactly is wrong with puritanical attitudes towards sexuality? TW: Discusses body image issues, suicide, STIs, sexual assault etc

1. It fosters fear, disgust and loathing of our bodies. By hiding the human body as soon as we are born, and treating it as an object of inherent shame: THAT creates trauma. Shame is one of the primary sources of trauma, its the fuel and lets trauma burn. Those raised in nudist societies, and children raised in households where nudity is treated in a neutral and non-sexual tend to have a much more positive relationship with their bodies as adults. This makes complete sense when you think about it. Going through puberty not knowing if your body is "normal" terrifies children in ways that stick with them for life. In fact, most cultures outside of the Unites States aren't as strange about non-sexual nudity actually...and are healthier for it. We can't have body positivity as long as we are literally criminalized for having an uncovered body. 2. It creates fear, shame and disgust about sex. Most people have sex at some point in their lives. No one would be here at all without it. Most people have sexual desires which lie outside their control. When people are ashamed of those desires, it leads to self hatred, and depression and anxiety. This shame is just as traumatic as bodily shame. When sex is normalized, and treated with the same candor as any other hobby: it becomes less apt to traumatize people.

3. Puritanical attitudes towards sex limit sex education. When people are too ashamed to talk about sex, people don't learn about pregnancy, stis, or consent. All of these things can and do kill people when they aren't addressed with an open dialogue.

Sexual shame leads to people too ashamed to buy condoms, to talk to their doctor about birth control, to ask their partner to use protection, to get tested...the negative health impacts of sexual puritanism have a massive negative effect on society.

4. Sexual shame leads to poorer communication in relationships. Ohh if I had a dime for every person i knew who ruined their relationship because they felt too guilty to talk to their partner about their sexual feelings...Not just that, but the general body shame that comes with puritanism blocks people from connecting to one another too. Have you ever avoided getting close to someone because you were ashamed of your body? If not, I guarantee you know someone who has.

5. Misogyny! Puritanical sexual believes hold that women are not capable of sexual agency. That only men should initiate sex. That women should only ever want babies and not pleasure from sex. All of this rolls right into the next one:

6. Victim blaming in sexual assault. When women are the gatekeepers of sex, its easy to blame them when they 'fail' to protect their chastity when someone violates their trust. This isn't something that just effects women: as the same attitudes hold that men are not capable of experiencing sexual assault. The lack of education and discussion about sex in a sex-negative world inherently prevent the open dialogues necessary for creating and maintaining consent culture.

7. Suppression and marginalization of the queer community. If we're too ashamed to talk about sex, we'll be too ashamed to talk about sexuality. Puritans can't accept any deviation from gender norms either. Anything other than sex between a cis man and a cis woman for the purpose of making a baby is a deviant kink, a mental illness, and needs to be wiped out. Its important to point out that many queer people hold puritanical values about sex: believing that they can achieve sex negativity and queer liberation at the same time. However, sex negative movements always rise with censorship and discrimination of queer people...because queer people are inherently considered deviant by the vast majority of sex negative "allies". It's very dangerous to forget this.

8. Censorship of art. Who decides what is sexual and what is not? Its easy to agree that sex needs to be hidden...but it never takes long before the definition of what is "sexual" expands. Even women's breasts are considered sexual in the United States. Its so normal for Americans to think of them that way that women can't feed their children in public. Drag queens face violence for reading at libraries. Books get taken off the shelves. Artists are bullied offline.

9. Censorship of scientific exploration. Scientific research into reproductive health, sexual behavior, gender identity and more are often hindered due to the "moral objections" of puritans, delaying progress and understanding. That's just off the top of my head. I think its time for people to take how problematic 'puritanism' is more seriously. As we see fascism rear its ugly head all over the world, we're going to see a lot more talk about 'degenerates'...and we know where that kind of talk leads.

[senanatheskenana]

Giyuu, Sanemi, and Rengoku With Baby Fever

TW: mentions of pregnancy, Sex, fem reader

Giyuu Tomioka

He hadn't put much thought into domestic life- after all, you were his first real relationship. However, when he lays eyes on your happy smile and the way you fussed over the three younger demon slayers, he can't help the feeling that pools in the pit of his stomach. A primal need for you, for a family. He's not particularly proud of the human weakness he currently experiences but each time he looks your way, his strength melts away, leaving only his desire to create life with you.

His smile is small but amused at how you motherly coddle Inosuke, attempting to wipe the mass of dirt off his face, despite his protests. Tanjirou seems almost as enamoured by your sweet behaviour as Giyuu is.

You can tell something is different with Giyuu- the way he holds your hand is just slightly tighter, the way he looks at you ever so slightly hungrier than you've seen. He stares off into space in contented silence, and you feel he is happiest in those moments. The idea made you curious as to what he was daydreaming about.

'Three children, maybe more' he thinks, pink tinging his cheeks at feeling so soft for you. He imagines what life outside of the corp- life with you- would be like. Blissful, peaceful, connecting but of course with moments of excitement and frustration that come from raising children. Maybe your children would have his hair and your eyes- or perhaps they will look the opposite, or exactly like you or him.

His cheeks once again flare up when another thought hits his head.

'And (y/n) would surely only become more beautiful over the years'

"Giyuu~." He is snapped out of his fantasy by your hand over his. "What are you thinking about?"

He gently squeezes your hand, looking deep into your eyes with humility as he thinks through the right words to say.

"We've been married for a year, and we haven't talked about it yet. I would completely understand if you object... but i have a request, that involves both of us." you listen eagerly to him.

"Sweetheart, i will always try my best to understand your wants, there's no reason to seem so nervous," you smile tenderly at him, hands coming up to cup his cheeks. The apples of his cheeks burst into flames at your touch, butterflies erupting underneath the skin of his shuddering chest.

"(Y/N) I love you. I will always love you... And if you will be so kind, I would like to start a family with you"

He sees your face break into a smile, which makes him smile. Before he knows it you're climbing into his lap and kissing him with a passion that fills him with a need he has never experienced.

Kyojurou Rengoku

Kyojurou was sure he wanted children at some point, and as your husband, he made you aware of this, in case it wasn't for you. For the most part, your husband had great self-control.

However, it always seems to slip away when his younger brother makes a comment, about how your baby would probably have bright hair like theirs. At first, it's just that thought, but soon he's thinking about baby names, daydreaming and kicking his legs behind him giggling. You easily notice your cheerful husband becoming even more giddy than usual- not to mention far more physically affectionate.

He finds every excuse under the sun to get you under him. He takes his time, forehead pressed against yours, enraptured in pleasure. Your legs are pressed to your chest; a new position for you. The sheer depth is enough to make you dizzy, even without moving.

Kyojurou looks deeply into your eyes before kissing you passionately, sensually, as if the world is ending.

"Honey, i think we should have a baby!" he huffs out in between languid thrusts. You thought he'd never ask.

"Me too, Kyo~"

Sanemi Shinazugawa

Sanemi doesn't not want kids. He just feels he would be a bad father given all of his hangups. He worries he won't be emotionally available for a child, or might accidentally scare them when he is angry.

So this feeling is conflicted within him. On one hand, he's utterly in love with you and the way you care for Genya is heartwarming to the point of actually convincing him he might be ok if you were by his side. On the other, he was terrified of being a bad parent.

Sanemi swears you look so pretty holding your friend's new baby. You hold it like you're accustomed to it like it was yours. And you just look so fucking happy like that. Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if he- no, he couldn't just rush into these things. But you look so pretty he's having a hard time rationalising anything.

He sits beside you, peering down at the baby that tries to grasp at his fingers. It's actually sort of cute, he thinks. Then you look up at him, and he's caught off guard by a vision of you and your own baby. Your friend has to physically bite back giggles while she watches the motions of Sanemi's thoughts. She knows what's happening better than he does.

She sparks up a conversation with you to see how flustered she can make the hashira on this topic. "You know, past the halfway mark I gave up putting on my own pants- it got too annoying when I couldn't see over the bump and boobs. My husband had to help me instead!"

It seems to work like a charm. Sanemi almost zones out, thinking about how you would look pregnant. Without realising it he is salivating at the thought of your swollen chest and round tummy. 'fuck,' he thinks, 'that sounds good'

Half an hour later he's rushing to leave, hastily pulling your coat over your shoulders and waving goodbye to the baby. He didn't dislike being there in any way- he'd just rather be somewhere else with you. He tugs you down the road, looking at you with a strange new fervour, eyes darting to your lips and tummy.

Your friend closes the door behind you with a mischievous grin. "I'll give it a week before she's pregnant<3"

[rebelliousstories]

Different Time

Relationship: Remy LeBeau/Gambit x Reader

Fandom: X-Men

Request: Yes by Anon

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Mentions of Blood and Violence, Strong Language, Happy Endings

Word Count: 2,358

Main Masterlist: Here

X-Men Masterlist: Here

Summary: Being dragged into the Void by your good buddy Wade was not how you imagined to be spending your days after your lover had died.

A single card was fixed between her fingers as she walked behind the other two people on their journey. There was silence all around the trio as they walked through the field. She did not pay attention to what was being said, nor did she care very much. If it was of any importance to her, they would let her know.

Before she knew what was going on, a dog was running straight for them. But the man with long, flowing locks that was running behind made her finger tingle with energy. After Deadpool and the Wolverine ahead of her did not move to attack the man, she let that energy fizzle out. Not that it would have done much damage anyways. It was getting harder and harder to remember what it was like. And yet, she could see it so clearly in her mind; the first time he had shown her what he could do.

“So what can you do exactly? You just throw cards at people?”

“Nah, cher,” his hands came up to hold a card between his fingers, “is much more den dat. I charge da playin’ cards wit energy. And den dey go boom.” His chuckle followed shortly afterwards.

“Is that so huh?” She chuckled as well. But the man just smiled, and wrapped his arms around her anyways.

“See is like dis, cher. Watch and learn.”

With his arms around her, he held an ace of hearts. Flicking it in the air caused a pink glow to encompass it. She giggled as he swiped the card from the sky, and touched it to her skin. The resulting kinetic energy made her entire body jolt, but the man kept her grounded as it flowed through each and every muscle.

“Feel dat, cher?” His breath fanned across her cheek as she rested against his chest. Once she had recovered, she held her hand and felt the card laid in her palm. Flipping it over through her fingers, she managed to produce a glow and a light crackling energy field around the object.

“Atta girl, cher.” A kiss was laid upon her cheek, and she felt the day old scruff rub against the crook of her neck.

“You comin’, bub?” A gruff voice pulled her out of her thoughts. Snapping into reality, the three men in front of her were looking like they were off to go somewhere.

“Apologies,” came her reply.

“Did we just miss some exposition about you? I feel like we just missed a vital flashback into your tragic backstory. Besides, I would like to find out what you do exactly. We’ve never gotten a clear answer. You just sort of do everything, like Taylor Swift.” Wade was having none of her dismissal.

“What are you talking about?” She was utterly confused, but Logan waved the red menace of off.

“Don’t pay him any mind. Come on, let’s go.” They all made the trek out to the dense corn that housed an old Honda Odyssey, which made the merc in red pitch a hissy fit.

“Get in the fucking car.” Logan snapped at Wade, utterly feed up with his antics. Before being prompted, she threw open the side door and climbed n the back. She watched as Deadpool tried to run off with the sweet little pup that had found them, but Wolverine put a very fast stop to that. Defeated, Wade climbed in the passenger seat, while Logan went in the driver’s, and they were off.

Somewhere along the way, she must have dozed off. That was the only explanation for the memory she was experiencing right now. Except, she was not exactly experiencing it as t had happened. No, she was watching it from an outsider’s perspective.

The first thing she saw, was a dingy old motel room floor. And the next, was laughing. Looking up, she saw them. It was her, and her beau play fighting on the bed of the motel room.

“Now, you know bettah den to play dirty, cher. Ain’t no coyon, ya know?” Her lover had trapped her arms to her body, and was smiling as big as ever. Plush lips stretched across his face. Hazel eyes twinkled brightly.

“Didn’t hear you complaining about me playing dirty last night,” she teased. Turning in his arms, she looked up at her lover with nothing but adoration.

“Well, Gambit seems to remember you not complainin’ neither.” His lips came down onto hers.

Watching from her spot near the dresser, the future her could still feel the wonderful pressure of their kiss. Tracing her fingers over her own, melancholy filled her heart. He looked so alive in this moment. A moment that she cherished with her whole being.

“Ahh!”

Something far less pleasant awoke her this time from her thoughts. One of Wade’s knives had lodged itself in her shin. Blood steadily poured itself from the wound. And the world fell still for a moment. Raising her eyes, she felt herself shaking in anger and pain as Deadpool met her gaze.

“Oh no. Oh, I am so sorry.” He wheezed. But it was too late.

Her other leg raised and kicked him hard in the head. While he was disoriented, her mind contorted the blade that was in his hands; even the hand that was holding the knife began to bend and break. Holding her knee, she made herself fall through the car and onto the ground below.

“Where’d she go? Magic woman.” She heard Deadpool exclaim loudly. It was followed by a growl and a squeak. And the car started to rock with the force that they were going at each other.

Rolling to her right, she got out from underneath the vehicle before someone sent a blade through to her again. Releasing her leg, she crawled on her belly over to a tree that was still facing the car. Her forearms were covered in dirt and leaves now, as were the entire lower half of her body. While keeping an eye on the Odyssey, she worked to remove her boots and rolled up the pants from her injured leg. She could see the wound eventually and worked to clear her mind.

Regenerating always took a lot from her. It took a lot physically and mentally from her, but she could get it done. Groans slipped from her lips as she could feel her skin, muscles, and even veins being to stitch themselves together. A scar was all that was left in the place of the stab wound. The woman rested against the large piece of wood behind her and watched through blackening vision as both men were thrown through the car, and jumped back in with fervor.

That was the image that she passed out to. That was the last thing in the real world that she saw. She was not sure how much time had passed between her passing out, and when she woke up. But she immediately recognized that she was not where she was before. There were stone walls all around her, and she was lying down on a bed. Before sitting up, she looked and could see Logan with a bottle of liquor to her right.

Voices were muffled all around her. She could not pin point a specific one, but something felt off. Like someone or something was there, and how that was supposed to make her feel, she did not know. Groaning, she sat up and caught the attention of everyone else that was talking. One person much more than anyone else. A familiar drawl called out her name, and her body filled with dread. Footsteps came closer, and the muffs came off from her ear.

“Cher, that you?” Her heart sped up and it felt like it was beating out of her chest. A hand came to her shoulder, but she was not having whatever weird illusion this was. Grabbing whoever’s wrist this was, she used her body weight and center of gravity to pivot the person onto their back on the floor beside the bed she was on.

Staring down, her heart stopped. This was her beau. Remy was staring up at her with wide eyes. Letting out a shaking breath, her hands let go of the man as if he had burned her and stood upon shaking legs. The man on the ground was not doing much better than her. He stood just as quickly, and looked at the woman just the same.

“Oh, thank you Lord. It is you.” He whispered, taking a step closer. But her hand shot up to stop him from getting closer.

“Don’t. Who the hell are you? And what are you doing with that suit on?” She demanded, and watched the confusion sink in.

“Cher, it’s me. It’s your Gambit. I’m jus’ wonderin’ how in da hell you here now.” Remy breathed.

“Oh my god!” Everyone’s attention was brought to Deadpool who was wide eyed in his mask. “This is your tragic backstory. You and him…”

“I need some air.” She turned on her heels, and phased through her wall till she was outside in the forest. Outside, she tried to draw in a deep breath, but found her body starting to seize. Everything got too much. Shaky limbs and sweaty palms found themselves crashing onto the forest floor. She tried to breathe in again but only managed half a breath. Her heart was beating out of her chest. The world began to spin.

“Ay, ay, you alright, cher. Come ‘ere. Let’s settle on down now, ya.” Thick arms encompassed her. They grounded her back to reality. As Remy kept whispering soothing words, she felt her world come back into focus. Her heart slowed down and was now moving at a steady rhythm. She was following Remy’s lead on her breaths; in through the nose for four, hold for four, out for four. Her arms and legs were soothing themselves out and she was able to wipe off her palms onto the legs of her suit.

“Dat’s a good girl, now. Ain’t no reason to be like dat. Just a little frightenin’ is all. Didn’ mean to.” He was apologizing for scaring her? After she had thrown him to the ground and walked out on everyone? Those arms felt so familiar and comforting; she did not want to move rom them. But she had to face this man. She had to know. Turning, her eyes finally came up close and personal with the man that had introduced himself as Gambit, Remy LeBeau.

“You good now, cher? Feelin’ a little bettah?” Even after all of this, he was still so caring.

“Yeah. How are you alive?” She whispered, tracing her eyes over every inch of his face like this was the last time she was going to see it. Because it just might.

“I been wonderin’ da same thing. Don’t know how long I been in dis here Void, but you was gone long before I got here.” One of his hands came up and pet her head so very softly.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours?” Her attempt at a joke made the Cajun chuckle as well. Sure, both of their laughs were tinged with sadness, but they were laughing together again.

“Well, I uh-” he stammered, trying to find the right words, “was out playin’ cards. Got a feelin’ dat somethin’ was wrong. Went back to the apartment we was stayin’ in. And you… you were gone when I got there. Tracked down who had killed ya, and it turned out to be my ol’ thievin’ ring. Didn’ like da fact dat we was ‘bout to get outta da game apparently. Da hardest thing Remy ever done was buryin’ you. Easiest was killin’ da sons o’ bitches dat took you from me.”

Silence enveloped them as the weight of his words sunk in.

“Something very similar happened in my timeline.” She replied, watching as he seemed to going through the same emotions she was.

“We were on our way back from a mission for Xavier. You and I were with Jean, Scott, and Storm. God, she was making so many jokes about how she was the fifth wheel on that mission and we were making it worse for her. Anyways, we got ambushed by the Brotherhood. We were actually taking out a good chunk of them, but Sabertooth got the drop on you. You bled out in my arms on the way back to the mansion. You had me promise not to do anything rash in the aftermath, but it was difficult.”

Tears welled in both of their eyes. Both of them mourning a love and life lost in tragic fashion. Remy pulled her in close, and she breathed in deeply. That familiar leather and musk scent blended with the fresh air outside. She just wanted that scent bottled up and kept with her at all times.

“So it seems to ol’ Gambit dat we both lost our other half. Maybe you was supposed to be the one that completed my deck, cher.” Her head raised and her eyebrow as she turned to look at the man in confusion.

“You’ve got an incomplete deck,” came her question. She began feeling around for a pocket in her jacket that was directly over her heart.

“Jus’ missin’ one card. Whatchu lookin’ for?” He questioned, letting her move around freely.

“Get your deck out,” his eyebrows raised. “Your card deck, Gambit. Humor me.”

“Whatevea you say, cher.”

The duo shifted until their respective items were grabbed. Remy produced a deck of cards and quickly rearranged them to be in card order. Her card was in between her first two fingers. As Gambit sifted through his deck, he stopped right where a card was missing. And as she revealed what was in her hands, the two suddenly looked at each other with love and tears. Her ace of hearts was missing from his deck, but he had finally found it again. It was a different time, different place, even a different person, but it was the same love that spanned the multiverse.

[nerdygirlramblings]

Ren gets something of Soap's (finally)

previous

This is by far the strangest field training you've ever experienced. And it's definitely not something you ever would have predicted. The pub is busy, even for the early weeknight hour. You stand against the wall trying to be as unassuming as possible while you wait for Price's voice in your ear to tell you your objective.

Earlier in the day, he'd said field training would be off base and to wear civvies appropriate for going out with friends. His eyes had giving you a quick once over, lingering on the patches at your neck, amending, "Nothing that would put your omega in danger, but nothing that screams military either."

You'd shown up at their barracks at 2000 in a pair of dark wash skinny jeans and loosely-fitted floral top, pretty pink heels on your feet. Walking into the rec room, your teammates gave you the kind of appraising looks you usually shunned. Your omega preened at their attention. There was more in their glances than you received during other trainings, and your omega reminded you that when Price invited you into the team, he said the pack would be open to courting you.

Before your racing heart could cause any problems, Price cut the tension. "Sometimes our intelligence recovery is finding things, like ya did in the hanger. But sometimes it's more personal subterfuge. Gettin' close to someone and gettin' them ta talk, takin' somethin' off 'em, distractin' their attention while someone else does the diggin'. I know ya've never done interrogation trainin', and we'll get ya some 'a tha' eventually, but tonight we're gunna practice some real world interrogation. How ya can get all people an' all designations ta open up."

Then Ghost dropped a leather jacket on your shoulders, muttering, "'S gunna be cold in th' pub." The brown leather shifted like butter; it was worn, not stiff, but smelled a little musty, like it'd been sitting around outside. Still, there was something familiar about its weight on your shoulders, and you felt safer about venturing out for this training.

Now here you are trying to guess who Price will make your target and for what. There's a pop of static in ear followed by his warm honey tone. "Right, Ren, the group by the pool table. There's one with a wedding ring. Get his mate's name." One glance across the bar shows your team in the corner booth at the back where they have a view of the entire room.

You wander over to the game and for fifteen painful minutes you try to get the man to share the information Price asked for. You try playing pool, talking about the footie on the telly. You try to look enticing then non-threatening. You play up the innocent omega bit. His friends are happy to entertain you, chat, teach you to play, get you a drink. After twenty minutes, Price calls it. "Head to the booth, Ren." Shame creeps down your spine. You heard the barely constrained laughter and hate that you failed.

You expect teasing when you get to the table and avoid eye contact with the others as you slide into an open chair. "Hey," Gaz calls softly, raising his voice just above the din of the pub. Your eyes flick to him momentarily before skittering off again, but from the glance, he doesn't look upset or amused. "That was a good first try, Ren."

"Sergeant's right," Price adds. "Didn't give ya an easy mark to start because I wanted to see yer gut reaction. Ya have good instincts. Ya didn't barrel in, weren't blunt. Ya tried several different angles. Now we're gunna teach you a few tricks, an' we'll try again wi' someone else."

You sit and listen as they give you some tactical pointers: how to read a mark's body language, how to use your body language, the impact of light touches, how verbal repetition can get someone to open up. The whole thing reminds you of the old show Leverage and how the con artist taught the others to be better con artists. Which leads you to the realization that this is all improv: put on your part, run your scene, work towards an established outcome.

You try to remember as much as possible, not wanting to disappoint Price or the team. Finally, he slides you a pack of cigarettes. When you wrinkle your nose and grimace, he says, "They're fer you but not." He jerks his head to the bar's far end, and you track the long walnut top down to a small gaggle of women by the bar. Based on how they're dressed and how they're behaving, they're here for a good time and have been at it for a while. After giving them a once-over, you turn back, clearly confused. Price looks you square in the eye and says, "Get one of them to go out for a smoke break with you."

You nod, mission focused, and snag the cigarettes off the table. Standing, you wind your way through the increasingly noisy pub. A tall man bumps into you, nearly spilling his beer on you, his retort about "watch it!" dying as he really looks at you. Sidestepping him, you squeeze past a few tables, accidentally brushing against the people standing there. The stares you receive remind you why you don't like coming out like this. By the time you get to the bar, near the women but not intruding, you feel like you could use a cigarette.

You lean on the bar, not quite obviously waiting on a drink. The group beside you opens slightly, the woman at your shoulder taking a half-step back as she laughs at her companion. You lean forward a bit, now edging into their bubble briefly, and point at the blue drink on the bar top. Just loud enough so the woman who was sipping from it can hear, you say, "That looks fun! What's it called?"

She shifts at your voice before turning her attention fully on you. You'd left the jacket on your chair, easier to seem unimposing. Her gaze is a little predatory but not as hungry as some of the men you've seen. There's no scent blockers or mating marks on her neck, so she's either an alpha or a beta. She must quickly deem you're not a threat because she smiles wide, leans close, and says, "'S a tipsy mermaid."

You tell her thanks and flag the bartender down. "One of those, please," you say, pointing at the concoction. A quick nod and he's sliding your card before heading to another well for the alcohol he needs. When you have the drink on hand, you turn to the woman and say, "Cheers!"

She watches you drink and smiles again, a little less appraisingly. "'S good, yeah?"

You return her smile. "Yeah. Thanks for that." You make to turn back to the bar and drink alone, but she's stepped a full length back and motions you to join her and her friends. You shift closer with grin, introducing yourself and thanking her again for the hospitality. They women introduce themselves in turn. You quickly learn Molly, a beta, is getting married soon, so her sisters, Annabel and your new friend Casey, brought her and her new pack's omega, Sydney, out for drinks.

Their conversation washes over you, but you make sure to leave gentle touches on Casey when you can, a hand on her shoulder when you lean in with a question, arm brushing against hers when you stand with your drink. Little things she can write off as innocuous or flirty. Either interpretation would suit your objective. When you slide your empty glass onto the bar, Casey is eager to buy you another. You decline, citing the need for a cigarette break. She loops her arm around yours and drags Annabel along, claiming the break is to give Molly and Sydney some "pack bonding time." You snicker with Annabel as Casey drags you out front. As the pub door closes behind you, Price's voice growls, "Nicely done, Ren. Make your exit and meet us at the truck. I've got yer jacket."

You want to protest it isn't your jacket, but right now the desire to be wrapped in its soft comfort has you devising all sorts of ways to leave. Not for the first time, you wish conversations had the same mission exfils, though you startle to realize that's exactly what this is. "Thank you for the lovely night, Casey, Annabel," you say, turning to them while you snub out your mostly unused cigarette. "I've got an early shift and need to get home." Before you can take more than two steps away, Casey grabs your wrist and tugs you in, dropping a kiss on your cheek. You feel pressure on your forearm and look down to see Annabel writing two numbers with hearts. One number has an A and a beta symbol, the other has a C and an alpha symbol.

"If you ever want company pub hopping," Casey says, "call us, yeah?"

They walk inside; you're too stunned to move for a solid minute. You don't have to meet the team at the truck because when they pour out from the door, you're still standing there. None of them could see you outside, but Price could hear everything. You feel like you should be embarrassed or ashamed, but your omega reminds you this was a job, a mission, and since you aren't part of any pack, entertaining an alpha isn't shameful.

Ghost puts the leather jacket around your shoulders, and that first deep inhale of the jacket's scent is immediately soothing. It warms you quickly and snaps you out of your stupor. Ghost's hand hovers behind you, like a sheepdog helping herd you to their vehicle. You climb into the back between Soap and Gaz, who both give you proud smiles. The drive to base is quiet, the only debrief was Price, again, telling you you'd done a good job.

next

series masterlist | main masterlist

~~

taglist: @sirbonesly @z-wantstowrite @thriving-n-jiving @cecelia97 @theycallmevalen @boogeysmoth @cryingpages @riley13 @luxylucylou @lucienofthelakes @ilyztwo @chaosundcoffee @lostintransist @thegreyjoyed

[22ayla21]

Awkward First Love

Experiencing the feeling of falling in love for the first time, Silver awkwardly tries to court the Prefect of the Ramshackle Dorm, but his sleepiness and awkwardness keep throwing him off track.

She appeared at Night Raven College like a random line in a perfectly constructed ballad. The only girl among the students, the head of the Ramshackle Dorm - quiet, reserved, like a shadow of a forgotten era that still clings to the proud name of its monastery. Silver had noticed her before - how quietly she straightened old books in the library, how she quietly walked along the stone slabs of the corridors. But one sunny afternoon, while Malleus was discussing the schedule, he suddenly caught himself thinking that he had been looking... for too long.

Since then, everything went wrong.

He began to notice details: how she slightly tilted her head when she asked a question, or how she sighed silently, sorting through papers. And Silver... decided to act. Knightly. With dignity. As expected.

His first attempt was a bouquet. Not some banal roses, no. He chose forest flowers. Modest, but graceful, like herself. Only... he fell asleep. He fell asleep right on the path, holding the bouquet in his hands, waiting for her at the exit from the dining room. She found him half an hour later, gently woke him up, and he, confused, simply silently handed her the flowers with a slight blush on his cheeks.

- Thank you... - she said with a slight smile, accepting the bouquet. - But you don't have to lose sleep over me.

He lowered his gaze, as if hiding his embarrassment, and quietly muttered:

- If for your sake... then it's not so bad.

And then, realizing that he said it out loud, he quickly added, blushing even more:

- I... that is... just wanted you to be pleased.

And again he fell silent, nervously squeezing his empty fingers, as if he forgot what to do without a bouquet in his hands.

The next attempt was an offer to help. He offered to help her fix the old furniture in the dorm. Everything was going well until he dozed off with a screwdriver in his hand while she was explaining which shelves needed to be reinforced. He woke up from a light laugh and a look in which a warm mockery slipped.

- You should take care of yourself, Silver. I don't want you to fall down the stairs in your sleep, - he wanted to object, but realized that... she was right.

The third attempt was the most desperate. He offered to walk her to the dorm when the wind picked up outside. And he even walked... almost. Halfway there he dozed off, walking next to her. And when he woke up, he realized that she was leading him by the arm, carefully so that he would not trip.

- Silver, I think I should be your knight, - she joked. He was embarrassed, looked away.

- Sorry... I just... want to be useful, - she looked at him a little longer than usual.

- You're already useful. Just be yourself. And if you want, sometimes... stay cheerful, - he nodded, and his heart began to beat faster.

It wasn't perfect. It was... awkward. But maybe she liked it that way.

[devilish-cherry]

ᨳ♡₊➳ choso x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff

"Choso’s closet is officially declared a war crime. It's your moral duty to save him... with questionable results."

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: request from this ask!

When Yuji first mentioned Choso's nonexistent fashion sense, you laughed it off. Big mistake. Because now, standing in front of a closet that genuinely looked more tragic than any Shakespearean play, you realized you had drastically underestimated the problem.

You squinted, double-checked, even triple-checked, but Choso's wardrobe remained stubbornly pathetic. His wardrobe could be generously described as "minimalist," which, in reality, was just exactly one outfit and two of Yuji's hoodies that absolutely did not fit.

You stared blankly at the closet like it had personally offended you. Turning slowly, you leveled a stare at Choso, who stood behind you, perfectly poised, hands neatly clasped behind his back.

“This… is your entire closet?” you asked.

Choso blinked, his expression solemnly earnest.

“Yes,” he answered, voice grave as if this admission held world-ending significance. “This is my entire closet.”

You took a deep breath, the weight of responsibility settling dramatically upon your shoulders. "Choso, I'm not sure how to tell you this, but… this isn't a wardrobe. This is a war crime."

Choso appeared gravely concerned by your declaration, his face hardened instantly and he nodded with alarming seriousness. “I was unaware clothing choices could breach international law. That seems unfortunate. What steps do we take?”

“Oh, they definitely can. And yours? Yours deserve an entire tribunal,” you replied dryly, pushing the closet door shut firmly, lest the sadness escape and contaminate the outside world. “We need to go shopping. Immediately.”

Choso nodded once again. “I understand. We must obtain more… fashion.”

You weren’t entirely sure he did understand, but there was no turning back now. You grabbed his wrist with an intensity that made him make an undignified startled sound, and dragged him toward Shibuya aka the epicenter of youthful fashion, questionable aesthetics, and overpriced branded hoodies.

The shopping district was packed, colorful and loud, filled with mannequins wearing things you were fairly certain qualified as crimes against humanity. Choso, meanwhile, regarded everything with cautious suspicion.

“Do humans enjoy this?” he asked warily, eyeing a mannequin in a lime-green fuzzy bucket hat.

“Define enjoy,” you sighed. “Let’s just find something you can wear without causing physical pain.”

Your first stop was a store that claimed "minimalist streetwear," but you quickly realized their idea of minimalism involved cutting basic t-shirts in half and charging triple the price. Inside, ambient music hummed gently beneath the chatter of trendy customers and staff who looked straight off a TikTok fashion vlog.

Choso obediently tried on a pastel crop top and black ripped jeans, emerging from the dressing room with the facial expression of someone experiencing spiritual torment. He looked great, objectively speaking, but unfortunately, Choso himself appeared emotionally traumatized.

“I feel… exposed,” he said, eyes wide.

“You look like an eboy with daddy issues,” you said frankly. “Actually, you look amazing, but this might be too advanced.”

“I understand. No eboys. No daddy issues,” he echoed solemnly, immediately retreating to change again.

Next was the grunge aesthetic store, which smelled strongly of incense, angst, and overpriced vintage leather. Choso hesitantly appeared from behind the curtain, dressed in distressed jeans that looked like they’d been dragged behind a moving vehicle, a dark band tee from a band neither of you recognized, a leather jacket weighed down with unnecessary chains, and studded boots that screamed rebellion. He vaguely looked like a tortured rock star or a vampire trying way too hard to blend in.

You blinked at him. He blinked back, entirely serious.

“Is this better?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Are you planning on joining a motorcycle gang?”

He paused thoughtfully. “Should I?”

You shook your head quickly. “Absolutely not. Honestly, you look like you sell CBD-infused vape juice on TikTok.”

He looked at his reflection. “Is that… a career path?”

“No.”

You even tried the soft-boy aesthetic, leading him into a gentle-colored paradise where everything was pastel, fuzzy, and alarmingly comforting. Choso appeared, completely disoriented, in an oversized lavender cardigan, round glasses perched awkwardly on his nose, plaid pants, and socks with tiny embroidered flowers.

He turns to the mirror, expression troubled. “This is the outfit of someone who would let enemies live so they could learn the power of love.”

“… Is that bad?”

“Yes. I must kill my enemies. Efficiently.”

The next store was a confusing explosion of streetwear and urban fashion, displaying pieces that were both outrageously overpriced and weirdly tactical. You handed Choso an armful of clothing again and waited skeptically as he dressed.

When the curtain opened, you nearly choked. Choso stood there, in a flashy satin shirt, leather jacket, tight ripped jeans, and obnoxiously large sunglasses.

He stared at his reflection in disbelief. "I appear ready to announce my debut album."

“You’re giving me 'second-tier idol kicked out after two months' realness.”

He genuinely considered it. “Perhaps idol life is not suited for a former cursed womb.”

You laughed, nudging him playfully. “Maybe next reincarnation.”

At your wit’s end, you finally dragged him into a casual clothing store, shoving a handful of basics into his arms with a fervent prayer. When Choso emerged, both your eyebrows lifted.

It was… perfect?

The denim jacket fitted his broad shoulders impeccably, paired casually over the dark shirt that emphasized his lean build. Jeans hugged his long legs just right. He looked good. More than good, really. He looked annoyingly fantastic.

He paused, turning uncertainly in front of the mirror.

“You… actually look really good,” you said, stunned into honesty.

Choso looked down at himself, then at you, expression softened into something so oddly sweet it made your heart stutter. “Thank you,” he murmured, and then, entirely serious, “I did not know denim could evoke positive emotional reactions.”

“Denim is humanity’s greatest accomplishment after fire and WiFi.”

He nodded thoughtfully, clearly committing this sacred knowledge to memory. “I will remember this.”

As you went to the counter to purchase your victory haul, Choso watched with careful intensity, clearly internalizing the exchange as if preparing for future survival in a foreign land.

You patted his shoulder gently. “Congratulations, you survived your first shopping experience.”

He nodded solemnly. “This is an achievement worthy of pride?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

A tiny, rare smile touched his lips. “Then I am proud.”

You smiled back, oddly touched by his sincerity. Shopping with Choso, though exhausting, was also fun. His blunt confusion, strange questions, and unintentionally sweet comments were oddly endearing.

As you exited the store, Choso’s expression softened with unexpected contentment, eyes scanning the vibrant Shibuya crowds with quiet curiosity.

That’s when it happened. He stopped abruptly, eyes wide with sudden, intense focus on a street stall.

“Oh no,” you whispered, already sensing trouble.

Choso approached with deadly seriousness and picked up a knitted panda hat. The panda hat was, objectively speaking, an absolute tragedy. A soft knitted monstrosity that looked like a craft project gone horribly wrong. A black-and-white abomination with floppy ears and uneven stitching. It was undeniably off-putting. The street vendor smiled encouragingly, clearly sensing Choso’s vulnerable sincerity as an easy target.

“I must have this,” Choso stated with absolute conviction, his eyes shining with an intensity usually reserved for dramatic declarations or solemn battle oaths.

You choked. “Choso, are you sure-”

He stared straight at you, deadly serious. “I have never desired an object more intensely in my entire existence.”

You sighed, hiding your grin behind one hand. "Fine, who am I to deny true love at first sight?"

Choso’s expression softened into grateful seriousness. “Your support is appreciated.”

You handed over the yen, accepting the hat as Choso gingerly placed it atop his head. He turned to you for approval, looking expectant and oddly vulnerable.

You couldn’t help it. You laughed, genuine and warm. “It’s somehow perfect for you, actually.” you teased gently, nudging his arm, secretly enjoying the smile tugging at his lips. “Let’s head back before Yuji thinks we’ve been kidnapped.”

“Understood,” Choso said quietly, falling into step beside you with unusual contentment, adjusting his precious panda hat again.

Yuji nearly fell over when he saw him. “WHAT. IS. THAT. HAT.”

Choso, completely serious, stared back at Yuji with his usual deadpan expression. “This is fashion. I have evolved.”

Yuji looked at you. You raised your hands like, “Don’t look at me, man.”

Choso placed a gentle hand on Yuji’s shoulder. “Brother, this hat brings me profound joy. Please respect my choice. It is important to change. To adapt. Also, denim is good.”

Yuji gave a weak thumbs-up. “Sure, bro. Love that for you.”

Choso’s eyes lit up warmly. “Thank you, Yuji. Your approval matters greatly.”

When Yuji left, Choso seemed thoughtful.

"You know," he murmured softly, "Today was enjoyable."

“Even with all the wardrobe malfunctions?” you gently teased.

"Indeed. But more importantly," Choso stated seriously, "your company was comforting. I believe that humans enjoy activities more when they're shared with someone they care deeply for."

You looked at him quietly, your heart fluttering unexpectedly. “Are you saying you care deeply about me, Choso?”

“Yes. That is exactly what I meant,” he nodded, completely unaware of the magnitude of his confession.

You smiled, touched. Choso’s sincerity was always delivered so plainly and seriously you were never sure if he realized just how charmingly awkward he was being. "That's... actually really sweet."

He nodded gravely, considering. "Sweetness is preferable to whatever emotion that bucket hat induced."

You laughed, bumping your shoulder against his. "Agreed."

Choso looked down at you quietly. "Thank you. For being patient with me. I am still navigating the human experience. You help make it... enjoyable."

You gently squeezed his hand, smiling softly. "You're doing great."

He smiled just barely, the corners of his mouth twitching upward slightly. It felt like a victory.

[dresshistorynerd]

Sewing 1890s Day Dress in Doll Scale

I went slightly overboard with this second historical doll project. Here's my first one. The style is from around 1897 and more of a middle class style. As with my first doll outfit, I tried to stick to historical methods as much as possible, but the scale forced me to do some deviations. I hand-sew everything though sewing machine was already widely used, because in this scale it's easier to control the stitch, there's not that much to sew anyway and also I just really like hand-sewing. Here's all the items I made. As said, I went a little overboard. One thing that's missing is the corset cover, but the layers of fabric were creating enough bulk on the waist as is so I decided to not make one.

This time I decided to try repainting the face. I don't have any doll customization materials, so I used acrylics. After couple of attempts I got decent results. Acrylics can't make as smooth and delicate finish as pastels, pencils and gouache, which can be used on vinyl with basing sprays, and I'm not experienced with painting small details on 3D objects, so it's a bit smudged at points, especially with the other eye. I aimed for 1890s very neutral make up and the type of expression that was popular in fashion plates and other illustrations.

Undergarments

Combinations and stockings

The combinations are split crotch as they were in the period. They are from thin cotton voile I have a lot of and is very appropriate. I didn't have really tiny enough lace for this, so it's kinda bulky, but I think it's okay enough. The stockings are cotton knit, which fits well. The garters are not actually necessary for this doll since her legs are rubbery.

Corset

I made the corset from a firm-ish linen and satin rayon pretending to be silk as the fashion fabric. The stitching of the boning channels is not super neat, this fabric is very unforgiving, I didn't have exactly matching thread and the scale made it very difficult. I of course didn't have tiny busk, so I used small hooks, sewed thread loops for them and used narrow metal wire for the edges. I think it looks surprisingly right on the outside. I used the same wire as the boning to reinforce the lacing on the back. I didn't actually use boning elsewhere but the tightly packed linen edges in the boning channels kinda work like lighter boning. I think it keeps the shape pretty ways even with just that. I stitched cotton tape inside to shape the corset further. I also didn't have tiny metal eyelets so I hand-sewed the lacing holes.

Bustle pad

The bustle pad is from linen and stuffed with tiny cabbage.

Petticoat

The petticoat is from the same cotton as the combinations.

Outer wear

Skirt

The fabric is cotton half-panama. It's pretty thin, but firm. I would have liked to use a woven wool, but I didn't have any that's thin enough to work in this scale. I think this cotton looks close enough in this scale to a wool with a tight weave, so I'm imagining it's that. My problem was that the cotton was white, but I wanted light brown. I wasn't going to buy any fabric for this, so I did the reasonable thing and dyed it with red onion peals (I've been doing natural dye experiments so this worked well for me).

Shirtwaist

The shirtwaist is from the same cotton as the undergarments. Yes, I dyed it too. I didn't have thin enough cotton in a color that would fit with the skirt and the purple bow, so I dyed it light blue with fabric color. Since I already went the trouble of dyeing I decided I might as well make a small flower print to it since that was popular in the era. I didn't want it to jump out too much but the lighting makes it even less visible. I made it with a white fabric pen. The collar and cuffs are reinforced with linen. I also sewed small stick-like beads to the cuffs on both sides, so one acts as a button (I sewed a buttonhole too) and the other makes it look like they are cufflinks. The bow is from the same fabric as the corset and the belt is sewn from the same cotton as the shirtwaist. The buckle is from a barbie belt.

Waistcoat

The waistcoat is from the same fabric as the skirt, thought the lapels and the back are from another satin rayon. I tailored the front panels and the lapels by stitching the linen interlining with tailor's stitches (I don't remember if that's the correct word in English) into shape. There is some wonkiness on one side of the hemline for some reason.

Boots

I made the slightly insane decision to make the shoes fully from leather, like they would have been in the period. I had an old broken leather wallet I had saved in case I needed some leather scarps. It has fairly thin leather, so it was workable here. It's light brown though, so I used black shoe polish to darken it. I wanted black or very dark brown shoes. I stacked the heels from glue and leather pieces and carved them into the right shape and sewed the shoe itself to leather shaped as the sole and glued it to the heeled and shaped sole. After I had shaped the shoes and the heels as much as I could I painted the heels black.

[kabsey]

As soon as what is left of the team staggers back to the Lighthouse from Tearstone Island, Taash stalks away from the eluvian with long strides that far outpace anyone who would follow them. Bellara starts to anyway, but Emmrich stops her with a gentle hand on her arm. From the way they move, Taash has suffered no life-threatening injuries, and he has seen the outward ripples of death so many times, the exponentially expanding effect it has on the surrounding environment. He knows that the weight of Taash's compound grief is too heavy, is crushing them too completely for them to find the air to speak.

Instead Emmrich guides Bellara's attention back to Davrin with a look and a nod. She is at the Warden's side in an instant, though despite his limp, she resists the urge to drape his arm over her shoulder. After many close calls, Davrin has impressed on all of them the importance of keeping their distance when his armor is thick with blight, and he is covered after putting himself between the team and Ghilan'nain again and again. Her hands stubbornly still hover near him, as faithful to her friend as Assan herding him forward from his other side.

He manages to reach the infirmary under his own power, and Bellara hurries to fill the tub in the corner with steaming-hot water. She hasn't had time to study its magical properties yet, but it somehow manages to fill and drain in a continuous cycle, washing away blood and blight as easily as dirt and leaves. If it were anyone but Davrin, she would wait just outside, but they are both Dalish and casual nudity is nothing to anyone raised in a clan. When he is out of his armor, blight only stains his face and hair, so she is finally able to take his arm and help him into the tub.

He ducks his head immediately, scrubbing out the filth until the water is clear again. It seems to take every bit of his remaining energy—emotional and physical; when he's done, he simply sits in the water, elbows on his bent knees, head in his hands. Bellara feels the first tears fill her eyes, and she knows they share the same grief and fear—for Harding and Rook, of course, but it's Neve's loss that trembles between them with a thundering heartbeat. At any other time, in any other way, she would be rapturous at the vindication that, despite their insistence to the contrary, her two friends are so much more than friends to each other, but she suspects that Davrin's desperation as he'd pounded against the darkened surface of the eluvian on Tearstone will live in her nightmares for years to come.

She heals his wounds while he gathers himself and then brings him a towel. His only protest when she leads him to one of the bunks is a perfunctory grunt; he's too experienced a warrior to deny himself needed rest. She plans to stay close, but when she hears shouts and the thuds of falling objects from the floor below, she goes to investigate, leaving Assan behind with instructions to find her if Davrin needs anything.

Emmrich has only managed to coax Spite as far as the library, and the spirit is ripping books from the bookshelves amid demands that Emmrich use them to bring Rook back. Manfred hisses with distress as he scurries to and fro collecting the fallen books.

"Spite," Emmrich scolds, "you must allow me to heal Lucanis."

"No!" Spite shouts. "Find! Rook! First!"

"I swear to you that I will do everything in my power to locate Rook, but if Lucanis is unconscious after his head injury, then both of you may be in serious danger."

Spite growls, but his wings retract with an audible snap and he throws himself onto the library's couch.

"Not unconscious," he grumbles. "Doesn't want. To talk. Doesn't want. To think. Doesn't want. To feel."

Emmrich shares a look with Bellara, who is watching the scene unfold from the balcony outside the infirmary. Her cheeks are lined with tears, and at Spite's proclamation, several more follow the tracks of their fellows. She descends the stairs as Emmrich sits beside Spite to heal Lucanis's body. As the injuries mend, he winds a thread into the spell to encourage drowsiness, though in truth, Lucanis's long-standing exhaustion does most of the work. By the time he lets the spell lapse, Spite is curled on the couch fast asleep, mouth open and one arm flung over the side like a child exhausted by a tantrum.

Emmrich winces as he rises to his feet, rolling his stiff neck. Bellara hurries to his side, hand aglow with a healing spell of her own, but he waves her off.

"Merely a few bruises," he assures her. "You?"

"I'm fine," she says. "Well, not fine, but I'm not hurt."

Her gaze darts from Lucanis's sleeping form to the closed doors of the infirmary and Taash's room above before settling back on him. Her face is twisted with despair.

"What are we going to do?" she whispers.

He sets his hands on her shoulders. "Bellara, what did you see when Rook disappeared?"

She blinks her dark eyes up at him, still dazed with loss and the horrors they have witnessed, but then he sees her usual sharpness return, piqued as always by an unanswered question.

"The resonant energies produced by Ghilan'nain's death ripped a tear in the Fade. Rook was pulled through."

"Anything else?"

She catches her lower lip between her teeth, and her eyes wander to the murals that adorn the walls. "For a split second, I thought I saw someone else, and then the tear seemed to distort right before it closed."

"Yes!" Emmrich assures her. "I saw the same. Did the distortion remind you of anything?"

"It looked a bit like the portal that Elgar'nan used to arrive in the Wetlands when we fought the dragon."

Her eyes widen, and she nearly jumps as she turns back to him and latches onto his forearms. "The ritual! The first one, I mean! Solas's ritual! He was sucked into the gods' prison when they were released. It was an exchange!"

"Precisely!" Emmrich declares. "I believe that figure we saw was Solas himself and that he portaled himself away from the tear as soon as he stepped through. Which he was only able to do—"

"Because Rook has taken his place in the gods' prison!" The momentary thrill of solving a puzzle drains from Bellara's face, and she releases her grip on Emmrich to curl her hands around her own neck.

"Rook is in the gods' prison," she repeats in a whisper. Tears fill her eyes again. "How do we get her out?"

Emmrich sighs, and he feels his own weariness and despair in the slump of his shoulders. "I don't know. Not yet. But we at least have a starting point. And we will not rest until Rook and Neve are safely back with us."

Bellara gazes up at him for a moment and then throws her arms around him and buries her face in his chest. He holds her tightly, soaking up the comfort just as desperately.

When she pulls back, she offers him a wan smile. "Thank you," she says in a fervent voice.

"Whatever for?" he asks.

She sniffs, but no more tears fall. "For giving me hope again."

"My dear girl," he says with a fond smile and another squeeze of her shoulders. "Now come. We have work to do."