#your fan series

[hwaightme]

Your fan, San (part 1)

(part 2) (your fan ml)

💬 pairing: san x interpreter!reader 💬 genre: romance, fluff, mutual pining 💬 summary: a bulletpoint-style wordstream of what it would be like if san was stanning you 💬 wordcount: 5.3k 💬 warnings/tags: language, simping, hopeless romantic, linguistics, interpreter/translator reader, duo bird terrors, ateez wingman alliance, concerts, public speaking, job stress, slow burn, falling in love hard and fast 💬 taglist: @acciocriativity, @senpai-of-doom, @layzfeelit @jcngh0-hq @black--awsum @honey-lemon-goose @i-luvsang @jackinmyarea💬 a/n: Hello there <3 we all know the standard languages, but how will Choi San, our next Fan in the series, go about learning the language of love? Let's find out! Thank you so much for your love and support, biggest hugs and stay tuned <3<3<3

ATINY were overwhelmingly supportive when San spoke a foreign language.

But he disliked it.

Because it meant that you had to stop.

And San loved nothing more than to see you gaze at him, fully focused, professional, and practically reading his mind as you translated his words at record speed.

Well you did that for every single member of ATEEZ, but that was besides the point. His focus was always on you.

You reminded him of a river. Gentle in your appearance and demeanour. At the same time, you possessed a unique turbulence, you could stand strong and proud, a fire in your eyes - the embodiment of passion as you spoke.

But exclusively if you felt the moment called for it. You were always transforming. Fluid. You were an ever-changing season. An unstoppable current. San wholly believed you had the power to see right through people because of how well you captured their sentiment.

San had always valued communication, and wanted to be on the same page as anyone he talked to. But unfortunately, that meant spending long hours hunched over books and staring at a demonic green owl on his phone.

In the early days of his career, that had been enough, but as the fanbase grew larger and more international, the pressure he had begun to feel when it came to simply talking and delivering a message was unprecedented.

He was not able to joke around, not able to say exactly what he wanted, and more often than not gave up and said something easier. But the passion was still there. Very much alive. So, San kept at it. Trying not to make Duo sad.

Of course, he was well aware that no matter how hard he tried, he and the rest of the members would not be able to become perfectly fluent by the next promotions and world tour, so having an interpreter on board was a must. This was so that they could focus on connecting with the audience on a much deeper level, so they would not be hindered either by vocabulary or by worry (even if they could explain themselves well).

Hence why it had not come as a surprise that the selection process for an interpreter, according to some staff San was friendly with, had been immensely difficult. So much so that apparently, a high percentage had quit before even making it close to the final rounds, and then those in the last selection stage had to risk facing humiliation, the test being interpreting at a live, high stress event.

And then, with only a few days before ATEEZ were meant to depart to Japan, they had received the news that an interpreter had been picked out. Prior to the concerts, you had barely interacted - only a couple of waves here and there. San noticed that you were on the quieter side, an avid reader, and had a habit of making notes on your phone.

He had initially assumed you were always texting someone, but after curiosity got the better of him and he had decided to at least become acquaintances, he was shown the insanity that was literary Japanese, reviews of honorifics and formal speech, colloquial phrases and translation of slang. You had even gone so far as to create your own guide for finding local analogies to different mythological or popular media references.

That was strike one.

Every single concert you were adaptive, and attentive to ATEEZ. You had even begun to check in on them prior to know what emotional landscape they wanted to deliver. You knew the setlist off by heart, had memorised the pauses between songs and when the members were to have live interactions with the audience that would require your participation.

When in your role, your demeanour changed entirely. Your voice was level, pronunciation like that of a native, and well measured out. San swore even he had begun learning Japanese passively simply because it was so easy to understand you.

Then, after the concerts were done, you did not take any compliments, merely smiling them off, instead being proud of everyone around you. You thanked the sound engineers, the technical staff, the security... anyone who you had the chance to thank, you did. It was a given that you congratulated ATEEZ after their performances, commending them for their hard work. When San had attempted to return the praises, he was met with that same bashful grin, and you explaining that you were merely extending their hearts out to the audience.

That was strike two.

And finally, there was the last concert. Sold out, with tens of thousands of ATINY, there to spend this amazing time together with the idols. And then, to deliver a surprise gift in the form of an animated video created by a group of dedicated fans who had painstakingly adapted submissions into the style of an animated film. It was a story of how important ATEEZ were to the fans, how they were heroes, how they deserved infinite amounts of love.

Each of the nation's prefectures had been represented, and at the end there was a 'handover' to the rest of the world, sending appreciation to other ATINY who will be meeting ATEEZ next. The majority of the group was tearing up, and while delivering their speeches, struggled to control their emotions. Each phrase was a cry from the soul, and San was not sure how it was possible to translate something like this.

And yet, you did. In that mellifluous voice, now holding a tinge of melancholy, you patiently collaborated with each member, listening to them pour themselves out, and pouring yourself out eightfold. Those who were able to understand Korean had already been misty-eyed, but as you included the others, the atmosphere changed completely.

It was a total unity. That complete understanding. The communication that San was always seeking. It did not matter how many people there were in a given place. What mattered, was that you were the key to reaching them all. So, on a whim, instead of letting Hongjoong do the honours like he normally would, he overtook the leader in announcing you. In thanking you for your hard work and for being the link between them and ATINY. Please applaud L/N Y/N, master interpreter.

That was strike three.

San was ready to risk it all, became the president of your growing fan club, and hearing your voice stopped being a want. It became a need.

--

To this day you were confused as to how your life had unfolded. To an extent, it was like you were put on standby and then watched someone who looked just like you go and do cool things with your life.

You had joined KQ Entertainment on a contractual basis to support ATEEZ in the Japan leg of their tour, and technically, were supposed to part ways as soon as it was over. But as luck (or someone else's unfortunate series of events) would have it, due to the incredibly short time between schedules, unexpected illnesses and conflicts, you were offered to join the group in the US as well.

It was an easy decision for you.

Firstly, because you had gotten close enough with the members, since your job was to deliver not only the words, but also their emotional weight.

Secondly, bold of anyone to assume that you had other job offers lying around when most companies had hiring freezes and could not care less for your work experience and skills.

But no one needed to know about that second part.

Instead, you simply agreed, and as such, signed yourself up to way more than you had ever expected.

And what was that exactly? Your own strange version of fame in the form of ATINY calling you the ATEEZ Megaphone, the Voice of Reason, 8 Makes 1 Voice, Miss Worldwide (which officially imprinted the rapper Pitbull into your head), ATEEZmind... among many, many others.

You had become a kind of staple to ATEEZ performances abroad, with fans cheering when you made appearances for the interludes between songs. And the couple of times that you had been asked to be on standby for fan signs, there had been some ATINY who came up to you, as though you were the ninth member of ATEEZ, just to thank you for being there for the fans, for making the connection so much more special, and for working so hard to make ATEEZ global.

Did you cry a bit in your hotel room after that had happened? Yes - what could one say? You were very sentimental, and this kind of softness just did it for you. Also you had made a small plushie, a big-eyed, adorable kitten that an ATINY in the US had given to you, a permanent travel companion.

--

At the very start of your time at KQ, your insecurities had been running high, and you would spend sleepless nights reviewing just what you had translated, convincing yourself that you could have done a better job, writing ceaselessly on receipts, envelopes, in notebooks and in notes on your phone the myriad of alternatives your could conjure only after the event.

You had never thought that after completing your higher education in linguistics you would end up being a moderately high profile interpreter. At best, you had laid out a peaceful, uneventful life as a translator in some publishing house, spending your days in front of a computer and stacks of dictionaries. You imagined yourself to be a theorist, a silent practitioner of the craft rather than an attention-demanding performer.

That was how you had been throughout your early years. Reading. Writing. Speaking when necessary, afraid of saying the wrong thing. It was a vicious cycle. You dedicated yourself to classics, finding tranquility and reassurance in complexity and archaic passages (a stark contrast to the slang and inside jokes that you were now having to process at high speeds).

It was only in later years of university that you started breaking out of your shell, after you and a couple of your peers had been scouted to aid in an international conference. You had agreed since it would be a glorious add-on to your CV, but did not expect for it to take you as far as it had done.

If you had to use an analogy for how you felt, it would be like a surfer who just kept on living through fluke after fluke. The waves that you were being hit with were more and more menacing, approaching tsunami heights, but you were still standing, amazed that you had not been swept under.

Maybe no one was going to stop you, or talk to you on the street, ever, but the sheer thought was enough to throw you through a loop. You were not there to be a persona, nor a star. You were there because you loved languages, for goodness' sake, and had been selected to use that love in a way that helped those who actually wanted to be and were stars to connect with their fans.

Interestingly, from the beginning of your journey, you had found reassurance and comfort in one of the unlikeliest people. And really, it had been him who had ended up making a lot of things in your life just fall into place.

San.

Aside from Hongjoong, who, being the captain, was constantly interacting with all staff even outside of the immediate circle, San had been the first to take an interest in what you were doing, and why you were loitering around the corridors backstage, eyes glued to your phone.

You had at first assumed that he was going to scold you, having seen a couple of live shows where he was more than displeased about fellow members not paying their full attentions thanks (or no thanks) to the mobile phones in their hands.

But the look of genuine curiosity in his eyes quickly cleared up your concerns, and when he had begun to ask questions... you had gone on a roll. Conclusion: if someone were to ask you about linguistics, they better prepare themselves for a TEDx Talk because you were not going to serve them any less.

Although you had tried to convince yourself all throughout your higher education and work life that you did not need validation, the passionate encouragement that San had given you that day was a big driving force for you to try even harder for the Japan concerts. And even to you, your own biggest critic, the change had been noticeable. And nothing short of exhilarating.

By the last concert in the country, you were excited to step on the side of the stage. You wanted to speak to ATINY, you wanted to share the beautiful words ATEEZ were sending their way, with them. It was your duty and your desire. And it is a commonly known fact that a job that is loved, is a job that turns into fun.

It was that exact concert that had become your 'break'. Right at the end, when everyone was saying their goodbyes, San decided to give you a special mention, to which the lighting team had responded by, quite literally, putting the spotlight on you.

Over thirty thousand people in the arena, and even more online, now knew who the woman behind the voice was. They knew who was, effectively, dubbing their favourite K-Pop group.

The shoutout had been entirely unexpected, sure, and it had made your confidence crumble a little as you struggled to find the right words to both thank San and translate what was happening. It felt like two conflicting signals were entering your brain at the same time.

But at the same time, it made you feel real. It made you feel like you really had been speaking. And that you had been heard. The beauty and the curse about language, was that it was a tool to connect. Even in written form. It's perception and appreciation could only be achieved if there was a person to do it. And in spoken form, seeing the nods, hearing the sighs, any reactions from another, that was the way you knew you had done your job.

So instead of cowering away, like you would have done only a couple of years ago, you stepped into the light, in front of the audience. You thanked them from the bottom of your heart, bowing, and then, turned to do the same to ATEEZ, with perfect grace, and honest appreciation. The photographs of you had rapidly made rounds around the internet, and the hashtag #thankyouYN had climbed up in trending on Twitter for a short while.

It was odd to think that you felt at home in the environment that you had been afraid of, and that people praised you for what you had been insecure about all your life. At the same time, you did not want to be a star, and even when ATINY sent you messages, or cheered for you, you kindly tried to switch the attention back to ATEEZ. You were there because you loved languages, and had been selected to use that love in a way that helped connect the real shining, talented and hard-working stars with the loyal, brilliant and kind fans.

If your short progression from a nervous new hire to a fully-fledged interpreter with a tour under your belt were to be simplified, one could say that San had been a catalyst for your opening up. Thus, he might have been the reason why you had been made a permanent member of staff.

it was only so far that luck could carry you, and without having the skill and dedication to your name, KQ had the power to dismiss you with a click of a finger. There were undoubtedly thousands of talented interpreters out there, who would have dropped everything to go to the US and beyond. But KQ had settled for you. And you wanted to do your best to do everything in your power to make ATEEZ perfectly international.

And just like that, a whirlwind of a world tour had passed, and you, plushie in hand, and heavy luggage rolling behind you, were on your way home to an apartment that probably forgot that it even had an owner (who - shocker - still had to pay rent even when continents away). You were told that you were to have a 'bit of a break' since the group was to firstly rest, and secondly focus on local promotions for the next couple of months.

What did that mean for you? It was time to become a social recluse and freelance some translations. Another side benefit that had come from your increase in popularity was that you had come to get more commissions both through your independent channels, and through company requests.

It was easy enough to plough through the standard documents that publishing houses sent you, the only difficulty being if say, you had been translating from Korean to Japanese for hours on end, and then your next project asked you to translate English to Spanish, you would need a moment to rewire a bit. But at the same time that was the fun bit - keeping up fluency to a top-level professional standard in as many languages as you could.

What was a little less easy, but had grown to be your guilty pleasure, was the private commissions you received. Of course, you had your set of rules, limitations, restrictions - whatever one wanted to call it, but undoubtedly, the individual was more creative than the corporation. You had received requests to translate long paragraphs of breakup texts, fan fiction - though you did have to put an end to that era since you had begun to receive... interesting ATEEZ content, love poems, dark poems, essays... if it was written, you had probably received it at least once.

Since starting this little side adventure, you had been quite selective, as this was still a portfolio of your work, and you needed to keep a good image. So you were no stranger to dismissing orders if they did not sit right with you.

This was exactly what you were doing, early morning upon your return. The sun was streaming into your bedroom as you were sat at your desk, clicking and typing away response after response, deletion after deletion... until one particular request had caught your eye.

It had been sent at an odd time of night, but who were you to judge - you had not even slept yet. The writing felt familiar, friendly, open. The greeting and explanation were all respectful, and they had even commented on some of the work you had previously done.

They were also honest about how they had discovered you - they were a dedicated ATINY, and a big reader, so when they found out who the skilled Korean to Japanese interpreter for ATEEZ was, they really wanted to get to know your work better. And after doing so, felt it only right to request your services.

You were flattered, and after looking through the file they had sent - which turned out to be an excerpt from a very recently published Korean book that had not been translated to any language yet, you agreed to help. With a smile on your face, you sent back an email accepting the order, adding a reminder of expected timescales and fees.

--

"OH MY GOSH YOU GUYS IT IS HAPPENING IT IS HAPPENING IT IS HAPPENING SHE RESPONDED AND SHE ACCEPTED AAAAAAH"

San yelled at the top of his voice, nearly approaching Wooyoung's witch laugh register. Seonghwa, who had made the mistake of sitting right next to him rapidly covered his ears and winced as the action did not help - the man took him by the shoulder and started shaking him excitedly, while rereading the standard business email from you as though it was a Nobel laureate's magnum opus.

With the hoots of support from the rest of the members, they were sure to have scared off any form of wilderness and other visitors in the vicinity - since they had a few days off, on a whim they decided to get out of the dorms and enjoy nature by going on a camping trip.

Though this action seemed to result only in higher phone use than usual, particularly from San, who had reached his breaking point when it came to you.

It was obvious from the start that he was not indifferent towards you. From the quick glances in your direction, to the efforts that he had made in secret to try and improve both his English and Japanese (to the point of changing language settings on his devices and getting some novels and textbooks in the respective languages), he was always paying attention to what you were doing.

During concerts, when he knew you were out there on the stage, ready and in place before a talking segment, he would perform with even more vigour, sending the cameras his most alluring glances. He knew you would be looking at the screens, and he wanted you to focus on him.

And then there was his new role as president of the interpreter fan club. This was an inside joke floating around the fandom, becoming more popular when during a concert in the US, he had decided to jokingly test you by saying pickup lines he had learned in different languages. Everyone had taken it to be 'classic San being playful', but his intention was to just shamelessly flirt with you.

But he was the one who had ended up being flustered as you translated all that he said without your eyes leaving him a single time, a hint of a smirk on your face. It was almost like you were saying it all right back to him. Only him. He hoped that were the case.

If he were to be any more obvious, Hongjoong personally would make a public service announcement about San being all up in his feelings for you. He had busted through the wall of being just a fan like a monster truck, and was already a few months deep in the infatuation phase.

"Who's the simp now, huh?" Hongjoong could not resist taking a jab at the younger member, out of respect for the nerve cells he had lost.

The only downside was that San was not even denying it, nor fighting against the label. Instead he just kept on showing those near him the fact that he had an email from you, and in the future he would have a translation, done just for him, by you. And what fun was it if the person you were trying to roast had no verbal ammo at the ready?

"At least it's not bath water he is buying..." Seonghwa whispered, still unable to fully recover from the shake-up and massaging his now sore shoulder.

"We couldn't find it, that's next on the list." Wooyoung picked up on the retort. He approached San and patted him on the back, "Isn't that right?"

"Oh fuck off... but for real this is so cool. She is going to be doing what she loves, and doing it for me~" in a sing-song voice, he recounted, again, the battle plan that he and the rest of ATEEZ had conjured.

"See? I told you it would be a good idea." Yunho commented proudly, while climbing out of his tent. Mingi followed suit, though he did not get out fully, instead choosing to sit right at the entrance and applaud himself from there:

"And look at me go with that perfect book choice."

It had been a very spontaneous decision to pick it, but he did not have to market it as such. Since he was the one to actually go into book stores at least sometimes, the members trusted him well enough to go with what he proposed.

"Well executed, lads. Mission successful, we are levelling up." Wooyoung clapped his hands and gave a quick salute, while San was still in his own reality.

A rare silence fell upon the group. But, just as they were about to move on, with some of the members being on 'response-crafting duty', Yeosang, after much pondering, stated:

"Senpai is finally noticing you after like... a year," which finally snapped San out of his enchantment.

"HEY it's only been like... nine months... and a bit... that isn't a year!" he tried to sound convincing, but it just came out as desperate. At least he stopped himself from saying the exact number of weeks and days since he had first met you.

"Yeah, yeah, keep saying that."

"This is exactly why we are doing operation 'Love Language'." to come to the smitten one's defense, Yunho piped in, now having managed to wedge himself between San and Seonghwa, the latter mouthing him a 'thank you' with a pained smile.

"I thought it was because we are sick and tired of his shit?" Jongho asked monotonously, head perched on his hand while he had at the far end of the picnic table ATEEZ had expropriated.

"That too! But-"

"And that if he goes any harder on stage he'll turn into Magic Mike?" Yeosang took Jongho's side in a split second, them exchanging a knowing look of comrades in misery.

"Careful, ATINY might ask for that."

The captain attempted to get the discussion back on at least some kind of track, while being well aware that this group had a special talent in de-railing. And his comment did not help a single bit, instead provoking Wooyoung.

"They already do, ever been online?"

"I have, and it's either cursed conspiracy theories about our lore or thirst edits." Hongjoong pinched the bridge of his nose, getting flashbacks to an impossibly long Twitter thread that he spent half an hour of his life on, just to confirm that at this point, him and CEO Kim Gyu Uk were alone in big-braining the universe.

"I bet you watch demon line edits Joongie-" Wooyoung winked at him, and sent some finger guns.

"Right this is OFF TOPIC!" the captain attempted to rein the kids in, albeit half-heartedly.

"There's a topic?" Yeosang leaned over to Jongho and asked him, not expecting a response, since it was obviously 'no'.

"Yeah, and it is that Y/N and San are going to be in closer contact now." Wooyoung addressed the group, stretching his hands out, every bit a narrator on stage.

"But isn't it more like: Y/N being in contact with San who is parading as an ATINY with an interesting taste in books?" Mingi raised an eyebrow and questioned.

"Tom-ay-to tom-ah-to, whatever. At least they're going to be talking more personally."

"And not in front of my fuckin' salad," the maknae asserted, "I am seriously surprised she has not caught on that you are trying to pull moves all this time."

"Maybe... just maybe... I have a sneaking suspicion... that it could be the million-person audience that does it. Really sets a romantic, and intimate mood." Seonghwa added, words dripping with irony.

"Well, you guys, there isn't much that I can really do about that, can I? This is what our jobs and lifestyles are."

With an exasperated sigh, San shut off his phone and slumped down on the bench, just nearly missing Yunho. He cupped his head in his hands, and gazed off, wistfully, into the distance. As of late, when he was not practicing or performing, he would be be daydreaming, just like this.

"Maybe you could just forget that and... ask her out?" Hongjoong verbally knocked San back into the ring,

"SAYS WHO? My man, do you want me to remind you of a couple of things?"

"Yeah, please do, and I will remind you of your shamelessness and the death wish you apparently still have."

"Gents, gents! We still have a 'thank you' email to write, we need at least one brain cell for that."

Yunho's call for action ended up being the most effective of all, as the group gathered around San, and commenced shouting over one another in an attempt to write a single coherent line acknowledging that the information has been received, and that they will be paying half the fee shortly.

Why had the call been effective? Because San managed to do the impossible. He managed to drive his fellow members up the wall with his pining to the point where they could not take it anymore, and made it their mission to save San.

It was Y/N this, Y/N that. All. The. Time.

"Y/N taught me some English slang the other day, do you want to hear?"

"Did you know that Y/N co-translated this bestseller?"

"Have you heard her speaking in French? I am out here only knowing 'Paris Baguette' and she is like a native - while saying that she barely knows it."

"Did you see how she looked at me after that performance? Told you it was a good idea for me to change the outfit up!"

"Wait I'll be back in five minutes I want to say hi to Y/N!"

Even Wooyoung minimised his teasing, simply because the man was totally gone. There had been a phase for about a month where his affection towards you maybe was within the realm of reasonable, and 'light' enough for the rest of ATEEZ to poke fun at him.

But San being San, that changed fast. The more chances he got to speak with you, the more he got to find out what you liked, the more certain he became that 'you were the one', you were 'talent and skill itself' and you were the dream alive.

At the same time, San being San, he was not verbal about his feelings. Not even a bit. In his mind, that was over-stepping, and was off limits. So he did everything else 'over the top' instead.

The peak of it had of course been the 'putting you on a (well-deserved) pedestal' in front of ATINY. That had been a cry of a man who fell hard and fast in love, and that same night, ATEEZ had hosted a UN-level meeting around how to proceed. Hongjoong had already been aware that you were going to be extended a permanent offer, so timelines did not matter much - except for the remnants of the members' sanity.

Wooyoung ended up interrupting the proceedings with his screech of "IT IS OKAY TO FALL IN LOVE", and as such, the action was let go, only to see it become a much adored trend in the fandom. The members thought that this would mean major progress. But no. No, you had to be the oblivious one.

Had to be the one so dedicated to her job that you interpreted San's signals as general friendliness and support. You respected him, yes. You most definitely were grateful to him, and out of all ATEEZ members you spoke to him the most. But to none of them was it ENOUGH.

Even when he had made you to interpret his flirtations (as prompted by Wooyoung), you took it just as 'a regular day with ATEEZ', whilst making him nearly go into cardiac arrest.

That was when the plan came about. To strike through literature. Through language. To express love through the pages of a book, in the hopes of translating that to real feeling. It was convoluted, and had no real outcome except trusting chance, and fate, but San was enough of a hopeless romantic to agree to it in a heartbeat.

Because what was the fun in confessing over text, right? He had your number, you messaged one another before, but again, 'what if he ruined something by messaging the wrong thing'? Besides, he could not think of an excuse to text you outside of work without feeling like he was being too pushy.

Thus, operation 'Love Language' became everyone's problem, and everyone's daily dose of drama.

Except for you, without a clue, having brewed some tea, sat down like L from Death Note on your chair, and got to work.

[tariah23]

The manga industry, especially JUMP, needs to hurry up and do away with weekly scheduling for mangaka. There needs to better regulations put into place for their health and safety because this is pitiful. Two weeks - monthly updates should’ve already been the standard for the manga industry at this point. These money grabbers will only continue to put the lives of these artists at stake for the sake of capitalism unless some serious changes are implemented.

[petewentzisblack1312]

fall out boy is so fascinating because anyone who doesnt know anything about fall out boy thinks theyre only relevant to millenials who had intense emo phases while anyone who is a huge fall out boy fan is aware of the fact that every single album they release has gotten them a wave of new young fans. and actually thats not even true because every album second album cycle the fans from the one before the last one are like what do you mean you became a fan during the last album cycle i didnt think anyone was still onboarding. and this is going to go on forever until they retire probably.

edit: i must assume you like fall out boy. consider: fall out boy pins.

buy my art.

[lilybug-02]

The actual reason they ditched Chara.

Fan-art because I can draw. And I um.. kinda really love @akanemnon‘s comic…

Kind of a minicomic below…

Please forgive me. I’ve had this in my head forever and just wanted to share my AU meeting yours. That is my Final message. Goodbye. 🫡 jumping in this hole now 🕳️🚶‍♀️

[fabuloustrash05]

1987 Fans hated the 2003 series when it first came out.

2003 Fans hated the 2012 series when it first came out.

2012 Fans hated the Rise series when it first came out.

Rise Fans are now hating on Mutant Mayhem

This is a toxic cycle in this fandom that we need to stop doing NOW.

[ems-art-box]

Meeting the Bewilderbeast

[shima-draws]

How fucking DARE they tease me like this

[meandmyechoes]

[clarification: I meant Filoni decided Ahsoka is a Knight using the Bendu as a mouthpiece]

To anyone wondering why Ahsoka is addressed as "Jedi Knight" in the live-action show:

It happened in a fever dream

Ahsoka was knighted by the Bendu before Malachor in a Filoni tweet on 7 July, 2017. (Malchor aired 30 March, 2016)

This is a PSA but at the same time not providing grounds for it to be a sensible choice. It is an example of Filoni requiring the audience to follow every bit of non-source material for full context. For the second time at least. First time being Bane's grudge against Boba in TBOBF relied on an unproduced TCW Tatooine roadtrip arc between the two.

[whatsitzface]

Fuck every percy jackson "fan" who is still complaining about percy & annabeths HAIR COLOURS being different then in the books. I hope Nico is blonde so that all of you cry and scream like fucking toddlers

[gumioe]

new fe players who started with 3h be like "HOW am I supposed to care about characters without 5000+ lines of dialogue about how mentally ill they are and a year by year breakdown of their entire life from birth till the story starts and 38hrs of seeing them age and go through formative experiences this is OUTRAGEOUS" meanwhile fe boomers be like "this is my scrimblo McRedKnight from the japan-exclusive 1998 game Tales of the Honky Tonky War he has three (3) lines one of which you'll only see with his literal last breath and he's my favorite character ever because one time he dodge-tanked 12 enemies in a row on enemy phase and procced a 17% crit chance on the chapter boss and gained str spd and def on level up"

[tripleyeeet]

WHERE'S YOUR PATIENCE? (7)

SUMMARY: You and Astarion finally have the conversation. Among other things.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 5,912

WARNINGS: 18+ sexual content, teasing, little bit of hand stuff, vaginal sex, CONSENT IS SEXY, mentions of past sexual/physical trauma, potential spoilers for acts 1/2.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Say thank you to the 2 bottles of Corona and the tequila shot I took to loosen up my brain enough to write this smut. I couldn't have done it without them. (And also my bardic inspiration @imgoingtofreakoutnow)

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER

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The weeks following feel like an uphill battle —a never-ending course of constant information and action all tied into one long work month. Without warning, you find yourself overwhelmingly annoyed with the pace of it all. Not to mention the unwavering guilt, knowing that if you’re not fighting hordes of Absolute cultists or doing research on how to rip the Illithid out of your head, your time is essentially wasted.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like. 

Considering the severity of everything, even when you’re resting from a long day's work, you always find your mind wandering. Picking apart texts from old books you’ve found during infiltration missions. Oftentimes late at night when Astarion’s come back from feeding, you spend a lot of your time together relaying said thoughts. Using the late-night silence to fuel the drive that’s been missing throughout the day. 

By the time you get to the Inn within the Shadowlands, you’re surprised he’s not sick of you for it. Nowadays, just the mere thought of your own voice makes you want to rip off your ears, and although you know it’s crucial that you discuss things like this, you know there are other things that are important too. 

Like your shared confession. And your promise to talk of the past when you were both ready. 

Since that night you haven’t asked him about it. With everything happening so quick, it’s been pushed to the back of your mind —lost amongst the clutter of thoughts that you’re often forced to leave behind. Deep down, you imagine he’s somewhat in the same boat but still, there’s even more guilt that surfaces. Filling both sides of the spectrum like an overflowing glass of water —so much so that by the time you’re gifted a proper night’s rest in an actual bed you’re already too tired to care. 

As soon as you enter the Inn after your journey through the cursed shadows of the forest you head straight to the bar, barely batting an eye at the barkeep who looks you up and down, horrified by the state of your dress.

“Whiskey, please.”

“And… whatever else you got back there that doesn’t taste of fermentation.” 

You turn to see Astarion already standing beside you, moving his hand to the small of your back to usher you into one of the stools. Immediately, you oblige with a sigh, blinking back sleep as you rest your bloodied elbows on the countertop, earning yourself a look of annoyance that Astarion squashes with an unfriendly scowl, showcasing his canine teeth. 

If you weren’t so exhausted you probably would’ve laughed at such a sight, but considering you are, you instead let out a soft hum and down your whiskey when it’s placed in front of you, signalling for another. 

“I see you’ve already decided how you’re going to spend your night off.” 

Nodding your head, you barely register his words, slumping your damp forehead down against the counter with a groan. “How the fuck are we even alive?” 

It’s a fair question when you take into account all that you’ve been through. All the puzzles and battles and endless expectations to now save all of Baldur’s Gate just to get these damned Illithids out of your head. 

At this rate, you and everyone else should’ve been dead ages ago. Either murdered and looted for your tadpoles and their powers or already turned into tentacle-faced beasts. Not sitting next to Astarion, covered in blood, sweat and tears, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to keep going. How you’re meant to keep this unrealistic momentum of burnout over and over and—

He runs his palm along the base of your spine, drawing his fingers up and down as he takes a sip of his drink. “Hells if I know, darling.”

Feeling a bit delirious, you laugh and raise your head to look between him and the new drink in front of you. “We should’ve been dead by now.” 

“You? Perhaps. Me?” He pauses to dig his digits into your aching neck, making your head fall forward again in delight. “Well, I have far too much to do after all of this is over.” 

“Yeah, like what?”

When he doesn’t answer right away you remember the conversation. That moment by the fire where you kissed and confessed and told each other you’d talk about it. Immediately it fills you with anxiety, clouding your features with a worried brow and frowning lips as you crane your neck to the side. 

When you look at him you notice he’s not really there. His eyes sit in their normal position, staring back but there’s nothing. Not a thought or feeling; just two empty voids surrounded by bloodied dissociation. 

It pulls at your heartstrings far too much —makes you let out a breath and raise your frame to slip off the stool and move to hug him. Despite the lack of attention, he manages to follow suit as it happens, wrapping his arms around your neck as you burrow into his chest, once again sighing, wondering if you should apologize and offer your ear or merely forget the exchange entirely. 

Before you can even think to do either he’s standing up, keeping his hold as he grabs your other whiskey and proceeds to drink it down, barely batting an eye. 

Raising your brow at him, you feel his fingers dig into your neck again, rubbing rough circles that have you resting your forehead against his chest, trying to form any semblance of a thought. 

It makes him laugh and raise his hand to your hair, running his fingers through the roots. “Let’s get cleaned up.” 

You’re already off and climbing the stairs before you’re able to answer. Pushing through the pain that radiates through your calves with every step. Leaning against him with tired eyes that eventually open up when the door creaks open in front you of. 

Somehow you managed to earn yourself a private room. One that’s actually clean with a real bed and a tub —all of which almost have you in tears. 

“Nice of them to give us some privacy, hm?” Astarion smirks down at you as he speaks, watching as you roll your eyes and finally pull yourself away, reaching for the clasps of your leather vest. Like the rest of you, it’s coated in a thick layer of dirt and blood. All of it dried and coming off in disgusting clumps that have you scrunching up your face. Brushing off the top few clasps, you try not to focus on the way it feels against your fingers. How it collects under your nails as you narrow your eyes, struggling to get the damned thing off.

It makes him scoff and pull you back in, pushing your hands aside to undo the first clasp. “I feel as though I recall a time where you claimed to be patient?” 

As he moves down to the next one you shake your head and look away. “Emotionally, yes. Physically I—“

“I’d say you’re far more patient in that regard, actually.”

For a second you’re not sure what he means but then it hits you. He means sex. Physical intimacy. A line of which you hadn’t yet crossed due to several things. The main being your lack of conversation —your lack of focus to a promise you both said you wouldn't break. 

Obviously, the lack of time hasn’t helped either, but as you stand there, watching his fingers pull apart your top layer, you find yourself visibly frustrated. Angry at yourself for not taking the time to offer the piece of yourself you desperately want. 

After that night it was always your intention to go first. To tell him all about your past in order to open the floodgates. You figured if you were brave enough to do it —to be the one to bite the bullet— maybe he’d inevitably follow. 

But then life got in the way and now nearly five weeks later it suddenly feels like you’re stuck in this limbo. One where you’re dancing on the edge, teetering with bated breath. Wondering if maybe the time is right. 

As his hands move further and further you find yourself fighting your imagination. Brushing off the feelings that start to surface as you stare down at his hands, watching their delicate ministrations. 

It’s apparent then that he's no stranger to the art of undress. As his fingers twist and turn to work the clasps apart, you have to stop yourself from giving in to temptation, knowing that it’s wrong. Remembering the promise you made.

Moving your hand to stop him, you clear your throat and watch his eyes. Noticing the way they filter through the air to eventually focus on you, blinking as if he wasn’t there to begin with. 

“Can we talk now? Maybe?”

His hands sit against your leathers, gripping the metal with tightened fingers that still somehow manage to pale from their hold despite his complexion. “Course.”

Running your fingers along his knuckles, you slowly wrap your fists around them, bringing them up toward your mouth to place soft kisses despite the mess of battle that lingers. Then you drag him further into the room, placing him on the edge of the bed. 

“Do you know who Beshaba is?” you ask, plain and simple, unsure how else to start the conversation of your past as you sit beside him.

“The deity?”

You nod, slowly, letting your gaze anxiously fall to your lap. “I grew up in one of her churches after my parents died. Learned everything I know about the world from a priestess named Hessa.”

As you try your best to further collect your thoughts, Astarion leans in, narrowing his eyes at the way your hands start to shake against your thigh.

“Is she the one in your dream?” he asks.  

Without hesitation, you nod. “They thrive on infliction,” you explain after, watching him frown. Taking in the way his demeanour changes without warning to become something you’re not quite sure you've seen before. “Their doctrine revolves around fear. If you don’t participate you’re expected to endure only pain and misfortune.”

You remember growing up underneath all these women, listening to their cautionary tales of Beshaba’s terror. It instilled fear in you from the get-go —taught you that the only way to endure the horrors of this life was to devote yourself to her. To offer everything you could in exchange for peace, so you did. Unwaveringly so. 

“As a child, I grew up listening to these women scare everyone for the sake of their goddess.” You pause to swallow, feeling the memories of Hessa’s knife each time you later disobeyed, slice across your skin. “Then, as an adult, I followed the cycle.”

“Willingly?”

You shrug your shoulders. “At first.” 

You remember as soon as you were old enough you were sent out to recruit. To trick the minds of all the simple folk, weaving fabricated tales of disasters that were carried out by Beshaba’s hand. It was difficult to do. Seeing all those ruined minds come crawling to you for salvation —begging for forgiveness in the form of eternal loyalty. 

Thankfully though, it grew old pretty quickly. The formula of travelling Faerûn, following the endless calamity and blaming it on the lack of faith was enough to pull you out of the fog. As each day passed, it became increasingly hard to pretend your faith was still intact, so you formulated a plan. 

“When we arrived in Baldur’s Gate I tried to leave. In the middle of the night I abandoned my sisters —tried to run and never look back but…”

There’s a moment where your mouth just closes, trailing from the memories of your story; straying solely to the image of Hessa. To her hands and face each time she broke you apart and put you back together. 

Without even trying you can feel her next to you, whispering her teachings in your ear —touching your scars with calloused hands. Her voice still has that icy hold on you even when you’re far away, keeping you still as she forces you down to kneel on the stone floor and await your punishment. 

A punishment you’ll always feel you deserve. Even now that you’ve well and truly denounced the faith. Deep down you still feel the guilt of your exit. The pain of having to carry the trauma of an existence you never had the choice of living. To this day, it still eats away through the scars that line your stomach. Boring lines of betrayal across your skin.

The last thing you want to do is cry, but as the reminder of such abuse continues to penetrate your mind you find the tears falling anyway. Collecting at the edges of your eyes so quickly that you’re forced to close them in order to reset your vision.

As you do you feel Astarion wrapping himself completely around you. Pulling you into his chest with heavy hands that feel nothing like hers. Reminding you that you’re safe. That you’re here with him and nobody else. 

“Is this wretched woman still stationed in Baldur’s?” 

You feel his fingers on your chin, pulling your face up so that he can see you when you nod, holding back tears. 

“Good. Then our destinations align.” 

His voice sounds different. Instead of the usual softness or flirtation, it’s spoken through clenched teeth that strain against his throat, somehow feeling almost like a threat. An unspoken but well-articulated phrase of warning that has you sniffing and wiping your eyes. “What do you mean?” 

At first, you figure he’s talking about the Illithid. The urgent need to get to Baldur’s Gate before time runs out. But then you’re ripped back to reality —to the moments where he’s briefly mentioned his desire to return home. To finish whatever business he has after this timely journey is over. 

“The person who sent the hunter—“

He practically spits out his name. Cazador Szarr. A man you’re unfortunately well aware of given his reputation. 

After arriving in Baldur’s Gate it was common knowledge to avoid him and his property. As awful as your church was about promoting the misfortunes of others, they made it very clear not to get involved. According to them, he was an unholy man —one that could never fully be understood due to the obvious seclusion of his person.

To this day, you've always wondered what lies behind those doors of his. What sinister things he was up to throughout the years. 

However, when you look at Astarion —when you see the way his rage suddenly seems to know no bounds, you know it’s bad. Worse than bad considering Astarion hardly ever gets angry. Sure, annoyance and frustration often come out but anger —real anger— never does.  

“When you told me that you wished I didn’t know what it felt like, I didn’t realize how similar our experiences were.” His fingers rub rough circles into your flesh, distracting his mind as he lets out a breath and continues. “I didn’t know the level of your pain.”

“I didn’t tell you.”

“I know.”

His voice cracks. Your heart breaks. Then, both of you sit in another wave of silence, letting the words previously spoken sit at your feet as you stare at one another, trying to gauge what happens next.

You don’t anticipate his hands moving to his armour. Nor do you retain any sense of restraint when you reach to follow them, both of you working to pry it off before he pulls his tunic over his head. 

Despite being on the road together for so long you’ve never seen him bare like this. So open and willing to prove to you that he's here. With you, here’s here and ready to share whatever you think you need. 

Embarrassingly, it makes you want to cry all over again, reaching for his face. Feeling that familiar coolness beneath your touch as he turns to rest both hands on your hips again.

“It’s been so long since I’ve willingly wanted this.”

“This?” You look at him confused.

“To be intimate.” His fingers tighten around your flesh, digging into the plush ever so slightly. “To share the act of sex with another rather than exploit it.”

There’s a small smile that creeps through then. An inkling of hope for the vampire’s happiness as you inch in closer, placing the softest kiss you can muster to his cheek. “But you’re nervous?”

“Terribly,” he admits with a heavy breath. “In the span of 200 years I’ve bed countless men and women —all of them willing. All of them happy to have enjoyed my body only to end up at death’s door.”

It’s a lot to take in —the admittance of his faults. As soon as the first detail is uttered it’s as if the floodgates open and he’s telling you everything. From the moment he was turned and forced to crawl from his grave to the years that followed luring person after person into the Szarr home for a master so cruel you immediately wish to kill him. 

“I spent so long under that bastard’s thumb that… I don’t even know who I am anymore. How I’m meant to be now that I’ve attained even the slightest bit of freedom.” 

You understand how he feels. Perhaps the levels are different but deep within there’s always been this nagging feeling of how you’re supposed to live your life. How you feel as though you should be travelling the world in search of a new purpose rather than once again fulfilling someone else’s. 

But then you remember what’s at stake. And how even someone else’s fate can affect your livelihood. Then it’s as if the cycle repeats itself, constantly reminding you that if you don’t participate then that’s the end. Your freedom is null just as Astarion’s, leaving you to wonder what’s the point of it all.

“I think people like you and I are just meant to live.” Your hands move up to touch his hair. Carefully, you grip his curls between your fingers, pressing the pads into his skull as you run them down, hearing him sigh. “To enjoy what little time we have.”

“Little?” He raises his brow with a smirk. “Darling, I’m immortal.”

“True but you could still become a Mind-flayer like the rest of us.”

“Fair point.”

He seems calmer now. The usual persona of his overbearing personality coming through, making you grin. 

Instead of tightly wound he’s relaxed under your hold, practically melting against your touch as he lowers himself to rest on your shoulder. As he does, you end up catching a glimpse of his back, fully seeing Cazador’s work in the form of rough, red etchings that coat his entire spine. 

You have to force yourself not to ask about them until he’s ready, tightening the hold you have around his head as you riddle his face in kisses, letting your lips linger against his temple as you close your eyes. 

“They’re not as bad as they look,” he says then, somehow reading your mind. 

As painful as it is to admit, you know he’s right. Compared to other scars you’ve seen his look undeniably perfect. The way they paint the image of what looks to be some sort of sigil against his pale flesh. Despite the violence endured to create such a piece, it’s obvious that there was care put in too. A meticulous hand working away with the precision of someone borderline obsessed. 

If it wasn’t the result of abuse you could even call it beautiful. But since it’s not, you only continue to hold him, gripping his face for dear life, wondering what kind of pain he had to suffer to earn such a massive reminder of his ownership. 

“Do you know what it is?”

He lifts his head, looking at you like he’s seeking the answer himself. “A brand I’m guessing. Not that I can tell. Unlike you I can’t use a mirror. Nor can I very well reach to trace the damned thing myself.” 

Your fingers twitch at his words, feeling the temptation to touch them grow as you remember your own scars. In terms of appearance, they’re much more rigid. Three jagged lines that cover the middle of your stomach, making sure you remember. Ensuring your mind that every day you live on this earth —every new moment spent thinking that you’re worthy of whatever this is between you— that you’ll never be normal. 

The moment they dug that first knife into your gut you were marked for life. Branded just like him. 

Swallowing hard you force yourself to slip away from his grasp, watching the confusion that erupts before the understanding starts as you shakily discard your leather layer and throw your tunic over your head. 

It takes everything in you not to put it back on when you see the look on Astarion’s face. How it studies you with knitted brows and a clenched jaw that makes you want to hold him again.

“Mine are just… lines. They don’t mean anything.” As you motion to the thick slashes that have been carved over countless times you catch his gaze twitching upward, taking in the exhaustion.

“She did this?”

After you nod you feel his hand move forward, ever so gently grazing the top of the centre line with curiosity. “How many times?”

“I don’t remember.”

“But you remember how it felt?”

You press your lips together, breathing through your nose. Sucking in the Inn’s dusty air before blowing it out as you nod, forcing back the memory. Pushing through the pain as your tadpole squirms, asking to let him in. 

Like all the other feelings you’ve shared as of late, it’s been so long since you’ve felt his presence like this. Even with the Illithid’s constant use outside of each other, when he calls out to you it’s completely different. The movement behind your eye doesn’t feel like an annoyance. It feels like a call. A tingle of hope that has you answering before you can even question what it is he might want. 

When you answer there’s a warmth that hits your skin. Enveloping you completely, you feel the aching of the heat carry through your extremities, cascading down in anxious pools that have you breathing rather hard. Closing your eyes, you see the image of Astarion’s hands in front of you. Slowly he wiggles his fingers and turns his palms, taking in the fact that he’s safely under the sun, despite what he is. 

You realize then that this is the first memory he has of freedom. Of a life where he truly believes the tether’s been severed. All the thoughts inside his mind are full of nerves. Building anxieties of the past and the future being interrupted by a present he never thought was possible. 

It’s a memory that stirs you to move. To guide his hands to your waist as you crawl into his lap and grab his chin. 

Touching his skin you feel that same warmth flow through to your core. Letting it take over all the thoughts of scarring and owners and the lives you’ve both lived to get to this point, it takes away your breath. Pulls from you the needs of anything but him. 

In this moment, none of it matters anymore. Every experience is nothing more than a dimming shadow compared to the sensation of his breath wafting over your face as you angle your head down to look at him.

“Do you want this?”

His tongue darts out to line his lips. His hunger growing at the sight of you —at the feeling of you moulded to him like melting wax just cool enough to touch. “Yes.”

“So it’s okay if I—“

There’s a hand in your hair before you can finish, forcing you down to his mouth. It’s rough at first but quickly softens once he’s got you where he wants you. Firmly set atop his thighs and in his grasp. Allowing him enough access to reach up and touch the edge of your neck, his thumb lingering towards the centre to press a soft touch —reminding you that you have to breathe. That the usage of your lungs is no longer second nature but something you actively have to think about through the open-mouthed kisses that work to take it all away. 

Your head dizzies at the feeling. All at once your vision blurs while your hands begin to roam, stretching over skin and bone, eventually hitting raised scars that make you kiss him even harder, knowing it’s what he needs. What he deserves after countless years of loveless encounters. After touches, empty of anything resembling the adoration you wish to offer him.  

While laying waste to his bruising lips, you clumsily slide down his lap so that you’re standing on the ground, tucked between his open legs and bending forward. 

Confused, you feel his face twist against your own, prompting you to pull away and lower yourself further, letting your knees gently come in contact with the floor. 

“I was enjoying you where you were,” he muses then, cocking his head to focus on the way your hands begin to slide up over his knees, resting on each outer thigh. 

“And now you’ll enjoy me over here.” You smirk.

“Cheeky pup.” 

“The cheekiest.” 

After that, you shuffle closer and reach for his belt, keeping eye contact every step of the way to make sure you aren’t stepping over any boundaries. 

The last thing you’d want is to make him feel uncomfortable —to feel used in all the ways he used to experience. So you combat all that by checking in; offering him subtle glances every time you take the next step. 

You can tell immediately that he’s appreciative. Whenever he nods there’s a faint smile that sits across his lips, offering you approval as your fingers knock against the metal clasp of his belt, shakily moving to open it up.

At some point he ends up doing it himself, leaning forward to kiss your forehead and laugh at the nerves that render your fingers useless. Nerves that only spread when you stare up at his face while his hands busily move the strap aside.

After tossing his belt aside he doesn’t let you go further. Instead, he drags you further between his legs, leaning down to cup your cheeks and kiss you all over again.

It’s distracting, to say the least. The feeling of his lips moving in tandem with your own as he reaches around to rid you of your bra with two quick swipes, leaving you just as bare as him. 

It sends a shiver down your spine that makes him smirk, his upper lip quirking against yours before he gently bites down making you groan. 

“Can’t let you be the only one with a view,” he mutters against you, making you awkwardly laugh as you watch his gaze lower to your naked chest. “Can I, pet?”

“No, I suppose not.” 

Your voice sounds anything but confident as his hands continue their descent, matching your previous desires when they linger at your belt, waiting for you to give him the okay. 

When you do he makes quick work, unclasping the belt with skillful hands before lightly smacking your ass, signalling you to stand before he carefully slides the rest of it down, thumbing the edges of your legs. 

You have to force yourself not to cry out right then and there, feeling overwhelmed by the soft touch of his fingers. How they barely graze the outer parts of your already parting thighs, stopping at your knees when he looks up at you with a smirk.

“You seem nervous, darling.” 

Rolling your eyes, you shove an open palm to his chest, pushing him back against the bed with a scoff. One that makes him laugh and watch as you kick off the remainder of the fabric, trying to appear brave. Something that proves to be harder than you anticipate when he swiftly follows suit, giving you a show of your own in the form of freshly exposed skin you’ve only ever imagined in the deepest corners of your mind. 

In almost an instant, the fabric slips away, revealing more of him than you possibly could’ve expected, making your mind wander as the building arousal between your thighs twitches with desire. Telling you that you need this. 

You open your mouth to ask for more only to be yanked upon his lap causing a yelp to fall from your lips that makes you both laugh. 

“You really are a marvel, aren’t you?”

With a smile, his eyes scan your naked frame. Up and down and back, they linger at every part as if he’s studying you for future use. Taking mental notes with each passing freckle or scar that lines the length of bare skin. “I mean truly, look at you.” 

As he speaks, one hand runs along your neck —over your shoulder and down your arm until it’s resting at your thigh, gripping you tight. “I’m not sure what God out there decided to make you but remind me to give them my utmost thanks after this is over.”

When he leans in you have to force yourself not to nervously laugh at his praise, once again feeling his lips find refuge on your own, driving you to take things further. Encouraging you to make him feel as good as he deserves. 

This time though, instead of asking for approval with a glance you do so with a touch, reaching down to grip the end of his length with gentle hands that make him moan. Ever so quietly, the second you hear it you immediately strengthen your hold, using your free hand to grip his shoulder as you work him slowly, noticing him push. Feeling the subtle arc of his hips buck against your hand, wanting more.

For a moment you think about doing it. Letting your hand tighten further while you pick up the pace. It’d be easy. Nothing more than a simple readjustment but something mischievous stops you from doing it. 

Remembering that night at the grove —the one where he relentlessly teased just to get a rise out of you— you find yourself smirking and pulling away, gripping his shoulder even tighter to keep him in place.

Almost immediately, he knows exactly what you’re doing. He can feel it in the way you languidly pull at his cock, barely holding on with each stroke. 

“You think you’re clever, do you?”

You quirk your brow and bite your lip, massaging the apex of his shoulder. “I have to be if I’m going to be hanging around you.”

Furthering his torment, you then tighten your grip for a couple more pumps before returning to your previous pace, eliciting a hiss of disapproval that has him gripping both your hips and maneuvering you to sit against his right thigh. 

“Oh really?” 

Pushing up into your core, Astarion shifts you back and forth with his hands, making your breath catch inside your throat once you realize what you’ve done. How you’ve instantly set yourself up for a failure you know he’ll only revel in winning.

Considering he’s more than capable of making you fluster solely with words, you should’ve expected this —saw it coming from a mile away. 

Continuing your ministrations as lazily as possible, he barely registers them as he glides your folds against his leg. Holding you down, he manages to apply the perfect amount of pressure to build the tension, making you press your lips tightly together, forcing back any sound that might be deemed a loss. 

Even though it’s anything but a competition. A detail that’s reminded once he maneuvers one of his hands to cup your sex, rubbing rough circles into your clit. 

It makes you lose all semblance of thought, forgetting the hold you have on his cock as you shakily reach for his other shoulder, steadying yourself against him. 

“Doesn’t it feel nice when you give in?” 

Despite the context, there’s surprisingly no snark to his words. No sarcasm or bite —just genuine thought. A question so true to its word that all you can do is pant through the building pleasure and nod; letting him raise you off his leg and station himself at your entrance. 

It fills your mind to the brim with needs and wants you never thought you’d feel again. Having been subjected to abuse and then forced upon a journey you’re still not sure you’re ready for, the thought of attachments like this never once crossed your mind. 

Even after everything you’d been through, you never thought Astarion was capable of such tenderness —of loving care and safekeeping. Of gentle touches that run across your aching skin as he looks at you and you at him, both of you deciding it’s okay. 

As soon as it’s given, he’s sliding into you. Painfully slow, he uses the approval to grant you access to your shared pleasure, pushing through the tightness just as you open your mouth.

“Feel alright?”

Your fingers press against his neck as they slide up to cup his chin so you can pull your foreheads together. “More than alright.”

Through an unsteady breath, he laughs and guides you further down, allowing you both to savour the sensation for a moment before pulling back out again. 

As soon as he’s missing you’re already longing for more. Desperate for the fill of his cock, prompting a whine to escape; earning yourself a tut. 

“Remember patience?”

You do. More than anything in this moment you remember your claim and how foolish it was to think he wouldn’t forget it. 

“I recall you saying—"

“Astarion, please.” 

You’re not sure if it’s the anguish in your voice or the squirming of your hips that does it, but almost instantly he’s giving in. Once again offering you exactly what you need in the form of a push and pull so viscerally satisfying you’re left slumped against his chest, keeping hold of his neck. Forcing his hand to grip the back of your head to see the way he ruts inside of you. 

It’s a sight that’s almost too much. One that makes you moan and close your eyes, allowing him to move your face to his. At which point you’re on the precipice of ruin. Both body and mind becoming a mess of everything and nothing, forcing your breath to falter. 

You can tell Astarion’s in the same boat, struggling to maintain his starting pace the longer you mindlessly grind against him, unable to contribute much of anything else.

Together, the two of you try to move in unison, pushing and pushing —inhaling and exhaling. Anything you can do to share the burden of the building pleasure that grows and grows until—

When it hits, it feels better than you imagined. Deep within there’s a blooming that unfolds, petal by petal, opening to reveal unholy tremors that make you release a heavy plume of air through your closed lips. 

Gripping you close, you can feel Astarion follow quickly behind, twitching inside before he inevitably spills out, making both of you groan and fall back onto the bed in a fit of nervous laughter before he cheekily suggests you make use of the tub. 

-

TAGLIST: @poohxlove @gaiasmight @sassy-stupid @novarex @v-gremlin @sapphiccloud @lipstickghoulie @kuroitsukyo@jjfchk@idiotsatan@bluestuesday@bloopthebat@art-by-greenie@heneralmoon@sukunababe@dreamingaboutyousworld@ranfithegood@haniscrying@liadamerondjarin@the-lake-is-calling@marina-and-the-memes@rookieoftheyear@zraloci-cpr@kaetmo@snickerdoodle-daydream@wowowwild@d1anna@raswiet@conniesbbymama@venus-wrts@demonicthorns@kihten@deadglamsheep@sanscas@spammypasta@leighsartworks216@rose-gold-blue@p1ssmagg0t@hellish-writes@ghostinvenus@otayz@sexysquatch@sleepyeclair@colorful-anxieties@alina-exe@ilana-the-lasagna@lillifer@girlwiththepapatattoo@y2cade@acelin-ginsberg@pinkuranium@catrad0rable@scarletrosesposts@qwnamidala@itsrosebabe@bunnyperi@queenofcarrotflowers-s@tatumadams20@spkyxszn@chlort@f3v3rs@awkwardwookie@joy-the-reader@warm-milk-with-honey-blog@vertigocrime@iyis@wildpiper@pebblethestone@tillywasneverhere@bex-03@kaetmo@revemiya@staticspouse@itzagothamcitysiren@djarinsmixtape@when-the-night-came@epicy0n@bababahannah@sleepyred1703@lotus-99@lofcompass@r4d10h34d5@vampninjaz@itsmekalou@offbrandhand@yikes-buddy@konenichi

(If you'd like to be added to the taglist, fill out this form. Also, if your name isn't on here and it should be I couldn't tag you so message me and I'll try again next time!)

[hwaightme]

Your fan, San (part 2)

(part 1) (your fan ml)

💬 pairing: san x interpreter!reader 💬 genre: romance, fluff, mutual pining, drama 💬 summary: a bulletpoint-style wordstream of what it would be like if san was stanning you 💬 wordcount: 4.5k 💬 warnings/tags: language, conflict, two shy dorks, homie sabotage?, misunderstandings, love above all, touring, busy life, reader is a pro linguist, we stan simpteez, unedited oop- 💬 taglist: @acciocriativity, @doom-fics, @layzfeelit @jcngh0-hq @black--awsum @honey-lemon-goose @i-luvsang @jackinmyarea , @izuijin @justhere4kpop 💬 a/n: Hello there <3 here is PART 2 of YOUR FAN SAN!! Hopeless romantic? Check. Chaotic? Check... and the FINALE is coming soon??? ;~; P.S. that uni life do be getting wild so apologies if I'll be haphazardly uploading or if trains of thought are derailed~

'The Beauty of Falling in Love - a collection of short stories, poems and musings'

That was the title of the book you had to translate. And if you were not a (fully) sappy and sentimental mess before, you sure as hell were now. Because each little chapter, be it an anonymous recollection of favourite moments with a loved one, or a vignette dedicated to someone special, was some of the most heartwarming work you have ever read.

Each piece sounded so personal, so real, that you found yourself spending more time than usual on this commission. You had made an agreement with the client that they would be sending chapters out one by one, and prior to receiving one, you would send back a completed translation.

It was an easy enough arrangement, and was not too taxing when it came to your personal time. You could ruin your sleep schedule to your heart's content by watching dramas that you had missed whilst on tour, could make late night trips to the convenience store because you did not want to be caught in the businessperson rush, could catch up with people who you had inadvertently ghosted because of work and inability to find words when you wanted to.

Outside of your preferred mode of relaxation, you kept in touch with some of the members of ATEEZ, thanks to a group chat that San had created and 'simply had to add you' - at least that was how he had advertised it. The group chat consisted of him, you, Wooyoung, Yunho and Yeosang, who to you seemed like a random pick, since you did not interact with neither Yunho nor Yeosang as much.

But over a very short period of time this had changed for the better, and you had grown very comfortable, attached even, to the chaotic quartet. If anything this it was a top up vaccine for being able to keep up with the ATEEZ chaos - otherwise you would be familiarising yourself with it again for tour, as if it was the first day of work.

Little did you know, you were talking with the Operation ring leaders + Yeosang who was in it for the gossip, and to control the fire... in the way he wished. It was more or less a regular conversation, aside from San occasionally panicking and running up to one of the guys for advice.

"Yeo why did you write 'AMOGUS'?"

"Don't question me. This is art- ah see, Y/N sent the prayer hands emoji, she agrees." Yeosang responded, pointing at his phone screen.

"I feel like you guys are six parallel universes ahead of me and I don't like it."

"Make that ten, you boomer."

"This is an ancient meme you are quoting Yeo~" Wooyoung joined in, trying to poke fun at his friend.

"Say that again, the king of social boomers? Are you salty that I did not put hyung after AMOGUS because it's old?"

"What even is this chat-" Mingi, who was observing from his position lying across three dining chairs, threw the question out into the air.

"It is us trying to force San to dm Y/N by pushing them together like two dolls." Wooyoung, slightly irritated, explained.

"Man, you really are done." Mingi responded, chuckling

"I don't know, am I? San is breaking up with me so I am going through all stages of grief."

"Double u tee eff?" San raised an eyebrow and stared at Wooyoung, phone loose in his hands.

"How far along is she?"

"She isn't pregnant dude."

"Ugh you know what I mean."

"Like... a third of the way?"

"Damn you guys are slow as shit. We planned for this to take how long? You even have the confession already written up for the last chapter, this is kind of ridiculous. You know what, hold up."

Wooyoung tackled San, and thanks to the surprise nature of the attack, got the perfect opportunity to grab his friend's phone. After securing 'the bag', Wooyoung strode off to the other side of the room, clicking away, while San attempted to stand up, shouting.

Yunho seemed to have caught onto what the other was about to do, as he launched himself at the shorter man sat on the sofa and splayed himself right over like a blanket.

"No hard feelings bro this is necessary."

As San way trying to battle his way out, but was further restrained by Yeosang who had finally stopped taking photos, Wooyoung giggled deviously and locked the phone again, sauntering back with a devilish grin and handing it to San.

"It is done. You can thank me later."

"What did you do?"

"Something that you should have done like... a year ago."

"DID YOU TEXT HER?"

"Yeah. And don't worry, nothing Woo-style, you grilled me enough times for me to remember her preferences. Plus, I know how to text like you."

"And when did that come in handy?"

"Uh... I have to go water my fish BYEEE~" Wooyoung quickly departed from the living room sprinting back to the dorm, while San remained in shock, swiping at the screen to reveal the message that his friend had sent on his behalf.

Damn. It really was just like him.

The text came to you as a surprise. Though you have had some conversations over private message before, most of them had been in some way work related. Not San messaging you out of the blue to ask how you were and that you should catch up.

With the group chat all but abandoned, you happily launched into texting San. There was never any pressure for a phone call, which you greatly appreciated, and there was no specific guidelines that either of you enforced - without a care you double, triple, quadruple texted, abruptly disappeared only to reappear with a link or a photo... main things was that together, you kept your conversation alive and thriving.

You would have never, not in a million years, imagined yourself getting this close to San, or anyone with a celebrity status for that matter. Simply because you felt like they would need and deserve more than you could offer socially. You were all about human connection and uniting minds, but when it came to your own personal preferences, you would much rather write out your thoughts in astonishing detail and hit send, than say the same things out loud and to somebody in person.

And yet, contrary to your assumptions and what you could only say had been prejudice on your part, San was supportive of you and of your choices, saying he could 'imagine your voice well enough anyways'. He steered clear of pushing you to communicate in a style that was not yours; though you did enjoy hearing his voice, and would be lying if you said he was not a charmer, you could not bring yourself to reciprocate that approach. It was too overwhelming to do during the time that you had allocated for yourself as your regenerative state. And San made your heart melt by showing that he got that, without you having to tear yourself apart and explain.

To him it had been fairly easy to figure out that you were a text over call kind of person, and was something that he had advertised to the Operation Love Language squad. Given your notes app being packed, post it notes sometimes threatening to pour out of your bag, and him spotting you willingly sitting far away from any groups so you could watch something, earphones in, all pointed to that conclusion. And San found that he liked it more than he would have guessed.

Each text was like a memory, and an expression not only of something that they wanted to blurt out, but more often than not of a considered, weighed out opinion, even if it was onomatopoeia or a string of emojis. He would have never been able to get to know you like he did over text, and get so close to you that you were now happily discussing with him your own worries, and passions, and dreams, not just responding to his stream of musings and questions.

It was through one of these extensive texting sessions that you had revealed to San your endeavors as a freelance translator, and gushed about the commission you were working on.

This made San's thumbs freeze midway through typing. Carried away and impatient, he had tried to strike on all fronts, and now that he was in continuous communication with you, he regretted it. Deeply. Except he did not yet know just how risky the decision to parade as someone he was not could be.

After the first time you had mentioned your side work, he had begun to get progressively more quiet. Bit by bit. Until his responses to you turned almost into a conversation with a wall. You were unable to figure out just what had gotten into San, what had changed?

You turned to the work you were meant to translate as a distraction, expecting that the client would have shared the new chapter with you already... but no such thing.

Instead, there was an order cancellation, and a short apology.

What did you do wrong?

What happened?

Was there something that had not been quite right?

You looked over your already completed translations - you were searching for anything to suggest a reason for cancellation. The words appeared blurry, fading into one big mush. It was all terrible... wasn't it?

Who were you kidding you were probably rusty after not working with fiction for so long, and for not focusing hard enough. You had stopped paying attention to the craft. Who even were you? And interpreter, a translator, or a fraud?

You looked at the cancellation email again, knowing full well that it was pointless to try and reach the customer - they might have blocked you for all you knew. This hurt. This really hurt.

You saw that San had responded to your messages, again in a weirdly cheery tone, asking you how you are and what you have been up to? San would understand... right? San would listen to you...?

So you did something that you yourself did not expect, and pressed on the call button. He picked up on the first ring.

He sounded nervous, and almost tearful as you bared all and talked him through what had just happened. You needed him. He was the only one who had understood your language.

When you told him that you were probably over reacting and just humiliating yourself by being 'so deep in sad mode' over a whole lot of nothing, he instantly was there to catch you and call you out. He emphasised the importance of your work, of the beautiful job you had done so far... but then halted, unsure of how to proceed.

This left you confused. He then picked his words in a strangely careful manner, and almost beginning to side with the customer, saying how maybe it was for the better, and that now at least you could relax and find another project...

"San. This is really unlike you. What is up with that personality switch?"

"What do you mean Y/N? It's nothing-"

"I have an ear for speech, San, if there is anyone who could be a bullshit filter, it is me."

Silence.

More silence.

You were about to call out to him again, when you hear a muffled, barely there whisper:

"I'm sorry..."

You were sent reeling. What did he mean? Why was he sorry?

"I... it was me. Y/N. I am sorry. I really did not mean it to turn out that way I-"

"Okay first of all, why?"

"I..."

"Second of all, whilst I am grateful for your support and stuff, it does make me uncomfortable."

"I'm-"

"Thirdly, actually you know what focus on point number one."

When you did not hear an answer, you tried again: "Hello? I am waiting."

"I like you."

"...What?" you were left in shock.

You had suppressed your feelings for San in the deepest caverns of your soul out of the terror that it was bound to be unrequited, but here you were. Listening to that same man who had supported you from the beginning of your career to now (and exposing yet another ridiculous attempt at that), who had read your quirks and style and knew you better than most. Listening to him confess.

"I... how do I say this... it has been a while. A long while. I have been trying to approach you but... I was either too shy for it, or the attempts were just ridiculous. So we- so I came up with this idea, to try and tell you... this book right. The Beauty of Falling in Love. It is... it spoke to me. And I had planned to give it to you piece by piece until I could then reveal myself to you... but then we started talking outside of that and then I panicked and- yeah, I am... I am just so sorry, this is confusing as hell."

"Wait... wait wait... this is... so were you paying me to get me to like you? Was that what you were doing?"

"GOSH! NO! NO, DON'T MISUNDERSTAND!"

"Look. As much as I do like bringing joy to people through my work, this crosses a line. And it's not the fact that you ordered something from me - hell, support the artist right? It's the fact that you decided to be somebody else. You decided to conceal yourself to talk to me. Like you did not trust me. Even though you want me to like you.

I'll be returning the money to you shortly. M-kay? And... talk on stage, I guess."

Before San could respond, you ended the call sharply. No more phone calls. They were cursed, apparently.

With these thoughts, and a heavy heart, you departed for Japan.

---

"Maybe... just maybe if you had seen it through and not abandoned ship... your ship could have sailed?"

"Yunho just because it's your idea does not mean is good!" San retorted, having recounted the story to the members, gone into full crisis mode.

"Hello!? You agreed? I am just generating ideas here."

"I think we all blew this out of proportion and did not consider risks... at all." Mingi interjected, massaging his temples.

"You guys, I have an idea-" Wooyoung began, but was quickly cut off by San, who was already half way out of the door.

"You know what? I am done with the ideas. I will just do what I think is right."

---

You were conflicted. In a way, you had gotten what you wanted. A confession from your crush that you had been quietly keeping in the shadows. But at the same time, your anxiety spiked. Were you that unapproachable that San had to have twisted everything to get to you? Was your work more entertaining than you could ever be?

With these thoughts, and a heavy heart, you departed for Japan.

If your presence was not explicitly required at the venue, you would not go. Once an event ended, you would leave. If anything, you were acting just like any employee would.

You were trying to bury the conflicting feelings that you were experiencing. To an extent, you felt disrespected. Like you had been mistreated via the means of 'i am using your translation services so you should love me'. And it was one unpleasant thought.

So, you stuck to what you knew and were more or less confident in. Words that were not yours. ideas that were not yours. Feelings that were not yours.

In a matter of an hour after the first small event, however, you could not sulk in your room how you wanted, thanks to a random slip of paper being shoved under your door. You ran across the room and slammed it open in an attempt to catch the culprit, but there was no one in sight.

You gingerly picked up the papers, and read. It was unmistakable. It was the next chapter of the book, with an interesting translation on another sheet of paper, and an additional note.

"I am sorry, and I can only hope that you will read this and let me fight. <3 San"

As much as you were ready to forgive him then and there, you decided that you wanted to see just how far he was going to go.

The next morning - another letter had arrived. The next chapter, a translation, and another note.

During filming for a morning show, San had shot you numerous glances in an attempt to see whether you were even reading what he had been Amazon Priming to your room, but with a cheeky smile dancing on your lips, you let your fun continue.

Another package.

And another.

And another. Until, finally, the last chapter had arrived. At least that was what you thought right up until the evening of the same day. You had assumed that it was going to now be your turn to act, or at least to start talking again, but a loud knock jolted you out of your thoughts.

And another.

And another knock on the door. This man was an unstoppable force.

"I... I translated the last one. Well, tried to."

"But there were only eleven stories-"

"Nope, twelve. Here."

You saw a two pieces of paper appear from under the door, just like before. Except instead of the Korean page being a scan from the book, it was evidently a document that either San... or somebody else, had typed up, and then managed to print.

To be respectful, you attempted to read the Japanese, but soon enough gave up since the kanji somehow managed to look cursive, and instead took the Korean text in your hands.

You took a seat with your back against the door and knees almost flush against your chest, and began to read, your heart rate picking up pace as soon as you saw "Dear Y/N,".

It began as a little story. A re-telling of how both of you had met, and how you had come to own a little space in his heart, eventually leading to him simply giving it to you.

"Did you know that you look so beautiful in those moments when you don't think anyone is watching? The more I think about it, the more I feel like it has been what had drawn me in. How you typed and typed on your phone. If time allowed, I liked to try guessing whether you were going to switch the keyboard at some point or not. How you were and are in your element. And of course, how you are, simply, you."

He recalled the moments that you two had shared. The levels of pride and admiration he felt when he saw you being approached and congratulated by the fans, and when he could take a moment to just enjoy what you did.

San moved to explaining 'the plan' to you, and though you were ready to scold him then and there (especially since there was the door between you that made confrontation easier), you could not help but admit that the general notion (aside from making affection and crushing on someone a monetary exchange - better not put feels on Etsy) was heartwarming.

As it turned out, both of you were shy dorks who could not act on feelings. Admittedly, one of you was a LOUD shy dork and the other a 'language is life but still can't read between the lines' shy dork, but at least you made it here.

San was a nervous wreck, barely stopping himself from either pacing up and down the corridor or going into a meltdown and lying face down on the carpet. He already looked suspicious enough as is, just standing by a random hotel number like a vampire who had been refused entry.

Or perhaps more accurately, like a cat who had been shut out of the house and was now desperately trying to claw its way back in.

But that stress was quickly washed away when your form suddenly appeared before him, peeking out, drowning in an oversized hoodie. The papers were still clenched in your hand as you motioned for San to come in.

You waited until he was right in the middle of the room before closing the door. Part of you was afraid that he was going to nope out at any moment. You needed the reassurance. The confidence that was normally there when you were working. But every fiber of your being was screaming in protest, wanting simply to hide.

You observed him. He looked like he was barely breathing.

"I... really I am... so sorry... again... I know that it was so fooli-"

"私でもあなたのことが好きだ..." (I like you too)

"eXCUSEME?!"

"All this translating and you still can't process?" you joked, but began to pull on the drawstrings of your hoodie in an attempt to make your face disappear.

"ohHH NoONOOO I just want to hear you say it in every language that you know!!!" San exclaimed and in a matter of seconds was inches away, peeking at what was not yet concealed by the fluffy cotton.

As he leaned closer and closer, flustering you (and himself) in the process and took both of your hands in his, in the last leap of bravery you whispered:

"Well that, you'll have to earn, San. And I don't take traditional currency."

"You will never let that go."

"Never ever, Choi San, it's a core memory now."

"Well hey at least it means you are not letting go of me~"

"Oh the way you twist words..."

"Like you twist me around your finger, not to give you an ego trip or anything..."

"It's 'wrap'. The correct word is 'wrap' around a finger."

"Okay you know what how about I translate it to body language?" he puckered his lips, making you giggle.

"As long as I don't need to correct grammatical errors."

"Now now I'd say I'm fluent."

--

The habit of sliding notes under your door or passing them to you did not stop - it only got stronger and became an 'any location', Mission Impossible note transfer agreement.

It had become something of a game, muddling languages together and writing near-nonsense just to sit there almost crying, trying not to laugh.

Soon enough, the game spread to Wooyoung, who would on occasion intercept the messages and add in his own flair, and soon enough to a curious Yunho and Mingi, who then turned it into impromptu paper plane throwing tournaments.

Really, the only reason why Hongjoong did not intercept was because you managed to at least keep the messages under strict PG rating and had good aim - with a saving swoop you had managed to return one such airmail right into San's lap during a fan sign, leading ATINY to give you an additional "aimbot" title.

It did not matter what the schedule was, you left each other encouraging notes (and without the other knowing, stored them away in your luggage).

"Good luck being the first one to get hair and makeup done..."

"Good luck with the translation deal on the book <3" (after an entire evening of a pouting and pleading San, you had reached out to the editors of the romance book you had translated for him, and now were in very promising negotiations)

You raced ahead, in time with each other, creating your own language.

The extended time ATEEZ had spent in Japan was coming to an end, and in the blink of an eye, it was the final concert. The "closing remarks", the epilogue.

You were prepared to interpret in full, as always. One member down. Another... finally, it was only San left. The other members were looking at him expectantly, while some sent glances in your approximate direction.

You took Hongjoong's tranquility and him nudging San in the shoulder as a sign that no, you will not have to pretend he said something different and double speak it - whatever he was about to do was, apparently, captain certified.

At that moment, San pulled out a note from a pocket that you had no idea even existed. The action seemed to have the same effect on ATINY as they "oooohed" - Yunho fake whispered into the microphone that San was now a part-time magician, so these things were the norm.

You had your microphone at the ready. With bated breath, you waited for San to begin. And that, he did.

In Japanese.

Grammatically correct, coherent and well-delivered Japanese.

Even though some of the phrases were obviously not his style and word selection, leading you to imagine him poring over this text like he was writing the declaration of independence with the boys, it was him. It was his feeling. It was his message.

Your arm fell to your side with a thud, and you were grateful that your microphone had been turned off for the time being. You caught yourself gaping, and had to forcibly compose yourself to reveal only a soft smile, as you took the scene in.

San was not exactly trying to hide that he was paying special attention to a specific part of the arena, with his body turned almost completely in your direction and only a few glances off to the sides and at the note.

"...and I hope that we will always be together, as one, and share this world. sometimes there may be struggle, there may be darkness, but WE," he makes a grand gesture with his hand, as if highlighting the area in front of him, but really it was just to, again, symbolise that certain someone at the forefront of his mind, "will last, and be the light."

The crowd roared, and you could allow yourself to internally combust as you watched ATEEZ wave, bow and bid their farewells.

Some things did not need a translation to be understood, and some things were not up for interpretation.

Like how San sprinted to you as soon as he was out of public sight. How he swept you off your feet both literally and metaphorically.

How Jongho muttered 'get a room', but still smiled at both of you when he passed by.

How, upon your return to South Korea, he had practically made it his mission to dote on you, and any moment he got, show that you were together.

Matching plushies? Check.

Basically exposing you both on Late Night Dive (though there was not really anything to expose because the entire ordeal was almost a live streamed ATEEZ drama)? Check.

Happily chatting away with ATINY about love and about finding it, sending loving stares your way? Check.

This was the love language you shared. No hiding, no scheming. Two native speakers, who found each other in translation.

[imnotfromtwitterpleasedonthurtme]

Is… is there an option to fully support ‘platonic relationships can and should absolutely be just as meaningful as romantic ones’ and ‘there’s a good chance the subtext wasn’t even intentional or maybe was never there at all’ and ‘they made the heartbreak tweet and named one of the songs Lokius and put thematic parallels and at this point are probably doing this on purpose’ and ‘it really shouldn’t matter who Loki ends up with because it’s not meant to be a romance, it’s meant to be about him as a person’ and ‘personally I would really like Loki and Mobius to end up together because I think they’re cute and very compatible’ and ‘I like Sylki but I think Disney is doing it wrong’ and ‘fucking hell Disney give us some decent homosexuals already’? My head hurts.

[misteria247]

really called smn a ho

SGSGSGSGSGSGDFSFSFSFSF ARE YOU KIDDING ME??? GOD DAMN DONATELLO HAMATO OVER HERE MURDERING HIS ENEMIES IN COLD BLOOD-

This gives me the vibes from that one vine that goes-

"I said whoever threw that paper, you're mom's a hoe."

[emry-stars-art]

Aaron and Andrew getting ready to devastate the foxes at this sand castle building competition

vs

Katelyn and Neil ready to get devastated

pt 2 is up now with Matt, Dan, and Kevin :D

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

King the silly guys, Lupin III!

(for @dying-suffering-french-stalkers)