#Ceramic rope

[almostarts]

Jacques Ruellan & Dani Ruelland,

'Sonnailles' chimes, circa 1980,

Glazed ceramic and rope,

Each : 21 x 14,5 cm / each : 8 ¼ x 5 ¾ in.

Courtesy: Christie's

[qlala]

giving myself an idea for a new fic and trying to stealthily open a blank word document but the tiny edna mode that i installed in my brain for exactly this reason immediately wakes up from a dead sleep and begins smacking me over the head with a rolled-up newspaper

[alfatherminsulation123]

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Visit our website - https://www.alfatherminsulation.com/

[teddy-bear-naps-and-random-snaps]

[ltwilliammowett]

For the first time in millennia, a Magan Boat sails off the coast of Abu Dhabi. It’s a reconstruction that has taught the world much about the skill and achievements of Bronze Age sailors

Archaeology on Marawah Island, west of Abu Dhabi, has revealed that 8,000 years ago the Arabian coast was home to a sophisticated seafaring people. They built stone structures, herded livestock, fished and dived for pearls, crafted jewelry, and developed a talent for sailing that started a remarkable cultural exchange.

By the Bronze Age, around 4,500 years ago, the region was prominent enough to have a name in ancient writings: Magan. From the island of Umm an-Nar, in modern Abu Dhabi which was part of ancient Magan, merchants sailed an international trade route that connected Mesopotamia, in what is now Iraq, to the Indus Valley in today’s India and Pakistan. Magan traded locally sourced pearls, stone and copper, one of the most sought-after commodities of the time, for ceramics, fabrics, jewelry, and other precious objects. Its ships were renowned through the Arabian Gulf.

The ship was built using 15 tons of locally sourced reeds that were painstakingly prepared by being soaked, stripped of leaves, crushed, and then tied into bundles using rope made from date palm fibers. These formed the hull, to which was attached a wooden frame. The boat’s dimensions were calculated based on what is known about similar vessels as well as hydrostatic analysis of what was needed to make it float. The reed hull was then waterproofed with a coating of bitumen, which was traded from Iraq. The heavy sail, raised purely by muscle without the benefit of pulleys, was crafted of goat’s hair in a patchwork of shades.

The result was the world’s largest ever reconstructed Bronze Age vessel: 60 feet long, capable of carrying 36 tons of cargo, and achieving surprisingly high speeds of 5.6 knots.

[pucksandpower]

Piece of Cake

Lando Norris x McLaren reserve driver!Reader x platonic!Oscar Piastri

Summary: McLaren hands their drivers a blindfold, a pair of headphones, and a roll of duct tape to bake burn a cake … it goes about as well as can be expected

Based on this request

You stroll into the McLaren motorhome, gym bag slung over your shoulder, earbuds in as you listen to your pre-race pump-up playlist. Being the team’s reserve driver is a dream come true — you get to be around the cutting-edge of Formula 1 and some of the brightest minds in motorsport.

And if chance should have it, you could even sub in for one of the race drivers. The thrill of potential sends a tingle down your spine.

As you round the corner, you nearly walk straight into Lando, who’s got his jaw set in that brooding, focused way he gets right before a race weekend. His eyes light up when he sees you.

“Y/N! There you are,” he says, a dazzling smile emerging. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

You pull out your earbuds. “What’s up? Everything okay for the race?”

He runs a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “Race? Oh, pfft, who cares about that? We’ve got bigger problems to solve today.”

You raise an eyebrow. Lando has a flair for the dramatic.

He goes on, “We’ve been roped into doing this absolutely mental social media challenge video. Something about … baking? I dunno, to be honest, I stopped listening after they said one of us had to do it blindfolded.”

“Blindfolded?” You repeat, already regretting asking.

That’s when Oscar pops his head out from the kitchen area, hastily re-taping his mouth shut with bright orange duct tape. He flashes you a goofy thumbs up.

“So get this,” Lando continues, not missing a beat, “You’re the blindfolded one. I have to wear noise-canceling headphones so I can’t hear anything. And poor Oscar ...” He gestures over his shoulder at the other driver, who gives an exaggerated shrug. “Can’t speak a word, obviously.”

You look between the two of them, dumbfounded. “And we’re meant to … bake? Like, an actual cake or something?”

“Yep!” Lando says brightly. Too brightly. He claps you on the shoulder. “Should be a right laugh, eh? Let’s get started then!”

And just like that, the chaos begins.

After some shuffling about and giggling fits from the boys, you find yourself standing at the kitchen counter, a thick blindfold secured over your eyes.

You strain your other senses, trying to get your bearings. The hum of the overhead lights, the chemical tang of cleaning products, and was that … vanilla? You give an experimental sniff. Definitely vanilla.

A presence appears at your side and you nearly jump out of your skin when a hand grasps your wrist, guiding your fingers to what feels like … a whisk? Lando leans in close, his cologne surrounding you.

“Okay, I can’t hear myself think in these bloody headphones, but I’m going to talk you through the recipe step-by-step,” he murmurs, warm breath tickling your ear. You shiver involuntarily. “Just, y’know … do whatever feels right, I guess?”

With that enormously unhelpful advice, he releases your wrist and you feel him retreat. You’re flying blind — quite literally.

Then there’s a tap on your other arm. You turn, whisk at the ready, as Oscar’s unmistakable muffled laughter reaches your ears. Of course he’s going to be no help, sealed lips and all.

“Alright guys, very funny,” you say, aiming a withering look somewhere in their general direction though you can’t actually see them. “If I’m meant to be baking something edible out of this mess, you’re going to need to give me a bit more guidance.”

At that, Lando ambles back over, grasping your elbow to steer you somewhere — hopefully towards an actual baking ingredient and not, like, the rubbish bin. A few stumbling, giggle-filled steps later and you’re deposited in front of what sounds like … mixing bowls? Containers? You tentatively reach out a hand.

Your fingers brush over cool ceramic and you let out a relieved breath. Okay, progress. You dip the whisk in exploratorily and feel … something powdery. Flour? You raise it to your face to sniff, but Lando stops you just in time.

“Oi, oi, don’t go getting a lungful of whatever that is!” He laughs, somehow sounding even more handsome when he’s cheerfully chiding you. You bite your lip to stifle a grin.

Things begin to take shape after that, with Lando’s surprisingly not-too-horrible instruction and Oscar’s spirited gesticulating. You quickly work out the basics — butter, sugar, flour, eggs. The wet and dry ingredients get sloppily combined in separate bowls.

All fairly standard baking stuff.

Until, that is, Oscar tries miming out the need for baking soda and you obviously can’t see his dramatic gestures. You have no clue. He positions your hands with frantic motions as you measure out a hilarious amount of the mystery powder into your mixture.

Before long, a questionable batter has been produced. Oscar helps wrestle the cake pans away from you before you can completely muddle everything. The boys shuffle around for a bit, presumably prepping the pans and oven and such.

Then it’s time to pour in the batter. You feel Lando’s sturdy hands again, this time wrapping around yours to guide the bowl’s contents out. Immediately, the thick, lumpy globs start splattering over the sides and onto the counter. Oscar’s choked laughter fills the air. Lando curses under his breath, so close you can feel the rumble of his voice on your back.

Somehow, you all get the pans mostly filled without completely obliterating the kitchen. Oscar takes them to pop in the oven while Lando stays by your side. And that’s when you feel it — his free hand straying to rest on your hip. Reflexively, you lean back against his solid frame. The heat between your bodies builds deliciously.

For a long moment, it’s just the two of you standing there in peaceful suspension, chests rising and falling in tandem. Then Lando leans his head down, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You’ve got a bit of … uh, whatever that yellow stuff was in the bowl … just there,” he murmurs, voice low and impossibly alluring.

You inhale shakily. “Yeah? Why don’t you get it for me then?”

There’s the barest hesitation before his lips are on your neck, tongue darting out to lick away the wayward batter. You sag back against him, surrendering to the electrifying sensation. A tiny moan escapes your lips.

God, you want this man.

Just then, the smoke alarm goes off with an ear-splitting shriek, shattering the spell. Lando leaps back like he’s been burned.

“Bollocks! I mean, uh … can’t hear anything, totally oblivious over here!” He makes a show of adjusting his headphones primly.

You snatch off the blindfold finally, blinking against the sudden light. Sure enough, thick grey smoke is billowing out of the oven. Oscar is doubled over wheezing, tears of laughter streaming down his face as he yanks the ruined cake out with oven-mitted hands. The charred remains plop lifelessly onto the counter.

Waving the smoke away, you gape at the pitiful offering. “Well, so much for our baking skills.”

Lando peeks over, coughing exaggeratedly. “What’s that? Did someone say they wanted a follow-along tutorial on how to burn down the motorhome?”

You roll your eyes, trying for a scandalized look but can’t quite fight the grin tugging at your lips. Oscar just loses it again at his teammate’s antics, wiping at his streaming eyes as Lando joins in, shoulders shaking with mirth.

Watching them, deliriously happy despite — or maybe because of — the ridiculous disaster around you, affection blooms in your chest as warm and gooey as the cake should’ve been. The fearless racers, top drivers of a top team, international celebrities … and also just two lovable goofballs who make your heart flip in the silliest of ways.

Their laughter is infectious. You find yourself dissolving into giggles right along with them. At last, Lando slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a loose side hug. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins down at you.

“Well, I don’t know about you two, but I could go for some proper dessert after that mess,” he says lightly. “My treat?”

Oscar immediately perks up, giving an enthusiastic double thumbs up and nodding vigorously.

You lean into Lando’s warmth, basking in the comfortable closeness. “You read my mind. Let’s get out of here before we burn something else down.”

With one last look at the charcoal brick that was once a cake, Oscar shakes his head ruefully. He strolls over and throws his arms around the two of you, squeezing tightly. For a moment, the three of you just stand there in a tangle of limbs and easy camaraderie, bodies shaking with residual laughter.

Pulling back at last, Oscar flashes you both a mischievous look as he points to his taped mouth, then mimes ripping it off. His silent way of asking if he can finally remove the duct tape obstacle.

“Oh, go on then, you’ve suffered enough,” Lando chuckles, waving a permissive hand.

Quick as a flash, Oscar yanks off the tape with a dramatic flourish, letting out a loud “FREEDOM!” He immediately grimaces, rubbing his jaw. “Oof, that stung a bit.”

“You’ll live, drama queen,” you tease, giving his arm a light shove.

He bumps you back with his hip, grinning impishly. “Well, it was all worth it to witness the two of you in absolute shambles from start to finish.”

Shouldering past you both, Oscar heads for the exit, shooting a roguish wink over his shoulder. “Now are we going to get some edible cake or what? I don’t know about you two, but I worked up an appetite with all the not talking I just did.”

Laughing again, you and Lando trail after him into the sunny paddock, bickering half-heartedly about who torched the baking attempt more thoroughly. A warm breeze riffles through the trees, carrying the scent of race fuel and possibility.

Another typical, wonderfully chaotic day at McLaren. You certainly wouldn’t have it any other way.

[luetta]

capturing angels is easy. snipe them from the skies, break their halos, and watch the divine light fade from their eyes as you turn them into fleshlights.

capturing a seraph is harder.

they live in the upper atmosphere, far beyond reach. luckily nothing grabs their attention better than desecrating nature. you’ll have one hovering above you the moment you start pouring oil into the river.

but they’re invisible, they don’t actually do anything. they just watch with seething rage. but you can tell where they are, if you look carefully at the ripples in the sky. and they can be speargunned like any other piece of meat, they’re not intangible.

but they’re fast. once they get hit they’ll try to fly away, faster than you can blink. but it’s against their code to break something holy. that’s why i soaked the speargun rope in the blood of that drunk priest. it simply can’t snap the rope.

it’ll try attack you now, lifting it’s veil of invisibility and showing you it’s form. it’s beautiful, it’s blinding. that’s why we wear these industrial goggles to block most of its rays.

after the initial blast of light, you can see it’s true form. a 3m tall body of white porcelain, with undulating red spirals flowing from her talons. 3 halos, 2 pairs of wings, 6 uncaring eyes. it tries to attack us, shred us to pieces. but with a few more unbreakable spears, she’s essentially pinned in place.

it lets out a screech, attracting other seraphs. they come, but they just watch from afar. the leaves of all the trees nearby shrivel up. putting 2 pikes into her main wings, she can’t move. turning her head to look at us like an owl, she starts to speak.

“SURRENDIPITY. AMALGAMATION. DESECRATION. VOLITION. QUINTESSENCE.”

it’s best to just ignore them during this part. and instead just focus on the halos. that’s the target.

striking it with tools - sparks flying off - it’s amazing how much these floating discs feel like they’re anchored in place. they simply don’t react. but that’s a boon in our favour, not theirs. it means, eventually, they’ll shatter. if they warped it’d be exponentially harder to destroy.

eventually, the first one breaks with the help of a winch attached to the truck.

the seraph starts to struggle against her binds now, strange new feelings of danger making it panic.

“LIGHT FLOW BEAUTY RESIST ERODE TRANQUILITY. WATER AIR SPLIT GROW RECEDE. MAPLE LIMESTONE WIND TIDE BLOOD.”

the second halo breaks.

“SMOKE FIRE WAR WAR WAR. SHARK DARKNESS DEATH. MISERY. BLOODSHED. FEAR. TERROR. ACID BLINDNESS DECAY.”

the last halo cracks, it’s about to give out. the seraph is straining against the spears, shaking, desperate emotion in her eyes.

“LOVE WISDOM HAPPINESS. JOY PROSPERITY ENDLESS. RAINDROPS. YOURS. OWNERSHIP SUBJUGATION FREEDOM. LOVE EMPATHY ENVY PLEASURE RESPITE. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE. HOSPITALITY. INTIMACY. MERCY.”

the halo shatters to a million pieces. the area is no longer illuminated by some unseen source. the ripples in the sky disappear, the watchers retreat, uninterested now. the scared creature is speechless, her eyes wide and unbelieving. dirt now sticks to her body, instead of just sliding off. flesh instead of ceramic. we take the spears out, but bind her with ropes much harsher now. she’s still has strength, but it’s no longer unfathomable like it was.

now she’s just another fallen angel, about to learn the one thing divinity lacks, and humanity excels in. physicality. we have a lot of breaking in to do before she’s ready to join the other angels downtown. or perhaps i’ll find a private, permanent buyer. something like this would probably fetch enough to let us get out of this shithole finally.

as we throw her into its new room, a cold, stone room, with hooks in the walls to attach chains to, she speaks again.

“hurt. sadness. freedom fear anxiety. lost indecision hubris. mercy pain silence. separation beauty uncountability. exploration … limitations. unknown darkness fear. ”

“don’t worry darling. we’ll have you singing again in no time.”

[novascharms]

teach please me — tutor!reader x soccer player!rafe

reader's life is meticulously planned, from high school to becoming president of the country—she knows exactly where she's headed and every step to get there. but her airtight plan hits a snag when the principal ropes her into tutoring rafe cameron, the school’s star soccer player, who’s failing algebra and at risk of being benched next season. the team needs him on the field, and reader needs the principal’s glowing recommendation to secure her spot at her dream school. balancing her ambitious goals with rafe’s chaotic charm might just throw her perfectly crafted plan off track.

word count — 4.3 chapter index — prev. chap. — next chap. masterlist

a.n — AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH

eleven

sunday, february 9th

you'd read and re-read the stoichiometry chapter in your chemistry book so many times the words had started to blur together. no matter how hard you tried to concentrate, the first sentence refused to stick, so you read it again. and again. the mole-to-mole relationships in chemical equations couldn’t do what you so desperately wanted them to: distract you from your laptop sitting smugly on the corner of your desk, mocking you with its silence.

you glanced at the screen for the hundredth time.

still no response.

your chest tightened, frustration bubbling under your skin. you'd never wanted to scratch your own eyes out more than you did right now. your gaze shifted to the blue pen rafe had given you, lying idle next to your notebook. he’d handed it to you after you’d casually mentioned trying to stop chewing on pens. it was one of those novelty pens with a fluffy pom-pom at the end—a ridiculous detail, but it worked. you hadn’t bitten a pen in days.

you sighed, pressing your forehead to the cool surface of your desk. the frustration and restlessness were unbearable. "just get it together. focus. focus, y/n," you whispered, willing yourself to snap out of it.

"what are you doing?"

the sudden voice made your heart leap into your throat. you jolted upright, instinctively grabbing the first thing within reach—a pack of sticky notes—and hurling it toward the intruder.

your sister's stupidly athletic self ducked effortlessly, a bemused look on her face as the sticky notes fluttered harmlessly to the floor. "don't scare me like that," you scolded, your voice stern, though your pulse was still racing.

"relax," she said, rolling her eyes. "mom said you need to help her and rafe unload the groceries."

you froze. rafe? you blinked, sure you’d misheard. "wait, what did you just say?"

but she was already turning away, her athletic frame disappearing down the hall before you could get any clarification.

you shot out of your chair, heart thudding as you hurried after her. she darted down the stairs and into her room, slamming the door behind her, leaving you to descend the stairs alone. with each step, the sound of laughter drifted closer, unmistakably rafe’s—deep, warm, and contagious.

your stomach twisted. your nerves were already frayed, and now they were shot through with the sharp edge of memory. friday’s argument lingered, unresolved and heavy. you’d both walked out of that classroom unsatisfied—him with no answers about what happened at the bonfire, and you still clueless about the black eye he refused to explain. his silence afterward, ignoring your text all day, had only solidified your belief that he was done talking to you.

and yet… here he was.

you stopped in the hallway, your breath catching as you caught sight of him. standing in the kitchen with your mom, rafe moved around like he belonged there, putting dishes away with an ease that almost felt intentional.

your eyes locked on him as he reached for the cabinet, your favorite mug in his hand. something about seeing it there, his long fingers gripping the familiar ceramic, made your chest tighten in a way you couldn’t explain.

you lingered, frozen in place, unsure of whether to walk in or turn back. the kitchen was only a few steps away, but it suddenly felt like miles.

"ah, there you are, sweetie! look who i ran into at the farmer's market!" your mom's voice carried a cheerful lilt as she gestured toward rafe, her grin wide. he turned at the mention of you, his movements calm, but his eyes sharp as they settled on your face. "i came on foot, and he was kind enough to offer me a ride," she continued, her voice full of appreciation that almost made you laugh. for someone you'd barely been able to figure out, it seemed rafe had won your mom over in no time.

he closed the cabinet with a soft thud, his gaze falling on you again, drifting down your frame. you caught the flicker of amusement in his expression as his eyes lingered on your legs, bare except for the well-worn university hoodie your dad had given you and a pair of shorts. his scrutiny was quiet but obvious, and it made your skin prickle, though you couldn’t quite decide if it was irritation or something else entirely.

and there it was—the reason you couldn't get past the bonfire, the reason even standing in the same room as him sometimes felt unbearable. it wasn’t just the way he looked at you, though that was part of it, his blue eyes holding something electric, like you were the only girl in the world. it wasn’t just the way his attention made your heart stutter, like you were under a spell you couldn’t shake. it was the way your mind twisted it all, painting vivid, cruel images of him looking at someone else like this.

looking at any girl like this. every girl. seeing his gaze soften like it did for you, feeling that same magnetic pull that left you breathless, making her feel exactly the way he made you feel. it made you want to throw up.

"how friendly," you muttered under your breath, stepping into the kitchen to busy yourself. your eyes skimmed over the contents of your mom’s shopping bags, your attempt to distract yourself entirely unconvincing.

"are you okay? you’re a little sweaty," your mom asked, her hand brushing your forehead with gentle concern.

"just my period," you replied softly, leaning into the touch as she pulled you into a warm embrace.

her arms wrapped around you, and you rested your head against her shoulder, but your eyes found rafe’s again. he hadn’t looked away, his gaze steady, unreadable.

"i’ll make you a cup of tea, yeah?" your mom offered, her voice soft in your ear.

"mhm, thanks, mom," you murmured.

"do you need a heat pad?" she added.

"already got one," you replied with a faint smile, trying to shake the weight of the moment.

she pulled back, her hand brushing over your arm before glancing toward rafe. "be sure to send rafe down if it cools so i can reheat the water, okay? you’ll do that for her, right?"

rafe didn’t miss a beat, his voice low but certain. "and more."

you felt your pulse stutter, but you didn’t dare let yourself read into it. not now. not again.

it’s only when you’re right in front of the stairs that you stop and turn to him. “you didn’t get my message?”

“i did get your message.” he says it like it’s a minor detail that doesn’t change anything.

“and you’re here.” you state and move up one step because you don’t like that he’s taller than you right now.

he raises his brows, looking up at you, “you’ve never dictated my whereabouts before..”

you cross your arms, “i thought you were mad at me.”

“i think you might be my hill.”

his hill?

“my hill to die on.” he clarifies and you’re quiet for a moment and then another because why why why would he say something like that?

your heart sort of feels like it’s being squeezed.

you don’t say another word as you climb the stairs together, you don’t say a word when you sit at your desk, your chemistry notes waiting, unread and you don’t say a word when he sits on your bed, facing you.

"not gonna talk to me?" he asks, his voice low and even, but you keep your eyes on the notes in front of you, pretending with all the strength you can muster that he isn’t sitting there, watching your every move.

"why’d you even let me into your room if you weren’t going to talk to me?" he asks again, the hint of a smirk in his tone that grates on you.

you roll your eyes, the response instinctual. he was six feet tall—what were you supposed to do? block the door? he wouldn’t have listened even if you’d told him to leave, and you both knew it.

"okay," he says suddenly, standing and crossing the room toward you. he crouches down beside you, his movements deliberate, his presence impossible to ignore now. "you’re still mad i didn’t tell you what happened friday, and i’m mad you won’t tell me what happened at the bonfire. it cancels out. we should just not be mad anymore," he says, as if it’s the simplest solution in the world.

you finally turn to look at him, and he’s close—too close. your eyes drop to the bruise beneath his eye, still swollen and tender-looking, as raw as it had been on friday. your frown deepens, and before you realize it, your hand lifts, fingers reaching toward the edge of the discoloration. but you stop short, your fingertips hovering before dropping back into your lap. you turn away again, determined not to give in to the pull of him.

you try to focus on your notes, the words swimming on the page. then, without warning, he grabs your book and tosses it onto your bed.

you don’t react, not really. instead, you reach for your laptop and pull up the pdf version, scrolling without looking at him.

"are you fuck—" he starts, catching himself when your glare sharpens on him, "—freaking serious?"

you turn back to your screen, your silence louder than any retort.

he closes your laptop with a single motion, holding it down when you try to open it again. your frustration boils over, and you stand, but he pushes you back into the chair, his movements unrelenting.

"you know you’re being a brat, right?" he says, his tone somewhere between amusement and exasperation. you cross your arms, staring straight ahead, refusing to engage.

with a scoff, he turns your chair so you’re facing him. your head swivels away, determined not to meet his gaze.

"i can’t believe this," he mutters, the disbelief laced with dry humor.

he could scoff and huff and puff all he wanted. you weren’t going to say a single word until he told you what happened friday. it didn’t matter if he thought you were being a brat, or if it wasn’t fair to withhold your own truth about the bonfire while expecting him to spill his.

the bonfire was different—separate. telling rafe what you saw would mean telling him why you reacted the way you did, and what was the point of all that when you were determined to weed out these feelings anyway?

because they would pass. they had to pass.

you’d read countless articles that said as much—this infatuation, this pull, was temporary. fleeting. give it ten, maybe fifteen business days, and you’d be fine. you’d be back to normal. telling him would only ruin something that didn’t need to be ruined, would risk losing him prematurely for something that wasn’t permanent.

"jesus christ, fine," he sighed, the frustration thick in his voice as he leaned back and sank onto your bed. he patted the spot next to him, his hand heavy on the comforter. "come here," he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

you hesitated for just a moment before obeying, standing and crossing the small space between you. settling onto the bed beside him, your leg brushed against his, the proximity setting your nerves on edge.

"i’ve been… i’ve been in a shit mood all week, you know?" he began, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. he exhaled heavily and ran a hand through his hair. "and i guess i’ve been kind of a buzzkill. just… i’ve had a lot on my mind. about sarah, about soccer, my dad… and about you."

your breath caught at his admission, your fingers curling into the fabric of your shorts.

"it’s not like i can’t talk about it with my friends," he continued, his words slower now, more deliberate. "it’s just… i don’t have my thoughts straight yet. haven’t even worked through it myself, you know? but topper…" rafe broke off with a frustrated sigh, his jaw tightening. you could practically see the scene playing out in his head. "topper doesn’t like it when i don’t talk about shit. he’s always on edge, scared i’ll slip into… old habits if i don’t deal with my crap. so, he pushes. and pushes. and i was already pissed off, already had too much to drink, and he kept getting in my face, asking me what my problem was."

rafe’s hands flexed, his fingers pressing into his thighs like he was trying to contain the memory. "so i tell him to fu—to piss off," he corrected himself, glancing at you briefly. "but he just kept going, and i was done. i was ready to walk away, ready to just leave. and then…" his voice faltered, the weight of his words hanging in the air between you.

you frowned, leaning closer without even realizing it. "and then what?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

he turned to look at you, and the guilt in his eyes made your stomach twist.

"rafe," you pressed, your heart pounding. "what did he say? was it about me?"

he looked away, his hand dragging across his face like he could erase the tension in his features. "the details don’t really matter," he said, his voice low and evasive.

"no," you said sharply, shaking your head. "no. i want to know. tell me."

"it’s stupid," he muttered, his tone filled with reluctant anger. "he’s stupid—"

"you got into a physical fight over it. it can’t be that stupid," you argued, your gaze fixed on his.

rafe hesitated, his lips pressing into a tight line, as if debating whether to tell you.

"rafe,"

he exhaled sharply, his shoulders tense. "he said…" rafe hesitated again, his voice quieter now, tinged with anger and something softer—regret, maybe. "he said i should cut off ‘that goody-goody, prissy bitch’ because i was in a way better mood before i met you."

the words hit you like a punch to the gut. your shoulders sagged, and your gaze dropped to the floor. you took a shallow breath, exhaling slowly as the weight of his admission settled over you.

"and then?" you asked quietly, your voice steady but barely audible.

"y/n—" he started, but you cut him off, your head snapping up to meet his eyes.

"and then?"

rafe sighed, running his hand through his hair again, the strands sticking up messily. "i told him to come again. i don’t even remember what he said next, honestly. all i caught was sarah’s name and something muffled before i… slammed him into a wall and kneed him in the face. he got one punch in, but i fractured his nose and he looks like shit, so… i’m pretty pleased with that part."

a dry, humorless laugh escaped him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to smile. his words lingered in your head, sharper than the bruise on his face, harder to ignore than the ache settling in your chest.

"i'm sorry..that this all happened." you said and he shook his head, "it's not your fault. don't apologise." it felt a little your fault. or maybe a lot. you can imagine that if you never tutored rafe in the first place, this wouldn't have happened.

your gaze stayed fixed on the floor, avoiding his entirely, but rafe wasn’t having it. he leaned forward, lowering his head until his eyes found yours. "topper’s an asshole," he said bluntly. "and honestly, i’m probably gonna kick his ass again the next time i see him."

a small, unwilling smile tugged at your lips. "don’t do that," you whispered, the diplomat in you rising instinctively.

"no?" he asked, grinning in a way that made your heart flutter and your stomach flip. "don’t think he deserves a matching one?" he gestured toward his own black eye, the faint shadow of a bruise still etched into his face.

the truth was, topper probably did deserve it. but you bit your lip, shaking your head anyway, even as you silently agreed.

"he’s not wrong, though," you admitted quietly, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

rafe rolled his eyes with a sharp exhale. "fuck him and fuck whatever he has to say about you. he doesn’t know a thing about you."

you nodded slowly, your heart both heavy and a little lighter at the same time. "hmm… doesn’t change that i’m pretty prissy. and, you know, a serious goody-goody," you said with a wry smile. "maybe not the bitch part though."

rafe pulled a face, a mix of disbelief and irritation. "just because you’re not downing a beer crate every weekend or hooking up with half the town doesn’t make you prissy—or a goody-goody. topper’s just being a dickhead, and he knows it."

his words made you freeze. your breath hitched, your body tensing almost imperceptibly, but not enough to escape his notice.

rafe’s brows lifted, his tone shifting as a teasing grin spread across his face. "unless…" he started, leaning closer, his voice playful. "you are secretly an alcoholic?"

you let out a small, breathy laugh despite yourself, shaking your head and turning away. you didn’t want to have this conversation—not anymore.

"then…" he pressed, undeterred. "some boyfriend? or… boyfriends? that i should know about? or girlfriend?"

your pulse quickened, and you bolted upright, crossing the room in a hurry. you stopped at your bookshelf, your fingers brushing over the spines of the books as though you were searching for something specific. "um, no," you muttered, your voice clipped and quiet.

behind you, his voice came, laced with that maddening curiosity. "how long has it been?"

you froze, turning your head just enough to glance at him, wary. "how long has what been?"

his knowing smirk deepened, and the glint in his eye told you he already knew the answer—or thought he did. "how long has it been since you’ve gone fourth base, teach?"

your brow furrowed, and you blinked at him, the term pulling at a distant, foggy memory from freshman-year sex ed. "fourth base?" you repeated in a whisper, trying to piece it together.

he stopped moving, his gaze locking on yours with a mixture of disbelief and something softer—was it pity? "wait," he said, the realization dawning on him. "you’ve never…" his voice trailed off, leaving the implication hanging thick in the air.

your cheeks burned hotter, and you blinked rapidly, refusing to answer until you were absolutely sure of what he meant. "is that…hands stuff?" you asked, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them.

his jaw slackened, and his shock only deepened. "you’ve never had se—"

"shut up!" you snapped, spinning away from him so he couldn’t see your mortified expression. "i’ll have you know that it is completely normal!"

"okay, yes, but…" his tone shifted, almost as if he were genuinely concerned now, which only made it worse. "you’ve done, like, third-base stuff, right?"

the way he threw these terms around so casually grated on your nerves, especially since you had no idea what half of them meant. you glared at him, crossing your arms defensively. "enough with the baseball analogies! speak english!"

he chuckled softly, and the sound only added to your irritation. "okay, fine. have you done… you know, under-the-clothes stuff?" he clarified, his voice gentler now, but it didn’t soften the blow.

your silence stretched too long, and you saw the understanding flicker in his eyes before he even whispered, "shit…"

he hesitated, then asked, almost cautiously, "have you even had your first kiss?"

you turned sharply, glaring daggers at him. "of course," you snapped, though your voice lacked conviction. "i’ve kissed… two guys." the last part came out so softly it barely registered, even to you.

"repeat that?" he asked, leaning forward like he didn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. his eyes were wide, filled with something you couldn’t name—disbelief? Amusement?

"two guys," you hissed, louder this time, but it still didn’t sound like much.

"oh my god," he said slowly, nodding as though he were processing groundbreaking information. "so… two boyfriends?"

you shook your head quickly. "one boyfriend. the other was…" you hesitated, cringing inwardly. "seven minutes in heaven."

that did it. rafe’s quiet laughter bubbled up, low and persistent as he shook his head. "seven minutes in heaven?" he echoed, his grin widening.

"stop!" you demanded, but he was already smiling too broadly to take you seriously.

"who were the guys?" he asked, and you stared at him, debating whether or not to answer. finally, with a shrug, you muttered, "danny watson."

that made him stand up, his eyes wide with exaggerated disbelief. "danny watson?" he repeated, his tone bordering on incredulous. "the one who’s always wearing a fanny pack?"

"he’s really nice!" you argued, crossing your arms tighter over your chest. "and smart! and—whatever, i don’t have to explain myself! i also dated jeremy dunn in freshman year. very, very briefly."

"so, basically…" he said, grinning like he’d cracked the case, "you’ve never been kissed."

"yes, i have!" you shot back, standing taller as though it might add weight to your words. "maybe they weren’t the perfect, romcom kisses, but they were real kisses."

he raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. your defensiveness only made it worse, but you couldn’t help yourself. the way he was looking at you, like you were some sort of anomaly, made you want to claw back every ounce of dignity you had left.

how many girls had he kissed? the thought burned in your chest. if cora was right and he got with a different girl every day, that had to be at least seven hundred girls in the past three years. you even gave him the benefit of the doubt and limited it to weekdays. still, the sheer number made you dizzy.

and here he was, standing in your room, acting like your two measly kisses were some kind of tragedy.

"they weren’t real kisses," he said, his voice low and certain. "you wouldn’t be talking about them like this if they made you feel even a sliver of what a real kiss should feel like." god, here comes the kissing connoisseur.

"okay, enlighten me," you said, exhaling a sigh and trying to sound disinterested, even though your pulse had quickened, and your curiosity was clawing at you.

he shifted, leaning casually against your desk, his arms crossed as he faced you. "unless your first is with someone you really like, it’s gonna be shit. and even if it is with someone you really like, if you’re both bumbling idiots—and let’s be honest, you probably are—it’ll still feel like shit."

your mind flickered back to those two kisses. they hadn’t been bad. they were just…kisses. no fireworks, no earth-shattering revelations. kind of like when your grandma kissed your cheek—sweet, familiar, forgettable. that wasn’t bad, right? you loved your grandma.

"but once you’re older, and you’ve got your eye on someone?" his voice softened, drawing you in like a moth to a flame. "imagine you’re at a party. you’ve been watching each other all night, and you just keep moving closer, little by little. it’s not even intentional—it’s like there’s this magnetic pull between you, like the universe is plotting to pull you together."

you were holding your breath now, your eyes fixed on him. on his lips. on the way his hands gestured subtly, like he was weaving a spell with his words. without realizing it, you leaned forward slightly, the space between you shrinking inch by inch.

"then, you’re face to face," he continued, his voice almost a whisper now. "there’s this quiet kind of flirting, just between the two of you. your breaths mingle, and then…hands start to move—into their hair, onto their waist, wherever. suddenly, you can’t tell where you end and they begin. it’s like you just…become one."

his eyes locked on yours, and you swore you forgot how to breathe. his legs shifted, spreading slightly, and it felt like an unspoken invitation to step closer. your teeth caught your bottom lip as you fought the overwhelming urge to close the distance. but it wasn’t working—you kept inching forward, drawn to him like gravity.

"it feels like electricity," he murmured, his voice thick with intensity. "your whole body is buzzing, like you might actually catch fire the second your lips touch."

his hand reached out, catching the hem of your sweater and tugging gently, pulling you into his space. your breath hitched audibly, and your nose brushed his as your bodies hovered just short of touching.

"and then you finally kiss," he whispered, his hands ghosting over your waist, so light they barely registered. "and it’s like the rest of the world disappears. you forget where you are because nothing else matters. it’s just…you and them. that’s it. it should make your head spin, your knees weak, and leave you completely and utterly incapable of pulling away."

his lips brushed yours then, a fleeting, teasing touch that sent a jolt through your entire body. you froze, caught in the electric moment, and realized with startling clarity that if he pulled away now, it might actually kill you.

"if it didn’t feel like that," he whispered, his voice feather-soft and tantalizing, "then it wasn’t a real kiss."

and then he kissed you.

your mind screamed, finally, finally, finally, like you’d been waiting for this moment your entire life. his lips were soft but firm, demanding but gentle, everything you’d imagined and somehow so much more. a wave of heat spread through you, leaving your skin tingling, your head reeling. your hand trembled as it came up to his face, the other fisting in his shirt, desperate to pull him closer.

just as you started to lose yourself completely, he pushed you back suddenly. the abruptness sent you stumbling into your bed with a startled shriek.

the door swung open. "what was that shriek?" your mom’s voice came, cup of tea in hand as she stepped inside.

"she’s in pain," rafe interjected smoothly, stepping forward to take the tea from her before you could so much as catch your breath. "it’s really…getting to her."

you blinked rapidly, trying to reorient yourself as your mom frowned, concern etched across her face. "oh no, sweetheart. do you need stronger pills? i might have something downstairs."

"y-yeah," you stammered, your voice shaky. "that…that’d be great. yes."

your mom leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before straightening. "all right, then." her gaze flicked to rafe, her smile warm but pointed. "rafe, not that i don’t love having you here, but she should rest. i’ll send you home with some dessert."

you watched helplessly as she ushered him toward the door. rafe shot you one last look, a flicker of amusement and something else in his eyes, before she closed the door behind her.

a.n — honestly yn kinda getting on my nerves now….

chapter index — prev. chap. — next chap.

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[missmeinyourbones]

CLEAN ME UP 

c/w: established relationship, hurt/comfort, light mentions of blood and injury, atsumu lowkey gets his ass beat </3 but he is so sweet

Atsumu sits crisscrossed on the floor of your bathroom with a tender black eye and a busted lip—and though this should be a rare thing, you need all five fingers to count the number of times you’ve seen this film before.

The first two were ages ago, high school days when he and Osamu couldn’t stop themselves from throwing a punch or two over nothing at all. Their egos too big and brains too small, twice you'd gotten roped into their post-brawl aftercare. Another time it was a fight off the court, when a rival captain made a snide remark about his foul accent. The fourth, a drunken, immature mistake.

Tonight’s wounds are different. Because when Atsumu nonchalantly shows up black and blue at your door, he doesn’t tell you what happened. There’s no story attached to the bruises he bares, no lengthy explanations or excuses. And Atsumu is a lot of things, but speechless is never one of them. 

He looks childish, you think, the way his broad body folds itself into a tiny pretzel and hardly takes up a corner of your tiled floor. He’s oddly quiet, too. Sure, you heard his witty comments down the hallway about how you should see the other guy, but something’s still off. His eyes aren't lit with their usual flame of youth, pride. 

Only a few words are exchanged through the process of cleaning him up. Between wet washcloths and tiny sniffles, Atsumu fumes, You haven't asked enough questions yet, and it’s beginning to freak him out. He doesn't know whether or not he should be grateful or unsettled with your silence.

A frozen bag of vegetables presses against his left eyelid when you finally ask, "What the hell did you do this time?"

Atsumu smiles at the mere sound of your voice, an instant warmth against the burning ice on his body. "Why's it always my fault?"

You remove the bag from his brow to shoot him a look, that look. He knows better than to argue with that look. Arguing with that look gets him nothing but trouble and an achy back from a night on the couch. So, he diverts. 

"Nothing,” he sulks. “He started it, and—"

"—And you finished it, right?" 

Your words are meant to be sarcastic, at his dispense of how stupid he behaved, but Atsumu doesn't take them as such. Instead, at your interruption, he shoots you an earnest smile filled with satisfaction and dried blood stretched across his chapped lips.  

"See? So smart, baby." 

His hand rises to pet your chin but you lean back quick enough to dodge his caress. His eyes fall to the bag of vegetables that now sits by your lap. 

“Atsumu,” you try again, foreboding. 

He rolls his head back in a huff against the bench of the bathtub, and the ceramic feels warm against his neck compared to the still stinging chill on his eye. 

“What was I supposed to do? They were bein’ assholes.”

His whole team had gone out drinking tonight for a celebratory round or five, followed by a few days off. And as charming as Atsumu is, he does have his foes. People in the volleyball world he’s not the biggest fan of, for reasons he doesn’t seem to discuss with you. He likes to leave it at his good intuition, something you know he lacks.  

With the context clues provided, you can think of two or three people he’s implying. 

His reasoning is flawed, to say the least, but the way he says it has your heart breaking in the slightest. He avoids eye contact, as if he's embarrassed, dancing around the subject and wishing the ground to swallow him whole. 

His shyness has you trying a softer approach. 

“Everyone is an asshole,” you whisper, lightly returning pressure to his eye with the makeshift ice, “if punching assholes was reasonable, I’d do it all the time.”

Atsumu smiles a bit at that, but you catch how he winces slightly at the movement. 

“Yer so funny, baby,” he tries to trail off. “Funniest person I—”

“Miya,” comes his second warning, and by the look in your eye, he’s not brave enough to try for a third.

“Fine,” he grumbles, “but when yer a Miya, I’m playing that card on you, too. Y’know that, right?” 

You nod, and whether it's to his proposal or to encourage his words, you don't know. But it works, because Atsumu takes a deep breath and stares at the ceiling again. 

“This time was different, okay?”

His tone is eerily soft. One only you get the privilege of hearing, and not because it's out of love, but because it's out of hate. Something’s shaken him so bad, he’s almost been rendered speechless. 

“How was it different?”

“They were talking about you,” he shakily exhales. “Sayin’ stupid shit that isn’t true.”

Your heart softens as you do your best to keep a strong facade, but maybe Atsumu does have good intuition, as his hand squeezes yours through the quick moment of silence. 

“If it’s not true, then it shouldn't have mattered, right?” you try.

“No,” he’s quick to work himself up again, eyes finding yours. “Like hell was I gonna let ‘em keep talking about you like that, ‘specially when I’m right fuckin’ there.” 

Your fingers lightly skim his jaw, nowhere sensitive but he jumps all the same. You apply pressure to tilt his head, forcing him to find your gaze. He does.

“Do you want to tell me what they said?”

Atsumu gaze softens, and after a moment of thinking, he shakes his head. 

“No,” he decides, “I don’t.” 

His eyes fall to your lips and back up to your eyes. “Do you want to know?”

You smile at his sincerity. Atsumu, who you know to be just as sweet as he is boisterous, would tell you if you asked. He’d do anything you ask. But, you decide against it. 

“No. No, I don’t.” 

Atsumu exhales a breath he didn't realize he was holding as he lets his head nuzzle against your palm. Contrary to the ice, it's warm and soft on his skin. He thinks it could heal wounds faster than any bag of broccoli ever could. 

“I trust you,” he hears you coo into his hairline, kisses now dancing along his forehead and jaw, “even if you do have the emotional intelligence of a middle school boy, sometimes.”

Astumu hmphs at your words, simultaneously agreeing and brushing you off. He doesn't care enough to bicker, right now. He doesn’t need to tell you about how the man from the bar was talking about you. About how easy you’d be to persuade into bed. About how you're just with Atsumu for his flashy perks and award winning smile. 

He doesn't need to because he knows they're wrong. Because they don't see these moments, when Atsumu sits on the ledge of your empty bathtub. With popped blood vessels and tender welts, those men don't melt beneath your careful fingertips or soothing pecks. 

He doesn't have to say anything, because you trust him. You trust Atsumu, and it's the one thing in this world he knows to be true. 

He lifts his head up from your hold to find your lips. 

“I jus’ love you,” he insists, lightly pressing himself to you with such caution, “so much.” 

And if there’s one thing in this world you know to be true, it's that Miya Atsumu loves you.   

[sammybeann]

Okay but 16 year old Sammy and 20 year old Dean both on an anonymous gay dating site. 

None of them know the other is into men, and none of them know that they ended up matching with one another. 

They don't post their faces and go by screen names only, but quickly hit it off, texting back and forth for hours a day, bonding over their shitty lives. 

It doesn't take long for their chats to turn naughty, Dean describing the nasty things he'd like to do to Sam's pretty pink hole, Sam responding with enthusiasm before describing in full detail the things he'd do to Dean's cock with his mouth, and it would more often than not end up with them jerking off to their conversations, their vivid imaginations running wild with the image of sweaty bodies, tongues and hair pulling and choking and bliss. 

With those chats inevitably came explicit pictures always from the waist down. Sam bending over, spreading each one of his cheeks to reveal his pretty pink hole already fingered open and gaping for his nameless suitor to marvel at, Dean returning a photo of his thick cock against his belly, thick ropes of come splattered along his torso. 

It wasn't until a few months into their anonymous relationship that Sam had sent Dean a photo of his hard cock, long fingers wrapped around the base that Dean made the connection. 

The watch around the man's wrist looked an awful lot like the one Sam wore, and what was worse was the background of the photo was the exact same as the bathroom of the shitty motel room they were staying at, the one Sam was currently in, the ugly yellow ceramic tub visible just behind Sam's erection. 

Dean immediately deleted the app so fucking fast after the realization hit him, the color draining from his face when Sam exited the bathroom, staring down at his phone with a frown not understanding what he did wrong, why his online lover suddenly disappeared. 

Dean never went on the app again, and he sure as hell didn't tell Sam, who continued to check the app every day in hopes his partner would return.

[impala-dreamer]

Picking Up The Pieces

A Supernatural Story

~Sometimes life pushes you down, but Dean's always there to lift you back up...~

Dean Winchester x Reader

1,353 Words

SFW, Angsty Sweet, Comfort | Originally published to Patreon Oct 2024

For Kym 💖

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

Dean’s halfway down the hallway when he hears it: a crash of ceramics, the spill of shattered pieces skidding across tile. He breaks into a sprint, not quite a full run as it’s early morning and he’s fairly certain no one’s in immediate danger, but he moves quickly and his slippers slide slightly as he tries to stop at the kitchen door.

He finds her standing there, bare feet surrounded by what used to be a coffee cup. White shards halo her toes but they remain mercifully unpierced. His eyes follow her naked legs upwards, past the pair of white boxers she stole from him the night before and the dingy Seger tee she’s had for years, to find her face washed in tears. They pour silently from her beautiful eyes and cascade down her cheeks, sneaking down her tight throat to pool in the dark gray hem of her collar.

His heart breaks. He’s seen a thousand deaths, felt the comfort of hope fall away, but nothing hurts him more than seeing her cry.

“Y/N?”

His voice pulls her eyes upwards and she sucks in a shaky breath. “H-hey.”

Green eyes narrow, searching for damage of the physical and psychological nature. There are faint circles beneath her eyes and her hair is a gorgeous mess that explains how much sleep she didn’t manage to get after he turned the lights off.

“You OK?”

She nods too quickly, her head bouncing a few too many times to be believed. “Yeah. Fine. Dropped… I just… I dropped a mug.” She looks down at the mess and shrugs. “Butterfingers.”

A tear falls and he watches it drop to the tile: a drop of pain, a scream of exhaustion. The last few months have been wildly tough. They’d followed the highways back and forth across the country, fought the darkness until their knuckles bled, and held their breaths as the outside world ignored their bravery, hoping for a moment’s rest.

He’d been battling exhaustion for decades, happy to push guilt and anxiety away for a few hours a night, if that. But Y/N- she was new at this, unaccustomed to the life and the non-stop adventures that nearly always ended in blood. She’d left her life back home, what was left of her family and the future she’d planned to be with him. To fight by his side, to save the goddamned world that looked past them every day. It was bound to leave a scar or two and push her spirit down.

Dean hops down the few steps and skirts the shattered cup. “No worries,” he tells her, fetching the old broom beside the pantry shelf, “that one was Sam’s.” He adds a cute laugh but Y/N doesn’t find the humor. She breaks like the mug.

Folding over, she sets her hands on her knees and Dean watches her shoulders shake. She struggles to take a solid breath, but each one is trembling and clipped by escaping emotions.

“Fuck!” She shouts at the floor, at the shards, at the universe. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Dean’s quick to sweep away the mess, making a neat pile against the wall. When it’s safe, he grabs her up and pulls her close, hiding her face in the cave of his arms.

“Shh…”

“Fuck!”

Her curses are muffled in his chest and accompanied by the beat of his worried heart.

He lays a hand on the back of her head and wraps the other around her tight. “It’s OK, baby. I’ve got you.”

She stiffens and pulls back. “It’s not OK!”

The tone stings but he doesn’t take offense. She’s at the end of her rope, but it’s not because of him.

“It is,” he whispers, shifting to cup her cheek in his big hand.

She shies away and shakes her head. “You have no idea what I’m dealing with, Dean. I’m so… so fucking tired and no matter what I do, I can’t get any fucking slack anywhere. There’s always another goddamned apocalypse around the corner or something bursts into flames in the store room!”

He tries not to laugh at the memory of the cursed oil lamp that refused to stay cold. It wasn’t funny in the moment, but looking back, it was like blowing out prank birthday candles.

She sees the hint of a smirk on his face and grits her teeth.

“It’s not funny! I can’t turn around for a second without something going wrong! I can’t fucking keep everyone happy, and fed, and safe, and take care of myself and- did you know I’ve had a goddamned cracked tooth since Bordentown!”

Dean cringes. Y/N had taken a hard demonic fist to the jaw a few months ago, but he didn’t know it had been that bad.

“Well, let’s get you to a dentist…”

Her eyes go wide and then instantly turn to slits, lasers targeting his jugular. “That’s not the point. I’m… I just can’t do anything right and there’s too much to do! I’m constantly cleaning up after you and your slob of a brother, I’m speed-washing laundry in motel sinks every other day, and trying to fucking finish my research. I’m months behind on my work and I’m never going to finish my thesis-”

“Nobody said you had to get a PhD in demons!”

He instantly regrets his outburst.

“Don’t.” Her tears have all but burned away and yet her eyes are still wet and rimmed in red. “Don’t fucking go there. I’m going to school for me. Because I need to do it.” She spins away and balls her fists, ready to scream. “And it’s Demonology!”

Dean’s shoulders drop and he hates himself a little bit more than he did a minute ago. He takes a breath and a step closer.

“I know. I’m sorry. What you’re doing is amazing. Hell, I never even finished high school. Well, not without a ton of help and slipping the proctor a fifty. And you’re right. I don’t understand what you’re going through.”

Y/N takes a slow, broken breath. She wants to fight but not him. She wants to fight time itself. “I’m just… so tired.”

She sways a bit and he refuses to let her fall alone.

His arms close around her again and she presses her back against his chest.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers again. “Always. You hear me?”

She nods gently and relaxes, sinking into him.

“You’re incredible.”

She sighs and he kisses her cheek.

“You’re strong.”

She shivers and he hugs tighter.

“You’re beautiful.”

She turns in his arms and looks up, tear-stained and sad.

Dean smiles softly and takes her face in his hands, gently wipes the final tears away with his thumbs.

“You’ve got this. All of it.”

She takes a deep breath of him and smiles as best she can.

“And I’ve got you.”

He means it more than he’s ever meant anything. He was locked to her forever, or at least for as long as she’d allow. Whatever happened, he’d be there to pick up the pieces. Heart, bones, or mind.

Finally, she lets it all go and her smile this time is sweet. She pushes up on her toes and he meets her halfway with a tender kiss.

“Thank you, Dean…”

His broken heart pushes itself back together, able to beat for another day.

“Why don’t you go back to bed for a bit? I’ll scramble us up some eggs.”

Y/N kisses his cheek. “Sounds perfect. But don’t burn my toast this time.”

“I thought you liked it crispy,” he teases.

“Crispy,” she agrees, letting him go and turning to the door. “Not covered in ashes.”

She hits the bottom step and spies the broom. The catalyst lays in pieces behind the wonky bristles and she groans. “Shit.”

“Don’t worry,” Dean laughs, “I’ll tell Sam it was me.”

Her smile, finally, is full and Dean shoots her a wink.

She’d break down again and so would he, but they’d be fine. The universe could push and prod and smack them down, but together they could always get back up.

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[literaryvein-reblogs]

hello i love your word lists and i was wondering if i could request one specifically for baking! i need title inspo for a story i'm writing :)

Some Baking Vocabulary

Aeration - the treatment of batter or dough by charging with air to produce increase in volume

Ancient grains - all whole grains are considered ancient because we are able to trace their roots back to the beginning of time

Caramelization - cooking sugar until it’s brown or golden

Chocolate - from the Aztec word xocolatl, meaning "bitter water"; a food derived from the cacao bean fermented, dried, roasted, ground and processed into cocoa powder; a liquor used to make a variety of chocolate products

Citron - the sweetened rind of a fruit

Clarify - to make a substance clear or pure

Courverture chocolate - high quality chocolate used for tempering and glossy coating

Crescent rolls - crescent-shaped bread rolls having a flaky texture

Crushing - formation of dry crust on surface of doughs due to evaporation of water from the surface

Currant - the acidulous berry of a shrub, usually dried and dark in colour

Essences - aromatic compounds used for flavouring confectionery; can be natural or synthetic, or blends of both

Ganache - a rich, smooth mixture of chocolate and cream is used as a filling, frosting, or glaze

Genaese - fatless sponge cake used as base in decorated cakes

Glaze - coat a dessert with a liquid, like melted chocolate, mirror glaze, sugar glaze, etc.

Hearth bread - yeast bread baked in round, oval or free form on hot, flat baking surfaces in an oven

Liqueur - spirits sweetened with sugar and flavoured with essences, fruit juice, or essential oils

Macerate - to soak the fruit in liquid, often sugar or alcohol, to soften it and enhance its flavor

Marble - creating a swirl effect by incorporating two doughs or batters of different colors or flavors together

Mise en Place - a French term meaning “everything in its place,” referring to the preparation and organization of ingredients before baking

Molasses - light to dark brown syrup obtained in making cane sugar

Old dough - yeast dough that is overproofed; dough may have tripled in volume and fallen

Oven spring - the rapid rise of bread dough during the first few minutes of baking due to the expansion of gas bubbles; critical for achieving a good loaf volume and a light, airy crumb

Petit fours - small fancy cakes that can be placed in the mouth in one piece

Plaiting - the weaving of one or more ropes of dough into an ordered design

Ramekin - a small dish made of glass or ceramic that is used for serving baked goods like custards, cakes, souffles, and more

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 ⚜ More: Word Lists

So glad to hear this, thank you! Hope this helps with your search. Would love to read your work if it does. Otherwise, you could go through the sources, perhaps I wasn't able to include the right word/phrase for you. Also have more food-related posts here :)

[gay-dorito-dust]

Can you a bill x reader where reader is essentially just kaidou from saiki k, they are really persistent about being strong but are really weak. Bill finds it funny asf and just constantly fucks with reader but they never admit that they're scared or that they're weak

I know I’ve been a bit slow with requests but that’s because I’m on a bit of a decline in my mental health lately but I promise to get to each one in due time.

Bill finds you amusing to say the least, your false bravado and confidence made for quality entertainment that he hasn’t had in a long, long time.

‘You’re pathetic kid! It’s hilarious, not for you obviously, but for me it’s like I’m watching a game show go horribly wrong with all the contestants getting grievously hurt.’ Bill cackled from his spot, sipping his drink through a silly straw, as though he didn’t just sent an army of human sized fire ants to chase you for the fun of it.

‘I’m not pathetic!’ You squeaked, becoming flustered at how high pitched your voice sounds, before clearing your throat and crossing your arms over your chest in what you thought was a cool and casual manner. ‘I’m not pathetic, I was…luring them into a false sense of security before I best them all up.’ You added as bill raised his nonexistent eyebrow at you, making you feel as though he was seeing through your bullshit with ease; Which he did.

‘Right, I’m sure you were sweets. You had them on the ropes or running for the hills or however that saying goes.’ Bill drawled, unconvinced as he took in how you skittishly looked over your shoulder as though you were waiting to get ambushed by the ants. You were giving Bill so many new ways to taunt you to the brink of insanity without trying so hard, while not making an attempt to build a backbone with how quick you were to cower in fear from whatever he summoned as you ran away as fast as your legs could carry you.

You never know a day of rest with Bill taking the piss out of you that your entire day felt as though it was straight out of the horror movie.

Your bed? It’s now become an Elderich monster that was trying to eat you alive as you scream like a little girl as you bolted out of it faster then the human eye can see and into the kitchen where Bill was, wearing a hot pink apron that read:

You’re a acute-y

‘Oh hey sport, I was just making breakfast.’ He chirps as he watched you walk over to him, looked in the pan, only to reframe from screaming at the top of your lungs when you saw that he was cooking live worms, crickets and woodlice

‘Oh that’s…that’s lovely bill…they look delicious.’ You said unbelievably as you felt your appetite leave you for the rest of the month.

Your favourite mug? It’s now become a ceramic cockroach that kept flying too close to your face for your own liking as you tried to keep distance from it, only to end up tripping over your sofa and face planting the floor.

‘I almost had him!’ Your muffled voice called as Bill eat his bowl of deer teeth.

‘Sure you did kid, I’m rooting for you and all that sappy human stuff.’ Bill replied as he threw more deer teeth into his mouth/eye? Before dressing himself in a hoodie that had your frightened face on the front. Seriously you were a hell of a fun time for Bill! You made everything easier for him and that’s what he liked most, when he didn’t have to put as much effort into anything at all.

Bill knew you wouldn’t admit that you were scared or anything less than brave and tough, which only made things even more funny for Bill as he’d throw stranger and more weirder things just to see you run away screaming bloody murder, probably trip over thin air and then and only then would Bill get bored and magic away the monster while you tried to calm your racing heart.

‘Kid you’re killing me here, just admit that you’re a scaredy cat with no backbone and we’ll be done here.’ Bill said one day after you almost got burnt to cinders by a zombie dragon.

‘Never! To admit defeat in the face of danger is for the weaker man, and I am not the weaker man!’ You exclaimed, only to wince when you pulled at a particularly sensitive part of your body and slowly sat back down on the chair.

Bill pats your head as though he were patting a demonic puppy. ‘You sad, stupid human.’ He sighs but in reality he was coming up with more things he could use to torment you in the future, for now however he had literally ran out of ideas, so you were safe…for now.

[nerdypixel]

Items mentioned

Prefacing this with the caviat that I will write some associations in brackets behind the items, as I just can't unsee it.

large false plant in a somewhat disconcerting ceramic pot modelled on a shouting human face (reminds me of the Spiral)

a large Bearskin rug with really sharp teeth (the Hunt maybe?)

a large chandelier of dark glass (the Dark?)

an oversized gramophone with a collection of records of what I believe to be religious plainsong (reminds me of Father Burroughs)

A crudely-carved rocking horse

a grandfather clock that leaked some sort of dark oil

A heavily vandalized set of the Encyclopedia Britannica

an extensive collection of abstract canvas artworks (Daria? Ink5oul or the Spiral)

two large, soiled Crinoline dresses (this could be the Stranger)

a Chaise Longue with cushions filled with some sort of coarse sand

a taxidermied vulture (we have seen taxidermi before)

a rusty antique printing press

a collection of old medical equipment that had seemingly been recently used (the Slaughter?)

some sort of leather kite

an oddly curved brass telescope

a wheelbarrow full of shifting fossils

an armload of swords (Slaughter?)

lengths of rope

A tin bathtub filled with moldy food (the Corruption)

a stack of old dental retainers

a brace of half-butchered pheasants (Flesh like)

jars of what appeared to be pickled hands (Flesh like)

This all feels like a mix between so many different things. We have a list for orientation now.

[fatkish]

Monster Gyomei x Depressed Reader

Part 1 of 2

(I got the idea for this from raysrays Fatal Attraction series. They got the idea from @PammyJammy117)

It was a beautiful spring day. The birds were chirping, butterflies and bees were fluttering about, small animals were starting to come out of their burrows. The flowers were blooming in all kinds of pretty colors, too bad, it’d be the last time you’d see such a pretty season.

You see, you had been deeply depressed lately due to business being slow among other things and had come out into the forest to end things. You left your village that morning and walked out deep into the mountain’s forest. Deep and far from the village. You carried a rope with you, you were going to tie it to a branch and hang yourself.

You knew that people had said that there were stories of a beast that lived in these woods. You knew people feared coming into these woods. They feared meeting or possibly encoring the wrath of such a being. You had heard old tales of the being that lived in these woods all your life.

You had heard stories of the being’s great strength but also tales of his supposed good nature. Long ago, your village prayed to and left offerings at a shrine they built deep in the mountain. They prayed to the supernatural being, the supposed ‘god’ of the mountain. There were stories of his great kindness and how he protected the village. He was supposedly fond of children as there were stories of him taking in orphans and caring for them.

You decided that if this being truly existed, and deemed your life of any worth, then they would stop you, and you would choose to live on if they saved you.

You had found a tall tree and decided to climb up the branches, unaware of the being that had already sensed your approach and was silently listening to you. You climbed up the tree and sat on a thick branch, to which you tied the rope tightly around the branch and then fastened a slip knot.

You picked up the rope and put it around your neck, you took a deep breath, and jumped from the branch. You struggled for a bit as your airways were constricted. As you slowly lost your vision, you must have imagined seeing the large man like being that seemingly appeared in front of you. You closed your eyes as you lost consciousness.

When you awoke, you were nestled in warmth. You heard slight sobs. You figured it was your imagination and that you were in heaven. You snuggled closer to whatever this warmth was. You felt a large hand caress your head and a soft yet deep voice tell you you were going to be okay.

You opened your eyes to see a large man like entity. He had white pupil-less eyes, a large scar going across his forehead, large deer like horns coming from his head, short dark hair and pointy ears. He must’ve been well over 8 feet tall, possibly 9 feet tall.

He was carrying you bridal style in a single large arm. He wore what seemed to be a toga like clothing made of a natural fiber woven cloth. He had a long tail that resembled a bull’s.

After looking up at him he looked down at you. He had tears in his eyes. You couldn’t help but feel compelled to wipe away the tears he shed for some reason. He brought you to a shrine like structure. He brought you over to a nest of animal skins and set you down in them.

“You’re the one who saved me?” You asked.

The large being smiled gently at you and pet your head. “Why yes little one, I did”

“Why” you couldn’t help but ask the man, beast, whatever he was.

“Because I believe all life is precious, and it would sadden me greatly to have left you there” he replied as he held his hands together as if he was praying. You noticed he had some ceramic beads that he constantly rubbed between his palms.

“You think my life is precious?” You asked as you curled up and wrapped your arms around yourself. He smiled gently at you and proceeded to rub your head. “Yes, yes I do.”

“Thank you. Thank you for saving me Mr?”

“Gyomei, and you are most welcome little one”

“My name is Y/n L/n, it’s nice to meet you Gyomei”

“May I ask why you felt it necessary to end your life little Y/n?” Gyomei asked as he sat down in front of you.

You crawled over and sat next to him and began to tell him about how you’ve been feeling, how your craftsman business had been practically nonexistent and how you’ve started to become hopeless that things would ever change. During the entire time you talked, Gyomei listen intently.

You talked about things that you had never told anyone, in fear you would be seen as ungrateful or a wimp. You feared the other villagers would judge you for how you’ve been feeling, but Gyomei merely sat there and wept for you.

You felt so much better after telling Gyomei how you felt. You thanked him profusely to which he just smiled and pet your head.

You realized how late it must be and told Gyomei that you should probably return to the village. Seeing as it was late and you’d surely arrive at the village by nightfall, Gyomei smiled and got up, walking with you to the edge of the forest. He helped you down the mountain, down an old path that led straight to your village.

Before you left to enter the village, you turned and ran back to Gyomei.

“Can I please come and see you again. I don’t really want to say goodbye yet” you confessed.

Gyomei smiled down at you and rubbed your head with his large hand, ruffling your hair a bit. “Nothing would make me happier Y/n”

You smiled and returned to the village, you looked back towards the forest and saw that Gyomei had seemingly disappeared. That night you got home and slept in your bed, remembering the warmth that you felt when you were in Gyomei’s arms. That night you had the most restful and peaceful nights sleep you’ve had in awhile.

The next day you prepared some tea leaves in a small ceramic container and packed it into a bag along with a teapot and cups. You also made some onigiri and packed that as well before you set out and climbed the mountain trail leading to the shrine.

When you got there you saw Gyomei and greeted him. You took off your bag and brought out the tea container and other things.

Gyomei walked over to you and asked. “What’s all this?”

“My offerings to you.. or well… I just wanted to repay you for your kindness towards me.” You sheepishly replied as you twiddled your hands. You heard a sob and looked up to see Gyomei crying.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you” you panicked and got up to wipe away Gyomei’s tears.

“Nonsense little one, you did not upset me, quite the contrary in fact. I’m actually happy but you need not repay me” the gentle giant replied as you tried to wipe away his tears.

“So, you’re not sad?” You questioned.

“No I’m not sad” Gyomei replied.

“Oh okay, we’ll would you like to have tea and Onigiri with me?”

“I’d be delighted to”

Gyomei sat down next to you as you got a small fire going in the wood stove inside the shrine. You got the water hot and got the Onigiri out before serving it with the tea. You and Gyomei sat in comfortable silence together as you both enjoyed your meal.

As time went on, you continued to bring him food and would constantly hang out with him. You’d started a garden near his shrine since you saw how fertile the dirt was. You would visit and tend to the garden whilst Gyomei did his things.

Eventually early spring turned to late spring and late spring to early summer. You would visit when you could and helped fix up the shrine. You’d bring new clothes for Gyomei that you had made for him, to which he cried in appreciation.

Your craftsman business seemed to have picked up. Being one of the few craftsmen in the small village, people would bring things to you for you to fix such as ceramics or metal objects and you would fix them. Some of the older people would ask for you to fix up some things around their houses such as doors, roofs etc.

You had made some ceramic pots that you brought and gave to Gyomei for him to store food in for the winter. You continued to care for the garden you started near his shrine and Gyomei would help you occasionally.

Life had been good with Gyomei and you started to develop feelings for the man/creature/whatever he was.

As the garden grew, you helped Gyomei prep and made sure that he would have plenty of food during the winter to which he constantly told you was unnecessary. You would just smile at him as he cried at your kindness.

You eventually brought him a handkerchief for him to wipe his eyes with since he cries so often. As the days got hotter, Gyomei showed you a small waterfall where he meditates and you would occasionally join him underneath the waterfall. He would teach you things like how to forage and hunt to which you greatly appreciated.

What you didn’t know, was that your life would change immensely that coming fall.

[pansylair]

Um so your work with ceramics actually really inspires me and made me want to give it a try (and yesterday i finished glazing my first really big piece!!)

hey I’m absolutely flattered and so happy to hear I was a catalyst of sorts for you trying out a new art form!!!

I hope learning the ropes and eventually the process and challenge of going big was lots of fun and wishing a good firing if it hasn’t gone through yet! Proud of ya! :) 💛