#also a part of it is involuntary so i can’t control it a lot of the time

[prettyboysmlm]

ooh ooh can I hear about your hobby pretty please

mm idk

[catscidr]

// dottore nsfw alphabet ft. the segments! //

i. note — (੭ ᐛ ) hehe.....so...... i have the worst writer’s block rn (its probably burnout because i straight up can't bring myself to do anything but o well) nd i thought filling this out would help. spoiler alert it did a little because i actually finished it.... i have like two Almost Finished wips collecting dust in my docs but i just cant get them done ueue. i write for thirty minutes n then close my laptop. i have a problem but WHATEVER!! THROWS DOTTORE NSFW ALPHABET LIKE A GRENADE AND RUNS!!!

ii. includes — dottore, the clones, gn!reader

iii. cw — nsfw under the cut! mentions of overstimulation, bondage, orgasm control, power imbalance, smidge of dubcon, exhibitionism, dom/sub dynamics, one mention of syringes n needles, implied established relationship

A -> Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) 

— He’s not one to outright pamper you, but he does clean you up and makes sure that the bruises he left won’t be too sore in the morning; but if you beg hard enough, he’ll begrudgingly kiss them better. Just use his words against him and tease him a little n he’ll reward you with some smooches! ez

B -> Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and their partner’s) 

— He’s indifferent to his body. On you, though, he goes crazy for your neck. Archons, the things he can do to it are endless. He loves covering it in bitemarks, wrapping his hands around it to feel your rapid pulse, sucking hickeys into the sensitive skin... and we can’t forget how much he loves watching you tilt your head to the side so he can inject whatever liquid is inside his syringe. Call it a mix of sensual and morbid fascination the way he’s obsessed with your neck 

C -> Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

— Dottore’s cum is opaque and on the thicker side, but its bitter and not particularly pleasant to swallow. You can’t really blame him; he’s a busy man and he neglects his health regularly. If you ask him nicely, he’ll try to, at least, sip on some pineapple or orange juice during the day so you don’t rush to spit out the cum that lands in your mouth. He also cums a lot, thanks to his involuntary abstinence in his younger years.........

D -> Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

— Has thought about fucking you in front of his segments multiple times (not fucking you with them, just having them watch you two go at it. big difference here). It’s usually fueled by irritation or jealousy from seeing you spend time with them, but sometimes he’ll get this random urge to just completely and utterly claim you in front of them to get under their skin. Also to overwhelm you. yk. just a bit ˙ᵕ˙

E -> Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

— Wasn’t very experienced before he met you. Had one or two awkward hookups during his Akademiya days, but he really had more knowledge about sex than actual experience (getting a bad blowjob doesn’t really count for experience) 

F -> Favorite position

— You somehow always end up in the prone bone position if you’re on a flat surface. He loves restraining you, but doing so with his whole body takes the cake. He’ll have one hand wrapped around your throat with his elbow on the bed to hold him up (so he doesn’t completely crush you), and the other hand will be holding your hip with a bruising grip to angle your pelvis so he can thrust into you over n over again without mercy

— .....but having you ride him when he’s tired is worthy of being an honorable mention. Don’t think you’re in control though, because as soon as you start to get too cocky he’ll grab your waist n thrust up sharply to knock that smile off your face (affectionately) 

G -> Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) 

— Very serious, he’ll go as far as to punish you for even trying to crack a joke or giggle at something he said or did (but it’s a dub whenever you’re in a bratty mood so it’s fiiiine). Same goes for his older segments. His younger clones are less uptight about it though, and sometimes they’ll let out a laugh when a funny noise happens, but they won’t necessarily make jokes during it 

H -> Hair (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) 

— Trims it when he remembers to, when it gets annoying, or when you point it out. He’s not a fan of being clean-shaven, but if you really want him to be he’ll do it. His pubic hair is a darker shade than his hair, and the first time you saw it you promptly said “so you don’t dye your hair!” (he immediately flicked your forehead) 

I -> Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) 

— Dottore isn’t romantic, full stop. But on a scale of 1 through 10 he would be around a 6; could charm you and sweep you off your feet if he wanted to, but he finds more enjoyment in teasing you than being a gentleman. 

J -> Jack off (masturbation hc) 

— He forgets that’s even an option when he’s in Snezhnaya. Whenever he gets hard he’ll have you take care of it, whether it’s in the form of a quickie or completely ditching his work to fuck you. So he only really masturbates like... once a week, twice at most if you’re not in the mood to help him with his hard on. 

— But when he has to go out to other regions for work and won't be with you for long periods of time? He gets off more often than he’d like to admit. 

K -> Kink(s)  

— Big fan of dacryphilia, spit/messy sex, overstimulation, any kind of restraints, edging, breathplay, power imbalance, biting, dirty talk, brat taming, double penetration and anything that tests your limits. 

— Medium fan of sex under the influence of either alcohol or aphrodisiacs, somnophilia, exhibitionism, temperature play, slightly dangerous things like knife and gun play, and group sex (with his segments specifically, no one else. he’s possessive of you) 

— Honorable mention: roleplay, to some extent. Mans loves to do a “medical checkup” on you every once in a while. And he’s more of a dom than a sub, too. His older segments have pretty much the same kinks as he does (ofc), but the younger ones tend to lean more towards being switchy than just. dom 

L -> Location (favorite place to do the do) 

— Has a bias for taking you in his office. Loves the idea that any of his segments could overhear the both of you going at it and all they can do is rub one out somewhere quiet. He’s so mean to them, using you like that......... 

M -> Motivation (what turns them on)

— When you act like a brat, purposely teasing him n pushing his buttons..... makes his blood rush down to his cock. Can’t help thinking of the many ways he’ll put you in your place later 

N -> No (immediate turn offs)

— Anything that has to do with his kid/youngest segments and his coworkers, the other Harbingers.

O -> Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) 

— Would rather receive than give, but won’t shy away from the opportunity to overstimulate you with his fingers/hands and tongue. Isn’t the best at giving head but will gladly take the time to learn what makes you cum the fastest if you want him to 

P -> Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.) 

— Dottore’s usually fast n rough, but he’ll have his moments where he wants to dote on you hard. His lack of affection catches up to him n he just wants to trace every curve of your body while languidly driving his cock inside of you sometimes, what can ya do 

Q -> Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.) 

— Prefers taking his time to tease you by a mile, but he loves quickies too (since he can very well tease you by having a quickie) 

R -> Risk (are they game to experiment?) the irony of this wording isn’t lost on me 

— He's game to experiment. If you’re on board, he’s always willing to try something at least once 

S -> Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

— His younger segments tire out easily (virgins....... /affectionate) but his older ones, himself included, can go on and on and on. Him being a hermit n staying in his lab for multiple days at a time is extremely misleading, don’t be fooled!! He’ll overstimulate you to prove a point if you try to even poke fun at him n imply that he’ll get tired because he doesn’t “exercise” much (you’re his exercise, anyways) 

T -> Toys (do they have any?)

— Dottore does have some (and has dabbled in making some, too), namely (big and small) vibrators, dildos, and restraints but most of the time he prefers doing without them than with. Usually. When he does use them, he’ll make the whole “session” about them. 

— Controlling the rate in which a machine fucks you while he lazily jerks off in front of you, just out of your reach so you can’t touch him.... slowing down the silicone dildo’s pace when you start to get frustrated, making you even more frustrated..... yeah 

U -> Unfair (how much they like to tease) 

— He’s the WORST. The worst!!! You never know if he’ll overstimulate you, edge you, ruin your orgasm or just rile you up just to not do anything about it. Loves teasing you just as much as he loves to bury himself in his research (which is, obviously, a lot. good luck soldier) 

V -> Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) 

— Definitely on the quieter side (and it’s totally not so he can hear you more clearly, nuh uh). Lets out grunts/growls and heavy puffs of air more than actual moans, but it just makes the times whenever you do manage to draw out a pretty boy moan even sweeter <3 

W -> Wild card (a random hc) 

— Il Dottore, the Second Harbinger, outcast of the Akademiya, is incredibly touchy. He’ll place his hand on your waist when he walks past you, he’ll keep a hand on your thigh when you’re accompanying him during a meeting. He needs to have a hand on you at all times /whenever it’s possible/, including when you’re having sex. Can’t go a single second without touching you, he would probably actually bite you without any remorse if you tried to tie his hands so he can’t touch you 

X -> X-ray (what’s going on under those clothes ₍ᐢ.  ̫.ᐢ₎ ) 

— Bigger than most, but more of a grower than a shower. 3.8 inches soft and stands at a proud 7.4 inches when hard, with a 4.7 girth . Circumcised (don’t ask how), his skin is light (#FFEBCF) but his cock fades into a slightly darker color (#F7D4BC) while the head is more of a pretty n peachy tone (#F1A491). Has some light scarring in his pelvis area and a defined vein from the bottom of his shaft that stops shy of his glans. Also curves to the right just a bit.......

— His pubes r a dull-ish blue (#88B5D3)— while the hair on his head is a lighter, more teal blue for reference (#B6E0E0). Has a slight happy trail, too

Y -> Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) 

— He used to have a very low sex drive. In the beginning of your relationship, it wouldn't be uncommon for you two to go weeks without any action. As time went on though, he’s come to develop a higher sex drive and now has a mid to high libido. It’s your fault for being so tempting, really 

Z -> Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) 

— Has the freakish ability to go right back to work as if nothing ever happened when you’re both finished, no matter how much you both cum...... makes him the perfect man to provide aftercare though. He’ll stay by your side while you drift off and then he’ll go back and do whatever he has to do— unless you cling onto him n pull him back to stay in bed. If that does happen, he’ll just sit in bed and read a book while you snooze away. 

[skeleticcs]

Tics/Tourette’s FAQs:

Note: this is not how every person with tics/Tourette’s thinks or feels, it’s just MY experience, so it’s always best to ask if you’re wondering about someone else. As always, feel free to ask any other questions you have and I’ll answer them!

Q: What do tics feel like?

A: It’s kind of like blinking or a hiccup. I don’t have to think about it for it to happen, they’re just second nature to me. For the most part I don’t even notice them unless they’re interrupting me or someone else points it out.

Q: Do you know when you’re about to tic?

A: I usually get a warning called a premonitory urge. With vocal tics this feels like my throat is scratchy or tingly a split second before the tic. With motor tics it feels like lightning or energy in the area, for example, energy running down my arm before hitting something.

Q: Can I laugh at your tics?

A: I don’t mind if you laugh at tics that look/sound funny, but if you’re laughing at me hurting myself or if I’m obviously in discomfort I’d prefer you don’t. Just distinguish between laughing WITH my vs. laughing AT me.

Q: Do you tic in your sleep?

A: Sometimes in really light sleep I twitch slightly, but generally I don’t tic while sleeping.

Q: Can you drive with tics?

A: Yes, I can drive just fine. I don’t have many tics that would be dangerous on the road. However if it became an issue I would pull over and calm down before putting anyone’s safety at risk.

Q: Can you tic on command?

A: Yes and no. My tics are involuntary, I can’t control when they happen. However they can be triggered, so if someone mentions a specific tic of mine I’m probably going to start saying it(on a serious note, please don’t trigger specific tics because you like them, this can cause really big issues for me)

Q: Do you know when you tic?

A: I’m still conscious while ticcing, I don’t black out every time it happens. But honestly I am so used to the tics I don’t even notice them sometimes.

Q: Do you ever say something bad and blame it on a tic(even though it wasn’t)?

A: I generally don’t use my disability to get away with things that I know are wrong. I’d never be saying this stuff otherwise so I don’t use my Tourette’s as an excuse.

Q: Is Tourette’s something you’re born with/Is it contagious?

A: Tourette’s is a genetic condition that you need to be born with to have. This means that you can’t ‘catch’ tics if you don’t already have Tourette’s or another tic disorder.

Q: Have you ever been accused of faking?

A: More times than I can count at this point. My tics can be really out there and tend to be very confusing for people who don’t try to understand. Unfortunately this does mean that I get a lot of fake-claiming.

Q: What’s the difference between a tic disorder and Tourette’s?

A: Tourette’s is a tic disorder, but not every tic disorder is Tourette’s. Tourette’s is only one of three main organic tic disorders(chronic tic disorder and provisional tic disorder being the other two). Aside from those, there’s also a lot of other things that can cause functional tics, like FND, brain damage, encephalitis/BGE, etc.

[adhdbisexualramblings]

(I really hope I'm not being too much I just love the way you see them so much 😅)

so for any House MD character(s) you prefer :

💡How did they discover age regression?

🌈What about their regression is unusual, unexpected, or non-traditional?

🃏Your favorite random headcanon about their regression?

(No no no don’t worry I love these asks! You’re fine haha) (though I would like some from other fandoms)

I’m going for (naturally) House and Chase because why not?

(This one’s a little less safe, I think. There’s mention of restricting necessary drugs in the second question, and briefly of meltdowns. Other than that, it’s OK.)

💡💡 They both already knew about it. It’s required to do a psychiatry rotation for medical students, so they certainly came across it. When House started regressing, he was in a lot of denial about the fact. Chase was more open to it, though he had to ease into regressing completely and not just partially.

🌈 I’m not exactly sure what this question means, actually. I have a gist, though, so…for House, it’s his Vicodin. His pain doesn’t go away, after all. Unfortunately, he’s not the one in control of how much he can take at a time when he’s little, and Wilson is, incorrectly, under the belief that restricting access to the pills is a ‘good’ way of tapering House’s addiction. He hid them, but the system didn’t last very long after the first few meltdowns, and now the Vicodin is a given (though Greg has to swallow them with water sometimes. And he generally has to tell Wilson when he needs the pills instead of just taking them.)

🌈 For Chase…I don’t know. He’s just a very energetic kiddo who has to get bribed because his caregiver can’t handle running after him.

🃏 I mentioned that Greg is a cuddlebug in another post, and likes falling asleep with some part of him close to or on Wilson, but now we’re talking about Wilson as a caregiver! Yay! It takes a while for him to get out of his caregiver headspace, and while they’re working he’ll sorta…treat House like he would at home. Hold hands while walking, brush a thumb over his cheek, slip up and call him ‘Greg’ or ‘sweetie’ a few times. The usual stuff.

Unfortunately for House, this has proven to be too effective (he will never admit in a million years that Wilson’s mere presence makes his voluntary-involuntary regression a little more involuntary than it used to be). Wilson would never say anything either, but he likes that his best friend can allow himself to be that vulnerable with him, and that makes him value their relationship more.

🃏 Robert LOVES story time! Adores it! He can’t go to bed without a story. Sadly, it’s usually the same few books over and over because House doesn’t want to clutter his shelf with kids books or people asking questions (he doesn’t work with kids, so he has no valid excuse). But Robert doesn’t mind. He’s just happy having a story read to him, and House can be surprisingly ‘gentle’ (read: quiet) when the situation calls for it. He’s also the only reason House has ever bought chocolate milk AND hot cocoa mix. He doesn’t get nightmares often, but when he does, they’re really messy (figuratively and literally- Chase regresses very young), and he’ll have to get a nice drink and a few stories to calm him down again.

(Also, Robert has a lot of pacifiers because he needs them and they make him feel safe while Greg has, like, one or two - that he does actually use - because he’s too old for pacifiers! Duh! Jimmy just didn’t get the memo.)

[adagaium]

here’s some fun ardyn things

can ardyn give the scourge yes. now he can. we see that in ep ardyn. do you get the scourge from coming in contact with ardyn no. that’s not how that works, he’s not like other carriers . the starscourge is literally magic malaria down to its scientific name ( although as a nurse i am never not amused at the fact they picked a harmless strain ), MALARIA SUCKS GUYS. malaria is spread by mosquito bites, or needle sharing, because it’s blood. 

the starscourge is spread through: bites from infected animals or bodily fluids ( namely blood products ), or miasma from dead things that were infected. YOU CANNOT GET THE STARSCOURGE FROM HAVING SEX WITH AN INFECTED PERSON, also here’s a fun fact it doesn’t spread from casual contact. it won’t spread from bumping into a daemon. the reason daemons spread the scourge is ... they also like to tear each other apart, which usually leaves them covered in the blood of other daemons, hence the blood-based spread. so people aren’t getting the scourge because ardyn bumps into them. 

quite the opposite, actually! for everything that ardyn has done in spreading the scourge by willing it ( a process of infection unique to him ), his innate ability is still to heal it. a sick person bumping into ardyn is more likely to make a miraculous recovery, because ardyn’s soul had a kneejerk reaction to being smothered by daemons — making his healing abilities involuntary. he couldn’t stop that just like we can’t stop our involuntary bodily processes. for this reason, coming into contact with people is fairly counterproductive to the goal of plunging eos into darkness. 

unfortunately for ardyn, he’s bad at not being physical with other people, not only is he horny on main ( read, touch starved actually, and he’s expressing it like this ), he’s just overly affectionate in general. the good (?) news ( for adagium, at least ) is with each daemon he pulls out of a person ( willing or not ), his power grows. so, it’s ... conflict. ardyn’s really lost control of most parts of his life and he hates that. it’s the one thing he WANTS, control, because he doesn’t want to be the pawn of the gods, he wants to do what HE wants ... which if he thinks too hard, he doesn’t know what that is. he barely knows who he is anymore, which is a whole new cause of distress. 

ardyn’s soul is still in his body, i don’t care what dawn of the future says there. ardyn’s soul never stopped being the soul of the saintly healer of eos, but it wasn’t strong enough to not be smothered by daemons. out of fear of losing himself fully, ardyn keeps journals where he’s written things down that he KNOWS are true about who he really is. 

his true name is ardyn lucis caelum ( he doesn’t remember being mithra which is sad ). 

he died at 33 in the throne room. aera died that day, too. 

he was born in solheim ( but he doesn’t remember he was technically born a deity ). 

he was engaged to aera mirus fleuret and they had two sons, but they never married due to uhhh tragedy. 

he and aera named pryna when they were young. 

his black chocobo was a female and her name was iaso. 

the first person he healed of the scourge was somnus, when he was 7 and somnus was 4. 

he and somnus liked playing chess together . 

he didn’t want the throne, he just went because if that was what it took to heal people he’d do anything.

he is the chosen savior of eos and his calling is to save lives, not to take them. 

sadly, that’s literally all ardyn actually remembers for certain about himself, his real life and true fate. everything else he has as memories are other people’s memories. he can’t even really figure out how verstael found him, he sorta just ... out of a need to be a Complete Person ... listens when people tell him shit that doesn’t conflict with the only solid memories he has. this mental vulnerability made him an excellent target for verstael, who uhhh caused a LOT of ardyn’s “new personality” to happen. that’s concerning in itself and something for another post. 

anyway, there are times where ardyn’s soul will actually try to put up a fight against the daemons and it gives him horrible headaches and throws his emotions all out of whack and usually he just hides somewhere because he doesn’t want anyone to see him so vulnerable. this erratic behavior became more frequent as days passed in the ten years where noctis was asleep in the crystal, because the daemons knew their host was going to DIE and ardyn’s real soul wanted to wrangle the daemons so he COULD rest. noctis gets to see the real ardyn when he’s dying and he asks what will happen in the future. when he dies with a smile because he thinks it’s over. 

[sindumpster]

Idk if this a dumb question but

In the hole hoard Jake post, I saw that he had two stomachs. So that brings me to question.

Would there ever be an instance of one stomach getting full but the other not?

Nah I don’t think it’s dumb at all. Like ngl love questions like this and I am also so sorry it took me forever to get to this OTL

Honestly his digestive system is…complicated, because I’m a nerd. Like imo, it helps knowing what each part of his digestive system is even supposed to do in the first place (cuz there’s so many ways the man can be stupid and mess himself up lol). So I made a somewhat simplified rundown…becuz whynot. The man needed an update anyways.

[mild warning for fatal vore mentions]

But anyways, that’s not far off from how they actually work, even normally lol. His secondary stomach has a more limited capacity usually around 1 average human or equivalent in food, though sometimes it can handle closer to 2 and does most of the heavy-duty digesting, so it fills up a lot faster. His primary/upper stomach’s role is to hold food and “prepare” it for his secondary/lower stomach, so its capacity is a lot bigger. It’s meant to hold things so his second stomach doesn’t get overloaded, but Jake has a tendency to push both to their extremes, and he also has a very bad habit of “pushing things down” (either forcing too much into his secondary stomach, or forcing it in too soon). And usually food moving between the two is an involuntary and continuous process, but he can choose to voluntarily force down a bulk from the upper to the lower��though he doesn’t have precise control over how much actually gets moved along. So very easy for him to accidentally overdo it.

Like most of the time that Jake feels gross/bloated/overly-full, its because he’s overfilled his secondary stomach, or more rarely when something gets stuck in passage between the two. While his upper stomach has some limited digestive ability, backups in his lower stomach can push the upper to overcompensate. Which usually results in a nasty case of indigestion because eventually his primary stomach will be trying to digest things it can’t…usually piled on top of indigestion in the second because it’s either too full or overworked to relieve the primary.

Though there’s also plenty of times he’s overfilled his upper stomach and the second hasn’t even started working yet. It’s less common because of the upper’s ridiculous capacity, but still plenty of ways where one or the other will be “full” and the other isn’t (and usually, it’s because Jake did something stupid lol).

[quindolyn]

Hey I was wondering if you could write a sub!regulus X Dom!fem reader fic?

One where it’s angsty as Regulus had been acting different around the reader, and eventually after being questioned about it alone, Regulus breaks down and admitting his parents forced him to get the dark mark (there was nothing he could do about it), and the reader comforts him while they fuck. Regulus had been through a lot and the reader wants him to know that they love him.

Including: praise kink, subspace regulus, scar/mark kissing, aftercare for regulus, riding, and anything else you think would suit this situation <3

Resilience || Regulus Black

Word Count: 6154

A/N: Do I hate this? Yes, most definitely, without a doubt. Did I only proof read 5/15 pages. Yes, again, certainly. But I'm tired and I'm with my friend so it's not gonna get better than this. I love you all and hope you enjoy it

warnings: pretty much included in the ask, can't really think of anything else

Being light on your feet it doesn’t appear as though Regulus notices you tip toeing your way across the Slytherin common room. As you come up behind him you peer over his shoulder; he has his legs tucked beneath him with what appears to be his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook resting in his lap. Standing over his shoulder you let your eyes scan across the pages laid open and what you first believed to be a chapter on counter curses you realized was actually detailing how to cast the curse.

Realizing what you’d just read you let out a small, involuntary gasp that catches the attention of the boy sitting in front of you.

“(Y/N)!” Regulus quickly exclaims, glancing over his shoulder before slamming the book closed and sliding it into his book bag which sits next to him on the plush, green velvet sofa.

“What was that Reg?” You ask, brow furrowed as your eyes lock onto Regulus’ grey ones.

“Just a book love, that’s all.”

“Your Defense textbook?” You ask, hoping he would slide it back out of his satchel to show you the familiar scarlet cover you’d scratched your initials into on the bottom right hand corner.

“Something of the sort,” He answers vaguely, pushing himself off the couch to face you. Instead of making his way around the couch to meet you he stayed on the other side of the piece of furniture. Feet planted, hands fiddling with each other while instead of making eye contact with you his gaze seemed to be directed just past your right ear.

“Don’t lie to me Regulus,” Your voice is clipped, when you’d come to check in on Regulus after he’d come home from winter break at his dreaded family’s house this wasn’t what you had expected.

Regardless, it was what you’re met with, “What the hell is that book?”

Your voice jumps and you can hear the panic rising in it. Regulus had spent the weeks up to his departure date dreading the time he would have to spend at the Black Mansion. You’d stayed up countless nights, wishing you could somehow keep him from having to go to that hellish house but when it came down to it there was nothing either of you could do.

Finding him pouring over some dark arts book the first time you saw him after nearly two weeks apart wasn’t exactly the reunion you’d been picturing in your head. Nor was it comforting.

You can barely make it out but you believe you hear him whimper something about “it’s nothing” as his gaze drops from just over your shoulder to his toes.

You two stand there for a minute, then two, each waiting for the other to say something, anything to break the tension currently hanging heavy over the room. Regulus silently begging you to let it go, to leave the room and give him some time to stash the book before coming to find you to act as though nothing had happened and it was all fine.

Unwilling to yield, you hold your ground, maintaining your silence while your eyes bore into the top of his head, awaiting his explanation as to what you’d walked into.

You’re the one to finally break the silence.

“If it's nothing, then I’d like to see it Regulus.” It's the second time in the span of five minutes you opt for his full name instead of one of the nicknames coined by his brother, who he’d recently mended things with, and made popular by yourself. You knew it would strike a cord for him but you were scared, you were on the offensive.

With a deep sigh Regulus retrieves his bag from the spot it’d fallen to on the floor, pulling the book from the bag, bound in emerald green, Regulus hold it both far from his body and with a surprisingly tight hold, somehow both wanting it as far from him as possible and not wanting it to leave his grasp.

Though visibly ancient the book appears to be in remarkable condition, engraved on the front cover in gold leaf reads “Mendel's Most Malicious Curses”.

Studying the cover you don’t recognize the book’s title but based on what you’d glimpsed inside of its pages you hadn’t expected to. Even as a fifth year you doubt this would ever be included in O.W.L. curriculum.

Despite knowing better you can’t help but feel a strange, strong attraction to the book, an overwhelming urge consuming you to take that book. Your fingers itch at your sides as you imagine getting your hands on the book, wondering how hard Regulus would fight before relinquishing it from his grasp.

Somewhere in your subconscious you register that these thoughts are not organically your own, that somehow that book is influencing you and that in reality you want nothing to do with it. Frightened thoughts simmer at the back of your mind but they are lost in the shadows of your curiosity regarding the secrets that lie beneath the ornate designs swirling over the cover.

Expectantly you extend your arm, a nonverbal signal for Regulus to hand you the book but your movement throws him into action and has him clutching it close to his chest, both arms cradling the text.

“No no no no no,” He chants frantically, shaking his head as though to shake off the thought of relinquishing the book to you. “I can’t give you this (Y/N),” He swallowed deeply, shining silver eyes seaking out yours, ablaze with conviction.

“And why’s that?” You challenge with a raise of your brow.

Inhaling deeply he seems to be bracing himself to respond, “Because you’re a muggle born, it’s not meant for you to touch.”

You can feel rage bubbling up in your stomach, threatening to spill out your mouth in a flurry of angry words admonishing Reg for his remarks, “What? Is my simple muggle born mind not worthy enough to read words in that precious little pureblood book of yours? Do I need my pedigree intact to understand what it says? Not meant for mutts, is that it?”

You thought you were past this, you thought you’d left the aloof little third year you’d first met who’d called you a mudblood and asked you to move to a different table in the library because he didn’t want you looking at his charms homework behind.

Had the past year and a half of apologies and growth on Regulus’ part all been a lie? Was that hate not as small a part of your boyfriend as you’d thought? Did it really only take just shy of two weeks back with his biggoted relatives for him to start spewing this pureblood nonsense again?

Bouncing around in your head those questions overwhelm you as you try to ignore the most pressing one, pushing at the forefront of your mind.

Does he even love you?

“B-because you’re not a pureblood, this book (Y/N), it can’t be held by anyone not of pureblood,” Reg’s shaking voice broke through the flurry of questions wreaking chaos in your mind.

“God damn it Regulus! I thought we were past this! I thought-”

“It’ll kill you (Y/N)!” His voice is frantic and you pick up on the tears welling in the corners of his eyes, threatening to leak over.

Those words that seemed to carry a fatality in themselves cleared away the din clouding your mind, everything went silent. Too silent even as the implication of those words wash over you.

That book may as well be a gun, cocked and being held steady at your temple as you feel tears of your own begin to well in your eyes, distorting your vision.

The mess of questions doesn’t return to your mind, instead they begin thumping one by one at the base of your brain though they all carry through the same theme.

How could he have brought that near you?

“Kill me?” You curse yourself for how obvious your voice is shaking but the book that just moments earlier you were dying to get your hand on seems to have cast an oppressive air over the room and has you recoiling away from your boyfriend.

Regulus nods, holding eye contact with you as he slips the book back into his bag, sliding it under the sofa before cautiously striding towards you.

“That's why I can’t give it to you to look at, it's cursed and if you so much as bump it you’ll…” His voice trails off, the words too terrible to speak aloud.

Your arms wrap around yourself, clutching as hard as they can as you fight to wrangle your thoughts under control. His response revealed to you that he doesn’t intend to hurt you, not with the book anyways which has dozens of other worries popping up in your head. You’re desperate for answers as to what happened to Regulus at his house. He seems ready to give them to you as he offers to take you back to his dorm away from any prying eyes or ears that may lurk about in the Slytherin common room.

You’d both agreed to arrive back at school two days early hoping to get some alone time in but that didn’t mean that the castle was empty and that anyone couldn’t walk into his common room at any moment.

You stall as he lets you into his dorm, you’ve been there a thousand times, often under the mask of night but your usual spot, atop his always made perfectly bed, seems wrong now. Without answers to your countless questions the entire room feels foregin to you and leaves you standing by his desk, not quite leaning against it but also not quite supporting your own weight.

Regulus seems equally awkward but eventually settles on his bed, perched precariously on the edge of the mattress, he barely looks comfortable.

You stay there so long in silence that after a while your breathing syncs, the singular sound becoming the only noise in the drafty room.

Long after it becomes clear Regulus isn’t going to speak first and you finally tire of the silence you find your voice, somewhere deep inside of you summoning the words to your most pressing worry; “What happened at your house Regulus? What did they do to you?”

Your words have him crumbling, your usually stoic boy folding in on himself until he is but a ball hanging off the bed.

You hesitate for a single second before you’re racing towards him, dropping before him at his knees to cup his face in your palms. Directing his visage upwards to meet yours you feel your heart wrench in your chest as you take in his puffy, red eyes, red nose and flushed cheeks already marred with twin trails of salty tears cascading down his face.

“Regulus,” You choke out feeling tears from earlier resurface as you push yourself off the ground to take your place next to the scared boy beside you.

Pulling him into your lap as much as his size permits you too you take great care in cradling his head, clutching him to your chest as your rock gently back and forth humming into his hairline in hopes to calm his sobs. Raw and ragged they each tear at the fragile, brave exterior you’ve erected in hopes of comforting the boy, giving him something solid to hold onto.

Whispering sweet nothings into his ear you feel him melt into your touch, slowly the breathing becomes stronger and his sobs quiet to weak sniffles swallowed by the occasional gulp.

Feeling him shift under your touch you can tell he’s working himself up to something, he always gets fidgety when he’s trying to summon the courage to do something hard, his movement triggers a memory.

It floods through your mind as you’re reminded of a similarly terrified Regulus, knees bumping against the table at breakfast one lazy Sunday as he repeatedly bounced them, seemingly unable to sit still. He’d spent weeks working himself up to speaking to his brother for the first time in far too long.

The memory of him being so strong and brave even as the entirety of the Great Hall tracked his movement from the Slytherin table to the Gryffindor had you drawing a deep breath. The strength the memory provides you has you summoning the breath to prompt Regulus into some sort of explanation, anything.

“Reggie, your mother gave you that book didn’t she?”

He goes still at your words and even involuntary actions seem to still, his lungs draw no breath and his pulse seems to fade away under your touch.

“Bellatrix,” His voice is hoarse from crying, “Her idea of a Christmas gift.”

“That bitch,” You spit.

“Walburga’s was worse.”

You pause at the mention of her name, there is no doubt in your mind that he is the one who’s actions have sent Regulus into this downward spiral of despair and fear. You’re not even sure if you wanna hear what he has to stay but what you want stopped being important a long time ago.

“Do you wanna show me Reg?” You ask, breathless.

“No,” Comes his meak voice, “But I need to.”

You nod understandingly as you regrettably allow him to slip from your grasp so he can turn to face you, one leg tucked under his bum and the other hanging over the edge of the bed.

His eyes are downcast before he peaks them up through thick, dark lashes to meet your gaze, “Do you promise not to hate me (Y/N/N)? I don’t know if I can do this if you hate me.”

Your brows are drawn together as your response comes emphatically, “I could never hate you Regulus, I could never and I will never.”

“You can’t make that promise,” He says through a watery chuckle, leaving you wondering where the hilarity in the situation was. “I shouldn’t have asked you to.”

“Regulus,” You latched onto his hand before he could turn away from you, “I am incapable of hating you my love, please. Tell me what happened.”

Silver eyes locked with yours as though they would reveal the solidity of your promise. You’re not sure what answer he found in them but regardless he broke your gaze as he snuck his hand out of yours.

You watch as he slowly rolls up his sleeve and an idea as to what he’s going to show you begins to form and you find yourself regretting ever demanding to know what’s going on. You quickly shove those thoughts back down, there's no use in even entertaining them, ignoring your problems won’t make them go away.

Your worst fears are confirmed as Regulus rolls the sleeve of his black sweater to reveal swirling black ink sunk deep into his skin. Even just by looking at it you could feel the permanence of the ink, the meaning behind it causing a chill to shoot through your bones.

In the back of your head this had always been a possibility but not one you’d ever truly considered. You always thought that you would be able to get yourself and Reg away from everyone, from everything. Blood purity, the ministry, his family.

You were going to get out and you’d thought you’d have plenty of time, half way through his fifth year neither of you ever expected him to be forced to take the Dark Mark before his eighteenth birthday.

You were supposed to have until his eighteenth birthday.

Staring at the ink that seemed to pulse with life against the pale white of Regulus’ skin you suppose that it doesn’t really matter what you were supposed to have, what was supposed to happen. Regulus has taken the dark mark.

Godric, Regulus has taken the dark mark.

“Y-Your mother did this to you?” Your voice wobbles, anger, confusion, and terror evident in your voice, each betraying the strong front you’re trying to keep up for Regulus.

“She came for me in the middle of the night, (Y/N/N). First time I’ve ever been woken by her instead of Sirius or a house elf and she forced me up, made me get dressed before taking me downstairs and they were all there,” His voice cracks as a silent sob racks his body, you can only imagine how difficult it must be to relive the horrific events of that night. Hoping to provide him with any sort of comfort you inch closer to him, throwing your arm around his shoulder allowing him to rest his head on yours before continuing.

“They were all there (Y/N), not just her and Father. Bellatrix, Cissa and her husband, the Lestranges,” He pauses to swallow, “ And him. He was there.”

Regulus needn’t clarify who “he” was. The idea that he had even been near Regulus made you sick to your stomach and you could feel the distinct sensation of bile rising tickle at the back of your throat.

“Shhh, it's okay Reg,” You soothe, tightening your grip on him as sobs shake his body, “It’s going to be okay Red we’re going to figure this out.”

“He did this to me,” He sobs as he shakes in your lap, letting the enormity of his circumstances finally sink in after suppressing it for the past week, the fear of your response keeping him occupied.

To say you aren’t scared would be a lie, you’re fucking terrified but holding Regulus’ trembling form you know that this decision was not his. He would never swear allegiance to a group hell bent on destroying you and people like you, a few years ago maybe but not today. Not the Regulus you’d come to love, even if it began despite yourself.

Without hesitation you reach out, wrapping your hand around the skin now stained by dark magic.

Regulus let’s out a hiss at your touch and you feel him tense under your hand, afraid you’ve hurt him you start to pull away, “Does that hurt Reg?” You ask warily.

“Yes,” He spits out through gritted teeth, “But don’t let go please,” He pleads, raising his gaze to meet yours, “Please don’t let go.”

“Not gonna let go,” You promise, keeping your hold on his forearm tight.

Dipping your fingers under the strong bone of his mandible you turn his visage upwards to meet yours, heart breaking at the sadness and pain swimming in those beautiful grey eyes of his. Slowly you lean in before your eyelashes are brushing against the soft skin of his cheeks and your eyes flutter closed as you watch his do the same.

Your lips brush each other’s gently as your hand cups the side of his face, giving you complete control of the kiss as you keep the swipes of your lips light, you can just barely make out the taste of the pomegranate lip balm you’d given him as a part of your holiday gift to him.

“I didn’t wanna take it (Y/N/N),” He sniffles against your lips, “I don’t wanna be a Death Eater, I don’t wanna hurt you.” The sincerity in his voice has more tears welling in your eyes, you just can’t bear to see your beautiful boy in so much pain.

“Oh I know you don’t bubba I know,” You calm him, throwing a leg over to the other side of his lap so that you can perch yourself atop the hard smooth surface of his thighs. Gently pressing kisses along the canvas of his face you feel his arms wrap around your waist and the tips of fingers graze against your ass as his hands hover above it.

“Can I touch you please?” His words are barely audible but his desperation is loud and clear.

You grant permission as you lean forward to capture his lips in another kiss, this one more passionate than the last. Posing little, if any, challenge before letting your tongue delve into his mouth, quickly claiming dominance over his as you feel his palms clutch the globes of your ass, kneading the soft flesh as he holds onto you as tight as possible.

With care you slowly guide him onto his back as your lips trail from his down the column of his throat, in your journey down you leave sloppy hickeys along the delicate skin of his neck. Pulling away slightly you smile to see the various shades of purple and blue painted along his pretty ivory skin.

You know you’re going to have a real conversation about this later, what it means, what the two of you are ready to do about it but right now all you can think about is how you can make your pretty boy feel better, how you can show him that your love for him hasn’t changed. And there’s one way you know how to do that best.

“Do you want me to make you feel good Reggie?” You whisper against his skin as your lips ghost over his collar bone, drinking in his scent.

“Please,” He whimpers, “Need you.”

That’s all you need to hear before your hands are delving under the hem of Reg’s sweater, hands sliding against the smooth planes of his abs, your hands gliding over the occasional ridge of a long healed scar.

Sliding the hem up all the way to his collarbone you look down to see the beautiful lines of his chest and stomach. The scars you’ve become used to seeing a dark but faded pink now shine an almost brilliant purple as though the dark magic imprinted upon his arm had somehow interfered with scars caused by Walburga, most of them when he was much younger. You know for a fact that there are more ones on his back, deeper and darker from taking longer to heal.

“Come on pretty boy,” You coach, propping him up so that you can slip the soft sweater over his head before discarding it over your shoulder, “There we go, that’s a good boy.”

He lets out a low whine at your praising words as his hips thrust up towards yours which are perched directly atop them.

While removing your own sweater you smile, realizing it’s actually one of Regulus’ old Quidditch jumpers from the year prior. With no bra beneath your top your tits are left bare for Regulus’ viewing. His eyes gloss over as lust creeps into the stormy grey of his irises, they’re locked on your tits as though they’re the most beautiful things he’s ever seen.

“Do these hurt more than normal baby?” You ask as your fingertips graze over the raised scars on his chest, if the dark magic of the dark mark made his scars more sensitive you wanna be careful not to hurt him.

“A little.”

Frowning you lean down to press your lips against the puckered scars, your kisses light and fleeting as you trace the dark lines with your lips.

Dancing from one scar to another you hear him exhale deeply and the tension seems to be slowly leaving his body as he settles into the mattress and he becomes malleable under your touch.

“You’re so beautiful Reg,” You praise against his scarred skin, needing him to understand just how much you love him.

“I love you so much,” You look up through your lashes to see Regulus’ eyes already locked on your body.

“I love you too.”

With that your lips are ceasing his once more as you feel the overwhelming need to comfort your boy. Gently, you grind your hips up against his as you become lost in the kiss, savoring the feeling of his lips against yours before you feel a familiar bulge pressing on you.

Your hand ventures back down the hard muscle of his stomach before you bump against the bulge of his erection, straining against the soft material of his sweatpants. You palm gently over his cock as your face buries itself in the crook of his neck, giving him sweet, light kisses while teasing his throbbing member.

“Please,” Comes his choked pleas at being teased, “Please, need more.”

“Of course pretty boy,” You promise as you lift yourself off of him, giving him one last kiss at the waistband of his sweatpants before helping him ease off his bottoms and boxers.

Once he’s devoid of all clothing you too strip down so that you’re both bare naked, your eyes are fixed on the red, weeping head of his half hard cock, sitting against the inside of his muscled thigh.

He whimpers as your hand wraps around his member, pumping up and down his hardening length, brushing your thumb along the sensitive tip of his cock.

“Wanna be inside of you,” He whimpers, hands grappling for your wrist to stall your movements and pull you on top of him but all he succeeds in doing is making you stubble closer to him.

You release your right hand from his cock, instead taking his hand in yours while your unoccupied hands resumes stimulating his member.

“I know you wanna be inside of me, pretty boy, but I gotta get you hard first.”

“But I am hard,” He argues in a pretty little whine, and now that he mentions it you realize that he is harder than he was when you’d pulled him from the tight confines of his pants.

“Your cock’s so gorgeous,” You murmur watching the way he twitches in your hand, “Think you’re hard enough now, yeah?”

He nods his head, squirming as he fights the urge to buck up into your hand.

Making sure that he’s comfortable, propped up against the pillow at the head of the bed you brush away the hair that’s fallen into his face as you straddle his lap, the shaft of his cock pressing against the warmth of your cunt.

Lifting yourself a few inches off his thighs your help guide his prick to your entrance, slowly sinking onto him you allow yourself to take your time accepting each and every inch of him inside of you.

Reg’s eyes are glued to your pussy as he watches himself disappear inside of you, all the way down to his base. His eye brows furrow from the overwhelming pleasure that swims through his veins, sinking deep into his every nerve at the bliss of being completely surrounded by your warm pussy.

Pleasure shoots up your spine at the sensation of slowly becoming full, once you’ve finally taken every inch of him inside you you throw your head back, mouth dropped open as the breath is stolen from your lungs. It feels so good to be so full with him you have to remind yourself to breathe.

“Good boy,” You say breathlessly, rubbing your arms up and down his flexing arms, fists furled with the sheets between them as he too adapts to the sensation that comes with being inside of you.

“You ready for me to move?” You ask once you finally become used to the full feeling.

Desperate nods answered your question, it takes you a minute to find your rhythm but soon you’re grinding his hips against his, lifting yourself slightly off his cock before grinding back down onto him.

Your movements are slower than usual when you fuck Reg, but after the terror he’d gone through in the past weeks you’re deliberate in your gentle movements.

As your hands grip the muscles of his arms you hear him take a sharp breath, your eyes fly open, landing on his face, your movements stalling before you realize that you’re clutching the newly marked skin on his left forearm.

“Oh baby I’m so sorry,” You apologize, loosening your grip on him as your lips frace the dark lines of the ink against his skin.

Seeing that mark on anyone else would’ve made you recoil, have ice shooting through your veins as fear petrified you. While you would’ve preferred never to see that symbol of hate tattooed into Regulus’ skin it didn’t evoke its usual reaction from you. The only fear you have is fear of the future, fear of what lies in wait for the two of you beyond the walls of Hogwarts, but it doesn't matter right now. All that matters is comforting your boy, all you think about as you press your lips to his mark.

You’re pulled from your thoughts when you hear sobs break through Regulus’ lips, quickly you abandon the stain of ink , moving to cradle his head so that your tits are right in his line of vision.

“I thought you were going to hate me,” He cries into your chest, tears wet the soft skin of your tits.

“No baby, I’ll never hate you, not ever.”

You feel the wet warmth of his mouth brush against your right nipple, gazing down you see his tongue lazily circling the pebbled flesh and you’re reminded just how cold the room actually is but pressed up against Regulus it feels like your entire body is on fire.

“You wanna suck on my titty Reggie?”

He responds with a weak nod and quickly you’re easing your nipple into his mouth, helping him find the correct angle all the while stuttering your hips against his.

“You fill me up so good Reg,” Your praise, fingers tangling in the dark mess of curls.

At your praise he begins lifting his hips in times with your thrusts, helping you as you fuck youself on top of him, wanting so desperately to make you feel as good as you make him.

“There we go, that’s a god boy.”

“M’getting close,” His words are muffled by the soft flesh of your tit stuffed into his mouth.

You too are nearing your orgasm as your clit brushes against the hard bone  of his pelvis pulling a sharp whimper from you. To better grant Regulus access to your breast you’ve settled on rolling your hips in circles, ceasing the up and down movement from earlier so as to not disturb him.

A familiar tightness is brewing in your belly as Regulus’ hands run up and down your back before gripping the globes of your butt, maintaining as much physical contact as possible.

“Go ahead bubba, go ahead and cum. Fill me up pretty boy, want your cum. Need your cum. Godric I love you,” You ramble, seizing his lips again, needing them against yours as you feel him cum inside you.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” He mutters as your cunt grips around him with the tell tale signs of your quickly approaching orgasm.

“Y’gonna cum with me baby?” You ask as you press your lips to his forehead, his mouth having once more found the plush of your breast.

“Yes,” He nods, “Please.”

You throw your head back in ecstasy as your orgasm washes over you, wave after wave of pleasure racing through your veins as you ride out your orgasm, continuing to move your hips as you simultaneously help Reg through his. Stars flash behind your closed eyelids as the pleasure building up finally releases, sending you into euphoria so intense it seems to cloud your every sense.

The second he felt your cunt squeeze around his cock it tipped him over the edge and as he lost himself in pleasure, rope after rope of cum releasing inside of you, he tried his best to match the movement of his hips to yours.

You flutter your eyes open as the warmth of his cum floods your pussy as you come down from the height of your orgasm, letting yourself collapse so that your chest is pressed up against his.

With your chests pressed so close together you notice the exact moment that your breathing syncs, feeling as Regulus’ arms wrap around your bare torso keeping you close to his body.

“How are you feeling?” You murmur against the ivory skin of his chest, keeping your voice hushed.

“Better. A little happy.”

Glancing up you catch the smallest smirk slink across his lips as he stares up at the vaulted ceiling.

“Happy?”

“You make me happy,” His eyes flicker to yours as he pulls you closer to him causing his softening prick to slip out of your tight hole. You both hiss as the cool air hits his cock and the cum he’d emptied into you begins flowing out yout pussy.

Regrettably you push yourself off of him, pulling his sweater over your head before waddling into the connecting bathroom, being ever so conscious about the sticky white mess between your legs as you wet a washcloth using warm water from the sink before applying it to the insides of your thighs. Ginger touches hastily cleaning up the excess cum before rinsing the wash cloth to take it to Reg.

“Hey pretty boy,” You coo upon reentering the room to find him in the same position you’d left him in, “You ready for me to clean you up?”

“You look so beautiful in my clothes (Y/N/N),” He responds instead of answering your question, pushing himself onto his elbows so that he can watch you, his black sweater enveloping you all the way to your lower thighs.

“And you’re just beautiful,” You smile, sitting next to him on the mattress. You aren’t lying, he looks absolutely gorgeous leaning back, mop of dark hair in tangled tresses, grey eyes glossed over, abs sheening with sweat as are his equally toned thighs. Merlin bless the poor bastard who invented Quidditch.

Dragging up his muscled legs your eyes settle on his softening member, just as pretty as the rest of him.

With care you make quick work of cleaning the cum off his cock, resting your hand on his thigh when he tries to squirm away from your over stimulating touch.

“I know baby, I know but I gotta get you all nice and clean for me.”

“Hurts,” He mumbles in a pathetic pout.

“I know it does pretty baby but look,” You say, pulling the cloth from his skin, “All done already.” Pressing a kiss to his temple you go to stand but you’re quickly pulled back down to the mattress by cold hands wrapped around the warm folds of your waist.

“Don’t go,” He mumbles into your hair as he keeps you tucked into his side.

“Just gotta go put the washcloth back Reggie,” You explain trying to slip from his hold but he’s not having it and just tugs you back against the hard planes of his chest.

“No,” He says simply before reaching over to the bed side table where he’d set his wand, mumbling a quick banishing spell the rag flew from your hand before flying into the bathroom.

Resting your head against his strong shoulder you yank a blanket from the end of the bed up to throw it around your bodies, nestled close together.

“You said you were happy Reg.”

“Mhm,” He responds with a noncommittal hum.

“What else are you feeling, love?”

You hear him take a deep inhale, as his own answer seemed to overwhelm him, “I don’t know. I’m scared, I’m really scared but not so much now that I know that you don’t hate me.”

You nod against his chest, you can only imagine how petrifying that thought must’ve been for him and you can’t deny the tug you feel in your chest at the idea of Regulus ever thinking you would hate him.

“I’m still terrified but I think I’m gonna be okay.”

“I know you’re gonna be okay Regulus, you are capable and strong and smart and the bravest boy I have ever met,” You can feel the blush radiating off of him at your words.

“Thank you (Y/N/N),” He mumbles bashfully into your hair once more.

You were telling the truth, if there was one thing that you know for certain its that Regulus is just as resilient as he has proven to be and if Walburga, or anyone else for that matter thought he was going to take this lying down. If they thought you were going to take this lying down, they have another thing coming. There is no doubt in your mind that Regulus will fight for what he knows to be true and if there was ever a point that he would have obeyed his mother’s every command without question that time was long past.

Reg isn’t to be underestimated. He’s just as every bit courageous as he’s proved to be over and over again. To underestimate him is to dig your own grave; and unlike Walburga you aren’t ready to count him out quite yet. On the contrary actually, your boy wasn’t about to take this lying down and even if it meant total self destruction, the two of you are about to raise hell.

taglist: @randomoutsiders @weasleyposts @amourtentiaa @kittykylax @superbturtlemakerathlete @oliviashea05 @pinkandblueblurbs @thatvenusbabe @zzzfour @temporaryissue @gubleryum @msmb @marauderswhore07 @st0nesnglitter @priii @miraclesoflove @shadesofvelma @drachoesimp @artemis1orion @skaratjung @ava-brooke-blog1 @fairyprettygirly @ohwowimlonley @padfootswife @roonilwazlibswhore @swearingsolemnly @teenwolfbitches28 @lilypad-55449 @jamespotterslover @wh0reforthemarauders @myalupinblack @ashesandstars @daisyyy2516 @remugoodgirl @itzstacie @planet-wolfstar @steveharringtonswhore @saintlike78 @i-love-scott-mccall @thatdummymarie @trashyvicks @sprucewoodlover @slut4drvc0 @pagesbetweensheets @locnylupin @mjoubertt-1@blowing-mikey @slvt4fakerealities @kaqua @pottahishotasf

[thefamilymadrigal]

encanto headcanons

-i do headcanon that their powers do not exhaust them to use, since they’re, in essence, blessings fueled by love. perpetuated by their connection to casita, the energy is simply channeled through them, instead of drawing on their own energy. i also think the gifts feel as natural as any other sense—like for pepa, sadness is not just linked it rain, it /is/ rain, for isa, she can feel the life in plants and just has to reach out to manipulate it, etc.

-and just as dolores can’t turn off her hearing, no one can just turn off the gift. because this is supposed to be a miracle and not an actual system of magic, just keep in mind i’m mostly working off the /most/ good faith interpretation of the gifts as i can manage, and the consequences are the natural adaptations of the human mind or supposed parts of the gift that simply interpret badly from paper to practice

-thus, their powers do not (normally) hurt them beyond normal human activity—isabela can grow vines indefinitely, barring mental exhaustion, and so on. (powers become more exhausting to use when casita falters.)

-any of their powers fade if they leave the encanto. because the magic is the family’s love, but it is channeled/transformed and continually reinforced by their bond to casita

-i want to repeat that power do not inherently hurt to use. for example, bruno’s visions do not hurt just to see, it’s the content of them at fault

-julieta runs very very warm, as does abuela and mirabel. these three literally exude warmth

--pepa, isabela, and bruno run cold at baseline. pepa exudes the temperature of her mood, isabela and bruno are cold to the touch.

--dolores camilo antonio are normal temperature

--but if camilo shifts into someone, their natural effects(NOT controllable effects or main powers) carry over(if he shifts into his mother he will be colder and lighter in weight, but obviously not change the weather)

-agustin is a scholar, but he first taught mirabel to sew. he moves rather fast. he also smells constantly of sugar, due to juileta. julieta would get stung by bees a lot more if she wasn't basically immune.

-pepa’s weather is completely localized to the mountain borders. if you leave the encanto, it cuts off

-felix was an actor and a dancer before he came to the encanto. he moves fluidly and has calming energy normally, but storytells with great flair.

-encanto is hidden from everything in the outside world, including meteorological instruments

gift headcanons. (i do think the triplets have less side effects because the newness of the magic went rather overboard. i also think that because of that, the triplets are rather stranger and more distant from normality than any of the grandkids.

the grandkids have varying side effects because the miracle is trying to lessen the excessive magic, but is still learning how the magic changes and possibly badly effects humans)

it is pretty clearly shown that the madrigal gifts aren’t constrained by real life limitations, which i’m interpreting as ‘the gifts actively have helpful/adaptive qualities’.

it seems there are generally 2 types of gifts, which are 'linked to involuntary bodily actions' and 'physically choose to use the gift'. for the first, other senses would be dulled, as it is exacerbating the natural body. while for the second, the subject would feel a compulsion to keep using it, a need to use it--like a sixth sense, it is what feels natural to them.

julieta’s bloodline seems to be the ‘fixing’ gifts—healing, growing life, strength, heart—these look like ‘service to others’ type of powers

pepa’s bloodline seems to be about ‘expression’—weather, listening, shapeshifting, animal speak—these do with communication and personality

julieta--any edible item she has changed in some way(physical or chemical) has her healing powers apply, though the smaller/negligible changes only work on her. chemical properties need to be changed to heal non-family members.

--she naturally heals faster and cannot get sick. she has natural resistance to injury as well as heat and fire. she can consume things that are only technically edible and be fine.

--she has a very slow metabolism/does not burn through food quick. she also does not have much of an appetite. basically, she does not need to eat much at all

--her gift is one of the most like a compulsion--many of the gifts are made in such a way that you cannot choose not to use them, like luisa's strength or pepa's emotions or dolore's hearing. As stated, julieta's is most like a compulsion. she is drawn to make food, cooking is as natural as the five senses to her.

--related, she needs warmth to function. in cold conditions she can lose consciousness.

--she smells like your favorite food, specifically. (like localized amortentia). if she is upset, any food she makes will taste vaguely like something you hate

pepa—her emotions /are/ the weather. her sadness feels like rain to her, when she’s happy sunshine is her smile. like synesthesia, the sensations of weather and her emotions are inextricably linked.

--she is very sensitive to the minutia of meteorological shifts; if she tried she could definitely gauge /exactly/ how much of each emotion she’s feeling in measurable data, better than a weather instrument. (but due to the demands of the encanto, she has no inroads on that.)

—her extreme sensitivity to those shifts mean she’s far too perceptive on when she might be spiraling, which causes her to spiral more. her mood is affected by weather she doesn’t cause.

--she’s extremely hardy to all weather conditions; she never gets sick from temperature changes(basically the opposite of julieta)

—she’s inordinately light and she runs very cold. she can ‘ground’ herself but it’s possible for her to fly in heavy winds

—she naturally produces ozone, which is toxic to humans and can cause health problems in others(she is immune.)

bruno--he needs his sand to be able to channel/control his visions(as in choose what he sees), as the visions themselves are involuntary. by himself the visions cannot be stopped, changed, or pushed away

--actions linked to superstitions have various effects on the importance and length of visions, while the sand allows him to target a specific topic or person. (he must believe in the power of the superstition for it to work, the more negative his opinion the less of an effect it creates. 'importance' refers to how pivotal the action will be in the target person's life.)

--he can absolutely tell how important the event in the vision will be to the person.

--he can generate a magnetic field involuntarily, from slightly before to slightly after a vision—his sand, sand from his room, has metallic components in it. this is what forms the sand dome, and also why sand trails him.

--just like everyone else's power, his gift does not extend beyond the encanto. he cannot see events outside the encanto.

--he has night vision. he can see farther clearer than baseline human. his eyes are also far hardier to trauma, including staring at bright lights, abrasions from sand, etc.

--the glass panels are the sand fusing after a vision. ofc, they only appear if it's a vision using sand.

isabela—her ability is growing plantlife, it’s a manipulation of living energy. she naturally senses life and expands it, so she can default to growing fields, but her power will create seeds in the earth if there is none in order to grow flowers and such.

--any plant she makes is dependent on her mental image(and later, her imagination). the imagined/self-created plants have greater dependence on her gift and require higher maintenance to survive. the presence of water/sunlight speeds up her healing

--she is dehydrated very easily

—as we see in the movie, it’s completely possible for her to grow plants on herself, and she has to be careful not to let herself go too far with that. it’s definitely possible for her to drain herself of life to feed plants rooted in it.

--she does not feel pain, and her skin is tougher overall but easier to pierce(like the quality of flower stems). all of that means that, just like people with congenital analgesia, she can easily sustain dangerous injury without immediate notice.

--she does not generate body heat and requires outside heat or cold sources.

--she is also, like pepa, far lighter than baseline human.

--her gift, like julieta's, is a compulsion--the wildlife and pretty much any plant, actively calls to her. she is extremely connected to nature, nature itself reaches out to her, as if it wants her to become one with it.

dolores—can pinpoint sounds, which amplifies it while other sounds fade away. steady patterned sound can bring her into a meditative state. her spatial awareness and ability to extrapolate information, especially locations, by sound is high above baseline human.

—sensory overload applies to her sense of touch. she does not actually get overwhelmed by her hearing ability—it’s the whole point of the gift, that it does not inherently cause pain. like luisa, most sound is equalized in her perception--the significance of a song in the town square is the same as the footsteps on the stairs in front of her. sensory overload from touch is the brain's natural shock from already being aware of the location of everything and then getting double feedback on it.

--the sounds can startle her by jumping suddenly--it will never hurt, but it would be surprising/clamorous(think someone snapping their fingers by your ear when it's quiet). this is why she behaves normally even in antonio's room, but covers her ears at the proposal dinner

--her senses of taste and smell, on the other hand, are significantly weakened due to her involuntary reliance on sounds.

luisa—nothing feels heavy. literally nothing. it’s more of a struggle to balance a house than to lift it (which is why the piano being heavy shook her so badly)

—her perception of weight is different, everything is equalized. for luisa, a fork and a piano have the same weight(she still needs wind-up and momentum to lift and launch things, but it appears to be about the same irregardless of actual item—she can one-handedly lift a gigantic boulder, a donkey, a person, and kick a house upright with about the same amount of effort. additionally, she can adjust mirabel's glasses easily).

--though she does avoid handling smaller items because she does not trust herself not to break them; it is obviously easier to break a plate in a startle reflex than a fence when you can hold one in your hand. (she is not shown setting out plates in the dinner scene, nor eating with utensils at lunch).

—the opposite of dolores, she lacks sensitivity to touch. breaking rocks doesn’t hurt her, but she can’t feel if julieta pats her on the arm too gently. (the distinction is that anything she initiated will have recognizable pressure/weight, but outside forces trying to affect her will have an extremely hard time of it.) it’s shown that she can hug mirabel with—relatively—appropriate strength, but mirabel’s hug wouldn't set off pressure receptors.

--her blood has trouble clotting. shes not quite a hemophiliac but she bleeds a lot if she is injured.

--she is resistant to both piercing and blunt damage, as well as impact damage, sores, abrasions or rope burn, basically anything that causes physical damage.

camilo—he can shift into anyone (and a limited amount of sentient living things, but this specifically has to be linked to emotional connection).

--he naturally picks up mannerisms and behavior from other people.

--he does have a 'baseline'.

--the shifting is constant; just because he knows his baseline doesn’t mean he can stick to it. similar to julieta, its like a compulsion to use the gift, though his is partially involuntary

--the gift does guarantee he won’t kill himself shifting into something that is biologically inaccurate. however, the accuracy of the shift itself is entirely dependent on his own knowledge. (it's shown he can shift his face into inaccurate proportions and it does not hurt him, and that he can copy subjects with inaccuracies(his impression of felix).

—he has a very fast metabolism, his body burns through energy incredibly quick. his appetite is very high. this basically means hes extremely hungry, constantly

--while he does not have superstrength in luisa's form, he is naturally much stronger and more resistant. but as pepa he cannot create ozone, nor will he exude warmth as julieta(though those effects are not controllable, it is not an effect woven into the body, but purely their gifts, so it cannot be copied).

--he is more vulnerable to joint injuries as well as arrhythmia. any scars he manages to form, though he can shift them away, will be retained on his baseline form

mirabel—she doesn’t have a gift but her actual bond to casita is the strongest. like abuela, she has a (slightly less honed) sense for the nearby presence of family members

--she specifically bleeds a lot /less/ if an injury is sustained than a baseline human.

--runs at higher warmth than usual, same as julieta and alma.

--she naturally picks up trades and skills easily, particularly those that directly involve physicality(like parkour) or creating with the hands(like sewing or cooking).

—related, since she does not have a gift, the things she does have are hereditary, or saturation of the magic.

antonio--he can understand any animal language, and animals are automatically non-hostile to very affectionate towards him. he has a (very limited) command over animals, but it is mostly like a light compulsion.

--he can sense the presence of any animal, like how isabela senses plants. his is another 'compulsion' gift, where the animals actively find him interesting and seek him out and he feels drawn to talk to animals

--his room made all of the animals inside. those animals are pure magic, especially the jaguar. they cannot leave the encanto

--his voice does not change from human language, but it can take on an undertone of birds chirping or whichever animal he means to speak to. saying 'hello' aimed at a bird sounds different than saying 'hello' to a rat.

--his power is the one with the least drawbacks. casita has been learning all the years how to give a gift correctly, and observing the drawbacks for all the years until antonio had its benefits

[dragongirl642]

I like your writing a lot! If I may, could I request lady d and Donna reacting to a male werewolf reader? Reader can turn into a huge wolf and they notice reader when they realise the lycans are starting to stay away from their places, and for lady d could you do something about the daughters cuddling reader in wolf form cause he so mf w a r m? Much love! Have a great day :))

Thank you anon (✿◡‿◡)

You mentioned reader turning into a huge wolf, like an actual wolf, so the werewolf rules I'm going for with this are:

You are born with all trademarks off being a normal human until you develop your wolf when you hit puberty.

Your wolf is technically a separate entity, with their own name, thoughts and opinions, and also a part of you.

Shifting during a full moon is involuntary, but you don't go feral/lose all control, shifting at any other time can be done at will.

Since you're on your own you were either kicked out of your pack or they died in war/hunters.

The village is so well hidden, from your enemies, you decide to stay there despite the local dangers.

Powers include:

ability to partially shift between wolf and human form to access specific traits, eye glow.

in wolf form - claws, iron fur/ability to harden fur (useful for tanking blows and cuts), heightened senses / strength / regeneration / speed.

In human form - heightened senses / strength / speed / regeneration, (but not to the full extent as in your wolf form).

It's quite long so the headcanons are under the cut:

Alcina dimitresu

She noticed you around because the maids reported food was going missing from the supplies.

At first she's skeptical of this huge wolf and thinks your one of Mother Miranda's new failed experiments (because you're wounded).

Will ignore you at first and probably try to shoo you out like she would an errant insect.

She complains that you smell completely unappetizing.

When she first met the human you, she had much the same reaction as in this post.

WHAT IS THIS MUTT DOING IN MY HOUSE -> IT'S A DISGUSTING MANTHING, NO!

Definitely tries to kill you, you either fight back or just run away, initiating the longest game of hide-and-seek known to man (or...wolf).

You use your hearing and smell as an early warning system against her.

When her daughters first meet you, they think you're some sort of stray experiment too.

Bela immediately wants you to be their pet, Cassandra thinks they should see what their mother thinks first, and Daniela laments that you smell so bad she can't eat you.

Reveal you're a person and they just freak out, but in a good way.

You know Alcina made sure they had the proper Dimitrescu education, so they're fascinated by your biology and ask a lot of questions about your transformation. Which leads to debate on culture, and why you're alone, and how your senses differ between wolf and human form, etc...

Her daughters love you, but especially your wolf.

Your warm and always available for cuddles.

They will just glomp, face first, into your fur when stressed.

After she stops immediately trying to kill you on sight, Alcina learns to tolerate your presence (she rationales it's only because you make her daughters so happy...like a pet)

Eventually, after a long time she will start to get used to your presence. No longer filled with the urge to kill you for being near her daughters or when she sees you in the kitchen getting a snack.

Has most definitely called you her "pet".

One of her favourite things to do is read a book by the fire, sometimes her daughters will sit and listen sometimes not. But turns out, one of your favourite things to do is to also lie by the fire in your wolf form.

At first she avoids it when you're there, but then she tells herself she won't let any manthing dictate her time.

There have been a few incidents when you've been there and she has found herself absentmindedly running her fingers through your fur. It's just so soft she can't help herself.

Once she realises she will retract her hand immediately. She denies ever doing it.

Donna Beneviento

She doesn't tend to leave her mansion often, except to tend to her plants, and she leaves the grounds of the estate even less so; which means it takes her a long while to notice that the Lycans are staying away/not invading the grounds as often.

At first she is wary of the giant wolf prowling around, who seems to be largely unaffected by the pollen from her plants.

While your wolf may be affected, your human mind isn't and can rationalize/inform your wolf what's real and what's not (and visa versa)

She's scared that she can't get you to leave, (she thinks you're a giant wolf that she can't direct away, do you blame her).

You first shift into your human form to climb in through one of the windows and look for food and medicine.

There's a wary sort of truce between you two to begin with.

You are slightly insulted when she leaves two bowls of water and food outside the door like you're a common hound.

I feel like you would have to be the first one to initiate conversation with Donna. (Not with Angie though, she's been yelling at you from day one).

Warms up to you a lot faster than Alcina.

She finds you overwhelming, brutish, and loud to begin with, but you quickly learn to be gentler/accommodate her personality.

She likes it when you lay in her lap and let her brush your hair, (especially in wolf form).

It takes a bit off convincing for her to let you do the same for her.

All the food you cook is the hearty kind, Donna hasn't eaten so well in years.

Angie has ridden on your back (and fallen off numerous times despite being able to float)...you refuse a saddle.

Donna makes you a little transforming doll of yourself/your wolf, just as she would in this post.

If you shed, she will collect all the fur and weave it together, whether to make a doll or a scarf. You're not entirely sure what you feel about this.

Donna starts coming outside a bit more when you're there.

You both have picnics on the grounds.

If you spend time indoors with Donna for any extended period of time, the Lycans get more bold and come on the grounds more. You quickly chase them out.

If you get injured chasing out the lycans, Donna will gently fuss over your wounds and bandage them up.

🐺🐺🐺

[achillieus]

let you down. (sebastian stan x reader)

summary: it's a universal truth but it's worth repeating; feelings eat us raw. or just an actor and a girl falling in and out of love over the course of three months.

(this was inspired by sebastian's visit to greece for his movie, monday, and is based on that, so that means in the story we’re in 2018. also i have this posted on ao3 too but while i’m writing the last parts i thought of posting it here too)

quick note: i wrote this back in 2018 after meeting sebastian in greece but i redited it now, so if you see any mistakes or typos please tell me :)

pairing: sebastian stan x reader

warnings: alcohol, sexual references, implied depression, sebastian desperately needs to hug the reader, it's kinda slowburn because i love the yearning

part: 2/6

(other parts)  (masterlist)

It’s Monday when they come back from their small trip to the south. You’re watering the jasmine in your balcony when you hear the engine of Argyris’ car slowly shut down and see two figures getting out of the back seats.

It’s him and a blonde woman. You remember meeting her that night in the terrace. You’ve learnt that she’s a great actress and will play the other main character in the film.

When she notices you looking at them, she waves.

“Hey, Sebastian it’s your friend there.” She gives his shoulder a soft nudge.

We’re not friends. That’s what you almost yell back at her.

His head shots up, smiling.

He’s always smiling. It’s getting annoying.

You can see him going through his bag as he calls your name.

“Look, I brought you some traditional sweets.” He’s holding a small wrapped up package. He starts wiggling it in the air.

He looks so jolly and proud of himself. It makes your throat dry.

And before you can control it, you laugh. You can’t see it from where you’re standing but he bites his bottom lip at the sound.

/

Two hours later he’s sitting in your kitchen devouring half of the pastries he got you.

“These are actually so good, how can you not like them?” He says and it comes out all garbled. His mouth is full of sugary dough.

You do like them. But he does too. And you can find them anytime you want here. You doubt it’s the same in New York.

“They’re just not my favorite,” he nods “but thank you anyway.”

“Well let’s say you owe me,” you furrow your brows in confusion “and will repay me by sending me some of those once I’m gone.”

He laughs before taking another bite.

And as you stare at him, you notice that he’s different. His gaze is tranquil, his voice is soft and he has some cream at the corner of his lips.

Like that, he looks more like a guy you met at college than a well known actor.

Like that, we could be friends, you think.

You talk a lot. He tells you about his time in Romania and his first audition. It makes you realize you are far more interested in acting than what you thought. You tell him how you think team Iron Man is the superior team. He gasps, as if he is hurt.

He doesn’t mention his girlfriend. You don’t ask about her. It’s easier for both of you this way.

/

A stifling heat rises to your body as you walk under the burning sun. You don’t realize how Argyris gets you to give Sebastian a tour around the city, but you can remember a pair of light eyes pleading you.

You can easily hear him humming to himself. You turn to look at him. He’s wearing a hat and his forehead is sweating. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“You’re in a very good mood today.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Well I’m stuck with you for the day so what choice do I have?” You shrug.

He makes a face at you. You crack and a huge smile forms in your face.

He leans closer, mouth to ear and then he speaks.

“You know, I can’t tell if you hate me or just like me too much.”

His breath hits your cheek.  

You try not to blink at the sudden foreign touch.

His words find your skin and they’re so clear and powerful. Suddenly you’re an open page to him.

He crosses his arms in front of his chest and waits for an answer, a nod, a glance.

You are still standing close, the city sounds doing nothing to ease the heated silence between you two.

He realizes you’re not going to give him any response so he lowers his eyes.

And then, when he looks up again, it almost feels like he gives you mercy and agrees to let you get away with it this time.

He smiles.

“So where is Acropolis?”

/

When he’s lying on your couch after six hours of being a tourist and under the summer sun he looks exhausted. Still he’s his typical talkative self.

“You are always so pumped.”

“And you rarely are.”

“Doesn’t it get tiring?” you ask each other at the same time. It seems like you are two different sides of the exact same coin. One body. One heart.

“Today was nice.” He stretches his arms. “Thank you.”

You open the window. There is barely any wind out there. The air smells of hot cement and flowers.

The man on your couch has closed his eyes, breathing softly.

You try to ignore him over and over for the last days. Until you cannot ignore him anymore; your world has come to an end.

So many people know who Sebastian Stan is.

Only few will ever know him like this; falling asleep on a cheap brown couch with his hair messy, his chest rising and falling and his mind empty of thoughts.

These are photographs of your memories now.

An involuntary smile spreads across your face at the thought.

You see him swift and his hand clenches tightly around a throw pillow.

“Stop looking at me like that you creep,” he says.

“Come closer,” he means.

/

The sun is long gone and he’s still asleep when there’s a knock on your door. It’s Argyris.

“Please tell me he’s here.”

You nod and motion towards Sebastian’s drifted away body.

“When I left you this morning, I didn’t actually think you’d last this long together.” He tells you the moment he sees him.

The words fall out of his mouth too easily for your liking. “But I should have known better.”

You don’t understand much. You take a step out of your door. You don’t want to wake him up.

“Do you know how many times he mentioned you while we were away?’

Everything stops and falls quiet in the hall.

The words choke you. You shake your head.

“I need you to be smarter than him.” He says and touches your shoulder. “His world moves too fast for people like us.”

It’s effortless not to look at the man in front of you. It’s hard not to shallow his saying.

/

He wakes up an hour later. He looks at you and it feels sacred. His eyes are still red and the pillow has left a mark on his left cheek.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep here.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it was rude, you should have yelled at me to wake up or something.”

“But you looked tired.”

You carry on with doing the dishes and you hear the couch squeak as he stands up and steps towards you.

The water is refreshingly cold on your skin and the soap smells like lemon.

His hands find your waist and his touch is burning. You wish he disappears. You wish he stays for the night. You don’t even know what you’re wishing for anymore. He comes closer and rests his head on top of yours.

And then he wraps his arms around you and you get flashes of days and nights where there was not enough air for you to breath and your ribs ached.

His action is not so noble. It feels like his body steals all the rationality you have. But it gives you this feeling that there will be no more starless skies at night. And that’s enough for now, so you don’t complain.

His skin feels soft and he smells of sweat and vanilla. Somehow you find that alluring.

He looks at you for a second, like he’s trying to memorize your face. And then he pulls away completely silent.

You try to understand what he’s thinking but he gives nothing away. You were never good at reading people.

You blink and he’s almost out of your apartment.

“Goodnight” he shouts.

“Goodnight” you whisper.

/

You close the window. You wonder how he will spend the night. He probably won’t sleep soon. He just woke up.

But you can’t sleep either.  You just move around in your bed. You sink into the sheets and try to close your eyes.

Your phone buzzes.

He follows you on Instagram.

I need you to be smarter than him.

You go through his profile. You want to think he’s doing the same. You want him to do the same.

His world moves too fast for people like us.

You sigh. Perhaps there could have been a time when you would have stayed away from him, but you can’t pretend to ignore it for much longer. And you’re scared of it. And you’re scared of him.

But you’re more scared of how hard it’s for loneliness to fade. And you wish this doesn’t end like a greek tragedy.

/

One day of the following week you go out for coffee. The curly haired woman comes with you. You don’t understand why. And while you’re adding more sugar to your espresso, she tells him she loves his acting. She uses all kinds of adjectives to describe it; hopeful and poignant, celestial.

You like the way she talks. She sounds beautiful. You almost envy her abundance of words.

But Sebastian stops listening.

He watches the way your fingers wrap around the sugar box. He can see your nerves and your synapses move underneath your skin and he thinks he’s watching a dance show.

He will never tell you, but it’s then; under the morning sun and with sugar in your hands, that he feels his heart beat with the power of cymbals for the first time.

He thinks you don’t have to know.

He’s wrong.

You learn the girl is an actress herself. They’ll be in the movie together. They look stellar together.

Looking at them, gives you a violent feeling that wrenches your stomach around.

You can’t hate her for that. You feel like it’s more your fault than hers. That feeling however, grabs you by the shoulders and doesn’t let go. You try not to let it show.

But for some reason when Sebastian almost touches your palm, you look at her and you’re certain this is entirely mutual.

You make a silent agreement to not include him in any of this.

/

“You were extremely quiet earlier.” He says as you reach the building you call home.

He wants to spend time together until his scheduled shooting. You don’t complain.

“You always say that.” You try to joke. He looks right at you.

And then you notice that his eyes aren’t the color of the sea. They’re more grayish blue. They’re like a frozen lake in December.

“I know,” he starts messing with his hair “But you can’t deny you barely talked back there.”

When you enter your apartment, he immediately throws himself on your couch. These last few days it feels like he owns that right spot there in front of your big window.

“I’ve told you, I talk when I have something to say.”

He smiles at your words.

“Then I must be lucky you talk to me.” He whispers softly.

You sit next to him. If you move a little closer you could touch him, feel his warmth. You don’t.

You never thought of how easy it has become to talk to him. You don’t keep your thoughts locked and your teeth clenched around him. And that’s a novice feeling for you.

You let your eyelids fall close and lay back.

There’s a language between you two. It starts with secret glances and whispers and now it contains words that build and ruin bodies and souls.

Sometimes you want to say them all together. Sometimes you just want to open your mouth and let everything flow out but then you’re scared you’ll make him mad. Or you’ll make him love you.

You can’t decide which is worse and that’s enough to stop you.

“What is this thing between us?” He sounds all tender-like, but his blood feels heavy at the moment. He’s not sure if he can keep breathing. He regrets the words that leave his lips, when it’s already too late.

You have the answer figured out long time before he asks. But you’re not ready to give it to him.

“I don’t know” you open your eyes “I don’t know.” You repeat.

/

He doesn’t tell anyone but sometimes he feels nauseous before a shooting. You can clearly see that now. His pacing up and down the room and his roaming eyes give him away.

You are surprised. You never thought he could be nervous. He looks so confident and radiant all the time; you sometimes forget he is still a regular human being.

“You have no reason to worry.” His lips twitch.

“I know.”

“But you still worry.”  You grin and catch his arm to stop him from moving.

The look he gives you is acute.

“You have no reason to be sad,” he starts, without breaking eye contact “but you still are.”

You feel naked and hug yourself close.

It’s very strange to have someone scratch everything from you and see your raw truth. You’re not certain it’s something you enjoy. You wish it didn’t make you quiver.

Sebastian wishes he could scratch deeper under your dermis and your fingernails and slither there between your muscles and your heart where blood runs thick and melancholy hasn’t conquered yet.

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head.

“You didn’t say anything hurtful.”

You worry your words may come out bitter. You don’t want that.

“It won’t last forever.” he says and then your name appears in his tongue. You like the way he says it. It almost sounds like poetry. “You won’t be sad forever.”

You smile and, in that moment, you aren’t a worldwide known celebrity and a girl in her early twenties. You are just two people seeking comfort.

/

The same night there’s a party for the first day of shooting. You don’t feel like going, but he doesn’t let you stay home.

What did you do last night?

Went to a party with Sebastian Stan, typical Thursday night.

You can picture the look on everyone’s face. It makes your lips turn upward just a little.

“I told you to be careful.” The voice sounds almost far away but your neighbor is standing right next to you as he mutters.

“I am.” You say with a laugh. He crosses his arms.

“No, you are here, watching him starry-eyed.”

Your fingers start playing with the rough fabric of your dress.

“I don’t know how to stop it.” You whisper.

He tells you to not entail yourself in something you don’t know the way out of. But what does he know about solitude and rushed breaths?

What does he know about a pair of eyes that look like a frozen lake?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

/

He’s watching you from afar while you talk with Argyris. He notices how your chest moves along with your breathing in a way it looks like it’s made of pure glass.

For a while he thinks of staying there and keep observing you but then Argyris leaves and you’re all alone. And he starts walking closer to you.

All eyes are on him as he goes through the main dance floor. The curly haired actress stops moving to the beat and follows him with her gaze.

They both reach you.

And you know he’s moving towards you before you can see him. It’s like your body is aware of his presence madly fast.

His eyes seem darker under the hazy light.

He grabs your hand.

You almost heave.

“Let’s get out of here.” He breaths.

/

You walk for some time. It’s late and Athens is quiet around that time. There is only a soft broken sound of cars and you think about that time you saw a car crash happen in front of your eyes.

You sit close in an old dirty staircase in a forgotten back alley. The city has a lot of those, but people don’t notice. They just walk past them, always in a hurry.

Sebastian sighs heavily. He looks at you in a way it makes you think he’s trying to memorize everything. The way midnight air caresses your body, the way red lighting falls in your hair from that street lamp. He looks at you for an indefinite and long period of time and it feels exquisite.

You place your fingers on his palm and the world flickers. He’s still wearing the rings they gave him for the movie and they feel cold against your skin.

“Do you ever miss Romania?”

The question startles him.

“Every day.”

You nod. Maybe he knows more about sorrow than you give him credit for.

“I remember the dog fence and our neighbors’ daughter and the orange sky through my window, minutes before sun set.”

Your hand locks around his and you stay silent for a while.

“This is the Lyra constellation.”  His eyes light up as he looks up.

You remember reading about how much he’s into space. It’s intriguing.

“Where?”

He doesn’t let go of your hand. Instead he picks it up and guides it with his own. His body moves closer. There’s no cold in the air.

As your eyes search for the stars that your hands point at, he watches you and he’s certain that one day he’d love to lay on his back, with you on his side and show you all the little dead planets in the sky. Show you the secrets of the universe.

And he feels like this is the type of beauty that musicians try to write songs about.

“Ah!” Your grip becomes tighter and you smile. “I can see it!”

He laughs at your childish enthusiasm.

You laugh too.

And then you let your head fall on his shoulder, your hair touching his bare skin. You don’t blame them for making him wear sleeveless shirts for the film.

You can him feel shudder at your sudden motion, but then he exhales and his muscles relax.

He observes the features of your face from this angle. He almost traces them with his fingers.

“They’re probably going to kill me for stealing you away from the party.” You whisper.

“I think I was the one who grabbed your hand and left.” He laughs again and you can feel his chest pounding.

His phone buzzes. He doesn’t look at it. He closes his eyes.

“Δείξε μου όλα τα αστέρια. ”

He doesn’t understand a word but your voice sounds too close. You feel too close. And that’s almost tearing him apart.

“What does that mean?”

You turn to look at him. The neon sign on the old building behind him keeps trembling.

“It means, show me the stars.”

And he does. And he feels like he could burn alive.

And you will never tell him; but you still think of him when you catch a glimpse of burning stars.

i really appreciate feedback, it motivates me tons and also tell me if you’d like to be tagged :)

tagging: @lharrietg  @awkward117 @dannaloureen @broccoligf @cutestfangirlvevo @caitdaniels @arymb @buckybarnesishot310 @roguesthetic  @itsaliceheree

[oitommothetease]

Invisible String (2/?)

Pairing:  Bucky Barnes x Female reader (Modern AU)

Description: James Buchanan Barnes, the owner of the most expensive-looking club in town and your new apartment. He was a dick and you hated him. What could possibly go wrong when you, the new girl in town, start bartending at his club to pursue your dreams?

Warning: Sexual assault, mention of an anxiety attack.

Word Count: 1641

It turns out you definitely can't do this. Working in retail sucks, majorly. Customers are so awful to you and other employees as well. You didn't make the products, you don't control the prices, then why should you listen to them rant about it all day?

This job was from 9 am to 4 pm, which reminded you a lot of your previous job. By the time you got home, you were exhausted mentally and physically. Your current schedule was eerily similar to your previous lifestyle, which left you with no time to work on your book.

You felt like you were stuck in an insufferable loop that you just can't seem to escape no matter how hard you try. You thought about Mr. Barnes a lot, too. If only you weren't so egoistic and been a little nicer, then maybe you could have had that job.

With each passing day, you were becoming desperate. The only reason why you didn't run to Mr. Barnes a week ago was your pride. A pride that would not let you bow down to that rude, egoistic asshole.

It's like the universe could hear your thoughts and the devil himself walked through the doors of the store. Fuck, he can't see you here. He's going to think you're some nut job who's chasing stupid dreams after having an excellent degree. At least that's what your parents think.

You were about to run and hide behind an aisle when the voice you knew too well called out for you.

"Hey, do you know where I could find-"

"You," He said, without an emotion. "What are you doing here?"

You pointed towards the badge with the name tag on your shirt and mouthed working.

"Why?"

"Why?" You pretended to think, "I don't know, I interviewed for this other job about a week ago, but the boss was an ass."

"You lied to me," he stated as if it wasn't the most obvious thing.

"Gee, sorry, dad."

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what again?" You questioned.

" Diverging a question with a joke," He answered with an unaffected tone like he was studying you and your reaction.

"You know who I am." he stated. It should have been a question, but both of you were aware of what he meant.

"A vampire?" You mocked. He didn't look like one though, but hey, neither did Edward nor Stefan. But God, those steel-blue eyes could drink you up and you wouldn't complain. Focus.

For the first time you saw an emotion on his face that wasn't unaffected or bored, he was confused. Of course, he was confused, you were referencing twilight to a mob boss (you think, you weren't sure, but that's all you could gather from all the articles you found about him online).

"I need that job," you confessed. " I know it's not very convincing, but I need you to trust me-"

He raised a brow at that and his lips turned into a smirk. God, you wished you could swipe off that smirk from his stupidly handsome face.

"But you don't trust me, " you stated dejectedly and started turning around. "You wanted something? "

In an instant, his hand wrapped around your wrist gently, stopping you in your tracks. You ignored the involuntary shudder that ran through you and immediately yanked your hand out of his grasp.

You turned around and were about to give him a piece of your mind about how he shouldn't just come to your place of work and touch you without consent. He clearly guessed your thoughts and cut in.

"Clint Barton, the manager, he will tell you everything you need to know about bartending and handling the customers."

Did he just hire you? What changed between this and your previous meeting with him?

And just like that, he left. There was a part of you that wanted to say fuck off I don't need your help, but you knew better, so you went to that club later that evening. You found the Manager, Clint. He told you he was expecting your arrival and that made you feel weird because Mr. Barnes was totally opposite the day you met.

Your new job required you to be at work from 8 pm to 3 am, which was ideal for you. You usually reach home and pass out till 4 in the morning and wake up around noon. This schedule gave you a lot of time to work on your book.

You ended up making friends with some other people that work there as well. Wanda was the smart, sarcastic one that you'd have died to have as a friend in high school. Pietro, her twin brother, was also nice, a bit fast and impatient, but he was nice to you. Peter looked very young, but he knew what he was doing and he'd help you out a lot. That kid had a lot of energy and adrenaline, which surprised you every time he'd be done with work way before you.

You didn't see Mr. Barnes frequently. You saw him one time entering the club, and you tried to give him a smile which he ignored and went straight to his office upstairs. And then you decided to ignore him as well. It wasn't like you to be petty, okay, maybe you were being petty, but in your defense, he started it.

You were finishing up cleaning the table and were about to call it a day when a man you didn't recognize, probably wasn't a regular, came in asking for a drink.

"I'm sorry, sir. We're closed." You told him politely.

"Whiskey on the rocks."

You wanted to refuse him again, but you stopped yourself when he came into your sight. He didn't look like the kind of man who'd take your no seriously. He looked just as intimidating as Mr. Barnes, even more, but Mr. Barnes knew his boundaries, whereas this man in front of you evidently didn't. You could tell this by the way his gaze was slowly taking your body in and stopping a little longer at your cleavage.

You wanted to cringe and curse yourself for choosing to wear a top like that in a place filled with drunk men. The smarter part of your brain told you that he can go fuck himself, and you shouldn't think about men when you dress up. Women are entitled to wear whatever they want to and fuck men and people who tell them otherwise.

Carefully, you made his drink and handed it to him. His hand lingered on yours while taking the glass from you, and you wanted to just throw the drink across his face. His gaze remained on your chest even when you fixed your top and coughed twice to call his behavior out.

"What time do you get off?" he asked, eyes still on your chest.

Is this guy for real? , you thought.

"Um, this is highly inappropriate and I think you should leave now because I have to call it a night." you rejected politely, raising your hand towards the door, hoping he'd leave.

He chuckled darkly, his stare still drinking in your body as if you were a piece of meat, and it made you very, very uncomfortable. He obviously wasn't taking no for an answer, and you had no clue what to do. You were the only person left, and you didn't even know who to ask for help.

"Come on, baby girl," he said, walking towards you and forcefully snaking his hands around your waist to settle on your hips. " Don't make this harder than it should be. "

"No!" you yelled, pushing him away and creating some distance between you.

"Hard way it is then," he decided, walking towards you and forcefully holding the hem of your shirt in his hands to remove it. You struggled, yelled, and pushed him off you again. He furiously lunged forward towards you and hit you hard across the face. "Fucking bitch."

"Rumlow!" a voice boomed from behind you, and you hated yourself for being in such a vulnerable state. As much as you tried not to, tears welled up in your eyes and you hated being the helpless damsel in distress.

"Get the fuck out of here." the familiar voice ordered.

"Chill, Barnes. We were just having a little fun," the man known as Rumlow reasoned nonchalantly. "Besides, it's not my fault if she wears clothes like this."

You were all about feminism and how women should be treated equally with respect despite their attire, but at that moment you hated yourself for choosing that deep-neck shirt this morning.

"I'm not going to chill while you sexually harass my employees, so get the fuck out of here," Mr. Barnes warned again.

You closed your eyes and hoped that maybe this was a shitty dream and you'd wake up in your bed and have an anxiety attack because of the nightmare. You hoped that maybe the ground beneath you would open up and swallow you, so you could just not think about this ever.

You heard two sets of footsteps faintly in the background, one dragging its way away from you and the other rushing towards you. Furthermore, you didn't have it in you to open your eyes and meet the ocean blue ones that you knew were waiting for you.

In your head, you had already taken up the blame. The verdict came out the moment his gaze landed on your chest that it was your fault that you wore this shirt. Of course, if you were thinking right, you would have realized that you were undoubtedly the victim here and Rumlow was an asshole who assaulted you, but in your helpless state, your mind decided you were at fault here.

TAGS: @bananapipedreams​

[kashimos-hajime]

the shakes | p.d.

summary: “It’s the Shakes, darling. Makes everything excruciating.” Or, you’re experiencing the terrible side effects of being horny and Poe Dameron knows just how to fix it.

WARNINGS: SMUT (18+), oral (fem!receiving) and just a whole lot of banter, bruh poe is just feastin TONIGHT, sprinkle of plot pairing: poe dameron x fem!reader word count: 5.1k

a/n: uhhh so,,, heh,,, enjoy. bc smut. 

“Ow, fuck.”

“You’re stepping on my foot.”

“My bad. It’s not like we’re stuck in a fucking closet.”

“Who’s fault is that?”

“Yours.”

You breathe out through your nose, struggling to contain your annoyance as you try to back up away from man but no dice. Instead, your back jams awkwardly against the busted control panel.

Said control panel is one of the reasons why you’re stuck in a closet with a man you met only twenty minutes before. Other reasons may or may not include you, the man mentioned, and a certain droid both of you are supposedly waiting on.

“You said that droid is coming?” you grunt as he lets out a heavy sigh against your collarbone. You’ve been squished in a four by four foot supply closet for the past twenty minutes at least and there’s barely enough room as he reaches around to jam the button again. “That’s not going to work,” you say pointedly and he scowls at you, pressing the button again.

“BB-8’s coming,” he growls. “He’ll know I’m missing.”

“Oh, thank the Maker for that!”

“Do you have a problem?”

“Uh, yeah. You’re breathing in my air, in my general vicinity.” A pause, and then: “Can you breathe in any other direction?”

In response, he sucks in a huge breath and lets it out in one big exhale towards the vent above them before glancing down again and arching a brow as if to say, Happy now?

You are most certainly not.

“At least this gives us a moment to breathe. It’s better than being arrested,” he says as if offering a ceasefire. The man leans away from you and you sigh, readjusting the strap of your short dress. His eyes are determinedly staying on yours but even you know they’ve dipped the few times your back was turned. “We can get to know each other.”

Not that you haven’t been thinking about his ass all day either. You spotted him earlier in the markets today, even if he hadn’t noticed you, with that orange and white droid rolling around behind him. Cute and memorable.

What can you say? A good looking guy tends to stick out in a crowd.

“I think I’d rather be arrested,” you say as you lean against your own wall and tug at your dress where you think it doesn’t fit too well. “Who the fuck are you, anyway?”

“You mean, you don’t lock lips with any random handsome stranger?” he fires back. “I’m hurt.”

“Right. You know what I meant.” You nod to the chip in his pocket. “What do you wanna do with that?”

“Top secret, Snatch.”

“Snatch?” you repeat, frowning. “Never mind. I’m sure it’s a secret you can share with me.” At this, you push off the wall and, by the limitations of the closet, stand in his space. Dameron straightens up, an unimpressed smirk printed on his face. “So?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“It could be.”

“It really couldn’t.” His nose brushes against yours and his soft breath tickling at your lips makes a hot spear shoot into your gut. You can taste the sunfruit on his breath, the sweet swipe of his tongue across his lips and your eyes narrow as his chest presses against yours. You don’t budge from your spot as a curl of his dark hair falls into his eyes. Almost automatically and before you can register what you’re doing, you reach up to brush it back and he catches your wrist before you can, grin growing. “I knew I recognized you.”

“I’m so happy for you,” you reply dryly. You shake his hand free from your wrist and back up against the wall, crossing your arms. “I’ve seen you in the markets a few times. The only eye-candy way out here,” you admit grudgingly, thinking of the weird fantasies you had about the guy you dubbed ‘The Man from the Market.’

Not your most graceful or catchy nickname, or your most dignified moment, waking up to soaked panties and a flustered sensation glossing over your skin, but you also didn’t expect to see him again. At this party, no less, of some merc bastard and his friends.

“Likewise,” he says, eyes dropping from yours to your lips and then darting up again. He chews on his lip, as if fighting back that cocky smile before he adds, “You’re the only thing that’s caught my eye in the past two days.”

“Charming.”

“Hm. Poe Dameron.”

You glance at the unopened door, sighing out a, “Good for you,” as you cross your legs at your ankles. Dameron only frowns, turning to the door and you observe the darkness around you. You can’t really make out anything but the solid shape of your fellow closet companion. You can’t even make out his features too well unless he’s extremely close to you, and even then, it’s a guesstimate.

You’re going to kill Yvonna. If she wants the intel, she’s going to have to pay you double the credits.

The darkness seems to crowd in on you and you take a deep breath, the heat of the room getting to you. You feel sweat gather underneath your arms, in the creases of your thighs, and maybe it’s the alcohol getting to you, but you swear your feet aren’t attached anymore. They’ve been strapped to some stupidly high heels to accentuate your legs and it's gathered in a trembling pain in your calves now that you’ve a moment to stop moving. You want to keep moving. It’s the dancing in your stomach, the strange flutter in your lungs, the involuntary clenching between your legs.

Normally, you’d be fine but right now…

God, it might’ve been something you ate. You don’t know, but right now, you feel like you’re a hollowed out piece of scrap.

“C’mon, BB-8,” Dameron murmurs as you let your head drop back against the wall. Your eyes slip shut and it’s not too different from the darkness surrounding.

Maybe it’s cause you haven’t seen Krieg in a moment which is part of the reason you’re here. Hasn’t given you a chance to take the edge off and you’re so full of this energy that needs to be spent or you’re going to die in this closet, in that ship…

You needed to do something.

Your eyes open and see the shape of Dameron’s head.

Or, someone.

Yes, you had kissed him first, pushed him into this closet, let his hands wander, but that was because a guard was coming and you weren’t about to get caught red-handed.

This fucking sucks.

“My friends call me Y/N,” you say glumly, your fingers gingerly tugging at the hem of your skirt. An uncomfortable slickening is occurring down there just thinking about that kiss that occurred in a time when you weren’t stuck in a closet, and you can’t help but think that Dameron was a good kisser.

Give credit where credit is due, all that bullshit.

“Y/N, huh?”

“I said my friends,” you reply pointedly. “Associates and otherwise know me by my callsign.”

“Which is?”

“Bandit.”

“How original,” he mutters almost under his breath and you roll your eyes. The burning in your gut spreads like a fan of fire, following where your knuckles press against your thighs as you try to adjust your dress to fit comfortably, but it’s too damn hot and you shift again, catching his attention. “You okay? Not afraid of the dark, are you?”

“No. It’s just… it’s just hot in here,” you mumble with a scowl directed at your own body betraying the way his arm bracketing you on one side of your head is radiating a heat you want to choke on. “When did it get so hot?”

“When they started serving spiced whiskey?” he tries and, this time, your scowl is directed at him with another poison to kill a small snake. “Maybe you’re having the Shakes.”

“The…” You blink, and you’re not sure if your eyes are adjusting to the blinding darkness or if you can actually see him clear as day when he bends his arm and leans against the wall by his elbow. You don’t move away and his breath, searing, tingles at your sweating neck. The drawling exhales only serve to send more thigh-clenching spasms into your stomach and you shoot him a weak glare. “The what now?”

“The Shakes,” he repeats as if he’s totally unaware of what he’s doing to your body. Maker, he must be able to smell it. There’s no way he can’t because you can feel just the effect of him being so close to you has done and— “You know.”

“I, uh, I really don’t.” If he knew a fraction of what his voice did to your panties, he would not be talking right now. Or he’d be talking more. You don’t know which one you want more.

“Oh, you know, when you haven’t had sex in a long time. I call it the Shakes. Every little thing sets you off, you get cranky and flustered, you’re all wired up and your gut feels like the first time you go into hyperspace.” He sighs, and you hear the quiet thump of his head resting against the wall. Y’know, darling?”

“Hm?” you hum, distracted by the index knuckle running over your cheek.

“It makes you distracted.” You can hear his smirk and you roll your eyes with a scoff. “It’s why I call ‘em the Shakes. Throws everything off, doesn’t it?”

“Stars, you love hearing yourself talk, don’t you?”

“You know, I see the it often enough that I can recognize any poor soul suffering from a mile away,” he says, ignoring you. “And you’re sick with it, Snatch.” Casually as if he isn’t lazily tracing the shell of your ear with his hand now, he chuckles. You close your eyes as if you’re not critically aware of every desire to pull him into another hard kiss, every little movement of his body from the way he leans to the way his fingers flutter around the curve of your jaw.

You’re a fucking fighter, though. You’re not about to hook up with some random motherfucker in a closet.

Even if the random motherfucker is the hottest thing you’ve seen in who knows how long.

Holy shit, you think your gut might explode with how hard you’re trying to keep it together so you say the first thing you can think of related.

“I didn’t get sick the first time I flew into hyperspace. I didn’t get sick the first time I did an aileron. I, uh, I really don’t get sick when I fly at all,” you say, eyebrows rising skeptically. “Do you?” Confused: “No. I’m a pilot.”

“Oh. And you get the Shakes often, then? Wedged in the seat for hours on end,” you ask conversationally, managing to keep your tone in check. Dameron chuckles at your question, but he pulls back. Your thighs press together and something lurches at his withdrawal, wanting him near again but you silently push those urges down. “If you’re so wise to depart your knowledge with me, that is.”

“You’re a funny girl. Nah, you just get used to it when you’re busy doing other things.”

“Other things?”

“Hm, well, let’s say I have a busy job, and that’s pretty much my whole twenty-four-seven schedule.” He comes close again, close enough that his lips brush against the delicate skin before your ear and shivers shoot down your spine like waves of electricity and you stiffen. You know he hears you suck in your breath, the tiny hitch of your chest and he chuckles again, almost amused.  

“I think… it’s…” Maker, please forgive me for my utterly hedonistic will that has the strength of melted bantha cheese. “Fuck, I think it’s physically impossible to ignore that you’re horny.”

“I didn’t say that,” he corrects, lips whispering over your skin. He tilts his head. “I said you get used to it.”

“Well… n-normally, I’m pretty fucking good at that.” You bite your lip and lift your head to the ceiling, thighs pressing together and straightening up but the sound of your dress dragging against the wall gives you away. “When... people aren’t around.”

“People?” he echoes. “You alright, Snatch?” Fuck him. He is definitely enjoying this.

Well, fuck. Might as well, right?

“The Shakes,” you say in a very steady tone that is betrayed by the absolute ocean swimming between your thighs, “may have found residence here.”

“Hm.”

“That funny to you?” you ask, feeling his smug fucking smirk against your cheek and turning to look at him. His dark eyes glint somehow in the non-existent light. You just know it’s there. A cocky spark.

“Explains why you kiss like I’d melt away between your fingers. It was a good kiss, by the way. You’re a good kisser,” he adds, “but more passionate than I thought you’d go for, considering all we were trying to do was evade the guards and that fact that up until that point, you were trying to pickpocket me.”

“I was trying to get the chip. And I think the pushing into the closet was a good touch,” you defend as he rotates around and cages you against the wall. You stare defiantly back. “He went away, didn’t he?”

“But that just implies something.” His elbows are on either side of your head and he leans in, low enough that you can feel the sound of his voice, his sweet breath against your aching mouth. It’s one thing to admit it but another thing to act on it. Maker, are you really about to—

You know what?

Fuck it. Your panties are ruined, you need this fucking annoying heat out of your system and he’s fucking right about one thing: you’re hornier than a Lucrusian fengrill in heat.

What do you have to lose?

“Why just imply something?” you ask innocently as his lips brush against the corner of your mouth. You sigh in relief when the heat seems to sink, spreads through your body instead, and his shadow brushes against your skin as he moves lower, lips finding your chin, the curve of your jawbone. “Oh, fuck…” you choke out, your hands finding his hair automatically, threading through the dry locks and his name slips out in a breathless moan. “Fuck, Dameron.”

His body jerks at the sound of his name coming from you and your eyes widen when his hips press flush against your thigh. His bulge is hot and hard, the fabric of his pants silky against your bare skin and you let out a soft sound when he nudges your head up. His hands run over the walls, find your shoulders, your waist, tugging at fabric that sticks to your skin before continuing elsewhere, and you’re not even breathing as he licks at the pulse point, the sweat, the alcohol glazing your skin.

“Shit,” he breathes against your neck, teeth running along the vein as his hand sneaks underneath the hem of your dress, skirts around the edge of your panties and it’s the brush across the absolutely soaked spot that does him in, does you in because you know he felt you clench around nothing. “Fuck, I can feel it—”

“Shut up,” you groan, wrenching his head up and smashing your lips against his. He sighs into your mouth, hips grinding against yours as you take a handful of his curls. You yank him back, your lungs seizing for air. Everything tastes like sugar and starfruit as you push him down to his knees, your calves burning. “My feet. Ow. Fuck these heels, honestly.”

“I got ‘em.” His hands immediately find your ankles, running smooth circles into your skin but before you can tell him the strap is on the outer side of your leg, he lifts your foot up. A protest stammers in your throat as he reaches up and presses you against the wall with a large hand flat against your tummy, but he merely smirks against your thigh, letting your knee hang off his broad shoulder. “It’s the Shakes, darling. Makes everything excruciating.”

“Dameron—”

“Relax,” he drawls as your back meets the wall flush and cold. You grab onto the handle of one of the mechanical drawers, wincing when his hand digs into the sore muscle on its way up to stabilize your thigh just as the other on your stomach travels down. “Got a nice view, don’t you?”

“Would be better,” you grit out, “if I could see.”

“Need me to pull out my glow-in-the-dark condoms for you?”

“Dameron.”

“Kidding. Well, only half. I do have some back on the ship.”

“Dameron.”

“Alright, alright. Next time.”

You can’t even see the silhouette of his face anymore, gone underneath the hem of your dress, but you shake your head anyway, lip caught between your teeth as you feel his hand slide up and down the one calf still planted firmly on the ground.

You take a breath and let your head fall back, your ravaged neck pulsing, your entire world spinning.

It happens all at once. When his grip on the thigh resting on his shoulder tightens, when he lifts your other leg over his shoulder, when he surges forward, his lips finding your soaked panties immediately, teeth nipping lightly at the fabric.

Your entire system shuts down.

He noses up higher and your thighs wrap around his head, ankles hooking. His fingers dig into the flesh of your thighs, clutches at your ass really, and your fingers in his hair tighten when the dress begins to ride up higher, revealing more of the gorgeous man between your legs.

Oh, how you wish there was some sort of light in here so you can just—

There’s one shaky breath, then another, and there’s no movement which you’re only painfully aware of and your eyes open—when did you even close them?—as you look down. “What’s wrong?”

“I just wish I could see you, darling,” he breathes, kissing the top of your slit and sending a warm shiver through your gut. “Fuck. The way you’d look when I finally chase the Shakes out of you—I’d ruin you. Ruin you and then some. Eat for days.” And then his teeth return, barely skimming the soft flesh of your navel as they hook on the waistband of your panties and tug, his breath following down your thigh as he works on pulling it down, slowly, luxuriously, his lips soft as they press teasing kisses in the crease of your thighs, land tiny nips to the juncture of your hips. You spasm at every turn, wiggle and squeeze until you’re sure you’re cutting off the circulation in his neck, but he doesn’t give any indication that he cares.

No, he just holds you against the wall, your legs tossed over his shoulders, and grins.

You don’t know how you know.

You just do so you don’t know why you stutter out, “You g-good?” anyway.

“Fucking perfect.”

Maybe it’s so you can hear that voice, low and deep in his chest, between your legs.

He leans forward and his nose bumps into your clit, and, as if on reflex, a warm, strong tongue darts out and licks a solid stripe through your heat. “Fuck, darlin’.”

Definitely so you can hear that voice between your legs.

“You’re heaven, y’know that?” he mumbles but you can’t quite focus, your hands gripping at anything you can—one in his hair, the other on that handle and your back arches when he just goes for it, mouth to clit contact, tongue probing and licking and stroking all at once. “Think ‘m gonna die if you don’t drown me first.”

“W-way to i-inflate a girl’s—fuck…” Your voice goes hoarse midway, as if he sucks it out of you, and you can feel the air in your lungs going with it as your back arches off the steel wall. You can feel his jaw, sharp and strong and warm, flexing against your thighs as he works, tongue velvet, lips teasing and he inhales deeply as your legs tighten around his head.

His fingers dig deeper into your ass and you choke back a pathetic moan when his teeth raze your swollen bud lightly, just enough to tease you and keep you on edge. Everything is cotton. The shadows, his hair, his rough hands that are full of calluses you don’t know the meanings of.

Your nails scratch his scalp, tug him impossibly closer and you’re biting through your lip right now, your moans bundling in your chest as he pushes deeper, pushes you closer against the wall as if he wants more of you but can’t quite reach and you want to just let him continue, let him have his fun because you’re sure he can go down on you for hours but—

You’re only human, and the tide comes so quickly you fucking know for sure two things: Dameron knows what he’s doing and Dameron knows what the fuck the Shakes are.

A slight brush of his tongue at your clit and you’re gone. You’re on that downhill slope that sends a spiral of chain events through your body. Your thighs lock around his head and your fingers tighten as lightning shivers and lances through your limbs, sending your heart up into your throat and pulsing between your legs. Your gut clenches, so desperate to hold on that you can’t even breathe, that the only thing you can stutter out is some bare semblance to his name followed by ramblings of “fuck” slewn with more “close… close… so, so close…”

Your eyes are screwed shut, your mind scrambling to concoct an image—an image that would be reality if the lights were on and you can almost see it. Poe Dameron, with his dark eyes, raven hair, plush lips and a beard that scratches against your skin, on his knees with your legs thrown over his shoulders, his hands, huge and veined and strong, grabbing at what flesh he can, head gone underneath the hem of your dress and you can only feel what he’s doing—

You don’t even recognize him chuckling until you can feel the vibration of it through your knees, against your leg.

“Darlin’,” he pants, drawing back just enough to breathe and he tilts his chin just enough to press a sloppy, slick kiss against the soft flesh of your inner thigh and he laughs again, entertained at the desperate little whine that comes outta your throat because the image would’ve been just enough if he kept going for a second more, “gotta let me fuckin’ breathe if you want me to stay down here.”

“That’s…” You struggle for words because you’re heaving so hard, so out of breath because you didn’t even know you weren’t breathing for several seconds. “That’s—it’s, oh, shit.” Your thought process is disturbed by another teasing lick at your swollen folds. “Dameron, if you don’t let me just fucking—”

He nips at the juncture between your thigh and your soaking, swollen cunt.

“Watch it.” You retaliate with a sharp tug of his hair and he only laughs again, soothing the bite mark with a few gentle kisses.

“Just keeping you on edge, darling,” he whispers, peeking up from underneath your dress for the first time in what feels like hours. You run your hand blindly down his face and feel the slickness on his chin, swiping it off but his teeth catch your thumb, and then it’s his tongue wrapping around your fingers, too, sending fluttering shivers through your stomach. He licks them dry before he lets go and your hand finds his hair again as he sighs, disappearing between your legs again, and you barely hear it, a nearly indecipherable mumble that sounds more like it’s coming from inside your head that his own mouth, “Anyone ever told you… you taste like heaven?”

“And how would you know?” you gasp, feeling a little giggly yourself as the crest begins to rise, your chin tilted up as his tongue flattens against your slit. He hums to himself, the curve of his jaw brushing against your tender thigh as he pulls back just enough to speak.

“‘Cause I just tasted it, darling. And I know I could just feast on you for days.” Your entire body tenses as he laughs into your cunt, the ripples of it against your sensitive skin shooting through your spine and you’re on that downward spiral again as his smiling mouth attaches to your bud and his tongue dips into you again.

You’re dripping. The sounds are obscene, filthy to the nth degree, and you’re so close that it aches. You want to thrust but you can’t risk toppling the man you’re resting on the shoulders of, but at the same time, you know he’s teasing the ever loving shit out of you with his shallow passes, his fluttering kisses.

Taking his sweet time, indulging in it. You’re pretty sure if he could make do on his promise to eat you out for however long you’d let him, he would, but you’re half-aware of where you are, that the droid is supposedly coming, and having half-a-brain is half-a-brain too much to lose all common sense.

“Dameron,” you whisper, and he pauses, looking up and you wish you could see his face, the face of a man who stopped at the mere utterance of his name that it sends a thrill through your overstimulated system. “Please.”

There are no further words needed.

He works you up to it slowly, until your fingers are clamped so hard and you’re seeing stars despite there being nothing but shadows around you. The only sound is the wet slop of his mouth working against your drenched pussy, your moans and his heavy breathing that fans out across your navel.

It’s when his tongue pushes so much deeper, and curls, that your thighs clamp down around his head and your fingers are gripping so hard you’re not sure you’re going to make it without a few nail cuts in your palms that you know the Shakes are gone.

Your entire world flips as your vision goes black. Your fingers curl tighter, your thighs begin to quiver, and everything snaps inside you. Your back arches off the wall and you feel like you scream but it’s because your voice is so utterly broken that it seems so as he continues to drink through the floods, drawing out the aftershocks for as long as possible and the euphoria that shoots through you like a blaster is both molten and cool as spring water.

Your vocabulary is nothing but his name, soft breathes of “fuck” and “shit”, and the unrelenting “thank you”.

Your heart rattles against your ribs, beating so quickly you think it might burst from your chest and you feel another quivering sigh escape your lips as Dameron gives you a few more gentle sucks to your messy centre before he’s slowly running his hands up your thighs, to your knees, and gently sliding your legs off back to the floor.

Your body is trembling so hard that your knees nearly give in immediately, but, luckily, Dameron’s hands find your waist and ease you to the ground just as you let go of the handle of the drawer.

“Fuck,” you croak ungracefully once your ass is on solid ground and you gulp down nothing but air as you try to open your eyes. It’s not that different from your closed vision and there are a few white stars blinding you in the dark, but you can still make out the shape of your partner, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand before he’s leaning over your leg to check the control panel. It’s then that you can feel it, pressed against your shin. He’s hard as a fucking rock. “Y-you need—” But your voice is a garbled mess, exhausted from the alcohol and the Shakes, and he turns to you, fingers dancing up your calves before slowly pulling your ruined panties back up your thighs.

“Up,” he orders quietly, and you lift your hips up enough for him to slip them firmly back onto your hips. “And it’s fine. I told you. I’m good with the Shakes.”

“Yeah, but, y’know…” you mumble, “could be good.” You can feel him smiling as he leans over to kiss your neck blindly, still finding that tender juncture of your shoulder. You grin, your hands finding his shoulders and roaming his back, feeling the curved muscle of a military man. You know his type.

Continuing downward, down his sides…

“You do owe me,” he murmurs and you nod as he pulls back just as the sound of beeping on the other end of the door.

“Mhm, don’t wanna stay in debt,” you say just as the sound of whirring fills the heated silence and your grin grows as you expectedly raise one of your hands to shield the light about to fill their little closet. You pull your other hand away and you begin pulling the loops out on your heels, sliding your aching feet out of those torture shoes. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again in the future, huh? Pay you back then.”

The door slides open and you stand as he scrambles to his feet as well. At least, you can see his features clearly, and you grin because he’s just as handsome as the first time you saw him.

Absolute score.

With your fingers hooked on your shoes, you wipe the bit of slick he missed on the corner of his mouth. He grabs your hand before it drops, pressing a cheeky kiss to the center of your palm and you roll your eyes.

“That’s fine with me,” he replies, squinting against the light and you tap his cheek. “See you around, Flyboy.” You flash him one last smile before leaving the closet first and walking down the hall. Your knees are still trembling and you feel like you’re a complete mess as you stagger through the metal hallway. Exhaustion is telling you to just go the fuck to sleep right then and there, but you can’t. Not until you get back to your ship and get into hyperspace.

As soon as you’ve rounded a corner, you run with everything you have.

It’s only a matter of time before Poe Dameron realizes that the chip that was in his pocket is making its way to another buyer.

Yvonna totally owes you.

[hallowed-by-thy-name]

I know this has probably been done long ago, but I was feeling a periodic bout of Extreme Anger over the finale and I fell down a rabbit hole and am now in firm belief of the theory that Chuck won. Here's all the stuff I found as to why:

explicit 15x04/15x19/15x20 parallels with 15x04 literally canonically establishing why Chuck's intended ending was not a good ending, then the show ending in the exact same way. (meta post x and x)

unintentional?? parallel with Sam filling Dean's absence with his son/ John filling Mary's absence with his son (x)

Dean textually saying 'that's not who I am' in response to being called 'the ultimate killer' by Chuck, then dying as a killer.

an excellent meta post as to why Chuck winning makes sense when he's taken as an allegory to the network (not the writers!! there's a difference)

and in that context, the ending paralleling the 'planned' s5 ending with one brother dead and the other alive and suffering

alternate endings seen by Sam which are Chuck's (x)

Sam/Dean mirrors from 15 paralleling the Winchester in 15x20; bearing in mind that Chuck wrote the mirror characters like that on purpose and Lilith telling Sam and Dean and us as an audience that is was bad (x)

the entire theme?? of the show is found family??? Finale: O.O no really?? (x)

each of TFW getting an unhappy ending that is like specific to each character's worst insecurities (x)

Jack after becoming 'god' standing the exact, i mean the EXACT same way as Chuck (x) and like SERIOUS Jack/Chuck parallels (x)

After Cas' death (voluntary/his choice), the literal erasure of the impact he has had on all three remaining leads (involuntary/Chuck's doing 'cause he never liked Cas) (x), (x), this scene was cut whereafter we see no one mourn or acknowledge the 12 years Cas has been a part of the Winchesters' lives knowing that the last time Cas'd died Dean had gone off the fucking rails (x), (x)

Castiel literally meaning 'shield of god' and for so long being Cas (dropping the '-iel' which means 'of God' meaning that he rebelled/broke the narrative) only for Castiel to be carved on the table (the part that meant 'of God' is back) also (x) (it's a small thing but the symbolism is important here esp 'cause spn thrives off of subtext/mirrors/parallels/symbolic imagery etc)

miscellaneous literally-plot-doesn't-make-sense (x), (x), (x)

There's other stuff too, but mostly just like, you can't expect me to believe that Chuck wiped out everyone except these three dudes and didn't keep an eye on them for long enough for them to formulate a plan good enough to take him down?? And even the way they take him down- there was next to no build-up for the weird Jack-energy-suction-vacuum thing; the only build for that plot started literally IN that episode, which is conveniently after your only wildcard dies in a way he cannot return?? Huh. Funny how as soon as Cas- the only being not directly under the control of Chuck- dies, Sam, Dean and Jack suddenly manage to find what looks like a very deus ex machina solution that resolves the season long arc in a span of like 5 mins??

Also, one more thing that really bothered me was the sheer amount of plot-holes that came up after/because of 15x19/15x20 (either because established plotlines weren't followed up or new things with no explanation came up). Now, if TFW really did win, these don't really make sense at all; but if it was Chuck who won, it seems an awful lot like a writer just trying to wrap up a story/characters he's bored with. Chuck is done with these characters- they've given him so much shit trying to break out of the narrative. And now that Castiel is dead, he can predict if not control all the people left, so why not just rush through as fast as possible and be done with it?

“you know, i tried and i tried and i tried, but you're all just too stupid, too stubborn. too broken. you know what? i'm over it. i'm over you.” (15x17)

And I know that we all know that TPTB have done stuff externally to end up with the ending we did get, but the only way the ending makes sense (to me) IN CANON without any meta-context and what was going on outside of the canon universe is that Chuck really did win.

Also at least this way, it give more meaning to the ending as said (here) and literally is the only way i can think about the ending without spontaneously combusting.

[nbrook29]

Kiss or Slap part 2

part 1

Robbe stands in front of the mirror, eyes critical as he assesses the forest green shirt, plucking at the collar that’s digging uncomfortably into his neck. It’s not like the shirt is ugly; the problem is that it’s not and that it looks a bit too formal. But then again, Robbe wouldn’t know for sure since he’s never been on a real date before. He’s feeling a bit helpless in that area, to be honest.

He has a half a mind to text the boys and ask for advice, but just as the thought passes his brain he scoffs because it’s just silly; the only thing he would gain from doing that would be merciless teasing for weeks on end. Thanks, but no thanks.

Sighing, he glances in the direction of the hall, debating with himself whether asking for Zoe’s opinion is the right option here, but deep down he knows that otherwise, he’s gonna be standing i front of that mirror agonizing over his appearance for the next twenty minutes if someone doesn’t talk some sense into him.

The way Zoe’s eyes widen in surprise when he enters her room lets him know that yes, he is overdressed. 

“Too much?” He scrunches up his face, feeling a bit self-conscious.

“Well, I mean... you look really nice, but, um, maybe go for a t-shirt instead?” Zoe suggests, looking almost apologetic. Robbe hovers in the threshold, still not totally convinced.

“Yeah?” 

“You clearly feel uncomfortable in that, plus he’s not taking you to an expensive restaurant or something so I think you should just go for chill,” she pauses, trying to remember something. “That pink t-shirt you have? You look really cute in it! You should wear that.”

“I don’t wanna look cute, Zoe, I wanna look hot,” Robbe blurts out, pink blooming on his cheeks when Zoe coos at him in that annoying way she always does and he immediately covers his face. “Stop.”

She giggles at his embarrassment, patting his arm consolingly as she pretends to give him a once over. “You do look hot, no matter what shirt you’re wearing.”

“Yuck, that sounds weird coming from you.” Robbe fake-gags and gets a smack on his chest. “I’m outta here, thanks.” Before he manages to close the door, Zoe catches his arm and shoots him a comforting smile.

“And calm down. He’s already into you, he won’t care what you’re wearing, Robbe.”

It’s easier said than done. Ever since he woke up, he’s been a giddy, anxious, yet excited mess, butterflies flying rampant in his stomach, fingers drumming absent-mindedly on the nearest surface, and he’s-

Well.

He’s been kinda freaking out.

Somehow (he has no idea how), he managed to keep his cool during that faithful afternoon a week ago when a boy came up to him with a dumb YouTube challenge, he’d even call himself flirty and bold. 

He’s not so sure he’ll be able to provide a repeat performance tonight. Not with that particular charming smile directed at him, almost making him whimper because no one should have the right to be that handsome. At the time, the infatuation was laced with disappointment and anger so Robbe guesses that’s what helped him keep his cool.

Only to melt into a pile of goo minutes later when Sander’s cheeks flushed red in embarrassment over what popped on his phone screen.

Bambie eyes

Robbe smiles at the memory, trying to keep it small and not look like a psychopath that’s grinning to himself for no reason. It proves to be difficult though, those damn butterflies not easing out when an image of Sander combing his fingers through his longish bleached strands pops into his mind, uninvited, but oh so welcome if Robbe’s being honest.

Back in his bedroom, he fishes out the pink t-shirt from the drawer, sending a thank you to the past Robbe who finally did his laundry last Wednesday. His comfort level is up immediately after he takes the green shirt off and pulls the pink one over his head; the material doesn’t dig in anywhere, and it’s just... him. He doesn’t feel like a clown anymore. 

A quick look at his watch and he curses under his breath. If he doesn’t want to be late, he needs to leave in five minutes tops. It’s probably better this way since it means less time for freaking out. Once he sprays a bit of cologne on his clothes and grabs his wallet, he gives himself one last look in the mirror, fingers attempting to tame his curls at least a little, but it proves to be a lost cause. As usual. His hair just has a mind of its own. He doesn’t let himself obsess too much about it though, and as he closes the door behind the flatshare his mind wanders to two weekends ago, the corners of his lips twitching on their own.

  “You look like an angel with those curls. I should get you a halo or s’mthing.”

He’s in his personal space all of a sudden and as Sander’s breath grazes his face, Robbe’s own breath stutters, but the freakout has no time to breakthrough on his features because Sander’s eyes swivel up, glazed with alcohol as he tugs gently at one of the brown strands.

“I really like ‘em, you know? They’re so... silky. And pretty.” A lightbulb goes on in his head, his lips widening in a smile. “You’re so pretty.”

 Drunken confessions never really seemed particularly sweet to him, but with Sander gazing at him like he hung the moon and the stars, his jaw slightly open as if in wonder, it was difficult for Robbe to feel anything else than fondness, heart fluttering in his chest, so enamoured with the boy with white hair that it would have blushed if it could.

That white hair and green eyes have been the main stars of his dreams ever since.

Okay. That’s not entirely true. There were glimpses before that. After all, Sander had been the first thing he noticed at the Academie. But at the time, he had only been his looks to Robbe, golden skin and intriguing smirks, face scattered with moles and legs for days. 

And lips. Lips that looked soft like a rose petal.

He had dreamed about those lips a lot then.

He still can’t believe his brain holds the memory of kissing them with his own. 

Again. Peak boldness for him.

And yet, he’s so nervous now, walking fast-paced to the nearest tram stop, praying his chaotic energy won’t make him look like an idiot once he’s faced with Sander again. His only saving grace, the only reason the full on freakout seems to be kept at bay is the reminder that even though Sander is way out of his league, he’s also a bit of a dork, and that honestly makes Robbe feel better. 

He’s a hot dork though.

But a dork nonetheless.

Deep down Robbe hopes he’s gonna become his dork. 

The city passes behind the window in a whirlwind of colors, creating the perfect background for him to get lost in his thoughts, daydreaming to the sounds of the playlist crafted specifically for him, courtesy of Sander. As Bowie sings about absolute beginners, a notification ping pulls him back from his musings, lips smiling on their own when he sees Sander posted a photo.

And what a photo it is, fuck.

A part of his face, edges smudged with shadows leaving only his eye in focus, dark eyebrow curtained a little with wet bleached strands, everything in black and white aesthetics because Sander rarely does colors, Robbe came to find out. 

  With eyes completely open

But nervous all the same

 He wonders if the lyrics relate to their date or it’s just his wishful thinking.

Quick fingers like the photo and then take a screenshot of his own Spotify to send it to him. Robbe doesn’t have to wait long for the reply, a string of “🤯” blowing up his phone followed by “I’m so proud 🤧”, which again confirms that Sander is, indeed, a dork. 

Robbe shoots him a “😂” and scrolls up a bit to check the address again.

 Robbe: I watched the video

Robbe: It was cool 😎 

Sander: Oh yeah? 

Robbe: But somebody cut me out of it 🤔🙄 

Sander: I told them to, it was too personal 😌 

Robbe: Oh 🙃 

Sander: + You're too pretty for our dumb videos 🤷🏼‍♂️ 

Robbe: 🙈 stop 

Sander: You are 🤷🏼‍♂️

Robbe: You're making me blush 🙊 

Sander: Well good, you're cute when your cheeks are all pink 😏 

Robbe: 🤪 

Sander: But you're always cute so 🤷🏼‍♂️

Robbe: Okay stop haha 

Sander: 😎 

Robbe: Thank you tho 😊 

Sander: You're welcome x

Sander: Now go to sleep, I need you to be rested for tomorrow! 

Robbe: Tell me where we're going 🥺 

Sander: Nope 

Robbe: Please 🥺 

Sander: Nope 😌 

Robbe: How should I know you're not gonna kidnap me or sth 🤔 

Sander: Robin! I would never! 😟😟 

Robbe: Robin? 

Sander: Yeah

Sander: You like it? :) 

Robbe: I think so :)

Sander: Good 😌

Sander: Oranje Street, that's all you need to know 

Sander: Goodnight Bambi Robin 🦌😏 

Robbe: Shdjskahaggfdsk 🙈🙈 

Sander: Hehe

Sander: 😚 

Robbe: 😊

 The Robin part pulls another involuntary grin out of him again, the jitters in his stomach intensifying, but now they’re more anticipatory than nervous. He checks his hair in his selfie camera, running a hand through it to mess it up a little just when his stop comes. 

The neighborhood is busy with the Friday rush and he has trouble finding white hair in the crowd from where he’s leaning on the lantern. Swaying awkwardly he keeps looking around, feeling his stress levels raising with each second and telling himself to get a fucking grip. 

“Hey, Robin.”

His poor heart just can’t catch a break today. 

Jumping a foot above the ground before swiveling around to smack Sander’s chest, the first thing he sees is his toothy grin, face smug at almost giving Robbe a heart attack.

“Asshole.” His grumble is all for show, the corners of his mouth pulling up when Sander presses a soft hello kiss to his cheek.

“Sorry, didn’t wanna scare you.” He could win awards for least sincere apologies ever, but Robbe would lie to himself if he said he didn’t find his playfulness attractive. Also, he’s still trying to get his heartbeat under control that has less to do with actual scare and more with the warm breath grazing his ear and the fanthom feel of lips on his cheek.

“Sure you didn’t.”

Sander chuckles at his deadpan face that lets him know Robbe knows he’s full of shit. Raising his arms in capitulation, he says another sorry before giving him a not so subtle once over, his features softening.

“You look really pretty.” 

His voice sounds uncharacteristically shy, Robbe notices, and he keeps biting his lip nervously. This sudden shyness looks exceptionally endearing on him.

Eyeing his t-shirt critically, he cocks his brow at Sander, hand scratching his head in a self-conscious move. “Thank you. It’s nothing special though.”

“Then I guess it’s just you,” Sander replies, shrugging matter-of-factly, and keeps giving him that charming smile that weakens Robbe’s knees. 

But he still rolls his eyes on him, snorting as he mutters “smooth” to which Sander pretends to hold his chest dramatically, swearing it’s not a line and that he’s being honest.

“Okay, okay, let’s say I believe you,” Robbe gives in after being defeated with a strong case of puppy eyes. “Now come on, tell me where we’re going.”

The faux-serious expression on Sander’s face melts into a full of promise smirk. “Prepare to be mind blown!”

And then he takes off, firing a wink over his shoulder at Robbe who’s gaping at him, flabbergasted. This mixture of confidence and shyness taking turns emanating from Sander has a peculiar effect on him, making him follow the boy without another question. He’s intrigued, curious to find out what’s underneath this cockiness that Robbe has a feeling is all for show, a cover up, but for what he has no clue. 

They fall into an easy conversation on the way to their destination, interrupted with a string of Robbe’s guesses as to what that destination is and Sander shooting him down everytime, his smile getting fonder with each pout directed at him. So far it’s been way less awkward than Robbe feared, familiar almost, safe, melting away the anxious lump in his stomach. The good-natured teasing reminding Robbe of his relationship with Zoe or Milan, only the furtive yet lingering glances they keep shooting at each other when they think the other is not looking the sign of this being more than just a friendly hangout.

“Any plans for the Eenvoud sequel?” They’re crossing the street when Sander asks the question, tongue in cheek, which makes Robbe scowl in disdain. Even though internally he’s pleased Sander went and looked him up online. He was less pleased with the teasing that ensued a few days ago.

  Sander: I had no idea 

Robbe: ? 

Sander: That I'm going on a date with a star 

Robbe: 😂 what 

Sander: Music star 😏

Sander: Or should I say

Sander: Dance star 🤔 

Robbe: Oh fuck 

Sander: You're v e r y talented Robbe IJzermans 

Robbe: Shut uuuuuup 

Sander: 😂 

Robbe: You weren't supposed to see that 😭 

Sander: Why not? You're so cute in it 😌 

Robbe: 🙈

Robbe: Please don't hold it against me 

Sander: Never :) 

Robbe: You're gonna hold it against me aren’t u 

Sander: A bit :D 

Robbe: 🥺 

Sander: But in a loving way! 

Robbe: Guess I have to now go and find blackmail material on your channel 😌 

Sander: As if you hadn't already 😏 

Omg you're so full of yourself 🙄 

Sander: 😛 

Robbe: Should I be expecting hoards of fans throwing themselves at you when we're out? 

Sander: Haha no

Sander: Maybe a few ;) 

Robbe: Great, now I'm even more nervous :( 

Sander: Why are you nervous? 🥺

Sander: Are you nervous about our date?  

Robbe: Well um 

Robbe: A bit? 

Sander: I'm nervous too

Sander: But that's because I wanted to go out with you since I saw you on campus the first day

Robbe: I wanted that too

Sander: Oh 😌

Robbe: Yeah :)

 “Fuck off,” he barks out a laugh, shoving him without much force once they’re back on the sidewalk. Sander pretends to be offended with the attack, huffing and shaking his head, but then bumps him with his hip all the same, smug when Robbe splutters in indignance in turn.

“Keep this up and I’m gonna rethink my forgiveness.” Robbe’s tone is lofty, even if his eyes scream he’s just teasing, an attempt to rile Sander up. 

The boy’s eyes widen comically, hand flying to his chest. “You wouldn’t do that to me, Robin.” 

There’s that nickname again, making his breath catch again, and the only response he can manage now is a flirty smile, or at least something that is supposed to look like it. 

The afternoon heat subsides on their way to Sander’s mysterious place, but Robbe’s still glad he left that green long-sleeved shirt at home when they slow down and Sander turns to him with an expectant look.

“Carnival?”

“I didn’t remember you giving me your number, but I did remember your preaching about cotton candy being the superior junk food,” Sander rushes with an explanation like he feels his choice needs a proper justification. “And it just so happened that a carnival came to Antwerp this weekend. I thought it was a sign?” He scratches his nose, his stance a little unsure as he awaits Robbe’s reaction.

His eyes grow bigger with each passing second until Robbe beams at him and tells him how much he likes the idea. Sander lets out a loud phew, face relieved when they enter the area. The place is packed, but that’s okay because Robbe loves the vibe and how close Sander keeps walking next to him because of it. The loud music is not the best for talking, but they soon find other things to do, marching from booth to booth, getting drinks and trying out silly games, the teasing competitiveness quickly coming out. Sander really wants to win a plushie for him, but he fails spectacularly, his sulking remedied only by a kiss on his cheek. 

Robbe eats his weight in cotton candy, childlike joy on his face while Sander watches amused and keeps calling him cute. The Ferris Wheel was supposed to be their next stop, but when it turns out it's out of service, Sander shoots him a desperate look, apologizing for this lame outcome like it's his fault. But Robbe is having so much fun he barely cares they lost their chance at a kiss on the top, knows the night's still young and they'll get their chance somewhere else.

They try out a few other things, laughing and having a great time together before Sander gets weirdly quiet.

"Do you, um, do you think we can go sit down for a bit? To talk?" Sander keeps avoiding his eyes as he asks, but Robbe doesn't miss the flicker of vulnerability in his face, and he feels his heart jump in his chest. He's a bit taken aback at this gear change, but Sander's clearly bothered with something and he wants to be there for him so he just hums and follows him to the bench outside.

"There's something you need to know."

Robbe steals himself for the worst, muscles tensing as he holds his breath.

“I’m bipolar,” Sander finally blurts out, and Robbe’s heart breaks for the insecurity in his eyes, eyes that are now darting all over his own face, trying to be furtive, yet clearly assessing his reaction. “I just-, I want to be straight with you from the get go cause I feel like this may be going somewhere and I don’t want to lie, or, omit anything.” He pauses, frowning a little as he looks down, and something awfully similar to a broken heart shadows his features. “I don’t ever want to keep it a secret anymore.”

Robbe doesn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue, but Sander misinterprets the silence.

“It’s, um, it’s okay if you don’t wanna get involved with me now or something, I get it, I’m a lot to handle.” Scratching his head awkwardly, his lips morph into a wistful smile, and Robbe knows he needs to put a stop to these thoughts.

“Hey,” he starts softly, waiting until Sander’s ready to direct his eyes back on him. When he does, he shoots a smile at him of his own, but there’s nothing wistful about it. If it matches what he feels, Robbe’s quite sure it’s close to adoration, actually. “Thank you for telling me.” Sander takes a deep breath, sitting straight as if he’s preparing for a rejection. “My mom has schizophrenia, you know?”

Green eyes blink up at him. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Robbe lets his smile widen. “And she’s an amazing mom. She just-, struggles sometimes, and there are days that are really shit days. But I can’t imagine her not being here. Because she’s amazing. And I love her. With or without a mental illness.” He presses his thigh against Sander’s, trying to ease his nervousness as he continues. “I still want to give us a shot. Cause, um, I think that, um, well, you’re really hot, I mean cool, I meant cool, well...” Why does he have to be so awkward? He peaks at Sander after his unfortunate little slip and feels his cheeks flush under his small grin. 

“You think I’m hot?”

Robbe whines in protest because now Sander’s just being a little shit, torturing him even though he knows exactly what his stammering means. 

He hides his face in his hands. “Obviously, since I’m on a date with you, smartass.” 

“It’s always nice to hear.” Sander nudges their shoulders and it makes Robbe look up, just in time for a wink. “Especially from a cutie like you.” He holds his gaze, a small smile playing on his lips, and as Robbe gets drowned in his green eyes, distracted, Sander lifts his hand to push a few locks away from his forehead. The brief contact of his fingertips with Robbe’s skin is enough to raise goosebumps on his skin, and he really hopes Sander didn’t notice, that he doesn’t know how gone he is for him already.

He already mourns the lack of contact when Sander pulls away, something akin to shyness on his face now as he’s fiddling with his fingers, and it’s comforting to see he’s not the only one around here being affected.

It’s what gives him the guts to do what he does next, without second-guessing himself again into a spiral. He gets up off the bench and takes Sander’s hand in his own, their fingers tangling right away like it’s their second nature, and nods in the direction of the sidewalk.

“Come on, I’ll show you my favorite spot around here.”

The initial surprise at Robbe’s bold move is quickly replaced with a beaming smile as Sander squeezes his hand gently and gets up too, laughing when Robbe bumps their shoulders teasingly because hey, he’s still a teenage boy and sometimes likes to act like it. Also, he needs to do something to distract himself from the fact that he’s holding Sander’s hand. The fact he can feel a thumb softly grazing his knuckles, almost absent-mindedly, does not help. He'd think their playfulness and cheek kisses would make it all easier for him, and yet here he is.

He’s feeling carefree and drunk on his feelings and this evening and Sander’s smile and when they get close to the spot, Robbe sets his hand free and jogs over to the small ice cream booth, turning around to do a small “taa-daa!” with a big grin. Sander’s laugh at his shenanigans is music to his ears and he loves how the previous frown is now officially gone from his face, features softening instead, eyes twinkling as he calls Robbe a dork, entwining their hands anew the second he’s in his close proximity. Robbe scoots even closer, like an invisible magnet is pulling them together, getting lost in his presence, the smell of his aftershave that carries notes of citrus and something woodsy, masculine, combined with the intoxicating scent of Sander’s leather jacket. The air changes around them, gets charged with tension, Sander’s face changes too, green eyes darting to Robbe’s lips that get dry under attention, and he licks them subconsciously. Just when Tiana Major9’s voice coming from the booth speaker sings when they collide, it’s a beautiful disaster, their faces tilt towards each other, Sander’s hand reaching up as if to cup Robbe’s cheek.

Robbe barely contains his whine when a loud crash from the booth ruins the moment, catching the same frustration on Sander’s face in the corner of his eye. The loaded silence is buzzing in his ears, nerves picking up and he feels awkward again, not sure whether he should just go for it or wait for a better moment. 

Sander’s chuckle brings him back from his overthinking, smiles crookedly down at him. “Come on, you gotta tell me your favorite flavor.”

His tone is light like the almost-kiss didn’t happen, but the subtle pink at the high of his cheeks gives him away. It looks like the world’s most exquisite blush, blended perfectly with the shade of his skin that has already been painted light golden with the early summer sun rays. It distracts him for a moment, his gaze stuck as his eyes wander slowly from one mole to another, lingering on his lips that are just as inviting as they were a few seconds ago, tempting Robbe to make that move, but then he feels Sander taking his hand again, this time interlacing their fingers and pulling him out of his trance.

Robbe is a vanilla guy and he can see the joke at the hip of Sander’s tongue, but thankfully, the boy refrains from the comment, the huge eyeroll he receives probably stopping him in his tracks, and he only gnaws on his lip, trying to keep the laughter in. He goes for mango, which yuck. Sander doesn’t appreciate his reaction, and they easily slip in the previous banter, ending with him smearing a bit of the ice cream on Robbe’s cheek, lips sucked in as he giggles quietly at his scandalized face.

“You’re such a fucker!” He immediately gets him back for that and they’re close to full on ice cream fight until Sander yells truce, hands protecting his face from the onslaught of Robbe’s sticky hands. Robbe smiles triumphantly at his capitulation, and goes back to licking away at what’s left of his treat.

“It kinda fits you.”

They’ve been strolling along the river for a while now, the full moon shining its light on the side of Sander’s face, making his hair look icy white.

“What?

“The mango flavor.”

Sander furrows his brows in question, waiting for an explanation. Robbe shrugs a little, eyes tracing the soft ripples on the water as he tries to find the right words.

“Mangos have a hard peel, but have a soft inside.”

“Sooo, you’re saying I’m… mushy?” Sander wrinkles his nose at his words and it’s a truly adorable sight.

“No, I’m saying you can seem, um, intimidating and unapproachable, unattainable.” His eyebrows furrow more with each adjective. “But once you get to the inside, so once someone gets to know you, you’re none of these things,” Robbe pauses, swaying their joined hands a little as he peeks at Sander’s face. “You’re nice and sweet and stuff. Even with your edgy black and white aesthetics,” he adds as the second-thought, grinning when he gets a deadpan look in return. It quickly morphs into something softer, beautifully confirming Robbe’s words.

“Okay, let’s say I’m a mango man. In that case, you’re a cutie pie,” Sander says matter-of-factly, always needing to have the last word, and Robbe can only laugh helplessly, trying not to combust under his intense glance. “Also, my black and white aesthetics are amazing, by the way.”

Robbe doesn't dare to argue with that, and he also agrees with the statement so he admits as much, making Sander very pleased. 

They walk way into late hours of the evening, huddling closer together with each passing hour in search of warmth against the coldness of the night, or at least that serves as the main excuse. Sander has him bursting in fits of giggles sharing crazy stories from his shopping assistant job and Robbe finds himself opening up about his videotaping passion, a little shy when knowing about Sander's photography skills, but the boy's eyes shine bright when Robbe mentions it, and he's so attentive and interested in everything he has to say on the topic, of the small details he geeks out about that it makes fuzzy feelings swim rampant in his stomach; it's the kind of attention he's been unknowingly yearning for, and here it is, served on a golden plate and in a package so beautiful it makes him swoon.

And he also walks him home, acting all gentlemanly and offering his jacket when the shivers shake Robbe's body a bit. What a catch.

“So, um,” Sander starts as they reach the front door of Robbe’s apartment building, his face mostly covered in shadows cast by the street lanterns. “Kiss or slap?”

The answer to the question is obvious for both of them, but Robbe can’t stop himself from teasing him a bit, scrunching up his face in a deep thought, eyebrows frowned, making Sander scoff impatiently, which is exactly the reaction he was hoping for.

Still, he needs to push him a bit more. “Hmm, I’m not sure. I should probably go with the slap for that ice cream incident.” Sander plays along, heaving a regretful sigh, before turning those pretty eyes on him, lips in a pout and hands put together in a praying motion.

“A kiss?” Bottom lip juts out and he’s just too cute for words, Robbe dropping his facade immediately, not stopping his beaming smile anymore.

He also can't fucking wait any longer.

“Okay, I gue-”

Soft lips crash into his, not letting him finish the sentence, Robbe’s clumsiness almost making him topple over, but Sander’s there to catch him, sure hands squeezing his hips and sending small shocks through his body. He rests his hand on the back of Sander’s neck, giving in to the need to bury his fingers in that messy blond hair, and he tugs, just a little, but it’s enough for Sander to sigh into his mouth and pull him closer. Robbe loves the reaction, whimpers quietly as he parts his lips just right for Sander’s tongue to slip inside, to tease at the soft skin inside of Robbe’s bottom lip. It’s all over after that, the kiss morphing from something soft and sweet to tongues sliding together, teeth clinking almost painfully in their desperation, the kiss tasting of mango ice cream and cotton candy, and it’s the best Robbe has ever tasted.

It’s better than he imagined, Sander’s hands caressing his sides as he slows down the kiss so sweet and tender, it pulls at every single one of his heartstrings. He can’t believe he has this wonder of a boy in his arms, kissing him so good, making him dizzy.

The kiss stops eventually, but they stay put, as close as before, the tips of their noses grazing against each other, warm breaths and fluttering lashes, fingernails scratching at the skin that’s covered in goosebumps.

“I have to go,” Robbe murmurs between the miniscule space between them, giggling quietly at the immediate frown his words cause.

“Nooooo.” Sander hides his face in his flushed neck, pressing a kiss there too because why not. “I need more kisses.”

And who is Robbe to tell him no, he goes willingly when Sander lifts his chin up for another one, his mouth a little puffy now. He lets him have it, not that it’s any hardship; he’d stay here all night, just lazily sliding their lips together in a never ending dance.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” Sander asks when they break apart. “I’d like to introduce you to someone.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You know, he’s very important to me, has been in my life for years so his opinion kinda matters a lot.”

His words take Robbe aback, but he tries not to show his discomfort, even though Sander must have felt how tense his body went. He doesn’t seem to find it weird, his face still smiling as he keeps talking about this he that’s apparently so important.

“I hope he’ll like you. He’s perfect, you know?” Actually, Robbe does not know and he’s getting kinda annoyed. He’s pretty sure waxing lyrical about someone else on a date is a faux pas. “I mean, except for leaving fur on anything he touches.”

What.

Robbe’s eyes swivel up to look at him, the corners of Sander’s lips twitching and his face a picture perfect of impishness. He groans in protest, smacking his chest because Sander did it on purpose to pull a reaction out of him and it’s not fair, damn it. He crosses his arms which proves difficult to do when there are still hands firmly holding his hips, keeping him close.

Sander rests their forehead together, swaying them a little to put a smile on Robbe’s grumpy face. “He’s a Norwegian Forest breed and his name is Major Tom.”

And this time it’s Robbe who has a hard time to keep his giggle in because oh my god, what a nerd.

“I wonder where that came from,” he ponders in a voice as serious as he can manage, but Sander sees right through him, pointing an accusing finger at him.

“It’s the bestest name ever, I’ll have you know.”

He gets shut up with another kiss, last one, the sweetest out of all of them. Then, Robbe steps out of his embrace, not trusting himself to end this when Sander's hands are touching any part of his body, and tells him a quiet goodnight, backing into the front door with Sander's soft sleep well ringing in his ears and a huge smile threatening to spread on his face.

Sander: May your dreams be filled with cotton candy 🍬🍭

It only takes a minute for his phone to ping.

And maybe some mangos too 🥭

Robbe: Just need one 😘

White-haired mangos 😘

Goodnight ❤️

[prince-of-elsinore]

Sam and Dean: psychological analysis and headcanons

In response to this anon ask from the 66 SPN Questions:

6. Do you have any psychological headcanons (or canon interpretations) of the characters?

Anon, this is probably not what you asked for. But I started writing, and kept finding more I wanted to say, until I thought--why not just say it all? And by all, I  don't actually mean all--this is by no means exhaustive. But it was a wonderful, self-indulgent opportunity to organize my thoughts on Sam and Dean's psychologies, and even find some new ideas as I was writing, and to put them out there so others can read and discuss. (Always happy to discuss any of this! Inbox is open.)

As a disclaimer, I know most of these thoughts are probably not original and may be retreads of many things fandom has been discussing for years. I'm not claiming to be breaking new ground here. Also, I sorta float backwards and forwards chronologically in my discussion--some parts pertain more to them when they're young, some to when they're older, and I don't always clarify which. Also, these are generalizations! I point out patterns I notice; that doesn't make them all hard and fast rules, because Sam and Dean are each human and complex!

Here's what you'll find below:

1. Core motivations 2. Happiness 3. Approval and secrets 4. Approval from authority figures 5. Need and attachment re: others 6. Sympathy and empathy 7. Walls—hiding vs. performing 8. Need and attachment re: each other 9. Ambitions and goals 10. Normality and monstrosity 11. Guilt and self-loathing 12. Autonomy and sacrifice 13. Personal identity 14. Concluding observation

1. Core motivations: Dean’s purpose is to protect Sam, obviously. Sam’s purpose, though a little less clear, is to save Dean. Sometimes it’s explicit, as in s3 and s9-10. But I think Sam also wants to save Dean, in general, from himself and from the life. It’s why he pushes against Dean’s obedience to their father. It’s why he tells him to get out and go to Lisa after he jumps in the Cage. At a certain point, I think Sam accepts he can’t “save” Dean without changing who he is, so he chooses to stick by him—because at least then he can make Dean happy.

2. Happiness: Dean’s happiness—or perhaps contentment is a better word—is knowing that Sam is safe and alive. Sam’s happiness is Dean being happy. In Sam’s world, things are good when Dean’s good. I think that, conversely, Dean wants Sam to be happy, and Sam wants Dean to be safe, but they both know and to an extent accept that those things are not within their control, so they focus on what they feel they can control.

3. Approval and secrets: They are each other’s north stars, guiding principles, in different ways. For Dean it’s “look out for Sammy,” for Sam it’s “what would my big brother think/do.” Dean doesn’t need Sam’s approval. Sure, he loves it when Sam admires him, but if he feels he needs to do something against Sam’s approval, he doubles down because approval from Sam is not the top priority. He’ll do what he thinks is right, especially to keep Sam safe, no matter what Sam thinks about it. Sam, on the other hand, does crave Dean’s approval and cares very much about his opinion. It doesn’t mean he won’t go against Dean (all the conflict of s1-5!), but it affects him differently. This leads to different kinds of secret-keeping: Sam goes behind Dean’s back to avoid his disapproval; Dean goes behind Sam’s back so that Sam doesn’t interfere with what he thinks needs to be done.

4. Approval from authority figures: Dean does crave approval from others—specifically, respected authority figures. The big one is obviously John. I think in a way it’s Mary, too, when she comes back. But it only applies as long as the person has his respect. Sam doesn’t crave approval from other authorities in the same way, perhaps because his primary authority figure growing up was Dean.

5. Need and attachment re: others: Sam is the only person Dean cannot live without, but he also makes outside connections of a friendly nature fairly easily. He’s the more socially outgoing brother who latches onto people like Gordon, gets friendly with Ash, and forges connections with Jo and Charlie, just to name a few (and Castiel at times—though their relationship is so inconsistent and often convenience-based I hesitate to include it in this category). Though Sam is Dean’s core need, I do think Dean thrives with other friendships. I’m not talking about found family, though I’m well aware of Dean’s tendency to call people “family” quite readily. Honestly, I think this is a manifestation of his craving for connection with others. Dean has an affectionate and playful nature, and let’s face it, Sam isn’t always super receptive to that—so naturally, Dean seeks out people who are. (I think this is also, in some cases, related to Dean’s craving for approval from others). Of course, none of those other relationships come close to the depth of his relationship with Sam, and when his relationship with Sam is at its best, I don’t think Dean really needs anything else to sustain him. But in reality, it can’t always be at its best.

Sam, on the other hand, doesn’t forge outside connections easily—but when he does, they tend to be deeper than Dean’s easy casual associations (even when Dean has real affection for someone, he tends to keep the tone of the relationship light). It’s pretty clear Sam was a loner kid, and I imagine it took him a while to find friends at Stanford, and even though he loved Jessica he still clearly kept many secrets. That’s the thing with Sam—he’s got walls. Dean’s got his own walls, but they’re different. Sam can seem emotionally open, but he protects his innermost self very carefully and rarely puts his emotions out there in a truly open way—even less than Dean does. I think this is a consistent personality trait for Sam, not one born of trauma (though perhaps exacerbated by it at times). In fact, it’s in later seasons that I see Sam finally, in rare moments, let down those walls, with Rowena and Jack. When he’s young, I think this was partially a coping mechanism he developed for hiding his desires/feelings, even from himself, because he was so unhappy with his life. It means that even though he’s an introspective guy, he’s not as self-aware as he thinks he is until he’s older and more mature. He’s very good at self-deception when he’s young, because as a thinker, he can convince himself of just about anything.

To circle back to attachment, what this means to me is that Sam, while he certainly appreciates close friendships and has a lot to offer those he cares about, doesn’t crave friends in the way that Dean does. I think he desires to be understood (this is a natural human need) but he’s much more comfortable with himself than Dean is, and is somewhat of a loner by nature. This means he’s also not (usually) going to be too affected by the status of his relationships with others. Dean is much more volatile and easily hurt by others (this is where Castiel is a great example).

6. Sympathy and empathy: On the surface, Sam appears to be the caring, sensitive brother, while Dean is brash and insensitive. This is a very incomplete picture, however. It mostly comes down to the difference between sympathy and empathy. Empathy is an involuntary response, whereas sympathy is something that a person chooses to express, though that doesn’t make it necessarily superficial—it also comes from an emotional place. Dean tends to be more empathetic, and Sam more sympathetic. Dean, despite his performative walls, is more easily affected on a visceral level by others’ emotions. He is more sensitive, more easily hurt or swayed to anger, and also more easily experiences empathy. This has nothing to do with what Dean thinks is right—it’s another involuntary emotion. He is sometimes moved to express this feeling, but he’s not generally concerned about appearing sympathetic. Sam, with his careful emotional walls, isn’t generally so viscerally affected by others, but he is kind. This is expressed as sympathy, because he cares about others’ feelings, and he wants to be good/morally right. On the one hand, it comes from an intellectual place—“it’s socially acceptable/morally right to express care for this person” (which Dean is less likely to care about)—and on the other, it is an emotional response—“I know what that feels like”—but a more regulated one than empathy, where one almost directly experiences another’s emotions.

7. Walls—hiding vs. performing: It’s interesting that both brothers have their own walls, which they construct as a form of self-preservation, but they have different levels of effectiveness in protecting themselves from outside influence. One difference might lie in what the walls were built in reaction to. Sam built his walls at a young age to separate himself from the outside world because, ironically, it was precisely what he desired, but was not allowed to have. He therefore consciously distanced himself from it, to dull the pain of not having it. The goal of those walls was to have something to hide behind, where he could remain generally unnoticed, so he could conceal his pain from outsiders and even from his family.

Dean took a little longer to build his walls—or at least to consciously do so. He already no doubt fashioned himself after his dad as a kid, and often put on a brave face—for Sam, for his father—when he was not feeling brave. He therefore became accustomed to performing at a young age, and performed many roles for both Sam’s and John’s benefit. He was unconsciously building walls with these performances, concealing his true feelings and desires. Later, I think this started to become more intentional, especially in relations with women/sex partners and especially after the Stanford split, as Dean realized how vulnerable to hurt his sensitive nature made him. It was much safer to perform all the time, and never let his real feelings show. For Dean, even more than Sam, I think he often lost sight of what those real feelings were behind the walls as he tried his best to be the performance he was putting on.

For a visual metaphor, I think of it this way: Sam is a boy at the center of a self-constructed labyrinth. He is almost always able to maintain control over how close people get (except when a few slip past his defenses, at which point he may be susceptible to manipulation). Despite all those elaborate passageways, though, there’s still Sam at the center. It’s lonely there, but he knows himself pretty well at least. Dean is a man in a mask who wants the mask to be his real face. He does everything he can to fuse himself and the mask together. They probably are fused at this point, so it would hurt to take the mask off. His memory of the face under the mask is hazy. He’s afraid, if he looks under the mask, he’ll hate what he sees. He’s lonely because no matter how close others get—and he lets them in close, can surround himself with people—none of them will ever see his true face. But he’s convinced himself it’s better this way, because if anyone saw his face, they’d hate it.

8. Need and attachment re: each other: Clearly, both brothers need each other. Sam’s need for Dean is different than Dean’s need for Sam, though. The way I see it, Dean’s need is one that requires reassurance. Perhaps it traces back to the concern about Sam instilled into him at a young age. I think it was strongly exacerbated by the Stanford split, when Dean realized his and Sam’s desires didn’t align. In Dean’s mind, Sam left once and can do it again—he’s always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Sam, on the other hand, has always been able to rely on Dean as a rock, a constant in his life—to the point that, in a way, he takes it for granted when he’s younger. Not in a spoilt, ungrateful way, but in that way that we, as children, might take our parents for granted—they’re always going to be there, right? That’s why, on the few occasions where suddenly, Sam isn’t sure of Dean’s devotion, the rug is ripped out from under him and he’s completely adrift and distraught—seasons 4 and 8 come to mind. Sam needs to be the center of Dean’s universe. When he fears that that’s shifted, that Dean hates him or has chosen someone else over him, it turns Sam’s whole world upside down. For Dean, the fear is that Sam will leave, but it’s a constant, background worry. For Sam, the fear is that Dean will hate him, but since he can usually count on Dean to be obsessed with him, it only comes up now and again. Only Dean can truly hurt Sam, while Dean is vulnerable to hurt from others—though, as always, the deepest hurt can only come from Sam.

9. Ambitions and goals: Sam is the one with greater needs and ambitions outside the scope of their relationship. For Dean, if he’s got Sam and he’s got hunting, he’s content. His greatest accomplishments are taking care of Sam and saving people, and that’s all he needs. I see Sam as craving other sources of fulfillment, though—academic/lore study for its own sake (the pursuit of knowledge), and a leadership/mentorship role. I thought it was very fitting that Sam finds these in late seasons, with leading hunters against the BMOL, then leading the apocalypse AU hunters, then mentoring/nurturing Jack. Dean has always had (and needed) a mentor/leadership/nurturing role with Sam, but Sam also thrives when he’s able to step into that role for others.

10. Normality and monstrosity: I’m just going to link to this post rather than repeat myself.

11. Guilt and self-loathing: This is something they both struggle with and at times, are defined by, but it manifests differently. I think their Hell traumas exemplify their different brands of guilt: for Dean, it’s perpetrator’s guilt. He knows he did something terrible and feels he can never atone for his past actions. For Sam, it’s victim’s/survivor’s guilt. He may not have done anything wrong, but there’s a certain amount of self-blame, especially for perceived weakness. This is another theme for Sam; one of the main faults he sees in himself is weakness—too weak to save Dean from Hell for instance—and as a result tries to shoulder things alone (killing Lilith, Hallucifer, etc). Sam has a need to fix things, to prove to others and himself that he is capable. Dean, I think, sees his main fault as neediness, but really, it’s a deeply buried sense of innate worthlessness. He was taught from a young age that his brother’s life—not his own—was of the utmost value. He internalized that his life was only worthwhile if he could save others, and has trouble with the idea that he, himself, has value beyond what he can do for others.

12. Autonomy and sacrifice: The above leads Dean to have a very constrained sense of his own autonomy. In general, he values duty/loyalty to others over autonomy (although when it comes to cosmic beings, he’s all about free will—see this post if you want more thoughts on that, and Sam’s autonomy). Often, his desire to control others comes from a place of frustration when Dean feels they are neglecting duty/being selfish. I think partially duty towards others is really a deeply ingrained value for him, but there may also be some buried jealousy at play, in that Dean wishes he could act with more freedom, put himself first every once in a while, but doesn’t know how to. Sam tends to value autonomy over duty (this doesn’t mean he doesn’t believe in any sort of responsibility—he’s willing to sacrifice for the greater good, after all).  This means he also tends to respect others’ autonomy, though we all know he can get plenty unhinged where his brother’s safety is concerned. The theme of Sam and autonomy has been talked to death so I’ll stop there, but you can click the link above if you want more.

13. Personal identity: One of Dean’s biggest struggles is with how much of his personal identity is received rather than self-determined. He is tasked with taking care of Sam and he is trained to be a hunter; these become the foundations of his identity. He says it himself: taking care of Sam is not just what he does but who he is. Then in season 3, his own subconscious mocks him for his lack of originality, styling himself and all he loves after his father, showing that this is a source of deep insecurity. This discomfort with himself contributes to his fear of being abandoned and left alone with himself. He doesn’t know who he is without Sam—or rather, is convinced he is nothing without Sam, which is why he fights so hard to keep him by his side. It also contributes to his general desire for friends, or better, family: people who won’t abandon him.

Later in the series, I think Dean has come to embrace his genuine self more. He’s nerdy and excitable and playful—and I don’t see this is as regression, but rather a healthy embracing of what makes him happy—not tastes inherited from his father. If it seems juvenile, it’s because it’s the first time in his life he’s allowed himself to express and explore these things. I think his relationship with hunting is also healthier; it’s no longer something he does because it’s the only thing that can give him worth. He does it because he believes it’s right and genuinely wants to help people. He has a more complete sense of self, and while it’s still totally tied up in Sam, he has gained some self-worth.

[I should note that basically everything I’ve written about Dean supports the headcanon that Dean has BPD—a headcanon I accepted after I realized this. For some more great writing on Dean and BPD, see this post by @venhedish.]

Sam has always known what he wanted for himself and rejected what was given to/allowed him. Wanting what he couldn’t have, from a young age, helped him develop an individual sense of self, not defined by others. I think it’s this difference in their sense of individual identity that leads some viewers to think that Dean loves Sam more than Sam loves Dean. He doesn’t, and losing Dean is just as huge a loss and a grief for Sam as losing Sam was for Dean. Dean is central to Sam’s life, and he can’t feel complete without him; however, his identity and every desire has never revolved as entirely around Dean as Dean’s has around him, so Sam has a foundational sense of self that even losing Dean can’t completely destroy. It’s what allows him to rebuild in grief and carry on (whereas I have no doubt Jensen’s right and Dean would waste away in the back of a pool hall without Sam). Dean’s central role in Sam’s life never disappears, though, and it is, in fact, what allows Sam to carry on; an effort to honor his brother’s memory, living in a way that would make him proud. There’s continuity in that for Sam; the craving for his brother’s approval and happiness never disappears. Seeking those things is what makes Sam happy, both in their domestic years together before Dean’s death and in the years after. They are both, after all, co-dependent!

14: Concluding observation: Sam and Dean have many similar issues, desires, and insecurities: the desire for a normal life, the fear of their own monstrosity, the desire for love and friendship, their need and love for each other, their desire for approval/to be admired, resentment at their childhood, the feeling of being impure and unworthy, the desire for freedom, issues with bodily autonomy. Sometimes these are seen as the purview of one brother or the other exclusively, but that’s almost never true when you consider canon as a whole. The difference is in how these things are internalized, sublimated, reflected, and expressed for each of them. It makes sense they would struggle with so many of the same things, because their lives are deeply intertwined and they are in the same boat most of the time.

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 11/30/21

truly astonishing number of Things I Found Around The Internet in this one

listening The Most Wanted Song. i’m going to link to a podcast episode of people (including a professional composer), whose opinions about art and storytelling i generally jive with, wherein they listen to both The Most Wanted Song and The Most Unwanted Song and provide commentary. the Most Unwanted Song has a sense of comedic timing down to the fucking millisecond. and as you’ll hear them discuss in the episode, this is not artificial intelligence! this is a bunch of researchers COMING UP WITH SHEET MUSIC BASED ON SURVEY RESULTS AND HIRING A BUNCH OF SESSION MUSICIANS TO PERFORM. INCREDIBLE WORK ALL AROUND.

excerpting some Notes by the Composer:

 If the survey provides an accurate analysis of these factors for the population, and assuming that the preference for each factor follows a Gaussian (i.e. bell-curve) distribution, the combination of these qualities, even to the point of sensory overload and stylistic discohesion, will result in a musical work that will be unavoidably and uncontrollably “liked” by 72 plus or minus 12% (standard deviation; Kolmogorov-Smirnov statistic) of listeners.

The most unwanted subjects for lyrics are cowboys and holidays, and the most unwanted listening circumstances are involuntary exposure to commercials and elevator music. (emphasis mine)

reading loved the shit out of Iron Widow by Xiran Jay Zhao. can’t really talk about it without major spoilers, but a word is “visceral”.

i originally wrote a very long and very personal essay about how i hated nearly every single aspect of The Zombie Survival Guide by Max Brooks upon a reread when i like certain bits of World War Z very much but 1) that’s some therapy shit and 2) maybe i can sell that very long and very personal essay somewhere in this the time of nostalgia and plague bc a bitch has unexpected expenses

anyway, this is an article i enjoyed a great deal about the effect of joss whedon on pop culture. fuck i forgot it won’t do a preview uhhh here

Gita does one of the things i admire most in critics, namely identifying a thing they hate (eg “this dialogue is unpleasant”) and drilling down into the Why of it, how different creative choices and styles of storytelling combine to create this particular effect:

Characters in Whedon’s shows talk a lot, and they talk in very particular ways. Characters are often imprecise in their language, letting sentences trail off as they struggle to articulate themselves. They turn nouns into verbs and vice versa. They say “thing” or “thingy” or “stuff” in place of more descriptive terms. Often these characters metatextually comment on their surroundings or the environments they’re in, usually in a sarcastic or snarky way. The tone of this is pretty “wink wink, nudge nudge,” as if the writers are speaking through the characters to the audience, rather than the characters commenting on the situation they are in. 

emphasis mine &tc, please read the whole thing it’s all good and renewed my determination to not watch the bebop reboot

watching a truly concerning number of movies. SO many movies. instead i’m here to shout about this full length documentary about disney’s fastpass, saw a tweet that was like “defunctland is just a non-streaming-service documentary provider at this point” and yeah holy shit.

the man paid an industrial engineer to create a bespoke simulation to determine if fastpass is like Good or not? does it actually make you wait less? does it actually help you ride more rides? or is it just an extremely elaborate method of crowd control? it scratched every part of my brain that likes understanding how systems work and also likes graphs

playing mmm not quite fallow week but a very slow week. got to a point where i will wait for Sable to have an update before i finish up the endgame stuff, halfheartedly poked around in genshin (fucking hell the intro to the new winter training event is long and convoluted and tiresome), started and put down a new fnv save file. i’ve been trying really hard not to think about video games when i’m not being paid to bc ending my video game job workday by immediately playing a video game on the same desk i do my job at has been weird for my brain.

here have a screenshot from Sable, driving back from the Atomic Heart

making ran across this free minidress pattern, went “wait i have the perfect horrible print” and i simply have to fuse the interfacings to the facings, unfuck the bust dart situation, set the collar, and sew the whole shebang together.

“kay that’s like. the whole project.”

very little of sewing is actually stitching pieces of fabric together! i had to

finish the ironing board cover

print and tape together the pattern (tedious)

wrangle the fabric out of my (bad) fabric storage

cut out the pattern pieces correctly (to a reasonable tolerance, on the grain, with the motifs i wanted centered actually centered)

iron the shit out of this unpleasant to work with poly/rayon blend and the facings

burn the shit out of my ironing board cover but somehow not actually melt the poly in the dress fabric thank GOD

devise a new muslin + interfacing storage system and get enough to have a small stock on hand so i stop fucking going to joanns every two days

staystitch the necklines

do a preliminary fit, realize it needs to be taken up nearly six inches

fuck around with bust darts for two hours in a vain attempt to get the print to match up

decide there is enough going on with this print that the suggested pockets and back belt would be Too Much

is the sewing machine i bought last week fixed? heavens fucking no i need the tiniest stupidest wrench imaginable and that’s making it way to me, supposedly