#and I wanted to feel included in their conversations

[neonaurore]

it's not my job to change your mind when you're wrong. I don't need to spoonfeed my existence to you

yeah idgaf you're still an asshole

no we don't lol

my issue is it doesn't matter if you're nice or angry. you're being a dick regardless. being angry would just be more upfront but no amount of politeness will change that you're acting like a jerk by trying to tell an intersex person explaining being intersex that they sound like notorious TERF jk rowling??? I don't think you're talking down to me. you're just a jerk. you started this conversation out the gate swinging like an asshat, but you thought using polite wording would change that you said something rude as hell. you are passive aggressive whether you realize it or not. but the passive aggression isn't the issue. the issue is that you're wrong, but you think you're not wrong because you're using "correct" tone and the scary intersex people aren't being nice enough. even though while how you say an argument can convey it better, it does not change the content of that argument or if it is true or not

read up on this

I brought up the fact that changing those terms out makes it seems so much more wrong, (even though they aren't equatable whatsoever) to show that putting ANYTHING in those blanks is agressive, including the term already there.

yes but the equivalency is wrong. the swap out is equating intersex with gender identity which it isn't. watch this

"Also the idea that you can make yourself a person of color is untrue. You can tan your body or have plastic surgery but that does not make you POC"

watch when I switch up what the topic is about, suddenly wow, the topic is about an entirely different thing?? like yeah. it would be wrong to say you can't become a woman, because you can. but you can't become intersex. that's a fact. and it's not "aggressive" to say a literally correct statement

Intersex should be a defended term. It's a small amount of people and the less of them that speak up the less chance they have at reducing the genuine war-crimes constantly commited against them.

wow thanks for explaining my own oppression to me, o noble perisex savior.

The more people that incorrectly claim the term, the less grounds the term has as a whole.

ok so what the fuck IS your stance. because you're the one who was mad at OP for saying you can't transition to intersex?? and now you're like "oh we gotta defend the term" that is exactly what OP was doing

Theres no other way to shift a perspective then a clean, precise, chisel. Try it on me if you STILL don't feel like i agree with you.

I don't care if you agree with me or not you're still a fucking asshole to intersex people talking about intersexism. you're no better than cis people who police trans people, than men who try to filter feminists, than white people who get upset about how POC discuss racism

you are a tar pit. if you want to fix that, then learn that people do not need to spoon feed themselves specifically to you to make themselves more palatable because that does not work for fighting for rights

and read that tone policing article for the love of fucking god. I'm not gonna respond to this conversation again until you know why tone policing is bad

In case anyone needs a reminder…

Being transgender does not make you intersex.

Going through HRT does not make you intersex. Surgery cannot make you intersex.

Intersex people are born with atypical variations of physical, biological sex characteristics. That is what makes someone intersex.

Perisex trans people (especially on Reddit) have been recently insisting that just being transgender makes you intersex, and therefore able to speak over intersex people on issues that specifically affect us, especially when it comes to dangerous and offensive terminology. This is not true.

Also the idea that you can somehow “make yourself intersex” is untrue. You can make your body more androgynous through things like hormone treatment and surgery, but that does not make you intersex.

Falsely claiming intersex identity based on these things isn’t *always* malicious (though it is often done to speak over us) but it is always harmful.

[cece693]

Batman's Code of Ethics

pairing: bruce wayne x gender neutral reader tags: batman's code of ethics, sad ending for the batman, divorce, relationship conflict, vengeance

You first met Bruce Wayne at a fundraiser in downtown Gotham—one of those glamorous events where champagne sparkled and conversations danced on the knife’s edge of philanthropy and pretense. But it was the little moments that made you fall in love with him: how he paused to listen intently when you spoke, the gentle way he rested his hand against yours, the subtle but steadfast warmth in his gaze.

That warmth was what drew you in. It was what bound the two of you together in a promise—one that, in time, grew to include your son, Jason Todd. From the outside, you were Gotham’s picture-perfect family. But beneath the veneer of limousines and charity balls was the knowledge that every night Bruce put on the cowl, he wrestled with the darkness that consumed his city. It didn't bother you in the beginning—you knew Batman and Bruce were one; you couldn't ask him to leave the suit behind in favor for your family. But when that call came through—saying that Jason had gone missing, changed everything

Your heart has never felt heavier, not in the far corners of childhood loneliness nor in the quiet heartbreak of the many nights Bruce spent alone on the streets. You never knew grief could taste this bitter—tainted by the helpless anger now threading through your every breath. The walls of Wayne Manor seem to loom around you, suffocating and full of shadows. The place once felt like home; now feels like a mausoleum.

Outside, rain spatters the windows, each drop a dull percussion to the cacophony in your head. You’re standing near the fireplace, hands balled into fists, knuckles white with tension. Across the room, Bruce stares at you. His posture is rigid, arms stiff at his sides. The family painting you had commissioned is hung on the far wall, and seeing it cause fresh tears to fall. Jason, your son—dead.

“I can’t believe this, Bruce,” you say, voice shaking with rage. “He was our son. Our boy. And you’re telling me there’s nothing you can do?”

He closes his eyes briefly, as though trying to steady himself. “You know I want justice,” he says, voice low and rough. “But I have—Batman has—rules.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek so hard you taste blood. That single phrase, Batman has rules, ignites something in you, the memory of your son’s laughter mixing with the image of his lifeless body. “Do you think I care about Batman’s rules right now?” The words rip from your throat. “Don’t you dare throw your precious code at me! This isn’t about your crusade—this is about avenging the murder of our child.”

Bruce’s jaw tightens. His hands clench, the only outward sign he’s losing his carefully placed composure. “Gotham can’t fall into anarchy. I made a vow never to cross that line—”

“I can’t believe you’re more concerned about crossing lines than ending the one monster who took him from us!” you shout, voice echoing in the large room. “That clown…that monster is roaming free—he’ll do it again, Bruce. He will. And you won’t do anything?”

Lightning flashes outside, illuminating the tension. The fireplace flickers, and for an instant, you see every etched line on Bruce’s face—the strain, the sorrow, and the anger. He steps closer, each footfall echoing in the hush.

“You think I’m not doing anything?” he hisses, voice tremoring with a swirl of agony and indignation. “Every night, I go out there, I chase him, I stop him from harming someone else. But I don’t kill. Because if I do it once—just once—there’s no going back. The city will have lost its symbol of hope. I will have lost myself.”

You hurl the words at him, your voice trembling, “Symbols don’t matter more than life! More than Jason’s life! Don’t you want the Joker to suffer? Don’t you want to see him punished for what he did?”

“He’ll be punished by the law,” Bruce insists, though the confidence he’s trying to project is thin. “He’s going to Arkham—”

“Arkham?” you bark a laugh that feels like it tears you open from the inside. “He’ll escape again. He always does. You know it. I know it. And the cycle goes on, more people die, more children are orphaned, more families are broken. How many more Jasons? How many more nights do we have to grieve?”

He breathes hard through his nose, turning away as if to gather the scattered fragments of composure. “It’s not that simple—”

“Maybe it is that simple,” you say quietly, your initial anger collapsing into sorrow. “Maybe I just have to accept that what you wear at night means more to you than the life we built…than the son we raised together.”

You see the pain slice through him like a physical wound. He’s trembling, fists in tight knots at his sides, face set in grim lines. “Don’t do that,” he warns in a near whisper. “Don’t question how much I loved him. Don’t say this is about not caring. God, you know I cared. I love him. But I refuse to become the very thing I despise.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” you ask, voice breaking. “Just stand by and let the system fail us again? Let the Joker walk free in six months, only to put someone else in a grave? I…I can’t do this. I can’t keep standing by.”

He takes a step closer, the space between you so thick with tension it’s almost tangible. Then he hesitates, gaze flicking over your features, and you see it clearly—a snap of anger flaring in him.

“You don’t understand me,” he spits in frustration. “You never did. You fell in love with the man behind the mask, but you never understood why the mask exists in the first place.” His voice is a tremulous roar in the hush. “You claim to know me, to love me, but you’d see me become a murderer?”

Every word that leaves his mouth strikes with precision, forcing your eyes to sting with tears you fight to keep at bay. “I’m not asking you to become anything,” you manage, voice raw. “I’m asking you to do what any father—any husband—would do. I’m asking you to show the Joker that he can’t take everything we have without real consequences.”

Your pleas dangle in the silence. You wait, though your heart already feels like it’s shattering. Bruce’s lips part, but no words come. You see the torment running through his mind, the moral lines he’s drawn over and over again since he first became the Batman. And you see the part of him that wants to agree with you, that wants to break the Joker and end the nightmare. But that war rages behind his eyes, and you realize he will not cross that line, no matter how deep the wound.

The hush that ensues is deafening. Finally, Bruce tears his gaze from yours. In that final, wordless moment, you understand each other too well. His morality—his vow—stands as an unbreakable wall between you, between him and vengeance, between your love and the path that would bring you both finality.

You brush past him, feeling the heat radiate off his body even as the chill of his rigid stance sets in. The only sound is your ragged breathing and the patter of the rain outside.

Days turn into weeks, and you sleep in separate bedrooms. Though you both wander the Manor’s halls like ghosts, you barely speak. And when you do, conversations are clipped and tinged with bitterness. Alfred’s gentle attempts at bridging the gap only highlight the chasm.

Gotham’s nights still see Batman swooping through the city, chasing down criminals, returning them to Arkham. It’s all the same routine that took your son away, all the same cycle that left Jason’s place at the dinner table forever empty.

The day of Jason’s funeral arrives. You stand in front of his headstone—Jason Todd Wayne, beloved son. Bruce stands next to you, silent as a statue. The city’s skyline is stark behind you both. The weight of finality sinks in: he is truly gone. And the man you love, whose eyes reflect unspeakable pain, remains as resolute as ever in the vow that distances him from you.

In that moment, sorrow merges with conviction; you realize you can’t be with him like this. You can’t reconcile yourself to it. You can’t keep watching him throw criminals back into Arkham only for them to escape. You can’t watch him refuse the final step, the step you desperately believe in, to save another family from this torment.

You quietly take off the ring Bruce gave you—polished titanium, etched with your initials. You slip it into his hand, fingers closing over his palm, and brush away the tears that fall freely now.

“Bruce,” you whisper, voice thick with grief, “I can’t stand at your side after this. What you’re doing, how you’re not ending it. Maybe it’s noble. Maybe it makes you a hero. But I can’t live with it. Not after Jason.”

He looks at the ring, the bright metal in his gloved hand. He doesn’t speak, his throat too tight with emotion. You think for a moment he’ll protest—that he’ll reach for you, try to fix what’s broken—but he doesn’t. Perhaps he knows, deep inside, that his unyielding lines will never coincide with yours now.

Months later, in a quiet lawyer's office, the finalization of your divorce is as cold and pragmatic as signing any legal form. The media never gets wind of it—the Wayne name shields such intimate heartbreak behind well-guarded gates. You walk away from the building's room with finality. Nothing left to say.

You remember Bruce once whispering, We do what we must for Gotham, for justice. But for you, the definition of justice had changed irrevocably the day you lost Jason. There is no bridging the distance between your brand of justice and Batman’s unwavering line.

In the hush of your new apartment, boxes half-unpacked, you find a small photo of you, Bruce, and Jason on a rare sunny day by the Manor gardens. Jason’s grin is broad, unstoppable—the future once felt so boundless. You press the photo to your chest, letting the wave of grief pass over you like a slow tide, your tears falling onto a cardboard box top.

[austars]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ 1/25 - 6:13 pm

— minors dni, you may be blocked

thinking about rafayel, who is just completely obsessed with his bride, who isn’t technically his bride yet.

but that’s okay, he could change that later.

he’s completely devoted to you, in every way imaginable. he buys you only the finest of clothing, some part in purple to leave his mark. the most beautiful jewelry, a new piece nearly every week. his paintings, which always show some trace of your influence. every time he speaks with you, his eyes shine with adoration.

any chance he can get, his words are about you. those who know him definitely know you, even if it’s just your name. nobody can have a conversation with rafayel without hearing your name.

those days spent, just the two of you, he treasures deeply. no one is allowed to bother him during those days. no matter the activity, painting, sleeping, gaming, anything will make the day his favorite. rafayel just needs to be around you.

rafayel is completely obsessed with everything about you, including the more intimate details.

he knows every possible way to make you feel good. from the second he lies you down on the bed, your pleasure is on the forefront of his mind.

rafayel lives for the sweet moans and whimpers that escape your throat when he teases you. tantalizing touches as he strips you of the beautiful clothes you wore to his gallery that day. the laugh that escapes his throat is taunting as he watches you shiver under his touch.

but he can't help it, he loves seeing you like this. he loves knowing that there is no one out there who knows your body like he does.

he takes his time with you, slowly going lower and lower. and once he gets to that one spot he knows you want him at, his words do all the teasing for him.

"all of this, just for me baby? if i didn't know any better, i'd say you need me."

you can't retort, not when he finally plunges a finger into your sopping hole, curling it just the right way. rafayel relishes in the way your face contorts from surprise to pure bliss. he’s already framed your expression in his mind, to remember forever and always.

you practically beg for rafayel for more. how could he deny his beautiful bride anything? he adds another finger, speeding up his ministrations. soon, a third finger joins, hitting that spongy spot in your pussy so perfectly.

“there you go, princess. almost there. just a little more, my beautiful girl.” he whispers in your ear, practically pushing you over the edge.

as you cum on his fingers, he adores the way your body reacts to what he’s done. that’s right, only he can make you feel that good.

he’s normally so good at holding himself back, keeping his own pleasure at bay. but his pants were unbelievably tight, and he wanted, no needed, to be inside you.

“you can give me one more, can’t you? let me make love to you, my gorgeous bride.”

thinking about rafayel, obsessed with giving his bride the greatest pleasure she’s ever experienced.

© property of austars 2025, all rights reserved. please do not redistribute

[worrywrite]

Not me over here trying to console and joke around with Eleanor, failing to rack up chemistry. Like what do you mean being nice and trying to lighten the mood doesn't work on the most introspective and high minded member of the hex? You telling me I actually have to call her out and engage in painful deep conversations in order for her to feel comfortable?

For real though, the analytics from DE commenting "you guys really want to figure out what that tongue does, dot you" when it was revealed that Eleanor was the most romanced member of the hex might not have been that accurate. I mean, yes, she is the most romanced last I checked, but I think she might be the one that talks in a way that the less sociable players actually get. It's not that she's easy to romance, it's just that the loner sympathy nature of her dialogue makes sense to the large number of sad loners who play a lot of MMOs (myself tentatively included). The tongue is also probably a factor tho.

Why did they put this in there. I’ve never in my life seen a developer use their patch notes to say “we’re pretty sure our community has no game, so here’s a pro tip. Don’t be an asshole to the person you’re trying to date”

[prettycopperpennies]

How They Act When They're Jealous

Including: Frontman/Player 001/Hwang In-ho | Player 333/Lee Myung-gi | Player 388/Kang Dae-ho | Player 230/Thanos/Choi Su-bong | Player 124/ Nam-gyu | The Recruiter

Squid Games x gn! Reader

Frontman/Player 001/Oh Young-il/Hwang In-ho

~ In-ho would not be very obvious about it

~The only real difference in his demeanor is his lingering gaze on you and whoever was chatting with you

~ He wouldn’t step in between the two of you. Not even as you noticeably got more bored or awkward

~ He would simply wait...

~ And let you come to him instead

~ He would, of course, welcome you with open arms and feigned unawareness

~ He’d wrap an arm around your waist with a small smile

~ And ask you where you went

~ “There you are, darling. I’ve been wondering where you are”

~ If you answered honestly or not, he wouldn’t press you for an explanation

~ But he’d feel much more at ease as you stuck close to him for the rest of the night

~ Occasionally glancing over to the person you left behind, making sure they kept their distance

~ And if he ever caught them looking in your direction he would give you quick, chaste kiss

~ Or brush a strand of hair from your face

~ Subtly showing them, and everyone else, who you are with

Player 333/Lee Myung-gi

~ At first you may not realize when Myung-gi was jealous

~ But over time you started to recognize the signs

~ Usually it was just him inserting himself in to whatever conversation you were having with the person who was the cause of his jealousy

~ He’d walk right over and plop himself down next to you

~ But he wouldn’t participate in the conversation

~ Just sit sullenly

~ Glaring down the person across from you

~ And if he was feeling especially jealous he might take your hand in his

~ Making sure the other person saw that move

~ He’d simply sit back and let his awkwardness kill the conversation

~ As soon as they left the two of you alone he’d immediately tell you how much he did not like them

~ You can try to tell him to stop

~ But he would insist he wasn’t trying to be rude, that person was simply very off putting

~ He would need a lot of assurances from you for the next couple days

~ Despite him consistently insisting he wasn’t jealous at all, he just really didn’t like that person

~ “Don’t laugh, I’m serious. There was something sketchy about them.”

Player 388/Kang Dae-ho

~ Dae-ho wouldn’t come over to you

~ Instead he would try to get you to come over to him

~ Immediately calling for you from across the room

~ Acting as if he has something interesting to show you

~ And fully not acknowledging the person you were having a conversation with

~ If you brushed him off he’d only insist harder

~ “Give me a second”

~ “Baby, c’mon, it’ll only take a second! I swear!”

~ And as soon as you inevitably fold and head over he’d be all smiles.

~ Wrapping you in a tight hug as he buried his head in the crook of your neck

~ If you asked him what he wanted to show you he’d admit he just missed you

~ And would be 100% clingier than usual for the rest of the time

~ But he absolutely wouldn’t admit to being jealous

~ Though as he leaned over to rest his head on your shoulder or reach out to intertwine your fingers with his own you knew the truth

Player 230/Thanos/Choi Su-bong

~ “Hey, pretty. Who’s this?”

~ Su-bong would be immediately by your side

~ And looking the other person up and down with a snide expression

~ He would “feign” interest as you introduced the two of them

~ His thinly veiled sarcastic attentiveness would be obvious to all three of you

~ He’d throw an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close

~ And just barely acknowledge the other person with a “huh” or “very interesting”

~ He’d almost exclusively be looking to you

~ But whenever he did glance over to the other person it would be with an expression of barely hidden disgust

~ It is when he openly rolls his eyes you finally give in and excuse the two of you

~ It doesn’t matter how much you chastise him, he is grinning widely

~ He’d let you get all your complaints out, not stopping you or denying anything 

~ Although it is questionable if he is listening

~ It also doesn’t help that he keeps pulling you in for a kiss or wrapping an arm around you as you tell him off

~ As long as he gets you away from the other person, and back to being the two of you, he is on cloud nine

Player 124/ Nam-gyu

~ Nam-gyu would watch you from afar

~ But his staring would be very obvious

~ Even the first time you didn’t know he was jealous, but you definitely felt his eyes on you

~ As soon as you come back to him he would lean in towards you, whispering in your ear

~ “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

~ It doesn’t matter how much you assure him you were not

~ He would be pouty for the rest of the night

~ Despite his upset disposition he’d still keep you close

~ Your hands would constantly be intertwined for the rest of the night

~ And somehow, even though you were right by his side, he’d manage to not look at you the entire time

~ The physical contact would be the only acknowledgment he’d give you

~ But as you let him carry out his antics his ego would slowly bolster

~ By the time you two are going home he would no longer be upset with you

~ And would be taking advantage of the fact you two were finally alone

The Recruiter

~ There is no politeness or following of societal expectations

~ The second he feels a tinge of jealousy he is dragging you away

~ “We were just talking”

~ “You were just talking. They were…”

~ He would be too angry to finish the thought

~ He trusts you, sure, but he doesn’t trust anyone else

~ He is low-key obsessed in love with you

~ And he is convinced anyone else who encounters you would feel the exact same way

~ He wouldn’t make any kind of move or say anything that would suggest he needs reassuring or comforting

~ But if you gave it to him anyways he would immediately melt for you

~ Letting you fawn over him and tell him how you only have eyes for him

~ If you didn’t say anything it would just make him more jealous

~ He would even be looking warily at the poor guy bagging your groceries at the store

~ But you’d have to be the one to come to him

~ Because he’d never admit to being jealous

[qqueenofhades]

do you have any advice for those in the very early stages of thesis-writing? currently desperately clinging to the mantra of "shitty first drafts," et al

Unfortunately, there is no place where you will more whole-assedly have to embrace the "shitty first draft" mantra than in academic writing, especially in thesis writing, especially if this is your first-ish crack at an advanced and major piece of original research. I'm not sure if this is for an undergraduate senior thesis, a MA-level thesis, or (my true and heartfelt sympathies) a PhD dissertation, but the basic principles of it will remain the same. So there is that, at least. This means that yes, you will write something, you may even feel slightly proud of it, and then you will hand it into your supervisor and they will more or less kindly dismantle it. You have to train yourself to have a thick skin about this and not take it as a personal insult, and if your supervisor is remotely good at their job (not all of them are, alas) they will know how to be tactful about it and not make it feel like a direct and extensive commentary on your private worth as a person. But you will have to swallow it and do what you can, which can include -- if you're the one who has done the research and know that's how you want to present it and/or you are correct about it -- pushing back and having a conversation with them about how you think your original approach does work best. But that will come later. The first step is, yes, to mentally gird yourself to receive critical feedback on something that you have worked hard on, and to understand that no matter how much you grump and grumble and deservedly vent to your friends and so on, implementing the feedback will usually make your piece better and stronger. That is the benefit of working with a trained expert who knows what makes a good piece of research in your particular academic field, and while it doesn't get easier, per se, at least it gets familiar. Be not afraid, etc.

If you're in the writing stage, I assume that you've moved past the topic-selection and general-research stage, but allow me to plump once more the services of your friendly local university library. You can (or at least you can at mine and probably in any decently well-equipped research university) schedule a personal consultation with an expert librarian, who can give you tips on how to find relevant subject databases, create individual research guides (these might already be available on the university library website for classes/general topics), and otherwise level you up to Shockingly Competent Research Superhero. So if you're still looking for a few extra sources, or for someone else who might be reading this and is still in the "how the heck do I find appropriate and extensive scholarly literature for my thesis??" stage, please. Go become a Research Ninja. It's much easier when you have a minion doing half the work for you, but please do appreciate and make use of your university librarian. It's much more effective than haphazard Google Scholar or JSTOR searches hoping to turn up something vaguely relevant (though to be fair, we all do that too), and it's what your tuition dollars are paying for.

Next, please do remind yourself that you are not writing the whole thesis in one go, and to break it down into manageable chunks. It usually does make sense to write the whole thing semi-chronologically (i.e. introduction, lit review, chapter 1, chapter 2/3/4 etc, conclusion), because that allows you to develop your thoughts and make logical connections, and to build on one piece to develop the next. If you're constantly scrambling between chapters and zig-zagging back and forth as things occur to you, it will be harder to focus on any one thought or thread of research, and while you might get more raw output, it will not be as good and will require more correction and revision, so you're not actually hacking yourself into increased productivity. You should also internally structure your chapters in addition to organizing your overall thesis, so it makes sense to draw up a rough outline for section A, section B, section C within the body of a single chapter. This will make you think about why the segues are going in that order and what a reasonably intelligent reader, who nonetheless may not have the specialized knowledge that you are demonstrating for them, needs to move understandably from one section to the next.

Some academics I know like to do an extensive outline, dumping all their material into separate documents for each chapter/paper and kneading and massaging and poking it into a more refined shape, and if that works for you -- great! I'm more of the type that doesn't bother with a ton of secondary outlines or non-writing activity, since that can lead you away from actually writing, but if you need to see the fruit of your research all together in one place before you can start thinking about how it goes together, that is also absolutely the way that some people do it. Either way, to be a successful academic writer, you have to train yourself to approach academic writing in a very different way from fun writing. You do fun writing when you have free time and feel inspired and can glop a lot of words down at once, or at least some words. You do it electively and for distraction and when you want to, not to a set timeline or schedule, and alas, you can't do this for academic writing. You will have to sit your ass down and write even when you do not feel like writing, do not feel Magically Inspired, don't even want to look at the fucking thing, etc. I have had enough practice that I can turn on Academic Writing Brain, sit down, bang something out, sit down the next day and turn on Academic Editing Brain, go over it again, and send it off, but I have been in academia for uh, quite a while. The good news is that you can also automate yourself to be the same way, but the bad news is that it will take practice and genuine time invested in it.

As such, this means developing a writing schedule and sticking to it, and figuring out whether you work best going for several hours without an interruption, or if you set a timer, write for a certain time, then allow yourself to look at the internet/answer texts/fuck around on Tumblr, and then make yourself put down the distraction and go back to work for another set period of time. (I am admittedly horrible at putting my phone away when I should be doing something else, but learn ye from your wizened elders, etc.) You will have to figure out in which physical space you work best, which may not be a public coffee shop where you can likewise get distracted with doing other things/chatting to friends/screwing around on the internet/doomscrolling/peeking at AO3, and to try to be there as often as possible. It might be your carrel in the library, it might be your desk at home, it might be somewhere else on campus, but if you can place yourself in a setting that tells your brain it's time to work and not look at WhatsApp for the 1000th time in a row, that is also beneficial.

Finally, remember that you do not have to produce an absolutely world-beating, stunningly original, totally flawless and perfect piece, even in its final form. Lots of us write very shitty things when we're starting out (and some of us, uh, still write very shitty things as established academics), and you do not have to totally redefine your entire field of study or propose a groundbreaking theory that nobody has heard of or anything like that. A lot of academic work is small-scale and nuanced, filling in spaces on the margins of other things or responding or offering a new perspective on existing work, and it's best to think of it as a conversation between yourself and other scholars. They have said something and now you're saying something back. You don't need to be so brilliant that everyone goes ZOMGZ I HAVE NEVER HEARD OF THAT BEFORE; by its nature that happens very rarely and is usually way out on a limb (extraordinary claims require extraordinary evidence, etc); you just need to continue the dialogue with a reasonably well-constructed and internally plausible piece. So if you think of it that way, and understand that a shitty first draft will usually develop into something that is good and valuable but not SHOCKING NEW REVELATION clickbait hype, you will take some of the pressure off yourself and be more able to shut up that perfectionist voice in your head. However, all of us have some degree of imposter syndrome and it never entirely goes away, so you'll have to manage that too. Etc etc as before, it doesn't vanish altogether, but it gets easier.

And last but not least, though I'm sure I don't have to say this: for the love of fuckin' god, do not use ChatGPT. Even the genuinely shittiest paper in the world that you still worked on researching, organizing, and writing with your own brain is better than that. Trust me.

[mejaemin]

trained him well - choi seungcheol

wc: 0.8k

summary: chan calls about his relationship problems, surfacing memories of a time where seungcheol used to cause the same trouble

warnings: light cursing, suicide mention (as a joke), fluff, cuddling, pet names

an: i literally just wrote this in like 30 minutes bc i got random inspo for it. i lowk hate doing things like this, including readers from one fic in one with a “different reader” but i felt like it’d be fun to do this pov !!! i hope evb enjoys my coups debut !!!

(this is a second pov to my other work 6 hours !!! i don’t think it’s necessary to read it but things would probably make a little more sense if you did)

───── ⋆⋅ ⊹ ⁺ 𐔌 ᩧ ຼ ͡ ৯ ♡໒⁀ ᩧຼ ꒱ིྀ ⁺ ⊹ ⋅⋆ ─────

you’re laying with seungcheol in bed, his obnoxiously loud snores filling the room as he sleeps on top of you. his cheeks are puffy and smushed, and his lips are parted with the way he rests his head on your chest. every once in a while he’ll subconsciously snuggle into you a little more when he feels your nails scrape his scalp, soothing him even when he’s in his dreamland.

it’s your boyfriend’s day off, the office going on a company wide vacation for some holiday. all of his friends have off too, and after their late night celebration yesterday he’s been sleeping all morning into the afternoon. you couldn’t complain, knowing that with your allergies to working this fits right in with your everyday routine. his body is heavy on top of yours, going fully dead weight in his slumber but it’s just the right amount of pressure to feel comfortable, lulling you back to sleep.

just as your mind slips from its last bit of consciousness, it’s brought right back by the loud, annoying screech of a phone ringing. sifting through the sheets for whoever’s it is, you pull out seungcheol’s phone. it’s chan who’s calling, and you really couldn’t be bothered to let your boyfriend know, especially when his ringtone didn’t even wake him up. declining the call, you set it back down and try going back to sleep before it rings again.

accepting defeat, you gently push the man’s shoulder. “cheollie, get up..” you whine, just as displeased as he is when he picks his head up.

he squints, looking up at you. “hm?” he looks incredibly displeased, and you almost want to pinch his cheeks at his furrowed brows and pout.

“chan is calling.” you hand him his phone, and he sighs heavily at the disturbance.

“so? i’m too tired for this-“ the call ends, having taken to long to pick up. it starts right back up again, his caller id paired with a photo of him while drunk filling the screen.

“that’s the third time, honey. maybe you should answer?”

he sighs, letting his head fall back down against you before putting it on speaker next to his face. their conversation is brief, seungcheol too comfortable and tired to keep it up any longer than necessary. it makes you laugh, chan whining and panicking as he vents to the elder about his relationship issues. apparently he’s been given the silent treatment, and he’s so distressed he could ‘actually throw up’ over it. your boyfriend asks why, and when he learns how stupid the situation is, yet eerily similar to one he’s been in before, the only advice he can give is “you did that to yourself, man.”

truthfully, the situation is a bold parallel to one you and your boyfriend have been in yourselves. chan ate the last of his girlfriend’s food, and is now receiving the silent treatment among other consequences. though, you’re different now, and your cheollie knows better than to mess with you or get you angry. sometimes, you think he’s actually scared of you when you’re mad. regardless, chan’s predicament makes you laugh, feeling relief that you don’t experience stuff like that anymore.

he eventually hangs up the phone, turning to you. “how familiar does that sound, hm?”

you hum, “it sure is similar to how we used to be, isn’t it?” he nods, “you wouldn’t do that to me now though, right?”

your expression turned serious, and he’s almost too quick to nod and kiss the clothed skin between your breasts in confirmation. “of course not, i’d never eat your food, baby. now, should i actually call his girlfriend, or..?” he trails off, now feeling almost as if he’s in trouble too, uncertain as to whether or not he should meddle in their issues.

you nod, shrugging. “go ahead, i don’t see why not.”

he nods, reopening his phone to search for chan’s girlfriend’s contact. once he finds it, he calls her and reluctantly relays the news. he reiterates as many times as possible that he’s on her side, agreeing that chan is wrong and he’s only relaying his ‘dying message’ they share a laugh, and she apologizes for dragging him into their mess. you say hello as well, laughing about the similarity together before the call ends.

he throws his phone to the other end of the bed, sighing as he finally relaxes into your skin again. “i’m so happy that’s over. i was scared as if i was the one who did something..”

you kiss his crown, his face hidden in your body. “you’d never, though. i trained you well, didn’t i?” you giggle, running a hand over his hair like you would to a pet.

he nods. “after that one time where you literally sent death threats, i nearly had a heart attack. and getting silent treatment? don’t even get me started, not talking to you for three days straight over a donut had me almost killing myself. i definitely know better than to fuck with you like that.” he goes on, already in a nervous ramble at the idea of receiving a punishment like that again. you may have been a little harsh, but that’s what happens when your girlfriend’s buttons get pushed. at least he’s better now, and isn’t making mistakes like his friend lee chan.

───── ⋆⋅ ⊹ ⁺ 𐔌 ᩧ ຼ ͡ ৯ ♡໒⁀ ᩧຼ ꒱ིྀ ⁺ ⊹ ⋅⋆ ─────

[choas232]

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Part two of Chatty g/n! reader x Steb

Summary:

You’re in love with Steb. Big deal. Your plan? Repression. In which Steb tries to be as obvious as possible and you try to be as oblivious as possible.

No use of Y/N, neutral terms and they/them is used to refer the reader. Set after Jinx’s colour explosion thing (which my friends lovingly refer to as Piltover’s first pride parade.)

CWs: Profanity.

Word count: 3.1k

Part One: G/N Chatty reader x Steb

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

You’re in love with Steb. Big deal. Your plan? Repression.

Denial has aided you in all that it can. For small moments, you allow yourself to believe that you were wrong. There is no admiration to be found, there is no affection, and there is certainly no love. Until he opens a door for you, places a hand over your chair, brushing your shoulder, to peer at your work, offers to grab you a coffee when he sees your eyebags, likely not knowing he is the cause.

You have done everything you can. ‘Feeling your feelings’ and ‘Changing your mindset’ like the self-help book you borrowed from your local library haven’t helped you, to your avail, leading you to the third and final option; running from your problems and ignoring him.

It’s easy enough.

When you first became an Enforcer, you certainly did not know how much paperwork the work included. Propaganda posters scarcely talk of office hours, and healthcare benefits, you find. Now, you thank whatever cruel gods for the blindness of your youth, holing yourself in your office, hunching over sheet after sheet and ignoring the aching of your heart.

You’re such an idiot.

It’s only on day three of this monotonous cycle, hiding from him, working, working, working, that something snaps you out of your routine.

Flowers.

You emerge from your office, stumbling to the coffee machine, when a cleared throat startles you out of your daze.

In his angular, nice— fuck, normal looking hands, a bouquet. Of wildflowers, you think. Colourful and bright, the kind that grow just outside of Piltover. Daisy-like white flowers, long slender stems with bulbous pink shapes hanging from them, dangling purple bells, and neat blue flowers with heart shaped petals.

“Oh. Hey.” You greet, before somewhere in the haze of your mind— something falls. Flowers. Why does he have flowers? Are they a gift? Who for? You open your mouth to voice this— but no. You must not. Avoidance.

But the flowers.

Okay. Casual time. “Those are pretty. Where’d you get them from?” He blinks, clearly unexpected by this train of conversation, maybe by how casual and suave you’re being right now.

You move past him— turning your back on his big, wide surprised eyes, his rolled up sleeves, his angular, large hands wrapped around the brown paper holding the bouquet—okay,that’s enough of that train of thought— and get to work on precuring some wonderful caffeine. Caffeine to help the fog of your treacherous thoughts, leading you down paths you very much do not want to go down.

“You know, there’s a place near my house, in walking distance, that I go past when I go the shops to pick up groceries. Always smells really good. Maybe I should pick some up for my house?” You turn to gauge his non-verbal reaction, but for whatever reason, he looks mightily distressed.

“What’re they for, anyways?” What. Not, who. ‘Who’ implies you were thinking about him giving them to people, and flowers are typically a sign of romance, and that you care who he gives flowers, and that is not on your brain right now. Definitely not.

His expression moves at a pace you can’t match, going from confused, to disappointed, to pained, his gills fluttering, the monochromatic yellowing light of the office lights hitting them, the glint drawing your betraying eyes.

Almost uncertainly, he points to— what for a second— looks like you.

“The office space? It is getting slightly grim in here.” You, too loudly, laugh, semi-startled from the jolt of your heart. God. Imagine that. You. Him giving you flowers. You try not to.

He, very slowly, nods.

“Great. Well than. I’ll. Uhm. Try to leave you to it?” After a too long pause where he simply unreadably stares at you, you turn on your heels and make a break for your office space.

You, like a fool, assume the last of the issue. A vase appears in the communal office-space, filled with flowers.

The next day however, he invites you to lunch.

It’s late afternoon, and you’re in the midst of packing up your office’s clutter when he raps against the door with his knuckles. Through the blinds you purposely have kept closed, you make out his tall, wiry frame, one hand fixing his, of course, already perfect hair. You quickly try to fix your own appearance, hoping a dull dragging of your fingers through your hair will perhaps make you not look like you’ve been hit by a semi-truck.

“Come in!” You call out, trying not to let him hear the betraying shudder of your vocal cords, dull from misuse. You need to call a friend or something. Talk about anything at all, at least for a couple hours. You feel like you’re going crazy.

He gently pushes the door open, surveying your small, cluttered room. His nose disapprovingly wrinkles at the mess, but he says, or implies, nothing. A small kindness. What are you to say? Sorry boss, I’ve been stuck up on getting over the massive, fat crush I have on you, and your hands, and how gently you cradled my head in the pipe in the ground, and how your finger brushed my lip and how I felt something crawl out of where I had shoved it down.

God, this love is eating you from the inside.

He looks better than usual, a fact you scold yourself from noticing. His shirt is neatly ironed, the sleeves rolled up as if to taunt you. The tightness of his office clothes compared to the bulky, bullet proof frame of his enforcer uniform makes you, for a brief, blinding moment, miss it deeply. Though, you doubt it would make much of a difference. You’re too down bad, a phrase you now understand.

His black tie is perfectly straightened, though he moves to straighten it again as he braces for whatever he is to say, and with surprise, you note the bobbing of his throat as he moves to verbally speak. “Would you like a break from your work? Perhaps get something to eat?” There’s a forced casualness to his tone, adding a clunky layer of misshapenness to his tenor; you have only ever heard him speak in sparse, important moments, yet he tries to be relaxed now.

“…Sure.” Him speaking has thrown you off. Not only is his voice remarkably attractive, it also signifies something you feel you’re missing. You can’t just ask him why he’s speaking though. That would be rude. (You did threaten to eat him last week, in your stint in the underground after you ran out of food, and than thought nothing of it. Your brain is outstandingly good at finding the worst moments to cram you full of social anxiety.)

You can’t deny this offer. You skipped lunch, for starters, or at least, that’s the excuse you tell yourself, when in reality, your heart, from deep within it’s place in your chest, reaches up to puppet the strings of your vocal cords. “Uhm, there’s this really good place close-ish to here? A noodle bar. It’s cheap, relatively good for you, I think, but you know how it is. You never know. I went there last week with Miranda, and they had this really good item on the menu… she ordered it and I ended up probably eating more than her… haha.” You make the noise nervously, more of a phonetic mimicry than a laugh.

He nods, politely.

“Is anyone else going?”

Slowly, he shakes his head, waiting as if to gauge your reaction.

Well. That’s off. Usually Maddie would tag along, or another coworker. One to one… perhaps she’s just occupied? Ever since your stint in the underground ended in disaster, captain Kiramman has been seeing her fairly frequently, or she’s been caught up in other business. (Fuck. You miss the underground. You’d never thought you say it, but you miss Vi, and her terrible Zaunite food, and you miss Loris’s calm, and you miss Maddie and you miss Kiramman, even when she had a stick up her arse about finding the blue-haired Zaunite girl. You haven’t seen Loris since then, and Lord knows where Vi is.)

“Cool. Well. Off we hop, then? Let me just clean this up…” You move to clean, turning so he doesn’t see your flushed cheeks. Cool? Off we hop? OFF WE HOP? Genuinely, what is wrong with you?

He doesn’t care about your verbal failure, nodding again, his hands instinctively resting clasped behind him, shoulders straight.

Picture perfect even as you fall apart.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

You’ve missed your chats, as it turns out. Well. Is it really chats if only one of you is doing the talking? You think so, because the kind of awareness, care in his eyes, the way he almost hangs off every word, has you stumbling over your tall tales and stories.

The look in his eyes, half-lidded, is worse, devastating to your poor heart. Very rarely do people listen to you, you think, even when you were a sullen, quiet child. That’s fine. They catch every second word, the gist of it, and if you speak thrice as much, they’ll get thrice as much of the little they catch, right?

But he listens, to all of it, for better or for worse.

For worse, you think. Your heart is beating out of your chest. It’s hot in the outside area you’ve chosen to sit at, an ornate bench half cooled by shade on a narrow porch area, decorated with sweet-smelling flowers. The heat is insufferable, in Piltover. The high houses trap it, and it is suffocating, or maybe it just feels that way because every so often he moves to keep his sleeves rolled up, brush strands of hair falling back into his face.

He’s slightly hunched over, across from you, so much so you’re almost eye-level. It’s a very calculated move, from his usual perfect posture. He doesn’t fidget. Just listens. When it comes to ordering, he points to the dish that he wants— inwardly, you wonder about the schematics of him, almost mermaid eating a fish— and order for the both of you, including some water.

“It was nice of you to buy flowers for the office. Everybody’s been on edge recently, with Kiramman’s new job, and the attack, and all that trouble down in the undercity.” You tell him, when it becomes apparent there’s only so much of dodging the topic you can do.

He hums. You swear his eyebrows furrow, just for a second, as he looks away.

“Ah. Sorry to bring it up. Politics and all that can wait, huh?” You heard he was injured at the attack, and misinterpreting his source of discomfort, you change the topic, but in the dizzy mix, stumble into perhaps the worst topic your brain can hurriedly think off. “Soooo…. Our time in the underground, huh?”

He blinks, looking up, and than nods.

“How was it? For you?”

Tugging a notepad out of his pocket, this calms you, the normalcy of it, he writes, quickly, in messily stencilled letters. You threatened to eat me.

“Ah.” Dammit. “I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t remember that.” You awkwardly push out, but he’s writing more.

You almost got yourself killed, than us killed, and lost our supplies.

“Ah. Sorry?” Double dammit. Guilt begins to prickle low in your gut. You did do that.

You also saved us.

He smiles. It’s terrible, the smile, one like you’re in on something together. You do not understand it. He smiles, and it is terrible. He smiles, and you are suddenly co-conspirators, privy to something you are blind to.

Your food comes, and you eat silently, trying not to think about the smile.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

There’s only so much silence you can pry out of shoving noodles in your mouth before your patience snaps.

The food is delicious, creamy, brothy, the herbs tangy and fragrant, but even that doesn’t stop how suddenly hyperaware you are of how small this table is, how mindful he has to be not to knock his long legs against yours.

Just as you think you’re finally free from it, the suffocating stillness, The waitstaff moves to clean your bowls up. You smile and thank them. They smile at you too, a knowing smile, a smile like they’re in on it. “Enjoy your date.” They say to you both. Steb nods to them as they move back indoors, balancing the bowls in their arms.

Date. Wait.

You feel as if you may be missing something.

Steb doesn’t say anything, which seems like a no-brainer, except now he’s watching you, eyebrows slightly furrowed, pouty lips pressed against one another. Waiting. Waiting for what? You to make a joke, haha, we’re not on a date. How silly, right? You tosay nothing, move on?You to ask about it? Are we on a date? Surely not?

Your options are dwindling as each second ticks by, slowly your gaping mouth and shocked look slowly becoming less and less socially acceptable.

Quick. Think fast.

“So, uhm, how was the food?”

You get the feeling you shouldn’t have said that.

He nods his head non-committedly, reaching up to rest his chin in the palm on his hand. You’re not really sure what to make of the action, except now you can see his forearms, and it’s making you feel a little crazy. “Mine was uhm… good.” You stutter. He nods, something warring in his mind, before he reaches to pick up the neat little notebook, hastily scribbling something down.

You clutch the little scrap of paper he rips out to hand to you. You have a collection of them, in the drawer of your office, reminders and praises and greetings, mundane and simple yet delightful for you. You think you would die if he ever found out, and even though your mission of repression is a strong one, you don’t have the heart to throw them out. (It’s not lovey-dovey. It’s just practical. What if he says something important and you miss it?)

The message, this time, isn’t delightful.

I’m sorry if I am making you feel uncomfortable.

“No? What do you mean?”

I didn’t know whether you understood the flowers were for you or you were implying you were uncomfortable with receiving them. If so, I’m sorry I pressured you to come out with me.

“Sorry? What?” He gives you a moment to rub your brain cells together, rereading the note, looking up at him, and than looking back down.

“The flowers were for me?”

He nods.

Calm down. Flowers don’t need to be romantic. He probably just noticed you were acting stressed and got them to calm you down! This isn’t special! “Uhm. Thank you. Sorry for… you know.”

He blinks, once. He blinks again. He ears jerk, up, than down, his lips falling open to reveal a narrow slit of flesh, his front teeth. It’s not quite a pained grimace, he’s far too reserved in his actions for that, but you think it’s the closest you’ll get.

He moves forward suddenly, grappling for the notepad, and you flinch at the sudden movement.

This is what I mean. I can never tell what you’re thinking. Just say the words, and I’ll cool any and all advances on you at once. He has underlined at once, several times.

He must think of you illiterate with the amount of time you spend rereading the words. Advances is a word that implies… but surely not? Maybe he’s worried about being pushy. But you like it when he’s pushy, berating you for your recklessness, your injuries, his careful orders when you find yourself stationed under him, how much he cares. That sounded a little too down-bad, but you like it when people are clear with you! Yeah. Why are you thinking about that, right now? You should stop. You should reply.

This conversation would probably be easier if you weren’t constantly at war with yourself.

“Oh. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it, ahaha…”

He looks vaguely annoyed, now for a brief flash, his ears sliding down, before he quickly pushes the expression down. His ears do not follow.

I am trying to court you. He writes, a hand stressedly messing through his neatly slicked back hair.

Words escape you.

“What?” You say, dumbly.

“I am trying to… romance you.” He says, out loud, and now he well and truly must think you can’t read. You hate to make him think of you deaf too, because the pained look he expresses as he hastily scribbles down, Please don’t make me repeat that, is perhaps the only think keeping you from short circuiting.

“Oh.” You say, instead. “Uhm… thank you.”

Fuck. “I mean. Not thank you. Yay?” You hope, very deeply, the waitstaff comes back and smashes your head in with the noodle bowls.

His expression is less agonized, but only just. Yay? He writes. Is that good?

“Yeah.” Oh God. Why can’t you speak? Why can’t you think of something to say? Aren’t love confessions supposed to be easy, ish, once you’ve gotten past the confession bit? Isn’t this the part where you start making out or something? That was a terrible train of thought to go down, because now you’re thinking about making out with Steb, and it’s just—

“I uhm. Like you too. Were the flowers, like, to… confess to me?” Why would you say that? That was not suave. Thatwas not cool. You probably shouldn’t have said anything.

Yes. Steb writes.

“Woah.” He relaxes, maybe only because you’re so hard to take seriously it’s hard not to. His hair is still slightly messed up from how he had been gripping it, a fact you would have probably taken pride in, any other trouble-making day, but not this one. “I— sorry. I’m processing this information. Very slowly.”

He hums. Take your time. You get the feeling he is teasing you, and you get the feeling you might be smiling, a fact which is mortifying, and means you probably are smiling, giddily, like a fool. You’re smiling, and you’re not saying anything. You’re smiling, and you’re silent. In comparison, he’s been more talkative in the last three days than he is in perhaps a month.

You soak it in.

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

Notes:

Maybe it really is Piltover’s first pride parade…

People who asked to be tagged in part two (tell me if you’re uncomfortable with this and I will apologise profusely and remove you) ; @nixxie15 @flooftoof @mintballoons thank you for the kind comments!!

[genderqueerdykes]

This might be a reach since I'm a bit emotional about it but in response to one of your recent posts:

I've also noticed a lot of "trans friendly" cis people (who are usually not actually as progressive as they believe they are anyways, even regarding transfems) using "trans women are women" or equal shorthands to signal their support and in turn just... completely brush over the existence of enbies and mascs as a whole.

Like obviously the statement in itself is true. Trans women are women. But it's used as the end all be all of the trans community. Like that's the only thing that matters and that we're fighting to have recognized.

It sounds a little whiney, but I wouldn't be so bothered by it if those same people then didn't turn around and spew the most hateful shit about men either in complete disregard to trans men&mascs or, even worse, including them in their hatred.

I don't know. Am I reaching? It's just been frustrating me...

you're not whiny or reaching, that's definitely happening in real time. it's okay to feel fucked up by this, it's not okay.

generally speaking whenever someone runs some kind of account on social media where they want to look like they accept trans people, they will immediately default to saying "trans rights!" and then "Trans women are women!" and then that's literally where the conversation dies. i do not understand why people continue to do this. yes it's important to uphold trans women but why does the conversation literally fucking die right after that?

i don't get why transfemininity and trans womanhood are seen as the entirety of/end all be all of transness by a lot of people but it's frustrating because it's used to put a blanket over a lot of other people to silence them for no good reason. like you can type a few more words. "trans men are men!" the silence is genuinely deafening.

some people don't realize that it's not what they say, but what they leave out that says so much about how they feel.

take care of yourself. i don't think this behavior is right at all. people really do think the conversation about trans acceptance begins and dies at transfemininity and trans womanhood. it's just weird i literally don't understand it. if it's malicious, i just don't understand why. it's not helping anyone

[call-sign-shark]

Aouch... The topic of honour killing made me wince but, once again, is really fitting for Nina. I swear I was scared along with her of seing her parents erupted from nowhere when she lef the bedroom.

To be fair, I feel so bad for Nina's guiltriping herself even though it's perfectly logical. Now that the sexual tension is ease, she must feel so bad for Agnese and also her whole family. "ot to mention that she wasn’t just ruining a marriage, but she was ruining the only chance they had at peace for her own selfishness." fuuuckk she's carrying so much on her shoulders. This is something I particularly liked about Nina: he isn't extra, she's the Mary Sue type, she has been through brutal down, but her pain and the importance of her "good behavior" to her family make her situation suffocating. Unbearable. What pains me is that she thinks of her family 24/7 while all of them are convinced she's just playing the stubborn brat.

"Her mother’s face twisted in a sour expression, and her knowing eyes pierced right through her. “Stefano.”" -> Gosh what a huge scare. I thought her mom had found out for Tommy.

“Listen to me, find a good man. Or your father will choose for you and you’ll never get out of here. You will be cursed, and if you have sons, they will be as well, just like your brothers.” -> Oh my god that part had me on the edge of my seat. I have grown very fond of Marry Ferrante. She's such a resiliant, sad but loving mother despite her harshness. The realationship you created between the two of them felt sincerely realistic -- a bit too much aha and i mean it as a compliment. I sincerely feel something in my heart at each of their discussion. Her declaration to Nina had me stop breathing. I'd never expect her to say such things. She meant to do well for her daughter but still failed to see the core of the problem: giving Nina against her consent to somene she doesn't want. Stripping her of her freedom and rights. That's a bit tragic to see that even with love there is still a wall between these two.

She would burn down the church and everybody in it, including herself. -> Yes queen, this is what I call FIERCENESS.

To keep us on edge,” he added, lowering his voice, the grin seeming to become less amused and vaguely threatening. -> I think Ive never told you that but the way you have fleshed Nina's family left my mouth gaped in admiration. You really did a great job with them, they feel so canon to me. Also I snorted really loud at work at Tommy's "also I fucked your daughter last night". Joke aside the whole conversation between Tom and the Ferrante men sent shivers down my spine. I don't know what's your magic trick but you really made them terrifying in this scene, just like predators circling around a prey.

I'm aching for Nina and Tommy. I cannot imagine how ba they felt, how awful it is to fight against their love. This line "“We made a mistake,” Nina finished his sentence for him, trying to keep her voice steady despite the lump in her throat. “I made a mistake.”" made me realize how ina is both strong and fragile at the same time. And surprisingly self-beating... His declaration, while beautiful, was like getting stab in the heart in this impossible situation. I understand perfectly why she feels like he makes it difficult.

Her mouth went dry, but she didn’t avert her gaze this time. “It’s all in your head.” -> aouch; can you stop hurting me? However it's tragicqally beautiful how you mirror her words with how she really feels.

ARGHHHHHH THIS ENDING I CANNNN'T. Seriously you're the queen of slow burn and I mean it. I am astonished by your skills, how you handle the pace of your story, the characterization... Just wow.

Heart, Body and Soul || Tommy Shelby x OC

CHAPTER 10

Summary: mistakes were made the previous night, and Tommy and Nina are forced to come to terms with what the consequences of their actions will be.

Warnings: time-typical misogyny, talks of arranged marriage, talks of forced marriage, mentions of killing, mentions of violence, mentions of sex, angst, small age-gap (Tommy’s 30, Nina is in her early 20s). This is set between season 1 and 2. English is not my first language.

Important information for context: the honour killing and the shotgun wedding at the time in Italy were recognised by the Penal Code and were only abolished in 1981.

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Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

It took Nina less than a minute to realise that she had woken up in a bed that wasn’t hers, in a room that wasn’t hers, beside someone she wasn’t supposed to be lying with. Memories from the previous night flooded back to her mind in a powerful wave. The passionate but gentle touches, the reassuring words, the adoring glances of that man that had bursted into her life to sweep her off her feet and make her question everything, all in the name of something more intense than anything she had ever felt.

Her eyes trailed over Tommy’s face, tracing the regular line of his jaw, the small scar under his chin, the outline of his slightly parted lips, the curve of his nose, mesmerised by the way his long lashes brushed his freckled cheeks. There was no hint of the stern, cold facade he put on every single day. He looked relaxed. Peaceful, even. Once again, she found herself drawn to that beauty, a beauty that seemed carved from marble by God himself.

Shit.

Careful not to wake him, she got up to collect the stained bedsheet she had tossed on the floor the previous night, wondering how she’d manage to wash it without arousing the suspicions of her mother. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door just enough to make sure no one was in the hallway, half-convinced that her mother or her father would appear from nowhere and find out the disgrace she had brought upon the family.

Just fucking do it, she scolded herself.

After one last moment of hesitation, she walked out the room, closing the door behind her ever so slowly before sprinting towards her bedroom. As soon as she was in the safety of those four walls, she breathed out a sigh full of frustration, nervously dropping the items she was holding to the floor.

What the fuck had she done?

Her gaze was caught by the bloodstain on the bedsheet, red, vibrant. She kicked it in a corner of the room, unable to think under the accusatory looks it seemed to send her. What would she do now? Pretend nothing had happened, again? She couldn’t. She knew she couldn’t. How was she supposed to act normal around him, now that they had truly crossed the line? How was she supposed to even look Agnese in the eyes? She had betrayed her. She had betrayed her whole family. Not only had she ruined herself, she had ruined herself with her cousin’s future husband. A future husband who hadn’t even proposed yet because of her. Not to mention that she wasn’t just ruining a marriage, but she was ruining the only chance they had at peace for her own selfishness.

The scariest thing was that wasn’t even the worst part. If the thing were to come out, she’d be irremediably deemed as a whore. It wasn’t her reputation she was worried about, it was the consequences her family would face. The consequences she would face. She had tarnished the Ferrante name, and only her blood could wash that stain away.

Normally the options were two: a shotgun wedding or an honour killing, but in her case the choice was even more limited. Because while her father might consider marrying her off to Tommy, uncle Mario would never accept the offence. And everyone in the family would vote against the alliance with the Shelbys. She knew her father and brothers would never actually kill her. They would get angry, maybe even beat her, lock her in the family home for the rest of her days, but never that. They would’ve learned to live with the shame. But she had uncles, and aunts, and cousins who would want to clean their name.

No, the truth couldn’t come out. What had happened the previous night must never get past the walls of Tommy’s room. Even if it meant losing him forever.

That morning, Maria Ferrante was rather surprised to find out her daughter had woken up feeling particularly cooperative and decided to wash and change everybody’s bedsheets of her own free will. She was now hanging them out in the sun, under her incredulous stare.

“Even your brothers’?”

“Yeah, for when they’re back.”

That was new. Nina had always stubbornly refused to even set foot in Salvatore’s and Pietro’s rooms, adamant that it was their responsibility to keep their stuff clean. Maria figured that, just like her, she didn’t like it when her father sent them away on business, and that her worry had taken the shape of rare gestures of fondness. Or maybe she was just keeping herself occupied, as she always did when something troubled her.

The first assumption wasn’t too far away from the truth. Sure, Nina had her own interests behind that sudden prodigality, but getting their rooms ready for their return made her feel like they would, with no doubt, come back. Like nothing would go wrong.

“That cake I found in the kitchen,” her mother inquired again, and Nina had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes at her unrelenting interrogation. “Where did it come from?”

“I made it last night. Couldn’t sleep.”

A few seconds of silence followed, and it made her hope her mother was done with the questions. She had never been a good liar, not with the people who knew her well. Her face was an open book on which the truth stood out, black ink on pristine white paper.

“Nina,” Maria’s stern voice cut the air. “I know what’s going on.”

The blood froze in her veins. She thought she had been careful. She was sure no one had seen sneaking in or out Tommy’s room, all hell would’ve broken loose otherwise. There was no way she really knew. She swallowed, sending her a glance, completely unable to say anything.

Her mother’s face twisted in a sour expression, and her knowing eyes pierced right through her. “Stefano.”

Nina had to hold back a sigh of relief. She secured a pillowcase on the line, able to breath again now that she knew her secret was still safe. However, that name alone was enough to deepen the frown on her face, the mere sound of it making her skin crawl.

“You’re worried cause your father wants to give you to him.”

Give you to him. That sentence made her wrinkle her nose. She had always disliked that expression. Give you to him as if you’re a possession to be handed from one owner to another. Give you to him as if you’re a bargaining chip. Give you to him because you belong to me and you’re mine to give.

“I wanted that too,” Maria continued. “I thought he was good, but now I see. These men,” she lowered her tone, as if to tell her something meant for no one’s ears but hers. “They’re all the same. They’re cursed.”

It would’ve been an understatement to say that her words had taken Nina aback. That woman so defined by her role as a wife and a mother had now a look, an anger in her eyes she had never witnessed, that clashed with the meek acceptance she wore on her face every day. “Do better. Marry someone good. Someone honest, with an honest work. Leave this life behind while you’re still in time. I didn’t have that choice,” she shook her head, her features hardening under the weight of a pain that had been suppressed for too long. “I was poor, my family was starving, and when your father came to speak to my father I couldn’t choose. Your father has been good to me, and I grew to love him. But he is who he is and does what he does, and it’s not something easy to live with.”

Nina opened her mouth to speak, but closed it right away. Nothing she could possibly say after that was even remotely worth saying. All of a sudden, she regretted all the times she had cruelly told her she’d rather kill herself than end up like her.

Her eyes widened when her mother grabbed one of her hands and held it between both of hers, her calloused fingers a reminder of the years she had spent working to bring money to her parents. Maria Ferrante never spared herself when it came to show affection to her sons, but with her it was different. Nina had always believed it depended on the fact that she was not the daughter she would have wanted, or on the countless fights they had, or even on some kind of resentment she didn’t know how to justify. But the naturalness with which she brought her hand to her cheek to tenderly caress it carried a motherly love that left her speechless, and almost made her feel uncomfortable.

“Listen to me, find a good man. Or your father will choose for you and you’ll never get out of here. You will be cursed, and if you have sons, they will be as well, just like your brothers.”

Nina took a step back, the rage that had been simmering inside her ever since she was little threatening to rise to the surface and spill out. As a child, she had often imagined that feeling she couldn’t name as a stream of lava that would rise and rise until there was no room for it to grow anymore and it would overflow, implacable, ruthless, destroying everything it found in its path. Even now that she was older, even now that she had learned to recognise her anger, it still felt the same.

“I have a friend from church, who has a son. He lives in Florence now, but he’s here for the summer. I can arrange something-”

“Mum…” she interrupted her, not even listening at that point. But her mother went on, talking fast, as if she no longer had control over what she was saying.

“I can arrange something, and you can leave this life behind. You can come visit, from time to time. On holidays.”

“No one ever leaves this life, you should know it,” she murmured, trying hard to keep her calm. It was clear her mother wasn’t thinking straight, in her desperate attempt to spare her from the same destiny as her. Unaware that she was accidentally pushing her in a very similar direction.

As though that simple statement had managed to bring her back to her senses, Maria blinked, her expression changing.

“I won’t drag anyone else into this mess. And sure as hell I won’t marry a man just to escape another,” Nina said firmly. She wasn’t going to let Spinietta influence her decisions more than she had already did. She wasn’t going to let the fear make her stray away from her morals, her beliefs. She wasn’t going to lose herself.

Back to her composed demeanour, her mother straightened her shoulders, her voice hardening. “You’ll end up marrying Stefano this way. You know it.”

She was aware her mother was implicitly telling her that her father had made up his mind, and that she wouldn’t be able to help her. Yet, she wasn’t scared. Because she’d fight tooth and nail against it. They could drag her to the altar, take the vows out of her mouth by force, it wouldn’t matter. She would raise hell before she let them succeed. She would burn down the church and everybody in it, including herself. She’d die before she surrendered to a life that wanted her bent, broken, obedient.

“It shouldn’t be like this,” she said through gritted teeth.

“But this is what it’s like. It’s time for you to accept it.”

Bad news was received that day. Antonio Ferrante had written from England, saying that two of Sabini’s men had been caught trying to blow up his restaurant. In the letter, he specified that after a civil conversation about the motives of that unjustified attack, the two had walked away in cement shoes. A coded way to say they had been interrogated and then sent sleeping at the bottom of some river.

It was the first open act of war, and the family was worried it wouldn’t be the last. The strength they had demonstrated by thwarting Sabini’s plan and killing his men would buy them some time, but it wouldn’t be enough in the long run. That was why Tommy found himself sitting in Vincenzo’s office, trying to maintain his imperturbable facade as the Italian stood behind his desk in all his height, with a grave expression on his face. Tommy felt like he was studying him, searching for a sign of weakness that he could use against him, that he could use to make him cave. He recognised that look, cause it was the same one he wore whenever he needed to assert his power.

“I called you, Mr Shelby,” Vincenzo started, turning to grab a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet. “To remind you of your end of the deal.”

Tommy cleared his throat, sitting straight in his chair. “I intend to propose-”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Ferrante cut him off, brushing away the matter with a gesture of his hand. He took his time to pour the brown liquid in two glasses, before sliding one across the wooden surface in front of him and beckoning him to drink. Tommy gladly did as he said, the familiar taste of alcohol feeling necessary to face a conversation he wasn’t sure where would lead.

“You promised us men, in our war against Sabini.”

“And men you’ll have,” Tommy assured, switching to the tone he reserved for business. “As soon as I receive the compensation for the warehouse you blew up.”

That had been the result of strenuous negotiations, and to achieve it, not only had he given up on any kind of reparation for the two pubs under the Blinders’ protection the Italians had destroyed along with the warehouse, but he also had to offer some of his best soldiers. However, the war against Sabini was also in his interest, and the power and money he would gain were worth compromising.

With a single, satisfied nod, Vincenzo took a seat in his leather chair. “I am a man of my word, Mr Shelby. You’ll have your compensation,” he guaranteed, grabbing his whiskey. He swirled the drink in his glass, pondering his next words. “That being said, my brother has expressed his concerns to me…”

Here we fucking go.

“His concerns about your lack of a proposal.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows, bringing the liquor to his mouth to stall as his brain formulated an answer. “I still have two days, haven’t I?”

The shadow of a grin grew on the Italian’s face. “And you intend to wait until the very last one,” he pointed at him. “To keep us on edge,” he added, lowering his voice, the grin seeming to become less amused and vaguely threatening. Tommy’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t falter, nor did he break his stare, for the faintest hint of vacillation would make him as exposed as a prey in front of a beast that could smell fear.

But then Ferrante cracked a smile, his tone lightening. “Or to enjoy what is left of your time as a free man before being handcuffed.”

Tommy let out a forced chuckle, tilting his head in agreement. For once, he couldn’t think of anything to say. What could he say? ‘Speaking of enjoying my time, I fucked your daughter yesterday night’? He would have his head right there and then.

He was in deep shit, and until he found a way to dig himself out, he needed to keep up the act. For himself, for Nina. He couldn’t make any decision without speaking to her first.

“I heard you’re a man of your word as well,” Vincenzo spoke again, snapping him out of his thoughts. “So I told him he has nothing to worry about. Don’t make me regret it.”

Although the last sentence held a clear warning, the Italian spoke calmly, as though he was asking him a favour, rather than admonishing him. He talked and acted like a man who didn’t need to make threats, who knew his word was law and no one would dare go against his wishes. Tommy knew that feeling all too well, he had gotten a taste of it during the past year, and it hadn’t taken long for him to get used to it, and to want more. But in that moment, in that place, he was on his own. Sure, his reputation preceded him, and it protected him to some extent, but he was outnumbered and at a disadvantage. So he had no choice but to comply. To take a step back in order to be a step ahead in the future.

“I won’t.”

“Good,” Ferrante leaned back in his seat, more relaxed now that the important stuff had been cleared out. “Cause Agnese is the apple of his eye,” he added, taking a cigar out of the pocket of his jacket. “His only wish is to see her happy.”

Things were far more complicated than Tommy had anticipated, and despite all his efforts to come up with a plan that would cause the least damage, he couldn’t imagine one scenario in which things didn’t go wrong. He could only take risks.

“Ah, daughters have their own special way of giving you a headache,” Ferrante murmured, waving the cigar. “If you have one, you’ll understand. You may go now, Mr Shelby.”

Clearing his throat, Tommy left the office, his mind endlessly mulling over the matter. He had his hands tied, and that feeling alone was enough for him to fume. No, he wasn’t going to have his hand forced, and he wasn’t going to let anyone scare him into a decision.

A newfound determination made its way inside of him. He was Thomas Shelby, for fuck’s sake. He didn’t need to ask anyone for permission. He took whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. He made the rules. He held the power. Those people needed him just as much as he needed them, if not more, otherwise he would be six feet under already. He wouldn’t make a choice that would suit everyone, he would make the choice that suited him. Him and the woman who was now carved in heart.

Because Nina would suffer the consequences of their actions as much as him, if not more. He had taken liberties with her, and although he had no regrets, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t have a responsibility toward her.

But it wasn’t just duty. He wasn’t going to make that choice because he felt guilty, or responsible, or because it was the right thing to do. He was going to make that choice because he thought they could make it work. He knew her, and she knew him. She had awakened feelings in him he thought would stay asleep for the rest of his days, she had made him believe that even he could have a chance at happiness. She didn’t look at him like he was a lost cause, or a devil, or broken beyond repair, she looked at him like there was something beautiful in him only her eyes saw. And if those eyes had found even a fragment of something worth saving, that meant that he wasn’t utterly unredeemable, that there was still an amount of good, no matter how small, that had survived the bad.

As soon as he walked into his room, he opened the drawer of his bedside table. The small velvet box was sitting there, next to the gun he had carefully kept hidden since his arrival. He knew what he had to do.

The weather had turned grey. The afternoon sun had been covered by dark clouds, and the air already smelled like rain. Nina had rushed out to take the laundry inside, hoping the storm that was approaching wouldn’t cause the efforts of a whole morning to go to waste. When she had finally come out of hiding - hiding was definitely the right word - she had quite literally ran into Tommy, almost knocking him over in the process, before scurrying away like a thief. And now there she was, still deeply embarrassed by her graceless flight, hurriedly putting the clean bedsheets in a basket.

She had been openly ignoring him all day. Or rather, avoiding him. She hadn’t shown up for breakfast, nor lunch, and she sought refuge in the closest room every time she heard him approaching. She wasn’t proud of that childish reaction, but she genuinely didn’t know how to act. The intensity of her feelings scared her. She was afraid that they would get in the way when the time to push him away came, that she’d yield to him again the moment her gaze met his.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

That deep voice made her hasty movements come to a stop. Her heart raced in her chest as she heard Tommy’s steps coming closer, until he was mere inches away from her.

“Here I am,” she mumbled, not sparing him a glance as she resumed folding the laundry in the basket.

“We need to talk.”

“Be quick, they can’t see us.”

Those words burned on her tongue as she spat them out. It hurt her to treat him like that, when what she actually wanted was to have him close to her again. But did she have any other choice? Indulging in those feelings had only caused trouble. She had to let him forget about her just like she needed to forget about him.

Tommy didn’t seem fazed by her hostility. He put a hand on her shoulder, gently guiding her to turn around. The contact roused the memory of his warm fingers trailing over her skin, and a shiver ran down her spine. His eyes searched her face, and there was a tenderness in them, a fondness that left her completely disarmed.

A lightning split the sky, followed by a crack of thunder, and the first drops of rain began to fall, bringing Nina back to reality.

“There’s not much to talk about,” she blurted out, abruptly taking a step back. “What happened yesterday can’t happen again.”

Tommy’s eyebrows knitted as she hastened to collect the rest of the laundry. He reached out to her, but she swiftly escaped his grasp, taking another sheet off the line. “Nina…” he tried again, but the more he got close, the more she slipped away from him. He rubbed his eyes, inhaling deeply. His patience was wearing thin at that point. He clenched his jaw, willing to make one last attempt to get her attention nicely. “Nina.”

Still nothing.

Fed up with that behaviour, he testily collected the rest of the laundry himself and threw it in a mess in the basket under her astonished stare. “Will you listen to me now?”

Surprisingly, there was no anger in his expression, nor annoyance, but there was still a hint of sternness that made her eventually give in. She crossed her arms over her chest, waiting for him to speak.

Tommy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, Nina’s piercing gaze feeling like a knife cutting through him, unraveling and exposing the deepest parts of him. “What happened last night…” he trailed off, realising there were so many things he wanted to tell her that he didn’t even know where to start. “I overstepped, we-”

“We made a mistake,” Nina finished his sentence for him, trying to keep her voice steady despite the lump in her throat. “I made a mistake.”

She shouldn’t have opened up to him. She shouldn’t have gone to his room. She shouldn’t have kissed him. She shouldn’t have led him on when she knew nothing could ever happen between them. Tears sprang to her eyes, but she blinked them away, she didn’t want to let him see how much she was hurting herself as well, for she could sense that if he got even a glimpse of her real feelings for him, he wouldn’t give up. A futile attempt.

Tommy’s gaze softened at the sight. “Hey,” he whispered, delicately squeezing her arm. “Look at me.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t bear that look full of affection. It almost caused her to break down. The drizzle was intensifying, and she could only hope that if her tears betrayed her, he’d mistook them for raindrops.

He grabbed her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face up to look at him. “We can make it right,” he said reassuringly.

“What do you mean?” she frowned.

Tommy hesitated for a moment, a nervousness equivalent to the one he had felt the previous night awakening in him. His hands started to shake, his heart to hammer in his chest. That was a point of no return which would either seal or break the bond that had formed so naturally between them. A bond he dreaded to lose. A bond he’d never have with anyone else.

Nina’s eyes widened as he took a velvet box out of his pocket, the realisation of what he was about to do crashing down on her.

“No,” she quickly took his hands in hers, keeping him from opening the box. “No,” she repeated, more softly.

“I know it’s a jump in the void,” he said, his hand going to cradle the nape of her neck. “I know. But we can make it work. You and me.”

“Tommy…” she shook her head. He was making it so difficult.

“I want you by my side. I don’t want a wife, I want a partner. Nina, I…” he paused, words getting caught in his throat. “I care about you.”

She squeezed her eyelids shut, pain spreading through her whole being at his revelation. She wanted to bring him close, to feel the warmth of his body against hers, to let herself be enveloped by the sense of safety his strong arms brought. Instead, she forced herself to pull his hand away from her, her fingers briefly tightening around it before letting it go.

“I don’t.”

Tommy looked at her as if she had just stabbed him. Hurt flashed across his face, causing a pang of guilt to hit her in the stomach. God, she felt like she could throw up.

“You’re lying,” he accused her in a hoarse voice.

“I’m not.”

“Liar.”

“Stop it.”

Why couldn’t he just leave? Why was he forcing her to inflict all that pain on him? Tommy was the last person she ever wanted to hurt, and in doing so she was hurting herself twice. By being the cause of his sorrow and by giving him up.

His body stiffened, and the heartbreak in his features disappeared to leave space for the coldness he constantly shielded himself with. “Say it. Say you feel nothing for me.” It sounded like an order, but Nina didn’t miss the crack in his voice. “Say it’s all in my head.”

Her mouth went dry, but she didn’t avert her gaze this time. “It’s all in your head.”

She felt empty. That one last lie had taken all the energy out of her, and left her with a feeling of numbness that made her lose all sense of herself.

Tommy nodded to himself, taking a step back. He wasn’t looking at her anymore. “You’re right. This was a mistake.”

With another clap of thunder, the sky broke open and the rain came pouring down. Nina rubbed her own arms in a soothing motion, watching as the lightning spread in the distance, drawing lines of light that flared and vanished into the grey above.

“You should go, Mr Shelby,” she murmured.

A muscle twitched in Tommy’s jaw, and for an instant he looked on the verge of saying something. Then he stormed off.

Nina let out a shaky breath, and the tears she had held back suddenly began to stream down her face. She covered her mouth to stifle a sob, the ache in her chest threatening to tear her apart from the inside. She shut her eyes tight, unable to watch his frame getting smaller and smaller as he walked away from her.

When she brought herself to look in his direction again, he was knocking on Agnese’s door.

NEXT CHAPTER

Heart, Body and Sould tag list

@zablife @queenofshinigamis @raincoffeeandfandoms / @justrainandcoffee @call-sign-shark

@kmc1989 @babayaga67 @kmhappybunny240 @diorrfairy @mariaelizabeth21-blog1

@gaslysainz @brummiereader @loverhymeswith @fairypitou @prettywhenicry4

@mysticalbouquetwolf-posts @woofgocows @girlwith-thepearlearring @goblinjnr @outlanderuniverse

@citylights31 @neonpurplestars89-blog @outlanderuniverse @red-riding-wood @evita-shelby

@look-at-the-soul @gathania93 @wonderlanddreamer

General tag list: @iamngoclinh08 @lilywinchesterlove @fandom-puff @capitanostella @caelys

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Tommy Shelby tag list: @50svibes

[ally1uvsu]

But when he loves me (I feel like I’m floating) | Choi Su-bong (Thanos) x Nam-gyu

⨉⠀⠀─⠀⠀Series .⠀›⠀Trans Namgyu Week 2025⠀‎ꪆৎ day 3; emotional hurt/comfort — Day 1 | Day 2

·⠀warnings info⠀· NSFW — . wc; 3.5k

summary; The second Nam-gyu left those games, He thought he'd be the happiest person alive. But no, as he was tossed out of the van with some random player, the chilling air hitting his half-naked body, Nam-gyu realized he might be wrong.

info; Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Anorexia, likely ngl, trans namgyu, Alternative Universe - Everyone leaves (Squid Game), Post Games, throwing up, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Well shared kiss, Cuddling & Snuggling, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Happy Ending, Theyre so gay I hate them: (, Choi Subong I Thanos Lives, Soft Namgyu (Squid Game), Soft Choi Subong I Thanos, Excessive binding, Bruises, Namgyu is probably depressed ngl

notes; IM SO COOKED OH MY DAYS 😭😭 I’ve been stressing over janitor AI and personal shit that i forgor ab the week challenge.. I SAEAR I’LL POST DAY 4 AND 5 AS SOON AS I CAN MAYBE IN A FEW HOURS BOTH WILL BE OUT TRUST

The second Nam-gyu left those games, He thought he'd be the happiest person alive. But no, as he was tossed out of the van with some random player, the chilling air hitting his half-naked body, Nam-gyu realized he might be wrong.

As they both managed to free themselves, the reality seemed to reach Nam-gyu. He only really managed to leave alive because he was high the whole fucking time.

The player whom he had been dropped with and him exchanged a brief goodbye once they were both dressed, Nam-gyu normally wouldn't care less about saying his farewells but.. that place made him feel a bit more different.

His mind was reeling as he walked, realizing that maybe.. hell, not maybe. This money he had was dirty, this money was someone's life. Every million won was someone's life.

Nam-gyu was pissed in the beginning when after the fourth game the people who wanted to leave won in the voting, even if they each left with a billion won. Few players left alive, thankfully, Thanos included. He remembered both of them high off their asses and complaining over it, but only because of that ecstasy pill.

Walking back home with the chill of the wind hitting his face made reality suddenly hit him, he killed people. So many people were dead because of what he did.. well, because of lights out and everything.

He wondered if Thanos was okay, at least. He was sure of the fact that the purple haired man was somewhere in Korea, tossed out of the car and maybe on drugs, Nam-gyu surprisingly couldn't stomach the thought of getting high.

He felt miserable as he walked towards his overly small apartment, he'd sleep for tonight, pack up, and maybe buy a house big enough for him to live with this money? Find something he was good at and stick with that.

And that's what he did, one would expect things to go well after moving, but Nam-gyu kept getting worse.

He couldn't stomach eating, remembering hwo the meals were served after a practical massacre of people, the food he was eating was paid with the money that cost someone's life.

His stomach didn't even have the strength to rumble anymore, even if Nam-gyu felt weak, he just couldn't eat. Normally, everyday he didn't even bother taking off his binder, even if breathing got a little too hard.

That's when he decided to go to a bar to drink his worries away, drinking in an empty stomach wasn't the best idea but Nam-gyu was desperate to just.. forget.

He didn't bother looking good, just in some sweats and a hoodie and some converses, his hair was slightly greasy from the constant procrastination of whether he should wash it or not, but Nam-gyu really didn't care.

He didn't even wonder what did he do to deserve this, he wondered what did he not do. It's something that plagued his mind everyday, no matter where he was, he always seemed to remember the bodies of people falling everywhere.

A curse fell from his lips as he stumbled inside the bar, tucking his hair behind his ears as he sat into one of the stools, head down and ordering a bottle of wine. The bartender seemed surprised, maybe they felt like they were mistaken when Nam-gyu asked the the literal bottle, but didn't question further when Nam-gyu slammed the bills onto the counter, probably having a bit more than needed but he couldn't care less, nor the bartender.

He was never a wine guy, he found it a little too bitter for his liking but today he was drinking it like he needed it to survive. It was barely past half an hour when Nam-gyu was on his fifth glass and halfway down the bottle.

He hiccuped, face flushed red as he looked at his phone, contacts empty, everything was empty. For a moment, Nam-gyu missed the constant threat he got from the people he owed before those damn games.

His vision was turve, stomach rumbling but he kept on pouring himself wine until he reached the very last drop of the bottle. The wine was coating his taste buds, as disgusting as it felt.. it felt comforting.

Although it felt good, the effects of drinking so much in an empty stomach began getting to him, he grabbed his phone and stood up straight out of the stool he was sitting in. Swearing he could hear a very familiar 'Nam-su!' Cheerily ring in his ears, that place was coming to haunt him again, wasn't it? The thought made his stomach churn, it was completely unlikely he and Thanos would ever meet again.

There were many things Nam-gyu wished he could tell Thanos, but he never did. It was foolish to fall for someone inside a death game, even if they'd both known each other, albeit barely, before.

He decided to solely focus in the feeling of something strong and burning coming up his throat, his eyes slightly stinging as he rushed out of the bar. He could still hear his name wrongly said by Thanos, it never felt so vivid before and Nam-gyu hated it.

His mind was spinning, but at least he had the decency to not puke inside a toilet.

Turning around the very corner of the bar where the parking lot was, Nam-gyu didn't hesitate to double over, hand leaving his mouth and instead squeezing his stomach as he threw up everything he drank, vision hazy as he saw the purple liquid fall.

Everything burnt, it was hard to breathe, his eyes were stinging and he slid down to his knees.

His mind was messy, scattered and trying to pick up pieces of whatever was going on, he knew he was puking, just wasn't sure how his surroundings were.

Not having much time to think again, another wave of nausea hit him and everything was coming out, but this time, he felt hands rub against his back.

Warm, gentle hands holding his hair back a little even if it was pretty short, just so it wouldn't fall in his face.

And amidst all of that fog, Nam-gyu could make out a familiar voice. Slightly unfamiliar too from how.. soft it was.

"Hold on, my boy. Let it all out." Nam-gyu could hear the person say.. was it Thanos?

He panted once he finally was done, turve vision finally falling back into place as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "There you go, good job, boy. I knew you had it in you."

Nam-gyu lifted his head, slightly shaky, and he was met with Thanos' face. Thanos was here, the unlikely probability of ever meeting him again was now.. becoming just a simple what if in his mind. His mouth opened to let put anything but he just let out a choked sound.

Maybe it was how his stomach was so empty, but Nam-gyu felt weak. Black spots filling his vision as Thanos' face became nothing but a blur, the feeling of him shaking his body lulling him into unconsciousness. Maybe this was his karma for killing people, surviving and living off of money that was someone's life. Maybe he'd finally die a slow, miserable death like he knew he deserved.

But the universe was insisting in not letting him die, Nam-gyu knew that it was the second he peered his eyes open with a bursting headache. A hand fell on top of his head as he propped himself up on his elbows.

He wasn't in his house, that's the first thing he noticed. The bedroom was a little too full of vinyl disks and discographies for it to be his house. To be quite fair, Nam-gyu was so out of energy lately that he didn't bother getting anything other than the basics. A bedframe, mattress, kitchen utensils and self hygiene products.

"Nam-su, my boy! You're finally awake!" Thanos chirped as he walked into the room with his sleeves pulled up, so it wasn't a dream after all.

Nam-gyu nodded, and Thanos furrowed his brow. Nam-gyu was off, and thinner than he was in the games. It worried him- Nam-gyu left with a billion won, like him. So why?

"I ran you a bath, you look like you need one, no offense." Thanos began with, shoving a towel towards Nam-gyu's way. "I didn't know where you lived, so you'll just have to stay here." He shrugged, and without letting Nam-gyu speak, he left the room.

He didn't have a choice, did he? Well.. he could just lock the door and stay in here, but Thanos probably had spare keys, who knew?

Nam-gyu stood up shakily, feeling his body shiver but he was also burning up. His stomach was weak but the thought of eating made it churn further.

Opening the bathroom door, Nam-gyu was met with the bathtub filled with water that looked a little steamy, maybe it would do some good to the cold Nam-gyu felt.

His clothes felt sticky as he began stripping them off, he closed snd locked the door, feeling colder snd colder at the thought of having to get naked.

In the end, he was just in his boxers and binder as he stared at himself in the mirror.

Pathetic, he looked pathetic and wrecked. His eyes were bloodshot, deep eye bags under his eyes, he looked a tad paler than usual and maybe a but more skinny.

Nam-gyu always hated how his body looked, but today it was worse. Having to face the consequences of what he was doing to himself.

Everything felt like he was being punished by the universe, from his self hatred, to his guilt, to.. just existing.

He curled his hands into fists, controlling himself to not smash the mirror in front of him. Nam-gyu would rather stare directly at the sun than the mirror.

A sob came out of him without permission, and that's when Nam-gyu knew there would be no thrning back. Tear after tear, everything began leaving his chest since he left. He was crumbling apart, falling on his ass and wincing as he hit his back against the toilet. His chest heaved, and suddenly he became aware of how much his ribs hurt, hell, they were probably full of bruises that Nam-gyu would just hate even more despite not being able to stop.

He curled his knees close to his chest, sniffling and feeling sobs mixed with hiccups leave his lips, as much as he wanted to- he couldn't keep quiet. His anxiety ring couldn't cease down the feeling of a huge lump in his throat, nothing could stop the ugly crying.

A knock from the other side came to reach his ears, but Nam-gyu didn't bother to reply. He was gross, everything hurt, and existing felt like a burden. He just wanted it all to stop.

"Nam-su? You alright in there?" Thanos asked, pressing his ear to the door. He could hear a thudding sound and a wince. At first, he just came by to give Nam-gyu a fresh pair of clothes, but the sounds coming from the bathroom weirded him out a bit. "I'm coming in, okay?" Thanos said as he tried to open the door, but instead of the door knob twisting open, it twisted until barely halfway and din't open. The door was fucking locked.

"Shit.. Nam-su, what are you doing in there?" Thanos called out a little bit louder, cursing under his breath as he didn't hear a reply, just the sound of hiccups and sobs.

Pulling away from the door, his feet heavily padded against the floor as he rushed through the hallway towards his bedroom. Door flying open as he began to search inside one of his drawers frantically, finding the keys and immediately yanking them out without bothering to close the drawer.

As quickly as he could, he ran back inside the room and began fumbling with the keys to open the door. Thanos was unsure why he was so frantic and maybe slightly anxious as he tried to reach Nam-gyu, he always thought this weird feeling whenever they played together in games were just due to being high.. he couldn't have feelings for Nam-gyu, could he?

Shaking those thoughts off, Thanos yanked the door open. Finding Nam-gyu sitting on the floor, half naked and basically drowning in tears.

Thanos froze, he wasn't sure how to approach this situation.. well, he never was the best with comforting or dealing with being comforted, but everything had its first time, right?

Carefully and tentatively, Thanos kneeled down in front of Nam-gyu. It was weird to see him like this, and the sight made something tug at his heartstrings. "Nam-gyu?" He called out. "Hey, boy, you okay?" That was a stupid question, damn it! Why Thanos couldn't just.. be good with his words?

But then again, he was always best at showing his feelings through actions than words.

Carefully, he wrapped his arms around Nam-gyu's torso, feeling him flinch and slightly tense up at the touch, and Thanos stayed put, barely even breathing.

And then, Nam-gyu melted against the hug. Clinging to Thanos as if he was the only thing grounding him into reality, face buried into his shoulder as he cried like a lost little kid. Thanos' hands ran through his hair, rubbing circles on his back as he felt his shirt get basically soaked.

"I can't do this anymore- I can't— I- it's.. this money.. it's all someone's life- I killed people in there, I—" Nam-gyu choked out, and Thanos shushed him gently, pulling back just slightly to look at Nam-gyu in the eyes. "Whether or not you did, there's nothing we can do about it. That place does things to people, Nam-gyu. Even if this money is dirty, you can't let it drag you down. Especially when you fought so hard to survive." Thanos said with a small frown in his lips, and Nam-gyu nodded. Even if he didn't believe it much, he nodded along.

His breath was heavy as he sniffled, sobs subsiding within a few minutes that none of them bothered to really count. "You should.. get this off, it looks like it's constricting your chest." Thanos said as he jerked his chin towards the binder Nam-gyu was wearing.

Now that he mentioned it, Nam-gyu noticed that Thanos didn't care about the binder or him being transgender in the slightest, or he simply didn't know.

"I'll leave and you can shower, I left some clothes for you in the bed." Thanos said as he sighed, standing up and pulling Nam-gyu along. Catching the faintest glimpse of bruises underneath the binder due to the flexing skin. "The shirt's big enough, don't wear this crap. Plus, it's slightly sweaty." Thanos said with a grimace more due to trying to give the conversation some sort of happy mood than disgust.

The second Thanos left, Nam-gyu let out a heavy sigh. Closing the door and stripping off his binder and boxers. His body still shivered, maybe he was sick? It would make sense, having eaten nothing but ice in the energy drinks he bought. It was a surprise Nam-gyu hadn't passed out in the middle of the street before.. but maybe not eating was just discounting its signs on how badly his hair was falling and how he was growing weaker.

The warmth of the water engulfing his body made him feel weirdly good— dipping his head underneath the water for a bit, Nam-gyu came back up swearing he could sleep in the bathtub.

But he didn't, Thanos would probably just pull him out and he didn't feel like being seen naked by him.

So, instead, after washing himself properly, Nam-gyu unplugged the drain of the tub and got out, changing into the clothes Thanos separated surprisingly neatly in the bed. And he was right, the shirt was indeed big enough, but then again Nam-gyu's chest wasn't that big.. he just was a tad paranoid about it.

He left his clothes in the corner of the room, getting out and looking to either sides of the hallway that the bedroom led to. Thanos left him alone without giving Nam-gyu directions.. tch, asshole.

Nam-gyu decided it'd be best to follow the humming sounds that Thanos was producing, as much as he hated to admit it, it was surprisingly calming.

He carefully and quietly stepped down the steps, following that same humming sound until he reached the kitchen, and Thanos was.. cooking?

He could see mashed potatoes set inside a small bowl in the counter, and the familiar smell of chicken reached his nose. He stood staring for a bit, until Thanos turned around and gave him a big smile, and Nam-gyu's stomach churned again.. but not out of disgust. Rather, something he refused to acknowledge.

"Hey! Nam-su! Come sit down!" Thanos called out, and now Nam-gyu was sure he got his name messed up on purpose.. moments ago was calling him seriously by his name correctly.

But despite that, he sat down on the stool nearby the counter. Raising his brow at the bowl shoved in front of him, mashed potatoes, veggies, and.. chicken.

"Eat, you must be hungry." Thanos said with a proud smile, and Nam-gyu just stared at the food. All of a sudden remembering everyone who died, the people he killed and... "Nam-su?" Thanos called out, and Nam-gyu came back to reality. "Sorry, not hungry."

Thanos gave him a frown, furrowing his brows and crossing his arms. "Bullshit, your stomach was rumbling when I brought you here. And you.. threw up pure wine, you haven't been eating, have you?" How the hell did Thanos get the story straight? Nam-gyu would never know. But he froze, just staring at Thanos with wife eyes. Then, Thanos sat down by his side. Grabbing the bowl, a spoon and chopsticks, and then finally, looking at Nam-gyu tentatively. "Just a bit, you don't have to eat everything." Thanos suggested with a hopeful gleam in his eyes.

"Come on, my boy. Just a bit!" Thanos said with a huff. And then he seemed to have an idea, filling the spoon with mashed potatoes and bringing it in front of Nam-gyu's face.

Nam-gyu didn't seem to quite like the idea, face heating up when Thanos practically shoved the spoon in his face. But Thanos probably wouldn't let it go regardless of anything, so he just sighed snd opened his mouth.

The taste of mashed potatoes filled his mouth and Nam-gyu swore he could feel his tastebuds burst with the flavor, so different from bland ice and drinks. He was surprised about how he didn't feel like throwing it all up, maybe it was because the food was really light, Thanos really could be thoughtful when he wanted to.

They repeated the same process until halfway through the food, and then Nam-gyu shook his head, not being able to really take any more bites. Sitting in silence with Thanos was always comfortable, but this time it felt different.

"I wish they dropped me off with you, y'know." Thanos said with a heavy sigh, leaning both arms on his thighs. Nam-gyu's eyebrows shot up at that, how come? He would have wanted to ask, but preferred to stay quiet. "I would have made sure you were okay, and have eaten sooner. I don't think you've been.. eating well lately, you're thinner than you were back in the game and we were fed small ass portions of food." Thanos then looked at Nam-gyu in the eyes, and in the moment, Nam-gyu felt his breath being sucked away.

Thanos' eyes, normally blown from drugs and normally wild, were weirdly soft. For a moment, the room fell into a comfortable silence, just the two of them staring at each other, as if spiritually asking each other for things none of them could vocally express.

And then, Thanos was moving closer in front of him, giving him one last glamce before their lips met in a passionate and yet desperate kiss. It was as if both of them were longing for that for a long time.

Once they pulled apart, Nam-gyu met Thanos' eyes again and he swore the weight of the world was in them, and then all of a sudden Nam-gyu found out why his stomach churned at the sight of Thanos.

Tugging at Thanos' shirt, their lips met again, and again, and again. Every time they pulled back, not seeming to get enoigh of the feeling, their lips always found its way back to each other.

Thanos had his hands settled on Nam-gyu's waist, Nam-gyu had his hands tangled in Thanos' hair as they both moved to the couch.

And then, their lips parted one last time. Nam-gyu was practically draped all over Thanos, head on his chest and Thanos' chin rested atop his head. Silence reigned over them, until Nam-gyu broke it, only for a split second. "Can you.. hum that song again?" He asked, closing his eyes. He didn't get a yes or a no, instead, he got a humming. Maybe it was from how peaceful Nam-gyu felt, but falling asleep was easier this time ever since he left the games.

Maybe all he needed was someone who would get it, someone who would be just a little patient and help him come forward rather than staying stuck in the past.

[adumbratrapedme]

Gender reveal | teen pregnancy series

characters: kenma | wc idk | genre. pure fluff !|cw/tags. fluff, teen pregnancy, baby bumps. teen pregnancy series masterlists here!

important ! has more sense in the next chapter mwehehe but dw, u have to read this part first!

i don't really like the idea of giving the babies a gender since ik some of u want them to be boys/girls but if anyone asks im up to make a girl/boy ver. with all chapters that include baby's gender mention

Kenma

The streets were quiet as you and Kenma walked hand in hand, the buzz of the earlier chaos at Nekoma’s gym finally fading into the background. The cool evening air nipped at your skin, but the warmth of Kenma’s hand and the soft glow of the streetlights made it all feel strangely serene.

“I can’t believe Yamamoto screamed like that,” Kenma muttered, his other hand fiddling with his hoodie strings. He still hadn’t recovered from the circus his teammates had put on.

You laughed softly. “Honestly, I think I’m more worried about Kuroo. He’s probably already planning ways to tease us for the next decade.”

Kenma groaned, his shoulders slumping. “I’m never hearing the end of this.”

You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s okay. They’ll calm down… eventually.”

He glanced at you, his golden eyes softening. “Thanks for being patient with them. I know they can be a lot.”

“It’s part of the package deal,” you teased lightly. “You, your team, and their over-the-top reactions.”

The faintest smile tugged at Kenma’s lips as the two of you approached a cozy little café nestled on the corner of the street. Its warm yellow lights spilled onto the pavement, beckoning you inside.

The bell above the door jingled softly as you entered. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and pastries enveloped you, and you found a quiet table by the window. After ordering two warm drinks, you settled into your seats, the envelope from earlier resting between you on the table.

Kenma eyed it warily, his fingers drumming lightly against the table. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait to open it?”

You tilted your head. “Don’t you want to know?”

“I do… but it’s kind of overwhelming.” He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the envelope like it was a ticking time bomb. “I mean, it’s already a lot knowing we’re having a baby. Now we’re about to find out… more.”

You reached across the table, placing your hand over his. “We don’t have to open it now if you’re not ready.”

He looked at you, his eyes searching yours for a moment, before nodding. “No, let’s do it. I want to know.”

With a deep breath, you picked up the envelope and carefully unfolded it. The café seemed quieter than before, the hum of conversation and clinking cups fading into the background as you scanned the paper.

Your eyes landed on the word that changed everything.

“It’s a girl,” you whispered, your voice tinged with awe.

Kenma blinked, his lips parting slightly as he processed your words. “A… girl?”

You nodded, a smile breaking across your face. “We’re having a baby girl.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, a soft, almost shy smile appeared on his face—a rare and precious sight. “A girl,” he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue like he was trying to make sense of them. “That’s… wow.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you laughed quietly. “Yeah. Wow.”

Kenma leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the window as he processed the news. “I never thought I’d be the kind of guy to… you know, have a family. But now…” He glanced back at you, his eyes shining with a mix of wonder and nervousness. “I think I’m actually excited.”

“You’re going to be a great dad,” you said softly, reaching for his hand again.

He squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And you’re going to be an amazing mom.”

The two of you sat there in silence for a while, the envelope resting on the table like a bridge to a new chapter of your lives. The world outside the café felt far away, and for now, all that mattered was the quiet joy shared between you.

Kenma leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “Let’s do our best—for her.”

You nodded, your heart swelling with love for the man in front of you and the little life you were about to bring into the world together.

-

TAGLIST:

@chilichopsticks @dreadnoughtus101 @starykari @staygoldsquatchling02 @alpha-mommy69

if you want to be part of the taglist you can always DM me or coment! <3 tysm for ur support guysehehrbe

[stargazedwinchester]

Would love to read Sam in a Djinn dream since I’ve struggled to understand his motivations. I haven't found even one fic like this. Thxs

Haunted ♡ Sam

Summary: Sam gets caught by a Djinn, dreaming of a life without you. Word Count: 1,912 I hope this is okay! Sorry it took a bit of time to get out! You can take this romantically or not; it's completely up to you. I tried to keep it generic in case it's not something you wanted <3 I believe this is the longest imagine I've written, which is crazy tbh Also I'm sorry for the British terms in this - idk what the Americanized versions are lol

You find that yourself and Sam are irreplacably close. You both grew up with similar childhoods, unknowingly setting yourselves up as life partners.

You practically did everything together, including spending a lot of time with Dean. He always thought that it was sweet that his baby brother had someone that would keep him occupied. Help him stay on the right path. In fact, having you around made things ten times easier. An extra pair of hands for research, hunting and a smart-ass mouth definitely assisted in getting answers out of people during hunts.

“So, get this,” Sam starts, your head peeking up from behind your newspaper. “Go on.” You urge him. It’s been a couple weeks without any work, and you can feel yourself tweaking from sitting still. Hunting is filthy, yet you crave it. It gives you a sense of purpose and knowing that you potentially save peoples lives fills a void in you that you didn’t know you had. The joys of working among the two best hunters alive also patches that void right up with pride.

“Mystery deepens as man goes missing.” Sam states, reading the headline from the newspaper he’s holding. You roll your wrist, pursing your lips, encouraging Sam to carry on. “Mystery follows suit as William Hardy, 33, goes missing after attending an afterparty. William left the nightclub and never returned home to his wife, Kate, 34.” Sam finishes, his shiny eyes gazing at you. “Right. Well, we have a possible case.” You stand up, tidying the books and papers into piles, sliding the books back onto their designated shelves. “Hold on, we can’t say this is for us or not.”

“Sammy,” you stand above him, and he looks up at you. “Man goes missing. Y/N goes investigate. Sam and Dean go with Y/N.” You nod, a playful smile on your face. Sam laughs at you. “Even if there is no case, at least it gets us out of the bunker. I’m bored as hell.”

Dean parked the Impala outside of a huge office firm. The brothers suited up and yourself in smart attire. As you exit the car, you look up at the building - glass completely covering the whole of it. The sun catching on each angle, making you squint your eyes. Maybe looking at the sun itself would be easier on the eyes.

You all enter the building, Dean asking for a Ms. Hardeker at the reception. They tell you to sit whilst she finds a moment to bring you into her office.

Upon entering, you notice her desk is a little messy. A tissue box that’s practically empty, pens sprawled out all over her desk and a couple laid on the floor. “Come, sit down, sit down.” She ushers you all to sit, and you do. Her eyes are tired and puffy. Kate’s hair slicked back in a bun, a few baby hairs poking out. Her formal appearance makes it seem like everything’s perfect. Kate sits down behind her desk, and her eyes sit upon you. You flash her a comforting smile before Dean sparks a conversation.

A couple of hours later, you leave the building retaining a lot of information about William. You scribbled down notes in your notebook to help you further the investigation when you get back to the bunker. You feel as though your mind is on overdrive, the empathy you feel toward Kate is unreal. You can’t imagine ever feeling the way she does.

Days later, you and the brothers head to William’s last known location, the bar. It’s crowded and blaring with live music. You feel the floor vibrate beneath you, shimmying through the crowd to get to the bar. Dean opens up a tab, allowing you to find a booth to sit together.

You notice Sam’s been quiet this entire time, his eyes kept to the ground. He swirls his whiskey in the glass, the liquid almost forming a tiny whirlpool. You watch him, and he glances up at you, displaying a light smirk. “You okay?” You mouth to him, and he nods. Something is eating at him, and he’s damn good at hiding it. Pulling out your notebook, you assume that Sam needs a distraction. “Okay, so,” you start, and their heads perk up. “From what we got, Will wouldn’t have gone far from here. If anything, he would’ve stepped out of here and it would’ve yanked him. The time that he left here versus the time Kate called his phone… she called six times with no answer.” You huff, looking over at Dean. He presses his lips together, his pupils focused on your notepad. “Then there’s no time to waste. Let’s find that son of a bitch.”

Upon leaving, the thumping of the music decreases and you feel like you can finally think again. The night sky is lightly decorated with stars, the moon shining like a huge hole piercing through the fabric of the sky. The soft moonlight reflects onto Sam’s hair, his cheekbone catching the moonlight as he looks over at you. You reach up and stroke his back with your thumb, quickly pulling him in for a side hug. He gazes down at you, planting a kiss atop your head. This was your favourite thing about being this close with Sam. You can get away with doing things like this without Dean making it weird. He knows how much you both mean to each other and, luckily; he sees it as you’re part of the family. At this point, you practically are.

Glancing over to your right, you notice a dingy alleyway with a slim, wooden door that seems like it leads to nowhere. You tap Dean on his bicep, ushering him to follow. Dean takes the lead as usual, scanning the back street for an extra lane to go down. But this time, it leads straight to the door. No sign, no people. It gets freakier by the second. You keep it hush, pressing your ear against the door.

Silence.

Dean turns the handle, the door opening almost without force. His forest eyes pin back at you, his eyebrows scrunched. Sam slips you out of the way, so he can be there to protect you in case someone - or something - jumps out at you. His broad frame completely shields yours. The building seems derelict but not abandoned. Lights flicker quickly and almost in a pattern, debris and dirt cover the place. There are tracks along the floor, leading around a corner that leads into a hallway. You pair up with Dean, whilst Sam investigates the hallway. A sense of hidden depth hangs heavy as you two claim the main floor. It’s hard to tell, but the whole place feels endless.

As Sam turns a corner into a new room, his flashlight quivers, the bulb dimming as he fully enters the room. He’s abruptly met with what looks like a human covered in dark tattoos from head to toe. Sam gasps at the sudden encounter, attempting to shield himself from being attacked. The tattoos on his skin glow an electric blue, the shade travelling across his entire face, lighting up his eyes. A neon blue flame arises from his hand. The djinn completely entrapped Sam, entrancing him into a dream-like state. Sam’s eyes roll back.

Sam wakes up in a fright. He’s back at the bunker, in his own bed. His damp back hints at a nightmare, though its cause eludes him. Sam runs his hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. It’s not often he suffers with nightmares. Nothing major in his life had happened prior, which leaves him confused. Sam gets out of bed and clears his throat. He makes his way down the hall, passing your bedroom. The door is slightly ajar, and he peeks inside. More often than not, you leave your door somewhat open, so either of the Winchesters know you’re awake. He pushes the door open, revealing an already made bed, none of your belongings or little trinkets on the shelves. Nothing. He furrows his brows, scanning the room as if he’s in the wrong room. Sam hears clanging coming from the kitchen, so he shuts the door and makes his way up to the main foyer.

“Y/N?” He calls, padding over to the kitchen. “Y/N?” He calls again, and Dean snorts. “Who’s that, Sammy? One of your lady friends?” He laughs, shoving his face full of eggs and bacon. “Wh- no, Dean. Where’s Y/N?” He asks, almost panicky. He examines the room for anything that simulates you. Dean watches him, puzzled. “Sam, who are you talking about? There’s no Y/N here.” He pauses, fork in hand. “Sammy, are you feeling okay?” Dean puts his fork down, hesitating whether to approach his brother. Sam stands there in disbelief, a lump forming in his throat.

“Y/N’s room isn’t there. Nothing of hers is there. You don’t even know who I’m talking about,” he rambles, running his hand through his hair again. His brain is in overdrive right now, and Dean’s eyes are locked on him. He takes cautious steps toward Sam. “Y/N isn’t here, Dean. Something’s wrong.”

Dean falters, his lip moving as if he wants to say something, but he’s unsure on exactly what. Sam’s fear stricken gaze locks with Dean’s uncertainty.

You plunge the silver dagger into the hip of the djinn, and he releases a bloodcurdling scream. The light covering his body blinks before submerging. The djinn’s body falls to the floor, and Sam lays unconscious. Dean rushes over to Sam, slapping his face lightly to attempt and wake him up. “C’mon, Sammy,” He grunts, pulling him up so he can rest against a wall. You kneel down beside Sam, fumbling as you pull out your handy flask. You unscrew the lid and pour water over his face, hoping that the icy feeling washes over him and that he wakes up. He doesn’t.

“Sam?” You whisper, caressing his face, hoping that light touches trigger something instead. Luckily, Sam awakens. “Oh, thank God,” You press your hand to your heart, you take his hand and he squeezes lightly. “Thought you were a goner,” you chuckle lightly, and Sam looks over at you. Dean stands up, collecting himself from what just happened. He rubs his hand over his stubble, one hand on his hip. Sam huffs, showing you a tiny smile. He’s pale and weak, so you offer him the rest of your water from the flask. “Are you okay?” You comfort him, stroking your hand on his shoulder. “Yeah. I’m grateful you’re here.” He swallows. “When he got me - when the djinn got me - he took me to a place where you didn’t exist.” Sam glances up at you with glossy eyes, and you’re unsure whether it’s from pain or he’s upset. “It, uh…” He stalls, and you sit patiently next to him, not rushing him.

“It really got to me, you know? You not being there in my life,” Sam pants, struggling to find the words. “You mean the world to me, Y/N. I hope you know that.” He says, pulling at your heartstrings. “More than you know. I mean it. I don’t say it enough.” He chuckles, and you grin. “I know you don’t.” You joke, and he playfully hits your arm. You help Sam to stand up, and he pulls you in to a bear hug. This hug means more than the rest of them.

[translilithlesbian]

an actual post from them:

ID:

Anonymous asked: Why don't you like cripplepunk?? /genq

OP: hooooo ok so im going to assume you dont follow us because we have spoken about this at least twenty times by now (mostly me because i used to call myself crippunk and then stopped after seeing that it was an even more toxic environment than the aro community is, which is an incredible feat, but that is a rant for another time)

heres a quick summary

cripplepunk, just like most other subgenres of punk, is a circlejerk-"fuck yall, im better"-brand of punk that 'physically disabled' gatekeepers latch onto, because i guess they have nothing better to be doing other than wasting everyones time. the concept was created with the idea that 'physically disabled people need their own resources' which, while a nice thought on the surface, comes at the expense of literally anyone they dont deem

'disabled enough' and they advocate for the separation of 'physical' and 'mental' disabilities. couple that with the fact that disability is not an easily defined state and it's easy to see why this doesn't work.

this isnt some flaw or mistake. crippunk was coined this way by design, and its creator admitted to that. its an inherently flawed way of thinking and only leads to more infighting. it was never meant to peacefully coexist with mentally or neurologically disabled people, it doesnt take into consideration someone who is disabled by their mental illness, and it inherently believes that if you arent in some physical external form of disability, you are not disabled enough or in this specific way. and despite what crippunks would like for you to believe, they do not advocate for you, do not care, and will only tell you to "make your own spaces" as if you dont belong in the conversation surrounding disability rights.

we do not believe there is any feasible nor functional difference in what disables you aside from what kinds of accommodations and treatment you need. we are all freaks under the eyes of capitalism. the brain is a part of the body, and if your brain is disabled, you are disabled. for that reason, we strongly oppose the concept of cripplepunk. we believe they will not get rights by whining about how theyre More Oppressed than people with mental/neurological disabilities.

if youd like more on why someone might dislike crippunk or not feel included by it, theres a few movements in the wake of it, such as our personal favorite unitypunk. and if you want better explanations from us: heres the unitypunk tag on our blog, scroll through it.

and INB4 they find this post and throw a temper tantrum like they do with everything else: yes, we are crippled. a quick scroll of this blog should tell you as much. Imao. lol, even.

red

——

Yes, I am thoroughly disturbed. Now, like op, I am not sharing their name so they don’t get harassed but if you would like the @ of this account to block, dm me and do not spread it around.

This person is not punk if they are shitting on punk subcultures, which have existed since punk was made, and using aro ppl as a talking point of what not to be. Not to mention the creator (who is dead btw) did not have any guidelines on what counts as disabled as long as you are physically disabled in some way, and actually allows for intersectionality, like most punk subcultures (and even punk as a whole) does.

Ok. So. For the first time I have encountered someone who has put “cripplepunk” (quotes included!!) in their bio. And I’m sitting here like.

You are mad… that I want rights? Like… cripplepunk is literally just applying the punk mindset / social conventions to disability activism.

You do not like.. disability activism?

You don’t want cripples to talk to you???

HELLO??

[dioslesbianwife]

Hihihi I hope im not bothering

I was wondering if you could do smth like where we kiss the jofoes on the cheek out of no where, and can you pleasee include esidisi and wamuu? please and thank you! (if you want to do this ofc!)

It’s absolutely no bother, thank you for requesting this! I should do more x readers lol. ❤️

These HCs are all assuming that the reader is already in a close relationship with them.

Surprise kiss headcannons for jojo villains x reader 🤍

Dio

When you suddenly kiss Dio on the cheek, he freezes for a second, processing the gesture. Then, a slow, smug grin spreads across his face. “How bold of you,” he’d say, leaning closer, almost daring you to do it again.

Internally, he feels a surge of pride and satisfaction. Your affection confirms his charm and superiority in his mind.

He might “reward” you with a kiss of his own- on his terms.

==You press a quick kiss to Dio’s cheek, and for a moment, he seems frozen, caught off guard. Then, his lips shift into a devilish smirk as he turns his head slightly toward you. “How bold of you,” he purrs, leaning closer. “Do it again, if you wish.” The glint in his eyes is both a challenge and a promise.==

Kars

Kars would raise an eyebrow, intrigued by your sudden act of affection. He’d smirk softly, finding your boldness amusing. “What brought that on?” he’d ask, his tone teasing but warm.

He appreciates the gesture but analyzes it deeply, wondering if it was impulsive or deliberate.

He might give you a light touch on the cheek in return, showing his own subtle affection.

==When your lips brush Kars’ cheek, he raises an eyebrow, his expression calm yet intrigued. “Hmm,” he murmurs, tilting his head to examine you. “And what inspired such affection?” His voice is laced with curiosity, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his sharp gaze. He smirks faintly, reaching out to hold your chin gently.==

Wamuu

Wamuu would blink in surprise, definitely not expecting it. He’d touch his cheek where you kissed him, then nod earnestly. “Thank you,” he’d say, his tone sincere.

He finds it heartwarming and sees it as a sign of your trust and respect, which he deeply values.

He’d be more attentive to you afterward, showing his gratitude in his own way, maybe by protecting you even more fiercely.

==You kiss Wamuu’s cheek, and his eyes widen in surprise. He touches the spot gently, as if to confirm it, then looks down at you with a warm, genuine smile. “Thank you for the gesture,” he says sincerely, his voice deep and kind. Though he’s flustered, he seems pleased, his smile lingering for a while.==

Esidisi

He would pause and look at you a moment before chuckling warmly. “Hm, you really are quite sentimental,” he’d say, his voice fond. He’d gently pat your head or shoulder in return.

Deep down, he also feels a pang of sentimentality as he treasures meaningful connections.

He’d bring up the kiss later in conversation, teasing you about it with a grin.

==Your sudden kiss makes Esidisi pause, his usual demeanor momentarily extinguished by pure surprise. Then, a laugh escapes him. “Full of surprises, aren’t you?” he says, looking down at you. He pats your head affectionately, enjoying the moment but already planning to mention it later.==

Enrico Pucci

Pucci would flinch slightly at the unexpected touch but quickly compose himself. “Ah, is everything alright?” he’d say, his voice calm but tinged with slight awkwardness.

He’d try to rationalize your actions, but deep down, he’d feel a rare warmth and appreciation.

He might subtly return the gesture later, maybe by brushing a hand against yours or giving you a reassuring pat.

==You kiss Pucci on the cheek, and though he flinches slightly, he quickly composes himself. “...Thank you,” he says softly, his tone carefully measured. His hand brushes against the spot briefly as he looks at you with a mix of curiosity and restraint. Deep down, the gesture warms something within him he didn’t realize was there.==

Kira

Kira would freeze, his composed demeanor momentarily cracking. “That’s… unexpected,” he’d murmur, adjusting his tie to cover his flustered reaction.

So long as the kiss was in private, he’ll relax almost immediately, not wanting to appear thrown off. To him, such affection feels rare and precious, and he appreciates it more than he lets on.

He’d likely avoid the subject but secretly cherish the memory, glancing at you with slightly softer eyes.

==You lean in and kiss Kira’s cheek, and for a moment, he freezes entirely. “That’s…,” he mutters, not finishing the thought and instead adjusting his tie to steady himself. His expression remains calm, but the faint pink tint to his cheeks betrays his flustered reaction. Later, he catches himself touching the spot absentmindedly, a small, almost unnoticeable smile on his lips.==

Diavolo

Diavolo would stiffen, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed the unexpected gesture. He wouldn’t push you away, but he’d be caught off guard. “What are you doing?” he’d ask, his tone low and measured.

While he’d feel a flicker of vulnerability, he’d quickly rationalize it as your attempt to please him.

He’d keep a closer eye on you afterward, both intrigued and wary of your boldness.

==The moment your lips graze his cheek, Diavolo stiffens, his body tense as his eyes dart to you. “What are you doing?” he asks, his tone quiet but sharp. His gaze lingers on you, calculating. Though his guard remains up, there’s a flicker of something softer beneath the surface. He secretly appreciates the show of affection and it eases his anxiety a bit to know you likely won’t betray or expose him someday.==

Doppio

Doppio would blink in surprise, his brows lifting slightly, but he wouldn’t pull away. Instead, a small, warm smile would creep onto his face as he tilted his head to look at you. “What was that for?”.

He’d feel a sense of appreciation, cherishing the moment and trying hard not to overthink it. While he’s often focused on pleasing others (especially Diavolo), this unexpected affection from you makes him feel seen as an individual.

Doppio would treasure the gesture, he’d likely become even more attached to you, seeking more of your affection in subtle ways.

==The second you kiss Doppio’s cheek, his face turns slightly red, and he stares at you with almost panicked eyes. “What was that for?” he stammers, bringing a hand up to touch his face. As he fidgets nervously, you can tell he’s absolutely overthinking it, replaying the moment in his head.==

Funny Valentine

Valentine would raise an eyebrow but smile faintly. “That was a rather bold move,” he’d say, his tone amused but composed.

He sees the gesture as an affirmation of your loyalty and trust in him, which feeds his ego.

He’d return the favor at a moment of his choosing, likely in a more grand or calculated manner, such as kissing your hand or making more time for you in his schedule that day.

==When you kiss Valentine’s cheek, he blinks, his expression softening into a faint smile. “Is there something you need my dear?,” he says, his tone measured and amused. He adjusts his gloves, a thoughtful look crossing his face as he regards you. Though composed, you can tell he enjoyed it, his gaze lingering on you a bit longer than usual.==

[topaz-mutiny]

I feel like every time I hear "Bells Hells broke their word", there's this omission or forgetfulness (and I get it; this campaign feels like it took forever and it's easy to tune out conversations that feel circular and unending) that Bells Hells knows that if the Raven Queen and the Arch Heart were forced to comply by the rest of their family, the Divine Gate would be rent asunder and there would be a second Calamity in order to wrench things back to the status quo – that being the gods are all safe and protected and no one knows about Predathos.

The only reason it didn't happen already was the gods had hope Bells Hells would kill Ludinus (which they did); if Ludinus had defeated Bells Hells then the Gods would have immediately busted down the Gate and commit another Calamity in order to stop him... but the Raven Queen and the Arch Heart made it sound like the Second Calamity would happen regardless of who won, and all because the knowledge of Predathos the GodEater, their most feared predator, was out there.

But, Ludinus disseminated that information across all of Exandria, and there's been information exchange between Ruidians and Exandrians. The only way to take that information back would be to kill all the Ruidians AND kill every single Exandrian, just to be sure. Wipe the slate clean. Start over. Destroy every magical and non-magical record, including the people.

There would be no bargaining with the gods without Predathos, for they are too strong and would have no reason to listen. Any parley of "can you Gods leave forever, or can we leave the Hallowed Cage alone or have Vasselheim turn Kreviris into a military-religious controlled state colony" (that's a Bad Thing) would be met with "or we just kill the entire planet and moon so the information is guaranteed to be lost and there can be no more attempts at freeing Predathos". The Prime Dieties would grumble about it, but they would still go through with eradicating the mortals they love because they prioritize themselves and their Betrayer siblings more than mortals. We have proof of that.

I feel like the Gods broke the social contract first. If we want to point fingers at someone breaking their word, they should be included as well.