#and working as heroes all together as always...

[evilsoup]

nobody is required to take karl marx as an authority of course, but fwiw here's an extract from a letter where he tells a socialist novelist to improve her craft by reading the reactionary, Balzac:

I am far from finding fault with your not having written a point-blank socialist novel, a “Tendenzroman” [social-problem novel. DM], as we Germans call it, to glorify the social and political views of the authors. This is not at all what I mean. The more the opinions of the author remain hidden, the better for the work of art. The realism I allude to may crop out even in spite of the author’s opinions. Let me refer to an example. Balzac, whom I consider a far greater master of realism than all the Zolas passés, présents et a venir [past, present and future], in “La Comédie humaine” gives us a most wonderfully realistic history of French ‘Society’, especially of le monde parisien [the Parisian social world], describing, chronicle-fashion, almost year by year from 1816 to 1848 the progressive inroads of the rising bourgeoisie upon the society of nobles, that reconstituted itself after 1815 and that set up again, as far as it could, the standard of la viellie politesse française [French refinement]. He describes how the last remnants of this, to him, model society gradually succumbed before the intrusion of the vulgar monied upstart, or were corrupted by him; how the grand dame whose conjugal infidelities were but a mode of asserting herself in perfect accordance with the way she had been disposed of in marriage, gave way to the bourgeoisie, who horned her husband for cash or cashmere; and around this central picture he groups a complete history of French Society from which, even in economic details (for instance the rearrangement of real and personal property after the Revolution) I have learned more than from all the professed historians, economists, and statisticians of the period together. Well, Balzac was politically a Legitimist; his great work is a constant elegy on the inevitable decay of good society, his sympathies are all with the class doomed to extinction. But for all that his satire is never keener, his irony never bitterer, than when he sets in motion the very men and women with whom he sympathizes most deeply - the nobles. And the only men of whom he always speaks with undisguised admiration, are his bitterest political antagonists, the republican heroes of the Cloître Saint-Méry, the men, who at that time (1830-6) were indeed the representatives of the popular masses. That Balzac thus was compelled to go against his own class sympathies and political prejudices, that he saw the necessity of the downfall of his favourite nobles, and described them as people deserving no better fate; and that he saw the real men of the future where, for the time being, they alone were to be found - that I consider one of the greatest triumphs of Realism, and one of the grandest features in old Balzac.

as a communist i think that that "conservatives can't make good art" is pure cope whether coming from liberals or other commies but "republicans aren't funny" is just kinda true

[writeriguess]

hi sweetie, I hope you are well ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡). I came to request katsuki Bakugou x female reader. They are married but due to Bakugou hero's busy schedule they have few moments together, I would like the plot to be based on the reader discovering Bakugou's infidelity (I want to suffer) (˃ ⌑ ˂ഃ ) following the appearance of a pregnant woman (or some crazy stuff like that?) If it's too much, don't worry! I just want that kind of anguish. tysm .ᐟ.ᐟ

author's note: Thank you, I am well <3 The upcoming work trip stresses me out a little though! I'm likely on it when this publishes.

A House Built on Ashes

The apartment is silent when you wake up, the other side of the bed cold. Again.

You stare at the ceiling, blinking away the sleep that threatens to pull you back under. Katsuki’s been working late. Too late. Always too late. Your hands glide across the empty sheets, searching for warmth that hasn’t been there in weeks. The clock on your nightstand reads 3:14 AM. A part of you wonders if he’ll even come home tonight.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you wrap his hoodie around your frame and pad barefoot into the kitchen. Your heart sinks when you see the untouched dinner, still wrapped and waiting for him. The weight in your chest grows heavier as you unwrap the food, staring at the cold meal you made hours ago. It’s stupid, really. You should be used to this by now.

The sound of the front door unlocking makes you flinch. You turn, breath caught in your throat, as Katsuki steps inside. His ash-blond hair is disheveled, his hero uniform half undone, revealing the black compression shirt underneath. He looks tired—exhausted even—but not in the way he should be. Not in the way of a man who’s just been fighting villains all day.

His crimson eyes meet yours, widening slightly as if he wasn’t expecting you to be awake.

“Yer still up?” His voice is rough, like he’s been screaming. Or lying.

“Couldn’t sleep.” Your fingers tighten around the edge of the counter. “Where were you?”

He hesitates. It’s barely a second, but it’s enough.

“Work ran late.”

A simple answer. A practiced one. But something is off. His uniform smells like detergent—freshly washed. His scent is there, but it’s muted. As if someone else’s perfume had been scrubbed away. A cold tendril of doubt coils around your heart.

“I called,” you say, watching his expression carefully. “Three times.”

His jaw tightens. “Phone died.”

Lies.

You want to believe him. Gods, you want to. You want to be the supportive wife, the one who understands that being the Number Two Pro Hero means sacrifices. But you know Katsuki. You know how meticulous he is about keeping his gear—and his phone—charged.

You know when he’s lying.

A week passes, and the distance between you both grows like a festering wound. He kisses you still, but there’s something different. Guilt, maybe. Or obligation. And then it happens. The moment everything unravels.

It’s a grocery run. A normal, mindless errand. Until you see her.

She’s beautiful. Dark hair pulled into a loose bun, wearing an oversized sweater that hides the curve of her stomach—almost. But you see it. The subtle swell of a life growing inside her. And more than that, you see the way her hands hover protectively over her belly.

You might have walked past her without a second glance if it weren’t for the conversation you overheard.

“Oh, please,” the woman scoffs, rolling her eyes as she adjusts the shopping basket on her arm. “Like she really thinks he’s still faithful to her? She’s pathetic.”

You freeze.

Her friend giggles, covering her mouth. “I mean, Y/N is stupidly naive if she thinks a man like Katsuki would actually stick around forever.”

Your blood turns to ice in your veins.

The woman—this stranger—laughs, a bitter, knowing sound. “Right? He knocked me up, and she’s still playing house like nothing’s wrong. I mean, come on, he spends more nights with me than her at this point.”

Your stomach churns. It feels like the ground is swallowing you whole.

Her friend nudges her playfully. “So, when’s Bakugou finally ditching her and stepping up?”

The woman sighs, rubbing a hand over her stomach. “Soon, hopefully. I mean, we all know he’s just staying out of guilt. But once this baby’s here?” She grins. “She’ll just be the embarrassing ex-wife.”

You don’t remember walking out of the store. You don’t remember the drive home. You don’t remember anything except the way your heart beats so violently against your ribs that it hurts.

By the time Katsuki comes home that night, you’re sitting on the couch, his hoodie pulled tight around you, your hands clenched into fists in your lap.

He doesn’t get the chance to speak before you ask, voice hollow—“Do you love her?”

The silence that follows is the worst part. Because it’s not immediate denial. It’s not outrage at the accusation. It’s nothing. Just quiet, suffocating nothingness.

Your whole world burns.

The silence stretches between you like a yawning abyss. Your heart pounds so violently that you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. Katsuki stares at you, crimson eyes unreadable, but his lips part like he’s searching for something to say—an excuse, a reason, a lie that will make this all go away.

But nothing comes.

Nothing.

And that is the final straw.

Your hands tremble as you push yourself to your feet, and suddenly, all the pain that’s been simmering inside you—festering, growing, poisoning every quiet moment you spent waiting for him—boils over.

“You bastard,” you whisper, but it’s more than that. It’s not just an insult. It’s a curse, a condemnation, a blade forged from every night you spent staring at the ceiling, wondering why you weren’t enough.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t try to defend himself.

Coward.

“Say something, Katsuki!” you shout, and your voice cracks on his name. His name—the one you’ve whispered in love, in devotion, in trust. Now it tastes like ash on your tongue.

But he doesn’t say anything.

The quiet shatters something inside you. You shove past the coffee table, hands shaking as you grab the untouched dinner you left wrapped for him hours ago. The plate crashes into the sink with a sharp, ringing clatter, the sound echoing through the suffocating apartment. “You could’ve just told me,” you say, voice shaking. “You could’ve told me that you didn’t love me anymore instead of—”

Instead of this.

Instead of letting you rot away in this lie.

Instead of making you look like a fucking fool.

You press a hand against your forehead, breathing hard, fighting against the sob that threatens to rip itself from your chest. Your vision is blurry with unshed tears, but you refuse to let them fall—not yet. Not in front of him.

Katsuki finally moves, stepping forward, hands raised as if he can fix this—as if he has the right to touch you after everything. “Y/N—”

“Don’t,” you snap, voice like glass shards. He flinches, and good. Let him feel just a fraction of what you feel. Let it fucking hurt.

You let out a bitter laugh, though it tastes more like grief than amusement. “I cooked for you. I waited up for you. I defended you every single time someone said you wouldn’t settle down. And you—” You shake your head, chest heaving. “You weren’t even fucking careful. You didn’t even have the decency to make sure I didn’t find out like this.”

His eyes darken, but there’s shame there, too. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

You let out a hollow laugh. “Oh, sure. You just tripped and fell into another woman? And now she’s having your kid?”

His lips press into a thin line, and for the first time, you see it. The guilt. The regret. But it’s too late for that now. Too fucking late.

Your hands curl into fists, nails digging into your palms until you’re sure they’ll leave crescent-shaped marks. You’re shaking, your whole body vibrating with rage, with devastation, with betrayal so deep it makes you sick to your stomach.

“You don’t get to do this to me,” you whisper, voice raw. “You don’t get to make me love you, to promise me forever, and then throw me away like I meant nothing.”

His hands tighten at his sides. “You didn’t mean nothing.”

But it’s not enough. It will never be enough.

Your breath catches, the dam finally breaking as a sob rips through your throat. “Then why wasn’t I enough?”

And for the first time, Katsuki has no answer.

You nod, wiping at your face furiously before turning on your heel, heading straight for the bedroom. Your mind is racing, already thinking about packing, about leaving, about never looking back. About how much it’s going to hurt.

He calls your name—soft, desperate.

But you don’t stop.

You don’t look back.

Because if you do, you might break completely.

[zanarkandss]

the perks of having a teleslate

phainon/reader: 656 words; established relationship; mentions of rough sex; phainon is whipped but also very down to ruin you; gn reader; nsfw (minors dni)

part of the reason i wrote this was bc i kept making jokes about how the hell they were gonna deal w phones in ancient greece. well turns out they did and also gave a guy a gun. so what do i know.

Phainon’s wallpaper is you. You’re pretty sure he had you as his teleslate screen before you got together - ‘It’s what best friends do!’ he’d told you, grin plastered on his face. He even rotates the image out on a weekly basis, wanting to make sure he captures every moment of your life. 

It’s a sweet sentiment, really. You’re just…slightly concerned for his storage space. Surely it’s getting full by now? You’ll ask to go through his phone and he’ll hand you his teleslate no questions asked, and you can’t help but put your head in your hands at how many photos he’s got of you. Some of these, you have no idea when he’s managed to take them, or how he’s managed to convince your friends to send him photos of you when you’re not with him.

(‘What did you bribe them with?’ 

‘Who?’ You glare at him. ‘Ahem. Aglaea gets to go through my wardrobe and sort through it. She said she’d keep what you bought me, though, and said it was a blessing you had—‘ 

‘No more, please. I can't fault her for that.’)

Oh, and Titan’s forbid you try to delete any. He’d swiftly pull the device up and away out of reach, using his height against you. Only when you provide him with the number of kisses he wants (a lot) will he let you go through them again. If you want to delete them, he’ll allow you, though, not without going on about what the photo means to him. Losing to him is an inevitability; you end up way too flustered to let him continue to harp on about how much he loved you in this single moment. That he can do that for each of the photos he has is…a bit too much for your heart.

Well, at least he has the other ones of you hidden. They’re behind another app, something benign that no one would go on. And even then there’s a passcode. He’d whined about wanting to get some photos of the two of you having sex so that he could have something to use while he was away from you. 

You found it hard to say no. After all, he’s so earnest, and a hero to boot. Who else could reward him with something like this? 

Now, whenever he feels it right, he’ll take a photo. Maybe a quick video too, if he’s daring, though he’d much rather tend to you. These photos you don’t really realise he takes at that moment. You tend to be too fucked out, malleable to his whims as he grips your cheeks with one hand to get you to look into the camera, eyes bleary and body covered with bites. There are others as well. Some, where your face is pressed into the pillows and he pushes you down so hard you can see the veins in his arms. Others, where he’s got you laying on his chest, too tired to sit up to ride him properly, make-up streaked down your face. They’re always followed up with pictures where he’ll be stroking your hair, gentle, placating, as if he didn’t put you in this situation in the first place. 

Not that you’ve got room to complain. He tends to you well. Maybe you’re more annoyed at the fact he calls it ‘making love’ like some young pining maiden instead of a man who can fold you in half and ruin you until morning comes, only stopping because he has duties to attend to instead of being left drained of all energy.  

Still, you love him. And he loves you too. You’re the only one he’d ever dream of being with like this, the one he wants to see the future of Amphoreus with. And if anything comes between him and that dream? Well, he’s enough strength to protect your honour. He is not a Chrysos Heir for nothing, after all.

© 2025 zanarkandss; do not plagirise, translate, or repost my works elsewhere.

[supernotnatural2005]

The Arrangement - Part Two

Pairing: Dean x reader

Summary: It's the morning after, you and Dean are both reeling, respectively, from the previous night. Can you both overcome the incident, or is more trouble awaiting?

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings/Tags: SMUT!!! (18+ONLY!!!) The usual angsty thoughts, will these two ever get it? Swearing

AN: Happy hump day! 🐫 We're still only just brushing the surface with these two, but I hope you enjoy ☺️.

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist < Catch up here!

The next morning, you woke with a painful groan, the pounding in your skull like a jackhammer. Even with your eyes still shut, you could feel the dull, relentless ache radiating through your entire head. When you finally pried them open, you grimaced at the sticky sensation of last night’s makeup clinging to your lashes.

Rolling onto your back, you immediately regretted it—your stomach lurched in protest, reminding you exactly why you were never drinking again. Not this time. Not after this hangover. The night felt like a blur, fragments slipping through your fingers as you struggled to piece them together.

The first thing that came back was your awful date. Monday was going to be awkward as hell at work, but you didn’t regret a damn thing. The look on his face after you ruined his expensive white dress shirt with that tasteless glass of rosé— the one he ordered for you—was worth it. A smirk tugged at your lips at the memory.

Then you remembered heading to the bar to see Jo and Ellen. Like always, you and Jo went one drink too far.

Something nudged at the back of your mind, a strange pulse in your chest as you reached for the rest of the night. The fog lifted slightly as your phone buzzed on your nightstand, but it wasn’t the screen that caught your attention. It was the bottle of Tylenol and the glass of water sitting beside it.

And just like that, everything came crashing back.

Oh God.

You kissed Dean.

Your headache surged as if your body was punishing you for your stupidity. You kissed your best friend. Were you really that desperate? That starved for affection that you had to go and make a move on Dean of all people?

But then—amidst the spiral of regret and sheer mortification—another thought surfaced.

Dean had kissed you back.

And not in some startled, accidental way. No, he kissed you like he meant it. Like one of those cocky heroes in the guilty pleasure romance novels you kept hidden on your bookshelf. Hands gripping you like he couldn’t bear to let go. Like he wanted to devour you.

Your stomach flipped. For a second—just a second—you let yourself remember the way his lips had felt, the roughness of his stubble, the way he had pulled you closer, like—

Nope. Absolutely not.

You shook your head, pushing the thought away. It wasn’t a big deal. It couldn’t be.

You’d had too much to drink. You were disappointed, frustrated, and let’s be real—desperately overdue for a good lay. And Dean? Well, he was there. Familiar. Safe. Willing.

That was all.

It wasn’t some deep, long-suppressed thing. It wasn’t because you’d been secretly wondering about him for years, how the way he touched you, kissed you, made every single rumour you’d heard about him feel a hell of a lot more believable. 

The whispers. Those hushed conversations in the school hallways. The restroom stalls where Karen Jones once gushed about your best friend’s talented mouth and fingers.

How on the rare occasion Dean had brought someone home, well… you weren’t proud to admit that the muffled sounds through the walls had left you pressing your thighs together, wondering just what he was doing in there to make them moan like that.

No. Nope. Dean was your best friend. That was sacred.

The idea of being anything more? Terrifying.

And besides, he’d been drinking, too.

That’s all it could be.

Dean didn’t look at you like that. Not really. He would’ve done the same with any other girl, right? It wasn’t special. It didn’t mean anything.

And the best thing to do now? Pretend it never happened. If Dean brought it up, you had the perfect excuse—"I was drunk, I had no idea what I was doing."

Yeah. That would work.

You sighed, scrubbing a hand over your face before reaching for the Tylenol. The mirror across the room reflected the mess you’d become—wrinkled dress, tangled hair, smudged makeup making you look half-raccoon.

First things first. A hot shower.

Then, you’d figure out how to face Dean without losing your goddamn mind.

Stepping out of the shower, you felt marginally more human—though your headache still throbbed behind your eyes, and the exhaustion clung to your bones. You wrapped yourself in a towel, rubbing at your damp hair with another as you padded into your room. Every movement felt sluggish, like you were wading through molasses.

Maybe coffee would help.

You threw on a pair of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, too drained to care about much else. The smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted into your room as you cracked open the door, coaxing you toward the kitchen like a siren’s call.

Dean was already there, leaning against the counter with a mug in hand, his gaze unfocused. The sunlight filtering through the blinds cast a soft glow on his face, highlighting the faint crease between his brows. He looked deep in thought, his fingers curled around the ceramic like he needed something to hold onto.

Then he spotted you, and just like that, the quiet weight in the air lifted. A slow smile tugged at his lips, easy, familiar—but there was something behind it. Something you couldn’t quite place. Uncertainty? Hesitation?

"She’s alive," he teased, breaking the silence.

You rolled your eyes, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. See? This is fine. It’s normal. We can handle this.

"Barely," you muttered, shuffling toward the kitchen island.

Dean pushed off the counter, already reaching for another mug. "Figured you’d need this."

He poured you a cup and slid it toward you as you climbed onto one of the barstools, elbows resting on the counter, head in your hands. You let out a low groan, still feeling like death warmed over.

"I swear to God, I’m gonna kill Jo for encouraging my alcoholism," you grumbled.

Dean huffed out a chuckle. "Yeah, good luck with that. She’d take you down first.”

"That’s fair," you sighed dramatically, taking a careful sip of coffee. The warmth seeped through you, dulling the sharpest edges of your hangover.

Dean leaned his hip against the counter, watching you over the rim of his mug. “Sam messaged me this morning, reminding me. Is Ellen still making her famous stuffing for Christmas next week?"

You perked up slightly, grateful for the normalcy of the conversation. Okay, good. This is good. Normal.

"Yeah, of course. She said she’s already prepping. Swore up and down she’s gonna outdo last year."

Dean smirked. "Doubt it. That was peak stuffing."

"You say that every year."

"And I mean it every year." He took another sip of coffee before tilting his head. "Bobby still threatening to deep-fry the turkey?"

You snorted. "Always. But Ellen put her foot down after the ‘grease fire incident of 1999.’"

Dean laughed, shaking his head. "Man, that was a hell of a year."

"It was a hell of a mess," you corrected. "We were still finding soot in the kitchen in February."

"Yeah, but it was worth it. Best damn turkey I ever had."

"You say that every year, too."

"And I mean it every year," he shot back, grinning.

For as long as you and Dean had been friends, your families had celebrated Christmas together. It started when you were kids, when Bobby and Ellen realised how much easier it was to combine everything into one big gathering.

Every year, you’d alternate whose house hosted—one year at the Winchesters’, the next at your place. It became tradition, something that felt as much a part of the holiday as presents under the tree.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched. The back-and-forth was easy, natural—like it always was. The conversation wrapped around you like a familiar blanket, momentarily pushing away the lingering awkwardness from last night.

See? This is fine. It’s fine.

Then the silence settled.

And suddenly, you were aware of everything.

The space between you—too small, too charged. The way his fingers curled around his coffee mug, his knuckles flexing just slightly. The way his shirt stretched over his shoulders, like you hadn’t already memorised the broad shape of him years ago.

Your eyes met his, and the second they did, your stomach twisted.

Dean didn’t look away.

And neither did you.

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to stay still. No sudden movements, no giving anything away. But then your gaze betrayed you—just for a second, barely a flicker—dipping down to his mouth.

Shit.

Because now you could feel it again.

The way he kissed you, rough but deliberate, like he had wanted it. The taste of whiskey, the heat of his hands, the way his fingers had curled into your hips like he was holding on for dear life.

Dean cleared his throat. Stepped back.

"I’m gonna head to the store," he said, too casual.

It took a second for the words to register. "Oh. Yeah, okay."

He hesitated—like he might ask you to come with him—but then he smirked instead, lips twitching. "Would’ve invited you, but, uh… You kinda look like the walking dead. Don’t want you cramping my style.”

Your head shot up, glare locked and loaded. "Ass."

Dean just grinned. "Try not to die while I’m gone."

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Your fingers tightened around the coffee mug as you exhaled, long and slow, staring at the door like it might offer some kind of answer.

Yeah. You were so screwed.

By the time Dean strolled back in through the front door, the afternoon sun was already dipping beyond the horizon, casting the sky in deep hues of amber and violet—a telltale sign of the short winter days.

In his absence, you'd done your best not to dwell on the events of last night. Dean hadn’t brought it up, and you figured it was best you didn’t either. Did that stop your mind from running through every why, how, and what if on repeat? No. But for now, distraction would do.

So here you were, sprawled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, watching reruns of Friends while feeling sorry for yourself in more ways than one.

“Hey,” Dean greeted, kicking the door shut behind him, hands full with grocery bags. He dropped them on the island, his keys clinking against the counter. “Sorry I took so long. Had to deal with a work emergency before I could hit the store.”

You peered over the back of the couch, blinking sluggishly. “S’all good. I crashed for a bit after you left anyway.” You stretched, groaning. “I am starving, though.” 

After Dean had left, for a much-needed grocery run - as you too discovered the disastrously emptiness of your fridge, all you’d eaten were two pop tarts you’d found in the back of the cupboard. 

“Well, if you’re up for it, how about I whip us up some burgers?” Dean smirked, already putting things away. Your stomach growled at the suggestion. You practically salivated at the thought. Dean could grill a mean burger, and he damn well knew it.

“Oh My God, yes.” You practically moaned. Dean chuckled as you hopped up and shuffled to the kitchen, immediately snooping through the bags. Your eyes lit up when you pulled out a tub of rocky road ice cream.

“Ohh, heck yes!” Dean turned just in time to see you clutch it to your chest like treasure. Rubbing the back of his neck, he shrugged it off. 

“Yeah, well… figured you’d want it. Hangover ritual and all.”

It was such a simple thing—something so Dean. But it made your chest squeeze a little tighter. Maybe it was in light of recent events, but for some reason it touched you more than it should have. And in that moment, you realised just how much Dean had always taken care of you.

Whether it was remembering your favourite ice cream, patching up your scraped knee when you fell off your bike as a kid, or offering you a shoulder when you needed one.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “Thank you,” you murmured, and you meant it.

Dean just smiled.

You cleared your throat, shaking off the sudden wave of emotions. “Need any help? I may be half a step into the land of the dead, but I am still good with my hands.” You wiggled your fingers in his face, only for Dean to swat them away with a laugh.

“Nah, I got it. But in exchange, you could give me a scoop of that.” He nodded toward the ice cream.

Your grip on the tub tightened. “But—”

Dean arched an amused brow.

And just then, as if on cue, the TV blared Joey Tribbiani’s infamous line: "Joey doesn’t share food!"

You pointed blindly in the direction of the TV. “What he said.”

For a second, there was silence—then both of you burst into laughter.

“Alright, alright,” you relented, wiping at your eyes. “You can have one tiny scoop.” You winked and left him to it. 

Dean rolled his eyes, but his grin never faded as he got to work on dinner.

“Seriously, dude, you should open your own burger bar or something,” you groaned, sinking into the couch as you took another blissful bite.

Dean snorted around his own large mouthful, shaking his head. He watched as you practically melted into your seat, eyes fluttering shut, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. It was equally parts disgusting and endearing.

You had no shame when it came to food. Talking with your mouth full, letting sauce smear your chin, completely oblivious to how you looked to others. It warmed him at how comfortable you must be in his presence to not care about such things. 

Like right now, you sat cross legged on the couch, your hair thrown up in a messy bun, a worn-out, oversized t-shirt, that looked vaguely familiar, hung off your figure, and you had on a pair of sweats one size too big. Your face was makeup less but even so, you were beautiful. 

After devouring your burgers, you moved on to dessert, despite claiming minutes earlier that you were “way too full.” 

“Theres always extra room for something sweet.” You’d claimed, giving Dean a proper bowl of ice cream instead of the pathetic spoonful you'd originally offered. 

You sat side by side watching some comedy, he didn’t remember the name of. But it was all the same, a storyline he’d seen a million times but, even so, there was the odd chuckle-worthy moment. 

Not long after, you reached over, setting your now-empty bowl down beside his on the coffee table and as you sat back, he noticed it.

“Hey, you got a little—” He gestured to the corner of his mouth.

“Hm?” You wiped at the wrong side.

“No, here.” He pointed again. You missed it.

Dean huffed before leaning in, swiping his thumb against the chocolate smudge himself.

You stilled.

Your wide eyes flicked up to meet his, and suddenly, he realised just how close he was. His hand still cupped your cheek, thumb lingering at the corner of your lips.

The air thickened. Your breath mingled with his.

Dean’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips out of habit. Your gaze flickered down to the motion, and his stomach clenched.

And then—he wasn’t sure who leaned in first but suddenly, your lips were pressed to his, soft and warm, more confident than last time.

Dean didn’t think—he just reacted. 

One of his arms wrapped around your back, the other tilting your chin as he deepened the kiss. You melted into him, fingers threading through his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. 

A low, guttural groan rumbled from his chest at the sensation. You tasted like chocolate and marshmallows, sweet and sinful, and fuck—he was already addicted.

Then, as if kissing you wasn’t enough, you shifted, climbing into his lap, pressing yourself against him like you had no idea what you were doing to him. Had he died? Was this some fever dream?

Before he could fully process what was happening, before he could stop you, before he could stop himself, you settled in his lap completely. And there was no hiding what you’d stirred beneath his jeans.

But you didn’t pull away.

Instead, a soft moan escaped your lips, vibrating against his own, and fuck.

He was done for.

His arms tightened around you, pulling you impossibly close, and then you moved. A slow, testing rock of your hips, then another, then a third—more confident, more deliberate. Dean groaned, eyes dark and hazy with lust.

Alarm bells blared in his head, warning him to stop, to think—to rationalise what was happening, why it was happening again. But how the hell was he supposed to think straight when you were rubbing against him like that?

Fuck.

His hands slid down your back, gripping your hips like he was holding onto his last thread of restraint. And then you did it again. A shudder ran through him at the friction, his head tipping back against the couch as he looked up at you. His expression was raw, wrecked—like you had all the answers, and he was desperate for them.

Your movements slowed as you leaned in, your lips grazing his jaw, then his ear.

“Are you down for some fun, Winchester?” you husked, your voice dripping with temptation. You nipped at his earlobe, making his eyes snap shut, his grip tightening on your hips.

“What kind of fun?” he asked, playing dumb, but mostly because he needed to hear you say it.

“The naked kind.”

Dean exhaled sharply, fingers flexing against your hips, his cock aching beneath you.

“I’ve always been curious about you,” you murmured, your lips trailing back to his, teasing, just brushing.

“You have?” His voice was rough, uneven. His heart pounded, not just with lust but something deeper—something dangerously close to hope.

“I grew up with the rumours,” you admitted, pressing a slow, torturous kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’ve heard the women you’ve brought home… wondered.” Another kiss. “I’m curious.”

Dean nearly groaned. The idea of you—you—wondering about him that way, thinking about what it would be like between you… Jesus.

And then you kissed him, slow and deep, and Dean was gone.

“I don’t want to think about politics right now,” you confessed breathlessly against his lips. “I don’t want to think about consequences, or what’s right or wrong. I just want you—right now. If you want me too?”

Dean knew there should be a pause, a moment to reconsider, but the second the words left your lips—combined with the way you were looking at him like he was something to be devoured—every logical thought went out the window.

Fuck it.

Instead of answering, he kissed you—hard. And when you moaned appreciatively against his mouth, all bets were off. This wasn’t about feelings or what-ifs. This was heat and need, two people chasing a high neither of them was willing to resist.

With a firm arm around your back and the other gripping your thigh, Dean stood effortlessly, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. You gasped, clinging to him, arms around his neck, legs wrapped tight around his waist. He felt everything—every inch of you pressed against him, driving him insane.

Your lips never broke apart as he carried you toward your room—the closest out of the two.

And maybe, deep down, there was a nagging voice whispering about consequences. About what this meant. But right now?

Right now, he wasn’t listening.

And neither were you. 

Your mind was screaming at you.

What are you doing?

This is Dean.

But you couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. You were too wound up, too sexually deprived, too drawn to the way he looked at you—like you were something sacred, something he had to taste, to touch, to have. And he was right here. Willing. Eager. His hands gripping you tight as he carried you into your bedroom, lips never leaving yours.

The door barely clicked shut before he was lowering you onto the bed, his weight settling between your legs, pressing you down into the mattress. His mouth moved over yours with aching precision, slow but deep, savouring, like he had all the time in the world. Like he wanted to take his time.

It was intoxicating.

Dean groaned as you arched up into him, his hands skimming down your sides, exploring, memorising. His lips broke from yours just long enough to kiss a trail down your jaw, your throat, sucking lightly where your pulse pounded against your skin. It made your head spin.

And then lower.

He lifted your shirt inch by inch, his calloused fingers dragging over your heated skin as he peeled it up and over your head. His breath hitched.

“Jesus.”

Dean’s eyes darkened as he took you in—bare from the waist up, nipples hardened from both the cool air and the sheer intensity of his gaze.

“Fuckin’ knew you’d be perfect,” he murmured, running his hands over your stomach, thumbs grazing just beneath your ribs.

Then his mouth was on you again.

Soft, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, a flick of his tongue just above the waistband of your sweatpants, then back up. Slow, torturous. His lips followed the curve of your ribs, his nose brushing against the underside of your breast. 

Your pussy throbbed, desperate and aching, as he finally took one of your breasts into his mouth, sucking lightly, swirling his tongue around your hardened peak. Your back arched, a needy sound escaping you. He took his time, learning every sensitive spot, making you squirm, making you need.

And then he was moving again.

Dean took his time undressing you completely, peeling away your sweatpants, your panties, his hands exploring each new inch of bare skin like he was memorising a damn map. 

He wanted to remember this, wanted to carve the image of you into his mind—the way your body responded to him, the way you trembled under his touch.

He shoved down any nagging thoughts, anything that whispered about how this might mean something. Not tonight. Tonight, all he cared about was this.

You.

Dean settled between your legs, kissing his way down again, teasing at your hip bone, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. You gasped as he nipped at the sensitive flesh, as he breathed against your aching core, so close yet so cruelly far.

“Dean,” you whimpered, hands threading through his hair, nails scraping lightly at his scalp.

He groaned at that, and then—

His mouth was on you.

Your whole body jerked as his tongue flicked against your clit, hot and wet and perfect. He took his time, using slow, deliberate strokes before sucking you into his mouth, making your thighs twitch, your fingers tightening in his hair.

You had never felt anything like this.

But now you understood.

Now you knew exactly what all those women had meant, why they couldn’t stop coming back for more.

Dean Winchester could ruin a girl.

And right now, you were happy to be wrecked.

Your thighs threatened to squeeze around his head, but his hands gripped your hips, keeping you open, keeping you at his mercy. He worked you relentlessly, alternating between slow, teasing licks and firm, dizzying pressure. The coil in your stomach tightened, higher, hotter—

“Dean—”

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he muttered, voice husky against your slick folds. “Let me taste it.”

That was all it took.

Pleasure crashed over you in waves, stealing the air from your lungs. You cried out, arching off the bed as your climax ripped through you, your entire body shaking. Dean groaned against you, drinking in every last bit, licking and sucking you through the aftershocks until you were trembling beneath him, completely undone.

When he finally pulled away, his lips were slick, his pupils blown wide.

And then he was kissing you again, deep and desperate, letting you taste yourself on his tongue as he pressed you back into the mattress.

All too soon he pulled back, shifting onto his knees. You blinked up at him, dazed, still trembling from your release, but your breath hitched when he removed his t-shirt in one fluid, over the head motion. And then you watched in anticipation as his hands move to his belt.

He made quick work of it, the metal clinking softly in the quiet room before he popped the button of his jeans, dragging the zipper down. He didn’t look away from you as he shoved them down his hips, along with his boxers.

Your mouth went dry.

Dean Winchester was beautiful.

Broad shoulders, toned stomach, strong arms lined with freckles and old scars. And lower—your thighs instinctively pressed together at the sight of him, long and thick, already so hard, flushed, the tip glistening.

Heat surged through your body, desire burning anew.

Your hands moved on their own, reaching for him, fingers wrapping around his length, feeling the weight of him in your palm.

“Jesus,” you breathed, stroking him experimentally, watching how his abs tensed, how his jaw clenched.

Dean groaned, low and guttural, but his hand shot out, gripping your wrist and stilling your movements.

“Don’t,” he gritted, his eyes almost wild as they locked onto yours. “Not now. I—” He swallowed thickly, exhaling a shaky breath. “I won’t last.”

The admission sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, and the way he was looking at you—so desperate, so wrecked—made you dizzy.

Dean inhaled sharply, trying to compose himself, then rasped, “You got a condom?”

You nodded, reaching for the drawer in your nightstand. Your hands fumbled slightly as you pulled one out, but before you could tear it open, Dean’s fingers brushed yours.

“Let me,” he murmured, his voice like gravel.

You swallowed hard, watching as he ripped the foil, rolling the condom down over his length with practiced ease.

The sight alone had you clenching around nothing.

And then he was over you again, bracing himself on his forearms, his lips hovering just above yours. His eyes searched your face, softer now, less frantic.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice quieter, rough with restraint.

Your heart thundered.

But there wasn’t a single doubt in your mind.

“Yeah,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his.

Dean didn’t hesitate.

The first push was slow, stretching, filling, overwhelming. A deep, strangled groan rumbled from his chest as he sank into you completely, his forehead pressing against yours, his arms trembling as he held himself still.

“Fuck,” he rasped. “You feel so good.”

You clung to him, breathless, nails digging into his back.

He gave you a moment, then started to move—slow, steady rolls of his hips, pulling out just to push back in, his cock dragging against all the right places. The pleasure was immediate, sharp and electric.

Dean’s lips ghosted over yours, his hands gripping your hips, his movements deepening.

You could feel everything.

Every inch of him, every shuddered breath, every lingering trace of restraint slipping away with every thrust.

Your body arched into his, overwhelmed by the way he filled you, stretched you. The heat coiling in your stomach wound tighter and tighter, your nails digging into his shoulders as he drove into you at just the right angle.

“Oh, God—” you gasped, head tipping back against the pillow, eyes screwing shut.

Dean groaned, dipping his head to press his lips to your throat, sucking at the sensitive skin.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped, his breath ragged against your neck. “You feel so fucking good. You—” His sentence cut off with a sharp inhale when you clenched around him.

Your whole body was alight, buzzing, your mind a mess of sensation as he thrust deep, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

“Dean—” His name tumbled from your lips, needy, desperate, and that was all it took.

Like a snapped tether, pleasure crashed over you, stealing the air from your lungs. You clenched around him, back arching, hands fisting the sheets as wave after wave of ecstasy ripped through you.

Dean groaned at the feel of you squeezing him so tightly, his rhythm faltering.

And then he was right behind you.

His movements turned erratic, rough, as he buried himself deep with a strangled curse, his muscles going rigid. His breath stuttered, and then he was gone, undone, spilling into the condom with a deep, shuddering groan.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your heavy breaths, your hammering hearts.

Then, Dean collapsed on top of you, panting hard, his body heavy and warm, his face buried against your neck.

You felt like you were floating. Like something inside you had fundamentally changed, but you shoved the thought away, fingers absently trailing through his damp hair as you both struggled to come back down to earth.

Dean let out a breath, his lips ghosting over your collarbone. After a moment, he shifted, bracing a hand on the mattress and rolling onto his back beside you.

A beat of silence.

And then you exhaled a breathless laugh.

“Wow.”

Dean chuckled, running a hand down his face. “Yeah.”

You turned your head to look at him, still gloriously naked, his chest rising and falling steadily, his skin flushed, his hair thoroughly mussed.

There was a something beginning to bubble in your chest, something unwanted, as you looked at him and so you forced yourself to push it down. And then a thought came to mind, a very reckless, possibly disastrous, thought, but you went with it. 

“So…” you started, rolling onto your side, propping yourself up on an elbow.

Dean turned his head toward you, his expression unreadable. His hair was still a mess from your fingers, his skin warm where it brushed against yours. Too close. Too easy to want more.

“What now?” he asked, his voice rough, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

You swallowed. Don’t think about how it made you feel. Don’t think about what it meant.

“Well,” you said carefully, forcing a smirk, “that was… really fucking good.”

Dean huffed a quiet laugh, mirroring your smirk. “Not gonna argue there.”

You hesitated, fingers tracing idle patterns against the sheet beneath you. Then, before you could lose your nerve, you pushed forward.

“I have a thought,” you murmured, glancing at him from beneath your lashes. “A proposition, if you will.”

Dean’s expression didn’t shift, but he hummed in acknowledgment, silently urging you to continue.

You bit your lip, playing it off like it was nothing. “We’re obviously… good at this,” you said, your voice light, teasing—though the weight in your chest begged to be acknowledged. “And we’re friends. We trust each other, right?”

Dean frowned slightly, tilting his head. “Yeah?” he drawled, curiosity flickering in his gaze.

You shrugged, forcing yourself to sound casual. “I was thinking… maybe we don’t have to stop.”

His brows lifted in surprise. That was not what he was expecting. Hell, what was he expecting? This whole situation was... He didn’t even know at this point.

Dean didn’t say anything at first, and the silence made your stomach twist. You felt the need to fill it—to justify.

“The way I see it, neither of us wants the hassle of a relationship,” you continued, keeping your tone light, matter-of-fact. “I mean, you’ve said it yourself—you don’t do relationships. And I’ve kind of… given up on the idea.” You gestured vaguely between you. “So why not just—enjoy this? No strings, no expectations. Just… fun.”

The words felt wrong in your mouth, but you ignored it.

Dean’s fingers flexed where they rested against the mattress. His gaze stayed on you, unreadable, and for a second, you thought he might laugh in your face. Call you crazy. Tell you this was a terrible idea.

Instead, he exhaled softly, nodding.

“Yeah. Okay.”

You let out a breath, relieved. Ignoring the tiny voice in your head screaming this is a mistake.

Dean didn’t want more.

And if you pretended you didn’t either, you could have some part of him, at least.

Better than nothing.

You had no idea he was thinking the same damn thing.

AN: I hoped you guys enjoyed this part, things are really stating to get moving 😅, there is a lot more of this story to come, more of these two idiots not realising what is so obvious! 🥲 As always I'd love to hear what you all think? ❤️

Side note: The scene I had in mind 😂 👇🏻

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2 @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @fangirlingfromdownunder @cevansbaby-dove @star-yawnznn @piptoost @shadysoulangel @deansimpalababy @megara0224

Next time...

Slowly, you padded across the floor, stopping just outside the shower door. With one last exhale of doubt, you pulled it open and stepped inside. Dean startled, his head whipping toward you, eyes wide with a mixture of alarm and surprise. “What the—” Before he could finish, his expression twisted in pain, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “Shit.” He hissed, rubbing furiously at them as soap trickled down into his lashes. Biting back a laugh, you reached for his arm and guided him under the spray, watching as the water rinsed the suds away. Okay, maybe this wasn’t quite as sexy as you had planned. When he finally blinked his eyes open, he turned to you, first in disbelief—then in something far more dangerous. His gaze darkened, sweeping over you from head to toe, and fuck. He could never get used to this. To you. Perfect. “Well, this is somethin’,” he smirked...

[wermoewe]

This time it was you. This time it was your turn to have the memories of your lives together. From an early age you knew about your soulmate.

Their favourite foods (which varied from region and time periods), their favourite books, plays and music ( the list growing each reincarnation, but the old faves always there) and their favourite colour (always the same one). How they would react to encountering the thing they feared most. This certain hand gesture they did when they were enthusiastically talking about something or the facial expression they did when they were annoyed. You often felt that you knew them better than yourself.

Still knowing all that didn't help finding them.

Your first steps in kindergarten you took alone. Their laughter missing when you played with mud in the playground with the other kids. The memory of your life's three cycles ago, when you two grew up on the same street in the back of your mind.

You didn't find them during all of your school life either. It wasn't bad. You had friends and a loving and supporting family (this time). Though in certain situations there were flashes of past lifes with both of you in similar circumstances which made your heart ache. Living these moments without them hurt. It hurt a lot.

College was the same. No trace of them.

So many things and thoughts you wanted to share with them. It wasn't easy. The years flew by.

You put all your energy into your work. It distracted you from their absence which grew more and more prominent in your mind. Fortunately your job allowed you to travel through the world, increasing the chances of meeting them. And you were sure. You would meet them some day. Despair never crossed your mind in all those years. In all your lifes you found each other. This one will be no different.

----

You are in a country on the other side of the world. It's a later summer afternoon and the town around you is buzzing. Work was finished early and your host invited you to join a local fair taking place in honour of a local folk hero.

You and your host are part of a crowd walking to the fairground. All around you are people cheerfully chatting and laughing accompanied by the buzzing of the cicadas.

It doesn't take long till you all reach the grounds with stalls and an already big crowd sitting in groups on blankets and camping chairs. The whole thing is basically a huge summer picnic. The live music that will play later rather a side note than the main act.

You follow your host. Their friends are already at the grounds and have set up blankets close to the music stage. After a big hello and instructions you head for the stalls to get something to drink.

You saunter along till something piques* your interest and you get in line. You can't really tell what it is that made you stop here. But listening to your gut was never a bad decision.

A little bit to your side is someone with their two little kids. Both of them bouncing and chatting happily at the same time. You watch the little family. The kids are buzzing full of energy chasing each other, squeaking and laughing. Their guardian gently herding them and keeping them from running into other people.

Suddenly both of them squeak and dash towards a person approaching from behind you. Their guardian following with a loving smile that turns even softer when they look to the person approaching.

A few feet in front of you they all meet. The person joining picks up the smaller kid and gently pats the head of the other. Than greets the other adult with a tender kiss.

Even before this person turns around you know who it is. You finally found your soulmate.

You finally found your best friend.

A/n:

*please tell me I chose the right "piques".

English is not my first language and I wrote the story in one go without editing it. Therefore the grammar might be wrong. (You notice a mistake? Let me know, I will correct it!)

I lost steam when they reached the fairgrounds. Suddenly the writing got harder. (Might revisit the story and edit it.)

It annoys me that everyone thinks of soulmates romantically. As soon as people hear "soulmate" they think heart eyes, never ending romantic love, yada yada.

Best friends can be soul mates too. Platonic relationship can last through the ages as well.

Your soulmate has a family and kids? Heck yeah! You gonna be their aunt/uncle/godparent!

And yes the searching one is ace (in this life. Different life, different story.)

You and your soulmate are stuck in a cycle of reincarnation, but you managed to find each other every single time. In this life, you finally managed to track them down… only to learn they started a happy family with someone else.

[meizimao]

Lazy Summer Afternoon

Jason Todd (Red Hood) x Reader

You can also read this on my ao3🌹

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Everything good, everything magical happens between the months of June and August.”

— Jenny Han, The Summer I Turned Pretty

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Good afternoon, Jason.” You approached him with a cushion in hand. He lifted one arm, inviting you to rest against him.

Jason gently adjusted the pillow for you, pulling you close. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “Good afternoon, my love.”

You closed your eyes, savoring the faint scent of roses lingering on him—the same roses you’d bought fresh from the market this morning, now arranged in a vase Jason had prepared just for you.

The rose-scented Jason surrounded you, a rare fragrance for him. You often teased him, saying, “You’re like a drunken powder keg,” because the usual scents that clung to him were alcohol, nicotine, and gunpowder.

With one arm around you and the other holding Pride and Prejudice, Jason read aloud slowly. Yet his gaze kept wandering to you, unable to resist. You rarely lay beside him in the afternoon—most of your moments together were stolen deep in the night, but even those were often interrupted by his night patrols.

Jason adored your features, especially the gentle warmth in your brown eyes, though they were now tightly shut. Even without a trace of makeup, you were as captivating as ever. He curled his long fingers, tracing the shadow of your nose bridge with his knuckles, the gesture as tender as a whispered promise.

You frowned slightly, shifting away from Jason’s “torment.” He chuckled softly, the warm sound rustling the loose strands of hair over your forehead.

Jason’s gaze remained drawn to you, though this time his focus shifted—from your peaceful face to your chest.

Don’t misunderstand. He wasn’t the type to take advantage of a moment like this. If he wanted to be close, he’d have no trouble asking outright.

His eyes lingered on the subtle movement of your throat as you swallowed in your sleep, then traveled lower to his favorite place—your collarbone. It was there, more often than not, that he would leave a mark of his own, which always earned him your playful complaints: too high to ignore, yet too low to leave uncovered, forcing you to reach for concealer.

Jason wanted to tell you not to go through so much trouble. Your boss—that infamous Gotham playboy—wouldn’t bat an eye at any marks. In fact, he was known for flaunting far more obvious signs of his escapades.

Your lace nightgown, sheer and delicate, covered your chest—likely something new, since Jason didn’t recognize this one. Not that it mattered. The poor garment would soon be reduced to scraps, the inevitable result of Jason’s mischievous streak, which you usually forgave him for.

“Jason… focus on your book.”

The named protagonist reluctantly turned his head away, though the smile tugging at his lips refused to fade. His blue eyes, soft and filled with tenderness, betrayed where his heart truly remained.

If a Gotham criminal were to stumble upon Jason now, they would never guess that the man before them—smiling so softly—was the infamous Red Hood, the fearsome anti-hero whose name alone could send shivers down their spines.

“Not all of us can afford to be romantic.” (1)

Jason paused at the line, a sudden thought stirring within him—how lucky he was to have a girl who not only gave him romance but also welcomed his own clumsy attempts at it.

He wasn’t the best at expressing emotions, but he was willing to give you all the love he had, even if it was only a small, imperfect offering.

The sunlight streamed through the gap in the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow over your white nightgown, as if draping you in a gown of light.

After one more lingering glance at your sleeping face, Jason turned back to his book, surrendering once again to the sea of literature on a lazy summer afternoon.

The end.

(1) From Pride and Prejudice

Hello everyone, this is a translation of my own work. The original was written in Chinese, and since I am not a native English speaker, I hope the translation isn’t too difficult to understand. I hope you enjoy my work ❤️

[zippidi-dooda]

You were all giggles and smiles.

The air felt hot with how many old students and families there were around. Your outer layer flowed around you, swishing as you sped about. The inner clung to your skin, on the precipice of becoming uncomfortable. But you were enjoying the night too much to care.

All of your old friends were there, once eager pupils now strong heroes, working up the ranks of pros. They were happy too, hugging excitedly and introducing each other to relatives or new friends. It was a breath of fresh air, going from rarely getting a moment to have lunch with one another to spending hours late into the evening with pretty much every old acquaintance.

But there was one person in particular you found yourself hoping to talk to again.

You kept passing by him. Where he sat with arms folded, legs spread carelessly in their baggy pants and thick boots as he was fond of, eyes narrowed and fixed on the floor as others milled about, frown on his face as his companions chatted the night away from where they sat next to him.

You didn't feel that deep flutter as you did before. But neither did you feel skittish fear where you wanted to avoid him. Just that odd sense of longing and hope. You wondered if he even noticed you passing by.

This continued for a while, these glances and wanderings as your old teachers continued their announcements and congratulations around the grounds.

You waved to his friends when you passed, not stopping to talk but smiling and sparing a quick, "Hi!" You're not sure if he recognized your voice or if he was just ignoring it, but he rarely shifted in his seat.

You wanted to talk to Kirishima and Denki and Sero when you had the chance, Mina you wandered about with plenty. But you really wanted to talk to him.

Things hadn't ended right. He was busy, busier now with all his dream chasing. And prideful. You may not get such a lax opportunity to communicate again.

"Hey, Y/N! C'mere, there's people I want you to meet!" Ochaco grinned, looping your arms together.

You smiled, trailing along behind all the seats, glancing back at his head of fluffy spikes.

The girl introduced you to her people and a few friends she had brought along as well.

You engaged politely, distracted for a moment as you caught up. But when the conversation was over, mind free to create scenarios in your head, and she was ready to drag you somewhere else ... the two of you going up the rows now, passing in front of him again ... a final glance ... and you lost your apprehensions.

Untangling yourself from her arm, you told Ochaco to go on ahead, you'd be with her in a moment.

You walked in front of Bakugou, taking him by his collar and pulling him up from his seat. Then you kissed him chastely. "We need to talk when this is over." No shame nor fear bubbled over you.

He looked on confused and wired, heart beating a little faster than intended that night, but nodded curtly unsure of what he really could say.

And you let go, catching up to Ochaco as if nothing had happened.

You spent a few moments wondering and hoping he'd truly wait up, search for you since you'd forgotten to give a location in your haze. But the rest of the night went on joyously, laughter and grins spreading throughout the building, everyone was sad for it to end. Though most stayed out front, kicking up the grass as they decided on a 24hr diner to continue the evening together at.

You expected to look around anxiously for a while, fearing if the man you were waiting for would show. But it didn't take long at all. Bakugou found you first, popping up from behind and taking your hand to pull you away from the crowd.

You two didn't say a thing for a while, looking for an area with less people. And when you found it, he dropped your hand. He kept his eyes forward, hands shoved into his pockets as he started.

"What did you want to talk about?"

Straight to the point as always.

There was so much you could say, long winded explanations you could give. Maybe it'd be best if you went with his go to. Blunt and direct.

"I want to try again." You faced him, "we didn't really end things right last time. Didn't even say we were done, kinda just ... stopped talking. I'd like to make it work this time. And if we feel like something's not right again, I'd like to at least be able to end it properly. With a clarification and goodbye."

He stayed quiet so you continued.

"And I know what I want to do now, Katsuki. I've been working hard towards it this whole time. I know you'll be out a lot, saving people, fighting crime, climbing the ranks, but I think we can manage it. We don't have set hours but I'm okay with the ambiguity. I'll be waiting for you when you get home, wake up early to see you leave, then get to work too. I'll be happy when we see each other, of course. But also with the time we have apart, to wait till goals are met. I'd like to stick around till then."

You took his hands in yours. They were warm and a bit clammy but familiar all the same.

"I want to be with you, Katsuki. And I know we avoided facing our worries before which is why our relationship fizzled out. But I'm better at managing things now and more willing to sit down and face things. And I still love you. Want to kiss you again. Maybe it was selfish of me to have done it back in there but ... no. It was selfish. If you say no and I never see you again, at least I'll have had that. I'm sorry,"

Slowly, you reached out to cup his cheek. He didn't pull away.

He was still very quiet. An odd trait he seemed to have learned over the years. You're not sure if it was good or bad yet.

"Bottom line though? I want to stick through it all this time. Reach a shared goal." Just now you started feeling those sick butterlies again. This wasnt how you intended to end the night either. But you also didn't feel like it was a bad choice to make. "So ... will you go out with me?"

[talonabraxas]

Archangel Khamael Talon Abraxas Archangel Chamuel and Charity

Archangel Chamuel, whose name means “he who seeks God,” and his divine complement, Archeia Charity, serve on the third ray of divine love. Their etheric retreat, the Temple of the Crystal-Pink Flame, is over St. Louis, Missouri. An arc of divine love forms a bridge between their retreat and that of the Elohim of the third ray, Heros and Amora, in the etheric realm near Lake Winnipeg in Manitoba, Canada.

Together with their legions of pink-flame angels, Chamuel and Charity serve to expand the flame of adoration and divine love within the hearts of men and elementals. The joy of the Christ and the proper use of the creative powers of the Godhead are the forte of their instruction. On The Legions of Angels of Divine Love “We come, then, defenders of love and leaders of the archangels and the many angelic bands serving with us in the very victorious flame of divine love. We come fully aware that the maintenance of love, day by day, involves a striving, an ultimate striving—a compelling of the soul to strive to manifest the greatest essence of the interior Light, even the nectar of the Lord Buddha. “It is the summoning of forces, cosmic forces, within and inherent in thy own being. It is the summoning of will to bring forth that skill, that perfection, that perfect enterprise that becomes not only the handiwork of God but the instrumentation of highest manifestation of God in the earth. “Let me tell you something about perfect love. It is not only selflessness but it is the assertion of the Great God Self with such an all-consuming fiery furnace of manifestation as to consume all unlike love.” Calls to Archangel Chamuel and Charity Morning Prayer to the Archangels

El Morya instructs us in The Chela and the Path: “Each day the sons and daughters of God evolving in Mater have the opportunity to receive the energies of one of the seven rays cycling from the sphere of light held in the heart of an archangel ….Receive the Lord's appointed spirits with the salutation:

‘Hail, flaming one of God! Welcome, son of the Most High! Enter, thou servant of the Lord. Come into the sanctuary of being where the kingdom of God is come into manifestation on earth as it in in heaven.'” Call to Go to Archangel Chamuel and Charity's Retreat

Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit. O my soul, let us arise from our abode. Mighty I AM Presence and Holy Christ Self, with Archangel Michael and a cordon of blue-lightening angels, transport my soul clothed in my finer bodies, fully equipped with the armor of God, to Archangel Chamuel and Charity's Temple of the Pink-Crystal Flame over St. Louis Missouri or to the designated place of my Holy Work this night. Escort me, instruct me, and guide and protect me and all co-servers, I pray Thee, now and always as we serve to cut free all life on earth.

Archangel Chamuel, To Extol The Light and Love of the Heart of Gautama Buddha, Pearls of Wisdom, vol. 24, no. 10, March 8, 1991.

[thewhumpcaretaker]

⚜ 𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕤𝕖 𝕎𝕙𝕠 ℍ𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕊𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕠 𝕃𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝔽𝕠𝕣 - ℂ𝕙. 𝕏𝕍𝕀𝕀𝕀: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕠𝕗 ℙ𝕠𝕨𝕖𝕣 ⚜

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ ✧.*★ Thank you to @kavalyera for beta reading this entire thing since LAST SUMMER oh my lord, that's a long time! You're a hero!!

Summary: Vincent and Chidi vow to spend their lives together.

Author's Note: This is the end of the road. If you've read this entire thing, thank you SO much! It means the world to me. At over 50k, this is the longest work I've ever written. If you feel inclined to comment, I would love to know your thoughts about any part of this book. That includes constructive criticism, because I want to keep writing and improving. Alright, enjoy the last chapter!!

TW: smut (anal)

Across France, and in fact portions of Belgium and the Netherlands, thorny stems twined their jagged way upward to scratch the sky. The barren, skeletal fields served as harbinger of a power that was rippling silently across the globe. Because Vincent de Gramont had bought up all the roses, and he was in the most unstoppable of moods.

Things were changing in the High Table. The loyalty inspired by Vincent’s generosity led other seat holders to follow suit. They had little choice. Harsh treatment would simply send underlings running into the arms of Vincent’s protection at the first chance. It was a true Golden Age. Business had never boomed more…and never with such a small headcount. The Table was shrinking as its earnings grew – a sure recipe for profit. “We will not surround ourselves with enemies waiting to betray.” This was the Marquis’ continual repetition. Disloyal parties were, for the first time, encouraged to see themselves out…or else disappear by more forceful means.

Of course, there was still bloodshed aplenty. “Protection” for the loyalists was, after all, far from a pacifistic service. And those roses coated the façade of the Basilica Sacre-Ceour de Marmonte so thickly that it might, to the passing planes, have looked drenched in blood. Flowers spiraled upward around the columns, poured from the windows, and even crisscrossed the dome with a lattice of garlands. But that was nothing to the interior. The petals formed a red and white wading pool two inches deep, all the way up to the altar.

“J'ai toujours pensé que quelque chose d'important m'arriverait ici [I always thought something important would happen to me here],” Vincent had told Chidi when they toured the site back in March. “Peut-être que je ferais baptiser un héritier ici, par exemple. Mais c’est drôle… Je n’ai même pas pensé à un mariage. [Maybe I would have an heir baptized here, for instance. But it’s funny…I didn’t even consider a wedding.]”

What would little Vincent say if he could see the grown man now? Before Chidi, Vincent had never given much thought of any kind to his wedding, aside from the fact that he didn’t plan to have one. An heir didn’t necessitate a spouse, after all. The High Table might have its traditions, but any concern for birthing out of wedlock had long died out. So, best not to tie himself so closely with any social climber who could try to weasel their way into his political life – or worse, his personal life. No, his “wedding” was always supposed to be his coronation. He would marry his work, his power.

The gold of the High Table insignia glinted in double as Vincent set his ring beside Chidi’s on the ringbearer’s silk pillow. Only one man could possibly wear that ring without threatening the life Vincent had built for himself. The fact that even one such man existed was a miracle worthy of the Sacre-Ceour.

He checked his appearance one last time. An immaculate white suit braced him at the neck and wrists, swept down his front in a delicious swathe of silk and velvet, and framed a golden tie. A crown of white roses and golden laurels rested on his sleek hair without disturbing it. He really had succeeded in outdoing the coronation. I am going to give Chidi a husband who looks like this, thought Vincent, and felt so overcome he had to look away.

It was nothing to the sight of Chidi himself.

One is allowed to cry at one’s own wedding. Vincent told himself this, but it didn’t help. He went down the aisle nervous, embarrassed, shaking slightly at the pressure that physically ached inside his chest, trying and failing to keep his joy trapped at the back of his throat when it was too immense for his entire body to contain.

No, the only thing that helped was the sight of Chidi crying openly for him. That little figure at the end of the aisle, small despite his strength, an anchoring, cool shadow in his black tuxedo amongst profusions of white and gold. An oasis. He smiled at Vincent with tears streaming down his face and without the smallest hint of reserve, and held out a hand to him. And then the Marquis was not ashamed.

It was a lengthy ceremony, filled with every manner of pomp, poetry, and organ music that would fit into it. It might as well have been designed to torture the guests’ patience, which was perhaps a fitting beginning to the marriage of two such ruthless individuals. Mo, seated in the front row and visible to Vincent, drifted off to sleep at certain points. Even Gianna’s eyes glazed over in a sure sign that her attention had turned back to plotting. But the final vows were simple, historied words, which pleased Vincent greatly to repeat.

“Moi, Vincent, je te prend, Chidi, pour être mon mari, pour avoir et tenir de ce jour vers l'avant, pour meilleur ou pour le pire, pour la prospérité et la pauvreté, dans la maladie et dans la santé, pour aimer et chérir; jusqu'à la mort nous sépare. [I, Vincent, take you, Chidi, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; till death separates us.]”

But there were private vows to make as well, and he saved those for the penthouse of the Paris Continental.

Just like the church, it overflowed with rose petals. But Vincent’s feet never disturbed them. Chidi carried him over the threshold. He needed it. A day of standing at attention, followed by dancing, had left him exhausted despite the euphoria. He sprawled over the luxurious duvet, one cheek nestling appreciatively into a pillow. “Espèce d'ange ignoble, Chidi. Tu m'as fait mal au visage à force de sourire. [You dastardly angel, Chidi. You’ve made my face hurt from smiling.]”

Chidi’s lips brushed the dimple at the other side of that smile and it deepened in response despite the soreness. “Comment puis-je me rattraper, hmm? [How can I make it up to you, hmm?]”

He rolled onto his back to pull Chidi into a proper kiss (by the tie of course) before responding. “Fermez les rideaux. [Close the curtains.]”

Vincent watched him moving, still gloved like a butler, letting slip the tasseled ropes to block out the sunset and the many eyes peopling the borderless kingdom of the High Table. As tired muscles sank into the bedding, he felt strange, subtle heaviness tugging at him too. The buzz of champagne from the reception sparkled down to nothing.

Then there was only darkness and candlelight. An intimate world that no one else would ever understand.

Chidi turned back to him, but did not move. Their eyes simply locked in silent contemplation. The dark fire of an animalistic obedience, staring straight into…what? What did Chidi see in him then, drained by a day’s exertion, and open right down to the soul?

The tiny spark of his own reflection looked glowing in Chidi’s pupils.

“Viens à moi, mon mari. [Come to me, my husband.]” My husband. My husband.

He moved to the beside without hesitation, stripped without needing to be told. Muscles unsheathed like weapons ready and at his disposal, cock already standing at attention. Backlit by dancing candlelight, he was a pet monster trimmed in gold. Vincent swallowed dry against sheer lust and a deeper, more profound trembling. Do I really deserve this new life? How can I possibly deserve it? How can I make him proud?

As always, the longing was immediately recognized. Chidi’s leg slung over him, a hand took up his own, almost automatically, and he kissed him slow…patient…attentive. A separate kiss for each lip. A long, lingering press.

Vincent fumbled out of it fuzzy. Floating. Needy.

“Chidi, j'ai encore un vœu à te demander. [Chidi, I have one more vow to ask of you.]” His words came out too soft in the silent room.

“Rien. [Anything.]” Chidi’s hands were at his belt now, and then his shoes... Tender but methodical in the removal of all possible barriers between them. He’d meant to answer but was having some trouble focusing. “Qu'est-ce que ce sera, maître? [What will it be, master?]” He kept brushing his fingers over things… A casual touch at the pelvis arched Vincent’s back and stole his breath. What was he going to ask for again? How could it even be put into words?

“Ahh… je vais te le dire mais… fais-moi l'amour. [Ahh…I’ll tell you but…make love to me.]” It wasn’t a command this time. It had lost its edge and rounded out into a plea. His husband exhaled through his teeth and kissed him harder.

He started to roll over while Chidi went for the lube. But Chidi took liberties with him, pushed him back down firmly with one shoulder. “Puis-je te regarder dans les yeux cette fois ? Je veux tout voir. Comme tu apprécies ce moment… C’est un spectacle trop beau pour le manquer. [May I look into your eyes this time? I want to see everything. How much you enjoy this moment… It’s too beautiful a sight to miss.]”

Vincent’s cheeks were now burning with heat as well as sore. But the joy of watching Chidi come undone over him…that did sound too beautiful to miss. “Oui.” He lay back and let himself go pliant into that fuzzy, floating space, breath catching with a kind of delicious gratitude as he felt himself breached and then worked upon in rhythm.

It was a slow, loving preparation. “Vous méritez que tout se sente bien, parfait et indolore. Rien que du plaisir. [You deserve to have everything feel good and perfect and painless. Nothing but pleasure.]” But the wave of affection Vincent felt in answer only made it harder to wait. The slide of Chidi’s fingers began to feel as torturously interminable as the wedding. A whine escaped him even through teeth clamped together, and Chidi’s free hand caressed his forehead in answer. Even the metal of his new ring had gone warm with their incandescent heat. “Tu es si bon et patient. Je suis presque avec toi, mon amour. Notre mariage sera consommé pour toujours. Et rien ne t'éloignera jamais de moi. [You’re so good and patient. I’m almost with you, my love. Our marriage will be consummated forever. And nothing will ever take you away from me.]”

Vincent writhed, gasping. “Oui, s'il te plaît, s'il te plaît, je le veux maintenant… [Yes, please, please, I want it now…]” The moment of withdrawal sped his pulse to a frantic pace in anticipation. And then they were one person. His muscles clenched to embrace the delicious burn, barely detectable under the ecstasy flooding every nerve. Their legs locked around each other and their arms entwined. He seemed to be making strangled, undignified noises and could not possibly have cared less. Chidi must have liked the look of him. Before long, his eyes were glazed over with that wild, protective, devouring look. Vincent knew that look by now. He was close.

Through the haze of pure sex, Chidi’s voice came to him, strained with pleasure but still asking how further to serve. “What should I vow to you, Vincent?”

Collecting himself, he let a finger trace the undulations of his lover’s bare, glistening chest until it found that steady yet urgent beat. “Jure-moi… [Swear to me…]” he began, breathy, “que tu ne laisseras pas le pouvoir me rendre sans cœur. Je – [that you will not let power make me heartless. I – ]“ (and here an appreciative thrust cut him off for a moment)  “- Je veux toujours ressentir ça [- I always want to feel this way.]” Had he really said that? It sounded like someone else saying it. So timid and high and sweet.

Chidi didn’t break pace. “Je jure de ne pas vous laisser seul avec le pouvoir, maître. Quand cela vous pèsera trop lourd, je le retirerai de vos épaules et je vous rappellerai ce dont vous avez besoin. [I vow that I will not let you be alone with power, master. When it weighs too heavy on you, I will take it from your shoulders and remind you what it is to need.]” Only then, he went agonizingly still. Vincent’s thighs twitched in hungry protest. He felt his nails dig into Chidi’s forearm in a wordless demand even before he could bring himself to speak.

“Et – ah – quand tu m'as comme ça ? Quand j'ai besoin de toi ? [And – ah - when you have me that way? When I need you?]”

“Je te comblerai, je te remplirai, je te sauverai et je te servirai. Mari ou pas, tu seras toujours mon maître. [I will fulfill you, and fill you, and rescue you, and serve you. Husband or not, you will always be my master.]” Again, he moved his hips like a piston, and Vincent’s heart and his whole body contracted with the greatest thrill he had ever known. For the second time that day, Chidi carried him over the threshold, and he cried out softly into the dark, intimate bliss that swallowed the world. His husband followed.

Chidi collapsed onto his chest, arms diving under his back to hold him tightly and let the aftershocks echo against his rock-solid embrace. How many times had they said it that day?

“Je te’aime.”

“Je te’aime.”

All was quiet and at peace. Vincent petted along the back of his neck, along his shoulders, feeling his sleepy warmth. Relaxed like this, Chidi became a blanket that he wanted to cuddle up under until the end of time. Gratitude swelled through him as he curled even deeper into the shelter of Chidi’s body. “Veux-tu aussi demander un autre vœu, mon amour ? [Do you want to ask for another vow too, love?]”

His chest rumbled through Vincent’s with a thoughtful sound. Finally, “Non. Tu ne pourrais faire aucun vœu qui m’aiderait à me sentir plus enclin à te servir que je ne le fais déjà. [No. There’s no vow you could make that would help me feel any more inclined to serve you than I already do.]” He turned his face into Vincent’s neck and kissed it. “Et il n’y a aucun vœu que tu puisses rompre qui me ferait moins t’aimer. [And there’s no vow you could ever break that would make me love you any less.]”

End Note: If I were to continue this series any further (which I don't plan to do), it would follow Vincent and Chidi's experiences with raising children in the High Table, while looking back on their own childhoods. Vincent would explore what really happened to his mother, and Chidi would dig into his own family history. Both Vincent and Chidi would wrestle with whether they'll be good parents and how to break cycles of generational trauma. They'll make some mistakes but I think they can do it <3

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Image Sources: One | Two (I merged this with my own screenshot to expand the edges, which is lower resolution but I think it looks okay?)

Wedding Vows Source

[choppersconfirmedkills]

Your intro post says that your transformers dr is a combination with jurassic park/world and that sounds super cool! Idk if you’ve explained it before but can you tell me how that works and what it’s like?

YES YES YES ABSOLUTELY I WOULD LOVE TO! (prepare for the yap fest, I'm sorry but also not sorry).

It all starts with the greatest man to exist: my dad (aka my hero)

Dr. Alan Grant (and his stupid hat)

This background is common in my DRs and that's because of how connected I am to my father that it tends to manifest itself in my DRs.

Most of how I script is through what I call "core memories." I think on Tumblr they are more commonly referred to as "downloads?" If I'm not mistaken. So that is how I know most of this.

There is a long and complicated story as to how my Dad became a single father, but long story short: the surrogate (my mother) is not the best person.

(me and @moonsdrs commonly refer to him as Lord Mother, because he's the best mother to exist)

Growing up with a Paleontologist for a father, I was homeschooled and spent a whole lot of time on site with him, or bothering other personnel (how I learned Spanish).

I was pretty smart and learned things fast which is another reason I was so smart because I just kept learning. Me and Dad lived in a trailer bc of cost and location. And when I was about 9 years old he received an offer to save the dig site, and our family. So he went to Jurassic Park. Childcare, however, is hard to come by, so I came with.

I survived the events of Jurassic Park. Made it out alive but with a nasty scar on my leg and a particularly stubborn undiscovered infection.

My Dad always knew about my powers, but he was so nervous about the idea of me being tested on that he made me keep it secret. I have a vivid memory of being under the crushed car and I'm about to use my powers to lift it off me and Tim. I look to Dad and he shakes his head at me with the most serious look on his face.

One connection to Transformers is my cousin Sam.

Sam's father is my surrogate's (bio mother) brother. He was appalled by what she did and given they had a son my age, which influenced them to create a bond. Sam and I spent so much time together that we became nearly inseparable (we have a habit of holding hands in dangerous situations). It was important to both my Uncle Ron and my father that we have a relationship.

Years later, (a few years after an incredibly traumatic situation), my Dad and I got roped into going to Isla Sorna. Where I got another nasty scar, this time on my chest. Shortly after my father "died" (listen it's a whole complicated ass story that I still don't fully understand).

I moved in with my Uncle Ron and Sam. When I was 20, the first Transformers movie took place.

Here's where Jurassic World comes in (I'm sorry, I am such a yapper). After meeting Will and going on a few dates, he inspired me to follow my true passion in life: following in my father's footsteps. But not exactly like him. I got a degree in Paleontological Animal Behaviors and became a registered Animal Behaviorist. Eventually, I joined a program in the Navy called "LS-9." They were looking to research how sharks could be beneficial for the military. We were successful.

I wind up getting a job offer email about "Jurassic World" (this is about 4 years later, 3 years after the events of TF2). I blow it off thinking it's spam mail, yk? Who in the hell would think it's a good idea to make another park, let alone try and train raptors. That's ridiculous, even though it would be a scientific breakthrough, and I'd be continuing my father's legacy and mine, but no. It's not real.

After a really bad fight with Will, I talked on the phone with my best friend Owen (we met in the Navy) just to get some relief. I mentioned the spam email and he told me he got a similar one, that he did some research, and that he was positive it was real. I was shocked, to say the least. I contacted them just to see and they basically offered me the job (my reputation proceeds me). The downside? I'd have to live on the island for the duration of the contract. Even though Will and I were in a really rough spot, I didn't want to just leave him, but he told me that I needed to do it as it was my dream.

I wound up there, doing the research. About a year later the company InGen hired an outside military contractor to assess the viability of the program in the military forces. It was Will. That's when the events of Jurassic World occurred. We all made it out okay including my nephew, who did not shut up about the scary dinosaur for years.

3 years later Fallen Kingdom happened, and that's where I met my daughter.

I love this girl so much, Will calls her my "mini-me" because she looks, acts, and talks like me. She is a great big sister, and the toughest and smartest girl to ever exist. She's also an animal lover (like her mom) and spends a lot of time at the rescue farm.

[sizzlingcloudmentality]

I spun the wheel and got lucky. Then my mojo left me and I spun the wheel again. And even though the prompts are all lovely, I only had enough mojo left in me for one. Lou. Lou Bloom. And because I don't know how to keep things short, this thing got bigger than I've planned. Oops. Happy Valentine's Day 💘

heart shaped weirdness - Lou Bloom x reader

tw: Lou cosplaying as a normal person 🥰 what else is new, mentions of masturbation, mentions of canon typical violence (no main character death, don't worry), mentions of the Black Dahlia murder, not beta'd we die like heros

wc: 1.5k oops

You suspect that he likes you. He’s not as harsh to you than he is to his other employees. He also picks you for those shifts when he’s out on the hunt. He picks you specifically to join him. He gives you gooseflesh all over, not in the sexy kind of way though.

If you could work tonight, Lou asked earlier, his voice so sweet it almost clogged your phone speakers.

“But it’s Valentine's Day?” You didn't exactly have a plan for tonight, maybe stuffing your face, maybe rubbing one out. Probably both, because god damn, spending Valentine's Day as a single was no fun and you had to treat yourself with the simple pleasures life had to offer.

And spending the night in a car with Lou, always chasing the next gruesome accident or crime? Definitely not a simple pleasure.

“If I recall correctly, you are single. So please, be ready at 8, It'll pick you up,” he chirped and you knew exactly how his mouth twists into one of those practiced smiles while he talked.

“Fine,” you surrendered and ended the call before he could. A Valentine's Day shift. Maybe there'd be heart shaped murders. Heart shaped accidents. Heart shaped shootings in bars. Ah yes, love was in the air tonight, you already knew it.

8 pm sharp you leave your apartment building, looking out for one of the vans you usually use for work. But there’s none. You look around and then you spot him. Leaning against the hood of his flashy sports car stands Lou. Kind of dolled up, like he just had a business meeting. Or a date? He lifts his hand and waves, one of those sugar crust smiles on his face.

“You look nice,” he says and you almost laugh. You are in your work attire: faded out jeans and a hoodie.

“The only thing nice about me is that I took a shower. But thanks.”

You get a scowl from him, a flash of a scowl, a little bit of the sugar crust smile crumbling already. “Cut the attitude. And work on your ability to accept compliments.” He holds the door open for you, the passenger door.

“I’m not driving?” You always drive. It was your job. Your brows pinch together and his lips thin into a line. More sugar is crumbling.

“Not tonight, and for sure not my car. Get in.”

He watches you climb into his car and his eyes roll in their sockets but he quickly wipes the annoyance off his face when you finally sit down and look at him expectantly. God, it was not easy with you. You were so… mouthy. It was as exciting as much as it was getting on his nerves.

This was supposed to be a nice night. He was really trying to woo you. He googled it. He even had the checklist jotted down in his notebook. ‘Pick them up, preferably with a nice car' - check. ‘Compliment their appearance’ - check. He is doing it correctly, the wooing. Why do you have to be so defiant?

“Lou?” You raise your brows, looking at your boss and wait for him to finally get into the car, too. You just want get it over with. There were leftovers from your favorite Indian place in your fridge. You could be masturbating right now. If it wasn’t for Lou fucking Bloom.

“Attitude,” he warns, scowling once more before he gets into his car as well. You don't know when, but at one point in your work relationship you learned that he hated it when you were bratty. And you were having a field day with being bratty since then. It comes easy, you are a natural.

Sometimes he lashes out when you go too far. But that was nothing the well calculated use of wet, wide eyes and a stuttered ‘sorry’ couldn't fix. He always caves in. That's why you suspect he likes you. Because he sometimes lets you pull one of his many strings.

When the engine starts purring and Lou pulls from the curb you look to the backseats. Nothing. No camera, no battery packs, no lighting.

You glance at Lou. One hand on the steering wheel, his eyes glued to the road, one finger resting against the corner of his mouth. He is weird but tonight he is extra weird. Maybe Valentine's Day got to him. Heart shaped weirdness.

“Where's the equipment?”

“In the trunk.”

“Why?”

He turns towards you and forces a sugary smile on his face. “Because I put it there.”

A smartass attempt at being funny. You can appreciate that. It adds to his… odd charme.

“You're getting better with the jokes, boss,” you say and when he shoots you a look because of your sarcastic tone he catches you smiling. Genuinely smiling.

‘Make them laugh' - check.

There was nothing to do, no cameras to be prepped, no radio chatter to be deciphered. No smalltalk to be had because smalltalk with Lou was a painful thing. You already talked about everything smalltalk worthy before and it has left you feeling bare. Like he knew everything about you and all you knew about him was his name and his goal of being influential.

Sometimes he tries it again, the chatting, and asks you about your true crime fascination, your favorite murders and mysteries. But there’s only so much to tell, so much to talk about. You wordlessly agreed on only talking if it was necessary one night, after you squirmed under his never ending questions about food allergies, immediately followed up by the question how exactly the Black Dahlia was dismembered. Only to be topped off with a question about your menstrual cycle, because you seemed to be having PMS that night. You snapped at him, he snapped back. Trouble in paradise. Lou didn’t get what your problem was. He googled it afterwards. Turns out he was acting inappropriate. Bullshit. He was attentive.

The silence between you was somewhat comfortable tonight. Something is in the air though, this much you can tell. Lou reeks of that something. You can almost taste it on your tongue, this sticky something he is trying to hide behind his sugar crust grimace.

His smile seems to stretch with every mile adding to the mileage counter. Until he pulls into a quieter street. And then another one. And a last one. The engine dies and Lou turns towards you with a proud grin. The car parks in a quiet neighborhood, countless single story houses strung together like greyish-yellow teeth in the jaw of a skull.

He says nothing, he just smiles at you, proudly and boyish. The sticky something, this was it. Whatever it actually is. Heart shaped fucking weirdness, you think to yourself when you look at Lou.

“Happy Valentine's Day,” he says and somewhere down the empty street a dog barks.

You blink several times, your eyes finally narrowing, the confusion written all over your face. ‘Surprise them’ - check. Oh, he could check all of the boxes tonight, Lou just knew it.

“Wait here,” he says and scrambles out of the car, you have never seen him less graceful and more excited. And you have seen this man mighty excited. About blood and guts in places they don't belong. Maybe this was a good moment to start worrying.

But then he slides back into the driver's seat, a basket on his lap. The scent of butter chicken reaches your nose.

‘Get their favorite foods for a picnic' - check.

“You got me food?” That was… that was actually really nice of him.

“Obviously.” He rummages in the basket and produces cutlery and take away boxes, even napkins and a can of your favorite seltzer. You are stunned and his sugary smile gets even wider. “Do you know where we are?”

Balancing the food on your knees you look outside again. The only thing remarkable was a ‘no parking’ sign in front of the house across the street. You shake your head, still amazed by Lou’s surprise picnic.

“They found her here.”

“Found… who exactly?” Oh. Oh, he didn't. Or did he?

He nods his head when he sees the slow realization in your eyes. “The Black Dahlia. Right over there.” He gestures to the front lawn of that one house.

Your eyes widen and your mouth opens and closes again. “Oh fuck off!” You shove the food container back into his hands and exit the car in no time. In the orange light of the street lamp you cross the narrow street, the dog barking again.

‘Take them to a secret place for an extra big surprise' - check. The wooing is completed.

Lou watches you for a moment before he gets out of the car, joining you while you examine a patch of grass like a dog, almost sniffing and digging it. God, you are so weird, he thinks.

“Best Valentine's Day ever,” you murmur and crouch down to place a hand on the ground. You look over your shoulder, Lou towering over you with his weird big bug eyes. He looks cuter now, somehow. “Thank you!”

“You're welcome,” he replies nonchalantly but his proud smile gives him away. There is another checklist in his notebook. 5 steps to get her to jerk you off. “Happy Valentine's Day, Lou,” he mutters under his breath, continuing to watch you. Like he always does.

Thanks for reading until the end. I will post this separately soon-ish. Happy Valentine's Day!!

jake boys - valentine's edition

how are we feeling about another round of spin the wheel activities, dear Jake delegation? and yes, they are heart shaped and taste of sugar.

Rules:

spin this wheel and get your boy(s)

spin this wheel and get your date(s)

share your results in the comments or reblogs or tags, please sate my curiosity

let us know in the poll how happy you are with your valentine

(bonus points if you're feeling inspired and want to share your thoughts about your results, like people did here)

a huge shout-out to my baby @gyllenhaalstories who helped me with basically all of this. ilysm 💖

you can look up former community shenanigans here

Shamelessly tagging the crew (hit me up if you want me to stop annoying you):

@gyll-yee-haw @gyllenhaal-j @charliehoennam @cassiopeia-grimm @jennaajoseph

@davidayer @det-loki @gyllenflower @ascorpionstale

@anunusers @frozen-hearts-club @caffeineplusmypen @gyllencevans8 @greenparadiseperry

The crew=every blog that comes across my dash and interacts with Jake content. If we've never talked: hi! If you want to be part of the crew, dm me. ✨🫶🏻

divider: @saradika-graphics

[ilovereadingandstuff]

yo...so we died?!

Just like that?

Hori killes us? Stabbed us in the guts after so much queerbaiting and straightbaiting??

I haven't read the new leaks/extra panels or whatever, but...did we die? Really?

[bayetea]

jason and hazel's beef in hoo was always way more interesting than whatever percy and jason had going on sorry. the differences in gravity and intrigue in the jason/hazel relationship vs jason/percy are only further compounded by the ways they're connected and the ways that their stories are similar

because 1. they have a HISTORY they knew each other before he went missing!!!!! they were in the fifth cohort together!!!! hazel is the ONLY person on that ship that was in jason's life before he disappeared and had his memories stolen. yes they didn't know each other well but I really think that was a bad writing choice rick made. can you imagine if they used to be friends/if jason had been a big brother figure to hazel only to go missing for months and then they have a very awkward reunion on the argo because he barely remembers her and then she's even more betrayed because he doesn't wanna save nico initially. the drama. we could have had it all man

2. beef between a son of poseidon and a child of zeus/jupiter from the grace family? yeah been there done that why are we doing this again. god I wish we had gotten a big fight between a child of jupiter and a child of pluto instead

3. their beef regarding nico was way more high stakes than the silly alpha male posturing rick was trying to force between jason and percy especially considering how mega nerfed jason is written in hoo because no one's allowed to be on equal footing with percy

4. the tacit layer of betrayal in jason being hazel's ex-centurion/praetor only to end up choosing chb (to be clear this particular conflict belongs to jason and reyna and is more impactful between them - but since hazel is actually on the argo and reyna isn't she can still be an opportunity for this camp jupiter/camp half-blood conflict to be explored with jason)

5. I'm just gonna say it - I think hazel ought to have complicated feelings about white authority figures in a military camp as a black girl from the freaking jim crow era (not that this would have ever been explored satisfactorily in the books because as far as rick is concerned hazel is colorblind and hardly ever thinks about race despite growing up segregated. which is crazy unrealistic but whatever)

6. something something about the parallels that jason and hazel have about making hard choices about their pasts in order to have a more fulfilling future

7. this isn't necessarily interesting in and of itself but I just think it's neat that they're both big three roman kids with greek siblings that they didn't grow up with. what could have been interesting is jason seeing how close hazel and nico are and feeling some type of way about everything he never got to have with thalia and some exploration into how that impacts his feelings about the rescue mission

8. they both have really awkward romantic conflicts in their pasts that intrude upon the present (whether he and reyna were ever even slightly romantically involved or not) because the jason/reyna thing is written as a initial source of conflict/uncertainty for jiper in the same way that hazel/leo (sammy) was a conflict for frazel to grapple with. this is interesting to me because hazel is connected to reyna and jason is connected to leo. like there could have been a moment of connection over letting go of pasts loves to wholeheartedly pursue new ones in the way that both of them are (were) with piper and frank

(unrelated but having no frank or hazel pov in mark of athena sucks So Bad and I hate it. it was the first time they ever have relationship problems and we only see it through someone else's pov. I am going to bring this up forever because I'm still mad about it)

9. they both died. this bullet is a joke but I just thought I should put it here

10. percy is a well-established character and hazel and jason are new in hoo. percy has 50 povs in hoo and hazel has 28. economically speaking it would just be a more effective use of your limited pages to spend more time developing important interactions and conflicts between two new characters (esp new big three kids) who already have a more interesting foundation than the one involving our previous protagonist of 5 entire books

11. beryl grace and marie levesque. that's all

imo hazel and jason are the most weirdly written new additions to the main cast but I strongly feel that rick severely underutilized the way that characters like those two could play off of each other. hazel isn't just a sweet little cinnamon roll she is passionate and contemplative and morose and guilt-ridden and jason isn't just a bland rule-follower he is kind and committed and loyal and conflicted and they're both painfully self-sacrificing and I just think it's such a shame that these two characters with great concepts on paper and so many obvious threads to connect them didn't get as much as attention as.... whatever happened in kansas did

and I mean if you like the jason/percy conflict that's fine, but I think it's worthwhile to compare the merit of them because rick chose to centralize and build up to one more than the other when he had such perfect material to expand on the other instead and I think that says something about his biases. and I think part of the issue is that rick struggles with strengthening tension and applying complexity to conflicts between male/female characters that aren't romantic or onesidedly antagonistic like clarisse/percy. we have several noteworthy conflicts between male characters but when women are involved it's like rick doesn't know how to put them on equal footing and apply platonic depth. imo this is just another reason why big three girls (hazel/thalia/bianca) don't get to be as powerful and transformative in the overall narrative as big three guys (percy/jason/nico). all this world-changing narrative weight is afforded to big three kids but hazel in particular is weirdly excluded from all of that and doesn't get to have much impactful interconnectedness with the prophecy or with other big three kids. what happened to big three kids being super dangerous when put together or when they're on opposing sides of conflicts!!!!!!!! we had impactful percy/thalia and percy/nico and jason/percy and jason/nico conflict where is the fleshed out jason/hazel beef!!!!!!

anyways tldr all I'm saying is that jason and hazel complement each other well and rick was too hung up on the Colliding Of Alpha Male Strong Dudes (that he didn't even write well) to see everything that hazel and jason could have had instead

[skyloftian-nutcase]

My brain is buzzed and buzzing.

HW Zelda spent a good portion of her time with Link disguised as Sheik. She decided to keep her identity a secret from even Impa, which means she probably had to change her personality a little to make it convincing. So this entire time, Sheik and Link work together and fight together, and Link got to know this different persona. So when she revealed herself as Zelda, I wonder how that changed their relationship and dynamic?

Imagine Zelda is falling for Link but Link is falling for someone who doesn’t exist. Imagine Link’s agency and consent are so ambiguous because destiny determines that Link and Zelda are always together, that they have to be together, at least according to Lana and Cia.

I don’t know, I just have a lot of thoughts about HW Zelink. Not all of them are great. But I suppose if people write it well I can like it.

[starflungwaddledee]

*caassssuuuaallly slides into your inbox* hey. hi hello 😎

im here for those sweet ol song asks, wanna share any you have for Starstruck and J??

do i have any, well i-- *drops a half dozen mean girlboss tracks all over the place* oh uhhh--

something in the way you're looking through my eyes don't know if i'm gonna make it out alive teeth - five seconds of summer

[shinysteph]

Is this a safe space to say I liked the bnha epilogue and didn't see anything wrong with it? 🧍🏻‍♂️it was just a fun little bonus chapter I honestly don't know why people are upset about it

Anyway I love Shouto and I hope he enjoys his bowl and chopstick making classes