#apropos of nothing else here—that was a nice touch

[jamiesfootball]

@elloras for the cropped tags

This this this and all the feels. Now I’m gonna spin off from there-

I have mentioned before how this show has a way of bringing up the very real pain some of these characters are exhibiting and then just… getting on with the story. Or diminishing their pain with a joke. Or turning it on the characters as their own fault for not just getting over things even when they know they probably should. And to me that scene with Roy is one of those moments.

Is it sweet that his niece loves him so much? Yes. But the line ‘tell me how hard it is to play a game for a living’ makes me seethe. At a professional level? For almost twenty years? To the point where he has likely permanently damaged his body before he’s even reached forty? In a high control environment where his body is being molded to fit the purpose it serves? When every failure he makes is fodder be studied and criticized in the public eye? When even his personal life isn’t safe from being dissected?

Yes it’s fucking hard. Holy fucking shit, are you kidding me show?

And I am putting the onus on the show here, not Keeley, because this is a symptom of the greater problem of how the show treats its characters suffering with a zig-zag of intentional seriousness and glib mockery.

This wasn’t a half-assed job he happened to find himself in. It was rigorous and demanding and he devoted himself to it anyways, for as long as it would have him, because football literally is his life. Like the tags say, it’s what gave him a chance to Get Out, to support his family. It’s also his joy, his anger, his pride, all the emotions he struggles to articulate in his daily life, when he’s on the field they come naturally. He’s folded his entire life around football, and now football doesn’t want him anymore. I doubt he even knows what that could look like. It’s not him being stubborn, it’s him being lost and clueless and more than a bit terrified, and struggling to express all of it to anyone, even the people closest to him. I could cry. He should be crying—hell, he fucking does cry during his press conference! (Another thing played as a joke—a punchline in his relationship about his inability to be vulnerable)

And yes this is a comedy, but when you balance your comedy with more dramatic character beats, it will make an audience raise an eyebrow when you zig when the situation seems like it should call for a zag.

Ted’s ‘divorce is hard’ is perfectly gutting and devastatingly succinct and not played for laughs. Here. His struggling with after the divorce, seeing Michelle move on with Dr Jacob, is more played for laughs in season three, and frankly that’s a good example of what I mean about zig-zagging. If a situation is serious in one beat, and humorous the next beat, you risk the audience expecting one and then going ‘wait, why are we laughing at this again? I thought you had a point to make earlier when you made it sad.’

So we have Roy, and his entire storyline thus far regarding his impending retirement has been played with a slow-dawning sense of potential devastation.

And then we have this scene with Phoebe and the show seems to be saying, ‘see you big goof, people love you anyways.’ Which is a nice sentiment, it is, but boy howdy, that is just the tip of the problem.

Ted Lasso: All Apologies

[magicshopaholic]

Aphrodite (Namjoon x OC)

Summary: You and Namjoon consider all the reasons you shouldn’t be together.

Pairing: Namjoon x OC

Genre: Fluff, some angst, some smut

Word count: 7.1 K

Rating: 18+

Warnings: language, alcohol, making out, fingering, allusions to sex

A/N: Wrote this in a word coma. Set over a period of three months, beginning a week after Voice of an Angel. Can be read standalone.

Special thanks to this anon who casually dropped this idea in my inbox and bounced, leaving me to be plagued with heart-stoppingly beautiful scenarios that I wrote on my phone in a full-day seminar because I was incapable of thinking about anything else. Well played, anon.

(The song rec is also one I've been waiting to use and one of Daniel Ricciardo's biggest contributions to my life; apropos in these turbulent times)

Tagging: @bbl32, @quarter-life-crisis2, @margopinkerton, @faearchives, @whoisbts, @purpleseoul7, @kflixnet (if you want to be added to the taglist, lmk)

Listen to: “wake up with you” by emerson leif

namjoon masterlist | main masterlist

The first reason is brought up on the last night.

Seoul shouldn’t be this empty this time of night, thinks Namjoon. But they’re near the suburbs now, the apartment building mostly with families, so maybe it’s always like this? Either way, he should count himself lucky, for if Kaya’s last night here was punctuated with camera phones being secretly pointed at him and his manager hissing at him to be careful, he might have thrown something.

As it is, it’s peaceful. Their fingers linger next to each other as they walk back to her aunt’s house; Namjoon doesn’t know if she expects him to take her hand. He doesn’t want to be presumptuous, but after what they’ve just done at his penthouse, is this really where the line needs to be drawn?

“Good call to walk.” Kaya turns to him slightly and raises her eyebrows. “Instead of taking a car.”

“The weather’s too nice for it,” he lies, noting how his shirt is already sticking to his shoulders slightly and how she’s swept her long hair off her neck and tied it up, despite the light sundress she’s wearing.

It’s embarrassing to think that the reason he’d proposed to walk was so he’d have a little more time with her before she left forever. He feels ridiculous for even thinking this way - when did he become so dramatic?

“It is,” she agrees. “It's nicer than Amsterdam.”

Namjoon’s stomach settles slightly. At least he’s not the only one lying through his teeth.

“Do you need to pack tonight?” he asks hopefully, wondering if they can take another detour before he drops her back.

“A little,” she admits, “but mostly I just need to close out some stuff for work that’s due the day after tomorrow.” 

Namjoon frowns. “Because… you’re preparing for jet lag?”

“Yeah, exactly. It’s a really long flight,” she adds, groaning softly in anticipation. 

The sound makes his stomach flip and he tries not to think about the same sounds an hour ago, in his bed, against his skin.

“Tell me about it.” It occurs to Namjoon that unlike him, she won’t be flying business class. “Can’t blame you for not visiting more often. Jieun, I mean,” he adds quickly.

“Uh-huh.” Kaya gives him a small, knowing smile as they reach the building. “It’s also really expensive,” she says, turning around to face him.

“It is.” He swallows and puts his hands in his pockets, looking at the ground. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been dreading this moment; nothing he wants to say would be appropriate for saying goodbye to a week-long summer fling.

She touches his elbow, holding the newspaper-wrapped package in the same hand. Whatever it is, it’s definitely not a book, she’d joked when he’d given it to her and asked her not to open it until he left.

“Namjoon.” Her voice is soft, the foreign accent making his name sound so special. “It’s probably a good thing I can’t visit that often.”

He presses his tongue into his chin and nods, hating that she’s right. It’s too far and it’s too expensive, so maybe a week-long summer fling was already the bonus that fate had given them. It takes him a moment but he takes a deep breath and looks up at her, thinking once again that she has such Disney princess eyes. 

He silently steps forward to hug her for the last time.

—

The second reason is brought up nearly a month later, in the middle of the night in Amsterdam. 

Kaya groans at the sound of her alarm, feeling distinctly as though she just fell asleep. She reaches for her phone and frowns when she sees the time: she did just fall asleep. It’s also not her alarm, but her phone ringing.

The call is from Namjoon, though; it makes her slightly less annoyed at being woken up. She clears her throat and answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey!” He sounds hurried, as though he’s on his way somewhere. “I’m so glad you answered.”

“Okay?” Kaya can hear her voice sound thick with sleep. “Uh… why?”

“Because of last night. Because - wait, were you asleep?”

“Was,” she can’t resist saying, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to hold onto some remaining sleep. Tomorrow’s schedule is chock-full of classes. “It’s two am, Namjoon.”

“It’s -” There’s a shuffle. “Did I calculate the time difference wrong? Why did I think I was ten hours ahead?”

“I dunno,” she mumbles into her pillow. “What’s wrong?”

“I just wanted to apologise,” he says, sounding incredibly guilty. “For last night. I�� I kind of fell asleep.”

Nothing he’s said makes any sense to Kaya. Sighing, she turns over slightly and frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Earlier,” he clarifies. “In the evening for you, I guess. We were talking and I…”

“You fell asleep.” She remembers now. 

Despite parting in Seoul on a bittersweet note, with the mutual but unsaid knowledge of their dalliance ending, they hadn’t been able to cut ties fully. Namjoon had messaged her late the next day asking if she’d landed safely, she’d sent him a picture from her cab in response, and the conversation never ended.

It was still restrained, for the most part. Kaya, at least, was aware that an emotional connect had been built in Seoul - but they’d said goodbye and gone back to their lives. Anything further should be nothing more than friendly, like pen pals who kept each other updated on their lives.

Earlier this evening, they’d been talking on the phone about something extremely mundane. Kaya was in a pub with her friends, but knowing that Namjoon probably didn’t have a lot of time, she excused herself for a few minutes and went to a spot away from the music, near the washrooms. She was leaning back against the wooden wall and talking about her thesis but every time she tried to change the topic to something less boring, he asked her to continue, sounding genuinely interested in a very operational aspect of her work.

He was tired - that much she could hear. He still kept the conversation going, at first with questions and eventually progressing to occasional exclamations, until suddenly, he went completely silent. Kaya guessed he may have fallen asleep; a quick calculation reminded her it was three am in Seoul, so on some level she was actually glad he was finally resting.

“Yeah,” he says, sounding apologetic. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

“No, don’t worry about it,” she murmurs, brushing her hair off her face. “It was really late for you.”

“Yeah, but I could’ve said good night,” he points out. “Sorry about that. And… I’m sorry about waking you up right now,” he adds, audibly wincing. “For some reason I thought I was ten hours ahead.”

She chuckles sleepily. “Happens to the best of us. Timezones are always a pain.”

“Not something we need to worry about, right?” Namjoon says after a moment, and she thinks his half-chuckle sounds a little forced.

“Nope. Good thing we quit while we were ahead.”

There’s silence on the line for a few seconds while Kaya, in her half-asleep state, imagines what it might be like to fall asleep with him in person. She’d almost considered it on her last night in Seoul; they’d been under the covers, naked and talking about nothing in particular when he’d softly offered for her to stay the night. 

Had she been a more impulsive person, she may have said yes, but it seemed too intimate to do with a person she’d technically known for a little more than a week. Now, she wonders idly if she’d been too hasty with her decision.

“You should sleep,” he says after a moment, still sounding a bit guilty.

“You woke me up, you put me back to sleep,” she retorts softly.

“Yeah? You want a bedtime story?”

“Sure, why not?”

Namjoon laughs, and the sound makes her toes curl inside her blanket. “Wait, are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.” She pulls her covers up to her chin and curls up into a comfortable position. “Hit it, music producer.”

He chuckles a little disbelievingly. “Um, okay? Here goes nothing.” He takes a deep breath and starts, barely getting four words out before she interrupts him.

“Wait. Joon… you know I don’t understand Korean, right?”

The nickname is a first for her, and it sounds as though he’s picked up on it, too. “Yeah, I know. But you want to be put to sleep and I thought it might actually help.”

It’s genius. Kaya grins to herself, knowing somewhere deep down that she’s just setting herself up for heartbreak someday. She should stop this, quit while they’re ahead.

Instead, she hears herself tell him to continue.

—

The next reason comes up the day Namjoon learns about Damien Herjavec.

He’d made the executive decision to give Kaya his private Instagram handle a few days after she’d left Seoul. She’d never brought up following each other on social media until he did because despite how much he liked her, giving her access to something this personal required thought. It wasn’t until he went back to the bookstore where they’d bumped into each other for the first time, and he realised he wanted her to know that without him having to actually tell her, that he decided to do it. 

He searched her name on Instagram and followed her, trying to restrain himself from checking if she’d followed him back. She did eventually, a couple of hours later, and to a genuinely embarrassing amount of delight, she commented on his picture: Careful in the English section.

Kaya didn’t seem to use Instagram very often other than to put up very random pictures on her story of ordinary city shots: a street outside her campus, her own legs in faded jeans, a unicycle in the park in the distance. It was whimsical and cute, but also highlighted the few times she did post something else - such as a picture of her and three other people, sitting at a table with name cards in front of them and smiling into the camera.

Namjoon doesn’t immediately register the male in the picture. His focus is on Kaya, in a blazer and slinky black trousers and beige heels, her long hair straight and framing her face as she smiles. His heart skips a beat at the thought of her like this earlier today, in real-time, and he suddenly feels closer to her than he has in weeks. It stays all day, the lingering feeling, as though she’s finally in reach and he hasn’t been imagining her all this time, that he realises it's longing. He’s missing her, and the discovery immediately terrifies him.

He decides it’s officially time to end this transatlantic pseudo-fling and resolves not to call her or text her anymore, knowing they need to phase this out of their lives for both their good. It lasts a whole five hours until she texts him, with nothing more than a Hey.

Namjoon swallows and closes his eyes, knowing he’s in so much trouble. Hey, his fingers type out, as though of their own accord.

I think God sent me an angel today.

Yeah? Wings and everything?

Chinos and Vans, but I’ll take it. As long as he gives me an extra set of hands on this research project, I’ll worship whoever sent him to me.

Oh, your professor finally brought in someone else? That’s great!

Yess, it is. Maybe now I’ll remember to eat a meal and get more than a couple hours of sleep. Oh, and focus on my actual job.

I get that. I’m happy for you. You should be getting more sleep.

I know, right? Damien might just be the answer to my problems. Even staying up late in the conference room and checking survey results is better now because at least I’m not alone. I shouldn’t be complaining to you though - I know you have a worse workload.

Not true. I was in the studio till dawn but at least it has a comfortable couch.

You’re right. I have it worse.

Not now that you have Damien. The reply is out and sent before Namjoon can stop himself and he immediately cringes.

Yeah, well. I don’t know how long he’s going to be around for. Once this project is over, maybe I’ll refer him to Professor Llyod so he doesn’t keep tapping me to grade his papers.

Sounds like a plan. I’m sure Professor Lloyd will be happy.

His happiness isn’t really my concern, if I’m being honest. I wouldn’t mind if Damien stays. He actually has more than a few braincells and - get this - showers. 

Namjoon stares at his phone for a second. He sounds like the complete package.

You joke, but it’s a serious epidemic on a college campus. Having a colleague who smells good is a bigger bonus than you think.

How long do you think this project will be?

A couple of months? Hopefully? I don’t know - the professor heading it keeps adding problem statements constantly so it feels endless. I’m just really really tired.

Namjoon wants to offer words of comfort but he can’t think of any. In fact, all he can think about is how he, too, has a ridiculously long day ahead of photoshoots ahead of him tomorrow, where he won’t be allowed to eat much or drink any water, followed by filming.

He remembers about how he’s been thinking about her all day and knows he needs to at least try to nip this in the bud.

You know the worst thing about being a workaholic?

What?

Dating somebody who’s also a workaholic.

Kaya’s reply takes a few moments. Haha, point taken. Good thing that’s not a problem for us.

—

The next few reasons come up around the same time, and some of them are just downright silly.

Despite his best intentions to keep a distance, the moment he finds out he’s needed in Amsterdam for a collaboration, Namjoon not only says yes instantly but he also works his schedule to plan leaves and invent meetings around the same time, eventually extending his total trip to ten days.

He knows he’ll be working for some of that time; it’s the only reason he doesn’t feel desperate and clingy when he informs Kaya of the trip, asking as calmly as possible if she’d like to meet.

Kaya, for her part, feels like her heart might explode. It takes every bit of her willpower to suppress the smile on her face during the mid-term she’s invigilating; the undergrads, barely younger than her, don’t need to know anything about her personal life.

Oh, that’s great. Sure, we should catch up.

He’s coming for work and she already has a lot of it on her plate, but somehow it still feels as though every moment that can be squeezed out from their schedules is spent with each other. A lot of the deliberate distance that they tried to maintain while apart seems to have also gradually evaporated. 

It starts on his first night with dinner at a riverside cafe, where they greet each other with a casual hug like they’re classmates from high school. They walk back to her apartment with a respectful distance between them where she invites him for a cup of horrid instant coffee, like it’s the end of a blind date. 

It’s only when they’re actually indoors and alone and it’s dark because Kaya hasn’t even switched on the light yet that some of the pretence is dropped. She sees his tall silhouette come closer and smells his cologne; her hands go up automatically to rest on his shoulders as he kisses her, his hands large around her waist as he gently backs her up against the door.

They hang out in her apartment when they’re not outside; Namjoon says he’s sick of hotels and she can imagine (and she secretly doesn’t want him to leave), so she doesn’t mind much. Her apartment is small but the location is convenient and the sight of him in it, casual and comfortable, is something she feels she can’t get enough of.

“It’s an amazing view,” he says one morning, sitting sideways on the bench in her balcony. He’s got his glasses on and is sitting with a book, having woken up almost an hour before her. “I can even see the river from here.”

“It’s pretty great,” she admits, coming over and sitting next to him, leaning back against his legs. “The rent also takes a decent chunk out of my paycheck,” she adds dryly, shrugging, “but it’s worth it.”

“Don’t you get a place on campus? I thought all students do.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“So why didn’t you take it? Wouldn’t you save a lot?” he asks curiously.

Kaya bites her lip, still looking at the view. “I don’t like living on campus.”

“Really? You’d live right there - you’d probably save a ton of time on commute and everything, no? Plus, it would be safer than returning in the middle of the -”

“It’s not really my thing,” she interrupts him. “Do you want to go to Stedelijk today? If you do, we should leave soon.”

Namjoon nods and she smiles, patting his leg and going back inside. They leave in an hour; it’s a Sunday and it’s beautiful outside. The museum is just as incredible as she remembers from the first time she visited it, except now Namjoon is here, too, his fingers lingering right next to hers and brushing them every few seconds. 

They’ve had sex several times, they’ve fallen asleep together, they’ve even showered together once, but this - holding hands - still feels too soon. It feels like admitting something, something she knows by now that they’re both trying to deny because it just makes more sense that way. They can’t hold hands, for that’s the beginning of a very slippery slope.

“Hey, your view is so much better than mine,” says Kaya after a while, when they’re having lunch at a cafe near the museum. She’s looking at a picture on his phone of his gigantic window, the Han river flowing majestically outside it. “The river from my balcony is a speck in the distance.”

“I do have a good view,” he says fairly, taking back the phone. “But I mostly use my balcony for company. It feels too depressing otherwise. But yours honestly just feels like a bedroom with no roof,” he points out, something she’d never considered. “It has the mattress, the lights, the coasters. It’s like a haven in the middle of the city.”

“Really?” She’s both proud and slightly confused. “My mum’s been pestering me to get some plants in there but I just know I’m going to make a mess and forget about them and then they’ll eventually die. But, hey, who needs plants when I’ve got a whole haven?” 

Namjoon grins. “You want me to help you pick out some plants? I have a ton.”

She pauses mid-bite, a little disbelieving at how he continues to surprise her. “Seriously? You - you plant stuff?”

“Yeah. Why is that surprising?”

“Oh, it’s not -” She doesn’t know how to say that she can’t quite reconcile the posters of him that Jae-lin has shown her and the music videos she’s watched here and there of him rapping in oversized clothes, with someone who could tend to a garden. “It’s just… unexpected.”

“I plant a lot of things,” he informs her, cutting his steak and dipping it in the sauce. “For example, right now, I’ve just planted an idea in your head.” He smiles, his dimple popping. “So? Want to go plant shopping with me?”

Kaya watches him wince as the piece of steak breaks and falls in the bowl of sauce and he fishes it out, swearing under his breath. This is about the plants, she decides, trying to subtly place her hand over her mouth and cover her smile. He’s perfect but he’s not hers, and that’s the way it should be.

“Sure. I’ll go plant shopping with you.”

They look up the closest nursery and head there after lunch, pulling their caps over their heads in the afternoon sun. The desire to slip her hand into his is getting stronger; she imagines how big it would be around her own, the pressure both comforting and playful. To save herself from the temptation, she hooks her fingers around the strap of her sling bag and settles for just feeling his bicep brush against her shoulder.

The nursery is quaint and unbelievably colourful, looking like a kaleidoscope on the side of the road. They step into the shade and begin examining the small pots, reading the description underneath each.

“Definitely the tabebuia, if I may suggest it,” says Namjoon, pointing to a pretty pink plant. “It blossoms in the summer and it’s just gorgeous. It’ll be the highlight of your balcony.”

“Duly noted. What about its support acts?”

“Well -” He walks slowly towards her and points at another sapling. “The poppy is always nice. And - oh, dude, they have orchids here,” he adds in wonder, peering at the card underneath it. “I have one just like it - hang on -” He pulls out his phone and begins tapping on it.

Kaya surveys a few more saplings and turns to him slightly. “What about this one? It says it’s conducive to warm weather and grows even in harsh conditions such as -” She sees a movement out of the corner of her eye and looks to see Namjoon turning around and walking away. For a moment she thinks he’s going towards another plant but he just keeps walking until he’s passed the nursery, head still bent low over his phone.

Something stings in her heart, insulted at being cut off mid-sentence and ignored. She’s about to call his name when she hears the gasps.

“It’s RM!” 

There are two or three voices, accents foreign. Kaya freezes and turns away slightly, her mind working out why he abruptly walked away the way he did.

“I think it was him!”

“RM? Are you sure?”

“We can check…”

There’s some scuffling and words in a language Kaya can’t place in the moment, taken too off guard by the sudden interruption. She tries to breathe, willing the annoyance in her chest to go away. From a little way away, she spots what looks like a family with two teenage girls and a third one slightly older, gravitating towards the direction in which Namjoon left. 

She tries to look casually; he’s much further away by now, ducking into a coffee shop. The girls, in their minor confusion, seem to have lost sight of him. As they trudge away, disappointment evident in their voices, Kaya begins walking in the same direction, passing by the coffee shop as well. She texts him and continues down the path, stopping after a few minutes and waiting for him in a less crowded area.

She spots him sooner than expected. Even from a distance, she can see his lips pursed and his forehead creased, looking apologetic.

“Oh, my God,” she gasps softly when he’s within earshot. “It’s RM.”

Namjoon shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, coming over and wrapping his arms around her waist before kissing her softly. 

“M-hm.”

“I didn’t want them to see you. That’s all.” He takes a small step back and tilts his head. “All it takes is one picture on the internet and then…”

“I know,” she says finally, patting his arm comfortingly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah?”

Kaya nods. “It’s not your fault. Besides, I’m sure it would be way worse for your girlfriend. You know, if… whenever…”

It’s his turn to nod knowingly, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah. So you don’t need to worry.”

“I’m not worrying. Not about you, not about your fans,” she lists as they resume walking. “Not about your girlfriend… none of it.”

“Good.” Namjoon bumps her shoulder gently.

She doesn’t say anything. After a moment, she slips her hand into his.

Later that night, Kaya’s forgotten all about it, the only coherent thoughts in her mind being the feel of her sheets underneath her, Namjoon’s lips at her neck and his fingers inside her, moving right at her g-spot.

“F-fuck,” she stutters, knowing she’s close. Namjoon is a wizard with his fingers, she’s discovered. They are long, slender and move with a grace she hadn’t expected, and his hands find ways to elicit pleasure that even she hasn’t been able to unearth yet.

“Your pussy is so pretty,” he murmurs in her ear, his deep voice making her moan softly. He nips gently at her earlobe. “Open your legs wider for me, baby?”

Kaya obeys; she can’t imagine not doing so. Her head is starting to spin. “I - I can’t,” she breathes, panting. “Oh, my God…”

“You want me to stop?” he asks, slowing down slightly.

“No!” she exclaims, eyes snapping open. “I just - oh, God - I can’t take this on a regular basis,” she explains tightly, fists clenching around the sheets. “I think I might die…” She flashes a dreamy smile, eyes fluttering shut. “Good thing you’re not my boyfriend, huh?”

Namjoon nods, coming up slightly and moving his fingers slightly faster. “Uh-huh. Lucky you,” he says, brushing his lips lightly over her nipple.

Kaya moans loudly at that; she’s got seconds before she probably passes out from the intensity of what he’s doing. At this very inopportune moment where it’s just her, him and their clammy, naked bodies against each other, her phone pings.

Namjoon swears softly in Korean but thankfully doesn’t stop. “Ignore it,” she mutters, squeezing her eyes shut. “I don’t care what it is.”

“What if it’s something important?” he murmurs calmly, pressing kisses down her jaw. “You sure you don’t want to answer it?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, biting down on her lip now. “It’s probably just - just Damien texting to confirm if - oh, God!” Her mind goes blank the moment he flattens his hand and rubs his palm over her clit. “Oh, God, baby - don’t stop, don’t - oh, my -” 

Unable to form words any longer, Kaya drops her head back on the pillow and moans loudly as her orgasm hits her, her back arching on the bed as Namjoon whispers low words of praise, voice so deep she can feel it in her stomach.

His fingers slide out slowly, her ears still ringing slightly. Her heart is going  a mile a minute and she drops her head to the side into his neck as she tries to breathe normally before she opens her eyes and looks up at him.

Namjoon brushes her bangs off her face affectionately, his dimple appearing faintly. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “You were saying?”

But she shakes her head. “I don’t remember,” she mutters, heart skipping a beat at his satisfied grin.

—

The next day, three days before Namjoon is to leave, they decide to plant her saplings.

“Somehow, I expected this to be more technical.” Kaya steps back and tilts her head, observing her handiwork. She’s still potting the tabebuia, while Namjoon seems to have already finished two and is working on his third.

“What do you mean?” he asks, gently picking up the poppy plant and lowering it into the pot. He steadies it on the low ledge where five newly purchased pots sit, soil littered around them. 

“Just.” She tosses a loose lock of hair out of her face, her hands muddy with dark soil. “You always see people with a ton of gardening tools and gloves and… you know. Outfits,” she adds. 

“We’re just potting plants,” he points out. “Your outfit is cute.”

“It’s pajamas.”

“What’s your point?”

Kaya smiles but then groans. “I suck at this, though. All your plants look perfect and mine looks like something that got trampled by a herd of cows.”

Namjoon snickers, neatly finishing with his plant. “It’s always messy at first, but it’s worth it at the end.” He gathers the spilt soil into a small mound and moves it to the corner before coming up to her. “Alright, what’s wrong?”

“I think I’m holding the plant wrong or something because it keeps falling over,” she mutters, bending slightly to examine it. “Look, I think it’s - oh.” She breaks off when she suddenly feels his torso against her back and sees his arms come up in front of her, reaching for the tabebuia plant.

“Okay, so you need to hold it here,” he says calmly, as though the casual intimacy of their position isn’t causing explosions in his stomach like it is for her. “And then -” He pours a handful of soil into the pot. “- it stays still. Here, try it.”

If he notices her hands shaking, he doesn’t say anything. He takes them in his and places them in the correct position and they quietly pot the plant, the pale pink buds peeking through the leaves. Once they’re done, they stay there, and Kaya feels her chest start to contract, like she might suddenly cry.

She’s falling for him.

From behind her, Namjoon rests his hands on the ledge, encasing her. He gently bumps her head with his chin. “Should we name them?”

She nods like this was obvious, exhaling. “That one’s Fitzwilliam,” she declares, pointing to the one at the end.

“I’m sorry - what?”

“Fitzwilliam,” she repeats. “Like Fitzwilliam Darcy. Look at him - he’s right in the corner, not even on the same ledge as the others.”

“Yeah… because there’s no more space on this one.”

“It’s also the only plant that’s not a flower.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Fitzwilliam.”

“Fine. You freak,” he mutters, bumping her head again. “What about that one?”

They name the next three together, teasing each other with each one. Finally, they get to the tabebuia.

Kaya strokes one of the leaves. “This one’s easy. She’s Aphrodite.”

Namjoon nods. “I get that. A heavy name to live up to, though.”

“It makes complete sense. She’s the prettiest one here.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “It’s probably a good thing we’re not together,” he says finally. “I don’t think I could handle not seeing her every day.”

Kaya swallows. Despite her heart feeling heavy again, she leans back against him, memorising his strong chest behind her. She wonders if she’s imagining his heartbeat. “You’re talking about…”

“Aphrodite,” he murmurs, partly against her hair. “Who else?”

She can feel his nose press against the side of her head. Don’t do it, she thinks desperately. Don’t do it, don’t do it. It would open up a pit of emotions she doesn’t want to face. 

“Maybe we can share custody,” she suggests half-heartedly. 

She can feel him smile slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. Don’t do it. But it doesn’t work; he takes a deep breath and presses a kiss to her hair, and the dread settles deep in her stomach.

—

Kaya knew this day would come. After all, the only reason they even got this week was because Namjoon had work in Amsterdam. If it weren’t for that, this would’ve ended in Seoul. 

The last two days were spent largely apart; Namjoon had to fulfil his actual professional obligations and despite wanting to make the best of his time here, Kaya was glad to have some space for she wasn’t sure she was doing a good job hiding how she felt about his impending departure.

But the morning of his flight, she’s finally forced to face it.

It’s early, and Kaya has a class in two hours. She can’t think about that, though - which is worrying, because she always thinks about work. She sits on one of the dining chairs, the same one she sat on the first night he’d spent here, feet up and hugging her knees as she watches him speak to someone on the phone. In his hand is a shopping bag, half-filled with stuff he’s left here over the week.

“Yeah, okay,” he says vaguely, nodding. The phone is tucked between his shoulder and his ear as he ties his shoelaces. He replies in Korean before hanging up and slipping the phone into the pocket of his jeans.

“My cab will be at the hotel in an hour,” he tells her.

“Okay.” Now that his attention is on her, she finds she can’t look at him. It occurs to her that she might be sulking; it’s just another embarrassment on top of the stupidity at feeling this horrible about Namjoon leaving. “Sure you have everything?”

“Yeah.” When she still doesn’t look at him, focusing intently on a pattern on her tablecloth, he sighs. “Kaya? Are you okay?”

No. But she’d rather die than admit that.

“Yeah.” She swallows and forces herself to look at him. “This just… really sucks. That’s all.”

Namjoon nods, and she wonders if he really knows how much. It would be too good to be true if they actually ever see each other again. The reasons not to are plenty and they’ve been laid out, several times, but all that’s needed is a single distraction in one of their lives, and they will be strangers again. Her heart shouldn’t hurt this much over someone who’s going to be a stranger.

He clears his throat. “Imagine if we were -”

“Yeah. I know.” She holds his gaze this time until he looks away. “Good thing we’re not.”

His phone pings then and they’re snapped out of the moment. “I need to go,” says Namjoon in a low voice. “Can I…”

Kaya nods, because of course he can, and gets up from the chair to walk over to him. He looks a little relieved that she came at all and gives her a small smile.

One kiss. That’s all. She steels herself, determined not to go beyond a quick, nice kiss that would be appropriate for a one-week fling that turned into two weeks. Namjoon tilts her chin up slightly and presses his lips to hers, their mouths opening together for a simple last kiss.

But then her hand goes up to his face and his arm comes around her waist and before they know it, they’re locked together in her living room, desperate to keep the moment going a little longer.

—

Namjoon loves London. It reminds him of his favourite weather in Seoul; the rain, the grey tint, the cloudy sky. It’s thoughtful, inspiring and romantic, and he honestly doesn’t understand why everyone complains about it so much.

Today, however, the weather has been worrying him. Throughout their interview, the radio show, the live performance and the retakes, he’s had one eye on the window, hoping the rain will ease up so Kaya’s flight can finally land. 

It feels like a miracle that she even said yes to coming. Ever since he’d left Amsterdam, he thought he could feel her becoming a bit distant. He wasn’t sure what it was; they still spoke, but topics stayed neutral and casual. She texted more than she called and one of their few common timeslots - her night and his morning - no longer worked because she said she was working late more often now. He tried not to think about it as Damien Herjavec stealing his time with Kaya away from him.

Maybe Namjoon was imagining it, or maybe it was everything he’d been dreading and they were finally, finally drifting apart. It hurt more than he expected it to and he was surprised at his reluctance to accept the fact, persevering in his efforts to stay in touch. 

She didn’t even confirm this trip immediately, citing her calendar and other conflicts, the entire time leaving Namjoon to imagine every possible reason on earth that she wouldn’t want to meet him. Finally, after nearly a week, she agreed out of the blue.

Let’s do it, had been her message, curt and to the point.

“For God’s sake,” says Yoongi dryly, his eyes not leaving the television in their shared hotel room, “just call her and ask her where she is.”

It’s a thought and an obvious one at that, but Namjoon has his reasons for not doing so. Her shortened replies and guarded conversations continued even after she accepted his invite; it’s confusing and worrying all at once, for now he has no idea what to expect when she finally arrives.

Kaya’s been texting him en route, though, so he knows her plane landed a couple of hours late, after which it took her a long time to get a cab, followed by a ridiculous amount of traffic throughout London. Namjoon taps his foot impatiently on the floor until Hoseok stares at him from across the room, and he relents.

Not bothering to change or tell his manager where he’s going, Namjoon takes the elevator downstairs and jogs out of the lobby and outside the hotel. It’s almost ten pm and this particular street seems to be largely empty. He’s glad; he’s still in the suit he was wearing all day and the last thing he needs right now is to worry about being recognised.

Kaya hasn’t responded to his last message; he tries not to worry, for she’d told him that her phone would probably die soon. It’s cold - freezing, actually - but the anxiety is superseding it to the point where his hands are actually feeling clammy.

Namjoon doesn’t want to think about the other reason she could be pulling away. Ever since Amsterdam, their conversations have started including more and more mentions of Damien, Kaya’s research partner. They’re random and harmless on the surface, but the name jumps out at Namjoon each time.

He doesn’t know if it’s just that she’s working more with Damien now or if she’s doing it on purpose, trying to hint at a development and giving him a kind way out of this. Or maybe he’s overthinking it; from all accounts, Damien seems to have made her life easier and is a good colleague, so it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for her to bring him up.

Then again, the possibility of it being something more is enormous. Kaya is beautiful and intelligent and thoughtful; Namjoon can’t imagine that if she were to send even the smallest signal, that she would remain single for long.

One night, with his self-respect somewhere around his ankles, Namjoon resorted to looking up Damien on Facebook (he wasn’t on Instagram), huddled in the dark under his blanket. Damien seemed to be in his late twenties at best, with reddish blond hair and a tall, lanky frame. The stalking exercise didn’t result in anything conclusive, except that Namjoon now had a face to put to the name of this individual who seemed likely to steal his girl.

His stomach twists. He hates how much he cares, hates how much mind space it’s taking up for him. But mostly, he hates that it might be true. 

When Kaya had agreed to come to London, his nerves had eased slightly. But the curtness of her response still stayed in his mind, as though she had suddenly decided to do something. It’s occurred to him more than once that she might be coming just to end this in person. It doesn’t seem like something she would do, but he’s also been forced to admit that he doesn’t know her well enough to be sure of that.

The traffic is crazy.

Namjoon exhales shakily at her text and is about to reply when another message pops up.

Should be about twenty minutes now.

Damn there’s a road closure.

Might be quicker to walk.

Okay, I’m walking.

See you in a few.

The messages appear in rapid succession and Namjoon scans them quickly, realising that she’d probably lost signal somewhere along the way. Based on the time stamps, she should be arriving any minute now.

His head snaps up to look in both directions in front of the hotel. It’s started to drizzle now; Namjoon runs a hand through his hair and feels the hairspray having faded away, leaving damp strands of hair to fall on his forehead. He exhales; if she’s coming to end this, he’s not ready. If she isn’t, then he knows, finally, what he’s going to do.

It’s only about two minutes later, but it feels like a lifetime that he’s been waiting to see Kaya again. He spots her at the end of the street, dressed in jeans and a slim, grey blazer. Her boots splash softly in the tiny puddles as she walks and her head is tilted up at the buildings across the street, as though looking for a landmark. Behind her is a compact suitcase being pulled on wheels, rolling smoothly on the concrete.

Namjoon’s heart leaps at the sight of her. She’s frowning, though; he hopes it’s out of concentration and tiredness. As she gets closer, he notices her long hair slightly wavy, as though wet in the drizzle. She must be cold; he makes a mental note to offer a hot shower as soon as they go inside.

Kaya looks straight ahead then - and her face breaks into a smile. It lights up and Namjoon knows he isn’t imagining it. He tries to ignore the hope igniting inside of him and tugs at his tie to loosen it. It’s now or never; he can’t risk feeling like this for a moment longer or he’s afraid it might kill him.

Four feet away from him, she pauses momentarily to straighten her suitcase and let go of it, continuing her stride towards him. The smile has faded and her expression is blazing, Disney princess eyes locking onto his. She looks more determined than ever and all other thoughts leave Namjoon’s mind.

“Please tell me you’re not dating this Damien person,” he blurts out desperately, noting how she flashes him a breathless smile.

“No,” she answers, a moment before she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him. Namjoon’s arms go around her automatically, memorising her exact shape and feel against him. It takes him a moment to remember to be relieved; it’s just her lips and her hair and her beautiful, familiar, incredible form back in his arms and in his life.

Kaya pulls away first, panting a bit and tossing her long hair out of her eyes, her arms still around him. “Why? You want to date me instead?”

“Yes,” he says instantly. His heart skips a beat at that smile again, almost blinding him, and he takes it. “Yes,” he repeats, bringing one hand to her face and kissing her again, murmuring the same word against her lips. “Yes, yes, yes…”

—

Thanks for reading. Don't forget to leave a review :)

[carriehobbs]

Netflix and Chill

I know that the MC wakes up in their own room at the beginning of Chapter 3 in Blood Moon (by @barbwritesstuff), but I've always had this image in my head of my Marco-romancing MC, Mia, falling asleep with him while watching Netflix at the end of Chapter 2. So I wrote about it.

After an exhausting night finding Carrie, bringing her back to the den, and meeting with the Alpha, Mia and Marco watch a documentary. Marco/MC, 1417 words.

Read it on AO3

“This octopus here has sustained damage to one if its nerves. As a result, the octopus can no longer change the colour of its skin, which is controlled by cells called chromatophores. The Octopus vulgaris, or common octopus, however, will regain control over its colouring as the damage to the impacted nerve is naturally repaired over time,” the documentary’s narrator explains as the camera zooms in close on the image of a lone octopus sheltered in a cluster of underwater rocks. The skin of the octopus’s mantle is a milky white in stark contrast to the speckled brown of its arms.

For a second all Mia can think about is the stray, down on the ground in the dirt by a rusty swing set. The taste of rotten blood. Pale skin under ugly, flickering streetlights.

Mia reaches up abruptly to adjust the angle of the laptop screen. Marco shifts slightly beside her, his weight pushing down on the cheap mattress.

It’s only been about twenty minutes since their documentary started. The laptop rests on Marco’s stomach, balanced precariously and with its screen tilted ever so slightly more towards her than him. Marco’s blankets are kicked haphazardly to the foot of the bed, shoved away when they’d settled against Marco’s flattened old pillows, and his right earbud sits uncomfortably in her left ear. Mia feels the prick of cool, early-morning air on her exposed skin where her shirt rucks up on the right side. This moment is still a million times better than the cold patrol or the crammed ride home or the awkward report to the Alpha that followed, though that’s mostly because of the way she can bask in the warmth of Marco pressed flush against her, side-by-side from toe to shoulder.

“You still watching?” Marco asks softly, jostling her as he tries to glance down without jabbing her in the forehead with his chin. It’s the first time either of them has spoken since Marco pressed play.

“Yeah,” Mia mumbles. She leans her head against his shoulder, crown against bone, and watches the octopus crawl out from its hiding place between two rocks.

“I wouldn’t blame you, you know,” he says, but Mia can practically hear the smirk he must be wearing on his stupidly handsome face. “I’m pretty fucking tired too.”

Mia blinks, slow and heavy. “’m not tired.”

Marco laughs, a quick breath out through his nose that is more like a strong exhale than anything else, but he doesn’t challenge her claim.

They settle into relative silence again, their quiet breaths only interrupted by the documentary narrator’s voice coming tinny and uneven through their earbuds. Marco doesn’t normally let their movie nights get this quiet; usually she has to shush his stream of commentary during what he considers to be the boring parts of the movie. It’s nice, though, to sit here with him and feel his every breath through where she touches his shoulder. If she listens closely enough, she can pretend to hear his heartbeat.

While their movie nights are fairly frequent, they’re hardly ever planned more than a few hours in advance. They’re typically prompted by Marco, who drops the suggestion apropos of nothing in the middle of a conversation over lunch or on patrol or really any time it’s just the two of them. Mia always agrees and flushes warm all over in a way that makes her feel so obvious and girlish. Then he smiles that wide, familiar smile and she schools her hands into fists in her jacket pockets so that she doesn’t reach out and ruffle his hair or touch his shoulders or his jaw or his mouth with her mouth. Later, they hunch over Nikolas’s DVD collection and debate which movie to watch and her pick almost always wins.

Some nights, when the pack is asleep, they sequester themselves with Marco’s laptop in one of their bedrooms the same way they’ve hidden away tonight. Mia’s favourites, though, are the nights where they commandeer the TV and the use-worn bottle green couch in the den’s living room.

On those nights she has to sit so close to Marco in order to share the popcorn that she can feel the warm, solid press of his thigh against hers through their jeans and smell the scent of laundry detergent and his cheap cigarettes on his clothes. Sometimes, blissfully, they even fall asleep there on the couch, wrapped up together in the same blankets. These nights are the closest anything’s ever come to being perfect, even if she has trouble looking her packmates in the eyes the next morning because of the creeping, itching feeling along her skin that they can see through all her transparent excuses.

Mia subtly turns her face in to Marco’s shoulder and inhales with eyes fluttering shut, long and deep and slow. Laundry detergent and cigarettes. Even after tonight, he’s still her Marco.

“I can turn it off if you want,” Marco offers and for a foggy-brained second Mia doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

“I’m watching,” she insists once she catches up.

Mia rolls to her left, in towards where Marco’s weight dips the mattress, and accidentally kicks his blankets the last few inches off the end of the bed where they land with an almost inaudible thump on the floor. As she settles again, she manages to resist the urge to drape her arm, heavy, across his body and pull him in close until she’s wrapped around him and can keep him near her forever. It’s a very near thing.

A few suspiciously-long seconds pass before Marco speaks again. “Your eyes are fucking closed. You can’t see anything.”

“No,” Mia lies, eyes closed.

“You’re totally not watching.”

“I’m listening.”

“Bullshit. If you’re watching, then what’s happening?”

“Shh,” Mia hushes. “I’m listening. You’re being too loud.”

“Bull-fucking-shit,” Marco repeats toothlessly while Mia presses her face firmly down into his shoulder even though it squishes her nose.

When Mia blinks her eyes open again, still lethargic and slow, it’s against the soft dawn light filtering past Marco’s thin curtains. Marco is fast asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly and evenly under her head and her palm, which is curled into the fabric of his shirt over his pectoral. Marco’s laptop lays abandoned on his stomach; the screen is dark.

For a second Mia just watches him, trying to commit to memory the way the stillness of sleep transforms his expression into something peaceful, so different from the bright smiles he usually lets her see. Then she slowly uncurls her hand from Marco’s shirt and smooths out the wrinkled fabric. Her face feels embarrassingly hot and she hopes that Marco had at least already been asleep before she grabbed at him like a child clinging to a favourite toy in the night. Not tonight, she had promised him, and she had meant it.

Mia closes the laptop and places it gently on her abandoned side of the bed, the space still warm and inviting, before slipping to the door as quietly as she can. Slowly she turns the doorknob and pulls the door open, glancing behind her one last time at Marco’s sleeping form. He hasn’t even stirred. Mia closes the door behind her with equal caution, gently settling the door back into its frame before turning the doorknob to prevent it from clicking as the mechanism latches.

Her trip one door down the hall to her own room is mercifully short. She strips off her day clothes perfunctorily as soon as the door is closed, leaving them abandoned in a heap in the middle of her floor to be dealt with later. She wriggles into a pair of worn cotton sleep shorts and an oversized, hand-me-down t-shirt and flops inelegantly down onto her own bed, paradoxically less comfortable than when she’d woken. Mia huffs a slow, deep sigh and drags a pillow towards herself to cling to before closing her eyes again. Hopefully she can eke out a few more hours of sleep before she has to deal with the pack, the stray, and the fallout from the night before. She lays her head down on the edge of the pillow, what little of it isn’t clutched in her arms. It’s a poor substitute for Marco just one room over, she can’t help but think as sleep drapes like a thick blanket over her, but maybe, just maybe, she will only have to make due with pillows for a little while longer.

------ ------ ------

(1) The fact about octopus’ nerve regeneration doesn’t actually come from a documentary, it comes from Imperadore, P., Parazzoli, D., Oldani, A., Duebbert, M., Büschges, A., & Fiorito, G. (2019). From injury to full repair: nerve regeneration and functional recovery in the common octopus, Octopus vulgaris. Journal of Experimental Biology, 222(19), 1-11. doi.org/10.1242/jeb.209965. I believe there were a few documentaries about octopuses released in 2019, but, as it turns out, I’m much better at finding journal articles than I am at finding documentaries online. I don’t know what kind of documentary Mia and Marco would have had to be watching to learn this information, but hopefully it interests someone.

(2) I’ve always pictured the pack as having a (sort of musty) old green couch for some reason. The pack’s musty green couch is a real Blood Moon character to me.

(3) The image of Mia and Marco falling asleep on the couch during their movie nights was inspired by this piece of art by @/toads-treasures here on tumblr.

[scorpiongrassfield]

Flinch 

Start | Prev

You turn to face the voice to find nothing. 

“Theo?” you say, looking around. 

“I’m here. I’m just… Incorporeal for the time being,” Theo’s voice says from directly beside you again. 

“Why?” you ask. 

Concrete rubs its face against your leg, starting to purr. 

“Trying to put out a fire with lighter fluid doesn’t work, except for when you take lighter fluid away,” he says nonsensically. As he speaks, you can practically see it in your mind. A fire flaring too bright, then fizzling out. You weren’t trying to imagine it.

“Oh, is the speaking in riddles thing just how you talk? I thought it was a part of the maze stuff,” you say, lukewarm frustration seeping into your tone. 

“I… think it’s a side effect of touching the divine, actually. But that’s neither here nor there. I asked you a question. Are you going with them or not?” he says, glossing over the important part in favor of redirecting the conversation. 

Pat is taken outside. 

You lean down to scratch Concrete behind the ears, drawing comfort from this warm living thing by your side. 

The thought of going with them still makes you sick. But you don’t know what else you could do. Sit at Pat’s house and think? Sounds like a bad time. 

“I don’t think I can,” you tell him. 

“You’re scared.” 

You nod. 

“Do you… Do you trust me, Sylv?” Theo asks apropos of nothing. 

“Why? Should I not?” 

The front door shuts, all living people having left. 

“This is different. I need you to answer. Do you trust me to do something?” 

Do you? 

Theo is on Pat’s side first and foremost, but you’re on Pat’s side too, so you should be on the same page. But then again, with Ametrine having stopped short of her goals, you’re pretty sure you’re the biggest threat to Pat right now, even if you don’t want to be. He should know you don’t want to be, though. 

Theo is nice, and he’s been helping you this whole time, but he’s also strange and cryptic and you still aren’t sure how much of him is an act. 

He won’t tell you why he needs your trust, which has your nerves fraying. But he’s also been with you on almost every step of your journey, helping you along. 

Will you trust him? 

Next

[straighttohellbuddy]

you make the world make sense {Sykkuno}

@bingusmode request: i was so invested in hellhound sykkuno and i just. need more of him. so much more of him. i wanna. kiss him. so badly. just puppy man. give me daily snuggles w my big pubby boi who i can just. mush until he loses the restraint and just decides to not do anything some days and just receive affection 🥺

Summary: They/Them. To a hellhound like Sykkuno, the rest of the world is kind of cold in comparison; he runs warmer than most. It's not a problem, not until he meets you, a demon, and he realises how nice it is to touch someone who feels warm.

A/N: 2393 words. for husband. somft. what is pacing? who cares.

Citrus Scale: 🧡 ORANGE 🧡

Rae likes to claim that she's the reason that any of this happened at all, and will delightedly tell anyone who will listen any time anyone asks how you and Sykkuno met. When you're feeling particularly generous and sentimental, you humour her, allowing her to take credit for setting up the game where you'd first met him.

"It would have happened anyways," she admits, however, the two of you doing a chill stream together, watching media shares and sending each other quizzes to do, "something about you guys makes sense together, you know?" She half laughed, right, as fate would happen, Sykkuno walks past the door to your office, asking how the stream was going.

"Rae thinks we're inevitable," you tell him, apropos of nothing.

"Us?"

"You and me," you clarified, and his confusion cleared to something fond as you beckoned him in, asking if he wanted to say hello to both Rae and chat. Draping himself over the back of your chair, he greets everyone brightly.

"Is that the Y/N hoodie?" Rae coos, right as he drops a kiss to the top of your head, asking what they're saying, "see; this is scripted, this has gotta be scripted, you guys are too cute."

Sykkuno doesn't even need to hear what she's saying, only having to see her on her stream, playing on your second monitor, to know she's gushing over the two of you. Playing along, he turns his face to press his abashed grin against his shoulder, but when you offer your hand to him, he laces his fingers with yours, glad for the warmth you emanate.

And it's not like Rae's not wrong; you guys are cute, and honestly, one way or the other, you're both almost certain you'd end up here.

Even from the start, from the moment you met there was understanding, there was warmth.

The first time he hears you speak, your voice, your kindness, your familiarity; to him, everything about you is a sudden glow that lights the world with understanding. He knows, in a roundabout way like everyone else, that you're supernatural, but he's never known exactly. Nothing about what he's feeling lets him pinpoint your true nature, however you are like him, in a way that makes sense.

He's aware that there are others like him, he's met them, he's related to some of them, but none of them felt like you do now. When he'd thought about meeting someone like you in a situation like this, he'd always been hypothetically afraid, of being found out, of being exposed, of being turned on for what he is; when people think of hellhounds, he's the last person to jump to mind, hence why he kept quiet. He didn't want anyone looking at him any differently, worrying that he might be dangerous when what he could do didn't change who he was.

But your voice sets off a spark in his chest, like a bonfire, something warm in a way that he knows without ever having spoken to you before. There's the moment he speaks, he says your name, the soft, fond 'oh' that leaves your lips, lets him know that you, like him, have found a kindred spirit.

You don't say anything out loud, but you know.

He knows.

And he's not letting this slip through his fingers.

He's never been the impulsive one, but he messages you before the game even begins. He won't let this go, won't let you go.

You message back, and he tries to mask how happy it makes him since his viewers don't have the privilege of context.

When you call him after the stream, he thought he'd be more nervous. He is nervous, don't get it twisted, but when he confirms that he is, in fact, not entirely human, the relief on your face makes the butterflies in his stomach ease. Somewhere in the back of his head, he realises that whatever you are must be just as stigmatised as a hellhound, considering you appear to be even more hesitant to confirm anything about yourself. It may be that you have more to lose than him; you'd been doing more, been doing it longer, that he can fully comprehend.

So he tells the truth.

And he learns your a demon.

In a world that's cold to the touch to the likes of him, he'd found you, he'd found warmth.

When you'd finally met in person, you'd been the nervous one. It had been months of talking online, every day, of growing closer as friends, as confidants. You'd been the one to ask him out, both of you sleepy and using an extension that allowed you to watch Netflix shows together.

"We should do this in person," you'd yawned, "or go to the movies, or... or something." And though Sykkuno hums in quiet approval, you seem to hesitate, "we could... we could make it a date, or something like that. If you wanted, of course, if not, that's -"

"Wait, are you asking me out?" He says, and there's a long pause that follows.

"Maybe?"

Another long beat of silence, and you pause the show, waiting for his response, whole face scrunched up against your pillow, glad it was just a voice call so he couldn't see your embarrassment.

"Well can I maybe say yes?"

"Yes?"

"Yeah, I'd like to go out with you," he tells you earnestly, and you give a faint yell into your pillow, to which he seems concerned about, until you breathlessly laugh, telling him that you didn't think you'd get this far.

With more of an incentive for a meetup, he plans to come visit you within a few weeks. In the meantime, the two of you are unofficially dating, which makes you heartbeat race whenever you think about it, which only serves to set off your powers, heat manifesting in your hands and up your arms as your excitement grows. As excited as you were, the way your powers would react only served to make you more nervous; it was a nerve-wracking cycle that only seemed to build as the date grew closer.

He's rather awkward and unassuming in person, having just left the baggage carousel, trying to fix the way his bag strap is sitting across his chest. You see him first, heart beating staccato against your ribs. But he looks up, and for a moment you see his eyes flash gold, and the moment his gaze sweeps over you it stops; amid the sea of people, he could identify you by how warm you run amongst the cool chaos of the world.

"Hi," his voice is soft when he finally greets you, his smile so sincere, and you feel the nerves building - you want so badly to hug him but the first time you'd ever felt so strongly you'd burned your hand print against your desk.

"Hi," you smile back, hands balled up by your sides, "its good to see you."

It's an awkward start, and one that you briefly regret, but you carefully wrap your arms around him in a hug, before trotting through the crowd to head home.

He seems to settle in your home with ease; he's seen it enough times, video calls where you're roaming around doing chores, or cooking, or simply laying around various places. But he still marvels at it, remarking on your décor and it's strange familiarity.

"It feels like I've been here already," and you know what he means, to see him sitting on your sofa, ankles crossed and gaze roaming the room; before he was here, your house hadn't been missing anything, but now he is, you think it would feel rather empty without him.

"Are you okay?" He asks gently. There's concern in his eyes and you can't help want to reach out, to reassure him, but your hand falters in the air, fingers curling into a fist as you lower your hand.

"I'm fine," you tell him, though your heart's not in it, "just kinda nervous I guess."

He looks at you, blinking slowly, as if he has the hidden ability to figure you out if he merely looked at you long enough. Then, slowly, he reaches out and carefully curls his hand around yours, gently pulling you to sit down beside him.

"I'm sorry," he says gently, "I don't mean to make you nervous," he doesn't even seem to register that you should be burning him, that his skin should be burning at the contact, blistering and peeling and obscene and - "that's so strange," he huffs a faint laugh, and when you look up at him, away from your now-joined hands, you see he's followed your gaze. He taps a finger against the side of your hand, and as if by muscle memory alone, you fan your fingers out, letting him interlock his fingers with yours, "I'm not used to being the one with cold hands," he admits, before looking at you.

"I'm sorry," you mutter, like you're still waiting for something terrible to happen because of it. He gives your hand a squeeze.

"It's nice," he's smiling now, sweet and oblivious to how he's just shifted your world.

Its okay, his smile says without even knowing its saying as much, you can let yourself love him, let yourself get excited to be around him; he's not going to burn.

Moving on impulse, you reach out to touch his cheek with your free hand, fingertips so gentle on his cheekbone as you hold his face.

"You're so warm," he delights, leaning into the touch.

"I can be warmer," you say with barely concealed glee, overwhelmed by the discovery, not trying to tamp down on your emotions, letting them flow through you; you're warm enough to scald, warm enough to burn, warm enough to worry about whether your sleeves may be in danger, but you take your hand from Sykkuno’s so you can hold his face in both hands, watching the way he smiles. When he takes both of your hands with his, to keep you holding him, to keep you close, you can feel your heartbeat in your throat.

"I'm never letting you go," you murmur, before realising that you'd said that out loud, but he gives a laugh, as if not realising the seriousness of your words.

"Good, I don't want you to, this is nice," he muses.

It's not as if you've seen him interact with a lot of people in person, however he's always come across as someone who's not particularly tactile. Not that you've consciously noted it, but here and now, with the warm contentment all over his face, you find yourself wondering... why. But it makes sense, it all becomes clear; he doesn't get to decide how warm he is, he can't control it, can't change like you can; to him, everyone else is cold. It's probably not something he actively thinks about, at least not until now, not until he realised how warm you could be.

When you shuffle closer to rest your forehead against his, his smile grows wider; you gently kiss him on the nose, enjoying the blush that rises up his cheeks.

It's an easy decision to make, as the months go by and you and he go back and forth between each others houses, to move in together when the topic arises. Between the two of you, you can afford to rent a little two bedroom apartment; big windows and a view of the sunset, an organised office in the spare room. It's kind of perfect.

It didn't occur to you, however, just how effective you and Sykkuno were about keeping specific parts of your personal life personal, until your fans started commenting on the 'similar timing' of both of you moving. Some had speculations, of course, but most saw it as a coincidence.

They knew you were close.

They knew you hung out IRL.

They had no clue that you were consistently the reason that he ran late to streams, when he insisted on getting up at strange hours and you clung to him, purposefully warm in the way he loved, in the way he hated to leave. Just a little longer, you would insist, fingers hot enough to match him, to keep him warm, but gentle as you gently ghosted them along his cheekbone, fingers coming to card through his hair. Just a little longer, he'd agree with a contented sigh, leaning into your touch.

It's inevitable, of course, that people would find out, so you wanted to get ahead of the news before it came out accidentally. The first night at the new apartment, you've already got your TV and sofa set up, and after a delightful dinner of take-out, you find yourself resting, watching Netflix, with your head in Sykkuno's lap. Between episodes, as the next is loading, you pull out your phone, opening your front-facing camera, and without prompting -

"And they were roommates!" You exclaim quietly, before flipping the camera around to catch your boyfriend's amusement.

"Oh my god, they were roommates," he responds with a faint, playful gasp, before his grin stretches wide as he looks at the camera, "is that how we're telling people?"

"If it's okay with you," you tell him, and he doesn't even have to think before assuring you it's fine, gently scratching at your scalp.

As the theme music for the next episode starts up and you're typing, searching for the perfect caption - guys dont get me started on 'there was only one bed' - he murmurs that he loves you, sounding utterly enamoured. This isn't a new sentiment, you've heard it so many times before, but each and every one, including this, has butterflies flittering in your stomach. He sounds grateful, which is new, and you're not sure if it's for the moment, the apartment, or you, or perhaps all three, but you feel in your bones all the same.

"Love you too," you tell him with honest sincerity, reaching out for his free hand with one of your own, letting the love you felt flow through you, practically bring you to boiling from the inside out with how much, even now, your love almost overwhelms you; your love won't burn him, he revels in your warmth. You lace your fingers with his.

[buckleyblueyes]

Buddie + 24 or 41? :)

Hello! Thank you for this great fake-dating prompt! I ended up being able to work in both prompts! (send me a kiss prompt) (send me a dialogue prompt)

Buck doesn’t know how he got here, at his ex-girlfriend’s wedding in Arizona, well on his way to champagne drunk, and pining over his best friend. Actually, that’s a lie. He knows exactly how this happened. It’s all Eddie’s fault, really. Because Eddie was the one who suggested it in the first place.

“Abby invited me to her wedding,” Buck said in the middle of a shift, apropos of nothing.

Hen looked up from her textbook with a raised eyebrow. “She’s been engaged for a long time.”

“It got pushed back because of the pandemic,” Buck shrugged. “It’s in three weeks.”

“That’s short notice,” Chimney said through a bite of an apple.

“Well,” Buck swallowed nervously. “She sent me the invitation six months ago.”

“Then why are you mentioning it now?” Eddie finally spoke, a slight edge in his voice. It reminded Buck of the night of the train crash.

“Because I don’t have a date,” Buck shifted uncomfortably on the couch.

“Do you need one?” Hen asked. “Why are you even going?”

“Well…” Buck hesitated, already feeling embarrassed and a little pathetic. “I RSVP’d when I was still dating Taylor, so it didn’t seem so--”

“Miserable?” Chimney asked.

“Yeah.” Buck sighed. “I know it was stupid to ask for a plus one, I mean Taylor and I’d only been official for a month when I got the invitation. But you know me, I’m an optimist.”

Chimney nodded sympathetically. “I mean, you still have time to find a date.”

“Oh, yeah, because ‘you wanna come with me to my ex’s wedding’ is a great pickup line,” Buck rolled his eyes.

Hen opened her mouth to say something, but Eddie cut her off. “I’ll go with you.”

“Eddie…” Buck hesitated. “No offence, but I think showing up with my best friend is even more embarrassing than showing up alone.”

Eddie shook his head fondly. “I meant as your date.”

Buck blinked twice. “I can’t ask you--”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering.”

And that’s how Buck got here. It’s all Eddie’s fault. (Okay, it’s a little bit Buck’s fault for RSVPing with a plus one, or even RSVPing at all, really.) He sighs and sips his champagne and watches as Sam twirls Abby around on the dance floor. Eddie stepped out a minute ago to call Christopher and say goodnight, so Buck is alone with his thoughts. He frowns as he watches Abby and Sam, but the ache in his chest isn’t about Abby anymore, and it hasn’t been for a long time. She looks happy, and he knows he’s not in love with her anymore. He just wants what they have. And he wants it with his best friend.

Of course, he only realized this when Abby came up to him after dinner to tell him how happy she was that he found someone, how she could see how happy he was with Eddie, and how much Eddie seemed to love him. He smiled politely and thanked her, but internally something snapped. It wasn’t that he hadn’t known that he had feelings for Eddie--there’s a reason that he and Taylor didn’t work out, why he wasn’t as invested in the relationship as he should’ve been--but there was something about hearing it from Abby that made it more real, harder to ignore. Not that it matters, because Eddie swore of relationships after he broke things off with Ana. Something about not being emotionally available enough? Buck doesn’t quite have all the details because Eddie was Eddie, and Eddie was cagey about his emotions.

A voice breaks Buck out of his thoughts, and when he looks up Eddie is standing over him with a hand outstretched. “May I have this dance?”

“We don’t have to--”

“I want to,” Eddie says, voice firm, but gentle. “Please?”

And what can Buck do, but nod and take his best friend’s hand and let himself be dragged out onto the dance floor. They don’t so much dance, as they sway against each other, both slightly tipsy. Being so close to Eddie that their chests are touching, Eddie’s hands on his sides is a heady combination, and Buck can feel his heart racing. He wonders if Eddie can feel it, too. For a moment he lets himself get lost in the feeling, inhaling the scent of Eddie’s cologne and letting his own hands move down Eddie’s sides toward his waist.

“This is nice,” Eddie says, and Buck’s chest aches. He knows Eddie means the wedding, not the dance.

“It was a beautiful ceremony,” Buck agrees.

“Not what I meant,” Eddie laughs. “Ready for the dip?”

Buck raises an eyebrow. “You’re gonna dip me? How much have you had to drink?”

Eddie grins. “I’m not drunk.”

Before Buck can respond, Eddie is twisting his arm, and Buck is spinning out of Eddie’s embrace only to fall clumsily backwards into his arms. From his new, upside down vantage point, Buck can see Abby walking towards them, and his stomach rolls. He’s been avoiding her all night (which isn’t hard, because she’s the bride and everyone else here actually wants her attention), but now there’s nothing in her way. She’s going to come over here and unknowingly break Buck’s heart by talking about a relationship that doesn’t even exist.

Maybe it’s the champagne, or the fact that all the blood rushed to head when Eddie dipped him, but when Eddie pulls Buck back up, he does the first thing he can think of to stop Abby. He grabs Eddie’s face in both hands and pulls him into a kiss.

Eddie melts into it immediately, much to Buck’s surprise. His hands roam Buck’s body, finding their way to the small of his back, sending tingles up his spine. For a split second Buck lets himself enjoy it, lets his own hands stray from Eddie’s cheeks and jaw up into his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss. And then, as abruptly as he started the kiss, he pulls back.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” He’s still breathless when the apology falls out of his lips. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Eddie chuckles. “I think I have a pretty good idea.” And then he’s leaning back in to kiss Buck again.

Buck puts up a hand to stop him. “What are you doing?”

“I think it’s pretty obvious, Buck,” Eddie’s eyes are sparkling. “I’m going to kiss my boyfriend.”

Buck chokes on his own spit. This must be a dream. He got drunker than he thought and he passed out and this is a dream. “Boyfriend?!”

Eddie’s eyes dim. “I guess I got a little ahead of myself there, didn’t I? We don’t have to rush into anything.”

Buck’s brain is whirring a mile a minute, but he still can’t make sense of what’s happening. “Wh--You have feelings for me?”

Now Eddie looks as perplexed as Buck feels. “I--Yeah? Obviously?”

“Obviously?!” Buck can hear the strain in his own voice. “How is that obvious?!”

“Why the hell else would I ask to be your date to a wedding?” Eddie shakes his head in disbelief.

Buck’s mouth falls open in disbelief. “You-But--I thought--I thought we were pretending.”

“Pretending.” Eddie’s tone goes icy. “You were just pretending.”

“No, I, well, I mean,” Buck stumbles over his words, face red. “I thought you were just saving me from having to show up alone and single. I never in a million years thought you could feel that way about me.”

Eddie’s face softens a bit at that. “Buck…”

“I know, I’m an idiot.”

Eddie sighs. “I guess I’m an idiot, too. I could’ve been more clear about my intentions. I hope this doesn’t make things awkward between us. You’re my best friend, and the last thing I want is for my feelings to get in the way of that, you mean too much--”

“Eddie, it’s okay--”

“I might need some space for awhile, but you can still see Christopher--”

“Eddie!”

“I’m sorry, again, for all this. I don’t know what I was--mmph!”

Buck cuts Eddie off with another kiss. It’s short, but sweet, and he hopes it gets his point across. “I thought it was pretend, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t want it to be real.”

“Oh.” Eddie blinks twice. “Oh.”

Buck grins and nods, biting his lip. “Yeah.”

“I love you,” Eddie blurts out. “I’m in love with you. So, this...It’s kind of an all or nothing thing for me.”

Buck’s grin grows wider. “I love you, too.”

Eddie kisses him, and this time it’s Buck who melts under his touch, heart pounding and knees buckling. Eddie’s hands are around his neck and in his hair and every touch sends warmth radiating through Buck’s body. Buck moves to pull away and catch his breath, but Eddie only redirects his kisses to Buck’s neck and jaw.

Buck doesn’t know how he got here, at his ex-girlfriend’s wedding in Arizona, the buzz of champagne fading--replaced with a new, much better kind of buzz--making out with his best friend, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

[legionofpotatoes]

we decided to watch all story cutscenes from the new resident evil village videogame on a whim, since it’s not really our cup of tea gameplay-wise but seems to be this massive zeitgeist moment that made us morbidly curious. And I know how much everyone cares about my thoughts on things I know very little about, so. let’s get into it huh gamers. and yeah spoilers?

for context, I’ve only played resident evil 4 and a small portion of 5. I also read the wikipedia entry for 7’s plot recently. all this to say I was only vaguely aware of how tonally wacky the series was going in

I also completely gave up following the plot of the mutagens’ soap opera, so that paid off in spades here as you might imagine

anyway so that baby in the intro. that baby’s head is just massive. humongous toddlerdome. when ethan finds the baby’s head in a jar later on. there is no way that head would fit into that jar. bad game design. no not even game design. basic stuff. one hundred years in prison for jar modeler

if I see a single functional hetero marriage in video games I will cry tears of joy. I understand their misery is kind of The Point irt them badly working through the hillbilly romp trauma but like. sheesh. at least set that up as an emotional story goal the plot will help resolve. but nope they start off miserable and it goes nowhere

I know I know the mia thing has a huge wrinkle in it but like. not really in terms of dramatic function?? set up a happy end to the re7 nightmare (miranda can keep up appearances for all she cares) and then take that all away from angry griffin mcelroy for manpain. it will still absolutely work to set up the dramatic forward momentum. why throw in this cliche Hollywood Tension in their marriage if you’re not going to address it oh maybe because it’s normalized as automatically interesting because nuclear families are a self-propagating pit of a very narrow chance at emotional happiness relying on social stigma to preserve their empty function oops my baggage slipped in yikes abort mission

I called him griffin mcelroy because I saw his face on twitter and. yeah. I will continue to do this occasionally. my house my rules

... fuck the reason I’m hung up on this is specifically because the rest of the game is so tonally dexterous (which is a shining point to me! more on that later!), and yet they felt weirdly compelled to create the aesthetic trapping of a family-at-odds trope without following it through too well. a sign of both the good and the bad stuff to come

but listen the real reason why I wanted to talk about any of this is to nitpick the fascinating backwards-engineered nucleus of the entire thing; in that this game essentially creates a melting pot of just SO many disparate horror tropes and then makes a no-holds-barred unhinged effort at weaving thick lore to piece them all together. it is truly a sight to behold. like straight up you got your backwoods fright night situation, your gothic castle vampires, your rural-industrial werewolves, and don’t forget your bloated swamp monsters over there, with then a hard left turn into robotic body horror, and the entire ass subgenre of Creepy Doll writ large, and the bloodborne tentacle monsters, and a hellboy angel bossfight, which rides on the coattails of a mech-on-mech pacific rim bonanza, and just jesus henry christ slow down

almost all of these are textural hijack jobs that don’t really get into the metaphor plain of any of those settings but the game sort-of makes an argument that the texture IS the point and revels in it. It is kind of admirable almost. The same reason why the intro felt boxed in and unmotivated is also why the rest of the game just blasts off of its hinges to the point of complete and self-indulgent tonal abandon. I kinda loved that about it. lady dimitrescu made sure to hold her hat down as she bent forward in mahogany doorways and then suddenly she’s a giant gore dragon and you settle in your temp role as dark souls man with Gun to take her ass down. Excellent??

this rhino rampage impulse to gobble up every horror aesthetic known to man comes to head when the game wrestles with its FPS trappings in what is the most hilarious solution in creating visceral player damage moments. Since most cinematics and the entire game is in first person, that leaves precious little real estate for the devs to work with if they really want to sell griffin’s physical crucible. To wit. This dude’s forearms. Specifically just the forearms. They are MASSACRED throughout the story. The poor man lives out the silent hill dimension of a hand model. by the end cutscene he looks like a neatly dressed desk clerk who had decided to stick both his grabbers into garbage disposal grinders just a few hours prior. like in addition to everything else it manages to rope in that tinge of slapstick violence into its general grievous genre collection except this time it IS for a lack of trying! truly incredible

but wait his miracle clawbacks from everything his poor paws go through are retroactively explained away, yes, but far too vaguely and far too late to console me as I sat and watched everyone’s favorite baby brother reattach an entirely severed hand to his wrist stump by just. placing it on there. and giving it a lil twist ‘n pop terminator-style. and then willing his fingers back into motion right in front of my bulging eyes. this game just does not care. it does not give a shit. and boy howdy will it work to make that into one of its strongest suits

cause generally speaking resident evil was THE premiere vanilla zombie content destinaysh for like a decade, right? and as the rest of the world and mainstream media started encroaching and bloodying its blue ocean it went and just exploded in every single conceivable horror trope direction like a smilodon on catnip. truly, genuinely fascinating franchise moves

yeah the big vampire milf is hot. other news; grass... green. although I do love the implication that her closet is just identical white dresses on a rack. cartoon network-level queen shit

apropos of nothing I’ve said there’s also this hobo dante-devimaycry-magneto man, and I can’t believe this sentence makes sense. anyway he made that “boulder-punching asshole” joke referring to chris redfield and it was probably the only easter egg that really landed for me and boy did it land hard. I have not seen him punch the boulder in re5, mind. I had only heard about how funny it is from friends. and here this dude was, probably in the same exact mindset as me, trying to grapple with that insane mental image. with you on that ian mckellen, loud and clear

I advocate vehemently against the shallow pursuit of hyper photorealism in art direction but I gotta admit it works really in favor of immersive horror like this. the european village shacks especially gave me super unchill flashbacks to my rural countryside retreat in western georgia. I could smell the linoleum dude. not cool

faces are weird in this game. can’t place it. nice textures, good animation, but the modeling template is... uuh strange? and the hair. it has that clustered-flat-clumpy look that harkens to something very specific and unpleasant but I just don’t know what. sue me

griffin’s mental aptitude to take all this shit in stride and end every seemingly traumatizing bossfight involving some fucking eldritch being yet unseen through mortal eyes by essentially throwing out an MCU quip is just. What the fuck dude? I mean that was funny how you casually yelled the f-word at a god damn werewolf that you considered a fairy tale an hour ago but are you like, all right?? it was swinging a sledgehammer the size of a bus at you, ethan

oh oh the vampires are afraid of cold and your last name is winters. I get it haha

Pro Gamer Nitpick: boss fights seemed a bit unnecessarily long?? idk why the youtuber we picked decided the ENTIRE propeller man fight counted towards the vital story scenes he was stitching together, but man mr big daddy lite there really had some get up and go huh??

why are they saying dimitrescu.. like that. is it really how you say that word or is the english language relapsing into its fetish for ending every single word with a consonant at all costs

I’m not saying it’s a dramatic miss of a twist in context of all that’s going on, but the “you died in the last game actually and have been DC’s clayface ever since” revelation is low-key. it’s. it’s just funny to me, I dont know what to say. century-old god-witch fails her evil plan after she mistakenly removes heart from what was definitely NOT just some white guy with eight fingers after all

chris realizing he’s about to become the player character and immediately swapping out his tsundere trenchcoat for the muscletight sex haver sweater

the little bluetooth speaker-sized pipe bomb he taped to his knife was nuclear?? really??? I must have missed something because that is just too good. I buy it though I totally buy it. chris just got them fun-sized nukes in his car trunk for, you guessed it, Situations

anyway this is all for now just wanted to briefly touch on how unexpectedly funny and tonally irreverent this seemingly serious game turned out to be. did not articulate any cathartic story beats whatsoever but my god it had fun connecting those plot points. he just fucking put his severed hand back on his stump and it Just Worked todd howard get in here

[octoberobserver]

Hello, Cas - Destiel Fix-It Fanfic

READ ON AO3

“Hello, Cas.”

Dean Winchester has to admit this new Heaven is great and all, but nothing compares to the deep-seated satisfaction of watching his best friend startle at his voice, turning on the spot, their eyes locking. 

Now you know how it feels, dumbass. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

Something settles in Dean’s chest at that.

Cas looks different. Younger, maybe. Less tortured, definitely.

The trench coat isn’t quite right, though.

The sun is still shining, where they stand on the edge of the lake. 

Dean has no idea how much time has passed since he left Sam with their mom and dad and hit the road again, one destination in mind, Bobby’s “Cas helped” ringing in his ears. He doesn’t know how he knew where to go, it more of a feeling, than anything else. Like a beacon calling out to somewhere deep inside him. 

So he drives. 

And finds him at the edge of a familiar-looking pier, gazing out at the water, deep in thought. 

So deep in fact, that Dean manages to somehow sneak up on him. He wonders if it’s a particular perk that Jack wrote into the fabric of this place.

Dean Winchester must finally be allowed to get the drop on the angel, Castiel. It’s an intrinsic part of his eternal paradise.

For what must be one of the only times in their many years of friendship, Cas breaks eye contact after a fleeting but heavy glance, looking over Dean’s shoulder to where Baby is glinting in the late-afternoon sun. 

“Did you have a nice drive?” 

He did.

He hadn’t meant for it to last quite as long as it did, but got lost in the journey, time slipping by like nothing at all as Kansas and later, Led Zeppelin, crooned on the radio.

“I did,” he replies, coming to stand right next to the angel, “thanks for bringing Baby up here.” 

He knows it was Cas’ doing. Ensuring his Impala was waiting for him. Not that Jack needed reminding. He smiles as he thinks of their driving lessons. 

“Your version of Heaven wouldn’t be complete without your beloved vehicle,” Cas attempts a smile while still not looking directly at him. 

Something lurches in Dean’s stomach. The same something that once had him reaching for the bottle and drinking himself into a blackout, numbing stupor. 

“Cas…” he tries to speak over the lump in his throat, “back in the bunker, man, I—”

“Sam arrived okay?” Cas cuts across lightly, moving away from him, shuffling along the edge of the lake, eyes downcast.

Dean blinks before stumbling after him, confused.

“Uh, yeah. He did. Lived a long, happy life with Eileen. Just like he deserved.” 

Cas says nothing at that, but the tension that mars his shoulders eases a little. 

“Eileen arrived some time ago. I got to introduce her to your mom.”

Dean didn’t know that. Hadn’t thought to ask that. Hadn’t thought to ask a lot of things, really.

Guilt rises from the pit of his gut. 

“Sammy’s with them all now,” he speaks in an effort to drown it out, “pretty sure Mom is showing her our baby pictures as we speak.” 

He chuckles.

“Jack really did think of every little detail, huh?” 

Cas gives a nod, short and curt, eyes still downcast and suddenly, Dean can’t take it anymore. 

“I thought about it, every day. Saving you.”

The words expel from him, banished from his body before he can stop them. 

His legs move on their own volition until he is barely a foot from him, speaking directly to the back of his head. 

“‘Gripping you tight and raising you from perdition,’” he quotes in his best Cas-gruff, “repaying the favor from all those years ago.”

He heaves a sigh as Cas abruptly comes to a halt.

“Killing myself somehow to plunge into the Empty on a wing and a prayer, maybe. One last deal to end all deals. But then I...I thought about your sacrifice. You died for me, Cas. So that I could live. So that I could be more than daddy’s blunt instrument. More than the destructive son of a bitch I’ve been since that night in ‘83.”

He pauses, watching the water ripple along the bank. 

“I had no way of knowing that some wayward rebar would put a stop to that so soon,” he laughs dryly, holding his arms out, sarcasm seeping into his tone, “‘the great Dean Winchester’ cut down in his prime by some shoddy—”

“I almost asked Jack to bring you back,” Cas interjects, eyes now cast out to the skyline as he wrings his hands, “I was...concerned about Sam. And—the unfairness of it all. I...I didn’t want your story to end like that, Dean. You deserve happiness too.”

His heart gives another lurch in his chest.

So much for being dead. Don’t think the ol’ ticker got the memo. 

“I was, Cas,” he half whispers to the water, “I was happy. If even just for a little bit. Because, we, me and Sam, we were finally writing our own story. Not Chuck.” 

He tilts his head as Cas slowly begins to turn. 

“I just didn’t count on that kinda plot twist,” he speaks around a half-smirk, half-grimace, “always thought I’d go down in a blaze of glory. Not offed by some opportunistic, no-name vamp and crappy reinforced steel.” 

He finally lets himself laugh at that. Loud and abrupt and more than a little pained. The sheer absurdity of it. Him, having survived Hell and possessions and God himself. 

Cas doesn’t laugh.

But he does step slightly closer. 

“He called his kid Dean,” Dean continues, apropos of nothing. “Sammy.”

“I heard.”

“Dean Castiel Winchester.” 

Cas blinks, apparently not privy to that information.

“That’s...touching.” 

“Yeah,” Dean grins, “really rolls off the tongue, huh? Castiel Winchester?” 

Cas shifts his weight from foot to foot, his brow furrowed.

Guilt creeps into Dean’s veins. 

“Cas...will you look at me, man?” 

A beat passes. 

“Please?” 

Finally, those bright blue eyes meet his, holding his gaze this time. 

“Hi.” 

It’s not what he intended to say. Not even close. But it’s a start.

Cas throws him a puzzled look.

“Hello, Dean.” 

A shiver, one he hasn’t felt in what feels like a lifetime ago and also like it was yesterday, flows up his spine at Cas’ voice. 

“God, I missed you.” 

Something unreadable passes over Cas’ face before a smile, small but warm, appears. 

“I missed you too, Dean.” 

He lets that settle between them for a beat, basking in the words that always manages to sound a little different coming from his best friend than they ever did from his brother. 

“Back in the bunker…” he attempts again, only to trail off when he sees Cas visibly tense, eyes darting away again.

He’s waiting for rejection, he thinks to himself.

The realisation hits him like a spike through the back.

Too soon?

“Back in the bunker,” he continues for the third time, voice softer than he could ever remember it being, “I thought that was it. That we were gonna die. For good.” 

Cas’ gaze slowly starts to rise again.

“That Billie was gonna kill you, that the last thing I’d see before I died was her destroying you,” he pauses, his breath shaky, “and it broke me. That...fear...I started to shut down.�� 

Blue eyes meet green. 

“And then you started talking,” he murmurs, his pulse speeding up as he recounts the memory he had fought so hard to keep buried, “you said that happiness isn’t in the having. It’s in just being. In just...saying it.’” 

A gasp, short and shallow and quiet escapes Cas, then.

But he keeps Dean’s gaze. 

“Yes I...I did say that.” 

Dean nods.

“You said something else too.” 

Cas nods back, a stricken expression crossing his face. 

“Dean—”

“I was frozen, paralysed,” Dean cuts across him, taking that last step towards him to halt merely inches from his face, “I...I couldn’t process what you were saying. I couldn’t...make sense of it. You said I was caring and selfless and the most loving human being you had ever known, but Cas,” he takes a deep, shuddering breath, the words lodging in his throat as he blinks back the burning behind his eyes. 

“You deserved so much better than what I gave you.” 

Cas shakes his head vigorously, holding up a hand. 

“No, Dean. What you gave me—”

“All I gave you was grief and anger and pain, man. I know that.” 

Cas’ mouth twists at that. 

“You always came when I called, you fell, rebelled, were hunted,” Dean continues, swallowing down the bile rising in his throat, “you gave me everything. You gave your grace, your life, more than once—”

“And I did all that, I risked my life, my grace, I rebelled and was hunted because I had changed, Dean. I cared. You changed me. You made me care about everything and everyone. You gave me that. You gave me a place in the world. A place to call home. A family to call my own. That was all you.” 

Cas is breathing hard. Dean’s eyes lowers to his chest, surprised to find it heaving. Something stirs in his stomach at the sight. 

“Do you understand?” 

Slowly, he lifts his gaze back up and nods. 

They fall into a silence, nothing but the sound of the water and some nearby birds passing between them. 

It’s here that Dean finally decides that his happiness deserves to be said. No Empty could threaten them here. But he’s always been an ‘actions speak louder’ kinda guy.  

Turning on his heel, he books it back over to Baby, throwing open the trunk. He can feel Cas’ wide, confused eyes on him and he reaches in and pulls out what he instinctively knows is somehow there, waiting for him. Slamming the trunk, he holds it behind his back as he races back over to the lake’s edge, a little unnerved that Cas may do one of his disappearing acts before he gets a chance to show him. 

He takes the last few steps slowly. Closing the distance between them bit by bit as he tries to dredge up every ounce of courage he has ever felt fighting demons and vampires and the Devil and God. 

He stops mere inches from Castiel, angel of the (former) Lord, and the best friend he has ever had and holds out his old trench coat, the same coat he had kept with him all this time, on every hunt, on every drive. 

“This uh...this belongs to you.” 

It’s not the only thing that belongs to him. But Dean can’t quite say that. Not just yet. 

“Dean…” Cas’ voice is low, soft when he reaches out to take it, their fingers brushing. 

A bolt of electricity flows up Dean’s arm, his grip tightening on the cloth.

“You kept it.” 

Cas sounds disbelieving, reverent, loving. 

He sounds like he has always sounded, now that Dean lets himself hear it.

See it.

“Of course I kept it. It’s yours. And I…” he lets out a breath, nerves settling as he allows himself to finally experience those feelings within him differently for the first time, like he once said he wanted to, to a priest in a church confessional. 

He speaks the truth, out loud, for his best friend, the man who has meant everything to him for what feels like forever, to finally hear.

“I love you too, Cas.” 

He half expects the new Heaven to open, a crack in the chassis of paradise to form at that revelation. 

But the water keeps flowing, the birds keep singing and Cas...keeps staring.

Not exactly the reaction he was going for.

“It’s...I’m honoured to be considered a Winchester brother.”

Dean blinks.

Ice cold fear, stronger and more intense than anything he had ever felt while he was alive, seeps into his veins, then. 

Had he got it wrong? What Cas was saying to him in his last moments? Had that not meant—

He looks down into those deep blue eyes and sees...more. More emotions and thoughts and feelings than Dean could hope to comprehend. 

Cas always did look at him a hell of a lot differently than Sam ever did. Than anyone ever did.

With a shake of his head and a mental pep-talk that consists fully of ‘fuck it, I’m already dead,’ he lets his hand slide across Cas’, halting it before he could pull away.

“No, Cas I-I mean yeah, you are a Winchester, always have been, but...that’s not what I meant. I...”

He puts the slightest amount of pressure on the back of his hand, almost squeezing but not quite, it enough to spur him on to make another confession. His deepest and oldest yet.

“What you wanted but...could never have? I-I’m saying you can have it.” 

He’s pretty sure neither one of them are breathing at that moment. Not that Cas ever needed to, or that they especially need to now. But, there is a noticeable stillness between them as Cas digests his words. 

It’s the longest seven seconds of Dean’s after-life. And considering time moves differently up here, that’s saying something. 

A smile, gentle but filled with so much happiness it has Dean’s heart hammering against his ribcage, breaks out on Cas’ face. 

“I would like that, Dean.” 

Bafflingly, he begins to shed his clothes.

Dean’s eyes widen, panic and something else surging through him as he glances frantically around for any prying eyes. Cas is stripping out in the open, in heaven of all places. 

Holy shit. The holiest. 

“Whoa, whoa, what—”

It’s then that he realises that Cas is just removing his coat and is now pulling on the old one, beaming. 

That settles something in Dean, then. Fills a space he knew had been empty for a long, long time, as his eyes land on Cas with his signature trench coat, striped tie and white shirt, even in paradise. 

He hadn’t changed too much, then. And God, (Jack?), Dean loves him for it. 

“How do I look?” Cas asks, holding his arms out, looking expectant, much like he had years ago when he had walked out of their motel bathroom, freshly changed and Dean didn’t know quite how to keep his shit together.

He had been so blind.

“Good,” he rasps before clearing his throat, reaching out and fixing Cas’ lapels, smoothing them down and itching to keep his hands resting just over his heart.

Another beat passed as Dean stared doggedly down at the old, brown material. 

"You know,” Cas begins, sounding as if he had just figured something out, “in those ‘chick flicks’ you insist you don't like, wouldn't this be the part where you kiss me?"

Green eyes meet those baby blue for what felt like the millionth and first time all at once. 

“You wanna have a chick flick moment, Cas?” he asks quietly, because he’s scared and needs a minute to actually get his shit together for the most important thing he never got to do in life. 

“After everything, I think we deserve it.”

Dean’s eyes slip closed at that, basking in the timbre of his voice as he leans down to rest their foreheads together. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, his breath brushing against Cas’ lips, “we do.”

He closes the gap and kisses him feather-light. 

Heaven doesn’t implode, the world doesn’t end.

So he does it again.

A little harder this time, his mouth dropping open in a half-gasp as Cas leans up, pressing against him and clutching at his shirt, his tongue trailing along his bottom lip. 

Damn. The pizza man teach him that too?

Any coherent thought leaves his brain when he licks into Cas’ mouth, their tongues meeting. Dean clasps Cas’ jaw in his hand Cas grips his shoulder, right over where his risened handprint used to lie, and his bloodied one stayed on his jacket forever as Dean never could bring himself to wash it before he kicked the bucket. 

Emotion wells in Dean’s chest, the word finally ringing within him. 

“I-I have wanted that for a very long time,” Cas mumbles against his lips as they break for air from habit rather than necessity. 

“Yeah, me too…” Dean replies, tipping their foreheads together again, “I’m sorry it took me so long to realise it.” 

Cas’ hold on his shoulder tightens. It’s forgiveness and an apology all in one. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m sorry I had to leave you.” 

I’m sorry you died, lies unsaid between them. 

Dean merely shakes his head, tilting back to catch his eye. 

“So we’re two sorry dumbasses,” he jokes gently, warmth spreading in his chest at the sight of Cas’ bright eyes glistening, knowing his own are in a similar state.

“I prefer the word ‘pining.’ Less dumb, less ass.” 

A laugh bursts from Dean then, loud and more jovial than he had felt in years. 

“Come on, sunshine,” he grins, knocking their shoulders and staying close, “we got some people waiting to see us.” 

~~

For the lovely @itsmajel & @thefriendlypigeon ♥♥

(I’ve not watched a full episode of Supernatural in six years. The finale being the exception, so sorry for any inaccuracies!) 

[llendrinall]

I got a prompt idea. What if Severus was Harry's biological father? And he somehow finds out in Harry's first year and actually decided to do something about it and tells him and then they have this Gaint secret going for YEARS until the end of the war. Could you write them from 1st year to the end of the war where Harry is sitting at the bedside of Severus' bed and looks at his friends and goes "Because he's my Biological Father"?

There is a very obvious wat the story would go and it wouldn’t be nice. Severus finds out, he tells Harry, but somehow they are still locked in a cycle of trying to break away from Hogwarts and the Dursleys but never being able to. There is always something else more important and urgent that stops Severus from revealing the truth and claiming Harry’s guardianship. So things are pretty much the same. They learn to trust each other but they never get to really know each other, let alone like or love each other. At the end, when the time of the big battle comes, Severus sacrifices himself to give Harry a chance and Harry will mourn him briefly, because there is no time for tears during a battle; or maybe Severus will hang on to life long enough to see Harry alive and learn that Voldemort is dead before succumbing to his own wounds. He will have done his part, he will have saved Harry, but somehow Harry will be even more of an orphan by the end of the war.

This is how it should go. The easy way, the big obvious path for the story to take.

Except… How comes Severus is Harry’s father? How did that happen?

I don’t think he and Lily were having an affair or even a relationship. At most, it was the beginning of one. Seven good conversations, three dates that they didn’t call dates, two kisses and a one-night stand that served as a locking point. A night together that was a farewell for Snape, about to infiltrate the inner circle of the Dark Lord, and a promise that they would pick things up again after the war and see where they lead them.

They were so innocent, so stupid.

Snape was risking a lot acting as a spy, so he only made contact sporadically with Alice Longbottom and Albus Dumbledore. Lily was working together with James in muggle protection operations and neither of them bothered correcting people’s assumptions about them because their supposed marriage offered them a good cover story.

Lily wanted to tell Severus about the baby, but she had no way to contact him and wasn’t about to risk his cover. She thought she could wait. The war wouldn’t last, they would win, and she would tell Severus everything. In the meantime, James was happy to give Lily’s kid his surname to avoid unwanted questions. They couldn’t risk the Dark Lord suspecting he had a traitor near him and Lily was his friend.

And Severus… he heard about Lily marrying and having a baby and he was hurt and betrayed but he understood because James had always been a charmer and James was there when Severus was not. It was asking too much, to wait for someone who wasn’t there, wait for a may be.

The war ends. Harry is the Boy Who Lived. Severus spends the next decade grieving and not doing very well with all the trauma from the war and being undercover. He can’t believe how much time has passed when he sees Lily’s soon walk into Hogwarts. It feels as if it was just yesterday when Severus was a student.

Severus discovers the truth by accident and it takes three months for him to begin to understand. Harry has a slight reaction to fairy dust when he touches it during Potions class. Nothing too bad, Severus himself has a similar reaction and doesn’t usually bother using the pure silver alternative. It’s just a reddening of the skin, very common in northern wizarding families like the Childermass and the Princes. Lily didn’t have it and neither did Potter (or the Blacks or the Malfoys, but Severus has seen it in the Diggorys funnily enough). Harry has it and so does Severus and for the next three months Severus keep noticing an increasing number of odd similarities and funny coincidences and keeps dismissing them as such until a week before Christmas when Harry, absolutely apropos of nothing, looks at Draco Malfoy and says “the way you keep mentioning your father, I’m glad to be an orphan.” Severus knows then. He might take five points from Gryffindor and tell Harry he is an arrogant bully like his father, but what he means is “James Potter never got the hand of aggressive self-deprecating humor. I can’t deny it anymore, you are my son.”

Severus goes through a period of shock, acceptance, shock again, grief and, finally, worry which is the default state of parenthood.

He tells Harry the truth just before summer break. He does a pretty good job, all things considered. He is unnaturally stiff, accidentally implies that he doesn’t want Harry when he says that he, of course, will keep living with his family (Severus thought that’s what Harry would prefer! He lived with them from the age of one, he must love them! How was he to know?) and looks very pained by the whole ordeal.

Harry, being Harry, and just coming from a very unsatisfying conversation with Dumbledore, asks Severus why did Voldemort try to kill him when he was merely a baby and of course Severus tells him everything. He is new at this parenthood thing and didn’t know you are supposed to shield children from distasteful truths. He tells Harry all: the prophecy, the choice the Dark Lord made, Sirius’ betrayal. Everything. Harry cries and Severus has no idea what to do, but manages to do all right. There is a stiff hug and a handkerchief.

Harry’s second year of school is spent with Severus taking points from Gryffindor (“Even if you were the Heir of Slytherin, inbreeding is nothing to brag about, Malfoy” says Harry, costing Gryffidnor 20 points) and desperately trying to convince Harry that there is nothing wrong with him being a parselmouth or hearing voices in the walls. Harry is equally desperate to convince Severus to please take him from the Dursleys he will even apologize to Malfoy if he has to.

Harry wins and Severus goes to Dumbledore to reveal the truth and ask that Harry’s guardianship is transferred to him. Dumbledore gives and hour-long impromptu speech about how that’s a very bad idea and how Severus is most likely mistaken about Harry’s parentage and is being deceived by his affection towards Lily. However, just yesterday Severus was explaining in class that Longbottom’s current mistake was perfectly innocuous despite all the whistling and colourful sparks and Harry whispered “this is otherwise known as a Lockhart” so at this point Severus doesn’t care about blood. Harry is his.

(No, seriously, he lost control of the class for ten minutes and afterwards he didn’t even take points from Gryffindor).

Severus is resolved to go over Dumbledore and get Harry from the Dursleys. He realizes it will be difficult with his Death Eater past, but he will do it. The wizarding world is ridiculously biased towards blood relations, he has a good chance.

So of course that’s when freaking Sirius Black breaks out of Azkaban.  

They don’t have a close relationship, Harry and he. Severus doesn’t kid himself, Harry only asked him to take him in because life with Petunia is miserable. Harry doesn’t even like Severus. However, it seems that Severus has managed to earn Harry’s respect and even his trust. Not only Harry, but his little group of friends seem to be thawing towards Severus.

To be fair, it is not by any virtue or merit on Severus’ part, but rather the failings of everyone else. You see, no one, (Severus can’t stress this enough) no one has told Harry the truth about Sirius Black. Harry and his friends have even made a little game of it and by the time Harry returns to Hogwarts Severus is informed that only Arthur and Percival Weasley passed the test. Out of over thirty adults they have asked, only two told Harry something close to the truth. Severus is surprised that Percival talked, but apparently the poor boy has been very stressed with the incoming NEWTS and takes every opportunity to quiz his knowledge so it could be said he was tricked.

Still, Harry appreciates that Severus doesn’t lie or patronize him. The bar is abysmally low, but Severus will take it. He is already doing much better that his own father.

He spends the year tutoring Harry in everything that may be useful for his continuing survival and antagonizing Lupin. Unfortunately, Severus doesn’t have much time to prepare his case for Harry’s guardianship and he briefly considers offering the task to Granger or Weasley (Percival, not Ronald) for extra credit, but he thinks better of it.

The end of the year is…weird. There is relief, shock, fear and regret, quite a lot of regret. Severus should have ignored the threat and worked on asserting Harry’s parentage. There will always be another threat coming, he should just take Harry now.

He is proved right just a few months later when Harry is entered in the Triwizard tournament. To make things worse, the mark is itching in his forearm and Karkaroff is extremely tetchy.

And here it is, the moment where Severus Snape refuses to repeat the cycle, the moment when he avoids making the same mistake.

Severus goes to the cave in Hogsmeade and tells Sirius the truth. Never again he will assume that people know or that there will be time to talk. If only he had tried to contact Lily, if he had merely written to congratulate her about her marriage even if he said nothing else, Severus is sure she would have found the way to tell him. So, for her sake if nothing else, this time he is not keeping the truth to himself. He realizes that by telling Sirius he might be robbing Harry of an ally, but if Sirius decides he does not want anything to do with Harry because he is not James’ son, so be it. Severus would rather know now than a few months down the line when they inevitably have an emergency.

Sirius is surprised, retroactively hurt that James didn’t tell him anything and very offended at the idea that he would stop being Harry’s godfather simply because his biological dad is a git. If anything, it’s all the more reason to give the kid some positive influence. Plus, he is still Lily’s son and Lily was Sirius’ friend too.  

Severus and Sirius argue quite a bit over who exactly can be considered a good influence. They exchange insults, point each other’s flaws, and, in general, act worryingly immaturely. However, something good emerges from this fight, because during the many reproaches and accusations it becomes evident that Sirius believes that Severus refused to testify on Sirius’ behalf before the Minister, something that is untrue.

“I… what?” Severus says. “What did you say?”

“You heard me!”

“No, but, Black. If I didn’t speak it was because Dumbledore insisted that the Ministry wouldn’t listen to an ex-Death Eater. I was going to tell Fudge everything!”

“…Harry said you were mad you lost your Order of Merlin…”

“Wha-? I don’t care about the stupid order. You are innocent! Do you think me so petty that I would send an innocent man back to Azkaban?”

“I…”

Snape is so glad he decided to have this talk. They had been fighting for two hours, he is thirsty and has a tension headache, but the relief he feels in immense. The misunderstanding could have proved fatal. They spend the rest of the day airing everything: revealing Lupin’s lycanthropy to kickstart the curse on the DADA position rather than waiting for Lupin to have an accident, Sirius apologizing about the admittedly mental prank, promising that they will both disappoint Harry but they won’t spare Pettigrew’s life. It takes a lot of time, but it’s good. There is so much to discuss they don’t even talk about how exactly the misunderstanding about Severus testifying for Sirius came to be. Not until their third meeting at least.  

Harry enters the maze for the third trial at the end of the year and between one dark corner and a blind spot, he vanishes. Although maybe he wasn’t Harry at all. Maybe it was a Polyjuiced Sirius who then proceeded to transform into a dog and pretend he was one of the monsters in the maze. Maybe Harry had quietly left under Polyjuice a few hours earlier and is currently boarding the train in Hogsmeade with Lupin.

Of course, as soon as they realize that one of the Champions is missing they stop everything to look for him. Karkaroff complains, Diggory threatens to withdraw that instant, Delacour casts a surreptitious hex or two because she is still very angry about the second task and using her little sister, and in the ensuing chaos Professor Moody’s Polyjuice wears off and he is revealed as Barty Crouch Jr, formed Death Eater presumed deceased, so Severus feels pretty well with his plan to just take Harry away and worry about legal guardianship later.

Also, since the press is there he takes the opportunity to openly declare that Sirius Black is an innocent man, perfectly innocent, Pettigrew is the one to look for.

Merely eight weeks later the mark on Severus’ arm burns. Voldemort is back and looking pretty well considering he was dead. Severus is asked about his arduous defense of Sirius’ innocence in the newspapers, and he quite reasonably explains that he couldn’t risk any loyalist mistakenly helping Sirius and there was no other way to let people know Pettigrew needed help instead. It is flawless logic and Voldemort approves, so Pettigrew doesn’t dare say anything about the absolutely murderous glint he had seen in Severus’ eye back when everything was revealed. Pettigrew understand that if says anything about it, Severus will make sure to kill him gruesomely before Voldemort can do anything else about Severus being a spy.

The Ministry of course refuses to believe Voldemort is back. He also refuses to believe in Sirius’ innocence and is convinced that it is some weird ploy on Dumbledore’s part. The press attacks Severus non-stop, it’s sickening. Umbridge comes to Hogwarts and is absolutely horrid, as expected, and the moment she has enough power she fires Snape. Not even Malfoy can do anything to avoid it.

Snape disappears. It hadn’t occurred to anyone that maybe he was waiting for the opportunity to leave Hogwarts without arising immediate suspicion. He is nowhere to be found and now that they think about it neither is professor Lupin.

And they are never seen again.

People know they must be around because it’s very obvious they intervene in the war. Sirius kills Voldemort in a very public way. But, other than that, they are not officially seen which drives many people crazy.

Harry keeps in touch with his friends, he is Ron’s best man in his wedding, he is there to clap and support Neville when he gets a doctorate in Herbology, helps build Luna’s cottage, and yet he is never seen by a Ministry official or a proper adult ever again. (Never mind that Harry and his friends are all adults now, they are not adults like real Moody or professor McGonagall are). It is most infuriating, which is the reason why Harry keeps doing it well into his thirties, when he is elected to the House of Wands and becomes an Honorable MP, so he has to let himself be seen then.

They (the wizarding society) realise their mistake about a week later. The Honourable Member Harry James Potter (never bothered to change his surname) is very much Severus Snape’ son and has spent a lot of time around Sirius Black. He is an absolute nightmare for the chamber: witty and insulting and all around absolutely brilliant and exasperating. The press loves him. A year in, there is already a small book published with “The Best MP Potter’s quotes”.

[mommymooze]

Cleric in Garreg Mach

Cleric x residents of the Monastery

I answer the help wanted ad on a town announcement board. Experienced cleric. Worship at church of Seiros preferred. Must know how to deal with young people.

That’s me. Well except for the Seiros part, but it can’t be that bad.

 Met Seteth and Rhea. They are very serious about the Seiros part, but they will take me. I think it’s because I heard Seteth say under his breath that nobody else has applied for weeks. I get free room and board, 3 meals a day and a little spending gold. This is a major step up from my last gig where I just had a roof over my head and dinner at the local inn with one of the worst cooks in the world.

 I report to the infirmary. My tan monk’s robes flowing around me, hooded cowl only allowing light to the lower portion of my face that is visible through my balaclava hood. I enter the area to find a busty woman sleeping on the front desk. When she is startled awake, one of her boobs pops out of her shirt. She plops it back in, gives them a shake and greets me.

“My name is Manuela.” She declares in a sultry voice. “Everything in here is at your disposal except for my stash.” She points to a locked door under the desk. “How are you with stab wounds?”

“Not bad. Had plenty of mercenaries stop by for healing. Really good at burns too because bandits would try to burn the town down every other week.” I cheerfully reply.

“Great. I’ll stick around for the first few patients, if you do well, I’ll leave you to it.” The Professor says.

 Not 15 minutes later my first patient arrives. A lively red-headed girl marches in. Her face is red from crying and she’s got a pretty bad burn on her left arm. The skin is very red and inflamed.

“Come in, please let me help you.” I speak in a calming voice.

“I-I w-was in the k-kitchen (sniffle) baking and I d-dropped a hot sheet of c-cookies.” She whimpers. 

I lead her over to a large bowl and slowly pour cold water on the burnt skin. “If you ever get a burn, run to cold water and pour it on the burnt skin first, that will stop the burning. It will lessen the injury.” I tell her softly and reassuringly.

The girl nods and sniffles. “It doesn’t hurt quite so bad.”

I make sure to wash off all dirt, especially cookie crumbs from the wound. I guide her to a chair and lay her arm on a bed. Casting a healing spell makes much of the redness disappear. She starts to get up to leave.

“Hold on. It’s not gone, you still need some ointment.” I warn.

Going to a cabinet I pick through several salves. Finding the correct one, I measure some into a small jar with a lid. Smearing some of the greasy salve on the wound I provide the instructions. “Change your bandages every morning and night, putting salve on. Always wash your hands and arm well with soap before you put the new bandage on. Once all of the redness is gone you can stop applying the salve. If a scab forms, keep putting the salve on to keep it soft. Got it?” I want to confirm her understanding.

Her sniffling stops. “Thank you so much. My name is Annette. If there are any cookies that aren’t burnt I’ll make sure to bring you one. “ her bright blue eyes sparkle and she gives a hint of a smile.

“That is very sweet Annette. Take good care of that.” I say handing her the jar and ushering her out of the room.

Manuela slides over. “Great bedside manner. Not everyone is as easy as she is. Some are downright cantankerous. Here is Annette’s file. Mark down what is treated, symptoms, etc.”

I nod, making notes, storing the patient file, cleaning the area, preparing for the next patient.

 The next person to arrive is a darker skinned female with beautiful dark plum colored hair.

“I have the part of the tree stuck.” She says holding out her palm. In the center is a very large splinter. I take her hand in mine, washing dirt from the area, then with a fine needle and tweezers I remove several splinters, pouring a disinfectant on it and finally casting a heal spell.

“Please tell me your name, Miss.” I request.

“Petra Macneary. I am with the Black Eagles.”

“Ahh yes, one of the three houses here at the school. I am pleased to meet you. I think you will do well, please let me know if you see any redness in the area or continue to feel pain in the next few days.“ I wrap a bandage around her hand, “This is to remind you to be careful with that hand today. You can take it off this evening and should be fine.

“I am thankful.” she says bounding out of the room at a healthy speed.

Manuela is pleased with my work. She helps me fill out the paperwork for Petra.

 A tall red-headed student comes running in, looking exasperated. His hand is on the back of his head, covered in blood.

“I think that’s my cue to get some lunch. I’ll be back. You’ll do fine.” Professor Casagrande says, sashaying out the door.  “Bye Sylvain.”

“Hey where ya going?” He says watching her leave. “I’m happy to assist you.” My voice soft and reassuring as I step around the corner.

“Hey! Yeah. Good to meet you. You must be the new cleric.” Sylvain says as he turns to follow me. I notice him looking me up and down.

“You look, uh, nice.” The redhead comments.

Nice? I look nice? I’m covered head to toe in loose clothes. I bet he can’t tell if I am male or female. I move behind him to place a towel behind his neck, over his shoulders and down his front to prevent further soiling of his student uniform.

“Lean over this bowl please.” I instruct him. As he bends over with his head over the bowl I slowly pour water over his scalp, removing much of the blood that is covering the back of his pate, revealing a slice to his skin on his skull about three fingers long. Head wounds bleed profusely, a cut like this is nothing serious as long as it is kept clean. The cold water also assists with slowing the bleeding and calming the patient. Wrapping another towel around his head I ask him to lie on the cot, face down, so that I can work on the wound.

He lies face down with his hands folded, his forehead resting on the back of his hands so that he can speak.

“What brings an adorable healer like you doing in a place like this.” The redhead taunts.

“What are your symptoms? Only pain in the immediate area? Dizzyness? Nausea?” I pick through his hair, moving it out of the way to fully expose the wound.

“Now that your hands are on me, I’m feeling real good.” He schmoozes.

I decide the wound needs to be disinfected properly and pour alcohol straight into the bloody cut.

Hands suddenly reach up to cover the back of his head as he yells. “That burns!”

I smack his hands and prevent them from touching the wound.

“Hands off. You’re putting germs in the gash.” I chastise him, reaching for a cloth to moisten. Placing it on the back of his head I use a chilling spell to make it cold and assist in reducing the swelling so that I can begin to sew it back together.

“You could have done that first, geez.” He groans.

“Telling me how to do my job? If you know so much I’ll leave for lunch then.” I head for the door.

“Okay, okay. Sheesh.” He puts his hands back under his forehead.

Removing the cloth I swiftly stitch the wound shut, then concentrate healing magic on the area to help the wound close.

“How did you get the cut?” I ask.

“I was sparring and another student broke a lance, a piece cut me. No dramatic saving a princess story, sorry.”

“You are Sylvain, last name?”

“Gautier.” He says flatly.

“I have heard of it. Let me think.” Putting a finger on my chin, I remember. “Ahhh. The stinky cheese. How apropos.” “Thanks good to meet you too.” The wounded warrior says sarcastically.

“How are you feeling now? Would you like to lie down for a while? If you are dizzy please stay there, I don’t want you falling over breaking open my hard work.” I say, heading to the desk pulling out the folder for Sylvain, noting the injury and treatment.

Returning to the tall student’s side I check and there is no further bleeding from the wound.

“Can you sit up for me.?” I ask.

He complies.

Tilting his head back I look at his pupils. I move my finger left and right, asking him to follow it.  He looks fine. He is trying to look into my hood, but the top blocks his view of my eyes.

“I can’t bandage it, so please be careful.” I give my infection prevention speech. “Don’t comb your hair near the wound. Don’t wear a hat. Soap for your hair is fine, but don’t put any oils in it for a few days. I can take the stitches out in about 48 hours. Drink lots of water. Any questions?”

He wants to ask many questions, but at this point he bites his tongue. “Understood.”

When I escort him to the door I notice drops of blood in the hallway. Gathering the towels that were used on Sylvain, I clean the blood drops all the way down the hall, stairs and small hallway into the building. Returning to the empty infirmary I toss the towels and dirty cloths in the wash, then throw out the soiled water cleaning everything.

 Manuela soon returns and dismisses me for lunch. I find the dining hall and grab a plate of food. This is amazing. It has flavor. It has recognizable meat. There are big tasty vegetables and spice So goooood. I grab a piece of fruit for a snack later. The students are in class and the room is quiet. Seteth enters from the door closest to the fishing pond.

“How is your first day?” The tall clergyman inquires.

“I am pleased with how well the infirmary is stocked. It certainly keeps me busy. By the way, does someone regularly check the kitchens to be certain they are stocked with some medical supplies? Not for major injuries of course, those should be taken to the infirmary, but smaller cuts, burns etc.”

“I believe the head cook does keep some items there. That is a good idea to make certain they have a few healing items on hand. Thank you.” Seteth says as he heads to the kitchen.  

 I take the empty dishes back and return to the infirmary. Manuela leaves to teach a class.

 Treating minor sprains, cuts and bruises the remainder of the afternoon keeps me quite busy. The end of the workday finally arrives. I notice that there are several healing tomes and reference books that are kept within the infirmary. I ask Manuela if I may borrow them at night.

“Certainly, my dear, the more you can do the less I have to do! Just bring them back in the morning.” She smiles. “I will be late in the morning. I have another appointment.” She says loudly as she heads out the door, humming a tune to herself as she heads down the hallway.

 My room is on the first floor, three doors down from Manuela. I’m glad I am not next door as apparently she sings quite often in her room. I have my own bed, with blankets and sheets and a pillow. A dresser for clothing as well as a wardrobe. I even have a key for my door. Privacy and security. I have not had either of those in a very long time. This is going to be a good year.

[clericbyers]

you know whats an underrated trope? mike deciding to teach will how to kiss

“Have you ever kissed someone before?”

Will sputters around his juice and spends about a minute recovering from the shock of the question. He turns to Mike, who is flipping through a book nonchalantly as if the question is as simple as asking what color is the sky. “Uh, why are you asking this?”

“I’m just curious.” Mike looks up with innocence in his eyes. “You’ve never mentioned it before.”

“I don’t kiss and tell unlike someone I know.”

Mike rolls his eyes and closes the book with a resounding clap. “More like you don’t kiss so there’s nothing to tell.”

“Hey! Sorry I don’t stick my tongue in everyone’s mouth willy nilly.”

“Neither do I,” Mike retorts with a huff. Will begs to differ; since Mike and El broke up for the final time freshman year, Mike sort of turned into some kind of hot shot around school. Will could understand; hell, he’s been crushing on Mike since they were gangly kids with squeaky voices and Mike was definitely not high on the general hotness totem pole in school, and now that Mike grew stupid tall and insanely handsome and lets his hair fall in curls more, Will can understand the school body obsession even though some part of him is like, hey, I was here first, back off, he’s mine.

“Anyway, you didn’t really answer my question and pure curiosity doesn’t make you ask your friend if he’s kissed someone.”

Mike shrugs. “You know I really haven’t kissed that many people. The rumors are nice though. Makes me feel like I’m doing more with my time than I actually am.”

“I specifically remember you saying you made out with Betty during lunch three months ago.”

“Dustin said I did because he watched us go into the broom closet together but I promise you, we did nothing.” Mike crosses his fingers with a pout. “You know I spend, like, 80% of my day with you.”

“And in the remaining 20% you go off making out with girls.”

“Not girls.”

And wow, what the–. Will blinks twice, opens his mouth to say something, shuts it, hums, opens his mouth again, and still doesn’t know what to say. Mike laughs though. “Dude, I thought you knew.”

“You’ve literally never stated you had any interest in guys and all the rumors are about girls!”

“When a girl pushes a gay guy into a broom closet and tries to make out only for him to say he has no interest, she’ll make up a rumor so she’s not the ‘one girl he wouldn’t kiss’.” Mike leans back with a sigh. “The guys stay real quiet about it, though. Don’t want any rumors around school about them kissing boys.”

Will really cannot understand the direction this conversation has gone but there’s a good portion of his thoughts lingering on the fact that Mike likes boys and who likes boys, too? Will. Will likes boys. Will is extremely gay and in love with Mike and the only reason why he never thought they could be a thing was because he thought Mike liked girls. But now, Will knows Mike is gay and oh, wow Mike really doesn’t see him that way since he’s known Will’s gay for years now and never did anything.

Fuck.

“So, you kiss boys.” Will mumbles as he stares into his cup.

Mike hums. “Yeah. And, uh, I only bring that up though because you said you haven’t kissed anyone.”

Will’s a little confused. “And?”

“I kiss boys, you wanna kiss boys. I know how to kiss, you don’t know how to kiss. Does it add up for you?”

Will counts to four and then chugs down his juice as his throat dries up from Mike’s implications. “You want to teach me how to kiss.”

“Yeah, so you know how to kiss your ideal boyfriend.”

Mike, you oblivious nut, my ideal boyfriend is you. “Okay.”

Mike blinks. “Oh. Oh, I, uh. I didn’t expect to get this far.” He wipes the palm of his hands on his jeans and then pats the couch cushion next to him. “Alright. C’mere.”

Will is frozen in his seat, eyes wide as he stares at the cushion next to Mike. “Now?”

“No, in fifty years when my teachings become irrelevant. Yes, now.”

“Now now or now in like a minute?”

“Will,” Mike groans, “if you don’t want me to teach you, you can say no. I understand it might be a little weird to kiss your best friend but, really it’s fine. No worries. It’s just me.”

Yeah, it’s you and that’s the problem. But Will just nods and sets his cup on the table before making his way to Mike’s side. He tries his best not to make eye contact like an idiot, but is forced to when Mike pinches his side and says, “Hey, look up here.”

Will should have said no. He really should have, because now he’s so close to Mike and he can see the dark flecks of brown in his already rich brown eyes, and he can count the freckles on his face and see the pink blush coating the other boy’s pale cheeks. “First off,” he says, taking a hand to Will’s face and positioning him a little straighter, “you need to know that noses are a thing and you’re gonna have to tilt your head to avoid the worst of the collision.”

“Like this?” Will tilts his head left a little and Mike nods.

“Yeah. I’ll go to my left, too, so we’re tilted at opposite sides.” Mike does as he says he would. “Kissing is like slotting your lips together so you gotta be at the corresponding angles for it to work best.” He smiles and Will’s heart leaps. “Now, height is another thing. You’re still on the shorter side when it comes to guys so you’ll most likely be kissing someone taller than you. Good thing I’m your teacher, huh?”

Mike, who had another stupid growth spurt and now surpasses 6 feet in height. Will can only nod and squeak out a small, “Yes.”

“Okay, so, make eye contact, tilt your head to the side, and now height difference. Since you’re shorter, you’ll have to tilt your chin up to reach the other guy.” Mike takes one of his hands to Will’s chin and gently tilts his face up. Will is going to die right here and now. “It’s kind of a romantic thing for the taller person to tilt the other person’s head up, but it’s also equally as romantic for the shorter person to tug the taller person down by either the back of their head,” Mike takes one of Will’s hands and curls it around the back of his head and oh god, his hair is so soft and curly, “or the back of the neck.” Mike brings Will’s hand down to the back of his neck and Will can feel the goosebumps there. It kind of makes him a little less nervous to know Mike is nervous, too.

“Eye contact, tilting my head sideways, slotting our lips together, and understanding our height difference,” Will parrots back in a voice he’s never really heard himself use before. It’s a little rough and husky and Mike blinks a few times before turning bright red.

“Yeah,” he breathes, eyes sliding toward Will’s lips before he subconsciously licks his own. He brings his eyes back up and then smiles. “Ah, wow. Okay. Um, then you just lean in and press your lips together.”

“That’s it?”

“I mean there’s different ways but for starters, it’s just lip touching.” Mike shrugs and then takes his hand to Will’s chin. “I’m going to tilt your face up. You can tangle your fingers in my hair, too if you like, I don’t care.”

Will drags his hand back up into Mike’s luscious locks, his other resting on Mike’s thigh, and then smirks. “Didn’t know you were into hair pulling.”

“There’s still a lot of things you don’t know about me,” Mike whispers huskily before covering Will’s hand with his own, leaning in, and closing the gap between them in a single breath.

Will’s eyes flutter shut even though he’d really like to keep them open and see Mike’s face as he kisses him. It’s instinct, he supposes, to close off one sensory input to focus directly on the way Mike’s lips feel against his own. It’s just lips touching lips, nothing more than that, but Will feels like his heart is soaring. He’s heard all these rumors from girls whispering to each other about kissing Mike Wheeler when in fact, they haven’t. Will has. Will has kissed Mike Wheeler and yeah, it’s just Mike teaching Will how to kiss his ideal boyfriend, which is funnily enough Mike so this entire teaching session is apropos, but still. Will is kissing Mike and it’s the best thing ever.

Mike starts to pull away after a few seconds of contact but Will doesn’t want to let go and leans up into it a bit more. The other boy huffs a laugh against Will’s lips, parting his in the process, and then presses in again, taking Will’s upper lip between his own. The grip on Will’s chin slides into a caress of his cheek and the hand atop his on Mike’s thigh twines fingers with Will’s. Oh, oh. Will can feel a little nibble of teeth against his lip and he parts his a little more to take Mike’s bottom lip between his in turn. Mike hums and kisses him again, harder, a little more open mouthed and more movement of his lips capturing Will’s own. Will can feel Mike’s nose pressing into his cheek, his hot breath against his face and mouth, smell the scent of his cologne and natural musk, and god, Will is really going to die right here and now.

Will tightens his grip on Mike’s hair, pulling just a little as he feels his sense of reality slipping away from him, and Mike…Mike moans against his lips and Will can feel his entire soul escape his body in the process. He doesn’t even really know what he’s doing anymore, but he needs more Mike, he needs more of his mouth, more of his moans, more of everything. He presses in harder, using his hand on Mike’s thigh to position himself a little closer and basically clambers into Mike’s lap. Mike releases Will’s face from his grip and settles his hands on either side of Will’s waist, gripping him tightly as he continues the kiss. Now, Will is a little taller and Mike has to tilt up so Will tilts his head by pulling at his hair. Mike moans again, and fuck, Will’s spine is tingling and his face is burning and his chest is singing for air that he refuses to breathe in because he doesn’t want to detach himself from Mike’s lips.

The hot, wet sounds of their kissing permeates the room and fuels Will’s energy far more than anything else could. He groans into Mike’s mouth when the boy nips at his bottom lip, finds he kinda likes it when he can feel the trace of Mike’s teeth against his mouth, and then nearly gasps when Mike’s tongue dances against his lips. Oh, fuck. Will breaks the kiss with a gasp because he really needs air now before he passes out and Mike blinks out of his stupor, probably confused about why things have stopped now but his lips are so plump and wet from kissing and wow, Will did this to him. Will made him look so rumpled and taken apart.

Will can’t help himself when he goes back in for another kiss, making some strangled noise when Mike melts under him and deepens the kiss into heavy territory. He can taste Mike now when the boy has his tongue in his mouth, taste the lingering spice from the chips he was eating earlier, taste the underlying flavor of Mike Wheeler that’s consuming all his senses at the moment. Will is so screwed, so screwed but he can’t care at the moment as he makes out with his best friend, the one guy he’s wanted for so much of his life he can’t imagine wanting anyone else.

Mike starts pressing back a little firmer, taking a hand to Will’s back before he breaks off the kiss and pushes him backwards until Will falls onto his back with an oof. Will’s a little dazed, trying to figure out why exactly he’s on his back now but Mike hovers over him, hands on either side of his head with a knee between Will’s legs and his other framing Will’s left leg and fuck, this is so hot. Mike looks so goddamn good leaning over Will with his tangled mess of hair draped over his face and his eyes half-hooded and lips still so plush and face pink with excitement and exertion. Will loves him so desperately in this moment.

Mike closes the gap between them with a lingering kiss, just taking Will’s bottom lip between his before turning to kiss his cheek. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything,” Will breathes out because he’s so whipped.

“I lied.” Mike kisses his lips again, his breath dancing over Will’s mouth. “I didn’t want to teach you how to kiss just any ideal boyfriend.”

Will is way too kiss drunk to be thinking right now. “You…what?”

“Do you know that you’re absolutely gorgeous?” Mike presses a series of kisses against the corner of Will’s lips and then hums. “You’ve been driving me up the wall for years now.”

“I–what?” Will tries to speak again but Mike kisses him and Will kinda just falls into the motions. It’s addicting, kissing Mike. He doesn’t want to stop but this conversation sounds kind of serious. “Wait, Mike, hold up. What are you talking about?”

“I like you, Will. Like a lot. A fuckton.” Mike smiles and it makes the whole world light up like a fire. “And I’ve been dying to kiss you since at least the 7th grade so when you said you haven’t kissed anyone I kinda just,” he shrugs and then smiles shyly. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Will is going to scream. “You like me? You like me?”

“Yeah.”

“And you never said anything?”

“You never seemed like you had an interest and you kept trying to push me with El and other girls.”

“Because I thought you were straight and could never like me.” Will breathes out a heavy sigh. “So, you’re telling me the 80% of your day you spend with me could have been spent doing this all this time?”

“I guess I am.”

Will smiles and pulls Mike down to him with a hand at the nape of his neck. “Well, get back to teaching me how to kiss my boyfriend then.”

Mike grins, nuzzling his nose against Will’s and Will is so lucky, oh so fucking lucky. Eat that, Hawkins High student body. “It would be my pleasure.”

[writer-and-artist27]

Chapter 19 Missing Scene

Note: Inspired by two specific chapters in a Fire Emblem: Three Houses fanfic I’ve been reading, titled Godspeed, and taking place between S&S 19 and 20. The ending specifically leads into the main conflict of S&S 20, now that I think on it. I took from this chapter of CYB too when writing. 

Let it be said I regret not writing the scene of Tomo gifting Obito cupcakes. So, I’m fixing it. 

Oh? You’re wondering where this came from? Dunno. Let it be said I have no clue where all this fluff comes from, especially with how the world is dealing with collective trauma. But this oneshot/interlude thingie is loosely based on an actual conversation I had with Josh and Leo when I was in high school, so there are emotions at least.

The theme song I recommend for this thingie is Qonell’s piano and vocal rendition of Credens Justitiam from Madoka. It’s the only thing I found that fit.

---------------------------

Staaaaaare. 

I fidgeted.

Staaaaaaaaaare. 

Is he going to let you in or not? Hisako said hotly.

Obito didn’t move when I gently gestured with the plate in my hands for him to take it. He merely kept his gaze fixated on the orange frosting and light white sprinkles covering all of the cupcakes there, his jaw slack enough to hit the floor if it could.

“Obi?” I tried gently.

Obito startled in place at his apartment doorstep, glancing to both sides as if to gauge if someone was watching before grabbing my hand. I did my best to retain my balance and hold onto the cupcakes as he pulled me into his home, eyes frantic as he used his other hand to lock the door behind us. “T-Tomo-chan,” he said slowly once he established we were alone, “this isn’t what I think it is, i-is it?”

Despite the anxiety starting to flood my veins, I still raised my delivery of a cupcake plate towards him. “I felt bad about you having to yell at me and Kei-chan yesterday, so I woke up early to make cupcakes to compensate for the trouble? And as a small apology?”

“I-It’s no trouble!” Obito yelped, his hand immediately letting go of mine to wave around in the air like a limp rag toy. “Sure, it sucked hearing you two talking yourselves down, but being there is what friends do!” His voice pitched upwards like he was in disbelief I was even here offering him something. And his cheeks were flushing red too. What was going on? “You didn’t have to do this, Tomo-chan!”

Oh. 

I sense insecurity here, Hisako added helpfully.

Aye. Outwardly, I smiled wryly and still offered the cupcake plate to him. “But I wanted to, Obi.”

Obito opened his mouth as if about to say something before stopping. Quite comically too. In any other place, it could’ve looked like he had turned to stone. And in any other situation, I would’ve laughed it off and called it a day, but this was still Obito. Obito was still a boy who, in another universe, was so touch-starved and lonely that it took one man manipulating everything for him to turn out evil. And I didn’t want that. I never did. 

“…Why, Tomo-chan?” Obito said finally, his eyebrows furrowed across his forehead. It was as if his mind had finally started turning enough gears to address me as the awkward elephant in the room. “You’re not getting anything out of this.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked honestly back, feeling confused. 

Obito throws his hands behind his head and turns away, gazing elsewhere in his apartment. It’s only then that I notice how musty the place smells. Dusty. Barely lived-in. Almost empty. It takes a bit of my self-control to not glance past his shoulder to survey the place. “You have a lot on your hands already, Tomo-chan,” he elaborated, his hands tightening their grip on each other behind his hair as he doesn’t meet my eyes. “Taking care of the café with Judai-jichan and Hikari-bachan, training with Kei and Hayate, working with Rin-chan in your off-time, and then handling… handling…” Obito attempts to hold back a sigh but fails anyway, exhaling loudly through his nose as he breathes out, “Bakashi,” and I try not to wince at the bad nickname. Grudges were still present, apparently. “So why come here? Why make cupcakes for me?”

Hisako blinks behind her gray glasses as whatever witty retort she had on her tongue is lost in the shared surprise. He thinks you should be spending your time elsewhere. Her voice came out incredulous in our shared mindscape. He thinks he… Oh, Obito. 

I shook my head. “I wanted to, Obi,” I began, my voice quieter in an attempt to be gentle. I had no clue if it was working, but it was enough to make Obito turn to meet my eyes. “You helped me out, so I wanted to do something in exchange. That’s all.”

Obito still frowned. “Friendship isn’t just give and take, Tomo-chan,” he said in the same quiet voice, making him sound all the more serious, but one of his arms still twitched, his gaze flickering between my face and the cupcakes still in my hand. “Friendship is just us enjoying our time together, helping out when we can. You don’t have to keep giving us things just for us to come after you.”

My heart beat at that and I smiled. “That doesn’t stop me from giving you these cupcakes, Obi.”

“You’re not listening!” I jump once Obito rounds on me with a scowl, his voice loud with protest. “You’re always giving things, Tomo-chan! Even when you’re hurting and struggling! You don’t have to do that! We all care for you too! Just…” he simmers down as if he lost steam at the last part, lowering his gaze to the carpet of his apartment. “Why? Why put in all the effort?”

Why try…? Hisako filled in, her tone screaming understanding and sadness all at once. 

I already knew by Obito’s outburst that it was a delicate moment. I was walking on eggshells and anything else could ruin things. 

Like it did with Ty. 

So, without anything to back me up, I said in the same small voice, apropos of nothing, “Because you all deserve nice things and I love you?”

Obito stilled at that. He raised his head to look at me, for real this time, his black eyes wide enough to expose my reflection in the irises.

My tiny nervous reflection.

I tried not to think of a certain other black-haired boy who I loved once, blocking out his voice in my head to open my mouth. “…There’s been times where I look at everyone’s backs and find them looking lonely,” I admitted, shaking my head. “And considering how I’m a civilian and everyone else is shinobi, I just…wanted to give something back, is all.” It still felt like an excuse in the back of my mind, but at the same time, I knew I meant every single word. “There’s so much you all will go through in life away from Konoha, away from the café, Obi. So, if I could do something to help make everyone feel a bit better, a bit happier in spite of the war,” I put on a small smile while offering the cupcakes to him, “that’s enough of a reason, isn’t it?”

Obito blinked at me.

Feeling anxious, I found my thoughts coming out in rambles. “I-I mean, you and Kei and everyone else do a lot! I appreciate you still being here with me in spite of my weirdness, being my friend and caring, so um.” I ducked my head and thrust my hands forward, hoping the cupcakes got somewhere. Seriously, what was wrong with me? “Just take these. Please?”

A pregnant and awkward pause followed my outburst. My heart was pounding enough for the palms of my hands to get sweaty, and once it became obvious Obito wasn’t saying anything, I peeked up from between my bangs to try reading his expression. 

What’s going on? Hisako said for me.

“Obi?” I tried again, gulping. “I-If you don’t like vanilla cupcakes with buttercream frosting, I could try to do something—”

Words failed me once Obito took hold of one of my hands again. He proceeded to lead me into his apartment kitchen and without glancing up to meet my gaze, opened the fridge to gently take the cupcake plate off my other hand. He then placed it inside, probably on one of the shelves, before closing the fridge door and turning back to face me. 

Out of anything he could’ve done, I did not expect him to rush and tackle me into a tight hug. It took all I had to not squeak, inhaling as much air as I could to compensate for the year or two that was knocked out of me in the initial encounter while placing a hand on his back. My feet weren’t on the ground anymore, my calves feeling the cold air coming in from the open window. Sure, I could extend my toes to touch the floor, but… “Obi?”

There was a soft sniffle against the top of my hair. “Tomo-chan,” Obito said finally, my nickname coming out almost like a prayer of sorts as he squeezed me tighter, “Tomo-chan.” This time he gasped for air and I did my best to ignore the feeling of something wet starting to soak the shoulder of my blouse. “Tomo-chan.”

I think you shocked him, Hisako offered, a wry smile on her face. Has anyone said the things you have to him before, dear?

I thought back to Obito’s birthday and felt the realization hit me like cold water. No, I admitted to her, I don’t think anyone has. Except Kei and Hayate and Miyako-bachan and everyone else. 

Who weren’t here in the original Canon, dear, she reminded me almost immediately. Her voice is softer, comforting even. You’re doing good. You’re helping a friend out, so don’t stay here all stiff. 

I wound my arms around Obito’s waist back, hugging him. “Aye aye,” I say softly, resting my nose into the crook between his shoulder and neck. “I’m here, Obi.”

Obito snorts, and this time a hand is on the back of my head, tightening the hug and giving the clear signal that he didn’t want me to let go. “Tomo-chan,” he repeats, a sound caught between a gurgle and a happy sob of sorts following the call of my nickname, “y-you really are—”

“I try, Obi,” I settle for instead, patting his back. “I try. It’s okay.”

I didn’t think I had the courage to let go either. 

Obito didn’t seem to want to point out the little wet droplets covering the shoulder of his jacket once I snuggled him, but at that point, I’m glad he didn’t. 

I could push out bad thoughts and Ty a bit longer with moments like this. 

---------------------------

By the time I woke up the next morning to start work, no one in the house but me seemed surprised to hear knocking at the kitchen window. 

“Go get him, sweetie...” Mama muttered from hers and Papa’s shared room once the knocking went past a minute.

Shaking sleep dust out of the corners of my eyes, I drew my short hair into a messy ponytail to run out to the source, nearly balking once a familiar pair of orange goggles caught my eye.

Blue jacket tipped with orange hems and hitai-ite, check. 

“Hi, Tomo-chan!” Obito chirped through the glass, knocking on it again. “Can you let me in?”

I didn’t have the heart to refuse him. “Good morning to you too, Obi,” I said in fond exasperation, shaking my head. “Use the door next time if you want to join us for breakfast.”

Obito just beamed at me. 

[caiminnent]

shadow play [shaundes, rated T]

Prompt: surrender (1/25) [metaphorically speaking]

Summary: A discussion about tattoos and permanence that gets sidetracked in the best possible way.

Fandom: Assassin’s Creed

Tags: Friends with Benefits to Lovers, Relationship Discussions, Mutual Pining, Tattoos

Note: Also written and posted as an entry for @denydesmondsdeathday​, which I seem to have forgotten to tag. #justCaithings

2.4K || Also on AO3.

He likes to touch Desmond’s tattoos in the dark.

It’s not an accomplishment, per se—he is far from the first person to learn the topography of Desmond’s marked skin, won’t be the last—but there’s still an odd pride to it, being able to trace the black lines spanning across his shoulder blades, swirling up his arm without having to see them. Sometimes he imagines he can feel the texture of the art, the shadows and the sharp edges—that he could map out Desmond’s entire upper body with just his fingertips.

Desmond releases a long sigh, hugging his pillow closer, the movement drawing his shoulders tighter in. Whatever has been on his mind, keeping him up, he won’t say—and Shaun can’t ask, no matter how tempted he is. Especially because of how tempted he is. He’s already risking things by letting himself linger, not quite ready to draw the night to a close; he can’t afford another indulgence.

Running a finger down a long line from the back of Desmond’s shoulder, carefully avoiding where it tickles, “How did you end up with tattoos?” he asks instead. He might not be able to give Desmond some peace of mind, but he can offer distraction. That one he’s good for.

Desmond makes an amused grunt. “Thought you’d never ask,” he says with half a mouth, muffled against the pillow. Another drawn-out sigh and he’s slowly pushing himself up on his hands, stretching out his back like a cat. Putting on a show, almost.

He hardly minds.

Desmond settles back on an elbow, mirroring Shaun, barely more than an outline against all the white. He doesn’t speak again, though; the air growing heavy with something Shaun can’t identify but dislikes all the same as Desmond stares at the patch of sheet between them, his expression blurred back into the dimness of the room with the distance.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he offers, heart at his feet. Leave it to him to find the one topic that would make Desmond uncomfortable. Congratulations, really. Very well done.

Desmond shakes his head. “No, no, it’s not that.” He shifts again, this time to reach over the gap and lay a hand down, right next to Shaun’s on the sheet. “Keep touching? Please?”

As if he could deny Desmond anything.

He drags a finger up his wrist, forearm, sliding over that twist of ink over the muscle he can always find so easily. The lines aren’t as sharp here, the angles not as precise. Were they drawn in a hurry? Did Desmond move too much, filled with restless energy or twitching at each bite of the needle?

“I got this one first,” Desmond starts, as Shaun traces one of the longer lines, twirling at the end. “On my nineteenth birthday. I was supposed to work that night, but the boss—bless her heart—she put some money in my pocket and sent me on my way, told me to go have fun with my friends.” He huffs out a little chuckle, entirely joyless. “Only, I didn’t have friends. Didn’t have anyone I could celebrate with, didn’t have anywhere to go except my shithole of an apartment—which I really didn’t wanna go back to. So, I took to wandering.”

It’s easy enough to imagine: Desmond in his teens, walking up a storm on the streets of New York with his hands deep in his pockets, lips curled into that scowl that really only comes out when he thinks no one’s there to see.

His stomach churns.

“Then you saw a tattoo shop,” he guesses, following the same path up.

“Then I saw a tattoo shop,” Desmond confirms. Pauses, before adding, “I know it’s not... tasteful, or anything, but—it was mine, y’know? Something I’d picked for myself that no one could ever take away from me. It was... I dunno.” Shrugs a shoulder. “It was big, at the time.”

He understands the feeling.

In theory, at least. The wish for something bold and tangible and his, a middle finger to anyone who sneered and snickered at him for being who he is and wanting what he wants—that he understands. Getting it etched onto his skin for everyone to judge, however? That takes a kind of impulsiveness he only wishes for in secret.

What would that be like, even? Doing things without twisting yourself into knots? Deciding that you want something and just—getting it?

Desmond brushes the back of a finger underneath his wrist, oddly reassuring. “Is that the good kind of silence?”

If only he knew. “It’s not the bad kind,” is all he can allow. “It sounds... terrifying, is all.”

“Terrifying?” Desmond repeats on a low laugh.

“I mean...” He waves a hand vaguely, racking his brain to find the right words. “It’s a tattoo,” he settles on at last—rather lamely, he might add. His way with words never stepped outside of a classroom door, much less inside a bedroom. “It’s permanent—or as close to it as it gets, I suppose. It’ll be there long after us—after you, even—and you decided to get one on a whim. I don’t think I could ever be so…”

“Reckless?”

He rolls his eyes. “I was going to say spontaneous. Though, yes; that, too.”

That finger is still running back and forth, a teasing touch right under his pulse, starting to build something warm low in his belly. He wants to kiss Desmond. No secondary intent, not to get anywhere; kissing only to enjoy the feeling, Desmond’s warmth against his—and maybe fall asleep in the same bed after, just once. Just to see what it would be like to wake up there, curled up around Desmond or Desmond curled up around him, nowhere to rush to or run away—

Well, if that’s not his cue to get the hell out of here before he makes a fool of himself.

Rolling onto his back, he reaches for the alarm clock on the nightstand and slides it over with his fingertips to squint at the numbers, just this side of careless—even he has his moments. Well past one in the morning; earlier than the weight settled onto his bones suggested, late enough to be his excuse.

“Looks like we’ll have to leave the story of the back piece to another day after all,” he says, putting it back down in favour of the light switch above—blinks, the sudden brightness stabbing at his brain.

“You’re leaving?” Desmond asks—oddly put off, by the sound of it. What else did he even expect?

Throwing the covers off himself, “I should if I want to get some sleep,” he points out, stepping out before he can change his mind. Before the temptation to stay under the covers becomes too great.

Glasses, phone, his bag over by the door, his coat on the rack—where the hell are his clothes?

“In the closet,” Desmond says before he can ask. “I put them away while you were in the shower.”

Huh. Since when does Desmond care about tidying up?

“Thanks,” he says anyway, heading over to the closet—where his shirt and trousers are carefully placed on hangers, the bottom two buttons of the shirt done up like he prefers, his sweater sitting neatly folded on the rack above.

Something not unlike foreboding twists in his gut.

See, he has never seen the point of not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Call it paranoia; he cannot receive something nice and not poke and prod at every opening until he’s sure it’s meant in kindness. He doesn’t like surprises, doesn’t like getting caught off-guard—he does not like not being able to read Desmond’s expression as Desmond watches him through the full-length mirror, sitting up against the headboard with the covers pooled in his lap.

He needs to get out—fast.

Turning away from the mirror, he puts his focus entirely on dressing out of Desmond’s clothes into his own, buttoning up his shirt like he’s being timed on it. The very air is tense with anticipation—for what, he can’t tell, nor does he want to find out. For once, he doesn’t.

“So, after us, huh?” Desmond says—apropos of nothing, for all that he sounds as if continuing an interrupted conversation.

It takes Shaun longer than he would like to admit, to figure out what the hell Desmond’s talking about. “What of it?”

“That really what you think?” Desmond asks, serious like he never is. The feeling in his gut intensifies. “That this—” Gestures at the room as a whole, the open space between them. “—is temporary?”

Bitter laughter bubbles up in his chest. He pushes it down before it can escape, the pressure making it difficult to breathe. Is this what you think, Desmond asks—like what he thinks matters. Like what he thinks changes any damn thing here. It must be a joke, right. It must be a joke, because Desmond can’t be bloody serious.

If it is a joke, though, it’s a very cruel one.

Suddenly self-conscious with words like us hanging over their heads, he turns away from Desmond and the mirror both, back to the closet. “More lovers than you could keep track of,” he lists as he shoves his legs into his trousers, no trace of the resentment gathering and thickening in his chest making it to his tone, thankfully. “Not knowing how to do the ‘domestic stuff’. I’ve never learned how to stay still. I can read between the lines, Desmond.”

“I’m not denying what I said,” Desmond says—dares to sound upset, as if Shaun is being the difficult one here.

Cinching his belt, he reaches for his sweater. “Then we’ve got nothing to talk about.”

Behind him, the bed groans as Desmond steps out of it. He can’t help tensing at the slow approach, Desmond’s footsteps too loud in the still of the night.

Desmond touches Shaun’s arm, hardly more than a caress.  “I think we do, Shaun.”

He panics.

There’s no other word for the fist that grips his heart and throat both, his hand tightening instinctively around the fabric of his sweater. God, of course. Of course he’s already fucked up, given himself away—how could he have not? He’s transparent, obvious, subtle as a brick to the face and Desmond—

Desmond’s too gentle to let him down any other way.

“Shaun?” Desmond urges softly, his hand a light pressure on Shaun’s arm—not a weight but an anchor, grounding. “Look at me, please?”

He doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to face Desmond, doesn’t know what his face will do if he does. If this is the end, he’d much rather leave with at least some of his pride intact.

Nonetheless, he turns.

Desmond’s watching him with open wariness, as if Shaun is a bloody caged animal, something to tread carefully with—the door a mere three steps behind Desmond. He could leave. Desmond wouldn’t follow if he did, just walked past him out of the room, the house. Avoided Bad Weather and anywhere else they could potentially come across, left this all behind.

He couldn’t, though; he knows he couldn’t even as he’s thinking it. He’s too greedy not to latch onto this—too needy to let it go.

“Look, it’s fine,” he sighs before Desmond can get a word in, running a hand through his wild hair. “You didn’t sign your life away by kissing me first; that’s not how this works. We don’t have to be more than—whatever the hell we are now.”

“But you want to be?”

Christ, Desmond can be worse than a bloodhound on a trail sometimes. “What does it even matter? I’ve already said I’m not going to tie you down. It’s fine.” Nothing has to change. Just leave it.

The slow smile that spreads over Desmond’s face is a rare kind, small but no less bright for it. He brushes tentative fingers over Shaun’s lips—Shaun’s breath stutters against them, his heart seizing. “What if I don’t want it to be fine?”

Oh.

Perhaps he’s been a bigger idiot than even he thought.

Desmond slowly slides his hands down onto Shaun’s chest, thumbing the top button. “I know what I said before,” he murmurs, meeting his gaze briefly, as if for permission, before he undoes it. The next one. The next. “You have every reason not to put faith in me. But—things have changed. For me. In here.” He rests a hand on Shaun’s chest, sizzling on the naked skin and there’s no way, no way, that he can’t feel the stupid beat of Shaun’s heart under his palm, hard and rabbit-fast— “Is it bold of me to hope they did for you, too?”

He can’t breathe.

He should be happy. Hell, he should be ecstatic, dizzy with joy instead of the wet, cold fear latched onto his insides, rooting his feet to the spot. It’s not usual for him, is the thing. To get what he wants. This—it can’t be—nothing is ever so easy. These things always come with a catch, some sort of a trap—consequences he can’t always foresee. He’s not like Desmond; he can’t just leap into things.

Desmond’s smile is dimmed with the hesitation creeping back into his eyes, his hand pausing over the last button above his waistband—and Shaun did that, right, with his paranoia. His useless anxiety.

Must he talk himself out of every good thing?

Swallowing against the burn up his throat, he lays a hand over Desmond’s; not an apology, not quite, but the closest thing to one he can give. “Do you even know what you’re offering?” he asks, matching Desmond’s tone. Do you even know what you’re getting yourself into?

“Not really,” Desmond admits on a quick, breathy laugh. “Think we can find out together?”

He’s not ready for the jolt that passes through his heart, nor the weight in his chest that he’s not quite ready to name—too light to be what it was, too deep to be anything else. Insufferable and exhilarating at the same time. Too familiar.

Sucking in his bottom lip, Desmond meets his eyes again—it’s the same everything cluttering up his insides reflected back in them; the hesitation, the uncertainty. The fear. “You don’t have to say it. I don’t need pretty words or promises. Just—” The last button, undone—leaving him bared. “Stay.”

“Okay,” he whispers—and isn't that an admission. “Okay.”

[hermannsthumb]

47. our first date goes horribly so i don’t know why i say yes to a second date, and now, we’re stuck at the diner until the snow slows down and i’m having fun

47. our first date goes horribly so i don’t know why i say yes to a second date, and now, we’re stuck at the diner until the snow slows down and i’m having fun

from winter writing prompts here

okay i really enjoyed this one and it got to over 2.5k SO in the hopes of saving people lengthy scrolling i posted it to ao3 instead!

-----------------------

Like, the thing is, as much as it sucks, Newt kinda went into this whole thing knowing he was gonna fuck it up somehow. He holds no illusions about his charisma, or his ability to maintain a stable, cohesive line of conversation, or even the general fucking fact that he tends to overwhelm people within five minutes of meeting them. His relationship with Hermann was (important indicator here: was) good for that reason–Hermann never had to put up with him in person. He never had to find out that Newt sometimes gets so excited about something he can’t help but interrupt whoever it is he’s talking to, or rants about anything and everything that crosses his mind, or cracks weird jokes when he’s nervous. He never had to hear Newt’s (shrill) voice. He never had to see Newt’s (cool, but probably tasteless) tattoos. 

It never felt like blatant deception. Newt wasn’t going to start out a letter to Hermann like hey, man, I sound like a symphony of kazoos and one time I got tossed out of a TGI Friday’s because I drank too much at happy hour and started ranting about the mating habits of salamanders. It just…wasn’t the right kind of medium for that.

The way Hermann’s looking at him now, though, is making Newt reconsider.

read the rest on ao3 here

[wistfulcynic]

Three Non-Blondes, Art-y Version

It’s not Sunday, but here’s another re-post of an old(er) fic, now with art. 

Summary: Mary Margaret is certain that her fiancé's sister Emma and his best friend Killian are perfect for each other. What she doesn't know is that they think so too. Matchmaking hijinks ensue. A silly, fluffy, trope-y bit of nonsense that doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense, but hey-ho, it’s fun. 

Part 2 of my Secret Things series.

Chapters: 4 

Words: 10k

Rating: T

AO3 | Tumblr: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 

Part One: 

David turned away from the bar and moved carefully back to the booth where his friends were waiting, balancing the three beers in his hands with an expertise born of long experience. He set them on the table with a flourish. “Not a drop spilled,” he said proudly.  

“Well done, mate,” said Robin, picking up one of the glasses and raising it in tribute. David’s grin flashed brightly then dimmed as he noticed that someone was missing.

“Where’s Jones?”

Robin inclined his head towards the far corner of the room. Ah, thought David, following his friend’s gaze. Of course. Killian was standing with one hip against the vintage jukebox that was their neighbourhood pub’s pride and joy, leaning into the space of a willowy brunette, a wicked grin creasing his face as he whispered something in her ear. “Well, that’s him out for the night,” said David, sliding into the booth. “At least we get to drink his beer.”

“Every cloud,” grinned Robin, and they clinked their glasses together in toast.

A minute later their dastardly plans for Killian’s beer were foiled when the man himself appeared in the booth.

“Ah, is that for me? Excellent.” Killian picked up the glass and downed half of it before his friends could speak.

“What are you doing back here, mate?” asked Robin, “It looked like you were in there.”

“Hmmm?” Killian looked distracted, then seemed to remember. “Oh, right. Couldn’t be bothered.”

“Couldn’t be bothered?” repeated Robin in disbelief. He glanced at the brunette who was now sitting at the bar, arms crossed beneath a generous bosom, soft lips pouting, stunningly beautiful and clearly insulted. “She looks worth a bit of bother to me.”

“Well, you’re welcome to have a go,” smirked Killian, laughing as Robin blanched.

“I have my own brunette at home, thank you very much,” he said. And even the idea of cheating on her terrifies me, he very carefully didn’t say.

“So do I,” piped up David. “You know, you might consider keeping one around for a while, Killian. They’re a nice thing to come home to.”

“Thanks for your concern, mates, but I prefer to remain free of any romantic entanglements, brunette or otherwise,” said Killian firmly. “That one had marriage-y eyes.” He gave an elaborate shudder. “Not worth it.”

“‘Marriage-y eyes’?” repeated David. “Really?”

“Yes, really, Dave, and you know exactly what I mean by the expression. Mary Margaret has the worst case of marriage-y eyes I’ve ever seen.”

“Maybe that’s because we’re about to get married.”

“Aye, the only appropriate time to have them. And I’m sure we can all agree that two minutes into a conversation with a stranger who’s just trying to put a song on the jukebox is not an appropriate time to be very obviously choosing the place settings in one’s head, hmm?”

David and Robin had to agree that ‘marriage-y eyes’ in those circumstances seemed a bit premature.

“There we are then,” said Killian, returning his attention to his beer.

The men drank in silence for a moment.

“Although, now I think about it, you haven’t picked anyone up in a long time,” said David.

“Apropos of nothing,” Robin teased.

Killian heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Why this sudden lurid interest in my sex life, lads, are you not getting enough at home?” he taunted. “Need to live vicariously through my exploits?”

“Not at all,” said David.

“Quite the contrary,” said Robin.

“We’re just worried you’re not getting enough,” said David, with a grin that would have been pure evil on a less wholesome face.

“Your solicitude is touching,” said Killian drily, “But I assure you I am not suffering for lack of female company or attention, even without a brunette waiting at home. Now can we talk about something else, please?”

continue reading on Tumblr...  on AO3...

[steve0discusses]

Yugioh S3 Ep 38: Joey Takes Seto Out on a Pity Duel

Woo I’m back from Vancouver, which is a beautiful city--so freakin clean. Like I dunno if any Canadians read this blog but DAMN, it was so clean! It’s always nice to travel, be fancy, pig out on poutine, cry about how much you miss Uber, and pretend you’re another person for a little while, but at some point I had to come home, where, after the adrenaline of travel wore off, I realized I had actually been running a fever the entire time. (it was hard to tell yousee because there’s been a massive heatwave? It’s a long story)

So, I say this to explain that at some point during this week when I was a litttttttle out of it, I decided to put a Yugioh post together, and so it might be a little less than coherent than it normally is. But hey, it’s a short episode, and so I will leave it up to bro. If bro allows it, the post will go up, if bro tells me to go to hell to bed and take a break then I just won’t post anything and y’all can assume I was eaten by a bear in downtown Vancouver.

Bro’s decided Yugioh doesn’t make a whole ton of sense anyway so I guess we’ll be posting it.

So, where were we? That’s right, Kaiba lost a card game, which is like...most of what he does in this show.

Kaiba has had...a FEW meltdowns over the course of this show but in this one he’s decided it was high time to roll into a little ball and wallow in so much self pity, and it sure was a look that everyone else just had to kind of awkwardly watch.

(read more under the cut)

And then, he says, apropos of nothing, this exact line.

Kaiba, I swear.

On the other end of the field, Yugi and friends have decided to ignore this desperate plea for help and are just all smiles because this show loves nothing more than to dunk on Kaiba. It’s nice that no matter how much this show tries to make Kaiba into a relatable character that we should feel bad for, they will always go right back to just dunking on him, every single opportunity they get.

The kids are also thrilled that Joey’s no longer a victim in the hospital.

Don’t worry about it, Joey’s fine now, don’t think about it, it’s fine. This is very Joey Wheeler, who, despite being possessed and concussed so many times, seems to get through his entire, stressful life, completely free of all consequences. He’s fine.

And then, out of nowhere, Pharaoh just lets loose all this pent up angst he’s been harboring against Seto. the timing is just so weird because Seto’s like “I have no one to blame but myself” and Pharaoh’s like “oh are you open to suggestions? I have so many suggestions.” and just starts piling on unsolicited critiques like internet rando’s piling on an child’s art forum.

Like it’s been kind of a while since Pharaoh’s been this condescending--basically since Season 1--and he was loving it. It was still a very weird fight he and Seto had where basically everyone ganged up on Kaiba and demanded that Kaiba make more friends.

And it’s like guys...Seto’s having a hard time right now and his Dad and Brother died this morning, like...maybe instead of demanding he make friends with you, you just kinda...give him some space? Not like any of these kids would have any idea what personal space is considering they run into each other’s brains like 2 times a season.

It’s just the entitlement coming off of the Yugi team is sort of remarkable. Granted, Kaiba is an asshole, but like...was this necessary? No. But Pharaoh sure did it anyway.

And then Pharaoh threw Joey in there just to brag? It was just the weirdest humble brag cat fight between Yugi, who is arguably the most weird and unpopular kid in their school and Seto, who is just as unlikeable because he is a random ass college student that is attending a High School and yet can’t seem to accelerate past Yugi’s grade.

But anyways, this is an anime, so there must always be that one kid who just refuses to make friends with anyone (although he’s clearly the instigator of all their hang outs). Gotta have that trope of the tsundere friend.

And so at this point I guess Joey was feeling kinda bad for Kaiba, because he mentions that he was once much like Kaiba. Joey says he used to pick on people all the time and he didn’t want any friends, and I’d probably know more about that if I went back to Season Zero one of these days...but Joey decides to extend a hand in friendship. Which, going by Joey’s definition, means he decides to offer a duel that has no magic in it. A blessed, rare, thing.

That’s right, you read the title, Joey decides to take Seto out on a pity duel. There really is no other way to read this, Joey is just...so determined to make Seto feel better so he doesn’t jump directly off this tall structure like Seto has threatened to do once a season since this show began.

So, now that Joey has tricked Seto into a play date, everyone decided to get off the duel tower, and instead duel on this pile of rubble at the base of it that MUST be completely covered in seagull poop. It makes for a nice dystopian background. I mean how much rebar was in those buildings Seto blew up?

Also, I almost forgot that Marik’s “good” side has been inhabiting Tea.

And of course it was Tristan who noticed this and immediately jumped to the bathroom conclusion. He would.

He would.

In actuality, Marik decided to pay a visit to his sister to bring up something that has been bothering him for an entire season that I have completely forgotten about.

YEAH.

I mean there’s been a LOT of filler between that moment that Marik overheard his Sister tell everyone that Marik murdered their Dad over seeing a single picture of a motorcycle and now. So much filler that I would have assumed even Marik forgot at this point but nah, we’re gonna talk about this. We’re gonna talk abut this very heavy thing that has been weighing on Marik’s mind for probably several years now. The thing that pushed Marik off that ledge in the first place.

And that’s really all they seem to say about it. Marik seems pretty well adjusted to the fact that his evil half did this. Maybe after the time he’s been stewing in Tea’s bean, staring at that one parrot and his reflection in the ballet mirrors, Marik came to terms with how he murdered his own Dad.

Nice that he did that emotional beat offscreen, but this is Yugioh so that screentime got cut for more cards I guess.

So, Marik decides it’s time he use this Tea-quality gorilla strength and get to punching out his possessed body.

Oh hell it’s a fight scene with Tea.

Next update and every update will be me looking forward to this fight scene with Tea.

I know that the show hasn’t touched on other important things, like how Mokuba and Seto seem to be having a bit of a falling out, or how Pharaoh just saw himself die, or how Joey is still carrying around guilt from how much of an asshole he was in his past but like...

...I really want to see this fight scene with Tea.

Anyways if you just got here, this is a link to read the Yugioh journey from the beginning.