#but... deadlines and things are coming up and i suppose something is better than nothing

[jonnywaistcoat]

Hey, Horrormaster Sims. I have a wildly different question that barely relates to TMA (Sorry about that) but its about your own process. Please, if you could, can you tell me how your first drafts made you feel? I'm on the fence about writing my own thing (not a podcast, and again, not Magnus related, though I have a million little aus for that delightful tragedy you wrote, thank you for that!) But I'm discouraged by the collective notion that first drafts are always terrible, because there's no ... examples I can solidly use to help the dumb anxiety beast in my brain that tells me everyone who is in any way popular popped out a golden turd and not, well, you know. One of my friends said 'Oh I bet Jonathan Sims's first draft was nothing like what he wanted' and I got the bright idea to just. Send you an ask, since you're trapped on this hellsite like I am. Anyway, thanks for reading this (if you do) and if you'd rather ask it privately, I am cool with that. Alternatively, you're a hella busy man with Protocol (you and Alex are making me rabid, i hope you know) and you can just ignore this! Cheers, man, and good words.

To my mind all writing advice, especially stuff that's dispensed as truisms (like "first drafts are always garbage") are only useful inasmuch as such advice prompts you to pay attention to how you write best: what helps your workflow, what inspires you, what keeps you going through the rough bits. There are as many different ways to write (and write well) as there are people who write and so always consider this sort of thing a jumping off point to try out or keep in mind as you gradually figure out your own ways of writing.

On first drafts specifically, I think the wisdom "all first drafts are bad" is a bit of unhelpful oversimplification of the fact that, deadlines notwithstanding, no piece of writing goes out until you decide its ready, so don't get too hung up on your first draft of a thing, because a lot of writers find it much easier to edit a complete work than to try and redraft as they go. It's also important to not let perfectionism or the fact your initial draft isn't coming out exactly how you want stop you from actually finishing the thing, as it's always better to have something decent and done than to have something perfect and abandoned.

But the idea of a "first draft" is also kind of a fluid one. The "first draft" you submit to someone who's commissioned you will probably be one you've already done a bunch of tweaks and edits to, as opposed to the "first draft" you pump out in a frenzy in an over-caffeinated weekend. For my part, my first drafts tend to end up a bit more polished than most, because I'm in the habit of reading my sentences out loud as I write them (a habit picked up from years of audio writing) so I'll often write and re-write a particular sentence or paragraph a few times to get the rhythm right before moving to the next one. This means my first drafts tend to take longer, but are a bit less messy. I'm also a big-time planner and pretty good at sticking to the structures I lay out so, again, tend to front load a lot of stuff so I get a better but slower first draft.

At the end of the day, though, the important thing is to get in your head about it in a good way (How do I write best? what helps me make writing I enjoy and value? What keeps me motivated?) and not in a bad way (What if it's not good enough? What if everyone hates it? What if it doesn't make sense?) so that you actually get it done.

As for how my first drafts made me feel? Terrible, every one of 'em No idea if that's reflective of their quality, though, tbh - I hate reading my own writing until I've had a chance to forget it's mine (I can only ever see the flaws). I suppose there's theoretically a none-zero chance they were pure fragments of True Art and creative perfection, but Alex's editing notes make that seem unlikely.

[deathbxnny]

Hi! I really love your fic. Could you write oneshot reader x Viktor that reader has imposter syndrome and they blame themselves for little mistakes. How would Viktor comfort them?

The failed overachiever. | Viktor x Gn!Reader

I'm feeling a little better again healthwise, so I hope this is good, Anon! Thank you for your request and enjoy!<3

Content: Imposter syndrome, pre season 2 viktor, some angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, Reader is a genius, established romantic relationship, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns.

((Not proofread))

"Ah no, no, no! This just won't do!" You hiss out as you toss another paper filled with prototype scribbles in the trash. Working on your latest projects was already a painful drag, but it certainly didn't help that you just couldn't make up your mind. The equations you have come up with also seemed wrong. And the deadline to the showcasing was coming closer and closer!

Sleep was rare to find these days, mainly as you were stuck trying to chase a perfection you just simply never have found yet in your lifetime. An impossible feat you were unwilling to give up on no matter what. The many endless achievements that littered the walls of your laboratory were a clear statement to your deep desperation. You were practically renowned for your genius innovation and philosophies, but they never reached your mind. To you, they felt undeserving as in every one you could only see the flaws and mistakes you've made.

You couldn't escape the cycle of self hate you've trapped yourself in for years now... but that didn't mean that your dear boyfriend Viktor wasn't going to try and help you anyway.

Viktor narrowly dodged an incoming crumbled paper when he entered your laboratory late into the night. You hadn't left it in days now, and whilst it may have very well been hypocritical of him, he had come to bring you to bed. You used to do this often to him as well, way before the obsession for a flawless project had taken over you, but ever since you've been asked to present your latest projects at a inventors gala, things changed for the worst. He was already familiar with your rather self-destructive behaviors and was deeply concerned by them, another form of hypocrisy on his part, he supposed.

Tilting his head at your hunched over form, he carefully approached you, the sound of his cane making you hum weakly in acknowledgment. "Rough night?" He joked, although you found less amusement in it as you shook your head in disappointment. "I am simply enraged by everything! Every draft is worse than the last, and the deadline is in two weeks, and I have yet to finish a thing, and, and-" You let out a frustrated string of curses, before near swiping everything off your work desk. "I'm just... such a failure... nothing I do is good enough. Every mistake is a testament to how little I deserve my position as a scientist and professor."

Viktor frowned gently at your clear defeat, the tears in your eyes making his heart ache. He knew that feeling all too well. And he never wanted you to feel it, too. You were a genius beyond every measure. People followed your inventions like they were religion, always so eager for the latest news. Yet you never saw that part of your success. In fact, not an ounce of you believed you were successful by your own volition either. Every achievement and reward was just dumb luck to you.

"I don't think that's true." He started as he leaned down with great difficulty to grab some papers you had thrown away in rage. "And no one else does either. You're this generations genius. Everyone knows this... but you. And that's sad, my love." His words were soft and warm, the sweetness making you turn to look at him, whilst he sat down in a chair and flipped through your work intently like he always did. Patting his good leg, he invited you to sit in his lap, something that always made you nervous despite him making it clear that it didn't hurt him. Yet you indulged him this time without protest, desperate for some comfort.

He chuckled when you quickly hid your face in his neck, not wanting to embarrass yourself with the tears that were burning in your eyes. Pulling you close with his unoccupied hand, he pressed a kiss to your head and looked over your notes with a prideful glint in his eyes. "Your work moves and inspires thousands. Everyone knows of it and praises it like its gospel. You should be more kind to yourself... which may be hypocritical of me to say, but it's true nonetheless. Your work is perfection." "I don't think it is. The mistakes are so foolish that they are unforgivable." "Hardly." Leaning away, he made enough room to make you see the papers. "This is a flawless equation, and the design is impressive... may I watch you work on it? It would be an honor, my love." The man hummed, making you blink in surprise before you collected your ego and jumped up with a determined, yet flustered look on your face. "Well! If you really think that, then I suppose you can! But don't expect me to slow down for you!" You huffed out, making his smile widen. There you were. The prideful scholar he fell in love with so many years ago.

You began picking and setting things back up, your head turned away from him as you spoke. "... Thank you, by the way. I really needed to hear that." Viktor's eyes glowed with a warm, loving glow as he watched you, his heart full at watching you do what you loved the most.

"No need to thank me. I'll always be there for you."

[study-diaries]

How to do group projects? (If you're selected as the leader of the group)

I hate group projects, it's not necessarily the project rather, the people are not cooperative enough so here's some tips I use when I was chosen to do a PPT and a damn play with 13 members.

(Pictures aren't mine!)

Take phone numbers

Even though my teacher discouraged the idea of it, I still took the numbers of all the members and saved it on the same day the project was given even though the deadline was a month later. You should make sure that you have the necessary means of communication to every member.

Plan and outline within 3 days!

Make an outline of what needs to be done, plan out who's going to do what, how they'll do it, when will they complete it etc etc. The reason i do it within 3 days is because you'll get the base of how you'll do it because generally in group projects, by the time everyone completes the work and gives it to you, it would take atleast a week or two, if you start early, you'll complete earlier than everyone else

No group chats!

I personally don't prefer this because one i realised everyone just didn't reply expecting others to reply, especially when your group is big! So... Dms!! Just send the instructions personally, yes, it takes alot of time but it makes up for the energy wasted in group chats that involve unnecessary talks and questions.

Both face to face and text reminders!

When you've assigned work to every member, make sure they actually do it because you'll be the one responsible. Not gonna lie but reminders help especially when the deadlines are closer. Just a message like "Hey, friendly reminder about the XYZ project."

Save your own name!

This is something I'm really careful about. The accusation that you're being biased and assigning easier work to friends and people I'm close with. So, i figured that the best way to avoid it is to write all the work and the names of members in alphabetical order and assign accordingly. If the member can't do it, then I'll discuss and swap. It saves a hell lot of drama and actually results to better outcomes.

Back up

Make sure that there's always a second in command. This was a mistake I did, on the day of the 2nd project (the play), I was in one of the competitions and our teacher had started with our group first... I didn't exactly tell anyone that everything about the characters assigned to members and the narrations were in my bag so they had to scramble alittle but in the end, our group did the best play despite the situation so that's what you're aiming at. Your group needs to manage without you.

Flexibility

Do not, under any circumstances, expect everything to go well! You need to expect hindrances, like gurl, come on. A mistake I made in the PPT project, i made the PPT and told 4-5 people to explain it because that's how it was supposed to be done but in the end, ALL THE 4-5 PEOPLE HAD TO BE IN SPORTS PRACTICE so we ended up changing plans last minute. But nevertheless, we got an A-. Tell everyone to prepare accordingly.

Be a little lenient

Personally, when the teacher asked me to give the list of work everyone had done, i did'nt just write nothing for the members who didn't, i have even the smallest contribution because in the end, even one person's scores matters. It affects the whole damn group so be careful when you take out anger and frustration on the members when giving the list of contributions or even while doing the project. The last thing you need is drama.

Contact!

Make sure your members are comfortable enough to clear any questions or misunderstandings with you. If you don't know what's going in the group, you can't maintain the group. Be very clear that they can reach you any time.

Demo!!!

This is really important! Decide on a day and keep a demonstration of how your project is going to be presented. Do exactly as how you're going to do it infront of the teacher. Exchange some points on how to do better during the demo and discuss! It helps you to correct your mistakes.

Hope this helps! :)

[aelinad]

Tangled Strings Of Fate

Chapter 06 - The Party Pt. 2

~~ Namjoon's POV (a couple of days ago)~~

"And that's the final track done. Everything seems ready for the listening party this Saturday. Any last-minute tweaks, or should I send it through?" Hwan-seok asked, pulling off his headphones.

We were in the production room, wrapping up Indigo for its final check before the listening party. Tonight was the deadline to submit the tracklist for production, and the albums would start printing soon. It was almost midnight; Hwan and I had been here for six hours, perfecting every detail. Somewhere along the way, Hana texted back, replying to the list of things to do in Seoul I'd sent her. Keeping track of places to visit was just something I did, so putting it together for her wasn't a big deal. What was a big deal, though, was the fact that I'd texted her at all.

After so many people had tried to exploit me for attention, part of me worried she'd do the same. Had I been arrogant, assuming she didn't know who I was? If she did, she never gave it away, and there hadn't been any hint of our encounter in the media, no matter how much I searched. Maybe that's why I texted her—to test if she was genuinely different from everyone else in my life lately. Worst case, I'd change my number again, something I'd gotten used to by now. But then she sent a sweet, inviting reply halfway through our listen of the album, and I panicked, replying back coldly to keep my distance. I regretted it immediately. I knew better than to let my insecurities mess things up.

Then, as we reached the final track, she messaged me again. Unexpected. She invited me to a gallery exhibition—something from the list I'd sent her, something I'd wanted to check out myself. Lost in thought, I barely noticed Hwan talking to me again.

"Bro, are you even listening? What's up with you tonight? Something on your mind?" Hwan looked at me with concern.

I sighed heavily. "There's this girl..."

Hwan's eyebrows shot up, and he leaned forward, listening as I told him about meeting Hana. I explained how, for the first time, I felt normal around someone new. How I wanted to keep talking to her, to get to know her, but ended up messing it all up by overthinking. Now, I didn't know if meeting her at the gallery was a good idea.

"Damn, man. Didn't see that coming," he smirked. "You sound kinda whipped, Dimples."

I shot him a glare, but he raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning.

"Hear me out," he said. "You're overthinking it. Yeah, you're famous, but that doesn't mean everyone's out to use you. Maybe she genuinely likes you—wants to know you for you?"

I shifted in my chair, staring down at the console. "You don't get it, Hwan. I don't have the luxury of taking that risk anymore. Every time I let someone in, it backfires. How am I supposed to know she's different?"

Hwan shook his head. "You're focused on what could go wrong. But what about what could go right? You said it felt... normal, right?"

Reluctantly, I nodded, recalling the ease of walking beside her, laughing over the simplest things. "Yeah. It was... nice. Different."

"Then what's the harm in trying?" Hwan leaned in, his tone serious. "You deserve that. I get it, you've been through a lot. But you can't hide behind walls forever."

His words began to sink in, loosening the knots I'd twisted in my mind. "And if it's just another mistake?"

"Then it's a mistake, and you deal with it," he said simply. "The company can spin it, and people will forget in no time. But at least you'll have tried. Don't let past bad experiences—okay, maybe a lot of them—keep you from meeting someone genuine."

I mulled it over, thinking about her gallery invitation. Nothing flashy, just a simple exhibit. Something I could easily arrange to go to quietly without the media or general public catching on. It was the sort of thing I'd attend with a friend anyway.

"You don't have to decide now," Hwan suggested. "Sleep on it. See how you feel tomorrow. If you're still curious, text her back about the gallery. Just see what happens."

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. "You think that's a good idea?"

"Honestly? Yeah, I do," he replied, shrugging. "And if it goes well, maybe invite her to the listening party. She'd be around people who already know you—no hiding, no pretence. You could just be yourself and see how she handles it."

I hesitated, picturing it. It felt almost too simple. "I don't know if I'm ready for her to meet everyone."

"Hey, it's just a thought," Hwan said, hands raised again. "But if you're that worried, having her meet you in your element could be a good test. You'd know quickly if she's the real deal."

He was right. It would be a chance to see if Hana was truly different. Even with doubts tugging at me, something about the idea felt right.

~~ Hana's POV (present) ~~

After our conversation in the kitchen, Jungkook and I made our way back to the party. I spotted Selina right where I left her initially, seated on the couch, chatting with her friend's cousin. The room buzzed with activity; people were scattered around, some sitting, some standing, while others were lost in the music, dancing to the rhythm of Namjoon's new songs.

As we walked, I noticed Taehyung talking with a group standing around the couch, while Jimin sat on the opposite side, occasionally glancing over at Selina with an expression I couldn't quite read. It made me wonder if there was more to their interactions than met the eye. I'd have to remember to ask her about it later.

"Are you gonna go and talk to Namjoon after the songs finish?" Jungkook's voice came from just behind me, a gentle reminder of the conversation waiting to happen.

"Yes," I replied with a slight nod. "I think it's only fair to finish what we started."

My eyes drifted to the back of the room, where Namjoon stood near the DJ, a quiet presence amidst the crowd. Then, as the song faded out, he took the microphone, and his deep voice filled the space.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," he began, and the room quieted. "This album, Indigo, has been a journey. A way for me to speak in silence, to express myself truthfully without causing confusion." His gaze swept over the crowd, his words carrying a depth that felt almost like a confession. "I think of Indigo as the last archive of my twenties, a blend of rock, pop, hip-hop, and funk that captures who I am, in this moment."

As he spoke, I could see how much this project meant to him, the way his emotions came through in every word. I was so captivated that I forgot I was supposed to make my way back to Selina. Just as I took a step back, my gaze accidentally met his, and for a fleeting moment, it felt as though he was speaking only to me. But then, a familiar jolt as I stumbled—again, nearly tripping over who I believe was the same guy who had bumped into me earlier.

As I stumbled, expecting to hit the ground, Jungkook's arm slipped around me, his hand resting at the small of my back. He pulled me close, steadying me with an ease that felt natural, almost instinctive. His hand lingered there, warm and grounding, and for a moment, it was as if we'd stepped out of the noisy party and into our own quiet space. I looked up, and his eyes met mine with a hint of a smile, something soft and unguarded. My heart fluttered, betraying me completely, and suddenly I was all too aware of how close we were.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice low, the words just between us.

"Yeah," I managed, barely above a whisper. "Thanks for... catching me.Maybe we should get back before I fall again. Have I mentioned I'm clumsy?"

"You didn't need to. I just saw it firsthand," he teased, his eyes sparkling.

"Whatever you say, Ian," I replied, throwing him a look, which only made him laugh.

"You're never gonna let that go, are you?"

Feigning innocence, I smiled. "I don't know what you're talking about."

After what felt like a small eternity, we reached the couch. Selina stood up, her eyes scanning my face as though reading every detail.

"Are you alright? I saw you almost falling back there," she asked, her tone laced with concern.

"I'm fine! Jungkook caught me before I could break anything."

"Good." She shot him a grateful smile. "So...are you two...you know, okay now?"

I nodded. "Yeah, I think we're fine."

"And what about Namjoon?"

I glanced over to where Namjoon had returned to the crowd. "Haven't had the chance to talk to him yet, but I'll probably catch him when things calm down."

We sat back down, sinking into the plush cushions. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Jimin and Jungkook chatting in Korean, discussing the new album's release and what they each liked about it. I picked up bits and pieces, though my understanding of Korean was still shaky. I let my mind drift, replaying the night's events over and over.

I must have zoned out, because I didn't notice when someone seated across from me started talking until Selina nudged me lightly.

"Oh! Sorry, yes?" I stammered, snapping back to reality. Standing in front of me was none other than Jin from BTS, a warm smile lighting up his face.

"Nice to meet you," he said, his tone friendly. "Hana, right? Jungkook mentioned that you know Namjoon, too."

"That's me," I replied, glancing at Jungkook, who gave me a small, encouraging smile.

Jin turned to Jungkook, his eyebrows raised slightly. "Geu saram-eun uri-ga nugunji ara?" he asked, and I caught enough to understand: Does she know who we are?

I couldn't help but smile. "Yes, I know exactly who you all are. You're Jin from BTS. Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Worldwide Handsome." The title earned a laugh from the guys around us—I guess my quick Google search hadn't been for nothing.

Jin looked momentarily taken aback, clearly not expecting me to understand. "Do you speak Korean?" he asked, obviously impressed.

"Not fluently yet, but I'm getting there," I admitted, laughing a little.

Still grinning, he turned back to Jungkook. "Na-neun i-geos-eul jo-ahanda," he said with a nod—I like this one.

***

The other members—J-Hope and Yoongi—came over to greet me as well, their smiles as warm and welcoming as they were on screen. Each one of them had a unique vibe, but there was an undeniable kindness to all of them that put me at ease. It felt surreal standing among them, sharing laughs and small talk.

Selina, meanwhile, had settled in with Taehyung and J-Hope, who were already laughing and swapping jokes like they'd known each other for years. I watched as she let loose, leaning into her natural friendliness. She seemed right at home, giggling along with them like they were old friends.

After a moment, I let my eyes wander across the room, scanning for Namjoon. I finally spotted him toward the back, standing by the equipment table, quietly helping pack up some cables and speakers now that the main listening session had ended.

I took a deep breath. This was my moment; he was finally alone. I glanced at Jungkook as I got up, who gave me a reassuring nod, as if he already knew what I was about to do. With a small smile, I left the comfort of the group and made my way through the crowd.

As I approached, I felt a strange mix of anticipation and nerves. The night had already been full of surprises, but this conversation felt like the most important one. Namjoon was so focused he didn't notice me at first. When he finally looked up and saw me, he gave a soft smile, a hint of surprise in his eyes.

"Hana," he greeted, his voice warm but cautious. "I wasn't sure if you'd still be here."

"I, um, thought I'd stay," I said, trying to sound casual but feeling the weight of the moment. "I wanted to congratulate you on Indigo. It's... it's really incredible, Namjoon. You can feel every part of you in it."

Namjoon's face softened, and he set down the equipment he was holding. "Thank you. That means a lot." He glanced away for a moment, as though gathering his thoughts. "This album... It's different from anything I've done before. It's my way of being real with myself, you know?"

I nodded, feeling the honesty in his words. "You can tell. There's a rawness to it, like you're letting everyone in on pieces of yourself you've kept hidden."

He looked at me, his gaze intense but kind. "That was the hardest part. Letting people see beyond the image, into... well, the mess that is me." He laughed softly, the sound a little self-conscious.

"It doesn't feel like a mess, though," I replied, finding the courage to meet his gaze. "It feels honest. It feels... real."

We stood in silence for a moment, the weight of his words settling between us. It felt like I was seeing him as he truly was, beyond the leader, beyond the idol. Just Namjoon, with all his thoughts and vulnerabilities laid bare.

"Thank you for saying that, Hana," he finally said, his voice a little quieter. "So... I guess you probably have a lot of questions," he said, his gaze dropping for a moment before returning to mine. "About why I kept my identity hidden, and why I invited you tonight without telling you much about... well, any of this."

I chuckled softly, trying to ease the tension. "You mean why you didn't just say, 'Hey, I'm Namjoon from BTS, want to come to an album release party?'"

A grin broke across his face, and he shook his head, a hint of embarrassment in his eyes. "Yeah, I guess that's exactly what I should've done." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "Honestly, I didn't want it to feel... different with you. It sounds strange, but it's rare to meet someone who just sees you as a regular person. That's how I felt with you, and I wanted to hold onto it a little longer."

I took a moment to let that sink in, feeling the warmth of his words settle over me. "I get it," I said softly. "It's a lot to put out there, I mean... I can't imagine what it's like for you to meet new people who already have an idea of who you are. Or think they do."

He nodded, a shadow of thought crossing his face. "Exactly. And I think that's why I didn't say much about who would be here tonight either. I figured if I told you, it might... I don't know, make you not want to come or make you feel like you have to act a certain way, or say certain things." He hesitated, then continued, "I just wanted you to come as you are. To be you, not someone reacting to 'RM' or the idea of what it means to be at this kind of party."

I could feel the honesty in his words, the vulnerability in admitting that he'd wanted something real—something uncomplicated. "Well," I said, giving him a reassuring smile, "I think you got what you wanted. Although," I added with a playful grin, "I could've used a bit of warning. You know, like, 'Hey, Hana, you might be casually bumping into some of the world's biggest idols tonight.'"

Namjoon laughed, shaking his head. "I should've known. But to be honest... I didn't expect you to stay. When you first figured it out, I thought... well, I thought you'd be overwhelmed and just... leave."

I looked down for a moment, then back up, meeting his gaze. "It was overwhelming," I admitted, "and honestly, I almost did leave. But... I realised I wanted to stay. Not just because of the music or the people here, but because... well, because you invited me. I trusted that you wanted me here."

He held my gaze, a flicker of surprise, then something softer in his eyes. "I'm glad you did. Because I wanted you to see this side of me too—not just the polished, rehearsed version."

There was a moment of silence between us, charged with unspoken understanding. Here was Namjoon, stripped of the usual layers, standing in front of me not as a global superstar, but as someone who simply wanted to be known, genuinely, by someone else.

"Thank you for letting me see that," I said softly. "I know how important this night is for you, and I don't take it lightly that you wanted me to be part of it. It means... a lot."

He smiled, this time more relaxed, his shoulders easing. "It means a lot to me, too," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "More than you know."

"Hana! How's the party treating you?" It was Hwan, Namjoon's friend, grinning as he joined us, clearly picking up on the comfortable energy between us. "And what do you think of the songs? Pretty incredible, right?"

I blinked, caught a little off guard by the sudden change in conversation, but I quickly smiled back at him. "Oh, it's been amazing," I replied, glancing at Namjoon. "The music was really beautiful and I love how every song feels like its own story."

Namjoon gave me a quiet, appreciative smile, and Hwan nodded enthusiastically. "That's exactly what he was going for. I've known this guy for years, and I think Indigo's probably the most Namjoon thing he's ever put out." He chuckled, giving Namjoon a friendly pat on the back. "He was a little nervous about it, but I told him people would understand, just like you did."

Namjoon laughed, shaking his head. "Thanks, Hwan. Always the hype man." Then he looked back at me, a softness in his expression that made me feel like we'd shared something meaningful in those last few moments.

"Well, I guess I'd better make the rounds," Hwan said with a grin, giving Namjoon a knowing look before heading back into the crowd. "It was great to meet you, Hana. Take care of this one—he can be a bit much sometimes!"

I laughed, and Namjoon rolled his eyes, though there was a hint of fondness in his reaction. As Hwan wandered back into the party, I realised it was getting late and the room had thinned out; only a few small groups lingered, laughing and chatting quietly as the evening wound down.

Just then, Selina approached. "Hey, Hana," she said softly. "I think it's probably time for us to head out." She glanced at Namjoon, then back at me, a knowing sparkle in her eyes.

I turned to Namjoon, feeling the weight of the night settle over me. "Thank you for tonight. For inviting us, and for... everything," I said, my voice soft but sincere.

Namjoon gave a gentle nod, his gaze warm. "Thank you for staying. It means a lot." He hesitated, as though he wanted to say something more, but then he simply offered a small, almost shy smile. "Take care, Hana. I hope this won't be the last time we see each other."

"Me too," I replied, feeling my heart flutter at his words. "Goodnight, Namjoon."

With a final, shared smile, I turned and joined Selina, who was already waving goodbye to the others. I spotted Jungkook standing a few feet away, watching us with a soft smile. He approached, hands in his pockets, looking a bit more like the "Ian" I knew in that moment.

"So, heading out?" he asked, his voice quiet, almost reluctant.

"Yeah, I think it's time," I replied, smiling back at him. "It's been... quite a night."

Jungkook chuckled, glancing down before meeting my gaze again. "I'm glad we got a chance to clear everything up, Hana. I know the whole 'Ian' thing was... a lot." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking a bit sheepish. "I never meant for it to be that complicated."

I laughed softly. "Honestly, I think I'll always remember it as the most interesting introduction I've ever had." I reached out and gave his arm a light squeeze. "Thank you for being... well, for being you. Ian or Jungkook, I'm happy to know you."

Before either of us could say more, Taehyung and Jimin sidled up, grins plastered on their faces clearly a bit tipsy from the night as they looked between us. Taehyung leaned in, feigning a dramatic whisper to Jungkook. "Aww, our little Ian has found himself a lady friend," he teased, giving me a playful wink.

Jimin snickered, nudging Jungkook's shoulder. "Didn't you tell her you're an international heartbreaker, Jungkook? Or was that just 'Ian'?"

Jungkook rolled his eyes, though a blush crept up his cheeks. "Guys, come on. We're just saying goodbye."

But Jimin wasn't done. He turned to me, feigning seriousness. "Hana, just so you know, this guy"—he pointed at Jungkook—"is notorious for stealing hearts, so... be careful."

I laughed, playing along. "I'll keep that in mind, Jimin. Thanks for the warning." Then I looked back at Jungkook, letting the teasing slip away to something more genuine. He hesitated, as though he wanted to say more, but instead he simply held my gaze, his eyes warm with sincerity.

Taehyung let out a loud, exaggerated sigh. "Alright, alright, enough with the lingering eye contact. It's getting way too sappy here." He gave Jungkook a nudge. "Let the lady go, man, before you make her go home late."

Jungkook laughed, but he stepped back with a small, reluctant smile. "Guess they're right," he said. "But I'll see you again, Hana."

I nodded, feeling a bit of bittersweetness settle in. "Yeah."

As Selina and I finally made our way out, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Jimin stood by the doorway, calling out playful goodbyes. Selina, still giggling at their antics, hooked her arm around mine, giving me a teasing look as we stepped into the night.

As we strolled through the quiet streets back to our place, Selina couldn't help but give me a sly grin. "So... any thoughts on who's the main lead here? Dimples or Mr. Fate Guy?" she teased, wiggling her eyebrows.

I rolled my eyes, trying to hide a smile. "Selina, it's not like that. We're just friends... I think... you know, that's it."

"Uh-huh." She gave me a knowing look, crossing her arms with a playful smirk. "Good friends who invite you to private album parties and stare at you like you're the only person in the room?"

"Stop it," I laughed, nudging her. "It's not like that. They're idols, Selina. They're not going to be interested in something more. And honestly..." I trailed off, glancing at the night sky as if searching for words. "I'm just... happy to know them. To share moments like tonight."

Selina's smile softened as she took my hand. "I get it, Hana. But don't be so quick to put people on unreachable pedestals, okay? Who knows what could happen?" She winked, adding in a whisper, "Just know I'm kinda leaning towards team Dimples... though Ian has that whole fate-and-mystery thing going for him."

I laughed again, shaking my head as we continued on. In the silence that followed, I let her words linger, but not too deeply. For now, friendship was enough. ***

"What do you mean you went to the same party as BTS last night?!" Aera whispered, half-screaming as she nearly dropped the plate she was holding. Selina had just casually let it slip, and now Aera's eyes were wide with shock.

It was Sunday afternoon, and Nabi's family had invited all of us over for lunch at their beautiful, secluded home. According to Selina, a lot of influential people lived in this quiet neighbourhood, which made sense given how well-off Nabi's family was. The house, nestled behind high walls and lush greenery, was cosy and filled with warmth. Besides Nabi and her brother, only her parents lived here now; her sister had already moved out with her partner, who were both set to join us later.

In the kitchen, Aera, Nabi, Seon-Jae, Selina, and I were setting up plates and catching up on the latest news. Seon-Jae had started the conversation after mentioning that his cousin texted him last night, saying one of his friends had been at a work party with some "big names." One thing led to another, and Selina finally told everyone that the two guys I'd met during my trip so far turned out to be none other than two members of BTS.

"Wait," Nabi chimed in, pausing with a spoon in her hand, "are you telling us Ian and Joon were... Jungkook and Namjoon? As in the Jungkook and Namjoon?"

I bit my lip, glancing at Selina, who looked far too amused by the commotion. "Yes," I admitted, sighing. "I had no idea at first! They just introduced themselves as Ian and Joon. I only found out last night at Namjoon's album party."

Aera's jaw dropped. "So, you were hanging out with BTS this whole time, and you didn't even know?"

"Trust me, if I'd known, I would have freaked out ages ago!" I laughed, feeling the secondhand shock from her expression.

Selina shook her head, chuckling. "Oh, it was gold. You should've seen Hana when she figured it out. I think she turned every shade of red!"

Seon-Jae raised his eyebrow, a smirk forming on his lips. "So, now that you know...are things different? Did you say goodbye to them properly, or...?"

Before I could answer, Selina stepped in, teasing, "Well, let's just say Hana's caught between 'Mister Fate' and 'Dimples.'"

Everyone burst out laughing, and I felt my cheeks heat up again. But I couldn't help smiling at the thought of Jungkook and Namjoon. Our relations had been so genuine, so effortless, that it almost felt unreal now knowing who they really were.

"Well," I shrugged, attempting nonchalance, "we said our goodbyes. But they're just friends, you know? They have their lives, and I have mine."

Nabi nodded thoughtfully. "True, but if you could pick between the two?"

I laughed nervously, shaking my head. "No way. That's not even on my radar right now."

The doorbell chimed just then, and Nabi's mom called out to let us know the rest of the family had arrived. As we headed to the dining room, Aera whispered to me, "You know, even if they're idols, that doesn't mean you can't keep in touch. Friends are friends, no matter who they are."

I smiled, touched by her words. She wasn't wrong, and I couldn't deny that, deep down, I hoped our paths might cross again someday. I had restrained myself from contacting them after last night, a bit afraid that I'd come across as opportunistic or bothersome given their schedule. I had to leave it to them to see if they wanted me to still be around.

When we went to the table to set the last plates, Nabi's sister Yeri and her partner walked in followed by Nabi's brother who was out when we arrived. The dining room was buzzing with laughter as we settled around the table for lunch. Nabi's family had set out a spread of delicious dishes, and their warmth was infectious. Nabi's mom, a university professor, had taken a particular interest in Selina and me since the moment we'd arrived. It was like being welcomed into a family we'd known for years.

As we began to eat, Nabi's mom looked over at me with a curious, friendly smile. "So, Hana," she said, "Nabi tells me you're working on a PhD in neuroscience. That's quite impressive. Do you have plans for what you'd like to do after you finish?"

I swallowed a bite of food, feeling the weight of everyone's attention shift to me. "Thank you," I replied, smiling. "I'm still deciding, actually. I might stay in research, or maybe go into teaching. But I've always loved the idea of working in neurorehabilitation, something that would have a direct impact on patients' lives."

Her face lit up with approval. "That's wonderful, Hana. You'd make a real difference in people's lives." She took a sip of water, then added, "Though I do wonder if you have any time for yourself with such a busy schedule. You must be very focused, or perhaps...you are already seeing someone special?"

The question caught me slightly off guard. "Oh, uh, no, I'm not seeing anyone," I said, chuckling nervously. "I've just been so focused on my studies and travelling lately."

Nabi's mom nodded thoughtfully, glancing over at her older son, Sun-bin, who was quietly enjoying his meal at the far end of the table. "You remind me of my Sun-bin here," she said, almost to herself. "He's also so focused on his career...too busy to date, in fact."

Nabi cleared her throat. "Eomma, not this again..."

Her mother gave her a look, half amused, half chiding. "Oh, I'm just saying. When I see such a smart, accomplished young woman like Hana, I can't help but wonder." She smiled warmly at me, her suggestion as subtle as it was kind.

I smiled, feeling a little embarrassed but touched. "Thank you, that's really sweet."

Before she could say anything else Sun-bin interfered: "Eomma, geumanhaseyo..." Stop please.

Just then, as I reached for my glass, my phone buzzed on the table. I glanced at the screen and saw it was a text from Jungkook.

Kook - Bam's new owner: Hey! I'm picking Bam up from the centre this evening. Wanna join? Bam would love the surprise!

A rush of excitement coursed through me when I received his text, but it was quickly followed by a wave of worry. We didn't have any concrete plans for the rest of the day, aside from maybe grabbing a drink later with Selina's friends. I could still go if I wanted to meet up with him, but I was quite far from home and Seon-Jae had given us a lift, so it would take some time to get back. But would it be okay to see him? What if someone saw us? I didn't want any rumours to start that could cause problems for him.

Hana - Bam's previous owner: I'd love to, but I'm actually a bit far from my place right now, so it might take me a while. Not sure I can make it in time.

His response was almost immediate.

Kook - Bam's new owner: No problem! I can pick you up, and we can go together if you're up for it. Just text me the address.

Hana - Bam's previous owner:Are you sure? It might be...um, a bit risky?

He replied with a laughing emoji.

Kook - Bam's new owner: Don't worry. I can handle everything else. Just say yes!

I looked up at Selina, who had noticed my slight distraction and was watching me with a knowing smile. I texted her under the table:

Hana: Jungkook wants to pick me up to go get Bam... should I go? I don't want to be rude to Nabi's family by just ditching either.

Selina: Yes! Go, obviously! We're meant to leave the house around 16:30 to downtown either way so maybe go then?

I nodded and typed out my response to Jungkook.

Hana - Bam's previous owner: Alright, yes. Is 16:30 a good time to pick me up though? I am currently over a friend's family for lunch and we are not meant to leave till then.

Kook - Bam's new owner: Yeah that's perfect. The care centre does not close till 8pm so no need to rush.

Hana - Bam's previous owner: I'll just wait for you outside the place I sent you then!

Kook - Bam's new owner: Deal! I'll see you then.

As lunch wrapped up, everyone began saying their goodbyes. Nabi's family insisted on sending us off with warm hugs and promises to meet again soon.

"Are you sure you don't want us to wait with you?" Selina asked as Seon-Jae went to get his car out of the parking spot.

I shook my head, smiling. "No, go ahead. Don't want you guys to be late. I'll be fine."

Aera nudged her, winking at me. "Alright, alright. But we'll expect details later!"

Nabi rolled her eyes but gave me a quick hug. "Have fun, Hana," she whispered with a grin. "Hopefully Mister Fate guy doesn't keep you waiting too long."

With that, they piled into Seon-Jae's car, and I waved as they drove off, leaving me outside the house's gate.

I watched them drive off, and did not realise when Sun-bin appeared beside me, hands tucked into his pockets as he glanced down the street. "Didn't leave with the rest of the group?" he asked, an easy smile playing on his lips.

"Oh," I replied, a little caught off guard. "No, I actually have a friend coming to pick me up soon."

"Lucky friend," he said with a soft chuckle. "My mom's subtle, isn't she?" He scratched his neck, looking a little embarrassed but mostly amused. "Sorry about that."

"Oh, it's alright!" I laughed, trying to play it off. "She's really sweet. It's nice to feel so welcomed. Plus, we all had a bit to drink, so no harm done."

Sun-bin gave a slow nod, studying me intently. "Well, if you're ever interested in the 'suggestion' she was hinting at..." he paused, his voice dipping into a more confident tone, "I'd be more than happy to give it a shot."

The statement caught me completely off guard, and my mind went blank as he took a small step closer, his hand brushing against my arm, an innocent touch that felt both casual and undeniably intentional. Was this the result of some liquid courage, or was he being genuine? I felt myself tense, unsure of how to respond, when the sudden slam of a car door jolted us both back to reality.

"Hey, Hana!" Jungkook's familiar voice rang out, a little louder and sharper than usual.

I turned, relief washing over me as I saw Jungkook walking toward us. "Oh, Jungkook, you're here!" I called out, maybe a bit too eagerly. The look on his face was serious, almost possessive, and I suddenly felt the tension rise another notch.

Sun-bin's hand dropped away from my arm as Jungkook approached, and the two of them locked eyes in a way that made the air between them feel... charged. I could almost feel the unspoken challenge radiating between them, and I cleared my throat, thinking introductions might break the tension.

"Uh, Jungkook, this is Sun-bin. Sun-bin, this is Jungkook," I said, glancing between them.

They shook hands, each holding the other's gaze a moment longer than necessary. Jungkook's grip looked firm, and Sun-bin didn't budge. Sun-bin's gaze shifted down to Jungkook's hand, his eyes lingering on the tattoos on his hand and the piercings on his face before a faint smirk tugged at his lips. A conservative at heart, he clearly wasn't a big fan of such self-expression.

"Well," Sun-bin said, his voice smooth with a slightly amused edge, "an... interesting choice for a friend, Hana." He shot Jungkook a look, his tone light but loaded with implication.

Jungkook's jaw tightened, but he returned Sun-bin's look with an easy, confident smile.

I could feel the tension brewing, and it was the kind that didn't feel like it would diffuse anytime soon. Clearing my throat, I turned to Sun-bin with a polite smile, hoping to wrap this up.

"Thanks again for lunch, Sun-bin. Please tell your mom I said thank you again for having us over," I said, adding, "but Jungkook and I really should get going."

Sun-bin didn't seem fazed, his eyes still lingering on me as he smiled. "Of course. But, Hana," he said, leaning just close enough for his voice to dip lower, "don't forget what I said. Once you're done with your... friend here, think about my suggestion. You know where to find me."

I swallowed, feeling Jungkook's gaze on us as Sun-bin held my gaze a moment longer, his expression both playful and completely serious. Then, with a slight nod toward Jungkook, he stepped back and gave me a final smile before heading toward the house.

As soon as Sun-bin was out of earshot, I could sense Jungkook's annoyance radiating off him. He frowned, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he watched Sun-bin retreat. "So, Sun-bin, huh? What was that all about?" he asked, his voice low and slightly edged.

I took a breath, trying to gather my thoughts. "I'm sorry; that was so weird and unexpected. He caught me off guard with how forward he was. His mom was hinting at us dating over lunch, but I never thought he would actually make a move."

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, scepticism lining his features. "So, do you want him to make a move?" His tone was light, but I could sense an underlying seriousness in his question.

"Oh god, no!" I replied, shaking my head firmly. "Sun-bin and I couldn't be more wrong for each other."

His expression softened a fraction as he processed my words, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Okay, if you say so." He paused, then added, "Just seemed like he was trying pretty hard to impress you."

I shrugged, forcing a smile. "Maybe he was, but I'm not interested. Honestly, I didn't even think he'd do something like that."

Jungkook nodded, a hint of relief now in his eyes. "Good to know." He glanced toward the car, shifting the subject. "Ready to go see Bam?"

"Definitely," I replied, feeling a wave of excitement wash over me at the thought of reuniting with the puppy.

As we walked back to the car, I couldn't resist the urge to tease him a bit. "You know, for someone labelled as an international heartbreaker, you sure were acting a little defensive back there."

Jungkook rolled his eyes, brushing off my comment as he opened the car door for me. "I wasn't being defensive. Just... observant," he shot back, his voice low, attempting to sound casual, but the slight tightening of his jaw revealed irritation simmering beneath the surface.

"Uh-huh, sure. Observant," I said, suppressing a grin as I slid into the passenger seat. "Didn't strike me as the jealous type, Kook."

"Please," he scoffed, pretending to adjust his seatbelt while pointedly avoiding my gaze. "It's just annoying when guys don't know when to back off."

"Right..." I teased, letting my voice drop to a playful whisper. The atmosphere shifted as he finally turned to me, a smirk creeping onto his lips. "So I'm Kook now, huh?"

The nickname had slipped out accidentally, but after the whole 'Ian' incident, it felt more intimate. I had even changed his contact name on my phone. Jungkook was too formal, but Kook was softer, warmer.

"Well, unless you want me to call you Ian?" I shot back, giving him an innocent questioning look, my heart racing as I met his gaze, the playful challenge hanging in the air.

"Nah, Kook is fine. Should've introduced me to Sun-bin like that, too," he replied, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Ha, funny. Although I kind of regret giving him your full name. Sun-bin isn't the type to keep up with celebrities, so I feel a bit at ease—he probably has no idea who you are."

"I don't mind if he knows. Maybe that'll teach him for being all cocky."

"Sorry about that," I said, glancing down at my hands resting on my lap, suddenly self-conscious. "Not sure if it makes a difference, but I think your tattoos and piercings really suit you. Don't mind him, he's just a bit conservative." My gaze lingered on his lip piercing, and I felt my cheeks warm as the words slipped out.

"Thanks, but I'm sure Sun-bin's opinion doesn't matter to me." Jungkook chuckled, the tension between us easing a bit, yet there was an intensity in his gaze that made my pulse quicken. He shifted into gear and pulled out onto the street, a grin breaking through as he added, "Let's go surprise Bam."

"Yeah, let's go!" 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ <- Previous | Series Masterlist

[dcforts]

[Steve and I]

5.9k. S09E06 fanfiction gap but Cas has a flat. Domestic, light angst. theirprofoundbond - thank you for all the work that you've done to help me with this one and all the kind words and you gifted me with. Read on ao3

Steve signed the lease a little over a month ago. It’s a second-story one-bedroom, in a building that is just two narrow flights of stairs, flickering ceiling lights and dirty carpets.

Cas doesn’t tell Dean that, he just gives him directions and points to a parking space out front. When the Impala quiets down, Dean doesn’t ask any questions and Cas is grateful for that. He fishes his keys from his pocket and leads him inside.

He says, “It’s a good neighborhood,” as they climb up, because that’s what you’re supposed to say. It’s what his landlady said when she led him up the first time, maybe to distract him from the cracks in the walls and the smell of laundry detergents coming from the laundromat next door.

He says that, even if Dean knows better than anyone that you can’t really be safe, no matter where you are, and even if it wouldn’t really make a difference for Cas who, grace or not, could still kill a man in the blink of an eye.

Dean follows him inside, past the little entryway and into the living room.

Cas turns on the lights and walks across the dusty carpet and around the coffee table to get to the window and open it. The cold evening air brings in noises from the street and allows him to breathe more easily. For a moment, in the dark and the musty air, it felt like being underwater.

Dean says, “Hey, it’s not bad,” only a beat too late. He looks around, nodding to himself. “Yeah. Nice, uh, couch.”

It’s a simply distributed space; if one drew it from above, it would resemble a square, divided up into uneven boxes facing each other in pairs. On one side the living room and the bedroom, and on the opposite one, the kitchen and the bathroom. Dean could tour the whole thing in fifteen steps or fewer if he so wished.

It seems even smaller with him in it now.

“Everything here came with the apartment,” Cas says.

It’s not exactly true. In the kitchen, on the wall just behind the fridge, there’s a complimentary calendar that he got from a shipment of energy drinks. Cas brought it home and hung it there, because Steve needs to pay attention to what month it is and what day it is—he has rent to pay, shifts at work, bills and deadlines.

Cas painted wards and sigils on walls and floors; Steve covered them up with dull paintings and soft carpets.

Nora gave Steve a succulent that sits on the windowsill of his bedroom. Cas only remembers to check on it when he is in bed, and he turns on his side. Most of the time, he’s too tired to get up again, says to himself he’ll do it in the morning, then he forgets again.

Cas doesn’t care about furniture; he doesn’t care about things. About the old couch that groans when you sit on it, about the low batteries in the TV remote. He doesn’t care about the dust in the empty flower vase on the shelf or the light in the bathroom that goes out sometimes.

Steve does. When he comes home after a ten-hour shift, the couch does not help his stiff and aching back. When he gets up at night to go to the bathroom, he has to be careful not to trip over things in the dark. Steve minds about furniture, about having hot water, a working washing machine and a window that opens all the way.

Cas doesn’t care about having a home, but Steve does, so now Cas has an address and a mailbox.

Steve needs so many things, some days Cas can barely keep up.

Dean is still standing there and seems unsure what to do. Cas can’t bear the sight of him in the apartment. This wasn’t something he’d ever planned on seeing, but nothing had gone according to his plans today.

He puts down the keys he realizes he’s still clenching and goes back toward the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink?” he says, because that’s what you’re supposed to say when you have people over at your apartment. He’s seen it on TV plenty of times.

He stands in front of the open fridge and scans the shelves—the carton of eggs, the half-eaten burrito, the jar of grape jelly—and says, “I only have water.”

“Water is fine,” Dean says, his voice a little strained.

This entire situation must make him as uncomfortable as Cas is. He’d followed him to the threshold of the kitchen and it looks like he’s feeling larger than he is, one shoulder pressing against the door frame. His gaze wanders over the surroundings: the beige walls, the bowl of bananas and oranges on the table and the teaspoon on the edge of the sink. 

That morning Steve had used it to stir his coffee and then forgot to wash it. He was distracted because he was checking his mail. He collects it at night, but sometimes he’s too tired to look at it before bed and he leaves it for the morning.

Dean doesn’t comment on any of it. “Are you alright?” he asks, as Cas hands him a tall glass with his bandaged hand.

“It’s just a cut.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Dean says.

Cas walks past him. “I’m fine.”

He goes back to the entryway to take off his shoes and put them away and he feels Dean watching him from around the corner. He senses that he has no intention of letting go of the conversation.

“That angel—he came for you, didn’t he?”

Cas sucks in a breath. He’d known the question was coming; he’d spent the silent journey over dreading it and wondering how much Dean had heard of his conversation with Ephraim. He really doesn’t want to talk about what he said; he doesn’t even want to think about it.

“Because you’re in pain,” Dean adds.

Cas keeps his eyes on the ground and wonders if Dean is thinking about that night not that long ago, when he’d confessed how much guilt he was carrying. I might kill myself.

“He was mistaken.”

Dean doesn’t buy it. “So you’re fine. We’re gonna leave it at that?” he insists.

Cas fixes his eyes on the pea-green wallpaper in front of him. “Ephraim is gone and I’m tired. I’ve got work in the morning.”

“Right, yeah,” Dean says, sounding weird again. He shifts on the spot, looks down at his water. “I should, uh—” 

Cas doesn’t meet his eyes but he says, “You can stay. The couch is a pull-out.”

Dean says okay, then, even though there’s a motel room already paid for with all his stuff in it. He says okay, even though the living room window doesn’t have blinds or curtains to keep the light out and Cas has no spare pillow.

Cas goes over to the couch and starts removing the cushions. 

“You don’t need to do that,” Dean says, but Cas doesn’t stop maneuvering the coffee table out of the way.

“You have a long drive tomorrow.”

And there’s that.

There’s a big blinking neon sign on the other side of the street that paints Cas’ bedroom walls in red and pink and purple. Cas rarely bothers with turning on the lights in this room. The landlady promised to get Steve some heavy curtains, but she hasn’t come back yet. Cas doesn’t mind. One night the sign was down for maintenance, and he had trouble falling asleep without its constant shifting colors.

He’s looking for clean sheets while Dean uses his little bathroom, and then all of a sudden he’s standing in the doorway, as if hesitant to come in for some reason. He’s only in his jeans.

“Do you have a T-shirt I could borrow?”

Cas goes to the dresser where Steve keeps his T-shirts—he’d paid ten dollars for a pack of three—and picks a dark one for Dean. He smells of the shower gel with the tropical fruit on the bottle.

Cas got it because the ads say it will nourish and soften his skin and Steve’s skin gets dry when it’s windy. He also has shaving cream in the cabinet, a razor, a toothbrush, a box of bandaids. Sometimes Cas stops and looks at Steve in the mirror and asks himself if he’ll ever get used to it, to being this, just this. Sometimes he lies in bed and watches the ceiling change colors and wonders how long he will need to wait before he stops feeling fragile.

“Do you want me to take a look at that?” Dean asks, gesturing with his chin to his bandaged hand.

“I’ll do it,” Cas says and he knows this rejection will unnerve Dean more than his refusal to talk. He reminds Cas of a bug bumping against a window, but Cas isn’t ready for him to take a look inside yet, let alone come in. 

Dean clenches his jaw for just a moment, then lets it go. Cas follows him to the living room with clean sheets in his arms and makes the pull-out bed while Dean pokes around in his kitchen, with the excuse of getting another glass of water. Cas hears him open cabinets and pull out drawers. It seems like it didn’t take him long to make himself at home.

Cas isn’t sure he likes that.

Maybe it’s because it still hurts. When he got to the bunker, he’d thought that he had nothing to worry about anymore, and what he had gone through since the fall had just been a rocky journey to get back home. He wasn’t alone, he had simply been misplaced, but now he could rest.

He’d been naive. Dean had made it clear that he didn’t belong there, and it was a confusing truth he had to learn to accept. And yet, it still hurts. He’d thought it didn’t anymore; he’d thought the bitterness had left him but maybe it doesn’t happen like that. Maybe it lingers and lingers. You think it’s gone, but it’s not. Maybe he won’t ever be rid of it.

Cas thought he had been hurt before. For sure, he had felt sorrow and disappointment.

But the open wound inside his chest is a crater, and it’s swallowed him, and he has to make his way back out and he’s not sure he’s there yet.

He’s exhausted though, especially tonight, with the things Ephraim said still ringing, true and inevitable, in his ears.

Dean pops his head through the kitchen door. “Do you cook?”

“Occasionally.”

“Really?” He sounds surprised. “What d’you make?”

“Eggs.”

Steve likes eggs in the morning, with coffee—two sugars. But not orange juice. It makes his stomach burn for hours. He breaks and scrambles one egg in a pan with butter and pepper. Some days, Steve is so tired the eggshell breaks in small pieces and the kitchen gets dirty, and sometimes he wakes up late and rushes through the door. He eats a donut at work—but only the pink kind. The chocolate ones have a weird aftertaste.

“That it?”

“I have lunch at work, and I buy something for dinner on the way home.”

And if he’s too tired to stand in line or doesn’t feel like eating anything, there’s always peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Dean nods thoughtfully.

Cas thinks he’s passed some sort of test, but maybe not with the highest of grades, because Dean adds, “You— I mean, you’re eating enough, right?”

Oh, so he does worry.

Cas thinks of that time he’d had expired food and stayed awake the whole night:  his stomach cramping, face pressed against the cool surface of his bathroom tiles, dreading the next wave of nausea, thinking he was going to die, his thumb hovering over Dean’s name in his contacts more times than he feels comfortable remembering. Wishing to hear his voice.

Not calling.

“I think so,” Cas says.

Dean slips out of his jeans and sits on the edge of the bed that groans under his weight.

Cas should go and take care of his hand. Steve needs to sleep; he has tomorrow’s opening shift. New products to shelve and customers to serve. Usually at this time of night, Steve has already turned in.

But when he starts for the bathroom, Dean says, “Hey, wait,” and Cas has no choice but to stop, because Dean is here now, in the middle of his living room, and Dean unbalances everything.

“You don’t wanna talk about it—that’s fine. I just wanna say that whatever Ephraim told you, you don’t need to listen to him. You got a good thing going here. You got a job, you got a place for yourself. You got a chance to get out. Like, really get out.”

Something colors Dean’s voice that makes Cas suspicious. He doesn’t want to start a conversation, but he can recognize when Dean’s trying to say something without saying it.

“I have a responsibility toward my kind. Even if I can’t do much, I should try.”

“I know,” he says, but he’s fidgeting. “It’s just too dangerous out there right now. You said it yourself: after what happened with Metatron, angels are all over, looking for you.”

Cas holds his gaze and doesn’t say anything. Dean blinks one too many times. There’s something he’s not telling him, Cas knows.

“I’m just saying,” he starts again, and goes on as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “I get that you want to make things right, but maybe you can wait a little longer?”

His words hang in the air. Cas studies the way Dean’s eyebrows arch over his eyes, the tight lines around his mouth. He’s still convinced he can hide things from Cas, maybe now more than ever, but Cas sees him. Dean always forgets that.

“What is it?” Cas finally asks, fixing his gaze on Dean.

That’s all it takes. Dean sighs and it’s as much as a confession.

“Crowley said there’s no reversing the spell,” he says then, and he looks like he’s bracing himself for Cas’ reaction.

Somehow though, it doesn’t come as a blow. It doesn’t hurt him, it doesn’t shake his world. Cas registers Dean’s words and he surprises himself by thinking that he’s not broken by them.

He never expected that it would be easy for things to go back to they were.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t go back,” he reasons. “We can still find a way.”

“So you wanna go back.”

Cas is taken by surprise, not so much by his words, but by the way Dean blurts them out, almost as if they had escaped before he could control them—urgent, as if he could be directly affected by his choice. Cas can’t understand what difference it makes to Dean if Cas is on Earth or not, when he’s the one who sent him away in the first place.

“I don’t want to be trapped,” he says, a kind way out of a reply, and he feels his good hand close in a fist. This is not where he was supposed to be, where he was born to be.

Of course, he doesn’t want to leave Earth—not forever. Even back when he’d thought he was closing the Gates of Heaven, he was leaving because he had no other choice, and coming to terms with that was one of the hardest things Cas had ever done.

Dean acts as if he doesn’t know that, and maybe he really doesn’t. But Cas is still in pain and won’t clear that up for him; he won’t show himself needy of his company and his time.

“Yeah, no, I get that,” Dean says, but he sounds like he got the opposite of what Cas was trying to say. Cas won’t correct his misunderstandings. Not tonight. He’s feeling weak enough.

Cas leaves the room; there is not much else to say.

The springs of the mattress Dean is sleeping on groan whenever he moves.

Cas hears him from his bedroom. They groan and groan and groan. It makes it impossible for Cas to relax enough to fall asleep, even though he’s exhausted and the wound on his hand has started throbbing again.

He’d disinfected it and wrapped it in clean bandages, but he doesn’t have any painkillers, so he grinds his teeth and hopes it’ll be morning before he realizes.

The mattress groans and groans and then, when Cas resigns himself to the fact that he won’t get any sleep, the sound suddenly stops. Dean could have managed to fall asleep but somehow Cas doesn’t think that’s the case. The hair on the back of his neck stands up when he hears Dean’s footsteps coming toward his bedroom.

There’s a moment of silence and Cas doesn’t dare turn around. Then the bathroom door shuts and he lets out a breath.

The toilet flushes a few moments later, the door opens, and again, silence.

Cas frowns, rolls onto his back to find Dean standing there, just a dark silhouette in the door in the purple light—still behind that invisible wall that won’t let him cross the threshold.

“Dean?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” he says, “Sorry, uh, I can’t sleep on that bed so…”

The neon blinks in pink and Cas notices Dean’s wearing his jeans again. The thought of him slipping into the night, and Cas finding nothing but an empty apartment in the morning, has his heart pounding in his chest.

“You can sleep in here,” he says, and his voice sounds broken and loud.

“Uh, you don’t ha— I’ll be fine on the floor with just an extra blanket or something.”

The color in the room changes again. Dean wasn’t going to leave. Cas is confused by his emotions; his heart won’t behave, his ears start ringing, his insides burning. He didn’t want him here in the first place, so why does the thought of him going away hurt so much?

“I don’t have an extra blanket,” he says in the end, and then scoots over and gives him his back. “It’s late,” he adds and hopes it’s enough to end the conversation.

“Alright,” comes Dean’s voice, and then there is the sound of footsteps, his jeans hitting the floor and then the comforter is lifting, the mattress sinking.

Cas still can’t relax. Not when he can feel the tension in the room, Dean’s body rigid on the bed and his intakes of breath telling him that he’s getting ready to speak.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Cas?” 

Cas had thought he wanted an apology from Dean more than anything.

He thought about it at night, imagined what he would say if he called, if he wrote it in a text message, if he showed up at his door. But when Dean says, “I’m sorry,” right there and then, Cas realizes he doesn’t need it anymore. He has forgiven him already.

“I know I let you down,” Dean says, “I should be here for you.”

And Cas had thought about what to say to him a million times. To make him feel worse, to spike his guilt, to reject him completely.

He can’t do it. He’s never wanted to be one of the things Dean blames himself for. He won’t be one of them tonight, either.

There’s an open wound inside his chest, but telling Dean how much he’d hurt him would only make it deeper.

He says the only thing that feels true. He says, “I’m not mad.”

“You’re not okay though, are you?”

Cas doesn’t know if he can find the right words to explain how he feels. 

He rolls onto his back, fixes his eyes on the ceiling and watches it as it changes: red, purple, pink, and red again.

He tries, “I’m not myself.”

Dean shifts on his spot and now he’s looking at him. Cas can feel his gaze and knows Dean is frowning.

“What do you mean?” It comes as a whisper, worry bracketing each of his words.

“I don’t know who I am.”

“You’re Cas,” Dean says with a familiar high note of stubbornness and confusion.

That’s probably what does it. Cas’ lips start trembling, his eyes prickling. There’s a sudden lump in his throat, his chest starts hurting, and then there are hot tears spilling from the corners of his eyes, rolling down his temples and disappearing into his hair. The tickling sensation on his skin and in his nose is not entirely unpleasant, but he has to keep swallowing and can’t bring himself to talk.

Dean sees all of it. He stays absolutely still but when he speaks, every word is soaked in a softness that makes him feel even closer than he is.

“You’re still an angel. Without grace, okay, but that doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t change who you are,” he says, and he sounds like he knows for sure.

Cas knows this is hard on Dean. To see his tears and to know that this time he can’t say what he usually says: I’ll take care of it, I’ll figure something out, Let me handle this. Because tomorrow he’ll be gone. He’ll hop in his car and drive away, and nothing will change that. So he can’t take Cas' burden now, like he always tries to do, like he does with everyone else.

“You’re still you,” he keeps going. “And you know, I really meant what I said earlier. You are doing one hell of a job, managing all this on your own. Being human sucks. Like, truly, sucks. Of course you hate it.”

Dean’s words have a tentative lightness to them and Cas knows he’s trying to cheer him up so he makes an effort to smile. He takes a deep breath and glances at him.

“I don’t hate it,” he says, his voice still a little broken. “I just…  want my grace back. I want to feel like myself again.”

Cas doesn’t look away from him and doesn’t move a muscle, not even when Dean says, “Okay,” and reaches out with one hand to rub away a tear on his temple. The touch is unexpected, and Cas eyes’ close on their own for a moment. Dean is serious now. “We’ll get it back.”

In Dean’s eyes Cas finds something that, incredibly, resembles understanding. Does he understand? Is he comparing Cas’ grace being ripped from him with the bite of the Hellhounds tearing him apart? Is he thinking of Hell consuming his soul? Is he thinking of losing Sam?

Cas doesn’t know, but somehow the understanding is there, and there’s no need for him to say more. 

“I’ll start looking as soon as I get back, okay?” Dean says.

Cas nods and his tears are replaced with a calm certainty: that Dean is here, that he himself is not completely lost, that there’s a possibility to feel whole again. He doesn’t even remember how he could have thought everything was so hopeless.

“Okay,” he says, and worries that he will feel silly and ashamed once Dean turns around again, and the moment will be gone. But Dean stays where he is. He settles down on his side with his head on his arm because the only pillow is too small for the both of them.

“You’ll be alright,” he says, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing once. Next to Dean, Cas believes it.

Slowly, Dean’s breathing evens out. The rhythm is so familiar that Cas' body relaxes to it. He has lost count of how many hours he spent in a dark room with this sound, back when he used to watch over him while he slept.

Cas lets out a deep breath and closes his eyes. Then he feels it—a touch on his shoulder again, Dean’s fingertips on the fabric of his sleeve, then the same featherlight touch of a knee against his bare thigh, right below the hem of his boxer shorts. No real pressure, just a light contact, but it starts a gentle prickle that travels through Cas’ body and fills his chest and limbs. He’s never felt anything like it.

Cas keeps his eyes closed and his body still and he falls asleep like that, thinking that Dean has never been close to him like this before. Whether it’s chemistry or instinct, maybe it’s now and it’s here, because somehow humanity makes him more accessible, more recognizable to Dean: the warmth of his skin, the smell of his body, the beating of his heart.

And so maybe there is, at last, something Cas can be grateful to Steve for.

It’s not quite morning when Cas wakes up. He doesn’t need an alarm. Even when Steve gets a day off, Cas still wakes up very early.

He doesn’t like lingering in bed for too long, because his mind gets busy with thoughts and memories, and he has to occupy his hands to make them go away. But Steve needs his rest on his days off, so Cas stays under the blanket until his bladder or his stomach start complaining.

This morning, his limbs feel heavy and his nose is stuffy, and he can’t remember why. 

He reaches out to grab his phone and check the time, and it’s the hand with the bandage that reminds him what happened the day before.

It reminds him that this morning is nothing like every other morning, that there’s someone lying next to him, and that someone is Dean. He can feel the heat of his body warming his back.

He sits up on his side of the bed and only then dares to look over his shoulder. Yes, Dean is still there, asleep on his stomach, one arm bent under his head, Cas’ shirt stretched over his shoulders.

Dean probably senses his gaze, because he opens his eyes and looks back at him, his signature morning pout on his lips.

Cas thinks he must make quite a sight; with the window behind his back, he must be just a silhouette against the weak morning light, his hair sticking up, his clothes wrinkled.

He wants to speak, but he’s forgotten the first thing people usually say to each other in the morning.

Dean’s brain must still be foggy because he doesn’t comment on the fact that Cas is just staring at him. After a moment, he blinks and yawns and lets out a mumbled “You got a really nice bed,” as if it isn’t just a mattress and a metal frame.

“Thank you,” Cas says, and only then remembers that what he was supposed to say was, Good morning.

It’s too late now, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

“What time is it?”

“Five-thirty.”

Dean smiles in bliss. His eyes are glassy. “I haven’t slept six hours in a long time.” He yawns again. “You getting up?”

“Yes, but you can stay longer,” Cas says. “I’m going to get dressed.”

Dean nods and rubs his face and then follows Cas with his gaze while he gathers things around the room.

“I’ll be up in a sec. I’m gonna make you eggs,” he says.

He’s pulled Steve’s pillow to his side and made himself comfortable again, stretching his legs and taking up space. Cas can’t resist turning to watch him from the door. He looks like a dream in the early morning light.

Dean’s eyes are still on him and Cas suddenly feels exposed, with his bare thighs and calves. He’s seen Dean in various states of undress plenty of times, but he’s not sure Dean’s ever seen him, and he doesn’t know what it means that he’s watching.

“Okay,” Cas agrees. After last night, it’s an easy concession to make. The corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up, and Cas feels himself mirroring him. 

Dean is a great cook. Cas has heard him boast about it in the past, but this is the first time that he’s tried his cooking.

His eggs are good, more savory and less runny than his, and they come with toast.

“I never have toast with my eggs,” Cas comments.

“What’s with all the bread, then?”

“It’s for PB&J.”

That makes Dean snort a laugh. He’d moved the bowl with the fruit to the counter next to the sink and poured coffee into two mismatched mugs. Now, he sits across from him and digs into his plate. 

He’s already dressed, shoes on too. Cas doesn’t mention that he’s still wearing the T-shirt he borrowed. He’s pretty sure the black one he had on before is still where he left it, on the hook behind his bathroom door, and he wants to keep it that way.

The time is running out and he doesn’t know how to convince himself there’s no point in wishing it could stop.

“You can use bread to do lots of things,” Dean is saying. “Ever had French toast?”

Cas shakes his head.

“Alright, I’ll make you some next time.”

“Next time?” Cas repeats, almost losing his grip on the mug he’s bringing to his lips.

Dean puts down his fork, picks it up again, avoids his gaze. “I just thought— It’s not that I want to bring the bad guys to your door, obviously, but maybe I could slip out here sometimes. I’d be careful.”

Cas' face must be asking, Why?, because Dean rushes to add, “Just, you know, to see how you’re doing.” He massages one of his thighs out of nervousness, then in a light tone, he says, “First thing, I’m buying you groceries, replacing that couch, and fixing the light in the bathroom.”

Cas puts down his coffee mug, anger rising in his chest. “No.”

Dean hadn’t expected that. His face crumbles all at once, showing hurt and confusion. “Wh—?”

“You can come here, but as a friend. I don’t want a caretaker.”

“What?” he exclaims in disbelief. “I didn’t say that.” 

“I’m serious, Dean.” Cas clenches his jaw; this is the last thing he wanted. “I don’t need your pity and I don’t need you to parent me.”

Dean’s eyes widen. “That’s not what I meant!” he says, raising his voice. He gets up and circles around his chair, taking a moment to calm down. “Jesus, Cas, I don’t wanna be your parent. I know you don’t need me, I just—” He sighs, frustrated, shakes his head. “I— I didn’t mean that,” he says, looking up at him like he does sometimes when he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

Cas knows that look. It takes all the fight out of him. Without the anger, all that’s left is the knowledge that Dean might come back and this might not be the only morning they spend in this kitchen. It’s an unbearable thought, difficult to grasp—almost as difficult as it had been to imagine Dean here before yesterday. “Well then, in that case, it’s fine, I’d like that,” Cas says, and Dean deflates in front of him like a balloon. 

Cas takes the dishes to the sink, gives them a quick wash. He wonders what happens now.

“Are you leaving right away?” he asks, sneaking a glance over his shoulder.

“Nah, I can give you a ride to work,” Dean says casually. And then, in a different tone, he adds, “Go on, go brush your teeth and get your jacket.”

Cas throws him a look, his mouth already open in protest, but Dean is grinning at him. “Just kidding.”

Cas rolls his eyes.

The ride is quiet and the closer they get, the sadder Cas feels.

It’s a dull pain that presses down the corners of his mouth and makes him clench a fist, irrationally resenting green lights and empty roads, pedestrians that wait on the sidewalk instead of crossing and slowing them down.

Dean talks about getting Cas a car and doesn’t seem to mind or notice that Cas barely responds. He’s probably just doing it to fill the silence. He stops in front of the entrance, and Cas doesn’t expect him to, but he turns off the engine and gets out to say goodbye.

He lingers in front of Cas, his eyes wandering from him to the Gas-n-Sip windows, to the gas pump, down to the asphalt, up to Cas again.

Cas is no fool; he knows that it could be a long time before they see each other again.

“Let me know if you see any of the angels,” Cas says to stop that line of thought. “They may despise me, but they know we need to work together.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says, a wrinkle in between his eyebrows.

“Say hello to Sam for me.”

Dean sets his jaw and doesn’t say anything, and Cas feels there’s something there he doesn’t know. But they’ve run out of time. He takes a step forward and hugs him.

Hugging him as a human is different. It’s warmer, for one thing. Cas feels his own breath pushing his chest against Dean’s, his heart picking up the pace. And then there’s the scent of him. Cas can’t resist leaning his head into the crook of Dean’s neck, to feel his warm skin against his cheek, breathe him in.

Dean’s hands come up after only a moment to rest under his shoulder blades. He lets Cas hold him for longer than he thought he would.

“Hey,” he says then. “You can call me anytime—you know that, right?”

Cas nods, takes a breath, and steps away.

Dean seems sad now. He flashes a smile, but it’s not genuine. He looks like he’s about to say I’m sorry again. Cas wishes he wouldn’t, and thankfully he doesn’t. 

Instead he says, “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.” Cas tries to smile, too, but he thinks it comes out all wrong. “I’ll see you soon.”

"Yeah,” Dean says, now walking backward. “Buy me a pillow, will you?” He points and flashes another of his fake smiles. He gets to the car door. “Toothbrush, too.”

“Okay,” Cas says.

The door opens with a creak.

Dean looks at him over the roof.

“Have a good day at work.”

“Have a safe drive.”

Dean gets in and Cas bends to look at him through the passenger window.

Dean’s not smiling anymore. He’s sighing, and when he notices Cas, he leans over to roll the window down.

“I’ll be back.”

Cas knows Dean believes it. “You know where I live.”

Dean’s lips stretch in a grin that doesn’t show in his eyes.

The Impala starts rumbling and vibrating under Cas’ fingers still on the window frame. He holds up one hand in an aborted wave, Dean does the same. Cas lets go of the car and the wheels start rolling.

In a moment, he’s gone.

And Cas would stand there to watch the car disappear from his view, but Steve needs to open the store, turn on the cash register, make a few calls, start the coffee machine.

And on any other day, Steve would do that without thinking about Dean. Steve wouldn’t ache for him, wouldn’t long for him.

Cas isn’t sure he can do that anymore—shut himself away. As he wipes the counter and organizes the coins, he almost doesn’t remember how he did it before. 

He knows then that there is no going back, because Cas and Steve have something in common now.

They’re both in love with Dean.

[akirakirxaa]

FFXIVWrite Prompt 22: Free Day

Rating: T

Word Count: 786

Summary: G'raha finds Hades. He decides it's time for them to finally, actually talk. [OT4 verse, continuation of a couple of other entries, extremely rough cause there's a lot more I wanted to talk about but I'm trying to hit the deadline. Eventually this will be a longfic I promise lol.]

[Master Post]

The ruins of Garlemald never got any easier to see.

Despite the efforts by the survivors of the final days combined with Zenos' madness, most of the city still lied in rubble; aggressive, out of control magitech crept around every corner, waiting to catch some poor soul off guard. It was no wonder that the reconstruction efforts had been so slow, considering the danger and the ominous tower that still loomed in place of the royal palace.

G'raha knew he was more than a match for any machine, but rather than fight, he had cast a Vanish spell over himself, passing easily through the ruined streets. He was too concerned that, should he take too long cutting a path with a blade or magic, that Hades would move on to somewhere else, and at this point, where would he go? No, best to make good time and catch him here.

It wasn't long before G'raha was skirting around the edges of the former palace. Surely Hades would find nothing nostalgic or comforting inside the now-twisted structure, so. Somewhere outside, perhaps. He knew from Akira that Hades hated the cold (an irony that was not lost on him) so the idea of him being outside, at night, in the Garlean chill was somewhat ludicris, but G'raha had no other leads to go on.

It wasn't long before he found a grand, wrought iron gate, metal twisted by something large, though whether it was machine or one of the beasts from the Final Days was impossible to guess. G'raha carefully stepped around the metal and, beyond, found piles of rubble tossed about haphazardly, making the purpose of the land almost unrecognizeable if not for the small remnants here and there of what were clearly grave markers.

And, amid the settled chaos of what was once likely a lovely little courtyard, G'raha saw a familiar, white haired figure standing before a conspicuously untouched gravestone, grander than any of the remnants he had passed. Wandering closer, he could just make out the name through the dark and snowfall — LUCIUS YAE GALVUS. G'raha dispelled his Vanish, making sure to step heavily into some snow, the ice crunching under his boots to announce his presence.

"Your…son?" He ventured, and Hades gave a single, curt nod without turning to face him.

"I suppose he was, in a way," he mumbled. The silence stretched for a moment before G'raha prodded again.

"Your first-born, if I remember right."

"As Solus, aye. He was… He deserved better than an empire birthed to sow chaos," Hades tried to cover what may have been a sniffle behind clearing his throat. G'raha resisted the urge to glance at him, doing his best to keep him from feeling interrogated.

"Why come here, then?"

"…When he was born…There are precious few times over the years where I had any semblance of happiness, but…that was one," Hades ran a hand through his hair. "I almost let myself believe things could be different, even. But… Then he died."

"I'm sorry," G'raha shrugged his shoulders up against a sudden gust of wind. "What of his mother?" Hades gave a humorless chuckle.

"A familiar soul. It soothed but it wasn't enough."

"By familiar, you mean…?"

"Does that upset you, to know? That she was…" Hades trailed off, still just as lost in the gravestone before them. G'raha took a small sidestep closer.

"No. She has no control over what her past lives did," G'raha reasoned.

"True. And if it's any consolation, if she'd been born to a more supportive family, in a better situation, she likely would have been just as much of a headache as she's ever been," the grousing was eased by the smallest of smirks. Hades finally tore his eyes away from the headstone, fixing G'raha with a not-quite glare. "Why are you here?"

"Akira didn't want you to leave," G'raha began, his turn to uncomfortably stare into the snowy darkness and rubble around them. "And I… I share just as much blame for her frustrations. I haven't given you a fair chance, at any point. Despite the fact that she would not be alive if not for you."

"Well, it's about time," Hades huffed, but it lacked the usual bite. "I suppose I've also been less than charitable towards you as well. Hanging onto old rivalries and such." G'raha smirked.

"Well, this all could only be expected. You did try to kill me."

"If I were trying to kill you, you would have been dead," Hades' voice was lighter. When G'raha turned to look at him, he found Hades was watching him in turn, perhaps both waiting for the other shoe to drop and spells to start flying.

[lynaferns]

I have been thinking for a while that I'm not made to do commissions. Or work as an artist in general.

I said at the start of the year that "I'll open commissions soon" and then never did. I had the sheets of prices and examples ready since then but never dared to post them. One of the reasons being that I have poor time management and deadlines kill me. I also have trouble with communication (you already know this) and if the other person doesn't do the bare minimum to specify me what they want I can't do anything. I'm supposed to draw something for you, it has to be to your liking, I can't do the job if you don't explain to me what you want.

This is still a hobby anyways, I only draw whatever I feel like drawing and if there is something I don't want to draw I don't do it.

But I see people saying stuff like "if people are interested in my art I should sell it (as in making prints, stickers and such)". Once I read people saying that they get mad when they see a talented artist with no print shop nor Patreon, or ko-fi, or whatever platform they could be making a profit of, because of that same reason: they could be gaining money from something they like that they are good at, and people could donate to them to support them, but they don't have anything set for that.

Most teachers and counselors I had, one of the first things they told me when they saw my art was that "I should work from this" "I should get a job that involves art" to "use my talent" "I can't just do nothing with the talent I have" "I have to use it for something", and while I know all of this comes from a good place, it only makes me feel pressured, like I have to do it, as if me being talented at art meant that I must use it for profit.

(I perfectly know the quality of my art, I know it would be perfect for selling, especially if it's fanart. I don't brag often about it because, no, like ????? Maybe if I'm especially proud of something specific but I'm more proud of my neat signature tbh. I don't complain much about my art either because honestly, most people won't notice the mistakes if I don't say what is wrong with my art, and it would become a toxic habit that'd send me into a bad mental state)

People have shown interest in my art before, I know there are people who would like to buy a print from me, but the thought of selling stress me out. Being the one who's in charge of making the merch, searching for a way of sending it to the person, setting prices, solving any problem that may come with- the whole thing that involves selling your stuff. I don't see myself managing any of that.

Making a Patreon comes with having something every month to post there for the people that are paying to see exclusive art that I won't be posting publicly until some time later. Ko-fi would be more suitable since it seems to be made for donations and you can set up a shop there, which is cool but I feel like I'd have it closed all the time. Idk. If I get artblock and I don't draw for a while I wouldn't feel good having any way of donation open.

If I end up selling my art it would be more to the fact that I know there will be people excited to have a print of my art in their hands rather than because of the money I'll make of it. But there is another problem that comes to it that I already talked about in the past: I don't want to sell one (1) sticker for 30 fucking EUR/USD. If you are in Europe there wouldn't be (much of) a problem, but to ship to America it would cost 30€ of fee.

I want to design stickers sometime, or pins. And if I end up making merch of my art I want to make money from it I guess, but idk...

I think I'd be better off working from something that doesn't require too much mental and/or physical strength from me so I can leave art as just a hobby. But that's another problem of its own.

[peaceoutofthepieces]

#24, maybe mixed with #35 with nick and charlie? 💛💙

24. wanting to hug but you’re ignored

35. hug after a fight

Charlie feels fidgety. Flighty. It would be easy to imagine himself drifting away, apart, into specks of dust and bone and nothing much else, if he wasn’t so firmly overwhelmed by his surroundings. It’s harder to escape the feeling when it doesn’t seem to have an obvious root; it sprouts through Charlie’s chest without a sensible source, spreading and growing jagged edges that scrape at his nerves. 

There’s no easy way of plucking it out or cutting it down. The best Charlie can do is attempt to blunt the thorns and stop any further growth. The easiest way to do that is to seek out the quiet, melty fire Nick lights in him without fail.

Charlie picks his head up from where he’s staring, unseeing, at his textbook, to where Nick is laying on the floor across from him, stomach down, brows furrowed at his laptop screen. Charlie slides his textbook off his crossed legs, tips his head back against his bed, and swallows in an attempt to even his breath. 

“Do you want to take a break?” Charlie asks, tentative and hopeful. 

Nick hums absently. 

Charlie’s fingers tremble and twitch. He twists them into knots. “Come sit with me for a bit?”

Nick’s eyes flicker to him and then back to his laptop, and the furrow between his brow deepens. He tucks the lid of his laptop down and pushes onto his knees, and a bit of tension slips out of Charlie in the wake of something more joyfully expectant. 

“Actually, good idea. Do you want some tea? I mean, is it weird—do you mind if I go make some?”

Charlie’s hopes dip slightly, but a mild warmth eases his shoulders. Enough for him to offer Nick a tinily amused, fully fond smile. “If you want.”

Nick flashes him a hint of his lopsided grin, and that expectant thing in Charlie flutters, but rather than dipping towards Charlie for a kiss of any kind—or any affection whatsoever—Nick pushes to his feet and is straight out the door. 

For the length of Nick’s absence, Charlie floats further away, until he’s holding himself here by pure force of will and still trembling like a leaf. He’s sure that now, like this, Nick will notice instantly. 

But Nick returns, hands Charlie a cup of tea, and settles back down at his laptop with barely a glance. 

Charlie’s teeth grind. He sucks in breaths until his jaw loosens, swallows until he can force more words up his throat. “Is that so important you can’t take a five minute break?”

He tries to make it light; he’s relieved there are no cracks; he’s sure he sounds flat—curious at the very best. 

Nick stiffens. “Sort of.”

It’s not the response Charlie was expecting. “Really?”

“Well, the tea took a few minutes.”

The words seem light; Nick’s expression is blank, if still slightly furrowed; he sounds defensive—flat at best. 

Charlie curls his hands around the cup of tea he can’t bring himself to drink. All he manages to say is, “Nick.”

“Everyone’s telling me I’m behind on these applications,” Nick spits out, all in a rush, “and even though it shouldn’t matter and it’s unfair if it’s true you’re supposed to have a better chance if you apply by the early deadlines. So. Yes, it’s important.”

It takes a moment for Charlie to understand. His fingers spasm around his mug. The jagged burrs in his chest sprout into a dozen sharp-edged thorns. This time, ‘flat’ is generous. “So, you’ve come to spend some time time with me to get your applications to leave me all ready. We should’ve made it a proper date.”

Nick stills entirely, and his gaze finally settles on Charlie. Instead of melty warmth, Charlie feels the burn of clenching an ice cube. “What?”

Charlie looks down into his tea. His fingers curl until his nails scrape over the ceramic. 

“Charlie, don’t. Are you being serious? We talked about it. I thought—you told me to do this. It’s not like I want to be away from you. You were the whole reason I barely considered this to begin with!”

It’s not anger, in Nick’s tone, not yet. But the barbed tips of frustration are there, prodded by confusion, incredulity. Charlie wonders how easy it will be to make them equally sharp. He doesn’t want to know and he can’t resist the urge to find out. “Were being the operative word?”

Nick pushes onto his knees. His lips are pressed into a thin line. “Right. Is this what you really think, then? So what, you just said you supported me and I was supposed to know you didn’t actually mean it?”

That cuts a slit in the curtain of Charlie’s anger, and his fingers flatten around his mug again as he meets Nick’s gaze. “Of course not! I’m always going to support you, Nick, but that’s not—did you think I’d be excited about being left behind?”

“You’re making it sound like it’s about leaving you and not a decision I have to make to set up the whole fucking rest of my life.”

“But that decision is leaving me!”

“Jesus, Charlie, you’re not the only one who struggles,” Nick explodes, climbing right up onto his feet. 

Charlie stares at him. 

Nick pushes a hand through his hair; from the state of the soft strands, it could be for the hundredth time today. Charlie hadn’t noticed, when Nick got here a few hours ago. “You’re not the only one who gets anxious, or scared, or worried about being left. You’re not the only one in this relationship.”

Some of Charlie’s thorns wither. He leans to set his mug on his nightstand, then twists towards Nick. “I didn’t—”

“Do you think I’m not constantly thinking about what it means if I’m going to uni somewhere else? It means no chance of going on and sharing housing with anyone I know. It means not coming home to mum everyday for the first time ever. It’s not even just you, even though that’s the worst part.”

“Nick, I—”

“It’s stupid, because I keep thinking it’s going to be like when you were at the clinic, but worse. As if there’s anything in the world that could have been worse than that.”

The pricks in Charlie’s chest are slowly being swapped out for the prick of moisture behind his eyes. “How do you mean?” he asks hoarsely. 

Nick seems to get smaller, downward and inward as if he’s shrinking and deflating at once. His voice has lost all its power when he answers, “I didn’t know I could feel that alone until I had you and then you weren’t there.”

Charlie’s prickly feelings die at the root. “Nick,” he whispers, thickly, and then he climbs to his feet and gathers his boyfriend in the hug he’d wanted in the first place. Nick sinks into him in the way he always does, head dropping down onto Charlie’s shoulder and arms wounding tight around his middle. 

“I always felt so stupid,” Nick whispers, an admittance meant barely even for Charlie. “You were really struggling and actually on your own and I couldn’t go a day without thinking about how lost and lonely I was. I never even had to worry about feeling guilty by telling someone that because you weren’t here to tell.”

Charlie squeezes Nick’s shoulders. “Nick,” he breathes, again, because what else can he say? “I thought you said you talked to your mum, and you spent a lot of time with the rugby lads and our friends.”

“I know,” Nick says, and it does sound guilty. But more than that, it’s miserable. “But they’re not you.”

For a beat, Charlie’s heart stops, and then all he can say is, “I know,” because he does. Out of everything Nick his said, nothing sums it up better in a way Charlie intrinsically understands. 

It doesn’t matter how many people Charlie loves or has loved or will love. No one else is ever going to be Nick. 

He can’t honestly say that it comes as much of a surprise to him that Nick knows this because he feels it just the same. 

“Come here,” Charlie murmurs, giving Nick’s shoulders one more squeeze before parting enough to guide Nick to his bed. Nick settles himself in by the wall while Charlie collects Nick’s—likely cold—cup of tea and places it next to his own, then picks up Nick’s laptop and takes it with him to the bed.

The aimless anxiety that had clawed through him since waking settles some as he settles into Nick’s side and an arm comes over his shoulders. It means he only has to take one steadying breath as he braces Nick’s laptop on his own knee and gets a glimpse of the various tabs, and the open application site. 

“I’m going to sit right here,” Charlie announces, “and we’re going to work on this together. Because that’s what it’s going to be like later.” He nudges the laptop onto Nick’s knees and snuggles closer, wrapping both his arms around Nick’s. “I’m going to be right here, and any time I’m struggling or you are, we’ll work it out together.”

When he’s met with silence, he tilts his head up to find Nick’s lopsided smile making his eyes miles brighter and softer than they had been all day. “Are you sure?” 

In answer, Charlie presses his lips to Nick’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I never thought about how hard it was for you when I was away. I’m sorry I got bratty because I was feeling shit and I didn’t realise you were, too.”

There’s a weight against his head, a kiss pressed to his curls. Instead of enforcing their s-word rule, Nick says, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. About either.”

Charlie skims over Nick’s wrist and eventually finds his hand; Nick laces their fingers together. “I meant it, you know. I’ll always support you. And that means I can be there for you as much as you are for me, when you’ll let me. I love you more than anything in the world, Nick.”

“I know,” Nick murmurs, squeezing Charlie’s hand tight. “I love you too.” With a sigh, he lifts his head from Charlie’s and steadies his laptop with his free right hand; the rest of them parts no further. “Right then. Where to next?”

[gageblackwood]

So, many folks with ADD have found that they have trouble doing chores for themselves (Hi, I'm talking about me) but have an easier time doing them for someone else. I have found this to be true as I've helped out a family friend with dog sitting and then various chores like laundry. I cannot do laundry reliably for myself, but it's somehow easy to do it for them.

For quite awhile this was actually relaxing! Like, I was helping someone out, I was getting things done. It helped to have a list, written out by someone else and an external deadline (since deadlines I set myself rarely work for me), and it felt good. Even if I was just sitting on my computer, I was doing it while waiting on the washer, so I didn't feel like I was wasting time.

Sadly, it turns out that this relaxation and feeling good only really works if I'm alone in the house, to be able to complete the list on my own terms and timetable.

When someone is in the house, my brain insists I'm being judged, to say nothing of the way my social battery is drained. Being at the house with just the dog, who as an old boy doesn't require much more than someone to sit beside him while he naps, is a vastly different experience than being there while someone is there. And is also a different experience to when the person I'm doing chores for is there!

Like, one day I was supposed to take the trash out, but the appointment that said family friend was going to go to was canceled so they were there too. And that's fine, it's their house! But then they started gathering up trash and bagging it, and I felt judged.

Because now it wasn't enough that it was done by the time they got back. Now it felt like everything on the list needed to be done right away, or I was slacking. Even if, as before, I was waiting on the washer to finish!

I have no idea how to end this really. Maybe it's just that it's frustrating to find something that works only to have circumstances change, maybe it's how stupid ADD feels sometimes, maybe it's even just a tip that could help someone else get things done if the setup is just right. But getting it typed out has helped me come to grips with it better and to relax a bit again, so if nothing else there is that.

Lastly a picture of the sleepy boy himself, just cause I feel like it:

Yes, he did fall asleep with a greenie in his mouth.

[silverhallow]

To help your muse

27-"I fucking love you."

This is set in the WWWY Universe.

And sort of uses the “to help your muse” as the theme.

Hope you enjoy it

Artists block.

There were few things Benedict hated more than when he hit a wall with his art. It made him feel like he was stuck in quicksand and unable to move, unable to focus on anything but the sinking feeling of failure.

He’d cancelled everything, he’d called Sophie and told her not to come over as he had to get this piece finished before his deadline on Monday. He’d kicked Henry out of the flat and sent him to see Phillip in Cambridge, determined that he would have no distractions whilst he finished it.

But he’d just… not done anything.

He’d stared at the blank canvas. He’d thrown out his first attempt, he had no idea why he was struggling with this. Henry had nailed his attempt in class, but Benedict had just found it uncomfortable looking at another naked woman, feeling like he was cheating on Sophie just by looking at her, had struggled.

He’d drawn something that was probably the worst attempt at art he’d ever done, it was so bad he was sure that even Anthony would have done better and so when he’d taken it home to finish, he’d thrown it out and decided to start anew but he was struggling.

And this was worth 20% of his mark for the year, failing or not completing this module would almost guarantee that he would fail the year and have to do resits which would affect his plans with Sophie and mean he wouldn’t get to graduate with Henry in the summer and would result in him not being able to go to Cambridge in the new term to do his masters… which was not an option.

So he was determined, he’d done everything he could to make sure that he wasn’t interrupted.

Henry had left rolling his eyes saying he just needed the “right inspiration” but Benedict was not really listening to him.

Benedict hadn’t even realised Henry had left as he had been staring at the blank canvas for several hours when he heard the doorbell go.

He ignored it.

It went again.

“Henry, can you get the door?!” he called out, annoyed that his roommate hadn’t answered it the first time. It went again “HENRY!” he yelled once more but there was no response.

Grumpy and annoyed he got up from his seat, ready to yell at whoever was at the door, he’d texted everyone to tell them to leave him alone, he needed to work, despite the fact he wanted to be with Sophie and spending time with her and not staring at a white canvas wondering how he was supposed to draw the female form.

The door went again, it was still a gentle ring, whoever was on the other side of the door clearly wasn’t as annoyed as he was and he was about to launch into an angry tirade as he opened the door to yell at whoever it was at the door when as the door swung open, his mouth opened to yell, he realised it was “Soph?! What are you doing here? I told you I had to work…” he said blinking in shock.

“You did, Henry got to ours a while ago and said you were struggling with your piece for this project and that you needed some proper inspiration…” Sophie said, her cheeks bright red in a way he’d rarely seen from her.

“Okay… what… I… wait what time is it?” he asked

“Nearly 9pm…” Sophie said her hands were fidgeting with her coat.

“Shit… I've got… nothing… I just… What does he mean by proper inspiration?”

“Well he told me what the piece was… a study of the female form” Sophie said “look can you let me in, it’s a bit cold out here…” she said

Benedict frowned, she had a big trench coat on but he moved and let her in, it was only fair after she’d driven all the way over here to see him, “it is but I just… I can’t use the images from class, it just… doesn’t feel right…”

“I get that… it’s why i’ve come… to help” she said coyly as she walked into his living room, and Benedict noticed that she was wearing heels, and looked at her confused

“Thanks Fee but you…” his mouth fell open as Sophie turned around and removed her coat.

Revealing her to be in nothing but a pair of heels “Holllllly fuck! Did you drive over here like that?”

Sophie giggled, feeling better now she was inside “I did… now… as long as you promise not to draw my face… how about we get your painting done like a good boy, then if you are a very good boy, then i’ll let you paint… well me” she smirked turning around and walking off to his room where she knew he’d be sitting and deliberately walked with a sashay in her hips.

Benedict let out a groan as he felt all the blood leave his brain and rush straight to his cock and he felt like the luckiest man in the world watching her bare arse disappeared into his room “I fucking love you” he said as he ran after her.

It took him 45 minutes, 45 agonising minutes with a raging and ever growing erection to get his painting done, before he was able to launch himself at her and thoroughly show his appreciation, thanking her for being an incredible girlfriend and the best muse a man could hope for.

[yasmiralotta]

If I had a nickel for every time someone designed more “animation friendly “ versions of the characters and actually made them more complex and gave them more little details I would be so rich. Also hot take but the characters aren’t that complex like Charlie and Vaggie are super simple. Yeah Charlie’s suit has a collar, buttons, and a tie but so does fucking SpongeBob? Even when characters have like “pin stripes” it’s like three or four because they are ya know simplified.

Exactly! Some of the re-designs I have seen from certain antis (That they of course think are SOOOOO MUCH BETTER than anything Viv could come up with 🙄) would cost a small fortune to animate. They make the designs so buzy and complicated, plus, you can't even tell who the character were supposed to be anymore! And some of the color choices are eugh...Not good 🤢 There is a reason Viv's characters has garnered so many fans over the years and even more so with the intruduction of the shows. And her Hazbin characters were litterly made to be more animation friendly when the show aired. Like, making Charlie's hair more consistent, taking away alot of smaller details on Husk's and Vaggie's designs and keeping with a more consistent color palette. Though to be fair, Helluva boss can get away with certain things, because it's a more independent project with no set deadline, so the animators can take their time with it. So, naturally, that show can make more advanced designs, like Queen Bee for example. But, I digress. And honestly, if you ask me, alot of her characters look so much better than the original designs she drew years ago (at least with the premise that the shows have now) or their pilot versions. Like, for example: Stella. Stella's pilot design was actually quite cute and elegant in her own way. But, it's nothing compared to the iconic look she has now. She just screams spoiled princess brat, and I love it.

(I Tried to make it look like they were having tea with eachother lol)

(My answer to the ask ends here. But, I have somenother things I talk about down below, if you are intrested. It's more of the same thing, really 🤷‍♀️)

⚠️Warning, rant going slightly of topic ahead. Read if you want⚠️: Character design is all about prefrances. And, honestly, the way a character looks, is in my opinion not even that big of a deal to begin with. As long as they are not offensive, stolen from someone else or racist. Who really cares (I mean, if you do care, that's okay) what they actually look like. As long as the animation is doing it's job in telling the story and the characters are recognisable enough. I mean, as an example, I still love the 1987 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. And they look identical, except for their masks, wrappings, weapon of choice and belt buckles with their initials on. If they would take all of that off, stop speaking and start using the same weapon, you wouldn't be able to tell them apart anymore.

It's their voices, character and personalites that makes that show so good (And the villans and side characters of course. But the turtles themselves stands out on their own, despite how simalar they look.) Bottom line is, you could have the most badass CHARACTER DESIGN, but the most blandass CHARACTER. And since Hazbin and Helluva is as popular as it is, Viv and her team must be doing something right 💁‍♀️ ⚠️Rant over⚠️

Phew! I went off there. Became a bit of a rant. Just tired of people complaining about the character designs when there is fundementaly nothing wrong with them outside of their own prefrences. And talking about it not being animation friendly, when the shows has already aired and alot of animators on the show has said that the designs aren't as complicated to animate as the antis think. There is so much more to say about this, but, I save that for another post. And this ask is getting long enough as it is 😅

Thank you for your ask and sorry for such a long answer 🫣❤️ (Sorry it took so long, ...again. My asks keeps getting burried in the drafts nowadays 🥲)

[glowingmeadow]

It's been a hot minute!

I'm back to vent, so you know things are getting back! I only come on here anymore to vent when things are getting significantly more difficult than normally; and right now, I'm sick. I've been sick for almost a week now, it's been really bad since wednesday, got so much better yesterday and I thought I was finally gonna be fine and then my nose decided to get stuffy and I haven't been able to breathe normally. I haven't slept much either, I fell asleep at around 5am and I woke up at 10am so I'm not really up for anything today and would rather just not be today. I've ended up sitting in bed, I'll try to do some work on my pc and read some from my books for literature class. I genuinely hope I can be ok for theater class this week cause we're gonna talk about physicality and it interests me so much so I'd rather not miss that class. I've been meaning to work on some poems in roder to submit them to my uni's magazine since the deadline is in a few days now, but I haven't been able to finish them. I mean I suppose they are but I feel like something is missing from them and they feel sort of void. I also only have two that I've recently worked on that I consider sending through, I have nothing else I've written. I'm feeling very unsatisfied with them. I still do feel that urge to write but lately it has been feeling different in nature; it somehow feels like there is a rhythm that needs to be expressed but the words don't fit the music and choreography of my thoughts. I don't know if that makes sense but somehow my writing has been feeling too static and that's not how it manifests itself in my mind. I think there is a translation barrier between the way things present themselves in my mind and how they appear whenever I type them out. Apart from that, I also think I've lost a few things I've written. I'm sure there has been more but I can't seem to find them, I've been quite the unorganised person this year.

[nel-world]

Establishing Audition Context INT. AUDITION ROOM – DAY

ANITA: (nervously) "You got this, Nick. Just remember, be yourself."

NICK: (adjusting his clothes) "Easier said than done. What if they don’t like me?"

CASTING DIRECTOR (off-screen): "Next, please!"

ANITA: (squeezing his shoulder) "Break a leg!"

Backstory and Musical Relevance INT. ANITA’S APARTMENT – NIGHT

ANITA: (scribbling on a notepad, frustrated) "This musical has to be more than just a project. It needs to reflect where I am now."

ANITA: (glancing at a framed photo) "I remember how hopeful I was back then. I need to capture that same hope now."

ANITA: (looking out the window, contemplative) "The song about hope—it’s not just a theme. It’s my life."

Audition Scene with Maria Reynolds INT. THEATER – DAY

MARIA REYNOLDS: (after Nick’s audition) "Thank you, Nick. We’ll be in touch."

NICK: (disappointed) "Yeah, thanks. I’ll be waiting."

NICK: (to himself, exiting the room) "I really thought I nailed it. Guess not."

Time Gap and Meeting Arrangement INT. COFFEE SHOP – DAY

NICK: "So, how did the appointment go?"

ANITA: "It was just a routine check-up. Nothing to worry about."

NICK: "I’m glad to hear that. I was hoping we could catch up."

ANITA: "Me too. It’s nice to hang out outside of the rehearsal."

Filming the Clip INT. PARK – DAY

ANITA: "That was great! Let’s check the footage."

NICK: (laughing) "I can’t believe we just did that."

ANITA: "Yeah, we’ve got some work to do. Let’s tighten up the dialogue."

NICK: "Agreed. I think we can make it even better."

Backstory Reveal through Dialogue INT. ANITA’S APARTMENT – NIGHT

ANITA: "You know, I’ve always felt like I’m on the edge of something big, but never quite getting there."

NICK: "I get that. I’m constantly battling to prove myself. It’s exhausting."

ANITA: "It’s like this musical is my chance to break through, but sometimes it feels like I’m stuck."

NICK: "We’re in this together. Let’s make it count."

Romantic Tension Development INT. ART GALLERY – DAY

NICK: "What do you see in that painting?"

ANITA: "Hope. It’s the same thing I’m trying to capture in the musical."

NICK: "I see it now. It’s beautiful."

ANITA: "It’s like we’re both searching for something. Maybe that’s why this project means so much."

NICK: "Yeah, maybe it is."

Conflict Over Musical Vision INT. THEATER – DAY

NICK: "What if we add more props? It could make the scenes pop."

ANITA: "But that’s not what this story is about. It’s supposed to be personal, not just flashy."

NICK: "I just think it needs a bit more to stand out."

ANITA: "It’s already powerful. We need to stay true to the message."

Anita’s Distraction INT. DANCE STUDIO – DAY

ANITA: (checking her phone anxiously) "Come on, come on. Please let this be good news."

INSTRUCTOR: "Everything okay, Anita?"

ANITA: "Yeah, just waiting for some important news."

INSTRUCTOR: "I hope it’s good news."

ANITA: "Me too."

Nick’s Struggle and Romantic Tension INT. NICK’S APARTMENT – NIGHT

NICK: (rehearsing lines, frustrated) "I need to get this right. Anita’s counting on me."

NICK: (pauses, thinking) "This is harder than I thought. Why did I think I could handle this?"

NICK: (phone buzzes with a message from Anita) "Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m not cut out for this."

Musical Deadline and High Stakes INT. ANITA’S APARTMENT – DAY

ANITA: "We have to finish this. It’s our chance to prove ourselves."

NICK: "I know, but we can’t just rush it. We need to get it right."

ANITA: "The deadline’s approaching fast. We need to focus and get it done."

NICK: "Alright, let’s put everything we’ve got into it."

The Big Reveal INT. COFFEE SHOP – NIGHT

NICK: "I need to tell you something. It’s about my past. I made a huge mistake involving someone from college."

ANITA: (shocked) "What kind of mistake?"

NICK: "I was cruel to someone who didn’t deserve it. I regret it deeply."

ANITA: "That’s a serious thing. I need to process this."

NICK: "I understand. I’m really sorry."

Scene of Growth and Conflict INT. THEATER – DAY

NICK: "I didn’t mean to step on your toes. I just want this to be perfect."

ANITA: "I get that, but we need to communicate better. We can’t keep clashing like this."

NICK: "You’re right. I’ll work on it. Let’s find a way to make this work."

ANITA: "We can. We just need to understand each other better."

[snepfeathers]

ranting under the cut for a bit under the cut bc I got tired of using tags lol

I'd offer valentine's themed slots or push febroary stuff more but tbh I've got a lot on my plate to get done in the next week or so and I don't want to bite off more than I can chew

to be fair most of it should be pretty smooth sailing and I should be able to get it done well before my self-imposed deadlines but still

I think I'm driving myself a little crazy with not having personal pieces between stuff. but genuinely how am I supposed to let myself take a break when comms are basically my only source of income this month?

it's not my fault they aren't handing out shifts right now btw. it's the slow season and there's just legitimately nothing to be scheduled for right now. like there are a couple of people in for training shifts but that's It. and I've already been trained. ugh.

I really do like what I do at that job but the scheduling and pay are. ripping my hair out frustrating. sometimes. a lot of the time.

at the same time though the loose schedule means I DO get to work on commission stuff and have some freedom I wouldn't otherwise have. augh. I'm looking for a new job anyway tbh but we all know how shit the market is right now. and I'd rather only leave if it'll be a Real Improvement. I don't want to hop from something that's fun with a sometimes-rough schedule into something that sucks and also kinda sucks with the schedule. y'know.

or maybe I'll just break down and sell pictures of my real tits in addition to drawing people furry tits. idk man. I just want to afford some fun stuff like finally visiting a furcon for the first time ever. is it really so so much to ask?

at least I have a roof over my head and food in the fridge. I'm thankful for that even if it's still stressful as hell making sure it stays that way. and I'm super super thankful to the people who have been supporting me and my partner by buying commissions and stuff, like seriously thank you so much you're the reason we're afloat some months

I'm just rambling at this point and don't really expect people to read this far but man. I'm just so tired. I'm so goddamn tired and stressed and I feel guilty as hell because hoooly shit people have it so much worse out in the world too and I'm complaining over stuff that's pretty dumb in the grand scheme of things but MAN. I just want to wake up feeling truly secure and not basking in the background radiating stress of not knowing if I'll be able to pay rent. and then feeling bad if I ever let myself get a stupid little treat because come on you fool, you could have saved that $15 or whatever for something better theoretically you should be building up your savings etc etc etc

I don't know. I don't know. my neck hurts my eyes hurt my head hurts my heart hurts. I'm probably just hungry and hormonal or something but I feel like I'm falling apart as the rest of the world is going to shit too, and it's inescapable, and the world has always been shit anyway and I should be helping more somehow but it's all just crashing in one overwhelming wave right now.

so I guess I'll keep working on commissions. and I'll try to meet those self-imposed deadlines. and I'll keep looking for another job. and maybe at some point in between everything else I'll draw something for myself.

what the hellllll man they said stuff would start picking up again around mid february but the schedule that just dropped only has me working one shift before the 25th

ugh. I guess that means I'll have more time available for commission stuff I guess

[matchaball]

ninette + 6?

6. On a sunny Tuesday afternoon, the late sunlight glowing in your hair (angel au) (inspired by this)

Nino hears her, in the static.

He can’t remember a time when he didn’t, just as he can’t remember a time when he was never around music. Something was always playing: the tv, a lullaby, a recording. It is there, in the white noise or the pauses between notes where the vibrations stretched themselves through the air, that he hears her. It presses into his mind like a hum, and colours flicker before his eyes as music plays around him.

Synesthesia, his parents called it, but Nino’s not sure that’s entirely it. But he can’t explain this hazy presence that flickers in his peripherals, so he doesn’t try. He’s less concerned, and more curious.

She sounds like music, and feels like a friend.

The first time Nino tinkers around on a piano, he can practically feel the air lighten around him as notes sing from his fingers. Something moves through him like laughter and spills out of his hands like inspiration. He chases after the music, after her, and by the time he can finally let go of the frequency he finds her in, his hands are cramped and his fingers ache.

Nino hardly notices. His hands are forever busy, tinkering with the radio or tuning up his violin or learning how to mix on the launchpad his parents give him. He practices, experiments, and thrives.

But he only sees her a handful of times after that first memorable experience. The old, giant, clunky radio from his grandfather works most consistently in catching an afterimage, at best, of her along the different frequencies. Nino thinks he hears something like wings beating as static softly crackles, like feathers rustling.

“What do you find, in music?” is a question he is asked once, in an interview.

There is a mic and a camera in his face, but he glances beyond them to the cables running along the ground. Electricity hums, and he can almost see her out of the corner of his eye.

“I don’t know,” Nino answers. “I’m still looking.”

And as long as he plays, he won’t stop searching. He constantly fiddles and experiments and pushes his instruments and his music to unknown territories, earning him success in everything but what- or who- he’s wanting most.

But if Nino’s learned anything from finding that delicate space between notes to listen to, it’s patience. There is no need to chase, when she has always been with him, as a muse, a comfort, a friend.

It is a Tuesday, when it all changes.

Nino puts the finishing touches of his latest song and runs it on loop, letting it fill the open space of his studio. Vibrations run along the floor as the bass hums, and vibrate through the air as the music builds.

There is something different, to this piece. It pulls his heart out of his chest and leaves him aching, vulnerable, tender. He puts a little of himself in each piece of music, but this feels like his soul played out along his heartstrings.

And there, somewhere in the frequency of his longing, he sees her. Sunlight sinks into her hair, turns it gold, and dresses her in something soft, ephemeral. The outline of her is blurred with static, like he’s looking at her without his glasses, but the detail in her face is sharp enough to burn permanently in his memory. Dust motes sparkle in the light, lighting her cheekbones with constellations of freckles.

And her eyes- the blue of them reminds him of clear summer skies, perfect and eternal.

When she leans over and kisses him, there is warmth, and the taste of something like apples, of something like divinity. It makes his breath catch in his throat, this tiny hint of an ancestral memory deep within him.

“I love you,” Nino realizes, dazed, into the sunlight of her.

“I know,” she smiles, and it is radiant. She gestures to his workstation, where his music continues to play even now. Where his music has always played, since the very beginning. “I have always known.”

And it’s true; every bit of music he’s ever made has been a love letter to her. Always, to her.

“What is this song called?” she asks.

There was none. He created this piece from the fabric of pure inspiration and the thread of intense longing and hope unraveling his heart- but the moment she asks, a name sings in his mind.

“Marinette,” Nino whispers.

“I have such a lovely name,” Marinette laughs, the sound jubilant and gold in the late afternoon sun. “Hello, Nino. It is so very good to love you at last.”

[furiousgoldfish]

What not to do when trying to support a traumatized or mentally ill person:

Don't assume they've done something wrong for this to happen to them.

Don't try to tell them they've done something wrong to deserve this.

Don't assume this couldn't happen to you. It could.

Don't attempt to apply stereotypes to their situation. It's likely you don't know exactly what's going on with them, unless they've told you.

Don't assume you know better/understand better about this than they do. They've been struggling with this for a while. They're intimately familiar with it.

Don't give them unwanted advice. If they ask you for advice, then you can advise them, but continuous unprompted 'why don't you do x and y' is not going to help.

Don't minimize their problem. Don't tell them they're being lazy/childish/unreasonable for having symptoms, being tired, being unwilling to do certain activities. They don't deserve to be told their struggles are nothing. Nobody deserves that.

Don't say 'I just would do x'. You don't know what you would do. You're not them. X might not even have been an option in their situation.

Don't compare their struggles with someone else's, either to make them feel like "it could have been worse", or to say "it's the worst". These things do not need to be compared, and we're not in a competition of who has it worse. Everyone's struggle deserves support and attempts to make it easier on the person.

Don't try to compete with them. If you want to share your struggles with them, it's possible to do it in a respectful way, without ever one-upping or implying that you're the one who has it worse. We are not in a competition.

Don't try to change how they behave. If a traumatized person is showing a certain behaviour, it's often the best they can do at the moment, and they do not need to be shamed or pressured to change for someone. If the behaviour is harmful, it's okay to pull yourself back to safety.

Don't think you can 'save' them. Don't try to build yourself up in their eyes as 'the only one who understands' or as 'someone who can fix it all', because you can't. And they're not here to support your personal 'hero fantasy', or to act the part of someone who's being 'saved', for the sake of your ego.

Don't ignore their boundaries, even if you feel they're unreasonable. Traumatized and mentally ill people get to build their boundaries any way they feel comfortable with, and nobody gets to judge it. Do not tell them it's unreasonable. Do not try to argue them down.

Don't assume they're able to completely heal from this. Sometimes they won't, and it can hurt to see that expectation put on them.

Don't experiment on them. Don't try to trigger them, thinking you can fix the trauma once it comes up. Don't change up your behaviour just to see how they'll react to it. Don't play the devil's advocate just to upset them and to see them react emotionally. These people's struggles are not your entertainment. They're not here to be your test subjects.

Don't drain them. Even if someone traumatized gives you their attention and care, don't ever forget that they need this energy for themselves as well.

Don't judge them for the things you don't understand. If they're doing something harmful to themselves, or engaging in activities that in long term bring damage to their body, it's very likely they're already judging themselves for it, or feeling guilty. Shame will not motivate them to stop. Judgment will only leave them feeling alone and helpless.

Don't give them a time frame in which they're supposed to get 'better' or they'll be considered failures in your eyes. Not only it's impossible to recover with any kind of deadline, but you don't get to call them failures. Nobody is a failure for doing things in their own time, in their own way.

Don’t try to indoctrinate them into your religion, or insist that the religion will help them out of this. It’s opportunist, predatory, and insulting. If they wanted to reach to religion for help, they would not be waiting around for you to tell them. Religion might be the part of why they’re traumatized.

What to do when you're attempting to support a traumatized, or a mentally ill person:

Be patient with them.

Ask them if they want to talk about it. Should you get a 'no' as an answer, respect it.

If they do feel safe talking to you about it, believe them.

If their story is scaring you, or making you want to yell at them, try not to yell. It's okay to feel concern, but if your first reaction is yelling, or a big emotional outburst, they might assume that their reality is too upsetting, and never talk about it again. They also might feel that it was a mistake opening up to you.

Stay calm and accept that whatever is happening, was likely happening for a while, and you're being trusted with it as a safe person. Be worthy of the trust.

Acknowledge where they've been in a tough situation. It's possible they're not realizing just how bad their situation is, or how hard they've struggled. Remind them that they've been enduring a lot of heavy stuff, that the burden on them is big, and that it's okay that they're tired from carrying it. Acknowledgment can mean a lot to traumatized people.

Be consistent. Make sure they know what to expect from you. Traumatized people need stability, continuity, consistency and the ability to rely that people will treat them consistently with kindness.

Point out to them when something they're going thru is not normal. A lot of traumatized people have learned to accept painful and terrifying situations as normal. It's good to give them a reference so they would know their situation is extreme or considered to be traumatic.

Point out that their feelings are normal. Often, traumatized people will judge their own feelings to be wrong, or worry that they're feeling too much, or being unreasonable. It can mean a lot to have their own feelings acknowledged and accepted.

Make sure they know they're valuable and welcome in your life, regardless of their struggles. They might worry that their value in other people's eyes is dropping, due to them being often tired, isolated or unwell.

Get excited for them when things go well, when something good happens, when they're happy. It's probable that they don't get many joys, and having someone happy for them might mean a lot.

If you want to do something specific for them, ask them if they're comfortable with it. Don't put pressure on them, and don't ask them to put up with things they're uncomfortable with. It's always good to ask if something is a good idea or not.

Treat them as you would treat someone who is doing the best they can, who you're pleased with, who has deserved a rest from pain and a refuge to feel safe in. Let them know that you don't think they should be put thru any more hardships.

Let them know you have faith in them, in their choices and their instincts.

If they seek support from you, give only as much as you feel comfortable with. It's okay to make boundaries here, and to give yourself space if you feel like the problem is bigger than what you can handle. You do not need to put your own emotional health on hold, in order to help. Most traumatized people would be mortified to know they've caused damage to someone else, and it's okay to make sure you're feeling safe and comfortable as well.