#her morals shifted as did her diet

[gh-0-stcup]

Darla also smashed the soul lore to bits in a way I don't see talked about very often.

When she gets resurrected as a human, body turned back to before she was turned but with all her memories intact, Darla is still Darla. Despite her existential crisis, she is the same person she was as a vampire.

Then, when she is turned, a new demon doesn't up and take her place. She's still Darla. She's the same person she was as a human and the same person she was before Angel staked her.

So what - it's possible for the demon that takes the place of the human to become human and that demon became 'demonified' again when Darla was turned? Or a vampire's demon is just them without a conscience.

[pearlsinmyhair]

₊ ⊹ the price of the name.

synopsis: reader has had a hard life, and now she’s an orphan. but someone just as lonely comes into her life to take her under his wing.

warnings: some calm before the storm. miguel won’t compromise his morals. diet angst. cursing.

platonic!miguel x daughter-like!reader. no seriously, reader is eighteen and young. this is found family, not romantic. training begins, and with miguel it is anything but easy. but sometimes he softens.

part i

word count: 2k

part ii: star girl

　　　.   　　˚　　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 

“there are a lot of things you’re going to have to keep up with.” miguel said to you as you both walked through the halls of the spider society. you didn’t miss the glances and stares as you passed, and it made you shift closer to him.

he glanced down at you before glaring at a spider who stared a bit too hard, and they scrambled away.

“excuse their attention, i don’t usually take on apprentices.” he said simply as he continued walking. you had to practically run to keep up with his long legs.

“rule number one, keep up. i don’t need a kid dragging me down on missions or runs around the base. you’re eighteen, you can handle that.” he said without looking at you. you had to fight the urge to scoff at that. did he even realize how fast he was walking?

“rule number two, you have to protect your universe just as much as others. you are the only spider woman of universe 348, so you need to be vigilant.”

he glanced back at you again before saying.

“rule number three, you have to keep your grades up.”

you paused at that, your step faltering. “excuse me?”

“you heard me. you need to stay sharp, and not just in your training.” he hovered his hand over the key reader to the training area, and the doors opened with a soft hiss.

she had figured that he was insanely smart in some subject, as all spider people were, but she hadn’t figured it out quite yet. she’d only known him for a week.

“okay, fine. i’ll keep my grades up. anything else?” she asked as she looked around at the various equipment around the gym, all high tech and sparkly.

“yep. rule number four, when i say jump, you say…” he looked at you pointedly.

“how…high?”

“good job, you understand one of the most universal phrases. now run a lap.” he said, putting his hands on his hips and nodding to the track.

you stood still, not quite used to miguel’s pentient for sarcasm. he snapped his fingers in front of your face.

“c’mon kid, out of the clouds. jump.”

you rolled your shoulders, letting out a sigh as you began to jog.

this was going to be so much fun.

₊ ⊹

as weeks passed, you were beginning to realize just how much of an oddity yours and miguel’s partnership was.

the spider society had begun to call you ‘star girl’. the name laced both awe and envy.

it was loosely based on your suit, you were sure. it was blue with a few little stars trailing down it to add ambiance. but it was also linked to rarity.

the looks did not fade as time passed. and some looks of curiosity hardened into ones of jealously.

miguel was the unofficial leader of the spider society, and he was a hard man to please. many spiders gunned for your position, wanting even just a nod from him. but they got nothing. most of them were lucky if they ever got a single word out of him at all.

you would argue that their idea of miguel was tainted by rose colored glasses.

getting morsels of praise from him was great, partially because you knew he meant it when he said it. but every thing else?

“you need to be quicker. one day you might need that second to sling a web to safety or save a civilian. you can never afford to be slow, y/n.”

“again. your right hook is still too weak. you can’t always rely on webs.”

“kick your leg higher.”

“your webbing aim is still lacking, kid.”

“again.”

“again.”

“again.”

you had never been worked so hard.

it all piled into one training session of hand to hand combat.

there was always one rule when they were on the mat: no hitting faces.

no kicks. no punches. no slaps. no webs.

so instead, miguel would catch your blows with his hands, allowing you to throw punch after punch into his palms, correcting your positioning and your power everytime.

“it’s still really weak, kid. again.” he said, taking a step back, widening his stance once more in preparation for your punch.

but you didn’t move. you had been getting worse and worse as the lesson went, completly lost and confused as miguel kept dismissing each of your attempts.

“i don’t know how.” you murmured.

“quit pouting and try again. if you give up this quickly in an actual fight, you’ll fail. do. it. again.” he demanded, unaware of how tears pricked your eyes in frustration.

“i said i don’t know how!” you yelled, voice cracking pathetically halfway through.

miguel actually took a step back at your outburst, eyes widening slightly. for a moment, you expected him to bite back, or send you home. but when he didn’t reply, you kept going.

“i don’t know how, miguel. you tell me again, but i don’t know how to correct it. i need you to show me, not just tell me.” you said softly, suddenly embarrassed and a little frightened at his silence.

he swallowed, and his expression softened.

“go…go get a drink of water, then i’ll show you.” he said, blinking as he glanced away from you.

you had to fight off the urge to raise your own brows, instead using this rare moment of mercy to chug down water from one of the bottles on the side.

when you stepped back on the mat, miguel stood beside you, showing you exactly how to hold your fist, then how to move your arm.

when he stood in front of you again, holding his hand up in preparation, you threw your fist with as much force as you could muster.

the resounding slap made you cringe, and you opened one eye to check miguel’s expression.

the asshole looked bored.

“still didn’t hurt.” he deadpanned, and you responded by shoving him. he took a step back, a move that would not be possible unless he allowed it.

“you didn’t let me finish. it didn’t hurt, but it was better.” he said, pushing your forehead with his pointer finger.

you smiled, happy that at least you were improving.

and to your surprise, miguel gave you a small smile of his own.

₊ ⊹

after that practice, miguel’s whole training model changed.

now four months later, he met you at the entrance to his office, fiddling with his watch until a glowing portal opened up. when you raised a brow at him, he simply stepped into the portal, not bothering to tell you to follow.

when you exited the in-between of the universes, you were surprised to find that you were in a massive forest full of trees as tall as buildings.

without so much as an introduction, miguel shot a web and swung away from you.

“hey! what the hell, mig?” you shouted, struggling to swing beside him.

he glared at you. “never, ever, call me that. and we’re working on your swinging today.”

you glared right back, fumbling to keep your balance in the new setting. “no shit. but did you have to leave me?”

he smirked, flashing his canines at you when you almost fell. “expect the unexpected, y/n. i thought i taught you better.”

you scoffed, before once again nearly dropping.

miguel reached a hand out to you on instinct, but you recovered your balance.

“okay, let’s start easy. swing and fwip.” he said, murmuring the words as you mimicked his actions.

you smiled at him as you got the hang of your new surroundings. “did you get pointers from peter b?”

his face became grim. “do not dare mention that mans name. it summons him.”

you chuckled at that, before you pulled your web hard and swung your body into a backflip.

“see, i’m not entirely incompetent.” you told miguel, continuing to swing with him as he gave you small pointers.

“i’m aware. but i need you to be in top shape for when you go on a mission soon.”

you stopped shooting webs, pausing and dropping to the leaf-covered ground.

miguel circled and landed before you.

“are you telling me i’m ready?” you asked, looking up at him in disbelief.

“i’m telling you that i think you can handle slight anomalies. nothing big yet, just little disturbances.” he said, keeping his expression blank.

you bounced on your toes, chewing at your lip in excitement.

four months of training, and you’d be in the field.

you fought down the urge to whoop in celebration, or jump, or something. this was miguel after all. he didn’t appreciate sudden expressions of joy in his general vicinity.

so instead you settled for a sincere “thank you.”

he nodded sagely, fwipping back up to the trees.

and you followed, shooting webs and flipping, eager to sharpen your technique.

because of this, you missed the proud smile across miguel’s face.

₊ ⊹

you opened the door to your bedroom, eager to get your suit off and shower when you spotted the white box on your bed.

it was unassuming, plain except for a small message written in absurdly neat handwriting.

‘star girl’

you glanced around your room, even going so far as to ask lyla to scan it. calling on her was something you didn’t do too often. even though she was an a.i., it still felt like she was a person and that you were annoying her.

the projected woman granted your wishes, turning to you to tell you that all was well. she wore a secretive smile across her digital lips as she looked at you, then the box.

you glanced at the cardboard.

“you know something.” you said, tone suspicious as you tried to study lyla for answers.

she shrugged. “best way to know is to open it.” she replied before disappearing into a cloud of pixels.

you shuffled over to the box, tracing the edge of it before lifting one corner. you glanced inside and promptly slammed the top shut.

no fucking way.

there was absolutely no way.

you took a step back, turning your back to the box.

you couldn’t accept that.

but it was left on your bed. with your nickname on it.

you sucked your teeth as you turned back and fully opened the box.

inside it sat a beautiful midnight-blue spider suit with flecks of white stars all along it. you lifted the body of the suit up by the armpits, studying the way that the webs along it became geometric like constellations.

the white lines around the sides and waist glittered and flickered.

nanotechnology.

only one person had the materials to do this. and only one would have the courage to give it to you.

miguel.

you clutched the suit to your chest, fighting the raw emotion that caught in your throat.

you told him how much you loved the stars, explaining each and every constellation you had included on your suit.

you flipped the fabric in your hands to check.

cassiopeia on the ribs. canis major on the base of your foot. orion tangled in the spider symbol on the chest.

he would never give it to you in person. no, that would be far too informal, far to unprofessional.

so you sat in your room, biting your lip to fight back tears as you stood in your empty house, holding the glittering gift to your body like a vice.

you wondered how many nights he had spent making this. he had told you how hard his suit was to make, how tedious the process was. and he had done it all again.

for you.

fuck being unprofessional. you wished that he had given it to you in person anyway.

“lyla?”

“yes, y/n? are you alright, hun?”

“can you tell miguel-” you swallowed as a tear trailed down your cheek. “can you tell miguel thank you? like, really thank you?”

“…of course, hun. get some rest.”

you sank to your knees in the quiet of your dead house and sobbed, wishing for all the world that someone was here.

masterlists | part iii

yeah it seems pretty wholesome rn, huh?

would be a shame if someone…changed that.

tag list:

@ladyfairenvale

[vixstarria]

Bloodbang Chronicles - Chapter 12 - Mercy

Chapter summary: Armed intruders and moral and ethical conundrums, how fun.

Chapter word count: 2.6k

Previous chapter | Series masterlist | AO3 | Overall masterlist

Series summary:

Five years have passed since the confrontation with the Netherbrain. Astarion and his warlock lover, Asmodea, are living it up in Baldur’s Gate, running a cabaret. Their life of decadence and debauchery seems idyllic, until Asmodea’s patron disrupts it with a proposal. One that seems too good to be true. One they cannot refuse.

Pairing: Astarion x Original Female Character

Genre: Humor / adventure / smut

Rating: Explicit

Asmodea studied the intruder, thoughts racing as she weighed her options.

Would an arrow, especially a silver-tipped one, count as a stake..? Assuming otherwise certainly carried a risk, all things considered.

It was possible Astarion would be able to dodge an arrow - his reflexes, speed, and strength had far surpassed that of ordinary mortals ever since the tadpole was removed from his brain. However, it was still only dusk, and she knew he would still be sluggish at this time of day.

As for anything Asmodea might have done to intervene - there was nothing she could do that would be faster than the simple movement of letting the arrow fly, or that wouldn’t otherwise risk the arrow being released. A Hold spell would likely slacken the woman’s muscles. Any offensive spell would take more time to unleash than it would for the woman to react. Mind control… Though Asmodea had a hunch that it wouldn’t be too difficult to slip into the woman’s psyche - who in their right mind would confront two strangers point blank like this? - even if she did it seamlessly, without triggering the nocked arrow, it would inevitably trigger a fight with Astarion instead, later. ‘Compulsion’ this, ‘just like Cazador’ that, he’s a ‘strong independent vampire and doesn’t need to be protected with the help of her dirty tricks’, and so on and so forth… Asmodea mentally clicked her tongue in frustration. She supposed she would just have to talk to this hare-brained maniac…

“That man is a vampire,” the woman directed at Asmodea.

Oh bless, she thought she was helping…

“Yes, I am aware my husband is a vampire,” Asmodea answered, taking a nonchalant sip from her mug. “You can lower that bow now.”

The woman narrowed her eyes at Asmodea instead, keeping the projectile aimed at Astarion’s chest.

“What’s in your mug?”

“Coffee,” Asmodea said honestly. “Would you like some?”

Catching a suspicious stare from the woman, Asmodea sighed and pulled her upper lip to the side, to demonstrate her appropriately blunted canines.

“There, happy? No fangs. Now kindly put your weapon away, if you don’t mind. It’s bad manners.”

Astarion started to speak, but the woman cut him off with a sharp warning shout, likely assuming he would try to Charm her. Asmodea arched an eyebrow at her in the ensuing silence. The woman shifted on her feet, no doubt starting to feel inadequate in her unmet belligerence.

“…And what does he eat..? Your… husband,” the woman finally asked, warily.

“I keep him on a strict diet of game, wine, pussy and an occasional treat from my own neck. Now for fuck’s sake, will you put that thing down?!” Asmodea snapped, rapidly losing her patience.

At last, the woman lowered her bow with a sigh.

“No, he doesn’t look like someone who preys on chickens and old women…” she muttered.

She then laughed and trampled over to the fire, collapsing onto a log next to Asmodea, as though she hadn’t just accosted her and threatened to kill Astarion. Asmodea was so impressed and dumbstruck by the woman’s sheer audacity that she found herself shaking her offered hand and introducing herself and Astarion, instead of eldritch blasting her.

“My name’s Tiriel,” the woman said, discarding the longbow and instead unstrapping a massive greataxe from her back, placing at her side, within reach. “Did you know, in Hornhollow, the logging village over yonder, there is a bounty on vampires? The villagers say vampires have been stealing their chickens and killing their dogs.” Tiriel turned to look at Astarion. There was an unmistakable unease in her eyes, though she was doing her best to conceal any fear she might have felt. She did not offer a hand to him, however. “You know anything about that?”

Asmodea exchanged a look with Astarion. Had the exodus from the Underdark started and gotten this far already..?

“Vampires would hardly risk revealing themselves just to pilfer some chickens and dogs when there’s a whole wood full of game,” said Astarion, evidently choosing to omit the fact the village was also full of human necks. “Are they sure this was done by vampires..?” 

Tiriel shrugged.

“All they know is, animals are turning up drained of blood, and an old woman nearly died of fright stumbling on someone with red eyes and long fangs, in her barn. She said there were at least two of them.”

“Fear will make mountains out of molehills…” Astarion said, noncommittally. “Could have been some lost kobolds.”

They watched Tiriel continue to make herself at home in their camp, retrieving what appeared to be a well-worn bag of holding, and, impossibly, pulling a keg that was wider than the bag itself out from its depths.

“Whatcha got there?” Asmodea asked with an amused grin.

“Ale! I’ve got all kinds. This one’s Belbuck, halfling-brewed, the good stuff. It’s minty, perfect to freshen your breath after a meal. You want some?”

Asmodea glanced at the remaining dregs of her coffee, broke into incredulous laughter, and tossed her mug’s remnants over her shoulder.

“Sure, why not? We’re in no hurry.”

Astarion made an excuse about scouting their surroundings and left Asmodea and Tiriel laughing and drinking at the campsite. He had to satisfy himself as to whether there were truly other vampires about.

Sure enough, it wasn’t long before he picked up an unmistakable trail. 

 It wasn’t via a sense of smell, not exactly. Rather, it was a prickling sensation somewhere in the back of his brain. Something akin to an incessant noise - not disruptive, not soothing, but simply there. He had gotten used to its constant presence during his time with Cazador. Indeed, he hadn’t known anything but that sensation, until he was transported away by the nautiloid. Its sudden absence struck him then. At first it was frightening, the isolation he felt in the abrupt silence. But, before long, the stillness became peaceful. Experiencing this perturbation again, after years of very few direct encounters with other vampires, was… not irritating, not exactly, but he knew where his preference lay now. And now, the sensation was ramping up and intensifying the closer he got to his quarry - though not before making him guess and fumble as to its source, as though he was playing some demented version of a game of hot and cold.

Eventually he arrived at an abandoned shack that reeked, for a lack of a better word, of his kin.

“I’m just here to talk,” he called out, bracing himself.

He was met with silence.

“I know you’re in there,” he sighed and continued, “so let’s not do anything-”

A figure, the sheer terror of the night personified, all fangs, claws and glowing red eyes, leapt out at him through the window, hissing. He caught it by the neck and held it, one-handed, looking at it incredulously, as it flailed its limbs in impotent rage and frustration.

A gnome vampire. Not even three feet tall. What an utter disgrace.

“Stop that,” Astarion growled, giving the gnome a shake.

The door of the shack flew open and another gnome appeared in the doorway.

“Lord Astarion!” he cried. “Mercy! She is not well.”

The gnome backed away as Astarion entered the shack and dropped the female onto the floor. She scurried over into a corner with a whimper, and crouched, staring at him with a haunted, wild look on her face.

“Make no mistake, I can easily break both of your necks before you as much as scratch me. And believe me, regeneration after a spinal injury is extremely painful,” Astarion warned, sitting down on a window sill.

The woman continued to stare at him like a cornered animal from under her brows, keeping her chin low.

“Pumpkin, it’s Astarion,” the man spoke to her. “One of the Seven. Don’t you remember?”

Astarion frowned as she said nothing and only continued to stare.

“I’m sorry, she’s… not been herself,” her companion apologised for her.

“I can see that,” murmured Astarion. “No matter. How did you end up here? And are you aware there’s a bounty on your heads?”

“We fled the Underdark,” the male gnome explained “Things haven’t been easy there. And yes… I thought that might be the case. I’ve been trying to keep her fed…”

“And must you terrorise the locals to accomplish that?! Look at you two. You could feast on the blood of a single chicken for a week. Hells, just get a pig or a large dog and bleed it occasionally, you’d live like kings,” Astarion went on, gesticulating.

The male only shrugged and spread his hands apologetically, not saying a word. The female gnome released another low growl at Astarion. He eyed her with suspicion, before continuing.

“…And who even brought you in to begin with..? Cazador believed himself above gnomes, I don’t think anyone made the mistake of dragging one back to the manor more than once, not even Yousen.”

“Petras,” spat the male.

The released lesser spawn tended to harbour a vitriolic hate for their direct captors. Astarion couldn’t hold it against them.

“And you?” Astarion asked, approaching the woman. She hissed in response.

“She’s one of Violet’s,” the man hurried to respond, following after Astarion. “Wouldn’t take no for an answer when her human friend was taken, you see…”

“Is that so..?” Astarion murmured, lifting the woman’s chin. She only went limp and squeezed her eyes shut at his touch. “…As I thought,” Astarion sighed, looking at her neck, and turned towards the male gnome. “Every single one of the 7,000 sacrifices brought in to Cazador had his maw imprinted on their necks. This one,” he said, nodding at the woman, “looks like she was bit by a squirrel.” He got up, rounding on the man. “You absolute imbecile, what did you do?!”

“Mercy,” the man whispered, backing away. “I had to... But no one will ever find us! I was only trying to get some human blood - maybe it will make her well!” The gnome went on blabbering, coming up with excuses, as the woman scurried off into an opposite corner, scampering on all fours across the wall. Astarion observed them, barely listening. The words seemed to come through a haze, as a nagging, high-pitched ringing began to manifest in his ears. Suddenly he felt nauseous.

So his suspicions were confirmed. Freed spawn could sire new vampires. This one was clearly mad, but whether something had gone wrong when she was turned, whether it was temporary, or whether this was inevitable - he had no idea. Why hadn’t he pressed Ivar further..?

“How did…” he began to ask, swallowing hard, “…never mind.” Now that he was faced with it, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He understood his siblings’ reasoning for making the very knowledge of this possibility taboo. No one could know. Even with thousands of them dead, the remaining spawn would spread the curse like a disease. And when it became common knowledge that vampires could increase their ranks this way, they would find themselves hunted to extermination. There would be no trade. No covens and strongholds in the Underdark. No neighbourly relations with drow and druegar. And certainly no flaunting one’s fangs at the Siren.

Yes, this had to be cut at the very root before it spread. He knew that. It wasn’t a question of ‘greater good’ or ‘lesser evil’ or ‘law’ - it was simply about survival, including his own.

Astarion rubbed his temples as the gnome continued yapping.

“Will you shut up?!” he hissed, finally, giving the gnome an exasperated glare.

An unnatural silence held, broken neither by breath nor heartbeat, despite the presence of three beings in the room.

“…Does she listen to you?” Does she obey? “Does she even understand when you speak to her?” Is any of her still even in there?

“I… I can persuade her,” the gnome mumbled. “She’s sweet to me, like… like a stray cat that recognises the one who feeds it. And she follows.”

“Why-” Astarion started to speak before cutting himself off, again. No, he didn’t need to know why. He already knew.

“Mercy…” the gnome repeated again, in a hushed whisper, apparently having lost his resolve for any more pleading.

There was likely a simple answer to the most effective and logical way to proceed with this, Astarion thought, but at that moment it eluded him. What to do..? Let them go and pretend he never saw them? Send them to Waterdeep, to Gale and Katrina? Take them back to camp and ask Oddie or Tiriel for a donation, to see what happened if the female sampled some sentient blood? Execute them? He really ought to do that, shouldn’t he? They all but begged for it themselves, looking at him like two lambs resigned to their own slaughter. It would have been the right thing to do, though damned if he could think of how - he didn’t have any silver on him, unsurprisingly. Catch them, stake them and leave them out for the sun? An image of him chasing after them with a wooden stick as they scampered into opposite directions flashed in his mind, and made him release a nervous, high-pitched giggle. It took an enormous amount of effort to will himself to regain his composure. Finally, he spoke.

“If I thought I should have any say in whether you live or die, I would have killed all seven thousand of you five years ago,” he said.

The gnome stilled completely, in wide-eyed disbelief.

“Make your way to Baldur’s Gate. Board a ship. Stow yourselves away.” Words began pouring out of him in a torrent. “Sail somewhere far. I don’t know or care where. Just… far. If anyone sees you and thinks to asks - she is not Cazador’s. Or, say you don’t know whose she is - she’s insane anyway, who’s to know any better? Figure it out. Cover her. Say she’s a leper. I don’t know. Make something up. And, repeat this, you never saw me.”

“We never saw you, m’lord,” the gnome repeated, dumbly.

“Good. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind.”

The gnome took an unsure step back, then another, and another, until he was close to the woman, reaching out for her with one hand.

He had kept himself between her and Astarion at all times ever since she was released in the shack, Astarion now realised. How… sweet, if futile.

“Come… Come, sweet pea, we’re leaving,” he choked out.

The woman stood, and looked up at him, inquisitively, taking his hand. Her sire gave Astarion one final nod, before pulling her after him, out the door. And then they were gone.

Astarion sat on the edge of a rickety table, shoulders slumped, deflated, and waited for the prickling sensation telling him of other vampires’ presence to subside, before exiting the shack and heading back to camp.

Idiot.

He should turn, hunt them down, and end them.

Or, should he have given them one of his weapons? It didn’t look like they had anything but the claws on their hands. But then it could be traced back to him... No, it was good that he didn’t, yes.

Weakling.

They would probably perish on the road anyway. The sun would find them. Or a monster hunter.

How would they cross that stream he had to jump across?

Wretch.

This wasn’t his problem.

Astarion grit his teeth and hastened his step. Thankfully, the gnomes must have gone in a different direction - the sensation telling him of their presence faded.

No, this did not involve him. He had nothing to do with it. 

Coward.

He only wished all the voices in his head that were screaming about his inadequacy would shut up.

Finally, he caught sight of the camp, though he heard it before he saw it.

Oddie and Tiriel appeared to be engaged in some drinking game that involved axe-throwing and a lot of shouting. Oddie was clearly losing. Astarion donned his most amiable face and made his way to them.

~~~~~

Tiriel belongs to my friend @spacebarbarianweird. Thank you for letting me borrow her! ^_^ Read more about Tiriel in her Raging Blood series, and check out her other works!

Find the fic on AO3 as well.

Tags:

@littleenglishfangirl @something-pithy @darlingxdragon @tragedybunny @spunky-89

@lariatbunny@whiskeyskin @asterordinary @wingsy-keeper-of-songs @spacebarbarianweird

@brabblesblog @littlejuicebox @icybluepenguin @snowfolly @ayselluna

@mj-bites @bardic-inspo

[solarwynd]

An interesting turn of events - it is fascinating to see Jikookers being as vile they are right now towards Tae. Now I will preface this by saying I absolutely dislike that man. I think he’s fkn annoying, cringey and his pretentious attitude gets to my nerves. I have muted all JK related key words too. I am here for JiHope. And Jimin is my forever ULT. But in the shipping world up until 2021, the norm was Jimin getting the absolute worst shit on Twitter for doing nothing while JK and Tae get away with everything. Like the things Jimin would be labelled an attention seeker or whatever for, will be called cute and adorable when TH does it. And Jikookers largely really did pretend like OT7s for the longest time. They wanted to be the ones with common sense, middle ground, moral superiority. Their “you can never make me hate taetae(barf)” ideology was pretty strong.

But I have seen a new flurry of Jikookers that are absolutely unhinged lol. There’s this gang of theirs on Twitter, like a clique and they are all petty hateful towards Taehyung. They call themselves KM solos I believe and I think they really do hate him. I have majority shipping accounts blocked but I was on the trends yesterday and I saw a tweet with Jimin cropped out by a Taekooker account, and the qrts were filled with quality edits and shit and pure spite towards TH. Someone even made a meme where he looks like a donkey? And there were several hit tweets there with thousands of likes, all belittling TH. I also saw some “OT7 joker” getting ripped a new one because they said JKKrs are the same tkkrs. Like the comment section destroyed her. It’s a real shift for those who have witnessed the shipping landscape evolution. He used to get away with a lot and babied. Idk what changed. Now it’s still not even remotely close to what Tkkrs does to Jimin. There’s simply no comparison, but it’s interesting to see a counter narrative. Literally nobody gets benefitted from shipping except for JK I guess.

Can’t wait for the members to start revealing their relationships etc. I will be getting the butteriest pop corn and a front row seat.

You’re actually very right about the bulk of jikookers wanting to appear as OT7 and I never got that. You go on any of their accounts and it’s nothing but Jikook/JK/Jimin on there. What’s the point to even pretend. It seems exhausting putting up that kind of front knowing that you don’t care about the other 5 members to stay in armys good graces. Especially when you’re already ostracized by them. It’s the same as these diet solos who still try to act like they’re armys. Like I can’t imagine if I had decided to continue faking being an army past April of last year.

I think it’s easier for jkkrs to mask their dislike towards Taehyung cause unlike for taekookers, Jikook’s existence does not hinge on Taehyung being seen as some type of wedge. I feel like the bulk of them are indifferent or just don’t care about him. And I do know the exact clique you’re talking about. Including the main one who’s too invested in dragging Taehyung unprovoked and always gets Jimin dragged.

I also did see that big jkkr account that got ratioed and deservedly so, cause frankly idc how neutral or upstanding you’re tryna be. If you bias jimin, your priority should be him. To hell with Taehyung and his fuckass stans.

[http-paprika]

Bite the Hand / Phillip Graves

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part four - belonging ⋆★⋆ the masterlist ⋆★⋆ previous ⋆★⋆ next

summary preparing to deploy on her first mission with the shadow company, frost begins to grow overwhelmed by the shift in her feelings.

werewolf!au / pairing phillip graves x female!reader / callsign frost / wc 1715 / warnings mentions of past trauma, alcohol, and light swearing

notes well, after weeks of painful writer's block, here we are! this chapter is what really sets the gears in motion to fling together frost and graves along with diving a bit more into frost's past which will play a big part in her relationship with graves. also, i don't know anything about military planes and deployments, so, this is definitely inaccurate, but i tried. the taglist is still open, if you want to be added, let me know.

The Shadow Company armory, as Frost had come to learn, was always uncomfortably warm. She stood, shifting her weight from one foot to another as Erikson dug around the boxes of unassigned tactical vests and gear to find something that would properly fit her. During her training, she’d been in ill-fitting gear that she had to suffer with, but now as Graves and Lerch had greenlit her for her first mission, Frost needed to be properly fitted. 

 “And you’re sure that last vest didn’t fit?” Erikson asked her again, Frost looked over at the growing pile of discards, shaking her head. 

 “It’s not my fault I’m not as beefy as the rest of you.” She shrugged, wiping some of the collected sweat off her brow. Even with how much she’d been shifting in the past months, Frost didn’t compare to them. 

 “Yeah, yeah. I know.” Finally, he stopped digging. “Here we go, this should do.” Erikson handed over a dark green vest, slightly worn on the edges but otherwise unused. Without even trying it on, Frost knew it would fit. “I’ll talk to Rodgers, and get a new set of gear ordered for you. But for now, that’ll do.” 

 As she pulled it on, Frost examined the blood-type patch that sat right over her heart, it would have to be replaced to fit her own. “So, who did this belong to?” 

 “Some corpse probably.” Erikson darkly joked, observing as she secured the vest and its various buckles and velcro before moving onto the gloves, and padding. “Very nice, one would think this was made just for you.” 

 She smirked, pulling the gear off and brushing off the dust. “Whatever you say, Erikson.” Surveying the vest fully, she spotted sloppy writing on the inside, indicating the soldier it belonged to, but the writing had mostly been smudged away, and she decided against asking and not wanting her curiosity to bring back grief. Whoever it had belonged to, as Erikson had said, was long gone.

 “How are you feeling, about finally being shipped out?” He asked, leading her to a free locker where she’d store the gear until the following morning when they would embark on the mission. 

 “Strange. Unsure. But, I’m ready to be back in combat. Even if things here aren’t the same as they were in the Marines. There’s a lot less of a moral code I’m being held to, less guilt if I fuck up.” Frost admitted, putting everything up and closing the locker. In some ways, that made her even more nauseous, she wondered how wild she could be before Graves stepped in and scolded her.

 “Just don’t plan on being reckless, and you’ll be fine,” Erikson assured her, patting her on the shoulder. “Now, let’s get out of here before I sweat my entire ass off.”

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Under the red lights in the plane, the only way Frost could describe how she felt was antsy. The mask secured over her face felt like a muzzle, like an attempt to keep her from snapping. It kept her canines, which grew sharper by the day from shifting and the new diet of fresh, hot game meat, from showing. There would be no barring of her teeth today, even if she wanted to. 

“You okay?” Graves asked, stopping in front of her. He’d been moving through the plane, making sure his soldiers were ready to deploy, that the radios were live, and everyone was in place for the hunt. 

 “Yeah, m’fine.” She promised him, but Graves shook his head with a displeased look. He’d become too familiar with her facial expressions and the way her voice strained when she tried to hide the truth. But Graves was too kind to Frost to push for the truth. 

 “You look good,” He commented, quickly finishing the sentence when she cocked an eyebrow up at him. “-In the Shadow Company uniform and wearing our insignia. Like it was made just for you.” She nodded in response, quieter than usual. It wasn’t the normal anxiety Frost had first felt when she entered combat years ago. No, it was something she couldn’t quite put words to, a fear that settled when she looked back up at her Commander or over at her packmates who chatted amongst themselves quietly.

“Frost, you’re gonna be just fine out there. I’ll be right there—“ He taps the radio strapped to her tactical vest. “If you need me. Just a call away.” 

 “Let’s hope I don’t.” Frost joked, trying to ease her unknown stress. At her feet, the case with her sniper sat, reminding her that she was the eyes for her teammates, they’d rely on her shots and calls to keep them guarded, and safe. A daunting task. She’d done it hundreds of times, but the edge of nerves would not cease.

 “What’s going on in that loud mind of yours?” Graves tilted his head slightly, a few locks of sandy hair obstructing his direct and piercing gaze. Frost quickly looked down at the gun lying across her lap, trying to find an answer that made sense of everything she felt. Loyalty, bonded, brothers, her borrowed vest, sisters, the feel of her gloves against her palms, the pack, the smell of pine needles, pale blue eyes, and Graves. 

  As she opened her mouth to speak, Frost quickly closed it, overwhelmed by the words and emotions that filled her. She’d never known how much she craved a place to call her own and surrounded by the Shadow Company pack, she had. A bundle of warmth settled in the pit of her stomach, filling the hole that she’d blinded herself to.

Graves didn’t speak, he just tilted his head again in a way that fully captured her attention. “Well, when the cat finally lets go of your tongue, you always know how to find me.” He told her, a quick pat on her shoulder before he stepped away to speak to Lerch. Her eyes followed his figure, it was the only thing she seemed to focus on, not the countdown to her deployment or the itch in her hands. Just Phillip Graves.

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Hidden in the thicket of the woods, her breathing was masked by the loud calling of crows. The pungent smell of whiskey and motor oil overpowered anything else. She didn’t know where he was, she couldn’t hear him through the trees, but she knew he was coming after her. 

“Don’t hide from me, girl. I am your father!” He barked loudly, the butcher knife in his hand still coated with sheep’s blood, his white apron stained red. The thirteen-year-old girl felt hysteric, on the verge of tears with the fear of what he’d do to her. She hadn’t meant to talk back to him, speaking before thinking. But her remark had invoked his wrath. “I can smell you, girl. A runt like you can’t hide from me, your stench is all over these woods.” 

The words hailed down on her like nails pounded into her bones, catching her off guard and unalert for when he finally found her and yanked her out of the indigo bush by her forearm. She screamed, the sound curdling into a howl. Her body convulsed, bones being broken and reformed, the skin stretched and hair grew, teeth gnashing as she tried to free herself from his grasp. 

That was the first time she ever shifted.

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Frost woke with a start, the sound of the landing gears and loss of altitude dragged her out of her slumber, ears popped in the descent. Stretching, she moved away from whoever’s shoulder it was she had fallen asleep on, her cheek indicted from the shoulder of the tactical vest, she tried to push back the memory that had invaded her mind. She didn’t like to remember how it all began, when she was younger she used to dream it had never happened, hating that she was her father’s daughter. In his eyes, she didn’t belong, even if she had the same noise and sharp tongue. 

But she was no longer seen as her father’s daughter. The Shadow Company had become the only pack she would align herself with. There, she belonged.

“Thought you would sleep the whole time.” Dipaolo chuckled across from her as Frost brushed the hair out of her face. She’d shed the mask and gloves before falling asleep, allowing herself to freely be. “Surprised Graves let you.” 

Almost launching herself out of her seat, Frost looked over at Graves who sat next to her. He didn’t give any indication that he cared, whether that was a good thing or not, Frost was unsure. “She did a hell of a good job out there, Dipaolo. Maybe next time if you do a fraction of the work Frost did, I’ll let you sleep on my shoulder.” 

“Favoritism! I’ve been here for three years and you already like Frost more!” Dipaolo gawked. “It’s because she’s a woman, isn’t it?” 

“Stop getting pissy, Dipaolo. She’s just better.” Vance tells him, cutting into the conversation. The attention was directed away from Frost as her teammates bickered back and forth, allowing her to bury her face in her hands with embarrassment, a groan escaping her lips. 

“Frost, there’s no need to act embarrassed. We’re a pack, we help each other out. Even if it means offering a shoulder to sleep on.” Graves said to her quietly as the plane jolted, touching the tarmac. “You are hardly the first person who’s accidentally fallen asleep on mine. And unlike Oz, you don’t talk in your sleep. So I don’t mind.” 

“Why does that not surprise me?” But even with his reassurance, her cheeks felt hot, a rosy shade that was hidden in the dim light of the plane. It was like an itch she couldn’t ignore. It was a feeling that Frost hadn’t felt in years, one that had once suffocated her and torn her to shreds. 

But everything was different this time, she wasn’t that same scared girl. And Phillip Graves was like nothing she had ever known.

taglist @iamcautiouslyoptimistic @delusionally-loveless-by-choice @bacon-sandwich-of-dionysus @anna-banana27 @unicorngirly1

[daresplaining]

opinions on the red fist saga? :0

Resoundingly negative, unfortunately. I actually only just read it, because I was having a rough time with it while the issues were coming out and so decided to put it off until I was in a better headspace for it (or until I saw a preview for an issue that excited me and gave me the motivation to catch up, which is what happened with next week's anthology issue).

As I said, I disliked this story very much, so if you aren't interested in hearing me rant (perfectly fine! I wouldn't blame you!), read no further. I really hope you liked it. I really don't want to get you down if you did. This whole run was just the epitome of Not For Me.

Ahem.

The "Red Fist Saga" is, in my opinion, a flimsy "Shadowland" knock-off, centered around the abrasive, moralizing religious zealot who has been inhabiting Matt Murdock's body for the past few years. Elektra Natchios, an incredibly complex character whom I love dearly, had her backstory savaged to remove its autonomy and complexity (that's a rant for another post...) and exists in this story as an accessory to this Matt look-alike and as a handy target of his moralizing (at one point he comes to the revelation that this recent journey she has been on has been worthwhile because it was all about God saving her from her wicked ways!!, at which point I may have blacked out from rage for a few seconds). Matt and Elektra GET MARRIED, and the implications of this massive shift in their relationship are not explored at all. And phew...the less said about Sam Chung's single scene, the better. As was true throughout Zdarsky's entire run, Matt speaks and thinks in this story like he is reading a prepared speech at all times, making grand-yet-hollow pronouncements about the nature of good and evil. He doesn't sound like a real person, but rather like a robot that has been fed a steady diet of religious texts, along with a few surface-level social/systemic reform concepts. His personality consists of being alternately sad, angry, and making lofty proclamations about "fighting evil in the service of God's plan", and I just have no emotional investment in that. I'm not Catholic (and neither, until recently, was Matt Murdock, making this whole thing profoundly weird).

There were some cool elements to this story. I'm a huge Stick fan and I'm thrilled that he is finally back from the dead after all these years. I love Stilt-Man. I love Speed Demon (for some real Speed Demon goodness, go read Superior Foes of Spider-Man, one of my favorite comics of all time). Foggy had a few good panels. I got to read Milla's name; always a treat. Kirsten didn't actually die. Mike was...mentioned (I've already griped about his death; I won't do it again here). The twist that Foggy and Stick were actually already dead was effective and very cool and I didn't see it coming at all, so I will give full credit for that. And I'm someone who genuinely does enjoy Hand shenanigans. I love that stuff when it's done well. But the degree to which I could not stand this new Matt and did not care what happened to him or what he was doing, plus the fact that I had seen all of these plot points executed already, and better, by previous Daredevil teams, meant that this story was just a protracted slog through painful writing, past scene after scene that could have been so much better in the hands of a different creative team or centered around a version of Matt Murdock who was actually a compelling protagonist.

[mionghairearracht]

leverage disability headcanons:

eliot has poor vision. he technically needs bifocals, which is why whenever a con requires him to read or use a computer he has glasses, but prefers to go without them most of the time due to their limitations.

he also has chronic pain due to his various injuries. he often ends up in the kitchen cooking as a form of destressing on difficult days

parker and hardison quietly went about making everything in the kitchen was as ergonomic and low energy as possible when they figured out

parker has ptsd and is autistic, crime is her special interest (i'm aware this is basically canon). hardison has an extensive library of true crime, case reports, and criminology books he reads so he can have discussions with her

parker also has a mild form of ehlers-danlos syndrome. her strength from climbing allows her some protection against dislocations but its still an issue for her. she often wears supports and or wraps under her clothes

she had a pretty restricted diet because of poor experiences when trying food before, though she doesn't have many sensitivies with food hers are very strong

eliot is the one who ends up helping her the most with food problems, she trusts hardison just as much but eliots knowledge of cooking and food makes her feel more comfortable trying

hardison is autistic with adhd, he had a ton of trouble with social skills when he was younger but eventually was able to learn. part of the reason he ends up being able to read parker and help her is because he had similar struggles before being given the opportunity to learn

he has a special interest in a few scifi series and as a kid that lead him to being into computers amd technology

he forgets to eat when he's into something, the orange soda started because he needed something to keep him from crashing and the sugar from it was perfect

its now one of his safe foods and something of a comfort item to have around

sophie has pure-o ocd, the reason many of her characters have specific tics and backstories is due to how her ocd manifests with her cons. she can't make them less complicated because the backstories and actions are part of her way of redirecting intrusive thoughts and without that she can't focus enough to read people

this is also why she has trouble with acting unless its part of a con, her character can be an actor as part of their backstory but as soon as she is the character she needs to have a backstory and full work up behind them

she currently struggles largely with morality ocd and the times she took a break from the team were because the constant moral questions around what they did were a struggle for her. running cons on her own gave her time to question things and work through triggers in a way she couldn't while on the team

this is also why the return of arthur was such a huge shake up for her. while she struggled with ocd her entire life the results of that con lead to her ocd shifting from social based to morality based ocd and even thinking about it the vaugest terms is a trigger for her

[wingboundwarrior]

[hc + weather!]

Send me hc + a word of your choosing and I’ll write a headcanon relating to that word! | accepting!

There are a few enemies potent and common to the honorable pegasus knights of Ilia. The two main ones: archers, of course, and... the weather. First and foremost, the weather of Ilia is what has built all of them to be who they are now. Unrelenting snow, even in months that are warm elsewhere... it is why the pegasus knights of Ilia fight. They have to feed their families somehow, and if the snow is too thick to be farmers, and the climate too intense to be hunters, then they must, of course, find work that may be unconventional. Unfortunate as it is for some’s morals, death is a profitable business. It is more than enough to support the Ilians who cannot work towards such ideals. Fiora grew up in this cold — huddled with her sisters in the corner of any warm room they could find (usually taverns or inns). Their diet mostly consisted of any fish Fiora could catch in Edessa’s waters. Their whole life, from what they did that day to their futures, was molded and crafted by the eternal veil of cold. It was an unusual thing the first time Fiora passed the mountains of Ilia and into the plains of Sacae and felt... warmth. The sun on her face had always been dangerous — a risk of a burn, reflecting off of bright white beneath her — but in Sacae it felt... almost... peaceful. The sky changed colors — the ground was softer, and not slippery, and... green, gold. Not just the ground; the whole world was painted in a beautiful sweep of colors, oranges, emeralds, reds, colors she’d only ever seen in tapestry and clothing. Fiora had been transfixed, and knew immediately she loved the land outside of Ilia, though Ilia would always be her home. She was able to shed layers and fight in a lighter dress. Even in the coldest nights, the wind felt like a familiar friend, and not like the razor-tongued thing she’d known it to be growing up. As a pegasus knight of Ilia, now, weather still impacts her. It’s difficult for pegasi to fly in too much rain or snow (ironic to where they live), so Fiora is always watching the sky. The thing that was once impassive and gray or white above her has turned into a feeling, breathing, thinking thing, full of emotional shifts and changes, thoughts writing itself clearly against its horizon. Knowing the weather is half the battle of being a pegasus knight — to properly gauge movement and understand how long certain tasks and battles will take. Suffice to say; weather is, and always has been, utterly important to Fiora’s life.

[tieflingbi]

hello i am here with some io facts for u 💗

she is a vegetarian, and most of the other scions are good with remembering or ensuring shared meals accommodate her. her diet is 100% just because she doesn't really care for meat; it's not a moral stance (she's a hunter after all), so occasionally when she doesn't have access to foods she likes, she'll begrudgingly make do with whatever's available :c

one of my fave minions for her is the little bandana-wearing snake, caduceus. and the alte roite is one of the mounts i imagine her having in canon. to mesh the two, her little snake friend does indeed shift into a very large, very long dragon when they need to travel :>

io has a really lovely singing voice but is often uncomfortable doing more than humming in front of other folks. bard is her canon job though, so her bard songs are strings of dalmascan folks songs she quietly hums or sings to herself during battle to soothe her anxiety and bolster her resolve. the people around her see her standing a little taller, fighting a little harder, and they start to feel it too (i have more thoughts about this but that's a post-endwalker discussion akldjfs).

please share some oc facts yourself if you feel comfy doing so!! i hope your day gets better 💗💗💗

IO BELOVED!! 🥺🥺💖💖 These facts are so delightful, I love the minion becoming her mount, that is incredibly cute!! I'm always SO excited to hear about how things that are meant to be mostly cosmetic from an in-game standpoint become actually intertwined with a character's canon story, it's so much fun to learn how people get creative with these things imho!! Very much in love with your headcanon yes <3

If I ever make it through Endwalker I also want to hear the rest of those thoughts please 👀

And as for an OC fact, A'myrrhis actually has two younger sisters, Naya and Wren!

Naya is the middle sister, Wren is the youngest with quite a few years between her and the other two and she is also technically their half-sister, but they don't really care about those kind of details.

The three of them were very close, and when Myrri left the forest behind her biggest regret was that she'd probably never see them again because little did she know at that point that they would eventually leave as well! So imagine her surprise when they both show up at The Rising Stones a little post-Shb (at which point Myrri really needed a pick me up so that definitely did the trick).

Naya is a dancer, and since canonically Myrri never touches that job she's the one who joins Troupe Falsiam, which is also how Wren and her found passage to Eorzea in the first place after making it to Thavnair.

Wren starts out as a lancer but always had a curious interest in magitek so she joins Garlond Ironworks pretty quickly and becomes a machinist.

Aaaand... Here they are:

(Did I just spend an hour making this instead of answering the ask like a normal person? Mmmmaaaaybe but they already existed in-game so shhhhhh)

Anyways!!!! Thank you so much Azia!!! Please tell Io I love her and I'm blowing a kiss to her as we speak!!! 💖💖💖💖

[nebulablakemurphy]

Total Eclipse Of The Heart (Part Five)

Jacob Black x Fem!Vampire!Swan!Reader

Summary: Jacob Black, alpha of his pack, would never fall in love with a bloodsucker, much less imprint on one. The problem is that Y/N Swan was human…until she wasn’t anymore.

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

The bike works for a while, Bella can see Edward; until she gets good at operating the vehicle. After that the danger is gone and so is any version of him.

Jacob and Y/N are hunting Victoria. Charlie is hunting the wolves, who he still believes to be bears, responsible for the killings around town.

Bella’s alone again.

She decides to try something new, to get that rush of adrenaline. Cliff jumping is about as stupid as it is recreational. But Edward is there, begging her not to jump. So she does, anything to make him stay.

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“She’s freezing cold. I can’t touch her.”

“Relax. Human hot box, remember? I hope you don’t mind, I’m gonna have to give her mouth to mouth.”

“Jake,” thwack.

Beyond the voices, Bella can feel pressure. Like someone is pounding on her chest, commanding her heart to beat.

“Come on Bella. Breathe.”

With a sputtering inhale she chokes up the water that invaded her lungs.

“Bella!”

The brunette opens her eyes just in time to see her sister reach for her and then remember her temperature, dropping both hands back to her sides.

“I’m ok,” Bella tells her, through chattering teeth.

“What the hell were you doing?” Y/N demands, tossing a blanket around her shoulders.

Jacob lifts Bella from the sand to lean against him, soaking up his warmth.

“I just wanted to see something.” Bella looks away from Y/N. The venom has eaten away her contacts and she can see her now for what she truly is.

“We’ve gotta get her home.” Jacob says, lifting Bella with ease.

“Your eyes,” Bella tries to warn her.

“It’s ok,” Y/N shakes her head. “Dad’s not home. He’s over at the Clearwater’s.”

“Did something happen?” Bella wonders.

“Harry had a heart attack.” Jacob breathes, the words striking like a hot iron. “He didn’t make it.”

“I’m so sorry.” Bella whispers to no one in particular.

“Let’s go,” Y/N jerks her chin in the direction of the road.

“I’ll run her,” the wolf offers.

“My truck,” Bella pushes feebly against his chest.

“I got it,” Y/N sighs, taking the keys. “You go, keep her warm.”

“On it.” Jacob nods, breaking into a sprint.

Y/N heads back to the truck, opening the door and waiting as it rattles to life. Her fingers curl over the steering wheel harshly, distorting it with the force of her grasp.

The phone buzzes to life in her pocket, not a number she recognizes. “Hello?”

“Y/N, it’s Edward.”

“Edward…” The Y/H/C nearly short circuits.

“Is Bella alright?” He asks immediately.

How did he know? “Now you care what happens to Bella?”

“Y/N please-“

“No,” she cuts him off. “Edward, you left. You left and you didn’t care. I mean where the hell have you been? Where were you while I was here picking up the pieces?”

“I’m sorry.” Edward grovels, the way she had on the front lawn of the Cullen’s home after Bella’s birthday party. “It was a mistake.”

“Your sorry means nothing to me.” Y/N ends the call. Tossing the phone to the passenger seat. Her foot pressing the gas pedal to the floor.

Arriving home at record speed, she finds a black car in the driveway. Carlisle’s car. Parking the truck, she jots through the front door.

Alice, Jacob and Bella are deep in conversation.

“What are you doing here?” Y/N asks Alice.

“I had a vision of Bella jumping off a cliff. I didn’t see her get pulled out of the water-“ Alice breaks off. Her eyes fluttering, then she gasps.

“What now?” Jacob runs a hand over his face.

“It’s Edward, he thinks Bella’s dead.” Alice chokes out. “He’s going to the Volturi, he wants to die too.”

“What?” Bella’s entire body lurches forward.

“Rosalie told him why I came here. Then Y/N-“

“You spoke to him?” Bella cuts Alice off. “What did you say?”

“I told him to screw himself. Not kill himself.” Y/N says defensively.

“Y/N!” Bella is hysterical.

She never meant for this to happen. “Tell me where he is and how to get there.”

“What are you gonna do?” Jacob leans in, his fingers closing around her wrist.

“I have to go,” Y/N rolls her eyes at the ridiculous nature of the situation, “save Edward.”

Jacob’s face falls into a scowl, “no, no way in hell.”

“Jake-“

“The Volturi, isn’t that some kind of vampire judge and jury situation? The ones you’re so afraid of that you can’t even tell Charlie what happened to you?” Jacob can put up with a lot, and he has. But this…

“Jacob, I know that this sucks.” Y/N pulls him away from Alice and Bella for a shred of privacy. “But it’s my fault. I have to make it right.”

“Stop blaming yourself for his shitty decisions!” Jacob roars, “it’s not your fault that he left, it’s not your fault that he didn’t come back and it’s not your fault that you told him to shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

Y/N takes step back, “please don’t.”

“Please don’t what?” Jake snarls, closing the distance between them. “Tell you the truth?”

“Please don’t hate me for what I’m about to do.” Y/N pleads, allowing his fingers to sear her skin.

“If you die…” he strokes her jaw reverently, “I’ll kill you.”

“I love you so much,” she turns into his palm and presses gentle kisses there.

Jacob lets his hand fall away as they break apart. “What do you want me to tell Charlie?”

“Last minute girls trip or something,” Y/N shrugs.

“How long will you be gone?” Jacob wants to say it back. That he loves her.

Y/N looks to Alice.

“Three days, round trip.” The pixie tells them.

Bella has already gone up to pack.

“Perfect,” Jacob acknowledges. Keeping the words to himself.

———————————————————————

The plan ride to Italy is tense. Bella hardly sleeps, she is a nervous wreck.

Alice is flooded with vision after vision as she watches Edward and the Volturi’s decisions.

Y/N plucks anxiously at the wolf charm on her wrist.

The car Alice steals is a beautiful canary yellow color. It shifts gears like butter and glides over the road.

“The Volturi refused him.” Alice says, surprise and relief in her voice.

“Should you be driving?” Y/N wonders, there’s no way she can concentrate with the future flashing before her eyes.

“You can channel for me” Alice offers. There is no time to stop.

Y/N closes her eyes, willing the visions to come to her. “He’s waiting until noon, when the sun’s at it’s highest. Then he’s going to reveal himself to the humans.”

“Alice, you gotta hurry up.” Bella pleads, tugging at the roots of her hair.

“Bella,” Alice coos, “breathe.”

Y/N opens her mind, but Edward is decided, so nothing changes. Until something unexpected appears.

Jacob. He’s seated on their living room couch, shooting the breeze with Charlie. Clearly waiting for something as his eyes flicker to the clock repeatedly. Her, Y/N realizes, he’s waiting for her.

“What did you see?”

“It wasn’t Edward, don’t worry.” Y/N drawls. Just her letting down the most important person in her life…again.

The crowd surrounding Volterra is massive, Alice cuts through as much as she can with the stolen Porsche, but eventually Bella has to make a run for it. To the clock tower at the center of the festival before Edward exposes himself in the sunlight. She is the only one Edward can’t see coming.

“So, what now?” Y/N demands.

“What did you see?” Alice asks instead.

“Doesn’t matter.” The Y/H/C shakes her head. “We can’t just sit here-“

“You saw him, didn’t you?” Alice steals a glance at her. “Jacob?”

“Does he always look so miserable in your visions,” she wonders.

“I can’t see him.” The other vampires admits, “the wolves are a blind spot.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure.” Alice’s brows furrow, the visions are back in her own head. “We have to go.”

The two of them weave through the festival, skin covered from the sun that shines bright overhead. Finally taking shelter in a door off the alley way.

“Come on guys,” Alice pulls the scarf from her head as they enter. “Wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”

The ‘guys’ in question have glowing red eyes, their diet is strictly human blood.

Bella is against the wall, with Edward between her and the two men wearing black cloaks.

“No we certainly wouldn’t.” The shorter blonde man purrs. “Aro requests your presence.”

“Bella,” Edward addresses her, “why don’t you go back out and enjoy the festival?”

“All of you,” the larger man clarifies.

A third vampire joins them, a girl with blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun. “Aro sent me to see what’s taking so long.”

“So no festival?” Y/N cocks her head to the side.

“I’m afraid not.” The girl gives her a tight lipped grin. “Right this way.”

The four of them are led down a long corridor to a stair case, then to an elevator.

Abandon all hope ye who enter here.

Edward’s eyes, dark with thirst, cut to Y/N. Bella tucked securely beneath his arm.

‘Sorry,’ she mentally shoots back.

He turns his gaze ahead as the elevator doors open onto a checkered marble floor. The ceilings are high, adorned with paintings that put the Sistine chapel to shame.

“Don’t be afraid,” Edward whispers to Bella.

“Are you?” Bella stares up at him.

“No,” he lies.

They land at double doors, pushed open to reveal three more men, seated in high back chairs that resemble thrones.

The one in the center moves to stand, the other brunette and blonde vampires can’t be bothered.

“What a happy surprise!” The man rejoices, “Bella is alive after all. And you’ve brought a friend.”

“I’m just here for moral support.” Y/N explains, jerking her thumb at Bella, “she’s my sister.”

Aro looks her over, “welcome…”

“Y/N,” she introduces herself.

Aro steps forward then, taking Edward’s hand from Bella’s into his own.

“Aro can read every thought I’ve ever had with a single touch.” Edward tells them.

“You are quite a soul reader yourself Edward. Although you can’t hear Bella’s thoughts.” Aro remarks, “would you do me the honor?” He extends a hand to Bella.

Warily she steps forward, allowing him to encase her hand with both of his.

“How strange,” Aro pulls away after a moment. “I see nothing. I wonder if…let us see if she is immune to all our powers, Jane.”

“No,” Edward protests, jumping in front of Bella.

“Pain,” the blonde girl murmurs, a satisfied smirk spreading across her features as Edward falls to the ground. He writhes silently at Bella’s feet.

“Stop! Please.” Bella yells, “stop hurting him.”

Aro watches her in fascination, allowing the torture to continue for a moment. “Jane.”

“Master?” The girl says.

Edward relaxes with a grunt.

“Go ahead my darling,” Aro motions to Bella.

“This might hurt just a little,” Jane warns.

But Bella feels nothing.

“Remarkable.” Aro marvels, “she confounds us all. So, what do we do with you now?”

“She knows too much, she’s a liability.” The blonde man on the right croons, from his chair.

“That’s true.” Aro replies, “Felix.”

“No,” Edward flips Bella behind him, having read his thoughts.

Alice seen Aro’s decision to have Bella killed.

And Y/N catches on quickly enough. Stepping in front of her sister.

Alice is restrained by the short blonde haired guard and Edward is wrestling with the larger vampire, which eventually leaves Edward on the ground.

Y/N’s never engaged in combat, but fight or flight is still a thing. She’s stronger and faster than anyone in the room, perks of being a newborn. She uses it to her advantage.

Fending off every attack the guard throws at her. But she is wreckless, untrained in her youth. Eventually she is restrained, with a hand at her throat.

The exchange gives Edward enough time to recover, he comes back swinging. For Bella. Anything for her.

Felix is strong. Edward is going to lose and her sister is going to die.

Y/N does the only thing she can do, “pain.”

The large man twists inhumanly at the crippling pain coursing through him.

Aro’s mouth sits slightly agape, watching in wonder as Edward returns to his feet.

“Call him off and I’ll stop,” Y/N jerks her chin toward Felix.

“Let us discuss this in a civilized manner.” Aro tries to defuse the situation.

“Tell your men to stop trying to kill my sister,” Y/N tosses the guard’s hand from her neck. “Then we discuss.”

“Felix, stand down.” Aro orders.

Y/N releases the man from her clutches, hearing him struggle to regain composure.

“You have the most peculiar scent.” Aro comments, “come.” He holds a hand out, “let me see.”

Y/N steps toward him, allowing his palm to rest under hers.

His eyes fall closed as he weaves through the facets of her memories. From birth to death and after life. “Ahh,” Aro coos.

Y/N resists the urge to pull away.

“Your gift is…untouched.” The things she could do, if only- “I can teach you.”

“Let my sister go,” Y/N repeats.

“So young, so much control.” Aro remarks. “To have resisted her blood twice within the first year. You are magnificent.” He smiles, drunk on the idea of harnessing the power she possesses. “You could join us.”

“I have someone waiting for me.” Y/N declines the offer.

“The child of the moon.” Aro recalls the boy from her mind. Dark hair, bright smile, “you love him impossibly so, against everything in your nature. It makes my heart ache.”

“Consorting with a werewolf?” Caius rushes to his feet. “Our sworn enemy?”

“This is different brother,” Aro stops him. If only he earns the young vampire’s trust, all that power will be his. “They have no qualms with us, nor each other. Misfortune has befallen them, much like our young friends Bella and Edward. This is a sadness.”

“You already know what you’re going to do, Aro. Let us be done with this.” Marcus motions dismissively.

“If only it were your intention to change her.” Aro addresses Edward now.

“Bella will be one of us.” Alice interrupts, “I’ve seen it. I’ll change her myself.”

Aro steps away from Y/N, to where Alice stands. Whatever she shows him must be proof enough. They’re free to go. For now.

———————————————————————-

The plane ride home is awkward. Both better and worse that the flight there.

“Thank you, for what you did.” Edward breaks the silence, as Bella sleeps peacefully against his shoulder. “Only it wasn’t smart. Aro has taken interest now, he’ll try to win you over.”

“Better men have tried.” Y/N turns her nose up at the idea, and him.

“I’m not going to push for your forgiveness. Or hers.” He looks over at Bella, “I’m going to earn it.”

“Sure.” The Y/H/C crosses her arms, “holding my breath.”

“Good thing you don’t need air.” Edward cracks a smile.

“Can you not pick my brain right now? I need to think.” Y/N tries to refocus. “Alone.”

“Jacob will forgive you.” Edward ignores her comment.

“Jacob always forgives me.” She whispers, “I want to deserve it this time.”

Edward nods in understanding. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”

If he hears anything else he doesn’t comment on it. Falling into a comfortable silence.

Y/N is largely on autopilot until they make it home.

Charlie rushes out onto the porch at the sound of a car engine. “There you are.”

“Hi, Dad.” Y/N steps up to hug him.

Charlie kisses the top of her head, returning the embrace. “Jacob said it was a girls trip.” He’s not thrilled to see Edward.

“It was supposed to be,” Y/N pulls away. “He surprised us.”

“She does look better though, doesn’t she?” Charlie notes, seeing Bella.

“Yeah,” as much as Y/N hates to admit it, she agrees.

“Go on. He’s been waiting for ya.” Charlie nods toward the house. “I’m gonna have a word with Edward.”

“Ok,” Y/N takes the stairs two at a time. “Don’t be too hard on him though.” She calls after her father. “He’s been through hell too.”

Charlie squints at her, hoping she will elaborate but knowing she won’t.

“Honey, I’m home.” Y/N sings into the living room.

Jacob doesn’t say a word. Just makes his way to her and wraps her up in his arms. Inhaling the scent at the crook of her neck, deeply. “Never thought I’d miss your stink.”

Y/N takes a whiff of her own. “The wet dog and earthy tones are starting to smell like home.”

“Yeah.” He feels it too.

“Can I ask you something?” She murmurs against his shoulder.

“Sounds like a loaded question already.” Jacob can hear it in her voice.

“How much of you staying here is because of the imprint? How much of it is your soul needing mine? And how much of it is just Jake?”

“I guess I-“ he breaks off. “I’ll never really know for sure. But I think the Jacob I’ve been my whole life would stay. Imprint Jacob would have no choice but to please you. And my soul just wants to be close to yours, anyway it can.”

“Do you ever wish you could un-imprint?” If that’s even a word. “I hate the thought of you chipping away parts of yourself…to please me.”

Jacob nuzzles her forehead with his own. “I’m lucky that I got to imprint on someone who loves me. Someone I didn’t have to change for. Being with you is easy, like breathing.”

“I want to give you more than I take.” Y/N tells him.

“I can feel you,” heart and soul, “how much you love me.”

“You can,” the vampire tenses, “feel me?”

“I know how guilty you feel for leaving, how scared you are that you’ll have to do it again.” Jacob places her hand over his heart. “I’ll wait.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” she argues. “You’re already giving away too much.”

“Stop beating yourself up. I can handle you. Have little faith.”

“I have faith in you.” That was never the problem.

“Give yourself some credit too.” He taps her chin, “quit brooding.”

“I’ll try.”

“Good,” Jacob holds Y/N at arms length, “now tell me everything. What’d I miss on the trip of a lifetime?”

“Well Alice stole a car.” She starts with the fun part. “Porsche I think, crazy fast. You would’ve loved it.”

———————————————————————-

The night they return from Italy, Bella insists that her mortality be put up for a vote. The Cullens gather around the staircase in their home, calling for Y/N and Jacob as well.

“You are part of this family, Y/N.” Carlisle rests a hand on her shoulder. “Jacob is your mate. Bella is your sister. You have a say in this.”

Jacob votes no.

Y/N votes not to vote. Only expressing her opinion based on her own experience. “I know what it feels like to have your choices taken away. I won’t do it to you.”

Life goes on. Y/N visits the reservation often. Like Jacob promised, everyone is coming around.

Graduation is right around the corner. Bella is waiting until after to become a vampire. Hoping it’ll be easier on Charlie.

He’s definitely not going to let it go a second time. He’ll demand answers that they won’t be able to give. They’ll have to leave. All of them.

Billy can see how much Y/N is wrestling with the decision. “In your heart you know that this is the best thing for everyone. Why are you hellbent on torturing yourself?”

“I’m not,” she shakes her head.

“You and Jake will get each other through.” Billy isn’t worried about that.

“What about my Dad?” He’ll be devastated.

Billy sighs, resting a hand on her shoulder. “What’d you want me to say kid?”

“Give me another choice.” She covers his fingers with her own.

“You having a pity party without me?” Jacob catches them, leaning heavily against the doorframe of his childhood kitchen.

“You were sleeping.” Y/N sniffs, breaking away from Billy. “I made you breakfast. Pancakes, French toast, eggs, bacon, sausage and-“

“And?” Jacob perks up.

“Chocolate chips muffins for dessert.”

“You’re trying to butter me up, huh?” Jacob grins, making his way to the breakfast table. “It’s working. Just give it to me straight.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Billy excuses himself.

“The Cullens are having a graduation party for Bella.” Y/N watches the wolf take a bit of food from each dish.

“Just Bella?” Jacob arches a brow.

She huffs, reaching into her bag for the formal invite.

‘Congrats Grad!’

‘Please join us to celebrate, Alice, Jasper, Bella, Edward, Y/N and Jacob.’

‘R.S.V.P. To Alice or Esme Cullen.’

“Wow,” Jacob takes it all in. “They shouldn’t have.”

“They gave them to half of Forks high school.” Y/N explains, “most of my senior class remembers you as my hot boyfriend from a different school.”

“I am your hot boyfriend from a different school.” There is no denying it.

Y/N bites her lip. “They gave me a handful of invites for you too. If you want…”

“Really trying to push the whole ‘happy family’ agenda.” Jacob takes the stack of envelopes.

“It’ll only get worse if we indulge them.”

“In a few months they’ll be the only people we know.” Jacob reminds her. “Should probably get used to it.”

Y/N nods, turning her gaze out the window. “The younger we start out in a new place the longer we get to stay.”

“So high school again.” Jacob laughs humorlessly. “Can’t wait.”

“I want to stay in Forks.” Y/N forces out the words. “I want to stay with my Dad.”

“Baby,” Jacob breathes. That’s one thing he can’t give her.

“But it doesn’t matter what I want. Bella has to turn. We have to move on.” Y/N squares her shoulders. “Just let me sulk a little.”

“Sulk away, beautiful.” Jacob takes a bite of scrambled eggs. “Just pass the salt first.”

Series Taglist: @remembered-license @itscheybaby

Part 6

[daincrediblegg]

Really think it’s super understated exactly how much of the cult end of things is really Bev Keane’s idea and fault- and this is not to divert blame from John at all like the real heartbreaker is his complacency in all this but more on that later. Essay under the cut because jesus there is too much to sum up.

Like???? It’s not like he fuckin died the first time he encountered the angel I mean he got bit yeah but he took a shot of the blood and boom he was fine! And young again to boot! So obviously the original plan is to just pop back to crockett slip some blood in the communion wine and boom!!! Millie gets young again and cured of dementia so he gets a second chance to really have a life with her and their daughter and everything is fine!!!!

… but then he reaches critical mass (which I expect is because he was ingesting more of it than everyone else at too quick a rate). Bev and her little group are the only people who know the truth and watch him die and come back. Immediately she is quoting and using scripture to describe the changes that his body is going through- I mean he's basically Jesus!!! the Penultimate Biblical Miracle coming back from the dead!!- and therefore he chalks it up to “a matter of faith” and doesn't see a doctor (AKA HIS OWN SMART AS FUCK DAUGHTER WHICH HONESTLY HE SHOULD!!!!!) And so he goes with it!!! Until once again the thing he became got out of hand- and though he didn’t directly himself kill Joe but are certainly to blame for just fucking sucking at his head wound instead of… y’know… HELPING the guy bleeding out on the floor of his own goddamn home.

So then he’s done this this monsterous thing- which again is more a fault of his inaction than direct action- and doesn’t even know what to think of it to a point he’s numb to it (I mean jesus I cannot believe he felt no real guilt at all- sitting in a corner barely fucking lucid in a blood coma for hours until your deacon comes to find you because you're late for mass doesn’t scream no guilt no remorse to me it screams fucking mental blackout) but AGAIN!!! Here she comes. Speaking the words of his faith and calling what he went through a miracle from God and showing him bible passages detailing EXACTLY THE SHIT THAT HE’S GOING THROUGH so well if it’s in the scripture maybe it’s ok maybe it’s part of god’s plan for him sure he’ll bite. But note that even though he doesn't feel remorse for this thing he did anymore because Bev told him it's in the bible so it's ok that he's still on a pretty strict Sturge Blood diet- probably more likely than not to avoid another Joe Collie incident- so funny little contradiction but he's too wrapped up in this idea of new morality thanks to Bev he doesn't get it (and that it's more than likely a move to protect herself from getting Ate).

Then there’s Riley. Riley who he has such a great affection for who he thinks doesn’t deserve to die because even though he’s done terrible things he deserves a chance at redemption too- because like his savior he finds kinship with pariahs and knows they deserve love just as much if not more than everyone else. So *he* brings him back (I mean he wasn’t taking communion seeing as he wasn’t in a “state of grace” and didn’t believe anymore- so it’s safe to assume he made the decision through the blood lust to save him), and he has “The Meeting” and half of it is parroting the shit that Bev revealed to HIM about this condition that they now both share because really they’ve been on the level with each other since the beginning- but there’s another half that’s desperately attempting to show him that it’s worth living- even though he’s done awful things and will now inevitably do it again because it’s now a compulsion that neither of them can control. But he doesn’t want to chain Riley to him he’s more compassionate knows better than that. He’s explained all he can and sends him out with hope!!! He’s feeling good about the new covenant and the shift of morality he’s facing and he has Riley as an apostle to help tell that good news.

But then the sunrise comes. And he can feel it when he dies. HE feels it. Like god might feel every death and he can barely handle the ONE death of his old altar boy- his friend. And he doesn’t have more than a few hours to mourn before IN COMES BEV!!!! Again!!! And guess what. She was unfortunately *right*. Not about Riley himself he was worthy and given a gift as a result but right that he shouldn’t have just set him out into the world so recklessly not 100% knowing what he might do- that he might “spit it out”. And then she says “who knows who he talked to”- and suddenly the dynamic shifts. Small town news spreads. What if he tells someone who tells someone who tells MILLIE? Or Sarah? And Bev says “lets ‘share the miracle’ and ‘make easter vigil a night of baptism’”. And you know what? He didn’t listen the last time. He’s an adult and can admit when he was wrong. So he goes with it. Because he was wrong and because he can’t have another fuck up with someone he loves (let alone the LOVE of his LIFE who he is DOING THIS FOR in the FIRST PLACE). So most of the plan he hands over the reigns to Bev. And it’s short sighted as fuck but you gotta remember this plan goes into effect literally THE DAY OF so it’s all haphazard and a rushed effort and he’s rushing and bev and sturge and wade are rushing to make sure 1) no one can leave the island and die like Riley 2) so they can still attempt to have a meeting about the whole vampirism thing I mean he managed to handle riley pretty well and he didn’t fuck up and kill somebody like HE did!!! He managed to teach him some level of control!!!! So surely he can handle this!!!

BUT IN HIS SHORT-SIGHTEDNESS!!!! In his complacency with Bev’s plan guess what!!!! All fucking hell breaks loose!!!! THE SHIT HITS THE FAN!!!! Of course it didn’t go to plan because it was simply too much all at once and he could barely process anything else that happened before it there just wasn’t time because he just doesn’t want anyone else to die so of course he went with it!!!! And he only starts to realize he fucked up when the chaos is so bad that Millie- *his* MILLIE fucking SHOOTS him!!

And what did Bev gain from the shit hitting the fan??? A platform. At last. A place of leadership where she gets to decide who lives and who dies and who’s a sinner and who a saint. She gets to play god to a flock of wolves and that shit is Dangerous. And it’s not until he sees it that he finally snaps out of it and realized he got this all wrong and that what she was doing was wrong and that what she was leading him on with was *wrong* and that moment of clarity brings him back to his roots long enough to reconcile with his former lover tell his daughter the truth he's been hiding for years and try to be a real father to her in his final hours and finally attempt to be the shepherd he used to be that he always *was* to the broken people that Bev would so easily cast aside because her idea of love from God is very different from his. And at least he knows that before the end and ends up seeking forgiveness from the one person who actually mattered that he needed reassurance and guidance and forgiveness from all along but couldn’t have had the whole goddamn time.

[goldenraeofsun]

A/b/o + celebrities and/or coffee shop 👀

Thanks so much for the prompt, Julesy, and I'm so sorry for the long wait! Part II should be up in the next few days, but hopefully this beginning 7k will satisfy for the time being 😘

Castiel is elbow-deep in suds when Jo plunks a medium to-go cup on the edge of the sink. “Thank you?” he says, bemused.

“It’s not for you, doofus,” Jo says, rolling her eyes. “There’s a customer out back,” she jerks her head towards the service exit that leads to the alley where they dump their trash and Ruby takes her furtive smoke breaks. “I need you to take this to him.”

“Out back?” Castiel repeats dubiously, craning his neck to catch sight of their on-site baker, Benny, who is busy kneading focaccia dough for tomorrow’s sandwiches. Benny, full of southern politeness, doesn’t give any indication he’s eavesdropping.

Jo gives Castiel a short nod, her alpha scent flaring with irritation. “I’d take it out there myself, but he always talks my ear off, and Kevin still can’t draw a latte art that doesn’t look like a dick, so…”

Castiel frowns but nods, and Jo’s expression eases once she doesn't hear a challenge to her request. Still, he has to ask, “But why doesn’t he order at the counter like a normal customer?”

Jo takes a step back towards the door. “You’ll see. Just… don’t make a big deal of it.”

“A big deal of what?” Castiel calls to her, but she’s already disappeared out to the front of the cafe.

Castiel sighs and wipes his hands on a dish towel. He picks up the drink, sniffing curiously.

He nearly gags at the strong aroma of brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and apples all on top of espresso and milk. They definitely don’t serve that on the menu. Admittedly, Castiel hasn’t memorized the list of hot drinks they serve at Hunter’s Cafe, but this is an assault on anyone with a nose. He’s been their busboy and dishwasher for six months since his second year as a graduate student began, and Jo has only let him mind the counter three times, all as far from peak time as she could get.

But a job is a job. Holding the drink, he shoulders open the back door.

“Hey - oh, you’re not Jo,” a familiar voice says.

Castiel stops dead in his tracks because, despite the sunglasses, the baseball hat, and hunched shoulders, Dean Winchester is unmistakable.

Away from the limelight, Dean apparently favors soft-looking flannels over worn tee shirts and jeans. In one hand, he holds a half depleted sheaf of french fries. Stunned, Castiel doesn't immediately hand over the reason for his appearance.

“Whatever, is that mine?” Dean demands, zeroing in on Castiel’s cup.

Still beyond speech, Castiel dumbly hands the affront to coffee over.

After a muttered thanks, Dean takes a long drink. “Christ, this tastes even better than normal.”

Castiel inhales a surreptitious breath. It’s not every day one gets to catch the scent of Hollywood’s omega darling.

Not that anyone would know Dean's secondary gender just by looking at him. Dean stands a few inches taller than the average male omega - he has nearly an inch of height on Castiel, and Castiel is the dictionary definition of standard alpha physique.

While Castiel might not be Dean’s most knowledgeable fan, he hasn’t been living under a rock for the past five years. It was all over the papers when Dean was cast in his first alpha role. Dean wasn’t the first omega actor to do so, but he was certainly the most prominent. Castiel’s sister, Anna, an actual fan, spent a memorable dinner ranting about how all the prejudiced reporters on the press tour. Apparently they only asked Dean about the diet and exercise routine that transform into a “real” alpha, while, in the next round, his alpha castmates fielded questions about their characters’ moral code and complex development.

But, in the alley behind Hunter’s Café, Castiel’s nose is completely overwhelmed by the fryers of the fast food restaurant next door, the set of dumpsters directly to his right, and the almost offensively apple coffee Dean is currently drinking like his life depends on it. Dean could smell like old gym socks for all Castiel can tell.

“Where’s Jo?” Dean asks once he resurfaces. He jams a few fries in his mouth. Before he's finished chewing, he sucks down some more latte in an unholy taste combination.

“Busy,” Castiel replies. “We have a new hire, and so far Kevin can only draw genitalia on lattes instead of flowers.”

Dean guffaws, nearly inhaling his drink. Swearing unrepentantly, he takes his sunglasses off and rubs at his temple with his free hand. “Christ, I’m too hungover to laugh like that.” He squints over at Castiek before sliding the sunglasses back on his face.

Castiel stares. “If you’re hungover, why are you here at -” he checks his watch “-seven in the morning?”

Dean slurps at his fruity latte before he answers. “Got a meeting at nine. This,” he says, brandishing his mostly empty cup, “and a large fries are the cure.” His hands occupied, Dean ducks his head to fish a single fry out and holds it like a cigarette between his lips.

“That sounds disgusting,” Castiel says, aghast.

Dean inches the rest of the fry into his mouth. “Don't knock it ‘til you try it,” he says with a wink.

Cas blushes.

“Hey,” Dean says, a new thought coming to him, “What’s your name?”

Taken aback by the question, he answers, “Castiel.”

Dean mouths his name once, his brow furrowing at the new syllables. With a small shrug of capitulation he says, “Well, Cas, thanks for the drink.” He toasts him one before tipping the cup all the way back, draining it.

“You’re welcome, Dean.”

Dean grins. “I couldn't tell if you recognized me or not.”

“I did,” Castiel says, clearly unnecessarily.

Amused, Dean throws him a long, considering look. “You’ve got one hell of a poker face.” He unceremoniously shovels the rest of the fries in his mouth and balls up the wrapper. He tosses it with practiced ease into the waiting dumpster.

“Thank you?” Cas says, nonplussed.

“Thank you,” Dean says, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. “You’re the one who saved my hide.” He sidles forward and shoves a bill into Castiel’s slack hand. Without another word, he takes off out of the alley and onto the street.

Once he’s out of sight, Castiel unclenches his hand. Dean tipped him ten dollars.

* * *

“How is this even more pungent than last time?” Castiel demands, nose wrinkling as he sets a now clean muffin tin back on the shelf. It’s been a week since he met Dean Winchester, and hadn’t gotten so much as a whiff of apple pie since then.

He is alone with Jo in the kitchen, since Benny’s early morning shift ends at eleven.

“I added a caramel drizzle,” Jo says, her scent rising with her self-satisfaction.

Castiel stares at her in horror. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“’Cause I’m trying to see what his limit is, and so far - nothing,” Jo says, shrugging. “Get to it. He’s real grouchy if you make him wait too long.”

“And why aren’t you taking it to him?” Castiel says, eyebrows rising. “Kevin’s moved onto multiple hearts now. Admittedly, his first one looked like a labia, but he’s gotten much better.”

“But Ruby didn’t show up, so we’re short staffed,” Jo says shortly. Outside, Kevin yells something indistinguishable though the kitchen door, and Jo winces.

Castiel takes the latte.

Just like last time, Dean is waiting, wearing a different flannel but the same jeans with the hole above the left knee. He abandoned the sunglasses, since the clouds overhead cast the whole alley in shade. They’re hanging from the vee of his shirt collar, pulling the fabric down a tempting extra inch.

Unfortunately, the fast food restaurant next door must have just taken out the trash last night, since the alley reeks of stale bread and rotting fish patties.

Castiel lets the door slam behind him, unable to hold back his corresponding smile as Dean lights up as he sees him.

“Thank god,” Dean says as he reaches for the latte. “I was starting to think Jo was gonna stiff me.”

“We’re short staffed at the moment,” Castiel says apologetically, “so you got me again.”

Dean eyes him over the lid of his cup. “Not a downside from where I’m standin’,” he drawls.

Castiel has no idea how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. Dean can’t mean it like Castiel thinks he does. He’s an actor, feeding people lines is the dictionary definition of his job. Instead Castiel asks, “No french fries this time?” because he’s not nearly ready to leave yet.

“Already ate ��em, while I was waiting,” Dean says dismissively.

Castiel shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’m sorry.”

“No harm, no foul,” Dean says with a little grin. “I got my caffeine fix eventually, and that’s what I really care about.”

“You look remarkably more put together than last time,” Castiel says as he leans against the doorway, watching Dean sip at his drink.

“Didn’t drink as much,” Dean says with a grin. He tips back his cup and takes a long pull. “Fries can only get you halfway there. Christ, that’s the stuff.”

Castiel can’t help but make a face. The latte smells horrendous; it can’t taste that much better.

“What?” Dean asks, eyes narrowing.

Castiel probably shouldn’t tell Dean what is exactly on his mind. Castiel has found very few people appreciate his default brand of honesty - Hunter’s Café customers, especially. But Dean isn’t technically his customer - he’s Jo’s - and Castiel has reached the point in his life where he doesn’t need to hang onto people who don’t like him and vice versa. Dean isn’t even providing extra publicity for the establishment, since he’s getting serviced in the alley behind the kitchen.

Technically, Castiel needs a celebrity acquaintance as much as he needs a free bag of cat food (he doesn’t have a cat).

But he does like having one.

A celebrity acquaintance, that is. Cats are inherently suspicious.

Reluctantly, Castiel says, “I can’t imagine that latte tastes very good.”

To his surprise, instead of demanding Jo bring him his coffee from now on, Dean laughs. “Not a fan of apple pie?”

“Not in my coffee.”

Dean takes an obnoxiously loud slurp. “I think it’s delicious.”

“I think your taste buds must be severely incapacitated.”

Dean waggles the near empty cup in front of Castiel’s face in what must be an enticing manner to someone with no sense of smell or taste. “Wanna try?”

Castiel valiantly holds back his recoil. “No, thank you.”

But Dean’s genial expression doesn’t waver. “‘M feeling pretty much human again, so it’s up for grabs.”

“I’d sooner lick the dumpster,” Castiel blurts before he can filter himself.

Dean whistles, rocking back on his heels. “Harsh.”

Castiel sighs. Honesty was a mistake. He mutters, embarrassed, “I’m just not a very big fan of sweets.”

“No?”

“I’ve been living with my cousin while in graduate school at Columbia,” he explains, his tone apologetic for his earlier comment, “and he has a horrendous sweet tooth. I don’t think he’s ever seen a carrot that wasn’t in a cake first.”

A wide grin splits Dean’s face. He laughs.

What Castiel wouldn’t give to scent Dean’s joy for himself. “He would probably love that latte,” Castiel continues wryly.

“Probably,” Dean agrees. He taps his fingers against the sides of the cup as he asks, “So you’re in school? For what?”

“Do you really want to know?” Castiel asks seriously. He’s had too many conversations with strangers and casual friends who have asked the exact same question and regretted asking it almost immediately.

Dean ducks his head. “I don’t know any graduate students, and I,” he breaks off, his cheeks going pink, “I never went to college, so I have no idea what it means.” He sucks on the dregs of his latte, gaze dropping to the vicinity of Castiel’s knees.

“Oh,” Castiel says, feeling lighter. “In that case, I’m studying ethnomusicology.”

Dean’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Are you fucking with me? That doesn’t sound real.”

“It’s a legitimate area of study,” Castiel assures him. “I research music as it pertains to culture and diverse elements of social life. Ethnomusicology focuses not only on the music itself, but music as a social process, as a medium for humans to relate to each other. In short, it examines how music functions in a particular society.”

To Castiel’s surprise, Dean doesn’t get the glazed-over look most people do when he explains his field of study. “So what kind of music are you talking about?”

Now it’s Castiel’s turn to flush. His colleagues, while they respect his academic reputation, have nearly all looked down on his chosen object of study. “One of the main tenets of ethnomusicology is a global perspective on music-”

“What, like Tibetan throat-singing?” Dean interrupts. At Castiels’ stare, he explains quickly, “Sammy had a phase.”

Castiel chuckles. “Yes, I do know a professor at Cornell who is studying just that. But my focus is much closer to home. I study,” he inhales a small breath, “tribute bands.”

Dean’s mouth twitches. “What.”

“Tribute bands offer a fascinating definition of the nature of performance, the difference between authenticity and identity,” Castiel says, already on the defensive. He can already hear his voice trying to fall into his usual academic patterns, and tries to rein himself in, “and historical consciousness in popular music. Here -” He pulls out his phone.

Dean listens in complete silence to Yellow Dubmarine’s cover of I Want You.

“Anyway,” Castiel coughs, embarrassed he made Dean sit through all that, “I also teach Rock and Roll from the 1950s to 1980s. There is a great deal of crossover with my specialty since most tribute bands recreate acts from the 60s to the 80s.”

“Dude,” Dean says in a rush, “if you think that makes you less interesting, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Castiel blinks.

“What bands are we talkin’ about?” he asks eagerly. “More Beatles? The Stones? The Who?”

Castiel nods. “I’m hoping to go to a Lez Zeppelin concert next month.”

“Led Zeppelin?”

“Lez,” Castiel says, emphasizing the ‘z’, “an all-female Led Zeppelin tribute band.”

Dean frowns. “They have a gimmick?”

Castiel shakes his head. “They’re completely sincere, I assure you.” He smiles wryly. “I interviewed Misstallica for a paper I’m writing on diverse, for lack of a better word, musicians in the tribute world, and they felt right at home with the long hair and tight pants. I’ve never met people who more adore the songs they perform.”

“Huh,” Dean says, rubbing his chin.

“Except maybe Air-O-Smith,” Castiel adds, “an American all-omega tribute band of Aerosmith.”

Dean’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates.

“My favorite all-omega tribute band, though, is Omega You Eight One Two,” Castiel muses, “a Van Halen cover band.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Dean says faintly.

“Their lead guitarist, as you can imagine, is phenomenal.”

Dean shakes his head, his expression going slack. “Wait, seriously? That’s a thing? All omega acts?”

“Of course,” Castiel says. “That’s one of the most compelling aspects of tribute bands, when they flip the traditional male-alpha dynamic of the original, and how they translate that into their own act while keeping the whole performance authentic to the creators. It’s a fascinating process to watch and study.”

“I bet,” Dean says fervently. “Hey, d’you think-”

The back door opens before Dean can finish his sentence.

Jo pokes her head out, looking askance at the pair of them. “Are you still out here?” She glares at Dean. “Stop complaining about your diet, and let Castiel come back to work.”

Castiel’s mouth purses. “You’re on a diet?”

“Not on cheat day,” Dean tells him, lifting his empty cup. He turns to Jo. “And I wasn’t complaining at all. Cas was actually telling me about tribute bands.”

“Really?” Jo asks, her nose wrinkling.

Dean tosses his trash in the dumpsters. “They sound awesome.”

“I like them,” Castiel says lamely, off-footed now the conversation is clearly wrapping up.

Jo rolls her eyes, alpha irritation practically radiating off her. “Good for you.”

“Alright, well, I’ll let you deal with Joanna Beth on your own,” Dean says as he pulls out his wallet and hands Castiel a folded bill. He gives a mocking salute as he takes a step back, “Good luck, dude.”

“Thank you?”

“Come on, fanboy,” Jo growls once Dean’s disappeared from view, “back to work.”

* * *

“Can’t you take it?” Castiel asks, his tone verging on pleading, as Jo follows him back into the kitchen. It’s too early in the morning for another meeting, closer to first time Castiel met Dean at seven am compared to their last meeting at a little before eleven.

This past weekend, Castiel went down a spiral of Dean Winchester content. He read up on all of Dean’s recent projects, scanned headlines about rumors of his next film - some action thriller that Castiel presumes is the reason for Dean’s diet, and watched interview after interview. Dean on Stephen Colbert. Dean on Good Morning America. Dean on some very confusing show where they forced him to eat spicy chicken wings, which just seemed like an exercise in pepper-based sadism.

Castiel didn’t really understand the Saturday Night Live skit where Dean played one half of a demon-hunting brother duo, but the live studio audience laughed uproariously at multiple points.

Jo all but slams Dean’s latte on the ledge above the sink. “You know the health inspector is here. I can’t let Ruby near the guy, and you know how Kevin gets around figures of authority.”

Castiel sets down his tub of dirty dishes. “He nearly peed himself when he had to tell you he dropped a tray of scones over the floor last week,” he says flatly.

“Exactly,” Jo says. “Benny is busy,” she says, tipping her head to where Benny is adding more flour to a huge bowl.

“Cheers, darlin’.”

She turns back to Castiel. “So, you’re it today, champ.”

“Great,” Castiel grumbles.

“What?” Jo asks, her hands on her hips. “You seemed to get along with Dean. I actually didn’t know you could talk that much before I sent you back there.”

Castiel carefully transfers the dirty plates to the sink. “Getting along with him isn’t the problem,” he says darkly.

“Getting along with him too well is the issue?” Jo asks, her eyebrows rising.

Castiel scowls at her observation. Her emotional intuition is what makes her an excellent café manager, so he can hardly fault her for that. He doesn’t respond to her question.

“Take it to him,” Jo says, her tone softening. “He likes you.”

Castiel raises his head to stare at her. “How do you know that?”

Jo pulls her phone from her back pocket and waves it in his face. “We talk,” she says. “How do you think he orders every time? He’s not getting those lattes for free, not after I spent so much time getting them exactly right.”

Castiel can’t hold back his grimace. The latte still smells awful, like a vat of boiled candied apples.

“Look,” Jo says, lowering her voice, “Dean’s famous, sure, but he’s actually a very private person. He runs his mouth to anyone who’ll listen, but he never really says anything important. So he doesn’t really connect with a lot of people. If he says he likes you, I’m gonna say that’s a good thing - if you tell him I said this, I’ll kick your ass - and make you his designated errand boy.”

Castiel bites his lip. “But I don’t -”

“Dude, don’t make me pull the boss card,” Jo says, just the barest hint of threat in her words.

“Fine.” Castiel snatches the latte off the counter. “But I want a raise.”

“You can get a free sandwich.”

Castiel glares daggers as he shoulders open the back door.

But the alley is empty.

Castiel breathes through his mouth as he steps out. The overflowing dumpsters carry the odor of moldering cheese and more rancid fish, and the fryers next door are still going strong. He doesn’t find Dean lurking behind the trash for some strange reason, and he’s about to head back in and dump Dean’s latte down the sink when a shout makes him turn around.

“Hey, Cas!” Dean calls, jogging in from the brightly lit street.

“Hello, Dean.” He hands over the latte.

“Thanks - sorry.” Dean rubs the back of his neck with his other hand. “Some fans caught me sneaking in here, and wanted a selfie.”

“Oh,” Castiel says for lack of anything better to say.

Dean tips back his cup, his expression falling into pure bliss. “Christ, that’s so much better when I’m not hungover.”

Castiel stares. “You’re drinking that with all your capacities intact?”

“Ain’t no better way to enjoy pie,” Dean says, grinning widely.

Castiel rolls his eyes. “That’s not pie.”

“It’s as close as I’m gonna get at eight in the morning on a Thursday,” Dean says with a shrug.

Silence falls between them, and Castiel can’t help glancing over Dean’s shoulder, tentatively scanning for the people who caught his attention earlier. Plenty more would have approached Dean if he didn’t have Jo’s latte waiting for him; Castiel would bet his job on it.

Dean is a celebrity.

Castiel is a grad student who can’t even afford to support a guinea pig on his stipend and café salary.

After a long beat, Dean asks, a touch hesitantly, “So, what’ve you been up to?”

Stalking you on the internet.

“Nothing,” Castiel lies. At the slight fall in Dean’s expression, he adds, “I cleaned my kitchen over the weekend.”

Dean chuckles. “You’re a weird dude, you know that?”

Hurt, Castiel takes a step back. Jo probably needs him for… something.

“Not in a bad way!” Dean says quickly. “Shit,” he swears under his breath, “please don’t stop giving me coffee.”

Castiel hesitates. “Why is it weird that I cleaned my kitchen?” He frowns. “I suppose you employ someone to do that for you.”

Dean seesaws his free hand back and forth as he sips at his latte. “Not always,” he lowers his voice, “I actually like cleaning - it helps me relax and shit. There’s nothing like blasting some tunes and scrubbing out that stain on the counter that’s been annoying you forever.”

Castiel lowers his voice too. “Is this a secret?”

Dean grimaces. “Not really. But, you know, it’s one of those omega things.”

Castiel doesn’t know. Well, he knows it is a stereotypical omega trait to like housework, but he has no idea why Dean would whisper it in a back alley like he’s confessing to defrauding an elderly relative. “And that is bad because…?”

Dean takes a long pull from his cup. “I don’t want to hammer the omega thing home too hard, alright?”

“But you are an omega,” Castiel says, feeling a little stupid for saying it out loud.

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, “but if I lean into it, I’ll stop getting alpha roles.”

“You only want to play alphas?” Castiel asks curiously.

Dean’s mouth twists. “They’re the better parts. Omegas are always the damsels in distress or get killed off first for the plot.”

“I’m sure not all films are like that,” Castiel says. God knows, Anna made him sit through enough films with an omega protagonist that did not fit the typical romantic comedy restrictions.

“Most.”

“The last movie I saw,” Castiel says, hesitant because Dean must know more about this than him, “my sister recommended it, it had an omega lead who led a team of paranormal investigators. A sort of horror-comedy.”

Dean’s face loses some of its hostility. Almost intrigued, he asks gruffly, “D’you know who wrote it?”

“Not off the top of my head.” Castiel pulls out his phone to look it up. He reads aloud, “Ghostfacers, directed by Ed Zeddmore, written by Harry Spangler. Starred Maggie Zeddmore and Alan Corbett.” He pauses, trying to remember the details. “I think they both were omegas. I’m sure there are more films like Ghostfacers out there for you to make.”

Dean sips at his latte. “A few. None with big enough names attached to really get on my radar.”

“Well, if you signed on, wouldn’t there be a big name attached?”

“Yeah,” Dean says in a tone that clearly conveys he’s thought of this possibility before. He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s just - what if I take one of these roles, and it gets all this attention just ’cause I’m in it, and it flops?”

Castiel tilts his head. “That would hardly be your fault. Most failed films are hardly the work of one person. Usually, it’s a combination of a bad story, bad production, and bad acting.” He levels Dean an appraising look. “Right off the bat, you control two of those elements - pick a good script and act as well as you always have.”

Dean blinks. “You’ve seen my stuff?”

Castiel’s brow furrows. “I thought I already said I knew who you were?”

“Yeah, but,” Dean says, his voice petering off with embarrassment, “that didn’t mean you liked my movies.”

“The majority of America liked your last movie, Dean,” Castiel says dryly. “Either that, or you have a very hardworking and wealthy mother who poured a hundred million dollars into ticket sales.”

“I mean, Mom’s a fan, but not that big of a fan,” Dean says, chuckling. “I’m pretty sure she’d rather get a twenty-minute call from yours truly than sit through a two-hour flick with my name on the poster.”

Castiel hands over his phone. “Here,” he says, tilting it so Dean can see the summary of Ghostfacers.

Dean brightens as he reads through it. “The Alpha dies first?”

“He thought he could deal with the ghost on his own.”

“Typical alpha macho,” Dean snorts. His head snaps up as he gives the phone back. “No offense.”

“No offense taken,” Castiel says easily. “With my lifestyle, posturing is a waste of time. I’ve long ago resigned myself to not being the primary breadwinner in any future household.”

“Really?”

Castiel throws him a look. “I’m in academia, Dean. Tenure is hardly a guarantee. Even so, there isn’t a wealth of money out there for ethnomusicology grants.”

Dean tips his head in acknowledgement. “It’s awful big of you.”

“Just logical,” Castiel says evenly. “It shrinks my dating pool considerably, but I’d rather do what I love than compromise that much for any potential partner.”

Dean inhales a deep breath, his eyes unfathomable. “I get that.”

“If it means I can’t afford to mate a house-omega, I’ll just have to keep cleaning my kitchen myself,” Castiel finishes with a shrug.

Dean grins. “I mean, if you spot me a six pack and don’t tell my trainer about it, I’ll clean your kitchen.”

Castiel turns bright red. He can’t bring himself to respond to that offer, so he changes the subject.

* * *

Castiel doesn’t even bother pretending to protest as Jo barges into the kitchen, the telltale scent of sugary apples wafting around her like a palpable shield. Castiel already set himself for heartbreak where Dean Winchester is concerned. He might as well take advantage of every interaction he has left.

He went to sleep late last night, watching one of Dean’s earlier movies. He was slimmer and younger, but he still shone with his signature charisma and talent. For the first time since Castiel started the morning shift at Hunter’s Café, he snoozed his alarm.

Hurrying through his morning routine, Castiel couldn’t help resenting Dean just a little. If only Dean hadn’t chosen a profession where his literal job is to be whatever his audience wants him to be.

As Castiel pushes open the door, Dean is waiting outside. Dark sunglasses shield his green eyes, and a violet bruise blooms over his left eyebrow. As the door slams shut behind Castiel, Dean winces. His left hand holds a half-empty paper container of french fries.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says. “You don’t look good.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean says darkly. “Gimme.”

Castiel pauses. “Did your hangover eliminate your manners?”

Dean flushes bright red. “No,” he mutters. “Sorry, Cas. I just feel like shit.”

“You look like shit,” Castiel says frankly as he hands it over.

“Thanks,” Deans says, his voice sour as old lemons. “I told Charlie tequila shots before Monopoly was a bad idea, but did anyone listen to me?” He gestures to his face. “Next thing I know, Jo’s throwing Charlie’s bag of DnD dice at my head.”

“You got that playing Monopoly? Wait, Jo did this to you?” he demands, gesturing to the cafe behind him. “Jo Harvelle?”

Dean just glares over the rim of his coffee cup. “Yeah, Katniss got me good.”

“God, why?”

One corner of Dean’s mouth lifts in a distinctly smug smirk. “’Cause she was going bankrupt, and she had to sell her last property to me.”

“So this was because of Monopoly,” Castiel says dubiously. In his experience, a board game has never led to actual violence.

Dean shrugs. “Game nights get intense. Why do you think I’m always bangin’ down your door the morning after?”

Castiel can’t believe it. “You’ve been getting this drunk at a game night? Every time?”

“So what?” Dean shoves four french fries in his mouth. “Whaddya think I was doin’?”

“Partying?” he suggests.

Dean snorts. “Maybe six years ago when I was doing B-level flicks and trying to meet as many people as I could. Now I have a back-to-back shooting schedule and hangovers if I don’t pace myself.”

Castiel watches Dean polish off his fries at a truly impressive and horrifying speed. He can’t help asking, “Why was Jo at your game night?”

“’Cause she’s a menace who knows how to pick locks?” Dean heaves a weighty sigh. “I’ve known Jo since we were kids. She and her mom - who started Hunter’s Café - were my neighbors.”

“I had no idea.”

Dean gestures to the alley with a wry hand. “Jo likes to keep it under wraps.”

“I see why Jo keeps making those drinks for you,” Castiel says, nodding at the half-finished latte in Dean’s hand.

“You didn’t make it?” Dean says, and does he sound almost disappointed?

Castiel shakes his head. “Jo is keeping the recipe close to the chest.”

“Probably worried everyone’ll want one if they get the taste.” Dean tips the cup back.

Castiel can’t help his noise of disgust. At Dean’s sharp look, he says aloud, “She’s probably worried everyone will never come back if they try it.”

Dean’s laugh cuts off with a wince. He raises a hand to his head. “Christ, last night was a mistake.”

Castiel surreptitiously scents the air for a better gauge of how discomfited Dean really is, but, as always, all he gets is trash and fryer oil. “How are you doing? Apart from the injury, headache, and general hangover-related malaise.”

“Oh, apart from that?” Dean echoes mockingly, but his words lack any heat. He crams a few fries into his mouth. “I asked my agent to send me a few more scripts with omega roles,” he mutters.

Castiel smiles. “That’s great.”

Dean hums his agreement. “Hopefully, she’ll pick out a decent one, and I can get something set up for after Two for the Show wraps.”

“Is Two for the Show the reason for your diet?”

Dean huffs. “Yeah. I have a bunch of shirtless scenes, so that means three months with the diet coach from hell.”

Castiel makes a noise of sympathy. After a moment, he asks, “Is it worth it?”

Dean chews a fry, scowling between bites. “Not really,” he says in a low voice. “Sammy’s the farmers market maniac in the family.” Wistfully, he continues, “Give me a good cheeseburger deluxe every day for the rest of my life with a side of pie, and I’ll die a happy man.”

“I didn’t think apple pie came as a side.”

“Not for you, maybe,” Dean says with an obnoxiously loud slurp of his latte.

Castiel doesn’t bother holding back his smile.

Dean sighs, rubbing his temple with the heel of his hand. “It’s just like, I don’t look like a traditional omega, so I figured I might as well try for the alpha roles.” He swallows. “’S a win-win situation. I look the part and the characters are better - what’s the downside?”

Castiel cocks his head. “Other than your restricted diet and inadvisable levels of drinking?”

A humorless smile pulls at Dean's mouth. “Not pullin’ the punches this morning, huh?”

Castiel colors, his face heating with shame. “I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well.” An inadequate excuse, but it’s not like he can tell Dean the real reason for his more uncharitable thoughts.

Castiel has never been one to lean into his alpha instincts. Possessiveness, aggression, arrogance - Castiel has had his (mostly regrettable) moments, but they hardly define his character. But over these past few weeks, he’s had to repeatedly tell himself that he can’t solve Dean’s problems. Dean is a wildly successful adult with millions of fans, while Castiel can’t even handle Hunter Cafe's front counter during the morning rush.

Dean would hardly welcome a nobody little alpha telling him to just… do what he wants and damn the consequences because he deserves to be happy with his life and his work.

Dean plucks out the rest of his fries and balls the wrapper against his hip. He lobs it in the dumpster. “No, I get it. I’m complaining about things that most people would kill to have.” He glances towards the mouth of the alley, his mouth set in a thin line.

But before Dean can leave, Castiel says quickly, “That’s not the way I see it. Your specific frustrations aren’t universal, but hardly anyone’s are. Society is inherently unfair, and it’s understandable to be angry about it.”

God knows Castiel railed enough about the unfairness of Dean Winchester to Gabriel enough over the past few weeks.

Even now, hungover and bruised, Dean is beautiful.

Castiel steels himself. “And, for what it’s worth, I don’t think not looking like a typical omega is a bad thing.”

Dean turns to him in surprise, and Castiel would give up that free sandwich Jo offered him to be able to scent what exactly Dean is feeling. But, after a second that stretches into an eternity, all Dean gives him is a quiet, “Thanks, Cas.”

Castiel nods, chastised by Dean’s reaction. “I should get back to work,” he says awkwardly.

Dean mutters something that might be a swear underneath his breath. Raising his voice, he says, his tone apologetic, “’Course. Sorry for keeping you.”

Castiel shakes his head. “It’s alright. I,” he pauses, “always enjoy talking to you.”

Dean’s mouth lifts into a small smile, and it’s like the sun rising through the early morning fog. “You too, man.”

* * *

After his next shift, Castiel asks Jo to show him how to make Dean’s apple pie latte.

Castiel’s first attempt is a disaster. He burns the espresso and adds too much nutmeg. Jo makes him try it anyway, as a non-monetary payment for her time. As Castiel gags, a smirking Jo dumps the bitter, weirdly savory mess down the sink.

“Passable,” Jo declares at Castiel’s second try. “You need more of the apple concentrate, though.”

“It’ll be too strong,” Castiel protests even as he shakes more powder in and gives it a stir. He hands it back to Jo for evaluation.

“You could barely taste it!” Jo says. She raises it to her lips. “Mm, that’s the stuff.”

“It is?” Castiel asks hopefully.

Jo nods and pushes the cup towards him. “That’s what it’s supposed to taste like.”

Castiel frowns as the overly sweet apples hit his tongue. He can barely taste the coffee underneath all the other layers.

“Trust me,” Jo says, flipping her hair behind her shoulder as she sets Castiel up for a third cup. “Your scent’s getting in the way, but it tastes exactly like an apple pie.”

“My scent?” Castiel echoes, baffled.

Jo throws him a look as she pushes a clean coffee cup into his hands. “Yeah, you already smell, I dunno, crisp but sweet? A little like apples. Makes you think the latte dials it up to eleven when it’s more like a nine for everyone else.”

Castiel hadn’t thought to put those pieces together, but it makes an astonishing amount of sense.

He brings his last apple pie latte home to Gabriel, and his cousin makes him write down, step by step, how to make it. In between actual licks into the cup to get the dregs, Gabriel swears to visit him at Hunter’s Café more often.

When Jo next ducks her head into the kitchen to tell Castiel that Dean will swing by in fifteen minutes, Castiel gets to work. He awkwardly sidles behind the front counter and maneuvers around Ruby and Kevin, nearly knocking Kevin’s elbow as Kevin attempts some elaborate leaf pattern.

Castiel draws a rudimentary apple on top of Dean’s latte, and if it looks more like a misshapen mango, nobody will see it but Dean.

For the first time, Castiel heads out to wait for Dean at the mouth of the alley.

Dean doesn’t keep him in suspense for long. He makes his way down the street, shoulders hunched, and head bowed. Gaze fixed on the dirty sidewalk, Dean doesn’t make eye contact with anyone as he turns the corner.

Dean isn’t even wearing sunglasses or a hat to hide his face, but everyone walks straight past him.

It’s the most riveting performance Castiel has ever seen.

A few steps away, Dean catches sight of him, and it’s like some magic switch is flipped on, and he is Dean Winchester again.

Smiling brightly, he jogs the rest of the distance and follows Castiel as he slinks further back into the alley. Dean wrinkles his nose as they get closer to the dumpsters and the smell of an entire rancid fast food menu hits him. “Hey, Cas,” he says as he takes his latte. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Castiel says, tipping his head.

Dean stares down oddly at the demented pear and takes a sip. Face going slack with a bliss Castiel doesn’t even need to smell, Dean groans.

Castiel freezes and sends up a silent prayer of thanks for the apron covering his lower half over his pants. “It’s good?” he tries futilely because Dean is clearly beyond speech.

Dean just gives him a thumbs up as he lowers the cup. He licks his lips, chasing the taste, and Castiel has seen pornography less graphic.

“I might have to tip Jo this time too,” Dean says, staring at the latte in his hand in wonder.

Castiel coughs. “I - I made this one, actually.”

Dean chokes on his next mouthful. “Are you serious?”

Castiel nods because if he opens his mouth he’s not sure what exactly will come out. Probably something highly embarrassing.

“This is the best one I’ve ever had,” Dean swears.

Castiel’s whole body heats with the force of his blush. “Thank you. I asked Jo how to make it, since it seems like I’ve taken over your delivery duties.”

Dean grins. “You’re a lot more fun than Jo,” he says lightly, “so I’m not complainin’.”

Castiel didn’t think he could get any redder, but here he is.

After an awkward beat, Dean says, “I think I found my next movie.”

“Really?”

Dean shrugs, but his eyes glimmer with anticipation. “It’s a World War II biopic about an omega who sneaks into the army, disguises himself as an alpha, and rescues a unit trapped behind enemy lines.” He taps his fingers against the side of his half-empty cup. “A little on the nose, but the script is good.”

“It sounds very promising,” Castiel agrees.

“Their biggest problem was the budget - historical pics aren’t cheap. But they think if I sign on early, they can leverage my name with the studio.” He smiles shyly. “Get the movie done right.”

“That’s fantastic,” Castiel says, a delightful warmth filling his chest - still a pale reflection of Dean’s excitement.

“Thanks to you.”

Castiel’s eyes widen in surprise. “Me?”

Dean throws him a funny look. “Yeah, you. You told me to get my head outta my ass and movies I actually like doing-”

“Not in so many words-” Castiel interjects, alarmed.

“’Cause the whole point of doing these stupid macho alpha flicks was so I could get the clout and money to do the stuff I actually liked,” Dean continues. “And I kept thinking, can’t do it yet, not there yet, until some rando tells me, fuck yeah you can.”

“I definitely didn’t say that-”

“It was implied,” Dean says blithely, waving off his protests. “So I figured, if this dude who doesn’t know me from Adam-”

“I’ve seen several of your films.”

“- tells me to go for it - it being something I’d thought of doing for years - is there any real reason why I shouldn’t?”

Castiel just stares at him, stunned.

Dean beams. “I’ve got a meeting with the director next week.”

“That’s wonderful,” Castiel says sincerely.

“Anyway, yeah, it’s partially thanks to you,” Dean says, tipping his latte in Castiel’s direction. “I also want to talk about romantic B-plot since I think it’s stupid.” He shakes his head, scoffing. “True mates, bullshit.”

“You think true mates are bullshit?”

As far as Castiel saw online, Dean’s never spoken on the record about true mates or any mates at all. Entertainment news sources reported rumors about him and a one-named alpha singer, Amara, early in his career, which he denounced thoroughly. A few months later, someone published revealing photos of him and an older alpha actor, Fergus Crowley. When asked about it, Dean refused to give details.

Dean makes a face. After a pause, he says, “My parents said they were true mates, but it wasn’t… pretty. No Hollywood romance between them.”

“I’m sorry.”

“’S fine,” Dean says in a tone that clearly says it isn’t. “Whenever Dad took off for a few days, I’d get to watch as many movies as I wanted, and - well, the rest is history.”

“I don’t know anyone who’s found their true mate,” Castiel says. His parents had a cold, distant marriage. A few times over the years, he wasn’t sure his mother even liked his father’s scent. Anna happily mated another omega last year, and Gabriel avoids all romantic entanglements like the black plague.

Castiel’s dating history can best be described as dismal. During his last visit to his pediatrician, his doctor called him a “late bloomer” which Castiel eventually realized just meant socially awkward. In the decade since, Castiel’s slept with a grand total of three people. And, to his supreme regret, none of them managed to bring his rusty people skills up to par.

But, in college, Castiel found music and his calling. And all his faults didn’t matter nearly as much.

In the crowd of a concert, people are so far outside the ordinary conditions of life, and so conscious of the fact, that they free themselves from individual concerns and devote themselves wholly to the collective. All their fury, their joy, their hunger for what they can’t have, is sublimated into the music.

Castiel has never felt more connected to humanity than in the middle of a crowd.

Truthfully, none of his past relationships ever measured up. None of his past partners ever managed to get Castiel out of his own head - not like the music.

Castiel shakes his head ruefully. “I wouldn’t know what to do with a true mate even if I had one.”

“Have a lot of super sappy sex with the lights on?” Dean offers, laughing.

Castiel frowns. “I wasn’t aware that kind of intercourse was restricted to true mates. I’ve done that in the past since I've always shared an emotional connection with the people I've slept with.”

“Oh,” Dean says, reddening. “Were you mated? Jo didn’t say.”

Inordinately pleased that Dean had asked Jo about him, Castiel shakes his head. “No, I’ve never been mated.”

Dean drains his latte. Swallowing, he says, “Me neither.” He throws the cup in the open dumpster and turns back to Castiel. “I haven’t dated in a while, actually,” he says in a low voice. “Couldn’t risk being seen with an alpha and remind everyone of what I’m not.”

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Surely people can’t be that close-minded.”

“’Course they can. Most are,” Dean says, his voice full of assurance.

Castiel’s mouth twists. “That sounds like a negativity bias to me.”

“Huh?”

“Negative information sticks with us longer and more strongly than any positive counterpart,” Castiel says with a shrug. “It’s something I always keep in mind when reading my course reviews after the semester is over.”

“So," Dean says, eyes dancing, "you can take the nerd out of the classroom, but you can’t take the classroom out of the nerd, huh?”

Castiel smiles wryly. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”

Dean laughs. “Look,” he starts, his expression turning a fraction more serious. “I might be fucking up a good thing here, but do you want to go to a Lez Zeppelin show next week?”

Castiel’s mouth falls open as Dean reaches out and pulls out his phone to show him a ticket confirmation email.

“It’s no big if you don’t want to,” Dean says awkwardly into the silence.

“I - I do,” Castiel says, stumbling over the words. “You do?”

“Uh,” Dean throws him a bemused look, “Yeah? I bought the tickets, dude.”

“I’m just surprised,” Castiel says honestly.

Dean stares at him. “This is seriously comin’ out of nowhere for you?”

“A little,” Castiel says defensively.

“Seriously?”

Castiel shrugs helplessly. “You’re … you. You’re famous. Why would you ask me?”

“Because I like you?” Dean says, nonplussed. “You’re nice in a way a lot of the alphas I know aren’t, and,” he breaks off, reddening, “you said you didn’t mind that I didn’t fit in with other omegas, looks-wise-”

“I don’t,” Castiel interrupts. “I think you’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”

Dean gapes. “Did you seriously -” he breaks off, apparently unable to voice the rest of his thought. His face turns an impressive shade of crimson.

Castiel shoves his hands in his pockets. “Should I not have said that?” he asks, brow furrowing. This can’t be the first time Dean has been complimented on his looks. As Castiel understands, good looks are one of the main precursors to acceptance in Hollywood.

“No - I mean, maybe - never mind,” Dean fumbles, more out of sorts than Castiel has ever seen him. “It’s that nobody just out and says that, even to me.”

“I just did.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Dean says, but he’s smiling. “You should look in the mirror sometime, though.” He winks, and Castiel’s brain nearly fritzes out. “So that’s a yes?”

Castiel nods, an all-encompassing warmth filling his chest and exploding out to the tips of his fingers and toes. “I’d love to.”

“It’s a date.”

Read Part II here!

[moon-kn1ght]

toes in the water

pairing: frankie morales x reader

word count: 2k 

warnings: kindergarten should def be a warning, maybe also incredibly unvaried sentence structure? rated E for everyone :)

a/n: this is going to be a small series surrounding a single father frankie morales and reader who is a kindergarten teacher. semi-slow burning, super cute and will def have storage closet / after-hours classroom sex at some point. thank you @wyn-dixie for the beta and for quelling my anxieties about literally everything. 

masterlist || tag form

Were you supposed to be using the kindergarten enrollment forms to sus out potential cute, single parents? No, definitely not. 

But the process of going through the individual forms and comparing them to the database for possible clerical errors was tedious at best, and grueling at its worst. Sitting on those tiny kindergarten chairs, you and the other four members of your team of teachers had already rehashed all of the gossip from the summer, including how Jessica the first year teacher from the 3rd grade cohort had hooked up with that sleazy geometry teacher from the high school at the end of the year district-wide social last May. 

“God, I remember when he was student teaching at the middle school,” Dora, your most senior coworker who had ‘been around the block a few times’ and also held onto every piece of gossip that circulated in your district for the last 17 years, drawled, “He had the grossest little rat mustache, you could hardly tell him apart from the 8th graders!” 

The group laughs in response to that joke, always ready to make of the holier-than-thou high school teachers. “You know what?” Dora adds, “You’d think after so many years, I’d be used to these tiny fucking chairs, but I am not. I need a walk and a Diet Coke.” 

“I’ll join you!” chimed Joanne, the second-oldest teacher in your cohort. The two leaders of your team left the room, leaving you, Claudia, and Andrés, the youngest teachers in the kindergarten cohort. Andrés and you had gone through your credential program together and had known each other for upwards of five years now as best friends. When the two of you arrived at Franklin Elementary, fresh out of school, Claudia had just completed her first year so she welcomed more young teachers with open arms. The three of you have been inseparable for the past several years now. 

“Okay, pull out your stacks!” Andrés orders, citing your group’s earlier plan to use this menial labor to check for potential single parents. You were just looking on the forms to see who did not have both parents listed. It wasn’t a perfect system. And yeah, it was probably inappropriate but y’all were just messing around and killing time on this sweltering August day. 

“I have one in my class!” you offer. “Student: Grace Miller. Parent: Susan Miller. Occupation: Landscape architect.” 

“Oooo, intriguing. Love someone who works with their hands,” Claudia remarks in a silly, sultry voice. “I have one, the student is named Peter, mom is Karen. She’s an accountant.” 

“I don’t like the sound of that. Karen? Yeah no thank you. Glad she’s in your class, not mine.” Andrés laughs and you join him. Kindergarten was just as much of a transition for students as it was for parents, and sometimes they took it harder than the kids. “Here’s to hoping she doesn’t live up to her name...” he continues, “Ooh, I have one! He's single dad--” 

Oooh, you and Claudia purr.

“Rosalia Morales is the daughter of single dad Francisco; form says he's a small business owner,” Andrés presents this crown jewel piece of information to a round of applause from you and Claudia. 

“Ugh, let’s hope he’s cute!” Claudia adds and the three of you dissolve into giggles as the older women  return from their Diet Coke run. 

—X—

Rosalia Morales was ready for kindergarten. Frankie Morales, on the other hand, was not. 

The younger Morales had spent the first weeks of August carefully preparing for this new (and very important) chapter in her life. She carefully deliberated over decisions like what backpack and lunchbox to get from Target (she chose a matching Sofia the First set, so that it could be a topic of conversation for her and her potential new friends at school) to what she was instructing her father to pack in her lunchbox (no PB&J’s in case her new friends were allergic, she wanted to be able to sit at the same lunch table with them and not have these seminal weeks defined by the separation of Peanut vs Peanut free lunches). Rosalia was very meticulous, and she always had been. She was well-prepared to face all the challenges kindergarten wanted to throw at her. 

While Rosalia had spent weeks preparing, Frankie had spent weeks dreading the imminent separation from his favorite person in the universe. Yes, he had sent Rosalia to preschool and pre-K but those had all been half-day programs. He would drop her off on his way to work and then pick her up at lunchtime. That only meant four hours apart but full-day Kindergarten was drop-off at 7:45am and pick up at 3:30pm. Seven and a half hours. How am I going to do it? he thought to himself. 

—X—

At Franklin, they implemented a very specific first day schedule. Parents walked their kids to their classrooms to hang up their bags, then the students got to go play on the playground while the parents left. The older teachers designed this system to reinforce to the students that school = fun. Yes, of course there were always students who had a rougher first day, but it usually took a couple of hours for the fatigue to set in before the students realized how long the day (and year was going to be). 

This system most importantly allowed for a clean break with the parents, a solid ‘goodbye!’ point that the teachers could enforce. But, always, there were some straggler parents (either loitering inside, near the front door or in their cars in the parking lot). The administrative team would let the indoor stragglers know that it was time to leave, but they would have two of the teachers go into the parking lot to make sure all the parents had cleared out. 

This year, you and Claudia had pulled those short straws, so while the rest of your team monitored the early recess, you two roamed the parking lot with reassuring waves and “I’m sorry, it’s district policy, you have to leave the parking lot after drop off.” Everyone usually took it graciously—it’s like ripping off a band-aid, it’s better to just get it done. 

You had almost cleared the lot of loitering vehicles when you came upon an older, red truck with a man inside it. His window was down so you began to speak to him a little before he noticed you, causing him to jump. 

“Hi, I'm one of the teachers in the Kindergarten cohort," you say as you run your bare left hand through your hair. “Are you a parent?” 

As he turns to look at you, you can notice that even with his cap pulled low, he has definitely been crying a little. “Hey, yes sorry. I’m Frankie Morales, Rosalia’s dad,” the man stammers, “I’m sorry, I know the policy, I think I’m just having a little bit of separation anxiety.” HIs brown eyes look a little bloodshot as he gives you a half-hearted smile. 

You search his face and see no traces of dishonesty, this is just a man very nervous to be sending his kid to school. And a cute one at that too. Claudia called it, you think. 

Before you can let your mind wander too far about this stranger, you have to say something. “Mr. Morales...” you start. 

“Please call me Frankie. Mr. Morales is my dad,” he interjects nervously.         

“Okay, Frankie,” you say. “I understand how nerve-wracking sending your kid to school can be. I may not be a parent myself, but I can empathize. But I can also offer to you that in my years in kindergarten, I’ve never seen a student not adjust to the classroom,” you offer. 

“But I also understand that our anxieties can be irrational and don’t like when presented with things that might undermine them. So it’s okay to still be nervous or anxious right now,” you add. “Do you think there’s something that I could do to help you feel better about leaving school property in the next ten minutes or so?” you smile a little to help this last bit come off as nice as possible. 

“I…” he mumbles, “I… I’m not sure, my parental intuition is telling me that something will happen in the middle of the day and it’ll take me too long to get here, which I know isn’t going to happen but… I’m worried that I won’t be able to be enough for her”  

“You worry because you care, and I can already tell that you care about her a lot. Hey, like I said, our worries don’t have to be rational to get at us.”

“She’s just all I have, she’s the center of my universe,” he adds. With this, you can see the shift in his eyes, from worry to love. You can tell that he loves his daughter with his whole heart. 

“Rosalia is in Andrés', I mean, Mr. Gonzales’s class, right?” 

“Yeah, she is.” 

“I think I might have a solution, a little band-aid just for today,” you bid and Frankie looks hopeful. “This is very much against district policy so you have to promise not to tell on me.”  

He laughs with this, and promises not to tell. “How about I give you my phone number, and any time that your fatherly intuition is telling you that something bad is going to happen, you can text me and then I’ll peek across the hall to Rosalia’s classroom, and I can factually assure you that nothing bad is happening?” 

Frankie actually smiles, for the first time in this whole conversation, “That would be great,” he says.

—X—

As you knew would happen, the day passed without incident. Frankie didn’t even text you, which you felt good about. But also a little sad because you wanted to start a little texting thing with this single dad. But you knew it would be a little inappropriate, in your heart of hearts. 

After all the students get picked up, Claudia and Andrés migrate into your classroom. 

“Don’t you think the first day of school calls for a celebratory drink out this afternoon?” Andrés probes. He always was down for happy hour (and to be truthful, you were too). “We should go to the brewery down the road, they have some nice outdoor seating.” 

“I’m in,” you state, “And I may or may not have some other good news..” you tease. 

“What? What good news could have happened in a room full of 6 year-olds?” Claudia jokes. 

“Y’all can’t tell anyone but I got the phone number of that single dad from Andrés’s class,” you say as quickly as you can. 

Claudia and Andrés both break into shrieks with this news. 

“Oh my god, I can’t believe our prowling on the enrollment forms WORKED!!” Andrés exclaims. 

“He was nervous at drop off so I gave him my number but he didn’t end up texting me, so nothing will probably ever come of it. But still, small win in my book.” 

Claudia throws her head back, “You deserve all the wins you get, whatever happens, we’re psyched for you.” 

Later, during happy hour you check your phone and notice a new text from an unsaved number. 

Hey, thanks for your help this morning, having this line of communication made me feel a lot better. Rosalia had a great day today. -Frankie 

You try to keep your facial expressions minimal as you read the message. They don’t need to know about this, you think to yourself before shooting back a quick message. 

That makes me so happy Frankie. Feel free to reach out whenever you need! About whatever :) 

You add that last line hastily and hit send. I can thank this liquid courage for that, you think as you down the rest of your pint. 

TAG LIST: @wyn-dixie | @empress-palpat1ne | @marvelousmermaid | @knivesareout | @sleep-tight1 | @justanotherblonde23​ | 

[neonstatic]

speaking of. my childhood best friend was a vegan. that was back when it was still fairly new and a mockable offense. and she used to always get asked “why are you vegan?” over and over. questioned about her morals, her health, her allergies. challenged to have a bite of burger or pizza, to see her reaction. would she be able to tell there’s animal products in this. would she feel sick. would she be mad. would she cry about it. and it would always piss me off, just how invested other ppl were in her business. 

which made the shift in the attitude towards veganism so very interesting. because it went from “it’s cringe to be vegan” to “it’s good, no, ideal to be vegan.” and now ppl would look at her (the vegan) then at me (the non-vegan) and then it was all, “well, why aren’t you vegan?” which, well, i had to do a lot of thinking about it and answering because she would never intervene when i was questioned by ppl. ever. bc ofc she also wanted to hear my answers. 

see, we were both raised christians. so: black-and-white morals, superiority complex, victim complex, this is all ingrained in us in some ways. i was never religious through all of this whereas she used to have a pretty strong faith up until we were teens. last time we spoke, she was a solid atheist à la Religion is Stupid (but if one of your close friend is homophobic they’re still a good person. go fkg figure.) anyway i believe, in some ways, that she’s traded christianity for veganism. for all the nuance she got from distancing herself from the strict religious regime we were raised in, most of that was flushed down the toilet once she started getting into veganism more deeply. for some, veganism isn’t just a lifestyle, it’s a belief system.

you’re either a vegan or you’re not. you either like and respect animals, or you look down on and abuse them. you’re either a good person (like me) or a bad person. she had that “i’m better than you” air to her at times. not always! but it showed sometimes. and she was always eager to propose an alternative to meat, milk, eggs, etc. which, hey, i was in for it. i’m not that big a fan of meat myself. but as time went, it did feel as if she wished i would become vegan already. 

why was she close friends with a carnist? how could she possibly be a good vegan if she couldn’t convince her own best friend to convert to the lifestyle? how could i watch the same documentaries, read the same articles as her, and not come to the conclusion that veganism is the solution? “i just don’t see it that way” never was enough of an answer because to her, there was no other way to see it. if you didn’t think going vegan was the key then you didn’t get it, you didn’t care about animals as much as she did. and since i couldn’t change her mind, i finally said, “yeah, i guess i just don’t care about animals as much.” and ohhh y’all when i say that she HATED that, but i could tell it did smth for her ykno? it reinforced her belief that she cared abt animals more than me, better than me. that she thought about being a good person more than me. that she was better for leading a “cruelty-free” life. she truly had a hard time swallowing the fact that i could care for animal welfare but that it didn’t equate to me cutting them off my diet. it was only logical that i didn’t care about those things. that i just didn’t understand these things like her. and it would result in off-hand comments much like your aunt who insinuates you wouldn’t feel so aimless in life if you looked for “His guidance” every now and then. 

oh she loves you so damn much... in spite of your life choices. she’s willing to look past all the bad because there’s still hope there. if only you will stop being so stubborn and listen to her already and Do The Right Thing.

like. it’s weird!!!! or at least it was. i can only hope she’s relaxed now but i can’t know for sure since we aren’t on talking terms anymore. 

(she used to really like peta :/ yuck.)

[diaphragmjellyfish]

Roast Me, Baby

Not my gif

Note: This is my first fic ever, so any feedback would be appreciated! 

Warnings: anxiety, panic attack, insults, sweet Rafe

Summary: Reader is a pogue and she and Rafe make fun of each other constantly. Like witty banter and roasting, and they act like they hate each other. Keyword- act. One night, the reader has had a terrible day and is having major anxiety, when Rafe finds her and unknowingly makes it worse. She goes into full-blown panic and he gets all soft and sweet and fluffy. 

Life as a Pogue was anything you could ever want. It was a simple life, full of adventure and fun. And your personal favorite activity, pissing of Kooks. Specifically, Rafe Cameron. You guys had a strange relationship full of constant roasting and acting like you want to kill each other. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t look forward to the witty banter. It was a good way to let off steam, and he seemed to be the only person you’d ever met that could keep up and not take anything personally. And you’d bet money he felt the same way about you. 

It was a sunny day, late afternoon just before the sun went down and you were sitting on the docks near the Boneyard looking out at the ocean. You’d always loved sailing, and wanted to travel the world by boat one day if you could ever afford it. Suddenly you were interrupted from your fantasy by your nemesis himself. 

“Damn, someone should really pick up the trash around here. Get back to the dumpster, Pogue.” He said, smirking at you. 

You just rolled your eyes and laughed to yourself as you continued looking out at the water. Verbal battles with Rafe were sometimes your favorite part of the day. You turned around and noticed that his goons, Topper and Kelc, were with him. 

“Ya know, I heard a statistic that the hair product from you three alone accounts for over 90% of plastic in the ocean,” you quipped back. 

“Don’t push me troll. I might have to teach you some respect one of these days,” he challenged. 

Topper and Kelc looked annoyed, though they were used to Rafe doing this. He always talked about you, how much you got on his nerves, how you were a dirty pogue with no manners or morals. They started to walk away, knowing he’d follow. When they were a few steps away, he looked at you smiling and said,”Until next time, y/l/n.” He winked, and ran to catch up to his Neanderthal friends. 

As much as Rafe Cameron was your mortal enemy in life, you had to admit that some things he did just made your heart flutter. If he didn’t stop winking at you, you might just walk into the ocean to avoid the embarrassment of catching feelings for him. 

Encounters like this happened often, and you were always ready for them. Except for today. You woke up with a tight chest and a pounding heart. So it was going to be an anxiety day. Okay. You had to push through it like always. But the day only got worse. Work was an absolute nightmare. You were a waitress at a restaurant on Figure 8- Kook central. Your boss yelled at you for being 5 minutes late and not having your hair up, someone let their toddler throw food all over the walls and you had to clean it, you didn’t get a lunch break because it was so busy, and to top it all off, some lady threw her drink at you because it didn’t taste like Diet. When your shift ended, all you wanted was to walk home, eat a barrel of chicken nuggets, and go to sleep. Only it was storming outside. 

Normally you’d be fine walking in the rain at night, bit with the already bad day you were having and your anxiety, your brain screamed at you to take cover and wait for the storm to end. There was a small pavilion by the golf course that would likely be empty, where you could freak out in peace. The walk there was horrible, cold, and wet, but you finally made it and plopped down on one of the tables and tried to do some breathing exercises to calm your pounding heart. It seemed to be getting worse, though. 

Rafe had left some golf clubs at the course when he was there earlier with Topper, and as he was running through the rain to the main building, he spotted you. It had been a couple of days since you guys had had a good bickering, and he needed to let off some steam. He approached, but didn’t notice your struggle to breathe. 

“What’s up troll? You’re looking particularly disgusting today. Tell me, what’s it like to have no future and to know that you’ll be slaving away for the rest of your life?” He knew it was harsh, harsher than usual, but he was pissed that Ward made him come back for those stupid golf clubs in the middle of a storm. He’d expected you to roll your eyes, clap back, or even give him a shove for that extra brutal dig, but he didn’t expect you to start choking on sobs. You grabbed at your neck, now sitting up, and tried your best to get air into your lungs, but it wasn’t working. His comment had sent you over the top, wondering if you really would be a slave to the rich and have soda sumped on you every day for the rest of your life. 

Rafe was shocked. He’d never seen you anything but smiling, even when he teased you mercilessly. 

“Woah, hey, are you ok y/n?” He asked.

You shook your head no and grabbed at your chest, looking at him with terrified eyes. You’d had bad anxiety before, but you’d never been unable to breathe like this, and it was scaring you. 

“Ok, ok, I got you,” he said calmly while he lowered your head between your knees. “Just breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” He rubbed your back comfortingly. He used to get panic attacks when his parents were going through divorce, so he knew what you were feeling, and that the best thing to do was distract you. He sat beside you and began to talk. 

“You know this one time, when I was like 12, my parents had just told me and Sarah that they were getting a divorce. She didn’t seem to care, but I was so upset, it was like my whole world came crashing down.” You were able to take shaky breaths at this point, and nodded along to the story. 

“And you know what I did? I had this whole plan to get them back together where I would get them both on our boat and push it off the dock, but I wouldn’t give them the key. And I wasn’t going to let them off until they made up.” Your breathing had slowed slightly and you gave a small laugh. This made Rafe smile, so he kept going. 

“My dad threatened to beat my ass unless I let them off, so I did and he beat me anyways. And that’s when the anger started.” You tensed, and reached out to grab his hand that wasn’t rubbing your back. 

“The next couple of years, I was so mad at everyone and everything all the time. And when Dad met Rose, I kind of spiraled. Started getting into drugs, stealing, bullying. But one day like a year ago Topper convinced me to go to this kegger at the Boneyard. I was by myself off to the side just drinking and being pissed, when this girl came up to me and said ‘why the long face? Daddy didn’t buy you the right color Corvette?’” 

You brought your head up from between your knees and smiled slightly, “I remember that.” 

Rafe moved so he was sitting with his arm around you, and your head on his shoulder. He continued, “Yeah. And I just thought like, who does this girl think she is? She can’t talk to me that way. So I clapped back, called you a troll and told you to go back to your bridge, and you just laughed. Threw your head back and laughed like you didn’t have a care in the world, like I’d just said the funniest joke and not completely insulted you.” His hand was rubbing up and down your arm now, and his other hand came up to caress your face, pushing your hair behind your ear. 

“And we went back and forth, roasting each other for hours. That was the best I’d felt in a long time. I was letting off steam, getting my anger out, and you gave it right back to me smiling the whole time. I’ve never met anyone who smiles as much as you.” He gave your shoulder a squeeze and you laughed. Your breathing was normal now, and you’d forgotten about the tightness in your chest. There was a pause, before he leaned down and placed a soft kiss on your forehead. Your heart fluttered. 

You lifted your head up to look at him and said, “Thanks. I don’t know why I was freaking out like that, but I’m really glad I wasn’t alone.” 

“I get it. Here, the rain stopped. Let me drive you home.” He stood up and offered his hand for you to take. 

“Umm, I actually might walk.” Fresh air always helped when you felt anxious, and you thought if you got in a car with that circulating AC air, you might freak out again. 

“Then I’ll walk you home.” 

As you stood up to take his hand, Rafe noticed your shivering form. You were soaked from the rain, and wearing only a thin t-shirt and shorts. 

“Let me just grab something from my car real quick.” he said. You both walked through the parking lot towards his black SUV, the only car there, and he reached into the back seat and pulled out a hoodie, holding it out for you. “Here, put this on.” You didn’t object because, to be honest, you were so cold you couldn’t feel his skin. It hung down to your knees and swallowed you whole. Rafe just looked down at you with something like affection in his eyes and said “Adorable.” You blushed at the ground and started walking again. It wasn’t a super long walk, maybe half an hour, but it went by like 5 minutes. You talked, played eye-spy, and at one point he gave you a piggy back ride because you kept stumbling on a gravel road. 

You reached your house all too soon, and went to take off the hoodie and give it back when he stopped you, “Keep it. It looks better on you.” You blushed and stood on your tippy toes to kiss his cheek. 

It was his turn to blush as you said, “Thank you Rafe. For everything.” 

You caught him looking down at your lips, and he started to lean down. He made you feel so much better tonight, and you wanted to know what it’d be like to kiss him. So you closed your eyes, and your lips met in a sweet kiss, his hands on your waist and yours cupping his face. You separated after a few seconds and both started to laugh. He followed by saying, “Maybe after tonight you’ll let me take you out some time?” You nodded and smiled ear to ear, because even though you never imagined this happening, you were happy to be with Rafe.

[tragic-obsession]

So, kinda owe you peeps an explanation for wtf happened with me and my anti-vegan rant, because it’s not in my usual feed of random shits and giggles. I don’t normally host discourse. If you didn’t see it or didn’t read it, feel free to skip past, I hope you’re all safe and well.

Essentially, I reached my limit on self-righteous, preachy, militant vegans getting in my face. I’m not good at speaking in person, so everything I wanted to say in *that* moment got bottled up and saved until I could write it down and release it. By that point I was angry and frustrated enough to put it in the vegan tag because part of me did want to invite discussion.

But it’s so much deeper than just random strangers pissing me off.

Growing up, my knowledge of veganism was “it’s just a choice that people make for themselves, much like many other choices.” I thought nothing of it, because people are allowed to run their lives as they see fit. But things started getting darker, vegan propaganda from America started being shoved into my country as though my country’s culture was exactly the same as the states. The system over there is broken, overly capitalistic, greedy and indeed exploitative. You can’t just take ideologies from over there and apply them into other countries as though nothing is different. I started to see the cult like aspects, the extremism in a lot of what was being said, the sheer cultural disconnect in its application here, and I’ll be damned if I’d let people dictate and abuse others for what should be *choice*.

Then my sister decided to go vegan. She’d also been taking a lot of the messages straight from the states and applying them here. She wanted to be the “activist”, but all she became was an extremist.

The first couple of months, her physical health declined. She’d gone cold turkey (excuse the euphemism) off of animal products in a drastic shift that her body struggled with. On top of that, she didn’t yet know how to get a balanced and nutritional diet through veganism, she didn’t have the knowledge, or the skills required, and her body struggled further.

As her physical health declined, her mental health followed. Nutritional deficits made her short tempered, angry all the time, depressed. Pair that with a militant, extremist attitude and she starting to tear rifts in all her relationships with “non-vegans”. Constantly trying to convert people, telling them that they’re disgusting for consuming animal products, telling them a thousand untruths about our country that she’d heard from American propaganda. We almost lost her. I’m so glad we didn’t.

She had the self awareness to recognise where things were heading. We had never told her she couldnt go vegan. We supported her choice and tried to accomodate her wherever possible, because it was *her* choice, her life. We respected her choices, so she began to respect *our* right to choice. She stopped trying to preach to everyone, stopped getting angry at those who ignored her. She still shares her opinions, but she recognises that those are *her* opinions, not everyone’s. She stopped taking the moral high ground because she recognised that it was unfair. She became my sister again, not just “a vegan”.

She’s so much happier now that she stopped fighting those around her. She hasn’t stopped trying to change the world, not in a million years, but she’s stopped attacking people. She’s back to loving them. She’s made her choice about love, not about hate.

All of the above is why I went off. A culmination of hateful experiences that happened to go off when it did. I stand by the sentiment in that post.

I have no problem with people who go vegan, people who decide for themselves what life they want to live and what impact they want to have on the world.

My issue is with vegan assholes who attack anyone they can get their hands on.

I will never stop fighting for people’s right to choice; my support follows your support.