#i say likely because there could still be some exceptions to this i feel

[kiragecko]

I recognize that I'm probably not the target of this post. Or, at least, the reblog. But, this IS on topic, even if it has a different energy!

-

It can be challenging to renavigate a relationship with a subject when your previous relationship was HEAVILY effected by a cultural context that is no longer there.

I used to dip my toes into the Harry Potter fandom despite not being able to read the books. (I read for writing style, and hers didn't work for me.) This was back in the mid-2000s, and a huge number of my peers had grown up transformed by this series. They were now adults who considered it an important childhood touchstone. Saying that I hadn't liked the writing style, but thought the ideas were cool, could offend people who thought it was EXTREMELY well written.

So I learned to enjoy the fandom from the sidelines, accepting that I was a bit of a curmudgeonly fun-killer. Keeping the grumpy bits quiet.

And then public opinion shifted, and shifted HARD.

And suddenly the carefully mapped ground was unknown again. People wanted to rant about how the writing sucked. How terrible the ideas were. Positivity got attacked. Quiet enjoyment of fan creations was seen as public support of Rowling's beliefs. Mild comments about the writing being only okay gained "agreement" that it sucked and had never been worth enjoying. There wasn't ROOM to process my opinions about her beliefs for quite a while, because I was too busy trying to figure out how to reconcile with a completely new environment, which was equally dissonant with my opinions of the book, but in very different directions and with a LOT more aggression!

The urge to talk about not liking the books was STRONG. Because I HADN'T been able too before! People got mad if I tried! But I was used to a context of people assuming the book was great, and needing to contrast what I was saying with that assumption. In this new context, where the books were stupid and full of hate and poorly written, my statements sounded REALLY different. They echoed with all sorts of other voices that I wasn't expecting to be there.

-

I rarely make absolute statements, so I didn't come off as delighting in people's suffering if it gave me a chance to be right. There are some benefits to anxiously stuffing every sentence with context and exceptions! But I have a lot of empathy for some of the people saying tone-deaf things now. Because not everyone is able to master new tones at the same speed.

Sometimes people are still processing the fact that they might not get argued with if they state that the Anansi Boys wasn't that good, and they've been wanting to complain about Anansi Boys for YEARS without having to acknowledge that they HAD enjoyed Neverwhere and Sandman. And that gets in the way of the fact that something terrible has come to light.

Or they they try to talk about how Mr. Gaiman selling Good Omens 2 always felt disingenuous. Him telling people that Terry Pratchett would have wanted him to make it. They've never said it before, because fandom should be FUN, and it was just a little thing. But they care about Mr. Pratchett's memory a lot, and it had BOTHERED them. But bringing it up now gets them accused of 'boasting', and 'pretending that they knew all along'.

And sometimes, they're trying to work through a hard topic by finding its limits. They need to be able to explore 'everything he ever did sucked' before they can accept the nuance that 'he made beautiful works and also hurt people badly'.

-

There are a lot of people who jump to easy absolutes, rather than grapple with complexity. That's who this post seems to be about, and they aren't who I'm talking about.

But, conversely, It's easy to say the 'right' things when you were never invested in a topic. And you have the social skills to pick up what the 'right' thing is.

If you already HAD complex feelings about a topic, it can be harder to throw them aside and only focus on the 'right' thing. If you WEREN'T 100% buying into someone's public image, there's a period of working through your shit that kind of needs to happen.

-

Anyways, I've always been a bit uncomfortable about Neil Gaiman. I didn't think Anansi Boys was that good, and gave up after a few chapters. I wasn't surprised when people started coming forward, because there's been a little 'be careful here' tag attached to him ever since I read about the Good Omens photo shoot where he wore black and Terry Pratchett wore white and they joked about it. Something about how Mr. Gaiman told the story.

All of that is a bit tone-deaf to bring in now, even though they're things I've had to process over the last few months. They're part of my relationship with Gaiman's works that I had pushed to the side, and now need to recontextualize, but they aren't directly about the people who have been hurt.

I didn't predict that Gaiman was a sexual predator. I've recommended Gaiman's books in the past, and think his writing is some of the most gorgeous, poetic stuff I've ever read. Neverwhere is amazing. Sandman is also amazing, even if it, too, added some warning tags to Mr. Gaiman's file in my head. I don't think I'm vindicated in any way by what happened, or that talking about my previous reservations is a sign that I was oh so enlightened.

But I'm also 40-ish? I have enough experience to recognize that the world has endless 'clues', and they should be noted down, but not trusted. Maybe the first time something like this happened, I WOULD have excitedly talked about all the puzzle pieces I had gathered, which now fit into place. (But I was offline back then, so we'll never know.)

Gaiman seems to have hurt a lot of people, and lied a lot, and broken people's trust. All of which is more important than my feelings about a disappointing book that everyone kept bafflingly hyping. But in this sudden space for processing what he's done, the pressurized stuff inside of me needs to be processed before I can focus on that new content.

So the disappointing book gets priority.

[gabseyoo]

FIFTEEN SECONDS — SAKUSA KIYOOMI

content: female reader, friends to lovers, love confession, fluff, bit of comedy. word count: 1,2k.

note: here’s a little something for valentine’s day, hope you like it!

What should I say?

“Here.” No, too dry.

“Here, it’s for you.” Shit, still too dry.

“I bought this for you, I hope you like it.” Okay, that one wasn’t so bad. 

For the past ten minutes, Kiyoomi had been locked in a brutal staring contest with the small black box sitting on the café table. The thing wasn’t even looking at him, and yet he was the one losing.

This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous.

He had bought the damn gift two weeks ago. Two weeks of overthinking, of waiting for the perfect moment, of nearly shoving it to the back of his closet out of sheer nerves. But then Valentine’s Day crept up on him, and he thought—maybe this was fate giving him a chance.

Or setting him up for humiliating rejection.

Kiyoomi had rehearsed this moment in his head. And still, here he was, breaking into a nervous sweat over a bracelet. What if you didn’t like it? What if you thought it was stupid? What if you liked someone else?

Then, in the middle of his internal crisis, a familiar voice nearly made him jump.

“Hey, Kiyoomi.”

He looked up so fast he almost knocked the gift off the table. There you were, standing in front of him with that impossibly pretty smile, your presence alone enough to make his pulse go haywire.

“Did you already order, or should I—?” You asked as you sat down in front of him. 

“I already did.” He forced his voice to stay steady. “Iced latte with two shots of vanilla, right?”

Your smile grew. “You know me so well.”

Yeah, because I’m hopelessly in love with you.

The words were right there. On the tip of his tongue.

Relax, Kiyoomi. Ease into it.

That was the smart thing to do. You didn’t just shove a confession at someone out of nowhere—there should be a conversation first, something natural.

“So, uh…” He wracked his brain for something—anything—normal to say. “How’s work?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “It’s fine?”

What the hell was that, Kiyoomi? It was comical how his calm and collected personality seemed to disappear at this moment when he needed it most. Was love always this complicated? Or was it because it was about you?

You tilted your head. “Are you okay?”

No. No, he was absolutely not okay. His fingers tapped anxiously against the small box. The longer he waited, the worse this was getting. His nerves were eating him alive. He could already feel the impending doom of chickening out.

Screw it.

With zero transition or warning, he grabbed the box and shoved it across the table. “Here.”

Goddamn it. 

You blinked in surprise. “For me?”

A stiff nod. This was fine. You’d open it, love it, and then he’d tell you. Smooth. Simple. Foolproof.

Except…

You were taking your sweet time untying the ribbon.

Kiyoomi clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to do it for you. Why were you so slow? Was this some kind of test? Did you already know he was panicking and just wanted to see him suffer?

Finally, you lifted the lid. Your lips parted as you took out the delicate silver bracelet, the small star charm catching the café’s warm light.

“Oh, Kiyoomi…” You breathed. “It’s beautiful.”

His fingers twitched under the table as your eyes widened slightly. “Wait… this is—”

Kiyoomi looked away, pretending to be fascinated by the café menu on the wall. “Yeah.”

Your fingers traced the charm, realization dawning. “This is the bracelet from that shop at the mall, isn’t it?”

He cleared his throat. “Maybe.”

You turned to him, eyes suspiciously bright. “You went back for it?”

Kiyoomi picked up his coffee, taking a slow sip as if that would somehow make this moment less humiliating. “You wouldn’t stop staring at it.”

“I looked at it for like, five seconds.”

“It was at least fifteen.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

This was it. The perfect moment.

He took a breath, preparing to say the words that had been stuck in his chest for way too long.

“I—” He began, but the words he had rehearsed for days were interrupted when a waiter appeared at the table.

“Here’s your order! One vanilla iced latte and one black coffee.”

Kiyoomi clenched his jaw so hard he thought he might crack a tooth. Not now, man. 

He nodded stiffly as you thanked the waiter. Okay, fine. Minor setback. 

“What were you saying?” You asked after the guy turned around, taking a sip from your drink.

His heart was about to beat out of his chest. Now. Now is the time. Just say it: I like you.

Kiyoomi opened his mouth, determined to do it, but then— 

“Do you need any sugar?”

Oh my god.

Kiyoomi glared at the waiter. Who was back. Did this man have a vendetta against his love life?

He mumbled a half-hearted, “No, thanks.”

“Cream?”

“No, thanks.”

“Any appetizer? We have a special red velvet cake because of Valentine's Day.”

Was this a joke?

“We’re fine.”

“Actually, I want a slice of cake.” You said.

Before the waiter could leave, Kiyoomi muttered, “Make that two.”

The guy finally left, and he was beginning to get irritated by his bad luck.

Just do it now! He scrambled at himself mentally. 

“Y/N, I bought–” He hurried to say, but then the loud hiss from the blender machine drowned out his voice.

Was this the universe making fun of him? 

By now, he was one more interruption away from actually losing it. So, ignoring the annoying noise, he decided to just keep going, “I bought this because–”

“Oh! Look at that dog outside.”

Kiyoomi stopped mid-sentence as you turned to the window, grinning at a fluffy golden retriever wagging its tail on the sidewalk. Are you serious?

But, when he turned back to you, you were watching him with amusement.

You two made eye contact for a few seconds, he blinked, you blinked, and then— you laughed.

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What?”

You smirked. “Kiyoomi, don’t be so shy.”

His stomach dropped.

“I like you too.”

For a full three seconds, his brain just ceased to function.

You… what?

His ears burned. His grip tightened on his cup. His entire soul left his body. “You knew?”

You giggled, tapping his hand lightly. “Of course. I actually got something for you too.”

You reached into your bag and pulled out a small gift box, setting it on the table in front of him. Kiyoomi tried—really tried—not to look too eager as he picked it up and carefully lifted the lid.

Inside was a watch. The watch. The one he had lingered on in the mall that day.

“You looked at it for at least fifteen seconds.” You teased, a knowing smile playing on your lips.

Kiyoomi froze. His fingers tightened around the box as the realization sank in.

You had noticed. Just like he had noticed you staring at the bracelet. You both had thought of each other.

For a moment, he couldn’t speak. His throat felt tight, his chest oddly warm. He looked up at you, something soft, something real in his gaze.

“This is—”

“Here they are! Two slices of red velvet cake!”

Kiyoomi visibly twitched.

Oh, come on!

[ablobwhowrites]

I have been hooked on your poppy playtime new home sweet home posts and I love them, they are great!! and I was thinking, maybe one where y/n repairs some toys in very bad condition? Like when you mentioned Miss Delight's face! Only if you want and can of course. <3

(also sorry if this is not very well written, English is not my first language and I am using Google translator)

(glad you liked them and plus it helps me kinda try and write my next fic and hopefully I'm cooking with it)

Y/n has repaired the toys and even had to learn how to stitch because most are fabric but bougie bot, miss delight, doey and mommy long legs are kinda hard to repair, so y/n has to look up how to repair the certain material needed for each toy. Miss delight is a bit more patient with being repaired as this goes for mommy and doey but boogie bot, bunzo, huggy, yarnaby are kinda impatient as they move around a lot and don’t really like sitting on one play and bubba is a kinda like smartass when y/n tries to do stitching to repair his arm and he’s like “you shouldn’t use that stitch, use this one instead” and y/n is like half way done with it when he says that but y/n just finishes it and moves on.

Plus I do imagine y/n going to their grandma to ask if she could make some blankets for the toys as they don't have a lot of spare blankets. Especially when crafty corn, hoppy hopscotch took most of the blankets to make their fort. Y/n's grandma agrees and makes huge blankets like ones that doey could basically be laying down and there would still be a lot of blanket left over kinda huge and of course the smiling critters get one and hoppy uses it for the pillow fort and yarnaby as well.

Y/n's bed does not belong to y/n anymore cause everytime they get home, yarnaby is sleeping on it and take up all the bed and even when there's some there's very little because like yarnaby is fucking huge. But the blanket is bigger than him somehow.

And sometimes the toys have nightmares about killing y/n. Like in when they were in playtime co and how violent they were to y/n and basically almost killing them in brutal ways. Like the dream goes as this, they chase y/n and when getting their hands on y/n killing but the bloodlust settles as they look at the corpse of y/n and realizing what they did try to fix it. Or think it's a prank but it continues until the you jolts awake seeing the room they are in and see y/n alive. All it was a nightmare, they are safe here. Except for Sawyer, he has dreams of being a regular human so yeah. But poor doey was scared that the nightmare was real and poor guy needed a hug after cause he feels guilty even though it was just a dream.

(Anyways that's it for me yapping. If you guys like this and want more please don't feel shy and request any ideas for stories or y/n's, but for now please stay safe and drink water!)

[borathae]

BTS Reaction: Breakfast in Bed

Anonie said: Sibiuuu I'm back 😚😚😚 thank you so much for all the other reactions, I'm so happy yippiee 😚 neow listen kween 👉🏾👈🏾 Bangtan's reaction to getting breakfast in bed? I just think it would be so fluffy and sweet 👉🏾👈🏾

Genre: Fluff

Gender: not-specified

Wordcount: 3k

a/n: anonie my love! this is exactly the kind of content I lose my shit over gaaah i LOVE!! this got so insanely fluffy and romantic i'm so happy but also omgmgm listen 😔 the thought of having a lover? and surprising them with breakfast in bed? i cry because it's not my reality 😔

Namjoon

CW: hinted “night after” trope, bsf2l!AU

This is the first time he stays at your place. You and he aren’t new per say. As a matter for fact, you were best friends before you became more. Namjoon always said that friends can’t become lovers until he fell for you. Namjoon was also at your place before, many times actually, but he never slept over. Especially not as your boyfriend. After a, well, after a very nice night. 

He traces the spots you touched last night, reminiscing with closed eyes how it was to be with you. Namjoon always thought that love making was only thing of movies. Sex stems from humans and humans are too flawed the create something as innocent as love making. Then he laid with you and felt your breath against his neck and Namjoon finally got it. 

He opens his eyes before his racing heart can overwhelm him. He sits up.

“Holy fuck”, he presses out, touching his own chest to make sure that he was still alive. His heart never raced as much before. So this is how it feels like.

You have some books on the bedside table. Namjoon reaches for one of them in order to distract himself from the massive butterflies in his stomach. He begins reading, glasses perched atop his nose while his tummy continues to tingle.

The books is about philosophy and art. No wonder he fell for you. An art exhibition is only truly enjoyable when he visits it with you. Philosophy only really makes him want to think if he knows that he can share his thoughts with you later. Nature is truly only relaxing if he knows that you get to be next to him. Falling in love with you was as easy as breathing. 

“Hey, you’re awake.”

Namjoon lowers the book, giving you his full attention. His hair is messy, his glasses sit on his nose very prettily. He isn’t wearing a shirt, honey skin kissed by the sunlight entering your bedroom.

“I am. Good morning. Damn, you are really beautiful”, he says, tummy fluttering.

“Thank you. You are beautiful too.”

Namjoon watches you close the distance, “what are you carrying?”

“Breakfast. I thought I could impress you. You know, first night together and all that.” You explain, putting the tray on his lap. “Let me know what you think of it.”

Namjoon studies it, feeling lost for words. You aren’t his first relationship and yet you are the very first person to ever make him breakfast in bed. Well, except for his parents when he got sick as a kid, but this was totally not the same thing. 

“You’re quiet. Does this mean you don’t like it?” you ask quietly.

“What? No, I love it. I’m sorry, I just can’t believe it, that’s all.” 

“Wait till you taste it. I really put my whole breakfastussy into it.”

He cracks up, scrunching his eyes. You snicker, swaying from side to side giddily.

“If that’s the case, I have to try it. I’m sure it’s delicious.”

You put on some music in the meantime. It is the same vinyl you listened to last night. 

Your eyes meet shyly. His heart is racing as much as yours is. The memory of last night is so sweet.

“Is it okay if I put on some music?” you ask.

“It's more than okay. You're fucking perfect”, he assures you.

“Nice”, you return to bed, getting comfortable on your side. You sit cross-legged, snatching some of the food to snack on.

But Namjoon can’t concentrate on breakfast. All he sees is you.

He finally gets it. Namjoon finally goddamn gets it.

He takes your hand, squeezing it gently. You stop munching, meeting his eyes in curiousity.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, thumb tracing your knuckles, “I know, first morning kiss and us being in the middle of eating and all, but maybe?”

You giggle, nodding your head. “Yeah, I’d really like to kiss you too”, you confess and close the distance to do exactly that.

Seokjin

“Wakey wakey to some brekkie”, you coo, entering the bedroom with a tray full of food. 

Seokjin, your boyfriend and occasional private chef, gawks at you in surprise as the roles are reversed this morning. He was already awake, scrolling on his phone, when you entered the bedroom. 

“You made me breakfast?” he asks, voice dripping in disbelief.

“I did and it’s your favourite. Now careful, there’s lots on there.”

Seokjin stares in pure shock, feeling his heart speed up. His ears are flushed. 

“Wow, I mean, wow. I love it, but why?”

“Why? Because I want to treat you, that’s why.”

“I see”, he murmurs and lowers his head shyly, ear flushing even harder. “Thank you, wow.” 

You snicker, climbing on bed.

“Now try it, pookie. Before it gets cold.”

“I don't even know where to start. Everything looks so good.” 

“Maybe this? I made it with extra love.”

“Wah, you and your cheesy lines.”

You laugh, “I learned from the best”, you tease, nudging his soft cheek.

Seokjin lets you because you are the only person he allows touching his face. Because he loves you and trusts you. And because your touch is always placed so gently. 

“Then I guess I have to start with this”, he says and picks up the chopsticks.

You snicker beside him, making him sneak a glance at you. You are so adorable to him right now. 

Seokjin lowers the chopsticks, meeting your eyes. He looks at you in ways you have never seen on him. Serious, intense and deeply in love. 

“What?” 

“Just making sure that this is real. You’re so perfect.”

“Be quiet.”

You fluster, lowering your head. The racing of your heart increases when he tilts your head back up with two fingers under your chin. His brows are lifted in a gentle invitation to open your mouth and take the bite he offers. 

Of course you take it, heart truly losing it when he wipes the corner of your mouth and licks his finger. 

Whatever happened to your goofy boyfriend right now, please don’t let it end. Don’t misunderstand, you love his dorky side, but this is changing you as a person. He is so attractive right now.

“Is it yummy?” he asks, gazing at your lips as he caresses your chin.

“It is. Wow, you just made my heart race.”

Seokjin grins lopsidedly and leans closer, “good.” He whispers and kisses your lips with such seriousness and emotion that your heart begins racing yet again.

Yoongi

Yoongi is already awake when you enter the bedroom. He is staring at the wall, trying to come alive on the lazy Saturday this way. Like most mornings, his hair is dented at the back and sticks up messily. It’s a cute look especially paired with his puffy cheeks and barely open eyes.

“Oh? You’re awake? Perfect. Brb”, you say after sticking your head into the room to check on him.

Yoongi acknowledges you with a hum and smacks his lips. He sits, waiting curiously for you to come back while his sleepy eyes run over the dimly lit room. 

You return with something in your hands and a goofy grin on your lips.

“Good morning, darling.”

“What’s this?” his voice is still raspy from sleep.

“Breakfast in bed. It’s raining today and I wanted to be romantic.” You put the tray on his lap. “Tada.”

Yoongi scans his eyes over the array of his favourite breakfast food. You even made him an iced Americano and put together a small flower bouquet with flowers from the garden. 

Yoongi feels so giddy that he could burst. But he is also a little shy about being openly giddy (and very sleepy), so he sits and stares while his heart races unbearably. 

“What do you think?” you ask him, running your fingers through his hair.

“You did this for me?” he sounds in disbelief. 

“Of course I did.” You peck his cheek. “You deserve it and I love you.”

“Thank you. This makes me so happy”, he says and begins eating with flushed cheeks and a giddy smile.

“And? Is it good?” 

“It is. I love breakfast”, he gushes and puts his arm around your waist to pull you close. 

You sit down on the edge of the bed, giggling happily when he kisses your cheek. His eyes sparkle in adoration once he pulls back.

“Thank you for this. I’m very happy.”

“It's because I love you.”

“I love you too.” He closes his eyes and rests his head on your shoulder, giving your waist a soft squeeze, “Thank you.”

You love how Yoongi shows affection, melting in fondness. You hug his head, giving it a little kiss.

“Anything for you, baby.”

Hoseok

“Happy birthday to you~ Happy birthday to you~” 

You are entering the bedroom singing and dancing. Hoseok, who is already awake and merely thought that you went for a shower, gawks at you with an open mouth and widened eyes. He even startled a little at first, still clutching his imaginary pearls.

“Happy birthday my Hobi babyyyy~ happy birthday to you.”

You stop by his side, grinning down at him. A purple birthday hat adorns your head. 

“Happy birthday, baby. I hope you’re hungry, I made you breakfast.”

Hoseok giggles, dropping into the sheets to kick his feet. He covers his face behind his hands, looking so adorable that you have to giggle with him. 

You love making him happy. Happiness suits him so well.

“Wow baby, I can’t believe it. This is perfect. I love it”, he gushes, sitting up so he could hug you. Very aggressively if one might add.

“Careful, the food.”

“Yeah, right. Sorry. Show me.”

You put the tray on his lap, eliciting another giggling fit from him. 

“I love it. Thank you. This is the best birthday ever.”

“And it is just the beginning. I have so much planned. So many presents to give you”, you say and lean down to hug him, giving him a big smooch as you do, “I’m gonna treat you like a king today, baby.”

Hoseok leans into your embrace, closing his eyes for it and squeaking giddily.

“Thank you so much. Wow, wait. I need to take pictures. And videos!”

“Do that, my cutie.”

Jimin

CW: hinted "night after" trope but make it flirty

He is supposed to stay in bed and let you surprise him. But of course he doesn’t. Although you made sure to sneak out before he wakes up, you suddenly find yourself in the kitchen with his arms around you and his chest against your back.

“Mhhm smells like breakfast. I’m so hungry already”, he purrs sleepily, using his lower register for it as his soft lips nibble on your neck. He rubs your tummy and waist softly, “what are we making?”

“You are not making anything, you are supposed to be in bed. Goddamn it, my plans are ruined.”

“What plans?” 

“I wanted to use your sleeping-in-tendencies to my advantage and make you breakfast in bed. But of course you have to wake up timely today.”

Jimin chuckles, kissing your ear. 

“I’m sorry. Last night knocked me out deep enough that I feel well rested.”

“Noted. I know what to do next time I want you to relax.”

“Please do, I’ll turn into your devotee.”

You chuckle, but tingle a moment later when Jimin sucks on your skin gently.

“Last night was amazing”, he purrs, kissing a path up to your ear so he could tickle it with his lips, “was it good for you too?”

“It was and you’re teasing”, you say, barely wanting to keep your eyes open. He feels so good.

“I’m not. I’m reminiscing.”

“You are totally teasing”, you laugh, “and you’re not supposed to. You’re supposed to go back to bed. I’m almost done.”

“But the kisses.”

“No buts. Breakfast in bed.”

“At least let me carry something. It’s the least I can do after ruining the surprise.”

“No. Back to bed now. I’m the one to romance you today.” You turn around and shove at his bared chest gently. “Hop, hop. I’m not asking again.” 

Jimin takes your hands and pulls them to his lips for a kiss, giving you flirty eyes.

“One kiss before I leave, to thank you for cooking.”

“Fine, one kiss. And then I’m sending your cute butt back to bed.”

Taehyung

He knows that you are awake, floating in a state between sleep and awareness. The sound of you doing something in the apartment is his background music, increasing the cozy state he is in. The bedroom windows are open, letting in the warm morning breeze. The curtains dance in the wind and the sun shines onto his skin. He isn’t wearing a shirt because he gets hot easily. The sun feels really good. Warm. It’s a nice, deep warmth. The kind of warmth which gets rid of muscle aches.

Life couldn’t get any better than this. You suddenly enter the bedroom and life actually does get better than this. A lot better. 

“Oh crap, your eyes are open”, you say, halting in your once confident steps.

Taehyung smiles at the view of you, “good morning.”

“Good morning, hey. You weren’t supposed to be awake yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wanted to surprise you.”

“With what?”

You pull flowers from behind your back.

“For me?” he gasps and sits up, stretching his arms out to you. 

“Yeah for you. I meant to put them on the bedside table next to you, so you’d wake up to them”, you explain as you trott to his bedside and put the flowers on their planned spot. You pout.

“But they’re so beautiful. Don’t be sad.” He assures you in a soft spoken voice, holding your hand. “I love them.”

“My surprise though. It’s ruined.”

He kisses your knuckles, “no, it’s not. It’s the most perfect surprise ever.” 

“There’s even more.”

“More?” he sounds in disbelief, following you with widened eyes as you leave again.

“Soon.”

Taehyung gazes at the flowers while he waits for your return. His heart is racing. This is such a romantic surprise and he loves these kinds of surprises.

“Eyes closed”, you announce your return.

“They’re closed.”

“And no peeking.”

“I’m not.”

He listens to you come closer again, then suddenly feels a weight on his lap.

“Okay, open them.”

Taehyung instantly gasps, eyes wide and tummy bursting in butterflies. 

“You made breakfast in bed?”

“I did.”

“Darling, oh my god. I don’t know what to say. This is…wow, it looks so yummy.”

You climb onto bed and sit down next to him, picking up a little strawberry which you tipped into whipped cream. 

“Open up.”

Taehyung takes in the strawberry with the cutest, most adorable expression, sending your heart into overdrive.

“Gosh, I have the cutest boyfriend ever”, you gush, caressing his cute little cheeks. 

Taehyung scrunches his nose giddily, leaning into your touch. His eyes are sparkling. 

“Open up. I’m feeding your adorable butt today.”

Taehyung giggles, letting it happen with a racing heart. He loves when you pamper him.

Jungkook

You and he went out with his friends last night. It got late and the two of you got drunk. He stayed over at your place, sleeping with no shirt on and his hair a total mess. Judging by how loudly he snores, he must be sleeping very well. You slept well too, despite the alcohol. Luckily for you, or perhaps because of your clever precautions of drinking lots of water, you don’t feel hungover. Just hungry. Really hungry. But you are also lazy and don’t want to leave bed. You have been staring at your boyfriend obsessively ever since you woke up.

You are so lucky. He is so handsome and he was so lovely last night. He kept close to you at all times and made sure you felt welcome with his friends by always including you in the conversation. He even borrowed you his jacket when you got cold and held your hand as you walked home. 

Jungkook snores especially loudly next to you, startling himself awake with it. He lifts his head, staring at the sheets with empty eyes.

“Good morning”, you chuckle, ruffling his hair.

“Hmhornming isf imf snorim ismsloud”, he mumbles something unintelligible and drops into the pillow again. His eyes close. His lips part. He fell back to sleep. He is so funny without even trying.

“Okay, you’re a sleepy head. Guess I gotta eat without you”, you decide and roll out of bed. 

Breakfast is prepared quickly and you return with your tray of food. You just about sat down when Jungkook lifts his head again. He is frowning sleepily, pouting.

“Good morning. Again”, you tease.

“Food?”

“Yes, this is food.”

“For me?”

“Do you want food?”

He nods his head. You already knew that he wouldn’t last long next to the smell of food, but this is a new record of how quickly he wakes from it. Doesn’t matter, you already prepared his tray in the kitchen.

“Sit up then.”

Jungkook obeys, grumbling and groaning as he does.

“Hungover?”

“Little.”

“This should help. Here we go.”

“Thanks.”

You leave the room to get his tray (which is now your tray because you gave Jungkook the first one) and return to Jungkook munching on his breakfast happily. His hair is a mess and his eyes are still puffy, but he looks happy. And a lot less hungover. 

You get on bed next to him, halting in your attempt to eat when he stubs your arm with his fingers.

He is looking at you with the puppiest puppy eyes ever.

“Yes?” 

“Did I take your food?”

“No, I planned for both of us.”

“You can have more if you want to.”

“It’s perfect for me. Just eat, baby.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Eat, baby.”

Jungkook holds your hand, “thank you for this. And for last night. I really appreciate everything you do for me and I love spending time with you.”

“I love it too, baby.”

He squeezes your hand, “and I love you.”

“Wow, you.” You and he didn’t exchange the big L-word yet. “You really mean it?”

“I mean it. A lot.”

“Kook, wow. I love you too.”

[erikahammerschmidt]

This is a very hard thing for many people to grasp, because... it challenges so many of the things that, for them, make life worth living.

the idea that there's an inherent justice to the world, and those who consistently do right will eventually see some good results from it, something that makes it all worthwhile.

the idea that you are safe.

the idea that you deserve whatever good things you have. (and that you don't have any reason to give up your own happiness to feel bad for others who lack those things, or give up your own good fortune to share with them)

and that lacking good things happens for comprehensible reasons-- so if you do the right things, you don't have to fear ever being one of those who lack. (And that you actually have any real way of knowing what "the right things" even are.)

the idea that we, individually, have any power over what happens to us.

the idea that free will is actually meaningful, and that the few meager things about our lives that we can (somewhat) control are actually capable of making a difference against the vast enormity of what we can't control.

...

...the fact that none of these comforting thoughts are true, feels awfully bleak and hopeless.

To the point that, if your own life hasn't yet forced you to give up those beliefs, you might find yourself unable to let go of them, because the alternative is too terrifying

As someone with mental and (increasingly) physical disabilities, my own mental health fights a battle against this hopelessness every. single. day

...

and, like.

I believe there IS actually some hope for something better...

if enough people can come to the agreement that a lot of people's good fortune (including good health) IS really just luck... and that the bad things in their lives (often even including bad behaviors!) can get at least somewhat better with help from others...

if enough of us could someday let go of the concept of deserving and not-deserving... this focus on blame and punitive justice, and this obsession on bad circumstances being deserved punishments

and if enough of the more fortunate people could contribute from their own lucky circumstances to help others... with no thought of who deserves what, and no other goal except making a world that will, in general, overall, be better for pretty much everyone

then...

Well, I'm not saying this will make everyone's life live up to the current unrealistic ideal of perfect health.

(It won't! there will still be people with severe problems, both mental and physical! And if people's current expectations don't change a whole lot to go along with it, there are gonna be a lot of people who think this whole societal improvement was a failure, even if it does succeed!)

But. if humanity can find itself capable of this big, big shift in worldview? then... there is hope. For something better. Not great, not perfect, but... better.

And it's hard enough to believe this is possible sometimes. Because, again-- even if I do all of what I think are the "right" things, in order to work toward this better world? That doesn't necessarily mean anything will come from all my hard work.

Like everything else, it'll depend on luck. And on the combined actions of lots and lots and LOTS of other people, none of whom I can control at all.

But it's all the hope we've got, so... I still try.

Some rando: You should think about stopping your prescription

Me: My pills make me not want to die tho

They: You shouldn’t want to die, that’s not normal

Me: Yeah that’s why I’m taking my pills

[supernotnatural2005]

The Arrangement - Part One

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Summary: Dean has a conflicting dream about you, his best friend, that has him questioning feelings he'd never allowed to see the light of day before. However, he might not be the only one…

Word Count: 7.7k

Warnings/Tags: Swearing, feelings, some spicy times, nothing too heavy...

AN: Happy Release day!!🎉 Honestly, i can’t thank you all enough for the excitement around this series since announcing it! I've fell in love writing this story 🥹 and I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I have writing it ❤️

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Dean smiled lazily as he felt a warm palm slide up his chest, the body behind him pressing closer. Soft lips trailed kisses along his neck and shoulders, sending a shiver down his spine. He hummed in contentment and shifted onto his back, his tired eyes opening to the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen.

Her eyes sparkled with warmth and mischief, her lips curving into a playful smirk before she leaned down, peppering gentle kisses along his jaw. His eyes fluttered shut again as she sucked lightly at his pulse point, his breath coming quicker. A low groan rumbled from his throat as he gripped her waist, pulling her up into a heated kiss.

Her tongue caressed his, her touch sending fire through his veins. Her hand slid down his abdomen, fingertips grazing lower and lower beneath the sheets, his pulse pounding—

"WAKE UP, LOSER!"

Dean's eyes shot open, his body jolting as the blaring shriek of an airhorn filled his room. He yanked the covers tighter around himself, his heart racing from both the rude awakening and the remnants of his dream.

"What the hell, Y/N?" he growled, glaring at the culprit as he covered his ears. You grinned triumphantly and finally put the airhorn to rest.

Dean huffed, flopping back down on the bed and throwing an arm over his face, trying to will away the heat rising to his cheeks.

What the fuck? Was all he could think, his sleep-addled brain scrambling to make sense of why he’d just had a sex dream about you.

You, meanwhile, were way too chipper for his liking. 

"C’mon, Dean-o, up and at ’em." You patted his leg, and he flinched like you’d just burned him. You shot him an odd look, but he ignored it, shifting slightly to make sure the blanket hid the… Predicament he was currently dealing with.

"What’s with the drill sergeant wake-up? Can a guy not sleep in on a Saturday?" He grumbled, voice still rough from sleep, and other things.

You pouted. Actually pouted. And Dean had to force himself to look away from your lips—lips that had just been doing unspeakable things to him in his dream.

"You promised you'd go Christmas shopping with me.” You reminded him, completely unfazed by his mood.

Dean frowned. "That doesn’t sound like something I’d promise."

You hit him with your classic 'don’t bullshit me' look. And, yeah, okay, he remembered now. He'd offered last week, wanting to help you survive the chaos of last-minute shoppers—and use the trip to grab gifts for his own family.

"Fine, yeah. Just give me ten minutes to wake up, alright?" He relented, desperate for you to leave so he could deal with his little… Issue.

“Thanks, Buddy." Your voice was smug, like you knew he’d never actually say no to you. Because, let’s be honest, he never did.

Dean sighed as you closed the door behind you. He let his head fall back against the pillow, running a hand down his face.

What the hell?

Why was he dreaming about you like that? You were his best friend. You’d been inseparable since fourth grade. Sure, you were beautiful, but that had never been an issue before.

…Had it?

Dean groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Nope. Too early for a deep dive into that mess. He rationalised it away—one, you were attractive. Two, you were close. And, statistically speaking, didn’t most guy-girl friendships eventually veer into weird territory at some point?

Yeah. Totally normal. No big deal.

Except… Two hours later, standing in the middle of a lingerie store, Dean realised he was totally screwed.

Before that, he’d spent the last two hours hauling around a bunch of your shopping bags like a damn pack mule. Only one of them happened to be his, with his completed gift purchases for everyone he needed to buy for. Though to be fair to you, your arms were just as full. He was bewildered at your ability to buy so much for so little.

Your immediate family only consisted of three people—Bobby, Ellen, and Jo—but you had argued that you had your friends, his family, and him to buy for. The latter of which, he’d told you not to do.

However, it fell on deaf ears as always. Every Christmas and birthday, it was the same. But Dean couldn’t fault you for it—you always got people gifts that were meaningful to them, and you got so much joy from giving that he could never say anything other than thank you.

What he wasn’t thankful for was your complete inability to stay focused. Every shop you entered, you’d get distracted by little knickknacks, convincing yourself someone needed them, rather than the original item you came for. It made the day so much longer, but despite the fatigue in his arms and the chaos of holiday shoppers, he was enjoying himself.

Though, that was a given with you.

You were naturally a people pleaser, but knowing how much Dean hated shopping, you’d made it your mission to keep him entertained. You’d made him laugh—laugh to the point his belly ached and tears were shed. The day had surprisingly become enjoyable. But then you'd dragged him into this store, and his brain short-circuited.

The window displays alone had him spiralling, lace and silk-covered mannequins taunting him with thoughts he really didn’t need to have. About you. And then you, completely oblivious, pulled a matching red lace bra and thong off a rack, holding them up for inspection.

Dean swallowed hard.

He’d done your laundry before. You two split chores in the apartment, and he’d handled your underwear plenty of times; never thinking twice about it. So why the hell was he suddenly imagining you in them now?

Was this really because of the dream? It had to be.

And then, like you hadn’t already sent him into cardiac arrest, you giggled, holding up another pair. "Hey, check this out—crotchless panties."

Dean barely choked back a groan as you stuck your fingers through the open section like it was the funniest thing in the world. His brain, on the other hand, provided a detailed mental slideshow of all the things he could do to you in them.

Jesus Christ.

He needed air.

"I—uh—I gotta step outside. Promised Sammy I’d call about a gift for Mom," he lied, voice tight.

You barely glanced up. "Okay."

Dean bolted like his life depended on it, shoving through the doors and inhaling the crisp winter air. "What the fuck is wrong with you, man?" He muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

A passing woman gave him a scandalised look as she walked by with her kid. He shot her an apologetic smile before leaning back against the brick wall, blowing out a heavy breath.

He tried to clear his mind, but every time he pushed the R-rated thoughts away, softer images replaced them. The way you smiled. The way you laughed, head thrown back, eyes crinkling. That stupid fluttery feeling hit his stomach again.

Dean frowned.

Was he sick? Hallucinating?

The worst part? You were always the person he talked to when he was confused about something.

But now you were the one person he couldn’t talk to about this.

Another half hour crawled by before you finally emerged from the store, a small bag swinging from your wrist. Dean’s eyes locked onto it like it held the answers to the universe, his mind immediately spiralling.

What the hell did you buy?

He told himself he didn’t care. He really didn’t. But his brain clearly had other plans because now he was picturing you in every single thing you could’ve possibly picked out.

Lingerie? Pyjama's? Something sheer, lace- nope!

He swallowed hard and forced himself to focus on literally anything else, but it was a lost cause. By the time you both made it back to the apartment, he felt like his brain had been put through a damn blender.

You, however, were completely unbothered, tossing your bags onto the floor with a content sigh before flopping onto the couch. "Pizza should be here soon. You wanna pick the movie?"

Dean blinked, barely processing the words. Right. Normal best friend things. Hanging out. Eating pizza. Watching a movie. That’s what you two did. That’s what you’d always done.

Maybe that’s all today was—a momentary lapse. A weird, fleeting thing brought on by lack of sleep, the stress of shopping, and, most probably, the objectifying dream he’d had of you. It didn’t have to mean anything more than that.

Yeah. He could shake this off. No big deal.

Letting out a slow breath, he dropped onto the couch beside you, snagging the remote. "Fine. But if I pick, you’re not allowed to bitch about it."

You hummed, already scrolling through your phone. "I make no promises."

A small smirk tugged at Dean’s lips. This was normal. Easy. Just like always.

And for the first time since this morning, he let himself believe it.

The following Friday, Dean found himself at the Roadhouse with Benny, Cas, and Gabe. It was the kind of place that felt like a second home.

The Roadhouse wasn’t fancy—hell, half the decor was older than they were—but it had its own charm. The regulars, the outdated rodeo-style décor, the worn wooden bar top that had seen more spilled whiskey and thrown punches than anyone cared to count.

The walls were lined with old beer signs, neon lights buzzing softly under the hum of conversation. The jukebox in the corner cycled through rock classics, always a little too loud, but that was part of the place’s charm.

Dean and the guys had been coming here for years—long before they were even old enough to drink. You had, too. Being Ellen’s stepdaughter meant you practically grew up in this place, and while Ellen had a strict no-bullshit policy, she wasn’t blind to the fact that teenagers would be teenagers.

As long as you and the guys stayed under her watchful eye, she let you each have a beer or two when you were younger, making damn sure no one got carried away. And if anyone so much as thought about sneaking more? Well, Ellen had a way of shutting that down real quick. She was tough, sharp as a whip, and had a stare that could make a grown man fold—but she cared, more than she’d ever admit.

Jo helped out too, working the bar some nights in between her law enforcement studies. She’d been slinging beers and rolling her eyes at the group’s antics since she was old enough to work behind the counter, always quick with a sarcastic remark when any of them got out of line. 

You and Dean had spent countless nights here, watching as the Roadhouse shaped who you all became.

Benny leaned against the pool table, lining up his shot with an easy, practiced confidence. Dean had seen him do it a hundred times—his friend had a natural ease about him, a steadiness that made him damn good at their job. 

They spent most of their days working maintenance for RHP Properties, fixing busted pipes and dealing with tenants who thought every flickering light meant the world was ending. Benny made the long hours bearable.

Cas sat nearby, nursing a whiskey, his sharp blue eyes scanning the table like he was analysing some historical battle strategy. He always had that serious, thoughtful air about him. It made sense—he was a history teacher, working his way toward becoming a professor. His brain just worked differently.

And then there was Gabriel, though he liked to go by Gabe, Cas’ cousin. Though you’d never guess it just by looking at them. 

Where Cas was serious, methodical, and downright broody at times, Gabe was his exact opposite—carefree, unpredictable, and always ready with a joke. The contrast between them was almost comical, like night and day, order and chaos.

Currently half-draped over the bar like he owned the place, Gabe was laughing at something Rachel, the new bartender, had said. She was easy on the eyes—exactly the kind of woman Gabe set his sights on. And judging by the way she giggled and blushed under his usual blend of wit and charm, he’d hit his mark.

Gabe had always been that guy—the one who could talk his way into or out of anything, a natural-born trickster with a grin that could disarm just about anyone. No one was entirely sure what he did for a living, some mix of marketing gigs and side hustles that somehow kept him afloat. According to him, it was all about “the art of persuasion.”

Dean just called it bullshit.

The night had settled into an easy rhythm—drinks flowing, pool games stretching long enough to become more about talking shit than actual competition. Gabe, as always, had the floor, spinning some ridiculous story about a one-night stand gone wrong.

“I’m telling you; she had three snakes. Just slithering around the damn apartment like it was normal,” Gabe insisted, gesturing wildly with his beer. “One of ‘em was watching me, man. I swear it knew.”

Benny chuckled, lining up his next shot. “I think the real question is, why the hell did you stay?”

Gabe shrugged. “What can I say? I have a hard time walking away from an adventure.”

Cas, who had been nursing his whiskey with a bemused expression, finally spoke up. ���It’s a wonder you haven’t been killed yet.”

“Give it time,” Benny muttered, sinking his shot.

The conversation shifted, everyone throwing in their own weird hookup stories—bad timing, embarrassing moments, things they wished they could forget. Dean had been mostly listening, chuckling at their dumb-assery, when the thought that had been nagging him for days finally slipped out.

“Is it, uh… normal to have a sex dream about a friend?”

Benny didn’t react at first, too focused on sinking his shot, but Gabe, ever the opportunist, caught onto it immediately. “If it’s about Y/N? Yeah, totally.”

Dean nearly choked on his beer. “What? No—it’s not—”

Gabe grinned, tilting his head like he was enjoying watching Dean squirm. “Not what? Not about her? Or not just a dream?”

Dean scowled, scrambling to recover. “Jesus, Gabe, I didn’t say it was about her. It was hypothetical.”

“Uh-huh.” Gabe leaned against the pool table, twirling the chalk in his fingers. “Sure, man. Hypothetical.”

Dean exhaled sharply, trying to shake off the weird, twisting feeling in his gut. “Just saying, dreams don’t mean anything, right? Just… brain static.”

Benny chuckled, finally looking up from the table. “Depends on the dream, brother.”

Dean glanced between them, suddenly feeling like he was the only one missing something. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gabe smirked, eyes twinkling with mischief. “It means you’ve been making googly eyes at her since we were, what—fifteen?”

Dean’s stomach dropped. “The hell I have.”

Gabe ignored him, tapping his chin. “Honestly, I’m surprised this hasn’t happened sooner.”

Benny sighed, shaking his head as he sank another shot. “Sorry, brother. Gotta agree with the gremlin on this one.”

Cas, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke, his voice calm and matter of fact. “It’s always been very obvious.”

Dean stared at them, mouth opening and closing. “You guys are insane.”

Gabe shrugged, completely unfazed. “Denial’s a hell of a drug. You’ll catch up eventually.”

Dean gripped his pool cue a little tighter, his next shot suddenly feeling a lot more difficult than it should have.

Benny, ever the voice of reason, leaned on his cue. “Ain’t anything bad, Dean. You two have known each other since you were what? Nine. Been joint at the hip since. You know all her family, she knows yours. Hell, she’s practically—”

“If that were true, something would’ve happened by now,” Dean cut in, shaking his head.

Gabe snorted, swiping Dean’s beer before he could stop him. “Not if you’re in denial, my friend.”

Dean’s jaw clenched, frustration curling in his chest. Their words were ringing too damn true, and it was freaking him out. “You’re all outta your damn minds.”

Gabe just smirked. “Keep telling yourself that, Winchester.”

The conversation haunted him. All the way back to the apartment.

He’d walked the couple of blocks from the bar to your shared place, his friends’ words swirling around his mind, needling into places he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Dean knew he cared about you—he always had. But wasn’t that normal after knowing someone for so long? You were practically family.

His thoughts drifted back to the first time he met you. Fourth grade. The old, rusted swing set at the park near his house.

He’d been shoving loose gravel around with the toe of his sneaker when he heard a loud laugh—sharp and unbothered. Looking up, he saw a girl launch herself off the swing at its peak, landing in a heap on the ground with a thud.

He winced. That had to hurt.

But instead of crying, you rolled onto your back, a grin splitting your dirt-smudged face as you stared up at the sky. "Holy crap, that was awesome."

Dean frowned, more confused than anything. "You just busted your knee."

You sat up, inspecting the scrape with a shrug. "Eh, I’ve had worse."

Then you looked at him—really looked at him—and grinned. "Think you can jump higher?"

Dean, never one to back down from a challenge, snorted. "Duh."

And that was that. A competition was born.

For the next hour, you and Dean had taken turns swinging as high as possible before flinging yourselves off, measuring who could get the most distance. By the time the sun dipped low, both of you were covered in dirt and scrapes, laughing like idiots.

When his mom finally called him home for dinner, he’d hesitated before brushing off his hands and looking at you. "Same time tomorrow?"

You grinned, teeth flashing. "You’re on, Winchester."

And just like that, Dean had found his best friend.

Now, years later, that same friend was tangled up in his head in a way he couldn’t ignore.

And it scared the hell out of him.

“Honey, I’m home!” Dean called out as soon as he stepped into the apartment. The words left him out of habit, that same old teasing lilt in his voice. It was an inside joke that had stuck over time—born the day you’d both moved in together after college, a decision fuelled by practicality more than anything else. 

Splitting rent was cheaper, and as best friends, it had made perfect sense. Somehow, though, the whole thing had felt oddly domestic from the start, and Dean had cracked the joke that first night—throwing open the door with a smirk, announcing himself like some sitcom husband. You’d groaned, thrown a pillow at him, and it had just stuck. Something easy, something comfortable.

From somewhere deeper in the apartment, your voice called back, warm and casual. “Hey!” You greeted him as he shrugged off his worn leather jacket and toed off his boots with a sigh, rolling his neck to ease the tension there. 

“How were the guys?” You called out again.

"Yeah, they're all good," he answered absentmindedly, trying not to think about that last conversation he’d had with them as he headed straight for the fridge, already contemplating his options.

His hand gripped the cool metal of the handle as he swung it open, his face falling at the sad excuse for groceries staring back at him—half a six-pack, expired milk, some takeout containers he didn’t even remember ordering.

Right. Grocery shopping. Definitely overdue.

"Hey, you feel like ordering in tonight?" He called out over his shoulder. "Pizza? Chinese? Maybe both, live a little?"

But before he could get an answer, movement in the corner of his eye pulled his focus, and his breath caught in his throat.

You stepped out of your room, and just like that, Dean forgot how to breathe.

His hand slipped from the fridge handle as his entire focus tunnelled in on you. You weren’t just dressed up—you were knockout gorgeous. 

A sleek, black dress hugged your figure in a way that should’ve been illegal, the fabric clinging in all the right places before tapering off mid-thigh. Your legs—long, smooth, and so much more on display than he was prepared for—were accentuated by the sharp cut of your stilettos, heels so high they had no damn business being on your feet, yet somehow, you walked like you owned the world in them.

Dean swallowed hard.

His gaze flickered to the subtle details—the delicate chain resting just below the hollow of your throat, the way the dim lighting in the apartment caught the shimmer of your earrings, how your makeup was just enough to highlight what was already perfect. 

You smelled different too—a new perfume perhaps? Something subtle but undeniably you.

The air in the apartment felt thick, like it was pushing down on his chest.

You didn’t even notice his staring. Instead, you were focused on the couch, leaning over slightly as you grabbed your purse, your fingers quickly checking through its contents. "I can't," you said lightly, barely looking up. "Got a hot date, remember?"

Dean blinked, your words cutting through his haze like a blade.

“Date?"

His stomach twisted.

You straightened up, finally glancing at him with a smirk. "Yeah, with Gary from marketing?" You prompted, slinging your purse over your shoulder. "He asked me out last week—I told you about it?”

Gary from marketing.

Dean’s brows furrowed as the memory came rushing back—how you’d offhandedly mentioned it while he was distracted with something else, how he’d muttered some half-assed response at the time, maybe even made a joke—

"The guy with the tragic haircut?" he muttered, the words coming out before he could stop them.

You laughed. "That’s the one."

And just like that, it hit him.

He’d been so caught up in his own damn thoughts about you lately—trying to reason with himself, trying to make sense of the way things had shifted between you lately—that he hadn’t even thought the world would still be turning for you.

He’d been sitting in the passenger seat, clueless, while you’d been steering your own damn life without him.

And now?

Now, you were standing there, looking like that, all dressed up for some other guy—some idiot named Gary, who got to pick you up and take you out, who got to be the reason you put on that dress, who got to see that smile meant for him tonight.

Dean’s chest felt tight, a slow, bitter realisation creeping in.

This wasn’t like all the other times.

You’d gone on dates before. He knew that. He’d teased you about them, had even tossed out protective big-brother-ish warnings to guys who had no clue the words felt foreign in his mouth. But he’d never felt anything about it before.

Not like this.

Not like his chest was caving in.

Not like a bitter, ugly heat was curling around his ribs, settling deep into his bones.

Not like he wanted to throw his jacket back on and hunt down ‘Gary from marketing’ and make damn sure he knew he wasn’t good enough for you.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

"Right." His voice was quieter than he meant it to be, rough around the edges as he forced the word past the lump in his throat.

He watched as you did one last check in the mirror by the door, smoothing your hands down your dress, adjusting your lipstick in a way that made his stomach tighten even more. You looked excited.

Dean clenched his jaw.

And just like that, the jealousy settled deep in his bones, hot and unyielding.

He didn’t want to picture it—you laughing at some stupid joke Gary made over dinner, Gary sliding his hand over yours, maybe leaning in close at the end of the night, lips hovering over yours.

But the thoughts came anyway.

And it wrecked him.

You shot him one last glance, oblivious to the storm raging inside of him. "Don’t wait up, Winchester."

And with that, you were gone.

Dean stood there for a long moment, staring at the closed door.

His chest felt tight. And then the bitter realisation hit him. 

His friends had been right.

Dean couldn’t sleep.

For the past two hours, he had been tossing and turning, alternating between staring at the ceiling and squeezing his eyes shut, willing sleep to come. It never did.

How the hell could he sleep when his mind was torturing him with images of you—with Gary?

His stomach churned uncomfortably at the thought of it, bile rising in his throat. His mind painted vivid, unwanted pictures: Gary’s hands on you, his lips on your skin, your soft laughter, the way you might be looking at him right now—the way you should be looking at Dean.

He clenched his jaw, shaking his head as if it would shake the thoughts loose. It didn’t.

With a frustrated exhale, Dean sat up, rubbing a hand down his face. This was pointless.

There was no way in hell he was going to get any rest like this, not with his heart pounding and his mind running laps. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, stretching his sore muscles before making his way into the living room.

His feet carried him straight to the kitchen, to the cabinet under the sink where he kept a bottle of whiskey for special occasions.

This qualified.

He poured himself a shot and downed it in one go, barely wincing at the burn as it slid down his throat. The second one went down just as easily, a bitter warmth settling in his chest, but it didn’t quiet the storm in his head the way he hoped it would.

His eyes flicked toward the clock on the microwave.

1:37 AM.

You were still out.

Another shot. Another slow burn in his chest.

Dean knew he had no right to be this worked up about it. He wasn’t your boyfriend. He wasn’t anything to you except your best friend—your roommate. That was the problem.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling hard.

When the hell did everything get so complicated?

It wasn’t just the dream. Sure, it cracked something open in him, but if he was honest with himself, there had always been something simmering underneath. He could see it now—in the way his past relationships never worked out, how no one else ever seemed enough because in the back of his mind, he was always comparing them to you. The way he told you things he didn’t tell anyone, not even his own mother.

Seventeen years.

You had been in his life for seventeen years. That was longer than most marriages. 

Damn, he really was an idiot. How could he have been so blind to it, so ignorant to what was staring him right in the face the whole time? 

Then, he heard it.

The distinct jingle of keys outside the door, followed by a clumsy, muffled “shit" breaking him out of his reverie.

Dean sighed, setting his glass down before pushing off from the counter. He made his way to the door just as he heard another "fuck", then a quiet thud—like something hitting the floor.

Through the peephole, he spotted you crouched down, fumbling for your keys, struggling to fit them into the lock.

You were clearly drunk.

Dean shook his head with a smirk, unlocking the door from his side just as you managed to steady yourself, one hand braced against the door handle. The moment he pulled it open, you stumbled forward, nearly toppling over—until his arms caught you.

You crashed into his chest with a soft “Hmph.”

Dean's arms instinctively wrapped around you, holding you up as you melted against him, giggling into his shirt. The scent of alcohol clung to you, a mix of whiskey and whatever fruity drink you had been sipping on all night.

“Jesus." You huffed, pushing off him, though you wobbled as you tried to find your footing. Dean kept his hands out, ready to catch you again if needed.

"You good, sweetheart?" He asked, raising a brow as he took in your dazed smile and glassy eyes.

You grinned up at him, your expression pure blissed-out drunkenness. "I'm just perfect, Dean’o."

Dean smirked at the nickname, but before he could say anything, you reached up and grasped his jaw between your thumb and fingers, squishing his cheeks slightly.

“Okay, alright—enough of that.” He groaned, peeling your hand away. You didn’t seem to realise your own strength at the moment, and if you squeezed any harder, you were gonna leave a dent in his damn face.

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed, before your attention drifted over his shoulder. Then your expression dropped into something heartbreakingly close to a pout.

“Awww,” you whined. “You’re drinking without me?”

You sounded genuinely upset, your lower lip pushing out in an exaggerated fashion. Before Dean could respond, you made a clumsy grab for the bottle on the counter.

But Dean was quicker.

Before your fingers could wrap around the neck of the whiskey bottle, his hand closed over yours, pulling it away with ease. “Yeah, no. You’ve had enough,” he said firmly, setting the bottle behind him and out of reach.

You frowned up at him, your brows knitting together like a scolded child. “You’re no fun.”

Dean smirked, amused at how downright grumpy you looked, like a kid being denied dessert. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You need some water, sweetheart. Not more booze.”

You huffed dramatically, crossing your arms over your chest. “I don’t want water, I want whiskey.”

“Tough,” Dean said, already turning to grab a glass from the cabinet. “You’re getting water.”

Your pout deepened as he filled the glass from the tap, sliding it toward you. You eyed it like it personally offended you before reluctantly picking it up and taking a sip—your way of conceding to his demand, albeit with an exaggerated sigh.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. You were something else.

Once you were distracted with your water, he leaned against the counter again, crossing his arms over his chest. He could still feel the tension coiling in his gut, the jealousy he’d been drowning in all night, and he couldn’t hold it back any longer.

“So,” he started, keeping his tone casual, but his fingers clenched against his biceps. “How was it?”

You blinked up at him, confused. “How was what?”

Dean gave you a look. “Your date.”

At that, you scoffed, setting your glass down with a little more force than necessary. “Oh, that.” You waved a hand dismissively. “It was awful.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, surprised by how quickly you admitted it. He’d expected you to defend the guy, maybe try to convince yourself it had been a good time. But no—just flat-out awful.

“Yeah?” He prompted, keeping his voice even, but he could already feel his chest loosening just a little.

You leaned against the counter, your drunken state making you extra expressive as you talked with your hands. “First of all, the guy is so uptight. Like, I swear, he’s never laughed in his life. I tried joking around, and he just blinked at me like I was speaking another language.”

Dean snorted, already picturing it.

“And then,” you continued, eyes wide with disbelief, “all he did was talk about himself. Nonstop. Like, dude, I asked him one question—one—about his job, and suddenly I was stuck in a TED Talk about marketing strategies. Like I don’t work for the same company.” You threw your arms out in a ‘are you kidding me’ gesture.

Dean chuckled, shaking his head. “Sounds like a real winner.”

“Oh, it gets worse,” you said, holding up a finger. “So, we order food, right? And I get a cheeseburger, because, you know, I wanted a damn cheeseburger.”

Dean nodded approvingly. “Good choice.”

“Right?” You gestured wildly, as if proving your point. “But Gary—freaking Gary—looks at me and goes, ‘Are you sure you wanna eat that? You should really watch your figure.’”

Dean froze. His smirk disappeared.

For a moment, he just stared at you, like he couldn’t believe the words had actually come out of your mouth.

Then his expression darkened, jaw tightening. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

You rolled your eyes. “I wish.”

Dean’s grip on his bicep tightened, his teeth grinding together. That prick. He had known from the start that Gary was a tool, but this? This was another level.

“So,” you continued, a mischievous glint in your eye, “I did what any rational, level-headed woman would do in that situation.”

Dean arched a brow. “And that was?”

You grinned, leaning in like you were about to tell him a secret. “I threw my drink in his face and left.”

Dean stared at you for a beat, then—He laughed.

A deep, genuine laugh that rumbled in his chest as pride swelled in him. “No shit?”

“No shit.” You grinned, clearly pleased with yourself. “Right in his smug, stupid, judgy face.”

Dean shook his head, chuckling. That’s my girl, he thought, though he would never say it out loud.

“But instead of coming straight home,” you continued, twirling your glass of water between your fingers, “I didn’t wanna deal with your I told you so—”

Dean smirked. “I would’ve said it.”

You shot him a look. “—so, I went to the Roadhouse instead. Had a few drinks, bitched about my failed date to Jo and Ellen. Ellen cut me off and called me a cab.” Dean huffed. That sounded about right.

For a moment, he just watched you, taking in the way you had perked up again, the lingering frustration in your eyes slowly melting into something softer.

You were here.

Not out with Gary. Not waking up next to some guy who didn’t deserve you. Not letting some self-important idiot tell you who you should be.

You were home. With him.

And as much as he wanted to tell you that he had been losing his damn mind all night, picturing you with someone else—he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned against the counter, arms still crossed, and smirked.

"Well," Dean said, tilting his head with a smirk. "At least you got a good story out of it."

"Yeah, I guess." You hummed, swirling the water in your glass. The initial amusement faded as your shoulders dropped slightly. Dean caught the shift immediately, his brows pulling together.

"C’mon, you can’t really be cut up about a guy with an Edward Scissor-hands haircut and zero game." He teased, hoping to pull you out of whatever downward spiral you were heading into.

It worked—your laughter bubbled out, a full, belly-deep laugh that made the tension in his chest ease. But then you sighed, the sound quieter this time, more pensive. "It’s not him I’m cut up about."

Dean watched you carefully as you traced the rim of your glass with your finger. "I just feel like I can never meet a good guy."

Something inside him twisted.

What about me?

The thought came unbidden, sharp and intrusive, and he shoved it down before it could take root. Instead, he nudged you with his elbow.

"That’s not true." His voice was lighter now, teasing again. "What about Mikey? The guy with the lisp?"

His grin widened as he mimicked a lisp, knowing damn well you’d dated the guy for barely two months in your sophomore year before his clinginess drove you up the wall. The look of horror that crossed your face had him biting back a laugh.

"Oh my God, Dean!" You gawked at him before landing a solid punch to his arm. "That is so mean!"

"Ow," he complained through his laughter, rubbing the spot you hit. "I’m serious, though! He was a real sweetheart.” He exaggerated the lisp again, barely dodging your next swing.

"I swear to God—" You huffed, turning to stomp off, but before you could escape, he caught your arm gently.

"Okay, okay, I’m done. Scouts honour." He held up three fingers in a mock solemn gesture.

You gave him a look—like you absolutely did not believe him—but still, with a huff, you reclaimed your spot opposite him and took another sip of water.

Then, almost absentmindedly, you sighed. "I mean, it has been a long time."

Dean’s brow furrowed. "A long time since what?"

You hesitated for a brief second before shrugging your shoulders, brushing it off like it wasn’t a big deal. "Since I’ve had sex."

Dean choked on his own damn saliva.

You frowned in concern, but he quickly waved you off, reaching for his whiskey to cover up the way his throat had suddenly gone dry.

You leaned back against the counter, lost in thought, completely oblivious to the war you’d just started in his head.

"I just—I don’t even need romance, you know?" You shrugged. "At this point, I’d settle for a little fun. I even bought new lingerie for tonight, just in case, and now"— you gestured vaguely to yourself, "totally wasted."

Dean swallowed—hard.

His mind was already in dangerous territory, but now it plummeted straight into the gutter.

You’d bought lingerie? For tonight?

His gaze instinctively flicked down for half a second before he caught himself, before he could let himself really think about what you were implying. Because if you had planned for tonight—if you were wearing it right now—

God help him.

The image hit him like a freight train. You, laid out in something lacey and delicate, something sheer enough to tease but not reveal, maybe even those crotchless panties you’d pointed out the other day in that damn store—his stomach twisted, his fingers curling around his glass with a little too much force.

And the worst part? Some other guy was supposed to see you like that tonight.

That thought sent something hot and possessive burning through his veins.

Dean exhaled sharply, gripping the back of his neck as he forced his gaze anywhere but at you.

"Gary didn’t deserve to see you like that." The words left his mouth before he could stop them, his voice lower than before.

You scoffed. "Yeah, well, no one else is seeing it either, so it really doesn’t matter."

It matters to me.

Dean forced himself to take another sip of whiskey, as if that would drown out the thoughts swimming in his head.

With a stretch and a yawn, you set your empty glass down and pushed off the counter. "Alright, I’m gonna head to bed. Thanks for making me drink water, Mom." You teased, because Dean was always more like a mother hen than a strict father.

Dean smirked, watching as you stepped closer. He expected you to give him a casual pat on the arm or maybe ruffle his hair like you sometimes did when you were feeling particularly annoying.

Instead, you leaned up on your toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

Or, at least, that’s where it was meant to land.

At the last second, whether it was the whiskey in your system or just bad aim, your lips caught the corner of his mouth.

You gasped softly, your breath fanning over his lips, and then you giggled. "Shit—sorry."

Dean didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Because you were still right there, inches away, your body just barely brushing his, your eyes flicking down to his lips.

Something in the air shifted.

The easy playfulness between you dissolved into something else—something warm and electric, something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Your smile faded, lips parting slightly as you lingered, hesitating just a second longer than necessary.

Then, before he could say a damn thing, before he could even think—

You leaned in again.

And this time, you kissed him.

It was soft at first, hesitant, your lips pressing against his in a way that felt like a question. Like you were giving him the chance to pull away, to stop this before it could turn into something neither of you could take back.

Dean’s entire body locked up. His mind screamed at him to push you away, to remind you that you’d been drinking, that this was just a moment of drunken impulse, that tomorrow you might regret this.

But then you pressed in closer, deepening the kiss, your fingers skimming up his arm, and his resolve shattered.

A low, quiet sound rumbled in his throat as he gave in. Completely.

His hands found your waist, gripping tight, pulling you against him as he kissed you back. And not just kissed you—devoured you. All the tension from the past few days, all the frustration, the longing, the confusion—it poured out of him like a damn breaking.

Your lips were warm, soft, intoxicating in a way no drink could ever compare to. He let himself get lost in it, let himself feel it—how perfect you felt against him, how natural this was, like it had been inevitable all along.

You sighed against his mouth, your fingers sliding up into his hair, and Dean groaned, tilting his head to deepen the kiss even further.

He didn’t know when his hands had moved, but now one was tangled in your hair, the other splayed against the small of your back, pressing you flush against him. And fuck, you felt good. Too good.

This was dangerous.

And when you finally pulled away, lips kiss-swollen and breaths unsteady, Dean couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. His heart pounded like a war drum; each beat a sharp, insistent reminder of the storm raging inside him.

He should say something. Do something. But every word he might’ve spoken tangled in his throat, choked by the weight of what had just happened.

“Woah,” you whispered, your voice barely more than breath. Your eyes flickered between his and his mouth, never quite settling, like you were just as caught in the moment as he was. Your cheeks were flushed, heat radiating from your skin, and the ghost of your breath still lingered against his lips, dizzying and sweet.

Dean didn’t move. Didn’t dare move. The air between you crackled, fragile and electric, holding him captive in a moment he wasn’t ready to break.

He was waiting for you. Like always.

Your breath ghosted against his lips, and that was all it took.

You kissed him again, this time with more heat, more purpose, fingers tangling into the front of his shirt as you pulled him in. Dean let out a rough sound—somewhere between a groan and a sigh—before his hands found your waist, gripping tight as he backed you up against the counter. The edge dug into your lower back, but you barely noticed, too caught up in the way he was pressing into you, solid and warm and overwhelming in the best way.

His hands slid down, grasping the backs of your thighs, and before you could fully process it, he lifted you effortlessly onto the countertop.

A surprised gasp left your lips, but Dean was already there, swallowing the sound as he kissed you again, deeper, slower, his fingers digging into your hips. You pulled him in, locking your legs around his waist, desperate to feel more of him, and his hands wandered—exploring the soft, bare skin of your thighs, gliding higher, pushing the hem of your dress up as he went.

He trailed kisses down your jaw, moving to your neck, and when his lips found that one spot—the spot—you let out a soft moan, your head tipping back instinctively.

Only to smack it straight into the cabinet behind you.

The entire moment shattered.

You winced, immediately bringing a hand to the back of your head. Dean jerked back, eyes wide with concern.

“Shit—are you okay?” He cupped your jaw, scanning your face for any sign of real pain.

For a second, you just blinked at him—then, out of nowhere, you started giggling.

Dean frowned, still searching your eyes, but when you kept laughing, it broke him. He snorted, shaking his head, then let out a deep, full-bodied chuckle, forehead dropping against your shoulder.

“Jesus, sweetheart.” He pulled back, still grinning, rubbing a hand down his face. “That’s gotta be a sign, right?”

You sighed dramatically. “That the universe hates me?”

Dean smirked, his hands settling on your hips. “That you’re not sober enough for this.” His answer was loaded, a heavy realisation for himself that you were in no state of mind to be making any rational decisions right now, and that he should've known better than to take advantage of that. 

You pouted slightly, but you both knew he was right. Still, there was something soft in his expression as he helped you down, steadying you with warm hands on your waist. The moment your feet hit the ground, you swayed a little, still a bit disoriented.

Dean caught you instantly. “Okay, yeah. You need to lie down, sweetheart.”

You groaned but didn’t fight him as he led you to your room, making sure you didn’t trip over your own feet. Once you were settled, he disappeared briefly before returning with a glass of water and a bottle of Tylenol, setting them on your nightstand.

“You’re a saint,” you mumbled, already sinking into the mattress.

Dean huffed a laugh. “Not quite. Just don’t want you becoming a pain in my ass in the morning when your head’s pounding.” He said as he helped pull off your shoes and settled you under the covers.

You cracked one eye open, looking at him with something unreadable, something soft. “Could never hate you, Dean.” You mumbled half asleep. 

He looked at you, lingering for a second too long. Then stood, with a small exhale.

“Call me if you need anything.” He told you as he walked to the door. You hummed your acknowledgment, and with that, he left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Dean barely made it to his own room before he collapsed onto the bed, dragging both hands down his face.

What the fuck just happened?

The feel of you, the taste of your lips—it was burned into him now, like some kind of cruel brand.

It was just a kiss. Just a few incredible, amazing kisses. But now he knew for sure, no one would ever compare now.

And that thought terrified him.

Because tomorrow, you might not even remember. And if you did, would you be embarrassed? Regret it? Or worse, hate him?

Dean stared up at the ceiling, jaw tight, mind racing.

Yeah. He was so fucked.

AN: There we have it folks, the first chapter! It was a long one 😅 I know, but I'd love to hear your thoughts/feedback etc ❤️

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

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter @tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2 @deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown @jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom

Next Time...

Your breath hitched, but you forced yourself to stay still. No sudden movements, no giving anything away. But then your gaze betrayed you—just for a second, barely a flicker—dipping down to his mouth. Shit. Because now you could feel it again. The way he kissed you, rough but deliberate, like he had wanted it. The taste of whiskey, the heat of his hands, the way his fingers had curled into your hips like he was holding on for dear life. Dean cleared his throat. Stepped back. "I’m gonna head to the store," he said, too casual. It took a second for the words to register. "Oh. Yeah, okay." He hesitated—like he might ask you to come with him—but then he smirked instead, lips twitching. "Would’ve invited you, but, uh… You kinda look like the walking dead. Don’t want you cramping my style.” Your head shot up, glare locked and loaded. "Ass." Dean just grinned. "Try not to die while I’m gone." Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. The silence that followed was deafening. Your fingers tightened around the coffee mug as you exhaled, long and slow, staring at the door like it might offer some kind of answer. Yeah. You were so screwed.

[johnwickb1tsch]

lessons in anatomy

an art professor Wick x drawing model muse! reader AU...

I.

-You’re a favorite amongst the studio art students at the university where you model. Not because of your looks, but because of your exceptional ability at sitting still. When you retreat inside your mind and you’re sitting in a position that doesn’t have any pinch points, you can go a solid hour without moving a muscle. 

-Maybe it helps, that you were once an art student too. You’ve studied the classical positions immortalized by the greats. The drama of the Renaissance martyrs to the quiet repose of the Impressionists to the silent anguish of the Pre Raphaelites. You do a damn good Odalisque, if you don’t say so yourself.

-You’ve been doing this for a while, and you’re pretty comfortable with it. That is, until you walk into the first day of Figure Drawing 101 to find the most handsome man you’ve ever seen behind the desk–decidedly not the usual portly, gray-haired, female professor who hired you years ago. He is tall, and dark, with soulful black eyes that make your lady parts ache. It’s incredibly embarrassing when your mitt veritably disappears in his in a cordial handshake (good lord, what poetic, long-fingered hands!) and you almost forget your own name. 

-He is incredibly gracious about your impression of a goldfish at feeding time. Undoubtedly, he’s used to this effect he has on women. Deep down, he must be laughing at you, and this more than anything helps you get a grip as you disappear into your little supply closet to change. 

-You emerge in your pretty paisley-print robe that sweeps the floor, and you realize you haven’t been nervous about taking off your clothes in class since your very first day on this job. Your palms are actually sweating, as you perch on the model stand with your legs crossed, watching him out the corner of your eye. He is stupidly dapper, in a dark tweed suit and tie. His hair swings down into his eyes as he reads something on his desk, and you’re not proud of what you would give for the privilege to run your fingers through that fluffy dark hair. 

-Thoroughly disgusted with yourself, you’re grateful when it’s time for class to begin. You’re surrounded by young adults who are [mostly] eager to learn with charcoal in hand. All eyes are on you, but its Professor Wick’s eyes you feel like a weight on your skin when the robe slides from your shoulders. You are so glad you can blame the air conditioning for your state of…attention. 

-You start with quick warm ups, then some five minute studies, and finally an extended pose with small breaks in between. When the kids take a break in the middle of the three hour period you slide back on your robe and make a round of the room, perusing the sketches. You can already tell who will be at the top of the class, but also who has potential for improvement if they work hard and practice. And some…better be good at math, because art is not their thing.

You do not hear him behind you, until he speaks. “I'm not sure how your clavicle could be at that angle…unless it was broken in two places.” You cover your smile with your hand as you glance back over your shoulder at him, a hot blush spreading like wildfire up your neck for some ridiculous reason. 

Mere proximity, you fear.

“Maybe their professor will set them straight.”

He chuckles with a charming self-deprecation that you find painfully endearing, scrubbing the back of his neck. 

“I like to see where everyone stands on the first day. I promise that lessons in anatomy will be forthcoming.” He only meets your eyes for a bare second as he tells you this, but you are astonished you do not spontaneously combust.

TBC...

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masterlist/chapter map

pinterest board/photo credits

[alyimoss]

YES YES YES IVE NOTICED THIS BEFORE!!!! the reverse is also true: chara calls asgore dad, but toriel is just toriel. both have a parent theyre closest with

that does make me think tho like. frisk seems to me like he would either call both parents just by their name or call both mom and dad. not pick one and leave the other. hes shown to be more considerate of the residents of xtale in later timelines than chara, whos grown much more disillusioned, hateful, and violent. chara has way fewer problems treating people more poorly because in his mind the end justifies the means and as long as the goal hes working toward is noble (which. it at first is but later twists into something completely different. but i think he still considers it noble and the "best outcome for everyone" and thats ahat matters most to him) any horrible thing he does is completely fine. hes playing on the same battlefield as xgaster, after all, so he has to adopt his same tactics. frisk, though also shown to have grown more hateful and violent and disillusioned, shows a lot more hesitation in using and/or hurting the residents of xtale.

anyway, all that to say that he just doesnt rlly strike me as the type of guy to just exclude one parent, especially if it hurts/saddens them. like i could be completely wrong and hes just got a preference contrasting charas bc siblings, but. idk.

bc chara not calling toriel mom immediately makes me think of timeline III. the timeline right after the one where chara got the father figure he yearned for. it was the first timeline to use underswap as a base instead of the original timeline. in the episode, we see both frisk and chara sitting in toriels lap. frisk is chatting happily with her, but chara looks livid

i wonder if chara refuses to call toriel mom because she hasnt been the mother he knew for so, so long. she doesn't even know it. and swap toriel taking asgores role and some if not all of his personality (depending on the interpretation), it probably felt to chara like she was trying to replace asgore. a shoddy stand in, smiling at him almost in mockery as he has to mourn the death of his father alone because noone except for him, frisk, xgaster, and alphys even know he died. for all the other residents of xtale, that series of events never happened.

toriel asks him whats wrong and he has to fight the urge to snap at her, to yell at her that she knows. she knows and shes mocking him. that shell never be him. that she shouldnt have ever dared to do something like this so close to his death. and he only barely holds that all in because he knows shes not doing this on purpose. she doesnt know what happened. she didnt ask to be remade in someone else's image. she doesn't even know she has been

the whole situation fuels his hatred of xgaster more, because now more than ever he feels like hes being toyed with. first it was just the world. just seeing what changed. and then one of the most precious things to him was taken from him by the very man who promised him the world, a marionette facsimile dangling by strings from the claws chara couldve sworn he didnt always have.

and again, its not toriels fault. but it leaves such a strong impression on him that she forever changes in his eyes. shes no longer the loving mother. shes someone who doesnt belong, someone he doesnt recognize as his own. she changed from who she was when she WAS his mom, all the way back in timelines I and II, and the mother he loved is dead. gone. erased. irreplaceable. and no matter what xtoriel does, chara can never bring himself to call her mom again

and, on the contrary, he latches to asgore hard. because hes also changed, hes not exactly as he remembers him, but hes back. hes alive. hes still asgore and hes still his father and he missed him so much. he doesnt care about the smaller details, nothing matters except the fact that his father is back. that the man who gave him hope and support and company when he felt so crushingly lonely under the weight of losing his world is back, and that means chara isnt alone anymore. hes not hopeless. and he holds to that tiny hope as tight as he can

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[kiyo-cant-write]

Hey Pookie!! Hru?

I was wondering if you could do a father like Crowley with a reader who grew up pretending to be a boy but is biologically female and prefers being more feminine, Crowley takes her in after Book one and like spoils her and calls her his daughter and his little dove!

Maybe also with the reader having a big crush on Riddle and Crowley doesn’t know wether to be accepting of it or protective

Tysm Pooks!🩷🎀

adopted by crowdad!reader crushing on riddle ✧･ﾟ

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Hey Muffin! How are you?? This was such a cute idea I tried to write it even though I had so much wild homework xD Hope you like it!! I like writing Crowley and Riddle c:

I am also sorry this took so long my life took a drastic turn 😂 Fun Fact: Riddle was a character I was drawn to when the game was first coming out even though Azul was my OG bias.

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Summary: [Name] is the adoptive daughter of Dire Crowley after the incidents of Riddle Roseheart's overblot. But why does looking at Riddle make her face flush? Maybe Crowdad can help!

TW/CW: Tagged Crowley/Reader but it's PLATONIC/FAMILIAL

Notes: the reader is Yuu/Ramshackle Prefect, she/her pronouns for the reader, implied AFAB/female reader, pre-relationship/Riddle, a couple of throw-away comments that imply Crewel/Crowley

Guest Stars: Divus Crewel, Deuce Spade (mentioned), Ace Trappola (mentioned), Trey Clover (mentioned)

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✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Dire Crowley (Familial)

Crowley didn't expect to feel so protective over [Name] but some kind of fatherly instincts were awakened during the overblot.

He insists that he is the kindest father to his new daughter.

Crowley becomes a girl-dad.

He may or may not have tried to make her take his last name.

A new side of his personality does not like the idea of any of his male students making moves on his daughter.

He gaslights other students that he has raised [Name] since childhood and [Name] goes along with it, because no one can stop the headmaster once he wants to do something.

Crowley thinks Riddle is an exceptional student.

He is still protective of her around Riddle, though.

"She is much too young to be snogging boys at school."

That line had Housewarden Rosehearts sputtering.

It is much better if his daughter is in love with Riddle than with one of his more troublesome and scary housewardens.

He insists that his daughter is more feminine when he sees that she likes to present that way more than being masculine.

Crowley goes out of his way to say DAUGHTER and SHE with a flourish (to the point that he annoys other students with it).

Crowley is annoying but he means well. Surely.

Crewel becomes her weird uncle somewhere in this process because he thinks Crowley is a little too lax.

Crewel also gives better romantic advice than Crowley does x10

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle is intimidated that [Name] is Crowley's daughter now.

Crowley is a lot to deal with and Riddle shies away from her.

However, [Name] is always sweet to him, and goes out of her way to talk to him, and because of this, he begins to talk to her more.

He thinks she is a nice person but is oblivious to his own feelings.

He doesn't know what to do and up asking Trey for help.

Trey has to be a Mom and a Dad to Riddle with his first real love.

[Name] might end up with Mom-Dad Trey Clover as well xD

Ace and Deuce pray for her, they are worried she will end up collared and try to look out for her while also being (terrible) wingmen in the whole situation. Trey-senpai has a migraine.

"[Name]," Crewel said, studying her expression as she sat in the empty classroom and worked on her homework, "Are you worried about something?"

"No..." she said, fidgeting with the pencil she was using to write her homework answers, "I just... Do you think my dad will be upset if I try to ask out a housewarden?"

Crewel thought about this for a moment before his expression relaxed into something softer than his usual smirk. He didn't see a reason to be so hard on the only female student in the school, especially not after hearing a few facts about her previous life from her self-ascribed father, that strange bird of a headmaster.

"I don't think he would be cross with you," Crewel told her gently, "Though depending on who it is both of us may worry."

She seemed surprised. They would worry about her? It felt like a foreign concept for her in a way. She was still getting used to the staff taking care of her like this, especially Crewel and Crowley.

"Ah?" [Name] managed to say, looked at him.

Who in the world did Crewel think... Who would worry them if she were to confess she had a crush? Surely not Riddle, right? He was a good student and a housewarden at that... Overblot aside.

"I'm not sure I trust Kingscholar. Though he doesn't seem your type."

"I mean... No, it's not Kingscholar-senpai..."

Crewel seemed relieved to hear those words from her.

"Then? Who—"

Crewel was cut off by a flurry of black feathers as her father appeared in between the two of them.

"[NAME]!" Crowley cheered as he rushed toward her to embrace her, even if it was complicated by the desk at which she sat.

"Hey... Dad!" [Name] managed, still growing used to calling him that.

Crowley smiled at her.

"How are you, my darling daughter?" he greeted her, speaking louder than may have been appropriate for the interaction.

Could he help it? He was so excited! And he wanted to know what Crewel and his daughter were speaking about. Their daughter? No. He couldn't think about that right now.

Something for later, maybe?

He returned his focus to his daughter.

"[Name]?" he asked again, pulling her from her thoughts.

"Huh? Oh! Right..." she said composing herself, "I'm doing alright. I was just talking to Professor Crewel about something I was worri—"

She did not get to finish her sentence before Crowley gasped oh-so dramatically. Worried? His daughter was worried? Why? Had he not done enough as a father? Was something wrong? Was she okay?

Too wrapped up in his emotions, neither Crowley nor his daughter (who was giving a more worried look at her father's outburst) noticed the deep sigh that escaped the black-and-white-haired professor's lips as he watched the two. They sure did get into... whatever word was best to describe such antics.

"Are you okay, [Name]?" Crowley asked her, studying her as if trying o see whether or not she was injured, "Did something happen?"

[Name] wasn't planning to tell him like this.

"No... Nothing is wrong. I just... I wanted to ask... I mean..."

She wasn't sure how to word it. This was awkward. She hadn't even been able to tell her crush how she felt yet. And now she had to confide in her overly dramatic father who might try to help her? Deuce and Ace were bad enough wingmen as it was. But, her DAD?

That was too crazy. Nope, nope, not happening.

Crowley waited for her to word her sentence this time.

"I like someone."

There, she said it! She did it! Sort of? [Name] wasn't sure if this answer was a "good enough" answer or was opening room for another secondary discussion about her love life. She had planned to maybe tell Crewel today, not their dad... not yet.

She didn't want him to worry.

"One of the students here?" Crowley asked her.

"Uhm... Yes..." she told him, wanting to be honest.

"A boy?"

He sounded worried now. He was kind of overprotective since that incident at Heartslabyul... Was this really going to be okay?

"I. Yes?" she told him, unsure if there were any female students besides herself at NRC.

She supposed there was always room for someone to be transgender that she didn't know about but to her own limited knowledge, everyone was a guy. And Riddle too was a boy.

"Hmm... Interesting. Very interesting, we had best—"

Someone cut Crowley off this time. A taste of his own medicine for that bird is what Crewel thought of the unforeseen event.

"Sorry to interrupt, I did knock" came a voice that she recognized.

Wait... [Name] knew that voice too well.

RIDDLE???

Her eyes widened at the sight of the red-haired boy in his dorm attire.

"Ah, am I intruding?" Riddle asked her.

She shook her head, face burning from embarrassment. He could have heard her. He could have heard how she felt about him. It had only been a short while since the incident and it wasn't time to be confessing her love. She still needed to get Deuce and Ace to calm down their (good-intentioned) attempts to "help" and ask Trey for his opinion. Trey was, after all, one of the people best at pacifying Riddle in his moods, and they had known each other for a while, right?

She sighed. Things weren't supposed to result in this!

"Rosehearts-kun!" Crowley greeted, switching gears instantly.

"Headmage."

Crowley smiled slightly though it was hard to tell if it was genuine.

"What did you need?" he asked the boy.

"I came to give you the notes from the last meeting."

Riddle had taken notes for the housewardens at their last meeting.

"Ah, thank you!" Crowley replied, taking the hard copy of the notes from Riddle as he handed them over.

Riddle nodded.

"That is all I needed," the Heartlsabyul Housewarden said a moment later, "My apologies for the interruption."

He turned to leave the room, saying a farewell as he did so.

"Good day, Headmage, [Name]-san."

"Goodbye, Rosehearts-kun!"

"Uhm! Bye, Riddle-senpai!"

The alchemy professor, the headmaster, and their the headmaster's daughter existed in a slightly awkward silence for a minute or two before it was Crewel who broke it with an observation.

"He's the one you like, isn't he?" he said.

[Name]'s reddened face grew two shades deeper. She was sputtering, unable to word herself properly. What did she say? How did he know? Was she obvious? Did Riddle know??!

"You like Rosehearts-kun?" Crowley asked, looking at his daughter.

She nodded.

"Despite recent events," Crowley said, "He is a fine choice from my current group of housewardens. Much better than some of the other boys in terms of safety. He will surely be as kind to my lovely daughter as I am."

Crowley smiled at her and she sighed.

At least he (and Crewel) seemed open to the idea. Now she just had to tell Riddle... But how would she do that? And wouldn't Deuce and Ace just complicate things? This would be an ordeal, wouldn't it?

.

.

.

Imagine the rest yourself~

.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Thank you for reading! Likes and reblogs are appreciated! Do NOT repost my writing/headcanons as your own >:c Check the top of my blog for the inbox status and read the rules before requesting. This is not a twst-only blog! ^^

[come-as-you-are-111]

HEAR ME OUT MAMAS

Daeho plays marbles in the games with his little sister reader.

give me a mix of ali/sangwoo and saebyeok and 240.

They are agruing on who takes all the marbles. Dae-ho thinks that you have the bag of marbles until BANG! She dead👹 because she switched the bags so ACTUALLY He has the marbles so her brother can live

please mamas🥺

“One win, One loss”

A/n: YK I HAD TO DO IT 4 YOU BBG THIS IS SOME GUT WRENCHING SHIT AND I RESPECT ITT! HOPE YOU LIKEEEE

Warnings: Gur wrenching angst, squid game gore, brother!Dae-Ho, Sister!reader

“Come on, Dae, just one more round!”

You laughed, flicking a marble across the pavement as the warm summer sun bathed the street in gold. Your little brother huffed, brows furrowed in frustration, his cheeks puffing out like they always did when he was losing.

“You cheat,” he grumbled, crossing his arms.

“No, you just suck,” you teased, ruffling his hair. He swatted at your hand, but you could see the small smile creeping onto his face.

It had always been like this—you winning, him losing. A never-ending game, one you swore he’d beat you at one day.

“One day, I’ll finally win.”

That was a lifetime ago.

Now, under the harsh, sterile lights of the Squid Game arena, that memory felt like a cruel joke.

Marbles weren’t just a game anymore.

They were a death sentence.

You stood across from Dae-Ho, gripping the small cloth bag in your hands so tightly your knuckles ached. You couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop the bile rising in your throat. Because this wasn’t like before. There was no rematch. No second chances.

Whoever lost this game wasn’t walking out.

“Take them, Y/N.” His voice was firm, no room for argument.

Your stomach twisted. No.

“Dae, don’t—”

“Just take them!” He shoved the bag toward you, his hands shaking. “I won’t let you die.”

He was serious.

Your little brother, your baby brother, was trying to throw his life away for you. And the worst part?

You knew he would.

You could see it in his eyes. The same eyes that used to glare at you when he lost a game of marbles. The same eyes that, even now, were still to you—still trusting you to win.

So you did the only thing you could.

You switched the bags.

With a shaky breath, you palmed a handful of small rocks you’d quietly collected from the ground. Then, in one swift motion, you switched your bag with his—or at least, made it look that way.

You acted fast, fumbling on purpose, letting both bags jostle against each other as you pushed one back into his hands. You made sure to keep his real marbles in his grasp while pressing the weight of the fake bag into your own.

You forced a smile. “There, happy?”

The speaker crackled overhead.

“Time is up.”

Dae-Ho’s breath caught. His grip on the bag tightened.

And then—realization hit.

His head snapped up. His face—God, his face—twisted in pure, raw horror.

“No. No, no, Y/N, what did you—”

Guards stepped forward. You backed away.

“Y/N!” He lunged toward you, but the masked men grabbed him, holding him back. He was screaming.

You smiled, a broken, fragile smile, the tears finally falling freely from your eyes. You didn’t care anymore.

“You finally won, Dae…”

Your breath caught as you spoke those words—the words you’d always dreamed of saying. He had won the game—but had lost everything that mattered.

His body seized with panic.

“No—no, no, stop! Please!” He was sobbing now, thrashing against the guards, his voice breaking.

But you just kept smiling, even as your vision blurred.

“I’m proud of you…”

And then, a loud BANG.

The world went silent.

Pain. Agony. A searing heat that spread through your body like wildfire. You collapsed to the ground, your chest tightening, your vision going blurry. Everything was falling apart, but the one thing that cut through it all was the sound of Dae-Ho’s voice, calling your name in desperation, in despair.

But it was too late.

You couldn’t feel your legs anymore. You couldn’t feel your fingers. You couldn’t feel anything except for the overwhelming emptiness that took over your chest as everything around you grew cold.

In his hands, sat the bag of little marbles.

His victory.

The one thing you’d promised to him. The one thing he had finally won.

The last thing you heard, before the world swallowed you whole, was his final scream.

“Y/N!”

A/N: hi my lil monster! How we likey? Honestly I LOVED this request also @takuma-talkz is legit like my bbg so I knew I had for do this first! I also have 2 more requests I should have out between today and tmr!

Love ya, Twilight

Taglist:

@amoristt @lousypotatoes @infinetlyforgotten @mirahyun @takuma-talkz @sxmmerchxld @multifandomgirllol @gizaspicebag

[yoyomomiko]

Headcanon of reader cooking with Sanji?

— SANJI ☆

pairings: sanji x female reader

cw: not proofread, probably contains grammar mistakes, english isn't my first language!!

— (a/n): this is such a cute idea I just HAD to write it (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠) so sorry of this is too short or boring!! -> m.list

Sanji is an absolute perfectionist in the kitchen, so if you're not experienced, he'll gently guide you. If you are, he'll still lowkey try to take over so that everything comes out perfect.

He loves seeing you in an apron. Bonus points if it's one that he picked for you. If it has ruffles, a cute design or is a bit too big for you so he can tie it snugly around your waist? He's in heaven.

I feel like Sanji would stand behind you while you chop ingredients, hands brushing over yours or gently grazing your hips, praising you for what a good job you are doing.

If you happen to be struggling with anything, Sanji will drop everything to help you. Even if something is burning on the stove, you take priority.

The moment he sees you lick a bit of sauce off your fingers, he's completely gone. He WILL grab your hand and kiss your fingertips, muttering about how even the food tastes better on you.

If you ask him to taste test something, expect him to be overly dramatic about how delicious it is.

When you try to feed him yourself, he melts. It's a special kind of intimacy for him. He'll take your wrist and kiss the inside of it before taking a bite of the food you're offering him.

If you attempt to cook a meal just for him, he will treat it like a 5 star meal. Even if it's something simple. It could have a terrible taste, yet he would still eat every bite with a straight face and praise you anyway.

If you get something on your face, he will chuckle and gently wipe you clean with his thumb.

He will not let you lift heavy pits or trays. "That's my job, love. I can't let your delicate hands get tired."

If you accidentally cut or burn yourself, he will PANIC like you've been mortally wounded. You won't be touching another knife until he's personally bandaged you and kissed it better

If you feed Luffy before Sanji gets to try your food, he will pout for hours, sulking like a child because he was supposed to try it first.

Also, you are NOT ALLOWED to cook for Zoro. No way, nope.

——☆

You stood side by side with Sanji, sleeves rolled up, both focused on preparing tonight's dinner. It was rare for him to let anyone help him in the kitchen, but for you? You were an exception.

"You're doing really good." He chuckled, watching as you sliced the vegetables in front of you. "I might have some competition."

You snickered, concentrating with steady hands. "You say that, yet you've already corrected me three times."

"Can't help it, love. Perfection is key." Sanji grinned, flipping something in the pan effortlessly.

You bumped your shoulder against his on purpose, a smile tugging at your lips. "Or maybe you just like bossing me around."

He dramatically placed a hand on his chest, acting offended. "I would never!"

The two of you worked comfortably, moving around each other easily. When you reached for the flour, Sanji was already handing it to you. When he needed an ingredient, you passed it before he even asked.

At some point, Sanji leaned over your shoulder, watching as you finished chopping up the vegetables. "You know..." He started, voice thoughtful. "I really like cooking with you."

You glanced at him, raising a brow as you smirked. "Yeah?"

He nodded, his eyes softening. "Mhm. Feels... Nice."

A few minutes later, Sanji finished one of the many dishes, holding it up and letting you inspect it. "What do you think, sweetheart?"

You took a bite, pretending to judge it seriously. "Not bad, cook."

Sanji scoffed, laughing. "Not bad?! That's all I get?"

"Maybe you need a little more practice." You replied with a smirk, shrugging.

He huffed, but there was something soft in his expression, his gaze gentle as his eyes scanned your face. "Alright then. Guess I'll have to keep cooking with you until I get it right, hm?"

★yoyomiko ★miko

[daylighted]

Hii! I really love your stanford!dean drabbles, soooo may I request a stanford dean fic with a shy!reader?? (kinda like nerd x jock dynamic) in which dean is trying to pursue reader but reader isn't sure if he really means it bc of his personality (mostly bc he is really flirty) and all with a bit of angst but also a lot fluff ofc (sorry if it's a bit cliche I'm a whore for this trope😭😭😭)

Btw hbd!!!!💝💝💝

thank u for the happy bday omfg 😭 it's still two months away unfortunately. LMAOFIDKDJ BUT I AM PUTTING THIS IN MY BACK POCKET TO REMEMBER THAT DAY !!!

anyways ahem let me lock in.

it's not that dean didn't have game, it seemed to be that dean had too much game. you didn't like when he leaned against the doorframe you were in, posing in that way that girls liked; ankles crossed, arms crossed, head tilted down to look at you. you didn't like the arm stretch pose over the top of the doorframe either. if he wasn't so attuned to how your face lit up in a blush when he was around, he would have been convinced that you just hated doors or something.

but no, you could talk to your friends just fine, it was just─ him. which is a hard pill to swallow in of itself, but some truths just couldn't be changed.

he'd make effort too, you know. really, desperately, lay it on thick to play the nice guy, the boy next door you seemed to want. it was hard, since that was the role he'd worked so damn hard to break out of, but he'd do it. there was something about the chase that had him coming back to you, even though the game wasn't nearly as fun for you.

dean didn't think, really, was the main point. didn't think about how intense this must have been for you, didn't think about the possibility of you just ─ not liking him back? didn't think at all.

he's outside your dorm to walk you to class. a habit for him, and an irritation for you. you never could get yourself to argue with him about it, though, the words always lodged in your throat. how did you, politely, tell a football guy to get fucked? he'd take it some other way. you knew football guys, and specifically, knew this one.

dean snatches your backpack from your arms before you can shrug it on, carrying it in front of him like a little purse. maybe, you kept him around for that, too. schoolbooks were heavy, okay?

but it's the little twitch in his mouth that seems to break you. "can you just... find someone else already?" you've come to know that smile as his only preliminary warning before he says something that burns your cheeks red and almost makes you believe that this pursuit is genuine, and not just to get in your pants.

dangerous smile. those dimples could just about make anyone's panties drop ─ you'd know, you were a self proclaimed part of that statistic.

dean actually looks taken aback, slowing his steps, and you'd almost feel relieved if you didn't feel so sick that you'd hurt his feelings. and, he had your backpack, so now it was awkward. now you'd have to snatch it back before you could scramble away.

"find someone else?"

in his head, he was breaking down your walls. slowly, but surely. and here was this painstaking reminder that every wall he broke was just replaced by another.

you stare at him for a long few seconds, the halls of your building thankfully empty, except for the two of you and every question hanging in the balance.

"i don't want someone else, sweet girl," he says, his face contorted in a wince like he actually was hurt by the suggestion at all. you recoil, too, but you don't back down. quiet as hell but a viper when you had to be. backed into this conversational corner, you had to be. "hell, you think i've been chasin' you around this whole damn campus because i'm waitin' to get bored of it and start somewhere else?"

he acts like it's an unreasonable suggestion. boys like him didn't go for the girls in the bleachers. boys like him liked short skirts and pom poms. at least, that's what the movies taught you. what was he going to do next, take off your glasses and tell you that you really were beautiful, who would have guessed?

when you don't answer, dean seems to shrink back a little. he shrugs his shoulders to adjust his backpack on his back, and yours that, at some point in these ticking minutes, he had slipped on his front. "believe me, honey, this is torturous for me, too."

"torturous?" you shake your head, internally wincing at how, of all of what he said, that was the thing you latched onto. "so go find─"

"someone else. i heard you the first time." dean shakes his head, clicking his tongue after another strenuous break of silence. "it's torturous," he says slower now, like you're the one who needs to be talked in gentle words to, not him, who's seen more concussions than he's seen his family, "because you are a breath away, and yet you are so damned determined to keep that breath between us. because you seem so weary, and strung up, like at any moment, i'm gonna pull the rug away and tell you that this was some joke, and you're gonna fall on your ass and feel awful."

well. it's not like he was wrong. but now the embarrassment is worn so prominently in the pink of your face, and those awful feelings he brought up are right there, if only because you'd been so convinced that he was a terrible guy without having any sort of evidence to back it up.

dean takes a step forward, not like approaching a wounded animal but rather like he's approaching a feral beast determined to snap at his fingers. "all i want," he breathes, shaking his head, palms up in some miniscule effort of surrender, "is to buy you a coffee."

"coffee," you echo back to him. you can't help it. you glance at his double backpack situation and you have to press your mouth together to keep from laughing. maybe dean wasn't lying about this, or everything else. would someone really willingly make themselves look so silly just to keep up a ruse?

dean nods. "coffee," he says, and he notices, of course he notices, that dazzling smile of yours. he's a strong man, but he can be made into something so weak with nothing but a pair of lips and glimmering eyes. "coffee yes?"

"you have class in ten minutes."

a shrug. two backpacks lift and fall. "conveniently, i've forgotten for the next forty five minutes about that class. whoops."

you have to look away. his eyes are so earnest and he is so surprisingly silly when he's not spouting cheesy pickup lines and doing stupid poses in doorframes that you almost cannot handle to face the full onslaught of his expression. again, he asks, "coffee yes?"

you huff out a laugh. what did you have to lose, really? you'd been planning to drown in classwork for a while at the library. coffee would definitely be needed to survive that.

with an exaggerated sigh, you manage to stutter out a, "coffee yes," if only so you could see that smile on his mouth again. you were weak, too, in that regard.

and so you got coffee with the football boy, and again the next day, and suddenly it wasn't such a scary thought to hold the football boy's hand.

[bithcisweartogod]

“lu guang?”

“hm?”

“do you believe in parallel universes?”

they’ve been sitting quietly for a while. it was an overall normal evening, except for the gloomy weather that’s been hanging around for some time. raindrops were hitting against their window in a steady rhythm and everything around looked rather grey, save for a little lamp on the table. lu guang sat on the sofa trying to read a book, but he’s been stuck on the same page for a while now, his focus hazy. cheng xiaoshi, after playing a game for about an hour, was staring into the window. rain oftentimes got him into this sort of mood. pensive. more quiet than usual. 

“why are you asking so suddenly?” - lu guang looked away from his book, grey eyes studying cheng xiaoshi’s hunched frame.

“just. dunno. so, do you?” - he asks again, gaze not leaving the window. 

silence was suddenly back between them, but it didn’t feel pressuring. lu guang had to think. scientifically speaking, the existence of parallel universes wasn’t totally in the realm of fantasy. yet still, it remained too complicated of a concept to grasp and even harder to fully believe into. though the same could be said about their powers, so, well, touché.

“probably don’t. but i wouldn’t reject the idea altogether”.

lu guang’s eyes caught sight of two droplets slowly making their way down the window. as they moved forward, the distance between them grew shorter and soon enough the droplets collided, merging into one. 

“and you?” - he asked cheng xiaoshi. 

a low hum followed.

“don’t know. i suck at physics and all that, but…the thought that somewhere out there, far far away through space and time, there’s one more me living a totally different life…it’s kinda interesting”.

he was looking at lu guang now, familiar glint in his eyes. it felt right. his eyes should always glow like that. as much as lu guang complains about cheng xiaoshi talking too much, prolonged periods of silence are way worse. they make lu guang shift in his seat uncomfortably, stealing glances at him, trying to understand if everything’s alright. 

“maybe there’s a universe where i’m an elite basketball player!” - cheng xiaoshi continues, actively gesticulating. - “or where i’m an actor, or— wait, what’s that expression? you think i don’t fit the role?”

lu guang chuckles, putting his book away. he’s not coming back to it any time soon anyway. not like he was immersed into it in the first place.  

“or maybe there’s a universe where you take your studies seriously and end up pursuing your masters degree like shanshan-jie”, - he says jokingly.

“no, no, no” - cheng xiaoshi waves his hands in protest, expression twisting in disgust. - “ew. what a nightmare. it’s like if…” - he looks up, as if searching for the right example on the ceiling. then he snaps his fingers. - “like if there was a universe where you’re an idol. dancing, singing, modeling, constantly in the public eye, no—”

“alright, i get it” - lu guang cuts him off. the description cheng xiaoshi gives actually unsettles him. 

“see!”

cheng xiaoshi looks at him, laughing, and it suddenly doesn’t matter that it’s pouring outside, because their photo studio is warm, filled with cheng xiaoshi’s laughter. 

“the changes could also be very small, you know”, - lu guang prompts, unexpectedly for both of them. - “like if you were shorter and i was taller”.

“you wish”, - cheng xiaoshi scoffs in return, but continues the train of thought. - “what if my hair was white and yours black?”

he shifts closer, picking a strand of lu guang’s hair and trying to put it on his head. lu guang hisses at a slightly painful tug. 

“how do i look?” - cheng xiaoshi inquires.

“idiot, how am i supposed to tell from that?”

he shoves him away, but cheng xiaoshi’s persistent, so he pulls his hair tie down and picks a long enough strand of hair, lifting it to lu guang’s face. 

“yup, that’s a no”, - cheng xiaoshi declares after a minute of careful consideration. 

lu guang fails to hide his surprise, eyebrows flying up as in asking really? that bad? 

“sorry, guang-guang, black’s not your colour. white suits you best”.

cheng xiaoshi ruffles his hair, ignoring lu guang’s annoyed protests completely, and pulls him closer, arm settling over his shoulders. and even though a second ago he was more than annoyed, now lu guang can’t find it in himself to try and wriggle away. so they both just seat there, eyes closed, listening to the drumming of rain drops against the window. suddenly cheng xiaoshi’s voice breaks the silence. lu guang turns to look at him.

“what if there’s a universe where my parents never left?”

the question hangs in the air, half-rhetorical, half-genuine. lu guang wonders how many times cheng xiaoshi thought about that. wonders if this question was the root from which this entire conversation stems. he wants to say something reassuring, but no words come to mind.

“then everything would be different”, - that’s what lu guang settles for instead. 

“yeah…”

cheng xiaoshi stares blankly at the ceiling, little bittersweet smile on his lips. he turns his head then, gaze catching lu guang’s.

“but you know what? even if there is a universe like that, and even if i had a chance to go there and leave this one - i wouldn’t”.

lu guang doesn’t dare to take his eyes off of him. no amount of timelooping could ever be enough for lu guang to study cheng xiaoshi through and through. a moment ago he was joking like a kid, and now he looks mature beyond his years. 

“you know what’s funny, i barely remember them. mom’s more clear in my memories, but dad just feels… blurry and distant. it’s like i don’t know them, not truly. and then i thought, what if in that universe i’d never get to spend my childhood with qiao ling? what if i’d never get to meet you?”

it’s rare to have cheng xiaoshi talk about his feelings so openly, and something tugs and pulls inside lu guang’s chest, aching with the love he has for him. “i’d never trade a life with you for anything too”, he wants to say. but it feels like too much. he hopes his face can tell everything for him. words were never a necessity between them anyway. and for some reason he feels that cheng xiaoshi understands everything. everything lu guang’s eyes scream about, everything his lips don’t allow to let out. they’re partners, after all.  “how sappy”, - he says instead, smiling, eyes locked on his. that surely destroys the intimate atmosphere between them, and that’s for the best, lu guang tells himself. he’s not sure how long he’d be able to bear it without doing or saying something stupid.

“how can you be so cruel, lu guang!?” - cheng xiaoshi exclaims, flailing his arms. - “i’m baring my heart out for you and that’s what you tell me? seriously, you—”

[olenoidedserratuspilled]

So I'm a gay man from a completely different part of the world from any of you, and so I don't have much insight into the dating culture of the US because I've never participated in it - or dating culture at all, really. Nonetheless, I'm gonna leave my two cents on this under the cut. Feel free to ignore them if you'd prefer to.

what's essential is understanding that other people including women are full humans just like you, who matter just as much as you.

I'm mostly sure OP already understands that. There's no indication that he doesn't, at least. In either case, this is by your own admission the bare minimum. We both know that the bare minimum isn't gonna cut it here.

there are so many women who are out there who want a guy who is caring and on top of his shit. like the bar is so low for some women, it's not hard to clear it.

See, showing other people that you're caring is hard, especially when you're showing it with the intention of pursuing them romantically - which, let's not kid ourselves, is the intention here. Even if you do mange to convey that - again, it's still only the bare minimum. It's good, sure, but not enough.

less dating apps, more befriending all sorts of people through hobbies and volunteer work.

"Befriend" is the key word here. Dating people you were friends with befrehand is complicated to say the least, we could have an entire separate thread about it, but to summarize my outlook I think it's half a matter of luck and half one of finesse. If you don't do everything exactly, perfectly right, it can easily end with both of you sad, angry and potentially traumatized - and it will be your fault, not in the sense you'll be blamed for it, but in that it'll be objectiely your fault.

figure out what you have to offer to the world, offer it, people will take notice.

Sure, they might. If they do though, will anyone want it? If they want it, why would they not seek it from someone else? Someone who's been doing it for longer, who's more skilled at it, or who's just got more to offer besides it? Just "having something to offer" isn't good enough, it's the bare minimum.

There's nothing you can offer that can't be easily found somewhere else. It doesn't matter who you are, there's always gonna be a billion other people exactly like you except better. And what, you want somebody else to settle for you when it'd be easier, less risky and more gratifying to just look for somoene better instead? That's selfish. I'm not being coy here, it is objectively, undeniably selfish to want that. I do need this to be clear: I'm not blaming anyone other than OP/the hypothetical man this advice is aimed at in this scenario.

it also really really sucks for straight women, my god does it suck ass. you need to understand the ways it sucks for women before you can improve your game, btw.

I mean, I think the ways it sucks are fairly obvious. A lot of people do it but at least for me it's kind of hard to ignore the murders, rapes and domestic abuse. By all means seek to understand them and work to not perpetrate them, but "Don't be a piece of shit" really doesn't paint a very clear picture of what, specifically, you're supposed to do beyond that point.

so many people want out of the box and are out of the box. go befriend and dare them.

If you pardon me being cynical (it's sort of my gimmick, if you couldn't tell), what reason do the people out of the box have to give some dumbass newcomer who just crawled out of the box the time of day? Just thinking "out of the box" isn't enough. It's the bare minimum. It's still just objectively not good enough.

you've set up an equation that means that you must always lose, and it's the type of equation that is primed to make you hate women.

I mean yes and no? From what I understood, one of the equation's components is "if a man fails to find a relationship, the failure is all his". If you interpret this as a false preconception that the world around you holds then yeah I can see how it'll lead down that path, but if you interpret it as true then at worse it'll just lead to hating oneself. Not ideal no, but at least no women are impacted as a result.

this equation is false, and based on false premises, that you and a ton of men and women think is gospel.

It depends on how you define false, really. If we go by objective, observable reality then actually both the presented equations are false and all human interaction is nothing but the absurd acts of chemicals (this is what I believe, to put all my cards on the table).

If you wanna be less Reddit-ey about it though, one could easily argue that - because "the equation" is, consciously or otherwise, upheld by the majority of the population (at least the ones involved in the straight dating scene anyway), then it's true in the sense that it is the social norm that you're expected to abide by. You can say it's morally wrong, sure, but it's still just as "true" as things like dining etiquette and formal grammar.

Feel free to ignore dining etiquette all you like, but you're gonna get a lot of mean looks from relatives and restaurant staff.

one of your falsities is that straight and bi women don't like feminine men. this is patently false. have you met a goth woman? have you met a woman who is in fandom? they are jerking it to the most pathetic and wet sissy rat men.

Fictional men and real men are radically different. For starters, fictional men are just plainly easier to grow emotionally attached to because they come with none of the... "Baggage", for the lack of a better word, and just because someone thinks baby-faced white twinks (because make no mistake, that is what 99.5% of fandom, regardless of gender, imagines when they hear the words "feminine man") look hot on TV doesn't mean they'd ever want to actually date one. Hell, even baby-faced white twinks are becoming kinda passé. Himbos are all the rage right now and I'm sorry but the average guy just isn't himbo material.

Another reason you shouldn't use people's attractin to fictional characters as a baromater is because fictional characters are just kind of... Innately superior to real people, in the sense that it's much easier to glance over all the less palatable aspects of their characters and focus exclusively on the aspects that appeal to you. You can't really do that with a real person.

This is of course not even taking cultural differences into account. I am gay myself and even I'm afraid of presenting as femininely as I'd like to beause (body image issues nonwithstanding) I live in rural Brazil and that's just not socially accepted here, be it by women or men. If I were a straight guy and I did try being A Little Gender and Gay I'd get rightfully told to go fuck myself.

So for my conclusion, I definitely don't know enough about the topic to say whether or not you're right about it, but the advice offered is only a basic foundation that only really helps if you've already got okay to good social skills - which let's be honest, just doesn't describe most men, straight or otherwise.

Even if a guy does every single thing you've advised here though, all he'll have accomplished is... Being a sort of okay guy, maybe. That's a good start for sure but even then you're still gonna fall short. You're still not gonna be interesting, or special, or exciting... Or good enough. And in my experience, if you aren't these things already, you'll probably never be.

TL;DR, here's my point: I think your advice is ultimately harmless, but commits the usual error of only providing a semi-real sense of hope. I'm willing to bet a lung that you and your casanove friends all have much, much more to offer to potential partners than anyone in this thread has or ever will have... And that's kinda the problem. The harsh reality you're avoiding is that some people aren't meant to find love - and if you haven't already found it, that probably includes you.

For what it's worth, I do at least have a boyfriend. We'll probably never meet IRL, but it's good enough for me. Maybe the real lesson OP and other guys should learn is how to acept the cards you've been dealt.

I looked at this thread

and it's another signal from the world of something like "sociosexual realism". Which is like, feminism or whatever told us that men and women were equally agentic, but unfortunately it was lying, and actually it's men's responsibility to be seductive, and if they fail at that then TFR goes down and the Amish win.

It's not just the thread, a lot of relationships and dates make me feel this way.

I'm stuck believing this unpleasant belief. What am I missing? Is the world not like that?

[sunseed-fandump]

Witch's Castle Headcanon Time Because I Said So

Since, in my own works, I imagine the Witch's Castle and Kingdom settings do exist in the same world (the games themselves taking place in different timelines) I've kinda developed a few headcanons revolving around life in the Castle itself! Y'know for funsies. :>

The Witch's Castle itself is rather isolated, this is because when the Witch of Light first built it she wanted it to be a safe haven for herself and her Coven-sisters. I imagine due to their powers and normal humans' general feelings towards witchcraft, they wanted to make sure they wouldn't be hunted down or have a random stranger stumble across their sanctuary. (Or like in the case of the Witch who would become First Grain Cookie, they didn't want anyone who would try to exploit them discovering their hiding place.)

The castle itself is huge because these are 13 witches who had to be entirely self-sufficient. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a wing for each Witch to have space to conduct her own branch of magical research. Not to mention space needed to create basic necessities like a greenhouse for food, a water pump for plumbing, etc etc etc. Even by human standards, it's ridiculously massive and very easy to get lost inside of.

Because the castle is so big yet so isolated, this has had an interesting affect on those who call it home. By Cookie standards, the castle could be considered a small continent in and of itself. There's a multitude of settlements and what could be considered independent city-states scattered throughout.

A common insult around the Castle is "Your batch should've burnt" not just between desserts but its used between non-baked residents as well, this little idiom has stuck in the common Castle vernacular even long after the Witch of Light and her coven-sisters vanished.

SPEAKING of the residents of the castle, as we've seen in the game, not all of them are desserts or food items, they're animals! But while some of them make sense like mice and chipmunks, other creatures should be way too big to fit in castle walls; like the Stag brothers and the Marlin Chefs. They don't LOOK like desserts, so I don't think they were baked, but if they're not desserts, what are they? Well, I wouldn't be surprised if they're a result of whatever Life Powder experiments were being conducted in the castle. When it comes to the Mice, the Life Powder might've given them heightened intelligence. And in the case of the animals that SHOULD be bigger, I personally headcanon that they started off as small things like figurines or toys that were brought to life via Life Powder; made "real" like Pinocchio but retained their small stature.

Most food and water in the castle does not have Life Powder in it. Where on Earthbread, it can be found everywhere, it's a lot more of a precious resource in the Castle. That's why the residents need a constant supply of Life Potion, since it's one of the few resources in the castle that contains Life Powder. Cookies on Earthbread don't need to worry about going stale from not drinking Life Potion consistently, because Life Powder is in the rain, the crops, everything! Life Potion still exists on Earthbread, however it functions more as a typical RPG Healing Potion.

The food grown in the Syrup Garden and the Temple of Abundance are a few exceptions to this, their goods are full of Life Powder, hence why crops grown in those places are so heavily sought after and their well-being is so vital to the Castle overall.

Unfortunately, there are very few left in the Castle who were around during the era of the Witch of Light. As such, when the Shadow Witch moved in, the mood towards Witches shifted from reverence to fear.

So don't say anything like "Witch's Blessings be upon you" in the Castle, you'll get some weird looks.

Most residents within the Castle are active at night since that's when it's considered "safest". As in: the Witch and other dangers SHOULD be asleep. Unfortunately for everyone, the Shadow Witch has a terribly inconsistent sleep schedule.

She's also a massive workaholic. Which does work in everyone's favor, because typically she's too tunnel-visioned on her work to notice little things.

Castle residents don't like being out in wide open spaces, as being out in the open means it's all the more easier for the Witch or her minions to find you.

[bellysoupset]

Coming Clean

His place was a mess and Max hadn't thought of it until they were, all three, standing before his front door. Wen was dwarfed in one of Vin's shirts and looking not one bit like herself, with none of the usual bright colors and glitter, and Vince looking like he hadn't slept in days, holding Max up since he was still struggling with the crutch.

"Uh- Maybe you guys should go..." He grimaced, as Wendy walked ahead to unlock the door. She frowned, glaring at him over her shoulder and threw the front door open, turning on the lights despite the fact it was day out.

"Ah... I see," he heard her scoff, while Vince ignored all of them and squeezed Max's waist, pulling him up with one arm so they could avoid the little step that separated Max's living room from the street.

Vince was in a mood, which Max wasn't sure what to do about. It reminded him of those early months when they were picking at each other, except he had no idea why Vince would be pissed at him for falling and breaking his ankle. Sorry?

"This won't do," Wendy declared, as they moved inside, and Max squinted to find her his kitchen. She was tiny, specially when not in heels, and easy to miss when wearing a gigantic black shirt, "this place is like a warzone."

"It's not that bad," Max groaned, as Vince planted him carefully on the couch. The headache had vanished, but his ankle was still throbbing. He felt gross all over, he wanted a shower, but he wasn't about to make himself an inconvenience enough and ask that. They'd leave soon, then he could figure out his bath situation.

Wendy ignored him, starting to take out all the items from his fridge and he saw her pile them up on the sink, mumbling to herself. Vince was standing in front of him, frowning, arms crossed.

Max glared back at him, "just spit it out already," he said, sharply, causing Vin's frown to disappear and his eyebrows to jump up in confusion.

"What?" He echoed, dumbly, while Wendy went on ahead to investigate Max's room and they heard her let out a very frustrated sigh, "I-I don't have anything to say..."

"You're glaring at me," Max rolled his eyes, squirming and using his elbows to lift himself up enough until he got into a more comfortable position. Wendy stomped back to the room, arms now filled with laundry and looking flabbergasted.

"How does an adult live like this!?" She exclaimed, causing Max's cheeks to burn.

"Oi, nobody asked you to do my laundry. Drop it-"

"Shut it," she turned to glare at him, quick as snake and Max's mouth clammed up, more than a little spooked at sweet little Wendy snapping at him. He let out a scoff to cover up the sudden embarrassment burning his cheeks or the fact his stomach sunk further and made him feel like his skin was crawling. Both Vince and Wendy were mad at him.

Wendy shoved it all inside his washing machine, not bothering to separate anything, not that Max cared, then she straightened up, "I'm going to the grocery store get some food that's not twenty days past its expiration date," she declared haughtily and Max rolled his eyes at the exaggeration. Sure, he was always cutting a bit close, but probably the expired items were because he hadn't been home in two days...

"Text me what ingredients you want-" Wendy tiptoed to kiss Vince and he stopped her, reaching for his wallet and handing her the whole thing, "thanks!" she beamed at that, before skipping to the front door, "and get Max under a shower, he's stinky."

"You're stinky!" He yelled after her, cheeks ablaze, and heard Wendy's silverbell's laughter before the door closed. Max let out a grumble, crossing his arms to his chest and avoiding Vince's eyes.

This was awkward.

"Are you feeling alright...?" Vince stumbled over his words and Max glared at him.

"Are you going to fess up what's wrong? You're acting super weird," he said, sharply, and Vin rubbed at his prickly cheeks, clearly upset.

"Wendy's right, you need a bath. C'mon, loop your arm around my shoulders-" with no effort at all, Vince wrapped an arm around Max's waist and pulled him up easily, dragging him further inside the house.

Max cringed, from the pain and embarrassment, as they walked past his messy bedroom. No wonders Wendy had fled, no lady should look at this. As if reading his mind, Vin let out a scoff, "you don't have drawers?"

"I don't normally have people over, now do I?" Max answered, biting down hard on his lip as Vince stumbled inside his bathroom and it caused a jolt of pain, "okay, get out now."

"Uh-hu," Vince had that deep frown back up again, as he perched Max on the edge of his tub and pushed his hands off the way, pulling at his shirt, "you're slowing me down."

"Get off me!" Max cried out, crossing his arms over his chest and stopping Vin from stripping him. Not only this was humiliating to his pride, but it was oddly reminiscent of a handful of his fantasies and Max's cheeks were cherry red. He didn't know what to do with himself, "go away!"

"You're going to get the cast wet!" Vince exclaimed back, pinching the bridge of his nose, as if Max was causing him a headache, "stop fussing and this will be over before Wen is back, okay-"

"I can strip myself!" Max tugged up his shirt, but then he planted his hurt foot on the ground in order not to sway and blinding white pain went up all the way to his knee. He clutched the shirt, folding on the middle and squeezing his eyes shut, while Vince promptly dropped to his knees in front of him.

"Max? Hey, buddy, look at me- What's wrong? You're so pale-" Vince's hands came to cup his cheeks and Max bit down a groan, little tears springing forth as he panted through the pain. One of Vin's hands came to cup his neck, while the other one was resting on his naked back, "breathe with me, c'mon."

"God..." Max's voice came out distorted and he gagged weakly at the pain, pressing the shirt to his mouth to muffle a retch, "sorry..."

"No, I'm sorry," Vince said quietly, pushing his bangs back, "I'm sorry, you're in this situation because I was a dick in the mountains, I kept pushing you and-"

"Did you shove my foot in the hole?" Max glared at him, rolling his eyes, "shut up. It's embarrassing enough I took you hiking and broke my foot and now you're here babying me, I don't- Is that why you're acting all pissed off? You're guilty?"

"I'm not pissed," Vince pouted, moving from his crouched down position to fully sit down on the ground, "well, maybe at myself..."

"That's so self centered, I break my foot and somehow this is about you," Max scoffed, opening a tired smile, "don't be stupid about it, it was an accident, Vince..."

Vince still seemed to be kicking himself, but he nodded, "okay... Can I help you in the bath, though? You've seen me naked, we're adults, if you get the cast wet it'll be hell to pay..."

Max knew he was right, it was just so much more than that. He let out a heavy sigh, "not quite how I pictured you undressing me," the blonde mumbled under his breath, reaching for his pants as Vince held him by the elbow and he didn't realize the words were out of his mouth until he saw an angry blush creeping up Vince's cheeks, under the 5 o'clock shadow and all the way to his ears, "shit. Shit, I-"

"That's fine," Vince dismissed him, lopsided smile on, whole face aflame, "I knew it, that's fine."

"You knew it," Max echoed, dumbly, heart racing in his ears and feeling like his face was tingling, "does- Wendy. Does Wendy...?"

"Yeah," Vin sighed, "I mean, you're not exactly subtle, Daniels."

"Oh man," Max pulled his arm back from Vince's grip and fell inside his tub, sweatpants still on, covering his face with both hands, "oh my god- Leave me here to die."

He heard Vince let out a cackle, "dude... Max. C'mon, it's alright. Look at me-"

"Fuck off," Max groaned, voice muffled by his hands, "this is so embarrassing. I bet the rest of them all know too... God. I wish I had died in that fucking mountain."

Vince let out a huff at that, "that's enough," he scoffed, grabbing Max's elbows and pulling him sitting up on the tub as if he was nothing, which did not cause a flurry of butterflies to erupt in his stomach, "it's not the end of the world, Leo used to crush on me before we were friends too-"

"So that's why you're so self centered," Max grinned, although his whole face was still aflame and he couldn't quite meet Vince's eye, "I'm sorry. I never meant for it to happen, I know it's super weird and I swear, I'd never-"

"Make a move on me because I have a girlfriend?" Vince interjected, lowering himself in order to force their eyes to meet, "yeah, I know. Wouldn't have succeeded if you did either," he shrugged and Max gulped down, feeling a little breathless like he had just been slapped. Of course, he knew all of this. That he wouldn't try anything, that even if he did Vince would not reciprocate, because him and Wendy were the real deal... Still, it stung.

He nodded, glaring down, at his cast foot, "can you get me some plastic bags in the kitchen? We can isolate the cast, it'll be easier."

"Yeah, of course," Vince let go of him, allowing Max to slide down once more inside the tub, "you good?"

Max nodded, gulped down the little knot in his throat, "embarrassed as hell, but yes. I'm fine."

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

By the time Wendy made it back, Max was settled in the couch wearing just basketball shorts and with his leg propped up against the coffee table, several cushions under it. His wet hair was spiked up and the pain was growing strong again, but he didn't feel like vocalizing that because the tension in the room was thick as fog.

Vince had opened all the windows and had removed his shirt since Max had managed to nearly drown in the bath — purposefully or not, they'd never know — and it was drying hanging on the bedroom knob.

"Here," Wendy sounded breathless as she pushed the door open with her hip and Vince leaped across the living room to retrieve the bag from her arms, "there's more in the car."

Vin nodded, putting away the bag on top of the sink and walking out of the room to retrieve the rest. Max let his eyes follow his back, longingly, before they were back and on Wendy. She was studying him, as she normally did, little smirk pulling on the corner of her lips, green eyes scrutinizing his face. Her hair was wet-

"Did you get rained on?" Max asked, gesturing to her hair and she wrinkled her nose adorably, making a face.

"Yeah," she walked closer, "you're looking kinda pasty there."

"I'm fine," Max mumbled, as Vince returned with more of the bags, "did you buy the whole grocery store?"

"I'm figuring you won't go shopping for a while now, will you?" Wendy rolled her eyes and he realized she had glitter on her lids that certainly wasn't there before. Glitter and under Vince's large shirt she was wearing a black flared skirt, instead of the shorts from before, "what? You didn't expect me to stay in those clothes, did you?" Wen pouted, catching him looking and Max rolled his eyes at her.

"No, of course not," he leaned his head back against the couch, settling down, "can you get me my cigarettes, gorgeous? They're in the pantry..."

"Nope," Wendy sat down on the couch with him, "I will do no such thing."

"Oh c'mon, I'm already in pain, you can't make me quit cold turkey too!"

"So you're in pain?" She raised an eyebrow, quizzically and Max blushed, glaring at her as she opened a victorious smile, "I'm not forcing you to quit, but you're not going to smoke inside the house. It stinks the whole place up."

"No, it doesn't," he grumbled, but couldn't bite down his smile fast enough. What a bossy little thing she was. Wendy ignored him, twisting up her body to grab one of the bags Vince was walking inside with.

"I got you this," she shoved her arm inside all the way to the elbow and pulled back a little glass bottle, encased by a cardboard wrapper which she promptly tore open and some wooden sticks, "to make this place smell like a house."

"I'm moved," Max snarked back at her, although he wasn't sure how much was sarcasm as she removed the seal from the bottle and pushed the sticks inside, a floral scent immediately coming up. The knot in his throat came back, from the bathroom, from Vince's rejection, "Wendy..."

"Yeah?" She sounded extremely proud with herself, looking around the room and getting up from the couch, planting the diffuser next to his TV and then walking back, meeting Vince's eye over Max's head, "you got everything?"

"I think so," Vince's voice came from the kitchen, "Max, you're not lactose intolerant, right?"

"No," Max squirmed, wishing Vince had disappeared in a cloud of smoke or stayed outside. He wanted to apologize to Wendy and it would be much easier if Vin was cooking in his kitchen, shirtless, half rained on, looking like a dream and having just rejected him.

All of this would be much easier if Vince could just go.

"Alright," Vince turned back around, twirling the knife in his hand and starting to chop garlic.

Wendy was watching Max once again as he looked away and he winced, patting the cushion next to him. She rolled her eyes, but obeyed and sat down.

"What is it?"

"I-" he couldn't finish the sentence. Max clammed up his jaw, then forced up a smile and gestured around, to everything she had done in the four hours she had been in his place already, "thank you. For coming, for being here. You're amazing."

It always seemed like she could read his mind, so Max was pleasantly surprised when this time she raised her eyebrows and blushed, "don't worry about it..." Wendy looked away, she had dimples when she smiled and bunny teeth, she was insufferably adorable, he thought.

"You're overdue your meds," Wendy decided, breaking the spell, jumping up and Max let his head fall back with a sigh, whole body loosening up. He was in so deep, there was no saving him now.

His living room smelt like bamboo now.

TBC