#i'm not super interested in him in and of himself

[zepskies]

Hehe oh don't worry, Beth, I fully intend to continue this! A lot of people want more Professor Dean. 😏❤️

There’s something about Professor Winchester isn’t there? He’s Dean, but so sophisticated - such a breath of fresh air - I love it! And Benny as a professor too lol - I don’t think I saw what he taught, but that would be real interesting to see with the accent 👀 I had a little chuckle at Dean teaching mythology as it was

Yesss, a little more sophisticated is the right word! I tried my best to make him feel like Dean, just a bit more refined and educated, as he would be with the premise of him graduating high school and going to college up to his master's.

Oh I didn't mention what Benny teaches yet, but I'm planning on making him an Economics professor! 😂

Dean teaching mythology was part of the request, but it made so much sense for him in my mind that I had to do it lol

The more I think about it, the more intimidating it is. He’s sitting down, he stands, and bam, the punk Brady is looking up at six feet (I always have to do a mental calculation for feet lol) of Dean. I was hoping he’d step in earlier, but it was probably safer to wait as he did.

Right?? Dean is like 6'1', 6'2"? And with the long black coat I feel like he'd be super intimidating, tall and broad with a killer stony face lol. Brady didn't stand a chance on this one! 😂

But yeah I wanted Dean to give her a chance to handle it himself before he felt compelled to step in on the situation.

And I'm so glad you liked the subtle touch on the small of the back -- that's exactly where I meant for people to melt. 😉 I fall for protective Dean every time, and the small of the back is just a hint suggestive enough that you get a feel of how Dean really feels inside toward her. ❤️

And he’s fumbling, too ❤️❤️❤️ - sophisticated and slightly awkward 😍 but you still captured Dean in there T the same time.

Hahaa he's adorkable, isn't he? 😂 I'm so glad you think he still feels like Dean!! I tried really hard on that bit ❤️❤️

Once she graduates it’s all free game, right?

Oh yes, but the challenge is, can these two hold off to explore their connection until after she graduates? 😏

10 'Til Midnight

Pairing: Professor!Dean Winchester x Student!Reader

Summary: A chance encounter outside of the classroom shifts the way you see your professor. Forever.

AN: Here’s a one-shot for @chevroletdean's 500 follower celebration! This also fulfills a request for one of my lovely Patreon members, @redhoodieone, who wanted to see AU Professor!Dean with a plus-sized student!reader. The reader is a graduate student (mid-20s) and Dean is in his 30s in this, so not really a wide age gap, but we’re still flirting with a gray area here lol.

Word Count: 4K

Tags/Warnings: graduate student!reader, plus-sized!reader, Shakespeare geekery, mythology and other nerdy classic lit. references, AU Brady sighting, sexual tension, mutual pining(?)

The ash cloud of exhaust rose up from the sidewalk steam grates. It infiltrated your nose as you hurried down a few well-worn concrete steps and into the bowels of the subway, a transition into deeper darkness.

To you, that acrid, mini plume of pollution was the smell of New York City; old cigarette buds and weed hash, fresh tequeños and hot dogs wafting from the open door of the bodega on the corner, mixed with a whiff of piss.

This was the city of broke creatives clinging to their fragile dreams with both hands, usually while the natives rolled their eyes. You were one of those shiny happy people with a dream behind your eyes, especially tonight. You finally got to see a play on Broadway, an excellent production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

You replayed your favorite scenes in your mind like 1940s movie reel, except it was live in technicolor. An unconscious smile spread across your lips, but you had to hurry. Your train was about to leave in…

You checked the time on your phone—ten minutes to midnight—and compared it to the digital sign up ahead. Your eyes widened.

Shit! One minute?!

You had no choice but to try and run in your heels. That had you skidding to the open doors as they began to close, but you just managed to slip inside, albeit literally slipping with a yelp.

A man saved you by grabbing hold of your arm and waist before you fell, bunching the fabric of your coat beneath his hand. You gasped when you stared up at a familiar face. A sharp jawline covered with stubble, just neat enough to be respectable; dark brows shaded over green eyes, trained on you; bowed lips pursed with confusion.

“Professor?” you said, breathless and shocked.

He was just as baffled, but he finished helping you up as your name fell from his lips.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded and thanked him for the save, still catching your breath.

“Here, sit down,” he said, gesturing to a couple of empty seats on the subway. You joined him in sitting, though you ignored the stare of the guy standing closest to you who was holding onto a rail. He wore jeans and dirty hipster Vans, a brown bomber jacket and a gray beanie. The stench of weed and cheap cologne clung to him.

And his gaze followed you until you sat down. Slightly unsettled, you were subtle in the way you angled yourself toward the man beside you.

Professor Dean Winchester.

He really was the last person you expected to see on your way home tonight. You still couldn’t believe you ran right into him!

But then, you noticed the playbill sticking out of his coat pocket (his coat looked more expensive, a dark charcoal gray with a high collar, and it suited him).

“Oh, you…you saw the play too?” you said in excitement, showing him your own playbill that you fished out of your purse. You’d told him about it a month ago, after his lecture on fairy lore. You thought he might enjoy a play that was all about the convergence between the fairy realm and the human realm.

He’d admitted that he’d never seen a Shakespeare play live, but he said he’d look into it. You didn’t think he was actually taking you seriously though.

“Uh, yeah, I did. I’ve never been a big Shakespeare guy, truth be told, but you hooked me,” he said. When he smiled, it made the corner of his eyes crinkle a little.

You couldn’t help but smile too every time you noticed that…even though it made your cheeks warm in a blush. He really had no business being this handsome. And the suit? All crisp and black, paired with a classic, off-white dress shirt and a black pinstripe tie.

Clearly he’d dressed for the occasion of going to the theater, because usually he was one of the chilliest professors you knew. He showed up to class in jeans, boots, plain henleys and jackets, though never without his watch, a classic leather time piece with a silver watch face and bold black numbers. It was so vintage, you’d asked about it once when you met with him to talk about one of your essays on Native American burial practices. He’d told you that the watch belonged to his father, who passed away a few years ago now.

“So what’d you think?” you asked. “Weren’t the sets beautiful? It was so ominous and creepy in the ‘forest,’ and ethereal too, like the fairy realm part of it.”

He nodded, smiling slightly wider at your enthusiasm. “Yeah, was a good production. The actors were top-notch.”

“Oh, incredible. That was the best Bottom I’ve ever seen.” You paused, realizing what you said, and a nervous giggle tumbled out of your mouth. “Well, the character. Not the ass—donkey—whatever. You know what I mean.”

The man laughed, rich and deep and washing over you pleasantly, even though you half covered your face in embarrassment.

“Can’t argue with you there. The ass was hilarious,” he smirked.

Another giggle, and you flipped through the playbill again to distract yourself from looking at his ruggedly chiseled face. Why, oh why did he have to be so fucking attractive? And somehow he was still single. You’d heard some of the girls in your class whispering about it after class one day—a full-on engagement that fell apart two years ago.

“But really, the actors who played the couples in the love quadrangle were awesome,” you said. “Helena was my favorite.”

He raised his dark brows. “Really? The girl who gets shit on the most in the play?”

That was another thing. He didn’t really talk like any professor you’d met in your life. You let out a snort of laughter.

“I don’t want to be her, I just think she did so well at showing that vulnerability,” you explained. “There’s nothing worse than being in love with someone who doesn’t even see you, you know?”

He tilted his head, his amusement fading as he listened. You felt emboldened to continue your thought.

“In her mind, she’s probably thinking, ‘Well, even if he’s yelling at me, at least he’s acknowledging I exist,’” you said, “which is incredibly sad and isn’t giving Shakespeare many brownie points for feminism, but it’s a reality that some women go through.”

After a moment, he seemed to see your point with a nod of his head.

“That’s fair,” he said, arching a brow. “Though I gotta hope you don’t let any guy talk to you like that.”

You shook your head with a smile, but before you could answer him, your phone slipped off your lap and tumbled to the dirty subway floor. You twisted away so you could reach down and grab it, but you caught that whiff of cheap cologne again. Gray beanie guy let go of the rail and bent down to scoop up your phone before you could. You offered a polite thank you and went to take it back, but he held it out of reach at the last second, giving you a teasing smile.

“How about I put my number in first, so you can call me when you get home,” he said. “I’m Brady, by the way.”

That oh-so-gracious offer was followed by a glance down your dress. You sat up straighter, adjusting the collar of your coat back over your neckline with a weary huff.

“Ah, you know what, I’m good with just my phone…please.”

This was why you kind of hated the subway. You didn’t know when you were going to have to interact with a creep trying to steal your phone, shoot his shot, or look down your dress as a consolation prize.

You held out your hand expectantly, but still, “Brady” didn’t take the hint.

“Aw, what, you have a boyfriend or something?” he asked.

“Oh my God. Are you fucking serious?” You sighed and decided a white lie was best here. “Yes, I have a boyfriend. Now give me my phone, please.”

“Hmm. Is it like beginning stages, or...?”

“Jesus Christ, dude.”

“Hey, I’m just saying, maybe we can grab a bite to eat, theeen you know. If things are going well, we could take things back to your place,” he said, his brows popping with sleazy suggestion. He still held the phone away from your grasping hand in frustration.

“Hey,” a deep voice cut in. 

You hesitated, glancing back at Professor Winchester. He glared up at Brady with a stony look that you’d never seen on him before.

“Give her the damn phone,” said the professor. His tone boded no argument.

Still, Brady pushed his luck.

“What, you her boyfriend or something?”

The professor didn’t bother to answer the question, but he stood from his seat, his long coat draped down all six feet and change of him, broad shoulders and calm confidence. He stared down at the lankier, scruffier pothead. Then he held out his hand.

Brady shifted back on his heels, seeming to realize that he didn’t want this version of Midnight on the Orient Express—the kind that ended up on the 6 o’clock news the next morning. With a roll of his eyes, Brady dropped the phone into your professor’s hand, complete with a dickish quirk of his lips. Professor Winchester gestured at him to fuck off.

“Walk away,” he said.

To your astonishment, the Brady just tossed him a “fuck you, bro,” and went to the other end of the car. You stood up too, just as the subway pulled to a stop. Professor Winchester handed you the phone.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“Is this your stop?” he asked, still glancing back with a suspicious eye at the asshole still glaring at your backs.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“Okay, come on,” the professor said. He laid a guiding hand on the small of your back and joined you in stepping out of the subway car. To your relief, Brady stayed on the train.

“Thank you,” you said again. “Really, you didn’t have to miss your exit for me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean said, with a shake of his head. His frown was still in place just thinking of that fucking loser. “I’ll have better peace of mind knowing you got home safe.”  

Once you told him that your apartment was another few blocks away, he knew he was going to be walking you home. You told him you weren’t that new to the city, but in his mind, it still wasn’t a safe neighborhood for a young woman to be walking around by herself at this time of night.

He had no other motive than that, however…

He’d been pleasantly surprised to see you tonight. You were a flash of scarlet that tumbled into his arms, the scent of your floral perfume teasing his nose before he caught sight of that little dress clinging to your curvy form, ending just a couple inches above the knee. But you drew your wool coat closer to your body, hiding the tantalizing flash of red from view.

It was for the best, he thought, as he cleared his throat and tried to find something else to focus his eyes on while you two walked together. He couldn’t help but land on your face again, on your pretty painted lips.

A deep, full-bodied red.

It was a familiar shade. You’d worn it before, while chewing the end of a pen absently in concentration during one of his lectures on the difference between skinwalkers and shapeshifters—those long, pointed nails tapping a quiet rhythm against the plastic. It was one of your many quirks, but only now did he realize how much he’d actually noticed about you. If nothing else, he always knew he had your attention.

He also knew you were getting a master’s degree in English, and you were taking his class as an elective. You’d actually sought him out before the semester started to make sure you got a spot in his class.

“Sorry, sir, I know it’s early. I’ve just been trying since last year to get into this class, and I really wanted the chance to take it before I graduate this year.”

He’d shifted in his swivel chair with his jean-clad legs casually crossed. He bounced a tennis ball against the wall, as was his habit. (Mostly because it bothered Benny, who had the office next to his.)

The repetitive bounce really helped him to think sometimes; it was basically his version of a fidget spinner.

“You like mythology that much, huh?” Dean asked.

“Oh, yeah!” you said, as your eyes lit up. “I find it so fascinating how every culture in the world has their own stories that have still survived for thousands of years. Some of them even overlap. Like, maybe it’s technically a different creature, but they have the same name, just in another language. Or it’s the same creature, different backstory. It’s like any novel I’ve ever read—similar tropes, but the style, the packaging. That’s what becomes new and creative.”

Amusement tugged at Dean’s lips.

“Same candy, different wrapper, right?” he offered. His reward was your bright smile.

“Yeah, exactly.”

He’d approved your request without a second thought. Unlike 95% of the students who came and went through his classes, you weren’t just smart. You cared. You had a passion for this stuff…and it mirrored his own.

“So, uh, you liked that play, huh?” he asked. Wanted to rub his hand over his face right after. Smooth, Winchester.

But it succeeded in brightening your eyes again.

“Oh yeah. People tend to think of it as one of Shakespeare’s sillier plays, but it drops some interesting ideas about love, for example.” All while you spoke, you spun vivid gestures with your hands.

Dean’s remained in his coat pockets, but watching you made his smile deepen. He liked when you got like this, so animated and alive with your thoughts. It threatened to draw him out of his somewhat jaded shell.

“Oh, yeah? Like what?” he asked. Not because he really wanted to talk about what some sixteenth-century ye olde-y English douche thought about love, but because he wanted to hear you explain it.

You didn’t disappoint.

“Well, there’s the famous Lysander line, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth,’” you said, “but that’s not even my favorite. That’s boring. That’s every rom-com ever, from Harry Met Sally to While You Were Sleeping, all the way to He’s Just Not that Into You, and Crazy, Stupid Love.”

Dean had to interject. “You watch a lot of chick-flicks, don’t you?”

Your lips puckered, but the amusement in your eyes answered his question.

“Like I said, I think Helena is the most underrated tragic figure in the whole story. Yeah, she’s pretty much a doormat, following Demetrius around even though he claims he’s in love with her best friend. Even though he curses at her, threatens to kill her if she keeps annoying him, following him around like an abused puppy. We can agree, he’s like, the biggest asshole in existence, right?” you said.

“Oh, very much agree. You want some coffee?” Dean asked, pointing to a guy selling warm pretzels and drinks from his vendor cart on the side of the road. It had stopped snowing a few days ago, but the February air was still sharp and bitterly cold at this time of night. If only it were midsummer.

“Uh, you know what, I could go for some tea. Thank you,” you said. But you didn’t let that derail you from your thoughts on Shakespearean love. You were still waxing literary analysis while you dug into your purse to find your wallet, but by the time you got it out, Dean had already paid for both drinks and a large soft-baked pretzel.

Your brows furrowed. “Oh! I meant to pay for my part—”

“Don’t worry about it. Here, take half,” Dean said, and he shot you a smile while handing over your hot tea and half of his pretzel. He got your eyes to light up for a different reason as you took the treat. You thanked him with a sweeter smile.

Then you took a bite, and you kept talking.

“But then she says, ‘Love can transpose to form and dignity.’ It can make us act like idiots, right? I mean, back in high school I wrote my boyfriend’s essays for a whole year because I didn’t want him to fail English, and let’s face it, he could barely spell his own last name.”

“Yikes,” Dean chuckled. Sounded like a GED and a gas station job in that guy’s future.

“Right? And what did he do? He dumped me the week before prom because he knew Ruby Summers would put out.” You rolled your eyes, accepting Dean’s sympathies with a gracious nod and a dismissive hand wave. Still, he hoped all you’d given to that guy was your time.

"Well, the guy you're seeing now better be treating you better," he said.

You blinked, your brows furrowing a bit in confusion, until realization dawned on you.

"Oh, I don't have a boyfriend," you said with a small chuckle. "That's just what I tell pushy weirdos on Subways."

Dean was tripped up for a second, but he eventually quirked a smile.

“So anyway, my favorite bar of the whole play is what Helena says in Act 1,” you said. “‘Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.’”

In that moment, Dean’s eyes were a little too captivated.

But you broke the spell.

You glanced ahead to continue along the crosswalk with him, taking another warm, soft bite of pretzel.

“And that’s why Cupid’s always painted like a blind baby…or something like that,” you said. You laughed a little, and you seemed to realize just how long you’d been yapping his ear off. You came to a stop at what he assumed was your apartment building, but you suddenly got quiet. Embarrassed.

“Sorry, once I open my mouth on this stuff, I can’t really stop unless someone stops me and tells me I’m literally killing them with words that don’t make sense.”

“You’re making a whole lotta sense to me,” Dean replied. And he realized that he meant it. He rubbed his chin in thought. “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. I like that.”

Your mind seemed to be a hamster wheel on steroids, but he kind of liked that too.

“Well, did you like the play?” you asked, smiling in embarrassment. “Sorry, can’t remember if I even asked you that yet.”

He chuckled. Even if you had, he didn’t mind answering again.

“I like it more now, hearing you talk about it,” he said. But maybe that was too honest. He padded it with something more appropriate, as your instructor. “It makes sense, since you’re an English major, but your passion always comes through in your essays. I’m really glad you decided to take my class this semester.”

You demured further at the praise. “Oh, thank you. It really is my favorite class so far this year, but…that’s because you’re the one teaching it. You're really good at telling stories. You make them simple and easy to understand, even when we're talking about hell hounds and old ghost stories, or the uh, Oedipus complex, or something.”

Dean chuckled, but it was his turn to be touched, even if it surprised him too. You were just so honest and free enough to speak your mind. It was refreshing.

“Well, thank you. Glad to hear at least one person’s getting something out of it,” he said, his smile warming for once.

You smiled too, looking at him through your lashes. “All right well, thanks again for walking me home. I’ll, um…see you on Monday-ayy!”

You stepped up onto the first stair leading up to your apartment and caught an icy patch with your red-bottomed heels. A gasp fell from your lips as your arms spun out to catch yourself on anything that could keep you from falling, and that happened to be Dean—specifically his coat, and then his biceps when he moved in fast to keep you upright.

He ended up gathering you into his arms while you clung to his coat. Your red nails bit into the dark fabric. In his mind’s eye, he could imagine them popping the buttons of his dress shirt, carving shaky lines of heat and pleasure across his skin.

Fuck. He bit the inside of his cheek hard to rid himself of that image, his jaw ticking in response. But another one just replaced it when his gaze met yours, half-lidded and shocked, but…contemplating.

Hot breaths mingled in between, puffing visibly on the cold air.

“God, I’m sorry!” you breathed.

“Don’t worry about it.” He cleared his throat past the slight roughness in his voice. “You all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, um…Take Two,” you said, laughing weakly.

You aimed to let him go and continue on up the stairs by yourself, but Dean couldn’t stop himself from trying to help you. He held your elbow at least, with a hovering hand by your waist in case you slipped again. When you finally made it to the door, you paused and turned to look at him over your shoulder. Again, that look in your eyes said you were debating something in your mind.

“You okay?” he asked again.

You nodded. “Yeah, I just, um…you know what? Never mind. Uh, good night. And see you on Monday!”

Dean nodded, giving you a casual salute. He didn’t leave until you got in the building safely, but for his entire long walk home, your face wouldn’t leave his mind. That look of internal conflict, like you’d been weighing some kind of pros and cons. He had to wonder…

Had you been about to invite him up to your apartment?

But no. Fucking no. He dismissed that thought as soon as it came. He was almost ten years older than you. Didn’t stop Catherine Zeta-Jones from hooking up with Michael Douglas. She’s barely pushing fifty while he’s halfway into Senior Depends.

Second problem. Career ending and reputation ruining and his own clock punch at the local 7/11—kind of a problem.

You were a student.

Grad student, came a whisper from the back of his mind.

In Greek mythology, the golden apples of Hesperides in Hera’s garden were guarded by a dragon. The Norse gods also believed in their own version of immortal golden apples, harvested by the goddess Idunn. Sounded a bit like Eden, right? As in, the Judeo-Christian Garden.

As in, forbidden fruit.

What did they all have in common? There was always a consequence to the taking and sampling part. The question was, is the price worth how good it tastes?

Remembering the feeling of your soft curves under his hands, Dean had a feeling it would be more than fucking worth it.

But he shook the thought from his head, his fingertips digging into the soft insides of his coat pockets.

He was your professor. That was where those thoughts should end.

You didn’t even see him that way…did you?

You shucked your heels off as soon as you got inside your apartment. You heaved a deep sigh and shed your purse, your coat, your earrings and necklace, which you set down on the nightstand in your bedroom. You sat on the edge of the bed and fell back onto the creaky mattress.

Your hands came to rest lightly over your stomach, a safe place, while you thought back to how Professor Winchester held you so tight. Secure. Gentlemanly.

How he looked at you, his green-eyed gaze falling to your lips, like he was contemplating the best way to close that distance, bowing his head those last few inches and…

You forcibly shook your head. He was your goddamn teacher.

It didn’t matter that he was probably the youngest faculty member on campus, and you were a twenty-five-year-old graduate student. Whether or not the man was “age appropriate,” he was still your professor. You couldn’t think about him like that.

And he absolutely didn’t look at you like that…

Did he?

AN: Sorry again for all the nerdy lit. tidbits, but I had fun. 😂 I'm thinking about expanding this into an actual little series, so let me know what you think! ❤️

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[dark-lord-of-awesomeness]

I saw your tags from the post about Stanley not breaking Ford's project. I just wanted to add: imagine if Ford realized the truth years later when Crampelter told him that HE broke his project. Like "I'm a changed man and I want to get this out my chest: I'm the one who broke your project in high school. But since your life seems to be good, then it probably didn't matters hahaha— why are you having a breakdown right now?"

Oh Ford would be so devastated, especially because there was a whole second half that got cut in the tags when i hit reblog:)

For those of you interested, here's the OG post

(Also, if anyone knows how to make the link smaller, i'd appreciate it. I don't know why its so big)

I had a whole thing about Stan, getting accused of breaking Fords project and no one believing him when he says he didn't do it (not even Ford), goes back to school and finds evidence that he wasn't responsible, like a video or someone else fessing up to it. Only Ford doesnt want to hear it, too stuck in his own hurt to listen to what Stan has to say. They have a whole argument that ends with Ford shouting at Stan to actually own up to something for once in his life and grow up.

Cue hurt feelings.

Well, since Stan knows he's innocent, and therefore owes Ford nothing, and Ford doesnt want to hear about said innocence, he's going to use his hurt feelings and anger to fuel his petty ambition of one upping Ford. Ford wanted to ditch Stan and become a famous scientist? Well now Stan's going to do that. He goes to school, manages to scrape enough passing grades to graduate and works in the evenings to feed himself, graduates, and goes to college. Its not Backupsmore, for two reasons.

This is not a college reconciliation story

Stan's college is actually halfway decent. Its not great, but its not bottom of the barrel, for a reason that will become important later.

Stan's now in college, working to get any kind of fancy science degree, where he meets (Drum roll) Emma-May! She becomes his new BFF and helps tutor him, through their shared love of pettiness and crime. They meet by both breaking into the same terrible professors office, Stan to cheat and mess him up because he's a jerk, Emma-May to riffle through his files and also mess him up because he's a jerk. Stan's a great partner in crime, and together they manage to graduate and get their degrees. Stan doesnt have a million phds like his brother surpress-a-lot, but he's got maybe one and a grant to study what he came to school to study.

Anomalies.

Ford was always going on about them, so Stan's going to discover something, publish it, and become super famous. Finds the perfect place to start and everything! He's got a place, money, a friend (who, aw dang, couldn't make it to her wedding because he was working/studying or whatever, but he sends her a card and calls to congratulate her).

Then four years after getting kicked out, he moves into his new house/lab/base of operations in Gravity Falls. Surely this is where he'll one up Ford! He's going to shove his success in Fords face and then who will be sorry for ever doubting Stan's ability to grow up and get things done!

Cue pikachu face spiderman meme in the grocery store as the new scientist Dr. Pines meets the new scientist Dr. Pines. Their labs are either on opposite sides of town or right across from each other, and now they are racing to be the first one to discover something truly grand about Gravity Falls. Stan would have published in year one but he knows if he does it too soon with something small beans Ford will swoop in with something more impressive immediately just to mess with him. Both of them summon Bill and Bill pops up to both because its hilarious, but Stan clocks him immediately, then goes to Fords house the next day and says 'oh i bet you fell for that triangles tricks didn't you! LIKE THE SUCKER YOU ARE!!" and Ford can't admit that he did so now he only talks to Bill to vent about Stan but also knows Stan's probably right but he has to prove him wrong! Meanwhile Stan just gets angrier and angrier, because Fords using every opportunity to show off how smart he is, and can't even let Stan have this one thing. Fords a genius! He can do whatever he wants! Stan fell in love with looking at all the strange and cool things in the woods and this is all he has going for him, and Ford's being a jerk by not backing off and finding some other field to excel in.

The portal never happens, because both of them are too busy spying on what the others doing and trying to out do them in some manner. Stan makes fun of Ford for going to Backupsmore, both as a proud alumni of a better college, and to really drive it in that Ford could have done better with his better grades and smarts, but went to the worst out of some sort of 'if i can't have the best why even try for anything good' mindset. Ford hate's it because Stan very much has a point.

SO if Crampelter ever came forwards and admitted to Ford that he broke his project, Ford's world immediately drops as he realizes he is now the bad guy in Stan's story. Stan was innocent, told him he was innocent, found some kind of proof 10 years ago about being innocent, and Ford turned his back on him and trusted the words of everyone around him that his brother was a scoundrel who was jealous of his success. He didn't see his brother for four years over this, and their pa kicked him out. He's spent the last 6 in some kind of weird science off competition, growling about how Stan's a con man who lied his way into a degree for the sake of petty revenge (which he's sure Stan did! He's sure! Stan's a trickster and a liar and-and)

And his twin brother, who's been his neighbor for six years and maybe even tried holding out an olive branch once or twice that Ford snuffed because it was never an apology like he wanted. Because Stan was never going to apologize, because he never did anything to apologize for.

Anyway Ford would drag his feet over to Stans, apologize and tell him Crampelter confessed, then immediately get punched because really? Stan's been telling him for years that he didn't do it, and Ford only believes it because the truth came from someone else? Anger! Anger towards brother a hundred years!

Now the shoes on the other foot as Ford's scrambling to figure out what he's supposed to be doing about all this while Stan's a pile of misery over Ford trusting their childhood bully more than Stan himself. No idea how this would shake out long term, but its what i got.

[star-crossed-fates]

Even My Damnation Spells Your Name

Chapter 12: We Begin in the After

Synopsis: In a city of steel and stars, you fall in love with a man the world calls a monster. He looks at you like you’ve haunted every life he’s ever lived. Sylus is danger wrapped in silk, secrets stitched into every glance, every touch, every word spoken like a spell. He’s yours before you even realize what you’re remembering.

Because this isn’t the first time.

Dreams unravel you. Memories not your own. A dragon’s death cry. A kiss beneath bloodied skies. A love too eternal to stay buried. As the past bleeds into the present, you begin to piece together the truth. Some memories burn brighter than the stars, others wound deeper than any blade.

And love, no matter how timeless, always demands a price.

Pairing: Female! MC [Named] x Sylus

Rating: Explicit 18+ [MDNI]

Spoilers: Sylus's myth cards/memories. Please note: memories might be a little different from in-game for story purposes.

Warnings: NSFW, Explicit smut, including various kinks: Praise, degradation talk, first time, CP, DP, anal sex/play, probably some Dragon!Sylus smut, maybe a lot of it. Many, many more that I'm forgetting to list. Consider yourself warned. - Unlikely to be completely canon. - MC is named. Her personality is darker than in the game, far more morally grey. - Switching between MC's memories/dreams/flashbacks and current timeline. - Other love interests will not show up in this. - Some plot, but not super planned out. Basically, this is a "what if the closer they became, the more MC remembers her life with him on Philos.

You drift up from the dark, guided not by light but by the long, sorrowed throat of an organ, its song a wound stitched with sound. It glances off your senses at first. Then it exhales through walls, seeps into the crevices where silence has gathered dust, and touches the ache you buried so deep it forgot its own name.

Barefoot, you tread the corridor. The hall stretches out like a dream you’ve walked before, and shadows twitch like memories just out of reach. The organ keens like an ancient being giving up its last name, its voice a tremor beneath the skin of the world—both cradle and requiem. You reach the archway and stop, pressing your back to the wall just beside it.

You know that song. You sang it for him on quiet nights when even a dragon needed something to hold. A lullaby for a god that refused to sleep.

He taught himself to play it?

The melody you once offered him now returns to you. His hands coax your history into sound. Each note falls like a footprint pressed into the spine of time, an ancient rhythm of love surviving death and calling you home. You are weeping not from sorrow, but from the unbearable grace of being remembered.

You peek around the edge of the archway.

Sylus sits at the organ, forged in the hush of dusk and the gleam of silvered breath, his bare back a sculpture of twilight. You watch his hands move, steady and deliberate, coaxing life from the keys like a necromancer from bone.

You’ve never seen him play. You had thought the organs were for show, relics for the aesthetic. But now, in the hush between chords, you understand: there’s one in every home because he has always been searching for a place where the song sounds right.

He plays beautifully. Hauntingly. And it tugs at the frayed threads of your heart with fingers that know how it was stitched together.

It comes not as speech but as a divine utterance shaped by love too ancient for words. “Stayrus.”

He falters. The song fractures with a single discordant note spiralling into silence. His body freezes, moonlight catching on the rise and fall of his chest. When he looks at you, his red eyes shimmer like rubies submerged in tears. They hold that strange, bright sorrow of someone who has waited lifetimes to be remembered.

His eyes search you as though you are both a dream and a death. He’s reading you, parsing the impossible, looking for signs: Does she know? How much? How deep?

You cross the floor solemnly, the hem of his shirt swaying against your thighs.

Without a whisper, you sink into him, your form curving to his like a river finding its course in the dark. Words are unnecessary, for your skin understands the contours of his as if they were always meant to align, and your soul has long known the language of time—stretching, bending, folding toward him.

Your fingers fall into place, as though the song lives in your bones, each note flowing from you like this body has known it all along. It’s as if the music is a river, and you, though new to this skin, are merely a part of its current, carried forward.

The keys whisper beneath your touch, each chord unfolding like a secret you once knew, now remembered with perfect clarity.

Sylus’s hands tremble against your waist, his breath shallow as he leans forward, resting his chin on your shoulder to watch.

The notes spill, each one like a brushstroke, painting the past in echoes. The Requiem drifts away, its last note rising like a phoenix, poised to burn bright before vanishing into nothingness. It resonates through the stillness, but you withhold the final verse— the one that means goodbye.

You won’t. You can’t.

You lean into him, as though your very essence could seep through the veil of flesh and blood, reaching the heartbeat of his soul. His arms envelop you, a gesture of quiet urgency, as though the universe might rip you through his fingers once again. His forehead rests against your back, and you feel him tremble with a shiver as ancient as time itself, a release long overdue.

“You kept the name,” you whisper.

His lips press a kiss to the slope of your spine, right between your shoulder blades.

“How could I not? You still stumble over the name I was born with. But Sylus… that’s the name you stitched into me when you loved me the first time.”

What escapes you isn’t quite a sound—more the memory of breath exhaled in another life. He says nothing, but you feel his mouth curve against your spine, like the moon tugging the tides inside you.

A smile steeped in centuries.

It’s the closest he’s come to naming that he is the revenant from your dreams.

The vow that outlived gods.

The soul who kept your name wrapped in ash until the wind finally brought you back.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It leaves your mouth like a bruise blooming in air. Not sharp, nor cruel, but full of the heartbreak.

He doesn’t flinch. He yields the way old stone yields to wind, slowly, imperceptibly, yet forever altered by the press of time and touch. There is no battle in him now, only stillness spun from surrender.

“What would you have had me say?” His voice drips like candle wax—measured, molten, aching with withheld truth. “You were frightened of me. Or disgusted. Likely both, when we met.”

It isn’t a dagger, and he doesn’t twist it. You hear the sorrow he doesn’t name, tucked behind the calm of his voice, folded in the pauses like dust in old pages.

Still, it strikes the centre of you—like a bell struck in your marrow, the sound of it rippling outward until even your fingertips hum with it.

“You didn’t know…” You swallow thickly. “You didn’t know I didn’t remember.”

“No.” One word. All breath. All grief. “I didn’t.”

And oh—

What a curse it must’ve been. To reach across lifetimes and search your eyes, to seek a reflection that should have been home, only to be met with recoil. With doubt. With a gun in your trembling hands.

Your lungs stutter. Your body forgets how to hold itself up. You mistook his grief for coldness and silence for cruelty when he was only grieving what was lost.

You.

The cereal box gives one last pathetic wheeze as you upend it, neon rubble tumbling out in a sugar-dusted landslide that hits the mixing bowl like a clown car crashing in slow motion.

You’re hunched over it, wearing the same oversized hoodie you “borrowed” from Sylus with the hood up. You’ve entered a new era.

One where your boyfriend was—is?—a dragon.

Crunching down on a violent mouthful of sugar, you stare at the television. An aggressively spray-tanned woman on the screen is screaming at her housemates for using her bronzer during the “Blindfolded Blowout and Betrayal” challenge.

You nod solemnly, shovelling another spoonful in. “That’s fair, Brittany. But did your boyfriend just casually confirm he’s the fucking dragon who’s been raiding your REM cycles for months? No? Then shut the hell up and contour in silence.”

Did past me have shinier hair? Whiter teeth? The voice of a siren and the ass of a war goddess? Did she ride into battle on Sylus’s back with flaming swords and a matching couple’s outfit, making out mid-air while doves exploded behind them?

You jab a finger at the TV, where a contestant is mid-meltdown over someone using her towel. “At least your drama involves towels, Kayla! I’m in a cosmic lovers’ quarrel with ghost-me and an immortal thirst trap!”

Did he love her more? Was she better at sex? Did she whisper sweet nothings in fifty-seven ancient languages? Did she moan in prophecy? God, I hate her… Me? Bitch probably glowed in the dark.

You shovel a fistful of cereal into your mouth. Your blood is 83% sugar now. Your bones are crystallizing. You might be evolving.

A contestant on the TV howls, “I just don’t know who I am anymore!”

“Same, Sandra. SAME.”

You roll off the couch and land on the rug with a dramatic flop. Limbs akimbo. You lie there for ten minutes thinking about the nature of souls, orgasms, and whether your past self used dragon dick as a handlebar.

You’re not sure if it’s the cereal talking or the crushing weight of metaphysical revelation, but you decide the only logical next step is to go outside and touch grass.

The afternoon sun smacks you in the face like nature’s personal slap when you throw the double doors open. You flip it off. Nature’s been complicit in your unravelling.

You spot the horses out by the fence line, grazing like innocent bystanders. One of them lifts its head. Judgingly. Probably Pancake. You’ve met once, and she already doesn’t like you.

You squint. “What? You’ve never seen a girl in a crisis before?”

Pancake snorts. You stick your tongue out and decide this is the perfect time to conquer your fear of being kicked in the sternum.

You swing one leg over the fence, mostly gracefully, and land in the field with a triumphant, “Ha!”

The horse stares unimpressed with your athleticism.

“You and me, Pancake,” you declare, pointing dramatically. “We’re gonna work this shit out. You’re going to let me ride you consensually, no kicking, and I’m going to pretend I’m a well-adjusted person who didn’t just find out I might’ve astral boned the same man in multiple lives. Deal?”

You take a confident step forward. Pancake bolts, tossing her head like she’s egging you on.

“Hey! Get back here, you emotionally unavailable cow!”

You sprint after her across the field, full of misplaced ambition. Of course, you don’t see the gloriously inconvenient dip in the ground until it’s too late. You trip over literally nothing, flail like a toddler trying to fly, and face-plant into the grass.

By the time you manage to blink away the earth’s intimate embrace, Pancake is already prancing toward the lake, tail high like she’s just won the equine Olympics.

“Cool,” you wheeze, wiping dirt off your face. “Fuck me, I guess.”

The day isn’t done humiliating you. You haul yourself to your feet and follow that smug, tail-waving bastard of a horse all the way down the slope toward the glittering edge of the lake.

Pancake pauses there and turns her head just enough to throw you the most judgmental look a horse can manage, as if to say, You wouldn’t.

You would, and you do.

You charge forward like this is the Olympic sport of “Trying to Get Your Shit Together Via Ranch Animal,” but Pancake, that conniving little diva, side-steps you at the last second like she’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil, and you?

You yeet yourself off the edge like a rocket fuelled by processed sugar. Hoodie and all. With a scream that probably scares the living hell out of a family of ducks and definitely wakes up Sylus.

“FUUUUUUCK!” echoes across the entire goddamn property.

You float on your back, hoodie clinging to you like the damp cloak of consequence, and shout, “I KNEW HE WAS TOO HOT TO BE NORMAL!”

“And if past me was hotter than this,” you snarl, water dripping from your eyelashes, “she can fight me in the astral plane like a fucking adult!”

The ducks scatter. Somewhere behind you, a voice cuts through the cacophony with the kind of calm that suggests someone has just woken up and is already disappointed.

“…You’re aware most people start their day with coffee. Not… uh. A full aquatic meltdown?”

You slowly turn, soaked and seething with the righteous fury of someone betrayed by both physics and farm animals. “Good morning to you too, O Scaled One.”

Sylus is standing barefoot in the grass, shirtless, still half-draped in sleep. His red eyes narrow against the sun like it had the audacity to exist today.

“…Do I want to know,” he begins, voice dripping with that molten caramel menace that makes your spine rethink its structure, “why you’re floating in the lake, screaming obscenities at waterfowl?”

“I’m fine,” you say with the unconvincing confidence of someone who is absolutely not fine.

He lifts a brow, slowly, like it’s too early to process this level of bullshit. “You screamed something about challenging your past self to a duel.”

“I said fight me like an adult, actually,” you correct, flinging a bit of lakeweed off your shoulder. “Very different vibe.”

Sylus squints, surveying the disaster before him with the clinical precision of a man trying to determine whether he should call a medic, a priest, or just walk directly into the lake and start over.

There’s a pause. A long one.

With the kind of tenderness reserved for lovers and very confused therapists, he asks, “…Did Pancake do this to you?”

You throw a hand in the air like you’re testifying in church. “That bitch knew. She led me into an ambush.”

“I left you unsupervised for two hours,” he murmurs. “And this is what happens?”

“I’m processing!” you shout, beginning to slowly doggy-paddle toward shore.

Sylus chuckles, and his Evol wraps around your soggy self and lifts you from the water like a sea creature being offered to Poseidon. He looks you over, slowly. Soaked clothes. Hair like seaweed. One eye twitching.

“You look like a cryptid someone summoned by accident,” he states, deadpan.

You lunge at him like a soggy jungle cat. He stumbles back with a grunt, arms catching you as your body smacks cold and vengeful against his bare chest. You cling like a human barnacle. Wet. Unhinged. Full of spite.

“Anira—fuck’s sake—” he gasps dramatically, clearly faking half of it. His hands try to peel you off, but your grip is powered by chaos and glucose.

You squirm like the world’s angriest eel, and then, the coup de grâce: you wring out your sleeves, one at a time, directly against his very bare, very toned chest.

“There,” you purr, blinking up at him like a demon wearing the skin of an angel. “Sharing is caring.”

He looks down at the trail of water now making a slow pilgrimage down his abs and just… sighs. Sylus grabs you and hauls you up over his shoulder like a sack of possessed laundry.

You squeal and flail, legs kicking as he carries you toward the house. “I was going to take a calm, quiet shower,” he laments with the pained weariness of a man who knows peace is a myth.

“Was it ever really going to be calm with me in your life?” You ask sweetly, dangling upside down.

“Not a single fucking second.”

Since restraint is for people with less commitment, you start slapping his ass with every step he takes.

Smack.

Sylus jolts. “Kitten.”

Smack.

“That’s not—”

Smack.

“—remotely necessary.”

You hum, the picture of innocence, despite actively slapping the world’s most wanted man like a percussionist. “I’m just… encouraging forward momentum.”

“You keep that up,” he warns, voice dropping an octave, “and I will pin you to the wall and remind you what happens when you misbehave.”

Your hand pauses mid-slap.

Your brain: danger?

Your body: yeehaw!

You grin against the small of his back and whisper, “Promise?”

He huffs, part laugh, part warning, part I am both so tired and so into this, and smacks your ass.

Hard.

You yelp. “BETRAYAL!”

“Balance,” Sylus croons serenely, striding through the house like a smug god of karmic justice. “Yin and yang. Chaos and consequence. You make your bed—. Well, you’re a clever woman. You get the idea. I’ll give you one more chance to beg for mercy.”

“NEVER,” you shout, slapping his ass one last time for honour.

He marches into the bathroom, kicks the door shut behind him, and sets you down with a firm thunk before turning on the shower like it’s a declaration of war.

“Say thank you,” he mutters, already tugging his wet sweatpants at the waistband with a grimace.

They’re soaked, and now they cling in all the wrong—or very right—places.

Sylus steps out of them with all the grace of a runway model moonlighting as a war crime. Naked. Gleaming. Completely unfazed.

Your mouth may or may not go dry. In fact, you’re ninety percent sure you are having a spiritual event.

“Something wrong?” he asks, far too innocently.

You blink. “I’m trying to figure out how your dick is real.”

He chokes on a laugh, those red eyes flaring like you just handed him the sun on a plate. “Oh? Research purposes, or admiration?”

You point a finger at him, serious as death. “Science.”

He smirks. “Well, far be it from me to deny a hunter her… fieldwork.”

The shower takes him like a secret swallowed whole in steam. He stands within it like he’s trying to forget the shape of his sins, but the light loves him too much to let him go unnoticed. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, he is peace.

But it’s a stunning lie.

Nothing about him is still. He is a quiet war made flesh, and you are already bleeding. You were written in the same breath and fated to collide.

His beauty is not kindness—it’s omen. A mirror held up to your own destruction.

To touch him is to strike a match in a dry forest. To love him is to burn.

Shedding your clothes, you step in. Steam coils around your limbs as your hand finds his jaw. If he is fire, then you will be the forest that leans in.

Some fires are worth the ash.

You kiss him as though this moment has been echoing in your blood since the beginning of time.

He responds like a man unravelling at the altar. Like your spine is a rosary, and he means to pray his way down it, repentance carved into every trembling touch.

“You drive me crazy,” he confesses.

“You love it.”

He grins, just barely, eyes dark like melted wine, filthy with promise. “Worse. I crave it.”

Sylus surges toward you, lips meeting yours with a ferocity that makes the world bend. You dissolve into it, as earth surrenders to sky, as time bends in a single heartbeat.

He backs you up into the nearest wall, a smooth, tiled surface you barely register. You moan when he nips your lower lip, and that’s the only answer he needs.

His mouth finds your throat, tongue sweeping over the damp skin before he bites—not hard, just enough to make your breath hitch and your cunt involuntarily clench.

Your head falls back against the tile, breath catching as his tongue swirls around a nipple. He sucks the sensitive bud into his mouth, grazing with his teeth.

You can’t tell if you’re being ruined or reborn, only that it’s holy. And he is the altar. You arch like a temple bowing in veneration, breath caught between prayer and profane delight.

He releases your nipple with a final lick, and he sinks to his knees. Half-lidded eyes peek up at you through thick lashes like scarlet psalms, whispering a vow: he will dismantle you with worship and rebuild you from want.

Strong hands glide up your calves, and he mouths the delicate rise of your hipbone as though tasting the history buried beneath skin. With slow insistence, he coaxes your thighs open like a hymn unfolding, guiding your leg over his shoulder, positioning himself in that space where devotion and wildfire meet.

The first stroke of his tongue against your throbbing clit has you crying out. He laps at the sensitive bundle of nerves, sending shockwaves unfurling through you in liquid arcs. The heat builds and breaks, again and again, flashing through your core as you clutch at his shoulders, chasing the next collapse.

His grip tightens on your thighs as he seals his mouth over your clit and sucks hard. Two fingers slide into your dripping pussy, curling them to stroke the cradle of your ruin, where every godless pleasure is born.

With a few more pointed flicks of his tongue, it doesn’t hit so much as unfold. One blinding flare of sensation, then another, until you’re unlacing in slow, radiant waves. You swear the universe hiccups. Sound shatters into colour. Your spine arcs, breath caught somewhere between a cry and a sob, and the world becomes light.

It’s too much and not enough all at once. A crescendo without end. Sylus works you through it, tongue gentling but not relenting. He wrings every last shudder from your body, lapping softly at your quivering cunt as you float back down. Only then does he release you, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.

He rises before you, water tracing the chiselled planes of his body, rivulets glinting gold in the light. His cock juts forward, thick and heavy, flushed with arousal, precum beading on his tip.

Sylus gathers you into him like a man claiming fire, hands charting the shape of you with a reverence that borders on ache. His touch is a vow, a tether, a slow burn poured into skin.

When your bodies meet, it is not collision—it is convergence, a seamless joining of heat and breath and want. Flesh to flesh, bone to bone, as though the gods themselves once carved you to fit him and him to fit you.

"I need you," he confesses, mouth grazing your pulse like a prayer slipping from a sinner’s lips. "I always need you."

"Then take me," you breathe, rolling your hips to grind against his impressive length trapped between your bodies. "I'm yours.”

He lifts you effortlessly, hands gripping your thighs as he wraps your legs around his waist. Your arms wind around his neck, fingers threading through the damp strands at his nape as he pins you to the wall with his hips.

He rocks against you, the thick head of his cock nudging your entrance with each sinuous roll of his hips. He fans the furnace of your want, turning ember to blaze, blaze to ruin. You whimper, nails digging into his shoulders, urging him on.

With a slow, deliberate thrust, he sheathes himself fully in your welcoming heat. Twin groans of euphoria echo off the shower walls as your bodies join, like stars rethreading into the sky.

He stills for a trembling moment, forehead pressed to yours as you both savour the feeling of completeness, of coming home. Then he begins to move, hips undulating, carving a rhythm into you that unspools the world.

The slick glide of his length in your tight heat is pure bliss, each movement a flare that lights up every hidden corner of your body. You slip into a haze, where time unravels, pulling you deeper into a well of blissful madness.

”You feel like home," he whispers.

You press your hips against him, body stretching to accommodate the full weight of him seated deep inside you. His teeth sink into your shoulder, just enough to leave a mark, grounding both of you.

“Tell me I’m not just a memory," you breathe.

He groans into your mouth. “You’re everything.”

Sylus adjusts his angle, and the world shifts with it. Every nerve ignites as he strikes that sacred place, unravelling you with a single, devastating thrust. A broken cry spills from your lips, fingernails scoring his back as you cling to him.

“Stay with me. Like this. Just for a little longer.” The words tremble against your skin, husky and reverent, like a man kneeling in the dark. “Just forever.”

You bite your lip, your body still trembling from where he’s wrecked you in every way that matters. “Forever sounds about right.”

You’re nothing but breath and lightning, chasing the high like it’s salvation. Every nerve sings, toes curl, and your soul stretches thin across the threshold of release.

The nirvana is too vast for your skin to hold, a celestial shattering that leaves your soul molten and remade. You swear you’ve felt this before, in another life, in another sky.

With a hoarse cry, your cunt locks around him as you shatter inward, baptized in sensation. Your body sings on a frequency too high for thought. It overtakes you like a fevered sea, each swell dragging you deeper into the undertow of him, of this, until sight itself slips away.

You feel yourself gushing around his pistoning cock, your slick release coating him. He doesn't slow his pace, fucking you through it, prolonging your climax. You’re still trembling—your body undone and boneless in the cradle of his arms, your breath catching in little gasps against his throat.

When you open your eyes to look at him, the world stutters.

Black horns crown his head in a regal, sweeping arc. A red gem glows softly at the centre of his chest, pulsing like a second heartbeat. Scales shimmer over his shoulders and wind up his neck like smoke given form, curling across one cheek in a jagged brush of obsidian.

You’ve charted this form before—in dreams, in starlight, in the aching dark between lifetimes.

It is memory made flesh. Your breath shudders out of you before you can stop it, and you cup his face, thumb stroking over the spot where the scales had just been.

“My dragon,” you whisper, voice breaking around the edges.

Sylus falters, his body shivering against yours like a temple touched by prayer.

When your eyes meet, there’s disbelief edged with reverence, like he’s watching history rewrite itself in your mouth. His hands roam your body as if he’s trying to memorize the sound of those words through skin, not ears.

He bows his head, and his lips find your forehead in a kiss so soft it could’ve been born from a dream. It’s not desire that guides him, but a ritual written in another lifetime’s ink.

You don’t understand why it aches so sweetly.

Fingers dig into your skin, not to mark, but to prove to some quiet part of him that you’re here, now, not some illusion born of longing. He moves in you like he’s chasing eternity. Not to conquer it, but to collapse inside it with you.

A rich, reverent sound rumbles in his chest, like the growl of a beast who’s been awakened. “Always, my beloved.”

Not a promise. A truth that predates language.

You kiss him like you’re falling through lifetimes, and he’s the only thing that stays the same. Maybe he is. Maybe the two of you were forged from the same starburst, doomed to burn and return, locked in a dance that outlives even death.

Your bodies collide like they’re finishing a conversation that started centuries ago. You rock against him as best you can, but he has you pinned, deliciously trapped between the wall and his weight.

Water rushes around you both, but all you can feel is his skin, slick and hot against yours, and the flex of his muscles as he drives into you.

His forehead drops to yours, breath shuddering. “Tell me what you desire.”

“You. Harder.”

He growls like you’ve lit something feral in him, and when he moves again, it’s all teeth and heat and relentless rhythm. Your back hits the wall with every thrust, your nails digging into his shoulders, your voice unravelling with every breathless, broken sound he wrings from you.

Sylus’s hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit and circling it with merciless pressure. His fingers move like incantation, summoning sensation from places you didn’t know could burn. There’s no hesitation, no guessing, only the ruinous grace of a soul who knows exactly where to touch to unravel you.

“That’s it, kitten,” he rasps against your throat, his words wrapping around you like a dangerous lullaby. “Be a good girl. Let me hear you.”

You're lost to him, lost to this. He fucks you like a storm drawn to shore, seeking the sacred hollow shaped just for him.

His thumb presses down on your clit, and your orgasm hits you like a feral thing—clawing its way out of your chest, pulsing through your core until your body convulses, mouth open in a soundless scream, wrecked and radiant. Your oversensitive flesh quivers around his cock, and you cling to him like wreckage after a storm.

He guides you through the aftershocks, hips rolling in languid, decadent waves that pull whimpers from your throat—each grind keeping you tethered to the edge of bliss.

His lips find yours in a molten, consuming communion. You devour each other in staggered breaths, your mouths colliding like you’ve been waiting eons for this exact fracture in time.

When you finally surface for air, he looks at you like you’re a miracle he was never meant to touch. The heat is spiralling in him like a storm with nowhere left to go. You feel it in the way his fingers dig into your hips. The way his jaw clenches. The way he curses softly, like even pleasure can be painful.

"Come for me," you coo against his lips. "Let go, my dragon."

You clench around him purposefully, milking his length, urging him towards his peak. With a guttural groan, you feel him swell and pulse as his orgasm overtakes him. Thick ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, the heat of it searing you from the inside out.

He shudders in your arms, a broken moan falling from his lips as he empties himself inside you through long, shaking pulses. You hold him as he comes down from his high, your fingers threading through his damp hair, your lips pressing soft kisses to his jaw, his cheek, his temple, his forehead.

His mouth finds your cheek in a tender press, then the corner of your lips, then the spot just below your ear where your pulse still flutters wild. A smile tugs at his mouth as you sigh into it, pliant and boneless in his hold.

“We’re never showering separately again,” he purrs.

You huff a laugh, breathless, your lips curling against his shoulder.

“You say that like you didn’t just maul me against a wall.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, water trailing down his cheekbone. “I’d do it again,” he says with a lazy smile, then adds with mock gravity, “Purely for cleanliness purposes, of course.”

You swat his chest, but it’s like hitting a slab of wet marble. “So next time I want to take a five-minute rinse, you’re going to stand behind me like a gentleman, keep your hands to yourself, and not try to rearrange my spine?”

He leans in until his nose brushes yours, voice dropping to a sinful whisper. “Oh, I’ll be behind you, alright.”

You groan dramatically, your forehead falling to his chest. His laughter rumbles through you, that deep, rich sound you’re starting to crave. He nuzzles into your hair, still holding you, and you close your eyes.

Wrapped in his arms, water still cascading down your bodies, you let yourself breathe. There’s still a world of questions clawing at the edges of your mind, but for now, none of them matter. You are home.

Chapter Masterlist 

A03 [Cross-posted] 

Taglist: @mcdepressed290, @animecrazy76, @harmonyrae, @for-hearthand-home, @redseablooming, @morrigan87, @babyx91

Dropping your mid-week fix! Hopefully, it gets you over the hump of the work week a little bit. As always, loving all the comments and engagement! 🥰

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

I am very intrigued to hear your expanded thots on sub!joe and pegging! I think it adds an extra layer of vulnerability to their relationship that is super interesting. Plus as long as you don’t include it in one of the main fics, people can choose to read it as a part of that universe or not 😊

sub!joe brain dump (NSFW edition)

I'm glad others want to hear about this because!!! It's been bouncing around in my brain for weeks now!

Note: There's more discussion about how the dom/sub dynamics are started, feelings, and relationship in this too.

CW: BDSM dynamics (heavily described, D/S dynamics, swinging), 18+ content (pegging described)

want to read other sub!joe? you're in luck (please note: main fics do not have all these dynamics; this an expansion of the entire universe)

sub!joe masterlist | joe burrow masterlist | main masterlist

________________________________

It always starts with consent. And anything new is always discussed outside of sex. Always, always, always, always. It's non negotiable. I know I haven't talked about it a lot in the fics. But there's a ton more that's happening behind the scenes. Between their escapades, there's a lot of conversations about boundaries, wants, if anything's changed. Safe, sane, and consensual. Pillars that the two of them live so deeply by. 

When these dynamics first started cropping up, Domme sat Joe down. She has experience prior to Joe about it, mentioned to Joe in broad strokes she was previously apart of 'the scene'. Joe took it in stride that it was her history. It intrigued him a little, and he asked all his questions but doesn't delve into specifics. Domme never forced it into their relationship either, didn’t cram it in at every turn. Just mentioned it once, let Joe ask his questions and then let it go. 

But the signs feel so obvious to her. They keep cropping up, how he reaches for her in a crowded room. Sighs into her when they’re alone. Jokes about wishing he could just his brain off. So, Domme makes it a conversation. She only intends to bring it up one more time, and again, let Joe decide if he wants to press it further. She brings the conversation to his attention with a soft and sweet, “Hey, I'm noticing similar things in you and our relationship that I’ve seen in prior dynamics and I want to make sure that a) you like it and b) to discuss if you want to make it a more solid and integrated part of our relationship?”

Of course Joe asks what she means, so she lays it--all facts, all, “I’ve noticed..” or “It appears..” so there’s room for her to be corrected. Which Joe doesn't. Because everything she lays out is true, is what it seems like.

Or so Joe thinks until he asks, “What does it remind you of?”

“Dominant and submissive roles and dynamics--that’s what it reminds me of.”

“And I’m the--” He can’t say it. 

“Well, you’re Joe. But if we map your behaviors onto that framework, the behaviors look like those of a submissive.”

It’s careful. Joe notices that much. She doesn’t call him a sub. Just talk about the behaviors. But he’s taking the leaps. He’s seeing where the conclusions, and summations will all lead. Joe hesitates, hadn't really considered himself a sub or anything. He wasn't oozing a super domineering personality but he took care of shit. He handled shit as it came up, when it needed to be handled. Like he was supposed to do. How could he be a sub when he's literally a leader? It's not like he lets Domme do everything. 

But she's, again, so fucking smooth and soft with it, "Think about it like this. When it's the two of us together, you seem to relax a bit more. You let me do more things for you than you let others do for you. Do you like it when I step up for you in specific situations?" 

“Yes.” Because it makes him feel cared for. Which is easy to answer, to admit too.

“Do you like it when I praise you? When I take a bit more of the control? Not all, but when you get to pass some of the weight over to me, what do you feel?”

“Relieved.” It’s like Joe can breathe easier. “But you feel the same right? When I help you out?”

“Yes,” she nods. “But I like shouldering that weight. I take orders all day at work. I like giving them sometimes.”

Joe is exhausted by them. He makes decisions all the time that by the end of the day he’s sick of it. “So you’re not annoyed when I call you asking for help on what to ask my chef for the week?”

“Never,” she grins. “It makes me feel needed. Like, if intimacy could go into a gas tank and is added into and taken out of. You relying on me in those ways fills my intimacy tank--to make tiny decisions when you don’t want to or are too exhausted too. Or when you say you just need to hear my voice or want me to give you the least amount of choices possible makes my whole body flutter.”

He nods, chewing at the inside of his cheek. He knows the feeling when she just steps up, when she’s just there for him--solid, unwavering, unflinching at even his silliest and tiniest of needs. “And me passing some of the smaller things onto you fills mine using that logic.”

The more Joe chews on it, the more he realizes, yeah no, he really likes it when she takes care of things for him. When she's with him at events, and she just gets it when his battery dies or when she helps navigate a conversation Joe feels himself slipping in, or when they're out shopping together and she rolls her shoulders back and strides with every step, confident and sure of herself in ways that Joe is confident, but that's full of practice and a quiet kind of internal pep talk. Joe's fought to be confident and she just is. So it starts slowly, the two of them easing into this dynamic.

The dom/sub came up near the year mark and they've been together a while now, since late, late 2021/early 2022.

Domme sits Joe down to do a 'Will Do, Won't Do, Want to Try' list after their initial conversation. She hands him a sheet of paper, walks him through folding it into thirds and then has him label each column as one of the following: Will Do, Won't Do, Want to Try. Explains that the idea is that Joe writes down what he's willing to do (inside the bedroom and inside their dynamic), what he won't do at all (hard limits), and stuff he's willing to try or maybe he's a little unsure about. 

"Think of it like a stop light. Will Do is green, you're all for it. Yellow is the stuff you want to try that we'll talk through and about, make sure there's rules in place. Won't do are red lights. Hard limits, no goes, no matter what." 

It seems simple enough. They work in separate rooms for a little bit but then Joe misses her and creeps out his office and kisses all over her face so it gets tabled for the day. But for the better half a week, it's swirling in the back of Joe's mind. It’s intriguing to take the plunge into all his fantasies. 

They finish their lists and then comes the hard part where they have to talk it through. He sets the page down, a few lines crossed out and then nearly bolts. 

But Domme coaxes him in, her voice soft and smooth, and silky, makes him feel safe when she says, "So, we can start easy. You tell me when you're most excited about from your lists." She doesn't read it, just trusts him enough to know he'll share it truthfully. Joe melts into the couch cushions right there, thinking to himself, I'll do whatever she'd fucking ask just as long as she keeps talking to me like that.

Joe's hard limits are like no visible bruises, no excessive pain (because he is a professional athlete so he needs to be able to discern a sting from something more worrisome), no tight bondage, and nothing that could cause severe harm--it's all reasonable. And Domme helps him sort of categorize and clarify as needed. But she distinctly notes there's nothing on his list about anything penetrative on his end. Like he couldn't fathom it all.

They establish safe words. His is turquoise. Hers is dragonfly. Joe's practiced in his head, Too much--use turquoise. It's the phrase Domme used with him. That if it ever became too much he could use 'turquoise'. Just over and over and over, so he makes the association. 

When they first get used to the dynamic, Joe slips and uses, "Stop." And what he was trying to say was something like, "I need to catch my breath." 

But the second the 'p' pops off his lips, Domme's pulling away from him, settles off to his side, her hands hover. "What was too much? Need space?"

It's the first time that Joe realizes just how much words matter and even though it wasn't his word, she's listening, she's paying attention to every little thing. Just like he does. So, any time Joe needs a breather, he's careful to use something like, "Need a second," Or "Can we take a time out?"

It may sound silly sometimes, but it works. It lets them both know what's needed. Wording is so incredibly important during their sexual adventures and even outside of the bedroom too. If Joe's overwhelmed in public or about something, he's a lot more mindful on how to communicate that. "Hey, can I take five?" or "I think I need just a second before we go out."

It's Domme that brings up pegging the first time. 

They check in on the Three W list (Will Do, Won't Do, Want to Try) like once a quarter, so 3/4 times a year. Joe's pretty consistent. Literally changes maybe one thing (marks are okay during the off season or asks if something they sort of rotated out to come back around [looking at you wax play]). So when Domme parts her lips and says, "I want to try pegging,’

Joe swears his eyes are going to fall out of his head. "On me? Peg me?"

She nods. He doesn't hate the idea, but it makes his stomach uneasy, "I need more time on that one. Can we loop back around to it?" Joe stews on it for two weeks. Does he want that? Would it be strange? Would it hurt? What would he do while being pegged? Would he feel different afterwards?

On a Friday afternoon, when Domme's off from work and finished her errands, and Joe's back from his meetings, Joe resurfaces the conversation with a simple, "Can we talk?" 

They talk through every minute detail. Everything. Dildo size, lubrication type, prep work, safe words, scenario (Joe has to be the one to ask for it. Even if it terrifies him, the ball has to be in his court for this)--everything, they talk about everything.

It's so strange at first, even though Joe asked for it, and Domme's being so gentle, he can't help but tense when the first wet finger traces his rim. Like is he actually about to do this? She pauses, free hand smoothing over his back, kisses up his spine. "Want me to stop or do you need a second?" 

He's usually so composed, can follow through on a decision once it's made. But this feels like it could shatter him. Could totally ruin him everything he understands about himself. "Just a second." 

Domme kisses at his back, a hum shaking at his spine. "Take all the time you need."

Eventually with a lot of encouragement, he lets her proceed and the push through the mental is the hardest part, because once she's in, the pad of her singular finger working at his prostate so gingerly, Joe's a goner. 

He pushes back into her hand and she laughs, not maliciously, a puffy satisfied sound. "Do you like that?" It echoes the question he offers all the time, usually in jest. But Domme knows the truth, that Joe loves the praise. That Joe's keening each time she tells him just how well he's doing, how good he's making her feel. To hear it back, with the delicious twist of his stomach at the careful work--Joe's literally on cloud fucking 9. 

She works slow and deliberate, eases him open with the second finger. Whispers into his skin, "Look at you. Doing so well for me. Fucking perfect. Want it that bad?" 

Joe doesn't think he can get enough, pushes and pushes and pushes back on her fingers and palm. He comes apart on her fingers, a soft and easy pull over his cock, the press of her fingers in his ass. It's messy, how hard and how violently he comes, but Joe is absolutely liquid for the rest of the night. His brain is just gone. Totally gone. Utter silence. He can barely respond to Domme. Barely hold the glass of water. 

He settles squarely onto her chest when she slips onto the bed later, tucks him up to his chest with the comforter. "Did so well for me. Took it so well. Made my misty eyed when you came, trusting me with that." Joe hears it, a smile ghosting over his face as he presses his nose into her breasts.

Joe does feel a little different. But not like he thought he would. He feels...so content. He wakes first and her fingers are still in his hair, he's proud of himself for actually going through with it. It's an instant classic. Joe still feels like Joe, like a man. He washes his face, pokes around in the kitchen, answers some emails, tries to ease her awake but she still jolt. He laughs at her huff of annoyance. "I know, I know,” he coos. “Mornings are rough. I'll sweeten the deal with a breakfast pastry." 

"Should've started with that,” she huffs. 

 It just feels right as the two of them orbit in the bedroom, getting ready. But she pauses him in the closet. "How do you feel?" 

"Good. Really good." Because that’s all there is to. She made him feel so fucking good. And that’s all that matters. 

And if Joe thinks her fingers are magical. The strap is literally god tier. 

It takes Joe a few tries to work up to the dildo. And it's just the tip, oh it's just the fucking tip and Joe's already damn near crying at how good it feels. He gets all puffy, chest heaving, begging her to keep going. "Need more, god, please." 

He loves it when she pulls at his hair, bring his head up and whisper against his shoulder, "Watch yourself." 

The mirror reflects back his own fucked out bliss--messy hair, puffy pink lips, red chest, the echoes of her kisses and bites scattered over his body. He wants to watch, wants to see her take him, claim him like this but it just feels so fucking good. Makes his brain go totally silent. He doesn't even know what's saying, if he's saying anything. Just becomes an absolute mess of himself. And she always makes sure the drop doesn't hit so hard, though it always sort of does. 

She likes to take him hard after he gets used to it. The growl of her voice into his body as her hips snap into his, bringing him under, so far under he does not remember his name. Doesn't know it by sound, only knows her voice--can't pick out words or their meaning, just knows they're taking up space, that something is happening. 

Joe is brought so utterly to feeling, that he swears he can feel the ridges in the strap, the faux veins, the divot of the tip, and he adores this space. It strips him bare. He's not the quarterback, not the head of the franchise. Joe's not a man, not a son, not a partner, not anything. He is just. He is. He's his muscles, tendons, ligaments. He is sinew. He is sweat. He is the puff. He is the labored breath. He is the begging. He is the pleading. He is the curl of his toes. He just fucking is. He exists as nothing more than the feeling of closeness between the two of them and it holds him. Fills his cup, leaves his thirst quenched. 

Then she coddles him, bring him the protein shake or water, praise him with soft whispers against his ears, play in his hair, make sure his phone is on the charger, his alarm set if he needs it, pick out his practice clothes (when needed) and Joe doesn't need to ask for her to do it because he's not going to be online enough to do it.

Joe doesn't ask to be pegged often, but when he does he asks it with a shy look on his face, like he's scared she'll say no. 

But Domme never does. Always grins up at him and nods. "I'd be happy to." And they still talk about the scene, because it keeps Joe at ease, but it leaves him with the thrill of anticipation buzzing at his skin. Makes him hot with glee for the time to come. He just feels so safe with Domme about it. She makes him feel so, so safe. 

When he brought up how he worried about what it would mean afterwards, she nodded, didn't make him feel crazy for being worried if he'd still 'feel like a man'. "Let's walk through. You do anal and then what? What do you think happens?" She didn't discount him, didn't tell him it was stupid. She just wanted to know and walked through it with him. 

"Well, I've never taken anything up the ass before, but what if it does change something? What if I realize something that wasn't there before?"

"Then you know better, baby."

 "What if I like too much?” he asks. 

"Well, then we either get hemorrhoid cream and use the strap more, or I get to introduce you to the world of threesomes." 

"Baby, I know about threesomes," Joe laughs. 

"Nah, I mean the real deal." 

He grimaces at the thought. "No, I like the idea because it's you. I don't think I want an actual dick. That just-no, hard no." 

Her grin is bright, arm sliding over his shoulder. "Then I don't think you have much to worry about, love. Sounds like you already know plenty about yourself."

Because they check in so often about the 3W list, they also use that time to check in about the relationship. They'll discuss goals they have for themselves in the relationship. 

Joe wants to be better at staying grounded and connected during the season and he has grown in that regard ,but when they're losing he tends to retreat and sometimes it leaves Domme feeling iced out. 

Domme wants to get better about not always taking over in social situations. Which is why we see in the NFL Honors blurb, she doesn't overstep, just encourages Joe. She's a social butterfly and protective over Joe. Which he appreciates when he needs it, but it's not an every time thing which can be hard for her to dial back on at times. 

They can talk about everything, "Hey, a couple weeks ago you said something and it wasn't what you said, it's how you said it. It's still bothering me. Can I talk to you about it?" 

To anyone on the outside it sounds like a work meeting, talking about KPI's or goals for the year, but for them it's just how it works. Because they're in the scene, it's super important that they do have this space to talk about their relationship, even if it can feel clinical.

What’s not clinical though is what happens behind those closed doors. That is all guttural, hot and biting. Just want they need, what they know the other loves. 

Domme, because she was in the scene first, eases Joe into it. She has a few friends still connected to the scene and knows about a rather large party happening right towards the end of the season. Asks if Joe wants to go when she finds out about it about two weeks in advance. Joe, now more comfortable with their dynamic about a year into the relationship, agrees to go. 

He’s not barred her from going previously, just asks that she abides by some ground rules: no sexual penetration, she can’t dominate anyone, but she can flirt if she wants, kissing is fine, she can sub if she wants to someone else too. So most often, Domme goes and spends her time being tied up, or goes to aide as a hostess. Helps newer couples find their footing. She still has her fun without Joe. 

However, when they finally go together, it’s a private affair. They rent a car so no one can trace their actual plates. Domme guides him around. It’s really just so Joe can see more, build his repertoire more. But he’s so fascinated with the scenes, and the rooms. No one bats an eyelash at him. No one gives a fuck about who he is. They don’t go often, a handful of times a year. But Joe brings back new things to try every time. Part of him feels like a kid in a candy store again, the unbridled kind of delight at seeing the scene in action, unfolding out in front of him in real time. Knows what people are feeling as it’s happening, a visceral kind of reaction that makes leaves goosebumps across his skin. 

Domme will settle into the main room and let Joe scamper about. She watches with pride when he comes back, a lipstick stain on his cheek and a mischievous grin on his face. “What did you see?”

“Follow me,” he returns with a hand held out. 

It’s usually always something that shocks Domme. The first few parties she brought him she stuck close by, reiterating the rules and keeping him up to date on the lingo. But later on, towards the start of their third year Joe scurried off only to drag her back to a shibari scene. “That--I want to look like that.”

He said it with so much awe, so much tenderness that it made Domme’s chest melt. He looked at it like art. Like one would look at a sculpture from years ago, taking into the details--so much awe and wonder. Domme spent weeks practicing on herself, doing research, testing the waters with Joe in non sexual scenes. Joe tries his hand at it too. Likes it when she lets him take the reigns a little bit. 

They don’t participate in the parties a ton. 

Joe’s not much of a sharer. He likes to watch, and likes to go. But again, Joe’s not great at sharing Domme. There’s a couple that Domme used to play with before Joe, the couple before she met Joe. He understands that of course others played with her before. But no one plays with her now except him. He’s Domme’s. Domme is his and he doesn’t want to share that with anyone. It is possession, but not ownership. And it’s not jealousy. She’s talked freely about how she used to play before Joe. He likes hearing about it. A couple times he’ll ask her to “turn on the charm” and that gives her permission to flirt, dazzle, lure, kiss, bite, light play.

But there’s no sex. For either one of them. Joe likes to watch her work a room, select her target and reel them in. Like watching a skilled lioness on the hunt. Lethal and charming, disarming and deadly. But there’s some pieces of her that Joe can’t let anyone else have but him. 

Domme’s willing to let Joe go a little further than he lets her take it. But Joe doesn’t do anything that she can’t do. If someone asks to give him a kiss, or something, he lets it slide. Knows how much Domme will light up at the mark. But the same rules she follows, he does too. Because that’s the most fair. Because in all honesty, that’s all he’s willing to give up, a kiss (rare-ish), a teasing wink (more common). 

Joe has a little admirer--Scarlett, a woman in her forties, he’d guess--who fawns over him. He’s happy to accept the attention because she’s nice about it. If Joe’s sticking close by Domme, she’ll ask, “Can I cut in?”

Usually, he laughs, eyes cutting to Domme, who nods at him after he nods that he wants to go. “Go,” she laughs, patting at his chest. “Have fun out there, tiger.”

Scarlett’s never offended if Joe shakes his head no. He’ll squeeze a Domme’s palm and she’ll slide in front of him just a fraction, even if she’s talking to someone else. Scarlett grins. “That’s alright. Find me when you’re ready, sweetheart.”

Sometimes Joe does loop back to find Scarlett. He’ll spot her watching him. It reminds him just a hair of Domme, the kind of magnetism they both have in their presence. Domme’s is teasing confidence. Knows how to bait. Scarlettl’s a quiet confidence, more assured. Scarlett will kiss his cheek, pull him into the couch or next to her. “She’s treating you right?”

Joe nods. “The best.”

“Good.” Scarlett plays a little with his hair, resting against him for a minute or two. “If she doesn’t treat you, you tell me. I taught her better than that.”

“I will. Need anything?”

Scarlett always laughs. “Trying to get me into trouble. I like it.” Sometimes it’s just a kiss, and it’s nice, fun, different. But there’s always a little voice in the back of Joe’s mind that’s comparing when he knows he shouldn’t. It’s not the same. Not Domme and though he likes the dabble, he never lasts away from Domme. 

Joe would seek Domme out even in the dark, pulled to her, called like sirens do to the crashed sailors. Joe doesn’t care to break the spell. Even with Scarlett in his lap, with her kissing over his neck and chest, Joe will look for Domme across the room--the prideful smile on her face makes his chest flutter. His whole body lit with fire.  

Sometimes Joe doesn’t find Scarlett again, just keeps an arm around Domme, pulls her into his lap or find a little corner of the room to bury his face into her neck, kissing at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. A silent plea for her and Domme always answers it, pulling his face out. 

“Want to get out of here?”

Joe will nod. “But I know we just got here.”

“Have all I need right here. Take me home. So I can have fun with you there.”

[youremysunshine8]

AITA for encouraging my roommate to love himself as he is?

So background, I've got a visitor for a few weeks whos helping me with some business stuff. He's a very good houseguest, even if I had to buy a bunch of different foods and learn to cook them. (He's English so limited spices, haha, I even had to throw away all the garlic!)

Anyways, I've noticed he's like, SUPER interested in his appearance? He kind of judges me for my teeth too, which, come on man, I'm sure you've seen worse teeth out there. So I want him to be less focused on appearances in general.

So I went into his room unannounced the other day while he was shaving, and he cut himself in surprise. It was a super tense moment and I admit I lost my temper. I threw his shaving mirror out the window and called it a "foul bauble of man's vanity."

I don't mind if he gets a little shaggy while working for me! In fact, beards look great on everyone and he should be more sensitive to what people look like out here (mostly bearded).

But he's been super weird around me ever since, and idk maybe I was in the wrong??? So AITA for trying to help him with his preoccupation with appearances?

Someone should write an AITA post from the perspective of Count Dracula throwing the mirror out the window

[rhonuscorner]

I am such a simp for your alien Eclipse, you have no idea XD

Going off that spin off scenario, I think I like that idea just as much as the awesome story you’ve got going right now lol, what would Eclipse do if after he realizes that our interest is genuine, and we find him one day just completely out of it, looking like he’s gonna have a mental breakdown any second, that we simply reach over and give him a hug. Would he be like super shocked and try to get away, or would he gradually concede and let us comfort him?

I'm seriously loving all the simping lmao, it makes me so happyyyyyyyy~

Yeah the more I think about it the more I'm starting to like it too, it has potential XD

He would be very very surprised, it will definitely catch him off guard. Eclipse has a pretty firm lid on his emotions and can normally keep it all bottled up until he's alone with his brothers because he knows he can always rely on them to give him a boost, support, whatever it is he needs in that moment.

But yeah, sometimes it just happens before he can stop it. He doesn't want to show weakness like that in front of us because weakness can be exploited and he needs to be strong. He can't afford to look weak in front of others, not when he has so many relying on him.

Even after he learns we're genuine in our interest in him, even our affections, he still wouldn't want us to see him like that. Because what if we're disappointed? What if we don't want to be around him anymore, stop believing that he can help us if he can't even control himself?

So yes, his initial reaction would be shocked surprise and try to pull away so he can compose himself asap, but if we were to hold on, let him know that it's okay and we wouldn't think any less of him, it's okay to be vulnerable for once... he'll eventually give in, accept the comfort we're offering and sink back into our arms because lemme tell ya... he needs that.

He really needs that.

He's been needing it for a long time.

[randomly--accessed--memories]

Now I can’t stop picturing an AU of this AU where it’s Vox who gives Alastor brain damage (Definitely by accident). I feel like Vox would come to really regret his decision.  [Written before I read the post discussing the same topic]

Or maybe it’s not Vox who breaks his brain but his benefactor (Lilith or Roo/Eve). It could be during a hypothetical season 2 where Alastor refuses to betray the hotel crew and as punishment she breaks his brain. For irony’s sake let’s say she broadcasts his screams across all of Hell to hear. 

Maybe she removes his vocal chords to pour salt in the wound. Then you just hear a wet gurgling over the airwaves. Maybe Alastor could use recordings of the other hotel residents and previous radio broadcasts to string together a sentence. 

I can totally see Alastor mistaking Rosie for his mom, isn’t that is just a heartbreaking thought. 

He thinks Husk is just a really big kitty cat and tries to pet him and give him cat treats.

Maybe it takes place in the RAM AU. How ironic, the Overlord who destroyed the minds of others has his broken in turn. 

Mmm, imo Alastor is a slightly less fun character to break than Vox since Vox actually has relationships that he doesn't hold at arms length. Also, Al's kind of hard to get a grasp on character-wise since so much of his personality is a performance. Who is he when all that is stripped away? I don't think we have enough information to know yet. Vox has had significantly less screen time, but we've seen his facade crack quite a bit, so it feels easier to guess what he might have going on underneath the shell. That's just my personal take though.

[donelywell]

February 29- March 2 2024

The first time Sonic went Super in Road Trip wasn't exactly as stunning to Tails as other au's and stories.

Tails is like maybe 5 here (I'm not actually that organized on the timeline for this au yet, I'm getting there though, things are getting in order.) and he wasn't forced to grow up and be a hero in this au. So he's a bit more childish than canon Tails because he doesn't feel as pressured to mature and grow up fast. Plus, he genuinely thinks Sonic is going to die and this is the last time he see's him, so tears are bound to come down.

Part 1

[saltyspecs]

I've been thinking some binggeyuan Thoughts.

So, people usually write any binggeyuan as after the bingge vs bingmei extra which is super valid and narratively makes a lot of sense, but I've been thinking about dropping a bingge from earlier in the PIDW timeline into Shen Yuan's world. I'm talking like. Reverse transmigration straight from the abyss.

He finds Xin Mo, his seal gets fully broken, but instead of getting out of the abyss to get his revenge plans started he gets yeeted into modern day China, nothing but the clothes on his back and a system to guide him through it. He's bitter but he's also been fighting tooth and nail to survive for *checks watch* five years. He's like. 3/4 black lotus. Xin Mo hasn't quite had the time to sink its claws in.

I really do just have the mental image of Shen Yuan picking him up from out of an alley cause he looks like he got mugged. like a dirty kitten.

[myimaginationplain]

do you ever think about how Ohkubo extremely casually dropped the fact that Spirit & Kami were teen parents & then proceeded to never expound upon that fact or bring it up ever again despite it explaining a whole lot about them & Maka

[fictionalsownme]

keigo in my newer style since I finally watched s7!! 🧡🌟

I had sooo much fun choosing what I would headcanon/fancast his features as (peep the dimples, i like those heheh,, i just know in-universe there would be at least one fan account dedicated to them lol). My style these days is a lot more grounded in realism so it was hard finding references without an exact face to use-- kind of like a collage. I like how it turned out! I hope this fed my MHA followers & mutuals for a bit, I hath not forgotten you~~!! I really enjoyed season 7, I already know the major beats of what happens next in the manga but I haven't actually read it so I'm waiting with bated breath!!

bonus: I rambled about keigo in the tags but I have big feelings after finishing the season so it ended up long hehe (the tags on my posts are slowly becoming a notes app for fandom shower thoughts atm bruh!!)

[dont-be-a-gonk]

Does anyone know if that army buddy Johnny claims to have is real or not cause whenever I look into it the tags just say his own name.

The two main consensus I've seen are that 1. Johnny genuinely thinks the tags are someone he knew due to his memory being damaged or 2. his claim is metaphorical as he views the man he was before deserting as different from who he currently is (ie. Robert's pre-war innocence died and Johnny's new more spiteful self/ persona is what remains).

[t-u-i-t-c]

each episode ishiro wears a suit, but they are not all the same suit. if you look closely, you can see that they have color, pattern, and/or texture differentiation amongst them. while he may have worn a suit over at times, and will likely do so in the future note that they are not all the same.

episode 1: plaid suit - plaid is barely visible in most scenes but it is there

episode 2: plaid suit - made from a different material from the other suits (possibly wool?)

episode 3: plaid suit

episode 4: pinstripe suit

episode 5: plain/standard suit - seems to have stripes in some lighting however, but that may just be the material

episode 6: plain/standard suit

will have to revisit this after seeing more of his suits and looking into suit construction/fabrics/patterns further

[meownotgood]

ok I'm awake and a little more sentient. there is a whole lot of stuff I really really like about the episodes but I think my main disappointment right now is just that. viktor became the machine herald because of his own conviction. he forced himself to become stronger, specifically attempted to remove his own emotions because he felt they made him weak. but now this viktor just gets thrust into this situation, like the hexcore is just manipulating him to do whatever the fuck, he didn't even get to choose what he wanted because jayce chose it for him

[shannonallaround]

I rewatched the second sonic film with my sister tonight and man. I forget how much I genuinely love this movie

[jichanxo]

a lesson hard learnt