#just wanted to acknowledge the correction

[djarindroid]

Unraveling

Pairing: Thanos (Choi Su-Bong) x Reader

Summary: You and Su-Bong have settled into each other’s lives, but what happens when he turns up at your door in the middle of the night not quite himself?

Warnings: Drug use, Alternative Universe (deviates from the show story line)

Word Count: 2,204

Comments: Sorry this took longer to get out, I'm already about 1K words into the next part so the time until part 5 won't be as long 💕

<- Part Three

Settling back into life after everything that had happened had been relatively smooth, at least on the surface. You still slept fitfully, plagued by nightmares most nights, but you’d found a sense of stability in your days. A steady job at a local cafe kept you busy, and your evenings became quiet and predictable. More often than not Su-Bong joined you.

At first he’d shown up every few days, not staying too long. But after a couple of weeks you saw him almost daily. It wasn’t something either of you talked about, it just happened naturally. Sometimes he’d show up with take out, other times he’d be waiting for you after your shift, ready to walk you home.

Neither of you acknowledged how easily you’d fallen into a routine together. You may have been pushed into each other's lives through the worst circumstances, but there was something about Su-Bong that made you feel like he was meant to be there.

Despite all the time you’d begun to spend together you knew there were still parts of his life he didn’t share with you. You’d picked up on things in passing, mentions of clubs, small comments about him not remembering the night before, how bloodshot his eyes were some days. You never asked and he never brought that side of himself to you

For the most part.

‘Sweety, you can finish now,’ your boss called out warmly. She was a kind older lady who had owned the cafe for years. ‘Your boyfriend is already outside, I don’t want to keep him waiting in the cold.’

You nearly dropped the rag you were using to wipe the counter. ‘Oh, he’s not my boyfriend,’ you corrected quickly, voice coming out a little too fast. You tried to focus on wiping away the last few marks but you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing out of the window. And there he was. 

Su-Bong stood across the street with a cigarette hanging lazily from between his lips. Your boss's words echoed in your head causing your stomach to flutter. Clearing your throat you forced your attention away from him before your thoughts could spiral.

Your boss gave you a knowing look, her lips curving into a sly smile. ‘You know, there aren’t many men out there that would wait around like that unless they had a reason to.’

You suddenly felt uncomfortably warm as you avoided eye contact with her. ‘He’s just looking out for me,’ you replied softly. ‘We’re friends.’

Your boss hummed knowingly, clearly not convinced. ‘If you say so sweety. Go on now, don’t leave your friend out in the cold.’

Shaking your head with a breathy chuckle, you went to grab your coat. Your heart was still beating a little too fast as you called out a quick goodbye before heading towards the door.

Just as you were reaching for the handle something outside caught your attention. Through the glass you watched as a hooded figure approached Su-Bong. Their interaction was quick, clearly practiced. A handshake, followed by Su-Bong slipping something into his pocket. It all happened so fast that if you blinked you’d have missed it.

You froze, a sick sort of weight settled over you. Of course you assumed he hadn’t just gone sober since the games. He wasn’t the kind of person to just change overnight. Thinking it was one thing, but to have it confirmed before your eyes was something else entirely.

You briefly considered trying to sneak out, maybe you could go the long way home and avoid facing him. But the hooded figure was already walking away, and Su-Bong was still there, waiting for you like nothing had happened.

With a sharp inhale to prepare yourself, you stepped outside. Forcing a smile as you crossed the road towards him.

‘Hey señorita,’ he greeted you easily, as he took one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it away. ‘Busy shift?’

You stretched your arms as you reached him, trying to push away the uneasy feeling that had taken hold. ‘Extremely. Looking forward to getting home.’

‘Well, I know a guy who’d like to walk a pretty girl home.’

Any other night the words would have made you laugh, but your mind was occupied with the image of what had just taken place. And yet, despite that,  you couldn’t suppress the small smile that tugged at your lips. 

You began walking as you replied, ‘sounds like a generous guy.’

He smirked as he fell into step beside you, hands shoved into his pockets. This should be familiar, comfortable even, but you couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d just seen.

You knew he’d been reckless, the amount of debt he’d been in before the games was testament to that. It would have been naive to think he’d left that life behind, especially when he still wore his cross necklace everyday.

You snuck a glance at him as you continued walking. He looked the same as ever, like nothing was out of the ordinary, like you hadn’t just watched him make some sort of deal outside of your job.

Should you say something? Ask who it was? Did you even want to know?

Instead, as you neared your apartment, you forced the thoughts to the back of your mind and asked, ‘are you staying for dinner?’

Su-Bong shook his head, ‘sorry, can’t tonight.’

You desperately tried to not let the disappointment show on your face. Just as you opened your mouth to say something, he beat you to it.

‘I’ve just got some stuff to do,’ he said vaguely as he scratched the back of his head. ‘I’ll come by tomorrow though.’

You stopped in front of your apartment building, considering pushing him for more details. In the end you decided against it. Like you had told your boss, he wasn’t your boyfriend. You had no right to question him. 

‘Yeah, okay, see you tomorrow.’ You forced another smile and hoped he believed it.

‘See ya señorita,’ he said with a small wink before he turned and walked away.

As you trudged up the stairs to your apartment you couldn’t stop thinking about Su-Bong. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t worried, but what could you do? He was his own person and you just had to trust that he was keeping himself safe.

You’d finally managed to drift off to sleep only to be woken by an incessant knocking. You rolled over, blinking at your alarm clock, 1:09am. Your heartbeat picked up, who the hell was knocking at this time?!

The knocking grew louder and more insistent. With a groan you managed to drag yourself out of bed and to the door. A bad feeling settled over you before you even reached the door.

Peering through the peephole, you saw Su-Bong in the hallway. 

You’d barely opened the door before he threw his arms out and sang, ‘Heyyy princesss!’

You flinched at the volume. ‘Su-Bong, it’s late, are you okay?’ You asked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

He grinned, smile lopsided and lazy, ‘I am now baby.’ 

Baby? 

He’d never called you that. 

The moment your gaze met his, realisation hit you like a slap. His eyes were glassy and pupils blown wide. He was high.

‘It's late Su-Bong,’ you repeated, hoping he’d give you some sort of explanation as to why he would turn up at this hour.

‘Yeah?’ he said as he waltzed past you, his movements loose, acting as though it was completely normal to just show up at someone’s house in the middle of the night. ‘Can’t I come see you when I miss you?’ 

That wasn’t the problem, the problem was he’d decided to turn up to your place in the middle of the night, high out of his mind, smiling like this was all some kind of joke. This wasn’t Su-Bong, not the one you’d grown to know. This was the mask he put on for the world. The mask you thought he took off for you.

He turned back to you when you didn’t reply, tilting his head with a grin. ‘Aw come on, you gonna tell me you weren’t missing me too?’

You paused briefly, looking for the right words. ‘Well I…of course I missed you but-‘

Before you could finish he flopped down onto the middle of the couch, spreading out so he took up as much room as possible. With one arm thrown over the backrest he patted his thigh, smirking. ‘Then come here baby.’

You stayed rooted to the spot, your heart hammering. This wasn’t happening. This was just some weird dream.

‘C’mon,’ his voice dropped an octave, the implication in his tone unmistakable. ‘Don’t make me beg.’

Heat crept up your neck as you looked at him. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about being close to him before; sitting on his lap, feeling the warmth of his touch. Hearing him say your name in that low voice.

But not like this.

‘You’re high,’ you pointed out firmly, as if doing so may snap him back to reality.

He just rolled his eyes dramatically. ‘Like that changes anything, I’m still me.’ He pouted dramatically and put on his best puppy dog eyes. Holding out his hand for you he added, ‘come on señoritaaa.’

You hesitated. God, you wanted nothing more than to close the distance. It’d be so easy to let him pull you in, just for a moment. Would it really be so bad to give in to this?

You couldn't even finish the thought before Su-Bong was back on his feet. Closing the space between you with slow steps. ‘Look at you baby,’ he spoke softly, almost affectionately. ‘Still that same shy, pretty girl that came over to me in the games.’

He reached up to brush your cheek. His touch was still so gentle, so warm, that for a moment you forgot what state he was in. For that fraction of a second you let yourself lean into him.

And then- ‘Come on, let Thanos take care of you.’

Your stomach twisted violently. Like a bucket of ice cold water had been dumped over you, you stumbled back sharply, breaking contact. 

Thanos. Not Su-Bong. Thanos.

You felt almost stupid for making the distinction. After all, it was such a small thing, just a name. But it changed everything.

Thanos may have been the one that saved you. He may have been the one that held your hand and protected you.

But Su-Bong... he was the one who let you in. He was the one that text you in the middle of the day because he saw something funny and wanted to share it. He was the one that walked you home. He was the one that turned up with takeout because he found a new place to try. He was the one who could sit with you for hours, talking about anything or nothing at all.

Su-Bong was who he chose to be with you.

Seeing him slip back to Thanos after all this time, felt like losing him.

‘I-’ Your voice sounded unsteady but you forced yourself to stand your ground. ‘I think you should leave.’

His cocky facade faltered. ‘You don’t want this?’ He gestured between the two of you, giving you a look that made you feel like you were the one acting strange.

‘I didn’t say that,’ you rushed to clarify, hoping to reassure him even as doubt began to claw at your own mind. ‘I just think you’re saying all this because…’ 

Because you’re not thinking clearly. Because you’re not you.

He clenched his jaw as his entire posture stiffened. ‘Because?’

You swallowed hard. ‘…because you're high and acting like someone else.’ 

You hated the way your words made his expression flicker with something fragile. You’d spent so much time together, it was crushing you to see him like this. You thought you’d gotten past pretending. 

‘Come back when we can talk properly.’ 

The honesty in your words seemed to cut through the haze. ‘Fuck,’ his shoulders slumped and he looked down at the floor, like he couldn’t bear to meet your eyes anymore. ‘’m sorry,’ he murmured, voice barely audible. 

Your chest ached at the way he deflated. You wanted to reach for him. To tell him it was okay, let him know you weren’t angry, just worried. But before you could, he was already walking towards the door. 

Without a second thought he left.

You stood there, unmoving, as you listened to the echo of his footsteps fade away. You pressed your lips together trying to hold tears back. The silence you were left with was suffocating.

Really you should feel relieved, proud of yourself for setting that boundary. You wrapped your arms around yourself and exhaled shakily.

Turning towards the couch, you stared at where he’d been sat only minutes ago. For a moment you could picture the two of you sat there, watching a crappy re-run on your TV after stuffing yourself with food.

You wished the thought would comfort you but instead you were just left with a nagging feeling that when morning came, and he sobered up, he might not come back.

-> Part 5 Coming Soon Series Masterlist

Taglist: @andersonslove @fallout-girl219 @olasz-2003 @l5byrinth @hotdxdragon @cherrypied0lly @nicklet94 @learninglinesintherainn @tebteb @lotsa-juicy-shit @onecojg @the-iridescent-phoenix

[yaniluvs]

“nerds don't date , right?”

[ 정인 ] ✷ ‎. . flirting with the chic nerd turns into something else ?

۫ 𖨂 𓈒 𝑛erdy!jeongin ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. fluff , humour , crack , forced proximity , classmates to lovers , uni au , fake dating , skz ensemble . 32OOw. ⎯⎯⎯ LiBRARY ⟢ cw. suggestive , as of now . ┆ 📹 ⋮ a y.jg mini series .ᐟ ֹ ₊

yani's note 𑁍ࠬܓ happy jeongin day! <3 thought this fic will end up too long (no surprise there..) so instead i'm turning into another series. ik i update all my series very slowly BUT listen, i will post freq. for this since it's a mini series !! this is pretty fast-paced, for the first chapter though. the upcoming ones may be slow-paced and not rush tho hehe. comments, likes, req./asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! send in a reply or an ask if you want to be in my mastertag, or my individual series' taglists. happy reading, love <3

the autumn air was crisp, golden leaves swirling across the university courtyard as students hurried to their morning classes. the faint scent of coffee and fallen leaves lingered in the air, mixing with the distant hum of chatter and footsteps against cobblestone paths. it was the kind of morning that made people pause for a second, taking in the poetry of the season—well, people who weren’t already running late.

you weren't late, but you sure weren’t in a rush either. the café near the library had just handed over your classic hot cocoa, still warm against your palms, and the world felt like it was moving at a slow, dreamy pace.

that was, until a familiar figure cut through the crowd like a scene straight out of a high-fashion editorial.

yang jeongin.

jeongin, the so-called nerd, of at least your year. the one with the perfect grades, the sharp jawline, and the ever-present black glasses perched on his nose. the one people assumed spent all his time buried in textbooks, immune to the chaos of university life. except, he wasn’t just a nerd—he was a walking contradiction.

because if jeongin was just a nerd, why was he stepping onto campus dressed like he belonged on a runway?

today, it was a black oversized blazer with a fitted turtleneck, silver rings glinting against his slender fingers as he adjusted the leather strap of his bag. his glasses sat perfectly on the bridge of his nose, giving him an air of quiet arrogance, like he knew he looked good but didn’t care enough to acknowledge it.

his dark hair was slightly tousled, as if he’d just stepped out of bed looking effortlessly perfect. and the way he walked—like the world was just a backdrop, and he was the main character—made people stare without even realizing they were doing it.

jeongin definitely had an idgaf attitude, you had thought when you first shared a class. not towards his studies—no, he was practically married to academic excellence—but towards people.

he didn’t care for the unnecessary drama, the loud parties, or the fleeting conversations about nothing. he had a small, trusted circle and didn’t entertain anyone outside of it.

which was exactly why you found it so fun to mess with him.

“morning, topper,” you called out, stepping in line with him as he made his way toward the lecture hall. “where’s the rest of your nerd squad?”

jeongin barely spared you a glance. “not a nerd,” he replied smoothly.

“yeah?” you sipped your cocoa, unfazed. “you literally corrected our professor’s math last week.”

“he was wrong,” the guy shrugged.

“yeah, but who does that?”

“a person who values accuracy,” he deadpanned, his lips twitching slightly.

you simply grinned, as you walked alongside him. your friend group always teased you for hanging around jeongin, saying you were probably the only person brave enough to bother the university’s golden boy.

he wasn’t mean, exactly, but he had a way of making people feel like they weren’t worth his time.

which was true regardless.

still, you had made it your personal mission to crack his icy exterior.

“so,” you continued, “you ever been on a date, topper?”

he slowed his pace. it was so brief that most people wouldn’t have noticed, but you caught the slight hesitation before he turned to you, raising a perfectly shaped brow.

“what?”

“a date. you know—dressing up, awkward small talk, trying to impress someone so they don’t ghost you after?” you clarified, voice laced with amusement.

jeongin adjusted his glasses, looking unimpressed. “i know what a date is.”

“great! so, have you been on one?”

for a second, he just stared at you, dark eyes unreadable behind his lenses. then, in a tone so nonchalant it almost sounded careless, he said, “no.”

you almost choked on your drink. “wait, seriously?”

he continued walking, unfazed. “yeah. why? is that surprising?”

“duh?” you huffed, catching up. “you’re, like, weirdly hot for a nerd. i thought people would be throwing themselves at you.”

he scoffed. “that’s the problem. i don’t care about people throwing themselves at me.”

you tilted your head. “then what do you care about?”

he continued walking, completely nonchalant as he gazed up. the morning sun caught the silver of his rings as he slipped his hands into his pockets, tilting his head slightly.

“why?” he mused, voice smooth as ever. “you wanna change that?”

you blinked. for the first time, you were the one caught off guard.

because jeongin wasn’t looking at you with his usual passive expression. no, there was something in his gaze—something sharp, something challenging, something that almost looked like interest.

and you, for the first time in your life, had no idea what to say.

flirting with a nerd shouldn’t be this hard.

the crisp morning air suddenly felt warmer.

you were not the type to get flustered easily, but the way jeongin had just looked at you—head tilted, hands in his pockets, voice smooth as hell—all the while walking straight ahead as if he hadn't just lowkey flirted with you—wasn’t fair.

it wasn’t nerdy. it wasn’t normal. it wasn’t jeongin.

since when did nerds flirt back?

you narrowed your eyes, stepping closer to mask your sudden loss of composure. “that sounded like a challenge.”

“maybe it is.”

you blinked. okay. this was new territory. you were used to jeongin rolling his eyes at you, shutting down your playful jabs with a bored look. not this. not him flipping the script so effortlessly.

but two could play that game.

“well, topper,” you hummed, leaning in slightly, “if you want me to take you on a date, you should just say so.”

his smirk didn’t waver, but you caught the quick flicker of his eyes—the way they darted to your lips before meeting your gaze again. he adjusted his glasses, his fingers briefly brushing against the silver rings.

“i don’t recall saying that,” he mused.

you grinned. “you didn’t deny it, though.”

jeongin exhaled through his nose, amused, before turning back toward the lecture hall. “come on. we’re already late.”

you watched him walk ahead, your heartbeat a little too loud in your ears.

what the hell just happened?

— inside the lecture hall

the class was already half-full when you and jeongin entered, the air buzzing with lazy morning energy. some students were half-asleep, slumped over their desks, while others were whispering about weekend plans.

the professor hadn’t arrived yet, but the massive whiteboard was already filled with equations from an earlier class—long, intimidating numbers that you barely had the mental energy to comprehend.

you spotted your some of your friends near the middle rows. felix, ryujin, and yeji were sitting together, with an empty seat next to the blonde. across the hall, the nerd's own 'gang'—jisung, hyunjin, seungmin, aeri and yunah—was all huddled near the front.

as you slid into the seat next to felix, he raised an eyebrow. “you were talking to jeongin again?”

“yeah?”

he leaned in, lowering his voice. “bae. people actually think he hates, like, everyone.”

you scoffed, unbothered. “well, i’m built different.”

ryujin, who was casually scrolling on her phone, smirked. “or maybe you just like hot twi— nerds.”

“he's not tw—”

yeji cut you off, nudging the other two. “what’s the bet again?”

felix only grinned. “y/n would either break jeongin’s cold exterior or completely embarrass herself trying.”

“so far, it’s leaning toward the second one.”

you groaned, shoving felix’s arm. “so i'm as valuable as a bet now?”

meanwhile, across the room, jeongin was already in his seat, casually flipping through his notes. jisung nudged him with an exaggerated smirk.

“was y/n hitting on you again?”

jeongin adjusted his glasses. “probably.”

seungmin, looking unimpressed, leaned back in his chair. “and you just let her?”

jeongin shrugged. “she's entertaining.”

aeri cackled. “you so have a crush.”

“i don’t.”

“right, right.” jisung rolled his eyes. “that’s why you’re smirking to yourself like a roblox character right now?”

jeongin’s smirk immediately disappeared. “shut up.”

— after class, the campus café

after suffering through an hour of math (or thriving through it, if you were jeongin), you found yourself at the campus café, sipping on some watermelon juice you had gotten. the café was a cozy little spot near the library, filled with the soft hum of conversations and the clinking of coffee cups. the warm lighting made the wooden interior glow, and the air smelled like cinnamon and espresso.

you were sitting with felix and ryujin when jeongin entered.

of course, he looked annoyingly good again.

and of course, he had changed his attire after class.

noon's outfit: a fitted cream turtleneck under a tailored charcoal gray coat, paired with black trousers and sleek leather boots. his silver rings caught the light as he pushed his glasses up, scanning the menu like he wasn’t aware half the café was stealing glances at him.

you sighed dramatically. “does he ever look bad?”

felix smirked. “that’s what you’re worried about?”

“no, i’m worried about myself, because apparently, i’m developing a thing for well-dressed nerds.”

ryujin raised an eyebrow. “oh? so you admit it?”

at that moment, jeongin’s gaze flickered over to you. your eyes met. and instead of just nodding or ignoring you like usual, he did something that nearly made you drop your drink.

he smiled.

not a smirk. not a teasing glance. a smile. dimples and all.

you blinked, stunned.

felix leaned in, whispering, “oh. you’re so done for.”

and for the second time today, you really had nothing to say.

the art of losing (to a nerd).

jeongin had smiled at you.

not a smirk, not an i’m-better-than-you glance, but an actual smile. dimples, soft eyes, the whole deal.

you were losing your mind.

“i—what—he—” you sputtered, gripping your juice like it held the answers to the universe. “did he just smile at me?”

felix sipped his iced coffee with an amused look. “yup.”

ryujin smirked, barely glancing up from her phone. “congratulations. you’re officially the first person outside of his nerd cult to get that privilege.”

“oh lord.”

across the café, jeongin had already turned back to the counter, unfazed. he ordered his usual—black coffee, no sugar—before casually making his way to a corner booth. he moved so effortlessly, extremely nonchalant.

you, however, were still stuck on that smile.

what did it mean? was he just being polite? was he messing with you? did he—

felix snapped his fingers in front of your face. “hello? earth to y/n? you’re staring.”

you blinked. “i am not.”

ryujin raised an eyebrow. “you totally are.”

felix leaned in, grinning. “wait. wait. are you blushing?”

“no.”

“you’re so done for,”

“first stage of denial: over.”

“i hate the both of you.”

. . .

a few days later, you were at the campus library, attempting to study. spoiler: it wasn’t going well.

the problem?

a nerd sitting across from you.

it wasn’t planned. you had been minding your own business, laptop open, notes spread out, when jeongin had materialized in front of you, dropping his books onto the table with an air of casual dominance.

“reserved seats don’t exist,” he had said when you had gaped at him.

so now, here you were. stuck at the same table, trying (and failing) to ignore each other.

you tapped your pen against your notebook, sneaking a glance at him. he was focused, dark eyes scanning the textbook like it was the most interesting thing in the world. his glasses slid down slightly, and he absentmindedly pushed them back up with a knuckle.

how was it possible for a nerd to look so effortlessly cool?

“you’re staring.”

you flinched. “observing.”

jeongin didn’t even look up. “creeping.”

you huffed, crossing your arms. “you are so full of yourself.”

a smirk. “you’re the one staring, not me.”

you scowled, ready to retort, when an idea hit them. a terrible, wonderful idea.

you leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. “you know,” you mused, “if you ever need a break from all that.. nerding, i can take you on a date.”

jeongin finally looked up, raising a brow. “are you seriously flirting with me in the library?”

“why? is it working?”

a pause. then—

jeongin leaned in too.

too close. close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne—something woody, expensive, unfairly attractive.

“you tell me,” he murmured.

your brain short-circuited.

felix was right. you were so done for.

. . .

you had two rules in life.

1. never get involved in unnecessary drama. 2. never—ever—fall for a nerd.

unfortunately, han jisung existed solely to ruin both of those.

the set-up (aka jisung's dumb idea)

"so, uh… i kind of need a favor."

jisung plopped down beside you in the campus café, grinning like he hadn’t just uttered the most dangerous words in existence.

you, munching on a cookie, didn’t bother looking up from the textbook you were pretending to read simultaneously. "no."

"you don’t even know what i’m asking."

"i know it’s stupid."

jisung pouted. "wow. no faith in me at all?"

you finally sighed, setting the cookie down. "fine. what’s the favor?"

jisung clapped his hands together, practically vibrating with excitement. "so, jeongin has this family thing coming up, right?"

"okay… and?"

jisung leaned in, lowering his voice like he was about to reveal a government secret. "his parents keep nagging him about dating."

"and why is that my problem?"

jisung grinned. "because you’re fake-dating him now!"

silence.

you stared. "i’m what?"

"you heard me."

at that exact moment, jeongin—who had just arrived at the café (wow magic) —froze mid-step. he turned to jisung with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

"what are you doing? no!"

jisung pouted. "come on, dude. your mom keeps asking about your nonexistent girlfriend, and y/n is perfect for this!"

you smirked, propping your chin on your hand. "perfect, hm?"

jeongin shot you a flat look. "don’t."

jisung, ignoring him, continued excitedly, "think about it! y/n’s hot, pretty, you two already bicker like an old married couple, and—"

jeongin cut him off. "i’d rather die."

"well, damn," you muttered, feigning offense. "you could at least pretend to be a little enthusiastic about fake-dating me."

jeongin turned to you, unimpressed. "i’d rather explain quantum mechanics to a toddler than date you."

you grinned. "you know quantum mechanics?"

"that’s not the point."

jisung threw his hands up. "guys! focus! jeongin, do you want your mom setting you up with random girls?"

jeongin clenched his jaw. he hated when his mom did that. every family event ended with some aunt introducing him to their neighbor’s niece, followed by exhausting small talk and forced compliments.

his eyes flickered to you, watching him with that stupidly smug smile. you probably weren’t taking this seriously, right?

good.

because he wasn’t doing it.

"no," he finally said. "not happening."

jisung groaned. "dude. it’s one dinner."

"still no."

you leaned in, resting your elbow on the table. "you’re really against the idea of dating me?"

jeongin exhaled, looking you dead in the eye. "fake or not, i wouldn’t date you if you were the last person on earth."

you grinned. "good. that means i can flirt all i want, and you totally won’t get attached, right?"

"oh yeah? wanna bet on it?"

"oh you're on, yang. i'll flirt with you as much as i want for-"

he cuts you off, "-one month. a whole week of me buying you snacks and lunch on the line. if you win."

"hmm, scared much? why not make it three months and i'll actually leave you alone after it all?"

"oh this is fun." jisung only stared between the two.

"bet."

jisung clapped his hands together. "so it's settled! you two are fake-dating!"

"i never agreed to this," jeongin muttered.

you simply took another bite of your cookie. "too late, topper. we have a date to plan."

jeongin swore under his breath.

this was going to be a disaster.

. . .

the night of the dinner came faster than jeongin would’ve liked.

you, unfortunately, were thriving.

"so, babe," you teased, nudging him as you walked toward the fancy restaurant where his family was waiting. "are we holding hands or what?"

jeongin shot you a glare. "no."

you pouted dramatically. "you’re so bad at this."

"i don’t want to be good at this."

you sighed. "fine. but i am calling you ‘babe’ in front of your parents."

jeongin stopped walking. "don’t."

you smirked. "babe."

jeongin groaned, rubbing his temples.

this was hell.

so, the second you stepped in, jeongin’s mom beamed.

"iyennie! you made it!"

you nearly choked. iyennie?

jeongin shot you a look that screamed, say a word and you die.

you, of course, took mental notes for future bullying.

his mother, looking as happy as ever, turned to you, eyes lighting up. "and this must be your girlfriend!"

you smiled sweetly, reaching for jeongin’s arm. "yes, ma’am! i’ve heard so much about you."

jeongin stiffened. his actual nightmare was happening.

his mom clapped her hands together. "oh, she’s adorable! and so polite!"

jeongin shot you a glare.

y/n, in response, squeezed his arm.

. . .

the dinner had barely started, and jeongin already wanted to disappear.

his mom was in full hosting mode, greeting everyone at the long, beautifully decorated table like she was running a royal banquet. his dad, more relaxed but equally nosy, sat at the head of the table, eyeing jeongin and you like you two were the most interesting thing in the world.

and then, of course, there were the relatives.

the visiting relatives.

which jeongin had not been informed about.

"aunt nae is here?" he whispered to his mom in horror as they took their seats.

"of course! she and minji wanted to see you, and they had to meet your girlfriend," his mom whispered back, beaming.

jeongin shot a look at you, who was way too comfortable in this situation, greeting his relatives like you'd been part of the family for years.

he exhaled sharply. this is fine. one dinner.

you turned to him, grinning. "jeonginnie, babe, scoot closer."

jeongin flinched. "what the hell did you just call me?"

"jeonginnie," you repeated, full of amusement, before turning to his mom. "it’s my nickname for him. cute, right?"

his mom melted. "oh, that’s adorable!"

jeongin clenched his jaw, gripping his fork like it was his last lifeline.

you were having the time of your life.

"so, y/n," jeongin’s dad started, leaning back in his chair. "tell us about yourself. what are you studying?"

you smiled, setting your chopsticks down. "music and literature."

jeongin’s mom clasped her hands together. "oh! a creative soul!"

jeongin muttered under his breath, "more like a chaotic soul."

you kicked him under the table. he barely held in a grunt.

one of jeongin’s aunts, a well-dressed woman in her late fifties, eyed you curiously. "and how did you two meet?"

before jeongin could stop you, you smoothly responded, "in the library. he was too shy to talk to me at first, so i had to make the first move. such a baby, right?"

jeongin nearly choked on his water. "that’s not—"

"oh, my," one of the older relatives gushed. "that’s so cute!"

"it really was," you continued, ignoring jeongin’s silent death glare. "he kept glancing at me over his books. adorable. my little nerd."

jeongin took a slow, deep breath. "lying is a sin, you know."

you turned to him with a sickeningly sweet smile. "so is being grumpy at your loving girlfriend, babe."

jeongin gritted his teeth. "i hate you."

"no, you don’t."

the rest of the table ate this up.

minji, his cousin, sighed dreamily. "you two are so cute together."

jeongin gave you a sharp look that screamed, look what you’ve done.

you only smirked.

and so, the dinner continued, filled with stories, laughter, and jeongin’s silent suffering.

until his father, casually sipping his drink, said, "we should invite y/n to the family trip next month."

silence.

jeongin’s brain short-circuited.

"excuse me?"

his dad smiled. "the family trip! your mom and i were just talking about it the other day. since y/n is part of the family now, she should come!"

jeongin nearly passed out.

you, on the other hand, simply blinked. "family trip?"

"oh, yes!" his mom clapped her hands together. "a whole week at the beach! we go every year, but this time, you’ll be joining us!"

jeongin stared at them in horror. "no, she won’t."

"of course, she will," his dad said firmly.

"we’ve only been dating for a few months!" jeongin protested.

his mom tilted her head. "so?"

"so?! that’s too soon for a family trip!"

you, who had been silent, leaned in slightly. "i mean, i do like the beach."

jeongin whipped his head toward them. "are you kidding me?"

you smirked. "what? i think it could be fun, babe."

jeongin clenched his fists. "i hate you." (keep counting guys !!)

"no, you don’t."

the table broke into excited chatter about the trip, completely ignoring jeongin’s very obvious distress.

this wasn’t happening.

this couldn’t be happening.

but it was.

and you were enjoying every second of it.

. . .

the evening air was crisp, a sharp contrast to the warmth inside the restaurant. the soft glow of the streetlights cast elongated shadows on the pavement, flickering with the occasional movement of people walking past. somewhere down the street, a car honked, followed by the muffled laughter of a group of university students spilling out of a nearby café.

none of that mattered to jeongin.

because he was currently standing outside the restaurant, rubbing his face aggressively while you stood beside him, grinning like you had just won the lottery.

as soon as you had left the restaurant, he had dragged you to the side, glaring.

"you just had to play along?"

you shrugged. "what was i supposed to do? say no and make it obvious?"

"yes!"

you smirked, tapping your chin. "hmm… too boring."

jeongin groaned, rubbing his temples. "this was supposed to be one night."

"well," you said cheerfully, "looks like we’re fake-dating for a month now. hope you’re ready, iyennie. oh, and this doesn't mean our bet is off the line now."

jeongin groaned louder.

this was hell.

"you're enjoying this," he accused, voice flat, eyes burning into them.

you smoothed the skirt of your blue, satin dress, pretending to think. "maybe a bit."

jeongin shot you a glare.

okay, a full-blown murderous glare.

you, still entirely unbothered, placed a hand on your hip. "i don’t see why you’re mad. i mean, a free vacation? beachside views? quality time with your loving girlfriend?" you batted your lashes. "i’d say that’s a win."

jeongin exhaled through his nose. "a win would be me never having to fake-date you in the first place."

you gasped dramatically. "that hurts, iyennie."

jeongin physically recoiled. "don’t call me that."

"aww, but it’s cute." you tilted your head, smirking. "just like you."

jeongin’s entire body tensed. "i hate you." (what did i tell you?)

"no, you don’t."

"besides, you could've asked any other girl for this whole.. fake dating agenda, you know. but you didn't, so i think that's very contradictory to your complains right now."

"you think i had a choice when jisung practically threatened me there in the first place?"

"please, you could reject it if you really wanted to. that man would forget about it if minho appeared randomly."

jeongin groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "this was supposed to be one night. one dinner. one stupid meal, and then i could go back to my normal, peaceful life."

"peaceful? dude, you have two research papers due, a physics exam next week, and you literally stress-buy sweaters. what part of that is peaceful?"

"shut up," he muttered.

"aww, did i strike a nerve?"

jeongin clenched his jaw. "let’s just go."

"go where?"

jeongin pointed to his car. "i drove you here, remember? which means, unfortunately, i have to drop you home, too."

"aww, you care about my safety, now? such a great boyfriend."

"no, darling, i just don’t want my mom thinking i abandoned you on the side of the road."

you gasped, pressing a hand to your heart. "cold, iyennie. cold."

jeongin ignored her and walked to his car.

jeongin’s car was clean. of course it was.

dark leather seats, faint traces of cologne and fresh laundry lingering in the air, a neatly placed water bottle in the cup holder, and absolutely no mess in sight. it was exactly what you had expected from someone like jeongin—controlled, neat, meticulous.

you, on the other hand, sprawled in the passenger seat like you had all the time in the world, kicking off your heels with a sigh.

"ugh, finally," you said, stretching your legs. "i swear, those things were invented by a man."

jeongin side-eyed them as he started the car. "you chose to wear them."

"yeah, because i actually put effort into my appearance, especially because i was meeting my boyfriend's family, you know. not to mention, i also had to match someone's peak of fashion sense."

you looked him up and down, eyes dragging over his outfit. "speaking of, i gotta admit, you looked kind of good tonight, nerd."

jeongin, dressed in a perfectly fitted black button-up (with the sleeves slightly rolled, because of course), navy slacks, and a silver watch that sat just right on his wrist, kept his eyes on the road. "kind of?"

"mhm. but don’t let it go to your head."

jeongin clicked his tongue. "too late."

you laughed, leaning against the window. "so, when were you going to tell me you had a whole extended family coming to dinner?"

jeongin let out a deep sigh. "i didn’t know."

"mm-hmm."

"i didn’t. if i had known, i would’ve never agreed to this in the first place."

"bet your mom planned it on purpose,"

jeongin’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. "oh, she definitely did."

silence filled the car, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound between them. the city lights flickered past, casting patterns of gold and silver against the windshield. the streets, alive with late-night chatter and the occasional honk, blurred into the background.

you shifted, turning to face him. "so, what’s the plan?"

jeongin frowned. "what plan?"

"you know, the fake-dating plan? we need a strategy."

jeongin blinked. "we don’t need a strategy. we just—" he exhaled. "we just survive the trip, act normal, and then break up after."

you gasped. "break up? so soon?"

jeongin shot you a look. "we are not actually dating, idiot."

"but think of the drama!" you grinned. "we could stage a messy breakup—throw some fake tears in, maybe have a whole 'it’s not you, it’s me' moment—"

"no."

you pouted. "boring."

jeongin rolled his eyes. "you are the most insufferable person i’ve ever met."

"and yet, here you are, fake dating me. out of every girl in town."

jeongin groaned. "i hate my life."

you smirked, playing with the edge of your dress. "no, you don’t."

. . .

when you finally pulled up in front of the women's uni dorm building, jeongin parked and rested his head against the seat, exhausted.

"alright, we’re here. get out."

you gasped. "no goodnight kiss?"

"out."

you laughed, wearing your heels back and stepping out. before closing the door, you leaned down slightly, peering inside. "sweet dreams, iyennie. don’t miss me too much."

jeongin glared. "i will actually block your number."

you winked. "you wish you could."

and with that, you shut the door and disappeared into the building, leaving jeongin staring after you, questioning every life choice that had led to this moment.

mastertag ୨୧ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @bddaramjis @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan

[wendichester]

₊˚⊹ ᰔ happier³,

summary. it's always been dean.

pairing. sam winchester x reader ft. dean winchester ; angsty!

wordcount. 1124

notes. you didn't ask, but this is my favorite ending and thus the only correct ending!!! dean deserves to be loved and chosen and always be #1 🥺

⋆.˚ ★— read part 1, part 2 + sam's ending

The bunker is quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

The absence of Sam’s presence is a void that stretches through the halls, pressing in around you. The weight of what just happened—what was said, what was left unsaid—lingers in the air like smoke after a fire.

And Dean—

Dean hasn’t looked at you since Sam walked out the door.

He disappeared into his room right after, the door creaking shut behind him with a finality that sent something sharp through your chest. You’d given him space, let him sit in whatever storm was raging inside him. But now—

Now, you need to see him.

So you find yourself standing outside his door, hesitating for a beat before pushing it open.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. The room is dim, bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. His shoulders are tense, his fingers laced together like he’s holding himself back from breaking something.

You step inside, shutting the door behind you. “Dean.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t acknowledge you. But his jaw ticks, the only sign that he even heard you.

You swallow hard, taking a step closer. “Talk to me.”

Still nothing.

You exhale, crossing the space between you and kneeling in front of him, resting your hands on his thighs. His body stiffens beneath your touch, but he still won’t look at you.

“Dean, please.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he’s just going to keep shutting you out. But then—

“Did you ever think about it?” His voice is low, rough, barely above a whisper.

You frown. “Think about what?”

His fingers twitch in his lap. “Him.”

Your breath catches.

Dean finally looks at you, and the raw vulnerability in his expression nearly knocks the air from your lungs. “Did you ever think about being with him instead?”

Your heart aches. “Dean—”

“Just tell me the truth,” he says, his voice a little sharper now. “You two were close. Closer than I wanted to see. He got you in ways I don’t. You talked for hours about books and music and all that crap. So did you ever—” He breaks off, shaking his head like he can’t even say the words.

“No,” you say immediately, gripping his thighs tighter. “God, no, Dean.”

His throat bobs, but his eyes are still dark with doubt.

You shift, moving onto his lap, straddling him, forcing him to see you. “I love you,” you tell him, your fingers slipping into his hair, tugging lightly to keep his attention on you. “I’ve only ever wanted you.”

Dean lets out a rough breath, his hands finding your waist, squeezing like he’s testing if you’re real. “Then why—” He exhales sharply. “Why do I feel like I’m losing you?”

The words hit harder than anything else he’s said.

Because deep down, you know why.

Sam is gone. The dynamic has shifted. The three of you will never be the same again. And Dean—Dean, who has spent his entire life being left behind—doesn’t know if you’ll stay. If Sam will ever come back.

And that’s the problem.

Maybe it’s not about who you love, or who you've chosen. Which brother wins. Maybe it’s about what’s been broken.

You shake your head, leaning in until your foreheads press together. “You’re not. You won’t.”

His grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your skin. “Sam—”

“Sam made his choice,” you whisper. “And I made mine.”

Dean’s breath is ragged now, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer, pressing you flush against him. You feel the heat of him, the tension coiled in his body, the frustration and jealousy and fear of losing you burning just beneath the surface.

And you need him to know—

So you kiss him.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful.

It’s desperate. Messy and heated and real, your lips crashing against his, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling, grounding. Dean groans into your mouth, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, dragging you impossibly closer.

The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours, stealing the breath from your lungs. You gasp when he shifts beneath you, pressing you down against the hardness you feel through his jeans.

But then—

Dean slows.

His hands, which had been gripping you with a kind of desperation, soften at your waist. His mouth lingers on yours, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t rush. Instead, he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard, his fingers tracing slow circles against your ribs.

“You sure?” His voice is rough, but there’s something vulnerable underneath it, something that makes your chest ache.

Your hands cup his face, tilting it so he has no choice but to see you. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He lets out a breath, closing his eyes for a second before opening them again, green and stormy and so full of emotion. “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

You smile softly, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “Dean, I love you.”

His expression falters—just for a moment. Like hearing it, really hearing it, knocks the air from his lungs.

“I mean it,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then just beneath his ear. “I love you when you’re cocky, when you’re angry, when you’re soft like this. I love you when you’re messy, when you don’t have the right words. I love you.”

Dean swallows hard, his grip on you tightening. “You don’t know what it does to me, hearing you say that.”

“Then let me keep saying it,” you murmur, pressing another kiss to his lips, slow and lingering. “Let me remind you every damn day.”

Dean exhales against your mouth, his hands sliding up to frame your face. “You have no idea how scared I was,” he admits, his voice barely a whisper. “That I was gonna lose you. That you’d look at me and—” He swallows, shaking his head. “Realize I wasn’t enough.”

You frown, your heart twisting. “Dean.”

He tries to look away, but you don’t let him. You hold him there, force him to hear you.

“You are everything to me.” Your voice is steady, sure, filled with nothing but truth. “You are enough, Dean. You’ve always been enough.”

Dean searches your face, like he’s trying to memorize every piece of you, like he’s trying to believe you with every broken, hesitant part of himself.

Then he kisses you again, softer this time. Sweeter. A promise.

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips.

You smile, threading your fingers through his hair. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time that night, Dean lets himself believe it.

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @ariasong11 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @whereiwakewarm ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystemss ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @defnot-svnshine ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @mrs-pondwater19 ⋆ @lmg14 ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @myceliumsunshine ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20

[thatonebirdwrites]

@lenaharness or whatever your name is.

Stop.

Do not use disabled people as a shield for your racist (and frankly ableist) bullshit. I get folks are scared right now, but there is no excuse for this behavior.

Generalizations and bad faith arguments like this are hurtful. It adds nothing to the discussion and is a derail. So just stop and take a moment to LISTEN instead of reacting. Expressing frustration about a trend is not the same thing as a blame game, so stop that nonsense too. First off many of us don't want to leave as our mutual aid networks and community are here. Plus, our ancestors fought and bled for this land. We shouldn't have to leave. We have talents and skills to offer the resistance (if the majority of Leftism can get their heads out of their asses and stop being racist and ableist.)

This isn't to say disabled people are all Leftists or intersectional or antiracist. There's some super racist white disabled folks who voted for Trump out there. Those people are irritatingly harmful and making it harder for all of us.

Secondly, Black, Indigenous, and People of Color are more likely to be disabled due to the racist/ableist/classist policies that target those populations. Intersectionality exists, and Disabled people can be of any skin color, any sexuality, any gender -- so lumping us all together as if we're one amorphous blob is irritating as fuck and racist/ableist. Third, we cannot leave this country even if we wanted to because -- get this -- racism and ableism and classism are tied up together. No Western Country will take us due to productivity laws (with sometimes fast-tracking for specific careers) that require any immigrant to be able to work a specific amount of hours to get accepted into the country. They literally word their laws with ableist terms such as "drain" on their state coffers and healthcare. So any of us who fail that ableist litmus test cannot immigrate there. Sure we can apply for asylum, but again, ableism/classism/racism reigns supreme and we can be denied asylum for being disabled.

Many disabled people are tied to local communities for aid and are in forced poverty due to disability programs not being updated since 1980s, which is why benefits are abysmal still. So most of us simply do not have the funds or know people elsewhere to help us move. (As many of us would need assistance to move).

Some of us don't WANT to move, but instead want people to not forget us and continue to support us through these terrifying times. Many of us are doing our part in the resistance the best we can with our limitations.

My own frustrations mirror the original poster. I'm sick of folks leaping immediately to 'oh we need to leave!' the moment things get tough instead of helping their communities with survival and resistance. OP is absolutely correct in their frustrations and reasons why.

I'm also sick of folks leaving us disabled to die and rot. I'm infuriated by people using ableist terms like 'insane' or 'stupid' to describe things they don't like. I'm exhausted by folks who won't acknowledge our ties to the land and the community and act like we're chess chips for whatever 'gotcha game' they're playing. I'm sick to death of Leftists forgetting us in their so-called 'better futures' (which are way too white to begin with).

Expressing our frustrations about these topics is valid and necessary if we're to work together to survive and fight for a better world.

the reason that white Americans going "I'm going to move to ___" during all this insults me so much is not bc I care whether they leave or go. I think it bothers me deeply bc it shows such a... Lack of attachment to the land that so so SO many people suffered and currently suffer for.

The indigenous peoples here were mass murdered for centuries for their own land. My people were brought here in chains for centuries, then bred like they were lower than animals, just to work this land. People of color here and abroad suffer just to maintain this place's spot in the global hierarchy.

A lot of BLOOD went into this soil that y'all's ancestors wanted so fucking bad, a lot of privilege (whether you want it or not) was built through so much suffering for you to have. And as soon as the going got tough, your only comment was "well, I wish I could settle somewhere else now". 😐 It just is truly a slap in the face, that y'all don't even care that much about what was committed for you to stand where you are.

And maybe if people acknowledged that privilege more I'd be less mad, but no. They claim to not even know 😭 like all right then

[thesehandsfic]

okay i got three (3), count ‘em, three, asks about this exact same thing so FINE. you've forced my hand (not really, i was always gonna answer). this meta has been peer reviewed (thank you to @neurosses and @parrishwife) and is backed up by certain things in canon that can be interpreted a certain way.

i will preface this with the disclaimer that i’m not trying to say maggie sat down and wrote a D/s dynamic on purpose. i’m not saying everything they do has a sexual undertone. i’m not saying this is the only correct reading of canon. i’m not saying anyone has to agree with me. i’m not saying they engage in a “lifestyle” dynamic involving total power exchange or 24/7 scenarios. if you think i said these things, i didn’t. i'm not even going to run this through the lens of daddy kink, even though i really could and really want to, but we'll stick to the basics: one of them's The Boss.

it’s a general rule of thumb that any relationship between two people has an inherent power dynamic. an intimate sexual relationship involving emotional vulnerability and cohabitation will have a more pronounced power dynamic. it is my opinion that ronan is submissive to adam in their dynamic, and that is they way they both prefer it. ronan is not that way because adam is domineering and he just doesn’t want to argue. adam is not the boss because ronan is lazy and spoiled and won’t take initiative. ronan likes to feel he has someone he can answer to. it stabilizes him to feel as if he is under someone else’s control. adam likes to feel he has someone he can wield control over. it’s gratifying to him to know that he can always go home and boss ronan around. it’s irrefutable this is their dynamic in canon, i just also think it happens to become sexual as their relationship develops.

i don’t want to say “if you’ve never had D/s sex then you just wouldn’t get it”, but if you don’t understand or haven’t experienced a D/s dynamic, then it might be more difficult to see where i’m coming from.

with regard to adamronan, there are some things in canon we can point to in order to support my hypothesis. some highlights:

adam is saved in ronan’s phone as MANAGEMENT

adam behaves possessively towards ronan in public in front of their peers/his friends

ronan lets adam take the lead in many scenarios, including most of their decision making as a couple (even if he doesn’t always like it, re: greenmantle scheme)

adam is described as the instigator/active partner during the laundry room scene in opal

“ronan likes being told what to do, and adam likes to tell him what to do” “adam likes being with ronan because it makes him feel like he’s in charge”

ronan becomes like a henchman to adam (greenmantle plot, the cabeswater team up, sleeping on the floor by his bed, standing between him and the world in a way that won't offend adam's need for independence)

adam is able to set aside some of his more extreme tendencies with ronan, and relax into a dynamic where he is secure in knowing that ronan won't try to usurp or control him

it is additionally noted by several characters in canon that ronan is a follower. he is easily manipulated and turns to men he respects for guidance, even if they are not capable of or have no interest in providing it. they do not have to be good or smart men for him to respect them; they simply must possess a few of the qualities ronan finds appealing.

some specific ronan “tells” regarding his submissive tendencies:

ronan says to gansey “i’ll be waiting right here for you to tell me where to go”

the whole ronsey master/dog dynamic is crazy, actually. ronan responds to simple verbal commands, comes when he is called, acknowledges a snap or a shout as an order, thinks it’s funny when it’s suggested he should be leashed, and it does not bother him (in fact, he is proud of it) that others know he is subservient to gansey. i think ronsey is a nonsexual dynamic, but gansey still fills a stopgap role in ronan’s life when he is in the space between niall’s death and adam’s introduction

declan acknowledges to another character that ronan prefers to be led/guided

he refuses to comply with anyone he hasn't assigned a dominant role in his life, and sometimes pushes back against those he considers "in charge" of him in order to be reminded of his place/the security afforded to him in knowing he doesn't have to be The Boss

there are definitely more but i don’t want to go on about this forever. ronan plays a submissive role in his own life because he was raised to do so. (in the same family, and in stark contrast, declan is the opposite: he plays an overly assertive role in his own life because he was raised to do so.) ronan is submissive to niall, and losing niall so young in such a traumatic way leaves an enormous hole in his life: nobody is telling him what to do anymore, and it becomes a more immediate, pressing need for him to replace that figure. he is also submissive to bryde. in both cases, he is more powerful than the men he allows to control him: niall was afraid of him, and ronan is the reason bryde is alive. bryde's existence as a "dominant" figure for ronan to emotionally roleplay with is undeniable: he was tailor made by ronan’s imagination to fill a gap during a time when he felt alone, absent a domineering male presence (niall still dead, gansey gone, adam on campus, declan in DC).

i also think ronan is a masochist (the tattoo, the constant thrill seeking behavior that results in pain, when ronan was hit he was more alive, etc etc). pain = sensation = pleasure. but that is not what you asked. i just think it's neat.

on the flip side, adam is manipulative, and actively seeks control in most of his dynamics. he constantly butts heads with gansey, and detests declan (initially, specifically for declan's casual shows of power/status). he is sexually attracted to power and assertiveness (blue, greenmantle, ronan). adam is not looking for a doe-eyed pushover to drag around on a leash. he is looking for an equal that he can keep under his thumb. he wants to take someone in a position of power and put himself above them. some specific adam “tells” regarding his sadistic and dominant tendencies:

“i want to take off all your clothes”

“they were both hungry animals, but adam had been starving for longer”

his internal monologue is often about physical desire, though we see it mostly with blue: he wants to make out with blue, he wants to touch blue, he likes blue’s legs and other features. he thinks about them constantly and entertains fantasies in which he gets what he wants from a person he finds attractive.

greenmantle refers to him as a teenage sociopath, TGM refers to the gangsey as “adam parrish and his merry men”

he scries into a dog bowl, he is tied up, ronan basically says “next time choke me in a sexy way” (which could be read as him simply trying to make adam laugh; it works)

he mentions a few times that he knows ronan is attracted to him, and while he isn’t sure at first how he feels about ronan, he knows how he feels about the attention, and he likes it. he holds a power over ronan because of ronan’s feelings, and adam is drawn to that

he daydreams about ronan being a teacher (authority figure) as a means of projecting an inverted power dynamic onto their relationship

i think adam’s a horny little freak, basically. a lot of his narrative is about power and control. adam has virtually no power or control over anything beyond his grades, and even that sometimes escapes him: the abuse causes him to miss class, and ronan is better than him at latin. he can’t change these things. he spends a lot of time coping with his helplessness by daydreaming about when he will be powerful and successful and in charge. i think it gets him off that ronan is basically a cosmic entity who could dream up an atomic bomb big enough to level the eastern seaboard. that is power, and adam is technically the one who controls it: ronan would do whatever adam asked him to do. it’s mentioned in the series that ronan is a weapon/tool, and in the wrong hands he's dangerous, etc. with regard to adam and ronan’s dynamic, ronan is able to fully submit to adam because he is secure in the knowledge that adam wouldn't abuse this: he rarely asks ronan to dream things for him, he is aware of ronan's power and never tries to harness it for himself, he thinks it's impressive and he likes it. i’ve said this before, but imagine what an ego stroke it must be for adam to know he’s literally having sex with some sort of god. adam is in awe of ronan because of what he is capable of, he doesn't seek to use ronan for personal gain.

just because ronan is aggressive does not mean he is dominant. he is textually passive when it comes to things that really matter. all bark, no bite. he is waiting by the door for his master to get home. adam is textually flirtatious, manipulative, and power-seeking. he will hold something in his teeth and shake it until it stops fighting back.

also not for nothing: submitting feels so good. like the relief a submissive person gets from it is crazy. i find it hard to believe that’s not something ronan really enjoys. i think adam also likes that he can’t genuinely hurt ronan. ronan’s a little bit taller and a lot stronger. there’s nothing adam could really do, and even if he did, ronan could and would stop him. with blue we saw adam holding back and hating himself for his outbursts and his temper and his instincts, and with ronan he doesn't have to do that. they are both aggressive people who find aggression cathartic and sexy. i think ronan likes to be told he’s a good boy and i think adam likes to make him cry and then tell him he’s a good boy. put yourself in adam’s shoes and live that for a second: you have total physical control over someone, you hurt them or push them to their limit and make them cry (or otherwise overwhelm them) and then you reward them and tell them that you love them and they were perfect for you and you’re so proud of them. i find it really hard to believe that’s not something adam’s weird little brain would want.

i think the power/control distribution in their relationship is pretty interesting. ronan is wealthy, a bit taller/stronger, placed more highly in society because of his class, has living family that love him, etc, but he doesn't want control. adam has drive and initiative and not a penny to his name, and he wants, more than anything, to belong somewhere. the open space in ronan's life is where adam fits. again, i don't think they have a master/slave dynamic or a 24/7 TPE lifestyle, but i think they both find comfort in knowing that they can give each other what they both need.

kink is theatre; kink is roleplay; kink is wish fulfillment. kink is something people engage in because they get something out of it that they can't necessarily get anywhere else.

tl;dr ronan likes to get ordered around and adam's into ordering him around. and also sometimes he probably ties him up and makes him cry. both of these things are because neither of their fathers loved them in the right way, which left them both unfulfilled and psychosexually stunted, and now they've got complexes so vast and far reaching it's really too bad freud is dead 'cus he'd have a blast with these two freaks. thank god there's gay people and sadomasochism

genuinely am sorry this is so long. if you want the essay about daddy kink, then you know where to find me.

[acute-crashout-jeyuso]

6WITCH: Jey x Rhea x Damian fanfic.

Chapter One: The Afterglow

The suite smelled like fresh laundry, faint cologne, and alcohol. The remnants of their WrestleMania celebration were scattered across the marble countertops—half-empty beer bottles, an open bottle of vodka, and their personal objects like wallets and key cards. The weight of their victories still hung in the air, inviting and intoxicating, but not quite enough to shake the exhaustion settling into their muscles.

Rhea Ripley stretched out on the couch, legs crossed beneath her, clad in nothing but an oversized band tee and a pair of loose pajama shorts. The adrenaline from the night was finally wearing off, but the glow of her undisputed victory hadn’t dulled one bit. Two championship belts lay beside her, catching the dim hotel lighting, a reminder that she had everything she’d ever wanted.

Jey Uso sat across from her, shirtless, his freshly crowned World Heavyweight Championship resting on the coffee table in front of him. He was still riding the high of the night, of finally proving that he could stand alone and hold the gold to show for it. His grin hadn’t faded since the moment he walked through the curtain, still buzzing from the roar of the crowd, from the feel of his hand being raised in victory.

Damian Priest leaned against the arm of the couch, his Intercontinental Championship slung lazily over his shoulder. He had a beer in one hand, the other lazily tapping against his knee, his long frame stretched out as if he had nothing left to prove—but they all knew this night meant everything to him.

“Man…” Jey exhaled, shaking his head with a smirk as he raised his beer toward the others. “Y’all realize what we just did?”

Rhea smirked, grabbing her vodka glass and clinking it against his. “We made history.”

Damian chuckled, the deep rumble of it filling the space between them. “We fucking ran that show.”

They laughed, the kind of laugh that came from exhaustion, pride, and just enough alcohol to make everything feel a little lighter.

“Crazy how it all lined up like that,” Jey mused, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Three of us. Three victories. Same night.”

“It was fate,” Rhea teased, arching a brow at him as she leaned back.

Jey tilted his head, studying her with the kind of lazy amusement that came from years of knowing her. “You believe in all that?”

Rhea shrugged, twirling the glass in her fingers. “I believe in shit happening for a reason.”

Damian hummed in agreement. “Tonight felt like the start of something.” His voice was lower now, thoughtful.

A beat passed between them.

Rhea felt it first. That unspoken shift. The kind that had always been there but had never been acknowledged. It was in the way Jey looked at her—no different than before, yet somehow heavier. In the way Damian took another slow sip of his beer, watching her over the rim of the bottle like he was considering something he’d never let himself before.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the high of their victories. Maybe it was the fact that no one else was around, that there were no cameras, no locker room politics, no outside noise. Just them.

Whatever it was, it made the air feel different.

Rhea stretched, adjusting her seat on the couch, fully aware of the way both men’s eyes briefly flickered to the movement before they looked away. “Y’know,” she said, shifting the mood again, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this… untouchable.”

Jey smirked. “Like a final boss.”

“Like a fucking queen,” Damian corrected, and the way he said it sent a slow chill up Rhea’s spine.

She lifted her drink in a mock toast. “To being the best in the business.”

Jey clinked his beer bottle against hers. “To owning this shit.”

Damian knocked his bottle against theirs, voice dropping into something lower, more intent. “To the three of us.”

They drank, the silence stretching just a little too long afterward.

Something about tonight felt different.

And none of them knew what that meant yet.

Jey’s phone vibrated, breaking the quiet moment in the room. He grabbed it, his face already contorting into a playful grimace as he saw the message from Jon.

“Yo, you sure you’re not coming? Trinity’s really looking forward to it.”

Jey snorted and typed back, “Nah, I’m good. With Damian and Rhea tonight.”

His finger hovered over the send button for a moment before he pressed it, rolling his eyes as he saw the response: a big, annoyed face emoji.

Damian caught the shift in Jey’s expression, his eyes narrowing as he set his beer down on the table. “You need to just let loose for a bit, man,” Damian said, his voice calm but firm, like he was giving Jey a gentle shove in the right direction.

Jey looked at him, a hint of amusement and frustration playing on his face. “It’s not that simple, bro. It’s Jon. He thinks I’m ditching him.”

“How about we do something to get your mind off of it?”

Rhea, who had been quietly watching the exchange, leaned forward from the couch with a mischievous grin. “Hell yeah, you wanna play a game? Maybe that’ll get your mind out of it for a while.”

Jey’s lips twitched into a smile as he looked at her, feeling the weight of the tension start to melt away. “A game, huh?” he said, his voice lightening. “You think that’ll do the trick?”

Damian raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What kind of game we talking about here?”

Rhea stood up from the couch, walking over to her bag with a smirk. “I’ve got a couple of options. Hold on.” She rummaged through it for a moment, pulling out two boxes. “Uno Dare Adults Only, or good ol’ Candyland.”

Jey and Damian exchanged a look, both of them silently processing the options. Jey was the first to speak up, raising an eyebrow. “Candyland? You seriously wanna play a kiddie game right now?”

Damian chuckled but wasn’t dismissing the idea. “Candyland sounds… cute,” he said sarcastically, still unsure if he wanted to get into a sugar-coated game.

But Rhea wasn’t having it. She slid the Candyland box aside and held up the other one triumphantly. “Uno Dare Adults Only. Now, this… this could be fun.”

Damian’s head tilted, his curiosity piqued. “What’s Uno Dare Adults Only? Like, extra wild? Is it… like Uno but with a twist?”

Rhea’s eyes lit up with amusement as she sat back down on the couch, holding the box in her hands like it was a treasure. “Oh, it’s wild alright,” she said, leaning forward, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “You draw cards, and they make you do stuff. Some stuff’s harmless, like dancing or singing. Others… well, let’s just say there are some challenges that’ll test how far you’re willing to go.”

Jey laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like a mess.” He gave a playful glance at Damian, who was already smirking.

“Exactly,” Damian said, his eyes glinting with interest. “You sure this is what you want, Rhea? I’m not scared.”

Rhea shrugged nonchalantly, but there was an edge to her voice. “You’ll see. It’s fun. Trust me.”

The challenge hung in the air as Jey and Damian exchanged a glance, both of them intrigued by what was coming next. Jey’s mood had lightened significantly since they’d started talking, but he could feel the tension from earlier still lingering in the back of his mind. The idea of letting loose, of shaking off all the responsibilities that weighed on him, felt more and more appealing.

“Alright, I’m in,” Jey finally said, his tone playful. “Let’s do it.”

Damian leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head. “Well, now that we’ve got the party started, let’s see what kind of trouble we can get into.”

Rhea grinned, her fingers expertly opening the box and spreading the cards out on the table. “I’ll go first,” she said, pulling a card with a smirk. “I dare… Jey.”

Jey looked at her, intrigued. “What’s the dare?”

She waved the card slightly in front of him. “You have to do five push-ups right now. In front of us. No cheating.”

Jey raised an eyebrow, a small grin tugging at his lips. “Alright, you’re on.”

Damian laughed, clearly entertained by the sudden shift in energy. “This is gonna be a fun night,” he muttered to himself as he leaned back, watching the playful challenge unfold.

Jey dropped to the floor and started his push-ups, each one punctuated by a light chuckle as Rhea and Damian cheered him on. The room was filled with laughter, the sound of their playful banter echoing off the walls.

The game was just beginning, but for Jey, Damian, and Rhea, the night felt like the perfect opportunity to forget everything else—even for just a little while. It was a moment of escape, where the weight of their victories, their struggles, and their responsibilities could be left at the door.

And just for tonight, they could just be themselves—no pressure, no expectations. Just three people enjoying each other’s company.

Jey finished his last push-up, smirking as he stood back up, flexing just a little for effect. “That was too easy,” he teased, reaching for his beer. “You gotta do better than that, Rhea.”

Rhea rolled her eyes but grinned, shuffling the deck. “Alright, big shot, let’s see if you’re still talking when things get real.” She pulled another card, her eyes scanning over it before a slow, devious smile spread across her lips. “Damian, you’re up.”

Damian sat up straighter, intrigued. “Hit me with it.”

Rhea read the dare aloud, her voice dripping with mischief. “You have to kiss the person to your left.”

All three of them froze for a brief second before their gazes flickered between each other. Jey was to Damian’s left.

Jey’s eyebrows shot up as he leaned back. “Ayo.”

Damian let out a deep chuckle, clearly amused. “Damn, Rhea. You really tryna make things weird?”

Rhea shrugged, feigning innocence. “Hey, I didn’t make the rules. The deck did.”

Jey narrowed his eyes at her. “You picked this game on purpose.”

“Maybe.”

Damian ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head with a grin. “You good, Uce? Or you tapping out?”

Jey exhaled, then downed a sip of his beer before shrugging. “Man, it’s just a game.”

Damian smirked. “That’s the spirit.”

With an exaggerated sense of dramatics, Damian leaned in, pressing a quick peck to Jey’s cheek. The second it happened, Rhea burst into laughter, Jey wiped at his cheek with mock disgust, and Damian leaned back, looking unbothered.

“There. Done,” Damian said, popping the cap off another beer. “Now gimme my damn turn.”

Rhea was still laughing as she handed him the deck. “Fine, fine. Pick your dare, big guy.”

Damian pulled a card and glanced at it, then slowly lifted his eyes toward Rhea. His lips curled into something almost sinister. “Oh, this one’s perfect. Rhea, you have to sit on Jey’s lap for the next three rounds.”

Rhea’s laughter immediately died in her throat. “Wait, hold on—”

Jey nearly choked on his drink. “Bruh.”

Damian waggled the card at her. “Hey, I don’t make the rules. The deck does.” He threw her words right back at her.

Rhea stared at him, then at Jey, who was still looking like he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or concerned. “That’s… a long time,” she muttered.

“You scared, champ?” Damian taunted.

Rhea scoffed. “Please.”

Damian gestured toward Jey’s lap. “Then go ahead.”

Jey sat back, one hand running down his face. “Man, this game is wild.”

Rhea took a deep breath, then moved over, settling herself onto Jey’s lap like it was no big deal. She was lightweight against him, but the shift in atmosphere was undeniable.

Jey tried to play it cool, resting his arms on the back of the couch. “Alright. Next round.”

Damian pulled another card, his smirk only growing. “Oh, you really gonna love this one.”

The night was only getting started, and the dares were getting worse by the second.

Jey could feel the heat of Rhea’s body against his, and if he said it didn’t affect him, he’d be lying. He kept his hands to himself, though, keeping his arms stretched along the couch as if the distance would somehow help. But he could see the way she would slightly shift, her round backside brushing up against him, he wouldn’t sit here and lie: but he had to admit, he always wanted to see how Rhea took it from the back.

Damian, on the other hand, was thriving on the beginning sexual tension, his smirk widening as he glanced at his new card. “Alright, Jey,” he announced, his voice laced with mischief. “Your turn, Uce.”

Jey exhaled, already knowing this was about to be some bullshit. “Let’s hear it.”

Damian tilted the card toward the dim hotel lighting, his eyes scanning the text. Then he chuckled. “You have to whisper something dirty in Rhea’s ear.”

The air in the suite shifted.

Rhea stiffened slightly on Jey’s lap, and his entire body tensed beneath her. Even Damian—who had been enjoying pushing the limits—was now leaning back, watching how this played out.

Jey ran a hand down his face. “Bruh. What kinda—”

“Hey,” Damian interrupted, holding up the card with mock innocence. “The deck makes the rules.”

Rhea cleared her throat, glancing at Jey. “We can just drink instead,” she offered. “Skip it.”

Jey’s eyes flicked between her and Damian, then down at his drink. The alcohol was already humming in his system, making his usual inhibitions a little duller than they should’ve been.

Finally, he leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of Rhea’s ear.

“I been thinking ‘bout this all night,” he murmured low enough that only she could hear. “You sittin’ on me like this? Makes me want to see that ass bounce on my dick.”

A slow shiver ran down Rhea’s spine, and she exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of her shorts. She wasn’t sure if it was the vodka, the atmosphere, or the fact that Jey’s voice in her ear had done something to her, but she felt a warmth creep up her neck.

Jey leaned back, as if nothing had happened, his face unreadable.

Rhea swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “Uh… next round?”

Damian, for once, seemed genuinely taken aback before recovering with a slow, knowing smirk. “Damn, okay,” he muttered, shuffling the deck.

But he wasn’t done stirring the pot just yet.

He drew his next card and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, this one’s a good one,” he said, his voice slow and deliberate. “Rhea… you have to kiss someone in this room. And it ain’t specify where.”

Rhea’s heart jumped in her chest.

Jey’s jaw twitched.

Damian tilted his head, waiting. “So, champ… who’s it gonna be?”

Rhea drummed her fingers against her thigh, eyes flicking between Jey and Damian. The weight of the dare pressed against her like a loaded gun, daring her to pull the trigger.

The vodka burned in her veins, clouding her hesitation. It was just a game. Just another round. Nothing more.

Right?

Damian watched her with that same amused smirk, but there was something unreadable in his dark eyes—like he was testing her, waiting to see what she’d do.

Jey, on the other hand, was tense beneath her. His jaw was clenched, arms still stretched along the back of the couch like he was forcing himself to stay relaxed. But she could feel it. The shift in his breathing. The way his muscles coiled under her.

Rhea exhaled, slow and steady, before making her decision.

She turned to Damian first.

He barely had time to react before she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the sharp line of his jaw. It was quick, barely lingering, but it was enough to send a wave of heat through the room.

When she pulled back, Damian let out a low chuckle, rubbing the spot she’d kissed. “Damn, that’s all I get?”

Rhea smirked. “You didn’t say where, papi.”

Damian laughed, shaking his head. “Fair enough.”

But Jey hadn’t said a word.

Rhea turned her head slightly, catching the way his fingers flexed against the couch. His expression was unreadable, but the heat in his eyes was impossible to ignore.

The air was now filled with something that hadn’t been there before.

Jey exhaled sharply through his nose, then reached for his beer, taking a long sip before setting it down with a soft clink. “Next round,” he muttered.

Damian, ever the instigator, grabbed the deck, clearly enjoying the tension. “Alright, let’s keep the energy up.”

He pulled another card, reading it with a wicked grin.

“Oh, this is perfect,” he said, dragging out the word. He looked between Jey and Rhea like he’d just been handed front-row seats to his own personal drama.

“Jey,” Damian continued. “You gotta bite Rhea. Anywhere you want.”

Rhea’s breath hitched.

Jey’s fingers twitched against his knee.

The room was too hot now, too small.

Damian leaned back, sipping his beer, watching them like a man who had set fire to something just to see how it would burn.

“So, Uce,” he said, his grin widening. “You gonna do it or be a chicken?”

Jey’s grip on his beer tightened, his knuckles flexing around the bottle as Damian’s taunts echoed between them.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Damian smirked, leaning back like he had all the time in the world. “Jey ain’t gonna do it. Man’s all talk.”

Rhea could feel Jey’s body tighten beneath her, his breath exhaling through his nose slow and controlled—but the way his fingers curled against his thigh gave him away.

Damian wasn’t done. He was never done.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with it, Uce.” Damian shrugged, the wicked glint in his eye making it clear he was enjoying every second of this. “Some people just ain’t built for the heat.”

Rhea swallowed, shifting slightly. The air in the room was shifting again, stretching that invisible wire between them so tight it was bound to snap.

Jey stayed silent, his lips pressed into a thin line. But the challenge in Damian’s words—some people just ain’t built for the heat—hung between them like smoke.

Jey wasn’t the type to back down.

He never had been.

Without a word, he adjusted Rhea to face him, his hands suddenly on her hips, firm and possessive, grounding her. The shift was so sudden that she barely had time to react before she felt the heat of his body pressing closer.

Her breath stilled.

The weight of his stare burned into her, dark and unreadable, the kind of look that made her chest tighten and her stomach twist.

And then, Jey moved.

It was slow—so slow it was agonizing—the way he dipped his head toward her, his lips barely grazing the skin of her shoulder. It was deliberate, teasing, every fraction of movement dragging out the tension until it was nearly unbearable.

Rhea’s fingers twitched against her thigh, her skin burning from the proximity, from the warmth of his breath ghosting over her.

Then—he bit her.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t hesitant.

It was firm, just enough pressure to make her body jolt, to make her fingers dig into his forearm. It sent a shiver straight through her, sharp and electric, curling in her gut like a slow-building fire.

Jey didn’t pull away immediately.

He lingered.

His teeth stayed pressed against her skin for a beat too long, just enough to make her thighs squeeze together involuntarily. His breath was hot against her collarbone, his grip on her hips tightening like he was anchoring himself.

Rhea felt dizzy.

The vodka was one thing, but this—this was something else entirely.

Finally, finally, Jey pulled back, his lips barely brushing over the spot he’d just bitten before he leaned away, his expression unreadable.

Rhea exhaled shakily, her pulse roaring in her ears. She thought of Jey, a whole bunch of thoughts running through her brain at a million miles per hour. She slowly lifted herself off Jey and that’s when he saw it: a slight wetness through her pajamas shorts and his growing erection.

The room felt different now.

The game had changed.

And Damian, always the devil on their shoulders, let out a low, appreciative whistle.

“Well, shit.” He chuckled, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Uce.”

Jey grabbed his beer and took a slow sip, still not saying a damn word. He didn’t even look at Damian when he muttered, “Shut up.”

Rhea swallowed hard, her skin still tingling, still burning.

Damian was watching them both now, eyes flicking between them, his smirk deepening.

“Oh, this is about to be real interesting,” he murmured, amusement dripping from every word.

Rhea’s skin still burned where Jey had bit her, the memory of his teeth lingering like a ghost of something unfinished. Jey, for his part, looked unbothered, but she wasn’t fooled. The way his thumb absentmindedly tapped against his beer bottle told her everything. They were toeing a line none of them had acknowledged out loud.

“Player on your right has to kiss both players in the game for a full ten seconds.”

The silence stretched.

Jey was on Damian’s right.

Rhea was on Jey’s right.

Rhea’s breath hitched.

Jey exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his bottle before he set it down.

Rhea didn’t move.

She should have made a joke, maybe tossed in some smartass comment to cut the tension, but she couldn’t. Not when she could feel Jey’s hesitation, not when she could see the way Damian was watching him, waiting.

Waiting to see if he’d actually do it.

Jey’s jaw flexed.

And then—he made his decision.

He turned to Rhea first.

His movements were slow, hesitant almost. A silent warning, a question that hung in the space between them. He was giving her time to stop this, to tell him no.

She didn’t.

Instead, she tilted her chin up ever so slightly, a silent invitation.

Jey moved in.

The second their lips met, it was like a the wire snapped—months of pent up frustration, of lingering touches and stolen glances, igniting into something scorching.

Jey kissed her like he had something to prove, like he was claiming her, one hand cupping her jaw, the other fisting into the hem of her pajama top, as if holding himself back.

Rhea barely had time to process the heat of it before it was over.

Jey pulled back, his breath uneven.

The moment barely had time to settle before he turned toward Damian.

If there was hesitation in Jey before, it was gone now.

Damian held his gaze, his expression unreadable, but there was something beneath it—something dark, something expectant.

And when Jey finally closed the distance, Damian met him halfway.

This kiss was different.

Slower.

Deeper.

Like they were testing the weight of it, feeling the edges of something neither of them had ever dared to touch before.

Damian was the one who broke it, his teeth catching Jey’s bottom lip before he pulled back, smirking. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it, Uce,” he murmured.

“Man, shut the fuck up.”

Jey never realized how loud silence could be until now.

It filled the hotel suite like a fog, settling in the spaces between them. He could still feel it—the heat of Rhea’s lips, the way Damian tasted like vodka, the weight of the choice they had just made without saying a damn word.

And now?

Now, the spell was broken by a knock at the door.

“Room service!”

Jey blinked, his mind taking a second too long to process what was happening. Then it hit him. His burger. The one he ordered over an hour ago, back when things were still simple—before dares, before lines blurred, before he felt the weight of two different mouths on his.

He stood up, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he made his way to the door. It felt weird to move, like he wasn’t fully back in his body yet… partially because his crouch area was tight. He cracked his neck, inhaled deep, then opened the door.

A hotel worker stood there, a polite smile on his face, holding a tray. “Here you are, sir.”

Jey nodded, slipping him a tip and taking the tray without another word. The smell of hot fries and grilled beef should have made his stomach growl, but all it did was remind him how far they’d strayed from normal.

He shut the door and turned back to the couch.

Rhea was still curled up in the corner, her legs tucked under her, fingers toying with the hem of her shirt. She wasn’t looking at him, not really—her gaze kept flickering between him and Damian, like she was waiting for someone to say something first.

Damian, on the other hand, was stretched out, the muscle tank doing nothing to hide the lazy confidence in his posture. He dragged a hand through his hair, letting out a short chuckle. “Damn. Forgot you even ordered that.”

Jey shrugged. “Had other shit on my mind.”

The weight of those words sat between them.

He placed the tray on the table, lifting the silver dome to reveal a perfectly cooked burger, crispy fries on the side. He should eat. Should focus on something normal.

But normal had left the room a long time ago.

Jey picked up a fry, rolling it between his fingers before popping it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, watching as Damian’s smirk deepened.

“So,” Damian drawled, his voice low, teasing, but laced with something else. “We just gonna pretend that didn’t happen?”

Rhea let out a soft breath through her nose, her fingers still playing with the hem of her shirt. “You wanna pretend it didn’t?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual.

Jey’s stomach twisted—not from nerves, but from the weight of knowing there was no going back now.

He swallowed, set his burger down, and leaned back against the couch. His fingers drummed against his thigh, his mind racing through a million different outcomes.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Nah.” His voice was rough. Honest.

He met Rhea’s gaze first, then Damian’s.

They all knew.

They all felt it.

For a moment, the weight of their unsaid thoughts lingered between them, the room was charged. None of them wanted to be the first to move, to break whatever fragile tension still hung in the air.

Then Rhea stretched, slow and deliberate, pushing off the couch with ease. The oversized pajama shirt she wore draped over her frame, teasing the curve of her thighs as she stood. She ran a hand through her hair, exhaling like she was trying to clear her head.

“I’m gonna go to my room,” she murmured, voice smooth, unreadable.

Jey’s eyes flickered up to her, something unreadable in his stare. Damian, lounging against the couch, traced the rim of his vodka glass with his finger, watching her just as intently.

They knew what this was.

She walked toward the bedroom door, fingers curling around the handle. The soft click of the latch echoed in the quiet room as she pulled it open, but before stepping inside, she turned back.

Rhea’s lips curved into the slightest smirk, eyes flicking between the two men still seated on the couch.

“Bed is big enough for three.”

A breeze rolled in through the cracked window, stirring the air.

Neither Jey nor Damian spoke, but the shift was instant. Jey’s grip tightened against his knee, his jaw flexing. Damian, always the more openly reckless of the two, let out a low hum, a knowing smirk playing at his lips.

Rhea held their gazes for another beat, her smirk widening just slightly before she turned on her heel, stepping inside and leaving the door open behind her.

The invitation lingered.

Jey exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly as if trying to steady himself. Damian was already watching him, sharp amusement flickering behind his dark eyes.

“Well, Uce?” Damian murmured, voice low, edged with challenge.

Jey dragged a hand down his face, but there was no denying the way his body had already made the decision before his mind could catch up.

Without a word, he stood.

Damian smirked and followed.

[storiesabouteli]

Misconnection. // Noel Gallagher X Reader.

prompt: (contains smut in a succinct form, it is not a predominant attraction) in which two people find comfort in each other after dysfunctional relationships and realize together what is best for them individually. it was heavily inspired by lost in translation.

words: 5.6K

Noel noticed you quickly.

His room was across the hallway, and over the past few weeks, he had assumed you were alone in the city. Every time he made noise with his guitar or tried to work through something, you would either crack your door open slightly or casually stand in the corridor. You didn’t seem to be hiding, but you also didn’t make yourself too easy to see.

One night, he considered stepping out to talk to you, but the moment he opened his door, you had already disappeared into the elevator.

You exchanged polite smiles in the lobby. It wasn’t flirting—it was more of a silent acknowledgment that you both saw each other. You knew that he knew you listened to him sing and that you liked it. But maybe you weren’t quite aligned enough to join in just yet.

"Everythin' alrigh' there?" Noel asked, forcing a smile—one that, unbeknownst to him, wasn’t exactly natural.

He had noticed the ring on your finger before, but now, up close, as you hugged a box of macarons, it seemed to hold more weight. It reminded him of when he was younger, in his first marriage, believing that decision was for life. Though he had no regrets and had managed to keep things amicable, he appreciated how, over the years, it had become just another detail in the long stretch of his life. It also made him think that, even now, with a ring still on his own finger, things would be alright soon enough.

"I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to stay here—I really am sorry."

Your rushed apology made him laugh, this time far more genuinely than before. You were wrapped in a large sweater and loose-fitting pants, looking completely at ease. Your face carried a hint of exhaustion, the darkness beneath your eyes more pronounced. Standing there in front of him, studying him with quiet curiosity, you looked undeniably endearing. He couldn’t deny he had thought that from the very first time he saw you.

"Did y’come t’listen t’me?"

Scratching the back of his neck, he realized how odd that sounded. His cheeks were certainly tinged with color, but you only gave him a shy smile and nodded.

There was something about the moment that was hard to put into words, yet it all felt so natural. The way you stepped into the spacious room, took a seat at one end of the couch and made it easy for him to grab one of the macarons and take a bite. You stuffed your hands into your pockets to keep them warm. You were fun to watch.

He didn’t play for you, but the two of you ended up listening to random albums together, discovering a shared taste in music. The conversation stayed light, shifting from the weather to how the city felt during tourist season, to how the newspaper vendor beside the hotel was surprisingly friendly. (Your fiancé would have never given importance to that detail, and you made a mental note of it.)

"Does yer ring go on t’other hand?"

His fingers brushed against yours, sending a pulse of electricity through your body like a reflex. His skin was rough yet delicate as he turned the pearl between his fingertips for a few seconds. You wished his curiosity was about you and not just the correct placement of an engagement ring. Maybe you had wanted to be noticed by him from the start, back when you first saw him play at that crowded pub nearby.

"I’m not married yet. It’s a tradition for some—an engagement ring goes on the right hand, and only on the wedding day does it move to the left."

He listened intently, and you couldn't remember the last time you shared that without feeling ridiculous.

"So… is this a dream o' yours?"

Your eyebrows lifted slightly, and he found it endearing how you handled words, as if everything he said carried a weight of its own.

"Getting married?"

He laughed.

"I mean, yeah, but… everythin’ ‘bout it seems special t’you. The tradition, the way ya smile while talkin’ ‘bout it. Feels like ya planned this, thought ‘bout it for ages."

You swallowed hard. Something so simple, and yet he figured it out just by exchanging a few sentences with you. You ran your fingers around the ring, turning it slowly.

"Yeah, I guess so. I like the idea of being in love, but I wouldn’t even know about the ring placement if it weren’t for this newlywed woman who once came into the café where I worked. She was so happy—it made me want that for myself, even while being happy for her."

He smiled, a small, knowing expression that softened the lines on his face. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. His presence alone made you feel heard.

"The ring ‘e chose is proper beautiful. Hope you’ll be dead happy."

You slipped your hands back into your pockets, not wanting him to see it anymore. The ring had been your choice, and honestly, if you hadn’t had that conversation with your fiancé about your years together and what the future held, you weren’t sure if it would even be on your finger right now. But there was nothing to complain about—wasn’t this what you wanted?

Noel noticed the flicker in your eyes and cut in.

"Well, Ah’m gettin’ divorced."

He held up his own ring, relieved when your gaze met his again.

"Why?"

Your voice was quiet, but there was a certain ease in the way you asked, making it clear the question wasn’t intrusive.

"Feel like… if it weren’t for ‘er, I’d still be with ‘er, y’know?"

It was a force of habit, and Noel reminded himself that, given your age, you probably hadn’t even lived half of what he had.

"She got tired, li'ul by li'ul. Ah-I was around, but it weren’t enough."

You nodded. His expression was tired, but not necessarily sad.

"Did you try to win her back? You didn’t do anything wrong, did you?"

He chuckled at your tone before continuing.

"I tried. She 'ad someone else in mind. I don’t miss 'er, but I miss the life 'round 'er. We were together for over twenty years."

You looked at him with warmth, and he accepted it.

You couldn’t quite grasp what it meant to be with someone for that long—an amount of time that was, in some ways, close to your own lifetime. You didn’t know what to say, but you understood why he still wore the ring.

"I’m sorry."

He simply gave you the same gentle smile as before.

Your arms brushed, something comfortable, and you let it happen. Neither of you knew where the line between safe and dangerous was, but this moment was cautious, measured.

"Are you always at the hotel? Never go out?"

His laugh was slightly nasal, soothing in its own way.

"Ah-I came t’record some tunes. Use me time ‘ere t’relax, rehearse a bit, an’ make some tweaks before headin’ off somewhere."

Your hands slipped back out of your pockets, and he took that as a sign that you were at ease.

"Did you write about her?"

He nodded.

"Loads. Don’t think ‘bout ‘er the same way no more, but she were, uh, was, a big part o’ me life. There’s loads o’ ‘er in the tunes."

"Do you regret it?"

He studied your eyes, trying to decipher what the question meant to you, but he couldn’t quite tell.

"Nah. It were a good part o’ me life, even if we ain’t together no more."

You licked your lips absentmindedly.

"I wish someone wrote songs 'bout me. It seems very romantic."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, realizing he hadn’t felt this kind of nervousness—the kind that made you hold your breath before speaking—in a long time.

"What’s the most romantic thing he’s done for you?"

Your gaze dropped to the floor. A brief silence, but noticeable. Your hands returned to your pockets.

"We planned this trip about nine months ago. He was supposed to come with me, but there was a work emergency—it happens a lot."

Your voice was calm, free of bitterness, but there was something tired in it—something that sounded like an ending.

…

The silence lingered, broken only by the sound of breathing and the room’s ventilation. You felt good, even with the weight in your chest. It was the lightest you had felt since the proposal.

After a while, Noel rested his cheek on your shoulder, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open. He looked peaceful, but you didn’t know that he hadn’t been sleeping well lately. That was a reaction to you. That feeling of warmth and being seen—it was mutual.

Your fingers traced the bridge of his nose, then moved to his hair, almost more gray than dark now. You found him beautiful, but there was a distance to that feeling, something that kept it from fully taking shape.

His scent had already settled into your clothes, and you knew that if you stayed, you’d finally get the kind of sleep you hadn’t had in a long time. But recognizing this moment as a dangerous threshold, you chose to leave.

…

Daylight had already started to seep in, and Noel felt the emptiness in his chest, knowing you were no longer there. Maybe you’d come back the next time he played.

He thought about going downstairs for breakfast, but instead, let the weight of exhaustion dissolve him bit by bit. If not for the soft knocking at his door, he might have spent the entire day in the same position.

Annoyance flared at being pulled from bed, but it faded the second he saw you standing there. His fingers curled into a tense fist—he recognized that feeling. He had liked you enough for your pain to drain any energy from him.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Your eyes didn’t meet his. They were distant, lost somewhere in the room, drowned in tears. You were still wearing the same clothes, except now just a tank top. It was clear you had been crying and restless for hours, and he hated that you hadn’t come to him sooner—as if he could’ve made it all go away.

"Come 'ere, love," he murmured, opening his arms. You folded into him instantly.

That familiar scent wrapped around you again, his fingers pressing into your back as he pulled you inside. He thought he knew what it was about, even if not entirely.

You left a small damp spot on his shirt, but he kept holding you close. It wasn’t a desperate kind of crying, which somehow made it worse.

The bed was low, and when he set you down and knelt in front of you, it left you at just the right height to hide your face against him. His hands moved along your back, his chin resting on top of your head, while your fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt. The small gestures grounded you, bringing you back to reality.

“I called him,” you sniffled, pulling back just enough to see him.

His hand rested lightly at your waist, keeping you close in a way that didn’t feel improper, especially with your fingers still playing with the buttons of his shirt. He waited patiently for you to continue, and that was something you liked about him—he didn’t ask out of curiosity, he just wanted you to speak if you wanted to.

“He’s not coming back here. He’s too busy. Said he can see me when I get home,” you paused, swallowing a bit.

Noel watched you carefully, not with pity but with an understanding you weren’t used to anymore. His eyes calmed you. He was wearing a long-sleeved button-up, the collar open enough that a hint of chest hair peeked out. He wiped your face with the edge of the fabric, showing you, without words, that he was here.

“I didn’t enjoy any of this trip 'cause I kept waitin' for him to be here, y’see? I thought things would be different. I don’t want it to always be like this. I don’t want this for myself.”

Your shoulders loosened, and to him, your face looked lighter, like speaking was helping you make sense of it all.

"Y’ve talked t’ ‘im ‘bout this loads, ain’t ya?" He asked, remembering you saying it was a recurring problem.

You nodded. “Yeah. My whole last year has been about this.”

Your eyes dropped, hesitant to admit you had let yourself get into this situation. He brushed your hair away, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.

"Ah’m not gonna judge ya. But ‘e don’t seem like someone t’take serious, if I can say that. Why’d he wanna marry someone ‘e don’t even listen to?"

Hearing it out loud, from someone else, made it sound so simple.

“Do you think he’s marrying me out of convenience?” you asked, your voice quiet as your hand slipped from his shirt.

You were exhausted. As you looked at him, Noel gave a small, sweet smile. You settled into the bed beside him, the scent of his sheets huggable. When you moved to get up, he simply touched your arm and told you it was okay. You already knew the answer to your question.

"D’ya think ‘e loves ya?" his voice was low, steady. “D'ya love him?”

All you could hear was his breathing.

“When did you realize you didn’t love your ex-wife anymore?” you asked.

He lay down too, just an arm’s length away. When he turned onto his side, he was all that filled your vision.

“Dunno,” he admitted. “I think it faded lil' by little as I realized she didn’t feel the same no more—and didn’t care to show interest. But every situation is different.”

Noel found himself hoping you’d see that maybe this wasn’t the man for you. But he also had to remember he was not, and would never be, someone in your life.

He touched your face, more for himself than for you, and you closed your eyes, letting it happen. His fingers traced along your cheek, then moved to massage your shoulders.

“I don’t know if I love him,” you murmured. “I don’t know if I believe his words, either. He always says he’ll try harder, but it always ends up the same way I’ve come to hate. His indifference makes me want to be alone, and I don’t think he would’ve proposed if I hadn’t confronted him about it. Maybe marrying me never even crossed his mind. I don’t want to be someone’s uncertainty.”

The words came easily, revealing that you had thought about this more than you wanted to admit.

Noel squeezed you, a bit content that you could see things for what they were. You were still young, and you had time. You still had your chances.

“Don’t let your kids grow up to be bad people to others,” you whispered, pressing your cheek to his shoulder.

He didn’t mind. He liked having you close.

“I won’t,” he murmured, and for a moment, you were struck by the weight of the fact that he was more than old enough to have kids. That was something you didn’t want to think about.

…

Your back didn’t feel as heavy as before. Your face was pressed into the sheets, arms wrapped around one of his pillows. His scent—woody, warm—filled the entire room. It was nice.

Your body still carried the lazy memory of being close to his, of drifting off in the middle of the night with his lips pressing against your forehead and his arm firm around your waist, like he was afraid he’d leave you behind if he let go.

"Ow’re ya, li’ul one?"

His voice was smooth. He had changed clothes—still wearing buttons, still a pleasant sight. His hair was damp, and he was jotting something down in a small notebook.

“Good,” you murmured sleepily.

He laughed, glancing at you, and whatever he was writing became secondary now that your voice had settled into the room. It was intimate—bearable, even.

“Wot d'you do?” Noel asked, cautious. He was sure knowing too much about you wouldn’t do him any good, but it was impossible to resist. “You mentioned the café, but said you’re no longer there...”

“I work at a bookstore,” you said, staring at the ceiling.

You could hear the sound of his fingers skimming across the pages, and even without looking, you could picture the shape of his hands perfectly—the wedding band, the red-stoned ring.

When you rubbed a hand over your face and looked back at him, he was watching you, his gaze soft. He had noticed—your engagement ring was no longer there. It hadn’t been since the moment you decided to come to him.

“I’m a pianist,” you said, voice steady. “I’m trying to get a spot at a theater in London. I’m really excited about it. Anxious, but waiting on the results.”

He smiled, genuinely. “I’d love to 'ear you play. I bet you’re dead good. I’ll save a seat next time I'm in London.”

He took a moment before saying it, wanting to be honest without making you uncomfortable.

You smiled back, a mirror of his own expression.

Noel briefly considered suggesting you work on something together but held back. He also couldn’t remember the last time he had felt truly drawn to a woman.

You kept watching him—the roundness of his cheeks, the way his fingers moved as he worked.

He was a stranger. He shouldn’t have this much of an effect on you.

…

You had put on one of your new dresses—fitted at the waist, flowing just enough. You liked how it looked on you, how it made you feel confident. It was one of the pieces you had carefully chosen for this trip, for the dates you were supposed to have with your fiancé, who, theoretically, should have been with you.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you stared at the hotel phone. Your fingers were cold. You had been ready for a while now, wanting to visit a café you’d spotted nearby. You were determined to go home and at least be able to say you had experienced something of this place.

But suddenly, your fear wasn’t about missing out on seeing the neighborhood anymore—it was about missing him, about not getting to be with him in the short time left before you had to leave.

"Ah can ‘ear ya breathin’, but we can stay quiet if y’ prefer."

His voice came through the receiver, confident, amused.

You twisted the cord between your fingers, unsurprised that he recognized you without you having said a single word. Somehow, you knew you would have recognized him, too.

His breathing filled the silence between you, steady and calm, making your thoughts settle. He understood this—the simple need to be close.

“I’m going to visit a café nearby. Want to come?”

You probably sounded like a stalker, but Noel had to admit to himself that he had considered asking someone at the hotel for your number. The thought of you having to craft a story convincing enough for them to connect you to his room amused him.

"Alright, Ah’ll grab a jacket an’ meet ya downstairs, li’ul one."

You straightened up as soon as you saw him, a smile tugging at your lips. He looked relaxed, his usual furrowed brow still faintly marked, eyes focused ahead—until they found you. Your heart warmed a little when his expression softened, when his lips curled into a small smile that smoothed out the lines on his face.

You wished you could take him home with you. Maybe no one would even notice.

His gaze traveled over you—not in a way that made you self-conscious, but in a way that felt good.

"Is this wot takin' off a ring does?" he murmured, and you felt your cheeks burn.

He took your hand in his, and you noticed his wedding band was gone too. Then, with an easy motion, he made you twirl in front of him. When you stopped, his eyes hadn’t drifted far—they remained on your smile.

And so, the first steps were taken with the careful distance of two people still pretending they weren’t walking towards something. He kept his hands behind his back, and you found yourself a little too nervous to speak or gesture much. But it didn’t take long before your arms brushed, and his hand found a comfortable place on your back, guiding you along with him.

"Isn’t pumpkin supposed to be a vegetable?" he frowned at the orange hue of your drink, his voice laced with quiet skepticism.

He had ordered nothing but black coffee, refusing even a small cake.

"It is," you shrugged, taking a sip. "But it works in drinks. And desserts."

You nudged the cup toward him, inviting him to try.

He was dressed in black as usual, his hair a little longer, giving it a soft volume at the top. He was attractive—undeniably so. And knowing he had spent over twenty years with someone by his side made you believe he must be a good person to have around.

Sitting across from him, avoiding him was impossible.

He took a hesitant sip, pretending to deliberate.

"You liked it," you teased. "Not as much of a grumpy old man as you wish you were."

He let out a low, unguarded laugh, and you liked being the reason for it.

"It tastes like dessert. Too sweet," he admitted.

You nodded in understanding, and he pushed his own cup toward you—black coffee.

You had never been fond of it, but you hesitated, curiosity getting the better of you.

The bitterness hit instantly. You had taken too big a sip, and your eyes watered in protest.

Noel regretted it immediately, which only made you laugh as he rushed to pour you a glass of water and snatched his cup away from you.

"No wonder you only wear black and walk around looking permanently annoyed," you teased, watching as amusement flickered in his eyes.

He liked everything about you—how effortlessly you spoke to him, how you weren’t trying to make him think you were someone good.

"Ya look proper stunnin'," he murmured, brushing a napkin against your chin to wipe away brownie crumbs.

It felt right to say it, though he should have said it earlier.

Your eyes flickered away, unable to meet his directly. Instead, you cut the brownie in half, offering him a piece.

"Eat. We’re trying more of these."

He nodded, knowing he had endured worse things in life than indulging in a few sweets for a girl. 

…

You were wrapped in one of his button-up shirts, loose and comfortable around you. There had been no need for words—just a quiet, mutual agreement that you would stay. Your hair was tied back, still damp from a shower, and he found you just as endearing as ever.

There was no hesitation when he sat beside you, close enough that the small couch felt even smaller. His hand ran over your arms, then down your back, and soon your head rested against his chest, as if it had always belonged there. He pressed a kiss to your hairline, his body unwinding as your arms curled around him.

A few days ago, Noel had been uneasy about what was ahead—unsure, directionless. But now, all he could think about was tomorrow, and the fact that he would get to talk to you again. You made him see past all of it. Two divorces weren’t the end of the world, though they had left him exhausted just thinking about them.

Your fingers trailed up his chest, finding the collar of his shirt and twisting the fabric idly. Your scent was starting to settle into him, a quiet imprint. Your palm found warmth against his skin, fingers playing absently with the fine hairs there.

He brushed your hair back, taking in the peaceful way your eyes remained closed. And for the first time in a while, he felt the same.

"Y'alright?" he murmured.

Your gaze lifted to his, wide and searching, and you nodded. He kissed your cheek, and when you sighed in quiet satisfaction, he did it again—dragging his nose along your skin, leaving lingering kisses along the path.

The faint stubble on his jaw scraped against you in a way that was more pleasant than not. And when he finally pulled back, you were still smiling at him, calm and close.

Too close.

He realized it at the same time you did, and he started to move away. But your fingers found the back of his neck, keeping him with you. The furrow in his brow deepened, and you pressed soft kisses there until it smoothed out again.

"You’re probably never going to see me again."

You had thought about saying more but left it at that. There was nothing else that needed to be said. You both understood this wasn’t something that could work. He had a life, a country, children, a career that had nothing to do with the world you lived in. He might even go back to his ex-wife. And you—maybe you weren’t ready to give up on marriage as an idea.

It was complicated. You both knew that.

His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, and before you could say anything else, he pulled you in for a kiss.

His nose brushed your cheek, his lips soft, the warmth of him seeping into your lungs. His hand cradled the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, holding you there—not in urgency, but in something slower, something indulgent.

Something that felt like exactly what you both needed.

 His fist closed in your hair, pulling firmly to give him more space to go deeper. Your chest felt heavier, your breathing more desperate, your hands gripped his arms, between fabric and flesh, hoping that this would be enough of a sign for him not to stop. The kisses went down to your neck, spreading to your collarbone. He was so gentle, his fingers traced over your skin as if pressing too hard might shatter you, as if the wrong touch could make you slip right through his hands. 

 You held on tighter to him, and his nimble hands on your waist guided you closer. His thigh between your legs, your body pressed against his, he trailed his lips down your shoulder, your arms, every visible point of skin. Your thighs flexed against his in response, and soon your face grew hot, even though you could feel his jeans against your skin and your body was melting into him with no much shame.

 Noticing you pausing, he pulled back slightly, his tongue wetting his lips as he let his back rest against the couch. His thumb traced slow circles on your waist, his gaze darker as it settled on you–this was good.

 He squeezed your waist a little tighter, and you saw encouragement in it.

 He tensed the muscle in his thigh, adding more to it. Your fingers tightened around him, tighter than before, and you wrapped your legs around him, letting out a pleasant sigh. He bit his lip, his gray hair falling a bit over his forehead, sweaty. In a slightly more abrupt movement, you could feel your raw skin brushing against his jeans, making your sigh louder and your head fall onto his shoulder.

 "Ah've got ya, princess." He comforted you, his rough, thick hands running up your thighs, rising ever so slightly, until he held the hem of your shirt and pulled it up over your hips. His lips were at your ear, he whispered how good of a girl you were. He moved the fabric out of the way, digging it into his fingers along with the strength with which he held your waist and made the movement for you.

 Your knees ached from the friction, but you were so wet that the contact with his jeans still allowed a muffled, wet sound through the silent room. You could hear his gasps, with each time your body moved forward and slowly back, as he controlled it. Sometimes the rhythm allowed you to feel how hard he was getting, and you had to admit it looked painful. He went back to kissing your shoulder, while you bit his, leaving his shirt damp, every now and then he pressed his fingers tightly into you and you wished you had his marks on your skin later. 

 Your body was starting to tremble, the spasms in your hips were no longer as controlled, your face and chest completely immersed in his body as he held you steady. Everything was slow, calculated by him, so that every second would take longer and he would have more time with you. He stood up, your arms and legs joining him like a puzzle piece, and delicately he placed your back on the bed. 

 You held him close, his weight on you was moderate—comforting. He looked at you with desire, but also as if he appreciated you being there, as if you weren’t going anywhere and had more to give. You thought of him as more than just this moment, so it felt mutual. His gaze made you feel attractive, even like this—messy hair, wearing clothes that weren’t even yours.

"I wish you were my age."

The melancholy in your voice made him shake his head immediately.

"Ya would’ve 'ated me at your age. Ah was annoyin', drank too much, 'nd took my worries out on other people."

You shifted him, considering how this—whatever it was—was all you had. There were no "what ifs." He kept his leg between yours, the closeness a quiet reminder that he was here.

He moved briefly, and you traced a line from his chest to the mark you had left on his jeans with your eyes. His thick thighs made you imagine other things too. He opened his shirt wider, you bit your lip and he chuckled lightly. You could feel the elastic of your panties a bit out of its place and that was a good reminder of minutes ago.

He lifted your shirt again, kissing your knees and thighs, taking his caresses to your belly. Your eyes closed with the texture of his mature skin brushing where you were sensitive and then his nose lightly tapping the spot. He kissed you cautiously over the fabric and his eyes went up to you, his expression relaxed, as if he thought about being between your legs often and he whispered, "Is it alrigh’ if Ah-I carry on??" and all you felt was your heart bursting and your wetness like never before.

…

He didn’t hesitate to take you to the airport. Things were heavy, though there was an air of hope between you—not because there was any chance of being together, but because you saw things differently now.

You couldn’t bring yourself to touch him. You were too close, close enough to hold his gaze, but if you reached for him, it would break you.

"Y'know, I’ll come see ya when ya play at the London Theatre."

He touched your arms, pulling you into him. Your vision blurred slightly.

"I don’t even know when that’ll be, and you’ve never seen me play, so you can’t say that." You joked, unsure how to take it.

"Ya saw summat was off, like with your relationship, an’ handled it right. Yer workin’ outside yer field ‘cos ya believe in it. Yer determined—don’t seem the type t’ hesitate. If not now, then one day, you’ll get there. Ah believe in ya."

You inhaled sharply, the tears never making it down your cheeks because he wiped them away first. His eyes were watery too. It made you realize how little you had accepted in past relationships.

Your fiancé once mentioned how important a stable job was—you had seen it as a valid concern, but he had always seemed to hate having an old piano taking up space in the living room.

"You won’t remember me," you murmured.

He shook his head, making that small sound with his mouth that told you to be quiet.

"Ah-I will. I feel relieved that I got to talk to ya these past few days."

He wiped your face, watching as you tried to steady yourself, though your hands were trembling.

"'nd I need to see ya play."

You laughed.

He told you he’d be in Tokyo for a while, dealing with record label matters. You told him you’d be going back to North America. He lived in England—far from you. Your mind tried to map out the distance as something manageable, but the truth was neither of you would fit into each other’s lives. He wasn’t going to get married again, and you couldn’t handle the fact that he already had a family.

It was hard, but there wasn’t much to discuss. There was no space for bitterness.

"Ah brought ya summat." his voice echoed in your mind as he kissed you right there, in front of everyone. It was slow, your fingers tangled in his hair, grazing through the gray strands. You needed a moment before facing his flushed lips and reddened nose. Your lungs felt empty.

You couldn’t look at him when you said goodbye.

All you had was the plastic bag he had given you, filled with the same macarons from when you first spoke to him, with revived dreams, and a cassette tape with your name on it—signed by him, with the words "For the good memories."

It was cliché, but it was him, you felt loved.

[deadlydelicious]

I just keep thinking about the two Chenford interactions we got this episode and how they rubbed me the wrong way.

The intention of Tim's actions felt correct but the way he expressed them felt...really off for what we're being told about his character arc.

The intention/outcome of both those interactions seemed to be focused on the idea of pushing Lucy towards taking ownership for her Rookie, making sure she is the one making decisions and not relying on her old mentor relationship with Tim to have him tell her if she's right or wrong. It's the right move, it's propelling her character out of feeling like the eternal student into someone who has authority and feels confident in her own judgements. So for Lucy's character great.

But for Tim's this reset back to season 3/4 colleague behaviour feels so out of touch with what was set up in season 6 and what Eric has said in interviews about Tim working on himself and trying to offer Lucy the 'small doses of kindness she'll allow' (a phrase I am starting to get pretty bloody sick of given how much it's been an empty statement). He should be attempting to branch the distance by actually verbalizing his improvement, not treating her like Angela one minute then making wistful puppy eyes at her the next. If he just wanted to be friends again, sure whatever, this is fine, but we know he's trying to flirt with her again, we know he's trying to build back to a relationship...but he's doing nothing to actually make it up to her as a romantic partner. it's just empty flirty banter with no actual intentional change in how he communicates with her as someone he wants to build a relationship with.

Like what those scenes should have had was Tim actually acknowledging that that is what he's doing- pushing Lucy to step into her new role without using him as a crutch. It should have been him stopping her and outright saying "I know you're used to coming to me as your old TO to help you make these choices, but as a TO yourself you need to be confident in making your own decisions. I want to support you, but the best move to make here is to step back and let you grow. If we're going to move forward as equals, I need to start treating you like an equal" (because tbh not treating each other as equals was a big part of their relationship breakdown)

I'm willing to accept Lucy's behaviour as at least being in character because to be honest Lucy is a bit of a 'go along to get along' personality, and she does often sacrifice her comfort to make social dynamics easier (hello emotionally abusing parents), and I do think we might be building towards her getting to put him in his place next episode, but Tim's behaviour seems pretty at odds with what they were setting up

[slcmml]

teacher! schlatt & reader — a love experiement

★ it starts with curiosity. schlatt isn’t the type to seek out friendships with coworkers, but something about you intrigues him. you’re quiet but not standoffish, reserved but not boring. he catches himself lingering outside your classroom, peeking in to see what weird art project your students are working on. he’ll lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, and drawl, “whatcha teachin’ ‘em today? finger painting?” just to see you get all shy.

★ he teases you constantly. he lives for your flustered little reactions, smirking when you avoid eye contact or mumble a response. but it’s never mean—just his way of pulling you out of your shell. “y’know, i never hear you raise your voice. what do you do when a kid misbehaves? stare ‘em down ‘til they repent?” you roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitch upward, and that’s how he knows he’s won.

★ he’s a bit of a mystery to you? schlatt is loud. and cocky. and a nuisance. but you notice things others don’t—how he never lingers at staff parties, how he prefers one on one conversations over big group settings, how he sometimes looks genuinely relieved when he steps into your quiet classroom after a long day.

★ the staff definitely has a bet going on. teachers love gossip, and your odd relationship is prime material. “they have to be dating.” “no way, they’re just ‘really close coworkers’.” meanwhile, you and schlatt are completely oblivious to the speculation, too caught up in your own little world of being fucking idiots.

★ he lowkey tries to impress you. if you ever mention finding a topic interesting, suddenly that becomes the focus of his next class. “yeah, so today’s lesson is about bioluminescence. which is pretty cool, i guess. not that anyone asked, but y’know, some people might find it interesting.” literally only does this for class so he can tell you about it later.

★ you start to pick up on his social battery? i mean, despite how extroverted he acts, you notice he sometimes disappears during lunch breaks or avoids crowded teacher’s meetings. at first, you assume he just doesn’t care, but one day, you find him sitting alone in his empty classroom, quietly grading papers. you hesitate before stepping in, holding up a coffee. “thought you might want a break.” he looks at you, then at the coffee, then back at you, before exhaling. “you’re somethin’ else, darlin’.”

★ he’s weirdly protective of you. if another teacher tries to talk over you in a staff meeting? he immediately cuts in, backing you up without hesitation. if a student’s giving you a hard time? suddenly schlatt’s popping his head into your room like, “need me to send someone out? jus’ say the word.”

★ neither of you realize you’re basically dating? you spend so much time together, fall into so many easy conversations, and yet, neither of you quite acknowledge what’s happening.

★ schlatt probably teases you about how “art can’t be that hard” almost all the time.

★ at some point you finally call his bluff and tell him to sit down and prove it. he tries to act all nonchalant, but he’s secretly a little nervous because he doesn’t want to embarrass himself in front of you.

★ he’s stiff at first. when you hand him a brush, he just kind of stares at it like he’s holding a foreign object. “alright, what am i s’posed to do? jus’... start wavin’ this thing around?”

★ he’s used to precise measurements and structured formulas, so the whole “just go with the flow” thing throws him off.

★ his grip on the brush is terrible, so without thinking, you reach over and adjust his fingers. the second your hands touch, he freezes. you don’t even notice, too focused on correcting his technique, but schlatt is sitting there, completely distracted by the fact that you’re this close to him.

★ he keeps sneaking glances at you. while you’re explaining different brushstrokes, he’s barely listening—just watching the way your face lights up when you talk about art. at one point, you lean in to demonstrate something, and he swears his brain short-circuits for a second.

★ he’s terrible at painting, but you don’t have the heart to tell him. his first attempt looks like absolute garbage—uneven strokes, weird colors, a total mess. but when he turns to you all smug like, “pretty good, huh?” you just smile softly and say, “it’s… unique.” (he knows that means it’s bad.)

★ he actually listens when you correct him. for all his teasing, schlatt really does take your advice seriously. when you gently tell him to loosen up his strokes or blend the colors more naturally, he follows your instructions without argument. he won’t admit it, but hearing you talk so passionately about something makes him want to try—even if it’s just to impress you a little.

★ you wipe paint off his face without thinking. at some point, he manages to get a streak of paint on his cheek. without thinking, you reach up and swipe it off with your thumb. you don’t even realize what you’ve done until you notice he’s completely silent. when you finally look at him, his ears are bright red. “uh—” he clears his throat. “thanks.”

★ he insists you keep his first painting. he knows it’s bad, you know it’s bad, but he shoves it into your hands anyway. “frame it. tell people it’s modern art or somethin’.” you laugh, but later that night, you do end up keeping it. it’s terrible, but it’s his, and for some reason, that makes it special.

★ the whole thing just feels a lot more intimate than either of you expected. it’s just painting, but there’s something about the quiet closeness, the shared laughter, and the little moments of eye contact that make your heart race. neither of you say anything about it, but after that day, something between you shifts—like maybe, just maybe, this whole thing was never really about painting at all.

★ ANYWAY YOU BOTH ARE FUCKING LOSERS BECAUSE LIKE CHARLIE YOU BOTH ARE TOO PUSSY TO TELL EACH OTHER YOU WANNA SWAP SPIT JUST FUCK ALREADY I DON’T FUCKING KNOW

© slcmml

[deans-baby-momma]

**Summary**: When Jensen admits to going home with someone else, will his and Y/N's marriage survive?

**Warnings**: Angst, heartbreak, smut, language

Chapter 7

A/N: This is just for entertainment only. I have no idea how or where something like this would take place. Would it be in a courtroom, in front of a judge, would there be an official ruling? I DON'T KNOW!! I am just writing how I imagine it would go.

A few weeks later

The room feels stuffy and claustrophobic to Jensen but maybe it is just nerves and the smart suit he is wearing.

He sits at a long conference table between his lawyer, Thomas Bell and Y/N waiting for the others to join. A court reporter sits at the head of the table with her machine situated in front of her, ready to capture the conversation.

It had practically taken an act of Congress and a little bit of nudging from his lawyer for Y/N to agree to be here today.

Mr. Bell had persuaded her to accompany them saying it ‘showed unity and solidified Jensen as an upstanding family man’. She reluctantly compromised but has yet to meet his eye.

When Jensen tries to hold her hand, she jerks it away with a seething “Don't!” but never takes her eyes from the door.

About five minutes later, that door opens and in walks Athena with her own attorney and one of the friends that Y/N recognizes from the group at the bistro.

The three of them approach the table and sit down across from the Ackles’ and Mr. Bell.

“Good afternoon,” the man says. “I'm Nathaniel Howell, legal representation for Miss Athena Haligan.”

He shakes Mr. Bell's hand as he introduces himself, then does the same for each of them.

“Okay now that formalities are out of the way, let's get to it,” Mr. Bell says. “Your client is accusing my client of sleeping with and impregnating her. With my client's notoriety and fame, this is slander that could not only impact his family but his career.”

“My client is 9 weeks pregnant. Is your client denying that?”

“No sir. We are not denying she is pregnant, we are denying the possibility that Mr. Ackles here is the father.”

“Does your client, Mr. Ackles, admit to meeting Miss. Haligan at Twilight Terrace, where they hit it off enough for him to accompany her back to her home?”

“No, that's not how it happened,” Jensen speaks up, to the annoyance of his lawyer.

Mr. Bell clears his throat as he looks at Jensen scoldingly and then back to the others. “Mr. Ackles did approach Miss Haligan at Twilight Terrace, as I'm sure there are many witnesses to. They spoke and Miss Haligan allegedly claimed to have an item, a record album of his band that she asked him to sign-”

“Hold on,” Mr. Howell says, holding up his hand. “I thought Mr. Ackles was an actor. I looked at his dossier. He is listed as an actor with an array of t.v. roles and a few movie roles.”

“That's correct,” Mr. Bell acknowledges. “But just last year, he released a music album with a friend, the duo is called 'Radio Company'.”

“Thank you for clearing that up,” Mr. Howell says as he writes notes on a legal pad. “So, is your client denying that he accompanied Miss Haligan back to her home?”

“No, he did accompany her, under the assumption that he would be signing the album for her and then rejoining his friends at the hotel bar.”

“And,” Mr. Howell inquired with a brief glance to his client. “How does he recollect the night going?”

This time, Jensen is allowed to speak. He retells his side of the story, from the time he arrived at the rooftop bar to the moment Jared helped him clean the smeared lipstick from his skin at his trailer on the lot of Supernatural, where he also changed his shirt and tossed it before being dropped off at his house.

He internally cringes as he speaks about the whole ordeal in front of Y/N. He had tried to keep as much information away from her as possible. He didn't want her to hear about him seeing another woman's breasts or being kissed by the other female.

But that is nothing compared to how he begins to feel as he listens to a drastically different version when Athena takes her turn to give her account of the events.

After hours of the back and forth, Jensen feels dirty and worried. Athena's narrative has even him second-guessing himself. He can only imagine how Y/N feels.

‘Did I really blackout and have sex with that girl?’ bounces around in his mind.

According to her, Jensen never pushed her away and actually encouraged the encounter. When she had disrobed, he had enthusiastically groped and caressed her and they kissed as they undressed each other.

Athena had begged to perform fellatio and he had conceded. Then they had sex and he told her he was going to ‘fill her up’ and then did.

Afterwards, she claimed he got re-dressed and left without a word, leaving her there, in her bed, in tears.

Jensen paces back and forth outside the room after bolting from it, trying to remember it that way. But he couldn't. He didn't remember any of that.

He runs his hands through his hair as the door to the room opens. He looks up to see Y/N step out.

She walks up to him, places her palm on his cheek and smiles. “She's lying.”

At the same time as the meeting is beginning, across the city, a laptop is open,Tumblr displayed on the screen. The person scrolls down the page, reading each word intently; it’s familiar to the reader but they are trying desperately to figure out why.

As he finishes the fanfiction novel he sits back on his sofa to think. At first he thought the person may have just plagiarized another fic but the more he contemplates it the more he worries for his friends, Jensen and Y/N. Is Athena using this story to fill some twisted need and thus ruining his friends’ lives? With that thought he exclaims “Oh my fucking god!” before highlighting and saving the whole thing to a new document and pressing print.

As the pages fill, Misha begins investigating just who Deansgirl4ever is. He goes to her Tumblr profile and begins scrolling, looking for clues to her identity.

A few hundred scrolls later, he comes across a post about donations and notices she has included a link to a Facebook profile.

Clicking the link, Misha watches as Facebook loads up and clicks on pictures for Krissi Nelson. Most of the pictures include the same four girls, but then there is one that is just two of them.

Misha clicks on it and reads the caption ‘My best girl Athena <3’. He smiles as he realizes he has just come across the answer to his friends’ dilemma.

After the last page comes forth- the picture of the two friends- Misha checks the time.

Jensen had told him what time the deposition was, so he grabs the stack of papers and his jacket before heading out the door.

Driving across town, it seems as if he was caught by every redlight and slow driver in the whole province. Misha just hopes he can make it in time.

Once he gets to his destination, he finds a parking space and grabs his loot and exits the car.

Sprinting across the lot, he heads to the City Hall building where he has to show his ID and ask for directions to the correct room.

The deposition room is on the floor above so he hurries to the elevator, pressing the call button numerous times.

As soon as the elevator dings and the doors slide open on the next floor, he steps out and finds Jensen and Y/N in a tight embrace.

“Guys,” he says loud enough for them to hear him. When they break apart and look at him curiously, he smiles. “I found the answer to your prayers.”

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Preview from next chapter: Y/N stands up quickly, knocking her chair back and to the ground and before anyone could do anything, lunges over the table and slaps the young girl.

“You fucking whore!” .

@spnbaby-67 @sea040561 @delightfullykrispypeach @larajadeschmidt13 @atc74 @vicariouslythruspn @squirrelnotsam   @ironreviewangel @blacktithe7 @hoboal87 @mogaruke @supraveng @lyarr24 @kazsrm67 @chriszgirl92 @deanwithscissors @raisinggray @fanfic-n-tabulous @hobby27 @stoneyggirl2 @purpleeclipseeggsland @kmc1989 @leigh70 @nancymcl @muhahaha303 @justwhisperingfantasies @jackles010378 @monkey-d-hoshizora98 @deanna45 @ozwriterchick @mandee7 @spnaquakindgdom @impala67rollingthroughtown @generalmoonpolice @1313diana @roseblue373 @palerogue1 @deansimpalababy @queen-cs

[nattikay]

the constant inner struggle of a Na'vi speaker/teacher browsing Na'vi OCs

[chaosxcrushed]

There's a certain CCCC summary video that we really, really like. We think it is a great video for people if they want to grasp the story more clearly, if they're confused, or if they're listening to the album for the first time.

That video being Chonny Jash and the Weight of the Mind on Youtube by W3tBl@nk3t. We think they cover it really well.

However, I'm sharing this for a different reason; they say few certain things that really struck with us until now, that I'd like to share with the fandom. Sometimes, we see people really just.. Miss the point of CCCC entirely, and I'd like to shine a light on what was said here. If you'd like to hear this for yourself on video, the timestamp is 35:57-36:45.

“..I bet we all could relate to that, they are the prime example of the side of you that suffers and the side of you that hates yourself for suffering:

The side of you that just wants to slow down and feel everything even to the unhealthy extent of not being able to do anything else(1), but also the side of you that so desperately wants you to get over it(2).

Sure, laying in bed all day every day to rot isn't healthy, but neither is boiling things down and invalidating your own emotions. Both are paths to inevitable disaster, and that's what Chonny is doing here. Keep in mind that the idea behind this album is being whole, and that means neither of these sides are entirely in the right or the wrong; this album is about inner compromise and acceptance(3).”

1.) The side of you that suffers; Heart. He is representative of Whole's emotions, he holds them. Your emotions can go haywire, especially when one's mentally ill and has no way of their feelings being validated. An emotional person like Heart suffers under the weight of crushing, devastating feelings. He wants to feel things out, have time to just process everything, even if it takes them days or weeks to get over it. It's not healthy, but feeling is what he does, and he wants to help because he knows he has importance. Solely focusing on just your emotions isn't the best thing to do, however.

2.) The side of you that so desperately wants you to get over it; Mind. Many people have been there, have wanted themselves to stop wallowing in their own emotions and just do something else, even to the point where you think feeling things out is unnecessary. This is also unhealthy, but not intentionally. Like Heart, Mind just wants to help, everything he does is in best interest. This is what he thinks will get them to move on the quickest; to leave behind emotions and focus on anything BUT that. Also not the best thing to do.

3.) This album is about inner compromise and acceptance; About being whole. Neither of Heart and Mind are right nor wrong. They have their own ways of doing things, of what they think will help their whole self out the most, but both are unhealthy despite the good intentions. They fight over who's wrong or right, when they shouldn't even be doing so in the first place. It's your thoughts against your emotions, basically; your feelings contradict your thoughts, and it leads to an inner war of sorts. This won't make things better, which is why you can't have Mind over Heart or vice versa; you'll need both of them. In the album, they are only able to be whole when they get along. They harmonize, they 'combine', they see eye to eye with each other and work together instead of fighting over and over. Inner compromise is achieved with this, and acceptance can lead them away from any disaster that there's to come.

What we're trying to say is that mental health is a large thing tackled within CCCC, and yet we see a lot of people who overlook it; thus, end up missing the point of the whole album. We see a lot of people believe Mind's perspective a little too much and treat Heart quite harshly, or the other way where people demonize Mind and say that Heart is perfect, when it's not really that in the slightest.

This is not a hate post towards people's interpretations of CCCC or how they view characters, I'm just saying that people can tend to overlook what's in the very narrative, and we see a concerning amount of people do such.

Anyways. Stream CCCC and put your Hearts and Minds in the get along shirt. Have a nice day.

[s0fter-sin]

rewatching s1 and in ep2 w*ndigo, dean makes a joke about not bringing provisions into the woods just to pull out a bag of peanut butter m&m’s and stick with me here, it’s why the later seasons’ “goofy dean” loses me

this moment is clearly a joke but if you think about it too much, it also makes some sense; a family size bag of peanut m&m’s is calorie dense and even the high sugar is good to keep you moving which they need on an overnight hunt. it also shows how due to their upbringing, they’ve had to eat lower quality food, things they always had access to that was cheap and also in bulk

what does dean eating ghost pepper jerky then tipping water on himself exist for other than to be a cringy joke? what does smelling old chinese food, testing to see if it's still good then shaking his head with cabbage hanging out his mouth when it isn't serve? it's just to make him look stupid and contrast sam's healthy/clean diet (and superiority but that’s another conversation) which has always existed but it used to be nuanced and natural

we see dean as a child give up the food he wanted to eat so sam could eat it. (“i’m sick of spaghetti-os,” “you’re the one who wanted them,” … “i want lucky charms!” “… there’s only enough for one bowl and i haven’t had any yet!” proceeds to give them to sam, 1x18) we know he hustled and stole food to ensure sam ate. (“so, what’d he take?” “get this- peanut butter and bread.” 9x07)

we also see throughout the early seasons dean teasing sam about his salad or healthy choice while he eats some form of burger or other fast food (or notably, cheerfully eating prison food that sam won’t touch, 2x19). it's typical sibling teasing but it also shows that it isn't new for sam to eat like that and for dean to know he eats like that

sam being picky isn't just a character trait they chose for him, it's a result of how dean raised him; he raised him to like and want healthy food and be food secure enough to reject food he didn't want

but dean eats anything he is given and seeks out unhealthy - cheap, plentiful, filling - food

he is the opposite of picky to the point of it being a consistent bit; they show him multiple times eating when it's socially frowned upon to do so eg. questioning a grieving victim when they're trying to be discreet (1x14, 2x15, 2x18)

a similar moment to the chinese food is in 4x19; dean wakes up in the car while sam brushes his teeth outside and is hungry. sam says there's a sandwich in the backseat, dean smells it and recoils bc it's an old tuna sandwich. the moment is funny on its own but it also exists as a comparison of their lives to adam's; he has a loving mother, goes to school and importantly, a steady stable childhood

it’s a joke with a purpose

it also supports dean's food insecurity; he wakes up and is immediately hungry, enough to complain about it and seek out food before anything else

dean is always hungry bc he never has access to nutritionally rich foods bc he got used to using the money he earned to buy sam's more expensive food. he got used to his cheaper, denser foods and grew up with (and continues to live with) intermittent access to said foods. think of how long it takes to drive from one state to another; how many hours it can take to see another town that offers food, if you arrive at a reasonable enough time for anything to be open. also think how they can’t keep any food beyond what fits in an esky; nothing that needs defrosting, nothing can be heated up. it’s bags and jars and take out for as long as they can trust it

then they get the bunker which has its own kitchen

dean even describes himself as "nesting" when he decorates his room, something he hasn't had since he was four years old, and he uses said kitchen to cook a burger from scratch that he is proud of. he is food secure for the first time in his life and it shows in how often he cooks for both himself and sam

so these moments where they have him acting goofy regarding food are no longer character driven and only exist as a joke which is why they come across as cringy and out of character compared to similar earlier moments

a lot of my issues with dean's characterisation started when they introduced the bunker. the argument can and is made that the reason these jokes happen is bc he feels safe in the bunker, that bc he now has a home he can relax and unmask but that still doesn't feel sufficient. they crank up these sillier moments for both of them, giving them a sort of playing house comedy vibe of two roommates with completely different personalities but it doesn't feel like an authentic progression. it feels forced; an attempt at humour for humour's sake

food stopped being an informed part of their characters and their trauma and instead became flanderised; sam is the judgy vegetarian health nut and dean is his borderline slovenly carnivore counterpart

[fromtheseventhhell]

I also find it funny that fandom will only accept Lyanna being her non-conforming, wild self in the context of saying that Arya isn't meant to be pretty; Any other day we get back-to-back posts about how Lyanna is actually super traditionally feminine cause she sniffled at a song once, so she's actually more like Sansa. Instead of constantly speaking on Arya and Lyanna, how about you guys reflect on why your standards of beauty for women are attached to how well they perform feminity within the patriarchy?

[splicejunction]

related but the lack of acknowledgement in fandom (specifically the type of fandom that is practiced on this website and similar communities) of how much interpretation of source material stems from individuals particular (psychosexual) preoccupations is like. understandable because its embarrassing to publicly admit that you're obsessed with X thing because you're a little bit of a freak about Y thing (trying to speak broadly here but maybe i'm just being vague) and i don't think people need to do that but it's also a little frustrating to me because i feel like it's more interesting to think about the things you enjoy while also analyzing why you enjoy them but there's this culture of like. projection is bad and wrong and if you let your own experiences and proclivities affect the way that you interpret fiction you're tainting somehow the pure and objective thing that is Canon. so everybody's always striving to achieve something that is impossible. like it's impossible not to interpret things through the lens of your own experiences and opinions and preoccupations. i'm not saying we should all be like posting about fictional characters with like footnotes about what specific fetishes inform our headcanons or whatever the fuck but it's just very clear to me when people just entirely avoid thinking about why they might interpret something a certain way and instead think they're doing some kind of Objective Analysis every time they say something about how a character would fuck

[t-errifier]

my drafts are actually quite low ... but my inbox - we don't talk about my inbox -