#sometimes you can't even be on the same page of those who speak your language

[purplecelestial-buddy]

Today I watched past lives (2023) and the quote

"You dream in a language I cannot understand"

Will hunt me till the day I die

[sabweenie]

so its the middle of the night and i'm rereading one of the earlier sections of the yuri zine and i come back to this quote, "sometimes when looking at my self is as painful as staring directly into the sun, my solution has typically been to study the reflection in the moon" and it all just sort of hit me. holy hell. inside mari. to study yourself through another pair of eyes, in her case. this language unlocked so many different ways of understanding inside mari that i just started scribbling on my ipad until next thing i knew an hour had passed and i ran out of white space and how did i even get here? anyways. here is the batshit insane looking page where i dumped all the thoughts i'm going to attempt to organize them here? this image is just so funny to me now i thought i should include it.

the horror of Looking at your own self.

a lot of yuri zine talked about reading and interacting with yuri as a form of self identification. and how those bring up both good feelings (gender validating) and bad feelings (confronting yourself and your regret and your shame for whatever reasons you may have). both as a consumer of this media but also found within the characters themselves in the stories we read. considering how the big reveal of the entire story is about how. in an attempt to identify herself, mari was forced to truly look at herself. something she literally couldn't handle. throughout the zine, the authors all in one way or another touch upon the idea of how uncomfortable it is to confront yourself. to look at yourself. its shown through jennifer and needy's relationship in jennifer's body, which i hadn't thought about but one of the essays in this zine explains it so well. it's shown through when readers see too much of themselves in certain characters. this feeling of discomfort exists both in and out of the texts we talk about. and how this sort of leads into the understanding that yuri is "the relationship to absence, to projection." the yuri that of inside mari is how she absents herself as a way to allow herself to love Yori (to love girls in general). (i want to emphasize how in allowing herself, it implying the norm for her was denying herself, stopping herself, punishing herself for feeling the way she did) because the whole time, the mari we see is just mari the whole time. not komori body swapped into mari's body. the mind warping mental gymnastics she goes through to live this sort of delusion allows her to be a boy who's just trapped in a girl's body. it allows her own self to love girls and accept this because. it's not mari thinking these things, it's komori who is a boy so. it's allowed. this also speaks to Shuzo Oshimi’s thoughts on being a girl. the ways mari goes about identifying her self while at the same time struggling with the mere act of Looking at her self is so yuri. i'm going to come back to this after i talk about Identity for a little bit hold on.

what is it that mari yearns for? what is it about gender?

mari's fragmented identity splits into three parts: fumiko, mari, and komori. her attachment to komori, the male identity she takes on stems from her hetero-patriarchal understanding of the world. she envies him for being able to experience sexuality and love girls in ways she feels she can't. but she ultimately abandons this identity too and exists as something separate from all three. or something that combines them all? the story ends with her alive and finally happy with herself. her attachment to komori's identity is less about his masculinity or maleness so to speak, but what she really desires is to love other girls in the specific (romantic, sexual) way he is allowed to in this society. her yearning is lesbian. i read her experience playing with gender not as her struggling with her own gender identity, but instead i felt that her beef was with the social performance of it all. i think she's a girl who doesn't feel connected to the daily practices and rituals that signal femininity. explaining why she sort of.. forgets how to do makeup and dress herself when she exists as the clueless komori inside mari's body. she uses him to liberate herself from these expectations. maybe i'm just full of shit. maybe her gender is just lesbian after all. another essay in the yuri zine talks about how yearning is gay. yearning is queer and yearning is lesbian. that yearning isn't limited to wanting to be with someone, but wanting to be someone. to live life the way they do. which hey. is literally what mari ends up doing in this story. what she yearns for is a reality that cannot exist (or rather, one that she cannot confront/reconcile with yet) she cannot look at herself, so she absents herself in order to allow herself to pursue her own desire. she felt like she couldn't pursue her desire in her current self, in her current standing as a girl in society.

what does it mean to feel like a person? to feel human?

i need to watch that interview everyone talks about "yuri made me human" because i already feel that truth in my core but i don't even know what the hell they're talking about in that interview. from the zine, "is the fantasy of yuri about finding a way to become a person. when you don't feel like one?" yes. but. what does it mean to feel like a person? in mari's case, which person? her First person? the one that died with her grandmother and replaced with a new name and identity by a mother she cannot understand or bond with? her Second person? mari? the person she grows to hate? the one that is forced to perform these ritualistic practices that signal femininity but is never allowed to desire it for herself? her Third person? komori? the depressed pathetic sexually frustrated hikikomori who is too stupid to see how good he has it* that he doesn't have to fend off boys who only objectify her? that he can have a girlfriend and kiss her and hold her hand in public without punishment? the komori that ultimately broke under the heavy weight of the truth that is not her. she is not him. she is no one for a while. yuri is everything and yuri is nothing. in fact, when mari is in that coma or whatever, yori desperately wants her back again, wants her awake, and she begs “don’t disappear” until she wakes up into someone again. someone for yori. but most importantly, someone for herself (the first time i read this, i felt sort of disappointed? that yori and mari didn’t get to live together forever but those feelings didn’t last long... i don’t actually want that for them. in fact i actually really love that they were able to reconcile their feelings for each other and also end on a note where yori goes to school and mari seems to actually be happy and secure with her own self) anyways. she struggles to connect to her fractured identities until through her growth as a character she not only starts feeling like a person but becoming one, probably for the first time.

inside mari is fascinating to look at and unpack from a yuri pov. i loved thinking about how this too was yuri, that she envies komori for his ability to pursue and love women. the way she projected onto him. the way she wanted something nonexistent and intangible. the way she yearned through imagining she existed as something other than herself. the way she shattered when faced with herself. the way she existed not as a participant, nor an observer. the way she loved yori so much she became everyone and no one.

in conclusion please read yuri zine and please also read yaoi zine 1 and 2 they are genuinely so good. bless the minds of everyone who worked on these.. the yaoi yuri theorists i look up to.... there's no real conclusion to this ramble. i hate conclusions. i'm done. good night...

[cillianate]

JUNE GLOOM

pairing— warren rojas x fem!reader

content warnings— drugs, alcohol, language, mentions of cheating and abuse, reader is a songwriter, slight hints towards reader being caucasian, band member reader, any spanish I use may not be accurate, as I don't speak it fluently, if you catch any mistakes let me know!

genre— just a small fluffy drabble!

word count— 566 words, 2976 characters.

"I sat down, made a list of all the things I care about," sounded your voice from somewhere in the house. Warren, who had just woken up from his nap on the couch, had figured it may have been from a record. But he'd burnt through every song in the house, and he'd never heard this before.

"Think I mentioned 'Scott Street' and Springsteen," nobody else besides his girlfriend, you, was in the house. As he started to walk towards your shared room, which he believed was the source of the noise, he started to realize that it was, in fact, your voice he'd been hearing.

"And I wrote your name twice," finally, he knocked on the door of your room. A quiet fumbling and then a small voice could be heard, "It's open," it said.

There you were, in all your glory, sitting on your well made bed covered in colorful quilts and pillows, with a guitar in your hands.

"Mi vida, don't stop on my account. Is it alright if I stay? Listen for a while?" He said.

"Sure, honey. I don't mind," you said as you stood up and grabbed his soft yet calloused hands and dragged him closer to the bed.

He flopped down next to you, the bed shaking with him. His feet reached the ground and he rested his palms behind his head as if to cushion himself.

"Keep playing, woman! You're amazing," he spoke with the biggest smile on his face, "I've only ever heard you singing backup vocals, but damn, darlin'! You should be our frontman!" You blushed and giggled a small bit at his endless compliments. He had always been the funny type, you even thought he was joking when he confessed his feelings for you a few months back.

So, with your white cotton tank-top and shorts, you continued to sing and strum on your wooden guitar.

"I hate it, nothings changed at all since we were seventeen,

You could never keep your money, or hands off me,

And I still want you like that,

But I can't make a lover out of you unless you ask me to."

Of course, this song was not about Warren. You'd written it a year or so ago about a man you had been seeing for a while, but inevitably broke things off with. Warren had quite literally been your saving grace. You two were twin flames, two sides of the same coin.

You'd known him since you were young children, and of course, you had written your fair share of songs about him. You'd only play those when he was out of the house, though. You weren't sure you wanted him to hear your entire sappiness yet.

He watched you in awe, his eyes sometimes drifting from your face to your soft, slightly tanned arms. How he loved when you'd wrap them around his torso at all times of the day. He didn't need to be high to genuinely enjoy your company like he did with most people nowadays.

He sat up, resting his chin on his hand while his elbow rested on his criss-crossed knee, looking like an attentive kindergartener.

And as you strummed the last chord of the song on your guitar, he leaned forward to kiss your lips and said, "Play me another one, mi corazón."

SONG—JUNE GLOOM. alix page

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

I have a really hard time on Tumblr sometimes and I have this issue with a lot of people and places so it's hardly tumblr specific, but it's also really hard to describe/convey to others. Let me try to scaffold it out

I spent my entire childhood being called an anxious person, and being forced to keep my anxiety internal, and this is overall really bad for me

The one useful tool I was ever given for BOTH reducing externally visible distress AND total distress is to pair anxious/distressing and "strengths based" thoughts. Whenever I say or think something related to distress, I take a moment to reframe the thought into a pair of thoughts - one non-judgemental observation of the need speaking through my distress/how I might meet it, and one non-judgemental acknowledgement of my feelings. It's energy intensive, and it takes a while to learn how to do it in a way that is clarifying rather than erasive. But it genuinely always makes me feel like I have a better handle on things, like I'm less inclined to spiral or end up with a disrupted mood or function, and also now consistently get **the opposite** commentary about being a very positive person who's good at conveying and opening up that positivity for others (at least in my professional life)

There are some people who take my doing this as an invitation to argue with me about why, actually, the distressing stuff IS VALID AND RIGHT AS A FRAMEWORK rather than understanding why I might be shifting away from it. You'd think this would happen most when I talk to other people and "reframe" something they've said, but actually this happens the most often after I have just finished expressing my own thoughts about a thing and someone seems to decide that "framed in a functional way" is equivalent to "hasn't thought enough about the problem areas" and start going off about all the "bad" or "hard" or whatever parts of a thing.

I cannot argue BACK with these people when they do this, because arguing back is dragging me back into a headspace that directly contributes to my suicidality, however side-stepping the issue by CONTINUING to insist on framing things the way I do often leads to them REPEATING their points in different ways in an attempt to "convince" me or "correct my misunderstanding" and I kinda have to be like. Not a misunderstanding. I know what you said and am simply not sharing that space with you. Why is it so uncomfortable for you that we are on different pages about this thing that you feel the need to force me into a distressing place for me rather than move on now that we've both shared our thoughts on the matter?

I can only spend so much of my time around a person rigidly reinforcing my own protective cognitions before I just. I can't talk to them anymore. I need to leave and do other things in other spaces with people who can talk to me about things from the same strengths-based perspective for a while

A lot of people use this to accuse me of spending time in echo chambers because they LITERALLY CANNOT FATHOM a space in which one can be critical of a thing without explicitly being "negative" about it, and assume that if everyone in a space is coming from a strengths based perspective that they're all uncritical fans or at least don't criticise in that space. This is just an objectively untrue assumption and I actually vastly prefer the constructive criticism of things within those strengths-based spaces

You can't ask people to stop doing this, or make them believe (if they don't already) the impact this might be having on your mental health, and if you try, people take it VERY personally and will start being MORE "negative" about EVERYTHING they say without even realizing it (saying "positive" things about one thing directly by "pulling down" something else, using satirical praise language like "fuck you" or "i can't stand it I'm going to die" or etc to refer to things they are happy with/enjoying/liking/etc, pivoting off your "positives" with immediate "negatives", etc) which makes the dynamic more intensive to cope with for me. Even when I try to convey this stuff to someone or point out examples, it quickly worsens the issue to the point that it's literally better for me to stop doing so and go back to quietly exiting when I'm overwhelmed.

A lot of people, when all this is discussed for them, will say something to the effect of "this is how I enjoy things I love!" And I get that. I do. But why? Why is the only way you are able to enjoy a thing by putting it or something else down? If it were ONE OF THE WAYS you enjoyed things, I'd 100% get that, and have no issue with it! I do wish that it was more common for groups of people to just enjoy things "unironically" tho, because it's a space I have a much easier time existing comfortably in, and those spaces being hard to find and maintain is part of why I struggle to socialize much. It's hard for me (literally, in terms of asking more effort of me, and emotionally in terms of the impact it has on my mood) to be around people whose only access to enjoyment is to insult, belittle, or point out the problems in something. It makes me sad not to spend as much time as I'd like to with people I like because of this incompatibility, and it makes me frustrated that I have never found a way of sharing with others what is happening in this dynamic in a way that has any concrete impact on the outcome. I have sort of learned to just NOT share it with others and instead do all the heavy listing of navigating the issue on other people's behalf and taking breaks when I can no longer do that so that I can keep relationships or spaces or conversations that are important to me.

Tumblr is, to put it mildly, almost nothing but this dynamic. So despite being a system I am most suited to in terms of posting options, conversation topics, access formats, etc, Tumblr is a space I feel best taking regular breaks from.

Tumblr is far from the epitome of this in my life. But it's a space where I see the most. I want to say etiquette? Social "respect" indicators? Built around this kind of behavior/framework. Like. Tumblr is a space of differing social contexts, but a lot of the connected ones across subcultures on the platform are informed by this framework because it is non-ideological and so gets conveyed as a more universalizably etiquette system I think. So there's a lot of like. Expectations of how you interact with others here that default this framework (for very functional reasons I think lol, i just don't know that it was done on purpose rather than sort of stumbled into?) are really normalized in a way that is especially risky for me given how much work I have to put into resisting this framework on a personal level

I often feel very lonely, because I have found a degree of distance that gets built into my dynamics with people. Throughout my life, there have been people who put me up on a pedastal, and people who set me far below them in capacity and cannot fathom my functionality, and of course people who manage both at once in different areas. But it's been hard to build and maintain relationships where I trust I am seen specifically as a peer and where this anxiety/complaint oriented framework is not one of the dominant cultural forces in play socially.

There are gaps in all this still in my brain, but. I dunno, I get tired sometimes. I wish I had a space in my life where I felt fully seen and where I could just sort of sit and build something up with someone for a while.

[itsbelvina]

I used to think that talking lots is what makes relationships strong. But turns out, it's not about how much we talk, it's about how much we get each other. Like, even if we chat loads, if we don't really understand each other, it's like we're not saying anything at all.

I'm the type who finds it super hard to open up about what's going on in my head and how I'm feeling. I kinda just hope people will get me, even though sometimes I don't even get them. We can talk and talk, but if we're not on the same page, what's the point, right?

Communication, yeah, it's important, but it's like the words are empty if we're not really understanding each other. It's like when you're trying to explain something but the other person just doesn't get it. It's frustrating. You're trying your best to express yourself, but it's like they're not even listening.

And then there are those times when you're feeling something really deep inside, but you can't find the right words to say it. So you just keep it to yourself, hoping they'll somehow know what's going on in your head. But most of the time, they don't, and it's like you're speaking different languages.

It's like, we're both talking, but it's like we're speaking different languages. We're not really connecting. And that's the thing about relationships, it's all about that connection. Without it, it's like we're just two ships passing in the night.

So yeah, communication is important, but comprehension is key. It's about really understanding each other, not just hearing the words. It's about connecting on a deeper level, where words aren't even necessary sometimes. It's about truly getting each other, even when we're not saying anything at all.

[harukamitsuki]

Character: *speaks in a different language* Oh, whoops, sorry! It's hard to switch back sometimes!

Me: Ew, no, stop that. That's not how that works

-

Bi/Multilingual characters consciously switch between languages, unless they've been afflicted mentally, such as being delirious or running on a dangerously high fever. Please, if you're including a bi/multilingual character and want to intergrate that naturally into your story, just do a bit of research.

Reddit gives a lot of advice, as well as tumblr and maybe TikTok if you find the right side of it.

Bi/multilingual characters are only really likely to switch languages mid-sentence if there's a specific word that doesn't translate exactly to the general language. Even then, it's not likely that they'll instantly switch.

They may also switch languages for specific idioms or phrases that aren't common in the general language or just don't translate well at all.

Troubles with language: if they forget a word in the general language, they're likely to just go 'that thing' or try to describe it until someone else finds the word for them. Sometimes, they'll know the word in another language but not the general one. In most cases, if they can't remember the word in the moment, they'll remember it later and slap themselves in the face.

The more languages a character speaks, the more likely they are to forget words. Also, it's incredibly hard to become fluent in a language unless you interact with others speaking the same language. Colloquisms and such are hard to pick up on unless speaking and interacting with natives or that specific culture.

Some letters/characters are incredibly hard to pronounce properly unless you've been corrected on them multiple times and actually taught them by natives, though they most likely don't care about butchered pronounciation, unless it's a specific dialect. In that case, some might find it insulting.

I'm not bilingual or multilingual, so if you want proper advice, go to those reddit pages or tumblr posts that are actually written by people who are. Still, all this advice I've given is from my own research for my fanfics.

Seeing authors abuse google translate and go, 'yay, representation!', is very frustrating, especially because it relies on stererotypes and thus diminishes the representation. It happens more often than not, and that's really sad because you can make bilingual/multilingual troubles so funny.

Forgetting a word so you just shrug and start a new conversation because it's easier than trying to figure out what the word is. Swearing in another language so children don't pick it up, only for them to also speak that language. Speaking in a different language just to annoy everyone else who doesn't understand.

There's a lot of potential for comedy with this, but not when it's 'oops, it's hard to switch back/I get confused sometimes.' And, no. They do not switch when excited. It's a conscious decision, unless they're really, really out of it.

[catullus16]

Hello, hope I'm not bothering you. I got a job in Japan (I'm Italian) and I've never been there before and my Japanese is N5 level (I am trying to study). I am moving in two months (I already got the accomodation covered by my company) and although I know things of Japan, because I've have always watched movies anime Yadda Yadda. I wanted to ask. Was it very difficult to adapt once you first moved? I know you had your husband but did you have moments of anxiety? What did you do to feel more comfortable? I am very anxious. It's not the first time I live abroad one but first time in Asia.

not bothering me at all!!

things were a little scary at first, for sure. i was always afraid of running into misunderstandings with people because of the language barrier but the more i practiced japanese the more my confidence grew. you definitely don't need to know all that much to get by day-to-day (customer service interactions all basically follow the same script). i prioritized learning speaking and listening skills over kanji, (which some may consider a huge mistake that i'm paying for now T__T) but it helped me get to a conversational level much faster. so that now if i can't read a sign or menu or something, i can just ask someone what it says.

i have a lot more i can say so imma pop in a read more

when i first moved here another thing that scared me was how much i stood out (especially cus the country was in covid lockdown at the time so there were no foreign tourists so i looked super out of place). to feel more comfortable i kind of studied how women in tokyo dressed and for a while tried to mirror it (i also have dark straight hair and brown eyes and am really short and everyone was still wearing masks at the time so it was really easy for me to blend in), though now that i'm more confident i mostly dress like a time traveling wizard that would look out of place almost anywhere haha.

also people here are generally very kind, patient, and eager to help. the more you get out and explore and interact with people the more the anxiety will fade away, so the first few weeks where you have but little experience and the mind is free to catastrophize might be tough but it will only get easier and easier. i'd say studying people's mannerisms and ways of doing things (train etiquette is very particular), and knowing how to do those things will also help with the anxiety. but no one is too bothered if you commit a faux-pas, so don't worry too much about accidentally doing something wrong, people tend to be super forgiving! but for me, accidentally doing something wrong was a huge fear.

i'd also say definitely avoid reading reddit boards or twitter pages about "being a gaijin in japan" or whatever cus a lot of those people are really bitter and reading it scared me a lot when i first moved here, but i've found very little of what they've said to be of any substance.

the hardest part is definitely socializing and making friends but it is completely possible and will help a lot! i joined a kimono class with my mother in law around a year and a half ago and everyone there is so kind and friendly and they have lots of social events. there are also inter-cultural events that municipal centers will host sometimes, and i've seen a few "english speaking" cafes where you can meet locals who want to practice english. i did try a language exchange app once (i think it was hellotalk) but since i had to upload a photo of myself for the profile, literally 99.9% of the people who messaged me were guys looking for a foreign gf (even though i put that i'm married in my bio) so use those at your own discretion haha.

i'm definitely very lucky though to have a japanese husband and very sweet in-laws who can help me, but i have lots of other foreign friends who came here all on their own and are doing great! like any country, it has its problems, but japan is a really nice place to live and i feel very lucky to be here!

i hope you too can enjoy your experience living here! if you have any other questions about living in japan please feel welcome to ask, i'm happy to share what i know!

[abundanceofnots]

Hi hi, 6 + 85 please <3

(hi hi!)

bookshop au + innocent physical contact

---

"yo," the guy says for a greeting after he struts into the bookshop and tentatively approaches the cash register. "you got one of those books that like, tell you the words in not-english?"

ian lowers his paperback, his expression impassive until he finally figures out what that jumble of words might mean. "you mean dictionaries?"

"yeah, those," the peculiar man replies, his tattooed knuckles impatiently rapping on the counter. "whatever. got 'em?"

"last aisle on your right." Ian lazily points with his thumb. "can't miss it, you know. it's all the books under a big sign that says dictionaries."

the guy answers with a grunt and a half-hearted middle finger thrown over his shoulder as he walks away. ian's eyes follow him, and he snorts out a laugh.

it's a slow evening at the store, the dictionary guy being ian's only customer in the past hour, and if he's being honest, he's a little bored, and there's just something so intriguing about his presence.

when ten minutes pass, ian decides that even an unstimulating conversation with a total stranger is better than the novel he's currently reading and follows the man into the non-fiction section.

he finds him frowning at an opened book, looking like its contents managed to offend his whole existence.

"everything okay?" ian asks, his customer service voice mixing with genuine worry. he notices the gap in the russian dictionary shelf.

"just these fuckin' symbols, man," the guy mutters. "how do you make sense of them?"

"ah," ian assesses with a nod before turning on his heel. he comes back a minute later with a book titled russian alphabet in 33 moves. "better start with this, then."

the guy measures the cover skeptically when ian hands it over, but still takes it. "thanks."

ian watches him flip through the pages and grimace at the illustrations.

"you traveling?" he asks in curiosity.

"me? nah," the guy replies, genuinely entertained by the notion. then his expression falters again. "it's... it's my son. my bitch of an ex-wife is russian, the kid speaks russian, too. even to me, sometimes. i wanna know what he's sayin'."

"wow," ian says after a while, "that's--"

"stupid, i know."

ian shakes his head resolutely. "no, i think that's actually really admirable of you. god knows my dad spoke the same language as me, but still never actually made an effort to understand me, so. this thing you're doing? that's really nice in my books."

"yeah, yeah," the guy waves him off, but ian can tell there's something new in the way he looks at him now. something like gratitude. like sympathy. "probably won't learn shit, anyway."

"maybe not. so what," ian says, his hand reaching out almost on its own accord to squeeze the guy's shoulder in a supportive gesture. "the fact that you're willing to try is enough."

the guy worries his bottom lip between his teeth. then, he says, his voice flat, "shit. did that really work on you?"

ian's hand drops along with his face. "what?"

"dude, you were almost on the verge of crying. i was worried you might burst into a song any moment. and that line, the fact that you're willing to try is enough? what the hell was that? do you say that to anyone who comes in here with a sob story?"

"what?" ian repeats in indignation. "no. no! i don't."

the guy makes a face like he doesn't believe him.

"does that mean you don't have a son who speaks russian?" ian asks, feeling embarrassed.

"i do, and he does. doesn't mean that i'm some pussy who needs a sad wank from a bookshop attendant, though."

"wow. you're an asshole."

the man smiles. "i'm mickey."

"ian. and you're still an asshole," ian replies, shaking his head incredulously. seriously, the nerve of this guy.

"but am i an asshole who gets to take these home for a discount?" mickey asks, tapping the two books that he's still holding, his smile now blinding and charming as fuck.

ian scoffs, a small smile slipping through his schooled features. "fat chance, dickwad. not only are you paying full price for them, but i'm also having you buy the first edition kerouac we have here somewhere."

"ouch. i'm sure there's a different solution we can agree on, officer."

"maybe." ian gives a little shrug. "i'm closing at 9. then, i'm gonna have a beer at the bar across the road to forget about my asshole customers. might not be so bad to have someone pay for it."

mickey watches him, then licks over his lips. "that can be arranged."

fanfiction trope mash-up

[kaisa-ryo]

Attention deficit (pt. 1)

jujutsu kaisen

Characters: Itadori Yuji, Satoru Gojo, Megumi Fushiguro, Inumaki Toge, Sukuna Ryōmen, Nanami Kento, Suguru Geto

Warning: English isn't my native language!

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*

Itadori Yuji

Itadori in this situation acts, oddly enough, completely primitive. The less attention he sees from you, the more he tries to get him back. In other circumstances, this might even seem exaggerated, but here and now this is the most critical moment. What does he do? Yes, everything in a row: drops the book, turns its pages, rummages in the bag, humming softly to himself, and so on ... And all this continues until it comes to stroking the hips and lightly squeezing one palm, while the other rewrites the abstract ...

- I miss the old y/n. - he gives out with sadness in his eyes.

At this moment, the game of interest begins: you feel how simultaneously there is a feeling of spontaneous and purposeful manipulation, how you are gently and imperceptibly pushed towards the long-awaited goal.

In such a situation, one could easily succumb, but you, resisting this, answer:

- Yuji, I'm very busy right now.

It would seem that a strong guy fights curses, trains with the strongest shamans, but with ordinary words it is so easy to break.

It's hard for you to realize that right now he is depressed because of you. It's unusual to see a sad Yuji almost always smiling and making others do the same. Especially you.

And so you compromise, intertwining your fingers, frowning slightly and pretending to listen to something inside yourself ... After that, Yuji remains in this position for a long time, as if afraid to frighten you off, because now such closeness between you is too valuable to miss out.

Satoru Gojo

It turns out that sometimes even acting like a fool doesn't help you pay attention to Gojo. First, the way you constantly focus on the same thing, so that the words in your speech get confused, takes on a comic character, and he comes to the idea that, for no reason, for no reason, you decided that work is more important to you than himself. Then you stop paying attention to him altogether. You no longer look at him from under your brows, do not frown at the idiotic jokes with which he is trying to distract you, as it was yesterday. Satoru notices that you are much smaller. He is puzzled and even confused. Finally, it occurs to him that you just have nothing to do, and comes up with the craziest idea to entertain you.

- What are you doing? - a voice of a man sounded nearby, who had been watching you with interest for some time.

There was no answer. However, it is not surprising.

- Okay, okay, you don't have to answer... - He looked away.

This was his usual technique. After asking several meaningless questions, he suddenly fell silent, as if giving you the opportunity to think over the answer properly, and he himself imperceptibly removed, leaving you in complete confusion. But this time, due to the circumstances, the technique had to be slightly changed.

In the next moment, he was already pressing you to him and, taking advantage of this, with his other hand began to explore the curves of your body. The reaction was as if you were doused with boiling water or doused with cold water.

- What are you doing? - You asked in a trembling voice.

- Checking to see if you got fat after we lost sex. - still clinging to you, he answered. You were taken aback and began to push him away from you.

- I have not grown fat, let me go! You barked, feeling his arms tighten. - Let go! Fool! Let go!

Hands rested on your back, and he began to rock you slowly, stretching the moment when you finally stop resisting.

- It's okay, y/n. You just need to calm down. - he whispered, not hearing your words.

There is a mess in my head, the goal of your resistance has fled somewhere, and you start desperately hugging the man while he grins at the fact that he managed to do what he wanted.

Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi is not one of those who will behave like a child, attracting attention to herself when you do not even know the reason for her loss. He will speak to you as soon as he notices it.

- Do you want to talk about it?

You rub your eyes with fatigue, but you shouldn't ignore Fushiguro's question, because it concerns the two of you. No matter how serious his intentions are, he will always be there to remind you that you can talk to him about what worries you.

- I... will hardly give any good advice, but I will try to make it easier for you after the conversation. Megumi continues after a minute of your silence.

Even such a seemingly small detail as being able to talk to someone else significantly reduces stress and other not-so-good emotions. And the guy knows it.

- You can always count on my help. - already with a drop of confidence he says, and it's like the touch of a soft, pleasant hand on your shoulder. Of course, he does this primarily because he is worried, but this is only a secret cover for the fact that he is upset that you turned away from him, without noticing the real reason.

"Fushiguro, if I do this, I don't know... I... will feel like this..." The words elude you. It’s hard to even think about what you’ll say next.

The guy spreads his arms to give you room to hug and apologize, but you just put your head on his shoulder. You don't want to talk about anything else. The chest against which your head is pressed turns into a pillow. And then a quiet voice is heard:

- I'm not mad at you. You can stay here as long as you like.

But here you won't need anything as long as Fushiguro is around.

Inumaki Toge

Not surprisingly, the first thought that comes to him is "it's all because of the damned speech."

Does he talk to you too little? Maybe he is too quiet and invisible for you? Perhaps you are afraid that someday he will take control of you? From such questions echoing in my head, my jaws come together and a lump appears in my throat. But the worst thing is that Toge begins to doubt his right to meet with you, because he cannot even talk to you with dignity, as a person to a person. Even your sweet persistence, which sometimes breaks through the boundaries of ordinary attempts to turn the conversation back on track, does not help. As a result, when it comes to your attention deficit, he begins to think that all this time you did not notice him, as if he was one of those whom you forgot on the first day.

- Okaka? - the young man has been trying to attract your attention with his eyes for a long time, but it seems that even words cannot help.

- Sorry, Toge. I'm not in the mood today...

The guy was actually a perfectionist and would rather have your smile shine every day. I wish he could turn back time right now, scroll to the moment when something went wrong and fix it at any cost.

Inumaki tucked a lock of your hair behind his ear to see your face behind it. He knew you had flawless skin and plump, sensual lips. He would admire your face for hours.

The next second, the blond rested his head on your lap, looking into your eyes. You liked such cute things from him. They weren't vulgar or inappropriate. They were what she needed.

You smile faintly and stroke the hair on the back of his head, touching his cheek with your fingertips.

Sukuna Ryōmen

This is the case when Sukuna uses passive aggression. Slightly wrong, some small sign of ignorance - his speech turns into direct pressure on your relationship with him. He can really hurt you a lot if you don't appreciate his efforts to make you even a little happier. Most often they are small and insignificant, the kind that anyone would do, but for the King of Curses, this is really something grandiose. And since he has many ways to destroy your relationship, if you think he made a mistake, remember how it hurts him.

- Will you ignore me again? - Sukun asked with imperious anger, the last pieces of despair were dying in his soul. - And where is your mercy? If I have become disgusting to you, why do you continue to need me?

There was nothing to answer. It was not pride that tormented him at all, but an ever-deeper regret that with your equanimity you just caused another outbreak of rage in him. Most of all, the thought that you, perhaps, does not even notice it, and your eyes clouded with pain glide over something that is very dear to him, terrified him.

The dead silence continued, and my chest ached more and more. Then there was a soft groan:

- Y/n, I love you.

Tears ran down your cheeks, but did not brush them away with my hand. You knew it wasn't going to help. Bitter emotions generated by the word "love" are not able to be burned out on the face, like the sun on clay. You can't stop feeling. And all the same, looking at you was as painful as seeing your motionless glazed gaze.

He hugged you from the back as soon as he felt that you were repenting. Like the time you forgave him for calling you your own. He had strong hands - you can be sure. He was very gentle. You felt less pain. Maybe in the future it will be difficult for him to remember this, but now he tightly squeezed you in his arms and was so affectionate that you wanted him to never let you go.

Nanami Kento

He begins to suspect that something is wrong very early. First, morning kisses disappeared somewhere before leaving for work, then sincere conversations at the table, and then completely short meetings with glances. Moreover, the last remnants of intimacy are gone. Nanami began to think that something had happened to you. He always tried to protect you from any problems. And so you found yourself right in front of him, so closed and detached, he could not so easily take away the comfort and peace that he had been creating for so long and skillfully. And first of all, of course, he will lend you a helping hand to make it easier for you as quickly as possible.

A perplexed look will appear from under dark eyelashes after a man touches your forehead with his palm. It seems that the whole thing is not about health.

- You don't have a fever. He began.

- I know, thanks.

But Kento was clearly hinting at something.

- So what's up? - then you know what Nanami means. But she said nothing.

- Y/n, I do not want to impose anything on you, I just need to know what is happening to you so that our relationship with you does not suddenly go downhill.

The man took your hand and brought it to his lips. Nanami felt that if he said something now, he would commit tactlessness. And so he was silent, waiting for your answer.

- Sorry... - Tears began to burn my eyes. - I am very, very ashamed. I... it's just hard for me now, but it will pass by itself. I'm sure.

You pressed as tightly as possible to the man, hugged him and buried your face in the chest. He put his hand on your head encouragingly. I already didn't care about the problem as a whole. Now for you there was only what you felt - his soft stroking, the smell of a strong male body, warmth and care, and there was nothing but that.

Suguru Geto

He will take it calmly, without intention. But she won't ignore it. Often he will offer tea or something else, just to get at least one word out of you, in an attempt to bring you into conversation. He will not touch you without asking, because he knows about the value of personal space. And yet, for a while, it can fiddle with spontaneous statements in order to simply take away the soul and break a long silence.

- I see your day is going well... - Geto smiles with restraint. - Lots of news for me?

Guessing that he is once again trying to create a dialogue between you was almost nothing. But you are, of course, silent.

- I see. - Suguru sits down next to you, as close to your side as possible, not giving a damn if you don't like it.

- Maybe I offended you in some way? - he continues. - Or are you just not too open in your thoughts?

- Nothing. It's okay. - you throw.

- But it seems to me that no. - he takes your hand in his, as if trying to make you smile. “I think you have something to tell me, don’t you? He raises his eyebrows, expecting your reaction. Instead of answering, you grimace with a shrug. Suguru repeats the question:

- So what happened? Why don't you want to share your thoughts with me?

- What would you like? You ask. - Would you be happy to know that there is a perfect girl with great manners, beautiful and intelligent, whom you deserve?

To be honest, Suguru did not expect such an answer. You can see that he is a little dumbfounded, but quickly comes to his senses. And then he starts laughing - so sweet and sincere that you start to feel embarrassed and blush with shame.

- And I was already expecting something more terrible. He laughs. - Okay, be it your way. I'm not a particularly sentimental person. I do not know what to say.

- Tell me you feel terribly in love. - grabbing his wrist, you say.

The brunette makes a startled face again. But you do not retreat - you hold him for a few more seconds, forcing him to surrender. - Only from the bottom of my heart ...

- Y/n, I feel terribly in love with you and will never fall in love again next time. So? He asked, grinning.

Wiping away the tears of happiness, you hugged him without words, while he, hugging you with one hand, exhaled with relief.

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*

[spotofimagines]

Rivals Last ~ Jadon Sancho

A/N: So I had this in my drafts before he signed with man united but that's fine, we move, we adapt. A third piece for the @footballffbarbiex summer challenge. Hope you enjoy it :)

Warnings: none - reader is female

Summary: You love both your brothers dearly, but being in the football world with them can make some things a little complicated.

gif by @archivesbvb - gif by @ermuellert - gif by @italynt

Being a footballer meant living in a special world. Being in a footballing family meant living in a special world too. Being the younger sister of Lucas and Theo Hernandez meant living in a really special world. But nobody told you just how crazy it would be for all three of those things to apply to you.

You truly love watching your older brothers play football. They teach you something new during every match you see; even though you play as a striker, their movements and handling of the ball always inspire you to play better. After all, it was their defensive skills that helped you become a good goal scorer growing up since they never let a tackle go unchallenged in the park and you had to find out how to manoeuvre around them. A lot easier said than done.

Currently Lucas is signed with Bayern Munich. In his time there so far, he has learnt the heritage, history, and importance of wearing the badge and defending its honour in every match they play, especially derbies. Having supported Lucas, it quickly became easy for you to support Bayern Munich too and celebrate their victories like it was your own team. You'd always managed to do it with the clubs both your brothers played for, letting the atmosphere of the fanbase carry you away.

You have just finished your second season in England with Manchester City women's team. You'd settled in nicely now, having learnt a lot of the English language and culture already. The experience was made so much easier because of the help given by your welcoming teammates and the staff that translated things into French and Spanish during your first months there.

Fans were a little disappointed during the 2019 summer transfer window when it was confirmed all three Hernandez siblings would be leaving Spain to play separately in England, Germany and Italy, joking that no one could know what might happen with you all so far away. However, to you, it made things easier, as Lucas and Theo would stop making so many awful jokes about each other's clubs, only to join forces to diss your club even more afterward. Now the only connection you have to the clubs you all play for is the want for your sibling to win with them. And it is a great feeling. A welcome change of pace.

But no new change to your life felt as good as your blossoming "relationship", situationship, whatevership, you have with Jadon Sancho.

It all started with you flirting back and forth on social media, which turned itself into countless hours of DMs no one else could see. You congratulated his goals and he congratulated your wins. All the light-hearted teasing and the warm-hearted compliments stayed in your own little bubble. The only thing peeking out was your silly inside rule that if you were going to comment on a post, it had to be emojis only, stretching to a few words if you really couldn't help yourself - but it would earn you taunts from the other for the rest of the night.

Some eagle-eyed fans noticed how you'd been liking each other's posts every time they appeared for a while now, but it just added to the fun and thrill you got from flirting with him so much.

You weren't meant to be forming a bond with Jadon. He played for your brother’s rival. He was supposed to be the enemy. Someone you should dislike with a snap of your fingers. Certainly not a boy to fall for like you have.

You couldn't help yourself. Lucas and Theo had helped you since you moved to England by being the steady rocks they always were, cheering you on from afar. Your new teammates had helped you since you moved to England by introducing fun things for you all to do together and taking you under their wings. But Jadon had helped you in a different kind of way. He gave you a new kind of comfort and reassurance when you talked. He became someone to turn to with all your interesting news and your curious problems. He told you the good places to visit around the city that he remembered from his time there and taught you English slang to make your teammates laugh. You spoke three languages to varying degrees now, and you'd managed to pick up more German vicariously through Lucas in two years faster than Jadon had done living in Germany in four years, so you'd clue him into rude German phrases you had asked Lucas about, alongside the French and Spanish swear words he used more often than English ones now when you text. 

Even though a language barrier comes up once in a while, you have both learnt behaviours from each other and crave the contact you share. Jadon was starting to drop everything to send replies to you, a change his teammates have noticed and jokingly mock him for. Little did they know the unknown girl they joke he is smitten over is the sister of their rival.

Theo is the one in your family you usually tell about the boys you go out with; boyfriends and dates have been shared with him since you were 13 and doting on your first crush. He does the same with his girlfriends; asking advice and telling you more than you need to know at times. So, when you all went home for a bit of family time around Christmas, nothing could stop him from noticing the tell-tale signs that you had something going on. He already figured out through persistence that it was another player you were getting involved with, and his insistent questioning hasn't stopped in his search for who the player is.

But you keep it hidden from Lucas, and you don't know when you'll tell him. He has been your protector since you were kids, comforting you on sad nights when no one else was there, teaching you little secrets about how to navigate through the world, he even punched a boy who teased you once at school. The idea of telling him you were chatting romantically to another player would be trouble enough, but telling him it was a Dortmund player might just end up in another schoolground incident. You hadn't wanted Theo to know for fear he'd go dishing your dirt to Lucas, but he discovered it on his own and there was nothing you could do.

Who knows what might become of this thing you have with Jadon, and lord knows your eldest brother owns a hard as nails death stare that just might do Jadon in, but for now you actually quite like having the secret. A little mystery tucked away up your sleeve.

The rush you always get when Lucas calls your phone as you're typing a text to the Englishman,  feeling as though the first words from the other end will be shouts of how he knows everything and he'll never speak to you again for keeping it a secret, fills you with dread at times. But it never is the reason he calls, and it turns out he is just making plans or has something funny to tell you. But the way your heart thumps as you go back to texting Jadon, that is part of the chase you have to admit you enjoy.

Hardcore fans online have noticed the past few months that when you do interviews in English, the odd slang term comes up during jokes - terms you hadn't used before and stem more from London boroughs than northen towns - so speculation of how you'd learnt these things easily coincided with dating rumors.

Lucas had seen the speculation online; seen fans trying to put your interactions with the Dortmund player together through both your instagram stories and comments and the tweets you both had liked about the other. Lucas had even grown suspicious of the little questions you asked him about Germany, German phrases and his lifestyle there, not knowing why you would need nor want to know those things. But Lucas doesn't believe it. He knows that you know better to mix with a Dortmund boy.

Sometimes an older brother just doesn't get it quite right…

Soon, the chance will come to really see if your connection is something you can build on. Jadon's new signing with Manchester United has been confirmed and he will be moving back to England. It is a great opportunity to get to see him more often, rather than the odd rendezvous point or clandestine trip during small breaks in the season. You'll spend more time face to face instead of over the phone. You'll get to wake up in his bed and him in yours, without needing to sneak away from hotel rooms afterwards. You'll maybe even get to go on a proper date, just the two of you, where you can flirt across the table your joined hands rest upon. Hanging out with Jadon won't be the first time you've spent time together in person. However, getting a full day with only the two of you where you won't have to pretend you hardly know who he is, and you won't have to pretend your eyes aren't meeting across the group of people you're in - it fills your stomach with knots and butterflies.

A certain pressure has fallen off you now Jadon has no growing rivalry with Lucas, but not completely. You won't be able to take back the way their teams made the other feel in the past, but the fact there won't be more of it next season comforts you a little. The biggest thing that will hold you back from going public before the new season starts will be the media, but that is an issue you can't even begin to worry about yet. You are too caught up in the excitement of being in the same town as Jadon to care. Rumours are spinning crazier than ever about you two as some of your liked tweets about his move got reposted by sports pages and fan blogs - now joking about him being your rival instead of your brother's - and yet it didn't stop you, no longer all that bothered about keeping a low profile now you both will be living away from Lucas. If he gets mad, all he will be able to do is shout down the phone, and whilst you never want that to happen, you know the time to flourish with Jadon and capitalise on the foundation you have already built is better than ever, brothers be damned.

There are big changes coming for the both of you, yet one thing will remain the same no matter the outcome of your relationship. You can't quite stop being football rivals.

[maplecornia]

chapter 8

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 3.23K

𝔤𝔢𝔫𝔯𝔢: romance | slice of life | fluff | angst | bts x female!reader | ot7

𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: You watched them from the sidelines ever since you were a young teenage girl. Now you’re grown up, they’ve returned after 2 long years and everything has changed. What happens when you pull back the mask and find the darkness within? What happens when you see that they’re broken?

𝔞/𝔫: i'm sorry, but i AM SO PROUD OF THE BANNER I DID FOR THIS CHAPTER

𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: cliffhangers | angst | fluff | slight mentions of self hatred | depression | mental health illness | self harm | occurs in the year 2024 | set in a timeline where BTS went to the military together | slight language

tags:@kookaine |@fangirl125reader |@kookiebbyxx |@taradevonne

Kim Taehyung never thought he’d see you again.

He presses himself against the wall, petrified. Heart pounding in his throat. His stomach clenching and tying itself into a knot. His breath coming fast, he wonders if he's hallucinating.

He wonders if this is just a dream.

If he drank a bit too much last night.

Even though he only drank grape juice last night.

Even though he remembers the way Jimin kicked him out of bed this morning.

Nevertheless, he can't help wondering if he is somehow imagining this.

Because you can't be here right now. You just can't, it's too much of a coincidence.

Your face flashing into his mind, he tries to shake it away. Tries to reassure himself that he was just hallucinating, that you aren't here. But as he looks around the corner, and sees you staring at Jungkook in horror at what you had done, he knows that this is real.

Inwardly, he smiles thinking to himself, She is like this with everyone.

For some reason this makes his heart constrict in pain and he pauses to take in your face.

You have broken out of your trance, and are offering the towel to Jungkook with a sweet smile on your face.

The same way you smiled at him before.

Part of him wants to walk over there, and say hello. But another part, a larger part, feels as though that would do no good.

After all, he's already met you.

And you didn't recognize him.

Looking away almost sadly, he rests his head back against the wall, cursing himself.

How could he be so stupid? Normally he doesn't feel this way, normally he can keep these feelings in check.

Why should it matter to him if you look really pretty today? Why should he care if your quirkiness is adorable? Why should it bother him if you're talking to another guy? Why should he care that its Jungkook, of all people?

What should it matter to him?

He’s only met you once so how could he have all these complicated feelings already?

The sad truth is, that he does have these feelings.

And he doesn't know what to do with them. After all, you don't even remember him. And even if you did, you wouldn't know that it was him. You didn't even recognize him as he was standing there, mere feet away from you on the Hangang bridge.

He can still remember that moment. As he watched you, a strange girl, hop out of a taxi in the middle of the bridge. How you didn't even notice him standing there, watching with confused amusement. He can still feel the impact as you fell on top of him, in a tangle of arms and legs. The heartbeat in his ears as you rolled off of him and ended up mere inches from him on the ground.

And he can still remember the feeling that erupted in his chest as your eyes met.

Groaning, he runs his hand over his face before almost reluctantly peeking around the corner again. He watches as you hand Jungkook the coffee can and smile up at him brightly, the same way you smiled at Tae once before.

He tries to ignore the harsh tightening of his chest as he watches the encounter. He tries to tell himself that it doesn't bother him, that you are nothing to him.

Just a sweet stranger.

Just someone who brightened his life unlike it's ever been before.

At that thought, he finds himself unwilling to let you smile at anyone else except for him. Of course, you can smile at anyone the way you like. After all, to you, he’s no one, just a man who gave you his beret on a whim.

A man who didn't even tell you his name.

As Jungkook leaves, waving after you, Taehyung turns away. Behind the safety of his corner, he tries to build up his courage, ]to walk out there and meet you, face to face.

No mask, no lies, nothing between you two except who you are and how you feel.

But just as he steps out of his hiding space, taking a deep breath, someone taps him on the shoulder, causing him to let out a startled yelp.

The entire lobby turns to look his way at the sound, and he just barely manages to hide behind the corner before you look his way in curiosity.

Taehyung doesn't have to look to know that the one who hijacked his plan is Park Jimin.

He waits behind Taehyung smirking in amusement at his best friend's reaction. As he opens his mouth to say something, Taehyung places his hand expertly over Jimin's mouth, silencing all sound. Startled, Jimin’s eyes widen and he tries to speak, but all that results is incomprehensible muffled sounds from beneath Taehyung’s blockade.

Giving Jimin a harsh look, Taehyung motions for him to shut up. Jimin pouts in response before rolling his eyes as Tae frantically scans the room for you.

Spying you in the same place as before, he watches as you study the forms on the clipboard once more before heading to a seat in the small waiting room near the entrance. As soon as you sit down, behind a small clear wall, Taehyung lets out a relieved breath, sure that you won't notice him now.

He releases Jimin, who was once more struggling in Tae’s secure hold. Jimin backs up, gasping overdramatically for air. Taehyung rolls his eyes affectionately before shoving his friend lightly on the shoulder.

“Stop it.” Taehyung sighs, crossing his arms across his chest. “I hardly even touched you.”

Jimin pauses, like a cat caught in the middle of mischief. After looking side to side a bit guiltily, he straightens chuckling a bit to himself.

“Sorry, I couldn't help myself,” Jimin explains, and Taehyung rolls his eyes before turning around once more and staring at you.

He watches as you push back your hair, tucking it securely behind your ears so that it's out of the way. He smirks a bit at the gesture, finding it hilarious that no matter what you do, your hair can't seem to stop falling in front of your eyes. You're annoyed by it at first, but after a while, it becomes a habit for you to push it back out of your face.

“Who is that?” Tae jumps at the sound of Jimin's voice so close to his ear. As he turns on him suddenly, Jimin withdraws coolly from where he was previously peering curiously over Taehyung’s shoulder. He raises his eyebrow as Tae’s ears turn bright pink.

“What are you talking about?” he hisses, pushing Jimin back behind the safety of the corner wall. “I wasn't looking at anyone.”

Jimin raises an eyebrow, confused.

“Yes, you were. You were looking at that girl, right over there.” He says, a bit too loudly for Taehyung's liking, as he pokes his head around the corner, and points your way. Frantically, Taehyung grabs Jimin's arm, shoving it down to his side before dragging Jimin once more behind the wall.

“Will you stop it? I told you I wasn't looking at her, so please stop drawing attention to yourself!” Taehyung hisses and Jimin blinks a bit stunned.

Taehyung normally doesn't act like this.

He's normally much more easygoing. Normally, whenever Jimin is acting a bit obnoxious, Taehyung joins in. For some reason, however, today is not one of those days.

As Taehyung looks around the corner once more, Jimin stares at him in perplexed curiosity.

“Okay, fine, you weren't looking at her,” Jimin says, and Taehyung lets go of him almost in relief.

If anyone were able to read through Tae’s feelings, it would be Jimin.

Sometimes it's annoying how much the two of them know each other, sometimes it's reassuring knowing that you will always have that one person on your side even when no one else is.

Either way, all Tae knows is that he cannot let Jimin know his conflicting emotions.

Not when Taehyung doesn't know or make sense of them himself.

He resumes scouting out the area once more, watching as you finish one page and head onto another. You tilt your head back, exasperated with how long that took, and let out a tired sigh. Taehyung finds his heart warming up at the cute and funny way you wear every emotion on your sleeve, and smiles at your little sigh.

Jimin pokes his head over Tae’s shoulder once more, squinting his eyes at you. As soon as he gets a good look at your face, you turn to glance out the little window that lets you see into the entrance where you entered the building not too long ago.

Jimin’s eyes widen at the sight of your bright eyes and he lets out a sharp intake of breath.

Tae turns to him, confused as Jimin steps back, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his recent downloads in his camera roll.

“Jimin? What are you doing?” Jimin doesn't answer Tae’s question until he finds his prize and turns to him, excited.

“Look,” Jimin demands, shoving the screen into Tae’s face. Rolling his eyes, Taehyung patiently takes it from him and peers down at the phone closely. As soon as he sees the picture Jimin has shown to him, his eyes widen the same way and he spins on his heel to take another look at you once more. He compares the photo to you, over and over again before confirming that it is you.

The same photo Jaejin sent to RM earlier this morning.

“Where did you get this?” Taehyung asks, showing Jimin the photo almost accusingly as though Jimin hasn't seen it before. Jimin scoffs, taking the phone away from Taehyung and glancing at the picture himself, doing the same comparison game as Tae had.

“It's her, right?” Jimin asks, Tae letting out an impatient sigh.

“Yes.” He answers. “But how did you--”

“RM sent it to me.” Jimin's voice is calm, sly almost. As though he has a secret waiting to be spilled, and he’s going to hold on to it long enough for Tae to spill his own.

Surprised, Tae doesn't speak for a moment, just watching Jimin as he slowly turns around to him, a smirk on his face.

“Don't you want to know how he got it?” he teases, and Tae, quickly noticing Jimin’s game, shakes himself out of his surprise running his hands through his hair.

“I….” he trails off, trying to find an answer that will satisfy the question but also keep his secret safe. His connection to the strange girl, the way they met, and every unspeakable, inexplainable thing that she has done to his heart. He can't let Jimin know.

Nobody can know.

Luckily, Jimin isn't planning to hold it in for much longer. He was never one for keeping secrets that weren't his own. He smiles, shoving Taehyung lightly on the shoulder as he moves down the hallway.

“Don't worry, I won't tell anyone.” He murmurs, heading towards the elevator where he came from. Almost reluctantly, Taehyung turns away from you and follows Jimin in panic.

“What are you talking about? Tell anyone what?” he asks, jogging to catch up to Jimin.

“That you have a crush on Namjoon's new assistant.” Jimin teases, turning to him and smirking up at Taehyung.

“She’s RM’s new assistant?” Tae wonders softly, before catching himself and shaking his head violently. “Wait….I don't have a crush on her!”

Jimin snorts as they reach the elevator doors and he presses the button before waiting patiently for the doors to open.

“Then why were you staring at her?” he asks, and Tae sighs in frustration. Jimin has the wrong idea.

There’s no possible way for anyone to start loving another person from just one encounter. There is no such thing as love at first sight, that's just people trying to justify being happy with the one they have chosen to spend the rest of their lives for. It's a phrase people use to fool themselves into thinking that there is some sort of destiny for them to end up with another.

Taehyung doesn't believe in that, he never has. However, he doesn't know if Jimin will understand his interest in you. Tae doesn't think Jimin will understand the connection he felt when he first met you. When he first talked to you. He doesn't think anyone will.

“I….” He begins, Jimin raising an incredulous eyebrow as he waits for the answer.

“I just thought her outfit was cute and was curious as to who she was. You know, maybe I could talk to her. Welcome her, make a new friend.” Taehyung spits out a bit too fast. Though Jimin doesn't quite seem to buy it, he looks away, nodding his head.

“Okay, I’ll believe you, but I still think there’s something else going on with you.” Jimin consents, the ding of the elevator doors opening and capturing his attention for a moment.

“What are you talking about? Nothing is going on.” Taehyung ponders, sidestepping to the side, as a few staff members walk out of the elevator.

Jimin and Taehyung bow respectfully, the staff doing the same before they take their place inside the elevator. The doors closing, Jimin responds, reaching to press the floor number they want to take.

“Yes, there is. You're acting especially weird today, and I suspect it has something to do with that girl.” Tae opens his mouth to respond, but Jimin holds up his hand, cutting him off. “Before we get into a fight about it, I’m just going to say I’m not going to assume anything, okay? If you say nothing is going on, I’ll believe you. But Taehyung, you know you can trust me right?”

“Of course!” Taehyung answers almost immediately.

It's the truth, he knows he can trust Jimin. He knows that his friend is probably the most reliable person to trust. Jimin knows Tae inside out, front to back, they are connected in the most intricate ways possible. Taehyung does not doubt that if there's someone he needed to place his life in the hands of, it would be Jimin. It wouldn't be that difficult, after all, Jimin already holds his heart, his soul, his life. They are just that close, a different kind of brotherly love, one that not many people understand.

This, however, is uncharted territory in Taehyung's body, and if Taehyung can't make sense of it, then how can his soulmate do the same?

This...this is something different.

“Trust me, Jimin. Nothing is going on. I'm just curious.” Taehyung reassures him, and Jimin nods, a moment of silence shortly following. Taehyung can tell Jimin doesn't quite believe him, and Jimin knows that he’s not getting the whole truth.

It’s strange, they normally tell each other everything, no matter how big or small.

Jimin doesn't understand why now would be any different. What could be so special about that girl that Taehyung would keep something from him?

What is it about her that Jimin wouldn't understand?

Shaking his head out of his dangerous thoughts, Jimin clears his throat and smiles, shaking his phone in front of Taehyung once more.

“You never answered me.” He starts, the beginning of a chuckle awaiting deep in his throat. Taehyung turns to him from staring out into space, looking confused.

“What?”

“Didn't you want to know how RM got this picture?” Jimin asks once more, and Tae smiles, before nodding, and settling next to Jimin against the wall of the elevator.

Jimin smiles, once more comfortable with the person he trusts the most in all the world before pulling up the picture once more. Both of them snort as they see it, the expression on your face causing them to smile.

“Who even makes a face like that when they eat?” Tae comments and Jimin chuckles softly, tapping the picture with a small finger as a thought comes to his mind.

“It kind of reminds me of Suga, when he ate that huge bite of salad. Do you remember?” Jimin responds, glancing at Tae who nods as the image comes to mind, his huge box smile making Jimin burst out in laughter.

“Remember?! It's such an iconic moment that even ARMY’s remember it.” Tae responds, tilting the phone so he can peer closer at the picture. “Now that you mention it though, she does kind of look like him.”

Jimin and Tae erupt into laughter, hardly noticing the ding of the elevator as the doors slide open.

Glancing up, Jimin slides the phone into his pocket, hitting Tae lightly on the shoulder before they walk out of the elevator and down the hallway, heading for the meeting room where they’ll be meeting with the rest of BTS.

“Anyway, RM got it from Jaejin, his assistant manager.” Jimin continues, and Tae looks at him, surprised.

“Jaejin? Why would Jaejin be sending RM pictures of a girl? Is there something he’s not telling us?” Taehyung asks, half-joking, and Jimin laughs, shaking his head.

“No, Jae sent it to him because he and his girlfriend were invited to model for fashion week. They were called away for training and Jaejin told RM that his friend will be able to take his place until he is done.” Jimin explains and Taehyung nods, trying to ignore the sudden panic in his chest at the thought of working with you in the same building. Jimin shrugs when Taehyung doesn't say anything.

“That’s all I know, but I guess she’s going to be a part of the staff now, more or less. RM only got this picture so he would be able to recognize her when she came in. He's been waiting for her since 8 this morning.” Taehyung murmurs something incomprehensible as a response, not listening.

Once more, he finds himself distracted with thoughts of you.

He wants to know everything about you.

From the way you laugh to the way you cry, from your likes to your dislikes, and every different tone or volume your voice is capable of.

He wants to hear the innumerable amount of stories you must have. How you came to know Jaejin, and why you came to Korea in the first place.

He wants to study your face, memorize your expressions, be able to read you the same way he can read any one of the expressions of his fellow members.

He wants to be able to read your mind like Jimin can read his.

Like he can read everyone else’s.

But most of all, he wants to know you and only you.

Turning the corner, Jimin spies the door to the meeting room, opened slightly ajar, the rest of BTS already waiting for them. Jimin sort of bounces to the door, opening it for Taehyung, as he waits for Tae to catch up. Tae smirks, putting all thoughts of you out of his mind as best as he can.

Though he longs to build up the courage and speak to you without a mask covering his face, he knows that right now, that is not important. One day, maybe, he’ll be able to find out everything he wants to know. One day, maybe these feelings of his will be safe, understood.

Until then...

𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢: this is one of my more favorite chapters hehe. oh, and whoever guessed that the man in the mask was tae, you get a cookie ;)

chapter 9 here

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[herstarburststories]

tolerate it

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: your love for Dean used to be celebrated, but now he tolerates it.

A/N: here it is, hunters! First fic of the year, wow! I hope you guys like it! Based on Taylor's song tolerate it. Also requested by @ashleyygeza!

Warnings: so much angst, language, smut

There was this thing you always liked to do. It was mostly the learned behavior of a child that grew up in motel rooms. It was usual for the adult that called a bunker her home, too. You’d lay on your back, staring at the light on the ceiling and squint your eyes to the point the glimmering white light could be mistaken as the moon. You never thought you’d end up doing that to people as well.

It used to be something so sensual and sequin back then, but now the fact that he's so much older and wiser only makes you quiet. You see his bruised hands and worried glances; the stubble on his face growing as his sense of self starts to fade with borrowed time. Dean used to love you in screaming colors; now he just sits in silence reading with his head low, researching the next case under the dim light while you watch him. Sam can't seem to stand slow deaths either -- he just clears his throat and leaves the bunker with the empty excuse of a supply run. 

Still, you remain here. You stand still like a good ornament in Dean's collection of lovers. It seems like it's a matter of time until he leaves you too. Yet, you’re sitting and watching him, and you can't help but wonder if you aren't just another wrinkle on his face. You’d been a memory of something worth dying for, once, but now you were starting to believe you were just another battle scar; marred skin that had spent so long settling that he didn’t even notice the scarification anymore. 

Hours pass as quickly and emotionally draining as dry heaving. His huffs of annoyance and thirsty fingers of whiskey were difficult to ignore. The eldest Winchester doesn’t dare to approach you; to throw those dust-collecting books away and make love to you with dumbfounded grins and breathless groans like he had done so many times before. That was when you were a complete person and not just the husk of a lover destroyed. Once you held the strength of Jeanne d'Arc, now you sit and wait for a man to love you back. You’d be disgusted by your weakness if you had any pity left to spare.

If you look at someone too much you can confuse it with love. And if you already love someone and keep looking, you might waste all the rose-colored visions love could create. Maybe that's what happened to Dean. It’s a treacherous game, and it seems like he’s winning. Perhaps it’s your fault, your snide mind speculates against your will. You should try harder.

You don’t miss Dean’s hidden sigh of relief when the door makes a noise, announcing Sam’s return. How could you? You notice everything he does or doesn't do. At first, you fantasized that, even if it started getting messy before, he was pushing you away because of the whole fighting God problem, now you aren’t so sure. The clues were all over the place when Chuck was gone. Dean smiled at Sammy as if there was no tomorrow and said we’re finally free without sparing a glance at you. When they-- when he started building other worlds, where were you? That long-fraught, battle-ridden past of the Winchesters might be gone, but the more you try to turn the page, the more they stick to each other.

‘’Sammy,” his gruff voice says. It is the first word in hours that wasn’t half-hearted mumbles agreeing with your occasional comments or the tuneful hum of a classic rock song between reading and drinking. ‘’Did you bring any bacon?’’

‘’Yeah, but they need cooking--’’ Sam interrupts his brother, already familiar with this conversation. Dean’s half-open mouth and wiggling brows meant one thing. He was such a kid sometimes. ‘’And no. I’m not frying this cardiac embolism waiting to happen for you, dude.’’

You get up, aiming a smile at the long-haired hunter. ‘’Don’t worry, I can cook it. I was gonna make some pasta anyway.’’

Sam slightly nods before tilting his head towards you. ‘’You sure?’’

‘’Yeah. My butt���s already sore from the research. Those chairs aren’t that comfortable.’’ You scrunched up your nose with a good-humored grimace. 

‘’Okay, thanks.’’ You nod, throwing a last glance at Dean, who barely moved since you got in the conversation. You turn around, walking to the kitchen when Sam’s voice reverberated through. Deciding to overhear against all your sense of privacy, like a schoolgirl in the bathroom, you lean against the wall. You can’t believe the point you got to at those moments, but the answer to the question Sam asks may be the solution for your personal tophet. ‘’What’s up with you?’’

Dean doesn’t seem phased by his brother’s prodding. ‘’What do you mean?’’

Sam arches his eyebrows. ‘’No butt jokes?’’

At least you aren’t going crazy here. Even Sammy noticed something peculiar about Dean and you. There had to be an explanation or reason.; something broken that you could fix.

‘’I’m a grown-ass man, Sam.’’ He scoffs as you heard the chair being pushed. You nibble on your bottom lip, catching your breath as they continue.

‘’Yeah, sure,” the younger man snaps sarcastically. Dean rolls his eyes. ‘’Actually researching when I leave you two alone? Come on, Dean. Did you guys argue or something?’’

‘’We are just fine.’’ His boots scuffing against the wood floor makes a well-known melody, just like Sam’s loud sigh. You know him; he thinks this his brother’s way to avoid the subject and run away. You can’t say you don’t agree with that.

‘’Dean…’’

“I’m gonna take a shower. I spent two hours reading. I gotta get ready for my bacon.’’ It is a simple answer that made your heart spin like a girl in a brand new dress. You had the sudden realization that at least he spent those hours with you, right? Deadly in his quietude, but he was there. Women always are excellent at convincing themselves that crumbs are a whole meal. Therefore, convince yourself this is enough.

You hear the creaking under his strong, heavy steps as he leaves, and a couple more from Sam as well. Ultimately, you turn around, clapping your hands together as you glare at the food still waiting to be made. You give yourself a comforting smile as you speak: ‘’Time to get to work.’’

Then you go. You pace around the kitchen, preparing the lunch with everything you have. Make it perfect, make it delicious. Fuck, even make it deluxe with pre-made bacon and vegan pasta on a Tuesday afternoon. It’s so silly how you make such a lavish effort with the smallest things only to maybe catch a glimpse of his attention. As if Dean would see, truly look at you again. You gave him the best you had, and when you ran out of that, you gave him what was left too. 

The pasta is smelling good. You two used to be each other's better halves, but since the coin had been tossed, you are now each other’s worst reflections. He’s your coldness; the gelid nature that was so useful as a weapon to hurt those who came before him. The ignorance, the lack of care for the ones who claimed to cherish you with their ripped out chests and open hands. You can see you in the way he moved, told white lies and walked away. All the most brutal aspects that your soul built through the years. You almost burn your hand, but at least it isn’t his bacon. And in you, you hold all Dean hated in himself lately. The clingy behavior, always urging to serve and make someone else happy. So needy for a gentle touch, one single proof that his lurking was wrong and he was worthy, that he could be loved someday if he just tried hard enough. Desperate in earge for aprovation, just like you grabbing the Men Of Letters’ sumptuous tapestry and the elegant candle holder, laying the table with the fancy shit.

‘’Wow.’’ Sam says once he arrives in the dining room. Dean refrains his reaction to arching his eyebrows in an unspoken question: what the fuck is happening there?

‘’Is the queen visiting us or somethin’?’’ You catch the pissed off glare that Sammy gives him, yet the older Winchester just shrugs. His little brother had the same eyes as him in many aspects, he had to agree that all those snobby objects were too much.

Unbothered, too used to his butch nature, you chortle. ‘’I just thought we deserved some nice things tonight.’’

Dean hums before adding: ‘’As long as there’s bacon.’’

Sam praises how good the sauce you made tastes. Of course, Dean just nods and agrees with a grumble, not even taking a second glance at you. He doesn’t notice that you are watching him, neither does he compliment your cooking. You never get the reaction you expect from him. Not a thank you, or a true smile, or even a drop of love in the saliva of his kiss, but you keep trying. Just like he tried to make daddy proud for so long. You both should know that's not how it works, but who can argue with a broken child mosaic in an adult damaged heart?

The green eyed man purposely sets the scene in a manner that his brother would be between the two of you. And yes, you manage to double cross this signal and sit down on another chair by his side. Although, when your elbows accidently meet during the homemade feast, Dean doesn’t look at you with the lopsided grin that you love so much. He doesn’t lean in to steal a kiss. Instead, he moves to the side discreetly. You were the roots of hope once, the one who could grow inside him and wrap around his organs for some relief of the hematoma and blood. The Winchester held the arm that pulled you closer and made sure you would stay. But he no longer touches you and the plants died of thirst and you are still here. In these moments, your trick mind asks: why are you still here? You can’t answer.

The lunch goes by filled with your and Sam’s chatter, Dean’s loud chewing and Miracle’s ocasional barks until there’s no food or reasoning to postpone staying together. All the three of you raise up, adamantly ignoring the strange atmosphere. 

‘’We’re leaving in an hour.’’ It’s all Dean says before leaving the room. Sammy dares to squeeze your shoulder softly before following his older brother’s path. With a suspire, you collect all the plates and lead to the kitchen again, starting to put the 60 minutes to good use. Polish plates until they gleam and glisten, maybe Dean will sneak in and wrap his arms around you, press a kiss to your neck and tell you to go to bed, that he will take care of the dishes. He used to do that. This was then and this is now. It’s easy to get lost in the tangles of time.

Of course he doesn’t. Though the hunter shows up with a bag and shouts from the living room for you to hurry up, so you do. Sleeping in the backseat of Baby through the streets of the United States, you wake up with Sam gently shaking your shoulder. Dean is already inside the restaurant. You try not to think too much about it, he could’ve been needing to hit the bathroom or something. As you and the youngest Winchester enter the establishment, four trained eyes fall on your boyfriend and the waitress, who’s clearly leaning forward to make her cleavage more evident. You two pace towards the table just in time to hear the end of their conversation. 

‘’Call me if you need anything.’’ The name tag says that the brunette is called Andressa. She's tall, tan and beautiful, smiling in a way that you never can never conquer. You miss having that confidence, how you’d walk in a room and be sure people would stop and stare. Remember when you used to be like that?

‘’Betcha.’’ He gives her a lopsided grin, the one that used to be directed to you. Andressa winks at him and leaves, swapping her hips in the most seductive way, which catches Dean's eyes like it's the whole Aurora Boreal and not just a woman's ass.

‘’Nice shirt, yeah?’’ You take his indiscretions all in good fun. Dean, though, takes a deep breath and wipes his face, as if he's the one with the right to be annoyed in this situation. It's so stupid how you keep making yourself smaller to fit in whatever expection is comfortable for him. At some point you'll disappear-- but hey, no body no crime. You attempted to explain yourself, ‘’I was just kidding.’’

He tightens his mouth into a thin line. ‘’I know.’’

‘’I saw one on Shein.’’

‘’Come on, Y/N.’’ The green eyed hunter scoffed. ‘’That’s like, Belladonna’s boobs sort of thing.’’

It’s so stupid how his opinons can change your whole weekend, as if your emotions were some sort of board game that Dean played by his own rules. You hang your head low, playing with the menu. You can ‘’Yeah, you’re right. It was dumb.’’

‘’That’s not what I---’’ He stopped himself with a deep inhale. Why did it seem easier for him to criticize than compliment you? You are using your best colors for his portrait of stares, yet all you gain are vacant side eyes. That man killed for you, and now every second by your side seemed to be murdering him. ‘’You’d look good on it.’’

You decide not to go on the next hunt, give both of you a break from the grey skies that always seem to suppress you and Dean. What if you two just need time apart? You live together, work together, and even have the same group of friends. Putting the whole monsters and multiple deaths aside, it was pretty much like a normal relationship. You must just need some time alone to miss each other. So you start going on less and less hunts. God, past you’d hate that scared little girl act, begging to be seen like a shiny toy.

Your cell phone buzzes, causing a smile besides the burning anticipation building up in your veins, crawling under your skin like a million little stars, or bugs. It depends on how you choose the perspective, no surprise you’d go for the romantic one. Well, it's a text from Dean. Plaid and crude: getting home in ten minutes. Why’d you be unpleasantly anxious about that? He’s your boyfriend and he’s coming home after a week! Your fingers dance around the keyboard before answering a sweet waiting for you, with a couple hearts in the byline.

You get his favorite burger and a whiskey older than you in the Deancave, which is settled up with a three hours marathon of Scooby-Doo. It was always so adorable when Dean and you made bets to see who’d guess the episode villain first. Even his hot dog pants and his robe are on the armchair. As for you, you are waiting by the door like you’re just a kid, in a vat to greet him with a battle’s hero welcome. One, two, three, minutes piling up as uncountable as the hidden tears that you cry each week in after the city’s asleep. Let’s be fair, you should’ve seen this coming from a mile away. What was the last time Dean accomplished something he promised to you? He doesn’t even reply to your text message asking if he was okay. Minutes trapped into hours, and you’re sitting with your back to the wall, right next to the door he should have burst out long ago. Time’s ticking, your mind is so tired and your body is sore; it’s exhausting to love someone like this, so you take a rest when sleep wins your hopeful, unclever thoughts.

Dean arrives one hour later, an oral scarlet letter on his tongue that tastes like beer and unregrettable priorities, an apologist expression accompanied of a very grumpy-ish Sam as the door is pushed open. The short haired hunter purses his plump lips at the sad sight; you sleeping on the floor next to the door, probably waiting for him. Maybe he should've answered your text earlier and not just rolled his eyes and ordered another drink. What a suburban mistake for a Winchester.

Dean doesn't turn around to face Sammy; his brother made his opinion on that matter very clear during their roadtrip. Instead, his aching body just leans in and picks you up bridal style — that would've made him smile in the gentlest way his blood-stained mouth and sharp teeth could, eye dipping with joy and a silent promise for the future, but now that only gets a stoic expression as he walks towards your shared room. 

He dares to sigh. There you go, taking too much space and time. This might be a deceiving concept dappled with melancholic nostalgia, but to take space and time wasn’t a trouble before. Dean once worshiped the light-hearted emotion you could bring out his inner little monster - or his soul, whatever you wanna name it. The time wrapped around your finger as he was, and things were just good. Raw good. Yet, now he sees it; time’s always running, and so is him. It’s no surprise the heart he was holding fell and was left behind at some point of the race.

The hunter bumps on the door with his shoulder, leading inside the bedroom and placing you on the mattress. Your body can’t help but to cling to him as you mumble in your sleep; maybe it’s your fond memory, used to Dean’s body seeking some human contact only in the middle night.

Clicking his tongue, he pulls away. The movement is docile, just enough to wake you up. Dean can’t help but to groan at this.

‘’You came back.’’ You murmur, while Dean adjusts on the spot next to you in bed.

Arching his eyebrows with some comedic background, he answers: ‘’Of course I did. I live here.’’

Live. You wouldn’t call what he does living. More like a ghost hunting his old house when you are around. Or maybe you were the ghost and sure, most people would run away from it, but Dean always goes looking for the supernatural beings anyway. Unnerving that he’d make someone he loved out of one.

‘’Why didn’t you pick up the phone? I was worried.’’

He shrugs and kisses your hand. ‘’Was busy.’’

It’s a poor excuse, but those are all that have been holding you two together lately.

Here it is. Your inner anger for being treated wrong, the mad woman inside you scratching to come back. He has been treating you like a coat in Texas’ summer, like a stained flannel, like a forgotten feeling. You deserve more than this. You are so much more than this. Who he thinks he is?

But he has those green eyes that cried single man tears, and he’s so close you can feel his breath on your cheek. And you love that man so.

Instead, you smile and reach out for his hand. ‘’I missed you.’’

Dean doesn’t answer. He restricts any emotion to a grin, and suddenly you are under him. He pushes his lips against yours in a desperate act of recovery, to gain back what he somehow lost through the way. The green eyed man might not find his love in you, but there’s something else he can work with; luxury. Love was always harder to spell than lust anyway. To you, the way he howls against your lips is love. To him, it’s the confirmation of the absence of it. But he can’t let go.

Your hands and his, still together coaxing each other into giving in. It’s so easy that way. Dean rushes to rip your t-shirt, gaining a laugh out of your and a kiss to his jaw. He’s out of his pants before you can even pull away to assist him. The male catches your earlobe, kissing that sweet spot to make you whimper his name.

‘’Dean.’’

Your wince, his shirt is tossed away, just like your skirt. You aren’t wearing a bra, and quickly your cherry panties are pulled apart with a simple move of his finger.

‘’Gonna make you feel so good, babe.’’ His index finger is shoved inside your tight cunt. You throw your head to the back, spreading your legs open. You want to beg him to make you feel anything good, for him to be the reason of the holy and not hollow, just this once. ‘’You are so wet--’’ Another finger, they move inside of you in an attempt to find the right spot. ‘’So fucking tight for me. I’ve fucked you so many times and you’re still so tight.’’ Dean’s thumb caressed your clit as he licked his lips, relishing how you squirm and whine his name. What a good girl. ‘’Can’t wait to fuck you.’’

It doesn’t take much longer. The eldest Winchester quickly replaced his skilled fingers with his pulsating cock. His member begged to be inside you, squeezed by those warm and tight walls. Your pussy was always so good for him, taking him so nice. Dean moans at the sensation, his hand losing yours to hold the bedpost, his thrusting wildly against yours.

No more praising words, no more foreplay. He comes to get what he wants and you’re willing to give. He used to touch you like a priceless wine, now his hands are hustled and careless like you are just another bottle of cheap beer. Dean fucks himself into you and you can’t do anything but groan in pleasure. Sometimes the hurting can be delicious, too.

You crave more, though. Your hands, tiny compared to his, meet Dean’s back, nails digging into the bare skin in a reminder I’m here, you’re still mine. Your legs wrapped around his torso, which only caused his moves to go faster and more ferocious, destroying your needy cunt for any other. It feels so good to have him inside you, fucking you up to the point you are an inchorent ball of cum and sweat. He’s gonna get you there, it’s certain, Dean always does.

His thumb comes back to your vagina, digital press to your clit as he attacks your neck. You try to move your head and get those plump lips against yours, but he sounds like an animal, increasing his rhymin and sucking your tender skin.

Everything is so hurried and irrational and not intimate. He comes inside of you after your own release, marking you up with his orgasm. As soon as he’s dones, he crawls out of you and lays on his back. Sure, you come around and rest your weary head on his chest, but that’s what it is. Deep silence. Not the one where love or magic or whatever Aphrodite is made of fills the void and makes the lovers comfortable. No, this one is visceral, like a chuckle empty of joy. It’s like the tie of gold that tried you two were tangled and ripped. Your love should be celebrated, but he tolerates it. He tolerates everything you do. He tolerates your presence. 

The wrath sneaks in smoothly and astute. You aren’t just one night stand or a sweetheart. How can Dean act like you are? You lift your head and watch him breathing with his eyes closed. It’s so brutal, emotionally violent how you are aware that he’s only doing that not to have pillow talk. Where’s that man who’d throw blankets over your barbed wire? Easily misplaced by the one who threw your boundaries away and out the trap there nowadays. You made him your temple, you mural, your sky, now you’re begging for footnotes in the story of his life.

In the rare cracks of lucidity, you picture what would happen if you did what your old, better self would do. Dean appears to assume you are fine, but what would he do if you break free and leave you two in ruins, took this dagger in you and removed it, gain the weight of you then lose it? He was so comfortable with you. Maybe he didn’t think you would ever do that, but there’s just so much a woman with your determination and cleaverity can take. Believe, I could do it. You did it before with others. Sometimes you need to leave to breathe. Perhaps it's time. 

But then, he embraces you. Just like that, all your doubts and fears and bruises caused by his kisses are reduced to paranoia. You decide maybe you got it wrong somehow. Not even blinking at the thought that Dean enjoys cuddles. No, he’s pulling you closer and snucking his nose into your hair because he loves you. Convince yourself. You are majestic with lies, it gets surprisingly facile to tell them when you nuzzle into the Winchester’s neck like his smell is some sort of placebo.  

You aren't tiptoeing around it, or even stepping on the doubts with tiny hoaxes. You are barefoot on his love-- but his love feels a lot like walking through a street of fire and thorns. But hey, isn't that the point of devotion? To put something, someone first? To go through any suffering and starve to get to the prize, to walk through the golden gates? If this was a church, the priest would tell you to get on your knees and pray harder. You can see where he’s going. You’ll do better. Be everything Dean needs. You can be worthy-- you are worthy. You were his everything once and you can be that again. Pick up the soul tapestry he shrewd so unintentionally and patch it up. Most of those things must be in your head anyway, and if they aren't… Well. He will love you that deeply again, right? Right? It’s an echo. Right.

Tomorrow you’ll try again. In the name of love, condepedency, or whatever it is. Sit and watch him.

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[platonic-prompts]

I get what you mean on your latest post but I also disagree? I feel like especially sometimes the goal isn’t to be understood by everyone, it’s to express whatever it is you need to express. worst case scenario you can include a glossary at the end. even if it’s harder to understand, it can often be a stylistic choice, especially for people who want to represent something about how they speak (eg showcasing their local dialect)

I feel like you missed the part about writing to your audience? because if your goal isn't to be understood by everyone, then you aren't going to write in a way that is accessible to everyone?

And I really don't get what you mean by worst case scenario, because the worst case scenario is that people look at your book, at your paper, whatever, they look at the first or a random page, and they see somin ritin like dis init an th'll probly putit bak down, unless they're also someone who's from the same area. That's the worst case scenario. Because if your writing puts off people from reading it, then whatever you need to express or represent isn't going to get out there except for the few people who give it a chance. Even with a glossary, those things get annoying really fast and aren't really meant as a full dictionary within a book. More like highlights giving you context. Lockwood and Co has a glossary that gives you descriptions of the ghosts, its supplemental, supposed to enhance your understanding, not be the sole reason you understand something to begin with

And if you're trying to represent something about your dialect, well, like I said, write to your audience. If there's a group of anti-vaxxers, you aren't just going to make a vaccine and sit it near them so one of them will give it to their kids, you're going to have to speak their language, make it appealing to them so they do it. You can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink. It's like trying to make high schoolers read Shakespeare when the SparkNotes are right there. If you're writing in your dialect you likely have nothing to prove to others with the same dialect, and other people won't be as willing to give that dialect a chance especially in writing form

Would you write to your mother the same way you write to a college dean? Its the same principle here.

Tell me honestly, that if you saw me writing something, and it sounded like it was written by someone with rotten and missing teeth, who lives in a trailer, and makes moonshine and meth in their storm cellar: would you take anything I say seriously? If everything I wrote on this hellsite was written the way my dialect has it sound? (My neighbors are not meth dealers, they do have cows, which are your two options here)

I don't know how many times I have to say it, but the point is to write to your audience. If you don't want it to be accessible, don't make it accessible. But if you want to prove a point about your dialect, you're better off to write the most stellar proper grammar essay ever and say that 'imma the one who wrote dis here paper and ye best give me my dues for it' Or having a character who speaks in it, but not having the entire thing written in dialect (how annoyed would you be if the character of a story called every window a winder and chips, chippers, and to get the cereal out of the cuberd? and to play a tune on the pianer?) but then characters with accents are also things that can be screwed up really really easily.

So once again, I don't know how you missed the write to your audience part, because if your audience is to the people who would pick up and read a book written in full dialect, then that's who you should be writing for

[nulfaga]

10, 12, 17 and 18 if you like ♥️👀?

wow this got so long....thank you jay sorry jay <3

10. Top three favourite fic tropes

oh god ummm i love a long timeline for sure, like following characters at various points in their lives...i enjoy the fake marriage for the sake of like, a heist or an infiltration or whatever (esp. if one party has been like nursing a crush for ages and finds this arrangement excruciating)....what else...yeah the in vino veritas one. no further comment

12. If you write in more than one language, what’s the difference?

for real i've been thinking about this literally my whole life, like how many authors are there who spoke multiple languages but didn't translate their own work/write original works in their other languages...imo it's because you basically start from scratch for every other language. in my case dutch is my first language and i have the same command of it that i have in english except in the arena of creative writing. i haven't even tried it since i was like, 12 (and a 3 page screenplay for an assignment in like 2018) but i know that if i did it'd just be a bunch of trite, clunky nonsense.

there's that quote like "true ease in writing comes from art, not chance, as those move easiest who have learned to dance" - so my feeling is that you have to learn to dance (from zero) for every language like: what tools are at my disposal, what does the literary canon look like for this language ie what works am i in communication with when i write.........it's a lot

feelings-wise though reading english and dutch impacts me differently. reading a work in english i'm like looking for the aesthetic beauty (which is no less moving, to be clear), but in dutch everything feels more...idk. tactile and geometric is the best explanation i have?

as for french i would need to do a lot more reading to be able to feel the difference. i know that "je ne voulais pas être connu par lui - je ne voulais pas être connu par quiconque" hit me harder than "I did not want him to know me. I did not want anyone to know me" but i couldn't tell you why lmao. maybe passive vs. active voice?

17. Past or present tense? Why?

i think the stereotype is that present is more contemporary and past is kind of a little refined and vintage, so for me it completely depends on what flavor i want the work to have. it's also a matter of consistency ie all the stuff i've written for the true gold-verse is in present tense, so i'd hesitate to change that up unless it was really necessary...but both my original works are in past tense and i admit i was drawn in by that old timey sheen :')

the other thing is it has to serve your chosen format? like is it an epistolary work, is it in the voice of a character recollecting an event, etc etc. most of the time you get your answer that way

18. First, second, or third person?

i think i do a pretty fair share of all three. like tenses it is also a matter of preconceptions ie third person is the least likely to raise eyebrows.

first person is fun in that you can't possibly forget the voice of the narrative - it's the voice of the character speaking. you have to contend with "I" - sometimes it helps, because it distinguishes the speaker from everyone else, you avoid a lot of pronoun confusion, you don't have to name the characters ad nauseam, but it also sticks out. I did X. I said Y. etc etc it's a balancing act

third person again kind of lends legitimacy purely by being what it is, but because you don't get the narrative's voice just handed to you like you do w/ first person it's crucial to develop that for yourself. like who's narrating, how much do they know, how much do they want to reveal, etc etc. how close do you want the reader to be to the protagonist. are we in their head or are we looking down benevolently.

second person...the only published work i've read that uses second person is nk jemisin's fifth season - and that works pretty well, but it's only one of 3 perspectives in the book. i think doing second person for more than the length of like, a novella is kind of unbearable lol...as for myself i've only used it in reader inserts and the only reason i write those is to do a character study without having to bother about serving the viewpoint character. then the "you" is basically a floating pair of eyeballs that exists to perceive the character. you notice there are freckles on her wrist. you catch her smiling. etc etc

[dalleray]

If I hadn't been very good interviewing [Patricia] Highsmith in Aurigeno, there was someone I was downright bad at, and yet it must have been the start of a surprising, singularly charming story: Edwige Feuillère....

I arrive one afternoon at rue de Longchamp in Neuilly. Rather banal building. I get on the elevator, my throat a little tight: I felt her authoritarian. They open the door for me and show me into the living room, I find it a little too pink, a little too sweet. She enters. Not very much makeup on; she wears a funnel neck sweater. Her body no longer has the firmness of my memories. Still, there is the way she carries her head. It's her, but she's an old woman.

Today, I'm sure she saw it all in my eyes in a second. So, she pulled out all the stops. She offers me a seat on a couch and sits next to me, almost thigh to thigh. I move back. She raises her eyebrow and just says: “You are sitting very badly. Lean on the cushions.”

“Sorry, but I can't work like this.” “Okay, I'll take the cushions away.”

And we start. She responds, but very quickly interrupts me and brings her face closer to mine. "Ah, now that I see you with my glasses on… But you have very pretty green eyes," with that voice that makes all screens shudder. I do not know where I am. I pick up the thread as best I can.

“You read my book! You are indeed the first journalist who comes to see me for this book to have read it.”

I stammer. I am getting worse and worse. I bend down to turn on the tape recorder. She lifts my face, touches my hair, on the forehead, to the right. "But you have a strand of white hair. Is it natural or are you doing it on purpose?" There, I feel that I am confused, maybe even that I blush, I flounder, I sink. That’ll teach me to betray that, in her sweater, I couldn't find the one I had placed on a pedestal at all. I'm mad at myself, but at her too. Now she wants me to eat chocolates. And tell me that she is a great reader. As if! I wonder what literature she likes, but I don't feel like digging. I want to go. She goes to get my item of clothing, a black leather jacket and helps me put it on. She runs her hand all the way down my back and says, still her voice, "I love the feel of leather.”

Okay, she's seventy-seven, I'm thirty-three, but she took over and covered me with the ridicule I deserved. Let's run away together.

I was not at the end of my punishment, though. I listen to the tape. I am lamer than lame: I don't raise the right questions, I don't push her to explain, I say totally incongruous things. Nothing to get out of it. Unreliable. And, to make matters worse, she wants to reread before publication. What to do? Meet with close friends to whom I dare not even speak out. Common sense advice, but easy to say: "Try to remember what you wanted to know, what she started to say when she stops and you forget to start her again. Rewrite everything: there will probably not be a word of what's on the tape, but we'll see what she says about it." A whole weekend, for an interview page in Le Monde. And a close reading by my friend Monique Nemer. Questions at last intelligently formulated and answers reconstructed, but perhaps just a bit “off.”

On Monday, the interview is printed. Two hours later, Feuillère on the phone: "My little one, it's absolutely perfect...I've never read an interview so true to who I am.” That’s when I realized she was extremely intelligent.

She offered for me to see her again. She told me about what she read. A very sure taste for literature, the classics—she had not forgotten Claudel's lessons. She was very attached to her hand-annotated edition of Dante's The Divine Comedy in Italian—her father's nationality. She gave it at the end of her life to Hector Bianciotti, whom I introduced to her. But she had a curiosity for everything that was published—I brought her my favorite recent books—and the eclecticism of avid readers. She happily returned to Claudel's side, but discovered with the same interest Philip Roth, who made her want to reread Joseph Roth. Dante would bring her back to Philippe Sollers' side, and she would go back to the Italian side to read Svevo and Elsa Morante. She read the ones I told her about: Eudora Welty, Anna Maria Ortese, Annie Ernaux, Danièle Sallenave. But Highsmith's murky tales seemed too worrying to her. When we went to dinner, I always tried to convince her, to make her love this "black queen” without much success.

When she played at the theater at night, we used to go to lunch. She seduced me in every way—because she liked to seduce, because her conversation was brilliant, humorous, her language sometimes deliciously old-fashioned. One day when I was talking to her about a man, she said to me, “Alors, vous êtes éprise?” (“So, are you in love?”) with a sort of ‘h’ sucked in front of "éprise.” She lunched “en chapeau” (“in hat”) as it should be if you arrive in a restaurant wearing a hat, but nobody knows how to do it anymore. After coffee, without using a mirror, she reapplied her lipstick. She would sometimes use an indignant grandmother's voice to say, "My little one, stand up straight. This is an absolute rule.” When I complained about a married man who liked neurotics—those who harass you to snatch an evening, a weekend—and I told her that I hated these behaviors and that, asking for nothing, I did not get anything, she punctuated with a laugh: “But my little one, this is the story of my life! Men, if not burdened with recriminations, give nothing."

I loved going to see her at the theater. The presence on stage of a person with whom you have a form of intimacy is always moving. Anguishing, too. When, at the Théâtre Montparnasse, she took over La Maison du lac with Jean Marais, I went there almost every evening. Marais-Feuillère, for the last time, you had to see and see again. One day when she invited me to lunch in a restaurant near the theater, whose old-fashioned and provincial character, like the clientele, amused us, she reproached me: "Stop coming to the theater!" Seeing my crestfallen face, she added, “But this is not a good play! How can you listen to these banal lines over and over again?” “Of course, it's not Claudel, but I'm not coming for the lyrics, I'm coming for your shoulders and for the melody.”

“Cheeky and incorrigible, that's what you are. So, come on tonight, I'll introduce you to Jean."

Juliette Gréco, who laughed at this improbable friendship and imitated Feuillère so well, would sometimes call me, mocking her voice. I hesitated for fear of saying to the real Feuillère: "Stop your stupid jokes! " One morning, I hear Feuillère's phrasing on the phone, too over-played for it to really be her: “My little one, I had a great time last night.” And Juliette Gréco tells me, with her own voice and the tone of a kid delighted with her triumph, that she was at a party the day before, and that seeing Feuillère at a table she approached silently, passed her arms around her shoulders, and leaned over say to her ironically: "So, are we seducing the same young woman?"

Despite my protests, I admit that I was rather entertained by imagining this scene between these two. The tastiest was yet to come. Call from Feuillère, the same afternoon: "My little one, we mustn't tell Juliette Gréco that we are seeing each other, she is very jealous"

I joked: "No, she knows very well that we have incestuous loves.” “Incestuous, perhaps, but not Sapphic.” There is no one left to utter such phrases!

Talking about her relationships with women, one day, when once again I had just passed a passionate admirer on her doorstep who was chasing her and whom she received, while remaining aloof, even disdainful, I joked: “You are a tease.”

“At last, my little one, how dare you?”

“Sorry, but it's the truth!”

She didn't comment. I thought of Sartre telling Sagan, who was cutting meat badly, that he could no longer cut himself: “Respect is lost."

I was a little ashamed: I had crossed a line—thin, barely perceptible, and yet very present, beyond which she wanted to safeguard her unalterable dignity. More than Claudel, it was Mallarmé's Hérodiade that she made think of: "Who would dare touch me, a respected lion?”

- Josyane Savigneau on her friendship with Edwige Feuillère in Point de côté

[emilythecosmicbun]

Creepypasta OCs.

Any updates information is on Wattpad WATTPAD: https://www.wattpad.com/story/255861941-creepypasta-ocs-emily-elliot-and-stedge

TW BLOOD, ABUSE MENTION

cottontailprincess is my Instagram and Emilythecosmiccat is my username on some art websites.

They/Them pronouns please

do not sexualise me, my characters or my boyfriend please he isn’t comfortable with that.

okay so these are my two vent ocs.

Emily/Elliot (Bunny.)

one of them, as you know, is my impure agere oc, representing all the sad and flashback parts of everything. I made them to help cope with my thoughts and feelings. They are based off of my appearance and my trauma. They age up with me.

BASIC INFO

Full Name: Emily/Elliot Bunzelle but prefers just Emily or Elliot.

Nickname(s): Bunny, Emmy, El, Em, Princess, Prince, Princette

Meaning of name: Emily (from Urban Dictionary.) An Emily is someone who is crazy inside and out. She knows who her friends are and try’s hard to look after them. She is very pretty but doesn’t always know that. She isn’t always the most popular, but to her that doesn’t matter. She has friends from all ages and they all adore her. She hides her feelings however upsetting they may be.

Meaning of name: Elliot (Urban Dictionary) Elliot is a true master at caring. He teaches how to love and be loved. A man of honour a man of steal. He's as handsome as a Greek God, as strong as diamond, as compassionate as a saint and is as gentle as a father's touch. Elliot possesses a magic within to create a vision in the eyes of all, leaving them stunned at how brilliant and perfect Elliot truly is. A leader, a spirit lifter, a lover, a giver, an Elliot'll leave you speechless with his being, his essence.

Gender: Non-Binary

Pronouns: They/Them

Age:

Currently 19, same as IRL me, though they physically and mentally regress to younger ages, so their age varies. Their main ages are variants of 1+

Date of Birth:

August 21st (Body born in 2001)

Race/Species: English and a Spirit or Entity.

Native language: English (as in England English.)

Orientation/Sexual Preference: Bisexual Personality: Silly, playful, honest, caring, childish, bratty, stubborn, sweet.

Are They Dead: No but they aren't alive either. Somewhere in between.

Any Mental Health Issues?

C-PTSD, due to multiple traumatic events. They frequently experience multiple flashbacks and nightmares, and is usually terrified of leaving their safe space unless it’s with Stedge, even then, they panic.

Triggers: Listed Here. Triggers page on my Carrd.

Powers/Special Abilities: Can float slightly off the ground, is able to phase through walls, spew blood at will, and look "alive" when speaking and comforting children, or just around those they trust.

APPEARANCE:

Looks:

Very young child:  Short but very curly/wavy brown hair, a bit lighter than when they are in older looking forms. They wear a pink dress with a white shirt under, and black school shoes. However, they can also just wear a sonic shirt and leggings, or a skirt.

Child:  They can vary but their usual look is long curly/wavy brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin, blood on their mouth and nose area, tired-looking eyes, pink dress, sometimes a nightgown, depending on the look, they can wear socks, bunny slippers or even go barefoot! Sometimes they wear bunny ears! Sometimes they like to wear sonic gear.

Teen:  Depending on the age as a teen, at the point it's  "kawaii" inspired things, sometimes just a Melanie Martinez shirt and pants (or skirt), sometimes overalls! They also wore band merch, stuff like that. They have either long brown hair, black hair or multicoloured hair like Melanie Martinez (dyed in variants such as pink, red, blonde (more like light ginger.)

Adult:  Band tops, but also ones with cute designs on such as bunnies or kittens, sometimes overalls or dresses, sometimes even onesies, since they can still have the traits of an agere headspace. Short Brown hair, is a lot chubbier than the rest, can be considered mid or plus size.

Height: Varies depending on form and age, but usually smol.

Weight: (UNKNOWN BUT IT VARIES.)

Hair color: Dark brown/Brown

Eye color: Brown

Scars and/or skin conditions: Has a few bruises and a few cuts in some places, but I prefer to not draw them.

Has a skin condition called psoriasis. (I have it IRL.)

Never Seen Without: White Bun, and their three Cream The Rabbit plushies.

Likes:

• Things with peaches (the fruit) on them. (Including peaches and peach ice tea.)

• Bunnies

• Their Caregiver, Stedge.

• Drawing, and colouring in.

• The colour pink.

• Sonic The Hedgehog.

• Porcelain Dolls

• Stuffed Animals

Dislikes:

• Abusers (including physical, mental and sexual abusers.)

• Those who take advantage of vulnerable people.

• People who don’t take them seriously.

• Drama.

• Being abandoned or left alone.

Relationships:

Stedge - Partner in crime, best friend, caregiver and lover. (Depending on age of course.)

Cream.exe (Sally.exe game) - practically twinning, bunny loves to hang out with cream.exe. (my highest kin, apart from cream herself.)

Family Members - Depending on which member, they do have a good bond or a negative one. Bunny loves them on different levels, some of them, they hate.  This does not reflect on how (I myself) feel about said family members.

(If you want your creepypasta oc to be friends with Bunny, just ask!)

OTHER INFO:

• They age up with my current age since they aren't dead and they are based off of me.

• I decided to make them some sort of entity since I couldn’t make them a ghost and still be alive lol they age up with me.

•Their “trauma” is the same as mine, which is why I won’t write it in detail here but they are a victim of abuse.

• They are all bloody because its how I feel about my trauma.

• They physically and mentally regressed to the age they are supposed to be, if they are in their child forms, they are an actual child. (Direct reference to my age regression I use to help me cope with my trauma) They prefer to be in this form so they can protect and befriend children. They don't harm children or other victims of abuse. The children usually call them “bunny.”

• When they're in their adult form, they have a partner called Stephen. Someone who they have known since they were 17 years old. When they are a “child” he takes care of them and protects them to make sure they don't ever get hurt again.

• Their sense of justice is what caused them to want to help other children. They never want to see another child go through what they went through.

Any Other Info is on the Picture.

Stedge

Well, I also made a creepypasta oc to represent my boyfriend, someone who I love and trust to help me during those horrible times. He’s like my partner in crime. lmao also his age isn’t rly there because he ages up with his real life counterpart, which will get updated.

REMINDER TO NOT SEXUALISE HIM AS MY BOYFRIEND IS UNCOMFORTABLE WITH THAT.

BASIC INFO:

Name: Stephen

Nickname(s): Stedge, Mr. Bubbles (by Emily/Elliot.)

Meaning of name: Stephen The most beautiful boy in existence. Has stunning eyes, that make your heart fall through the floor when they crinkle with his perfect smile. Is deep, unlike most boys, and extremely intelligent. Has a big heart, and he doesn't realize when he's being taken for granted. Even though he would never admit it, he sometime's can't see what's right in front of him. An over-analyzer, and very stubborn, but he will admit defeat when he has to. Likes to drive girls crazy, apparently. Easy to fall in love with. Hard to figure out.

Gender: Male

Age: Ages up with IRL person. Currently: 19.

Date of Birth:

9th April

Race/Species: English, Human.

Native language: UK English.

Orientation/Sexual Preference: Straight

Are They Dead: No

Any Mental Health Issues? No, None that we know of.

Triggers: None that we know of.

Powers/Special Abilities:

He doesn't have many powers but he athletic and can run quick and has a good amount of strength. He uses a bat and other various stuff.

APPEARANCE:

Looks:

Short brown hair, brown eyes, a bit of facial hair, variants of a black or dark grey shirt, but obviously not only those, sometimes they’re ripped.

Hair color: Dark brown, brown.

Eye color: Brown.

Scars: None.

Personality: He is quite intelligent and mature, behaves childishly in front of Emily/Elliot, cold and serious, is kind, polite, protective.

Hobbies and Likes: • playing the guitar

• skate (skateboarding)

• listening to tunes

• spending time with Emily/Elliot.

Dislikes:

• Abusers, people who take advantage of vulnerable people.

• People who are cruel to Emily/Elliot.

Relationships: Bunny - Best friend, soulmate, would do anything to make bunny smile, frequently gets them stuffed toys and food.

EXTRA INFO:

He is a few months older than me in IRL, his age is 19 right now, along with mine but will be updated.

Stephen is a human, and helps take care of Emily (in their child forms.) since they are a child and very vulnerable in that state due to their trauma, when they’re adult they are romantic towards each other.

They work together as a team when bashing and killing abusers. While he uses physical means, Emily uses mental.

Any Other Info is on the Picture.

WATTPAD: https://www.wattpad.com/story/255861941-creepypasta-ocs-emily-elliot-and-stedge