#the fact that i’m posting this during actual fashion week

[enjoythesilentworld]

so loaded, eye low ~ ch 3

“Kronprinsen,” Simon greeted, tone low and tense and slightly mocking. The way he used that word now was nothing like when they’d first met in that bathroom at the Met. “Simon,” he responded quietly, keeping his gaze straight ahead. “I think we’re rather past titles, don’t you?” “Oh,” Simon practically scoffed, his voice still lowered in a dark whisper, “are we? I wouldn’t have guessed that, seeing the past two weeks you’ve been acting like we’re strangers.”

or, Wille and Simon keep running into and then away from each other.

read now on ao3 (E, 3/4).

[thewintersoldierdisaster]

a/n: i know the game and fight were like two weeks ago but i couldn’t stop thinking about it lol. just a fun little thing - enjoy! (and literally as i go to post this, bb gets added back to the skills comp as he should’ve been in the first place so go defend your fastest skater title, mat😘)

word count: 4.5k

tw: oral (m recieving), cursing, chicago blackhawks slander, dirty talk

summary: after mat’s fight during the blackhawks game, you’re both worked up with extra energy to get out of your systems

“Fuck you!” You jump to your feet, screaming, adrenaline rushing through your veins. “Go fuck yourself!” Your stomach turns watching Mat fight, but you also can’t ignore the throb between your legs.

Unconcerned with the fact that you’re solidly in enemy territory, your shouting gets louder and louder. Your heart pounds in your chest as you watch Mat scrap with Chicago’s number 43. Mat shifts and drops Blackwell to the ice, the refs and the other players skating over quickly.

“That’s right,” you crow, the people around you starting to boo. “Get fucking wrecked!”

Mat skates off, helmet gone, hair flattened to his head and jersey half off. He scowls and tugs the jersey back over his head and you pump your fists in the air. “That’s my man!” You jump up and down, flipping off a few Chicago fans that are shouting at you.

“Girl,” Alexa, Noah’s girlfriend, tugs at the hem of your vintage Islanders sweatshirt, laughing, “you’re going to get us killed. Sit down!”

You drop back down into your seat and shoot her a grin, “what a way to go out though!” You laugh and take a sip of your beer, turning in your seat when a Chicago fan a few seats down leans over to shout at you.

“Real classy behavior, lady,” he sneers and you flip him off with a bright smile.

“God, where to even start with the classy as hell Chicago Blackhawks organization?” You tap at your lower lip thoughtfully. “Patrick Kane? Jonathan Towes? Corey Perry? So many options to choose from.”

“Gonna bring up shit that doesn’t mean anything?” The man snaps.

You lean halfway out of your seat, getting a little louder, “your team sucks ass from top to bottom.”

“Suck my dick, bitch.”

Alexa coughs into her drink and you shrug at the man, shouting, “at least I’m supporting a team that hasn’t been sued twice for covering up sexual assault.”

“Oh my god,” Alexa mutters, covering her face.

“Fuck off, bitch,” a second man, sitting next to the first, shouts at you.

With a little three fingered wave at the men, you turn back to the ice, settling into your seat. “Oh, I love when men can only think to call me a bitch in the face of actual facts,” you sigh, heartbeat still pounding from Mat’s fight and the confrontation.

A few Chicago fans in the general vicinity are looking at you, booing and flipping you off. You return the gestures happily, with a sarcastic smile on your face.

“You’re batshit insane,” Alexa says, looking impressed and a little awed. “I’m terrified of you.”

You knock her shoulder with yours and tease, “as long as you love me more than you’re terrified of me.”

“Jury’s still out,” she snorts.

The game ends in tragic fashion during overtime, but you’re still so proud of Mat, buzzing with energy to see him when he gets back to the hotel. You and Alexa had booked a room in the same hotel the boys were staying at, spontaneously deciding to take the trip to see the boys play since neither of you had been to Chicago. The team flies back to Long Island tomorrow afternoon and your flight leaves just a few hours later, so you’ve got a few hours with Mat tonight before you have to go back to your own rooms, knowing he’ll have left packing to the last possible second.

Alexa’s lounging on her bed, scrolling through her phone, when there’s a knock on the door. You jump up from your spot on your bed and rush to the door, yanking it open and nearly knocking Noah out of the way in your hurry to jump into Mat’s arms. He laughs and catches you easily, wrapping his arms around your lower back as your legs hook around his waist.

“First career fight?” You grin at him, peppering his face with kisses. “So fucking hot, baby.”

“Y’know,” Noah comments dryly from behind you, “I had assists on two of our goals.”

You turn your head and grin at him, “you want a kiss too?” Mat’s hands grope at your ass, pulling you tighter over the growing bulge in his jeans. You wriggle happily over him, enjoying the low groan that vibrates against your shoulder.

“Not from you,” Noah laughs, dropping a kiss to the top of Alexa’s head. She snuggles up against his side and laughs a little.

“Let’s get out of here,” she says, “before these two forget they’re not alone.” Shooting you a wink, she grabs Noah’s hand and drags him out of the room, the door falling shut behind them.

“Thank god,” Mat huffs, leaning his forehead against your collarbone. You kiss the top of his head, rubbing your fingertips into his scalp. “I’ve been waiting to see you all night.”

“Well you’ve got me for the next few hours, completely uninterrupted,” you reply, holding onto him like a koala. “Let me see your face, I need to make sure no damage was done.”

Mat pulls away from you, grinning that crooked grin you love so much. He looks a little tired, but the only damage from the fight is a cut on the bridge of his nose and a little cut on his forehead. Not nearly as bad as you were thinking. “Do I pass inspection?” He teases, bouncing you a little in his arms.

You hum, “you’ll do,” before kissing the tip of his nose and then slanting your lips over his. Mat deepens the kiss, licking over your lower lip so your mouth will fall open. You groan into his mouth, grinding your hips down over his erection. The kiss is a little frantic, all teeth and tongue, and you’re out of breath when you break apart. “Put me down, I wanna reward you,” you pant, unhooking your legs from around his waist and letting them fall to the floor.

“What?” Mat’s mouth is back on yours, arms still wrapped tightly around your back, your chest pressed to his. You wiggle against him, grinding your hips over his, more than happy to feel him harden under you.

“Wanna - mmmph-“ your words are muffled by Mat’s mouth, captured by his lips and tongue. You pull back with a huge effort, palms flat on his shoulders for leverage. “Wanna suck you off,” you murmur, Mat’s hands trailing up the back of your shirt, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip and tugging at it.

“Yeah?” Mat asks, eyelids heavy over his eyes. He shifts and wedges his leg in between yours, pressing his muscled thigh right up against your throbbing cunt. You whine and your hips move over his leg, the seam of your jeans pressed exactly where you need it. “Wanna suck my dick, baby? What if I wanna watch you get off on my thigh?”

“C’mon, Mat,” your voice comes out breathy, “been wanting to suck you off since you fought. I’ve been soaked thinking about it.” You grind over his thigh as you plead, knowing you’ve won the upper hand when Mat’s fingers dip below the waistband of your jeans to squeeze your ass.

He sucks a mark into the skin behind your ear and you sigh. “Me fighting got you all hot and bothered?” He asks the question against your skin, brushing his nose against your earlobe and you nod.

“Beyond fucking hot, Mat,” you scratch your nails against the nape of his neck. “Glad I got to see it.”

You wiggle again and a little whine forms in the back of your throat. Mat’s mouth curls into a smile against your neck. “Love it when you beg,” he says, a little hoarse. “My girl is begging to suck my cock, what’s fucking better than that?”

“Actually letting me suck your cock,” you gasp, Mat’s fingers digging harder into the flesh of your ass. “Let me, Mat, c’mon.”

He finally shifts his leg, planting his feet solidly, and you grin, breaking from his grip and falling to your knees in front of him. You’re eye level with the bulge behind the fly of his jeans and you grin up at him wickedly. You run your fingertips lightly over his zipper and feel his cock throbbing through the denim. “Can’t wait to get my mouth on you,” you smirk, fingers working at the button and zipper, pushing at the denim until you can trace your index finger over the imprint of his dick through the fabric of his briefs.

“Fuck!” Mat’s hips buck forward and he grabs at your hair with one hand, tangling his fingers in the strands. His cock twitches behind the fabric and you push his jeans and briefs halfway down his thighs, freeing his cock so it bobs up towards his stomach. You lean up on your knees to press a kiss to the head of his cock and Mat groans, grip on your hair tightening. “Baby, babe, please, don’t tease me,” he babbles, hips thrusting minutely.

“It’s a reward,” you grin up at him, wrapping your hand around the base of his cock and squeezing slightly, “for fighting. Going to take my time with you.”

Your hand strokes him slowly, palm rubbing against his tip, gathering pre-cum and smearing it down his shaft. His cock throbs in your hand, in time with the way your clit throbs as you touch him. You shift on your knees, pressing the heel of your foot in between your legs and Mat doesn’t miss the movement.

“Going to get off just by touching my dick?” He teases, widening his stance and leaning his upper back against the wall. You hum, focused on getting him fully hard. It doesn’t take much work and within seconds, he’s like hot steel in your hand.

“We’ll just have to see,” you murmur, leaning in and taking the head of his cock into your mouth. A strangled moan leaves Mat’s lips and his hips start to thrust, forcing you to press both of your hands against his hips to keep him in place. You hum around him and swirl your tongue over his slit, enjoying the way he’s babbling your name over your head. He groans, the noise choking off as you take him deeper into your mouth, keeping your lips wrapped tightly around him.

Your nails rake over his skin, fingers sliding over the ridge of bone and then the smooth skin of his lower stomach, until you’re able to rub your fingertips through the light trail of hair under his belly button. You wrap one hand around the base of his cock and take him deeper, swallowing and enjoying the way Mat’s cock bobs in your mouth.

“Baby, come on,” Mat mumbles, “gotta go deeper. Let me fuck your throat. Wanna feel you swallow me.”

You look up at him with wide eyes, tears hovering at your waterline from the stretch of your jaw, and blink innocently at him. Your throat relaxes and he grins, looking a little dazed, when he realizes you’re giving him permission. His other hand comes up to cradle your face, releasing your hair with the other hand so he can hold your face in place while he thrusts his hips forward, sliding his cock deeper down your throat with each movement. The head of his cock bumps against the roof of your mouth, the back of your throat, slides against your tongue with his erratic thrusts.

Saliva drips down your chin, tears rolling down your cheeks. Mascara streaks down your face, stinging your eyes a little.

Mat’s head is dropped back as he rolls his hips, his mouth running constantly. You’re not even sure what he’s saying at this point, too focused on keeping your throat relaxed and not gagging around his thick length. Your hands grip at his ass, nails digging into his skin and he hisses, practically whining when you swallow and your throat tightens around his cock.

“Fuck, fuck. Jesus Christ, fuck me,” he groans. “Love how you look with my dick in your mouth, look so pretty.”

You moan around him, lifting up a little on your knees and leaning in, deep throating him until your nose is pressed against his skin, your chin tucked up against his balls. His scent - a little bit soapy, a little bit sweaty - invades your senses and you feel your panties dampen further. You shake your head a little, brushing the tip of your nose against his skin and Mat’s fingers tighten on your face, thumbs rubbing over your cheekbones.

“Gonna come, baby, gotta -“ he mutters, choking off. He leans his hips back a little, trying to pull out of your mouth, but you hold onto his ass, pulling him closer to your face. Mat grunts, his balls tightening under your chin before he comes down your throat, hot and thick.

You swallow for what feels like forever, Mat’s cock still thick and hard in your mouth. He finally pulls back and you drop down to sit on your heels, wiping at your mouth. Saliva and cum make your chin and hands sticky, but you grin cheekily up at your boyfriend. He looks wrecked, jaw slack and eyes nearly closed.

“Didn’t manage to come just from sucking you off,” you rasp, throat sore and voice hoarse. You reach up to gently stroke over his cock and he leans his hips forward, pushing into your grip.

“Bet that sweet pussy of yours is soaked for me, huh?” Mat says, reaching out to wrap his hands around your biceps and haul you to your feel, your hand falling away from his cock. With his grip on your arms, Mat crushes you to his chest, kissing you sloppily. His cock presses against your stomach, half-hard, and you press against it, making Mat groan into your mouth before he sucks on your tongue.

You hum against his mouth, melting against Mat’s chest. Your clit throbs and you clench around nothing, desperate for a little friction. “Mat,” you gasp his name a little and he knows exactly what you want. His hands slide up your arms and wrap gently around your neck and the back of your head, keeping your face close to his so he can kiss you while walking you backwards to the bed.

“Gonna fuck you so good, baby,” he murmurs into your mouth. You can feel his body vibrating with adrenaline and once the backs of your knees hit the mattress, Mat pulls back to quickly get rid of his clothes, kicking the fabric in all different directions with a a hungry look in his eyes that makes you giggle. Mat grins down at you and leans over your body, pressing his bare chest against your clothed one. “Regular post-game energy has nothing on post-fight energy,” he promises, nipping at your pulse point.

You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist and roll your hips, pressing your cunt against his cock. “I can’t wait to find out,” you murmur, arching your back when his hands slide up your shirt to grope at your tits.

Just about an hour later, you roll off of Mat’s chest, sweating and panting like you’ve just run a marathon. “Fuck,” you breathe, thighs sticky and trembling.

Mat turns his head and gives you a lazy smirk, “told you.”

You kick a little at his ankle, shifting and shaking your head at the way your core is clenching around nothing, the feeling of Mat’s cock stuffed inside of you still present. “You need to get into fights more often,” you mumble, watching him wince as he pulls the used condom off of his dick. He twists a knot into the latex and rolls off the other side of the bed to pad into the bathroom. You blatantly stare at his ass, wolf-whistling when he bends slightly to toss the condom.

“I’m feeling very objectified,” Mat teases you, standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips. He tries to keep a straight face, but can’t help his lips from turning up at the corners. You drag your gaze over his body, from the top of his head, over his bare chest complete with chain resting against his collarbone, down to his dick hanging between his legs, and back up.

“Mmm,” you hum, still flat on your back, still shaking slightly. “It’s not my fault you’re so objectifiable. Maybe if you were uglier…”

You trail off into a shriek, body jostling when Mat pounces on the bed, covering your body with his and planting sloppy, wet kisses on every inch of your skin he can reach. “Nooo, stop! Oh my god, you know I’m ticklish,” you shriek-giggle, pushing at Mat’s shoulders, trying to wiggle out from under him. He keeps you caged in with his arms and legs, laughing.

“Gonna keep objectifying me, Squeaks?” He asks, marking you up with hickies across your neck and chest.

“Yessss,” you laugh, pressing your chest into his face. “It’s my favorite hobby.” You hook your leg around his hip and dig your heel into the muscle of his ass, getting him to thrust his pelvis forward, bumping against your clit. A spark of pleasure lights up your nerves.

“Cool,” he laughs, flicking his tongue over your nipple. “You can keep doing it after we get some food, I’m starving.” He bites at the underside of your breast and rolls off of you again, leaving you cold in the middle of the bed.

“What?” You sit up, watching him reach for his pants and dig his phone out of the pocket.

“We had like one slice of shitty Chicago pizza after the game,” Mat explains. “And then we rolled around in bed for an hour. I’m starving, babe.”

You’re about to complain, but as soon as you open your mouth, your stomach growls and Mat smirks at you. You huff, “okay, yeah. Let’s order some dinner.”

He turns back to his phone, tapping away at UberEats, and you flop back against the pillows, grabbing for your own phone where it rests on the bedside table. Once you’re settled, you rest your feet in Mat’s lap, his left hand landing on your ankle and thumb tracing an arc over your instep. You wiggle your toes and he pinches lightly at your skin. “What do you want?”

“Mozzarella sticks,” you say absently, gaze flickering onto your lock screen. It’s covered in notifications - the girls’ group chat, Twitter, Instagram, TikTok. What the hell is going on?

Another message comes in from Sydney, making your phone vibrate in your hand. Since you don’t have a password on your phone, you can see her message on the screen: she’s going to be banned from the arena 😂

Who’s going to be banned from the arena?

You tap open the group chat and scroll back to the top where the messages started half an hour ago. Holly sent a Twitter link followed by: our girl! 😂

A sinking feeling forms in your stomach, but you tap on the link, unsurprised when it opens up to a video. A video of you, just a few hours earlier, yelling at the game.

“Oh man,” you groan, watching yourself - filmed from an unflattering angle, of course - jumping and cheering for Mat, before turning and snapping at the Blackhawks fan.

“No mozzarella sticks?” Mat asks, mistaking what you had said as directed at him. He’s still scrolling through UberEats.

“No, um, yes,” you shake your head, looking up. “I do still want mozzarella sticks, but…”

You tap on the hashtag and start scrolling through Tweets, even as texts from the girls continue to roll in. The video is everywhere - Spittin’ Chiclets, B/R Open Ice, Barstool Sports. Fuck, even Frankie’s retweeted it, adding his typical all-caps word vomit captions: GOTTA GO THROUGH THE ISLAND OUR FANS ARE GREATER THAN ANYONE ELSE ANS READY TO GIVE YOU A VERBAL BITCH SLAP LOVE YOU LADY B

You roll your eyes at his caption, pulling the notification screen down and checking to see if he texted you too. He did - a string of cry-laughing emojis and clapping emojis.

“But what?” Mat finally drops his phone to the mattress and leans back on an elbow to look at you. “What are you looking at?”

You squint at him. “Have you not gotten any texts or notifications?” You ask, surprised that the guys’ group chat isn’t blowing up.

“Probably,” Mat shrugs, “my phone’s been on do not disturb since before my nap this afternoon. I wasn’t really thinking about looking. Why?”

You flip your phone around, showing him the screen. Mat squints at it, watching the video play for a few seconds before he lets out a chuckle of disbelief. “Is that you, Squeaks?”

“Yep,” you groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I, um, got a little heated when you fought. Is Lou going to kill me?”

Mat’s got your phone in his hand now, scrolling through the Tweets and laughing. “No way, you don’t work for him. I don’t think he knows what Twitter is anyway.” He keeps scrolling. “Oh shit!”

“What?” You lunge forward and snatch at your phone. Mat pulls it back and clicks his tongue at you.

“Jeez, you gonna yell at me now too?” He jokes before reading the caption of a Tweet. “Listen to this ‘trashy Long Island fan berates Blackhawks fan.’ Babe, you freaked on the wrong fanbase.”

“I’m trashy?” You yelp indignantly. “Me? They’re the fans that are supporting an organization FULL of sexual abusers! Give me my phone, I want to defend myself.”

“No way!” Mat holds your phone in the air away from you. “Why expose yourself to more shit?”

“Because I’m not the one in the wrong here,” you grumble. “What are the guys saying? Does anyone know who I am? I mean, I wasn’t quiet about cheering for you.”

With your phone still in his hand, Mat picks up his own and taps over to the messages. “Oh, damn. Almost fifty texts from the guys.” He chuckles as he scrolls through them, reading you off the best ones. “Bo says to suit up for next game, we could use your passion. Dobber says two minutes in the box for unsportsmanlike conduct. Ah, nice, Frankie says pizzas are on him next time we’re at Borrelli’s.”

“Pizzas are always on Frankie,” you grumble, draping yourself over Mat’s back to read his phone screen over his shoulder. The guys are mostly sending more videos from different angles and chirping you. While Mat’s distracted by the group chat, you snatch your phone back, returning to Twitter where the fans have figured out your connection to Mat - it’s not like your relationship is a secret, your Twitter is public and your Instagram switches back and forth between public and private when you’re starting to feel overwhelmed - but you don’t love that you’re getting this kind of attention.

You really should’ve controlled yourself better. But you didn’t and now you’re scrolling through hundreds of Tweets that are calling you Long Island trash. There are others mixed in that are supporting you, cheering you on for being a loyal fan and girlfriend, but jeez. The Chicago fans really are kind of nasty.

“Stop looking at that,” Mat plucks the phone from your hands when he sees your forehead crease and wrinkle over your nose. “Are we gonna have to delete your account like Dobber?”

“No,” you huff, chest flushing with emotion. “I just…I should’ve been a little more controlled, but I got so worked up!”

Mat cups your cheek and grins at you, “I like when you’re worked up. It’ll blow over in a few days, but for now, it’s really fucking cool that my girlfriend is so passionate about me fighting.”

You wrinkle your nose up at him and he laughs again, “seriously, don’t worry about it.” He frowns a little. “Fans’ll be talking about our game again by tomorrow. We’re fucking it all up.”

Pressing your cheek against Mat’s shoulder blade, you wrap your arms around his waist. “I’m sorry, Mat. I know you guys are working so hard, things will turn around soon, I’m sure.” You press a kiss to his skin, blowing a little raspberry. “Want your trashy Long Island girlfriend to give you another blowjob?”

That draws a laugh from Mat, exactly what you wanted to do, and he reaches back to rub his fingers over your scalp, massaging gently. He waves his phone in the air, “think you can do it before dinner gets here?”

A challenge.

You grin against his back, hands sliding down his stomach to wrap around the base of his cock. He jolts in your grip, stomach muscles bunching. “Place the order and we’ll see,” you mumble against his back, kissing and biting at his shoulder. His arm moves and you can see over his shoulder that he’s pressing the order button.

“Time starts now,” Mat teases, leaning back against you and giving you more access for your hands to stroke him.

You just barely manage to bring Mat to his finish before his phone chimes with the delivery notification, but it’s intensely satisfying to watch him yank on the hotel robe and slippers with his face and chest all flushed before he runs down to the lobby. You take the time that he’s gone to clean yourself up, showering quickly before getting into your lounge pants. By the time you eat and hang out for a bit, Mat’s going to have to go back to his own room, so you’re trying to curb the temptation to go another round.

Your phone is still going crazy with notifications and when you open Instagram, you notice that Mat’s shared a story. Immediately suspicious, you tap on his little circle, groaning when you see the video of you shouting. He must’ve shared it while he was in the elevator, the fucking menace.

Underneath the reshared video, Mat added his own comment: my favorite trashy long islander 👊🏻💪🏻😂

You swipe up and tap out a reply: i hate you

“Love you too, Oscar,” Mat’s voice echoes through the room. You look up and there he is, carrying the bag of takeout.

“Oscar?”

“Like the Grouch? You know, because he lives in a trash can,” Mat’s grin is shit-eating, “and you’re trashy.”

You fling a pillow at him and he ducks, cracking up. “I’m sorry!” He chokes out, not sorry at all. “But it’s hilarious. Video gets funnier the more you watch and some of those people on Twitter really are quick with the comments.”

“I’m never coming to another game again, Mathew,” you inform him, faux-snootily. He hands you over the foil tin of mozzarella sticks.

“Yeah you are,” he presses a kiss to your temple. “You’d never forgive yourself if you missed me fight again.” He wiggles his eyebrows and takes a bite out of one of your mozzarella sticks.

He’s right and he knows it.

“I’m going to have to private my insta again,” you comment on a sigh, looking down at the notifications piling up.

“You’re gonna be old news in a day or two,” Mat replies. “Something else will happen at a different game and hockey twitter will move on.”

By the time you land in New York the next afternoon, Mat’s right. You’re old news because the team’s fired Lane and hired Patrick Roy as their new coach.

[enchanting-chit-chat]

Beetlejuice's Backstory and the Black Plague 💚🕷️🥀💀 PART 2

Hello, hellooo! I’m thrilled that so many of you enjoyed my previous post! 🎊 This is the second part of a series dedicated to the Black Plague era, BJ’s past life, and other movieverse theories.

If you missed it, here is PART 1.

Warning: This post contains SPOILERS for Beetlejuice Beetlejuice (2024) and many, MANY speculations.

In the previous segment, I analyzed various pieces of evidence and concluded that Beetlejuice was:

definitely a plague survivor.

possibly a monatto by profession (though this is still debatable).

most likely Italian, living in Italy during one of the historically significant outbreaks in European history.

However, we still haven’t addressed the million-euro question: Which plague outbreak did he live through when he was alive? And the reason I avoided this question until now is that it’s basically impossible to tell for now. Here’s why:

Reason number 1. The two most notable outbreaks in Italian history occurred in 1350 and 1630. However, after the first incident, the disease reappeared in smaller epidemics every few years across Europe. Additionally, upon rechecking my sources, I discovered three more significant outbreaks:

in 1658, mainly affecting Naples.

in 1749, confined to Sicily and Calabria.

the very last one, in 1815, affecting the Bari area (Noicattaro)

After these outbreaks, the disease seemingly disappeared from Italy for good, which is great news but leaves us with many possibilities.

Reason number 2. In both movies, Beetlejuice has repeatedly proven to be an unreliable narrator. This means we can’t take his origin story at face value.

For instance, his claim of being over 600 years old completely contrasts with the clothes he and Delores are wearing in the backstory sequence. That style of fashion is typical of the Baroque period, which flourished from the early 17th century until the 1750s.

To keep it brief: Beetlejuice’s neckband, his three-piece suit, and Delores’ outfit visually suggest that the backstory is likely set in the 17th century and definitely did not occur before the 16th century.

On top of that, consider that Tim Burton navigated various historical periods throughout his filmography: think about Sleepy Hollow, Sweeney Todd, Alice in Wonderland, Big Eyes, and Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children. I believe that it’s unlikely that historical inaccuracies were unintentional.

For context, here is what Beetlejuice and Delores would wear if their story was actually set in the Middle Ages, around the 1300s-1400s:

…not quite the same impression they give during the backstory, is it? And lace cravats were invented in the 1660s. This fact alone is significant because:

It would suggest that Beetlejuice is actually 'younger' that what he stated: Personally, I believe he might be around 300-400 years old. However, this is just an approximation, and I might be wrong.

It would imply that the backstory he narrated and showed us might be a lie (partially or entirely).

Or… perhaps he lied earlier about being 600 years old, but the backstory is the actual truth? Maybe he never learned to count properly… who knows?

My point is that there’s no way to discern what is true and what isn’t. All I can do is analyze what I see with my own eyes, hoping to find some answers. And yes, this means that, in PART 3, I’m going to delve into historical fashion, in unnecessary detail.

But that’s fine, I enjoy making sacrifices for this team. 😀

Until then, have a fantastic week! ✨

[annislittleshopofhorrors]

I love your graph girl 🤣

But the fact that 🐟 had to post a welcome card for a movie that finished filming a year ago (and is now doing reshoots) tells me she really is scraping the bottom of the barrel.

This isn’t to be mean/judgemental - but it’s funny how this time last year she was so busy vacationing after however long she was filming - and it seemed like her focus was on her travels with her besties.

A year later. This is what she posts. To let people know she’s still in this film. IDEK if any of the other women who worked on the film posted about reshoots 🤣

She didn’t post about working when the film was actually in production (but maybe that’s because it was during the strike and this film was exempt and allowed to keep filming but the actors couldn’t promote?) so that’s fair.

But no matter how you look at it, this girl’s priorities are always out of whack.

Your biggest claim to fame (WN) has a season two premiere and you decline to be interviewed while your costar is left alone to promote the show.

Instead, you do a walk in Central Park with your “bf” who is the only reason anyone even pays attention to you, and you take some yoga classes and photoshop your way to becoming an instructor. I’m unsure why anyone including your show’s show runner would really be willing to defend you? But again, I’m only seeing it from the outside.

WN fans went on twitter asking a reporter who interviewed your costar if you were doing one too and the reporter says you weren’t available. 🤣 Your costar does a buzzfeed interview alone. Your costars get together to do a save the show campaign and even got together to due a cast table read during the holidays but you were MIA for all of this.

Twitter fans asked if you would attend a comic con for the show in London and you also declined. Which, is your prerogative, but I do wonder what you DO think is worthy of your attention?

…

The ghosted movie premiere because your BF is famous and so is his female costar and there were other actual celebrities in attendance. Wow, Hugh jackman even showed up to the premiere - not for you, of course, and you didn’t even get to walk the red carpet but at least you got your one photo that you could photoshop and post your dress!

Paris fashion week with miumiu.

GQ man of the year.

Scarlett and Colin’s Christmas party.

Dinner with Edward Cullen and his gf/wife Suki.

GG after party for UTA.

CAA preOscars party.

VF after party.

—

Your priorities are always for things that have nothing to do with you (literally) but gets you free press, comped outfits, and media attention.

You didn’t show up to your small PT’s film showing at the Lisbon film festival when your husband was in town touring restaurants, but you do show up to a GQ event two weeks later that has nothing to do with you and you refused to talk to reporters.

I’d be hard pressed to believe an industry as unforgiving as Hollywood would be willing to overlook these things.

I guess your IMDB resume agrees with me though.

Just my two cents, I think her career ended the day she did the speedwalk in NYC. And I can only judge her work ethic and her social media behavior. We don't know how many auditions she did. I think she went to some auditions but I doubt she was so busy and had to travel between NYC and LA the whole time. In my opinion, she thought the title girlfriend/wife is the door opener and she doesn't need to do anything, she would get job offers. She was so wrong. In one of her last Portuguese interviews she said she's selective when it comes to new roles. That's just a nicer excuse why she's unemployed at the moment. There are no job offers.

Oh and let's assume she couldn't post anything about MM due to the strike. Why didn't she interact with the choreographer or other cast members or the crew? Interactions on social media were allowed. But interesting that she's now kissing asses and showing that people like her.

[sunshinesteviee]

tis the damn season — sneak peek

just posting a lil sneak peek (the first few paragraphs) of the fic i’m working on based off the song by taylor swift!! including a lil collage i made with the vibes of the fic hehe enjoy!!!!

Snow crunched underneath the tires of your mom’s car as she drove down main street, past the library, past the drug store, past the police station. Past all of the places you knew so well, but reminded you of a different lifetime. It hadn’t really been that long since you’d left for college, but everything felt so much different.

You’d left Hawkins pretty quickly, not long after defeating Vecna. Much to your surprise, you’d actually been accepted into a few of the colleges you’d applied to, and so when the time came, you were more than ready to pack up and leave Hawkins behind you. Unfortunately, that meant leaving behind everyone you knew and loved. It wasn’t the people that made you want to leave, it was the town itself, and all of the horrors it hid. It hadn’t been an easy decision — you’d agonized over it for months — but eventually, you decided it would be good to get a fresh start. And besides, you’d only be two hours away.

That fact didn’t make leaving any easier, though. Especially when one of the people you were leaving behind was your childhood best friend. The same best friend you’d been in love with for years. The same best friend who you’d gone to literal hell and back with. The same best friend who had confessed his feelings for you shortly before you were set to leave for school. In typical Steve fashion, he’d chosen the worst possible moment to lay everything out on the table.

There had always been something there. Lingering touches on your waist, stolen glances when the other wasn’t looking. Hand holding, cuddles during movie nights, chaste kisses on the cheek. It was obvious to everyone except the two of you. But of course, Steve confessed only as you were leaving.

It had broken your heart to break his, especially when you’d been waiting years for that exact moment. You’d spent hours thinking about and wishing for the moment when your best friend professed his love for you, only to have to turn him down when it finally happened.

The decision, though earth-shattering, had seemed like the right one at the time. It made sense in your head. What brand new relationship would work from two hours apart?

And despite the hurt, Steve had dropped you off at your dorm just like you’d planned. He’d helped you move in, given you the longest hug known to man, and promised to call as soon as he could. For the first week, Steve called every night to ask about your day and to make sure that you were okay.

But it had been weeks since you’d last properly talked to Steve, and it was killing you. Part of you was dreading seeing him, knowing the conversation that had to be had, but a bigger part of you felt like it was dying without him. You’d never been apart for this long, especially without talking regularly, and you missed him more than words could explain.

Your breath fogged up the glass as you stared out your frosted window and then doodled in the condensation. You weren’t sure how you were going to approach Steve, how to try to fix things. If things even could be fixed. There was a high likelihood that everything had been ruined, and if that was the case, you weren’t sure how you’d survive. How you’d live without him, especially after everything you’d been through together. You needed your best friend.

—

The fic isn’t done yet, but I can’t resist posting this & the moodboard collage I made hehe. Happy holidays!! Hoping to post this before the new year. If you want to be tagged when I post this, please let me know! 🫶🏼

[caramelcoeur]

General Heart Fragment Headcanons (pt. 1)

Because it's still occupying my mind. Also spoilers for Book 1 and Book 2!!

Natalia is THAT girl. She takes care of herself. She has a full skincare routine she carries out every week.

She once offered Teryl one of those shiny, silver face masks

He accepted it. And then asked for another one. And another one.

Cue Clive entering the shack. Two long-haired men with silver faces greet him. He doesn’t remember much about what happened after that.

Shannon has some beef with some bigger bakery corporations (because she’s just BETTER.)

No joke, they sent her a cease and desist email to literally stop handing out free pastries (she made herself) because people stopped purchasing from their stores during that period of time

Jasper sometimes uses the nickname ‘Lia’ for Natalia

Xani is kind of fluent in Spanish

Gray has his own StarxSocial account that Xani helped set up

He doesn’t post a lot on there, he mainly uses it for keeping up with news and… pop culture - in order to try and connect with Xani because god knows what the youth of the time are interested in

From time to time, he will get logged out and will have to ask his daughter how to log back in 

“Girl. What’s my password.”

“Sigh. It’s Learntowritedownyourpassword. And both of our birth years.”

“…doesn’t work.” “I didn’t mean it literally!!”

As a result of his mutation, Jasper actually has (retractable) wolf-like fangs! No, he’s not a vampire. No, he won’t bite you to suck your blood. (Although I’m sure a lot of you would loooove that)

Like the rest of his (presumed) powers, he refuses to use his fangs. Though, they may come out simultaneously when his eyes switch colour

Clive has the most horrendous experiences whenever a barista attempts to write his name on a cup

Sometimes he’ll just blurt out a random name that is nowhere close to his out of panic and when his coffee is completed he’ll just be sat there wondering

“Who’s Jonathan and why is he not collecting his coffee what a weirdo"

“……………….wait I’M Jonathan-“

Xani once witnessed Lana mix her own coffee by also dumping a whole energy drink into it

“I am going to die.” And then she chugged the whole thing

Shannon has gossip sessions with Kay.

They are genuinely both nice, caring and drama-free individuals but sometimes they'll hear about the stuff happening around them and be like, "omg we have to talk about this"

Lana may have fallen for her boyfriend first, but he fell way harder 

She got Inigo hyperventilating, giggling, blushing and kicking his blankets!!!

His sketchbooks quickly fill up with images of her and her flowing blue hair (I swear I will draw these two prompts someday. SOMEDAY)

Natalia is quite OP at video games, despite initially not having much experience?

"Teryl, you hand me over that controller right now because I swear I will burst a vein if you spend 20 more seconds on this level struggling"

If the group ever go out in public together, she's in charge of co-ordinating their outfits if she is not satisfied because she knows her fashion ��

But there will be times where she accidentally matches with Jasper??? Which is completely unintentional?

Natalia is forever a victim to Teryl

"is that my shirt." "sorry sweetie can't help the fact it looks better on me"

Her nails are sharp like a cat <3

[lokisasylum]

Be mindful of changes during ‘FACE’ release...

I’ve been seeing a lot of people overly excited of the possibilities once we get the TRACK LIST tomorrow, but we also need to be conscious that EVERYTHING that was discussed during FESTA2022 was “subject to change”.

Which also begs the question or theory that FESTA2022 was pre-recorded:

#01. Notice how they weren’t reading comments, but instead were reading pre-established questions.

#02. RM mentioned that the order of Solo-ALBUM releases & debuts would be: Jhope►Himself►JK►Suga►Jimin.

Despite the fact that we knew since MAY that Jhope would be the first to drop his album & debut in Lollapalooza. On that same kmedia article it was announced that HYBE would debut JK for the US right after Jhope’s.

#03. There were vague mentions of “possible” collabs in each other’s albums. Starting with Jimin having shown his songs between Jhope, Suga and even Jin. But neither of the 3 actually heard the same songs. And it was SUGA who brought up the topic that “Jimin’s been working on this one song...” and then proceeds to “reveal” (but was NOT confirmed) that Jimin asked him if he wanted to be featured in said song (note that not even Jhope knew about this song since Jimin showed him a different one). So in the end and after much teasing Suga said he would work with him or any of them for free. 

But what REALLY happened was:

[rest of 2022, July-onward]

A) Jhope debuted with JITB during July ► went to Lollapalooza.

B) JK did that collab with CP.

C) Tae did that one photoshoot with Vogue Korea & went to Paris Fashion Week for the Celine show along with L*sa & P*rk Bogum (but in the end it was Bogum who got the BA contract for Celine during November).

D) We started getting photos & info of Jimin working or having worked with multiple producers for his album and also hints of him doing photoshoots on his own. 

E) The Busan Concert happened, one final concert as a group of 7.

F) Jin was debuted with “The Astronaut” ► sang with Coldplay in Argentina. (Despite the fact that Jin hadn’t been planning to debut yet until AFTER his MS, but the producers apparently pressured him to finish at-least ONE song before this happened).

G) JK performed in the WC with “Dreamers” (a song that was originally a group collab/project due to their contract with HYUNDAI, but JK was sent alone instead of the whole group and BTS is credited in the song along with his name).

H) The choir that was featured & sang in the background of “Friends/Chingu” drops a surprise announcement through twitter and Instagram congratulating Jimin who was allegedly dropping a Single AHEAD of his upcoming album. But not even 12hrs later both of these announcement mysteriously disappeared.

I) RM debuts with “INDIGO” (Note: before his official debut, a Kmedia article, the same one that announced Jhope & JK’s solo debuts, said that INDIGO would feature collaborations between RM x Pharrel, as well as RM x JK, but neither of these happened).

J) Jimin is rumored to feature in a collab with Big Bang member, Taeyang, for his album in Jan.

K) Jin leaves for MS.

(I’m gonna skip the end of year awards ‘cause we’re drawing a timeline of debuts to compare with FESTA. There was also a Weverse post or conv between Taehyung & an army where Tae expressed that he scrapped his entire album/mixtape and will start working from scratch again despite him having almost finished it and Suga even told him during FESTA “Don’t be afraid just drop it and see what happens”)

[Start of 2023-onwards]

A) The collab between Jimin x Taeyang is revealed to be true & drops mid-January.

B) W.Korea Magazine drops a session of photos with Jimin.

C) Later on Jimin is also revealed as DIOR’s Global Brand Ambassador & that his first mission as GBA was to do this photoshoot with W.Korea (which was done sometime during August or so, but his contract with Dior happened as soon as BTS made their hiatus official) ► attends Paris Fashion Week where he is officially introduced as the Face of Dior.

**Note: Jhope also attends PFW as a guest to multiple brand shows.

D) A week or so later Suga is also announced/revealed as Brand Ambassador to Valentino under a special campaign (his contract with the brand had also been signed since BTS’ hiatus announcement) ► Attends Paris Fashion Week.

E) Jimin comes live twice in a span of two weeks where he gives us little snippets of what he’s been doing and working on, becoming GBA for Dior, how his album is doing. During the second time he comes online he tells us that his album would probably drop sometime in February and to look forward to it.

F) Tae starrs in a reality tv show that was secretly filmed in Mexico last year while on a “vacation trip” with wooga squad.

G) Mid-February Suga is announced to be going on a solo tour starting April.

H) Jimin’s album gets moved to March 24th.

Where am I going with all this?

That no matter WHAT happens when the track list drops tomorrow lets not feel sad or disappointment if certain things DON’T happen.

If we get collabs great, if not then also great. Its not the end of the world.

After-all, we know that PDogg was involved in the production of Jimin’s album and it is PDogg himself who has been against certain collabs between members in the past.

So lets just focus on supporting JIMIN to the fullest during his first and much anticipated solo album. Know where to buy so that it counts for charts, stream on all platforms that you can.

ENJOY THE RIDE. 

[sawyingthroughthewasteland]

OCs as Horror Tropes Tag Game

I’m getting popular with these :) got tagged by @valentineenjoyer  link to quiz! gonna do this with Sawyer, but I am seeing my cowriter next week so maybe I’ll force her to help me with Baron also :) Sawyer J. Lockwood, General of the Minutemen, ex-mech pilot and a post-war gay with all the associated trauma with it:

Question 1: Pick a time of day. 

Sawyer is actually an early bird thanks to having been raised on a farm. His day starts right when the sun goes up and he starts crashing when it goes down. This drives his husband, who used to live in Alaska, absolutely insane.  Question 2: Introvert or Extrovert? Sawyer’s a mix- he’s got a really good charismatic face and cares deeply about the people he’s in charge of keeping safe but also gets grumpy often and wants his alone time. Preston is the same so the two tag-team when it comes to managing people. Question 3: How do you respond to feeling lonely? Man’s been lonely for most of his life. Father passed away when he was young and shortly after he’d grown apart from his mother while trying to find himself in a baptist community. During the war, he struggled to make friends as he preferred to spend his time studying or training so a lot of his loneliness was fought off with Baron- his lover in the USAF. As Sawyer was in the navy’s experimental branch, it wasn’t often they saw each other but when they did they were attached at the hip. During the time post-war when Sawyer thought Baron was dead, he was lonely as all hell and didn’t deal with it the best- largely internalizing it as justification for being the sole survivor. Thankfully Preston helped pry him out of his depression hole and finding a new lover in Danse helped as he blossomed as the General. When Baron surprised everyone by arriving with the second wave of the BoS to check in with Maxson’s sudden silence- the two quickly became inseparable (which is probably why Sawyer didn’t nuke the BoS off the face of the earth the moment they appeared over the horizon.)  Question 4: Pick a deadly sin.    Pride. He’s spent a lot of time rebuilding himself as well as the world around him to be a better place- and he’s learned over and over again he has to be protective of it or else others will want to change it to their liking. He always accounts for others and tries to help the greater good, but also is painfully aware how important appearances are in a leadership position. He’s super smart, but mostly in pre-war era things and often forgets things have changed- resulting in his plans often running straight into walls if his friends aren’t there to help him course correct.  Question 5: Pick a van gogh painting. Starry Night. He doesn’t get to enjoy night anymore with how busy he is and longs for a summer night under the stars in fucking peace.  Question 6: song lyric question “Oh lets get old fashioned / Back to how things used to be / if I get old, old fashioned / would you get old, old fashioned with me?”  He’s significantly happier post-war in a world where things make more sense to him (community building, being self sustaining, returning to a trade system, everyone helping each other with no expected repayment in return) and of course loves the minutemen but.... often mourns the pre-war era. Less the technology and society back then, more the fact that he hadn’t been in any shape to ever make the most of it.  When Baron returns, he almost gets a second chance at it- and it certainly helps now that he finally as someone who relates to him concerning the sudden time skip.  Question 7: Warm or cool colors? Cool! Man loves his blues and foresty colors :) Question 8: Early bird or night owl? See question 1 lol Question 9: Pick an excerpt. “A heart’s a heavy burden.” - Howl from Howl’s Moving Castle Post-war, man would it be easy for him to snap and not bother to help anyone. His unique skills make it easy for him to never have to rely on a community and he could’ve lived for decades without ever seeing anyone just out in the woods but alas- his heart is too big for his own good.  Question 10: Pick another painting. Hamlet, Alphonse Mucha. Neat style and Sawyer loves his classics (and relates to Hamlet a lot).  Question 11: Choose a tarot card.  The Lovers. A lot of Sawyer’s story is motivated by love: love for the Minutemen and all their people, love for Danse, love for his son, love for Baron, and of course love for all his other friends and companions.  Question 12: Why are you tired? “I have never known anything else. The exhaustion, the fatigue- it is as much apart of me as my bones and blood. I cannot imagine myself without it.” Question 13: What is worship? “It is destructive, and it is a weapon.”  Sawyer’s seen what’s happened with past politicians and leaders, and wants nothing to do with it. Also ~trauma~ makes bringing anything remotely religious into the same room as him immediately makes him not trust you. He believes firmly in that everyone should help everyone and no man is above another- everyone is equal and should be viewed as such and if not, deserve to be knocked down. Question 14: Choose something to take from my pockets. “a bracelet of multicolored beads”. As long as its established that the quiz creator is chill with him taking it- yea he’d like a pride bracelet :) Question 15: Feel free to tell me something! Did this for a tag game and really wish I noticed there was 15 questions before writing long answers to everything but oh well lmao Answer: 

Thank for for the tag Valentineenjoyer!  People imma tag: @kyngsnake @wastelandhell and if anyone else wants to join they can :) (yall don’t need to go as crazy as me on the answers, most just put the result of this I’m just insane)

[lumiereandcogsworth]

hii hello !!

i had a few questions i was wondering :

-at the end of beauty and the beast during the spring dance, do you hc that being a time skip to belle and adams wedding, or just it being a celebratory dance?

-do you think the french revolution happened in that universe since it was the time period? if so what would you think happened?

-what year (if you have an exact year hc) do you think adam and belle got married? my main question is just about the french revolution really to see if you think it’d still happen ?? like i think the monarchy ended 1792 so do you think their story is before that?

sorry for these random questions 😭

I LOVE MORE QUESTIONS YIPPEE!!!!!

1. no no no yeah that’s just a celebration ball!!! i am very adamant that that is NOT their wedding!!!!! here are my reasons for why it is not their wedding:

belle looking curiously at adam’s face and asking “how would you feel about growing a beard?” very clearly indicates that things are still NEW. she’s teasing obviously but like, clearly she’s still getting used to his human face!! that’s an odd thing to say if there’s been a time skip and a whole courtship, engagement, and wedding planned. believe me, by THAT point, she’s well acquainted with that human face of his!

all the women are wearing white dresses, not just belle!! and, in fact, belle’s is the LEAST wedding-like of all the white dresses there. if you look at what everyone is wearing, the fashion theme seems almost entirely back suits & white dresses. with the exceptions of adam, cogsworth, and lumiere, who are dressed in Their Colors™️ to intentionally make them stand out. (and of course madame de garderobe, because she’s a fashion goddess and cannot be contained by simple themes and aesthetics🤌✨)

on that note, kind of, neither adam nor belle are wearing wedding rings! they are both wearing rings but belle’s just wearing the pinky one she’s had the whole time, and adam’s is on his index finger and is huge and obviously not a wedding ring, lol.

the only people AT this ball are the castle residents and the villagers. basically all the villeneuve citizens. very much implying that it’s a local celebration. if the PRINCE was getting married, wouldn’t the wedding be a LOT bigger? (oh hey check out my recent fic set at their wedding!!! hehehe). AND in the script, it describes the setting with “the entire village celebrates” — and nothing more. to me, if this was intended to be their wedding, it would have been more specified.

and this last points means the least to me because the adaptations are very different in my head, but it’s worth noting that batb 1991 doesn’t end with their wedding either! so no reason to think that that’s changed.

OH and i forgot to add, but to me, i think that celebration ball takes place about a week after the curse is lifted!! they’re so excited to celebrate, and adam, all high on freedom and true love, even suggests that they should just do it tomorrow!! but cogsworth BEGS to have just a MOMENT to be able to properly plan it. PLEASE. so they settle for in one week’s time, we’ll all celebrate properly ✨

and belle makes her silly inquiry about his facial hair because it’s the first time they’re all dressed up together, post-everything, but also because, like i said, she’s still getting used to his face! she hasn’t spent every waking moment with him yet, as i think maurice would want her to come home just a Little Bit. the courting phase is kind of interesting for her, because i think she does spend a lot of her time at the castle, but i also think she wouldn’t just Stop living at home with maurice completely. they’re very bonded!! and, in her mind, she was apart from him for a WHILE. but now i’m rambling waaayyy to much. i can get more into that on another ask, if you want sjdksjd. but my point here is, that celebration ball is 100% very new, and 10000% NOT their wedding 💐

2. hahaha no i actually like to think that this is an alternate reality where adam & belle are such a fantastic king & queen that the people are happy and don’t revolt, LMAO. but hey, i majored in history, i know reality is rough. that’s why in fiction it’s very lovely and happyyyy🥰!! i only like royalty in fiction, it is WILDLY messy in real life. (which is still fun to study sometimes, but absolutely horrendous to witness) AND IM NOT LETTING MY BABIES GET GUILLOTINED OKAY!!!

3. yes i actually have made a very detailed timeline with years and dates and such. which shouldn’t be a surprise to you by now, lol, but YEAH. so, many years ago, before i knew more, i decided that the movie would be set in 1740 — purely for the reason that the first french iteration of the story, “la belle et la bête” was written by gabrielle-suzanne barbot de villeneuve in 1740! so i was like, that’s good enough for me!!! i have since learned that batb 1991 was actually most closely adapted from the second french iteration, same title of course, by jean-marie de beaumont in 1756!! so i do admit that if i had known all of this seven years ago, i probably would have made the movie set in ‘56! BUT! i did not, and my timeline is soooo deeply detailed now and, truthfully, it Doesn’t Matter At All, because the disney story is still quite removed from the 18th century books, so you can literally do whatever you want! and it’s okay! (also 1740 is such a nice round number to figure stuff out from😭, i love it) and i mean, i think a lot of people have guessed (based on wardrobe?) that the 1991 film is set in like the 1780s. which is fine too! truly go off, there’s no proof of the year within the movie, and i don’t trust historical accuracy with wardrobe in films basically ever, so it really is up to you!

but yes, for me, my timeline begins in june of 1740. they get married on september 24th, 1740. they’re officially coronated king & queen in january 1741. their first child is born april 6th, 1742, and so on and so forth… i looooooove my timeline very very much. any of the landmark years pop up in my life and i’m like HEY!!!🫵 but anyway i love the details of my timeline, sometimes i really do feel like they’re a real royal family in actual history and that i could give full lectures teaching about their era. their love story!!!

so yeah! i’ll say this, as a last fun little note, that i DO still honor the 1756 book by using the author’s last name, beaumont, as adam’s family name! his family is the royal house of beaumont, in my world. at the actual time, it was bourbon, and then napoleon, of course! but here it is beaumont 💙✨

[fuckzachariah]

Zach tore through withdrawals in much the same manner his car had torn through chaparral barrelling down the Hollywood Hills; with physical abandon, a total loss of control, and an unfortunate failure to kill him. He was incapable of envisioning a reality beyond the maniacally excruciating two weeks ahead of him post-day one. His muscles cramped, seized, he was constantly coated in cold sweat no matter how long he spent despairing beneath the shower head, he was agitated and jumpier than he ever was high, quick to anger and quicker to lash out. And he was depressed; so, so crushingly depressed he couldn’t wait for the weight of it to snuff him out. He could do little between blinding headaches but hanker over what he had lost until he threw up, rolling over from fits of sleep to unspool the scarce contents of his stomach into routinely cleaned and replaced bowls at his bedside. In this time, there was no opportunity between bouts of suffering to therapize him into any semblance of mental harmony. Nurses scuttled around him, apologetic for the minimal space they occupied in his bleary vision, attempting to make him as comfortable as possible. But they knew as well as he did; this was only a waiting game.

By the end of his second week, he found himself submerged from shoulder to toe in a bubbling salt bath, face turned to the winter sun, the worst of his withdrawals finally behind him. He wished now for only silence. For absolute nothingness. For another iteration of oblivion he fashioned into reason in his mind that his therapist would later inform him was passive suicidal ideation. At that, Zach would laugh. He would say, that must be the only passive thing about me, and his therapist’s brow would twitch as she fended off a frown. The silence he yearned for was granted to him only in 'safe intervals'. He was frequently checked upon, accounted for, accommodated for. Every twenty minutes around the clock, in fact. It drove him fucking insane - and he informed his therapist of this fact, boldly. Though she did not offer him the solace he craved, either. Instead she seemed to feel it necessary that, every day, something new and terrible about him was revealed at exactly the wrong time. “I’m growing to resent you,” he told her once, agitatedly, during one of their daily sessions. She, as always, offered little in the way of a facial response, refusing to give up how she felt about him or their conversation at any time, no matter how forcefully he pushed. “Well, that’s because I am frequently the bearer of bad news, and you don’t have the tools yet to process negativity without resorting to hurting yourself or others. And we don’t let you hurt yourself or others in here. What you actually resent is having to face your problems head-on.” And then, after some silence, he laughed, rolled his eyes, and told her fuck herself. He was sure, then, he’d spotted a twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

Eventually, he found himself able to find small joys again; he wrote songs in his room under supervision, as he wasn't permitted to be alone with his guitar. “What?” he’d asked the nurse as she’d settled into the seat tailing his bed. “Do you think I’m going to hang myself with the strings or something?” To which the nurse had smiled politely, bowed her head, and answered, “maybe!” But, at this particular interim of his stay, he found his thoughts obsessing and lassoing the memory of Alex until she almost suffocated to death in his mind. He became enslaved to talking about her. Writing about her. Dreaming of her until he woke up in a fit, sweating and gasping. After a month of this behavior, Zach became terrified of the impossibility of living his life without her on the outside. Despite his efforts to exorcize her from his heart, to reason with their relationship and its subsequent non-existence, he felt he grew no closer to psychological freedom. He then, of course, could not help but wonder where she found herself now. If she too sat in a facility’s yard, far from her own life, surrounded by strangers, looking up at the slow-moving clouds and wishing to Heaven it hadn’t all gotten so fucked up. Squeezing her so hard in his head that maybe, somewhere, she felt the twinge of his insistence in her shoulders.

Zach was unwilling to leave once his mandatory two-month sign on was up; the bubble in which he now lived was too addicting. He could, however, take visitors now, and was somewhat moved to find a sizeable list of people waiting to do so. Ryan, Amanda, Tasha, Loni, Paula and Kylie had all contacted the facility enquiring after him, and an ordered list had been curated. They were permitted to one to three hour visitation periods, once a week. His first with Ryan almost made him sick in the ten minutes he was made to wait in the gardens, discomfort squirming beneath his skin. One by slow one, he adjusted to interacting with the remnants of his outside life, and was particularly ecstatic to be joined by his baby brother when Paula came. He so awake now, so alive in Zach's arms, his babbling like a survivalist song, their identical eyes finding one another's over and over as they sat in the grass and Paula cried happy tears. She told him she wasn’t able to let Warren go once Zach re-entered society, sending him off to foster parents and the like, and that if Zach was open to it, she would keep him under her permanent care, and Zach could visit or have him whenever he liked, for however long. Zach pondered this endlessly, relieved from the strangle of thoughts Alex had on him. He concluded that he would move Paula and Warren into a home closer to his own, and that he would attempt to take his brother whenever he could, as he anticipated a long hiatus from his career as discussed with Amanda on her visit. If they moved too quickly, even a year too quickly, he could land himself back in square one.

Closing in on his fourth month, at the end of which he was set to return home, Kylie finally took her turn visiting him. Nerves no longer plagued his pre-visitation ritual, and he sat at the tail end of the garden by the koi pond as he waited for her. Summer was swelling into full-bloom when a rustle over his shoulder turned his head, and he saw her heading toward him down the winding stone path in a little white dress with her blonde hair twisting almost to her hips, great globules of sun rays dribbling over her like melting ice cream. He squinted up, leaning back on his hand in the grass, and felt something flip in his stomach that alarmed him. It felt like a betrayal. He thought immediately of Alex. “My, my,” Kylie smiled, shaking her head, taunting him ahead of him even having uttered a word. “Not a scratch or bruise on you. You got all dolled up for little ol’ me?” His lip curled. She had a nauseating way of goading him into humor. “You know, you look just like this American singer I’ve heard of once or twice…” She settled, sitting on her heels, across from him. "That right?" he murmured amusedly. She kissed her teeth. “Except, you’re far too sweet to be him - word is he’s a real piece of work.” Zach sank into her presence like the morning into the noon, shocked once again by her seeming immovability. Was she so endlessly selfless with everyone she knew? It couldn’t be possible - if it were, she’d have nothing left to give. Certainly not enough to fill a bottomless pit like himself.

Returning home was unpleasant. Though it had been scrubbed and fixed up to within an inch of its life, cleaned of his months of self-destruction and scoured from corner to corner for hidden stashes of any substance that could send him reeling over the knife-edge of relapse, the walls still clung to the memories of himself and Alex. Missing her hit him like a shot to the gut the moment he was alone, every corner radiating with their history. He could barely glance at a thing without the sting of her absence plucking his bones from their joints. Though Ryan pledged to stay with him for as long as Zach would have him, it wasn’t enough. He had to leave.

They set to work immediately in trying to find him a new place, and putting his own home of almost a decade up for sale, and in the meantime Zach, Ryan and Eden lived together in Ryan’s house. It was close quarters, and he could barely take the tip-toeing, the kind tones, the forced peace. He felt the incessant itch to anger them into action, that undying urge to push and push at those he loved until they snapped and thus, proved they loved him back through their violence. But he knew better now, he told himself. Anger was not a show of love, screaming was not proof of devotion. He recited this to himself so frequently the mantra took the place of silence in his mind. Eventually, he could not deny his suffocation any longer - so he picked up the phone. She sounded the same as she always did; sticky and sweet, honey on the tongue. “Hey, um, correct me if I’m wrong,” she began, always too quick, “but am I talking to an official, functioning member of society right now?”

In the doorway of her childhood bedroom, Alexandra stood, surveying the familiar space with a sense of detachment she had never experienced before. It was one that she welcomed – a departure from the roller coaster of emotions that once gripped her. Two months at the rehabilitation facility had been a journey, knitting together the frayed edges of her mental, physical, and emotional well-being. Her eyes lingered on the now inconspicuous scar on her left forearm and a wave of gratitude washed over her. The wound had healed with an almost miraculous grace, leaving behind only faint traces of it existence. It was a silent testament to the progress she made, and a reminder of the strength she discovered within herself. The path to this newfound clarity had been neither swift nor simple. The memory of Zach’s final declaration had been both a revelation and a stumbling block. In its wake, doubt crept in. Had all of this been for nothing? Her therapy sessions became a crucial compass in navigating this question. Despite the undeniable love they shared, it was glaringly apparent that the foundation of their relationship was anything but solid. It wasn’t a mere matter of communication issues either; the intricacies ran far deeper.

The intensity of the emotions, while genuine, had become a double-edged sword, cutting through the fabric of their relationship. Complicating matters further was their shared struggle with substance abuse and alcohol – a toxic cocktail that did little to ease their struggles. Their young love was attempting to blossom in the harsh soil of abnormal circumstances. It was a turbulent landscape, one where normalcy seemed like an elusive mirage. As she reflected on that night, she realized it didn’t matter what he said in that emotionally charged moment. It would have always been difficult to sustain their relationship. The acknowledgement of this truth, though painful, liberated her from the illusion that a simple resolution or a well-timed phrase could have altered the inevitable course they were on. They were not meant to be. She understood that moving on would be a gradual process, only marked by the passing of time. Though throughout her treatment, not a single day passed without her thoughts veering towards him, wondering how he was navigating these new challenges. Alex wondered about his mother and the progressing stages of her pregnancy. She trusted that his tight-knit group of friends and supportive team would safeguard his well-being. And in these moments, she wished him nothing but happiness, envisioning a day when he might find peace within the labyrinth of his beautiful, complex mind, even if it was not with her.

Alex was encouraged not to seek information about him. The notion of doing so felt premature and posed a significant risk to her mental health. She also could not forget the promise she made to her father, vowing not to initiate contact with him ever again. Thus far, her father had demonstrated his unwavering commitment to her by remaining true to his word. He not only restored access to the trust fund, but also assumed the responsibility of caring for her. Despite these gestures of care, he was not keen on allowing her to return to her apartment. It was a space heavy with the weight of painful memories, a place where death lingered, symbolizing not only the demise of her mother’s dream for a happy family, but also the end of her relationship with Zach. In lieu of returning to that apartment, her father proposed an alternative refuge – his home. Emotions churned within her as she wrestled with the idea of living under her father’s roof. The history of their strained relationship added to this concern. Yet, he assured her it was only temporary, a steppingstone toward a future where she could carve her own path. The promise of independence and the prospect of starting anew in a different place offered a glimmer of hope, prompting her to acquiesce. As she entered the bedroom, a hushed tranquility enveloped it and memories flooded back like a torrent.

The soft touch of her fingertips on the white bedding was like a portal to the past, summoning recollections of her last night in this space. A bittersweet smile played on her lips as she reminisced about Zach’s climb up the lattice to reach her. The room witnessed the culmination of that evening, with Zach laying her down while the effervescence of champagne cast a dreamlike haze over her senses. No sooner had their clandestine moment begun, it was over with Noah’s intrusion. The fragile bubble they sought to create vanished swiftly, leaving them with a sense of defeat. It was as if the odds had been against them from the start, ensuring they never had a fair chance to flourish. Alex sank onto the bed, the weight of her bag sliding off of her shoulder. The clinking of prescription pill bottles echoed in the room as she meticulously arranged them on the nightstand. With a practiced routine, she selected one, twisted the cap, and placed the tablet on her tongue, washing it down with a sip from her water bottle. Settling into bed, she allowed the medication to usher in a sense of calmness. Her gaze drifted toward the ceiling, welcome the idea of a night’s peaceful slumber in her own bed. It was interrupted by the subtle vibration of her cell phone nestled in the bottom of her bag.

Without lifting her head from the pillow, she fumbled for the device, eventually retrieving it. Amid the multitude of notifications, a message from Isaaq beckoned her attention. Ale, I miss talking to you. I hope you’re okay. Aware that it was too soon to entertain thoughts of a new relationship, Alex could not deny the appeal of some sort of companionship. Her fingers hesitated, looming above the keyboard, contemplating the words she might choose and considering the consequences of her decision. Isaaq and Zach were far from friendly, but they shared friends and management, a delicate web connecting them all. Was it safe to tread these waters? A soft sighed escaped her as her response emerged on the screen. I miss talking to you too.

[mistymuses]

The Problem of Miss Saigon:

Re-listening to Miss Saigon for the first time in a very long time, and I am utterly disgusted with myself as a young teen who thought this was one of the most romantic shows I'd ever heard... I could not have been more wrong.

Chis is the worst case of toxic masculinity . Chris literally tells Kim that he'll "take her out with him" and goes through the marriage ceremony in Saigon with her. Yes, he's clueless, but he doesn't even try to understand, he just goes along with it.

Then, much later, when he's with Ellen, he tells her "I'm an American, how could I fail to do good?!" - which is one of the worst lines I've ever heard and I wanted to slap the man. Dude, you might admit you made a mess, but the fact that you really, really really think this is ... worrying. Frightening. You're passionate about it and *Dear God* you're such a little man-child.

He constantly treats and talks of Kim as though she's a possession "you're the one good thing that I've found out here"... romantic, if he hadn't called her a *thing*. Then when Thuy comes to "claim" Kim (and he's a whole issue all on his own, that deserves another post), Chris bristles and says "this girl is mine!" - they've been together less than a *week*.

He gets caught up in the magic and the romance of being with Kim, then all but blames everyone else for it when the chickens come home to roost. Kim's hopes and dreams get treated as though she's lost the plot, when that's exactly what Chris had been promising her the entire time he's in Vietnam.

The only one who sees him for the Idiot he is appears to be John, ironically, who says during the number *317* "What sustained her for miles, Chris still knows nothing of," - which is such a powerful line and shows how well this man understands his best friend. And he tells Ellen and Chris to their faces when they're deciding Tam and Kim's fates that they are "talking like fools". I actually think he would have been an amazing person for Kim to have been with - if indeed, she *had* to be paired up with someone as seems to be the way with these old fashioned musicals.

There’s the line that Ellen and Chris share at the end of The Confrontation which never fails to make me bristle: We will do what is right - right for Tam, right for us, and for Kim. Kim is the last one that they consider, and I hate it so much.

Instead... well, those of you that know the musical know how it ends. Poor Tam; I would love to see how Chris and Ellen dealt with explaining it all to him when he's older. I would not be surprised if they completely avoided the topic of Kim, and, knowing Chris' saviour complex, simply told him they brought him back as one of the Boi-Doi children to raise. Kim would have faded into obscurity - I'm not sure that Tam would have been old enough to remember Kim, as heartbreaking as it is, before she died.

Chris would have gotten away with the wreck of what he's done, and Tam might have remained forever in the dark about his origins.

Chris is a terrible character, and this is *not* a romance tale - its just a tragedy.

[mizunetzu]

ok ok so my request 👉🏻👈🏻

it’s the most obvious thing but i have a full crush on bakugou, so can you please write about him x male reader, where the reader is like.. having nightmares or almost doesn’t sleep because of his quirk (idk like maybe he can hear something special or predict anything bad, doesn’t really matter) but feels safe around bakugou so he always falls asleep around him or even oN him and katsuki is like “😡(❤️)shit whatever” and the reader is kinda shy about that but totally ok with their friends being like “wow bro that’s kinda gay :> ” because he is comfortable with “oh that’s because i aM the gay✌🏻” and his classmates love him and everything and would never mock.. but one time someone from another class was really really rude bcs of that or said that katsuki hates it so the reader starts to avoid bakugou and bakugou geTS MAD about it because reader is just his and no one else’s >:0 maybe a little confession from him in the end, maybe some.. *gay coughing* angy k*ss from him

please make it angsty but with a fluffy ending please please and thank you very much in advance💙 sorry if it’s too big i can’t explain my thoughts properly thaha

Bruh I just realized how long this request is 💀💀 also look at me, writing it like decades after you requested it 😭 pls enjoy I’m actually quite proud of it (also isn’t that gif perfect hahah get it bc the prompt was abt like sleeping and bakugou’s sleeping and-yeah I’ll let u read now)

——————

Bakugou x reader - Angry Insomniacs

⚠️Warnings - mild arguing, it’s not that bad

Pronouns - male, he/him

——————

“Why are you always fuckin’ sleeping on me?”

It first started during the Sports Festival. The chicken race and cavalry battle really took a toll on (Y/n), and he was suffering harsh quirk drawbacks. That, being drowsiness.

Somewhere on the stands, (y/n’s) eyes grew heavier and heavier until he realized he had fallen asleep. He also didn’t realized until he woke up that no one disturbed him when he was near Bakugou. Be it fear, or just plain respect, (Y/n) seemed to get the best rest when he was with Bakugou. Not even Iida dared to wake him up when he dosed off on Bakugous shoulder.

He always made it a point to be in Bakugous vicinity when ever he could, taking naps with his head buried in his arms next to Bakugou at lunch, or having his head resting on his shoulder in the dorms.

“Oi! Don’t drift off on me!”

“Mm? Sorry, Bakugou.”

(Y/n) rubbed his eyes as he weakly pushed off the common room couch, stretching and yawning as he did so. “Can I sleep in your room tonight?”

“N-no, dumbass! Fuck kinda question is that, shit-for-brains?!”

“I’ll see you there later then, Bakugou.” (Y/n) gave a slight nod, Bakugou practically foaming at the mouth already, before trotting off the continue his nap in his own room.

Before heading to his room though, he walked into the kitchen to grab a post-nap time snack. Tsuyu, who was already digging in the fridge, stepped back so (Y/n) could grab whatever he wanted.

Tsu eyed (Y/n’s) slightly tousled hair. “Did you take another nap on bakugou-chan? Kero.”

(Y/n) hummed out a “yes.” Tsu hummed back in acknowledgment. Kaminari and Kirishima, unintentionally, started listening in from their place in the kitchen after hearing Bakugou being mentioned.

Tsuyu put a finger to her lip. “Ne, (Y/n)-chan, why do you always take naps on Bakugou-chan? It’s always him, kero, and you go out of your way to make sure it’s only him.”

“Why?” (Y/n) pulled off the carton of milk stubbornly hanging on to the fridge. “Because I like Bakugou. Duh. And I sleep better near people I like.

Kaminari gasped comically while Kirishima sputtered and choked on his words. Not just listening anymore, Kaminari but in. “L-like? Like, ‘like’-like?!”

Kaminari and Kirishima joined Tsuyu and (Y/n) near the fridge. (Y/n) nodded out an “mm-hm.”, whilst grabbing a cup from the cabinet.

“So you’re like...” Kirishima made wild, indecipherable, gestures with his hand. Eventually, after realizing no one was taking the hint, brought his voice down to a whisper.

“...like...gay..?”

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell us?!” Kaminari grasped at his blond hair. (Y/n) thought for a moment, poured himself a glass of milk, and shrugged.

“I don’t know. You never asked.”

“And you’re so comfortable just telling us now? Why, kero-kero?”

“Because I’m gay as fuuuuuck.” (Y/n) took a swig of milk like it was a shot of whiskey. “And it’s not like it was a secret or anything.”

“Though I don’t think Bakugou knows. He’s too angry about me sleepin’ on him all the time to actually care about me.”

(Y/n) polished off his glass of milk. He set the cup down gently into the sink. “Eh, it’s not like I actually care for what he thinks about me.”

“See ya, I’m gonna finish my nap.”

“Uh-bye”

“Bye-bye.”

“Bye, kero.”

———

(Y/n) yawned as his head lolled off of Bakugou’s shoulder. He hissed, dusting off his shoulder angrily.

“Go sleep somewhere else!”

“I’m just goin’ to the bathroom, Bakugou, I’ll be back. Keep your shoulder warm for me.”

(Y/n) weakly stood up from his chair, and sluggishly walked out of the cafeteria. Damn, his feet felt heavy. Maybe if he hurried to the bathroom, he’d get back in time to catch a few more minutes of sleep before Bakugou exploded on him or lunch ended.

(Y/n’s) shoulder accidentally caught on someone else’s, making him stumble back and rub his shoulder. Monoma tilted his chin up in a mocking fashion.

“Ara? Is that (L/n) (Y/n) from class 1-A I see?”

(Y/n) nodded, only half processing his words as he continued on his way to the bathroom. Monoma followed somewhat behind, spewing words and one-liners that went in one ear and out the other. That is, until,

“Honestly, you would’ve thought that angry blond kid would’ve told you by now”.

(Y/n’s) ear perked up. He halted to a stop, Monoma following suit and shoving his hands smugly in his pockets. “What’s this about Bakugou?”

“Oh? He really didn’t tell you, huh? That’s...” Monoma stifled a condescending snicker. “...surprising.”

(Y/n) stepped closer. “C’mon man, tell me what?”

Monoma sighed. “Well,”

“I heard that Mr. Blasty, matter-o-factly,” Monoma jabbed his pointer finger into (Y/n’s) chest. “Really, really hates it when you sleep on, or near him. Actually,”

“I think he just hates you in general.”

(Y/n) furrowed his brows. He’s lying. He’s lying. He likes him, doesn’t he? Bakugou likes him, or else he wouldn’t have lead him on for so long, right?

Because he wouldn’t let just anyone sleep on his shoulder...right?

“You’re lying.”

“Well, believe what you want, honestly,” Monoma made a show of crossing his arms dramatically. “But you should see the way he shit-talks and glares at you in you’re sleep. It’s not like he can push you off though, you’re ‘just so persistent you’ll never leave him the fuck alone’.”

(Y/n) shoved his hands in his pockets. Monoma raised his hands in defense. “His words, not mine.”

(Y/n) turned on his heel and began to speed walk to the bathroom. Monoma yelled out from his spot in the empty hallway.

“Oh? You don’t want to hear what he thinks about your little crush on him?”

(Y/n) froze. He was under the assumption that everyone but him knew, could he be wrong? He pressed his lips into a fine line, turning around as composedly as he could. Though, he couldn’t mask the fearful curiosity in his eyes.

Monoma grinned. It was an unpleasant, sarcastic grin, one that didn’t look peaceful or pleasing at all.

“Well, I doubt that there’s anything to to say at all, so does it really ma-“

“What...what does he say about me?” (Y/n’s) voice quivered. He knew he was falling into Monoma’s trap, that he was just trying to provoke him, that he was looking for any kind of reaction, but his curiosity got the best of him. It really did, because Monoma’s words stabbed spears into (Y/n’s) heart, word by word.

“Blasty thinks it’s fucking disgusting how you like him, like, as another dude. Like honestly, he thinks you take him for an idiot for thinking he actually didn’t know! And the fact you sleep so close to him know full well you want to get in his pants?! He thinks you’re a pervert! A lazy shit! A fag! Ahahaha!”

Monoma loud cackles were cut short when he suddenly slumped over. He sunk to the ground, revealing Kendo, holding one big hand up and the other to her waist. She most likely knocked Monoma out once she heard his condescending retorts from the cafeteria.

Kendo sighed, bending down the haul Monoma’s arm over her shoulder. Her heavy glare softened once she caught sight of (Y/n’s) buggy eyed face starting at the ground where Monoma was.

“Sorry...he didn’t say anything too harsh, right?” Kendo’s words were gentle, but they sounded practically inaudible to (Y/n’s) traumatized ears.

He wordlessly staggered past her, heading back into the cafeteria to grab his lunch and sit elsewhere. He supposed he wouldn’t bother Bakugou anymore. Since he’s so damn ‘persistent’, he figured he’d stop bothering him for the rest of the day.

He wished he wasn’t so curious about what Bakugou thought of him. Like people say, ignorance is bliss. He could’ve gone his whole high school career without knowing Bakugou hated his every being. How was he going to face him in class knowing every pointer glare, every scoff, every insult was genuine?

(Y/n) felt his throat tighten. For the first time in years, (L/n) (Y/n) was fully awake.

——

It was the first time in many months that (Y/n) didn’t sit in the seat next to Bakugou, napping in his presence. He’d done it every day no fail, that is until this week. Actually, this is the 6th consecutive day he didn’t take a nap at all.

(Y/n) sat placid in his assigned seat, eyes wide and trying to keep awake. He couldn’t sleep without thinking of Bakugou, and every time he did it was always him scoffing and turning his back on him.

Every few seconds, (Y/n) would jolt harshly in his seat, rocking back and forth like a drug addict in withdrawal. He stared at his desk with eyes that could kill someone, and he dug his hands into his forearms to keep himself somewhat awake.

He didn’t hear Kirishima calling his name until he snapped his fingers infront of his face. The snap rang like a gunshot, surprising (Y/n) from his trance so badly he jolted back like he got electrocuted. Kirishima raised an eyebrow.

“You...ok man...?”

(Y/n’s) dry eyes landed fixed onto Kirishima. He relaxed, and let out a breath he didn’t know he was taking. “M’fine...”

His voice cracked like it hadn’t been used for days. (Y/n) let his eyes drift back forward, hunching back over and huddling his body like he was trying to squeeze himself to death. When Kirishima gave him a skeptical glare and crossed his arms, (Y/n) let out a small “m’ just tired, that’s all...” and gave the most pathetic smile known to man.

“If you’re so tired,” Mina, rested her arms on the back of (Y/n’s) chair. “Why don’t you sleep on Bakugou like you do every morn-“

“NO! I-I can’t do that!” (Y/n) whipped his head back, gripping the back of his chair so hard his hand turned white. Mina and Kirishima flinched, noticeably caught off guard with his sudden outburst. “I...can’t...I can’t do that...”

(Y/n) suddenly looked very awake, contrasting the way he looked like he was struggling to keep his eyes open the whole time they were in class.

(Y/n’s) breath steadied as he shut his mouth awkwardly. “M’sorry...for yelling...didn’t mean to...”

(Y/n) scrubbed at his eyes. The rush of adrenaline was already wearing off. Mina set her dainty pink hand on (Y/n’s) hunched form. “Why not...?”

“I just can’t.”

(Y/n) said nothing more. He went back to his occasional jolts awake and scrubbing his heavy eyes every 2 minutes. Kirishima sighed, shaking his head towards Bakugou, before shrugging his shoulders then forming an ‘X’ with his hands.

Bakugou clicked his tongue angrily, turning and facing back forward in his seat.

——

(Y/n) was practically seeing stars by the end of hero’s class.

It was a relatively simple assignment, 1 on 1 sparring, but it caused a lot of quirk use.

He fought both his tired eyes and Midoryia, but ultimately failing due to his harsh quirk drawbacks. Midoryia barely had to break a sweat to have (Y/n) come toppling down.

(Y/n) was ushered back into the horde of students murmuring “don’t mind” and “you did great!”, but he just slithered past and stood a few feet away from them, all the way in the back of the field.

All might was explaining something (Y/n) couldn’t quite hear. Not only because he was standing so far away, but because his hearing had been considerably wonky, not to mention the hissing, ringing sound irritating his eardrums.

“Oi.”

And even if the ringing had stopped and he could hear, his brain was too tuckered out to remember anything past five seconds ago.

“Oi!”

Gosh, speaking of his brain-

“OI! SHIT-FOR-BRAINS! YOU GONNA KEEP IGNORING ME OR YOU GONNA TELL ME WHY YOU’VE BEEN AVOIDIN’ ME?!”

Bakugou set off a small explosion. The blast wasn’t nearly as loud or powerful as in combat, but to a tired mans ears, it sounded like nukes. The ringing in (Y/n’s) ears spiked, and he cupped his ears tightly.

“B-Bakugou, nows not-“

“OH, YOU TRYNA TUNE ME OUT BY COVERIN’ YOUR EARS NOW?!” Another explosion. Bakugou’s gauntlets had been out for repairs since his last hero training, so (Y/n) could clearly see the glowing red and yellow spark from his fist. The ringing spiked again. His vision burned with sparks.

(Y/n) winced, saying nothing, and brought his hands to rub at his eyes. Bakugou eyebrow twitched.

“STOP IGNORING ME!”

Bakugou brought his hand out, his gloved hand starting to glow red with his next explosion. (Y/n) couldn’t take it anymore.

He stumbled forward, and grabbed Bakugou’s wrist. He shoved it out of the way, but his hand still ignited and set off a blast that propelled them straight to the ground.

“G-get off-a me!” Bakugou tried pushing (Y/n) off with his free hand.

(Y/n) pinned Bakugou’s glowing right hand by the wrist, using his other to hold down his other shoulder. (Y/n) would’ve never done something as ballsy and stupid as this, but he was too tired, too done, too much in pain to care.

“What are you actually trying to say!? All that stupid extra yelling and petty insults, they get you fucking nowhere! Spit it out! Or does trying to intimidate every single fucking person you meet just self-satisfaction?!”

Bakugou growled. He grabbed at (Y/n’s) shoulders, pushing off of him and pinning (Y/n) to the ground in his place.

“Then what about you, huh?!” Bakugou was angrily spitting at (Y/n’s) face. “Why the fuck did you stop getting enough sleep for your quirk?! Are you just that dumb that you stay up at night?!”

“I don’t wanna hear it from a stupid fucker like you, who can’t even take care of himself!”

(Y/n) hissed. He freed his dominant hand from Bakugou’s vice grip and pushed at Bakugou’s face, grabbing a fistful of his hair. “All you ever do is shit talk! Shut up! No one thinks it’s fucking cool!”

“What the hell are you even talking about?!”

The two wrestled on the ground, angrily grabbing and tugging at each other, and rolling around on the floor. There were shouts of “get Aizawa-no, get midnight-sensei!” and “All might, stop them!”, but the two were so caught up in their fight they couldn’t hear anything.

“Can’t you ever learn to mind your fucking Business?!”

“What the fuck does that even have to do with this!”

(Y/n) flipped Bakugou over one more time. He pushed him down by the forehead, pushing his head down into the ground while Bakugou flailed and kicked from underneath him.

“SHUT UP! WHY DO YOU EVEN FUCKIN’ CARE, BAKUGOU?! WHY DO...w-why do...wh...”

A sweet, sweet smell flooded (Y/n’s) senses. It smelt relaxing, tantalizing, it smelled like sleep. It smelled like sleep. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to sleep so bad. Maybe he could just...

(Y/n) slowly sank from his spot on top of Bakugou, flopping on top of his body and going completely slack. Bakugou’s eyes widened, and he covered his nose.

Midnight strutted from above the two, waving away a few stray wisps of her mist. Bakugou hacked out a new breath, while (Y/n) laid on top of him, peacefully asleep for the first time in days.

“Well, it seems like you two already know without me saying it.” Midnight motioned over to two small robots carrying a stretcher. “I’ll just take him to recovery girl and he should wake up in-“

Bakugou pursed his lips and wrapped his arms around (Y/n’s) sleeping figure when Midnight extended her arm towards them. He tightened his arms around (Y/n).

“I’ll do it. S-since this piece of shit attacked me first and...I’ll just do it-!”

Midnight eyed him knowingly, before waving him off and mumbling something about ‘youth’.

——

(Y/n’s) eyes fluttered open. His body felt like it was broken in every way possible. It was so sore, it hurt even thinking about moving. (Y/n) laid there, with his eyes half open, contemplating whether or not he should close them again.

Would he be able to sleep, though? Even if he’d started sleeping near Bakugou as a ‘don’t-wake-me-up’ measure, it slowly stopped being just that and more a matter of he felt safe and comfortable around him. In a way, he’s become a bit dependent on him, which is probably a bad thing, but he didn’t care.

Sleeping with Bakugou felt best. But that wasn’t an option, now was it?

(Y/n) pursed his lips, an involuntary groan rumbling from his tired vocal cords. He continued staring at the blinding nurse office lights, staring until he saw spots in his vision.

“Stop doing that-do you wanna go fuckin’ blind?”

(Y/n) flinched. He hated the way that familiar, aggravated voice still stirred butterflies into his stomach. He glanced to his side, as if to make sure he wasn’t just hearing things.

He met eyes with Bakugou.

“Bout’ time you fuckin’ woke up. Been waitin’ forever, shit-for-brains.”

(Y/n) averted his eyes back up to the blinding floodlights. Bakugou scowled. “Oi! Don’t ignore m-“

“How long were you here for?”

Bakugou went silent. It was his turn to avert his eyes, albeit more angrily.

“...I was here since you fuckin’ fainted in class, idiot. I even carried your stupid body here from the dumbass carrier bots.”

(Y/n’s) eyes softened, unlike Bakugou’s, who glared at the floor just beside the chair he was sitting in. (Y/n) checked the big black clock mounted on top of Recovery Girl’s desk.

It was 6:00 pm.

If Bakugou was telling the truth, he’d been sitting there waiting for him to wake up for 4 hours straight.

“Bakugou-its been hours since class ended-you should be at the dorms by now-! Why did you-“

“Well if you told me why you suddenly started avoiding me we wouldn’t be here right now!”

(Y/n) let his mouth fall closed. Bakugou scoffed. “Well?!”

(Y/n) opened his mouth, but it clamped shut when Monoma’s words echoed in his mind. Bakugou looked at him with an expectant face.

“I can’t tell you.”

“WH-“ Bakugou sputtered angrily. “COURSE YOU CAN! THE FUCKS STOPPING YOU!”

“Nothing I-I just can’t!”

“WHY!? WHY NOT?!”

“BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!”

“OK AND?! I LOVE YOU TOO!”

“THEN WHATS THE PROBLEM HERE!” (Y/n) shouted, before he cupped his mouth in realization. Bakugou’s eyes went wide aswell. “Wait I didn’t mean that-“

“YEAH! WHATS THE FUCKIN PROBLEM HERE?!” Bakugou recovered from his initial shock, already back to yelling. (Y/n) furrowed his brows with a blush.

“Wh..wait so-“

“I LIKE YOU, YOU LIKE ME, SO WHY THE FUCK DID YOU STOP SLEEPING ON ME?!”

“Wait but...” (Y/n’s) voice was barely above a whisper. “Don’t you, y’know...not like it...when I do that-?”

“DUMBASS! WHERE’D YOU GET THAT FROM?!” It seemed like Bakugou got angrier and angrier each passing second. It was hard to tell what (Y/n) found so attractive about him.

“From...from Monoma...?”

Bakugou looked angrier than ever. (Y/n) raised an eyebrow. “YOU-I CAN’T BELIEVE-! I-! FUCK IT!”

Bakugou snarled and practically shoved his face onto (Y/n’s), angrily stealing his breath away with a kiss. The kiss, surprisingly, was soft and gentle, despite Bakugou’s previous intensity. It seemed to calm Bakugou down, and cheer (Y/n) up.

The two slowly parted for air. It was quiet for a second, something that rarely happened near Bakugou.

“I thought you hated me...”

“W-why the fuck would I hate you...dumbass.” Bakugou rested his forehead on (Y/n’s) shoulder. His spiky tufts of blond hair tickling (Y/n’s) face.

“Because Monoma said so...?”

“I’m gonna kill that bastard.” Bakugou snarled, climbing into the cot (Y/n) was in. He pushed (Y/n) back down into the pillow, pulling up the white blanket and laying down next to him. He guided (Y/n’s) head-a tad bit forcefully-to his chest. “...after we sleep.”

Bakugou shut his eyes, half irritated and half embarrassed, while (Y/n) chuckled tiredly. He nuzzled his head into Bakugou’s chest.

“Goodnight, Bakugou.”

——

Extra:

Monoma walked into class 1-B the next morning. He yawned, still a bit tired, when he ran straight into someone.

“Hey, copycat fucker.”

Monoma looked up. The class was empty, with no one but Bakugou standing infront of him.

Fuck.

Needless to say, Bakugou got another 3 days of house arrest.

——————

Bru this was so long ong

[bomberqueen17]

replying to a reply

faetxlity replied to your post

Oh yes! I am SO excited to see that boy’s POV. Also… i would absolutely be interested in writing a bit in the universe you made if you aren’t opposed to such a thing. Fanfinception? Is that a thing?

Yeah this is a thing I am definitely not hostile to!! There’s different levels to it of course, I’m not up for doing collaborations with everybody, but if there’s a bit you wish I’d written about there’s definitely no issue with you just writing it yourself!! I won’t put it in the series probably, I’m too control-freaky for that, but like, I just feel like it’d be really silly of me to object to people writing fanfic when all i’m doing is writing fanfic.

(I would like to ask that anyone doing this make sure to specify what’s actual TV, game, or book canon, vs what’s shit I made up, not entirely because I want credit but because I am mildly horrified at the idea that some poor sap who hasn’t read my shit is gonna wind up bewilderedly combing the pages trying to find Breniriel or Luliana or the description of Aiden, or something like that. No, I made up the Witchers with deciduous teeth, I made up the rodent elf teeth thing with help from some Discord buddies, I made up Bren, Faengil has two lines in Thronebreaker and is a stock character model and I made up the rest, in canon Iorveth was probably meant to be like forty, etc etc. And like, imagine some poor sod who’s only ever played the games getting thwacked with my Morvran Voorhis. No, really, guys, that’s-- well actually more than you’d think of him is in the books given that he’s almost entirely footnotes, but I’m inferring heavily, and none of the actual justification for his oddly-specific hatred of Evertsen exists on the page.) 

I’m not cool like some BNFs are with the yes-and kind of stuff, I’m awful at that, I get really pedantic and hung-up on my specific interpretation, and this makes me a horrible collaborator-- but you don’t have to collaborate with me! You can just write your own take on a thing and that is super kosher and in fact largely the spirit of what this kind of thing is about. 

(While I’m replying to replies I feel like I have missed various other things people have said and I apologize for that, replies are like, super great on posts but then it’s hard to actually answer them and I don’t mean to but I’m also sort of bad at asks, to be fair, and comments, and it’s not that I don’t like those things, I love them, I’m just bad at communication and also don’t have the tumblr app on my phone so during the weeks i don’t have a ton of computer access i genuinely don’t see shit in timely fashions.)

[itgirlification]

supermodel | jjk

the last three months have been hell for you, but Jungkook seemed to be living his best life.

pairing: ex-bf!jk x thick!reader

warnings: explicit mentions of body image and insecurities, infidelity, anal sex, oral (male receive), foul language (kinda), etc.

now playing: supermodel by sza

part two part three

Exactly three months ago, your and Jungkook’s 2 years relationship officially ended. Unofficially, it ended about 5 months ago. And for about one month now, Jungkook’s been seeing someone else.

Your heart and mind told you not to do it but you couldn’t help calculating. Three months ago, you were still dating, two months later, he started dating someone else. That must mean he’s known her for a while. Did he cheat on you with her? Well, it’s not like it matters now anyway, does it?

Her name was Yuki, an undeniable Japanese beauty. You were still in college, studying music and she was a famous model who appeared in internationally known magazines. You assumed she met Jungkook during a photoshoot since he was a professional photographer who often worked for companies like Vogue and Playboy. You couldn’t help but compare yourself to her.

It wasn’t the fact that he moved on so quickly that hurt you the most. It was the fact that he knew all about your low self-esteem and how you lack confidence. Especially about your body. And he still went and dated a model, of all professions in the world. He was definitely over you.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he did it on purpose. But thankfully, you knew better, he looked too happy for that to be even considered. He forgot about you.

You’re making yourself sadder by remembering all the times he assured you you were beautiful and your body was nothing to be ashamed of. The times he let his fingertips run over the lines of your stretch marks, whispering in your ear how much he loved them and how they reminded him of Tiger stripes. The times he caressed your jiggly thighs and told you how sexy he thought they were.

Then your mind would drift back to the phone in your hand, the Instagram page of Yuki Sakurai opened, careful not to accidentally like anything and expose yourself. Not that she’d notice anyway, she had 3.7 million followers, while you had a private one with 500 followers and no posts, and she gets around 300 to 700 thousand likes on each post, depending on whether she posts random photos or pretty pictures of herself. Or newly, your ex-boyfriend, Jungkook. Oh, how crazy everybody goes whenever she posts him. People love them together. You couldn’t blame them. Two attractive people? Of course, they’re gonna look great together.

Fucking great.

That the end of your relationship with Jungkook would look like this was semi-predictable from the beginning. He did admit to you that he never thought he’d date someone that looked like you when you first dated. And your heart broke a little. But he also made up for it in those two years, it was a beautiful relationship nonetheless.

While you weren’t exactly his ‘ideal’ type, he was definitely yours. You always heard from other women ‘when in a relationship, the man always has to love the woman more than she loves him. Otherwise, it won’t work.’ You never really got the saying until your breakup with Jungkook happened. It was the fact that you clearly loved Jungkook more than he loved you that lead to this.

“Oh my goodness!”, your roommate, Jane, dramatically exclaimed. “Will you stop feeling bad for yourself and do something? That’s not what hot girls do, sis.”

Jane was a lovely girl with a not so lovely temper. She always means well and you got along perfectly as soon as you met. Which was around 3 and a half years ago.

She looked over your shoulder to see what you were looking at. You obviously didn’t want her to see you snooping around your ex-boyfriend’s current girlfriend’s Instagram but it was too late.

“Seriously, yn?”, she took your phone in her hand and threw it on the bed. “Let’s go somewhere, you can’t do this to yourself anymore. I’m not letting you.”

Jane was clearly worried about you at this point. The only thing you did these last few weeks was eating, shower, cry, sleep and miss a whole bunch of classes. This wasn’t good at all.

“Where?”, your question was short.

“To the mall? Or the nail studio? Anything that’ll get you out of this fucking dormitory.”, Jane sighed, pulling the blanket off of you, making you whine a little. “C’mon, go put on some cute outfit and we’ll go.”

You felt bad since she was trying hard to make you feel better. But it didn’t really work.

You nodded, standing up from the bed, nonetheless. You picked out a cute two-piece dress, that brought back blurred memories of the time you went on a date with Jungkook, wearing the same two-piece. Bet Yuki would look cuter in this...

‘Shut your petty ass up, yn. It’s embarrassing, the way you’re stuck on a taken guy who wants nothing to do with you’

You wish you could change the way you think, even if it’s just for an hour or two. You wish you would stop imagining Jungkook judging you when he saw you naked or when you told him that you wished you could cut off some of your fat with a pair of scissors.

You were beyond ashamed of yourself. Why wasn’t it easy for you to just stay by yourself? why were you so desperately in need of Jungkook by your side to the point where you’d lock yourself in your room for a month just because he isn’t there?

You needed Jungkook. You became so attached to him in those two years, because you always saw him as a permanent, a forever. Not just a temporary, not just a distant memory. You already saw him as the father of your children, as the man you’re gonna marry.

You were so blinded by the fact that you had him, that you forgot you could lose him anytime.

“I’m done, let’s go.”, unenthusiastically, you announced to Jane, who was already waiting for you.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here!”, In contrast to your spirit, hers seemed to be all roses and daisies. “Lord knows you need it...”

__________

“Look at this cute ass skirt, girl”, Jane pointed at a chic, wine mini skirt she was holding. “You know, when I saw it back there I wanted to have it, but it’d look so much better on you”

You took a few seconds to admire Jane’s beauty. She was about 3 cm taller than you, had a great posture, and almond, dark brown eyes that suited her dark skin tone perfectly. Her body leaned more towards the slimmer side.

“Shut up! No, it would not”, you let out a small giggle. “It would look gorgeous on you, buy it.”

She smiled a little at your laughs. She was happy to see you at least a little cheerful again. “Yeah, but I think it’d look better on you. I’m entitled to my own opinion, am I not?”

You knew this debate was gonna go back and forth, because of her stubbornness. “Let’s both buy the skirt.”

You ended up doing so, added by a bunch of bags full of clothing. This may’ve turned into your new coping mechanism. Who needed therapy when you can go on a shopping spree?

Two hours were spent in boutiques and clothing stores and Jane decided she was tired, wanting to visit the local spa.

“No, seriously, these Riverdale seasons just keep on getting worse and worse. Netflix needs to step up their game ASAP”, Jane ranted, making you laugh at how serious she takes it. “It’s getting embarrassing. I’m being for real.”

The two of you were sitting in the whirlpool at the spa, relaxing your whole bodies a little.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, I don’t watch these new Netflix shows anyways. Been stuck on the vampire diaries for the last 7 years”, you chuckled, knowing you hated trying new things. “Can you pass me one of those magazines?”

Jane nodded, grabbing a random one from the table next to her and handed it to you, without looking at it.

The cover of it caught your eyes immediately. How could it not, when your ex’s new girl looks absolutely dazzling on the front page of it.

‘Supermodel Yuki Sakurai talks summer fashion tips, struggle with self-love and most importantly, her hot, new boyfriend the media is going crazy over’ was the headline of the Harper’s Bazaar Magazine cover.

You felt your stomach getting sick and your breath getting heavier, but you still flipped the pages until you found the one with her interview. You began reading it, skipping the boring parts.

‘Int: so, we see you have a new boyfriend. Tell us, how did you guys meet?

Yuki: Yeah, he’s an amazing guy. We actually met about six or five months ago at one of my photoshoots, since he’s a photographer and we exchanged numbers and stuff, and then we made it official mid last month.’

About six or five months ago? You were with him back then, but her answer was too unclear to find out if he cheated or not.

“Woah, yn, you okay?”

You entirely forgot about the fact that you were with Jane, let alone somewhere other than your bed.

Before you could react, Jane snatched the magazine out of your hand.

“You really can’t escape them, huh?”, She sighs, taking you in her arm. “It’s gonna be okay, baby. In a few months, you’re gonna look back to this and think wow I really was stuck on a guy who’s scared of microwaves and cried like a bitch when Iron Man died.”

You laughed, punching her arm playfully. “You know, I actually love these things about him. Shows his sensitivity and the way he perceives things.”

Jane looked at you as if she didn’t believe you were actually saying that stuff. “Girl, you’re overanalyzing this. Let’s just throw this shit in the trash, okay?”

She put the magazine aside.

“I just don't know what I did wrong.”, You murmured. “I know we weren't the best, but we didn't even fight that much. We could’ve talked it through.”

Jane pursed her lips and cooed. “You know, relationships are complicated sometimes. The reason why he broke up, to begin with, is probably not your fault.”

“Well, what if it is? I mean what if I was too fat or too ugly for him?”, you asked. “If he wanted a skinny girl so bad, I could’ve lost weight for him, I don’t get it.”

Jane looked at you like you lost your mind entirely. “I can’t believe you just said that! Even if that was the reason, which it wasn’t, you shouldn’t make yourself suffer because of it. That’s his loss. You’re beyond gorgeous and you have an amazing body.”

“You’re just saying that.”, tears slowly started coming up in your eyes. “But the thing is Jungkook knows all about my insecurities. Why would he do that to me? I know he knows that I’m still not over him.”

You usually didn’t like crying in front of other people, but you didn’t really care at the moment, besides that was Jane. You trusted her with your life.

“Girl, men are trash, I can’t believe you’re crying over one right now, seriously.”, she wiped your tears and held your face between her hands. “You know, honestly, I’ve read so many articles about how models actually hate themselves and have like the lowest self-esteem so in conclusion, no matter how miserable you are, his new girl is even more miserable.”

You knew Jane didn’t mean it in a harmful way, but it sounded harsher than needed. “I don’t hate her, she probably doesn’t even know about me. I’m just really insecure. He upgraded from me. He’s dating a whole model now.”

The situation just felt like a deja vu of these last few weeks laying in your bed, even though you were at the spa with your friend. You were supposed to have fun, yet you didn’t feel like having any.

“Why would you feel insecure when all you’ve seen of her are Instagram posts and red carpet pictures? She’s supposed to look beautiful, it’s her job.”

To a certain extent, Jane was right, but that didn’t really help your situation, you still felt bad about yourself. You stayed silent.

“C’mon, this isn’t fun anymore. Let’s leave.”, Jane mumbled.

_______

it’s been two days since the incident at the spa and you felt a little bit better now.

Those days were spent reading the same three book series you’ve read your entire life, overthinking, hot Cheetos, Indian takeout, and Netflix. It really wasn’t as miserable as it sounded.

You were just taking a little rest before term break ends and you have to go back to the shithole college again.

Jane was using the time until college starts again, but in different ways than you were. She was planning on going to some frat party in an hour and forget about the world’ for a minute. Or till 4 in the morning, where she will most likely drunk call you and ask you for a ride back to the dorms, because the friends she went to the party with were shit-faced as well and were in no way capable of driving anywhere without the cops stopping them.

Going out partying on a Friday night was a Jane tradition. In the past, you’d sometimes go with her, but you mostly spent your time out with Jungkook doing something more fun than partying could ever be. Now you can’t do that anymore, but laying in bed is more ideal than a party for you at the moment.

“How do I look?”, Jane twirled around to show off her black cocktail dress. She looked beautiful.

“You look beautiful.”, you responded to her question. “Are you leaving now?”

“Hm”, she said, to which you nodded. “You sure you don’t wanna come with me? It’s gonna be really fun.”

You shook your head no.

“Alright”, she shrugged, making her way out of your bedroom. “But I told you, it’s gonna be fun.”

You chuckled, rolling your eyes. “I’ll stay here, I have shit to do.”

“Yeah, right, like binge-watching the vampire diaries and taking 5-hour naps”, she said in a sarcastic tone. “Anyway, bye-bye, Vic’s already waiting for me in the car.”

Victoria was perhaps one of the most obnoxious people you know, yet she was too much of a nice person for you to talk shit about her. The voice of your intrusive thoughts couldn’t help but to, though.

“Alright, bye, take care and say hi to Vic from me.”

After Jane left, an hour went by like it was just a couple of minutes. You were starting to get real bored and decided to watch some regular tv in hopes to find something you enjoy. You ended up not finding anything fun, but you still watched it, because you didn’t have anything else to do.

A few moments later, the doorbell rang and you were suddenly worried. Either this is a serial killer or Jane forgot something.

But to your surprise, it was neither, but it was none other than

“Jungkook?”, truly, those were the only words you were able to mutter out at your shocked state. “What are you do-“

At the speed of light, you were interrupted by your ex-boyfriend pressing his lips to yours. He didn’t say a word.

You weren’t expecting him. Not knowing how you were supposed to feel at the moment, you just let it happen. You were sure your mental state couldn’t get any worse than that, no matter how this will affect you in the end.

“Is Jane home?”, for the first time in 3 months, you’re hearing his silky voice again.

Jungkook knew Jane always had some type of special hatred for him with her killing stares and her bitter comments. You didn’t notice either though.

He also knew she must hate him even more after your breakup. Or maybe she liked him more now since she was able to get rid of him without killing anyone.

“No”, your answer was short and it made a weight fall from Jungkook’s shoulders before he continued kissing you.

It wasn’t anything you haven’t done before, yet it felt like it’s been ages since it last happened. Your mind drifted to the thought of Jungkook and his model girlfriend. You were asking yourself what their sex life was like, if she was tighter than you or if she had stretch marks and scars.

Jungkook’s lips were moving south, giving your neck wet kisses, while you were wondering why he broke up with his model girlfriend. Or if he even did. You felt selfish for not caring.

Removing your clothes one by one, you were left in your underwear, while Jungkook only had his boxers on.

This body was yours. You knew it inside out. Where he liked to get touched and where he preferred not to. You knew him better than anyone else. You were sure.

You already moved to your bedroom, since Jungkook effortlessly carried you there. You were sat on his lap, facing him and your hands were in his messy hair. His hands were around your waist, he was slightly smiling into the kiss, as you started grinding on him. He loved how easy it was for him to turn you on. You were still his.

Cutting off the kiss, he looked you in the eyes, while his hand was on your cheek. “Say aah.”, he said.

You widened your mouth obediently, which was followed by him collecting as much saliva as he could in his mouth and spitting it into your mouth.

“Swallow.”, demanding, he spit on your face, his eyes become darker with every passing moment. You did as he said.

You looked at him with big eyes. He knew you loved it. You’ve always had a thing for him degrading and humiliating you during sex.

He started grinding on you almost desperately. You knew exactly what he wanted.

Getting out of his grip, you dropped to your knees and freed his hard dick from his drawers. You reached for it and started pumping it, and licking it. Your spit was leaking down his dick as you used it for lubrication. Then you started sucking on it, just the way you used to.

Jungkook’s groans and satisfied sighs were enough to make you even wetter than before. You enjoyed giving more than receiving.

Your mouth was wet and warm around him, giving him a feeling of familiarity. You lick over the tip a few times, then proceed to fully take him into your mouth.

The bulge in your throat could be seen and the way your eyes were tearing up a little wasn’t bothering you at all. You loved giving.

Jungkook started thrusting in and out of your warm, welcoming mouth, his tip hitting the back of your throat multiple times.

“Fuck”, a throaty moan left Jungkook’s mouth, giving you hints that he was about to cum. And he did, releasing in your mouth before you swallowed it. “Shit, baby, that was so good.”

You felt your face heat up and a sheepish smile made its way to your face. Your throat was sore.

The two of you were on the bed again. To you, it felt like it was the times before your breakup again, when you’d purposely start an argument just for the makeup sex because Jungkook wasn’t giving you any anymore. It was like sex was the only thing to look forward to.

You felt attached to Jungkook to a point where it was dangerous. You weren’t okay when he wasn’t around. He affected every part of your life and God knew it wasn’t always a positive thing. Maybe it was the fact that he took your virginity. Maybe because he was your first boyfriend, the first guy that made you believe you were worthy of love and that someone was actually capable of loving you. One thing you knew was Jungkook had an expansive influence on your life.

While you were practically drowning in your own thoughts, Jungkook was busy taking off your underwear.

“You okay?”, Jungkook calmly asked you, looking at your riddled face.

“Huh? Yeah, I’m okay.”, you sounded distracted, Jungkook wasn’t sure about asking you what it is though. He didn’t feel like getting personal.

So he shrugged it off and started kissing you again, his dick was unsurprisingly hard again as he played with your tits. He drew lines over the stretch marks of your thighs and kissed them.

“Can I fuck your ass?”, Jungkook’s raspy, tired-sounding voice casually asked, to which you quickly nodded, knowing that Jungkook’s favorite position had always been anal. He was massaging and gripping your ass firmly.

“This is gonna hurt at first, but I promise it gets better.”, He warned calmly into your ear, while putting some lube on his dick and just went right into your ass, slowly thrusting so you don’t feel as much pain.

He was right, it did hurt a lot when he first put it in, but the pain just changed into pleasure in a matter of time and his slow-paced thrusts helped with the adjustment.

“Fuck, I missed this ass”, he practically growled into your ear, as he kept on thrusting in and out, steadily gripping your wide hips with his big, veiny hands. “It just doesn’t feel right when I’m inside her ass.”

You knew your confidence shouldn’t rely on Jungkook bringing his girlfriend down, but you couldn’t help but feel good about your body when he said that. It’s been a while since you felt even a tiny spark of confidence. You weren’t so fond of him mentioning her while he was inside of you.

Your soft moans rang through the whole room like sirens, while he watched your ass jiggle against his pelvis, thrusting in and out faster every second. He missed this.

You had always thought you were indecisive, but you knew exactly what you wanted. You just couldn’t have that, so you’d eventually have to settle for less.

Jungkook wasn’t to blame for it, you just couldn’t concede your shortcomings. The movie’s villain wasn’t always the real villain.

Your hands traveled to your pussy to make sure you’d orgasm as well, when you heard Jungkook’s breathing getting heavier and his thrusts getting gentler than before, indicating that he was gonna cum soon. You were certain he could make you cum with just anal, but you wanted to cum with him.

With furrowed eyebrows and drops of sweat dripping down his body, Jungkook looked down at your arched back. The whole scene was sticky, especially when Jungkook presses his upper body to your back, whispering sweet nothings into your ear and kissing the spot.

It was kinda odd, having sex with your ex-boyfriend you were crying over just a day ago. There was a certain intensity to it though. Like your long-lasting nostalgia was finally fulfilled.

You’ve realized you couldn’t imagine yourself being intimate with anybody else. Jungkook already knew your body, how it looked without the material protecting it, the strawberry skin, the slightly sagging breasts you swore you’d surgically remove once you had the chance to but didn’t. He knew where you liked being touched, he was the first one to even touch you in those places.

You were unsure what you’d do with yourself when he leaves.

Jungkook’s thrusts slowly started stopping and you too felt the familiar sensation in your stomach.

Suddenly, you two were nothing but desire, fear, and pleasure. And faster than you could process, you came together.

For minutes after your orgasm, you were just laying on the bed, thoughtless. Maybe a little regretful. Not you, but him.

You weren’t facing each other, but you could hear each other’s breathing. Your stomach was filled with something you’d describe as post-sex melancholia.

All of a sudden, Jungkook stood up from the bed, startling your resting self a little, but you decided to keep quiet, wanting to see what he was going to do.

He made his way to the door to leave what he thought was your sleeping body laying there. You couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

“Where are you going?”, your soft voice suddenly rang in his ears. “Don’t you wanna stay?”

He didn’t know how exactly to tell you. You’ve always been a gullible little girl, you were the type of girl to think fucking equals love. Little did you know that wasn’t the case at all.

“Yn.... you know I can’t”, Jungkook responded, you knew it wasn’t gonna be good when he said your name like that. “I got a girl at home and I don’t wanna mess shit up with her.”

There it was. Your suspicion was corroborated. He was still going out with the model and you were a certified home wrecker. Great.

You physically felt your heart breaking. “Bu- but why are you here then?”

You were incapable of being mad at him at the moment. It was your fault for letting him in, again. After breaking your trust and your heart.

“This was a mistake”, he declared, not looking into your eyes. “I’m sorry, yn...”

He’s moved past your room now, already at the exit of your dormitory. He was about to leave.

“You already ruined shit with her when you came here and fucked me.”, your voice was small, but your words were heard.

Without looking back, he left.

And you went back to your room, standing in the middle of it for a minute in silence before your brain fully processed what had happened and your tears started pouring.

[wornoutmouse]

I saw the cow boy endeavor post and ask you this 🙈 bull!boys possessive over their soft cow gf?? Any mha boys 👀

Referenced smut, blind reader, crack, fluff.

Yall like my cow au’s a lil too much. Is everything okay at home?

Bakugou, Dabi, Shouji

To keep with the cursed cow theme:

Heifer: a young female cow that has not borne a calf.

Also, cows actually have heats and the female will wander and of course, the bull will be aggressive. Just so you’ll know I’m not talking out my ass.

Bakugou (I had too)

When you first came, I’m going to be real, Katsuki didn’t like your ass. Because you’ve never mated before, Bakugou saw you as extremely weak and he would be damned if he bred you.

When receiving a new heifer, the first rule of business is to slowly but surely introduce the bull to them. To do this, you and Bakugou were placed in a miniature barn with a tall gate in between. 

For the most part, you stayed on your side, opting to sleep the days away on your fluffy bed. Bakugou didn’t care, he was perfectly fine glaring at you from a distance and muttering all the reasons you were weak and how the farmers were stupid.

Something that really irked him was how you always nibbled on your tail in order to focus. “Hey dumbass, quit cannibalizing yourself!” You glanced away from your crossword puzzle and just stared at him. Wrong move.

Moments later the farmers had to quickly come in and restrain Bakugou because he had destroyed his half of the barn by scrapping his large horns against the wooden walls. Everyone was forced to do round just in case Katsuki decided to take his anger out on you.

As the weeks went on, you were moved into barns that were smaller than the last until the small gate between the both of you was removed quickly. During all this time, not once did you speak to him so Bakugou practically glued himself to the edge of the barn, not wanting to give you the satisfaction of walking past him. 

Of course, this petty rivalry was forced to come to the end. Earlier that day, you had wandered past the field so many times that you were locked inside. So when Katsuki awoke to you shuffling along the sides of the barn and throwing hay at his head, he knew your heat was here. 

It took a matter of two hours and annoyance due to the mountain of hay that was on his side as you practically swept your side clean, before Bakugou on the floor pumping his cock into you. There were no words said as your slurred words passed through empty ears. Bakugou’s teeth clenched tightly onto your tail as the last rebuttal on how much he hated you.

“You couldn’t get my attention he old fashion way and ignored me?!” Your tail flicked around as your pleasure heightened. “Well, tonight we are going to see how long you can stay quiet.”

Though his words were harsh, you can’t ignore the fact he willingly fucked you till morning although you were fine with one load.

Dabi

Dabi was one of the many bulls on the ranch that was specifically bred to breed. However his abnormally large horns made other cows afraid of him, of course, that was until you appeared. 

You, for a lack of better words, were blind. You had been shipped from a ranch that was going through bankruptcy, and your new owners saw this as a perfect chance. 

You were immediately put in the vicinity of Dabi. For about 3 days, Dabi would watch you trail your hands along the dewy grass, occasionally eating a few pieces. On the fourth day, Dabi stood in front of you with pursed lips.

“Why are you staring at me?!” Dabi visibly flinched, leaning away from you. “I thought you were blind?” You nodded, chewing softly on a dandelion, “I am blind, but I can see shadows, and yours is really blocking my light.” 

Dabi sputtered, plopping down next to you. You laughed as you could hear him pouting as he too grabbed some grass.

Dabi deeply enjoyed your comfort as he couldn’t get any from his father who was mysteriously out of commission. He would ask you curious questions about your blindness and in return, you asked him what certain things looked like. “Every time I ask people, their answers always vary.”

You held such a close place in his heart that Dabi wanted to breed you sooner rather than later. “I don’t want you to be out of your mind during your heat and I don’t want to be too rough with you.”

Despite this confession, Dabi couldn’t help but force you to make the sweetest of sounds. “You like that?” His scared hand smacks your bouncing bottom as you grip the cotton bed below you. “Oh, please yes!” Watching you bounce above him, made him crave the sweet relief he would feel once he came deep inside of you. 

Shouji

For the most part, all the caretakers considered it a lost cause when they roomed you with Shouji. He was lame and was too large to be moved so he spent more of his life in the very barn he was born in. Pitiful eyes would always peek through his stall. 

“All those legs and not a single one works, God must be playing a cruel joke.”

It was only a matter of time before Mezzo would be shipped off to the butcher but hey, maybe they could get one good calf out of him. That’s where you came in. Though you were a simple cow, long past your youth, you were the only cow the same size, if not larger than him. This upper hand meant you could move him around and wouldn’t need his help with mounting him yourself.

Since you weren’t new to this rodeo, the farmhands expected you to get straight to work. But no, you waited. During each meal, you’d help him feed himself, his limp libs hung to his side as you held his head up. 

Every day, you’d ask him if he was ready, and he’d give you the honest answer of no, so you would leave it at that. But on the day of his heat, you couldn’t stand to hear him grunt angrily, from the lack of stimulation. 

You edged close to him cautiously and softly palmed his cock. The euphoric look on his face was one that reassured you your actions were not unwanted. You rubbed his brown tip softly between your fingers, listening t the soft gasps he released. Pleading eyes looked at you and your large figure.

“P-Please, I need you so bad!” You hurriedly sat on top of him, careful to not settle all your weight down as you coaxed his dick inside of you. Although he was unable to help you, the feeling of him stretching your womb was like fresh honey.

Months later, Shouji was still sitting in his barn stuck in his own head. A faint knock on the door alerted him of your presence and he shuffled his way into a sitting position. In you, walked with a calf shyly holding your hand. “There’s your daddy.”

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief, @padaleckimeon donated $100 and requested Dean Jr. meeting Sam and Dean in heaven. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts) 

(read on AO3)

When Dad dies, Dean takes a week off. It wasn’t sudden, or a surprise. Dad had been sick for a while, his body starting to fail him. At first Dean had been scared, and then he’d been angry. He was only twenty-four when Dad got the diagnosis and it wasn’t—fair, in some stupid but essential way. He’d barely graduated from college and, yeah, Dad was kind of old, older than a lot of his friends’ parents, but—he thought, somehow, that him dying just wasn't… applicable. Dad was just—there, always. Solid, supportive, kind of boring maybe but also stronger than anyone Dean had ever known, or would ever know, and it wasn’t right that he could just be sitting in his apartment midway through a novel and get a call and kind of sigh, because he was in a good part in the book, and then to sit up straight with his hair standing on end to hear Dad say, quiet, I'm sorry, buddy. We need to talk about something. That’s what he said, first. That he was sorry.

There were treatments, but not many. Dean had flown out and gone to a few of the appointments with the oncologist and Dad had been quiet, listening to the options. He’d researched a lot of this on his own, because Dean had done the same thing, and they’d both been nodding along during the options. Injections, radiation. Chemo. Dad had asked, polite, what the life expectancy was for each option, and Dean had watched the side of his face and not the doctor, and when the answer was given Dad had closed his eyes briefly, and then looked away from both Dean and the doctor, out the window at the snowy day, and Dean had known, then.

Dad made it past Dean’s twenty-fifth birthday. He had a party with his friends, at his girlfriend’s apartment, and they tried to keep his spirits up but it was a pretty shitty party, all told. The next day, his actual birthday, he flew back out to Dad’s house and he was in good spirits—had a mini-cake, even, with a single candle that he made Dean blow out—but he was thin, and his hair was growing back in snow-white and tender-soft, and when Dad fell asleep in front of the crappy old cowboy movie that Dean had picked just because he knew Dad for some reason liked it, Dean went out onto the porch into the nearly-springtime air and he cried, pissed at himself. Pissed at everything. Then just—unbearably sad, because he liked his current girlfriend but he didn’t think he was going to marry her, and that meant that whatever girl he did marry would be one his dad would never meet—if he had kids, they’d never know how his dad concentrated like a motherfucker on crossword puzzles and obsessed over documentaries and knew every single piece of the inside of that behemoth car in the garage and was just the smartest kindest most stubborn person. Just—the best person. They’d listen to Dean’s stories maybe but they wouldn’t know, because Dad would never meet them, and that was just—unbearable, that night. In the morning, Dad made oatmeal and Dean added a bunch of sugar because Dad’s oatmeal was inedible otherwise, and Dad smiled kind of rueful like he always did when Dean did that, and then Dad said, I’m sorry, again, kind of quiet, and Dean reached out and held his hand—thin, and the bones feeling frail—and he said don’t be sorry, Dad, and four months later, Dad was dead.

Dad was always pretty up-front with him about most everything, especially after he and Mom split up. When he was twelve, Dad explained the supernatural very carefully, telling him that he was safe but that other people might not be, and why. When he was thirteen, Dad told Dean that Hell and Heaven were both real and that there was, definitely, confirmed, a God, and maybe it wasn’t the same God that other people knew but that Dad said he was kind, in his own way. The person in charge of Hell, Dad said, was maybe less so, but she wouldn’t hurt Dean, ever. Dad said he knew that for fact, and he said it so certainly, looking Dean in the eye, that Dean believed him. When Dean turned eighteen, a few months from graduating high school, Dad took him to a tattoo parlor and said for maybe the first time in Dean’s life that something was non-negotiable, and Dean hadn’t cared because what other kid in the senior year was going to walk at graduation with a kickass demonic tattoo?

There were other things, though, that they didn’t talk about. Dad said one day a lot when Dean was little but then, when he was older and it was clear that one day would be never, he just said—I can’t, buddy. I wish I could.

After the week off, rattling around the old house, and the cremation with no service that Dad had insisted on, Dean drives out to the lawyer in Sioux Falls. She’s nice. Respectful but not cloying. The Samuel Winchester Estate that Dean is the sole beneficiary of is—a lot of money. A lot more money than he knew Dad had, or that he could have ever earned. Dad has assigned some of the money to go to charities, and to some people Dean doesn’t know—the lawyer doesn’t say who in the specific, but says they’re kids of some of Dad’s old friends. Dean didn’t know Dad had many friends, much less ones who’d get trust funds in inheritance. Aside from the stock options and the accounts and all the money left over, Dean inherits a list of assets. The house, of course. The Chevy in the garage, with the stipulation that he can never sell it. A safety deposit box, from which the lawyer has already retrieved the contents.

She leaves him alone, to go through the box. Neatly organized, like everything else in Dad’s life. File-folders of pictures, printed out all old-fashioned. Some of Dean when he was a baby. Some of when Dad and Mom were still together, leaning against each other, Dean hugged between them. Some—much older, creased and faded, stored in little plastic sleeves so they can't degrade. He recognizes a few from the framed copies Dad always had in the house. Some he hasn't seen. Most of them—almost all of them—are of his Uncle Dean, who died before he was born, and he looks especially at one that just—hits him in the gut, in this awful way where he has to sit there looking at the soothing taupe paint of the conference room wall before he can look at it again. Uncle Dean's facing the camera, sort of, although he's laughing about something and not really looking into the lens, and there's Dad, laughing too. He looks… young. Younger than Dean is now. He flips the picture over. Dad's handwriting, careful: 2006, Bobby's house. Almost fifty years ago. An entire life he didn't know. He thinks again of his imaginary future kids. These lives they have, grandfather to father to son, that overlap like a venn diagram but—not enough. Not close to enough.

*

What's a life? How to summarize, from beginning to faded end, in a way that would make sense to anyone but who it happened to?

Dad left letters, explaining, but he's gone and the context is missing. There are so many questions Dean wants to ask but he can't, of course, anymore. The first letter is attached to the key to the bunker, where he would never take Dean when he was alive, and on winter break from med school Dean flies from Boston to Kansas and rents a car and drives alone through the snowfields.

Dark, inside. He throws the big switch and the lights crackle, hum on, almost reluctant. He has no idea how it's getting power. Dust, but not as much as there could be. A library, a kitchen. Archives upon archives. Dad had explained, but what little he'd said both in life and in the letters didn't come close. It was home, he wrote, for over a decade. The only one we had with four walls, for our whole lives, although we didn't think of it that way. I didn't, at least. Dean doesn't know what that means but he looks into the bedrooms and sees… emptiness, plain bunks and old desks and funny lamps. I just picked a random room, Dad said, and as Dean's looking he really can't tell which was Dad's. Figures. Their house when Dean was growing up didn't change a bit, no matter how terrible that wallpaper was. It's only when Dean pushes open the door to room 11 that there's any personality, and he flicks the light and stands there blinking, surprised. Guns and knives on the wall. Books, piled up. Empty beer bottles crowded on the little table. Dust, but—not as much as there could be. He walks in, cautious, this feeling in his gut like he's in someone's home and they've just walked out, and could return any moment. A food bowl on the floor. A shirt flung over the chair. On the desk: more books and magazines and a folded actually-on-paper newspaper from 2024, and a job application, half filled out. Dean Winchester, it says at the top, in mostly-neat capitals, and Dean rests a hand on the back of the chair and feels… strange. He tries to picture it—the man from the pictures, Dad's brother, filling up this space. Drinking beer and reading pulp westerns and checking out—oh, weird, magazine porn. Dean shakes his head. Impossible.

In the letters, Dad said: Hunting was all we knew how to do. With everything we knew, it was our duty to use the knowledge the best way we could. I went back and forth on it. Your uncle never did, even if I know there were times he wished he—that we both—could be something else. I don't want that for you. I want you to live exactly the life you want for yourself. No expectations, okay? Not from me or anyone else.

There are printed files that go back a hundred years. More than. Paper files, but old SSDs too, with connectors Dean has to find adapters for. Dad: If you want to know what we did, it's digitized. I know I always said I'd tell you one day, but I never knew how to say it. I'm sorry for that. I always thought I'd be one hundred percent honest, if I ever got a kid, because of how we were raised. I didn't know how hard that could be. Stuff that you'd want to say, but when it came time to just open your mouth and say it there weren't any words.

Dad wrote up all the old hunts, it turned out. Simple notes about where/when/how, the kind of monster it was, the number of people who died and the people who were saved. The people they had to explain things to, who knew now about the supernatural underbelly to the universe. He noted, too, if there were injuries, and Dean reads with his hand over his mouth a long, long litany of Dean W. shot, right arm; Sam W. broken bone in hand; Dean W. concussion; Sam W. strangled. On and on. No wonder Dad didn't make a big fuss when Dean broke his leg in the fourth grade.

He sleeps in the bunker overnight, in one of the spare bedrooms that's not room 11. There's a fan on the ceiling, dusty office supplies on the desk. By lamplight he reads the letters, on his back on the stiff terrible mattress, his eyes stinging and past-midnight tired. Our lives weren't the kind of thing anyone would want, Dad wrote. I spent so long trying to get away from it because I thought 'it shouldn't be this way' – and I was right, you know? It shouldn't have been how it was. But it was that way, anyway, and in the end that was something I was okay with. We were making what difference we could. We were happy. A lot of people have it worse.

'We'. Dad hardly writes Uncle Dean's name but he's in every letter. We, we, we. Dad told Dean stories, of course, the dumb stuff they got up to when they were teenagers, or the (sanitized, Dean's sure) adventures they had as adults, but despite the pictures on the wall at home and the pictures in the deposit box and the whole life that's here, Dean can't—see it. Beer bottles on the table in the bedroom, one on either side of the tiny table. The shirt slung over the chair. We were happy, he says, but—how? Dean can't imagine it.

In the last letter Dad wrote, I think I'm writing this when I've got a month or two left. Dr. Hendricks isn't sure. I wish I had more time, to explain how it was. Who we were. I never told you the most embarrassing thing in the world, but I'm old and I'm not going to be around and not much will be able to embarrass me anymore, so screw it. (Fifty years ago I would have gotten really mad at myself for that kind of comment; more things age can fix.) There are books about us. There's a hard drive, in the bunker. It's labelled BURN THIS. (That's your uncle's handwriting.) They're true, more or less. Written by a really crappy, amateur writer, but he was a kind of prophet, and he knew everything there was to know about us, and he wrote books for about five years, based on our life and the real things we did. Some of it is exaggerated and melodramatic. A lot of it is just how it happened. You'll have to decide which is which. I don't come off too well in some of them but I hope you'll understand that the world… I don't know how to describe it. Somehow the world felt different, then. It was just us, trying our best. I hope it gives you some idea of the life we had. No matter what happened, I'm glad that life led me to you.

*

What's a life?

Dean marries. Not the girl from college but a woman, later. Red hair, blue eyes. Absolutely no sense of humor beyond puns. Hates cooking and has strong opinions on movies from the 1980s. They have three kids, a girl and then a boy and then a girl again. All dark-haired, smart. Dean gives the boy the middle name Samuel and his wife holds his hand, says it sounds great.

He's a doctor. He meets hunters. He sets bones for free and prescribes medication when needed and when it will be needed. A woman, last name Novak, calls him and says you know, your dad was one of the greats?, and he meets people—older than him by twenty, thirty years, with scars and dangerous lives and guns hidden in every corner, and he hears stories. Sam Winchester, who saved the world. Dean knows—he's read the books—but there are more years that the books didn't cover, more people who didn't die because of his dad's intervention. "They were the best," one man says, shrugging, and gets no argument, nods and shrugs from every hunter in the room, and Dean goes home that night and kisses his littlest girl where she's already tucked up in bed, and he thinks: what will she know, about who her grandfather was? Who their family is? What could she possibly know?

Dean's wife dies in her eighties. An accident. A broken hip, an infection following. Still happens, even in this new century. The kids are grown, have kids of their own, and the funeral is big, and there are people at his elbow who say to him we're so sorry and who share anecdotes of her life and who support him to his chair, even though at ninety he's perfectly capable of getting to his chair himself. He's a cranky old man, he realizes. She would've laughed at him. He thinks, inevitably, of his own father's death. Silent and unmourned, except by one. What's a life.

He writes letters, for his children. The estate is handled. He calls the oldest girl and explains to her that she's going to be the executor, and that there are things she has to keep. A key. A car. Pictures, so that her boys will know where they came from. "Of course, Dad," she says, placating a little because he's old and clearly starting to lose his grip, but she'll do it. She's a good kid. Dean learned how to raise a kid from the best.

When he dies, he's expecting it. The trip to the hospital. The monitors. He knows the pain meds even if he's retired and his doctor looks like an infant but she gives him the good stuff. It's—easy. A slipping away. He closes his eyes to sleep and there is a moment where he thinks with surprisingly clarity, this is okay, isn't it, and has the feeling of someone's hand laid on his, and then he sleeps, and doesn't wake up again.

*

He opens his eyes in an armchair, in a house that he doesn't recognize but that feels instantly familiar. Music playing, somewhere, and a gold-tinged afternoon spilling through the window, and tone-deaf singing from the kitchen. His mind feels clearer than it has in… Tears come to his eyes but it doesn't hurt. He puts his fingers to his mouth and smiles, breathing in slow, and thinks—well, this is it. Heaven.

Time is no longer time. Space is—immaterial. There's a house, not their house, but it's roomy and it has what he needs and the bed he crawls into with his wife at the end of a day is comfortable, and that's what matters, as he lays his hand on her hip where he used to lay it always, and she sighs against the pillow and squirms and tucks herself into a fetal pretzel, like she always used to. The spill of her hair red against the pillow. Her warmth, plush against his bones. She smells not of honeysuckle or vanilla but just like warm, human skin, the faint bite of salt-sweat at the nape of her neck, the must in the morning in thin bluish light when she turns over and finds him awake, and smiles. Incredible. The weight of her is real, and the spot between her breasts when he kisses her there is real, and he'd always believed in some distant way that what his dad had told him was true—that there was a heaven, that there would be some kind of justice after death—but it was distant, and academic, because of course there was a life to live and patients to care for and children to raise and a wife to bury and a death to get through. What a thing, to come to. This place, with her hair on the pillow, and her smell. He hadn't forgotten it, in the end, after all.

The house sits in some place that feels like South Dakota. Home, or close to it. A lake among trees. A distance between things. He reads, and plays games he barely remembers from being a kid, and he watches the Ghostbusters movies again because his wife insists and they are, he has to admit, still funny, but he makes fun of the weird museum guy anyway, and she kicks him where her feet are tucked in his lap, and he tickles her in retaliation, and then—well, the movie will be there, later, when they're done.

She rides her bike every day. One day she comes back and says she was just visiting her mother, and Dean sits up and says, "What?" But—of course. What's time? What's a space, between this shared slow heaven and another? She shrugs—his mother-in-law says hi—and he sits there on the couch with his game paused, watching her go into the kitchen and shake her sweaty hair back from her face, redoing it into the practical twist at her neck like she always does, and he thinks—okay. Okay, maybe now.

The bookshelf has every book he could want, and seems to know what he needs to read before he does. Raining outside, spattering gentle on the eaves, and his wife made a huge pot of tea and took it to bed upstairs and left him just a cup, and so he sits at the kitchen table with his cup of tea and opens the book—Home, by Carver Edlund—and reads it, lingering, even if he's read it three times before online, his thumb brushing over the cheap too-thin pages of this physical copy. There's a poltergeist, preposterous. The psychic, odd and familiar. The brothers, united, and he reads the next-to-last chapter very slowly, lingering, as they find the box of pictures, as they get into the car together. Drive off, to meet some new dawning day.

He finishes his cup of tea. Puts on a clean shirt, combs his hair. "I'll be back," he says, to his wife, and she blinks at him from her nest of blankets with her own book and then only nods, and Dean goes downstairs and gets into his car and finds the road, beyond the garden gate, and drives.

He doesn't know where he's going but that doesn't matter. He turns on the car radio and it's playing—oldies, but really oldies, the stuff that was old when he was little. What childhood sounded like. Farms appear, melt away. Trees rising, through hills. He sings along, under his breath, remembering: a roadtrip to his grandma's house, Mom sleeping in the passenger seat and Dad driving through the night, and Dad singing very, very badly, as quiet as he could, and Dean thinking even as a kid that this was some private thing, to see, and he had to be silent and not show that he was awake or it would disappear. That feeling, it crept up on him at the oddest times, when he was an adult, and later. That sensation of the armored tank of the car moving through the dark, and the silence around them, and the quiet music inside, and Dad, in a world of his own, entirely separate from the world he shared with Dean.

Another hill. Climbing a mostly-paved road. Not raining anymore but the sun coming in slanted gold through the trees. Distance, and a curve, and then: a house. Old-looking. Older maybe than the one Dean and his wife share. In front of it, a car. The car.

Dean parks. He gets out, and the air smells washed-fresh, a little fecund. Like summer. He puts his hand on the hood of the Impala and it's sun-warm and he tears up, completely unexpected, and has to sit on the hood and hold his hands over his face, his heart—full, in a way he's felt since dying, but not in this particular way, this way of feeling that he thought had mellowed, a lifetime ago.

So much for putting on a good face. He wipes over his mouth and dashes his eyes clear. A porch, with new-carved railings. A door, painted blue. He knocks, his body feeling empty and clean and young, terribly young, and before he's quite ready the door opens, and it's—his uncle, in a purple plaid shirt and paint-spattered jeans and grey socks, frowning at him, saying, "Uh, hi?"

He looks—almost exactly like he looked in the pictures. Maybe forty, lines beside his eyes and heavy stubble on his jaw. The age he was when he died. Dean opens his mouth, can hardly dredge up what to say, and then he hears a voice say, "Dean?" and Dean and his uncle both turn their heads to see—Dad, young too, completely shocked, standing on the far side of the porch in running gear with sweat slicking his hair back from his head, and Dean drags in air and says, "Dad," and Dad grins at him, that big creased dorky-looking dad-smile that Dean only got once in a blue moon, and he steps forward and they're hugging, then, and it's—heaven. That's all he can think. Heaven, Dad's arms tight around him, his shoulders slotting in under Dad's because—Dad was so tall, and this is where Dean fit and never would fit again once Dad was gone. Here, under Dad's arm. Like being a kid again.

Dad's hand on the back of his head. A startled, shaky, deep breath in, and then hands gripping his shoulders, and being shoved reluctantly back to have Dad look down at his face, serious and worried. "How long has it been?" he says. "Are you—you didn't—?"

"I was ninety-seven," he says, and Dad's eyebrows go high and he smiles, big and glad and real, relieved. He touches Dean's face and Dean smiles back, tears rising again for no reason and for so many reasons. "I look good, don't I?"

Dad huffs a laugh. "You look great," he says, and then his eyes lift over Dean's head, and Dean has to turn around because—

What to call him? Uncle Dean. Standing there with his shoulder against the doorframe, his mouth tucked in on one side. Like from right out of one of the pictures, returning Dad's look. His eyes drop after a second to meet Dean's and Dean feels this odd jolt, in his chest. Bizarre, to see. He's real. All Dad's stories, the wall of memories, the books, and here he is, in grey socks, looking all over Dean's face like he's seeing it for the first time. "Guess you got your looks from your mom's side of the family," Uncle Dean says, finally, and Dad says, behind him, "Nice, dude," and Uncle Dean shrugs, unrepentant, but with an unexpected dimple quirking into his cheek, and holds out his hand to shake, and Dean takes it and has another shock at it, warm, callused, firm, real—while Uncle Dean says, wry, "Well, I guess some introductions are in order, huh?"

Uncle Dean and Dad share the house. It's nice, inside. Old fashioned in a way that feels comfortable, as Dean's come to expect. (He wonders, in a few hundred years—will new arrivals to heaven expect old-fashioned arcologies?) Uncle Dean brings beers from the kitchen and Dad takes his without even looking, drinking in Dean's face when Dean's doing the exact same to him. He looks so young. Younger, maybe, than he was even in the few pictures Dean has of him being a baby, held tiny in the crook of Dad's massive arm—some past time, some time Dean doesn't belong to, but Uncle Dean clearly does. Dad shakes his head after a few seconds, huffs again, rueful. "I don't even know where to start," he says.

Uncle Dean rolls his eyes, behind him, and says, "How about you ask the kid how he's doing, genius." Mean, but he squeezes Dad's shoulder too, and Dad bites his lip, looks at Dean, his head tipping. Asking.

It's awkward, but only in the way Dean would expect. To see his dad after so long—and both of them dead—and to explain… what? A life. Being a doctor, meeting a wife. Children. Grandchildren. "Great-grandpa Sammy," Uncle Dean fake-whispers, "told you you were old." Nudging Dad, half-sitting on the arm of his chair. Looking proud enough he could burst, although Dean doesn't know exactly why.

"Are you going to make dinner or are you just here to heckle?" Dad says, looking up, exasperated, and Uncle Dean raises his hands, says, "Oh, I'm here to heckle," but he gets up, too, says, "You get tired of the inquisition, kid, we've got more drinks in the kitchen," and cuffs Dad around the back of the head before he disappears down the blue-painted hall—and music comes on, after a moment. The kind of music that was on Dean's radio as he drove. Comfort sounds that go deep into some space beyond his bones.

"He's a lot, sorry," Dad says, after a second.

"I know, I read about it," Dean says, and Dad blinks at him, mouth half-open, before he remembers.

They have dinner. Uncle Dean makes burgers, fries, a spinach salad that Dean and Dad both groan at, and he looks at them across the table with his burger in his hands and shakes his head. No salad on his plate, Dean notices. They talk but about—nothing. Uncle Dean asks if the Broncos ever won the Superbowl again and Dean tries to dredge up an answer. Dad asks what his wife did for a living. Dean wants to ask things and doesn't know how. There's time, he knows, but for now all he can do is—watch. Dad leaning back in his chair with a beer, smiling at him while Uncle Dean tells some probably well-worn story about trying to fix the Impala in a rainstorm, and Dad was pissed for some reason and so kept handing him the wrong tools. "It was too dark to actually read the grip numbers," Dad says, patient like it's the hundredth time, and Uncle Dean says back, immediately, "Who needs the numbers? You can feel the weight in your hand!" Old arguments, well-worn, in the well-worn house. The way they move around each other, washing dishes, putting plates away. The way Dad's eyes will jump across the table, half a second before Uncle Dean's even opening his mouth, a smile already waiting to be pushed back down.

When it's night he says he should get back to his wife. "I'd like to meet her," Dad says, "some day."

"Gotta see who's willing to put up with a Winchester," Uncle Dean says, eyebrows waggling.

Dad sighs but nods, too. Dean gets folded into a hug, there under the tuck of his arm, and then he hugs Uncle Dean, too, impulsive and just—wanting to, feeling like a kid. Uncle Dean startles but hugs him back right away. "You're good, kid," he says, quiet against the side of Dean's head, and Dean nods and says, "Thanks," for more than he can say other than that, right then on this particular day, and then he gets into his car and pulls away from the house and looks back to see Uncle Dean gripping Dad's shoulder again while they watch him move away—and when he's home, after a blurring drive that's long enough for him to settle himself, he comes up the stairs to where his wife's warm in bed and slides in beside her and she says, sleepy, "How was it," and he says against her hair, "Perfect," because—it was. It was perfect.

*

Dean comes alone to their house twice more, on days when he needs it and doesn't see a reason not to. He brings his wife, the third time, and Dad's extremely polite and Uncle Dean asks her about engineering and Dean enjoys it, from the couch, while she gets the same interrogation he did, and they're driving home with her at the wheel, his eyes on the passing trees, before she says, "They're an interesting couple," and it doesn't strike him, for what may be a mile of blurring distance, why that sentence wasn't quite right.

It should be a shock. It isn't. That it isn't should, itself, be a shock, but he sits with it for a few days, the easy rhythm of heaven sliding around them.

He goes to see his mother, finally. She's in a place on a lakeshore. Her first husband, kind but remote, giving them space. She presses his hands between her own and he goes through the list of answers to all her questions, smiling, feeling déjà vu, and then says, cautious, that he's been to see Dad. "Oh!" she says, and doesn't seem upset. "How is he?"

"Good," he says. They never married, his parents—Dad had told him, much later, that it just didn't occur to him to ask—and he knew they didn't resent each other, but there wasn't much closeness there. He didn't realize how little until he was married himself. Still, he's cautious as he says: "He and my uncle have a place. Uncle Dean, you know?"

Mom sits back in her chair. "Well, then," she says, soft. She's youngish, too. Fifty maybe, her hair shot with grey. "That sounds about right."

He doesn't know how to ask but there's no way to do it other than just—to ask. "What do you know about him?"

Mom smiles, slow, and looks out at the lake. "Honey, your dad's a good man, but I think you know as well as I do that he doesn't give a lot away." Dean follows her look. A boat, far out on the water. Not close enough to hail. "He didn't talk about his brother, much. That said more than I think he knew it did. All those pictures. Well, you remember." She shakes her head, looking down at her lap. "I resented him for a while. A dead man. Silly of me. But then I suppose your dad could have resented Luke, if he'd—cared more. Sorry. That sounds like I'm angry, but I'm not. There just wasn't much left in Sam, that's all. He loved you and he loved someone that wasn't here anymore and there just wasn't room for me, or at least not room for what I needed. I wished I could've known him. Dean, I mean. I would've understood your dad a lot more, I think, but then—I don't think I would've ever met him, if Dean were around."

When he gets home he pulls a book off the shelf. Frail, the spine cracked badly. Supernatural, the first book in the whole series. When Dad was at college and the whole thing started. He sits on the floor by the bookshelf and lets the cup of tea his wife brings go cold on the rug, and reads again and again the scene—coming down the stairwell, finding the car in the garage, going through the details of the voice on the tape, on where their dad (Dean's grandfather) could possibly be, and Dad says there's this interview he can't skip. His whole future, on a plate. In the story, it's Dad's point of view, and he looks at Uncle Dean and Uncle Dean smirks, and Dad thinks, This is exactly what I was getting away from. Dean drags his thumb over the page, looks at the shelf. All those books. All the years in them, and the horrors in those. Hell, and apocalypse, and none of it euphemisms or easy metaphor. All the things Dad wanted to get away from—and then all the years, after, where he stayed exactly where he was. And then—a lifetime later—to come back home to a house, with a blue door, and his eyes not bothering to follow his brother as he leaves a room, because he knows without doubt that he'll be back.

In bed, he asks his wife, "When do you think the kids will get here?" and she turns over and stares at him, and says, "Hopefully not for years?"

He shakes his head, folds his arm under his head. "Duh," he says, and gets her to punch his chest lightly. "Ow. I meant… I don't know. What do you think their lives will be? Like… who will they be? I can't even imagine."

She stops trying to lightly beat him and goes thoughtful. Her thumb finds the little scar on her chin and rubs it, as is her habit, and her eyes slip over his shoulder to the distance. "They'll be—them." He raises his eyebrows, and she shrugs, rolling closer. "I mean, what do you want from me? I knew Abbie for fifty-one years and I still think that girl's a mystery. When she's… probably a grandmother herself, now, I guess. Is she still at Notre Dame? Are she and Andre happy? Are the boys healthy and do they like each other, and did she ever get Jacob to stop drawing cartoon dicks on the walls?" Dean laughs—god, he'd forgotten that—and she smiles at him, props her head on one fist. Says, softer, "Did she live the life she wanted to have? I don't know. I guess when she gets here we can ask her, but we'll never…"

No, they'll never. Dean touches the scar on her chin and she focuses on him, instead of some other world they're no longer privy to. "It's a venn diagram," he says, after a moment. "All of us. Abbie, overlapping with you and me, and then us overlapping with our parents, and on and on, all the way back. I guess we don't get to know what's outside the center parts."

"Even if there's a hundred and four crappily-written books about the other parts," she says, raising her eyebrows, and Dean shrugs, caught. She grins, shaking her head at him, and then squirms in close, tucking in under his chin. Kisses his throat, sighs. "Why not stop at a hundred? Seems random."

"I don't know, maybe the publisher wanted him to stretch it out," Dean says, and she hums, and puts her nose on his collarbone to settle in. He smooths her hair back, away from her shoulder. His favorite book is Swan Song, probably. The final one, as far as most people knew. His dad, the hero, saving humanity and the world, but that wasn't the best part. The best part was the army man, stuck in the door. His dad, looking at that, and meeting his brother's eye, and that being—enough. Just that, and all the life it represented. Enough.

"Venn diagrams," he says, aloud, quietly.

"Yes, you're very brilliant, Dr. Winchester," his wife says, mumbling. "Now go to sleep."

He kisses her hair, and does.