#this will be the only thing i have to say on the subject

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Movie Week

Day 1 - Fear (1996)

Male Yandere x Fem Reader, 1.7k words

 Your dad doesn't like your boyfriend.

Hardly breaking news. The amount of boyfriends who are chummy with their future father-in-law is in decidedly short supply. Like, national crisis level shortage.

Still, you aren't sure why your dad has such a problem with him.

Your boyfriend is sweet. He's charming. He takes your dog out on walks and gets along with your ancient and sour tom cat. He picks you up from school and keeps his hands to himself whenever your pops is around.

He's smart, in his own way. Good with his hands, the top student in your school's auto shop class.

A catch really. Out of your league, if you want to be honest.

But your dad doesn't want to hear any of it.

"Home before ten, not a second later."

"Don't you dare leave the living room when he's here. Either you stay where I can see you, or he doesn't come over at all."

"You're only allowed to drive home from school with him. I don't want you in that deathtrap of his any longer than you need to be."

Your boyfriend takes it in his stride. The only sign that it bothers him is the slight strain in his voice.

"Yes, sir. I'll get her home on time."

"No, sir. We won't leave the living room."

"I drive under the speed limit all the time, sir."

A different man would have given up on you ages ago. It isn't pleasant, being subjected to scrutiny and barley veiled menace every time you want to take your girl out on a date.

Somehow, he manages.

"It's easy," he tells you after yet another uncomfortable dinner with your father, his arm around the back of your seat as he pulls out of your driveway.

"I just keep reminding myself that I'm going to marry you. He'll have to soften up once I have a ring on your finger."

You can't ignore the way your heart jumps when he says that.

"Don't joke about stuff like that."

He grins at you. "Not joking. Gonna make you my wife someday."

You twist your hands in your skirt and tell yourself he's just pulling your leg. You're too young to be thinking about marriage. You need to focus on picking out graduation gowns, not wedding dresses.

Still, it's a nice thing to think about. A silly little fantasy to keep your smile in place when you get home from your date and your dad insists on grilling you. Something to dream about before bed, when the sheets are cold and you want nothing more than to have your boyfriend between them.

He brings it up again on your next date.

"Gold or silver?"

"For what?"

You're at the gun range, your boyfriend polishing up his skills. The crack of gunfire only slightly muffled by your ear protection.

He's reloading his pistol, fingers quick and fast.

"For your engagement ring."

You freeze for a second, and then start giggling.

"Yeah, right. Are you going to ask me if I want cream or ivory tulle next?"

He shrugs, cocking his pistol with a practiced, easy pull.

"I say cream. Looks better with your skin tone."

He gets into a firing stance and aims at the cut out.

"My dad might not even say yes. Have you thought about that?"

He fires. One bullet after the other until the clip is empty. The veins and muscles on his forearms stand out; he's gripping the gun that tight.

When it clicks on an empty chamber, he sets it aside and pulls off his ear protection. The retrieval system whirs as his target gets pulled towards you.

"I've thought about it," he says quietly.

You're about to say something when you catch sight of his target. Bullet holes straight through its forehead, a stray or two lodged in its throat. You count them up in your head and compare it to the amount of bullets you saw him load.

He didn't miss a single shot.

He's good with guns, but you've never seen him this accurate before. What the hell is he focused on, to land every shot?

You look up to find him watching you.

"Your dad will say yes. I know he will."

Your dad doesn't say yes.

You aren't aware of it. All you know is that your boyfriend stops walking you to your front door after school, and that your dad is awfully quiet at dinner for a few weeks.

Your dad doesn't say yes the second time either.

It's a late Friday afternoon. You're at study group with your friends while your father and your boyfriend square off against each other. Sun slanting through the big bay windows and spilling in golden stripes across the carpet.

"You're too young."

"I love her!"

"You don't even know what love is!"

"I know enough. I want to be with her. Is that so wrong? We won't get married right away."

"Not. Happening."

Your father is as tight wound as a hair trigger. Your boyfriend not much better. For a second, your dad thinks the kid might actually be stupid enough to hit him.

Go on, give me a good reason to kick you to the curb, you little shit.

He doesn't. Just pulls in a deep breath and turns to leave, door slamming hard behind him.

Your father sits down with his anger still coiled tight in his chest. Anger, and fear too. There's something about your boyfriend that unnerves him. That hair raising feeling of nails on a chalkboard. Not logical at all, but too strong to just be gut instinct.

Kid looked like he wanted to kill me.

You father has to make a conscious effort to unclench his fists.

When you get home that day, he kisses your forehead and prays that you change your mind about the whole thing. Date someone a little less... strange.

No luck. He hears you on the phone with your boyfriend all evening.

Is the kid really going to let it go? Or is he going to keep asking?

Your dad doesn't get his answer. Two days later, his car goes off the road.

Brake lines wore out and finally snapped, the cops tell you.

It's raining hard when they give you the news, little droplets of water on their uniforms despite their oversized black umbrellas.

You're too cold and stunned to answer them.

It's only when your boyfriend comes over that you manage to speak, to think of a sentence or two beyond, "But I just saw him. How can he be dead if I just saw him five minutes ago?"

He pulls you onto his lap and let's you cry into his shirt, smoothing your hair away from your face.

"It's okay baby, I'm here. I've got you."

It's only after the funeral that he asks the question he's wanted an answer to for months. The funeral parlour is almost empty. Your dad's coffin long gone.

He keeps his arm curled around your waist as you bid the last of the mourners goodbye.

"You never gave me an answer."

You blink at him, thoughts mired in molasses.

"An answer to what?"

He smiles, head tilted in that boyishly charming way of his.

"The only question that matters. Gold or silver?"

Day 1 - Fear (1996)

Day 2 - Secret Obsession (2019)

Day 3 - Hush (2016)

Day 4 - The Perfect Guy (2015)

Day 5 - The Boy Next Door (2015)

Day 6 - The Invisible Man (2020)

Day 7 - Til Death Do Us Part (2017)

[toshn]

showing mark weird tiktoks :P this is really just pure brainrot i can’t takr it anymore it’s all over my fyp 💔🥀gn!reader i rhink and hero reader!! not proofread!!

it was 11:27 pm. you were doing your usual—doomscrolling on tiktok in bed while laying in mark’s arms after beating the shit out of criminals the entire day. it was the only time where you were able to just lay down and do nothing. if you weren’t born with powers, you would have definitely chose to rot in bed all day eating frosted flakes in the same pajamas you wore the previous day as opposed to working your butt off to fight crime. one could only dream

you’re new latest obsessions, of which mark was graciously subjected to never hearing the end of, was those weird ai generated photos of animals mutated with random things and the cute little japanese mouse-like creature—chiikawa. if you weren’t mouthing off about something a weird half-jet plane half-crocodile said, you’d be crying about how cute chiikawa is. or whoever ‘gluttonous king usagi’ is, as mark would say.

“mark. our streak mark. mark our streaks.” you mumbled with your cheek pressed against his chest, eyes still glued onto the screen in your hands.

“why do you keep sending me this rat in a suit who killed john pork? why is his wife having an affair with a pig?”

you giggled, laughing at the silliness of what came out of your boyfriend’s mouth. “tim cheese was a controlling piece of shit. he doesn’t deserve tina! she should’ve left him a long time ago!”

“and he didn’t have to kill john pork…” mark grumbled, scrolling further up to watch the other tiktoks you sent him. making sure to answer each one and keep your streak alive—or he won’t be hearing the end of it.

you rolled away from his grasp to instead press your stomach against him, your face inches away from his. “yeah! he was totally jealous of john pork. i’ll send you another tiktok so you’ll be able to educate yourself better about the ‘tim-cheese-john-pork saga.” you exclaimed, laying your cheek against him once more. the rumbling of his chest that came from his laugh making your heart swell with how soothing it sounded.

mark was really enjoying hearing you ramble about things he doesn’t even understand. hell, he was a geek himself. but if someone were to put you and him in the same room? (please do) it’s a different story. sometimes he doesn’t even get half of what you’re saying because he can’t catch up with internet humor nowadays—not that he has the time to do so. he patiently waited for you to find the video you were looking for, briefly looking at his own phone before he felt you perk up.

“here look! he betrayed john pork! i kinda feel like pengu is in on it… just- just watch the whole thing!”

and he indeed, watch the whole thing. his face was a flurry of emotions the entire time. he was frowning, furrowing his eyebrows, for a second you thought he was gonna throw hands himself. mark was clearly invested.

“i’m so scared for my life right now. what if i actually am next?”

you let out a hearty laughter, rolling away from mark and onto your back. he had the same reaction as you did the first time you watched the tim cheese lore video. and he even had the same look on his face when tim shot john pork’s head off clean.

“baby this is no laughing matter. who even made this? what beef do they have with john pork? i mean he clearly had pork you know.”

you continued on laughing, the absurdity of the entire conversation further fueling the fire and mark was suppressing his own laughter, determined to be the mature one between the two of you. mark shook his head. dismissing the tiktok that was still playing in the background as he watched you cradle your heaving chest while quiet giggles continued on under your breath.

“alright.” you deadpanned, “it’s no longer funny. i’m over it.” you sat upright, a faux stoic expression on your face and you looked mark right in the eyes— slowly getting back into the position you were once in.

mark shook his head in agreement, placing a hand on your back and rubbing circles on the area as he lifted his phone again to open tiktok. his attention still subtly on you. “yeah, you’re right.” he remarked.

“but what if… pengu actually framed tim cheese and he killed john pork? food for thought, (y/n). food for thought.”

[cherrychilli]

18+ Steve Harrington X F! reader, friends to lovers, flashing (f) WC: 762 Summary: Steve's amazed by the number of things you can fit in your bra when you refuse to lug around a bag with you.

In the last two hours you'd pulled out a wad of fives to pay for the snacks you'd both picked up at the gas station, then a lighter as the two of you sat out on the hood of Steve's car, overlooking Lovers Lake while you had a smoke and last, a pack of minty gum for you to chew and smack on when you got back in the car.

What fascinated Steve was that none of these items had been stored inside a bag like one might expect, all of them pulled out of your bra like it was an entirely normal thing to do. Unable to ignore it any longer and more than a little flustered, he finally breaks his silence on the matter.

"Okay, I have to know. What else do you have in there?", Steve carefully gestures vaguely in the direction of your breasts, looking all kinds of exasperated. You return his look with an amused smirk.

"I'll give you two guesses", you puff your chest out, the answer so obvious it makes him roll his eyes.

"Not them- uh, those. I mean, c'mon. Doesn't it ever get, I don't know...uncomfortable having to wedge it all in there?", he asks trying and failing to choose his words carefully while his eyes flicked back and forth between your face and your cleavage.

You see your chance and pounce at it, especially since he'd set you up for it so perfectly.

"I don't mind a tight fit, Steve", you chew on your gum with a wink, torturing the poor boy as you leisurely blow a bubble big enough to pop.

"You- you know what I uh, what I meant", he tells you while trying his damndest to appear composed, his voice giving him away when it cracks enough to make you snicker.

He does have a point though, you could admit that much as you cut the jokes and decide to answer with a simple shrug. "I don't know. It's something I just got used to. There's enough space for everything I need. And besides, I hate having to carry a bag around. those things make my shoulders sore as all hell", you explain honestly although you can tell that Steve's nowhere near ready to move on from the subject just yet.

"Tell you what. Since you're so interested, how about a game? loser has to do whatever the winner says if you can guess how many other items I've got in here.

"Seriously?", he checks, eyes all round and alert.

"Yup", you confirm.

Knowing of three items already, he thinks hard. Much harder than he ever has before, his eyes fixed on your breasts, trying to ascertain what else might be hiding under your clothing, even working up a light sweat near his temple which makes you giggle.

Steve's making it out to be some sort of life or death deal and honestly, you liked how seriously he was taking this, showing you how much and how badly he wants to get a peek under your sweater.

"C'mon Harrington. Don't wanna be out here all day you know", you chide after another minute ticks by.

"Okay...five?"

Reaching inside, out comes the lighter, the gum and the money again, his eyes still hopeful when you fish out your apartment key followed by a tube of lip balm only for his face to crumble when you finally pull out a spare hair tie.

So close. He'd been so damn close as a really pitiful look of defeat spills over his face.

"Okay, so what to you want from me?", he groans, ever the sore loser.

You might have won but you don't feel any thrill in having done so. If you were being completely honest, you weren't exactly mad at the thought of Steve winning. In fact, you'd quietly hoped for him to do so just to see what he might have asked of you.

Well, you've got a pretty good guess as to what it might be.

Boobies, of course.

You didn't have to. You really didn't have to but the sight of him like this makes you feel oddly compelled to reward him anyway. Anything to wipe that dour look on his face.

Reaching round, you watch Steve's perplexed face with glee as you unclasp your bra and pull it out through your sleeve so seamlessly, winking at him before picking up the hem of your shirt and lifting it up to let him see your breasts bounce free and bare.

"Your undivided attention", you grin at his cherry red face, knowing full well this wouldn't be the last time you let him see them.

[nadvs]

the power play (part one)

pairing hockeyplayer! rafe cameron x tutor! reader

rating mature 18+

summary rafe is your complete opposite. the only thing you have in common with the hockey player you tutor is that he’s also recently had his heart broken. in a last-ditch effort to make the people who hurt you regret it, you agree to pretend to date.

tags college au. fake dating. grumpy athlete/sunshine tutor. reader is bubbly, talkative, and passionate about literature. very slowburn. he falls first. alcohol use. suggestive moments, but no smut.

power play (noun)

an offensive tactic in a team sport; a deliberate attempt to manipulate someone.

════════

You hoped it wouldn’t feel the way it used to, but as you sit in the stands behind the home bench next to Lyla, it’s all the same.

You’re watching Beck zip across the ice with a painfully familiar sense of longing hammering into your chest. Falling for him always felt inevitable; you just didn’t expect that he wouldn’t be there to catch you.

When you and Lyla became friends in the ninth grade, you quickly grew close to her family, spending more time at their house than your own, tagging along to watch her twin brother’s hockey games.

The more you got to know Beck, the more you fell under his spell, charmed by his warmth, by every part of him that made him the most captivating person you’d ever met.

He stole your heart. Considering the way he treated you, you were sure you’d stolen his, too.

You spent most of last semester helping him with a class, even though you were in the same overwhelming throws of being a college freshman. Every study session in his dorm room drifted by with an undercurrent of certainty that he felt something, too.

It crushed you to realize that it’d all been in your head. A few weeks ago, you’d met him after his final exam, which he said he knew he nailed thanks to you.

You thought he was finally going to make the move that felt like it’d been hanging over you for years. But all he did was pull you into a side-hug and say, “You’re more of a friend to me than my own sister.”

Thinking about it still makes you cringe. You hate how weak you feel ruminating over this, trying to get over someone you were never even with.

It’s a Wednesday night two weeks into the spring semester, and you’re at the first home game you’ve been to in a while. Although you’ve always loved the loud, buzzing atmosphere of a hockey game, you’ve been staying far away from the campus arena and the man who hurt you.

You haven’t spoken to Beck. And he hasn’t reached out. What he did was an indirect rejection, his way of saying, It’s obvious that you like me and I need you to know once and for all that I don’t like you back.

Since then, every time your best friend has asked you to come to games or parties, you’ve told her you’ve been too busy, using your new position in a tutoring program as your excuse.

You prefer a distraction from Beck, and helping other students with a subject you’re passionate about has done the job.

But you can’t blow Lyla off forever, so now, you’re sitting with her in the stands among a small crowd of spectators.

The championship season begins in a month. Every seat will be full then. But you wish more people were around now. You welcome any noise to drown out your thoughts.

Everyone else cheers when Beck smashes the puck against the back of the net, securing the team’s first goal. You find it hard to join the celebration. Even though you’ve always thought of him as kind, you wonder if he could tell how much you liked him. If he consciously led you on.

For years, you’d watched him date other girls, hoping he’d finally realize you were the right one for him all along. You daydreamed far too much about him, imagining that he’d become your first boyfriend and take you on your first date and give you your first kiss.

The alarm blares to signal the end of the second period, pulling you out the haze you’ve fallen into a thousand times since that day in front of his exam room.

“You want to get some snacks?” Lyla asks.

“Sure,” you reply, doing your best impression of a girl with nothing weighing on her.

Once you walk up to the end of one of the arena’s concession stand lines, Lyla recognizes the people standing in front of you, greeting both girls with smiles and hugs.

Through introductions, you learn that Emma and Gabby are friends Lyla made at a party last semester. After some small talk as the line shuffles forward, Lyla points back to the rink.

“The seats next to us are empty if you want to sit with us,” she offers.

Emma and Gabby happily join you as you settle back in your seats soon after. You gaze ahead at the empty rink as they chat, the 3-1 score glaring above the ice in red neon numbers.

“No way the coach isn’t chewing them out right now,” Lyla says with a shake of her head.

“Why do you know on the team again?” Emma asks.

“My brother, Beck,” Lyla says. “You?”

Emma’s mouth twists into a tense smile.

“My ex,” she says, her voice lowering. “I wish he didn’t play, because I actually really love coming to these games.”

“Bad breakup?” you surmise.

“Brutal,” Gabby chimes in. You can tell by her expression that she’d supported her friend through the fallout.

“I just don’t want him to see me here and think it means something,” Emma sighs. “If he thinks that I want to get back together, it’ll be a disaster. We broke up a month ago and he’s still bothering me.”

You hardly know this girl, and you know her ex even less, but your reflex is to feel bad for him. You’re well acquainted with the pain that comes with caring about somebody who doesn’t want you.

“Oh, yeah,” Lyla remembers. “Rafe, right?”

Emma nods.

“Yikes.”

“Yeah,” Emma laughs.

The three girls share a knowing look, something unsaid passing through them.

You don’t know much about Rafe. On the rink, he’s a strong, aggressive defenseman, a sophomore who spends more time in the penalty box than any other player. You’ve seen him at a couple of parties, too, but never exchanged any words.

You don't understand the girls’ tense reactions to the mention of his name.

“What am I missing?” you half-whisper.

“You’d be missing nothing if you actually came to the parties I invite you to,” Lyla teases.

You can count on one hand how many parties you’ve been to since you started college. But it works for you. A party every few weeks is enough.

“I come when I can,” you reply, nudging her playfully. “Fill me in.”

“He’s a trainwreck,” Emma explains to you. “He has a million red flags that I ignored because I thought he was hot. Literally all we ever did was fight.”

“Yeah,” Lyla huffs, raising her brows. She looks at you. “Maybe it’s actually a good thing you don’t come to every party.”

You consider their words. They must have had a penchant for making a scene, shamelessly arguing in front of a crowd.

“I couldn’t take how mean and moody he was anymore. I dumped him and he won’t let it go.” Emma breathes a laugh. “It’s pathetic. He even called me crying the other night.”

Again, a confusing pang of sympathy for him hits you. It has to be your own heartbreak influencing you. You can’t imagine you’d normally feel bad for a guy described as having a million red flags.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“I’m over it,” Emma says carelessly.

“He’s not,” Gabby murmurs.

The players storm out on the rink again moments later, blades slicing the ice. They’re all so fast and powerful, and knowing that Rafe, the most forceful one of the group, is going through a version of the pain you are is oddly comforting.

A couple of minutes in, he gets thrown into the penalty box for charging an opponent. He skates to the opposite side of the rink, Cameron stitched across the black polyester of his jersey.

He stares at the floor as he waits out his penalty, tense, still. You think that if someone who looks so big and strong can hurt just like you, maybe you’re not as weak as you think.

════════

Rafe swings open the library entrance door with a scowl, irritated as hell that he has to be here. It’s annoying that the athletic department gives this much of a shit about players’ grades. Rafe knows he’s one of the best on the hockey team. He wishes that were enough.

Freshman year was fine, but he barely made it through last semester. He just failed his first assignment in a half-term literature course that was supposed to be an easy A.

Coach wasn’t pleased, saying it could screw up his GPA and deem him ineligible to play. Rafe tried to convince him that he’d do better on the next one, but Coach set him up with a tutor, unwilling to hear him out.

He’s already hardwired into a constant state of anger. Life has always been a storm, and now more than ever, there's no refuge in sight.

He's dealing with a coach who has no hope in him, on top of a painful breakup, on top of a shitty loss last night, on top of the fact that now he’s being forced to talk to a stranger about some boring book.

He can’t catch a break.

He looks at the email on his phone again. Study Room 205. He eventually finds the open door and taps his knuckles on it to get your attention.

You lock eyes with the person you’ve been waiting on for the last ten minutes. You had no idea who was coming up to meet you – just that the athletic department set it up.

But you know him. Or of him, at least.

A second ago, you were thinking about how you’ll have to ask whoever you’re meeting to be on time for future sessions. Now, your mind is consumed by the harsh words you heard about him last night.

“Hi,” you say politely. “Are you here for Lit Arts?”

He nods tersely in confirmation, stepping in. He drops his bag onto one of the empty chairs surrounding the square desk in the middle of the small room. You introduce yourself and when he sits down diagonally opposite to you, he murmurs, “Rafe.”

Discomfort swirls in your stomach. You’d heard something so personal about him at the rink, gazed at him in the penalty box from a distance, feeling like he’s a kindred spirit, and now you have to pretend like none of it happened.

“You’re on the hockey team, right?” you ask.

He realizes he’s seen you before. He can’t figure out where.

“Yeah.”

“I was at the game last night. Tough loss.”

Rafe doesn’t say anything. The clock ticks rhythmically. You clear your throat, figuring it’s best to skip the small talk.

“I took this class last semester. I know exactly how the prof grades, so you’re lucky to have me in your corner.”

Rafe is many things right now. Lucky isn’t one of them.

“Do you have your laptop?” you ask.

He unzips his bag and pulls out his computer.

“You can go to the course portal,” you tell him. He lets out an exhale as he navigates to the webpage. You lean closer to make sure that the class is currently on the book you brought with you.

You pull out your copy of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, page edges littered with different colored sticky tabs.

“Did you get a chance to start the book?” you ask.

He shakes his head. He’s not hiding that he really doesn’t want to be here. Nonetheless, you’re determined to crack him.

“Do you have a copy of it?”

“No.”

You nod slowly, picking up that he planned to coast through the class, not even bothering to buy and read any of the books.

“Do you like reading?” you ask.

“Nah,��� he says with a grimace, as if he’s offended you’d assume that.

“You might like some of the books on the syllabus. This class is a lot of fun.”

“Fun,” he echoes with a stare that makes him look like he wants to bolt out of the door he just came through.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you reply with a smile. “Your idea of fun is skating around and getting slammed into walls. I should be the one judging you.”

He gazes at you like you’re from another planet, blue eyes hard on you. It’s nothing short of amusing.

You pull his laptop closer, hovering the cursor over the ‘My Grades’ tab, and ask, “Do you mind if I check how you did on your last assignment?”

“I bombed it,” he says.

As you gaze at the screen, Rafe clues in on where he’s seen you before. With one of the team’s freshmen.

Varsity athletes who live on campus are lumped together in the same dormitory block, and he’s seen you hanging around with Beck, going in and out of his room.

He wouldn’t consider Beck a friend. He’s a teammate and at best, an acquaintance. The guy’s a kiss-ass to Coach, and does everything by the book, skipping most parties and never drinking.

It makes complete sense that a rule-follower like Beck would date a good girl like you. Who the fuck calls a class fun?

You click to see his failing grade percentage for the first assignment of the semester in bolded red.

“Did you get any feedback on where you went wrong?” you ask. You know he’s going to shake his head before he does it. He doesn’t seem to care at all. “You have a whole semester to get your grade up. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not,” he replies stiffly.

“Well… maybe you should worry a little bit,” you say lightheartedly. “I know your coach is serious about grades.”

Rafe figures you must have heard that from your boyfriend. Maybe Beck took this class, too. It’s popular among busy student athletes because it’s supposed to be an easy way to fulfill a humanities credit.

He could just convince Beck to give him copies of his assignments. He’d have to change stuff around, but at least he’d get out of tutoring.

“Did you help Beck with this class?” he asks.

You’re taken aback by the sudden reminder of him, brows knitting together, a shift in your breezy demeanor.

“You’re his girl, right?” he says, as if it’s obvious.

“No. We’re– we’re friends.” You chew on your bottom lip. Tutoring is supposed to be a distraction from Beck, not the topic of conversation. But your curiosity burns in you and there’s no chance of putting it out. “Did he talk about me or something?”

“No,” he says, a bit too harshly for your liking. “I just figured ‘cause you’re with him all the time.”

“Right,” you say. All the time. Like a lost puppy, no doubt. Embarrassment pricks at your skin. “I helped him with another class. We’re friends.”

Rafe cracks his first smirk since he walked into this stuffy little room. You said friends twice, both times with uncertainty.

“You sure?” he chides.

“What?” you say stiffly. “Yes. I am.”

You crack open the book.

“So, A Portrait is about a man named Stephen who navigates the idea of identity,” you say quickly, trying to shake off your nerves. “We should look at the discussion question.”

You shut the book abruptly, then turn your attention to the laptop.

“You need to write a 1,500-word reflection for each book,” you ramble. “You’ll do better if you find a personal connection to the text. Maybe we start there.”

Rafe watches the nervous way your eyes dart around the screen as you scroll. His joke threw you into a tense, awkward panic that he has no interest in being around.

“You can relax,” he says. “I don’t care if you like him.”

You don’t look at him. You thought you were relaxed.

“Well, I don’t.”

You scroll to the question, one word in particular striking you.

What role does Emma play in Stephen’s growth and how he defines himself?

Of course. As if you needed another reason for this to be even more awkward.

Seeing Rafe’s ex’s name makes what she’d told you about him echo through your head again. Despite his teasing, the sympathy you felt for him comes back tenfold.

You know things about him that you shouldn’t. You feel a responsibility to balance the scales, but the air is too tense, the unfamiliarity too uncomfortable.

“Did you take a look at the question?” you ask.

He shakes his head, still slouched back. At this point, his apathy is starting to get to you.

“Listen, I can tell you don’t want to be here, but could you please try to meet me in the middle?” you say.

Rafe’s lips pull into a firm line, but he relents and leans closer to look at the screen. His body goes cold when he sees her name. He’d rather not be reminded of the girl who broke his heart right now.

“Emma is Stephen’s love interest,” you begin, trying to act like you don’t know a thing about his past relationship. “He sees her as something she’s not.”

You leaf through the book, finding a note you’d written in the margin.

“She represents idealization,” you read. You look up at him again. “Stephen sees by the end that she’s just a normal person, not this perfect girl he thought she was for so many years.”

You open a blank document on his laptop.

“We can write up some notes to start us off,” you say. “This prof grades high when you relate to the text. He likes the sentimental stuff, so until you read the book, that’s what we’ll have to work on.”

You chew on your lip again, unsure if you should bring up what you heard in the stands. It feels unethical either way.

“It doesn’t have to be a person,” you say. “It could be a place or an experience. Have you ever thought something was great and then realized it wasn’t?”

Rafe’s stomach is in a knot. The thought of being tutored and having his hand held through a class was bad enough. Now he has to get into his feelings with you?

“I don’t know,” he says.

You look at the blinking cursor, your head cocked in thought.

“Maybe relating it to a person would be easier, then?” you ask.

Nothing can make this easier. Rafe rakes his hair back, gazing down at your hands stalled over his keyboard.

“I get that this is awkward,” you say. “But it doesn’t have to be anything super personal. You could even make something up if you want.”

He only purses his lips, eyes fixed on your hands, as if he hopes you’ll give in and just do his work for him.

You take a deep breath and interlace your fingers on the desk. You figure that if you’re a little vulnerable, he might be, too.

He’s unknowingly feeling the same pain you are and saying the truth out loud to someone who gets it might even be a relief. There’s a risk of it getting back to Beck, but something tells you Rafe’s not much of a gossiper anyway.

“To be honest, yes, I like Beck. I thought he felt the same, but he doesn’t. Between you and me, sometimes I think he took me for granted and led me on. I idealized a friendship and it ended up hurting me. If this were my assignment, I’d relate to the book with that.”

Rafe is thrown off by your sudden honesty. It’s actually refreshing, considering all the bullshit he’s been dealing with lately.

He looks at you wordlessly.

“It’s just an example,” you say with a soft chuckle. “I did well in this class because I found pieces of myself in every book. All you need to do is read the material, find something you can relate to, write a decent report, and you’ll get a good grade. Well, that and prepare for the midterm and the final.”

“This class was supposed to be easy,” he finally says under his breath.

“Can you let me know when you’re going to be done complaining?” you ask playfully, looking up at the clock. “It’s been five minutes and you’re still going.”

Rafe huffs an almost-laugh. He adjusts his posture again, pulling at the collar of his hoodie.

“You really don’t have to be specific,” you reassure him. You tap your fingers over the keyboard again, just light enough to not press any buttons. “If you can relate the character of Emma to someone, you don’t have to say their name.”

Your eyes stay glued to the screen, your shoulders stiff as you wait. You’re acting weird again. The way you said Emma’s name looked like it pained you.

And it dawns on him.

“Should’ve known she’d talk shit,” he realizes. “What’d she tell you?”

“What?” you say, meeting his gaze.

“What did Emma say about me?” Rafe drawls, his deep voice reverberating through you.

Your lips part, but words refuse to form. For a guy that doesn’t like to read, he’s very good at doing it to you.

Rafe leans forward and rests his elbows on the desk. You can now see what makes him so intimidating on the ice. Every edge of his face is sharp now, apathy replaced with intensity.

“Nothing,” you reply. “It’s not my business.”

How did he not clue in before? If you run in the hockey team’s social circle, of course you heard about their breakup.

Emma never cared to keep things private. And you’re so willing to share your own personal stuff because you know more about him than you’re letting on. Because you pity him.

“Come on,” he scoffs, frustrated.

“I met her at the rink last night. She just mentioned you used to date.”

He shrugs impatiently, a silent request that you keep talking. You sigh. He’s stubborn.

“She said she likes coming to games, but it’s hard to because her ex is on the team.” You grimace. There’s no way you’d actually tell him all of it, all of the insults she muttered. “It’s not worth repeating, but… basically, she told me she broke things off and you won’t move on.”

Rafe nods, lips twisting. The way she’s been ignoring his texts and his calls to try to fix things stung enough. Talking to strangers to embarrass him hurts on an entirely different level.

He didn’t know Emma could be this cruel. This is mortifying. He’s done trying to make things work with her. No matter how hard the loneliness is hitting him.

You slide the book across the desk towards him, desperate to move past the tension.

“You can start reading,” you say. “And you don’t have to buy any of the books. I’ll just lend you mine. I’ll get some notes down for you to work from and you can do the personal connection part on your own.”

You start to type and immediately wonder if he’ll drop the class. You’ve never had that happen with someone you tutored before, but you wouldn’t blame him.

It must feel crappy to hear from a girl you don’t even know that your ex is saying bad things about you. A girl that you have to see every Thursday afternoon for the next three months.

Rafe cracks open the book in the middle to fan through the pages, a weight sitting on his chest. The pages are worn, words underlined, notes scribbled in the margins.

“You put this through the washing machine or something?” he murmurs.

“I’ve read it a few times,” you say simply. You keep typing.

Emma said he’d called her crying. It’s hard to imagine the man sitting next to you crying. It’s weird knowing something about someone that they wouldn't want you to know.

Rafe’s already bored with the first sentence. It’s long and confusing and completely uninteresting. His eyes drift up, absorbing the way your face softly creases in concentration as you type.

Now that you’re not talking at a thousand words a second, he can actually take you in.

You’re the type of girl he’d approach at a party. There’s no doubt about that. But once you’d start yapping about reading like you just did, about finding pieces of yourself in a book, he’d find a way out of the conversation.

Playing hockey at the college level is demanding; he likes the other things in his life to be fun and easy. Keeping up with a girl like you and pretending he’s interested in whatever you’re rambling about would be neither.

As he studies you, he doesn’t get why Beck friendzoned you. You’re pretty. And you’re the same type of person that Beck: straight-edge and so cheerful it’s annoying.

Rafe is typically one to outright say what he’s thinking, but he has the restraint to keep the idea he just had to himself. He needs to sleep on it. He’s done some crazy shit since Emma broke his heart and he’d rather not add to the tally.

You notice him looking at you in your peripheral vision.

“You’re not thinking of dropping the class, are you?” you ask.

“No,” he says. His eyes stay on you for another beat, then find the words on the page again.

════════

You thought Rafe came to your first session in a bad mood. Compared to how you feel right now, he was peachy.

Lyla called you on your way to the library and mentioned in passing that her brother asked about you last night. She said Beck seemed like he missed you, all sympathetic when he asked, is she doing okay?

She’s oblivious to the real reason he brought it up. And it’s irritating. Because he doesn’t even ask you himself. Because he’s right. He knows that his passive rejection left a wound.

“You’re on time,” you say in surprise when Rafe saunters into the study room.

“You talk a lot,” he mumbles. “I’m not interested in a lecture after you told me not to be late.”

Despite your bad mood, you crack an amused smile. You’d ended last week’s session telling him that tardiness was not only disrespectful to you, but to his own academic success. He rolled his eyes, but he clearly listened.

Rafe settles in the same chair as last time, holding your copy of the book he was supposed to read.

“Did you read it?”

“Mostly.”

“What’d you think?” you say with hope.

“Boring.”

“Fair,” you say. You gesture for his laptop. “Let’s see how far you got on the report.”

Your brows drop in disappointment when you see how much he added to the file. It’s a bunch of pasted summaries and disorganized thoughts, taking up only half the page.

You eventually reach the end of your hour-long session and have him read over the assignment one last time before submitting it. You check the syllabus to confirm what the next book is, then shut his computer.

“Try to have more for us to work with next time,” you tell him. “And you should have the next book totally read by then, too, okay?”

You hand him your copy of Pride and Prejudice and push your seat back, ignoring his frustrated sigh.

“You talk to Beck lately?” he asks after a beat.

“What?” you say, face screwing up. You’re reminded all over again of what Lyla said. “No. Why?”

“You’re still pissed at him,” he says. He’s confident, coming to the conclusion himself instead of waiting for you to admit it.

“Why are you talking about this? We had a perfectly nice hour together,” you try to joke.

Rafe finally gives a voice to what’s been swirling in his mind since last week. He’s used to being mad, to feeling spiteful, but the way his ex broke his heart has never made him want revenge more. He wants to hurt her as badly as she hurt him. He wants to make her regret leaving him.

“We should get back at them,” he says.

“I’m sorry?” you say, your chin dipping as you stare at him.

“Hear me out,” he tells you. “We’re going to keep seeing Beck and Emma around, right? We could make it look like we’re better off without them. Make them jealous.”

You squint, waiting for the details. Rafe draws in a sharp inhale.

“She said I’m not over her, right? And you said he took you for granted. If they think we moved on, I bet at least one of ‘em will realize they fucked up.”

You consider it. Admittedly, making Beck think you’re perfectly fine – no, thriving – after his rejection is enticing.

“Okay, how do we get back at them exactly?” you ask.

Rafe scratches the back of his neck. It’s the first time he seems kind of nervous to you.

“We pretend we’re together,” he says.

“You and…” You look over your shoulder, because he must be talking to somebody else who snuck into the room at some point. “You and me? Together together?”

“I know. It wouldn’t ever happen.”

You can’t even be offended. He’s right. He’s a skilled hockey player and undeniably good-looking, but that’s where the compliments end.

Two afternoons of working together and making small talk have shown you that you have nothing in common. And frankly, while you do laugh off his bad attitude, it gets on your nerves.

A relationship would never work, let alone even begin.

“But they don’t know that,” he continues. “All they’ll see is that someone they lost is happy without them.”

Your mind starts racing. The years of pining over Beck, the pain of his rejection, the frustration of him asking his sister how you’re holding up. They’ve all left cracks in your heart.

The more Rafe thinks about rubbing his happiness into Emma’s face, even if it’s bullshit, the more he hopes you’ll be on board. But you’re not saying a word.

“If you’re not in, fine,” he sighs, pushing his chair back to start to leave. He should have figured you’d be too uptight to do it. “I’m just saying I bet you wouldn’t hate making Beck sweat.”

He stands up, but you hear yourself say, “Wait.”

Then you hold out your hand.

Rafe breathes an amused chuckle, flashing the first sincere smile you’ve seen on his face, when he realizes what you’re doing.

Your hand slips into his, touching for the first time to seal the deal and shake on it.

“This is insane,” you say. “Count me in.”

(to be continued)

>>> new parts dropping every friday at 8:30 pm eastern

if you want notifications on when i post my fics, follow @xorafe-library and turn on notifications 💘 divider credit.

[slayed02145]

so high school

a/n: my first pazzi fic and my first ever post on tumblr who's excited. anyways this is a high school au, azzi transfers to Hopkins and chaos ensues! i hope you guys enjoy and lmk what you think! 😊

wc: 793

shs masterlist

------

Chapter 1

Paige was not well known for having one girl at a time. In fact, it was general knowledge at Hopkins that she always had a roster or some type of situationship going. So naturally, Paige was genuinely confused about why she was always caught up in drama when everyone knew she wasn’t and didn’t want to be locked down.

It starts first period—Spanish—on the first day back from Thanksgiving break. Their teacher is late, and that’s all the time Sophia needs to start a scene.

“Paige, what the fuck?” Sophia’s voice slices through the murmuring classroom as she strides toward Paige’s desk, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“Oh, um, hi Sophia,” Paige says, plastering on a half-smile that looks more like she’s in pain, her hand instinctively moving to scratch the back of her neck.

Jana, sitting next to her, leans in and whispers, “What could you have possibly done?”

“You didn’t want to tell me that you got with Amber over the break?”

Paige freezes. She doesn’t even know how word got around so quickly. And she didn’t even really get with Amber. They just made out at a party, but Paige swears it couldn’t have been for more than a minute because, around that same time, KK was on the verge of throwing up, and she and Ice had to leave to take care of her.

God seemed to be on Paige’s side because before she could respond, Señora Diaz walked in, with someone trailing behind her.

“Sophia, I don’t know what Paige did to you over the break,” Señora Diaz says, sighing dramatically as she sets her bag down. The class laughs, and even Sophia’s lips twitch in amusement. But Paige? Paige doesn’t laugh. Because her eyes are locked on the girl who just walked in with their teacher.

“Pero, por favor, siéntate. We have important matters to attend to.” Señora Diaz turns toward the new girl and nudges her forward. “Azzi, please introduce yourself.”

The first thing Paige notices is her smile. Then her height. Then the faint outline of abs peeking from under her slightly cropped shirt. Athletic. Confident. Paige bets she plays volleyball or basketball—God, she hopes it’s basketball. She doesn’t understand why this new girl is already making her heart beat a little faster. But she quickly shuts it down. Who even is she to have her heart racing over someone she hasn’t spoken to?

Azzi blushes slightly but smiles. “Hi, I’m Azzi Fudd, and I just moved—”

“En español, por favor,” Señora Diaz interrupts.

Azzi’s smile widens like she finds this amusing. “Hola, soy Azzi Fudd y acabo de mudarme aquí desde Arlington, Virginia.”

“¡Buen trabajo! Que todo el mundo la haga sentir bienvenida.” Señora Diaz places a hand on Azzi’s back and guides her toward the only empty desk—right in front of Paige.

“You can sit in front of Paige over there,” she says before turning toward her desk. Then, suddenly, she spins back around. “Actually, chatter amongst yourselves. I just need to grab some things from the printer. I’ll be quick.”

As soon as Señora Diaz disappears, Paige wastes no time and taps Azzi’s shoulder. “Hi, Azzi.”

Azzi turns, amused. “Hi, Paige.”

Paige raises an eyebrow. “How do you know my name already?”

Azzi laughs. “Don’t flatter yourself. Señora Diaz told me to sit in front of you. Plus, you were in quite the scene when I walked in.”

Paige groans. “Yeah, let’s not unpack that.” She quickly changes the subject because Azzi definitely does not need to know that Paige is, on the low, a whore—but like, a whore with a positive connotation.

“How you know Spanish so well?”

Azzi tilts her head. “So many questions.” She pauses, then smirks. “If you must know, I went to a Spanish immersion school.”

“Wait, that’s sick. I’m absolutely trash at this subject.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll help you out.” Azzi flashes that smile again, and Paige swears the room gets hotter.

She coughs, then blurts out, “You ball? You should. You’re tall—not as tall as me, but still—you should try out.”

God, what is wrong with her? Why is she nervous? And to make it worse, Jana, next to her, has definitely clocked it.

Azzi’s eyes light up at the mention of basketball. “I do play. Can I still try out? I asked the principal, but he said tryouts already happened.”

Paige scoffs. “Dave don’t know anything. I’ll talk to Coach. Don’t worry, just come today.”

“Today? I don’t have any clothes.”

“I gotchu. You got shoes, though?”

“Yeah, my bag is in my car.”

“Aight, bet.”

Jana, who has been silently observing, finally speaks. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

Paige ignores her, but deep down, she knows Jana is absolutely right.

[revivemyreverie]

"My hand? Why, of course you can-- Ah, wait, wait, wait, wait! I've fallen for these stupid tricks before! No more robberies, o- or I'll curse you in the process!"

Twisted from: Prince John, Robin Hood

Jules Coeur DeLion

ジュール・クール・ド・リヨン

CV: Yuma Ichida (内田 雄馬)

Technical info.

Gender: Male

Birthday: 12/24

Age: 18

Height: 176 cm

Hair Color: Wheat Blonde

Eye Color: Ruby Red & Emerald Green

Hand Pref.: Right

Homeland: Grimoire Badlands

College Info.

Class: 1-C Set 3

Club: Basketball

Favorite Subject: None*

Other.

Hobby: Talking about himself

Likes: Praise

Dislikes: Traitors

Favorite Food: Crystal Candies

Hated Food: Bell Peppers

Specialty: Identifying minerals

UM: A Golden Trap

With a simple kiss, Jules can enchant any object with a random magical affliction or charm. Whoever wields or wears the object outside of Jules will immediately be affected by said magic.

*Jules fails to shine particularly well in any subject.

The King and His Empty Crown

A set of letters meant for a Duke.

Coeur DeLion,

Regarding your sons’ education, Jules’ grades are perfectly average. This is a good thing considering the rate for many of the lower class children here, but he must apply himself harder if he is to be apart of the upper echelons of the Court as planned. A C is no better than an F, and he’s beginning to get more and more overtime. 

Oh, but your youngest, Alexander, he’s the top of the class as always. He’s even beaten me at my own questions!  I’m sure a school like Royal Sword College would have sent a letter for him the moment he turns 16. You’ve already seen the paper he’s written concerning how to approach the Grimoire Badlands’ poverty rates— he’s a genius! And at such a young age too! Ah, my time is being cut short, but we’ll discuss more about those two in-person.

-------, Royal Teacher

Sire, 

Alexander’s fighting skill has reignited the other soldiers’ passion as of late. It appears even him watching training has given them a reason to fight better! If we were at war with another country, I’m sure Alexander’s participation would guarantee us a victory! 

That said, would you mind if we took him on a bit of a joyride for his winter break? Nothing too crazy, of course, just teaching him how real warriors fight. I think it would be a great experience for him, and Alexander would get a good amount of experience with both magic and hand-to-hand combat. Plus, I think it’s better than being holed up in the house with his brother. Not to insult either, of course, you and I both know Jules just isn’t too good at using his fists, haha!

—Admiral -------

My love,

These meetings with other kingdoms are oh so very tiring, and I cannot wait to return home. That said, they also have given me a better response for your question…

So I agree, Alexander is the better fit for next in line as Duke. Still, we must allow him to continue growing, for a good leader is mature enough to handle both the court and his family. I’m sure Jules won’t mind this arrangement, it’s better for the both of them anyhow. I’d prefer to announce this on his birthday, as I feel it would be a splendid to celebrate both his coming-of-age and new title. 

This reminds me, the Queen has been looking for a special type of enchanted gemstone for her daughter, yet I’ve only found regular ones. Ah, if only the wizards were not so greedy, and I’d have the perfect gift.

We’ll talk again soon,

--Duchess Catherine Coeur DeLion

Yet, his eldest was the one to read it all.

He crumples the papers in his hand and curses. Still, even with the tears welling up in his eyes, the light behind them does not falter.

Jules Coeur DeLion is special, for he refuses to listen to those who say otherwise.

[seospicybin]

SEOSPICY PREVIEW.

COCKY: FINAL CHAPTER.

Bangchan x reader. (s,f)

Synopsis: As a researcher developing a specialized condom in extra large sizes, you never expected the company’s product manager, Chris, to volunteer as a test subject—let alone for things to get this complicated. Balancing professionalism with undeniable chemistry, you must navigate a partnership that’s strictly business… or so you keep telling yourself.

Preview under cut!

...

The noise of the party fades behind you as you slip out of the building, the cool night air washing over your skin. You let out a slow breath, relieved to finally be away from the crowd—and more importantly, away from Chris.

Pulling out your phone, you open the ride-hailing app and quickly request a taxi. As you wait, you cross your arms, tapping your fingers against your sleeve, your mind still racing from the night's events.

Just as you exhale and glance down at your phone, you feel a firm hand on your shoulder. Your breath catches, and you spin around, startled.

Chris stands there, his eyes immediately locked onto yours. The streetlights cast a soft glow over his face, highlighting the slight furrow in his brows. "I'm assuming you were avoiding me all night," he says, his tone light but eyes sharp.

You shake your head a little too quickly. "No, I wasn’t."

He chuckles at your poor attempt at denial, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Right. So it’s just a coincidence that every time I looked your way, you turned and disappeared?"

You press your lips together, feeling caught but unwilling to admit it. Instead, you sigh and change the subject. "Why are you out here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be inside celebrating?"

Chris tilts his head slightly. "I could ask you the same thing. The product launch was a huge success for you—you should be celebrating, not sneaking off like this."

You shrug, keeping your tone casual. "I'm just exhausted."

His smirk softens into something more thoughtful. "Then let me give you a ride home."

You open your mouth to refuse, grasping for an excuse. "You’ve probably had a few drinks. You should stay and enjoy the party."

Chris shakes his head. "I only had one drink." Then, with a small smile, he adds, "I was too busy looking for you all night."

Getting no answer from you, he tries again, his smile never faltering. “Come on, just let me drive you home.”

You hesitate, shifting on your feet. “Chris, it’s fine. I can just take a taxi.”

He exhales, tilting his head. “You’re really gonna make me go back to the party alone after I spent all night looking for you?” His tone is teasing, but there’s an underlying sincerity in his voice.

You cross your arms. “You don’t have to leave just because I am.”

“But I want to.” He takes a step closer, his voice softer now. “Let me take you home.”

You sigh, knowing he won’t drop it. And truthfully, you’re too tired to argue. “Fine,” you mumble.

The car ride is quiet, the city lights flashing by as Chris drives steadily through the streets. You’re still processing everything—the party, the launch, the exhaustion weighing down on you—when Chris suddenly speaks.

"Are you free next weekend?"

You blink, caught off guard. "Huh?" You turn to look at him, your voice coming out in a stammer. "Why?"

Chris keeps his eyes on the road, his fingers drumming lightly against the steering wheel. "You’ve been exhausted and stressed these past few weeks. I figured you could use a break, so I want to take you somewhere to relax."

Your brows knit together. "You don’t have to do that."

"But I want to," he says simply, glancing at you with a small smile. "Besides, as a product manager, I have to take care of my hardworking employee."

You narrow your eyes at him. "That’s a lame excuse."

Chris chuckles. "Maybe. But it’s still valid." Then, as if sensing your hesitation, he quickly adds, "And don’t worry—there’ll be no more tests." His voice dips into something teasing, but the reassurance is clear.

When he finally pulls the car to a stop in front of your apartment building, you reach for the door handle, pausing only to turn to him. “Thanks for the ride home,” you say softly.

Chris doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, his eyes find yours in the dim light of the dashboard, holding your gaze with an intensity that makes you hold your breath. There’s something in his expression, something that makes your stomach twist in a way you’re not sure how to interpret.

"Goodnight," he finally says, his voice quieter, deeper.

You inhale sharply, steadying yourself before replying, “Goodnight.” Then, without another word, you step out of the car, shutting the door behind you.

As you stand there, you watch as Chris’s car pulls away, the red taillights glowing in the darkness before disappearing around the corner. Only then do you let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, turning to head inside, your thoughts a tangled mess.

...

Full fic will be released this Friday, March 28. Or you can read it early on my Patreon page:

[lizardywizard]

Honestly, we've thought about this a lot.

Like... I identify as nonhuman for my own reasons, which are rooted in a lifelong sense of Being Something Else Actually that I can only really describe by making analogues with gender dys/euphoria. I've personally spent a lifetime trying to unpack why I reject the idea of being human, and I've eventually come down on the side of "y'all are cool, but it's just not for me".

But the idea that plurality is an alternate-to-human concept? Spiritual mediumship and nonhumans reincarnating as human are nonstandard human experiences? In what culture? Because I'm pretty sure I can think of cultures where those experiences are considered either normal enough to be nonremarkable, or minority experiences that are nevertheless common enough to have certain social roles associated with them, often prestigious ones.

To be fair to its coiner, the original definition of alterhuman was very clear about the label being optional, and opt-in - you don't have to identify these things as alterhuman, if you don't feel that they are. But ultimately, the way it was defined in contrast to a specific narrow culture, and the way it's used in practice, still reinforces the idea that these things are abnormal, not really "part" of the Standard Human Experience- which, of course, as you said, is being defined as white and Western and culturally, conservatively Christian. And whether by siding with that binary ("does it make me a freak to wear a tail/wings/pointed ears outdoors? Is it wrong to do quads if you're not a therian? Am I allowed to howl if I'm not a wolf? Am I really this or just faking?") or against it ("stupid humans, I don't have to do anything you say because I'm different!"), the community as a whole reinforces that exceedingly small box as "the one Acceptable way to be human".

I know that that's a trauma response - it's what we've been forced into and told was acceptable, something we're scared of either not performing properly or being forced to conform to. Something we feel we either have to accept with all its rules and constraints, or rail against so that it can never hurt us again. But humanity - and nonhumanity! - can be, is, so much more than that sad little box. Try talking to a park ranger or a conservationist. Look into the different spiritualities of the world, not with intent to adopt a belief system but simply to see what humans have been thinking and feeling and saying about the subjective experience of life for millennia. Read more widely, in general. There's a lot there you might relate to, even if you never feel a mote of humanity in yourself personally.

The alterhuman and otherkin communities are heavily influenced by cultural Christianity but most people aren’t ready to hear that

[sirfrogsworth]

Let's talk about macro extension tubes.

I just saw this video recommended to me.

This has so many views and it is so bad.

This is not how macro extension tubes work.

At all.

You can't just keep adding more of them to get more macro. All you are doing is reducing the amount of light reaching the sensor and making it harder to take your photo.

All lenses have a minimum focusing distance (A) and a minimum working distance (B).

The minimum focus distance is measured from the sensor. This is the absolute closest distance where you can attain sharp focus on a subject. This is usually the spec the camera manufacturer gives you, but it isn't very useful because it doesn't take the length of the lens into consideration.

Minimum working distance is how close the end of your lens is to your subject. You figure this out by adding the flange distance (google it for your camera), and then add the length of your lens, and then subtract that from the minimum focus distance.

Whatever is leftover is how close you can get to stuff.

In this example, this is as close as the lens can get to the flower before it can no longer achieve sharp focus. If you get any closer, it will be blurry.

If you have a short working distance, this can be problematic for macro work. Your lens could create a shadow on your subject. You might be so close that you disturb the insects you are trying to shoot. You risk scratching your lens if you are shooting near rocks or other scratchy objects. So finding a macro lens with a decent working distance is always optimal. You can back off from your subject and get a lot of light in there and not have to worry so much about disturbing critters.

But if you don't have a macro lens, you can increase the magnification of any lens by adding extension tubes. It is a low cost way to get into macro photography, but it isn't a perfect solution.

Before I can tell you what macro extension tubes do, let's quickly talk about what macro actually is.

Macro magnification is usually measured starting at 1:1 reproduction or 1x. (Some manufacturers start at 0.5x or 1:2 reproduction, but most photographers don't actually consider that macro. So watch out for that in lens specs.) 1x magnification means the thing you are shooting will appear on the sensor the same size as in real life.

So if a lens has a 0.25x magnification, an object will only take up 25% of the image sensor. (The rectangle on the right side.)

But at 1x magnification, it will be reproduced exactly as it is in real life on the sensor.

If you have a 2x lens or 2:1, it would appear twice as big as the image sensor.

So what does an extension tube do?

Extension tubes are just spacers that shorten your minimum focus distance. They take the red arrows and change them to the yellow.

They push your lens farther from the sensor and allow you to get closer to your subject.

This causes an increase in magnification.

Think about how a magnifying glass works. You pull it closer to you so that everything gets bigger in the lens. That's essentially all the tubes are doing.

The first downside to extension tubes is they reduce the amount of light by quite a bit. The inverse square law says the farther light travels, the lower the intensity. So the more tubes you add, the more light you have to add to the scene. Or you have to do a really long exposure on a tripod.

But the decrease in working distance is a problem as well. You may find you have to put the front of the lens a few millimeters away from your subject to get a meaningful increase in magnification. And because you can't phase into objects, there is a limit to how many extension tubes you can use to affect magnification.

At some point, you are actually placing the working distance *behind* the front of the lens. After this point you can no longer increase the magnification. You're just making your lens focus farther away.

You could keep adding more and more extension tubes, but it would not allow you to get any closer to your subject.

If you put 20 of them on, you are just doing this...

At some point, you'll have to violate the laws of physics.

The lens used in the video is already a macro lens capable of 1:1 reproduction.

This lens has a minimum focus distance of 160mm. But it has a minimum working distance of only 43mm (1.7").

Extension tubes are measured in millimeters. The ones in the video come in 16mm and 10mm sizes. He alternated them.

So in order to reduce the working distance to the point a subject would nearly be touching the front of the lens, he could put on a maximum of 3 tubes.

The red lines below show how much each tube would reduce the working distance.

A 10mm, a 16mm, and a 10mm would reduce the working distance by 36mm—leaving him about 7mm of space in front of his lens to achieve focus.

He could add another 10mm tube if he didn't mind his subject basically touching the lens, but it is very difficult to get that close in a real world scenario and achieve a decent result.

If he put on 20 tubes, that would reduce the working distance by 260mm. And since there is only 43mm in front of the lens to work with, he is overshooting the minimum possible working distance by 217mm or about 8.5 inches.

He's basically doing this...

He overshot by about 17 tubes—worth about $400. Though he probably made that money back in views. So I guess it was worth it.

But it is really bad information and may cause people to buy a ton of tubes expecting to get super macro results.

The only real way to significantly increase magnification is to buy a lens specifically designed for it. They make macro lenses up to 5x and after that you are looking at microscope objectives.

With extension tubes you might be able to get a non-macro lens to achieve close to 1x or better, but there is no low cost way to get much beyond that.

To review...

Figure out your minimum working distance. If google fails to give you the answer, you can just get a tape measure and figure it out on your own.

Let's say that the working distance is 50mm.

That means you can add up to 50mm of extension tubes to get a bump in magnification. (Though that would be touching the lens, so I'd probably do 30 or 40mm of tubes maximum.)

Adding more tubes beyond 50mm will not increase your magnification.

It will just make your camera look like it is compensating for something.

[peepawispunk]

I have some things to say about the situation in fandom the last few days // an open letter to the morally outraged.

I didn't read the fic that started this, purely because I didn't see it in my feed. But I have trusted friends who were able to give me enough of an idea on what it contained that I feel comfortable commenting.

I am both a parent, and was a victim of abuse when I was a child. I would kill or die to prevent my children or any children from becoming a victim of csa. I support a non profit organisation dedicated to keeping children safe from csa and csam.

This fic, from all accounts, did not contain or glorify csa. Also, when it comes to literature, csam laws do not apply. Fictional written works containing csa are actually researched and studied by experts in the psychology field. Well researched. They are not illegal, and the subject matter is in a lot of professionally published works.

Dark themes in fiction and erotica can also be a coping mechanism for victims, to help them reframe their experience. It can be used as a safe means of exposure therapy where they retain control and power in the situation as they read.

Pedro himself has said one of his favourite books is Lolita. Does that say anything about his character or morals? Are you going to go around telling everybody vile things about him now?

Just because something is not to your tastes doesn't mean it should be banned, or that you should be naming and shaming people who interact with it. We are on a slippery political slope with the right wing pushing censorship and banning and othering. Do not make it easier for them to do this.

If you draw the line at uncomfortable subject matter for *you* and then try and draw that line for everyone else, too, where does it end? Do we stop at what makes you feel uncomfortable, or do we stop at what makes the next person, or the next person uncomfortable until we're well and truly censored and it's illegal to do or write anything other than under the covers missionary with your spouse?

If you're not actually out there doing the work to help victims, then what you're doing by naming and shaming is purely performative. If you were out there doing the work to help real victims, you'd be putting your energy there instead of into this stunt.

You might think you're a real hero, out there fighting the "good fight" against "those disgusting people who read that stuff", but what you need to realise is that fandom spaces are not built for you specifically. They are a community, one you need to know the rules and etiquette for.

I've been in fandom spaces for a good twenty something years at this point, so take it from a fandom old.

1. Don't like, don't read. Curate your own experience. We didn't have tags and summaries and descriptions like we have now twenty years ago. We have tags now. Use them liberally, both to seek out what you want to see, and to block what you don't.

2. We're all a community here. If you're new, you're a guest. Don't come into our community and tell us how to do things. You didn't build this fandom, and you most certainly do not get to dictate it.

3. Fanfiction is full of adult content. If you can't be an adult about said content, fandom is not the place for you. If you can't scroll on or block tags, you aren't mature enough to be here.

You don't have to like everything you see. You don't have to see everything the fandom posts. But you sure as hell can't come in here and tell everybody what goes and what doesn't, and use fear and naming and shaming to try and control the fandom. It's awfully dictator of you.

Take a look at this post if you've gotten this far in. Fandom has had these rules long before you joined and they will be the rules long after you leave. It's the only way fandom works.

[starless-nightz]

Can I plspls request Penelope (Epic the Musical) and Reader who tries her best to confess but is too shy/cowardly? (Optional: Odysseus as a wing-man and match-maker to Reader and Penelope?)

Penelope with a shy! fem! reader trying to confess to her

note -> PENELOPEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!

warnings -> none.

content includes -> fluff, mutual pining, shyness, teasing, matchmaker Odysseus, Penelope being patient and sweet, lavender marriage between OdyPen.

Penelope definitely notices your feelings before you even realize you have them. You stumble over your words around her, blush whenever she smiles at you, and always seem to be looking for excuses to be near her. She finds it adorable.

Every time you try to confess, you freeze up. You’ll get halfway through saying something heartfelt, only to panic and change the subject entirely. You pretend like it’s nothing and hope she doesn’t notice but she does.

Odysseus thinks your crush is hilarious. He sees you staring at Penelope like she hung the stars and immediately decides he needs to interfere. Telling you things about Penelope since they are close friends (and in a lavender marriage for political reasons) and even offering to help you.

She finds your nervousness so cute and adorable. Whenever you walk away flustered she would chuckle and go to Odysseus, ranting to him about how much she wants to kiss you already while Odysseus hatches a plan for you to confess.

Odysseus sets up the most painfully obvious matchmaking attempts. It usually ends up with you running away all flustered after another failed attempt. He’s having so much fun watching it all unfold from afar.

You write her a letter, but you’re too scared to give it to her. It’s a beautifully written confession, but every time you get close, you chicken out and stuff it back into your pocket. (Odysseus accidentally finds it and definitely hands it to Penelope himself.)

When she finally reads the letter, she just smiles knowingly. She finds you later, gently taking your hands in hers, and asks in the softest voice if it is true and you nod, too nervous to speak, and she just laughs before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

If you still struggle to confess even after she knows, she helps you out. She’ll guide you gently, letting you say it at your own pace. She’s so patient with you it makes you fall in love with her even more.

Odysseus is so smug when you finally get together and pat himself on the back for a job well done. He would probably take all the credit and talk about it all the time for the first few months of your and Penelope's relationship.

Once you’re officially together, she makes sure you know there’s nothing to be shy about anymore. She holds your hand in public, kisses your cheek when you get flustered, and reminds you every day that she’s glad you were brave enough to love her.

[blackcoldcrackedheart]

I could see this happening.

Chimney goes to the locker room to change into his civilian wear after the shift is done and he hears the tail end of Hen and Buck's conversation about it being Buck's turn to bring the wine

"We're having some sort of 118 hangout I forgot about?"

Hen tells him no, that Buck and Tommy are coming over for dinner to her and Karen's place. Chim sees nothing wrong with it, and says that now that Buck and Tommy are back together they should come over for dinner with him and Maddie. Buck agrees but it's tense and Hen smiles but it looks strained as well.

It's the next shift and Chimney is talking to Hen about her plans for the weekend, suggesting a Wilson+Han family day. But Hen declines, saying she and the family have plans with Buck and Tommy. Chimeny suggest that maybe the kids could still meet since he's sure Jee, Mara, and Denny miss each other but Hen tells him that Tommy's nephew is joining them since Tommy's sister and her husband need a babysitter while they're in town.

Now Chimney’s getting annoyed. Maddie tells him she's sure that it's just because Buck and Tommy are another queer couple so maybe they just want to hangout together. Chimeny sort of sees how that could be the case and suggests to Maddie that they should have Buck and Tommy over for dinner since it's way over due, Maddie only says "Sure." before quickly changing the subject.

Chimney goes over spontaneously to Hens place in the afternoon with a bottle of wine since Maddie and Jee are having a mother and daughter day. But he's suprised to see Buck and Tommy at Hen and Karen's for an impromptu movie night...with Bobby and Athena and Josh and his bf.

"You-You guys are having a party or something?"

Buck is quick to run to the door. "It's my fault, sort of got out of hand. I mentioned to Tommy and Karen over brunch this morning that I never saw the devil wears Gucci or something?"

"Prada." "Prada!"

"Yeah, so it became a movie dinner thing after we just combined our plans. Tommy and I were suppose to meet with Josh and his boyfriend."

"And Karen and I had plans with Bobby and Athena."

Now Chimney is pissed. "So...what? You two just forgot about me and Maddie?"

"It's not like that Chim."

"Yeah, sure it's not. Just looks that way though."

While Chim turns around to walk away, Buck looks upset and annoyed and walks back in to the house with Hen begging him to tell Chimney the truth.

"He's just going to make me forgive her and I can't right now, Hen."

Chimney returns home and vents to Maddie about how Hen and Buck are hanging out more and inviting other couples to couples night. Maddie is brushing it off, saying that Buck and Hen are allowed to hangout with other people.

"But it's not other people, it's our friends. Why would they not invite us? It's not like we're the only ones with kids."

Maddie is being too indifferent and almost cheerful for Chimney’s liking, "Why aren't you more upset about this? It's like our friends are icing us out."

Maddie rolls her eyes and tells Chimney that if it's such a concern then they could invite Hen and Buck over to their place.

"Hen, Buck, Karen, and Tommy. It's gonna be a couples night."

"Sure."

"Great. Maybe Friday night then? I think Tommy is off and Karen should be free by 7."

But Maddie says she's has a shift (even though Chimney is sure that she doesn't). Chimney suggests another day and Maddie tells him that's the morning of her ob appointment and she'll probably be too tired to attend anything.

"Maybe we should wait till Eddie gets back?"

"Eddie?" Chimney is confused, he reminds Maddie that Eddie moved so he's not coming back. Not anytime soon.

"You don't know that."

"Pretty sure I do since I saw him pack his stuff and put his resignation in." Now Chimney is suspicious. He asks Maddie why is it important to her that Eddie join them.

"It's important to me. It's important to Buck. I'm sure he would love to have Eddie back. He misses him."

"We would all love to have Eddie back. I miss the guy too but he's in Texas and I'm talking about our friends who are currently in LA county. Which includes your brother and his boyfriend."

Maddie seems mildly annoyed, "Fine, sure. Invite Buck and Tommy here for a guys night."

"Maddie!"

"I've gotta go and check on Jee."

Instead of confronting Buck, Chimney confronts Hen at work. "Hey, is the reason for all of those "impromptu" nights with Buck and Tommy is because of Maddie?"

"You figured it out?"

"Yeah. But I don't understand why though."

Hen tells him what happened. About how Buck told Maddie that he and Tommy where back together Maddie seemed disappointed about it and Buck asked her why she wasn't happy for him. It led to an argument between them. With Maddie admitting that Buck still wasn't being honest about his feelings for Eddie and Buck being upfront about there being no feelings for Eddie, about how Maddie didn't think Buck should settle for the first guy out the gate, with Buck snapping back at her that she settled for the first guy after her divorce.

So now the two weren't speaking to each other.

"When was this?"

"A couple of days after the incident at UCLA campus. Buck and Tommy got back back together and Buck told Maddie the next day."

"Why didn't you or Buck tell me? Buck knows I care about him and Tommy is my friend."

Hen sighs, explaining that Buck wasn't sure if Chimeny would be unbiased between a fight between him and Maddie and Tommy didn't want to get in-between him and Maddie.

"So all of this is because Maddie doesn't approve of Tommy?"

"Yup. She's convinced that Buck doesn't know what he wants. And I love Maddie, you know I do, but Buck is gonna Buck- there's no way he would do anything he's uncomfortable with or unsure about."

Chimney let's out a low whistle. "Yeah....I don't know what to do about this."

Hen shrugs, patting Chimney on the back. "There's nothing you can do. Maddie and Buck need to figure this out on their own."

"Yeah....I guess."

"

[maxdibert]

"Snape tried to control Lily"

At what point does Snape try to control Lily? Isn’t it actually Lily who constantly reproaches Severus about the people he hangs out with? Isn’t Lily the one who, knowing full well that James has been making his life hell since first year, tells Severus that he should be grateful to him? What control are you talking about exactly? Because she’s also quite demanding with him, so it goes both ways, darling. You seem to love omitting canon, from what I see.

"Snape invented Spells that were used to torture muggles"

Severus invented spells for "his enemies," which are understood to be his bullies. He created spells to defend himself. How those spells were used is not his problem; it’s like blaming the inventor of the gun for the fact that wars exist—an absolutely fallacious argument. And where the hell do you get that these spells were used to torture Muggles? There is literally nothing in the books that states such a thing. Honestly, you might as well blame McDonald's for people having obesity or high cholesterol. It’s ridiculous.

"Snape call people slur"

Severus was called "Snivellus," which is also a slur. I mean, when you’re a teenager, you say dumb things, but truly thinking that this is unforgivable is like having a stick up your ass, honestly.

"He joined a terrorist organization"

Many boys in vulnerable situations end up in gangs, cults, or terrorist organizations. They are prime targets for manipulative adults, especially when they have no family support, few friends, and limited resources. Regardless, Severus joined a criminal organization and left it when? After two or three years? Why don’t you talk about the nearly two decades he actively worked against that criminal organization? Why don’t you talk about the number of lives he saved throughout his life? Why don’t you mention the dangers he faced to bring that organization down? Why don’t you acknowledge the personal sacrifices he made? Why don’t you mention that he DIED fighting against that criminal organization?

"He begged only for Lily and not her husband"

I wouldn’t plead for the life of someone who sexually assaulted me either, and honestly, even Dumbledore thought Harry was going to end up dying. Ridiculous accusation.

"The Remus thing"

Remus was complicit in the abuse against Severus. Remus gaslighted Severus. Remus never did anything to stop the violence his friends inflicted on Severus, and then he acted cocky and condescending toward him. Despite that, Severus kept brewing his potion—a potion that Remus forgot to take because he was an irresponsible idiot. Honestly, anyone in Snape’s position would have done the same.

"Harry's Potion"

You yourself said it was an accident, like, what?

"Hermione's thing"

I don’t understand why you blame Severus for not making a big deal out of it, but you don’t blame McGonagall for not punishing Hermione for permanently scarring Marietta Edgecombe with that curse. The double standard here is insane.

"Neville's bullshit with the toad"

Animals in the Harry Potter world exist to be experimented on; they are not pets, they are test subjects, used to practice spells or, in this case, to test potions. Snape had the antidote in his pocket, so like, wtf?

My mother was my biggest fear when I was 12, and she was actually a pretty decent mother. It’s not as if that’s indicative of anything?

"People were scared of him because of WHAT he did."

Most of the things you’ve said are literally unknown to anyone. No one even knows he was a Death Eater (including Sirius and Remus) until the fourth book. No one knows about his relationship with Lily. No one knows that he begged Dumbledore for her. So I don’t know where you’re getting this argument from. It’s also not like people are afraid of him—Harry hates him, and only Neville is scared of him because Neville is scared of his own damn shadow. Throughout the series, several characters acknowledge that he’s a good teacher and even point out to Harry that he has a huge bias against him and should calm down (including Sirius and Hermione, since you mentioned her). So I don’t know where the hell you’re pulling this argument from because it’s absurd and inconsistent.

"I cannot find it within me to have sympathy for a man who only wanted Lily to live and did not care about her child when begging for her life. And only left when Lily was threatened."

Honestly, a person’s reasons for switching sides don’t matter—what matters is what they do once they change sides. And Snape literally saved half the wizarding world’s asses. That’s what counts. I don’t get this ridiculous moral standard that someone has to change because Jesus appears to them in a vision or something. That’s not how things work in real life. People don’t change just because—they change due to personal interests, because something affects them directly, because their world is shaken, and then they reflect. So what’s the point of judging why someone changed instead of the change itself? What the fuck?

Like, you can like or dislike a character, but it would be nice if your arguments against him were based on logical points or at least canonical facts, because most of the arguments you’ve used are completely made up or just your own assumptions. Next time you try to lecture someone about something, make sure you actually know what you’re talking about—otherwise, you just come across as an ignorant brat throwing a tantrum.

Severus Snape didn't become the abuser except in the most minimal, anodyne way. One of his biggest coping mechanisms was essentially pretending, convincingly but almost entirely harmlessly, to perpetuate the cycle of abuse.

He was the kind of teacher whom students were scared of because he might do something really nasty even by the standards of this madhouse to me if I don't behave but if anybody stops to ask "No but seriously, what's the worst detention you KNOW Snape handed out?" the honest answer would be "He makes troublemakers do a lot of cleaning without magic and tedious rubbish like that, this one time he had a bloke scrub some bedpans"

[xoxochb]

——— ౨ৎ ⊹ ࣪ ˖

“where’re you going?”

percy tugs you back by your waist. you groan and throw your head back to face him. “to clean up? shower?”

“what if I like you like this?” he presses a spider-man kiss to your lips.

you grimace. “you’re weird. I’m leaving.”

“I prefer the word charming.”

percy’s opposite arm wraps around your waist also, tugging you farther away from the edge of the bed. the sheets grow far more tangled around your legs at the simple action.

“well I prefer the word weird.”

“and I prefer you stay in bed with me.” his mouth finds your love-bitten neck, adding onto it.

with the palm of your right hand, you find his bare chest to steady yourself. your other hand finds his shoulder. “I’m going to get up in the next ten minutes regardless.”

“five minutes.”

the things you do for this boy.

you sigh. “fine. but five’s all you get.”

you feel percy’s smile against your neck before he pulls back and kisses your forehead. “atta girl.”

you roll your eyes and untangle yourself from the mess of sheets and blankets. you begin with sitting up properly, then flattening out the first blanket. once comfortable, you re-intertwine yourself against percy.

he drops his nose to your hair, inhaling it deeply. “I want ice cream.”

“you’re proving my point.”

“well I’m hungry. I’m sorry for feeling basic human needs, sweet girl, I’ll remember that for next time.”

“you were literally just inside— you know what, that’s fine.”

you drop your head into his shoulder in defeat. his hand rubs your side to soothe you. “I’m trying to earn you a win-win. I get to have ice cream and you get to shower.”

“a shower to myself? that is a win.” you nod acceptingly, stifling a laugh.

percy pinches your waist. “I think you’re forgetting that I can make it the worst shower of your life.”

once, after twenty minutes of begging him to rinse, he had reluctantly let you go. this also came with a frigid shower and awful water pressure.

“fine,” you sigh. “you can join me.”

“you’re so kind, sweet girl.”

“you just blackmailed me.”

“the sweetest girl…”

“you’re changing the subject.”

“… an angel.”

“shut the—” you stop yourself. “hell up.”

“say fuck,” percy encourages.

“‘only those who cannot express themselves intelligently—”

he drops his mouth to your cheek for a swift kiss. “I know you want to.”

you so do.

you sit up and grab his hand, tugging him off the bed with you. “you’re fucking annoying. now let’s shower before I change my mind about a round two.”

[imrisah]

You know how people say "draw every day, train your body to miss it".

Used to be a big believer of that and felt like shit because I was completely unable to stick to it for more than a few days in a row (ADD orz). It ate away at my confidence and made me feel like I was a fraud.

Now that I've gone through a massive burnout lasting about 4 years, and as a professional artist, I can tell you that the only way to get out of it for me was to unlearn that shit.

So here's my honest, hard-earned take:

(disclaimer: this applies to people that can afford to take breaks from doing art. If you're a professional artist or going to art school and you're burnt out from that, I feel for you and I don't have good advice, I'm sorry. I hope it gets better soon ❤️)

If you have the personality to stick to it, if you get joy from the consistency, if you FEEL GOOD doing it, then it's the right approach for you. Have at it, go nuts.

Although if you feel like shit at the idea of sticking to something like Inktober, or doing anything for more than 2 days in a row makes you start questioning if it's even worth it

Listen to me.

Stop doing it.

It's ok to stop doing it.

Instead find a subject that you're passionate about ( a fandom, a medium, a type of subject) and every time you feel possessed by that sweet sweet art itch, just do it as much as you possibly can. Cram as much art as you want into a short amount of time and then MOVE ON.

Accept that your brain is satisfied and move on.

If you love it will come back, I promise you.

Now that I feel better and I know how to listen to myself to check what I feel like doing, I have these incredible art sprees that can last any amount of days/weeks/months. It's so much fucking fun guys.

And here's the kicker:

If I let it stew and come up to a boil until I know I will have fun doing it, I find out a lot of the times that sitting on it and just thinking about it made me learn anyway.

Coming back to a medium after months of not having touched it? All the useless info is gone, only the important stuff stuck in my brain. Which means it's a lot less involved to get started and just do things. Less expectations, more fun.

You might not learn at the same pace as someone that does it every day, but you need to be kind to yourself and learn what you can do without breaking.

[bettystonewell]

TO YOU I BELONG: CHAPTER 6

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader

Summary: Dean isn't looking for a mate, and the last place he expects to meet his soulmate is while on a case. Fate ain't real. He still has free will, and saving you is just another part of the job. Except, monsters aren't the only things you need saving from... 18+ only MDNI

Chapter Word Count: 4.5k words

Chapter Warnings: language, fluff, smut implied

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

The Men of Letters bunker was full of many wondrous and wacky things. From weapons to ancient texts, to objects that looked like they’d been pulled right out of a sci-fi movie. 

Some were dangerous, plenty were extremely so, and others, Dean wouldn’t touch even if he was wearing a lead-lined radioactive safety suit. Screw ten-feet poles. 

Sam would say the same about the vast collection of handwritten reports and records the place had, too, but he would be wrong. Dean did, in fact, read on occasion. And it wasn’t just in times of researching for cases or when he had the mark. 

Sometimes he simply got bored.

It’s how he’d stumbled on one particular document regarding mated pairs from another world and learned that not all of Chuck’s creations had heats, ruts and knots like they assumed. Although he should’ve known that without reading it in a file. He always knew there was something funny about the doppelgangers in the Fiat besides the other Sammy’s man-bun. 

Douchebuggery aside, somewhere in God’s vast universe, there were humans who weren’t categorised by secondary gender and thus alpha males who didn’t have bulbous muscles at the base of their dicks. 

Yup. There was at least one Dean Winchester whose junk was the same width the whole way along, except for the tip. That perv Sinclair, who’d written on the subject the most, had actually drawn a picture of one. Not his, per se, but some random guy’s. Dean hoped.

There were also no marks or claims. No soulmate’s even. Just straight up male and female pairs, shacking up together, sometimes casual, but when serious, showing off their unions with rings and a piece of paper. 

This world and its marriage thing sounded so much simpler in some ways. No marking meant no biting, and no knotting meant you could fuck off once you were done. That had to be convenient for one-night stands. 

Who’d complain about that?

But this society had another thing Dean remembered, and it was something that seemed to fit what the past two weeks had been like for him and you.

The honey-days period. 

At least, that sounded about right. He wasn’t about to reread the file again because the dick pick had scarred him for life.

Whatever the name was, after meeting four weeks prior, that was the stage he was at in his relationship with you, minus the swanky hotel and room service. 

Every moment you had been together had been spent well, together. And Dean hadn’t had enough. 

Was he whipped? Maybe. Obsessed? If that label satisfied Sammy, then sure. But as he looked down at you, lying satiated on top of him, he didn’t care, because the word that came to mind for him was happy. And the happiest he’d been in his life to date that he could recall.

He’d slept like a baby last night, and your wake-up call earlier had been awesome. Exactly what he needed after another long hunt away. 

His arms wrapped tighter around you, basking in the afterglow of your latest romp in the sheets. Not that they were anywhere nearby. One half had ended up tangled in his ankles, while the other was on the floor. 

He nuzzled his chin into your hair. The smell of cinnamon, a touch of apple and a nip of whisky from his lips, reminded him of his favourite dessert, and his mouth twitched. Those movies had gotten it right. If only his stomach wasn’t rumbling beneath you like a crazed animal, he might have gone in for a second helping.

He was starving. Wasting away to nothing and needing to do something about it real soon.

“What do you say I make us a big breakfast once we’ve cleaned up?” he asked. It wouldn’t be as fancy as room service, but he’d put in the extra effort for you. He knew how to whip up pancakes, bacon and eggs and would even add some fruit in it for you if it’s what you wanted. 

But who was he kidding? What he had in mind wasn’t for your benefit at all.

Still, he hoped you’d agree to it. While not heavy, your hips were pressing into his bladder, and taking a leak was fast becoming the top thing to do on his imaginary list.

“I think you mean lunch,” you mumbled.

Dean strained his neck to look at the alarm clock on his bedside. Fuck. It was close to twelve. No wonder he was feeling pangs from both organs. Normally, he’d be up and about by now. “I haven’t slept this late in a long time,” he said.

“Last I recall, you weren’t sleeping.” You chuckled and raised your head up to meet his eyes. The cool morning air rushed straight to his nipples, nipping at them, and yours, sending signals to his still deflating knot. 

Damn bunker was always cold. 

There must’ve been a few drops left of his release because he definitely felt a pulse at the root of his shaft and you quirked your brow.

“I just spent three days without you, sweetheart.” He shrugged. 

He’d missed you every second of them, too. Though, unlike the case in New Mexico, his insecurities had become more lax. 

You now had an anti-possession tattoo, and you knew how to shoot a pistol and shotgun, sort of. 

The revolver he kept under the war room table was a start. It was loaded, cocked and ready to use, which yes, he was well aware went against every piece of gun training his father and Bobby had ever taught him, but precaution was key. He needed to protect you, even when he wasn’t there to do so. 

“You just got home,” you said, finding a sudden interest in his own ink. “And you’ve been working a lot. How about you let me make something for you?” 

His fingers brushed through your hair, tucking the strands behind your ear that had fallen down. “Last I recall,” he said smugly, “you were working, too.”

“What? Reading text books. You and Sam had it all figured out.” 

You pushed away from the mattress and crawled back to sit upright. But his hands found your hips, and he stopped you from moving any further. He didn’t like your tone or the way you frowned. 

“We didn’t know we had to light it up,” he said, hoping praise was what you needed to hear. 

It was the truth, and he and Sam had been grateful. They could’ve spent longer away from home if you hadn’t found the solution. The damn thing, that still had no name, had similarities with vamps, but it still wouldn’t stay put, even after a machete to the neck and the rounds of lead and silver they blasted into its torso.

But you scoffed. “How often do you guys burn things?” 

Without hesitation, he opened his mouth to speak. Only you had him stumped. His brain had no words to counter with. 

They burned shit all the time, vengeful spirit or not. If they were ever in need of disposing of a body real quick, it was digging a hole and lighting her up, or finding a wood chipper. And it wasn’t like he had one floating around in Baby’s trunk. 

That answer wouldn’t help him or you, though, and there was more to this than you being upset about the method they’d used to get the job done.

He saw the pout, the subtle nod that you’d made your point, and the way your fingers continued to trace the lines of the pentagram on his chest. Any idiot could tell that something was wrong. He just needed to know what. 

You were his mate after all, with or without his claim, and his current bodily function issues aside, it was his duty to look out for your welfare, both emotional and physical. Yet, he was hesitant to open up whatever rabbit hole he was about to. 

Luckily, his inner Sammy was having a conniption. ‘Talk to her,’ it said. ‘Don’t jump to conclusions like you always do.’ 

And for once, rather than saying something stupid, he listened. “Is everything okay?” 

“I just—” You bit your lip. 

His stomach had decided it was the perfect time to gurgle in protest. 

“You know what, nevermind.” You patted him gently. “We should clean up. You haven’t eaten yet.” And you swung your leg off of him and moved to the edge of the bed.

Fuck. Guilt crept in on him. Something was bothering you, but things were getting desperate for his stomach and his plumbing, and the last thing he wanted to do was wet the bed, so ultimately, his own predicament won out. 

He sat up, wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you down onto your back, catching you by surprise. Your squeal of delight telling him distraction was key.

Dean captured your lips with his, placing all of his feelings into it to soothe whatever was troubling you. Promising himself that he would work on fixing things as soon as the horde rumbling in his insides had ebbed. 

Sam had been busy himself that morning.

So far, he’d searched the web for anything resembling a case, and found nothing. He’d also gone for a run, taken a shower, and was finishing up in the bathroom when he received the text.

Where are you? It read.

He didn’t think much of the message. Why would he? 

It wasn’t unusual for Dean to use his phone rather than look for him. The bunker was large, after all. Three levels, multiple halls and passageways, and those were just the areas they’d discovered. Who knew how expansive a place could be when it had a giant telescope and a shooting range amongst other rooms?

While he found some interest in that stuff, Sam still prioritised cataloguing the library. Something he hoped to get you on board with, because Dean never helped him, and you had some experience with your former job.

He sighed as he picked up his phone to type out his response - My room. At least he would be when his brother arrived at his bedroom door. It wasn’t far away and Dean liked to go slow on rest days. Especially now with you around.

Unfortunately for Sam, however, he had misunderstood Dean’s intentions, and dawdling by account was the last thing he should’ve done. 

He took his time, putting his boots on, getting the socks into position so that the seams didn’t annoy his toes in the corners. He threw his dirty clothes in the hamper, making sure each piece was turned the right way out and separated. Finally, he returned his damp towel to the metal rung he kept it on, folding it just so that the edges lined up, and stepped out into the corridor with a wave of steam close behind him. 

Swivelling on his feet, he strolled back towards his room, continuing with his leisurely pace. 

He had not a care in the world.

That was until he rounded the curve and found himself in front of his brother, carrying you over his shoulder, and he did a double take.

“Sammy?” 

“Dude! What the hell.”

Unlike Dean, you had some shame and scrambled to make sure the sheet you’d been wrapped in covered your body, though you had done a fair job of that before Sam had run into you both, and he appreciated it.

He liked you. You seemed kind and sweet. Too good for Dean if he was honest, but he respected the soulmate thing and knew that for whatever reason, even if it was unknown, you already had a profound bond.

With Dean, however, he’d rather not have shared as much as what he was seeing. It was bad enough he’d heard things the past two weeks since returning from New Mexico, but this? “Please tell me you’re wearing something.” He sighed.

“Why’d you think I sent that message for?” Dean grinned, and Sam shook his head. 

“Because you were looking for me?”

“No.” His voice was higher than usual. “I wanted to know where you were. There’s a difference.”

Fucking hell. He may have been awake for a good six hours now, but it was still far too early for semantics, especially with Dean. “Well, here I am,” Sam said, his arms and chest jerking forward in frustration. 

“This ain’t your room.”

Sam stared at his brother in disbelief. Why did he bother? It was days like these he wished he’d stayed at Stanford. Or left Dean alone to succumb to that djinn in Illinois. Either way, he would’ve saved himself some crap. “I was headed there!”

“Well, keep heading there. I gotta take a leak,” Dean said as he sped past. Your hands reached down, doing their best to cover the parts of him Sam didn’t want to see. 

“Sorry,” you mouthed, and he shook his head in return.

He knew he liked you. He just wasn’t sure how he was going to handle his brother with you around. Especially if what he’d just witnessed was about to become a regular occurrence.

Dean jiggled, flushed and flipped the lid. He was a courteous guy. And just maybe, had learnt his lesson a long time ago while living at Lisa’s. 

You were already in the shower waiting for him when he padded across the tiled floor to wash his hands.

You’d been quiet ever since he’d mentioned their recent case in Iowa. Quieter still when he’d made a joke about Sammy, having the personality of the Mountain despite being younger after he’d lied about where he was, and Dean was growing concerned. You normally laughed along with him about this stuff, and sure, it had been only four weeks of knowing you, but this was different to how you usually were around him.

Were you really upset that they’d ganked the last d-bag by lighting ‘em up in flames? Had you wanted to help more on the case? Did you want to, Chuck forbid, hunt with them?

Over his dead body. 

There was no way you’d ever take up that life. The guns and tattoo were only there as a precaution, nothing more, so he hoped there was another explanation.

But what else?

Your heat was due soon. 

Maybe this change in mood was a sign it was starting? 

‘You ain’t asking that,' he chuckled silently to himself. He didn’t have a death wish. Though he was screwed if this was going to become daily life for him.

He pushed those thoughts to the side. He was being a douchebag just thinking of them, and that wasn’t him. 

That belonged with man-bun Sammy and the version of him that wore dress shirts without a suit and tie. The guy was one good looking fella, he’d give him that, but Dean didn’t need a fancy-ass shirt to pull off the same amount of charm with you, or anyone else. He was like Swayze. Better with age.

He glanced over the reflection of his torso in the mirror, catching your silhouette behind the glass screen sitting just above his shoulder.

The room was quiet besides the shower and splashing noises made as you washed. There was no sound of tears or smell of them, and he took that as a good sign. Great, when you smiled warmly at him as he entered the cubicle with you.

“Better?” You squinted through the stream.

“I am now,” he said as he stepped closer to steal the warm water from you, earning himself a wet slap and you a cheeky grin.

His hardened chest pressed against your soft one, leaving barely any room for the spray to flow. 

There was something sexy about slippery skin. There was something sexy about your skin. Who was he kidding?

Still feeling playful, Dean’s hand moved to perch on your hip. He leaned in as if he were about to plant a kiss on your lips, but swooped behind you last second, reaching for his body wash on the inbuilt shelf. 

That earned him a firmer smack. One he revelled in. Violence was never the answer. He’d made that clear when he screwed with Dick. It told him his shenanigans were working, though. 

That, and you hit like a girl.

He caught your arm and poured a generous amount of soap into your palm, proceeding to use your hand to wash himself. 

“I need to teach you how to throw a punch,” he said as he draped your fingers around his neck first, then down over both shoulders and pectorals. All guided by him, and his even bigger grin.

“Why? I’m not a hunter.” You scoffed.

You weren’t interested in being one, either, by the sounds of it, thank fuck. 

Your hand pulled against his movements. “You thought I wanted to be?”

How did you do that? “I was worried you might.”

“What made you think that?” 

Now that he was being asked, he didn’t have the answer. “I, ah… I dunno. Something’s bothering you ‘bout the last hunt.”

You took a step back and hit the wall with a soft slap, looking at him as if he’d just told you werewolves weren’t real, even though you very much knew they were. He’d ganked one in between the witches and their most recent case. 

“So you thought I wanted to join you? It…” You shook your head. “I thought you were hungry?” 

You would be wrong. He had lost his stomach minutes ago and now had Famine banging around in there instead. But he didn’t tell you that. You’d think he was crazier than you already did if he started bringing up the apocalypse. That was a discussion for another time when he brought up their not so straightforward relationships with God and the King of Hell.

“I am.” He laced his fingers between yours and pulled you back to the centre of the shower, watching as the spray hit your shoulders. “But it can wait. There’s something you’re not telling me here, and I need you to tell me.”

Your head lowered, drawing him down, too. 

Bad move. The water now ran over your breasts to your pert nipples, the curves creating tiny waterfalls that captivated his attention with the way droplets pooled at the edges. He had to swallow hard.

“I want to make you breakfast,” you said.

Uh… The statement would’ve made him revert back to eye level, but when you bounced on the heels of your feet, it didn’t help his resolve. The words, though. What? “You wanna cook?” You cooked all the time.

“No.” You shot back up. “Well, yeah. That came out wrong… I want to…help more…around the bunker. You know, earn my keep.”

Earn your keep.

Do more?

“You do plenty around here.” You’d been cooking for them almost every meal since you’d moved in. Organised the kitchen and kept on top of the use by dates in the fridge. He hadn’t drunk off-milk or been in the laundry room in over a month. Maybe even two for the latter. But he wasn’t about to admit that.

“No, I don’t.” You shook your head. “Not enough. I know hunting doesn’t exactly pay the bills, but you and Sam go out there and save people, and here I am, making the occasional meal for you guys when you get home.”

Your hand came up to his stomach and smoothed over the creases that highlighted where his muscles lay beneath. “I wanna help more,” you said. “Dick took all my—” 

Dean smirked at your usage of your ex’s nickname. That was his ‘endearment,’ not yours. 

“Don’t do that.” You swatted him.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking about it. I felt you smile.”

You did? Well, that was new. But he didn’t question you. He had no heart to. Your mind was on a one-way ticket to that spark he knew. 

“…Ritchie took everything I have, and now I don’t have a job to help pay my way.” You reached for the soap and squeezed out another dollop onto your palm and started running it over his body once more. “I can’t even help you with your cases. I just…don’t want you to think I’m mooching off of you guys.”

So that’s what was wrong.

Dean had forgotten all about that dickbag bleeding you dry. Too happy and lost in the life he’d been building with you to realise that your baggage was still weighing you down.

“It ain’t mooching if there’s nothing to mooch, sweetheart,” he said, pulling you back against his chest and wrapping an arm around your waist while his hand came up to cradle your head. 

“But I’m used to working. Contributing. And I’m going stir crazy not doing that.”

Dean sighed. There was that guilt again, only now he had cause for it. He and Sam always had each other, but they were leaving you here for days at a time, with no transport, no respite, no purpose, while only his phone calls kept you company. 

It’s no wonder you were struggling.

This place must’ve felt like a prison to you, compared to the life you’d had, even with that abusive fucktard. It was still cold in the warmer months. Creepy, as you’d complained about when they were in New Mexico, and you had no nest here, or space to call your own so you could make one. 

Dean could relate to all of that if he was honest, minus the nesting thing. There’d been times in his life when he felt frustrated because he couldn’t do jack. A broken leg. Heart problems because of some crazy-ass ghost. Sammy in hell. Okay, that was a little out of the present perspective… All in all, though, he didn’t know what to do to help you.

That was until you said, “How about you let me make you breakfast?” with a smile, and while he was perplexed once again by how the fuck you’d done that, he kissed you on your forehead, and smiled against your skin in return.

“We’ll do it together,” he whispered. And then grabbed your hand and moved it to wash his ass cheek.

Dean fumbled through the contents of the fridge. His fingers and ears were now at risk of frostbite on account of how long he’d been searching in there for. "Where’d you say it was?” 

“Top shelf,” you said over the sizzling of bacon in the pan. 

He’d looked there already and there was no fucking butter. 

He raised his head and pushed past the milk, juice and whatever the hell vegetable Sam had blended into liquid this time. If smoothies weren’t meant to be green, they probably weren’t meant to be brown either. 

Yes, it could’ve been melted chocolate…

But it wasn’t. 

Cocoa, or anything else associated with its candy form, did not smell like the contents of his stomach after cheap whiskey. Nor did it have lumps. Or take on that specific colour.

Gross.

And no closer to finding the damn butter.

He shut the fridge with a sigh louder than the metal doors creaking and went to the pantry. Oil would have to do. Surely they had some of that lying round the bunker. The kind he used for Baby’s engine was a no go, obviously, but he wouldn’t say no to blessed pancakes if he got desperate enough to take the holy stuff from her trunk. 

“What’re you doing?” you asked as he scoured the open shelving.

“Wasn’t any.” There was, however, canola or olive oil, and he picked them up and turned around to show them to you. “Which—”

Your hands were already on your hips. 

You scrunched your nose and channelled your inner Samantha before spinning on your heels, searching for the ingredient yourself.

It was no surprise you found it straight away, but in his defence, Dean hadn’t expected it to be in the container Jody had ‘leant’ them a few months ago. The last time he’d seen the thing, there was gravy inside that was definitely gravy and not something he questioned as chocolate.

“Where’d you find that?”

“In the fridge. Top shelf.” You deadpanned.

“Smart ass.” He grinned, but pulled you close anyway when he stepped up next to you. “I didn’t know you’d put it in that.” 

His chin dipped down to your shoulder and nuzzled his initials hidden beneath the fabric. The hiss you made between your teeth brought a smirk to his lips and a familiar pang to his own body. 

“It keeps better. Though I had to clean it out first. I dunno what was in there, but it wasn’t edible.”

He moved to your mating gland and chuckled into your skin, peppering kisses over the sensitive flesh. “And you thought you weren’t helping ‘round here.”

“Cleaning out Tupperware with a living ecosystem growing inside of it does not make up for a nine to five,” you stated.

Though he heard you, his mind focused on the change in your pulse that had taken on a life of its own. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was pulling his into a similar rhythm.

Your skin was hot to touch, warming the surrounding air, and everything started to make sense. “How much longer till your heat, ‘mega?” (And here he swore he wouldn’t be a douchebag.)

Your “Hmm?” was distant, and he grazed his front teeth over your neck, drawing away to find lust filled eyes turning to meet him. 

“Do I need to stop takin’ the suppressants?” His brows wagged, hopeful and just as driven as you had been lost in his attentions. 

“It might be a good idea,” you said, patting his cheek. “Probably best to think about your poor brother too…shit.” Your focus returned to the bacon that was fast becoming a little too crispy even for him. When it spat back at you, you flinched. “Well, excuse me for not letting you burn,” you directed to the pan.

He rubbed a placating hand over your rear, then got to work whipping up a batch of pancakes. It was now past noon and while he may have been hungry before, he was close to eating the raw ingredients he churned the spoon through.

‘Sammy?’ his mind repeated. He’d rather not. But Dean recognised you had a point after this morning.

If things were reversed, there’s no way he’d be sticking around during your first heat. It was surprising Sam hadn’t lost his cool with him earlier, and he wondered if he should send his brother on a fake milk run. All he needed to do was find a suspicious enough murder a few states over. Maybe get Donna or Jody involved and… 

Dean looked down at the butter in the container. Another wider grin spread across his face.

“What?” you asked. Not moving an inch.

“How many days do you think we got?”

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Ahhhhh - any guesses what's happening next?

I started to gain a rather large interest in the concept of nesting as I worked through this story, and the first little signs of it are coming up next chapter (it's in the preview below). As someone who's made a career in retail, it was only natural that my sales brain came up with stores having nesting departments, and it will feature again if you catch my drift.

I won't give too much away, but I'm on the edge of my own seat waiting to give you guys the next chapter to the point I’m considering uploading it earlier! Are you guys ready for him to claim her?

Until then ❤️

Chapter 7: Honeydayimg 04/04

“Are you sure we need all this stuff?” he asked as you passed another couple with only half the things you had.

“This coming from the guy who had two slices of pie on top of his burger at lunch?” 

Point taken, he supposed, but you’d eaten just as much. You’d had more than him, come to think of it. Lunch, breakfast, the night before. So when you patted his stomach, and he looked down at you grinning at him, he couldn’t help but return a knowing smile.

“You’ll thank me later,” you said.

He knew he would. In more ways than one. 

Still on your way to the front, you passed the nesting department located opposite the cash registers. Of course, it was just another convenient ploy to gain some extra impulse buys from naïve omegas who hadn’t realised they needed that new blanket or another stuffy until they saw the giant pile of fluff.

To Dean’s distaste, you were also won over by the gimmick and he was pulled along for the ride. 

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