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jockpoetry · 4 years ago

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supernatural sees women as a tool for development and strengthening of narratives/motivation and dean sees his body as a tool. is that anything?

When I saw this ask I really made the 🥴in real life. So, yeah anon, I do think there’s something to this.

Quick Disclaimer before I actually launch into my thoughts™: A lot of my read of Dean stems from my experience as both an oldest daughter and a transman. Being the oldest daughter was an experience I lived for many years, but I am also a man. I wasn’t raised as a man, I wasn’t socialized as a man, and even though once I came out upon reflection my masculinity was obviously there. Like I was a man™ before I knew I was a man. Even when I actively tied my identity to femininity for a long time! A lot of my prideful moments were based around statements like: “I was the only girl who (fill in the blank).”

So I am just putting that out there before I launch into my spiel about Dean/Gender/Tool because they all interlock for me.

I am also going to apologize in advance because I know this has fully gone off the rails and I’m not even done writing it yet. If this is incomprehensible ! Well, happens to the best of us.

First off, most importantly I guess before we discuss womanhood and Dean and the way both are utilized on the show I need to say that I personally don’t subscribe the whole Dean is female coded thing.

It’s a read I can absolutely understand. But for me..he’s not.

He’s a hypermasculine man to the point that when (and because he is written as a punchline, as the stupid™ brother, as the whore™, as the mother/father™, as daddy’s blunt instrument™, etc) Dean deviates from the pre-accepted definition of hypermasculine it’s Wrong.

It’s Instantly Feminine.

I think the internet has made the world very black and white, or blue and pink maybe. This point, I think, colors a lot of these discussions. Dean cooks, he cleans and so therefor he’s female coded. When that really just feeds back into the whole toxic masculinity loop. You can’t be masculine and cook and clean and cry. That’s for feminine people only.

I get the argument! I do, I just think that Dean’s actions are not inherently feminine, it’s just in the vacuum of Female and in the Absence of Traditional Masculinity it makes sense to assign him female coded and move on.

IN FACT the way that Dean is the action hero of the show, the Masculine™ one on the show - but he cries, and he rages, and he cooks (Again and Again) and cleans (Again and Again). The fact he’s macho and confident but he has so little self esteem. Is frankly insane to me. You have this blaze of glory character who is so depressed that they have him kill himself. Twice. In explicitly “I hate myself, I hate hearing all the things I hate about myself, I want to destroy myself” ways.

On just a regular ol’ network show that is just ungodly bad at times. They let their Male Hero cry - all the time (if I linked every example of this the essay would be...longer than it already is, but just take my word for it). Dean tears up and grieves and shows more than just Angry Horny Violent™ (he shows plenty of that, don’t get me wrong) but he’s Emotional (Again and Again and Again). In many different ways!

I mean, beyond even just tearing up, they make their Male Hero™ face sexual violence in pretty, uniquely horrifying - and queer! - ways.

Let’s make it clear, they did a lot of this unintentionally.

Or they do it as a joke.

Off of dean for a moment to say women are plot devices in this show. I could probably count on one hand female characters who have sincere depth to them that have roles outside of progressing plot, filling a filler episode, and who are still alive. Like even characters such as Charlie who are wholly developed, and interesting, are only remembered/mentioned/utilized to progress plots or fill an episode out - and then she dies. For pain™ for plot™ for no other reason than to traumatize a character.

Which let’s also make it clear Dean’s trauma is also only used as a plot device (as is Sam’s but in a different way, and Cas’ trauma is a whole other barrel of fish we’re not gonna dive into right now). Like wholesale full stop they don’t actually care about what happened to him. Unless it’s relevant in an episode.

Oh that boys home he was left at when he was 16 for months? Sure we’ll sprinkle that in in the back half of the series. Oh he was covered in bruises and said it was from a hunt (when it’s clear contextually they were from his father but saying the fantastical but true is easier than saying the uncomfortable but true). As Dean says though the story became the story, he was sixteen. He just went along with what John said.

We only see Dean ever truly rage at John, by the way, when either Dean is dead (when he’s between life and death and he rages at John, right before John “apologizes” for traumatizing him, for putting too much on Dean’s shoulders, and fucking dying) or John is dead (the Djinn episode where Dean is straight™ and John is dead™ and he goes to his grave and just yells and rages like he should have to his father in the real world).

Dean’s trauma from being both tortured and torturer in hell? Yeah, we don’t talk about that after it’s Relevant™. Even though it’s clear - especially in the demon!dean, mark of cain era, all those years later - Alastair still has his hooks inside of Dean. I stopped watching originally after s8 ended. I was fed up with the show, and with this whole renaissance I’ve been doing a rewatch and I’m into season twelve now and it really has never come up again.

Even when he had the mark of cain and he was tasked with questioning and accused of torturing it was “the mark has changed you” and not “you were victim and victimizer in hell for forty years, which is longer than you’ve been alive on earth” (and, was about as long as he wound up living. Which is desperately sad.

Because we talk about Sam’s desire for a “normal” life but, Dean wanted out too. He was tired in the first few seasons of this show, he never had a chance to taste freedom (we don’t count the boys home, because that was a different kind of regimented life, and it was a false freedom) the way that Sam did in Flagstaff with Bones or at Stanford with Jessica. Love for Dean is sacrificing, it’s putting himself/his happiness/his well-being last.

Because Dean only knows love in the context of violence (like all of these fun examples, for starters) is a phrase that I’ve said a lot both in private chats and on here, and I absolutely think it goes to him being a tool (a blunt instrument, a plot device, so both textually and metatextually) instead of a person. Which Cas sees Dean’s shame/guilt and sees that side of Dean because he touched his soul, and saw more than just the Righteous™ man, more than just the tool, he saw A good man, not a machine.

On the other side though you have how “bad guys” view Dean: Desperate, Sloppy, Needy, Dean’s hole (Again), which is again so wildly counterintuitive to the story of a Macho Man Hero™. You’re using vocabulary that is both queering him and feminizing (and I know this a meme format, but sincerely it is done in a derogatory way it is feminizing. It’s breaking him down to bare parts, to a sloppy hole).

My whole rewatch I have been absolutely fascinated by how identity and free will is utilized/conceptualized on this show. Castiel has been my main focus, but Dean and how he is framed by himself and others is...fascinating - and frustrating. The writers inconsistency lends itself not only to this unintentionally queer character, but also one that again is incredibly easily read as a non-traditionally masculine character.

As a feminine character.

This show has so few female characters that of course it had to foist the roles/behaviors/plots that a female character might have onto a male character. Which I think is part of why reading Dean as trans (either transmasc, or transfemme) is so easily done like.

Half of these are shit posts, but you can find trans allegories/textual evidence in this show again, again, again, again, and again. And this is unintentional, they don’t want you to look at Dean and see woman, former future or present. Like a lot of these I’m sure are punchlines for them, because women/queer folk are punchlines to them.

Sometimes the only women in an episode are random witnesses who get two sentences of dialogue, and then the main guest character is a man. Who flirts with Dean, and Dean is receptive to it.

They paint themselves into a corner, there are female Rabbi. So easily could Aaron have been a woman instead of a man, but they made the choice to play up the HaHa Dean & Men card.

Because, again, Dean has filled the slot of Woman™ of Female Lead™ and the flirting would’ve been straight if Dean was a woman. It’s a plot device, they needed to have the guest character be disarming, be cute, make the main character flustered.

It’s just the main character is a man, because they’re allergic to women. But they still need those female plots, tools of femininity, to move their show forward. I mean I am a big subscriber to transmasc Jo (no idea if anyone else is with me on this one, but let me explain). Jo is in love with Dean (concept) not Dean (actuality). Which, we’ve all had our eggs cracked by someone like that. We were in love with them until we realized we just wanted to be them.

He loved her like a little sister, she loved him like a lost idol. He’s a golden calf and she dies for him, because she believed in him, she was the original character dashed at the altar of the Winchesters.

I fully believe if she had lived and if this show had a crumb of actual good writing Jo could have been a deeply compelling transmasc character. But I also think she’s a fascinating inversion of Dean. Dean is a Masculine Character who subverts Toxic Masculinity, Jo is a Tomboy™ she’s not your (if you take it straight, literally and metaphorically) average female love interest. She’s angry, she’s not soft at all, all edges and corners and thorns. She isn’t helpless, she’s stubborn but not in a “you’re going to get punished for this” way. She’s right when she’s stubborn. She’s helpful, she’s a martyr.

I could do a whole other essay just on Jo (and Ellen, and Ash, what a fucking trio!) but needless to say Jo was one of the first...plot device feminine tools sacrificed to this show. She was a regular, she was unique, she was an engaging character, and she still died (to progress the plot? no. for man pain? yeah, for like three episodes maybe, and then it’s forgotten just like the rest of Dean’s trauma, as we mentioned above).

Dean and Women and Love is a very interesting tool used too because. Boy they sure try to make Dean love women and it fails in small ways, and in big, meaningless, failed het domesticity (again) ways. Not to mention whatever Lust (in the form of a woman) having no effect upon him, when they could have used that moment to assert his Masculinity and Heterosexuality. He behaved normally? And...also...whatever the fuck the Adios thing was!

Like they have these opportunities to make him Traditionally (toxically) Masculine, but make the choice to...not? To soften him. Because it’s a tool. He’s their female lead, textually he had to take on the role of mother(/father) to Sam, but...I mean this is a million miles long already. I know, but we absolutely can’t not talk about his Paternal/Maternal behaviors. (Which appear again and again again and again, outside of his relationship with Sam even/especially). He’s the mother hen, sage, safety net, beacon, home to so many side characters they meet.

I mean in many ways Jody is also a Dean comparison. Lost her family. Found a new family. She is non-traditionally feminine, but easily flustered and Silly™ (let’s just drop the entire sex talk over family dinner scene with Alex and the boys and looking to them for help, even though she was already a mother, and she’s a cop, and a hunter and this confident no nonsense individual.... She’s not). We are meant to see her as this hard ass, but she makes extra food for the boys to take back to the bunker. She’s deadly in a fight, but also still easily overwhelmed and put into damsel mode, and she cares so much even in the face of adversity.

It’s also fun to see how Jo | Jody are reflections of Dean at different points of his life. Younger, cocky | Older, settled.

Even when the text tries to tell us that he’s not.

When it reminds us that he’s violent. That he is his father, even if he says that Sam is more like John (which was reflexive, which was angry because of Adam and how Sam was behaving like Dean in that episode, and yes there are parallels to be drawn between Sam and John, the show barely dives into them). Instead we’re told that Dean is John (Again and Again and Again and Again).

So intensely that a fanfictionalized version of the Winchester Gospels makes it an entire fucking musical number.

And yet, despite the texts insistence to make Dean Macho Man Father Reborn™ We get this Dean who is silly (and directly compared/contrasted to the female character in this scene), soft, in heels, nagging, and... Sully (you know Sam’s imaginary friend who has the same Haircut Dean has, who is a softer, shorter, friendlier, campier, version of Dean who was a replacement For Dean until the real one let Sam back in? That? Sully?) it’s hard to take them seriously.

Hell, even when he was A DEMON? What did they do? They had him sing off-key drunken karaoke, they had him doing this ! Like that’s your hero, unhinged, free to be as bad as he could be, and you put him in a cowboy hat in a romance with the king of hell.

The Female Lead, everyone. Who’s biggest betrayal(s) comes at the hands of his love interest (again, a man even though it was an angel who could’ve taken any vessel! who could’ve been recast, who canonically dies admitting his love to Dean - that one), who he tries so hard to be loyal to.

The contradictions of his character are laughable. He is so emotional, but if he is engaged about his emotions? He shuts down, or he’s exasperated about being asked about them. It really is Female Lead/Only Here For The Plot disease, because everything is more important than him. How’s he doing? Doesn’t matter outside of the context of how x character is doing or that y character is dead. Or his emotions only matter if they’re done in penance.

They also really do frame him as Pretty Boy™ in a violent way, or in a derogatory manner. They’ll give us homoerotic shots like this or these and never really acknowledge how these are gay shots. Sorry the gun scene is a a straight up sex scene, the beer sip spilling out over his mouth is oral, the scene where Cas fills up Dean’s glass with whisky is also a sex scene, they do this shit on purpose but accidentally queer it up. If Dean was a woman these scenes wouldn’t even matter. They’d be passing moments, but because he is not just a man but A Man™ they’re insane to see.

Not to mention all of these scenes and all the ones I haven’t linked where Dean dresses up. He performs masculinity, but he performs femininity too. He’s a plot device that is slotted in to whatever role they need. He’s Super Straight Butch Man™ but coaches the lesbian on how to successfully flirt with a man. He’s Action Hero™ who sits through a montage with the same lesbian and yays and nays her outfits, and enjoys himself.

Fuck he loves dressing up, he feels better in these costumes because performing a character is easier than being himself. Because who is Dean? He’s a tool, both textually and metatextually. It is exactly how the women and because of the women on the show that Dean is the way that he is. If there was a more steady female presence Dean would not be half as much of a plot device or half as camp/gay/feminine/non-traditionally masculine/queer coded as he is.

In conclusion....

#dean winchester #supernatural #spn meta #spn #gender #anon #replies #messages #my writing #ANYWAYS PHEW okay anon i don't know if i even fully got to your point but i woke up at like 3:30 to this ask and i've been fixated on it #HOPE THIS IS EVEN JUST a little bit coherent #the way i meant for this to talk so much more about transness and eldest daughter syndrome and just FORGOT #oops #oh well

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whentheynameyoujoy · 4 years ago

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So the ATLA Movie Is... Good, Actually?

Just kidding, of course it’s not, it’s so bad it sucked the paint off my walls. But after ten years of people pointing out its glaring flaws, why would anyone bother talking about this garbage heap if not to go the other direction? So here’s a very brief and very superficial list of things the movie does get kinda... not atrociously wrong.

And they won’t be fake hipster pokes, like “It’s fun to laugh at”, “The Rifftrax for this is OK”, or “Kudos to the actress for managing to say we believe in our beliefs as much as they believe in theirs with a straight face”.

(though now that I mentioned it, it is fun to laugh at, the Rifftrax for this is OK, and massive props indeed.)

Rasta Iroh

Yes, I know it’s not exactly the aesthetic of the real Iroh or that it makes no cultural sense for him to sport this do when no one else in the racebended Indian “OMFG what were you thinking Shyamalan” Nation does but goddamn, long-haired dudes are my one mortal weakness and I will ogle the hell out of him.

Jesus is that a man bun I see that’s it mum I’ve been deaded

Yue’s hair

No.

Now we’re talking. Yue’s hair turned white when the Moon spirit gave her life, so it makes sense for it to go black again when she sacrifices herself to revive the koi fish. It’s a neat detail I find myself expecting whenever I rewatch the scene in the show. Yes, I realize it’d be a pointless hassle to animate since she, unlike in the movie, immediately goes on to become the Moon herself but still. I like.

The Blue Spirit’s mop

Zuko, hun, what’s with the dance-off?

First of all, I want to imagine that Zuko the Theatre Nerd was about to leave his ship with just the mask like in the show but then stuck his head into the cleaning cupboard and went, “Yeah, more coverage might be good, even though it do seem mighty fried to shit”.

Which makes me giggle. I like to giggle.

And secondly, the hair’s movement is what makes the static mess of the Blue Spirit’s solo fight scene appear at least bit more dynamic because God knows the cinematography isn’t doing it.

Any particular reason why it’s at the edge of the action, shot all boring-like?

Now, I get why circular shots would be reserved for Aang while he’s in the practice area and then used once the two join forces. What I don’t get is why Aang’s part of the action scene has a defined visual style while Zuko’s delegated to a few stationary wide shots from afar as though he’s a tertiary goon, meaning that when the time comes to combine the respective pieces of cinema language and visually convey collaboration, there’s not really much to combine.

But as long as Zuko is stuck in this static mess, it’s that awesome disaster on his head flopping about that draws the eye, helping me understand that something even is going on over there.

It also prevents me from paying much attention to how the extras are mostly just staying put and a lot of the hits don’t land, so that’s good.

The music slaps

James Newton Howard is too good for this.

youtube

Pls ignore that the word “gods” is used in the ATLA universe

I can’t be the only one who constantly uses this piece to daydream about writing specific fanfic scenes instead of, you know, actually sitting down and writing them. It’s just so good at communicating a sense of sorrow while speaking of rebirth that I find myself getting misty-eyed whenever I listen to it. Unfailingly, the soundtrack as a whole manages to break through the mile-thick crust of horrible acting, confusing writing, and uninspired cinematography and make me feel things. And considering how everything on screen is working against it, that’s no small feat.

Imagine what a powerful experience it would be if the score was used in service of an actual movie.

Dev Patel

No wonder since he’s the only one in the film occupying that crucial intersection between “is a good actor” and “was given something to work with”. It also doesn’t hurt that he breaks with the trend of actors starring in martial arts flicks despite never having done any martial art.

And all EIP-jokes about “stiff and humorless” aside, he’s a pretty decent Zuko considering how abridged this version of the character is. A while ago, I remember hearing a reviewer say that with his comedic chops, Patel should have been cast as Sokka. And on one hand, yes, god, absolutely, I need to see that asap. But on the other? He captures all layers of Book 1!Zuko, the desperate obsession, rage, and self-loathing, and at the same time gives you a peek at the soft momma’s boy dork that’s buried underneath. For Christ sakes, he exudes intensity and ambivalence even when acting against an emotionless hunk of wood that’s giving him nothing in return.

Oh, and I guess there’s a tree in the frame.

Ba dum tss

What can I say, the guy’s good.

Showing vs telling

OK, so this movie is all tell and no show, except for one single moment. And it’s the exact moment where the original goes in the other direction in terms of how information is conveyed.

See, I never liked this. The revelation is preceded by Iroh giving advice to Zuko who scolds him for nagging. Iroh then apologizes, moves in to say the line above, and is interrupted by Zuko who seems rather uncomfortable with Iroh laying his feelings out like this. And once they’re out, Zuko verbally confirms that he knew already and Iroh didn’t need to bother.

All this extraneous information and pussyfooting ends up weakening what should be a profound scene that reveals to us, the viewers, how deep the relationship between these two in fact runs.

Compare to the movie where Dadroh acts like a parent by fussing and worrying, with Sonion needing a single look to tell him and us that he understands what it’s all really about.

It’s genuinely efficient and just good.

No Cataang

Fine, a bit mean-girl bitchy from me since I only start minding the ship in Book 3. And probably unintentional on the part of the creators since there are moments where I think they’re trying to set the romance up? There’s a, well, an attempt to recreate the famous introductory shot of fateful meaningful destiny of meaningness, there’s some slight note of saving each other’s bacon going on, I’m pretty sure they’re the only ones in the film who smile, and oh, right, Katara’s shoved into her post-canon useless role where she doesn’t ever do anything, and is all about Aang right from the get go.

Yes, I will blame the “executive producers” because a) I’m incredibly petty, and b) it’s perfectly in line with their vision of the character so why the hell not.

Hilariously, none of it reads on screen because the actors are just... yeah. These poor kids are struggling so much with delivering their own lines and portraying their own characters they don’t seem to have any strength left to create something between them. To be fair, the bare-bones shot-reverse shot style of their scenes doesn’t exactly lend itself to the idea they occupy the same universe, let alone are friends or each other’s crushes.

And I enjoy this immensely because it allows me to forget the depressing horror show Katara’s life turns into post ATLA.

Yes Zutara

I need to delve into this because it’s fucking hilarious. So in a movie which fails to establish the original’s central romance so spectacularly that if Aang got lost in a crowd I don’t believe Katara would notice, SomEOnE thought it’d be a good idea to add an utterly unnecessary non-canon moment where Zuko for some reason feels the need to pause his character-defining hunt for the Avatar which otherwise has him ignore everything and snap at everyone, and explain his central conflict to an unconscious peasant he doesn’t know, complete with gently pushing the hair from the pretty girl’s the soulmate’s the Water Tribe Ambassador’s the Fire Lady’s the love of his life’s her face away, AFTER his uncle nagged him twice to find a girl and settle down.

I just wanted to make sure we’re all on the same page and this is what we really saw.

Celibate Avatars

I have no idea why the decision was made, if TPTB thought expecting viewers to understand the story through the lens of Buddhism would be too much, or if the “executive producers” already worked their retconny magic. What I do know, however, is that there’s a big shift in worldbuilding and Aang’s struggle with his role as the Avatar stops being a personal conflict defined by a) his grief for Air Nomads, b) his notion of being robbed of the loved ones in his life, and c) the selfish attachment to Katara he confuses with true love. Instead, what he has a difficulty to accept is apparently a general notion of who Avatars are supposed to be, i.e. a fantasy version of Catholic monks, no family and worldly relations, period.

I guess either someone understood the original’s portrayal of de/attachment as “hermit no freaky”, or thought the audience would so why not go there outright.

Now, do I like this on its own? No, God no, it makes the world infinitely poorer and changes the story from an exploration of ideas which aren’t all that ingrained in the West, to a cliché tropester about a Catholic priest going Protestant so that he could be with a girl.

At least I assume that’s where they were going to take this eventually.

I mean, I think the direction was “look conflicted, this isn’t the final stage of your journey”?

But consider this—the show went there, it built on the concepts of Eastern philosophy and touched upon the ideas of spiritual awakening, only to swerve in the end and strongly imply they’re bullshit and Aang should have never wasted his time with them.

So honestly, I much prefer scanty worldbuilding to an insulting retcon by a damn rock.

Multiracial Air Nomads

Probably the most substantial “no hint of irony” point on this list and a genuinely good addition to the universe’s worldbuilding.

See, the notion of the elemental nations being perfectly separate and never mingling before Sozin has always been sketchy but it’s especially ridiculous in the case of airbenders. It never made sense to me for all airbenders to be Air Nomads and for all Air Nomads to be monks and for all monks to be chilling at the temples all the time to facilitate a quick everyone-dies genocide should an imperialistic warlord ever decide to commit one.

Because committing everyone to a single way of life at a handful of places kinda goes against the central philosophy behind airbending. Like the freedom and nomadism part.

Instead, there should be more variety to the airbending culture, with some staying at the temples as monks, hermits, and teachers while others live as nomads, travelling the world and creating more airbenders, with the resulting children in turn being influenced by the non-airbending cultures they grew up in.

And thus, not only should airbenders not be modeled after a single culture to create a one-size-fits-all lifestyle, but they should have the most diverse and dynamic culture out of the four nations.

And it’d be precisely this diversity which would pave way for an eventual reveal that some of them survived, that their complete extermination is impossible.

Because they’re everywhere.

You know.

Like air.

#atla #atla movie #zutara #anti bryke #dev patel #the last airbender #anti-kataang

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13lov · 5 years ago

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too hot to sleep. (m)

# pairing. fiancé!yoongi x reader

# genre. established relationship au, humor, fluff, smut.

# word count. 2.4k

# warning(s). fluff, reader doesn’t like cats yoongi’s cat, smut [marriage kink(?), unprotected kitchen sex, small hint of yoongi having a possession kink]. \\ will be edited at a later time so my apologizes for any mistakes

# a/n. this was originally supposed to be a drabble but i liked the prompt a lot...so this is the cute fluffy version but i’m also MAYBE gonna write a uh...rougher version. i tried to write an impreg kink since that shit is mad hot but it wasn’t working out for me :(

↳ summary. “ Umm can’t wait to get rawed in our kitchen when I’m living with the love of my life ” *soft ver.*

“You never listen to me,” you whisper to your fiancé’s sleeping figure, “I ask you to pick up the air conditioner on your way home from work,” you shove his shoulder in an attempt to wake him up, “but instead, you buy a new bed for your demon cat.”

Yoongi stirs in his sleep, turning himself to face the bedroom window. You can’t help but get annoyed at the fact even when he’s sleeping, your fiancé barely istens to you. Every ounce of annoyance fades away the moment you hear the soft sound of Yoongi smacking his lips together, a habit he developed whenever he was in the midst of a deep sleep. Even unconscious, he was still the cutest thing you had ever seen.

But, nevertheless, it was too hot for you to sleep. Your growling stomach also proves you’re otherwise too hungry to sleep as well.

Slowly and quietly, you retreat to the apartment’s tiny kitchen, striding past the various wedding decor that consumed your home in hopes Yoongi bought enough food for you to prepare a late-night snack.

He didn’t, of course, so you’re left to scrape up anything you’re able to find within the fridge and kitchen cabinets. Your struggle meal consists of bread, butter, and what you can only hope isn’t a few expired slice of American cheese. The only reasonable meal you’re able to make with these few ingredients is a grilled cheese sandwich, not that you’re complaining.

The only thing you do complain about is Yoongi’s cat, Pearl, hopping on the counter and knocking the loaf of bread to the marble floor. Watching the bread fall to the floor startles you, speaking that you hadn’t even known Pearl had woken up and followed you out of the bedroom.

You wave your hand at Pearl, as if you were swatting away a nuisance fly, “Get off of my counter, lazy.”

Pearl ignores you, getting more comfortable on the counter before closing her eyes. As silly as it may sound, you sometimes you feel as though you’re at a constant war with the feline; like she was competing for the role of being the number one woman in Yoongi’s life. You really can’t blame her much. Though, her attendance at your wedding (per Yoongi’s request) shall tell her who the true winner is.

“Fine. If you’re not gonna move then I’m gonna...” you’re careful to grab Pearl’s torso, not wanting to startle her enough to accidentally break something. You aren’t surprised when she makes no effort in making herself lighter to carry and instead drifts off to sleep. “...then I’m gonna let you just stay here.”

Everyone in this apartment loved to ignore you.

Still, there are other things more important than arguing with a sleeping cat at two in the morning.

Drawing your attention back to the task at hand, you put the stove on low heat before grabbing a pan from the cupboard and setting it on one of the burners. Grabbing a knife from the wooden block, you slice off a piece of butter and stir it in the pan, watching it dissolve and make the pan slippery.

Pearl meows as a way to tell you you’re being too loud and she’s trying to sleep, you blow a raspberry and tell her to get a job.

The literal cat-fighting has your bedroom door opening, Yoongi had finally woken up.

You’re facing the stove with your back facing him, so he takes the opportunity to rest his chin on your shoulder, raking his hands up your shirt and giving your breasts a small squeeze. “Guess who.”

You take the slices of white bread and carefully lay them side by side on the sizzling frying pan, “The ghost that haunts this apartment.”

With closed eyes, Yoongi chuckles, his laugh causing your shoulders to vibrate. “I sure hope he or she doesn’t like you that much. By the way, were you just telling Pearl to get a job?”

You aren’t even the slightest bit embarrassed that he heard your dispute with the animal, he was used to it by now. “If Pearl thinks she can live here rent-free and tell me to shut up while being job-less, she has another thing coming.”

“Ah, go easy on her,” Yoongi brings one had down to your waist, the other reaches over to scratch Pearl’s chin, “she’s my good girl — you both are.” He sighs through his nose, moving hair out of the way to plant a kiss on your neck.

“You both are,” you mock in a voice that sounds nothing like his own, “the worst days of her life were when you met me and when you proposed; please get her off of the counter.”

“You heard her,” Yoongi gently pats Pearl’s bottom, coaxing her to hop off, “up, up, up.” She does as told, of course; you roll your eyes.

“Why’re you up?”

“I can’t sleep, it feels like hell in this apartment,” you answer, using a metal spatula to flip both slices of bread on the pan.

“Oh, I’ll pick up the a.c. tomorrow, I promise.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

It falls silent, but not awkward. You assume Yoongi is still somewhat tired; the boner pressing into your ass tells you otherwise. It’s early, both of you are still weak after having such a long day. You don’t want any teasing to lead to something that can’t be finished. “Yoongi, don’t—”

“I’m not doing anything,” he interrupts in a mumble, “just wanna talk. What’re you making?”

“Grilled cheese,” you try your best to focus on the food in front of you. Yoongi presses against your backside harder than before. You convince yourself it’s unintentional, but Yoongi knows exactly what he was doing.

“Why do you cook the bread longer?”

“Because I like the edges burnt.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Good thing this isn’t for you then, yeah?” You turn your head slightly, enough to press a kiss on his forehead.

Yoongi grunts like an ungrateful child who doesn’t get their way, burying his face in the crook of your neck and using his teeth to nip at a sensitive area. You unwillingly toss your head to the side, giving him more access to your bare skin before coming to your senses and re-focusing on your food. “Make me one?” he questions.

“Maybe if you picked up the air conditioner like I asked you to...”

Yoongi hums, a hint of laughter laced with his tone. “Maybe there’s something else I can offer you in return.” The sudden husk in his voice as you raising a brow, intrigued at what he was planning on offering.

“Is that so?”

“Mm-hm,” he hums, moving his hands to your front, lifting your shirt up slightly as his index finger settles between the waistband of your panties and the area right below your belly button. “Yoongi, I’m trying to cook.”

“Okay...and...?” his finger continues its path downwards, you find yourself turning the stove down to an even lower heat than before. “What, I’m not allowed to touch you while you cook?”

He slips is finger in between your folds, moving around in teasingly slow circles. His boner is still pressed right up against your ass, seemingly get harder as seconds pass. “Not down there, Yoongi.”

“Why shouldn’t I? This,” he suddenly slides his index finger into your entrance, giving you no warning or seconds to prepare. The action had caused the metal spatula you once held drop to the floor, your fingers now gripping onto the marble counter, Yoongi chuckles at how quickly he managed to get a reaction out of you.

“...is mine anyway, you said so yourself” he continues. Yoongi’s breath was hot against your neck, his deep and lustful voice and the things they were saying only making you crave him more than you already did.

Yoongi’s words slip into the back of your mind once you’re starting to feel the pleasure caused by his finger alone. He notices how silent you are, barely letting out a moan as he slips in a second finger, making no effort to slow down the increasing pace he was thrusting them at. “Why’re you quiet now? Cat got your tongue?”

“Don’t mention that fucking cat.”

“Sorry,” he really isn’t, though. He loved to work you up like this, especially considering how easy it was. It was selfish in his case, seeing you even the slightest but frustrated was such a big turn on for him. In all honestly, he could name all the times he started pointless arguments just to end it with angry, passionate sex.

Yoongi rubs the pad of his thumb against your clit, all while his two fingers are still pumping. You’re so slick and wet around him, making it easier for him to quicken his pace; your eyes shut, mouth falling slightly open and a lustful gasp leaving you when he does. He curls his fingers, in that way where they hit your g-spot perfectly. You gasp at the feeling, and whine when Yoongi ruts his cock against your ass.

“Oh, fuck,” you mewl.

“God, I can’t get enough of you. I swear, we’re gonna fuck everyday once we get married.”

The moan you let out causes Yoongi to grin, moving his left hand up and under your shirt to grab one of your breast; squeezing a lot harder than before, this time rolling your nipple between his thumb and index finger. “Mm-hm,” he hums, “gonna put a ring on that finger, then put my fingers inside of you.”

You really could come right now, then Yoongi would put his cock in you and you’d come again; but, you don’t want to come twice in a row. It’d only make you tried and weak, and, truth be told, you’re still hungry.

“Yoongi.”

“Hm?”

“Fuck me.”

“You have such a bad mouth,” he teases, “just talk nice and I’ll give you whatever you want, _____.”

You sigh, “Please, fuck me. Want you to fill me up,” you sound so desperate, neither you or Yoongi seem to mind. He responds to your words, pulling his fingers out of you immediately, you nearly groan at the feeling of sudden emptiness.

Yoongi raises his hand to your sight of view, separating his fingers to make a V shape, completely in awe of how soaked you’ve made his fingers. “Open,” he says, and you do as told. He inserts them quickly, thumb underneath your jaw as if he was holding your head in place. Your tongue laps around his middle and index until you’ve successfully rid them of your juices.

Yoongi releases his fingers from your mouth, using his own to tug down his pajama pants and boxers enough to free his cock. The two of already know he won’t last long, but he’s way too hard to not even give it a chance.

He pushes your cotton underwear down a bit, grinning when you bend over slightly to give him a better view of your ass. He takes his cock in his hand, pumping himself a few times, watching pre-cum ooze from his practicality swollen tip. “Ready?” he asks, teasingly rubbing his head against your folds. It takes everything in you power to not back yourself onto him.

“Y—oh, fuck,” you moan. Barely giving you time to answer, Yoongi can’t help his impatient tendencies and was already easing his tip into your pussy. He swears at the feeling of you already starting to clench around him. It takes a few moments until he’s fully inside of you, not daring to move because of how wrapped around him. Truly, he could stay in the position forever.

But, he wasn’t in the mood to do cock warming. And he lets you know that with a sudden thrust that has you bent over the counter. You can’t say it doesn’t feel good, but it was surely unexpected considering how tired you assumed Yoongi would be.

A few more slow thrusts later and Yoongi’s finally moving at his desired pace, his large hands firmly gripping your waist. He presses his forehead against your shoulder, already feeling his orgasm approaching — he just knows he won’t be able to hold on longer.

“Baby, I’m—”

“Shit, Yoongi, I’m gonna come,” you interrupt. He’s glad you’re on the same page.

“Hold on just a little bit longer,” he says. Though it’s a demand, it comes out as a question you don’t mind saying yes to.

He’s groaning into your neck now, pressing harsh kisses against it and definitely leaving marks. When he closes his eyes shut, he feels completely wrapped up with pleasure and feels bad for neglecting your clit. He decides he’ll make it up to you later by going down on you. Right now, he feels way to good and won’t be able to focus on anything else.

His high is approaching and he knows yours is too just by the way your moans have increased in volume. “Oh fuckfuckfuck...fuck,” seems to be the warning that he’s going to come, and he does, filling you up completely. Your own orgasm happens seconds later and has you seeing stars.

The two of you are stood panting in silence for a minute, Yoongi still buried deep inside of you. He places a sloppy, open-mouth kiss alongside your neck, giving you various praises of how good you are to him.

“I love you,” he says, readjusting your panties before fixing himself properly.

“And I love you,” you turn around to kiss him, to which he groans into and pulls you in closer. “Now go pee,” he pulls away, giving your ass a small tap, “I’ll watch the food.”

Yoongi does as promised as you walk towards your bathroom. “You got a text!” you yell on the way there.

Confused as to who would be texting him at such an hour, Yoongi strides into the bedroom and snatches his phone from the nightstand.

hobi [ 2:44 am ]: u know the walls in this building are thin, why would u subject me to your porn re-enactments

“It’s just Hobi,” Yoongi informs you, smiling away at the text as he replies.

yoongi [ 2:44 am ]: oops

yoongi [ 2:44 am ]: lol

yoongi [ 2:45 am ]: we’ll try to be more quiet next time

“Is he RSVP-ing for the wedding?”

“I’ll ask.”

yoongi [ 2:46 am ]: are u coming to the wedding btw?

hobi [ 2:50 am ]: pull another stunt like this and i won’t even show up to ur funeral

hobi [ 2:51 am ]: on a completely unrelated note, put me down for the chicken

hobi [ 2:51 am ]: also, what kind of toasters do u guys like?

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the-chick-of-the-air · 4 years ago

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A Quiet Kind Of Sad

Summary: Cardan is feeling a bit neglected and it makes him sad. Jude is there to make him feel better. Rating: G

Cardan was sad

That may sound ridiculous, even silly. But the truth was, even the High King of Elfhame felt blue every now and again.

Especially when the cause for such feelings were brought on by those closest to him.

It had started with The Roach.

The spy had arranged for an early sly-footing lesson with the King when out of no where he had to “reschedule”. Normally this wouldn’t have bothered Cardan, but he had been slightly anxious that morning (Jude hadn’t been in bed when he woke. Rather a flimsy piece of parchment stating she’d gone with The Bomb to scout out a potential threat lay in her stead. He very much loved waking up to the warmth of his wife next to him, thank you very much.) and he’d been looking forward to distracting himself with some lessons. Alas, that fell through.

In an even worse mood then normal, Cardan decided to show up to the council meeting scheduled for that afternoon. He still detested the things, but Jude was out (which made it even worse, the only reprieve he found during meetings such as these were when he had his wife firmly by his side) and she would want him to go for the both of them.

This brought on a whole new level of irritation, as none of the council members took him seriously in the first place. Without Jude to steer the ship that was this mess of a meeting, things had quickly spiraled out of hand and ended in a wreck. And of course, no one had deigned to listen to anything the High King had to say, which only further upset him.

He left the council room fuming, with no recollection of anything that was said- it had all been useless pecking anyway, but still- and Cardan had found himself in desperate need of two things, a breather and his Queen.

Thankfully, she had returned sometime during the meeting. She would need a break after all that sleuthing as well, right?

Wrong, apparently.

Cardan had all but burst into his wife’s study, intent in asking-begging, if need be- her to take a walk with him around the gardens. Surely she wouldn’t deny him that? Usually when they were separated for more then half a day they would get agitated without one another. Cardan would dare say it vital to all those who lived in Elfhame to ensure their rulers spent as much time together as possible.

Confidant that he would finally find some solace with his favorite person, he finally got to her and reached out to pull her into himself.

And she immediately moved away from him.

A sharp pang-that he would never admit to…probably- tore into Cardan’s chest. Why had she done that?

Though, he supposed, she had looked distracted, probably didn’t even notice his presence, so caught up in whatever document she was reading as she was. And maybe he’d gotten to good at sly-footing and she hadn’t heard him?

Geared with this hope, Cardan had moved in again, this time aiming to kiss her cheek. That would for sure get her attention-he was proud to say he was the only one allowed to kiss her face without consequences!- however as soon as he got close enough to brush his lips to her skin, she turned from him, murmuring, “Hi. Sorry, busy.”

Bus- what?

Cardan had practically deflated. Normally he’d simply grab her head and press kiss after kiss to her face until he got a laugh or a good natured scowl or something out of her.

But he was always in a good mood when he did that.

Now, he’d felt the final blow of the long beating that this day has doled out to him. And he couldn’t take it anymore. He found himself wilting as he thought back over every interaction he’d had that day. Thought of how The Roach had given no explanation as to his sudden disappearing act. Thought of how the Living Council had argued over his orders and drowned out his words until he had no choice but to remain silent. Thought of how even some servants had been eyeing him with an air of cool distrust that day.

And now his own wife, the one person, the one love he was certain he would be freely granted, especially when everyone else pushed him away, was shutting him out.

With a start, Cardan wondered if this was his doing. He frantically wracked his own mind, searching through his memory of the last few days, trying to find his mistake, his misstep. What had he done to incite such cold reactions from his closest company? What did he do to deserve this?

He came up short, but surely he’d done something wrong, at least in their eyes?

Almost too afraid of the answer he would receive, Cardan decided to ask what he’d originally set out to ask Jude for, desperately hoping this was all in his head, “I simply thought I would request a few moments of your time, dear Jude,” he’d bit out against his growing hurt, “A walk around the gardens, perhaps? I find myself in sore need of a break. Surely you would like a moment to yourself as well?”

Jude hadn’t even looked up, “I’m fine but you can go. I’ll see you later.”

Right, then. It appeared his time had been wasted in pursuit of trying to spend it with those who obviously didn’t want his company.

Nodding once, Cardan turned as quickly and as gracefully as he could and all but ran from the room.

He ignored the stares he revived from servants and loitering courtiers alike as he fled to the safety of his chambers-of their chambers. Once inside, he slammed the doors shut and willed a few throned vines to grow tightly over them.

And without further fanfare, he flung himself onto the oversized bed and cried.

So yes. Cardan was sad. And lonely. He could only assume that his closest companions aversion to spending time with him stemmed from their joint displeasure with him. Though what they were displeased about was a horrible mystery to him.

Perhaps he just wasn’t interesting enough for them any longer. Maybe he had done something to elicit subtle anger from everyone-well, the council wasn’t very subtle in their feelings, but The Roach and his lovely Jude had mastered the art of silent seething- it could be that everyone was just tired of him, he did have the remarkable ability to drive people away very quickly. Even those loyal to him eventually found cause for abandoning him.

He cried a little harder.

Rather then further trying to puzzle out why everyone hated him that day, Cardan simply allowed himself the small luxury of just feeling. Just accepting the tears as they slipped down his cheeks. He found it was ok to be sad, so long as you had a sound reason.

He was a bit lost in his own sorrows-mainly trying to ward off harsh memories of a mother who never wanted him and didn’t bother to hide it- so he didn’t immediately notice when someone entered the room.

After the footsteps registered, it wasn’t hard to figure out just who had been able to get through those vines.

Jude frowned when she entered their chambers. She’d had trouble remembering Cardan’s demeanor when he’d attempted to…what had he been in her study for? She had been so caught up in correspondence that she’d failed to really register what he had wanted. She’d figured if he hadn’t pressed the matter then it must not have been that important.

That pretense flew out the window when she reached the chamber doors.

They were bolted shut from the inside. It’d taken her a few moments and the use of her power-which she was still learning to use in its full capacity- to realize that the object blocking the doors was a thick group of thorny vines. She willed them to wither and made her way inside.

Pointless to say, she was slightly stunned when she heard sniffling coming from their bed. Was…was her husband crying?

Despite it not being very loud, nor dramatic-which was concerning, as drama was his go-to emotion- the sound tugged at something in her chest. She found herself hurting for her love, even though she’d had yet to find what ailed him.

She was about to ask-softly and sweetly because he was upset enough to be weeping- what was wrong when she caught herself.

She remembered his question. The way he’d asked her to take a break with him. It was as if the sound of him breaking down slapped the memory back into her.

He’d sounded agitated, upset, even. And didn’t he usually latch onto her as a way of greeting? He hadn’t- …yes. Yes he had. He’d reached out for her and she’d absentmindedly brushed him away, focused on her work as she was.

And, when trying to figure out why else he would be moved to tears-surely her unintentional rejection alone hadn’t pushed him over the edge- she recalled The Roach offhandedly mentioning he’d had to cancel her husband’s sly-footing lesson that morning due to a personal matter. Cardan must have taken it the wrong way.

Randalin had also stopped her in the hall, snidely commenting that her presence at the council meeting had been missed. Cardan hated those things on a good day.

She was an idiot. Her husband had been having a rough day and she’d ignored him in favor of work. Normally he would be fine with that-he always told her he adored the way she got lost in ruling the kingdom now and again- but he’d obviously been upset from the very start of the day.

Jude wasn’t one to coddle, normally. But the High King so rarely showed his vulnerability like this. And the fact that there wasn’t a single flask of alcohol in sight proved how serious this was. It may have not seemed big, but his feelings were valid, at least to her.

A sigh escaped her as she quickly made her way over to her husband. His eyes were open but staring blankly at the wall. A pillow-hers, she noted- was tucked in the crook of his arm, hiding half his face since he was laying on his stomach. Tears streaked his cheeks and dampened her pillow.

She said nothing, knowing words wouldn’t fix this. Mortals could lie, and if he was this down, he’d surely believe anything that came out of her mouth was nothing but false. Actions would have to speak for her.

She leaned over and kissed his bare shoulder. Her fingers found their way into his hair and she gently tugged at his curls when he buried his face in the pillow.

I’m sorry. She hoped the potency of that one thought seeped into his skin where her lips touched, hoped he could feel her asking for forgiveness for making him feel like this. Long past were the days where they derived any sort of pleasure for hurting each other emotionally. Now, any pain one felt was shared with the other, in sync and in love as they were.

Silently she slipped into the bed with him and wrapped her arms securely around him, leaving no room for doubt about how badly she wanted to be near him.

He shuddered, silent cries still wracking his body, and burrowed closer to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her chest. His tail wrapped tightly around her calf. Her shirt was wet in seconds. That was ok though, because her face was wet with her own tears.

She hadn’t meant to hurt him. And she desperately hoped he knew that, could sense her regret for neglecting him when he was obviously going through a tough time.

After a moment, his tears finally subsided. And Jude spoke before he had the chance to feel embarrassed or ridiculous about showing a normal emotion. Placing a kiss to his head she whispered,

“We can go on that walk now”.

His only response was to pull her closer.

Might do a part two where Jude knows from the beggining that he’s upset and we get a bit more insight to how they spend their time together while they are just comforting each other. As always, let me know what you guys think ❤️

Tag-list: (please let me know if you would like to be added to my tag list and I’ll be happy to add you🥰)

@maleckanejnessianjurdansolangelo @woodsbeyond1 @cardan-greenbriar-tcp @thewickedkings @aneurwin @snusbandxknifewife @jurdanhell @andromeddea @dressedindustandshadows @thesirenwashere @b00kworm @hizqueen4life @unidentifiedblackthorn @iminsanenotobsessed

❤️

#cardan greenbriar #jude duarte #jurdan #the cruel prince #tcp #tqon #twk #jude x cardan #fluff #angst #likeonlyalilbittho

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jared-19-cant-reid · 4 years ago

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A Study In Behavior: Chapter 1

A Study In Behavior (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 1: Obsession

Rating: G

Word Count: 1.8K

Series Summary: When you signed up for Professor Reid’s class, you were expecting a low effort but interesting class to fill your psychology elective credit. Instead, your fascination with the professor leaves you spending more time than you’d expected in office hours.

Chapter Summary: A strange dream and an unusual professor make today’s lecture much more interesting than you thought it would be.

Warnings: teacher/student relationship, cursing, mentions of anxiety, suggestive language, implied age gap.

A/N: I’m planning on making this an eventual smut slow burn, since this is one of my favorite tropes and I want to make it a Realistic daydream lmao. This chapter is focused on introducing you to the world, reader, and this version of Spencer. Lots of potential here, I already have a million different ideas of how this should go... as always dms and asks are open!

The pattering of rain on the tin roof seemed to crescendo, a million drummers tapping out a perpetual drumroll on steel drums above your head. You’d always complained you couldn’t hear yourself think with all that noise, but you missed it despite yourself when you left Seattle for college. You were pulled away from that brief moment of self awareness by the touch of a cold hand, clutching yours as if you might be snatched away at any moment if the grip were to loosen.

You opened your eyes, finding yourself in a bed you knew all too well. A bed you’d spent too many hours in, slept too many nights in, and yet was not your own. Turning your head to the right, you took in the sight of your sleeping mother, her expression of serenity contradicted by the deep creases in her face, betraying the frown that she wore most of her waking life. Your gaze trailed down to your hand in hers; her knuckles were turning white from her tight grip, but you didn’t feel any pain.

Laying next to her, you watched her face for what felt like hours as her chest rose and fell in the lazy patterns of slumber, too afraid of waking her with your movement to breathe. She almost looked happy like this. Suddenly, your thoughts were interrupted by a loud beeping sound. You looked around for the offending fire alarm, but as you scanned the ceiling it began to dissolve before your eyes, the grip on your hand loosening until you broke free from the scene fully.

You opened your eyes with a start as you sat up quickly, feeling out of place in your own room. You were a painting placed in the wrong section of a museum, an unintentional imposter. Nails digging into your comforter, you tried in vain to slow your shallow breaths as you looked around wildly for something to remind you of where you were, of who you were.

Your eyes skipped from your stack of records from your childhood leaning casually against the wall beside the record player on your desk, to the stacks of books watching over you from the top of your bookshelf, unable to fit on the shelves but too close to your heart to part with. Your gaze finally settled on the floor, taking in the mess you’d been meaning to clean up for days now.

As you returned to your body, you could no longer ignore the blaring of your alarm, groaning as you reached for your phone on the nightstand. A glance at the screen had you shooting out of bed. Shit, I have to be at class in 20 minutes. You got up, muttering to yourself about how 8 A.M. classes should be considered cruel and unusual punishment, and maneuvered around your clothes strewn across the floor.

As you raced to your closet, your eyes scanned the clothes you owned, speeding through mental images of a million combinations before giving up and reaching for your comfort clothes. You pulled on the green high waisted cargo pants that you’d owned since high school. Nobody to impress in this class anyway, you reasoned, grabbing the fitted white crop top that your friend had embroidered your name on.

You tore through the apartment in the most violent and rushed performance of a morning routine the world had ever seen, only half trying to keep quiet for the sake of your neighbors. Hair tangled between your fingers and makeup was swiped on haphazardly as you struggled to make yourself presentable, cursing at the time and throwing random belongings in your bag.

Calling out a goodbye to your roommate only to be met with silence, you realized that in your frenzy you had forgotten that no sane college student would willingly be up at this hour. Shaking your head as you rushed out of your building, you mused that you’d just gotten all your stupid mistakes for today over with quite efficiently.

Three years of mediocre dorm experiences had left you desperate for a change, and luckily your now-roommate Jordan volunteered to split the rent for the 2 bedroom you now called home. You’d both agreed to ignore whatever ghost stories scared off previous residents and earned you a fair price for a decent place close to campus; ghosts would just add a little intrigue to your domestic life, you’d joked.

Checking the time once more, you cursed under your breath and broke out into a run. God, I should work out more, you thought as your lungs began to burn, I wouldn’t stand a chance in a zombie apocalypse. Racing through campus, you finally reached the doors of the lecture hall that held your class… which had started three minutes prior. You tried to catch your breath before opening the door, cringing as you heard the professor pause mid-lecture.

You tried not to meet anyone’s gaze as you quickly made your way to a seat. The first one you could find was in the third row-- close enough to the front to make out the facial expressions of your professor, who had continued his train of thought after you entered, choosing to ignore you in favor of finishing his idea.

As you got settled and tuned into the lecture, you realized the professor was still reviewing the syllabus. Pulling it up on your laptop, you looked at the top to remind yourself of his name: Dr. Spencer Reid. Finally looking up, your mind went blank. Oh. Not only was your professor way younger than you’d expected, he was... well, attractive. Thats’s a reasonable objective assessment, right? You knew he was just as knowledgeable as older professors-- you’d chosen this course for its fantastic reviews from previous students-- but his youth was a welcome change from the dinosaurs you were so used to in the neuroscience department.

As you studied him, you only became more sure in your original assessment; he was tall, with tousled brunet hair and a face that was… well, unfair. You weren’t surprised to catch a few other girls unabashedly staring at him, clearly drooling over the man as he spoke animatedly about his favorite parts of the course.

You shook yourself-- this man was your professor. You shouldn’t think about how attractive he is, it’s unprofessional. You also shouldn’t look at his hands the way you are right now, following them as he gestured along with his words you still weren’t paying attention to. You definitely shouldn’t think about what those hands could do.

Oh my god, snap out of it, you reprimanded yourself, you can’t afford to spend the semester fantasizing about your professor, focus on the class! You finally tuned in to the lecture, catching the end of what sounded like a tangent about the difference between triggers and stressors. For the rest of the class, you listened intently, drawn in by Professor Reid’s clear excitement about the topic.

Your efforts to ignore your professor’s appearance were somewhat successful, but as you listened to him speak passionately about the value of profiling as a tool for certain types of criminal investigations, you knew you were done for. His excitement about sharing his knowledge left you fighting back a smile, watching intently as he gestured wildly. You’d always liked listening to fellow nerds, eagerly basking in the pure delight beaming from their faces as they ranted about their subject of interest.

You sighed internally, preparing yourself for a semester of unreasonable dedication to this class, which was meant to be your chill psych elective to leave you more time to spend in the lab. It’s not like this topic wasn’t interesting to you, it was just that you weren’t expecting to be obsessed with it-- or more accurately, the man teaching it.

Before you knew it, the class was over. Professor Reid told everyone to finish the assigned reading by next class in preparation for a discussion, dismissing the class and walking over to his desk. You gathered up your belongings and the remnants of your dignity before slowly making your way to the exit, lost in thought about the overlap between your field and his.

Your feet changed course before you could stop to think about what you were doing. When you tuned back in, you were horrified to find that you were walking towards Professor Reid. Right when you were about to turn around and try to escape without further embarrassment, you were stopped by his curious but friendly gaze. Ignoring your inner voice’s screams of horror, you composed yourself and made your way over to his desk.

He spoke before you could, greeting you with a small smile and a polite “how can I help you?”

“Hi! Um, I just wanted to come apologize for being late today. I promise, it’s really unlike me, and I just don’t want you to think that I don’t care about your class or anything, because it seems really cool so far and I’m so interested in seeing how this could apply to my research and I was only really late because of this dream I had-”

You stopped before going into detail, saving yourself from your nervous rambling, and he spoke your name hesitantly. Your confusion must have been apparent on your face, because he looked at your chest, clearly having made the connection from the word embroidered on it. The devil on your shoulder whispered that his eyes had lingered there longer than they needed to, but you dismissed that thought quickly.

“There’s no need to apologize, as long as you don’t make a habit of it we should be fine,” he reassured you, “and judging from how well you paid attention today, I have no doubt you’ll more than make up for it next class in the discussion.”

You bit back a smile at his praise, shocked he’d noticed you at all. You thanked your lucky stars he’d interpreted your staring as interest in the class, rather than the glaring sign of attraction that it would easily be identified as in any other setting. You quickly nodded, thanking him for his understanding and promising it wouldn’t happen again before exchanging goodbyes as you turned and walked out of the room.

Bursting out of the lecture hall, you finally filled your lungs with air fully, trying to regain some sense of control over your feelings. As you walked to the library to study, your mind wandered back to Professor Reid. It’s not like he’d ever feel the same way, what’s the harm in a little daydreaming? You decided you could live with a harmless crush. Keeps things interesting, you thought. Stepping into your castle of books, you pushed the events of the morning to the back of your mind, but one thought lingered: This is going to be one hell of a semester.

#spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid smut #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds

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subtlereferencetomyinterests · 4 years ago

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Communication Issues (AT:TTSIMBCMEOAYSFIL)- Chapter Three

Ao3, MasterPost, Chap.1, Chap.2

Relationships: Eventual Romantic Analogince, Romantic Prinxiety, implied background Moceit

Warnings: Misunderstandings, Miscommunication, Self-isolation, Arguments, Unintentional Emotional Repression, Body Horror (in the form of Remus being Remus!), swearing, some small descriptions of pain, self-deprecations. There’s some fluff in the middle cuz I’m not pure evil, but this is pretty angsty :3 (I promise it’ll have a happy ending u just gotta wait ok). Remus uses it/its here, and is also aromantic.

Word Count: 8,167

Now, dramatism isn’t one of your functions, so you like to think that you’re being entirely reasonable when you say that you’d rather die than inform your closest friends that you’ve grown to love them a bit more than platonically.

And yet, here they are. Sitting on your couch, in your cluttered room, staring up at you with expectation in their eyes. They’re waiting, Logan. You didn’t actually expect to avoid this forever, did you?

Maybe you did, but it wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been wrong.

But you digress: you owe them the explanation they came here for. And as you open your mouth to speak, your voice is not nearly as measured as you’d like it to be.

“As I said before, It was never my intention for you to think I did not want to see you- that is to say, it simply wasn’t feasible, given- well- there were certain complications, you see…”

Virgil narrows his eyes, bemusedly, from his contorted position across the arm and top cushion of your couch.

“What kind of complications?”

You look at the carpet, but it doesn’t offer much visual stimuli. You look up at the ceiling, but the angle makes your neck ache. You settle your eyes on your bookshelf instead, studying the multi-colored covers of novels that span the length of the entire opposite wall.

“...Complicated ones.”

Virgil snorts, a sound that usually has you thinking about just how adorable he can be, but the sound is devoid of humor in its current form.

“Care to elaborate, Teach?” Roman inquires, his legs folded comfortably under himself as he watches you. He’s managed to keep himself pretty still and quiet, though you aren’t sure if that’s attributed to his current restraint or the effects of your room.

You push your glasses up on your nose. They fall back to their original position. You repeat this action almost compulsively.

“It’s foolish- Very foolish. I know this is somewhat hypocritical of me, but I believe it is for the best that I do not burden you with it.”

“You aren’t a burden!” Roman squawks indignantly, in conjunction with Virgil snipping: “We’re well past that, buddy.”

You feel your face heat, embarrassingly enough. You aren’t sure why, but their instant and vehement defensiveness for you is a bit motivating. They… they won’t hate you for it. They might even understand, if you’re willing to be optimistic about this.

“You could call it. Jealousy, I suppose.”

“Jealousy?” Roman scrunches his nose, uncomprehending.

“Yes- I know it isn’t exactly fair of me to feel this way, but it’s the unfortunate truth. I have noticed that the two of you have become much… closer, than you once were,” you see the two of them flush in embarrassment, which only serves to prove your point. “Rest assured, I’m very happy for the both of you and your bond. It’s just that I’ve realized that I have become essentially irrelevant, which I find to be… upsetting. And I know you both are far too kind and non-communicative to outright tell me this, thus I decided that I would take matters into my own hands by giving the two of you your much-needed space willingly.”

You do not add that you’re also avoiding them because you can barely stomach being around their PDA. It seems unnecessary, and maybe a tad pathetic.

Virgil recovers from his embarrassment at your calling him out quickly enough, his abashment being engulfed by indignation. Oh, wonderful. They really can’t let up without a fight.

“What the hell are you talking about?” His anger is clear, but all three of you know that he’s only upset at the situation.

“I would love to remain as your friends, of course, I only meant that it would be best if I didn’t interrupt you two-”

“Interrupt us?!” He’s very near shouting, leaping up from his seat and stalking towards you. He stops less than a foot away, and you try desperately not to recoil from him.

“Yes,” you sound meek, don’t you? “It only made sense-”

He stares at you as though you’re an idiot. It’s a despicable look, but when you turn your attention to Roman for a reprieve, his expression is no different.

And then they- oh, what they do next brings you more pain than any expression ever could. It starts quiet, like they’re trying to hold it at bay, but their resolves crack and crumble.

They laugh. They’re laughing at you.

You shouldn’t have let them in- not into your room, not into your head, not into your life at all. You should have known that when your genuine emotions came to light, they’d only find it humorous in the end. Because you, Logan- Logic, your ‘feelings’- they’re hilarious. They are nonsensical and hardly befitting a being such as yourself, yet you have them! And you actually began to speak about them! What a comedic situation. You’re a fool in every sense of the word- both a jester and an idiot.

They aren’t even laughing that hard, but to you each small sound reads as a raucous, villainous cackle that tears apart your skin and leaves you raw. Roman’s head is tipped back and he appears to be shaking with amusement; Virgil is trying to press his lips together and stifle his chuckling, but he’s doing a poor job of it.

Something writhes in you, much uglier than your shame or guilt. It squirms beneath the layers of your skin and runs up and down your spine, tensing your muscles with its electricity. It’s fury, burning nearly as bright as your face surely must be with this humiliation.

How could they, tricking you into caring for them, convincing you to help them and support them, only to then heckle you when you hand them your trust. It was such a fragile thing already- which you know is preposterous, trust isn’t tangible, but in this moment it feels quite like a cracked window finally shattering to useless shards.

“Out.”

Virgil is startled into silence immediately; Roman makes a strangled sort of sound as he stops laughing.

“What?” They chorus, both looking ready to contradict you with drawn out and over-emotional arguments.

You won’t give them that satisfaction.

“Get. Out. Of my. Room,” your shaking speech is blanketed in monotone; it’s like a towel thrown over a forest fire; it won’t last long.

Their eyes widen comically. They speak all over each other, clamoring to explain or excuse their actions, but to you the pleading is naught but white noise.

You gave them a chance to leave of their own volition, but if they’re so keen on remaining a nuisance, then fine. You huff a sigh, turning your back to Roman and Virgil. With a snap, their chatter cuts off unceremoniously, and you are left cold and lonely.

When you turn around, they’re gone.

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

You don’t get a chance to react before you’re thrown upwards through the floor of your bedroom. You land in an unceremonious heap, half-on and half-off of your bed, losing your balance almost immediately and toppling to the floor. Rising up makes you dizzy enough as it is, but being forced away from somewhere makes you want to vomit.

You pull yourself up from the ground, holding your head in your hands until the world stops spinning. As soon as your brain gets working again, you can hear thunderous footfalls out in the hall. They stomp right past your door and down the hall. There’s a series of loud thumps, rattles, and shouts, before whoever it is retraces their steps.

You walk to your door as if on autopilot, opening it just as Roman was about to knock. He’s panting, distressed.

“We fucked up,” he says.

“Yeah,” you pull him inside, slamming the door behind him, “We did.”

“I didn’t mean to, you know that right? I wasn’t laughing at him, I wouldn’t, alright?” Roman spirals, “He thinks I did! It was just ridiculous, was all! To think that we don’t want him around- to think-”

He curls into himself. You catch his hand before he can press it against his chest, unfolding him. You hold his wrist and rub little patterns into the back of his hand.

“Ro, hey.”

He glances up at you, wild-eyed. Eyeshadow is already creeping its way down his face.

“Why don’t we talk about this in your room instead, hm?”

He nods, shaking, with a small mutter of ‘right, right’. You nod back, holding onto him just tight enough that your claws don’t quite dig in.

You materialize in Roman’s room, dragging him along with you. Almost immediately a fierce pulse of energy overwhelms you. You stagger in shock, but Roman doesn’t even blink at the force. He pulls away from you and falls upon his massive, plush, circular canopy bed with a despairing whine. You can’t really blame him.

The Creative power of this room takes its effects on you faster than any other side’s abilities could- you really wonder how Roman is so used to it. You sit on the bed beside him, intending to comfort him as he buries himself further into his hoard of pillows. But then, you can’t. You can’t sit down. Far too much troubled excitement is pooling in your stomach; far too many ideas and thoughts are running through your head, and the loudest of them are desperate appeals to start fixing this mess.

Anxiety and Creativity wouldn’t theoretically mix well, but that’s just the thing about theories. They’re often wrong, so very wrong or crackpot or conspiratorial. The truth of it is Creativity and Anxiety work together wonderfully, both as concepts and as actual, metaphysical creatures. You’ve known this, even if you won’t admit it, since you were all teenagers. But only now does it hit you just how much Roman’s abilities can do for you. It takes all of your energy, all that pent-up fear and frustration from what’s just happened, and it gives you the tools to actually use it for something.

It also makes you, ya know. Just a little recklessly confident.

“Alright, Princey, get up.”

He whines again, shifting his head just enough to glare at you.

“I’m wallowing in self-pity! For the reason that one of my dearest friends thinks me a- a bully! How are you not freaking out about this?”

“Honestly?” You wrap your hands around his wrist again, pulling him into a ragdoll-ish sitting position, “I’ve got no idea. Mentally I think I’m in the fifth dimension or some shit, so we gotta work this out quick before I come back down and really lose my mind.”

He grumbles, but you see him biting back an amused smile. Flopping his legs over the edge of the bed and making no movement to stand, Roman narrows his eyes up at you.

“Alright, alright. We need to give that conversation another go, I know that, but we should give Logan some space first. He’s unlikely to hear us out now. You know how headstrong he is when he gets… like this.”

You nod, vacantly, because you're already three steps ahead of where he is in the conversation.

“Yeah, good point. More time.”

“Right,” Roman draws the word out, looking at you strangely, “So why aren’t you moping with me?”

You pull the reins of your practically palpable energy enough to sit down, right next to him.

“We obviously have to work out this-” you gesture between yourself and Roman, “-before we can really talk to Logan,” once the sentence is out of your mouth you wish you could swallow back the ‘obviously’, because Roman is usually slow on the uptake and you’d never intentionally make fun of that. But he does nothing more than scrunch his face up in exaggerated confusion, the pink tint to his face giving away that he must have at least some idea what you’re implying.

“What- what do you mean by that? The two of us already get along famously!”

“I think you know that’s not what I meant. You’re using your stage voice. You always do that when you lie.”

“Who are you- Janus?” He cough-laughs awkwardly, breaking eye-contact with you. You’re surprised that you’re holding up any better than him, but your strongest reaction at the moment is a mild blush and some prickling at your skin.

It is for these reasons that you both love and hate Creative-Mode Virgil. He is a very productive and efficient version of you, but his propensity for acting bold and impulsive makes you want to strangle him. Him being you, of course.

“Look, Logan was wrong to think that he was a third wheel, or whatever, but I’m pretty sure he was right about the… closeness with us, I guess.”

Roman’s staring at you with wide eyes, a deep red flushing him from his ears right across his nose and cheeks. He’s clearly trying to smile, but it’s coming out awkwardly strained, almost twisted sideways. There’s a second when the anxiety rushes back to you in a wave of oh no you misread this so fucking bad of course he doesn’t feel that way about you you’re his best friend whatthehellwereyouthinkingVirgil- and it almost wins you over, but you’re in Roman’s Room. And that doesn’t just mean motivation and creativity.

Your paranoid thoughts could never beat what’s ingrained into you as a fact. You can feel the romantic tension, almost like it’s a physical presence in the room. Maybe it is. A part of you- most of you, in fact- still wants to convince you that you’re doing something wrong. But it’s getting harder and harder to believe the longer you sit here, knowing that these emotions you feel aren't entirely your own.

“Virgil,” he breathes, and you can feel it on your skin- when did you get so close?

“We don’t have to do anything about this,” you start to backpedal, but you don’t move away from him, “Not if you don’t want to, yet. I just… we had to talk about it, I think.”

“So you…?”

The hesitance in his voice destroys your resolve. You reach out, tucking up both of his hands in your own.

They’re warm.

“Yeah, I- yeah.”

He surveys you for far too long; it’s hard not to squirm. You let him watch you, though, just so he can find whatever it is he’s looking for in your expression. When he does, it only draws him in nearer.

“You and Logan are right. I love you, V.”

You try not to smile. It doesn’t work.

“I figured.”

He huffs at you, shoving you, but he’s grinning widely. You roll your eyes at him. You don’t speak for a while, holding your tongue for as long as you can- but you really need to say it. Just so he knows.

“I love you back, though. Or- something like that, I don’t know…”

Roman laughs outright at that, tossing his head back. You can already feel the energy you were given twisting into an entirely contradictory exhaustion. Because of that, you don’t even try to pretend to be annoyed; you just watch, fondly.

When he’s settled, that amused look turns sharply to worry.

“So now what?”

You pause, running your thumb over his knuckles as you think the question over.

“Logan?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Well, like you said, we give him some space.”

“And then?”

You glance up at Roman for confirmation, but you don’t need to. Like you said, you can feel it; his room is a pretty big snitch.

“We tell him we love him.”

You let yourself forget about what happened, just for the afternoon. It’s hard, but what choice do you have? It’s out of your hands for now. And, while usually that makes you even more nervous, you manage to force yourself into the shape of something vaguely undaunted. After all, if you can’t tell Logan just how much you care about him, you can still remind Roman.

In your own way, of course.

“Hey,” you mutter, for what must be the millionth time that evening. Roman turns his attention away from the vent-art he’s working on, glancing at you.

“Yes, Knightmare?” He asks, but the tired and affectionate smile on his face says that he already knows your game. Damn, and here you were thinking you were subtle. (not.)

“Mmh,” you press your face into the side of his neck, leaving a few miniscule kisses to the skin there. Your arms are twined around his waist, a position that bordered on- oh, who are you kidding, it’s exceptionally clingy.

The embarrassment that you feel from so openly displaying such sappy, disgusting affection is overturned, however slightly, by the quiet laugh and kiss to the top of your head that Roman returns to you for your efforts. You hide your smile in the crook of his neck.

You continue to shower Roman with attention for a minute or so, covering his face with little pecks and pressing yourself against him, before leaning back a few inches. You sigh. He resumes his work, resting his back against your chest as he does so.

You will let him continue to draw for ten or so minutes. You will ask for his attention again, and he’ll give it to you with a slightly wider smile than the last time you did it- that smile grows exponentially, but only by tiny increments.

You’ll kiss him all up his neck and the side of his face, hug him even tighter, listening to him laugh in a much too relieved voice before you let up once more.

And he’ll be a little more sure of you each time. A little more sure that you two can do this together.

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>>

You are not a patient entity when it comes to the things you want. You are, in the best of cases, the exact opposite. This gets about One Million Billion times worse when the one thing that you want is to declare your love for someone, and said someone hasn’t left his room even once in six days.

Virgil, Patton, and Janus (once you’d relayed the situation to the latter two) have essentially been keeping you on a leash at all times of the day- or night- to make absolutely sure that you don’t break Logan’s door down. Which- to be fair- you wouldn’t put it past yourself to do that, but still.

But even with the distraction of a new boyfriend (boyfriend!!!!) and those two overbearingly caring friends of yours, you are still Physically Unable to Not Do Anything currently. And, you suppose if you can’t break Logan’s door down, you might as well try that idea out on someone who wouldn’t bat an eye at such an, ah, intrusion seems to be the fitting word.

“Uurghhhhh!”

You drop yourself face first onto Remus’ bed in your usual melodramatic fashion, immediately regretting it because fuck that smells horrid. When was the last time it washed its sheets?

Probably never, actually. You sit up.

Your sibling is sitting cross-legged on its desk, working on something that’s got a good deal of goop and limbs. It looks up at you blankly.

“Ro? What the hell are you doing in here?” It doesn’t sound angry, just very, very surprised.

“My life is ending.”

“Fun! Does that mean I get full creative control?”

“No! And it’s not fun, you animal!”

It scrutinizes you, setting its strange arthropodic creation down on the desk. You lean back when it leans forwards.

“Wow, shit must be really bad if you’ve decided to come here!”

You nod, miserably.

“Okay,” it claps its hands together, standing up only to fall against the bed beside you. It’s half-sitting, half-laying; the way it twists all its limbs up can not be comfortable. “What’s going on?”

You glare at it, but you aren’t sure why. Probably just because it is there and you need something to glare at while you talk.

“It’s Logan…” You trail off, waiting for Remus to catch on. It takes its time thinking, even more expressionless than before.

“You know why he hasn’t left his room in days? I tried to check on him but he barely told me anything. Just said he was tired, and ‘thanks for the concern’,” it says at last, catching you off-guard.

“You mean you haven’t heard? I would’ve thought Patton or Janus might have told you.”

It taps its claw to its chin a couple of times, thoughtful. The implication clicks just a second later, apparently, because it lets out a whining groan and drags its hands down its face.

“Oh, not that. I can’t do anything if it’s that!” It exclaims, “Yeah, they did mention it, but I guess I just tune that kind of thing out,” it pauses, “...It’s because you and Vee are fucking now, right?”

You flush, embarrassment and indignation welling up at the back of your throat. You bat Remus’ shoulder, bristly as a thornbush.

“No, we aren’t- I mean, not yet- I mean, that’s none of your business!”

“You did kinda come to me for help, though, so it actually is.”

You glower, refusing to justify that with a response. It rolls its eyes at you, turning over so that it’s flat on its back with its upper half hanging off the bed.

“It’s your bad to come to me for romance advice. You couldn’t have asked literally anyone else- yourself, for example?” It fusses with its talons as it rants, snapping off a couple of nails absentmindedly, “It’s not even the fun kind of gross.”

You can’t believe you’re considering saying it. You won’t! You shouldn’t! You refuse!

“...Please?” Oh fuck, you’ve done it now.

Remus pulls its head up slightly, a very smug grin across its face. Its teeth are horrendously crooked and yellow-stained, looking much too big and sharp to fit into its mouth.

“Awww, you’re begging? God, you’re so desperate.”

It’s very difficult to resist the urge to push it off the bed. But you are a pillar of restraint today, because it’s not entirely wrong about that, and you still need it to help you.

“Look, it’s too personal to my own life for my abilities to do me any good. And Virgil can’t talk about it- he’s way too frazzled to even think about it, the poor thing. Plus, Patton and Janus aren’t… great… at things,” that’s a very soft way of putting: the former gets much too emotionally invested and the latter is entirely snarky and unhelpful. “So I came here. I think a more, erm, detached point of view could help.”

Remus hums at that.

“I guess there’s nothing more detached from romantic issues than someone who’s never had any- you’ve come to the right place in that case.”

“So you’ll help?”

Remus slides slowly forward until it’s landing in a heap on the ground, various crunching noises resulting from the impact. It huffs, lifts itself up to rest its chin on the edge of the bed, and stares at you unblinkingly.

“You’re not allowed to tangent about how pretty his eyes are or how much you love his voice, or anything like that, got it? Otherwise, I will puke, and probably into your mouth just to shut you up.”

You gag, perhaps a bit exaggeratedly.

“That’s vile!”

“Thank you! Now, bitch to me about your problems before I get bored.”

You look down to your lap, winding and unwinding your fingers repetitiously. You think about the past couple of days; in many aspects, it’s been wonderful. Virgil actually wants to be your boyfriend! And that’s what he is now! Of course, you both are just as cuddly as ever, but now you don’t have to worry about holding back. That’s been an amazing relief.

But there’s always that little thing missing, holding you back from being content completely. You want to give Logan his space, truly you do, but every day you feel a little more distant from him. A little further from being able to fix things. It’s familiar in all the worst ways.

You blink rapidly, remembering where you are before the emotions overcome you. With a shaky breath, you begin to speak. It’s just a summary at first, but then you can’t help but give Remus your most detailed accounts of, well, everything.

You gauge its reaction intensely, but it’s as inscrutable as ever. You finish the tale hurriedly, expectant for some sort of response from the creature across from you.

There is an intolerable silence as you practically see the gears turning in Remus’ brain, which is funny because you thought Octopuses were supposed to have nine of them. You have no idea what it’s using all the other ones for, if that’s the case.

“You laughed at him,” it smirks when it speaks, sounding out the words slowly. You scoff.

“We were laughing at the situation! We didn’t mean it to seem that way. It was just bad timing! ”

It cackles at you, sitting back on its legs and tossing its head back. It sounds like a shrieking kettle.

“No wonder he’s so pissed! He thinks you think his feelings are a joke! His whole deal is not wanting to be that. That’s, like, his big thing.”

You’d… sort of figured that’s what happened, but hearing it out loud still stings. To think you’d done that to him. He was getting so much better with his feelings, but you had to go and ruin it.

“I already know that I- we-” mental filtering, Roman, “We caused the issue. I wanted to know how to fix it.”

Remus stops laughing as suddenly as it’d started, looking at you with all the sincerity of, perhaps, someone capable of being serious.

“Corner him,” it answers simply.

“Excuse me?”

“Corner him. Your first mistake was that you went to him in his room, which meant he could just throw you out of there. He’s stubborn, right? Plus, he thinks you were making fun of him. He’s not gonna come out to have a civilized conversation on his own, cuz he’s a dumbass, so I don’t think more space is gonna help you out here. Lure him out! Tie him up, if it’ll make him listen!” Remus pauses thoughtfully, “Orrrrr you could try amputating his legs entirely, but he’ll probably grow them back. He’s annoying like that.”

You choose to ignore the last suggestion, focusing instead on its main point.

“Are you sure that won’t make things worse?”

“Define ‘worse’ for me, in terms of right now, currently, in here on this day.”

“Good point.”

Remus nods to itself, standing up from the floor and stretching its arms above its head. Its shoulders dislocate, but it pops them back into their sockets once its done. This almost feels like the conclusion of the conversation, but you get the impression that it’s taking its time to piece together a sentence with a little more finality.

“He was obviously crazy about you two before, which means he probably still is. He’s also a sad little shit, though.”

You move to stand as well, curling your fingers against themselves again.

“You really think so?”

“Oh, I have no idea. That’s your department, remember? Now, get out of my room; no alloromantics allowed after-” it checks the time, clearly making the rule up on the spot, “Five twenty-six P.M.”

“Fine, fine, I can take a hint,” you place your hands on your hips, feeling just a little more confident in the wake of this talk.

“‘Hint’? I explicitly told you to leave.”

You grumble at Remus, but make your way to the door nonetheless. It turns back to its desk, grabbing for a jar that seems to be filled with insect legs. It’s immediately refocused into whatever strange creatures it was working on, pulling them apart and shoving them back together. You let the affronted look fall from your face, replaced by a small, fond smile.

“Thanks, Re.”

It glances back at you, briefly.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s nothing…” it pauses, its hands stilling. “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” you say, earnestly.

You leave, letting it get back to its work.

The hallway smells like a fucking Macy’s compared to Remus’ room. Jesus Christ, it’s a relief.

You shut the door behind you with a soft click, leaning back against it with a deep, shuddering sigh. It’s been a long week.

Ah, and just on time, as if to prove your point, there’s a gravelly shout and a thump from downstairs. You draw yourself to attention, shaking the slump from your shoulders. You flit through the narrow hall to the top of the stairs, listening carefully for an issue to resolve or an unseemly beast to slay. A prince must protect his subjects, after all.

For a few seconds, all you can hear below is frantic whispering. You set a foot on the top step, but you don’t get the chance to descend.

Virgil is there like a flash of lightning, speeding up the stairs and heading right for you.

You startle, spiraling back to escape his path, but it’s futile. He catches you at the top, sending you both crashing into the opposite wall. Pain shoots up your back at the impact, as well as sparking in your shoulders where his claws are gripping you. You hiss, the sound dying when you meet his eyes.

They’re bright. No, glowing. No, seeping- their color is seeping into the world around them, curling in little streaks of murky green and violet around Virgil’s face.

He speaks, but it’s without distortion. It’s clear and crisp. It isn’t quite anxiety that’s consuming him this way, no, it’s something much more powerful.

“Roman,” he takes your hand in a fervent grip, “Ro, it’s Logan.”

You blink, and before you really know what you’re doing, you're already halfway downstairs.

<<<???>>><<<???>>><<<???>>

Light, sparse taps are turned out against the solid wood door. The sounds, however small, echo throughout this packed little room.

Your fingers stall above the laptop’s keyboard, and for a fraction of a second frustration overcomes you. It’s gone as soon as it comes, replaced unceremoniously by numbness. This is a minor inconvenience to your work, but not much else. Thankfully, you are not one to dwell on it; after all this time, you are finally in complete control of your faculties and your emotions.

The knock returns, more sure of itself as it hits against the surface. Bemusedly, you wonder why on earth they’re still bothering- but, that isn’t them, it belatedly occurs to you. The rhythm isn’t that of some showtune or another, nor is it harsh and pounding.

You aren’t sure how many days it’s been since you’ve heard that particular sound. You aren’t sure… What day is it?

Well, regardless, you’ve been jarred from your work. You could ignore it and continue on- you’d likely forget it soon enough- but the fact that you recognize the presence specifically as Patton stops that idea in its tracks. He’s sensitive, an overthinker to an extreme degree. He could entirely misconstrue it as a dislike of his company if you were to not respond, unlike a flippant Remus or a collected Janus. And, well…

You’re over it. You’ve been over what Roman and Virgil did to you. But even though you very much are, it’s still perfectly reasonable to not want to be near them. There would be nothing to gain from talking to them, and you’d like to spare yourself the headache. But, you digress; Patton was not a part of what transpired. He would not do that to you, and therefore he is not an impediment to your work. Looking at it rationally, he is in fact a great source of comfo- help, for you.

With this in mind you stand, making your way across the room. You stagger when you walk, like something’s pulling you in different directions. Odd. The feeling is somewhere in your head, sinking down your vertebrae, insisting that you need to remain in the sanctity of your room. If you leave, the pull suggests, then all your carefully built clarity of mind should become disrupted. How strange for such a convincing conviction to be so seemingly baseless, you reflect.

The knock returns, and that is of course a much more pressing issue. There’s a pull coming from there as well, only one much fiercer and easier to place. It’s the strongest thing you’ve experienced in some time, like someone’s arm around your waist, guiding you forwards (even if there isn’t anyone there, really).

“Good afternoon,” you intone, drawing the door open with excessive force. Strange, again; maybe you had just forgotten how heavy it was.

Patton stands across from you, shock written across his features with his fist still poised in the air, as though to knock again. He drops the hand quickly, reaching out instead with both arms while a grin consumes his face. But the limbs spasm concerningly, and stop. He sweeps his arms back and presses his balled hands tightly against his chest, still smiling at you, only a little more strained. His eyes are big, murky pools of color and emotion, raging and contradictory and impossible to make sense of. Even looking into them is overwhelming.

“Hi, buddy,” he says it so quietly, but the actual words don’t matter. He says it with force, like perhaps he’s localized every emotion he’s ever felt entirely into his tone of voice.

You blink at him, an undefined question on your lips before that pull behind you turns into a sharp push, and before you know it you’re slumping forward into the hallway and out of your room. As you’re forced out, you narrowly avoid hitting the carpet. That’s thanks to Patton, who rushes forwards with a yelp, hauling you up into his sturdy arms with very little effort.

The confusion you’d felt leaves you in a great big rush, replaced by fire. Your skin is consumed by burns at your friend’s touch- or at least it feels that way, but logically it cannot possibly be actual flame- but fuck logic because you’re on fucking fire.

It’s an all-consuming heat, but that’s hardly all it is. It’s breathing. Like you’d been holding your breath to the point of mad deliria and only now are you gasping in great, relieved breaths of clear air as some great and stifling weight is lifted from your lungs. It also feels like moving from an ice bath to a sauna all too quickly, giving you the greatest relief in conjunction with horrific pain.

Oh. You’re crying.

“Shh,” Patton whispers, as though this isn’t anything out of the ordinary, “It’s okay, it’s alright.”

You hold onto him hesitantly. Are you sitting? You think you must be, judging from this position.

“Do you need me to let go? Is it too much?”

You open your mouth to speak, and your voice is in perfect, frightening monotone.

“Yes, please.”

Patton draws back gently, just far enough so that you’re not touching. Big, crocodile tears crawl down your face still, but they begin to die down after a moment. You get your breathing under control, even if just barely.

“I didn’t want you to fall and get hurt,” Patton explains, “But I realize that making you touch a living vessel for emotion might’ve hurt, too, after- well, after that,” he gestures vaguely to your room, and then to yourself. You tilt your head in confusion.

“What-?” You look down at your arms, and the question dies on your lips.

It’s lifeless; corpse-like. The cold, slate-gray painted up your arms and probably across your whole body. The color looks sucked out of you, leaving only emptiness in its wake. The only sign that you’re a living being and not a husk, a shell, a piece of shed skin- other than the tremble of your frame- is the shocks of electric blue running up your body. They could be veins, if not for the fact that the lines were perfectly straight and geometrically cornered.

Patton reaches out, pensively, and presses a cautious finger against the back of your hand. At his touch, the spot bursts into life like watercolor on wet paper. Lively, peachy skin with cool undertones appears, before fading back to gray as Patton removes his finger. And it stings.

You jump to your feet with a struggle, hardly registering when Patton follows your lead. You spin on your heel, staring through the open door and into your room. You can’t imagine entering it- just the feeling of being near it shortens your breath. It’s frigid, it’s hard and unshakeable and dark. It is completely and entirely devoid of emotion or life, and you hadn’t left that frozen hellscape in days.

It’s a wonder you can feel anything at all, after what you’ve done to yourself.

A shaking gasp rips out of your throat, and before you can think another panicked thought you jolt forward and wrench the door shut. You back away from it until your back hits the opposite wall.

“I- I didn’t realize I was doing it,” your words sound like pleas, falling from your mouth without your consent.

“I know,” Patton stands beside you, close enough to feel but not to burn.

“I didn’t mean to, I just-”

“I know.”

“I was doing better. I was doing so well, I was happy.”

He nods solemnly.

You’ve been aware of the existence of your emotions, and relatively accepting of it, for a good deal of time. Hypocrisy is unsustainable. You can’t very well preach the negatives of repression on a weekly basis and then go on to practice it indefinitely.

But what you are… everything that you encompass, everything that encompasses you, it makes it much too easy to slip up. To force out every pesky feeling in favor of more ‘important’ things. What it really is is a pitiful defense mechanism, unfortunately built deep into you by the purpose of your being. And it seems that your room can even do it without your knowledge.

“Logan?”

You look up, unsure if he can even see how miserable you are. Can you emote anymore? You try to frown, but your muscles are stuck like plastic.

“Why don’t we get you somewhere else and see if we can get some of the feeling back into ya, okay?”

You adjust your glasses once, then twice.

“Not your room, I would hope?”

“Oh, goodness,” he lets out a startled laugh, “Of course not, that would be way too much! I was thinking somewhere a little more, uhm, neutral?”

You perk up at that implication. You could just go to the common room, of course, but that’s hardly the only unaffected area in the Mindpalace. Your world isn’t quite real- and even if it is it’s extremely fluid and easy to influence- meaning you can make about just as many locations as any of you would like. Which includes structures ‘outside’ of your ‘house’.

An ill-defined existence like that might irk you, if you were in a philosophical mood. Thankfully, the only mood you’re in right now is sad.

“Yes, I think a change of setting could be beneficial.”

Patton chirps happily, much like a tree frog, and makes to lead you downstairs. You follow close behind him, chasing that emotional high but still nervous of the pain that it could cause you.

You’re on edge for reasons enough already. The idea that you could run into them is a prominent one that you’d rather not focus on.

For a split second you think you might have to, though, because there’s someone sitting on the couch when you step down from the landing. Your breath catches in your throat, but then he looks up at you, heterochromic eyes wide with surprise, and you exhale steadily.

“Hello, Janus.”

His eyebrows arch up at your greeting, perplexion in his smile. Appraisingly, he observes you, offering only a small wave. He addresses Patton when he speaks.

“Well, Dear, it seems you were right to be concerned about him.”

Patton mutters something that you can’t quite make out, looking disconcerted.

You’d be flushing indignantly, if you had the ability to. Your shoulders hunch up as you glance between your friends.

“You’ve been talking about me?”

They both look acutely uncomfortable, exchanging looks. That’s answer enough for you, though.

Oh, just look at yourself. You’re a spectacle now, aren’t you? Poor Logan, getting his metaphorical metaphysical heart broken, only for it to become the talk of the MindPalace for days on end as he relapses into repression. Isn’t it such a lovely thing for you to be? A piece of gossip. Entertainment.

Janus’ worry grows on his face, and soon he’s up from his spot and hastening towards you. You step back from him, trying to remember what glaring is meant to look like. He doesn’t invade your space again, but he just… stares at you.

“Would you like to talk about it?” He asks. You can almost laugh at the question.

“I’m sure you already know all about it, though, don’t you?”

Both of them are taken aback by your snapping. You regret it immediately; they haven’t done anything wrong, not really. They’re trying to help you, it isn’t their fault that they got caught up in your ‘tragic tale’. But your frustration is difficult to push down. You get the feeling that you can’t push anything down, without worrying that something will snap; it’s almost like an overworked muscle.

“Whatever you think has been happening out here,” Janus speaks, even and slow, “It’s not that bad, alright?”

Patton nods along with him, and reaches towards you. He falters, eventually opting to hook a finger through the band of your watch instead. Your skin prickles, but there’s no pain.

“C’mon, I was thinking we could try heading to the Clubhouse.”

That settles your anger, microscopically. You think Janus is being truthful, and Patton is nothing but consoling. And, of course, there’s the clubhouse…

You might not ever admit how much you like it. It’s been around since before you were around, back in the days of just Anxiety (the oldest), Creativities (tied for second), and a very newly formed Morality. Back when it was first made, it really was just a little child’s clubhouse, made primarily by Roman, with some disruptions by Remus, and small additions by a tiny Patton. It was probably the first neutral structure made up by the sides, as they had just begun to figure out their powers and the ‘world’ that they inhabited. Of course no one had the heart to get rid of it after that.

You give Patton a nod, angling your face so that it maybe looks like you’re smiling. He lets go of you, smiling back as he turns on his heel and heads for the door. You trail behind him, knowing that it must look very silly that you’re basically tailgating him. Janus follows you in turn, a few feet behind. He watches over the both of you protectively.

You step out onto the lawn, hearing grass crunch beneath your shoes. The wind is particularly biting, and the sky above threatens a storm. You’re sure that the weather in the real world isn’t this chaotic, so someone in the mindscape must be sulking. You don’t mind; it’ll only make the warmth of the Clubhouse all the more pleasant.

The Clubhouse has changed so much over the years that it’s unrecognizable as its original iteration. What once was a little stick-and-stone glorified fairy house is now a cottage-like building, one story high with a thickly thatched roof. Beside the door on either side are big bay windows, each made into little reading nooks. It’s essentially one big room, the outside painted with such vibrant pastels that it easily stands out against its surroundings.

The doors creak when Patton opens them, but not in a way that denotes damage or wear. It’s an old and comforting sound, one that comes from familiarity and consistent use. You step through the threshold, and affection floods your chest.

It isn’t large, but it’s well-equipped. There are ancient oaken tables stacked up with crafts materials, squashy bean bag chairs, and a bright rug or two thrown over the rustic hardwood floors. The nooks have pillows and blankets piled in them, looking like nests. There are bookshelves, art supplies, vinyl records (complete with a record player)- even some new-looking wall displays of preserved bugs and butterflies for decoration. To top it all off, fairy lights were strung across all the walls, making it all seem quite mystic.

You find yourself taking another step inwards; the amenities are incredibly inviting. Everything here is inviting, and homey, and lived-in. The house itself almost feels alive, nonsensical as that is.

It’s no wonder this is everyone’s favorite.

Patton watches you patiently, his hand resting on the door handle. You take a deep breath, but you aren’t sure why you need it. You make your way to the perfume-y, floral print sofa against the wall to your right, treating everything around you rather reverently. When you sit, you sink down into the couch.

Patton sits a respectful distance from you. Janus strolls right after him, knocking the door shut with the back of his boot before settling in an armchair on the left of the couch.

There’s a comfortable silence, and you start to feel your numbness abate. With a contented sigh, your head falls back against the cushion and your eyes fall shut. Not in an effort to sleep. You’re just… resting. You breathe deeply, letting the atmosphere envelop you.

The corners of your mouth twitch up.

“Logan!” Patton squeaks, “Look!”

Your eyes blink open, mildly startled at the outburst. Patton’s gaze on you is intense, first focused on your face and then moving down your arms. You follow the look, to see your...

Your perfectly normal, flesh-colored arms. Your human-ish, mildly tan, average arms. You feel what you can now recognize as a smile grow wider on your face.

“Well,” Janus chimes, “It seems you just needed a little break.”

“Maybe so,” your voice creaks from lack of use. You hadn’t even realized you’d been nonverbal since you’d last snapped at them. Neither had drawn attention to it, which you silently thank them for (they, after all, were all too familiar with the experience).

“Do you feel good enough to talk about what’s been upsetting you?” Patton gently asks you. And you… don’t have an answer.

“What is there to talk about?” You tilt your head bemusedly.

“I think he means, are you ready to talk to who’s been upsetting you?” Janus explains. Patton hesitates before nodding his agreement.

“I- what?” Your serenity leaves in a rush, replaced by astonishment and outrage, “You expect me to- to talk to them?”

You give them approximately three seconds to respond before plowing forwards with your rant.

“I’m talking to you both, isn’t that enough? You’ve done nothing to wrong me, of course. What does it matter if I don’t speak to those- those- those-”

Janus’ eyes expand to circles, the pupils shrinking to anxious slits.

“Those?” He prompts.

“Tricksters, betrayers, playactors, wolves- whatever you want to call them!” Where were vocab cards when you needed them? All your synonyms can’t carry the punch that you need them to. Insults aren’t much good if you have to explain them after.

“No!” Patton practically screams, out of absolutely nowhere. You glance at him, stunned, to see him looking like a kicked puppy- er, froggy. He’s on the verge of tears, leaning towards you precariously, with devastation swirling in his big eyes. “This is why you need to talk to them, please, Logan.”

You are so very bewildered, you barely notice that Janus is standing from his chair until he’s already across the room.

“As I said earlier: whatever you think happened, didn't. I can prove it, too,” he mutters, standing by the door.

“You weren't there, Janus,” you snap, "I tried to tell them how I felt and they- they laughed at me.”

“They didn't!” Patton squeaks. You shake your head frantically, still reeling.

“It was- it was awful, you can’t-”

“No,” Patton interrupts, “I meant that literally. They didn’t do that.”

This interaction is making your head spin with indignation. You are capable of immense patience when it comes to Patton- and Janus, for that matter- but this has become ridiculous.

“I’m so tired of being made a mockery of, Patton. I won’t stand for it any longer, even if you’re just trying to help.”

He breathes in sharply, about to argue, but then his gaze catches on something behind you. His mouth stays open, but he’s soundless. You jump to your feet, spinning around to see just what he’s looking at.

The door is open. Janus is gone.

There's a shout from the main house.

Taglist: @shrimp-crockpot @glitter-skeleton-uwu @intruxiety @thefivecalls

(Lemme know if you wanna be added or removed :3)

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cosmicjoke · 3 years ago

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Okay, I gotta talk a little about chapter 65 of AoT, and really some of the themes being put forth in general in this chapter. This is probably gonna be totally incoherent, because these are some big brain concepts that largely go over my head, I’ll be real, haha. But I’ll do my best.

I want to focus on Kenny’s conversation with his Grandfather, because it’s here that we get into some of the more broad ranging and world relevant themes of SnK, particularly dealing with issues of racism, xenophobia, isolationism, and concepts of homogeneity.

Kenny’s Grandfather talks about how the Monarchy doesn’t hate the Ackerman’s, but rather fears them, because they can’t be controlled. Because the Ackerman’s, along with very few other bloodlines that somehow ended up behind the walls, are all of different races than the majority bloodline, meaning, of course, the Eldians. And because of this, the power of the Titans doesn’t work on them. The Monarchy then comes to think of these other bloodlines as threats to the peace it’s attempted to cultivate among the people behind the wall, because their memories aren’t able to be wiped. So they end up using threats of violence, death, intimidation, and the like, in order to get these bloodlines to comply with their demands and keep quiet about what they know about the truth of the world and human history. Most bloodlines end up complying under duress, but the only two that don’t are the Ackerman’s and the Asians. They rebel and refuse, the Ackerman’s in particular giving up their position as the sword and shield of the Royal Government. Until the head of the Ackerman clan decides to not pass down any of his generations knowledge to their children, and offers himself up for execution in an attempt to protect the Ackerman’s from being purged. His efforts end up being in vain, though, as the Royal Government still finds itself unable to tolerate a group of people it can’t control, and thus the persecution of the Ackerman’s continues, until they’re driven to the fringes of society, forced to into desperation and poverty.

What’s really interesting about this is how it reflects so many real life situations throughout human history, and where concepts of tribalism and nationalism and isolationism come from. It’s usually because some governing power wants to control its population, its citizenship, and they do this by cutting them off from outside influences, indoctrinating them into a certain belief system and way of thinking. We see this, for example, in countries today like China and North Korea. This all is represented in AoT through the erasure of human history outside the walls, and the altering of historical texts to push the narrative that all record of human history older than 100 years has been lost. The ruling government, in this case, has forced generation after generation to be taught that humanity simply doesn’t EXIST outside the walls, thus stomping out any hope or ambition to get outside those walls, and interact with the outside world. If there’s nothing there to find, then why bother? Of course, it’s an imperfect system, given it’s essentially impossible to quell human curiosity and, as another prominent theme in SnK, the desire for freedom, to be able to choose for oneself and have agency over your own destiny, etc... Not only does the Royal Government employ these false teachings as a way of controlling the populace, but of course, also, the threat of the Titans beyond the wall. If the “reality” that there’s nothing left of humanity out there isn’t enough to stop the more curious and skeptical among the population, then the threat of a horrific and painful death should do the trick.

If you study any sort of regime throughout human history that utilizes terror as a means of control, one thing they often do is get rid of the smart people first. They cull intellectuals, artists, philosophers, etc... They kill them or censor them so that they can’t influence or impact the general populace with rebellious notions, or instigate in people any ideas that their government might not be treating them right. They want there to be no contention, no differential in thought, no real ideas or any sort of chance for clashes among groups. They want everyone to look, act, think and feel the same, because when that’s the case, fewer quarrels arise, fewer tensions, fewer instances of rebellion, fewer cases of people clashing with one another, for various reasons, which can lead to critical thinking and ideas forming, to thought patterns and beliefs being challenged. They want everyone to just sit quietly and not THINK. They also, often, will target minority groups, and cast them into a kind of scapegoat role, a target for the general populace to aim their grievances at, to blame all their problems on, directing their unhappiness away from the true source of their woes, that being the government itself. This is something we often see throughout human history. One of the most prominent and tragic examples is the Jews in Nazi Germany. Jews were, at first, skewered and debased through propaganda, painting them as the enemy of Germans, the great source of all of Germany’s plights and woes, essentially working the populace up into a frenzy of extreme feelings of bias and prejudice against them, before that escalated into gathering up and forcing them into cut off ghettos, away from the general population, before it took a much darker turn still, wherein they were gathered up and sent to death camps to be exterminated.

Within the world of AoT, the same thing happens to groups like the Ackerman’s and Asians, and whatever other, unnamed minority groups exist behind the walls. They’re persecuted, badmouthed, hunted and threatened into compliance, their ability to do business and make money, thus make a living, cut off and blocked. Pushed into a corner until they eventually start to die out.

It’s really fascinating, and brilliantly depicted by Isyama, how the Monarchy’s self-delusion leads them to believe they’re preserving peace and prosperity for the homogeneous population by hunting down and terrorizing groups of minority bloodlines and ethnicity’s and races, creating for these subsets of people a world and a life of endless suffering, and blinding themselves to their own, tyrannical exercise of power over a large population. Of course this sort of thing also leads to greed and a lust for power, a need for ever more control, ever more expansion of that power, which in turn leads to the very thing the Monarchy here claims to want to prevent, which is war. Even if the Royal Government, and the Monarchy, and the King, started out with somewhat noble intentions, it eventually morphs into a twisted and persistently corrupting power play.

There’s also the theme here of scapegoating an entire group of people, and holding them accountable for sins they themselves did not commit. We see in Historia’s memories of Frieda, and how she would at times begin acting like another person, how she became vitriolic and almost violent in telling Historia that she can “never cross the fence”, proclaiming that they’re all “sinners” and thus need to be punished by being imprisoned. This is where the original King’s philosophy begins to become deeply problematic and dangerous. In order to control the population, he’s forced each inheritor of the world’s memories to also inherit his philosophy, forcing each heir to labor under the belief that the Eldian’s are somehow responsible for the atrocities committed by their ancestors, and thus should continue to pay for them, even though not a single person at this point living behind the walls was even yet born when those atrocities were committed. The danger here is in the possibility of those people being held accountable for things they didn’t do, realizing the injustice of that, and in turn, growing angry and resentful for being made to suffer for crimes they didn’t commit. This in turn leads to a desire to hit back, to fight, to defend themselves, etc... This same scenario plays out on a smaller scale with the Ackerman’s, with the future generations of Ackerman children continuing to be hunted and persecuted, despite none of them having any knowledge whatsoever of the history of humanity or the world. It’s all a vicious cycle.

Further, this kind of attempt to play God, by dictating to an entire group of otherwise uninvolved people what they do and don’t deserve, and in turn deciding for them that they should be punished for things they did not do, is morally bankrupt. Deciding, in general, for an entire population, how they should be allowed to live is also morally bankrupt. And this exposes the Royal Government and Monarchy as corrupt, among about a million other things in story. Essentially, it’s a condemnation against the concept of any, one person having absolute power. That never ends well, for anyone.

Well, anyway, I’m just rambling at this point, lol. It’s just really fascinating and amazing how Isyama weaves all of these deep themes into his story, I think, and forces the reader to really think about these kinds of things.

Also, I missed the fight between Levi and Kenny! I’m glad they added that to the anime, haha.

I also noticed how Historia might have had an unintentional impact on what Eren later decides he has to do. She keeps going on and on here about being an “enemy of humanity” and wanting to “destroy everything”. And while Historia clearly doesn’t actually mean what she’s saying, and is only acting out in her frustration and anger at her douchebag of a father trying to manipulate her into sacrificing herself for his delusions of grandeur, what she also says to Eren about her “being humanity’s enemy, but Eren being her FRIEND.” is clear foreshadowing of what Eren later decides is his best and only course, to do whatever it takes to protect his friends, including killing the rest of humanity. This probably also ties into Eren’s choice to not reveal what he learns from his father’s memories, in an attempt to protect Historia. But I haven’t gotten to that point yet, so I’ll come back around to it later maybe.

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin

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believerindaydreams · 4 years ago

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Does it count as a slow burn if it's been less than 15000 words I dunno anyway here be the shagging chapter.

"Arcade Gannon, you're extremely drunk."

That he's saying it aloud seems to confirm the validity of the statement. Good.

Boone looks up briefly from his compulsive scribbling. It seems backwards somehow that he's sitting here with the drink while Boone is writing, but he can't entirely think of why. Tomorrow Arcade's problem.

Tomorrow along with the hangover and scavenging for survival and getting to one of the people they're meant to be rescuing. He giggles, tenderly adjusts the angle of his new glasses. They're utterly priceless, at least until he gets back to the Old Mormon Fort and can grab one of the three pairs he's put by for emergencies.

"What are you doing?"

There is a definite moment during which Boone has decided not to answer, but then he does. "Letter for my wife."

"Oh. Uhh, sorry about her...I can't, you know, take too many more emotional shocks before falling asleep. The-" he frowns abruptly, feels at his neck to see if the collar is still there. It is. "The thing thing. Enough for one day."

Compiling a list of the variables causing him to have hit this level of coherency would take long enough he'd be sober before finishing. Never mind.

"That thing," Boone says, sharply enough to break his pencil between words. He takes out a knife and starts whittling a fresh point. "Don't ask about the thing."

"Understood." He is absolutely dying to know what science involves making targets glow, but that's not Brotherhood or Legion business and it might not even be his. Much as he wants to find out. Man has a right to secrets.

He shuts up and just watches for a while. The scratch of pencil lead. The way Boone's frowning over the letters, a hint of pink tongue at the corner of his mouth, so profoundly earnest. The slight glisten on one side of his jumpsuit, catching the light-

oh. Oh! Fuck.

"I was crying on your shoulder earlier." The whole chain of memories pops up obediently, now he's looking for it.

"Don't worry about it."

"I-", Arcade starts, and promptly stops, because he was going to say he's sorry now but that might be misconstrued as rude, and why can't he offload some of this eighteen-caret vocabulary right now except making his mouth say it sounds difficult. "So you don't mind."

"In your position I'd have beaten my brains out against a Legion tentpost ages back. You're pretty coherent for a prisoner of war."

Now isn't that rich, being told he's coherent by...why is he thinking like this? That's Enclave talk, isn't it?

He firmly shoves that whole line of thought into a box and locks it away. "I should shut up and go to sleep now."

"Probably," Boone agrees. He folds the letter up, tucks it in a pocket. "I'll wake you when I can't stay awake any more."

"A watch? Do we really need one?"

"I'd rather not risk it."

It's either argue or go to sleep. He falls asleep trying to decide.

***

"Wake up before I pass out."

A return to the land of the living. Not as rough as it could have been, he's drunk so much water in ecstatic indifference to lurking radiation. Rads can be cured, dehydration can't.

He returns to the sink for more and turns around to find Boone already out, small and vulnerable the way people are when they sleep. Dragging the mattresses from the cells into this kitchen had been a good idea, there's a double layer to sleep on, another to sit on.

Compared to the life he was living, sustenance on sufferance and a guard every moment, this is the lap of luxury. Even the slave collar-

he feels the harsh metal against his throat again and shudders, returning sobriety hitting hard. This is not normal. This is not a state to get used to. He deserves better than this, as does Boone.

For a moment he considers crawling right back into a bottle, but they don't have an infinite supply and besides, Boone's trusting his life here. Best keep steady hands.

Old world poetry marching through his skull. Center cannot hold. If he has to get to terms with what's been happening to him, he will fall apart right here in this kitchen.

Focus, Gannon. Focus.

Boone turns over in his sleep, emits a soft snore, and it's silly to say that does it when it's the weight of death pressing down on them, attraction formed out of raw aching need, spending the most stressful hours of his life wrapped up in concern for the life before him; and something turns over and now he's in love. Or at least lust. His body, fed and watered and rested, is absolutely desperate for release.

A jumpsuit's not ideal for this sort of activity. Arcade removes it, adjusts his position to be able to see the entryway and Boone both, the other man's body gently rising and falling with each breath. The rhythm of it is steady, reassuring, makes for a fine counterpoint to his own meditative movements.

If an enemy comes in now, his senses are on high alert. Listening, seeing, it's an acceptable risk.

Boone isn't asking for this.

Boone doesn't need to know. They're keeping enough secrets from each other, he can have one more.

The crescent-shaped scar trailing down past the ear, normally covered by the beret. Rounded curve under the ribcage, a callus on the forefinger of indeterminate origin, every small detail whispering him on as he pulls and pulls and comes-

- the whoop of pleasure as he does so, clutching the butt of the holorifle for support, is tremendously unintentional.

Boone opens one eye, fixes his squarely.

"Huh. Nice to know you're human like the rest of us."

Sitting naked and covered in cum is so far past any reasonable course of denial or explanation, truth will have to serve. "I do find you very attractive, but we seemed to have enough to deal with without me dumping that on your head."

"...how about you give me a handjob, and we'll call it quits."

There are so many more extravagant ways to show a man a good time, but- this is Craig Boone. No surprise if he likes to keep it simple.

Arcade wipes himself off, ruining the lining of a poorly made fedora in the process, and crawls over to strip his lover.

(Can you say lover, etymologically, before actually committing the act? Never mind, it's bound to be a moot point shortly.)

He struggles to get the jumpsuit off- it's tight and Boone isn't helping much, limp with exhaustion- doesn't give him much to work with here. They might not get very far.

Nevertheless, it's incumbent on him to make the attempt.

Arcade teases the soft uninterested cock into a slightly more pliable form, careful application of fingertips that have touched more than their share of yielding flesh. Back and forth, back and forth, the hold is blessedly familiar after the holorifle grip and rightly so.

Still not getting very far. He lies down, tests a quick light lick along the shaft for a sounding before putting his mouth to work.

Boone twitches beneath him, shifts his weight, like the whole world turning over just for him. "Thought you'd just do it quick, not massage and swallowing thrown in."

Arcade doesn't hurry his investigation, the gentle play of tongue and lips, before withdrawing to reply. "Do you want me to argue or get you off?"

Boone does the thing he does best and shuts up.

He does quicken the pace after that, though- manipulation here, delicate squeezing there, minimizing the exploratory touches he would quite like to linger over- and it really is much too soon, when the warm rush hits his mouth.

Normally he would swallow, but the act ends in an anti-climatic puddle of spit and less attractive flavors, drooled out into a rusted tin can. "Tastes like cloud. No offense."

"None taken." Boone does, actually, sound relaxed now. He's unconscious in seconds.

Arcade clambers back into his jumpsuit and covers Boone best he can, before picking up the holorifle to keep a proper watch this time.

Everything that's stewing between them right now, he's not even sure this will change the dynamic between them. Death is the only thing more intimate than sex.

In the Sierra Madre hell, though, it's nice to have one thing to simply feel good over.

#fallout new vegas

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67midnightwriter · 5 years ago

Text

Bygone: Teach Me

A/N: This was originally intended for @thoughtslikeaminefield for her birthday before the world exploded. It was intended to be a quick one shot, but as I was writing I fell in love with Dean, Leia, and Cas’ relationship, so this will end up being a snapshot series. It won’t be written in order, but eventually it will all be written lol. Thanks to @mskathywriteswords for the deep beta!

Dean x OFC x Cas no destiel

Warning: feels and squirting

Smut

W/C: 4,269

There are many things Dean Winchester is good at: drawing out both pleasure and pain, locating both good drink and good food no matter where you plop him down, shrugging off compliments he’ll never believe he really deserves, and battling demons, of both the metaphorical and physical varieties. These are the things he (mostly) prides himself on, the base stones with which he builds the foundation of his character. Good or bad, they’re solid and steady through the storm of time.

He won’t admit it, but among the other qualities lays the fact that he is a good teacher. One might even venture to say that he is an excellent teacher, with seemingly endless pools of kind patience, an uncanny ability to know how to reach even the most challenging and troubled of students, and oceans of knowledge from which to quench the thirst of the curious. It’s his unintentional personal oversight of this key flagstone that has birthed the confusion knotting his forehead currently.

“Look Cas, I’m honored, really, I am...” Dean’s hand runs through his hair and then down his face, a nervous habit he’s picked up over the years, though he’s not sure where or when. He takes a deep breath before gathering the courage to continue. “But when I told you some things are better learned from watching, this...” He gestures to the room, unable to articulate the words he needs, unsure if any are actually needed, “is not what I meant.”

“I need you to teach me.”

Dean tries to keep his face blank, but it has a habit of thinking out loud. His eyes grow wide, his eyebrows fly high, and his bottom lip ends up pinched between his teeth to hold in a startled laugh. He steadies himself with a deep breath, slowly letting it out of his nose while he counts to ten.

“Cas, man, it’s pretty self explanatory…”

Leia, currently lying back on the bed she shares with Cas, her honey eyes taking in the awkward exchange between Dean and his best friend. Her deep red hair cascaded over her shoulders like a mane of fire, as she chortled over Castiel’s unamused huff and eyeroll.

“Dean, I’ve been watching humans mate and reproduce since before they were bipedal. I understand and am perfectly capable of bringing Leia pleasure through standard sexual intercourse.”

Dean suppresses a wince over Cas’s blunt wording; even years of friendship can’t take away the resounding feeling as though he’s talking about sex with a parent.

If he’s seen so much, shouldn’t he be teaching me?

The unwelcome thought crosses his mind, paired with an image of Cas in a full bodied latex suit, and he physically shakes it away.

“Then I don’t understand why I’m here.”

“Cas, I think you’d better just show Dean. It’ll be easier that way.”

Castiel frowns as he considers this, nodding as he settles on a decision. “I suppose you’re correct. Dean, may I?”

Dean closes his eyes to think, rubbing at his hairline like it will help ease his thoughts. He realizes the confusion is going to eat at him until he barges back in and confronts them anyways, and decides that he’d rather skip the forty minutes of pacing and get straight to the point. He still has a list of things to get done today, one that leaves little room for such distractions. “I guess. Let’s get this over with Feathers, I’ve got guns to clean.”

Cas’ lips thin at Dean’s use of the nickname, but he moves past without comment. “You might feel mildly disoriented.” He presses two fingers to each of Dean’s temples, and the world around Dean shimmers, causing his stomach to roll. His eyes close against the sensation, and it vanishes before he can even be sure he really felt it to begin with.

Dean opens his eyes and finds himself sucked into one of his favorite memories; quite literally. His lips are sealed around Leia’s clit as she writhes underneath him, her cunt clenching around his fingers as she cums. He doesn’t stop, even when she tries to pull away. Instead, he shifts the arm not currently three fingers deep, and pins her hips in place. She breaks from panting to whine his name, high and desperate, but he knows she’s been holding out on him. Her thighs squeeze, one on top of one shoulder, one underneath the other, and he replaces his mouth with his thumb so he can turn and bite the thigh against his ear. He’s rewarded with a sharp, ragged gasp, his thumb circling relentlessly as his fingers push against her g-spot. Her shoulders lift part way off the bed and for a moment she looks like a marionette, her eyes open but unseeing, her mouth hanging slack. He can feel her whole body tensing around him, and he can’t help but grin.

“Come on, Honey, let go for me,” he drawls, his accent thick and voice ragged.

He can feel her let go with his finger tips, and his eyes study her face as his skin tingles in a mix of awe, pride, and lust. Castiel chooses that moment to rip him back into the present, and he uses the guise of disorientation to close his eyes and steady his beating heart. His fingers twitch at his side with the urge to wipe phantom moisture off on his jeans, and his cock stirs in his jeans. He rattles off the safety features of the newest Dodge minivan in his head, willing an awkward erection away.

Traction control, tire pressure monitoring, rear child safety locks.

Since the universe decides against opening a black hole directly beneath his feet, Dean opens his eyes. He looks first at Leia, her warm eyes filled with concern, before turning to meet Cas’ cool blue gaze.

“Will you teach me?”

“Cas...” Dean runs his hand across his face, his eyes flicking between his friends. “I don’t know. Even if I could, I’m not sure how I would.”

“I could always take the information straight from the source.” Castiel, Dean was sure, was immune to any and all awkwardness.

“Castiel! I told you that if Dean didn’t want to help, you would let him go, without any brain spelunking.”

“If you would let me use my grace-”

“You can use your grace to- nevermind. I don’t want to know.” Leia smirks and shoots Dean a wink, and he shudders mentally.

Dean sighs again, his mind battling with its southern counterpart, and blessedly Castiel and Leia stay silent. He gazes at the angel before him, thinking of all the times he’s been saved by his hand, how Castiel has rarely ever asked him for anything but trust. He thinks of Leia, who has been by his side for the better part of 20 years, spent the prime of her life trying to keep his ass alive, and how much she deserves someone who could give her all the things he can’t (or in this case, all the things he can) do. She’s happy with Cas. Cas wants to give her everything she could want. Dean refuses to think about where else Cas would turn for advice, and realizes the decision has been made.

“Alright. If everyone is okay with this...” Dean gestures to the room again, still unsure there are appropriate words to describe the situation. “I’ll help you.” Leia smiles softly at him, relief washes over Castiel’s face. Dean swallows hard, and thinks there might be a rock settled in his stomach. “How…?”

“Some things are best learned by watching.”

Of course that would be the one piece of advice Castiel would latch on to.

“Right. Okay. Well…”

Attuned to his emotions after so many years living beside him, Leia gets up from the bed and stands between him and Castiel. Headstrong, with no room for nonsense, she grasps the open sides of his flannel, pulls him flush against her body, and presses her lips to his.

It’s been eleven years since they shared a kiss, but it seems as though no one informed their mouths. They fit together the same, and Dean finds himself running his hands up her arms, across her back, pulling her closer, one hand traveling up to the back of her head. She relaxes against him, and it would be so easy for Dean to pretend Castiel isn’t there, to believe that they never fell apart, to find safety and solace in her touch once more, to break down the walls he spent so long building that he can no longer remember if they’re for her sake or his.

He stiffens, but Leia already knows. She kisses her way across his jaw on up to his earlobe, nibbling softly just behind the curve. She pulls his earlobe with her teeth, before speaking in a heavy low voice.

“It’s okay, Dean. I want this. Please.” She breathes the last word. Dean wonders briefly if he imagined it, before his resolve crumbles.

Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak. Leia slips his shirt from his shoulders, and he lets it fall to his feet. He stops thinking, instinct taking over. Her shirt joins his, and he grins when he finds she’s decided to forgo a bra. He backs her on to the bed, his lips trailing hot against her skin as he makes his way up to meet her lips. Castiel shifts behind him, the rustling of his trench coat as he places it on the back of the chair reminding Dean that he’s doing this for a reason, not just living out fantasies. Dean gives control back to his brain, and slows the urgency of his kisses while wondering how to give Castiel a step by step guide on how to make his girlfriend squirt.

“The first-“ Dean’s voice is too low, too thick with lust, so he clears his throat and attempts to continue. “You gotta start-“ Leia stops his stuttering with a kiss.

“This isn’t going to work if you spend the entire time stumbling over a play by play like it’s your first day on ESPN.”

Dean hangs his head in defeat, the tips of his hair brushing against Leia’s nude chest as it rises. An apology is clawing its way out when Castiel speaks from a spot behind him.

“Just pray to me.”

Dean turns to meet the cool blue gaze over his right shoulder, and Cas nods at whatever emotions are swirling over his own eyes. Dean finds no doubt in Cas’, no uncertainty, just oceans of trust with swells of excitement that Dean is still sure he doesn’t deserve. He turns his attention back to Leia, who turns a similar trusting, warm gaze on him. She smiles, lips puffy and face relaxed in a nostalgic lust.

“Okay?” Her voice is sweet, safe, and Dean smiles as the rock in his stomach cracks.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Dean leans in for a deep kiss, invading her mouth with an expert tongue before making his way down her neck. He prays as he goes along, explaining every touch to Castiel. Leia moans beneath him, leaning in to his touch as he strips her, blunt nails coaxing goosebumps to her skin. He trails kisses and bites down her body, the thumb of his right hand brushing over her nipple, his left resting on her hip as he settles between her thighs. She feels hot and and solid beneath him, and the way she’s relaxed, honey eyes half lidded and full of lust, calms him. Dean bites the inside of her thigh, soothes it with a kiss, and then the absurdness of what they’re doing hits him.

He nearly laughs. It creeps up his throat from deep inside him, threatening to break this tender moment, and he’s not sure that he can hold it in.

If anyone would have told me, at any point in time, that I would be praying to an angel while demonstrating how to make his girlfriend squirt-

Leia’s hands in his hair bring him back from the edge of hysterics. She pulls, hard enough to move his head, and he twists her nipple in retaliation. She hisses, arching, and she chuckles.

“Focus, Cowboy.”

Dean grins and gets to work. He tightens his grip on her hip, uses his tongue until she’s keening for more, pulling his face closer and fighting against his hold to grind against him. He squeezes her nipple once more before he adjusts himself, latching on to her clit and thrusting the two middle fingers on his left hand in her sodden cunt. He can feel her clenching desperately already, and within a few moves of his fingers she’s cumming.

Once the first one is out of the way, the main key is to keep going, Cas. No matter what she says, or if she tries to pull away, keep going.

Her low pitched guttural groan fills the room, and her thighs clench around his head. He can’t help but chuckle, letting her hip go long enough to force his left arm between her thigh and his ear, pressing the length of his forearm down across her hips and grabbing tight to her right. He adjusts, filling the emptiness where his left hand had been with his right, kissing and nipping at her thigh while rubbing her clit in rough circles with the pad of his thumb. She fidgets, trying to pull away from the overstimulation, desperate whimpers falling sweetly on the air, her body trembling around him. She begins to buck, fighting to pull away, and he can sense Cas stiffen behind him.

This is where you make your mistake. She’s so close Cas, you can feel her tightening and trying to fight it, but if you really want to make her happy you’ve got to push her into it. Rub her gspot harder, make sure you never let up on her clit, and tell her what you want. She loves that.

“Come on Honey,” Dean purrs, his voice deep and heavy with lust, his accent dripping from his words. “Let go for me.”

Present mirrors the past, and Dean is awash in deja vu.

Leia’s mouth opens, her whines cutting off to a silent scream. Dean can feel every one of her muscles clenching, her fingers gripping so hard around the bedsheets that the fabric is protesting. The pressure continues building, her shoulders coming off the bed of their own accord, turning her into a marionette of pleasure, a memory come to life. He can feel the release on the tips of his fingers, bringing a grin to his face.

“That’s my girl.”

Her silent scream breaks into a desperate cry as her release sprays down his arm. She gasps, falling apart from the inside out. Dean runs his hands up her body as she finally relaxes, the human version of a spring that’s been wound until it snaps. She collapses back down on the bed, her legs extending to either side as her muscles relax. Her chest heaves as she pulls in desperate gasps of air, aftershocks of pleasure still vibrating through trembling extremities.

Dean smiles softly at her, pressing a soft kiss to her thigh before standing. His cock aches, his erection pressing uncomfortably against his jeans that seem two sizes tighter than this morning. He backs away as Castiel sheds his trenchcoat and settles on the bed, pulling Leia to his chest and murmuring praise between kisses. Dean watches as he feels jealousy blanket his shoulders. It’s her soft begging that finally gets his feet moving again, though his eyes and ears stay fixed on the couple in the bed, his heart aching for it’s happy ending. Sorry buddy, you’re going to have to settle for another long shower.

“Dean.” Her voice reaches him as his hand settles on the door handle, a tangible echo, just as sweet as it was when she was his. “I need you too.” He stops and turns, his heart rate skyrocketing, his cock twitching excitedly. “Please.” She’s always begged more with her eyes than her words, and Dean sees that old flame brought back to life, an ember fanned to raging inferno.

Every fiber of his being is singing all the praises Heaven doesn’t deserve, but still he hesitates.

“It’s okay, Dean.” Blue eyes ground him, just as safe and steady in the bedroom as they are on the battlefield.

Dean turns from the door, his hands already working at the button of his jeans as he floats back toward the bed. Their clothes are gone before his jeans make it over his hips, and he decides that maybe grace has more advantages than those that are tactile. He pauses at the foot of the bed, the logistics overwhelming his lust addled brain. Shower sex isn’t the only thing that’s complicated. Hell is still just hell, though.

“What do you want, Princess?” Castiel murmurs low into Leia’s ear, and Dean is close enough to see the bumps rise on her skin.

“Deep.” Her tongue stumbles over the single word, her endorphin overloaded brain struggling to process anything more than action and touch.

“I need you to ask for it.” Castiel rolls, throwing one of her limp legs over his hip, dipping two fingers into her cunt and making her eyes fly skyward. “Or you’re not going to get what you want.”

Dean’s cock twitches against his abdomen, and he slowly strokes himself as he watches Castiel’s fingers move, listens to the wet that he caused, feels his body heat under the angel’s sharp gaze.

They seem to spend an eternity in that moment, washed in lust, excitement, and anticipation. Everything is tense, but Dean feels lighter than he has in years as he allows himself to stop thinking and simply wait to be given a command.

“I want Dean to fuck my ass,” Leia finally manages to gasp out as Cas continues to tease her. “While I ride your cock.”

Castiel pulls his hand out and settles her slowly onto him. Leia gasps, her hands gripping his shoulders as he guides her hips down, inch by agonizing inch, Dean’s mouth falling open and a grin crawling across Cas’ face as they both watch. Cas maneuvers them until they’re at the end of the bed, his legs hanging over the end and her knees propped on the edge. Dean runs his hand down her back, along the curve of her spine, her skin soft and smooth beneath his time roughened palm. He cups her ass, firm from decades of hunting, and his thumb rubs over a wayward freckle. He spreads it, his tongue darting out to wet his lip as he takes in the view before him, savoring it.

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice breaks through his trance, and when he finds that sharp gaze, Castiel is holding out a bottle of lube.

Dean nods as he accepts it, his tongue too heavy in his mouth to form words. He lubes his fingers, teasing her hole before pushing one in. He would gladly go to hell again to hear the moan that left her lips as she pushed back onto his hand. He slowly works her open with one hand as he strokes himself with the other, his bottom lip pinched between his teeth.

“Dean, please I need you,” Leia whines, her forehead settled on Castiel’s shoulder as the angel busies himself kissing and nipping her neck, teeth grazing one of her favorite spots.

“Okay, darling. I’ve got you.” He preps, takes a deep breath, and pushes forward.

It feels like coming home. Dean gasps and he’s surrounded by tight heat, his hands digging into her hips, his legs settling against the bed, sandwiched between hers and Cas’s. Dean, a corner of his mind once worried about the possible awkwardness of sharing his past love with her present one, the small rational part of his brain speeding through the consequences of fucking his best friend’s girl while he’s in the room, is suddenly certain that if he moves, he will cum instantly, something he hasn’t done since he was 17.

Dean tries to think of a witty comment, the sudden vulnerability of the situation overwhelming him, the need for a protective wall of humor urgent, even though he knows it will destroy this precious moment. His mouth opens, his tongue threatening to sabotage this perfection, but instead of words Dean moans incoherently as Castiel grabs his hips and forces him to move in sync with his own thrusts.

Dean decides that it’s okay to turn his brain off. He stops thinking, and instead he starts feeling. He reaches a hand around to rub at Leia’s clit, tightens his hold on her hip as she falls limp, her body unable to hold itself up between them. Tears are rolling slowly down her cheeks, drool slipping out of the corner of her mouth as her eyes unfocus and she succumbs to the intense pleasure.

“Such a good girl.” Cas’ voice is deeper than Dean imagined would be possible, rough and breathless as he throws his head back. “More, Dean. Harder.” Cas guides Dean’s movements, pulling his hips in. Dean plants his feet, adjusting the angle of his thrusts, giving himself leverage for more powerful thrusts, pulling a deep moan from Cas’ lips. “Yes, Dean, good.”

Dean’s balls tighten at the praise, his thighs begin to burn as his pace quickens, desperation driving him. He feels Leia cum again, hears her hiss at the end of a silent scream, but it seems far away. His only focus is chasing the high, getting relief from the pressure that’s settled on his groin, because right now everything is tightening, every muscle is tensing. Dean grasps both of her hips in his hands, his knuckles turning white as his pace begins to falter. He hears Castiel call out, feels the hands on his own hips tense and relax, and finally he’s breaking.

Time is meaningless. He falls onto the bed, years of tension seeped from his body. He feels like he’s floating, relaxed and happy, a constant pain numbed in a way that whiskey cannot help. Castiel cleans up Leia with a snap, and she wakes enough to cuddle against Dean, nuzzling her way beneath his arm just like she always has. Castiel lays behind her, bringing with him a sense of safety Dean craves.

------

Dean is staring at the gun in his hands, but he hasn’t moved to clean it. He glances at the clock, surprised to find that he’s been unfocused for fifteen minutes. He’s not been able to make it through a quarter of his list, but he can’t bring himself to count the day as wasted as he normally would. He’s been trapped in his mind today, bouncing between nostalgia and present, doing his best to not linger on the new, overwhelming amount of ‘what-if’s and ‘what does it mean’s buzzing around his mind.

He finds himself falling into another spiral, wondering if this was a one time romp, or if he’s not the only one with unrequited feelings. If Leia still has feelings, what does that mean for Cas? They make each other better, they need each other, and Dean does not have enough room in his mental guilt chest to add that.

A small knock at his door makes him jump, and he clears his throat and busies his hands before telling them to come in.

“Dean?” Leia’s voice is tentative, her eyes troubled. She settles herself on his bed, and Dean forces himself to stay where he is at his desk. His heart is racing nearly as fast as his mind, anxiety restricting his lungs and drying his mouth. “Can we talk?” There it was. The death sentence.

“Of course.” Dean zeroed in on the gun in his hands, focused on the familiar movements.

“I talked with Cas about what happened this morning. It...” She paused, biting her lip as she struggled with what to say next. A hundred scenarios began playing through Dean’s mind, each one worse than the previous.

It was a one-time thing. It was a mistake. It was something I regret. It was the final straw, I can’t do this anymore, we’re leaving.

“It stirred up some emotions that I buried a long time ago. I hope that I don’t offend you by saying this, or that this makes you uncomfortable.” She took a deep breath, and Dean began to oil the pieces of his gun, glad to have something to do with his hands so that she couldn’t see them tremble as he waited patiently for her to continue, every muscle tensed and prepared for life’s usual kick to his metaphorical (and sometimes physical) balls.

“I still love you, Dean. I’ve talked it out with Cas. If you’re interested, I’d like to … make sure this isn’t a one time thing. Cas is okay with this. He understands that each of you are important to me, and each of you fulfill different areas of my life. I want you both.”

Dean’s hands stop moving. He distantly hears the piece of gun clatter to the floor. Every thought screeches to a halt as he looks up, searching her face for any hint of a lie or a prank. Instead, he finds raw vulnerability, one he had chased away long ago. The walls he had watched her build between them over the years, even the bricks he had had purposefully caused her to lay, were now mere crumbles of brick and mortar.

A smile begins to slowly spread across Dean’s face.

Taglist:

@impala-dreamer @adoptdontshoppets @supernatural-idjit-95 @team-free-will-you-idjits-67 @missjenniferb @tumbler-tidbits @maddiepants @crashdevlin @thoughtslikeaminefield @there-must-be-a-lock @cracksinthewalls @stunudo @mskathywriteswords @rockhoochie @itmighthavebeenintentional @wanderingcas

#Supernatural Fan Fiction #supernatural #spn fic #spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #Smut #Supernatural smut

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kyouxa · 5 years ago

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Diabolik lovers Chaos Lineage: Reiji Sakamaki (Story 14)

In terms of the gameplay: The black choices lead up to a bad ending, the white choices lead up to a good ending. Please no reposting onto other sites, ask me before translating this into another language too! I’m an amateur translator, but I hope you do enjoy it anyway!♡

Place: Scarlet mansion — Entrance hall

Ayato: Heh, I kinda like the look of this mansion from inside.

Laito: Hey, where exactly is Bitch-chan‘s room? I might pay you a visit later on

Yui: T-That‘s a little...

Kanato: Such a thing doesn’t matter. I just want to go home already...

Subaru: Tch, if you keep complaining search for an exit yourself then

Yui: Seems as if the normal atmosphere had returned...

Reiji: Since the nostalgic started to come back to this mansion, my head started to hurt...

Shu: It‘s not like you should be complaining in the first place. You are the one who has regained the memories of everyone after all.

Reiji: It might be a consequence of my action.

Monologue

Everyone whose memories have returned, had the situation explained while they confused each other.

This is a fake world where we are supposed to continue fighting. This place is where our memories got changed because of magic.

And nobody of us will leave this place until Socrates is convinced with our true love—

Of course, not everyone was able to swallow the situation immediately.

In order to give them time for organizing their feelings, everyone came back to their own mansion with their original brothers.

Place: Scarlet mansion — Entrance hall

Yui: (Socrates-sama, he told us that he won‘t set us free until we prove the true love between Adam and Eve)

(Instead, he restored everyone's memories. I wonder if there was a reason for his sudden mind change)

(Kino-kun has been lost ever since then and Socrates-sama doesn’t answer anything even if we try to talk to him)

I'm glad everyone remembered, yet I can’t help it but wonder how we are supposed to get out of here...

Reiji: The king is Adam... this is why he was pointing at me further than that.

Me and you as Eve. It seems as if we have to prove it together. The true love bond between us.

Yui: But that is...

Reiji: If that is exactly what he wants — we are supposed to take everyone’s live except us.

Yui: ...Ngh!

(No, we can‘t just make such a ridiculous choice because of this man...)

Reiji: But other than that, there seems to be no other choice but to prove that he truly is convinced.

Yui: Yes...

Reiji: Anyways, there is another big problem we have. Our current food supply.

I am concerned how much you can keep with just the food you have now...

Yui: If you think that everyone needs to eat, which includes around 14 people...

Reiji: No, you should be the one eating all the food by yourself.

Yui: Eh!? W-Why is that?

Reiji: In consultation with Ruki and Carla. We as vampires would not die because of lack of food, but you as a human would.

This is just to avoid the worst scenario.

Yui: Really... for vampires, human food is also something special. But if you don't eat, you won't die ...

Reiji: That is right. But if we do not drink blood, we will be craving in certain pain.

Although it has been many days since we came to this miniature garden, our body were not affected.

However, when it becomes more than this—

Yui: You will be starving for blood?

Reiji: Yes, we all will suffer in pain. In some cases, there might even be the possibility of attacking you without hesitation in search of blood.

Yui: Such...

Reiji: If you only want to suppress the blood sucking impulse, it may be manageable as long as you are here.

However, there is a case where we might run into desperation because of our despair in this closed space.

Above all, even those who try to get out of here may appear.

Yui: Eh? Is there really no way to get out?

Reiji: There will be. All I have to do is protect Eve so she will not get annihilated.

Yui: ...Ngh, I can’t imagine anyone trying to do that...

Reiji: It is certainly not guaranteed. But if we are caught up for too long, everyone might fall into madness.

Yui: (Everyone might fall into madness... that may be true as he said)

(Everyone... there is no guarantee that I can give any of them a reason to continue not to do so)

Reiji: As long as this is okay, you will not be hurt in any situation.

You are the finest food for vampires after all. From now on, please do not leave my side at any time.

If you do not want to be the prey for many other fangs.

Yui: Nh... Yes...

(I can’t help but wonder how much time is still left until everyone‘s hungry for blood)

(If we haven't found a way to get out of this garden until then—)

Place: Scarlet mansion — Living room

Ruki: I continued searching around with the help of your map. However, no place has been found that could make us leave this space.

Reiji: As I thought, it really is not easy to get out of here ...

Yui: (They’re continuing to discuss with all three representatives of each houses every day, but the situation still isn’t good)

(I wonder if it would be better better if I left and went to my room, so I don't get in their way ...)

Carla: Thoughts that are spread in this space, are permeated around the church.

If we destroy the church, we will be able to erase this whole space at once.

Reiji: If so, is there a guarantee that we can return to our original place if we do so?

Carla: Hmph, try it for yourself and figure it out.

Ruki: We can’t try such a method which would risk everyone’s life this drastic.

First, that man would probably interfere again.

Reiji: Exactly... I do not know what to do if we did something more unintentional.

Yui: (Socrates's desired proof... he wants us to show him the true love between Adam and Eve ...)

(Can it only be shown in such a way as taking the lives of everyone else?)

Carla: I will not move at any of your current given orders.

If necessary, I will move freely by myself. Keep that in mind.

*Carla leaves*

Ruki: This guy just acts selfish... but further discussions are meaningless for now.

Let's all return back to our mansions for today.

Reiji: Yes... take care.

*Ruki leaves*

Reiji: Haa... I can not stop thinking of the future

*Reiji leaves*

Yui: (Oh, Reiji-san also starts to leave!)

Place: Scarlet mansion — Hallway

Yui: (Reiji-san, where did you go? He seemed tired, so I wanted to invite him to a cup of tea)

(...Oh, maybe!)

(Eh!? Reiji and Shu-san... ?)

Reiji: It is unusual for you to walk around and not sleep in the hallway.

Shu: That’s it. Don't you notice it until I talk to you and there’s a given proof to you?

Yui: (No way, are they fighting again? B-But what... should I do to interrupt them?)

Reiji: You have been busy and you have not spoken at all since the incident at the church took place.

Shu: There’s nothing specific to talk about with you in the first place.

Reiji: There never are words that stop people from talking.

If you have something to say, what would happen if you say it clearly?

Yui: (After all, it’s a terrible mood... right now I have to break in this...)

Shu: ...I remembered getting angry when my memories returned.

Yui: (Eh?)

Shu: After coming to this mansion, you were starting to put your chin higher than ever. You were working hard.

Reiji: I agree. Even though it was not easy to handle, I was leading everybody until now.

Is that not funny? It is a classic example of what you were not used to do after all.

If you are here to complain or dissatisfied, please do not hesitate. You may make me laugh like this.

Shu: Laughter you say.

... Well, wasn't it the middle of summer for you back then?

Reiji: Eh... ?

Yui: (Shu... san?)

Shu: I don't certainly know what you think. But well, it seems as if you fit perfect.

You really are better than me, as the eldest son.

Reiji: Please do not say such foolish things. Everyone has the right place for the right person.

I realized that I was in need for a different place, where I could show my real powers.

Shu: Heh. So what?

Reiji: I am not regretting that I have found the right place for myself. I rather am proud of finally finding it.

It certainly feels like I have finally found my own and true meaning in this place.

That is why I want to apologize for taking away the elder brother’s role from you.

Shu: Hmm...

As I thought, you really changed.

Reiji: Eh?

Shu: Well, it doesn't matter to me what you think. Do as you personally prefer it.

Now it seems that you can finally live like you want to. I think that’s okay.

Reiji: Shu...

Shu: Haa ... I'm sleepy. I’ll get to my room. See you.

*Shu leaves*

Reiji: Good grief, there is no reluctance to choose words for his behavior after all.

So what? How long have you been hiding yourself over there?

Yui: Oh, did you realize that?

Reiji: Naturally. I did not eavesdrop. First, did I not tell you to be waiting in that room?

Yui: I'm sorry…

Reiji: Right now, what are you going to cry for? Look, I will wipe them with a handkerchief.

Yui: I-I'm sorry. It just feels as if Reiji and Shu-san finally start to understand each other a little more.

Somehow, this made me go a little sentimental...

Reiji: What is that about? You really are a strange woman. Look, come closer.

*Reiji pulls Yui closer*

Yui: Ah...

Reiji: I want the one who I care the most about, to be in my arms a little faster. Just stay like this for a while.

Yui: Yes...

Reiji: Right now I can only say what that a huge disaster it is to be trapped in this miniature garden ...

But it certain seems that there was something special I got because of it.

Yui: (Something Reiji-san got... ?)

Choices

1) — Is that about Shu-san? (black)

2) — What did you get ...? (white) ♡ ♡ ♡

— Is that about Shu-san?

Reiji: Haa, just why are you dragging Shu into this kind of topic and atmosphere now...

Yui: No! I thought it was going to be...

Reiji: Good grief, it is absolutely not. You really must have hit your head somewhere.

Yui: I’m sorry...

Reiji: You really are good at thinking of other guys in any type of situation, aren’t you?

Now, once we have returned to my room you must live with the consequences your mouth just made.

You may not be the only one I have my eyes for after all, I may fall for someone else too...

Yui: Eh!? R-Reiji... san!?

Reiji: Fufu, I was joking.

Yui: But! Reiji-san!

Reiji: For now let‘s keep this at the joke level. After all, you truly are the only one I have my eyes for. The one who brought me this far.

Because of you, I have been finally able to find a place for myself in this world where I do not pity myself anymore.

This only happened thanks to your guidance.

Yui: That's really not true... ! I'm not doing anything special!

— What did you get? ♡

Yui: What exactly did you get... ?

Reiji: I was finally able to find my own place.

Although I may not have found it all alone by himself.

Yui: Is that true?

Reiji: Is that a person... you are not aware of?

It is definitely you who was the one who led me this far, Yui.

Yui: That’s wrong, I’m not doing anything. Everything is alone Reiji-san’s hard work.

Reiji: For you to say such a thing... but just for now let me show you how grateful I am.

Yui: Yes!

end Choices

Yui: (I'm not really doing anything after all. I was just staying by his side)

(If Reiji-san truly changed, I think it’s only because of Reiji-san’s own willpower)

(Anyway, no matter who you are or who you want to become, it all depends on your own power and will to start changing yourself)

Reiji: Oh, I almost forgot. This will be your punishment for breaking my given orders.

*Reiji kisses Yui*

Yui: Kya... !

(I-I was surprised. I thought he was going to suck my blood)

Reiji: You seem to be craving for my fangs instead. Even so, if I would suck your blood, the others would immediately smell it.

Once I would do so, you would be really falling into becoming food.

Yui: T-That's right...

(But it was a strange feeling because only a weak stimulus was given to my body...)

Reiji: If you want me to suck your blood, I will grant your wish once we return safely. Can you wait until then?

Yui: Yes...

Reiji: All right. I will promise that we will be able to leave this please before you are starting to become jealous.

Yui: H-Hey, it’s not like I’m jealous. But...

(To get out of this space. That‘s surely not an easy task to manage after all)

(But I believe in him. Reiji-san—)

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