#you know he was trying to convince himself and then she's just like I know you are I don't need convincing I'll convince YOU

[tsunodaradio]

cold coffee ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

“best thing about your hometown?” “apparently it’s the coffee. i don’t drink coffee so i don’t know. for me, it’s just that it’s home.”

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x café owner!reader. ꔮ word count: 4.8k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, fluff. mentions of food. set in melbourne, spans a couple of years (alleged slowburn), oscar pines!!! so much!!!, cameos from oscar's sisters. ꔮ commentary box: lots of love all around i.e. contract renewal + home race. had to do it to 'em. inspired by this video, where two of my friends immediately demanded to see a barista!reader. did a bit of a spin on it, but the concept is intact! ☕ 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ cold coffee, ed sheeran. something, somehow, someday, role model. i'd have to think about it, leith ross. time, angelo de augustine. keep the rain, searows. the view between villages, noah kahan.

It starts with Hattie.

Oscar’s younger sister had spent the morning badgering him, pleading in the way only a sibling with endless energy and zero regard for his sanity could. She’d tugged on his sleeve, whining about the new café down the street, her eyes wide with manufactured innocence.

“We’ve been home for two weeks, and you haven’t done anything fun,” she’d accused, arms crossed as she blocked his way to the fridge. “Come with me. Pleeease?”

Which is why, against his better judgment, Oscar is now standing in line at a café that smells overwhelmingly like roasted coffee beans and vanilla. He eyes the display of pastries, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, and tries to ignore the way his hair sticks to his forehead from the walk over.

“You should get something,” Hattie says, nudging his side.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

She rolls her eyes, as if this is a personal insult. “They have other stuff. You could try tea. Or a hot chocolate. Or—”

“Next!”

Oscar looks up, and that’s when he sees you.

You’re behind the counter, all smiles and easy confidence, a pencil tucked behind your ear. The apron you wear is a little big on you, the straps tied in a messy bow at the back. There’s a small streak of flour on your cheek and you lean onto the counter like you’re genuinely excited to take their order.

“What can I get for you guys?”

Hattie launches into her order with the determination of a girl on a mission, listing out her exact specifications for an iced mocha with extra whipped cream. You write everything down with a nod, your fingers deftly clicking buttons on the register.

“And for you?” you ask, turning to Oscar with the kind of warmth that makes his skin prickle.

“I, uh—” he clears his throat, resisting the urge to look away. “I don’t drink coffee.”

“That’s okay,” you say, like it actually is. “We’ve got some pretty good non-coffee options. Do you like chocolate? Or maybe something fruity?”

Your kindness is standard Melbourne hospitality, he tells himself. It’s not personal. 

But there’s a lightness to the way you speak to him, patient and unbothered, that makes something unfamiliar stir in his chest. “Fruit tea’s fine,” he says, trying not to sound as awkward as he feels.

You smile, really smile, like he’s made the best choice in the world. “One fruit tea, coming up.”

And just like that, it’s done.

Hattie drags him to a table by the window, her enthusiasm buzzing loud enough to fill the entire space. Oscar watches as you move behind the counter, steaming milk and melting chocolate, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let Hattie convince him to come back tomorrow.

You carry their drinks to the table with practiced ease, setting them down carefully to avoid any spills. Hattie beams as you place her elaborate drink in front of her. Oscar watches quietly as you slide his drink toward him— a peach iced tea, condensation already gathering on the glass.

“Enjoy,” you say with that same warm smile.

Oscar mutters a thanks, wrapping his hands around the cold glass. He takes a sip, the sweetness clinging to his tongue, and casts a glance at the door. 

He could leave. They’ve got their drinks, Hattie’s satisfied, and his obligation is technically fulfilled.

But he doesn’t move.

Instead, he sits back in his chair, sipping at his tea like he’s got all the time in the world. Hattie chatters about her netball games and how she’s trying to convince their parents to get a puppy, but Oscar only half-listens, eyes flicking up every now and then to watch you.

Maybe he should buy something else. 

A snack, maybe. 

For Hattie, obviously.

Or he could offer to take Hattie’s cup back to the counter when she’s done. (Except the café has self-service return trays, and he’d already clocked that the second they sat down.) 

He hates how obvious he’s being. And he hates even more how he doesn’t seem to care.

Eventually, you circle back to their table, wiping your hands on a dish towel.

“Hey,” you say, leaning slightly against the chair next to Hattie’s. “Everything alright? Drinks okay?”

Oscar nods wordlessly, swallowing his drink. It tastes a bit too sugary now.

“It’s so good,” Hattie gushes, kicking her legs under the table. “I’m gonna make mum bring me back next weekend!”

Your eyes brighten. “That’s great. We’ve only been open a few weeks, so we’re still figuring stuff out. The owner’s a nice guy, but he’s old school. Doesn’t know how to use the cash register half the time.”

Oscar finally speaks, his voice scratchy as if he’s forgotten how to use it. “You work here by yourself?”

“Most days,” you admit, shrugging. “He’s got grandkids, so sometimes he dips out early to see them. But I don’t mind. It’s just part-time, and I live nearby.”

Oscar processes this slowly, like if he takes long enough, the conversation won’t end.

“How old are you?” Hattie asks, her bluntness making Oscar cringe.

You don’t seem to mind, though. You laugh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Fifteen. I’m starting Year 10 next term.”

Oscar blinks. The fact that you’re the same age as him shouldn’t feel as significant as it does, but it lands like a surprise punch to the gut.

“I’m fourteen,” Hattie announces proudly.

"That’s a fun age," you tell her kindly; she looks at you like you’re the coolest person in the world, and Oscar is half-inclined to agree. 

Then you glance at Oscar, head tilting. “What about you? You go to school around here?”

He shifts in his seat, rubbing at the condensation ring his glass left on the table. “Boarding school,” he says curtly. “Just home for the summer.”

“Ah,” you say, like that explains something.

Hattie pipes up again, because of course she does. “He races cars,” she declares. “He’s, like, really good.”

Oscar feels his face heat. He glares at Hattie, who just grins, already licking melted whipped cream off her finger.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? That’s awesome,” you say, and you don’t sound condescending or anything. You sound genuinely awed, and Oscar fears he’s going to replay it in his head the entire night. 

“We should go,” he says abruptly, pushing back from the table.

“What?” Hattie pouts. “But I want a pastry!”

“We can get one,” Oscar promises through gritted teeth, standing and grabbing her empty cup so fast the ceramic clinks loudly against the saucer. He forces himself to slow down, his fingers a little shaky. “Next time.”

Hattie hops out of her seat, already skipping toward the door. Oscar follows, grateful for the escape, but you call out before he makes it too far.

“I hope you do come back,” you say, smiling again. This time, it feels like it’s just for him. The words, the smile, the look. 

Oscar nods stiffly, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie.

He doesn’t know if he will. But, as he lingers on the way out, he wonders how many summers he has left— and how many excuses he can make before you start to notice.

Inevitably, his appearances at the café become almost routine.

It starts small: once a week, maybe twice, a stop by for a drink he doesn’t actually want. But Hattie catches on fast, and soon she’s dragging Edie and Mae along too, the three of them whispering and snickering at a volume they absolutely think is subtle.

“I like the pastries,” he claims when Edie wiggles her eyebrows at him.

“Sure,” Mae chirps, swinging her feet as she dangles them off her chair. “Totally the pastries. Not the barista who always makes your drink herself even when there’s someone else on shift.”

Oscar gives her a withering look, but she remains undeterred, biting into her muffin with the smugness of someone who knows she’s right.

He denies it. Again and again. Because he doesn’t know what to do with the idea of having a crush, let alone on you. He’s already awkward enough on his own, and he refuses to fuel his sisters’ relentless teasing.

But then he comes in one day— alone, this time— and you’re not there.

Oscar knows he shouldn’t care. It’s not like you promised to be here. And yet, disappointment settles heavy in his chest.

The barista on shift is nice enough, but Oscar barely listens as he orders. He can’t even remember what he picked when he sits down, staring at the drink like it personally offended him.

The café feels quieter without you buzzing around, chatting with regulars and teasing old Mr. Callahan about his crossword puzzles. The emptiness gnaws at him, and he knows he looks so obvious, sulking into his untouched drink.

He tells himself he’ll leave after finishing it. He lingers for an hour.

Oscar doesn’t look back at the café as he leaves, but he feels its absence like a dull ache. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, chin tucked to his chest as he stalks down the street. 

He tells himself it’t stupid to feel this way. He doesn’t even know you. He definitely shouldn’t care if you’re there or not. 

And yet.

Fine. 

It’s over. He’ll get over it. 

He’ll spend the school term back at boarding school, surrounded by motorsport and homework and people who don’t know how to steam milk into a heart shape. 

It’ll be better this way.

At least that’s the plan.

He’s halfway home when he nearly collides with you on the footpath.

“Oh! Oscar, right?” you say, blinking up at him like he’s an unexpected surprise.

He freezes. “Um.”

“You left in a hurry. Not a fan of the other barista?” You tilt your head, a teasing smile tugging at your mouth.

Oscar feels like he might short-circuit. “I— I just noticed you weren’t there,” he blurts out, horrified as the words tumble out without permission.

Your smile grows. “Noticed, huh?”

“I mean—” He’s desperate to backtrack, but it’s useless. The damage is done. You’re grinning, and he can already imagine the relentless teasing he’d get if his sisters caught wind of this.

“You’re heading home?” you ask, mercifully letting him off the hook.

“Yeah,” he mutters, already planning to walk faster. Maybe he’ll get away with half-jogging the entire way. 

“Big plans for your last day of summer?”

He squints at you. “How’d you know it’s my last day?”

You tap your temple. “I’m observant.”

“Or you got it out of Hattie.”

“Maybe,” you say, shameless. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world: “Wanna grab a bite at Albert Park?”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

“There’s a food truck that sells the best fish and chips,” you explain. “It’s not too far. C’mon, it’s your last day home.”

“I—” He should say no. He was just lecturing himself on the walk back. 

But you’re looking at him like it’s not a big deal, like you’re not aware of the internal war waging in his head, and Oscar’s resolve crumples like paper.

“Okay,” he hears himself say, voice tight.

You beam. “Cool.”

Oscar follows you to Albert Park, his heart thudding with every step. He wonders if he’ll ever forgive himself for agreeing to this. Or if, maybe, it’ll turn out to be the best mistake he’s ever made.

The fish and chips are at least good. Better than good, actually, and Oscar begrudgingly tells you so between bites, like the admission costs him something. 

He tries to be subtle about how much he likes it, chewing carefully, but you notice anyway, your grin bright and uncontainable.

“Told you,” you say smugly, elbow propped on the table as you pick at your fries. “You doubted me, didn’t you?”

“I don’t usually trust people who enjoy serving coffee for a living,” he deadpans.

You laugh, and the sound rattles through him like a loose bolt. “Fair,” you concede. “But I’m right about most things, so you should get used to it.”

Oscar snorts but doesn’t argue. He’s happy enough to let you fill the gaps in conversation, listening as you ramble about everything from the café’s horrible playlist to how the Albert Park sunset is always a little better in the summer. 

He only nods and hums, content to let your words fill the space between bites.

But then you flip the script.

“So,” you start, resting your chin on your hand. “When do you start boarding school again?”

“Monday.”

You make a face. “Brutal.”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s not that bad.”

“Sure,” you say, dubious. “And racing? How’s that going?”

His fingers pause around a chip. “You remember I race?”

“I’m not some ditzy barista, you know.” You tilt your head, like you’re studying him. “I know you kart. Or, karted?”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I moved up to junior formulae this year.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s huge, right?”

“I guess.”

You nudge his foot under the table. “Don’t be modest. It’s cool.”

He looks away, that telltale heat prickling at his collar again. “It’s not, like, F1 or anything.”

“Yet,” you point out.

Oscar smiles, small and self-conscious. “That’s the goal, I guess.”

“You guess?” You feign offense, sitting up straighter. “You guess? Come on. Say it with your chest.”

He laughs, shaking his head. Then, a little louder, a little firmer, “I want to drive in F1.”

“See?” you say, satisfied. “Not so hard, was it?”

Oscar’s throat tightens around the next bite. It is hard— saying it out loud. It makes the dream sound ridiculous, even when he knows exactly how much he’s giving up to chase it.

It makes it sound real. 

But you don’t tease him. You only smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“That’s awesome,” you say. “Can I have your number?”

Oscar nearly chokes. “What?”

“Your number,” you repeat, leaning back with an easy grin. “Would be cool to have a future F1 driver on speed dial.”

He huffs out a laugh, assuming you’re joking. You must be joking. People don’t ask for his number.

Oscar doesn’t give it to you, brushing it off like it’s nothing, and you don’t press. The two of you linger at Albert Park until the sky blushes purple, talking until Oscar’s curfew has him bidding you goodbye. 

It’s only when he’s halfway home, kicking at loose gravel on the footpath, that it hits him like a freight train.

You might’ve actually been serious.

Oscar groans, dragging a hand down his face.

He never does figure out if you’d meant it. 

He reconciles with the fact that he’ll only see you in the summers and during off-seasons. It becomes a rhythm he slips into with practiced ease, like shifting gears without thinking.

His sisters’ teasing remains relentless, but he endures it because they’re right— he can’t seem to stay away from the café. 

It’s a quiet sort of comfort, walking in and hearing your voice floating through the space, catching snippets of your conversations with regulars before you inevitably drift his way.

He contemplates asking for your number or your socials more times than he can count, always catching himself at the last second. The thought lingers like an engine idling, never quite stalling out but never revving forward either. 

He tells himself it’s fine. The café is your domain, a fixed point in the chaos of his ever-moving life. 

It’s fine. It’s enough. It has to be. 

In the break before he transitions into Formula Two, you place his usual non-coffee drink on the counter with a different sort of grin.

“You’re looking at the new owner of this place,” you announce, voice light with amusement. “The old man decided to go on a lifelong cruise. Said he wants to see the world while he still can.”

Oscar blinks. “He gave you the café?”

“Left it in my name. He figured I’d been running it anyway, might as well make it official.” You tilt your head. “What about you? I saw the news — Formula Two, huh? That’s huge.”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s... a step closer.”

You lean against the counter, eyes warm. “Congrats, Piastri. Guess we both got what we wanted.”

He smiles and mumbles a quiet “Congrats to you too,” but as he takes his drink and watches you serve other customers, he’s not sure how true that statement is. 

Because he thinks about how your name is tied to this café now, how you belong to this little pocket of Melbourne while he chases circuits around the world. 

And he wonders— for the first time, with startling clarity— if what he wants might not be as far from this place as he thought.

Oscar doesn’t have time to dwell on it. 

That’s what he tells himself, anyway. He’s too busy. Too preoccupied with the whirlwind of signing with McLaren, of finally reaching the dream he’s been chasing since he first wrapped his fingers around a steering wheel. 

He celebrates with his family, his sisters loudly teasing him, his parents beaming with pride. It should be enough.

But then he finds himself at the café, hovering by the entrance, fingers curled around the door handle.

The bell jingles when he steps inside, sharp against the hum of the espresso machine. You glance up from wiping down the counter, eyebrows raising in surprise.

“We’re closed in ten,” you call out, drying your hands on a dish towel.

Oscar nods, shutting the door behind him. The sleeves of his hoodie are shoved up to his elbows, hair mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it. His heart is pounding, and he tells himself it’s just leftover adrenaline from the day’s excitement.

“I know. I just—” He falters, mouth opening and closing before he finally blurts out, “I got signed. With McLaren.”

You blink, then toss the dish towel onto the counter.

“Wait, what?”

He barely gets a nod in before you’re circling out from behind the counter, barreling into him with enough force to make him stumble back a step. Oscar stiffens at first, arms hovering awkwardly around you— then he exhales, tension seeping from his shoulders as he wraps his arms around you in return.

“Holy crap,” you say, squeezing him tight. “You did it. Oscar Piastri, you’re a Formula One driver.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, like he’s still trying to believe it himself. His voice is quieter when he adds, “I wanted to tell you in person.”

You pull back, beaming up at him. “I’m so proud of you. Seriously. I can’t wait to see you race.”

His heart thuds against his ribs, too loud, too fast. He drops his arms when you do, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

His face feels hot, but you don’t seem to notice, already launching into a ramble about how you’re going to make the café play the races on the TV in the corner.

Oscar watches you talk, nodding along, though he can’t really process your words. All he can think about is the way your smile had split your face, how easily you’d hugged him, how your arms had fit around him like you belonged there.

He leaves that night more certain than ever.

This crush isn’t going anywhere.

Oscar privately decides he’ll use the feelings to his advantage. A secret, unspoken fuel source. It becomes most obvious at his first-ever home race.

The roar of the crowd fades into static beneath the hum of his engine, but he knows they’re there. Knows the grandstands are packed with fans waving papaya flags, knows somewhere among them are his parents and sisters— and maybe you.

He pretends you are. Imagines you leaning forward in your seat, hands cupped around your mouth as you cheer. He thinks about how you’d probably tease him later if he botched his first home race, how you might promise him a pity pastry from the café if he placed last.

That thought alone keeps his foot steady on the throttle.

He crosses the finish line in eighth, his first points in Formula One. The team is ecstatic, patting his back and ruffling his hair until he can barely breathe through the congratulations. 

Later, at the house, the celebration is in full swing. His family is buzzing with excitement, and the living room is littered with leftover food and streamers. Still, Oscar keeps glancing at the door, brow furrowed. 

He tells himself the weight in his chest is only exhaustion, not the ridiculous, misplaced disappointment that you aren’t at the post-race party.

“What’s your problem?” Edie asks, plopping onto the couch next to him.

He shrugs, pretending to focus on the race replay flashing on the TV. “Nothing. Just tired.”

Edie snorts. “Yeah, sure. You’ve been looking at the door like a lost puppy. Thought you’d finally get your act together and invite your favorite barista?”

Oscar flushes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.” Edie smirks, then gestures toward the kitchen. “They sent stuff, by the way. Practically wiped out their stock.”

He blinks, heart thudding as he follows hsi sister into the kitchen. The counter is packed with pastries and drinks, each one carefully labeled. A small, folded note sits on top of the pile, your handwriting unmistakable.

For future world champion OP81. I’ll save a spot on the TV for your podium finish.

Oscar stares at the note for a beat too long, then flips it shut, like that’ll stop the embarrassing warmth spreading through him.

He’s suddenly, overwhelmingly glad you’re not there, because he might’ve done something incredibly stupid. Like kissed you.

Or worse— asked you to keep a spot open forever.

Oscar’s schedule is relentless, though. An endless cycle of races, travel, media obligations. He still makes it back home when he can, even if it’s just for a few days. The café becomes a pit stop as routine as visiting his parents.

He never stays long, though. He catches glimpses of you between customers, exchanges pleasantries, hears about you secondhand through his sisters’ chatter.

Edie mentions you started taking a business course. Hattie swears you went on a date (Oscar pretends he doesn't care). Mae tells him you got a new coffee machine.

But it’s never from you.

Until one evening, when he swings by the café, and you ask him to stay until closing.

His heart lodges itself in his throat.

The café empties out, and Oscar helps you stack chairs and wipe tables. His fingers jitter against the rag, adrenaline buzzing under his skin like he’s on the starting grid. He wonders how he’ll respond when you confess, how to let you down gently when he inevitably leaves for another race weekend. 

(He also can’t stop imagining what it would be like to kiss you.)

When you finally sit him down, your words knock the air out of his lungs.

“The café might close,” you say, tone steadier than your hands wringing your apron in your lap. “Rent’s gone up, and I just... I don’t know if I can keep up."

Oscar stares, words dissolving before they can form. He thinks about the old man who first owned the place, about you proudly taking over. He thinks about all the hours he’s spent lingering here, all the drinks you’ve made him, all the moments he’s stolen just to see you.

The idea of it all disappearing feels like a punch to the chest.

“I just thought you should know,” you continue, voice quieter now. “You've been coming here for years, and— I don’t know, I guess I wanted to thank you for that. For being a loyal customer.” 

Oscar frowns. “I’m not just— I mean, yeah, I like the café, but…”

You smile, but it’s small, tired. “I know. But still. It means a lot. And hey, we had a good run, right?”

He hates the way you talk like it's already over.

Without thinking, he reaches across the table and covers your hand with his own. You flinch, just barely, before curling your fingers around his.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, like it’s something you should apologize for.

“Don’t be,” he says back. 

He doesn’t know what else to offer. And so he holds your hand, and the two of you sit in relative silence.

Oscar tries not to think of this being the last time he’ll get to do this. He resists the urge to study the weight of your hand, because then that would be admitting to a certain kind of preemptive loss. 

You close up shop, the two of you lingering outside the café under the glow of the streetlights, hands still linked. The night air is cool, the streets quiet, and it feels like you’re waiting for something.

Oscar doesn’t know what.

He racks his brain for words, for solutions, for something that might make you stay, but all he comes up with is static. The same helplessness he feels when a car failure knocks him out of a race.

You give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Good night, Oscar.”

“Good night,” he says, his fingers tightening around yours for a fraction of a second before he’s letting you go. 

He watches you walk away, the distance stretching between you like a rubber band about to snap. And— as usual— he doesn’t realize what to do or say until much, much later.

But he knows you’ll forgive him for this one.

It takes some convincing, some pulling of strings. In the end, he doesn’t know if he even manages it. Not until he’s back in Melbourne for the prix, and Lando is bringing him closer to the spot he’s tried to avoid all morning. 

“New caterer this year,” Lando says, peering at his phone. “Some local place. Looks sick.”

Oscar feigns interest, even as dread pools in his stomach.

He lasts all of twenty minutes before Lando physically drags him to the hospitality area. Oscar immediately clocks the familiar pastries, the neat line of carefully curated drinks— but it’s the sight of you, grinning behind the counter, that sends his pulse into overdrive.

“Oh, this is dangerous,” Lando jokes. “I might never leave.”

Oscar, meanwhile, contemplates leaving immediately.

You spot him mid-pour, your smile faltering. And Oscar knows he’s screwed.

The confrontation comes after Lando flits away, croissant in hand, leaving Oscar cornered by the espresso machine.

“You.” You jab a finger at his chest. “You did this.”

Oscar glances around him. The Netflix boom microphone is gracefully not around. No one from his team is, either.

He allows himself this small joy of bickering with you. “Technically, McLaren did this,” he says dryly. 

“Bullshit.” Your eyes narrow, but there’s no real venom. “You got me this gig so I could afford to keep the café, didn’t you?”

A corner of his lip twitches upward. “You’ve got no proof.”

You stare at him for a beat, then you let out an exasperated sigh. That smile of yours— the one that has ruined Oscar for everyone else— threatens to break on your face. “I could kiss you, you know,” you say, and he privately wishes you’d run him over with a car instead. 

You’re kidding. You sound like you’re kidding. But Oscar isn’t fifteen and stupid anymore. The only thing that hasn’t changed from back then is the way he feels for you, and it’s what has him finally giving in.

“How about I give you my number first?” he says. 

It takes you a moment. A full thirty seconds to realize what he’s getting at.

When it does hit you, though, you laugh. “A couple years late, Piastri,” you jab. 

Oscar dares to meet your eyes. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face— the way his heart is clenching in his chest. 

His voice is quieter when he says, “Please tell me you still want it.”

Your smile softens. 

He braces himself for a gentle denial, a spiel about friendship. Instead, he holds his breath as you fish for your phone. 

“Put it in before I change my mind,” you say, sliding it across the counter. Your coolness is betrayed by just the hint of giddiness in your tone, because you’ve wanted this for as long as he has, haven’t you? You hadn’t been kidding back then, and you still want this. 

Still want him. 

Oscar fumbles to type his number, adrenaline roaring louder than any engine. When he hands the phone back, your fingers brush his, lingering just a second too long.

“Good luck out there,” you tell him.

Oscar doesn’t feel like he needs any luck. 

Not when he finally, finally got the win that mattered most. ⛐

[siri-ike]

Danny's pretty used to being followed by (creepy) people in matching outfits. Granted, usually those outfits are white, but hay, maybe the Guys expanded. The Black hair Blue eyes devision wouldn't be that out of the question.

No, no, no. Get that idea out of your head. Those are just the Wayne's. Remember, those reporters were talking about how they're a little odd. That's it. They're just odd.

Danny did a halfway decent job of convincing himself that until one of them asked his taste in blood? He knew it. They are vampires. As if ghosts, dragons, sirens, yetis, and time travel wasn't enough, now he has to deal with vampires. Why does Danny always have to be the target anyway? Unless they wanna recruit him to the Black hair Blue eye version of the Cullens. Is that what the Cullens were like? He couldn't really remember at the moment. They did have a red head who knew things, didn't they? Oh no. Is one of them a Confederate soldier? If so, it has to be the angry looking one or the one who aaked about blood. Why do they all look the same anyway? Everyone knows they're all adopted. It's not like Danny's parents went through the trubble of picking out babies that looked like them.

Meanwhile.

Tim, on 6% brainpower due to lack of sleep, has been trying to find out if Vlad has turned his kids yet. Right now, he can't really remember which hints he dropped, but he's sure they were subtle.

Damian has resting bitch face and is looking for the dog he could have sworn he saw.

Jason and Elle left for ice cream. She is 1000% dropping the vaguest most concerning lore.

"How many flavors can I get." She bounced excitedly down the street. Rather high for some her age and height. It almost looked like she was weightless. But surely she's just athletic.

"How many can you handle?"

She just grinned unnaturally wide.

Jason slapped two hundred dollar bills on the counter of the ice cream stand. "I want your biggest bowl filled with as many flavors as you can fit in it." He looked down at the flavors. "Leave out the alcohol flavors."

Elle looked like she could just about explode with anticipation.

Creppy Old Guy

I was listening to "Creppy old guy" from the Beetlejuice musical and then I remembered "Lolita" by Lana del Rey while I was here and reading DPxDC stuff so…

Danny and Vlad meeting the Batfam.

Bruce knows Vlad is a somewhat harmless weirdo and his kids pick up on it almost instantly, so all good as long as they stay away from him, right?

Well no, because Vlad starts getting even weirder by talking about how one of Bruce's kids looks like his dear Daniel (the emphasis on his raises red flags even in people who don't go out kicking criminals at night), charmingly talking about how nice he is when he's not being a tantruming brat and then he calls the kid and there he is, the much mentioned "dear Daniel" appears, wearing heavily covered clothes (because he doesn't want his ghost wrestler bruises to show, thank you), looking very uncomfortable when Vlad puts a hand on his shoulder and dwarfing himself (he doesn't want to be here, but he's going to do it for Ellie, because she wants to go to school and he just has to avoid ripping Vlad's hand off with his teeth) while seeming to want to say something but noticeably clamming up while watching the older man out of the corner of his eye ("it's Danny, damn it" is what doesn't come out of his lips).

Bonus: someone from the Batfam "overhears" Danny and Vlad talking about a girl named "Ellie" and how Danny only stays with him because of the girl, because one of the two has to be a good father… Danny is 15 years old.

Or if this happens with Plasmius and Phantom I want the Batfamily to freak out because here they are meeting this adorable little dead teenager that almost everyone loves (because Damian tolerates him just because of Cujo, he doesn't like Danny, shut the fuck up) and then there goes the aforementioned teenager spouting things like "Plasmius keeps pestering me to live with him and I already told him that if our daughter ran away from him, what makes him think I'd want to live (heh) with him? " and "Who is Ellie? Oh, it's my daughter (they repeated that joke so much that now it's an automatic answer), it was a surprise, especially because Plasmius did it without my consent but I still love her" and we can't forget "Dan was the product of a horrible moment in my life that I hope doesn't happen and I don't want to talk about, I'll just say that the most shocking thing about him is that although he had things of mine he looked a lot like Vlad".

Danny doesn't say it with bad intentions, but referring to Dan and Ellie as his children helps him to overcome a little bit the trauma of his creations, neither is his intention to make Vlad look so bad, that's totally the other halfa's fault, no one told him to act (and be) like a freak.

[slutoru1207]

Variant!Invincible x Variant!Reader funny imagine

haha i had fun writing this

The battlefield was pure chaos. The Invincible War had brought together versions of Mark from across the multiverse, and now? Now there were also multiple versions of you.

And it was absolute insanity.

One Mark—dressed in a sleek black and red suit—landed beside the original Mark, wiping blood off his face. "Okay, not gonna lie, I was not expecting this many versions of your girlfriend."

"Tell me about it," Mark groaned, dodging a stray blast. "They’ve been all over me for weeks!"

"Sounds like a dream."

"It’s not!"

Meanwhile, across the battlefield, your variants had found their Marks.

"Hey there, handsome," one of you cooed, sidling up to a Mark with a scar over his eye and a much darker aura. "You look dangerous. I like that."

Scarred Mark raised a brow. "And you don’t look scared of me."

You smirked. "Why would I be? I’ve got a thing for bad boys."

Somewhere else, a more unhinged Mark—eyes burning with bloodlust—was being held back by two versions of you, both giggling. "Aww, you’re cute when you’re trying to kill people."

"Let. Me. Go," he snarled.

One of you poked his cheek. "Nah, you’re kinda fun to mess with."

Back with the original Mark, he turned just in time to see three versions of you hanging off different versions of himself. One had her arms draped around a Mark with a robotic arm, whispering in his ear. Another was poking at a Mark with white streaks in his hair, teasing him about how cool he looked.

And the worst? One of you had cozied up to a Mark in a full Viltrumite uniform—the kind that screamed evil overlord.

"So," she purred, tracing a finger down his chest. "Conquering planets, huh? That’s hot."

The Viltrumite Mark smirked. "You’re intriguing."

Original Mark nearly had a stroke. "ARE YOU FLIRTING WITH A VILTRUMITE?!"

Your variant shrugged. "I mean, yeah. Have you seen him?"

Mark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I can’t deal with this. I can’t."

Meanwhile, the Guardians of the Globe watched the multiversal madness unfold, completely dumbfounded.

"Dude," Rex whispered, eyes wide. "I don’t know whether to be jealous or terrified."

Dupli-Kate sighed. "Both. Be both."

As the battle raged on, it became very clear that the variants—both of Mark and you—were a force to be reckoned with. Some worked together perfectly, back-to-back in combat, protecting each other without hesitation. Others? Well…

"Babe, heads up!" One of you flung a chunk of debris toward a Mark locked in combat.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t her Mark.

"THAT'S NOT MY MARK!" the original you shrieked as the wrong Mark got flattened.

"Oops."

Mark groaned. "I hate this war."

Suddenly, a new portal ripped open in the sky, and out came even more Marks and Readers, their outfits and battle stances making it very clear they had been fighting in their own universes. One Reader stepped forward, looking around with a smirk. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

One Mark, wearing an old, tattered cape, scoffed. "Oh great. More of you."

Another Mark, who looked far too comfortable covered in way too much blood, tilted his head at one of your variants. "I know you."

She grinned. "Yeah, you killed my Mark. Wanna make it up to me?"

Even Original Mark had to do a double take. "WHAT?!"

The battlefield somehow became even worse. One of your variants challenged a Viltrumite Mark to a sparring match, another was actively helping a villain Mark take down a Guardian, and one had somehow convinced a half-robotic Mark to carry her bridal style mid-battle.

"She actually pulled it off," one of your other selves whistled, watching in awe. "Respect."

At this point, even the universe itself seemed exhausted by the sheer amount of chaos. But through it all, one thing remained the same.

It was chaos. It was madness. And, somehow, it was the most entertaining thing that had ever happened in the multiverse.

Because, at the end of the day, no matter what universe they came from—

Marks were Marks.

And Readers? Readers would always drive them insane.

[pinklotushere]

Perfect Disaster

Dick loved Jazz. He really did. She was incredible—strong, smart, funny, and probably the only person on Earth who could keep up with him in a spar without wanting to throttle him. She got his jokes, finished his sentences, and punched him in the arm whenever he got too smug.

They were supposed to be perfect for each other.

So why was he in love with Dan?

Why had his wedding day been filled with flashes of ice-blue eyes and a voice that always sounded just a little too unimpressed?

Why did his stomach drop every time he thought about Dan looking at him with something almost like affection, only to turn away like it had never been there?

It was driving him insane.

And Jazz—God, poor Jazz. She was so good, so devoted, so present, and Dick? Dick was the worst husband alive.

He’d caught himself zoning out during dinner last week, staring at his fork like it was the most interesting thing in the world, because Jazz had mentioned something in passing, and his brain had gone straight to how Dan would never say something like that. Dan doesn’t talk that much. Dan doesn’t talk at all unless he had to.

Jazz deserved better. She deserved someone who wasn’t actively fantasizing about her brother at the worst possible moments.

And worst of all?

She had no idea.

He was a such horrible person

Jazz was losing her mind.

She was in love with her husband. She knew she was. Dick was amazing—bright and loud and brilliant, always moving, always there. He made her laugh, he made her feel seen, he made life fun.

So why was Jason the one she thought about late at night?

Why was it his voice that echoed in her head when she had a bad day? Why did she find herself catching her breath when he smiled, when he laughed, when he looked at her like she was something worth knowing?

It was awful. It was disgusting. It was—

It was fine. She’d bury it. She’d ignore it.

Dick loved her. She loved Dick. Everything was fine.

Except…

Except Dick had been distracted lately. Not in the normal “up all night on patrol” way. No, this was different.

He was off.

He’d started spacing out in the middle of conversations, looking guilty when she caught him. He’d smile too wide, laugh too loud, cover up whatever he was thinking with that performance of his, but Jazz knew him too well.

Something was wrong.

She wanted to ask, but she didn’t. Because if she asked, maybe he’d ask back. Maybe he’d say why are you acting weird too? Why do you freeze when Jason calls? Why do you look at him like—

No. No, she wasn’t going to think about that.

Everything was fine.

Things got worse.

Dick started overcompensating.

Big romantic gestures, flowers, expensive dinners, soft kisses on her forehead, murmured I love yous like he was trying to convince himself they were real.

Jazz responded in kind.

Lingering touches, doting smiles, playing the role of the perfect wife because God help her, she was going to make this work.

And in their desperate attempts to fix a problem neither of them had named, they didn’t notice what was happening right in front of them.

Didn’t notice the way Dick’s eyes always strayed when Dan was in the room, how his voice softened just slightly when they spoke.

Didn’t notice the way Jazz’s breath hitched when Jason laughed, how she leaned in just a little too much when he talked to her.

Didn’t notice that they were both drowning, clinging to each other in a sinking ship, hoping that if they just held on tight enough, they wouldn’t go under.

And it was only a matter of time before the whole thing collapsed.

It all came crashing down over brunch.

Dick had been jittery all morning, bouncing his leg under the table, stirring his coffee five times before taking a sip. Jazz had been the same, shoveling food into her mouth like it might stop her from blurting out something catastrophic.

They were a mess. A mutual, collective disaster.

And then—

"Jazz, I—"

"Dick, I—"

They both stopped, blinking at each other. Jazz swallowed, setting her fork down.

"You first," she said, voice tight.

Dick inhaled sharply. This was it. This was the moment he ruined everything.

"I'm—" He scrubbed a hand through his hair, bracing himself for impact. "I'm in love with someone else."

Silence.

A long, heavy, horrifying silence.

And then—

"Oh thank God," Jazz blurted out, nearly knocking her coffee over.

Dick blinked. "What?"

"I'm in love with someone else too," she said, her shoulders sagging like someone had finally lifted a hundred-pound weight off her back. "Oh my God, Dick, I thought I was the worst person alive, I was so scared to tell you—"

"You were scared?" Dick let out a laugh, giddy with relief. "Jazz, I have been dying inside for months. I was ready to take this to my grave!"

"Me too! I literally almost repressed myself into a coma!"

"Jesus Christ," Dick groaned, pressing his forehead to the table. "I thought I was going to break your heart."

"I thought I was going to break yours!"

They both sat there, laughing, light-headed, free.

A moment passed before Jazz smirked, leaning forward. "So. Who is it?"

Dick hesitated. And then, because there was no point in lying anymore—

"Dan."

Jazz's smirk vanished. Her eyes widened. "Wait—my Dan?"

"Uh." Dick winced. "Yeah?"

She blinked. Then blinked again. Then—

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"Oh my God, how could we not see it before?" she muttered, rubbing her temples.

Dick frowned. "Wait. See what? What does that mean?"

Jazz took a deep breath, and then—

"I'm in love with Jason."

It took a second for that to register.

Then—

"MY Jason?!"

Jazz shrugged, unapologetic. "Apparently."

Dick gawked at her. "No way."

"Yes Way."

"Oh my God."

"Right?!"

For a long, long moment, they just stared at each other.

And then—

They started laughing.

Deep, gut-wrenching, gasping-for-air laughing. The kind that hurt. The kind that felt like they were unraveling years of tension in one go.

"How did we not notice?" Jazz wheezed, wiping tears from her eyes.

"I have no idea!" Dick gasped. "I was so busy feeling guilty, I didn’t even think to ask why you kept getting all weird around Jason!"

"And I was so caught up in my own disaster," Jazz snorted, "I didn’t even see you staring at Dan like he personally invented the concept of breathing!"

They both dissolved into laughter again, until finally, finally, the weight of the past few months lifted completely.

Jazz leaned back in her chair, still chuckling. "So. What do we do now?"

Dick hummed, stretching his arms behind his head. "Well. We could get a divorce."

"Obviously."

"And then we could—y'know. Maybe—try something else?"

Jazz smirked. "Are you asking me if we should ask each other's brothers out?"

Dick grinned. "I mean. I feel like we kinda have to at this point."

Jazz snorted. "God, we are such disasters."

"Yeah," Dick agreed, still grinning.

They clinked their coffee mugs together like it was a toast and for the first time in a while didnt feel the overwhelming weight of lying to your patner.

Somewhat Inspired by EDA's beautiful art, Thank you, @demonic0angel , for being so ridiculously creative and talented that I can’t even sit back and enjoy your work in peace.

No, instead, you had to go and make me feel creative too, and now I have the unbearable urge to post things. I hope you’re proud of yourself.

[poppitron360]

Esperanza as a character fascinates me and I’m so intrigued by the idea of the world from her perspective. She’s very much thinking along the same lines as Sally Jackson (and I think it’s sad that Leo and Percy are so similar except for the fact that Sally survived). She’s completely alone- a single mother trying to make it in a male dominated industry, trying to keep food on the table, unable to talk to anyone about her fears and worries for her son because who would understand? Who can she tell? The Greek Myths are shitshows and horror stories as it is but to an already frightened mother I can’t imagine what she must have felt when Leo was young. She must have been terrified that she’s just raising her son to die. And you know what? She was right. He did die.

And the differences and similarities in Leo’s and Jason’s upbringings- the fact that Leo was raised with love and care and affection and Jason was raised with none of that and yet they were both massively screwed over by the universe. And it doesn’t even occur to Jason to not be the one to sacrifice himself not only because he cares for Leo too much but also he was programmed from an early age that that is what he’s supposed to do- that’s his place in the world.

And so they’re both convinced they have to fill these archetypal roles- Jason as the Hero and Leo as the comic relief and sidekick- but neither of them really want that. And even though they swap roles in the big finale with Gaia and it seems like they’ve subverted that they still end up filling those roles later on. Jason dies a hero and Leo is pushed to the side again. For a universe whose first series was all about breaking oppressive cycles Rick sure likes to put the later characters in oppressive cycles.

Basically every problem I have with the Riordanverse boils down to “Rick tried to fit nine main characters into five books and ended up biting off more than he can chew”:

- Gaia is one-note and not given any nuance

- Basically half of TOA is spent hastily wrapping up arcs and almost EVERYONE’S (the only exception, sadly, being Jason) endings get rushed with little thought

- The finale of HOO was incredibly underwhelming as nobody except for the Lost Trio really did anything in the final battle

- Nico and Reyna’s POVs felt like add-ons and there wasn’t enough time to explore them in detail

- FRANK AND HAZEL ONLY GET TWO BOOKS WITH POVS.

- And so much more. You name a problem with the Riordanverse, it’s probably because of that.

This is a conversation that I will bring up over and over again because I too have so much beef with TOA and it’s tainted most of my enjoyment of the other books.

Also, Leo’s death was handled so badly. I actually hate that his friends got to find out he was alive before he came back, so they ended up just being pissed off instead of grieving. We as readers never feel the effect his loss had on the characters which makes the big heroic sacrifice so unsatisfying. There’s no actual consequences to his death, so that big build up was for nothing. This is why I’m a big fan of Leo with prosthetics/hearing loss/whatever after the explosion because at least that gives us some sort of sense that he actually sacrificed something, not just an apparent sacrifice that got reversed a chapter later. He’s not even given any visible trauma for it (to be fair, Leo’s whole schtick is that he hides his pain, so we wouldn’t see it from Lester’s POV, but still), I’d like to have seen a moment between Leo and Apollo, perhaps where Apollo regrets the part he played in giving Leo the ingredients to the cure instead of trying to stop him from Kamikaze-ing himself into unalive status (I’ve always had this idea in my head of Apollo asking if Leo would still have gone through with his plan if he didn’t have the cure, and Leo saying yes- it would have been a perfect fit to the whole “Apollo learns about sacrifice arc” that takes place throughout the whole five books but starts ramping up at around the Dark Prophecy when Apollo admits for the first time he’d give his life up for his friends) This is probably a separate Rant Post I’ll threaten to make and never get around to it, but I have so many thoughts about this it’s unreal. I am unwell I think.

Hands down one of the funniest things about tlh Valgrace is how badly Leo wants them to be in some sort of imbalanced rivalry/prince and stablehand situation but Jason just. Being way too nice for it to work?

Leo: I am worse than you in every way imaginable. I hate your stupid good looks and the fact that you’re this perfect hero and I will never measure up to you.

Jason: Incorrect! Actually you’re incredible and better than me in so many ways and I wish I could do half the stuff you do! You’re so cool! I’m so lucky to know you and love that we’re best friends :D

Leo: …what the hell is happening

[studiogrimm810]

Native Tongue

pairings/characters: (established) dean x bilingual!you

summary: when rescuing a family from a wendigo, dean learns that you are fluent in spanish and the way you swoop in and save the day really does something to him...

warnings: fire, lost in underground caves/mines, pretty tame

word count: 2,215

A/N: this was a request!! hihi!! so, unfortunately i never heard back about my questions regarding this fic so i went with spanish! i've been learning spanish for a few months and thought i would give it a try (pls don't bully me, i'm not fluent and duolingo has too much confidence in me).. if i made any mistakes pls lmk!!

———————

The trek through the dense woods lead you and the Winchesters to a deep mine. From the entrance, you could barely see past the inky black space it consumed. This had to be where the Wendigo kept its victims. Dean, reluctantly, went into the shadows followed by you and Sam.

A family went camping a few nights ago and only the oldest daughter made it back. You hoped with everything you could that the family was here and alive. The cave was winding and expansive but you trusted Dean to lead you through the tunnels.

There was a distant screech and the three of you froze. That was it. It had to be. Dean signaled back to you two and continued to slither through the cave.

However, before you could get much further, the creature lurked up behind the group and zipped past, taking down Sam in the process.

“Sammy!” Dean shouts, bolting to his fallen brother but in the process, it snaps past Dean and takes him away. Now is your time to helplessly call after him.

Sam sits up, shaking off the daze that was knocked into him and you help him back to his feet.

“It got Dean,” you say desperately, worry already gnawing at your gut. Sam looks around, trying to figure out which way it would have gone, his own features dipping in concern.

“It’s okay, we’ll find him,” Sam assures with a simple nod, taking a chance and heading down one of the tunnels. You follow close by, staying on high alert for any signal of Dean or the missing family.

———

Dean’s head is pounding as he comes to, rolling onto his back and feeling pellets of splintered wood poke under his back. Once he’s able to, he pushes himself up with a strained groan and looks around.

It’s some offshoot of the cave, a simple pocket of space lined with bones and old crates from when this was a mine. In the far corner though, there is a woman sat up, looking right at Dean with wide eyes and a bloody face. Beside her is a young man and a man about her age, both unconscious. It was the missing family.

“Hey there,” Dean braces, not making a move to his feet yet in worry he’ll startle her more. “My name's Dean, I’ve got people looking for us, we’re gonna be okay,” he explains, glancing around the room for any hint of the Wendigo. A crack high above funnels in some daylight so Dean was able to make out just enough to get his bearings.

“¿Que pasa?” The woman’s voice wavers like she’s about to cry. Dean's heart sinks. “No entiendo. Por favor- no nos hagas daño,” she sniffles, her arms draped over her boys, pulling them closer.

“Shit,” Dean mumbles, trying to think of any word he might know in Spanish to settle her nerves. “It’s okay,” he can’t help himself saying even if she won’t understand. He hopes the calmness of his voice will be enough.

She closes her eyes and continues to speak quietly, Dean assumes in prayer. He pushes himself to his feet and looks around the room, trying to find anything to help them. He no longer has his gun or flashlight so he has to be careful and not get lost. He ducks his head out into the main cave to see more tunnels and less direction.

Maybe if he could convince the woman to follow him he could lead them out of here, but there was no way they could carry both unconscious men through the winding caves with no weapons or light.

His best bet would be to just wait.

He turns back to see the woman watching him again. Dean holds up his hands and takes a cautious step forward.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he tries to reflect his expression of his words, “can I check on them?” He asks, pointing to the two men. The woman doesn’t respond and Dean didn’t really expect her to. Dean fishes in his coat pocket, pulling out his fake badge and holding it to the woman. “I’m FBI,” he waits at a decent distance. He would bet the woman was about to agree to let him approach but a deafening screech echoes through the tunnels and Dean drops his badge, covering his ears desperately. So does the woman. Then a distant gunshot rings followed by a shout that he knows is yours.

He stumbles back out to the opening and risks it, you sound close enough for him to shout for your attention. It’s not like the Wendigo doesn’t know him and the family are here anyways. He shouts your name. You call back and so does Sam- a promise that you two are on your way.

Dean turns back to the bundle of family in the corner and smiles softly with a nod. “It’ll be okay,” he can’t stop himself from speaking with her even if she doesn’t understand. He just wants to comfort her and give her a sliver of hope even if it’s in the form of confusing dialogue.

Soon enough, quick footsteps approach his location and he ducks back out into the tunnel, catching a glimpse of you.

“Over here!” He says just loud enough to get your attention. He can see the relief in your face, a gentle smile as you run to him and hug him tightly.

“God, you scared the crap outta me!” You scold, shoving him lightly when you let go of the hug.

“Still gotta get outta here, sweetheart,” Dean reminds but feels a little better knowing you and Sam are right here with him again. “And small problem, she doesn’t speak English so it might take some convincing to get her to come with us. Don’t wanna scare her more than she already is,” Dean explains, looking back at the woman who seems a little more threatened at the new people in the room.

“Are they alive?” You ask in a hushed tone, looking down at the men by her sides. You see in one hand she has a rosary clutched tightly in her palm. Between that and the family’s name of ‘Sosa’- you take a guess.

“Couldn’t get close enough to check,” Dean responds and you just nod. You take a gentle few steps forward and Dean starts to stop you but then you speak.

“Hola, ¿Hablas Español?” You ask and Dean’s brows raise. The woman nods and proceeds to spit out sentences in a panicked rush. Dean can’t keep up with the syllables but when you nod he assumes that you can. “Okay, okay, estoy aquí para ayudar,” you nod and so does the woman. “Te sacaremos de aquí. ¿Confías en mí?”

Dean can’t help but watch in awe. He never knew you could speak Spanish but the way it rolls off of your tongue he has to admit- it’s hot. The way you swooped in, taking control of the situation and immediately desculating the woman’s fear was impressive and he found himself wondering what else he didn’t know about you.

You earned the woman’s trust and now crouched right beside her. She continued to talk your ear off in a panicked rush but your patience was unwavering as you gently checked on her husband and son.

“Su nombre es Sam y Dean. ¿Ellos pueden venir aquí? Ellos pueden ayudar.” The woman nods at your question, glancing back at the two men behind you.

“Come here, guys,” you call back. Sam and Dean are a little stunned at your show of a hidden talent but they shake it off, following your command. “¿Puedes caminar?” You ask the woman again and she nods. “You two carry them out, keep an eye on her and I’ll keep an eye out for the Wendigo, got it?”

Dean’s unsure of why he finds himself blindly following your orders. It’s not usually in him to shut up and listen to someone else for once. But something about your confidence and skill makes him not second guess the switch. He makes the subconscious conclusion that he’d submit to you any time you instructed such.

The brothers follow your orders and as Dean lifts her son, he starts to stir.

“Me amor!” The woman gasps, reaching over to cup his face.

“Mama?” He croaks weakly.

You understand the fear she must be experiencing and how relieving it is to see her son awake. Hell, you just lived that upon seeing Dean’s face again a few moments ago, but there’s no time to waste.

You gently beckon the woman to her feet, assuring her that Sam and Dean have her boys protected. You give her a flashlight and instruct her to keep it forward so Sam and Dean can focus on carrying the men.

The tunnels are still as winding and disorienting as you remember but now your internal compass is doing a better job at directing you out to safety.

With a suspiciously unbothered escape, you approach the light at the end of the tunnel. But of course a distant screech halts the group in their tracks.

“Go, get out of here, now!” You demand. Sam hesitates but knows the life in his hands is your priority. Dean requires a repeated command from you but curses before leading the son and mother out of the cave, leaving just you against the creature.

Dean knows he has to help the victims. The mother refused to leave without her son and if he insisted on staying to help then that would be two innocent lives risked.

Once he gets a safe distance away however, he sets the now conscious son at the base of a tree. The mother runs to comfort him and the husband is now starting to stir.

“Stay here,” Dean instructs Sam who wants to argue but knows it’ll just be wasted breath.

Dean bolts back to the entrance, following the flicker of a flare gun shot. He calls out your name and follows the sounds of struggle. He turns just in time to find the Wendigo about to pounce on you but you successfully aim the flare in the center of its chest, causing it to stumble back. He watches as you take the opportunity to douse the creature in liquor from your flask, causing the flame to spread quickly.

He reaches for your arm, dragging you out of the vicinity of the flames and leading you out of the tunnel. The smoke quickly rolls after you two, causing a coughing fit amongst you, but you both successfully make it back to Sam and the family in one piece.

———

Red and blue lights illuminate dusty dusty gravel beneath the reflective flash against the silky coat of the Impala. Dean leaned against the hood, keeping a gentle and observant eye on you as you checked on the surviving daughter who is now reunited with her family. Dean finds it endearing how you still use the daughter's native language even though she knows English. He admires your thoughtfulness like that.

As you walk back over to him with your hands stuffed in your pockets he puffs up just a bit, throwing on a sheet of simple indifference decorated with sparkling eyes that you can confidently say outshines the first responders lights.

“Thank god you showed up when you did, I was worried she wouldn’t trust me,” Dean lied, looking over at the mother who hugged her daughter tight. He was sure that he was close to earning the mothers trust but he wanted to backtrack to you knowing another language.

“Guess you gotta get used to me saving your ass,” you joke with a few stray coughs littered in your exhale.

“You sure you’re feelin’ okay?” Dean presses one last time. He had been on you to take a ride to the hospital to get checked up but you insisted you were okay.

“Yeah, just some smoke inhalation. EMT said I’ll be fine,” you nod simply with the slightest eye roll. Dean was damn well insistent. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you spoke Spanish?” Dean asked, brushing off some soot he’s noticed in his sleeve.

“Wasn’t aware I had to run it by you,” you retorted.

“You don’t,” Dean scoffs, “just think it’s hot. Could’ve been having some fun with that one,” he winks with a devilish smirk. Your eyes widen slightly at his comment- you’ve yet to get used to his confidence in your few weeks of dating- and you slap his arm gently as you turn to lean against the hood with him.

“Maybe just for that comment I’ll withhold speaking further in my native tongue,” you try to tease back with the same suggestive confidence but on your ears, it falls flat. On Dean’s it settles over him like an electric wave at the way you exaggerated your sarcasm with your mouth, only proving his point.

“God, you’re testing me,” he mumbles to himself as he darts a quick glance to your lips.

“Keep your pants on, pretty boy,” you hiss quietly as Sam starts to make his way over to you two.

You swear that his face melts into something new and vulnerable at the pet name. Maybe that’s something you’ll get to toy with later too.

———————

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest) >>check out my other works here

>tags: @blossomingorchids @areswasneverhere @bejeweledinterludes @funkenniffler

[lila-lou]

✨The smarter choice - 5/8✨

Summary: The pull was undeniable—every glance, every touch, a spark. Dean was everything you shouldn’t want, yet resistance was futile.

Pairing: Sam x Reader, Dean x Reader

Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, Language, Angst

Word Count: 8859

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💙

Dean froze, his coffee mug halfway to his lips as he stared at his brother. Sam wasn’t looking at him, instead focusing on the coffee like it might keep him grounded. But what struck Dean the most wasn’t the words—it was the lack of emotion in Sam’s voice. He didn’t sound devastated. He didn’t even sound surprised.

“Wasn’t working?”, Dean echoed, setting his mug down with a clink. “And you’re… okay with that?”.

Sam shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling in a way that felt more resigned than sad. “I… yeah… kinda”, he admitted after a moment. “I mean, I saw it coming. Things have been… off for a while now”.

Dean frowned, his chest tightening as he watched Sam’s calm demeanor. “Off? How?”.

Sam finally looked up, meeting Dean’s gaze. “I don’t know”, he said, shaking his head. “She was sweet, you know? Great to talk to, really kind. But I think maybe…”. He hesitated, biting his lip before continuing. “Maybe we just didn’t fit the way I thought we would. It always felt like something was missing”.

Dean’s jaw clenched, his hands gripping the counter behind him as he tried to process what Sam was saying. “And you didn’t say anything?”, he asked, his voice quieter now.

“What was I supposed to say?”, Sam replied, his tone practical, not defensive. “It’s not like I didn’t try. But I think she realized it too. She deserves someone who makes her feel… complete. And I don’t think I was that guy”.

Dean’s chest tightened, a mix of emotions swirling inside him—relief, guilt and frustration all at once. He wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

Instead, he just nodded, picking up his coffee and taking another sip to buy himself time. “Guess it’s for the best, then”, he muttered, his voice even.

Sam nodded too, his lips quirking into a small, almost rueful smile. “Yeah. I think it is”.

Dean didn’t say anything more, but as he stood there, the weight of what had happened hit him all at once. You’d left. You’d broken things off with Sam.

Dean sat there, the bitterness of his coffee doing little to distract him from the storm raging in his mind.

“Sam’s the smarter choice”.

Why? Why had you said that, pushed him away so cruelly, when you’d already decided to leave Sam? It didn’t make sense. None of it did. Dean’s hands tightened around the mug, his knuckles whitening as frustration bubbled up inside him. If you’d already planned on breaking up with Sam today, why the hell would you say something like that to him? Why tear him apart when you didn’t have to?

“Dean?”, Sam’s voice broke through his thoughts, pulling him back to the moment. His brother was watching him now, concern flickering across his face. “You good?”.

Dean blinked, realizing his grip on the mug was so tight it was starting to shake. He forced himself to relax, to put on the easy, casual mask he’d worn a thousand times before. “Yeah”, he said, his voice rough. “Just… surprised, I guess”.

Sam nodded slowly, clearly not entirely convinced, but he let it go. “I think it really is for the best”. he said again, more to himself than to Dean. “I mean, I care about her, but… I think we both knew it wasn’t going anywhere”.

Dean swallowed hard, his chest tightening at the words. He nodded, giving Sam a noncommittal grunt before grabbing his coffee and turning toward the hallway. “I’m gonna get cleaned up”, he muttered, not waiting for a response as he headed for his room.

Dean stepped into his room, setting the mug down on the dresser before shrugging out of his flannel. The motion pulled at the tender, bandaged wounds on his back and torso, a sharp reminder of the night before. He hissed softly, glancing at himself in the mirror on the opposite wall.

The reflection wasn’t pretty. His torso was a patchwork of bruises and bandages, the deep cuts still healing beneath the layers of gauze. He traced a hand over the edge of one bandage, his jaw tightening as his mind betrayed him, pulling him back to the memory of your hands on his skin.

Your touch had been gentle, careful, but there had been something else in the way your fingers moved—a quiet intimacy, a tenderness that lingered long after you’d finished patching him up. Dean could still feel the ghost of your touch, the warmth of your palms against his back, the way you’d whispered his name when you thought he was in too much pain.

He clenched his fist, resting it against the edge of the dresser as he looked away from the mirror. “Dammit”, he muttered under his breath, the frustration boiling over.

He couldn’t shake you, couldn’t forget the way you’d looked at him last night, even as you’d pushed him away. It wasn’t just about the words you’d said—it was the way your voice had trembled, the way your eyes had shimmered with unshed tears. You’d been trying to convince yourself just as much as you were trying to convince him.

Dean turned back to the mirror, running a hand through his hair as he took a steadying breath. He didn’t know what the hell to do with this, with any of it. But as much as he wanted to shove it all down, to bury it the way he always did, he couldn’t. Not this time. Not with you.

His fingers brushed the edge of the bandages again, and he closed his eyes, letting himself linger in the memory of your touch for just a moment longer. Then he straightened, shaking his head as if to clear it.

Dean reached for a clean shirt, carefully pulling it over his head and adjusting it to avoid pulling at the bandages.

A few days later, the bunker was quiet as the evening settled in. Dean sat in the war room, a beer in hand. He was trying to focus on anything other than the ache in his chest that hadn’t let up since you left.

The sound of his phone buzzing on the table snapped him out of his thoughts. He glanced at the screen: it was Sam.

“Hey”, Dean answered, his tone casual, though his brows furrowed slightly. “What’s up?”.

“I’m out with Jodie”, Sam said, his voice slightly muffled by the sound of background chatter. “But just a heads-up—Y/N said she’s stopping by the bunker tonight to grab her stuff”.

Dean froze, his grip tightening around the beer bottle. “She’s coming here?”, he asked, trying to keep his voice even.

“Yeah”, Sam confirmed, though there was a faint hesitation in his tone. “She didn’t want to bother me about it, so I told her to go ahead. Figured you’d be around, so it shouldn’t be a problem”.

Dean forced a grunt of acknowledgment, his chest tightening at the thought of seeing you again. “Yeah, no problem”, he said, though the words felt hollow.

“Thanks”, Sam said, clearly relieved. “She’ll probably just be in and out. I doubt she’ll hang around”.

Dean nodded to himself, his jaw clenching. “Yeah. Got it”.

“Alright, I’ll see you later”, Sam said, before hanging up.

Dean sat there for a moment, staring at the phone in his hand. He took a long swig of his beer. He wasn’t ready for this—not after everything that had happened—but there was no getting around it now.

A part of him hoped you’d just grab your things and leave without saying much, but another part of him—the part he was trying to bury—was desperate to see you, to find some kind of closure or clarity.

With a heavy sigh, Dean stood and made his way to the kitchen, grabbing another beer to steel himself. It wasn’t long before he heard the faint echo of the bunker’s heavy door creaking open, followed by the soft sound of footsteps descending the stairs.

You were here.

You stepped into the bunker quietly, the familiar hum of its lights and the faint smell of leather and gun oil wrapping around you like a memory you weren’t ready to revisit. Sam had said he’d be out with Jodie for the evening, so you assumed the place would be empty. That was the plan: grab your stuff, leave the key on the table, and go. No lingering, no messy goodbyes.

You moved quietly through the bunker, making your way toward Sam’s room. It wasn’t easy being back, but you told yourself this was the last time.

Your hands moved quickly as you gathered the last of your belongings from Sam’s room, folding clothes and tucking small items into a bag. The room felt cold, impersonal now, like it had already started erasing the traces of you. It made your chest tighten, but you pushed the feeling aside. This was for the best.

Once your bag was packed, you slung it over your shoulder and made your way toward the map room. The plan was to leave the key on the table and go without a second thought. But as you stepped into the room, your breath caught in your throat.

Dean was there.

He stood near the table, his broad shoulders slightly hunched, his posture more tense than usual. His bandaged torso was partially visible beneath his shirt, the edges of the gauze peeking out as a reminder of the injuries you’d patched up just a few nights ago. The sight made your stomach twist, a mix of guilt and something you couldn’t quite name.

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. The silence between you was deafening, charged with the weight of everything left unsaid. You could see the strain in his posture, the way he leaned ever so slightly against the table for support. He looked tired—worn down in a way that went beyond the physical pain.

Dean’s voice broke the silence, rough and low. “Didn’t think I’d see you again”, he said, his tone carrying a mix of bitterness and something softer, something almost vulnerable.

You froze, your grip tightening on the strap of your bag. “I didn’t think anyone was here”, you said softly, your voice barely audible.

Dean let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, well. Here I am”..

Dean’s gaze locked on you, his eyes narrowing slightly, a mix of frustration and curiosity flickering behind them. He shifted his weight, leaning more heavily on the table as he crossed his arms. The movement made him wince slightly, but he didn’t seem to care—or maybe he didn’t want you to notice.

“So”, he started, his voice low and sharp, the bitterness cutting through the heavy silence. “Why’d you break up with Sammy?”.

You blinked, caught off guard by the directness of his question. “I… Dean, I don’t think—”.

“No, no”, he interrupted, holding up a hand, his tone edging toward sarcasm. “Don’t pull that. You walk in here, grab your stuff, act like everything’s fine, but you break it off with Sam just hours after telling me he’s the ‘smarter choice’”. His lips curled into a faint, humorless smirk. “Care to explain how that works?”.

Your stomach twisted, guilt and frustration bubbling to the surface as you looked away, unable to hold his gaze. “It’s complicated”, you said quietly, your voice faltering.

“Complicated”, Dean repeated, his voice dripping with disbelief. “You told me he was the right call, shoved it in my face like I was some… mistake you didn’t want to make, and then you dumped him. That doesn’t sound complicated—it sounds like bullshit”.

You flinched at his words, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag as you tried to keep your composure. “It wasn’t like that”, you said, your voice trembling slightly. “I didn’t mean to hurt either of you”.

Dean let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Well, congrats, sweetheart. Mission failed”.

The sharpness of his tone stung, but what hurt more was the look in his eyes—raw and wounded, like he was holding himself together by a thread. “I broke up with Sam because it wasn’t fair to him”, you said, your voice firmer now as you met his gaze. “I realized I couldn’t be what he needed”.

“And what about me?”, Dean shot back, his voice rising slightly. “You couldn’t even look me in the eye when you told me he was the ‘smarter choice’. Was that for my benefit? To make sure I knew I wasn’t good enough?”.

“That’s not what I meant”, you said quickly, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions. “I was trying to protect—”.

“Protect who?”, Dean interrupted, his jaw tightening. “Me? Sam? Or yourself?”.

The question hung in the air, heavy and damning, and you felt your chest tighten as you struggled to find an answer. The truth was, you didn’t know anymore. You’d convinced yourself you were doing the right thing, but now, standing here in front of Dean, everything felt like it was unraveling.

Your voice trembled as you finally whispered the truth, the words you’d been holding back for too long. “I didn’t want to break you and Sam apart”.

Dean froze, his jaw clenching as your words sank in. He stared at you, his eyes searching your face, his emotions flashing like a storm—anger, frustration, surprise, and something softer, something he wasn’t ready to name.

“Break us apart?”, he repeated, his voice quieter now, the sharp edge fading just slightly. “That’s what you thought this was about?”.

You looked down, unable to hold his gaze. “What else could it be about, Dean?”, you said softly. “You and Sam… You’ve been through everything together. The last thing I wanted was to come between you. I thought it would be best if none of you wanted me anymore”.

Dean let out a shaky exhale. He didn’t say anything at first, and the silence was deafening.

Finally, he turned back, his expression unreadable. “You really think me and Sammy would let this—”, he gestured vaguely between you and himself, his voice faltering—“tear us apart?”.

You blinked, startled by the sudden vulnerability in his tone. “Wouldn’t it?”, you asked, your voice barely audible.

Dean shook his head, letting out a humorless laugh as he leaned back against the table, his arms crossed over his chest. “You don’t get it, do you?”, he said, his voice rough but steadier now. “Me and Sam—we’ve been through hell. Literally. You think something like this would be enough to break us?”.

You didn’t know how to respond. The way he said it—so certain, so resolute—made your chest ache.

Dean’s eyes softened, though the frustration in his voice remained. “I’m not saying it wouldn’t have been messy. Hell, it already is. But you’re wrong if you think Sam and I can’t handle this”.

He let out another laugh, quieter this time, as he dropped his gaze to the floor. “You know what’s funny? I didn’t even realize how close I was to crossing that line. Taking something I had no right to take. And you’re standing here acting like it’s all on you”.

Dean’s eyes locked on yours again, sharp and unrelenting, but your quiet words cut through the space between you.

“Cheating on your boyfriend with his big brother? It’s not my style”, you whispered, your voice trembling but firm. “Breaking up with my boyfriend to be with his brother either”.

Dean flinched at your words, his jaw tightening as if they physically hit him, but he didn’t interrupt. He just stood there, his hands gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles white as he listened.

“So just leaving seems like the best option, doesn’t it?”, you mumbled, your eyes dropping to the floor. You hugged your arms around yourself, trying to protect against the vulnerability that came with speaking the truth. “Clean break, no mess, no… fallout”.

Dean’s laugh was bitter, a sharp contrast to the rawness in your tone. “Yeah, that’s a hell of a plan”, he said, his voice rough and biting. “Except it’s a little late for no fallout, don’t you think?”.

You winced, the weight of his words settling heavily in your chest. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen”, you said softly, looking up at him again. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone”.

Dean shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “You didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did”, he said, his voice quieter now, though no less intense. “And now you’re running. Because what? You’re scared? You think this is the only way to fix it?”.

You stared at him, your breath hitching as his words hit closer to home than you wanted to admit. “What else am I supposed to do, Dean?”, you asked, your voice breaking slightly. “Tell me. What’s the right answer here?”.

Dean’s gaze softened, the frustration in his expression fading as he exhaled deeply. He took a step closer, his eyes searching yours, and for a moment, the intensity between you was almost unbearable.

“I don’t know”, he admitted, his voice low and raw. “But I know this? You leaving? Acting like this didn’t happen? That’s not the answer. It’s just you running from it”.

His words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning, and for the first time, you saw the depth of his own struggle. Dean wasn’t just angry or hurt—he was just as lost as you were, and maybe even more afraid of what came next.

But what could you do? The path forward still felt impossible, no matter how much you wanted to believe otherwise. You looked away, biting your lip as you tried to hold back the tears threatening to spill over.

Dean’s voice dropped lower, rough with frustration and something that felt dangerously close to desperation. “Look at me”, he demanded, his tone steady but insistent. “Tell me you don’t want this”.

You couldn’t. Your throat tightened as your chest ached with guilt and shame. You shook your head, refusing to meet his gaze. Your eyes were glassy, tears threatening to spill as you clutched your arms around yourself, like holding on to something solid might keep you from breaking apart completely.

“Y/N”, Dean said again, his voice harder this time, the edge in it cutting through the air like a blade. “Look at me”.

But you couldn’t. You shook your head again, a tear slipping down your cheek as you quickly brushed it away with trembling fingers. “Don’t”, you whispered, your voice breaking. “Please don’t”.

Dean’s jaw clenched, his frustration palpable, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he closed the distance between you, his presence overwhelming. He stood just inches away, his eyes boring into you as he tried to force you to meet his gaze.

“I need to hear you say it”, he said, his tone quieter now, but no less intense. “Say you don’t want this. Don´t want me. Say it so I can walk away”.

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering in your chest as the tears continued to fall. “I can’t”, you admitted, your voice trembling, barely above a whisper. “I can’t say it”.

Dean’s breath hitched, his shoulders sagging slightly as your words hung in the air. He reached out as if to touch you, but stopped himself, his hand falling back to his side. “Then why?”, he asked, his voice raw, breaking. “Why are you doing this to yourself? To me?”.

Your hands covered your face as a sob escaped you, your emotions spilling over. “Because it’s wrong”, you cried, your voice muffled and shaky. “Because I shouldn’t feel this way. I shouldn’t have let it happen”.

Dean took a step closer, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “You think I wanted this?”, he asked, his tone heavy with his own guilt. “You think I woke up one day and decided to fall for my brother’s girl?”.

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, raw and unfiltered, and they only made the ache in your chest worse. You let out a shaky breath, your hands falling from your face as you forced yourself to meet his gaze. The pain in his eyes was almost unbearable, a reflection of everything you were feeling but couldn’t bring yourself to say.

“Dean”, you whispered, your voice trembling, “I don’t know what to do”.

Dean shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips as he let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, join the club”, he said, his voice rough but quiet. “You think I’ve got this figured out? I’ve been trying like hell to stay away from you, to do the right thing. But every time I see you, every time you walk in the room… it’s like I can’t breathe”.

Your heart broke at his confession, the vulnerability in his voice cutting through all the defenses you’d built up. “I never wanted to hurt you”, you said, the tears streaming down your face freely now. “Or Sam. I just… I didn’t mean for this to happen”.

Dean stepped closer, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare. “Neither did I”, he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it did. And now we’re here”.

The silence stretched between you, heavy and charged, every second feeling like an eternity. Dean’s jaw tightened, his emotions warring visibly on his face, before he finally reached out. His rough, calloused fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face up toward his with a gentle but firm insistence.

“Look at me”, he demanded again, his voice low and rough, the edge of frustration tempered by something softer—something desperate.

You hesitated, the tears still clinging to your lashes, but you couldn’t resist. Slowly, you let your eyes meet his, and the intensity in his green gaze nearly stole the breath from your lungs. He was so close now, the heat of him radiating into the space between you. If he wasn’t so much taller, his breath would’ve mingled with yours, but the height difference only made him feel more overwhelming, more commanding.

“Do you feel this?”, he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, raw and unsteady. His thumb brushed against your jawline, sending a shiver down your spine. “Tell me I’m crazy. Tell me I’m the only one losing my mind here”.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You wanted to deny it, to push him away for his own sake—for your own—but the truth was right there, plain and undeniable, written in the way your body leaned ever so slightly toward his, drawn to him like a magnet.

“Dean…”, you whispered, your voice trembling as you tried to find something, anything, to say.

“No”, he cut you off, his tone rough but laced with something pleading. His hand stayed firm on your chin, holding your gaze captive. “No excuses. No running. Just… tell me. Do you feel it?”.

Your chest heaved with the weight of your emotions, your tears spilling over as you nodded, the motion small but enough to shatter whatever resolve was left in him. “Yes”, you whispered, the word barely audible.

Dean exhaled sharply, his eyes closing briefly as if the confession had hit him like a physical blow. When he opened them again, they were darker, more intense. His other hand came up to cup the side of your face, his thumb brushing away a stray tear.

Dean’s eyes darkened, his gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest moment before he moved. His hands, strong and calloused, gripped your waist suddenly, completely enveloping you as if you weighed nothing. With an effortless motion, he lifted you off your feet and placed you on the edge of the table, the thud of your bag hitting the ground echoing faintly in the background.

You barely had a second to react before his lips crashed onto yours.

The kiss was anything but gentle—it was desperate, heated, full of all the tension and longing that had been building for so long. Dean’s hands stayed firmly on your waist, his fingers digging in slightly, grounding both of you in the moment. His lips moved against yours with a fervor that left you breathless, stealing every coherent thought from your mind.

Your hands found their way to his shoulders, clutching the fabric of his shirt as you pulled him closer, feeling the solid warmth of his body against yours. Dean groaned softly, the sound vibrating through you as his hands slid up your sides, his thumbs brushing against your ribs in a way that made your pulse race even faster.

Your body moved instinctively, your legs wrapping around Dean’s waist as if to pull him even closer. The movement brought you flush against him, and the unmistakable hardness pressing against your core sent a shockwave through you.

Dean froze for a moment, his breath hitching against your lips as his grip on your waist tightened. Then a deep, guttural groan rumbled from his chest, the sound reverberating into your mouth as he kissed you harder, his restraint crumbling under the weight of his desire.

Dean’s hands trembled slightly as they moved up your sides, and with one swift motion, he tugged your shirt upward. His lips left yours just long enough to pull it over your head, tossing it to the floor without a second thought. When his eyes returned to you, they darkened, his gaze lingering on your bare chest.

“Damn it”, he muttered, his voice low and gravelly, filled with awe and hunger as he drank in the sight of you. “You really don’t believe in wearing a damn bra, do you?”.

Your cheeks flushed, heat creeping up your neck at his words, but before you could respond, Dean’s hands were on you again. With one swift motion, he lifted you from the table, pulling you against him as if you weighed nothing. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist again, and you grabbed onto his shoulders for support, your fingers brushing over the bandages on his back.

Dean let out a quiet grunt, his jaw tightening as he tried not to wince. “Careful”, he muttered, though there was no real irritation in his voice—just a reminder of the wounds he carried.

“Sorry”, you murmured, your voice soft and breathless as your hands adjusted their grip, trying to avoid pressing into his injuries. But the way his chest was pressed against yours, the heat of his body seeping into you, made your heart race uncontrollably.

Dean’s lips brushed against your ear, his breath warm as he whispered, “Don’t apologize. Just hold on”.

Dean moved with purpose, his hands firm but careful as he guided you back, laying you gently onto his bed. The mattress dipped under your weight, and you felt the coolness of the sheets against your heated skin as your chest heaved, matching his labored breaths.

His hazel eyes locked onto yours for a moment, his expression dark and filled with unspoken promises. Then his gaze dropped lower, drinking in the sight of you, every inch of your body laid out for him. His hands slid down your sides, hooking into the waistband of your jeans. With a deliberate slowness that made your breath hitch, he began tugging them down, taking your panties with them in one smooth motion.

The room felt impossibly still as Dean straightened slightly, his eyes falling to the exposed skin between your thighs. He exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching as his hands tightened slightly on your hips.

The weight of his eyes, the heat radiating from his body, only made the ache between your thighs grow stronger. Every second of the last few months—every glance, every teasing smirk, every low, rumbling word from his lips—flashed through your mind, amplifying the raw, electric need coursing through you.

You had spent so long denying yourself this, so long pretending the tension between you didn’t exist, and now, with Dean’s hands on your skin and his body so close, it felt like the dam had finally broken. Your body trembled under his touch, every nerve alight with anticipation.

Dean let out a low groan, the sound deep and primal, as he slid his hands down to your thighs, his fingers tracing the soft skin there with an almost reverent care. “You’re soaked”, he muttered, his voice rough and thick with desire. “I haven’t even started, and you’re already—”. He cut himself off, shaking his head slightly as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

Your cheeks flushed, but the heat in his voice sent another wave of arousal through you, making you gasp softly. “Dean”, you whispered, your voice trembling as you reached out, your fingers brushing against his forearm. “Please”.

The single word seemed to snap something in him. His hands tightened on your thighs, spreading them slightly as he leaned down, his breath ghosting over your skin. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me”, he murmured, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “Every time I looked at you, every time I heard your voice… I wanted this. Wanted you”.

You shivered beneath him, your heart racing as his words sank in, the truth in them only fueling the fire in your core. “Then take me”, you whispered, your voice breaking with need. “Please, Dean”.

Dean didn’t hesitate for a second. His green eyes flicked up to meet yours, and as he held your gaze, a slow, predatory smirk spread across his lips. The intensity in his eyes was magnetic, and you couldn’t look away, even as your cheeks flushed and your breath hitched in anticipation.

He licked his lips, his hands sliding further up your thighs as he spread your legs wide for him. The cool air hit your heated skin, making you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating from him as he lowered himself between your legs. The rough scruff of his jaw brushed against your inner thigh, sending a ripple of sensation through you, and then his mouth was on you.

Dean’s tongue pressed flat against your slit, but he didn’t move. He held you there, his eyes locked on yours, his grip on your thighs firm and grounding. The look on his face—like he was savoring you, consuming every part of this moment—was the most intoxicating thing you’d ever seen. You gasped softly, your hips instinctively arching toward him, but his hands tightened, holding you in place.

“Stay still”, he murmured against you, the vibration of his voice sending a shockwave through your core. His lips curled into a smirk as he inhaled deeply, his nose brushing against your sensitive skin. “You smell so fucking good”.

Your hands gripped the sheets beneath you as his tongue finally began to move, slow and deliberate. He traced a line from your entrance to your clit, his movements precise and teasing, like he was testing how far he could push you before you fell apart. When his tongue finally circled your clit, your back arched involuntarily, a broken moan escaping your lips.

Dean groaned in response, the sound low and guttural, vibrating against you. His eyes never left yours, the connection between you so raw, so electric, it left you breathless. He worked you with a confidence that was almost maddening, his tongue and lips exploring every inch of you, coaxing sounds from you that you didn’t even know you were capable of making.

“You’re so damn sweet”, he muttered, his voice thick with desire as he kissed your swollen clit. “I could stay here all night”.

You were a shivering, moaning mess under Dean’s relentless attention, every flick of his tongue and press of his lips sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. Your fingers tangled in the sheets, your back arching as his mouth worked you over with an intensity that left you breathless. Each sound you made only seemed to spur him on more, his groans of approval vibrating against your sensitive skin.

Dean lapped at your juices like a man starved, his tongue dragging along your folds before circling your clit again and again. His grip on your thighs was firm, his fingers digging in almost painfully as he held you open for him. The contrast between the pressure of his hands and the soft, wet heat of his mouth only heightened your arousal, making you cry out louder.

He pulled back for the briefest moment, his lips glistening as he looked up at you, his green eyes dark with lust. But then his mouth was on you again, his tongue plunging into your entrance, and all coherent thought disappeared.

Your hips bucked against his face, and he groaned against you. His hands tightened their grip on your thighs, holding you firmly in place as he devoured you, his tongue and lips working together to bring you closer and closer to the edge.

“Fuck”, he growled against you, his breath hot as he pulled back just long enough to kiss your inner thigh, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. “You’re perfect. So fucking perfect”.

His words, his touch, his voice—all of it overwhelmed you, your body trembling uncontrollably as the coil in your stomach tightened. You were close, so close, and he knew it. Dean’s mouth returned to your clit, his tongue circling with a deliberate precision that had you crying out his name, your hands reaching down to grip his hair as your body begged for release.

He knew exactly what he was doing, reading your every gasp, moan, and twitch like a map leading him to exactly where you needed him to be. His lips sealed around your clit, and he sucked gently before flicking his tongue against it again, the sensation so intense that it sent shudders racing up your spine.

“Dean—”, you choked out, your voice trembling, your body straining as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core.

“That’s it”, he muttered against you, his breath hot and ragged as he spoke between licks. “Let go for me, sweetheart. I’ve got you”.

His words, low and commanding, tipped you over the edge. The coil in your stomach snapped, and pleasure exploded through you, a tidal wave of sensation so intense it left you shaking. Your back arched off the bed as a loud, broken moan tore from your throat, your entire body trembling uncontrollably as you came harder than you ever had before.

Dean didn’t let up, his tongue continuing to work you through your climax, slower now but still firm and deliberate, drawing out every last wave of pleasure. His hands held your thighs steady, even as they quivered under his grip, his strength grounding you in the overwhelming intensity of the moment.

Your vision blurred, stars dancing behind your eyelids as you gasped for breath, your body completely at his mercy. Dean finally slowed, his lips placing soft, lingering kisses along your inner thighs as your trembling began to subside.

When you opened your eyes, he was watching you, his gaze filled with a mix of satisfaction and hunger as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That”, he murmured, his voice low and rough, “was the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen”.

You couldn’t respond, still catching your breath as the aftershocks of your orgasm rippled through you. Your heart raced as he leaned up, his face hovering just above yours, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, lingering kiss that tasted and smelled so much like you.

Dean’s lips moved against yours with an urgency that matched the heat coursing through your veins. As his tongue traced the seam of your lips, his hands worked quickly, tugging at his shirt. He broke the kiss only long enough to yank it over his head, revealing the bruises and bandages that covered his torso—the work you had meticulously done just a few days ago.

Your eyes roamed over him, the rough edges of his body, the scars, the muscles. He was raw and unpolished, but it only made him more captivating. Dean caught the way you looked at him, a flicker of a smirk crossing his lips even as his breathing remained heavy.

“Gotta be a bit easy on me, sweetheart”, he murmured against your neck, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. His lips pressed gently along the curve of your throat, a soft contrast to the heat building between you. Even as he spoke, his hips pressed closer, guiding his hard, swollen length against your slick folds.

The sound of him groaning softly into your ear as his tip slipped through your wetness made your mind spiral into mush. He moved slowly, deliberately, dragging his cock up and down through your folds, the friction making you gasp. Your body trembled at the sensation, your hips instinctively tilting up to meet him.

Your breath hitched as he teased your entrance, the tip of his cock sliding just far enough to stretch you before slipping away again. He was toying with you, building the tension back up even though you were still coming down from the high of your climax.

“Dean”, you gasped, your voice breathy and desperate as you clutched at his shoulders. Your fingers grazed the bandages, but he didn’t flinch, too focused on the feel of you beneath him.

He chuckled softly, his voice low and gravelly as he tilted his head to capture your lips again. “Patience, sweetheart”, he murmured, though the strain in his voice betrayed just how close he was to losing control. “Just wan´t to feel you for a sec. Don’t want to rush this”.

But you couldn’t wait. Your body was already on fire, your thighs trembling as you shifted beneath him, trying to get more of him where you needed him most. Your breath was labored, and all you could do was nod, your brain too foggy to form coherent words.

Dean’s lips curved into a small smile against your neck as he finally lined himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance with just enough pressure to make you whimper.

Dean’s brow furrowed as he felt you shift beneath him, your hips tilting up just enough to make his tip sink barely an inch deeper into your slick, inviting heat. The sensation pulled a low, guttural groan from him, his jaw clenching as he gripped your hips tighter.

“Nah-uh”, he murmured, his voice a strained mix of authority and desire. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and intense, as he tried to regain control. “You keep that up, and this is gonna be over before it even starts”.

Your breath hitched, the rasp in his voice and the weight of his gaze making your heart race. Another soft whimper escaped you, and you felt his cock twitch against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing but not yet giving you what you so desperately needed.

“Dean, please”, you whispered, your voice trembling with need. Your hands slid up his shoulders, brushing against the bandages as your fingers curled into his hair. “I need—”.

“I know”, he cut you off, his voice low and gravelly, but his movements didn’t change. His hips rocked forward just slightly, his tip slipping through your wetness but stopping before he pushed inside. “Trust me, I know”.

The tension in his body was palpable, every muscle coiled tight as he tried to hold himself back. You could see it in the way his arms trembled slightly, in the sharp exhale through his nose as he fought against the overwhelming urge to take you fully.

“You feel so damn good”, he muttered, his lips brushing against your ear as he pressed a kiss to your neck, his stubble grazing your skin. “Better than I ever let myself imagine”.

You gasped softly, your body arching into his as the heat between you grew unbearable. Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him closer, and this time, his restraint faltered. He pushed forward, the thick head of his cock slipping past your entrance, stretching you just enough to make you cry out softly.

Dean stilled, his breath ragged. “That okay?”, he asked, his voice softer now, though his need was still evident in every strained word.

You nodded quickly, your hands clutching at his shoulders. “Yes”, you breathed, your voice trembling with anticipation. “Don’t stop”.

His jaw tightened, his gaze burning into yours as he leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss. Slowly, carefully, he pushed deeper, each inch sending a wave of pleasure through your body until he was fully seated inside you, his hips flush against yours.

The stretch was overwhelming, but the way he filled you was perfect, the heat of him grounding you as you both struggled to catch your breath. Dean’s forehead dropped to yours, his hand sliding up to cradle the side of your face as he held himself still, giving you a moment to adjust.

“Fuck Baby”, he muttered, his voice rough and filled with awe. “You’re gonna ruin me”.

Dean froze at your whispered words, his breath hitching as your confession sliced through the haze of pleasure. “You already ruined me”. The vulnerability in your voice, so quiet yet so raw, hit him like a punch to the chest.

He stared at you for a beat, his eyes dark with emotion. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing against your flushed skin as though trying to memorize the moment. Then, without a word, he lowered his head to your neck, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your jaw. He kissed you there, slow and deliberate.

The next second, Dean pulled out completely, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. But before you could even form a protest, he thrust back into you in one deep, powerful motion. The force of it sent your body sliding up the bed slightly, your head pressing against the headboard as a cry tore from your lips.

“Dean!”, you moaned, your hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as pleasure surged through you.

“That’s it”, Dean groaned against your neck, his voice deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through your skin. “Say my name like that again”.

He pulled back and slammed into you again, his movements deliberate and intense, each thrust sending you higher. Your legs tightened around his waist, your body arching to meet him as the bed creaked beneath the rhythm he set. Every movement, every press of his hips against yours, hit a spot so deep inside you that you couldn’t hold back the cries and whimpers spilling from your lips.

“You feel so good”, Dean muttered, his lips dragging along your neck before capturing your earlobe between his teeth. “So damn tight—like you were made for me”.

His words sent another wave of heat crashing over you, your nails raking down his back as your head tilted back, exposing more of your neck to him. Dean took full advantage, his lips and tongue trailing along your skin as his hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as he drove into you with relentless precision.

Dean didn’t care about the searing pain in his back or the sting of his wounds reopening. None of it mattered. The only thing he cared about was you—your body arching beneath him, your breathless cries filling the room, and the way his name spilled from your lips.

“Dean”, you gasped, your voice breaking as his thrusts became deeper, harder, each one hitting a spot that made your vision blur. Your nails scraped against his shoulders, your legs trembling as they tightened around his waist, desperate to pull him even closer.

“That’s it”, Dean growled, his voice rough and low, thick with desire. “Say it again. Let me hear you”.

He angled his hips, driving into you with a precision that made your entire body quake. The rhythm was relentless, each thrust sending a shockwave of pleasure through you so intense that you didn’t know whether you were sobbing or moaning. Your chest heaved, the air leaving your lungs in shallow gasps as your hands clung to him for dear life.

“Dean!”, you cried out again, your voice raw with need, and the sound spurred him on even more. His hands gripped your hips tighter, almost bruising, as he pulled you against him with every thrust, as if he wanted to make sure you felt every inch of him, every ounce of his strength.

“Shit”, he muttered, his breath hot against your ear as he dipped his head to press open-mouthed kisses along your neck. “You’re perfect. Fucking perfect”. His voice broke slightly, the strain in it revealing just how much he was holding back. “You’re mine, sweetheart. Mine”.

Your body arched beneath him at his words, the possessiveness in his tone sending a fresh wave of heat through you. You didn’t fight it, couldn’t even think of denying it. Every thrust, every touch, every look in his eyes told you this was where you belonged.

“Dean”, you sobbed, your voice trembling as the coil in your stomach tightened to an unbearable degree. “I—I can’t—”.

“Yes, you can”, he growled, his lips brushing against yours as his pace quickened, his movements more erratic now, driven by pure instinct.

Dean’s lips brushed against your ear, his breath hot and heavy as his voice dropped into a commanding growl. “Come for me”, he ordered, his tone low and rough, each word sending a shiver through your entire body. “Now”.

The intensity in his voice, the raw power of his demand, pushed you over the edge. The coil in your core snapped violently, sending a wave of pleasure crashing over you so overwhelming that your entire body trembled. A broken cry tore from your throat, your voice raw and hoarse as his name spilled from your lips again and again.

“Dean!”, you sobbed, your nails digging into his shoulders as your body arched against him. The world blurred, every nerve alight as the waves of your orgasm surged through you, leaving you completely at his mercy. Your thighs clenched around his waist, your hips bucking as he continued to thrust into you, each movement prolonging your climax until you felt like you might shatter.

Dean groaned deeply, his grip on your hips tightening as he watched you fall apart beneath him. “That’s my girl”, he muttered, his voice filled with awe and satisfaction.

His words only made the pleasure burn hotter, the aftershocks rippling through you as you struggled to catch your breath.

Dean’s movements slowed, his thrusts becoming deeper, more deliberate, as his breathing grew heavier and more ragged. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes locked on you as his grip on your hips tightened. His body trembled above you, the tension coiling in him evident in every line of his frame.

“You’re so fucking beautiful”, he groaned, his voice low and strained, filled with awe and raw need.

And then you felt it—Dean’s body stiffening as he let out a guttural moan, his hips pressing flush against yours. He spilled deep inside you, the warmth of him filling you completely, and the sensation made your breath hitch. His name fell from your lips in a whisper, the intimacy of the moment making your chest ache.

Dean’s hands slid up your sides, his touch softer now as he tried to steady himself. His lips brushed against your temple, the gentleness of the gesture a stark contrast to the passion that had just consumed you both. His forehead rested against yours again as his breathing slowed, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. The only sounds were your mingled breaths, the quiet hum of the bunker around you, and the steady thrum of your heartbeat in your ears. Dean stayed close, his arms wrapping around you as if he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Your hands slid up to his back, your fingers tracing the lines of his muscles as you held him close, your body still trembling slightly from the aftermath of everything you’d just shared. You didn’t say anything—words felt unnecessary in the face of the connection between you, raw and undeniable.

Dean finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours as if he was trying to commit every detail of your face to memory. His thumb brushed against your cheek, a small, tender smile tugging at his lips.

And in that moment, it was as if nothing else in the world mattered but the two of you.

But the peaceful silence was shattered by the sound of Sam’s voice echoing through the bunker, calling your name.

“Y/N?”, he shouted, his voice closer than either of you expected. “What’s going on? Why’s your stuff out here?”.

Your eyes widened in panic, the sound jolting you out of the intimacy of the moment. Dean was still buried inside you, his warmth and the evidence of what had just happened making your cheeks flush. You opened your mouth to say something, but Dean’s hand quickly covered it, his green eyes locked on yours as he motioned with his other hand for you to keep quiet.

“Shh”, he mouthed, his lips curving into the faintest, almost mischievous grin.

“Dean?”, Sam’s voice came again, closer now, accompanied by the sound of his footsteps. “You seen (Y/N)?”.

Dean groaned softly, his head tilting back as if the interruption had physically pained him. He pulled his hand away from your mouth, gave you a look that practically begged for your cooperation, and then called out, “I’m in the middle of something, Sammy! Can it wait?”.

You stared at him, your eyes wide with disbelief as he casually spoke while still inside you, his body pressed flush against yours. He caught your look and winked, his smirk growing as he shifted his hips ever so slightly, drawing a sharp gasp from you that you barely managed to stifle.

Sam hesitated, clearly trying to process the situation. “In the middle of what?”, he asked, his tone suspicious.

Dean groaned again, this time louder, as if he were exasperated. “Come on, man”, he called, his voice carrying a rough, teasing edge. “Let’s just say I’m having a little ‘me time’ and leave it at that”.

The silence that followed was deafening, but after a beat, Sam let out an awkward grunt. “Damn it, Dean. A little warning next time”, he muttered, his footsteps retreating. “I’ll figure it out myself”.

You slapped Dean’s shoulder lightly, your face burning as you tried not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. “Seriously?”, you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Dean grinned, leaning down to brush a kiss against your temple. “Worked, didn’t it?”, he murmured, his hands sliding back to your hips as he shifted slightly, reminding you exactly where he still was.

“Dean”, you said, your voice a mix of exasperation and breathless amusement.

His grin widened, and he kissed you again, his lips soft but filled with a mischievous hunger that promised he wasn’t done with you yet. “Now, where were we?”, he asked, his voice dropping to that gravelly tone that made your breath hitch all over again.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Part 6

-

Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @pughsexual @berryblues46 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @kr804573 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @barnes70stark @roseblue373 @shanimallina87 @ascarriel @deanwinchesters67impala @thebiggerbear @quietgirll75 @barnes70stark @kellyls04 @spxideyver @ralilda @americanvenom13 @ozwriterchick @stellamagicmoon @lunaleah @deansimpalababy @livingdeadblondequeen @sehyojae @magnificientgirl  @ladykitana90 @ladysparkles78

[rivereverie]

Astarion and learned cruelty (spoilers)

As always, this is all just my interpretation of the character. Feel free to disagree. 

I love the writing choice to make Astarion genuinely immoral at first. They could have easily pulled the overdone trope of "I only pretend to be evil because I'm traumatized. I'm really just a sad little guy who wouldn’t hurt anyone". Now I do believe his behavior is a direct result of his trauma, but I'll get to that in a minute. The point is that he does genuinely relish in violence, although his actions will be swayed by whichever moral direction the player decides to go. But he does enjoy combat, spilling blood, and even some more cruel and unusual things. However, what makes this so compelling and narratively rich is that this is a learned mindset.

I think that a lot of people don't acknowledge that going into act 1, Astarion has just come out of a situation where he was quite literally forced to participate in horrific crimes, with severe consequences if he refused. That absolutely does not excuse the fact that he's okay with if not outright enthusiastic about murder, but we do see that he was not always this way (e.g., he tried at least once to let a target go because he couldn't bring himself to take them to Cazador). I just think it's worth acknowledging that that mindset was the product of centuries of torment and active overt and covert conditioning. He became who Cazador wanted him to be; who he had to be in order to survive. Astarion and Karlach are two sides of a coin in this regard, in that they represent opposite responses to trauma and loss of autonomy. Karlach was forced into martial servitude, which in my opinion explains why she's still kind of bloodthirsty even though she's such a good and kind person bent on protecting others. She's shaped by the role she was forced into, and it's the same with Astarion. Again, not to say he isn't morally dubious, but there's a big difference between someone evil and someone who was never allowed to be "good" suddenly being thrust back into freedom and forced to figure things out.

To a degree, I do also think that his over-the-top declarations of his love for violence are another piece of his mask. Just like with his feigned hedonism and sexual forwardness, he's trying to hold power over people by controlling their perception of him (as well as his own self-perception). He's holding a big sign that says "I'm selfish and evil, and you shouldn't like me unless you are too", when really he's not anywhere near as selfish and evil as he pretends to be. He does this in part to keep people at arm's length, but also to convince himself; to craft his own reality wherein he is the person he needs to be to get through this situation. His worldview has been warped to see domination and control as synonymous with strength, and so he's being strong in the way he knows how. As the story progresses with a good player on his side, he's beginning to learn how to be something better. And that's why it takes time: because he's unlearning 200 years of conditioning and survival instincts.

It's worth talking about that it's not unheard of for abusers to force victims to participate in the abuse of others. I think that representing that experience in this game is important and valuable. We should all walk the line between holding these kinds of survivors accountable for what is appropriate, and to offer them oceans of understanding and empathy for them over what they were forced into. Even if Astarion weren't magically forced to do Cazador's bidding, I hope that we all could still understand the power that abusers hold over their victims, empathize with him, and see that those actions were an extension of Cazador, not himself.

Official D&D definitions of "evil" aside, I don't think he's ever truly evil unless he goes down the evil route with the player and/or ascends (Ascended Astarion is a whole other can of worms I’m not going to get into in this post). By the end of the spawn storyline, Astarion does have a lot more concern and care for others, and most importantly, he takes responsibility. To me, that shows profound strength and goodness. He's never a saint, but in my opinion he's never really evil, either. He's still learning how to live in a world where he doesn't need to be cruel in order to survive. 

Concerning the early access backstory about him being a "corrupt magistrate", it's up to the individual how to headcanon that information. Personally, I think he was probably a little self-interested, but not evil by any means. I think he was probably just a pretty normal person before Cazador, not predisposed to cruelty.

In summary, I think it’s important to talk about what makes people “bad”, especially in the context of the cycle of abuse and victimization. In Astarion’s case, much of his taste for cruelty came from implicit conditioning over his years of being forced to hurt others. There are a number of lines from him during the dungeon/crypt sequence where he keeps insisting, defensively and desperately, that he didn’t have a choice in bringing victims back to Cazador. That it was all on his orders and he couldn’t say no. This might come across to some as him trying to shirk blame, but the thing is… he’s right. He didn't have a choice, other than death, but I think Cazador would deny him even that. He wanted to make his spawn into obedient tools, but also to break them. To make them an extension of his own monstrous cruelty. But in the end, Astarion takes responsibility as best he can, and begins to forgive himself for being a part of Cazador’s evil. This is part of what makes the line “I am so much more than what you made me” so powerful.

[rosekeu]

thinking of when the league works with the shie hassaikai, and dabi is strolling through the cold sterile hallways he finds a cell, dangerously marked with warnings. a small window on the center of the metal door. he takes a peek and meets a messy and gross room.

with only a matress with old bloody stains.

an old fashioned tv. and a girl. (you)

wearing a tainted hospital gown, her knees up to her chest. eyes trained on the tv that displayed a shitty rom-com.

dabi kicked the door opened, and the girl's muscles tense, slowly looking over at his figure.

dabi doesnt say a word and just leaves. a few of the hassaikai workers were now passing by and their piercing screams could be heard. the girl, red energy surging through her bloody fingers killing the yakuza men in cold blood.

when dabi looks back, the girl is gone.

weeks past since the leagues affair with the yakuza and that itch to find that weird girl claws at dabi's mind. with a helping hand from giran and shigaraki (albeit reluntantly. he convinces him that she could be a valuable asset) he finds her. holed up in an abadonded home(a shed really). the floors littered with ancient newspapers and trash. rotting food and plastic bottles.

dabi's footsteps aren't exactly light and the girls body twitches before rapidly standing in a defensive position. eyes scanning his body, some familiarity flickering in her eyes.

"easy, i didn't come here to fight, princess."

she doesnt respond. her head tilting trying to catch any deception in his tone. but her stance tells him everything he needs to know.

why are you here? why did you come find me?

does he even have a real reason? he might tell himself it’s just curiosity. or maybe he found himself thinking about her more than he’d like to admit. he doesn't like loose ends, and this girl—this weapon—was left unchecked.

dabi exhales a slow breath, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he takes a lazy step forward.

the girl doesn’t move—doesn’t even blink—just watches him with those eerily sharp eyes. like she’s waiting for him to make the first move.

"relax," he mutters, cocking his head. "you look like a cornered animal."

she stays silent. he thinks that she's just scared maybe even doesnt like to talk- he had'nt heard a single damn word from her back at the compound either.

its the way she tilts her head and how her muddy fingers twitch unaturally like shes holding back.

“y’know,” he drawls, stepping over a pile of crumpled newspapers, “i saw what you did back there. to those hassaikai bastards.”

nothing.

“didn’t even hesitate, huh? just ripped through ‘em like paper.” he smirks, kicking at an empty bottle on the floor. “brutal. i like it.”

her expression remains the same but he sees a flicker of that same red pulsing energy lingering around the tips of her fingers.

he huffs. there it was.

“alright, princess, let’s cut the bullshit.” his tone turns sharp, all amusement fading. “you’re coming with me.”

her stance hardens.

and then, in his head—soft, but carrying weight—“no.”

dabi stops. his smirk twitches. telepathic. just great.

“figures,” he mutters. “not the type to follow orders, huh?”

silence. but her eyes darken like she’s daring him to try something.

dabi sighs, rolling his shoulders. “yeah, see, i was expecting that.”

before she can react, his arm moves in a practiced motion—swift, precise. a sharp hiss cuts through the air as the tranquilizer dart embeds itself into her neck.

her body jerks. her pupils dilate in shock. the red energy crackles violently at her fingertips before flickering out, like a fire suffocated too soon.

dabi watches her body sway, trying to fight it, her breaths becoming labored. the drug works fast though(what an advantage having a scientist on his team cough cough dr. garaki) her legs wobble and give out but before she can hit the filthy floor, dabi catches her by the waist.

“damn,” he mutters, shifting her weight effortlessly. “you’re lighter than you look.”

her fingers weakly grasp at his jacket. her mind claws out, sending a fractured thought his way—

“…why?”

dabi clicks his tongue.

“dunno. maybe i’m bored.”

her body stills. her grip goes slack.

dabi exhales, hoisting her up like dead weight. shigaraki better fucking appreciate this.

then, without another word, he steps out into the night, carrying her away from the only home she’s ever known.

[brklynbxby]

Cassian sat there, completely still, as if moving too soon would shatter the delicate moment between them. Her words echoed in his mind, each one hitting him like a slow, deliberate strike to the chest. "All I want… is you." It was everything he had been aching to hear. Everything he had convinced himself he would never deserve again. His throat tightened, emotion pressing against his ribs like a vice. He leaned forward, reaching for her hands, his fingers trembling slightly as they enclosed around hers. Her skin was warm beneath his touch, familiar in a way that made his heart clench. He let out a breath, unsteady, and when he spoke, his voice was thick with all the love, the guilt, the longing that had been clawing at him since the day he lost her.

"Selene." Her name was reverent, a prayer, a plea. "You have no idea how many nights I stayed awake, wishing I could go back. Wishing I could undo every mistake, every stupid, reckless thing I did that hurt you." His grip on her hands tightened, desperate, like he was afraid she’d slip away before he could say everything he needed to. "You’re right. We could have been married by now. We could have had everything. And I threw it away." His voice wavered, but he didn’t look away from her, couldn’t. "I broke us, Selene. And I have spent every single day since trying to live with that. But I don’t want to live without you anymore." A shaky breath left him, and his eyes searched hers, pleading for her to believe him. "I love you. And I don't take those words lightly. " He lifted her hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles like she was something fragile, something sacred.

"I don’t deserve you. I know that. But if you’re willing to give me this chance—just one last chance—I will spend the rest of my life proving to you that I will never, ever betray you again." His voice broke on the last words, and for the first time in years, Cassian felt completely, devastatingly exposed. He had no defenses left, no walls to protect himself. Just her. Just this moment. As she rounded the table and sat down on his lap, he wrapped his arms around her and smiled up at her before she leaned in to kiss him. A kiss that could've killed him on the stop.

"Tell me I haven’t lost you forever," he whispered. "Tell me there’s still a future for us."

Selene watched his expression shift, the tension easing from his face as she told him she was willing to give him another chance. She listened intently as he spoke, giving him the space to explain, to tell her everything he had been holding back. She needed this—needed him to open up, to finally say the things that had been left unsaid for far too long. If they were going to try again, if they were going to give this relationship a real shot, this conversation was essential. They both knew it.

But nothing could have prepared her for the weight of his next words. Her breath hitched in her throat, her heart stuttering as though it might stop altogether. She looked down at their entwined hands, then back into his eyes, searching for any sign of doubt, but finding none. His words echoed in her mind, a sweet, aching refrain she had longed to hear.

I’m so in love with you, Selene. And I will love you until my last breath, and if there’s something beyond that, I’ll love you then too.

He loved her. He had finally said it, and it was like everything she had ever wanted, everything she had been waiting for, finally fell into place. The floodgates opened, and tears spilled down her cheeks uncontrollably. She hadn’t expected this emotional release—hadn’t expected it to hit her so hard, but here it was. The one thing she had always needed to hear. “I love you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I love you so much. Please… don’t ever lie to me again, because I won’t be able to survive this time.”

She stood slowly, her legs unsteady as if her body had suddenly become weightless with the force of her feelings. She walked to him, her heart pounding in her chest, and gently cupped his cheek. As she lowered herself onto his lap, she whispered, her voice barely audible, “I want forever with you.” And then, with all the love she had kept buried deep inside for the past four months, she kissed him. The kiss was tender but filled with an intensity that spoke of all the longing and pain she had endured. It was everything she had held back—every part of her that had been waiting for this moment, for him.

[coraniaid]

It would have been very easy for the writers of The Gift to frame Giles's decision to kill Ben as something other than what it is.

Ben could have tried to attack Giles first, in order to escape, forcing Giles to defend himself (we know that Buffy herself has, by this point in the show, almost certainly taken several human lives in self-defence, whether that's one of the Order of Taraka assassins in What's My Line? or Gwendolyn Post in Revelations or some of the Knights of Byzantium earlier in the season). We, the audience, know that Ben has actually made the choice to side with Glory and betray Dawn -- the writers could have had Giles find this out somehow, rather than having him kill Ben while believing Ben to be entirely blameless for anything Glory did. If nothing else, they could have had Giles kill Ben in a less sordid and realistic way: choking him to death after establishing that he can barely move while Ben struggles feebly to stay alive.

But, notably, the writers didn't do this. At every stage they made the choice to frame Ben's death as unsympathetically as they could. They make it very clear that they don't think Ben's death is something to approve of at all. Just in The Gift itself:

Xander brings up the possibility of killing Ben to stop Glory ("I know he's an innocent, but not like Dawn innocent ... we could kill a regular guy") only to immediately rule it out with a look of disgust. Why say this if not to comment on what Giles will later do?

Willow explicitly notes that the ritual to use the Key is "a one time thing": if Glory doesn't manage to kill Dawn this time, she's got no reason to try again. Why say this if you want Giles's later decision to seem justified?

The scenes with Dawn and Glory suggest that the separation between Glory and Ben is weakening, meaning that Glory herself is becoming more human and more affected by human emotions like guilt and empathy. Why include these scenes if we're meant to see Glory as an active, long-term danger?

Tara prophetically accuses Giles of being "a killer", a word we've heard before on the show (see, for example, the way Faith reacted to being called a killer by Forrest in Who Are You?, or indeed Buffy's own fears that "the Slayer is just a killer" as expressed this episode). Why use this word, or include this moment at all, if we're meant to be cheering Giles on?

Giles himself gives Ben a speech in which he admits that Buffy would never kill Ben because it's not the heroic thing to do. Like ... this isn't exactly subtle.

We are not meant to approve of Giles murdering Ben; and we are meant to see it as murder. The writers go out of their way to tell us that it's morally wrong, that none of the other Scoobies would support it, and it doesn't even work to achieve Giles's stated goal of keeping Buffy safe: she dies anyway, mere minutes after the murder. By every measure, the show tells us, this is the wrong thing to do. Giles will never bring it up again, not even when he's trying to convince Buffy that she needs him to make hard decisions on her behalf.

So it's kind of infuriating that so much of the fandom insists on reading it as an act of heroism anyway.

It isn't. It isn't at all. If anybody other than one of the protagonists was making this decision -- if it was the Knights trying to kill Dawn to save the world, or the Initiative locking up Oz and treating him like an animal because a few nights a month he turned into a dangerous monster, or the parents of Sunnydale trying to burn teenage witches at the stake to keep their town safe -- there would be no ambiguity about this in the fandom at all. And yet, because it is one of the protagonists -- specifically, because it's the character the fandom has decided to read as Buffy's Dad who only does good things because he loves her -- somehow the normal rules don't apply.

It's not an act of heroism though. The show is right about that, and the fandom is wrong. It's one of the worst things Giles does; a complete betrayal of his promise to Buffy in Season 2 to always offer her his support and respect. It has far more in common with his willingness to drug her and lie to her face about doing so in Helpless or to abandon her in her moment of greatest need in Tabula Rasa than it does with any of Giles (many) moments of actual nobility and self-sacrifice. It's a sign that, fundamentally, Giles does not accept that Buffy has right to make decisions on her own.

Giles knows that, given the choice, Buffy would choose to spare Ben's life. He doesn't believe he could ever convince her to change her mind. And so he takes the choice away from her.

Why would anyone applaud that?

[sarnai4]

A Day at the Beach

Headcanons for how this would go. (Because this is the random thought I had today)

Athena: Studying the science of the beach. Apparently, the chemical combination of the sand particles is slightly different than at the last beach, so now, she must observe the impacts of this. She also wants to know the specifics of why the tide is high, predicting it perfectly without any prophetic visions needed. Later, she gives in and does a variety of beach-themed competitions/wars against Ares when she gets sick of him messing with her.

Ares: Dividing his time. 50% of his day is spent with Aphrodite. He's making her sand sculptures with "I love you!" written all over them, playing in the ocean with her, and snarling at anybody who looks not so respectfully at her new bikini. The other 50% is spent bugging Athena until he gets her to hang out with him. Now, he can see who's faster on the water skis and if he can spot more fish while snorkeling than she can. (At one point, he turned into a dog to tackle her.)

Aphrodite: Trying to see if she and Ares can sneak off to a nude beach without anyone noticing. Mostly, she's just having fun there with him. She's draped over him any chance she gets and is going to get a tan while he and Athena are playing. Despite that, she is also ready to kill anybody who gives him googly eyes. It happened last time and someone reported the death. Now, they are banned from that beach.

Demeter: She's collecting shells to bring Persephone. If any of them are extra special, she'll include them in some cornucopia arrangements later. She enjoys seeing the younger gods having fun and will normally participate in some of the activities. (Low-key, she's also checking out that cute guy playing beach volleyball. So help her if Zeus kills this one too...)

Hades: He's smothering himself in sunscreen. He literally bathed in it the previous night and he still feels like he's going to burst into flames. It's so bright here. Why couldn't they have gone on a cloudy day? He wanted to go to a cavern as a family vacation, but noooo. He's either going to stay under the water, hide under Hestia's umbrella, or let one of his nephews or nieces bury him in sand.

Hermes: Probably the one who'd dig Hades out of the sand. He's trying to see how much havoc he can cause. Anything from stealing umbrellas to drinks is an option. He also walked by Zeus and called out, "Don't get heat rash, Granddad!" then ran. He keeps doing stuff like this. He's also trying to peek into the ladies' changing rooms, a decision that caused Artemis to pummel him since he didn't realize until too late that she was approaching.

Zeus: He's trying to see if he can flirt without Hera catching on. Spoiler alert: he can't. He keeps flexing at obviously intentional moments around anyone he thinks is attractive. His family has banned him from being in the water when they are. Last time, he inadvertently electrocuted them all and killed the mortals. On a very related note, they're ALSO banned from that beach now.

Hera: She's not even enjoying herself. She's practically on babysitting duty with keeping Zeus in her sights. To make this easier, she decided to take over for the lifeguard and use one of those tall chairs to spy on everyone. Gradually, she stops the others from enjoying themselves too since she makes little jabs at them from up there.

Artemis: She's trying all the water sports. She's also daring anybody to look at her. Just try. (Please don't. It doesn't end well.) She almost got stopped from entering because weapons weren't allowed, but Apollo helped convince the mortals that her arrows were probably okay and the likelihood of her killing someone was a max of 49%.

Apollo: He's having the time of his life...whenever Artemis isn't around. He sort of regrets that whole arrow thing. He's getting new beach gfs and bfs left and right, but she scares them all away. He winds up hiding around Ares and Aphrodite, hoping their lovey-dovey stuff will sufficiently gross her out so that she doesn't look hard enough to see him.

Hestia: She's wearing such a conservative swimsuit that Aphrodite isn't sure if it's just a dress. She's not much of a swimmer, but she likes her umbrella time. She can use this time to read. It's nice to watch the kiddos too and yes, this includes her siblings because nobody's about to act like she's not really the oldest and get that disappointed grandma-esque frown >:(.

Hephaestus: He designed a wheelchair that's perfect for sand and the water. He's actually spending more time making custom orders for people who want some of these vs really spending time on the beach. If he gets a chance, he's probably going to make a sandcastle that's far too elaborate to be made out of sand.

Dionysus: Beach bar. There wasn't one? There is now. Everybody's at it, getting completely wasted. It's actually a little concerning and someone should probably give them water, but that someone won't be him. Oh, and beach party. He gets Apollo to start playing music and everybody is obliged to dance. It's a perk of being the baby. He gets to be spoiled every once in a while.

Poseidon: Obviously, he's having a blast. This is his element and it was his idea. He's surfing, riding on some dolphins, and getting carried around by sharks. He made didn't notice when a jellyfish stung Zeus when he started getting closer to the water, thinking nobody noticed. He becomes king of the beach party which toootally isn't making Zeus bitter.

[waihtie]

Splitting this episode up bc I don't have time to watch (it's still all in this post)

Season 5 Episode 2 - Good God, Y'all

○ Bobby's depressed about his condition 😢

○ Those rib sigils are hot

○ Cas can't heal Bobby bc he's cut off of Heaven's power

Bobby's pissed about it

○ Cas wants ^ to help kill Lucifer (God's not in Heaven) (I do know about the spn God)

○ "No, he's not on any flatbread"

The sheer POWER of that

"...and I lost everything for nothing." My poor boy. He's going through it

○ How tf does Dean's Sam necklace have special God-finding abilities? (The God)

Awee Dean's sentimental about giving it to Cas, but does without question

Okay, but why were more questions not asked? For example, how tf does that necklace have special God-finding abilities?

○ Rufus is up to his ass in demons (or the town he's in is)

○ They like using that one bridge in this show

○ Ellen's here!

*Slaps Dean* "What, are you allergic to giving me peace of mind?"

She cares for them 🩷

She's back with Jo, but Jo's MIA in this demon possessed town

○ There's tension between the boys over Sam being surrounded by demons (specifically, their blood)

○ "Where'd you serve?"

"Hell" ... "No, seriously, Hell"

○ Sam's missing his powers, only bc now he had to slit these kids' throats instead of just exorcising them

Dean doesn't get it. Or doesn't want to.

Sam's getting slightly aggressive with Dean. I don't really blame him. He's not being heard. (and I get why Dean doesn't trust him, but still)

○ Sam and Ellen went out to find Jo

Okay something is going on

1. Demons don't get cold, but they have the fireplace going

2. This:

3. Rufus (with black eyes) is trying to exorcise a non-possessed Sam

○ Ellen went back without Sam bc he was caught. Dean's sad 🩷💔

○ Woah. It's in Revelations. Everything that is happening here.

One of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse is messing with the people

There are no demons. Just hallucinations about the eyes.

Awee so Sam (and everyone else) killed just normal people 😭😢

○ This horseman (disguised as Roger) or whatever says he can see inside Sam's mind, and he's still thinking about demon blood

○ Dean knows what's up. But Roger is convincing everyone around him that he's wrong and he's a demon. They're all gonna kill eachother.

○ Roger is War. His ring is how he's messing with people.

Ew they cut off his finger to get it

He dipped

○ Sam being self-aware. About the excuses. About not trusting himself. About how far he'd go. About having to take a step back from hunting bc "he's dangerous"

Dean agrees about Sam taking a step back. He's too busy worrying about Sam during hunts.

They splitting up 💔 Dean offered him the Impala, but he turned it down. Now that's love.

[cillyscribbles]

May I request a platonic hurt-comfort for Munkustrap and Mungojerrie? The requested drawing was really cute and I need more

yes of course!! thanks so much for the request :33 i took the liberty of offering you a little drabble under the cut as well. i've been enjoying them so much lately <3

“Oh, he just gets all sorts of things into his big dumb head,” Rumpleteazer piped up – but her voice did not cut quite so high as it could, and so her dismissiveness was hesitant, and did not convince much of anyone. She tried again, now far too loudly – “It’s ‘cause I do all the thinking for him!”

“Not true,” Mungojerrie said, or mumbled, or perhaps he stood there with a sour look to him and did not say a word at all. Nothing he could’ve said now would’ve launched them into any brand of their familiar and explosive banter – he lost all sense for it on such occasion, when he felt so small, so pitiable, and so lost.

“True!” Rumpleteazer fired back to him, and he only rolled his head to the side and let her have it.

His silence was bound to raise some sympathy for him in Demeter, who was listening to them with twitching ears. When Mungojerrie’s legs carried him all the way to the corner they’d dragged Munkustrap to, however peeved he looked by it, she’d been lingering there by him, and lingered still now.

Munkustrap’s narrowed eyes had clearly failed to discourage her – and Mungojerrie had gotten it into his head that he must’ve been no more a coward than her. And so he’d drawn gingerly closer, dragging Rumpleteazer behind himself – Rumpleteazer, who complained all the while, but never let him go so far as a step ahead of her.

“Don’t be so hard on him, Rumpleteazer,” Demeter said, with the sort of softness which most afforded kittens, and which she afforded everyone. She kept running her claws down Munkustrap’s arm, over and over, and her fingers were shaking, just a little. “I was afraid, too.”

Rumpleteazer scowled the exact way she did before saying something incorrigibly stupid, and Mungojerrie averted his eyes in favour of the ground.

“Yeah, but – all due respect, being afraid is kind of, you know, your thing?” There it was. But when Mungojerrie glanced up, as uncertainly as before, Demeter had only raised an eyebrow in mild disbelief.

But Munkustrap had turned to them, and his bright eyes were fixed on Mungojerrie.

Mungojerrie dropped his gaze back down as though struck.

Rumpleteazer didn’t let the pause sit, and for once Mungojerrie was grateful for her brashness. “And, look, when you jumped him, it did the job. When he jumped him, he just got smacked all silly. It was stupid.”

He was still grateful, he told himself.

Though it was difficult to tell himself anything now, with the shadow burnt into his sight. The single moment of Macavity’s eyes meeting his was an aching chasm. It was eating up every bit of resolve he was trying to safeguard. Every bit of repetition: that it was fine, that he did the right thing by jumping in, by trying to stand in Macavity’s way, even if it’d been for hardly anything at all.

Macavity’s eyes had been blood–shot and wild, and Mungojerrie had been afraid – was still afraid – so afraid he felt like his heart was going to jump out his throat.

He wanted to think he sought Munkustrap out to make sure he was okay. He wanted to think it was him being dutiful, or caring, or any other thing that wasn’t selfish, or lost, or afraid.

He and Rumpleteazer had spent so long proving to themselves and each other that they feared nothing; that they were faithful to their own; that they were true to themselves and each other. He did not want one look and wound from all London’s rot to undo it all in a single moment.

But he was afraid. And he ached, where the scratch was. And he wanted, desperately, kittenishly, it to be okay.

Her remark met with more silence, Rumpleteazer huffed and turned her back to the conversation entirely, meeting Mungojerrie’s shoulder with her own. She was disinterested in passivity, in being chided, in being minded. But Mungojerrie –

At the same time, Demeter shifted, and Mungojerrie glanced up to see her and Munkustrap still, looking at each other. For a moment, it seemed to him as though they were talking without words. Then Demeter bowed her head, bent herself very low – to brush her forehead against Munkustrap’s shoulder with distant loving, with idyllic reverence; and withdrew from him. Munkustrap caught her in the gesture, unslowed by any wound, and let her go just as quickly.

Then he turned his head from her and looked to Mungojerrie – so suddenly that Mungojerrie himself couldn’t so much as pretend he’d been looking only at Demeter.

But there was little to pretend for. Mungojerrie wasn’t sure what his face was doing, but it was probably something kittenish and embarrassing enough to soften Munkustrap’s expression. He felt poorly balanced atop a fence too tall, and his stomach felt as though he was already falling.

Munkustrap raised an arm for him, one and then the other, beckoning like he knew, somehow – and Mungojerrie couldn’t have played aloof if he’d wanted to. And he didn’t, particularly.

He didn’t need to reach back far; he didn’t need to so much as withdraw from Rumpleteazer’s weight against his back. Munkustrap pulled him in and she went with, as she ever did, perhaps drawn just the same by the knowledge of kindness freely offered.

There were few things so difficult to accept as kindness was, to them – and then again, they’d always pulled each other up to the challenge.

Munkustrap was warm, all the scratches and wounds pulling blood up to the surface. Even so, he didn’t seem to mind Mungojerrie burrowing himself as far as he could in his lightening fur. His smell was safety, and if he was looking down, Mungojerrie couldn’t feel his eyes.

His voice was a rumble and a purr from his chest, when it rose, along with the hand he laid atop Mungojerrie’s head – and for once, Mungojerrie did not feel treated like a kitten. Hardly anything was as reassuring as Munkustrap’s own calm, but there was recognition, too, and there was pride, and Mungojerrie squeezed his eyes shut and listened to him speak –

“Well done.”

[awinterrosesstuff]

Hinata's fans have so many absurd claims. You could spend years trying to debunk them. But there a few...

"At least, Hinata didn't confess during war (contrary to Sakura)"

Hinata confessing her love in the middle of a fight before rushing towards Pain (and failing miserably)

I'd like to add that chapter is literally called "confessions". For Hinata obviously ! I'm sorry, but I don't find Hinata confessing her love in the Pain's arc more commendable than Sakura confessing in the war arc. It's pretty much the same thing. Hinata was clearly there to express her feelings. And contrary to a claim I've seen, she wasn't "forced" by Naruto to tell him how she felt. She didn't need much convincing to make a whole declaration. She was clearly here for that and I'm tired of Hinata's fans trying to claim the contrary.

Edit : Just a small addition after a conversation in the comments: Sakura didn’t confess during the war arc just to confess (contrary to Hinata in the Pain arc). It was a desperate move in the hope of stopping Sasuke from fighting Naruto and killing the Kages. It really makes their hypocrisy worse.

"Neji can't do the twin lions fist"

Well... first, since he didn't use it in the manga, you can say it I guess... but really, why do you believe it's a good thing in favor of Hinata ?

You see that ? That jutsu Hinata's fans like to brag about everytime ? Shown twice in the manga (why Kishimoto ? Why ?) and... no explanation on what it's supposed to do. Nothing. Only the design and the name. Kishimoto literally explained almost every jutsu. His explanations usually look like tutos. As someone who likes Neji, I'm very glad he didn't get superfluous jutsu. In what world people are happy Hinata gets that treatment ? And it's even worse when you consider the databooks where it's stated it taught only to the main branch. Meaning Neji doesn't have the privilege to learn it.

And anyway, if Neji wanted to learn that jutsu, he would have easily. The boy was able to master his techniques by himself just by observation. Before the chunin arc, he wasn't trained in the Hyuga style by Hiashi (contrary to someone else).

This is sometimes attached to differents claims like "the twin lions fists is very powerful" or "Hinata surpassed Neji with the technique" etc. Since it never damaged anything or anyone, it's hard to tell if that technique is powerful or not, or if she surpassed (in the war arc you can tell she didn't) him or not.

"Hinata is so nice and empathic"

"Hinata is so smart"

"Hinata is the strongest kunoichi"

So here all the panels I'd could come about Hinata's canon traits.

So her known traits : She's shy and weird and looks away when Naruto looks at her. Neji describes her as "all sweetness and light" and "peacemaker". Meaning she doesn't like fighting and conflicts. Something that has been shown many times, particularly during this fight until Naruto "convinced" her to fight. She's not good at the Hyuga style and is seen as weak and a failure by her family. I know once Naruto tried to cheer her by saying she was strong. But hey there's a difference between being strong and the strongest kunoichi (a title that goes to Tsunade too).

So, here we go... even if Neji says she's sweet, I can't remember her being particularly nice (something Choji has been noted for) or empathic (Naruto is right there). Giving some ointment to Naruto and Kiba is nice that's true. (Little edit there, I was wrong on one thing) But... reminding Neji's of his status and his "destiny" is neither nice nor empathic. I don't remember her being smart. I'm sorry but if anything, her "fight" with Pain showed she isn't very bright or strategic.

"Hinata's love for Naruto doesn't influence her decisions".

I'm not going to add everything but...

Did Hinata's fans even know their fave character at this point ? The first thing you see her doing is to apologize to Naruto on Kiba behalf, the next is her trying to give Naruto's the answers without thinking about her teammates. She doesn't cheer on Kiba (her own teammate) because of her crush on Naruto (someone she barely interacted with). She gives Naruto the ointment first. She literally fights Neji because Naruto is finally watching her (her own words) and she doesn't want to look uncool in front of him (sorry, what ?). She gives him the proud failure speech. Then in the Pain arc, she's literally risking her life and the village (she perfectly knew Naruto was a jinchuriki at this point) just to confess her feelings. She said twice she chased after Naruto her whole life (the Pain arc & the war arc), you can actually see it in the panels I posted. And she again risked her life for Naruto in the war arc. Almost all her appearances in the manga are connected to Naruto in one way or another. I don't want to hurt anyone, but Hinata is a love interest and Kishimoto always has written her like that. Most of her decisions are made because of and for Naruto.

"Hinata loves Hanabi so much. She's a great sister. "

Please show me one panel where she even thinks about Hanabi. Oh yeah right, she dreams about Hanabi and Neji spying on her while she's on date with Naruto. Poor Hanabi... and poor Neji.

I've also read some Hinata's fans making fun of Sakura for rushing to Madara with no plan just to impress Sasuke. And... what do you think Hinata meant by "in front of him I can't bear to look uncool" when she was fighting Neji ? She wanted to impress Naruto and be seen by him. And rushing at Pain (the strongest of the akatsuki) without a plan is somehow better than what Sakura did ?

Reposting just in case someone forgot... how is that different ?

[uwut-txd]

9-1-1 8x10 Buddie Thoughts (Spoilers?)

In spanish we have this phrase "se te hace nudo la garganta" to expressed that you get choked up by the emotions your feeling often times is grive/sadness. And during the Buddie goodbye scene I couldn't help but think that Buck was the textbook example for that phrase.

Manority of the dialog during that scene was done by Eddie in part because I think Eddie believes he's not coming back. We know he's trying to convince himself that all that matters is in Texas because admitting the opposite would make leaving impossible.

But the other reason is because Buck knows that if he doesn't control himself he'll ask Eddie to not leave him. So instead he let's himself get choked up with all the emotions he's feeling to the point that he has to pause before he can answer Eddie after the whole "But I hope you know how much I care about you." Those couple of seconds of silence before Buck answered when he's just looking at Eddie, he was forcing himself to say "I know" because saying anything else would mean confessing that it's killing him to lose not just Eddie but also Christopher.

And that hug they share was sooo telling of how much this is whole situation if eat at them.

Buck who now has to come to accept the new normal; Eddie and Chris being a phone/face time away (800 miles away). That the house that once felt like a home to him is not feel with memories of the family he thought he would have forever only to have to let them go. But st the same time telling himself that this is all just part of the status quo; that Evan "Buck" Buckley isn't enough to make people stay.

Eddie who is in a way gaslighting himself into thinking that in order to be a good dad he has to give up on the joy he felt even if it was just for a few minutes. That he had to leave the family he made for himself in LA but most importantly he had to leave Buck because NOTHING was more important than being with Christopher. But even subconsciously he can't truly make himself let go of Buck which is why he reminds him that he's always just a phone call away. Maybe that's the only thing keeping him going when he knows that once he's in El Paso he won't have his support system.

There won't be anyone to turn to when his parents start to question his parenting skills or when they bring up that maybe it would be for the best of Christopher just stayed living with them. Even after Eddie moved back to Texas to be with his son so he could be a part of his life Ramon and Helena still see him as a bad parent. They still think all Eddie will do is drag Christopher down with him. Sure he can call Buck to rant to him about it but what good will that do if the comfort he'll get will o my last until they hang up because once the call disconnects Eddie is still by himself in a new house in the one place he once ran away from.

And if with every call Eddie starts to find it more difficult to hangup because he suddenly gets soo choked up with emotions. And in those moments Eddie thinks he understands why when Shannon left she left a note and no way to contact her. But maybe this is the last push Eddie needs to realize that he's allow to choose his own joy/happiness and that by doing so that won't make him selfish or a bad parent.