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dirk-has-rabies · 3 years

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Gender variance and it's link with neurodivergency

Okay so this is it going to be another long one

All quotes will be sourced with a link to the scientific journal I took it from

Okay Tumblr, let's talk gender (I know, your favorite topic) my preface on why this topic matters to me is: I'm autistic ( diagnosed moderate to severe autism) I'm nonbinary trans ( in a way that most non-autistic people don't understand and actually look down on) and I went to college for gender study ( Mostly for intersex studies but a lot of my research was around non-binary and trans identities) I will be using the term autism as pants when I have experience with however when ADHD is part of the study I will use ND which stands for neurodivergent and yes this is going to be about xenogenders and neopronouns.

autism can affect gender the same way autism can affect literally every part of an identity. a big thing about having autism is the fact that it completely can change how you view personhood and time and object permanence and gender and literally all types of socially constructed ideas. let me also say hear that just because Society creates and enforces an idea does it mean that it doesn't exist to all people it just me that there is no nature law saying that it's real and the “rules” for these ideas can change and delete and create as time and Society evolves and changes. gender is one of those constructs.

Now I'll take it by you reading this you know what transgender people are (if you don't understand what a trans person is send me an ask and I'll type you up a pretty little essay lmao, or Google it but that's a scary thought sense literally any Source or website can come up on Google including biased websites so be careful I guess LOL) anyway to be super basic trans people are anyone who doesn't identify as the gender they were assigned at Birth (yes that includes non-binary people I could do a whole nother essay about that shit how y'all keep spreading trying to separate non-binary people from the trans umbrella) some people don't like to use the label and that is totally fine by the way.

now autistic people to view the world in a way differently than allistic (neurotypical) ppl do. we don't take everything people teach us at 100% fact and we tend to question everything and demand proof and evidence for things before we can set it as a fact in our brains. This leads to why a lot of autistic people are atheist (although a lot of religions and this is not bashing on religious people at all I am actually a Jewish convert) this questioning leads to a lot of social constructs being ignored or not understood At All by a lot of autistic people and personally I think that's a good thing. allistics take everything their parents and teachers and schools teach them as fact until someone else says something and then they pick which ones to believe. autistic people study and research and learn about a topic before forming an opinion and while this may lead to them studying and believing very biased material and spitting it out as fact it can also lead them to try and Discover it is real by themselves.

because of this autistic people are more question their gender or not fall in a binary way at all as the concept of gender makes no sense to a lot of us. “ if gender is a construct then autistic people who are less aware of social norms are less likely to develop a typical gender identity”

no really look: “ children and teens with autism spectrum disorder ASD or Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder ADHD are much more likely to express a wish to be the opposite sex compared with their typical developing peers” That was posted in 2014. we have been saying this stuff forever but no one wants to listen. the thing is gender variance (being not cisgender or at least questioning it) has always been closely hand-in-hand with autistic and ADHD people I'm even the doctor who did that study understood right away that it all made sense the whole time: “ Dr. Strang said they were initially surprised to find an overrepresentation of gender variance among children with ADHD. However, they later realized that prior studies have shown increased levels of disruptive behavior and other behavioral problems among young people with gender variance” SEE YOURE NOT WEIRD YOURE JUST YOU AND YOURE NOT ALONE IN THIS!!

5% autistic people who did the study were trans or questioning. it was also equal between the Sexes fun fact. that may not seem like a lot till you realize that the national average is only .7% that's literally over 700% higher than the national average. That's so many! and that's just in America.

in Holland there was a study in 2010 “ nearly 8% of the more than 200 Children and adolescents referred to a clinic for gender dysphoria also came up positive on a assessment for ASD” they weren't even testing for ADHD so the numbers could be even higher!

now I want to talk about a certain section of the trans umbrella that a lot of autistic people fall under called the non-binary umbrella. non-binary means anything that isn't just male or just female. it is not one third gender and non-binary doesn't mean that you don't have a gender. just clearing that up since cis people keep spreading that. non-binary is an umbrella term for any of the infinite genders you could use or create. now this is where I'm going to lose a bunch of you and that's okay because you don't have to understand our brains or emotions To respect us as real people. not many allistics can understand how we see and think and relate to things and that's okay you don't have to understand everything but just reading about this could be so much closer to respecting us for Who We Are from you've ever been and that's better than being against us just for existing.

now you might have heard of my Mutual Lars who was harassed by transmeds for using the term Autigender (I was going to link them but if it gets traction I don't want them to get any hate) since a lot of people roll their eyes at that and treated them disgustingly for using a term that 100% applied correctly. Autigender is described as " a neurogender which can only be understood in the context of being autistic or when one's autism greatly affects one's gender or how one experiences gender. Autigender is not autism as a gender, but rather is a gender that is so heavily influenced by autism that one's autism and one's experience of gender cannot be unlinked.” Now tell me that doesn't sound a lot like this entire essay I've been working on with full sources…..

xenogenders and neopronouns are a big argument point on whether or not people “believe” in non binary genders but a big part of those genders is that they originated from ND communities and are ways that we can try to describe what gender means us in a way that cis or even allistic trans people just can't comprehend or ever understand. Same with MOGAI genders or sexualities. A lot of these are created as a way to somehow describe an indescribable relationship with gender that is so personal you really cant explain it to anyone who isnt literally the same as you.

Even in studies done with trans autistic people a large amount of them dont even fall on a yes or no of having a gender at all and fall in some weird inbetween where you KINDA have a gender but its not a gender in the sense that others say it is but its also too much of a gender so say youre agender. And this is the kind of stuff that confuses allistic trans people and makes them think nonbinary genders are making stuff up for attention, which isnt true at all we just cant explain what it feels like to BE a trans autistic person to anyone who doesnt ALREADY know how it feels.

In this study out of the ppl questioned almost HALF of the autistic trans individuals had a “Sense of identity revolving around interests” meaning their gender and identity was more based off what they liked rather than boy or girl. That makes ppl with stuff like vampgender or pupgender make a lot more sense now doesnt it? We see that even in the study: “My sense of identity is fluid, just as my sense of gender is fluid […] The only constant identity that runs through my life as a thread is ‘dancer.’ This is more important to me than gender, name or any other identifying features… even more important than mother. I wouldn't admit that in the NT world as when I have, I have been corrected (after all Mother is supposed to be my primary identification, right?!) but I feel that I can admit that here. (Taylor)” and an agreement from another saying “Mine is Artist. Thank you, Taylor. (Jessie)” now dont you think if they grew up with terms like artistgender or dancergender they would just YOINK those up right away????

In fact “An absence of a sense of gender or being unsure of how their gender should “feel” was another common report” because as ive said before in this post AUTISTIC PEOPLE DONT SEE GENDER THE WAY ALLISTIC PEOPLE SEE IT. therefore we wont use the same terms or have the same identities nor could we explain it to anyone who doesnt already understand or question the same way! Participants even offered up quotes such as “As a child and even now, I don't ‘feel’ like a gender, I feel like myself and for the most part I am constantly trying to figure out what that means for me (Betty)” and also “I don't feel like a particular gender I'm not even sure what a gender should feel like (Helen)”

Now i know this isnt going to change everyones minds on this stuff but i can only hope that it at least helped people feel like theyre not broken and not alone in their feelings about this. You dont have to follow allistic rules. You dont have to stop searching inside for who you really wanna be. And you dont have to pick or choose terms forever because just as you grow and evolve so may your terms. Its okay to not know what or who you are and its okay to identify as nonhuman things or as your interests because what you love and what you do is a big part of who you are and shapes you everyday. Its not a bad thing! Just please everyone, treat ppl with respect and if you dont understand something that doesnt make it bad or wrong it just means its not for you. And thats okay.

#autism #actuallyautistic #trans #nonbinary #xenogenders #neopronouns #lgbtq #adhd #nuerodivergent #gender identity

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decennia · 3 years

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i give u free reign to infodump ab all of the knights and the og army bc i am vv intrigued agjgssgsh

THERE IS SO MUCH HERE OMFG MORAL OF THIS STORY NEVER ASK ME TO INFO DUMP BECAUSE I WILL TAKE FULL ADVANTAGE OF IT—

I've separated it into sections:

The Knights of Walpurgis, and the motivations for their assigned sins.

Dumbledore's First Resistance, and the motivations for their assigned virtues.

The dynamics between the opposing contenders.

Given the sheer volume of information, I've included a cut. Please enjoy this manip that I am still very proud of.

THE KNIGHTS OF WALPURGIS (later known as Death Eaters) Tom Riddle (Pride)

Pride and arrogance were very large contributing factors to Tom Riddle's downfall in the end, and honestly, the whole idea for the gifset came from Florence + The Machines' Seven Devils playing while casually thinking of Dagrim and Tom, and then about how perfectly Tom would fit as Lucifer.

Dagrim Patil (Avarice)

When questioned about what she wants, and what Riddle promised her in exchange for her unwavering loyalty, her response is, quite simply: everything. Dagrim grew up starved not for affection, but recognition. And what she was denied in childhood, she would take in adulthood by force. Her philosophy is that if something is worth wanting, it is worth taking.

Cantankerous Nott IV (Lust)

We know so little about Theodore Nott's father from the source material, other than he was elderly, and he raised Theo himself. And that he was a Death Eater, of course. His name is an ode to his ancestor, the Cantankerous Nott who created the Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood directory. I assigned him "lust" purely for the events leading to the conception of his son (sis, it gets messy).

Abraxas Malfoy (Envy)

Abraxas Malfoy envied Tom Riddle to the point of a half attempted mutiny. He was quickly put in his place, his co-conspirators made examples of, and spared only for his close friendship with Dagrim, who pleaded for his life. Riddle, who trusted Dagrim to a fault for all she'd done to earn it, conceded. Abraxas would later prove himself to Riddle again, regaining his seat among Riddle's favoured generals. He was the one who taught Lucius to never disobey the Dark Lord, and he was not a kind teacher.

Ulysses Mulciber (Gluttony)

Indulgence and excess, spoiled rotten and filthy rich. The Mulcibers were the richest of the Sacred at one point in their lives, rivalled only by the Malfoys. Ulysses never knew the meaning of "enough," and was a glutton not only in all manners of vice, but also for cruelty, dealing it out carelessly with little to no regard for the repercussions he was well protected from by his noble standing and wealth. He was one of Riddle's greatest allies and sponsors, and instrumental in his rise to power.

Carmilla Avery (Wrath)

Carmilla was in the year above Riddle, and was quick to anger and slow to calm. Her temper was legendary, and even her younger brothers – also admitted into the Death Eater ranks – feared her. She had an untempered fury, a rage at the world for no reason at all. She developed an unhealthy codependency with Abraxas Malfoy, who served to have a soothing presence over her. People seldom survive crossing her, as her reputation dictates.

Serafine Lestrange (Sloth)

Serafine is not lazy (as the sin "sloth" would suggest), she just lacks the motivations to pursue the goals that are expected of her. A particularly bright witch, and a wealthy one too, she never applied herself at school for she didn't see the need. Instead, she fell into a fascination of the Dark Arts, where she met Riddle, perusing the Restricted Section. She is rather discontented with life, disillusioned from already such a young age. She initially joins Riddle's gang for the excitement of it all.

DUMBLEDORE'S FIRST RESISTANCE (later known as the Order of the Phoenix in its official conception in 1970)

Albus Dumbledore (Patience)

Name a man more patient than Dumbledore, I'll wait. Better yet, he'll wait, because he's patient as hell. So patient, in fact, he waited until after Harry's supposed death to come to him as a hallucination and tell him about how he was a Horcrux.

Rathin Patil (Temperance)

Temperance is abstinence, and I wanted to explore the kind of toll having his sister so far gone into the dark would have on any man, let alone one who really cared for her and wanted to do right by her. Rathin is not a perfect man, he is still fallible, and unfortunately, he develops a dependent comfort in inebriation when Dagrim disappears with Riddle. He pulls himself back together, especially when he becomes Isaiah Moody's partner at the Ministry, and he begins to pursue Miraya.

Miraya Varma (Diligence)

Methodical and persistent, Miraya Varma earned herself a position at the Ministry immediately out of Hogwarts where she would later go on to form her own task force within the Ministry specifically designed for the interrogation and recommended sentencing of dark wizards and witches. She has been known to put her duty first, up until the birth of her son, Divyansh Patil, father to Padma and Parvati.

Isaiah Moody (Humility)

For a very long time, people seldom knew the Moody name, and that was the way Isaiah liked it. He believed that his line of work would endanger his loved ones (in spite of his wife being in the same profession) and so he never took credit for the numerous arrests he made. It was Isaiah who suspected something was strange about Morfin Gaunt's arrest while investigating the Riddle Massacre, and consulted Dumbledore about it. Once his identity was discovered and he was viewed as a threat by Riddle, an attack was made on his heavily pregnant wife, jeopardizing her and his unborn boy's (Alastor) life.

Minerva McGonagall (Chastity)

Mini Minnie is seventeen, my dudes. But not only that, Minerva grew up with a religious father (he was canonically a reverend), who probably taught her his values. Also given the fact that Minerva was the first of the younger generation to participate and involve herself in the war (she sought out Dumbledore and enlisted herself into his Resistance, fearing her family would be made into another statistic if she didn't at least do something to intervene), she really didn't have much time to think about something as arbitrary as the concept of virginity. Also, it's the 1950s.

Corinne Scamander (Kindness)

Corrine is honestly the greatest. She has all of the tenacity of Tina, and the best qualities of Newt. It was Dumbledore's previous bond with Newt that encouraged him to recruit her, and she willingly accepted, because of course she would. She'd always been the soft spoken girl with a tender touch and a love for life, and she was often the advocate for hope in the resistance. She was adept in a few healing charms she'd learned from her father, and was something of a specialist in magical beings, proving herself to be highly valuable while Riddle was expanding his ranks with all manner of dark creatures.

Declan Diggory (Charity)

Sacrifice is in the Diggory blood, and Cedric's grandfather, Declan, was not the first to prove it. He also, unfortunately, wasn't the last, but he sure was one of the best. Selfless to a fault, Declan would willingly get hypothermia if it meant someone else would have warmth. Diggory's contributions to the war effort consisted of offering sanctuary and shelter to muggleborns who received death threats, and orchestrating the evacuations of targeted muggle residences. He was the leader of a small faction of the resistance, including, but not limited to: Fleamont Potter, Enoch Longbottom, Wilhelm Shacklebolt, and Ramona McKinnon.

DYNAMICS (just the contenders for now because this is hella long)

Albus Dumbledore vs. Tom Riddle

Adversaries, a fair deal of mistrust and guilt from Dumbledore's side (upon reflection, he'd been the one to introduce Tom to the wizarding world; even though he knows that if Riddle had been left unchecked, the risk of him becoming an Obscurus would've resulted in catastrophe all the same). Riddle sees Dumbledore as nothing more than a foolish old man, a pest, and an obstacle to overcome at first, but learns to begrudgingly respect Dumbledore's strength and mastery of magic (after all, Riddle only knew him as the Transfiguration teacher before, and thought the accounts of Dumbledore's victory over Grindelwald had been exaggerated to great effect). Riddle's hubris was believing he could defeat Dumbledore on his own, thinking himself already stronger than Grindelwald ever hoped to be.

Rathin Patil vs. Dagrim Patil

Rathin had always been very protective of Dagrim, and loved her dearly, although his acts of affection were often misinterpreted as pity and condescension. This only served to push them further apart. When Dagrim turned to the Dark Arts and found solace in Riddle, it revolted Rathin, as he was hugely against the corruption the Dark Arts has on the performing witch or wizard, and wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy. He still very much loves her, and it hurts him to fight her. Dagrim, on the other hand, finds catharsis in duelling her brother, believing it to be justice for the way her parents treated her and the little he did to dissuade them.

Miraya Varma vs. Cantankerous Nott

A mutual respect and an academic rivalry, Cantankerous and Miraya were not friends by any means, but not enemies, either. Cantankerous even went as far as to warn Miraya of an impending attack, allowing her to evacuate the building. But although he knows she's clever, he also knows that she's incredibly stubborn, and displayed little surprise to find her awaiting him in the now vacant building. They are equally matched, and their unique relationship spans several decades, even into Cantankerous' failed run at Minister for Magic, and Theodore and the Patil twins' time at Hogwarts. She was present at his trial following the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, and watched as he was sentenced to life in Azkaban for his crimes as a Death Eater.

Isaiah Moody vs. Abraxas Malfoy

Given his profession, Isaiah has a lot of enemies on the Sacred Twenty-Eight who are loyal to the Dark Lord. One such enemy is Abraxas Malfoy. When Tom gets word of Moody's involvement in solving the Riddle Massacre, he sends Malfoy and a newer Death Eater, Evangeline Rosier, to hinder the investigation. Abraxas and Evangeline were responsible for the attack on Isaiah's heavily pregnant wife, who, if she hadn't been an Auror herself, would've never survived. Alastor Moody was prematurely born at St. Mungo's following the attack, and all of Isaiah's efforts were turned on exacting vengeance on those responsible. Malfoy went into hiding, but Isaiah, ruthless, managed to hunt down Rosier. She died under questioning, setting in motion a vicious cycle of vengeance between the Moodys and Rosiers. Once Isaiah had been killed by Evangeline's brother (Evan [who was named after her] Rosier's father), Abraxas deemed it safe to rejoin society.

Minerva McGonagall vs. Ulysses Mulciber

On the list of things Ulysses loathes, he would put half-bloods above muggleborns (although he turns a blind eye to his Dark Lord's blood status when it conveniences him). Half-bloods only serve as a reminder of the lowest and weakest of his kind; the unworthy muggleborns, the lecherous blood traitors, the vermin muggles. Mulciber prides himself as something of a "purifier," and finds great enjoyment in pruning family trees that have been poisoned by muggle blood into purity once more. He takes a great interest in Minerva McGonagall, given that she is an incredibly powerful witch at such a young age, and he wonders how glorious she would've been had she been a pureblood (a twisted and untrue belief among the Sacred Twenty-Eight during that time). Minerva, the threat of Mulciber weighing heavily on her, places her family under Dumbledore's protection. She vows to stop Mulciber and his perverse idea of justice.

Corinne Scamander vs. Carmilla Avery

It didn't take much to enrage Carmilla Avery, and Corinne had been caught in the tempest Carmilla's fury since the day they'd met. Carmilla, who took great pleasure in picking on people she deemed lesser, made a target out of Corinne, perceiving her kindness for weakness. During their time at Hogwarts, Corinne had gained the attention of Avery for being a blood traitor and a muggle sympathizer, which only strengthened Carmilla's vindication. Corinne, who had been friends with Rubeus Hagrid prior to his expulsion, and who had almost fallen prey to the basilisk when she had heard Myrtle Warren's cries from the bathroom, never lowered herself to Carmilla's level nor did she rise to any of the challenges. This hurt Avery's ego, as she thought this was Corinne's way of claiming herself better than her. It wasn't until after Hogwarts that Carmilla's growing resentment came to a head, and, without the protection the school offered Corinne, Carmilla was looking to finally put an end to the blood traitor line of Scamander.

Declan Diggory vs. Serafine Lestrange

Declan and Serafine were childhood friends who drifted apart during their time at Hogwarts, particularly when she fell in with Riddle's crowd. She is viewed by Dumbledore as having the power to sway the entire outcome of the war, for if Serafine could be persuaded into leaving Riddle, her cousins (one of whom is the father of Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange) would surely comply, and the families who held the Lestranges in high regard would be inclined to follow. This makes Declan and Serafine key pieces in Dumbledore's game of strategy. However, Serafine was disowned long before she defected from the Death Eaters, leaving the Lestranges firmly in Riddle's grasp. Although Serafine claimed to feel nothing for Diggory, she still refused to deal any real harm to him when they duel, in spite of having ample opportunity to do so; something which Riddle picked up on. She was later forced to torture Declan in front of him to prove her loyalty to the Dark Lord, something which Declan permitted her to do, knowing she had very little choice in the matter. He was left for dead, but Serafine would later secretly return with Corinne to get him medical attention. She gives her son, Francis, "Declan" as a middle name.

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sincerelybubbles · 4 years

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she’s the one || katsuki bakugou

summary: the three times katsuki bakugou almost kissed you, and the one time he did

warnings: pining, mutual pining, resolved pining, cursing, drinking

2.1k words

a/n: happy sunday, i had to take the opportunity to be cliché as fuck, sorry but not really

Katsuki Bakugou was not the type to like puzzles – he had exactly no patience for that. Life has enough problems, why the fuck would you add more?

And yet, here he was, trying to work her out, turning her words and actions around in his head over and over like somehow the puzzle of her would click if he just thought hard enough. And, the worst part, he was doing it because he wanted to; he wanted to figure her out, why she made his heart beat so fast when she smiled why he hung onto every word that left her lips – why was he so damn fascinated by those lips? He found himself memorizing the way they looked pronouncing every syllable – especially his name.

His name, something he never really considered, unless Deku was calling him by that dumbass nickname, and yet, here he was craving to hear it rolling off of her tongue.

“Ka. . . Katsuki-kun.” Correction – craving to hear it come out of those perfect lips, sober.

She flopped down next to him, giggling as she wobbled and caught herself on his arm and jostling the beer in his hand.

“Yes?” Katsuki turned his head, not even bothering to make his tone sound annoyed like he normally would, she wouldn’t remember tonight anyway.

“You haven’t sung yet.” She was talking too slow and too loud at the same time.

Katsuki let his eyes drag around the Karaoke bar that his friends dragged him to, spotting Mina and Denki singing a duet on the stage. He winced at their clashing voices.

“Not really my thing.” Katsuki told her, looking down at where her hand was still clutching his arm, debating if he should cut off her drinks before it was too late, and she blacked out completely.

“Just one song?” She pouted and Katsuki found his eyes locked on her protruding lower lip, tempted to lean the small distance forward and capture it in his own. He wondered how she would react.

She would probably kiss him back – he’d be lying if he said he didn’t notice her lingering glances and flirting comments. But then she’d hold Kirishima’s arm while walking and talk to him in whispered giggles, and Katsuki wasn’t so sure. Maybe he imagined her frequent smiles.

And, even if he was right, which he was about eight-four percent sure he was, he knew she deserved better. He had no idea how to spoil someone how she deserved to be spoiled. Hell, the only experience with girls he’d ever had were the few flings he had in college.

Even still, he found himself fighting the urge to close the distance, to take her still pouting lip in between his own, to kiss her until she was gasping and clutching at his shirt.

He refrained – she wouldn’t even remember tonight, and if she did, she’d count it as a drunken mistake.

“’Suki-chan?” She asked, and his heart pounded at the shortening of his name. It sounded to pure, innocent, casual rolling off her tongue.

“Fine, but you’re going up with me.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes.

She squealed and jumped up, grabbing his hand, and attempting to pull him up.

“One song.” He reminded her, standing only when she was nodding enthusiastically.

“One song!” She promised, holding out her pinky to him. She giggled when he hesitantly looped his pinky through hers, a slight blush covering his cheeks.

He followed her, of course he did. And when she asked to sing another duet after their first? Of course, he complied, relishing in the feeling of her eyes on him, her giggles only heard by him.

How dare she wear that. How dare she show up to this dumb ass event wearing that.

The skirt to her dress was surely missing a few inches, and the shoulder she was showing had him transfixed for much longer then it should have.

It was a simple barbeque; how dare she dress so cute. How dare she make him consider something cute.

Katsuki would consider himself a simple man. He typically only really looked at girls as people – obstacles in his way to the top – maybe once or twice on a lonely night as someone to fill his bed. Never as someone cute. He never listened so intently when someone talked, never was so willing to make someone smile. He never considered someone before himself, and yet here he was filling her a drink before he’s even made his own because her favorite drink happened to be nearly gone.

“Here.” He knew he startled her slightly as she jumped before taking the cup from his hand with a smile. He found it wasn’t hard to return it, before he leaned on the table beside her, sipping his own drink. He made a face at the sickly-sweet taste enveloping his tongue.

“Not your favorite?” She asked, and Katsuki realized his error.

“Shit, this was supposed to be for you, that ones mine.” He pushed himself off from the table, prepared to walk across the yard and find her another cup when hands much smaller than his own gently pried the cup from his hands.

“I figured.” She was giggling beside him, offering the cup in her hand to him. He took it, watching the drink she stole from him in her hands. Tracking its path as it made its way to her lips, watched as she took a slow sip and smiled at the sweet taste he grimaced at only moments before. He watched as her tongue peeked from behind her lips to catch any leftover taste. “Thank you, Katsuki-kun.”

It was all he could do to nod, swallowing and taking a sip from his own drink, fighting another grimace as he found it too bitter now.

He wondered if he pressed his lips to hers, would he mind the sweetness?

He let himself imagine, only for a moment, pressing his lips to hers, catching her cheek in his hand, titling her back and deepening it. He could almost hear her gasp.

“Let’s go dance!” She exclaimed, jumping up and throwing back the rest of her drink. Realizing he wasn’t copying her, she jutted one hip out and held her opposite hand out for him. “C’mon Katsuki-kun.” She fluttered her lashes. “You wouldn’t leave a lady to dance alone, right?”

“Ah, right.” He found himself saying, ignoring the small voice in the back of his head reminding him he hated dancing.

Dancing with her was almost unfair, he was allowed to put his hand on her hip, to draw her close, to feel her chest brush against his for a second, but she always wound up twirling away from him.

“You’re an awful dancer.” He observed, catching her as she almost fell again.

“And you’re shockingly good at dancing.” She rolled her eyes before placing her hands on his shoulders, applying pressure. “Although, you’re much too stiff! Relax, Katsuki-kun, dancing is about having fun.”

He rolled his eyes and looked away with a scoff to hide the blush creeping up his neck.

“Yeah, okay.” Why couldn’t he think of something better to say? Now she was quiet, although still smiling. He found himself looking into her eyes. She licked her lips, and he found himself mimicking the action.

They slowly twirled for a few moments, captivated. Katsuki could barely focus on the music enough to ensure that he was swaying to the right beat.

“See? You’re much relaxed.” Her breath fanned across his face, and Katsuki scoffed gently.

“Yeah, okay.” He forced his tone to be annoyed but knew that she saw through it. She always saw right through him. He expected her to call him out on his bullshit, like she always did, but instead she only smiled and pulled herself closer to him – oh God was she trying to kill him?

She tilted her chin up, and he was bending his neck down. Shit, she wanted this as much as he did, right? Her eyes were closing, and so were his. Her bottom lip brushed his upper lip and he fought a shudder forcing its way up his chest.

“Hey- oh!” Fucking shitty hair, Katsuki could kill him right now.

Katsuki listened as they talked and laughed. He fought to keep himself breathing through the rage forcing its way through his veins. In through his nose, out through his mouth.

She had stepped away, although her hand was still pressing into his forearm, holding him in place much closer to him then they usually stood.

“We were just playing ping pong.” Katsuki found it in him to look up at Kirishima, to act as if he had been listening. To act like the best chance he had to fulfil his fantasies hadn’t just been ripped away. “Do you want to go play a round?” And shit, she was just going to leave, and he was going to have to just stand here –

“Maybe in a bit, Katsuki and I were about to go get some food.” Then she was smiling and tugging him along. The lights around him were blurring. No worries, they were dull compared to her.

She brought him to a secluded area before turning around suddenly. His breath was caught in his throat at the repressed frustration written clear as day across her face. He waned to reach forward and capture her cheek with his hand, to hug her and make the look go away.

He pressed the thought down, annoyed at his own thoughts. Who the fuck was he to have such sappy thoughts? Plus, she was obviously upset with him. Chasing this stupid dream wasn’t going to get him anywhere, he needed to stop.

“You always look at me like you want to kiss me, why don’t you ever just do it?” Katsuki hesitated for a moment, taken aback by her words. He shoved his fists into his pockets and shrugged.

It was no use denying the fact, he didn’t think he was able to lie to her after nearly kissing her moments before.

“I didn’t want to assume.” It was one of the most honest things he had ever said, and it was completely true.

“Assume away.” She whispered, taking a step closer to him. He felt his eyes widen and instinctually, he took a step back.

“What? The fuck are you talking about?” He asked, angry that he was probably taking this all the wrong away.

“’Suki-kun.” Her voice was soft as her eyes searched his. She took a step closer and placed her hand on his chest. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. “It’s just me, you don’t have to act that way.”

He watched her with wary eyes as she intertwined her arms around his neck slowly. He found his hands making their way to her hip, the small of her back. He really didn’t want her to move, but he really didn’t want to be wrong.

Fuck, he really really wanted to kiss the breath out of her. He wanted to claim her in every way possible. He had a list longer than his arm of things he wanted to take her to see.

But none of it was worth loosing her entirely over a stupid fucking crush. He had to be sure.

“Kiss me.” She said, clear as a bell. She was close enough that he felt the words before he heard them.

Before he could even think, he moved the hand from her hip to her cheek and pulled her closer, tipping her head back and crashing his lips against hers.

He always swore to himself that if he ever got the chance to kiss her, he would be gentle. He would take his time. But he didn’t have the restraint, and found himself growing into the kiss, kissing her with a bruising force.

He swallowed her moans as he moved his tongue against hers, feeling as though he would never tire of the taste of her. She pulled away all too soon and pressed her forehead against his, breathing heavily. A few short breaths later she leaned forward to press a series of short kisses onto his mouth.

“Fuck.” He whispered.

While he had thought it before, this was the moment for certain that Katsuki Bakugou knew that he was hers. He would take anything she would give and knew he would be content with that. Sharing the same breath with her in this moment confirmed that.

He always thought being in love would make him feel weak, but in this moment, with her mouth reaching toward his again, he felt stronger than ever.

#bnha #boku no hero academia #bakugou #bakugo #katsuki #katsuki bakugou #katsuki bakugo #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #ground zero #katsuki x reader #bakugou katsuki x reader #bakugo katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bnha x reader #bakugou fluff #x reader

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reincarnatedladywarrior · 3 years

Text

WHAT THE SOCIETY DON’T WANT US TO KNOW ABOUT LOVE

Free encyclopedias on the web would define love as a range of strong and positive emotional and mental states, from the most sublime virtue or good habit, the deepest interpersonal affection, to the simplest pleasure. But come and think of it, love is not an instinct. Love is a skill. And when we say skill, it needs to be learned. A skill that the society refuses to consider as a skill. We are meant to always follow our feelings. And if you keep following your feelings, you will certainly always commit big mistakes in your life. Who wants that? No one wants that. No one wants to end up with the wrong person. Nobody wants to feel like they have been sentenced to life imprisonment by marrying the wrong person.

Unfortunately, it is primarily because people tend to idealize love just like what fairy tale movies try to project on our screens ─ an image of a perfect love where there’s a king and queen living in a castle that is bound to have a happily ever after. But in real life, that’s definitely not always the case. Love is more than just a feeling or a mutual chemistry. It is to love someone with charity and generosity in interpreting someone’s behavior; a constant recognition of ambivalence between the good and bad traits that exist in human nature. Hence, while growing up, we tend to associate an ideal partner to the idea of a good person we have created in our minds from an unconscious attempt of assessing our parents and separating their nice and unpleasant characteristics. Then, we’ll make a pretty long list of good traits that we’re looking for, only the good ones of course. But by doing so, we tend to neglect the mere fact that bad traits are also included in the package. The truth is, a ‘perfect person’ don’t and never exist and is more like a conceptual theory postulated by blind hopeless romantics.

None of us are perfect and we don’t need be perfect to love and be loved. The demand for perfection will lead you to only one thing ─ loneliness. So, one should not find a perfect person to be happy but a perfect person to suffered with in a familiar way that will help you define what genuine happiness really means. Because whether we like it or not, at some point in our lives, everyone will hurt us and all we need is to find someone worthy of the pain that is intertwined with loving. You cannot have perfection and company at the same time because to be in a company with another is negotiating imperfection every day.

Meanwhile, sulking seems to be a reflection of people’s desire to be understood by another individual. Because that’s how love was taught and how we think love should be ─ filled with understanding. That’s right but on its own detriment that’s also the reason why when a person doesn’t understand us, we get disappointed, sad or in rage. We shouldn’t expect someone to read our minds and do something that we wanted them to do for us then invalidate their feelings when they don’t act a certain way that we wanted them to behave. Love requires open communication and a cycle of giving and getting; not only an absolute selfless act of kindness towards another being. Because without communication only endless catastrophe awaits.

On the other hand, it is also crucial to take note that love is not all about gifting someone all sorts of nice things that you could offer, although it’s considered as one of many love languages out there. On top of all of that, to love is to be a teacher and a learner. ‘If-you-love-me, you-should-accept-all-of-me’ line should be stigmatized as a sign of true love. True love is not just about accepting the way your lover is. It is accepting the truth that love has a role of transforming one another to become the best version of themselves to maintain a healthy relationship. Having said that, it’s a little ticklish but one should learn how to accept the fact that when someone tells you something about yourself, they’re not attacking you. They’re trying to make you a better person and we don’t normally believe that because it hurts our pride to actually take a look inside ourselves to find the truth…that the other person wants to educate us and it isn’t a criticism. Criticism is merely a wrong word to apply to a much nobler idea which is to try to make us better but we tend to reject this idea very strongly. Not unless it’s nothing but a below the belt statement or an insult in disguised of a joke, well then stand your ground. But sometimes you have to bear in mind that an angry person is not always what they see to appear, some of them are secretly and deeply sad pessimists. And this only further emphasizes someone’s need to hone behavioral interpretative skill in order to love properly.

Incompatibility, we are all incompatible but it’s the work of love to make us graciously accommodate each other and each other’s incompatibilities. Therefore, incompatibility is an achievement of love; it’s true love that make us gradually accept the need to be compatible.

We all have types. And we can’t probably change our types. Many of us might have certain types who are going to cause us real problems. They may be too distant, arrogant or going to torture us in some way. And your friends would casually say, cut him/her out of your life he\she’s not good for you. Realistically speaking, you cannot manage your type, let’s take that for granted but there’s an achievement here as well. It is to change how you characteristically respond to your tricky type. Most of us have formed how we respond to our tricky types in early childhood. For instance, we have a distant parent which matches to a distant lover…when we were very young, we respond to that distant parent by attention-seeking…we rattled and banged. And now we’re adults we rattle and bang in our own way. And we think it’s going to help but it doesn’t. It creates a vicious cycle that won’t get us anywhere. It is open to us to have a more mature response to the challenges that the types of people that you’re attracted are going to pose for us. And that’s an immense achievement. One thing that we can do is to recognize the inability to compromise ─ one of the shameful things that we have to admit… “This is my partner, I’ve compromised…in choosing them I’ve compromised.” “Why you’ve compromised?” “Well, I’m not that attractive myself. I’ve got lots of problems. I’m a bit naughty. Frankly, I can’t pull anyone better but they’re very nice…they’re okay.” Now, you would think loser, but that’s not true. Compromise is noble. We compromise in every area of life and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t compromise in our love life. Maybe some parents are just sticking around for the children…good! And we’ll say, “Oh, they’re just sticking around for the children.” That’s a wonderful reason to stick around, for what else they’re going to stick around. Let’s look benevolently in the art of compromise as a massive achievement in life.

Notably, a Danish Philosopher Soren Kierkegaard had a wonderful outburst where he basically said, of course you’re going to marry the wrong person and make the wrong decisions in a whole row of areas. And the reason why you’re going to do this is because you’re a human. Therefore, do not berate yourself for doing what humans do. This is what he said, “Marry, and you will regret it; don’t marry, you will also regret it; marry or don’t marry, you will regret it either way. Laugh at the world’s foolishness, you will regret it; weep over it, you will regret that too; laugh at the world’s foolishness or weep over it, you will regret both. Believe a woman, you will regret it; believe her not, you will also regret it… Hang yourself, you will regret it; do not hang yourself, and you will regret that too; hang yourself or don’t hang yourself, you’ll regret it either way; whether you hang yourself or do not hang yourself, you will regret both. This, gentlemen, is the essence of all philosophy.”

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luminescencefics · 4 years

Text

(there is) no time like the present

On his way towards the rest of their friends in the booth by the back of the pub, Niall finally spots Aisling’s auburn hair and glittery dress standing near the wooden table. He’d be lying if he didn’t think she looked quite pretty. Niall’s always known Aisling to be pretty, in a way that he knows that thunder follows lightning during a storm and that the sun always shines the brightest in the summer. It was just a universal thing.

But tonight, he finds that he’s entirely hyperaware of Aisling’s prettiness.

And he isn’t quite sure what to do about that.

A (short) story about a brown-haired boy and an auburn-haired girl trying to convince the world that they aren’t lonely, and how time really isn’t of the essence.

written for the 1dff discord server fic challenge

new year’s eve // roommates trope

niall/ofc, 8k words | banner credit

11:34

In Aisling O’Leary’s twenty-eight years of living, she has known two constants. The first being, she could never say no to people. No matter how hard she tried to, she just couldn’t bring herself to disappoint the people she cared about most in her life. She blames that on her trait of always trying to please people. The second constant is that she was a settler, in every sense of the word.

She settled with her group of friends in secondary school back home in Clifden. She settled when she chose to go to university across the country in Dublin instead of taking the leap and applying to schools in her dream city of London. She settled with her marketing position at a publishing house when her dream was to be an editor. And, she settled with her last boyfriend of two years, Cormac Hayes.

When he decided to end things with her three months ago, Aisling knows that she probably should have been more upset over it. Truth is, she stayed with Cormac for that long because it was easy. He loved her at arm’s length and she was okay with that. He gave her attention and loved her the best way he knew how, and although it wasn’t enough for Aisling in the end, she sort of just let it happen. And when she didn’t even shed a tear over losing her boyfriend of two years, she wasn’t surprised in the least.

That’s just how Aisling O’Leary worked.

She tries her hardest to ignore the constant ringing of her mobile from the inside of her purse under her work desk. It was Friday afternoon and she was practically the only soul in the office because most of her other co-workers decided to take the day off to prepare for this evening’s New Year’s Eve festivities.

Aisling didn’t really think too much about it, to be honest. What did she have to celebrate this past year? The fact that she received an end of the year bonus at her job that she hasn’t enjoyed for the past four years? The fact that she’s single, once again? The fact that she’s still living with her uni mate and putting off her goal of moving to London?

She pushes those thoughts away when an image of said uni mate flashes across the screen of her mobile.

“Niall, for the love of god, please stop ringing me,” Aisling scolds, harshly whispering into the receiver. It’s really no use considering it’s just her and the unlucky intern who couldn’t get the day off, but she does it anyways for dramatic intent.

“As lovely as ever, sweet Aisling,” Niall starts, the sound of whooshing air in the background a bit distracting. Aisling can only assume that he’s walking around outside, the sound of the chilling winter wind blowing through the phone loudly giving him away.

“Sorry, Niall. Just, uh, busy is all.” Aisling lies and Niall doesn’t even try to fall for it. She does feel a little bad for snapping at him, because it’s really not his fault that she’s in such a shit mood. And taking it out on her uni mate turned flatmate turned best mate just wasn’t really fair.

Niall Horan crashed into Aisling’s life during her first year at University College Dublin (the word crashed used very appropriately). She was sitting towards the back of her Art History lecture, a random gen-ed requirement her advisor forced her to take. She chose the back because she assumed she wouldn’t be bothered, but then eight minutes after class began, Niall ran in with flushed cheeks and his freshly bleached blonde hair standing up all over the place. And out of all the empty seats in the entire lecture hall, he chose to sit next to Aisling.

He spent the entirety of the lecture fidgeting in the plastic seat next to Aisling, looking over her shoulder at the notes she was scribbling down aggressively. He didn't even bother to bring a notebook, let alone a pen, to the lecture. Normally, Aisling would find that infuriating. But when it comes to Niall, Aisling has found that most of the things that should bother her just, well, don’t.

“I’m walking into the shops. Everyone’s been texting like mad about tonight, driving me up the fuckin’ wall. Did you put the group chat on mute again?” Niall asks and Aisling doesn’t even bother answering, because of course she did.

It’s not that she didn’t like her uni mates, because they really were the best friends Aisling has ever had. But when they decided amongst themselves that her and Niall’s flat would be the destination for pre-drinks tonight, conveniently leaving Aisling and Niall out of the conversation altogether, she couldn’t help but grow increasingly annoyed.

But in typical Aisling fashion, she just let it happen. She blames it on that first constant of hers.

“Just while I was working. Didn’t want to be distracted,” Aisling decides to say, pausing as she hears the sound of an automatic door opening and closing on Niall’s end. She knows he’s probably completely aware that she’s not that excited about tonight. But in typical Niall fashion, he tries to find the silver lining in every situation—even if he is feeling equally as shitty about this evening.

“Well, you’re probably the only person in all of Ireland working today,” Niall says, a chuckle added at the end to let Aisling know that he’s just messing with her.

“That’s not true. Sean’s here with me, having the time of his life.” Aisling watches the office intern sit at his desk with his head in his hands, clearly hungover and annoyed that he got stuck working the day of New Year’s Eve. She feels a bit bad for the lad, empathetic to his cause.

Niall agrees. “What’re we drinking tonight, Aisling? How ossified do we feel like getting, scale of one to ten?”

Aisling sighs. She knows getting drunk off her arse tonight is probably not the best move to make. But then she starts to think of her friends and how they seem a lot more bearable after a few drinks. She starts to think about the past three months of her life and how she feels like she’s just taking up space. She starts to think about the last phone call she had with her mam, and how she’s suddenly begun to worry about her oldest daughter. She starts to think about her future, and how she’s not really excited about it at all, to be fair.

The more she thinks about it, the more getting completely plastered sounds better and better in her head.

“Whiskey. Lots of it,” Aisling replies, sure and assertive.

“There’s my girl,” Niall says, and she can practically hear the glass bottles being added to the shopping trolley. “I’ll see you when you get home. Let’s just try and have fun tonight, yeah? Forget about all the bullshit.”

Aisling agrees to try her hardest to do that for Niall. But she’s got enough bullshit going on in her life to hold anybody down, and if she’s going to try and get over it, she’s going to need a lot of whiskey to do that.

And some courage—lots of it.

14:08

In Niall Horan’s twenty-eight years of living, he’s known two constants. The first being, he puts too much trust in other people, not nearly guarding his heart the way he should. He’s always fallen too quickly and too harshly, never really thinking of the repercussions. The second constant being that he was always blissfully one step behind everybody else, overlooking hidden clues and secret hints, not really understanding the longing look in another person’s eyes, or why their cheeks heat up around somebody’s presence. He wouldn’t blame that on selfishness, per se, rather, naiveté. If it wasn’t hitting Niall right in the face, chances are he completely missed it.

He’s thinking about his unguarded heart while lining up the various liquor bottles he bought at the shops a few hours ago, creating a makeshift bar on the kitchen countertop. His mind briefly falls to Sheridan, as it does most times when he’s feeling a bit lonely. He thinks about her blonde hair and turquoise eyes and warm pale skin. How she was the most important thing in his life on and off for five years. How he loved her with everything inside of him, and he figured that would be enough.

But then she gets a job offer a world away in America, and she takes it without even looking back. Without even considering how it would affect Niall. Without even including him in the conversation.

He wonders if she’s always been selfish with his heart.

Niall tries his hardest to not think about it. She left Ireland almost nine months ago, and he really has been doing better. He wants nothing more than to forget about this year. It was one filled with heartbreak and anger and pain, and the idea of drinking his sorrows away to start over again is exactly what he needed.

But there’s no denying that Niall Horan is admittedly lonely.

He thinks of Aisling, and how she seems just as lost as he is most of the time. Back in uni she was always the rational one between the pair, always taking notes and showing up to class and making sure that Niall kept his head on straight. When he meets Sheridan at the end of their first year, he remembers instantly thinking that she was the one for him. He blames it on that first constant of his.

Sheridan Walsh was beautiful and rich and, admittedly, so far out of Niall’s league the second he met her at a mutual friend’s house party. She was studying linguistics at Trinity as a hobby, a job at her parent’s enormous investment bank already secured. Her family had an expansive estate in Killiney overlooking Dalkey Island and Niall did everything he could to try and fit into her world.

When he meets her he charms her instantly, and the second he realizes that she was in a different social class than his own, Niall runs into Aisling’s dorm room and begs her to strip the bleach from his hair. He spends Years Two and Three doing everything he can to impress Sheridan, and finally one night she gives in, and he feels as if he’s floating through thin air.

To this day, Niall still isn’t sure what it was about him that made Sheridan finally agree to start dating him. She didn’t approve of his course of study, she found his hometown of Mullingar to be quaint, and she never really understood why he decided to live with Aisling in their too-small flat.

If there’s one thing Niall can appreciate most about his friendship with Aisling (and there’s a lot to be thankful for, to be fair) it’s that she tried her hardest to be nice to Sheridan, even though there would never be a world where the two of them would ever be friends. Aisling showed Niall how to properly knot a tie to prepare him for meeting Sheridan’s parents, she explained to him the difference between an oyster fork and a salad fork whenever he had to go to fancy dinner parties, and she constantly reminded him that he shouldn’t try as hard to fit into Sheridan’s world, because she loved him just the way he was.

If only it were true in the end.

In reality, Niall has a lot to be thankful for when it comes to Aisling O’Leary. He just hopes that he purchased enough whiskey to try and make her enjoy herself for the first time in three months.

17:41

Normally it takes Aisling twenty minutes to get home from her office near O’Connell Street to her and Niall’s shared flat in Ranelagh. But she’s stalling, walking along the River Liffey in the brisk evening weather instead of getting on the bus to start getting ready for tonight.

Niall knows this, as he’s grown accustomed to Aisling whipping open the front door twenty minutes after five, complaining about the crammed rush hour commute while untying her boots and throwing her scarf haphazardly over their wobbly coat hanger. He’s currently watching the clock change from the half hour mark almost nearing quarter to six, debating if he should ring her or not.

As if reading his mind, Aisling shoots Niall a text, assuring him that she’s not avoiding their mates (lie) and that she isn’t contemplating ditching this evening’s festivities (lie) and that she’s stopping at the nearest shop to grab snacks for their friends (half-lie turned truth). Niall doesn’t bother telling her that their friends already agreed to bring food over, because he knows Aisling better than she knows herself sometimes. Instead, he writes, Do what you need to do, A. I’ve got a drink waiting for you when you get home xx, and Aisling starts to feel a bit more at ease.

It’s near six when Aisling appears with a shopping bag filled with crackers and the nicest assortment of cheese she could find last minute. Niall can hear her usual foot pattern by the front door while he starts pouring the two of them whiskey neats in the nice glasses Sheridan re-gifted him two Christmases ago.

“Sorry I was late. The shops were brutal, too many people banging about. Couldn’t even find the good cheese Cara likes,” Aisling says, entering the kitchen with a smile headed in Niall’s direction. He watches as she starts putting the items into the fridge and respective cupboards, avoiding making eye contact.

“If you turned your mobile on every now and then, you’d have seen that Cara and Robbie already got food for tonight,” Niall says, sliding Aisling’s drink across the kitchen counter.

Aisling gives Niall a sheepish look. “Right. I was just—”

“—Busy.” Niall gives Aisling a look she knows all too well, and she immediately feels guilty, slumping down in the chair across from him. “Your mam rang me earlier. Was wondering why her lovely daughter wasn’t answering her calls.”

Aisling chuckles softly, bringing the glass to her lips. “Ah, of course she did. Sometimes I think she rings you because she likes you a bit too much.”

“What can I say? Mam’s love me—especially yours,” Niall says with a grin, puffing his chest out a bit.

Aisling snorts. “Did she say anything of interest this time ‘round?”

“Just went on about how your da can’t find a proper barmaid for tonight,” Niall says, the mention of Aisling’s family’s pub in Clifden bringing a nostalgic smile to her face. “She might have also mentioned that she’s worried about you.”

Aisling frowns. “Worried?”

Niall nods cautiously. “Yeah. She thinks you're lonely.”

Aisling pauses for a moment, watching the amber liquid inside her cup slosh with each swivel of the glass on the countertop. She really hates that word—lonely. To Aisling, loneliness implies the absence of something. How can she miss a feeling she’s never even truly felt in the first place? The only thing Aisling has felt for the past few years has been complacency. And that’s one she’d love to shed with the new year.

“Well, she’s nothing to worry about. ‘M not lonely,” Aisling mumbles, downing the rest of her drink with one large gulp.

Niall cocks an eyebrow in her direction. “That’s exactly what a lonely person would say.”

It’s one of those rare moments when Aisling can’t tell if Niall is taking the piss or genuinely concerned. But with one look in his blue eyes, Aisling decides to go with the latter.

“I promise you, Niall, I’m not lonely. It’s been three months. I barely even think about Cormac anymore, so quit your worrying,” Aisling counters, beginning to pour herself another glass, this time a bit shorter.

“You never even thought about him to begin with,” Niall quips, finishing his drink as well. “That’s what I’m worried about.”

Aisling doesn’t really know how to answer that, because there’s no denying that Niall is absolutely correct. She just isn’t quite sure how to explain to her best mate that she never truly felt heartbreak in the same capacity that he did. Cormac ending things with Aisling did not shatter her heart the same way that Sheridan did to Niall’s.

Aisling starts to wonder if there’s something wrong with this so-called heart of hers.

“I think I saw it coming before it actually happened, ya know?” Aisling begins to explain. “I think I knew Cormac wasn’t the one for me. It made the blow less harsh, in a way.” It’s a version of the truth that both Niall and Aisling can settle on. And she can tell that he’s understanding as he nods through his final swallow of whiskey.

“Just want you to be happy, is all,” Niall says, placing his empty glass on the countertop. “It’s the beauty of New Years, my sweet Aisling. You can start fresh.”

Aisling just smiles, finishing her glass as well. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

And this time, she truly hopes he is.

19:22

Aisling is starting to think that it’s far too early for her friends to be this inebriated.

It’s barely half past seven and her friends had started to arrive nearly an hour earlier. After her unsettling conversation with Niall, Aisling resorted to locking herself in her bedroom with the excuse of getting ready. Instead, she sat in the shower for far too long until the hot water turned cold, building up the courage to just try and let loose for one fucking night.

The second she hears Cara and Robbie enter the flat, Aisling immediately fights the urge to down another whiskey neat.

There was a time when Aisling believed that Cara and Robbie would be the first pair out of their uni group to get married. They had been together ever since Aisling lived next door to Cara in the dorms during her first year at UCD. And while everybody else had seemingly tried to grow up during the past seven years, Cara and Robbie seemed content in their post-uni bubble.

Aisling was pretty sure that bubble should have been popped some time after their twenty-fifth birthdays.

“Oi! Aisy! Pass me a fresh Smithwick while you’re at it!” Conor hollers over from the small loveseat in the living room when he notices Aisling heading towards the fridge for a new drink.

She nods, biting her tongue at the ridiculous nickname that he hasn’t stopped calling her since Year Two. Aisling’s just happy he isn’t calling her feek anymore.

If Aisling had the choice, she would never have had Conor worm his way into the inner-workings of their unusual friend group. But alas, Conor came along with Niall, and if Aisling wanted to keep Niall in her life (which she very much would like to), then she had to suck it up and deal with his unruly best mate.

Aisling passes Conor the freshly opened bottle of beer, smiling politely at the pretty brown-haired girl seated to his right. According to Niall, Conor’s been bringing her along to their group pub outings for a few weeks now. Aisling promised to remember her name if she stuck around for another month. Conor had a bad habit of flying through girls, and it became harder with each new face to remember their names.

Aisling heads back into the kitchen to start preparing the cheeseboard, watching in her periphery as a long slender red-painted finger reaches out to snatch a stray cracker hanging off the side of the tray.

“Wait your turn like everybody else, Han,” Aisling scolds, ignoring the snicker her friend makes in between bites of the cracker.

“Sorry mum, you know how I get if I don’t eat something before drinking,” Hannah says, her Scouse accent already beginning to muddle together. Aisling does her best to keep her eye roll to herself.

“It’s too early for you to be slurring. Lay off the drink until we get to the pub, okay?” Aisling responds, reaching out to grab the half-finished vodka tonic in Hannah’s shaky hands. She tosses it aside, hopefully long forgotten by the time Hannah finishes eating something.

She watches Hannah nod her head agreeably, before sneaking another cracker off of the plate. This time, Aisling doesn’t scold her.

“I’m sorry you’re ringing in the New Year all by yourself,” Hannah says after Aisling has a sip of her drink. “Shite being alone, innit?”

There’s that word again. Alone. Aisling shrugs half-heartedly even though she doesn’t really agree with Hannah’s logic. Even if she tried to explain it to her, she knows she wouldn’t understand it. While Hannah’s been a great friend to Aisling over the years, she’s admittedly been quite selfish. Therefore, Aisling tries not to burden her with matters of the heart.

Niall overhears the conversation when he walks into the kitchen with Hannah’s boyfriend Rory, and immediately he starts to feel a bit guilty.

Aisling and Cormac would never have met if it weren’t for Niall. They both played together in Niall's men’s league for footie, and he thought that they would be a good match together. So when he gave Cormac his flatmate’s number one night after practice and a week later they went out to dinner, Niall really believed that he did Aisling a solid.

Now though, he feels a bit shitty.

“What’re you two gossiping about?” Rory asks, slinging an arm over Hannah’s pointy shoulders, unaware of the awkward tension left hanging in the kitchen from Hannah’s previous comment.

“Nothing, babe. Just sad that Aisling won’t have a New Year’s kiss,” Hannah says, the backhanded dig flying completely over her head. Aisling feels it though, and so does Niall, who immediately steps in.

“Keep drinkin’ like that Hannah and you might not make it to midnight for a kiss this year either.” The lightness of his tone makes it seem to Hannah and Rory that he’s just joking with them, but Aisling knows Niall, and she can hear the undercurrent of frustration laced between his words. So when she lifts her head up and looks at him and already finds that he’s staring right back at her, she smiles a bit, mouthing a quick thank you in his direction.

Sometimes, she’s really lucky to have a friend like Niall.

21:43

Niall slams down his second shot of whiskey since entering the pub nearly thirty minutes ago, and he’s finally starting to feel that type of drunkenness where everything seems a bit lighter and everybody seems a lot happier. They’ve chosen a pub in Parnell Square in favor over the crowded pubs in the Temple Bar area, and he’s happy with their choice considering the pub is filled with twenty-somethings instead of the usual younger, rowdier crowd.

After the incident in the kitchen, Niall finds himself keeping a closer watch on Aisling. While he knows the past few months have been quite hard on her, he didn’t realize how apathetic some of their mates were. He also didn’t notice how sad it made her.

He wonders if she’s always felt like this, and he’s always just been too wrapped up in his own sadness to notice her own.

Regretfully, he blames that second constant of his.

“Oi, Horan! Drink up!” Conor yells over from his left, another shot of whiskey waiting for him on the bartop. Niall tears his eyes away from Aisling, instead focusing on the overflowing shot glass in front of him. He gulps, already mentally preparing to slow down in order to keep his wits about him until midnight approaches.

Niall shoots the drink back, slamming the glass onto the sticky bartop and wiping the back of his hand over his lips. He can hear Conor cackling beside him, and he tries to ignore the elbow digging into his ribcage. He tries to find Aisling’s wavy auburn hair through the crowd, or even her sparkly long-sleeved dress, but it’s no use. She’s too far out of his view.

“Are you lookin’ to pull?” Conor asks smugly after noticing Niall’s gaze flittering over the other side of the pub.

“Nah mate. Not tonight,” Niall replies, the thought of pulling a random girl for the night sounding entirely unappealing.

Conor turns towards his friend, putting his back to his pretty date. “Niall, tonight’s the perfect night for a random lay. C’mon mate, it’s New Years! Every single bird here is looking for an easy shag. It’s been months anyways, what’re you waiting for? Sheri’s not comin’ back.”

Niall tries his hardest not to flinch at his friend’s words. He knows deep down that if he really wanted to sleep with a random girl for the night, he could. And earlier, he probably would have done just that to cure his loneliness. But now the thought of doing just that sort of makes his skin crawl a little.

Including the fact that he can’t stop trying to find his flatmate in the crowded pub. But he’s not quite sure what that means.

“Fuck off Conor. I know she’s not coming back.” Niall’s annoyed that his friend decided to bring Sheridan up. He just wishes everybody would stop fucking bringing her up.

Conor just shrugs. “Then why aren’t you lookin’ for an easy lay?”

Niall’s grip on his whiskey coke is so tight that his knuckles turn white. He grits his teeth before taking a long sip, before giving his stupid friend one last annoyed look. “Because sex isn’t the answer to everything.” And with that, Niall walks away.

“It sure helps though, prick!” Conor shouts from his place at the bar, and Niall just shakes his head, ignoring him.

But tonight, he finds that he’s entirely hyperaware of Aisling’s prettiness.

He’s watching the way her head falls back when a loud laugh rips through her lungs, her long auburn hair falling past her shoulders, catching the dim pub lighting in a way that stops Niall dead in his tracks. The sparkles in her shift dress glitter with every bend of her knees or swivel of her hips, and Niall tries his hardest to keep his eyes off of Aisling’s lower half. Her eyes have that glow to them that only happens when she feels totally comfortable, and he’s wondering if it’s genuine or if the liquor is helping mask her unease surrounding tonight.

Before he’s caught, Niall pulls himself together and approaches the group.

“Niall!” Aisling squeals once he’s entered the small half-huddle the girls in the group have formed. She’s leaning in, a bit unsteady on her chunky heels, and Niall can feel the whiskey warmth of her breath fan over his cheeks. She’s definitely drunk, Niall thinks, securing an arm around her middle so Aisling doesn’t end up arse over tit on the dirty pub floor.

“Somebody’s havin’ fun,” Niall pushes through a grin, his arms tightening around her waist once Aisling presses two small hands on his shoulders to steady herself. She giggles and it sounds like the prettiest song he’s ever heard.

“Wasn’t it you who told me to drink away all the bullshit?” Aisling asks, finishing the rest of her drink, her head falling back on her neck dramatically as she swallows. Niall chuckles, grabbing the empty glass from her shaky fingers before it slips and cracks on the floor.

“Might’ve. But slow your roll, sweet Aisling. Still three hours left until midnight,” Niall tuts, smiling a bit when she huffs out in disappointment, her lower lip jutting out in a pout. He finds it incredibly adorable.

“Don’t leave me alone with these eejits then! They’re the ones forcing drinks down me throat!” Aisling calls out, pointing a skinny finger towards Cara and Robbie who look responsible. Her Western accent grows much stronger with each level of intoxication Aisling passes, and Niall knows that if she continues he’s going to start struggling piecing together what she’s trying to say.

So he laughs, removing his arm around her waist and throwing it around her shoulders instead, pulling her closer to his chest so that his chin rests above the crown of her head.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got ya,” Niall says, and Aisling smiles back, squeezing his hand that dangles in front of her chest tightly in thanks.

Niall squeezes back, thinking that if he had to spend the next three hours with her, he wouldn’t mind at all. He especially wouldn’t mind it if Aisling was still tucked under his arm once midnight struck.

23:38

Aisling has spent the last twenty minutes holding Cara’s curly hair back while she retches into the toilet. She stopped drinking about an hour ago once she noticed the pallor beneath Cara’s copper skin, knowing it was only a matter of time until she grew sick.

And just like clockwork, with an hour to go until midnight, Cara grabbed Aisling with shaky hands and dragged her to the toilet before vomiting into the porcelain basin below. Aisling rubs her friend’s back, wrapping her curly hair around her wrists to make sure the coiled tendrils stay vomit-free.

She wishes the night didn’t have to end like this.

But it seems to always happen whenever she’s around Cara. As much as Aisling loves her, she can’t help but wonder if this is how it’ll always be with her friend. She wonders when she’ll finally just grow up.

Once again, Aisling has to give up her night in order to make sure Cara’s isn’t ruined.

Cara moans under her and Aisling snaps out of her miserable state, asking her friend if she was okay and if she needed anything. Cara shakes her head, albeit still unsteady on her feet as she slowly hobbles over towards the sink. Aisling sighs for what feels like the hundredth time, wishing her friend would stop being so stubborn.

Before they leave the toilets, Aisling dampens some paper towels and blots it over Cara’s sticky forehead. Her friend swats at her wrists angrily, snatching the wet paper towels from Aisling’s hands and throwing it into the rubbish bin.

“‘M wearing foundation Aisling! Christ, yer gonna fuck it up!” Cara scolds, walking past her friend and fixing what’s left of her mangled curls into a topknot.

Aisling just frowns, wishing her friend would be a bit kinder to her considering she did just spend the better part of her evening holding her hair back and listening to her retch into a shitty public toilet.

“Sorry,” Aisling mumbles, because she knows she could never yell at her friend no matter how angry she makes her. Aisling would rather not rock the boat, so instead she just lets Cara take out her frustrations on her. She’s been doing it for the past seven years anyways, why stop now?

Cara says nothing. Instead, she irons out her black dress with her hands and leaves the toilets, heading towards their group of friends in the back of the pub. Aisling watches her go, taking a few seconds to herself to just breathe.

If Aisling were a different person, she probably would have told Cara off for acting like a Grade A Bitch. She would tell her to stop being so selfish, to stop making everything about her, to stop acting like such a fucking child.

But Aisling is not that person.

So instead she shakes those words from her head, focusing on regulating her breathing and making sure the redness in her cheeks goes away. She wishes she was the same level of drunkenness she happened to be a few hours ago, where everything seemed a bit more bearable and she wasn’t focusing on the shittier parts of her friendships.

When she emerges from the hallway, she spots Niall immediately. She’s found that he’s always standing a bit closer to her than normal, always making sure she’s okay and that she’s enjoying herself. She’s grateful for it, if she’s being honest, because out of everybody in this crowded pub, she’s happy that it’s Niall who’s standing by her side.

She watches as his brown hair flops over his forehead, hanging around his face in a messy boyish way. He looks handsome with his white button down shirt tucked into his navy blue houndstooth dress pants. When he turns a bit so he can laugh at whatever obscene joke Conor just made, she can see the way the shirtsleeves tighten around his flexed bicep, and the way his waist looks thinner when he swivels his hip, and the way his arse arches in his new pants.

Aisling is immediately transported back to a time when every movement Niall made would make her blush uncontrollably. When his hair was blonder and his laugh was louder and he wasn’t as muscley—when he would barge into her dorm room at all hours of the day and show up at Aisling’s library table and doodle notes and scribbles on her coursework. When she found herself crushing on her first ever real uni mate, when she tried her hardest to ignore it, until it ultimately faded as the years passed on.

But sometimes, in moments like this, the feelings would shoot straight into her chest like a lightning strike, and she finds herself struggling for air. It usually happened in fleeting moments—typically when he laughed so hard his blue eyes scrunched, or he held her really tightly whenever she had a bad day, and especially when he called her sweet Aisling.

And just like that, the moment is gone, leaving just as quickly as it came. As if noticing her absence (something that he’s been doing a lot of tonight), blue eyes meet hazel and he cocks his head in concern, the silent question of Are you okay? floating through the air until it stops right in Aisling’s path.

She nods her head and it’s entirely unconvincing. But before Niall could leave their friends and approach Aisling, she gestures towards the bar with a small smile, insinuating she was going to grab a new drink. Niall just nods, staring at her as she approaches the bartop.

As soon as she feels the heat of his gaze leave her back, Aisling orders a water. Suddenly, she doesn’t want to be here anymore, the dreaded feelings she had earlier in the day flooding her insides without warning. She doesn’t give a fuck about midnight anymore, doesn’t give a fuck about watching her mates cheers to the start of a new year.

She just wants to leave.

23:55

Niall turns away from his conversation with Conor, wondering why Aisling hasn’t returned to their spot in the back of the pub. He watched her head towards the bar almost ten minutes ago, and he’s not quite sure if there’s something wrong.

He’s reminded back to the lifeless look in her eyes when she left the toilets with Cara moments ago, and he instantly feels his stomach drop a little at the thought of something bad happening to her. Did they get into a fight? Did Cara say something to upset her? Where the fuck is she?

“Cara, where’s Aisling?” Niall asks, leaning into her ear to talk over the loud music. He cranes his neck towards the bar where he last saw her, and finds that her auburn hair is no longer in view.

Cara shrugs her shoulders, looking less than interested in this conversation. “Dunno, mate. Fucked off in the jacks ‘coupla minutes ago.” Niall scrunches his nose at the lingering smell of bile on her breath.

“What’d you do?” Niall knows that his tone is a bit accusatory, but he feels like an idiot for not realizing that Aisling was upset sooner. He’s instantly brought back to the kitchen when Hannah hurt her feelings, and Niall’s left wondering if he’s as much of a prick as their friends have been lately.

“Oh, fuck off Niall,” Cara starts, laughing even though it’s not funny. “Did nothin’! She probably just doesn’t wanna be ‘ere durin’ midnight ‘cos she’s single and all.”

Niall knows that isn’t true. He also knows that if Cara had asked Aisling herself, she would know that Aisling could give less of a shit about being single.

Niall’s suddenly left with the unwavering thought that maybe nobody has asked Aisling how she’s truly felt in a long time.

Before he can reply, he notices the countdown start to begin, and suddenly he doesn't want to be around his friends at all.

He wants to find Aisling.

23:59

Aisling can hear the ten second countdown from her spot outside the pub, leaning against the cold brick wall, cooling her down from the inside out. Her winter coat is still clenched in her right hand, the heat of her anger keeping her warm against the evening breeze.

Her eyes are closed tight and she’s trying her hardest not to cry. Aisling knows it’s stupid—crying over her friends who didn’t even spare her a second glance when she stormed out of the pub door. She doesn’t want to blame them, because even though they can be selfish and unaware of her sadness, Aisling has let it slide for far too long. She’s starting to think that her friends have grown accustomed to her knack of shrugging things off her shoulder, and she really only has herself to blame.

Aisling sighs as she hears the countdown end, the sounds of celebration reverberating through the thick brick. She’s ringing in this new year alone, as it seems, and she wonders if she’s part to blame for it.

She wonders why she’s never spoken up when her friends overlook her feelings and say hurtful things about her. Aisling knows that they aren’t intentional, and that her friends don’t truly mean to hurt her feelings, but part of her wishes they would just understand.

She wonders why she’s never been bold enough to go after the job she actually wanted. Why she stays working her shitty desk job day after day, losing interest in everything around her. Why she never acted on that job listing she received an email from in London, why she never even tried to move there in the first place.

She wonders why she’s wasted so much time trying to find love in boys who can never offer her what she truly needs. Why even though Cormac was a sound lad, she knew he wasn’t right for her, but the thought of leaving him was much more difficult than staying, so she chose the easier option.

Aisling wishes she was the type of person to speak up, to act on what she wants, to simply be better.

But she isn’t.

So she sinks down to the cool pavement below her, her neck stretched upwards as her head rests on the brick wall. Her eyes are still closed shut, and she thinks that if she keeps them closed, she can squeeze out the girl she so badly wants to get rid of.

She thinks that when she opens her eyes again, she’ll be a new person. The person she wants to be.

00:03

Niall finally finds Aisling outside, her head resting against the wall upturned towards the night sky. Her eyes are closed and Niall’s eyes are trained on her long ivory neck, and he wonders what would have happened if he came out here just as the clock struck midnight.

He shakes that thought from his head, because she looks so small. So unsure. So sad.

Aisling doesn’t look at Niall until he’s sitting near her with his warm hand resting on her bent knee. He’s looking at her as her eyes flutter open, hazel eyes glassy from the tears threatening to fall. He knows Aisling though—knows her so well that she won’t let them fall, no matter how badly she wants to.

She offers Niall a weak smile, and he’s sitting close enough that he can see her bottom lip wobble. It makes him angry.

“Ready to get out of here?” Niall asks softly, ignoring the millions of other questions he wants to ask her. He knows how fragile she is. How adamant she is about not explaining her feelings, so he takes the easy way out even though it kills him to do so.

Aisling smiles at him, a little stronger than before. “Please.”

Niall doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he stands up, grabbing her winter coat in one hand and her smaller hand in the other. Once she’s standing in front of him, close enough that he can feel her shaky breath on his neck, he holds open her coat and buttons her up.

“Let’s go.”

00:52

Niall and Aisling have been sitting around the kitchen island, a half-finished bottle of whiskey on the countertop between them. Aisling’s heels are discarded somewhere near the front door, her feet resting on the unoccupied stool to Niall’s left. He’s rubbing her shins in between pulls of liquor, his navy blazer thrown over the couch, the top few buttons of his crisp white shirt opened to show his patch of chest hair.

They haven’t really said much in the fifteen minutes they’ve been home. Niall knows when to bite, and he knows that getting Aisling reacquainted with whiskey will make the conversation a lot easier.

So they sit. And he jokes. And she smiles.

It’s only after Niall says something stupid that makes Aisling snort—something that should be completely unattractive to most but Niall finds it incredible endearing—that her words make Niall’s heart stop.

“God, now I remember why I had such a crush on you in uni,” Aisling says after a pull of whiskey.

Niall stops his laughing, eyes immediately going wide. “Wait, what?”

“Oi, quit being an eejit,” she says with a roll of her hazel eyes. “Don’t act surprised, everybody knew.”

But Niall can’t help it. He is surprised.

Why hadn’t anybody told him? More so, why hadn’t she told him?

Was he really the only person who didn’t know?

“Aisling, why didn’t you tell me?” Niall asks, his voice void of teasing. He’s honest and when she looks deep into his ocean eyes, Aisling realizes that she probably shouldn’t have mentioned the crush she had on him in uni seven years ago.

“I genuinely thought you knew. Christ Niall, everybody knew,” she whispers, placing the whiskey bottle back on the table separating them.

“I just—I,” Niall’s confused. And overwhelmed. And slightly angry with himself. “Just wish I knew, is all.”

“Why? It wouldn’t have changed anything, Niall. It was years ago. And you were with Sheri. It really isn’t a big deal, I shouldn’t have said anything—”

“—Don’t do that,” Niall says abruptly, cutting her off.

Aisling’s eyes widen, mirroring Niall’s. “Do what?”

Niall huffs in response, running a frustrated hand through his messy hair. “Act like your feelings don’t matter. They do. And I just—fuck, I dunno, Aisling. I just wish I fucking knew.”

“Why, what would you have done?” Aisling asks, repeating herself, half out of annoyance and half out of sheer curiosity. She truly wishes she just kept her fucking mouth shut.

“Who knows,” Niall says, grabbing the whiskey bottle for himself and pouring it down his throat. “Probably would have spared myself the heartache of dating a girl who could give less of a shit about me. But hey, the past is in the past. New year and all that. New beginnings or summat.” He holds up the bottle in a false cheers, his eyes dull and harsh.

Aisling’s replaying what he said earlier over and over in her head, watching as her best mate continues to gulp back whiskey.

Act like your feelings don’t matter.

Has she been doing that for years now? Acting like her feelings are insignificant, like everybody else’s feelings are more important than hers? Like every thought she has is just her completely overthinking everything?

She reaches out and grabs the bottle from Niall’s lips, placing it on the countertop in front of them with a gentle thud.

“It’s not that I don’t think my feelings matter,” Aisling starts, her voice a small mumble. “It’s just—nobody bothers to ask. I’m always helping everybody else with their problems, and it’s not that I don't want to, because I’d do it for anybody. I’m just different, I suppose. I keep things in, because sometimes the things I try and say are just shit, if I’m being honest. So I don’t really say anything.”

Niall sighs sadly, reaching across the countertop for Aisling’s hand instead of the whiskey bottle.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Niall starts, a sad look on his face. “I’m sorry I never bother to ask sometimes. It’s just, fuck Aisling, you’re just hard to read sometimes. And it’s so frustrating ‘cos you’re my best mate, yeah? I care about you so much.” Niall’s thumbs are brushing against Aisling’s hands and she tries her hardest not to shudder. “Hate when you keep things in. Need you to tell me, yeah?”

Aisling nods and she prays that Niall keeps his hands in hers.

“‘M sorry too, Niall. Care about you, too. Quite a bit.” Aisling is wondering if she’s imagining Niall leaning closer towards her, or if she just wants it to happen so badly that she’s conjuring it up in her own head.

Sitting across from Aisling in their tiny kitchenette, Niall wonders if he’s ever truly thought about kissing her before tonight. Sure, Aisling’s always been beautiful. And sure, she’s been one of his closest mates ever since they first moved in together. But as he sits here, watching the way her skin glows from the overhead lights, watching the way she’s slowly leaning in towards him, he’s really thinking about it.

So he leans in, too.

And he kisses her.

01:14

When they break apart, Aisling feels as if she’s on fire. Her forearms are balancing her upper body on the countertop, and Niall’s longer arms are holding her elbows tightly. Blue eyes meet hazel and their faces are so close that Aisling’s eyelashes are tickling the apples of Niall’s cheeks.

They’re breathing each other in before Aisling’s hand wraps around the back of Niall’s neck and she’s bringing his lips against hers for another searing kiss.

He reacts almost instantly, bringing one hand away from her elbow and up to her cheek, slotting his bottom lip over her top lip and holding back a groan from the back of his throat.

They break apart again, the edge of the counter digging into Aisling’s chest in an uncomfortable way. She sits back against the chair on her knees, her breathing labored and eyes blown wide. Niall’s staring at her, taking in her rosy cheeks and her messy hair, her swollen lips and huffing chest.

He thinks she’s the prettiest thing he’s seen all night. (Even though he knew that to begin with, to be fair).

So he stands up, holding an outstretched hand towards her body, giving her a boyish grin to which she returns instantly. “C’mere.”

Aisling practically jumps into his arms then, leaning her entire torso onto his with her arms wrapped securely around his neck. She can feel Niall’s forearms against the small of her back, and she’s standing on the tips of her toes in order to press her lips fully against his.

Niall squeezes against her hips and Aisling gasps, her mouth opening against his allowing him to lap his tongue against her own. It’s everything and more, and the sound exploding from the back of his throat practically causes Aisling to melt against his chest.

His hand is knotted into her hair, pulling back slightly so that she can reach his mouth. Aisling slowly starts to back Niall up against the wall adjacent to the hallway, and with that support he can run his hands down her back and against her bum, squeezing the skin through her glittery dress. When he pulls away for a breath, Aisling starts to kiss down the hollow of his throat, sucking a lovebite against the juncture of his neck and shoulder, causing Niall to rock his hips against hers.

“Christ Aisling,” Niall says through a strained breath, his head falling back against the wall when she blows over the fresh mark on his skin.

She steps away cautiously, her eyes wide in anxiousness. Was she doing too much? Niall practically whines when the warmth of her body leaves his own far too quickly, and his arms stretch out to bring her back to him.

“Is it too much? We can stop and forget that it even—”

“—What? Christ, who’s being the eejit now? Don’t leave,” Niall rushes out frantically, pulling Aisling flush against his chest to continue what they were doing before she left.

Aisling giggles into his mouth and it’s probably the sweetest sound he’s ever heard (a close second to her groaning into his mouth earlier). Before she can retreat again, he begins walking them backwards until she’s pushed up against the wall separating their bedrooms.

He breaks away and looks at her with a cocked eyebrow, a smirk growing against his strawberry swollen lips. “Mine or yours, sweet Aisling?”

Aisling laughs a bit, her arms still locked around his neck. Her hands are playing with the hair against the back of his neck, and he’s practically purring at the feeling of it. Without really thinking much (because how could she with the way he was looking at her?) she grabs the closest doorknob to her (which so happens to be hers) and opens it swiftly, dragging Niall by his forearms into the room until the backs of her knees hit her mattress and she’s falling into it with a gentle thud.

It’s all tangled limbs and pulled hair and knocking teeth, and they both could never have imagined their night ending this way. Niall practically rips the hidden zipper of Aisling’s dress off (“Sorry babe, can’t stop thinkin’ about what you look like under it”), Aisling tears through the remaining buttons on his white dress shirt, running her fingers through the hair on his chest causing him to groan against her neck (“Do you like that, Niall?”), Niall flips them over and when he’s leaning over her staring at Aisling hungrily in her cute little matching underwear set, he’s practically drooling at the mouth (“Dear god Aisling, you’re beautiful”), and when they’re both stripped down to nothing but skin and Niall’s leaning on his forearms over her, pushing into her with one swift breath, Aisling can feel herself falling apart inside (“Christ Niall, you’re everything”).

And when it’s all over and done with and they’re both lying against each other, breathing in and out, Aisling suddenly has a realization.

Truth is, maybe her and Niall were alone. But, for one night at least, they could forget about that. Why be alone by yourself when you could be alone together?

So with that thought, she cuddles deeper into Niall’s chest, feeling his hand tread through her auburn hair softly. Before she drifts off, he presses a kiss to the crown of her head, mumbling a quiet Happy New Year, sweet Aisling into her hair.

And when she mutters it back to him, sealing it with a kiss to his collarbone, she actually believes it for once.

That it was, truly, a very happy New Year (in the end).

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k-s-morgan · 3 years

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You know, I always look forward to and dread your updates. Don’t get me wrong, I love your writing, your metas and all the fics you have written but ‘What he grows to be’ gives me such an upset feeling. Maybe dark stories are not my cup of tea but I’ve read dark stories before and they haven’t affected me the way yours does. Throughout the whole story my heart feels heavy but I can’t bring myself to stop reading. Also I have a question: could you please explain Harry’s devotion to Tom? Like I don’t study psychology or anything so I’m not an expert (so correct me if I’m wrong) but I don’t see a reason for Harry to sacrifice so much for someone like Tom who is nothing but cruel towards him. He’s been condescending always treating Harry like a helpless thing who needs looking after. He is cruel and manipulative and has a complete disregard towards anything about personal boundaries. I mean he’s basically ,in a loose term, a psychopath. I can understand the way you write Tom, I don’t get the way you’ve written Harry. He’s so weak. He has none of that courage he used to have in the books. He doesn’t have that spirit that made me fall in love with him. He gives in so easily. He forgives easily. He has no morals left. He’s not the Harry I know. Like he literally excused multiple murders Tom committed because he loves him? It’s just so hard to comprehend. I tried to put myself in Harry’s place and instead of feeling sympathetic towards him, I felt angry at how much he has lost himself. I don’t see any thing good in Tom. I would understand for Harry to love him with such abandon if he has anything good in him. But Tom has done nothing but made him suffer. Why did Harry change so much? Just because he only has Tom in this world? Because he raised him? Tom was never a helpless, innocent child for Harry to feel compassion towards him. He was cruel and manipulative from the beginning. It just frustrates me how Harry keeps forgiving Tom and then apologizing to him after his ‘punishments’. It might be cruel for Harry to ‘die’ as a punishment but still does it warrant him forgiving Tom so easily after the atrocities he has committed? It’s a complex situation, I understand and truly I don’t mean to offend you or anything. I’m just trying to understand. I’d love to hear your thoughts on this because you know them better than I do as it is your own story. I don’t know if it makes me a bad person but it always gives me so much satisfaction to see Tom suffer even though it’s for such a short time. Please tell me he won’t get away with everything like always does and that Harry won’t just forgive him easily like he usually does. Because what Tom just did was so cruel and horrifying that I was in shock when I read it. The way he used Harry’s weakeness against him... sorry for the rant!

Hello! First of all, thank you so much for such a long and detailed ask - it's always great to know that my work affects people, even if it evokes so much frustration :D I firmly believe in the death of the author concept, so I don't feel like I can impose my understanding of characters on my readers. Everyone sees them in different ways: some readers think Harry overreacted, others think he should kill Tom and be done with it, etc. What He Grows to Be is certainly a disturbing story, and I think it differs from my other works because Tom and Harry are very different. With Will and Hannibal, violence and manipulations are mutual while here, Harry is genuinely kind and empathetic, and Tom takes advantages of that.

As for my personal view: I don't think Harry is weak. I think he is very fucked up, even more so than in canon because he had to live through even more trauma after the war in WHGTB. In canon, being understanding, forgiving, and empathetic are some of Harry's major traits. It always shakes me to think about how he named his child Albus Severus after two people who caused him so much pain. Yes, Dumbledore loved him in his own way, but ultimately, Harry was his weapon. Years of abuse, every interaction, every test - everything was done with a purpose of manipulating him into being a perfect self-sacrificial hero. And yet Harry still loves Dumbledore with devotion, he still holds awe for him. Same with Snape: yes, he wasn't as terrible of a person as Harry imagined. He suffered a lot, he tried to redeem himself, but Harry never saw anything but hostility and derision from him. And yet he forgives everything to the point of naming a child after him because Snape loved his mother and took care of him.

Harry didn't hate his relatives after years of abuse. He managed to feel empathy even for Voldemort, and not just once. He tried to give him a chance during the final battle, tried to make him see where he went wrong - that speaks of a unique kind of compassion and a big lack of self-worth. In WHGTB, due to the circumstances, all these traits are amplified.

As it could be expected, the story of Harry's all-encompassing love for Tom started with pity. When he first adopted him, he felt reserved and wary. He didn't like him, he didn't trust him, but he still started to grow attached to him because that's who Harry is: he can't share meals, teach, talk, and decorate house with a person without feeling something for them in the process. When Tom broke the vase and tried to repair it, terrified and guilty, Harry's pity and attachment won out. In that moment, he saw a little fragile boy who was never loved and who craved approval and acceptance. And Harry was determined to give it to him.

For a while, like you said, Tom was rude and condescending. But he showed he's capable of regret and remorse. He tried to heal Harry after hurting him; he listened to him with fascination during lessons and was willing to change his ideas; he laughed and cooked with him. Affection got stronger, and with it, what seemed annoying started to come across like lovable quirks. Harry despised Tom's showing-off at first, but then, after he got used to him and his company, he started finding it funny and endearing. He invested all of himself into this child, making him into his life goal - he couldn't not love him. He started to live for the small moments of Tom's affection and acceptance. His love for Ron, Hermione, his parents, Sirius - it combined and focused on Tom alone because in many ways, Tom was the key to making sure that when these people are born, they live a fulfilling and happy life. In Harry's mind, the more he loved Tom, the more chances of succeeding he had, and then the boundaries of this love started to blur, and Tom began to genuinely outshine every other person he has ever known because he was there and others were not.

When Gringotts happened and Tom's perception shifted, Harry was showered with his absolute devotion and focus. You said that you don't see anything good in Tom, but Harry does - and it's also important to remember that before Beth, Tom was very careful about not letting him see his real face. In Harry's eyes, Tom learned to help others, like when he offered his hand to a Muggle boy. He discarded the ideas of blood superiority and developed a far more moral outlook. He learned to be caring, worrying about Harry when he's sick, making potions for him, covering him with a blanket at night, helping other students, achieving equality, etc. Tom's devotion is a completely irresistible thing to Harry because he's always been responsive to kindness, no matter how limited it was.

After Beth, it was already too late for him. Love and empathy are a terrible weapon in Harry's case: he can't just unlove someone who has become his main life purpose. The only way is to try to understand Tom, and as long as this understanding exists, Harry finds an ability to forgive him.

You said Tom has done nothing but make him suffer, but for Harry, that's not true. 80% of time he spends with Tom is the happiest time of his life. Tom became the only person in his world, the person Harry poured of all his love, loneliness, and longing into. Tom is a family Harry never had. He was a child Harry could relate to, so he spoiled him, argued with him, shopped with him, and basked in the happiness of making him smile; Tom was a friend ready to listen and reassure, to discuss how their days passed, to do something fun together; now, Tom has started to slowly growing into something more. The celebrations, the shopping, the holidays, the flying - all these are happy memories for Harry. The only major instances of pain were Beth and now Charlus. Harry feels shattered every time Tom comes close to acting on his darkness, but as compared to the time they spend together, happiness still exceeds the heartbreak.

When it comes to breaking his limits, Harry doesn't forgive easily. He didn't speak to Tom 6 months after Beth and he subjected him to a terrible trauma as punishment; the thought of Tom killing Charlus almost drove him crazy, but he couldn't ignore the fact that it happened before the system and that Tom has been trying since then. After the ritual, Harry leaves - and yes, I can assure you that forgiveness is definitely not coming any time soon! Although as the toxic cycle of their relationship shows, Harry can't really stay away from Tom indefinitely either.

Harry is happy with Tom, and he knows Tom loves him. He understands that Tom is a psychopath and that ordinary criteria cannot apply to him, and so he struggles with making sure that Tom follows a lighter path while praising him every time there is some progress. In many ways, Harry succeeded: Tom is not planning on massive destruction. He doesn't discriminate; he made sure that other purebloods became more tolerant; he still wants power, but he's getting to it in ways that don't presuppose violence and murder. Every time Tom shows darkness, it's in an instance concerning Harry.

Harry loves being loved, even though Tom's love is not healthy. He loves being protected because this is something he missed severely in his first life. A big part of him wants to be taken care of, to let go and just enjoy life without constantly having to make difficult decisions. Tom gives him that, and under some conditions, they could be happy together, finding a perfect balance.

Alas, it's not going to happen any time soon (or maybe at all ;)!

#my fics #tomarry

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mattzerella-sticks · 3 years

Text

Not Here for Me

If he had the choice, Dean never would have stepped foot inside this place. But Sam was curious - and curious is a hell of a lot better than the depression that clung to him day after day since Jess left him. So Dean swallows his pride, joins Sam as his babysitter. So he won't get find himself in any trouble. Trouble, however, is more likely to find Dean. In the bowels of his personal hell, can Dean resist temptations that have plagued him his entire life? Or will someone descend and lend a hand, showing Dean that the darkness he imagined only lived inside his own mind. And all that he feared was not as he seemed if he let himself step out of the shadows of his past.

(Dean/Cas, Human AU, 2000s-set, 8,113 words, tw: Dean’s childhood & upbringing by one John Winchester)

ao3

His ears hurt. Dean stares at a small puddle of maybe-water-maybe-vodka that collected on the bar top, focusing on it instead of the pounding bass drum and blender whirring that’s somehow considered music. At least that’s what Sam told him seconds after entering, meeting Dean’s disgruntlement with patented exasperation. Floppy bangs pushed back for its full effect. “You’re such an old man,” he said, “Can you pretend you’re happy being here?”

“That depends,” he fired back, brow raised. Pulled taut like a bowstring, retort knocked and waiting. He lets it fly, “How quick do you think I can get drunk?”

The answer – very quickly. Dean balked when Sam ordered them these bubbling potions the color of lava lamps mixed with Barbie vomit. Served in dainty glasses Dean could easily break if he applied even a fraction of pressure between his thumb and forefinger. Rim lined with salt and a wedge of lime. Sam suggested they cheers. He chugged his before Sam raised the glass. He flagged the bartender, ignoring Sam’s glare. “What the hell did I drink?” he asked.

The bartender pursed his lips, eyes dragging over Dean’s frame as if he were stripping him bare in the room; peeling away the layers of his jacket and plaid button-down and faded band tee like they were tissue, freckled-and-pale skin freed for the bartender’s enjoyment. He sowed seeds of unwanted fantasies. Dean cleared his throat, repeating the question, digging out those dropped seedlings before the bartender’s imagined wanderings might flower.

If Dean wanted to encourage attention, he’d have dressed like him. Mesh shirt with uneven holes, some stretched wider than most. Its woven fabric failed at hiding the sweat that dampened his obviously spray-tanned skin, strips of orange paint peeling like a rind. The bartender wiped his brow, a streak of bright white skin revealed. “A strawberry margarita.”

“Of course,” Dean nodded at the selection behind him, “got anything that doesn’t taste too… sugary?” A frown dragged every wrinkle and crease forward on the bartender’s face. He clarified, “A beer. What beer do you have?”

They didn’t have any. Dean asked for a vodka neat, Sam criticizing his choice as the bartender retreated. “You’re so boring.” That was three vodka neats ago.

Sam left his station beside Dean soon after his first drink, swept away in the tide of bodies pulsing in the center of the club. Each individual moving to a different beat. Their dancing unsyncopated and wild. Yet, despite how hopeless it looked, bodies acting independently from one another, the writhing mass shared one mind. Although, even assimilated by the crowd, Dean can keep track of his little brother. Head poking free of the mass like some odd periscope. Scanning every few seconds until their gazes met and then submerging once more.

Dean isn’t searching for him now. He studies his small puddle of definitely-vodka. He swiped his finger through it earlier and sucked it dry; cheeks hollow, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Dean heard someone’s glass shatter over the wretched din of noise, timed perfectly with his finger popping out of his mouth like a burst bubble. The sharp smell of alcohol fries his nose hairs. It dulls the throbbing ache caused by his surroundings, Dean’s frayed nerves sparking underneath, jumping like live wires since Sam detailed their plans for this evening.

“You wanna go to a gay bar?”

Sam rolled his eyes with so much force they rattled inside his skull like a novelty magic eight-ball, his hazel gaze landing on him, answer written neatly, ‘It is decidedly so’. Dean shook it again, scoffing. The answer changed. Not in Dean’s favor. ‘Yes – definitely’.

“Why?” Dean leaned across their small table, “Are you…?” He asks with a wry twist of his lips and a limp wrist.

“I don’t know,” Sam told him.

“You don’t know? Isn’t that a requirement for a – a gay bar?”

“Not necessarily,” he explained, sitting across from Dean finally. Sam’s windbreaker swooshed with every dramatic sweep of his arm. “I mean… sure, most of the people there are gay. But it’s not like they make you flash some official gay card at the door…” Expression pinched, he powered head, avoiding the conversational detour and sticking to the main highway of his argument. “Besides, there’s more than just gay.”

Dean nodded, “Like what?”

“Bisexual, Pansexual… Asexual, Demisexual –“

“I think I might be that,” Dean laughed, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “It means you’re attracted to Demi Moore, right? Because if Kutcher weren’t in the picture, I’d definitely be all up in her business!”

“Don’t be an ass, Dean,” Sam said, “Demisexuality is a real thing, okay? It’s only being attracted to people who you have a deep, intimate bond with.”

“Oh, is that so?” He stretched his legs out from beneath the table, knocking into Sam’s. “That what you’re learning in college? I thought you wanted to be a lawyer. Or were you a bit presumptuous when you made that e-mail, lawboy?”

“I still do,” Sam muttered, cheeks tinted a dark shade. “I… it was one of these classes I have to take, for my degree. Made me think about things I never knew about and – and stuff I said that, looking back, was… kind of offensive. That we joked about, what dad would say, sometimes…” Dean tuned Sam out partly, a refreshing static separating him from Sam’s words. Standard whenever Sam mentioned their dad, or if he saw something that reminded him of dad, or if dad cared enough to leave a voicemail for Sam on their shared answering machine. The little antenna on his brain’s radio drooped slightly, making Dean fiddle for the signal. He managed to catch the remainder of Sam’s monologue, barely. “…it’s a whole new world!”

“No, it isn’t,” Dean sighed, tiredly scrubbing his chin. “Sam, you’ve only ever liked girls.”

“To my knowledge!” Sam insisted, “I might’ve liked a boy, possibly. Maybe. I mean… do you remember Trevor?”

“Trevor?”

“Y’know, Trevor,” he fumbled through his memories, silence painstakingly ticking past. The clicking of their kitchen clock suddenly, obnoxiously loud. “That kid from that town we stayed at for about two months my sophomore year of high school, up in Montana.”

Dean remembered that town. GED burning a hole in his pocket, he bummed through town hunting for a job since dad hightailed it for a phantom thread of a lead on their mother’s murderer. Not many folks were hiring, but a stern man in a rough-hewn Stetson and bushy mustache needed an extra ranch hand. Introduced Dean to his son, Dean’s new co-worker. Steve was a nice boy, older than him by a few years, with a warm temperament, skin tanned like leather from a life of fieldwork, and legs bent further than Dean’s by riding horses since birth.

One day while tending the horses, Steve noticed how Dean’s focus drifted every few seconds, drawn to the saddles. “We can go for a ride,” he mentioned, “one night, around the property.”

“I wouldn’t even know how to get on a horse, let alone ride it.”

Steve chuckled, shoulders barely shaking from the act. His honeyed eyes were earnest and gooey in the filtered sunlight, distracting Dean more than saddles ever did. “I can show you,” he said, “it ain’t too hard.” He proved that by using their lunch break to teach Dean how to mount a horse. He demonstrated it, legs wrapping around its thick flanks, showboating and urging the steed forward by tapping his heels while Dean laughed, head dizzy from spinning, following Steve and the horse, as well as other things. “Think you can try it?” Dean didn’t. He shook his head, lip trapped between his teeth. Speaking felt blasphemous in that moment. “What if I helped?” Steve offered a hand, easily hefting Dean up atop the horse. They shared the saddle, Dean bracketed by Steve’s sturdy arms and supported by his firm chest. Dean felt every tug of the reigns as Steve guided the horse around the stable, and every whispered breath along his neck. Steve dismounted first, holding Dean’s hips and helping him down later. “Now imagine how nice that’d be, out on the plains, with nothing but the moon watching us?” He painted a pretty picture, even if Dean’s copied brushstrokes were shaky and inelegant. They made plans the following Friday.

John returned Tuesday, and they left Wednesday. He’d never been near a horse since.

But they weren’t talking about Steve. Why did he think of Steve? “Trevor?” Dean repeated, still unsure what Sam’s flailing meant.

“My lab partner,” he said, “We bonded over our mutual appreciation of Vince Vincente and the Goonies… there were some days he’d give me the extra sandwich his mom packed, for some reason?”

“You mean to tell me you had a crush on this Trevor kid?”

“I might have!” Sam rose, shouting, “He was… he treated me well, and I liked hanging around him.”

“He was your friend, Sam. Friend,” Dean sunk deeper into his seat, kicking Sam’s abandoned chair. “You have had friends in your life, right? I know I joke about you being a loser, but I never really meant it…”

“Of course I had friends,” he scowled, “I have friends.”

“And you’ve had girlfriends,” Dean reminded him, “Hell, you and Jess only broke up about a month ago! Did Trevor give you feelings like Jess did?”

Sam visibly faltered, stooping slightly. Footing lost as the ground trembled beneath his feet. “Well… no, I mean – not, not that I can recall…” Spluttering, his hands balled tighter into fists. “But maybe it’s different, feelings for a boy and – and feelings for a girl.”

“Sam, feelings are feelings regardless of who’s on the other end of ‘em. You just… you just know –“

Like he regressed two decades, Sam stomped his foot in a very childish way. Whining, “God, Dean, can’t you be a little supportive!” Immediately his face stretched in regret, rubber band snapping as he leaped forward in years to his appropriate age. It didn’t matter; the barb struck exactly where it intended, puncturing soft underbelly, unguarded by Dean’s calloused defenses.

Dean stiffened; gaze drawn to a whorl in the table’s finish. His thumb pressed hard at its center. He snorted, but it sounded more like an engine backfiring. “Supportive huh?” he asked, smile wide and wry, “You want me to be more supportive?” Thousands of examples flickered like a clip reel in his mind. Small things. Dean skipping breakfast so Sam can eat the last of their cereal. Wearing the same clothes, weeks on end, because Sam needed a new wardrobe, reedy body bigger than what they had. Risking arrest with every five-finger discount or hustled game or back alley trick; supporting the way their dad couldn’t.

Bigger things. Lying, letting Sam play over at other kids’ houses; Dean frozen, watching the door in fear their dad came home early. Hiding letters from admissions for Sam, secreted from beneath their dad’s nose. He was an ever-present figure during those last few years. A shadowy patrol that continually followed since they were old enough. Dad had more use for men then children. Dean went as far as distracting him one starless night while Sam escaped, then accepted the consequences of his actions. He joined Sam weeks later with Baby’s keys and a split lip caused by, who he described to Sam as, some jackass biker. It healed in time for an interview, for a job he still has. Six days a week spent under the hoods of cars, working long hours and earning money to support them both, like before. Giving Sam the very freedoms he’d been denied – time, luxury, and safety.

He held these words firm in his mouth, smoke bitter as it roiled. But, in his next breath, Dean released the past with a low hiss. Darkness rising, dissipating. “It’s okay,” he assured Sam, cutting off his rambling apologies. “Really.” He glanced at Sam’s outfit, fully taking in his choices. A color-blocked jacket of bright colors, reds, yellows, and oranges, that glowed over his tight, dark button-down. A hint of some printed graphic peeking behind the half-zippered flaps. Combined with a pair of Sam’s most distressed denim and flip-flops because It’s California, Dean, and you know how awful my feet sweat. As a whole Sam presented like a grade-A douchebag. Entirely unprepared for any bar, let alone a gay one. Dean’s instincts kicked into overdrive.

“Fine,” he decided, standing, too, “you want supportive? Then I’m coming with you.”

“What?” Sam trailed Dean’s wake as he left for his bedroom, cornering him while he slipped into some ratty white sneakers left by his dresser. “You’re coming?”

“Sure.”

“But… why?” Sam slammed his hand on Dean’s doorframe, blocking his exit. “You’re not gay.”

Dean frowned at him, “I thought you didn’t have to be gay to go to a gay bar?”

“Yeah, but –“ He knocked Sam’s arm loose, passing his brother on the way towards the door. Sam followed, buzzing behind like a mosquito. “You don’t seriously wanna go, do you?”

“Obviously not,” Dean said, sliding into an oversized leather jacket. Another relic of their dad’s. Dean couldn’t leave without it. He couldn’t explain why. “But since you’re insisting on doing this, I might as well make sure you don’t get taken advantage of.”

“That won’t happen.”

“You kidding? A guy like you, wobbling around like a fawn – a sort of gay Bambi… you’d get eaten alive instantly. Or drugged.” He squeezed Sam’s shoulder, the finger of his other hand pressed into his brother’s chest like it was an intercom button, pushing so forcefully Dean thought it might burst through the other side. “I don’t need the stress of finding out you died at this gay bar because some idiot overestimated the amount of roofies they’d need to take down your elephant-sized ass.”

Sam cringed at his worst-case scenario but hadn’t shrugged his hand off. Instead he returned the gesture with his own comforting touch around Dean’s wrist. “Okay,” Sam said, “you can come. Don’t embarrass me though, by being an ass.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Hey,” Sam said later, Baby idling in front of a red light. Zeppelin blaring through her speakers, making conversation difficult. Dean lowered it for his brother. “What’d you think dad’d say, if he knew where we were going?”

Dad’s opinion, of his two sons wasting their night in a gay bar, would ruffle the feathers of Sam’s newfound sensitivity. He hears their dad’s voice clearly, delivering a tirade about their terrible choices. Dean spent his time at the bar drowning that voice since arriving. He drains his fourth-or-fifth glass of its contents. It all splashes like the others, into his empty, churning stomach. Dad’s voice, the awful music, his nerves and senses slip out of mind. He sees dregs of vodka left in his glass. He uses the same finger that swiped through the tiny bar puddle and swirls it there, coating in in more vodka. Again, Dean sucks on his finger.

Someone approaches while his lips graze knuckle.

“If you get tired of that finger…” a stranger says on his right, reeking of cherry-and-liquored stink. Dean’s face scrunches at the smell. “I’ve got this big thing you can suck on…” His gaze wanders to where the stranger is.

He’s a man with severely gelled hair, plastered back. A few strands were missed in the initial sweep and clung to his forehead, shiny and wet, making it seem like oil slowly bled down. He chokes on a gold chain that resembles a collar, broad neck seizing as he breathes. Steroids, Dean wagers, given how bulging veins snake past the sleeves of his stretched-thin shirt. Which makes him doubt the man’s ‘big’ claim. He arches a stupidly perfect, sculpted brow, leaning far past the bubble of Dean’s personal space. “You’d definitely have a lot more fun than playing with your finger,” he adds, taking Dean’s silence as an apparent invitation.

He can’t remember when his finger slid free, but it did and, while spit-slick, jabs at Roidy’s brick-wall chest. “Not interested pal,” he says, “Why don’t you try a different fella?”

“What if I don’t want a different fella?”

“Then you are s’stupid as you look.” Dean waves, flagging the bartender for his next vodka. “Why don’t you take your big package crap elsewhere?”

Undeterred, Roidy leans closer. Fingertips ghosting where Dean holds his glass as the bartender refills it. He tenses, squirming, imagining the very oil that drips from the man’s head coats his fingers, too, and through his touch smears it around Dean’s wrist. “Listen, you might not know this… but I made a promise tonight. That I would fuck the hottest, sexiest piece of trade in the club tonight. And congratulations… that’s you.”

Dean squints, mockingly cooing at the other’s assessment. “I feel honored,” he says, sarcasm heavy like the hand pouring his drinks this evening. “Special, even,” Dean continues, “don’t know how anyone could turn y’away after that.”

“No one does.”

“Then I guess I’ll be the first?” Dean asks. The bartender huffs softly under breath, he and Dean reveling silently. They connect over this interloper’s antics. With a subtle shift in the bartender’s gaze, a snide flash of teeth, Dean understands. He’s not the first, only the latest. Certainly not the last.

What he wants to be, though, is left alone. That doesn’t seem likely. Not with how Roidy gloms onto Dean’s side, an arm curling around his shoulders. Not if his biting smile meant anything, tearing through Dean’s dismissals. Not as Roidy whispers, barely audible because of the music, “If you’re going for discreet, I can do that… play along, that is. It wouldn’t be worth it if it were easy…”

Dean’s mood sinks under such nauseating charms. He looks for assistance in the bartender, but he swam to safer shores at some point, serving drinks elsewhere. Unfortunate. He was starting to like him.

Roidy snuffles Dean’s neck, alarms clanging within his head. Or possibly it’s coming from the many speakers placed throughout the bar. Either way that plus everything he drank, make thinking complicated and tortuously slow, like Roidy nosing along his collarbone. His thoughts fall apart before they make it to his mouth, Dean opening and shutting and opening his mouth hoping a few words can crawl themselves into existence. He manages a few garbled syllables that are greatly ignored.

As swiftly as Roidy began his assault, he’s being tugged off him. Dean gasps for breath, spinning, facing the dancefloor now. Glaring at Roidy who glares elsewhere, at the owner of the hand that cleaved this growth from Dean’s side.

It’s beautiful, for a hand. Tan, palm curled around Dean’s shoulder protectively. No cuts or scabs across the knuckles, nor any scars. If he were to touch it, he imagines the skin there is soft and smooth. Dean’s gaze travels, curious who might own such a gentle hand.

Chasing the sinewy lines of his savior’s arms to broad shoulders, Dean feels his chest tighten in a desperate need for fresh air. However, it’s not terrifying like before with Roidy. This is unique and comforting. He inhales, then exhales. He has no trouble breathing. He still feels that tightness. Crushing once he finds his savior’s face.

Marble. Statues are carved from stone – marble, specifically – he remembers from an old teacher’s droned lecture that returned with vengeance. Spoken during a field trip to some museum where Dean barely stayed awake as they flew room to room, always seconds from collapsing, waking momentarily for the next exhibit. Except when they entered a room of statues, and Dean managed fifteen minutes of attentiveness. Aided by chiseled features of a statue hidden between two columns near the farthest corner of the room. A man, naked, endowed, frozen in repose and staring into the distance. It might have been at a bathroom door, Dean’s memory supplied, but the statue saw beyond such borders. Dean wished he knew what existed where only statues can see. All he understood was the expression. Marble evoked steel. The statue displayed determination, tempered and ready for whatever barrels forward, with a hint of sorrow he must greet what is to come. The same expression shone on his savior’s face triggering his sudden recollection. Only his was brighter because of those eyes. An incomparable blue.

On first glance, Dean wonders if that statue perhaps came alive. Journeyed from wherever it stood, in that town whose name he can’t summon up, to save him. Except that’s impossible. That statue is most likely there, forever guarding the bathroom. Blue Eyes is a man with his own history, parallel to Dean’s until he jumped in playing hero. But why?

He can’t think of a reasonable explanation, because Blue Eyes finally speaks. “Hey babe,” he growls, Dean jolting from the pitch, like he stepped, shoeless, on glass shards littering the floor. An abundance of them must slip loose from Blue Eyes’ mouth whenever it opens after they shredded his vocal cords. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was crazy.”

What?

“What?”

“Didn’t you get my text?” he asks Dean. Then, subtly checking on Roidy who watches, fuming from the sidelines, he makes an odd clicking sound. “Or were your hands full, and you couldn’t check?”

“His hands were full all right,” Roidy interrupts, not waiting for Dean’s response. He tries shoving Blue Eyes back, but he refuses to budge. His strength real and not decorative like Roidy’s. He falters slightly; adjusts course and snags a fistful of Blue Eyes’ white button-down in case Blue Eyes wastes energy trying what Roidy did. “Why don’t you leave and let your babe hang with someone who’s there when he needs him?”

Blue Eyes squints, lips slowly stretching, like a match dragged across a striker, until the flame of a smirk dances into view. “I can assure you, that’s exactly who I am. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He does. He should. Blue Eyes listens for Dean’s answer, chin dipped patiently. Roidy’s is, as well. Both wait on him, Dean the difference between favor and disgrace. It’s a non-decision. He eases into his savior’s warmth, improvising by slipping his thumb through a belt loop on the other side. “Exactly,” Dean says, “you’re all I need, sweetie.”

Dean knows there’s no reason to turn from Blue Eyes. Temptation wins, and he chances a peek at the loser. Roidy fumes, his sneer somehow making him appear uglier. He wipes at his brow, disrupting those few, sticky strands, and reveals covered pockmarks. They appear horn-like, in the bar’s dim lighting. That cherry-and-liquor scent sours, suddenly pungent like rotten eggs. “Whatever,” he mutters, letting Blue Eyes go, “your boyfriend’s a fucking tease.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Dean drawls, laughing, squeezing Blue Eyes tighter. Encouraged by his presence. “At least you’ll know it’s consen-u-tal!”

Roidy departs dreadfully, saluting them with his middle finger. Dean responds with a raised glass that quickly empties itself down his throat. Slumping onto the bar, releasing Blue Eyes, Dean motions for the bartender’s return. “Hey,” he slurs, “another vodk-eh and, uh…” He scowls, studying the rack, an array of alcohol lined up. “Shit, man,” he asks his savior, “what’s your poison?”

“Tequila,” Blue Eyes tells the bartender, frowning at Dean, “You sure you’re good for this?”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“That you look like you’ve had enough.” Blue Eyes accepts the glass of tequila, tapping its rim against his chin, lime wedge hitting the corner of his quirked lips. “How many of those vodkas have you had?”

“’Bout this many,” he answers, hand open. Dean hums, considering the number. “Maybe one or two more. Or less? I must’ve lost count…” He shrugs, sipping at his latest drink. “S’okay, though, I once drank this meathead trucker under the table. A whole bottle of ol’ Jack at this… roadhouse off a highway somewhere east a’here.” Vodka sloshes with each gesture while he retells the story. “So I’ve got tolernance.”

“Clearly.” Blue Eyes chuckles, and Dean – not sure for what reason – joins him. He can’t hear much of it, but the bits of his laughter that break over the bar’s chaotic din make Dean giddy. “Thank you,” he nods at his tequila, “for the drink.”

“Hey, I’m the one thankin’ here buddy,” Dean says, “I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you hadn’t stepp-epped in when you did. Probably somethin’ punchy.”

“He would have deserved it,” he finally tips his glass back. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs in rhythm with Blue Eyes’, even if his drink rests miles away on the bar top. “Hey,” Blue Eyes continues, smiling, fiddling with the lime wedge, “what’s your name?”

“Why you wanna know?”

“Well, usually I know the names of the men who buy me drinks. Especially those who buy them for me after I’ve scared off pervy creeps.”

“You make a habit of this, then?”

“No,” Blue Eyes says, “you’re the first.”

Unlike with Roidy, Dean believes him. “Dean.”

“Castiel,” he reveals, simultaneously sticking the lime in his mouth. Teeth locked around it, he drains the wedge of its juice. Dean blushes, and the rush of blood to his head brings dizziness. Resting one hand on the bar doesn’t help. Neither does two. Castiel finishes his drink, placing the glass and shriveled lime near Dean’s hands, and yet his sudden lightheadedness persists.

Castiel must notice this queasiness, because he grazes Dean’s elbow. Uses words Dean cannot presently grasp. A wave of concern sweeps across Castiel’s features, transforming them. Drawing Dean closer, lost in his orbit.

A diversion is necessary. “So, Cas,” he starts, their faces inches from each other. To talk easier. “You gay?”

“Uh…” Belatedly, Dean realizes his stupidity. His jaw drops, as if he can vacuum the question back. Pretend he never said it. Castiel, looking saintly under the bar’s neon glow, recovers faster. Replies before Dean might withdraw. “Yeah, yes I’m… I’m gay. Be pretty weird if I wasn’t.”

“I must be pretty weird, huh,” Dean thinks aloud. He smacks his lips. They taste oddly like a morning where, after playing some hilarious prank on Sam, he came to with old socks stuffed into his duct taped mouth.

Castiel skews his head to the side. “Why are you weird?”

“Because…” It’s a bad idea. He recognizes how bad an idea this is. However, recognition and action are completely separate. And while he succeeds in the former, he fails spectacularly with the latter. “I’m not gay.” Then, slurring, he whisper-shouts, “I’m straaaaight.”

“Really…” Castiel skims through tens of emotions Dean cannot discern with his vodka-addled brain. He settles on detachment, the tightness within his chest loosening as Cas inches backwards. Dean, instinctively, floats closer. That strain returns tenfold, like a python coiled itself around Dean. Squeezes him until Castiel bumps into a patron, bringing their chests flush together. Dean likes it even if he cannot breathe. Castiel smiles, but it’s noticeably different than those previously gifted. “If you’re straight, why are you at a gay bar?”

“You don’t have to be gay to be in a gay bar,” Dean supplies.

“It’d be a real plus though.” He barely caught Castiel’s mumbling. He can’t question what was meant, because Castiel clears his throat and repeats his question. “Why did you choose a gay bar for the evening?”

Dean glances at the dance floor. Sam hadn’t left, enmeshed between writhing bodies. “I’m not here for me. My brother – he thinks he’s gay… or somethin’ like it,” he tells Castiel, snorting when someone other than Sam rakes a paw through his hair. Awkwardness flashes like lightning, disappearing behind forced puppy-dog features and Sam’s too-wide grin. “He’s here expermimenting while I’m the… uh – the moral support.”

Castiel’s face publicizes his thoughts. The lines of his face twitch in simple patterns that are already familiar to Dean. And the pools of his eyes reflect the subdued variety of his feelings, providing needed transparency. With this change of his features, Dean guesses Castiel’s tensed mouthline and wishbone-bent eyebrows meant awe and respect. “That’s… very nice of you.”

“Least I can do,” Dean shrugs, tasting sock once more, “it’s not like I’ll need’ta do more. Kid’s straight as a… straight thing.”

Those pearled emotions seal themselves tightly in a clamshell, Castiel sending them back into murky depths. “How would you know?”

“Because I’ve known the kid all m’life, Cas. He’s a shit liar… at least to me he is.” Dean settles against the bar, past resurfacing. A clear memory from their younger years. Sam never finishing his dinners, but somehow dropping a clean plate into the trashcan every time. Followed by a question, like clockwork, about taking a walk. “Around the motel,” he said, “nothing further.” His father’s rules. Never plainly set, but strictly enforced. Dean learned of them the hard way. Sam agreed, not even fighting like he usually did. Maybe that’s why, one night, he left their motel a beat after Sam. Dean kept close tabs on his brother. Not stopping him as he disobeyed orders and crossed the street, nor when a crowd of adults poured out of some ritzy venue, stares scathing as he passed. He maintained distance, only toeing nearer as Sam slowed for a better view of the alleyway he paused at, of a three-legged dog hobbling out of a cardboard box, tongue lolling, tail wagging. Sam greeted him in similar fashion, kneeling at the edge where light and shadows gathered. He pet and pet and pet this stray, stopping only to reveal the portion of dinner he hadn’t eaten wrapped in several paper towels. Dean scurried off in the direction of the motel, asking Sam how his walk was once he returned. He relates all this to Castiel. “Sam loved dogs. Always wanted one assa pet…” If this was his chance, Dean figured he might help. Became more lenient. Gave Sam food from his plate, not that he ever noticed. Lied to John during those rare moments he was home. “Most of the things he got away with were only because I let him. I’m sure if he ever wanted a boyfriend he could’ve done it, and there I’d be covering his tracks like I did for his dog an’ his playdates an’ his girlfriends.”

“Wow, you…” Castiel trails off. Or perhaps he completed his thought, and Dean missed it because their arms are pressed together on the bar. Dean turns, watching the other’s soft contemplation instead of Sam. Castiel meets his gaze, those pearls reappearing. Shinier, too. “What happened to the dog?”

“Sam dropped off food the next two weeks, but by then our dad was dying to move on,” he explains, “I happened to overhear him bitchin’ on the phone and knew it’d be soon. So I took a personal day and brought his mutt t’the nearest shelter.” Hopefully Patchy found a good home, not that he cared.

“You’re a good brother.”

“I try my best.”

“Your best is better than a lot of people’s…” Castiel knocks his shoulder into Dean’s, Dean chasing after it. “My brothers’ idea of kindness is the occasional birthday e-mail, when the mood strikes them that is.”

“That sucks.” There’s more he wants to say, except Dean cannot make his mouth open again. When he finally unsticks his lips, he forgot all those words that seemed important moments ago. Replaced by off-tempo notes and cyclical phrases. Dean sighs, head lolling to the side while his lids slide closed over his eyes.

He exists in darkness. A warm, welcoming blackness, like being swaddled in a blanket. Hiding under it while winds howled and raged, sheets of rain slamming atop roofs and pelleting windows. Safe, protected.

That blanket is torn from him, Dean stumbling slightly. Castiel catches him and helps him stand upright, smirking. “Hey,” Dean whines, numb fingers twining loosely around Castiel’s wrist, “where you goin’?”

Castiel nods at the writhing mass, somehow larger since Dean last looked. “I feel like dancing.”

“No…” Dean tugs Castiel back towards him. He stays where he was. “Stay here,” Dean insists.

“Or…” Castiel says, prying Dean’s hand from his wrist. His needy fingers seep through the spaces between Castiel’s and he clings tight. “Or,” he repeats, breathier than before, “you can join me on the dancefloor?”

“I don’t dance, Cas…” His legs betray him, following Castiel into the fray. Vodka making his protests toothless. Vodka and Castiel.

He meant what he said, though. He does not dance. Men don’t dance. Real men. Normal men. Dad never danced, not even at his wedding. Even though mom begged, dad would tell them that he remained firm in his decision. “Never trust a man who dances,” he advised, Sam asleep feet from where they sat, beers in their hands. Dean was fourteen. “No man wants to dance. If he’s dancing, it means he’s weak enough to have lost that fight. And if he likes dancing, then that’s not the kind of man you want to be associating with.” Dean nodded, because at fourteen why not? Dad rarely gave guidance that wasn’t pointed, aimed directly at him. Cutting, slicing bits and pieces off and leaving them behind in whatever motel they briefly occupied.

With how Castiel moves, effortless and graceful, Dean bets he likes dancing. And if Castiel likes dancing, Dean wonders, truly, how bad it can be.

You want these people thinking you’re some kind of fairy? They already have, before he walked onto the dance floor. No son of mine is gonna dance with a man! Luckily, he won’t be dancing with one. He’ll dance, surrounded by men. Do you want to look gay, Dean? He won’t. Not if he says he doesn’t. Not if he says he isn’t.

A kid from his junior high days taught him that. How, by telling yourself what you do isn’t gay, suddenly you create your own version of truth. “Not for everything,” he warned. He paused, panting, as he – like Dean – recovered on the leather couch. Spent, video paused on his basement television, shorts – like Dean’s – around his ankles, “it doesn’t work all the time.”

“But for this?” Dean asked.

“Definitely this.”

Dean listened; those sacred words used sparingly over time. Mostly during clouded nights when the money ran out, as did their supplies, and Dean’s skills at the pool table or poker game couldn’t compare to those of his body.

He uses the words again. This isn’t gay. Castiel spins him, his chest plastered onto Dean’s back. He tries phrasing it differently. Dancing isn’t gay. Dean takes his free hand, the one not latched onto Castiel, and mirrors an earlier action he saw. Combs his fingers through Castiel’s dark brown locks. He amends and adds to it, too. Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing in this bar. That appeases the monster clawing at his mind, its voice, eerily similar to his dad’s, fading away. Dean smiles, then lets go.

The music isn’t so bad. Dancing isn’t as bad, either. Castiel is…

Dean focuses only on the music and dancing. It’s easy, losing himself in the rhythm. Forgetting who he is, where he is, and why he is where he is. He becomes nameless, another body in motion. Faceless as the strobe lights flicker and hide his features. Thoughtless, no room for anything besides what he hears. Dean doesn’t exist save for moments that jab at his awareness. Castiel squeezing his hand. The feel of hair then stubble then hair as his touch roams. Gasps at the base of his neck that elicit headier gasps from Dean. Firm press of chest-to-back, joined hands resting over his heart while Castiel’s free hand lays atop Dean’s stomach as they rock together.

Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing at this bar.

While it fascinates Dean, Castiel must tire of their arrangement, because he disturbs Dean’s oblivion by turning from back-to-chest to chest-to-chest. The wrong move, Dean thinks, as his vision blurs in such a violent way. The room spins and tilts long after he did, everything appearing off-balance. Save for Castiel, standing in front of him, not dancing anymore.

That’s why he throws his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, Dean’s mind comforts him with seconds later. For safety. For stability. Since he, too, wasn’t dancing anymore. His legs were useless, bent further than normal. Making him smaller. Forcing him to angle his head upwards to meet his savior’s searching gaze. Lips parted silently, asking a question with the ghost of his breath. Dean thinks he hears an invitation.

He accepts. Dives headfirst into it, vodka mixing with tequila and a spritz of lime. Castiel tastes better than any drink he’s had. He puts pressure on Castiel’s shoulder, climbing for easier access. Castiel helps; an arm braced around Dean’s waist steadies him. Guides their bodies into a holding pattern, a simple sway that won’t interfere with the others cavorting around them. Serenity made within the chaos of a raging sea; these waves don’t crash. Rather, they tenderly caress the shoreline before retreating in similar fashion. A line of sea foam, like the line of spit generously coating Dean’s mouth, the only proof it even hit.

Dean breaks from their kiss, panting. His forehead rests against Castiel’s. “That was…” he pauses, testing each word he thinks of and ultimately rejecting them all since they fail to describe what happened. He settles for, “Wow.”

“It was,” Castiel agrees, “Why’d you stop, then?”

“I stopped?” Dean sifts through his memories, those last few minutes entirely unforgettable but completely hard to recount. “I did?” he whispers, “Maybe it’s because I’m straight?”

“Are you sure?”

“I…” He can be, if he says so. Unfortunately, Dean forgets those little magic words. Trapped in limbo, the space between truths. “I’m not… I don’t know.”

Cas steps back, enough that Dean sees his entire face instead of those enchanting blue eyes. It eases the worry plaguing Dean’s mind. “Did you enjoy what just happened? What we did?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you certainly aren’t straight.”

Dean nods. He swallows a lump in his throat, feels it tear itself down into his stomach. He imagines blood spouting out of these gashes, building, climbing up in an escape attempt. He chokes on it. It might not be blood. Maybe-blood-maybe-drool leaks from the corners of his mouth as he asks, in a daze, “Does that mean I’m gay?”

“Or something like it.” Castiel reaches forward, combing through Dean’s sweaty hair in time with the music. “Hey,” he says, “it’s okay if you are. That you like… that you kissed me. It’s okay.”

It isn’t. Dean knows it isn’t. Not for him. Not with all that’s expected of him. The blueprint of who he’s supposed to be. Who Dean Winchester is. Torn to shreds and raining overhead like the actual confetti that floats down from high above. That were released without notice. Dropped there while he stands, in the middle of the dance floor, petrified by another man’s kiss. Dad’s efforts wasted.

“It’s okay,” Castiel repeats, “it’s okay…” He drifts further away; but before Dean can whine about his absence, he realizes his feet move, too. Castiel leads him from the belly of this ecstatic, partying mob.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Nowhere far, just off the dance floor.” They reach the perimeter, crowd thinned and weak; Cas releases his hold on Dean. Shrugs his shoulders, blessedly smiling at him. “Where you go and... what you do next, well – that’s up to you.”

He’s unprepared for such freedoms. The simplicity of making a choice. A foreign concept when all your life, every decision was already made for you. For other people. Keys don’t choose which doors they open. Hammers don’t make plans on which nails they’ll hit and which they’ll avoid.

Dean giggles, overcome by an intoxicating rush of getting to choose without any real consequence. No judgement, no threats, no guilt. If Dean told Castiel that kiss meant nothing and then bolted out of the bar, he would never have to deal with these conflicting thoughts, actions, and feelings. Never need to see Castiel again.

That isn’t what he wants.

Dean embraces the confusion because he, Dean, wants to. He kisses Castiel, driving them forward until they hit a wall, because he wants to. Tells him, “I want you,” because he does. Because it’s the truth.

And Castiel’s truth, “You can have me,” slots perfectly next to his.

Dean is intimately familiar with the art of kissing. Spent years practicing with ever-changing partners; girls from all over who were probably as bored as Dean felt. Girls who his dad saw and made him beam with pride. Enough girls, so that he called Dean names – different than the ones he thought Dean didn’t know about – like lady killer and chip off the ol’ block. Girls that were good kissers, bad kissers, and mostly unremarkable whatsoever. Dean lost his appetite for kissing, the act not being very fun for him. Not something he might look forward to, even if he said the right things and acted his part perfectly.

Kissing Castiel wasn’t good. Wasn’t bad. Not unremarkable in the slightest. It elevated the idea of kissing onto another level. A holy act. Placing Castiel on the same level as all his previous entanglements would be similar to heresy.

This isn’t just a kiss. It’s Dean sticking his face into a fuse box with all the switches flicked on. It’s Dean stepping out into a storm without an umbrella. It’s riding down an empty highway, no cops in sight, and abusing the gas pedal until the speedometer needle vanishes.

This kiss is apocalyptic, destroying the notion that anyone besides they two existed.

A hand joins the two roving his body, shaking his arm. Dean laughs, “How’d you do that, Cas?”

“Dean,” Not-Cas says, “hey, uh… Dean?” He turns, Castiel’s lips adorning his jaw with favor, and finds Sam on his other side. Watching. Aware of what he interrupted, given his pained smile and squinted gaze trapped elsewhere. “Sorry, but I’m…” he clears his throat, “I’m kinda ready to leave, if you… you are?”

His fingers curl where Castiel’s shirt is rucked up, dangerously teasing the line of his jeans. Castiel rolls his hips, rutting their cocks against each other again. “Yeah,” he tells Sam, “Yeah I can… we can go.”

Dean extracts himself from Castiel, slowly, taking care to disentangle themselves. Dean flattens Castiel’s mussed hair. He fiddles with the buttons of Dean’s shirts, inexplicably unfastened. Neither speak of how these things happened. “Hey,” he starts, still hovering inside the other man’s personal space, “Um… thank you, for everything. Tonight. From the bar to – uh… to he –!”

Castiel drags him into a kiss, one Dean returns heartily. His hands grabbing fabric while Castiel’s dance around his hips. Consumed by this, Dean ignores his cell phone being stolen. Only becomes aware of it when Castiel ends their goodbye with a smile, Dean’s phone in hand actively calling someone. “My number,” he explains, flipping his phone shut, “to use whenever. Hopefully soon.”

“…Thanks.”

“Good night, Dean.”

“Night, Cas.”

He lingers. He opens his phone, closes it, then slips it back into his pocket. Sam mutters an unintelligible phrase at them, shoving Dean from where he stood. Dean blindly navigates his way towards the exit, seeing nothing but Castiel’s shrinking face that disappears once they step outside.

He expected heat. It’s cold. Not actually, but cooler than the room they left, where bodies and light and energy broke the thermometer. Fresh air brushes his skin, startling Dean from his stupor. Dean jolts awake. His heart plummets down past his ass, chest hollowing. He glances at Sam, about to ask if they ever entered the bar. Or if he hallucinated everything on the walk to it. Dean’s lips purse, then flatten. Sam already walked ahead. He jogs after him.

No one speaks for half their journey.

They pass a twenty-four-hour convenience store Dean remembers, and he knows Baby waits a block around the next corner. Sam chooses then to restart their conversation. “Looks like this trip was good for both of us,” he says, hands shoved inside his pockets. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes. “Learned a lot.”

“Really?” He’s parched. Unbalanced. His feet won’t walk in a straight line, stumbling every few steps. He persists, “What?”

Sam shrugs, “I might have… over-examined that memory of Trevor.” Sighing, Sam kicks an empty, abandoned can into the street. “I guess I was searching for a reason why Jess and my relationship ended like it did. We were going so strong I… I figured it might have been me. That I wasn’t able to love her the way she needed because I couldn’t.”

“Sometimes people just don’t work,” Dean tells him, “and no amount of forcing it is gonna fix it.”

“Yeah…” He spots Baby easily, street deserted save his car and some poor, busted Beetle. Dean searches for his keys, struggling. Sam talks all the while. “And then there are some people who… who click immediately.” Dean tenses, breath stuttering. “How long have you been –?”

He’s back in the bar. He must be. How else could he hear this overwhelming, earsplitting ringing. The kind that makes him stagger, slump against the closest surface and collapse there into a tiny ball, protected from the voice that somehow talks louder than that goddamn ringing. The monster’s voice. The one that sounds strangely similar to his dad’s. Angrily shouting, calling him names. “I’m not,” he said, as always, “I’m not.”

Another sound overpowers the monster and that throbbing din. “Dean! Dean, hey… hey-hey-hey-hey Dean… it’s okay… it’s me, Sam. Sammy.” Someone touches his shoulder. Dean flinches from it. “Come on Dean… I won’t hurt you.” Their voice hitches, sounding waterlogged. “Please, Dean… wherever you think you are, you’re not. I promise. I need you, man. Sammy needs you.”

Look out for Sammy.

Dean forces himself into the present, a herculean feat as shadowed claws dig at him. Fight his attempts. He pries an eye open, then the other. There’s only Sam. Sam, kneeling in front of him on the sidewalk. Sam who, though he denies it, carries so much of their dad with him it makes staying calm near impossible. Dean sees a reflection of who Sam could be, that dad hoped Dean might be, that Sam wished he never would be. It was the reason why fatherly adoration came effortlessly when it was for Sam, even during days they hardly spoke. Dean acted as their go between. Hearing praise and relaying it; forever the messenger, carrying wounds and scars.

“Dean, are you… you’re with me, right?” Dean nods, tension melting away. He slides further, knees bumping into Sam’s. A wordless comfort. “Fuck I am so… so sorry. I didn’t, I never meant –“

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, Dean. Fuck!” His shout echoes towards the moon, filling the space left by clear California night. “What if I asked you while you were driving, we could have…”

They might have died.

“Shit…” Dean hisses, rubbing his throbbing head, willing its silence so he can think. He gets one minutes. He uses it wisely, handing Baby’s keys to Sam. “Take ‘em.”

“What?”

“I drank too much anyway.” Wobbling when he rises, Dean proves that true. “You were gonna have to take it, regardless.”

Sam’s expression softens. In turn, Dean’s skin crawls. “Thank you.”

“Just go start the damn car.” Dean won’t follow. Rather sharpening his defenses for the inevitable. Bad music. Lawful driving. Plaintive whines and rhetorical questions, all in an attempt at making Dean talk. About tonight. About their childhood. About signs he didn’t see, how it felt being this while in dad’s presence. Sam will push and push and push until he’s flatter than cardboard. Contents neatly organized and fit for storage.

He hears the soft rumble of Baby’s engine, then that of his phone. A text.

Unknown Number 1 (650) 378-0914: In case you’re wondering, my name is spelled C A S T I E L ;)

Despite what a whirlwind these past few minutes felt like, Dean laughs. Giggles become snorting which become happier tears rolling across his cheeks, tracing over still-damp lines and erasing them from sight. He clutches his phone atop his heart, figure bent as he now wheezes.

Dean reigns in his giddiness. Stares at the message, wondering what he will do. Once Dean decides, he realizes his thumb was already halfway done.

He saves his number under Cas <3. Dean responds, snapping his phone closed quickly before he can reread and second guess.

Sam honks, watching with interest. A thousand questions waiting, hidden by the curious bend of his brows. Because of Castiel, Dean must face them. Will answer them. Is ready for them.

#spn #supernatural #spn fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #sam winchester #sam winchester is an ally #john winchester #john winchester's a+ parenting #fuck john winchester #tw: internalized homophobia #tw: abusive parent #tw: garden-variety homophobia

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roselovesa · 3 years

Text

have you seen CHOI HYEJIN ? i heard SHE is a FLORIST at THE GREEN MEADOW. they’re 21 years old and they’ve been living in san verto for one year. they tend to be BENEVOLENT & MAGNANIMOUS, but rumor has it they can also be CAPRICIOUS & FINICKY.

｡* ❪ 📂 𝐂://STATISTICS.

name: choi hyejin

age: twenty - one

sign: pisces sun / libra moon ( click )

sexuality: bisexual

gender: cis woman ( she/her/hers )

occupation: florist , pianist, & composer

alignment: chaotic neutral

｡* ❪ 📂 𝐂://BIOGRAPHY

* note: minho’s little sister !! <33

📍 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝙾𝙽𝙴 - 𝚜𝚎𝚘𝚞𝚕, 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚔𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚊.

born as the youngest child of a nurse & a teacher, hyejin’s childhood was nothing out of the ordinary. her love for music had always been apparent — her mother noticing early on that, whenever her daughter was throwing a hissy fit, all she had to do was play some classical music in order to get her to calm down

hence, it shouldn’t have been a surprise that her father decided to teach her how to play the piano at the age of 6. & by the age of 9 she was labeled a child prodigy. hyejin would often participate in competitions, attend music camps, & play in front of anyone who was willing to listen. her talent was undeniable, truly

in the years to follow she would pick up other instruments here & there ( violin, guitar, french horn ), but nothing seemed to stick as much as piano did. hyejin would also dabble in writing her own music, often with the help of her father

& if there’s one thing hyejin learned it’s that practice makes perfect. by the age of 11 she managed to become an extremely valuable asset for her school’s yearly musicals as she composed about 60% of the songs performed <33

she went viral on social media a few times as well, her youtube channel accumulating about 1.6M views by her 4th upload. she would frequently get interviewed around that time as well, with professionals often commenting on hyejin’s bright future

📍 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝚃𝚆𝙾 - 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢, 𝚄𝚂𝙰.

her brother getting injured on tv was a catalyst of change. hyejin convinced her parents to let her move to new york in order to take care of him, being well aware her life had considerably dulled the moment he decided to leave a few years prior

the move went smoothly, & with opportunities lining up in front of her, she decided to get a bachelor’s degree in music composition, her accomplishments allowing her to attend one of the most prestige universities in the city

it’s there where she fell in love with a guy who she deemed to be a mentor of sorts ; always pushing her to do better & achieve unattainable perfection. it had been so easy for hyejin to trust him with her work, with him appearing to be the more experienced & wiser of the two. he was a child of a famous musician after all, mastering the arts of sweet talking unassuming girls with a whole lot of empty promises

so when their uni announced a proposal of a student being able to apply for an internship that would skyrocket their careers right into stardom, hyejin was well aware this was an opportunity that couldn’t be missed. her boyfriend mentioned how he wouldn’t apply, seeing his father could offer him a job easily, but mentioned how she should send �� her work to him so he could look it over & help her out

😬

“ hey babe, i’m sorry to tell you this but the piece you sent me just isn’t that good… i can’t quite put my finger on it, but the composition is just wrong. it’s okay, though, you’re only a freshman & still have a lot to learn, we’ll work on it together. but maybe forget about the internship for now ? i’m sure with some improvement my father will manage to get you an even better job… anyways, love you, talk to you soon ”

crestfallen & humiliated, hyejin accepted the fact that it would be simply too embarrassing to submit the sheets of music she’d written. it was two weeks later that her boyfriend abruptly ghosted her, only for her to find out he’d gotten the internship by applying with the composed music she sent him. he denied any claims of stealing, & when hyejin told her professor about the situation he basically wrote it off as well

📍 𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝚁𝙴𝙴: 𝚜𝚊𝚗 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚘, 𝚄𝚂𝙰.

in the next few months it felt like her life had crumbled down around her, hyejin’s future career appearing grim. minho & her decided to move to san verto in order to find peace, a fresh start waiting for them there

she took up multiple side jobs to get her music out there again, while also trying to push past the writer’s block she experienced due to stress. on week days she would give rich kids piano lessons after uni & bloom under the praises their parents would give her skills. on the weekends she would play at a 5 star restaurant, hoping the right people would discover her there

having lost the comfort music once gave her, hyejin decided to take up a job as a florist & keeps herself busy tending to flowers. it isn’t her ideal career plan, but at least she’s moving forward with her life

throughout the years she kept uploading videos of her playing piano on youtube, each video getting about 900k views on average. it allows her to be fairly recognizable on her own accord, although most of her fame comes from being associated with her brother. she’s starting to climb in popularity, though, spending some of her time to focus on crafting a stronger social media presence

｡* ❪ 📂 𝐂://PERSONALITY.

🦋 𝙰𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙾𝙻𝙾𝙶𝚈 - 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚙𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚜, 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚋𝚛𝚊

click me !

empathic, romantic, impressionable, & imaginative - hyejin tends to see the world through a rose colored glass ; the harsh realities of life often making her want to indulge in escapism. overall a generous and kind person

can’t handle pressure well, ultimately she’s a perfectionist. hyejin has a specific vision of how she wants her life to play out, & if anything interferes with that she might feel devastated & defeated. however, she’s quick to get back on her feet & continue pursuing what she was working on

obsessed with fairytale romances, used to read countless of young adult novels hoping she’d experience love like that. hyejin easily tends to romanticize & idealize the people she’s fond of, thinking they can do no wrong in her eyes & putting them on a pedestal *coughs* minho :(

despite all of that she has a great intuition, hypersensitive to her environment. she’s often aware of other people’s emotions, meaning when someone or something’s off she usually able to identify such things immediately

would prefer to avoid conflict at all cost as well, she doesn’t enjoy being faced with consequences of her own actions

at first glance she can appear rather stand-offish as well, not really the type to walk up to someone & handle small talk in an eloquent way. she’s shy & an introvert, the type to hide behind her mother whenever someone addressed her when she was younger. hyejin is only able to come out of her shell around people she knows she can trust

channels all of her feelings into her art !!

｡* ❪ 📂 𝐂://WANTED CONNECTIONS.

💌 𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙸𝙲 - 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 ( open to m/f/nb muses ! )

current flings

will they / won’t they

friends with benefits ( one-sided, purely platonic, etc… )

unrequited love type of thing ( either hyejin or your muse )

fake dating au

exes on bad terms

exes on good terms

enemies to friends ( ? ) to lovers / flings ( ? ) to exes ( ? ) ( we can do this however you see fit ! )

one of them caught feelings ( thinking they had something special ) & suddenly the other ghosted, perhaps leaving behind a bruised ego )

💌 𝙿𝙻𝙰𝚃𝙾𝙽𝙸𝙲 - 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 ( open to m/f/nb muses ! )

best friend

good influence

bad influence

childhood friends

protective type of friendship ( can go either way ! )

confidants

someone ( preferably an artist ) hyejin looks up to

friends who hang out purely because it’s good for their public image

secret type of friendship where being seen together in public would damage their image, aka them meeting up in private !

were set up on a blind date together, hit it off in a platonic way & became really good friends <33

only hang out because of mutual friends

💌 𝙼𝙸𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙻𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙴𝙾𝚄𝚂 - 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 ( open to m/f/nb muses ! )

hyejin’s muse aka whenever she sees them she gets inspired to write a song or two <3

blackmailing type of plots

general dislike for each other, they simply do not vibe

someone hyejin teaches how to play piano

rivalry, they see each other as competition

have shared secret where both of them are/were involved in a situation, & promised secrecy to each other

@foolsstarters

#foolsintro #🥺#also if you see any spelling errors .. no you didnt

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trad-masculine · 3 years

Text

I'm dating again.

Which brings a very weird feeling to it, admiting this anonymously to people who follow me for doing a Masculine style thing on a blog. Speaking of I appreciate all of you for being interested in what amounts to one person's thoughts on being a man in the 21st century.

It might be palpable that I'm in an emotionally vulnerable headspace as I write this. Which, yeah, breakup, taking some time to myself to recalibrate, back to dating after over a year in a committed thing; it's emotionally heavy.

A bias to near prejudice, or at least strong dislike approaching disgust of mine is this; I do not like weakness in men. This is a feeling, & the idea of weakness is a felt thing, it's not born of an extensive philosophy, as most of what I think & feel tends to emerge from. This is visceral, the philosophy that it has is post hoc. I'm not sure, then, if this is the truest of beliefs I have, or the most distorted.

Weakness is not emotionality. This is a profound truth for me. As, the men I most respect, I have seen almost to a man, cry & bring forth tears to their eyes over depth of feeling, either of joy, of sorrow, or of compassion. I consider an absence of emotion a form of cowardice. Perhaps the central nature of it. As by my introspection, fear of emotion is what represses all the other emotions. Rolling off of this, I respect people who Know Fear. Being scared is an honorable place to be, if the emotion is appropriate. Cowardice isn't the act of being afraid, but of being only afraid. Having nothing meaningful within you to temper your fear.

I bring this up, because I want to talk about what the social process of dating does to men.

When on a dating app, nearly every guy is a player. Those that aren't are either very confused & naive, or are working something very specific. Player to me isn't a skill or approach, but an innate psychological state, let's call it Player Mode. There is also a psychological state which we can call Commitment Mode.

Spread your seed, or tend it, so to speak.

There is all sorts of powerful brain chemistry involved & the psychological states are deeply embedded in our psyche.

There are two very distinct ways to be a player, however. A Manipulator or a Lover. Possibly a third, I'll call a Sniper.

Before we get deep into that, let's walk through what happens when when you use a dating app, although playing the field at a bar or in the wild works somewhat the same, psychologically.

You start by swiping, liking & messaging girls. Some reply back. Let's say you come across a profile & immediately start crushing on the girl. You get nervous, so your message is shit, she doesn't reply. That's brutal if you think it through, breaking a crush hurts. You have to like/message about say, 50 girls to get a date. Breaking 50 crushes isn't a viable emotional strategy to get to step one of a relationship.

*Thus the emotional train is off the tracks, & for a deep relationship to happen the feeling must be rekindled, after you start to get to know the girl. >She needs to talk you into crushing on her.*

*This* is the central problem of dating. Because of the social process we have currently, men aren't chasing crushes, & so aren't entering a first date in the headspace that builds to true commitment.

The Manipulator is afraid of commitment, & of his own emotions controlling him, so he tells himself that the number of women he can lie to & talk into sleeping with him is the measure of his Masculinity. This is hard to argue with, man to man. The moral analysis isn't worth much. But the analysis that recognizes him & outs him as a coward, that has a better chance of productive impact.

The Lover can be powerfully passionate because his emotions are brought to the fore & made active as he goes into a relationship, as he wants to feel the love, but to balance himself, he lives in the moment. Generally, he doesn't lie or promise commitment. Regardless of the intensity of his feelings, he is still very embedded in the headspace of Player Mode. Since is isn't repressing or managing himself, after a time in a relationship, that player mode returns to the forefront as the honeymoon period ends & he finds himself drawn to a new & exciting Lover.

The Sniper can be of either type as default, but he is also looking for "the one." So he's judging women very directly between what he wants to lay short term, & who might be worth more effort & is worthy of commitment. I think I'd accurately describe myself as a Lover-Sniper.

I tried to not emotionality weight these, or apply judgement to the ideas. I simply want to be concise & analytical so there is clear understanding.

A pure Sniper is rare. The emotional insecurity of not having some form of a relationship is a powerful form of anxiety. There are plenty of guys who are "snipers" because they can't get a relationship. So they are mentally in commitment mode. This is, I think, the source of porn addiction & or simping. I know of guys who are on a high level & who had the self control to turn down offers of sex & relationships until they found someone they considered worthy. I wanted to be this, intuitively as a teen, but gave up the fantasy that I could win the girl of my dreams without having the confidence that comes from experience in realationships & in bed. This can get to a very disturbed & obsessive mindset. Stalkers are pure snipers. But there are other kinds.

My advice to someone in that kinda spot, to my past self. It's easy to get good at sex, it's easy to get good at being in a relationship with someone who sees the potential within you. Figuring out how to get girls to the point of willing & then to turn down those girls is useful. If purity of purpose & being is important to you, don't take the first girl who throws herself at you. The regret bites for a long time. But if porn takes you to a place where you aren't getting out & talking to girls, tossing the v card is easily worth it to get your headspace fixed.

There isn't a psychological dynamic that is in itself correctly healthy for men regarding approach sexuality, at least in the current dating environment. Chasing Crushes isn't scalable, & that is the root problem.

There's a type of girl who is only looking for "A Long Term Relationship Only." She isn't however, inticing. She doesn't know how to be wanted & desirable. She doesn't offer anything that brings out the crush which a man will need to be in in order to shift into a healthy commitment mode with her. I'm not certain what happens there, but I have to imagine everyone involved feels they are settling, & will hurt for the entirety of the relationship.

I'm writing this up as I'm trying to really think through how to solve the dating situation so that it works for more people. So relationships are successful & men & women are happy in them. It's not the most elegant or beautiful or composed thought I've had or published here, but this is deeply important to me.

Love shouldn't suck. We need to collectively figure out how to Make Love Lovely Again.

So, I have an idea I want to pitch, which has been difficult to get across to people I've talked to about this, such that the idea made sense to them. But I really think I'm close to right on this.

Women need game. Men have game. Fuck hookup PUA's but the actual technique tools of how to appeal to women are spectacularly useful. Women need to figure out how to appeal to men, not as sexual objects, but as potential relationships. Game for men is about getting laid. Game for women should be about getting men to fall for them & only them.

"Men are responsible for making the relationship, women for keeping it."

There's an ancient form of girlgame passed down generations mother to daughter. Just as there was an ancient form of guygame passed down from men to boys. We need to rekindle the dance between the Masculine & feminine in the realm of sexual relationship, dating & play. This fight thing we're all doing sucks.

Like most guys I want to find someone good enough to catch my heart, but I don't want to pretend for lifetime I've found the one when I haven't.

The love of men that isnt born of a crush is slow. The path of a crush is easy to explain, but deep love is a slow thing. I've seen love at first sight, or at least very close to it. But it's from a level of deep being that's so rarely reached mutually by two people who meet such that such a lightning connection can form. But I've also seen a relationship start from a small kernel & grow into a forest.

I firmly believe there's a lot of possible paths to True Love, I've seen several myself, but normative paths of how we find each other as sexual humans make us start in places within ourselves that make reaching True Love impossible, at least without a deep course correction at some latter point.

Those of us looking for that Sacred kind of love in fairy tales, that which we burn for, need to figure out how to survive with outselves long enough to find each other & get there together. Maybe this means breaking the rules of what we thing is "proper" dating.

Honestly, whatever we do, we need to figure this bitch out & work together to get back there. I'm tired of the men VS women game, tired of the fight being the normal way of things.

Hmu if you have some thoughts on how to do this love thing better together, I'll be listening to Hozier & watching Princess Bride. ✌️

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srhlsx · 4 years

Text

Rewritten & Reposted March 24, 2021

MASTER | Ch. 19 | CHAPTER 20 - END

You hadn’t been up to Sendai for quite some time, since you were in college visiting a few friends, so it was exciting to see the changes that had been made to the buildings and landscape. Your younger siblings had never been to these parts, so as you drove through the streets their faces were pressed against the glass of the windows. Yua more so than Eiji, being a teenager now he was less likely to show how much things that ‘weren’t cool’ excited him.

When you pulled into the parking lot, his eyes did start to get a little bit more life in them. The massive banner hanging from the roof of the Kamei Arena had blown up pictures of professional athletes in an array of action poses, one in particular catching the attention of everyone in your car. You bit your lip anxiously as you parked, pressing your head to the steering wheel and taking in a deep breath.

“You okay neechan?” You heard Yua ask from the back seat. She leaned forward between the two front seats and poked at your shoulder repeatedly. You glanced at her sideways and mumbled out a yes, which was enough of an answer for the nine year-old to return back to her seat.

“She’s nervous.” Eiji stated in a blunt tone. Your eyes widened considerably as you looked at your now sixteen year old brother.

“I am not nervous,” You snapped, although you could barely convince yourself of the fact with how your voice managed to crack at the end.

“Sure you are,” Your brother shrugged. “You spilled your tea like six times this morning and your hands haven't stopped fidgeting the entire ride up here.”

You turned to look away from your brother and faced the front of the car, watching as people piled out of their cars and started to file into the stadium. You pouted slightly, annoyed that your brother continued to be wiser than his years and wasn’t afraid to call you on it.

You hesitated before speaking again, bringing your hand up to your mouth and absently biting on your thumbnail. “What if it’s weird?” You mumbled into the silence of the car.

You felt like such a loser. Here you were, sitting in your car in a busy parking lot, nervous about seeing the guy you fell in love with in high school and complaining about it to your nine year-old and sixteen year-old siblings. Pathetic.

“You still talk to him though!” Your sister said.

“But they haven’t really been around each other in like, two years Yua,” Your brother said, turning around in his seat to face the back. “What she’s worried about is how she’s supposed to greet him.”

While things steadily got more serious between you and Bokuto over the years, when he made the decision to enter into the professional volleyball league, it took a damper on your relationship. You agreed, mutually, that things were going to be put on pause. You were still finishing up undergrad and applying for graduate school proper at the time, all that hard work you had put in over the years was not something you were going to throw away just to travel around the country with Bokuto and chase after uncertain victory.

It had been hard to end things. But as Bokuto made very clear, it was not goodbye but more like pausing a movie right before the big climax and just waiting until the next bag of popcorn was ready. You had cried, heavily, when he said that, but couldn’t help to also laugh at how he could spin things into something positive.

At this point, it’d been two years since you parted ways. Two years since you’d seen him in person. Two years since you’d felt his touch.

“Just say hi?” Yua said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. As if you were going to go up to him, this professional athlete who was making a huge name for himself, and just say ‘hi’.

“Yes, chibi.” You nodded, jolting yourself to get going and finally unbuckling your seatbelt. “That’s a great idea, you smart girl.”

Glancing in the rearview mirror you could see Yua preen at the praise, ignoring or not noticing your slightly sarcastic tone as she gathered her stuff and also started to exit the car. As you all met in the front of the car to walk in together, your brother tugged on your jacket to pull you back a step. You looked at him, well up at him now, expectantly.

“It’s going to be fine,” He reassured you. “And if it’s not, then we can leave.”

You wanted to cry at the sentiment. Coming here was something your brother had been looking forward to since you’d gotten the tickets in the mail. He’d nearly swooned over the handwritten message that had come with them, the sender expressing their hope and excitement to see the three of you again. You knew that if he was offering to leave because you were uncomfortable, he meant it.

You grabbed your brother by the track jacket he was wearing, the gold and black detailing flashing in the bright sun, and pulled him close in an embarrassing (for him) show of affection. “You’re the best.” You mumbled as you ruffled his hair.

He immediately pushed you off and his hands went up to fix the wayward locks when he noticed a group of teenage girls giggling a few yards away. “Yeah, whatever.” He mumbled, doing his best to hold back a smile.

When the three of you entered the stadium and your tickets were scanned, the ticket worker motioned for someone looking like an usher to come forward. The older woman glanced at your tickets and told you to follow her. Confused, you asked if there was something wrong.

“No, dear!” She smiled at you as she continued to walk through the crowd. “These are just VIP tickets, I’ll escort you to the visitor’s VIP section. You must be very special!”

You blushed, having not even realized what kind of tickets you had been sent, which made you feel like an idiot. Yua began jumping up and down excitedly, while Eiji’s eyes became wider than saucers as you descended a set of stairs and ended up on the floor right next to the court.

It was perfect timing as the lights began to flicker and loud music began to pump through the speakers. The announcer directed all attention to the multiple jumbotron screens throughout the arena as the introductions for the home team, the Adlers, began. You happened to recognize a few of the names from your days in high school volleyball, and you suddenly got a little less anxious and a little more excited.

In the next moment you swore your heart stopped completely and the world was suddenly spinning a million miles a minute. The home team had completed their introductions, and like the shooting star you always remembered him being, another figure made a grand entrance.

He flipped and twirled, landing on his feet and yelling out his own name and number and smiling brightly towards the crowd. Everyone laughed, including you and your siblings, glad to see that time and fame hadn’t changed Bokuto in the slightest.

“(Y/n), I can’t see!” Yua complained, jumping up on the tips of her toes to try to see over the crowd standing near the barrier. “Eiji, take me closer!”

You pushed at your siblings, encouraging them to move through the sea of people to get a closer look before warmups were finished. You saw Eiji roll his eyes, but you knew he was secretly more excited than even Yua as he led her towards the front. You got a little jostled in the crowd and were separated from your siblings for a moment, but you weren’t worried since you were all going in the same direction.

“Hey, Bokuto-san, that kid over there has a Fukurodani jacket! So cool!” Bokuto’s ears perked up at the mention of his high school and looked around wildly until his eyes landed on where his red-headed teammate was pointing.

Bokuto didn’t bother to hear anything else, he was already moving across the court.

Two years may have made your siblings grow and change, but he would forever recognize them. Your little sister Yua, barely peeking her eyes over the top of the barrier still had crazy hair that he remembers you once saying she got from your mother. Your brother, Eiji, was not a young boy anymore but a growing teenager who was closing in on Bokuto in terms of height and size - impressive, kid can’t be older than sixteen now, Bokuto thought.

His smile grew even more when he had fully approached the two and saw that not only was your brother wearing a Fukurodani jacket, but it was a part of the familiar volleyball warmups Bokuto himself still had. Stitched into the front was your family’s name and a golden number four. Bokuto felt a sense of pride at the sight, “Good choice, Eiji.”

“Thank you, I had to earn it.” Your brother greeted Bokuto with a solid handshake and a modest smile.

“I’m sure you worked hard,” Bokuto said, then reaching down to say hello to Yua and ruffling her hair affectionately which made her smile grow wider than it seemed like her face could accommodate.

“Oh my - fuuuck, these people.” You huffed out as you finally broke through the bodies pushed together that had separated you from your siblings. You let out a heavy sigh and pushed your hair out of your face a bit dramatically. When you looked up at who your siblings had been talking to your spinning word suddenly halted altogether. “Oh my god.”

Bokuto looked as stunned as you felt, those same golden eyes widening to take up most of his face, eyebrows reaching up in surprise as he opened and closed his mouth a few times. Bokuto Koutaro, speechless, for the first time in his life. “H-Hey,” He finally said.

“Hi,” You said back immediately, clutching your bag to your chest in hopes that it would help your nerves to do something with your hands.

There was a pause, a flash of uncertainty that came across Bokuto’s face. If you hadn’t been staring at him so intently you might’ve missed it as it was so quickly replaced by so many other emotions. Relief. Excitement. Love.

“I’ve missed you, (y/n).” He said breathlessly, right before he reached his hands out and grabbed you by the face and pulled you forward. You didn’t resist at all as his lips came crashing down on yours, letting your bag fall to the floor as your grip shifted to clutching at the black jersey that stretched across his chest.

It all came back in that moment, like a montage or highlight reel. Daiki introducing you at that party six years ago. Late nights spent texting, facetiming, or studying together. Cheering each other on as you both continued through the ranks at the national tournament. His body pressed up against yours in those secret, intimate moments. Smiles and laughter as you walked the streets of Tokyo while skipping out on your free periods.

You heard a few of his teammates yelling from the other side of the court, probably confused as to why Bokuto was kissing a random girl from the crowd. As he pulled away, smiling, you pressed your forehead against his and let the weight of the past few years of missing him slowly fall from your shoulders.

“See, (y/n)?” Yua said, picking up your bag and handing it to you. “I told you ‘hi’ was fine!”

#bokuto koutaro #koutaro bokuto #bokuto x reader #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu!! x reader #hq!! x reader #hq!!#hq

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dvp95 · 4 years

Text

meet me in the afterglow

pairing: dan howell/phil lester rating: explicit tags: getting back together, smut, hurt/comfort, light angst, happy ending, introspection word count: 1.5k summary: It had been Phil's decision, after all. Okay, technically, it had been a mutual decision, but it had been Phil who actually said the words. They're supposed to be past it by now.

written as a commission fill for ros ♥

read on ao3 or here!

They're sitting on opposite ends of the couch, idly scrolling on their own devices while Buffy acts as a comforting third party on the TV. Ever since he'd first gotten Dan to watch the show, Phil tends to just keep restarting it every time they hit Chosen again. Nothing else is quite as effective in breaking the quiet that could easily get into awkward territory as the familiar snappy dialogue and fight scenes.

Phil hasn't been paying enough attention to the episode they're on. He glances up and sees Tara in the doorway, hears her say, "Things fall apart. They fall apart so hard."

He stands up and mumbles something about going to the bathroom. Dan barely looks away from his laptop, but he asks if Phil wants him to pause the show. Even though they've both seen it so many times, Dan always offers. He's considerate that way.

"No, don't bother," says Phil. "I know how it ends."

Tara is asking if they can skip the hard part of making up and just be kissing again when Phil leaves the lounge. He wonders if Dan is invested enough in the plot to hear the speech, cognizant enough to make the connection to Phil abruptly leaving, or if he's too focused on whatever Reddit thread he's come across to give Tara and Willow any spare thought. Maybe the scene doesn't hit as close to home for Dan as it does for Phil.

It had been Phil's decision, after all. Okay, technically, it had been a mutual decision, but it had been Phil who actually said the words.

They're supposed to be past it by now.

Maybe things would have been easier if they weren't still best friends. They hadn't wanted to get their own places, didn't want to make a bigger deal of the breakup than absolutely necessary. That was a few years ago now - Phil acts like he can't remember the exact date, but he thinks Dan can probably see past his fake cheerfulness every time the anniversary passes - but sometimes it still hits Phil like a fresh wave of bitterness and remorse.

It's not like he's had a lot of experience with this sort of thing. He hadn't had anything that looked like a relationship before Dan tumbled into his life, and there were a lot of things that he thinks he could do better now, if he was given the chance.

They're different people now. Phil has a better handle on his anxiety and a better perspective on what he can do to keep his private life private; Dan has settled confidently into his own skin and gotten through so much of his baggage with his therapist that he's tried to use some of the techniques on Phil whenever he won't talk about his feelings.

"If I wanted to be in therapy," Phil had recently snapped, strung taut by plans of a second world tour coming together to create a terrifying, overambitious picture, "then I'd be in therapy, Dan."

Dan had only shrugged. He rarely seemed to feel any guilt for attempting 'healthy communication', as he always called it. "Just trying to help."

Sometimes Phil hates him for that, but it never lasts. Phil might be able to hold a grudge with the best of them, but that had never applied to Dan. They're too entwined in each other at this point, too purposefully connected in every facet of their lives, for Phil to allow the irritation to make any sort of home in his chest. It's always been easier to let the arguments happen and then let them go.

Phil waits until he can hear Dawn Summers shrieking with happiness over the witches getting back together before he goes back to the lounge. He wonders if anyone would be that happy if he and Dan were to - but that way lies madness. He can't think about that. It's too easy to cling to faint hope that never really went away.

Phil can't be sure if it was Buffy that did it or not, but he's inclined to believe that it is. It's too much of a coincidence that Dan would knock lightly on his bedroom door a couple days later and give him a tired sort of grin.

"Hey," he says, and Phil wonders if he forgot to unload the dishwasher last night or something.

"Hi," says Phil. He slides his finger between the pages of his book and closes the cover gently, keeping his place while he gives Dan his attention. "Everything okay?"

Dan shrugs, hands shoved deep in his sweatpant pockets. He looks like he's been awake for too long, like he forgot to sleep again, and Phil's surge of protectiveness feels instinctual. He hates when Dan doesn't sleep, whether it's on purpose or not. It feels like he should be up with him, at least, keeping him company while thoughts ricochet around Dan's brain like a pinball machine.

"Things are," Dan hesitates for a fraction of a second, "fine."

It's pretty obvious to Phil that things aren't fine. He puts the receipt he's been using as a bookmark into his book and sets it aside. "C'mere."

Dan's whole body seems to slump forward in relief, and Phil feels like he's made the right decision. He sits up against his headboard properly and fluffs up the pillow he never uses. It’s the only thing on the side of the bed where a lanky boy took up too much space for so many years. Dan fills it again, sitting next to Phil and curling in on himself a bit. He leans into Phil, his curly head finding somewhere comfortable to rest on Phil's shoulder.

Wrapping his arm around Dan would jostle him, so Phil settles for putting his hand on Dan's knee and squeezing. He doesn't know if this is just one of Dan's hard days, which seem to be getting more and more frequent as the tour looms, or if it's something else entirely.

The room is quiet for a little while. It doesn't get anywhere near the realm of awkward, even with the cuddling. Phil's hope - dormant, insistent - flares again.

"I've been thinking," says Dan.

"Dangerous activity," Phil can't help himself from joking. He wonders if Dan is rolling his eyes or smiling. Or both, he supposes. A lot of the time, it's both. "What have you been thinking about?"

"I've been thinking that I don't want to do this without you," Dan says, a bit rushed. Phil is opening his mouth to ask for clarification when Dan's patented rambling barrels through. "The tour, yeah, but also the - the telling my family about me, which I want to do, but I don't want to do it alone. I don't want to do any of this alone."

Phil risks the grumbling to wrap both arms around Dan, pulling Dan against his chest in a proper cuddle. "You aren't alone. I'm not going anywhere."

"I know," Dan says. He looks up at Phil, brown eyes wide and full of meaning and close, and Phil momentarily forgets how to breathe. "I know you're gonna be there for whatever I need you to be there for. I just. I want to do it with you, not just... beside you."

There's a chance, however small, that Phil is misreading the situation. He thinks about that and about the choices he'd made that led to this and about Tara's speech, and he decides that he can't keep pushing his hope down like it's an excitable puppy. He lets it consume him, instead, lets the warmth spread through his whole body before he rests his forehead against Dan's in supplication.

Dan doesn't seem to be asking for penance. Dan is asking for something much simpler.

There are a lot of things that Phil loves in this world. Pancakes, Buffy, the way a dog's tail wags when he says hello to them, so many things he could list for days and not even be close to hitting the end. Even so, there's nothing quite like the needy noises that echo around the room when Phil takes Dan's cock deep into his throat, twists his fingers inside Dan, keeps eye contact with Dan to watch the way he falls apart. He watches Dan arch up, sweat beading on his forehead, and feels Dan's hand pushing and pulling in his hair. Dan falling apart - that's what Phil loves most in this world. He can't believe he went so long without it, no matter what his reasons were at the time.

"Like riding a bike," Dan laughs and collapses against Phil's chest. His mouth follows a path from Phil's collarbones to his jaw, ending at his well-abused lips.

Phil grins into the kiss. He wants Dan closer, impossibly. He's got his arms around Dan, Dan's legs bracketing his hips, he's still inside of Dan, but it doesn't feel like enough. They trade lazy, sweaty kisses until Dan eventually starts complaining about needing a shower.

He isn't ready to let go of Dan again, even for a handful of minutes, but that's not a problem - although it hasn't been taken advantage of yet, the shower in this flat is definitely big enough for the two of them.

#words words words #commission fills

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laurelsofhighever · 4 years

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The Falcon and the Rose ch. 67 - The War Dog in the Slips

Chapter Rating: Teen Chapter Warnings: None Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland, Cailan/Anora (background) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Fereldan Civil War AU - No Blight, Romance, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Fereldan Culture and Customs, Cousland Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort

Read on AO3

-------

This letter is written on fine paper, in a steady if slightly scrawling hand, pressed with the seal of a rose in burgundy wax.

Twelfth day of Wintermarch, 9:33 Dragon

Dear Cailan,

Rosslyn agreed to marry me! She said yes, can you believe it? I know Brantis says personal matters should come after business in official correspondence, but this is important. She’s going to be my wife. I know I didn’t tell you I planned to ask her, or really ask permission, and I’m sorry for that. Everything after the battle was so muddled. To be honest when I did the words sort of slipped out without me really thinking about them, but I know you’ll be happy for me – us. There’s an us now.

Fergus has agreed to the match, to make it official as the head of her household, although Rosslyn said she would have challenged him to a duel if he’d refused, and of course after all the excitement died down she just had to go and be clever and point out there would need to be a wedding if I really wanted her to be my wife.

Since I do (very much) that’s part of the reason for this letter – neither of us know how to plan a wedding. The last one either of us attended was yours, and of course we didn’t have any hand in the arrangements. Rosslyn (my wife-to-be!) has been quiet about it, but I know she feels a bit out of her depth and misses the experience her parents might have shared with her, but we would both be honoured if you and Anora would lend your wisdom. She is writing a similar request to her grandparents in the Storm islands, and – she’s just smiled at me and now I’ve completely lost my train of thought. I never thought I’d be so lucky.

In any case, we should be with you in Denerim within two weeks, though our departure from Highever may be delayed for a few more days. R is worried about her brother’s condition, even though Enchanter Amell has agreed to stay behind and continue as his healer, and she herself is recovering only slowly from her injuries – slower than she would like, anyway. She has resumed training since you left, and is determined as I’ve ever seen her. Despite the strain, she’s insistent on learning the use of her left hand for more than just shieldwork. I understand why, but she keeps accusing me of clucking over her like a broody hen. I would have thought I’d merit something a little more impressive, like a dragon, or maybe a griffin. When I say that it makes her laugh, at least, so it isn’t all bad.

But I cannot take up an entire letter talking only about my betrothed(!) when the report of your victory in Denerim lies on the desk in front of me. We hope all is well, and that casualties have been minimal. We have also received news of unrest in Amaranthine, from both the banns and the people, which I hope won’t cause too much of a delay in us joining you, but aid has to be brought to the freeholders and sedition routed before it really takes root. One day, we’ll have a year where the entire country isn’t at its own throat – won’t that be nice.

Your brother,

Alistair

PS, She knows about the book. I’ll say no more and only mentioned this much because otherwise you’ll ask and then she’ll ask why I’m blushing and then I’ll have to tell her. Just know I’m happier than I thought possible, and that your advice is something I don’t know how to repay.

Cailan’s grip on the letter warped the paper as he scanned it a second time, the carefree betrayal of happiness turning a sour feeling in his stomach. His thoughts were unworthy of him, but shadows had preyed on his mind since the battle at Highever, twisting even the most innocent of gestures into cynical attacks, and it took effort not to perceive every line as a slight. He ought to be happy for Alistair, that his brother and Rosslyn had found contentment together, but the snide hollow in his mind that had been gaining a louder and louder voice in recent days pricked at the fragile walls he tried to build around his charity. Would it really be too far a stretch to believe the letter a veiled crow of triumph, his half-brother gloating that he had won the affection of the woman who rallied armies around her with a mere word and whose smile lit her face like the first grace of morning? To think of the queen she would have made…

She blamed him for what happened to her, he knew. He had been too paralysed by the strange terror that had come over him to run to her aid before the walls of Castle Cousland, and that shameful hesitation had almost cost her life. The sudden still on the battlefield haunted him. The shriek of pierced metal and the silence that followed chased him through his nightmares every time he closed his eyes, mocking him, goading him with the lack that everyone had seen in him since he took the throne. Maric would not have hesitated so; the great rebel king who had saved Ferelden would have rushed to put himself before the blade, would have won the heart of the fair maiden, would have halted Loghain’s descent into madness before it even began and thereby spared his subjects the chaos of war.

And Alistair – his brother was a proven warrior, amiable and respected. What had Rosslyn seen in him that she had not seen in the king himself? The pair of them must laugh at him, whispering secrets and plans in their bower as they held each other close. They had stood against Eamon, and won the trust of the Storm Islands – how short a leap it would be, with the other deals they must have made in Orzammar, and the Bannorn, and across the Waking Sea, for them to supplant him. When they reached Denerim, the people would cheer them as deserving heroes and the court would fawn over them while he looked on and was forced to smile even as they drove the dagger into his back.

One of the logs in the fire cracked and fell into two pieces. As the sparks vanished up the chimney, Cailan rubbed a hand down the side of his face and deliberately folded the letter from Alistair before laying it aside on the desk. He was sleeping poorly, and the fatigue made him restless, suspicious. On some days, even Anora turned into an enemy, one whose movements he tracked down to the wine she poured for him, so that he might discover any hint she still took her father’s side and only waited to overthrow him. In those moments, he dreaded that Rosslyn had told the queen of the half-baked plan to divorce her, and any protest from the more valiant part of himself was smothered by the knowledge that the Gwaren soldiers paroled at Highever had sworn their loyalty to his wife, and not to him.

“The people are starving, the nobles discontented, and sleep will not come for me,” he grunted, reaching for the decanter of brandy he had set on the table next to him. “I suffer nothing more.” The lies slipped away more easily with drink, and the fog that settled over him was preferable to the chase of dreams through his mind, the swirls of green smoke and voices calling out in reproach.

Next to him, an elderly mabari with milky eyes and a grey mask of fur around her muzzle lifted her head to whine at him.

“I know, Biscuit. I should know better than to disturb your naps with my malaising.” He reached down to stroke her head as she dropped it on his lap. “Any insight you can give me into Loghain’s plans would be helpful.”

There was the truly disturbing part. Rosslyn’s bartered blood mage had revealed that Erimond had planned to open a gateway to the Fade using the bloodshed at Highever, and whether or not Loghain had been party to the full plan, only luck had turned the battle’s purpose before the ritual was completed. All intelligence now pointed to a search for an equally powerful source of entropic energy. Regardless of whether Erimond found it, the threat to Ferelden now went beyond mundane civil war.

Biscuit whined again, and added her paw to Cailan’s knee, looking up with the same imploring, white-rimmed gaze she had first used on him as a pup when he had walked through the kennels on his twentieth birthday. The door to the study opened and he caught the smell of lavender and orange flowers, Anora’s winter perfume, and the tap of her shoes on the floorboards. Tail wagging, the dog creaked to her feet and limped over to ask for attention from the newcomer.

“What do you have there?” the queen asked as she bent to scratch between Biscuit’s shoulders. Her gaze swept over the accounts and reports organised on his desk, the ones he had been perusing when his thoughts took their dark turn. At first, she had been surprised that he applied himself voluntarily to bureaucracy, had been snide about Rosslyn’s apparent ability to train him to paperwork when his own wife could not, but in the time since arriving in Denerim, she had offered only help. He pushed away the thought that she was just waiting for him to prove himself incompetent and offered her a smile.

“It’s a letter from Alistair,” he said. “My brother has asked Lady Rosslyn to marry him, and she has accepted.”

She nodded. “They deserve some happiness after all of this – her especially. It is a shame her parents are not here to marry them out of her own house.”

“A greater shame that they were murdered,” he replied.

Anora pursed her lips, deciding whether to rise to the bait, but straightened her shoulders after a moment and crossed the room to lay yet more papers onto his desk.

“I came to bring you the scout reports from the Southron Hills,” she told him. “Though I hope you will not linger as late tonight as you did yesterday. You need your rest, and Ferelden needs it too.”

Meeting the pale blue gaze, Cailan slumped. His wife stood with the same neutral poise that had so fascinated him growing up, her hands folded in front of her and every golden hair on her head perfectly set in place, waiting for him to respond. And he was being unworthy, as sulky as he ever was as a teenager realising his life would never truly be just his alone. The events of the past year were not her fault; Loghain had used them both to further his own ambitions.

“Forgive me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I am suffering a lack of sleep, now I think on it.”

The narrow shoulders, held so stiff and straight, relaxed slightly. “I worry for you.”

“Have dinner with me tonight,” he suggested, conviction settling the tremor in his voice. “We can… talk.”

“I am at my husband’s disposal, of course,” she answered, the smile she turned on him guarded, but genuine in the way it brought a crease to the corners of her eyes.

“Good. That’s – good.”

The past could not be undone, but nor could he step forward with despair keeping pace like a hound at his heels. Unless he fixed the problems that had led to war in the first place, he might find himself sitting in the very same position at some point in the not-so-distant future, presiding over a divided court with bodies towering on both sides. It was not just a habit for paperwork Rosslyn had drilled into him over the months on campaign; her wisdom haunted him. One who cannot keep the peace has not yet won it.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #dragon age origins #alistair theirin #rosslyn cousland #cousland #f!cousland #alistair x cousland #king cailan #queen anora #cailan x anora #the falcon and the rose

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kaibacxrps · 4 years

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RP PLOTTING CHEAT SHEET

(originally created by hatsudenki)

Repost don’t reblog

Mun name: Vani (IDC how you guys will address me by)

OOC Contact: Tumblr IMs, Disco.rd (mutuals only)

Who the heck is my muse anyway:

Seto Kaiba is the CEO of Kaiba corporation, a world renowned softwares and games development company. They are one of the main partners and investors of Industrial illusions, the company responsible for the creation of duel monsters (they are also known for their theme parks in Japan and the USA, and later [GX] they own the duelists academy). Kaiba is also amongst the top duelits known in the world, Yugi is the only one who stands above him- no one else comes close to rivaling him.

Priest Set is one of the six priests that compose, Atem’s court in Ancient Egypt (and in the afterlife). He was the original wielder of the millennium rod, and carried the duties of extracting prisoners kas and execute them. He was also a phenomenal war strategist, and a powerful magician (who was only ever defeated by Atem. No one else rivaled him, in those skills). He fought against Zorc, alongside his colleagues and pharaoh, and came out as the sole survivor of that previous court. He became the new pharaoh, after Atem’s death (since it was revealed to him that he was Aknadin’s son, so they were related.). Set reigned over the Egyptian empire, and went down in history as a tyrant and merciless pharaoh in Egypt’s history.

Points of interest:

Kaiba can be recognized at about anywhere he goes. He is a very prominent, public figure. At some point, any muse is bound to have at least seen or heard something involving the name Kaiba. Don’t let those commercials and interviews fool you, Kaiba is a difficult person to be around in person.

Besides my AU, where Set shows up in the modern world. Interactions will either take place in AE or in the afterlife. In AE, it can be during his time as a priest, or when he is the pharaoh. Meanwhile in the afterlife, his soul is bound to serve his king. When Set is in the modern world, he is sharing his mind (not the body) with Kaiba, so he knows his way around as well as everything that happened during DM’s events.

What they’ve been up to recently:

It depends on the verse.

For standard Kaiba’s interactions are all set in his present time verse, 4 years post-DM. He has long since quit the professional dueling scene (after being defeated by Yugi in his BC 2.0 tournament, that takes place after Atem’s departure), so he has only been focusing on his company - and his brother (who is already studying abroad). Kaiba has also cut all ties and contact with Yugi & co, the last time he saw them was in their HS graduation. Currently, he is working on his duelists academy project, he has just bought the establishment and is making huge investments on it. He is often traveling abroad for business reasons, and is rarely seen around Domino city.

As a priest: Set is serving the royal court, he is an important and prominent figure within it. Because of that, his days are extremely busy. He can be often found being mentored by Aknadin, or in the company of other priests. On the rare occasion, it is possible to run into him while out hunting wild animals.

As a pharaoh: Set took over the throne after Atem’s death, and is currently trying to repair and rebuild the empire after all the damages and destruction caused by Zorc. Things are still very fresh and recent, on top of that the former priest is now trying to adjust to his life as the king of Egypt.

In the afterlife: Set’s soul made into his pharaoh’s after his death, in the mortal realm. He is finally reunited with his colleagues, but Atem is still nowhere to be found. As such, he alongside with everyone else waits patiently for their king’s return. Things will return to normal, once he makes it into it.

Modern AU: Set has been granted the chance to meet, the one that was meant to be his vessel. However, things have been less than stellar to him. And ever since he came across Kaiba, he has been kept inside of Kaiba estate. He isn’t allowed out of it, in order to avoid people mistaking him by his vessel.

Where to find them:

Kaiba is... All over the place really, although bars and nightclubs might be the better places to find him. Otherwise, he mostly stays in his company’s building or in his mansion.

Just look above for Set, it depends on the time period- when things are meant to happen. But during Ae, he doesn’t really leave the palace that much and in the modern AU he is stcuk in Kaiba’s place.

Current plans:

// I don’t have any? Not in the sense of making something, that would involve other muns muses. I’ll just keep working on my HCs, and hopefully write a few drabbles I have been meaning to get to for awhile.

Desired interactions:

// I would love to have more things taking place during AE for Set, or finally get to write something during the afterlife.

For Kaiba, I’m actually interested in some pre-DM stuff, so during school shenanigans? (At a time where they were all simply classmates, and nothing else) Or even much later into the timeline, during or post-GX.

Offered interactions:

I have many AUs to offer!

My biggest AU atm is my Yami!Set AU! All of these are open for interactions, and plotting!

I offer anything from pre-DM stuff, things taking place during the series events, post DM and even GX stuff for Kaiba!

For Set, it is a similar thing, albeit during AE and in the afterlife.

Current open post/s:

I don’t do any opens, unless it is for a current dash shenanigan sorry.

Anything else?:

Please be mindful about the continuity & canon sources, I use for my muses. All of them are being based off the anime, I don’t follow at all the manga nor take season 0 into consideration. I also ignore all the movies, and games for my interpretations.

I don’t expect my portrayals/takes on the characters to be everyone’s cup of tea. I’m bound to touch on certain subjects that might be upsetting for certain users, so please take care of yourself and know your limits.

I haven’t watched everything related to YGO. I’m the most familiar with DM and GX, I still have to catch up with everything that came afterwards.

Anyone looking to ship with me. These are the ones I refuse to rp: mirror (Noah/Seto), tabloid (Mokuba/Seto), Puppy/violet (Jounouchi/Seto) and corrupt (TK Bakura/Set).

I want to remind you all that, any and all HCs that mention a character’s name. Will never be applied nor enforced, upon anyone’s muses!

I can rp on disc.ord as well, if that’s easier for you!

Please don’t let these things intimidate you! I look forward to talk & discuss with you!

#ooc /#; dash games #long post #oh BOY I DID IT

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therainroguefanfiction · 4 years

Text

🎃 Frightful October Act IV, #11 ~ Jealousy (Cory Hong)

📑 Table of Contents

Genre: Supernatural, Romance, Vampire AU

Word Count: 3,227

Pairing: Reader x Cory

World: 24K

───── ⋆⋅🎃⋅⋆ ─────

When you first met Cory, he was a member of the group 24K. You had met the group through mutual friends and instantly hit it off with the group’s leader. Pretty soon, you and Cory became inseparable – every bit of spare time he had was spent with you.

He was your best friend and you were his, but life seemed determined to keep the two of you apart. Every time you made plans to hang out, something came up at the last minute and the outing had to be canceled. It got to the point where you weren’t able to see each other at all. You were busy with college and work, while Cory was working his ass off trying to make it big.

A month passed. Two. Three.

You could feel yourself growing apart from him and it scared you. While you had many acquaintances in your life, you only had a handful of friends but none of them bore the same weight in your heart as Cory did. What if you never saw him again? What if he forgot about you?

You frowned at the thought and quickly shook your head. He was a busy man that barely got time for himself, must less for anyone else. You were thankful for whatever time he could spare you, no matter how little that ended up being.

That was enough for you… right?

───── ⋆⋅🎃⋅⋆ ─────

A year had passed since you last saw Cory. Your brother had gotten into a car accident and needed to be looked after, so you left South Korea, returning to your home state of Oregon to care for him. It had broken your heart to say goodbye to Cory, but nothing could be done about it. You briefly wondered if the universe really did have something against your friendship.

Autumn had finally rolled around and you couldn’t be happier. It was your favorite time of year, after all. A Halloween superstore had just opened up down the street from your college and you wasted no time in applying there. You got a callback that same day – you were hired to work the closing shift, from six in the afternoon until close at midnight.

There were a couple others that had been hired for the same shift, and they were not happy about you. You were, though. Ever since you had been a kid, you’ve always found solace in the night time. It was peaceful and quiet, and more importantly, lacked the number of people you would typically find during the day.

Between work and school, you didn’t have much free time. Although there were others that had been scheduled to work the closing shift throughout the week, they up and quit without warning, leaving your boss understaffed. You offered to take over their hours, which he happily agreed.

Getting to work in a store surrounded by Halloween decorations, props, and costumes during the night time when very few people messed with you… it was like a childhood dream come true!

The bell above the door dinged as it was pulled open and you smiled brightly. “Welcome! Oh, hello, Fried.”

Fried smiled a charming smile, brushing strands of his navy blue hair away from his face. As usual, his long hair was loosely braided, resting on his right shoulder. The bright red ribbon on the end stuck out against his dark clothes. “A fine night to you, Y/N.”

Fried was a regular. He had been visiting the store every night without fail since the day it opened, always appearing around ten-thirty. He never actually bought anything, just browsed the products and made small talk with you. It creeped out the other employees that had worked the same shift, but you just assumed that he was lonely and enjoyed the Halloween merchandise like you did. He never did or said anything bad, so his presence didn’t bother you in the slightest.

Cory always did say you were too trusting for your own good.

“You got in new stock today, as I understand,” he commented as he approached the glass counter, watching you re-arrange the candles on shelves behind the counter.

“That’s right!” you smiled over your shoulder at him before picking up another scented candle from the box, this one claiming to smell like witch’s brew. “Vampires are pretty popular lately, so we got a whole shipment of Vampire-themed merch today.”

Fried’s dark eyes flashed with anger before returning to normal, his hand forming a fist atop the counter. “I see,” his words were breathy. “Where?”

You didn’t notice his change in attitude or how tense he became, too focused on the task at hand – you were terrified that if you let your attention slip, you’d drop and break them and they were expensive candles. “Over in the back right corner. Mason should still be over… there…” you glanced over your shoulder, blinking at the spot he had been seconds before. ‘Huh, he must be really into vampires’.

A few minutes of silence passed. You had just placed the last candle and were hopping down from the step ladder when your co-worker, Mason, approached you with a weary expression.

“Did you finish the display?” you asked with a smile.

“Almost,” he answered, glancing over his shoulder. “That guy is really weird.”

“Fried?” you questioned, tilting your head curiously.

Mason frowned at you, his blue eyes filled with worry. “You shouldn’t be so friendly with that guy, Y/N. There’s something… off about him.”

You mirrored his frown, giving him your full attention after folding up the step ladder. “He seems fine to me.”

He sighed, shaking his head. The motion caused a few strands of blonde hair to fall over his forehead. “You’re too nice, Y/N! Just… be careful, okay? I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

A hand reached out, resting on his shoulder. He jumped back in surprise, slapping the hand away from him. Fried stared him down for a moment before turning to you. “Is everything alright, Y/N?”

Before you could answer him, Mason spoke up, eyes narrowed. “Sorry, but we’re closing early today. Please leave.”

“Do you even have that authority?” Fried challenged, folding his arms over his chest.

Mason scowled, taking a step forward. “I’m the manager on duty, so yes I have that authority. Leave now, sir.”

You frowned, your gaze flickering between the two men as they glared each other down. You could almost feel the electricity between them. After a tense minute, Fried turned and exited the store. Mason followed close behind, locking up and unplugging the neon ‘Open’ sign.

“Won’t you get into trouble for closing early?” you asked, softly, not wanting to further annoy him.

He seemed to relax a bit now that the door was secure, but he kept his guard up just in case. “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,” he offered you a smile. “Let’s finish up and head home.”

You nodded and got back to work.

───── ⋆⋅🎃⋅⋆ ─────

You stifled a yawn as you entered your dorm building. It was only just turning midnight, meaning you got home about an hour or so earlier than you normally would. Even so, you were exhausted and still had class to get to early that morning. You turned the corner and froze, nearly dropping your keys. “Cory?”

The male in question had been pacing back and forth in front of your door but he stopped dead when he heard your voice. One second, he was at the end of the hall and the next, he was hugging you tightly to his body, picking you up off the ground. You giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, resting his face in your neck. He could hear your pulse increase. “I called you so many times!”

“I kinda forgot my phone…” you rubbed the back of your head, offering a sheepish smile.

He set you down, eyes scanning your body. It was very faint, but he detected a strange scent on you, lingering on your skin and clothes. His eyes narrowed, grip tightening unconsciously. He didn’t like that smell. Not one bit.

“Cory? What’s wrong?”

He snapped out of it, releasing you as he forced a smile. “Nothing! Just happy to see you after so long.”

Your heart skipped a beat, cheeks growing warm as you turned to your door, sliding the keys in the lock. Cory followed you inside, his nose in the air as he tried to detect the scent inside your room, but it wasn’t on any of the furniture or books. Whatever that scent came from, it had never been inside your room. That made him relax a bit.

“I didn’t know you were coming back to Oregon,” you told him, pulling your coat off.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he grinned, flopping onto the bed. “Did it work?”

“Definitely,” you turned your back to him to hide the smile that lit up your face. You were so happy to see him that you could cry, but you didn’t want to ruin the moment, so you held them back.

The scent was beginning to drive him nuts, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to fully relax as long as it invaded his nostrils. “Why don’t you go take a shower to warm up? Then we can catch up over some horror movies.”

“Is that your subtle way of saying I stink, Cory?” you raised a brow at him playfully.

If he could blush, he would have. “No, I just don’t want you to get sick.”

“Fine, fine~” you clutched your towel and change of clothes to your chest as you entered the bathroom attached to your room.

Cory grabbed your laptop, skimming through a list of horror movies. He avoided the topic of vampires and chose a movie that was sure to make your hair stand on end.

You stepped out of the bathroom, fully clothed and refreshed from the warm water. You saw Cory on his stomach on your bed, playing around on his phone. The laptop was open in front of him – he had set up the movie already, pausing it on the intro screen so you could see the title of the movie.

“The Nightmare Before Christmas? Really?” you cocked a brow, sitting beside him and crossing your legs. “Isn’t that more of a Christmas movie than Halloween?”

He shrugged, scooting over so you weren’t hanging off the edge. “Who cares. It has all of the elements to make it a good Halloween movie. It’s a movie that must be watched twice a year without fail.”

“Is that right?” you chuckled, pulling the comforter from under his body. Even though the dorms had a heating system, it was old and didn’t circulate well through the old building. Once the two of you were snuggled under the comforter, he hit play.

You made it through half the movie before your eyes began to droop. You fought against the sleepiness trying to claim you, but you lost, your head falling onto your arms. Cory smiled softly as he put his arm protectively around you, kissing your forehead.

───── ⋆⋅🎃⋅⋆ ─────

You entered the Halloween store with a bright smile, greeting your co-worker before heading into the back to clock in. Cory had insisted on following you to work, refusing to accept ‘no’ as an answer. You had been hesitant, but you were scheduled to work alone that night so it would be nice to have some company. Your co-worker clocked out as soon as you clocked in and left the store with a polite ‘goodbye’.

“I didn’t think this store would be so… empty,” Cory commented when you returned to the front. He leaned on the glass counter, looking at the various glass knick-knacks that had been placed on display. “Is it always this dead?”

You hummed, thoughtfully. “It’s pretty busy during the day, but it starts to slow down around five o’clock. A couple people show up at night here and there, but I’m sure as Halloween gets closer, it’ll start to get busier.”

“And do you always work alone?” he frowned. The thought made his stomach clench painfully. He didn’t consider you to be weak by no means, but what would happen if some lunatic came at you with a gun? Your chances of survival were lowered if you were alone, and the chance of getting robbed was higher. Not only that, but there were more than just criminals stalking the night.

“Not usually, no,” you picked up the basket that had been set behind the counter. It was filled with ‘return items’, or items that people decided they didn’t want or couldn’t afford at the register. “Mason, the night manager, is usually with me, but his mom is really sick so he had to call out to care for his baby sister.”

Cory followed you closely as you returned the items, his brow furrowed in thought. ‘Mason… is he the scent I detected on her? If he usually works with her, it might just be…’

The last item in the basket was a ceramic pumpkin cookie jar that needed to be returned to the top shelf. All glass and ceramic items were kept up high to avoid kids grabbing and breaking them. Even on your tiptoes, you couldn’t quite reach the shelf.

Chuckling, Cory came up behind you, his chest against your band as his large hand overtook yours. He easily pushed the pumpkin onto the shelf, but he didn’t step back from you. Your cheeks were burning and he knew it, he could smell the blood rushing to your face.

His arms wrapped around your shoulders, his nose nuzzling your neck. It was so easy for him to turn you into a blushing mess and he loved it. He loved knowing he had this power over you, and he loved being able to feel your blood rushing through your veins. You drove him crazy and you didn’t even know it.

The bell above the door dinged and you quickly pulled away, rushing to the front of the store. You were thankful for the excuse to get away from such an embarrassing situation. Your eyes landed on Fried and you smiled, about to greet him, but his expression made you stop dead, smile faltering.

He was standing in the doorway, his hands clenched tightly at his sides and his jaw set. His eyes took in your red face and the sound of your racing heart and his eyes narrowed over your shoulder, starting to glow a bright, crimson red.

Something inside your brain told you that these were not just contacts. Alarm bells were ringing like crazy in your mind. You took a shaky step backward, smacking into Cory, who put his hands on your shoulders protectively. You glanced up at him and squeaked – his eyes were glowing red, too!

Your heart was pulsing in your ears. ‘What the hell is happening right now…’

“It was you that I smelled on her,” Cory spoke. You could see fangs inside his mouth, glinting menacingly in the low light of the store.

“And who are you?” Fried tilted his head up, a smug expression on his face. He, too had fangs that glinted when he spoke. “I have been with Y/N every day for two and a half weeks. Not once have I caught your scent. And believe me, I would have noticed since it’s so… pungent.”

Jealousy bubbled up from within him, his fists clenching as he stepped forward to put himself between you and Fried.

You aren’t sure what suddenly came over you, but you didn’t like the smug tone Fried was using or the fact that he had just insulted your best friend. You put your hands on your hips. “I’ll have you know that Cory and I are best friends and we’ve known each other for three years. And he doesn’t smell!” you instantly regretted your decision as his glare snapped to you. He looked pissed. You cleared your throat, shrinking back behind Cory, who had a mix of happiness and amusement on his face.

Fried took a step forward and Cory followed suit, ordering you to stay behind him. Fried grew angrier at this, his upper lip curling back as he hissed. “I spent three weeks scoping out this mark. Do you honestly believe I’m going to just step aside and let you have her?”

“No one decides who has me but me!” you could feel his glare through Cory’s body. “No matter how long you ‘scope me out’, I’ll never be yours!”

Fried snarled at you and you squeaked in fright, throwing your arms around Cory’s waist, your face hidden in the back of his jacket. The reality suddenly hit you that this was not a normal man that you were yelling at.

“You heard her, now leave,” Cory ordered, his voice full of bravado.

Though Fried had been a vampire much longer than Cory, about seven centuries, in fact, Cory was stronger and Fried knew that. He could easily sense the power lurking beneath the surface. If they fought it out, Fried would surely lose.

“This isn’t over,” Fried promised, but he knew it very much was. He hastily exited the store, shattering the glass when he slammed into it.

You hadn’t realized you were shaking until Cory turned, bringing you into his warm chest. His embrace was warm and protective. “Cory, you… you’re a vampire?”

His body tensed and he nodded. His voice was soft as he asked. “Are you scared of me, Y/N?”

“If I was scared of you, do you really think I’m be clinging to you, you dork?” your face was still pressed against his chest, so your words were a bit muffled, but he heard them.

Cory smiled, pulling back just enough so he could rest his forehead against yours. “I wanted to tell you so bad, but I didn’t want to scare you off.”

Your cold hands cupped his face. “You’re my best friend, Cory. No matter what happens, I’ll always be on your side,” you could feel the blood rushing to your face, but you had to speak from your heart. It was now or never. “You are honestly the most important person in my life. You always have been, and you always will be.”

Hearing those words made him lose his self-control. He slammed his lips against yours, his fangs dragging across the flesh as his grip tightened around your body. You didn’t hesitate to kiss him back, holding back a groan when his tongue swiped at your bottom lip to taste your blood.

“Come back to Korea with me,” he whispered, licking his lips, stained red from your blood. “We can get a house together. And a cat. I know you like cats.”

“Are you trying to bribe me with a cat?” you teased, tugging at his t-shirt.

He chuckled, running his tongue over your lip to collect the new bead of blood that had formed. “Maybe~ Is it working?”

“You had me long before you mentioned a cat,” you pulled away, your hands folded behind your back as you grinned. “But you can’t go back on your word! We are definitely getting a cat.”

“Of course,” Cory smiled, his voice soft. “I will give you the world, Y/N. Just say the word.”

───── ⋆⋅🎃⋅⋆ ─────

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ill-will-editions · 4 years

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QUARANTINE LETTER #6: Empty Plazas

Dear Friends,

I’ve been inspired by letters circulated recently by Ill Will Editions, which have offered a helpful window for thinking through the current global pandemic. Reading them, it struck me that several have circled around something like a disjunction or asymmetry between two distinct yet overlapping lines of thought: on one hand, there is the understandable fear that the forms of social control presently implemented will be sustained beyond the pandemic (not unlike they were after 9-11), a concern that directs our attention to state power; on the other hand, there is the disruptive force of the virus itself, like a non-human agency conducting itself across us, and operating beneath and beyond the waves of governmental and economic measures by means of which the elites in the political class scramble to maintain an increasingly tenuous veneer control and authority. Orion addressed the latter in his letter when he described the virus as a power that has “constructed its own temporality, which immobilizes everything,” a power “capable of extending beyond what the insurrections proved incapable of doing, and actually shutting down the economy.” Two types of agency, two asymmetrical lines of force—how are we to parse their peculiar overlap in this moment, those of us who have never been friends of their ‘normal time’?

I write to you now from Chile, a place that has been in a state of unrest since October of last year. As it happens, the pandemic’s arrival within the context of an unfolding insurrection provides a moment to reflect on the modalities of crisis politics and control in the current moment.

Our situation might appear quite the same as anywhere else these days: the Chilean government followed the example of governments around the globe, declaring a national emergency in response to the COVID-19 pandemic. In point of fact, this most recent state of exception is the third that the government has declared in the past decade, since it follows not only the uprising this past October, but also the catastrophic earthquake of 2010. In each of these cases, the maintenance of public order was handed over to the military, which did not hesitate to implement nightly curfews and military checkpoints restricting and surveying movement.

Have we shifted from one form of upheaval to another? If so, the relevant distinction would not be between normal and exceptional states, between the rule of law and emergency measures, but rather, in this shift, who is in control over the territory, and how are we inhabiting it? Under what conditions can this question no longer be answered? If it is possible to assess continuity and divergence in our present moment in Chile, one can do so only by looking at the experience of, and contestation over, collectively inhabited territory. I’d like to share with you a few examples of such experiences, through several portraits of everyday life that capture the myriad of ways people and institutions have responded to the COVID pandemic amidst contestations over territory.

Variable Enforcement

On March 15th, 2019, in a televised, national press conference, the Chilean Board of Medicine (colegio de médicos) criticized the current Ministry of Health for improperly implementing its protocols. Since the government was failing to control the outbreak that started in Santiago, they asked everyone in the city to begin a full 14-day quarantine: no work, no school, no leaving the house. Many in the city followed this quarantine—bars and nightclubs owners closed their businesses in the name of social responsibility, and mall employees staged walk-outs and went on strike until the city closed the shopping malls.

It wasn’t until March 20th that the Chilean government finally implemented quarantine measures in Santiago, including full quarantine in territories with high rates of COVID-19, such as the rich neighborhoods of Santiago and the city’s downtown. Those who live inside the quarantine zone must now fill out a form on the police department’s website and download a “temporary pass” before leaving their house. On the form, we must select an option from the list of permitted reasons to travel from our homes, and declare where we are going. We can request a 4 hour pass 2 times a week for basic necessities, a 12-hour pass to go to a doctor’s appointment, and a 30-minute pass to walk their dog. Essential workers can request a salvoconducto, a permit to travel during military curfew or cross military checkpoint. At the beginning of the quarantine, police stations had lines around the block, with people waiting to apply for a salvoconducto.

Along the border of Santiago’s quarantine zones, only a dozen or so military checkpoints exist. We quickly realized we could walk past the handful of guards stationed there. Furthermore, city buses appear to be affected by these quarantine measures. In effect, those who opt to remain at home in the quarantine zone often do so because they are complying with the medical board’s recommendation, rather than the official quarantine measures.

Meanwhile, the official quarantine measures have not been extended to the combative poblaciónes, home to the greatest number of participants in the October 2019 Chilean uprising. These neighborhoods at the periphery of the city were formed by massive squatter movements in the 1950s and 60s, when residents collaborated to build houses, defend each other from eviction, and negotiate with the government for city infrastructure, schools, and clinics. If you’ve seen videos of riots during the March 29th Day of Combative Youth (Dia del Joven Combatiente), the footage is more than likely from these neighborhoods.

Back in October, the rebellious tendencies of the poblaciones were no longer confined to those specific areas but proliferated all over, as people circulated in the downtown, metro, supermarkets, pharmacies, and shopping malls. The attacks weren’t against the police and metro—the two obvious symbols of state power—but also targeted the formal economy itself.

This year, despite the military curfews and fear of the pandemic, the poblaciónes celebrated the day of combative youth by taking the streets and confronting the police. Unlike in central Santiago, public space continues to be open in the poblaciónes. Although there are fewer protests and social life has diminished, the pandemic has not yet fully interrupted life in these areas. Initially, protestors who congregated in Plaza de la Dignidad feared that the government would use its official quarantine measures as an attempt to regain social control after months of Chile’s social uprising. In the end, no heavy effort was made to enforce quarantine measures in those spaces where they would anyway be contested: the boundaries of the quarantine zones and the rebellious territories of the poblaciónes.

Control of public space

With the new norms of quarantine and social distance, the pandemic has interrupted the shared experiences of protests in the streets and neighborhood events in the plazas. Since October, upheaval has structured our everyday life where we live, rendering our neighborhood projects both possible and necessary. Neighbors formed assemblies in response to the upheaval of the massive street demonstrations. Through assemblies, we hoped to meet each other, and sustain the forces in the streets and life in the neighborhood. People used assemblies to organize and publicize new neighborhood events such as community kitchens, flea markets, children’s theater, and open-air concerts. Meeting in parks, our assemblies would be constantly interrupted by the life of the neighborhood: street dogs greeting us and playing in the middle of the circle, people asking for cigarettes, sitting with us and ranting, and old insurgents saying we should stop talking and start lighting barricades.

The pandemic has radically interrupted this everyday life. Now, the neighborhood assembly is online. Assemblies, mutual aid, and online workshops are coordinated and announced in their corresponding Whatsapp groups. Uninvited neighbors can no longer drop in spontaneously. My capacity to write in a café was enabled by the possibility that I would be interrupted by an old friend walking in with someone new to meet, or that protesters would spill into the café from Plaza Dignidad to evade the spray of the guanaco (the police’s water cannon tank), interruptions that conferred sense of structure and situated meaning on my work. Could it be that all activity becomes meaningful only when conducted in the public? In any case, we were wrong to have ever looked upon the possibility of interruption as a nuisance or distraction. In fact, the more entangled they were with the lives of others who inhabit our world, the more meaningful our activities became. The quarantine signifies the interruption of this shared sensibility and with it, made all the other interruptions that followed from it impossible as well.

Who imposes restriction of movement?

And yet, things are still happening in Chile: in other regions, residents have continued participating in the uprising by blockading the industries that destroy their territories. In Patagonia, for instance, several towns have been engaged in a decades-long conflict with the players in the salmon industry. By dumping antibiotics, feed, and waste, salmon farms have decimated the waterways on which local fishermen rely, while industrial freight trucks ravage the narrow country roads that connect towns to one another.

When things kicked off back in October, the breadth and depth of the upheaval became apparent to us only after learning that, while Santiago was burning, rural communities were also erecting barricades on country roads and interrupting Chile’s major industries. These same towns blockaded the roads that brought workers and supplies to the Salmon farms. In those days, to get a reading of the situation within one’s city, it sufficed to walk down the street, and yet it was comparatively difficult to gather news of the protests elsewhere in the country. Despite this difficulty, “Free Chiloe” (Chiloe Libre) graffiti proliferated on buildings throughout Santiago.

When the COVID outbreak began to spread outside Santiago, residents on the Patagonian island of Chiloe blocked ferries carrying salmon industry workers. Eventually, the government restricted transportation to the Island to prevent the spread of Coronavirus; yet, when a ferry arrived bringing additional police forces to enforce the quarantine, Chiloe residents attempted to block that ferry, too.

A Determinate Ambiguity

In his recent reflection on Agamben and the legacy of the Chilean state of exception, Gerard Munoz offers some insight into why the state’s emergency measures ultimately failed to take any effective hold during the October uprising:

The Chilean debate is in a better position to arrive at a mature understanding of the state of exception, not as an abstract formula, but as something latent within democracies. The dispensation of Western politics into security and exceptionality is not a conceptual horizon of what politics could be; it is what the ontology of the political represents once the internal limits of liberal principles crumble to pieces (and with it, any separation between consumers and citizens, state and market, jurisprudence and real subsumption).

In order to function, the deployment of a state of emergency relies on the liberal distinction between market and state, citizen and delinquent. The Chilean government appealed to the “security of the state”, but the uprising had already disproven the liberal principles of the post dictatorship Chile, and to such an extent that a reversal of course had for a time become strictly unthinkable.

In the months following the social explosion, we could not have conceived any event that could bring any swift conclusion to the life of the streets. There was no amount of heavy-handed police repression that could have convinced us of a self-evident need for law and order; no over-hyped constitutional assembly or impending financial crisis could convince us that there was a real, external force that would interrupt the social explosion.

And yet, here we are: the pandemic has brought an abrupt halt to the uprising in ways we had thought to be impossible. From the first week of the COVID outbreak, Plaza de la Dignidad has been quiet. There has been no lootings, even despite the lack of supplies. Conflicts with the police remain confined to the poblaciones.

To what does it owe this power? The pandemic interrupted the uprising because to many , it appeared as an external force. If it possesses a power that no governmental ordinance can rival, this is because its presence tends to shatter the various separations on which the administration of this world depends because it doesn’t recognize the gap between state and market, consumer and citizen, jurisprudence and subsumption. As a result, we know longer know if we are taking care of ourselves in resistance to the state, despite the state, or in subordination to the state. As the pandemic moves through this world, it interrupts the positive contact with which this world is based. In the absence of such contact, we are left with scrambled claims of obedience and contestation, resistance and self-assertion.

This is not the place to recall the extent to which the fictive ideals of liberal democracy depended on the growth of a fracture between interior and exterior realms of experience: public reason and private obedience, faith and confession, moral conscience and political right, etc. Where once there appeared a world, full and filthy with attachments, heresies, and allegiances, only a subject—a self-possessed and autonomous citizen—would be left to remain. Was this not the project of modern economic governance?

Not only has the experience of space been re-liberalizing, but also the forms of care have followed suit. As the insurrection recedes, and with it, the bustling and rich horizon of shared attention and concern, the forms of care that now replace it already bear the stain within them of that absence to the world that defined the modern liberal subject. While we are moved with everyone with a conscience to care for others, we do not confuse the notions of care we are told to do within social distancing with the practices we developed that were only possible by fully inhabiting a shared territory. We are told this crisis threatens the vulnerable, the infirm, the elderly; that, in taking care of ourselves, we are taking care of others; that our role, as participants in a ‘shared world’, is to reduce the spread through social distancing and isolation. Yet, to be deprived of social life and the use of public space, is to be deprived of those very experiences that confer meaning on concepts such as care, support, and community action. After all, to experience a common world is to participate in the activities that make it not merely possible, but real; only through combination and encounter can our singular capacities reveal to us all that outstrips them, all that can only belong to anyone, to everyone. In quarantine, we risk being denied the conditions that make possible an awareness that we inhabit a shared world.

-- Emilio, Santiago de Chile. April 20th, 2020

#COVID19 #Coronavirus #chile #santiago #territory

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