#Cas not being there is unforgivable

[subbyalbedo]

Kinktober Day 3 - ORAL FIXATION with Kyojuro Rengoku

Warnings: smut, cursing, dom!reader, sub!rengoku, facefucking, pegging, choking

~~~

He looked up at you with big doe eyes, like mini pools of fire, as he sucked weakly at your fingers.

He canted his hips upward as you slowly grinded your strap onto him.

With the lights down low and his face starting to flush as he drooled around your fingers, you thought he looked absolutely gorgeous.

His eyes were half lidded in pleasure as you rubbed his nipples with your free hand, and he let out little gasps and whimpers with each motion.

"You like suckin my fingers, baby?"

He mumbled something weakly, eyes droopy from the sleepy arousal filling the room.

"Why don't I give you something bigger to suck on, huh?" You smiled as his eyes filled with excitement and he nodded vigorously.

He whined as you removed your fingers from his mouth, but perked up when you brought them to his hole.

Slowly starting to thrust him open, you maneuvered your strap to his mouth.

He parted his lips weakly to make room for you, but it wasn't enough when you shoved the cock in, stretching his mouth open to accomadate for its girth.

He moaned as it was pushed to the back of his mouth, your fingers finding his prostate as he tried to grip onto your hips.

As much as he loved the feeling of the plastic roughly jerking in and out of his mouth, he gagged around is as you pushed his hands away as they were trying to control the pace.

He blinked the tears from his eyes as drool slipped out of his mouth, coating the dildo in a clear slick. He could feel your cock hitting at the back of his throat, and he whined as the discomfort.

Just when he thought you couldn't get any harsher, you sped up your pace even more, pulling his head up and down your cock by his hair like a mere fleshlight.

"Yeah, take it, just like that."

You held his head all the way onto the length, him choking around it while you sat there without a care in the world, relishing in his discomfort.

He was struggling, hands pawing at your sides to try to sway you into stopping, mumbling around the intrusion in the hopes that he could get his message across. But he knew he had to stay there, to endure the pain, because he wanted to be good for you.

Finally deciding he'd had enough, after a few seconds you pulled him off and let him choke while you positioned yourself at his slick entrance.

Before he even realized what you were doing, you were quickly pushing yourself inside, not even letting him really catch his breath.

He cried out sharply as your hips pistoned against his, pushing deep into his walls and quickly pulling back out, setting an unforgiving pace.

He wailed out pleads of 'too much' and 'harder' as you dug your fingers into the plush skin of his waist. He too had a harsh grip on you, gripping anything he could reach.

He quickly built up towards his high, and soon he was close.

You were lost in the feeling of being above him, so engrossed in fucking him that it took you a second to realize he was asking for something.

Ca-hn - can you please ~ AHn~ please put - nghh - in my mouth?"

"Aw, baby still doesn't feel full?" You stuck your fingers back in his mouth, seeing him react to the feeling, eyes rolling back in his head.

"Pretty boy, you like being full of me?"

Before you even realized what was happening, he was moaning loudly, cum shooting out and back arching.

Your eyes widened at his sensitivity, he came just from the feeling of your fingers in his mouth?

As he rode out his orgasm, he continued to suck on your fingers, drool slipping out of his mouth.

"Such a pretty baby, cumming from being stuffed full."

He smiled lazily, still out of it as you slipped out of him and got him cleaned up, wrapping him into your arms as you both drifted off to sleep.

~~~

Kinktober Masterlist Link

#kinktober 2023 #kinktober #dom reader #leonawrites #dom reader smut #sub character smut #smut #demon slayer #rengoku kyojuro #sub!kyojuro #sub kyojuro #sub rengoku

[theperfectawful]

Blind Item / Chapter 1

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC

Chapter 1: Gimme More

Rating: Explicit (18+) Series Summary: 2007. Hollywood, CA. As a former child star, you face the harsh reality of growing up in the unforgiving spotlight. A car crash on Sunset Boulevard and a cocaine scandal give you one option: Rehab. Reluctantly agreeing, you embark on a 90-day stay at Promises Malibu to attempt to salvage your career. But when Dieter Bravo arrives, your journey takes an unexpected turn. Drawn to each other, you navigate sobriety and the wreckage of your reputation. As the double standard of Hollywood's treatment of troubled stars becomes evident, you question if redemption is truly possible in a world of unequal consequences. Word Count: 11k

Content/Warnings: Age gap (~10 years, Dieter is in his mid-thirties), alternating POV, heavy drug use, illegal drug use, alcohol use, driving under the influence, frenemy dynamics, oral sex (f!receiving), dubcon/noncon, it is neither reader nor Dieter's finest hour when we meet them. Period-typical language and behavior, Hollywood assholes.

Notes: This is my first fic - I've never written or posted anything like this before, so please be kind and feel free to share any feedback or suggestions. I never would have been able to write something like this, let alone work up the nerve to post it, if it hadn't been for the kind and gracious support of @pennyserenade, @whatsnewalycat and @frannyzooey all lending me their advice when I slid into their DMs. They all inspire me endlessly with their work and talent and it’s because of their work that I was inspired to write something of my own.

Our reader is, for now, and unnamed OC. While I’ve done my best to avoid using physical descriptors of her, it should be noted that this story is a period piece that takes place in early 2000s Hollywood. The main character would have been a contemporary of stars like Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Richie, and there are certain assumptions I’ve made about what she looks like based on that factor of this particular story. The early 2000s could be dark, ruthless times, y'all, especially for young women in and effected by Hollywood. My intention is to examine that. Thank you for reading!

Desperate times call for desperate measures: sources say that this former child star’s team is working overtime to keep her employed. When she made her not-so-graceful exit from her latest film, the star cited conflicting schedules as the reason for her departure. The film’s producer has a different story: the Hollywood juggernaut has been heard around town calling the star unprofessional, accusing her of being late to her call times and using drugs in her trailer. She’s got a shot at a last resort: a return to television. Word is, the bad publicity has her team bargaining and drawing out sober contracts just to get her hired.

Whenever you were in town for work, you stayed at the Chateau Marmont. You were in Los Angeles often enough and long enough to justify buying a home there, but you refused, the idea of actually owning a home in LA never quite sitting right with you. Instead, you rented the same room each time you visited. You loved that little bungalow. The thick, lush landscaping shaded the windows and kept it nice and cool inside, and your front door was only a stone's-throw from the swimming pool. 

It felt like home after a few years, anyway. These old, tucked-away places were what you liked most about Los Angeles, unlikely, quiet havens hidden between sky-high condos and overly sleek offices. The building breathed old-Hollywood luxury, vintage tiles and original hardwood floors and the ghosts of silent film stars wandering the hallways. The staff knew you well. The same breakfast was delivered to your door at noon every day. The top-tier maid service employed by the hotel kept the living room, kitchen, bathrooms and second bedroom impeccably tidy, though they were given clear instructions not to enter your bedroom.

Your bedroom did not inspire the same glamorous aesthetic as the rest of the hotel. Clothing was piled high against the walls and pouring out of dresser drawers, tags and receipts discarded in the wake. Empty bottles cluttered the hardwood floors, clear, crushed water bottles and rattly orange pill canisters. A full ashtray sat on a side table, a makeup mirror and various products scattered next to it.

In the middle of the room was a king-sized bed, an antique walnut headboard sprawling against the wall with a mountain of sheets and blankets layered atop a deep mattress. You laid swaddled in those sheets, rubbing your palms into your shut eyes and groaning as you rolled over, dragging your hands wide across your face to peek out at the clock on your nightstand.

4:41pm. You blinked, straining your eyes to focus and confirm you read that right. 4:41pm. Fuck.

Bleary-eyed, you reached for your phone, met immediately by a barrage of missed calls and unread messages when you slid it open.

MELANIE [3:21 AM]: Bathrrom

PETE [3:36 AM]: Did u leave

CORINNE [9:00 AM]: Call with NBC @ 1. Please be available. Corinne Roxford.

MISSED CALL: CORINNE

CORINNE [11:30 AM]: Confirming availability at 1pm. Corinne Roxford.

[phone] [12:06 PM]: Hey gorgeous ;)

MISSED CALL [12:30 PM]: CORINNE

MISSED CALL [12:45 PM]: CORINNE

MISSED CALL [1:00 PM]: CORINNE

CORINNE [1:03 PM]: ??? Corinne Roxford.

MISSED CALL [1:05 PM]: CORINNE

CORINNE [1:07 PM]: Call immediately. Corinne Roxford.

“Hiiiii,” a soft, tired voice called from across the room. You looked up, squinting, at your best friend Natalie leaning in the doorway to the bathroom.

“Mmmm,” you hummed in response, peeking out from where you lay buried in the sheets. “Hi.”

She crossed the room, kicking piles of clothes out of the way and perched herself on the corner of the bed, her toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. You cracked open one eye, locking eyes with her. In an unspoken acknowledgment of your situation - what you got into last night, the state you’re currently in, the splitting headache you’re certain she has, too - you raised an eyebrow at her. She smirked back at you and the two of you erupted into laughter. You lifted yourself up to sit, pushing your foot into her side from under the covers.

“You were insane last night!” she accused, still smiling as she resumed brushing her teeth.

“Me!” your voice was raspy and you coughed. “Me? You were the one making out with the bartender.”

“He wasn’t a bartender. He said he was with the DJ or something.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s better,” you snorted, the sound muffled by the plush pillows that cradled your head. You rubbed your palms across your face again, feeling the coarse texture of your own tired skin. The room was dimly lit, with the soft glow of morning seeping through the half-closed blinds. 

Your phone vibrated on the nightstand, disrupting the quiet ambiance. You picked it up, groaning when you saw your manager’s name blaring across the bright screen. With a sigh, you slid it open.

“Hi, Corinne,” your voice was a hoarse whisper as you did your best to sound alive. Natalie stirred from her spot and crossed back to the bathroom, old floorboards creaking underneath her feet.

“I needed you on that call this morning. This is your career I’m trying to save here. Do you think I’m doing all of this for my health?”

“I mean… you’re not not…” It’s out of your mouth before you can stop it. She is on your payroll.

“Very funny. I don’t think I need to remind you that you’re running out of friends and favors here, hun. I don’t think you want me to join that list.” Her sentence was punctuated by the sound of her horn honking and a muttered expletive. She sighs. “NBC still wants to speak with you, and soon, but they want to do a four-episode Growing special. The rest of the cast is on board, and they think if we play this right we can turn into a full-on reboot. But you have to straighten up, do you understand? I need you in the Santa Monica office first thing Monday to sign the paperwork.”

“I’ll be there. I promise.” Your eyes closed again, and you sunk into the plush embrace of the king-sized bed, the soft cotton fabric soothing against your skin.

“I don’t know how to make it any more clear to you how much trouble all of us are in. This is  your shot at a comeback.”

“I understand.”

There’s a bit of silence, the noise of New York traffic floating through the airwaves and into your ear. You insisted on total honesty from Corinne, unable to tolerate your team coddling you, so her words might have hurt more if this was the first time you’d heard them. Or maybe if the haze you’d woken up in were a bit thinner.

“Tomlin and the team will be in on Thursday night to get you ready for the VMAs. I’ll see you then, too.” Corinne changed the subject, her voice a mix of stern professionalism and genuine concern.

“Okay. I’m sorry.” Your voice was sickeningly sweet, a defensive baby voice you switched into when you were nervous, a trademark of yours that had been mocked by everyone from ex-boyfriends to the cast of Saturday Night Live. Corinne said goodbye and you felt Natalie’s weight return to your side.

You groaned, long and drawn out, tossing your phone into the labyrinth of sheets and blankets surrounding you. The show she referred to was a reboot of the sitcom you spent your childhood working on - Growing Together. It's one-half cast reunion, one-half desperate, nostalgic cash-grab. The producer you sat across from at the pitch meeting was almost delirious with excitement - explaining what a smashing success it was sure to be, a “televised homecoming for America's favorite family.” It took so much strength not to roll your eyes right in front of him that you thought you’d pop a blood vessel.

“Are you in trouble?” Natalie asked, a teasing tone in her voice.

"Yeah, almost always," you replied, casual in your admission. As you sat up, fully awakening, you stretched and planted your feet on the floor. You chugged the warm Vitamin Water on your nightstand before reaching for your bag on the floor and digging through its contents. Gum, a fluorescent orange paper wristband, a baby pink Juicy Tube, a black and white photobooth strip of you and Natalie with your tongues out. Not finding what you were looking for, you dumped it out onto your bed and continued rummaging through the items and garbage inside. Your iPod, a receipt from the drugstore, 3 loose cigarettes and half a dozen empty quarter-sized plastic bags. You sighed, shoving everything back inside carelessly. 

“Did we finish everything last night?” You call out, patting the bed behind you, your gaze darting around in search of your phone.

“We?” Natalie’s laughter rang through the room. “I don’t know about ‘we!’”

“God, no wonder,” you muttered, the realization of this morning's particularly splitting headache dawning. Locating your phone again, you typed out a text message to your dealer, padding out of your room to the kitchen.

[5:13 PM]: Andyyyyyy. U going to Lush tonight?

You tapped the side of your phone restlessly for a beat, then texted again.

[5:13 PM]: Can you bring what u brought last night

In the kitchen, you opened the cabinet, revealing an array of neatly arranged pill bottles. Without looking, you pulled out a bottle of Advil and an empty glass. Seated at the kitchen table, engrossed in her Macbook, was your assistant, Rhea.

“Corinne’s pissed.” She said before she even looked at you, focused intently on the screen in front of her.

“Good morning,” you responded, filling your glass at the sink and beaming an exaggerated, pageant-queen smile at her. She scoffed in response.

“The sun is going down in… 40 minutes.” she retorted, her gaze flitting momentarily to the clock on the wall, then back down. You made a mockingly offended expression, hands lifting with dramatic flair.

“Time is a social construct, Rhea,” you declared, tossing back the Advil and chasing them with the full glass of water.

“Yeah, for you, maybe.” She muttered, still typing like a maniac.

You were fired six weeks ago.

The movie was meant to signal a departure for you, a leap into serious territory - a drama marking an overdue graduation from the teeny-bopper films you’d spent the last decade of your life making. You’d been lucky a year ago - a really excellent writer took a chance on an elevated high school comedy with you at the helm that had people in the industry, finally, taking you more seriously. 

Seriously enough to get you in the door, at least. Being on set gave you a different impression. You felt as coddled as ever, still treated like an unqualified child star whose presence was more of a slightly annoying novelty than a creative asset.

You wanted to be treated like an adult - a real actress, a professional. This movie was supposed to accomplish that. Despite the fact that this project had a huge, award-winning director attached to it, it was subject to the same issues you’d experienced on countless, lower-tier productions. Poorly communicated call times, technical issues, handsy producers hanging around your trailer. The latter issue caused you to insist on Rhea being by your side whenever possible - power in numbers in an attempt to keep greasy Hollywood exec’s hands away from you.

You weren’t going out any more often than you usually did. Now that you were old enough to not have to sneak into clubs anymore, you were having fun. Though your evenings often bled into mornings, occasionally pushing the limits of your call times, it felt manageable. However, Corinne was relentless in reminding you of the stakes and your professional expectations: show up, behave, perform.

That morning, exhaustion hung over you more heavily than usual. The night before, you’d been out celebrating Natalie’s 23rd birthday. A friend of hers had just returned from Amsterdam and brought with him a bag of European ecstasy as a souvenir. After Le Deux closed, you threw an after party at the Chateau’s pool, you and Nat drank champagne on your floaties as the chemicals rushed through your systems. Your fingers dipped in and out of the heated pool, the two of you gossiping and giggling and floating along until the sun came up.

You were on set on time - early, in fact - but the MDMA had worn off and your energy was plummeting fast. You’d run through the scene several times with Rhea, but it didn’t seem to have helped much.

“Cut,” the director called out, sighing and stepping out from his position behind the camera. Your costar groans softly, standing up from his spot across from you and stepping away as the surrounding crew moves quickly to reset the scene.

“I’m sorry Alan,” you offered immediately as the director approached your mark. A makeup artist swoops in, tapping a brush to your under eyes.

“You’re furious with him, remember,” he coached you. “I understand it’s early, but I need you to manage to muster up some energy.”

You nodded, trying to focus despite the persistent buzzing in your head. “I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t need you to apologize to me like a punished child, I just need you to perform the way I’ve asked you to. Can you do that?”

"I'll get it right this time, I promise," you assure him softly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

He eyed you skeptically, his weaning lack of patience with you made clear by his expression.

“We’ll break for five.” He called out to the room, still staring at you as you stood up and shuffled off behind him.

Rhea arrived at your side with your cell phone and a Red Bull. You flip open the screen as you walk, quickly scrolling through your text messages and trying to distract yourself from your dull, nagging headache.

“That was okay, right?” You asked, trying to sound casual but unable to hide the uncertainty in your voice. “Is it as bad as he says?”

“You were fine,” Rhea’s voice was uncharacteristically high-pitched as she held out the straw of your energy drink in front of you. Her eyes flit back and forth, scanning the area, and her voice lowers into a whisper as she continues. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m tired,” You brushed her off, shaking your head and handing your phone back to her. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

Rhea nods, a concerned eyebrow lifting as you arrive at your trailer. Everyone in your life was looking at you like that lately - as if doing anything less than completely coddling you would cause you to fly off the handle. The cautious glances, the careful choices of words, the subtle tiptoeing around your every move - especially from Rhea, who never gave a fuck about your feelings - it all grated on your nerves like an itch beneath the surface. 

She held out her hand and you took it quickly, grabbing an orange bottle from her and slipping through the door of your trailer.

In your trailer, you sat at the vanity and closed your eyes, taking a couple of deep breaths before opening them and gazing at yourself in the mirror. You opened the bottle, pouring out two small pills on the counter in front of you. Scanning the surface quickly, you located a plastic card and pushed it against the pills with the ball of your hand. You pushed it again and again, finally finishing and scraping the excess powder from the card onto the table. Dragging the powder into two lines, you leaned down to inhale them and stood straight back up. You licked your finger and picked up the excess residue, pushing it into your gums and taking a couple more deep breaths to re-center yourself.

The acrid taste of the pills gave you a Pavlovian surge of energy, the anxious buzz in your chest subsiding and easing into a steady hum. You sat at the mirror, dragging a finger underneath your eye to wipe smudged eyeliner from your face. You sniffled, forcing the action into another deep breath and staring at yourself in the mirror. You belong here. You do. You know what you’re doing.

A sharp knock at the door pulled you back to reality with a jump.

“Jesus,” You called out “Alright, Rhea, one second!”

“It’s Alan. Open the door.”

Fuck. You frantically began cleaning the counter in front of you - slipping the credit card into your pocket and brushing your hands across the surface.

“Now!” Alan boomed from outside.

“Okay, okay!” You moved to the door and turned the lock, opening the door just enough for him to see you. You sniffled again, trying to camouflage the reaction with a cough. “Yes?”

Pushing the door firmly, Alan moved into your trailer, his body dwarfing yours in the small space.

“Listen to me,” he said, low but firm. “I’m done. I’m not doing this with you. I am not letting you fuck up my movie.”

“What?” You were dumbstruck.

“Don’t play dumb. Not now. You know exactly what I mean.” He was inches from your face now and getting angrier by the minute. You swallowed, desperately looking around for Rhea. Tears stung the corners of your eyes and you fought them, willing yourself not to blink.

“They’re prescribed,” you attempt. It doesn’t work.

“I don’t care what you do on your own time,” he continued “But this is mine. This is important to me and to everyone else out there whose livelihoods depend on this project, and I’m not going to let some spoiled, coked-out little actress spoil it.”

Your face burned with humiliation.

“Corinne fought hard to get you on this project. This was more of a fucking favor to her than you. But this movie does not live and die by your actions, do you understand me? You can kill yourself if you insist, but you will not pull my movie down with you. You’re fired.”

Your jaw dropped. You were unable to find words let alone choke them out. Rhea’s face was stark white when you spotted her just outside the door of your trailer, her cell phone firmly against her cheek, whispering into the receiver with her eyes wide.

“This is no longer viable for me or anyone else on this crew. I want you off my set now.”

You couldn’t move, your heart pounding in your chest. He stood there for another moment before exiting the trailer and slamming the door behind him. The force of the slam caused the door to open slightly, revealing Alan standing in front of Rhea.

“I don’t want to see you here again.” He said to her, loud enough for you to hear, his voice stern and uncompromising. “You’re lucky I don’t call the cops on you for bringing drugs on my set.”

You hung in the doorway as he stormed away, and as the room swirls into focus you see the eyes of the crew on you, their faces filled with curiosity and concern. Turning your head, you quickly blinked away your tears and wiped your eyes with the back of your hand.

Officially, you’d been let go due to ‘scheduling conflicts’. It was flimsy, Hollywood jargon for your star showing up fucked up, and unfortunately, the euphemism did little to quell the relentless scrutiny surrounding you.

Rhea had shown you the footage of you that began making the rounds after your firing was announced - a creepy, shaky video leaked by some PA of Alan berating you on set, cut with another clip of you walking around the soundstage. It was embarrassing - your hair was disheveled and you were pacing around in a way that looked strange out of context, but there wouldn’t have been anything interesting about it at all if the rumor hadn’t gotten out that you’d been fired for your drug use. Since then, the attention on you had been relentless.

The paparazzi had been a regular part of your life since you were a young teenager. It, generally, wasn’t as bad in New York, which is part of the reason why you preferred to stay there, but in LA it felt as if you were never more than a few feet from a camera. 

When you were 16 and working on your first film after Growing Together ended, you started going to clubs with your coworkers. No one ever gave you any trouble, and you didn’t even start drinking until you were 18, but despite that, the mere optics of a child star reveling in nightlife proved a lucrative angle for the media to exploit.

Since then, you were followed almost constantly. Leaving home, returning, getting groceries, getting your nails done, driving through McDonald’s - flashing lights in the corner of your eye were such a regular thing that you barely even noticed it anymore. There were photographers you knew at this point, friendly ones who knew your angles and creepy ones who constantly tailed your car.

It’d never been like this before, though. Literal throngs of photographers showed up anywhere you went, watching you like hawks, all waiting to swoop in on the slightest slip up. Going shopping was an event that needed to be scheduled in advance, boutiques needing to be warned that you’d be coming in so that they could prepare to lock doors behind you. Every step, every breath, felt scrutinized and captured for public consumption, leaving you suffocated beneath the weight of it all.

You were so angry about being let go - your behavior, truly, was no different from what any other actor your age was doing. You partied with your friends, you were out late sometimes, but you knew you were a good actress. It had been your passion since you were a child, and it was beyond frustrating to hear people tell you they loved you and wanted to see you win and then have them turn against you the moment you made a mistake.

So, although you’d behaved and spent the first week or two lying low at the insistence of Corrine, you were over it now. You stayed in LA, uninterested or unwilling to go home to your family and friends in New York and explain to them what's been going on. You were going out with Natalie every night, usually to Le Deux or Lush or Teddy’s. You stayed out late and slept in late and generally just did your best to avoid confrontation with any paparazzi or journalists or producers you’d pissed off.

You weren’t lying to Alan when you told him you were only taking what had been prescribed to you. It just happened that a lot of things had been prescribed to you. Lately, you’d been alternating between Adderall and MDMA for the last week or so, making you too speedy and anxious to really dwell on the current state of your career. You were, admittedly, running through your prescriptions more quickly than usual, causing you to need to make some calls in order to fill in the gaps.

Throughout dinner, you anxiously slid the screen to your Sidekick open and shut, open and shut. You thumbed through the wheel of apps, trying to will into existence a text from Andy that didn’t seem to be coming. It’s not exactly like you expected rigid punctuality from the guy who sold you drugs, but his radio silence was making you antsy.

[9:05pm]: Hellooooooooo

Natalie exclaimed as a tray of shots was delivered to the table, echoed by the group of acquaintances that you met up with at Don Antonios, the restaurant you always went to before a night out. Eagerly, you took one off the tray, blindly grabbing another as you knocked the first one back. You chased that shot with the other, the warmth of the liquid making you feel more like a human being and less like a raw nerve.

Seated to your right in the booth was a girl you kind of knew. She was always hanging out on the fringes of your group, some friend of a friend of a friend who was for sure going home and telling everyone she partied with you. She’d been gawking at you all night, beady eyes locked on you since you sat down, craning her neck and sitting uncomfortably close to you, your dress pinned under her studded jeans. You’d been resisting the urge to ask her what the fuck her problem was for the better part of an hour. As the group around you became distracted by the arrival of the shots, you seized the opportunity to confront her.

“Can you please get off of my dress?” you spat.

Her eyebrows shot up as she took her eyes off of you for what felt like the first time that evening to look down, apologizing and scooching over. She had tall red stilettos on and, when she looked back up at you, you could see the smudged mascara on her eyelid. Just as you were going to take the opportunity to move away from her, she leaned over to talk to you over the noise that surrounded you.

“Sorry. Hey, I’m Katie.”

You grimaced, not in the mood to talk to this person.

“Hi.”

You turn away for a beat, but your attention is grabbed again by Katie’s voice lowly in your ear.

“Hey, I have Xanax, if you want one,” the offer took you by surprise, the prospect lighting you up immediately.

“Oh, my god, I love you,” you said, quickly turning towards her and extending your palm. “Please?”

Downers really weren’t your thing, even booze wasn’t your favorite, but this evening was going to turn from boring to maddeningly insufferable fast if you didn’t get your hands on something.

“I know someone who needs one when I see them,” she laughed, discreetly dropping two pills into your palm.

The clubs in LA were the same thing every time. You showed up in big black SUVs, posed and made nice for the photographers outside for a moment and then clamored inside towards the booth that was waiting for your party. 

It felt like high school. Well, you assumed, since your high school experience took place entirely on set. You saw the same people everywhere, all scattered around the room, broken up into their own little cliques. All gossiping, the room alive with murmurs and whispers. Who’d just shown up? Who was fighting with who? Who’d stolen whose boyfriend? It all felt so juvenile, but not being here was worse, so you put up with it. The people changed, but not really - you usually ended up surrounded by the same cast of promoters, wannabe socialites and greasy LA club dudes, swapped out every couple weeks by stand-ins and understudies and new arrivals. They circled your table like vultures, mingled with one another and made use of your tab while you sat engrossed in your Sidekick.

The night became slightly more tolerable once you’d taken one of the bars Katie gave you, but you were still desperately trying to get a hold of a dealer. By the time you left the restaurant and were climbing into the backseat of your car to head to Lush, you’d even resorted to texting backup options, people you’d partied with once or twice who you suspected might be around. 

Sinking into the plush booth, you let your head loll to the side, eyes shutting against the assault of strobing lights. The steady, pumping rhythm of the bass sent a rattle through your bones.

After a minute, Natalie's hand landed gently on your knee, snapping you back to reality.

“You okay, girl?” She asked. Her voice felt distant, barely audible over the pounding bass reverberating through the room. The glitter on her eyelids shimmered in the blue light, the only part of her face you could clearly make out in the shadowy corner of the booth.

“I’m fine,” you answered impatiently, kicking your feet up into the seat next to you. Just then, your phone finally buzzed, your heart skipping a beat as your dealer’s name flashed across the screen

ANDY [11:03PM]: not goin tonite

You scoffed, pausing for a second before furiously tapping out a response.

[11:03PM]: FUCK U ASSHOLE

You hit send and threw your phone into your purse with a huff. You were going to have to come up with something else. Or maybe just slit your wrists right here at the table instead.

You surveyed your group as bottle service brought two large bottles of tequila to your table along with a tray brimming with shots. knew all it would take was a couple hundred bucks from a photographer outside for them to spill about how you’d begged them for coke. They'd probably do it for free just for the attention. You'd already asked Katie, but all she had was Xanax and a joint, and Natalie would've let you know if she got a hold of anything else.

You started scanning the rest of the room, looking for anyone you knew. The club was packed, some sort of launch party that’d booked a huge DJ filling even the VIP section from wall to wall.

Suddenly, your attention was grabbed by the sound of a man shouting at the booth directly across from yours. He was the typical guy you'd find in places like this: a douchey-looking producer type, each of his arms wrapped around two miserable-looking models to his left and right. Intrigued, you followed his gaze to see who he was yelling at.

Oh, bingo.

Dieter Bravo. You recognized him instantly. An actor like you, you knew you’d seen him around at award shows and parties, but you’d never met. His reputation preceded him, though; you knew he partied, knew that he, too, had been let go from movies due to 'scheduling conflicts' more than once. You knew he’d been in trouble for drugs. Last you'd heard, he'd been in the news for cheating on his wife or something. You were certain that all it’d take was a little bit of flirting and buttering him up to get him to share whatever he had with you.

Without a word to anyone, you rose from your booth, ignoring Natalie's questioning as you strode towards Dieter's booth. Immediately, though, you lost your footing, lightheaded from standing up too quickly. You brushed it off, saved from a fall by someone at your booth. Straightening your dress, you grabbed a bottle of tequila before pivoting on your heel and starting back towards Dieter.

Dragged out against his will, Dieter was a guest of honor at a launch party for Elysium Fragrances, the cologne brand he’d shot a campaign for last year. His presence was requested tonight as a make-good for being a no-show at the launch of his own campaign, instead being spotted that evening by the California Highway Patrol speeding down the Pacific Coast Highway with a model in the passenger seat. 

He’d been stopped by a cop as he attempted to pump gas, some asshole photographer seizing the opportunity to swoop in on the interaction and hurl all sorts of insulting names at his date. Dieter lost his patience, blowing past the cop to shove the paparazzo to the ground, shattering his camera in the process. He was arrested that evening on five charges - assault and battery, destruction of property, drunk and disorderly conduct, assault of an officer (come on) and, thanks to a thorough search of his car, possession with intent to distribute.

As his smug-faced mugshot circulated the tabloids, it eclipsed the glossy editorial photos that the brand had invested millions in. The extravagant campaign was reduced to a joke, its over-the-top glamour juxtaposed with candid snapshots of Dieter’s angry face shouting at the photographer.

Unbelievably, the brand hadn’t thrown him out then and there. He almost wished they had - he preferred the couple of nights he spent in jail to the following days spent in meetings, his team arguing with Elysium over their ability to sway this and use his reputation to their advantage. Ultimately, they maintained his status as a face of their brand as well as his 6 million dollar contract, with the stipulation that he shoot another campaign and make himself available for any event, launch or party the brand requested for the next year.

Being asked to party in exchange for six million dollars was a sweet deal - he understood that - but the reality of being a cosmetics brand’s puppet meant that he ended up at the same fucking parties week in and week out, always babysat by an appointed employee of the brand or, failing that, someone on his payroll.

Tonight was particularly torturous. The tabloids had latched onto the whispers of his crumbling marriage - rumors that were, fortunately or unfortunately, completely legitimate. Heidi was meant to be the one to tie him down, set him straight, clean him up. Their wedding photos looked like a fucking editorial, glossy photos ran with headlines predicting their domestic bliss. But a year and a half, a relapse, a DUI, and a string of affairs - all on his part - had shattered those illusions.

Last week, Dieter returned home from a 3-day bender to Heidi’s mother on the landing at the top of his stairs. She was screaming and hurling the contents of his closet at him, plus whatever else was within arms reach. Heidi, her once-bright eyes now dull with tears, cowered in a doorway behind her mother, slamming the door behind her when he called out in an attempt to reason with her. Her mom located his Oscar, hurling it towards his head with a warning to leave the house before she called the cops. He’d ducked just in time to avoid the statue concussing him, it instead crashing through the glass window of the door behind him.

The stories spread like wildfire, his team scrambling to reshape the narrative, casting Heidi as the cold, unfeeling spouse who couldn't handle his demons. They painted her as the villain, accusing her of rejecting him for his vices - after all, she knew who she married - all the while conveniently forgetting that she had stood by him through more than most people would be able to tolerate. It was an angle he wasn’t happy with; He may have been hedonistic but he wasn’t cruel. In the interest of giving her space and avoiding any additional negative attention sent her way, he moved out. He kept an apartment closer to town, and staying there made it that much easier to avoid any reminders of his failures.

The word on the poor, dejected husband had spread, causing every asshole he ran into tonight to look at him with the same pathetic, sympathetic expression. He resented their pity. He resented this party, this club, his obligation to be seen holding some stupid bottle of cologne in order to maintain his career. The four whiskies he'd downed had done little to numb him from it, and even the lines he'd snorted on the way over had failed to dull the edges of this evening.

You’d stumbled in about an hour ago, perching yourself in the booth across from his own. Your eyelids were heavy in a familiar way, his dirtbag instincts making him suspect you’ve popped a painkiller in addition to whatever you’ve been drinking. A group of giggly, hungry hangers-on swarmed around your table like flies, posing for pictures and parting only to let bottle service in and out.

Dieter knew you - or at least, he knew of you. The cute little starlet who always popped up next to him in the tabloids. He’d seen you in enough movies and on enough billboards to recognize your face, and he’d lurked around clubs like this often enough to have seen you before. Before you’d walked in, he’d resigned himself to an armchair as far back in the VIP section as he could find, determined to wait out the evening before bringing home whatever model ended up in his car. The whiskey he’d been drinking was only just beginning to kick in and he didn’t fight it, leaning back and willing the time to pass faster. But you… you were interesting.

Your gorgeous legs were stretched out along the booth, climbing up to the hem of your dress, a pink silky thing he imagined he could tear off of you with the smallest amount of force. Glossy lips pouted at your phone, eyebrows furrowed in a sweet little frustrated expression. When you looked up he didn’t look away - he kept his eyes trained on you as you looked around the room. You were looking for someone, obviously restless. A boyfriend? The thought twisted at his stomach uncomfortably and he willed himself to stop watching you, putting his glass to his mouth and draining it with a single swallow.

“Bravo!” a voice bellowed from his left, snapping him out of it. Clint - some hack from Elysium Fragrances and tonight’s designated narc waved enthusiastically from the booth next to him. “You gonna sit there and fuckin’ mope all night, bro?”

Fuck this guy. Like most of his brand-approved chaperones, he was content to accept the babysitting opportunity and spend the evening running up Dieter’s tab and shamelessly hitting on the girls at his table. The least he could do would be to leave him the fuck alone.

His attention returned to you when he heard a commotion from your direction. There you were, knees buckled, held at your elbow by one of the guys surrounding your booth. A couple of cell phone cameras lift and snap photos behind you as you attempt to compose yourself. He can’t take his eyes off of you as you stand back up, adjusting yourself, your little dress riding up for just a moment before you smooth it back into place.

The bottle he’d finished had begun to cloud his vision, so it took him a moment to realize you were stumbling towards him, your plush lips slightly parted as you swung a bottle of tequila at your side. Despite the haze, your smile was unmistakable as you arrived at his chair. When you held up the bottle with a subtle lift of your eyebrow, he nodded in agreement.

He wasn’t entirely sure if you climbed into his lap or if you simply floated there, an ethereal presence that captivated his senses. You were such a gorgeous little thing, soft legs draping over him effortlessly, while your electric fingertips traced delicate patterns along his arms.

“Where’ve I met you before?” You slurred, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt as you settled in his lap.

You were fucked up. If it wasn’t obvious before, it was now. Good - he was, too. His plan had been to leave, get one of the models at his table to come home and roll over for him without much effort, but passing the evening with someone in his same state of mind would spare him from having another dull fucking conversation tonight. Plus, you were so pretty, big black pupils dilated and fixed on him beneath the lazy black fan of your eyelashes.

“You tell me,” he answered, running his finger along the rim of his glass.

Did you know who he was? He goes along with your guesses as to where you’d met before. Miami, London, the Met, whatever you said, as long as you didn’t piece together that you know him from a TV show that aired when you were still in middle school.

Music blasted through the speakers surrounding you, strobe lights flashing and highlighting flecks of glitter on your shoulders. He lifted his hand to run his finger along the thin strap of your dress as you lifted the bottle up between you and raised your eyebrows in question. He nodded, holding up his empty whiskey glass. 

“Glastonbury?” You asked as you filled his glass. 

“That must be it,” he agreed, knowing he hadn’t been to Glastonbury since 1995, and clinked his glass against your bottle. He watched as you took a long draw from the mouth and could see the grimace you were holding back as you squinted, your throat bobbing as you swallowed. He followed your lead, emptying his glass in three big gulps. Your eyes flitted over momentarily to the group he came with, crowded around the booth to his left, then back to him.

“You alone?” You asked him, glossy lips smirking.

“Just like you.”

You let out a knowing chuckle and leaned in closer to him, tequila and lime and smoke on your breath as it mingled with his own. The way you dragged your lower lip through your teeth had his cock twitching, the combination of the chemicals in his system and you purring in his lap like a kitten destroying any shred of inhibition he had left. 

There’s an acknowledgment between people like you and Dieter. It’s one of those things that doesn’t lend itself to description, but he knew it when he saw it - in the mirror, in friends and acquaintances and enemies, in blown-up photographs on the covers of tabloids, suicides and DUIs announced in newsstands. Raw nerves covered in glitter, celebrity or civilian, death drives winning over life drives every time. He saw it in your dilated pupils and the way your thighs were rubbing together, the silk of your dress doing nothing to hide it. You’re like him, too, and most importantly, you know better than to ask why.

His hand cupped your face before he realized he’d done it and he closed the space between you, your lips soft against his the next sensation he was aware of. You tasted good, and he wanted more right away, deepening the kiss and digging his fingers into your thigh forcefully. He ran his tongue along the seam of your mouth, his own lips going numb as he licked into yours. He pulled you up to straddle him and you moved easily, hips lowering onto him immediately and settling, the lace of your panties brushing up against the thin fabric of his pants. His mouth trailed to your ear, worrying your earlobe between his teeth and guiding your hips to roll against his crotch again and again.

“You don’t give a fuck, do you?” He said, his voice low and hoarse in your ear. He knew you had the attention of his group and your own, not to mention anyone else who happened to look over, but it didn’t seem to matter to you. He knew you’d been in trouble lately - the same limelight, coming-of-age growing pains he’d been through himself several years ago - and his own instincts threatened to kick in and shield you from the excess attention. 

You laughed with a shake of your head, tossing your hair over your shoulder and, without looking away from him, lifted his hand from your thigh to your lips, dragging your tongue across the length of his index finger and popping it into your mouth.

Oh, you were fun. You were already making him hard, and he knew you could feel it as you grinded into him again and again, letting his finger drop from your mouth when he pressed his lips back to yours. He needed to be careful - the linen lounge pants he’d thrown on to come here would betray nothing if you kept it up much longer.

It’s a noticeable absence when you hum and pull away from the kiss, the urge for more of you rolling over him and causing his fingers to dig into your thighs possessively.

“Do you have anything… funner?” You asked, big, blown out eyes pleading as you lifted the tequila bottle up again. Aha. It just so happened he did - a baggie of coke he’d brought along just in case sat in his pocket, along with two tabs of acid. It didn’t seem like that kind of night, though, at least not yet. He’d stick with the coke.

“I might have something,” he replied, a genuine smirk spreading across his face for the first time that evening. He sat up straight, smacking your ass and biting your jawline at the same time, the yelp it pulled from you quickly transforming into a wild giggle and sending a rush of blood to his cock as he peppered kisses and bites down your neck to your collarbone. 

Quickly, he helped you to your feet and guided you through the crowded room, following you across the floor, his index finger linked with your pinky, prying eyes and pointing fingers meaningless to the both of you. You may have been stumbling, but you were confident. Or at least not at all concerned. A camera phone at the bar flashed and Dieter instinctively ducked his head, moving a hand to your hip to rush you forward and out of sight. 

Tucking into a hallway at the back of the club, he kicked a door open and hurried you inside a small, dark room. It was clearly an employee restroom, high piles of backstocked paper towels and toilet paper toppling over when he pushed you up against the wall harshly, his hands cupping your face, the cool metal of his rings pressed against your cheek.

He pulled a pink baggie out of his shirt pocket, opened it and tapped a bump of white powder out onto the skin between his thumb and index finger. He held it up to your nose and, without any question about what it was, where he got it or if he’d already tried it, you’d inhaled, one hand holding his steady while the other held your nostril closed. 

Fucking finally. Your head lit up immediately with euphoria and relief as the amphetamines rushed through your system and you melted against Dieter as he lifted you to perch you on a stack of cardboard boxes. 

You let him move you like a rag doll, smiling as he propped you back and tapped out two more bumps onto your chest and snorted them, running your fingers through his messy curls as he dragged his tongue along your cleavage, licking up what was left.

His lips found yours again, and the pungent taste of the powder on his tongue mingling with his taste drew you in closer. Looping your arm around his neck, your free hand clutched his bicep. The acrid taste turned pleasantly tingly on your tongue, a numbness spreading as it explored his mouth.

“Here, baby,” he urged, breaking the kiss breathlessly, and you hummed in response as he tapped out another bump on the back of his hand. You inhaled it again, then he used his finger to gather the remnants of the powder. Cupping your cheek firmly, your jaw relaxed under his touch as he rubbed the excess powder into your gums. You reacted instantly, closing your eyes and drawing his finger deeper into your mouth, succumbing to the rush of sensation.

He groaned in approval, your lips already open when he kissed you again, drawing him in for more, thighs parting to wrap your legs around him. The flimsy strap of your dress fell off your shoulder, the fabric across your chest following shortly after.

Blissfully content with the relief of the chemicals rushing into your bloodstream for the first time today, you went numb, rolling your head back and watching patterns dance behind your eyelids. You allowed Dieter to touch and move you at his will, his hands skillfully brushing the other strap of your dress off your shoulder, exposing your chest completely. A throaty moan escaped him at the sight, the gentle sway of your breasts moving with the rhythm of the rough push of his hips into yours. He drew you closer, his lips finding purchase on your skin. Roughly latching onto you, he drew your breast into his mouth, his tongue drawing circles around the peak of your nipple before switching to the other side of your chest.

Sparks shot down your spine and your mind went blank for a second, lost in the feeling of him against you, the synapses in your brain firing and lighting up. You snapped back into the moment when you felt him grasp your hand with his own, his fingers intertwined with yours. He guided you down to press your hand into his crotch, grinding the firm length of himself into your hold again and again. 

A soft moan escaped your lips, surrendering to the warmth and pressure of his body against yours. You tightened your grip around his neck, allowing yourself to fully yield to his control, your body pliant and responsive to his every move.

You’d fuck him, you figured, as you moved against him. He was good looking - now that you were feeling a little less edgy, you could appreciate it. Corinne would kill you if word got out, but he seemed like someone who knew a thing or two about discretion. He stiffened even more as he firmly thrusted into the cradle of your hand and you cupped your fingers around his length, the soft fabric of his pants allowing you to feel him completely. You walked your fingers up to his waistband, nails dipping under the fabric and pulling at it slightly. You’d go home with him. Whatever. You’d bring Natalie with you and you could leave by morning. He probably wouldn’t even notice a missing gram or two.

You followed the thought as he trailed kisses up your chest and neck, finally settling at your ear. His hand rose up your thigh, thick fingers dragging along the lace fabric at your center. The bundle of nerves there erupted at his touch and your thighs instinctively squeezed around him.

“Let me taste you, baby, please,” He growled just above a whisper into your ear. You arched your back into his arms, moaning and nodding in agreement, the cool porcelain of the sink underneath you causing your skin to goosebump as your dress rode up further. You opened your eyes, peeking at the chestnut brown curls, the color blending into the dark room surrounding you. Your eyelids felt heavy, and you fought to keep them open, wanting to stay present with him. But the warmth of his breath against your skin and the gentle touch of his fingers on your cheeks were lulling you somewhere else. You felt like you were floating, your vision blurred at the edges and you fluttered your eyes shut again, feeling his fingers curl around the waistband of your panties and stall there for a moment. 

Your fading in and out like that threatened to spook him away. You couldn’t be too fucked up. He lightly tapped your cheeks a couple of times, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Stay with me, baby," he whispered urgently. "Gotta hear you say it."

“Mmmm,” Dazed, faraway eyes looked up at him, your blown-out pupils mirroring his own. You nodded again, dragging your teeth along your bottom lip. Your pulse raced between your legs, and you felt your hips moving towards him, trying to ride something that wasn’t there yet. “Do it, Dieter, please.”

There we go. He smirked, lifting you from the stack of boxes to push you up against the wall and sinking to his knees. He bunched up the fabric of your dress at your hips, roughly pulling your panties down your legs, the black fabric hanging loosely at one ankle as he lifted your leg to hang over his shoulder.

You shrieked when he slid his tongue through your folds, your knee buckling when he repeated the motion, his strong hands moving up to your hips to support you. His tongue pushed wide against you, him tasting and exploring you as his fingers dug into your hips with bruising force.

He felt fucking amazing. You typically hated when men touched you, especially when you were high, but he felt incredible. You’d give him anything. Despite your rapidly dulling senses, the feeling of his tongue working your clit back and forth was at the front of your mind. He pushed his tongue wide against you again and again, fucking two thick fingers up into you without warning. 

You gasped, your mouth opening wide as you root your fingers into his hair to ground yourself. He wanted to wreck you completely, to smear the dark makeup around your eyes and watch that glossy mouth of yours stretch around his cock. His lips locked around your clit, and as the blood rushed to the bundle of nerves there you threw your head back, chest heaving, loud, wretched moans spilling from your throat.

With your senses dulled, he knew it’d take a little more to send you over the edge. A third finger pushed into you with a stretch, starting slow and working up to get in and out of your tight, soaked cunt. You moved your hips to match his rhythm, your pace hiccuping as he began working you faster and faster, working your clit between his teeth with a pinch.

Your moans were frantic, hitching higher and higher as he confidently worked you towards an orgasm, your surroundings blurring and swirling around you. 

THUD, THUD, THUD. Just as you neared your release, a loud pounding at the door shattered the moment.

He groaned in frustration, pausing briefly before attempting to resume. You struggled to regain your focus, your chest heaving with heavy breaths, nerves coiled tightly at your core.

The knock was followed by a muffled argument and the clanking of keys from the other side of the door. Reluctantly, Dieter's head emerged from between your thighs.

“Fucking assholes,” Dieter grumbled in frustration as he stood up, moving the straps of your dress back up your shoulders and quickly adjusting himself. You steadied yourself with a hand on his shoulder as you pulled your panties back up, frustration pounding angrily between your legs.

“Find me, alright?” He breathed, smoothing out your dress, his hand lingering on your ass and eyes slowly moving up your body. “I’ll take you home.”

You nodded as the door was thrown open, the bright, white light of a flashlight shining into the small room. You stood up straight, quickly fixing your hair in the mirror and sneakily grabbing the small, plastic baggie Dieter left on the counter, hiding it in your fist behind your back.

“Let’s go. Knock this shit off,” a voice bellowed from behind the light, which darted back and forth between you and Dieter. “We’re not doing this in my fucking club, get the fuck out, let’s go!”

“What the fuck is this?” Dieter asks, moving to stand in front of you and block you from the bright light.

“I’m sorry, man, I tried to stop him,” Another voice followed from outside the room. You squinted and peeked over Dieter’s shoulder, annoyance showing on your face. A large bald man in a suit held the flashlight and to his right was the small, douchey-looking guy you recognized from Dieter’s booth. Natalie’s head popped up behind the both of them, looking relieved to have found you.

“You’re not doing drugs on my floor and fucking little girls in my bathroom. That’s it, Bravo. Get the fuck out of here, let’s go,” the angry man repeated. Dieter raised his hands and murmured an apology to you as he shuffled out, one hand poised defensively in front of his face. He pushed out of the room past Natalie, her brows furrowed at him in confusion as he passed. His counterpart flocked to his side, immediately rushing into what sounded like a flurry of explanations and reassurances. Natalie slid into the room smoothly, wrapping an arm around you to usher you out. You stumbled at her side, annoyed and disoriented.

“I’m TWENTY-TWO, ASSHOLE!” You screamed at the man with the flashlight, attempting to shove him with your balled-up fists. He raised his eyebrows, bald head wrinkling and frown deepening. Natalie pulled you away from him quickly and you could hear her apologize behind you. “Don’t tell’um sorry, Nat, ’m not fucking sorry, I was in the fucking bathroom!” you slurred, your voice disjointedly raising and lowering in pitch.

“C’mon, babe, let’s go,” Natalie urged you.

“Yeah, ’s get the fuck outta here,” you agreed, stumbling as she shepherded you out. She handed you your purse and you quickly shoved your hand inside, dropping the half-empty baggie into the side pocket. One or two flashing lights from the crowd gathered at the bar stole your attention for a moment, but it quickly returned to the big, bald, interrupting gorilla with the flashlight. “This place SUCKS!” you screamed as you began to turn back towards him, leashed by Natalie’s grip around your arm.

“Let’s go,” she repeated firmly. You followed her through the crowded bar, stomping across the floor and ignoring the unending stream of heads turning towards you. The two of you shoved out the heavy metal doors of the club, clicking and flashbulbs immediately erupting around you as the cool evening air breezed across your skin. Your name was shouted from your left and right as Natalie dug in her bag for the valet ticket.

“Having fun tonight?” A photographer asked. You rolled your eyes. “Alright, over here, honey,” the same voice continued. With a resigned sigh, you turned to offer a practiced pose, your mind ticking through your media training despite how fucking annoyed you were. Stumbling a couple of times as you attempted to maintain your balance, you moved through a lazy pose or two. You knew the routine - let them get their shot and maybe they'll back off. 

“Partying tonight?” Another voice interjected. Moron.

Natalie finally located the ticket and the valet handed the keys over immediately, your car already parked and waiting curbside. Impulsively, you decided you’d drive, intercepting the keys before Natalie could take them and nearly smacking them out of the attendant’s hand before stumbling towards the vehicle.

“She’s not getting in the driver’s seat. No way,” reasons the voice of a man with a video camera to your left. “There’s no way!”

Another blinding eruption of flashing lights emerged around you. You stared down at your feet as you stumbled forward, trying to see where you were walking through the relentless assault of flashbulbs. Natalie called out your name from behind you. You struggled a couple of times with the handle before throwing the car door open heavily.

“Hey, you can’t drive, honey,” Another voice called out. You rolled your eyes.

You climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut, exhaling loudly as the noise of the chaos surrounding you finally muffled. Flashing lights continued, your windshield now completely blocked by cameras. The volume raised again for a moment, a cacophony of voices and camera clicks, as Natalie scrambled into the passenger seat beside you.

“Are these people serious,” you asked, angling your head in towards Natalie and shielding your eyes from the barrage of flashbulbs pointed at you, frustration mounting with each flash. “How’m I supposta drive when they’re fucking blocking me?”

“Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t.” Natalie said, concern in her voice. “Let me, okay?”

You shook your head adamantly. “’M not going back out there.”

“So climb over,” She suggested.

“Not in this!”

Natalie let out an exasperated sigh, her fingers tapping anxiously on her thighs.

“Hey, since when do you know Dieter Bravo?” She asks, momentarily changing the subject.

“Who? Oh,” you replied, the question registering with you once you answered. The reminder of him sent your attention between your legs and you shifted slightly in your seat. “I dunno. I know’hm from an awards thing.” You offered. It was an unconvincing lie, but Natalie didn’t fight you on it.

“He’s so random,” she laughed. “I can’t believe you hooked up with him. I think my older sister had a poster of him in high school. Right next to River Phoenix.”

“Whatever,” you huffed, everything about this evening now pissing you off.  The incessant clicking of the paparazzi's cameras only added fuel to the fire, and you narrowed your eyes in irritation, slamming your hand down on the horn for a solid ten seconds in a futile attempt to disperse them.

“MOVE!” you yelled, only inciting more flashing lights.

“Let me drive, babe,” Natalie tried again.

“Oh, my god, fuck this,” you snapped, frustration finally boiling over. With your hand still shielding your eyes, you shifted the car into drive. “You're my eyes now.”

“What?! No!” She replied, her voice rising in panic.

“Be my eyes. I’m going.” You repeated. Very slowly, you eased your foot off the brake, the car beginning to inch forward. Voices clamored outside the vehicle.

“Oh my god, um, okay. Go slow. Turn left. Slow!” Natalie began to guide you. The crowd cautiously parted around the car, photographers scrambling to avoid being flattened while still unwilling to sacrifice this shot. “Oh my god, this is so stupid. Slow, slow, slow.”

“They’re fuckin’ stupid! What am I supposed to do?”

“No, yeah, okay, just slow, keep going left.” Natalie's voice trembled slightly as she continued to navigate. The relentless barrage of flashing lights illuminated the interior of the car, casting everything in stark, blinding brightness. “Okay, cut it! Cut it and keep going straight.”

You cut the wheel to the right and straighten it out, cautiously peeking through the gaps in your fingers to confirm you'd cleared the throng of photographers.

“Haha!” you exclaimed, your laughter echoing through the tense air as you slammed the gas pedal to the floor once the street ahead is clear. With a screech of tires, you peel off into the night, Natalie's nervous chuckles mingling with your own laughter. “Bye, assholes!”

You rocketed down Highland with reckless abandon. A couple of familiar vehicles creeped up behind you - regular photographers who paid their bills by stalking you. The driver to the left’s hand hung out the window, a digital camera pointed squarely at you. The light was yellow at the intersection in front of you and you smirked, not letting up on the gas and rolling your window down to flip off the camera as you raced through the intersection just as the light turned red.

“Slow down!” Natalie yelled, panicked, her hand clutching the door handle in a white-knuckled grip. “What is your problem?”

“My problem?! These guys are the ones with the problem,” you fired back, your tone frustrated. “I can’t do anything without getting fucking cornered!” Your car veered dangerously across the yellow lines and Natalie yelped. You overcorrected, the vehicle lurching back into its lane just in time to avoid a collision with an oncoming car, its horn blaring in warning. Natalie’s body stiffened further in her seat as you took a wide right turn onto Sunset. You turn on the radio, a Rihanna song picking up midway through.

“Did he give you something?” she shouted, her tone urgent. You furrowed your brow, shooting her a confused look. “Dieter,” she clarified.

“Oh, right!” you exclaimed, mood shifting as you suddenly remembered the baggie tucked in your purse. “Look what I got us!” You reached for your bag on the passenger floorboard, swerving again. Natalie lunged across the seat, her hands fumbling for the wheel to correct your course, while a chorus of horns blared from the vehicles behind you. Finally retrieving your purse, you fished out the baggie from the side pocket and held it up between your fingers for Natalie to inspect. She grabbed it from you quickly, examining it in her lap.

“What is it?” She asked. You shrugged.

“Coke, I think. Shit, hold on,” you floored the gas to race through another newly red light.

“Stop!” Natalie shrieked. “This is so fucking stupid, dude, let me drive!”

“Jesus, Nat, fine,” you groan, slamming on the brakes. You both jolted forward as the car came to a stop in the middle of the road. “You wanna drive so bad, fine.”

You unlocked the car doors, opening yours slightly and reaching down to unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Are you serious?” She scoffed, disbelief etched across her features as she surveyed the chaotic scene unfolding around you. You nodded in affirmation, a defiant smirk playing on your lips. “You’re such a bitch.”

With a surge of stubborn adrenaline, you stormed out onto Sunset Boulevard, Natalie following suit. The gray Honda belonging to one of the persistent photographers tailed you, coming to a halt beside you as the driver scrambled out, camera at the ready.

“LEAVE ME ALONE” you shouted. “I gave you your shot at the club, I’ve been nice to you guys, what more do you want?!”

You considered what it would take to get him to go away. Words weren’t working. Should you kick his car? Throw something? You began to stumble towards him, interrupted by Natalie yelling your name again. You turned around to see Natalie standing in the street, gaze fixed on the intersection ahead. Your car - which you apparently failed to put into park - was rolling into the intersection on its own. 

With a frantic surge of panic, you and Natalie sprinted after the runaway vehicle, the strobe of camera flashes behind you incessant. Arms flailing, you both desperately signaled to other drivers to stop, your heels clattering against the pavement as you raced towards the car.

As the car veered left, you were powerless to stop it from crashing into a parked BMW at the corner. Rushing to catch up, you flung yourself into the open driver's door, slamming on the brakes and throwing the gear into reverse. You leaned across the cab to fling the passenger door wide open.

“Come on!” You shouted at Natalie as she climbed back into the car. With a tense exhale, you navigated the car backward, turning wide in the intersection before screeching forward.

Your mind was completely clear with pure adrenaline. You were only a few blocks away from the hotel now, the castle-shaped outline shrouded in trees just ahead on your right. You floored it, a tense silence hanging in the car, both you and Natalie’s eyes locked forward on the road in front of you.

Only slowing down to make a right turn into the hotel driveway, you didn’t bother waiting for the valet. Tossing your keys onto the driver’s seat, you left the door ajar as you stormed through the garage toward your room, ready to put this evening behind you.

#blind item #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x ofc #dieter bravo x reader #putting this out into the world and definitely also shitting bricks

[zepskies]

Devour Me - Part 2

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Plus-Sized/Latina!Reader 

Summary: When you and Dean start to press each other’s buttons, both of your tempers ignite. To make up for it, you give him an impromptu salsa dancing lesson…one he didn’t exactly ask for. (18+)

AN: Here's Part 2! **Read Devour Me: Part 1

Song Inspo: “Yo No Se Mañana” by Luis Enrique. But really it’s “Ven Devórame Otra Ves” by Lalo Rodriguez. (You’ll see why.) 🤭

Word Count: 5,400

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Blood, character death and violence, smutty smut, angst, Dominican slang, and tons of sexy fluff.

☕ Midnight Espresso Masterlist

Part 2: "Telenovela Style"

Your resulting scream of agony is as unforgiving as the ground when your knees buckle, hitting the hard cement.

Andy grips you with the strength of a monster. 

Then he holds you down as he drinks your blood. 

No matter how you struggle and whimper, you can’t push him off, and you’re getting weaker by the second.

Until Andy is ripped away from your neck, and is taken care of the way all vampires must be. He doesn’t even feel the blade coming. 

When you’re able to look up, Dean stands above you with thinly veiled fury. He doesn’t have time to consider what he’s just done. 

He bends to gather you up into his arms, all the while trying to stamp down the panic clenching his heart. He calls your name, but you can only make weak sounds as your bleary eyes meet his. 

“Dean,” you manage. The ragged wound in your neck is bleeding profusely down your chest and shoulder, seeping into your shirt. He takes your hand and clamps it hard against your neck, even though it makes you whimper.

“Gotta stop the bleeding,” he says, apologetic but firm. “Keep pressing.”

In your stupor of pain, you don’t realize that your screech woke the entire nest. Dean has to lock up his worry; he looks up and finds his brother and Cas already fighting a hoard of angry vampires. 

Dean carries you over to them and lays you down against the wall with the other humans. He keeps a protective line in front of you, but he decapitates a vampire before she can sink her fangs into Sam next.

The two of them work together, and with Castiel’s smiting power behind them, the angel and the two men are able to clear the rest of the nest. 

By the end, only you and two of the women being held captive are still alive. The third girl’s heart just finally gave out. Sam takes the survivors to the nearest hospital. 

Meanwhile, Castiel approaches where you sit up against the inside of the barn, barely awake, while Dean kneels with you, holding you to his chest. He meet’s Cas’s blue-eyed request with a nod. So Cas stretches out a hand and touches two fingers to your forehead. 

You’re healed in an instant. Dean marvels, like he always does when Cas displays his power. Dean is able to breathe a little easier, the vice grip on his heart easing as he touches your neck.

The tan skin is once again smooth, if still stained with blood. You blink back into wakeful consciousness. 

He shifts so he can see your face. “You okay?” 

You meet his eyes but can only nod. His jaw is still tight and tense, and you can’t blame him. 

You know you’ve messed up. Big time. You nearly got everyone killed, including yourself…and now, you have to tell a mother that her son was dead. 

Dean helps you up, holding you by your arms and waist until you’re steady on your feet. You have a hard time meeting his eyes, but when open your mouth to apologize, he beats you to it. 

“I hope you’ve learned your damn lesson,” he says. 

Your gaze snaps up to his. “Excuse me?”

Dean’s hands go to his hips as his brows raise at you. 

“Next time, when I tell you to hang back, I mean that shit. Hang the hell back,” he all but growls. 

You tilt your head at him as your irritation begins to spark. Meanwhile, Castiel is the one who backs up as he glances between you and Dean uncertainly.

“I made a mistake, but that doesn’t give you the right to tell me what to do,” you shoot back. “I was a hunter long before I met you.” 

“Yeah, well, color me surprised that you’ve made it this long,” he snaps. 

Your temper flares hotter. “You know, you’re not so goddamn perfect either.” 

“Never said I was,” Dean says. “But when my gut tells me something ain’t right, I need you to fucking listen. Otherwise, we get a day like today.”

His words are edged with grit by the end of his little rant, and you don’t appreciate it. Your lips purse in anger.

“I don’t care what that legendary gut tells you,” you sass back. “I’m not a little girl, and you’re not my damn father!”

Dean raises incredulous brows at the way you’re shouting at him. He crosses his arms. 

“What’s this, some kind of Latina temper?” he asks snidely. 

You truly become incensed at that. 

“Oh, you want to take it there?” you ask, as your eyes narrow. “Que sin vergüenza tú eres, coño. Sigue jodiendo conmigo. Entonces tú vas a ver quien soy yo.”

Dean won’t admit it, but in that moment, he’s a bit intimidated by the quiet threat in your voice. Still, his fuse is lit, and he’s way beyond curbing his internal filter.

“Oh, I’m sorry, does this telenovela-style tongue lashing come with subtitles?” he snarks. 

You let out an incredulous breath. Your eyes begin to sting.

“You’re such an asshole!” you shout back. There, understand that?

You turn away from him before your frustrated tears can fall, but you stop short once you notice Castiel dragging out the bodies of the dead…including Andy. Your throat constricts, and you begin to stalk out of the barn. 

Dean calls your name in frustration. 

“What?” you hiss. 

The only thing that makes him hesitate is seeing the state of you when you turn back around. His anger crumbles, and maybe something in him breaks when he sees your tears. They’ve welled up in your eyes, and a few of them carve a path down your cheeks. 

You’re still covered in your own blood, and he hates it. He hates it more than anything. 

Later, you see the state of yourself when Sam returns with the Impala. In the reflection on the backseat window, you see the blood dried down your neck, staining nearly half of your shirt.

You see the black rings of your mascara and eyeliner around your eyes. You look a mess, and you try to wipe underneath your eyes. It’s a fruitless effort.

After you all finish burning the bodies, Dean starts the long drive home. You insist on stopping to tell Rachel Campbell about her son, but Sam says he already took care of it when he drove into town. 

You frown, but you no longer have the energy to be angry. You further withdraw into yourself, and your lower lip trembles as you look out the window. Through the rearview mirror, Dean sees more tears slipping down your face.

What Sam told him (but he won’t tell you), is what one of the survivors said. One of the mated pairs had taken Andy…to “adopt” a son of their own. 

That night is quiet and tense in Dean’s room. You have to wash your hair all over again, and scrub the blood and grime from your body until only your skin remains. But you don’t have the energy to do more than braid your wet hair afterwards and pull on your lucky Journey shirt, which is still full of holes. 

Dean knows that it’s bad when you need the “dreamcatcher,” as he’s called it in his head. You’ve never had a nightmare while wearing that shirt, or so you claimed a while back. 

You wear it over some long pajama pants instead of your usual shorts, or better yet, nothing at all. But he can see what kind of mood you’re in. Things are unsettled as you both get ready for bed in silence. 

He notes the way you turn to face the other side in bed, maybe to avoid him. Though if you really wanted to do that, you could’ve gone to your old room.

So in more ways than one, Dean takes some solace in the fact that you’re still next to him. And he decides to give you some time and space. 

He goes to bed and tries in vain to sleep.

In the morning, Dean’s woken by the familiar smell of coffee…and the less familiar sound of loud salsa music. 

What the fuck?

After he brushes his teeth, he puts on his robe and slippers and heads down to the kitchen, where he finds you in a seemingly better mood. You’re mopping the floor, of all things. You’re out of your pajamas, instead wearing a loose shirt that falls off your shoulder and some spandex shorts. 

“Yo no se mañana…yo no se mañana. Si estaremos juntos, si se acaba el mundo,” you sing softly along with the music as you dance from the kitchen to the living room. Your phone is connected to a Bluetooth speaker on the coffee table. 

Dean starts to smile, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorway to watch you.

At an instrumental break with a run of conga drums and trumpets, you pause in your mopping to do a little twirl as you dance, with a soulful roll of hips and a flair of salsa steps. It makes Dean’s smile kick up into a smirk.

He walks in on purposefully light feet until he’s sidled up behind you in the living room.

“Nice moves, Shakira,” he quips. 

It startles a shriek of surprise out of you as you whirl around. Dean’s smile hikes up into a grin, but it soon fades when he remembers the way your scream rang through his ears last night. The way his heart dropped into his stomach, and his head swiveled at the sound. And he saw you go down hard. 

Then the rest of it tumbles through his mind—what he had to do afterwards in order to save you. How he’d did it without really thinking, his panic and determination blocking out almost everything else when he’d grabbed the kid. The monster, he forcibly reminds himself. 

“You trying to give me a heart attack?” you ask with a hand on your heart. 

Dean forces himself to smile a little. “Sorry. But might I remind you, not everyone here’s an early bird.”

You give him a wry look.

“You’re the only one around here who sleeps past 10 a.m. Cas dipped out a while ago, and Sam’s on a run.” 

But you graciously grab your phone to lower the music to a more bearable level. Dean doesn’t yet know this about you, but this—listening to music, dancing, cleaning—it’s all your way of coping…and releasing as much of your pain, terror, and regret from yesterday as possible. 

You then look up at him more guarded. The two of you exchanged a lot of unsavory words last night. In fact, it may just be the worst fight you two have ever had in almost three years of knowing one another.  

Dean senses the shift in you, and his amusement fades. He just can't let things stay like this. He won't.

He hazards drawing closer and touching your arm.

“Look…I’m sorry for snapping at you yesterday. I know I was being a dick,” he says. “You’ve just gotta understand something.”

You wait for him to continue with furrowed brows, sensing that whatever he’s about to say is hard for him. 

“There’s a reason I don’t do this. The uh, relationship thing,” Dean continues, clearing his throat. His thumb swipes along your arm. “It’s not just this job. It’s my fucked up life. I tried to warn you before—” 

“Dean,” you say with a sigh, but he raises his hand. 

“Please, just…let me say it,” he says. “You know the spiel. But things can change on a dime. Even on a damn milk run, like a dusty nest of vamps.”

You know that. You know you could’ve died yesterday, and he doesn’t need to remind you of that fact. Before you can start to get petulant again though, Dean continues. His jaw is working, like this next part is more difficult for him to admit.

“Trust me when I say, us being together is dangerous, for both of us,” he says. “For a while I…I started to think Sam and I were better off alone.”

…That casts you into dismay. Because you know Dean isn’t lying. He’s really contemplated spending the rest of his life devoid of love, so he won’t have to lose it. 

Dangerous, for both of us.

You realize then what Dean’s really saying. He’s afraid…afraid to lose you. You see it in his furrowed brows, the downturn of his lips, and whatever pain he’s trying to hide in the depths of his eyes. 

And just like that, the water works start. You can’t quite keep your tears at bay as you hold onto his shirt. He lets out a resigned sigh as he holds you by your arms. 

“You don’t have to cry for that,” he says, a bit teasing. 

“Have you met me?” you sniff. But you manage to look up at him with your glassy eyes. “I’m sorry too. God, I’m so sorry, Dean.” 

Your fist clenches in his shirt when you remember Andy, latched onto your neck, and how Dean had to save you. You know he’s remembering it too when his brows furrow, and his gaze falls away. You reach a hand for his cheek.

“I know I fucked up,” you admit. “I was working with my heart, not my head. I just…”

You wanted so badly to help that kid and his mother. You also know that Dean understands; you see it in his eyes. He holds your hand to his cheek and brushes his thumb across the back of your hand.

“I know,” he says. “I really am sorry, baby.” 

The problem is, you didn’t just see your own mother in Rachel. She hadn’t been much older than you. And when you imagine a life beyond hunting, more than anything (no matter how much you shove down the idea), you really do want a family of your own someday. 

It’s just…days like yesterday remind you why that could be a very bad idea. 

More of your tears bubble over, and you head willingly into Dean’s arms. “Me too…”

He holds you tighter than ever. His hands rub down your back, tangle in your hair, and he drops his lips onto your hair. You sniffle, wiping your face dry in his shirt. And for a while, the two of you have peace in the relative quiet. 

Music still plays from the speaker though. And when another salsa song starts to play on your playlist, you start swaying. A smile works its way onto Dean’s face. 

“You can’t help yourself, can you?” he teases.

You smile into his chest. “We should go dancing sometime.”

Dean just laughs. “Oooh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” you reply, batting your lashes up at him. You slip a hand on his shoulder and into one of his hands. He’s forced to hold you as if the two of you were about to start Fred Astair-ing across the living room. 

“Have you ever danced before?” you ask. “Like real dancing.” 

“Not salsa, I’ll tell you that,” he quips. 

“That’s okay. I’ll teach you,” you reply with a coquettish smile. “It’s just a few simple moves.”

Dean gives you a wan look. “You made it look anything but simple.”

You blush at that, but you meet him with a pout of disappointment. You don’t let up, even when Dean frowns. He huffs at you in resistance.

“No,” he insists. You just brush a gentle thumb along his neck, biting your lip in askance.  

But the longer he stares at your beautiful, hopeful eyes, the more cracks form in his resolve. 

Eventually, Dean breaks with a sigh, and a shake of his head. 

“You’re too much, you know that?” he mutters.

It’s then that you know you’ve won.

So with a happy squeal of excitement, you clap your hands and move to stand next to him so you can show him the basic steps of salsa dancing. 

You make him take off his robe and slippers, leaving in his shirt and plaid pajama pants. Then you instruct him for a few minutes, correcting his footing and getting him to move on a beat. You’re pleasantly surprised that he has some rhythm.  

Dean sighs once again. How the hell did we get here? Heat crawls up the back of his neck as embarrassment starts to set in. 

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he grumbles.

“You’re doing good,” you encourage, with a growing smile. “Now come on, feel the beat in threes. One, two, three. One, two, three…”

Once he sort of has the basic steps and turns down, you move to stand in front of him. There you show him how to hold you, how he’ll move forward, and you’ll move back. It takes a little while, but you slowly move through the combinations, then do a little twirl underneath his hand. 

When he pulls you back in without faltering, you give him a beaming smile. “Very good!”

A subtle grin raises his lips at your enthusiasm. He also feels his face heating up at the praise.

But you pause when a certain song filters through the speakers. It’s an old one (and it never fails to make you blush), but you love it.  

“Ooh, yes,” you exclaim with delight, and you turn up the volume.

“What’s this one?” Dean asks.

“Ven Devórame Otra Ves,” you inform him. Not that he knows what that means. You sing along a bit with the first couple of verses while you encourage Dean to lead you in the dance. 

This song is just slow enough for him to attempt it, and the funny thing is, he doesn’t feel all that uncomfortable with the steps now. He’s starting to get a feel for how to move, both with his feet, and with his hands as he guides you by your waist, holding your hand close to his chest. Still, Dean’s also curious about the lyrics you’re singing. 

“What does it mean?” he asks.

You huff in amusement. “You sure you want to know?”

Dean raises a brow. “Well, now I gotta know.” 

You giggle at that, though you correct his steps when he leads with the wrong foot. 

“Okay. It’s about a guy who’s pretty much a player,” you say with a smirk. “His bed has been a revolving door of hot ass, but he keeps thinking about this one woman who used to have him turned inside out…”

Dean’s lips curve at the familiar image you’re conjuring. He manages to turn you under his hand, then pull you back to him in one smooth motion. He looks down at you with a deeper gleam in his eyes. You bite your lip, soothing your hand from his shoulder and down his arm.

As the song’s verses come, you translate for him. And for Dean, your voice in itself is a spell.

“Even in my dreams, he says, I thought I had you devouring me. And I dampened my white sheets remembering you,” you begin. Your words are smooth like black velvet. “In my bed, no one is like you, who draws my body on every corner, without a piece of skin left over.”

Dean is getting hot under the collar as you push away, dragging your fingertips along his back as you turn around him. When you come back into his line of vision, his attention is attracted to the sway of your hips, clad just in those little spandex shorts. He has to clear his throat a bit. 

You eventually return to him with a warm hand against his chest. 

“Ven, devórame otra ves. It means, come devour me again,” you continue, looking up at him from under your lashes, “Come punish me more with your desire. Because I kept my love for you…because my mouth has the taste of your body.” 

You smile at the laser focus of his green-eyed gaze. “Come devour me again.”

You push off with another little spin. When you reach for his hand, Dean yanks you back into him, eliciting a gasp. The move disorients you for a moment, but you giggle and hold onto his arms. Your hands glide up to rest on his shoulders. 

He’s holding you flush against him, and as you shift a thigh between his legs, you unintentionally graze against his hardening length. You look up at him with a smirk.

“You’re a little…stiff,” you say, both flirtatious and teasing. “Let’s loosen you up.”

You shake his shoulders out and try to get him to relax. Dean raises a wry brow, because you know damn well whose fault it is that his body is coiled tight. But you place his hands on your hips as you move back into the dance. 

“Feel what I’m doing there?” you ask. He looks down on you with growing heat.

“If I could do that, we wouldn’t be together,” he rumbles. 

You try to stifle a laugh as he pulls you in close again, just swaying for a bit. Soon enough, you grin knowingly when his hands start to slide lower on your ass. His head bows to yours, ready to meet you with a kiss. 

You stop him with your finger on his lips.

“Question: do you consider yourself more of a tits or ass man?” you ask him. You’re half teasing, but still curious. Dean snorts at the question. 

“More of a connoisseur,” he replies, smirking. 

“Ah.” You nod sagely, and you point between him and yourself. “So this is like a ‘sample the menu’ situation.”

Dean’s smirk deepens. “Sweetheart, you’re a goddamn buffet.”

You splutter laughing…and that’s when he finally pounces. He claims your lips with greedy passion. His hand winds into your hair, gripping tight and ruining what’s left of your loose ponytail. The strands coil around his hand in messy curls while he also gets a healthy grip of your ass through your thin shorts. 

You smile into his lips, even as you acquiesce to him guiding your head to the side, so he can slip his tongue against yours. You grip his arms more for stability while he manhandles you, kneading soft flesh and making pleasant tingles run up your spine. 

After a little while, his mouth burns a hot path away from yours. He noses down your neck, skimming his lips across your skin. It sets your nerve endings on fire and gets you breathing more shallowly in his ear. You cling to the back of his shirt, holding him close. 

Often he’s one to leave love bites of varying degrees, wherever he sees fit. But for a moment he stops at the crook of your neck, just pressing a lingering kiss.

He lets out a deep breath, and you realize he’s probably thinking about where you were bitten. The wound is gone, but it doesn’t change what’s imprinted in both of your minds.  

A softer smile grows on your face. You trail your fingers up into his hair, massaging the back of his neck. 

“I’m okay,” you remind him. Dean hums deep in agreement. You know, however, that he’s still thinking far too much.

So you slide your hands down, slow between the dips and planes of muscle in his back, and rest at his hips. Your thumbs delve under the hem of his shirt and tease the skin there. 

And you start slow, pressing wet, nipping kisses of your own to his neck while you inch his shirt up. You feel his smile on your neck. His grip on your hip flares to life. Still, he lets you tug his shirt up and over his head. Your loose shirt comes next, revealing the same black satin and lace bra you wore the first time he ever got you topless in his arms. 

A fan favorite. Dean grins. He reaches around to go for the clasp, but your firm push on his chest takes him by surprise.

He falls back onto the couch with a grunt, looking up at you then with raised brows. You’ve got a mischievous little smirk on your face that heats his blood and makes his cock twitch.

You take out the rest of your falling ponytail, shaking your hair out wild. Then you let your hands drift down your neck, over your clothed breasts, and finally to your little shorts.

Dean rubs his palms down his thighs and watches. A smirk forms across his lips as you slide the fabric down the curve of your hips. It leaves you in a red thong, familiar to him by the little tear it has on the front. (Again, his fault.)

You climb aboard his strong thighs to straddle his lap, using his shoulders as leverage as you sink down. You make sure to rub yourself teasingly against his clothed erection. He groans in appreciation. His hands fly to your soft, thick thighs and squeeze. 

“Aw, I like this,” Dean says, half on another moan as you grind down a bit harder on him. 

“Yeah?” you tease. You take his face in your hands and capture his lips with your own. Your tongue invades his mouth, and he welcomes you with a deep hum. It’s slow and hot at first, but Dean feels the loss of you when you break from his lips.

Instead, you treat him with the same trail of kisses he gave you, along the curve of his jaw and down his neck. But you don’t stop there.

Your hands move over his chest with purpose, tweaking over each hard nipple while your mouth burns a wet line down and down his sternum. Dean groans at your ministrations, but lets you leave his lap to slide down to the ground, between his thighs. 

“What’re you up to, baby?” he asks, despite having a very good idea of it. He catches the playful, yet determined gleam in your eye. 

You pause, briefly leaning back up to give him a heated kiss. You part from him with a grin. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” you ask. “I’m gonna devour you.”

Dean stares hard at you as goosebumps break out across his forearms. 

Oh, fuck yeah. 

A giggle bubbles in your throat at the expression on his face. But you continue, taking his pants down his legs first, before his boxer briefs. 

Dean’s body tenses in anticipation. You’ve gone down on him before, but somehow it’s different this time. He feels like every single one of his nerve endings stands at attention along with his dick. And you’re taking your sweet time working him up. 

Even when his cock is finally free, you sooth your hands down his legs first, maybe teasing him a bit as you drag your nails down his inner thighs. Dean makes a strained sound, though he tries to hide it by clearing his throat.

Your gaze flicks up to his with a little smile. He’s holding the back of the couch; his fingers are digging into the old cushion in effort to keep still for you. But his eyes stare into yours like a man starving. You know what you’re in for after you have your way with him, but for now, he’s quite literally under your control. 

So you take him in your hands first. Dean groans as you tease him with light touches, soft movements, your thumb slowly circling over the sensitive, weeping head of his cock. It's torturous enough to make him drop his head back against the couch, closing his eyes tight.

And suddenly, he blinks them open again.

“Shit,” he utters, when you finally take him into your mouth. Your tongue is soft and wet, your lips move over him steadily, and your hands caress whatever your mouth can’t take, even teasing his balls. 

You work him over relentlessly, until he can’t help but spill everything he has to give into your waiting mouth. When you suck off and swallow whatever remains, Dean’s heart stutters like syncopated conga drums. 

He shudders and gasps for breath afterwards, watching your every movement—from wiping your mouth to shooting him that satisfied little smirk. 

You press one last kiss to the inside of his thigh before you raise from where you’ve been kneeling on the hard ground. 

Dean manages to lean forward and helps you up by your elbows. But then he pulls you back into his lap and kisses you deeply. He doesn’t let up until you’re panting with him.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he manages to say. His voice is deep and laced with grit. 

He’s still struggling for breath. You giggle and press your warming face into his neck. 

“What, now you’re shy?” he remarks. And he has to laugh. “Come back here.”

He brings your face back to him with a hand on your cheek. For a second, he just looks at you. His thumb strokes across your full, thoroughly kissed bottom lip.  

“Say it,” you encourage softly. “Whatever you’re thinking. Right now.”

A smile tugs at his lips. He can’t help but oblige you. 

“You’re too damn much,” he says again, both gruff and fond. Despite how you drive him up the fucking wall sometimes, he doesn't think it'll ever be enough for him, what he has with you.

Because this is something he'd almost given up on. Didn't think he'd get to have it. And it almost scares him, how much he wants you. How much he...

“I love you,” he says. His thumb traces along the familiar curve of your cheek.

It hasn’t been all that long, but he knows. You weaseled your way in without even trying. The least he can do for you is be honest.

Your fingers curl around his wrist, holding his hand in place. You tilt your head at him.

“Oh, yeah?” you ask. 

Dean hesitates, but he nods. “Yeah.”

A smile grows across your face. “Eh, I’m still on the fence.”

At his flat look, you laugh and lean in for a kiss. He allows it, a little petulantly. But you make up for it with sweet affection. Your gentle hands stroke down the column of his neck, down his chest. You then lean back so he can see your face.

“Yo te amo,” you whisper. “Te amo y te quiero, más que tú puedes creer y entender.”

Dean smiles. He doesn’t understand all of it, but he gets the important bits. He hears it in the tone of your voice. He sees it in your eyes. They shine with emotion, but mainly with love. 

Dean kisses your hand. He lets go, just so he can slip his hands around you to finally unhook your bra. He tosses it across the room without bothering to see where it lands.

You do though, and you meet him with a slightly narrowed gaze. 

“Are you making a mess of my clean bunker?” you tease. 

His lips curve as he kisses you again, while his hands each get a generous handful of your breasts. 

“Ah, hello, ladies." He grins. "Miss me?”

You can’t help but laugh. He’s such a dork sometimes.

But you hum when his thumbs brush over hardened nipples, then drag deliberate circles over them, and pinch just hard enough to make you whimper in pleasure. The sensation zips through you, enhancing the flood between your legs. 

“I fucking love that sound,” Dean mutters, and licks a hot path in the valley between your breasts. His lips move against your dewy skin when he says, “Do that for me again.”

When he takes a nipple in his mouth and nips a bit hard, you have to oblige him. Your voice rising high is music to his ears.  

So he goes for your panties next. You help him get them off and return to his lap. With a breathy moan, you revel at the feeling of his fingers probing into your wet heat.  

However, you and Dean have been too engrossed in one another to notice the door of the bunker unlocking, and heavy steps down the spiral staircase. 

It’s Sam who’s back from his run. Unfortunately, he soon has to shield his eyes upon reaching the living room. 

“Damn it, Dean!”

You yelp in surprise, but Dean laughs and holds you close to shield you from view. As a bonus, it presses your breasts against his chest. 

“All right, Sammy. Go to your room,” he chides playfully (but he means it). “The adults are havin’ a moment.”

Sam scoffs. “You’re having a moment on the goddamn couch!”

“Sorry,” you say, though it’s muffled in Dean’s neck. Your face is red hot with embarrassment. 

Sam rolls his eyes heavenward and tries not to see anything else on his way to his room. 

But Dean’s chuckle reverberates through your chest as his hand goes to your cheek. He encourages you to pull back, so he can see your face again. 

When he does, he smirks at the scarlet blush dusting your cheeks and neck. You bite your lower lip, but despite your embarrassment, you’re happy.

Your own words replay in your mind when you lean in for another kiss.

I love you, you’d said. I love you and I love you, more than you can believe and understand. 

AN: Yay! I hope you enjoyed Part 2 of the “Midnight Espresso”-verse! I loved writing this one so much. I know we're just doing fanfic here, but I genuinely put my heart and soul into this one. ❤️

Also, here are a couple of Spanish translations:

(Note: other Spanish-speaking countries may interpret certain words differently.)

[During their fight]: 

“Que sin vergüenza tú eres, coño. Sigue jodiendo conmigo. Entonces tú vas a ver quien soy yo.”

Translation:

“You’re fucking shameless. Keep messing with me. Then you’re going to see who I am (<- This is Dominican slang. It essentially means fuck around and find out what I'm made of.).”

[Song lyrics: “Yo No Se Mañana” by Luis Enrique]: 

“Yo no se mañana…yo no se mañana. Si estaremos juntos, si se acaba el mundo.”

Translation:

“I don’t know tomorrow. I don’t know tomorrow. If we’ll be together, if the world will end.”

Keep Reading:

Next in this series is "Chico Malo" ("Bad Boy"):

Summary: You catch Dean red-handed—with one of his favorite episodes of Casa Erotica.

▶️ Next Story: Bad Boy (Chico Malo)

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[misrepresentedmorallygrey]

PROPAGANDA

John

This fella is Fascinating. just trust me on this he deserves to be here

He tried so hard to do the right thing, he feels bad and says things would be better if he was never born. He thinks he should've just stayed acting like a monster and continued to act threatening.

(LONG PROPAGANDA INCOMING)

John. Milgram. Here's a short description of the fortunes and misfortunes of the guy. It gets worse before it gets better (probably).

While MILGRAM is a prison that judges a bunch of sympathetic killers, it doesn't consider him to be one – it didn't even exactly know he existed until too little too late, when it got its grabby hands on the brain of prisoner 009, who claimed to not know anything about any murder he'd have committed. Then, footage from his brain was extracted, as MILGRAM does, into a music video, and… that was MeMe. Ninth prisoner, Kayano Mikoto, was revealed to have DID, and what obviously who do you think actually Killed Someone?

Enter John. Well. Mikoto is half deeply unaware half subconsciously scared of his existence, so the MV painted him in a rather. Deeply disturbing way, bathing in bloody baths and all that (not a blood bath though! easy mistake). Adding to that him showing up in the first Voice Drama for five seconds to punch the "protagonist" and yell for a bit, and the result wasn't. Assuring. The fandom proceeded to treat him like a cardboard cutout and variously dunk on MILGRAM for having a cliché "evil" character w/ DID despite the overall well handling of complex characters.

Two years time skip: second season ending. We get to prisoner 009 again. The protagonist Finally gets to chat with John: and voila, he's admitting to the crime, he's apparently "killed a bunch of people because they annoyed him", which means, as he's saying, Mikoto has nothing to do with the crime at all! And he, as per the judging system, should be forgiven, right! Well, he's so full of shit. The music video immediately reveals how protective he feels of Mikoto (and well, he definitely doesn't rebuke That one), that the events of murder were somehow tied in to Mikoto's job at a black company, his continuous overworking and him being mentally on the brink of breaking; that any committed violence was For The Sake of Mikoto and that John feels deeply horrible for messing up his life in any way. By making himself into the image of a "monster" he's trying to make Mikoto look good in comparison and be forgiven and all. He also mentioned if Mikoto is voted innocent he's gonna try to go dormant since he's The Issue, right, and the audience/protagonist hates him, Right, and Mikoto Also Hates him, Right?

I'm underselling the sheer devotion of this guy tbh.

Yeah, the fandom results were kinda mixed on that one. Lots of people immediately started to love him dearly and kinda forgot any people were maimed or killed with baseball bats; lots also got sold on him "messing up Mikoto's life" and actually voted Mikoto innocent Specifically because of John's promise to eventually "disappear". There's more of the babygirlifying kind in the English side of the fandom that I've seen, to be fair. And that's around where we are!

Dazai Osamu

He did bad things in the Mafia. He's trying to get better. He abused people but he also saved other people. Fans portraying him as an unforgivable abuser are WRONG. He perpetuated an abused cycle on Akutagawa thinking he was right to do that, because of trauma, before he could leave. But he left. He's still treating Akutagawa wrong because he's trying to be a better person but doesn't realize that it will not erase what he did and that he can't just ignore the past. Fans portraying him as a pure angel who didn't know what he was doing because he was sad are WRONG TOO. He abused Akutagawa. He was traumatized but it doesn't give him the right to traumatize innocent people. He's trying to be a better person but he can't keep ignoring Akutagawa. He needs to apologize. And even that won't erase what he did. Dazai is a complex character in a complex situation. He left the abuse cycle and tries to be a good person but did unforgivable things while he was still in this cycle and refuses to aknowledge them. He's not a monster but he's not innocent either.

Dazai used to be a mafia executive until his best friend (a former assassin who remained in the mafia but refused to kill) died. As the friend was dying he told him "I know you don't care about whether you're a good or bad person, so if it doesn't matter to you, be on the side that saves people." Despite that, I've seen countless people insisting that Dazai is a good person/trying his best to be a good person when he really only changed sides by joining a detective agency, while still continuing to do the same things he did while in the mafia (including but not limited to: harassing his coworkers for fun, manipulating people, killing people instead of just trying to incapacitate them, and even torturing an innocent man in one of the side stories). That being said, he's not evil either. Even when he does cruel things, it's not for the sake of being cruel (even when he harasses his coworkers he still has limits), it's just a means to an end. I think most of the confusion comes from a scene where he's talking to a young girl, another former mafia member, who asks if he thinks people can change and he assures her they can, but what the anime left out was that he was thinking about his former assassin friend during that discussion, not himself. The entire series is themed around gray morality, to the point where it's even reflected in the main protagonist and antagonist's designs (mainly white with a bit of black, and mainly black with a bit of white), so I feel like insisting that he's a good person now completely misses the point of the story.

#misrepresented morally grey #round 2 #bracket d #mixed bracket #milgram #john milgram #bungou stray dogs #dazai osamu #osamu dazai #cw suicidal ideation #edit: y'all i did not realize this was qued for later lol #only realized when I saw more dazai propaganda that I didn't see when I was making the polls

[courtneysartblog]

An Angel's Duty to Forgive

Content Warnings for discussions of religion.

Like a lot of people, I have been mulling over the final scenes of Good Omens 2, particularly Aziraphale’s “I forgive you.” What is he forgiving? The kiss? The time and place of the kiss? Crowley refusing to go back to heaven? What does he mean?!?!?!? To get to the bottom of this let’s look back at the use of forgiveness in the show.

(And please let me know if I missed one somewhere).

S2E2

The first time Aziraphale forgives Crowley comes in season two during the Job minisode. In this episode Aziraphale is trying to stop Crowley from killing Job’s kids. Even though this is God’s plan, it’s a step too far for Aziraphale. The scene reads:

A: Surely the great thing about being a demon is that you can do whatever you want.

C: You sound jealous angel.

A: Certainly not. I get to do what God wants.

Then we have Aziraphale inciting he knows God does not want the kids killed and that he knows Crowley doesn’t want to kill the kids either. Aziraphale also incites that he knows who Crowley is because he knew him as an angel, which Crowley states, is not him. He then asks Crowley to prove he wants to kill the kids by looking him in the eye. Crowley complies and then Aziraphale says:

“May God forgive you.” 

I mainly want to analyze text over performance, but I will say the kind of disgruntled look Crowley gives Aziraphale as he is forgiven is brilliant. Like “can you believe this guy?”

This forgiveness is interesting because it’s the least personal of all the “forgive yous.” Which makes sense for where the characters are at. It might be the first forgiveness from Aziraphale to Crowley and it in my mind this minisode is when they start to become closer, which is why it is such a distant forgiveness at the beginning of the episode. This forgiveness is Aziraphale is inciting God rather than his own personal forgiveness. 

S1E3

Our next forgiveness comes from the infamous bandstand scene. At this point Crowley is at his wits end, he believes Armageddon is coming and that there is no way to stop it. This moment is interesting because Aziraphale is struggling with what he should do, much like he will at the end of season two. He’s wondering if he should tell Crowley where Adam is. He’s wondering if he should go off with Crowley and abandon the earth. It’s the beginning of his struggle of duty over self, and with the context of the job arc, it's a continuation of heaven’s goodness vs. his own. There’s a lot of conflict, doubt, and I think, a lot of guilt in this moment for Aziraphale. He lashes out, condemning the implication that he’s on a side with Crowley, that they are even friends. His own guilt turns him back to what he thinks heaven wants. 

In the scene Crowley basically swears at God and the Great Plan, condemning ineffability. This is significant because even when Aziraphale toes the line against heaven, he still believes in God and the ineffable, that there is some higher power working for good. That’s what’s so vital about the ending of season two. Even when Aziraphale doubts heaven, there is still some belief in the ineffable, in God.  

In scene, Crowley’s blasphemy earns a “May you be forgiven,” from Aziraphale. 

Which in turn spurs, “I won’t be forgiven. Not ever. Unforgivable. That’s what I am.”

And like the Job minisode, Aziraphale calls back upon history, stating that Crowley was an angel once, which Crowley once again pushes aside. 

Again this scene is the job minisode repeating itself, but this time it’s much more personal. Aziraphale’s forgiveness is still not personal, as he is still inciting God to forgive (although less directly), but unlike the job arc, they have a longer history working directly together and Crowley is taking this forgiveness to heart. There’s a lot of hurt on both sides here. Crowley is hurt that Aziraphale always turns to heaven, refusing the existence of what they share, while also feeling the pain from his Fall. He is a demon. He cannot be welcomed back to heaven or forgiven for what he has done. I don’t think Crowley necessarily thinks he has done something unforgiveable, as he always hedges his Fall saying he didn’t mean to, but he does believe he will never be forgiven and that he will never return to who he was as an angel, nor does he want to. Aziraphale meanwhile cannot let go of his idea of heaven, goodness and ineffability. And because of this, he always finds himself turning away from Crowley. He is conflicted. He sees Crowley as good. But Crowley refuses to be on heaven’s side, which for Aziraphale equates to sin.

But Crowley’s idea of goodness is separate from heaven’s idea of “goodness” unlike Aziraphale’s. Which coincidently is what Aziraphale struggles with all of season two, his free will, his idea of goodness and what heaven wants. 

The next scene of forgiveness comes pretty swiftly after the bandstand scene. 

S1E4

Now with the knowledge that hell knows what Crowley and Aziraphale are up, which puts them in immediate danger, Crowley once again tries to get Aziraphale to run off with him. Throughout the show Crowley is always the one to come back and apologize, and always trying to save Aziraphale. Which is so interesting because it means he’s the one putting aside his own feelings, always willing to forgiving Aziraphale. This is true forgiveness because it shows Crowley accepting Aziraphale for his flaws, unlike Aziraphale’s forgiveness, which asks for Crowley to change. I don't think it's intentional on Aziraphale's part, but that's what his forgiveness asks Crowley to do. And it leaves Crowley to run away and then come back to Aziraphale.

In the S1E4 scene Aziraphale does not listen to Crowley and states that he will speak with God and fix everything. He has a duty to fix things, to save human kind. In his mind Crowley is trying to get them to run away from the problem and Aziraphale refuses. 

We get the lines:

A: I’ll have a word with the almighty and get this all sorted out.

C: That won’t happen. You are so clever. How can someone as clever as you be so stupid.

A: I forgive you. 

I don’t like to use performance over text, but the forgiveness is played so serenely here. But what is Aziraphale forgiving here in the first place? Is he forgiving Crowley trying to leave and trying to get him to abandon his duties? For calling him stupid? For not believing in God? For not believing he can change things? I think on the surface it’s just forgiving the insult, but this scene is so interesting in the greater context of the show because it’s Aziraphale’s first direct forgiveness. He is not bringing God into this one. It’s him forgiving Crowley, nobody else. It’s a much more personal forgiveness. And yet, so distant. And yet we are still building towards that true, personal forgiveness.

Bonus S2E1

Our bonus forgiveness comes at the beginning of this new season where Aziraphale “forgives” Maggie her unpaid rent. This set up was criminal. 

“Oh I’m very good at forgiveness. It’s one of my favorite things.”

Damn this came to bite us all in the ass. 

S2E6

So much of this scene is similar to the bandstand scene of season one. We have Crowley telling Aziraphale to get away from the politics of heaven and hell, to “go off together.” We have Aziraphale trying to go to heaven to fix things and to get Crowley to join him in doing good. But a lot has changed between the two. Aziraphale does not try and say they are not on the same side. He does not try to deny his love of Crowley, in fact we get the line “we can be together,” which to me reads as his own invitation, much like Crowley’s. If Crowley is begging for Aziraphale to see the truth and turn heaven aside, Aziraphale is begging too with that “I need you.” They have come so far but they are not seeing eye to eye yet. And that’s why this scene hurts. Both think they are in the right and are trying to enact it. 

C: You can’t leave this bookshop 

Translation: You can’t leave Earth, you can’t leave me.

A: Oh Crowley nothing lasts forever.

Translation: Earth won’t last forever, things are going to change. Eventually Armageddon will come and we can’t be together if when that happens we are not on the same side because heaven will win. 

What Crowley hears: We can’t last forever as we are.

Crowley closes himself off in this moment putting his sunglasses back on. He knows this is over. 

Then we get "work with me, we can be together.” Followed by the inciting of nightingales, and “You idiot we could have been us.”

The kiss and what comes after, as painful as it is, is probably one of the best performed moments in the entire show. That’s why it hits so well. We see a million emotions run across Aziraphale as he struggles with what to say and we get…

“I forgive you.”

“Don’t bother.”

This don’t bother is so defeated. Crowley is so over Aziraphale’s form of forgiveness. Yes, this forgiveness is the most personal, the most emotional, and it feels like it comes from Aziraphale rather than God. But still there is a history of serene, God given forgive yous that the audience and Crowley is pulling from.

This is a forgiveness where Aziraphale calls on God to forgive Crowley for his sins, for his demonic being. Being a demon is not just a part of Crowley, it’s something he holds a lot of trauma around because he does not think he should have Fallen. He does not want to go back to heaven, he sees the system as broken, he sees God as unjust, but there is still hurt there. And because of this, Aziraphale’s forgiveness will always be pointed for him because he thinks it ignore who he is, what he stands for and what he believes. It’s God’s forgiveness which he will never get and maybe doesn’t even want anymore. 

The scene ends with Aziraphale continuing to struggle. He knows he’s crossed a line. He’s trying not to cry he’s looking out the bookshop window to where Crowley is. And when the Metatron asks him to go, he almost stays back. He tries to find any reason to stay, calling out about the bookshop, which he just stated he didn’t care about if it meant he could be with Crowley. Aziraphale is so close to giving up his ideas and running back to Crowley, picking Crowley over all else. But he puts a smile on his face and leaves the shop. He picks duty, he picks what he thinks will protect humanity, setting heaven straight. And in that final moment before he gets on that elevator he looks towards Crowley who is once again, waiting for him. This scene is shot so brilliantly because even though Aziraphale looks towards Crowley, it’s shot in a way that makes it look like their eyes are not meeting. It looks like Aziraphale turns to Crowley but they are not locking gazes. Once again, like this entire season, they are not seeing eye to eye. They are saying similar things to each other, that they want to be together, but they are not on the same page and have reached a breaking point because of it. 

I don’t know exactly what Aziraphale is forgiving in the moment, but I understand the history here. Aziraphale is feeling his own guilt for wanting Crowley, for wanting to not be a part of heaven, for seeing the evil of heaven. He’s feeling the conflict about heaven and goodness. But this is all just a pattern that him and Crowley have. Crowley wants to escape heaven and hell, Aziraphale cannot give up his duty and his ideas of God. Crowley comes back offering true forgiveness for Aziraphale’s actions, Aziraphale thinks he’s doing the right thing for forgiving Crowley. It’s so personal but it’s so muddled up with God as well. 

So what exactly is Forgiveness?

Google’s dictionary states that it is “the action or process of forgiving.” Or “to stop feeling angry or resentful towards someone for an offense flaw or mistake.”

What is Grace?

In the Christian sense Grace is the gift God gives everyone freely. It's Their favor towards the unworthy. I have always thought of it as something similar to compassion or forgiveness. It’s to give people the benefit of the doubt and to “forgive them their trespasses.” And for a Christian, it’s something that God gives to you and that you are supposed to carry in your heart and give to others. Grace, is a sticky word, hard to define and hard to translate, but it’s basically seeing the good and forgiving their sins or faults. 

Grace and forgiveness go hand in hand. But in modern Christianity it is a double-edged sword and a lot of times, forgiveness and grace are given in place of acceptance. 

Forgiveness in Christianity can be a little weird. When you ask for God’s forgiveness in pray you are basically using pray as a healing tool to forgive yourself. Even though I have stepped away from religion a long time ago I can admit there is something rapturous about handing forgiveness off to a greater force, about finding a way to forgive your own transgressions and remind yourself to have space in your heart for others. But it can also be letting God do the hard part for you. And when you ask yourself if you actually need forgiveness, when you begin to ask yourself if you have actually sinned or only sinned in the eyes of the church, that’s when it gets tricky. 

If you’ve grown up religious or grew up around friends or family who are, particularly the Christian variety, forgiveness gets muddy. From the Christian side, giving forgiveness is the ultimate form of grace. It’s accepting a person beyond their failings and asking a higher power to give them the same grace you have shown that person. But when you are the one being forgiven, it just doesn’t feel like true forgiveness. Hearing “may God forgive you,” is like a slap in the face. It feels like a platitude, it feels like someone refusing to accept who you are. And it reminds you that the devote person thinks of you as a sinner. Crowley sees Aziraphale for who he truly is. He sees his goodness, his indulgences, sees his bastard streak and is fascinated and accepting of every part of it. There’s a reason why the head canon exists that Crowley started to fall for Aziraphale when he gave away the flaming sword. He saw true goodness in Aziraphale when he went behind heaven’s back and did the “right” thing. Aziraphale isn’t at this point yet because he hasn’t given himself true forgiveness. He sees Crowley for who he is, but he cannot see anything other than a black and white way of being. And when he sees goodness in Crowley he cannot separate it from heaven.

For Aziraphale, his forgiveness is God’s grace, it’s a beautiful act. To him Heaven is unwilling to see the good in Crowley. Aziraphale sees the goodness, he sees Crowley should be forgiven, and he thinks himself better than other angel’s because he can show grace to anyone. An angel’s duty is to show grace, and what greater strength is there than seeing the good in all, even a demon. For Crowley Aziraphale’s forgiveness is reminder that he will not be taken back by heaven. And even worse it must feel like Aziraphale is not accepting of his whole self.

Aziraphale’s problem is that he equates goodness with heaven despite seeing the awful things they have done. But because he sees the goodness in Crowley, he thinks that Crowley should be in heaven. Crowley is past the idea of sides, of heaven and hell, Aziraphale is not. Throughout the flashbacks and first season we see this. He thinks of Crowley as good one moment and then calls his side the bad guys the next. Aziraphale’s duty to forgive, his ideas of heaven and goodness, they are all getting mixed up inside him.

But there is also so much guilt attached to Aziraphale. He believes he has transgressed and done the wrong thing and he’s holding onto that guilt. He carries so much guilt for going against God, for indulging in food and human pleasure (there’s a reason why the Metatron brings this up and tells Aziraphale it’s okay). Aziraphale is caught in the crossroads between his duty to heaven and his idea of goodness and his own freewill, and the guilt he feels when he allows himself freewill. 

Crowley is the outsider. He has Fallen from grace; he understands true forgiveness and gives it freely to Aziraphale. H knows the difference between true goodness and heaven’s goodness. Crowley trusts Aziraphale, he even trusts that Aziraphale will try to change heaven. The problem is Crowley understands heaven and hell better than anyone. He knows the system is bad and ridiculous and has taken himself out of the equation. He doesn’t want vengeance against heaven for what it’s done to the other demons. He doesn’t want to be considered good and go back to heaven. He wants to live as a free agent on earth and appreciate the wonder and beauty there. And he wants the same for Aziraphale. He doesn’t want Aziraphale to Fall necessarily, but he wants him to have free will and to live a life away from the machinations of heaven and hell. This is the next step for Aziraphale.

This is where the kiss scene gets messy because I want Aziraphale to get away from heaven, but I also understand Aziraphale. For Aziraphale, Crowley's big plan to get away and be safe must sound like running away from the problem. There’s a reason he always rejects it. He wants to be with Crowley, but there is something holding him back, holding him to earth specifically. Both Crowley and Aziraphale want to be safe and free for all eternity, but while Crowley loves the earth and humanity, Aziraphale is still holding onto the idea of protecting humanity and he knows that the final judgement will come eventually, sooner rather than later. 

Even if Aziraphale is morally gray, he wants to be good so badly. And his struggle between true goodness and heaven’s goodness feels so human and relatable. It's hard for me personally to watch Aziraphale’s journey because I don’t want him to not be an angel. It’s a part of him. But I don’t know what other journey he could go on at this point to accepting himself. I don’t think he will Fall, but something must change. He has to choose to be human or to be erased from the book of life or to be something else outside of heaven to truly choose goodness. He will not abandon his duty to humanity, but he will abandon his duty to heaven. He needs to show himself forgiveness and to show Crowley acceptance. He needs to go against heaven once and for all and abandon his duties as an angel to truly protect humanity. 

At the end of season two we get the kiss, and we see Aziraphale offer forgiveness. A forgiveness that without context sounds strange. But after his forgiveness we see Aziraphale struggle with what to do. He’s choosing heaven, but this is just the start of his journey. He has truly taken a bite of the forbidden apple, and he’s about to gain the knowledge which will forever change him and his path forward. But a snake can’t lead an angel out of the garden, he has to choose to leave.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #goodomensseason2 #aziracrow #crowley #crowly x aziraphale #good omens 2 #aziraphale #long post #essay #good omens essay #good omens theory #good omens thoughts

[prodigal-explorer]

I disagree with the idea that basil is unforgivable because the entire point of Omori is forgiveness and grief.

To say that basil is irredeemable is to go against the theme of the game

homie...

hate to break it to you but actually the point of the game being forgiveness and grief doesn't mean that every character should be forgiven. everybody has different standards and morals and values when it comes to forgiveness. some people are able to forgive basil and others aren't, but the people who are able to forgive aren't inherently better or more "right" than the people who cannot. to say that the message of omori is "you should always forgive people no matter what they do to you" is brain-dead.

just because sunny and basil smiled at each other doesn't mean that all that damage was reversed, or that true forgiveness even happened.

the point of omori is not forgiving others.

it's forgiving YOURSELF.

that's why aubrey, kel, and hero's explicit reactions to the truth weren't shown in the game. because it's not supposed to be canon that they forgave sunny and basil. and the lesson is NOT that kel, aubrey, and hero SHOULD forgive sunny and basil.

it's easy for sunny and basil to forgive each other because they both royally fucked up each other and their friends.

what's not easy is kel, hero, and aubrey forgiving them because unlike sunny and basil, they had ZERO CHOICE in the matter when it came to the presentation of mari's death. they spent four years living a lie.

hero blamed himself, believing that he was a horrible boyfriend who caused mari's death by not being there for her and he was extremely depressed for years, which caused him to lose motivation for his number one favorite thing to do:

cook. as a result of hero's depression, kel was pushed aside and ignored by his parents, becoming something like a glass child to them, which led to him viewing himself as less important or worthy of love/attention than hero.

and don't even get me started on aubrey. the whole town turned against her, and nobody cared about her. not even her friends. the only person in the world who truly understood her was mari, and seeing her hung was the worst possible thing to happen to aubrey, a mentally ill little girl who already believed she was bad for everyone who cared about her.

if basil had JUST TOLD THE TRUTH. all of his friends' lives would have been infinitely better.

and i don't mean to like rag on basil without addressing sunny, but i never see sunny stans acting this idiotic and "holier-than-thou". now since you're so up in my business, i will explain myself more.

the biggest unforgiveable thing isn't even basil hanging mari. it's basil blatantly lying, and staying silent for four years, pretending to be innocent, painting himself as some victim, when really, the whole time, he was the reason why everything crumbled and destroyed itself.

it would be fucking stupid to walk out of playing that game saying, "well, aubrey, kel, and hero need to forgive basil for what he did because forgiveness is important."

that's easy for BASIL LOVERS to say because BASIL WAS NOT THE VICTIM IN THE SITUATION. HE WAS THE PERPETRATOR.

and furthermore, the game emphasizes self-forgiveness way more than forgiving others.

things only started to get better for basil and sunny when they started to forgive themselves. sunny's hallucinations were a manifestation of his shame and guilt. and shame and guilt are a result of being unable to forgive yourself. what the other characters did to support sunny was helpful, but it didn't solve the root of the problem. the only thing that really made something go away, the only thing that really brought color back to sunny's world was him letting go of that shame and guilt and allowing himself to keep going forward.

THE ENTIRE POINT OF THE GAME IS THIS: you cannot control how others react/respond to your bad actions. you cannot expect forgiveness out of anyone, and sometimes, you SHOULDNT. but the one thing you can control when you fuck up is how you pick yourself up and dust yourself off. how YOU move on from what you did so that you can grow and become a better person in the future.

and to me, that is a way more relevant, impactful, and TRUE message than the stupid, idiotic, honestly super problematic idea that "we should forgive and forget when people hurt us because they feel guilty". that's not being a good person. that's being spineless and devoid of values. just because i personally have experiences, traumas, and values that make me unable to truly forgive basil doesn't make me a bad person or someone who failed to understand the game's message. so before you come up in my ask box and attempt to shame me and accuse me of not understanding the game, brush up on it yourself, buddy.

#omori #prodigal omori #omori game #omori spoilers #omocat #omori sunny #omori basil #omori aubrey #omori kel #omori hero #hero omori #kel omori #aubrey omori #sunny omori #basil omori #omori basil criticism #omori analysis

[bloodycassian]

I got a lot of traction on this post and decided to make a short oneshot out of it.

 Reader x Rhysand

Omg imagine… dying in the fields of the first war.. You’re looking up at the sky, wings broken and while rhysand is looking for cas and az he turns you over, and falls backwards at the bond immediacy snapping into place when he sees your bloodied face

“Are you willing to die for your happiness?” 

The Suriel had asked you that, so so long ago now that you weren’t sure if it was a dream or some shattered illusion that made death easier. Or if it was The Mother playing those words back to you now, to make embracing her seem fated. 

You were dying. You were sure of it. 

It wasn’t peaceful. Not when it was like this. So drawn out and bloodied and slashing pain ripping through every last tattered breath your lungs gave. 

Your vision went dark at the edges, narrowing down to a small circle of branches above you. The leaves were long gone, hurried away by an unforgiving storm at some point. You wished you could be brought away like that. That your death could be easy, and quick.

You closed your eyes, and consigned yourself to the throes of pain.

+

It was getting harder and harder to move the bodies. Rhysand’s arms tired, and his hands soaked in blood made gripping armor plates difficult. But still, he searched. Waiting to see if any of the bodies were his brothers. He recognized most of the Illyrians that lay across the killing fields, and noted every single one that he couldn’t identify. Tried to make out any identifiable features from them, so he may one day offer their families comfort. 

A male with a blank stare, jaw broken, unknown. He moved to the next pair of wings. Nearly unidentifiable among the wreckage of bodies and weapons, he dug the limbs from the pile of others. Hauled the body up by the shoulders, keeping far from the wings that Folded in on themselves. the victim had been face down in a pile of males, friend and foe alike.. His heart thrummed as he rolled over the strangely light victim.

He prepared for something gruesome. Some wound that made the face unable to be seen - but his head went fuzzy at the first sight. 

She seemed to glow. Despite the pale features and filth coating her, his heart squeezed in his chest, swelling to the point of pain. He clutched there, where beneath his armor his dread turned into something far worse, and deadly. Care. He reeled backwards, immediately regretting it because your shoulders fell back against the mound of bodies. A weak groan escaped your lips, and he breathed a sigh of relief. You were alive enough for that, at least. 

He fell to his knees there, in the gore that already coated his armor and hands. A feeling that reminded him of his own wrath rose, deep in his stomach. Different than the power that collected at his finger tips, but scored with the same intensity.

He denied the feeling - the pull of your essence at first. He refused to fall into it’s embrace, though fighting it was as pointless as warring with the tides. The moon would have her way, whether he swam against the currents or not. 

But if he stopped fighting, he’d drown. He’d fall beneath the waves and be consumed by this heated ferocity that bubbled inside of him. He could see it already, could imagine himself so easily falling into the embrace of this dangerous feeling - something this tender, this delicate was not reserved for something as dangerous as himself. 

To emphasize this fact, darkness surrounded him. A portal of night opening over his shoulders, his wings appearing. Every part of him being laid bare, here among the wounded and dead. How was it over the centuries of peace, he only finds his one now, with death lurking so near? Perhaps it was penance. For the amount of power the mother had blessed him with, he would find his mate only at her end. 

Bleak tears rolled down the plains of his face. The cold ache of the mud seeping into his knees was distant, incomparable to the pain in his temples. Like his body warred with something. With the acceptance of the scene before him. Limply, one of your hands went to your belly, where a speartip jutted out. Your eyes squeezed tighter together. He wondered if you could feel him now. If your mind was fighting off him, as well as death. Black dried blood stained your lower half from the exit wound. Defiance bellowed in his mind, thrumming in his head like a drumbeat. Mother be damned. 

He was moving before he knew what he was doing. Perhaps he was drowning himself. Perhaps this would be the end of him. If you died here or in his arms, he knew it would destroy him. But on the off chance you lived…. He wouldn’t get his hopes up. Couldn’t. He knew just how much worse it would break him if he did.

He picked you up, gently enough, then with a wisp of his power sliced the long part of the spear from the blunt arrowhead. He carried you as best he could, readjusting as you slid out of his grasp. The mud made this harder, but he dared not use another scrap of his power to try to clean it away. He may need it to end himself, if you died.

He only spared enough to open a portal, and winnow through the darkness he conjured, wondering if the moon watched him amongst the stars.

#acotar fic #reader x rhysand #rhysand x reader

[hauntedpearl]

anyway fic concept I'm pulling and stretching like candy in my brain rn: what if amara pulled cas' grace out as a "gift" to dean instead of resurrecting mary and it was so awfulhorrendousbad for everyone involved.

like cas does not want to be human but there's nothing he can do and also he just has to live in this state knowing full well that it was something done to him (again) for the sake of someone else (again) and the person his body is supposed to serve is like. he's not even interested in it! he's not even caring and apologetic about it! because dean wouldn't be.

the problem with Dean is that he's extremely self-indulgent when he's experiencing pain which means that even when hes dying of guilt he'll turn it into a pity party and explode with anger and frustration instead of. like. putting the needs of the people he's feeling guilty about having hurt first. and he never expects absolution but he craves it deep within and he's also. like. so afraid of it. like he wants to be forgiven for things but he cannot handle the tenderness that comes with forgiveness i think so he must like. act unforgivable. or something. idk I'm just. thinking out loud.

anyway. yes. so when this happens dean's just so goddamn hurt that he can't do anything to help cas get his wings back + that cas is. like. in this state because Amara wanted to do something for him so this is simply the most blatant and warped manifestation of his desire to be. like. with cas. which. at that point i think he's still battling with that intensely and he doesn't like what he's seeing. i think he only becomes okay with it post widower arc in s13 because the vaccum cas left behind was like. too large. and if it was a choice between being okay with being gay for the angel and not having the angel at all, it's an easy choice. like that's my interpretation. but anyway. i digress.

so. dean's just incapable of even confronting cas head-on beyond, idk, just bringing him back to the bunker and making sure he's not dead (bmol plot is not happening in this fic bc i am. not someone with that much talent lmao). he avoids him and leaves sam to take care of cas and sam is like. bad at it. he is horrible at it. he also does not want to be involved in whatever is going on with Dean and cas and he craves a return to normalcy. so when cas decides to just bail on the brothers after he's had enough of this. frankly emotional torture, sam is like. more than happy to pack his bags for him and give him money and send him on his way. I think cas does confront dean before he goes and he openly states whatever dean is not ready to face. he's like you love me and that's why this happened to me and i love you and i forgive you but i cannot stand to be here anymore. and he just leaves and does not contact dean for a long time. like i think dean does. get better. because he has to. FOR ME. he has to do it because i want him to do it. and he like gets to a place where he can accept whatever is going on with him and also. like. accept cas' rejection were it to come his way. for rejecting him first. ykwim? and cas also has his own. journey where he has to come to terms with living as a human being even tho he isn't and he never truly will be but his grace is gone and the guy it's gone for is not in his life by his choice and everything SUCKS. but like. you keep living because you have to. eventually you'll find joy one way or another. you learn to be okay. i think cas learns to be okay. and he only reaches out to dean after he's. like. reached a point where he feels fulfilled and happy and just. wants to give dean another shot. feels confident enough that he'll choose himself it he has to. and then when they meet up it's electric it's fire and it's love and it's all things romance ™ (for meee!!! for me!!!) and then they kiss and then they sit down and talk and cry and dean reveals the extent to which he wants this whole thing to be entirely Cas' choice and he is just HERE. he is JUST HERE he doesn't care if he has to do uncomfortable things!! and cas is like well good because you have to do many uncomfortable things but it's like. it's good it's compromise and they take care of each other etc the end

ANYWAY. AMARA TAKING CAS' GRACE. YEAH

#fic idea #if anyone writes this before i do I'll just sadly slunk away but ive been thinking about it for too long and the words are jisg #not coming so. #be free my little headcanon #doe is talking again #spn headcanons #destiel

[castieldelamancha]

3 days later.

The sound of the empty beer bottle he just sent rolling across the bedroom's floor knocking against the doorframe fills the silence around him.

It's almost a living thing this silence, Dean tiredly thinks to himself, it's pressing down on him, sucking out all the air in the room, asphyxiating him.

It's outside, but, to what would be Dean's horror if it wasn't because of the numbness that has taken over him, it's also inside of him, in his head, in his very soul. His own melody, a jumble mess of chords, a mix of gloom notes and bright tunes, seems to be over, now that what had felt for years as its companion piece is gone.

He must be going insane with this grief he feels, he has started to wonder if the darkness might had taken him too.

He lets his head fall backwards, resting it against Castiel's perfectly made bed. The emptiness of this space only seems to add to the silence around him. Don't get him wrong, there is furniture here, but no life, no soul, like Cas never existed, like he was a product of his imagination. 

He stares up at the ceiling, he reminds himself he has to wash his jacket, get the blood out of it. He shakes his head. He was there, that's all the proof he needs to convince himself it was all real. Dean himself is still here, breathing and moving, he wouldn't say alive, but he is also proof it was all real. 

He doesn't know how he has ended up here, in Castiel's room, sitting on the cold, unforgiving, floor by the bed, drinking the last drops of a beer that tasted like shit and that brought him no comfort.

He doesn't think there is something out there that can comfort him now, unless the wall would open right now and spit Cas out same way it swallowed him. 

It doesn't happen of course.

He wonders if Cas can hear him, he doesn't think so.

"One last miracle," he says anyway, "fuck, I know I have asked for so much from you over the years," he struggles to swallow past the lump forming in his throat and he welcomes it, welcomes the tears he can feel filling up his eyes, because it's better to feel this sadness that nothing at all, "know you have sacrificed so much for me, for us, for this world; but Cas, I need one miracle, I need you back." 

There are so many things Dean has to tell him.

Silence. Nothing. His soul seems to get a leave a message after the tone.

There are so many things he has to tell Cas, but not if he isn't here to hear him.

However, eyes still fixated on the ceiling, he whispers, 

"It was always yours to have, all yours." Forever.

.

10 years later.

There is a fine layer of dust covering every surface around him, not too bad considering the time that has gone by since someone has last set foot in this room. More than five years, maybe, Dean isn't too sure about that.

It's quiet in here but, from the other side of the closed door the sound of laughter and conversation filters until reaching him. The bunker is bursting with life, hunters that come and go, a safe haven for so many. He doesn't feel like being part of all that right now.

He wouldn't have come around if he had realized he would still be here on this specific day. 

The memories are painful enough far away from this walls as it is.

But, well, now it's too damn late.

He sighs, the wound is old, but on days like today it's still tender to the touch, like it never healed properly. He hums to himself, a silly little tune, he doesn't remember where it came from but that's okay, he likes it anyway, it keeps his mind distracted. He lets his head fall back, resting it against the perfectly made bed, the covers smell after years of disuse. It reminds him of the first time they explored the bunker bedrooms. 

It was love at first sight, despite all the work they had ahead of them to make this place liveable again. 

He doesn't miss it nowadays, he is thankful for what was his home when he needed one the most, but he has somewhere else to call a home now. Far away from here.

He doesn't know why he decided to come in when he walked by the closed door, but he is here now, sitting on the floor by the bed, not wanting to think about having to get up or about the pain he has started to feel in his left knee. He is not so young anymore.

He opens his eyes when there is soft knock on the door and a gentle voice calls out his name.

"C'mon in." He calls back, smiling to himself and closing his eyes once more. 

There is the sound of the door closing again, light footsteps that stop next to him, a warm body that joins him on the floor. 

"What are you doing in here?" He doesn't need to open his eyes to picture the squinty look that is being directed to himself. 

"I came here, years ago" he says instead of giving a real answer, "I sat down right on this spot and told whoever was listening that I needed a miracle."

He opens his eyes, turning his head to the side to be able to look at Cas, smiling softly at him. His hair is messy as always but, just like Dean's, it's turning grey, paired with his deeping wrinkles Castiel has never looked more handsome to Dean. More alive.

"Did someone listen?" He asks, with a glint in his eyes that make Dean believe he already knows the answer to that question.

He plays along, anyways. Dean reaches to close his hand around Cas' and, lifting them both to get them closer to his face, he kisses Castiel's knuckles, one by one. 

"It took a while, but I got my miracle after all." Dean looks away, he has been working hard, all these years, to feel more comfortable in his own skin, open up and say what he has to say, but still, sometimes, especially in days like this, when he is feeling too much; when he feels raw, emotional, it can be all a bit too much.

Castiel leans in, he presses his forehead against Dean's cheek.

"I had forgotten it was today, it seems the same thing happened to you."

Neither of them would have wanted to be here today.

Dean nods lightly. He looks up at the ceiling. 

He focuses on their breathing, almost synced, calm and deep, he focuses on all the parts of them that are touching. He grips Castiel's hand tightly, nothing is taking him away, it would have to take Dean too.

Nothing is after them now, though, he allows himself to relax once more, heavily leaning his shoulder against Cas'.

He never washed the jacket, it's still here, he had to put it in Cas' closet, where he would never have to see it, unless he wanted to.

"I am glad" Castiel says after a long moment of shared silence, "I could tell you what I needed to say that day." Dean knows the weight of Castiel's guilt around those last moments, he has never regretted saving Dean, of course, he does regret the pain he caused.

Dean almost makes a comment about him being lucky because Dean remembers he couldn't get a single word out, but he has made his peace with that because, even though it took some time, he could tell Cas what he had been bottling up inside himself for years too, staring into his eyes, for the very first time, then a second time and now he has lost count. 

"I still can't believe sometimes that, well-" he trails off, gesturing vaguely with his free hand.

"That you could have it all?" Dean ventures.

"Yes." It comes out in a strangled whisper. Dean turns his head again, dropping a kiss on Castiel's forehead.

"It will always be yours, all yours." Forever.

#destiel #november 5th #post s15 #the post s15 i deserved of course 😌 #long post #ficlet #vanessa writes ✨ #hoy hay 2x1 en ficlets como en el carrefour #tuserpris

[420technoblazeit]

the insane thing about dean and crowley running away together after season 9 is like. ok to recap what's going on in their lives at that point

sam turned crowley almost fully human in the season 8 finale and he felt 300 years worth of horrible soul-crushing guilt all at once. it kinda fucked him up and he gets hit with the crisis of oh god oh fuck i've committed so many unforgivable sins i have to be a better person IMMEDIATELY or i'm going to die alone again. which results in him taking ridiculous amounts of human blood to feel more human and getting addicted to it. sam and dean forcefully detox him except we find out in the start of season 10 that he didn't actually get fully sober, he just stopped taking it in excess. so he's literally still taking human blood over the summer. and by the time the end of season 9 rolls around he's also gotten pretty close to dean, enough that in the finale he brings him back as a demon mostly because he wants someone who understands him which like. given that he just spent the last season taking human blood to get away from his demon nature is more than a little fucked up

on the other hand dean took on the mark of cain, the oldest curse of all time which may or may not have turned lucifer evil and gives you uncontrollable bloodlust until you murder everyone close to you. so we're already off to a bad start. but it gets worse because crowley turned him into a demon so now he's soulless too and has no sense of morality to stop him from murdering whoever he wants. dean ran away and told sam and cas not to go looking for him so he's alone with the king of hell, who has no complaints about killing random people and is actually kind of encouraging it and his alcoholism because he wants him to stick around. the insane cocktail mix of the mark of cain and being a demon makes dean impulsive and angry at the best of times and he literally tries to kill sam when he tries to turn him human again

so when i say the two of them fucking was like. the LEAST of their problems. i mean it

#supernatural #spn #spn spoilers #supernatural spoilers #crowley spn #crowley macleod #dean winchester #deancrowley #crowleydean #drowley #the pig squeals

[the-good-the-bad-the-old]

w̳r̳i̳t̳e̳r̳:̳ ̳t̳h̳e̳-̳g̳o̳o̳d̳-̳t̳h̳e̳-̳b̳a̳d̳-̳t̳h̳e̳-̳o̳l̳d̳

"If you love me, stop playing games, I pray"

Cas. Buddy.

It's. It's... It's me.

Can... Can.. Can.. Oh. Can you hear me, man?

I pray.

If you love me, stop playing games, I pray. Here I sit, on this cold, unforgiving concrete floor, shivering not just from the chill that seeps through my bones, but from the ache, the pain that gnaws at my chest. Cas. Castiel, my guardian angel, my confidant, I need you to hear this, man, to truly understand, right now, the words that linger on the tip of my spineless tongue.

If you love me, stop playing games, I pray. For all the battles we've fought together, the sacrifices you've made have weighed heavily upon my heavy dirty soul. I thank you, Cas, for laying down your life time and time again, but for what purpose? Was it all to make me feel this unbearable agony, this torturous regret for not speaking the one truth that consumes me? Why did you leave me like this, man? Why did you leave me like this? Cas?

If you love me, stop playing games, I pray. I thank you for standing beside me in the face of this sons of the bitches, for being the one constant presence in this chaotic existence of ours. Your unwavering loyalty has been a light in the darkness, a shelter in the storm. But now.... I find myself torn between the fear of losing you, again and the fear of never, NEVER revealing the depths of my heart. I just... Never been allowed to do that in my life.

If you love me, stop playing games, I pray. Cas. We've danced this delicate dance, circling each other with unspoken words and lingering glances. But this game of wills has taken its toll, piece by fragmented piece, until my heart is left bleeding, raw. The words I hold within me, they yearn to be set free, to merge with the air that surrounds us.

If you love me, stop playing games, I pray. This prayer, this confession of mine, it may be the last plea that escapes me, my last chance to break free from the chains that bind. I will pray to you. Every day, just you will hear me. I.. I experience differently than I have before. I cannot bear the weight of unspoken truths any longer, the burden of silence that strangles my voice. Cas?

Cas. I love you. Of course I love you, too! I've always loved you! Always! Don't you dare doubt that for a fraction of a second. I feel something bigger, something bigger than the Earth, the moon, this damn galaxy where there's no room for us.

If you love me, stop playing games, I pray. For this feeling that burns within me, it is not confined by expectations or societal norms. It is a force that surpasses logic, that dares to challenge the very fabric of our existence. I wasn't the best option, but you chose me. I want to hold you, so bad, man, I want to know what love is.

If you love me, stop playing games, I pray. Hear my plea, Cas. Let our truths intertwine and pave the way for a future filled with the infinite possibilities of love. For if this chance slips through our fingers, I fear I may never find the courage to speak these words again. So, I pray, I beg. Please. Please. Please, man. let our love no longer be a secret kept in the shadows.

Castiel, god, can you hear me?

if you love me, stop playing games, I pray. I yearn for the day when we can stand united, together again.

We need you. I need you.

#rambleoncas #my #mine #ff #fanfiction #destiel #dean winchester #castiel #deancas #supernatural #destiel fanfic #fanfic #5th of november is soon #5th of november #dean x castiel #dean x cas #castiel x dean #i love you #destiel meme #spn #texting #my text

[wanderingcas]

fic stats meme! 💌 rules: give us the links to your fic with the most hits, second most kudos, third most comments, fourth most bookmarks, fifth most words, and fic with the least words.

thank you @jactingjoices for tagging me!! <3

most hits: the cost of a thing

16 months ago, Cas became human.

12 months ago, Cas left the bunker and a broken-hearted Dean behind.

Now they must work a case together, where married couples are dying mysterious deaths and the only way to earn the neighbors' trust is by pretending to be married. Slowly, Dean finds that he loves being in a relationship with Cas, fake or not, and Cas finds his loneliness retreating, despite the harsh reality looming right around the corner. As Dean and Cas navigate this fake, but all too real, relationship, can they find the monster that is on a mysteriously motivated killing spree before it’s too late?

second most kudos: Passing Ships

When Castiel commits a crime unforgivable, he is demoted from distinguished guardian angel to the role of cupid. His assignment: to pair Dean Winchester and Lisa Braeden together as soulmates. Adamantly against the idea, Dean proves to be a challenging assignment for Castiel - especially when he falls in love with him.

third most comments: ascend 

Something in the world is wrong.

Demon activity is rising where mysterious black substance oozes and unusual ecological events are shaking the world. Dean, grief hanging on his shoulders, restlessly searches for answers that might lead him to the Empty… and to Cas.

But what Chuck wrote can’t be undone. The narrative thread pulls Dean along, forcing him to comply. Because once a story already has an ending, it can’t be rewritten.

Or can it?

fourth most bookmarks: too much 

“There’s too much of your mother in you,” John used to say.

Too much empathy.

Too much love.

It’s what got her killed, after all.

fifth most words: what's past is prologue 

“I heard a rumor,” Mona purrs, elbows bracketing the steaming tea mug in front of her, delicate chin propped on her knuckles. “About a certain Roderick Burgess.”

“Oh?” Hob picks up his cup of Earl Grey from the counter, taking a sip. “What might that be?”

“Apparently, he’s captured Death,” she replies as Hob chokes on his tea.

----

(Hob attempts to save Dream from the fishbowl. It doesn't quite go as planned - with some unfortunate consequences.)

least words: Registry Woes 

Cas and Dean go to the illustrious Bed Bath and Beyond for their wedding registry. Cas runs amuck. Dean is not pleased.

tagging: @ialwayscomewhenyoucall @valleydean @angelinthefire @inacatastrophicmind and whoever else wants to do this!!

#ask game

[theperfectawful]

Blind Item Masterlist

Dieter Bravo x OFC

Rating: Explicit

Summary: 2007. Hollywood, CA. You're a former child star navigating coming-of-age under the unforgiving spotlight. After you crash your SUV on Sunset Boulevard and are caught with a bag of cocaine in your purse, your team gives you one option: Rehab. Reluctantly accepting to attempt to salvage your career and reputation, you begrudgingly agree to put your head down and suffer through a 90 day stay at Promises Malibu. It's a straightforward path to redemption, until Dieter Bravo checks in. Instantly drawn to one other, you grapple with sobriety and the wreckage of your reputation as it becomes glaringly apparent that the consequences of him being here pale in comparison to yours. The double standard of Hollywood's treatment of its troubled stars becomes all too apparent, leaving you to question whether redemption is truly within reach in a world where men and women face vastly different fates beneath the harsh spotlight of fame.

Chapters

1: Gimme More

2: Malibu [Coming Soon!]

#dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #blind item #wip

[shallowseeker]

What is the most well-acted scene of SPN, in your opinion?

I think for a genre show, there are a lot of surprisingly hard-hitting moments. But today, I'm gonna say this:

CROWLEY: I'd like...to ask you a-a favor, Sam. Earlier, when you were confessing back there...what did you say? I only ask because, given my history...it raises the question... Where do I start...to even look for forgiveness? I mean...

///

Discussion:

I think Mark's voice, and his whole everything in this scene was among the hardest-hitting of Supernatural. It was so incredibly well-done.

Crowley has been brutal this season. He killed Kevin's girlfriend and tortured Kevin, and yet here he is, asking for forgiveness in a Church, a symbol of penance and forgiveness. As he spirals down from the high of the "roofied disinhibition" of "being a demon," he starts to feel everything again, and he despairs.

It's a callback to the demon Father Thompson cured, the one who ate his own children. It's a callback to Sam's hopped-up stent on demon blood.

In SPN Prime, John thought he was doing the right thing by his neglect and absence and violence, to toughen up his children and prepare them to defend themselves in a world that wants to kill them. And in doing so, John let his family down, and he died before they could fix it. Sam grieving John is not just about grieving the man lost, it's about Sam grieving the loss of potential for healing and repair.

If John Winchester could have lived and reckoned with his crimes of absence and neglect and cruelty, could he have done the same? Asked for forgiveness? Sam will never know. Sam would've forgiven him. There's nothing he wants to put in front of his family either, when you get down to it.

And Sam feels this guilt in himself, too, in his powering up on demon blood in order to do the righteous thing and protect the world. (We'll see in season 15 that this power would've corrupted him, eventually killing those very things he longed to protect.)

Also, there's the guilt for what he perceives as his run to escapism purely for the sake of escaping, serving up an incomplete version of himself in order to fit into an idealized normal (Amelia is to Sam as Kate was to John Winchester, perhaps). In doing so, he let his family down when they needed him the most. (He abandoned Kevin, Dean, Cas because he couldn't face the pain of fighting alone, like how John had to fight alone, and like how Mary has to fight alone in the AU Earth-world. Having siblings is like having built-in allies, and because of that, Sam's never had to fight alone.)

Sam, too, will ask for forgiveness in this church, the symbol of forgiveness. Sam still has living family members to connect to and heal with, and in this scene at least, family is about forgiveness. Dean will be compared to Church by Jody, and it's linking this idea that there are things in your life you can rely on, no matter what. Church is supposed to be a "communal family of forgiveness, not judgment" after all. (Example: Jody turns to Church when she's alone.)

Siblings can be a built-in church in the same way that they are built-in comrades. But Sam was not there for his only kin, and he despairs over not being a reliable brother, lamenting that Dean has turned to his “new brothers” over him. Dean capitulates to Sam's mental state here in this scene, affirming his sense of worth and that he'll always be there no matter what. Critically, this is to preserve Sam's life, because Sam is not in his right mind; he's suicidal.

(Eventually, Crowley too will try to repair things with his son Gavin, and he'll also reckon with Rowena's abandonment.)

The nifty thing about this scene, I think, is that while the Church is the symbol of familial forgiveness and penance, the actual institution of Heaven is brutal and unforgiving and judging. Outside, the angels are falling. The idea of it is more powerful than the reality of it. Heaven would not let Cas do penance.

#spn 8x23 #spn sacrifice #spn crowley #sam & crowley #tfw + forgiveness #spn + motifs #tfw + grief #sam + demon blood #spn + protection #when protecting the family hurts the family

[explainslowly]

A demented little scenario I have been rotating in my mind is moving Season Seven time for a wedding! into season 9. And the love potion, being extra-powerful and demonic in origin, supresses Gadreel perfectly.

Anyway, I imagine Becky and Sam figure out that there's an angel in Sam/how it happened, so non-potion Sam also does not want anything to do with Dean and thinks cooperating with Becky is his best bet, however it is still horrifying and he is essentially giving up his free will and putting it in a hands of a woman who has something deeply wrong with her as well (great opportunity for Dean/Becky paralells). Fun time with contrast between smoothed out lovepotion Sam/Sam who is back-processing weeks or whatever of his life when un-potioned (he should retain the memories as a little treat to me) (also I would not include sexual assault here because I don't want to deal with that personally, but I think Becky would push the boundaries at least somewhat and then regret it or justify it to herself).

IDK where this storyline goes, but parallel, Dean fuckboys his way into Cas' life immediately upon losing Sam and enlists him the quest to catch Sam, punish Becky and restore the status quo (yeah Dean has other people he could call but he is also exquisitely aware that the situation is really fucked up and sees Cas as the only person who would be on his side. To be clear he doesn't explain what happened, he just assumes Cas will back him up, which, I guess we will see about that). Also I would want to have fun with him feeling guilty over what increasingly looks like an unfixable, unforgivable situation that also incidentally requires him to tell more and more lies to people.

#spn rewatch for your blacklist #This is my salmondean torture chamber

[universalcas]

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

He buys the cabin by the lake on impulse. The construction is sturdy, well worked wood everywhere , from the roof to the very fundations. He’s pushing fifty but he can find himself capable enough to fix the tiny details (like a crooked step in the front porch or the worn handrail of the stairs), he thinks he owns himself that feeling of being able to create something instead of destroying it. Some years have passed since the event and after trying everything that they came up with, after being unable to hide the pained sobs that threatened to drown him forever he’s more or less at peace with himself.

Building yourself from the pieces shattered on the ground it’s not an easy task, Dean knows it better than anyone, but he’s trying.

Sam and Eileen come to visit from time to time. They’re reconstructing themselves in their own way and Dean couldn’t be happier for them. And it’s not like he’s alone. Not really.

He can see him in every detail around him. In every unconscious decision he takes, in every choice he makes. Blue has become his comfort colour, the shade he always gravitates towards when he has to choose between two identical things. There is a hint of blue in almost everything he owns now, from the bedding to his coffee mug. He likes to lie under the spring sun, because he can feel him there, bright and colossal, caressing him with soft touches that leaves his skin warm and tingling afterwards. He loves to take long walks under a storm because in that moment is where he can feel him better; huge, unforgiving, beautiful, cleaning everything, everywhere, to make space for new and old life to grow healthier, stronger. He is in the flowers he plants in the garden he’s making in the backyard, when he looks at his own hands holding those tiny things, fingers that he never thougth were built for tenderness and yet he’s using exactly for that. Because he saw what was buried under all the layers that was Dean Winchester, the light that laid dormant waiting for someone to push away the darkness.

It’s after one of those long walks that he sees the figure standing next to his favorite spot, facing the lake. He could recognise him everywhere even if he wasn’t wearing the same unfitting clothes and yet Dean takes every step calmly, not wanting to rush anything. He’s spent most of his life running. Towards and from things. And he’s tired. The quiet ways of living he’s learned the hard way are not going to disappear all of the sudden, if whatever it is, is real, he will take it at his own pace.

When the figure turns around to face him is like no time have passed and yet everything has changed in Dean’s heart. It remains the same, feelings and all, but everything is firm and solid. And Cas’s eyes remains in the same shade of blue, the colour that touches every single thing in the house that Dean knows he bought for them, his hands still strong when they hold him while Dean covers Cas’s lips with a miriad of light kisses. There are a lot of questions to be asked, he knows that, but if there’s something this new life has taught him it’s to priorize, so when he asks if he’s going to stay with him and Cas answers with a soft “forever” Dean doesn’t need anything else. He really really doesn’t.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。..・。.・゜✭

#destiel #a silly little story really that's all #destiel drabble #destiel ficlet #endvverse stuff