There are no words in that fleeting moment between hope and the knowledge. There is no way to express how a heart can burst and break at the same time, how the sun can cut through the darkness but will cast shadows everywhere.
mars in the 1st:
i know it doesn't feel like it, but you need to let that anger out, consume you and explode. i would advise you to hit something but then i'm sort of afraid that you'd hit me--at least it's a nice conundrum, i don't see a lot of those, these days. i recommend exercise or sports because you know, two birds with one stone. or you could get drunk and kick people's asses in bar brawls/video games, both would be cathartic, i think.
mars in the 2nd:
bottle up your emotions, man. and that anger too. and when it reaches a breaking point, burst the entire dam because you're too good at it. but no, really, find a repetitive task that grounds your anger to a center, don't hoard it like dragons hoard gold, as you're wont to do. and make sure it focuses on a rhythm and unleash it using that focus. get it through your thick head: passive aggressiveness is not attractive.
mars in the 3rd:
i would tell you to punch your sibling but that'd be too drastic. i suggest you write all the words you're dying to scream and curse, the words you're gonna use to tear the world into two, in paper, make an origami of it and flush it down the toilet. that'd feel good, trust me. if not, i'd advise you to talk it out with a person you trust to be objective, look at it from a logical perspective as to why you're angry and methodically decode why it's making you want to annihilate something. you'd feel much calmer afterwards. (or end up reading six books in one day and write vicious reviews on how stupid the characters are--that works too)
mars in the 4th:
i know this sounds ridiculous, but open the fridge and the tub of your favorite flavor of ice cream, dig into it face first without using a spoon while watching really sad anime. you'd feel much better. or you could take it out on your home, violently redecorate or tear off the curtains. or something. i suggest doing heavy household tasks that'd exhaust you, so when you take a shower and get rid of all that sweat, you feel at least some semblance of calm.
mars in the 5th:
this sounds terrible and cliche, but use it to be productive. use it in your art to make a statement because it has pissed you off. run that extra mile on track. get the best score on a creative writing course--you get the gist. make sure it helps you shine, not the things/people that made you angry, because trust me, an anger like yours is nothing short of an inferno.
mars in the 6th:
fuck with your classmates/co-workers. otherwise channel it into helping people with things they can't do themselves/solving their problems while grumbling about how fucking stupid they are. you could also finish household chores and with your exhaustion, calm your anger. i know there's so much you want to say and it makes you feel like you could burst, but channel that anger into mundane tasks to get them done faster, finishing that side project earlier. and the satisfaction will quell that terrible rage, trust me.
mars in the 7th:
fuck up all your personal relationships and one on one communication and brood like there's no tomorrow, man. other things you could do are: changing your entire wardrobe to spite the person you're angry with, listening to heavy rock metal that somehow speaks to your soul at the moment and go wild on a shopping spree. the tornado in your head won't completely disappear, i know, you passive aggressive fuck, but it'll help, i can assure you that.
mars in the 8th:
plan hypothetical revenge on your object/person of anger. i know it's not satisfactory unless you back up that bark with bite, but i advise you to not do that, because you'll feel terrible afterwards. so the notion that you could get revenge, if you wanted to, is satisfying in and of itself (just don't actually want and do that, i'm saying this for your own good). listen to your favorite metal band and scream like there's no tomorrow. or tell the people you're angry with how you plan to eviscerate/castrate them in vivid detail in your head. you'll feel a lot, i repeat A LOT calmer.
mars in the 9th:
run away from it. literally. complete avoidance has always been your best strategy, hasn't it? i suggest preaching about why you're angry to anything that will listen: a wall, a donkey, babies too small to crawl away. think about affirmative action, man, and for god's sake, face the source of your anger instead of running off on a road trip with no money just for the hell of it. heck, play that weird airport finding game in an unknown place you're gonna have to navigate on your own. or play video games in general: don't let that energy go to waste.
mars in the 10th:
channel that ball of righteous fury into your ambition and dexterous work ethic (translation: become even more of a workaholic than you already are) and shove your success, your regained dignity, your perseverance right to their faces. you are made of poison and stardust, and that is the greatest strength that belies your anger. use that strength to work miracles. or smoke weed, but that's not exactly a good thing 0/10 would not recommend. but don't, i repeat, don't take it out on your personal relationships. that's exactly what will lead to your downfall.
mars in the 11th:
do NOT use it to fuel your god complex. i know you're angry at the world and how frustrated you are--i am too, but AN IDEOLOGY IS NOT A SOLUTION BECAUSE ITS APPLICATIONS IN REALITY ARE VASTLY DIFFERENT THAN THEY ARE IN THEORY. you're seeing an injustice? make sure it is not one anymore. plan it out, how you'll right all these wrongs: with your friends, with people who share the same views as you. dissect and analyze these problems and annihilate them but i repeat: DO NOT LET ANGER TRANSFORM YOUR EGO INTO A GOD COMPLEX YOU WEIRD WONDERFUL SHIT IT WILL DESTROY YOU
mars in the 12th:
don't get others to unleash your anger or manipulate them into being assertive for you. just don't, that's freaking pathetic. i strongly suggest you sleep: take a long, preferably 8 hour nap and cuddle something/someone. once you wake up, you'll be looking at it from a newer, fresher perspective and will actually find the energy to express your anger appropriately instead of using other people as puppets that dance under your strings. music would help to calm you down, as well. so try that first, all right?
aka that buzz.feed unsolved serial killer!shane fic i only mentioned writing to like two people, no one is here for this but i’m posting it anyway pairing: lowkey shane/ryan rating: probably T? maybe M? there’s a severed head involved but no graphic descriptions of violence content: mentions of murder, like i said there’s an instance of a severed head, this gets a lot more comedic than you’d expect, shane eats cocoa puffs on ao3 excerpt:
“Ryan.” Shane breaks off and sits down again, slides his chair closer to Ryan’s, stares him down. “God, fuck, look at me, okay, I did this. I did this, this is my case, this is mine, everything you’re talking about—”
Ryan can’t help it: he laughs. It comes out a little anxiously, but it’s a laugh all the same, because Shane can’t really expect him to buy into this, right?
And Shane looks—well, murderous is either the wrong word or the right one. “I’m not kidding.”
“You really want me to believe—”
“You entertain all possible theories, right?” Shane says, exasperated and angry, and Ryan notices it’s the first time he’s ever said that seriously. “That’s what this stupid show is—that’s what you do. So entertain this one.”
All at once, it stops being funny. Something the size of a golf ball seems to lodge itself high in Ryan’s throat. He realizes it’s alarm, fear, a caged bird thrashing against the bars inside himself. He’s waiting for Shane to break, to burst into laughter, to say it’s all a stupid joke, but it doesn’t happen.
As she learns about her world in the After, Eleven finds that it’s the little things in her life that make it so special. It’s painting her nails each a different color while Nancy rambles on about the happenings of high school. It’s sneaking the whisks from the electric mixer while the cookies are baking to eat the raw dough with Will. It’s watching old movies with Dustin on a staticky television with bright colors and busting into laughter when either of them quotes the movie days after. It’s keeping a shoebox of mementos–movie tickets, dried flowers, Polaroids that didn’t turn out right–that Hopper has almost accidentally thrown out five times (and promptly had a lecture on the fondness behind each memory from El). It’s wearing an NYU hoodie nearly every day of winter so she can proudly say that her big brother is there. It’s the smell of dusty furniture in the Wheeler’s attic where Holly insists all the best toys are. It’s calling out whoever ate all the M&M’s and peanuts out of the trail mix on their summer hike. It’s finding a comfy chair in the library with Mike, losing track of the time as they pore over a stack of books higher than the tops of their heads. It’s sidewalk chalk drawings of her favorite superheroes with Lucas smudged by bicycle tires and bare feet.
It’s the little things that bring the most joy, little flames of happiness when her deepest memories are consumed in darkness
This review will be somewhat extensive, reading various analyzes of different people and my own
Is obvious that Isayama has placed a few parallels between characters that are very different and shows in various panels.
Historia is similar to Ymir and Eren, but there is a symmetry in situations with Mikasa that separates them from the other two respectively and I think Mikasa is aware of this similarity, you could say that “they are like two sides of the same coin” ..
The whole life of Historia
and Mikasa is about the basic cruelty of humanity. But even the way to lose their mothers is so similar and contradictory at the same time.
In the case of Mikasa his mother died in front of his eyes trying to protect her, this was a fortuitous event by bandits.
In the second case Historia mother denied it with all her strength and before death I wish her death, this fact was something planned by the government.
Having listened to Historia story, I am sure that Mikasa is the one that more than any other person shown, would be familiar with that concept, human cruelty and obviously,
I think that already felt something connected to Historia, because like She, she also had a special person in her life, this brings us to the next point:
Relations with your special person
Well as you know Historia
is the girl who is always with Ymir (Mikasa herself mentioned it in 37).
Like Mikasa is the girl who is always with Eren.
Mikasa learned from Eren something that served him all his life “If you do not fight you do not win”, this would allow him to survive even without Eren as seen in Tross
Historia learned from Ymir something that would also serve him for his whole life “Living with pride every day” this allowed him to rise even without Ymir as seen in the Reiss Saga.
Even the scene in which Mikasa clings to Eren and when Historia
clings to Ymir it is rather strange.
Are different in everything but at the same time that parallelism that was seen in the childhoods of Mikasa and Historia persists, just watch
“When Mikasa sees him, he runs with a stunned expression, unable to believe it and instead opens without Titans.
sees Ymir dying she runs to her and starts to cry, not caring about the Titans.
"When Mikasa has him in her arms, she breaks down and burst into tears.
"When they manage to rescue Ymir, the queen holds her in her arms and holds her tears, and they take a sweet look.
At that moment Ymir was aware and Eren knocked out, and for the freckle that moment was everything for her and for Eren that moment did not mean anything for being knocked out.
If you came to this point you will see that this parallelism is something fascinating and I do not think it is coincidence
The truth is that this reflects many things and the nature of the two relationships.
Being honest, it is difficult to think that someone as wicked as Isayama wrote something so "Poetic”
Something that until recently I had not noticed is that Mikasa has sympathy for people who like her have a special person in their life.
For example a small thing that is seen in the manga and in the anime is not reflected well, is when Mikasa sees to Franks and Hanna and he listens to him when this one says to him “tranquilízate I will protect you” (this part of the review takes it from Another truth I saw it a few days ago I think)
In the manga it is more than clear that I wanted to do this with Eren and he does it but it did not go as she expected
The greatest example of this we can see in the Saga of “Clash of Titans” . As you know Mikasa is an extreme girl when it comes to Eren always protects what she loves and even though she dislikes killing she does it to those who oppose, without hesitation.
But none of her other opponents had ever found herself in a situation like Christa was at that moment, with which Mikasa herself could be identified.
Jean himself told him (not everyone is willing to die for Eren), but Historia was willing to do everything for Ymir and the freckle felt the same is something that Mikasa could realize even the moment in Udtgar will have reminded her when she herself I cling to Eren when he was reborn, for that kind of connection with a loved one is not something “easy” to find.
I remember when Ymir ate “Christa” all his comrades treated her as a traitor right there, Armin also but Mikasa looked more confused than the others by the action of Ymir
The confrontation with Historia, is very well written and the truth reflects enough, their feelings of both and that so far are willing to arrive but in spite of the threats it was noticed that he was hesitating and did not have a real honor to harm them and I leave them Free.
Now let’s explore their relationship in the Reiss Arc
Now the development between Historia
and Mikasa in this saga was very satisfactory, although to the beginnings of the sleeve they had no contact, since it is obvious that it was not seen around Historia
because the future queen was a surprise character that the Much development In the arc of the insurrection
We can appreciate how Isayama to them two in the first chapters of the Arc Reiss put them in several panels together despite being centered in Eren and the royal family . In this arc there are things that happened were screen and is very easy to explain.
For example in that Arch it is obvious that Sasha will have asked his friends what happened to Reiner, Berthold, Annie, what happened to the people of Connie and Historia what happened to Ymir is obvious that they talked about this, but they are things that They are not necessary to show since you can deduce it after analyzing,
Now Mikasa and Historia is obvious that they also talked about what happened before (just when they are going to raise firewood and come back together)
It is obvious that Mikasa apologized for what happened and has an idea of what Historia is going through in those moments.
Mikasa in the last mission despite the dead was able to bring his beloved and his family alive, but the other could not and instead lived the worst nightmare of Mikasa, to be abandoned by his special person, to lose his “home”
Even Eren himself spoke of Ymir because he saw Historia
very sad and downcast (knowing that he is very insensitive).
Another example of what I am talking about is in 52 When Eren and Connie are peeling potatoes while Historia
and Mikasa are cooking
Connie starts to speak badly of Ymir and the little blonde intervenes defending her, saying at the end “I know her” before this Eren and Connie looks at strangers, but Mikasa looks at Historia, I think it’s impossible for her not to feel identified with this.
His reaction when Levi mistreated Historia is funny
The good thing about writing Isayama is that there are things that one has to interpret from the perspective of our characters and Mikasa is one of the deepest characters
Mikasa’s reaction to the news that Eren will die is very similar to when Historia
is abandoned, even that emptiness in the eyes is so similar the way Isayama showed him his expressions and the feeling of loneliness.
Also if we think well both are suffering in the same way and that contradictory parallelism in their lives and relationships is present back, since Eren is with Mikasa for good or bad but at the same time is far away and away, while Ymir is Very far from Historia but at the same time this with her giving him strength is pure poetry xD
Historia can understand Eren and Ymir very well, as has been demonstrated in the manga but in spite of everything Isayama did something much more impressive with Mikasa, although the two have opposite personalities in the course of the 2 Months the queen was seen closer With Eren, Mikasa, Armin
Also with so many things that have happened including Ymir (his death announced in the letter although I do not think he is dead yet) and now with the future death of Eren by deterioration, you can deduce how your relationship in Time sky is obvious That they are going to talk about this since it is something that you can only talk to someone who has suffered the same as you and come to understand your feelings, this is one of the great reasons why I really think that between all of them have become More close and will be closer in the future by this connection
Well repeat something in a previous post
Although if they asked me if those two girls are alike, despite all my more sensible answer would be:
They do not look alike
Since one of the girls decided to live by herself for the only desire of his person appreciated and the other girl decided to hold on to that person he appreciated.
But both girls were the same, the two shared a look full of sadness.
This was a long review I hope you have enjoyed until the next
noun : comfort or consolation in a time of distress or sadness.
sometimes, all you really need is someone who listens.
pairing: kim taehyung x reader genre: a dash of fluff, a pinch of angst type: coming of age / college au word count: 2,005 words warnings: none author’s note: this is completely raw and unpolished, and it contains some of my most personal thoughts and struggles. i’ve been dealing with writer’s block for the past few months, and this is just a part of my process to regain motivation.
finds you on the terrace of your dormitory, leaning over the railing with your
face tilted towards the stars, eyes closed and the wind gently kissing your
cheeks. Standing from the doorway, he gazes at your still figure with a tender
smile quirking at the corner of his lips and a certain fondness that the two of
you haven’t pinpointed yet, yet everyone else understands.
wearing a pair of loose black shorts, flip flops, and a ratty, old, oversized t
shirt emblazoned with one of the nine clubs you had signed up for in your
freshman year of high school and never actually bothered to show up for once
you realized you were a little too enthusiastic and had too much on your plate
to handle. Your commitment towards that club did not stay, but the shirt still
did. Hair swept up into a loose bun held up by a pencil you had grabbed in
random, the small tendrils that fell out now frame your face, tickling your
skin lightly. The tip of your nose along with your cheeks begin to turn rosy as the
wind nips at you, and your eyelashes flutter softly.
thinks you look absolutely ordinary, yet in that itself, absolutely breath
Raffle Winner One-shot For @artsietango SFW SF!Paps x Reader smooch/ confession
Papyrus came in every day, like clockwork, and ordered a shot of whiskey and a bottle of barbecue sauce.
You’d been working at Muffet’s for several months now, and despite the fact that it was monster-run (and that the job had taken you a considerable amount of courage to accept with your arachnophobia), your presence as a human had helped draw a more diverse crowd. Muffet mixed the drinks with a deft, practiced speed that only someone with three sets of arms could possess, while you carried a platter of drinks from table to table, and numerous little spiders took pastries and burgers to customers from a network of webs in the top of the tavern.
And every day since you started, Papyrus would walk in and sit at the same seat in the same booth and order the same thing.
You slide the barbecue sauce to him as you pass his table and wink. Papyrus usually chuckles and calls you saucy, but this time, he doesn’t even acknowledge you. He’s got his hood pulled up, and he’s looking down at the table, his usual laid-back grin pulled into a grim line. The expression startles you enough that you falter in your steps and cause the tray to unbalance, a few drinks sliding along the edge of your platter. Hurriedly, you correct yourself before they spill and keep going, but you’re distracted as you distribute your orders.
What was wrong with him?
By the time you make it back around to his table, he’s already got two empty shot glasses in front of him, and three spiders are bringing a third glass down the web. "Hey, Rus. You didn’t even say hi to me,“ you state lightly, trying to rib him into a response.
His phalanges close around the shot glass, and he shrugs lightly. His posture’s slouched, with his elbows on the table. "hey. sorry,” he mutters, holding up the whiskey to stare unseeingly at it.
“You’re really pounding them back,” you observe, trying to tread lightly. Usually, your friend is full of jokes and flirtatious remarks. You’ve never seen him in a mood this sullen.
He hums, though the sound is nearly lost in the music playing from the jukebox. "jus’ needed somethin’ to whiskey me away for a bit,“ he murmurs, before taking the shot. He chases it with a swig of barbecue sauce, straight from the bottle. You’ve never understood the appeal, and it doesn’t seem to be a monster thing. But it’s definitely a Rus thing.
“Wanna talk about it?”
He finally turns his head to look at you, his orange eyelights shifting along your body, up to your face. When his gaze locks with yours, you see resignation flash through his expression, before it hardens. "actually, yeah, i–“
"Hey! You! Can I get my drinks here or what?”
You turn to face a group of humans sitting at the booth across from Papyrus’s. They look like a rowdy crew to you, but you know you have to keep your smile on your face when you address them if you want to keep them placated. "I’ll be with you in just a moment,“ you insist in your Professional Voice, which only makes another one of the men sigh.
"We’ve been waiting forever, but those creepy spiders aren’t coming!”
Ugh. You turn toward Papyrus, but he’s already shaking his head and taking another gulp of his barbecue sauce. "work’s callin’ you,“ he states the obvious.
He’s right. If it wasn’t a Friday night, you’d have a better chance of being able to sit and talk to him. "I’ll be right back,” you promise with a sigh, before turning and going to collect the human group’s order from the bar.
When you reach the humans, you place your platter on the edge of their table to balance it. "Okay, so who ordered what?“
One of the men grins. "Why don'tcha guess?”
You really don’t have time for this. "I really don’t know. Did you have the bourbon and coke?“
The group laughs; apparently, you got it wrong.
One of the man’s buddies leans in. "What kind of drink do you like, babe?” His eyes flick up and down your body. "Sex on the beach?“
Ugh. Keep your smile on your face; you’re representing the entire establishment when you serve someone. Muffet taught you that–and if the customers decided to leave, your pay would end up docked. The spider monster happened to be fiercely competitive, likely because of the bakery that had opened up across the street. Apparently, Muffet and Grillby had some sort of bad history Underground.
You laugh without any feeling behind it and shake your head. "So you must be the one that ordered the Screwdriver,” you state tightly, moving the drink in front of him. The others laugh, and you take a moment to cut your gaze toward Papyrus’s booth. He’s staring at you directly, another empty shot glass in front of him, his expression blank and unreadable. It’s difficult to even see his eyelights within his sockets at this point.
This is taking too long.
“And you must have the Magic Night,” you guess randomly, sliding one of the cocktails with magic liquor in front of another human. It crackles and fizzles, swirling with purples and reds.
“So what’re you doing after work? I can show you a real magic night,” the human states with a smirk and a brow wag, while his buddies laugh and shout exaggerated ’Oooohhh!’s
Your smile tightens. "I doubt that,“ you shoot back before you can stop yourself, which wipes the smirk right off his face and causes the others to shove him with more exaggerated shouts. They’re obviously already drunk.
"Ouch. Well, I could at least buy you one,” the man offers, holding up his magic cocktail for emphasis.
“I’m sorry, but I–” you glance back toward Papyrus… only to spot him walking out of the bar. Your heart sinks, and you start unloading the rest of the drinks randomly onto the table. "I have to go.“
You rush toward the front doors, calling out to the bouncer (a hamster monster in a leather, studded jacket), "I’m taking my break!”
You burst through the doors and spot Papyrus leaning against the building, a lit dog treat between his teeth. Purple smoke curls around his face, and your steps begin to slow as you approach. "Rus, I thought you wanted to talk.“ Your voice is slightly shaky.
"ya seemed busy tonight,” he replies with a shrug, holding the dog treat between his index and middle phalanges. “’sides, it’s nothin’ really.”
Your chest clenches; you hate seeing him like this, so unlike the grinning pun-master you’ve come to befriend… and have a huge crush on. Tentatively, you reach out and place your hand on his arm, gripping the thick fabric of his jacket. His eyelights shift down to your fingers, staring at them, and you begin to feel self-conscious. Usually, he’s all about physical contact and casual touches.
“It doesn’t look like nothing to me, Rus.”
He flicks ashes on the sidewalk. Standing outside, this close, you could smell just how heavily the alcohol is clinging to him. It’s obvious now that he had been drinking before he even came to Muffet’s. “jus’ somethin’ m’lord said to me today that’s been on my mind.”
You relax slightly. You’re getting somewhere now. “What did Sans say?”
Papyrus shrugs the opposite shoulder. “it’s busy in there. you should be gettin’ back.”
“No,” you blurt, hard enough that his gaze immediately flies to your face. You know that your expression has hardened, your grip on his jacket tightening with your resolve. “They can wait. I don’t care.”
There’s an instant where his gaze searches yours for something, but you’re not sure what he’s hoping to find. Then, he rather abruptly snags your waist with his arm and twists around the corner of the building, reversing your positions so that your back’s against the brick and he’s got one arm above your head, supporting his weight as he looms over you. The alley is dark enough that you can see his orange eyelights clearly glowing in their dark sockets, and you can smell a mixture of alcohol and smoky barbecue permeating from his breath.
Instantly, your breath catches in your throat. His arm is still around your waist, trapped between your back and the wall, and now both of your hands are fisted in the front of his jacket.
“but you care about me?”
The query catches you by surprise enough that you forgot the last sentence that you had said, instead wondering if he’d somehow picked up on your crush. Your face flushes hot, but you hold his gaze, taking in the sight of his sardonic smirk. It wasn’t his usual flirtatious one–no, this one looked off, almost cruel. Was he mocking your feelings?
Or mocking the possibility?
“Of course I do, Rus,” you evenly reply, lifting your chin ever-so-slightly. A challenge. “If something’s bothering you, then it’s bothering me, too.”
That seems to catch him off-guard; the smirk fades around the edges, the sides of his teeth twitching. “heh, you sure ya wanna know?”
“Papyrus.” Your hand moves up to cup his cheekbone as you say his full name, and his eyelights seem to glow even brighter. His face tilts into your palm. “Just talk to me. Please.”
“ok.” He sucks in a breath. His fingers have wiggled beneath the hem of your shirt to trace idle patterns across your skin. It’s not the first time he’s done this during your flirtatious moments, but it feels so much more intimate in this moment. “humans and monsters really don’t mix in the long run, ya’know?” You blink, sucking in a breath to refute him, but Papyrus shakes your hand off his cheek and continues. “’specially skeleton monsters. we’re a buncha bones, like a zombie or some kinda halloween decoration. so why would a human want to be with a spooky skeleton when they could have their pick of any normal human out there?” He shrugs, his fingers pressing into your skin, feeling the spinous processes of your spine. “it jus’ sucks.”
His gaze focuses on yours, and he leans in closer, his face only a few inches from yours.
“‘specially since there’s a human i’m really attached to. i could probably get ‘em to jump my bones if i tried hard enough, sure, but… they’re not that kinda person. they deserve better than that.”
His smirk has completely faded, and you feel your heart bottom-out into your stomach. You’re looking at him with wide eyes, slowly processing the implications. Your hand’s even still hovering near his face. He starts to shake his head slightly and pull back, but you grip onto the front of his jacket again and stop him from moving away.
He freezes, his hand at your back stilling. You’ve never been the one to make the first move, but dammit, you can’t let this opportunity go to waste. You tug sharply on the front of his jacket and lean away from the wall at the same time, pressing your lips to his teeth. He’s completely caught off-guard and stumbles back a step (okay, maybe you put a little too much momentum into the kiss when you pushed away from the wall–whoops), but his arm immediately tightens around your waist, pulling you close against his chest. You try to put all of your reassurances, all of your feelings for him, into that kiss.
And then you pull away, your face burning and your lips numb from the tingle of his teeth. He smirks suddenly, and it’s finally a smirk you recognize on his features–teasing and confident. “hey, ya’know what they say ‘bout assumin’, dont’cha?”
Your heart drops. You begin to backpedal. “Shit, shit, sorry, I–”
Papyrus starts to chuckle, backing you against the wall again. His forehead touches yours. “darlin’, you’re adorable when you’re flustered, ya know that? ‘course i was talkin’ about you.”
You groan. Your heart’s hammering in your chest. “Ha, ha. Why don’t you stop talking and put your money where your mouth is.”
“ah, so you’re jus’ tryin’ to get tips from your best customer. i see what that kiss was about now.”
Your arm winds around his neck, and you kiss him straight on the smirk. He holds onto you tighter, forcing your back to arch away from the wall, pulling your body flush with his. The sweater he always wears is too thick for you to feel his bones, but your fingers play with the ridges of his neck, and you feel his teeth part your lips. Something slips into your mouth, warm and crackling with electric magic, and you realize it’s his tongue. It’s not the first time you’ve seen it, but you never knew it would feel that amazing. Your body feels hot and tingly, and your heart is pounding so forcefully against your sternum that you’re certain he can feel it, too.
You’re drunk off his kiss–or maybe just the lingering taste of whiskey in his mouth. You suddenly remember just how drunk he is and pull back. His mouth immediately moves to your neck, his orange tongue sliding down your skin, sending delightful tingles straight to your chest. Your fingernails involuntarily scrape his vertebrae, and he groans.
“Rus. Rus, wait. Were you drinking because Sans said something about me not wanting a monster?”
He pauses, his tongue receding so that only his teeth rested against the juncture of your shoulder and neck. “eh–somethin’ like that.” He shrugged, but didn’t move away from you. “not like it isn’t the truth, i jus’…” He trails off, obviously trying to censor himself despite his filter being partially down from the booze.
“It’s not true. What, you think I just want a quickie in the alley?”
“heh, ya mean this isn’t you just throwin’ me a bone?” He lifts his head enough to smirk again.
“Nope. I like you, Rus. I’d like to give the whole dating thing a try, if that’s something you’d want.”
Good lord, you’ve never been this direct before–but after his admissions, you feel like it’s necessary to spell it out.
“ok. i’ll be your bonefriend,” he agrees, his smirk turning shit-eating. You shake your head, laughing. It always comes so easy when you’re around him.
“Great. Now that this is settled, wanna come back inside? My break’s been over for a while now.”
“sure, i could go for another drink or two.” He finally steps away, letting you step out of the alley on wobbly legs. Just like that, everything between you both had changed. It felt different, putting a label on the mutual feelings you shared, as if everyone could see the charge between both of you now.
Your face is still blood-red when you re-enter Muffet’s, and you feel the eyes of the booth-ful of humans land on you again. Papyrus instantly slips his arm around your shoulders, narrowing his gaze on them. You remember the way he had looked through you while they flirted with you, the way he had obviously been thinking about what his brother said earlier, that you would end up with another human.
And you turn and rock up on the balls of your feet to press a kiss to his cheekbone. It actually lights up a soft orange, his eyesockets widening at the brazen display of affection.
“I’m all yours,” you reassure him, before you step out of his possessive hold so that you can continue your shift.
He chuckles, his usual lazy smirk more tender than usual.
Goddamn. This one took ages. It’s one of my faves tho. of the things I’ve written this week. Apologies to Lance in advance.
Hope you enjoy!
Lance is woken by, what at
first sounded like menial chatter, then he observes the hard edge to it.
Slowly, he realises the voice belongs to none other than Pidge, and the second
voice…he doesn’t recognise. With severe effort, he opens his eyes, at the same
time attempting to focus on conversation.
“-hurt! He needs medical
treatment!” Pidge yells to the other party, kneeling on the floor,
protectively, over Lance.
Summary: Y/N finds herself stricken with grief over Dean’s self-loathing; meanwhile, the elder Winchester is trying to come to terms with a newfound revelation of his feelings and how he can voice them out.
Warnings: Dean finding it hard to voice out his feelings, fluff, maybe a bit of angst?? Not entirely.
A/N: Will probably be making this into a series because I’m a sucker for Dean.
The idea was born out of me watching a few fanvids with our favorite hunter which show just how much he has been through. I mean, both Winchester’s have had to deal with a lot of crap, but my soft spot for Dean is what drove me to writing this.
The room is dead silent.
Save for the sound of hush snores and breaths and the whisper of window through vents and into the motel. Outside the sky spread across the city of Atlanta in a blanket of onyx, clusters of stars dotting it. Y/N lies still in her bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, trying to tame the inner turmoil in her chest. Beside her the sheets shift. Dean says something, something about going to wash up before Sam wakes up, but she doesn’t quite catch him.
“Y/N!” he calls, snapping her from her reverie.
The young girl turns to him, head lolling against the pillow. “Yeah?”
“I said you should probably, too, since we still have some time.” She can’t see his face hidden in the pitch dark; she can’t see anything but the silhouette of the elder Winchester sitting up, his hair a disheveled mess atop his head.
“I should probably what?”
“Wash up?” He says it like its obvious. But Y/n doesn’t reply. Only continues staring at him, wide eyes, the light from the moon cast down on her face through the window—and the elder Winchester obviously notices this. Y/N spots a shift in his demeanor: attentive. Concerned. Even if she can’t see them, she guesses the elder Winchester’s eyes soften as he reaches out, touching her bare shoulder.
“Y/N,” Dean speaks. “You okay?”
“You’re an amazing person, you know that?” She blurts out.
The room silences once more.
Between them hangs a surprised quiet. Y/N is still on her back, still hazy-minded and emotional and fighting a hurricane raging in her chest. She can feel it bubble up her throat, spreading through her lungs, suffocating her. Soon she won’t be able to breathe. Soon, in this dim-lit and quiet room perfumed with her emotions, she will turn blue-faced and asphyxiated, because it’s too much.
He’s too much.
He is selfish, and yet altruistic; he is stern and authoritative, as disciplined as a soldier, but kind; Dean is self-sacrificial and generous and swollen with love and yet such despondent and negative emotions picked up as souvenirs from the life he has had to live . He is human, and a paradox in itself and Dean is good and Dean has always been good…
And it hurts Y/N to know that he doesn’t see this…
A moment ago, as she’d lay in his embrace, having to listen to him tear himself down; berate his image, hate himself because of a hunt gone bad. Two teenagers whose parents were vampires. They hadn’t managed to stop them and the kids died, and Dean was mourning his failure and the loss of two innocents. Y/N listened attentively to him as he’d spoke, and felt a wound in her heart coming undone. She feels tears brimming at her eyes just looking at him, at this man who doesn’t feel the way she does about him. This man who sees himself as a completely polar opposite of the reality. Y/N has known Dean for a long time, and she knows what he thinks of himself, what he wrongly assumes he is, and it hurts her.
For he has done so much for her, he has proven his own assumptions wrong and been her light in the dark of their lives, and all she wants is to do the same for the man she loves.
“What?” Dean asks in a hushed tone. She sniffles. There are tears beginning to roll down her face and she’s pretty sure he can see them from the way the light shines through the window.
“I said…” Y/N starts. “That you are an amazing human being, Dean Winchester. You—you are…good, and genuine, and you are my best friend. It hurts me to know that you don’t see this in yourself.”
“Y/N….” Dean tries to speak, but she cuts him off.
“No, okay? …”
“I didn’t save them.” He says sternly. “I could have, but I didn’t and now they’re dead. Don’t try and make me feel better for not doing my job.”
“But you tried—dammit, Dean, you tried. You did your best and your heart was in the right place.” She sniffles, rubbing her palm across her burning eyes. God, she hates this—hates herself for letting it come to the point where she’s in tears, but that’s just how strongly she feels about this matter. “Dean, I’m telling you now—you are a good man. Stop beating yourself up over this, over everything. I’ve known you for what—five? Six years? I know that me telling you this might be useless, but…..”
Y/N bites her lip, trying to level her voice. Between them hangs a deafening silence, ominous, painful. Dean is crying, she soon realizes. Quiet, pained tears that she only knows about when she hears his breath wobble as inhales.
Sitting up, she shifts and moves closer to the elder Winchester, pulling him in. His head rests in the crook of her neck, and she feels him shudder—vulnerable. Dean never lets anyone see him vulnerable, but maybe he should, because the weight he carries on his shoulders is too much not to.
The elder Winchester gulps thickly. “Y/n…”
“It’s okay….”She whispers, cradling his head to her chest, tears running down her cheeks, and the green-eyed hunter sniffles, and his tears touch her skin and it takes all of Y/n’s strength to not shatter.
Leaning back against the headboard, she brings the elder Winchester’s head to rest on her shoulder and he lets her in the quiet. The night drawls on—they stay like that. Together; quiet; feeling. Y/N cards her fingers through his hair as he sleeps, and when he stirs a bit she stops. Her hand floats from his head and rests beside the pillow.
Morning breaks with a burst of light beaming into the motel room and onto the two hunters. Y/N is awake, still holding Dean as she had been through the entire night, still drunk off his kisses and her emotions.
Tilting her head, she peers down at him. His eyes are shut and his breath fans against her bare skin, tickling it. “Dean?” She whispers, tentative and hush and desperate to not shatter the intimacy around them. “Are you awake?”
She waits for a response that doesn’t come, until the elder Winchester lets out an incoherent mumble, and then lolls his head to the side lazily.
His eyes flutter open as Y/N’s face splits into smile, and she continues her strokes on his hair. “Morning.”
“Did you stay up all night?” Dean asks, and she nods. “Why? I could have managed without you watching over me while I slept.”
“I wanted to.” Y/N shrugs, smoothing out stubborn strands of sandy-hair that stick up in all directions. She says it so easy, like she’s telling him her hobby, like it’s his hobby too. Like the previous night they hadn’t made love and she hadn’t pulled him out of the pit of his melancholy.
And Dean looks at her, right here, right now—really looks at her.
At her eyes and the rim of y/e/c embellished with flecks of gold, at hers lips and her ears and the wrinkles and creases drawn out in her tired skin, telling her story. Their story. They’ve been together for so long, now. Have been through so much, and the scars and blemishes and cuts and bruises painting Y/N’s skin matching Dean’s is enough of an alibi.
They’ve spent years together. It feels like a lifetime. And Dean loves that, and he loves her, and he wouldn’t trade anything for it because….He…loves her.
He has loved Y/N for years and he will continue to love her.
The realization is sudden and daunting. Out of nowhere, the green-eyed hunter’s heart begins to race, and his palms begin to sweat and he’s panicking, God, he’s panicking because Dean loves her.
And she loves him.
They leave the motel within the next hour once Sam arrives. Y/N runs a quick shower then brushes her teeth and Sam tells them about the vampire nest he took out. Dean pretends to listen even though he isn’t. He can’t. He’s ruminating over this new earth-shattering realization.
They’ve been dating for months; they’ve been sleeping in the same bed. They’ve been touching—God, they’ve been touching—but it is only now that his heart has chosen to drop this bombshell on his. This feeling; this plague.
What is to him? What can it be for the two them? All this time being with Y/N, Dean has avoided the thought. But the truth is the truth—it’s been lurking in the back of his mind, nudging at his conscience, asking his what if; what if it’s possible, what if he’s the one, and now all these questions are answered.
They sit in the car and begin to drive. The entire journey is spent with their fingers intertwined as Dean drives and his heart a mangled mess hammering in his chest. Y/N and Sam are laughing and talking about the hunt and Cas. He’s waiting for them at home, apparently, but Dean can’t bring himself to care about anything right now, because God, this is torture.
“Feeling okay?” Y/N asks him. The elder Winchester casts a brief glance at her, taking his eyes off the road.
“Just tired.” He answers, nodding. Lying.
But Y/n doesn’t push. Instead, she gives him a sad smile, squeezes his hand in hers, and Dean has to resist from swerving off the road.
His entire body feels electric and like its buzzing when they get home. He kills the engine and Sam and Y/N hoist their things onto their backs and clamber out, making their way into the house. Dean follows suit.
In the library, Castiel sits in waiting, and then rises once he hears the sound of footsteps. They say their hellos. Dean gives him a hug—he’s truly happy to see him—, they exchange pleasantries, and then he retreats into his room, his alibi being that he’s not feeling good.
When he’s alone, finally, the elder Winchester shuts the door behind him and then leans against it, dropping his bags onto the floor. His head tips back and his eyes shut.
Finally alone. Finally able to gather his thoughts. The hammering in his chest has slowed, and Dean immediately strips himself of his jacket and tosses it on the bed, left in nothing but his undershirt as he goes to sit at the edge. With his head bowed, he cards his fingers through his hair.
He needs to tell her.
Soon, as soon as possible. Dean has been a hunter all his life—he knows just how fleeting life is. He knows how one minute you’re there and the next you’re not, and thinking about Y/N never getting to hear him utter those three words to her makes his heart wrench. Not only once, either.
Dean wants to say it over and over.
To chant it, to sing it—his heart feels swollen with love and a craving and a peace that comes with knowing, and he wants to proclaim that, but how? He wonders.
That’s all he can do, for now. Wonder. Think. And that’s all he does for the rest of the evening, and that’s he does when he goes to sleep, and Dean wracks his mind over and over for the confidence he needs to utter those three words to Y/N, but it seems impossible.
He wonders how she does it so easily. ~*~*~*~
This is just a reminder to all of you: Dean is an absolutely
complex and imperfectly perfect and sweet human being who is just trying
to work through his emotions and get through this hell of a life;
please don’t forget.
Likes and reblogs are always welcome! Also, feel free to follow me to keep updated when i post part 2, or maybe even have it dedicated to you..? Just message me and let me know :)