#(in which case why would i even write fanfic for it?)

[professorspork]

idk how to word this properly but wrt the fanfic thing you reblogged earlier. Why do fanfic writers have such different expectations than any other content hosting platform?

Like lets take youtube as a point of comparison, Engagement like comments and likes largely exists to boost the works place in algorithm, thats why youtubers put in calls to action and other engament bait. Few with decent reach even read the comments and the audience shouldnt try to develop any weird parasocial relationship with the youtuber. Fanfic authors ask for likes (kudos, because the websites gotta use nonstandard language for some reason) and comments despite them not having any impact on an algorithm, and seem to want the audience to try and develop a relationship with the author based on tumblr posts like that one.

Why the radical difference in behaviour away from the norm? And honestly with all the (usually) metaphorical blood spilled online about parasociality why are authors really surprised that the audience tries to keep their distance as is best practice with any other content producer?

okay I am going to answer this as kindly and as calmly as I can and try to assume that you are asking this in good faith. because my friend, the fact that you feel the need to ask is, to me, The Problem.

[this is, for the record, in response to this post]

fanfiction writers are not *posting content.* (I also have reservations about engaging with the term "content producer" or "content creator" but let's put that aside for now, I'll circle back to it.) you say "they seem to want the audience to try and develop a relationship with the author" as though it is strange, off-putting, and incomprehensible to you, when in fact that is the point of writing fanfiction. it is a way of participating in fandom. it is a way of building community and exchanging ideas and becoming closer with people.

if authors wanted to solely ~generate content~ that would get them attention (?? to what end, the dynamic you have described seems to equate algorithmic supremacy as winning for winning's sake, as though all anyone wants to do is BUILD an audience without ENGAGING with them, which I cannot fathom but let's pretend for a moment that is, in fact, true) then like. if that were the case why on earth would they choose a medium in which they categorically cannot succeed and profit, because it isn't their IP?

you are equating two things that are not at all the same thing. to the degree that parasocial relationships are to be avoided, and "that person is not trying to be your friend they are trying to entertain you, please respect their boundaries" is a real dynamic -- which it is!! -- like. you have to understand that the reason that is true for the people of whom it is true is because it is their JOB. they are storytellers by profession, and they are either through direct payment, or sponsorship, or advertising, or through some other means, profiting off of your attention. i don't say this to be dismissive, many wonderful artists and actors and comedians and any number of a thousand things that i enjoy very much go this route but they do so as a *career choice.* and so when you violate the public/private boundary with them, you are presuming to know a Person rather than their Worksona. the people who work at Dropout or who stream their actual play tabletop games or who broadcast on TikTok or YouTube are inviting me to feel like i know them to the degree to which that helps them succeed in their medium and at their craft, but there MUST be a mutual understanding that that's a feeling, not a fact.

however.

a fanfiction writer is not an influencer, not a professional, and is not looking to garner "success." there is no share of audience we are trying to gain for gain's sake, because we are not competition with one another, because there is nothing to win other than the pleasure of each other's company. we are doing this for no other reason than the love of the game; because we have things we want desperately to say about these worlds, these characters, these dynamics, and because we *want more than anything to know we are not alone in our thoughts and feelings.* fanfiction is a bid for interaction, engagement, attention, and consideration. it is not meant to be consumed and then moved on from because we are NOT paid for our work, nor do we want to be. the reward we seek is "attention," but attention as in CONVERSATION, not attention as in clicks. we are not IN this for profit, or for number-go-up. there is no such thing: legally there cannot be. we are in this because we want to be seen and known.

like. please understand. i am now married to someone i met because of mutual comments on fanfiction. our close friend and roommate, with whom i have cohabitated for over a decade now, is someone I met because of mutual comments on fanfiction and livejournal posts. that is my household. beyond my household, the vast majority of my closest personal friends are people with whom I built relationships in this way.

you ask why fanfiction writers want THIS and not "the norm," but the idea of everything being built to cater to an algorithm to continue to build clout, as though the only method of reaching people is Distant Overlord Creator and Passive Receptive Audience being "the norm" is EXTREMELY NEW. this is not how it has always been!! please think of the writers of zines in a pre-internet fandom, using paper and glue and xerox to try and meet like-minded people in a world that was designed for you to only ever meet people in person, by happenstance, in your own hometown. imagine the writers of the early internet, building webrings from scratch to CREATE a community to find each other, despite distance. imagine livejournal groups, forums, and -- yes, indeed, of course -- comment threads IN STORIES -- as places where people go to *converse.* in the past, we had an entire Type Of Guy that everyone knew about, the BNF ("Big Name Fan") whose existence had to be described via meme because it was SO DIFFERENT THAN THE NORM. treating fellow fans like celebrities or people too cool for the regular kids to know was an OUTLIER, and one commonly understood to lead to toxicity.

in the past, I have likened writing fanfiction to echolocation. i am not screaming because I like hearing the sound of my own voice, though i can and do find my voice beautiful. i am screaming so that the vibrations can bounce back to me and show me the world. the purpose is in the feedback. otherwise it is just noise.

does this make any sense? can you see, when i describe it that way, why an ask like yours makes me feel despair, because it makes us all sound so horribly separate from one another?

perhaps I will try another metaphor:

a professional chef who runs a restaurant will not have her feelings hurt if you never fight your way into the kitchen to personally tell her how much you enjoyed the meal. that would, indeed, violate a boundary. professional kitchens are a place of work, and you have already showed her you enjoyed the meal by paying for it, or by perhaps spreading your enjoyment by word of mouth to your friends so they, too, can have good meals. you show your appreciation by continuing to come back. if a bunch of people sitting around randomly happen to have a conversation about how much they love the food, it wouldn't hurt that chef's feelings to not be included in the conversation. however: EVEN IN THIS INSTANCE, it is ADVISABLE AND APPROPRIATE to leave a good review! you might post about how much you like this restaurant on Yelp, and it would probably make the chef feel great to see those positive comments. but the chef doesn't NEED them, because the chef is, again, *also being paid to cook.* that's why she started the restaurant, to be paid to cook!

i am not being paid to cook.

i am at home in my own kitchen, making things for a community potluck where i hope everyone will bring something we can all enjoy together. some people at the potluck are better bakers, some better cooks; some can't cook at all but are great at logistics and make sure there's enough napkins for everyone; some people come just to enjoy the food, because that's what the party is for. and if I, as this enthusiast chef who made something from my heart for this reason alone, learned after the fact that a bunch of people got together in the parking lot to rave about my dish but no one of them had ever bothered to tell me while I sat alone at my table all night, occasionally seeing people come by to pick up a plate but never saying anything to me -- of course that would bother me, because I am not otherwise profiting off the labor I put in. this is not a bid to be paid, because if someone WERE to say "hey, great cake!! here's five bucks for a slice" i would say no, friend, that is not the point and give them the money back. i'm not trying to Get Mine. I am in it to see the look on your face. I'm in it so you can tell me what about it moved you, so that I can say back what moved me to make it in the first place. so we can TALK about it.

because what happened in the first place is this: one time I had a cake whose sweetness, richness, flavor, intensity, and composition moved me so much that I *taught myself to bake.* so I could see how much vanilla and sugar was too much, so I could learn how to make things rise instead of fall flat, so I could even better appreciate the original cake by seeing for myself the effort and talent and inspiration that goes into making one even half as good.

learning to do so is a satisfying accomplishment in and of itself, yes.

but I also did it because at the end of the day we should EAT the cake. and it's a lonely thing, to eat alone when a meal was always designed and intended to be shared.

so, to answer your last question: i'm not surprised, i'm just sad. because somehow two things that were never meant to be seen as the same have been labeled "content," and thus identical. and it diminishes both the things that ARE intended to be paid for AND the things that are not, because it removes any sense of intimacy or meaning from the work.

i hope you know i'm not mad at you for asking. but i'm frustrated we've come to live in a world where the question needs to be asked, because the answers are no longer intuitively obvious because we're so siloed.

[thepandalion]

just had to pause mid reading a fic because a character assumed another character's age (as in, assuming they're a kid. which I mean. canonically 14 at the time I guess?) and like. as a person who has that happen to me. I would not allow that to continue to be a conversation

[heartshapedcreaturefromcriptoon]

...O...OP should make a version of this with the wheelchair accessibility symbol and tag me and then it would be perfect for me to print out and put on my wall, *or buy, which was my initial first reaction to seeing this, but...

If I must be a weird gremlin then I will be the weird gremlin who puts the smile back on his face ...

(Which adds extra funny, considering my updated OC for hazbin/hellaverse in general is like an all green and pink Bride of Frankenstein Creature even though she hasn't been properly unveiled to you guys yet haha shh I'm a roll! 🤫💚🫶💖♿😈🌹✨

Anyway, she'll be commin' out the Cauldron when she comes, it's a whole process and I'm trying to be such a tight lipped, good girl about it, even though I'm sure no one will mind that I can't resist being a little tease! 🤭😉💖🌹✨)

EDIT: I think in all the hilarity I think I marvelously misunderstood just who was being called a "Weird Gremlin" here but it works either way I suppose...

*yes that was my second attempt at writing over the text because editing with tiny ass text for memes is hard okay? Lol ...🫶❤️🫂

*plus there's so many negative posts and attitudes out there about just not doing anything "weird" with Al ever that I initially thought it was the over way around that this was like a positivity post/shout out to the "Weird Gremlins" doing just that, lol ... 🤣 ❤️🙏

Monsters are not safe anymore

Repost if he is not safe in your account askjdhajksdha

[zarameraki]

♡₊˚☀️・₊✧ 𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗶'𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 & 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 ♡₊˚☀️・₊✧

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 he's obsessed to the max 𖥔 ceo x baker 𖥔 grumpy x sunshine 𖥔 she talks a lot x he listens a lot 𖥔 spoils the literal shit out of you 𖥔 mention of parental death 𖥔 major fluff 𖥔 sexual content in vague details 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 super soft nanami 𖥔 close proximity 𖥔 he loves kissing the fuck out of you

: ̗̀➛ words: 7.7k

: ̗̀➛ notes: you guys are so sweet for supporting my toji fanfic which is why i wanted to write another and this time its about my husband, the father of our children, the man who deserves every beautiful thing in this world. if you enjoy my work, please leave a comment, like, and reblog! thank you & ily. enjoy!

Nanami Kento entered your bakery at exactly six o' clock.  

You carefully observed the moments he dedicated to perusing the array of pastries, the vibrant mountain of macaroons, and the freshly baked, warm casse-croûte that you unfailingly prepared for him when he clocked out. There was a tender quality to his countenance, noticeable in the slight release of tension between his brows as the soft, buttery flakes dissolved on his tongue in your presence. Without fail, he consistently left a generous tip in your travel jar, dedicated to a solo trip to Malaysia.

"Did you know they've got this thing about not wearing yellow in Malaysia?" you mentioned during your initial meeting, eyeing the distinctive black-dotted tie worn by the stoic salaryman. "Well, not that your tie would get you in trouble; it's not entirely yellow. In fact, I think it's perfect as it is, just like your hair, which also has a touch of yellow.” 

Please cut your tongue off. 

Anticipating a polite nod and perhaps a slightly regretful five-dollar tip left in the jar, you were taken aback when he queried, “Why is that?” 

“Oh, uh . . . a bunch of protesters wore the color during a demand for their prime minister to step down," you stumbled, feeling a twinge of embarrassment for veering off into an unintentional crash course. Dropping trivia about Malaysia wasn't exactly the same as flirting. "So, it's kind of become a symbolism for protest and, well, threat. I read it in a book once. I don't know if it's a legitimate law, though."

“Do you like reading?” he asked, still interested in conversing with you. “Most people would Google information.” 

“I like reading. It’s easier to retain information that way.” 

Nanami acknowledged your gesture with a nod of gratitude as he accepted the casse-croûte and exited your bakery. Anticipating that he might not return due to his reserved nature and your awkward attempts at compliment-flirting, you were surprised to find that he was, in fact, full of surprises.

Nanami became a regular visitor. Day after day, for the past year, he arrived at precisely six o' clock. He continued his routine, whether he purchased a box of pastries, a pair of bagged bread loaves, or simply a casse-croûte and a small cup of milk coffee. You always prepared his order five minutes ahead of time, just in case you were occupied with other customers.

"Enjoy!" you chirped, casting a warm smile at the customer you just served as the bakery slowly emptied, leaving only Nanami browsing the delightful array of small cakes. "Good evening, Mr. Nanami!"

Nanami raised his head in your direction. "Good evening." He finally settled on the black forest cake from the open freezer and brought it to the counter.

"Special occasion?" you inquired as you rang him out, sneakily not charging him for the casse-croûte and coffee. There was a special occasion of your own that you were eager to share, hanging from the tip of your tongue.

"An intern's birthday."

"Sounds fun!" You had been saving up for your birthday present since summer, and Nanami had played a significant role. "When's your birthday?"

"July third."

Your eyes widened with surprise. "No way! Mine is July sixth. We’re summer babies."

“Happy belated birthday,” he said, fishing for his wallet, gaze barely meeting yours. 

"Same to you." Offering the sandwich and coffee, you extended them towards him. "Consider it a belated birthday treat."

Nanami’s brows crinkled. “I cannot accept.” 

"Why not? It's a gift." You slid the items closer with a subtle nudge, leaving him little room to refuse. "And you've given me a priceless gift, Mr. Nanami." Your eyes hinted at the tip jar's location, which now lay empty. 

“Were you robbed?” he asked, concern evident in his voice. 

“What—? No! Oh my god. You’re so funny.” A chuckle escaped behind your fist, and he observed you momentarily before glancing away. "I'm heading to Malaysia next week!"

Nanami gave a subtle nod. Although his lack of a more animated response disappointed you, you understood that shortness was his nature. "Congratulations.”

"Thank you, Mr. Nanami. Your generous tips really made a difference. They covered half of our trip.”

“Our? It’s not a solo trip?”  

You let out a little nervous laugh. Should you really be telling Nanami about your crippling love life? Would he even be interested? Well, he seemed to listen carefully when you talk. Maybe he wouldn’t care, but you really needed someone to talk to about this. Unfortunately, all your friends were too busy with their marriages to care.

“Well?” Nanami prompted. 

"Right, sorry. It's just—I've actually been seeing someone. Funny enough, we met in a Facebook group for solo travelers. He lives in a nearby town.”

Unexpectedly, Nanami's first question caught you off guard. "Can you trust him?" His concern surfaced, causing you to pause. "I'm only asking because you met this man online. You can't trust strangers on the internet."

"Thank you, Mr. Nanami, but I’m capable enough to know about stranger danger," you said with a funny smile, dismissing his parental concern. "Besides, we’ve gone on a few dates over the past month."

Nanami's frown remained intact. "Correct me if I’m wrong, but are you paying for him, too?"

"Yes."

“Why?” Nanami asked, firmly placing his palms on the counter, making it clear he wasn't leaving until he was convinced you wouldn't get in trouble during your Malaysian adventure.

"What do you mean 'why'?"

His mouth opened but then closed into a thin line, his forehead lines deepening. "It’s not my place to tell you what’s right and what isn’t—"

"Yes, you’re right about that," you interrupted.

"—but this is bordering on recklessness. You cannot use your trip’s money to pay for a man you’ve known for a mere month. Why is he even in the traveler’s group if he cannot afford to pay for himself?"

"Mr. Nan—"

"You are being scammed." 

Your teeth clenched together. You rarely got impatient. Years in the hospitality industry and dealing with misogynistic tenants didn't break you. Even setting up your bakery and almost draining your savings didn't dim your optimism. 

But getting scolded by someone who barely spoke more than five sentences to you in a whole year of being a regular? That's pushing it.

He didn't know you or Toji, the guy you're seeing. He didn’t understand how much you appreciated him accompanying you. So what if you covered his share of the trip expenses? Toji promised to pay you back, and he's been paying the bills for your dates. They might not be fancy, but it's the gesture that matters.

Sure, Nanami chipped in some money, and you're thankful for that. But he has no right to question you. Other people also contributed to your travel fund; it's not like he single-handedly financed the whole trip. You appreciated his support, but he was not in a position to lecture you.

With a sigh, you managed to contain your frustration and said, "Have a great rest of your night, Mr. Nanami.”

Nanami's frustration was palpable as he stood firm, his gaze piercing through the windows of your soul. “I suggest you take my advice into serious consideration. It would greatly upset me if you had the chance to visit one of your favorite countries taken from you.” 

You didn't bother watching him go. Instead, your discovery awaited you at the counter—the money for the coffee and casse-croûte lay there, accompanied by a crumpled yellow note that had slipped to the floor. Moving around the counter, you picked it up and smoothed out its wrinkles.

What greeted you was your own name scrawled across the sticky note, repeated around fifty times, the letters overlapping in a chaotic dance. Some were hastily scratched out, while others were executed with perfect cursive precision. You didn’t know what to make of it.

During your confusion, a new customer walked in. Quickly, you pocketed the note, focused on carrying on with your day despite the lingering frustration that Nanami's cryptic message had left in its wake.

Toji never showed up.

You waited for him for two agonizing hours, extending the torture even more after your flight had taken off. It dawned on you that he likely didn't bother getting a ticket. He probably pocketed the money you sent him and vanished into thin air. Every attempt to reach him failed miserably—your calls were forwarded, and the fifth one hammered the heartbreaking truth that he had blocked your number. To compound your misery, you sent him a string of text messages that refused to deliver your pain. You didn't even know where he lived, as your encounters were always in the obscure locations of your budgeted dates.

The thought of reporting him to the police crossed your mind, accusing him of theft, but the lack of photographic evidence left you helpless. To make matters worse, he hated taking pictures, and you were uncertain if the name he provided was even real. All that remained was a flicker of hope that you might cross paths with the bastard and unleash your pent-up rage with a hard kick to his dick. 

With a heavy heart, you gathered your strength, brushed away the tears until not a single trace remained on your lashes, and lugged your suitcase and carry-on outside the airport, hoping to hail a cab.

The idea of facing the upcoming days at work felt agonizing, goading you to spend them in the isolation of your shabby apartment. You were engrossed in a depressing routine—microwaved dinners, aimless hours on the couch, and a marathon of old cable TV shows.

As hunger struck again, you contemplated your options. Baking seemed like a possibility, but motivation had abandoned you. Pasta could be an option, but the lack of noodles and tomato sauce made it impractical. So, you settled for the one thing that required no ingredients: crying.

At least that was free. 

Despite the inner turmoil, you mustered the strength to shoulder your overcoat, sporting your fleece pajamas printed with candy canes and well-worn second-hand boots. 

The short walk to the corner store felt longer than usual, the biting cold making you clutch your threadbare coat tighter. Your teeth chattered in protest as you entered, and the rush of warm air was a momentary relief against the chill. Fingers numb, you mindlessly reached for familiar comfort snacks—chips, chocolate milk, anything to dull the ache.

A hand much larger than yours beat you to the last packet of croissants.

“Ah, sorry.” You let it go. “All yours—” You choked as you looked up, and up, at Nanami staring at you wide-eyed, his hazel eyes flickering at a rapid speed as if he were hallucinating your presence. Your face flushed with embarrassment, and the weight of the past five days crammed upon you—his uncanny prediction, your own naivety, and the sting of being swindled. “Mr. Nanami . . . ”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in—”

“Good night.”

With a dismissive shake of your head, you left the basket on the counter, mumbled a quick apology, and retreated back into the biting cold. 

You’ve faced tons of humiliating moments—slipping in front of customers, your purse strap getting snagged in a door and dragging you back, and that one unforgettable instance when a little boy labeled your eyebrows as caterpillars in front of a line of onlookers. Yet, none of those incidents could hold a candle to the awkwardness of bumping into the very man who had warned you about the ill-fated choice of paying for a stranger's trip—stranger now—when it was supposed to be your trip. 

You felt a firm grip on your wrist, making your restless pacing suddenly stop.

Startled, you turned around to find a pair of expressionless hazel eyes and a slightly out-of-breath figure. Now is not the time to ogle Mr. Nanami’s broad shoulders, you idiot!

Releasing your wrist, he handed over a white, plastic bag. With a raised eyebrow, you peered inside to inspect its contents. It held everything from your shopping basket, including the last packet of croissants. Even more unexpected, he had paid for it all. 

“I’ll pay you back tomorrow,” you assured, your eyes already scanning for the nearest ATM, just in case you forgot. "But for now." You pulled out the packaged croissants and extended them toward him. Your body was shaking, not because of November but because of how you were scammed after being forewarned by Nanami. “Please. Take it.” 

He took your small hand in both of his, the warmth immediately melting the tension in your body. “So cold.” 

A soft giggle escaped you at the obvious observation, and you placed your free hand on top of his. "So warm." Sniffling, tears welled up in your eyes. "You know what else is warm? The sun. And it's yellow. It's so yellow."

“Factually speaking, it is white.” 

You wiped an arm across your nose. “What?” 

“The sun. It’s white. It’s only yellow in children's books.” 

You weren't about to argue with the guy who vindicated your slip-ups. Still, given the circumstances, you wished he'd soften the bluntness and let you bask in the illusion that the sun was a simple shade of yellow.

"I've always loved the color yellow," you mumbled. "Maybe getting scammed was a blessing. I'd probably get fined for wearing yellow otherwise. I couldn't afford to mess up on my trip. Besides, it all depends on the shade, right? Imagine how many fines I'd rack up just testing which shade of yellow suits me—"

Nanami tugged you close, capturing your lips with his.

A sharp intake of breath filled your lungs, eyes widening in surprise. Instinctively, your hands pushed him away, fingers grazing your tingling lips.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.” 

“No, it’s okay. Don’t—Don’t worry. About it.” You tucked your lips in and tasted chocolate and mint—two of your favorite combinations. Nanami always seemed like the kind of man who would hate both flavors independently and dependently. “You’re okay. I mean—You’re okay in general. You’re not okay with kissing. You’re probably great, I’m sure.” Your tongue traced the curve of your lower lip, and Nanami’s eyes followed the motion. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.” 

You walked up to him, grabbed the lapels of his coat, and tugged him down a notch, your lips colliding with his. 

Nanami's touch was calculated, his hand sailing onto your cheek, feeding warmth to your cold ear before vanishing into the labyrinth of your hair. Simultaneously, the other serpentined to the small of your back, his magnetic energy drawing you snugly against his chest. His warm tongue delicately swept across your lower lip, an unspoken cue that encouraged you to part your lips in response.

Nanami deepened the kiss, your tongues stroking against one another feverishly as if it were your last kiss. Who knows? Maybe it could’ve been. But the way he kissed with such desperation, releasing soft moans, not allowing you a moment to catch your breath, made you think that maybe this was just the start.

And you kissed him back just as needy.

If your hands slightly released their hold on his lapels, you'd gently cup the sides of his neck, rising on your tiptoes. And if your calves protested, you'd draw him down, wrapping your arms around his neck, your fingers entwining in his pale, golden locks. The taste of mint chocolate lingered on your lips, and a smile curved on your mouth as he stole a quick peck, pulling back just to gaze into your eyes for a moment before kissing you again.

You’re not sure how long you two stood and kissed there. Nanami was the one who always took the lead, savoring the taste of your pink, tender tongue, kissing your chilly cheeks and dewy eyes. The desire for each other made it hard to break away, yet the need for a breath of air was undeniable.

Finally, you decided to be the one to step back, signalling the end of your first kiss with him.

Your bottom lip tingled as you pulled it in, jaw aching from the infectious smile that had taken over your face. You couldn't help stealing glances at the tall man before you, who returned your gaze with a soft, almost imperceptible grin. Yet, in his eyes, under the gentle glow of the streetlight, you could see the excitement and joy of kissing you, twinkling brightly.

“I'm gonna—”

“I should—”

Both of you sighed; you with a soft chuckle, and him with a discreet throat-clearing.

“I've already missed quite a few workdays,” you said. “Gotta earn that dough if I want to make next month’s rent.” Nanami didn’t quite catch your bakery pun, but he nodded in agreement.

“Right,” you murmured, subtly veering to the side, putting on a little show as you started to walk away. You admitted it—you were a hopeless romantic. You secretly hoped for him to steal a kiss on your cheek and watch until you safely disappeared around the corner. “I’m off now.”

“Goodnight,” Nanami replied, subtly licking his lips for the sixteenth time. Yes, you were keeping count. 

“Night-night.” 

Nanami strolled down his end of the sidewalk. You followed suit, turning down your street. 

Luck had only sometimes been on your side when it came to men and their romantic gestures. Oh well. At least you experienced a passionate kiss from one of your favorite customers. Asking for more seemed a bit too much—

A hand gently pressed against your back, and as you turned, it gracefully curved around your waist, drawing you in. Nanami caught your gasp and kissed you with an urgency that doubled, holding onto you as if his life depended on it, lifting you off your toes. Three sweet pecks later, he released you, both of your faces flushed.

"Get home safely," he whispered, walking away without a second glance.

That night, you couldn't help but giggle into your mascara-stained pillow.

The morning after, you were a whirlwind of joy and light, twirling through the bakery with trays of freshly baked pastries, replenishing boxes and take-out essentials. You greeted customers with an extra dose of sweetness, and to top it off, you even handed out a tray of delectable chocolate jam cookies. And you wore a yellow bow in your hair. 

The oven beeped as the casse-croûtes finished baking, signaling their readiness for Nanami's arrival in just five minutes. You took special care in preparing his milk coffee, indulging in a quiet chuckle at your undeniable favoritism. Though the neighborhood bakery wasn't bustling with a large customer base, your attention was solely dedicated to him—your only regular as everyone else buzzed in the distant city an hour away.

With his coffee prepared and two casse-croûtes packed, you added a chocolate-mint cookie to the bag. Then, you decided to rearrange the shelves of gift baskets to pass the time. 

Setting up the ladder, you ascended the shaky steps until you were eye to eye with the fifth shelf. Heights were never your forte, which, in hindsight, was another reason why flying to Malaysia was out of the question. The more you thought about being scammed, the more your heart wrenched from your lost trip. You’d again brought out your tip jar and prayed the odds were in your favor. Hell, maybe you’d ask Nanami to join you if you decided to take your relationship to the next level. 

As you secured the bow on the basket, your gaze landed on the clock—6:30 p.m., and Nanami was a no-show. 

Anxiety surged through you in an instant.

Did he leave you hanging? Maybe that kiss was a turnoff, and he chose to disappear rather than be upfront about finding you too overwhelming. Did your breath smell bad? Were you a terrible kisser? Or, worse, did something happen to him?

A torrent of worries flooded your mind, breaking through like a burst dam. Each imagined scenario seemed more nightmarish than the last, causing your head to spin. Recent events, like Toji's betrayal, fueled this self-doubt, made you question your intuition. While Nanami was clearly wealthy, consistently tipping a twenty each day, you found yourself questioning whether he had plans to use you for something else. As if that weren't enough, doubts crept in about your appearance and your optimistic, extroverted personality.

It started to make sense, didn't it? Nanami led a tranquil life, sticking to a routine of work and home, while you were a whirlwind of spontaneity—constantly buzzing with new ideas and discussions, unable to sit still or resist laughter at the silliest jokes. Everything seemed to fascinate you, yet nothing appeared to faze him. How could you have been so naive to entertain the thought—

“Good evening.” 

“Ah!” you yelped at the sudden baritone intruding into your thoughts. Your foot, betrayed by the unexpected intrusion, lost its balance on the step. Your arms flailed in a desperate attempt to find stability as you teetered backward, the impending hazard of a severe concussion and potential spinal cord injury looming.

But just as you were prepared to shake hands with God, Nanami's powerful arms swooped in at the last possible moment. With a secure hold, he cradled you in a bridal style, and you clung to him like a shaking puppy, arms looped around his neck.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his breath slightly labored.

You gingerly peeled one eye open to peek at him. His expression was one of calm disorientation; eyebrows knit together while his lips maintained a straight, tight line.

"Yes," you whispered, soothed by his timely intervention.

Nanami steadied you back onto your feet but maintained a firm grip on your elbows. “Look at me.” As you did, he inspected each eye closely while keeping his hand steady on your left cheek. He checked below your jaw, down to your dusty palms, which he cleaned with his silk handkerchief. He also patted down your tousled hair. "Are you sure you're okay?"

“Mm-hmm.” You could cry from how gentle he was with you. “A-Are you okay?” 

“I am now.” He took a composed breath and effortlessly retrieved his suitcase from the floor, brushing off invisible dust. “I apologize for being late. My . . . car broke down.” 

"What? Oh my god! Do you need me to give you my mechanic's number? I promise he's not as bad as the Google reviews say. He's actually quite a sweet man. And he gives me a friends and family discount because my father was close with him." You beamed, and Nanami squinted his eyes as if the brightness of your smile momentarily blinded him, but he tried his best to reciprocate.

“Do your parents live here?” 

You shook your head. “They passed away a while ago.” 

“I apologize.” 

"Don't be." You quickly switched subjects by fluttering towards the counter to pick up his items. “Tell me how your coffee tastes.” You turned around, adding, “I switched to a new brand of milk—”

Nanami pressed his lips against yours, momentarily freezing you. His seamless transition afterward could have fooled an onlooker into thinking you'd been married for years. "Thank you.” He took a sip and nodded thoughtfully. “It’s great. Everything you make is great.” 

“Thanks,” you mumbled, sudden shyness enveloping you. From the kiss? The compliment? Him? You didn’t know at all. “Do you still need me to give you the mechanic’s number?” 

“It’s all right. I had it fixed. Minor battery issue, that’s all.” 

“Ah, okay. See, that’s why I prefer to walk.” 

Nanami glanced elsewhere, nodding. “Then, would you like to walk with me after you’ve closed?” 

“Oh.” A subtle flicker of surprise crossed your features. Nonchalantly, you brushed a strand of hair behind your ear before smiling warmly. “Of course, yes. I’d love to go on a walk with you. Where are we going? There are lots of cafés in a nearby shopping district. I know all the best places to take you to.” A grave thought struck you just then. “Oh, actually. Hmm.” 

Curious, he tilted his head down, meeting your worried gaze. "What is it?"

"Well," you began, your thoughts taking a cautious turn, "you probably have a set time to be home unless you live nearby. In that case, we could spend the entire evening strolling around. Only if you're interested, of course."

Nanami’s lips twitched. “I live nearby.” 

“Where?” You weren’t ashamed to have been so upfront. It was more of a precautionary measure. 

And he didn't seem bothered, quickly revealing the familiar neighborhood you instantly recognized. It was a fifteen-minute walk from your own place.

"May I step out momentarily to make a call?" Nanami asked, pulling out his phone. It was the latest model you noticed—one that came out last week and mocked your own that was five versions older. “It will be quick.” 

“By all means.” You had to fix your hair and make-up anyway. 

Nanami nodded and exited the shop, leaving you to flee behind the counter. As you crouched down to check yourself in the small mirror tucked away in the lower drawer, you couldn't help but feel a warmth on your face from the unexpected collapse, the sweet, brief kiss, and his impeccable navy blue suit decorated with yellow cufflinks. Maybe a café was too casual for him; a restaurant might have been a more suitable choice. An expensive choice. However, you were adamant about not letting Nanami cover the entire cost.

Upon his return, five minutes later, you both settled at one of the three round tables in your bakery (he even pulled out your chair for you). Sipping on your coffees and enjoying the casse-croûtes and chocolate pastries, the conversation seemed somewhat one-sided. Yet, Nanami's aloof demeanor never made you feel inferior for dominating the dialogue. He listened to every word and vowel with his undivided attention, nodding alongside and adding in short sentences when he could relate to your childhood shenanigans. 

"Wait," he interrupted, causing you to halt in your tracks. The sun cast a warm glow on his face, making his eyes narrow into slits, but God did he look handsome. He extended his hand and brushed a thumb near your lips, discovering a small chocolate smudge. Swiftly, he licked it clean and tidied up the area around your lips with a napkin. "Beautiful."

“What?” 

Nanami was a deer in headlights. He sunk his head, beating himself up from murmuring his thoughts aloud—at least, that’s what you concluded. "You look beautiful," he declared with more assurance, his gaze on your face. "You are beautiful, Y/N."

Oh, my. 

Your heart was going to claw itself out of your chest. You could cook an egg on your face from how heated it had gotten. In fact, you were burning hotter than the sun, which continuously made him squint and blink. “Thank you.” 

He nodded twice, finishing the remnants of his coffee. Rising, he disposed of the cups and wrappers in the garbage bin, then extended a hand to help you stand. "I'll wait outside while you close up."

At a lightning pace, you ensured that everything in the bakery was safely unplugged and shut off. Grabbing your purse, you gave yourself a quick once-over in the mirror, adjusting your face and hair. Stepping outside, you meticulously locked the door and gates.

Without a word, Nanami entwined his fingers with yours, causing you to smile like an idiot at him. He maintained a straight, vigilant gaze, seemingly unresponsive as you wrapped yourself around his arm. A subtle smirk tugged at your lips when you felt his muscles flex.

You walked for hours, café-hopping and trying pastries, baked goods, and sweet drinks. Every time Nanami attempted to cover the expenses with his cash, you scolded him, insisting that since you had suggested the place, you should be the one to pay. It was a rule you had read about online, and all your friends stuck to it religiously. The thought of Nanami spending his hard-earned money on your interests made you feel incredibly guilty.

As a matter of fact, you were feeling guilty about tons of things. He told you he worked at an investment firm, which meant it was a nine-to-five, likely sporting a migraine he kept hidden, and now he was being dragged around the shopping district by you, forced to listen to you because he was a man who didn’t complain, wouldn’t complain, and long, story short, you wanted to die. 

“Kento,” you muttered, removing your hand from his, goosebumps rippling on your skin. 

“Yes, darling?” 

Your chest felt like it was being clenched in a fist. “I'm . . . I’m sorry.” 

“For what?” 

“For making you do all this. For making you pay for everything. For dragging you around when you're probably on the verge of exhaustion." Avoiding his gaze, you fixed your eyes on the concrete beneath you. “I know I can be too much sometimes—well, all the time.” A self-deprecating chuckle escaped your lips. "Exes in my past relationships have made it clear. I get overly excited easily, crave attention like one needs oxygen, trust people too easily to the point of getting scammed, and, well, I don't bring anything particularly special to the table. I'm sorry, Kento. Maybe it's best if we just stay friends?”

Nanami’s soft fingers lifted your chin up. Your words absolutely shattered his face, leaving you to feel worse than before. His lips were parted into a frown, his brows were scrunched up, brown irises flickering like he couldn’t believe you said that. This was the most reaction he had given you in the year that you’ve known him. 

“No,” he said. 

You blinked the tears gathered at your waterline. “No?” 

“No.” Nanami took a calming breath, closing his eyes. His forehead gently pressed against yours. “Please, let me be selfish for this once. For you. I can’t let you go—I won’t let you go."

"Kento—"

"I want to do this, Y/N. I want to pay for everything. I want you to drag me around because I’ll never be too tired for you.” Nanami drew back and cradled your sobbing face in his large hands. “I know I fail to show it, darling, but I love your excitement. I love paying attention to every detail of you because you’ve become my oxygen source. You’re a good, kindhearted woman, and anyone would be lucky to be seen by you. And you don’t have to bring anything to the table because there isn’t one dividing us, keeping us lengths apart.” His lips brushed your forehead, imprinting his words into your mind. "I want us to be more than just friends. I want us to be best friends. Lovers. In this life and the ones that follow."

You could explode. 

Your arms instinctively wrapped around his neck, seeking support as if the ground beneath you was about to crumble. Yet, you knew he would catch you, just as before. He was so real, embracing you wholly, both of you breathing in each other's scents to confirm a human like this could exist. How grateful you were he stumbled into your bakery that one rainy night, and how grateful he was that you offered him free coffee and a casse-croûte while he was freezing and trembling. His presence brought life to your bakery, gave you something to look forward to when you were at your lowest, and you gave him . . . everything. You were his everything since the first day. 

As the shared silence lingered, Nanami's phone shattered the moment, its noisy ring cutting through the haze. You instinctively stepped back, but he clung to your hand as if afraid you might slip away.

Never, Nanami Kento. You’re stuck with me. 

When he took out his phone, you caught a glimpse of the contact name: Satoru (assistant). 

Before you could process the fact Nanami had an assistant, he swiped right. “Yeah?” 

The voice on the other end resonated with loud cheerfulness in the quiet alleyway. Nanami half-rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Very well. Leave it there. I’ll be there when I want to.” 

The assistant chuckled and sang his goodbye, the cheerful tone abruptly cutting off as Nanami ended the call and slid his phone back into his pocket.

“Do all stockbrokers have assistants?” 

He tilted his head. “I’m not a stockbroker.” 

“Oh? I’m sorry. I assumed because you worked at an investment firm.” 

“Yes, I was a stockbroker.” He nodded, warming your hand in his, then casually added, “But I own a firm now.” 

Your brows hit your hairline. “That’s amazing!” 

“Thank you. We have several locations around the country. Kento Investments. Have you heard of it?” 

Heard of it? You were a client some time ago when you were starting your bakery. All you encountered were glowing reviews about their ethical practices, a refreshing leave from the scheming ways of most investment firms that had previously taken advantage of you. It stood out as the industry leader in your research, and the team was lovely in guiding you through the process, so much so that you even invited them to your grand opening.

"Ah, you have." Nanami grinned, gently tilting your chin upward and closing your gaping mouth. "Therefore, my darling, don't feel guilty about me covering the expenses. I'm quite secure in my position to support both of us for centuries."

All you could manage was a disbelieving chuckle as you rested your forehead against his chest. Taking it as an invitation, he embraced you, crowning you with kisses. 

Lifting your head, you said, "There's something I want to get for you."

"What is it?"

Hand-in-hand, you pulled him back toward the bustling district, the sound of his deep laughter echoing in the air. Your own laughter naturally joined in.

As you strolled past a vendor selling accessories, your attention was drawn to an item you had briefly noticed earlier in your walk. Although you planned to purchase it the following day and surprise him in the afternoon, tonight felt like the perfect moment.

Politely approaching the elderly vendor, you asked, "Could I please try those on?" He handed you a pair of round sunglasses with a green tint to the lenses. Standing on your toes, you carefully placed the glasses on Nanami's nose, adjusting them to sit perfectly on the bridge. The sides of the spectacles featured a stylish steampunk design that complemented his narrow, sharp features. "Handsome.”

"I'll take it.” Nanami reached for his wallet. However, you were one step ahead, swiftly bringing out the spare change you had set aside in your coat pocket. You had already calculated the price, ready to outsmart him in this little game of charity.

“Y/N.” 

“Thank you,” you said to the shop vendor, ignoring Nanami’s stare. 

“Y/N.” 

“Yes, darling?" You looped around his arm and began your stroll down the sidewalk. “Oh, come on. Let me be selfish and treat you once in a while.” You cut off his protests with a kiss. 

He surrendered instantly. 

Over the next four weeks, you didn’t realize how quickly you’d become comfortable with Nanami. Like clockwork, he would arrive at your bakery, patiently occupying a table until your duties with customers or decorating displays finished. Now resembling a vibrant florist shop, the bakery owed its transformation to Nanami's thoughtful gestures—bouquets of flowers in every shade of yellow, orange, and white became an amusing routine. As you arranged them in vases, you would burst into fits of giggles like a maniac. 

You and him were like a Venn diagram, overlapping in unexpected places. He enjoyed non-fiction, classics, and history books; you immersed yourself in the world of romance and mystery novels. TV nights were a compromise between his love for documentaries and your penchant for anything sappy on Netflix, occasionally spicing things up with a true-crime documentary. His fascination with astronomy met your fixation with astrology, and surprisingly, he didn't scoff when you read the lines on his palms. Instead, he appreciated it just as much as you cherished his nightly photos of the moon and his ability to name the stars above.

At least, you were both Team Cats.

Nanami introduced you to his friends, including his quirky assistant Gojo, who had a habit of shamelessly flirting with you, seemingly just to get under Nanami's skin. However, your boyfriend was secure enough not to let it bother him. Yet, a trace of possessiveness would emerge during sex—when the two of you were entwined in bed, bodies bared and bathed in the aftermath of shared sweat.

Exiting the restaurant after a delightful dinner date, Nanami turned to you and suggested, "I'd like to invite you to my home tonight."

Finally, you thought, resisting the urge to dip your toes into the topic of visiting his home, especially considering he had been a frequent guest at yours.

The fact that he lived nearby had always puzzled you; he mentioned it casually yet never extended an invitation for a simple coffee or a chat on his welcome mat. Weekends saw him working from your living room, staying overnight, but on weekdays, he'd only spend a brief hour or two with you before heading home, a practice that seemed counterintuitive given his closeness. Despite the confusion, you hesitated to jeopardize your relationship by fishing too deeply.

So far, Nanami hadn't given you any reason to doubt him.

"Are you sure?" you asked cautiously.

"Absolutely, darling.” Nanami took your hand and planted a small kiss on the back of it. "I apologize for the delay. I've been having it . . ." He casually flicked up his sunglasses that had slipped. ". . . renovated."

“Oh, I see. Well, in that case, I’d love to!” 

Nanami nodded and leaned down to kiss your cheek. “Thank you for being so patient. I know it was eating you alive. You're not exactly the master of hiding your emotions.” He gave you a small smile and kissed your cheek again. 

You responded with a smile that crinkled your nose. "Just a bit anxious, that's all."

"Understandable.” He guided you toward his neighbourhood, exchanging a warm smile as you nestled against his arm. Observing the goosebumps on your skin and the faint shivers, he realized you had forgotten your cardigan. Without hesitation, he removed his blazer and draped it around your shoulders, helping you slip your arms through the sleeves and buttoning it up.

You took a deep breath, inhaling the pleasant scent from the collars. "You always smell so good."

Nanami bent down, kissing the side of your neck right above your racing pulse. "As do you," he murmured against your skin. "Always."

“Gosh, you're so flirty,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around his midsection and burying your face in his chest.

“Come on now.” 

You walked for another ten minutes, taking a five-minute pit stop to pet a stray cat before stopping in front of a towering residence building. It was one of those extravagant ones boasting a fountain in the lobby and a vigilant security guard who greeted Nanami with a two-finger salute.

Hand on your back, Nanami guided you toward the elevator with mirrors on all sides.

He exuded an air of sophistication in his neatly rolled-up black dress shirt, complemented by beige pants. His pale, blond hair was slicked back, a Rolex clasped his wrist, and veins corded his well-defined forearms. The sunglasses you had given him rested atop his head. 

As Nanami caught your eyes on the reflective surfaces, a sudden blush warmed your cheeks. “What is it?” 

“Nothing,” you whispered, fingers idly playing with the golden butterfly bracelet he had given you on the night he asked you to be his girlfriend. “I was just . . . God, you’re so beautiful. Sometimes, I think I’m dreaming of you. And I don’t want to wake up from it.” 

Nanami released his grip on your hand, wrapping his arm around your waist. He tilted your chin upward and planted a lecherous kiss on your lips. As you stumbled backward, your back met the cool surface of a mirror, and you clung to his biceps. He continued kissing your jaw and nibbling at your neck.

“Ken—Wait, there’s a camera!” 

“I own the building.” 

Without allowing you to react, he kissed you fervently, his hands framing your face and his knee pressing between your legs. Your hips ground against the muscled surface, creating a heated friction that drew a moan from him.

The elevator dinged, signaling its arrival, but Nanami was undeterred. He refused to break the kiss. Lifting you effortlessly, he cradled you with a single forearm beneath your backside and your arms encircling his neck. Laughter echoed as you entered directly into the main corridor of his penthouse.

“Your front door is an elevator?” You marveled with an open jaw. 

“Yes, it seems so.”

Oh, how you loved his monotonous replies. 

Nanami gently placed you onto the expansive white surface of his couch, smoothly moving over your body to continue. 

“I knew you were a clean freak,” you said between his kisses, “but your penthouse looks like it was bought this morning.” 

“Two weeks ago.” He kisses down your neck, sideways toward your left shoulder. “That’s why I waited to invite you. Gojo was having the place decorated. I've installed a library for you, too. We can go book-shopping this weekend.” 

"Wait, what?" You pushed him back by his chest, incredulous. "Hold on, hold on, hold on. You mean to tell me you moved in just two weeks ago?"

"Yes," he answered, tilting his head slightly perplexedly. "When you asked about my residence, I panicked and couldn't come up with a proper answer, fearing you might decline my invitation for a walk. So, I bought this building from the previous owner on the spot. There are also commercial benefits. Quite a strategic move, if you ask me." With that, Nanami resumed his attention, focusing on kissing your collarbones and skillfully lowering your dress, exposing your chest to him.

But you were still stuck on the subject like a pesky fruit fly. “But you don’t live here?” 

“I don’t.” His mouth brushed over the mound of your left breast. “I live in Shibuya.” 

“Shibuya? Kento, that’s an hour and a half away!"

"Hmm." He glanced up, mouth sucking at your nipple.

"You've been faithfully coming to my city every single day, all the way from Shibuya, for a whole year? You've been burning all that gas just to be with me?"

He broke away to say, "Gojo drives me occasionally," and switched to your right breast.

"Nanami Kento, are you out of your mind?"

Finally, he released you and sighed. "I fail to see the issue here." He appeared so innocent, with his moist lips, tousled hair, and a crumpled dress shirt. 

You hurriedly sat up, readjusting your dress, which seemed to displease him. "I'm at a loss for words." Your gaze caught the weariness etched on his face, the bags under his eyes, the slow, heavy blinks signaling his desperate need for sleep. "You haven't actually been living here, have you?"

Upon hearing that, Nanami let out a weary sigh. "I do it when I'm too drained to make the drive back on weekdays."

As the details of his schedule fell into place, you flinched inwardly. He would rise at the crack of dawn, dedicate endless hours to handling clients at the office, and then endure a lengthy drive to your city, only to spend his evenings with you before leaving around midnight to return to Shibuya. The only time he would stay overnight at your place was on Saturdays, and he would depart early on Sundays for work. And all this time, you had believed he had an office in your city.

Oh, God. 

You loved him. 

You loved him so much.

Tears welled up in your eyes at the realization of just how much he loved you. The man had gone so far as to purchase an entire building in your city just to be closer to you. He showered you with affection at every opportunity, devoted his alone time to you with undivided attention and mind-blowing orgasms, and his bank transactions were probably dedicated to you. 

“I don’t deserve your kindness,” you whispered. 

“Neither did I the night when we met.” Nanami’s words always had a comforting effect on you. He gently pulled you onto his lap, and you curled up like a fetus, planting a kiss on his cheekbone. “I’ve loved you for a very long time, Y/N. I love . . . God, I love you so much. I didn't realize I was capable of feeling this much love for another human until I met you. It was all locked up inside me, and you held the key all along, darling." Leaning forward, he smoothly swept his blazer and delved into the pocket, revealing a small yellow box. With trembling hands, you accepted it and opened it to find a petite, golden key inside. “Our front door is an elevator.” 

Your breath hitched. “What?” 

“Move in with me.” 

“Kento—”

“I know. I know it's quite early to discuss this, and I want to give you the space and time to consider it. As you mentioned, your lease ends next month, and I'll officially be transitioning to remote work with a few business trips every other week. It would mean a lot to me if you decided to join me on those trips." He gently placed the key in your hand, kissing your fist. "I'm scheduled to travel to Malaysia next month."

Overpowered with emotion, you choked out a sob and immediately lunged at him with a hug, causing both of you to stumble backward as he wrapped his arms around your waist. He loved you. He wanted you to move in with him. He wanted to travel with you, starting with Malaysia. Suddenly, the tips he left in your jar took on a deeper significance, backing the idea that you weren't meant to journey alone, why you weren’t meant to go with that swindling bastard. As Nanami's gestures of kindness and service became increasingly evident, your tears welled up, choking him in a tight embrace that eventually had him laughing.

Last November, Nanami Kento had stepped into your small bakery, raindrops clinging to him, unknowingly marking his permanent presence in your life.

[sorryimananti-romantic]

to a dying? atinyblr

i don't usually speak about these things, but a lot of blogs (amazing writers) are leaving this platform or taking time off bc of lack of engagement which serves as a big demotivating factor. especially and specifically in this atiny fandom, some things have come to my attention and i just want all readers and writers to take a look at this post and refresh some reading and writing etiquettes, as well as revive the essence of being a part of this fandom.

feedback:

i understand that there are a lot of silent readers on here, but since tumblr is dying and our fandom is not very huge, the least you can do to show the writers some support is like the post. 

which brings me to the point that the like function didn't even exist in the past. this site still runs on reblogs. as readers, to show your favourite writers some semblance of support, you should be reblogging with tags. a simple ‘#ateez x reader’ or ‘#ateez fics’ is enough. it's literally not asking for much– reblogs are the only way writers can get reach.

if you cannot do that bc of your blog's aesthetic or whatever, side blogs exist. if you still cannot do that, a simple anon ask appreciating the writer sometimes saves them.

also, what has happened to the quality of reblogs? readers consume years of writers’ work and efforts in mere hours and don’t even leave any feedback? art in general in all forms is very underappreciated and with all sorts of problems like plagiarism, ai writing and everything, true art and writing is dying and needs to be appreciated now more than ever. we’re literally the last generation witnessing ai take over in all fields of arts. appreciate content creators before it’s too late, don’t be a content glutton!

updates and requests:

asking writers for updates when they specifically mention that they would prefer posting at their pace is wrong for so many reasons– we all have a real life. you, the reader, do too. just like you don't always have time to read, writers don't always have time to write. do you ever see the writers asking their readers 'why have you not read my latest chapter?' 

most of the times, writers mention in their bio/faq post or elsewhere that they do mind being asked about updates. respect your writers, please, and do a little scroll before you send such demanding asks (also, sugarcoating when asking for updates does not make it any better!)

if you are only asking about updates, it demotivates a lot of writers bc these same people will disappear when it is time for feedback. writing is a form of art. we can write, artists can paint, musicians can compose music, but all of it has no meaning unless it is shared with an audience and appreciated. readers are just as important as the writers but there is no way of knowing fics are valued unless feedback is given.

the same goes for requests. you can only send a request when the requests are open, which is usually mentioned in the writer’s bio/faq post. it’s literally not that hard to check if requests are open and it’s basic decency to not send a request when the writers specifically mention that requests are closed. when sending a request, please be courteous. a ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ are examples of being courteous when sending requests.

the fanfics in atinyblr:

i understand that you can read whatever you like, but why is it that in the atiny fandom, fics that do not contain smut hardly ever get attention? as a writer, i enjoy writing and reading smut, and while i am not specifically a smut blog, i have noticed how fics containing smut get far more reach than fics that do not contain smut– not just in my case, but other amazing writers as well. 

there are such amazing fictions in this fandom. all fics are crafted with dedication and care, yet stories without smut often get sidelined. writers are not able to express themselves in their writing freely anymore and they simply conform to a genre they know readers will consume, as they are forced to consider adding smut to their stories so they can get more reach in this fandom. i have heard accounts from a lot of writers who were inclined to add smut to an otherwise smut-free fic just for reach.

this is by no means hate to the smut writers. i am also not placing blame on them. smut drabbles have always been in this fandom, and there are amazing smut writers out there, doing their thing. it is the readers here who are failing the writers. readers are quick to talk about the lack of ‘good fics’ or ‘plot’ yet will not even bother searching for these works. there used to be a good balance and appreciation for all genres alike.

i know that smut is what's hot and trendy these days, and drabbles in general, no matter the genre, are easier to read when you want to take a short break. but there is such a lack of longfics in this fandom, especially as of lately, and as someone who has personally witnessed the ratio of longfics decrease exponentially, i felt the need to point this out. appreciate all writers! appreciate all genres! longfic writers need as much validation and encouragement as drabble writers, and vice versa! don't be too harsh on longfic writers for not pumping out fics at the same speed as shortfic writers.

and on that note, smut drabble writers experience a lack of quality feedback despite the high engagement, so readers, please don't hesitate to point out exactly what you liked about a fic, even if it's a short drabble! be kind to those writers, give them time to write and be kind when sending requests! they may post more often but they, too, have a life.

tags:

this is specifically for the people who will post a very normal picture of a member, no caption, but tag it something like #ateez smut, #ateez hard hours, #ateez x reader. and for the people who tag their asks with irrelevant tags– literally learn to tag your post properly, and stop crowding the wrong tags. you're just proving the point that if you don't tag a post with the smut tag or something similar, it won't get reach. if you've posted with a caption, that makes sense (though it still doesn't warrant some of the tags being used there).

as for writers, also learn to use your tags appropriately. fics that do not contain smut should not be tagged with smut related tags. believe in yourself. i get that there is the problem of reach but do not overcrowd tags with irrelevant material.

disclaimer:

this is by no means about me. if i cared about the notes, or lack thereof, i would have stopped writing a while ago. while it is challenging to be a writer here, especially as of lately, i still enjoy posting whatever i write no matter the genre or the word count. but it's a bit disappointing that my planned out fics get much less attention than a simple smut headcanons post that i wrote in the heat of the moment with my friend in literally a few hours as a joke (which has reached almost 10k notes btw in a span of 2 years). sure, it has exposed my blog to new readers but that's about it.

this post is for all the amazing writers who have left, are thinking of leaving, or are struggling to voice these problems because they are afraid of being marked as 'problematic' or a 'hater' or something worse. i am not afraid to voice my opinion on here, and if you think that i am wrong, feel free to interact with this post and correct me because i am not claiming that i am right about this.

these are just the observations i have made as someone who has been actively writing on this platform for about 4 years now, and since i have a decent number of followers, i hope this post gets more reach. do not be afraid to reblog this if you agree, and even if you do not, reblog this so someone else gets educated. i may have missed some points so feel free to add if you want too.

[sacr1ficialang3l]

Can you read my mind? (I've been watching you.) 𓆩♡𓆪

DEAN WINCHESTER X CUPID!READER

SUMMARY: Dean and Sam get a little unexpected help with a weird case. 2.3k

WARNINGS: none. first meeting. fem!reader. dean being wary of the supernatural but weak to a pretty face.

NOTES: VERY late valentine's post. I was struck with inspiration at 2 in the morning. Idk if Valentines are a thing or if i made them up but whatever. This is my first time writing for supernatural and my first time writing a fanfic in years pls be nice. Enjoy<3

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” You sigh as you materialize behind the brothers, making them almost jump out of their skin. “Love all over the place.”

You ignore their flabbergasted expressions as you look around the crowded plaza. It was Valentine’s day, and the whole place was decorated with pink and red hearts, the white streamers hanging from the trees moving with the breeze as couples and groups of friends walked around.

“Who are you?” You ignore the shorter one’s question as your gaze focuses on two kids sitting on a bench.

You could feel how much they liked each other, but they sat facing opposite ways, hands on laps and eyes stuck to the ground. You sigh and swiftly move your manicured hand towards them, pink nails shining under the sunlight. You can feel the brothers’ wary eyes on you, but you simply watch as the boy on the bench suddenly gets a notification on his phone.

“I just won two tickets for the My Chem show tonight.” He announces to the girl, voice incredulous. As they both start celebrating, the boy shyly looks up and invites her to go with him. She says yes, and after a few giggles and babbled words, they get up from the bench and leave.

You can’t help the little squeak that comes out of your mouth, your pastel pink wavy hair bouncing as you give a little jump. You immediately turn to the Winchester brothers, covering your mouth with your hand

“Sorry. You would think that after so many years on the job I would get used to it.” You sigh, twirling a lock of your hair with your fingers. “But sometimes it still manages to make me all giddy.”

You turn around just to find a gun being pointed towards you, barrel pressed to your stomach as green eyes bore holes into your head. Who you assumed was Dean Winchester was glaring at you, scowling, while his brother tried to block civilians from noticing the firearm in his hand.

Who would’ve thought green could be so beautiful.

You chuckle, not intimidated at all, which only made the brothers look even more confused.

“What the fuck are you?” Dean asks, the gun digging a little deeper into your skin.

“Are you Cupid?” This time it is Sam, his eyes studying your tiny pink dress, pink hair, and pink boots. But more importantly, the little bow and arrow that hung from your back.

You give the tall guy a cheeky smile.

“You must be Sam, hm? I’ve heard you’re the smart one.” You look back at Dean, delicate hand wrapping around the gun that was still being pressed against you. “Why don’t we put this away before you hurt someone.” You keep your eyes on him as you lower the gun. He lets you, a lost look on his face as to why he is letting you.

You take a step back and smile again, all rosy cheeks and fluttering eyelashes. “To answer your question, I guess you can call me a cupid, but I’m not the Cupid.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Dean’s eyes roam up and down your body.

“We’ve met Cupid before.” Comes Sam’s explanation. “So, you work for him? Are you an angel?”

You hum softly, pouty lips pursing. “I don’t work for the Cupid you met, the angel. But you humans also call my boss that.” The brothers’ expressions stay equally clueless. “I work for Eros, the-”

“Greek god of love.” You send Sam a sweet smile for his right answer.

“And desire, yes!”

“So you’re a Goddess.” Dean affirms more than asks, and when you turn back to face him you are struck with his beauty once again. Both brothers were drop-dead gorgeous, but something about the sharpness in the older one’s features made you want to ask if he was in any way related to Lady Aphrodite.

“Oh, no. Gods no.” You shake your head, making the multiple silver jewelry in your ears clink. “We work for Eros. Think about us like a version of Artemis’ hunters.”

“Yeah, because that gives me so much clarity.” Dean’s voice was breathtakingly deep, it reminded you of being in Lord Ares’ presence. (Happened once, never again.)

“Gods are incredibly powerful, but they often need help from mortals to do certain deeds. Artemis’ hunters, Hecate’s priests and priestess, so on and so forth.” You explain quickly. Sam seemed to understand you perfectly, Dean still looked a bit like he wanted to shoot you. “We don’t have an official name like that, but you can call us Valentines.”

“So you, what? Go around making people fall in love?” He asks with skepticism. You sigh. Everyone always had the same wrong idea.

“We don’t make people fall in love, we simply… present them with opportunities.” You chuckle and turn to look around the plaza, teeth biting down on your lower lip as you try to look for an example. You find a blond guy who was messing around with his friends near an ice cream shop. Right behind him, a girl in roller skates was moving his way.

“See those two?” I ask the brothers, pointing towards the pair. “If I didn’t intervene, they would never cross paths. But their auras, they are compatible, and they’re both lonely.” You squint, concentrating. Aura reading wasn’t as easy as fake witches made it seem. “But if I just…” Once again, you move your hand delicately towards them.

Suddenly, Blond Boy's friend's milkshake falls to the ground. It causes Blond Boy to take several steps back, getting right in Roller Skates Girl’s way. She immediately tries to stop, but it makes her lose her balance. Blond Boy’s hands are instantly on her waist, preventing her from falling on her back. They look at each other, eyes lingering, and your job is done.

You turn to the Winchesters with a satisfied smile, your flowy skirt dancing around you as you twirl, and they just stare back at you with wide eyes.

“I can’t tell how I feel about it.” Declares Sam, making you snicker.

“If it makes you feel better, I can assure you I can only influence circumstances.” You sigh, looking back at the two lovebirds. They’re already exchanging numbers. “Whatever happens from here on out is in their hands.”

That seems to do the trick, at least for the younger brother. Dean still looked like he was going to reach for his gun anytime soon. You sigh again.

“Look, I am not here to cause trouble.” You raise your hands in surrender, bracelets sliding down your wrists. “I came to talk.”

“Why would you want to talk to us?” You start to walk down the plaza, a little skip to your step. You stop right on the edge of the plaza where you could look down at the sea, waves hitting against the asphalt in a calming manner. Both brothers share a confused look before following you.

“You two are here for a hunt, right?” You ask walking down the edge of the shoreline, go-go boots click-clacking against the cobblestone. “The deaths that have been happening? People killing people they love?”

“What do you know about it?” You turn around at Dean’s accusatory tone. His gun was back in his hand, and it makes you roll your eyes. His eyebrows raise in surprise.

Looks like there was an edge in between all that sugar-covered whimsy after all.

“You know, everyone says you are distrustful, but damn.” You tsk. Why was it always the cute ones that had the biggest attitude problems? “I wasn’t going to intervene, but when I found out that the Winchesters were in my zone, I had to do something. You two are kind of famous for wiping out any supernatural beings you come in contact with.” You continue to walk down the shoreline. When you get to a light pole, you twirl around it until you’re facing the brothers again. “Any other day, I would’ve just hidden until you finished your job, but it is Valentine’s. The boss likes us to be extra active today.”

It looked like Dean wants to retort, but Sam interrupts him. “What do you know about the case?”

Your smile fades a little, and you let go of the light pole, your shiny eyes dropping to the floor.

“You’re looking for an Anti-Valentine, or that’s what we call them.” Your cheeks blush with shame. “They’re like us, Eros’ followers, but they…”

“Turn evil?” Dean guesses sarcastically, and you nod.

“Why would they want people to kill who they love?” Asks Sam, crossing his arms. “I mean, you look like you love love.”

That makes you giggle. “It is… hard. To do this job.” You lean back into the light pole, looking out at the sea. “There’s only so many times you can make two people who are perfect for each other meet, only for them to cheat or hurt each other before you start to have doubts.” You bite your lip, doe eyes glossing with sadness.

“And that makes them turn evil?”

“Well, most Valentines have had doubts at some point in our lives. But Anti-Valentines, they start to think humans don’t deserve love. They start getting angry and hateful, and it starts to poison them.” You swallow harshly, looking down at the floor before your eyes meet Dean’s green one, and the heavy weight on your chest turns a little lighter. Huh. “Valentines can’t manipulate mortal’s emotions, but Anti-Valentines… They've learned how to blind humans with anger. I think you humans may call it a rage blackout or something.”

The brothers seem to be processing your words. Dean studies you slowly while Sam looks like he’s racking his brain for any information on Valentines. If you hadn’t been so sad, you would totally be flirting with Dean right now. Yes, Eros was the God of love, but everyone seemed to forget he was also the God of desire. You could be a hell of a vixen when you were in the mood.

“So, how do we kill it?” Asks Dean, always ready to fight. It was hot.

“That’s the problem.” You sigh for what felt like the millionth time in the last hour, twirling around the light pole once again, cheeky smile returning to your face. “If I tell you how to kill them, I tell you how to kill me.”

Dean’s eyebrow raises, but his mouth twitches into a half-smirk. He looks you up and down one more time before his tongue runs over his lower lip, earning an incredulous huff from Sam.

“So, what’s the deal?”

“I’ll tell you how to find the Anti-Valentine and how to kill it, and you promise not to come for me after.”

“You got yourself a deal, sweetheart.”

𓆩♡𓆪

Dean was soaked in black blood when you appeared in front of him again.

Sam and he had just finally killed the Anti-Valentine, after being thrown against walls and dodging heart-pointed arrows for what felt like hours. Looks like those little bows aren't only for the aesthetic.

So while Sam and Dean looked a little worse for wear as they tried to catch their breath, there you were, in the middle of a filthy warehouse looking like a literal goddess. Pastel pink hair perfectly styled, shiny lips and shiny eyeshadow, your pink boots not getting dirty at all even as you walked through the dirt on the ground. The worst part was how you were pink everywhere. He wasn’t talking about only your clothes and hair. Your cheeks, your knees, your elbows. The palm of your hands and your pouty lips. Made him wonder, just how many other places were pink too.

“Nice to see you two are as good as they say.” You walk close to where the brothers are leaning against a wall. They were covered in blood and grim, slight cuts all over from when they weren’t quick enough while avoiding the Anti-Valentine’s arrows.

You stand right in front of Dean, and there is a halo of light around you. You were literally glowing. You were just so glad the Anti-Valentine had been taken care of. You would’ve done something about it before the Winchesters got into town, but Valentines couldn’t attack other Valentines, even if they were evil.

“Happy to meet your expectations, sweetheart.” Dean grunts, hand pressing to his side where there was a long gash.

You extend your hand towards him with a grin, palm up and ring-clad fingers waving. “My blade, please and thank you.”

You had given the brothers your celestial bronze dagger to use against the Anti-Valentine with the promise that they would give it back.

“What if we ever need to kill another one of these, hm?” It is impressive how Dean managed to look so hot when he was slowly bleeding out from his side. “Or another Greek creature.”

You smirk, and with a little jump you land in front of him. You lean in, biting your full lower lip and blinking up at Dean, long eyelashes fluttering. “Then I guess you’ll have to give me a call, sweetheart.”

You softly press a hand to Dean’s chest, making his breath hitch. You subtly wrap your hand around your dagger in his jacket’s pocket. When his eyes drop down to your lips, you press your hand harder against his torso. Gods, he was firm.

In less than a second, all injuries in Dean’s body were cured. Even the gash on his side. He looks up at you in surprise, and you swiftly take a step back, dagger in hand. You let out a dreamy giggle, taking a step towards Sam and pressing a finger to the tip of his nose, making a little “boop” sound and curing him instantly too.

You take another little jump back, facing both brothers as you brush your hair behind your shoulder and dangle the dagger between your slender fingers. With one last giggle, you wink at Dean.

“See you later, boys.”

You disappear in a cloud of pastel pink smoke, leaving behind a smell of caramel and red velvet cake.

And you knew you were gonna see them again. After all, you had a soft spot for pretty things.

[olderthannetfic]

would putting a fictional character through real life awful events (something on the news, an article, famous tragedy etc) "allowed" or would that be too far?

No disrespect at all, genuine question. Was curious to how these things work

--

Allowed? By whom? The fiction police?

This is a stupid way to frame this. Big names write distasteful Two White People Fall In Love Against A Backdrop of Brown Tragedy all the fucking time. Plenty of these things are critically acclaimed and/or financially successful.

Whether you personally should make art about a real life tragedy is a personal judgment call. It's about whether it's in good taste and whether it's kind, not whether it's allowed.

A common rule of thumb is to look at how recent something is. The more recent, the more tasteless. Another is to think about how much you "own" the real life events in question. If it's lockdown, lots of us experienced that. If you personally lost someone in tragedy X, you have something of a claim on it. Another way people look at this is to ask whether the art needs to be about that tragedy and whether it's doing something productive culturally and politically for the people most related to that tragedy.

It's fine to make art about horrible things from real life.

It's usually considered pretty rude to use horrible things from real life as a disposable backdrop for relationship angst between your blorbos.

--

To pick a real example, Memories of Murder launched Bong Joon Ho to international fame. It's directly about that famous unsolved (at the time) serial killer case that like 90% of Korean crime dramas are riffing off of. The film is all about police brutality and incompetence and the emotional devastation of everyone around the case, from the survivors to the police themselves. The sexual violence isn't shown on screen.

The director commented that he was partly addressing the film to the unknown murderer, and that's why it ends with that character looking into the screen.

This film is massively influential. I'm pretty sure half of the cinematography choices in Beyond Evil are lifted directly from it. People are generally cool with it because it was grappling with something significant to Korean culture, not just doing disaster tourism elsewhere, and because it wasn't luridly obsessed with filming the actual crimes.

Other Korean dramas and films tend to fictionalize the case. Having a similar but fictional set of crimes gives them more artistic latitude and less of a responsibility to the victims.

--

The Battle of Algiers was made by an Italian guy, but nobody cares. It's an unflinching look at French brutality and is pretty clearly on the side of the Algerians even if it also humanizes the French characters and some of the bystanders getting blown up in the quest for freedom. (The director claimed it was neutral, which it is, comparatively, but...)

It's shot in a highly realistic style and does not sensationalize. Many of the actors are non professionals who lived through the real events.

The upshot is that it is considered important political art with a right to tell that story.

--

On the other hand, The Last Face faced massive criticism for being about the feeeeelings of two foreign aid workers against a backdrop of African suffering that the film didn't really engage with or seem to care about. I've only seen part of one cut of the film, but what I saw was pretty dire in a noble savage way. Some white guy was talking about how ~inspirational~ this woman was for still dancing after gruesome sexual violence. She's barely a character. She's just there so he can be inspired. It's the kind of art that gets made by outsiders with their heads up their asses.

There have been several cases of contentious fanfics with a similar premise: The OTP falls in love while helping with the disaster in [Haiti/Africa/wherever].

The key ingredients for failing and getting yelled at vs. succeeding are:

How good are your art skills? The better the art, the easier it is to get a pass.

Was the art actually about the tragedy, or is the tragedy set dressing for a story that could have happened anywhere?

Is this story that could have happened anywhere also something frivolous and fun like a romance, albeit an angsty one? The lighter the subject matter and aim of the art, the harder it is to get away with a real world tragedy setting.

Is this your tragedy? Are you processing something that happened in your community or to you personally? (For example, if you lost someone in the Pulse shooting, I'd count that as your tragedy, but if you were one of the endless whiny US queer kids flailing about it for a year while ignoring a million other tragedies that happened to older, less hot people despite living across the country and knowing none of the victims, I would not.)

--

How these things work depends heavily on the cultural forces in play. Are you from a rich country and writing insensitively about a tragedy in a poor one? x1000 if you're from a country that formerly colonized the site of the tragedy. Do you actually understand the tragedy you're writing about? Are you a good enough writer that your writing feels nuanced when you mean it to?

I really cannot emphasize this enough: the better you are at your craft, the more likely that a terrible, never-do-this idea will work just fine. I fucking love The Ice House and ship the leads despite it starting with a douchebag male cop harassing a "lesbian". The book is 1. good and 2. by a woman. The TV version stars Daniel Craig at his most subtle. On paper, this cop character should not be able to come back from such an inauspicious start, but it works. Every friend I've recced it to is like "There is no way!" and then ends up shipping it too.

The "rules" work differently if you're just that good.

No one is "allowed" or "not allowed". It's more about whether you'll upset people with a closer tie to the bad real world thing you're using...

But even then, some people will always be over-sensitive princesses who think only they have a claim on some topic when you actually have every right to it too. There will always be an outlier who finds some art offensive that everyone else from their same demographic thinks is great.

--

As a general rule of thumb, I would not use a real and recent tragedy/natural disaster/etc. as the backdrop for a fanfic about the OTP getting together. Just make up a fake earthquake or plane crash.

This is not something you must do: it's just something that tends to be in better taste.

If you're writing historical fiction about events at least 300 years old, people generally do not care what you do as long as it isn't glaringly offensive about colonialism or something.

If you're making political art about the real world, you probably need the real event in there with all its connotations and nuance.

--

Everything is allowed, anon. But can you take the heat?

[hell-fm]

As someone who is NOT touch-averse and moreso sex-favorable or sex-neutral (depending on my hormone level) and still discovering themselves when it comes to what my needs and wants in life are even though I am in my mid30s, I find The Ace Discourse around Alastor very stressful and unhelpful.

How both ends of this discourse talk about it and choose to portray Alastor feels very black and white to me, when that doesn’t reflect my experiences of romance and sex at all. And by this I don’t mean that theres a valid way of doing it and a nonvalid way of doing it. I think it’s more about how I would love people to understand relationships the way I see them and to explore the literal grey areas there.

I guess at some point we as a community need to spell the problems out, so I’ll try..,,

I think the biggest issue here mostly is that plenty of ppl who are ace and even sex-repulsed irl feel attraction to fictional characters and in many such cases that character is Alastor, they want to see him fuck or get fucked. So they like sexual and romantic content with him and try to write him to be demiromantic or sex-favorable or both or whatever else… and that is very valid and fair, because that does reflect the reality of many aroace people. Sometimes people completely erase the nuances there for the sake of smut and romance and I do not particularly like that, but I also lowkey just don’t care? My personal mantra after many years of being a messy fandom bitch is don’t like don’t read. People who like sexual and romantic content with Alastor often say they experience harassment from others who are lowkey just homophobic but use the fact that Alastor is ace as a reason to verbally attack them or threaten to dox them. The claim here is that those people are always allos, which I don’t think is necessarily true. However, I definitely have seen allos do this.

Other aces who are sex-repulsed even in fiction see Alastor as sex-repulsed and romance-repulsed ( I don’t even think theyre wrong at all, that is a very accurate observation from what you see in canon) and get annoyed because so much content with Alastor doesn’t reflect that at all. And that is also a very valid thing to be upset about! It is very unfortunate that Alastor is one of the few ace characters that fans get at all and he happens to be the most shipped guy. I understand why that is annoying, upsetting and feels unfair. I just also think that to claim the problem are allos and this is how allos mistreat ace representation not only erases aroace ppl who are Alastor shippers, but also conflates fanmade, transgressive content with the show. I just don’t think it’s healthy to get mad at people for liking the blorbo differently, especially considering that the ace spectrum is actually fairly wide and thus includes many, many different forms of handling sex and relationships and there simply isn’t just one way to represent it.

The issue here is getting into The Discourse about it, because it wont lead anywhere. Hence why people usually recommend that everyone stays in their lane, which I think is the startest thing you can do. At the end of the day it often seems like semantics to me anyways. One group claims *they said drawing Alastor smut is wrong because he is ace, but ace people can fuck!!!* and the other group claims *Claiming that it’s wrong to say this character is sex-repulsed because some ace people fuck is stupid!!!* and I think both are right. I just think you need to agree to disagree on this one, my dudes. Theres literally no way around it.

However, interestingly what oftentimes falls flat here is the most underrepresented form of aroace realities in fandom, which is the *somewhere in between*. The Alastor that I rarely see in fanfics or fanart, the one who fucks not for sexual pleasure, but to gain something. Or to be entertained. Or out of a masochistic of even sadistic desire. Or to form bonds, to maintain a relationship.

Point 1: sex-favorable doesn’t necessarily mean demisexual. And this is where it gets tricky.

I feel like many aces who maybe are younger, or have always been aware of being ace and/or who grew up with the identity labels maybe can’t imagine sex to be anything but something you consent to with great enthusiasm and desire for sexual pleasure. Many people who are so indifferent to sex or even repulsed by it consider this the only valid form of consent, because that is the line they would never cross. The problem just is that this is not what it’s like for many sex-favorable aces.

Point 2: Sexual attraction is not the same as a libido. You can be ace and not feel sexual attraction, but have a functioning libido

The reason why Heat/Rut works so well as a trope for aces who ship Alastor is because sometimes that is what it feels like for us. Hormonal fluctuations causing your body to seek out sexual stimulation while you personally really wouldnt know who to go to for it, because arousal is just a bodily reaction to you, not something that you want to happen. This might be confusing for many allos, because they also have a concept of difference between attraction and libido, but it’s important to point out that aces experience NO attraction. Or in the case of demisexuals, just very little attraction. Many aces experience attraction to concepts or if they are sexually experienced, they might have physical Pavlovian responses. But there’s no day to day attraction to people in the same way allos experience it.

Point 3: sex-neutrality and the problem if seeing sex as either inherently positive or inherently negative

Something I find myself relating to the most is a very neutral relationship to sex and I feel like that it something I never be talked about online. Not in fandom, not on Instagram. It feels like being a unicorn because if you are not either avoiding sex like the plague or enthusiastically consenting, you are not able to consent to sex somehow.

Idk if this has to do with people either never having had sex, or only having bad experiences or being a young allo and not understanding that sex is more than just plap plap plap uhn uhn SPLOURCH, but there’s a lot of reasons to have sex with someone CONSENSUALLY without it being about sexual pleasure. In my personal experience, I found the physical connection during sex very unique and powerful, it feels like a very neutral way of connecting to someone. It is very hard to explain with words, but I think it’s mostly about trust building and getting to know your partner physically in the most intimate way possible. Especially aces who arent aro often say this is why they have sex. It’s not something they need, but it’s about counting freckles, smiling at each other and feeling skin and just intimacy in general.

Having peaked into a few texts about psychoanalysis makes you realize that both allos and aces have sex for many reasons other than just sexual attraction.

In less romantic cases, ppl have sex because they enjoy the power dynamic, sometimes it’s to get your mind off of other things or because it’s a means to an end. Maybe even because you enjoy the vulnerability. Some people have sex because they think it’s just what you do, even if you technically don’t have to do it. And none of these scenarios happen nonconsensually to these people, because they just don’t think much of it and sex isn’t a big deal to them. That is the Definition of being sex-neutral. It’s also why some sex workers are ace and only find this out about themselves when they stop sex work and realize they don’t really miss having sex at all, but also don’t feel particularly bad about having done it.

Point 4: Aces love kink

I could write an entire essay about being ace and BDSM, this is still one of these topics where theres so much ressources online and people still get surprised when you tell them about it, but I already spend a lot of time on this post and would like to either never talk about this or maybe make a big post sometime in the future when people least expect it.

But just so you know: BDSM isn’t about sex, sex can play a role in it and does so for many people, but especially no-touch domsub, bondage, sadism and masochism can be activities that happen without sex being ever a part of it. Not even an afterthought.

I have read quite a few fanfics where any of these 4 points were explored with Alastor and I think it would do good for people to consider these options more for cool and interesting dynamics that are more unusual, especially considering the specifically weird flavor of Alastor. But at the end of the day people can write whatever they want and it’s not my business. If this post reaches even just one person and they feel like they gained new insights, that’s a win for me!

[clairewritesfanfics]

Omg I love how you write Mark and his variants!

Okay I may or may not have dived into a deep hole of neglected batfam reader so is it okay if I request for reader to happen to just find an escape through a Angstrom portal that appeared randomly in her bedroom, so just peace out and was transported into the Invincible universe where she met Mark (and his variants), fall in love and told him about how horrible her family is.

Only for him to find a way to open up a portal to her world (this is mostly goes for the variants instead main mark), and caused havoc on the DC world and reader has to stop him, confront her family and leave to her new home with him

Author's Note: My last request! (technically, it's not) YAHOO. And my first Batfam fanfic.

Your Character Settings: AFAB, daughter of Bruce Wayne and an unknown woman

“Would like seconds, miss?” Alfred asked after you finished your meal. 

Tonight's dinner was a hefty serving of tomato and basil spaghetti. Before you moved in with the Waynes, your meals were usually jam and bread or a cup of instant noodles. The old you would have eaten as much as you were allowed. The old you would have gotten angry at you for not asking for another serving. But you weren't living paycheck to paycheck on a cashier's salary anymore. 

“I'm fine,” you answered the butler. You glanced around the long table. Alfred said it was improper for servants to dine with the masters of the home, so you ate alone again. You didn't know why you felt upset. Even after months of the same routine, your disappointment continued to fill half your stomach. 

“Very well. Tonight's dessert is a chocolate ganache cake served with black tea. I take it that you will be having your slice in your room?”

You smiled.

“I’ll have it upstairs in fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you.”

“I hope this time you actually answer the door. I don’t mind leaving the food outside but tea should be appreciated hot.”

“I’m sorry, you know how it is when I get in the zone.”

“How many words did you write today?”

You beamed. “Exactly two thousand just this morning. I’m hoping to get another thousand before midnight.”

“I hope you do, maybe you can finally start waking up before noon.”

You laughed, standing up from your seat.

Alfred was the only one in this entire mansion to actually hold full conversations with you. 

Dear old dad was always away on business trips. Your younger half-brother Damian never uttered a word to you, only regarded you with disdain and walked away before introductions were over. Tim was polite enough to nod in greeting–when he was lucid, which was seldom the case every time you saw him. Dick was nice, he smiled and made small talk when he was around, but you can count on one hand the number of times he was at the manor, or in Gotham in general.

You had another brother. His photos were rare, finding one was like finding an Easter egg. On the outside, he was no different from the others with his black hair and blue eyes, and from what you’ve seen of him, he could be blood-related to Dick. But Alfred said that Jason was an orphan, too. 

Little Jason, always smiling brightly in every image you found. He died years before you arrived here. You liked to pretend that he would be exactly what you wished for when Mister Wayne invited you to live with the family: a kind, present and supportive older brother.

You doubt it was healthy to project such feelings on not just a ghost but a stranger’s ghost, but pretending to have someone care beyond the bare minimum helped you adjust to your life as a Wayne kid. 

Alfred let you borrow books from Jason’s room and you made a point to treat every novel with care and refused to fold the pages or write on them. Jason really loved romance books and happily ever afters, and reading his collection inspired to take up writing. Hobbies were a luxury you couldn’t afford while juggling two part-time jobs, but now you had all the time in the world.

You stared at your monitor. Did you jinx yourself earlier?

You’ve hit a wall for today’s chapter.

The insertion point blinked mockingly at you. 

You only needed a thousand more words. That’s child’s play, but whatever you typed did not meet your standards, even for a first draft. 

You checked the time.

You’ve been sitting here for ten minutes. Usually, you’ll be typing like crazy the moment your butt was on the chair.

You plopped your elbows on your desk and squeezed your cheeks, an exasperated sigh leaving your mouth.

Ten minutes feels like forever when you’re trying to start something important.

Maybe a sugar boost will help.

Just as you thought of this, you overheard movement outside. 

Smiling, you rushed to open the door. 

“I was beginning to think you forgot about me–” 

Your lips twitched as you were greeted by the sight of Damian and Tim, holding a comically large mug of coffee. They were quarreling when your sudden appearance caught them off guard. 

“Hi.”

Damian’s lips pursed and he grumbled something under his breath.

“It’s rare to see you guys here,” you said plainly.

Tim laughed awkwardly. “I guess so.”

“Did you eat dinner already?”

“I–”

Damian pushed his back. “Let’s go, Drake, we’re busy.”

“Right, um, sorry–” Tim threw you an apologetic smile “–see you around.”

You smiled back as politely as you could. “See you.” There was no point in getting offended, you were the oldest one in this hallway and you were too exhausted to feel angry.

You watched Damian nudge Tim even farther away until they disappeared from view. 

Shaking your head softly, you stepped back inside your room and shut the door. You weren’t a warm person, but you didn’t have a family before. It was always just you bouncing between foster homes and sleeping in dumpsters when you had no other choice. You had no one to fall back on, and you were prepared to live the rest of your life like that, because what other choice was there? 

But then Mister Wayne arrived in the 24-hour mart while you worked the graveyard shift. Dingy apartments with creepy neighbors were replaced with a Gilded Age mansion. Hours spent on your feet catering to all sorts of customers became days of ennui (you learned that word from one of Jason’s books). Sodium-loaded canned and instant foods were now sodium-loaded fancy meals. You were grateful, and while it hurt not to have the family you’ve always dreamed of, you can deal with the wall between you as long as you never had to go back to being actually alone. 

You returned to your desk. The blinking line on the word document continued mocking you.

You reached for the latest novel you borrowed from Jason’s personal collection, A Little Princess, and flipped back to where you stopped yesterday, at Chapter Four: Lottie. 

“Things happen to people by accident," she used to say. "A lot of nice accidents have happened to me. It just HAPPENED that I always liked lessons and books, and could remember things when I learned them. It just happened that I was born with a father who was beautiful and nice and clever, and could give me everything I liked. Perhaps I have not really a good temper at all, but if you have everything you want and everyone is kind to you, how can you help but be good-tempered? I don't know"—looking quite serious—"how I shall ever find out whether I am really a nice child or a horrid one. Perhaps I'm a HIDEOUS child, and no one will ever know, just because I never have any trials.”

You paused. You haven’t read A Little Princess before, but you’ve seen the film multiple times because one of your foster mothers adored it.

Family? Love? They were nice, but you didn’t need them. 

It was true that you were Bruce Wayne’s illegitimate kid and he took you in out of a sense of responsibility. You weren’t a child anymore, far from it, most people your age are in college while you just finished your GED. You haven’t spoken with Mister Wayne about university and frankly, you were too scared; what would he or the others think? Would they think you were getting too greedy?

Pride and dreams were reserved for people who can afford them. You may share Bruce’s blood but it was clear that he loved his sons more, regardless of their origin. 

Food, shelter–money, that’s what you needed, and the Waynes gave it to you. You had no right to complain or wish for more. You didn’t want to reach for the sun only to end up getting burned. 

You were about to continue reading when a green light illuminated your eyes. You looked away from the page and saw a green hole forming on the floor, right in front of the door. A faint shearing sound accompanied its undulating outline as it grew bigger. 

You set down the book and walked closer. You can see a different place inside the emerald ring. This wasn’t some hole, it was a portal. 

Honestly, not the weirdest thing for a Gothamite. 

Still though…

Against all common sense, you knelt down and glanced inside. You were usually smarter than this, not to toot your own horn, but your intelligence is what kept you alive in Gotham for all these years; however, something about this portal called out to you. You dipped one hand inside. 

The air was warmer than it was in your room. 

You were going to pull back when–

knock, knock 

“Miss?”

You yelped, caught off guard and lost your balance–you fell straight into the portal.

Main Mark

He was doing his usual routine, flying around, helping people and preventing city-destroying disasters when he heard your screaming and caught you just in time.

You thanked him and asked if you could please take you back to Gotham.

He raised his eyebrows at you. “What’s Gotham?”

“Crap.”

You both figured out that you were on a parallel Earth and he offered to let you stay with him until you found a way back.

Debbie was a sweetheart. She was super understanding and kind and you imprinted on her instantly. You didn’t want to be a burden so you helped maintain the house and cooked for them. 

Mark fell in love with you, because of course, he did. He found himself getting more and more excited to finish his missions early just so he can come home to your smile. You liked him, too, you didn’t know if it was love, but when he found the courage to ask you out you agreed, hoping that maybe you’ll learn.

It was a relatively simple love story, world-hopping aside. You and Mark were friends first who soon became soulmates. You didn’t mind that he missed dates and you kept yourself busy helping Debbie as a real estate agent. 

You supported Mark throughout his struggles, listened to his problems and comforted him when he was in pain. In turn, he taught you how to love, and maybe more importantly, how to be loved. He surprised you with gifts–nothing big but always extraordinary–like daisies he found while flying over the countryside or a bracelet that reminded him of you. He always asked if you were hungry or thirsty before going to get his own snack, and even when you said no he’d return with your own food and drink. He looked at you that made you unable to look at him, he made you shy in the best way possible. He was everything you didn’t know you wanted. 

***

When a portal appeared again, it wasn’t green, it was gold–and the men on the other side didn’t hesitate when they jumped into Mark’s universe. 

They weren’t violent, but they were not nice. Invincible got into a fight with the tiny one in red and green. The “hero” who called himself Nightwing was friendly, but Mark could tell he was on edge like the rest of them.

“We’re looking for a girl,” Nightwing said, flashing a holographic album full of your photos. Neither you nor Mark knew anything about your family’s nightly activities so your boyfriend became more suspicious of these masked heroes. 

“Why? What’s wrong with her?”

Mark could tell that everyone knew that he knew who you were, but Nightwing remained calm. “We’re not going to hurt her. It’s hard to believe since we’re basically aliens, but we just want to bring her home. Her family misses her.”

That made Mark scoff. You told him about your family. You didn’t hate them, but Mark certainly did. You were… too used to loneliness. And that pissed him off. You were amazing, you deserved nothing but warmth and your so-called family ignored you. 

He wanted nothing more than to flip these guys off with a message, “Tell her family that she’s happier here and that she doesn’t need them holding her back,” but that wasn’t his decision to make. 

“I know her,” Invincible said. “I’ll tell her about you guys, but if she says she doesn’t want to come back, you leave her alone. Got that?”

“That–”

“No,” Batman said firmly. “She’s coming back. She needs her family.”

Mark’s eye twitched, but he kept his cool. “We’ll see.”

“I can’t believe it,” you muttered, gripping tightly on your copy of Pride and Prejudice like it was a stress ball.

Mark had been late for date night, no biggie, so you spent the evening reading a novel on your TBR list. When he came back from patrol, his whole body was tense, his face solemn when he pulled off his mask. He then joined you at the table and explained what happened.

“Talk to me, baby. What’re you thinking about?” He asked, placing a grounding hand over your cold fingers.

You let go of the book and squeezed his hand. “I’m not sure. After a year, I was sure that I’d be here forever–and I would’ve been okay–happy with that, but now…”

“I know.” He thumbed your knuckles. “What’re you going to do? Are you..”

Were you planning to go back?

“I don’t know.” You looked into his eyes. “What should I do, Mark?”

He wanted to grab you by the shoulders and beg you to open your eyes. You were miserable back in Gotham. You were better off here, with him. 

But instead, he cradled both of your hands between his and he smiled. “I can’t tell you what to do, only that I’ll support you no matter what.”

Main Mark is the only one who will step aside if you decide to return and fix your relationship with your family. It will hurt. And he will crack when it’s time to say goodbye; he’ll pull you into his arms and beg you to stay with him, but if you have made up your mind, he won’t force you otherwise. 

His variants aren’t so selfless. Omni, Head Cap, Maskless, No Goggles and Full Mask won’t even bother telling you about the portal appearing, intent on keeping you by their side. 

Flaxan, Target and Viltrumite Mark would have already whisked you away from Earth and it would take a while before the Bats found you. 

Mohawk, Prisoner, Shiesty and Sinister will tell you about the portal and the foreign superheroes that have come for you and plead with you not to leave–and this is after they’ve decided to pick a fight with Batman and crew.

a/n:

Hi anon, I’m sorry this took so long but I knew that if I opened this door to DC I'll end up fawning over Jason and get distracted (and I was right). You’re my last request (technically no but I'm still not prepared to share Shiesty's origin story), but YAYYYY 

Also, I know that anon specified that the Bats were horrible to Y/N, and I did try to write them like that initially, but it was hard for that scenario to fully form in my head. The Bat family is dysfunctional as heck, but I usually write about a normal, civilian YN and I can't see them being purposefully abusive to someone like that. Despite DC's many fumbles, the Bats are supposed to be good people at their core so the words just wouldn't flow. 

DON'T GET ME WRONG, considering my love for revenge stories, I do want to write about the Bats being neglectful and unintentionally awful to YN and then her waking up and realizing that she doesn't care anymore, and then she stops chasing after them, which in turn, makes them chase after her, but that's a story for another day.

Anyway, I hope you still liked it!! (I'm going to cry about Red Hood and Huntress now.)

(ˊᗜˋﾉﾉ

Disclaimer: The images used in this post do not belong to writerclaire.

Gotham City, lifted from: https://heroism.fandom.com/wiki/Gotham_City

Invincible flying, lifted from: https://gamerant.com/invincible-every-character-fate-comics/

ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ,<)~✩‧₊

MAIN MASTERLIST

Any questions for the author? Ask here.

mini masterlist for this au<<select

PS can you guess which Batboy is my favorite? LOL

[zstartrixxx]

𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒

ˡᶦᵒⁿ ᵏᵃᵐᶦⁿˢᵏ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: 𝐘𝐄𝐒 | 𝐍𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: "[...] You were the person who hugged him and pulled him away from the reality he faced every day. And that's why he loved you. [...]" 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: between heavy and distressing themes (which are particularly my favorites), we always find a little gap to write something more cute and comforting; i think that perhaps, if walter "lion" kaminski's life wasn't as fucked up as it is in the movies, or in this case, given the whole central plot of the film, he would have this little life: continuing to get beaten up by someone else? yes, but with someone who loved him and cared for him and had fun with him. anyone who watched the film will see a strong reference to the film in the middle. i was listening to "my kind of woman" by mac demarco and "amor, meu grande amor" | "love, my great love" by angela ro ro (brazilian singer, by the way i recommend looking for the english translation of the entire song!!!) while i was writing this piece, it gave the whole function a vibe. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: established relationship; it's pure fluff (maybe a lil bit of angst & melancholy) but I SWEAR that in this one there is more joy, happiness, a warm heart, love and passion, to lighten a busy and full day, idk... long live the magical world of fanfics, right!? 𝐖𝐂: +2k  for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

𝖫𝖨𝖮𝖭 𝖪𝖠𝖬𝖨𝖭𝖲𝖪𝖨 𝖯𝖫𝖠𝖸𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳 | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳

"see me in your eyes, on my washed face. come to me without knowing, if i am fire or if i am water." (love, my great love, angela ro ro.) | listen this song when starts in the fic.

"What's this nasty bruise on your face?"

Lion lifted those gentle, doe-like eyes to you through the shadows, his expression lost as his hands tightened on the car's steering wheel. You stared back with questioning eyes, your hands reaching to cradle his face still damp from when you'd dashed through the drizzle to his car. Past six already, the sun long set in this season—your favorite season of icy winds, hot chocolate, and nights wrapped together under blankets, toes touching, breathing the same warm air while listening to the rain outside.

He gave a strained smile, suppressing all the emotions blooming inside him as your fingers inspected the fresh three-stitch wound above his eyebrow—still raw and stinging from tonight's fight.

In the car's muted lighting, your faces illuminated by the red and blue neon from the 24-hour laundromat and Chinese restaurant next door, everything felt abstract and disconnected from reality to Lion. You glowed under those flickering colored lights, eyes wide with worldly concern, that telltale bite of your lower lip he knew meant: 'You're hurt bad, Lion—I told you to be careful!' even though you knew asking a fighter to be careful was pointless. With a delicate shake of his head, Lion gently removed your hand from his forehead, giving it a soft squeeze:

"It's nothing, my love. Just the spoils of victory."

"So you won?" You exhaled deeply, relaxing your tense body into the Kaminski brothers' car—a vintage 1970 Impala, outrageously red with a black top; obviously older brother Stan's choice who loved "classy, elegant things"—in other words, anything that would make God and the whole world take notice. Lion nodded, digging into the pocket of his dark sweatpants that still carried the fresh citrus scent of his post-fight shower, his bangs slightly damp at the tips. He pulled out a wad of cash—a roll of hundred-dollar bills—flashing a genuinely proud smile. But all you could see were his reddened, slightly swollen knuckles. His voice grew more animated:

"Got extra for the knockout this time. Thought we might celebrate or something. What do you think?"

You studied him head to toe—his shy beauty, that characteristic gap-toothed smile with small lateral incisors between the central ones and canines, his eager yet serene violet-hued eyes (tinted red from the outside lights) waiting for your answer. How could you possibly refuse him?

"Sounds perfect! Any place in mind?"

"No... Wanted you to choose. Anywhere's fine with me."

"Hmm—" You nibbled your index finger, watching raindrops slide down the windshield, people moving about in the laundromat—just another ordinary rainy Thursday. Arms crossed: "—honestly I don't want typical rainy-day stuff. Want something different."

"Like what, rainy-day stuff?" he asked, genuinely curious, leaning back in his seat and pocketing his fight earnings, absently scratching at a healing bruise on his cheekbone on the same side as his stitches.

"Oh, you know... Like going to a restaurant or grocery shopping, loading up on snacks and staying in. I want something different..."

"Grocery run sounds nice actually, loading up on snacks, staying in bed..."

"But didn't you just tell me to choose?!" You barely contained your laughter, jabbing a thumb at yourself while Lion shrugged his narrow shoulders beneath his navy blue sweatshirt. You rolled your eyes:

"So indecisive," you teased, mentally scrolling through locations you'd texted him about (messages he'd seen but never replied to). He preferred his laptop—watching endless fight videos or just sitting across from you with Ash in his lap, silently watching you talk for hours. That quiet kindness that made you feel so loved.

Then it came to you, the perfect place.

-`♡´-

"When you said party, I didn't know you meant a senior citizens' dance," Lion whispered in your ear, his calloused hand enveloping yours as you guided him into the familiar bar-restaurant. You laughed over your shoulder:

"This was my grandma's favorite spot. They've got great music."

An 80s synth track played as Lion sniffed the air—fried food, mothballs and something sweet he couldn't place. The space allowed for dancing between scattered tables, with deflated balloons clinging to the ceiling and few patrons—unsurprising for a rainy Thursday. You stopped mid-floor, feeling him hover behind you like an obedient puppy, eyes full of contentment just being near you. Your movements so synchronized that when you tugged his hand forward, Lion immediately enveloped you in a hug, kissing your cheek:

"So what now? Stand here? Get a table? Talk about our day?"

"No, I want to do something else." Your decisive tone carried you to the wall-mounted jukebox, its yellowed lights glowing as Lion's eyebrows rose in curiosity.

At the vintage machine, you scanned the extensive playlist–rockabilly to blues–when Lion's finger tapped the glass, leaving condensation streaks as he pointed. You read aloud:

"'Yes Sir, I Can Boogie' — seriously?!" You turned to see his mischievous smirk. Your grin matched his sincerity as he pulled a worn wallet from his pocket, feeding coins into the machine above you:

"Baccara it is."

"Let's boogie-oogie!" you sang, pressing the selection as the machine whirred. Wrapped in each other's arms, you waited for the first notes. Facing him, still holding those scarred yet impossibly gentle hands, you started swaying as Lion stepped back toward the dance floor. The synth beats swelled around you as you half-sang, half-whispered:

"Mister, your eyes are full of hesitation—" You pointed playfully as Lion crossed his arms, tapping his foot to the bass. Shoulders shimmying, you continued: "Sure makes me wonder... If you know what you're looking for." One eyebrow arched in challenge. Lion's radiant smile warmed you as he stepped closer while you sang: "Baby, I wanna keep my reputation!" Just as his hands found your waist, spinning you back against him, hips swaying together as he joined in: "I'm a sensation; You try me once, you'll beg for more..."

"Ready for the chorus, love?" you asked, shoulders rolling as Lion's hands gripped them, the music swelling into that elegant, sophisticated refrain that made your whole body thrum. Your voices merged:

"Oh, Yes Sir, I can boogie! But I need a certain song. I can boogie, boogie woogie all night long!"

"Clap now!" Lion laughed as you faced each other, nearly shouting the repeating chorus, moving like shadows of your weekend living room dance sessions. Lion danced surprisingly well—maybe from boxing flexibility, or that magic hidden beneath his rough exterior: a soul that loved music, dared to hope, and craved gentle touches to his wounded hands, slow kisses on bruises, and long protective hugs.

Seeing him this happy—despite the fight's damage, the fresh wound above his eye, the exhaustion of predawn runs—yet always waiting for you with open arms, made you realize his importance in your life. Your heart swelled with that syrupy, almost suffocating love—passion glowing in your eyes for this tender, reserved man who looked at you not just with desire, but devotion. He cherished your rambling, your silly jokes, your dances, even your arguments with Stan. And you reciprocated by keeping him close—in your lap, your gaze, your kisses.

He accepted it all with equal patience and longing—whether sitting together on the Impala's hood in comfortable silence (your souls conversing without words), or returning battered from fights, bloodied but peaceful knowing you'd be home waiting—worried but tender, tending wounds while exchanging secrets in those intimate moments of shared blood, sweat, tears and pure love.

Now Walter looked into your eyes, laughing as he pulled you close. Beyond the adrenaline rush, you felt warmth spreading—from dancing and from overwhelming affection.

When the song ended, he kissed you breathless—all laughter and panting lips:

"Still the best dancer."

"Silly—" Your retort was cut off by his teeth nipping your lower lip, his burning gaze, those inseparable hands. The hug that followed fit perfectly, his fingers carding through your hair before pressing a kiss to your forehead—a seal of peace, love, serenity, everything he could give.

"Wanna dance to another?" he murmured into your hair between kisses. You squeezed him tighter, feeling your heartbeats synchronize through layers of clothing—alive and happy. Smiling into his embrace like a nest, you answered:

"Wanna get out of here." Tilting your head up, noses brushing. Lion smiled, wincing slightly when his eyebrows lifted—making you both laugh. His voice was sweet as his gaze:

"Let's blow this joint then!"

-`♡´-

"Maybe, maybe, maybe..." you mused absently. Lion watched with topaz eyes as he chewed his burger. The diner's yellow lighting created an intimate, cozy atmosphere—warm enough that you'd both shed your jackets. Lion wore his favorite white shirt with green details—the one he loved almost as much as Ash and you. When you trailed off, Lion finished your thought:

"Maybe you should quit that shitty job and chase your dreams? If so, I fully support that." He sipped his Coke Zero, the straw's gurgle filling your little bubble. You pouted, elbow on the vinyl table, chin in hand:

"But is it the right time? I don't want to rush..."

"No. Focus on your studies – I'll cover us. This stuff matters, and the last thing I want is you regretting missed chances. Besides..." He set down his half-eaten burger, straightening in the booth, arms at his sides, smiling tenderly:

"...more than anything, I want to see you as the happiest woman alive."

"You're not real," you melted, reaching for his hand, thumb tracing those thin scars. Lion gazed back, honey-sweet and melancholy under the golden light—like a gilded idol with his rattail hair, completely relaxed, embracing you with just his eyes.

His serene reply:

"I'm real. For you."

-`♡´-

That night seemed endless—though in truth, only fifteen minutes remained until midnight would usher in Friday. The empty streets became their private world, their bodies moving in perfect synchrony: right-left, right-left. Two hearts beating as one, breaths mingling, intoxicated by each other's scent. Lion's voice vibrated beside you, languidly outlining tomorrow's plans—a habitual ritual as natural as saying good morning. He listed fight preparations, tailoring work, then dared to voice his growing desire to join your life's abrupt changes. To start anew. Together, they harbored that hopeful yearning to escape their current world, to build something different, to end their days dancing.

Ahead, the red Impala waited. The air grew colder, prompting Lion to draw you closer. He opened your door, circled the car, and settled beside you. Silence enveloped them—comfortable, familiar. Their breaths intertwined. When their eyes met, Lion became your mirror: his blue eyes reflecting your soul, yours the shelter he sought daily. As natural as breathing, he cupped your cheek, fingers threading through your hair, tracing the warmth of your neck before drawing you into a kiss.

And he kissed you—deeply, hungrily. Inhaled you. Mapped your lips with his tongue. Cradled your face like something precious. Foreheads touching afterward, they exchanged fragile smiles, breaths heavy. Lion felt that sudden, overwhelming urge to cry—the kind that ambushed him at random moments. You held him firmly between your hands.

"I love you."

Your voices merged into a single echo. Slowly, you pulled back, smiling like someone who already had everything they needed. Leaning against the seat, you watched him with tenderness. Outside, the rain—briefly paused—returned in delicate droplets against the windows. Nestled against the door, your eyelids grew heavy with sleep.

And Lion watched you, his heart compressed beneath his ribs—so small, so overwhelmed with love. Was there ever a man who could love someone more than this? His lips pressed into a tight smile. Fingers absently tracing the bruise on his cheek, he relaxed his shoulders and simply admired you—his sanctuary—as you drifted into dreams.

"I hope you dream of me, princess...", he murmured, removing his hoodie to cover you, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. When he returned to his seat, he took a deep breath - the rain was getting heavier. He turned on the radio, lowering the volume—according to the host, it was already early Friday morning—and the sleep he'd been holding onto hours earlier, while waiting for you to finish work, had simply vanished. He sat there motionless, staring ahead, certain you were by his side, sleeping.

Lion felt so many things immersed in that moment.

It was a love so anguished it hurt his chest, yet at the same time calmed his frantic mind and chased away all fears of the future. It was his truth submerged among so many daily challenges, lost fights, spit blood. You were the person who hugged him and pulled him away from the reality he faced every day. And that's why he loved you.

He loved you so much that he could see that blessed light at the end of the tunnel with you by his side.

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: all we want (and deserved) it's to be loved like this.

[lieran03]

Raising Their Voice

Love and Deepspace Fanfic

The usual calm and soft men who never raise their voice suddenly did so in front of you, and that's only to protect you

Genre: fluff/slice of life Pairing: Rafayel x fem!reader (usage of Cutie as nickname) Words: 1618 Warning: none!

Writing commission || Ko-fi || AO3 acc

Xavier's || Zayne's || Sylus' || Caleb's

Based on THIS request

“Cutie, what do you mean you wanted me to shout at you? Why do you want me to speak harshly to you?”

Hearing Rafayel’s tantrum, a low chuckle can be heard from the girl who lay on his sofa, watching as the man who was busy perfecting his brush stroke stops his action the moment she spoke up her request. Unknown where the thoughts came from, Rafayel could only guess what his Cutie had been going on about to make her has the courage to voice it out.

“It’s just … when you speak Lemurian, I thought it sounded both sexy and attractive. I just wonder if the same response would be there when I heard you raising your voice. All this time, you always speak to me nicely, or just … well, pampering me.”

“I do raise my voice now and then.” Rafayel has now forgotten about his work and put his attention fully on the girl who also sits up straight.

A nod was given before she said, “Yes, and it was towards Thomas. Either because you couldn’t finish your painting at the right time, or when you’re dissatisfied with his work, or how he arranged your exhibition. But that’s not raising voice, no, I don’t think it was.”

Tons of questions filled Rafayel’s mind. He wanted to understand the reason behind her request, the real reason why she thinks his shouting voice was attractive. Searching through her expression, Rafayel decided to let a low sigh before leaving his work. All of his creativity has left his mind, replaced with a way to make his Cutie feel better.

“No matter how much you wanted it, Cutie, I wouldn’t ever raise my voice to you. if that moment ever happened, or if I ever scold you in any way, you’re free to slap me.” Rafayel’s body plopped onto her lap, seeking warmth and comfort. Once he felt her hands start to play with his hair, he finally looked up and stared with a puppy eye. “But, please, don’t hit me too hard or use your Hunter power, Miss Bodyguard.”

The conversation was quick to drop, and both Rafayel and she didn’t have the heart to torture the other more. From the start, it was supposed to be an easy conversation, nothing demanding, and not some request needed to be fulfilled. It’s easy to be forgotten to the point Rafayel could finish his last painting for his current exhibition.

The night came with Rafayel, who made her follow him to the exhibition, dress chosen by him. almost all night, Rafayel didn’t let her wander off from his sight. She also never really escape from his grasp, keeping him around her waist and said to look around in case there were some bad people tries to kill him when they’re not looking.

It was a lie. Rafayel did not need a bodyguard to be around him all the time, he even find it disturbing at first. He just wanted people to see—and know—how close he is with a woman, which mean he’s not available with others who are pursuing him. This is the only way for him to say that he was taken without having to make an announcement to the public about his relationship.

“Rafayel, there are some people who need to talk with you.” Thomas’ words came at the wrong time. While enjoying his food, after tirelessly talking with people he barely knew, it was cut off fast.

Looking at the way Thomas stares at her, she already knew that this conversation was private, meaning she didn’t and she shouldn’t join in. A light push was given towards Rafayel’s back, telling him to follow Thomas' words. It was added with how she took Rafayel’s plate, as a way to push him away. The smile on her face made Rafayel feel guilty more than ever.

“You better come back fast before I finish all your food, Fishie,” she teased, trying to lighten Rafayel’s mood.

With no way to say no, Rafayel finally gets away, grumbling at Thomas and pouting all the way to meet the important person. Being left alone with no one to talk to, the food that was supposed to be Rafayel’s was gone before she decided to look around, wanting to see once again, without an explanation coming from the artist itself.

At first, it went well and smoothly, nothing she needed to be wary of. Even without Rafayel to tell her about the painting or the story behind it, she enjoys everything and even learn slowly how each strokes bring her closer to Rafayel and his hard work. Although she didn’t know much about painting or brush strokes, seeing it all somehow made her say, it was all Rafayel. With her eyes focused on the painting, she saw nothing else around her.

Her mind was occupied when she felt someone was approaching her and speaking at the same time. It’s not the voice of someone she knows, not Rafayel or Thomas, which made her not bother to look at them. It might be someone just speaking to themselves while appreciating Rafayel’s work, which always happens.

“You’re really worth more than the painting here, did you know?” The last words were the reason her attention was finally averted.

“Yes?”

“Your beauty. It’s something that no painting here can capture. All the women pictured here didn’t stand the same as you.”

All the paintings of women by Rafayel actually describe her.

“I’m sorry, I already have someone with me.”

It was the same usual words as a cover-up, however, it’s not an entire lie. She has gone with Rafayel from the start, and even when he was supposed to entertain the guests that came to his exhibition, he could reassure Thomas that it could be done with her coming along. Whenever he was explaining the painting, his eyes would always find hers, only hers.

“Come on, it won’t work with me. I know that you didn’t. Besides, clothes like this are used to attract men. If not, why would you wear something so appealing?”

She was silent for a few seconds, trying to understand the situation. A frown finally appeared before she said, “I told you that I already have someone with me. And that person who gives these clothes to me personally. Dresses like this aren’t always used to attract … people like you.”

The situation escalated quickly. With the answer she gave, the man seems to be more frustrated than before. Words of insult came from his lips, somehow like he was trying to attract the other people who came to watch the exhibition. It’s not long before the fight has made a scene in the calm ambiance of the exhibition, Rafayel picks.

Although people have started gathering around the two, trying to understand the situation, none of them tries to separate them. While the man who comes her way points his fingers and still talks gibberish, the girl was calm and collected, trying her best not to throw punches at the man to show where he belongs.

“Would you mind?” A new voice breaks out through the fight. Upon knowing it was Rafayel, a sigh finally came from the girl, feeling glad that she didn’t need to take matters into her hands.

“Who are you …?” It’s not hard for anyone to see that it was Rafayel, the reason people were gathering there. “Ah … Rafayel.”

“What do you think you’re doing right now?” Slightly, Rafayel’s voice was raised, showing anger. “Disturbing my exhibition, and then trying to flirt with my guest … no, you’re even saying bad words about her. Do you want to be banned from the next exhibition?”

“N-no … that’s … it was her fault!” Rafayel, who already stood in front of her, trying to protect her and didn’t let him see even a strand of her hair, saw how the man was once again pointing at her and gave a glare. “She tells lies and makes me look like a bad person.”

More gibberish came once again, making Rafayel take a deep breath. “What a disgrace! A person who can't even appreciate art and make a ruckus. Thomas, ban this person the next time he ever tries to come.”

“W-wait, that’s not … then you should have banned her too! Why am I the only one to be …!”

“Enough!”

Rafayel’s shout made everyone jump, seeing another side of Rafayel. With a small pull to his elbow, the girl decided to interfere, didn’t want to make a bad impression on Rafayel, the artist. Understanding her concern, Rafayel took a deep breath before taking a small glance at her, hoping to find comfort from her.

“Thomas, take care of this.”

Not putting any more attention, Rafayel finally asked her politely—as if they were stranger—and brought her to another place. It didn’t take long before Rafayel finally found a secluded place, putting his head to her shoulder and seeking comfort.

“I’m sorry for shouting in front of you, Cutie. Now I feel really, really bad ….”

“Why would you? You’re so cool back there,” she mumbled while playing with Rafayel’s hair. “But more than that … I wanted to thank you for protecting me like that and taking things your way.”

“Well, can you believe what he said about you?! He even insulted the dress I personally picked for you!”

Holding back a laugh, she finally hugged Rafayel, burying her face to his chest. “I know, I know. He really shouldn’t have done something like that.”

“Cutie, the next time someone insults you, don’t hesitate to punch them! I will be the one responsible for it.”

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

"Appropriate" responses to the Gaiman issue

TLDR: This isn't a Rowling situation, be wary of internalized purity culture.

He's a predator. I'm glad a proper journalist followed up where police have failed (and possibly given victims a better footing for future charges).

But I have a problem with the knee-jerk responses targeting the fandom.

Just to clarify, I'm not talking about insulting The Predator. This is about how you treat people who have/do/will enjoy the stories that unfortunately came into the world through his keyboard.

Fans aren't intrinsically evil/uncaring for continuing to participate in associated fandoms.

This is not another Rowling situation. Why? Let me clarify. The consequences of consumption are very different. Rowling is ACTIVELY using her popularity and income as a creative to target one of the most vulnerable minorities in the world. Buying official merch/books/movie tickets prove to the powers that be that she remains a good investment, so they'll give her even more money. This perpetuates the cycle - new movie/book deals, more income, more hate, rinse and repeat.

The push to avoid Rowling's work in full is driven by the fact that she has FACED NO CONSEQUENCES and is still powered by her creative properties. It's fandom/consumers trying to bring justice.

Gaiman, on the other hand, knew he was doing bad shit on some level because he kept his abuse hidden. His status and reputation let him get close to vulnerable fans and essentially intimidate authorities from going after a celebrity. He is FACING CONSEQUENCES. I would personally like to see criminal charges brought against him, but that's out of the fandom's hands. Things we could've influenced (his Disney deal appears to have gone to shit, he's been booted from the truncated final season of GO, and there's no news on Sandman 3) are already in motion. If his publisher doesn't drop him, I'd say avoiding his future works is beyond valid (I certainly wouldn't buy them). But I'm going to watch the new season of Sandman. And once I've taken time away, I'll probably finish my active fics.

"Judging" people who still enjoy his work stems from good intentions that grew out of the fetid ground of purity culture rhetoric.

Writing fanfic and enjoying shows that are already made do not make people soulless accomplices. The idea that unproblematic stories by saintly creators are the only things you're allowed to enjoy is not only flirting with censorship, but it's also impossible.

If you think people should have nothing to do with Gaiman's works, you better throw out anything Weinstein touched. That includes Jackson's LOTR trilogy, FYI. Also, anything his company officially produced (which still gives him money in some cases) should never, ever grace your screen. That includes some of the better Stephen King adaptations, The Orphanage (which was a breakthrough Spanish-language film in Western markets), The King's Speech, The Imitation Game, Woman in Gold, Paddington, and It Follows.

If you aren't willing to publicly announce your "disappointment" in anyone who continues to enjoy any of those films, then kicking up a fuss over how other people process and interact with problematic content from a fallen celebrity who is in the process of getting his dues is pure hypocrisy.

Personally, I'm maliciously complying with Gaiman's famous quote about how once a story is out there, it doesn't belong to the author anymore. Well said, Predator, these are mine now, and I shall fuck about with them as I see fit.

Attacking or snobbishly looking down your nose at the fandom also erases YEARS of beautiful critique and thoughtful exploration of existing, acknowledged problems in works like The Sandman.

People in these parts already know how to handle complex issues in complex pieces of media. Gaiman isn't our god. His canon is not our bible. He didn't teach us morality, as is apparently the case for a lot of people who grew up reading Rowling's works as a child.

If you have a problem with the censorship comment I made, I'd like to point out at least one writer friend is LEANING INTO the fandom as a way to process their own trauma. Suffice it to say they survived a very similar situation. They see it as empowering to take the stories away from the abuser and use the characters/settings to make something new.

I get the ick. I have it right now. But I'm not burning every copy of his work I own (full disclosure I have... *checks shelves* a copy of Neverwhere and The Sandman series). Doing so is totally valid, and if that helps you process and feel better - go for it!

But this is not the same as Rowling and the only ones you hurt by declaring your "judgement" is a complex group of individuals who are able to enjoy fiction, remain aware of potential social consequences, and found a place that doesn't align with your black/white morality.

With that said, judge away! I better not see any stories from Charles Dickens, anything in anyway associated with the Weinsteins, Nickelodeon shows, Charlie Chaplin references, or Francis Ford Coppola films touch your feed. If you scratch the surface, you'll find more things to judge others for enjoying, and they will inevitably find something to judge you for, too.

[pettysreverie]

Shutting a very (nervous) chatty soap up by letting him give you head under the table of a fairly fancy restaurant?

(oh my fucking gosh!!! my first ask request! >.< sorry it took my so long babes, ya girl has been busy and also just down and out with cramps. Also? I was trying to decide on what was making him nervous...anywho! I hope this lives up to your expectations!!!)

CW: AFAB!Reader, Exhibitionism, Dubcon, I love writing out accents :P, as always if I missed any important warnings pls feel free to let me know (in case you didn't read my intro post, i get heavy handed with exposition. i'm not used to writing short form fanfic T.T have never written a 100 word anything outside of academia...sorry loves)

Okay, so the way I see it, Soap is a chatty motherfucker all the time anyway. Cracking jokes, making conversation, the whole spiel. He's a naturally extroverted guy, so it's not like he can help it...but when he's nervous? Oh, there's absolutely no shutting him up.

But can you blame him for being nervous? He definitely did not think he would he ever manage a date with you, an actress he's recently come to admire.

It started with seeing you in a few small roles here and there and enjoying them. And as you grew in notoriety and landed bigger roles, Johnny found himself seemingly following along—watching each project. Before he had even realized it, he had naturally become a fan boy of yours.

So he was absolutely surprised when, upon returning home from deployment, he had run into you. The poor bastard had nearly passed out.

He thought he had died and gone to heaven when you had actually given him the time of day, letting him chat with you in the queue as you two waited for your respective orders at the cafe.

And when, upon parting, you had accepted his invitation for a date and had given him your number? He really thought he was on cloud fucking nine.

This, all of this, the Scotsman nervously rambles to you as you sit for said date.

He's on edge, which is more than obvious—but you find it endearing. Johnny is just so charming. Even as he trips over his own words and blushes every so often, he manages to make you laugh.

And it's not like you don't understand.

Maybe you don't know exactly what he's feeling right now, but you've been in similar situations. And so, maybe that is why you just cannot help but try to lighten the mood.

"With how much you can talk, it's a wonder if you use that motormouth of yours for anything else."

Okay...even to your own ears, you realize that maybe you shouldn't have said that. You wince, ready to apologize, but Johnny's blue eyes seem to sparkle and the Scotsman smirks at you.

"Aye?"He asks, cocking a brow at you as he leans back in his chair. "Well, ah can promise ye... Ah can show ye be'er then ah can tell ye."

It takes you a moment, but it comes to you that he is not so nervous anymore. A more calm and confident air surrounds him now, his gaze more assured.

A shiver runs down your spine.

You have only just met the man, but you can tell that Johnny is many things. Intelligent. Extroverted. Charming. But how are you supposed to know that he is also a massive eater—that this man loves eating pussy?

How are you supposed to know that yes, he is a military sergeant that has a talent for many things, namely diffusing bombs…but eating pussy is where he truly thrives and shines?

There's just absolutely no way he's going to pass up an opportunity to eat you out. Not even if you two are in a fairly nice restaurant, sitting across from each other on your first date.

So of course it is a surprise that a smirk spreads across his lips, "Ma bad, bonnie. Yer right. Donnae mind if ah do."

And before you can call him off, telling him that you were only joking, the Scotsman has disappeared himself under your table. A feat unto itself given his not so small size, but with the tablecloth draped over the table and the natural humdrum of the restaurant life buzzing all around you, he is provided the perfect cover.

His nimble fingers hitch up your dress, his lips ghosting along your thighs. You can feel his stubble scratching your skin in a way that makes your breath hitch.

"Forgive me for ma ramblin' bonnie. Ah'll make it up tae ye."He murmurs just loud enough for you to hear from beneath the table, pulling a small yelp out of you as he nips the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

You're caught between wanting to convince him to stop, and wanting to see where this goes.

It's not like you're some A-list celebrity. Sure, you're getting bigger roles, but nothing too big just yet. Nothing that would garner you too much unnecessary attention naturally, anyways. You're not at the point, yet, of worrying about tabloids or paparazzi or being sneakily recorded by fans. For now, thankfully.

Still, the prospect of getting kicked out of such a nice restaurant and getting hit with a public indecency charge doesn't sound very nice.

On the other hand...?

On the other hand, you have a super sexy Scottish military sergeant beneath the table and between your legs right this moment. Talk about a wet dream come true...

You snap out of your own thoughts when you feel Johnny pull your panties to the side, his stubble rubbing along your inner thighs as his tongue takes a long, broad stroke up your cunt.

(Did I mention that he loves eating pussy?)

Your hand flies beneath the table, fingers settling within the tresses of his mohawk and tightening as your body jolts. You have to press your lips together, holding back a soft whimper that threatens to fall out at the way he seems to savor having you on his tongue.

And it suddenly strikes you that, actually...this might not a good idea after all.

"W-Wait—"

But Johnny doesn't wait. He doesn't listen.

He presses his face between your thighs, his tongue worshiping your flesh as you try your level best to remain as calm and collected as possible. Only, of course, now is when your waiter decides to come to your table.

"Ah, did the gentleman step out for a moment? Should I wait, or would you like to order for him?"

You freeze.

How the fuck are you supposed to answer that?

This is a first fucking date.

You definitely don't know him well enough to order for him. But to wait? That's not likely either.

"I'll...I'll order—"You press your lips together and tighten your thighs around Johnny's head as he starts sucking on your clit, causing you to full body flinch.

The waiter looks at you, a startled expression coloring his features just as a wave of shame courses through your veins. “Sorry….”You mumble, pinching Johnny beneath the table.

He apologizes with a kiss to your clit.

“I’ll have the chicken pasta, and he’ll have the roasted salmon with the white rice. Please.”You order quickly, trying to sound as polite as possible. More and more, this is seeming to have been a really bad a idea.

"Right, well then I'll have those out for the two of you as soon as I can."

You try to breathe a sigh of relief when the waiter leaves your table, but aren't even afforded the option. Not when Johnny is yanking your panties even further to the side. "Yer a fuckin delight, love."He mutters gravelly from between your thighs.

He sounds almost...feral.

Like an animal.

Another shiver runs down your spine and you shift your hips, pulling back. Your heart is hammering in your chest and with how intense this is getting, you're not sure you can keep a handle on yourself if things continue.

Besides, you're sure that you have more than embarrassed yourself for one evening.

This is only a first date, you can save some room to embarrass yourself more for another time—for another date.

But then Johnny's large hands grip your hips, forcefully pulling you closer to the edge of your seat almost greedily—hungrily. "Donnae run away from me."He says to you, and with him being hidden under the table it is almost an ominous threat of sorts. A deep, raspy voice not asking but commanding you to not move.

Johnny's lips close around your sensitive clit—sucking on it with an unforgiving intensity as he holds you in place. He's determined to make you cum. Right here. Right in this restaurant.

Once again your thighs clamp around his head, but if he's bothered about that then he makes no indication about it. He doesn't even flinch.

You try to say something—anything—but the words are lost on you when his tongue starts flicking your clit.

The sound you let out is just barely muffled by the sound your free hand makes as you accidentally slam it onto the table. A couple sitting at a table near yours looks over, shooting curious inquisitive gazes your way.

"S-Sorry..."You whimper, your thighs trembling and your hips twitching just beneath the table and out of their view.

Thankfully your slumped demeanor and shaky voice lend themselves more to seemingly like a jilted date than a frisky exhibitionist, so they only send you pitying glances and then turn away. Which you appreciate because, the very moment they turn away, you slump over onto the table.

One arm cushions your forehead while other grips Johnny's hair tightly, perhaps too tightly. But you can't be bothered to care. Not when he's slipping one of his finger's into your messy cunt as he continues his dedicated assault.

"F-Fuck,"Quietly falls from your lips, not being able to contain yourself so well anymore. "So good. So fucking good, I—"

The way he switches between sucking on your clit and licking it is making your head spin, and with his finger fucking into you slow but deep it's getting harder and harder to think.

"J-Johnny..."

Your entire body is buzzing at this point. You squeeze your eyes shut, but that's a mistake. Because now all you can focus on is his touch. How he is making you feel. The way his mouth is worshiping your pussy like its his sole reason for breathing.

He slips a second finger inside of you, slowly and gingerly—careful to help you accommodate to the stretch. That delicious fucking stretch of his long yet thick fingers. Nimble and fucking skillful.

Your nails are basically digging into his scalp at this point, but it's either that or you rut into him like the bitch in heat that you currently are.

But if you do that, you two will be found out.

Your cover blown.

Which might just be the Scotsman's desired outcome, given how he ditches the slow and savoring rhythm he'd granted you and instead starts finger fucking you faster now.

Heat pulses in your veins as a familiar tingling sensation begins to rise from inside of you. Your toes begin to curl in your heels and you press your lips together. Hard. If you don't, moans far too loud for propriety's sake will come spilling out.

It is as though your head is swimming—thoughts drifting away as you will yourself to muffle every whimper and mewl that battles against your quivering lips.

You want to warn Johnny. Really, you do.

You want to tell him that you're about to cum.

But how can you?

If you open your mouth, it's over for you. For the both of you.

So, instead, your shaky fingers tap on his forehead as best as they can. And you think, maybe he's gotten the message. Maybe...if his doubled efforts are anything to go by.

Warmth washes over your body and tingles take over your lower limbs, slowly spreading to the rest of your body as he continues to finger fuck you. His mouth is seemingly permanently attached to your cunt, the Scotsman determined to gorge himself on you.

But then his tongue does a thing and his finger curl just right, hitting you deep inside.

It's too much.

Too fucking much.

Your entire body stiffens, stomach muscles clenching as your pussy pulses and clenches around his thrusting fingers and onto his sinful tongue. Your thighs tremble as your legs wrap around his muscular torso—so caught in the throes of passion that you unintentionally trapping him in your hold as you ride out your wave of pleasure.

(I did mention that he loves eating pussy...right?)

Honestly, you're not too sure how you two don't get caught.

You're not too sure how he didn't get caught sneaking under the table and you're not too sure how he doesn't get caught get out from under it now, either. But he doesn't.

Still slumped over the table, you're slowly coming back to your senses.

Johnny has moved to sit beside you and is rubbing your back and shoulders soothingly.

"Ye did so well, bonnie. Am sure naebody suspected a thin'."He praises, his hand rubbing gentle circles into your still trembling thigh.

You don't speak. Don't even pick up your head. You don't trust your voice quite yet. But, of course, now is when your waiter comes back with your food.

You hear the plates land gently on the cloth covered table and then nothing. There's a pregnant pause and you assume that the waiter has left, then there is a throat being cleared.

"Is...uh...is your companion alright, sir?"

"Aye, tha missus is fine."Johnny replies coolly, his hand as gentle and calming as ever. "Just a wee bit under tha weather. We'll actually take this tae go lad. Thank ye."

Once your waiter leaves, you lift your head and Johnny immediately hands you your glass of water and urges you to drink it.

You try to set it aside, but he won't let you—kindly yet firmly redirects the glass back to your hand. And this time, you do finally accept the water and drink a few meaningful sips.

"Good girl,"He murmurs, patting your now calmed knee. "Feelin' be'er?"

"I...well, yes. But..."You're at a loss for words. What are you supposed to say. How are you supposed to continue your date after that? "I just can't believe we did that..."

Johnny nods, a hint of a smirk on his lips. And as his expression shifts you can see a bit of sheen on his face.

Clearly, as you'd still been slumped over, he must have wiped his face with napkin. Not well enough, though. Not when there's remnants still glistening on his chin.

"Whot? Is somethin' on ma face?"He asks, his thumb brushing away your cream from the spot your gaze had zeroed in on.

And you watch in rapt attention as the motherfucker sucks it off of his goddamned finger.

"Well, ah cannae say ah regret it."He replies to you, his smirk becoming larger now. "Besides, ah figured ah only got one shot fer a good impression. Wanted tae make it count."

Your waiter comes back once more, this time with your packaged meals. Before you can even think about the bill, the waiter is sliding Johnny back his card—clearly indicating that the meal has already been paid for in full by the sergeant himself.

Not that he makes a big deal about it.

Not that he makes you feel like you owe him for it.

For any of it, actually.

He stands, grabbing both ornate takeout bags in one hand and extends the other for you to hold. "C'mon bonnie, let's get ye home."

Go home?

While you're busy wondering what he could possibly mean by that, Johnny chuckles and pulls your chair out some before extending his hand out to you once more.

"Amnae pig, bonnie. Real class, ah am. Ah'll drop ye off and let ye rest. Ye can call me when yer ready. Tomorrow. Tha day after. So on. And we can plan our next date then."

His words calm your racing thoughts enough for you to take his hand, walking with him out of the restaurant. Although...well, you certainly make it a point to not look back at the wet spot you've undoubtedly left on the chair.

"You seem confident I'll call you for a second date."You reply, giving him a side eyed glance as you step out into the evening air and he places his coat jacket over your shoulders.

Johnny looks at you and this time his expression is somewhere between a smirk and a smile—his blue eyes gleaming with a charming sense of mischief.

"Am quite confident in ma first impressions, bonnie."

—————————————

.....Is this anything? Lmao, I hope this didn't suck. It's been so long since I've written smut. So long since I've written full smut. Don't jump me! I hope this is what you were hoping for >_< if not, let me know and I can try again!

Also? Any grammar errors are totally between y'all and whatever creator you believe in. I did my best. I didn't proofread this frfr because...well, I never do. Never have. Probs never will. Never did in my wattpad days. Never have in all of my academia days either. With the power of big breasted men with juicy balls, em dashes, and dominant women on my side, it's me against the world! Grammatical errors fear me!!!

BTW! If you also just have any Qs regarding my thought process for this or for any of my blurbs/posts/whatevers you can always send an ask :D as long as you're respectful I am too. I promise I don't bite

[tux1i]

Oof rip quality, jusaa click the pic to make it good noice quality which idk why my quality goes wack

If he was in game, yeah his sprite would be either have this more space to show in the dialog story, A lovable guy that only cherish on person (that is you) and mostly uses Shadow Milk Cookie as his punching bag (if any case If Shadow Milk Cookie tries to raid the kingdom)

____________________

• His limbs are all stretchy not that hard tough crispy cookie kind of texture. He has that those dough cookie (that are edible) and how it makes him that stretchy. His easily to melt and well freeze, but though freezing him is what makes him an actually tough cookie but yknow not crispy. Just hard cookie texture. If a sharp object inject or stab, it felt nothing to him or makes this hole in his dough to avoid it. Pretty much OP if his dealing with a beast cookie. His flexible and stretchy ofc. But it doesn't mean his that OP, of course he can crumbled someways.

• If his actually facing his counter part (Shadow Milk Cookie) he will absolutely destroy him legit. He really does not like Shadow Milk Cookie. For a reason (which is unknown for now). And if any case scenario if Shadow milk Cookie attempts to raid Caprice's kingdom (mostly your kingdom that Caprice is currently living in) Then of course, easy one on one battle for Caprice and Shadow Milk Cookie.

● His weapon is a hammer, yknow like Amy rose. But the handle part of the hammer is this flimsy like not stiff how it can bend. And it's Hella huge compare to Shadow Milk Cookie's tiny staff of his.

• His boing boing bouncy, can jump real high lol

□ Tbh The black dots on his hair sorta fits him, lady bug like with those two piece of hair he has as the antennas lol. Even there was this concept that his beast form is either a Ladybug or a..firebug? And it was supposed to be. .like this protection kind of symbol how his basically protecting the kingdom (which is yours) but he I remember his not a beast, his a special type of cookie so sadly scrap that idea.

□ Another scrap is that he can clone himself, how his so stretchy and able to heal himself. He can just grab a chunk of himself of his dough and using his own magic to clone himself a mini version of him. Or even a clone of him of the same size as him. But I scrap that idea how I'm not sure about that idea.

☆His class was either a assassin or magic (idk lol I sorta forget that I didn't play cookie run kingdom for weeks almost a month since I sorta lose interest playing it.)

♡ by his stretchy dough limb, he would absolutely help you whenever your in cramp schedule. Just stretch here or there to grab and give it to you.

♡ His pupils can change shape and show his energy, like If his pupil were have to his low batter typa display in his heart eye that would mean his low in energy and pretty much being lazy or tired. His only energy is by love and just fuels that energy from you. And he gets hyper from being overwhelmed by love from you. And he doesn't really require to eat (I think?) But if you do make meals or bake, I guess he will try to eat it, but it doesn't make him feel different like feeling full or feeling hungry. His built different for real

• Doesn't like Shadow Milk Cookie. Would throw him in the river

• The swirls are his blushing or embarrassed display, Rather then hue spread in a cookie's face. Just swirls appear and glows if his blushing, embarrassing or flattered.

• The amount of love letter he has for you. Just..tons... he just likes to write, or writing fanfics of you and him xdd also his allergic to flowers. So no flowers, if you don't like flowers then it's good for him since his allergic to any kind of flowers.

♤ Why does he has a love letter on his eye? From what I mention that the witch who created this cookies to life has a little young sister. And when making the creation of Caprice, she accidently knock out a love letter that is a decoration icing for cakes. And yeah.

♤ I forgot also why his head has a cracked part but must've been permanent from his backstory, reference how gems (Steven Universe) having to have a bad experience that cause that part of their body permanently. And it displays there forever.

□ Speaking of Love Letter in his eye, there is a concept of him losing his right eye. For...bad reasons. Or part of the story that I decided to not add it. That I go with the idea that is above this text.

♧ Fact that he can curl himself into a ball or well shape into an armadillo by using his hair. 👍

I sorta like this one, just the curious sprite but up side own

[slimyalienfreak]

Heya! I was wondering if you could make a lil fanfic of shadow the hedgehog and mobian!reader

where the reader has a fascination with death and everything morbid due to seeing and being in lots of tragedies and shadow is mostly unaware of this but finally starts noticing the reader’s obsessive like fascination with death and wants to confront them about it

Shadow With A Mobian!Reader Who Has A Fascination With Death

Hey there! Thanks for the ask!

Sorry it took kinda long to do this. Honestly kind of lost motivation to write stuff lately but I think it’s coming back. I don’t know. Regardless, I hope you like it.

Pronouns: Not Mentioned

Warning: ⚠️Mentions Of Death + Suicide (Not Actually Committing But Talks About Wanting To) + Spoilers For Shadow’s Backstory⚠️

Requested: Yes/No

Characters: Shadow + Mention Of Maria

Proofread: ❌

Credits: Art by CoffeeBearSama on Twitter/X + Banner by salintvll (Edited by me) on Pinterest

———————————

- Honestly at first Shadow never noticed or asked about your obsession when it comes to death. He’s quite the loner so he doesn’t really indulge in anyone or their personal interests. That’s just what he’s like. Not that he’s completely dismissive of any of your interests, it's just his response to you telling him or him hearing about it is just ‘okay’. Maybe you could persuade him to join in but it may take a while but he does partake in it.

- Though eventually he does notice your interest in death. He might have heard it from someone else, maybe from you or he just so happened to discover it himself. At first admittedly he was a bit put off by it not outright it’s just he’s never really seen someone even remotely interested in death unless they’re willingly want to experience it. And to be honest even before he discovers how obsessed you were with it he’s still a little concerned that you want to end yourself so he decides to keep a close eye on you in case you actually do want to end yourself.

- However, his worry does become way worse when he slowly discovers how obsessed you actually were with it. He started to notice how you talked about it. The fact you were talking about it so casually, talking in depth about it makes him more concerned than when he discovered it. In his own way he’s genuinely worried about you. I feel like this kind of evolved from what happened to Maria that he feels compelled to make sure it doesn’t happen to anyone else especially if he’s somewhat close with you.

- When he does confront you about it you may have to spend most of your time convincing him that you're okay. Honestly with the way you're talking about it he’s thinking you genuinely want to end yourself and he doesn’t want that. To him you’ve still got a lot to live for and you shouldn’t cut it short. It probably took a while for him to be convinced that you were alright. You’d probably have to explain how you gained interest in it, more specifically the shit you had to go through which made you like this.

- When you do tell him about the horrible tragedies that’s when it hits him about your obsessive fascination with death. Now he understands why you're like this. He does feel bad for you for experiencing the things you did and thinks that it must be a coping mechanism for you in a way. Even with you convincing him that it's genuinely an interest nothing more he’d still be concerned for you and tell you that if you ever need to talk he’d be there for you and listen to what you need to say.

- I do kind of feel like Shadow would be kind of interested in a way. Not like how you are, I have a feeling it’s mostly for confirmation or reassurance. It’s not that big of a surprise that he’s greatly affected by the death of Maria, someone who he’s undoubtedly the closest with. Even if a lot of time has gone by since it deep down even if he doesn’t want to admit it he still wishes that she was still alive and misses her greatly. With your interest in death he may go up to you and ask about it. He really would like your opinion about it though at first not going in that great detail about it. Even though he claims he is not interested in it he kind of wants confirmation that she’d be alright and is proud of him.

- Oddly enough, having these talks with you is very comforting for him. He finds himself being more calm about his feelings when it comes to death himself. I think the fact that he doesn’t have to bottle them up like he usually does and is free to just let it out. As soon as he’s done ranting he can feel himself just relax as he thanks you for letting him talk about it. He likes having these moments with you and he really appreciates you listening to him and the other way round.

———————————

[eveninglakehomeworld]

hi friends and lovers, I've gathered a small collection of dialogues from Zevran in DA:O regarding Antiva & the Crows.

I got this together mostly for myself, but thought I'd share in case anyone who is maybe looking to flesh out their new Crow OC, write fanfic involving Crow characters, or is looking for a refresher on early Crow lore would like something to reference. I trimmed down dialogues a bit, so mostly just information relevant to the Crows, Antiva in general, and Zevran's own attitudes about being an assassin are present.

this post has dialogues from Zev's recruitment event and a couple of early game camp conversations. because it's only a handful of dialogues, this is, ostensibly, part 1 of several. I plan to post more as I progress through my replay of origins. enjoy! <3

Recruitment

Warden: "What are the Antivan Crows?"

Leliana: I can tell you that. They are an order of assassins out of Antiva. Very powerful, and renowned for always getting the job done... so to speak. Someone went to great expense to hire this man.

Zevran: Quite right. I'm surprised you haven't heard much of the Crows out here. Back where I come from, we're rather infamous.

Warden: "You came all the way from Antiva?"

Zevran: Not precisely. I was in the neighborhood when the offer came. The Crows get around, you see.

[After being asked if he's loyal to Loghain]

Zevran: Beyond that, no, I'm not loyal to him. I was contracted to perform a service.

Warden: "And now that you've failed that service?"

Zevran: Well, that's between Loghain and the Crows. And between the Crows and myself.

Warden: "When were you to see him next?"

Zevran: I wasn't. If I had succeeded, I would have returned home and the Crows would have informed your Loghain of the results... if he didn't already know. If I had failed, I would be dead. Or I should be, at least, as far as the Crows are concerned. No need to see Loghain then.

Warden: "How much were you paid?"

Zevran: I wasn't paid anything. The Crows, however, were paid quite handsomely. Or so I understand. Which does make me about as poor as a chantry mouse, come to think of it. Being an Antivan Crow isn't for the ambitious, to be perfectly honest.

Warden: "Then why are you one?"

Zevran: Well, aside from a distinct lack of ambition, I suppose it's because I wasn't give much of a choice. The Crows bought me young. I was a bargain, too, or so I'm led to believe. But don't let my sad story influence you. The Crows aren't so bad. They keep one well supplied: Wine, women, men. Whatever you happen to fancy. Though, the whole severance package is garbage, let me tell you. If you were considering joining, I'd really think twice about it.

Warden: "Aren't you at least loyal to your employers?"

Zevran: Loyalty is an interesting concept. If you wish, and you're done interrogating me, we can discuss it further.

Warden: "I'm listening. Make it quick."

Zevran: Well, here's the thing. I failed to kill you, so my life is forfeit. That's how it works. If you don't kill me, the Crows will. Thing is, I like living. And you obviously are the sort to give the Crows pause. So let me serve you, instead.

Warden: "And what's to stop you from finishing the job later?"

Zevran: To be completely honest, I was never given much of a choice regarding joining the Crows. They bought me on the slave market when I was a child. I think I've paid my worth back to them, plus tenfold. The only way out, however, is to sign up with someone they can't touch. Even if I did kill you now, they might kill me just on the principle of failing the first time. Honestly, I'd rather take my chances with you.

Warden: "Won't they come after you?"

Zevran: Possibly. I happen to know their wily ways, however. I can protect myself, as well as you. Not that you seem to need much help. And if not, well, it's not as if I had many alternatives to start with, is it?

Warden: "Why would I want your service?"

Zevran: Why? Because I am skilled at many things, from fighting to stealth and picking locks. I could also warn you should the Antivan Crows attempt something more... sophisticated... now that my attempts have failed.

A few early game camp conversations

Conversation 1 Warden: "What does it take to become an assassin?"

Zevran: Well, the Crows would have you believe that it is an involved process that takes years of training, the sort that tests both your resolve and your endurance. Survive that process and maybe, just maybe, you're good enough to start being considered one of them. But quite frankly the truth is that all it requires is a desire to kill people for a living. It's surprising how well one can do in such a field.

Warden: "It doesn't take any special skill?"

Zevran: I don't know about that. It's simply a slightly different skill set from your average killer, as I see it. An assassin simply specializes in striking from stealth... and in maximizing that first attack to be as lethal as possible. Debilitating your foe, either by poison or by crippling their limbs, makes any follow-up combat you need to engage in that much simpler.

Warden: "That sounds like it could be useful."

Zevran: See? Getting paid for the act is beside the point. An assassin is more a tactical choice than a lifestyle. Of course, the Crows like to pretend that their abilities are trade secrets, shrouded in shadows and wrapped in a blanket of mystery. So let's just keep this between you and me, shall we, hmm?

Conversation 2 Warden: "Why did you want to leave the Crows, exactly?"

Zevran: Well, now, I imagine that's a very fair question. Being an assassin, after all, is a living, at least as far as such things go. I was simply never given the opportunity to choose another way. So if that choice presents itself, why should I not seize upon it?

Warden: "You didn't choose the Crows?"

Zevran: Mm? To be truthful, I didn't even know the Crows existed when I joined them. I was but a boy of seven when I was purchased. For three sovereigns, I'm told. Which is a good price, considering I was all ribs and bone and didn't know the pommel of a dagger from the pointy end. The Crows buy all their assassins that way. Buy them young, raise them to know nothing else but murder. And if you do poorly in your training, you die.

Warden: "That sounds awful."

Zevran: "Oh, I don't know about that. The Crows who are actually good enough to survive come to enjoy some of the benefits. In Antiva, being a Crow gets you respect. It gets you wealth. It gets you women... and men, or whatever it is you might fancy. But that does mean doing what is expected of you, always. And it means being expendable. It's a cage, if a gilded cage. Pretty, but confining. [note: I transcribed the first line of the last section as it was written in the subtitles because it seemed to make more sense in context, but when Zevran speaks it aloud he actually says "That does not mean doing what is expected of you." presumably an editing error, but can't be 100% positive which is the intended message.]

[After being asked what he thinks his future might hold]

Zevran: As for what I'll do in the future... presuming that there is one... I truly can't imagine. It might be interesting to go into business for myself, for a change. Far away from Antiva, of course. For now, naturally, I go where you go.

Warden: "Won't the Crows eventually find you?"

Zevran: [laughs] Eventually can be a very, very long time if one plays one's cards right. Come, now. Enough chit-chat. Talking about the Crows summons them, you know. Any Antivan fishwife could tell you so.

Conversation 3 Warden: "Do you actually enjoy being an assassin?"

Zevran: And why not? There are many things to enjoy about being a Crow in Antiva. You are respected. You are feared. The authorities go out of their way to overlook your trespasses. Even the rewards are nothing to turn your nose up at. As for the killing part, well... some people simply need assassinating. Or do you disagree?

Warden: "You've never killed an innocent?"

Zevran: Now there's an interesting word, "innocent." How many men do you know who can claim to truly be innocent? But if you're talking generalities, such as children and relatives and bystanders and such... never on purpose, but it happens. It's unfortunate, but death comes to us all. If not me, then some wasting disease. Or a fall down the stairs. Or at the hands of a darkspawn. It's all relative in the end.

Warden: "I suppose that's true."

Zevran: "Death happens," as we like to say. And when I get paid for it, death happens more often. As far as enjoying the act of killing itself, why not? There is a certain artistry to the deed, the pleasure of sinking your blade into their flesh and knowing that their life is in your hands.

Warden: "I know what you mean."

Zevran: There are many things I did not enjoy about being a Crow, of course. Having no choice, being treated as an expendable commodity, the rules... oh, so many rules! But, simply being an assassin? I like it just fine. I will continue to do it, if I can, even if I am not a Crow. Honestly, could you picture me doing something else?

Conversation 4 [note: I trimmed this one down a lot bc it's just one of the ones where he tells you about a job and there's not a lot to be gleaned about Antiva, how the Crows operate, etc] [In response to being asked, "The Crows were willing to anger the Circle of Magi?"]

Zevran: In Antiva, nobody is too important to escape the reach of the Crows. They have killed kings and queens. That's simply how it is.

[After elaborating on how he fumbled an assassination attempt and the mark died accidentally, instead of by his hand]

Zevran: Then I found out she had told the driver to take her to Genellan instead. She has planned to lose me in the provinces. I would have looked very foolish to the Crows. As it was, my master was very impressed that I had done such a fine job of making it look like an accident. The Circle of Magi was unaware of foul play, and everyone was happier all around.

Conversation 5 Warden: "Tell me a little about Antiva."

Zevran: Oh? You wish to know about Antiva, do you? The only way to truly appreciate it would be to go there. It is a warm place, not cold and harsh like this Ferelden. In Antiva it rains often, but the flowers are always in bloom... or so the saying goes.

Warden: "Don't you want to go back?"

Zevran: [sighs] It is not really a matter of wanting to go back. I cannot go. At least not yet. I hail from the glorious Antiva City, home to the royal palace. It is a glittering gem amidst the sand, my Antiva City. Do you come from someplace comparable?

Warden: "I'm not from any glittering gem, no."

Zevran: No? That is too bad. If you were, then surely you would spend as much time boasting about it as I do! Hmm. You know what is most odd? We speak of my homeland, and for all its wine and its dark-haired beauties and the lillo flutes of the minstrels... I miss the leather the most.

Warden: "Is that some kind of euphemism?"

Zevran: [laughs] It may as well be! But not this once, no. I mean the smell. For years I lived in a tiny apartment near Antiva City's leather-making district, in a building where the Crows stored their youngest recruits. Packed in like crates. I grew accustomed to the stench, even though the humans complained of it constantly. To this day the smell of fresh leather is what reminds me most of home more than anything else.

Warden: "That's a little bizarre. There's leather everywhere."

Zevran: Ah, but it's not Antivan leather, is it? I do not know what the Antivan tanners do that is different, but ther is no leather more supple nor more fragrant.

Warden: "You sound like you've been away from home forever."

Zevran: Oh, not so long, I know. It is my first time away from Antiva, however, and the thought of never returning makes me think of it constantly. Before I left, I was tempted to spend what little coin I possessed on leather boots I spotted in a store window. Finest Antivan leather, perfect craftsmanship—ah, but I was a fool to leave them. I thought, "Ah, Zevran, you can buy them when you return as a reward from a job well done." More the fool I, no?

Warden: "Your home is still there, Zevran."

Zevran: True, and it's a comforting thought. One simply never knows what is to come next.

Now, if it is all the same to you, I would prefer not to speak more of Antiva. It makes me wistful and hungry for a proper meal.

Bonus banter snippet because I found it amusing:

Morrigan: You assassin types have a death wish, I see.

Zevran: [laughs] Only the really good ones.