#but I’m just not realizing how unrealistic they must be

[clandestineloki]

Cold Flower (NSFW)

A/N: My public apology for going dormant on Tumblr for nearly 5 months.

tw: jotun!loki dom!loki, sub!cottagegirl!reader, loki’s cock is big but his size kink is bigger, corruption kink, praise kink, manhandling but very cutely if i may say!!, unrealistically fast paced because loki is horny ) >:D

read it on ao3!!

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The grass tickles your ankles as you step through the bushes, careful not to step on any pretty flowers in your path.

Sunset is nearing, and you've only gotten so much as a few ferns. But you don't mind. The forest will bloom when it wants to, and even if you haven't collected any flowers for your work you're having a wonderful time looking around at all the birds and the deer and the butterflies and nature; just getting away from the busy life in the village is enough of a treat.

Stepping through a clear patch, you look around for any deer traps. What deer traps? The ones that have hidden nets that burst out from the ground like flytraps and scoop up any poor being that just happened to be there, leaving them trapped up in the air by a rope tied to a tree.

Now that you think of it, a clear patch in the middle of the forest means one thing: a deer trap has been set off already.

Right above where you stand.

Realizing the danger of being anywhere near a threatened or harmed deer, you’re ready to bolt out of the woods when you look up, and see a net that’s filled with leaves, branches, and stray grass reeds.

And dangling out of the net is a leg— a leg that looks less like a deer’s… and more of a person’s.

You gasp in horror. Someone’s caught in it!

Running around the tree, you find the rope suspending the trap buried in the ground. You rummage for your shears and hastily cut it, grabbing the rope to pull it down with your weight and let the trap sink to the ground slowly.

When it does, you run over, cutting away as much of the net as you can, digging through the leaves until you reach someone covered in an enormous fur cape.

You gingerly pull it back, and stare in awe.

It’s a man, with dark hair and sharp features, no doubt very handsome despite the scratches and cuts he’s sustained. The linen top he’s wearing is littered with twigs.

Softly, you brush away the twigs when you touch his wrist and freeze.

And quite literally, because his skin is as cold as ice.

Almost as if he were a corpse.

“Sir! Sir! Please wake up!”

When Prince Loki’s eyes open and adjust to the glare of the sun— and the silhouette blocking it out— his breath hitches.

Is this Valhalla? Am I… dead?

Surely, he must be. For above him kneels the most beautiful girl, almost shimmering in the golden light, it’s definite that you’re an angel.

“Hello? Sir? Can you hear me?”

An even lovelier voice for a radiant woman. He nods, and you let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank goodness!” You lean forward, brushing away twigs from his face and cloak. “I thought you had died! I hate those deer traps, they’re dangerous and they're so hard to see! It almost killed you! Are you alright?”

“Yes- Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

It’s as if he spoke without thinking, eager to hear more from your pretty lips. You catch your breath, kneeling back down, and he sits up to get a better look at the captivating face of his savior.

“How long have you been up there?”

Loki brushes his hand against his cheek. “I'm not quite sure- ah-”

He hisses when his fingers graze a wound on his temple, and he retracts his hand to find a few specks of scarlet.

“Probably not long, I'm still bleeding,” he shows you his hand, and you gasp.

“Oh, no,” you take a closer look at his face. “My house isn't far from here, I can help you clean up and get some rest. You must be exhausted. Are you alright with some porridge and biscuits? They're all I have the ingredients for and the farmers’ market is a bit far so I'm sorry if...”

Loki honestly can’t concentrate on what you're saying. He nods along, but he's rather focused on you.

As he tags along behind you as you retrace your steps to your home, Loki whispers a thanks to whatever Gods led him to be graced by your beauty in this moment, regardless of the circumstance. He had just been hunting for sport, unaware of the trap that had pulled him up into the tree so suddenly and rendered him unconscious.

Now, he's found something— no, someone— better; a much more rewarding, delicious little prey.

“I just realized I haven't introduced myself."

Loki looks up just as you say your name, timidly holding out your hand. He takes it after a moment.

“Loki,” he replies, once he finds it in himself to speak.

“Like the prince?"

He recoils a bit in surprise. “Yes- Yes, like the prince. Uh-"

“How are you feeling?" you ask, dabbing the cloth lightly against his wrist.

“They don't hurt if I don't move."

“Okay. Let me know if it does.”

Loki nods, watching you silently tend to his wounds, before he hisses softly.

You flinch, pulling away. “Oh, I'm sorry-"

“You really don't know who I am?” Loki asks.

A second passes as you look down at him, brows furrowing as you sit down next to him on your bed.

“I can't recall. Sorry, have you ordered flowers from me before?"

“You run a flower shop?”

“Yes, that's why I was in the woods. I was looking for fresh flowers and came across you up in that trap.” You tilt your head. “What were you doing in the forest, anyway?"

“I was... hunting for deer, and the last thing I remember is hearing something above me snap.”

“Hunting… Is that what you do for a living?”

“Well, no. My brother and I do it for sport."

“Oh."

Loki stares at you blankly. “My brother, Prince Thor."

You nod.

Loki chuckles. Your pretty little head hasn't registered it.

He leans in close, brushing his lips against your ear, and whispers very slowly:

“I'm Prince Loki."

And the reaction he gets is the cutest. Your lips part as your eyes widen, to which he grins.

But he doesn't expect you to fling yourself off the side of the bed and onto the ground, bowing down to him.

“Your Highness!” you squeak. “I'm so sorry, I didn't know!! I-”

“Darling, please," he chuckles, shaking his head. “That isn't necessary-"

“I'm so sorry, I'll get some tea, do you want anything from the market? Please, allow me-”

Loki bends down, lifting you off the floor in a princess carry and sets you down on the bed.

“Please, don’t stress yourself. You saved my life.”

He takes your hand, kissing it softly as he smiles up at you.

“Thank you, pretty angel.”

Your eyes widen as you stutter out tiny breaths. Norns, aren’t you the most adorable?

“I don’t think you believe me.” He stands up, pretending to be offended by your silence.

“No!” you cry . “I mean- I do believe you! It’s just- I was surprised, I didn’t think-”

“Didn’t think what? A prince would just be out in the woods for no reason?” He laughs, leaning down to you. Before you can respond, he chuckles again. “That’s alright,” he steps back, “you just need a little… evidence.”

Loki closes his eyes, and lets himself shift into his true form: blue skin, dark green patterns across his biceps. He hears the tiniest gasp of amazement from you as the magic also heals his wounds and cuts (and hopes that he’ll hear more of those cute noises very soon).

When he’s done transforming, he opens his eyes and stares down at you.

Dear Norns.

He knew he was already taller than you in human form, but this was just delightful. You’re much tinier than him, staring up at his stature with those wide doe eyes of yours.

“You are-” you blink a few times in shock. “You are the Jotun prince.”

He smiles even wider. “That’s right.”

“And… I… just saved the Jotun prince.”

He starts laughing, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“Clever girl.” He knows he’s downright cruel, teasing you just because you’re so cute. “And do you want anything in return for ‘saving the Jotun prince’?”

“Well, I don’t know-”

Loki walks closer to you, and stands between your legs as he drops his cloak to the floor and leans down, drawling his next words very slowly.

“You deserve something… special. Something downright… pleasurable as a reward for saving my life. Something that you’ll remember for the rest of yours.”

He chuckles darkly when your breath hitches in realization.

He wants to make love to you.

“What?”

He pushes you down on the bed, trapping you in with his large body as he takes your wrists in one of his hands.

“You’ll feel undeniable bliss. I’ll take you over and over and over again until I’m sure you’re truly satisfied, because you’re such a sweet little angel saving my life and cleaning me up and looking so fuckable.”

You mewl, no doubt keening from his dirty words. He cups your chin.

“All you have to do is say yes. You don’t even have to do anything~”

His thumb brushes over your quivering lips, and push into your mouth. Loki grins as you look up at him, nodding slowly.

“Use your words, angel,” he teases, pulling his thumb away from your mouth.

It takes you a few moments to catch your breath. “Okay…”

He wanted to make you beg. He wanted you to say please, please fuck me so he could flip you over like you weighed nothing and take you over and over again like you’d asked but the way you whimpered withered away the last of his patience.

He had to make you his.

Loki captured you into a passionate kiss, muffling every last sound your pretty lips made so that only he could hear. He pulled away only to push you down on the sheets again, forcing his tongue into your mouth as you twitch in his hold, unable to comprehend how dizzy you are from just a kiss.

The two of you pull away for air as his dark green irises watches your eyes glaze over with submission. He grins, unbuttoning his white button-up and tosses it elsewhere.

He grins as you stare at his chest. Your tiny hands reach for him, tracing over the markings and patterns.

Loki hisses, taking your hands in one of his. You whimper as he stares down at you.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, “Did that hurt?”

“No, no.” His voice softens as he leans in, kissing your nose gently, his other hand pushing your dress up your thighs. He kisses your cheek, then presses his lips against your ear. You shiver at his ice-cold breath.

“It doesn’t, angel. It’s just that if you keep doing that, I won’t be able to resist flipping you over and pounding you into the sheets until you’re dripping with my cum and you can’t think.”

He pushes his knee against your crotch, making you squeak like a pathetic little mouse. Loki grins.

“I will be doing that, mind you,” he teases. “But I simply have to get a taste of your pretty juices first~”

Your skirt bunches up against your twitching hips as Loki stares down at your dripping cunt.

“Oh," Loki chuckles. “You're already wet for me, angel, isn't that adorable~?"

You mewl, bashfully covering your face as he grins at your embarrassment.

“Stop teasing..."

Loki shakes his head, pouting in mockery. “Only if you stop being so cute when you're flustered. But until then…”

He places his hands on your thighs, pulling you closer to him as he lowers his face to your mound.

“... I'll enjoy fucking you until you submit to me.”

Your eyes widen as he licks your folds very slowly, and you whine shakily.

“Prince Loki..."

Loki grins, kissing your pretty cunt wetly and pushing his tongue into your dripping hole. And your helpless whimper of pleasure as he devours your pretty pussy whole is the cutest and most captivating noise he's ever heard.

He draws it out of you again, and again, and again, drinking every bit of your slick, even if poor little you are just getting wetter and wetter.

You're panting now, and Loki is equally as short of breath, only ever breaking away from you to watch your pretty face scrunch up so cutely. Loki licks his lips, nibbling on your thighs and making you squeak and tremble in his icy grip.

“You're such an adorable little angel," Loki grumbles. "Makes me want to eat you up like a little mouse, hmm?”

He holds you down firmly as your moans tickle his ears. The way your little hole squeezes around nothing is just so cute, he just has to stuff you full after he makes you come far too many times than you can handle.

“Aww,” Loki chuckles as you whimper breathily, thighs thumping helplessly against the bed. “Little angel can’t take it anymore?”

He brushes a blue finger against your dripping folds, sinking into your hole for the millionth time making you squeak and sob in sensitivity.

“P-Please…” you mumble, glazed eyes pleading for a moment of rest.

He sighs, forgetting you’re just a pure little thing having her first time, and gently scoops you into his arms to press a few kisses to your cheek and whispering your name.

“Have I thanked you enough already~?” He teases, and you nod, nuzzling into his hold though you shiver lightly.

Loki’s heart skips a beat. He feels you cling to him tighter and he feels your little ass grinding against his cock.

“Well,” he muses, “I believe my kingdom will be overjoyed to find that an angel like yourself saved their prince, hmm?”

“Huh?” you ask, still pleasure-drunk as you settle into his lap, as if you perfectly fit in his hold.

“I said,” Loki chuckles his icy breath tickling your face, “My kingdom would be overjoyed to find a pretty thing like you saved the royal prince, wouldn't they?"

“Mhm..."

“And they'll throw a week-long celebration...” he continues, trailing kisses from your cheek to your shoulder. “All for you~”

“R-Really?” you gasp as he begins sucking on your skin, sure to leave marks after. “A whole week? That's too much-!”

Loki laughs against your shoulder, holding your hips down so he can feel your hips grind against his cock. “Nothing is too much for a perfect little angel like you~"

Loki licks the bite mark he's so carefully placed on your skin, then looks up at your glazed eyes and twitching pout.

“Would you like to come back with me to the palace?"

The look of confusion and bashfulness across your face makes his cock twitch against your bare folds.

“Me?! With you?!"

“Do you abhor the idea of that?”

He knows he's being mean and he knows you don't hate the idea, but Loki just can't resist seeing you so embarrassed and stuttering to apologize.

“No! I didn't mean that! I was just surprised-"

Loki shakes his head with a little chuckle, and brings you closer to his face to kiss the crease between your eyebrows.

“I know, I know. I was just teasing."

“Don't be mean like that!”

Loki laughs darkly when you cross your arms.

In a flash, he’s got you on your hands and knees before your pretty head can even figure out what’s going on.

“And if I do, what are you going to do about it?”

You shiver at the dark growl in his voice.

You're so far deep in this haze all you can see is blue.

“Your highness-!”

Loki presses your chest against the bed, leaving your pretty ass on display, purely his for the taking.

“You’re just a little mouse that can’t hurt anything, hmm? Just so innocent, and weak, and ready to be ravished.”

A cold, thick finger traces your wet folds, and you whimper, burying your face in the sheets as he tickles your hole until you’re shaking with need.

“Maybe I’ll take you back home with me… and make you my wife.”

Loki shoves his finger all the way in, knocking the wind out of you because you swear you can feel him in your tummy.

“Your- Your wife?” You ask, voice higher and breathier.

“Yes~” he mocks your airy voice. “My pretty wife, who won’t have to get her pretty hands dirty ever again, who I’ll take care of, and protect, and fuck every single night.”

Loki curls his finger, reaching that sensitive little part in your cunt that effectively leaves you a mumbling, drooling mess on him.

When he’s gotten you wet enough, he draws his finger back (to his cute little angel’s momentary dismay) and forces your thighs apart with his body, the head of his cock twitching against your folds.

Loki will forever remember the gasp you let out when you feel just how big he is.

“Do you want to be fully mine? Do you want me to fuck this little hole of yours with my cock until you’re screaming for me?”

You whine at his dirty words, slurring something that sounds like a yeah, and he knows he’s got you exactly where he wants you.

“Really?” he chuckles, fingering your little hole one more time to slicken your folds. “Do you think I’ll fit~?”

And with the dirty wet noises that tickle his ears as he sinks all the way in he gets his reply.

“Oh?” Amused, he runs an icy finger up and down your bare back. “She can take it, after all. What a good girl~”

Loki barely gets the praise out before the prettiest whimpers fall out of your mouth like sweet honey, your poor cunt clenching down on him as your voice gets higher and breathier by the minute.

“Please-” you hiccup, turning to look at him with those pretty teary eyes.

His vermillion eyes stare you down cruelly as he grinds his hips down into your ass, making your head fall onto the sheets as you slur out a moan.

His cock feels so heavy inside you and by the way he laughs quietly you know he knows just how big he is compared to you.

And the way he pins you down harder lets you know he loves it.

“Oh, you just feel so good around my cock,” Loki groans, pulling back and thrusting into your leaking little pussy.

Poor you, already sensitive beyond imagination as this handsome blue prince ruins any other man for you with the way his cock stretches you out better than anyone ever will.

Not that anyone else will get the chance to. Loki’s decided it: he will take you home to the palace and make you his wife, and everyone will bow before their new princess.

Loki can't resist you any longer. He beats your poor cunt like the beast he is until you're whimpering and bucking against him helplessly.

“Feels... weird..." you shudder and gasp, tears leaking from your eyes as he sinks deeper into you, his huge cock hitting all the good spots inside you as your pleasure takes over your senses.

“Oh, is she close? Is this perfect little cunt going to come all over me?”

Loki's dirty words make you whimper and nod dumbly.

“Yeah," you sob.

Loki laughs at how blissed out his little saviour is and stops,pulling out slowly and groaning when he hears the sinful squelching as your juices drip onto the sheets. He turns you on your back, pinning your wrists to your sides, and captures your lips in his as he sinks into you once more.

“I missed these pretty lips," he smirks into the kiss, taking you for himself.

“Y-You just kissed me a few minutes ago..." You sigh dazedly, though you love the attention he's giving you.

“Still can't get enough of you. You're just so sweet~" Loki licks your lips, thrusting harder and making you squeak and link your fingers through his.

“Say my name."

“Loki...”

“Gods," he throws his head back, almost moaning at how submissive you sound. “Surrender to me, darling."

His hands snake down to the back of your thighs, lifting them and pressing them to your chest, quickening his pace.

Your eyes scrunch up as you nearly scream in pleasure, wriggling away as if you could escape from him.

“Surrender to me, angel~" he grins, kissing your neck and marking you up. “A pretty angel like you deserves to be pampered like this every day. Imagine that? You'll never have to lift a finger, I'll do all the work, I'll do all the fucking.”

Loki accentuates that last word with a hard thrust into your hole, making your eyes blur over with tears as you mewl helplessly in the Jotun prince’s tight grip.

“Awh, don't cry," he teases, kissing your nose when he gets a sinfully great idea.

He stops his movements, making sure he's buried all the way inside you before he flattens his tongue against your soaked cheek and licks your tears away.

You gasp, stunned for a moment before you keen and twitch helplessly, whining loudly as he does the same to your other cheek.

And your poor little cunt just clenches down again.

Loki growls, his primal instincts taking over because you're his ideal mate and you're nothing like he's ever seen. The sounds in the room get filthier and filthier as he loses control and rams into your poor hole.

“What do you say, angel?" Loki asks, letting go of your wrist before his hand makes its way down to your clit, rubbing the little bud and making you scream and tremble in his arms. “Be my- fuck- be my bride? Be my pretty little princess?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, chest heaving as your eyes flutter shut.

“Are you close?"

“Mhm..."

“Cute little mouse," he chuckles, pressing open mouth kisses to your neck as he rubs your clit. “Let go for me now, angel."

It’s a sight from heaven as you orgasm all over him, soaking his cock with your juices and helplessly thumping your thighs against the bed because Loki won't stop thrusting in and out of you.

Loki growls, pinning you to the bed. He stills, and you gasp at the feeling of his warm, thick cum filling you up. It makes you feel even more full than you already do and it makes you dizzy with even more pleasure.

It becomes too much for your melting brain to handle when he pushes deeper into you and you gasp, attempting to kick him away.

A firm, cold hand grabs your ankle and spreads you wider, and you whine shyly when he grins at you with a cruel glint in his eyes.

“Stay with me, darling," Loki teases, gripping your hips possessively and holding you still on his cock so he can finish filling you up.

It feels like hours before he breathes again, but it's only been seconds for him, already wanting another round with you.

But the prince resists, setting your sore legs down slowly and carefully sliding out of your cunt.

You sigh in exhaustion, but your breaths falters in embarrassment when you feel just how much he pumped into you, dripping out of your twitching folds and onto the bed.

A tiny drop even lands on your ass and Loki chuckles at your wide eyes, leaning down to kiss your lips and whisper a dirty promise that he'll fuck you down there too next time.

“Next time?” you ask, lips parting.

“Yes," he teases. " I've decided it, you're never leaving my side, my guardian angel~”

And he scoops you into his side, letting you rest before he has a few more rounds with your pretty hole— then he'll take you back home to the palace and convince you to stay. He'll show you the library. He'll let you lose yourself in the royal gardens all day if you wish! As long as you return to his chambers each night and let him please you the way you deserve to be.

But he's fallen for you already and the whole kingdom will burn in a blaze of sapphire dust if anything or anyone ever keeps him away from you.

[mal3vol3nt]

every once in a while it’ll sink in just how good of a person aang is

because to go through all that he went through and still choose to prioritize bringing a smile to others must require insane levels of strength and kind-heartedness. to be able to show mercy and forgiveness to the people who have hurt you in the absolute worst way possible, and to make it your mission in life to help bring balance back to a world that no longer mourns the absence of your beloved people…

like aang is incredibly strong. a lot of people write off his joy as him just being a normal 12-year-old kid or him not really feeling the effects of what happened but come on. can you imagine being 12-years-old and waking up one day to find out that everyone you knew and loved has been brutally murdered? and then realizing that the reason they were targeted is because their murderers were looking for you, and now it is your sole responsibility to fight and end a war in a world you don’t recognize. and then having to deal with the death of your people constantly being thrown back in your face mockingly, with even your closest friends sometimes making side comments of how your people’s values were unrealistic and immature

like i’m sure any 12-year-old kid would go through all of that and come out the most angry, vengeance-seeking person alive. i know i sure would. but aang doesn’t because he’s just that strong and determined to be good and kind and willing to forgive

[mellowsaturns]

at the end of the day

summary: after another failed date, you run into bucky barnes on the way home and the two of you get caught in the rain

warnings: fluff, dancing in the rain, talks about love, romcom vibes i hope, pining bucky

wc: 1.7k

a/n: inspired by the talk @jadedvibes and i had a while ago heheh. men suck sometimes but we gotta put our trust in rom-communism and that everything will work out at the end :)

How many horrible dates will you go on to realize that you're never going to have your happy ending? 

The thought plagued you as you walked down the street. You were going to give up on love completely this time, you promised yourself.

You were deep in thought when a soft voice interrupted your pitiful reverie. 

“Oh?” you said, eyes widening in surprise. “Bucky, what are you doing here?”

A light chuckle filled the air between the two of you before he spoke. “I live in this neighbourhood, doll.” 

You mentally smacked yourself on the forehead. “Oh, right. I forgot.” 

His mouth curved into an amused grin before he took a good look at you. “What are you doing here?” he asked, but he had a feeling he already knew the answer. 

You looked down at your outfit, one so different from the usual attire you have on at the Tower. “Isn’t it kinda obvious?” you teased, though your voice’s laced with defeat. “I was on a date.” 

He hummed, “And how’d it go?” 

“Let’s just say there isn’t going to be a second one,” you answered, finishing off with a sigh.

Bucky winced. “M’sorry it didn’t go well.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you said, “It… it happens a lot, I’m used to it.” 

His brow creased in confusion. “Used to what?”

Did you really have to lay out your shitty love life in front of Bucky Barnes? 

You twiddled your thumb nervously. “Going on bad dates,” you stated, “Never finding anything meaningful from them. Always going home with the feeling of disappointment. You know, the usual.” 

Bucky frowned. He never realized you had problems with the whole… dating thing. At least you didn’t look like it whenever he saw you around the Tower. You were a joy to be around—always surrounded by people. How could you possibly have problems with dating? Half the department was already in love with you. (Not that Bucky was keeping records on names or anything. Maybe a little.) If you had problems with love, then what about someone like him? 

Now that you voiced your problem out loud, you felt a bit better. It’s not that you couldn’t find someone—there’s plenty of someones out there—but none of them made you feel special or seen. That spark you were always looking for seemed to be nonexistent.

Maybe the problem was that you were too picky, your standard was too high—too unrealistic.

Or maybe you were the thing you feared the most.

“Sometimes, I feel like there’s something wrong with me,” you confessed. “No, there must be something wrong with me. Maybe the stuff you see in movies does happen, just not to me because no one wants to put in that effort with me. Maybe, I’m unlovable.”

You never thought you would be confessing all this to him. 

Bucky took a minute to digest your words before speaking again. “Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Looking into his eyes, you wondered if he truly meant it, or if he’s just being kind like he always was. And as if he could read your mind, “I mean it,” he added, reassuring you. 

“Then why…” 

“These people you go on dates with,” he jumped in, “They don’t even realize how lucky they are. You’re amazing,” he said, a gentle smile spreading across his face, “And if they don’t see that or don’t make you feel like you’re on top of the world, then I guess they weren’t that great to begin with. They don’t deserve someone as wonderful as you.” 

You were speechless. Bucky and you weren’t strangers but calling him a friend seemed a bit too… intimate. You don’t even have his number for Christ’s sake. The two of you were just two people who worked in the same building and saw each other frequently and talked here and there. But why did his words mean more to you than any pep-talk your friends gave you? 

“I-l—” you stuttered, “I don’t know what to say. I’m honoured that you think so highly of me.”

If you only knew what Bucky thought of you. He doesn’t really know when it happened, this growing feeling inside of him, but seeing you had become his favourite part of the job. He always tried to spark up small talk (much to everyone’s surprise) but the both of you were busy, always getting whisked away mid-conversation.

Today was the first time he saw you outside of work, in his neighbourhood nonetheless. Perhaps this was his chance—finally some alone time with you. He felt like there were a million things to say, but of course, it came out wrong, as it always does. “I always think about you.” When you raised an eyebrow at him, he corrected himself, “I-I mean I always think highly of you,” he corrected, a tinge of pink evident on his cheek. 

A small chuckle escaped from you, and you had to look down bashfully, trying your best to hide your flusteredness. I always think about you.

You wondered why you never paid more attention to the Avenger who always had business in your department. 

“That’s really sweet of you to say. If I’m being honest, I was genuinely ready to give up on love tonight,” you said with a small laugh.

Bucky swallowed. “Loo—” Before he could finish his sentence, something wet landed on top of his forehead. Then another one. And another one. It had started to rain. He could have sworn that wasn’t the predicted forecast tonight.

The two of you looked up, letting the steady gentle rain hit the surfaces of your skin. It was probably a good idea to find shelter, maybe stand underneath a roof for the time being until the unexpected summer rain went away.

But the two of you just stood there, completely still, looking ridiculous to onlookers. And then you bursted into a fit of laughter. “Sorry, it’s just… I always imagined what it would be like to be stuck in a storm.” 

He grinned. “And how is it?” he yelled through the pitter-patter. 

“Hmm. Not as romantic as I thought it’ll be,” you noted amusingly.

Bucky met your eyes for a moment, then swallowed a breath. “Dance with me?” he asked, extending a hand towards you. 

You raised a brow, heart skipping a beat at his words. You would be lying if you said the hopeless romantic in you never imagined yourself in this position multiple times. You just never thought it would be with Bucky Barnes.

Taking his hand, he led you with small slow steps. 

“You must’ve done this a lot back in your days,” you teased playfully.

Connecting his eyes with yours, he confessed, “This is the first time I’ve danced with someone in the rain.”

Bringing you in and out, and then lifting your arm to twirl you around while the water rippled beneath your feet, it felt like you were suddenly transported elsewhere. Like a movie you had seen on screen that had you swooning. Or a novel you had read late into the night with a gigantic smile on your face. You almost expected some low jazz to start playing soon. But even if it didn’t, it would’ve been fine, because you had the soft glow of moonlight peeking out from behind the clouds, the summer rain, and Bucky with you. It was already enough to set the scene. 

He looked particularly boyish tonight with his hair sticking to his forehead. You had the urge to sweep the strands away.

You let out a small yelp when Bucky dipped you down before pulling you back up so you were pressed into his chest. You were glad the sound of raindrops masked your beating heart. 

He was a bit rusty, he knew that. It has been over seventy-years since he danced with someone. He couldn’t believe how you would think no one wanted to put in the effort with you. He would dance with you in the rain all the time if that’s what you wanted. Would probably do anything you asked of him, if he was being honest.

You’re not a very good dancer, you had to admit. But Bucky was leading you through the whole thing, even smiling down at you when you accidentally stepped on his foot. 

You wondered how many people this beautiful and charming being of a man had swept off their feet before. Hopefully, he still had space in his heart for you. Because you were completely wooed.

As the rain slowed down and sky started to clear ever so slightly, you realized that the spark you were always complaining about not feeling—it was here, in this very moment, ignited from the touches between the two of you. It was there the moment you took his hand. Giving him another sneaky glance, your eyes lit up like a thousand stars.

Maybe the right person was in front of you all along. 

Bucky doesn’t know how long the two of you stood there in the aftermath, looking into each other's eyes. It’s the brightest thing in the city, he thought.

Moments later, you removed yourself from him. “Well, the rain stopped.” 

“It certainly did,” he said, sounding faintly amused. 

“I guess I should get going,” you said, though you were still lingering around.

Bucky, who was soaked to the bones, asked, “Should I take you home?”

You shook your head. “I’m okay. My place is only a few stations from here. Thank you for offering though.” Maybe next time.

Before you completely escaped from his vision, he shouted your name, causing you to pause in your steps and look over your shoulder. “I hope you’re not giving up on love.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to fight back a smile.

How could you?

Bucky Barnes gave you a million reasons to believe in love again. 

[genderqueerdykes]

One time I saw a post where it was talking about like. “I’m tired of these people saying transfeminity can be just based on vibes what the fuck is an AFAB trans woman you are all a disgrace” or whatever and it reeked of violent transmedicalism (“being trans isn’t vibes” reading very much like ‘you need dysphoria to be trans’) but also horrible intersexism. transradfems and transmeds when people lie outside the perisex notions of gender or when someone’s identity is literally not based on dysphoria

oh yeah the part about these arguments that gives me the biggest portion of the headache they cause is literally that right there- people immediately trample right over intersex people to attack people assigned female at birth which is just. how do these people not see that they're literally attacking other women for no reason like how can you claim to be a feminist and your TWO largest targets- AMAB trans women and AFAB trans women- ARE WOMEN!

radfems, transmeds, etc. not only fail to realize that their #1 target for their hatred campaigns, bullying and indoctrination into their cult are women, but they also blatantly display that they have no fucking clue that intersex people literally exist. like we are literally left out of the conversation FIRST every single time, doesn't matter what we're talking about. that one just instantly hits the trash can. like especially radfems and terfs love to just violently ignore the existence of intersex people, they are never exposed to any intersex conversations, because many intersex conversations are trans inclusive. they hate to acknowledge that some people do not naturally fall into their assumptive, narrowminded, incorrect views on what men and women are. if they acknowledge intersex people, they must admit that they're dead wrong about human biology and biological sex, and they just can't have that.

also this reeks of racism because this is completely ignoring the experiences women of color have in white countries have. MANY AFAB trans women/fems are women of color, due to how absolutely vile whites have been toward people of color the entire time they've colonized other people's lands. black men and women in the american south used to be treated like and referred to as animals- white europeans were so rattled and disgusted by the fact that in many other cultures, there is less variation in facial/body features between AMAB and AFAB people, but also because specifically women in those cultures did not look like white women, which was just so frustrating for those poor colonizers.

i'm tired of seeing people bitch about this kind of shit, so thank you. it's just tired and it's the most petty bullshit to get upset about. i've met so many amab trans men. when you deny people with these identities exist, you are being transphobic. you're caught up on one size fits all dictionary definitions of what an identity "SHOULD" mean but it's just unrealistic. you cant possibly begin to fathom how another entire ass person has lived. humanity is too diverse to be shoved into whatever the hell else these other people think is right about biology and gender identity.

[bebx]

random don’ts in fanfic writing!

a disclaimer that these are just some suggestions from a fellow fic writer & you don’t have to agree with everything I list here. the intention of this isn’t to shame anyone but to only offer advices I personally take.

I hope you’ll find at least one of these useful.

don’t go “the taller man looks at her with a smile on his face” or “the blonde girl laughs, feeling his eyes on her” on characters whose names are already known by the readers. I admit that this is something I used to do for so long because I thought it was cool, until I learned it’s just unrealistic, because normally, if you know someone; say, if they’re your friend, you don’t call them “the taller man” or “the blonde girl” or “the older man”, you call them by their names. so unless your readers aren’t supposed to know the names of these characters yet, just say “Justin looks at her with a smile on his face” or “Sarah laughs, feeling his eyes on her” — it feels more natural this way.

don’t give readers your personal feelings. “the walls are closing in, and he still has trouble standing up on unsteady legs. panic’s making it hard to breathe as he realizes he’s going to die. what will poor Daniel do now?” — “poor” in this case is the author’s opinion, how they feel about their character. it’s unnecessary to add in your work because, with all due respect, it can make the whole thing sound like a children’s book where readers are not capable of knowing how they’re supposed to feel in this scene and so they need the author to tell them how to feel. unless you’re writing something specifically for kids, don’t do this. don’t insult your readers’ intelligence by constantly guiding them how they should feel about this particular character in this particular situation. your readers are not kids. they are perfectly capable of knowing how they feel. they will feel sorry for the character on their own. they will read your work and think “oh no, poor guy. how will he get out of this now?” on their own. you, as the author, don’t have to tell them to be sorry for the character.

don’t outright underestimate your own work. being humble is a good thing, but sometimes you just have to be proud. don’t directly say “this sucks” or “I don’t really like how this turned out” in the author’s note, it can actually drive readers away from your fic. it drove me away from a fic so many times. and it’s a shame, because I really believe your readers — I really believe I — would’ve loved your fic if they’d — if I had — given it a chance. but the disclaimer that outright says “this isn’t good” from the author themself is unfortunately more than enough a reason as to why readers decide not to read it altogether. so… don’t say that. you can be unsatisfied with your work, but your readers don’t have to know that. hell, they might even love it. so, yeah, be proud.

don’t replace eyes with orbs. I… admit that I frequently did this during my Wattpad phase, and it’s actively haunting my nightmares to this day. I guarantee you that you can just say eyes. “she looks right into his eyes” yes, you can say this, and it will always sound more professional in terms of writing than “she looks right into his beautiful blue orbs” which, if I’m being brutally honest, “orbs” used to describe eyes just makes it all sounds like a school essay where we purposefully use fancy words so that our teachers know we have those words memorized in our vocabulary. but yeah… it’s painfully cringe to call eyes orbs and it almost always makes me want to just stop reading your work, and I mean this with utter respect. don’t make the same mistake I made when I was an emo teenager. if you really must have to use other word that isn’t “eyes” just call them face balls or something (I’m joking, please don’t actually call them face balls). but seriously, literally anything that isn’t orbs. just… call them eyes. it’s already perfect.

don’t replace world with planet, if your work doesn’t include theme about space/sci-fi or if you’re not describing an actual planet (as in climate change towards the planet or a lost planet that’s never been found, for instance). — world and planet give readers two very different feelings. if you’re describing an antagonist, who is not a literal alien from another planet, whose plan is to corrupt or take over the world, just say world. “he knows he will watch the world burn in the end” sounds more aesthetically appealing and more professionally interesting than “he will destroy this beautiful planet” because, honestly, the latter sounds like I’m reading a fic about climate change, which yeah… unless you’re writing a fic about climate change, just avoid using the word planet in context like this and you’re good.

don’t avoid the use of Capital Letters at the beginning of a sentence and when you’re mentioning a specific name while writing a fic. you’re probably thinking I’m being the biggest hypocrite right now, because I’ve literally been deliberately using all lowercase phrases this entire post. I mean that’s because this is just a Tumblr post, not an actual AO3 fic. listen, I know writing fic is a hoppy, not a job. but if you really want to have your readers feel like they’re reading an actual novel while reading your work, I promise you the use of Capital Letters is your best friend, don’t neglect them.

*smut below the cut*

don’t replace cock with penis. I won’t go too deep here (no pun intended HELP💀) but cock sounds sexy, exciting and fun. while penis sounds like you’re describing a human anatomy during a lecture. smut is supposed to make readers feel aroused. it’s not supposed to make them feel like they’re reading a text book or are studying for an exam.

don’t replace cunt with pussy. in my very humble opinion, while talking about smut, cunt sounds explicit, raw, erotically mysterious and is overall a turn on while… I don’t know, reading the word pussy just doesn’t make me go AAAAAAHHHH the way reading the word cunt does (just my guess but maybe it’s because the word “pussy” is overused; we call everything a pussy nowadays that it just lost its meaning). also, from 99% of the smut I’ve read, it’s more professionally written if the author uses cunt instead of pussy.

***also, for the same reason why we don’t replace cock with penis in a smut fic, please don’t use the word vagina unless you’re preparing your readers for their anatomy class.

[oikasugayama]

Hihihi! Can I please please please request BSD men with an older fem! s/o? Especially Dazai, Kunikida, Sigma and Fyodor but feel free to add more! I have this very distinct convo in my head that I can’t stop thinking abt and it goes smth like this:

~

*Dazai doing his usual women flirting, holding your hand and staring up at you with sparkling doe eyes and rosy cheeks*

Reader: “Oh, I’m truly flattered, darling, but it’s just that a boy like yourself…you’re just a bit too young for me.”

Dazai: “Young? Well, my dear belladonna, I don’t under-“

Reader: “I’m 43, honey.”

*He is visibly surprised, mouth forming an ‘o’ shape and eyes widening before he recovers, a charming smile slipping on once more.*

Dazai: “Well then, ma’am, I must say that you aged like a fine wine because you don’t look a day over twenty-one! I know that I’m probably inexperienced compared to you, but at least give me a chance to prove myself!”

~

Idk man, I just need BSD men with an older woman, who is mature and elegant and maternal and experienced.

i cringe so hard every time someone writes dazai saying b****d**** to his partner 🤢 sorry anon, it had to be said.

Dazai's is smutty, Kunikida's is fluffy.

Dazai likes the mature look, he likes the well-developed body, he likes the attitude and casual confidence that comes with an older woman. a hint of gray at the edge of a woman's bangs makes him start the chase. he looooves gentle aging on the face, thinks mature women are so beautiful.

he definitely chases them for short relationships, nothing serious. he'd like to take them out, spend some time being a young little shit and flirting his balls off, only to turn into putty in the older woman's hands when she suggests he come back to her place, because he's so young and must have a roommate, so they'd have more privacy at her place ;)

he tires to take the lead, but he usually inevitably lets the older woman tell him what to do because he wants to do exactly what she wants. of course the woman is usually pleased to know such a good looking younger man is so attracted to her, and of course she wants that hot man on top of her, but with her age comes experience and she's gonna make sure they both have an excellent time when he gives her the reins.

dazai likes the most when his partner takes her shirt and bra off and her boobs lower and naturally hang. he likes playing with them, sucking on them, especially when the woman runs her hand through his hair and holds him. if he has a complex because he didn't know his mother, no he doesn't. don't talk about it. while in this position one woman says to him "drink up baby, don't you like mommy's titties?" and it makes his dick throbbbbb.

from then on he realizes he likes calling women mommy in bed more than he likes being called daddy. he wants a hot mommy to play with, he wants to get pussy drunk, thrusting desperately and rapidly, chanting/moaning "mommy, mommy, mommy," while she tells him he's a good boy and he can cum in her pussy whenever he's ready.

Meanwhile, Kunikida...

His ideal woman is older than him. obviously he gives up most of his ideals after his coworkers make fun of it and tell him it's unrealistic and honestly kind of disrespectful to women, but one thing he knows for sure: he just prefers older women. he thinks they're beautiful, he loves how intelligent and experienced they are, he loves when they give him advice on things they've experienced already that he's only going through for the first time, he loves how confident they are, he loves that they're independent, he honestly can't think of a thing he doesn't find appealing about an older woman.

when he's ready to date, he specifically approaches mature looking women. he gets to know several, dates around for a short while, but relatively soon he finds The One. She's beautiful, she's intelligent and kind, she's independent but enjoys having his company.

They get serious quickly and within a year they've decided to move in together to save on costs, so he moves into her home. he enjoys waking up to her and having another presence in his home. it's very comforting and something he missed after moving out of his family home and into the ADA dorm.

he's SO proud walking around town holding his partner's hand. he isnt very fond of PDA and it isn't the most acceptable thing, but a simple hand-hold is enough to show that they're partners in a fairly subtle way.

kunikida isn't ashamed at all if/when someone asks if they're related rather than dating; he always very politely says they're partners and deflects any further conversation.

he will NOT take shit from his coworkers about his partner. he tells them off so harshly the first time they try that even dazai doesn't make jokes about the age difference anymore, unless he's drunk like at the ADA holiday party when he called kunikida's partner a MILF right to her face, making her toss her head back and laugh. she didn't mind, so kunikida let it slide.

[cosmicjoke]

The Psychological and Emotional Impact of Levi’s Early Childhood:

I don’t think Levi’s early childhood really gets discussed enough in the fandom, or the ways in which those experiences in his formative years had to have impacted him.  This could be because we don’t really get many panels depicting his childhood.  Just a few.  But those few panels show us enough for us to extrapolate plenty and form a pretty clear picture of what he went through.

First of all, it’s almost a certainty that Levi was born as the result of rape. 

That’s something that I think everyone should let sink in.

He was born in the brothel that his mother, Kuchel, worked in.  And “worked” is a relative term here.  Kuchel was driven into the Underground as a result of persecution by the royal family.  She was undoubtedly very young, she was alone, with no real resources or support or guarantee of safety or protection from anyone, in an environment of criminality and violence.  There were likely very few, if any options available to her in terms of her own survival.  Her becoming a prostitute wouldn’t have been any kind of a choice then, but rather a move made in desperation.  And so I think we can also safely assume that Kuchel’s experiences working as a prostitute were tantamount to forced labor.  In other words, a kind of slavery.  She was almost certainly paid a paltry sum by the brothels owner, evidenced by the sorry, squalid and destitute state we see her and Levi living in when Kenny comes.  She was likely afforded very few, if any rights or defenses against whatever her clients chose to do to her, as also evidenced by the fact that no one seemed to really know or care enough about her or Levi to even realize when she had died. 

It’s impossible for me to define any of what Kuchel went through working in such a place as anything less than rape, then.

So, Levi’s very existence is one that is a literal product of violence.  I’m absolutely sure that Levi himself is painfully aware of this, knowing that he was born out of his own mother’s pain and suffering.  Going into the implications of this on Levi’s psychological health, I think you can safely assume this realization had a very negative impact on his own sense of self-worth.  His mother was the only person in his childhood who we ever saw treat him with any kind of actual love or kindness.  The only person who ever, actually wanted him.  And yet, Levi would have seen demonstrated to him, every day, how his existence in his mothers life placed an increased burden on her, forcing her into increasingly more desperate circumstances, now having to feed two mouths instead of only one, and as a result, likely having to engage in increased, unwanted sexual activity with her clients.  So Levi would be aware that not only was his mother, (again, the only person who loved and treated him with tenderness) being hurt on his behalf, but he also would have been aware, after witnessing the particular ways in which she was being hurt, that he himself was the result of that violence.  Levi would have been shown that his very existence, then, was something which caused immense suffering and pain to the only person in his life who loved him.  I honestly can’t even imagine the negative implications of something like this on a young mind.  Only to say, it must have been horrific and resulted in lifelong trauma.  Trauma which, due to the desperation of Levi’s life afterward, he likely never had any opportunity or chance to even address. 

Now, moving on to something else.  There’s a tendency by many to paint Kuchel as this sort of perfect mother figure.  Someone who, through the power of her love for Levi alone, was able to overcome the trauma of their general circumstances, to negate the negative experiences he would have been exposed to, resulting in Levi becoming the kind and compassionate person he would be as an adult.  But I think this assumption about Kuchel and their situation is not only unrealistic and idealized in the extreme, but also in its way, undermines the actual bleakness of their circumstances.

Again, we have to remember that Kuchel was driven into the Underground, and essentially forced, through lack of any other options, to become a prostitute.  Calling her a prostitute is a nice way of saying she had to sell herself into sexual slavery.  Kuchel’s own psychological and emotional trauma doesn’t often get touched upon or acknowledged when people talk about her and her relationship with her son, nor does the desperate poverty of their living situation.  Kuchel died right in front of Levi, and we can assume with pretty good accuracy that she either died from a sexually transmitted disease, or that she died from malnutrition and starvation.  These weren’t two people, then, who were living a comfortable or secure life.  In fact, the very opposite.  Levi was starving to death when Kenny found him.  It’s easy enough to assume from his state of general neglect and starvation that Kuchel, at the very least, was struggling to provide for him.  Not just food, but any kind of comfort or care.  Clothing, warmth, protection, cleanliness, and very likely even, affection.  This isn’t a knock on Kuchel’s worth as a mother, or her parenting.  She was, undoubtedly, doing the best she could given the circumstances.  But, again, this particular aspect of their lives isn’t touched on nearly enough.  Kuchel died out of neglect, impoverishment, desperation and abuse.  Given what we can assume her day to day life was like, having to let men come and sexually assault her just to keep herself and her son alive, one has to also consider the emotional and mental toll this sort of existence would eventually have on her.  She had to have been exhausted, both mentally and physically.  You add to this the always uncertain and present reality of whether either her or Levi would even be able to eat on any, given day, whether she would be able to keep her son from starving to death, and you can start to form a clear idea of how things like “playtime” or “fun”, or freely given and enthusiastic love and affection, would be, tragically, low on the list of priorities.  Their situation was absolutely a situation of survival, first and foremost.  Luxuries weren’t a part of their lives.  Anyone who’s ever experienced extreme deprivation, poverty and desperation on the level in which Kuchel and Levi were living would know that those material realities absolutely have a negative impact on one’s ability to simply live.  To be happy.  To indulge in fantasy.  To indulge in luxury.  To indulge in any kind of relaxation or ease of living.  It’s nice to imagine that Kuchel was always able to show Levi love and affection.  To always be a kind, caring and generous mother to him.  But that perception of their lives together ignores the bleak and harsh reality of what was really going on.  More likely than not, Kuchel was often too exhausted and in bad, physical shape herself to play with Levi, to pay attention to Levi, to indulge in Levi.  It was everything she could do, after all, to simply keep Levi alive, let alone healthy and happy.  Kenny described Levi, when he first took him in, as the most unfriendly kid he’d ever met.  We rarely see Levi speak at all in those early days with Kenny.  That doesn’t speak to someone who is well adjusted socially.  That doesn’t speak to someone who received a lot of open love and affection in the formative years of his childhood.  Again, this isn’t to criticize or undermine Kuchel’s abilities as a mother.  It’s simply acknowledging the tragic reality, that someone in Kuchel’s position, living the kind of life she was living, wouldn’t have had the luxury of being for Levi everything he needed her to be. 

This also leads me into another point I don’t think I’ve ever seen discussed, and that has to do with Kuchel’s decision to have Levi at all, and how that choice is, simultaneously, both entirely selfless, and entirely selfish. 

Kenny tells his grandfather that he tried to talk Kuchel out of having her baby, trying to explain to her how bringing a baby into the kind of situation she was living in wasn’t viable.  It was only going to make, not only her own life worse, but in turn, the baby’s life was going to be awful too.  We later see, in Kenny’s memories, a scene in which Kuchel is holding Levi as a newborn against her chest and crying tears of happiness.  Kenny recalls this as part of his monologue about dreams, and the desperation of dreams, and the ability of dreams to corrupt us.  This is important to acknowledge.  Because again, while Kuchel’s intentions in giving birth to Levi were pure, and her love for him was absolutely pure and genuine, still, she DID bring him into a situation of extreme poverty, desperation and violence.  In a way, Kuchel prioritized her dream of motherhood not only over her own well being (this being the selfless aspect of her decision), but also over Levi’s well being (this being the selfish aspect).  She knew her own living situation was terrible, filled with suffering, cruelty and pain.  She knew this, and she was aware, from Kenny’s own words, that bringing a child into that situation was only going to make things worse, for both of them.  But she chose to do it anyway.  She chose to give birth to Levi, and to keep him, knowing the sort of deprivation and desperation he would be exposed to.  Knowing the kind of violence and cruelty and ugliness he would be exposed to, being born and raised in a brothel, in which she was working as a prostitute, relegated to a single room with him in it. 

Chances are high, extremely high, that Levi saw his mother raped.  Maybe she sent him out of the room when she was with clients.  But maybe she wasn’t able to.  We never see any evidence of Levi having ever left their single room as a child, and even if he had, the building they were in was a brothel, catering to men seeking and paying for the sexual services of women.  It isn’t an environment that is, in any way, suited to a child, friendly to a child, or even tolerant of a child.  It’s almost 100% certain that Levi was, at one time or another, exposed to sexual violence against women, whether it was his own mother, or someone else.  He would have been exposed to violence in general too, because men who sexually assault women are also very likely to physically assault them.  I don’t think it’s any kind of a stretch, even, to assume that Levi himself might have been on the receiving end of physical violence, at the least, in a place like that.  Men who wouldn’t want some little kid around while they force themselves on the women there probably would have little qualm with hitting Levi to make him go away. 

Again, going back to Levi’s “unfriendliness” when Kenny first takes him in, I think we can extrapolate that a lot of what Kenny was perceiving as unfriendly behavior was in fact just Levi being withdrawn.  He seemed sullen and mute to Kenny.  We see this in children who have been abused.  They tend to go within themselves and make themselves as unobtrusive as possible, not wanting to draw attention to themselves, because whenever they have, it’s always resulted in them somehow being hurt.  Levi’s body language when Kenny first meets him speaks to this as well.  He’s curled against the wall opposite his mother’s bed, literally making himself as small as possible, his knees hugged to his chest, his head bowed close to them, etc...  Like he’s trying to hide.  Again, it doesn’t take a stretch of the imagination to assume that Levi fell victim to the violence of the men who frequented that place.  The Underground in general was filled with violent and cruel men who made a living out of criminality, who in fact wouldn’t think twice about committing murder, etc... 

This is the world Kuchel brought Levi into.  A world of physical and sexual violence, a world of depravity and illness, a world of poverty and starvation.  Kuchel loved Levi with all her heart.  That isn’t for a moment in doubt.  But by choosing to have him and keep him, she also trapped him into a life of pain and suffering of his own.

Kuchel had to know, if anything were to happen to her, that Levi’s chances of survival were next to none.  He was helpless without her, and that too is evidenced by the fact that, when Kenny finds them, Levi is literally starving to death.  He’s just sitting there, resigned to his fate.  There’s no indication whatsoever that Levi ever even left their room to seek food, or help of any kind.  He just sat there, trapped with his mother’s rotting corpse, waiting to die.  And nobody there cared enough to even check on him or his mother in the span of time between when she fell ill and when she died.  Nobody there cared enough about either of their lives to see if they were okay, and we can assume, because Levi didn’t seek anyone’s help, that he didn’t think anyone would help him, which tells us all we need to know about how he and his mother were generally treated in that place.  Kuchel must have known, as she was dying, that without her, Levi was going to die too.  She had no way and no cause to know or think that Kenny would come by to rescue him.  And, indeed, if Kenny hadn’t shown up right when he did, Levi almost certainly would have died in that room with her.  I can’t even imagine the pain this must have caused her, knowing she was dying, and knowing as a result, that her son was going to die too.  It would have been unbearable.  But again, this is also the risk Kuchel took when she chose to give birth to and keep Levi.  She knew this was a possibility.  That her child would die a slow and painful death without her there to protect and take care of him.

So this sort of sunny, idealistic picture that tends to get painted of Levi’s life with his mother seems both unrealistic and unfair to them in terms of understanding their actual situation.  This wasn’t a happy or good life they were living together.  It was a life full of misery and pain.  Levi’s monologue later on to the 104th recruits, about not knowing if you’ll wake up and get to eat that day, or if your friends will still be alive, wasn’t just a reflection on their lives living with the threat of titans.  It was a reflection of his own life living in the Underground, living a life surrounded by poverty and violence and uncertainty.  That was Levi’s existence for the first 25 years of his life.  That was Levi’s childhood.  Violence and starvation, cruelty and deprivation.  Kuchel’s love, as pure and as genuine as it was, wasn’t enough on it’s own to overcome the scars of all that. 

One last note to end this on. 

There’s also a tendency to paint Kenny’s rescue of Levi as this very heroic and selfless act on Kenny’s part.  A moment in which Levi was pulled from the jaws of certain death and given a chance to live by his uncle.  And while, yes, Kenny certainly did save Levi’s life and give him that chance, I think it’s also important to acknowledge that Kenny’s treatment of Levi was abusive, and ultimately caused him more harm than good.  Kenny, we have to remember, went down to the Underground to rescue Kuchel.  He went to that brothel with the intention of pulling her out and bringing her to live back up on the surface, able to do so now that he had ended the persecution of their family through his connection with Uri Reiss.  But by the time he got there, Kuchel was dead, and she’d left behind her only child in Levi.  Kenny could have so easily brought Levi up to the surface with him, the way he’d been planning on doing with Kuchel, and given him a good and happy life.  He could have saved him from the hell of living in the Underground City.  A world of perpetual darkness, a world of constant danger and desperation and illness.  People talk about how Kenny gave Levi the tools to survive in such a harsh environment, and treat this as if it’s something to somehow be applauded and praised.  But Kenny shouldn’t have had to teach Levi to survive in a cut-throat environment at all.  He’d made it possible for those with the Ackerman name to live free of persecution up above.  He could have easily taken Levi with him and given him a good, traditional education, fed and clothed him, given him shelter, given him the chance to grow up in fresh air and sunlight, given him a chance to make friends with other children, to learn social skills and just live a normal existence with the opportunity to actually be happy.  But instead Kenny chose to keep Levi in the Underground, to teach him how to kill, to teach him to be violent, and not much else, before simply abandoning him there and never going back, forcing Levi to survive on his own in the most dangerous place inside the walls.  What Kenny did to Levi wasn’t a kindness.  A kindness would have been rescuing Levi from the Underground entirely and giving him a real life above.  A kindness would have been Kenny giving to Levi what he’d planned on giving to his sister.  But Kenny was too selfish to do that, and that’s the bottom line.  He didn’t want to have to take care of and raise a child.  He didn’t want the responsibility.  Whether that’s tied to Kenny’s own, negative perception of himself or not doesn’t matter.  He still chose not to take Levi with him and give him a real life because actually caring for and raising a child would have been too hard, too much work, too much responsibility.  By leaving Levi there in the Underground, he sent Levi the message, clear as day, that he wasn’t wanted.  And so Levi spent the entirety of his childhood, and a good portion of his adulthood, believing that, and living in the Underground, living a life of violence and desperation and suffering.

I don’t think the suffering Levi went through as a child gets discussed or acknowledged enough, or examined enough.  I don’t think people often look at it with enough objective realism to realize the extreme harm and trauma Levi experienced and was left with.  It’s genuinely a miracle that Levi turned out the way he did.  That Levi is as good a man as he is.  Nothing in his life growing up can really account for that.  Everything in his life growing up would evince that he should have become the sort of man Kenny was, selfish and cruel.  It’s truly against all odds that Levi became the exact opposite.  Selfless in the extreme, kind, caring and compassionate above and beyond anyone else in the series.  Someone who fights for and gives his life in dedication to the dreams and lives of others.

In many ways, Levi is, himself, the greatest miracle of all.

[thechibifoxcub]

I can’t take it-

He couldn’t take it anymore. The pain. The anguish. His blood ran like molten lava beneath his skin; feeling every vein traversing beneath muscle tissue and winding sinew.

His breath felt weak yet heavy at the same time. Something that shouldn’t coexist by any means, but still does despite its unrealistic design. The analogy doesn’t make sense- it shouldn’t make sense! But how can he describe the sensation that plagues him?

It must be pain… right? How else can he describe the adrenaline rushing in his body each time his eyes landed on you? He must be ill if the sudden rush of heat dusts his neck and ears each time you smiled in his direction. His mind must be loosing its grasp of reality with every syllable that dances past your lips or when the sound of your unapologetic laughter sings a sweet tune in his corrupted ears.

He must have been in pain; surely he must have been injured or poisoned or tortured in some past life from eons-past. Surely he is dwelling in some sick, twisted form of hell. His own personal prison cell. How else can he explain this newfound revelation of emotions each time his mind drifted back to you.

You.

You, who has brought some semblance of humanity back into him.

You, who has brought forth his demons and have withstood each one with a smile one your face. Like you were happy to have seen his flaws. His imperfections. His sins. To have been overjoyed to have witnessed each deplorable side of him as if it was a gift. Fought against them and (surprisingly) won when he, himself, has failed to beat them on a good day.

You, who has never left him. Never doubted him despite the lies that flow past chattering teeth. He hates himself for every word that brings you pain or that pitiful frown on your pretty lips.

He’s in agony. Because he knows that if he were to sit down and actually think about this for one second longer he’d realize that what he’s feeling isn’t anguish, but something opposite. Something softer. Sweeter. Delectable even.

He can’t take this anymore. Not after watching the crystal-like tears that now streamed past your redden cheeks after he snapped at you for something that you didn’t even do. He can’t take it anymore. He just can’t. The magma that flows through his veins hardens like coal with each drop of a salty sorrow-filled tear that drops past clenched fists and furrowed brows. The breathe that once conflicted against all reason began to cease as your once brilliant smile turned sour with anger and hurt.

He can’t take it anymore; the pain he means, as you turn your back to him for the first time since you waltzed into his once dark and lonely existence. He was in pain as he reached out in a pitiful display of remorse and fear as you stormed away into the distance.

“Misery loves company after all~” he once told himself. How he wish he could turn back time just once- to take back what he had said. To stop himself from saying things that you didn’t deserve. You had only wanted to help him. You were a kind soul, practically a Saint! And here he was, convicting you of a “crime” that you had not committed. His one sanctuary. His oasis. His SALVATION.

He can’t take it anymore. And he will do whatever it took to make it up to you.

[This is the first time I’m posting anything here so I’m sorry for any mistakes! Doing this on 3-4 hours of sleep so I apologize for any errors you might see lol. This is could be seen as an “open ending” sort of thing so take it how you see fit. Also, this can go to any person/character that you fancy, but I mainly thought of Genshin Impact/Honkai Star Rail characters and Leon Kennedy from The RE series.]

[malicedragoness]

Ok, but what if Syzoth can transform into an actual lizard? Not a Zaterran (is this what they’re being called now?), but like a monitor lizard or an iguana. And he can accidentally change back when he’s caught off guard.

(Not proof read. We die like men. And if you can guess the 80s movie reference you get a cookie 🍪)

@bihansthot Syzoth fluff 🤗

Imagine it:

Syzoth only turns into an iguana when he’s extremely weak and is trying to hide from whoever is pursuing him.

He’s got gashes on him, he’s cold, and has been starving. He can’t hold his form anymore. He transforms and climbs into a tree to hide and make himself small. He tries to stay invisible until they’re gone, but it’s getting too difficult.

Once his pursuers are gone, he decides to rest there and falls asleep. Hours later, he wakes up when he hears a noise.

That’s when Syzoth meets you. You climbed a ladder to pick apples from the tree he’s hiding in. He continues to watch you, ready to transform and jolt if he has to. He’s still not sure if he’s able to. Everything hurts and he feels weak to his bones.

But the longer he watches you pick apples and sing to yourself, he realizes you’re not a threat. Your voice is lovely to his ears. Your hair is so pretty he wants to touch it. Everything about you, your body language and scent, seems so soft and gentle.

When you climb further up and get to his branch, you let out a surprise yelp when you see him.

“Oh my god! Are you ok, little guy?”

Syzoth couldn’t help but laugh internally. He must look horrible being surrounded in green blood. But your wide eyes and sweet voice was so cute.

“Are you alive?” He blinks when you reach to touch his nose.

You look at him and then down to the ground for a few minutes, contemplating your next move. You turn back and pet his nose again. “I’m going to pick you up and take you home, ok? Please let me help you. And please don’t bite me!”

Syzoth closed his eyes shut, pain searing through his body as you carefully pick him up. You settled him against your chest, his claws hooked onto your shirt, little tears already forming, and blood staining your shirt. He did his best to not sink his claws into your flesh, but the pain was making it hard to concentrate.

You climbed down the ladder, as slowly as you can, repeating “Please don’t bite me. Please don’t bite me. Please don’t bite me.” Once you were down the tree, you put him in your basket and took him home.

You spent the next few hours researching everything an iguana needs to survive. You bought a heat lamp, some fruits and greens, giant fake rocks. You’re not sure if you just throw the greens at him or cut them up to make it easier for him to eat. But you’re trying your best.

Syzoth watches you put a bowl of greens and fruits in front of his face and stare at him. If only he could tell you that he would be fine in a few days and all of this wasn’t necessary. Although, he did appreciate all the kind gestures.

After seeing you cry about him not eating the food and worrying about him dying, Syzoth decides to eat the food you prepared for him. His gentle heart couldn’t handle your tears, and it made him happy to see your face light up.

As the days go by, Syzoth lounged on his fake rocks, ate all the food you gave him, and watched you go about your daily routine. You kept calling him ‘Zammis’, and he had no idea what that meant.

He’s healed, but he’s had such a lovely time being with you that he doesn’t wish to go. He knows it’s wrong, keeping this secret from you. But you’re so happy with him there, he couldn’t bear the thought of you crying again.

You fed him his greens while watching a movie. (Another favorite thing of his to do, watching the moving pictures in the giant screen). A princess on the screen kissed a frog and he turned into a prince. You sighed and complained about how unrealistic that is.

Then your face filled Syzoth’s vision.

“Are you a prince, Zammis?”

Syzoth blinked. Then you leaned in further and kissed his nose.

Syzoth’s heart leapt in his throat. And suddenly he’s back in his human form, sitting in front of you on floor. Your hand still holding his bowl of greens and eyes wide as saucers.

“Z-Zammis?”

“Actually, it’s Syzoth, princess.” He said shyly.

[spiderlandry]

steady ticking of a clock (part 1) — ethan landry

Description: You and Ethan became childhood friends when you began talking to each other across your balconies in New Jersey. You both reunite in New York City, older and yet still young; consequently making Ethan face what could have been and what could be.

Pairing: Ethan Landry x GN!Reader (they/them)

Warnings/Tags: unedited (but will edit soon🤝), fluff, angst, open ending but it will be resolved in part 2 🫠, a bit unrealistic college life but for plot reasons

Word Count: 3.4k

Author’s Note: ignore the new york/jersey inaccuracies ive never been there

Ethan once came up with a plan to stay in one spot forever. A point in time that he can live over and over again, never having to move forward with the uncertainty of what shall come next. That point was his childhood aprtment in New Jersey, the week before you left. His solution was a time machine—and he laid out his plans to you when you were almost teenagers.

Your apartment was right next to his. Your balconies were close enough that you could hold a conversation, and your secret meetings soon became the highlight of Ethan’s day. It may have been the mystery of it all; always separated by a fissure between the two platforms but still finding a way to communicate.

Ethan knew the reason he spoke to you was because he felt bad that you were new to the building, and overheard you talking on the phone to a friend back home and telling them that you’d felt lonely in the new city. He even surprised himself with the way he began the conversation with demanding you become his friend rather than asking politely like his father taught him to.

You never had the chance to talk to him face-to-face until you broke the news of your moving to another state once again. It was a vivid memory, the way Ethan’s heart cracked, and he rushed over out into the hallway and told you to meet him out there. He hugged you and said, I’m going to make a time machine so we can live here forever.

Perhaps he had taken your presence for granted, because the next week, you were gone. He never went out into the balcony again.

And now, in New York City, at a frat party Chad dragged him to, Ethan began to think that maybe it wasn’t too late to change his major to theoretical physics and get started on that time machine.

Because you were there. In front of him.

Though you were older, taller, and had an air of confidence around you he‘d never seen but figured you could always have—your smile never changed. The hair was different, but the curve of your lips and the wrinkle of your nose stayed the same. You held a drink in your hand but it wasn’t alcoholic, and Ethan’s mind ran wild with the prospect of your interests and the reasons behind them. You‘ve gained more life experience, just as he had. But that excited him. He wanted to know more, know everything, and know you just as much as he knew you then.

“It’s been a while,” you said. It did a good job of snapping him out of his stupor.

“Um—yeah,” he stammered, putting his hands in his jacket pockets. “It has.”

“You live in New York?”

He scratched an invisible itch on his neck. “Since the last year of high-school. You?”

Maybe his heart broke a second time when you said, “Oh, no. I’m just visiting.”

He was so sure it worsened the one he already had from the first time you left. But there’s no way he’d let you know, if he had anything to do with it.

“How long are you gonna be here, then?” He tried to brush off the slight tremor in his voice, the way he tapered off the question. Hopefully you forgot his tells.

“I’m just here for a few days,” you shrugged. He realized that you sounded sad about it too, but maybe it was wishful thinking on his part. “I’m going back Sunday.”

He held back from asking where exactly you were going back to, but you must have read his mind because you added: “I’m in Chicago now, by the way. Probably dumb, but do you remember—“

The answer tumbled out of him on instinct. “That’s where your brother wanted to go for college.”

A sweet smile graced your face upon hearing it. “Yeah,” you chuckled. “He’s—that’s why we moved again. You go to Blackmore?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “This is just—“ he cringed when somebody bumped into him, spilling a bit of their drink. He subsequently moved to lean against the closest wall out of the way. “I don’t party. Not really. I hate it.”

Pausing, you thought for a moment. “Let’s go outside.”

Ethan hoped he still meant something to you. He was a sentimental person. When he loves somebody, that love will always be there, whether platonic or romantic. But he didn’t know what you were like. Maybe you’d become cold, or mean, though he doubted that because your smile warmed him like the sun.

“How’s the family?” You asked, keeping a short distance from the frat house, leaning against a fence.

“The same,” he sighed. “You?”

“The same.” You grinned. “Does Quinn study here, too?”

“Yeah, yeah she does.”

There was an awkward beat where neither of you knew how to continue this conversation. So much for being childhood friends, he thought.

“Are you…are you with anybody?” You suddenly asked, Ethan’s heart dropping upon hearing it.

At his bewildered expression, you clarified, “I mean at this party! Did you come here with a friend or alone?”

He laughed, relieved. “Yeah, my friend dragged me here. Why? Are you?”

“Visiting my friend. I was just asking because…you know…maybe we could ditch the party for a bit,” you shrugged.

“Really? I mean,” He was a tad too excited. He cleared his throat, reverting his voice back into a lower register, “Really?”

It was your turn to laugh. “Really. I can just text my friend, he’ll understand.”

“Where do you wanna go?”

“Anywhere.”

Walking under the moonlight with nobody else around, Ethan gradually became more comfortable getting to know you all over again. He found out you chose to follow in your brother’s footsteps in studying law in Chicago. You liked milkshakes, your cat was still alive and kicking, and your favourite food was the same as it was years ago.

You got to know him, too. He told you about his major, about his friends, about what he hated in college along with its advantages. You seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, and though it’s not a competition or anything, he was so sure he was more interested in you than you were of him. He hung onto your every word. He finally opened up the locked box containing his most precious memories of you (every single one of them, that is), and he could add to it again.

There was no doubting of your ability to draw him back into your orbit, regardless of the time lost. Hopefully he would be the same to you.

Look, Ethan hated icebreakers. But when you suggested to play twenty-one questions, he couldn’t possibly turn you down.

They were simple questions. Favourite colour, the place you wanted to travel most, anything either of you thought of.

But you asked: “First love?”

He did not hesitate to answer: “Pass,” Ethan shook his head. “My turn.”

“Wait—hey!” You protested. “You cannot do that.”

“I can do what I want.” He was grinning, but there was a pit in his stomach telling him not to let you find out that he’d never been with anybody.

“Why don’t you wanna answer?”

“Because I don’t!”

You hummed. “I bet you’re still heartbroken,” you teased. “Fine, let’s keep going.”

He didn’t think to ask you about your first love. Maybe he did it on purpose. He really didn’t want that kind of knowledge, it would eat at him knowing he wasn’t yours.

Why, though? As you both reached Ethan’s dorm building, he looked at you—whywhywhywhywhywhy—Why did he hate the idea of him not being your first love?

He didn’t have time to think about that.

He invited you into his dorm with a smile, screaming internally.

Seeing you sitting on his dorm bed was straight out of his dreams. Surreal.

“You’re a sophomore, right?”

“Uhm, yeah.” He sat down at his desk, fidgeting with his hands. “I forgot you’re a year older than me.”

There was a few moments of silence where you were just…staring at him. He resisted cowering under your gaze because it really did look like you were just zoning out.

Unbeknownst to him, you had to force yourself to close your mouth at the sight. You had an elevated view of him just sitting there. But it was the way he sat with legs spread far apart, with a devilish grin, leaning back—how could you focus?

“I can’t believe you forgot,” you continued as if it that didn’t just happen. “I never used to let you live it down. I never would have, if I hadn’t left.”

He shook his head. He never wanted to imagine what could have happened if you stayed.

“What else would have happened?” He began. “If you stayed, I mean.”

“We probably would have gone to high school together,” you said nonchalantly. “A friend group, maybe? How was your high school experience?”

“Not…great.”

“Me too, actually. It would’ve been better if you were there.”

“Let’s change the subject,” he nervously laughed. “How’s pre-law?”

In the middle of your conversation, at almost midnight, Ethan’s phone pinged with a text from his roommate.

Chad

hey bro not gonna be home tonight im staying at taras

That’s when he got the idea.

“What?” You blurted. He looked at you, confused.

“What do you mean, what?”

“You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“Like you just realized something.”

He stared up at you, amazed that you could read him so easily even after the time apart.

“Do you wanna stay over?” He asked before the courage ran out. “I have some clothes you can wear, and I’ll sleep in my roommate’s room since he’s not coming home tonight.”

Thankfully, you agreed.

SATURDAY

You woke up with twenty messages from your friend asking where you were. You frantically responded saying you were fine, along with your friend cancelling plans. You went to get Ethan to wake him up.

Much to your surprise, he was already in the tiny kitchen, preparing breakfast.

“Since when do you wake up this early?” You took the mug of coffee he handed you. Even if he never knew how you liked it, it was still somehow perfect.

“Just for my special guest,” he teased. “After all, can’t have my lawyer starve to death.”

You laughed as handed you a plate and got one for him, too.

“Are you busy this weekend?” You asked.

Ethan stopped his actions for a moment, and you were sure he looked confused.

“Uh…no. Why?”

“Wanna take me sightseeing around the city? I’ve never been to New York before.”

His head tilted like a puppy, and those doe eyes certainly weren’t helping.

“What about your friend? The one you’re visiting?”

“He cancelled,” you shrugged. “We’ve been hanging out the past few days, anyway.”

The sweet boy, your Ethan, smiled and said he would take you. After you both finished breakfast, you went back to your hotel room to shower and change.

Being with Ethan again re-energized you. You didn’t know what it was about him, maybe it was how you imagined a future with him when you were kids until you were so rudely ripped from each other’s lives too soon, or how he grew up to be a good guy like you always thought.

Spending the day with him, he said he’d take you to his favourite places He called himself your tour guide.

“Oh, yeah?” You bantered, walking side by side on the street. Though the city was loud, the bubble in which you entered while with Ethan was quiet. “Are you gonna take me to all the tourist spots?”

“No,” there it was again. That devilish grin. Not devilish, not really. You were sure he didn’t mean it to be so mischievous but his half-lidded eyes made you think otherwise. “You’re getting the Ethan Special.”

“And what might that be?”

“Places that aren’t this crowded.” He shrugged. “One might even call them…underground.”

“You’re dumb,” you laughed as you reached the subway station. “Where’s the first stop?”

“You’ll find out.”

It was a tiny, locally-owned bookshop in Brooklyn. When you walked in, the old man at the counter personally greeted Ethan with a grin.

“I remember you said you love books,” Ethan mentioned sheepishly, trailing you as you gawked in awe of the shelves. “The guy who owns this place is a family friend of ours, so we got a discount. I’ll pay for whatever you want.”

Your head snapped to his direction. “No way, E. Nope.”

“What—why?”

“Books are expensive. I have my own money, anyway.”

“Come on, Y/N. Just let me pay once. My dad’s covering college costs so I’ve been saving.”

“You’re so spoiled,” you smirked. “Fine. But once. And I’ll only get one book, I don’t wanna hurt your bank account.”

“You’re so lame, dude.”

You playfully shoved him. God, the proximity between you two was intoxicating—the place was small.

He convinced to get you three books once he saw you eyeing certain ones. You reluctantly agreed, but with the promise of paying for lunch.

You kept your promise, paying for him at his favourite Indian restaurant.

Despite his insistence not to take you to touristy spots, he said he couldn’t let you leave until he took you to the Brooklyn Bridge.

Though it was crowded, it was perfect because Ethan was with you the entire time.

The way he was taking care of you, watching out for you at every moment, wasn’t lost on you at all. It warmed your heart. But you began to dread tomorrow, when you had to leave.

Ethan’s curls blew in the wind. The sun kissed his skin like it was made for him, and your heart hammered against your ribs while you stared at his side profile looking to the expanse of the river. He was beautiful. Your legs were numb but you never wanted to leave.

“Shit,” his swear caught you off guard. “I forgot I told Chad I would do the grocery shopping this week.”

“Did you tell him where you are?”

“No, he probably thinks I’m getting groceries right now.”

You smiled. “Then let’s get groceries.”

“But—but what about your trip?”

“What about it? Let’s go!” You ran ahead of him, and he chased after you.

You and Ethan went back to his dorm to drop off the books and get his car. There was something surreal about seeing him so grown-up. As kids, you never clearly envisioned becoming an adult except that you wanted Ethan in it. Sitting in the passenger seat, the domesticity of your actions made you realize how much of a disservice moving away was for your younger self. You were robbed of seeing Ethan grow up with you, somehow.

Getting groceries with Ethan was more fun than you expected. He made it fun, cracking jokes and even offering to buy you snacks.

After you’d both unloaded the groceries, Ethan asked, “What now?”

The fatigue had caught up to you rather quickly. You suggested a movie, he agreed. It was supposed to be simple.

Somehow, some way, you ended up in his arms as the sun went down. By then he had already relaxed himself against the couch and fell asleep.

You felt a buzz from your jacket pocket, a text from your friend coming through; one who knew about your spending the day with Ethan.

how was it?

i think i fell in love with him

SUNDAY

Ethan was up all night tossing, turning, and thinking. Spending a whole day with you right next to him was all he’d ever wanted in life. Forget his other dreams, he needed you. Nothing trumped how he felt being with you.

He sent you a text first thing in the morning.

when’s ur flight?

You responded a few minutes later:

at three.

doing anything today?

not really

can I take you somewhere? i’ll pick u up

You weren’t sure what he had in mind, but you agreed regardless.

Turns out, it was the Morgan Library and Museum. You marvelled as you entered, and Ethan, unbeknownst to you, admired your beauty while you turned your head up to the high ceilings.

You were to leave today. He had to tell you what was on his mind at some point before that or else he was positive he would go crazy.

In a small, particularly secluded and quiet corner in the building, he stopped walking. It took you a few seconds to realize, but when you did a few feet ahead of him, you strode back in bewilderment.

“What are you doing standing here, come on.”

“I…” he sighed. “I have to tell you something.”

Your face visibly dropped along with his heart.

“What is it?”

“I think I have f—”

You immediately held your hand up, “Don’t say it.” You whispered, glancing around as if there were people around to hear.

Ethan’s face felt hot. “Why?” You couldn’t have possibly known what he was going to say, could you? Or maybe you just read his mind so easily. “You don’t know what I’m gonna say.”

“Please, Ethan.” You knew that look. Subconsciously, your mind permanently burned his face the day you told him you were leaving. This time, though, he stood more confident, taller, more sure of himself. And you didn’t want to go down this path. You begged him not to say it.

“Let me say it,” he pleaded as you did. “I want you in my life. Forever. Preferably as—like, maybe, more than friends. Or not. Whatever you want. I can take you on dates, we’ll call every night, and I’ll visit—”

You covered his mouth with your hand, effectively cutting him off. He saw the sheen in your eyes.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

His heart shattered like you had taken a hammer to a glass wall.

Once you were sure he got the message, you took off your hand.

“We can be friends, Ethan.” You blinked back tears. “But not more than that.”

“That’s—I’m good with that.”

“You don’t understand,” you shook your head.

“I think I do.”

“You don’t.” You snapped. “Because I want to be with you, too.”

A flicker of hope in his chest extinguished in the next second.

“Then let’s be together.”

“We can’t,” you insisted. “I don’t do distance, E. And I want to this—us—right.”

You stared into each other’s eyes, both begging for opposite things in silence.

Ethan was thinking, you could tell. He clenched his jaw.

His mind looped only one scenario at this moment. One where you stayed. He let himself think about what would happen if you hadn’t left, just this once, he let himself indulge in the fantasy, and asked:

“If you stayed,” he took a deep breath, pulling you closer with a caress of your jaw. “Could…could you have fallen in love with me?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, unable to look him in the eyes. He pulled up your chin in retaliation. “I would have.”

“What about now?”

“You don’t want me to answer that.” I already have, you thought.

That was when it hit him.

You were his first love. That’s why he hated the thought of someone else getting to love you the same way he always wanted to.

His heart tied itself to yours across that balcony, years and years ago, without warning. He was meant to find you, and he knew that you would both find each other time and time again, against all odds.

“Bet you wish you made that time machine now, hm?” You joked, lightening the mood after a beat.

To his surprise, he laughed. With his heart still in pieces in your hands. Without his knowledge, you had left your future in Jersey.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Do you think it’s too late?”

“It is,” you put your arms around him, resting your head on his shoulder and reveling in his warmth. “But you know what?”

“What?”

“You don’t need it. Because we’ll be friends. Stay in each other’s lives, no matter what. Then, when the time is right…”

“We’ll find each other again.”

[jebewonmorelike]

So You Can Do Yours

part two up now: whatever you say, president-nim wc: 2k pronouns: none used; n/a warnings: none? i guess reader is not on good terms with father but to be fair their father is a chairman of a company so he probably is objectively not great; literally fluff and mostly platonic/you're his boss so but suggestion that wookie has a crush on reader at the end... and reader is supposed to be 19; super unrealistic but just a fun little fictional concept lol summary: uselessCEO!reader has fired every new assistant they've had in the past few months, but newassistant!gunwook thinks he might be the right man for the job. ~masterlist~ ♡ ~kofi (no pressure at all)~ this is a cute one :) gunwook is baby. gunwook is son. protect him at all costs. i've been wanting to write more for gunwookie for a while, but i was super hesitant to because i got a really freakish comment about the only small drabble i wrote for him. so five months later i'm ready to try again. please remember this is just a work of fiction and its crazy fluffy. i really hope you like it! also expect more writing from me this month-- i'm taking the rest of summer off from school so. i'll need to stay busy 😤

“President-nim?” A voice calling through the intercom on your desk breaks your concentration. You huff annoyedly as you lean forward and press the microphone button.

“What is it?”

“Your new assistant is here to meet you,” Secretary Lee responds cautiously. You groan; quickly shoving what you had been working on into the hidden compartment of your desk. Not another assistant.

Every Monday for two months now, a new bright-eyed young woman had walked through the doors of your office ready to kick-start her career as a company president's trusty assistant. And sure enough, by that Friday afternoon every single one of them had run out in tears; unable to handle the pressures of the job. Was that pressure almost entirely due to the fact that you had no idea how to do your own job? Unimportant, but--

“Annyeonghaseyo, President-nim!” A male voice shakes you from your internal monologue as you look up to find that a young man in a 90 degree bow has appeared in front of you. He looks up at you, his gaze drifting to your right hand. 

You follow his line of sight to find a watercolor brush still in your hand-- dripping a bit onto your desk. Lifting up your desk compartment slightly, you toss the brush in with the others. You clear your throat a bit awkwardly-- smoothing down the lapels of your suit jacket with your fingers. “Annyeonghaseyo,” you mumble.

“I’m your new assistant, Park Gunwook,” he introduces politely, standing up straight. It’s now that you suddenly realize just how young this man appears to be. His face is round with youth and his lips resemble that of a baby chick. “I hope to serve you well.”

“When? After you get out of school each day?” You joke, brow furrowed in suspicion. “How did you get this job, huh? You look like you’re late for hagwon.”

Gunwook’s brow stays raised for a moment, but a surprisingly cheeky smile eventually creeps onto his face. “Couldn’t I ask you the same, President-nim?”

You exhale an unamused laugh. Guess this one thinks he’s clever. “I graduated two and a half years early.”

“That must look impressive on a resume,” he agrees genuinely with a nod. “Your father being the Chairman of the Board also must look pretty impressive on a resume.”

Stunned by this kid’s audacity, you just stare back at him.

“Nothing to be ashamed of President-nim,” he reassures, clasping his hands together behind his back. “I happen to know someone that works here, too.”

Figures. “And which one of those geriatric, good-for-nothing money bags on the Board is your daddy?”

“None of them,” Gunwook says with a smile. “Secretary Lee is my eomma. Might seem small, but a connection’s a connection.”

Secretary Lee hired her own son? After the way she’d watched all of the sobbing girls run out of the building screaming ‘I’M NEVER WORKING EVER AGAIN’’ each week?

What terrible thing had Park Gunwook done to be handed such a fate by his own mother?

You stand up from your desk and meet Gunwook at the front of it. Walking in a tight circle around him, you examine every inch of him curiously as he stands at attention.

“Um, President-nim?” He asks without moving a muscle. “Can I ask what you’re doing?”

“Absolutely not,” you answer, bending down to look at his dress shoes. They’re more than a few years old and definitely not a designer brand, but somehow... they’re condition is nearly immaculate. Not to mention, the black, thin laces are tied in perfectly symmetrical bows. Huh. It’s pretty uncommon for a boy your age to care that much about the tidiness of his shoes.

“Weirdo,” you mutter under your breath as you stand back up. You have to crane your neck a bit to look Gunwook in the eyes; not only is he quite tall, you also realized you’re standing a bit too close to him. Stepping back slightly, you take a seat on your desk-- crossing your arms as you glare at him.

“Something not to your liking, President-nim?” He asks, eyebrows raised in question. 

You don’t answer. Instead, you ask a question of your own. “What makes you think you have what it takes to be my assistant?”

“I’ve been President of my class since middle school. I’ve placed in national debate competitions. I’m organized, responsible, and competent,” he responds confidently. But a little mischievous sparkle appears in his eye as he adds, “From what I’ve heard, those are qualities the President's office might need more of.”

“YA! Do you want to die, you little--...” As you threaten him, Gunwook has already gone back to his default polite smiling. “What’s wrong with you, huh? Don’t you know I can blacklist you for life with one phone call? Tell me why I shouldn’t--.”

“President-nim!” Gunwook interrupts your thought excitedly; pointing to a stack of papers sitting on the corner of your desk. “Are those spreadsheets that need executive review? I’m experienced in Excel if you're... too busy for them.”

You frown, picking up the papers in your hand and sifting through them. They are spreadsheets that need executive review. You’ve been putting it off for a week, because, believe it or not, you didn’t get a very spreadsheet-centric education at the fine arts university you attended. To think, you could be painting in your own studio all day every day. But instead your father wanted you to do something “sensible” and “respectable” that “made you worthy of receiving his estate some day”.

Not that you cared much about an inheritance. But at this point it was the least you were owed for sacrificing your life’s passion to goof off in an office for the rest of your life. It wasn’t like you particularly enjoyed being unhelpful or unproductive, but at just shy of twenty years old with a BA in Fine Arts... you hadn’t exactly been well-prepared for such an important job.

You look back up at Gunwook. He’s practically salivating at the mouth to get his hands on your routine paperwork. You hand him the stack of spreadsheets with a sigh: “Knock yourself out.”

Gunwook’s concerningly large hand snatches the papers from yours with lightning speed; hugging them to his chest happily. “Thank you, President-nim! I won’t let you down.”

You’re almost starting to believe him. 

“Right,” you agree, chewing your cheek as you walk back behind your desk. “Well, you get to work on those and have them back to me by... Uh...”

You’re struggling to think of a reasonable time frame for the spreadsheet reviews to be completed, since you’d never once been the one to finish them. Gunwook sees this and answers for you, “Tomorrow at noon, I think you were going to say, President-nim?”

“Tomorrow at noon,” you echo with a frown. You’re not sure you like how familiar this kid was becoming with you already, but at least he’d been far more eager to do your executive work for you than anyone had been thus far. You’d know by tomorrow at noon if he was truly capable or not.

“And where should I put them for you if you’re not in your office, President-nim?” He asks thoughtfully.

“Oh, um,” you stumble, looking around for a good spot. You land on the thin drawer at the center of your desk and point to it. “In here is fine.”

Gunwook quickly walks behind your desk to see the drawer, stopping at a respectful distance. He reaches towards the drawer, but when you realize his fingers are pulling the wrong handle-- the top of your desk is already lifting open before you can stop him.

“Whoah,” the boy whispers in awe as he stares at the giant watercolor landscape painting you’d been working on for the last week or so. You both stand in silence for a moment as you watch Gunwook take in every detail of your latest work. “This is incredible.”

“Thank you,” you reply softly-- folding your arms across your chest uncomfortably at the compliment. No one had seen your artwork for a while now; even mentioning it in your father’s presence sent him into a spiral.

“If you’re this talented, then why--... Why are you the president of a tech corporation?” He asks, eyes meeting yours now. He’s curious and concerned and confused. When he realizes he forgot to speak formally, he bows in apology. “I’m sorry, President-nim.”

“Sometimes a 'connection' isn’t what you wanted,” you say after a moment, sitting back down in your desk chair.

Gunwook swallows from beside you, taking a few steps back to the front of your desk. “I’ll help as best as I can, President-nim. I’ll do my work so that you can do yours.”

You blink back at him, a bit speechless. “O-... Okay.”

He bows, another 90 degree one. “Should I get started on these then, President-nim?”

“Yeah,” you agree, nodding slowly. “Yes. That would be good.”

Gunwook nods. “Thank you, President-nim,” he says, turning and walking towards the door.

“Gunwook-sshi,” you call suddenly, causing the young man to let go of the door handle in his hand and turn around. His eyes are wide as he waits patiently for you to continue. “Why did you apply for this job? Besides the fact that your mother works here.”

The boy smiles, answering simply, “I thought I would be a good fit.”

You exhale a laugh, rolling your eyes. “We’ll see.”

Gunwook’s smile turns to a grin as he nods again-- walking out the door and closing it behind him.

~

The end of the work day comes surprisingly quickly (and it may or may not have something to do with Gunwook). 

Okay, it has everything to do with Gunwook. 

To your very pleasant surprise, the teenage boy had been your best assistant yet by a considerable margin. All in the span of six hours, he’d color-coded your weekly schedule, ghostwritten five urgent emails to executives from partner companies, brought you your lunch order exactly how you prefer it, and reorganized your entire desk for you all while you painted next to him.

He didn’t ask you any unnecessary questions or disturb your peace; he just did his work so that you could do yours. Just like he said he would.

The end of the day came so quickly that when Gunwook knocked on your door to ask you if you were heading out for the day, you thought he was making one of his insulting-but-somehow-also-charming remarks about your lack of presidential work ethic again. But glancing at the clock, you see that he’s right-- it’s almost 7 P.M.

“I’m actually gonna keep working for a little while longer,” you respond before you catch Gunwook’s eyebrows raise. “You can go home now though. You have to be well-rested for another day of high school tomorrow.”

He sticks his tongue in his cheek and smiles at the joke. “I actually go to university now, President-nim. Part-time, but still.”

You find yourself trying to picture what Gunwook would look like on a campus: a grey hoodie, jeans, and his hair flopping into his eyes. In another life, one where you had a different father, maybe you’d still be going to university, too. Maybe you would've run into Gunwook and been his sunbae instead of the Guinness World Records holder for youngest president of a national corporation. Would you have noticed each other? Would you have been friends? Rivals? Something else?

Returning his smile, you dismiss, “Have a good night, Gunwook-sshi.”

“Have a good night, President-nim.”

You work on your painting for another hour before finally gathering your things and heading out the door for the night. On your way out, you see Secretary Lee typing away at her desk. When she spots you, she grimaces nervously.

“Oh, President-nim,” she greets as you walk over to her. “I hope you’re not too upset, but I thought that my son could--.”

“Could be the best assistant I’ve ever had?” You finish for her; watching as her face relaxes at your compliment. “You were right. And you better keep up the good work, Secretary Lee: Gunwook-sshi would make a great secretary.”

Secretary Lee swallows and nods at the hint of a threat. “Understood, President-nim.”

You smile, starting to head toward the exit before your curiosity stops you in your tracks. You turn over your shoulder to call, “Secretary-nim?”

She looks at you expectantly; if not also a bit nervously.

“Why did Gunwook-sshi want to be my assistant?”

She considers for a moment before replying, “After your... poor luck... with assistants these past few months, I couldn’t help but think my son had what it takes to change that. He’s always been such an overachiever. But he wasn’t really interested at all at first."

“Why did he change his mind?” You ask; wanting to understand a bit more about the incredibly competent, but slightly odd assistant that showed up at your office today.

Secretary Lee laughs quietly. “Well, to be honest... He only handed me his completed application after...

... I showed him a picture of you.”

[wofdesignhub]

I’m gonna draw a dragon again soon so quick rant

You know one thing I REALLY hate in wings of fire? There’s a tiny, little inconsistency throughout the books. And that’s the sizes of scavengers to the dragons. Because I’m just gonna say it here: the “canonical” size comparison such as the picture below makes NO SENSE considering how everything else is just conveniently a decent size for a dragon. And trust me, we WILL get to it being “canonical”

A mango can fit a dragons palm when it should clearly be tiny as the actual love I have for this book series. What about cows? How come they’re described to be massive enough to feed a whole dragon? They should be like a candy bar to those things! And don’t get me started on how completely unrealistic it is for a sloth to be big enough to wrap itself around a rainwing’s neck. Like that must be some pretty massive sloths around that should ABSOLUTELY be massive compared to a scavenger.

Also the funny part about that pic I showed you? Yeah well scrap that cuz that’s also pretty inaccurate. We were to believe in the VERY EARLY books that scavengers are like hamsters to dragons. Literally the size of their right toe. Also also the fact that Smolder is like 50 years old AND also also also the fact that dragons keep growing as they age, then that just tells us that these scavenger are way, WAY bigger to these dragons. Especially if Flower here is the size of his FOREARM!

“Oh, but the islands are more suited for dragons! Of course everything will be big!” You cry out! Yet it is implied that scavengers were the dominant race BEFORE The Scorching, and even if that was a whole lotta years ago, then that must’ve been the FASTEST evolution process in the south coast yet.

And it STILL gets worse! Scavengers, even after being concluded to be the size of hamsters to dragons, Tui is constantly and very much maliciously switching the sizes of these scavengers to fit the plot because she has never figured out what she ever wants. Winter keeps Bandit in what’s implied to be some.. hamster cage? Okay, so he must be pretty damn tiny, which makes some amount of sense considering he’s probably a… teenager… I mean, okay, sure, whatever, I’ll let it slide- wait! But so is Winter! Winter is bigger than Qibli, sure, but neither of them are any bigger than other fully grown dragons! Winter is a teenage dragonet! So how small is Bandit?? How small is he compared to a- and let me emphasize- a FULL GROWN DRAGON!!!?? What!!!

And by the way, have you SEEN the actual cover of Dragonslayer??? Look at that and TELL me how completely unrealistic it is if we are to believe scavengers are the size of a dragon’s forearm

Also also also ALSO in book 14 Daffodil is shown tossing and catching Bumblebee who had just hatched and this is just unnatural and biologically confusing to think about. HOW is Daffodil bigger than a newborn dragonet? And this makes even LESS SENSE when you realize that it’s been implied that a newborn dragonet is the same size as a regular sized scavenger ACCORDING to the fact that it’s really easy to pick up a baby dragonet by the hand COMPARED to the size of Flower to Smolder’s hand in the picture??? HOW? Tell me how, Tui!! How is this possible!! And don’t you dare tell me that “oh! Pantalan dragons are smaller than Pyrian!” Because that is just ludicrous to me. I will LAUGH at you if you tell me otherwise because that is just a cheap way to excuse any of this. There has NEVER been any quote of Luna or any other Silkwing, Hivewing, or Leafwing being significantly shorter than a Pyrian dragon. 

I should really cut to the chase but I’ve… never liked Tui’s writing. I don’t like that she avoids criticism of her writing. She has great ideas and is so creative in the world of WOF but for most works she’s either rushing it or coming up with something on the spot. And neither are good if they’re not thought out well enough! All of the endings to the arcs are bad and poorly thought out. The logic in how specific stuff works is just terrible. Arc 3 is just a NOTHING arc full of NOTHING characters (except maybe Snowfall and some of the Leafwings they’re… fine). I’m sorry but as much as I “pretend” to like WOF, and I REALLY mean it when I say “pretend”, but this book makes me get an aneurysm the more I really look deep into it. I am beyond terrified of looking into the guidebook because I KNOW there will be inaccuracies, confusion, and Tui slamming down whatever ideas she has without a second thought. I already know she put the weird and unnecessary mudwing mating rituals!!

Anyways, drawing that stupid blue and yellow rainwing later, I don’t want to go and look for her name now, goodnight everyone, don’t talk to me

[dirty-urie]

Use My Body

5.6k Words

Warnings: Public sex

Author's Note: Hi all :) I'm posting this as a late birthday present for someone. But if it's bad then ChatGPT wrote the whole thing and not me.

“Brendon! I need your body!” You call from your home office.

“Coming, dear!” He shoots back. After about thirty seconds, he strolls in, looking sexy as always. He must have come from working out in the garage because he's shirtless, flushed, and a little sweaty. Not gross sweaty, just shiny and warm. “What do you need?”

You finish the sentence you're on and wrench your eyes away from your computer screen. You spin around in your chair to face him. “I need to see if a scene is possible. Can we block it together?”

His face lights up. “Hell yeah!” He gives you a hand and pulls you up out of your chair against his body.

You let him get one long kiss in before you let him down gently. “Don’t look so excited, baby. I’m on a deadline. Your pants have to stay on.” You sigh. You really wish he could fuck you right now.

Brendon pouts. “That’s no fun.”

You make a sympathetic noise. “There, there. You’ll survive. Now, uh, get on your knees and sit back on your heels,” you instruct, pointing to the bed.

Brendon scrambles onto the bed and assumes the correct position. It's purely luck that you work from the guest room and always have access to a bed for workshopping, but it's fucking brilliant and you don't know what you'd do without it. “Are you comfy? How are your knees?” you ask.

“Yeah, it feels fine.” He stretches back on his hands, arching his back. “I'm glad you force me to stay limber,” he laughs. “I'm in better shape than my twenties.”

You snatch your notepad off your desk, jotting that down. You toss your notepad onto the bed and straddle Brendon's lap, already questioning how realistic this position is. Your tits are almost right in his face for one, and you're not sure how much leeway either of you has for movement. “Hm. Do you think you could thrust into me like this?”

Brendon pushes up against your cunt through your jeans. You feel him throbbing. You’re caught by surprise, snapping you out of your concentration. You have to bite your lip to keep from snickering. He's too easy. “How are you already hard? I just climbed on top of you.”

He pecks your lips. “You know you get me absolutely raring to go, baby.” He winks. “but admittedly, you interrupted a proofreading session- I was already halfway there.”

You have to fight back a smile, but it creeps into your cheeks anyway. “So the new chapters I sent you are good?”

Brendon gives you a “no shit they're good” look. The man is going to give you an ego. “That scene right before Carter and her dude get engaged. That's based on our honeymoon, right?”

You’re thrilled he recognizes it. It's maybe your favorite sex scene you've written. You nod, swallowing hard. “Fuck. You were being a fucking tease all day in those black swim shorts that hugged your ass just right. And you kept checking me out in my bikini, and I could see your fucking cock swelling through them. But you made us wait until we're in bed together and sunkissed and couldn't keep our hands off each other.” Brendon nibbles your neck, briefly making your brain go totally fuzzy. “It was your first time without a condom, and not having that barrier between us felt so special.”

“I came so fast,” Brendon remembers fondly. “A couple minutes I think? Less than five definitely. You were pissed, baby. I think you contemplated divorce right then and there.”

You sigh in content. “Until I realized you fucking stayed hard. Which I swear is not possible, and if my editor read it in a draft, she'd say it's unrealistic and I need to fix it. But it happened, and your hot come was inside me while your cock was inside me, and you were moving your hips in perfect time with my heartbeat.” You grind on his erection absent-mindedly. “Any chance of you pulling that off again?”

He shakes his head. “Believe me, if I could, I would. Can you imagine the bragging rights?”

You roll your eyes. “Please don't brag about your cock.”

“You're the one writing about our sex life for thousands to read.” He smirks. “Speaking of, do I get a writing credit? Some of that dialogue sounded awfully familiar.”

“Not my fault that you represent the pinnacle of dirty talk, baby.”

“Yeah? You like it when I talk about how I can feel your pussy even through all this fabric, and it's driving me fucking crazy because I know you'd be hot and wet and pulsing around me right now?”

Fuck, you know where this is going, and it does not end with your manuscript being submitted on time. “Bren-” Your protestations are cut off by him bucking hard against you. He knows your body well, knows where to put pressure, so that your whole body lights up.

“You like hearing me talk about how as soon as I'm released from my husbandly duties, I'm going to jack off and look at pictures from our honeymoon and finish your fucking incredible sex scenes and come hard and loudly in our bed? And how I'm going to send you voice messages while I do it because I know that's the best way to cure your writer’s block?” His voice is low and husky. “But you know you won't need voice messages because you'll hear me across the house.” He slides his hands down your back to grab your ass, rocking you forward on his dick and then allowing you to slide back before he rocks you forward again. “You know the very thought of my girl’s fucking perfect pussy makes it impossible to stay quiet.”

You whimper. “Bren, baby, l have work to do.” He ignores you, increasing his tempo. He buries his face in your breasts, sucking gently on the sensitive skin. You're so glad you wore a low-cut top. “Fuck, fuck. Harder,” you plead.

He grabs your ass harder, practically slamming you forward. “Yeah, darling, I can thrust a little,” he pants, finally answering you. “But you'd have to bounce on my cock. You’d have to ride me like the perfect cockslut you are.”

God, he's a calculated bastard, waiting until you've found the perfect groove to fulfill what you called him in for. You throw your head back, giving him better access to your cleavage.

Brendon smiles before he slows to a stop. You continue to wiggle on him incessantly. “Baby, I gotta let you work. I'll stop being a tease.”

You disregard him, sliding along his length and moaning rhythmically. The seam of your pants presses against your clit perfectly.

“God, you're fuckin’ pretty,” Brendon marvels, squeezing your ass again. “But c’mon, I'm your biggest fan. I need more content. The way you incorporated the motif with the cigarettes? Fucking brilliant.”

You clench your teeth, arousal burning deep in your stomach.

“And the way you wrote their emotions was almost palpable. So good, honey.”

And you're coming. You’re nearly screaming as your body convulses in pleasure. “Bren, shit, coming,” you choke out. “Fuck! You're so good,” you shriek, rubbing hard and fast on him.

You slump forward bonelessly. Brendon eases you off his lap onto your back and lies down next to you. “Are you-” you inhale, struggling to catch your breath. “Are you going to apologize to me?” you demand.

Brendon rolls onto his side towards you, so you can see his face. He's smiling slightly in amusement. “For?”

The absolute nerve of this guy. The audacity. You want to fuck him so bad. “For disrupting my writing session!”

“Hmm, depends.” He brushes your hair behind your ear. “Are you going to apologize to me?”

You furrow your brows. “What did I do?”

His eyes snap toward his crotch. “Forcing me to change my pants.”

The crease between your brows only deepens in further confusion. “Did you…?” you trail off, letting him fill in the blanks. You don't remember feeling or hearing him come.

He laughs softly, pressing his pelvis forward. You can clearly feel his erection. Brendon recovers quickly, but not this quickly. Not outside of your honeymoon that is. “Darlin', you came. Hard. And messily.”

You blush. “I didn't think it would have soaked through to your pants.”

He takes your wrist and guides it to the front of his pants to feel. The soaked fabric clings to his cock. You scramble for the button of his pants, struggling to get them open with one hand. Brendon pulls you away- gently but firmly.

You whine wordlessly, begging him with your eyes.

“You have to finish writing,” he says, his voice a warning.

His subtle slip into dominance just makes you want him more. “And you have to get off,” you argue. You slip out of his grasp, but he catches you before you can go back to groping him.

You exhale. “Fine. I'll behave myself. Thanks for your help.”

“Any time.” He winks before he climbs out of bed and kisses your forehead. “Do your job, baby. I'm very proud of you.”

You melt. “Aww thanks.”

He gets about halfway through the door before your orgasm-induced haze clears enough to remember the other reason you called him. “Wait- Brendon,” you stop him.

Brendon turns around quickly, leaning against the door frame and facing you. “What's up?”

“Are you coming to my book signing tomorrow?” You try to stay neutral in your question, but you're secretly begging the universe he says yes. He'll make the day so much more fun.

“Uhh, let me check.” He pulls out his phone to look at his calendar. “Well, I can, but I probably shouldn't.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I show up at too many, people are just going to go for a shot at meeting me. I don't want to take attention away from you,” he explains.

You scoff. His beautiful and talented and smart, but his ego is a little too much sometimes. “Honey, first of all, your fans are going to show up anyway. And second of all, is it to crazy to think that I might have a following of my own because of my best-selling erotic novels?” You're not offended, but you're slightly annoyed.

He raises his hands in surrender. “No, you're right, I was trying to be considerate and supportive, but I just made myself sound like an ass.”

“Well you are an ass,” you retort, but it's playful.

“You are what you eat?” Brendon offers unsure. He purses his lips and squints his eyes in consideration of his own joke.

You throw a pillow at him, laughing. “Whose ass are you eating? Because it's certainly not mine,” you say. “If I called you a pussy? Sure. A dick? Maybe. So many weed brownies that you can't move because the first one didn't kick in right away? Of course.”

He scoops the pillow up from the ground. “Point taken.”

“So you're coming to my signing?”

He blows you a kiss, pivoting to walk out of the room. “Of course. Anything from my gorgeous,” he lowers his voice, “bossy,” he raises it again, “perfect wife.”

“For that you’re driving!” you call after him.

“Bossy!” He retorts.

•••

You shut the book, and, to your relief, applause fills the packed library auditorium. Brendon shoots you a grin and thumbs up from the front row before clapping along with everyone else. He's wearing stereotypical “I'm a secret celebrity” attire: hoodie, sunglasses, hat. You're pretty sure he's just drawing more attention to himself, but you're so glad he's there regardless.

You feel your heart rate settle back to baseline now that the hard part is over. You were terribly nervous to read new material aloud for so many people, but it went extremely well in your opinion. The audience was on the edge of their seats- including the boyfriends who got dragged along against their will. You even noticed a few people who got so worked up they had to excuse themselves partway through. You'd call that a success.

The applause dies down after a few seconds, and you clap your hands together to transition to the next segment. “Okay! I think I have time for a few questions before the signing.” To your surprise, about twenty hands shoot into the air. Sweat beads on your temple, a combination of the stage lights, physical exertion, and nerves.

“I don't have time for everyone,” you say apologetically. “But I will try my best! You in the purple, you in the back, and then you with the hat.”

A young woman in a purple sweater stands up. “Um, I was just wondering if you write from experience?” Her voice shakes a little, and you feel for the girl.

Your eyes flit to Brendon, who’s grinning. “Well, I've never been kidnapped by the mafia, so no,” you joke, referencing your first and least favorite book. The audience laughs lightly with you. You got pressured into writing a mafia romance by your publisher at the time in exchange for an almost life-changing advance. You got your foot in the door, but you think mafia romances are horribly uninspired, unrealistic, and immature. You love your share of cliches, but you wish you hadn't agreed to sell your soul a little. Plus the royalties are abysmal.

The next person in your queue stands to speak, a larger woman in a floral dress. “Hey! I love your books.”

You smile warmly. “Thank you. I worked hard on them!”

“My question is where you find inspiration to write.”

Brendon mostly, you think to yourself. Sometimes you'll have such an incredible session with him that you have to put it to paper. But you can't very well say that. “Everywhere really,” you answer aloud. “Music, movies, other books. My favorite is people-watching at the beach. I've even had some dreams that heavily influenced my writing. And yes,” you make eye contact with the woman in purple, “real life experiences.” You know you're speaking fast, but you’re slightly rushing to get to more people. “Uh, let’s see, who’s next?”

Hat guy stands up, staring at his phone. You think he's an inconsiderate douche, but he redeems himself once he starts talking. He's clearly reading from the screen. “My girlfriend is in surgery, but she has asked me to tell you she's your biggest fan.” He talks with a bit of an accent, but you can't quite place it. He pauses to scrolls down. “And she would like to know how you write such realistic sex scenes.”

The crowd murmurs excitedly.

You find it fascinating that everyone is gathered to hear you read from an erotic novel, but the explicit mention of sex still feels rebellious and taboo. You don't look down at Brendon this time, but you feel him staring at you smugly. It's like all your fans conspired together to indirectly ask about your sex life with your husband. “Tell your girlfriend thank you, and I hope her surgery goes well,” you say to start. “I'm not sure if she's performing it or receiving it, but my best regards either way.”

You weren't quite making a joke, but everyone- hat guy included- laugh politely.

You walk across the stage. “Has she considered maybe you're just copying your moves from my books, and that's why my scenes are so evocative of her experience?” you ask cheekily.

The man doesn't get flustered. “Ah, you have figured out my secret.”

Another round of tittering and chattering rolls through the room.

You wait a beat for everyone to settle down. “Well, let's keep it between us then. Tell her that my sex scenes come from a lot of research,” you answer. “Most of it far less saucy than I'm sure you guys are imagining, unfortunately. Quite academic. But some is hands-on. Or mouth-on when needed.” You wink.

You’re glad when you get the signal to wrap it up because you fear you've already said too much. “Okay, that's my time, but I will be signing books in the lobby in just a few minutes.” You wave the audience away, smiling. “You guys have been lovely. Thank you for showing up.”

People file out of the auditorium, conversing with each other excitedly.

The auditorium has a door that connects to your small makeshift green room that you eagerly retreat to. You collapse on a folding chair and chug a bottle of water. Your job isn't physically taxing, but it's deceivingly exhausted to be on “on” mode for an extended period of time. It reminds you of your job as a cashier before you started writing full-time. The emotional labor was harder than the physical labor.

Brendon comes into the room after about five minutes. You assume he waited until the auditorium was clear and no one would notice him slip in with you. “That was fucking great,” he exclaims. “Can I get you anything right now?”

You shake your head before putting it down on the plastic table. “I don't have this signing in me,” you whine. You're going to go out there and give it your all, but you need to bitch and moan a bit first. The cool pressure from the table feels great against your forehead. You can feel a nasty tension headache forming.

“A’ight, here's the plan,” Brendon says, leaning in conspiratorially. “We'll have Marge run across the street to the Party City and buy a wig. You and I will swap clothes, and I'll do the signing. No one will know the difference.”

You exhale weakly. “I think your stubble would give it away. And your lack of tits.”

“Oh shit. I'm sorry, baby.”

You strain to pull your head up, stretching gently. “Nah, I'll be okay. Any chance you can hand me an Advil from my bag and buy me something cold and caffeinated from the vending machine?”

Brendon dons his sunglasses and pulls his hood up. He looks like Damian from Mean Girls. “On it.” He checks his watch. “Oh shit. Showtime in two. I'll hurry.”

You blow him a kiss.

•••

“Listen up, here are the rules,” your hired security guard barks at the line of guests snaking their way through the stacks “No cutting, no pushing, no holding up the line, or you will be removed from the premises and you may risk termination of your library privileges.” You and Brendon fight back laughter. This man means business. You appreciate it, but the situation is really not as serious as the ex-marine is making it out to be. “And Mr. Urie is not here to sign anything or take pictures with you, so do not ask.”

Brendon grins. “Pretend I'm not even here. I'm just keeping Y/N company,” he tells the line before burying his face back in your book.

You had to beg the director of library events to allow Brendon to sit next to you at the table. Nobody explicitly said it, but you could tell managing and protecting a “real” celebrity was a bit above everyone’s paygrade. Fortunately, a generous anonymous philanthropist donated a few thousand with explicit instructions to dedicate ninety percent to the youth music program, and the rest to the library special event budget. What a felicitous coincidence.

Once the housekeeping is in order, the first person in line scrambles up to you. She's a girl you'd definitely consider too young for your books- maybe sixteen. But you were sneaking LiveJournal smut on the family computer at sixteen, so you really can't judge. Her mom lingers awkwardly behind her, clearly trying to give the girl space without leaving her alone completely.

She fidgets anxiously. You have to hold your hands out to prompt her to hand you her book. She silently thrusts the hardcover novel into your hands, and the familiar weight of it is comforting. “Can I make it out to someone?” you ask patiently. You know you have a whole line of people waiting, but you try to make each interaction meaningful and intentional with each person. You learned that from Brendon. He told you that you won't remember meeting every fan, but every fan will remember meeting you. It's a lot of pressure to make a good impression with everyone, but it's satisfying too that you're touching so many lives.

“Oh um, Alexandra, if you don't mind- or Alex is shorter if that's easier,” the girl sputters out. “Please.”

“Alexandra is a beautiful name,” you say, jotting down: “Don't make yourself smaller for anyone else, Alexandra. - Y/N Y/L/N :)”. You shut the book and hand it back to her. You still struggle with sincerity with fans, but you hope she appreciates the message.

“Thank you so much,” she says appreciatively. She finally looks at Brendon, who she has been staunchly avoiding the gaze of. “I love you guys.”

“Thank you for coming!” you smile.

"Lovely to meet you!" Brendon chimes. Alexandra looks like she might drop dead right in front of you from Brendon's acknowledgement.

As soon as Alex leaves, the next person replaces her, and you settle into a comfortable routine. Almost everyone is extremely polite and respectful, which you hope is a positive reflection of your fanbase and not just intimidation from your security guard. You'll take it either way though.

Brendon, of course, is charming and gracious for everyone that comes up and talks to him. He stays true to his boundaries or not signing or allowing pictures, but he happily shakes hands and answers the odd music question or chats about video games while you write. You're secretly delighted that everyone in line seems to primarily be there for you with Brendon as a fun bonus for the Panic! fans. Even the people starstruck by Brendon talk about your books with enough intimate knowledge that you believe they're actual fans.

You do have the occasional sour experience. A few obvious resellers, a couple people ranting about the wait, maybe a dozen with noticeably poor hygiene. But the bad apples don't spoil the bunch, and you're generally enjoying yourself.

One thing that starts to distract you is Brendon enjoying himself too. To pass the time, he has your book open to skim when people aren't chatting with him. The deluge of sex scenes are starting to get to him. The signs are almost imperceptible, but you know him well. His breathing is quick and sharp and his face is slightly flushed. He keeps fidgeting in his seat: crossing and uncrossing his legs, tapping the table restlessly, and biting at his cheeks and lips.

You'd be able to ignore it, but you've been craving him since last night when he left before you could play with him. He has the perfect cock. The skin is soft and smooth and warm over a firm, pulsing shaft. He's big enough that you can comfortably take him in your hand and mouth while still being able to fill and stretch you, hitting all the right spots.

You know you have a floating fifteen minute break within your two hour signing window; although, you had planned to forgo it in favor of getting through as many people as possible. Security cuts off the line, but there's always a few hopeful stragglers in case you have an extra minute, and you love the satisfaction of helping them out. But you don't owe them anything, so now you're wondering if you can yank Brendon into an empty study room to pay him back the orgasm you owe him. You don't love to give blowjobs, but do you love to watch him as you suck him off. And you know he'd come fast enough. “Mrs. Y/L/N?” Or maybe you can lay back on a table and let him fuck your pussy until his knees are too weak to keep standing. “Excuse me?” The next person at the table finally manages to jerk you out of your concentration.

She smiles awkwardly without teeth. “I'm sorry- you seemed preoccupied, but I didn't want to hold up the line.” You shake your head to clear it, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

“Oh sorry, I get lost in my own head sometimes,” you apologize breathlessly. You squeeze the Sharpie.

You distractedly get through the next dozen or so people before Brendon finally sets you over the edge. He angles the book towards you and points to a line.

Damon’s mouth waters at the sight of Safa’s shiny, wet cunt. She fingers the button on the stopwatch with a smirk. “Oral for an entire hour, really?” she asks incredulously. She was amused by the idea originally, but she didn't think he would actually be able to go through with it. “Your jaw will get sore.” In truth, she doubts her own ability to stave off an orgasm more than Damon’s ability to eat her out for that long.

“Having doubts?” Damon taunts. “Because I don't have to lick this perfect pussy. We can watch a movie instead. I don't mind. I have nothing to prove.” He's bluffing slightly. He'll be crushed if he doesn't get his mouth on her.

He leans in, covering his mouth. “I'd love to do that to you, baby. Eating your pussy for a full hour? That's a fucking dream. And I'd edge myself the whole time. I’d come so hard inside you,” he whispers into your ear.

“Do you wanna go somewhere private?” you finally work up the courage to ask, internally pleading that no one nearby can hear you.

He hesitates. “Baby I- I really shouldn't stand up right now,” he explains regretfully.

You clench your teeth. Hard. You slip your hand under the table, grateful for the table cloth hiding your activity. You place your non-dominant hand firmly on Brendon's thigh, your pinky just barely grazing his cock. Brendon turns to you with wide eyes. He grabs your wrist under the table, and you almost deflate. He's right, you shouldn't touch his cock in front of all these people. But, fuck, you're aching to feel his arousal.

However, to your surprise, he doesn’t move your hand away- instead, he guides it right between his legs. You squeeze him, giving him one last warning before you start touching him. He doesn't even flinch, just focuses hard on his book. You start exploring his body eagerly through his pants to warm him up. Though, from the obvious erection you can feel through his jeans, he doesn't need much preparation.

You graze along the length of his cock before your find the swell of his balls and rub them to really give him a tease. You manage to multitask well, continuing to sign and chat as your fingers dance around the sensitive areas of Brendon's inner thighs and crotch. But Brendon gets antsy. You can feel him staring at you, willing you to give him more.

You give in rather easily, anxious to feel him directly. You unbutton his pants and then cough loudly to cover the sound of his zipper opening. The people in front ask if you’re alright, but you wave them off with your free hand and then take a swig of your Dr. Pepper, relishing in the tension of making him wait another second. You regrettably take your hand off him for a moment to slip it between your own thighs. You slide your underwear to the side under your dress and coat your palm in your slickness. The feeling of your hand against your hypersensitive cunt is heavenly, and you struggle to pull yourself away. But the moments between undoing his pants and snaking your hand into his briefs crawl by, heavy with possibility. Brendon closes his eyes, his whole face clenched in concentration. He looks visibly aroused in front of dozens of people, and you don't even care.

You finally take pity on the man, fearing audible noises of frustration if you tease him any longer. You slip your hand inside his underwear, pleased to feel him fully erect. “Baby, is that-” he hisses, referencing the wetness on your hand. You don't answer. He already knows.

You stroke him inside his pants at first, knowing you shouldn't take the risk of fully exposing him. Brendon exhales in satisfaction, but you don't have as much freedom to move as you'd like, and you imagine he feels uncomfortable trapped inside his restrictive jeans. You snake his cock out of his pants and grasp it hard. When you first became intimate with Brendon, you were far too timid. Now you know he likes you to be firm and slightly aggressive when playing with his cock.

You keep your thumb on his glans and then stroke him hard and fast. “Fuck!” Brendon exclaims, and you gasp, fearing that he's blown it for you two. He manages to recover though. He smacks the side of his neck and rubs it. “Ah, damn, neck cramp,” he explains to the people looking with concern. “Excuse my language.”

It tests the very limits of your coordination to rub circles on his sensitive head, stroke him up and down, and continue to sign. You almost misspell your own name at one point. Still- The adrenaline from your deviance makes this ten times hotter. You're acutely aware of everything happening around you, making the sensations even more intense. Your clit hums demandingly. Each of Brendon's breaths sound like moans. You're convinced someone will catch you. You dare them to catch you. That's one thing you miss about touring with Brendon- the clandestine trysts in front of band mates and road crew. You fucking love an audience. Love the thrill of sneaking around.

You sense Brendon’s having a similar experience. He's leaking precum like crazy, allowing you to stroke him even more easily. And his eyes are getting more glassy and unfocused as you continue to work. You hope he knows this is just the appetizer. When you get home, you are fully taking advantage of having your mouth and other hand at your disposal.

Even without being able to verbally communicate, you know he's close when he turns to you with frenzied, panicked eyes and bucks uncontrollably into your hand.

You don't know what to do. Your emergency stash of tissues in your backpack has been depleted by a particularly nasty allergy season, but you can't let him get come on his clothes or the table. And leaving him hanging is not an option. Brendon needs release.

You eye the line. It's down to about fifteen people. You don't think he can hold off long enough for them to be done, and, even then, you'd barely have any privacy.

So you take a risk. You allow your trusty Sharpie to slip through your fingers onto the floor under your table. “Sorry!” You say to the man you're signing for. “All this writing is making my hand cramp. I'm ready to finish! Let me just grab it.”

You make eye contact with Brendon, and he nods ever-so-slightly. You slip onto the ground onto your knees.

“Oh I can help,” the man offers, lunging forward to kneel with you.

You glance at your security guard, and he thankfully takes the cue, standing in front of the table and the line. “Stay away from Mrs. Y/L/N,” he demands. “She will finish the signings in a moment.

You crawl under the table, easily sliding your mouth on Brendon’s cock even in the darkness. You fondle his balls, but it's unnecessary. He's coming before you've even fully closed your lips around his head. Come drips down your chin as hot spurts of it shoot into your mouth. He grabs your hair instinctively, twitching violently in your mouth. For a split second, you fear he may never stop coming and you'll be trapped under this folding table and polyester tablecloth forever. He groans- clearly aroused, and you hold your breath again. “C'mon, you're taking forever with that pen,” is his cover this time. You don't think anyone’s buying it.

He finally stops coming, and you scramble to find the actual marker. “Sorry, I can't find it in the dark.” You emerge from the table, trying to surreptitiously wipe your mouth. Brendon slumps against you. You two must look utterly fucked. “Does anyone have a pen?”

People scramble to look through their pockets and bags to no avail. You're at the end of your time anyway. You smile apologetically, handing out pre-signed copies. “I'm sorry they're not personalized, but you guys take these signed copies and keep your other copy to give to a friend. Thank you all so much for coming out!”

•••

“Am I in trouble?” you ask, sliding into the passenger seat.

Brendon leans over and kisses your neck. You shiver. “Fuck no. I haven't come that fucking hard in months. And from a handjob?” He bites your earlobe. “God, those people were looking at you- were looking at me all day. Thinking about us together. And then we fucking gave them a show, didn't we?”

You laugh. “I'm glad we didn't get arrested.”

“We wouldn't have gotten arrested. I'm famous,” Brendon says. He licks his way down to your cleavage.

You squeal. “What has gotten into you?”

He pulls away. His pupils are massive. “I just fucking love you, and I'm so proud of you, and I love that you're mine.”

You stretch to kiss his cheek. “Aw, baby. Was it hard to share me with all my adoring fans?”

He shakes his head. “Love your fans. Just love that I get to take you home with me.”

“Yeah? Gonna ‘help me write’ when we get home?”

He nods eagerly. “But I may need a banana and a Gatorade first. I get the sense you're going to make me work hard.”

You laugh. “I can make that happen. Unless you wanna check for run-on sentences. You don't need to hydrate for that.”

He gives you an incredulous look. “No fucking way, pretty girl. Bend me, fuck me, tie me up however you want. I'm yours.”

You grin. “God, this sequel is going to be good.”

[velourfant]

on fanfiction, fic authors, and the (misplaced) expectation that fanfiction should be an extension of the source material rather than…fanfiction

forgive the negativity, i promise this won’t be a norm :)

i’ve been writing fic as a hobby since i was in elementary, first for the TMI series, then 1D (lol), then haikyuu, genshin, you name it. for the most part, writing has afforded me unique opportunities to connect with fandom, even if many of my earlier fics never saw the light of day.

while i’ve received a lot of love from the communities i do publish fics for, i’ve seen an uptick in entitled fic readers publicly bashing fanfics because authors “mischaracterize” characters from the source material.

then, i watched a tiktok about a renowned bakudeku fic:

*i’m not a diehard bakudeku or my hero fan, nor do i consume any fan content for the series, so if i’m missing something regarding the bakudeku fic, you’ll have to forgive my ignorance. the point i wanted to make extends beyond mha anyway.

…and realized this problem was not endemic to the fandoms i’m active in, but a larger sign of souring fandom etiquette.

i don’t care how entitled you think you are to reading “good” fic. voluntarily consuming someone’s work and then complaining about it because it doesn’t meet your “standards” is a terrible way to interact with fandom spaces. you’re allowed to have opinions within your circles. everyone does. but the moment you publicize hate so you can interaction farm + round up other entitled fic readers (who often don’t produce their own fic), you’re inviting negativity into a space that you have no right to police. what gives you the authority to criticize someone else’s labor of love?

to begin with, the expectation that every fic writer’s interpretation of the chars must perfectly align w the source material imposes a skill/time barrier on fan work creation, draining all the fun out of the creative process. even if someone knows in their head how x and y are characterized, the disconnect between your brain and the words you put on a page takes time to mitigate. writing is a skill honed with practice. in other words, it’s difficult to convey what you want with words. by expecting fic authors to faithfully abide by source material characterization instead of allowing them creative freedom to INTERPRET ART (because believe it or not, these chars are just another piece of art that can be analyzed from different angles) as they see fit, you’re limiting the pool of creators to one of the following:

1) fic authors who understood the source material characters “correctly” on first read

2) fic authors who didn’t initially, “correctly” understand the characters, but could reread the source material and capture them through thorough study

i’ve missed some nuances, sure, but doesn’t that sound ridiculous? because i think it sounds ridiculous.

a suggestion, if i may: how about you just don’t read a fic you don’t like instead of lobbing unrealistic expectations at people who share their work out of love for the source material? how about you create your own fic since you’re soooo confident that deku wouldn’t wear this or that? legit why don’t you try contributing to the space instead of clout chasing and driving fic authors out? if you have so much criticism, then please, by all means, bless us with your vision. only through creating will you see how difficult it is to abide by your standards.

and if you’re a fic author who criticizes other fic authors’ works, shame on you. everyone in the space is interpreting art. congrats on being able to map out “canon-compliant” scenes or dialogue. stop holding other people who aren’t quite there yet/have no interest in doing so to the same expectations.

[williamkisser]

HELLO ^^ !!!! MAY I REQUEST GN READER TRYING TO FLIRT WITH KEVIN USING HIS LASSO (LIKE.. RANDOMLY STEALING IT THEN TRYING TO LASSO HIM AND FLIRT) BUT FAILING MISERABLY HEHE

♡— Flirting with the Cowboy

♡— thank you for requesting anon! I’m sorry it took some time but when i was in the middle of writing this fic i decided i don’t like it and started from scratch ☠️ anyways

♡— Warnings: g/n reader, unrealistic usage of the lasso, word count 1300

♡— Kevin Ayuso felt just like a fish in water during the manor’s games! The trill of rescuing others, dealing with the bad guys… surely, it was far from the real thing back in America, and to be sincere, it did feel faux, but a man’s got to appreciate what he has. And not like it matters either way - sooner or later he will be destined to forget his past anyway. This is the real world these days.

♡— The cowboy’s skill and experience from his past endeavors in the wild brought him much respect in the Manor. His moves were smooth enough to keep the hunters distracted through the entire match. Oh, how much the praise has boosted his ego up.

♡— Kevin was someone very trustable judging by his cleverness, but he wasn’t calling himself the cowboy for nothing. Never you’d see him without his signature lasso, pretty sure he even sleeps with it under hidden under the pillow. And during the games? A menace to hunters, a blessing to survivors.

♡— Additionally, when nothing serious or important was going on, he would to show off near everyone, specifically the prettiest manor residents. Can you blame him though? He’s such a flirt, and Oletus is filled with beautiful men and women… it’s just natural.

♡— Kevin also loves doing lasso tricks. The thing is, sometimes he can be too proud, embarrassing himself by some stupid, silly mistake. Quite shocking to see him still walking on both legs and owning a full set of teeth after he once shattered a few of Vera’s perfume bottles while trying to lasso her for jokes. But that’s nothing. Once he got so drunk he attempted to lasso Naib. No need to say what happened later.

♡— You once ended up on the team together with him for one of the matches. This fact solely made you feel slightly safer, but you quickly realized the hunter was feeling friendly today, seeing Antonio’s demonic juggling the balls Mike kept throwing at him. Kevin, seeing this, wanted to instantly join. He specifically told you to watch the old cowboy in action. He was lassoing the circus balls effortlessly, or at least it seemed so.

♡— In the middle of doing his silly trick, he turned his head back to you, giving you a wink and a smile that would make many people fall to their knees. Bad move. He lost the control over his lasso and accidentally threw one of the balls straight towards your forehead. It hurt like hell. If you were fully conscious, you would probably be angry at him and slap his cheek, later soothing it with a kiss to tease him back, but right now you were far too overwhelmed to bring yourself to any rational thought. Either way, he would get a scolding from Emily for giving her yet another unnecessary responsibility even after a friendly match. That Kevin…

♡— Needles to say, while his romantic efforts are appreciated (by some), you forgave him, but it should be best if he left the entertainment activities to the Hullaballoo performers. Kevin’s lasso fail however quickly led you to a great idea. What if you treat him with the taste of his own medicine? Lassoing him seemed like a big challenge, but it was worth it. You just couldn’t stop imagining him being tied up, feeling confused and shocked. The real issue though would be obtaining his lasso. He always has it near him.

♡— Well, the best idea is to probably await yet another friendly match. While Miss Nightingale never looked too pleased when finding out that the game didn’t proceed properly, but those matches definitely lifted up everyone, so she proceeds to not bat an eye too often.

♡— Another key issue is that you must be paired with Kevin if you actually want it to actually happen, which would it harder for you to focus during serious matches, knowing you’re in a team with the handsome cowboy you’ve been having the hots for lately. And Kevin quickly picked up on what’s going on after a while. You two certainly kept matching together more often than you usually should.

♡— That was the end of you, as he started to tease you more often. He’d run to you from the opposite corner of the map to decode the cipher machine together with you (which you’ve already decoded up to 80% by yourself, by the way). The shit eating grin he’d have while carrying you to safety from the hunter. Oh Lord.

♡— So when you two finally find yourself in a friendly match, you’re already overly ecstatic. Well, friendly… sort of. At least it began like this. The Joker must have felt very moody or mischievous today, as after playing with other survivors, he began terror shocking them, taking advantage of them letting their guards down. Thankfully, you were that one person doing the job and decoding all of the ciphers, meaning you were safe for now. Out of all chaired ones, ironically, Kevin was the closest one to you. You knew that if you decided to save someone else, you wouldn’t save them on time anyway. Well, here goes nothing…

♡— While you sneakily ran towards the cowboy’s chair location, you instantly spotted his lasso, laying abandoned in the tall grass, which gave you an amazing idea. Meanwhile, Kevin had no idea that you were near, assuming you ran after the dungeon. That’s when he felt something tightly wrapping around him. His own lasso. You lassoed Kevin near you and delivered the cheesiest pick-up line known to mankind after rescuing him. He’s never going to let it go now.

♡— When you two went through the exit gate, Kevin stopped you by holding your hand and smirked widely, saying that if you’re so eager to learn his ways, he may give you private lasso using classes. It’s hard to tell if it was you or him who felt more embarrassed that day.

♡— The next day, you’d hear a knock on your door. After opening them, you saw no one, however after looking down, you noticed nothing else but Kevin’s lasso. Looks like he has some spare ones after all. This would lead to a small teasing war between you, much to everyone else’s horror. He would lasso you in the most unexpected time, making you yelp, and you’d lasso the thing he is holding out of his hands.

♡— This would go on for a little over a week, until one day you felt too confident over the control of your new lasso. It was already dark - only the moon and the wax candles were bringing light into the big dining room. Kevin was talking with Jose, with whom he got along well with. When the officer left, you decided it’s the right time to take the cowboy by surprise. You prepared the lasso, aiming at him precisely, but suddenly at the same time while you striked, something loud could be heard from the corridor. Later on, it turned out someone just accidentally shattered their plate on the floor, but currently, you got so shocked you accidentally lassoed yourself.

♡— Funny thing is, Kevin knew you were there, he just acted like he didn’t, therefore he wasn’t startled at all. So when you finally revealed yourself unwillingly, he showed you that smile you hated and loved so much at the same time and kneeled next to you, almost paralyzed from the embarrassment you felt.

♡— „Well, does it mean the good ol’ cowboy won our little lasso war, honey?”

♡— That’s how you shortly after found yourself in his arms, except he decided to take revenge for your attack on him, jokingly wrapping the lasso around your waist along your hands, meaning you could only ineffectively kick your legs at his stomach. After that, he didn’t utter a single word, carrying you all tied up to his room.

[loonyoz]

Part of what I love about Wyll is how he feels like a character you have to keep pulling back the layers on. Like one of those 3d puzzles you think you’ve got figured out and then you realize you’re right back where you started. Which I guess is just the long way of saying he's a well made character. I’m gonna do a play by play of my first interactions with him to illustrate my point:

When you first meet him you’re like omfg who is this boy with the dramatic theater kid entrance lmao. Wyll, you are so dorky (affectionate).

You next see him helping tiefling kids learn to fight. Not in a harsh militaristic way, more in a gentle and even playful way (eg. When you play as Wyll you can tell them dramatic stories about how Wyll slayed a dragon.) You're like oh yeah this guy has the whole hero thing going on. Very disney prince over here.

Then you talk to him and he talks about an evil devil that must be killed with such adamance and determination. You're like oh wow he can get pretty intense. He's so determined about this, he's willing to put aside the pressing threat of ceremorphosis. This kind of unmoving moral stance, this very good and serious abt it thing, it gives off paladin vibes imo

Ok so thats two sides of him, dramatic storybook hero and strong willed paladin.

Then you get to the confrontation with Karlach, and pretty quickly realize this flaming hot cheeto (idk why I called her that ok, but im leaving it in) of a tiefling shouldn't be killed. Wyll takes some convincing and you're like Wyll you dumbass you're seeing what Im seeing right? The tadpole is showing us she's innocent, why dont you believe that?

Then its only till later you realize he had so many good reasons to hesitate:

He has been doing this job for 7 years now, to break off from the script he's used to, is a risky thing. If he cant trust his 7 years of experience he's left floundering. If he cant trust that he's been only killing evil, then he's broken his moral code too. (If I were in his shoes id for sure be having an existential crisis)

He's learned the hard way to distrust devils, what if Karlach is tricking everyone into thinking she's innocent?

Or maybe he's scared of what it will mean if he doesn't kill her, he'll be breaking his pact, and the consequences for that will most definitely be harsh. I don't think that's selfish or cruel of him to consider killing her out of fear of what will happen if he doesn't. I think Wyll would be unfair to himself for those thoughts tho. Like the whole airplane oxygen mask analogy is a good way to talk about it. Wyll would go to every passenger on the plane and make sure their masks are on, then collapse from oxygen deprivation because he never put his own on. Perhaps an extreme and unrealistic scenario, but illustrative of his admirable but harmful self sacrifice.

In summary, his hesitation and need to be convinced shows a lovely amalgamation of his character, his life experience, and his values, and how it results in a moment of conflict and indecision.

But it takes very little to convince him not to kill karlach. You tell him twice that Karlach is no threat/innocent, and he stops panicking, and pulls himself together with the kind of emotional control/repression that makes you go "uh oh babes has unresolved trauma and needs therapy"

His ability to listen to others when people tell him he's wrong shows that he has a flexibility and emotional maturity that is unlike the stereotypical paladin. Once he realizes Karlach is innocent, the rules he follows no longer matter to him.

He resigns himself to his fate because for him there is no other way for it to be. This shows that no matter how theatrical his heroics appear, it is not merely a guise. You can trust that he truly cares for people because he is willing to sacrifice himself for the sake of a stranger.

Then Mizora shows up and his response is to argue against her, to say, "you told me no innocents". Which shows once again where his priorities lie, now that injustice has been pointed out to him he will use every ounce of his will to fight it. It also shows that human weakness again too. His fallibility (I mean who can blame him devils are great manipulators) and his worried questioning of the rules that he has followed for so long.

And then when you put all the drama aside, and listen to his lighthearted dialogue you remember/realize he’s also very goofy and the kind of chill guy you’d want to invite to every friend hangout.

asfgjkl; anyway I have way too many thoughts and feelings abt this guy. If you read all this damn. But lmk what you guys think about my reflections!

Also shoutout to all of the fic writers and random fan posts ive read that have inspired some of these thoughts