#i wrote this when i should have been revising

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

going to film the all about my novel video shortly for seventh virtue & I wrote a back-jacket summary that I'm re-reading now and I'm like?? oh??? this book actually has a plot???

under the cut lmao in case you're wondering what SV ACTUALLY is about (since it's really just ppl crying & stabbing each other from how I've shared it on here <3)

25-year-old Harrison Frost has never wanted to save anyone.

After his mother vanishes following an altercation he largely blames on his ex-boyfriend, Lonan, Harrison moves to the past with one goal in tow: forget all about him.

But when he begins having fiery nightmares of Lonan, he reluctantly seeks a magical cure from Lonan’s sister, Reeve, whose explanation for his ailment is as dire as it is puzzling.

She reveals she and Lonan are members of the Seventh Roost, one of seven magical families that coincide with the 7 Holy Virtues and 7 Capital Sins. And worse, Lonan is part Virtue, the immortal bird that represents each house, and he’s transferred half his magic to Harrison in attempts to protect him from their tyrannical family—the same family that is now holding him captive in hopes of re-merging him and their Virtue, Humilitas, back together.

With an unexpected target now on Harrison’s back, he partners with Reeve to find Humilitas before the Seventh Roost can. But as she tends wounds from a past she narrowly escaped—wounds that are catching up with her—Harrison must decide if he’s ready to rekindle relationships he left behind to save someone he once loved…

[six-of-ravens]

I would really like a single office day where I don't come home and play an evening-long game of Am I The Asshole?

[felassan]

David Gaider on Fenris, under a cut for length:

"Fenris. Now, DA2 is a story all on its own but I'm not going to go there other than to sum it up as "we had just over a year and a half to make this". It's why I only wrote one follower, Fenris, and although it'll make his fans mad: I probably shouldn't have. Let me explain. The way we'd approach making the followers is brainstorming a list of concepts covering first the array of gameplay classes (and sub-classes) and then making sure they each have some skin in the game when it came to the story's conflicts - ideally having characters on both sides of the major ones. Why? You can't make a player care about the world, but you can make them care about characters who care about the world. It's the easiest way to provide hooks into a conflict, outside of it knocking on the player's door. Heck, it's probably better than that. Players will burn the world for approval. After that, we'd decide things like romances/sexuality. Then the writers would pick who they'd write. I always let my writers pick first. I figured they do their best work when it's something they're inspired to write... and they got so few chances at ownership, I wanted to give it whenever I could It's why I (reluctantly) let Patrick wrest Cole from my grasp in DAI, a character I'd created in Asunder. It's also why I let Jennifer take Anders in DA2, who I'd started in Awakening. In this instance, it meant I was left with the angry elven warrior character who nobody else appeared to want."

"It should have been my first clue that something was up. The second was how the artists had zero clue what to do with him. The art concepts were all over the place - from mages to crows to... well, even weirder. No matter how hard I tried to explain the idea, the artists simply didn't seem to get it Does this mean he was a bad character? Not exactly. Just an idea that probably deserved some re-examining. You can tell when an idea has a certain spark, and part of that is being easy to communicate. Sadly, there wasn't time for any re-examining even if it'd occurred to me. And it didn't, not yet. If it had, if I had time, maybe I'd have re-booted him as a templar. Someone pro-templar rather than anti-mage, who could give a personal hook into Meredith and give the templars some badly-needed humanity. But this falls into the shoulda-woulda-coulda category. I had a follower to write. Quickly. I struggled, at first. It was hard to get away from "Fenris hates everything, all the time". It felt very one-note, and I didn't know where to take him. My third clue, I guess. I also wasn't sure if I was the right person to write a former slave. I did know that couldn't be the center of his story. I did know trauma, however. How it can eat you up. How the hate and resentment is like drinking poison and hoping the other person dies. How it can infect your relationships. Fenris's trauma isn't my trauma, obviously, but here I dipped into a more personal part of myself than I'd ever done before."

"It gave me the center of his story I was missing, but wow was it uncomfortable. In a good way, maybe. I likely wouldn't have, if I hadn't been so desperate. In a way, I think DA2 had some of our best writing *because* of the timeline. It was raw, with little time to sand down the interesting parts. I wouldn't have done the "Fenris doesn't talk to you for three years" thing if I'd known we were going to cut all the reactivity initially planned for the time jumps. When that call was made, I campaigned to cut the jumps to a year, but there was no time for the revisions it'd need. So, um. Awkward. I used to get asked where the name came from, and I... don't remember? Obviously it's derived from Fenrir, but I don't recall why we picked that. Someone pointed at Fenris the Feared from Joe Abercrombie's books... and I did read them, so maybe the name lodged in my head? Wouldn't be the first time. Casting Fenris turned out to be easy. He was the first time I requested a specific VA and got him. (The other times were Merrill and then Solas, my two "I want these specific Welsh actors, please".) Why? OK, if you must know, I'd played a bit of Final Fantasy XII. I heard Balthier. "Yes, that." 😅 And Gideon Emery was a delight, as it turned out. Consummate professional, and that lovely gravel in his voice... good god. Bite the knuckles. There was a struggle to find the voice at the outset where I did my best not to say "just pls do Balthier" but he found Fenris on his own and it was amazing. Overall, Fenris turned out better than he had any right to, considering the rocky start. He had a lot of soul, a vulnerability forged by pain that struck a chord with a lot of players, and I'm glad. Do I regret anything? Probably having him live in a corpse-filled mansion that would never update. That's a hindsight thing, though, as again the cut to reactivity over the time jumps came late. Outside of that, maybe letting the player give him back to Danarius? Poor shock value and a waste of resources because almost nobody took the option. Good evil options are ones that are tempting to take. And the lyrium tattoos. Interesting concept, but they're probably why you'll never see Fenris in a future DA. He requires a custom body, and the tattoos make that expensive. It's why I put Fenris in my 4th DA novel - the cancelled one. Don't fret, though. He died in it, so this way he lives on. 😉"

[source thread]

User: "Wait wait how does he die in [the cancelled novel]??" David Gaider: "Gloriously, after taking up a cause he didn't believe in at first but then made his own, one that allowed him to rediscover what it meant to be elven." [source] David Gaider: "I’m not sorry about the novel cancellation. I’m the one who cancelled it. I am kinda sad we couldn’t make it work, though. Considering it was after I left the DA team, it would have been my final DA hurrah." [source] David Gaider: "From my perspective, it was kind of "well if you're never going to use him again, let me at least give him a proper send off" and the story required a glorious death... but I get that's not the story his biggest fans would want (which is Hawke + Fenris 4ever), so it's just as well." [source]

User: "You all did some incredible work with such a tight deadline" David Gaider: "I'm of the opinion that even if we'd had only another six months to bake, DA2 would be remembered as a classic and not either a flawed gem or underbaked sequel, depending on who you ask." [source]

David Gaider: "Just to clarify the "they're probably why you'll never see Fenris" thing, as it's spawned commentary: 1. It's the reasoning as was explained to me back then. 2. Obviously, if Bio *really* wanted to, they'd find a way around it. But it was a complication that meant he couldn't be included casually." [source]

[moominsuki]

12 DAYS and 20 HOURS WITHOUT YOU w/c: 5.1k - ; NAGUMO YOICHI x F!READER

✎ᝰ he’s a nuisance & you should be glad to be rid of him… so why does your heart ache for him so much? OR the part two in which you finally address your feelings for your hanger on ex.

࿄ ! warnings — porn WITH plot, MINORS DNI, piv, very explicit smut, unprotected sex (wrap up ppl), cunnilingus, fingering, female reader, nagumo is sexy and you will fall in love so pls keep that in mind.

/ note. i should be revising for my exams but instead i wrote this for a man who is severely underrated. it’s gonna be a nagumo fall. enjoy this anywho :P (ps. can be read as a standalone fic)!!

13 days. that’s how long it had been since you had seen nagumo. you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t eating you up inside.

after your small spat (if you could even call it that) you wrongfully assumed he’d be somewhere in your bedroom the next day when you hadn’t seen him on your couch. you were just about ready to scold him for having his feet all over your satin pillowcases.

only when you trudged upstairs, your bedroom was exactly how you left it. the door ajar, a small breeze from the window. pillows not askew. your sleepy kitten lounging on the covers.

at first, you considered yourself relieved. “good riddance,” you grumbled to yourself, falling atop the blankets and sighing, hands brushing at your pet. the chirp of the cicadas eats at your eardrums. has your home always been this quiet?

“whatever. knowing that idiot, he’ll be back in a day or two… now what to do…”

unfortunately for you, nagumo’s unprecedented drop ins had become part of your daily routine. you don’t become aware of the fact until it’s been exactly 4 days and he still hasn’t shown his face. it had already struck you as odd on the second day, let alone the fourth.

“why do you even care?” you ask yourself, standing under the hum of a sweltering shower. why do you care that your ex hasn’t come around to lounge in your home and bother you? in fact, isn’t this a good thing? the first few times it happened, you were irritated beyond belief - telling the man to get lost, locking your windows and doors only for nagumo to show up despite your barrage of insults, whether that’d be in your kitchen or on your couch or even in the shower (the image of seeing a naked nagumo after all this time was truly something, though you’d never admit it to his face, instead opting to throw a hard bar of soap at him and to which you then had to tend to his aching back after he so called “wept in pain.”) so why did he now decide to just ghost you?

“typical,” is all you can think, drying your hair off, eyes lingering on the razor he left on top of the toilet.

day five comes around. a good day at work with a cute man asking you out renders nagumo forgettable. you’re glad your brain decides it’s high time to forget about him. day six, seven, eight, nine. it’s extremely bearable. you start to see him in your dreams on the seventh day - exactly a week since he just up and left. “that’s normal,” you muse. you dream about people that aren’t in your life all the time. he’s no different.

the night of day ten falls. you’re incredibly exhausted, and you’re regretting making plans on saturday with that somewhat attractive man who works across the street. “it’s no biggie. it’s just one day till the weekend and i can cancel.”

you’re nodding off into your dinner. the warm smell of char siu and noodles doesn’t do much to keep you awake.

then you see him. dark brown eyes and a goofy smile to match. it makes you jump so hard you spill half the content of your meal down your shirt. nobody’s there. your cat sits at the leg of your chair, licking the sodden mess off of the ground.

the gravity of the situation dawns on you. you really really miss nagumo.

ᝰ ᝰ ᝰ ᝰ ᝰ

day eleven comes and goes and the twelfth drags, as do most fridays. that guy who asked you out the other day offers to drop you home when you’re standing outside. it’s warm out and you think a walk would be good for your head. you don’t decline his offer.

the man asks about you and confirms the details of your excursion, and you politely affirm, answering all his questions and asking them back just the same. “he’s not much of a talker,” you think. you’re not used to that.

by the time you’re home, you just want to pass out. you look around your kitchen, living room - heck, even the bathroom for safe measure, just in case you-know-who decided to drop by. the sound of metal clattering has you running to your bedroom, ventricles pumped. not that you cared… you’d act super cool and nonchalant if when nagumo drops by again. it’s all in vain, anyway. it was just your cat jumping onto your vanity. you shoo her away. your heart falls like a crescendo from loony tunes.

who exactly were you kidding? you had long dropped the facade that your heart wasn’t yearning for the idiot, and you wonder how he’s doing when you settle into bed. it would be unlike him to die in an unforeseeable accident, and he would never succumb to a death on the job. another looming realisation dawns on you.

he’s ignoring you.

you groan into your pillow. it’s not like you could really call him (you totally could, and it’s not because you noted down the digits of two of his burner phones, definitely not) without outing yourself. don’t forget the phone works two ways. forget it. you have a date tomorrow.

saturday comes. you get up relatively early. (un)fortunately for you, it’s a miserable day out, contrasting the beautiful weekdays that had passed.

your date texts you in teasing and sweet fashion and the pre-typed out message that consists of grovelling, apologies and more grovelling sits at your fingertips. fuck it. you can’t stay wound up over a man who probably didn’t want you in the first place.

you get ready very early, and you stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror, all done up in a silk to do and the accessories to match. it’s been a while since you’ve had a proper date. a few flings here and there, sure, but this seemed real. like a sure thing. similar to when…

!creaakkk!

your cat meowing and dropping things around in your bedroom has you standing up right, casting aside your lipgloss and running to shoo her away.

“honestly, ponyo, you’re such a drama queen-”

the words die on your tongue at the sight before you. nagumo sits at the edge of your bed, kitten fidgeting in his arms. he looks you up and down, and then he sends you an earth shattering smile, eyes crinkled.

“hey stranger. long time no see!”

your mouth opens and closes as he gets up, and ponyo leaps up and away when he places her on the ground.

“do you think she missed me? i think so. with the stuff you feed her, it’s inevitable-”

“are you serious?!” is all you can say, exasperated, gasping. nagumo’s eyes widen, and he sheepishly scratches the back of his head.

“don’t tell me you’re still mad at me? don’t make me get down on my knees and beg because-” the man gets cut off again as you all but throw your arms around his frame, face in his shirt, a little shaky. if nagumo feels the wobble of your body, he doesn’t mention it and a hand comes to rest at the small of your back.

“so can i assume that you’re not mad at me anymore?” you shake your head, and nagumo chuckles, nose pressed into your hair.

“i wasn’t mad at you,” you say, muffled into his shirt.

“oh? tell me more,” and you move your face slightly so your cheek is smushed against his shirt, eyes pointed away from him. though, you can already feel the expectant smile on the corner of his lips and you want to slap him. kiss him? both.

“i was mad at myself. and i was going to apologise for what i said but you basically ghosted me… for almost three weeks.”

it’s quiet for a moment until the man laughs, guffaws even and it emanates through his chest. you huff and step away from him, back turned away.

“ok, it’s not that funny. you can stop laughing now!”

“sorry, sorry. i’m done, i promise.” nagumo walks from behind you to step into your line of sight. “and technically, it’s only been… i wanna say 12 days and 20 hours.”

you deadpan. then you roll your eyes. “you were counting?! you’re unbelievable!” and he just pouts at you. eyes wide and shiny. you don’t admit to him that you’ve also been doing the same. that day’ll come.

“i mean, i would’ve come around sooner buttt! contrary to popular belief, i’m not so socially inept to not give you space. although, i was starting to think you were replacing me with that loser at that law firm. i want to say his name is hajime-”

“okay, not even close-”

“and what kind of idiot takes their woman out to a sushi bar on the first date. and he drives a toyota camri. he’s lame.”

“…first of all, i’m not his woman. how did you know i was going on a date tonight? and how do you even know what car he drives?”

“…let’s not sweat the details. that dress is new, right? haven’t seen it before. looks beautiful on you-”

“so not only were you spying on me but you were ignoring me?!” you fist the man by the collar of his coat and you just loll your head onto his chest. “were you always this crazy when we dated?” you hum and he laughs again. like he knows you’re addicted to the sound and how it makes your tummy ignite into something worse than flames. his hands find their way into his pocket and he shrugs.

“probably. but you liked it.” you don’t bother to contend. nagumo grabs you by the wrists, and takes a good look at you. his deep eyes follow the sliver of gold against your collarbones, all the way down to the hemming of your dress. it makes you feel hot under your heart shaped neckline.

“like the dress. like it a lot. wouldn’t waste it on some shitty sushi and cheap sake, though.”

“well it’s not you taking me out tonight though, is it? it’s…” you think for a second. you can feel the laughter blooming in his chest and you try to fight your way out of his grasp, though it’s in vain. nagumo laughs so hard that the pout on your face starts to pop into a smile and it’s infectious enough that you laugh too.

when the laughter inevitably dies down, you and the dark haired man share a look that you encompasses all the thoughts and emotions that have been swimming in your head the past long few days. he’s still holding you by the wrists, your fingers crinkling against the loose material of his shirt.

nagumo says your name, more so to himself as his tattooed hands stay wrapped from the width of your jewellery clad wrists down to your forearms.

“you’re being awfully touchy to a woman who’s supposed to being out on a date in a few hours,” you say, just above a whisper.

he hums at that, pulling you in further by the elbows. “i guess you’re right. you could always tell me to go away, though. wouldn’t be the first time.”

you groan audibly and he shoots you another grin that climbs its way into the wrinkles of your brain. “what do i have to do for you to not bring that up? and don’t make me get on my knees and beg-”

“damn, that was my first choice too!” you roll your eyes. he’s still holding you. your palms are flat against his chest. “i suppose i could call it even if…” nagumo pretends to ponder for a moment. you try to shove him with as much power as you can on the man.

“if you don’t just come out with it-”

“kiss me.”

the speed at which your eyebrows almost shoot into your hairline is unprecedented. you try to read his face for any sign of playful unfairness, but you’ve known him long enough to read the softness of his eyes.

your hands fist at his shirt again and it’s your turn to laugh at him, head thrown back. he pouts in response.

“you’re unbelievable,” and before he can retort, you lean up on your tip toes to do as he asked. he’s exactly how you remember, all those years ago. warm, sweet, slightly intoxicating. the sigh you release is shaky and he swallows it whole. the width of his palms immediately let go of your arms and find purchase on your waist and your hands travel all the same, resting on the planes of his face and neck.

the kiss is over before it started and you don’t even get a chance to breathe before nagumo is back on you, pulling you in by the hips, tongue slipping in comfortably like you’ve always been this way. and you give in, your body adapting to years old muscle memory. it’s like you’re almost a decade younger all over again, and your brain turns to mush when nagumo gropes you, grabbing all the parts he can to get impossibly closer to you.

you almost don’t notice the way he throws off his coat. and the fact that he’s trying to get you onto the bed. almost.

you protest in a breathy whine, breaking apart from locking lips. “we-i can’t. my date-”

“sucks. he sucks. i’ll take you wherever you want. buy you everything you want. just let me have you.”

you’re too out of it to even give a snarky answer, grabbing nagumo by the neck and pressing your lips to his own once more. he grunts, lightly pushing you both down onto the pillows.

he breaks apart from the kiss to lave more around your jaw, with one heavy hand resting on your cheek while he bruises on your neck, clavicle and the top of your breasts, all heavy and imposing. you writhe in his touch, and you can’t help the fact that your thighs start to rub against each other to soothe the heat arising in your core.

as perceptive as ever, nagumo quickly notices and makes fast work of placing his leg between your own, and you can’t help but breathe out a winded “yoichi.”

he groans, smirking against your collarbone. “missed hearing you say that.”

you huff, pushing his hands down the curves of your body. “don’t push your luck, nagumo.”

he chuckles, unfazed, and smooth, deft fingers climb under the hem of your satiny dress. he hikes your dress high enough to see a flash of damp cotton panties.

he presses a digit against your clothed clit and you can’t control the way your head falls against your pillows, mouth falling open as you whine out his name again.

nagumo halts all movement though, pushing himself backwards to lean further onto his knees off the bed. you practically jump up, confused and stupidly horny.

“strip for me.”

you narrow your eyes. he shoots you a saccharine smile, and you don’t bother to banter with him, getting on your haunches and pulling down a thin strap on either arm, and shimmying out of the garment. you can tell by the elated shock in nagumo’s eyes that he hadn’t expected you to comply but you throw the dress in his face, and he shakes it off faster than you can adjust yourself on top of the bed covers. he’s already crowding over you, face mere centimetres away.

“sorry, you can’t be the only one having your fun,” you tease, leaning up to kiss his nose and it’s his turn to not take your bait, but maybe it’s because he’s too enamoured at the sight of your naked body after all this time. a tattooed hand reaches up to grab a handful of your boob, pinching slightly at your nipple and the other makes it descent down to the hemming of your panties. his fingertips dip into the front, pushing the material to the side and he groans when he can see the way your pussy clenches over nothing.

“you’re so pretty,” he sighs, and you watch the way he touches you, featherlight and it has you writhing, inching closer to feel more of his touch.

“patience, baby.” nagumo throws off his shirt, and you take in the expanse of his never ending tattoos. your hand reaches up to touch the one on his stomach and he smirks, albeit warm and slightly teasing.

“got a few new ones a couple months back,” he all but whispers and you hum.

“i like them,” you state, matter of factly and he pushes your hand away to lay on his stomach between your legs.

nagumo’s face presses into your belly, and you push a few fingers into the dense strands of his hair. he kisses you at the belly button, paving a wet path down to your moist underwear.

he noisily smooches on your panty clad clit and you wordlessly protest in embarrassment, groaning and whining while he smiles against you. though, you’re quick to stop complaining when he pushes your panties to the side and breathes you in, kissing your uncovered pubis. now you’re frantically trying to push him away instead.

“you’re so shameless,” you fuss and nagumo doesn’t say anything. he only pushes your legs further apart to accommodate him.

“can i eat you out?” he asks and you raise a brow, face flushing. he shrugs, “i wanna hear you say it.”

you want to insult him for trying to fluster you in his own weird way but you’re also stupidly, ridiculously turned on right now that you can’t be bothered to play this cat and mouse game.

your hands cover your face and you mumble ever so quietly, verbatim: “please eat me out.”

“can’t hear you, sweetheart. come on, you can’t possibly be acting all shy. my face is literally in your-”

“just please eat me out!” you say, exasperated and incensed by the burning desire to have his mouth on you.

nagumo doesn’t mess with you any further but he can’t help the snicker that escapes him. you’re also ready to call him names and berate him, unfortunately being the hot head that you are, but it’s a useless act because nagumo already has your pants down your legs and strewn across the room somewhere, and he’s immediately pressing a sloppy, wet kiss on your love button.

a strangled “yoichi!” escapes from your throat and you’re already helplessly weaving between the strands of his black hair. it only goads him on further, and your head struggles to keep itself up when he thumbs at the hood of your clit, lifting it up to suck at the bundle of nerves. you become one with the plush pillows beneath you once again.

nagumo’s tongue soothes and pokes around, sucking and kissing at all the sensitive parts of your flower. he lifts one leg up higher to allow him more access, and you lock your fingers on top of his hand that grips ardently at the tender skin of your thigh. you have no time to react when you feel two fingers press into your cunt hole, and you chant his name like a mantra, gasping and almost tearful from the way he feels.

you can feel his dark brown eyes on you, and he stops tasting you to bite your inner thigh. you yelp, and he lulls over where he indented you with his teeth.

“you’re close, right? want you to look at me when you cum,” is all he says, and you don’t get to reply when he’s back sucking your pearl into his mouth, pressing his fingers against a certain spot inside you that has your legs trying to close in on themselves around his head.

“f-fuck, ‘ichi, i’m gonna cum,” you moan, and per his request, your eyes stay on his own, and you tuck your bottom lip between your teeth, the applied pressure stopping you from falling back and losing it.

“say my name like that again,” he groans, and you don’t fail to notice the way he grinds against the bed ever so slightly. “come on, baby, you’re almost there-”

“hnngh, fuck, right there ‘ichi, ‘m cumming-,” you gasp and a flash of white behind your eyes renders you temporarily paralytic, eyebrows furrowed and mouth opened in an ‘o’, and the grip on nagumo’s hair tightens. he keeps a firm hand on your thigh, and your heart would burst at the romantic gesture of him interlocking your fingers together at literally any other time, but he doesn’t stop his assault on the spongey spot inside you until you go limp and you practically have to pry the man off of you.

nagumo’s no sadist (to you, at certain times) so he stops, pulling back and watching the way your chest heaves and the way you glisten between your upper thighs. you don’t register that he’s next to you again until you feel nimble fingers touching on your lower belly. you open your eyes to look at him, and the full blown lust in his eyes makes you choke a little bit.

you grab his hand off your stomach to kiss his fingertips, and then you’re clambering on top of him, palms splayed against his decorated chest. you feel the thickness of his hard cock pressed against your wet core, and you grind against the strained material of his trousers. nagumo grunts, head falling back slightly as he immediately finds purchase on your ass.

“you’re hard,” you assert, and he laughs a little breathlessly and it breaks off into a moan when you press down on him a little harder.

“i guess i am,” he rustles, squeezing your lower curves to push you against his stiffness. “you should let me put it in.”

“oh? is that so?” you say, taunting the man as you slide up and down his neglected cock that’s begging to be released from its confines.

“yeah… wanna fuck you, baby.” nagumo’s all heavy eyelids and suave lips as he gazes up at you, hands all touching all over you. you’re heating up from his languid touches, and you’re cursing yourself for already being so raring to go after he ate you to his heart’s content.

“okay,” is all you say, and you shimmy backwards to undo the man’s bottoms, unbuttoning his pants and helping him kick them off till he’s left in tight gray boxer briefs. your eyes find the damp patch on the front of his shorts, and you softly finger the head of his cock through the cloth. nagumo grunts, sighing your name when you waste no time pulling down his underwear to reveal him in all his glory.

“didn’t that hurt?” you wonder out loud, more to yourself if anything, and nagumo realises you’re referring to the tattoo above his pelvis, only shy of the dark trail that nests above his erection. he places a hand over your wandering one and he chuckles.

“a little. nothing i can’t handle.” you make a noise of something, and you lean down to kiss him very gently and so very close to where he wants. nagumo groans, and he reaches down to pet your hair.

“another time,” you wink, biting your lip. nagumo smiles, raising a brow and he looks like he wants to ask you what you mean but you’re ahead of the curve and you’re settling back up on his lower body, your soaked heat brushing and sliding against his cock. he’s putty after that, head in the clouds as he feels the drench of your lips rub against the hardness of his cock.

“tell me you want it,” you say, and you stop looking down to where you’re almost conjoined to meet nagumo’s eyes; his face contorted to something readable only to you. “or, you know, you could just cum like this.”

nagumo moans at that, and he sets a heavy handed grab on your ass. “don’t remember you being such a tease, baby, sh-shit.”

you croon at his words. you don’t stop the ministrations of your grinding and the raven haired man beneath you barely puts out until the slick of your cunt hole catches the mushroom shaped tip of his cock.

“fuck, i want it, baby, want you to cream on me-” and you don’t let him finish his vulgarity because you grab him at the base of his cock and settle yourself right on top of him, inch by inch.

nagumo hisses, and his iron grip on your hips doesn’t subside until he’s all the way inside you. you both simultaneously moan in relief when he’s by the hilt, and you can practically feel him all the way in your throat.

“fucking missed this so much,” he keens, and you feel him raise his knees to accommodate to you better. you slowly get the rhythm going, grinding and gently bouncing on his dick and you’re delirious at the way his pubic hair brushes against your swollen clit, and how you can feel the slap of his weighted balls against your ass.

nagumo plants his feet on the bed, refusing to loosen his grip on you and you can’t even bring yourself to care about the bruises that’ll stay depressed into your skin. you move one of his number decorated hands to grab at your chest, which he complies with and the other stabilises you against him so that he can thrust into you at a steady pace.

“so, so good,” you whine, almost falling forward by the jolt of nagumo’s body. you plant both arms on either side of his head, tits bouncing in his face, going back and forth against his open mouth that tries to catch a pebbling nipple.

taunting words leave his mouth as he watches you try to keep up. “feel good, baby? shit. tell me how it feels, y-yeah? you like it when i fuck you like this, huh?”

you clench around him tighter. “hnnngh, so fuc-fucking good, ‘ichi.”

you lean down on your elbows, and while he bucks up into you, his eyes don’t stray, and when your lips follow the sharp lines of his jaw and press on his jugular, nagumo angles his head so you can sloppy kiss him on the mouth.

it’s like that for a few moments until he stops to throw you off of him, and you’re ready to whine and complain, but he’s already on you again, this time on top.

“gotta take my time with you,” he breathes, and he finds a new position, this time pulling your left leg over his shoulder and spreading the right one to fit around his hips.

“is that code for you were gonna cum too fast?” you giggle, and nagumo doesn’t grace your playful ribbing because he slips back into you and your once teasing laughter breaks off into a deep moan of pleasure.

“don’t make fun of me,” he says, feeding his cock into you at an achingly slow rate, “hurts my feelings.” and you want to call him embarrassing and silly, you really do, but your heart is on your tongue and nagumo overcrowds every part of your senses.

nagumo leans over you, and grinds himself inside your compact walls. his face is in the crook of your neck and he teethes at the tender skin. you throw a callous hand in hand to satiate the hunger in your belly.

the unrelenting pace in which he fucks you is downright insane: all you can think about is him, all you can smell and taste is him. when you open your eyes, he’s looking down at you, holding and stretching you open, spitting not-so-sweet nothings at you. you worship him all the same, crying out his name, begging him to take you harder and faster, nails raking across the width of his back.

“you’re s-so, hah, shit, you’re so gorgeous,” he moans, “not gonna last, f-fuck.”

you’re almost there, teetering on the finish line, so nagumo ever so slightly adjusts his position, and he presses his cock head against that point inside you. you’re weightless in his hold, writhing when he reaches down to rub taut circles against your puffy pearl. it’s enough to make you sob, gasp and cry out a throaty “‘ichi!”, back arching, toes curling.

nagumo takes a hardened nipple into his mouth, bruising against the creamy flesh of your tits. his speed and movement becomes sloppy, rushing to the edge, the echoes of skin slapping against each other. your tearful face and your short winded begging (“cum inside me, yoichi” and “want you to fill me up”) in the midst of your intra-climatic hue are enough to get him to empty out hot inside of you, his eyebrows furrowed and an o-shape taking over the soft shine of his mouth.

you pull yourself up by the hand on the back of his scruff to kiss him wetly, tongue and all and he takes it, moaning and cursing out your name while pushing his seed deep inside you.

it’s quiet except for mingling, heavy breaths and the creak of your bed when nagumo falls on top of you. you squeak in protest, trying to push the lug of a man off.

“get off me you big idiot!” you squeal, and you feel his body shaking while he’s closed in on you.

“you’re nice and warm,” he sighs, “think i could stay like this for a good, couple of hours.”

you scoff. your hand reaches up to pet at his damp hair. nagumo smiles against your clavicle.

“do you think i still have time to go on that date?” you say, all forlorn and nagumo’s head shoots up, in which you laugh at the way his face contorts. he grumbles, and he eases out of you slowly. you hiss, but the grin on your face stays all the same.

“you think you’re so funny,” nagumo dryly contends and you sit up, kissing him on the nose.

“what can i say? learnt from the best,” you reply, just to the point where only he can hear you.

you think he’s so ridiculously easy (you won’t ever tell him that) when he returns your grin, and grabs your face to kiss you, all over you cheeks and lips.

“damn right, baby, damn right.”

EXTRA, EXTRA - read all about it:

“by the way, what did you mean when you said i owed you one?”

nagumo pulls his head from your chest, tv blaring and illuminating his puzzled, adorable expression, a piece of popcorn dangling from his mouth. his face turns blank as he ponders. then it’s like a lightbulb switches on above his head.

“oh, i fed ponyo and let her out onto the balcony but that old man saw me and i convinced him that he was seeing things so he wouldn’t call the cops… you’re welcome!”

“you did WHAT?!”

࿄ ! — all rights reserved © MOOMINSUKI 2024. please do not copy, translate, repost nor recommend my work outside of tumblr. this is strictly prohibited.

[kaziwi]

one piece boys reaction to a f!reader who cries whenever she is angry (include whoever you want, but put Law, Zoro and Sanji please)

agagagaga i love requests like these <3 sorry it’s a bit long but i hope you enjoy!!

Character(s): Law, Zoro, Sanji

WC: 1,460

Reader Who Cries When Angry

Law

It was just a simple misunderstanding...why did you get so frustrated???

No. It wasn't your fault...it was HIS

Your boyfriend, Law, had asked that you accompany him on exploring the newest island, YOU, like only and specifically you

Of COURSE you thought this was a date kinda thing because it had been like 100000 years since Law had taken you out and omgomgomg you were so excited

You had put on a little bit extra makeup and did your hair nicer as you met Law on the docks

"You look nice," he commented. You screamed and did a little dance in your head but put on a calm smile for him

It seemed Law had made up his mind on where you two were going because instead of heading to town, you were both trudging up a hill in the middle of the woods

Maybe he was bringing you to a flower field....OR maybe he was going to give you a big old kiss under a cherry blossom tree

Ok maybe you were a bit ahead of yourself...but you couldn't help but wonder???

Then Law abruptly stopped in front of you and crouched down over a bush. You decided to repeat his actions to find out what he was staring at. There were small berries in the bush, all with different colors and sizes.

He opened his bag and pulled out a notebook and pen and handed it to you.

"Write as I talk," he commanded, and who were you to disobey your captain.

Law went on for what seemed like forever about these berries and described them all in detail. You wrote down as much as you could till your hand started to cramp, but thank god by then he was basically over.

He mumbled a small thank you as he took the notebook back, quickly revised the notes you had taken, and stood back up.

"Alright lets head back"

What...did he mean...head back...

WHERE WERE THE FLOWERS AND THE KISSES?????

"Law...." you asked calmly, "what are we doing out here?"

Law looked at you a little funny and said, "Well I read that these berries are only found on this island. I read about their different properties and wanted to see them for myself."

"And why did you choose me of all people to come out here with you..?"

"Well you have the neatest handwriting."

That had done it.

You wanted to scream and yell and make angry hand gestures at him....but all you could do was cry

It was like a dam broke and you just couldn't stop

Law looked more confused than he had ever looked in his life...then rushed over to you like the good boyfriend he SHOULD HAVE BEEN

Law continued to ask what was wrong...but all you could do was cry

When you FINALLY calmed down...you explained to him that you thought this was a date...and were ANGRY at him for not making it one

Lets just say this story ends with Law buying you icecream and giving you a million kisses mwah mwah

Zoro

In his defense he had no clue you were gonna start crying

He just wanted to give you a taste of your own medicine

You always LOVED to prank him along with Luffy and Usopp

None of those pranks were CRAZY...just little silly tricks like banana peals on the floor to slip on or throwing water balloons at him...but either way they annoyed him

SOMEHOW he thought of the genius idea to prank you back...

Though Zoro's definition of a prank IS NOT what you'd think it was.....

The crew had just arrived on a new island and everyone went their separate ways to explore

Zoro had insisted that you and him take a walk in the woods, and even though you were against it since he ALWAYS gets lost…you reluctantly followed along…

Zoro had the perfect plan in his head….he was going to walk ahead…hide behind some some trees..and then SCARE YOU (he’s not the most creative with these things)

He had suddenly ran ahead..saying that he spotted something and leaving you alone

He SWORE he only ran only a minute or two ahead, just enough where he could wait and hide…

But that was an hour ago…and Zoro was waiting FOREVER..till he heard you..

SOMEHOW in running 2 minutes ahead he got himself lost

So there you were frantically calling his name while the sun quickly set

You really REALLY didn’t wanna be out here in the dark looking for him… and the creepy forest sounds did not help

A small rustle caught you attention..so you walked closer to the sound…till ZORO in all his glory jumped out of the tree and yelled boo

You were so startled that you fell back and hit the forest floor..while Zoro started CACKLING

You were tired…scared…hungry…and PISSED

As much as you wanted to scream your head off at him and punch him 10000 times…all you could do was start to cry

He stopped laughing as soon as he heard your sobs and felt frozen when he saw you crying

He never cried when you pulled tricks on him..SO WHY WERE YOU??????

“WHY ARE YOU CRYING,” he yelled, meaning it to come off more comforting

“CAUSE YOU SCARED ME,” you yelled back while still crying

After some back and fourth yelling..Zoro admitted he was wrong..but SWORE he didn’t get lost..you did

And you were so gonna prank him back for this one

Sanji

Now Sanji RARELY ever made you mad

You always laughed when you heard people complaining about their partners because your boyfriend was just perfect

Though one thing did kinda piss you off….his flirting

Now don’t get it confused you LOVED when he flirted with you…but it was the flirting with every woman he saw that bugged you

Usually you brushed it off and reminded yourself that he loved you more…but this time was different

You were helping him pick supplies at an island you stopped at, a usual job between the two of you

Though your palette wasn't as refined as Sanji's, you still were good at picking what food was best for the crew

Sanji had spotted a stand in the market with fruits native to the island, which were apparently very rare

He looked like a kid in a candy store while talking to you about the fruits, and all was well UNTIL the shop vendor came over

Now this girl was GEORGOUS like looked like Boa Hancock your jaw dropped when you saw her....and so did Sanji's...

Immediately he showered her with compliments and praises, just the usual....but instead of turning him down like the usual girls do...she flirted back...

Whatever...who cares...I mean it was bound to happen soon...but surely Sanji wouldn't take it too far...

You honestly didn't care too much...only a little jealous...TILL SHE INVITED HIM TO HER HOUSE

The vendor basically had said that she would show Sanji some of her new recipes that she made with the fruit and would love to talk about technique....IN HER HOUSE

Why couldn't they just do that here??? and even better why don't they just end the conversation now!!

Deep down you BELIEVED in your boyfriend and knew he wouldn't accept the invitation....until he did

A quick kiss on your forehead and a quick goodbye he left with the vendor and started to walk to her house...

What. Just. Happened.

So first he leaves you to hangout with this RANDOM lady...AND THEN LEAVES YOU TO FINISH THE SHOPPPING

It was later in the evening when he came back to the Sunny...a new recipe book in tow

He was excited to show it off to you, and was happy to hear that you finished the shopping for him!!

Sanji found you in the kitchen, putting away the food in the pantry

"Y/N!! Look at this amazing new recipe book I got from that vendor, you'd love this one-"

He looked up from his rant to notice that you were crying...

Sanji dropped the book and ran to you, begging you to tell him what was wrong

You wanted to stay silent and angry at him, but the tears kept pouring out and you just wanted him to hold you

You told him how upset his flirting made you and how him leaving with the other woman made you furious

He immediately apologized and honestly didn't stop for the rest of the night

He swore to you that he would tune down the flirting and that he would bring all his attention to you

And he kept that promise well, minimalizing the complements towards other women, even dialing it down around Nami and Robin

He truly was sorry and vowed to himself to never make you cry again

[munson-blurbs]

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader)

♫ Summary: Apologies were in order when Eddie's true whereabouts were revealed, but would a rainy evening bring forgiveness or an even harsher storm? (4.6k words)

♫ CW: slowburn, strangers-to-lovers, angst, misunderstanding, anxiety, self-deprication, parental conflict, poverty, jealousy, brief touching, eventual smut (18+ only, minors DNI)

♫ Divider credit to @hellfire--cult

chapter eight: mind your own business

A simple conversation changed everything.

Admittedly, it was not your conversation, but one you had eavesdropped on. 

You had turned in the final exam for your Experimental Psych class, ruminating over any possible wrong answers as soon as your paper touched the pile on your professor’s desk. Did you get an abnormal amount of Cs in the multiple-choice section? Were your short answers detailed enough?

And then you overheard two guys talking in the hall, one sounding like he’d just chain-smoked a carton of cigarettes. 

“Dude, what the fuck happened to your voice?”

“Lost it at a concert the other night. Totally worth it, though.”

“What concert?”

“Death’s Echo.”

You froze, hoping your sudden stop didn’t draw any attention to you. Death’s Echo had a concert? Where was it? Is that where Eddie was on Monday night?

Potential exam mistakes forgotten, you strode over to the guys on a quest for information. “Excuse me.” Your lips curved into your best customer service smile. “Did you say you saw Death’s Echo?”

The hoarse-voiced one nodded. “Yeah, why? You like them?” His eyes narrowed in assessment; you clearly didn’t embody his expectations of a punk music fan. A fair enough judgment, because you certainly weren’t. 

“Where did they play?” You pressed, ignoring his question. 

“Webster Hall,” he coughed, and his buddy laughed at his apparent pain. “You listen to them?”

“Yup,” you lied easily, not wanting to stick around and have him find out why a “fan” didn’t even know about a local gig. “Um, feel better!” You hurried out of the building, head spinning with this newfound knowledge. 

Webster Hall. It was just over an hour to get there, which meant that the concert must have started late; a practice not unheard of for more up-and-coming bands. The prime time slots went to the headliners who brought in the most money. 

If Eddie had gone to the concert on Monday, why wouldn’t he tell you? Did he think you’d be angry? Disappointed?

Or maybe he just didn’t want you to know he was blowing off work for a concert, you reasoned, and your opinion beyond that is irrelevant. 

Should you ask him about it tonight? Could you? He might hole himself up in his room, ignoring your knocks and only coming out after your shift.

Maybe that was for the best. 

His harsh words from last night continued rattling around your brain, barely taking a reprieve during the test. Honestly, you were grateful you wrote down actual psychological terminology instead of I am a total hypocrite over and over until self-deprecation filled the pages. 

Tomorrow was your last official day of your undergraduate career, your own personal deadline for confessing the truth to your parents, and yet you were no closer to being ready than you were when you first made that silent promise. 

The problem spun a web woven from neurons and synapses, its delicate threads slowly taking over your mind and catching the most daunting tasks. 

NYU Essay revisions Graduation The motel Eisen’s Eddie

Too much. It was all too much, but you couldn’t shake them from their entrapment. You wanted to squeeze your eyes shut and only open them once everything had been resolved. 

You had a fleeting thought of boarding the bus and remaining seated as it rolled past the motel, leaving it all behind and reclaiming your sanity. Running away was always an option, in theory; realistically, you would be overwrought with guilt before the bus made it to the next stop. 

What you’d once considered loyalty was now stained with splotches of cowardice. 

Maybe one day, you would be able to see yourself the way you wanted to be seen: as a trailblazer, a go-getter, a woman in pursuit of her dreams. 

Today was not that day. 

Rain streamed down from the clouds in thick sheets as though compensating for the week’s idle threats of stormy weather. It pelted against the motel’s windows like a steady drumbeat that wouldn’t be drowned out by your clock radio cranked up to its maximum volume. 

Darkness loomed in the night sky, heavier than usual. Wind accompanied the rain, jostling the power lines and making the lights flicker. 

If the electricity went out tonight…

You couldn’t finish that thought, not when the front door swung open to reveal Eddie, drenched from head to toe. His curls clung to his forehead, his cheeks, the back and sides of his neck; his chest heaved beneath a faded Black Sabbath t-shirt that was saturated with rainwater. 

He stood in the doorway for a moment, unmoving and catching his breath. 

This was your chance to apologize. To admit what you know—what you might know. The timing of the Death’s Echo concert could have been a coincidence, but your intuition told you it wasn’t. 

Another awkward smile that didn’t reach his eyes, a tentative “hey,” and he was trudging past you without attempting to stop.

Opportunity went as quickly as it came. Every word you had planned had been scrambled like a tornado swept through your brain and left gibberish-laden debris. 

The version of you that had confidently confronted him about smoking pot a few weeks ago would have scoffed at the way you failed to utter a simple apology. But this was much more complex. 

Eddie’s forgiveness—if he forgave you—was only half of the battle. His blatantly false accusations about your work ethic had cut too deep to ignore. 

Did he really think that little of you? Or was that his own defensiveness rearing its ugly head and taking over?

Then came a cry from down the hall.

“Of fuckin’ course!” Eddie boomed loud enough to be heard beyond his closed door. “Goddammit!”

You abandoned the desk, grabbing your essay papers and bolting to his room. He was at the window, violently pushing down on the pane, but it remained open. The shirt he’d been wearing earlier laid right next to the door as though he’d peeled it off as soon as he stepped into the room. 

Your eyes landed on the dusting of hair that was now plastered to his pecs, another effect from the weather, the soft brown tendrils partially obscured by his demon head tattoo. 

This wasn’t the first time you’d seen him bare-chested. The night he had arrived, he answered your knock in only his Calvin Klein boxers. He was wearing Fruit of the Loom tonight, the elastic waistband exposed from the weight of his rain-sodden jeans. 

Heat burned in your belly, a sensation you hadn’t experienced in a long while. 

“Little help?” Eddie grunted impatiently, and you nodded, tossing the essay onto his nightstand among a sea of his own handwritten papers. 

Had he caught you staring? 

He moved over, bringing both of his hands to the right side so you could press both of yours to the left. The combined force was enough to smack it closed, the resulting burst of wind sending the papers airborne. They floated to the ground, paragraph-laden parachutes, but all you could focus on was the patch of carpet beneath you. It was completely soaked, visibly darker where the rain had seeped in, and it squelched under your sneakers.

“I’ll grab towels.” You started towards the door, pausing to scoop up a sheet of looseleaf that had landed near your feet. It was obviously Eddie’s; his was not as meticulously curated as yours, full of scratch-outs and barely legible, but the words you could make out were enough to pique your interest.

Want what I can’t have

She’s got me mixed fucked mixed up

You couldn’t read any more of it without him noticing, and you certainly did not want to get caught snooping after upsetting him, so you placed it on the bed as casually as you could.

There were extra towels stored in the supply closet, and you jogged back to the lobby, mentally calculating how many you’d need to sop up the mess. Taking as many as you could carry, you perched your chin atop the oversized pile and lumbered into Eddie’s room, dropping them to the ground. 

To your dismay, he had put on a new shirt, but it did nothing to temper your thoughts of running your fingertips over his inked skin. 

The air was now rife with the scent of burning tobacco, the cigarette between Eddie’s lips already smoked halfway to the filter.

“Thanks.” It was muffled and gruff, hardly an olive branch, but it was enough to tug the corners of your mouth in a tepid smile.

You wanted to stay, wanted to ask about what he had been writing, but Eddie snatched up your essay papers from where they’d scattered before you could ask. He shoved them towards you, leaving the edges creased where they crinkled under his grip. 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t vandalize them,” he sneered. A gray cloud whorled from his lips as he spoke, but it didn’t hide his sarcastic grin. 

You steeled your gaze and forced yourself to look just above the glowing ember and into his eyes. “I’m sorry.” You let your apology float downwards, watching for any indication of a softening expression, but he remained tense. 

“You didn’t even bother asking where I was,” he spit. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeated, less abrasive this time. “I assumed...because you were so mean to Ben…” Any further explanation felt too much like an excuse, so you left the sentence unfinished.

Eddie’s chest deflated slightly, his bravado extinguished. He’d been expecting a fight, you realized. 

You refused to give him one. 

“Were you at Webster Hall?” Your voice deliberately turned up at the end, careful to pose it as a question rather than a declaration. Certainly not as an accusation. 

Eddie flinched, his forefinger and thumb quickly pinching his cigarette to keep it from falling. “What?”

“Monday night,” you said. You pushed your right foot into the mound of towels, hit with a sudden bout of antsiness. “Was your errand seeing Death’s Echo play at Webster Hall?”

He said nothing, just looked at you. Really looked at you, assessing whether or not you deserved to know the truth. 

The admission came out gradually, as if it was being met with resistance, pulled from a place so deep he had forgotten its existence. 

“Yeah.” 

“Why?”

Eddie took another drag from his cigarette. He held the smoke in his lungs until forced out with a cough. “Wanted to hear how they sounded with their new, ah, frontman.”

Lower lip tucked snugly beneath your front teeth, you nodded. “And how did they sound?”

“Great. Really fuckin’ great.” His wry smile held more sadness than amusement. “Better than when I was with them.”

Your heart lurched. Without thinking, you reached out and took his hand, giving it just a little squeeze before letting go. “I know that’s not true,” you said. “I heard you playing on Sunday, and you’re good, Eddie. Not just anyone could pull off playing Metallica without an amp, but you did.” 

You wished he could see himself from your perspective, see the man whose talent was too vast for a dingy subway station, whose music deserved to be heard by sold-out crowds at The Garden.

Eddie didn’t agree, but he didn’t disagree, either. His face remained neutral, and given the circumstances, you considered that a win.

“I can work tonight. Hang the new wallpaper.” A lightning-speed subject change, but you were becoming accustomed to seamlessly shifting tracks to follow his train of thought. “I’ll be back out as soon as I finish this.” He lifted the cigarette to his mouth again and you nodded, closing the door behind you.

Part of you expected him not to return. If his brain worked like yours, he would overthink the conversation, replaying it over and over until he’d wrung out all the positives and left it saturated with the negatives. He’d opt to stay in his room and smoke out his pack, leaving the wallpaper job unfinished. But you heard the door hinge creak and his footsteps pattering into the lobby.

One thousand words flooded your brain to form myriad sentences, from a joking long time, no see to a much more serious who were you writing about?

Ben thought Eddie had feelings for you, ones that stretched past the platonic confines. But he’d only met him once, briefly. He didn’t really know him. 

Want what I can’t have She’s got me mixed up

Did you really know him?

Eddie had an endless list of things he couldn’t have, which often was the case for people facing poverty. As for the girl who had him mixed up, you couldn’t narrow that down, either. The only women you’d seen him interact with were Phyllis (an unlikely muse, but it wouldn’t be the most bizarre case of unrequited love you’d ever heard of), your mom (again, not likely), and you. 

There was no doubt you had him mixed up. Maybe even fucked up, as he’d written and crossed out. But had you had enough of an effect on him to warrant poetry or song lyrics–

Song lyrics.

It all clicked into place: The band; more specifically, the drummer who happened to be his ex-girlfriend. He’d gone to see them play. He could have spoken to her, and maybe realized that a spark was still present. A real spark, not whatever pathetic flicker you might have felt that night when he’d held your hand as you removed wallpaper, or when you’d exchanged gentle touches after his unfortunate wasp’s nest encounter, or when he’d loomed over you in the subway car and a delicate dip in your belly made itself known.

You decided that this explanation, the one in which you had little to no involvement, held the most logic. His inspiration was his past love–potentially his current love–and your argument was a mere distraction from a much more complicated situation.

A natural silence fell over the lobby, a healing balm over the wound you’d taken turns picking at and reopening. It was the perfect setting to finish editing your essay, and yet you found the task impossible. Any threatening grammatical errors paled in comparison to the slight movements of Eddie’s back muscles, visible through his white cotton shirt as he smoothed down the wallpaper panels. 

The pronounced flex of his tricep as he drove the paper cutter above the moldings with utter precision. 

The soft grunt that escaped his lips as he pressed on his thighs to stand up and admire his handiwork. 

You didn’t know how long you’d been staring at him before the slamming front door snapped you out of it. 

“L-Looks good,” you managed, throat suddenly bone-dry. 

Eddie crossed his arms, took a small step back, and nodded. Wide brown eyes scoured the wall for any uneven edges or unglued seams, his lips pursed in concentration. “Not my best work but, uh, it’ll do.” He smirked at you, then jutted his chin to your left.

A middle-age man stood beside the desk, rainwater dripping off of the slope of his nose. He held an umbrella, turned inside out and rendered useless by the wind. 

“Sign out front says ‘vacancy.’” He grumbled and swiped at his bushy eyebrows, revealing a sliver of beer gut when he raised his arm. “Just need a room for the night.”

“Mhm, of course.” You found your footing with a polite smile and collected the stranger’s money, just as you always had, just as you were supposed to. Because you were at work, and that was your job–not watching Eddie hang wallpaper.

As you scanned the wall behind you for a key, a warm whisper tickled your ear, breath tinged with a smoky aroma. A shiver reflexively wiggled down your spine as Eddie spoke, your body unused to this level of proximity.

“Put him away from my room. He looks like a snorer.”

You tucked your lips into your mouth to stifle your laughter. Eddie was right; you weren’t quite sure what it was about the man, but he did look like he snored. Loudly. 

You meant to look over your paper after your shift, but sleep was too seductive to resist. Just one more day, one more final exam, and then you were done. At least until August. 

Summer stretched before you, and though you would still be spending nights behind the desk, your days were wide open. 

Days that might be spent alongside Eddie. 

There was no formal apology from him last night, a fact that nagged at you throughout the bus ride to school and prevented you from looking past the first page of your essay. That, and the burdens of shame both you and Eddie carried: yours from the blatantly wrong accusation, his from…what, exactly? Why was he embarrassed to tell you where he’d been?

The wound was still too raw last night to press on it, to ask further questions; instead, you kept the conversation light and airy. The only foray into dangerous territory came from Eddie himself when he asked about the vandalism at Eisen’s. You couldn’t answer fast enough before clumsily pivoting the discussion to the warming weather.

And maybe it was your inner people pleaser that craved reconciliation, needed it to unfurl and bloom like a budding rose, that lowered your guard and bade you to talk with him. But people-pleasing didn’t explain the warmth that crept through your body, lazily winding through your veins, when he laughed at your jokes.

That laugh–the gentle nose scrunch it evoked, the lightheartedness it exuded, how it chiseled away at the remaining iciness between you. It was all you thought about that night, your heart relaxing as the friendship was no longer in limbo. 

But when you got to class and flipped through your essay one last time, that newfound homeostasis meant nothing. Yes, there were ten pages present and ready to be stapled, but unless your conclusion focused on angsty song lyrics, you were missing the final page.

Dread’s chill pricked at you, followed by an overbearing wash of heat. The granola bar you’d scarfed down threatened to make a reappearance. 

Stupid. How could I have been so careless? All I had to do was check before I left home, but I was too busy thinking about Eddie to do the bare minimum.

It was a bad dream; you’d wake up and find yourself in bed with your full essay safely stored in your bag. All you had to do was wake up and page ten would be a continuation of psychological development in infancy. 

Your eyes opened hopefully, but you were still in the classroom, and the page still beared Eddie’s sloppy scrawl:

I’m the castle She’s the queen Can’t be a king I’m too obscene

The lyrics a few lines down stopped mid-sentence:

Crushed beneath a broken dream Failed to launch now I

You were wasting precious time. If you left now, you could probably make it home and back before the professor left. You’d have to fork over the money for a dollar cab and forgo your afternoon coffee, but it was a sacrifice you needed to make. 

Stupid stupid stupid—

Your name being called drew you from your pit of self-loathing. It wasn’t Nora; the voice was too masculine and too far away for it to come from beside you. 

It was someone with the same name. Just a coincidence. 

And then you heard it again. Loud enough so it echoed down the hall, but not frantic. And yet your heart fluttered in your chest. 

Eddie. 

There was no way; he couldn’t be—

You squeezed past Nora and thundered towards the door, trying to quell your hopes before they rose too high. 

But there he stood, sweat pasting his hair to his forehead. His chest heaved beneath a white cotton undershirt that was tight around the biceps. Deep brown eyes lit up when he spotted you in the doorway, his lips curving in a triumphant smile. 

“I have your paper!” Sure enough, your conclusion paragraph was clenched in his calloused hand.

You could have cried with relief. Fueled by gratefulness and residual adrenaline, you flung your arms around him. Your hands found his back muscles; at first tensed, almost reflexively, but quickly relaxed. The paper crinkling between your torsos jarred you out of the moment, and you took a step back before he could return the gesture—if he even would have. 

“Sorry, I…” Words suddenly evaded you, eviscerated by the musky scent of his deodorant. He didn’t appear to be uncomfortable, all soft doe eyes and lazy grins from his unlikely heroism, but…still. Your relationship now teetered between employee and friend, and you couldn’t afford to knock it off-balance. “How did you get here so fast? And how did you find me?”

Eddie exhaled a chuckle. “Took a cab. And when I got here, I asked every other person where the psychology classes were.”

“You walked from where the dollar cab dropped you off?” How many blocks was that? No wonder he was sweating. 

His cheeks, already flushed from exertion, tinged a deeper shade of pink. “N-No, I, um…it was a regular cab.”

Sheer disbelief widened your eyes. He must have dipped into his meager savings to shell out the money for an actual cab, putting him even farther behind in his journey home. 

“I…” There were one thousand ways to finish your sentence. 

I can pay you back. 

I can’t believe you did this for me. 

I am so sorry I ever doubted your character. 

I wish we’d hugged just a moment longer. 

You finally settled on a string of words that required no courage at all, just a genuine thankful smile. “I have your lyrics. Let me turn in my paper and I’ll grab them for you.”

Eddie’s timid expression shifted into one of amusement. “Shit, yeah,” he said with a laugh. “Was wondering where those went.”

Opportunity splayed out in front of you, tempting you to ask him about the woman who had him mixed up. Every cell in your body ached to know if she was the same queen he’d placed on a royal pedestal, unattainable despite his valiant efforts. 

Was it fear or politeness that held your tongue? You weren’t supposed to see the lyrics in the first place; how could you justify your questions? Sorry I read your innermost thoughts without permission, but could I pick your brain about them?

Any doubts about your intentions were confirmed when he took the page from you, cocked his head, and asked: “What’d you think?”

There it was. Your opening. You could see it, practically touch it, your fingertips brushing the chance to admit that the songs’ mysterious inspiration gnawed at you—

But then he might ask why you wanted to know. And, quite honestly, you lacked the energy to figure it out for yourself. The desire was too strong to be nosiness, too personal to be gossip. 

Not to mention the inexplicable sourness that burned your esophagus when you’d considered the high probability that he’d written them about his ex-girlfriend. 

“Really good,” you managed. “I can’t wait for the finished product.”

Coward. 

“Me, too,” he agreed with a laugh. “I’m sure the folks at the train station are dying to hear it.”

“The rats’ll give you a standing ovation.”

He snickered. “My biggest fans.” 

A hand squeezing yours prevented you from getting lost in the slight dimple that appeared when he smiled. Nora now stood beside you, expression innocuous to Eddie or any other man, but her dark brown eyes silently asked, are you okay?

I’m fine, you replied with a squeeze of your own, grateful for someone who swooped in seeing you with a man she didn’t know.

“Nora, this is Eddie,” you introduced her. “He’s–he’s my friend who’s been helping us out around the motel. Eddie, this is Nora, best friend and study buddy extraordinaire.”

“Ahh, Wallpaper Boy.” Nora furrowed a brow. “You go to school here?”

Eddie cleared his throat and scratched the back of his head. “No, I…she left her paper, so…” He trailed off as though embarrassed by his chivalry. 

“So now she can graduate!” Nora wrapped you in an embrace so tight that you briefly worried about your shoulder dislocating. She leaned in knowingly, her tone teasing with an air of seriousness. “And keep me company at the ceremony, right?”

You rolled your eyes, acutely aware that Eddie was watching the entire interaction. The last thing you wanted was attention drawn to the fact that you weren’t attending graduation. “Maybe,” was all you said, and Nora left it at that.

There was an awkward beat before anyone spoke again, and it was Eddie who eventually filled the silence. “Heading home now?” He asked you, already starting towards the building’s doors. 

“No, I’m going to Eisen’s. I promised Ben that I’d help clean the graffiti.” You braced yourself for a volatile reaction, or at least something akin to annoyance, but his response was more surprising than any snarky remark. 

“I’ll come with.”

Cocking a disbelieving brow, you did your best to keep your tone free of judgment. You were waiting for the gotcha, but you couldn’t let him know that. “Seriously?”

Eddie nodded. “Yeah, why not? I’ve got the day free, and I have some…expertise in graffiti removal.” He relented with a shrug when you and Nora exchanged curious glances, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “My trailer got hit a time or twelve back in the day. The tragic life of a Satan-worshiping freak, y’know?”

“But I bet the vandalizers were upstanding citizens.”

“Keys to the city and everything.” Eddie stuck out his hand, palm up, and you could see the details etched into his pale skin. Calluses decorated the pads of his fingers; you’d assumed they were mostly from guitar playing, but now you could add physical labor to their origins. He looked down at his hand, then back at you. “Shall we?”

Your own hands were suddenly slick with anxious perspiration, like a middle school student on her first-ever date. Even that juvenile scenario held more significance than this—two friends scrubbing down a hardware store was a far cry from the Sandra Brown romance novels you secretly devoured in high school. 

And yet, you felt it—that soft electricity that crackled through your whorls of fingerprints when you slid your palm against his, the jolt of energy as he tugged you forward and laced his fingers with yours. If he noticed the nervousness that embarrassing seeped from your pores, he didn’t mention it. 

Nora, ever astute, excused herself with a story about not wanting to miss the bus, but not before whispering in your ear, “he’s cute.” An approval that would almost certainly be followed up with a phone call later to discuss the fine details of the afternoon’s escapades. 

There are no ‘escapades,’ you reminded yourself. You’re removing graffiti, not embarking on a Parisian vacation. 

Eddie led the way until he reached the building’s doors, blinking as his eyes once again adjusted to the sunlight. “I, uh, I have no idea where we’re going.”

You laughed at his candor. “Follow me.”

It was an opportunity to break the grasp, to unleash the anxiety that threatened to cleave you and Eddie back into two separate pieces. He was dangerous because he was temporary; if you allowed him in even farther than you already had—beyond the confines of friendship—his inevitable departure would destroy you. 

Let go. Let go. Let. Go. 

And yet you kept holding on, adjusting only to take the lead. Eddie’s thumb brushed against yours, pausing just at the knuckle to press down in subtle acknowledgment. 

Hi. 

You pressed back with an accompanying smile. 

Hi. 

This time when you reached the subway station, you both jumped the turnstile. 

--

taglist (now closed ♥):

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[the-guilty-writer]

The Fake Doctor

Request from anon: Young autistic reader who’s Derek’s daughter and Derek needs Reid’s help with her 

Derek Morgan x daughter!reader

Summary: After babysitting you, Spencer isn't sure how to bring up to Derek that he thinks you're autistic.

A/N: This is very short and really the best I could come up with. I very rarely write young children readers, but I figured out a way to make this one work by making it more Derek and Spencer centric than reader centric.

CW: just lots of fluff

---

Derek looked down the extraordinary long list in front of him and sighed. He didn't normally write a list for the babysitter, but he was worried about Spencer’s child-watching capabilities.

Derek was, for the first time in what he felt was a long time, going out on a date. Of course, your normal sitter canceled last minute due to having the flu. He’d gotten the text that morning at work and was about to cancel his date as well when Reid had offered up his services. Derek knew Spencer was good with kids and you liked him, but your dad was a bit skeptical about if the young doctor really knew what he was getting himself into.

Did a babysitter with an eidetic memory even need a list?

Derek didn’t have time to decide if he should throw it out or not because the doorbell rang through the house. Even though you were distracted by your favorite TV show, you still covered your ears and made a face at the high-pitched sound.

He made a mental note to himself to change the bell to something more pleasant, and walked to the front door to let Spencer in. “Hey, Reid.” Derek let his colleague through the door. “Thanks again for doing this. I owe you one.”

“It’s no problem,” Spencer replied. The two men walked toward the kitchen. “I didn’t have any plans besides reading.” The doctor held a thick book under one arm.

“Well I wrote everything down,” Derek said, handing Reid the list. “But you know how to reach me if you have questions.” While Spencer read through the list, your dad made his way to you. “Hey, baby girl.”

“Hi daddy,” you replied. It made Derek smile - he’d heard from lots of parents that you’d probably switch to “dad” soon enough, but you were still stuck calling him “daddy” and he truly hoped that never went away. “Are you going out with your friend for dinner?”

Derek’s date had been on the calendar for over a week now to prepare you that he wouldn’t be home for bedtime tonight. The unpredictable schedule of his job made you anxious, so when he could let you know about a scheduled event, he put it on the calendar in the kitchen. It wasn’t a perfect fix, but it seemed to help take the edge off.

“Yep,” he kneeled down in front of you. “Dr. Reid is here.”

“The fake doctor,” you said. Derek couldn’t help but laugh and it was only made funnier by the expression on Spencer’s face.

“Yeah, he’s going to stay with you while I go out, like we talked about earlier. Okay?”

You nodded and threw your arms around your father’s shoulders. “I love you, daddy.”

Derek hugged you back tightly. “I love you too, baby girl.” He planted a gentle kiss on top of your head and you went back to watching your show, hugging your arms around your knees as if it replaced the absence of your dad’s presence.

“Good luck,” Spencer said to him, as he left the house.

“You too, kid,” Derek plastered a joking smile on his face to cover up his nerves. It wasn’t his date he was nervous about; he was far more worried about Spencer taking care of you.

---

Spencer sat in one of the armchairs in the living room, reading his book over again for the second time. The only reason it wasn’t the third time was because he wasn’t sure what to say to Derek when he got home. Of course, what Spencer had to say was in your best interest, but that didn’t make it seem any less like he had been profiling you.

Just as he was beginning to revise his opening sentence in his head, there was a click with the opening of the front door and light footsteps along the hardwood.

“Hey, pretty boy,” Derek said with a small but tired smile on his face.

“Hey,” Spencer tried his best to control the nervous pitch of his voice. “How was your date?”

“It was good, actually,” he said. “How was my baby girl?”

“She was good.” Spencer tried to look more casual as he walked closer, but he’d forgotten that your dad knew his tells better than he knew his own.

“Reid, what is it?” Morgan’s brow furrowed with concern. Spencer paused and opened his mouth, but paused before he could go further. “Spit it out.”

“I think she might be autistic.” Spencer searched Derek’s face for an adverse reaction - guilt, denial, anger. What he didn’t expect was for him to say, “Yeah. I know,” and go about putting his coat away like the doctor’s statement was nothing out of the ordinary.

“I’ve known for a couple months now,” Derek continued. “It’s part of why I was concerned about you watching her. She doesn’t do great with last minute changes. It’s also why she calls you ‘the fake doctor.’ I had to explain to her why we weren’t going to see you when we went to see the real doctor.”

“Medical doctor,” Spencer corrected. “And I’m not qualified to diagnose anything, but I can give you an opinion.”

Derek smirked. “Well, I know I already owe you, but I could use your help with special interest research.”

Spencer nodded happily. “I’m pretty filled in on what she already knows after tonight.” He thought about the way your face had lit up when you talked, how excited you had been when he gave you a new fun fact, the joy that radiated off you.

“I’m sure you are, pretty boy,” Derek smiled. “But I know she’d love to know more.” he paused. “And I would like to know more too - about how I can help her.”

“Of course,” Spencer replied. “She’s lucky to have you as a dad.”

“Thanks.” Derek’s voice switched from genuine appreciation to a teasing tone when he said, “We’re both lucky she has an uncle that’s a fake doctor.”

And this time, Spencer couldn’t help but laugh.

[charmac]

How are you feeling about S17? I'm getting reaaal worried that it's going to be terrible. No Glenn in the writers room? A crossover episode?? Rob's gradual transformation into pondslime??? Help

Pondslime 😭Lmfao

I'm feeling more than fine about 17, really truly. I don't think anyone should be worried at all.

I think sometimes my interactions with Glenn come off a little more serious or abrasive than they really happened in real life (because we have to shout due to how loud it is in the bars), and my immediate transcription is just to get people *information*, which really doesn't convey tone.

For example, reporting that Glenn said "you don't want to know" in response to me asking for any teasers (as to plots this season) was met with a lot of "oh so this season is gonna suck" on Twitter, and that could not be further than the truth (sorry to the people I split-react blocked for saying that lol). In hindsight I get the reaction, because written out it's a response that can be easily misinterpreted and reads as potentially concerning, but know that when Glenn said "you don't want to know" he looked like this:

And when I was genuinely just asking for script information (regarding writers of individual scripts after he mentioned they had broken already) and mentioned Nina (Inflates) and Ross (DTAMHD), he gushed about both of them and then said, transcribed word for word, "It's been a good room, I'll say this it's been a great room. It's been an all-star room, it's been...like, breaking the stories this year has been really fun. [Me: Yeah?] Yeah. [That's great, that is great to hear.] It's been really fun."

So the idea of "no Glenn in the writers room" is really much more akin to Season 16 than 13/14. He was there to break stories (meaning he was in the room when they were brainstorming plot ideas and when they settled on which plots would be turned into scripts) but Rob and Charlie are taking the brunt of writing their (RCG's) scripts because of Sirens. This is the same thing that happened with The Gang Goes Bowling. Glenn's name is on the script, but Rob and Charlie wrote the majority of it while Glenn was shooting Blackberry. (I remember originally being convinced it was a mistake Glenn was listed as a writer for Bowling, lmfao). And Glenn is definitely still contributing, will be on revisions for the non-RCG scripts, and will classically change or improv whatever he thinks is best for Dennis when he's on set (see: the Risk E. Rats script).

Also, I know the crossover is concerning to a lot of people just given the nature of it, but as of what we know right now it's only on Abbott, so it's really just as if this season's The Gang Cracks the Liberty Bell or The Janitor Always Mops Twice took place on a different show instead of ours...

I promise promise promise Glenn was clearly holding his tongue for good things coming up, and Friday night very much restored my confidence that Season 17 will be good. (But..if you don't think Glenn has good contributions to Sunny or understands the agenda, then sorry this response probably sucks lmfao)

[ohcorny]

hey corny. so i always see people recommending to outline their story before starting it, but could you talk a little bit more about what that means? what is an outline and how do you structure one? how long are the ones you write, depending on the project? do you focus on plot beats or feelings? how specific do you get? can u recommend any readings for learning more?

up front i don't have any resources for this, only experience. and outlines feel like one of those things where it's like... there are a million ways to do it and the way that works for me might not work for you. i have a friend who writes out all his ideas on index cards and that, for me, is insane. but he's also a better writer than me so who can say what is right or wrong.

anyway an outline is essentially a sketch but for a story. you go through the whole thing, start to finish, and figure out what goes where and what happens when. the idea is that this is the stage where you work out all the big picture stuff and make sure it all fits together, now, and not after you've drawn twenty pages and suddenly go "wait shit that doesn't work" and have to do it over. it is much easier to delete and rewrite a paragraph than to redraw several pages.

doing anything more, ie including dialogue or feelings, depends entirely on how useful that information is to you at that point in the process and whether the purpose of the outline is for your own guidance, or so somebody else can tell what you're trying to achieve.

this got really long with multiple examples

here is an excerpt from the original outline i used to pitch Hunger's Bite to publishers. this one had to be polished to a professional standard, because somebody else was going to read it and decide whether they wanted to give me thousands of dollars to tell this story. (also several of the details are no longer accurate. for instance it now takes place 9 years earlier lmao)

this paragraph represents the first eight pages of the book. the final book is 264 pages long, and the outline was 12 pages of paragraphs as dense as this one.

it establishes where we are, who's there, and what they're doing. i describe their conversation, but i don't commit to the dialogue. i will occasionally include snippets of literal dialogue, but usually only if it's Important Dialogue, or i just don't want to forget a good idea i had while outlining. it's not expected at this step.

an outline written as part of a pitch to a publisher should tell the whole story, with all the important details, and leave nothing ambiguous. they need to know the tone, shape, and the arcs. no secrets! all the spoilers. outlines for yourself should do this too, but outlines for others need to be as clear about your vision as possible. again, an outline like this exists for the purpose of getting you paid thousands of dollars. you should write it like that.

in comparison, here's an excerpt from the outline i wrote for revisions to my WIP prose novel, so i could show it to my agent (who already read the draft) to be like "do these changes sound good?" i'm not selling it to anyone yet, just making a guide so i can have a conversation about it. so it doesn't need to be neat, it just needs to be functional and clear. the first chapter was entirely new stuff. the second bit was just writing down what was already in the chapter that existed.

i have historically been very bad at outlining things when i don't think i "need" to, and only wrote this one after having written like 60k words of the book without any overall plan. i gave what i had to my agent for feedback and then sat down and figured out how i could apply it. it's made the whole revisions process significantly less daunting. now i have a checklist for things i need to do! this one was a paragraph or two for each chapter, with the ones that needed a lot of rewriting given a bit more detail.

lastly, here's a bit of the outline for the first roger crenshaw book. i was the only person who had to see this, and since the story was planned to be very short i didn't have to worry about a whole lot. as long as i knew what was supposed to go where, it would work. honestly it's not a whole lot different from the previous example.

this one was like five paragraphs and it did the job, and this story was like 15k words. you only need as much or as little as will actually help you on the page.

basically if you take nothing else from this, it's that there are multiple ways to write an outline, that it does not need to be perfect if you're doing it for yourself, and that it only needs what you think is important (unless it is for other people. then it should have everything). and also it's a good idea to do it earlier in the project than after you've written 60k words or drawn--jesus christ i got up to 12 chapters in never satisfied? it's amazing i didn't quit sooner

[yallthemwitches]

A Hundred Visions and Revisions

She loves him like this: sleepy, slap happy, sometimes a bit handsy but willing to meet her where she’s at in the moment. It’s the quiet moments like this that keep her going sometimes, knowing that whatever is happening out there will disappear by the end of the day when they can hold each other again.

Rated T, Read below the cut or on AO3 Here!

Like usual, she’s already splayed herself across the couch, too enraptured in her book to notice the portrait hole swing open. Spotting her, he makes a show of staggering across the room, dropping his broom idly to the floor with a groan while soaking in the way her lips twitch behind the page in an attempt to ignore him. Making it around the couch, he gives no preamble and collapses against her with an oof, enjoying her small squeaks of surprise as he nuzzles his face into her clavicle. 

“Practice was bad?” Her eyes settle back on the page and a hand finds its way into his hair, fingering the ends that have been shocked into fractured points by the winter wind. 

“Horrible, awful, downright contemptible.”

“That many adjectives, huh.” 

He grunts, scooting his body down further so his head is cradled into her chest, arms snaking around her sides to find the place where her shirt has gotten untucked to draw circles into skin. It has become a tradition of sorts—she waits for him after practice, holding court in front of the common room fireplace and making herself look too irresistible to not fall into the second he returns. It’s a shame they only have one year of school left to enjoy it. 

 She tries to go back to reading, but he continues to sigh, each more theatrical than the last, fingers starting to tickle and pinch at her waist rather than caress. 

“If you want attention, just say so,” she says behind the book, mouth pressed into a tight line but her eyes sparkling.

“No, no. It’s fine. I’ll just lay here…suffering.”

She snorts, and he presses a victory smile into her skin. “You’re so spoiled.”

“Apparently not spoiled enough to get a little love from my girlfriend in my time of need.” He groans, wiggling his hips against her.

“When are you not in your time of need.” She murmurs, deadpan, but her hand moves to the back of his neck, slowly massaging the muscles that hide just under his tangle of hair. She feels him relax under her ministrations, finally abandoning his ‘woe is me’ act to let his body meld against hers. 

“What are you reading?” He asks after moments of silence, eyes fluttering closed from the rise and fall of her chest. 

“Oh, some book about sex magic. Some absolute nutter muggle wrote it—complete madness but fun to read.”

“Sex Magic you say?”  Suddenly he is wide awake, propping himself up and arching an eyebrow from over the book. She eyes him warily and tries to ignore the fingers that have wasted no time to drift upwards and play with the buttons of her shirt. He swoops down, pressing his lips to her neck. 

“Don’t get so excited, Potter. It’s a load of bunk.”

He hums, already undoing her topmost button and moving to kiss the skin there. 

“I dunno—-maybe we should test it out first…get a first hand account.” He gets another button undone and she makes a noise between a laugh and a moan. 

“I’m not very keen on being topless in the middle of the common room so if you could kindly quit it—-“

“You didn’t seem to mind it the other night,” he quips back and enjoys the view of her skin flushing from her cheeks all the way past where he can see under her uniform. 

“James.”

“Fine,” he whines. He stops his progress on her shirt and gives her exposed sternum one last kiss before settling his head back down, hands moving back to encircle her.

“You’re a tease, Evans. A dirty, rotten siren taking advantage of my poor knackered heart.”

She cradles him against her, letting one hand slide back through his hair while the other caresses his back. She loves him like this: sleepy, slap happy, sometimes a bit handsy but willing to meet her where she’s at in the moment. It’s the quiet moments like this that keep her going sometimes, knowing that whatever is happening out there will disappear by the end of the day when they can hold each other again. 

They lay in a comfortable silence for a while, the fire crackling low beside them. She can feel James’ breath start to steady against her, somehow keeping his grip tight on her despite sleep setting in.

“Hey James?” 

“Hmmm?” He nestles his nose down into her, hands grasping tighter at her waist. 

“Have you thought about it at all?”

“Shagging in the common room? All the time.”

She snorts, shaking him a bit. “No, you git—about Dumbledore’s offer.”

His eyes remain closed but his mouth sinks into a small line against her. 

“Nothing to think about—-I’m all in.”

She fidgets under him and the bottom of his jersey rides up, exposing some of his midriff. Absent-mindedly, she runs her hand over the skin, rubbing anxious circles.

“And your offer from the Canons? That’s a pretty big deal.”

“When the war is over, I can try out again.” 

“And if they don’t let you?”

He props up on his chin, looking up to see her staring off beyond the common room. “Then I’ll look into another profession– like magical artifacts or becoming your indentured servant.”

He expects her to crack a smile at his joke, but her eyes continue to look away, seeing something that feels much bigger than job prospects.

“Lily?”

She shakes her head like trying to dispel smoke. He sits up, swinging her legs so they now rest over his, hips flush together. Taking her cheek in his palm, he forces her to look at him and he sees tears just harboring past the surface. 

“I know it’s silly—but can you tell me the future? The way you see it.” she whispers, curling into him so the top of her head can rest right under his chin, book falling abandoned down onto the floor. She knows he’s no divination master–she’s seen his grades to prove it—but they both know that’s not what she’s asking.

“Well–” 

He stares into the fire, watching as the embers slowly lower and diminish one by one. It’s hard to ignore the feeling of encapsulation–that they are just children needing to concoct stories to make it all worth it. Her fingers play with the bottom of his jersey, anxiously awaiting his turn to spin this night’s fable, probably one of many before the war lets up.

“Well, first and most important, we will still be madly in love—sickenly so.” 

She makes a noise and he can feel a smile break through for the first time that evening. 

“Sickenly you say? Says who?”

“Says everyone who is jealous that they can’t be us. This shouldn’t come as a surprise to you as it is our current reality—obviously.”

“Obviously.” she echoes, before muttering arrogant under her breath. 

“We will fight for the Order, beat out Voldemort, and have an incredible victory shag afterwards—”

She hums against his chest and he can feel some of the warmth coming back to her.

“Who knew it was so simple—have you told Dumbledore this strategy?” She turns her head up to flick his nose and he kisses the tip of hers in return. 

“I did–he was shocked he never thought of it actually–said the last bit was particularly vital…”

She can’t help but laugh. “Sometimes it’s like your head deflated but landed right in the gutter.” 

She continues to look up at him, eyes getting more brilliant as her tension melts.  “Go on then—Voldemort’s miraculously easy defeat, victory shag…ok what else?”

He lowers his lips to her ear and lets them skim against the shell. “We get married.”

Suddenly both of their heartbeats fall into overdrive. He flashes his eyes down to see her cheeks are bubbling with pink, eyes wide and targeted right at him. 

“And what part of the sequence does that occur?” Her voice is barely a whisper and he notices her hands have stalled against him, frozen mid-fiddle with the fabric. 

“Well,” he knows she can feel his heart jumping against her, but he doesn’t care, “I was hoping during the exposition or rising action portion of the plot rather than the conclusion.”

Her eyes are dancing, surely from the fire that continues to drop beads of light into her hair and face. 

“And you don’t think that’s…unwise, seeing we’ve only been dating officially five months.”

His eyes meet hers, now devoid of jest.

“It’s not like being wise has ever been in my wheelhouse anyways.”

She could fight it—tell him it’s a mad idea to be thinking about marriage at a time like this, in a time where every passing day seems less sure than the last. But something about it feels too enticing to pass up—the image of them in a home all their own, sitting just like they are now but more solid and sure of themselves, leaning into the domesticity and adoration of it all because they can. 

 She worries if she ruminates on it too much, it will be painful to let go when the time comes.

“And we won’t bicker?”

“Not anymore than married people do—or we do now I guess I should say.”

“And you will make me breakfast everyday, in bed?” 

“Evans, if you’re my wife I’ll do anything anything you ask of me. My occupation is indentured servant, remember?” He is trying to stay light, but she can tell he means it. 

She wishes she could dream like he can—see beyond the rubbish and focus solely on the parts that can work. It’s simultaneously what she is jealous of and admires in him, the bright side is always where he wants to be. 

“James—” Its a warning: a warning that perhaps he is flying too close to the sun. A warning that perhaps it’s too tempting not to accept it. A warning that at this moment, it might be too much. 

But she doesn't need to say anymore. He pulls her closer to his chest, catching the top of her head under the crook of his chin and locking her there against him. 

“Don’t worry, this isn’t me proposing—just…just dreaming.” He lets the last word hang there, and Lily watches the image of them in their house with their happy life become clouded and technicolor. A fantasy. 

Suddenly, the thought of losing it terrifies her. 

“A good dream—a nice dream.,” She doesn’t know who she is assuring more, herself or him. “Something I want too.”

She feels his body heat rise, hands finding the end strands of her hair and curling his fingers through them. 

“Yeah?” His hope, like most other aspects of him, is contagious.

“Don’t get too excited Potter—there’s a lot that can happ—“

“Shh, Evans,” he says, grabbing her face, hands shaking with unparalleled joy. In his eyes the dream still lingers and she doesn’t want to ever look away.

“Let me kiss you—our dream can wait, but let me kiss you now.” 

[ffcrazy15]

"Just Write For Yourself"

I think the thing that gets to me the most about the whole "just write for yourself!" response to writers complaining the lack of engagement in fanfic, is that it makes me realize that there's a fundamental misunderstanding between writers and readers of how much work writing fic is.

Like, there are 2-3 scenes in any given oneshot or chapter that I want to write. I usually write those first. They'll take me a couple of, very enjoyable, hours at most.

And then I have to go back and write the whole rest of the fic. Which is work. And it's usually not immediately enjoyable.

For example, one of my best fics on AO3 is a Star Trek fanfic called Rascal'ed. This was one of the fics that was easiest for me to write, one of the ones that just possesses you until it's done. It took me less than five days to create.

And I still had to go back in and fill in blank spots and cut bad prose and revise the dialogue.

If you want to see what a difficult fic to write looks like, like my fic Leap of Faith, here's what I do for my stories that I actually plan out:

And that's just the planning. I still have to write the damn thing. And there are things in the above layout—which is just for Chapter 1, mind—that got changed between this and the final published version of the chapter. You can see that the title of the story itself was changed at some point.

So when people say, "write for yourself, not for engagement!" What I personally hear is: "I as a reader do not understand how much work writers put into getting a story into a publishable form, and I also do not realize how easy it would be for them to write the couple of scenes they enjoyed writing and then to let it sit forever in their drafts."

(Of these eight fics—averaging more than 20 pages each—only two of them ever made it to AO3. The rest remain unfinished and unpublished.)

And for the record: I, personally, have wonderful readers. Kind, attentive readers who leave me comments engaging with the work. And it's because of them that I continue to publish stories! Like, I don't want to sound like sour grapes here, because I know that I get way more comments than many great writers out there.

But I've seen, across the board, writers trying to express that they are just not getting the engagement that they desire and expect for the work they put in, and people responding with "you shouldn't expect engagement; just write for yourself."

And the thing is, I know they're not trying to be rude. I know that! Of course they don't know how hard we work, who would have ever told them? We can't blame them for not knowing what they've never been told. Which is why I just felt the need to get out here and say:

Writing fics takes a lot of work. A lot of work. Hours upon hours of unpaid labor. Any fic that you see on AO3 or Fanfiction.net or Wattpad, is not something someone wrote solely for themselves. They could have just daydreamed about it, or written a couple of scenes and then left it unfinished. But they chose to put in the hard work it took to finish it. Because they wanted other people to read and engage with it.

Please engage with it.

Because if all fic writers ever hear is "you should just write for yourself"—we might start believing it.

[fixyourwritinghabits]

Any tips for picking back up in the middle of a revision without having to start over? I wrote a book in 2019 and started a major revision in 2021. I printed the book and tore it apart with notes and switching timeline events/chapters around. Now I look at all the notes that are good advice and I would like to apply this progress to the story, but it's so overwhelming and jumbled up 😵‍💫

I've also recently picked up a back-burnered project I've been dreading, only to realize the notes I wrote solved 99% of the problems I had. The only thing holding me back was me, and it sounds like you're in the same boat.

Draft A New Outline - Having a way to track what changes you need to make is helpful, like using an Excel sheet (I know, but it does work) or color-coding changes. This will help so much, especially if you need to track big changes.

Go Through and Highlight What You Like - You may have to throw out whole chapters, but there's reasons you don't want to. Note what you really like - a turn of phrase, a character moment - and see if you can fit it in elsewhere. Always keep that cut folder or document to dig through later.

Set Micro Goals (And Keep Them!) - It's easier to dive into a new draft than to revise an old one. Chunk your goals in easy to accomplish ways. Instead of tackling a whole chapter a day, tackle a scene or a page. Instead of revising 800 words a day, narrow it down to 500 or 300. I make a big chart with my revision goals on it, and you're damn right I slap a cute Daiso sticker next to each goal accomplished. It really helps.

Work Backwards, Revise Forwards - If you have an all new ending with bigger and better stakes, figuring out how to get your plot there may require stepping back, chapter by chapter, to see what subplots you should add or scenes that need to be moved around.

However - and this is just what works for me - working toward a revised draft means starting the rewriting/revising process from Chapter One. That way I don't accidentally cover the same ground twice, and catch when I need to start a subplot sooner or rework descriptions I've used more than once.

Move Past The First 50 Pages - Don't get stuck at the beginning! It's so tempting to revise the first act to perfection, but you might need two or three more drafts to get to the real end of your story, and that might mean tossing all that hard work out. Keep going, and if you find yourself getting caught into fixing Chapter 3 when you're not sure Chapter 30 works, make a note and move on. Finishing your second draft is just as important as finishing your first.

Good luck and keep going!

[alovelywaytospendanevening]

Lit Hub: The Question of Homoeroticism in Whitman’s Poetry

Walt Whitman’s best poems demonstrate an almost unimaginable prescience; he and Dickinson, among 19th-century American poets, possess a nearly chilling self-consciousness, an acute self-analysis. Edward Carpenter, the British anarchist, writer, and champion of the Arts and Crafts movement whose life and romance were the model for E. M. Forster’s novel Maurice, wrote this elegant description of a visit with Whitman in 1877; the emphases are Carpenter’s own: “If I had thought before (and I do not know that I had) that Whitman was eccentric, unbalanced, violent, my first interview certainly produced quite a contrary effect. No one could be more considerate, I may almost say courteous; no one could have more simplicity of manner and freedom from egotistic wrigglings; and I never met any one who gave me more the impression of knowing what he was doing more than he did.” That there were words for homosexual behavior in Whitman’s day there can be no doubt. Social structures for enabling same-sex congress seem to have been a feature of life in the modern city at least since the later 18th century, when the “Molly houses” in London offered a zone of permission for transvestism. Herman Melville, in Redburn, carefully evokes the nattily dressed fellows who hang out in front of a downtown restaurant where opera singers perform; he means us to understand what these stylish outfits convey. Historian and theorist Luc Sante describes a 19th-century pamphlet that takes as its project the publication of the locations of various quite particular spots of diverse sexual practice in New York City—so that those informed of, say, the address of a bordello featuring willing boys can take special care to avoid this hazard. Trenchant evidence comes from Rufus Griswold’s review of the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass: “We have found it impossible to convey any, even the most faint idea of style and contents, and of our disgust and detestation of them, without employing language that cannot be pleasing to ears polite; but it does seem that someone should, under circumstances like these, undertake a most disagreeable, yet stern duty. The records of crime show that many monsters have gone on in impunity, because the exposure of their vileness was attended with too great indelicacy. Peccatum illud horrible, inter Christianos non nominandum.” Which is all a way of saying that Whitman inscribes his sexuality on the frontier of modernity; he is writing into being—particularly in the “Calamus” poems of 1860, with their frank male-to-male loving, their assumption of equality on the part of the lovers—a new situation. He does not know how to proceed—he has no path —but he does it anyway. My guess is that he couldn’t have written “Calamus,” or the boldly homoerotic portions of the 1855 Leaves, even ten years later, as the advent of psychology increasingly led to a public perception of the normative, and imagery of the sacred family becomes the object of Victorian romance. As a category of identity—sodomite, invert, debauchee, pervert, Uranian—begins to emerge, so the poems with their claims of a loving, healthy, freely embraced same-sex desire become unwriteable, paradoxically, just as new language of homosexual identity begins to appear. Unwriteable, and, it would seem from Whitman’s later remarks, and some of his revisions, barely defensible. Carpenter and his readers were reaching for signposts of a gay identity when such a thing barely existed, but Whitman is ultimately a queer poet in the deepest sense of the word: he destabilizes, he unsettles, he removes the doors from their jambs. There is an uncanniness in “Song of Myself” and the other great poems of the 1850s that, for all his vaunted certainty, Whitman wishes to underscore. Again and again, he points us toward what, it seems, must remain folded in the buds beneath speech, since it cannot be brought to the surface. (Full article)

[nerdygaymormon]

I talked with my mother in law about disagreeing with the august policy and she kept faily neutral and said God made that policy and His children make the choice to stray from Him. While i believe the policy was inspired i dont believe it came from His mouth. I don't understand how transitioning is straying, it feels like a morally neutral act. How can God ask someone to sacrifice their emotional and mental well being to keep their good standing with Him? It feels backwards and manipulative if I'm being honest. Obedience is good but not if it comes at the cost of being miserable. I'm angry at the church as an institution and I believe it's failing it's queer and trans siblings. I suppose I do disagree with God.

You ask some really good questions. I want to add a few more for you to consider.

Are scriptures the "word of God" and does God actually speak these things to a human who hears it and writes it down precisely as God said it, or are these human interpretations of what they believe is God's will?

Is this policy leading people to be more loving and to do good to their neighbor?

Why would God make people gay or trans and then forbid them from being gay or trans?

The Book of Mormon teaches we're meant to have joy in life, then why does the LDS Church have policies to deny joy to queer people? Why are they singled out to be miserable for God?

If gender affirming care for trans people is "straying" from God, why is gender affirming care for cis people not? The medical procedures that trans people use were all originally developed for cis people. People get breast augmentations, hysterectomies, nose jobs, tummy tucks, face lifts, pec implants, lip filler, bbl's, hormone injections, puberty blockers, growth hormones, and on and on.

At the last General Conference, Elder Oaks put forth a unique idea about temporary and permanent commandments. I think it's his way of getting around the idea that church leaders in the past were wrong, but it brings up interesting questions, if this is temporary then am I required to obey even if I don't agree? If this is temporary, will I be punished in heaven after it is no longer in effect?

We're taught in Matthew 7 that “a good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit.” If a policy is bringing forth bad results for a whole group of people, is it a 'good' policy?

Is it a coincidence that this step backwards with the August policy seems related to the bathroom bills and other anti-trans legislation that's recently been passed? If this is actually God's will then how come we didn't know it in 2020 when the last big revision to church policies regarding trans people was implemented?

What if a trans person feels they are inspired to pursue transitioning, should the church be punishing them for following where God is guiding them?

Does this policy sound like it's from a loving God?

That’s enough questions. I want to end with 3 points.

The August policy is just that, a policy, not a commandment or revelation or scripture. Policies are temporary and can be changed. A great example is the 2015 policy of exclusion regarding gay people, which was reversed less than 5 years later in 2019. How much better if it the 2015 policy had never been introduced and all that hurt had been avoided.

You're not disagreeing with God, you're disagreeing with whomever wrote and approved the latest policies.

People have a conscience, what the church calls the light of Christ, which influences people for good. If things being said by a church leader bother your conscience, pay attention to that.

[sepublic]

The Collector’s story is so sad to me because they really do try!!! They are putting in the effort to be better!!! They defy the other collectors’ policy of imprisonment and genocide, for the sake of the Titans! They go along with Philip’s plans, giving him the draining spell and a bunch of other magic! And they listen to King’s Owl House rules, they’re gradually adjusting their behavior according to his advice, respecting his boundaries, even letting him get away with Eda and Lilith!

He’s learning. He really is doing all he can to improve, he’s listening. But the Collector isn’t doing it fast enough, they haven’t figured it out quickly; So it feels like for the adults and everyone else around them, they don’t want to put in the effort to teach and rehabilitate this kid. That’s too long and arduous, it’s much easier to stick him in a prison and hide it, or even kill the kid.

The Collector invests so much good-faith effort into changing for people, but those around him? They don’t want to reciprocate the same effort to understand him in return, that’s how it feels. They demand so much but give nothing back, use the Collector. And would rather take the easy route of punishing the kid to make him shut up for their convenience, instead of really working to talk with him at his level, and explain how to get better. There’s this silent, genuine, hurt and confused question echoing from the Collector; “What did I do wrong?”

It really does feel like one big metaphor for neurodivergent kids, and children in general, who are seen as misbehaving troublemakers. And rather than taking the time to understand their perspectives, and communicate to them about the problem, adults would rather just hit them until they’re quiet.

Because it’s easier, more convenient that way, like sweeping dust under the rug. Even if it just makes this kid who IS willing to improve feel neglected, unappreciated; Allows their problems to fester untouched and unseen, until it boils over and explodes later in life. And suddenly adults are all shocked because He was such a quiet, obedient kid, who could’ve seen this coming?!

The Collector feels like the collective wrath of so many kids who were treated like inconveniences to deal with, rather than growing children who needed help and guidance. And boy is the Collector messy about it, because they’re tired of playing by other people’s rules and trying to appeal to them with good behavior, in exchange for compassion, because that clearly hasn’t worked out and never will.

They are every child who has asked Why about a rule, and instead of being treated like a person with an honest need to know, was just told Because I said so. They want to get it, but people just prefer them being blindly subservient; People don’t care what the Collector thinks, so why should he feel the same for their judgment? The kid is panicked when he insists King focus on the revision he made to the storybook, the lesson he learned, but he’s still being put away for what others wrote.

“You can trust me” is something Philip and King have both told them, and maybe that parallels how adults insist children follow their seemingly arbitrary rules even without knowing why, because “It’s the rules” and authority dictates all. So after struggling under that command, of course the Collector is eager to be the one wielding it this time, with his rules...

The rules of a game. The rules of behavior. Both are laws dictated for people to follow, with someone often deciding and being able to change them as they see fit, especially with childrens’ playground games. Life is a big game and the Collector wants to play his own, after all this time following others’ rules; His people’s, the Titans’, Philip’s, and finally King’s.

There’s a lot to be said about how we expected the Collector to have been someone who didn’t play by any rules, did whatever he pleased. But it might just be the opposite, the kid has never had true freedom, always subject and listening to what someone else tells them, because they’re in charge or it’s the moral thing to do. They’ve been imprisoned their whole life, literally even, and now their desire for agency has burst free.

The Collector wasn’t the god of chaos we thought they were, but now they will be and we’ve seen why; It’s not because there weren’t any rules for them, it’s because there were too many, and the more you tighten your grip, the more something slips free. Too much authority, too little, the kid needs a proper balance of contradictory lessons, like so many in this show...

[wayfayrr]

Hello!

Its about self aware au link i want to ask,,

What do you think about how link reacts when i play two games at the same time?

Like for example, recently ive been re playing totk and try to do all the side quests and grinding like dragon farming(waiting time so long) and to distract myself while im waiting for it to recharge, im playing OoT in my 3DS(and maybe even saying to the tv "look linkyyyy its yours distant grandpa") 😭

How will the two links react to it? Will they be upset? Confused? Making some weird plot? I do wonder😭😭😭

I need two games at the time to maximize busyness

I hope the ask wasnt too long! I hope you have a good day!💕

Me when I pause anything to play colourful stage on my phone 💀 Zelda is good but nothing can break the hold Miku has on me, and you gotta do those daily challenge missions right? I did one while answering this and was ONE note off of a full combo I almost cried

I think he'd be less bothered by the fact that you didn't completely turn off his game to play another yk? it'd be one thing if you were going between totk and a Mario game - or god forbid totk to sksw or botw

you're still somewhat focused on the link who's on the main screen, he's just taking a backseat as you wait for the dragons to recover. It's fine, he's fine, not jealous one little bit. Not even as you pull out your ds and... You're playing with another link? Sure he's still there, standing around, waiting, with his strings cut. Standing still, maybe facing the screen if he was lucky with how you left him - could he dare move himself to face you if he wasn't already. No he couldn't you'd notice something was off with him wouldn't you? Yeah you're still focused enough that that could cause issues. Until the dragon starts glowing again. And you're still focused on that other guy.

Meanwhile little time (that's something intresting too, should it be proper lu time back in a child's body or would he be someone different again. Maybe for different playthroughs... also the angst of baby time getting out and seeing what should have been his fate with the hero's shade??? sobbing) is relishing that you see him as being worthy of more attention. Well until it hits him that he's only a placeholder for you to wait out a ten minute timer (yeah I've done the dragon wait a bunch - my go too was writing or revising during it sdgsfdgvs)

in other words I think they could both be bitter at each other and if it wasn't for the fact that they're older and (possibly) more mature, I think it would be a very very similar situation to what menace wrote out here Heck if we're going with a younger time I could see him getting into trouble to draw your attention back onto him with tears maybe even retaliating if it carries on long enough. But the only reason there's an issue is because it's explicitly another zelda game. if it was a different one or another genre entirely then it wouldn't be any issue whatsoever <3

anyone who thought to check this out gets to know that toya aoyagi is my voice claim for tears :) I love him and his voice is just *chef's kiss* I also got his birthday card in 30 pulls :3