#there's a difference between someone harming you and someone just not understanding what you meant

[highraccoon]

it's always so funny when someone "acknowledges" your disabilities but when those disabilities actually, you know, disable/impact parts of your life then they act as if the disability couldn't POSSIBLY be the problem and you're just bringing it up as an excuse

and by funny i mean it makes me want to powerdrill my own teeth

[genderkoolaid]

yeah, but you do mean 'loveless' like 'romanceless' right? Just cause you're not interested in a romantic partnership, and you're never attracted to anyone romantically, that doesn't mean you can't love your family and your friends. Am I understanding wrong? I feel like it's a widely accepted concept that 'love' isn't just romantic, it's about caring about someone, no matter if they're your family or platonic friend or your pet.

No, "loveless" means love-less. Another anon also asked me to explain as well so:

"Lovelessness" in the aro context comes from the essay I Am Not Voldemort by K.A Cook. The essay confronts normative ideas on love, its inherent positivity and what it means to not love. From the introduction, which brings up the question of non-romantic love:

This June, I saw an increasing number of positivity and support posts for the aromantic and a-spec communities discussing the amatonormativity of “everyone falls in love”. I agree: the idea that romantic love is something everyone experiences, and is therefore a marker of human worth, needs deconstruction. Unfortunately, a majority of these posts are replacing the shackles of amatonormativity with restrictive lines like “everyone loves, just not always romantically”, referencing the importance of loving friends, QPPs, family members and pets. Sometimes it moves away from people to encompass love for hobbies, experiences, occupations and ourselves. The what and how tends to vary from post to post, but the idea that we do and must love someone or something, and this love redeems us as human and renders us undeserving of hatred, is being pushed to the point where I don’t feel safe or welcome in my own aromantic community. Even in the posts meant to be challenging the more obvious amatonormativity, it is presumed that aros must, in some way, love. I’ve spent weeks watching my a-spec and aro communities throw neurodiverse and survivor aros under the bus in order to do what the aromantic community oft accuses alloromantic aces of doing: using their ability to love as a defence of their humanity. Because I love, they say, I also don’t deserve to be a target of hatred, aggression and abuse. But what if I don’t love? What if love itself has been the mechanism of the hatred and violence I have endured? Why am I, an aro, neurodiverse survivor of abuse and bullying, still acceptable collateral damage?

The author criticizes the idea of "true love" that is incapable of harm. Ze questions why we construct love in that way, and how it ignores and simplifies the experiences of victims of abuse ("It’s comforting to think that a love that wounds isn’t real love, but it denies the complexity of experience and feeling had by survivors. It denies the complexity of experience and feeling that makes it harder for us to identify abuse and escape its claws. It denies the validity of survivors who look at love and feel an honest doubt about its worth, as a word or a concept, in our own interactions and experiences.") Ze talks about being forced to say "I love you" to transphobic, abusive parents whose feelings of love was the justification for their abuse.

The core of what "loveless" as an concept is about is summed up in this quote:

There is no substantial difference between saying “I’m human because I fall in love”, “I’m human because I love my friends” and “I’m human because I love calligraphy”. All three statements make human worth contingent on certain behaviours, feelings and experiences. Expanding the definition of what kinds of love make us human does nothing but save some aros from abuse and antagonism … while telling survivor and neurodiverse aros, who are more likely to have complex relationships to love as a concept or are unable to perform it in ways recognised by others, that we’re still not worthy.

Lovelessness is against any kind of statement which quantifies humanity (and implicitly, human worth) in the ability to feel or act or experience certain things. Humans are human by virtue of being human, and nothing else. And, it is socially constructed! "Love" has no natural definition! Some people are not comfortable using "love" to describe positive feelings and relationships, and some people do not feel those positive feelings in general. And those people deserve the right to define their own experiences and their own relationship to the social construct of love.

In essence, lovelessness is both a personal as well as (in my opinion) a political identity, born from aro and mad experiences that challenges not just amatonormativity but all ideas that associate personhood and worth with the ability to feel certain things.

& as a note, there is also the term "lovequeer" which describes using the term "love" in ways which contradict mainstream understandings of what it means to love, and which kinds of love are considered worthwhile.

[magicalbats]

Kinktober 2024 Day 14: Kinich x Reader

Rating: R-18+

Word Count: 7622

Warnings: Afab!reader, brat taming, hair pulling, bdsm elements, blowjob, piv, creampie, mentioned choking

A/N: I like Kinich a lot, actually. That's it. Send tweet.

⭐

Kinich had always thought you a rather strange one, but the full extent of your oddity is something he discovers quite by accident. 

You’re talking to someone whose name he does not know and doesn’t care to learn when he walks into the outpost. He was only there to pick up a few supplies, a simple errand that should have seen him in and out, but instead he finds himself dully watching the back and forth exchange with a mild pang of interest. 

Quickly enough he ascertains that you seem to be upset about something. 

Shortly thereafter he manages to piece together the situation enough to understand what’s going on. You were angry because the person in question — a gruff looking man from the People of the Springs, given his attire — had tried to swindle you out of your rightly deserved mora. As far as he could tell it sounded like you’d already given him the goods he’d wanted but he was now refusing to pay the full amount you were asking for. 

It wasn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence when Natlan was such an expansive nation and the various tribes largely operated independently of one another, a simple fact that sometimes resulted in tension forming between the different factions. There were those few among them who didn’t think their neighboring peoples deserved top mora for their services just because they didn’t come from the same background. Even Kinich had run into this situation a few times before, but he always walked away instead of entertaining it. 

You don’t have that same luxury when your livelihood depended on trading goods for money though. There wasn’t going to be someone else who was willing to pay extra for a bag of flour to make up for the loss of income this man was responsible for, which meant you’d have no choice but to eat it in the long run. 

And that was all the information Kinich needed to know. 

Not stopping long enough to give it any further thought, he steps forward just as you really start to lay into the guy, aggressively jabbing your finger at his broad barrel chest where you’ve got him partially backed up into the corner. A’jaw belligerently questions what he’s doing but Kinich just ignores him as he usually does. He was much more focused on you and the fact you looked like you were moments away from having a full on conniption. 

“And another thing, you big dummy! You come in here demanding to buy up almost all of my stock of — eek!” 

Outright jolting when Kinich suddenly appears next to you, you snap your head around to look over at him. 

“Wh - oh, it’s just you. Don’t sneak up on me like that! Can’t you see I’m a little busy right now?” 

“I can. Let me take care of it.” 

You do a quick double take. “Huh? What are you even talking about? This has nothing to do with you!” 

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll handle it from here.” 

The unknown man awkwardly shifts his weight from one foot to the other, glancing between the two of you as if he isn’t quite sure which person to focus on anymore. “Uh …” 

“Dammit, Kinich.” Hissing a dangerous sound, you turn on the saurian hunter with a vengeance to snap at him now. “I don’t need your help with this — this shady, two-bit con man. I’ve got it under control!” 

“Well, I think that might be a little unfair - -“ 

“Shut up!” 

Practically spitting like an incensed, angry cat, you jerk back around to look up at the swindler again. It’s not lost on Kinich that he’s quite a bit bigger than both of you and he could have easily caused you physical harm if he’d so wanted. Whether because he simply wouldn’t or because he couldn’t when there was a witness present, it seemed that luck was on your side today regardless. 

You’re halfway through the motion of lifting your hand as if to snatch at the front of his shirt when Kinich abruptly reaches over to grab under your chin. A startled squawk of surprise bursts out of you as he firmly yanks your face back around to look at him, leaving your fingers to harmlessly arc through the air at the distraction. 

Wide eyed and trembling with impotent rage, you flash your teeth at him in warning. “Kinich - -“

“I said I will handle it for you. Do not argue with me again.” 

The following few seconds see a truly unexpected change in your demeanor. At first you look genuinely shocked at not only what he was saying but the way he was saying it as well. He’d never had any reason to drop his voice to that strict tone of command with you before so this particular reaction was at least somewhat understandable. But then a strange gleam comes into your eyes and your expression abruptly relaxes to almost pouty resignation, and he feels something within him subtly shift. 

But by far the most surprising part of it is the way you docilly drop your gaze as if you couldn’t quite look him in the face anymore, which was so unlike you that it almost makes him wonder if he’s done something wrong. 

It’s also at complete and total odds with the unrestrained anger you’d shown only a moment ago, and the difference is so stark in fact that the man standing before you two starts to fidget. 

“Ah, maybe I should just go - -“

“Yes. Let’s step outside for a moment.” Kinich says, forcing himself to snap out of the curious trance he’d fallen into staring at you. Removing his hand from your chin, he glances up at the taller individual to find that he looked uncomfortable enough to comply with just about anything if it meant he could escape from this strange atmosphere that’s fallen over the outpost. Good. At least he wouldn’t have to resort to physically dragging him out. 

“Hehee, you’re in for it now!” A’jaw snickers, floating up to tauntingly wag his butt in the man’s face. “I hope you’re ready to get your teeth knocked in, because that’s exactly what’s about to happen if Kinich is willing to step in free of charge! Trust me, you won’t like him when he’s angry!” 

That outcome does not come to fruition. 

Kinich merely talks to the guy outside of the storefront and luckily he doesn’t need to resort to violence to get you the mora you were owed. If anything he seems eager enough to hightail it out of there that he probably would have paid double the asking price if necessary but Kinich only takes what was needed to cover the man’s bill. The tiny dragon lord is very disappointed by this peaceful end to the confrontation once everything is said and done. 

Stepping back into the store, he finds you still standing next to the counter with your attention fixed on a seemingly random spot on the ground. It looks like you’re lost deep in thought over something so he doesn’t say a word about what just happened as he walks across the creaking floorboards to place the handful of mora down in a neutral spot where you could retrieve it whenever you were ready. 

And he almost turns to walk right back out but thinks better of it at the last moment, pausing a few feet away to peer over at you. 

“I’m sorry if I hurt you.” 

“You didn’t hurt me.” 

Oh. 

He turns that over for a moment, trying to pinpoint the source of your unusual behavior. “I’m sorry if I scared you.” 

“You didn’t scare me.” 

Oh. 

Now he was really lost. 

But before he can parse it any further than that, you reach out to pick up half of the gold coins sitting on top of the counter before turning away completely. “Take the rest. Consider it payment for helping me out. Thank you, Kinich.” 

Silently, he watches you shuffle into the back of the store, disappearing through the doorway to leave him standing alone in the front with only a grumbling A’jaw for company. You were definitely acting strange, he quickly decides. He’d never seen you so subdued and passive, as if something he’d said or done had flipped a switch in you. Usually you were what most would call a spitfire but this was the exact opposite of that. Like you were more inclined towards servility than you let on, at least when someone used the right tone of voice with you. 

Kinich takes the payment you’d left for him and leaves, and he spends a very long time pondering over this conundrum. 

He spends so long thinking about it, in fact, that it’s not until a few days later that he realizes he’d forgotten to get the supplies he’d needed. 

It almost comes as a shock that he would allow himself to get that distracted by the confounding situation and your equally confounding behavior, but there was no denying a certain interest simmering in the back of his mind now. Something told him you’d liked that little exchange with him even for as brief as it had been, and he was feeling just compelled enough to test it out some more. 

So he returns to the outpost late one evening, shortly before you usually closed up shop, and your glowering attention immediately snaps up at his entrance. 

“You’ve got fifteen minutes to — oh. It’s you again.” 

“I forgot to buy what I came for the other day.” He says simply, giving a vague gesture at the store at large. “Do you mind if I grab a few things real quick?”

“Help yourself.” You quickly respond, a little too quickly if he’s being honest. 

But Kinich pretends not to notice it for the time being as he walks around to gather up the short list of items he needed. A new coil of rope, a whetstone for his blade, a jar of candied yams, as a treat. 

Meanwhile, left to his own devices, A’jaw floats away from him to hover in your general direction. 

“Do you know in whose presence you’re standing, little human wretch?” 

“Well, I’m sitting down, for starters.” You snip back at the small dragon. Evenly matched tempers right there. “And we’ve been over this before. You’re the self proclaimed ‘Almighty Dragonlord’ or some such nonsense. I don’t need another introduction.” 

“Nonsense!” His tiny voice audibly rattles with untapped rage. “You dare to speak to me that way when I could all too easily flatten your puny human settlement to dust! Show me some respect before I make you!” 

“Hah! I’d like to see you try it, fish bait.” 

“Why you - -“ 

Kinich’s ears perk up at that exchange. So he wasn’t just imagining things then. Anytime someone tried to force you to do something you didn’t want to do your claws would come out full force and you were clearly far more inclined to challenge them than roll over in defeat. That still didn’t explain why you’d reacted the way you did when it had been him issuing the command but at least he was starting to get a better understanding of the situation. 

Obviously you weren’t scared of A’jaw, not that he could really fault you for that, and you’d said you weren’t scared of him either … 

Decisively turning on his heel, Kinich walks over to where you’re sitting behind the front counter so he can put his things down for you to tally up. You huff a final sound of annoyance at the so-called dragon lord before reaching over to grab the jar of yams, plainly eager to get both of them out of your store. 

“I could make you do it.” He says so abruptly he almost manages to surprise himself and you suck in such a ragged breath it sounds like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water over your head. 

At the same time the jar slips right out of your hands to clatter loudly against the wooden countertop, nearly rolling straight off the edge of it but Kinich is quick. His hand snaps out to catch it in the palm of his glove before it can fall to the floor and he reaches over to carefully set it in front of you once again. Unfortunately you’re too busy glaring at him to notice or thank him for the save. 

“Make me do what, exactly?” You hiss up at him, eyes narrowed to such dangerous slits he idly wonders if he’s miscalculated something along the way. 

“Show respect. Not to A’jaw, since he doesn’t really deserve it anyway. I mean me.” 

A series of flustered, incoherent sounds escape your mouth while you struggle to come up with a response to that before at last settling on, “Have you lost your mind?” 

“Oooh, and what’s this I smell?” A’jaw croons, nudging his way into the space between the two of you. “Could it really be that my sweet little Kinich has finally gotten to that age? Do you like her? Heehe — hey!” 

Snatching the dragon out of the air, he carelessly tosses him over his shoulder so he can look at you unimpeded. In all honesty he’s not entirely sure what it is that’s making him approach you like this but the deeply flustered look on your face seems to be reason enough for him to continue. He’d enjoyed seeing that softened expression when you’d relented to him a little too much not to. 

That’s not how you’re looking at him right now, of course, but he’s sure he can change that if given half a chance. 

Instead you seem to be rather conflicted about what’s happening, equally torn between being angry at him (something else he couldn’t really fault you for) or giving in to the temptation he presented. That at least he could see clearly in the way you hesitantly regard him as if you were weighing your options. He’s admittedly a bit relieved that he hadn’t misjudged that particular angle of this situation. 

And at last you heave a mildly bothered sigh through your nose. “Fine. I’m game. Show me what you’ve got.” 

He slowly blinks. “Right here?” 

“No, not here! Someone could still come in. There’s —“ A quick glance at the ticking clock on the counter. “Five minutes left until the doors get locked. Can you watch the shop for me, A’jaw?” 

“What? Do you think I’m some sort of measly peon for you to - -“ 

Following Kinich’s lead, you completely ignore the ranting dragon in favor of standing up so you can come around the counter and grab his hand. He’s a tad surprised at your forwardness as he shuffles after you into the back of the shop but at the same time he knows he probably shouldn’t be. You were fierce for your size and pretty looks, so it made a certain amount of sense that a casual encounter such as this wouldn’t have you wilting like a wallflower. 

Apparently that kind of behavior was reserved for a specific tone of voice only. 

And you waste no time plastering yourself to him as soon as you’ve got Kinich in the small attachment to the store where you lived, fully stepping into him as your hands come up to thread into his hair. 

Tugging his face down, you’re suddenly kissing him with an unrestrained hunger that almost manages to catch him off guard. He hadn’t exactly expected this but you were just headstrong enough for him not to be truly surprised by it, and his stomach tightens with the sharp surge of arousal he feels at having you pressed against him so tight. But rather than matching your enthusiasm tit for tat, he takes your face in his palms to make you slow down. 

Groaning a frustrated sound when he eventually pulls back to look at you, your eyes flutter open to pin him with a questioning look. “What? Isn’t this what you wanted?” 

“Relax. I’m not going anywhere.” He tells you in a steady voice that seems to make you more confused than it puts you at ease. 

Carefully dipping his face close again, Kinich watches you rattle an huffy breath and eagerly lean forward as if to meet him halfway but he uses his hands on your cheeks to just keep you held out of reach. It’s clear you wanted to crash your mouth into his and likely take control to set the demanding pace you wanted, and he wasn’t going to allow that. 

“So impatient. Do I have to make you take your time as well?” 

You suck in a slow breath at that, fidgeting against him now as if your anticipatory excitement had just ratcheted up another notch. Batting your eyelashes at him rather sweetly, you rove your gaze up to look into his eyes with a decidedly needy look. 

“Are you going to hurt me, Kinich?” 

He stiffens slightly at that. “What? No, of course not.”

“It’s okay if you want to.” You tell him rather dreamily, swaying slightly in his hold. “I like it rough so I wouldn’t mind. You could just choke me a little bit if you want me to behave.” 

Kinich can’t help the frown that tugs at his mouth. “I don’t need to put my hands on you to make you obey. You’re going to listen to me because you want to.”

“Oh?” Giggling a delighted little sound now, you rock back to really look at him, the glint of challenge in your eyes shining clear as day. “And why would I do that? It’s a lot more fun being bad, you know.” 

“Do you really believe that?” 

You start to open your mouth to respond but hesitate at the unfaltering way he looks at you, brilliant green and serpent yellow starbursts boring straight through your exterior defenses. He isn’t sure what, exactly, passes through your mind in that moment but whatever it is, it makes you nudge your chin up in defiance. 

“And what do I get for being good?” 

“I can show you?” 

At your stilted nod, Kinich sighs carefully through his nose as he drags one of his hands further up to tangle in your hair. Once he reaches the back of your skull he closes his fingers around the root and experimentally tugs to test your reaction. Just as he’d expected, you hum a pleased little sound and tip back into the gesture, small smile curling across your lips now. 

It immediately vanishes however, morphing into an open mouthed gasp when he gives it a harder pull to yank your head back at a vulnerable angle. He keeps the tension in his arm steady and controlled to apply just enough pressure that leaves your neck bent in a submissive pose, mindful not to overdo it and hurt you. Only then does he lean in and close the distance to fit his mouth over yours, claiming your lips with the steady yet demanding push and pull of his. And you react beautifully, shuddering faintly against him as you start to kiss him back. Slow at first, just like he’d wanted, but you quickly become too excited to wait any longer. 

As soon as you start to get too pushy and demanding, he pulls back to leave you whining softly into the air again. If he’d been a lesser man, someone who was far more easily ruled by his emotions, he all too quickly would have given in to the desperate way you proceed to groan his name at him. 

“Kinich!” Like an oath and a curse all wrapped into one. 

He doesn’t care about that though. Not when he now had a point to prove, and he wanted to see you looking so soft and tame for him again. 

“Don’t rush it, little mačka. You’ll take what I give you when I give it to you, okay? I don’t plan to leave you wanting but you need to show some patience.” 

Whimpering quietly, you stiffly bob your head in a brief nod. The motion tugs on your hair, as well as his hand where it’s still gripping onto it, and he uses that leverage to smoothly pull you in again on a controlled trajectory. You bounce slightly on your toes to indicate your excitement but otherwise let him take the lead and guide you into it. 

But he pauses when his lips are only a hair’s breadth from yours, letting the moment hang for a drawn out beat to test your ability to listen. He’s quite pleased, almost strangely so, when you simply hover there against him, clearly wanting Kinich to hurry up and kiss you, yet you don’t try to take it by force or make him do it. You merely wait, somewhat roughly breathing in the same air you and him swap between each other before he finally deigns to speak. 

“Be patient.” He tells you one last time, reminding you again before he closes the distance to press his mouth firmly into your trembling lips. 

Groaning a low sound, you carefully kiss him back with a noted effort to match his pace instead of barreling in full force. He can tell by the tension running through your body that it’s a difficult thing for you to do, settling into this sedate rhythm rather than demanding he give it to you hard and fast, but you do an excellent job of keeping yourself in check this time. 

Such a good job in fact that he soon rewards you by deepening the exchange, using his hold on your hair to tip your neck a little further to one side. His tongue comes up to brush over your lips with a coaxing swipe and you obediently part them for him, allowing Kinich to slip inside and truly taste you. 

Clearly you weren’t used to submission without a certain amount of force being involved and that worries him slightly. Just what kind of relationships were you accustomed to? He didn’t like the thought of anyone choking you to bring you to heel, least of all himself, but you seemed to be responding well enough to his gentle yet firm guidance that he didn’t think it was an entirely lost cause. He just needed to show you that being good netted even better results for you than the reverse. 

Finally pulling on your hair to walk you back a step, Kinich at last disengages from your mouth to leave you breathlessly gasping in the aftermath. 

“Where is your bed?” He murmurs, bringing his other hand down to brace along your waist and steady you. 

“Over there.” Your voice sounds thick and almost intoxicated as you vaguely nod to the right. 

He could see that the two of you were standing in a small sitting room that connected directly to an equally small kitchen but there wasn’t a whole lot in the way of available surfaces for him to set you on in here. Nothing that looked particularly appealing to him in that moment anyway. So he makes careful work of guiding you towards the doorway on the right side of the room where you’d indicated, dropping his hand to loosely grip the back of your neck instead. 

Sure enough there’s a comfortable bed waiting inside which is where he steers you, indicating that he wanted you to sit. You do this without a fuss and he moves to situate himself between your knees while he works on pulling off both of his gloves before setting in to unfasten the belt that keeps his coveralls in place. 

Attentively watching him the whole time, you visibly hesitate until he moves to kick off his boots and you can’t quite seem to keep quiet any longer. “Should I undress too, or …?” 

The fact you’d even asked brings a small smile to his face. Obviously he was getting somewhere with this if you were seeking his approval first before acting on the impulse. 

Leaving his coveralls to loosely slouch around his narrow hips, he shuffles close to nudge your feet apart and settle against you like that. “I’ll take care of it. You’re more eager than I thought you’d be though. Have you given this much consideration before now?” 

“It’s not exactly that,” You murmur, head tipped back to look up at him where he’s standing over you. “But you said you could make me respect you and … make me be good. I wanted to see what you would do.” 

“And how’s that coming along so far?” 

Pulling a quick face at him, you let your mouth curl into a slow smile. “Better than expected. I’m not used to being such a passive participant though, or being handled so carefully for that matter.”

“Mm. Maybe that’s part of the problem then. If no one’s ever taken the time to show you a gentle hand I guess that explains why you act the way you do.” 

You prickle just ever so slightly. “Which is?” 

“Exactly that. You’re always ready to challenge someone and throw your weight around, like you’ve got something to prove. But I’m starting to suspect you actually want to be good, you just don’t know how yet.” Drawing a barely audible breath to ground himself, Kinich leans down to put his face in yours and look you right in the eye. “Well, I’ve got news for you. You’re not nearly as tough as you seem to think you are. I saw the way you reacted when I took that tone with you the other day. It’s one thing if you really do just enjoy a bit of choking and whatever else, but to assume that’s necessary to make you behave?” 

He gives his head a slow shake which you eagerly follow the motion of with your gaze, as if you were transfixed on him. 

“Like I said,” Kinich continues. “I don’t need to put my hands on you to make you listen. I’m not going to hurt you. Not today and not ever. I don’t need to. May I?” 

Blinking out of your trance, you glance down when he nudges his folded over belt at you. He can see uncertainty reflected in your expression for all of half a second, indicating that you weren’t quite sure what he was planning to do with it, but you still nod your head all the same. He’s not sure if it simply meant you trusted him at his word or if it was that troublesome self flagellating streak rearing its head again, but he makes a mental note to address it later after he’d made his point. 

Carefully reaching down, he takes both of your wrists and guides them back behind you. Stilling like that, Kinich gives you a brief moment to process what he wants to do, allowing you a chance to change your mind, but when you don’t protest he gets to work securing your arms in place. Leaning over you like that puts his face so close to yours the two of you are once again left swapping oxygen back and forth, and you issue a faintly dreamy sigh as you intently peer up at him the whole time. 

Pausing to test the give of his belt once it’s tied in place to ensure it was snug but not too tight, he sedately straightens up again. You’re left squirming in place, eagerly watching when he reaches for the front of his pants so he can nudge them down to pool at his ankles and leave him standing in only the second skin of his black top. 

His cock had started to flag in the interim between when he’d first stepped back here with you to making the move to your bedroom and then getting you situated, but it gives a weighty flex in the air now as he steps out of the coveralls to kick them away. You give your lips a salacious lick but he sees that look you give him, quickly reaching out to thread his fingers in your hair before you can swoop in and take him into your mouth.

“Remember what we talked about earlier?” He gently prods you, tipping your head back to make you look him in the face. “You’re going to be patient and take what I give you, aren’t you?” 

“Yes.” You whisper up at him, fidgeting slightly as if to grind your pussy on the bed but it’s clear the effort doesn’t do you any favors. Good. He intended to make you wait until he decided you’d earned it. 

Rumbling a low sound of anticipation, Kinich takes his other hand and curls it around the twitching width of his length to point it at you. At the same time he pushes on your head just enough to give you the go ahead and you slowly lean in to press your lips against the meaty tip of his foreskin. Noising a low hum at the taste of precum, you roll your eyes upward to look at him for further direction which pleases him a great deal more than he would have thought it would. He wasn’t usually the sort who was all that into power games but the way you peer at him from under the fall of your lashes … it’s enough to have him quickly filling out again. 

“Focus on the head for right now.” He murmurs, angling your neck just a pinch to the side, encouraging you to nuzzle your mouth up into it. 

At his command your lips gradually part and your tongue comes out to lightly lave over him with deliberate little kitten licks that make his cock subtly bounce. And you quickly have to straighten up, scooting to the very edge of the bed when it stiffens to stand straight into the air, turning rigid and hard the more you work your tongue over him. The expansion of his length naturally pulls the foreskin taut over the glans, giving you a chance to dip inside and taste the source of that salty discharge directly. 

Groaning a soft sound as you swirl your tongue around the sensitive tip, trying to nudge the foreskin back a little further, Kinich slowly lets up his loose grip on the shaft in favor of reaching down to idly massage over his balls. He’d make sure to have you show them some attention as well before this was over but he makes a concerted effort to take it as slow as possible. It was a good test for you, especially when he could tell you were struggling against the urge to take more of him into your mouth. 

It’s obvious you want to, from the way you softly moan around him to the not so subtle bob of your head to accompany the suction you apply, as if you thought you could tempt Kinich to action if you just sucked his cock well enough. It’s decidedly bratty behavior, he abruptly realizes as he watches you, and the fact you’d still think to test him even now seems a testament to just how stubborn you really are. But the fact you’re still going along with it and playing by his rules seems to him a good sign all the same. That meant he could work with you and probably even train that bad etiquette out of you, or at least put a leash on it. 

Issuing a rattling sound of pleasure at the thought, Kinich takes his hand off his ballsack and reaches up to palm the side of your head with it. Using the grip he’s got on your hair for leverage, he stiffly rocks his hips forward to slide deeper into your mouth. He only goes a third of the way though before pulling back to repeat the process, steadily fucking into the wet, warm space between your lips with halfhearted little jabs. The abrupt increase makes you noise a plaintive sound around him even for as slight as it is, and you make a vain attempt to push back on his hands. 

It’s no use though. His arms are like solid iron where they’re locked in place around your head, and you have no choice but to take it while he drags his cock over your tongue to further activate your salivary glands. His attack on you is twofold, because aside from reinforcing that you're at his mercy like this it also has the added bonus of making spit bubble out from between your lips to dribble down your chin. Even from his elevated position over you, he can see the glistening strings of spittle starting to run out of your mouth and he moans another shaky sound at the visual. 

“Gods, you look so perfect like this. And you’re being such a good girl too. How do you like having that cock in your mouth, huh?” 

A largely muffled sound tumbles out of you but he quickly smothers it the next time he shoves his stiff length over your tongue. Between that and all the spit forming in your mouth, you gag slightly and the resulting cough makes a fresh sheet of drool come rushing out of your lips. 

Deciding to be nice and give you a short reprieve, Kinich nudges back just enough to slip his cock free and leave you sucking in a haggard mouthful of air. As he tips your head back to make you peer up at him again, still struggling to catch your breath, he’s struck by the plain look of flushed submission that stares back at him. You were so soft and malleable for him in that moment that he almost doesn’t even believe it. Were you really the same spitfire he knew? 

“Kinich …” 

“What’s wrong, pretty girl? I thought you wanted me to be rough with you.” 

You give a breathless laugh at that, pinning him with a needy little pout. “That’s not what I’d call being rough. It’s just frustrating.” 

Just as he’d hoped it would be. “And why is that?” 

“You’re still being so gentle with me.” Whining softly, you rock slightly to the side but he’s quick to straighten you back up again, making you sit nicely on the side of the bed even when you try to slouch away. “Please, Kinich. I promise I can handle it.”

Watching you fitfully writhe in place, trying again to grind your pussy on the bed, he can tell that it’s not necessarily impatience he was seeing — or at least not the pushy kind you’d exhibited earlier. Now it’s just that you’re so excited by what’s happening and the way it makes you feel that you wanted more of him. All of him. Perhaps there was even some nervous anticipation at play too, when you had no feasible idea what he was ultimately going to do with you. 

The end result has you looking so sublime and wanton that he feels compelled to give in, to reward you for listening as well as you have. He knew it wasn’t easy for someone as temperamental and stubborn as you to do, and that it would take time spent working on this to see you truly give in to the subservient side of your personality. 

But he still has a point to drive home, so he gently tips your face upward to make you look at him again, even when your heavy eyelids droop with an inviting flutter. 

“I already told you I wasn’t going to hurt you, didn’t I?” 

“Mhmm.” Humming in agreement, you briefly nod your head for him. 

“Good girl. You certainly deserve a reward for being so nice for me, but I want you to complete the task I gave you first before that. Think you can do it?” 

Rousing slightly at his soft, coaxing tone, you nod again with a little more conviction this time. “Yes. I’ll do it.” 

He graces you with one of those small, exceedingly rare smiles before leaning down to kiss you. The taste of himself lingers heavy on your tongue, and he groans a faint sound into your lips at the salty bitterness. 

Kinich is quick to pull back though, and he readjusts his hold on your head and in your hair so he can wrangle you around how he wants. You breathe out a shuddering exhale as he gets you pulled back into place so he can shuffle tighter into the space against the side of the bed to press his cock along your mouth. Giving you a short moment to kiss and nuzzle at it, he then directs your face a little lower to press you into the dangling weight of his balls. 

You don’t need any further instruction than that, rumbling a hungry sound when you deliver a lingering peck to one teste before sucking it into your mouth. It’s his turn to let out a faltering sound now while you carefully swish it back and forth over your tongue, nudging at the sensitive flesh just enough to make his toes curl. 

This is another moment where he’s sure that if he’d been any less in control of himself he would have given in to the urge to shove you back and mount you like a frenzied beast. He’s very tempted, truth to be told, and he’s relatively certain you would like it too, but he refrains. Both because he wanted to set the example and to help temper your own eager arousal a little bit. 

And it seems to work given the very docile way you take your time with it, just idly sucking on his balls with the full brunt of your attention focused on this task rather than allowing yourself to get distracted by your pussy. He can imagine you’re not used to that either, and it’s easy for him to guess at what kind of men you’d been with in the past based on that observation, but he can’t bring himself to hold it against you. 

It’s not like he was really all that different, considering his own past and the kinds of relationships he’d grown up with. In fact, it was probably more surprising that he hadn’t turned out in a similar way than if he had. All of the signs were likely there. 

But there’s a small part of him that hopes his poor attempts at stoppering whatever these self-destructive behaviors are, if that’s really what it is, will have some sort of positive impact on the future. It was the best he could do given the scope of his own circumstances. 

And when he finally pulls your face away to leave a glistening string of spittle stretching between your mouth and his balls, wetly gasping as you glance up at him with such a vulnerably needy look in your eyes, he feels certain that it will. You deserved better than being forced to bend and submit under duress. This was much better for you, and his own heart as well. 

“Are you ready for your reward?” He gently coaxes you, knowing the answer already but still making the point to ask even if only to reinforce that you had the control here without needing to be pushy about it. 

Just as he’d expected, you quickly bob your head in a shuddering nod. “Yes, Kinich. Please. I’ll be good.”

“I know you will.” That was really all he asked of you. 

Breath rattling in his chest now, he eases back from you just enough so he can bend at the waist and nudge you into lying back against the bed. You comply with a delirious little mewl, squirming slightly on top of your bound warms while he grabs at the hem of your breezy dress to hike it up the length of your body. 

As more and more of your body is revealed to him, so soft and femininely curved, he realizes in a distant sort of way that it was going to take every ounce of his willpower to take this slow instead of losing himself in you. Wide set hips perfect for grabbing, a band of pudge around your middle to give him something to press into and a perfect pair of heavy tits dotted with stiff, attention seeking nipples just begging to be tweaked. It was almost too much, and his cock achingly twitches between his legs, threatening to spill over into an early orgasm if he wasn’t careful. 

He realizes he’s softly panting now, as if he’d just finished running fifteen miles straight and he couldn’t quite catch his breath when he moves to situate himself between your bent legs. You’ve got him so worked up he’s not entirely sure how long he can last, but you seem to be in a similar state of high strung arousal considering how your head almost drunkenly lolls back against the sheets. 

Quickly relieving you of your panties — damp, he can’t help but notice — Kinich hooks his forearms under your knees and leans over to brace his hands on the bed, forcing your thighs into a wide spread that leaves your bare cunt fully exposed to him. Whimpering a frazzled little sound, you glance down just long enough to look at the weighty bob of his cock angling towards your defenseless pussy and it makes you go absolutely wild, writhing underneath him with a shuddering gasp. 

“Please, Kinich! Please, I need it! I need it, I need it …”

“I know, I know. Just relax for me, alright? You’ve been such a good girl for me, of course I’ll give you what you want.” Leaning down, he presses a lingering kiss to the corner of your trembling lips where he stays for a drawn out beat so he can internally collect himself. 

Then he pushes up to hover over you, his head hanging low to attentively watch your expression when he begins to lower his pelvis. The sticky head of his cock presses into your equally sticky cunt and wetly skirts across the satiny flesh, making you sob a wordless, broken mewl of desperation. He tries again, angling his hips back and then slowly pushing straight down in time with the internal flex he gives the muscle. That does the trick, and he catches at your entrance where he immediately starts to slide in, and your pussy greedily welcomes the fleshy glans in with a tiny little click. 

Your face twists up in pure bliss at the gradual stretch to your inner sleeve as he feeds more and more of his length into you, hissing in sharp edged relief. He can see your toes flexing just at his peripheral but you’re perfectly trapped like this and completely at his mercy. You can’t even wrap your legs around his waist to leverage yourself or pull him in closer when he’s got them pinned open with his arms. So you just helplessly tremble through the process, wailing a steady stream of stricken noises into the statically charged room. 

And then his pelvis is pressing flush to yours, the dark, coarse curls of his pubic hair intermingling with yours. The sight is enough to make him shudder, groaning a heavy sound even as he makes a valiant attempt to stave off his release, at least until you can cum first. It just seemed like the right thing to do in his cloudy mind, and when he starts to move he doesn’t think it’ll take you very long to find your climax. 

Not only was your pussy completely soaked and readily accepting the continuous slide of his cock, squeezing him tight to try and suck him in even deeper, but your shrill, feminine moans quickly take on a dire tinge once he starts up in earnest. Keeping his thrusts slow and steadily drawn out to make sure you feel every single inch of him that drags against your guts soon has you plaintively sobbing underneath him, begging Kinich to go faster, harder. He doesn’t, of course, and he just takes his time gradually winding you up tighter and tighter until you feel like a wet, trembling vice around him. 

He isn’t sure how much time he actually spends fucking you, far too focused on staying his own release to keep track, but the moment he feels you start to tip over the edge he lets himself go as well. He’d been holding it back through sheer force of will this entire time and as a result it only takes one single slide of his flexing length into the palpitating embrace of your cunt for him to reach his breaking point, the two of you cumming together with a series of seething, masculine groans and girlish squeals. 

In the aftermath when you're both still trying to catch your breath and come down from the high, Kinich looks down at you — really looks at you, and he realizes that this completely satiated, relaxed expression was somehow even better than the submissive one he’d been fishing for. He wanted to see it again, a hundred times more if he could manage it. That meant he’d have to keep coming back then, if you would have him. He hadn’t thought this through quite that far. 

But the way you groggily moan his name, so soft and sweet that it makes his cock give one last shuddering twitch inside you, makes him think that you probably will. It wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind or what he’d expected to come of this, yet that doesn’t register as much of a problem for him. 

After all, there was still training to be done.

⭐

Crossposted: here

[fluffyk97]

Sonic 3 spoiler rambling about Sonic and Shadow under cut !

Y'know something that I feel might go lil under-appreciated is how well they made Sonic and Shadow mirror each other in the movie.

Like something that always can easily irk me are people boasting one of the two over the other because from the very beginning of his introduction to the series, Shadow's character is meant to reflect Sonic. They're meant to be equals that are so similar and complete opposites at the same time.

With the movie, I honestly wasn't expecting it that much. Sonic actually has a backstory that is just like Shadow's: powerful little hedgehog that is wanted for his power, so the one he's known his whole small life that he loves sacrifices herself to save him.

I fr fully expected Sonic to learn about Maria and be like "I lost Longclaw, I know you're pain, but-" blah blah blah- BUT they don't do that??

Of course, we have Commander Walters first telling Sonic that Shadow's story is a lot like his but wasn't able to find family and friends, and Sonic does find Shadow had a family from finding a picture of him and Maria together. He never gets told what happened exactly though, although it wouldn't make too much of a difference with the fact they did change up Shadow losing Maria just a little bit.

Since they didn't live up in space, Maria didn't have a capsule to send Shadow off with sacrificing herself and instead they made it an accident. WHICH- can be understandable if people don't like that, however personally I don't mind it that much because honestly the intent to shoot Maria was there, but she ended up being lost from an accident caused by Walters.

Which, ties in to Shadow hurting Tom...

Walters in trying to help save Maria's, Shadow's and Gerald's lives unfortunately led to Maria's death and watching Shadow be put in stasis for 50 years where all he thinks about is that painful memory burned fresh in his head. So of course when Shadow sees Tom disguised as Walters, he takes his anger out on him by hurting him while also stealing the key for the ARK. Leading to unfortunately another scenario of where the intent of harm is there, but someone still got hurt from an accident because Shadow never really meant to hurt Tom. But he does anyway..

Which of course in turn, makes Sonic mad just like Shadow was 50 years ago. Only difference is Sonic doesn't get immediately captured by GUN and forced into stasis. Letting him able to go straight to Shadow afterwards for hurting his family.

We have Shadow take note of all of that himself, telling Sonic he's feeling exactly the pain he felt and Sonic being the one to say "I'm nothing like you!". Just like how I thought Sonic would tell Shadow about Longclaw in hopes of redeeming him, but reversed and both sides full of anger and grief.

One awesome super fight later though, we come to the talk on the moon. Probably my favorite part in the whole movie. outside of the super fights and Live and Learn playing lol

After mentioning Tom and getting uppercutted straight to the moon by Sonic, Shadow loses his super form, leaving him vulnerable, easy for Sonic to take his revenge on him. Only for all of that to be stopped because of Shadow pointing at his own chest which reminds Sonic what Tom told him at the beginning of the movie and calm down.

"You didn't let pain change who you are."

This completely baffles Shadow, with him actually wanting Sonic to finish it, but of course Sonic just refuses saying "No one wins with revenge". It just leaves silence between them, finally giving Shadow his own moment of remembering Maria outside of her death by looking at the stars he used to gaze upon with her.

He mentions it to Sonic how all he knew and felt was just the pain, and now finally- FINALLY, Sonic mentions how he shares that feeling of loss from Longclaw. Not in a moment of trying to just redeem Shadow without the full weight of it, but in a moment of understanding.

A strong moment of these two looking at each other in a mirror, eye to eye. Sonic, who was allowed to grieve all those years ago after losing Longclaw, telling Shadow the pain of loss will never go away, but the love will always remain.

"The light shines, even though the star is gone."

And through that shared pain and loss, now coupled with empathy and understanding one another through it. They truly connect.

Sonic and Shadow's dynamic was just done SO WELL in the movie and I couldn't be happier with it...

[gojonanami]

IT'S A NEED - CHOSO KAMO

✴︎ summary: after you take an attack meant for him, choso can't seem to understand why -- so you show him just how important he is to you. ✴︎ contents: 18+ only, angst then smut, choso is confused about human emotions, he doesn't know if he deserves love, making out, groping, sex (p in v), handjob (f! + m! receiving), semi-public sex (sort of), pet names (love, pretty, lovely) ✴︎ wc: 1,965

“Why did you take that hit for me?” his words come out in a hiss, a rush of breath that he forces out between gritted teeth, as if he was both afraid to ask and afraid not to, “it was foolish, it was unnecessary—” 

You blow out a sigh between your pursed lips, as you rest against a damp sheet against cold concrete of a corner of Shibuya that currently wasn’t under attack — the not too distant groans of other injured not too far, but far enough for your privacy, “You know why I did it, so why are you asking that, when you mean to ask something else?” 

And you knew him — knew him a little too well for someone who only had known him a few weeks now? Is that how long it had been since he had joined up with sorcerers? Switched sides to protect his little brother — and somehow, he ended up here — sitting next to you instead of him. Yuji could handle himself — he had faith in his brother — and he knew you could too. A skilled sorcerer — he saw your skill firsthand from a distance during the fights in shibuya, and then up close when you nearly caved his head in when you found out how he almost killed Yuji. 

Is that when he first started to like you? 

He didn’t know. 

Could he even have such emotions? He had never known any sort of love, except for that of his brothers. But that was natural? To care for his family, to watch after them, to protect them, to avenge them. And anything that helped him achieve that goal, was worth it was it not? Even if it came at the cost of a different life, right? His eyes slid to you again, so why did it huqrt so much when he saw you crumpled on the ground, blood pooling on the cement around your abdomen, the same blood he didn’t think twice about when it spilled from other humans or sorcerers alike. Now, it was different. 

He was different — maybe you were, to him. 

 “What question am I asking then?” he finally asks, as you only sigh again, eyes fluttering open to look at him with that same gaze that felt as if you were looking right through him. 

“You’re asking me why I thought you were worthy of being saved in the first place?” and his mouth parts — words ringing in his ear. 

It was true — he was a cursed womb — a mixture of curse and human blood that never was supposed to exist in the first place, a thing that has no other purpose in this world, aside from his brothers. And especially after the things he’s done, the people he’s killed, the harm he’s caused, and even the body he walks in now isn’t his own, but a person killed for his gain — how was he worthy of saving? How was he worthy of the risk of your life? 

“And what’s your answer?” he asks, his voice growing raw, as he can’t bear to look at you, his gaze fixed on his lap, and he doesn’t see you push yourself up, sitting, as you stare at him, lips curling in a small smile, as you leaned over, fingers brushing against his cheek, that finally pull his gaze back to you. 

“Because you’re Choso, because you deserve to be saved, you deserve the same kindness you’ve given to us,” your fingers are so gentle against him, had he ever been touched so gently before? His eyes almost feel the urge to shut, and just indulge in the feeling of your skin against his, “you didn’t ask to be here, you were manipulated, you were controlled, and you were forced to be a pawn,” 

“But that doesn’t change—” 

“It doesn’t change the hurt you caused, no, but that’s not who you are now,” you force him to meet your gaze, lips curled in a smile, “and who are now is definitely worth saving,” 

“But why?” he still doesn’t understand, he still doesn’t see his worth, and you give your third sigh, before your other hand finds his shoulder, pulling him closer, a breath away. 

“Do I have to spell it out for you, Choso?” your words warm his lips, and send warmth to the tips of his fingers, warmth he hadn’t known since he had been forced to come back. And all he can feel is your hands against him, all he can see are your eyes gazing at him the way he thought anyone would, and all he can think about is when your lips are finally going to touch his, “because I think I can only show you now,” and your thumb finds his lips, dragging down the bottom one, “would you want that?” 

And his eyes flutter, a sharp intake of breath when your finger touches his lips, “I don’t think I’d like anything more,” he whispers, his eyes falling to your lips, as you lean forward. 

Your lips brush his, featherlight, as if you worry he’d recoil, he’d run, he’d leave, but he does none of those things. Your lips part from his and he’s staring, as you do, before his lips seek yours again. And this time, he’s sure. 

His lips surge against yours, as you melt into his touch, as gentle as can be — those same hands used to slaughter, now grazing your sides as if you’d break apart in his hands. And he didn’t care if the world was falling apart — and it was all around you both — if he could have this moment with you, maybe it’d be worth it. 

“What is this hold you have over me?” He murmurs, and you’re pulling him closer to your tattered blanket against the concrete, fingers running through his hair making him shiver, “you touch me and I can’t think straight, I can’t—“ 

“Then don’t,” you murmur, your lips pressing butterfly kisses to his jaw, “give in, let me love you,” 

And he does, relinquishing his thoughts and worries in exchange for your touch, and his hands find your waist, as you move slowly, climbing into his lap, making him grunt, before concern flickers across his features. 

“Your injuries—“ he starts, but your lips brush against his ear, lips curved against the soft flesh. 

“Are not as serious as how much I want you right now,” your words send a shiver down his spine, as your lips find his again, and you swallow his groan with pleasure. Your tongue parts his lips, as you taste him, fingers carding through his jet-black locks, fingers pulling at the ties in his hair, pulling them around your wrists, “I’ll keep them safe,” you tease, you tug teasingly at his hair making him gasp. 

You’re pulling moans and whines from his lips, as you part from him for a moment, breaths coming as pants, as you press your forehead to his, taking in his now kiss ruined lips and violet irises glazed with lust, “so pretty,” you coo, “too pretty, Choso, how am I supposed to resist?” 

And your fingers find their way to his belt, pausing, “is this okay?” Your hand cups his cheek, thumb brushing the length, and he’s nodding wordlessly, as his fingers find yours, undoing his belt and letting his robe fall open. 

Your breath catches as you see him, your fingers dragging over his bare chest and abs, your eyes finding your way to his cock — it was so pretty, long and thick with a pretty pearl of precum. And your gaze is hot, hypnotized, “all this f’me?” You murmur, making him swallow, and then gasp as your fingers trace the vein running up the side. Your lips curl, “oh we’re just getting started, baby,” 

Your fingers curl around his cock, your thumb rubbing against his slit, making him hiss, “I—“ his hips stutter against you, bumping against your damp shorts, making you groan. And he was so good in your hand, how good would he feel inside?

No, not yet, you wanted to make him feel good first. 

“It’s okay, just breath,” your fingers tease his head, smiling as his head lolls back, and your hand begins to stroke him, spreading the precum along his length, “I got you, let me make you feel good,” 

And your hand squeezes at the base, and he’s groaning your name, like a curse, as your other hand teases his balls, before you’re slipping off his lap, pressing his tip against your lips, painting them with his precum.

“You taste so good, Choso,” you lick your lips clean of him, tasting his salty precum. 

“Please, love,” he’s murmuring, a whine in his throat, his fingers pulling at your clothes, “I want you—I want you to feel good too,” 

And you smile, guiding his hands to your shorts, “Are you sure?” You murmur, kissing his neck, “we don’t-“ 

He’s pulling your shorts off, as he’s lowering you onto the sheet gently, tugging them off, his calloused palms parting your soft thighs. And his gaze darkens, half lidded with lust, “You’re lovely,” his fingers brush against your soaked folds, thumb pressing against your puffy clit, making you gasp, “you like that?” He hums. 

And he’s leaning down, his lips brushing against your inner thigh, “Choso, please—“ and his breath warms your cunt, pressing a kiss to your dripping pussy, drawing a gasp from your lips, “I need you—“ 

“What do you need, pretty?” His velvet words are thick and slow like molasses, settling warm heat over your skin, as his hands draw up your thighs around his waist, “do you want my hands? My lips?” 

And your hips roll against him, his tip bumping against your cunt, “what do you think?” And he’s hissing, before he’s grasping as his dick, teasing you with his head, “fuuuck, Choso,” 

“Not so loud,” he murmurs, “someone could hear us, see you all spread out for me, and this view is just for me, lovely,” and his cock is parting your folds, both moaning in synchrony, your walls fluttering around him, “so tight, pretty, so fucking wet,” 

You think he’s even prettier, brow furrowed and forehead slick with sweat, kiss bitten lips parted in a pant, and his violet eyes fluttering. And he’s bottoming out in you, his hips pressed against you, “so good, so perfect,” he’s murmuring, and he’s pulling out only to thrust back in. His strokes are languid at first, before he’s fucking you in earnest, hips snapping against yours, “. 

“Choso, fuck, please, I’m close—“ your back is arching against him, and his lips find yours again in a searing kiss, as his fingers reach down between the two of you, and press against your clit, just as his hips piston into you just right with deep long strokes, until your walls are clamping down. He doesn’t last much longer, his hips stuttering against you, until he’s moaning, his hot load painting your walls white, as he fucks his cum into you. 

And he’s panting above you, as you pull him into a sloppy kiss, pulling him beside you, as he slips out of you, making you whine at the emptiness.

“Don’t think that was part of Shoko’s instructions for recovery,” you murmur against his lips, as you grin, “but it was definitely needed,” 

His lips curl, as he’s pressing kisses along your jaw, “So you need me, huh?” and the question fills him with warmth, just as you have, a sort of purpose he had never had, aside from his family — a want for him that he had never thought he’d be lucky enough to have. 

And you only smile, pulling him into another kiss, “Why else do you think I took that hit for you?” 

✴︎ a/n: new episode did something to me. i have a longer fic planned for choso, but this will have to do for today :). yes i'm posting this in the middle of the night, sue me.

✴︎ tag list: @kakashineedstotouchgrass, @kemitoi, @thecooldino, @moonnime, @bontensbabygirl, @wretchedinfinity, @lemonpoppy-seed, @ichikanu, @snowscaping, @kamikokii, @fwankieero, @ssaraexposs, @astridyoo15, @cascading-escapist, @sniffsnoffsniff, @raddiplomatshepherdhero, @nverwashere, @n00v4, @unohanaswetdream, @staygoldsquatchling02, @anime9ja,

[ruewrote]

𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢.

PAIRING: evan buckley x fem!reader WARNINGS: worries of future of relationship, no use of y/n GENRE: angst to fluff SONG INSPIRATION: based off of tightrope by michelle williams WORD COUNT: 1.5k REQUESTED: yes

navigation | ask | evan buckley masterlist

you always knew loving buck wasn’t going to be simple. he was magnetic in a way that pulled you in, but with that same intensity meant there was always something just outside of your reach. a sense of unpredictability. 

from the moment you met him, there was a charge that made everything with him feel alive. the late night conversations, the lazy mornings, the spontaneous laughter. it was all beautiful, but it was never easy. not with his job, not with the constant risks he took every single day.

and yet, here you were.

tonight, that all too familiar feeling crept back in, that gnawing unease you’d been trying to push down. buck wasn’t home yet. you sat on the couch, staring at the clock as it ticked away the minutes, trying to ignore the worst case scenarios playing on repeat in your mind. it was past midnight, and your phone was quiet. too quiet.

this wasn’t the first time you’d sat in the dark, wondering if he was okay, wondering if tonight would be the night he didn’t come home. that was the reality of loving someone like buck. someone who ran toward the danger, who put himself in harm’s way for others. you admired that about him, the way he cared so deeply, but sometimes it left you hopeless.

a sigh escaped your lips as you ran a hand through your hair, the tension building in your chest. you hated this feeling, hated waiting like this. most of the time, you could manage it, push it to the back of your mind. but tonight? tonight felt different. maybe because of how late it was or the heavy silence in the apartment, but something inside you twisted painfully as the seconds dragged on.

just as you were about to grab your phone and text him again, the sound of keys in the lock jolted you out of your thoughts. the door opened slowly and buck stepped inside, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion. relief flooded through you at the sight of him, he was okay. he was safe. but the knot in your chest didn’t unravel right away.

“hey,” he said softly, closing the door behind him and tossing his keys on the entryway table. he looked worn out, his face smudged with soot, his hair a mess. “i’m sorry i’m late.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. “you didn’t text,” you said, sharper than you meant to. it wasn’t anger, more like the fear spilling out before you could control it.

buck’s brow furrowed as he walked toward you. “i know. i’m sorry. we had a crazy call, and i didn’t have a chance to check my phone. i should’ve texted as soon as i could. i didn’t mean to make you worry.”

the apology should have been enough, but the words didn’t soothe the ache you’d been carrying. you stood up from the couch, crossing your arms over your chest as you looked at him. “i know you can’t always text me, buck. i get that. but…you don’t understand what it’s like sitting here, not knowing if something’s happened to you. not knowing if you’re okay.”

his expression softened, and he reached for your hand, but you pulled away, stepping back. the space between you suddenly felt wider, like there was something unspoken lingering there, something neither of you had addressed yet.

“i can’t keep doing this,” you whispered, your voice wavering despite your best efforts to keep it steady. “every time you walk out that door, i wonder if it’s going to be the last time and tonight… tonight i couldn’t shake the feeling that something had happened.”

buck’s face fell, and he looked down at the floor, guilt flashing in his eyes. “i’m sorry,” he repeated, quieter this time. he took a deep breath, his voice thick with regret. “i didn’t mean to scare you. i didn’t–”

“it’s not just tonight,” you cut in, shaking your head. the frustration in your chest bubbled up before you could stop it. “it’s every night. every time you go on a call. i’m terrified, buck. terrified that one day you won’t come home. and i don’t know how much longer i can handle it.”

there. you’d said it. the words hung heavy in the air between you, and the silence that followed felt deafening.

buck looked up at you then, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite read. guilt? pain? he took a step closer, his hands reaching out for you again, but this time, you didn’t pull away. his fingers wrapped around yours, warm and familiar, grounding you in the moment.

“i know,” he whispered, his voice barely above a breath. “i know it’s hard. i know i don’t always make it easy for you.” he paused, searching for the right words. “but i love what i do and i love you. i don’t know how to make you feel better about this, about any of it, but i promise you, i’m always going to do everything i can to come back to you.”

you blinked back the tears threatening to spill over, your heart aching at the sincerity in his voice. “but what if one day you can’t?” you asked, your voice cracking. “what if one day something happens and you don’t come back?”

his grip on your hand tightened, and he pulled you closer, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek. “i can’t promise you that nothing will ever happen,” he said softly, his thumb brushing across your skin in a gentle, comforting motion. “i wish i could, but you know i can’t. but what i can promise is that i’ll always fight to come back. no matter what.”

you felt a tear slip down your cheek, and buck wiped it away with his thumb, his eyes never leaving yours. there was so much emotion there, so much love, fear, and vulnerability and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

“i don’t want to lose you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“you won’t,” he replied, his voice firm but gentle. “i’m right here. i’m always going to be right here.”

he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest, and you let yourself sink into him. his warmth, his strength. it was all so familiar, so comforting, and for a moment, the fear melted away. you could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear, and it grounded you, tethered you to this moment.

you didn’t know how long you stayed like that, wrapped up in each other, but eventually, you pulled back just enough to look up at him. his hands slid down to rest on your waist, his fingers tracing small, absentminded circles on your skin.

“i hate that i’m so scared all the time,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “but i love you, buck. so much. and that’s why it’s so hard.”

he nodded, his eyes softening as he leaned down to press his forehead against yours. “i know,” he said quietly. “and i’m sorry i’ve made it harder. i don’t always think about what it’s like for you, waiting here, wondering. but i swear, i’ll try to be better. i’ll do whatever i can to make this easier for you.”

you closed your eyes, letting his words wash over you. it was a promise, one you knew buck would keep. he was reckless at times, but he was also loyal to a fault. if he said he’d try, you believed him.

“i just need you to talk to me,” you said softly. “let me in when you’re scared or when something’s bothering you. don’t just keep it to yourself.”

buck smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he nodded. “deal. but only if you promise me the same thing.”

you let out a soft laugh, your chest feeling a little lighter now. “okay. deal.”

he leaned down and kissed you then, slow and sweet, like he was savoring the moment. when he pulled back, there was a quiet intensity in his gaze that made your heart skip a beat.

“i love you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “and i’m not going anywhere. you’re stuck with me, whether you like it or not.”

you smiled, feeling a wave of warmth wash over you. “i like it,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around his neck. “i love you, too.”

later that night, you lay in bed with buck beside you, his arm draped over your waist, holding you close. the soft rise and fall of his chest was soothing, a quiet reminder that he was here, safe and sound. you pressed yourself closer to him, letting the warmth of his body chase away the lingering fear that had settled in your bones earlier.

buck shifted beside you, his fingers brushing against your arm as he spoke, his voice low and sleepy. “i know it’s hard,” he murmured. “but we’ll figure it out. together.”

you nodded, your heart full as you closed your eyes. “yeah,” you whispered. “together.”

and for now, that was enough.

comments and reblogs are appreciated ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

© ruewrote 2024.

[autball]

Part 1 of a 5 part series about the ways harmful practices are being made to sound more appealing through the co-opting of language and how to spot the differences between helpful and harmful approaches.

The language of the Neurodiversity Paradigm is soooo hot right now. Everyone from ABA centers to social media creators are adopting it to sound like they’re safer and more knowledgeable than they are.

But you can’t just pop some neuro-word in place of “autism” and stop picking on a couple of Autistic traits and call yourself “Neuro-affirming.” That’s the low-hanging fruit of #neurodiversitylite.

REAL Neuro-affirming practice comes from a complete shift in mindset, unlearning all the harmful things you once thought were true, and learning about all the things you never even knew you didn’t know. It’s also an ongoing process, not just something you can learn from reading an article or taking a single training.

ABA practitioners are probably the worst offenders right now, mainly because they know they need to rebrand as more and more people learn about what ABA really does to people, but also because their practices in particular are THE furthest away from being Neuro-affirming compared to any other discipline.

They are not the only ones, though, so be wary of #neurodiversitylite in ANY resource aimed at autistic people that appears to be saying all the right things, including: OT, speech, play/talk therapy, early intervention, education, your favorite parenting expert or social media personality who just discovered the world of Neurodiversity, etc.

Look beyond someone’s use of the “right” words or symbols. Do they talk about teaching people to fit into the normative world, or how to more safely and authentically navigate a world not made for them? Do they talk about making the person easier to deal with, or making life easier for the person? Do they concentrate on external behaviors, or are they more concerned with internal experiences? Does most of what they know come from people who studied autistic people from the outside looking in, or from actual autistic people who can speak from lived experience? And are they even using the words right??

The good news is that there are SO MANY resources out there BY autistic and otherwise Neurodivergent people for anyone who wants to learn how to make their practice *actually* more Neuro-affirming. SO MANY!! Three such resources are featured in the second panel from Autism Level UP, Neurowild, and Kieran Rose-The Autistic Advocate. (Big thanks to them for letting me include their work in the cartoon!)

EXPLANATION OF WHAT’S WRONG IN THE “FAKE” PANEL:

- The phrase “individuals with neurodiversity” misuses the word “neurodiversity” and utilizes person first language. The Neuro-affirming phrase would be “neurodivergent people,” or “autistic people” if they specifically meant autistic people.

- Getting rid of puzzle piece stuff is merely a surface level first step, not an end point.

- Not forcing eye contact and allowing hand-flapping are also only surface level first steps. The fact that they still target other stims means they do not understand the importance or functions of stimming, making them incapable of being Neuro-affirming.

- Social skills training aimed at ND people usually centers NT social skills as the “right way” and frames ND social skills as the “wrong way,” making them shame inducing and not at all affirming.

- “Tolerating distress” most often means “suppressing distress.” Neuro-affirming practice would concentrate on identifying and avoiding triggers, helping the person stay regulated, and teaching the person how to accommodate and advocate for their needs so that they are not distressed in the first place.

- “Sensory desensitization” is not a thing that can be done to someone without harm. It is usually done with exposure therapy, which should not be done TO someone who cannot consent. It is also inappropriate for sensory issues, which tells us they don’t understand sensory processing differences at all.

- The posters: Whole Body Listening is based on neuronormative expectations; “They say I’m neurodiverse” is incorrect usage of the word “neurodiverse” (it should be “neurodivergent”), and “but I say I’m perfect” insinuates that being “neurodiverse” is a bad thing, while the use of the rainbow infinity symbol with such a non-affirming message adds to the dissonance; the ABC’s of Behavior is an indicator that ABA/behaviorism will be used, which is the opposite of Neuro-affirming practice.

EXPLANATION OF WHAT’S RIGHT IN THE “REAL” PANEL:

- The person accurately explains what Neuro-affirming practice looks like, without needing to use (or misuse) any Neurodiversity “buzzwords.”

- Bumper, A Whole Body Learner, is a resource created by Autism Level UP that encourages people to discover what it looks like for them to be ready to learn, acknowledging that there is no one right way to appear attentive.

- The poster by Neurowild indicates that they value difference and neurodiversity and that they know there is no one right way of being.

- They use the Advoc8 Framework, a resource created by Kieran Rose, The Autistic Advocate. Using this framework means they want to help the people they work with achieve Agency, Autonomy, (Self) Acceptance, and Authenticity.

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

If you enjoy this, you can buy me a Ko-fi :) Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!

TW: detailed description of: violence, scars. mentions of: domestic violence, overdose, infant death, family death. a man's way of thinking.

[Please read while listening to this.]

“Simon me boy, ye need to burn to survive in this world.”

Once, a horrible man, with breath tainted by the acrid stench of tobacco mixed with the remnants of a newly drained liquor bottle, said to Simon. Bloody ‘ell, the amount of shit that came out of that bastard’s mouth, acting like he was some kind of philosopher instead of a wife-beating alcoholic who made his sons’ lives a living hell.

Young Simon didn't understand what it meant; he couldn't think much other than that his father was telling him to burn himself alive. Something he would do, something he would find temporary pleasure in until he stole the next alcohol money his wife earned during her 12-hour nursing shift.

Entering his teenage years, he didn’t think much of those words anymore, thinking of them as just another addition to the incredible amount of shite that came outta that bastard’s mouth.

But it returned when he joined the military. He thought that's it—that “burn” his father spoke of was the passion to serve, to protect. To combat the injustices that had lingered since the dawn of time. He wanted to be the one to make at least one change, a difference. To be the best. It served him well, that fire, all through his rookie training.

Or was it fury?

That white-hot rage that burned his gut, driving him forward as the soil crumbled and leaked through the planks of his coffin. It was that very rage that kept him alive, even when he was condemned to suffocate in his own grave. The spark coursing through his red blood cells, filling his fingertips as he dug with someone else’s jawbone for thirteen hours.

It was his unbridled fury that had stayed steadfast by him when he pledged his vengeance for the blood of his family. It was fury that had carried him out of Roba's burning mansion—another one to add to his record of outwitting the Grim Reaper.

Simon went on with his life thinking that that was it—he needed to stay angry to survive in this world. Nothing else matters but getting out, getting vengeance for every cut, every drop of crimson on the dirty tile beneath his combat boots. He had nothing left to fight for—no family, no home to protect anymore. So, fury had to be the answer. Simon just had to stay an angry man.

And he grew rotten. A stray dog always baring his canines. Ill-suited for domestic life, dropping in only when he needed sustenance—something, anything to hold between his teeth to chew and tear.

Those fingers were corrosive—fluoroantimonic acid in human form, but he did his job even better than he had when he was Simon Riley. Perhaps it was his identity that held him back. Now that he was just an old soul in miraculously intact flesh, there was nothing chaining his feet.

Simon is given three primary roles: hunter, judge, executioner.

Meeting his towering figure means never going home again—any poor bastard who has crossed paths with him is presumed dead. For he has grown rotten; sometimes more corrosive than fluoroantimonic acid, even. He gets the job done, quick and clean.

Simon Riley walks through this world in fury. He is fully conscious, with a dying heart that still beats, filled with deep, deep envy for those who don't have to be angry all the time. Because as much as he needs to keep burning, this is not something he does willingly. It leaves more harm than good. But men like him never have a choice.

Because the pain reminded him that he was alive.

With every blow of the gunstock to the back of his head, he was reminded again and again. As his fist swung at the other guy and the knuckles beneath his gloves connected with a jaw, he was reminded again and again that he was alive.

Simon still hadn’t decided whether he was the luckiest or unluckiest bastard alive.

To be tortured, only to realize that he had survived worse—that he would survive this one and would have to live through the aftermath. And so on until it created a never-ending loop of hell that felt like some twisted form of divine retribution.

“Simon me boy, ye need to burn to survive in this world.”

It was just one of the many bollocks his father spouted. The old man probably wanted to leave some grand, motivational words—to leave a mark. But the truth is, he didn’t need to do that. He’d left enough on him. Like all the times Simon stood in front of the mirror, shaving cream around his jaw—almost scared the shit out of his own mum, thinking he was his father.

And he despised that—the fact that he would be reminded of that pathetic excuse for a father for the rest of his life. That even after years since his father left home to lie in the hospital, counting his days from that bloody cancer, his mother still had the same fear every time she saw his father in him.

“Simon me boy, ye need to burn to survive in this world.”

He needs to burn.

He needs to…

Burn.

The burning ember at the end of the cigar flares up as Price takes a deep drag of it, holding it in the cave of his mouth before exhaling the remaining smoke and mixing it with the alcoholic aroma of a London pub they visited to “celebrate” another successful mission.

As if this was anything close to a celebration. Though Gaz and Soap were indeed deep in their pints and laughing like a pair of drunken fools, the way the Captain and Kate Laswell bend close together tells him that they have already begun discussing some hints about the next op.

Simon massaged the bridge of his nose, feeling the unfamiliar emptiness where his hard-plate mask would usually dig, but instead he found wire beneath the polypropylene. He tapped his fingers boredly on the aged wood, feeling the itch to hold a cold glass in his grasp but having decided not to order anything—there was no point; he wasn’t really planning on staying for too long anyway.

Instead, he tried to find a distraction by doing what he did best – people watching. He watched the bartender serve some fancy cocktail to two birds at the end of the bar, probably those fruity, overpriced drinks that made his throat sore.

Turning his gaze to the far corner, he saw a couple sitting in awkward silence. Looks like some first date gone wrong—judging from the bloke's fidgeting and the lass staring down at her drink, not saying a word. Bloody painful to watch.

Simon glances out the window, watching the steady stream of more people passing by. London is always busy, no matter the time of the day. A city of millions, with each person having their own life, their own stories—the things they wake up to and go to sleep to.

Often, he compares it to old, half-dead Manchester for familiarities, something that might help him blend in with this city. But it’s always the same ending—the differences far outweigh anything he recognizes. The bright lights, the bustling streets, the life—all of it foreign. Seems like the gritty, depressing streets of his youth still suit him after all.

For an hour, he sat there before feeling himself growing more and more restless. Finally, he pushed himself up, ready to make his escape. Soap and Gaz protested, which he ignored before he gave a nod to Price and Laswell, who didn't question him further, already knowing him well enough by now whenever he wasn't in the mood for socializing.

Simon made his way towards the door, stepping out into the soaked streets of London. The rain is coming down hard, and judging from the dark clouds hanging low, it's only going to get worse and more gloomy. Finally, something that reminded him of Manchester.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he walked beneath the raging sky, trying his best to stay under the awnings and overhangs whenever he could. Droplets of water began to wet his leather jacket, but he kept walking, deliberately letting the rain soak him to the bone.

Self-preservation kicked in as he turned the corner onto another block; Simon was about to try to flag down a cab. However, his eyes landed on a lone figure, almost blending into the shadows, standing under the awning of some shop, trying to stay dry.

Simon knows he wasn't a good man, sure as hell not a gentleman. So is this sudden surge of concern some sort of sympathy, or is it because of all the times he's played the hero—saving countries from missiles, taking down terrorists, all that stuff—that now he can’t turn it off? He walks, long strides stretched out without hesitation even when he knows he’s more likely to do her harm than good—as evidenced by the growing fear in her eyes, her whole body tensing up like a frightened rabbit.

“Nasty night.” He said, being first for the sake of a conversation. That's new.

“Uh, y-yes, quite a storm,” she stammers out, those big doe eyes of hers flickering up to meet his for just a moment before darting away again.

And bloody hell, if that doesn't just about do him in. The way she tried so hard to act innocent, as if she hadn’t just snuck a glance at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. Sweet little thing. It’s enough to set his blood on fire.

“Subway, yeah?”

“Yes, the subway. Though it may be closed by now with the weather.”

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, taking one out and lighting it. The familiar burn and taste of nicotine soothed his nerves, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why he was so bloody on edge in the first place. He had planned to avoid any socializing tonight—that’s why he left the lads so quickly, trying to get back to his blessed silence.

And yet, here he was, in the middle of a storm, talking to a strange bird he didn't even know.

It wasn’t like he was looking for a quick fuck or anything like that—he really wasn’t in the mood for any of that tonight. So why? He took a long, slow drag of his cigarette. Do you enjoy playing savior, Simon? To make sure she gets home safe and sound before a bad man comes?

And who’s to say he’s not the bad man in question?

“Subway's closed, like you said. No sense waiting in the wet.” He threw his cigarette butt into the gutter. “Come on then. Pub's the best place for now.”

The woman shook her head, managing a small smile. “Thank you for the kind offer, but I'll be right here. Best not to trouble you further on such a night.”

Smart girl, he admitted. Turning down offers from a sketchy-looking man like himself—she has a good head on her shoulders. But as he watched the rain pouring down and the wind howling louder, he couldn't help but wonder if her self-preservation only applied to men and not to the bloody storm and the fever she's definitely going to get if she keeps on insisting on staying here.

“Really, I’ll be fine,” she said, trying to force a laugh. “The rain can’t last forever.”

And he couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed at her refusal. But there was a crack in her answer—the way she wasn’t entirely sure, the uncertainty clear as day. He knew the kind like her, the ones who needed someone to turn their back on them and walk away to make them think they’d made the wrong choice.

It’s just how some humans operate, and he’s eager to test that theory.

“Suit yourself, love,” he said, watching her eyes widen slightly. "But you'll catch your death waiting in the rain."

Simon started to take a few steps away, counting the seconds in his head. One, two, three…

“Wait!”

When he heard it, he felt a victorious feeling swell up inside. Pausing like some considerate, concerned bloke, he turned to face her, waiting for her to speak.

And when she does, shame leaks from her voice. “I'm coming with you.”

On that stormy night, Simon ends up sitting opposite the skittish bird in a pub, her eyes sweeping around the room with a mixture of curiosity and unease. She looks like she doesn't belong here, probably the first time she's ever set foot in a place like this, judging from the way she keeps glancing at the shelves of liquor bottles behind the bar.

The stranger ordered “something light,” and while he gives in and orders bourbon, his drink of choice for as long as he can remember—a therapist he once saw told him it’s some sort of control thing, the need to stick to the familiar, not the kind that appreciates changes.

As he took a sip of his bourbon, the woman started making small talk. She gave a name. Sweet girl asked about his job and apologized before getting an answer, saying she didn't mean to pry, that she was just making conversation.

Too sweet, he thought. Worrying about small things like that.. How do you manage to get any sleep at night?

Simon says he’s in the military, leaving out details about which part of the military he’s in. She feels obligated, then tells him she’s a ballerina—and he wonders if she sees the differences between them. The stark contrast between her delicate, graceful world and the dark, violent one he’s used to.

It's a shame that you have to cross paths with the likes of him – a man like Simon Riley, who's no better than a stray dog ​​with the need to hold something between his teeth.

Worse still, he's a sweet tooth, too.

And so, Simon managed to fuck you on the second meeting.

Fucking hell… His tongue flicked against your swollen clit, bringing you to climax, tasting your juices against his taste buds. But nothing could compare to when he was finally inside you—the tightest cunt he’d ever had the pleasure of defiling. A virgin – the thought of being the first to breach that delicate, untouched flesh—the faint crimson around his condom like lipstick stains—set his blood on fire.

Tears in her eyes as her nails dug   on his naked back. Pretty girl tried to play tough, trying to hide the searing pain as the head of his cock continues to press into you, walls fluttering in surprise at the unexpected intrusion. Lips parted in a cry that turned into a moan. Then, his name is uttered in the most vulgar way.

“Ah! O-oh, Simon! Simon!”

Something snapped inside his mind—but Simon didn’t have time to care, not when he was buried deep in your warm flesh, watching himself slide in and out of that wet hole like cinematography. Your smaller form flushed and glowing, hair spread in a halo above your head. He held back another growl as you pulsed around him, only to follow with a climax that burned through his entire body.

When it was over, he shouldn't even think about coming back. That's not how he operates; after all, he's the type to jump from one body to the next, never looking back, never a second time.

But the second time happens anyway.

Straight to London after deployment, driving his truck like he has an absolute purpose, like he doesn’t hate the city. He parks in front of a grand Neoclassical building and leans against the door, pulling out a cigarette from his leather jacket pocket. He lights it up and waits. He doesn’t know your exact schedule, doesn’t know if you’re coming to work today, and doesn’t know anything about your life outside those two nights. But still, he waits.

As the minutes ticked by, his cigarette began to shorten, the smoke swirling around it. Something wet touched the back of his palm.

“Fuck.” He looked up at the sky, realizing it was starting to drizzle.

Then, out of the corner of his eyes, he caught a rushing shadow. Simon turned around just in time to see you emerging from the building, coat wrapped tight around you as you sneezed. He saw you walking, so rushed, like you got somewhere to be. What's got you so worked up, sweetheart?

You walk fast, as if on a single-minded purpose, eyes ahead but mind elsewhere. And that’s when he sees it—a car barreling towards you at an alarming speed, and you still don’t realize it until the blinding headlights catch the corners of your eyes.

Without a second thought, Simon rushed forward, pulling you out of the road before the red image in the back of his head became a reality. The car blares its horn, and the driver shouts a string of curses before speeding off again. He felt the cold air seep into his airways too quickly, painting him dry inside yet his body wet with a mixture of sweat and rainwater.

“Christ, pay attention will ya?”

At the sound of his voice, you finally look up, snapping out of whatever nearly cost you your life. Simon watches your eyes widen like you’ve just seen a ghost—some sort of apparition that’s just materialized out of thin air.

Someone who shouldn’t be here, and he can’t help but think the same way.

In the second instance, Simon has you pressed up against the kitchen counter, his hands nomadic on your skin, feeling every rise and dip of your body. He groans as your warm, raw walls clamp down on his cock longingly. Once you’re both sated, he slings a wet towel around your inner thighs, and you return his gentleness with a bottle of bourbon you pour into two glasses.

Simon heads out in the morning, but not without letting you help him find his missing device. The damn thing was hiding in the cushions of your couch. He shoves it into the pocket of his jeans, and that nagging, controlling voice (the one that despises changes and relies on familiarity) keeps reminding him to leave no trace, just like he had done with every previous one-night stand.

Against the itch in his brain, he didn't even bother deleting his number from your log afterward. Instead, he let you save it in your contact list.

(The wandering stray dog ​​froze when the door of a house opened.)

“Will you at least call? Or text, if you can. You have my number now.” You say.

(Warm light seeps out from within, bathing his brown eyes in a goldish hue. That stray dog of his has stopped its roaming, has stopped its restless pacing. It loosens its jaw, saliva dripping down its chin. The tension in its body starts to mellow. Something delicious inside. He should have known better than to get carried away—the last time he did, someone kicked him in the shins and hung him by the ribs.

The last time he did, his house was transformed into a gruesome showcase of all he held dear, ending in a bloodbath. His olfactory receptors still remember the scent of iron. Little Joseph’s socks soaked in crimson.

You're just a rotten mongrel, Simon.

But-

That sweet, intoxicating scent spreads like pollen carried by anemo. And before he could stop himself, his legs moved towards that warmth—)

Simon ended promising a text, then disappeared behind your door.

(—like a moth to a flame.)

The pretty girl takes him to a family event—your cousin’s wedding in the picturesque countryside of England. He finds himself surrounded by happy people—people who don’t need to be angry to live. They simply love and are loved, their smiles, laughter, and kisses genuine, fueled by the bonds of affection and not by selfish pursuits.

You introduce him to your cousin—the bride—named Sabrina, then to your aunt, Joyce. For people you call a family, you look pretty wound up tight, sweetheart.

And then, just as he thinks that, your mother comes strolling into the conversation, all smiles and pleasantries. But, he doesn’t miss how the tension in your body skyrockets, your smile turning into something more forced.

Simon knew that. Because he’d been there himself, growing up with a father who was more interested in the bottom of a bottle than he was in his family; the father who taught him to laugh at a dead prostitute because he thought she deserved it—“She’s jus’ some dumb whore, a drug addict. She was hell-bent on a bad end.” Nothing good in that man, and nothing good in your mother either when you throw up everything you’ve eaten after a conversation with her.

Funny how he used to react the same way. Until something changed, that is. The fear and the shame morphed into something else. Fury. Rage.

“Ye need to burn to survive in this world,” and maybe for once in his detrimental, too-long life, the bastard was right. And as much as Simon despised staying angry, he stayed angry because it saved him.

When the big day arrived, Simon stood in front of the mirror and stared at a reflection he didn’t recognize. Dressed in that damn suit he hadn’t worn since God knows when, the jacket clinging to him like a skin that just didn’t fit right. He fidgeted with the cuffs, trying to loosen them a little.

It's like Tommy and Beth's wedding all over again, back when he was his brother's best man. Everything smells just as sweet and flowery as it did then, and it's making him sick to his stomach.

“All set then?”

Simon turns his head at your voice, watching you walk out of the bathroom, your hair styled and your makeup done in a dark and smoky way that suits you so well. Christ, the way it makes him feel.

You spot his tie on the bed, then pick it up and approach him, closing the distance between the two of you. As you stand in front of him, so near that he can feel your breath on his skin, something begins to creep up his chest. It settles beneath his ribs, burning, spreading like a wildfire. But, it's unlike the fury and rage he's familiar with. This one leaves a warmth, a pull towards you that makes him ache to touch you, to hold you.

Simon couldn't take his eyes off you, watching the way your fingers worked in and out to tighten the knot. The way you bit your lip in concentration.

When you ask him to lean down a little so you can reach the back of his neck, he’s made even more intoxicated—the mix of shampoo and soap you’re devoted to, the delicate yet familiar fragrance of your favorite perfume that always trails after you. Sweet, but the kind of sweet that leaves him wanting more, like a wild animal who's just discovered a gourmet feast.

It’s a hunger, a need, to plant kisses on the pillar of your neck and feel the thrumming pulse that lives beneath your soft and supple skin. The ache to hold you, to keep you within his orbit. Something grips his heart—and before Simon can register, he’s leaning in, brushing his lips against yours in a fervent, greedy kiss. He guides you towards the bed, his bulky frame poised to envelop your smaller form.

“Simon me boy, ye need to burn to survive in this world.”

Made to cry, his pretty girl, by the woman who brought her into the world.

In this world, there are many kinds of mothers. The ones like his, all smiles and kindness, baking good pies and forgiving, perhaps too forgiving. And then, there are the ones like yours—all faux smiles, pretending to be an angel of a mother when he knows full well she’s the reason you turned out the way you did.

Dependent, easy to manipulate, always trying to please everyone. You thought you could maintain a distance from others, but all it takes is a single act of kindness to dismantle them completely—the seemingly impenetrable walls were actually brittle.

A kitten masquerading as a lion, only to purr and melt at the slightest touch.

It annoyed him sometimes, because he knew you deserved better. But it’s also the reason he stayed, he thought. Because he loved playing the hero, especially to a woman who didn’t know any better.

(Something, anything to hold between his teeth for him to chew and tear.)

As you wait in the car, he hurriedly gathers the last of his things, shoving them carelessly into his duffel bag. The embers of anger still simmer within him, but Simon chooses to be the wiser—getting you out of here as soon as possible is a priority.

“I know men like you,” the devil behind him spits. “You think you’re protecting her—you think you’re saving her, but all you want is a girl to use and toss aside once you’ve grown bored.”

And Simon stops. It strikes a chord within him, punches him right in the gut.

Though, he doesn’t say anything. He wants to lash out, to defend himself and his intentions, but doesn’t. What’s the point? He thinks it would be a waste of time, and you’ve been waiting for him in the car for too long. It would just be a waste of breath.

Yet, another part of him knows the real reason.

That she might be right. That she might be right, and he did not like that.

It was always easy to turn away from reality. He pretended to be the wiser man, leaving pointless conversation for good reasons. But the voice in his tainted head always reminded him of what he was made of, what was left of him. He was a rotten man, selfish. Full of desire without the consistency to commit—

Pretending to stay when he knows he is nothing more than a stray dog who loves to wander.

Simon slashes, rips, and kills men as sport; feasting on the raw hearts of women like his own personal dinner, collecting their teardrops like diamonds on his crown. And yet, he has the bloody nerve to think he can keep something as soft as you in his calloused hands without laying a wound.

(A predator wearing the skin of a man.)

A voice in the back of his head began to whisper, telling him to let you go, to walk away before his teeth sank in too deep and caused you even more pain. Before he became too ensnared, too intertwined.

But he couldn't. He just couldn't.

Not when you're sensually rolling your hips on top of him, your jaw slack as those pretty, plump lips make sounds that cause his cock to twitch in his boxers. The sight of your puffy eyes, the soft curve of your lashes, and the furrowed brows. He groans as you grip his thighs, anchoring yourself to him.

The moans you let out—oh, love, what is this? Why does it feel holy when they're sinning? Like some kind of ablution. He is reborn. He is being sent to heaven, and it is between the plush of your thighs—the divine liquid dripping down your folds.

You drag your fingers across the raised tissue of his skin, and he is blessed. He observes as your eyes glide over every part of his body, recognizing the differences between the scars he bears—guessing how they were created. Fire, knives, hooks.

And fuck, angel.

That sickening clench clutches his chest again as he gazes upon your tear-streaked face. This perfect creature is mourning his scarred flesh, once burned and healed, textured. Your lips quivering as you sob.

What are you grieving for, pretty?

Probably thought he was some sort of good guy who didn't deserve this. So consumed by her turmoil, she forgot that every cut and burn meant he survived; he won and survived. Can't say the same about the other guy, though. Not that Simon would—no.

He's too selfish to share your attention.

Because what if mentioning others who died in his hands makes you pity them instead? Something a sweet thing like you would do.

“Why... why would anyone want to hurt you?” You ask, and Simon answers in his mind: Why wouldn’t they? “Is… is this from your time in the military too?”

“Yeah,”

“What happened?”

“Got meself ‘anged by the ribs once,”

Simon was given three primary roles: hunter, judge, and executioner, but you didn’t know this. Nor did you know that the bastards who had caused these scars had long since died in the slowest and most gruesome way possible. That house fire he told you about didn’t spare them like it spared him.

All of this was evidence that he had hurt and killed—a mortal sin, darlin'. But you let another fat tear slip, thin red roots spreading across your sclera.

Oh.

There was always the other side of the moon that Simon never realized until now, until you did. His God—you—are all-forgiving and shed tears because the other side of the story is that he has been hurt and almost killed. So far, Simon has only seen himself in three main roles: hunter, judge, and executioner. Never the other way around: prey, defendant, and victim.

And oh—oh.

The “God” on his pelvis rocked her hips, taking him to many pleasant places—places a sinner would never have the luxury of visiting. The burn inside him twisted into something different—something warm that pulsed in the chambers of his heart and spread and crawled across his chest.

This wasn't the old fury. So, Simon convinced himself this was lust.

The conclusion must have been made in a hurry, or more like in desperation to see past the truth. He tried to bury it in the depths of his mind where he wouldn't have to acknowledge it. But Simon knew lust shouldn't last this long, nor should it leave him feeling invigorated simply because you had smiled at him.

This was—

“Gonna watch a ballet, LT.?”

Simon snaps out of his thoughts, blinking back to reality. Between his bare thumb and index finger is the special pass you gave him a week ago—the same piece of paper Soap was questioning just now. He turns in his chair to face his sergeant, greeted with that infuriating grin of his.

“Didn’t know you were the artsy type.” Soap added.

“You should’ve knocked, Sergeant.”

Soap laughed. “Aye, I did. But you were too busy starin’ at that ticket to notice.”

The lieutenant didn’t respond, just shoved the pass into his drawer, shutting it with a snap. Soap raised an eyebrow, a sign that he was still curious, but had no intention of voicing his questions, at least for now anyway.

“What’s this about?”

Soap's grin faded. “Ah right. The Captain’s askin’ for ye.”

Johnny watched those brown eyes flicker to the flip phone and then to the skull glove on the table as Simon considered something. Unfortunately for him, that was all—the damn balaclava prevented him from seeing the slightest glimpse of expression that might have been hidden behind it.

“I’ll be there,” Simon said, dismissing Soap with a wave of his hand.

The sergeant narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips in that way he always did when he was trying to figure him out. Then, he walked toward the door, twisting the doorknob. Just when Simon thought he was finally gone, Soap stopped, pausing for a moment.

“Yer obsession is gettin’ worse, sir,” he commented.

At first, Simon didn't understand what he was referring to until he followed Soap’s gaze, and his own brown eyes landed on his duffel bag. Where the skeleton charm you bought him was hanging.

Simon didn't say anything. The door closed with a click.

The voice of his old therapist echoed in the back of his head, saying how he had this need to always be in control, that he hated feeling like he was losing it, like there was something out there that he couldn’t predict or manage. That’s why he clung to what he knew and hated changes.

But as he sat in his office, surrounded by the same four walls, the same desk, the same chair, the same bloody routine he had followed for years, he felt something twisted itself inside him, grafting itself into the tissue of his scars.

It triggered an itch in his skull.

Simon stood up from his chair, jaw clenched, as he strode over to where his duffel bag sat. That voice was louder, the words he had heard playing back like they were on a cassette tape—“there’s gonna be things in life that are out of your control. An’ that’s okay. You don’t have to be in charge of everythin’.”

“An’ when that happens, you just have to let it happen. You can’t avoid it forever, Lieutenant. Avoidin’ it doesn’t mean you’ve solved it—”

Clenching his fists, he tried to deafen himself, only to end up inviting another sickening voice. “Simon me boy, ye need to burn to survive in this world,” at that time, he didn’t understand what the hell his old man meant by that, searched the whole world for answers.

Now, after all this time—after mistaking it for passion, for fury, for lust—the answer stared back at him, daring him to face it. He let out a scoff, thinking how that was the most uncharacteristic word to ever come out of that man's mouth. Fuck.

“—it just means you’re signing yourself up for more pain—”

Simon yank the skeleton charm off his bag, the metal clinking against the zipper as he tears it free. He exhales, his chest empty after he’s done what he’s best known for.

“—an’ self-destruction.” The voice finishes.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull

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[emmkitt]

stop calling mephone4 a child.

my credentials(/silly): mephone4’s biggest fan + someone who sees mephone as representative of myself. i am also an autistic adult. (relevant)

i went on an autistic tirade rambling about this in a discord server but i wanted to compile my reasoning and stuff here into a tumblr post because this is very important to me.

alright. lets start with the most commonly used argument.

calling mephone a child is ableist.

now i certainly agree that some children CAN act the way mephone does. however, i think it’s harmful when your ONLY argument as to why he is a child is ‘because he cant spell’ or ‘because he creates fantasy worlds in his brain as a means of escapism.’

I think the issue is, we are reducing these very real symptoms of mental disorders to ‘oh he’s just acting childish,’ instead of understanding them for what they are. autism and dyslexia are not cured the second you turn 18. it doesn’t work that way. giving in to the stereotype that only children can act this way… i dunno man. it really rubs me the wrong way.

i think it’d be better to view him as an adult with these symptoms because, well, VERY rarely do we ever get representation of an adult with mental disorders in media. at least not in a way that’s not villainizing them or mocking/infantilizing them. (sidebar, mephone IS NOT THE VILLAIN. he did bad things, yes, and should be held accountable for it, but he is NOT. THE VILLAIN. he is an abuse victim, and his way of acting is actually very good representation of the way abuse victims may go on to mimic actions of their abuser.) cobs (mephone’s abuser btw) LITERALLY infantilizes mephone IN CANON. IN THE SHOW. WHY ARE YOU LISTENING TO COBS. WHY ARE YOU ACTING LIKE COBS.

bro didnt go to school

i didnt know how to title this section. basically, people reducing him to a child because he doesn’t know adult things are MISSING THE POINT.

HE WAS RAISED BY COBS.

do you think cobs had ANY interest in teaching him ANYTHING about the real world? about how to be an adult? about how to ride a bike or pay taxes? NO. dude popped into existence knowing nothing except what Cobs WANTED him to know. he was meant to just work for Cobs and do tasks all the time and that was IT. OF COURSE his knowledge is going to be limited to what Cobs taught him. that DOES NOT make someone a child. GO REWATCH THE SHOWWWW.

suspend your disbelief for once in your life oh my god

i dont understand how people are able to suspend disbelief for LITERALLY EVERYTHING ELSE in fiction. such as murder/death, supernatural creatures, the universe itself as a whole, etc. but when it comes to age, the real world standards MUST be applied, no exception. Like since Mephone was canonically created 14 years ago in-universe that means he is 14 years old. we are completely ignoring the fact he is a fictional talking sentient phone robot for a minute.

and adding in the ‘he acts like a child’ argument for a second… season 1. what 1 year old do you know that can walk and talk and create an entire game show?? he has practically acted the EXACT SAME WAY his entire existence, therefore that argument falls completely flat.

it would be DIFFERENT if in-universe they had established rules, where this age means this and that age means that, but the ii universe DOES NOT HAVE THAT. meaning people are free to interpret age however they want. it would ALSO be different if mephone was canonically stated to be a child (we’re getting to that) OR portrayed to be childcoded. which…. he isn’t.

okay so by these rules all of the contestants are younger than mephone.

the agreement amongst child mephone believers seems to be ‘creation date = birth date = real age’. so bot is like 3 years old. the unvitationals are like 2. all the contestants are somewhere between like 4-14. but wait- some season 1 contestants ACT older or younger than the others? no. no theyre ALL 13-14 only. no exceptions. every newbie in season 3 is like 4-5. every newbie in season 2 is like 10. makes perfect sense.

do you understand how ridiculous that is. WE CANNOT , i repeat, CANNOT APPLY REAL WORLD STANDARDS TO A FICTIONAL UNIVERSE. oh my god. they are holograms. they are robots. they are in a weird plane floating in the vastness of space that has a picnic table that can generate food, and the ability to revive dead people, and ghosts and talking corn and. and all of THAT is fine. but god forbid someone interpret the talking phone as an adult. I DONT GET IT.

b-b-but cobs called mephone a child…

once again, common arguement. i strike thee down with a ‘MANIPULATION TACTIC.’ i feel like this has been covered enough and better in other mephone rambles so im not gonna get into it.

personal section

this is more of a personal experiences and opinions thing. less based on fact. agree or disagree idc this is just my experience.

once again, like i stated in the beginning, i see myself in mephone. a lot. I am an adult. i have autism. i have the tendency to act ‘childish’ sometimes due to my condition. im bad at being an adult. i struggle with tasks that are probably easy for other adults. i’m not a child. it’s very disheartening- i WANT to be viewed as an independent functioning adult, despite my condition, but when even a FICTIONAL PHONE who acts just like i do gets reduced to ‘child’ because he acts similarly to someone who’s mentally ill and has been abused. it HURTS MAN. he’s just trying his best:[

anyways conclusion

idc. you can headcanon whatever you want cause technically nothing is confirmed, but this is more food for thought for the people immediately jumping on the ‘child mephone’ bandwagon.

unless someone is canonically stated to be a child or is very heavily child coded, i don’t think its wrong for people to interpret them as an adult.

if sometime in the future mephone is canonically confirmed to be a child like. in universe. ill probably be disappointed.

i am a firm believer in age doesnt work the same way in ii as it does in our universe. theyre all fictional creatures. they were not created by conventional means. you dont have to apply our world’s standards to it.

anyways uhh. ramble over lol

[wanderlustart]

Is it okay to draw erotic fanart of real people?

I’m writing this because I sometimes get negative and aggressive anonymous messages about my art, and I feel the need to explain my perspective. The question of whether it's okay to draw erotic fanart of real people isn’t simple, and people have strong opinions on it. As someone who creates realistic fanart, I’ve thought about this a lot.

Public figures put their image out there, and for some, their sex appeal is part of their brand. This is the case with Käärijä. Drawing someone in an erotic way can be a way of appreciating their looks, vibe, or energy—especially if they already have a sensual or sexual image. If the art isn’t meant to harm or disrespect, some would argue it’s just another form of creative expression.

But even if someone is known for their sexual energy, they might not like being drawn in erotic fanart. Real people, whether they’re public figures or not, have a right to decide how they’re represented. Some might feel it’s objectifying or invasive, no matter the artist’s intentions. And if the art is realistic, it can blur the line between fantasy and reality, which might make things uncomfortable for the person being drawn.

For me, erotic art is a powerful way to express myself. It’s not just about the subject but about exploring beauty, emotion, sensuality, and even vulnerability in my work. I see it as something positive and meaningful, not harmful. While I understand that not everyone will agree with or appreciate what I create, I don’t believe in stopping something I’m passionate about just because it makes some people uncomfortable.

I also want to emphasize that my art comes from a place of deep admiration and love for Käärijä. I have a strong emotional connection to him, and my goal is never to hurt or disrespect him. Creating this art is my way of expressing that love and appreciation. It’s how I connect to his energy and celebrate everything I find inspiring about him.

Art has always been about pushing boundaries and expressing ideas, and erotic art is no different. As long as I approach it with care and respect, I will continue to create, because this is how I share what’s in my heart with the world.

And to the anonymous haters: feel free to keep screaming into the void—I’m too busy drawing to hear you. 🖕😊

[sugarverse]

ex boyfriend smut ; 2.1k words | enjoy! <3

I miss you, love.

the text made your stomach lurch, but you knew it was coming. you two had been on and off for longer than you care to admit, about 3 days after to a week and he's back. or you're back. or some weird thing happens that brings you closer to each other. you'd hope the cycle had broken with a new record of 40ish days without talking.

no you don't, c’mon we were doing so well !

typing the made your head sore, so what are you doing texting him back? this never leads to anything but getting back together. then into the same destroying habits that drive you back apart. It was exhausting.

Yes I do. I think about you every fucking day y/n. I miss you.

you stared at the phone, wet lashes blinking for a moment before letting out a soft laugh and joking to yourself. “I’d think about me everyday too..” you stood slowly from your bed, stretching and walking lazily to the bathroom. you stared at the hot water pouring into the shower stall, steam coming back into your face as you picked your brain. maybe it wasn’t a horrible idea, inviting him over. you knew what he wanted as soon as his unsaved but familiar number popped up your screen. he always brought food or bought you food after.. and you were kinda hungry. no harm no foul, huh? you hopped into the shower, letting it run against your skin for a moment. you reached out to your phone, starting some music before messaging him back.

come over <3

before you could change the song and set your phone back down, he had responded.

atta girl.

you rolled your eyes, smiling to yourself as you washed up. not long after, brushing your teeth and putting on some lip gloss. a t-shirt and panties is all you really needed, going to wait for his knock in the living room. you flicked through the music on your tv, the lighting from outside peaking through your blinds to illuminate the sun setting outside. before fully settling into the couch, there's a knock at the door.

you hop up, looking through the peep hole just to make sure out of the 8 billion people it could be it was the one person you wanted. you open the door all the way, watching him stop and utter horror as he saw you standing in your underwear. he lifted you over his shoulder with ease, slamming the door so that no one else were to see you.

“what do you care?” you ask, giggling from his shoulder as he sat two bags onto the floor. you neverminded it, inhaling the new cologne he had on.

“dont start that shit.” he said under his breath, the smell of him came flooding to your nose as he spun to set you back down, hands not being shy about rubbing over your ass as he did so.

“my gorgeous girl..” he mumbled, kissing your forehead, then down the side of your temple to your cheek, then to your lips. something about the kiss was definitely different than most, almost like kissing someone else. you brushed the thought aside, letting your hands intertwine with the back of his hair to pull him closer. it felt like he was almost hesitant to kiss you on your lips, was something wrong? he pulled away for a moment, letting there only be space for words between you two.

“i love you, y/n. i really do fuckin’ miss you..” he spoke in a whisper. you could hardly hear him, feeling him push his now glossy lips back against yours. “workin on it..” he mumbled again, pulling you into his arms greedily as he led you to the arm of the couch just to push you up against it. you smile, giggling in the kiss and wrapping your legs around his waist as you understand what he meant by ‘working on it’.

you pull your lips away, looking down at the hard on in his sweatpants. “you know i love you too handsome..” your hands slide down to his waistband until he stops you, causing you to stop and look him in the eyes.

“no, i mean I'm gonna be your fuckin husband. I love you. i want you to know that I mean it.” he stared at you intently before kissing your cheek, then passionately kissing your lips once more. his comment made you snicker in your head, although you knew how serious he was. you meant it when you said it back, but there are different levels to love. did he really hold you to highest praise like he says he does? if so, why the fuck do you two keep breaking up? you held him tighter, knowing you heard confidence in his voice. maybe he really was serious?

he leans over, lightly pushing you to lay down onto the couch. tongue swirling against your own as rough hands grabbed at your body to pull your chest closer to his. “you smell so fucking good..” he bit into your neck, feeling you jolt into his arms. it made him smirk, feeling you trying to pull him closer as well.

“hun not too v..visable I have work tomorrowww..” you say more as a suggestion than command. he bites a bit harder, pulling away to lift your shirt. he didn't bother lifting it all of the way, putting his head underneath to suck on your soft skin some more. he yanked your hips to his, taking a nipple into his mouth and sucking on it to feel you squirm against his hips. it made you moan, tugging on his hair and smiling through heavy breaths. you grinded against him needily, feeling him reciprocate by humping against your most sensitive parts. he made sure not to be too rough, aiming to grind against your clit slowly. it was about you, he wanted to make that obvious.

"bed, b-bed..please. want y..you in bed.” you whimper, moaning softly and tugging at his hair once more so he'd let up. reluctantly, he pulls away and lifts you back into his arms. he nudges against you as he carries you, snickering at your desperate attempts to grind harder against him as he shuffles his feet a few steps down the hall. he moves the door open with his foot.. the smell of you. he could go on and on about how much he missed it, how much he really truly missed traces of you in his room. he groaned as you kissed down his neck, looking over at your colorful bed sheets before laying you down carefully.

“how do you want it, pretty girl?” he asks, sliding down to his knees and bringing your legs to his shoulders. you look down to see him smiling, trying to decide. you could see hearts in his eyes as he stared at the wet spot in your panties. he kissed up your thighs, looping a finger around the hem of your panties before sliding them off. he left a small kiss on your clit, pulling your hips to his mouth. “after I taste you, itadakimasu.” he mumbled.

“you fucking nerd-ahh! mmhngh..!" you moan out, feeling his tongue swirl around your clit, sucking on it and latching onto you. your back arching off of the blankets not long after, hands tangling themselves into your sheets to hold onto something. you wrapped your ankles around his head, grinding against his tongue as he guided it up and down against your pretty cunt.

he moaned like a man who hadn't eaten anything good in years, bringing your hips off of the bed and forcing your thighs around his head even tighter. you whined, tugging even harder at his hair as you babbled about how much you missed his touch, it's not like you let anyone else touch you. you were having you time.. until today anyway. he smiled, enjoying your praises as he felt you cum against his tongue for the first time in over a month. he couldn’t get over the taste, or the way you smelled. he buried his face impossibly deeper into your cunt, hoping you’d give him more.

“sw..sweetheart, please.!” you tried to nudge his head away, feeling him cling to you even tighter. you laid your head back onto the mattress, moaning louder and moving to cover your mouth. he looked up at you, giving you a minute to keep your hand over your lips before realizing you weren't going to get the message on looks alone. pulling away with a pop!, slapping your clit a few times. “Nu uh. Let me hear you.”

you whine, moving your hands back into his hair like before as he continues. you squirm in his touch, eyes starting to get watery as he draws a second orgasm from you. you shivered against him, feeling him slowly pull away as you calmed down from your high.

“did you decide how you want me?” he asked, looking at your disheveled hair and ecstasy-ridden eyes. he felt his cock twitch st the sight, staring at your chest rise and fall with deep breaths before you answered. he rested his cheek onto your thigh with a smile.

“fuuuck um.. fuck” you laugh, lifting yourself up on your elbows. “i don’t care.. kinda wanna see you..? if thats okay?” you ask, feeling him move your body towards the pillows to lay your head down properly. he slides off his pants and underwear, chuckling softly. “more than okay.” he swiped over his tip with his thumb, feeling how sore it was from being so hard. andmissingyou.

“c’mere..” you mumble, propped back onto your elbows to look at him once more. you glance down, noticing he didn’t have a condom on. which explains the Walgreens bag. he climbed over top of you, glancing down for a minute before lining up to you. his eyes went back to yours before sliding it in slowly. he sighed in relief, moving to lay his head into your shoulder. he groaned as he fit all the way inside of you. your legs wrap around his waist, squirming as you struggled to take him.

“r..relax sweet pea, you’ll break me..” he mumbles against your pretty skin, moving an arm to lift your leg a bit higher. you moan into his shoulder, biting into his flesh and drawing a half moan half laugh from him. after relaxing enough for him to start moving comfortably, you immediately felt him reach deep into you as your hips grinded against each other. you shut your eyes tightly, moaning and whimpering underneath him as he stared down to watch your wet lashes flicker. you left claw marks down his back, causing him to hide his face in your collarbone before moving faster. “nnnn! ‘ts too muhh.. much!” you whine out, looking up into his eyes just to say “p..please don’t stop!” in the next breaths.

he smiled, kissing your cheek and temple. “f..fuck i love you. my girl, my. girl.” he groaned, slamming into you ever harder. you could feel him hit your cervix repeatedly, causing him to draw a 3rd orgasm from you and for your vision to spot. you feel your eyes well up in tears, kissing him sloppily as he slowed down ever so slightly. being close himself, chasing after his orgasm. he squeezed your body tightly as he came, arms wrapped around your torso to use you like the toy you were.

you sigh, feeling your thighs begin to shake. you laughed softly under your breath, kissing his cheek as he nudged into you a few more times. he pulled out, watching his cock twitch over your pretty swollen cunt. he swiped some up with his index finger, bringing it to your lips and watching you clean it with no hesitation.

“good girl..” he grinned, kissing your cheek and moving to get a rag. coming back a few seconds later to see you moving to stand. “what are you doing?” he asked, the blue rag dripping in water slightly onto his hand.

“don't you think we should shower?” you lean against the bed, feeling your thighs shake as you held yourself up. you shut your legs, not wanting your mess to drip onto the floor.

“..you sure you can stand in the shower?” he chuckled, walking over to you and lightly moving your legs apart to wipe you off. you let him do what he's doing, leaning back on the bed before mocking him.

“yes i can, thank you.” you commented, watching him tilt his head and look amused at your response. he put his hands up, stepping back.

“after you,” he smiled, watching you struggle to walk straight at first. you glared at him, hearing his giggles in the corner before walking to the bathroom.

[yan-lorkai]

Could I request a Yandere! General Lilia x Male! Reader, platonic of course.

It’s a bit long, but basically, back during the war between Fae and humans, Reader was a soldier on the human side and stood along the frontlines against the Fae, but he didn’t necessarily hate them. His feelings were more neutral towards them, and this entire bloodbath. He didn’t have a reason to anyway as they were only trying to protect their home, something he could completely understand, so even though he was fighting against them, he refused to have any fake blood on his hands. With that being said, he never did kill anyone on the battlefield, more like he’d quickly shoo them away behind his superiors back, challenging the risk of being seen as a traitor and also helping the side of the "enemy." It’s when he’s doing this that he gets caught not by his human superiors but by the Fae general himself, aka Lilia, but like before, he can even say anything, the reader basically shoves an injured Fae soldier in his arms and tells him to play dead for like 5 seconds before someone catches him in the act.

The battlefield was a chaotic blur of clashing steel, shouts, and the acrid scent of smoke. The skies had darkened, as if the heavens themselves mourned the violence taking place below. Soldiers in armor, both human and Fae, clashed viciously, their cries echoing across the plains. The war between Fae and humans had raged on for what felt like an eternity, leaving behind a trail of destruction and despair.

Yet, despite the madness, there you stood — not entirely committed to the bloodshed, your gaze sweeping over the chaos with a strange sense of detachment.

You weren’t here out of hatred. For you, this was just a duty, a responsibility forced upon you by circumstance. The Fae weren’t monsters to you. They were just... different, but humans hated everything that was different. They hated themselves for the color of their skin, their religion, their culture.

Maybe the real monsters are humans.

And even though you were meant to see them as enemies, you couldn’t find it in yourself to hate them. They were defending their home, just as much as the humans were fighting to protect their own. It was a war born out of fear and misunderstanding, and the thought of adding to the bloodshed turned your stomach.

That’s why, even though you were a soldier, you had never taken a life on the battlefield. You found other ways to contribute — distracting your superiors, sabotaging strategies that would cause unnecessary harm, and, most controversially, secretly helping the Fae escape whenever you could, so far you had saved 10 faes.

It was risky, and you knew if you were caught, it could mean being branded a traitor. But as long as you could help even one person avoid this senseless bloodshed, it was worth the risk.

And today was no different. You knelt beside an injured Fae soldier, his breathing labored, blood staining the ground beneath him. His wings, once majestic, were tattered and caked with dirt. He looked up at you with a mixture of confusion and pain, clearly not expecting a human to approach without raising a weapon.

“Shh,” you whispered, glancing around to make sure none of your fellow soldiers were watching. “I’m going to help you, but you have to be quiet.”

The Fae soldier’s eyes widened, but he nodded, biting back a groan of pain. You quickly tore a strip of fabric from your own cloak and began bandaging his wounds, your hands moving with a practiced efficiency. “I know this isn’t much,” you muttered, “but it’ll stop the bleeding long enough for you to get out of here.”

The sound of footsteps approaching made your heart leap into your throat. You turned your head sharply, spotting the shadowy figure of a man approaching, his armor unmistakable even in the chaos.

It was the Fae general, Lilia Vanrouge, Princess Meleanor's Right Hand man. His presence was like a dark specter on the battlefield, moving with a grace and ease that made it seem as though the war could not touch him. His crimson eyes glowed, sharp and alert, and you knew there was no way he hadn’t noticed what you were doing.

For a moment, panic gripped you. If he saw you helping one of his own, what would he do? Would he see you as an ally or as just another human with a hidden agenda? But before you could even think about how to explain yourself, your instincts took over. You grabbed the injured Fae soldier by the shoulders and, with a firm yet gentle push, shoved him into Lilia’s arms.

“He’s hurt,” you said quickly, your voice low but urgent. “Make him play dead for five seconds before someone else sees, I don't know. I did everything I could but I'm human, I don't even know if your medicine is different from ours.”

Lilia blinked, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. For a moment, he just stood there, the injured Fae slumped against him, confusion evident on his face. This wasn’t a scenario he had expected — a human soldier, handing over an injured Fae as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He glanced down at the soldier, then back up at you, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

“Well,” he said, his voice soft and melodic, “this is certainly a twist.”

“Please,” you continued, your tone still urgent. “Just… do it.”

The general’s smile widened, and he inclined his head slightly as if indulging you. “Very well.” With a deftness that spoke to his years of experience, he adjusted his hold on the injured soldier, positioning him so that he looked lifeless, his head lolling to the side.

To anyone passing by, it would seem like Lilia had simply found another fallen comrade.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, your shoulders relaxing slightly. But before you could turn away, Lilia’s voice stopped you.

"Why are you doing this?"

You made yourself this question many times. That specific question made you turn around on your bed, yet there was never a satisfying answer. You looked at him.

"Because I don't like this bloodshed. It doesn't even make sense." You looked at his pointy ears and armor. "We hate you because you're different or because we're greedy and want your land? Either way, I will not partake in this war."

A hushed sound caught your attention - it sounded like voices. Human voices. The sword on your hands was a cursed, heavy piece of steel. You looked at Lilia a last time. He was still staring at you, red eyes glowing as he watched your uneasy.

"Perhaps in another life, we wouldn't have to fight." You said softly, like a farewell. "You seem cool enough for a fae. Goodbye, general," You joked.

Making clear that Lilia wasn'tgoing to secretly follow you, you changed courses, walking through a muddy path to meet up with your superiors.

A knot was tied to your neck with the thought of having to spend time with them, hearing how they desecrated the fae.

Perhaps, in another life, things wouldn't be that way... Well, you hope.

[stardustizuku]

I’ve recently been thinking on why there’s people who interpret Kuro in such a drastically different way.

And something I notice is that you can easily tell how someone experiences the series, based on what they think of the GWA.

The way you interpret the Green Witch Arc is indicative of of how you have been interpreting the story so far, and how you’ll interpret it going forward

Generally, there’s two interpretations:

1.- The Reaction Ciel had to the mustard gas, are his true feelings coming afloat

2.- The Reaction Ciel had to the mustard gas, isn’t how he feels.

The first interpretation (and I’m really not trying to be mean about it this time) comes from a very, uhm, shall I call it Teenage-Like? mindset of how pain and trauma works.

I call it Teenage-Like, because I’ve seen it in mostly literature aimed at teenagers, be it fanfics or YA. It comes from an inability for teenagers to actually voice how they feel towards their parents. A helpless feeling of being ignored.

I don’t wanna point fingers but this is the basis of a lot of Self Harm tendencies (physical, emotional, psychological, or others like EDs or digital self harm) come from. A need for people to notice you are in pain. But because you feel like you cannot voice it yourself (or don’t deserve it, it can vary) you start to lash out. Put yourself in higher risks, to have someone find out there is something wrong with you.

So the moment the main character finally breaks down, or has a moment of weakness, it’s interpreted as someone finally being truthful.

This is how Ciel’s reaction is interpreted by the first half.

The mustard gas is simply a trigger of pain, that causes all of Ciel to unravel. He’s in pain right now, cause he’s always in pain. He’s avoidant to Sebastian, cause he’s always been scared of him. He doesn’t trust him. He doesn’t trust adults. Finny is the only one who actually cares.

This makes the fact that Sebastian ,essentially, slapped him to get him to react, come off as cruel.

The boy is finally being honest, and you just tell him he’s being childish? Horrible.

Obviously, that’s not my interpretation.

Okay so, what happens once you’re not a teenager? Once you don’t have an adult figure to take care of you? What happens once you start avoiding telling your parents the pain you’re in, not because you think they won’t care, but because they’ll care too much and get worried and you don’t want them to get worried?

You start to realize pain is not the end of the world.

While, when being a teenager, getting sick meant someone gets to take care of you and maybe notice you aren’t okay, as an adult getting sick potentially means - not going to work. Which means your won’t have money to buy food, which means you’ll probably go hungry.

So getting sick becomes less of a way to get away from the responsibilities you have, and more of a burden.

That’s why you’ll see, in media aimed at adults,mental breakdown less depicted as an opportunity to be honest, and more of a sickness that needs to be healed.

You can have a more honest and truthful conversation, while you are sound of mind. There’s no power dynamic between friends, like it would with adult figures and children. So this song and dance, isn’t necessary.

You don’t have to be sick to be understood. And your friends will rather try to help you, than understand you when you’re suffering. That’s the nature of adult relationships.

This is more or less the framing that comes from Ciel’s breakdown (in the second interpretation).

The Mustard Gas isn’t showing Ciel’s true nature - it’s showing Ciel at his most vulnerable. This means, not in his sound mind.

Saying things he normally wouldn’t, hurting people he normally would hold close, and clinging to people he generally would never try to get close to.

Simply put, it isn’t just “a bit of pain to make him unravel” but a “Ciel is getting psychologically tortured by a weapon used for chemical warfare”.

He’s past being honest. He’s having such a severe reaction, that he cannot function. He’s being tortured and broken, to the point he is no longer himself.

He isn’t being “truthful” he’s scared.

And fear can make you do things that, in your sound mind, you would never do.

The point is that, Ciel isn’t saying what he truly feels or being “honest”. It’s him scared out of his mind, saying everything and anything to make the fear stop.

And the biggest proof is how he treats Sebastian.

The fact that Ciel asks Sebastian to “go away” or “not come near” is perhaps the most glaring reason as to how badly this Gas messed with him.

I’ve said this before but to Ciel, Sebastian is a lifeline. He’s the only tool he has for his revenge. The thing that, even after he lost r!Ciel, he was willing to sacrifice it all to achieve.

And at this point in time, Sebastian is also the only emotional anchor Ciel has.

As far back as the second episode, Ciel has asked Sebastian to stay. Even when he’s having flashbacks, even when he’s having an episode. In fact, Sebastian leaving him is a great source of anxiety - since as seen in BoC in the Asthma Scene, without him Ciel feels powerless enough to die.

He feels more protected with him, because he KNOWS Sebastian will protect him and that Sebastian will follow his orders.

Again going with the analogy of a dog - He feels more comfortable having the chained beast by his bed, simply bcs others are trying to hurt him and the beast won’t eat him right now.

So him asking Sebastian to go away, is throwing away his biggest safety net for a surrogate for r!Ciel, just means he’s reverting to the mentality he had during the cult.

If Sebastian is constantly telling him “it’s okay, they can’t hurt you anymore, you’re outside the cage, you can do what you WANT”

Ciel clinging to Finny is him going “no, im staying in the cage bcs at least the cage is familiar”

And no matter what the first camp tells you, staying in the cage, trapped inside your pain ISNT the healthy option.

(We could argue Ciel’s need for revenge rather than healing is also unhealthy, but no one in the second camp would even call Ciel anything other than a villain in someone else’s story)

So, Sebastian slapping him and going “no, that’s not what you want”, isn’t as cruel as it would be in the first interpretation. Because as we see, he’s right. That’s not what Ciel wants. And it’s proved by the next scene where Sebastian talks to Ciel about what he truly wants.

Rather than Sebastian telling Ciel to “get over it”, it’s closest to a “snap out of it, something’s wrong”

This is further proved by the fact that, Sebastian first instinct isn’t to scare him. He does back away, he does try to wait and gently coax him. But Ciel literally cannot reason with him.

That small but significant difference in interpretation has wildly different outcomes in how you perceive both, the characters and the story.

If you pick the first, you’re reading Sebastian as an enemy. Someone who does not respect Ciel. You see his attempt to eat Ciel’s soul as a breach of trust, and proof that he doesn’t care for him.

But if you pick the second option, you see Sebastian as an ally. Someone who’s running out of time and ways to save Ciel. His actions, while crass, ultimately help Ciel. What he was trying to do, was help.

Yana, very clearly, wanted the second interpretation. However, I cannot, in good conscience, tell you it’s the only interpretation. People are free to pick and chose how they read the text, irrelevant of how little of the actual text they’re reading.

But I will say, picking the first is symbolic of a less mature way of thinking. Common on those who like to infantilize trauma and trauma responses. It’s the easy, safe and comforting way of reading the text. As I said, it’s common in those who want their pain to be acknowledged.

That reading of Kuro is one that speak to me, that you’re not really ready to confront pain. And someone with that mentality, is not someone who’s reading of the text I find particularly interesting. Sure, you can share it, I’ll never stop you, but know you’re speaking to me in an entirely different language. You’re interpreting the text so differently, that I don’t think it’s even the same text anymore.

Again, you’re essentially writing analysis on fanfiction. And I’m not all too interested in dissecting your own trauma sloppily painted over British Aesthetic.

[gourmetofglut]

The Mischaracterization of Ferris: A thread analyzing Re: Zero's most misinterpreted and overlooked character.

Note: This is a re-edit of a thread I wrote on Twitter. I recently decided to start using Tumblr a bit more. Since I've also been wanting to back up most of my threads, I figured I might as well move everything here. This is the first re-edit I'll be posting on this site. It was one of my favorites to write, so I hope it's enjoyable!

Side story spoilers for the entire thread. Arc 8 spoilers in the speculation section (will be marked since so many people aren't caught up).

For novel readers of Re: Zero, Ferris stands as one of the most divisive characters in the fandom. Considering his poor utilization in the anime and his role in the story within Arc 3, it's easy to see why.

On one hand, Ferris is one of the most outwardly aggressive characters toward Subaru in Arc 3. He makes no secret of his disdain from the start and consistently throws jabs at him every opportunity he gets. This behavior can certainly leave a negative first impression.

On the other hand, Ferris is quite a fascinating character who serves an important role within the narrative of Arc 3. He doesn't let Subaru off as easy as everyone else, which is exactly what makes seeing him grow respect for Subaru satisfying.

Whichever opinion you hold, that’s mostly irrelevant today. Instead, I will be simply discussing his character and his role in the story, as well as arguing in favor of many of his merits that people overlook.

Ferris's primary role is similar to all the Royals Candidates' knights: serving as a foil for Subaru. I've explained the similarities between Subaru and the other knights before, but to sum it up as quickly as possible all 3 of them represent a version of what Subaru could be.

Reinhard is a version of what Subaru could've been if he were the typical isekai protagonist, Julius is a lot more complicated but he’s essentially what Subaru could've been if he were granted enough power to face his enemies on even ground, and Al is Subaru if he had been just a bit unlucky in where he had been sent; becoming someone who struggles to care and abuses his powers to the fullest.

Ferris is much the same, though it can be argued he parallels Subaru the hardest, except for maybe Al. The resemblance on paper between the two is uncanny. They are both physically weak men who often don't fit traditional gender roles and have the sole desire of helping a woman they love to achieve her dreams of becoming a Royal Candidate, no matter the personal costs to themselves.

To do this, they use an extraordinary power unique to them (in Subaru's case RB, and in Ferris' case his magic that is relative in power to an authority). Their need to rely on others for victory is a source of immense mental turmoil and often leaves them full of self-loathing.

They place immense value in the lives of others, even those who have or will harm them, to the point that they are willing to be harmed to help them. Seeing others casually disregard the lives of others serves as one of the things that anger them the most.

They are both prone to obsessively possessive behavior and have sometimes even directed it towards the one they love. This often leads to them getting in trouble due to their jealousy.

There are more similarities I could point out, but you get the point.

Where am I going with this though? Ferris is clearly a parallel to Subaru, but what does he represent regarding him? Put simply, I believe Ferris is meant to represent what Subaru could've been if his parents were just a bit different.

Parent and Child is one of the most crucial chapters for informing us about just the kind of person Subaru is. Perhaps the most important piece is how it helps us understand just how much of his current personality is a result of his father. Subaru not only looked up to him but actively mimicked him to achieve his goals. The pressure of the surrounding world caused him to default to trying to be his father instead of who he truly was. Subaru's parents weren't perfect. In fact, they were very flawed people. Regardless of this fact though, they are responsible for many of Subaru's positive traits.

The same is true for Ferris and his shitbag of a father. If you were to ask any novel reader what Ferris' defining trait as a character is, they would probably say anger or bitterness.

This isn't surprising, as that's how he typically acts towards everyone except Crusch and Fourier, even when it comes to friends such as Julius.

I would argue, however, that this is merely an act he defaults to when he is stressed or angry, similar to Subaru's mimicry of his own father.

During his bitter moments, such as his cold statement to Subaru as he leaves Crusch's mansion in Arc 4, Ferris is merely defaulting to what he has learned to be the best method of dealing with his stress...a method that is eerily similar to how Biehn sometimes acts in EX 1.

Whether Ferris acknowledges it or not, his attitude at his worst moments makes him come off like his father. He can be cruel, sometimes even callous. He shows intense rage when he doesn't get his way and attacks the part of his opponent that is most vulnerable.

This attitude can blind him to the point that he can even hypocritically act racist towards Emilia. Ferris' entire life has been defined by discrimination. In the face of someone he should know has faced many of the same issues, he once again acts almost exactly like his own father.

It was in the middle of a mental breakdown, but that does not excuse him just like it does not excuse Subaru.

Speaking of his parents, it's also notable how their inability to connect with Ferris parallels Naoko and Kenichi's struggles with Subaru.

Ferris' dad is a bombastic, loud man who was (once) well-respected and causes many of Ferris's issues through his actions and Ferris' emulation of him. His fatal flaw in the end was that he could not understand Ferris, similar to how Kenichi could not fully understand Subaru.

Ferris' mom, on the other hand, fully understood the distress he was under but did not have the confidence to interfere or make a change as Ferris wasted away, similar to Naoko's inability to help Subaru when he most needed it.

That's not to say Kenichi or Naoko are even a thousandth as bad as either of those two, but their struggles with their child deeply parallel each other.

Back on track though, I want to highlight a bit more of Ferris' parallels with his father using perhaps the most damning example.

This specific scene is from "The Saga of the Great Crusch-sama Begins." When faced with his mother, whom he hates so much, he attempts to stab her in the chest. Crusch gets caught in the crossfire causing Felix to freak out and unlock his water magic to save her.

What can at first be written off as just a unique origin for Ferris' water magic gets recontextualized hard in EX 1, where it's revealed his father killed his mother in the exact same method.

It's such an eerie similarity and something that I feel gets overlooked too often when discussing Ferris.

As shown in scenes like the one above, Ferris often projects this image of hatred, bitterness, and malice. It's easy to write that off as just the kind of person he is as so many often do...

...but there's obviously more to it than this. There is far more to Ferris than his mimicry of his father.

Ferris doesn't allow himself to be vulnerable very often in the story. Only when he is with Fourier and Crusch, as well as when he is in the most intense moments of crisis, does he show who he actually is. Stress is the best test of character after all.

The best example to me? His confrontation with the father he so often emulates.

If Ferris was actually as vindictive as he so often outwardly acts, how would you expect him to react to the death of a man he hated so much?

Wouldn't he taunt him? Wouldn't he make his last moments a living hell? Wouldn't he crow in pleasure at his agony? Would you be able to even blame Ferris if he made Biehn's last moments hell?

You would expect that...but that's not how he reacts. At that moment, watching as the man who tortured him so much dies an awful death, he just shows sadness. He thinks about the possibility that they could've just worked things out. He just wishes that things could be different.

Despite everything his father had done to him, despite all the rage at the world Ferris projects, the moment he is put into a scenario he likely dreamed of he can't help but feel pity that this was the only route he could take. He never wanted to hurt even Biehn of all people.

And this, I believe, is Ferris's actual defining trait underneath his persona of cynicism and bitterness: kindness and a greater love for life than perhaps anyone else in the series.

Ferris's power, as Fourier once said, is the kindest in the world. At his core, Ferris is just as kind as his power.

Think about it. Despite Ferris's words, what is the thing that upsets him most?

People who waste their lives. Whether it be Subaru, Fourier, a random Vollachian guard, or even Witch Cultists...Ferris can't bring himself to watch life be thrown away. It just hurts him, regardless of how horrible the person is.

Just like Subaru, Ferris wants to help everyone, even if it costs him so much. The pain that he feels when he is unable to do so is immeasurable, as Subaru himself states in Volume 8. He is struggling with the same realization as Subaru: saving some people is impossible.

So where will this lead? What does this have to do with the themes of the story? Well, to answer that, I’ll have to take a little diversion to talk about one of the more…difficult topics involving Ferris.

Ferris and his relationship with gender is something that I feel a lot of the fanbase is really fucking weird about. Even ignoring the pretty deep-rooted transphobia in a lot of discussions involving him (he isn't trans, but he is heavily trans-coded and there really shouldn't be so much of an issue in letting people read into that), there's a feverish desire to deny that his status as a person not conforming to gender norms matters at all. All too often, people reduce it to just a fetish or something to make jokes about.

The reason this is such a bafflingly stupid take though is because of how blatant the importance is to anyone who has read EX 1. Even Tappei himself has stated that many of the things he wants to do with Ferris could not be done without this aspect of his character.

Ferris's non-conformance is part of a promise made with Crusch. Ferris took on her femininity while Crusch took on his masculinity. It's a promise between the two that proves their devotion to one another. It's the ultimate symbol of their affection for one another.

In Aganau IF Ferris dresses and acts more masculine, precisely because his connection to Crusch no longer exists.

I'd also argue it's why he continues to dress as he does even when Crusch no longer has her memories, desperately holding onto the literal symbol of the bond between them.

However, unlike Crusch who seems to love who she is both when taking on more masculine and feminine traits, finding a balance between them; Ferris can't do the same. He sees it merely as a means to show his devotion rather than something he does for himself.

He constantly expresses that it is all for Crusch and Crusch alone. If anything he seems to resent his inability to fulfill any kind of masculine role, as shown once again in his conversation with Biehn in EX 1.

When pushed to finally unleash all his true feelings to Biehn, what does he bring up as the main reason for his resentment? His abuse? His coldness? His murder of his mother? Any of the innumerable unforgivable things Biehn has done to him?

No. Ferris points at his body. He anguishes over his skinny arms, his inability to wield a sword, his lack of muscle, and his lack of fighting prowess. He hates his lack of masculine features and how he's unable to live up to his idea of what Crusch's knight should be.

He literally sees his masculinity as something stolen from him by his father; leaving him so empty that he needed something else to fill that void.

Crusch gave him something to fill that void. Crusch gave him a way to live. Crusch filled his soul...but he still resents what he "has" to be.

Now does that mean he resents Crusch? No, of course not. But he does resent that this is the only thing he can do for her; the only person he can be. Deep down, he doesn't seem to want to be the way he is, and instead of trying to change that he gives in to despair.

He's stuck in that hatred, in that desire to meet Crusch's expectations, and in that moment where a starving child begged to be released and was finally brought into the light. In many ways, he acts like a child.

This is quite literally represented in him preventing himself from going through puberty; a symbol in many stories of transitioning from childhood to adulthood. He sees his current form as a shackle whether he realizes it or not.

Now does that mean that Ferris should disregard his femininity entirely? Throwing away the representation of his love for Crusch and something that has defined him for so long seems as self-destructive as staying stuck. What's the solution? Where is his arc going?

Well, before that, I want to cover one last thing before I have to delve into Arc 8 spoilers. There's a bit of a side tangent I want to go on.

With everything I've been able to point out up to here, it's clear that Ferris is a remarkably complex character. There's so much to read into and talk about.

So why is he so hated?

He's so similar to Subaru, possibly the most popular character in the novel fandom. Despite all the claims of him being the worst and me highlighting his character's flaws, he hasn't done anything more morally dubious than the vast majority of characters in this series, even when he was pushed to the edge. This is especially true when compared to some of the most popular characters like Subaru or Roswaal. Hell, characters even more directly belligerent than Ferris like Priscilla don't get half the hate (though Priscilla's perception has...its own issues).

Why does he get disregarded so often? Why is he often treated as shallow fetish fuel? Why is he just reduced to being an asshole in every discussion that involves him?

Well, I have a few I can point out.

The first is, most obviously, misinformation. A large portion of the novel reader base has not read Arcs 1-4 in the LN and has very warped views of some of the characters in that section of the story. Ferris is just the most blatant example.

I can't count the number of times I've heard people just blatantly lie about or exaggerate what Ferris did in Arc 3. From the "mana bomb" that has LITERALLY no basis in the text to the "brainwashing" scene treated as a comedy bit that is exaggerated to hell, people go out of their way to interpret him in the worst light possible.

Many of the people who haven't read those sections then see Ferris's ribbing of Subaru in Arc 5 and then run with those pieces of misinformation; spreading it to the point that many believe some blatant lies to be fact.

The second is simply that a lot of people in the fandom don't read the side stories. I don't particularly blame a lot of these people, as there is a lot to get through, but there are a lot of people who take advantage of this for...certain reasons.

This leads to the third point...shipping. Ferris suffers from "Die for our ship" syndrome (https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/DieForOurShip…). A lot of people like Crusch x Subaru and Crusch loves Ferris so that ends up being more than enough for some people to hate him.

That's not representative of even close to every Crusch x Subaru shipper, of course, it's just a notable trend that it's hard to pretend doesn't exist with some of them.

All of these factors often go hand-in-hand with the final factor: the fandom's immense double standards when it comes to certain characters.

I'm not going to go into deep detail with this as it would distract from the main point of the thread...but you know what I mean if you've interacted with the community for a significant period of time. It also doesn't help that many of the same people in this category tend to be incredibly bigoted.

Ferris isn't the only character subjected to these double standards, as characters like Emilia and Ram often face similar purposeful misinterpretations, but his frequently unfair critiques have affected his reputation negatively perhaps more than any other.

This isn't to say that this is all true for everyone who hates Ferris. There are numerous reasons you may just not be interested in his character.

However, I feel it's dishonest to pretend Ferris isn't often targeted far more than other characters for often lacking reasons.

With that out of the way, I can move on to the last thing I wanted to cover in this thread. I have established a lot here, so I want to speculate about the future.

From this point forward there are unmarked Arc 8 spoilers, so...you can't argue I wasn't careful. I don't blame you at all for leaving now and I thank you for reading my ramblings.

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Are you still here? Ok, let's start.

With all of the above established, I want to return to the question of where Ferris' arc will go in the future. My belief? I think it will be something similar to what Pre-Amnesia Crusch has already realized, with Felix’s closest parallel in Subaru being close to doing the same.

Crusch, as I mentioned before, has found balance in the two aspects of her life. Throughout the story, she switches seamlessly between the two without a second thought. She is comfortable and happy with both parts of herself.

Subaru is also on a similar path. He feels most comfortable in embracing his feminine side, idealizing it through Natsumi. All his confidence is channeled into that persona, while the other two aspects of his personality (his main self who has all the self-worth of an abandoned puppy and his child self who is representative of his more masculine traits) are imbalanced.

Arc 8 seems to be going in a direction where he realizes how important all of these aspects of him are. All 3 have flaws. None of them are "complete," just pieces of the coherent whole that is Natsuki Subaru.

I believe a similar thing will happen with Ferris.

He will need to find a balance between Ferris, his feminine side that has defined him for so long, and Felix the masculine identity he craves. He needs to find a role that makes him as happy as Crusch was, accepting who he is while striving to become who he wants to be.

I don't expect that to be easy though. In fact, I think the path to get there will be immensely messy and self-destructive.

The idea of Ferris having a breakdown or lashing out has been well-foreshadowed throughout the story. He has had numerous smaller outbursts and has displayed similar problems to Arc 3 Subaru when pushed to an extreme. There's a large amount of toxicity in him that will rush out, sooner or later. It will likely take similar levels of suffering to force him to get a grip, possibly hurting Crusch in the process.

Who do I believe to be the trigger for this? My best guess is Capella.

It is quite possible Capella freed Sphinx and recreated her arms initially. Why would she do this? Why not? We're seeing firsthand how much of a monster Sphinx can be with the Sacrament of the Immortal King. Why wouldn't someone like Capella want something like that under her control?

Of course, Sphinx is almost certainly dying soon. Capella will need a replacement, and who's the only other potential user of the Sacrament? Ferris.

There's also the idea that Capella may have poisoned the Royal Family and, most importantly, Fourier. If Capella does become the main antagonist for Ferris, that could serve as motivation for him to want her dead regardless of his own reservations about killing.

Adding onto this is the fact that shapeshifting is a power with a long history of being associated with identity issues. Tappei likes making his antagonists strong narrative foils to his protagonists, so it would be interesting to contrast Ferris' identity issues with the potentially strong identity issues of Capella.

Finally, there's a lot of potential for her tragic past to parallel Ferris' past, with many implications that the Royal Family may not exactly have treated Emerada the best. The idea that the Royal Family may have locked her away is not implausible and it could make their connections even stronger.

Whatever that breakdown leads to, I expect Crusch and/or Subaru to be the one who snaps him out of it. This will likely be the catalyst that forces Ferris to find a balance. He'll need to let go of things like his self-blame over being unable to help Fourier, his internalized hatred of his current identity, his idealization of Crusch, and his need to save everyone. Ferris's love will finally allow him to grow and change into a person who is the middle ground between his desires and his true self.

After all, that's what Re: Zero is truly about: love and growth. Almost every character reflects this and, if my interpretation of Ferris is right, he could embody that theme just as much as Subaru himself does.

He could be a shining bastion of what this story is all about.

Of course, this is all just my interpretation and speculation. If you disagree with it, feel free to. I just hope I was able to make you appreciate Ferris a bit more/changed your mind on how much potential his character has.

I wish whoever is reading this a nice day!

[s0lar-ch3ri]

LOOK AT MY FREAK WEEK FIC BOY (CANNIBALISM) (INVOLVES MENTIONS OF GUTS, BLOOD, AND OTHER SHIT LIKE THAT) ("a mouth to bite with; wouldnt your corpse just look so nice?")

It’s bad. Very bad. Vyncent halfway is understanding the words here. He’s found little to nothing to eat, and most has been purged only minutes after consumption. His throat is clawing its way out. It needs something it can process. Something like home. Something that he can survive and live with, because the gods know even their place in the terrain was due long ago.

His eyes, hurting from just how different the light here was, lock onto someone. A random passerby. His head hurts. His stomach hurts. His teeth are itching for something. They’re just right there. He didn’t know them. It’d cause him no harm. It’d be fine.

He remembers this feeling too well. It’s not his first time. Vyncent remembers many a time the hunger would hit him, never just was this needed for survival. He knew what skin could taste like. He’s wrapped his tongue around things that were just too humanoid for comfort. He knows how blood is meant to taste. It felt wrong on those rare occasions he indulged, washing his mouth from the tastes. It was never wrong, it wasn’t right, it was just more food. Just more food.

He wiped his watering mouth.

He was not the worst at stealth. He however was not aware how loud he could be, his ears feeling filled with water. They turned around just as Vyncent wrapped his fingers around them. They were a bit shorter than him, a struggle at it too. Rounded ears that barely jut out from the face, and shrunken eyes with rounder pupils. They were smaller then what he knew them to be, he figured it was a fear response. He normally had a half mask as to block out the strange air, but he dragged it down, accidentally catching a lick of his carnivorous teeth, sharpened and ready for this moment, hungry.

In the small area between the tall and strangely constructed figures, the dark surrounded them, one where he felt most comfortable, the light shining at him better with the setting sun. It felt earlier than what he was used to, but everything here is not what he’s used to. The person struggles in his arms. He finds it may be best to start with a blade. Might have protection or be poisonous.

He bites in.

It is not the flesh he knows. The taste difference is minimal, but there. The path to the bone feels less blocked. The meat inside is less thick. Feels like the arm is thinner. Of course, his path starts at the shoulders, sinking in his jaws. The fabric is minimal bother for him, he tears through easily as he pulls back, flesh coming with. As he spits out the fabric, he sees the blood spurt out like a fountain. He wipes his mouth, he knows he’s not done yet.

They do what Vyncent can only assume is yelling. As they try to flee, he grips their arm, flipping them over his head and onto the floor. He hears the faintest crack as their legs hit stone. Tears stream their face, looking behind Vyncent at the world there he never understood. Holding this arm and on a knee, he bites into the wrist, hitting bone quickly. He manages to almost tear off the hand, yanking off the little bits left attached. They’re stuck in fear as they watch him use his teeth to hold onto bone and remove them out, eating what’s left. He feels weak pushes and loud screams as he goes for the motherload. Wielding his dagger, he plunges it into the chest and cuts up, getting the full thing. He rips the cut wide open with his hands. He pulls out guts that seem different than regular ones and rips off flesh bits from the opened wound. He can taste the blood. It had a more distinct metallic taste. It wasn’t too horrid. The meat held good value in its texture for sure. He couldn’t help but to dig in, he was hungry, and you don’t waste good food.

As they scream, its words that bounce off his ears, cries that are left to unknowing ears. One may say it felt wrong, the way his teeth could so easily pierce the flesh as he tore out chunks and pieces. Maybe a bit of a shiver went down his back as he looked in eyes that lost shine, chewing down scraps of skin to satiate something. It couldn’t have been any rewarding, as he heard drowned what he could figure were concerns through ringing ears, loud sounds behind that he thinks were attached to the strange metal beasts. He had to go. It felt strange to hold someone once more, even if they felt slightly off and were not breathing anymore. He knew he couldn’t just leave it here. He’d get hungry again.

He’d need to carve a way to survive again.

[matchstickcosplay]

Since I've been seeing so many bad Arcane takes out there lately, I'm gonna ramble into the void about my analysis of it all and hopefully put some good out there. I'll start with some easy ones.

Ekko originally says to Vi that Powder is gone and she isn't coming back. Ekko is the ONLY person to truly understand her in this way, because he is completely correct.

Its so important that he saw the "what could have been" timeline. He saw a timeline where Powder was able to grow up with a family, support, and compassion. She had her two dads there, her partner, her friends, her support system that surrounded her. She still, however, had to live with the grief and guilt of Vi dying. Loss is something that always remains constant, but the support was different.

Jinx in the "correct" timeline didn't have the support that she needed - the people she modeled herself after didn't know how to accept all parts of her. Vi wanted Powder back, but that simply couldn't happen. Powder was changed. Silco wanted Jinx. So much, that he warped and molded her to fit what he wanted in a daughter, and not who Jinx was. He "accepted" her, but ultimately he never did anything to ease her suffering. He used Jinx as his weapon.

Ekko, however, has seen who Jinx could be; in so many different timelines. He saw the Jinx that was under Silco. He saw the Powder that was given support. He still went back to HIS Jinx; the one that needed someone to see her for who she ACTUALLY was, and not who they wanted her to be and not who her defense mechanisms showed her to be.

He showed up for her and sat there with her in her worst moment. He showed her again and again and again that he would keep doing it. He never put up with her unacceptable behavior, but he ALWAYS gave the real Jinx a chance to be better.

Its especially important because he could have just left her. She blows herself up, problem solved. He not only never has to worry about her harming people, but she's become a martyr. Instead, he sat with her and convinced her that she was worth it. Most of all, he specifically invited her to come fight with him.

Its so full circle; Jinx originally being told not to come on the Important Mission with Vi; finally fully becoming "Jinx" - "you're a jinx" and then Ekko having SO much faith in her that she could help during the most important part of the fight. The difference between "stay back" and "please come with me, I need you." Ekko accepted everything about her; he wanted her there. She finally became who she was meant to be.