#which unfortunately means helping you too'

[euthymiya]

you want to change my mind (and maybe you already have) — ft. wriothesley.

art credits: rana_co_co on twitter

synopsis: november 23rd comes and goes just like every year. wriothesley looks at you in his bed, curled under his sheets—pretty. soft. kind. a gateway to a cushy sort of life he never envisioned for himself. this birthday, he finally realizes that neuvillette sending you down for weekly compliance checks at the fortress was the first time celestia had ever favored him

word count: 8.7k — this was truly agonizing. just know that

before you read: female reader ; reader works at the palais ; work relationships ; fuck buddies who clearly are smitten ; newly turned duke wriothesley ; my own personal headcanons about his childhood and past (spoilers for his backstory ahead!) ; mentions of murder and child trafficking (his canon backstory) ; mentions of serial murders and disappearances of women (the canon missing women’s case so major fontaine spoilers if you’re not done) ; very lightly implied sexual comments about reader made by an inmate ; violence, injuries, and blood descriptions (wriothesley defends her honor) ; blow jobs ; cum eating ; semi public office sex ; exhibitionism ; wet dreams + male maaturbation ; cunnilingus ; unprotected vaginal sex (he pulls out) ; fluff and getting together

commentary: a little late, but here’s my birthday fic for my birthday boy who owns my whole heart <3_<3

“Duke,” you say as soon as you walk into his office, making Wriothesley want to hide in the corner, “You’re late.”

He saw it coming, really. Knew it would be the first thing you’d point out as soon as your shoes would thump against his quiet, peaceful office floor. Well, peaceful until now—now you’re here to disrupt that tranquility with demands that he’d like to politely ignore. Unfortunately, because Celestia have never exactly favored him, that’s not an option.

“Ah, my favorite babysitter. Whatever do you mean?” He smiles at you innocently. He knows exactly what you mean, of course—and he knows you know it, too, because you stare blankly at him before rolling your eyes. But there’s still a small hint of fondness underneath the staged irritation. He can’t help but throw you a little playful wink as he notices it.

As far as babysitters go, you’re not bad, exactly.

That’s how Wriothesley likes to think of you. His weekly babysitter. You come in once a week, keep an eye on him, check and make sure he’s doing what he’s supposed to and following all the rules, tattle on him if he does anything wrong, and you force him to do his homework.

Neuvillette likes to call it an administrative compliance audit. You make sure Wriothesley is keeping things at the Fortress running smoothly, get an update on how the standing situation is, report back to Neuvillette so he stays informed, and make sure that no paperwork is submitted or completed past the expected deadline. 

Wriothesley says babysitter, you say compliance officer. Tomayto, tomahto. 

“You’re late to sending in the quarterly reviews of the most recent batch of prisoners,” you hum, jotting that down in your convenient little notepad that is the bane of Wriothesley’s existence. You return his cheeky wink with one of your own. Every time you pull it out, he knows he’s about to get a write-up. Every time he gets a write-up, he knows a letter from Neuvillette is coming with a lecture about his responsibilities and how seriously he should take them.

Fighting back a groan, he rubs his face tiredly as he mumbles, “I’m getting to it.”

“Yes,” you agree, “You are. It’s not exactly optional—the sooner, the better, of course.”

“You love pushing my buttons, don’t you?” He looks up at you petulantly. 

One thing about Wriothesley is that his rugged, almost tactless demeanor only adds to his charm. He wears formal wear only because he has to—which, to be fair, his outfit choices are considered formal by a very loose definition as is. He keeps his tie knotted loosely and borderline informal. He has a rather sarcastic and playful way of speaking professionally. 

All of these things should scream that he's a misfit for this position, but you think they almost make him the perfect candidate. In an odd sort of way, he’s not as stiff as a board and at risk of using his position to his advantage. He’s down to Earth enough that you can trust him not to take his role too seriously and run the Fortress like his own personal military grounds. 

Grinning, you walk over to him, seating yourself on the armrest of his chair before tracing a finger along his bicep as you lean in and murmur against his ear, “C’mon, they’re not so bad. If you finish it up, you might even have a nice little reward waiting for you after.”

He swallows thickly for a moment before reconstructing his carefully crafted composure. Raising a brow, he gives you an amused—although shaky—smile as he hums, “Oh? Is this some sort of incentive?”

“You could say that,” you bite your lip to keep from letting out a giggle. “Incentive. Reward. Compensation. Whatever you want to call it.”

 “Can I pick what I get?”

“Perhaps if you’re lucky, I’ll let you have your way,” you tease.

Neuvillette sends you from the Palais to the Fortress to make reports about the Fortress of Meropide after observation. It’s imperative, of course, that during this weekly assignment, you stay fair and unbiased. That seemed easy enough when you took on the job.

That is until you met Wriothesley. 

It happens by accident. One second, you’re letting him walk you around the underwater prison that he calls his home, taking notes of the way prisoners do their jobs and how they're compensated. (The name credit coupon still makes you giggle sometimes, but you keep it to yourself for the sake of avoiding his glare). The next second, you’re slipping on leaked water from a burst pipe and heading straight for your demise of a face-first fall onto the hard metal flooring of a tunnel. 

Wriothesley catches you with ease. Effortlessly, his strong arms wrap around you to catch you against his chest before you have a chance to fall any further. It’s cliche, you think—how this weird difference between professionalism and personal attraction gets blurred more and more every day. How it all started with your body being pulled flushed against his for the sake of avoiding a rather painful injury, only to have both of your lips be mere inches away from each other as your wide eyes bore into each other. 

You never knew who kissed first. It never mattered. All you know is that you’ve been kissing in the comfort of his office ever since. Sometimes in his bed, too. He tries to convince you in riskier, less-than-appropriate spots, too—but luckily, between the two of you, one of you has a sense of proper risk calculation. 

That person would not be him.

“Would you do me the honors and make me a lucky man today, then?” He asks sweetly, blinking innocently before his arms wrap around you, pulling you from the armrest of his chair to his lap, comfortably perched for him to have easy access to your lips. 

“I’ll have to see if my schedule allows it,” you say slyly, pretending to look at his clock as you add, “I’m a busy woman, you know. They demand my time underwater and above land. Can you believe the requirements they have for me?”

“Sounds like you’re severely overworked,” he nods in faux sympathy, shaking his head as though he really feels for your predicament. You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hands firmly grip your hips.

That’s the thing about Wriothesley. It’s just so easy to be charmed.

“I am,” you murmur, leaning in.

He closes the gap as he mumbles, “I can think of a way or two to take the edge off.”

With that, your lips meet. It’s not the first time, and the Gods certainly know you hope it’s not the last. Your mouth slots against him perfectly enough that it feels like sunlight on water—warm, bright ripples of light gliding along the surface that waits for them to make their home against it. 

He brings you closer, dragging your body up his lap as he kisses you deeper, groaning lowly into your mouth as your fingers tug at the roots of his hair. You feel it between your bodies—the proof of his arousal is clear and so hard to miss that you can’t help but reach a hand between your bodies to get a better feel.

 “Already?” You grin, pressing your hand over his hard, clothed cock. He grunts, glaring at you as he stiffens in his chair at the way your hand offers limited friction to a rather delicate issue. “I’m flattered.”

“Great,” he hisses, “Why don’t you do something about it, then?”

“Here?” You gasp dramatically, “In your office? What if someone walks in?”

“No one would disrupt the Duke without knocking first, sweetheart,” he gives you a smug, self-assured wink. You snort before shaking your head, slowly climbing off of his lap before sinking between his legs onto the floor. His breath hitches—sure, you’ve taken him in your mouth before. But it’s never been here and not there. Never in his office and at his desk instead of the bedroom that's just a few feet away. 

It feels more intimate there. He almost misses that sort of atmosphere. But there’s something filthy enough about watching you unzip his pants and slowly free his cock just enough in his office that almost makes his brain short circuit too.

So beautiful, he wants to tell you. Because you are. And he thinks he will, but just as he opens his mouth, his door interrupts him with a knock, vibrating through its metal surface. You pause. He almost curses under his breath.

“Your Grace?” A voice comes from behind his door. “There are urgent matters I must report to you.”

“Not now,” he grits, fighting back a groan as you take this opportunity to throw him a sly, almost evil grin before wrapping a hand around his cock, leaning in to run your tongue along the slit and get a taste of his pre cum. “I…I’m busy.”

“But Nurse Sigewinne has insisted we tell you immediately.”

Well, fucking hell. It’s not like he can exactly ignore that—and you seem to know it, too, because you blink up at him with innocently expectant eyes. So, gritting his teeth, he gently shoves your under his desk and rolls his chair to cover himself under the open leg space where you’re cramped. 

He clears his throat. “C-come in. I’m late on documents to the Chief Justice, so it better be quick.”

You hold back a snort at his convenient excuse that happens to consist of papers he’s really in no rush to get finished at all. He fights back the urge to glare at you, instead peeking up as soon as the door to his office opens and a guard steps in. 

“You’re Grace,” he nods politely. Respectfully. A small part of Wriothesley is still not used to being addressed so…seriously. So formally. So importantly. “The head nurse would like to bring to your attention that a group of inmates have been ganging up on others. This has been the third fight this week, and the infirmary is busier than usual from flu season for her to properly handle such constant injuries.”

He’s only half listening. It’s hard to pay attention when your lips are wrapped around his cock, sucking slowly as you move your head up and down his length. Warm. Hot. Tight. Your mouth feels obscenely good—he can’t help but let out a low groan of pleasure. 

The guard flinches slightly at the sound. “I apologize for springing this on you while you’re so busy, Your Grace. The head nurse insisted I tell you as soon as possible for things to be handled properly.”

It’s clear the guard is oblivious to the way Wriothesley is hardly holding onto his thinly kept composure. Your tongue traces that heavy, thick vein along the side of his cock. You take him as far as you can, bobbing your head up and down impressively well along his length for being stuck in a tightly cramped place like under his desk. 

He grabs the edge of his desk, gritting his teeth as he lets out a sharp inhale when your hand reaches to fondle the delicate, sensitive sacs of his balls. 

“Your fault,” he hisses abruptly. 

The guard shrinks back, furrowing his brows in confusion as he stammers, “Y-your Grace?”

“I mean,” he clears his throat, barely fighting back a low moan as your swirl your tongue around his tip, “I-I mean it’s…it’s not your fault. That’s all.”

If relief was an expression, it would certainly be the cowering guard’s expression in front of him. Deciding it's time he put both of them out of their misery, Wriothesley barely grits out, “I’ll be done with this report for Monsieur Neuvillette shortly. It’s very—v-very time sensitive.”

You let out a quiet snort that only he hears at that. He nudges you warningly with his knee. 

“As…as soon as I am, I’ll drop a visit to the infirmary and have a chat with the group involved,” he continues. “J-just…fuck…just give me a few minutes.”

The guard rushes to insist a panicked, “No, no, no! No rush! Take your time, Your Grace. I’ll leave you to it—just wanted to get the message across as the head nurse wished.”

“Thank you,” he hardly manages to keep a straight face. A slight grimace of a smile is all he can offer before the guard nods and hurries out as if trying to avoid whatever wrath he thinks he’s conjuring up by being in the Duke’s office any longer than he should be. 

Wriothesley thinks that’s a habit of most guards he needs to correct: assuming that being anywhere near him is a quick to be punished sort of behavior. But for now, he’s too worried about sliding his chair backwards and letting you crawl out of his desk’s enclosure as soon at the door shuts closed and the guard is gone. 

Finally. Fucking finally. 

“You’re a piece of work,” he glares down at you, watching as you suck on his cock innocently. Your lips look so wet. So sticky. So swollen parted around him that he almost wants to pull you off for just another taste. “You know that?”

You only hum around him, the vibrations forcing his head back against the chair as he moans low and drawn-out. Freely this time that no one’s here, but still quiet enough in case anyone’s outside the door. 

One more swirl of your lips around his thick, swollen tip, and he’s limp in his chair, groaning into his hand as he tries to muffle the sounds while cums down your throat. You can feel every twitch of him, hot, thick seed painting your throat white with his release. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants, completely lost in his own world of pleasure. You watch him like that. It’s pretty. You’re a little too used to it—a little too dependent on the routine of watching his face break over the devastation of pleasure like that. 

When you pull away, making a show to swallow everything you can, he groans and rubs a hand over his face as he mutters something about trying to kill him. 

“So,” you wink with a cheeky, sly little smirk. “See you next week?”

“If I make it alive long enough,” he says tiredly. “You might kill me before that. Or these damn prisoners and their shenanigans.”

You laugh, standing and dusting yourself off before leaning down and pressing a small kiss to his lips. He tastes himself on you. Something about that makes him swell with more pride than it should. 

“You’ll be fine,” you hum softly. “I’m sure of it.”

────────────────────────

Wriothesley never earned the title of Duke—not at first, anyway.

You’ve heard the story.

He was supposed to be released from his sentence a few months ago. Except, by some stroke of bad luck, the warden at the time was nowhere to be found in his office the day of Wriothesley’s release. So, as on-brand as ever to his nonchalant, carefree attitude, Wriothesley signs the papers himself and effectively crowns himself with the title of Duke. 

He’s been running things down at the Fortress ever since. And pretty well, too—you’ve heard that things have improved rather drastically in prison for inmates. Free meals once a day. Better regulation of currency to exchange for benefits. A system of rules that keeps them in check and prevents them from behaving like dogs.

You’ve heard it all. 

But hearing everything means you hear the snide whispers, too: not everyone thinks he’s earned the title enough to keep it even if he’s done good—he’s a murderer, they gossip. We can’t have someone like that running the Fortress! That’s an outrage! Neuvillette has received enough formal complaints on the matter that you’re the product of a compromise—weekly audits done by a relatively impartial member of the Palais who doesn’t necessarily ignore his stained record but doesn’t particularly deem it as an irrefutable reason why he shouldn’t be Duke. You accept under the agreement of a slightly better paycheck for your troubles of making the trip to the Fortress and a little extra vacation time for the added paperwork to your usual responsibilities. 

Under the Palais and court rules, you take an oath to honesty and promise to offer, to the best of your abilities, the truth of what goes down in the prison and how its warden runs it. 

But, well…Wriothesley grows on you. A lot. It’s not that you ever have to lie about him—he really is a good Duke. But you like him enough that you’re starting to wonder if you could keep your honest streak if it really came down to it. You like him enough that you can’t claim anymore that the once sexually charged tension is just that: sexual. Because it’s not. It’s more complicated than that. Coming down and seeing him every week, finding your way in his sheets, getting to know him through a tangle of sweaty bodies and bantered pillow talk only makes you human. With feelings. Feelings for a man who’s more good than he’s not—you learn that pretty quickly. 

Wriothesley is a good person. Murder be damned. He did it to save people—sure, it’s a sin all the same. An extreme all in the name of justice, but it was to save people. He’s not a cold-blooded man. And he cares about the prisoners, too. That much is palpably abundant with the headaches he takes on to better the quality of life for convicted criminals.

No one believes in second chances like Wriothesley. No one has put as much work into offering people second chances like him, either. You think, despite initially earning his title or not, he’s certainly earned it by now.

So, when you watch him get pulled off of the limp body of a beaten prisoner by a handful of guards, you’re more than a little shocked by the almost feral, heartless look in his eyes as he snarls at the crumpled body on the floor in disgust. 

This is not the Wriothesley that you know. This isn’t the Wriothesley who runs the Fortress. The Wriothesley that you know doesn’t tolerate violence within his walls, and he certainly doesn’t instigate it. 

“What happened?” You ask quietly as you bandage his knuckles. It’s a deadly tone. He doesn’t answer, choosing to stare at his desk instead as he sits and lets you disinfect the broken skin. “Wriothesley.”

“He was being an asshole,” he grumbles vaguely. 

You raise a rather unimpressed brow at the juvenile response. He doesn’t seem to miss it either—even if he doesn’t meet your gaze to see it, the way he wilts a little is a hint enough that you know he’s aware. “Being an asshole,” you repeat. “That’s your sound logic for pounding someone into a bloody pulp?”

“Oh, please. He’s fine—”

“Really? He has a cracked rib, Wriothesley, for crying out loud!”

“So he’s fine,” he snorts almost bitterly. “In my time here, I’d have considered that lucky.”

“That’s exactly why you’re still here even though your time is over,” you say, the anger in your voice almost palpable as you throw your hands up and look at him in disappointment. “You’re supposed to be here making sure something like that is not the standard for luck anymore! Not upholding it.”

Wriothesley exhales sharply, his jaw tightening as he leans back in his chair, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. He looks like a stubborn, moody teenager being scolded. You have to take a deep breath and remind yourself his teen years probably didn’t consist of a lot of patience, so you try to keep yourself calm for both of your sakes—the storm brewing in his icy eyes is far from calm.

“You just wouldn’t understand,” he says, his voice low and strained, “Things are different down here than up there.”

“Then explain it to me,” you challenge, arms crossed as you stand your ground. “Help me understand why the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide—the one who’s supposed to set an example—decided to act out like a rowdy delinquent.”

His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, it almost looks like he’s going to lose his temper, the same temper that’s already rather thinly composed. His hand clenches into a fist in your hold, the faint wince that follows indicating the pain in his injured knuckles. “He said something,” he mutters finally, his voice barely above a growl.

“Something?” you glare, your voice doing pretty much nothing to hide the frustration that’s mounting. “Wriothesley, I’m going to need a lot more than that. You realize I have to report this, right? To Neuvillette? People already have tons to say about your position as Duke at the Palais—we’re supposed to try and change their minds! You’re telling me you threw the progress away because some asshole said something you didn’t like?”

“Yes. He said something he shouldn’t have said,” he mutters vaguely, voice low but laced with a dangerous edge. It’s almost like he’d do it all over again if it called for it. 

You pause, narrowing your eyes. “Okay, then let’s hear it. What did he say?”

His jaw tightens, and he looks away, his gaze fixed on the faint bloodstains on his knuckles. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Wriothesley.” Your tone is sharper now, more insistent. “Tell me.”

“He said something about you,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the room like one of his well-practiced uppercuts to a jaw. 

“About…me?” you frow, crinkling your brows in confusion. “What about me? Because of my job? Who cares—they’ll realize soon enough that I’m not here to harm the Fortress rather than help it. You didn’t need to—”

He clicks his teeth as his gaze drops to his legs, unable to meet your expectant gaze as his jaw works while he tries to force the words out. “Not like that. Something…disgusting. Something he had no right to even think, let alone say out loud. So yeah, I broke his rib. I could’ve broken more, but he got lucky.”

The ferocity in his tone leaves no room for doubt—he means every word, and he’d do it again if you let him. Maybe even worse without the intervention of guards dragging his body off the limp figure. You chew your bottom lip as you process what he’s telling you, the almost tangible way he’s so…so what? You stop to think. So protective? What exactly is it that he’s making you feel that has your anger washing away so fast? So respected? Perhaps he respects you enough to fight for your dignity, but that’s not quite it.

You know that. 

You know that really, at the heart of things, it’s so easy to stop being mad at him when there’s real proof that he cares. About you. Sure, you have faith in Wriothesley’s ability to be a respectable man to the ladies—you doubt he’d accept someone talking about any woman that way. But it’s clear that…well, he cares enough to take it this far because it’s not just a woman. It’s you.

You.

“Wriothesley…” you start, slow and careful. It’s like you’re approaching a cornered animal in a cage you trapped yourself. 

“I know what you’re going to say,” he interrupts, his tone softer now, almost resigned. He slumps back in his chair almost petulantly as if he’s accepted that this is a lecture he can’t avoid. “That I need to be better. That I need to think before I act. That there’s a lot riding on my behavior and all that nonsense about proving to some assholes in a chair that I deserve this title and so on. And you’re right—I know you’re right,” he sighs.

You raise a slightly shocked brow at his admission. “Oh, well—”

“But I had to, okay? So everyone knows things are different around here now. Things like that were normal before, you know? Things weren’t safe for girls like you in the Fortress, and it’s about time they changed, so yeah, I set an example. Not the best one, but it got the message across, didn’t it? I’ll take some losses, sure, but that’s okay. It’s one minor setback.”

“Yes,” you nod carefully, “And I just want you to know—”

“But…about you? It’s…it’s different when it’s you, and you know it. Hearing someone talk about you like that...” He trails off, his fists clenching again. “I couldn’t let it slide. Not you. So—”

“Thank you.” You interrupt before he can finish. You say it softly. Like you mean it. 

He pauses, reeling back. “What?”

“I said thank you,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “Don’t make me say it again, you jerk.”

“You’re not mad?” He looks at you bewildered, like you’ve grown two heads. You snort, looking at him like he’s an idiot. He huffs at just the look on your face alone.

“I’m furious,” you shake your head, “But I’m not ungrateful enough not to appreciate someone defending my honor. I’d prefer it if it was less violent next time.”

Wriothesley sits in silence for a moment after your words, the tension in his frame ebbing. “Less violent,” he repeats, a sulky, almost pouty look on his face. “I guess I’ll work on it.”

“Yes,” you nod, “You will. So that I won’t have to lie to Monsieur Neuvillette next time.”

He blinks. “What—”

“Since an inmate attacked you, I’ll let him know you had no choice but to throw him off and crack a rib from the impact,” you shrug innocently. 

He looks at you in wonder, a small, amused smile curling on his lips as he lets out a soft, quiet snort. “I don’t know if you can crack a rib from—”

“You should be quiet and think about what you’ve done,” you hiss. “Awful behavior means you’re on time out!”

“Oh, yes,” he salutes, obediently straightening as he folds his hands together on his desk. He winces a bit at the strain it puts on his hurt hand, making you bite back a fond smile. “I’m deeply thinking about my mistakes and regretting my deplorable actions. I promise.”

“Good,” you roll your eyes. “Don’t let it happen again.”

You turn to leave, and he sinks back in his chair, sighing as he watches you go. Next week’s audit can’t come fast enough, he thinks.

────────────────────────

When he hasn’t seen you in too long, Wriothesley has dreams. Vivid ones, in fact. 

They start not too long after the shift in your fragile friendship—you’re still friends, of course. It’s not as though that part of your relationship was ever fragile. It's just that….now, you’re more than friends without actually being more. It’s a delicate sort of arrangement that can easily have someone like him wanting more. And regrettably, he wants more. That much is clear by these dreams of his—and you’re often in these dreams of his. Scandalizing dreams, if you will. 

He never really took himself for a guy who’s attracted to someone with a pristine and spotless record—if anything, all Wriothesley seems to be attracted to anymore is trouble. 

But you’re different. Not because you’re unique or anything special by any means (which, he realizes, sounds a little bit rude in his head when he really thinks about it), but that’s exactly why he likes you. You’re rather ordinary. You work your ordinary job at the Palais, go home, do what’s expected of you, and go about life simplistically. He can’t help but enjoy it because there’s this weird, odd sense of normalcy that you grant his life. 

Nothing about Wriothesley’s life is normal. Not now, not then, not ever. 

He was young as an orphan. Doomed to the fate of no family by the tender age of four. A poor, sickly father who left this world long before he left his mother’s womb and, by fate’s desire, later orphaned by a missing mother who never came home from work. By the time he’s old enough to piece together that his mother was yet another victim of the missing young women’s case in Fontaine, he’s far too past that life to properly grieve her. 

And then there’s the darker part of his past…the messy memories of blood and betrayal that he chooses not to dwell on for the sake of his own peace. It landed him on the streets for the better part of his youth and then in a dark, ruthless prison where just even a meal is a burden to acquire. 

Nothing about his life is normal. His mother was ripped away by the nation’s darkest mystery, his siblings weren’t ones he’d acquired by normal means, his “parents” were anything but standard, and his housing conditions (or lack thereof once upon a time) consisted of a large, metal cage situated at the bottom of the ocean. Even his romantic history, which he can count on one hand the instances of, have been odd, unconventional flings that he indulged in rarely because he was but a growing boy turned into a man, raging desires that make any form of relief seem like a blooming romance. 

His first girlfriend left the Fortress after finishing her sentence when he was barely an adult. She promised to write to him every day until his own release. He’d never heard from her again. His second “girlfriend” didn’t even make it far enough to earn that title at all. She was a girl, who was a friend, who sometimes when he was exceedingly lucky, wove herself into his sheets and let him have his way with her so his growing frustrations have an outlet. 

Romantic intimacy is a world beyond the skies of Teyvat for him.

So, when you wander into his life, working a standard nine-to-five job that requires nothing excessively abnormal of you, grinning at him with a happy, free smile that carries little to no burdens, he can only fight the human part of him for so long before his desires come hitting him full force. There was a time when dreaming of a wife and kids and white picket fences was well within his reality. When he dreamt of being like his father, hearing small, excited footsteps pounding against the hardwood floor to greet him at the door. When he dreamt that the mother of his children would smile just as sweetly and brightly as his own mother. 

That’s gone now, of course. Well out of his reach and far from his realm, but at the very least, you bring some rare burst of normality in his fascinatingly odd life. 

So he dreams of you. Admittedly, they’re not always the best-natured of dreams.

He wakes up sweaty and tangled in sheets as a familiar heat is already built between his legs—for quite a while, too, he surmises, because the ache is thick enough to let him know that he’s been sporting this erection for quite a bit. How—he wonders—did he end up with such a shameless problem in the middle of his rare and well-deserved rest? The answer is infuriatingly obvious, but he hates to admit it to himself. 

You. 

You’re the reason for this predicament—that raunchy, filthy dream of his from just a few moments ago, the vision in his subconsciousness of your mouth taking him, your hand stroking him, your lips kissing him. All of it lands him here with a thickly hardened cock and little to no dignity left for the pure filth he indulges himself in. 

Flaring his nostrils with a tired exhale, he decides there’s no point in dragging out his suffering any longer. What’s happened has happened. 

“Fucking hell,” he hisses as he frees his length from his boxers, tugging them down just enough to rest against his balls. Even under the protection of his blanket, he can feel cool air kiss the hot, velvety skin enough to make him twitch involuntarily. “Mmh,” he groans.

His fist takes shape around his cock. It’s different from your touch—he’s felt it enough times briefly to know that your hand is far smaller and far softer. Less wear and tear from boxing and fights, less scabs and calluses of healed skin. But he works with what he has, stroking himself slowly as he throbs in his own hand. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he all but whines to an empty room as if you’re right there with him, helping him through his glaringly obvious problem. “Fuck, it almost hurts, baby. You’ll help, right?” 

You will. You nod from the depths of his imagination in the back of his head, where you live to play out his shameful fantasies. He bites his lips and lets out a shaky breath as he imagines you leaning forward, pressing a soft, delicate kiss to the tip of his cock. 

As if in response to the phantom touch of your mouth, his cock does another little twitch. I’ll take care of you, Wrio.

No one has ever called him that—not affectionately, at least. (He refuses to let his old prison nickname born from bantering mockery count.) The nickname falling from your (imaginary) lips has him throwing his head back against his pillow as he groans deeply. 

“Don’t be a fuckin’ tease,” he demands gently. Obediently, you giggle and listen to him. “Gods,” his back arches as soon as your hand pumps his aching length, finally offering him some sort of relief as he bucks his hips up in time to meet your strokes.

Feels good, huh, baby? You hum. He nods, letting out a throaty sound in response. I can tell. It’s all over your face.

“Quit it,” he clicks his teeth petulantly. A thumb rolls through his slit teasingly, collecting pre cum and smearing it along the thick, sensitive vein along the side of his cock. “You’re…you’re such a brat, you know that?”

You like it, you hum.

“I do,” he lets out an airy, breathless chuckle of admission before the strokes get faster. And faster. He’s grunting freely now; something crossed between a moan and a gasp sounding through the small, secluded bedroom built in with his office. Luckily, it’s deep enough into the Fortress that no one could hear him if they tried—not unless they were standing right outside his bedroom door from his office.

No one has the audacity to do that, he thinks with smug satisfaction, so you don’t have to worry about how much noise he’s making. You’re the type to get stressed about things like that.

Close, Wrio?

“So close, baby,” he chokes.

Do I make you feel good?

“Better than anyone,” he confirms. 

You look so pretty like this, did you know?

“F-fuck, fuck—I…I’m gonna cum, sweetheart,” he warns.

Yeah? Then do it, pretty boy.

He does. He cums in thick, full loads of cum that have his cock twitching with every rope. Your hand is a mess, coated in his release, stroking him through his pleasure and smearing it along the heated skin. You know just what he likes—have his little quirks and preferences memorized as if you know him better than himself. You know he likes having the vein traced with your thumb, and you know that when he’s just about almost finished, giving his balls a soft squeeze makes him gasp and let out one final rope of his seed. 

By the time he’s done, slumped against his bed with boneless, tired muscles, he realizes with a sigh that the hand on his cock is not yours. It’s his.

Somewhere in the midst of his fantasies, he forgets what’s real and what’s not. Your voice in his head sounds so close, so real, so tangible, he forgets he’s talking to the empty air of his room and not you.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he groans to himself, rubbing his good hand over his face tiredly, “You’re seriously messing me up in the head. What’re you doing to me?”

────────────────────────

“What time do you need to return to the Palais by?” Is the first thing he says to you when you walk into his office. You pause, staring at Wriothesley before you blink and huff.

“Ah, yes. It’s wonderful to see you, too! I’ve been doing fantastic; it’s so kind of you to ask,” you bat your lashes with a sarcastic smile before adding, “And you? How have you been? Rather well, I’m sure.”

Wriothesley purses his lips, looking at you with a fractional amount of patience before giving you an equally as sarcastic smile and responding, “I’m doing quite well. Thank you for your generous concern. In fact, if it wouldn’t trouble you too much—because you know I’d hate to do that—I would be faring quite a lot better if you’d even more generously answer my question.”

“I don’t have to return to the Palais today,” you roll your eyes, “I go home directly after five and bring Monsieur Neuvillette your report card tomorrow morning.”

“Wonderful,” is all he says. “Perfect.”

“Why—”

You don’t know how he got up fast enough to bridge the distance between you and his desk and cut you off mid-sentence with a crash of his lips to yours, but he does. His lips are pressed to yours in a desperate kiss that has you melting against him against your will. Like he’s expecting it, his arms are there waiting, catching you to hold you upright against him as he chuckles against your mouth.

Bastard, you want to say into his lips. He’s too busy keeping them occupied to give you the chance.

“I need you,” he rasps, “Now.”

“It’s technically still my work day,” you gasp between breaths, “I’m supposed to observe—”

“Then observe me from here,” he grunts.

With that, he sweeps you into the bedroom connected to his office. You’ve been in it so many times, yet you always wonder why it still shocks you that such a convenient room is in his personal office—but you figure the Duke of a prison surely would not sleep with the rest of the prisoners. And more importantly, it’s…good for the noise to be located in such a private, secluded area.

“Been thinking about fucking you all day,” he mumbles in between kisses, his large, callused hands cradling your face as your hands tangle in his hair. 

“Then fuck me,” you challenge, making him let out a low, unimpressed sound from the back of his throat. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says lowly, trailing his lips to nip at your neck and jaw, “Trust me, I will.”

Your back meets his mattress. You don’t have the slightest concept or understanding of time—by the time you’re both bare with all your clothes tossed to the floor, you can feel a dull, building ache between your legs as a pool of slick coats your inner thighs. 

“So wet,” he grins to himself, bringing a hand between your thighs, right to the apex where he studies the leaking essence waiting for him there. “All this for me?”

“Not for long if you don’t make good use of it,” you hiss stubbornly. His gaze darkens at that, making him let out a snarled sound of displeasure before he lowers himself between your legs. 

“Careful, baby,” he warns, “You have no idea what you’re signing yourself up for.”

And you don’t. Because by the time Wriothesley’s face unburies itself from between your legs, your two orgasms and a semi-decent stream of tears smeared along your face in. He finally unlatches himself from your clit once the waves of your second high finally come down, glistening slick coating his chin and lips as he grins. 

“How was that for making good use?”

“I don’t know,” you huff. “I had something else in mind.”

Pointedly, you stare at his tall, standing and neglected cock. It’s clearly painfully hard and painfully aching for some form of relief as it twitches between his legs. 

You admire it for a moment. The nearly trimmed hair at the base—how Wriothesley supplies the necessary equipment to even trim himself downstairs in a place like a prison, you’re unsure but definitely not ungrateful. He’s always been pretty, in a ruggedly handsome way—but his cock…well his cock is pretty because it responds so well to you. To your body. To your every movement. 

You gently grab him, gently stroking a few times and humming in satisfaction as he groans and clenches his jaw while it twitches in your touch. 

“Sensitive,” you tease. 

“I could argue the same about you,” he replies smartly through a labored, breathless voice. You laugh, sweet as honey on warm bread. 

He doesn’t taste that too often in the Fortress, but he doesn’t think he’s missing out. Not with you here. 

“Come here,” you whisper. “I want you too.”

With that, you guide him slowly to your entrance. He shivers as he rubs the tip along your folds, coating himself in your wetness and swearing his own pre cum along your cunt before slowly sinking in. 

“Fuck,” you both hiss in unison. 

“Feel…feel so good,” he says hoarsely, “So fucking tight.”

With that, it’s a blur. Something you’re used to by what feels like your millionth week feeling him, but something that never feels like it’s not the first time all over again. 

He rocks his hips in a steady, perfect rhythm. You pull him close and feel his body searing against yours. Skin on skin. Heat against heat. Body melting into body. 

“Never get enough to you,” he whispers. 

“Then keep taking more of me,” you whisper back. 

“Yeah?” He chuckles, breathless. Hopelessly smitten. It’s written all over his face. You’re sure the same goes for yours. “You want that? Want me to keep taking more and more of this pretty cunt?”

“What, you’re saying you’ll get bored of me?” You pout teasingly. 

He huffs, pulling you into a deep, bruising kiss. “Never. You hear me? Never.”

Like that, you fall apart. And with that, he follows not long after. He pulls out just before he can spill into you, hand moving to pump himself until yours beats him to it, wrapping around his girth and stroking the way you know he likes it. With his vein traced. With a fast pace but not too fast. With everything he needs to feel seen and known because that’s what you do best. 

See him. Know him. Treat him like he matters. 

“Gods,” he says shakily as he finishes. “I needed that. Needed you.”

“You always have me,” you remind him softly. “Always.”

He grins. Kisses you softly—ike you’re a fragile, blooming lakelight lily. He’s gone momentarily to grab a warm, wet towel to clean you off before he’s sinking into the bed beside you, turning to look at you as he takes in your curled up figure under his sheets. 

He could get used to this. More than just once a week. 

“It’s the twenty-third,” you whisper quietly, like it’s a secret. 

Huh, he thinks. It doesn’t register what day it is until you bring the date to his attention—he didn’t even realize today’s date. Not that this date ever matters enough to make his day any different from the rest of the days of the year. But typically, he at least remembers when it passes by. 

It’s the first time it’s slipped his mind completely. 

“It is,” he agrees, looking at you with a slightly confused look. “Any reason why that’s relevant?”

“It’s your birthday,” you look at him incredulously, lifting your head off of the pillow to get a better look at him. 

He lays quietly beside you, still slowly catching his breath. He doesn’t answer at first—just pulls the sheets over both of your bare bodies as he curls an arm around you and pulls you close. You used to never take Wriothesley for the cuddling type. You used to never take him for the affection type, in general. 

Maybe, you like to think, maybe even people like Wriothesley aren’t above enjoying something soft. It’s a comforting thought. It’s nice to know that even someone so strong and immovable like him craves some sort of bond with another human. Some tangible form of safety and kindness. Some form of proof that people can be—and are—good enough to trust, good enough to lie beside and slowly lose consciousness around.

“And who told you that?” He quirks up a half amused, half shocked brow, voice low and smooth enough that you almost think you could go another round just from the sound of him.

You don’t tell him that, of course. The Gods know he doesn’t need any more reasons to be smug. 

“I read the files,” you answer with a wave of your hand, trying to dismiss him. “I like to know who I work with.”

“Yeah?” He snorts, “That so?”

You don’t really have to answer him. You shouldn’t let him win—but something about that wolfish grin and that cocky glint in his eyes tells you he already knows more than you’d like. They have you huffing as you quietly mumble out, “Okay. I asked Sigewinne when it was. You’re awfully ungrateful about the fact that I cared enough to ask.”

“Your benevolence graciously exceeds my expectations every time,” he chuckles. 

“Well,” you raise a brow expectantly, “Are you going to do something to celebrate?”

He shakes his head. It’s too instant for your liking—and he seems to notice that, too, because he takes one look at your frown and shrugs, “My birthday’s not that important to me. I’ve never really celebrated it much.”

“What?” You ask incredulously. You think you’re being a touch dramatic—you seem more hurt about this than him, but you can’t help yourself. “What do you mean? Birthdays are the one important day we get.”

Wriothesley lets out a soft breath, his chest rising and falling steadily against you as he looks up at the ceiling. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—something fleeting and hard to name. It’s not quite pain, but it’s close enough that you can feel it in the way his body tenses beneath your touch.

“They weren’t important growing up,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, rough around the edges. “And now I’m too old for it, anyway.”

He keeps the answer pointedly vague, like he’s avoiding the truth on purpose. You don’t mind. Not so much when it’s him, not so much when something heavy and unresolved that he doesn’t elaborate on is clearly there. You don’t like to push him—not yet. Maybe not ever. He deserves patience and compassion for once, you think—someone who puts his feelings first so he knows that his feelings aren’t at the bottom of some tiered list of relevancy that he somehow always ends up on the bottom of.

Instead, you shift closer, laying a hand against his chest and feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

“Not even when you were a kid?” you ask softly, careful not to sound too intrusive.

His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, you think he’s going to brush you off. That maybe he’ll throw you off his scent with some annoyingly smooth-talking joke and change the subject. You’re prepared for it—for the disappointment of being pushed away and not let in. You’re prepared for anything because it’s him, and you don’t mind when it’s him. But then, his hand moves, his fingers idly tracing along your arm as he speaks again, his voice low and resigned.

“I did celebrate. Briefly. We’d get a party every year, my siblings and I.” He pauses, his jaw tightening briefly. “And there would be people. I thought they were friends…you know? Friends my parents would invite over to celebrate with us. When I got older, I realized the truth. Those parties were just another excuse to show us off. To market us easier.”

Your heart clenches at the bitterness in his tone. You don’t need to ask what he means—you’ve heard the rumors about his past, heard the whispers about how the Duke of Meropide is a killer. Cold-blooded and ruthless as he watched the life drain from his own parents’ eyes without a single regret. Didn’t even hesitate to plead guilty and admit to his crimes.

You read the files in Neuvillette’s office before he first sent you down. Something about reading his testimony made you feel helpless—like there’s still a child stuck in an awful predicament with no way out instead of a now grown man who’s well on his way to being a rather significantly important figure in Fontaine. 

“—And after that,” he continues, his voice almost a whisper now as it breaks you from your thoughts, “I was stuck down here. Not many birthday festivities you can do down in the ocean alone, so I didn’t see the point. A birthday’s just a day. Another reminder of…everything I’d rather not think about if I can help it.”

“Wriothesley,” you start gently, lifting your head to look at him. He meets your gaze, his eyes darker than usual, guarded but not completely shut off. He doesn’t like being comforted—doesn’t like the idea of his emotions being in someone else’s domain to handle. It leaves him open to worse wounds. But you ignore the way his jaw tenses, cupping his cheek as you hum, “It’s not just a day or some reminder of them. It’s about you if you make it about you. And you’re not a sick marketing scheme. You’re…”

You trail off. Not because you don’t know all the things he is: cunning, resourceful, selfless, incredibly smart. But because you don’t know which one to start with. Like choosing one first means it’s the most important one—you can’t bring yourself to define him as one thing more than the others.

“Devilishly handsome?” he cuts in with a faint smirk, the tension in his face easing just a little as he pushes your buttons. “You seem stuck there, so let’s start with that.” You roll your eyes, but the warmth in your smile is impossible to ignore as you let his good-natured jab slide. 

“Yes, that’s one way to describe you, I suppose. But you’re also just…good.” You settle on that word because he is. He’s good, and he makes things good. He makes life feel okay and the day a little better. Like your own piece of good from the world to have for yourself. “And you deserve to have something good. Something that’s just for you.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you, his expression unreadable but soft in a way that makes your heart beat with a painful ache. Then, he leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Maybe,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice low and almost tender. “Maybe next year, I’ll let you change my mind.”

“Next year? Surely, if you mean I’ll be around for that long, then this is your way of asking me out?” Your lip twitches at the corners, hopeful. You force it down to a neutral look before faking a yawn and saying, “What an underwhelming way of asking.”

He raises an amused brow. Still, there’s something dangerously cautious about his expression as he looks at you. Like he’s guarding himself from possible disappointment. “You’re saying you’d say yes if I asked nicely?”

“Depends. Are you asking?” You ask softly. 

He lets out a shaky breath, studying your features and avoiding your eyes as he brings his gaze along your nose and lips and the slight sweatiness of your skin from your earlier activities. “If I’m asking, is that a yes?”

“Yes,” you say breathlessly.

“Then yeah,”  he stares at the ceiling, voice quiet. Hopeful. A rare moment that he lets himself try to be happy without worrying the world will fuck it up for him. You’ll handle it if it tries, he thinks—you always do. “Maybe next year, you’ll change my mind.”

“Not maybe,” you insist. It’s firm enough that he believes you. “I will change your mind.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“Happy birthday, Wrio.”

“Thanks,” he grins, “Same time next year?”

“Same time next year,” you laugh, nodding in confirmation. He doesn’t tell you that you’ve already changed his mind. Maybe he’ll even tell you next birthday that you haven’t managed to—just to have an excuse to keep you around one more year.

But something tells him you’ll stay even without such a ploy. 

This fic was genuinely such a struggle for me to write. I’m not sure why. I suppose because it doesn’t have a real conflict to guide me in a sense—I wanted it to be mainly happy and just a small sort of timeline of them having each other but still finding each other. If that makes sense. Idk if it does LOL. The main focus was just making his bday happy. Hopefully I achieved that but ANYWAY!! If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading!! Kissing you on the forehead <3

[a1ecmcdowell]

dean winchester x angel!reader — take a shot or six.

or, dean's feeling it five in, but he's not going to let you win. or, dove beats dean at his own game.

cw, drinking, alcohol, tipsy dean sjkefdh, sexual tension SORRY

word count:

notes, by @depressionbarbie2023's suggestion... except i make it more tension riddled because i like my cute stuff with a dash of spice hehehe HOPE U LIKE IT STILL

★ ˚⋆

how were you supposed to know that the glass decanter on the accent table next to dean's chair was whiskey? he's staring at you now, like you just killed his entire family with your bare hands, as you hold a crystal glass full of it in between your nimble fingers.

you blink. his eye twitches.

"do you know how long that whiskey aged before it got to me?" he asks you slowly, like any of those words or processes are meant to ring any sort of bell in your head.

you shake your head. "why... do you let a drink age?"

another eye twitch. "enrichens the flavor." he nods toward the glass in your hand, nearly spilling over the brim. quickly, you raise the glass to try and alleviate the problem, sipping on the overflowing top loudly. "tastes good, doesn't it?"

your shoulders lift in a mindless shrug. it burns in your throat for a split second, but other than that, it tastes like caramelized oak, like wind through a nighttime forest, as sweet and secretive.

"what do you mean by—" his shoulders lift now, in a mockery of your shrug, which does nothing but make your head tilt in confusion. dean's quirks were something you were used to, at this point, but never before had you not been able to clue together why he was behaving like he was. "that's a 15-year old whiskey you're drinking like water. gimme that."

his boots echo on the solid floor as he stomps up to you, snatching the crystal glass from your fingers, letting the liquid slosh over the top and onto the both of your hands. dean gestures with his head again, his lips pursed in that look that you think, honestly, is reserved solely for you. "c'mon. lick it up. no wasting this shit."

being bossed around, and being bossed around by dean, is something you don't often let fly. his eyes stay on you as he lifts the glass to his lips, taking his own mindful sip, slow and deliberate like he's working it around his tongue before he swallows. much to the opposite of how you'd been throwing back the entirety of the decanter.

"oh, jesus christ," he grumbles when you actually do start to lick it off of your skin, the salt and the sweet burn making a surprisingly decent flavor, to his clear chagrin.

like always, it seems you do the wrong thing. since he'd shown you how to drive baby, arms around your body as he held you steady, dean had been pulling back. he was already a bit distant, but now? it felt like you were strangers all over again, and he wouldn't tell you what you'd done wrong.

it didn't stop you from coming around, though; your duty was to help the winchesters, and unfortunately for dean, helping him through his disdain for you was a part of that.

his lips stay pushed together in that signature irritated dean look, wrinkles embedded in the corners of his mouth, eyes betraying nothing of the thoughts in his head.

"i'm sorr—"

"don't even start," dean shoots back sternly, turning to weave out of the pillars of the living space and toward the kitchen area. naturally, you're inclined to follow him, your lips already downturned into a frown that could only be described as insistent. why couldn't he see or accept that you were sorry? "don't even know what you're apologizin' for."

he's opening cabinets too tall for you to reach with his free hand, eyes narrowing as he searches for something. "yes i do," you say fiercely, hurt flashing across your face at the accusation. "i upset you, and for that i'm sorry."

"oh, no, dove," he says with a little laugh, setting the crystal decanter on the countertop, using that hand to hold his weight as he reached deep into the cluttered cabinet. "you did not upset me. well," another tip of his lips into that unreadable expression, "i was, but not genuinely."

you blink at him, confusion melting into the hurt look on your face. "that does not make any sense."

"you see everything in black and white, dove," he says, a bottle of deep caramel liquid in his grip. his free hand goes to the crystal tumbler, a frown gracing his pretty expression, "two things can be true at once. i can be upset and not upset at the same time."

your mouth opens to answer him, but closes. his eyebrows flick up in amusement. "you should know that, with how often you give me that look. confused but not confused." he lets out a deep sigh through his nostrils. "christ, this is like, minimum five fingers of whiskey. whole damn hand's worth."

"there are no fingers in that." you watch as he lifts the glass to his mouth, his eyes locked and intense on yours the entire time. he downs half of it at once. "and it is inappropriate to say that."

"oh, piss off," he murmurs into the open mouth of the glass, though his eyes glimmer now, while they stay locked on yours.

your deep frown becomes a hesitant smile. no, maybe he is not-not mad anymore, actually.

he finishes the glass off with a groan that is entirely too sinful to be able to be created by one human man, albeit one that's been to hell and back. "see, this is why m'not pissed at you," dean says, voice thick and raspy as he tips the glass in your direction. "because i've got a helluva tolerance, and that burns. you... you drank that entire decanter like it was fuckin' kool-aid."

a pause and a blink. "juice. like juice. m'not explainin' kool-aid to you today. not in the mood."

his nails tap lightly on the countertop, drawing your attention there. "m'gonna guinea pig the shit outta you real quick."

"guinea pig?" your voice is a soft mutter of confusion. "you cannot—"

the sound of something popping open makes you blink in surprise, caught off guard by the sound of the cork popping free from the bottle on the countertop. "we're gonna play a game, dove. s'all you need to worry that pretty, confused little head about."

"oh."

dean pours a sip's worth into the crystal glass, before he pauses with the bottle in the air, and pours another of the same amount in. then, he passes the glass to you. "bottoms up."

"you are not getting me to show you my bottom, dean," you say sternly, with so much more authority than anyone could expect from an angel with a glass of whiskey in your fingers.

dean actually laughs. it's such a nice sound, hearty and rare these days. you wish you could bottle it up and cork it instead of what's already in there. surely, whatever it was wasn't as good as the sound of cackling. "means drink up, dove."

if only he'd actually just said that. you fluster, but you attempt to hide it behind the glass as you raise it to your mouth and sip it down in one gulp.

he tips his head in a small nod, eyebrows to his hairline, watching you with a look you can't explain in his eyes. impress? shock? affection? they're all things he rarely shows you, especially anymore. "what?"

dean raises his hands in mock surrender. "you just tossed back at least an eight hundred dollar double shot like juice, dove. let a man be impressed."

you choke belatedly. that little amount was eight hundred dollars? no wonder he'd been so angry, when he'd stumbled into you finishing off the bottle in the living space.

"nuh uh, pretty thing," he wags his finger, before the motion becomes a snap until you hand him back the glass, "no gettin' shy now. i wanna see you off your ass."

you bristle at that. "you have an obsession with my... my ass."

dean's grin becomes downright wicked. "yeah, i do."

the words take a second to register, and by the time they do, he's turned back and pouring another two shots worth into the glass. thankfully, too, because the last thing you want is for him to see the flush of pink on your cheeks.

"c'mon. one more." dean turns, holding the glass out for you. his eyes are a little glazed, and he seems lighter on his feet. not so tense around you as he'd been for weeks. you suck your lip between your teeth as you debate it, a little nervous, admittedly, to know what it's like to be off your ass. "nope. none of that."

his free hand cups your cheek suddenly, thumb dragging your bottom lip out of your mouth. "what?" you say, blinking your confusion. "none of what?"

"that," he answers, waving his hand in a broad gesture in front of your face. "m'feelin' too warm and buzzy to watch you bite your lip like a little temptress right now."

temptress. you? just because you'd— "oh." you feel your heart skip in your chest, and the feel of it nearly makes you jump. too close. he's too close. did you always feel like this when he was near, or was this one of those new feelings you stumbled across sometimes, that left you a bit breathless in your confusion?

the glass in his hand presses to your puffed bottom lip, the coolness of it dragging it open further, until it's in a little open o-shape. dean is close enough that you can hear the shudder in his inhale. you wonder, for a second, if it's because his heart, too, is stumbling over itself in his chest.

he begins to tip it back, pouring it in a slow stream between your parted lips. "yeah, that's a good girl," he mumbles, his voice rougher than you've heard it before. the praises always make you feel headier than usual, warm all over like the whiskey felt in your throat. "little more, c'mon. i know you can take it. yeah, just like that."

your eyes are locked on his the entire time, and you watch in real time as his pupils double in size, the green of his irises disappearing into a thin ring. once the glass is empty, he holds it to your lips a blink longer than necessary, his own mouth parted with words he didn't yet say.

another blink, and the glass is away from your mouth, and he's at the sink, back turned to you. "feel it yet?"

your hands do feel warm, like static runs through your veins, like each of your movements is more fluid. "i feel... something."

dean turns on the stream of the faucet, rinsing the glass out in silence. but softer than a breath, you hear him say, "yeah. so am i, dove."

tags,

@figthoughts, @jasvtsc, @titsout4nicholas, @deanswidow, @whyyouegg,

@bombarda-babe, @whisperingwillowxox, @underground-secret,

@bitchykittenconnoisseur, @jensenacklesantidote,

@keira-kaz2y5

[ameliathornromance]

“This is Hell.” You groaned to yourself. Curled up under the bedsheets of your shared tent, you lay, with your arms clasped firmly around your lower stomach in the fetus position.

It was the only way your period cramps would stop… sometimes. And today, was not a ‘sometimes’ day.

You thought, God forbid, for a moment before you came on, that you were spared one month of this. But of course, the usual fears came into play – could you be pregnant?

And after determining that there was no way you could be, you thought that this might just be a month where you missed your period.

It was joyous for you. You felt like you could frolic in a field, hair flying in a warm breeze as you hop, skipped and jumped. Right up until you woke up this morning with the worst cramps of the whole of your menstrual life.

You had been in bed the whole day because of them. Your Orc boyfriend had done his best to comfort you when you woke up, but unfortunately, none of his reassurances or soothing back rubs could quell the pain of your uterus taking revenge for your fantasies of one month without a period.

When it was clear that his efforts were doing nothing to sooth the pain, he sighed. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can get for you?” your boyfriend asked, feeling completely powerless to the machinations of your body.

You groaned, sarcastically, “you could get your hands on some chocolate for me.”

Chocolate was a rare thing for people of your social standing to afford. It was only given to the richest of people and you had only tasted it once while you were working in a Nobles house for a brief moment.

Right now, the idea of that velvety sweetness gracing your lips was all you could think about right now.

Your Orc, who could sense that you were not in the best of moods, grunted and stood. “I’ll see what I can do.”

You felt guilty asking for it in such a tone. It’s not like your boyfriend had done anything to deserve your sardonic attitude. He was only trying to help.

After that, you hadn’t seen or heard from him for the rest of the day. Your hormonal brain had convinced you that he had abandoned you for how you treated him and sent you into a fit of tears.

Which is why when he came back, you were surprised to see him grinning from ear to ear.

But at the sight of your tears, his expression fell. “Oh, honey, what’s wrong?” Your Orc rushed over and placed what he was holding on your bedside table.

You sniffled and dried up your tears using your sleeve as you apologised, “I-I’m sorry for being horrible earlier,” you sniffed, “I didn’t mean it, I’m in a lot of pain so please don’t leave me alone!”

Your Orc let out a sigh of relief to your surprise and smiled at you, “honey it’s okay. I know this time is really tough for you, I get it.” He picks up what he left on the bedside table and held out a steaming towel to you. “Here for your cramps.”

Taking the towel, you wrapped it around your stomach and the clenching pain of your abdomen ceased instantly.

More tears began to run down your cheeks as your Orc cupped your face in his hands, “oh I’m so sorry sweetheart, if I’d known it hurt that bad, I’d have been quicker about coming back.”

You shook your head, just grateful for him to be there.

“And, I know you said it with a hint of sarcasm, but I found some anyway.” He held out a small box to you.

You stared at it, taking it from him.

The box was gold and held together with a silky black ribbon tied into a bow, with a tag that had some random mans name scrawled on it in cursive.

Tugging on the ribbon, the bow collapsed and allowed you to open the top of the box. Inside, wrapped in small, individual shiny pieces of paper, was chocolate.

If you were crying before, you were now sobbing. “I… I don’t deserve you.” You said, tearfully. “You’re too good for me.”

Shaking his head, your Orc dried your tears with his thumbs, “that’s nonsense. We all have tough days, okay?” Placing a kiss on your forehead, he made you look at him. “And I’m not going to go anywhere. I promise.”

I have a seven day free trial on my Patreon! Sign up to gain early access to all my work before it comes out for free on Tumblr!

Taglist <3

@sunndust @greenie-c

[blueishspace]

Hero, Villain God 17

(Prev) (Next) (First)

*Scar's pov*

Poultryman leaves quickly but you can't help but keep feeling suspicious. Nothing concrete and his explanation does make sense but you can't help but feel that It was weird for him to just be there like that...

He said he heard of it but ... How did he do so quickly? And why was he just standing there...menacingly?

You don't get the time to think about it further and quickly forget about it as Cub messages you, the hero association wants to talk to you for some reason and that means something is wrong...

...You are a bit worried.

...

You uh... don't really know what to do, your fight and flight is going off in a way only a council of business people can make it go off.

The council is staring at you, you thought they wanted to tell you something not look at you with... judgement in their eyes for like ten minutes straight.

You try to break the tension by initiating the conversation yourself.

"H-hello?"

...

"You wanted to speak with me?"

They are still silent? Did you say something wrong? You literally just said hi-

"Indeed, a decision has been talen that we believe you should be informed of."

Ok, not silent anymore, that's good... Wait decision? They aren't demoting you or something, right?

"Did something happen?"

They look to eachother...ok...even more worrying. It's fine everything is fine, you are totally calm and chill and not anxious at all.

"No, but something will."

"O-ok?"

Points for being ominous for no reason.

"Hotguy, you cannot continue to work alone. The stakes are growing, it is becoming too dangerous.."

"Oh!"

Oh! Are they making a hero team? You always wanted one of those-

"We are not going to waste heroes on a team"

And just like that your hopes are dashed and crushed. Why are you still here...just to suffer?

"But then-"

"Hotguy, how would you feel about a sidekick?"

A... Sidekick? You don't know how to feel, superheroes are supposed to have them though so It must be a good idea!...Wait.

"W-who's going to be my sidekick? You said you weren't going to waste heroes."

"That has not yet bern decided, we plan to start an hiring process of sorts soon.""

Hiring? What's this? An office job?"

"Do not question us, Hotguy. It is thanks to us you are even here to begin with"

"Right! I am sorry."

"... This is where you come in"

"Huh?"

"A sidekick should not only be capable but should also work well with the hero, you'll have to be the final judge of character "

"Oh that makes sense... So I'll interview the candidates?"

"Not directly, we cannot risk that, you'll just have to prepare some questions for them to answer"

"Oh... Alright! I'll do it"

*Mumbo's pov*

You are in your apartment, Grian is off... somewhere. You have stopped questioning him around the time you walked on him peeling grapes ... You just hope he doesn't randomly die or something, that would be quite unfortunate.

You turn on the tv, not something you do often but it's a good way to pass the time when you aren't working on something which is thinking about it...very rarely. Surely today has been uneventful.

The mayor was kidnapping by his own office and Hotguy is randomly hiring a sidekick.

What in the world has happened today??

*Grian's pov*

So Hotguy is searching for a sidekick, what interesting timing.

Well, you cannot waste this opportunity to have fun, can you.

You prepare an outfit, you even have a perfect name for this.

Cuteguy.

...

You might have too many personas now... nah.

End of Chapter 4

[cipher26]

Arcane Brain Dump 1/? | Jinx & Caitlyn

There were a lot of things I wanted to see in the finale that I didn't get, which wasn't surprising knowing there wasn't much time. But one thing that I really wanted and didn't actually expect to get was a 1 on 1 conversation with Jinx and Caitlyn. I was so excited when it was happening, because I felt like it was necessary for both characters to talk with each other, especially after episode 6 when they're suddenly fighting on the same side, and where they COULD have become family if it hadn't all gone to shit.

Before the season started I didn't think there was any hope for Jinx and Caitlyn to actually reconcile. Like, I thought at best Cait might stop hunting her for Vi's sake, but would still hate her. But then Isha came along and Jinx changed so much, and Caitlyn was isolated and depressed and tired, and I thought "hmm maybe they can get past the feud?" Unfortunately I guess we'll never know for sure, but I really do think that conversation was step 1 for them getting along. It was so interesting to see because you can see that Caitlyn is still in pain about her loss, but it's also been enough time since then, and so much has happened that the rage she was feeling in the beginning of the season has fizzled out. Which is relatable. It's exhausting to keep up that kind of hatred for someone, especially if they change in the way that Jinx did. The Jinx in that cell in front of Caitlyn was a completely different person than the one who kidnapped her out of the shower and killed her mother. I think that seeing Jinx with Isha and Vi and Vander also showed Caitlyn how much had changed. Because even from her first meeting with Jinx, there was tension between her and Vi. Jinx held a gun up to Vi's face in that first meeting, and was instantly aggressive towards Caitlyn. But in that tent with the whole family, Jinx didn't even care that Caitlyn was there. If anything she seemed kind of smug, because Caitlyn still thinks of her as an enemy but Jinx just saved her life. It's almost like a game, like what can Caitlyn do now? She lost some of her argument about Jinx being evil. Also, in that moment she can't do anything even if she wanted to. I saw a lot of people talking about how it didn't make sense that Caitlyn was suddenly fine with Jinx and didn't try to kill her. Which is silly because first of all, Caitlyn didn't have her weapon, she left it in the tent with Vi and Vi hadn't returned yet. So she couldn't really do anything. Also they just watched Beast Vander throw this huge man out the side of the building to protect his daughter, so if Caitlyn tries to hurt Jinx in any way she's absolutely gonna get torn to pieces. And then immediately after that everything starts to go to shit, and Vi is there, and they have other things to worry about in that moment. Especially once Ambessa starts attacking. It's a shame that we didn't also get to see the immediate aftermath of the battle with Cait, Jinx, and Jayce rushing Vi to safety. I mean idk how far Piltover is from the fissure, but it's not a fast journey lol. The three of them together must have been interesting, especially since Caitlyn hasn't seen Jayce in however many months it's been since before the time skip. Another thing I was sad to not see actually, was Cait and Jayce's reunion and Cait being like "wtf happened to you? where have you been?!" Alas...

Anyway, I'm glad they gave us that prison scene with the two of them. They just came out and addressed their issue, realized how different things were, and both kind of chose to move on. I mean Jinx is devastated and suicidal, she's completely given up, and also she's still the good person that Isha helped her become. Jinx has no reason to hate Caitlyn. The only thing Caitlyn's done to Jinx is hunt her after Jinx murdered her mother. And because Jinx wants to die, she tells Caitlyn to just do it. Except Caitlyn's changed too. She's tired of fighting, and the kid in front of her (cause Jinx is a kid...) looks as sad and tired as she feels. Even more so. It wasn't a long conversation, but I think it was just what they needed to hear from each other, and what the audience needed to hear. Caitlyn admits that her hatred for Jinx changed her in ways that made her hate herself, and she didn't want to be like that anymore. And then Jinx comes pretty much as close as she's gonna get to apologizing to Caitlyn for killing her mom. She doesn't say the words "I'm sorry," but when she says "I didn't know your mom was there" it kind of does feel like an apology. Or at the very least, I think it's Jinx telling Caitlyn that it wasn't personal. She wasn't trying to hurt Caitlyn specifically, she was trying to hurt the system that had oppressed and neglected her home for so long. And in that moment, she was too filled with grief over Silco to hold back.

So I think that conversation really brings some closure to both of them. They kind of get past their feud and just move on. There are so many other things to worry about now, and so many bad things have happened. And in the process of rushing Vi back to Piltover, I imagine it helped each of them see how much the other loves Vi. And I think that loving Vi is part of the motivation to put it behind them. Vi would never forgive Jinx if she killed Caitlyn, or hurt her. And now, despite what Vi told Cait before their first fight, I think Cait knows Vi would never forgive her if she hurt or killed Jinx. They both do what they do in the end of that episode FOR Vi. Jinx runs and locks Vi in the cage so Vi can't follow her, and she tells Vi that she deserves to be happy without feeling guilty, and specifically tells Vi she deserves to be with Cait. I mean that's a HUGE deal. Especially since Vi wasn't present for the journey back from the fissures, so she didn't actually see Cait and Jinx working together. In her mind they're still at square 1 for the most part.

And then Caitlyn goes and calls the guards away so that Vi can free Jinx, knowing she'll do so. I've seen a lot of people confused about Cait's line "did you really think I needed all of the enforcers at the Hexgates?" which is fair because I was also confused at first lol. But what Caitlyn is telling Vi, is that she knew VI would come to free her sister, so she did what she could to clear the way for Vi to be able to do that. She's basically telling Vi in that moment that she's moved past her anger enough to let Jinx go, and to stop hunting her. It's such a freeing moment for Vi, because the two people she loves the most, who were furiously trying to kill each other before, have finally made peace. It takes a huge weight off of Vi's shoulders, no longer having to be stuck between two people she loves who hate each other. And Jinx has just told her "go get your girl" and now Caitlyn is standing there smugly telling her that she basically let Jinx go. That's why Vi reacts the way she does, it's such a relief to be past that conflict and have permission from both of them to be happy.

Anyway, I thought it was a great moment, and even though it wasn't a long conversation between Cait and Jinx, I think it's exactly what they both needed. It was the closure they needed to move on. If Jinx had stayed around, they still would have had more work to do surely before they actually got along well, but it was suddenly possible after that talk. And I hope that in the continuation of this story that they finally get there someday. Because based on the ending I really don't think Jinx is dead. And Caitlyn is holding Jinx's monkey bomb in her hand, contemplating and looking up the Hexgate plans. She has to be looking to see if there was any way Jinx could have escaped, probably because Vi is devastated and she wants to help take that hurt away. Imagine if Cait could bring Vi her sister back? Or at least if she could let Vi know for sure that she wasn't dead. That would be huge. What a difference between the way these three started, and where they ended.

[skele-bunny]

Can I ask for some age regression dewdrop with aether as his care taker?

OOhHHHHHHH MY GOD THANK U THANK U!!! Me and @artificialmoth talk about agereg Dewy all the time 🥺 this is so special thank u

Little Dew, who we call Kitty (name idea thanks to Sphylor), came around during era 3. He finally felt comfortable and safe in his environment to relax after so many stressors, giving him the opportunity to just... Be small! Kitty is extremely non verbal, and in the tinier age range of 2-4. Unfortunately, within my canon, his environment became too unsafe to have such vulnerability so kitty just, basically, hid.

It wasn't until the beginning of Prequelle did kitty come back again. In the old bedroom with Aether to get some of their things to move to the new den when he seen one of his old toys. Just gently going over the ridges and bumps before he slowly sat down, playing with it and eventually so lost in that comfort it kinda just... Slipped.

Now, I think ghouls can change their size and appearance. Age regression plays into that a bunch! Aether came back to a tiny Dew surrounded in toys and playing, looking up at him and freezing. Just a fear response. But Aether slowly sat down, tilting his head before smiling and picking up a teddy bear.

"What are you playing?"

And from there, Aether met Kitty. He's kitty's immediate caretaker and they wouldn't have it AANNYY other way. He's also met "Dewey" (specifically with an e, his words) which is Dew's middle. Bitey little thing and has a lot of fits. Doesn't know how to regulate himself a bunch so Dewey requires a lot more attention, structure, and gentle parenting rather than Kitty who just needs gentleness.

Kitty has pacifiers he doesn't really use unless he's really small, but the handle? Yeah? He doesn't like it. Fussed CONSTANTLY until the point Aether figured out what was bothering him, and learned to remove it.

He also kneads on Aether a bunch! He doesn't mean to, but sometimes his lil claws will prick Aether. Aeth never gets mad tho :3 just gently redirects to another area. Sometimes Aeth will fold the blanket in half to help prevent getting nicked

Aether got Kitty an extra soft blanket for his first gift! Kitty fuckin LOVES it sooo much!!! It also smells like Aether so it's a plus. You'll never see him without it in his lil nest

Also, have you ever seen the videos of cats and weenie dogs in a hoodie/jacket sleeve? Yeah, that's Kitty.

Kitty doesn't like a lot of noise or lights, so they have fairy lights and a specific playlist dedicated for little time. Sometimes if he needs visual stim, Aether will put on aquatic videos of like... Jellyfish or an aquarium live stream. There's also led around the TV that matches the screen to help with lighting! He's just in straight awe, purring, eyes full and watching. Lil tail thumping cause he's so invested

[ragnarokhound]

kon and jason form a bond over the fact that both of them have a crush on tim and tim is oblivious about it. they still hate each other, obviously, but it's nice to get drunk with someone who understands, you know? except after nearly half a year of occasionally getting drunk and bitching about tim, they hook up. and then they keep on hooking up. but really they both want tim! which is about when tim walks in on them.

anon. anon i am taking you by the shoulders. this is beautiful to me. do you get how much I love the 'i love him not you, but he's not here and besides, you're the only other bitch around who i'd trust him with /derogatory' and how good that is for jaykon(tim)??? dO YOU??? (the mutual mutual pining. the pact between two people who both know who they're actually in love with. the potential for a True love triangle to form. slow burn in one direction, enemies to friends to lovers in another. i'm feral over this)

The first time it happened, it was completely by accident.

Neither of them could really be held accountable, so neither of them could really blame each other. No matter how much Jason would like to blame the superclone for literally everything that transpired, always and forever, it can’t be helped. There’s no one at fault but good old Jack Daniels. Jason hadn’t even known supers could get drunk, but maybe that’s Kon’s human half at work. Or maybe he laces it with kryptonite dust or neurotoxin or whatever. Jason doesn’t really give a fuck how Kon gets his kicks. He just knows that the two of them are the only motherfuckers who get it— and while that doesn’t make them friends by any means, it definitely makes them de facto drinking buddies. They are united by one thing, and one thing only: a horrific, embarrassing, deeply acute, and likely terminal attraction to one Timothy Jackson Drake. Yeah. They know. One unlikely team up on a mission gone wrong was all it took for Jason and Kon to reach an understanding.

From Tim’s disappointed scowling every time they bickered to the easy way he trusted both of them to manhandle him in the name of the greater good, soon enough, Jason had gone from glaring daggers in the superclone’s direction to trading pained, commiserating looks every time Tim twisted himself into a pretzel right in front of them. Which he did surprisingly often. Jason would call it suspiciously often if Tim weren’t the most oblivious, rizzless dumbass on the planet. He only has game when he isn’t trying. Unfortunately for both Jason and Kon, he definitely is not trying. By the end of that week, Kon had gone from threatening to throw Jason into space to wordlessly offering sad fist bumps every time Tim missed yet another thinly veiled come on. From either of them. (Tim thought they were finally bonding over bad jokes and kept laughing and booing in their faces.) Clown to clown communication at its finest. After the week was up and they were all set to go their separate ways, Jason shot his shot one last time, inviting Tim (and Kon by proxy) out for drinks. Tim politely declined, citing all the paperwork he’d need to fill out for the Titans that Jason had been fully intending to sidestep anyway— like fuck he’s ever touching another incident report in his life— but to Jason’s surprise, Kon took him up on it. The two of them had hit the bar, and by the third round of drinks they were both swapping Tim-stories and finally clearing the air about the finer details of that ass. The rest is unlikely history. Don’t get Jason wrong, they still hate each other’s guts. It changes from bitch-sesh to bitch-sesh, but by the end of the night Kon will have threatened something like snapping Jason’s fingers or lasering his face off, and Jason will have responded with something like an eye roll and asking him if he’d like a hunk of kryptonite to choke on. Only, the first time it happened, too many glasses of whiskey and one meandering walk from the bar to Jason’s closest safehouse later, Kon’s eyes had shuttered, dark and blue and nothing like the eyes either of them actually wanted, and said, “No, but I think I’d like to choke you on my dick. You game?” And, well. What was Jason supposed to do, but grin knife-sharp and mean and say— “I’d love to see you try.”

[teoft]

It's like Tumblr has become almost a diary for me, thanks to no character limit and a read more button. This atmosphere of acceptance and understanding helps a lot too.

I'll get back to posting actual art, juggling with Twitter and Bluesky along with commissions is taking up a lot of my time.

Anyway, thoughts about art community and being social

For the longest time I've had this feeling of being an outsider in this vague community of artists that see as colleagues of sorts. Like I meet all the "criteria" of being in the group, and yet don't really feel like I'm part of it. Well, it seems I am right in some way, and the reason is that they interact with each other, while I sit here drawing alone.

Unfortunately I've always been prone to isolate myself from others. I grew up feeling like I should be ashamed of loving to draw, since it was always fanart monsters, creatures and cool guys instead of "proper art" like animals and portraits. Before social media, I only drew for myself and never showed anything to anybody. I hid my art from my family, from the world, so that I wouldn't be judged. I think it is one of the biggest reasons why I have trouble interacting with people in the context of art (tbh I'm shit at being social anyway but that's a whole another problem).

Even when I had a scanner and means to post my art online, I never did, due to the whole "if you put something online it'll be there forever" mindset. My first actual account anywhere online must've been Facebook in 2010ish, where I only had a few friends. It was the perfect place for me to finally post anything online, and so I did: I used to post pretty much everything I drew on there. Slowly gaining courage, I eventually made my original Tumblr account, then Deviantart, Twitter, etc.

Still, all I did was throw my art out there in hopes of somebody liking it. I didn't really know how to interact with the people who commented on my posts, so instead I mostly just... made more art. I did have some friend groups here and there, but either they ended up falling apart or my social battery drained in such a way that I slowly drifted away. I had gotten used to just being by myself and relying only on myself in the online art world.

During my design studies, I started putting more thought and work on promoting myself, so that it could be one career path for me to take. My mindset was that I'll work hard and become "big", even if it meant that one post gained me just one follower. In 2020 I ended up going viral with a meme and suddenly getting tens of thousands of followers. It was great and a welcome boost of morale, but unfortunately 2020 was otherwise one of the worst years in my life.

Throughout the years people have come and gone, so the only constant for me has been myself, and my drive to develop my skills. Thus it's been too easy for me to just isolate myself. In a way it has been my strength with regards to art, but sometimes I wish I knew how to make lasting connections. I think/know I might be autistic to some degree, which adds to the difficulty of being social. Though, to be honest, I don't know if I'd gotten this far without my autistic hyperfixations.

I guess the thing I need to do now to fix this problem of loneliness and isolation is to just... slowly try and be more social. To reply to comments and talk to people. All of which is easier said than done. Still, just gotta take that first step and then keep going.

Despite lacking the kind of community I yearn for, it seems I've made a name for myself, enough so that people seem to take pride in knowing me. Or at least that's the impression I've gotten a few times. But still, I am happy that I've had a positive effect on people. After all, my two main motivators in art are that I like doing it, and I like when people enjoy my art.

[teamchillidogs]

Oï!!

First, I want to say, I love this comic and genuinely can’t wait to see what awaits for us next ♡♡♡

The premise is such an interesting concept– And the art is to die for, hello?? (all my ♡ to you guys, and I mean ALL of you!)

I just had two tiny questions, if it haven’t been already answered:

If it doesn’t spoil anything, is Sonic still going to be able to run at his full speed with that mechanical leg? Or is he going to be limited? I can’t imagine my poor baby stuck with average speed, but I’m not really sure that this leg is capable of supporting his sonic speed.

And second, mostly adressed to others fans... WHY IS EVERYBODY BLAMING MAH BOI TAILS FOR EVERYTHING?? Like, yeah sure he’s technically responsible but–

Why is nobody blaming Knuckles too?!

Both Sonic and Amy told Tails to come back to the ARK and let Sonic&Shadow handle things, and I think we can safely say he would have (even reluctantly) obeyed and gone back to the ship.

But noooooo, Knuckles had to chime him and told him to make himself useful.

Useful.

To the boy who literally just witnessed his BigBroTM (fake) death in an explosion without being able to do anything abt it.

The kid who just had an entire arc abt gaining confidence and learning to step out of Sonic’s shadow (pun not intented), to be his own person with his own purpose and all that jazz.

The child who’s probably still pump up on the adrealine from his fight with Eggman (which he won if I remember my SA2 correctly).

Knuckles, mah bro, best hot-headed himbo of the franchise. You could not have chosen a worst time to utter these words.

Of course Tails was going to take him up on that and try to ”MaKe HiMsElf UsEfUl”, why wouldn’t he?? He defeated Eggman in battle (Left-over adrealine and possibly cockiness?), and didn’t seem to trust Shadow with Sonic (who, again, was thought Dead literaly less than half an hour ago bc of the Team Shadow was on– Seriously, I can see why he’d like to be by his side when Sonic is again risking his life out there for them)

And franckly, how was he supposed to realize how bad his intervention would turn out to be? It never got that bad before, why now?

#StoptheTailshate #HoldKnucklesaccountable

Sorry for the rambling and the terrible english, but it had to be said, bruh. Tails ain’t even in my Top-5 favorites character, but everyones’ so harsh on the baby, he needed some backup 🥺😭

Hii @sookilini here answering as per usual!

this is the best ask we have ever received and it's honestly my favorite, thank you so much for sending this.

I always get to excited and emotional when i read these things, thank you so much for your kind words <333

ALSO THANK YOU FOR NOT ATTACKING TAILS, he has been DRAGGED TO FILTH I CAN´T TAKE IT /j

So first: is Sonic still going to be able to run at his full speed with that mechanical leg? Or is he going to be limited?

Unfortunately, the people of Marmolim (the planet he landed on) as you may have been able to tell, don't know who Sonic is and are unaware of his speed and abilities. So, the prosthetic leg isn´t capable of withstanding his speed...

Secondly

Why is nobody blaming Knuckles too?

I honestly have no idea why most people commenting did not catch onto Knuckles provoking Tails by poking at his insecurities, I'd even dare to say his ego more so... Tails got into his head "oh I don't need Sonic to get things done. I can do anything, I'm more than just the brains, I can do the action too" at least this is my intention with his actions.

We have to remember, Tails is literally just a child at the end of the day, yes he is incredibly smart but can you really expect a 12-year-old-ish kid to act rationally when put in a stressful life or death situation while getting yelled at by everyone for just trying to help?

Nobody would ever expect a kid to even be in that situation to begin with right? at least that´s what I think.

We all know Knux isn´t the smartest in hindsight...he isn't stupid by any means, but he will say what comes to his mind without second guessing for sure.

But oh well...Knuckles isn´t here to defend himself....anymore...

But there is still hope

[razzellyn]

Cuddles!!

No tricks this time!! Just fluffy cuddle session!!!

Part 2!!!!

MCB

Part 1 here!!!

Notes in the end!!!

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Dexter

• Oh he's a cuddle bug. He doesn't act like it, but he's very cuddly at times. He also doesn't really mind when someone sees you two, still would prefer to be in private though.

• Sometimes the two of you cuddle while nature/bird watching. He often points out the little creatures that the two of you could find and then share fun facts about them. He yaps like that only to the people he trusts.

• More often than not he bombards you with kisses all over your face. How? By pressing his face against yours of course!

Fleta Z

• He's a bit hesitant for some reason, but once you've convinced him he's actually very into it. He also takes this time to learn more about you! Maybe even sway your heart with a compliment or two.

• Not overly cuddly, but he will smother you in affection. In fact, he's not leaving you alone until you give him his daily hugs.

• Soft kith after every cuddle/hugs. No backing out from him! He will hunt you down (not literally). Quite the gentleman while he kissed you. Very gentle indeed.

Wild Guardy

• What's a cuddle?

• Jk, he knows what cuddle is. He just doesn't know what to think of it. You'll have to slowly introduce him to the concept too, start by holding his hands and then side-hug him, etc.

• Overtime he does gets comfortable and decided to cuddle. He's awkward and terribly nervous about it, but he's doing great. Be patient with him okay?

• He usually asks for cuddles when either of you are stressed out about something or just having a terrible day in general. Surprise him with a peck on his cheek too, that helps him greatly.

Buffalo Crush

• Absolute cuddle bug. You might be crushed under his strength, but don't worry, he always apologizes after. Oh and please hug him daily, he loves it.

• He is also the one to DRAG you to a cuddle if he thinks you haven't spend much time with him yet. Though he will be a bit shy about it at first. He just loves being close to you okay!!!

• Unfortunately he's hard to be pushed away once you do cuddle. It was either him or the world. The world, which means letting him hug you to death. Him, which means leaving him to sulk in the corner.

Buster Gallon

• He'll make a comment about how it's a waste of time and is a useless thing to do, but then when you pull him into a hug he puts his entire weight on you and cuddles you like crazy.

• The cuddle doesn't end until he says so. Well you could just bribe him with a kiss or two if you want to be freed, but that's a 50/50 chance. He's tired of Black Dan's bullsh t man let him be.

• He also lets go when someone randomly comes in on you two cuddling. If they make fun of you two, he's hunting them down. If they don't make a single comment, he just lets them be. He's got a red face though so that's something.

Black Hook

• It's also a 50/50 situation with him. He'd either be immediately into it or he thinks it's stupid and leaves. Let's be real, his actions depends on his mood.

• That being said, despite being the leader of his team, he's quite gentle with holding you. Unless he's been feeling a bit down, he's going to cuddle you until death.

• Don't expect to be treated like a royalty though, he's a pirate not a servant. He's going to cuddle you whenever and wherever he wants to. Yes, even in mid air, however that works.

Heavy Iron

• Definitely thinks he's better as a big spoon than a small spoon. Well he's true, but he's definitely more 'cuter' as a small spoon. He won't admit it but you will.

• He'll hug you when he feels like it, or you're genuinely in one of your less preferred moods. That being said, if he was also in one of his preferred moods, a quick cuddle does well in calming him down.

• The same as the two above, it's a 50/50 situation with him unfortunately. He's not exactly a lovey dovey type so... don't expect much out of him.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

First of all, i would just like to say

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Secon of all, i am SO SOSOSOSOSOS SORRY for being gone for MONTHS

eugh I'm so lazy at times and so busy at the same time it's FKALRBSOCNW

No srsly I'm so sorry

I'M SORRY

I'm sorrryysyaurhisyroah 😭😭😭

Anyways hope y'all like this part 😋

[bitchfitch]

I'm getting a service dog in the new year! No matter what it takes. The current hurdle is the fact that the estimated cost for a service dog who fits my needs is 16k USD. Which is more than what I as a crippled tranny make in a year.

If you'd like to help, every dollar I make on commissions between now and bringing my pup home will be put towards this fund. Further information on prices and such are below the cut.

If you want to help but don't want blorbo art then here's a Kofi link. Thank you. Every dollar really does count.

An FAQ and the current progress towards the fundraiser is below the cut.

1600/16000

🟩🟩🟩🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪🟪

What does the 16k cover?

The puppy, the training education, some supplies, and some back up in case the first pup is deemed unsuitable for the work. (1 in 2 service dog prospects don't make it to the end of training unfortunately. I will be keeping the first dog even if it doesn't make it as a service dog because I know I don't have the heart to let go of a puppy after spending a minimum of a year working with it. but I don't have the housing/money for 3 rottweilers so if the second fails too I'll just have two really well trained dogs.)

What happens if you don't get the money?

I have some things I can sell, like my van, that will close the gap.

How are you going to pay for the dog's expenses after getting it?

My own expenses are extremely low, I've already determined that the dog will not cause excessive strain on my budget.

Why a Rottweiler instead of a lab or golden retriever?

I need a balance and alert dog, basically an animal who'll act as a counterweight to help stop me falling along with a handful of less breed specific tasks. I'm 250 lbs and can pick up and carry most people, I need a large heavy dog or else they're just going to fall with me instead of helping balance. rottweilers were chosen over other breeds who could do the job because of their short coats (it gets well over 110°f/43°c here, long coats are not an option) and calm, alert, protective

Why the name Jabalí?

My dad's family is from Germany, my mom's is from Mexico, If the dog is going to be German, then the name should be Mexican to honor that. (Also it's just a cute name. It means boar, and is pronounced Ha Va Le, like in jabalina)

How are you going to go about training?

I'm going to attend a localish service dog trainer education course. It costs about the same as hiring someone to do it professionally, so I might as well be the professional since im going to need a new service dog every 4-8 years until I die.

(it takes 2 years to train a pup, and the last few years of a dog's life can often involve eye, ear, or joint issues that make them no longer suitable to be a service dog. Instead they get to retire and have a lot of treats while they help train up the next pup. Rotties have a life expectancy of 8-12, 2 years for training and 2 for retirement means only 4 of actual work on the low end, and 8 at the absolute max)

Are you going through a proper breeder?

Yes, I have a list of a handful of breeders who health test, register, and show their dogs in schutzhund. As well as one who fits those criteria and has had pups go on to be service dogs.

How many blorbos do you need to draw to make it happen?

Using my average commission sale as a baseline: 267 total 241 to go.

[noxiousgrace]

YES YOU'RE SO RIGHT

You have no idea how many times I've imagined krs to that song 😭

I THINK IT'S FAIR TO ALSO SHARE HOW I CONNECT KRS TO THIS SONG HEHEHEHE(I'm sobbing on the inside)

SPOILERS AHEAD

---

"Watch that old fire as it flickers and dies,

That once blessed the household and lit up our lives.

It shone for the friends and the clinking of glasses.

I'll tend to the flame; you can worship the ashes"

This verse reminds me of the cataclysm in Korea and the 20 year old war in krs' and og!cales world respectively. (We still don't have a name for that planet 😭 it's literally nameless 1)

But it can also be correlated to kim rok soos curse, any warmth in his life has been put out by tragedy after tragedy.

Og!cale was also unfortunate enough to be the last one standing. The survivors guilt with these two goes absolutely insane 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

----

"Capture the wild things and bring them in line

And own what was never your right to confine.

The lives and the loves and the songs are what matters.

I'll tend to the flame; you can worship the ashes."

I feel like the first 2 lines here could be words meant for the white star, and his holy fucking crusade into ruining the entire world .

And the 3rd line is krs AND cale stating their beliefs. Krs always insists on the fact that staying alive is best and og!cale values the love he has for his family, both of them would do anything for life and love respectively. (Honestly krs would go far for love too, but he hasn't been able to hold onto it long enough, to be confident that he could put everything on the line for it. Until he transmigrated of course, now he has hope that he can hang onto it so it's more on the forefront)

----

"Do you feel heavy? Your eyes drop with grief.

Your spirit is wild and your suffering is brief.

So never you buckle and bend to the masses.

I'll tend to the flame; you can worship the ashes"

To be honest, I've always connected this verse to raon. Especially how KRS perceives him, going back to the time he first saved raon: The dragon had been tortured for 4 years, and ready to kill himself in order to escape just a few days after krs saved him. contrary to how he (krs) gave up when he was being abused, the little dragon still had fire in his eyes, which was a relief to krs. (Sobbing, every time we get snippets of his previous life i die inside, i love this poor bastard so much)

The third line could corrolate to krs!cale nurturing every child that he adopts. He taught raon to be a DRAGON, he helped lock become the WOLF KING, etc. etc.

And the last line is his continued self sacrifice (when you said it fits that this line is after every verse, YOU WERE SO FUCKING RIGHT 😭)

---

"Get round the fire with a glass of strong ale

And tell us a story from beyond the pale.

Bury some seeds and expect some strong branches.

I'll tend to the flame; you can worship the ashes"

Okay so i had to look up what beyond the pale means, and it basically means something unacceptable.

The first two could be cale and krs bottling up their trauma. Krs didn't open up until he met lsh and cjs,(i think? Because choi jung soo knew that krs lost everything when his memories were being transferred to choi han) and they probably had to literally sit around a fire since korea was pretty much flattened to the ground, except for a few safe zones,after the cataclysm

As for og!cale, he could've sat with the rest of the soldiers before the battle. He opened up to krs as well which i thought was nice (even if it was partially out of necessity)

The third line is cale picking up munchkins on the way to his slacker life LMAO he's gonna have an empire before he gets to rest istg 😭

-----

"Now show me a man that can meet all his needs,

For what we need most now is unity's seed:

A common old song for all creeds and all classes.

I'll tend to the flame; you can worship the ashes."

I feel like this verse fits a lot more if you look at it in a different light, i interpret the first line as a rhetorical question, "show me a man that can meet all his needs, go on, you can't" because nobody can fully sustain themselves without the other

And this makes the line apply to everyone in tcf that much more, nobody we've seen so far has been able to survive and accomplish things all on their own. Even in a collapsed society, which krs had to live in for 16 years, everyone was still grasping at the people around them to ensure their survival. While krs is independent, he would've truly burned himself to ashes if he didn't have anybody who even slightly cared about him along the way. His emotional independence is such a facade, he's so weak to affection it hurts me 😭😭😭 he's been deprived of so much, i wanna cry

The second and third line also corrolate to the collapsing worlds krs and og!cale had to live in. Unity was desperately needed against the monsters in korea, and the white star.

Survival is the common old song the third line is talking about, if TCF is the context we're seeing it in 😭

And again, the last line of the verse, their self sacrifice continues

---

"I'll tend to the flame..."

Krs and cale both maintaining their determination for a better future

-----

"What will we do when the world it is ending,

And time it is halted for friend and for foe?

Try to hold on to the time as it passes.

I'll tend to the flame; you can worship the ashes.

I'll tend to the flame; you can worship the ashes.

I'll tend to the flame; you can worship the ashes."

I don't have a very deep analasys for this verse specifically, but both krs and cale have tasted the end of the world. Unlike cale, krs has another chance to save everything from ruin. (But, in all fairness, he never had a chance to save korea.)

Them trying to hold on to the time as it passes can be interpreted as them doing their absolute best to preserve the different parts of their lives that keep them sane 😭

Aaand the self sacrifice continues with the last lines.

----

That was my analasys of the connection between ashes and TCF, thank you for coming 🤝🤍

Kim rok soo is so Hozier - it will come back

Kim rok soo is so Hozier - through me (the flood)

Kim rok soo is so Hozier - nobodys soldier

Kim rok soo is so Hozier - All Things End

Kim rok soo is so The longest Johns - Ashes

Kim rok soo is so Frank sinatra - My way

Kim rok soo is so Ado - readymade (english cover by trickle)

Kim rok soo is so Radiohead - just

Kim rok soo is so Depeche mode - Enjoy the silence

Guys i think about Kim rok soo often

Idk if you can tell

[mettywiththenotes]

It's weird how Hawks went straight from "Dabi" to "Touya", like they are on a first name basis or something. Like I know the whole analysis of it is probably that using his real name is to show that he sees him as more than a villain now because of Dabi's ties with Endeavor

But I'm just thinking, specifically, what does this mean for if Dabi and Hawks ever interact again? Is Hawks just going to call him Touya now?

[xxplastic-cubexx]

what is your favorite thing about charles and your favorite thing about erik? separately, as in what you like most about their characters :]

a devious question this one is, my friend!!! it's hard enough for me to explain my thoughts cohesively, but having to pick ONE thing i particularly love is difficult. with characters like charles and erik, theres been so much done with their characters over the decades and so they have so many components to them that make them so interesting and fun to observe. BUT I TRY FOR YOU TODAY. under the cut i kinda ramble and the size of this text box makin me anxious

i think if i were to be simple and broad, what i enjoy most about charles is his determination to help others, even if he isn't really thanked and/or if people don't even like him. ofc, this isn't to say he hasn't done wrong- to be honest, the fact he does wrong/questionable things at times is another aspect of him i really enjoy, maybe because- broadly speaking- he's meant to be altruistic (intent vs outcome and all that). i don't know if that's super exciting to most people, but it is for me

as for erik, my reason for liking him is easier to explain tbh. To Be Simple And Broad, his progression from villain to antihero over the decades has been fun to observe (as much as i have so far anyhow) and analyze. i think to be a bit more specific, him using his rage and pain as justifications for his villainous actions is definitely what compels me the most: hurt people hurt and the sort, an idea i've always found interesting (something something vicious cycles and the like). yet now, he recognizes this wasn't really. A Just Thing To Do and is beginning to change that, which i enjoy

[doubledyke]

it doesn't really make sense in the logic (lol) of the show but part of me loves the idea that edd is being raised by his grandparents.... kids who are raised by grandparents tend to be overly mature and a little uhhhhh off-beat. i feel like it could explain a lot.

[thedisablednaturalist]

If you need insurance anytime within the next year and are thinking about applying for medicaid, open enrollment on healthcare.gov went live Nov 1st! I would heavily recommend applying asap instead of procrastinating like I did. Your state may also have specific health insurance coverage plans. If you are losing your insurance after December 15th, you will probably apply for special enrollment and can apply if you are within a month of losing your insurance (I applied through special enrollment bc my insurance grace period ends on Nov 16th). Medicaid can take as long as 90 days to approve/deny you. Because I procrastinated I'll probably have to get interim insurance which can be expensive especially if you have high medical costs like me.