#should really just be a tag for me at this point

[clandestinedmeetings]

May I request a hurt/comfort fic with smut? Where reader is insecure of herself due to some hateful comments or rude 'friends' and Leon swoops in and treats her like the princess she is!

AHHHH this was funnnnnnnnnnn. Had to throw in a lil friends to lovers, too, because I am... such a sucker for it.

Lmk if you want me to change anything, and need more hurt! I'm happy to edit to make it closer to what you envisioned :) <3

Constructive criticism is /always/ appreciated, too! If there's something you think could be better, please don't hesitate to let me know! I'm always looking for way to improve my writing~

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Leon Kennedy x f!reader

Synopsis: Reader returns home one evening feeling distraught over recent events. Leon lends a listening ear (and then some).

Tags: 18+ (smut), MDNI, hurt/comfort, friends to lovers, roommate!Leon, AFAB reader, cunnilingus, p in v, alcohol consumption

WC: 5,044

A/N: Take a shot (of water, if you're under the legal drinking age) every time I use celestial imagery in my writing. I need new similes/metaphors, goddammit.

Read on Ao3!

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Leon’s never been good with words. 

He’d actually go so far as to say that he’s bad with them—abysmal, even. The most he can usually muster in tense situations is a terse, “Okay,” and an awkward shuffle of his feet. His jokes suck, too, which leaves him with only the talent to dig himself into deeper holes, blush furiously, and pray that people find him charming enough to overlook his utter lack of social skills. 

This tactic had only really worked in his favor once. 

This tactic had only really worked on you. 

He’d met you four years ago at Claire’s 21st birthday party. She’d held it at a bar not too far from home, invited all of her friends, and conveniently omitted that he’d be the only guy in attendance. When he pulled her aside, when he’d hissed and complained and anger had gripped at his chest, she’d pouted. And that was enough to assuage his frustration. 

“They’re great girls, Leon, one of them ought to catch your eye.” 

Leon had rolled his eyes. “I don’t need you to play matchmaker, Claire.” 

“Because you’ve had so many successful dates recently,” she’d said sardonically with her hand on her hip. 

No arguing there; his love life had been about as bleak as his platonic social life as of late. The girls he met were either off-put by his awkward demeanor or willing to overlook it, but only in it for sex. The latter wasn’t too bad, he figured, but not what he was looking for, either. In fact, Leon wasn’t sure he even wanted a relationship. He just wanted someone with whom he could laugh. It’d been a while since he’d laughed.

“Claire,” he sighed, “I’m not—“

“—looking for that, yeah. Whatever, Leon. Talk to them. Maybe you’ll find a roommate, then. Solve another one of your many problems.” 

Not a terrible point, but not a good one either. Claire didn’t want to hear that, though. Especially on her birthday.

His roommate moved out a few weeks ago. The first of the month was coming soon. He could afford to pay for one month in full but he’d need a new roommate soon. He’d sulked over to the bar in resignation, ordered a bourbon (neat) and sipped on it while watching from afar. He checked his watch — 30 more minutes, and he could go home. He hadn’t gotten any hits on his ad  yet. Maybe his it needed updating. Maybe he should rewrite it. 

“We can’t both leave at the same time, you know.” 

Leon turned to his left to see you perched on a barstool, espresso martini in hand. You looked positively bored, your face drained of all color, though he couldn’t deny that the fluorescent neon lights overhead suited you. Cute, he thought, pretty.Very pretty. 

Maybe the ad could wait. 

“What makes you think I’m trying to leave?” 

You’d given him a pointed look before taking a sip of your drink. He’d chuckled, “Okay, who do you suggest leave first then?”

“Me, obviously.” 

He’d taken the seat next to yours, one hand in his jacket pocket. “That desperate to get out?” 

“Kinda,” you muttered with a smile. “And I’ve been here longer than you have so it’d be unfair if you got to leave first.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay,” you’d echoed. 

End of conversation, clearly, but you hadn’t moved. You’d stayed put. You’d angled your legs toward him; he’d mirrored the action. You refrained from ordering a second drink, he did as well. And he was surprised at how comfortable it was, sitting with you like this. Quiet, brushing knees every so often. 

“You have any jokes, stranger?” you’d asked. 

His lips had curled into a smile. “Aside from the fact that Claire only invited me to hook her up with one of her single friends and didn’t tell me until I showed up? Yeah, I got plenty.” 

“Oh, so you’re Leon,” you’d laughed. “She told me about you.” 

Leon flushed a horrific shade of crimson. “Christ,” he muttered, “That’s… humiliating.” 

“It isn’t,” you placated with a mirthful smile, “I promise. She only had nice things to say.” 

“A pleasure to have in class, I’m sure,” Leon quips. He unstuck his feet from the bar floor with a frown. He nearly gagged at the sound it made. 

You’d giggled at that. “Something like that.” 

“What’s your verdict? Was she truthful or was she Claire about it?” he’d asked. 

You’d mulled over this question with a down-turned smile. He liked the way you smiled. He liked the way your eyes gleamed underneath the blue light bathing the bar. “Very truthful, unfortunately,” you admitted without making eye contact. 

Leon stifled a smile of his own and chose to focus on keeping his feet from staying on one place for too long lest they get glued to the filthy floor once more. He’d looked up at you, and had been surprised to find you already eyeing him. 

“Why unfortunately?” 

“Because I’m not looking for anything serious. Or at all, really.” 

That had been unfortunate. You’d divulged that you’d recently gotten out of a tumultuous long-term relationship, and that you were in search for a new place to live. The apartment you two had shared was under his name so you were crashing at Claire’s until something became available. 

“I’m looking for a roommate,” he’d blurted out before he could even consider the implications. You’d furrowed your brows, taken aback by his brazenness, but your surprise quickly melted into acceptance. 

You swallowed a sip of your drink and asked, “Are you a clean person?” 

“Obsessively so.” 

“And you’re not the ‘I can fix her’ type?” 

Leon had laughed at that. “Not much of a handyman, really.” 

“Serial killer? Sexual deviant?”

“No, and I guess that depends on what you consider deviant.” 

The rightmost corner of your mouth curled into a lopsided smile. You drained the remnants of your drink, placed the martini glass on the granite bar top, and asked, “When can I move in?”

When you both reflect on this meeting now, you laugh at the eagerness with which you’d accepted his proposal. You chastise yourself for jumping the gun, for taking his answers at face value because yeah, choosing to move in with a total stranger was foolish. But in the four years since, you’d never come to regret your decision to move in with Leon.

He was terribly respectful of your space, even early on when you’d spend most of your nights crying and lamenting on your past relationship. He’d made popcorn and sat on the couch sharing a bottle of wine with you when you needed support. When you told him you’d expected a proposal on the night your boyfriend had broken up with you, he’d balked. 

Leon opened up to you quickly, too. It wasn’t long before he told you all about his parents’ deaths and unstable upbringing. You told him about your turbulent relationship with your family. You’d commiserated over feelings of worthlessness, abandonment, and isolation. And when the ice cream ran low, you’d both hop in your car and argue in whispered shouts over which flavor to get at the grocery store.

Leon was, for all intents and purposes, your best friend. And you were his. 

In you, he’d found a confidant. In you, he’d found someone who listened and cared and never failed to make him feel seen. In you, he’d found someone who could make him laugh. God, it felt so fucking good to laugh this consistently. It’s therefore safe to say that he’s smitten — that he’s been smitten since he first met you at Claire’s birthday—but he’d never act on it, not unless he was certain you felt same, even if it kills him.

And it does kill him. 

It kills him to see you date other guys. It kills him to see you go through breakups. Most of all, it kills him to see your light dim whenever you’re made to doubt yourself. To Leon, you’re radiant. You’re brilliant and bright, a sparkling star in an otherwise blackened night. You gleam when you smile, you twinkle when you laugh. You hung the moon, as far as he’s concerned. He doesn’t understand how you could think any differently. 

But you do. Not frequently, but life gets to you sometimes. 

Tonight is one of those times.

It’s Friday. Leon is laying down with his foot propped on the back of your shared velvet couch, nursing a glass of whiskey and reading the last few chapters of his book when he hears you barge through the door. It closes with a slam. He sits up abruptly, nearly spilling the amber liquid all over his white t-shirt, as you pad down the hall. 

“Hey,” you huff, plopping down beside him and snatching the glass out of his hand. You down its contents without pretense, gagging as it burns your throat. Leon’s brows knit together in concern as he takes the glass from your hands. He gently lowers it onto the glass coffee table. You hand him a coaster without looking at him. He stifles a chuckle, and slides it under the glass. Your nose is rubbed raw, he realizes. Your eyes are bloodshot. You’d been crying for a while. 

“What the fuck is wrong with me,” you whisper.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he mumbles, rubbing soothing circles on your back. 

“No, there has to be something wrong with me, Leon,” you insist, pressing the heels of your palm into your eyes. Static dances behind your lids. You wish it would swallow you whole, wish yourself to be consumed by numbness rather than whatever this fucking feeling is. “This is the fourth fucking time,” you sob, “the fourth fucking time this month I’ve all but been told I’m worthless.” 

“What’re you talking about?”

You take a shuddering sigh before slouching into the couch cushions, palms still pressed to your lids. “My coworkers spoke over every fucking idea I had at our sprint this morning. Then my mom brought up my ex again, and said he would’ve proposed if I’d been more agreeable — can you believe that?” 

Your ex-boyfriend. The one you’d expected to propose. Still a sore spot, but not for the reasons one would expect — you aren’t in love with him anymore, you don’t spare him a second thought most months. You hate his guts; Leon hates him, too. The fact that your mother was still bringing him up years after the fact is cruel, though expected at this point. Doesn’t make it any less hurtful, though, Leon knows that. 

“I can, unfortunately,” he commiserates, slumping down beside you. “Your mom’s a bitch.”

“God, she really fucking is,” you groan loudly. “And to make matters worse,” you continue, flipping onto your side to better face him, “remember that guy I went out with two nights ago?” 

Leon crinkles his nose, “V-Neck?” 

“Yeah, he told me I was a ‘waste of time’ and ‘boring’ because I didn’t like Fight Club.”

“Let me guess, Tyler Durden—“

“—is his favorite character,” you finish with an exasperated cry. Leon can’t help but laugh at that. The guy was a tool; Leon clocked it as soon as he showed up in jeans and a v-neck to pick you up for your date. 

You start to cry again. “God, Leon, I’m so sick of this shit. I’m so sick of feeling like this.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like I’m fundamentally broken. Like everyone would like me better if I weren’t me. Because when I was with my ex, I was… nothing. I was nothing. I laughed when I didn’t think he was funny. I pretended to like football, I pretended to like the gold fucking jewelry he gave me even though I never wear anything but platinum! It felt like I was giving away parts of myself every time I lied just to appease him.” 

You pause to catch your breath.. “And I get spoken over all the time at work. I’m exhausted. I feel like it’s wrong for me to take up space and I feel like all of my opinions are wrong and God, I just wish I weren’t me anymore.” You’re practically shouting now, rivulets of tears streaming down your face and soaking your plush sweater. 

“God,” you whisper. You cover your eyes with your forearms. Leon doesn’t quite know what to say, so he remains quiet. The room is filled with the sound of your sobs. 

He inhales through his nose then mutters, “I think you’re perfect.” 

“What?” you croak. 

“Nothing,” he sighs. He didn’t realize he’d said that aloud. 

You wipe your eyes with the sleeves of your sweater. “No,” you say, “What did you say?” 

Leon sucks on his teeth before answering. He wrings his hands before repeating, “I think you’re perfect.” 

“No you don’t,” you scoff.

“I do, actually. And I think you deserve way more than these asshole guys you choose to date can give you. And I think your mom’s a bitch who needs to forget about your ex because that guy was a fucking asshole who took you for granted, too. And your coworkers hardly have a braincell to share between them, so I wouldn’t take what they say to heart in the slightest.” 

You’re stunned by his outburst, by the reddening of his cheeks and clenched jaw. “Leon—“ 

“I’m not finished,” he huffs, sitting up and turning to face you. “I’m… Look, I’m sorry, but I’m so sick of hearing about people treating you like shit. I’m so sick of you coming home in tears and I’m so sick of listening to your insecurities.” 

“Well, I’m sorry I’m such a goddamn burden to you, Leon—“

“No—shit—that’s not what I meant,” he clarifies, taking your hands in his. “I don’t mean that I hate listening to you or talking you through it. I mean that…” 

“You mean that what?” 

“I mean that I just…. wish you could see yourself the way I see you,” he whispers.

You swallow thickly before asking, “How do you see me, Leon?” 

Leon looks up to the ceiling now, a mirthless smile on his face. He thought about how it would feel to confess his feelings to you, but never about how he would actually do it. He’d resolved to take them to his grave, actually. You meant too much to him; he couldn’t lose you. But Leon has said so much already, and there’s really no going back at this point, is there? 

“Like you’re the most incredible person I’ve ever fucking met, sweetheart, and I don’t just mean that in a platonic sense.” 

A breath catches in your throat. Your stomach drops, your lungs feel like they’re collapsing in your chest. Leon licks his lips before continuing, “You’re… so fucking brilliant, you know that? You’re intelligent and kind and thoughtful and god, you’re so fucking pretty it makes it hard for me to breathe sometimes.” 

Tears well in your eyes again. A sob threatens to rack your chest but you suppress it only to hear him continue. 

“And to make matters worse, you’re a terrific fucking listener. You care and love more deeply than anyone. You make everyone feel seen. You just… “ he stops only to consider his next few words. With an exhale and a watery smile, he finishes: “You deserve someone who worships the ground you walk on, and doesn’t let a day go by without reminding you how loved you are.” 

He runs his fingers through his hair, breathless and nauseous and uncertain if the pain in his chest is a burgeoning heart attack or deep-seated panic bubbling to the surface. Leon wonders if you’d judge him for throwing up right now. It would certainly ruin his chances with you permanently, not that he had one to begin with. 

But then he feels your hand cradle his cheek. And he feels you turn his face toward yours. And he feels your lips — soft, plush, tasting vaguely of the cherry chapstick you’d let him borrow whenever he needed it — on his. 

Leon freezes, unsure how to respond. Does he kiss you back? Are you drunk and that’s why you’re kissing him? You’re clearly vulnerable — maybe it’s that. 

You press your forehead to his after pulling away. “S-sorry,” you stammer, “I just— I’m— that was—“ 

“N-no, it’s okay—“

“I’m so—“ you interrupt yourself by kissing him again. Leon reciprocates this time, though he does so with some hesitation. His hand cups the back of your head; you take it as a sign to lean further into him, to take handfuls of his shirt and pull you to him. When you break away, the sky parts and you’re awash with a sense of clarity. 

“Leon,” you sigh, “Leon, do you really mean all of that?” 

“Every fucking word,” he breathes. 

“You’re not just saying that because you’ve been drinking whiskey and you think I’m sad and vulnerable and want to take advantage of me?” 

He barks out a laugh. “No, I’m not and that glass that you finished was actually my first.” 

“And by saying all of this, are you saying you’re willing to be that person?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay,” he chuckles, holding the hand tangled in his t-shirt. You release your grip with a chuckle of your own before looking away bashfully. He gently strokes his thumb over the back of your hand. 

You look down at your feet; he looks down at your feet, too. “So,” you say after a while, “you think you can fuck better than they can, too?” 

Leon tosses his head back and laughs heartily. You can’t help but laugh, too, loving the timbre of his joy. He stands, and offers you a hand. You take it with a giggle, standing to your full height to meet him. With a wolfish grin, Leon throws you over his shoulder. You shriek with delight at the suddenness of the gesture, but don’t fight as he carries you to your bedroom and drops you onto your plush queen-sized bed. 

He’s on you within seconds, dazzling white smile plastered on his golden skin as he kisses you. You smile as you kiss him, too. There’s something tender about the way Leon kisses you, like you’ll break under his touch. It’s different, you think, brand new. Gentle. Sweet. Caring. Even as his hands snake up your sweater to settle along your waist. 

You gasp as his calloused fingers rub loose circles along your ribcage. He trails kisses along your jaw and down the column of you throat, pausing only to suck at your pulse point and collarbone. You grab fistfuls of his shirt and move to tug it over his head. His belt is next. Then your sweater.  And before long, you’re pressed flushed against him and savoring the warmth of his skin. 

“God, you really are so fucking beautiful,” he whispers in your ears, voice low and gravelly with lust. You arch into him again, begging that he resume his kisses along your neck. He obliges —of course he obliges— and when he reaches your breasts, he looks up at you through thick lashes. 

It takes you a second to realize that he’s waiting for your consent to continue. Tears well in your eyes once more, both at the revelation that no one had ever been considerate enough to pause and ask for something as simple as this and that he did so without prompting. You give him an enthusiastic nod. He smiles and presses a genial kiss on your breastbone in thanks before taking a pert nipple into his mouth. 

You mewl at the sensation of his tongue lapping loving circles around your nipples, at the feel of his hand cupping your other breast and rolling its peak between his index and thumbs. His name slips from your mouth; he moans in response. 

“Shit, baby, say my name again,” he rasps. 

“Leon,” you keen as he sucks at your breast. He groans again, shutting his eyes as he savors the cadence with which you mutter his name. 

He’s desperate to hear it again, to hear it screamed in ecstasy, to hear it whispered lowly in his ear. Anything. He just needs you. 

He trails kisses down your torso. You move sinuously beneath him, eagerly anticipating the featherlight kisses he places on your hip bones. On your inner thighs. On your dripping cunt. You spread your legs for him; an invitation of the sweetest kind. You knot your fingers in his hair as he begins his ministrations, his tongue lapping at your pussy from entrance to apex. He lingers along your clit, drawing lazy concentric circles around it until you’re brimming with desire. 

“Please, Leon,” you beg, “more.” 

His chuckle is low and dark. It reverberates through your core, heating and cooling the coil tightening painfully within your lower abdomen. 

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this, sweetheart. Let me take my time.” 

You arch into him, eyes wide with disbelief. “A l-long time?” 

Leon gives you an affirmative hum. You whimper as his fingertips dig into your thighs, as he drags you closer to his mouth with calloused hands. “A long fucking time,” he emphasizes before burying his face into your cunt. 

You moan at the feel of his lips, his nose, his tongue licking and sucking and savoring the ichor between your legs. He alternates between the flat and tip of his tongue. He nips at your clit. He gently prods your core with his tongue before slipping inside and coaxing forth a shattering, breathtaking orgasm. 

He holds you tightly in place, devouring you so wholly through and past your climax. It’s overwhelming, asphyxiating, beautiful and damned and in your fractured consciousness, you wonder why you didn’t succumb to these desires sooner. 

It’d be dishonest to deny your initial and longstanding attraction to Leon Kennedy. You’d withheld your curiosity as a matter of self-preservation — you can’t lose another friend to sex, you can’t lose another living arrangement. But that didn’t stop you from fantasizing about it at night. And in the morning. And whenever he’d walk around your shared apartment shirtless or in his gray sweatpants or when he held you when you cried. 

Stupid, you think now, stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Your own hands don’t even come close to comparing to the feel of him. At this point, you’re certain there’s no going back, either. You need more. You need more now or you’ll go insane. 

“Leon, please.” 

He rises to his knees, pink tongue swiping across his plush lips to consume as much of you as possible. His hands, so large and strong, rub the tops of your thighs. “Please what?” 

“Fuck me. Now.” 

He clenches his jaw in frustration. He so desperately wants to keep you like this, wants to take his time, wants to bring you to orgasm with his tongue and fingers at least thrice more before he allows himself to fuck you properly, but he can’t. He knows he can’t, not when you look like this: skin feverish, pupils blown wide, fingers knotted tightly in bedsheets as a means to keep yourself tethered. 

“Condom?”

“Top drawer,” you choke out, gesturing to the nightstand to your left. 

He scrambles to extract one from the back most corner of the drawer, and tears into the aluminum packaging with his teeth. You sit up, hands greedily tugging at the waistband of his boxer briefs, and take his hardened cock in your hands. 

A delicious, gravelly moan slips through his lips as you stroke him from base to tip. Your ministrations are slow, painstaking, and Leon’s finding it harder and harder to keep his resolve. His hand reaches for your throat. It startles you at first, but your eyes roll back as he tightens his grip ever so slightly. 

“How do you want it?” He asks

Your response comes out airy, breathless, needy: “I don’t fucking care.” 

“On your back then.” 

And you oblige, but not before wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down on top of you. He smells of cloves and ginger, all warmth and spice, and it’s so intoxicating you wrap your legs around his torso to pull him closer, closer, closer.

He litters your neck with wet kisses, leaving light bruises in his wake. You’d mind if you didn’t have all weekend to help them heal. You’d mind if this weren’t the first time in a while that you’ve felt yourself grow so slick with need that you’re surely dampening the plush covers adorning your bed. You’d mind if they weren’t coming from him. 

From his eager mouth.

From his generous tongue. 

From his fevered kisses. 

You angle your neck to grant him further access; he accepts it with genuine appreciation. 

You whine as his kisses slow, as he takes his time peppering the column of your neck, your décolletage, your breasts. And you’re so preoccupied with the way he sets your skin ablaze that the feel of his cock penetrating your core takes you by sweet surprise. 

He smiles into his next series of kisses, grows harder as you arch into him and dig your fingernails into his back. He allows you to adjust to his size before moving.

“God, you’re so fucking tight,” he rasps in your ear. It sends ripples of want through your system. “So fucking tight, sweetheart.” 

“Leon,” you whine again, gyrating in desperation for release. 

Stars flit across your vision as he adopts a rhythmic pace. He’s slow at first, soft as you acclimate, but as soon as your teeth sink into the flushed skin of his shoulder and he recognizes the hunger in your eyes, he smirks. 

“I won’t hold back, you know,” he teases.

“I don’t want you to.” 

“Better fucking hold on then.” 

You open your mouth, snarky retort on the tip of your tongue, but a lascivious moan takes its places as Leon’s hips slam into yours. His pace is bruising, rapid, and deep. The tip of his cock kisses your cervix, triggering white spots to bleed into your vision. You close your eyes, you toss your head back into the pillow, you claw at him for purchase. When you exalt his name, it comes out stuttered, choked, garbled behind a stream of curses and erotic sighs. 

He presses his forehead to yours. Your lips manage to find his even through your euphoric fog. It’s difficult to maintain with the way he fucks you, so he cradles your cheek with one hand to keep you steady. 

“You’re so fucking perfect, baby,” he mumbles into your lips, “so fucking beautiful.” 

You bite his lip; he slips his tongue into your mouth. You taste his whiskey again, bitter and smokey, and moan as the tip of his cock pressurizes your g-spot. You’re close to coming undone, close to bathing in rapture, and you can’t help but feel disappointed for succumbing so soon —you wish you could stay like this forever. 

Thought that disappointment quickly dissipates as your orgasm snaps. You’re engulfed in waves of pleasure so sinful, so profoundly exhilarating. You cum with his name on your lips, and in ecstasy, it evolves into something deeper. An exaltation. A sacred prayer. An incantation summoning forth years of denied attraction. A testament to his patience. 

You come undone before him, vulnerable and raw, and he kisses you again because he’s so grateful that you’ve allowed him to see you like this. Keeping his eyes open as he approaches his own climax is challenging, but ultimately worthwhile because he swears he’s never seen anything—anyone—so beautifully and perfectly crafted for him in his life. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, I’m—“

“Cum for me, Leon. Cum inside me.” 

And now it’s your name that’s ripped from his throat, your name interlaced with prayers and enveloped in the sanctity of his climax. You wrap your legs more tightly around his torso, bringing him closer still. His head drops, forehead meeting yours, as he comes to. 

It takes you both a minute or so to catch your breaths. You pant into each other, remain tangled in your sheets as you bask in the aftermath. 

You expect shame to blossom in your chest. You expect regret, too, but neither come. Instead, you’re filled with a sense of belonging that is only further reinforced when you look into his irises. You dive headfirst into crystalline pools, so warm and inviting, and recognize that it should always feel like this. 

“You okay?” He asks between breaths. 

“Extraordinary,” you pant, “you?” 

“Never been better.”

He presses his forehead to yours, a delightful chuckle racking his chest. It’s hard not to laugh, too, hard not to pull him into a tighter hug. You’d hugged a million times before—he’s always been quite liberal with his affections—and a small piece of you always wondered what it would be like to do so in this capacity. It is, of course, better than anything you could have possibly imagined. 

You grab his face, and pull him into a soft, loving kiss. It’s deep this time, sweet and passionate and above all else, familiar. He scoops you into his lap after he pulls out. He kisses your head, your cheeks, your lips. He holds you, rubs soothing circles along your thighs, whispers sweet nothings in your ear. 

“So,” Leon asks after a while, “verdict? Better than those other guys?” 

“So much fucking better, unfortunately.” 

Leon looks down at your quizzically, “Why unfortunately?”

“Because I actually am looking for something serious now.” 

“So am I,” he blurts out. 

You lean back to get a better look at his face then purse your lips and ask, “Are you a clean person?” 

“Obsessively so,” he quotes, beaming at the memory of the night he first met you.

“And you’re not the ‘I can fix her’ type?” 

Leon laughs again, “Still not much of a handyman, really.” 

“Are you a serial killer,” you ask between kisses, “or sexual deviant?”

“No and only if you’re into that.” 

You wrap a gentle hand around the nape of his neck, and bring his lips down to yours. After a dizzying, passionate kiss, you press your forehead to his and ask, “Where do I sign up?”

And Leon realizes that he may not be so bad with words after all.

[ao3commentoftheday]

Do you have any advice on how not to give up on fic ideas just because you know they’ll be unpopular? I have ideas I’d love to write, but I’ll get three paragraphs into my first draft and quit because I can’t imagine anyone else enjoying it. Every time I get a fic that gets bad stats, it gets harder for me to go back to writing, even though I know it should be the opposite. I hate the idea of pouring my time and effort into a fic only to find out too late that everyone else thinks it’s worthless. I’ve tried blocking stats to try to fix this issue, but I think it’s already too deep in my head to be fixed—I really think readers will always value popular fic more than unpopular fic, and i feel so defeated knowing I always want to write fic no one else sees any value in.

I know a suggested solution is finding a fic community, but no one on Tumblr is ever interested, I’ve given up trying to figure out how to do fandom on Twitter, and everyone else is hidden away on private discords that they post in-jokes from in their fic notes, and I doubt I’ll ever be invited to join.

I think part of this issue is I feel lonely in fandom and seeing one fic after another fail just amplifies that feeling. But without any hope of being able to build connections, is there a way I can start to feel better about writing fic?

I agree that your loneliness in fandom seems to be the crux of your issue, but it might be loneliness beyond that as well?

I can't remember if it was tags or a reblog on a recent post, but someone was making the point that a lot of us in fandom are spoonies or some form of neurodivergent and that for a lot of us, fandom is where our socializing occurs.

But that doesn't have to be the case. You can find your community outside of fandom. You can find people who share a different hobby with you, people who are regulars at the same restaurant you often go to, people you often see at the library or the grocery store. Some of those people will be easier to talk to than others and some of those conversations will be one-offs instead of the basis for a friendship, but all of them will give you a feeling of connection even if it's just for a brief moment of time.

Right now, the purpose of your writing is to make a connection rather than to write a story that you want to tell. Your entire focus is on whether others will respond to it or not. It's hard to find your own enjoyment when the end goal that you're looking to isn't a finished fic but rather a reaction that will make you feel valued.

If what you're starving for right now is an end to the loneliness, then you'll need to tackle that separately from the writing. Look to the people you have in your life and reach out to them to spend time together - or just have a chat. Look at the spaces in your life that feel empty and invite someone in. Even just one person can relieve the ache of that loneliness, so take that as a first step.

Volunteering can be a great way to put yourself out there while giving yourself the cover of having work you need to do. Friendships form as a result of repeated interactions, so the structure of an organization can give you the opportunity for that. There are even organizations where you can volunteer online - the OTW is an example of one, but it's not the only one there is.

You clearly love writing, but right now writing is tangled up in all of these other emotions too. Try separating the writing from posting it online. Focus just on telling a story, and make it just for you. Find the things you enjoy in writing that have nothing to do with the eventual reader and spend your time leaning into those instead.

[fuxuannie]

Unrelated to any of the Kenji thirst I keep thinking to the moment where Kenji is real close to losing his shit because someone made the 'Where's the Japanese Version of the guy' in regards to him and like fuck it hit me hard. I'm mixed like to the point where people can't pin my ethnicity by looking at me and constantly being told I'm not x or y enough to be a member of a community by all rights I do belong to I just I really empathized with him in that moment. I'd love to see some head cannons on how he feels and deals with the "Not Japanese enough" allegations, how he feels about being back in his home country after being in America for so long just overall how he adjusts and navigates through that

❥﹒kenji sato x gender neutral reader

✦. synopsis — request (thank you so much !!)

✦. love mail — requester wherever you may be, you are loved and it’s heartbreaking you relate to such :( you and me both, but thank you for such a heart touching req 😞🫰.

✦. tags — NO SPOILERS, not super x reader focused but elements are there, based on writer’s own experiences, angst-ish (not sure?), mentions of discrimination

Adjusting to life back in Japan was.. no easy feat, really. It had been so long since he was home, it no longer felt right to call it that. He felt out of place in his own skin. No one could tell, after all – it was his charm. But after every game, after every interview, he goes home and feels more disappointed in himself with each day. His own language, it feels foreign on his tongue. Each word he says feels wrong. You’ll be there to reassure him that it’s been some time, of course he won’t be perfect. But that’s the issue; he’s not perfect. He should be. That’s what people expect of him.

Criticism came with the lifestyle, it was a guarantee. But for it to come from his own people? Ouch. It was bad enough that back in America, he was made fun of for his bare-bone English, now back in Japan it’s his barely coherent Japanese. He feels like wherever he goes, he has to feign confidence to not break down. He puts on those damn shades to hide the way his eyes start to tear up when things get too much. Sure, he had gone through shit. But how much can one man take till he starts to break? Kenji can tell you, it’s not a lot. It’s been years and he’s just had to act like it doesn’t affect him.

And if not for the way he speaks, of course they go for how he looks. Now Kenji will admit, he IS a confident man. He loves himself and his image, but he isn’t immune to insecurity, no one is. Your heart breaks whenever he cries in your arms, resting on top of you as he sobs into your chest. You try to soothe his worries, kissing each part of him that he feels insecure about, which ends up just being his whole face. It’s a harrowing sight to see. You just wished you could get rid of all his problems, because for one man to bear it all? It wasn’t fair for his poor soul.

Sometimes you’ll wake up to him watching his old games, he’ll ask you what’s wrong, but you don’t notice. Instead, you see little him and how he smiled. It confused you, the tape wasn’t even playing – it was just paused there. He had that typical smile that most kids had, full of teeth and eyes squinted because of how wide their smile was. You chuckle, he was so cute. You then look back at him, and you try to understand. “I-” He’ll start, running a hand through his hair. “I just.. I missed that smile. The people back in America.. they made fun of me so-” You ran into his arms, engulfing him in a hug that made him feel so warm and fuzzy. And he doesn’t realise it, but that moment brings back that smile. He’s just so happy with you he can’t help it.

I think that, all and all, he’s just had to become desensitised to everything. He just shuts down whenever someone says something about how he doesn’t fit in. You’ll defend him, but he tells you not to. It’s a waste of breath. You want to argue that it’s not, that he deserves to be defended, but his defeated look wins you over. He knows there’s no real way to stop them, so he’d rather focus on his practices or making you feel happy. Those are things that matter to him; not something as temporary as his appearance or mannerisms of speech. He’s accepted that, and his priority is your happiness and his. :)

For more lighthearted headcanons, if you were Japanese, you'd offer to help Kenji refresh on writing his Kanji and overall speaking, which he is more than happy to accept. Another case, if you aren't Japanese; he'll ask if you want to learn with him. He's overjoyed if you accept, it brings a positive association and motivation to relearn his language. It wasn't to just please people.

I imagine Ami had become a good friend to you and Kenji, so she offers to demonstrate all the mannerisms Kenji has perhaps forgotten (and you did too/want to learn as well) to help. You both appreciate her helpful hand, and treat her to good restaurants for dinner as thanks. :)

[theconstantsidekick]

Lit Cigarettes (Part 2)

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader, Sam Winchester x BestFriend!Reader, Damon Salvatore x Stefan Salvatore x Sister!Reader (these are the main ones, there are too many others to tag) Genre: Fluffy angst

Summary: While Sam berates Dean for his choice of very pathetic reply, Y/n tells her brothers about said pathetic reply.

(Set after the events of Supernatural season 4 and yes, Y/n's dated a bunch of TVD characters.)

a/n: The two conversations are happening parallel-y, hope that makes sense?

Warnings: Smoking, mentions of smoking, more romanticisation of smoking, a lot of that yes, sorry. Don't smoke kids. Semi-explicit content? IDK, there's kissing.

Part 1 is here.

It’s only when they’ve crossed the Mystic Falls border does the silence in the Impala break.

“You’re an idiot,” Sam tells him. 

The car stops abruptly. “How long have you been awake?” Dean asks, taken completely off guard.

“Long enough to call you an idiot,” Sam answers before he opens the door to the back seat, exiting the vehicle. Dean takes a second to realize that Sam’s making the walk towards the passenger seat. 

Dean pokes his head out of the window just to be petulant and screams, “THAT WAS A PRIVATE CONVERSATION, you sneaky son of a bitch!”

Rolling his eyes, Sam opens the passenger seat door and gets inside., “You really think I didn’t know about it?.”

“Know about what?” Dean asks as the dumbest dumb person to ever exist as he starts the car back up again.

Sam looks towards him, and his eyes are louder than any words can ever be. His eyes are screaming at him, calling him the dumbest guy to have ever walked the earth. But then he says, “She’s been in love with you for 15 years, and I’ve been her best friend for 14 of them. You really think I’d need to eavesdrop on your conversation to figure it out?”

Dean opens his mouth to say something but thinks better of it and instead asks, “14?” He’s facing the road now, too embarrassed to face his brother.

“The first year was rough, we got off on the wrong foot,” Sam explains. “I think I was mostly just pissed at her for fawning over you like you hung the moon. Not the point. The point is, I don’t need to overhear a conversation to know that she loves you. Everyone and their mother knows that she’s in love with you.”

Dean stays silent for a second, because he doesn’t know what to say. What the fuck is he supposed to say to that? He… He doesn’t know what to say to that. 

“It was still rude, bitch,” Dean says lamely, because like he said, he doesn’t know what the fuck else to say.

Sam just laughs, without any humor but all the passive aggression in the world. “What was rude was saying—”

“He’ll pick you up on tuesday!?” Damon yells, mouth agape, hands covered in flour and sugar. 

“And what did you say to that?!” Stefan asks from where he sits on the kitchen counter, watching his brother and his adopted sister try (and fail) baking a cake for his birthday. 

“I said I’ll see him Tuesday,” Y/n answers with a magnificent amount of shame. She can see both her brothers are about to launch into an all out assault of questions, but she is categorically not in the mood. She cuts them off before they can even start. “He didn’t really give me a chance to say anything else, he just got in the car and drove off, okay?”

“Honestly, I don’t even think I can blame him,” Damon retorts, urging a cocked eyebrow from the other two Salvatores. “I blame you,” he says pointing his goop drenched whisk at her. “It’s your fault for falling in love with a NSYC reject.”

She just rolls her eyes and goes back to cleaning up the mess Damon’s creating at every step of his cake making process. “Do you really think you should be saying that? When you look like you could enter a Gerard Way Look-Alike Contest and win?”

While Damon makes the most absurd voices known to mankind (and vampire kind), Stefan just lets out a soft chuckle. “Okay, okay,” Stefan tries to calm them down. “Let’s just go over the events of the night again, shall we?”

“Can we please not?” She pleads.

Stefan carries on unfettered. “So you told Dean Winchester, the man of your dreams that you love him and he said he’ll see you Tuesday?”

She exhales audibly, “Yes… more or less. Yes. That’s how it went.”

“The fucker doesn’t deserve an announcement of love, if you ask me,” Damon counters, hands back at work, mixing the goopy and frankly probably unsalvagable cake mixture.

“That’s probably why no one asked you!” She throws back, throwing away the paper towel in the dustbin. “AAH! I just needed to say it, okay? Fifteen years is a very fucking long time to keep something like this to yourself. I needed him to know.”

“But you’d told him already, didn’t you?” Stefan counters. “Before he got dragged to hell?” She flinches at the mention of the incident—the memories are far from pleasant—but nods in agreement. “What did he say back then?”

“I know,” she tells them.

“You know what?” Damon asks, face souring at the sludge in his hands. Then he sneakily (not sneakily at all) grabs a bottle of Bourbon and empties almost half of it into the cake batter, mixing in the liquid.

“No, he said that,” she replies.

“Said what?” Stefan questions.

“He said, ‘I know’!” 

A look passes between Stefan and Damon and then Damon does the honors, “If nothing else, you gotta hand it to that Timberlake-wannabe, he’s got a great track record of having the shittiest responses to someone professing their love to him.”

“What the fuck else was I supposed to say?! I was about to be dragged to Hell!” Dean defends. “It’s not like I had the ability to focus on anything else.” He’s a fucking liar—his focus was definitely not on being dragged to hell when she said what she did. But Sam doesn’t have to know that.

“Anything, man! Literally anything else!” Sam countered, frustration evident in every single inch of his movement. And it’s always times like these, when Dean begins to think if Sam would side with him if he were to actually have a fight with her. Would Sam keep hunting with him if she decided to part way? “You are such a fucking dick!” Sam remarks. So no, probably not. He’d pick her over his brother for sure.

Dean can’t help but cower a bit at the strength of Sam’s annoyance. “I wasn’t trying to be,” he tries. “I just thought… when in doubt, Han Solo that shit, you know?”

And that apparently is the worst thing to say. “What is wrong with you, Dean? You know, you really are Dad’s son! ‘Cause my God. There’s only one other man who is so incapable of handling their emotions, and somehow, you’re even worse than him.”

Dean doesn’t appreciate the insult to their father but he lets it slide on account of Sam being really fucking angry. “Fine! If you’re so great at this chick-flick shit then tell me what should I say to her. You tell me and I’ll say it to her on Tuesday?”

“Tues—seriously?!” Sam’s veins are about to pop out, Dean thinks. The man is so fucking angry with Dean right now that he’s genuinely worried that he;s about to bust the vein on his temple. 

“What?” Dean throws back, cause actually he has no other fucking response.

“You know, I don’t even get what she sees in you. She’s crazy smart, and talented and funny. She’s so freakin’ funny!” Sam says, and Dean has to agree with all that. She really is. “There’s so many amazing people who’re just dying to get even one shot with her, and yet, she’s stuck on you!”

Dean’s jaw clenches. “Then why doesn’t she go after one of those amazing people?” 

“I don’t have a single clue,” Sam answers.

“What do you mean? She did give it a shot with one of them, didn’t she? Derek What's His Face?” Hale. Derek Hale. Dean knows his name by heart.

“Derek Hale. Yeah, Derek was pretty great,” Sam agrees, leaning back on his seat.

“Then what happened?” Dean is trying not to sound too curious about it. And if his grip tightens on the wheel, enough for his knuckles to go white, no one has to know about it.

“I’m not sure. I thought it was going great with him but she broke it off with him when we were at Stanford,” Sam tells him, eyes out on the barren road, looking so puzzled, you’d think he was talking about the mysterious phenomenon of raining toads. 

“When she dragged you to Stanford,” Dean corrects him, because as much as he'd like to know, the topic is so not his favorite. Neither is this one but it’s… It’s older and the wounds have since healed, become scars.

At his words, Sam’s confusion is gone in an instant. He sits up straighter—as straight as a giant can in a ‘67 chevy Impala. He turns to Dean with something like defense burning in his eyes. “She didn’t drag me to Stanford, Dean!”

“Yeah, right,” Dean brushes it off. “You and I both know, that’s some horseshit. She went there and you wanted to follow her, like you always did.”

“No. Dean,” Sam calls his name in a way that urges him to turn. Once he does, Sam continues, “I didn’t follow her to Stanford. I—I didn’t go to Stanford for her, she went to Stanford for me!”

“What?”

“Dude, she was the valedictorian. She got into 20 different Pre-Med programs, and at least 12 of them were better than Stanford. She just went there cause she knew I wanted to go,” Sam word hit Dean like a tonne of bricks. “And well,” Sam turns back to look at the road again. “She also kinda went there for you.”

“For me?” The fuck is that supposed to mean?

Sam sighs before he says, “She thought that maybe if she were there it would be easier on you cause you’d know that she was there to look out for me.” He smiles then, a small sweet thing. “She went there for you.” What the actual fucking fuck?

Sam turns to him again, and somehow “Don’t get me wrong, she went there for me, but she went there for you too. Everything she does, she does for you.”

“That is—and I say this with all the love I have ‘cause you’re the only Salvatore left other than that dick over there—that is the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard,” Damon comments. 

She pushes a buttered up cake tin towards him and says, “Must be a genetic trait then, passed down from generations. Seeing as the only other Salvatores I know are still, to this day, hopelessly chasing after a girl who looks exactly like one Katherine Pierce.”

“ELENA IS NOTHING LIKE KATHERINE!” Both her brothers shout out in unison.

She has to smile at that. “Not even the—” she points at her own face as a demonstration.

Both of them just pass her a look filled with ire. She smiles wider. 

“At least we have hope,” Damon defends, pouring the ungodly mixture into the cake tin. “What’s your fucking excuse?” 

“I don’t have one!” She really doesn’t. “I just—I just feel the way I do, I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Move on!” Damon tells her.

“For once I agree with him,” Stefan says from the counter behind them. His words are softer than Damon’s, they always are. Stefan’s always understood her dilemma just a little bit better than Damon. She thinks it might just be because Stefan understands the feeling of helplessness a little bit better than their brother ever can. “You really should move on.”

“I want to,” she tells him, with all honesty. “I really, really want to. Don’t you think I’ve tried? I tried! With Derek, with Alaric… and it was working. It really was, until he rejected me.”

“Rejected you?” Damon mocks. “I think it was barely 4 months ago that Alaric died in your arms confessing his undying love for you.”

“Damon,” Stefan reprimands. 

“What?” Damon counters, clearly annoyed as he turns to look at Stefan. Stefan, however, just shakes his head, telling him in his small gesture to stop it. The wound is still too fresh, don’t touch it yet. And that’s exactly why despite being fond of Damon a little bit more, Stefan will always be her favorite brother.

“I am not ready to touch that topic with a ten-foot pole so I’ll side step that and tell you that I have tried, extremely hard to move on, and if I could do it. I would. It’s not like any of this is fun for me,” she tries to make them understand.

“It’s not as hard as you make it out to be either,” Damon comments and his voice is somehow softer than before because this isn’t a jab. This is more wishful thinking, she thinks. Damon, for all his nonchalance, hates seeing her pining for Dean. Not just because he doesn’t like Dean but also because he’s seen the most of it. He has always been her drinking companion on endless  nights. Pouring her one drink after the other, knowing no other way to sooth the pain on her features. He loves her differently than Stefan does. He would’ve killed Dean by now if he thought that could be a legitimate solution. He’s way more violent in his protection of her than anyone else.

Taking the cake tin from Damon, she opens the oven and shoves it in. She sighs audibly before she says, “Look, I have made my distaste for the Elena situation quite clear already—”

“And it’s still fucking unreasonable,” Damon retorts.

“You’re making me agree with him twice on the night before my birthday, now you’re just being rude,” Stefan chides, smiling.

“She pulls you both in opposite directions, which leaves me in the middle where I’m stuck and neglected!” She can see that both the boys are ready to fight her off on the matter all night but she doesn’t want to. “BUT that’s not the point I’m trying to make here. What I am trying to say is that, with Elena, you both feel what you feel. It’s undeniable and inescapable. You could let go of it even if you tried. You both know what it feels like to be hopelessly in love with someone with your entire being.” When both men stay silent, she knows they agree. So she continues, “Can you at least both do me the courtesy to try to understand that that’s how I feel about Dean? That maybe—”

“—She doesn’t know how not to be in love with you, you know?” Sam says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like he isn’t breaking Dean’s world apart in half. “I mean, it’s definitely not easy for her.”

“Watching him flirt with a girl at the bar while I sit in a shady corner, drowning myself in Bourbon,” she says.

“Watching you come back to the motel, covered in hickeys, and sometimes watching you not come back at all,” Sam says with so much pain, Dean thinks maybe he sat with her on those nights. And then it clicks for Dean why he’d see his brother with bags under his eyes in the mornings after.

Her jaw clenches, she fidgets with the “It's always someone else. Either it’s a cheerleader or—”

“—A receptionist at a motel or anything with a pulse at a bar,” Sam says.

“It’s always someone else and it’s never me,” she notes solemnly.

“And it is so fucking painful to watch,” Sam notes.

“It feels like someone’s tearing my heart out and stabbing it in front of me with a fork just to play with it.” She can’t help but smile sadly at the accuracy of that description. “He smiles those smiles that charms the pants off of everyone. And I have to see it, because try as I might, I can never look away. I can never look away from the way he touches them because I can’t help but imagine how it would feel like to be touched like that… touched like that by him. I can never look away when he smiles like that. Which just ends up hurting a little bit more.”

“I’ve had to watch it over and over again for a decade and if it hurts me this much I can’t even imagine how much it hurts her,” Sam tsks so simply. As if he isn’t burning Dean from the inside out. 

“I just wish he—”

“Weren’t so loud about it. If you weren’t so loud about it I think it would be easier maybe?” Sam muses. “But then again, maybe it wouldn’t be. Not that she’d ask that of you, she knows it’s not fair to you so she would never ask you to be any other way than you…” And then he sits up again, facing Dean, and Dean has to try his best to keep his poker face intact, “But I can! So, I’ll do it for her—Dean, please can you be just a little less loud about it?” Dean turns to Sam at that and somehow the action is mistaken by Sam as an offended one. “I’m not asking you to change, just… I don’t know, just don’t do it in front of her. Don’t flirt with the cheerleaders while she’s sitting right next to you, you know?”

And man, Dean might be the one whose vein is about to pop now. “What is up with this cheerleader bullshit? She said it too? I wasn’t that fucking back in high-school!”

Sam just sighs in annoyance, “You ignored her Dean.” Dean’s about to protest, but Sam cuts him off. “And I don’t think it was intentional on your part. It was the first time you weren’t an outcast and it was so much fun to fit in, I felt that way too. But she… She was two years ahead of people her age. And that really doesn’t fly well in a small town like Mystic Falls, you know that. I mean, you were in her class, man! You know that the only person who ever talked to her was you but then you got so lost in the high-school of it all that you just ignored her.” Sam shakes his head. “It wasn’t your fault, you were young but it really wasn’t fun to watch either.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Dean defends very very lamely. “I never meant to hurt her, ever.”

“That’s what sucks about all of this. I know he never does any of it to hurt me, but…”

“But it still hurts anyway?” Damon provides, comforting and gentle. 

She nods with a sad broken smile as she says, "To be in love—”

“—And to be hurt, is to be made perfect,” Sam quotes.

“Shakespear, As You Like It,” Dean notes, to Sam’s utter surprise. Which, wow! He reads! And besides, it’s… it’s Y/n’s favorite of the Shakespear plays. Of course, he knows what it’s from.

“Sucks that it has to be this way,” Sam notes calmly, now looking out the window at the passing trees. “I know it’s not your fault, I really do. I also know you really care about her. I know that too. But I just wish I didn’t have to watch my best friend be in love with someone who doesn’t love her back.”

Dean’s had enough. He sees red. “WHO THE FUCK SAID THAT?”

“What?” Sam almost balks at Dean’s sudden outburst.

“You and Y/n keep saying that, again and again, and for all that is un-fucking-holy, I can’t fucking figure out who the fuck said that? Who in the name of fuck told you that?”

“Dean—Dude! What are you talking about?” Sam’s eyes are wide and confused.

Goddamn it, Dean thinks. “Who the fuck told you, EITHER OF YOU, that I don’t feel the same way?”

There is silence then.

It stretches on for a minute but it feels like an hour to Dean.

“Are—are you serious?” Sam finally questions.

Dean clenches his jaw. “You don’t think I have better things to lie about than this?” He’s being snarky but he can’t help it. It’s been a long fucking drive.

“Then—” Suddenly Sam’s excitement level shoot the fuck up. “THEN WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING DRIVING AWAY FROM MYSTIC FALLS?”

There are reasons. Dean knows that there are. There was a solid reason why Dean decided to drive away after dropping her off without saying a (meaningful) word. But try as he might, Dean Winchester, cannot for the life of him remember what the fuck it was. 

He clicks his tongue, “Good question,” Dean comments before his hand finds the gear shift, and he swerves the car around.

“I am just saying that you cannot ignore it. It’s not a fictional concept. There have been countless tests on the subject matter,” Y/n argues. They’re at the Salvatore Boarding House and the party is in full swing. She’s got a glass of Bourbon in one hand and an unlit cigarette on the other.

“On rats,” Bonnie throws back, smiling.

“Dogs too,” Matt adds from behind her. She smiles at him for the support.

“That doesn’t mean it works on humans,” Tyler cuts in from the couch.

“Of course it does. It’s not a baseless theory. It’s the core facet of every training, ever. You do something good, you’re rewarded, you do something bad, you’re punished,” she explains. “Some people even go as far as to call it parenting.”

Everyone lets out a soft laugh. 

“But it doesn’t stick, not always at least,” Caroline counters.

Y/n nods, “Fair enough, it doesn’t. But doesn’t negate the fact that the pavlovian response is quite a real phenomenon. I mean, it’s well known. It’s quite literally used in conversion camps—mind you I do not approve of the abhorrent abuse of it—but that’s what they do. They show you something very straight, that according to their disturbing homophobic beliefs should make you feel aroused and don’t shock you. Then they show you something very gay, that makes you feel aroused and then they shock you. It tells your brain that somehow feeling aroused at this particular thing is dangerous. Then they do it again and again and eventually the entire process just trains your brain to be scared shitless of even thinking of being aroused, because well if you do, you’ll get—”

“Electrocuted,” Elena finishes.

Y/n clicks her finger and points at her. “Doesn’t work though,” she states, as someone plucks the cigarette out of her hand but her point is almost at the end of being made. “Doesn’t stop you from being queer, nothing ever can stop you from being queer.” The cigarette is placed back into her hands. “Queer is who you are, and queer is who you fucking should be.”

She takes a drag.

“Amen.”

Y/n turns instantly at the sound of that voice. 

“Dean,” she breathes out.

Dean Winchester and her lit fucking cigarettes.

It’ll be the death of her. 

“I thought you had a quota of like 5 cuss words a day,” Dean says with a smirk. Somewhere behind him she can see Sam but her world doesn’t really know how to focus on anyone else when Dean is standing so close to her—barely a couple inches between the two. “I thought you would’ve used them all up… after the conversation in the car.”

“It’s past 12,” she tells him dumbly. She can’t be blamed. WHY IS DEAN BACK HERE? It’s not Tuesday, is it?

There’s a few seconds there, which are just silent. He’s looking at her and she’s looking at him and it’s just silent. Sure, there must be a party in the background but she doesn’t really remember it. His eyes are so beautifully green, she can’t think of anything but The Great Gatsby. She can’t think of anything but the green light at the end of Daisy Buchanan's dock across the bay from Gatsby's mansion. The green light which represented Gatsby's hopes and dreams, particularly his longing for a future with Daisy.

“What are you—” she begins at the same time as he says, “I wanted to—”

Their words get jumbled up.

“You go first,” Dean suggests.

She gulps, quite noticeably apparently because Dean follows the motion of her throat with his eyes. “What are you doing here?”

He smiles then, unabashed and wide. “I should have gone first. Would have saved us time. I was gonna say that I wanted to talk to you…” he answers her question. 

“Oh,” is all she can muster.

“Can we do that somewhere… not here?” He nods over to the audience they have gathered.

She wants to look at what he’s motioning towards but she can’t really pull her eyes off of him right now. Instead she just says, “Yes… The courtyard.”

Dean nods and looks at her waiting.

What’s he waiting for? 

Until Dean just raises his brows with a soft smile and then she remembers. 

“Oh yes, courtyard, let’s go,” she says. And she’s about to grab his arm to drag him off but realizes that both of them are full. She looks from the cigarette to the beer. Thinks for a second—decision made, she downs the beer and places the bottle on the closest flat surface.

“What are you doing here?” She asks again once they’re at the courtyard. They are face to face again, but she has actively decided to put a couple of steps worth of distance between herself and the man of her dreams. For precaution.

“I had to see you,” Dean replies.

“Thought you were gonna see me Tuesday,” she chastises with very little heat, taking a drag of her cigarette.

But apparently Dean takes it to heart. “That—yes! That’s what I am here for. That is the stupidest thing I have ever said. Actually, no scratch that, that’s the second dumbest thing I’ve ever said, ‘I know’ is first.” Confused, she scrunches her forehead. So he explains, “When I was being dragged to hell?”

“Oh,” makes sense, she muses. She shrugs then another puff before she says, “When in doubt, go with Han Solo.”

Dean shakes his head but he’s wearing a smile which she can’t really place. “Yes but it—it was dumb, and I’m sorry.”

“No, no, Dean. No. I am sorry. I put you in a very weird position at a very, very wrong time. It was my fault,” she tells him, and she means it. “Even today, I dropped a whole freakin’ bomb on you without any preamble. Your response made sense considering the condition. I’m sorry to have put you in that position to begin with.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Dean says and his words carry so much determination it makes her shiver.

She waves it off or well, tries to. She has to take a couple steps back, pulling her arms across her chest, she leans on the steps just behind her. She takes a long drag before she asks, “Is that what you were here to do? Say sorry for your response?”

Dean nods. “Yes, and to ask you,” he takes a few steps towards her, “I had to ask you…”

“Ask me?” She urges.

“Did you mean it?”

And she has to roll her eyes at that, drawing on her cigarette again. “What kinda question is that?” 

“A serious one,” Dean says evenly.

“Fine, yes. Of course, I meant it.”

“You don’t regret it?” Dean questions.

“What?! No!” The idea seems so silly to her she can’t even come up with a sarcastic remark for it.

“And you still feel that way?” Dean asks, with a hint of… is that fear in his voice? “Do you still…?”

The night is quite forgiving to them. The moon is out but not in full force, otherwise there would be one less party guest and one extra dog in the boarding house. Her birthday party fell on a full moon night, sadly the patent group werewolf, Tyler, had to skip that one. 

But tonight’s not a full moon, it’s a crescent moon. Shining quite bright, bathing Dean in its light. That along with the warm yellow of the garden lights makes him look ethereal, she thinks.

“15 years I’ve loved you, you think I’ll be able to get over it in three hours?” She throws back.

“A yes or no would do,” Dean rebukes.

“Yes,” she says, sighing. “I still feel that way… but…”

“But?”

“But I think… I think I’ll try to move on…” she acquiesces, a long inhale of smoke, a shorter exhale of the same.

“Why?” Dean bites.

She pulls back a bit before answering, “I understand that the position I put you in isn’t entirely fair. And well, it isn’t great for me either, is it? It would be better for both of us if I just tried to move on… for good this time.”

“Don’t.”

“What?”

“Don’t move on, damn it!”

And that just pisses her off, she throws the cigarette on the ground, butts it with all her fury. “What? Is this some sort of fucking ego trip for you? Look at the hopeless girl in love with me?”

“2 out of 5 cuss words already used. The day’s barely started and you’re left with only 3,” Dean comments with a smile that makes her want to punch his lights out.

“Quit it!” She yells. “You just making fun of me now? That’s just fucking cruel, Dean.”

“2 left,” Dean states but at her glare he takes another step towards her. “I don’t want you to move on.”

“Why the fuck not?!” She’ll probably punch this guy very soon.

“Cause I don’t want you to.”

“Why not? You just want me to stay madly in love with you, keep watching you chase after girls at bars and keep letting my heart break? You want me to keep dying bit by bit, is that it?” Her voice breaks a little at the end.

“No. Of course not! But if you moved on, it would kill me, so I can’t let you do that, Y/n. I can’t.” Dean tells her. 

She doesn’t understand any of this. What even is happening.

“I think you’ve finally lost your mind. Hell has clearly gotten to you. You’ve gone mad! What do you want me to do, keep falling deeper and deeper in love with you, torment myself day in and day out when I know that you will never love me back. What is wrong with you, Dean? What the f—”

“Listen to me,” he cuts her off. “You really need to listen to me cause you’ve got just one cuss word left for the day and what I’m gonna say you might need it for that.” He breathes in, slow and deep. “I never said that.”

“Never said what?”

“I never said that I didn’t love you back.”

She… What?

Wait what?

“What do you mea—?”

He cuts her off again. “I saw you 15 minutes before you saw me.” She’s so confused she thinks she might just cry. And it’s all made worse because Dean takes a few steps closer to her. The gap is nowhere near as secure as it was when this conversation began. “I was getting out of the car and you were…” He smiles, so beautifully that her heart aches. “You were smoking, of all things. At the ripe old age of 13, by the way.”

“My parents had just died like, 6 months ago,” she defends like it matters at all.

Dean smiles all the same. “Smoking your first cigarette. That’s how I saw you, and you were—you were smoking that like a champ, honestly. I think you took four drags, before you decided it was too much and then butt the entire thing. You then began your mission to hide it like they were porno mags under your bed that Stefan and Damon could discover any moment.”

“Porno mags would’ve caused less trouble,” she comments absentmindedly.

He smiles wider then. “Fair enough.” He nods almost to himself. “But yeah. I saw you 15 minutes before you ever saw me. So, I’ve been in love with you 15 minutes longer than your 15 years.”

She doesn’t think she remembers how breathing works.

“I have been in love with you since the moment I saw you. And every single day I wake up and I think I could not love you more but then something happens, you laugh at some joke or you talk about how democracy is a concept built on the idea of inequality, or you sing karaoke at some bar or you just are, you just be and I just… I fall harder in love with you. Every moment I spend with you, is another moment where I find out that I can love you more than I already did.” Dean laughs then. “I was stupid, I was so stupid. I kept thinking that I couldn’t have you. I kept thinking that I shouldn’t even try because what would be the point? I was never gonna quit hunting and this life—it’s filled with so much shit. I thought there was something really bad around the corner, so how could I drag you into that mess with me? So I just—I never thought that I could have you but then I died! I fucking died, Y/n. And now apparently there is a goddamn apocalypse around the corner so clearly bad things will happen no matter what! Then why the fuck should I have to go through all of that alone? Why should I have to go through that without you? I can’t do it. I don’t fucking want to.”

He doesn’t want to.

She’s dreaming, isn’t she?

“I didn’t know, though,” Dean says sheepishly, with apologies all over his face. “I never fucking knew how you felt. Of course I didn’t know. I wouldn’t have—All the girls, all the bars, they were just—I didn’t think I could have you, I didn’t think you’d ever want someone like me so I wanted to numb the pain, I never thought I was hurting you in return. I wouldn’t have—”

She takes a step towards him. They are now standing too close, chest pressed into chest. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Dean argues, still feeling so guilty that it’s almost painful to watch.

“It’s okay now,” she clarifies. “Do I get to have you now?”

“Obviously! Of course! I’m yours. I’ve always been yours, Y/n. Only yours—”

She cuts him off by pressing her lips on his. It’s a small, tentative thing, mostly to try it out, but also to shut him up. And shut up, he does. 

She pulls away, not too far, never too far, just enough to look up at him. 

Then Dean Winchester smiles. Wide, and cocky, and flirty and beautiful.

He pulls her back in, hands on caressing her jaw so gently that a part of her thinks maybe she was made of porcelain all along and everyone forgot to inform her. Because he is being so soft with her, his lips on hers are tender but there is so much love in every movement that she can taste it. 

Her hands find his hair, and she plays with the soft spikes, pulling him closer, and perhaps it’s her hunger for him or maybe his for her, but tenderness gives way to passion. They are all hands and lips and desperation. He’s grabbing onto her for dear life, pulling her closer and closer as he wants her whole and maybe he does. She understands though, because she’s holding onto his leather jacket like if she lets go he’ll vanish and urging him closer too. It’s mindless and mindful at once.

Lips slotted together seaking out all that they’d been wanting for, for the last 15 years.

Dean’s hand travels down to her thighs and instinctively she knows to jump up. He grabs her easily as she wraps her legs around him. It’s hungry now, they are so very hungry now. It makes her moan, Dean, ever the man of opportunity, takes that moment to slip his tongue in. Their tongues dance together in a heated embrace. She can’t help herself, she’s seeking some release from the tension building inside her, so she grinds against him, only for both of them to pull away, moaning in sickening pleasure.

And she can’t help it, she laughs. “Fuck.”

Dean laughs too. Pressing his forehead to hers. “That’s all of them, sweetheart. You’re out of cuss words for today.”

“That might be a problem considering the state you’re in,” she grinds against him again, to tease him, to feel him, to have him, cause she can now. 

Dean groans before smiling again. “Fuck me, sweetheart. I can cuss all I want, you’re the one who’ll be in trouble.”

“Maybe I want that?” She smiles.

Dean laughs again. “God, I love you so fucking much.”

She kisses him again, it’s a sweet, loving little thing. “I love you too, Dean.

Find Part 1 here.

[simmers-against-curseforge]

At this point all the information you're posting is incorrect.

Here is what I had actually posted when this information was brought to my attention since there seems to be no interest in actually reading what I post and going off on misinformation.

At no point did I state that I would no longer posting on CurseForge or removing my content from there. What I did say is I understand and respect those that don't want to use it and that I will be providing sfs from here on forward. If you would of also taken the time to look at my page you would of seen that I had changed all my links to cf and sfs as an alternative.

The reblog you got your information from was not from myself and I had reached out to that person thanking them for speaking out for me but also clarifying that that is not what I meant by my post. The ask with the direct message to puppy is something I had also addressed in the replies and had posted on my page explaining why I resumed using CF.

I geniuenly wanted to be part of this conversation because I understand how important the topic is regardless if I don't know much about it. That's why I took action in the first place. But now it's just backfiring and being used to tarnish my name as a creator with misinformation when it would just be easy to check if it was something I had actually said or had updated on.

I didn't want to ignore it because it's something important but now I understand why other creators just turn a blind eye. I should of just did things in my own time and left it as that because you don't even seem to bother actually doing research on what has been said.

I ask you not to tag me in future posts unless the information is actually true and comes from me.

Hi, I did not intentionally ignore your post, it is not visible to me at all on your page. I have been checking your blog frequently, but this post does not show up for me in your feed at all. I could have asked for a screenshot from followers, yes, I agree. But I don't know if this was deleted or is just not showing up because tumblr is censoring it. (If the assumption is that I should be able to see it as of today) I started this blog on June 12th, and have scrolled back to June 2nd and I do not see this post at all, I'm sorry.

You were removed from the list a while ago because I was unsure of what you said and was waiting for some clarification. As well as being crossed out on the post. I do wish we could have just messaged for clarification but you don't have asks or messages on.

I do appreciate you adding alt downloads, but this blog in general is about leaving curseforge as a whole and what creators are on curseforge for people to be aware of. The list is just stating the facts of who is currently there. I'm not trying to tarnish your name, it is just the fact that your one of the creators still on curseforge.

I understand you have your own first-hand focus right now, but this is the small part I'm trying to play on what I am focusing on. And I still disagree with being on curseforge and participating directly in the Israeli economy. Even with alternative downloads, there are people who don't know and still download from curseforge anyways. I do think it is important to being open to learning more and change. Sorry, but I do not understand still using it if you can provide other means of download. And I don't agree that being off social media is a reason to not learn more. I don't know enough about the current affairs of Angola, but I should and want to learn more even if I don't see posts about it on social media.

I don't think it is okay to turn a blind eye because the conversation is uncomfortable or it feels bad to be tagged. I wish that creators would care more about what is going on rather than how they personally feel about me or this blog.

I really do promise that tagging you or anyone are not personal attacks. I try my best to word anything I say coming from a place of starting a conversation. I think your content is amazing and me tagging you was a request and an invitation, not a demand. I updated my reblog BECAUSE it was NOT true that you had left curseforge and I needed to correct it since I said differently. I want to answer this ask privately, but I don't think this information is visible on your page currently and you can say your piece here.

[a-killer-obsession]

🔞 Minors DNI 🔞

A search for a rumored Vegapunk weapon leads the Kid Pirates to an unexpected new crewmate, with a bloodlust that rivals their own and an incredible power.

CW: Please check AO3 for all current warnings, but general warning for smut, slow burn, serious gore, and really dark themes. AFAB reader, she/her pronouns.

Masterlist || AO3 || Chapter 1

Chapter 35 - Dawn

There's always a reason to keep going, you just have to find it. Please heed the AO3 tags, dark themes ahead.

Word Count: ~3k

Taglist: @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @tremendoushorsepatrolgoth @iggy5055

Kid pulled at his hair as he paced, his red locks sticking up from how much he'd been yanking at them, the goggles that usually sat around his head now hanging around his neck. Heat and Wire watched him pace, not knowing what to say, but they felt the same troubles as he did. Nearby manic laughter rang out over the ship, accompanied by the sounds of wood cracking against wood.

“I don't know what to do anymore,” Kid nearly cried, “he's lost, I don't know how to help him. He won't eat, he won't sleep, he won't take his meds. He's still got her fucking blood on his hands. And I know she needs him, I know she does, but he won't fucking listen. It's like all he fucking cares about is the baby. But shes alive and needs him and he won't fucking listen to me”

“She's on the edge, I can see it in her eyes,” Heat sighed, “if we don't get him to see her soon, I'm afraid we'll lose her too. There's no way she's coming back to the ship after that if he won't even fucking look at her”

“He blames her for what happened,” Kid collapsed in a chair and held his head in his hands, “I told him it wasn't safe to have a kid on board, this is my fucking fault, it's my fucking dream that got their kid killed. He should be blaming me,” Kid slammed his fist against his chest to make his point.

“It's nobody's fault,” Wire added, “miscarriage is more common than people think, there's no way to say this wouldn't have just happened anyway.”

“Try telling him that,” Kid growled, “I don't know what to do anymore, short of locking him in the brig so he stops fucking shit up, there's nothing I can do”

Puru-puru-puru puru-puru-puru

The three of them looked at each other, confused, as the den-den mushi in the navigation room suddenly started to ring. Kid grumbled as he stood, grabbing the receiver probably a little too hard from the black and red snail. They were fucking busy who the fuck was calling this late, it was well past midnight at this point.

“The fuck you want?” Kid growled into the receiver.

“Eustass Kid?” A woman on the other voice asked nervously, the snail looking immensely uncomfortable.

“Yeah, what do you want?” He barked, “I ain't buying shit”

“This is Nurse Davina from the hospital on Beckton Island,” she squeaked, “we have you down as a next of kin for a Miss Val Yin?”

“Yeah, what happened?” Kid's voice turned to concern, there were very few reasons a hospital should be calling this late and none of them were good. “Is she okay?”

“Well you see sir, we just went to do her vitals, and her bed is empty,” she said anxiously, “our security cameras show her leaving the hospital in only her pyjamas about forty minutes ago”

“FORTY MINUTES AGO? WELL WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?” Kid roared, making the snail cower. Heat and Wire were already on their feet, crowding around the snail with concern, trying to hear what it had to say.

“I'm sorry sir, we do not currently know,” she sighed, “the police are looking for her but this late at night nobody was out to see where she went. I'm so sorry sir, we're doing our best but according to protocol it was my duty to inform you. She left on her own accord but we are very worried about her current mental state”

“No fucking shit, dumb cunts, she just lost her fucking baby!” Kid yelled into the receiver, “Call off your useless dogs, we'll find her our damn selves”

He slammed the receiver down and turned back to the other two. Heat had already retrieved your vivre card and was tearing small pieces off.

“Don't wake anyone else, I don't want it getting out,” Kid sighed as he took a piece.

“It's windy out there so only look at the vivre when you have to,” Heat informed them as they headed out. Kid paused at Killer's door, wondering if he should tell him, but decided ultimately that it was a waste of time.

“What's your name?”

Your toes hung over the edge of the cliff, the deep breath you'd taken to prepare to jump suddenly released as you were spooked by the sudden presence of another. You turned and saw a ghost, blonde hair floating around her hollowed cheeks, clothes tattered and dirty, wobbling on her feet from exhaustion.

“Your name, sweetheart,” she asked again, taking a step forward. She cradled in her arms a small bundle, everything she had in the word, held safe and close to her chest.

“It's.. Yin,” you replied, your voice hoarse.

“Yin…” she stepped forward, standing beside you and peering down at the jagged rocks below. “I'm guessing you came here for the same reason as I did”

The bundle in her arms moved and let out a weak cry. “Hush, hush, we'll feel better soon,” she cooed.

Without thinking you grabbed her shirt and tore her away from the cliff edge, putting yourself between her and the water. “What the fuck are you doing?” You screamed.

“We're starving, we have nothing,” she explained, a tear falling from the sharp edge of her chin as she looked down at her weak baby. They couldn't have been more than a few months old. “My milk has gone dry, I have nowhere to go, nobody to turn to. Even selling my body isn't enough anymore, nobody wants to fuck a skeleton. She's so weak she can't even cry anymore. I can't watch her hurt, I can't watch my baby starve to death. So I'm going with her.”

She took a step forward and you grabbed the baby, making her scream as you fought her for it. You kicked her down as you won, and before she could get back up you lifted your shirt, yanking away the bindings over your chest and holding the baby to your breast. Emotional suffering be damned, you'd already killed one baby, you weren't going to watch another die. The baby didn't latch at first, too weak to register the breast, so you squeezed until a few drops fell on her lips, and she finally got the hint. You had no idea what you were doing, but thankfully the baby did, and she made small noises as she greedily suckled. You lowered yourself to the ground, sitting cross legged and rocking side to side as you watched the baby feed, tears rolling down your cheeks as you cooed to her.

“How?” the woman cried, “are you an angel?”

“No, I just…” you looked at her with weeping eyes, “I lost my baby a few days ago. I'm sure I can ask my captain to help you, we have plenty of gold, we can give you whatever you need. Just please don't… please don't hurt her”

“She's safe now, I can see that,” the woman smiled. “I'm so happy. You'll take care of her, won't you?”

“You're both going to be okay, I'll make sure of it,” you promised her.

“I know,” she smiled, then she took another step back. You hadn't even noticed she'd been backing up until it was too late, a tear rolling down her cheek as she smiled and let herself fall. You screamed and reached for her, but it was too late. The baby was none the wiser, still suckling from your breast, tucked safe against you as you looked over the edge of the cliff and saw her mother's battered body laying over the rocks, her limbs set in unnatural angles, the water lapping at her leaking blood. Her eyes were open and lifeless, but there was a smile on her face.

Without warning you were pulled away from the edge, strong arms wrapped around you and dragging you far from it.

“YIN, DON'T DO IT PLEASE,” Wire begged, kneeling in front of you, taking your head in his hands with a desperate expression on his face.

“She jumped, why did she do that?” You cried. He scanned your face, confusion written on his. “Her.. her baby, why did she do that? She was going to be okay! Wire!!! Why did she do that!!!” You were pulling at his shirt, making holes in the mesh with your nails as you yelled.

“Who?” He asked, and you pointed to the cliff. He stood cautiously and looked over the edge, seeing the body that lay lifeless at the bottom. The baby whined and wiggled under your shirt, seeking more milk. You lifted your shirt again, Wire looking away on instinct to respect your privacy till he realised what you were holding. You turned the baby and she latched to your other breast, letting out a sigh of relief as the pressure that had been building for days was finally released.

“Yin, why do you have a baby?” Wire asked nervously, kneeling in front of you.

“It was hers,” you sniffed, bridging on hyperventilation, “she said they were starving, they came here to jump. I couldn't just watch her kill her baby, so I took it, and before I knew what I was doing it was feeding. She smiled at me and jumped, Wire, she smiled, why did she do that? I told her we could help her!”

Heat and Kid appeared at the edge of the forest behind you, Wire looking at them with a defeated expression as they approached, letting out relieved breaths that he had you and you were alive. They had all been running the same direction, but Wire had the longest legs by far, so he had naturally gotten to you the quickest. Kid removed his coat as he approached and draped it over your shoulders, letting out an audible gasp as Wire stood and the light from the sunrise illuminated the bundle in your arms, still firmly latched to your breast. Kid looked to Wire for answers, and he nodded towards the cliff edge. He saw the body, and turned back to you with a scrupulous look, opening his mouth to say something before Wire stopped him.

“She didn't push her,” Wire sighed, “she was just trying to help but the woman jumped anyway”

Heat sat down beside you, wiping the tears from your face, helping you calm your breathing to a safe level. The anguish in your eyes was indescribable, but in that moment he thought maybe he saw a flicker of happiness too. The baby had fallen asleep in your arms, releasing your nipple, milk still dribbling from it, but for now she was sated. Kid made a little frustrated growl and dropped down next to you, looking at the contented baby as you pushed your shirt back down. “Does it have a dad or something?”

“She said they had nobody,” you explained, rocking back and forth a little to soothe the sleeping child, not that the milk drunk little lady needed it, it was more for your benefit. “Sounded like she's been roughing it on the street and selling herself, but she said her milk went dry. She said she didn't want to watch her baby slowly starve so she came here to end it quickly for both of them. I just… I don't understand why she still jumped, I told her we would help”

“If she said she had nobody, maybe she didn't think she could keep going either way,” Heat said softly. “But the better question is what were you doing here? You're supposed to be in the hospital”

“I couldn't stay there anymore with all those crying babies and happy families,” you sniffed, “I just… ran. I… couldn't do it anymore…”

“So fucking call us to pick you up, don't go and kill yourself!” Kid growled. You whimpered and he sighed, pulling you carefully into his lap, wrapping his coat firmly around you and the baby. The orange-pink sunrise made the red feathers look like fire engulfing you, but perhaps more in the way they would a phoenix as you found your new resolve.

“I'm keeping her,” you said sternly.

“I figured as much,” Kid admitted with a groan, “but what about Kil?”

“What about him?” You growled, “He only gave a shit about his baby, he couldn't care less about me or he would have had the fucking decently to at least look at me. He and I are over. We're done.”

“He'll get over it, he just needs time,” Kid pleaded, “he needs you”

“And where was he when I needed him?” You barked, climbing out of Kid's lap and standing tall. “Where was he when my insides were torn open, when I had to deliver my own dead baby, when Mohawk had to remove my womb so I wouldn't bleed to death, when Heat had to explain I'm barren? Where was he the last day I've spent in hospital, waiting for him to walk through the door, to hold me and kiss me and tell me he still loves me? Where was he Kid?”

“He's having an episode,” Kid stood and held his hands out to you, trying to get you to understand, “he's not well”

“Oh he's not well? Well shit, better drop everything!” You laughed sarcastically, “tell him to take his fucking meds, some of us have real problems that can't be fixed with a pill”

Kid growled a warning at you minimizing Killer's mental condition and you rolled your eyes at him, “Fuck off Kid, I don't give two shits how much furniture he breaks, he tore my fucking heart open again after he swore he would never hurt me again, after he swore he would be there for me. He shut me out, go crying to him. How many times does he have to hurt me before I'm allowed to feel angry in your books?”

You wobbled weakly on your legs and Heat scooped you up, not wanting to take any risks especially with the baby sleeping in your arms. He started to carry you away as Kid continued to shout at you.

“You've got another thing coming if you think I'm gonna support you or that baby on the ship!” He called, his fists balled tight. He was furious, and he never made smart choices when he was mad. “Stay on this fucking island for all I care! You're nothing but a worthless whore, nothing but a life ruiner! We were all perfectly happy before you came on board and fucked everything up!”

Heat stopped dead in his tracks and turned back to Kid, in a rare moment of rebellion from the usually loyal man. “She doesn't need you, or Killer, she has me,” he spat, “and I'll burn the whole fucking ship down before I let you touch her or her baby. You wanna get rid of her? You can say goodbye to me too then”

Kid's jaw was on the floor as Heat turned back to the small dirt trail that ran through the forest, and you sobbed in his arms as he carried you, stoic and silent the whole journey back to the ship. He placed you on your own bed first, packing a hurried duffle of whatever was left in your old room before you'd moved in with Killer, mostly things that hadn't fit you while you were pregnant. He slung the bag over his shoulder and carried you to his room to do the same, and without looking back he picked you up one last time and silently carried you down the gangplank. You caught sight of blond hair in the breeze as he carried you along the dock, Killer watching you from behind his mask, standing at the nose of the dinosaur skull. Heat paid him no mind, and you adjusted the blanket he'd wrapped you in, making sure Killer saw the baby on your chest and the cold anger on your face before Heat carried you away.

Nothing was open in the sleepy town as he walked through it, but he finally found a small inn and banged on the door. An annoyed innkeeper, woken from their sleep, looked at the three of you and sighed, he couldn't leave a woman and baby out on the street, not when the bright red sunrise signalled the oncoming storm. Red sky in morning, sailor's warning. Heat paid handsomely for the inconvenience, renting a crib from the owner, who thankfully had children of his own and was able to provide a few diapers and baby wipes to tide you through till the stores opened, even if they were a touch too big for the small baby.

While the crib was set up you unwrapped the baby, seeing for the first time just how poorly she looked, though her tummy was nice and round from the milk you'd provided. You did what you could to clean and redress her without stirring her from her deep sleep, placing her in the bare crib. You'd asked the innkeeper for blankets, but he assured you that babies were safer sleeping without, and had instead helped you swaddle the little one to keep her warm. There was a strange, awkward silence as he left, just you and Heat left in the room, sitting at the end of the bed side by side and staring at the sleeping baby, who you'd discovered upon unwrapping had a small tuft of blond hair.

“Why did you do that?” You asked softly.

“Do I need to say it?” He replied. You shook your head and took his hand. You knew why. Because he loved you, even though he still lacked the courage to say it out loud. His actions told you everything you needed to know.

“Do you think they'll leave?” You asked him.

“Nah,” he squeezed your hand, “logpose needed three days to reset. They'll cool down and beg us to come home, they care too much. And if they don't, fuck em, you're all I need”

You leaned your tired body against his side and let out a long sigh.

“Let's get you to bed, you must be exhausted,” he picked you up again and slid you under the covers before climbing in next to you. He held you gingerly, aware that you were still recovering and your breasts were tender. “No matter what, I'm here. For you, and the baby. If it's between Kid and you, I'm choosing you”

You sobbed at his reassurances, not once had Killer ever said he would choose you over Kid, in fact he'd always made it clear that Kid was his priority. Your heart swelled for Heat, whether it be genuine or saviour's complex you didn't care, you just knew you were finally falling for him. If only it'd happened months ago, if only you'd given yourself to him more fully, or if maybe he'd been trapped on the island with you. Things could have been so different. Your heart still felt like it was tearing apart, but under Heat's warm embrace you felt like in time it could melt back together.

“Does she have a name?” Heat asked when your crying finally calmed.

“Dawn,” you replied softly.

[NEXT CHAPTER] - link soon

[naomiwritesbooks]

How to get better at writing dialogue

1. USE TAGS SPARINGLY!

Tags are often at the end of a dialogue and can be seen as; she said, she shouted, he grumbled, or they muttered. Now, there is nothing wrong with tags; the problem comes with using them too often. When I first started writing, I would use a tag for every little bit of dialogue. This can become repetitive for your reader, a sign that you're a beginner at writing.

2. USE DESCRIPTION

Instead of using she said, in every instance, use a description after the dialogue referring to the character speaking. For example,

Instead of:

“I already told you I didn't move your damned wallet,” I said.

TRY:

“I already told you I didn't move your damned wallet.” My face screwed up as I walked away. I can't believe he would accuse me. Was he not my best friend before her?

So instead of using a tag, try using an action after dialogue and only using tags to make a point. For example, if someone is whispering or grumbling, or if you absolutely have to.

2.DON’T LET CHARACTERS SAY WHAT THEY WANT!

Its very important not to let your characters say exactly what their thinking; at least not at first. What makes dialogue interesting is when characters don't say exactly what their thinking. For instance at the beginning of a romance novel you might not want your main character to admit she hates her boyfriend and is cheating on him, because in reality we don’t always say what we want or do what we should. That's what makes dialogue interesting.

FOR EXAMPLE

INSTEAD OF:

He leaned in to kiss my cheek, and I couldn't help but pull away. “Tommy, this isn't working. Let's break up.”

His eyebrows came together before he laughed bitterly. “Why, because you're cheating on me with the football captain? I saw his jersey under your bed this morning.”

TRY:

He leaned in to kiss my cheek, and I couldn't help but pull away. “Tommy, this isn't working–” I sighed, cutting myself off.

His eyebrows came together with a thick line between them. It was written all over his face; he knew what I was talking about. “What isn't working?” he works his mouth slowly.

“This… whatever,” I motioned between us. “This is…”

His eyebrows came together. “You're breaking up with me,” he says not so much as a question but a statement. He laughed bitterly. “That's rich.”

It takes everything within me not to yell. “Do you think this is funny?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “It's not funny. Its because of him isn't it?”

My heart drops to my stomach. There's no way he knows. “W-who?”

“You really want to play dumb right now? Why is his Jersey under your bed?”

Every bone in me goes cold, and my mind shortcuts like a cable with spilled water on it. I try to form a sentence but fail. “Whose jersey?”

“You know whose jersey, Star,” he bites out.

As a reader, you can see that it's more enjoyable when characters don't say exactly what they want. It's a poor example, but imagine that prior to this argument in the story, Tommy notices Star has been Distant and does not mention it, and Star has been playing the perfect girlfriend when she's been secretly cheating. See how that tension has been bubbling because they're both not saying what they want? That's gold.

Hopefully, this will help with your writing. These are just a few things I've picked up on!

[ahgasegotarmy116]

BANG-ABLE | Jeon Jungkook One Shot | Teaser

Summary: You've been single for way too long and you're done with causal sex and all the drama that comes along with it...so why not try something new? Pairing: f!reader x Sex Bot Jungkook (idk man 😂) Warnings: Smut and Explicit language (obvi lmao) a/n: I've been working on this for a while and I wanted to put out a teaser to see how well something like this would be received. It probably won't be going up for another two weeks or so since I'm trying to keep to a more manageable posting schedule so I hope you'll look forward to it! Feel free to comment down below if you'd like to be tagged! P.s. Ava is her best friend but it's pretty obvious lmao

"'How to bang your robot' sounds very informative" Ava giggles and I scoff, "That's not what it says dummy" I groan, thumbing through the manual until I find the most important piece of information, how to turn him on...well power him up so to say. The other part I guess I'll figure out later on when we're alone, although I'm sure she would love to watch.

I don't think I'll ever be able to understand how she can talk about things like sex so openly but I guess that's part of her twisted charm.

I brush some of the hay-like packaging off of him so the both of us can finally see what he looks like and my breath hitches once his face comes into view.

"I did a good job huh?" she says while elbowing me in the side, groaning when she hits the new tattoo I got on my ribcage the other day. "Oh shit I'm sorry! I forgot!" she says, apologizing but I brush it off as an accident and go back to inspecting him.

After taking more of the packaging off I finally find where his on switch is, which happens to be on his peck. "Really? I haven't even turned him on and I already have to violate him?" I say, hesitating for a second and then just rip the bandaid off so to say and lift his shirt up.

"Damn those abs are drool worthy" Ava whistles and I wack her in the arm, "You're not helping" I groan and find the plate that is covering the on switch, looking between him and her, contemplating on if I should go for it or not.

She nods her head, urging me to do it and after a second or two I give in and flip the switch quickly and fix his shirt so he's all covered up again. He might be a robot but I still think he deserves to be treated with respect.

Even if his whole purpose is to just fuck me senseless.

We both watch for a second and hear a few of the mechanisms start to move about before he takes his first breath. Well...kinda.

He opens his eyes and blinks a few times and I know for a fact that Ava hit it right on the head in her description. She knows me too well at this point if she was able to create a Mr. Right for me with a few clicks on her keyboard.

That or he's just very attractive to begin with.

He looks around for a second before turning his head towards me, our eyes locking for the first of many times and I can already feel my cheeks start to heat up. 'I'm fucked'

[carriesthewind]

I can't stop thinking about the notes on this rage-bait post about To Kill a Mockingbird.

Some of it is the sheer number of people falling for the bait and believing that the school district in question banned the novel:

But there's also this...tone to so many of the notes that I find fascinating. And I think two sets of comments illustrate why:

Every time I look at these tags I feel like there is something more to unpack. If I am being kind of flip, I can roll my eyes at someone "sigh[ing] at the lack of reading comprehension" while falling for outrage bait.

But more seriously, I feel like this comment is completely right about needing to be uncomfortable and leave sterile environments in order to grown and change...but that comment exists in the context of the writer being so deeply uncomfortable at the mere idea that an over 60 year old book will no longer be taught to some children that they completely fail to interrogate the underlying story. There's a failure to take the next step. It's possible the writer was uncomfortable when they first read the novel, but to quote a tag I didn't capture here, it's "one of [their] favorite books." The book doesn't make *them* uncomfortable at all. The writer is not willing to interrogate that the school district might have had good reasons for switching the book out of the curriculum. Instead, they assume that the reasons are because "people don't understand" the book - the writer "see[s] what they look for."

I love To Kill a Mockingbird. (Hell, I'm one of those white future-public defenders who read the book and saw the movie and watched Atticus with my soul in my throat and, while I was not directly inspired by him, he resonated with a deep part of me.) It would be an uphill debate to convince me to remove it from a teaching curriculum - but then again, I'm not in charge of any teaching curriculum and have zero relevant expertise. I've read now a number of different articles and reactions to this incident, and the reactions rarely have anything to do with the reality of what decisions were made and why. You have to jump through numerous links to find what appears to be the original parent complaint:

Yolanda Williams said she found out that students were saying the N-word and laughing in the classroom, and it was offensive. “Students were laughing out loud at the teacher’s response. That’s unacceptable to me,” she told the board. “Is there not a better way to teach about that era and the horrors of that era, other than having kids laughing in class when the N-word is said? It should not be required reading for all students. My child shouldn’t have to sit in that class like that.” “It’s not a conducive environment,” Yolanda Williams said. “It’s not just the book, but supplemental material that had the N-word.

(How much do we value, how do we weigh, one way of learning about the history of racism, against the pain of a black child? Whose comfort are we willing to sacrifice, and for what?)

The second comment I come back to is much shorter, but I feel like it's where everything fell in to place for me:

Were the people made uncomfortable by the book white people? How many of them? I don't know for sure - although I know at least one of the parents, as quoted above, was black - and neither do any of the commenters.

Why do we read "people" and see "white people?" And in a way, I'm asking a rhetorical question - because of course we do, because the tweet is set up that day. And, even more so, of course we do - because the people the book is for are white people.

To go back to the previous comment, the one I can't stop unpacking: the writer quotes a famous line from the book, "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view...until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."

And yes, I love this quote.

But.

But.

To Kill a Mockingbird was written by Harper Lee, a white woman.

The narrator of the book is Scout, a white child.

The hero of the book is Atticus, her white father.

The embodiment of the theme, the person whose skin Scout tries to step into, is Boo Radley, another white man.

Do you remember, the man who was murdered? Do you see him in that picture at the top of the post? How long does it take you to remember his name?

When do we step into his skin? When do we walk around with his perspective?

I love To Kill a Mockingbird. But if a school district wanted to teach a book to embody this quote, aren't there so many better ones?

Another commenter on the post appears to have actual lived experience with this book being removed from the teaching curriculum.

[angelsanarchy]

Glass Houses: Jack Thurlow x Y/N One-Shot Series PRT 36

Tagging: @roryculkinluvr@thatsthewrongwallcraig@icarus-star @cc-luvr @madamemaximoff06@shady-the-simp @quicksilversg1rl @s-0lar @kristennero-wallacewellsver@ophelialaufey @mayathepsychic1999 @x-prettyboy-x @rorylover71 @auggiethecreator @tempt-ress @blacksoul-27 @kappasbbgirl @starry-eyed-wild-child

"So you and Y/n have seemed to settle into a nice place." Jack watched Dr. Carty's face as he held a satisfied grin.

"I like to think so. It's been nice having someone to wake up next to who doesn't think I'm a complete psychopath." Jack joked but Dr. Carty sighed.

"Well you aren't a psychopath Jack-" Before Carty could give him the whole spiel he laughed.

"I know I'm just messing with you doc. Y/n lets me joke with her about it so I guess I'm just feeling a bit more free with it.

"You truly do look free Jack. I'm very proud of the beautiful progress you've made." Dr. Carty shut his book and smiled at Jack.

"How about the medications? Are they treating you better?" He asked and Jack shook his head.

"Actually yeah these work a lot better than those last ones. Y/n told me to start keeping a medication diary on days I'm feeling weird so that's helped with what time of day I take them. Should have started boning a medical professional a long time ago." Jack teased once more and Dr. Carty actually chuckled.

"Thankfully you aren't my type." Jack's eyes lit up.

"Son of a bitch, did you just take your doctor hat off to make a joke? I think we'll both be leaving this session proud of one another." Jack and Dr. Carty laughed together.

"I also think now wouldn't be a terrible time to start looking into getting a companion of the furry variety. I can send you some really good adoption companies that my team works with if you're looking for one that's been trained." Dr. Carty started flipping through his folders and Jack felt a surge of excitement at the thought of getting his own dog.

"I'll run it past Y/n and see what she thinks. We much just go to a shelter." Jack saw the smile of contentment on the doctors face as he nodded in response. Jack hadn't even left the parking lot before calling Y/n to tell her he got the green light for a dog. When he walked into the front door he saw Y/n standing at the kitchen island with her laptop open.

"Okay so I've already found a few pups I think would complete your pretentious emo writer lifestyle." Y/n was bent over the counter and Jack took in a deep breath.

"Oh yeah? What have you found?" He leaned over her shoulder and looked at the dogs she had pulled up. They were all shelter pups with silly literature names.

"This one literally looks like a rat and it's name is Poe...liked Edgar Allen." She laughed. Jack put his arms around her from behind and rested his chin on her shoulder.

"What about this one...Duke." She pointed to a Great Dane and Jack laughed.

"Why not just get a horse." Jack teased making Y/n scoff.

"He can be a big sweet baby! Don't count the big ones out." Y/n kept scrolling through the pups and Jack moved her hair from her shoulder to kiss her neck.

"You off the rest of the day?" Jack asked rocking his hips into her ass so she could feel how hard he was.

"I switched with Candace. She's taking night shift so I can help you puppy search although something tells me your brain is in another place." Y/n let him squeeze her tits from behind her and she leaned her head back.

"Who knew therapy and dogs got you so worked up." She teased.

"Walking into the house and seeing my sexy girlfriend bent over the kitchen counter...that's what does it for me." She palmed Jack through his jeans and he groaned.

"Yeah? That's how you want me? Bent over the counter like this?" Y/n pushed her shorts down and Jack recognized the black underwear she was wearing. They were the same from the night she got naked outside and he was able to cum for the first time.

"Fuck...yes...this is exactly how I want you." Jack gave her ass a smack and watched it jiggle. Jack undid his jeans and pulled his cock out, jerking it to full hardness as he ran it over her ass.

"Mmm daddy's being a tease." Y/n bit her lip and look back at him. He twisted her arm behind her back and forced her to lay her face on the marble countertop. He slipped into her and it felt like her cunt was practically pulling him in. She hissed when he slapped her ass harder this time.

"You were wearing these panties the same night I watched you get undressed." Jack thrusted into Y/n steadily, talking over the sound of skin slapping against one another.

"All I kept thinking about was having you on your knees sucking my cock while I held your hair to face fuck you." Y/n moaned as he dug his fingertips into the meat of her hips.

"Yeah? You wanted to throat fuck me while I had my knees in gravel? How sadistic of you. Tell me AH- MORE!" Y/n shouted as Jack slammed into her deeper.

"I watched the way your ass jiggled and kept thinking, that's an ass I want sitting on my face while I tongue fuck her stupid." Jack gritted his teeth and Y/n whined pushing back onto his cock harder.

"Fuck Jack...I'm gonna cum already. Don't stop. Please don't stop." Y/n begged and Jack started fucking her faster, sloppier. He wanted to cum inside of her so badly. The more she moaned his name, the more he knew every time he was in the kitchen now, he would be hard as hell.

"Where do you want me to cum?" Jack asked frantically.

"Cum wherever you want to. I'm yours." He felt Y/n tighten around him and he pulled out just in time to paint the crimson hand prints he left on her skin with his cum. He jerked himself off until he was practically dribbling down his own fist. He could see Y/n's release running down her cunt to her thighs as she caught her breath. Jack put his cock back in his pants and walked around the counter to get a wet paper towel to clean her up with.

She felt the cool rag on her ass as he cleaned her and she started laughing. Jack stroked her back and pulled her shorts up until she raised her head to look at him.

"What's so funny?" He asked curiously.

"All I can think about right now is eating leftover pizza and getting high so I can take a ride on that pretty face of yours later." Jack matched her laugh and leaned down to kiss her.

"I'll grab the plates, you grab the joint." Jack heated up the pizza and carried it outside towards the pool where they had two lawn chairs. He grabbed two candles from under the sink and sat them on the table between them. When Y/n saw what he had set up, she smiled.

"You're getting so cheesy and I fucking love it." She gripped his chin to kiss him dramatically as she lit the joint and sat down opposite him.

"How was therapy?" Passed Jack the joint and took a bite of her pizza. Jack shrugged.

"It was really good. We talked about all my progress, I told him we've slept together..." Y/n snorted at how relaxed he had said that.

"You told your doctor we're on fucking terms now? How progressive of you." Y/n teased.

"I told him that we were together now...so naturally he asked if we had gotten intimate." Jack made a face as he repeated Dr. Carty's question.

"Did you tell him all the places in this house you've fucked me stupid?" She asked with a smile. Jack leaned towards and he nodded his head.

"Something like that." He kissed her lips and pulled back to lay on the chair.

"I'm proud of you, you know. You've really opened up since we first met. It's nice to be able to finally get to see who you are." Y/n took the joint and watched as Jack lit a cigarette.

"I want to say I couldn't have done it without you but I know you'll just give me shit-"

"Oh you would absolutely be lost without me." Y/n joked.

"Shanda is due to visit soon. She left me a voicemail about coming out but I didn't listen to the whole thing yet...I was kind of hoping you could meet her." Jack looked over at Y/n as she continued to eat.

"Yeah? You want me to meet your best friend?" She asked sweetly.

"Well both my parents are dead. You met my doctor in a less than normal fashion so I'd say it's time to meet the final boss." He looked over at her as he took another drag from the joint, forgetting about his cigarette in the ashtray.

Y/n got up from her own chair and sat in Jack's lap.

"I would love to meet your best friend Jack." Y/n rested her hands on his chest looking down at him.

"Good. I need to introduce her to my girl so I can brag about all the incredible sex we've been having." Jack smirked. Y/n laughed at him.

"I do believe you mentioned something about letting me ride that face..." Y/n reminded and Jack wrapped his arms around her torso, sitting up so he could lay her down on the lawn chair.

"We can do that right here, right now." She continued to laugh as Jack gripped her sides but they were both startled by the sound of a voice.

"Hey! No fucking on the pool chairs! I use those!" Shanda stood tall with holding the hand of a shorter brunette next to her. Jack's face lit up as he looked over at his best friend.

"Hey fucker! What are you doing here?" Jack asked still laying on top of Y/n.

"Visiting my stupid bitch best friend and his hot girlfriend." Shanda dropped her bag and Jack let Y/n up. He made the introductions and Y/n seemed to hit it off with them right away. Jack felt elated. It wasn't a feeling he thinks he's ever felt before but in this moment, that's the only thing he could think to describe it.

[zeephyre]

CR3 EPISODE 98 SPOILERS

???????????? im not sure where to start or end.

lets just start with how incredibly beautiful the cast looked at the live show. and how much i enjoyed seeing both brennan and aabria present (we will get to brennan again in a second)

as far as the actual episode, i think this episode is both one of the best episodes and one of my favourite episodes. dominox's visions were brutal but it was really interesting seeing how the hells handled them. chetney and dorian seemed the most affected, and honestly chetney's was the most mindfuck-y, but the way that ashton and imogen just got to the root of the manipulation, trying to reach out to dominox.... *chefs kiss*

i loved the mystery of this episode... smth abt how creepy dominox is and bells hells going back and forth on what they should do with it/him/her. dominox manifesting as a little girl was so??? creepy but also the greatest shit ever, i found it so compelling and far scarier than the big scary demon form. something something the corruption of innocence something something

it is really fucked up to give ashton that fcg vision just after sam got back to the table... like that was just twisting the knife deeper and deeper.

we NEED to lock braius up or something, i thought fearne was the most horny poly pc with chetney but GOD he really locked tf in as soon as he took bells hells in. in all seriousness i cannot wait for more braius (in like....a fucking MONTH I CANT DO THIS ANYMORE). interested in whatever the fuck he's got going on with dorian, ashton and fearne... will need him to flirt with chetney cause we didnt get around to it.

speaking of fearne... teven saying they're bound together and expressing desire to have her join him in the hells... love toxic romance idc. also him saying he's bound to a lot of people and then fearne saying SHE IS TOO??? can y;all stop the ship wars now please how much more explicit can fearne get about being poly and not wanting or needing to CHOOSE. hell... ashton literally keeps flriting with other dudes, i.e: essek, and now braius. HERE'S HOW POLY HELLS CAN FINALLY BECOME REAL.

bells hells morality in question is always my favourite bit at the table becausse like... they're good people, i guess but really they care more about each other than other people. (and then theres orym who is just a little guy with trauma... he'll match our freak eventually)

LUDINUS APPEARANCE WAS SO INCREDIBLY INSANE LIKE HE WAS WAY TOO CASUAL ABOUT IT AND THAT WAS SO FUNNY TO ME. GOD. AM I IN LOVE WITH LUDA??? (a little yeah). tag teaming dominox with ludinus is literally the greatest shit ever i am so SO sorry keyleth i know we were supposed to kill him on sight or whatever (and they did attack him immediately) but i want to ask him my silly little questions.

i have never thought that ludinus was... wrong, idealogically, as the discourse can have us going in circles, i mostly just dont like people who murder hundreds for their own agendas. however comma i do love a motivated hot old man with religious trauma.

whatever the hell ludinus found... if it shifts bells hells' reality to the point they join him (unlikely but not totally impossible) i will lose my fucking mind. regardless i WANT ludinus to do what he said he said he wanted to do -- show exandria what the gods want BURIED.

brennan... brennan please reveal your secrets to me. please. pleas.e nwow. pleae brewnan. im begging,

anyway, is it thursday yet (AFTER TWO WEEKS GOD WTF)

[ao3commentoftheday]

This may be silly, but it'd be really cool if you could, like, make a list of common things ao3 users should tag! I have memory problems and tagging is legit a struggle bc of that.

When it comes to what you "should" tag, all that's required are the Ratings, Warnings, Fandoms, and language. Everything else is optional and will depend on your preferences as a writer and how much you care about people finding or avoiding that specific work.

Generally speaking, the things that I find important to tag are:

the character(s) who make a significant appearance in the fic. I judge significance by whether someone who loves that character would be satisfied with the amount of "screen time" that character gets in this specific fic

the ship(s) that make a significant appearance in the fic

plot points that make a significant appearance in the fic

genre or mood that will give readers and idea of the vibe of the fic

I feel like you might be asking specifically about those plot points, or additional tags in general. Honestly, there are so many out there and so many more that are possible that it would be incredibly difficult to create an actual list. (although if anyone has one, please do link it in the notes)

I personally find it easier to just think about what my story has in it and then type things into the tag field and see what autocompletes. I do the same thing when someone writes me an ask about how to tag their work. I look at the description they've provided and start typing key words and their synonyms into the additional tags field to see what pops up.

If you're worried that you might have missed something that someone might search for, you can also leave an author's note asking for suggestions of tags you might have missed. Remember that not all suggestions will be applicable, so take them with a grain of salt.

Specific fandoms can get really specific tags. Like, not everyone is going to need to use The Soulmate Goose of Enforcement, for example. If you see tags like that while you're reading, maybe start a note on your phone or open up a document and just start keeping track of them.

The common ones like Angst and Smut are easy enough to see while you're just bopping around on the Archive, but if you want to get an idea of other tropes and things, then I recommend Fanlore - specifically this page, to start.

[pokemon-ash-aus]

I'm more curious on what reverse betrayal AU is, i couldn't really find anything in the tags sorry

Damn i SWEAR i wrote it down already. I guess Tumblr's tags are extra extra broken.

OKAY 👏

So everyone knows the canonical fanfiction trope of Betrayal AU's yes? Where the Main character of any fandom (in this case Ash) gets abandoned and spit on by their friends and partners except for the brief few that usually end up being the love interest?

In this case it's

Ash's friends leave him, ash's pokemon leave him except for the strong ones (pikachu is usually leaving him behind but i call bull so whatevs), Ash gets new pokemon, stronger and so much better (also legendaries, whoda thunk), he gets a love interest or a harem (cause why not) and then gets WICKED OP to the point its a bit unbelievable. Theb the betrayers come back and Ash wipes the floor with them while mocking them the whole time.

Its a well known trope, one that i used to adore myself, but i found it lacking after a hot min. The characters were always OOC, and the progression of events started to lean on terrible for me. No hate to the trope, i wrote one nyself once upon a time (unfinished), but it's nit in my wheelhouse anymore.

And so i made the Reverse Betrayal AU, mostly as a kick but really it started on the same premise but executed differently.

Ash's friends gather round, in this case, it had only gone up to alola so im sticking by that. My reasoning was that the little field trip down in Kanto was an excellent opportunity to get the rest of Ash's friends down there as a surprise!

Now, i want to point out the crucial information that Ash acts differently with each friend group. Not intentionally being deceitful, but more of, trying to fit into the type of person they need. For Misty that was a Brat, for May that was a Mentor, for Dawn a Sibling, for Iris an idiot, for Serena a hero. Etc etc.

Alola was the place where Ash *couldnt* do that so he finds himself in a mix of Mentor/friend/sibling role.

But when they all are there, Ash has a hard time trying to figure out what he should be and what he should stray into. And that leans into him being a Brat because Misty is a VERY loud personality in a way no one else was.

And boy do they grate on each other's nerves.

Misty is teasing him playfully, but Ash is biting back HARD. Not because he wants too, but the stress of the situation makes it hard for him to fight back just as playful. Especially with Iris there since her words used to cut before, but now he's painting Misty with the same brush but twice as deep.

And Misty doesnt appreciate this right, so this playfight on her end turns into actual fighting, words of anger and resentment speaking out on both sides.

"I WISH I NEVER MET YOU." Get's thrown out and the entire field goes quiet.

"Ditto." Ash growls.

And they turn away from each other.

And Brock is already trying to placate, he's seen this before a million times but then...

Everyone else jumps in.

Accusations are thrown, some side with Misty some side with Ash. None of these people are friends with each other, they all are connected through Ash.

And so Brock cuts them all off, cause the two were BOTH being uncalled for. And when he turns to Ash to ask what he was thinking.

The kid is outright gone.

No words no nothing and that leaves a deep deep dread in Brock's stomach.

"Oh he left, just like a little kid." Iris sighs, shaking her head as the others glare at her.

"No," Brock's voice trembles and that stops everyone else from really saying anything. "Ash can be rude and angry and wrong all he wants but he doesnt ever leave a conversation mod way- hell he doesnt even run away from a confrontation- this- this isnt right."

And while they look for him it starts ti become more and more clear that... None of these people are /friends/. They know Ash and Ash only.

And that starts *arguments*, screams of whose right and whose wrong and why Ash doesnt need to have a friend like *you.*

Its the take of, instead of Ashbeing abandoned by his friends. Its instead Ash 'abandoning' his friends instead. But its not really true, cause Ash wabts to be with his friends he's just...

Very mad right now.

Whoo i went on a tangent. I have more- somewhere- so ill need to look for it.

[scarlet97531]

⭕️❗️- just like I do not respect JK Rowling and other terf’s wishes for safe spaces away from trans people, I do not respect anti endo’s wishes for a safe space away from pro endos. Hatred for a minority is not a valid identity and does not deserve to exist unchallenged. I will not let you have tags all to yourself to turn into an echo chamber of hate, because honestly that is not healthy for anyone. It is not healthy for you to base an entire social space around hating a minority group. Find social spaces about things you like instead, and if you really have to just block people you disagree with.

And I feel like I need to point something out, the main motivation for anti endo views seems to be just that endos make you uncomfortable. That is never a valid reasoning for being anti any group of people. That is reactionary behaviour, and it is the exact same thing that leads to racism, transphobia, homophobia, transmedicalism and terf ideology. Your motivation for advocating for a group of people to not exist should never be because of how they make you feel, you need to *prove* they are doing real harm to real people to a degree that actually affects people’s lives and is provably and intentionally their fault. And y’all have NOT done that.

“They’re spreading misinformation about a real serious condition!” That’s what trans meds say about trans ppl without dysphoria. “Their identity is scientifically impossible!” Literally indistinguishable from every kind of transphobia ever. “One time an endogenic system was mean to me/ did something stupid or bad!” You cannot. Judge a whole group. Based on INDIVIDUAL behaviour. Especially when there are tons of anti endogenic systems who’s behaviour is just as bad or worse.

I’m very happy to explain to y’all why I believe what I believe, but I’m not gonna be friendly about it unless you are. I want you to understand why I believe what I believe even if it isn’t enough to change your views, maybe if you at least bothered to understand what we’re saying and why we’re saying it you could at least have a little more empathy.

Honestly I do see how someone can get wrapped up into anti endo thinking, it is extremely prevalent in most online spaces and often sites “scientific fact” as justification, despite most information about how systems form being very understudied and unproven. And I know traumatized people have to be careful about who they trust, and who they believe, because they’ve been hurt before. But that does not justify such horrible behaviour. The feeling is valid, your actions are not. Please try to figure out exactly where the feelings are coming from, and think about if your behaviour is a good reaction to that.

For any endogenic systems reading this, I’d also love to hear from you! We’re a DID system so our perspective on this is limited, I’d love to know more about your experiences and your beliefs.

[sniper-tf2-teeth]

Gotta confess something, the person who accused your and the dear heavy tf2 tummy person of fetish farming made that post because I spoke in a space we share about how excited I was to have received your ask, and they really didn’t want me to draw it, I have anyways because I enjoy it and I know it’s practically a trend at this point, and also because I’m an independent person capable of making my own choices. So I just really wanted to say I’m sorry if that alls been causing you trouble still. Especially since that trouble is partially, and unintentionally my fault. Hope that all makes sense. I’m incredibly sorry. I loved getting your prompt :) I can only await the day I get my heavy tf2 tummy one as well

You're not responsible for that person's actions; if you werent going to tip them off, something else would have (assuming the series of events did go down how you said it did). It was only a matter of time before someone called the trend problematic anyway.

Plus it was funny to get accused of fetishfarming and harassing artists just to see all the reblogs be along the lines of"yeah that would be really bad IF IT WERE to happen" and "oh i should look out for that" and "woah is that really happening?", because that post was moreso making up a problem to get upset over and most people instinctively recognized that that wasnt happening at all. There was also a vaguepost about it that got some traction, which I admired.

Fetishfarming would be more like asking for a closeup of Sniper at the dentist, or requests for Medic preparing Heavy for surgery (implying Heavy would be shirtless). All the asks in that trend were literally based on being extremely forward and direct with what the asker wanted, the opposite of fetishfarming or artist exploitation.

Requesting art isnt harassment-- it becomes harassment if the artist has asked you to stop or has otherwise indicated that they wont partake in the trend or wont take requests and you still choose to send the request. I heard through the grapevine that some people think art requests were entitled and exploitative, which were also the arguments used for that fetishfarming post and MAYBE a much earlier and long-forgotten post about the heavy tf2 tummy anon (dont quote me, though), which is just plain wrong. Requesting art in any way isnt entitled either (unless, like said before, the artist has indicated they do not do requests). Thats what having a public art account is like. People will interact with you and get excited when you draw stuff they like, so you set boundariies. If you don't, thats on you.

The only fair point that person really had was tagging the posts, which I couldnt really do until now. Ill add that caveat to my pinned, but Im not sure how much good itll do now

Glad you liked the prompt, anon! Thank you for sending this ask, it was a good oppurtunity to address that post. I hope you get the heavy tf2 tummy ask soon <3

[raayllum]

me rolling in with a "the thing that's giving Aaravos' prison the opal translucent esque walls and light is a flower of elarion"

Lasair left beautiful blooms called Flowers of Elarion, rare and precious blossoms that grow with soft light and have a scent that can soothe the most ragged spirit.

+ Bonus Aaravos' prison walls being very leafy in design whereas even Moonshadow architecture at the Silvergrove is not like that