#the rough equivalent of this would be you breaking up with your SO

[shiraishi-kanade]

Guys. Guys I think in our search for a dad figure in media we all forgot that Ken has like. Never been that great to begin with.

Like he's not evil he's not a bad father nor he is a bad person and he definitely does have good intentions. However if you don't think letting a distressed teen vent to you in despair while you secretly put him on a phone with his partner who you know he has mixed feelings about & just broke up with when you're in a position of trust isn't even a little bit shitty and sus think again.

[solxamber]

Sync or Sink || Vil Schoenheit

You, an overworked S-Class esper with the survival instincts of a damp sock, catch the eye of SSS-Class guide Vil Schoenheit. He decides you’re his personal fixer-upper project. Shockingly, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

or: Guideverse AU!

Series Masterlist

The world was already hanging on by a thread — economic collapse, melting ice caps, influencers starting cults via TikTok. It was a mess. You’d think that would be enough. You’d hope that would be enough. But no. Some ancient cosmic being — probably named something dramatic like Thar’zul the Chronovore — looked down at Earth and said, “You know what this needs? Fun.”

And by fun, it meant Gates.

Gates are like if cursed portals, radioactive sinkholes, and a haunted Etsy store had a baby. They pop up anywhere and everywhere: in libraries, parking garages, yoga studios, even in the middle of someone’s wedding ceremony. (“Do you take this—OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT?!”)

These glowing tears in the fabric of reality are basically open invitations to every monster, demon, and unholy abomination in the neighborhood. And if left unchecked, they break, releasing those nightmares into your already-taxed existence like a hellish game of whack-a-mole.

But don't worry! Humanity, against all odds, did not die out immediately.

Because the universe, in its infinite chaos, also gave rise to Espers. Special little guys. Think emotional time bombs with telekinetic temper tantrums and the ability to level buildings if they stub their toe too hard. Espers are the only ones who can suppress Gates and fight back the monsters. They're strong, fast, powerful—and also dangerously dramatic.

Like, “cries during dog food commercials” dramatic. “Blew up a vending machine because it ate their dollar” dramatic. If they don’t have someone helping them regulate their powers (and by extension, their feelings), they’re a walking nuclear disaster waiting to happen.

Which brings us to Guides.

Guides are born with the power to soothe, ground, and stabilize Espers before they turn into emotional IEDs. They go through rigorous training. They meditate. They are the human equivalent of “have you tried deep breathing?”—except instead of calming down toddlers, they’re keeping an Esper from melting the freeway with their grief-powered fireballs.

This entire survival system hinges on compatibility between Espers and Guides. Sounds romantic, right? It’s not. It’s mostly screaming, paperwork, and sometimes unspoken sexual tension.

So, to recap:

Gates = Bad.

Espers = Powerful but emotionally unstable.

Guides = The only thing standing between civilization and utter monster-induced ruin.

Together, Espers and Guides form the first — and only — line of defense between humanity and total monster-induced annihilation.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, this system hinges entirely on two people getting along.

Which, as anyone who's ever been in a group project can tell you, is a complete joke.

The Gate had been rough. You were bleeding, caked in monster goop, and running on exactly one granola bar, four energy drinks, and pure spite. Monsters just kept coming—one after another like it was a clearance sale on eldritch horror—and now your knees were shaking, your head was pounding, and you were 99% sure you were hallucinating the talking goat that told you to “go into the light.”

You stumbled out of the Gate zone, vision blurry. There were Guides waiting beyond the perimeter, crisp in their uniforms, radiant with that “I got 8 hours of sleep and drink water” glow. Unfortunately, most of them had already been snagged by the other Espers, who were quicker, cleaner, and not currently dripping ectoplasm from their sleeve.

You blinked. The only one left was… well, no. That couldn’t be right.

Standing a few feet away, untouched and oddly pristine, was a man who looked like he’d walked straight out of a high-end fashion magazine shoot titled "War-Torn But Make It Couture."

Tall, composed, and stunning in a way that made your brain short-circuit, he was clearly someone Important™. The other S-Ranks had actively avoided him, which should’ve been a clue. But your frontal lobe was melting. You didn’t have the bandwidth to care.

You wobbled forward like a dying Roomba, grabbed a handful of his sleek uniform, and mumbled, “Guide. That’s you, right?”

And then you slumped forward and face-planted directly onto his collarbone.

There was a pause.

“…Do you have any idea who I am?” he asked, incredulously.

You groaned. “Yeah. You’re a Guide. You’ve got the badge.”

Another pause. Longer, this time.

He sounded… offended. And faintly intrigued.

“…You don’t recognize me?”

“Should I?” you mumbled into his neck.

You didn’t see the expression on his face, but if your ears weren’t lying, he audibly gasped. Like someone had just told him dry shampoo was canceled. Like the very idea of not being recognized was a personal attack.

But instead of pushing you off, he slowly brought a hand up, fingers grazing your temple. You felt a wave of warmth radiate through your skull like a breath of fresh air had crawled into your ribcage.

It was… good. Too good.

A jolt of relief punched through your nervous system. Your heart rate settled. The Gate static stopped screaming in your ears. Your whole body sagged, weightless and calm, and you barely had time to mutter “holy shit you’re good at this” before your knees gave out completely.

You passed out in his arms.

And Vil Schoenheit—SSS-Rank Guide, national treasure, and walking perfection—stood there holding your limp, grime-covered, unconscious form with a complicated look on his face.

You came back to consciousness the way a phone boots up after being thrown into a wall. Slow, glitchy, and confused.

Something was warm under you. Something was very firm. You blinked a few times, trying to make sense of the strange sensation of not being in pain anymore. The Gate headache was gone. Your soul no longer felt like it had been sandpapered. You were, inexplicably, comfortable.

That’s when you realized: you were still wrapped around the fancy Guide like a human backpack.

Face: mashed against his shoulder. Legs: around his waist. Arms: locked in a desperate hug like a koala going through a rough breakup. And he… was just sitting there. On a recovery bench. Completely calm. Holding you like this was something that happened to him all the time.

“Oh,” you mumbled, sleep-dazed. “My bad.”

He tilted his head, glossy hair catching the light like it had a sponsorship deal with a shampoo brand. “Are you done?” he asked, voice sharp. “Or shall I assume you’ve permanently relocated to my clavicle?”

You peeled yourself off him with all the grace of wet laundry sliding off a countertop. “Thanks for, uh, not letting me die,” you offered, scratching your head.

He stared at you for a long moment. “Do you know who I am?”

You blinked. “…A Guide?”

He inhaled. Visibly. Offended on a spiritual level. The look on his face could’ve soured milk. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Are you actively trying to offend me?”

“What? You’ve got the badge! That’s all I need, right?”

Vil Schoenheit—as he introduced himself—flicked you on the forehead. It was somehow both dismissive and full of judgment. “Recover. Properly.” he snapped, standing in one fluid, graceful motion. “You’re lucky I’m magnanimous.”

He swept out of the room like a disgruntled ballerina.

You blinked after him, rubbing your forehead. “What the hell was that about?”

A nurse walked in and immediately gasped like she'd just witnessed a royal birth. “Oh my Seven—was that Vil?!”

“Vil… who?” you asked, trying not to sound like an idiot.

She turned to you so fast her clipboard flew off the counter. “Vil Schoenheit. SSS Guide. He’s a legend. Do you have any idea how many Espers have tried to bond with him and been turned away in tears?”

You stared at the door where he’d just vanished. “No? He just kinda… guided me.”

The nurse screeched. “YOU JUST KINDA GOT GUIDED—are you INSANE? That man once made a Grade-SS Esper cry because they wore Crocs to an informal debriefing!”

You slowly sat back against the pillow, eyes wide.

“…I told him ‘oops sorry lol.’”

You were still internally combusting about the whole “Oops sorry lol” situation when you finally worked up the nerve to go to Vil’s office. Not to bond—you weren’t delusional—but at the very least, to apologize. Maybe offer him a thank-you fruit basket. Or one of those luxury hair masks. Something.

Espers were better paid than Guides. That wasn’t a flex—it was just how the system worked. You’d always thought it was kind of unfair, but now, standing outside his office, you suddenly felt even worse. Because if Vil was being underpaid to deal with Espers, plural, like you? He deserved hazard pay.

You raised a shaky fist and knocked on the door before pushing it open.

The door opened, and you were hit with the distinct scent of wealth, vintage cologne, and spiritual intimidation. The office looked like it belonged in a magazine titled Power & Passive Aggression: Interiors for the Elite. It had velvet chairs. A chandelier. And on the floor, sobbing, was an SS-ranked Esper.

“Please,” she was whispering, clutching Vil’s coat like he was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. “Please, just once. I know I’m not SSS, but my compatibility score is so close—”

“I don’t guide based on some arbitrary number,” Vil said coolly, extracting himself with the same disdain you'd use to avoid stepping in gum. “I guide based on worth.”

You were already edging away when his eyes snapped up—and softened.

“…What are you doing here?” he asked, voice shifting so drastically in tone it gave you whiplash.

“I—uh. I just wanted to apologize. For, you know. The slumping. And the drool. And the calling you ‘a Guide’ like you’re not the Guide.” You laughed nervously. “Also. Uh. I can repay you?”

He stared at you like you’d offered to give him pocket lint.

Then, without even glancing at the SS Esper still on the floor, he waved a perfectly manicured hand and said, “Leave.”

She looked up, stunned. “W-what?”

“I said leave.” His voice sharpened like glass under velvet. “Now.”

You watched her scramble out in silence. Then Vil turned to you, posture relaxing like you were an entirely different species of Esper.

“Sit,” he said, pointing to the velvet chair.

You obeyed. Of course you did. Your legs moved like they belonged to someone else.

“I didn’t come here to be guided,” you said quickly. “I just thought I’d offer some compensation since you took care of me back at the Gate, and—”

“Hush.”

You blinked.

“I didn’t guide you for compensation,” Vil said, moving closer, “and I certainly don’t require repayment.”

“But I—”

“Do not interrupt me,” he said smoothly, placing his hand just under your jaw and tilting your head with two fingers. “Close your eyes.”

You did.

And just like before, the storm in your chest went still.

He hadn’t even made full contact yet, and already your frayed nerves calmed, your aching muscles relaxed, and that hollow echo left by the Gate quieted.

You opened your mouth to speak again—because, honestly, who wouldn’t panic under that much raw focus—but his voice cut in before a single syllable escaped:

“Did I say you could talk?”

You shut your mouth.

Vil smiled. Like he’d just won something important, and wasn’t ready to tell anyone yet.

“Good. You learn quickly.”

You staggered out of the Gate like a soldier crawling back from the front lines of a war no one believed in. Your clothes were singed, your limbs were shaking, your skin was buzzing with leftover energy that had nowhere to go, and your brain was running the Windows 95 shutdown noise on loop. You had fought monsters for the past hour with all the grace of a dying blender.

Everything hurt. Your body felt like it had been used as a battering ram. Your soul felt like it had been microwaved.

So when you saw the sweet, merciful glow of a Guide badge ahead in the crowd, your instincts took over. You staggered forward like a half-dead Roomba on its last cycle, locked onto the nearest beacon of safety.

The Guide in question had orange hair and the smug look of someone who thought they were God’s gift to humanity despite the fact they were clearly holding a vape pen and a clipboard.

You didn’t care.

You lurched toward him, arms outstretched like a cryptid emerging from the woods.

“BRO NO,” he yelped. “DUDE, I’M NOT CERTIFIED FOR THIS LEVEL OF TRAUMA—DON’T PUKE ON ME—”

But before your forehead could connect with his very punchable shoulder, a blur of movement swept in.

You were yanked back by the collar like an untrained dog trying to bolt into traffic.

“Absolutely not,” a cool, smooth voice said with the unmistakable tone of expensive disdain. “You are not grounding with him.”

You turned sluggishly to your new captor and immediately forgot how to breathe.

Vil. Hair perfect despite the apocalyptic weather conditions of a gate zone. Wearing a coat that probably cost more than your entire existence and looking at you like you were a particularly unfortunate stain on said coat.

You blinked at him. “Am I in trouble?” you mumbled.

Vil arched a brow. “You’re seconds away from slumping onto a Guide who once tried to ground an Esper by playing lo-fi beats through his AirPods. Yes, you’re in trouble.”

You were too tired to be offended.

He sighed, took your hand, and suddenly, bliss.

Like every nerve in your body was dunked in lavender oil and told to shut up. Your breathing evened out. Your vision cleared. Your bones climbed back into their sockets like, “Our bad, we’ll behave now.”

You let him guide you to a nearby bench, too dazed to do anything but follow the magical angel who had just saved you from the worst decision of your life.

Vil sat gracefully. You slumped next to him like a dying cactus in a thunderstorm.

“Post-gate recovery is non-negotiable,” he said, like he hadn’t just watched you nearly expire in public.

You closed your eyes and focused on the cool, steady rhythm of his guidance, and then—

A crinkle.

You opened one eye to see him pull a juice box from his bag. With a bendy straw.

He inserted the straw and handed it to you like you were a toddler who’d just had a very bad day at daycare.

You stared at the juice. Then at him. “Is this for me?”

“No,” he said dryly. “It’s for the other S-class Esper currently drooling on my coat.”

You blinked, deeply touched. You took a sip.

It was… heavenly.

You made a soft noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh.

And then—your eyes stung.

“No,” Vil said immediately, without looking at you. “Whatever emotional reaction you’re about to have—don’t.”

You sniffled. “But you brought me juice. Nobody’s brought me juice since I got classified. Everyone just shoves me into Gates and tells me not to die.”

He flicked your forehead. “If you die, I have to find another Esper whose personality doesn’t give me hives. That sounds exhausting.”

“Are you… saying you like me?”

“I’m saying your emotional resilience is marginally less pathetic than average,” he said, adjusting your posture so your head leaned more comfortably on his shoulder. “And I don’t hate your voice.”

You sipped your juice box, trembling like a Victorian child given a warm meal for the first time.

No one had treated you like this since you joined the system. You’d been weaponized, categorized, and told to sit still and kill things on command. You were a tool. A number. A sharp object.

But Vil wasn’t afraid of your sharp edges. He looked you in the eye and said, “That’s a guide badge you’re drooling on, potato. Not a chew toy.”

And then gave you juice.

You sniffled again.

“If you sob, I will end you,” he muttered, but his hand never let go of yours.

And you knew, deep in your wrecked little Esper heart, that you would fight a thousand more gates just to be guided by him again.

Even if he bullied you the entire time.

So apparently, post-gate recovery hadn’t just been juice boxes and emotionally confusing hand-holding.

No. It turned out you had to take something called a Routine Compatibility Check for “guidance efficiency optimization.”

You hadn’t known what any of that meant, but someone had shoved a clipboard at you and told you to “go sit in the glow room and don’t touch anything,” so there you were. Sitting in a sterile white room that smelled like hand sanitizer and despair. Waiting to meet your newly assigned “guidance match.”

A door creaked open.

You turned around—and in walked a guy who looked like he hadn’t seen direct sunlight since the invention of the lightbulb. His shoulders were hunched, hoodie too big, blue glowing hair all mussed like he’d lost a fight with a hairdryer. He had eyebags for days and the posture of a raccoon caught mid-fridge-raid.

He looked at you.

You looked at him.

He looked at you harder—and visibly recoiled like you’d just bit him.

“…Uhhh,” he said, voice high and trembling. “You’re the S-class?”

“Yup,” you replied.

“Oh no.”

This man looked like he was seconds from writing “HELP” on the window with a dry erase marker. His hand was already twitching toward the panic button. He was mentally Googling “what to do when assigned a battle demon.”

You opened your mouth to say something reassuring—like, “Hey, I only explode on some guides,” or “I’ve never actually flattened a building during a meltdown”—

—but the door slammed open behind you.

“Absolutely not.”

You turned around.

Vil Schoenheit stood in the doorway like the wrath of God dressed in Gucci. Impeccable coat. Sunglasses indoors. Holding a coffee cup that you knew wasn’t from the office vending machine.

He eyed the situation—your tentative shuffle toward your new guide, the way the poor guy was gripping his ID badge like a rosary—and his lip curled like someone had just handed him expired tofu.

“I’m taking them,” Vil said flatly to the Guidance Office rep standing nearby. “This is non-negotiable.”

The rep blinked. “But, Mr. Schoenheit, the match—”

“—was laughable. They’re mine.”

Your poor assigned guide looked so relieved it was almost insulting.

“Thank the stars,” he mumbled, already gathering his things like you were a bomb that’d just been safely disarmed. “No offense, but I really don’t do well with… uh… physical contact or eye contact or conflict or—”

You were too stunned to reply as Vil grabbed you by the wrist, effortlessly pivoted on his heel, and strode out of the room with you in tow like a high fashion tornado.

You stumbled after him. “Okay, hi, hello? What was that?”

“I saw your assignment,” Vil said coolly. “I couldn’t, in good conscience, let that continue.”

“But—I thought you weren’t accepting new matches?”

“I’m not.”

You blinked. “So…?”

He glanced over his shoulder at you, slow and deliberate, like you weren’t quite connecting the dots fast enough.

“I didn’t consider you ‘new'.”

You shut your mouth because your brain was full of static. Something about the way he said that made your knees consider filing for divorce from the rest of your body.

He guided you all the way to the elevator, in silence, while you tried to process what had just happened.

You, apparently, had been claimed.

And worst of all?

You thought you might have liked it.

It all started with a noble quest. A simple dream.

You just wanted a hoodie.

Not a fancy one. Not a designer one. Not a limited edition “inspired by the blood of fashion victims” collection. No, no. You wanted one of those oversized, marshmallow-soft hoodies that whispered “lay down and give up, my liege” every time you put it on. The kind of hoodie that could absorb emotional damage.

So there you were. Financially stable (thanks, murder gates), emotionally unstable (thanks, murder gates), and elbows-deep in a display bin labeled “3 for 2: Emotional Support Wear”, when fate struck.

Or rather, sashayed past in four-inch heels and an aura of contempt.

Vil.

You froze. He looked like he’d just walked out of a fashion spread. Every strand of hair in place. Jacket tailored within an inch of its life. Cheekbones that could slice open a space-time rift. And where was he going?

Straight into a boutique so fancy it looked like it would ask you for a résumé just to step inside.

Naturally, you turned the other way. This was not your world. You were not dressed for it. You were wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt with a questionable graphic of a goose wielding a knife. You were simply a humble raccoon-person in search of softness.

But then—

“You.”

Oh no. Oh god. Oh no god.

You turned around slowly, hoodie clutched to your chest like a shield. Vil stood there with shopping bags and the expression of someone who’d just discovered a stray in his favorite restaurant.

“Come. I need hands.”

“Sorry,” you said. “I left mine at home. Can’t help you.”

He blinked. Then, with all the confidence of someone who didn’t hear nonsense, he handed you his bags and turned around, fully expecting you to follow.

And you did. Because unfortunately, curiosity was stronger than shame.

The next hour? Was… actually kind of amazing.

Vil didn’t shop. He conquered. He moved through stores like a well-dressed storm, flinging judgment at poor fabric choices and muttering dark things about asymmetrical hemlines. Store staff parted for him like he was royalty. Other customers wilted under the weight of his gaze.

You, meanwhile, trailed after him like a high-end goblin, carrying his many, many bags, dressed like a sleep-deprived college student who had just lost a fight with a laundry machine.

It was great.

You watched him try on outfits with the kind of reverence usually reserved for museum pieces. He was graceful. Efficient. Disgustingly photogenic. You felt like you were witnessing a documentary: “The Endangered Fashion Icon in His Natural Habitat.”

And then, miraculously, he let you live.

He suggested a coffee break and even let you pay—probably out of pity. You made a mental note to deduct it as a business expense under “accidental deity encounter.”

Sitting across from him, sipping overpriced lattes, you made a joke. Something dumb. Something about a pair of jeans you'd seen that looked like they'd been personally attacked by a cheese grater.

Vil laughed.

You were not prepared.

It was real. Warm. Shockingly cute. Like, “I’ve been guiding murder monsters all week and now suddenly I believe in joy again” kind of cute.

You stared. He looked at you. You looked away, sipping your drink very intently, trying not to say “please laugh again, it heals my soul.”

You didn't say it out loud.

But you thought it really hard.

You walked into Vil's office like a responsible little murder gremlin, fully prepared for your weekly check-up guidance session.

What you were not prepared for was the sheer atmospheric rage brewing inside.

Vil was pacing like a cat who'd just realized its favorite toy was in the hands of a toddler—absolutely done with life. He was muttering to himself under his breath, phrases like, “Espers with zero gratitude... how dare they ask for guidance without a thank-you,” and, “I swear if one more person thinks my time is free like it's some kind of community resource—

He saw you, exhaled the deepest sigh known to man, and pointed at the couch like he was casting a curse. Not a word of greeting. Just The Finger of Sit.

So you sat. For about three seconds.

Then, something in your little gremlin heart said: No. He is cranky. He is suffering. This is a job for Emotional Support Esper.

You got up, walked behind him, and—without a word—started massaging his shoulders.

Vil tensed like a cat about to fight god. Then slowly—slowly—melted into it.

“This isn’t part of your session,” he grumbled, but it lacked bite. His head tilted forward, giving you better access. “You’re not guiding me, you know.”

“I’m aware,” you said, digging your thumbs in just right. “You’re welcome.”

He didn’t reply. Just… breathed. It was weirdly serene. You, massaging one of the most powerful and terrifying guides in the country. Him, finally looking like he wasn’t five seconds away from incinerating someone with nothing but his glare.

Eventually, you sat back down on the couch. And then—shock of all shocks—Vil slumped down next to you.

No dramatic speech. No biting commentary. Just one very exhausted, very overworked guide leaning on your shoulder like gravity had personally betrayed him.

“…Don’t say a word about this,” he murmured, eyes already closed. He reached for your hand, like it was the most normal thing in the world, and held it tight.

You stayed there for a long time.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak.

You just sat with him in silence, wondering how the hell you’d gone from emotional demolition expert to comfort pillow. And, weirdly, feeling kind of honored.

You weren’t sure how you got home, but judging by the trail of blood, sludge, and crushed energy drink cans leading up the stairs, you had clearly made the journey using sheer spite and possibly a small miracle. Your legs moved on autopilot, powered by rage, trauma, and about four remaining brain cells—none of which were cooperating.

You’d just come back from a gate that had gone so poorly, it might as well have been cursed by the gods, the devs, and your second-grade math teacher. Breach. Casualties. Screaming.

There was definitely a moment where you almost flung a monster into a building and then screamed louder when you realized it was the emergency response building. Whoops.

It wasn’t even your assigned gate. It was a last-minute scramble. You and a handful of other S-rank espers were yanked in because the gate was behaving badly. Like, “snarling, vomiting monsters that defied physics” badly. And you—foolish, heroic, caffeine-soaked gremlin that you were—ran in first like someone had dared you.

You fought. You fought so hard you forgot your own name for about two hours. And still, people died. People always died. But this time, it felt like too many. You saw a little kid’s shoe and had a breakdown mid-punch. You tried to do everything, and your body just… stopped cooperating.

You didn’t even get guided afterward.

Vil wasn't at this gate. The other guides were all assigned or recovering themselves. Some were crying. A few had fainted from strain.

And you? You looked around, felt your knees give out a little, then just muttered “okay cool” and left like a ghost clocking out after a double shift at a haunted Wendy’s.

By the time you reached your apartment, you were so dissociated you forgot how doors worked. You stood outside yours for a full minute before realizing the knob turned left. You walked in, left your boots and weapon where they fell, and didn’t even consider locking the door behind you.

Let fate come. Let a gate burst into your living room. Let some criminal wander in and steal your furniture. That was Future You’s problem. Current You was Busy.

You peeled yourself out of your battle gear like a sad, oversized fruit roll-up, leaving it in a heap that would absolutely start growing mold by tomorrow. You wandered to the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared inside for three solid minutes, and then closed it again. There was nothing in there but expired yogurt, an empty ketchup bottle, and the overwhelming sense of despair. Just like your soul.

Your eyes landed on the couch. You made eye contact. It made eye contact back.

You didn’t go to your bed. The bed had too much hope. The couch? The couch knew. The couch had seen things. It was your emotional support furniture, and it beckoned you with lumpy cushions and the faint scent of Febreze and failure.

You collapsed into it with the grace of a dying walrus, grabbed the nearest throw blanket like a life raft, and curled up.

Your muscles throbbed. Your eyes were dry, too tired to cry. Your heart was heavy and hollow, a contradiction wrapped in fatigue.

You didn’t call the Guidance Office.

You didn’t reach for your communicator.

You didn’t even consider getting guided.

Because why would you?

You hadn’t earned it.

Guidance was for espers who did good. Who came back whole. Who saved people and feel okay about it.

You didn’t want anyone to see you like this. Least of all Vil—the most terrifyingly elegant guide in existence, whose soothing voice could calm a charging bull but whose judgmental stare could reduce you to ash on the spot. You could already imagine it:

“Potato, why didn’t you call?” And you’d go, “Because I sucked. And also I was busy eating my weight in sadness on my couch.”

So no. No guidance. No messages. No crying. Just you, your depression blanket, and your ever-growing collection of trauma under a mountain of emotional avoidance.

You passed out like that, too. Face-down, limbs sprawled, snoring gently, still wearing one sock and gripping the couch cushion like it owed you rent.

And in the hallway, your door remained unlocked.

Because honestly?

Let the monsters come.

You’d either sleep through it or invite them in for leftover yogurt and mutual despair.

You woke up feeling like a truck had hit you, reversed, parked on your spine, and left its high beams on just to be petty. Every bone in your body creaked like an abandoned haunted house. Your mouth tasted like regret and half a protein bar. Your blanket was half off the couch, half on the floor, and a mysterious corn chip was stuck to your elbow.

You blinked at the ceiling in confusion. Then your phone screamed.

100 missed calls.

37 texts.

All from: Vil Schoenheit.

Each message angrier than the last.

The final one simply said: “Pick. Up. Now.”

You did.

The moment the line connected, there was a beat of silence—then his voice, sharp and low like the edge of a knife:

“Address. Now.”

You mumbled something barely coherent, possibly your zip code, possibly the ingredients of a burrito. Either way, you texted him your location, dropped the phone on your chest, and passed out again like a Sims character who ignored every need bar until they collapsed.

The next time you woke up, it was to someone violently shaking you like they were trying to exorcise a demon.

“The door was wide open. Wide. Open. Are you out of your mind?! What if someone broke in?! What if something followed you?! What if—”

You cracked one eye open. Vil was kneeling beside your couch in full luxury casuals, flawless hair tied back in a silk ribbon, eyes blazing with a fury usually reserved for war crimes or off-season fashion.

“Why didn’t you call me?!” he snapped, voice wobbling between fury and panic.

You sat up slowly. Your limbs felt like wet noodles. You looked at him—actually looked at him—and saw the edges of worry in his perfect posture. You didn’t think. You just leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him, clinging to his surprisingly warm, cologne-scented form like a soggy baby koala.

He froze.

Then he hugged you back, one arm sliding firmly around your waist, the other hand smoothing over your hair with a tenderness that made your throat tighten.

“You didn’t respond,” he murmured, voice much softer now, like he’d deflated the moment you touched him. “I was at a gate, and you—you should’ve called me. You idiot.”

“I didn’t deserve it,” you croaked, still clinging. “I couldn’t save everyone. I didn’t earn it. I didn’t—”

THWACK.

He flicked you so hard on the forehead you saw colors. You yelped and recoiled, holding your skull like he’d smacked you with a frying pan.

“OW—what the hell, Vil?!”

“Use your brain,” he snapped. “You don’t have to earn guidance. You lived. You fought. You made it back. That’s enough.”

You stared at him, stunned and blinking. Your brain, which had been curled in a ball screaming failure failure failure, screeched to a halt. It didn’t know what to do with this information. It flailed.

“...but—”

“No.” He pressed two fingers to your temple. “Quiet.”

And just like that, warmth bloomed across your skin. Calm, grounding, steady. His presence wrapped around your rattled mind like a weighted blanket.

You hadn’t realized how loud your thoughts had been until everything went quiet.

You slumped forward again, forehead on his shoulder.

“…thank you,” you whispered.

He made a soft, exasperated noise and squeezed your hand.

“Next time,” he muttered, “if you don’t call me, I will drag you to a spa against your will and lock you in a bathhouse for six hours.”

Honestly?

That sounded kind of nice.

You nodded into his shoulder and let the warmth pull you under again.

It wasn’t a thunderbolt moment. There was no dramatic gasp, no heart-skipping beat, no rom-com soundtrack swelling in the background.

No. It happened while Vil was in the middle of passionately criticizing your instant ramen consumption.

“You don’t even check the sodium levels, do you? Of course not. Why would you? That would require basic self-preservation instincts, which you clearly lack,—are you even listening to me?”

You were, actually. Kind of. Mostly you were just watching the way his eyes flashed when he got worked up, how his voice lilted, how his hair caught the light like he had a personal filter on at all times. His hands moved a lot when he was mad—elegant, precise little gestures like he was conducting an orchestra of outrage.

And somewhere in the middle of him saying something about how your body was “not a landfill for factory-processed poison,” you thought:

Wow. He’s perfect.

There was a pause.

A silence that felt loud in your own brain.

Not because he noticed—no, he was still going. But you did. You noticed. And you felt your entire emotional infrastructure collapse like a badly built IKEA table.

You sat there, nodding along, eyes wide and empty like a man realizing he’d dropped his phone into lava. Because you knew exactly what this meant.

You were so, so screwed.

You didn’t even try to deny it. You were too tired for that. Too experienced in emotional disasters to think, “maybe it’s just a crush!”

Nah. You liked him. For real. In the "I’d wear sunscreen just to impress him" kind of way. In the "he could tell me I look homeless and I’d say thank you" kind of way.

So, you just accepted your fate.

You nodded solemnly while Vil insulted your meal plan and thought:

Well. I guess this is my life now. Time to emotionally implode in private.

You weren’t going to tell him. Absolutely not. The man had standards higher than Mount Everest. You were a gremlin in sweatpants. He guided you out of what had to be some misplaced sense of moral responsibility, not because he liked you.

So, your plan was simple: keep it quiet. Let the crush rot in your chest. Maybe it would fade. Maybe Vil would never find out. Maybe you’d survive.

…Maybe.

“Are you even paying attention?” Vil snapped, snapping his fingers in your face.

You jolted back to reality. “Yes! Yes. Sodium bad. Body temple. I got it.”

He narrowed his eyes, suspicious. “You’re acting weirder than usual.”

“I’m always weird,” you said quickly. “That’s my brand. Very consistent.”

He sighed dramatically and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hopeless.”

You watched him for a second longer and thought, God, I’m doomed.

And then you smiled and said, “Yeah. But at least I’m charming about it.”

He rolled his eyes.

But he didn’t deny it.

You were just trying to survive. That’s all.

Because being around Vil Schoenheit every other day, breathing the same air as him while he guided you while scolding you, was no longer tenable. Your heart was staging a full-blown coup against your sanity.

Every smirk he threw your way shaved years off your life. Every time he flicked your forehead for being “reckless” or “insufferable” or “a walking cautionary tale,” you internally swooned like a Victorian maiden on a fainting couch.

So, you did what any emotionally fragile raccoon-person would do when faced with unattainable love and regular exposure to flawless cheekbones: you fled.

To the Guidance Office.

You kept your voice steady when you asked for your previous guide’s contact. The poor intern looked like he’d rather explode than question you, especially once he realized who your current guide was.

Still, he handed over the transfer form and you sat down, heart racing, tapping your pen like a death drum. You were halfway through scribbling your tragic little freedom request when—

A shadow loomed.

Perfume wafted.

And the temperature dropped ten degrees.

You didn’t even have time to look up before the form was snatched from your hands with all the grace of a man committing a stylish crime.

“Up. Now.”

Vil’s voice was frost and fury and every hair on your body stood up like soldiers called to war.

You stumbled after him, too stunned to protest, as he marched you through the hallways with terrifying grace. You passed several people who were clearly wondering if they were witnessing a kidnapping, but no one dared interfere.

His office door slammed shut behind you, and he turned on you like a beautifully irate weather phenomenon.

Then—rip.

Your transfer form disintegrated in his hands.

“OUT,” he snapped, voice tight, angry. “If you’re going to be a complete and utter fool, then get out of my sight.”

You blinked. “What—why are you mad? I’m doing you a favor!”

“A favor?” he repeated, like you’d just spat in a glass of Château Margaux.

You held your ground, though you were 97% sure he could kill you with a single sigh. “You didn’t want to guide me in the first place! I’m—look, I’m making it easier for both of us. No more clingy potato energy. No more… emotional spirals. You can guide someone who isn’t a complete mess.”

He stared at you, eyes narrowed, jaw tense, and then he—kissed you.

No warning. No build-up. Just lips crashing against yours like your poor little romantic delusions had summoned it from the abyss. His hands cupped your face, tilting it just right, and you—froze.

You opened your mouth to say something.

He kissed you again.

This time, slower. Angrier. Like he was trying to shove every word you weren’t letting him say directly into your bloodstream.

“I love you,” he hissed when he finally pulled away, chest heaving. “You stupid, overthinking potato.”

You blinked. “I—wait, what?”

“Oh, now you’re speechless?” he snapped, pacing. “You think I guide you because it’s convenient? You think I chose to rip you away from that quivering ball of social anxiety just to be charitable? I don’t have to guide anyone. I chose you.”

You were still stuck on the part where he said “I love you” and hadn’t immediately revoked it.

He pointed at you. “Sit down.”

You sat. Immediately.

He sat next to you, crossed one leg over the other, and glared. “We’re going to talk about this. Then you’re going to delete the idea of transferring from your thick, tragically underutilized brain. Understood?”

“…Yes?”

“Good. And drink some water. You look like you’re about to combust.”

You obeyed. Because frankly? You were.

“You’re serious?” you asked, voice a little cracked around the edges, sitting on his plush office chair like you were squatting in a throne you had absolutely no right to. “You love me?”

Vil stared at you with the exhausted patience of a man who had been in love with a rock for three years. “Yes. I’ve loved you for a while, and you—” he poked you in the forehead again, harder this time, “—have been blissfully, astoundingly oblivious.”

“That’s not fair,” you said, already sweating. “You’re very hard to read!”

“I’m not,” he said flatly. “You’re just emotionally illiterate.”

“Give me one example.”

“Oh, one?” He tilted his head and actually laughed, as if he had been waiting for this moment. “Let’s start small, then. Remember the time I brought you a silk-lined weighted blanket because you said you liked ‘being squished by fabric’ and your apartment ‘felt like a haunted fridge?’”

You blinked. “I thought that was just you mocking me with luxury.”

“I custom-ordered it in your favorite color and personally dropped it off.”

“…Okay, that’s fair.”

“And what about the emergency juice box I carry around exclusively for you, because you tend to spiral into a puddle after difficult gates and refuse to ask for help?”

“…You said that was because I’m ‘emotionally six.’”

“That was a joke.” He ran a hand through his hair, then pointed at you again. “What about when I held your hand during guidance and you told me, ‘This is wildly intimate,’ and I said, ‘That’s the idea, darling,’ and you laughed and said, ‘Ha ha good one,’ and proceeded to talk about raccoons for twenty minutes?”

Your face was hot. Like boiling kettle hot. You were being roasted over the open flames of your own idiocy.

Vil, now fully in his villain origin arc, stood up, arms crossed. “Or the time I made you lunch because you skipped breakfast three days in a row and you cried a little, and I wiped your tears, and you said, ‘You’d make such a good husband, wow,’ and then called me bro.”

“I was tired that day,” you whispered.

He paced. “I took a personal day to guide you after that one breach because you refused post-gate care. I showed up at your house! You were curled up like a soggy blanket and told me you didn’t deserve comfort, and I guided you anyway! I even brought snacks!”

You were holding your head in your hands now, processing. “Oh my god. I’m the clown. I’m the whole circus.”

Vil sighed and came to kneel beside you again, gentler now. He pulled your hands from your face and took them in his, lacing your fingers together like it was second nature. “I assumed you didn't like me. But this?” He smiled a little. “This is honestly worse.”

“Okay. Ouch.”

“I love you,” he repeated, quieter now, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I’ve loved you for a long time. And I don’t want you to change guides. I want you to stay.”

You looked down at your joined hands. Then up at his face, soft and real and so, so stupidly beautiful.

“...Can I kiss you again?” you asked.

He rolled his eyes. “Finally.”

And he did. And this time, when he kissed you, you didn’t freeze or black out or say anything about raccoons. You just held him closer and kissed him back, trying very hard not to think about how many brain cells you’d wasted missing the obvious.

(But you did apologize to him later. After the third kiss. And after asking if he’d consider writing a “Vil Schoenheit’s Guide to Realizing Your Guide is Flirting” manual for future dumbasses like yourself.)

The first time Vil met you was… unfortunate.

You'd collapsed on him like a sandbag flung from the heavens by a god with no taste.

He'd been called in to assist after a gate breach—nothing unusual, really, just a high-stress emergency with far too many untrained espers and not enough functioning brain cells among them. His job was to stabilize, guide, and keep anyone from combusting mentally or emotionally, preferably both. It was clinical, routine, and efficient.

Until you.

You stumbled out of the smoke and screaming with wild eyes and your uniform half-burnt, looking like you’d just gone twelve rounds with the concept of mortality. You locked eyes with him—briefly, like a bird recognizing glass mid-flight—and then passed out straight into his arms.

Correction: onto him.

He wasn’t sure how you managed to fall with such inconvenient geometry, but one moment he was standing, perfectly composed, and the next he had an unconscious stranger face-planting onto him, limbs sprawled like a freshly felled tree.

His first thought was: Excuse you?

His second: Do they not know who I am?

Honestly, the offense was justified. People didn’t usually touch Vil without permission, let alone treat him like a fainting couch. And yet when the medics arrived to assist, he waved them off with a sigh, brushing soot out of your hair and stabilizing your exhausted psyche with the practiced ease of someone too annoyed to be fazed. You were just another Esper, he told himself. Another mess to be cleaned up.

Then you woke up.

You blinked at him. Groggy. Confused. Soft in the eyes in a way that caught him off guard. “Oh,” you mumbled, voice hoarse. “Sorry. My bad.”

No recognition. No fawning. No demands for priority guidance.

Just that—thanks—like he was your local neighborhood guide and not one of the most in-demand SSS-ranks in the country.

And that was when it happened: the first crack.

A hairline fracture in his perfectly sculpted composure. Something warm and startlingly gentle wedged itself in his chest. The faint, whispering thought: They’re not like the others.

He'd left soon after and that should've been the end of it.

But the next day, you came to his office. Not to request a partnership. Not to ask for more guidance sessions. Not even to praise his skill, as most did when they finally found out who he was.

No.

You walked in with a slightly bent energy drink and said, “Hi. Just wanted to thank you again. For yesterday. And, like, if you want anything—coffee, or uh, a meal, or maybe a really good nap on my couch—I can return the favor.”

He blinked. “You're offering me compensation?”

“Yeah,” you said, like it was obvious. “I didn’t mean to fall on you. Also, you helped me not die. That deserves at least a smoothie.”

He stared at you. You stared back, unbothered and vaguely hopeful, like someone trying to barter with a raccoon they’d wronged in a past life.

And that’s when the thought struck him:

I wish more Espers were like this.

Earnest. Direct. Not wrapped in ego or desperation. You treated him like a person and not a tool or a celebrity. Like someone who deserved appreciation, not worship.

He didn’t say yes to your offer.

And later that evening, sipping the mango smoothie you left on his desk with a sticky note that said “Thanks again, Your Highness,” Vil caught himself smiling.

Disaster or not, you had… made an impression.

And for better or worse, that impression was starting to stick.

Soon, he found himself buying your favorite juice on the way to work.

He told himself it was to bribe you into being less reckless. That he just “happened” to know your favorite. That it was a coincidence.

He also started carrying headache meds. And bandaids. And snacks. And spare gloves because you kept losing yours and pretending you didn’t need them.

A week later, he spotted you in the hallway again. You were coming out of a gate looking like you’d been mugged by gravity and a brick. But what truly horrified Vil was not your appearance (which was a hate crime against fashion), but the fact that you were about to be guided by someone else.

Some junior Guide with too much gel in his hair and the audacity to step away from you.

Vil's soul left his body.

He didn’t even think. He stomped across the hallway, yanked you away like a cat stealing laundry, and declared, “Absolutely not.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Guiding you. Sit down. Shut up.”

“...Okay?”

He’d never been so professionally compromised. He gave you the most aggressive, possessive, emotionally repressed guiding session in history. It was like channeling affection through gritted teeth.

He was doomed.

Vil Schoenheit was a man of control. Precision. Elegance. He kept his calendar color-coded, his wardrobe steamed, and his guiding sessions timed to the minute.

So when he heard through the grapevine that you were about to be reassigned to another Guide—because of some nonsense about “compatibility tests” and “emotional interference” (rude)—he did not react well.

No, he did not pout.

He did not sulk.

He marched directly to the Guidance Office, pulled rank in that way that only Vil could—part charm, part cold-blooded menace—and made it very clear that you were off the market.

“This Esper is mine,” he said, crisp and cool like a glacier in a fur coat. “Officially. Put it in writing.”

The poor intern at the desk blinked up at him, then at the screen.

“Um… you mean, you want to—?”

“Yes. I want to take full responsibility for their guiding.”

“Sir, do you mean romantically—?”

“Professionally.” A beat. “For now.”

Vil was shopping for seasonal essentials, which of course required strategic planning, multiple fitting rooms, and approximately seventeen judgmental head tilts. He saw you wandering out of a soft-clothes store with a hoodie that looked like a blanket and a dream.

You saw him.

You tried to leave.

He grabbed your wrist.

“I need hands,” he said.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

And then he handed you a bag and moved on like a model on a mission.

You carried his bags for hours. You offered no complaints, just commentary like, “That color makes your cheekbones illegal,” and “If I try that on I’ll look like a deflated beanbag.” You actually enjoyed yourself.

And then—then—when you ended up in a café and he reluctantly allowed you to buy his coffee, you sat there, sipping from your little cup, and made some stupid joke about luxury couture and cheese graters.

He laughed.

He laughed.

And it wasn’t polite or dismissive. It was the kind of laugh that knocked loose something in his ribcage. The kind that made him stare at you over the rim of his drink and realize, with full-body horror:

I’m doomed.

Because he liked you.

He really, really liked you.

Not in the “you’re tolerable and I guess I won’t smite you” way. In the “I want to wring your neck for not wearing gloves but also maybe hold your hand” way. The “I will destroy that junior Guide if he even looks at you again” way. The “please stop getting injured or I will cry and then deny it until the sun explodes” way.

And you had no idea.

You were still out here calling yourself “emotionally bulletproof” and stealing his granola bars like it was normal. Still calling him “Vilbo Baggins” and poking his forehead like you weren’t holding the shreds of his dignity in your little chaos-stained hands.

So yes. Vil was doomed.

And he couldn’t even blame you.

Because of all the Espers in the world, it had to be you—you with your messy hair and shiny eyes and stupid brave heart.

Fast-forward to a Tuesday. Or maybe Thursday. Vil had lost track. It had been a day full of Espers with no manners, no boundaries, and one who tried to touch his hair mid-guiding.

By the time you wandered into his office, he was one broken string away from full violin villainy.

And for once, you didn’t joke.

No "What’s up, Guidezilla?"

No "Did your skincare try to abandon you too?"

You just took one look at him, walked over, and—gently—placed your hands on his shoulders.

Vil froze.

You kneaded the tight muscles there with surprising skill. Still no words. Just the quiet press of your thumbs, the steady warmth of your touch. And when he exhaled—shaky, involuntary—you didn’t tease him for it.

You just said, softly, “You don’t always have to do everything alone, you know.”

And that was when he broke a little.

Not obviously. But his posture slumped just slightly. His head tilted just enough to rest against your shoulder. Not even for a minute—maybe twenty seconds.

But it was enough.

Enough to make him realize: This is the safest I’ve felt all day.

And the fact that it was you—you, with your chaos and your grin and your glitter stickers stuck to your ID badge—that was terrifying. And comforting. And utterly, stupidly addicting.

He didn’t say thank you. Not out loud.

But later, when you weren’t looking, he moved your next few guiding sessions to the prime slot on his calendar. The one reserved for important things.

And in his fridge?

There was already more of your favorite juice.

He told himself it was just being thorough.

He was a liar.

It had started like any other deployment day. You and he had both been assigned to different gates, which wasn’t uncommon anymore. It was annoying—yes, he preferred to keep you in arm’s reach like a chaotic, overly affectionate pet raccoon—but manageable. You hadn’t called, hadn’t messaged, so he assumed it was fine. Maybe you were too tired. Maybe you’d just fallen asleep.

But then he heard the reports.

Talk around the guidance center was that your gate had gone bad. A breach. Casualties. They'd barely managed to contain it. The kind of mission that rattled even the seasoned Espers.

Vil had frozen mid-conversation, a pen slipping from his hand and clattering onto his desk.

“Did they get guided after?” he asked, voice sharp.

The other Guide had shrugged. “Apparently not. Took off the moment debrief ended.”

And that was when the spiral started.

He called you. Once. Twice. Ten times. Fifty. A hundred.

Pacing his office like a man possessed, he left increasingly deranged voicemails.

—"Pick up your phone, I swear to the God, if you are ghosting me because you’re feeling ‘emotionally crunchy’ again—"

—“If you're hurt, I need to know. If you're not hurt, I'm going to kill you myself.”

—“Potato, I’m serious. Answer the phone.”

When you finally picked up, sounding groggy and like someone had drop-kicked your soul, all you said was:

“…Vil?”

And that was enough.

“Address. Now.”

You sent him a dropped pin and then promptly passed out again.

He’d never gotten to your place so fast in his life. Nearly crashed into two pedestrians, scared a delivery driver into a full existential crisis, and parked in a tow zone without blinking.

The front door was unlocked.

He burst in like divine judgment, only to find you curled up on your couch like a sad, emotionally fried ferret.

“You left the door open. What if someone had—?! You didn’t even—! I called you a hundred times! Why didn’t you—!?”

You blinked up at him, slow and a little disoriented. “Vil?”

He was kneeling next to the couch before he realized it, shaking you like an overcaffeinated nurse trying to keep a patient conscious. “Why didn’t you call me?!”

Your voice was small. “Didn’t think I deserved to.”

Something in Vil's chest cracked with a soundless, incandescent rage. Not at you. Never at you.

At the situation. At himself. At the idiocy of a world where someone like you—who put yourself on the line for people who didn’t know your name—could think for one second you didn’t deserve comfort.

You sat up and hugged him before he could speak. And Vil, for all his pride and poise, let you.

He guided you right there on the couch, arms wrapped tightly around you like he could anchor all your scattered pieces back into place with sheer force of will. His fingers were steady against your temple, his voice low and soothing.

You didn't fight it this time. Not really. You were too tired. Too raw.

But later, when you were dozing against him and he felt the weight of your breathing even out, he looked at you and thought:

If I ever lose them, I don’t know if I’ll survive it.

And he realized, with an unflinching kind of horror, that this wasn’t just fondness anymore.

This was love. Stupid, all-consuming, feral love.

Oh, when Vil saw the transfer form in your hands—his potato, his utterly chaotic, absurdly self-sacrificing, emotionally constipated Esper—filling out a request to switch Guides?

He saw red. No, scratch that. He saw every shade of fury on the spectrum. He didn’t even remember walking; one moment he was across the hallway, the next he had the form in his fist and you in his office, the door slammed shut behind you with enough force to rattle the entire floor.

“What. Is. This.”

You blinked at him like a cat caught stealing food, caught between guilt and indifference. “A transfer form? I—uh. It’s not a big deal—”

“Not a—” Vil looked genuinely scandalized. If he wore pearls, he would’ve clutched them. “Do you think I’m running a halfway house for wayward Espers?! I have been guiding you, carrying juice boxes for you, putting up with your ridiculous snacks, and you think this isn’t a big deal?!”

You stared at him, flustered and slightly confused. “I—I just thought maybe it’d be easier for both of us if I wasn’t—like—around all the time, you know? I’m not exactly low maintenance—”

Vil’s brain short-circuited.

He kissed you.

No thought. Just lips. Panic. Longing. Rage. Chapstick.

Your sentence died like a bug on a windshield.

Vil pulled back just long enough to snarl, “I love you, you stupid overthinking potato.”

You blinked.

“I—what—”

He kissed you again. You weren’t going to ruin this with words. Not today.

When he finally let you breathe, you looked dizzy. In love. Slightly offended. Vil understood.

“You’ve been in love with me?” you asked, voice very much in the ‘I missed every single sign like a blind NPC in a dating sim’ zone.

“Oh finally,” Vil groaned. “Yes. For ages. Do you think I just carry juice boxes for anyone? I had to go to a wholesaler to find your weird imported apple-lychee thing. I do not do that for strangers.”

You looked like the Earth had tilted sideways. “Oh my god. I thought you were just—like that.”

“‘Like that?!’” he cried. “I forced you to carry my shopping bags through an entire mall and called it a bonding experience! I let you pay for my coffee! I let you touch me when I was emotionally unbalanced! Me!”

“Oh my god,” you said again, very softly. “I am Stupid.”

Vil sighed like he was asking the universe for strength. “Yes. But you’re mine now. So unless you want to see what a real tantrum looks like, stop trying to fill out transfer forms like we’re in some tragic rom-com and just stay.”

You looked at him for a moment, soft and stunned and still processing the part where he said “I love you” more than once.

Then you reached for him, and he let you pull him into a hug, and despite everything—despite the rage, the confusion, the two destroyed pens on his desk and the emotional whiplash—you smiled into his shoulder like you couldn’t quite believe your luck.

Vil closed his eyes.

And all he could think was:

If I have to live in this ridiculous, broken world... let it be with you.

You didn’t expect it to come up like this.

You were lying on Vil’s fancy designer couch, head on his lap, while he scrolled through his tablet like he wasn’t also playing with your hair and ruining your heart. It was a quiet kind of peace, the kind you didn’t get often, the kind you didn’t want to jinx.

Which is exactly why he jinxed it.

“I want to permanently bond,” he said, tone casual in the way a gun cocking across the room is casual.

You blinked. “What?”

He looked down at you like you were the idiot for not reading his mind faster.

“I don’t want to guide anyone else,” he said. “You’re mine.”

Your heart made a sound like a microwave short-circuiting.

“You’re sure?” you asked, because you had to—because you needed him to say it again, to look you in the eye and confirm this wasn’t just heat-of-the-moment emotion, or drama, or guilt, or—

Vil gave you a glare so sharp it could slice through reinforced glass. You didn’t even need to hear him speak. The look alone said: If you ask that again I will end you and then raise you from the ashes just to scold you properly.

So naturally, you pulled him closer.

He kissed you like you’d insulted him and he was trying to forgive you with his entire mouth. And then he pushed you down onto the couch with all the grace and pent-up need of someone who’d waited far too long to do this.

There was nothing dramatic about the bond itself—it was warmth, deep and golden, spreading between your minds like a whispered promise. Familiar, grounding, and so right it made you dizzy. You felt him in a way that no one else could ever match—his feelings humming beneath your skin, threaded through your heartbeat, echoing in your thoughts.

It felt like falling and landing and being caught all at once.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just pressed his forehead against yours and held you close, letting the bond settle between your chests like a vow.

Then, quietly:

“Finally.”

You laughed, breathless. “Yeah,” you said, hugging him tighter. “Finally.”

Life was still mildly cursed. You weren’t about to tempt fate by saying otherwise. The gates still opened at the worst times, your body still ached in places that didn’t make sense, and someone still managed to microwave metal in the guidance office kitchen every single week.

But—

You had Vil. And that made it survivable.

He had finally, finally reprogrammed you out of your self-destructive nonsense, though it had been a war. You were talking metaphorical trench warfare. It took a thousand forehead flicks, an aggressively color-coded sleep schedule, and a terrifying PowerPoint presentation titled “If You Die, I Will Be Very Upset (And Also Kill You) – A Visual Threat.”

And in return, you had managed to make Vil Schoenheit loosen up. The man who once flinched at the idea of touching door handles with his bare hands now shared hoodies with you and let you kiss him with gate-dust still in your hair.

It was progress.

So when the door to your shared home clicked shut behind you both after another long day, you let out a sigh and slumped like a corpse released from its mortal coil. Vil caught you by the collar before you hit the floor like “absolutely not, we are not breaking furniture today.”

You peeled off your jacket, dropped your bag, and turned to him, still stuck in your boots. “Is it bad I want to sleep on the floor?”

“Yes,” he replied instantly. “Go shower, you reeking gremlin. I’ll order dinner.”

You blinked. “Will it be salad?”

“No. I’m ordering dumplings.”

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Who are you and what have you done with my overachieving nutrient-balanced microgreens–”

Vil shoved you gently toward the bathroom. “Shoo. I’ll be waiting here with your emotional support carbs when you’re done.”

And that was it.

You went to shower, and he ordered dinner. And maybe life was cursed and weird and exhausting—but it had given you Vil. And now, the worst thing he threatened you with was hydration reminders and forehead kisses.

Honestly?

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Series Masterlist ; All Masterlists

[deepdisireslonging]

Cake or Cookies

A good round of sexy texting during girls’ night leads to sexy personal time when Bucky gets home.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x curvy!Reader

Warnings/Promises: food mention, descriptions of injuries (canon-level), dirty talk, sexting, SMUT, oral (both receiving), implied further smut

Word Count: 3080

Note: They can pry the Avenger Apartment/Tower from my cold dead hands. Everything’s fine, everyone is fine; what trauma? Why can’t we have nice things? I went hunting through some of my lost prompts and found a couple to squeeze together. Happy reading!

Girls’ night in the Tower was bound to be dangerous. It was usually when Natasha came up with the next round of pranks to play on the boys. And when Wanda took it upon herself to create the best pillow fort to watch movies in. Her magic made it easy to pile the couch pillows and blankets into what looked more like a cozy cave than a fort. And Maria kept track of where to find any films not already stored in Stark’s library.

You were in charge of snacks. Drinks were cozy only: tea, hot chocolate, and coffee. Alcohol parties were for other nights. Snacks ranged anywhere from home-made chips to hors d'oeuvres (fancy and simply indulgent), to the smorgasbord of mass produced favorite snacks you raided from the corner bodega. But you were stumped when it came to tonight’s desserts. The bodega’s sweet treats were present, cheap candy and the like, but you were stuck between the roll of cookie dough and a box mix for cupcakes.

Stumped, you didn’t acknowledge the warm body that ghosted up behind you until a hand slid across your waist. “It’s girls’ night. What are you still doing here?” Sitting down the treats, you turned in Bucky’s arms and scratched your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck.

He lightly kissed your forehead. “Needed a break from Tony. Can you blame me?”

“Not at all.”

You both inhaled deeply, cheek to cheek. The last mission had been a rough one. Most of the team had come back banged up. And you still had a nasty scrape of road burn up one leg. Which is why you were wearing the equivalent of biker shorts. Pepper had gotten them for you sometime after the social media trend of those leggings ladies liked to tease their S.O’s with. They were surprisingly supportive of your form. You usually wore them underneath your gear because they were borderline indecent. But, with one of Bucky’s oversized shirts covering your figure, nobody had commented.

Except for Bucky as he slid his hands down your body to rest over the curve of your ass.

“I thought these stayed out of sight?”

You teased a glance up at him. “Usually, yes. But It’s girls’ night. We all wear the equivalent of our pajamas since you boys will be out. You are all going out, right?”

He nodded. “Yes. Eventually.” But he didn’t move. He hugged you closer, brazenly tilting your head to one side with his nose so he could kiss the underside of your jaw.

“Y/L/N!” Natasha waved from the living room. “Are we ready to go, or what?”

A smile spread across your face. You lightly pushed Bucky away, making him whine. Natasha was already starting the voting poll for the evening’s movies when you turned back to the counter. “I’ve got to bake before the party starts. Do you have a preference for what sweets you’d like to be left over? Cookies or cupcakes?”

Bucky pressed up behind you, resting his large hands on the counter on either side of you, and griding his front into your ass. “Cookies. There’s enough cake in this kitchen already.” He slapped your ass, following with both his hands taking tight squeezes of your flesh.

As you gasped, he rushed out. The wink he shot you from the door warned you that the tease would not be the evening’s last.

Fifteen minutes later, the cookies were out, the movie was in, and everyone was settled into their favorite pile of pillows.

Five minutes into the movie, the texting started.

Lover Boy <3: “How’s the movie?”

You rolled your eyes as you turned your phone on silent. If Okoye heard your phone again, you’d never get it back. “We’re watching Magic Mike. So… It’s going well.” You added a smiley face with its tongue sticking out for good measure.

Bucky’s messages popped up every few minutes. You kept your phone screen towards you to see the notification light up your screen without bothering the other women.

Lover Boy <3: “Should I be jealous?”

You: “Nah. Their gyrating doesn’t do it for me.”

Lover Boy <3: “Good to know.”

Lover Boy <3: “Is there anything in the movie that does ‘do’ it for you?”

You smothered a chuckle into your blanket. Each passing second that you took to come up with a teasing reply was surly wreaking havoc on your man.

You: “Maybe. Who wants to know?”

His reply was slow in coming. When it did, you almost fumbled your phone into the floor.

Lover Boy <3: *image incoming*

The picture you received was of Bucky’s hand resting on the top of his thigh. They were out to dinner somewhere, the edge of the table blocking your photo view from the rest of the guys. In the curve between his forefinger and thumb, his bulge was the center of attention. You stuck a sucker in your mouth to cover up your gasp. But the other ladies were too busy hooting for the first dance scene to notice.

You: “Just him? I must be slipping. Especially since I thought you really liked my shorts earlier.”

Lover Boy <3: “I like those shorts because I like taking them off. Girls night got in the way.”

You: “You’ve got to come home sometime.”

Lover Boy <3: “Then what do you have in mind?”

You turned off the flash for your camera and waited for the TV screen to illuminate your face. Sucker holding down your tongue, you sneaked the pic. Before any of the girls could see and tease you. While it sent, you sucked on the round sugar treat. You imagined Bucky’s cockhead on your tongue, as you knew he would too. His reply came in seconds.

Lover Boy <3: “Minx”

You: “And?”

Lover Boy <3: “When I do get home, I’m going to taste something sweeter. All night long.”

Lover Boy <3: “If you can handle it.”

Biting your lip, you smiled into your blanket.

You: “We both know what I can handle. But can you handle what I want to do to you?”

You: “Bet I can blow you so good you forget how to speak Russian before morning.”

You: “Actually, bet I can make you forget all your languages.”

Lover Boy <3: “An official bet?”

Now it was dangerous territory. Neither of you would wager anything that would show in public. Or bring attention from the team inside the tower. But Bucky’s winnings had a steep cost on your ability to walk the next day. Yours usually meant him taking a few days off to spend time together in some distant cabin.

You: “Do we have time to disappear to the Rockies when I win?”

Lover Boy <3: “We just finished a mission. I’m sure I can convince Steve to leave us alone… at least for several nights in a row when I win.”

It was on.

He played dirty by escaping to the bathroom to shoot you a picture of his cock. It was already thick for you, proud and flushed in his palm.

You also escaped. But the picture you sent didn’t require you to take your clothes off. All you did was tug down the front of his borrowed shirt, and splay your fingers wide between your breasts.

You: “Can’t wait to squeeze you between these.”

Lover Boy <3: “9hey now…”

Good. His texting was already stumbling.

You: *picture incoming*

All you did was rest your hand over your throat. But Bucky’s reply of a bunch of scrambled letters made you laugh. You returned to the movie.

You: “Can’t wait for you to get home. But we’ve got about 3 more hours of movies to watch. Think you can last that long?”

Lover Boy <3: “If I have to. Might have to take care of myself before then.”

Wanda looked over as you squirmed in your seat.

You: “You can’t wait for me? I’ll wait for you.”

When the movie lit up enough, you took a picture of the pillow between your thighs.

Lover Boy <3: “Promise?”

You: “Say please.”

His reply, despite the distance between text and actually hearing his voice, dripped with promise. You bit your lip, hearing his growl in your head.

Lover Boy <3: “Since when do get to make the demands around here?”

Lover Boy <3: “Please.”

You: “Since I’m home. Away from the consequences of mouthing off at you till later.”

Lover Boy <3: “You’re not sharing this conversation with the ladies are you? You’re not usually this… sassy.”

You: “This sass is rated E for everyone. But, no. This conversation is just between us.”

You: “I have to stop texting. Natasha is beginning to notice.”

Lover Boy <3: “Until I get my hands on you:”

It was several minutes until you checked your phone, waiting for the others to drop their questioning looks. When you did, you had to smother your moan. He sent one last picture of his tongue out between his fingers. A promise of delectable problems to come.

***

Somebody texted the guys when the movies were almost over. They arrived halfway through you girls cleaning up.

“How was the double feature?” Tony asked. He snagged a remaining hors d'oeuvres off the tray before Maria could stick it in the fridge.

You didn’t hear the reply. All you could focus on was how lust-blown Bucky’s eyes were as he stared you down from the other side of the room. You pressed your thighs together. If the way your chest heaved was any indication, you were in for a long night. Steve barely gave you a glance when you walked past him. Bucky gliding past made him give your departure a second look.

The hallway to your room was dark. The lights that illuminated the floor wouldn’t engage fully unless there was an emergency. Which meant that your shadow was faded against the wall. And it was fractured into several clusters of shadows at reach installation. You didn’t look back. It was part of the game. You couldn’t hear him, but sometimes you could have sworn your shadows had an extra layer.

When you reached for your door handle, another hand beat you to it. Bucky pressed up behind you, pushing you into the room and pinning you to the inside of the door as he locked it. He slid his knee between your legs. Fascinated, he enjoyed the show as you slid the apex of your thighs across the muscle he gave you. He stopped your movements with a hand on your hip, while the other lifted your wrists above your head.

“Did you actually wait, or was that a tease?” He reached into your shorts, groaning to find your slick there. While you trembled, he loudly sucked his middle finger into his mouth. “Oh, ангел, I am going to ruin you. For teasing me like you did.”

“You – you started it. Technically.”

He brought one of your hands down to rest over the front of his pants. “Maybe. But you laid down the gauntlet. How do you want to do this?”

With a grin, you wriggled out of his grasp. You walked backwards towards your bed. Bucky stalked slowly after you. Turning, you ran your hands down your sides, to your hips. And back to the curve of your ass. “Cake?” You smoothed your hands up from your rear to your breasts. “Or cookies?”

Bucky groaned. “The whole damn bakery if I can get my hands on it.” He guided you onto the bed, crawling over you in a way that stole your breath. When you tried to roll him onto his back to begin the challenge, he chuckled. “Nuh-uh. Challenger goes second.”

“But-“

He silenced you with a kiss. As he deepened it, hands kneading into your flesh and removing your clothes, your rebuttal died on your tongue. He barely pulled back enough to remove his own clothes. It wasn’t long before he was working his mouth down your body, kissing and sucking and nipping at your skin until he made it to your sex. 

Sometimes part of the challenge included a timer. Like that one gala when he dared you steal away with him during Tony’s speech, and cum before the ending round of applause. With his head buried under your dress, he won with enough time to participate in the applause for a speech you didn’t give a damn about. You didn’t find out till later that Steve had kept track of when you two disappeared and reappeared. Bucky wrote the time on your bathroom mirror as the time to beat. It had yet to be broken.

Tonight wasn’t one of those times. There was all the time in the world. All night to edge or overstimulate each other to your hearts’ content.

Breathing warm air over your sex, his grin between your thighs sent a ripple of goosebumps over your skin. You weren’t sure which was more disarming: his knowledge of your body and its sweet spots that he could make you cum in minutes, or that same knowledge used to bliss you out over hours till you couldn’t remember more than screaming his name. With his tongue, he began the challenge. As if you weren’t soaked already, he made a mess of you. Curling his fingers through your folds. Delving his tongue deep in search of the ability to taste you for days. When he scraped his teeth across your clit, the electricity tightened your fingers in his hair.

He wasn’t drawing this out. A man on a mission, Bucky was doing everything he could to bring you to the brink as fast as he could. The speed that you hurtled toward release stole your breath. That was his plan. Shock you while trying to beat his time so that you wouldn’t be able to speak. And then he’d win double the bragging rights.

And, damn him, it might just work.

Hungrily, he slurped up your pleasure. Adding a third finger to his onslaught, he curled them all to make you see stars. His metal arm flashed out to pin down your hips before you could arch away from him. The metal was cold, frigid, against your flushed skin. The difference in temperature was enough of an overload to your sparkling nerves that your eyes screwed shut. You babbled a series of sounds, making Bucky hum in delight.

But when he came up for air, gently stroking your folds to ease you down, you surprised him.

“Is that all you got, Barnes?”

“Fuck. Seriously?” He rested his cheek against the inside of your thigh.

You did your best to steady your breath. No point in revealing those six words were all you could manage. After another moment, you curled your own finger. You summoned him to hover over you, dangling his dog-tags in your face. Catching one between your teeth, you gripped and pushed his shoulders until he was on his back.

It was your turn to kiss down his body. Across his collar bone and pecs. Down that center chasm between his abs. From one hip bone, down his V, and up to the other side. As you took his length in hand, you had to smile. The poor man should have let you pleasure him first, instead of torturing himself and his cock with waiting. Gently, you circled your thumb around his tip. It dragged a groan out between his teeth. Good. The more vocal he was, the better you could track his ability to speak. Or lack thereof.

You set the challenge into the back of your mind and got to work in pleasing your man.

The first movements were gentle. And careful around how sensitive he was. Still, each touch and twist kept his voice active. He tried to watch you, but kept dropping his head back in pleasure as you quickened your movements. While he was laid back, you shifted your position.

His head snapped up, and he cursed loudly in Russian as his cock was enveloped between your breasts.

Darting out your tongue, you kitten licked the tip of his cock when it came into range. It gave you no small pleasure to watch your man, the Winter Soldier and former Commando, fall to pieces because of you. He cursed louder in English, Russian, and… was that German? But the more you jerked him between your breasts, the more his vocabulary scrambled together. You waited patiently. His metal hand twitched towards to before fisting the sheet. His flesh hand reached back for the pillows, sheets, headboard. Anything to ground himself. Then you struck. You let go of your breasts and dipped low enough to swallow him down. He roared as he bumped the back of your throat. Planting his feet on the bed, his thighs trembled with keeping himself from thrusting into your mouth.

That was fine. You moved enough for the both of you. And, just as his Russian was little more than the most strained of curses, you settled his balls into one hand, and slid the other up his torso. Your nails lightly caught his skin over his heaving breaths.

The high-pitched hiss from the depths of his lungs was your only warning before he filled your mouth.

Your ministrations slowed. You took every ounce of his pleasure, and smiled around his cock as you sucked your way off his length.

He dragged you up to bury his face in the crook of your neck. His lips trembled while trying to say something. Anything. But all he could do was pant into your skin.

You smiled. And kissed the underside of his jaw. While you both recovered, you murmured gentle reassurances between breaths.

“You cheated,” he finally managed.

“Oh? When did I manage that?”

Running his fingers through his hair, he stared you down. “Those damn shorts.”

With a laugh, you nipped at his chest. “What? You did get to take them off, like you wanted. And I can’t help it if you decided to run your hands all over me and get yourself hard. It jazzed me up too. So, in my mind, we’re even.”

“Fine.” He tilted up your face to kiss you. Mumbling against your lips, he complained, “you’re using alotta words there, ангел.”

“And you’re still capable of Russian.”

Bucky grinned. “Then I guess this challenge isn’t done.”

And it wasn’t until long into the night.

***

Ангел: angel

***

Masterlist

Marvel Masterlist 

[gamemakerm]

In honor of Mermay and the current trend of Animal/Therian HRT going around (inspired by @ayviedoesthings's Dragon HRT series, @welldrawnfish's Fish HRT, @kaylasartwork's Bat HRT, @nyxisart's Puppy HRT, @deadeyedfae's Human HRT, etc etc etc, love all your work), I wanted to share the short story I wrote last year about medically turning yourself into a mermaid. This got published in WriteHive's Reclaiming Joy anthology, and we're now just outside of the six-month publishing exclusivity, so I can make it publicly available.

This was really raw to write for me, and there are trigger warnings for transphobia(/whatever the equivalent would be for mermaids?), implications of violence and hate crimes. However all the stories in the anthology were ultimately about perseverance, courage and love. I hope you enjoy, and if you want to get this and eleven other uplifting stories I can't recommend the anthology enough (though this is the only one relevant to the tags as far as I know). And if you really, really like it, you can buy me a kofi!

Scales

When the scales began to break through skin, they said you were becoming a monster. Blue and green, seafoam to pearl. You weren’t certain at what point you started to believe them.

You began to wrap yourself in tighter layers, a futile effort not to draw attention to the rough patches. Elbows, knees, along your arms, mottled with foundation and concealer caked on like spackle. Toner to offset the iridescent shine so that a passing glance wouldn’t be drawn to it. Constant checks and double checks, bathroom visits far beyond the routine. 

Your careful camouflage is usually enough to deflect scrutiny, but occasionally a stranger catches on. Nobody has said anything to you yet, but you have noticed more glances on the train. The old woman’s frown of disapproval. The young man with something to prove to you, himself, the world. His jaw tightens as he calculates his ability to start something. You tuck your chin and pretend to be busy with your phone. In the dark screen you can see the skin flaking on your cheeks. The beginnings of another patch betray you.

As you touch up in the bathroom mirror you tell yourself you wanted this, that you were prepared for the hardships. 

You walk to the public library after your shift ends. You walk most places these days, telling yourself it’s a last hurrah. The fact is you sold your car to make a dent in the cost. You’ll sell everything eventually. You’re going to have to. 

The forums have a list of books everyone checks out when they choose this path. There aren’t many and most are fantasy. There’s a running joke: if anyone mentions Hans Christen Anderson, run. You spot The Little Mermaid on a small display. You don’t run. You check out your books. The librarian gives a knowing nod, but doesn’t remark. You silently thank her for the discretion.

You take a long shower, makeup swirling down the drain. You can’t help but scratch at the itching patches on your thighs, peeling skin tearing away for new growth. Shampoo and blood circle under your feet. Your fingernails are sharper than they were this morning. You exfoliate, letting the city, public transit, the glances of strangers be cleansed. Your reflection in the mirror, a colorful smattering of new scales dusting your cheeks, is tear-streaked, ethereal. Beautiful.

You knock the concealer into the trash bin.

Your mother left a voicemail. She avoids the elephant seal in the room, talking about her gardening, your cousin’s new baby. She lingers for a moment, then: You’re being selfish. She burns brightly as a beratement begins, emboldened. But without someone to riff with she loses her steam, trails off and repeats it. You’re being shellfish. She can’t help it; she laughs despite herself. There’s a minute where she doesn’t speak, but you can tell she’s waiting for the sob in the back of her throat to settle. She promises she’ll come to your party and the voicemail ends.

You still haven’t heard from your father. You don’t expect you will. You’ve made peace with that.

You do your weekly injection on the alternating leg, needle piercing deep in a gap between scales. The plunger delivers 200mg of concentrated hope directly into your bloodstream, salt water in salt water. You put a hello kitty bandaid over it and wait for the feeling of ice in your veins to settle, the tension to go out of your muscles. It doesn’t.

You pass an enraged man on the street, spit flying, a home-made sandwich board making his message clear: The Siren Is The Devil’s Agent. The back offers an equally cogent argument: Go Back To Atlantis, Fish Freaks. You would if you could, you think dryly. He notices you and seethes, but the current of the crowd carries you away before he can curse you out.

You drag your potted plants down to the front stoop and post a craigslist ad: free to a good home. They’re gone within the hour. You allow yourself the rare indulgence of posting a selfie, eyes closed, serene, to the reddit: Learning to love my scales <3! It’s still difficult to type on your phone with the new claws. The upvotes start to come in; everyone loves a guppie.

You catch up on the shows you haven’t gotten to yet. Where there was once only the metaphorical List, there is now an actual list. Despite your best efforts it’s becoming increasingly clear you’re not going to finish all of them. You knock a few off, restructure it based on length. It still looks too long.

You have dreams about choking on toxic waste, getting minced by a boat propeller. You keep a running count of the number of times you’ve dreamt of getting your head stuck in a six-pack of soda rings. You’re up to four. 

Every few days you do laps in the local pool. You’re getting faster, but you feel exposed. There are whispers around the locker room. 

Your cat knows something is happening, but doesn’t understand what that means for her. You hold her whenever and for as long as she’ll allow, give her as many pets and treats as she wants. Despite clearing out your apartment you’ve spoiled her. She licks the scales on your cheek as you cry over her. This seems to inspire something in her; she demands her tuna crunchies. Dutifully you give her the tuna crunchies. She can have as many tuna crunchies as she wants.

You doomscroll your twitter feed, making sure this isn’t the day you lose access to your meds because of some white man in a suit. A sister is assaulted by a violent extremist with a sense of humor: he shot her with a harpoon gun. Her crowdfunding campaign starts on the maidens reddit and goes viral.

You triple check to make sure your friend is still willing to take your cat when you go. They promise to spoil her and tell her stories of you every day. You continue to cry over it. They invite you out for sushi to talk about it, then backtrack to ask if that’s a microaggression. You go to sushi. You’re thankful for the distraction.

By the time your legs are more scale than skin and your fingers begin to develop webbing you’ve given up on pretense. The looks are now constant, but you get reflective sunglasses and a new patch for your jacket: Don’t like it? Drown, with a scaled hand reaching out of water and flipping the bird. You put the energy out into the world, and the world doesn’t fuck with you.

Children love you. Their parents do not. 

On the train a young girl quietly asks if she can feel your scales. You allow her to touch her little fingers to the aquamarine pattern running up your arm, giving her your most reassuring (but still fanged) smile. She’s fearless, enamored, reverent. Her mother pulls her daughter away and hastily apologizes for her, not looking you in the eye. But you know that girl believes in magic now.

A group of white supremacists go out on a boat loaded with assault rifles for “no reason” and get lost at sea. This is somehow your fault.

The day your fins begin to push their way out from your arms, your boss calls you into his office. You both know he can’t fire you in this and seven other states, but you both also know you won’t be staying much longer. He’s done his best to make you aware you’re making his life more difficult. You put in your two weeks before he can flounder for another excuse. He moors you with paperwork for the rest of the afternoon.

Someone leaves a rotting fish in your pool locker. You don’t go back, and you don’t file a report. You tell yourself the chlorine was bad for the gills freshly forming under your ribs anyway.

Your friends take you out clubbing. You lose yourself under the waves of music, submerged under strobe lights and the salty sweat of dancing bodies. You whisper sweet nothings into a stranger’s ear, entrancing her as you move against each other. You can see iridescence shining around her eyes, shimmering glitter and an emerging pattern beneath makeup. You brush a thumb against her cheek and she melts into your touch. You don’t get her name. You don’t need to; you’re both not long for this world. You catch up with your friends smoking outside, your lips still tingling with vermouth.

Weeks pass. Work ends. Your apartment is down to furniture and cat supplies. You take longer showers. News stories continue to come out, the machine churns and roils: monsters walking among humans, the mark of the beast, sacrificing daughters to the ocean. 

You make sure your meds are reupped for the final stretch.

When your legs start to merge you know you don’t have much time left. You donate the last boxes of your clothes. Your friends get first dibs on furniture before it’s put on the street. They bring drinks and sit on your floor, an impromptu celebration and wake. They ask all the usual questions: what are you going to do for food? Shelter? What if you get hurt, or attacked by a shark? Do they have waterproof laptops yet? Will they ever see you again? What if it isn’t right for you? Can you ever come back?

You don’t know how to answer most of those questions. The group stays with you through the night. At 4AM you put on The Little Mermaid and the group drunkenly sings along. Everyone knows the words. It’s juvenile and you can hear the maidens on the reddit rolling their eyes and tutting about misrepresentation, but you know everyone in your position does it. You try not to cry, but the waterworks start and don’t stop.

At daybreak you put your cat into her harness and everyone piles into a friend’s van. It’s not far to the beach, but they take the long way around. One final tour of the land. Your cat sits on your lap and stares out the windows as you pass old haunts, your grocery store, your gym, your high school. You realize you still have library books to return and almost get them to turn around, but someone promises to go back for them afterwards.

There’s an isolated area on the beach where a canopy and tables are set up; banners, food, friends. It’s a regular going away party, as if you’re going on a short trip abroad. You suppose you are, in a way. Someone rented a wheelchair with fat tires to help you get down to the beach.

When your mother arrives she pulls her shirt off to show her custom-made clam bra. Her eyes are already red and puffy, but she’s doing her best to be energetic and upbeat. She holds you for a long time and says she’s happy for you, that you’re beautiful, that you’re so much stronger than she ever was, and then she puts on a brave face to help everyone get served at the buffet. Your cat chases small crabs across the beach around you, and you sit in the sand. The party goes strong.

The tides come up until your fin is tickled by the seafoam. Everyone knows that means it’s time to go. You pass your cat off to her new owner and she gives you a last headbutt. She seems to understand. You kiss your mother’s cheek one last time and she clings to you. The group raises their drinks as you paddle out, disappearing beneath the waves. You give them the money shot and leap out of the water on your way out of the sound, and you can hear cheering from the shoreline. You hope someone got a video for the maidens.

You keep the city in sight for a while, but the currents lead you further into open waters. There are boaters out on the water who wave to you. You wave back and keep swimming up the coast. 

At dusk you rise to the surface and watch the setting sun turn the horizon from blue to pink to purple and orange. There’s nothing for leagues around. As the sun sinks below the waves and the skies darken you sing your first real siren’s song. Shaky and imperfect, it soon resounds over the ocean breeze. You leave everything behind in it. There are no words, only feeling and sound. It’s a lament, an invocation, a dirge. It is many things, but it isn’t an apology. You have nothing to apologize for.

In the seas beyond a chorus joins in with a language you never learned but understand, integrating your song into theirs. You swim to join them.

[olderthannetfic]

I keep being baffled by the amounts of readers who seem to have fits whenever a fic doesn't have chapters. How do they deal with all the Real Literature TM that doesn't have chapters?

Apart from the very simple "don't like, don't read" approach, if it's because you lose your place because the browser reloads, several options have already been suggested, and I sincerely hope it helps whoever feels that was the big problem.

I am one of those who post all in one go, regardless of the length, so I don't see the point of chapters. Yes, I know, "Post chapter by chapter anyways to improve readership and max your comment count and be more popular" or whatever the equivalent of "Game the algorithm" is on AO3. It feels like cheating to me; it's already all written down, and I am not here to play a numbers game. I crave feedback and interaction, of course; that's why I'm posting, but I don't want to use that kind of trick if it's already, well. All there already. Readers can take breaks whenever they want if they like breaks; I'm not their parent.

I also don't like reading WIPs because I will not have the immersion I prefer, or will forget half of what happened before, and I don't have time to reread everything each time I pick it up again, so I guess I don't see the appeal. You do you, etc. To each their preferences. (As a reader, I am team finished work + full_work or, more often, just download it all. That's how *I* roll; it doesn't mean *you* have to do the same, you know?).

I did try to post chapters a few times. Once, I inverted two of them while posting (still smarting over that years later), and another time, I was posting once a day to follow a daily prompt list… which gave me Big Angst because what if I dropped dead partway? (Yes, someone had access to my AO3 to post the drafted chapters if I croaked). Each time, I was really anxious about where to put the cutoff, or change the POV - at this point it makes the chapters more balanced length-wise, but it would be more interesting to have this scene from X's POV! This scene ends a chapter's subplot, but thematically goes with the next chapter's prompt! It might be stupid, but it is what it is, and I don't see why I should choose to torture myself for something I, as a reader, couldn't care less about.

I just… don't know when to break things up. I write linearly, and while I know the rough idea of where I'm going, I don't have a definite plan and sometimes things will be shaken up as I write. I use visual markers for scene changes and POV changes (not the same markers, actually), but sometimes a scene or POV will be much longer/shorter, so it would all make chapters super unbalanced, so??? Choices? I have to make choices? Nope. Visual marker it is, and I can breathe.

If that's grounds for muting/blocking me, then go for it, I guess? I just don't get the virulence of some of these anons on the topic - it's a you do you situation, and sometimes we just don't get why people do things differently, but that's how it's like sometimes. No need to be mad at people for not doing things the way YOU like.

--

I don't care about maximizing readership, but chapters are the norm in many styles of writing. I prefer to divide a longer work into them instead of using anemic little section dividers. I save those for a sub-chapter division, should I need one.

Honestly, genre fiction is mostly divided into chapters. Yes, there are famous authors who don't use them, and I'm sure you're about to pull five out of your butt, but I think their work reads more poorly than the many, many authors who do use them. Yes, even Mr. Extra Famous And Loved By Fandom, whomever he is this time.

I don't particularly care about non-genre fiction, but plenty of multi-POV literary fiction does use chapters to divide the points of view.

It is common for chapters to be different lengths—desirable even. If a writer can't figure out how to divide something, I think that's a failure of skill... but no, I don't think it's that big of a deal in fic, and I'll read whatever has my blorbos and looks good even if it's formatted poorly and/or in a way I don't prefer.

[newkatzkafe2023]

Here is an interesting ask. How are the Sun Wukongs during their heats or mating season? Are they more desperate? Assertive? Do they make moves or gestures on our beloved fellow reader? And do you also believe that each Sun Wukong has their own kink that they are into? >;3

He's gonna make you forget about going back to being single😉🤷‍♀️

(Lmk Wukong) Ohhhhhhhhhh, my boi usually had lots of self-control at this time, but ever since he got with you, it's now a huge struggle. Look at you sitting there looking all cute and innocent in your peach color sundresses. Then you have the nerve to cutely check on him like a good wifey should, and the final straw was when you lade on a flat surface looking all relaxed and sleepy. He couldn't handle it, so he started by taking off his shirt as he gently talked to you and rubbed your back, then he'll remove his pants showing his bulge and muscles. He'll distract you with a make out session as he strips you as well, whispering promises and compliments into your cute little ears. He'll go for the next and rocks your world of romance and Desperation. I totally see his kink being corruption and desperation as he slowly takes your innocence🤤

(HIB Wukong) He wants to knock you up and leave you with a whole army of cubs. Allow me to explain that you were always the gentle motherly type with Silly Girl and Luier as you care for both of them. He would find it so hot that you would turn vicious whenever anyone in your precious little families were in danger, and he loved that. It makes him wanna throw you on your back and thrust into you like It might be the lasting he does. The downside is he doesn't wanna force you into anything, especially when he can hardly think straight during mating season. So you know what, he usually spends this time alone, fortunately and unfortunately for him, you were always able to read him like an open book and you appreciate how considerate he's trying to be but you were hot and ready. So all you had to do was get on your knees and wiggle your birthing hips at him and he'll be on you like white on rice. The Breeding kink is his go to as he spends his free time looking at your thighs 😏

(MKR Wukong) HIS TERRITORIAL INSTINCTS WOULD MAKE THIS MATING SEASON SEXY AND SCARY!!!!! He doesn't want anyone looking at you, smelling you, or even breathing around you. You know why because you belong to him, that's right his heat makes his already extremely possessive ass, unreasonably possessive. You could just be laying there, and he would come and growl, snarl, and hiss at anyone he considered a rival of your attention and affection. Then things get really heated when he displays his ridiculous strength and feats, as he goes out of his way to impress you so much you'll have to open your legs for him. Not to mention, he'll totally mark you and dominate you as he rocks your world and reenact the big bang with you. His kink absolutely is Dominance and play fighting because he and you love to play rough and end it with a tender kiss.

(NR Wukong) MY GOD, his heat makes him so much of a depraved perverted yandere. It gives you the Urge the call the police😬. He'll have hearts in his eyes as he pants, shakes, and sweats as he peeks at you from through your bathroom or bedroom window. He has no shame, no self control, and apparently no dignity at the moment as he would sometimes break into your space and grind on you as he like his life depends on it as he purrs and makes filthy promises and oaths in your ears. Seriously, you can feel his surprise commander is on your other pairs of lips, and if he not he's gonna pop right their in his pants as he makes you gush and squirt through your underwear It's official that his all kinks are gonna involve chains, whips, heavy leather, and a ball gag.

(Netflix Wukong) Out of Alll the monkey kings I feel he'll hate both mating season and his heat the most. Like seriously It makes him the equivalent to a teenage boy starting to go through puberty, His boners are both frequent and come at the worst time. It especially got worse when you came around, you displaying all your goods and treasures that make him drool all over his armor. This whole thing is Unbearable, embarrassing and he hates when it happens, so he never tells you about it but it's so hard to control himself when your right there. Ready for him to take you and make you forget about whatever problems you have, and oh god he would last as he jumps your bones In a desperate attempt to please you and himself. His kink my be Stereotypical or too obvious but I can see him having a mommy kink, as he chirps like a baby monkey, as he thrust into you and begs for your love, affection and potential Milk for him to suck on as he calls you mommy.🥵

FEEL FREE TO REBLOG🥵😉🤤😈😳😘

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Ok well i had the brief thought “what about an ER nurse Eddie au?” and then this popped fully formed into existence so fuck it Friday pt 2.. warnings for smoking and vague references to critically injured kids

“That doesn’t seem very healthy.”

Smoke curls up from the cigarette held loosely in Eddie’s hand. “It’s not, particularly.”

Buck’s hands are in his pockets as he strolls away from the glass doors out into the ambulance bay where Eddie is doing the mature, professional equivalent of playing hide and seek. He comes to a stop barely a foot or two away from where Eddie leans against grimy concrete. “Didn’t know you were a smoker.”

“I’m not,” Eddie sighs, “Particularly.” He looks over Buck’s face as he takes a drag, cataloging bruises and cuts. He hadn’t been the one to look him over before he was discharged, probably because he was out here avoiding having to do so. “Only when it’s- only after the bad shifts.” And only once a month, even if the bad shifts come again and again. He bought this pack in January, it’s stale as shit.

Buck’s eyes follow the smoke as it drifts skyward. “Rough one today?”

Eddie thinks he probably doesn’t have to explain to Buck that it’s sometimes better when a kid is dead on arrival so he doesn’t have to try his best to administer care he knows will be useless. He doesn’t have to explain a day where nothing goes right and he loses more people than he can save and he still has to walk away from someone’s parent or wife or sister, left behind forever in a waiting room on the worst day of their life, and go on to lose the next person too. Doesn’t have to explain why he’s out here, and not in there. “Mm. We’ve got this repeat customer, always hate to have him back.”

Buck’s eyes flick to his face before they settle somewhere around his elbow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. He seems like a nice guy. I worry about him. He’s here too often.”

Buck doesn’t look up. “What was he in for this time?”

“Minor concussion. Bruising. Lacerations.” Eddie sucks cancer into his lungs. “Heard a house fell on him.” Exhales it into the night.

Buck does look up this time, eyes a darker blue out here in the shadows. “Part of a house. Just a staircase and the- like, the balcony, really.”

“Maybe he should stay away from those.”

“From houses?” Buck asks, half his mouth twitching into a smile.

Eddie rests his head on the wall behind him. “Guess that’s not really practical.”

“No.” Buck is quiet for a moment, one hand slipping out of his pocket and running through his hair. Eddie wonders what he looks like, when he’s not here. He’s more styled, sometimes, when things aren’t very bad. He wonders if he’s usually all gelled up and neat. Eddie kind of likes the loose curls. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Making your day worse.” Buck looks genuinely apologetic, and Eddie shakes his head.

“The guy made it out okay this time.” Buck is just close enough that Eddie can kick at his boot with his sensible orthopedic sneaker. “You didn’t even need stitches.”

“That’s good.” Eddie’s left foot is pressed along the inside of Buck’s right, and Buck is staring down at them. “His favorite nurse was on break. I would have missed you if someone else had to do them.”

Eddie laughs, just a few bursts of soundless oxygen. “You gotta find new ways to see me before something happens that I can’t fix.”

Buck moves, taking the few steps necessary to lean against the wall beside him. Carefully, he takes the cigarette from Eddie’s hand, holds it between two of his own fingers, and takes a drag. Eddie watches it happen like he’s monitoring somebody’s pulse ox, and when Buck coughs he laughs again, louder this time. “Fuck,” Buck says, laughing too. “Thought that would be cooler than it was.”

“Smoking isn’t cool, firefighter Buckley,” Eddie says, taking the cigarette back and pulling from it again between smiling lips.

“Hm,” Buck says, grinning out into the night. Then he sighs, and rolls his head along the concrete to look at Eddie. “I think there’s nothing you can’t fix.”

They’re very close. “There’s lots I can’t fix.”

Buck shrugs like he disagrees. “I also think I’d like to find other ways to see you.”

Buck’s eyes are even more in shadow at this angle, and they’re the color of the lake back in El Paso that he and a bunch of kids went to after graduation, drunk off beer somebody’s cousin got for them, skinny dipping with breathless terrified delight under bright constellations. “Then ask me.”

Buck inhales as Eddie exhales. “What time’s your shift end?”

“5:30 AM. So, probably 6:15.”

Buck traces the two fingers he’d used to hold the cigarette down Eddie’s arm. “You wanna get breakfast with me?”

“Yes. I would.”

Buck smiles, and Eddie snubs out the cigarette on the wall between them. “I’ll meet you here?”

“Alright.” He takes a step forward, then a step to the right so he’s standing in front of Buck. “Two hours.”

“Uh huh.”

He should really get back inside. They’re understaffed, as always, and there are too many patients, as always, and not enough beds, as always. “See you then.” He doesn’t make any move to leave.

“See you then,” Buck almost whispers. He leans forward, and Eddie still doesn’t move, so he presses a tiny kiss to the corner of his mouth for just a moment. His lips are warm. Eddie hadn’t noticed it was cold outside.

Buck pulls back and leans against the wall again. Eddie smiles, puts a hand in his pocket, and walks back toward the doors.

[felassan]

Some more DA:TV and related snippets from Sylvia Feketekuty, Part 6. rest of post under a cut due to length and spoilers. [Post One, Post Two, Post Three, Post Four, Post Five]

User: "after [Emmrich and Rook's] argument they don’t really bring it up again, is it pretty much the case that Rook being lost in the fade made them both realise what was important so that conversation wasn’t really needed? or did they have it off-screen?" // Sylvia Feketekuty: ""is it pretty much the case that Rook being lost in the fade made them both realise what was important so that conversation wasn’t really needed? or did they have it off-screen?" I think either one is valid. There's some time skips, so I figured if you imagined your Rook and Emmrich talking about the argument, it could've happened while, say, they're traveling to the Necropolis. Flow-wise it seemed best to rely on that passage of time to smooth that part over, and get to the point where we enter the talk by the coffin. Or perhaps they're so in-sync that, like you said, Rook and Emmrich feel they can just move on. (If you bring Emmrich to Isle of the Gods he's apologetic there, and Rook picks up on it, so maybe that was enough short as it was.) (To my mind it's not a huge thing to declare one way or another, but I'd prefer this one to be player's choice)" [source, two, three, four]

User: "had a question about emmrich's last name. i know there is a banter with harding that confirms it is a commoner name, but i was interested in what his surname breaks down into meaning? I assumed volk=folk perhaps, but is there any other meaning/significance? thank you!" // Sylvia: "You pretty much have it right with "volk" = people. I liked the idea that Volkarin would sound fancy to someone speaking English (well Harding's not speaking English per se, but you know), but have its roots in something that plain. So yeah basically I got a kick out of the thought that in Nevarra, Emmrich's last name is the equivalent of Smith, or Jones, or Wilson. (The "arin" part is just because I thought together it paired well with "volk")" [source, two]

User: "With Hezenkoss, as a romanced rook, it feels like she's a bit jealous and was stuck in a one sided crush with her "friend" Was this intended? Or was she just competitive and annoyed at his popularity with everyone?" // Sylvia: "I always pictured Hezenkoss as annoyed that as they grew up, Emmrich become popular and effortlessly well-liked, while she, with her sheer brilliance, was clearly resented by jealous fools. Fools!!! (I pictured Johanna needling Emmrich over his romance mostly her going 'now there's some nice sore-spots I can press' because she has correctly anticipated his insecurities.) "become popular" Arg I meant to write BECAME. Cripes." [source, two, three] // Sylvia: "TBC I also don't want to invalidate any head-canons! My general rule is that if it's not stated outright in game, it's up for interpretation, regardless of my thoughts. La mort de l'auteur, etc." [source]

User: "I recently made an appreciation post on reddit how relatable he is for me and how it helped me with my anxiety. There were also other users agreeing and sharing their love for the character." // Sylvia: "I read your post and the others, and I'm glad meeting Emmrich touched people like that. His story was a team effort, and everyone making him knew we needed to hit this theme right. (His actor Nick Boraine deserves especial praise for nailing those lines.) I have indeed experienced what Emmrich does, and from the thread and other fan interactions, it's not an uncommon thing. If I can offer something I read a long time ago: you have the right to think about death without being in a state of absolute fear. I don't know why, but that thought helped me focus when things were rough. Maybe because it was correct: we DO have that right. Even if life and our own psyches conspire against us, it's ours." [source, two, three] // User: "I felt seen in a way I never have when Emmrich said he is terrified of dying. I've had panic attacks about it since I was old enough to understand what death is. Thank you for making so many feel seen and helping people realize its not just *them.*" // Sylvia: "I'm really glad it helped, because the conclusion I've come to is this is more common than we think, it's just not something people talk about." [source]

Sylvia: "(Full credit to the great feedback I got from the other writers and editors early on [re: Emmrich], he wouldn't be as good without them.)" [source] // Sylvia: "All credit to the team, especially the writers and editors who gave feedback that made him so much better during those early days and beyond." [source]

Sylvia: ""who came up with Davrin's "hand-to-bone combat" line?? 🤣" Haha that was Davrin's writer, John Dombrow! I'll let him know you (and other people) got a chuckle out of it!" [source]

User, on Manfred: ""I'm so curious -what about the almonds caught his fancy, and why so many?" Some things are a mystery even to me when it comes to Manfred. (Whatever his reason, I thought as a vegetarian Emmrich would probably have a lot of nuts handy which was the germ of the idea.)" // Sylvia: "Some things are a mystery even to me when it comes to Manfred. (Whatever his reason, I thought as a vegetarian Emmrich would probably have a lot of nuts handy which was the germ of the idea.)" [source]

User: "When Rook romances Emmrich, through banter we can see that Emmrich is surprised that the other companions know about the relationship, and also h says to Johanna that it's a private matter. Is it because he wants to keep things private only, is it because he is worried that Rook may not be the one true love, or is he worried about the age gap, or all these reasons and/or others?" // Sylvia: "In this particular case, I think Emmrich just wanted to be discrete because he didn't want to assume it was a serious thing, and for people to think HE thought it was serious. (Though his line to Hezenkoss is snappish specifically because he knows she's needling him, haha.)" [source]

Sylvia: Down Among the Dead Men and Luck in the Gardens "mean a lot to me, being my first published stories in a book.)" [source]

User: "Are there any other areas of Thedas that you think young Altus mages would tour? Poor Dorian looked like a fish out of water in Ferelden." // Sylvia: "Completely talking off the cuff here, but Orlais and Antiva, certainly, and some of the "better" Free Marcher states seem like good candidates. (Poor Ferelden! Always forgotten by the north.)" [source]

User: "I know you said previously that emmrich doesn't really vibe with cats or dogs But like if rook already has a dog or something (that someone is like pet sitting for them while they're kicked out of their faction and traveling with varric) would that be a deal breaker" // Sylvia: "Nah that'd be fine, they're not his favorites but he'll put up with them for Rook." [source]

Sylvia: "I have indeed seen Cushing's version of Hound of the Baskervilles, for some reason that part where he whirls around and throws the knife is embedded into my brain. What a great Holmes he made." [source]

User: "1. Where did Emmrich live in Nevarar when he was a child? 2. When do you think his birthday is? 👀 3. How did Johanna know him?" // Sylvia: "1. He lived inside the bounds of Nevarra City itself. He's always been a city boy. 2. For some reason, he feels like a January/February birthday to me. 3. They met as young students in the Mourn Watch." [source]

User: "if Emmrich didn't think it was serious when he'd always wanted one true love -apparently-, why did he embark on this relationship, especially with so much passion?" // Sylvia: "I think he thought it wouldn't be so serious at first, but then things progressed. And people want conflicting things, sometimes." [source]

User: "I really love Strife being a love interest for Emmrich! What lead to him as the choice if he isn't romanced?" // Sylvia: "The writing team discussed who felt right, and I liked that Strife was from one of the factions because it gives the feeling of your followers interacting with the wider world. And I felt Strife would provide a nice contrast with the romance with Rook. Unlike them, he's more established in his place in the world, like Emmrich is. Just felt like a different dynamic." [source, two] // User: "Strife balances Emmrich well since they are both interested in study but have gone about it differently." // Sylvia: "Agreed! (I wish I had thought to put it like that.)" [source]

User: "how are pets and animals honoured in the Necropolis and by the Mourn Watchers? The same as any other being?" // Sylvia: "Beloved animals are absolutely permitted to be buried with families. Mild Necropolis exploration spoiler: inside the passage you unlock after finding all the wisps in the belfry area, there's actually some caskets for faithful hounds interred in the crypt." [source]

User: "My question is do the mourn watcher/nevarra in general raise their pets after they die to keep them around? like a dog skeleton with a whisp in it?" // Sylvia: "To be honest I hadn't thought out this one, but it's a very good question. I'm not sure how common that would be, or even if it's permitted to have pets running around the family crypt. (I definitely thing people would WANT to do it.) You know, I think I'm going to have to leave this one in the vague quantum foam of the future. I think I'd want to not only double check existing lore, but answer that in-game (or in a book or etc.) if we ever need to. (Hope that's not too much of a cop out. Sometimes I like to leave questions I'm not sure about alone, because until it's in an official game or story, it doesn't quite count.)" [source, two, three]

User: "how long has Manfred been under Emmrich's care?" // Sylvia: "That's a good question, yet another thing I left a little vague in case I needed to define it concretely in the future. And since I've left, the answer is very much in my head only. But I feel it's likely to have at least been a decade. (Hezenkoss acts like she knows about Manfred, I figure she could've met him during an earlier clash. But I don't think Manfred was around when she and Emmrich were young students.)" [source, two]

User: "if Emmrich had tattoos, on what theme would they be?" // Sylvia: "Something anatomical/surgical, patterned on the MW's mystic theories of the body and death, feels appropriate to me." [source]

Sylvia: "BioWare put out an infographic about choices a few weeks ago, and "lich" was winning out. 1) When Emmrich says how he feels will change did he just mean his senses or is it on an emotional level?" He's definitely talking about his senses in that scene. On an emotional level: unknown. (I imagine it WOULD change someone because it's such a big shift, but exactly what does it do, mystically, if anything, is something I'd like to leave alone since I didn't really cover that in the game, and it feels like it'd been bigger consideration if that makes sense.) I kind of want how the lich-romance proceeds to live in players' imaginations, purely so people can tailor it to their own story. I'm afraid any writer-declaration would narrow the possibilities instead of expanding them, if that makes sense." [source, two, three, four]

Sylvia: ""I've been waiting for Nevarra for years and it was everything i could have dreamed of and MORE!" I'm very glad to hear it. The rest of the Necropolis team and I were very excited to finally get to portray even a small portion of the ancient and hallowed graves of Nevarra." [source]

User: "If I remember correctly, we only really see Emmrich use necromantic magic in-game. Are there other types of magic (elemental, healing/spirit, etc) that you think he would gravitate toward?" // Sylvia: "Hrm. He does have a bit of healing magic, mechanically in combat. It coudl work, but somehow I don't think Emmrich would ever be a high-level healer. He could maybe get the basics but it's not his great gift. Something about the gravic magic of the force mage specialty feels appropriate though." [source]

Sylvia: "I'm so glad you liked meeting and getting to know our necromancer. (Huge props to our cinematic and audio team on that garden scene, it was incredible seeing it come in finished for the first time.)" [source]

Allegra Clark: "I just wanted to say that I miss you so much and I’m so excited for whatever comes next in your career. Josephine means so much to me and I’ve fallen utterly in love with Emmrich (how dare you, he’s perfect). Thank you for trusting me with your child over a decade ago ❤️" [source] // Sylvia: "Allegra! Thank you so much! I'm so excited you've been digging our gentleman necromancer. I hope you've been seeing people ping me about their love of Josephine. I heard someone very good did her voice.. Thank YOU for embodying her so quickly and completely!" [source, two]

User: "how was Emmrich doing when Rook was trapped in the Fade?" // Sylvia: "Probably very poorly! Poor man would've been incredibly anxious and working all hours towards a solution." [source]

User: "So i asked you before what music emmrich does like but um is there any music he hates I feel like he'd die if someone took him to a death metal concert XD" // Sylvia: "I think that's a good one to pick, lol. "It's all just noise!"" [source]

User: "Did Emmrich teach (or at least attempt to teach) Manfred how to read?" // Sylvia: "I think that was beyond his skillset, beforehand; Manfred could be taught to recognize objects, but the abstraction of reading was one step too much at that point." [source]

User: "Do Mourn Watchers undergo a Harrowing?" // Sylvia: "They do! You may've missed it but there's a MWer in the Necropolis who mentions MW Harrowings if you go by them. (The MW has had to suspend theirs because chaos in the Fade.) But that's a temporary suspension, probably resolved by the time the credits roll. In general: I figure that if you're a mage who underwent a harrowing in some other circle, that stands, but that the MW would also perform harrowings for students they took in early. Also: not a silly question! It doesn't really come up with the MW except that one ambient line, and it's very easy to miss." [source, two, three]

User: "Doing a 3rd MW playthrough after not playing one for a couple of months feels like coming home again" // Sylvia: "That's some commitment to the dead! The Mourn Watch approve." [source]

User: "if two mourn watchers were to share a piece of grave dowry between them, that's grounds for a serious relationship?" // Sylvia: "You mean like each one having the half of a necklace, or having the same bit of gold made into matching rings? Or swapping jewelry? Either way, what a nice idea. It could be!" [source]

Sylvia: "Emmrichwas very much the work of the team, including some very good feedback early on from the other writers and editors." [source]

Sylvia: "The team and I were also super excited to get to explore the Necropolis. It was an honour to open up the tombs to everyone." [source]

User: "Emmerich's particular respect for trans characters was extremely enticing to me." // Sylvia: "Thanks, I'm glad he resonated. (Some trans colleagues kindly spent the time to give me some feedback on the wording of the lines, which I think made them way better.)" [source]

User: "Emmrich is so amazing" // Sylvia: "Thank you again, that is incredible to hear. (And I want to mention, only possible with the team; they helped improve the story every step.)" [source]

Sylvia: Tevinter Nights "was a fun collection to work on" [source]

User: "Does lich Emmrich feel anything when Rook kisses him or touches him?" // Sylvia: "yeah, I don't think he's "numb" so to speak, he can sense a touch (with his new powers from beyond the graaaaaave 🪦💀🌹)" [source]

User: "about Emmrich so i know he's into flowers and botany but is he into plant meanings and symbolism" // Sylvia: "I think he is - Emmrich mentions some flowers that are "famed in verse and song", I think he'd enjoy reading up on the cultural importance and symbolism layered on to them." [source]

User: "Obv the game mechanics require Rook to make the choice but would a romanced Emmrich choose to become a Lich if the choice was in his hands? Would he abandon his dream for love?" // Sylvia: "I must refuse to answer on the grounds that it's too melancholy to contemplate. ;_;" [source]

User: "On the dinner date in the Necropolis I loved how Emmrich felt philosophical, it was so relatable, especially when he talked about the connection to something finer than we are. It was magical!" // Sylvia: "I'm really pleased that last part of the dinner date, resonated with you, I was trying really hard to get a certain feeling across." [source]

User: "What month do you think Emmrich was born in? I really wanna know what my guy's zodiac sign is" // Sylvia: "I don't know anything about zodiac stuff but weirdly, I do have a range, for some reason I always thought it'd be January or February." [source]

User: "1. How does Emmrich feel about children, both in general and possibly having them? 2. Would Emmrich be into gift-giving?" // Sylvia: "1. In general, he likes kids okay, and tries to be kind, but his students are mostly older so he doesn't really chat with many. Regarding having them, if circumstances aligned so that was the case, I think he'd be excited if maybe a little overwhelmed by the thought. 2. I think so! Not overbearing about it, but he would like to show some tokens of affection at appropriate times. (There's no way he's not delighted to get gifts.)" [source, two]

User: A more recent one but thanks to Sylvia Feketekuty it was the whole arc with Emmrich and his fear of dying because it's something I often experience myself and I don't think it's ever been addressed in a video game before and it was done so well in DA:TV too." // Sylvia: "Thank you so much! It means a lot to me too, to hear that it resonated with you." [source]

Sylvia: [Emmrich] "was the work of many other devs we're toasting here too, everyone working on Emmrich and the Mourn Watch went fully in." [source]

User: "I've wanted to thank you for all your work on DA. Emmrich, Manfred, and the Necropolis kept me going through some rough months. I was delighted to learn that you wrote Josephine too. I hope to see more of your work in the future. You're an amazing writer." // Sylvia: "Thank you, Kobra! And I'm very glad that meeting Emmrich and exploring the necropolis brought you some comfort." [source]

User: "One more question, if I may-- Is there any lore you can share about how pet remains are treated in Nevarra? I think I remember skeletal horses pulling a carriage in TN. (This might have something to do with me picking up my dead rabbit's cleaned skull from a taxidermist today and having Feels)." // Sylvia: "Beloved pets and other animal companions are very often interred along with their families. (You can actually see the burial place of some hounds in the corridor that opens up once you find all the wisps in the belfry. It was such an nice touch added by the level artist and level designer.)" [source]

User: "What would you say is the most important holiday in Nevarra? Or The Necropolis and how do they celebrate it?" // Sylvia: "I have nothing canonical written down or the like. But if I had to pick one, it would be the autumn ancestral pageants. There's the obvious connection with real life celebrations around death in in the fall, and the Mourn Watch and other mortalitasi would certainly come out for that." [source]

Sylvia: "

User: A more recent one but thanks to Sylvia Feketekuty it was the whole arc with Emmrich and his fear of dying because it's something I often experience myself and I don't think it's ever been addressed in a video game before and it was done so well in DA:TV too." // Sylvia: "Thank you so much! It means a lot to me too, to hear that it resonated with you." [source]

Sylvia: [Emmrich] "was the work of many other devs we're toasting here too, everyone working on Emmrich and the Mourn Watch went fully in." [source]

User: "I've wanted to thank you for all your work on DA. Emmrich, Manfred, and the Necropolis kept me going through some rough months. I was delighted to learn that you wrote Josephine too. I hope to see more of your work in the future. You're an amazing writer." // Sylvia: "Thank you, Kobra! And I'm very glad that meeting Emmrich and exploring the necropolis brought you some comfort." [source]

User: "One more question, if I may-- Is there any lore you can share about how pet remains are treated in Nevarra? I think I remember skeletal horses pulling a carriage in TN. (This might have something to do with me picking up my dead rabbit's cleaned skull from a taxidermist today and having Feels)." // Sylvia: "Beloved pets and other animal companions are very often interred along with their families. (You can actually see the burial place of some hounds in the corridor that opens up once you find all the wisps in the belfry. It was such an nice touch added by the level artist and level designer.)" [source]

User: "What would you say is the most important holiday in Nevarra? Or The Necropolis and how do they celebrate it?" // Sylvia: "I have nothing canonical written down or the like. But if I had to pick one, it would be the autumn ancestral pageants. There's the obvious connection with real life celebrations around death in in the fall, and the Mourn Watch and other mortalitasi would certainly come out for that." [source]

Sylvia: "

User: A more recent one but thanks to Sylvia Feketekuty it was the whole arc with Emmrich and his fear of dying because it's something I often experience myself and I don't think it's ever been addressed in a video game before and it was done so well in DA:TV too." // Sylvia: "Thank you so much! It means a lot to me too, to hear that it resonated with you." [source]

Sylvia: [Emmrich] "was the work of many other devs we're toasting here too, everyone working on Emmrich and the Mourn Watch went fully in." [source]

User: "I've wanted to thank you for all your work on DA. Emmrich, Manfred, and the Necropolis kept me going through some rough months. I was delighted to learn that you wrote Josephine too. I hope to see more of your work in the future. You're an amazing writer." // Sylvia: "Thank you, Kobra! And I'm very glad that meeting Emmrich and exploring the necropolis brought you some comfort." [source]

User: "One more question, if I may-- Is there any lore you can share about how pet remains are treated in Nevarra? I think I remember skeletal horses pulling a carriage in TN. (This might have something to do with me picking up my dead rabbit's cleaned skull from a taxidermist today and having Feels)." // Sylvia: "Beloved pets and other animal companions are very often interred along with their families. (You can actually see the burial place of some hounds in the corridor that opens up once you find all the wisps in the belfry. It was such an nice touch added by the level artist and level designer.)" [source]

User: "What would you say is the most important holiday in Nevarra? Or The Necropolis and how do they celebrate it?" // Sylvia: "I have nothing canonical written down or the like. But if I had to pick one, it would be the autumn ancestral pageants. There's the obvious connection with real life celebrations around death in in the fall, and the Mourn Watch and other mortalitasi would certainly come out for that." [source]

Sylvia: "Saw another misconception I wanted to clear up - I saw someone attribute Calpernia and Samson's quests in DAI to me. Not so! Those fine quests and characters were written by Jo Berry" [source] // Jo Berry: "And you took great care of them when I went on to other things 💙" [source] // Sylvia: "It was a pleasure!" [source]

User: "Are you happy with the theme Hans Zimmer and Lorne Balfe gave for him and the Mourn Watch? For me I love hearing it, cause it truly suits him!" // Sylvia: "I loved the theme! I worked with our music director Ron Dazo to explain the character to them, and I think they all nailed it. A solid character theme needs to be able be remixed for different purposes, and this action version is also one of my favorite tracks: [link]" [source]

User: "Not so much needing a massive explanation more curiosity after a friend and I have been conspiratorial for fun: do you think that Nevarra had their own religion before the Chantry became the most common religion in the country? That they worshipped a different deity or deities?" // Sylvia: "Took me a moment to double check, but Nevarra canonically had a history of animism in the distant past with the Planasene tribes. So probably yes, though we've left the nature of the animism fuzzy." [source]

[question about a 'Veiljumper triangle language'] // Sylvia: "Oh dang, I'm sorry I don't know at all. (The reason some MW-language inscriptions have a real meaning, and some are just gibberish, is that I suggested it'd be fun to do translatable words. But by the time I brought that up, some objects with that script had already been outsourced and completed.) It could be those triangles have no real-world translation, but this is a case where my guess is as good as yours." [source, two]

User: "is 'hot undead' a thing?" // Sylvia: "haha! I must leave that to the interpretations of the viewer"

[capr1pengu1n]

hello!

I would LOVE to see you write a oneshot for Arkham City Eddie if you are interested? It's my birthday on October 18th and I just knew I wanted to request another piece from you to celebrate! You have full reign to make it as salacious as you would like. Fem reader, please, but could you maybe do a brat kink with pigtails or something? I love picturing him with a partner that acts like a brat just to get his attention. 😈

I appreciate you, friend!

Happy Halloween!!

Until the lights go down

Summary: Under Edward's protection in Arkham City, you quickly become bored of your routine, and hope to spice up your time by seducing your lover

Warnings: 18+ smut, fem reader (no use of y/n), dom!eddie, thigh riding, blowjobs, rough sex, slight threat at the start, threat of exhibitionism, praise + degradation

Words: 5k

Notes: Happy birthday to the lovely @adhdnursegoat !!! Thank you for being such a sweetheart for as long as we've been mutuals, I really hope you have fun with this, and most importantly have a great birthday! <3

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Boring is not the word that you would have assumed would be your descriptor for the hellish megaprison you’d been thrown into…but as you lay on your back on the lumpy mattress, that’s the one that springs to mind. Boredom sets in like a rot, the latest gunfire from somewhere vaguely to the east of the building not even making you flinch like it used to anymore.

You weren’t completely sure how long both you and Edward had been here, although your lover was taken first. Watching the news in slight horror and anxiety as you saw the coverage detailing his move into the controversial new prison, more like a holding pen for the corrupt and the insane. Well…the corrupt, insane, and you. What both you and Edward weren’t planning on was how thorough Hugo Strange had been; Edward had never so much as whispered about your relationship to anyone, despite how much he secretly ached for Gotham to see how easily a man as intelligent as him could get a girl as pretty and devoted as you, but somehow Strange knew about you both. You’d been practically abducted and taken, chest heavy with your panicked breaths as you'd gazed upon the psychologist who had orchestrated this ordeal.

“Ah, Mister Nigma’s little pet. I wonder, will he protect you? Or will you be too much of a liability? A distraction from whatever twisted little game he hopes to play.”

His tone you remember was icy and clinical, head tilted as his eyes moved up and down you. You’d bit your tongue, knowing that any outburst may result in further injuries than just the bruises blooming on your arms beneath the guard’s tight grip. You looked down, but he stepped forward and gripped your jaw with a harsh cruelty. “I believe he’ll throw you to the wolves, that’s all a sociopath like him is capable of. You’re nothing but a foolish little girl for thinking he cares about you any more than a lapdog who satiates his primal needs.”

You couldn’t contain the death glare that you shot at him. He dropped his hand, leaning away from you before signalling to his guards, and before you knew it, you were in the lion’s den, so to speak. Forced onto the ground, you’d quickly scrambled to your feet as you adjusted to your surroundings. And as you noticed the eyes blinking at you from the streets.

With a shaky breath, you quickly assessed the situation. You knew you were the equivalent of fresh meat in here, only made worse by the fact they hadn’t given you another set of clothes, so there you stood in your skirt and jumper they'd kidnapped you in. Footsteps echoed behind you, a couple of men clearly wanting to intimidate you by jeering and laughing. Thoughts of breaking into a sprint had entered your slightly dazed thoughts, however you remember the sudden loud gunshot had seized your body up as you ducked. You quickly realised however, that nobody had been shooting at you, when you hear the inmates behind you quickly back away and speak.

“Fuck, I thought nobody had seen him in here. I ain’t getting’ involved.”

Confused, you looked up to see Edward striding towards you, confident as ever with a revolver in his hand. He didn’t say a word as he grabbed a hold of your arm and pulled you along, and you can’t deny the slight sadistic joy you got from glancing at the other inmates’ intimidated faces. Turns out he’d paid two of Penguin’s muscle to escort you both to his hideout, but he hadn’t spoken a word the whole way back, jawline stuck in a harsh line.

Once you were back, he’d lamented how stupid it was that you were here, how he didn’t have time to play the role of babysitter and keep you safe, how much of an imbecile Strange was for making such an enemy of him. But with a little difficulty, he’d assured you that he would, in fact, keep you safe, and the tight grip he’d kept on you that night confirmed it.

But now…now you were bored. You understand why he’s forbade you from leaving, but each day seems to bleed together into one long stretch of dullness. Edward barely had time for you, too busy concocting his masterplan, so that left you to wander around the building over and over again. He’d told you that you were beneath the iceberg lounge in an abandoned train-yard, but you couldn’t hear that much coming from outside apart from the occasional explosion.

So alas, you have the same shitty cold shower you do every day (although at least Edward’s hideout granted you the luxury of a shower in the first place) before getting changed. He’d given you some clothes he’d managed to obtain that vaguely fit you, but you decide to wear the outfit you’d been thrown in with. That’s when you hatch your plan.

An awful decision really, truly you were asking for trouble, but at least trouble was something interesting. So you tie your hair up in loose pigtails, rolling your skirt up for maximum effect, and skip down to where you know Edward will be. He’s sat, endlessly tapping away at his keyboard while observing the many monitors he’s set up to feed him information. You can’t deny you’ve always been impressed with his ability to multitask so well.

Scribbling some notes down on a scrap piece of paper, he hardly heard you come in until you lightly brush your finger along his shoulder and say in the softest voice you could muster, “Eddie, I’m bored.”

Taking a quick glance at you, he laughs. “You look ridiculous dear, I hadn’t realised you were so desperate for attention you’d attempt to replicate Harleen’s look. Do you expect me to be interested?”

You roll your eyes, letting your finger wander up and down his shoulder and collarbone beneath the tattered green suit jacket. “C’mon Eddie…I know you’re interested.”

“Just because I don’t want you to die an undignified death on the streets by some thug, doesn’t mean that I will drop all of my important work because you’re bored. Why don’t you dig deep into your limited cognitive capabilities and find something to do?”

“There’s nothing to do.” You lament, not being bothered by his usual condescending tone.

“And that’s my problem how exactly? Be grateful I’m letting you stay here.” Huffing, you sit up on his desk as he scribbles something else down. “Get off my desk.”

“Edward come on.” You whine, knowing you were acting like a petulant child, but at least he was actually acknowledging you.

He rubs the bridge of his nose, glasses falling down a little. “Do you have any idea what I’m attempting to plan here? What am I even saying, of course you don’t.”

“Tell me then.” You challenge, appealing to the narcissistic part of his personality that longs to be praised and recognised.

Eyes narrowing for a moment, he sits back in the chair and relents, starting to explain his plan. You hear him detail how he’ll kidnap the medical staff sent in to look after the welfare of the inmates, but you can’t help your thoughts drifting as he speaks. Always loving his voice, you allow your mind to bathe in the sound, eyes flitting over him. He’s clearly stressed, but when isn’t he these days? His tie hangs loosely around his neck, and your fingers itch to fix it…or to have him rip it off in a desperate haze before using it to bind your wrists. You blink your way out of those thoughts, as he’s still explaining the master plan, hands waving to solidify his points.

Your gaze flits to them, the dark purple fingerless gloves drawing attention to his digits, cleaner than they usually are, most likely due to his informants building whatever is left of the various contraptions, leaving his hands free to scheme. What you wouldn’t give to have those hands wrapped tightly around your throat, holding you in place as he uses you. Or perhaps have them drag along your trembling form, feeling the leather contrasting your smooth skin as they reach their crude destination. Or even have those long digits filling up your needy cunt, curling in just the right way that he knows will have you gushing all over his hand.

You notice he isn’t wearing a belt either. How easy it would be to just crawl to your knees, unbutton his trousers and have him gasping and gripping your hair as you-

“You really aren’t listening to a word I’m saying, are you?” His firm tone forces you roughly from your salacious daydream, blinking at him dumbly. Laughing coldly, he continues, “Really? Nothing to say? Maybe you’d have an inch more of an intellect in that pretty head of yours if you could restrain yourself from eye-fucking me every chance you get.”

Feeling the flush burn in your cheeks, you decide to double down. “Can’t help it. Not when you look so good like that.”

His eyebrows raise. “When I’ve been in a hellhole that doesn’t even have hot water, that is when you find me the most desirable?”

Others may not have noticed any change from your lover, but you know him too well. You notice the way his shoulders have relaxed slightly, how his legs have parted just enough for you to see. So you metaphorically pounce, moving off his desk slowly before straddling his lap, legs on either side of him, making the chair squeak slightly. “When we’ve been here and you’ve hardly touched me, that’s when. Can’t help that I’m needy”

He allows you to sit on his lap, hands moving to hold your hips gently. “Ah, my pet is feeling neglected is she?” His tone is mocking, but his wolfish grin and the way his eyes dart to your lips show he’s feeling just as pent up.

You make a noise of affirmation, moving to shift your hips over him. “Yes…you need to do something Edward.”

“Do not order me around.” He says lowly, tutting, “I think you’re forgetting who is in charge here.”

You smile, finally getting what you want. “Who is in charge?”

Letting out a slight groan, he grabs your cheeks in his hand, squishing them. “Oh you’re really playing with fire, my dear.”

You give him the most doe-eyed look you can muster before he kisses you roughly. Moaning into his mouth, you feel his tongue push into your lips, claiming you quickly and completely. It’s hungry and desperate, saliva being swapped in a way that would cause even the most provocative person to blush. In return, you do a more deliberate grind of your hips, feeling satisfaction as he bucks up into you instinctively. He pulls away, a string of saliva connecting you both.

“So your plan was to wear that stupid hairstyle and slutty skirt in the hopes you’d seduce me into giving you what you want?” he mutters, eyes taking in your body on his lap. Often, he looks at you like he can’t quite believe how attracted you are to him. He’d never admit it of course, to anyone who dared to find out, he’d boast about how natural it is for a gorgeous girl like you to pursue a man of such high intellect, charisma and looks. But deep down, he’s shocked that you desire him like you do, how you’d willingly be on his lap, pawing for his attention.

You nod, knowing it’s best to not lie in this situation, to which he chuckles darkly. “Oh sweetheart, you really are filthy, aren’t you?”

At your slight giggle, he leans and kisses up your neck before whispering into your ear. “I think it’s time I remind you that I’m in control…that I decide when you get touched, when you get pleasured. Not you.”

When you consent, he hums in mock thought, fingers tracing down to your hips, before reaching the soft skin just below where your skirt ends. He taps it a few times, relishing in the way you practically vibrate at the small contact, before reaching up and up to feel the material of your underwear.

“It’s a good thing a mind such as mine prepares for any eventuality.” He boasts, and your momentary confusion is dissipated when he produces a small knife from his jacket, cutting the material so it falls undignified to the hard floor. You pout a little, it’s not like you have an abundance of panties in here, before he moves the sharp blade to your thigh, gently tracing. “Problem?”

You shake your head quickly; you love being a brat sure, but you aren’t completely certain you want to unlock whatever sadistic desires he could have while holding a sharp object. Luckily he seems satisfied with your pussy now being out, but instead of touching it he simply places the knife back in his jacket before maneuvering you so you’re straddling his thigh. Gripping your hips tight, he moves you over the rough fabric of his trousers, before casting you a disinterested look.

“There, perhaps now you’ll be satiated by my mere frame while I continue my important work.” He says, but you don’t miss the cocky smirk that paints his face for a second as he speaks, before he quickly hides it.

Instead you let out a soft whine of protest, but the friction is too delicious to stop. So as he wheels the chair closer to the desk, his arm reaching to grab his nearly blunt pencil, you grip his shoulders and rolls your hips. A gasped moan escapes you, the whole situation coupled with how needy you’ve been for god knows how long means your cunt is alive with sensations that it greedily feasts on.

The only sounds from the room are your choked whimpers, the slow hum of the monitors and the scratching of his pencil on his notepad. You’re certain that there’s now a wet patch on the fabric beneath you with how much your pussy is leaking, begging to be filled or played with properly. Clit throbbing, you attempt to grind harder but it gives you little relief, so you press your forehead against his shoulder. You try to control your breathing, enough to formulate some plea, but deep down you know it won’t work. You’ll get your pleasure when Edward deems it time.

You aren’t sure how long you keep grinding, but your desperate moans increase in both frequency and pitch. He clicks his tongue at a particularly salacious noise that leaves your parted lips, and only then does he finally look at you; pupils blown so wide they’re like pools of ink, searching his body and face for anything that might free you from this pleasure-deprived prison he’s placed you in.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asks condescendingly, and when you shake your head, a deep chuckle escapes him. “Greedy girl, you’re truly never content, are you?”

He grabs your waist roughly, stopping your movements before pushing his hand beneath your skirt and feeling the wet mess. “Soaked, as I predicted. I bet you’ve made a mess of my nice trousers haven’t you? Well, we can’t be having that. On your knees.”

You rush to follow his command, cheeks burning as he tuts at the discoloured fabric on his thigh. Still you do your best to look tempting as you gaze up at him, blinking slowly. He seemingly appreciates it, running a hand along your jaw. “You’ve distracted me from my plans by behaving like such a harlot, so it’s only fitting I treat you like one.”

As he speaks, he unbuttons and frees himself from his trousers, length springing free and your mouth practically waters in anticipation. But before you can taste it, he stops you. “No no…you have to make this worth my time, girl. Now ask me nicely.”

You swallow, attempting to formulate the words in your head before you start to beg. “Please Edward, please let me please you. I want to…I need to please you.”

He smirks. “Good attempt, but calling me my name is most certainly not what I want right now.”

Knowing his egotistical nature very well, you relent, the brattiness making way for a carnal need for him. “Please let me please you Mister Nigma, Sir.”

He gives you a soft pat on the cheek that you can only infer means you’ve done a good job before he allows you to part your lips and take the head in your mouth. Sighing in relief, you suck slowly before pushing forward to take in more, bobbing your head as you savour finally having his attention. He lets out a small groan of satisfaction that makes your clit pulse, so you keep going, dragging your tongue along the underside.

“Good…perhaps I’ve been using you wrong this whole time. Instead of seeing you as a distraction, maybe I should just chain you to the desk to keep as my own personal stress reliever. Ready to open her whore mouth and take me whenever I see fit. I’m sure my productivity would increase.” He brags, although the hand that currently isn’t stroking your hair is gripping the arm of the chair so hard you’re sure the knuckles under his glove are white.

You moan around him in response, the sounds of you sucking filling the room in an indecent cacophony. As you do, your body feels like it’s on fire, like any sensation would tip you over the edge. But you’re determined to make him come undone, blinking up at him as you take him deeper. The hand that was on the top of your head runs down to your jawline, before a wicked idea forms.

“Well, I suppose if you insist on wearing your hair like that, might as well make it useful.” He sneers down at you, before gripping both ends of your pigtails. You realise what’s going to happen, and you do your best to relax your throat as he pulls you down on his cock, using the hair like handlebars to move you as he sees fit.

He isn’t being as rough as he could be, clearly holding back from really ruining your poor throat. But he still pushes you down until your eyes water, feeling his cock reach almost the back of your throat before giving you the respite of pulling you back up to the tip. Edward lets out a small sigh, eyes closing for a moment before snapping back open. He’d never been able to deprive himself of the beauty of your face as he ruins it.

“Fuck…look at you sweetheart. Such a mess.” He says like he’s chastising you.

You can’t hope to respond, a small whine escaping you until his cock fills your mouth once more. Sure, he’s not overly big, but he prides himself on being big enough to completely fill whatever hole he deems suitable. Over and over again he uses you, until you blink away soft tears and suck in a particularly good way; a hiss escapes him and he pulls you off roughly, letting go of your pigtails.

“I suppose you’ve been good enough to warrant a reward, I’ll allow you the honour of sitting on my cock.” He says, trying to mask the real reason; that he was seconds away from blowing his load deep down your throat.

But you’re delighted you finally have the chance to feel him properly, in the way you’ve touched yourself every night you’ve been here thinking about. So you climb back into his lap, positioning yourself above him before he crudely uses his cockhead to rub your clit in circular moments. Moaning simply makes him chuckle darkly, cooing at you to “stop behaving like a needy whore and enjoy what I give you.”

Luckily he lets you finally sink down on him, feeling every inch stretch you open until you’ve taken him all the way. You both moan out, but you watch as he tilts his head back and enjoys the sensation of your warm cunt squeezing around him. He’s gorgeous like this, so unlike the demeaning supervillain he presents himself to Gotham as. You have no doubt you’ll see glimpses of that in a moment, but for now you enjoy how blissful his features are.

You experimentally roll your hips, making you both groan out, before you attempt to find a rhythm. He keeps a tight grip on your hips, clearly not wanting you to go too fast too quick, seeking to enjoy you for as long as he can. But you want to just ride him hard and fast, to chase your release until you’re making a mess all over his lap.

“Always so tight for me.” He grits out, and you bathe in the praise as you keep moving up and down. Your fingers dig in to the shoulder of his jacket, before he huffs and shrugs it off, leaving him in his off-white shirt and question mark tie. As you keep riding him, your hands trail down to his tie, idly playing with the material between your digits.

His grin grows as he looks at you. “So eager to strip me, or does the pretty girl have a lewder idea of what to do with my tie?” he says condescendingly.

When you just moan in response, he doubles down. “I could bind those pesky wrists behind your back, make sure you aren’t touching what isn’t yours. Or perhaps I’ll blindfold you, so you never know what your master is going to inflict upon you.”

His words cause you to clench harder around him, and he starts to play with your clit lazily as you move. With how pent up you are, your pace increases a little as his actions and words have you practically tasting your orgasm already. His hips twitch upwards a little, clearly fighting the urge to just take you all for himself in a mad rush. But how can he when you’re so close to coming undone for him, all by yourself?

“Oh look at that, is the big girl going to cum all by herself?” he smirks, his tone making you flush with embarrassment and arousal. But he’s right, with your body moving up and down coupled with his dexterous fingers toying with your clit, you were on the edge of orgasm.

As you nod quickly, he smirks and nods in return. “Make a mess all over me dear, just know I’m not going to stop until I achieve satisfaction.”

His words had trailed off in your mind half way through as you were too busy cumming on his cock, shaking and writhing in his lap. You slump forward, and he allows you the mercy of resting for a few moments before he bucks up into you, causing you to whine softly against his ear.

But he stops, his eyes darting to one of the top monitors, and a wicked expression crosses his face. “Be a doll and turn around for me, okay?”

You nod blindly at his instruction, turning so your back was to his chest before sinking back down on his throbbing cock. In your haze to do what he’d asked, you hadn’t followed his gaze to see what he’s looking at, not until he grasps your hips and begins to move you again do you glance upwards.

On one of the monitors, is one of his informants, dressed in what you think is Two-Face’s gang’s uniform, waving at the camera to get your lovers attention. Your breath catches at the sight, but Edward only chuckles behind you, not allowing you to slow down.

“Looks like we have an audience. Tell me, what’s to stop me from broadcasting a projection of what’s happening here outside on that wall behind him? Then he’d be able to see what a little whore like you does for my attention, for the riddler’s attention.”

His voice is deep and commanding, clearly the situation has stroked his ego in that all too familiar way, his grip almost bruising on your hips as he continues. “I think it’ll be good for the denizens of this wretched place to see who is really in charge, to remind them that my intellect has afforded me not just my reputation, but anything I desire. Including my cute little pet who offers herself up so willingly to me.”

His words are punctuated with guttural moans, his need now overwhelming. But he’d never pass up an opportunity like this, so he leans forward, one hand still holding you firmly in his lap and on his cock, before flicking a switch.

“Speak.”

“M-Mister Nigma, sir. I planted all them trophies ya wanted down in the courthouse, although I couldn’t do one of them, since I-I was nearly caught and-“

A particularly rough thrust upwards has you biting your lip after a small noise involuntarily escaped you, but you keep quiet as you try and control the rhythm of your movements. You’re glad you aren’t being projected for the man to see, but there is still the risk he’ll hear you. After all, you aren't sure how much the microphone can pick up, so he might be able to hear the soft squelch of your cunt as you move it up and down. Edward doesn’t seem bothered by the noise you made, simply rubbing your hips as he glares at the monitor.

“And you think this excuse will be useful to you? What the hell do I pay you for? I know a simple verbal instruction is hard for a cerebrally challenged monkey to follow, but do try and keep up.” He lambasts the poor guy out front, doing a remarkably good job of keeping his voice steady and even. But you can tell he’s getting off on the power of the situation; of having his lover servicing him sexually while he chastises one of the people who works for him.

“S-Sorry Mister Nigma, sir. I’ll get on it right away.”

Cruelly, Edward decides that now is the perfect time to move his hand up to tweak your nipple harshly, causing a whine to fall past your lips. You’re sure the man heard it, his features furrowing a little in confusion on the monitor before Edward flips the switch off.

With a grunt he lifts you off him before bending you over the desk and entering you in one harsh thrust yet again, the breath being knocked out of you. He sets a rough pace, clearly chasing his own release. All you can do is cling on for dear life as he uses you like a toy. The crude noises of your pussy being filled over and over again only serve to have you clenching around him in pleasure, your eyes forced to face the monitors. Forced to see just how much control Edward has over Arkham City, how much he knows about everything going on here as your eyes watch the inmates, and crucially how none of them know that he’s fucking you like a man possessed while you observe them.

“Fuck, it’s a shame I can’t fill you up while we’re in here. Guess I’ll just have to make you a filthy mess instead.” He grunts out, and you barely have time to process before he pulls out and quickly strokes himself to completion all over your ass. Both of your breaths can be heard heaving as you take a few moments to come down, the sensations still a gentle simmer across your skin. You hear him tuck himself away, fixing his clothes before you gently try and move.

“Stay.” He demands quietly, and you’re unsure why until you feel him gently cleaning his cum away from your skin with a spare rag. Once he’s done, he smooths your skirt back down as he helps you back into a standing position. Without uttering another word, he leads you back to the makeshift bedroom, settling you on the mattress to rest. You smile softly at the feeling of him taking care of you, in his own way. He sits on the edge, fidgeting with his hands a little. Getting comfy on the mattress, you go to reach out for him before stopping yourself, sensing something is…off with him.

“I…do in fact have something else for you. I was planning on giving it to you later, but you forced my hand.” He says suddenly, causing you to tilt your head in intrigue. Getting up, he rifles through a drawer you hadn’t thought to look in until he removes a small black box, with a slightly charred ribbon tied around it.

“I can imagine spending your birthday in a prison city wasn’t your ideal scenario.” He states, handing you the box as you look at him, shocked. You hadn’t even mentioned it was your birthday, not really thinking it was the right time in your current situation.

“You remembered?”

He lets out a scoff. “Of course I remembered, I’m no simpleton. I’m more than capable of remembering a date, especially when this dim-witted society places so much emphasis on someone’s date of birth.”

As you glance at the box in your hand, he continues with an awkward cough. “I confess I did have something a little better in mind. But it’s hard to procure items in here that aren’t of the firearm or explosive variety, and I didn’t factor into my plans our joint incarceration.”

With a soft smile, you move yourself into a seated position and tug on the ribbon before opening the box, seeing a simple bracelet in his signature shade of green. “Edward…it’s lovely.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” He says quickly, for once his eyes were trained to the ground instead of your face, “Again, not the gift I was planning for you but…well it’s the best I could do here.”

You’re truly touched, heat rushing to your cheeks as you smile lovingly up at him. “Edward it’s perfect, thank you.”

Shuffling, you wrap your arms around him into a tight hug, burying your face in his neck. You don’t care that you’re both covered in dry sweat, or that you both reek of sex, all you want is to be close to him. He pretends to huff at your display of affection, but he wraps his arms around you regardless, holding you flush against him.

“Happy birthday, my dear.”

[hells-wasabii]

Can U Make Head-cannons of Angel Dust SFW and NSFW pls 🙏🏽

A/N: so, I actually have two asks for hcs for Angel, so I'll probably do another set of em as well when i reach that other ask! for now though I hope you like these! I did also write these with a male reader in mind

Part 1 | Part 2

Character: Angel Dust

Type: Headcanons (Angel Dust x reader, General, Fluff, Angst, NSFW under cut)

A romance with Angel Dust is a lot of things. It's passionate, it's loving, it's heavy. It's real. He uses his flirty personality as a defense mechanism, but you saw through it early on. There were times when the two of you were out on the town together and sometimes when he thought no one was looking, you could catch a glimpse of the demon under the mask.

He's been hurt at nearly every turn, so he's opening himself up to trust you not to. But this doesn't mean to coddle him or to treat him like he's made of glass. He just wants you to be real with him, you know? Sure, he has bad habits, and bad coping mechanisms that he will need help breaking, but if you're gonna see the real him, he's gonna need to see the real you too. No bullshit.

Angel doesn't really get jealous, he likely feels that due to his line of work, he doesn't really have room to talk. You're sure to assure him that this is not the case, that it doesn't work that way.

He does love showing you off, just as much as he likes being shown off, so please, please take him out. It doesn't have to be fancy, as long as he's got you on his arm he's happy

Warning! NSFW under the cut

When it comes to sex workers and their partners, intimacy is VASTLY different between work and home. At home, it's all about the connection between the two of you, the intimacy, holding each other close all the while being completely vulnerable to your partner.

This isn't to say that things won't get kinky in the bedroom. The two of you have delved into your fair share of kinks, deepening the trust you hold in each other. So long as you communicate your needs, Angel is very open to exploring new things with you.

Being that his actual job is in sex work, he understands just how important aftercare is. Water is readily available and you'd best believe that cuddles are required. Did you two get a little rough? Angle will have hell's equivalent to aspirin right there for whichever one of you needs it. Hell, the two of you would even have snacks at the ready too if that's something you're into

[sunnynwanda]

Hi! Your writing is just amazing 🤘🏾 may I request a spicy hero x villain , with an EXTREMELY flirty villain. Perhaps giving off a "one night stand" sorta vibe? Idk whatever you're comfortable with. Thank you in advance!

Temptation

Part 2

Hero was livid. Rightfully so. Not only did the asshole of a villain they had the misery of working against attack on Christmas Eve, but they also had to do that on the only chance Hero had of company. They were Christmas carolling near the central square, for God's sake. There was nothing to gain from attacking them there. Or attacking at all.

And it's not like Villain even pursued anything - they were just determined to piss Hero off and ruin their holiday spirit to compensate for their own foul mood. Solely out of spite. So yes, Hero was seething. And Villain was going to regret provoking them.

They grab a garland light off the toppled tree and wrap it around Villain's wrists. They attempt to jerk away and free themselves, when Hero restricts their movements by twisting their arms behind their back and securing them before wrapping the rest of the garland down to their feet to completely immobilise them.

"Stay fucking still!" They growl through gritted teeth, tugging at the improvised chain a little too harshly.

"I like it a bit more gentle, baby," Villain murmurs under their breath, but when Hero smacks them, they start thrashing around like a fish out of water.

Hero picks Villain up, fighting the temptation to knock them out, and throws them over their shoulder. They wish the citizens happy holidays and depart with a heavy heart. Once they've dealt with Villain, there'll be nothing but an empty apartment and frozen pizza waiting for them. All because of the dumbass that keeps banging their tied fists at Hero's back, demanding attention.

"Stop." They order, only to be ignored. "I told you to stop, you absolute prick!"

Villain seizes their blows for a short moment before resuming again with a cheeky laugh. And Hero has had enough. They throw Villain off their shoulder, watching them land on the concrete floor of their apartment balcony. Normally, they would avoid bringing Villain to their own place. But, the agency was closed because every normal human being was supposed to be at home, celebrating with their families.

They land, turning Villain over face up and grasping their collar to pull them to a standing position. A strained breath escapes them from the force with which Hero slams their back against the wall. They hiss when their head makes contact with the rough surface.

"Now listen here, you miserable bastard," they start, anger sweeping over them.

Against their better judgement, Villain coughs out a laugh, only getting Hero more riled up.

"You sure I'm the miserable one here?"

This earns them a blow to the gut, but they can't even bend over properly because of their confines.

"Shut your mouth and listen to me," Hero snarls, no longer able to contain their aggravation. They don't even know why they are so mad at Villain specifically - poor-timed attack aside. It is perhaps their frustration getting the best of them, Villain just happened to cross their path at the wrong moment. "We have two options here."

Villain swallows, their throat tight, then nods. Something is off, and they can sense that. Usually, Hero was up for a little brawl. It was entertaining and never meant to inflict any significant harm. Same for today, Villain was sure the toppled tree was back in position with only one garland and a couple of ornaments missing. Worst case scenario, ten. Hero's rage was far from being equivalent to the damage done.

"You give us both a holiday break, or I leave you here tied up with this garland for the entire weekend," Hero's warning drags them out of their thoughts. But they wouldn't be who they are if they abandoned their plan that easily. Villain pulls their lower lip between their teeth and drags a finger over Hero's toned stomach, eyes lided.

"There's another option, too," they muse in a low voice. They know they are probably laying it on too thick, but they need to get the message across. And if this doesn't get Hero to relax, they don't know what will. With a crooked smile now adorning their face, Villain continues. "If you'd care to twitch your plan a bit, that is."

Hero stares at them with the most deadpan look they can muster. They despise the way their voice sounds hoarse when they finally speak. "How so?"

The sexual tension between them was insane - to a painful extent. It was evident from the very start, but they never succumbed to it and never showed any inclination to cave in. Or so they thought.

"Well, it'd go pretty much the same - you tie me up with the garland," Villain explains, squirming to illustrate their point. And free their arms. "Except, you stay, too, and get to do whatever you'd like to me."

"What?" Hero chokes out, incredulous at the shiver Villain's words send down their back. They are flabbergasted at how quickly they were ready to nod in agreement.

"Preferably for the entire weekend," Villain can't help the teasing tone and seeing Hero's reaction only prompts them to keep going. They gulp, voice heavy with arousal. "If you can handle me for that long."

"I..." Hero gapes at them, utterly at a loss for words. Their skin prickles with agitation when Villain offers them a suggestive wink.

"I'm damn sure that'll be your best Christmas yet."

Hero bites their lip to suppress a throaty groan, and Villain smirks, knowing full well they got them. They can feel the heat rising in their stomach when Hero looks up at them with darkened eyes. Their dilated irises lock onto Villain's when the question drops from their lips. Villain barely registers it, too occupied with the thoughts of that mouth on their skin.

"And what happens next?" Hero asks, barely restraining themselves from throwing every inhibition aside and ravaging them on the cold balcony of their apartment.

"Nothing," Villain squeezes out, their tongue sweeps out to wet their parted lips. Being bound up and at Hero's hands always did things to them they were not prepared to unravel, but this seemed like the perfect opportunity to go there. "We let the tension out of our systems and return to our usual fighting routine."

A part of Hero fears the weekend won't be enough to satiate their hunger, but it's worth a shot. At least they can get a taste of something they have craved for longer than they dare admit.

"You know you want me, darling." Villain chimes in, worming out of their chains and wrapping their arms around Hero's neck. "You can't hide it."

Without further thoughts, Hero crashes their lips in a searing kiss, picking them up with one arm while the other pushes the door open. Villain moans into their mouth, wrapping their legs around Hero's waist as they are carried into the apartment.

They don't know whether this is an incredible idea or a horrible mistake. It's up for debate whether this will end up as a one night stand with their nemesis or a beginning of something much more than that. They don't even know if it's anger or attraction that's fueling Hero's desire for them. If there is one thing Villain does know, it's that they won't be spending Christmas enveloped by the emptiness of their existence.

Part 2

Masterlist

Hi, darling!

Thank you so much for the request and kind words, I appreaciate that! I hope I managed to capture your idea in this snippet and that you will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

It's not as spicy, but there could always be a part 2, right? :D

xo Sunny

Taglist: @marvellousdaisy @alltimelowing @lateuplight @surplus-of-sarcasm @betwist @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @enemies-to-idiots-to-lovers @miaowmelodie @thatonerandomauthor @hhabaddon @burningoutlikeicarus @daemonvatis @weepingcowboywolfbat @thelazywitchphotographer @kaiwewi @soul-of-a-local-bard @pigeonwhumps @aflyingsheepnamedrose  @thatneptune @ohwellthatslifesstuff @worldsfromhoney

[wishcraft-uponastar]

Okay I am a little tired atm, but currently my idea for an ISAT magical girl AU is as follows!

It would probably have something to do with the forgotten island and Wish Craft.

I think a lot of hints in game point to the people of the island actually being the ISAT equivalent of wizards, from their focus on the Universe, to the way Siffrin is dressed like a wizard even though according to some people in game, "wizards aren't real".

(Also the fact they know about and are familiar with Wish Craft in general, that shit can be powerful.)

Now you're probably asking, how does one get the magical transformation? By using something called Magical Craft! (Idk if I'll keep that name but I like that it's simple and to the point)

My idea is that Magical Craft is a specialised craft like Wish Craft, and requires steps to obtain and use.

These are very rough guidelines atm but they'd probably do the following.

1. A life ending disaster happens (say for example the King causing havoc or a Wish breaking in a big way.) requiring intervention from a savior or a group of them.

2. Once you have your savior, they must receive a blessing from someone they deem "important", and they instill a value in them like say, bravery, or loyalty, or determination.

3. Store that blessing in a special pendant. The savior can make the pendant themself, or find one, the Magical Craft just needs something to embed itself into.

4. Which the blessing in mind, and the pendant in their hands, the savior must make a wish to ask for the power to protect, or fight or solve an issue in said disaster, in the name of the person who blessed them.

I tried to make it a sort of specialised craft that works a bit like the magical powers in like Tokyo Mew Mew, bestowed upon people to allow them to fight for a cause!

But the blessings can also have a personal touch, as they can even be bestowed by regular people, as long as they have a connection to the user. The savior, in true Magical girl fashion, must have something to fight for, and something that drives them.

Like for example, in this AU, Mirabelle would receive her blessing from Euphrasie, who has immense craft power yes, but most importantly, has a personal connection to Mirabelle as she helped her in her youth.

The biggest factor however, is that the blessing must come from someone that the user deems important. Think about how in ISAT, Siffrin can give the King a flower if you've carried it all the way to the King Fight.

Even if you're directly opposing the person, you can still receive a blessing from them.

A few people were actually asking for me to involve Bonnie's sister Nille in this AU, and I really thought it'd be fun! So hey, why not have Nille be the one to give Bonnie a blessing? Nille is important to Bonnie after all!

How about Loop giving Siffrin a blessing? Siffrin is fond of Loop and so, they're important to him as well!

As for Isabeau and Odile, they're gonna be tricky... I want each of the party members to have a personal blessing, but I'm unsure who these two would receive a blessing from.

Maybe Odile recieves a blessing from her father, but idk if he's even alive in ISAT, unclear. Isabeau is the hardest, but I'm sure I'll come up with something!

Let me know what you guys think! When I get over this sore neck I'll try to share some doodles of this concept !

[thedwarrowscholar]

Hi! Love your work here. I was wondering what would a toast look like in Khuzdul? Something that is the equivalent of “cheers!” and “drink up!” before downing some ale?

Well met, and what a fine question — one best answered over a good pint, no doubt. So: how do Dwarves say cheers? What toast rings through a Dwarven tavern before the first sip of ale?

Let’s get to it.

🍻 “Cheers!” in Neo-Khuzdul

There is an entry listed as:

“yof” — marked as cheers! in the Neo-Khuzdul dictionary. But let’s be clear: this is not a drinking toast. It’s a casual expression of thanks, used in informal, friendly contexts — like "much obliged".

Another term, “amanâth”, appears too — meaning “cheers” in the plural sense (literally, more than one “cheer”). Again: not a toast in the ale-raising sense.

So, if you're looking for a true Dwarven toast before downing a mug — the kind shouted across stone-walled halls or growled over firelit tables — there’s one word that carries the weight:

👉 Ayadurzu!

Pronounced: [ɑjɑdʊrzʊ] Literally: Upon your appearance! Used as: A proper Dwarven cheers!

The toast itself is called an amnâthazlal — a compound meaning “cheer-drinker”.

🪓 Wait... Upon your face?

It may sound odd at first, but here’s the story behind it.

In West-Flemish, particularly where I grew up, there’s a somewhat rowdy tradition during toasts. Before the first drink (and often several after too), the host might call out:

“Op je mulle!” (“Upon your face!” in English — but meaning more like "down your face", and "to your health" at the same time)

It’s a cheer shouted with laughter, camaraderie, and - obviously - a raised glass — a staple of evenings at the pub, darts nights, and warm, noisy gatherings. And that unbridled energy? That, in my opinion, is the Dwarven spirit, through and through.

So when I needed a Dwarvish toast, I reached back to that childhood memory — sitting in the corner of the pub (waiting for my dad to start his darts match), enjoying my lemonade and scribbling in my sketchbook, while grown men shouted "op je mulle!" and laughed like brothers. Hence, “ayadurzu!” — upon your appearance — a somewhat personal nod, perhaps, but one that captures exactly the feeling I was aiming for.

🧭 Breaking Down Ayadurzu

Let’s take a closer look at the construction of Ayadurzu — the Neo-Khuzdul toast meaning “Upon your appearance”:

Aya — “on” or “upon”

Dur — a reduced form of adrâz (“appearance")

It drops its final -z due to the attached pronoun

And its initial a- is absorbed by the aya that comes before it

-zu — the 2nd person singular masculine possessive suffix: “your”

⚠️ Even when addressing a mixed or female crowd, the form -zu stays put — this is a fixed expression, not altered by gender.

Ayadurzu = “Upon your appearance!”

On an internal note - Originally, durzu meant “face” in the earliest version of Neo-Khuzdul (now referred to as Blue Mountain Khuzdul — the earliest branch I developed). Over time, however, the word ’akt became the preferred term for “face”, and durzu, became adrâz reinterpreted as “appearance”. 📌 Side Note: “Ayakt!” — Slang Variant The Neo-Khuzdul dictionary also lists “ayakt!” as a toasting expression. It combines:

aya (“upon”)

’akt (“face”)

This phrase is flagged as slang or juvenile argot, typically used among younger dwarves or in very casual settings. Think of it like shouting “Bottoms up!” — lighthearted, a bit rough around the edges, and more fitting for rowdy drinking games than solemn toasts in noble company.

By contrast, “ayadurzu” is more traditional, though still informal — a robust, everyday tavern toast rather than an academic phrase.

"Ayakt!" is what the apprentices shout. The masters stick with "Ayadurzu!" — at least until the third round.

🔍 Another Vital Side Note: Don’t confuse dur (from adrâz) with dûr — which in Neo-Khuzdul means “naked.” So if you ever find yourself shouting Ayadûrzu! instead of Ayadurzu!... Well, let’s just say the mood at the tavern might shift rather dramatically.

🍺 Tavern Talk: A Few Useful Phrases

Here are some extra lines you might hear in a Dwarvish-speaking tavern, may they serve you well!

One beer please. - Zull ze' kasamhili. [zʊləl] [zɛʔ] [kɑsɑmhɪlɪ]

Make that two! - Sakhjamiye nu' namnâg! [sɑkʰd͡ʒɑmɪjɛ] [nʊʔ] [nɑmnɑ:ɡ]

Can I see the menu? - Kâsakhi ablâgkedas? [kɑ:sɑkʰɪ] [ɑblɑ:ɡkɛdʌs]

I only eat dwarvish food. - Ablagi izul ablâg khuzdul. [ɑblɑɡɪ] [ɪzʊl] [ɑblɑ:ɡ] [kʰʊzdʊl]

This is not what I ordered! - 'Ala lu masajrabul! [ʔɑlɑ] [lʊ] [mʌsʌd͡ʒrɑbʊl]

Can I have the bill? - Kabirâzriri makhashul? [kɑbɪrɑ:zrɪrɪ] [mɑkʰʌʃʊl]

These are just a few of the 200+ phrases in the Deckademy resource: 📚 200 Everyday Neo-Khuzdul Phrases

So, when next you find yourself at the point of toasting, tankard in hand — whether among pillars of a great Hall, your local pub or your very own kitchen — remember the proper toast:

Ayadurzu! Cheers!

And may the ale be strong, the company hearty, and your beard ever be foam-drenched!

Ever at your service, The Dwarrow Scholar

[anya-nya-nya]

Using their stand to stop you from running away.

Contains: Risotto, Formaggio, Prosciutto, Ghiacco

TW yandere behavior, abuse (both physical and mental), kidnapping, mention of Stockholm syndrome, non-con/dub-con, please contact me if you think I missed something!

Risotto

Risotto is a sadist. A cruel one. The fact that you keep trying to run away after All those things he did with your body is both surpassing and annoying. So if you're not impressed by these strikes on your body, or these marks after rough sex doesn't hurt that much then he would give you a better reason to be scared of.

Being able to manipulate iron in your blood, he would make you fall on your knees from sudden dizziness right at the moment when you would have thought the escape was near. Your trembling hand is still on the doorknob as you try your hardest to stop coughing blood while Risotto's just standing here, observing. Will not push things to the point where you would gain some fathal repercussions, but definitely will repeat this several times. Seeing you more like a pet, not like an equivalent partner, Risotto would love to repeat Pavlov's dogs experiment and make you feel sick and scared everytime you walk past the exit door even when he's not torturing you.

Well, you actually have a good potential, so there's already too many plans in his head about how else he can train you now. Would love to actually develop Stockholm syndrome in you. Like yeah, the way your brows twitched as a scare gleam in your eyes is turning him on, but Risotto still prefers to see more joy on your face when towering over you with his huge frame.

Formaggio

Nah cause there's no way you would escape Formaggio. He loves to torture you and make you feel powerless so every time he need to leave the house he would use his stand to lock you somewhere. If you're still bratty, it would be just a dirty bottle, if you're already learnt to be obedient then maybe he will reward you with something more fancy. Maybe with some dollhouse or something, so his little darling has some fun when he's at work.

Yet if you still would try to run away then he doesn't mind to use you as a way to de-stress. Would immobilize you with some pen or something then increase and decrease the pressure while teasing you. Have a fear of bugs? Would use it against you just to see how loud your high-pitched sobs would be. Formaggio actually can be pretty creative with his games so it's just a matter of time when he will break your mind or your limbs - or maybe all at once.

Prosciutto

Prosciutto is a busy man who wouldn't even try to start with something less cruel as a punishment. Of course if you only misbehave he would just berate you or be a little more rough with his grasp on your body, but as soon as you get caught on running away he will use his ability.

So come on, try to escape now when your legs are so weak and your whole body suddenly gets so old and slow. All this time he would sit near, teasing and commenting on every move, threatening you that even if you run away now he'll not unuse his ability back, making sure you're old enough to die in a few days. So the closer you're to the door, the older he will make you be, till you will stop or literally just fall on your knees from feeling too sick. And even after that he will not transform you back immediately, wanting for you to suffer a little bit more in this powerless state.

But don't you worry! With each attempt Prosciutto learns a little more about how to take care of you when you both will age up cause there's no way he would let you go till death will do you two apart.

Ghiacco

Ghiaccio is literally a psycho. You can try to throw a tantrum but he would immediately hit you with an even bigger tantrum, it's like fighting fire with fire. Or ice with ice in his case.

Would quickly get in rampage and just freeze EVERYTHING - the door, all windows, the fucking attic for some reason and all other places and holes you can escape through. Also will freeze your feet to the floor to the point you'll actually get scared you will lose both of your legs if he's not get hold of himself soon. And no, even if you will say sorry he will not stop, screaming and throwing everything everywhere while insulting you in every possible way. It would take some time and A LOT of begging before he will calm down and release you, but don't hope he's completely calmed down. There's literally no moment in Ghiaccio's life when he's completely chill and unbothered, so you'll listen about just what a cunt you're to the end of the day.

And don't hope that later this evening in the bed he will be just rough as usual - he's still mad and still sure this freezing was not enough as a punishment. And don't you dare disobey him again, he's not afraid to leave a few frostbites on your body again if it means he can finally position you and then use as he wants without being pushed away.

[wishforhome]

Ohoho I have a prompt for your Vero/Viago, Band AU or otherwise! Have the following quote from Silvia Moreno-Garcia:

"They were both quiet and they were foolish, both of them, thinking they were treading with any delicacy, and that if they somehow moderated their voices they'd stop the tide of emotion"

I LOVED THIS PROMPT SO MUCH.

for @dadrunkwriting, Veilguard AU fic.

So, context: Lucanis has (not entirely intentionally) kicked Vero out of the loft where they'd lived together for two years, and Vero is temporarily staying with Viago. Vero and Viago have very many feelings about each other that they are not acting on for very many reasons.

I spent a good 10 minutes trying to figure out what the modern thedas AU equivalent to samurai films would be.

556 words | teen | viago/vero, vero/lucanis

It’s quiet in the basement. Just the low volume of the television, playing a classic chevalier film, grainy black and white and subtitles. The lights are off, and screen casts flickers across the room. There’s a bowl of popcorn between them on the coffee table, set next to the gloves Viago took off an hour ago.

They started at opposite ends of the couch, but somehow they’ve ended up in the centre, though they aren’t quiet touching. Still, they’re close enough that Vero can hear Viago’s quiet breathing, feel the way the cushions move when he shifts his weight just slightly.

Sitting next to him is strange – somehow both tense and comfortable. They are too aware of him. Vero imagines they can feel the heat radiating from Viago’s body, the warmth of his uncovered wrist and hand.

(The past five days have been strange. Existing in his space, haunting his hallways at night. Vero still can’t sleep, has managed only to doze a few hours at a time, mostly on the living room couch in the hours they get home from work.

It’s awful, in some ways – they can’t help but feel they are proving Lucanis right, just by being here. But there is nowhere else to go, and they are here only because it was Viago who found them.)

Viago is focused on the screen, so they take the opportunity to look sidelong at him – the way the light illuminates his face in brief pulses, emphasizing the sharp line of the beard along his jaw, or the slight shadow cast by his cheekbone. He mouths words along with the movie – Seven Chevaliers is a classic, after all, and they both know it well.

He is, Vero thinks, so beautiful.

They must make some kind of noise, because Viago turns his head then and looks at them. His blue eyes look black in dark, and Vero’s breath catches.

There is a moment then, when they simply stare at each other. The tip of Viago’s tongue wets his bottom lip, glistening in the ghostly light cast by the television.

“Viago,” Vero says, voice rough and low, and his bare hand reaches into the thin space between them, hovering uncertainly. There is a kind of gravity, and they find themself shifting, leaning towards him. He does the same, and there is a moment where they can smell his beath – wine and the sweet hint of garlic from their dinner.

They are too aware of the dull thump of their heartbeat, the ragged sound of their own breath. Somehow the audio from the film seems distant when Viago is so close. They could close their eyes, close those inches between them.

But …

Are you thinking about me right now, or him?

Lucanis’s voice. The sadness in his tone, when he’d asked them that question. The resignation. And maybe there’s an irony there – that they had been thinking of Viago then, and they are thinking of Lucanis now.

They lean back, settling against the back of the couch. Viago’s hand falls to his lap, and the tension of the moment breaks.

“I love this movie,” Vero says, a propos nothing, just to have something to say. They fix their eyes back on the screen, and they feel it as Viago settles back next to them.

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

[jacksgreysays]

Extremely late, completely unnecessary opinion of the Watcher situation, (2024-04-24)

So this is a relatively belated post — several days after the initial “Goodbye Youtube” and one day after the “An Update” videos — and surely by this point there are more interesting/insightful op-eds (both in written form and video form, especially penguinz0’s fairly objective POV as, essentially, a YouTube expert) but there is something about the Watcher situation that made my brain itch. Thus, I wanted to write about it in order to make sense of it all as well as get into a philosophy that seems to be haunting me in recent years and which I think applies greatly here.

This may seem completely out of left field considering 1) definitely not fanfiction and 2) about Watcher Entertainment, a YouTube channel which—as far as this tumblr is concerned—I’ve not engaged with whatsoever, but I don’t know where else I would put this, and weirdly enough I think the general tumblr response to this whole predicament is maybe the… if not objective… then at least, most thoughtful?—or, perhaps, least immediately reactive?—amongst the various social media platforms, that I think some people might appreciate this anyway.

In terms of my relevant background: I majored in Management Science (which is just a fancy way of saying Economics + Business + Accounting because they are, weirdly enough, separate things) and minored in Film Studies in school, I am currently working in the stage tech industry (which, I know, is obviously different from film/video industry), and I like to think I am a fan/consumer of a wide variety of independent creators, some of whom I am lucky enough to be able to afford being a patron/subscriber. I won’t go into all of them—because it is a lot—but there are four in particular whose business models I want to analyze in comparison to Watcher’s admitted blunder:

A) RocketJump (known for Video Game High School and Anime Crimes Division; the core group which turned into the podcast Story Break, then became Dungeons and Daddies) B) Dropout (formerly College Humor, we’ll get into their discography later) C) Drawfee (previously an offshoot of College Humor, now fully independent) D) Corridor Digital (used to be mostly behind the scenes of how VFX studios work, have since become a mostly original content creator)

I will say, right off the bat, I am a patron of Drawfee as well as Dungeons and Daddies, and I am a subscriber to Dropout. I am not subscribed to Corridor Digital’s streamer, which I will get into why later. I understand that being able to sustain those two patronages and one subscription is a luxury that not everyone can afford and so my point of view is already skewed by being such a person who could theoretically afford another streaming service if I so chose. I also acknowledge that many fans of Watcher are not in similarly financially secure places as I am and that regardless of the business model, any monetization that comes from fans would have been a rough ask. However, I wanted to go into this essay in a way that accepts Watcher’s statement—that they needed more funding—in relatively good faith rather than assuming the worst (although that is another point I’ll get into later, largely related to the philosophy I brought up earlier.)

All four of the above listed content creators started or, at least, hit their stride on YouTube:

RocketJump and College Humor were, if not household names, then the digital equivalent of it in the “early days of YouTube.” They were part of the wave of content creators that made YouTube seem less like a bunch of eccentrics with cameras making videos on the side and more like a viable way to support yourself/your team with the art you create.

RocketJump’s Video Game High School went from short (less than 10 minutes) minimal location episodes in season one, to 30 minute plus episodes with full on fight scenes and car explosions by season three thanks to a Monster Energy brand deal. They also had two seasons of Anime Crimes Division, a literal TV quality show, thanks to a Crunchy Roll sponsorship. Unfortunately, RocketJump shut down not long after (their videos are still up on YouTube but they obviously don’t add anything new) but the core creative team behind that have been involved in several projects outside of YouTube (Dimension 404 on Hulu being one of the biggest ones so far) including the podcast Story Break (part of the Maximum Fun network) and now the independent podcast Dungeons and Daddies, the episodes of the main campaigns which are free with ads or, for patrons, ad-less along with additional mini-campaigns and other benefits.

I will say, during RocketJump’s decline, they did try their best to keep going. The partnerships with Monster Energy and Crunchy Roll were the big swings to get the funding to make those TV quality shows they wanted. I believe they lucked out with those brands in particular, or, at least, those brands didn’t seem to inhibit the creative process or ask too much of them that it felt like “selling out” but I also don’t have insight into why they didn’t pursue this model of, essentially, very weird but interesting season long commercials. Maybe they just couldn't find the right brands or maybe they did feel like it was too stifling. Regardless, before they shut down completely, they did also downsize—moving out of the actual city of Los Angeles over to Buena Park. Which is in Los Angeles county, and basically counts as LA still, but is way cheaper than literal Hollywood real estate. (I should have added to my relevant background that I’m born and raised LA county, and have relatives and friends in the film/movie industry, so trust me when I say literal Hollywood/city of Los Angeles is so overrated and unnecessarily expensive. There is a reason why LA traffic is the worst and it’s because everyone is commuting INTO the city. Respectfully and with affection, no one should live there. No one’s start up should be located there.) Obviously the downsizing didn’t necessarily work for RocketJump, but they also didn’t have multiple successful revenue streams the way that Watcher currently does.

In contrast, College Humor was acquired by InterActiveCorp and was turned into CH Media which was three pronged: College Humor, Drawfee, and Dorkly. In 2018 they made Dropout, which had exclusive content separate from their YouTube videos which involved all three prongs. Then some financial shenanigans happened early 2020—IAC withdrew their funding—and there were a bunch of layoffs right before the pandemic which extremely sucked. It has been stated by multiple people involved that it was basically a miracle that Dropout survived through all of that, but there were definitely some sacrifices along the way to make that happen. Currently, Dropout seems to be thriving with mostly exclusive content with the occasional “first episode of a season” posted to YouTube, OR if Dimension 20 is doing a “sequel season” in an already established campaign they will put the entirety of the previous season on YouTube.

IAC withdrawing their funding did put CH Media in a bind. They had to layoff a lot of people right before pandemic and, understandably, a lot of trauma was had. There were also weird issues with who controlled certain IPs/brands/digital assets (I mostly come at this from a Drawfee POV, it took several years for them to own the Drawga series and be allowed to host all of the episodes on their YouTube, and there was also something about the sound file for their opening animation?) but mainly the difference is what kind of content they generate. Originally Dropout had multiple scripted shows with high budgets and pretty cool effects/animations/stunts (Troopers, Kingpin Katie, Gods of Food, Ultramechatron Team Go!, Cartoon Hell, and WTF 101) whereas now almost all of their shows are variations of improv comedians being put into different scenarios or given different prompts. I’m not just talking about Game Changer and Make Some Noise, because Dimension 20 and Um, Actually also technically fall under that description as well. Which is not to say that these shows are worse than the scripted shows—I subscribe to Dropout, so clearly I’m a fan of their current shows—and the budgets for them have since increased to resemble, if not match, those early shows, but it is a noticeable shift in their content creation strategy as a response to the lack of IAC funding. And I will say: Dropout releases at least three videos a week if not more and at least two of those are long form at 30 minutes plus (Dimension 20 being the longest, of course.)

So, these first two business models are not really the most applicable to Watcher Entertainment considering their origin was to get away from Buzzfeed—they’re probably not keen to be partnered with or purchased by a larger company—but there are some aspects to both that I believe are valuable in at least showing the strategy in how these former YouTube creators could successfully extract themselves from YouTube or how they still utilize YouTube even if it is not their main hosting platform or revenue stream.

Then there is Drawfee and Corridor Digital, both of whom are currently—if not primarily—on YouTube, whose situations are more comparable to what I believe are Watcher’s goals.

Drawfee had to rebuild themselves like a phoenix from the ashes of the CH Media layoff during the beginning/worst of the pandemic. Side note: I’m happy that Nathan (one of the four main artists of the current Drawfee team) at least has forgiven(? or let bygones be bygones) Dropout enough to be on an episode of Game Changer (although I will say that this happened after Drawga was “returned” to Drawfee, and after Dropout officially split from College Humor as a brand.) All that being said, Drawfee was a team of four artists plus their editor who wanted to stick together but basically had all of their support system taken away from them. They took a bit of a break to assess their goals and options, announced a patreon with several tiers with great perks, and stuck to their upload schedule. In addition to two videos a week, they also stream on Twitch weekly, have a patron only stream once a month, and a draw class (for one of the higher tiers) once month. After asking their patrons on the relevant tiers if they were okay with it, they began releasing the patron only stream and the draw class to the general public for free after a month. The patreon perks also include things like merch discount codes, high quality PNGs of the final rendered art, access to the draw class with live interaction/critique, and a commission from the artist of your choice. The only “ads” they run are for their own patreon and merch store and, even then, they’re usually at the end of the videos with a credit scroll of the patron names during their exit banter.

Admittedly, they only have MAYBE eight employees—that’s including their video editor(s?) and their discord mod(s?)—with the main four artists doubling/tripling up duties as additional video editors, CFO, and marketing/merch leads. It’s a very streamlined crew and their production costs are not very high since it’s mostly screen recording of their drawings with their audio recording overlayed onto that footage. Although the video editors do sometimes have clever cuts to relevant images depending on their vamping. Sometimes they will have a guest artist but, again, since it’s screen and audio recordings, there’s no travel/housing costs. So, very minimal expenses due to low production costs and small crew but, again, their only revenue source is the patreon/merch, they don’t do outside ads and they very rarely do live shows.

Corridor Digital is, I think, the most applicable to what Watcher would ideally do, which I suppose is somewhat ironic for this essay in particular considering they’re the only one of the four that I don’t financially support. They have two YouTube channels: their main one being where they show the “final product” videos, but I believe their Corridor Crew channel which started primarily as behind the scenes type of videos is where most of their views come from. Especially their React series (VFX artists, Stuntmen, and Animators React etc.) On Corridor Crew they usually upload two videos a week — one which is a React and the other which goes into fun projects/challenges (involving VFX or not) or using VFX to explain scientific concepts — as well as the first episodes of their exclusive content on their streamer. Also behind that paywall are longer and ad-less versions of the videos on YouTube. They also have merch. All of them have merch, I don’t know why I’m stating that. They don’t have a patreon as far as I know, but I also don’t know if their subscription to their website comes with similar perks like discounted merch or something similar.

Anyway, their studio seems to be about 15 to 20 people — not all of them are VFX artists, of course. I believe they have higher equipment costs than Watcher since, understandably, Corridor has to be on the cutting edge of video editing technology. They do occasionally travel for shoots, but it doesn’t require big teams, and that’s only when the local locations available to them don’t match the requirements for the “final product” videos. Otherwise most of their videos are set in the studio or in the alleyway outside their studio in Los Angeles (the city itself, not just the greater county, though they are in a rougher and thus probably cheaper part of Los Angeles). I personally don’t subscribe to their website primarily because their exclusive shows don’t appeal to me—either they’re too technical or a little too dry; to be fair, most of them are VFX artists first before they are performers—and I don’t particularly feel the need to see the extended cuts of the videos uploaded on YouTube. Also I sometimes get a little bummed out by their lack of diversity.

All of this to say, from these four different business models, a bespoke Frankenstein business model for Watcher could be cobbled together. But also, even with that bespoke Frankenstein, there are some changes that Watcher would have to make: primarily their upload schedule. As of right now, I think they do MAYBE one video a week if not, perhaps, one video every TWO weeks. If they want a monthly subscription model, their rate of content generation would ideally be higher to double/quadruple their current upload rate. Obviously they want to create videos with higher production value, but at that rate of generation, something’s got to give: supplement their TV quality shows with either a behind the scenes type series or an increase of “we get four episodes out of Shane and Ryan get increasingly drunk in someone’s backyard” or something similar. Leaning into shows like Worth A Shot (the first season in which Ricky Wang makes cocktails based on a random ingredient, the second season threw in some competitive aspects which I didn’t really find necessary) or the Beatdown which has relatively low production costs (no travel, one location, maybe two cameras at most therefore smaller crew requirements) but a higher polished look. Otherwise, for a separate streaming subscription service, 2-4 videos a month is not going to cut it.

As of right now they probably can’t back out of the separate streaming subscription service because those set ups usually require some level of contract/paying for servers for the website and whatever is hosting their videos for a set amount of time. However, what really strikes me is that I literally didn’t know they had a patreon until I scrolled through the comments of the first Goodbye Youtube video. Maybe it’s been linked "tactfully" in the descriptions of videos, but considering they claim to be lacking in funds, the fact that they weren’t plugging their patreon at the end of every video is not just strange, but also irresponsible considering they do have 25 employees that they don’t want to layoff.

Additionally, I understand artists needing to be in a space that promotes creativity, but there are cheaper places that must be comparable that aren’t in literal Hollywood. It’s an unnecessary expense. On top of that, other people have already brought up that it was fairly crass to introduce this paywall, attributing it to the increased production costs, when the next planned “new series” is a reboot of an old Buzzfeed series in which people travel and eat expensive food. I’m not even talking about the personal expenses of Steven, Shane, and Ryan; what kind of car they drive or the cost of their wedding venue doesn’t matter on a business model basis.

But getting back to the patreon: again, I literally didn’t know they had one. I’m looking over their tiers— they have $5, $10, $25, and $100 — and for the most part they seem okay, although I think they have more to offer that wouldn’t necessarily cost them more. Ie, something that has baffled me for a while: the fact they don’t sell the mp3s of the Puppet History songs; they already exist and it doesn’t cost them anything additional because they don’t need to put it on physical media. Or maybe they do and they’re not marketing it similarly to how they weren’t overtly marketing their patreon?

And, okay, maybe they didn’t want to seem desperate — in the early days of Dropout and independent Drawfee, they both were very blatant in getting people to subscribe/join their patreon. As they should be. Desperation maybe doesn’t look cool and sexy, but it is earnest in a way that conveys equal effort that fans who can afford it would want to see. The fact that we weren’t getting rotating ten second clips of Steven, Shane, and Ryan asking people to join the patreon at the end of every video — even if its the same clip every three videos — is wild. And yes, the $25 tier includes a shoutout every 3 months on Watcher Weekly+ (which I don't quite understand what that is,) but the fact that they weren’t doing a quick post movie credits scroll of all the patreon names is, again, wild. Once you have that initial list, it’s not too difficult to add any new names that join and put that title overlay on top of, again, those nonexistent ten second clips of the three.

As others have already stated, it seems like an extreme mismanagement of their existing successful revenue streams, if they are actually struggling to pay all of their employees. Which goes into the philosophy part of this essay: don’t assume malice when it might just be incompetence. It’s something that I have to remind myself of often because I do get paranoid about people’s intentions sometimes and I have to check myself. Am I being overly suspicious of what might be just an honest mistake? Am I assigning ill will to an action just because it inconvenienced me?

Yes, of course, a lot of this situation could be misconstrued as straight up greed. But, also, Watcher is a relatively young company, helmed by three people who certainly don’t have experience running their own company:

They like to travel. They like to bring a full crew around with them. They’re renting out a shiny office in the heart of Hollywood where everyone knows is where real show biz happens. They’re adding more employees to the team because surely more people means better. And they want better productions values because the prettier the videos the more people will like them right?

It’s naive. It’s a level of inexperience combined with giving responsibility to officers whose main priority is to entertain. And if that means entertaining themselves and their staff, then they might not know the difference. It’s the kind of mistake that first time managers make—trying to prioritize fun over getting the job done. Prioritizing making friends with their employees rather than making sure the work the employees put in is equal to (or greater than) what you spend on them whether that is in paycheck or bringing them to cool locations for fun shoots. It’s a mistake anyone can make, it's just unfortunate that they made this mistake in front of millions of people. It doesn’t necessarily mean it’s solely a greed induced cash grab.

But then comes the catch-22 of the philosophy—is it worse to assume incompetence than it is to assume malice? Or, in this case, greed. Especially for the heads of a company that holds the livelihoods of 25 employees in their hands. At what point does it not matter if it’s incompetence or greed if the end result is the same?

Is it better to think that Watcher knew about the various other business models of independent creators and just ignored the efforts put into achieving those successes or is it better to think that they didn’t know and just stumbled into one of the worst moves they could have done. Again, other people have mentioned that Great Mythical Morning—which Watcher has had multiple collaborations with—has managed to make the YouTube subscription/tier system work to the point that they can sustain themselves as well as spinoff channels. Is it incompetence or greed that led to Watcher thinking they could bypass that completely in less time and with less content?

I’ve been at this mess of an essay for several hours when I should have been asleep. Ultimately I want to say, regardless of incompetence or greed… yes, Steven is CEO and yes he is ultimately the one who makes the final call but it is disheartening to see the pointed vitriol at Steven specifically and the infantilizing of Shane and Ryan in comparison. Either they’re all silly uwu boys who are messing around not knowing how to run a company, or they’re all complicit in a crass cash grab in an extremely busted economy.

I think what’s most frustrating to me in all this is that there were so many other channels and creators who have literally walked this path before them and, again, whether through incompetence or greed or arrogance, for them to just ignore it… It’s not betrayal because I don’t know them and so there’s no relationship to betray, it’s just so inefficient and convoluted that I don’t understand. Or, no, even if it was greed, it’s an incompetent greed because at least pure greed would have been pushing that patreon every second they could. Their ratio of YouTube subscribers to patreon members is less than 1% and I bet that’s because a lot of their audience, like me, literally didn’t know they had a patreon. I probably would have become a patreon member of theirs had I known earlier, ESPECIALLY if it included access to those Puppet History songs. Drawfee has half as many YouTube subscribers and nearly double the patreon members as Watcher. I’m just baffled, is all, and maybe by this point sleep deprived.

Anyway. That’s my extremely late, completely unnecessary opinion of this situation.

Edit (several hours later after some sleep): I forgot to mention, because they did walk this back almost immediately, even before their "An Update" video, but I believe the original plan was to put EVERYTHING behind that paywall and pull their content from YouTube entirely. Which is, again, extremely baffling, because if ALL of their content is behind a paywall, how would they possibly gain new fans? Even if all of their current fans were able and willing to pay for their separate subscription streaming service, how would a brand new person even stumble on their content enough to want to subscribe if there wasn't a significant amount of "proof of value" free content on YouTube? Again, extremely baffling, and a level of incompetence that overshadows a "cunning" greed. But, like I said earlier, they did walk this decision back almost immediately. If I've misunderstood this and that was never their plan, please let me know, I don't want to be spreading misinformation in a situation that is already so convoluted.