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kiwisbell · 3 months

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yellow bird [joel miller]

Taking the weight off your shoulders.

whiskey sour masterlist | my masterlist

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), dbf!joel, age gap (20s/40s), sexual frustration, academic-validation-to-praise-kink pipeline, these two are in lurvvvv, thigh riding, joel talks you through it, and maybe reveals a side of him we haven't seen yet, a lil fluid exchange, some sweet sappy talk because it's them what do we expect, pure self-indulgence, that’s about it

word count: ~ 2.7k

a/n: this was mine and @cavillscurls's challenge to myself to write somethin short and sweet, thank you mya for being a cheerleader throughout this whole process. and thank you hugely el @northernbluess for last-minute beta reading and telling me it does not(?), in fact, suck dick n cock. i envision this as part of the whiskey sour-verse, but you don't need to read the series to understand what's going on here! this honestly makes me super fucking nervy to post, but i hope you enjoy. xoxo

read on ao3!

follow @kiwisbellupdates and turn on notifications if you'd like to be notified when i post a fic!

The moon is carving a path through the darkening sky, and you’ve been quiet for hours.

You sit at the dining table with your cheek in your palm, lidded eyes flitting relentlessly from one side of the page to another. Every couple minutes, you jot down some notes on your cue cards. Your coffee lies untouched next to your textbook.

Each slash of pen across paper cuts into his chest. You write in bursts of furious energy, the paper sometimes bunching under your fist, black ink smearing—you only ever write in black—one letter into the next. Your jerky looping letters resemble nothing close to your penmanship. Your sentences are punctuated by squiggles rather than dots. The corners of your eyes are moist, your skin glowing gold under a filtered smattering of light from the street lamps outside.

There's a tight line to the curve of your mouth, a gash of colour where your lipstick has faded. Weariness dulls the shimmer in your eye. You keep writing.

“Thought you were goin’ out with your friends tonight,” says Joel.

“Hmm?” You blink slowly, the sound of his voice dragging your gaze toward Joel: dressed in jeans and an olive flannel (a gift from you), he's watching you study, a worried slash between his brows. “Oh,” you say. “No. I bailed.”

A flare of his nostrils as he approaches you from the coffee station is the only indication he gives that he's frustrated. “You’ve been workin’ all day, baby. You haven't eaten.” He slides his coffee mug toward you and switches it with your own. “Here, take mine. Yours is gettin’ cold.”

You start to shake your head. “Joel, it’s—”

“It's either you drink mine,” he says, sliding the milk and sugar toward you, “or you take a break.”

You narrow your eyes. “You hate my coffee.”

“Relationships are sacrifice. C’mere.” He yanks the leg of your chair toward him until you're sitting beside one another. He dips his mouth to your temple, and sleep begins to tug at your eyelids. Still, you keep your books open, if not partially out of spite, as Joel drinks your too-sweet coffee and hides his grimace.

“You hate it.”

Joel’s eyes slide to you over the rim of his cup, his chest pulling taut at the sight of the unshed tear on the outer corner of your eye, teetering.

Your bottom lip wobbles, your last Sisyphean effort to hold the droplet of water at bay, and Joel sets down the mug.

“You hate my coffee,” you whisper, not meeting his eye.

It's the press of his hand to your lower back that makes your fingers tremble, curled tightly around your pen. “There are worse things I’d do for you than drink shitty coffee.”

“So you admit it's shitty.”

His fingers dance up and down your lower vertebrae. “You’re exhausted,” he says softly, his mouth grazing your shoulder. “Come and take a break. Can feel all that tension, sweetheart. Right—”

The warm press of his palm between your shoulder blades. The simple touch ignites pressure behind your nose.

“—here,” he finishes with the pinch of his thumb and forefinger around your brain stem.

Your head lolls gently in his direction. “I know what you're doing.”

An innocent sound pitches out of his throat. “Do you?”

Your lashes flutter as he begins to dig his palm into the tense balls of muscle in your back. The contact, warm and almost gentle, undoes you. The pearl stuck in your lashes shakes free.

The impact of it carving a path down your cheek strikes his heart true. “C’mere, baby.”

Pulling you reluctantly away from your workbooks, Joel sits on the couch and guides you on top of him, your thighs hugging his hips. “This sad face,” he says under his breath, brushing the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip. “So pretty when you’re sad.” Your eyes dip when his stubble ghosts across your jaw, his lips warming the shell of your ear.

You huff, your arms winding around his neck. “You’re wandering into patronising, Miller.”

“Hmm, big words.” His grin carves its shape into your skin. He nips the spot just below your ear and you gasp, your fingers curling in the locks at the nape of his neck. “Told you, baby—such a smart girl.”

You open your mouth to snip at him, but he’s sliding one big, rough hand underneath your silky shorts and pinching your ass. “Tell me what’s wrong,” he says, his pinky finger dipping under your waistband.

“I’m fine,” you grumble, wriggling on his lap. He hums, the downward curve of his mouth on your skin etched in skepticism, his hands pulling you tighter to him.

“Tell me what’s wrong, baby.” His hand slides up your spine, lifting your little silk shirt, the hardness of him caging you in. “Tell me so I can fix it.”

You're gooey and pliant on top of him, hips flexing to fix your thighs around his waist, your body attuned to him in a way you refuse to fight. Joel Miller is yours. He’s always had your back.

“I’m tired, Joel. I keep bombing these stupid fucking tests, and the new guy at work is incompetent, and I haven't had an orgasm in a whole week.”

Sometimes, you're surprised by how deeply you envy your Joel for being so fucking right. For knowing, even when you don't, how deeply your wounds sit.

He frowns up at you, his thumb caressing the curve of your jaw, guilt and understanding pinching his ribs. “And I’ve been workin’ late,” he says.

Silently, you nod, fisting the hem of his shirt. “But that's okay, Joel. I know you work hard. It's not your job to—”

He shakes his head, trailing his hands up and down your soft thighs. “I’ve been workin’ late,” he repeats, his voice thinning, “and I haven't been treating my girl like she deserves.”

Your cheeks warm at the way his hands reach your inner thighs, thumbs ghosting across your hip bones. “That's not true.”

“Baby, you look at me.” He cups you like warm wax and you're melting just the same, gaze sliding up to meet his. Brown, glinting gold as they catch the orange lamplight, his eyes don't leave you. “You need to come?”

Your mouth drops. You really fucking do. If he notices your slip—the way your hips still on his lap, your arms wound tight around his shoulders—he doesn't say nor soothe. “Joel, I didn’t mean to—”

He quiets you with a loving nip at your chin. “You wanna be a good girl?”

A shudder railroads down your vertebrae. Your core is tight, hot, your little pyjama shorts shifting over your pussy, velvet-soft. “Joel, you really don't have to—”

“You wanna come?” he says again, his teeth scraping the shell of your ear before he takes your lobe between them. You gasp, clutching him tight to you, a buoy bobbing above the torrent.

“Yes,” you tell him, breathless, letting him play with the waistband of your shorts. “Yes. I need to come so badly. I’ve missed you so much.”

“I know, sweetheart. I’m a bad man, takin’ my girl for granted.”

It’s not true, he’d never, has not once, and still you whimper at the sound of my girl on his tongue.

“You are a bad man,” you tell him, halfheartedly shoving him in the chest.

“And?” he prompts, drawing the poison from the wound.

“And I need to come.”

Joel’s mouth curves in understanding, the hairs of his moustache bristling in the corners.

“Take ‘em off,” he says. “Let me be good to you.”

You ease your thighs out of your silk shorts, and Joel’s got his hands on your shirt, lifting it up and over your head. A cool shiver snakes from your cool feet, now on the floor as you stand naked before him, to the scruff of your neck. It longs for the touch of his fingers.

“God, you're fuckin’ beautiful.” Joel takes your outstretched hand, tugging you toward him. His palms smooth over the planes of your torso, thick fingers fitting to your ribs, the follower at the altar. It's only when he touches the small of your back that his eyes abstain from their reverent path across your body and meet yours.

“Tell me what you want,” he says plainly, fingers catching at the ends of your hair.

You crowd him, gaze sweeping down his body at the hard length of his cock down his thick thighs and the utter stillness of him when met with your type-A jitters.

“To be your good girl,” you say.

“I know.” It's a whisper in the quiet. Somewhere, distantly, the dishwasher churns through its cycle. A car horn blares. Wind blows. “Sit down.”

You go eagerly to him, your spirit alight with his closeness, the scent of pine and sawdust from a long day’s work, the soft cotton of his flannel, the scrape of his denim along your thighs. Wordlessly, Joel shifts you until you're straddling one of his thighs.

The jolt of pressure to your clit makes you gasp, clawing for purchase on his chest. Your fists wrap around the lining of his flannel.

Oh, God is the vague chant that eats at his liver, chewing on the ripe mass, the wound sealing over to deliver himself once again at your feet. It’s tossed into the space between you, maybe a little blasphemous, maybe thoughtless. It’s the glassy film over your eyes, those irises he could trace in the dark, the call of love that never quiets.

“Feel good?”

The smug bastard. His hand is still soft and sweet on your spine, climbing high only to drop, no longer meeting the resistance of clothing. The cool air puckers your nipples, your body tightening as you pull in on yourself.

“You remember that first night?” he says softly, tucking your hair behind your ear. “You were so cold, baby. All alone and needin' a good strong hand.”

He squeezes your ass, forcing your hips to shift over his leg. The slow grind of your wet seam along the coarse denim makes your thighs tremble. “Fuck,” you whisper. “That's… that’s good.”

He hums like he knows. “You remember what you did that night?” he asks. “Climbed on me, just like this, and made yourself feel good. Thought I’d come in my pants then and there.”

Your breathless laugh hitches in your throat as your hips begin to grind down of their own volition. The friction is rough, unkind, nothing like the gentle press of his hands on your bare skin. Sweat begins to glisten in the hollow of your throat as you throw your head back and lose yourself in the rhythmic roll of your body over his thigh.

“That's it,” he grunts, squeezing your hips, his cock twitching, untouched, in his boxers. You’re smearing your wetness over the denim, washing it dark, letting the light shift over your writhing body. “That's my pretty girl, usin’ me like you need to.”

“Ah, fuck,” you cry out, bearing down the weight of you on his leg, grinding hard against him as you seek your own pleasure.

“Let's hear it,” he urges, gritting his teeth at the sight of your poor swollen clit, needy and glistening, exposed. “Lemme have it, baby girl, c’mon.”

Your moan is strangled, language muddied in your head as Joel surges upright and latches his mouth around your nipple. Biting and sucking raw, his rapacious mouth is warm nectar that pools hot in your belly, his hands coaxing your hips through their movements, guiding you in the dance nonetheless.

“I'm your good girl,” you rasp, the coil pulling tight at the base of your stomach, the hollow bowl filling to the brim, keeping him, coveting him.

“That's right. My good girl.” His hot breath blooms like possessive fingers where his mouth makes contact on your throat, plucking your nerve endings like a bushel of daisies.

“I can feel you, baby girl,” he groans into your throat. “I can feel your tight fuckin’ cunt gettin’ me all wet. Feel you grabbin’ me like a goddamn cat. You close, huh?”

You whimper, your nails scratching at his chest through the fabric of his shirt, your stomach taut as you approach your high, bucking your hips hard against his leg. “Fuck, Joel, fuck! I’m so close—”

“Tell me who you are.”

“I’m a good girl.” You wind your arms around his neck as you begin to list, your breasts pressing into his chest, closeness sparking to flame as your warmth rubs up against him.

He’s steadfast, thick arms holding you upright, as he groans your name into your ear like it's something blasphemous. “Who are you?” he repeats.

“I’m your good girl, Joel! Fuck, I’m yours, your good girl. Oh, God, Joel, please…”

“That's right, sweetheart.” His hand latches around the nape of your neck, slick with sweat, while you bury your face in his throat. “My good girl’s gonna come all over me again, because that's what good girls do, hmm? They make themselves feel good when their bad men go and forget their place.”

You sob his name into the crook of his neck, the friction etching too much into your sore, rubbed-raw flesh. Your thighs hug him tight, hips thrashing hard above him as you come with a shout, your wet mouth dragging along the vein pulsing in his throat and trailing saliva in its wake. Joel doesn’t seem to care, coaxing you through your high when it starts to last a little longer than normal, pulling you so close that you can hardly remember your shape when it’s not slotting into him.

There's a dark spot spreading over his jeans, and your inner thighs are sticky with release. Joel tilts your chin up with his mouth, littering kisses from your jaw to the hollow of your throat. His tongue darts out playfully as his fingers dip between your bodies and tease through your messy slit.

“Joel,” you gasp, your face warm. He lifts two soaked fingers to his mouth and cleans them off with a couple swirls of his tongue.

And he's kissing you before you can retreat into yourself. He turns you inside-out, bares your soul to him, and all you can do is taste the sweet tang of the release you gave yourself.

Your tongues tangle, languid in your mutual exploration, the push-and-pull you've always known. By the time he pulls away to press his lips to your forehead, you're decently sleepy, your muscles gooey and your body slumping sideways in his lap.

“Ruined your jeans,” you mumble.

His fingertips ghost up and down your spine. A cool shudder blooms from each point of contact. He’s still hard, enough that it must ache, but he makes no move to free himself. “I like ‘em this way,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Such an idiot.”

Clicking his tongue, Joel says, “You treat your elders this way?”

You nip his nose. “Only when they’re sweet on me.”

He chuckles, brushing your hair behind your ear so he can kiss your temple. “You feel okay?”

Your hands slide up his chest, hooking around his neck, your fingers threading together in his hair. “I feel like a million bucks, baby. But next time, you can come inside me.”

The purr registering in your chest has him preening under the attention, his hands coming to rest just above your ass. “I’m gonna tell you what’s going to happen tonight,” he says, ignoring your apprehensive glare. “You're gonna put away your books, and eat a good dinner, which I’ll make, and you’ll rest.”

Your Joel is stubborn in his own way, and it shows in the tension above his brow, the splaying of his hand over your back. You reach for him and smooth out his frown with your thumb. “I’ll do whatever you say, Joel Miller. As long as you make my favourite.”

You could drown happily in the way he smiles. It always comes on slow, like he isn't quite sure of himself, but it will glow in his eyes. It will sing through him like a light through glass.

“Yeah,” he says, “I can do that.”

Your blood calls to him. And you could do it all without him, sure—but he won’t let you.

THE END.

#posting this and running #kiwisbell's fics #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #whiskey sour #joel miller x you #the last of us #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel #pedro pascal #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller fluff

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moonlight-prose · 2 years

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first you flirt with layla and end up kissing her- which ends up making marc jealous in return. he spends days moping about and starts making snarky comments to hide his jealousy (he’s not so great at hiding it)

then you kiss steven, who can’t stop thinking about it for the next couple of days. filling his and marc’s head with thoughts about you

eventually marc ends up drunk at your front door crying about being the only one being left out (he’ll deny he cried about it)

KISS ME, KISS ME, KISS ME

a/n: this drabble was MEANT to be super short and small, but i ramble so here we go my darling. i hope you enjoy!

word count: 1556 (don't look at me)

pairing: layla el-faouly x reader, steven grant x reader, marc spector x reader

warnings: kissing, more kissing, and some spit kink (again really don't look at me)

The first time you kiss Layla it’s soft. Softer than you imagined it would be—a direct opposite to what you usually get when kissing other people. She doesn’t swiftly grasp for you; doesn’t bite down harshly on your lip to remind you who exactly was in charge. No, it’s tender, gentle and by all means reverent. She leads you into a dance of subtle hints and sweet smiles, until you feel a dizzying high that’s so different from anything you’ve experienced before.

Before you even notice it, she’s licking slowly into your mouth—tongue pressing against yours and you swear you can taste that coffee she always orders in the morning. Her hand is buried in your hair—not enough to hurt—just enough for you to clasp onto. A reminder that this wasn’t Marc or Steven…this was her.

She pulls away, eyes fluttering open to take in your almost intoxicated expression. That sight alone draws her lips up in a smile—not quite a smirk, but you can see it beneath the surface. She likes the way you look. As if you’d bend to her will with yet another kiss and the truth of the matter was…you would.

“Fuck,” you whisper, eyes hazy as your mind came up with scenario after scenario.

“You’re so pretty,” she murmurs. Sliding her thumb along your bottom lip with barely any pressure, she gathers the saliva left behind and pushes inward until your lips are wrapped around her finger.

If you died in this moment—you’d be okay with it. Given the way your insides had turned molten and your brain short circuited the second she placed her lips on yours. Whimpering, you drag her closer until your lips are back on hers and she’s once again leading you through a dance you never wish to stop. You want the taste of her burned into your mind. So sweet and subtle, but strong enough to get drunk off of.

You don’t stop kissing her until she has to leave and even then you beg for one more in the open doorway of your home.

You kiss Steven for the first time three days after Layla. What came over you to reach over, drag him in by the collar, and slot your lips against his you’ll never know. But you’ll never forget the way he gasped—a shudder running down his spine as you tangled your fingers in the hair at the base of his neck. It’s not nearly as intoxicating as Layla and you’re thankful he doesn’t overtake you, but it’s beautiful.

He sighs into your mouth like he’d thought of nothing else for months, before he’s lightly dragging his hands upwards. The pressure of his palms against your waist is enough to drive you mad. Or at least drag him so close his scent is burned into your senses, the way his tongue hesitantly sweeps through your mouth. He doesn’t know how to kiss—that much is obvious—but it doesn’t stop you.

Oddly enough the door opens and Layla walks in. A smile gracing her face as she finds you practically sitting on Steven’s lap, your tongue sensually pressing against his until he’s shaking. You nearly feel bad for making him whimper, beg, plead for more. Except then you pull back to see his face and realize…this is what Layla must have seen on yours.

It’s a new kind of high to see Steven’s eyes all glassy—his lips in a perpetual pout that has your own curving up to a smile. You like him like this. Putty in your hands as you slowly lean in to kiss him again. Layla’s lips press against your bare shoulder—whispers of how good you two look together echo in your ear before she’s pulling away. She had her time with you…now it’s Steven’s turn. Fair is far after all.

That doesn’t stop you from licking into Steven’s mouth, gathering saliva on your tongue before moving away to cup the back of her neck, pressing an open mouthed kiss on her lips—pushing Steven’s spit into her mouth. She moans into the kiss, her hand tightly gripping at your hair before shifting back and leaving the two of you alone once more. Steven is greedy enough to cup your cheeks and turn your face back to his with enough timidness to melt your heart.

He wants you—craves you, and it’s there you realize that you’ll give him whatever he wants just to have a chance to kiss him like this again.

“Well I just don’t see the point in kissing them both,” he mutters into his glass of whiskey.

Your eyebrows raise as you attempt to bite back the smirk that threatened to show on your face. “You don’t see the point in me wanting to kiss…both of them.”

He grumbles, the scowl you recognize so well on his face once again returning. “Well yeah. Layla is my wife–”

“Divorced.”

“And Steven is literally apart of me–”

“I’ll give you that but–”

“So why did you want to kiss them and…” he trails off, staring into the amber liquid as if it would give him all the answers he sought.

Smiling, you lean forward to cup his chin and drag his head upwards so his eyes lock on yours. “Marc…did you want me to kiss you too?”

The red flooding his face tells you everything you need to know. “No,” he states. “Absolutely not. Have fun with both of them.”

Letting go of his face, you lean back—swallowing the rest of your drink and shrugging. “Whatever you say Spector,” you tease, getting up from the table. “Enjoy your drink.”

It’s two hours later that a sullen knock is hitting your door. Before you even open it you know it’s him—can feel it in your bones—and low and behold you swing the door open to see him…drunk. He leans against your doorway, the curls more pronounced and falling into his face the way Steven wears it. You nearly mistake him for Steven until he begins speaking—the American accent coming through thick and strong.

“Why didn’t you kiss me too?” he asks, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

The sight alone nearly makes your heart shatter. “Oh baby,” you whisper.

“Steven’s been replaying the kiss you two had and all I can think about is…why didn’t you kiss me? Did I fuck up somehow? Or…or hurt you?”

He didn’t know how wrong he was. You had wanted to kiss him the first day you met him—the anxiety of the day still prominent in your mind, but you could recall your imagination running rampant with thoughts of him. Of Marc and his lips. Without another word, you drag him into your home and shut the door. He’s moping, you can see it written across his face. Of course, you won’t tease him about it. You know what longing for kisses feels like.

“Do you want me to kiss you Marc?” you asked gently, cupping his face to keep his eyes level with your own.

“I just–” His eyes close. “Yes. I would.”

Leaning in slowly, you press your lips against his and feel the steady rate of your heart speed up until your nerves are all you can focus on. Even when he’s not trying, he’s good at this. He moves sluggishly, breathing harshly against your cheek, until his brain finally catches up with what’s happening. The world turns on its axis as you’re walking back until you hit a wall, his lips now giving you a run for your money. Whereas Layla was teasing and giving, Marc takes. Steals your breath and makes you beg for more.

Where Steven was soft and hesitant, Marc is strong and dominant. There’s something in his hold that says he wants this—you—but he’s also afraid of hurting you. As if you’ll break beneath his palms. Moaning into the kiss, you shudder when his tongue sweeps along yours, running along the top of your mouth and dragging another sound from your throat. Why you hadn’t kissed him sooner, you don’t know. You were sorely regretting waiting so long at this moment.

“Marc,” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut when his teeth pull at your bottom lip gently.

“Mhm.” It’s mumbled against your cheek, his breath hot along your skin.

He’s driven your mind to madness, the heat burning through your body until you can’t think straight anymore. You don’t even fucking want to at this point. All you can sense, taste, feel, is Marc and you want more. You want him to drag you to hell and back with his lips alone. Tugging at his hair, you manage to gain the upper hand, sucking on his tongue and smirking into the kiss when it’s his turn to moan.

“You’re right,” you breathe, choking when he nips down your throat. “I should have kissed you a lot sooner.”

It’s a day later when Layla hears about what happened. You bet the hickeys on his neck tell her the story and you joke that they are now matching. Steven is last to find out—laughing at Marc’s expense when he learns what exactly occurred. It’s enough to make you smile. Even though Marc refuses to accept the fact that he begged…let alone nearly cried.

That however is soon rectified when you press your lips against his again.

#marc spector x reader #marc spector x you #marc spector x y/n #marc spector #layla el faouly x reader #layla el faouly x you #layla el faouly x y/n #layla el faouly #steven grant x reader #steven grant x you #steven grant x y/n #steven grant #moon knight fic #moon knight #my writing #posting this and RUNNING #adiossss

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tractorbeamofwoe · 2 months

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Gabriel Michael headcanons

(AKA lore I just made up) Hi I’m a little bit obsessed with sorry!will actually and especially his character from We Saved a Kingdom and this is also the first thing I’ve written and posted for this fandom so enjoy I guess ok bye <33

***

Gabriel loves animals, literally spends hours outside in the castle gardens scattering seeds and nuts in the grass in the hopes it would attract birds and squirrels.

Sometimes animals will even come up and eat straight from his hand, which makes him lowkey emotional.

A bird once landed on his shoulder and it gave him such a confidence boost.

Rescues injured animals as well of course. He's nursed a number of rabbits, squirrels, foxes and deer back to health.

I like to imagine Helen reincarnated as a deer that came to eat nuts and berries from his hand once and kept nudging him for attention.

She sort of stuck around and became the resident deer in the castle.

No one really realised it was her until she was down by the river one day and she was sniffing at one specific spot. The exact spot where she left Gabriel as a toddler and the exact spot where he was found again by Thomas.

She even finds a basket in a patch of reeds and carries it in her mouth to her son before dropping it at his feet, as if amazed that the 6’6 prince in front of her was once the tiny 3 year old who fit in her arms.

And Gabriel’s so worried he's not the man she imagined he'd be or that he's not making her proud :((

But she quickly shuts down all those assumptions with various head nudges and face licks

He's so used to his father putting pressure on him to be a certain way that he'd never expect it of other people. In fact he'd actively encourage you to be yourself around him and let you know he's a safe space for you to talk about your passions and fears.

I mean you saw how he befriended Dark Dave with zero hesitation and, even knowing he killed his mother, he accepted him as his adoptive dad

Literally the biggest supporter of his gay dads that man is an ally

Helen HATES Thomas and as she should. When she gets let into the castle she recognises his stuff like his crown and she probably gags

Tries to play matchmaker for her son cause there's no way she's gonna be reunited with him after so long just to watch him be a sad loser.

Basically he just loves all creatures big and small

That being said though I feel like he doesn't want to end up with the richest princess in the land as his father encouraged, because that feels in-genuine and more like a business transaction. I can see him settling down with someone more magical like a witch or a shapeshifter instead (reminds him of Dark Dave)

He'd grab all the ingredients they need for their potions even if he has to go to the furthest swamp or forest to get them.

In return they use their powers or potions to heal any injured animals he brings in.

It's canon confirmed he became a dark wizard after the events of the episode as well so they're a perfect match.

I'd like to think he only uses his newly acquired powers for good, though a villain arc would be something interesting to explore at a later date.

He’s more of a healer than a fighter. The thought of battle terrifies him, no matter how much Thomas tries to beat it into him.

Anxious boy

And yeah Thomas was really rough on him growing up so it doesn’t surprise me he’d have a villain arc.

I don't think he'd be a very good villain though sorry.

Haha 'sorry'

Also goes through an angsty “it’s not a phase dad UGH!” phase

Lord knows where he got his love of theatre from but I think it would be silly if his American accent was the product of a curse placed on him as an infant by Dark Dave as a way to get back at Thomas (aside from, you know, killing his wife)

#Posting this and running #I hope this doesn’t flop because THAT would be embarrassing #sorry boys #wilbur soot headcanons

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