look at this charming little devil! such a darling boy! a good dangerous little darling! i love him very much. 5/5
gumdrop boy. squat and deeply twisted. chaotic evil. like many small boys he has a complex about his height and tries to make up for it with rage and dark deeds. 4/5
basic boy. he’s just ok. 1/5
disgusting. put that tooth back in ur mouth you absolute buffoon. you look high you fucking stoner. ur not even a fucking devil ur just a fuckn pothead. you idiot. you fool. horrible. 0/5
aw! look at this little devil! a good boy! happy to wreak destruction on the masses! rosy little cheeks! devilry is a public service. 5/5
this guy is trying to threaten me to give him a good review but i have journalistic integrity to give the honest truth. he might kill me later. i’m scared for my life. 2/5
big boy. round shiny big boy. 4/5
flat boy, not as charming as the apple boy and not as shiny and big as the messenger boy. so, really, a pretty boring boy but he’s kinda cute still. 2/5
pretty boy! this little devil is just far too good looking. those eyes are seducing me. oh shit is this a succubus? im losing myself in those beautiful eyes. what’s come over me? i feel compelled to give this gorgeous boy a 10/5
When Remus was little life around him was a whirlwind. Short, stubby legs toddling across hardwood floors and leaving disaster in their wake. Throwing his arms out wide to spin and spin until the world was blended all together and nothing was quite in its place. Hope would laugh with him and Lyall would shake his head, wondering if their little boy would ever reign in the chaos that surrounded him.
He stopped spinning in circles after he was bitten. The feeling of everything around him turning garbled and disjointed happened enough as it was.
Remus was eight when he started organizing his room, finding a place for everything. It was soothing in a way, to have control over part of his life, even if it was only alphabetizing his books and neatly folding his clothes.
Remus was twelve, laying down in a too-big hospital bed, tugging at the loose threads of his blanket. He hated this part; when he had to come back to himself and see the aftermath of what he’d done. Even if the damage was only to himself and the damp, rickety shack, it still wears on him. He refuses to cry when the matron checks up on him, all gentle smiles and kind words, telling him it’s safe to return to his dormitory now.
He doesn’t talk to his dorm mates much at first, focused on school work and counting out lunar cycles. Everything in his trunk was organized; neat rows that he carefully maintained. It reminded him of home.
The other boys are amused by it. Peter makes a joke of moving one thing each week; a quill on the opposite side of his desk, rumpling his blanket, turning his pillowcase inside out. And it’s funny, until Remus storms out, too upset to explain why these things matter so much to him.
It’s the middle of fifth year and Remus was staring, wide eyed, at his three friends. Except they aren’t. They’re all fur and wet noses, stag dog and rat watching him expectantly. He doesn’t know if this will work, if it will help anything, but the fact that they tried at all eases a weight off his shoulders he didn’t even know was there.
Remus is sixteen and his four poster bed is a wreck; clothes and books tossed around and mismatched socks folded haphazardly together. The other three boys can’t make heads or tails of how Remus keeps track of it all. It’s almost like he’s in the middle of a whirlwind, everything spinning madly around him, and he at its center, exactly where he is meant to be.
Curly,” said Peter in his most captainy voice, “see that these boys help in the building of the house.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Build a house?” exclaimed John.
“For the Wendy,” said Curly.
“For Wendy?” John said, aghast. “Why, she is only a girl!”
“That,” explained Curly, “is why we are her servants.
There’s a good chance this Sunday, their boy, their golden boy, their golden little baby boy, the architect gets replaced by someone you call a lunatic, but everybody else is just gonna call the new face of the WWE.
They’ve both learned to notice it in small warning signs. Most days are good, when Dean laughs and sings along to the radio, loud, and bad. Good days include sparkling eyes and Dean jumping Benny as soon as he gets home from work, peeling off his jacket and kissing him senseless if Benny’s not too tired and up for it.
Good days are Dean playing with their son Gavin, a darling little boy with blond hair and bright blue eyes like his papa. He has freckles too. How they got so lucky, neither of them know. But he’s beautiful, and Benny’s favorite days are when he steps into the kitchen to see food plastered over his son’s face, and Dean pouting at the child when he gets that same food on daddy’s favorite shirt.
Good days are fairly often. Those are the days they love the best. They go out to the park, they play in water fountains and make dinner together on Friday’s.
They all wish those days could last all the time. But they’re only human, and it’s inevitable when it catches up to them. Especially to Dean.
The bad days come with gentle warnings, small, barely noticeable. They wouldn’t notice at all if they hadn’t trained themselves to watch out for them. They refuse to have the same incident a year ago–that memory that Benny refuses to remember–when he came home to find Gavin knocking on the bathroom door Dean had locked himself behind, sobbing and unable to stop.
The warnings signs are noticeable now. Dean laughs a second too late at a joke Sam makes on their weekly Skype call. Dean entirely misses his favorite song on the radio, doesn’t even notice until Benny turns it up louder and makes a point of mentioning it.
Sometimes, the signs are bigger. Dean stops cleaning the house. It’s a chore they like to share together, but Dean had never been able to stop himself from tidying up the worst of it. Benny realizes something’s wrong when he comes home for the third day in a row and Gavin’s toys are everywhere, crayon coloring the walls–something Gavin knows better than to do–and not a single dish put in the dishwasher.
We’re all so desperate for season 2 that we’re going crazy. We think Lance, our darling little baby boy, is going to die?? Where did this theory even come from, is this some hivemind voltron fandom thing that I missed out on???? Why am I free from the plague that is wiping us out?????? Why am I the lone survivor??????????? Stay strong, fandom. Keep lance in our hearts