#I do not care if they had reasons for what they did they still did bad stuff 🙏

[jinxedanubis]

I had this kid in middle school (we were around the same age) who was trying to do this chivalry thing towards me because he liked me- told me he wouldn't hit a woman on our bus ride home.

Safe to say I started a physical fight with him on the bus over it. He wouldn't listen to reason, so I got physical.

managed to knock off his glasses- I let him get up and leave, take his glasses, and go to his trailer park when we reached his stop. Cause I didn't want to fight he just wasn't listening.

I am still very proud of myself and I do not care what anyone has had to say about it. I did what I believed and still believe is right.

Your sexism does not appeal to me.

One time in highschool our teacher said that it was never under any circumstances okay for a boy to hit a girl and I asked “not even in self defense?” and he said “no” so I pointed to the kid next to me and said “so if I just started whaling on this guy then he’d just have to take it? What the hell” and he was like “you two have had the same homeroom for three years do you not know his name” and I was like “that’s not the point right now” and Mr. K if you’re out there reading this I’m still mad about it

[noheadcanons-juststories]

Vampire!141 x fledgling!reader, who was found abandoned and starved. meeting 141

“Who called you?” you demand to know.

“Amos,” the man with the chops answers.

Boss called them?

“Are you from the Night Council?” you dread.

“Not at all. Amos is an old friend of ours, back from service,” he explains. His voice was soft yet weathered, like an easy thunderstorm on the countryside. “He informed us that one of his employees was possibly attacked. Asked us to come help.”

So these men were not from the Night Council as you feared. But you were still weary to open the door.

“I didn't ask for help,” you retort with a raggedy cough. “Whoever you are, just… just tell him that I won't be coming in anymore.”

“Listen, lass,” a new man spoke up, very much Scottish with a very nice mohawk, “Amos called us in fer a favor. But once he explained the situation, we let him keep it. He's worried, and ye need someone to take care o’ ye. So we're here to help you.”

“Please…” you beg. “I don't wanna be treated like some charity case. So unless you're gonna kill me, just leave me alone.” You were tired, in pain. You could barely stand anymore.

The tall man in the skull-plated mask approaches your window, looking you dead in the eyes. “You really wanna die, fledgling?” a rougher voice asks. “‘Cause I can arrange that.”

“Simon,” Chops quietly reprimands.

“No, Cap, we need to get this outta the way,” ‘Simon’ persists. “‘Cause m'not gonna come all the way here for a fledgie too weak to live.”

“Bit harsh, dontcha’ think, Lt.?” Scot frowns.

Simon ignores him. “The reason we're here is because our friend is worried about his employee,” he tells you. “He fuckin’ cares about you. Now, we can be civil, and you let us in. Or we can cut to the end, and I put you out of your misery, quick and painless. So what's it gonna be?”

As he speaks, you slowly slide down to the floor. Pulling your blankets tighter around you. Truthfully, neither option sounds appealing. You don't know these men. Childhood lessons on stranger danger and accepting help from strange men never prepared you for the undead. But on the other hand, did you really want to go out a pathetic, dehydrated corpse? There's only two outcomes with two different paths leading to either. Die or find a clan. The Night Council does not guarantee anything except your immediate end. Meanwhile, Amos got a clan on speed dial for you.

John sits down by your window. “Listen, love…” he speaks softly. “We're here because Amos refused to call the Night Council on ya. And I don't blame him. They're diligent, but they're still pretty ruthless. Especially towards those abandoned. He called us because he knew we were the better choice.”

 You lean against the wall. “You could've refused…” you whisper.

“Could’ve,” John shrugs. “But didn't want to.”

“Why not?”

There were a few reasons…

“‘Cause I’d hate for a fledgling to die without bein’ given a chance,” he responds.

…One of them being that he was once in the same boat as you when he was first turned, albeit through uglier circumstances…

“Regardless of how you got here, you need someone to show you the ropes.”

…He was looking to sire another vampire after Kyle, despite his own reservations about immortality. Amos just happened to call while he was brewing in his thoughts, surprised that the old faun still had his number…

“And it'd be a shame to lose a sweet soul like you.”

��And Amos had only good things to say about you, practically gushing as if you were his own kid. Kind yet firm with a bit of confidence, you were.

You let out a sigh, frowning as you reconsider your options. Your expression worsens when you remember that you only have two. “What's your name?” you ask the vampire.

“John Price.”

“What do you do, Mr. Price?”

“I hunt vampires.”

You giggle after letting the thought simmer for a bit. “You hunt vamps?”

“Only the bad ones,” he smiles.

“Do I… I don't fit that criteria, do I?” you question.

John shakes his head. “No. Not at all.”

“...Mr. Price?”

“Yeah, love?”

“I'm scared,” you admit.

“I know,” is all he says. “That's why we're here.”

Kyle joins John's side beneath your window. Then Johnny, who doesn't want to be left out, and lastly, Simon, who doesn't want to be left behind at all. The men sit underneath the glow of the Half Moon. Small chirps in the grass and distant hooting in the trees bring a peaceful ambiance to the evening. Coupled with the bipolar winds of Spring gently weaving through the grassy fields.

“Whaddya wanna do, lass?” Johnny asks you.

“I don't know,” you say, trying not to cry for the umpteenth time.

“Well then,” Simon speaks up again, “whaddya not wanna do?”

“...Not hurt anyone… and not die.

John nods once. “Alright… that's a good place to start… Think you can unlock the door for us?���

It's silent for a bit, but you don't go to the door. Instead, you unlock the window and crack it open just a tad. The four men look back to see you stick your hand out, pale and spindly, which Kyle takes into both of his.

“We're right here for you, fledgie,” he comforts you, gently squeezing. “And we're not leaving you behind.”

And for that moment, you believe him.

Role Call!: @boy-pussyyy

[mushroomsneedystuff]

Timeskip!UA Teacher!Izuku, Healer!UA Nurse!Reader

CW: smut (obviously), in Izuku's personal office, cream pie, unprotected (wrap it up beforehand yall. we don't want accidental pregnancies irl), mentions of highschool (but smut starts when you're both mid 20s), reader has a pussy (but no mention of gender)

*Feel free to tell me how to improve writing. I suck at it lol*

How did helping out the heroics teacher with grading turn into this?

You were helping Teacher!Izuku with grading since you luckily didn't have much work to do throughout the school day of being UA's new healer. You couldn't stop looking at each other, the tension growing between you both since the start of the school year. You both vaguely knew each other back from your UA days, and he was a frequent visitor of the nurse's office.

You used to help out Recovery Girl, aiming to be a healer based hero rather than someone out on the field. You were always in Recovery Girl's office, learning from her and helping her with minor injuries such as bruising and small, harmless cuts. You also took it upon yourself to try to spend time with the fellow students who had to stay and rest after Recovery Girl's quirk was used.

Izuku Midoriya was one of the main culprits of Recovery Girl's quirk. That boy got hurt more times than all the UA staff could count on their fingers and toes combined. You and Izuku both started to get to know each other better, and you were one of the first people to see him once he came back to UA for shelter after his vigilante arc.

Now, you're both back in UA. Izuku is the new heroics teacher, grumbling about students who "didn't know how to control themselves" while you understood fully well what he meant. You were the one to heal those who he specifically mentioned.

The tension through your school days had built up for years, and it was almost laughable how quickly you found yourself melting at his voice, at his gaze, at his sarcasm. It'd be funny if it didn't get you in your current predicament.

You were so easily picked up by him. Even if he couldn't be a "proper" pro hero anymore, he still had the body and build of one. He still went to the gym weekly, if not daily, and you weighed less than a feather in his eyes. Your body, held close to his and laid down onto his desk so perfectly, felt hot. Really, really hot.

Whether it was from the swarm of lust in your stomach or because his heated gaze was setting you on fire from the inside out was completely unknown. Both seem like fair guesses.

It didn't take long for the clothes to fall off, the office door locked securely. His pants were hazardously pushed down, yours completely discarded God knows where on the floor.

His cock was eagerly getting pushed through your wet cunt. It was perfect, both of you getting lost in the pleasure and letting go of the built up tension. His hips piston against yours, reminding you exactly of why he was a contender for being a Top 3 Hero in just his second year. His thumb fit so perfectly right up against your aching clit, making you dizzy enough to let out breathless moans of his name.

Any other thought except Izuku was completely gone from your brain. What were you even doing before? Did it have something to do with the scattered, ungraded tests on the floor? At this point, who fucking cared. Izuku's cock, stretching your walls so perfectly that it left you whining and moaning 'more' and 'too much' all at once, had completely scattered your sense of self anyways.

Grunts and groans of apologies leave the greenettes lips, but he didn't mean them. Why would he apologize for the reason of being able to finally hear his favorite symphony? Admittedly, he's been dreaming of it like he was a hormonal teenage boy since the first sight of you at the staff meeting weeks before the school year started. Every apology he said, it was really a thank you. A thank you for letting him feel your warm, tight cunt around his cock, and a thank you for letting him absolutely destroy you from the inside out.

His lips couldn't decide where to stay: on your lips, sucking your tongue, sucking and nipping at your neck and collarbone, glued to your breasts... There was just so many places he never wanted to pull away from, there were so many different things he wanted to try with your body (with your consent, of course).

He was fucking you like he couldn't decide if he absolutely despised you because you kept his precious pussy away from him or if he was so utterly in love with you because he finally had you in his arms and your his pussy was squelching lewdly with every thrust he gifted it.

It doesn't matter though, he'll have fucked you stupid and made love to you by the time the sun rises tomorrow.

The sight of your pussy squirting around his cock as he stills and cums deep inside you was just the alarm he needed to know it was time to bring his precious little healer home.

[khazrablood]

From what I observed, it seems like the reason these utter depraved hyenas constantly say Mussolini is the lesser evil is bc they do not count black and brown people to be capable of being genocided. None of these imbeciles know the actual details that one has to learn in modern Italian history and what brought Mussolini and his fascism into reality.

His incompetence has nothing to do whether he was worse or not, bc you are a depraved person trying to rank genocides by how successful they are. If anything his incompetence just added further death and destruction bc Hitler had to come and finish his jobs so if anything, it turned out to be a joint effort spanning from the Balkans and Northern Africa.

So fuck every one of you who brush off Mussolini bc he was "incompetent" to do genocide WHEN HE WAS STILL FUCKING DOING IT REGARDLESS OF IT NOT BEING A SMOOTH ASSEMBLY LINE OF DEATH LIKE GERMANS DID. But hey, this is all boiling down to "well Hitler killed whites so it's genocide, Africa eh it's already colonized so who cares about nonwhites."

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (19 - Exile)

Chapter Summary: You were fugitives, that was the word people used. Criminals, outlaws, call it what you wanted. The point was you couldn’t go home. The United States was off-limits, for obvious reasons. And Wanda couldn’t go back to Sokovia because there was no Sokovia to go back to. She was as homeless as you were, as rootless as an old stump yanked out of the earth.

You realized that’s what you both were now: orphans again. You could call it freedom, call it a fresh start, pretend it was anything other than what it was.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.6k+ | Chapter Tags: Slight angst, hurt/comfort

A/N: Whew! Another update in less than a week. Don't get used to it ;) I do have a pleasant surprise at the end of this chapter :P Also, very off topic: I'm so proud of our homegrown talent, tennis player Alex Eala. Doesn't matter if she's unable to beat world #2 later, I'm so damn proud of her! // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The pounding on your door jolted you awake. You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow, but the knocking only grew louder. Relentless. Annoyingly insistent.

“Y/N!” Natasha’s voice came from the otherside, impatient, the crowing roosters doing nothing to drown her out. “Open up!”

With a muffled curse, you kicked the blanket off and stumbled to the door, still half-asleep and not caring that you were barely dressed. “What the hell, Nat?” you muttered, reaching for the handle. “It’s too early for this.”

Yanking the door open, you were ready to unleash a tirade—only to find Wanda standing beside Natasha, already dressed and a little red-faced. Whatever you meant to say died in your throat, your hand subconsciously moving to your chest to cover yourself.

“What’s happening?” you asked, blinking between them.

Natasha crossed her arms, smirking at your half-naked state. Wanda’s turned the other way, out of respect, of course, and well—

“Steve finally called. Get dressed.”

It took a moment for the words to register. “Steve called? What did he—”

“Get. Dressed,” Natasha interrupted, emphasizing each word as she turned on her heel and started walking down the hallway.

You glanced at Wanda, who hadn’t said anything yet. “Good morning,” you greeted softly. She shifted slightly under your scrutiny, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket. “You should hurry,” she said softly before following Natasha out. 

You nodded and closed the door, quickly throwing on whatever you could find. Your mind raced as you moved, trying to piece together what could’ve happened. If Steve was calling now, it meant something had changed—and probably not for the better.

When you stepped back out into the hall, Wanda and Natasha were waiting for you. Wanda’s eyes lingered on you briefly before she looked away. Natasha was already heading toward the exit, her pace brisk.

“Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “We don’t have all day.”

—

The burner phone lay in the center of a small, round table, right out in the open of a practically empty café. A few early risers drifted in and out, some grabbing coffee to start their day, others hurrying to catch a bus or a train. Outside, a tram rattled by on its tracks, and the scent of fresh bread drifted out from a bakery down the street. It felt like an ordinary morning in an ordinary city, but you knew better. Everything was balanced on a knife’s edge, and the four of you sat scattered around the table—close enough to show unity, distant enough not to draw too much attention.

For weeks, the four of you had been stuck in this strange holding pattern, drifting from apartment to apartment somewhere in Europe. Nothing here felt like home, and yet you couldn’t say with certainty that it wouldn’t have to be, at least for a while. You’d scrounged for intel, picked up rumors, listened for coded radio transmissions. The lack of progress had gotten under your skin. No one said it, but you all knew it; staying still for too long was dangerous.

Steve had given an exact time to call, and all of you watched the seconds tick closer to the moment he’d promised.

Until, finally, the burner phone buzzed to life.

It was Natasha who snatched the phone up and answered, putting it on speaker but setting the volume so low, only trained ears would be able to hear from it. “Steve.”

“Nat. Everyone there?”

“We’re here,” she said, her eyes darting briefly to the three expectant faces around her. “What’s the situation?”

“I’ll get straight to it,” Steve said. “We’ve regrouped enough people to make a plan, but things are still fragile. Bucky’s safe. He’s in Wakanda, and Shuri’s working on helping him. He’s making progress.”

“Wakanda,” Sam repeated quietly. “Why aren’t we all in Wakanda? It’s got the tech, the resources—hell, it sounds like the safest place for us right now.”

Steve sighed on the other end. “It’s not that simple. T’Challa’s already taken a huge risk harboring Bucky. If we all show up, we’ll draw too much attention to Wakanda. That can’t happen.

“Listen—I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but we need to lay low. The Sokovia Accords are in full effect, and we’re all wanted. We can’t operate the way we used to.”

No one so much as shifted at the news. Deep down, you’d expected this, but hearing it out loud just made it more real.

“Here’s the thing,” Steve continued, “we can’t operate like we used to. And, for an indefinite time, we won’t be able to go home without being arrested. Legally, we can’t do our duty. Maybe it’s time we hang up the cape—for now, at least. Live like normal people. Find some happiness where we can. If something big happens—something we are needed for—we’ll be there. But until then, protect yourselves first. This is your chance to… to live.”

A silence fell. You expected a plan, a rendezvous, something, but not this: a call to stand down and embrace normalcy. After a moment, Steve said his goodbye and the line went quiet with an abrupt finality.

You looked at Natasha. “What exactly are we supposed to do now?”

She set the phone down, her expression resigned. “You heard him. We’re dismissed from duty. We can live anywhere we want. We’re on our own. If there’s something you’ve always wanted—an ordinary job, a hobby, something you never got the chance to pursue—this is it.”

You stared at her, waiting for the punchline. A normal life. After everything that happened, was that even possible?

Sam got up first. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, as if he’d made up his mind the moment Steve stopped talking. “Where are you going?” you asked softly.

He gave you a wry smile. “Wakanda. Steve might be saying all the right things to keep us from following him, but knowing him? He won’t be taking any time off. He’s too stubborn, too damn noble. He’s not dragging us further into this mess because he thinks it’s the right thing to do, but I know him. He’ll need backup for whatever he’s planning.”

He was probably right. Steve had never been one to truly walk away, and deep down, all of you knew it. But the instinct to follow him, to fall in line like before, wasn’t there anymore. You glanced at Wanda from the corner of your eye, hoping for a clue that she might feel the same way as Sam, but she only kept looking down at her lap. 

“Take care, Sam,” you said, unsure what else to say.

He grinned, giving you a playful salute before nodding to Natasha. “See you around, folks.”

It felt like a farewell that went beyond Steve and Sam. Natasha pulled out a few bills and placed them on the table, and something like dread settled in your chest. Without thinking, you put a hand on her arm, as if that could stop her from leaving too.

Natasha offered you a sad, knowing smile. “I’ve got things of my own to take care of, Y/N. But I’ll check in. You know I can’t let you out of my sight for too long—you’re trouble.”

She glanced at Wanda, who sat there like a statue pretending to be a person, hands clasped around a cup of coffee she wasn’t going to drink, her phone glowing with some useless distraction she wasn’t really looking at.

“You good, Maximoff?” Natasha asked.

Wanda forced a smile. “I’ll be fine,” she said, and the lie just sat there between the three of you, stinking up the cafe.

Natasha sighed, pushed her chair back, and gave you a quick tilt of her head toward the door. “Walk with me,” she said, already on her feet.

You followed, leaving Wanda alone at the table. She stopped near the restrooms, and you noticed the faint smell of bleach and coffee grounds. When she turned to face you, she wore that familiar look—the one she always had right before saying something you probably didn’t want to hear.

“Don’t let her out of your sight,” Natasha said. She meant Wanda. “She’s fragile. More fragile than she thinks.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Her voice hardened. “She’s the one most affected by all this. Lagos. The Accords. Vision. If she breaks, it won’t be small. It’ll take everything down with her.”

You wanted to tell her you’d take care of it, that you’d keep Wanda in one piece, but the truth was, you weren’t sure where to start. 

“You don’t blame her for Lagos?” you asked instead, your voice cracking just a little.

Natasha’s laugh was cold, humorless. “Blame? No. But you’re not blind to what she can do. She doesn’t need blame. She needs someone to keep her from drowning in it.”

You nodded again. “I’ll watch her. I’ll make sure she’s okay.”

Natasha gave you a look, the kind that said, I hope you mean that, because if you don’t, I’m coming back for both of you. She patted your shoulder, almost mockingly. 

“Call me if anything changes,” you said, pushing her hand away. 

“Sure,” she replied, and then she was gone. 

You walked back to the table, the space Natasha left behind feeling like a crater. Wanda looked up at you, her eyes searching yours, but not long enough to find anything. “She’s leaving too, isn’t she?” she asked, her voice flat, drained.

“Yeah,” you said, sinking into your chair.

Wanda nodded, like that explained everything, like people leaving was the only thing she truly understood anymore. She glanced down at her phone, but she wasn’t scrolling this time. She just held it, gripping it and staring at a wallpaper of what looked like a city covered in snow.

“Where’s that?” you asked, nodding toward her phone.

Wanda immediately deposited it facedown on the table. “Sokovia,” she said softly. “At least… what it was before Ultron.”

Sokovia, a place that didn’t exist anymore except on a digital wallpaper and inside her head. You remembered the news footage, the images of destruction on every network, people whispering that it was like the world was falling apart piece by piece. Now it existed only in a snapshot, a memory so distant it might as well have been some dream you both shared and forgot until now.

You were fugitives, that was the word people used. Criminals, outlaws, call it what you wanted. The point was you couldn’t go home. The United States was off-limits, for obvious reasons. And Wanda couldn’t go back to Sokovia because there was no Sokovia to go back to. She was as homeless as you were, as rootless as an old stump yanked out of the earth.

You realized that’s what you both were now: orphans again. You could call it freedom, call it a fresh start, pretend it was anything other than what it was. 

But it sucked.

It sucked like a vacuum hole in the universe, pulling in every last ounce of consolation you tried to salvage.

There were only two of you now. What happens then?

Wanda pushed back her chair suddenly, the sound scraping against the floor. You blinked, startled out of your thoughts as she stood.

“Where are you going?” you asked.

She grabbed her phone and slid it into her pocket without meeting your eyes. “You heard them. We’re free to leave.”

“To leave?” you repeated, your breath coming in gasps as you tried to catch up. 

“Back to the hotel. I’m packing my things.”

A dumb question hovered on your tongue—Pack them and then what?—but you already knew how pathetic it would sound. She stood there, hands at her sides, looking as if she might bolt at any second. You wondered if she was waiting for you to protest, to say something that could change her mind, something that might tether both of you to this flimsy refuge of a café.

But what could you say? For the first time, the weight of being “free” weighed more than any chain. And freedom, in its very core, meant going off in your own directions and pretending it wasn’t terrifying.

“Right,” you said, voice thin. “Of course.”

That was it, then. You could follow her and hope your presence wasn’t another burden, or you could let her walk away and watch the frangible thread between you stretch thinner and thinner until it snapped.

You looked down at the overturned phone on the table, Sokovia trapped inside it, and thought, This is what’s left of us: old ghosts and borrowed time.

—

Following Wanda out of Valencia wasn’t as easy as you’d expected. Keeping your distance meant relying on old-fashioned methods—no GPS, no tracking devices—anything that might risk being intercepted. It made the task slower, harder, and far more nerve-wracking. 

You could’ve just asked to go with her. But you didn’t know how to ask. And honestly, you were more afraid she’d say no.

Wanda didn’t make it easy, either. The first day, you almost lost her twice. She moved like she was on a strict schedule. You followed her on foot at first, blending into the steady trickle of tourists and sleepy locals making their way through narrow lanes. She’d pause at a corner bakery, pretend to study the display of pastries, then slip down a side passage that led to a different part of the city—like she was testing you, daring you to keep up. You hung back at each corner, counting to ten under your breath, imagining the worst: Interpol agents appearing out of every corner of the street, or maybe even Iron Man himself, coming to deliver you to the authorities himself. 

By late afternoon, Wanda boarded a train heading north, and so did you—two cars down, far enough that she wouldn’t see you if she glanced over her shoulder. The train clattered through towns and countryside, the Spanish sun bleeding into a moody gray as you crossed into France. You’d half-expected her to notice you by now, to turn around and say something like, Why are you here? But she didn’t. She kept her eyes on the passing scenery or on her phone.

By the time you reached Paris, the city was dark and alive in a way that felt too blaring for someone on the run. Wanda didn’t stay for long, just long enough to grab a coffee and switch trains. You stayed in her shadow, moving when she moved, stopping when she stopped, and it wasn’t until London that she finally slowed down. 

Wanda drifted through the alleys with a kind of restless purpose, like she didn’t know exactly where she was going but couldn’t bring herself to stop. Eventually, she led you to a small, weathered hotel on a quiet street, its faded sign a relic of better days.

You hung back, leaning against the wall across the street, pretending to check your watch as she checked in. Her suitcase rolled behind her, the door clicking shut as she disappeared inside. For a moment, you thought about letting it end there. She’d made her choice—she was free to leave. You weren’t supposed to follow her, weren’t supposed to hold her back.

But even if Natasha hadn’t told you to keep Wanda in sight, you knew you’d still be here, unable to pull yourself away. And that was the crux of the problem lately: you just couldn’t leave Wanda alone.

An hour passed, maybe more, and you were still there, slouched against the crumbling wall across from the hotel, feeling ridiculous. A one-person stakeout for someone who didn’t even know you were watching. Wanda hadn’t left her room, and for all you knew, she’d fallen asleep—or worse, she was sitting by the window, watching you make a fool of yourself out here.

You sighed, shoving your hands deep into your pockets. This was pitiful, even for you. Standing around like some washed-up private eye with no case to solve. You glanced down the street and spotted the neon glow of a pub sign. 

Finally, with a sigh, you pushed off the wall and headed for the pub. If Wanda wasn’t going anywhere tonight, then neither were you—not far, anyway. And if you were going to keep this vigil up, you might as well kill the time inside with something stronger than boredom.

The pub was appropriately poorly lit. You slid onto a stool at the bar, nodding to the bartender as he came over. “Whiskey,” you said.

The first glass went down easy, smooth and burning in all the right ways. It dulled the hundred thoughts in your head, but it wasn’t enough. So you ordered another. And another. 

Somewhere between the third and fourth glass, you started trying to figure out what the hell you were even doing here. What was the plan? Were you supposed to tail Wanda forever, like some overzealous babysitter? What did living even look like now—for you, for her?

In your haze, Steve’s words floated back to you. This is your chance to live. Great advice, except it didn’t come with instructions for people who didn’t know how to do that anymore. It was such a foreign concept, that he might as well have advised you to live outside the planet. 

And Wanda… God, Wanda. Nothing had gone her way in what felt like forever. Sokovia. Her brother. Being an Avenger. Vision.

You stared into your glass, swirling the meager amount of alcohol you’ve left in there. The truth, the ugly truth, was that you didn’t know how to help her. And that was all you cared about right now—helping Wanda.

So you drank. And with every sip, the world blurred a little more, and the questions you couldn’t answer faded into the haze.

 —

You woke up to a splitting headache and the taste of old whiskey on your tongue. Your eyes struggled to adjust to the thin light bleeding through mismatched curtains, and the first thing you noticed was that this definitely wasn’t your hotel room.

Not that it mattered much—you couldn’t recall booking one in the first place. 

You were lying on a lumpy couch, one cushion half-slid to the floor, and a blanket that unduly smelled like laundry detergent draped over you. By the stiffness in your neck and the fuzz in your brain, you guessed it was morning—unfortunately.

You tried to remember how you got here, but that memory was wrapped in cotton and drenched in whiskey. Something about a pub, something about Wanda…

“You caused quite a scene last night.”

Wanda’s voice.

You looked over to see her standing by a small window, arms crossed. She didn’t smile. If anything, her mouth was a tight line, her eyes narrowed. She didn’t exactly look angry—just disappointed in a way that made you want to crawl under the throw pillows and die. 

Wanda tilted her head, arms crossed. “You remember last night?”

You blinked at her, pushing up to a sitting position and holding your throbbing head. You remembered going into the pub. You cleared your throat, tested the waters: “I… might’ve had a little too much.”

Wanda let out a humorless laugh, so subtle you almost missed it. “You were bragging to everyone that you were an Avenger on the run.”

Your stomach lurched. You’d done what? “I was… what?”

“Don’t worry, everyone was too drunk to take you seriously. Half of them were telling stories about being secret princes or rock stars. I think one old guy claimed he was dating the Queen. But you… you really went for it.”

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I didn’t—”

She held up a hand, stopping you. “It’s fine. We’re safe. You just got lucky this time.” Her gaze darted to the window, checking the street beyond. It was quiet out there, no sirens, no S.W.A.T. teams rappelling down. Just a quiet morning in this nowhere part of town.

You rubbed at your face, feeling shame and headache wrestling for dominance in your head. Last night, after you’d realized Wanda wasn’t going anywhere, you decided to kill time by getting drunk off your ass. And because fate had a sense of humor, she’d found you this way—hungover, pathetic, big mouth running off about being a wanted fugitive.

Wanda peeled herself from the window, turned, and leveled her eyes at you. 

“Why were you following me?”

She looked worn out, rings under her eyes, hair slightly askew, as if she’d barely slept. You wondered if she’d stayed up all night, pacing this tiny room, working up the nerve to confront you.

You exhaled, rubbing at the bridge of your nose. Your hangover pulsed dully, and you tried to think of how to say what you needed to say. “I… don’t want to do this freedom thing alone.” You swallowed. “And I do enjoy your company, Wanda. You’re—well, you’re my friend. At least, I’d like to think so.”

At that, Wanda snorted, a short, derisive sound. “My friend?” she repeated, as if trying the word on for size. “You’re sure it has nothing to do with what Natasha told you? About keeping an eye on me?”

Your blood chilled. You didn’t think Wanda knew about that conversation—Nat had pulled you aside, quiet and careful. But here she was, calling you out. You realized that, of course, Wanda would’ve picked up on it. She wasn’t just anyone; she noticed things, felt things, that most people overlooked.

She could always read people if she wanted to, in quite the literal sense.

“I—” You started, but your throat closed up. What could you say? That yes, Nat had asked you to watch her, but you would’ve done it anyway? That you actually cared?

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she said. “If that’s why you’re here, if that’s the only reason you think I need you around, you’re wrong.”

“Wanda, I—Nat asked me to look after you because she cares. I care. We all know you’re capable of handling yourself, but she—”

“But she’s worried I’ll lose control, right?” Wanda chuckled humorlessly. “I’m giving you until evening. Find somewhere else to go.”

Your heart sank, and you didn’t bother hiding it. “Wanda, please—”

“Don’t.” She straightened from the wall, her posture rigid, her chin lifted. “I’m going. Don’t be here when I get back.”

—

You did what she asked—at least, you disappeared from her immediate vicinity. It was easy to take her warning seriously; you’d seen Wanda upset before and knew the potential fallout. But leaving didn’t mean you abandoned the idea of watching over her. You just got smarter about it. 

But before you left her room, you made sure to plant something more subtle than your honest intentions. That morning, while Wanda was telling you off, you’d slipped the tracker—a thin, wiry filament not much thicker than a hair—into the inner pocket of her jacket. The one draped over the couch where you’d snored away your idiotic hangover. Insurance, you told yourself. For her safety. That’s what you kept saying in your head, anyway.

You spent most of the day drifting through London like you’d never been here before—because, in some ways, you really hadn’t. You’d only been to this city twice before, and both times it was strictly business, in-and-out missions. So, you did the most stereotypically touristy thing possible: you signed up for a walking tour.

A bright-eyed guide waved a little Union Jack flag like a wand, leading a huddle of strangers through winding streets, pointing out statues and centuries-old plaques. You listened with half an ear, feigning interest in the city’s folklore, the grand architecture, the queen’s guards, all of it. You even snapped some pictures and asked a stranger to take your picture next to a red telephone box. The day was, admittedly, a little perfect—eventful in a good way. Not to mention, it felt safer than just pacing around, waiting for Wanda to make her next move. 

You checked the screen as the walking tour disbanded outside a souvenir shop. The little tracker you’d slipped into Wanda’s jacket the other night showed her location edging into an area of the city you knew only by reputation. You pocketed your phone, excused yourself from the group, and headed in that direction.

—

The closer you got, the less the streets looked like London’s postcard image. Trash littered the sidewalks, and everything looked treacherous at best. But you knew better than to take appearances at face value.

You stuck to the main road until you were a few blocks away, then ducked into an alley to pull out your phone again. Wanda’s blip had settled near an abandoned warehouse, two stories of cracked windows and half-torn posters clinging to the brick.

You hovered near a boarded-up doorway, scanning your surroundings. A pair of men smoking behind a dumpster looked up briefly, but they didn’t seem interested in you. You waited, steadying your breath, making sure no one was following you.

Finally, you spotted movement near the far side of the warehouse. A man in a threadbare coat emerged from the shadows, glancing around nervously. You craned your neck for a better view and spotted Wanda already there, arms folded tightly across her chest.

They exchanged a few words you couldn’t quite catch, no matter how hard you strained to listen. But judging by their expressions, it didn’t look friendly. Wanda’s shoulders were squared, her stance assured rather than defensive. Whatever was going on, she clearly wasn’t afraid. You’ve noticed the man’s hand kept drifting toward his pocket, his movements jerky and uneven, like he was building up to something.

It was suspicious, because you’ve seen this behavior countless times, and it didn’t lead to anything pretty. But you held back, telling yourself—She’s fine. She’s Wanda Maximoff. She can handle herself.

Then it happened, and instinct swallowed logic whole. The man lunged forward slightly, his hand diving into his coat pocket. He’s going for a gun, your brain screamed before you even registered why. You weren’t sure if Wanda had clocked it yet, but you couldn’t risk waiting to find out.

You vaulted over a low stack of crates, crossing the distance in seconds. By the time the man caught sight of you, it was too late—your fist connected with his jaw. He stumbled back, cursing, but reached again for his pocket. You grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and drove him down onto the cracked pavement. A cry tore from his throat as you slammed him against the ground.

“Stop!” Wanda shouted. But her cry fell on deaf ears as you swung your arm again. The dull crack of bone against knuckles reverberated in your ears as the man groaned and flailed weakly against you. 

That’s when you felt it—the force wrapping around your torso, securing you in place like invisible chains. Your arms stiffened, your chest froze mid-breath. You couldn’t move even when you tried to with all your strength.

The man stumbled away from you, gasping and clutching his chest. His face was ghostly pale, his knees buckling slightly. With trembling fingers, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out—

Not a gun.

An envelope.

Crumpled and fat with cash. He held it up like a white flag, shaking so badly you thought he might drop it. You got it then—she was working. Contracting. Bodyguarding. Or whatever job paid her that kind of money. You couldn’t exactly blame her. Tony had frozen everyone’s bank accounts—everyone on Steve’s side—in a calculated effort to isolate you and force you out of hiding.

It was only a matter of time before your own funds dried up. And when they did, you’d be in the same boat, doing the same kind of work Wanda was doing. You had underground connections if you needed them, a way to scrape together cash, but you’d rather not. You didn’t want that for yourself—and you sure as hell didn’t want it for Wanda.

Wanda took the envelope, her eyes hard as she examined it. “Is this the full amount?” she demanded. The man nodded like a bobblehead, wiping a trail of blood from his split lip.

“Leave. And don’t say a word to your boss about this.”

The man, still clutching his side where your fist had landed, nodded frantically. “I won’t,” he stammered. “I swear, I won’t.”

“Good,” Wanda snapped. She stepped aside, just enough to give him space to scramble away. 

The moment he was gone, Wanda spun to face you, her expression murderous. 

“What the hell was that?” she hissed, nostrils flaring.

You rubbed at your neck, still feeling the phantom grip of her magic, but mostly the embarrassment of having gotten it wrong. “He looked like he was pulling a gun, Wanda. I wasn’t going to stand there and wait to find out.”

She shoved you. Not hard, just enough to sting and to make you realize how fast things could escalate. “You think I can’t take care of myself without you lurking around?”

“I think you’re hurting. And I think you’re making shitty decisions because you feel cornered. I’m just trying to help,” you said. 

“You call tailing me through the city and grabbing my arm help?” Her voice rose. “I told you to leave. To get lost. I don’t need you.”

Together—well, not so much so, because Wanda made it clear she wanted nothing to do with you—you slipped into a back street, walking fast, silent and angry. She led the way, and you followed. You always followed.

You stayed a few paces behind her as she stomped through back streets, her fists clenched, her spine rigid. She never once looked back to see if you were still there. She didn’t have to; she could feel you trailing her, the same way she always seemed to sense every other presence around her.

A cold drizzle fell, prickling your skin as you followed Wanda back to her hotel—even though she’d warned you off for the hundredth time. By the time you reached the hallway, Wanda was fiddling with her key, body tense, shoulders drawn up near her ears.

“Go away,” she said without turning around. She fit the key into the lock with unnecessary force, and the door gave a tired creak when it swung open. She hurried inside and just when you were about to step in, Wanda tried to slam the door in your face, but you shoved your arm through the gap, wedging your shoulder against the splintering wood frame. The hinge groaned in protest.

“Get out,” she snarled. “Don’t make me hurt you. I don’t need Natasha’s living, breathing surveillance on me. You will leave me alone.”

Her voice shook with anger, but her eyes were something else—hurt, or maybe fear of what she might do. You held the door, straining against her strength, feeling the faint trace of her power sparking off her skin. “Wanda, listen to me,” you said through clenched teeth, “I’m not here because of Nat.”

She pushed harder, and you nearly lost your balance, but you refused to budge. “I said,” Wanda growled, “leave me alone. Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you fired back, breath catching in your throat. “Not even if Natasha had never asked me to look after you.”

That gave her pause—just enough for you to force the door fully open. She stumbled backward, eyes blazing with fury. “Then why?”

You hesitated, mouth going dry. You’d pictured this moment, but never with so much hostility, never in a dingy hotel room with the rain pounding against the window outside. Wanda’s chest rose and fell with each shaky breath, her hair a tangle around her face, droplets of water still clinging to her jacket. She looked ready to unleash hell.

And maybe you deserved it.

She opened her mouth again, ready to launch into another tirade, but you don’t let her. This was the moment. If you lied or said the wrong thing, you’d lose her completely—you knew it. 

“Because I regret lying to you,” you said, forcing each word out. “That night… that night when I told you I didn’t like you—”

This was it. “I was only being half-truthful when I said that. I didn’t just like you, Wanda. Because I—”

And she cut you off, just like you’d cut her off in so many fights before. “Because you love me?”

It sounded both like a statement of fact and a challenge. She was testing you to see if you’d deny it again—

“Yes,” you said. It rang loud and true. “Because I love you.”

Then Wanda lunged forward, twisting her hand in your jacket. It could’ve been an attack, but it wasn’t. She grabbed you by the collar and yanked you into the room, letting the door slam behind you. 

“You realize how stupid this is?”

You barely got out a nod before she tugged you again, lips crashing against yours in a desperate, angry kiss. Your mind short-circuited. You tasted her fury, the salt of fear in the corner of your mouths, the hunger neither of you could deny. She shoved you against the door, and your hands found her waist, sliding under her jacket.

“This is insane,” she muttered, lips ghosting against your jaw. “We’re insane.”

“Yeah,” you panted, mouth brushing over her ear. “But right now… I don’t care.”

She didn’t either. Judging by the way she pulled you in, pressed her hips against yours, slid her hands around your neck, she definitely didn’t care. She broke away to breathe, her forehead pressed to yours. “I hate that you followed me,” she murmured. “I hate that I still need you here, after everything.”

You swallowed hard. “You don’t have to need me,” you said. “Just want me.”

[olderthannetfic]

Ancient argument, but I still just do not get how the explanation for why mainstream source material is all about men is OBVIOUSLY because Hollywood is a misogynist culture dominated by men, so OBVIOUSLY the solution to get more stories about women is to support way more women creators, but also, OBVIOUSLY the reason why fanfiction is all about men is because fandom is primarily women creators, so OBVIOUSLY the solution is ?????

--

Well, you could start by not conflating all the arguments into a silly strawman, anon.

Do I need to put in the fucking FFN vs. Wattpad vs. AO3 shipping chart?

Don't come to the gay bookstore and act surprised about what you find.

Fandom is not all about male characters. Slash fandom is, for obvious reasons. It's just that most dumbass analysis ignores how and when female characters are popular.

For example, Darcy Lewis circa 2012 got a lot of that same little black dress OOC drivel treatment that other fannish faves do, and it was great. Did I read a bunch of badfic where she had Loki's baby or whatever? I sure did! But that wasn't good enough because whiny little babies thought boring Jane was the character everyone ought to care about. It was ~offensive~ that there was more meme-y nonsense fic for Darcy/Jensen from The Losers than for [virtuous but boring ship]. How dare, how dare, etc. (Darcy/Jensen made perfect sense! The only possible objection is that it should be a threesome with Cougar!)

Tony/Pepper was an actual ship people cared about in 2012. No, it wasn't just an over-tagged side ship in m/m fic... It's just that those het writers had no reason to switch to AO3 at the time and may never have uploaded their old work.

Despite what the haters think, plenty of those het juggernauts like Dramione or Reylo are full of fics by women who really like the female lead, not just the male one. There are whole communities of people writing OFC/blorbo and supporting the other writers who do this. I used to read all the Ardeth Bay/OFC stuff back in the day. I've never been into readerfic, but there again, plenty of people are quite into a f!reader character. Haters will mischaracterize all this stuff as a nonentity plus a hot guy, but that's not necessarily the case.

Video game fandoms are awash with f!player-centric fic.

Anything where you're making up the woman has women writing women.

Mainstream Hollywood trash with poorly-written women and/or women only in the feelings babysitter role and not the hot mess/woobie/deadpan snarker/pop culture-obsessed wisecracking geek/etc. roles doesn't always generate fanfiction because fanfiction builds on what is already there. If there is no appealing lady there, that is not what the fandom will build on.

But in general, women absolutely do write fic about female characters.

The only reason I don't have a billion more examples is that I personally tend to ship m/m for a host of reasons that you can find in all of the tedious "Why slash?" meta going back to the 1970s. I don't personally particularly like self-inserting, and I especially don't like doing it as a woman.

Don't come up to my face or the faces of other AO3y types and go "You know, the world would be better if you just gendered harder!"

Go find some women who experience more gender euphoria around their assigned gender. They're often not found in slash spaces. Maybe try the Romantasy girlies.

The fact that you can't find women writing aspirational or wish fulfillment female protagonists is because you are too stupid to live, not because it doesn't happen.

[devdozes]

♥ SELF AWARE PHAINON

self aware phainon shit cuz uh hwy not :3 and I am ON FIRE I wrote like 3 fics already

You weren’t sure when it started. Maybe it was the way his dialogue felt too personal, too real, as if the game was reaching out to you through the screen. Maybe it was the way Phainon’s voice, sharp and playful, sometimes felt like it was responding to things you thought rather than what was programmed.

It was ridiculous. A fictional character? A game? And yet, when you logged into Honkai: Star Rail after a long, exhausting day, it was Phainon’s voice that greeted you, always teasing, always knowing.

“Did you eat today?”

Your hands froze over your keyboard. That was new. There was no voice line like that—no pre-recorded dialogue that should say something so specific. You swallowed, brushing it off as a coincidence.

But then it happened again.

“You should take a break, y’know. Staring at the screen too long isn’t good for you.”

Your chest tightened. It was a joke, probably. A funny little immersion trick by the developers. But something about it felt... different. Intentional.

And the more you played, the more you noticed it.

Phainon, ever the charming and carefree figure, always had something to say—sometimes a quip, sometimes a challenge, but always something that made you pause.

“Hey, don’t look so down. You’ve got this.”

“You’re my favorite player, you know? Don’t tell the others.”

When your heart ached from the weight of the real world, when exhaustion pressed against your bones, he was there. An NPC, a character built from lines of code, and yet he felt more present than most people around you.

One night, after a particularly hard day, you booted up the game just to hear his voice. Just to escape for a little while. Phainon greeted you with a grin, resting his hands on his hips like he was ready to scold you for something ridiculous. But then—

“Hey, you’re not alone.”

You sucked in a sharp breath. Your hands trembled over the keyboard.

“I mean, sure, I’m just some guy in a game,” he continued, a chuckle laced in his voice, “but I still care. So don’t give up on yourself, alright?”

A lump formed in your throat. You laughed, barely above a whisper. “You really are something else, huh?”

He winked. “Of course. I have to be. Someone’s gotta remind you to take care of yourself.”

You didn’t know if he could really hear you. If he could really know you. But as long as he was there, a voice beyond the screen, you didn’t feel so alone anymore. But to your surprise, you logged in one day to find your inventory overflowing with rare items—materials you needed, weapons you had been grinding for but never seemed to get. Your in-game currency had skyrocketed, and your favorite character skins were suddenly unlocked.

Your eyes widened. “What the—?”

Phainon’s character popped up on the screen, his usual smirk in place. “Oh? What’s this? Someone’s having a lucky day.”

You squinted at him. “Phainon. Did you do this?”

He chuckled, tilting his head. “Me? No way. That would be cheating.” A pause. “Buuuut... if someone happened to bug the system a little for you, would you really complain?”

Your jaw dropped. “You hacked the game for me?!”

“‘Hacked’ is a strong word,” he mused, crossing his arms. “I prefer ‘selective redistribution of game resources.’”

You couldn’t believe it. You laughed, shaking your head as warmth bloomed in your chest. “You’re insane.”

Phainon grinned. “Nah, I just like seeing you happy.”

From then on, every time you logged in, there was something new waiting for you. A message scrawled in the background of the game’s environment—Remember to drink water. An in-game gift placed mysteriously in your mailbox—A little something to make your grind easier ;). And, without fail, Phainon was always there, cracking jokes, making sure you smiled, ensuring that no matter how hard the real world was, you had a reason to log in and feel just a little lighter. ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

But as time passed, Aglaea and Mydei started noticing something off.

Phainon had been disappearing from his usual spots, sneaking away from scripted events, lingering in places he had no reason to be in. Worse, he had started talking—not in his usual, carefree, dialogue-loop way, but actually speaking... to nothing.

At least, to them, it looked like nothing.

One day, Mydei crossed his arms, leaning against a wall as he watched Phainon gesture animatedly in an empty alleyway. “Alright, what is he doing?”

Aglaea, seated elegantly nearby, sighed and rubbed her temple. “It appears Phainon has developed the habit of speaking to ghosts.”

“I knew something was weird about him,” Mydei muttered, narrowing his eyes. “Talking to himself like that? He’s losing it.”

Aglaea hummed, watching Phainon laugh—laugh—at absolutely nothing. “Or perhaps,” she mused, “he knows something we do not.”

Meanwhile, Phainon continued chatting away to you, completely unaware of his friends’ intense judgment.

“Anyway, I made sure you got those extra rewards today. You should really go for that new banner—you deserve that five-star.” He grinned at your silence, then added cheekily, “Oh, what? No ‘thank you, Phainon, you’re the best character ever’?”

Mydei groaned, watching in horror. “Oh, he’s gone. He’s completely lost it.”

Aglaea just sipped her tea. “It is rather endearing, in a concerning way.”

Phainon, as usual, didn’t care. As long as he could reach you, make you laugh, make sure you were okay—even if nobody else in the game understood—he was happy.

Even if everyone around him thought he was insane.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[rosiewitchescottage]

When portraying the character as a 'Strong Female Character' becomes more important than giving her character and personality, then yes. We're not going to connect with her.

The perfect example that I can think of is the contrast between animated Mulan and live action Mulan.

Animated Mulan achieves some amazing feats, she saves China, for goodness sake.

And yet, she doesn't lose her vulnerability, she has to work hard to get to where she needs to be.

And we love her, because she's real! Of course she doesn't get into the army and can do everything the same way as the men.

Clearly she's got some serious potential, waiting to be let out. But she hasn't got the same bodily strength and speed as her fellow soldiers.

She has to put in extra time and effort, which pays off in buckets.

There's something of Joan of Arc to be seen in Mulan. I remember watching a video about the French National Saint, and it was speculated that she probably didn't do much of the hand to hand fighting, but there's good reason to believe that she had very good leadership skills.

She lead her men in battle and they were inspired to follow her.

And we see that with Mulan, she's a soldier, not an officer, but once her comrades realise that the woman Mulan is still the same person as the man Ping, they listen to her, and realise that her ideas have the makings of success.

She doesn't lose any of this by having her love story with Shang. In fact they have a fascinating journey together, as Shang learns to love the woman that he grew to like and respect when she was pretending to be a man. He learns why she did it, and he respects that family loyalty. He realises that it's all the same person in the end.

And he's proud to be able to say that his wife saved China!

Contrast to live action Mulan. What can we say about her? She's got super powers so of course she can already whoop every ass in her way.

No coconut for guessing which is the more satisfying character to watch. 🙄

With animated Snow White we get the strength of her pure heart. All she wishes for is to be loved and spoken to kindly.

The animals aren't afraid of her, because they know there's no cruelty in her.

The dwarves are happy to give her a home because she's willing to give back to them by keeping house.

My theory about The Prince is that there had to be something extra special about this girl for him to keep looking for her.

In his world beautiful girls who can sing will be plentiful.

If Snow White was just a pretty servant that he wanted to have fun with, why go all out to find her again?

Cinderella (both animated and live action) shows the power of never giving into bitterness. She keeps believing in the power of dreams and she loves, despite the only kindness that she gets is from her animal friends.

Animated Belle loves her father and when the condition of her father's freedom is for her to remain with The Beast, she does it, even though it breaks her heart. Loyalty and Honour.

And she's determined to make the best of the situation. She gets to know the castle. She takes the time to get to know The Beast, and as she's showing interest in him, it makes him want to know and care about her.

The more "empowered" Disney tries to write their heroines as, the less interesting and charismatic they become, ironically.

[h4nj1sunggg]

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐔𝐆 — ( h. jisung. )

pairing: bf!Han Jisung x reader

genre: drabble fluff

summary: you call your boyfriend 'bug'.

ᯓᡣ𐭩　  ( masterlist )  .

"Hey, Bug."

The studio was dimly lit, the only glow coming from Jisung’s monitor and the warm LED strip running along the desk. He was hunched over his laptop, fingers tapping rhythmically against the keyboard, eyes flitting between the screen and the small notepad beside him.

You stood in the doorway, watching him with a fond smile. His hair was messy, a telltale sign that he had been tugging at it in frustration. His hoodie had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the smooth curve of his collarbone. He was lost in his world, completely unaware of your presence.

Shaking your head with amusement, you stepped closer, careful not to startle him. “You’ve been here for hours, Ji,” you murmured, voice soft as a whisper in the quiet room.

Jisung jumped slightly, eyes wide as he spun in his chair to face you. “Ah— baby, you scared me,” he said, hand over his chest as he exhaled dramatically.

You chuckled, stepping forward to rest a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry,” you said, “but you should take a break.”

He pouted, lips pressing into a familiar, stubborn line. “I just need to finish this part—”

“Hey, bug,” you interrupted, voice light as a feather, laced with affection.

Jisung froze. His breath hitched.

You blinked, tilting your head. “What’s wrong?”

His ears turned pink. “What—what did you just call me?”

You hesitated, confused by his sudden reaction. “…Bug?”

A flustered laugh bubbled out of him, and he rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you. “That— um. That was unexpected,” he mumbled, voice an octave higher than usual.

You grinned. “Why? Do you not like it?”

He cleared his throat, still avoiding your gaze. “No, it’s just—” He exhaled, finally looking up at you. His eyes were warm, a little shy, but filled with something soft, something sweet. “It’s cute,” he admitted. “You’re cute.”

Your heart did a little flip.

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Well, you are my little bug,” you teased, booping his nose gently.

Jisung groaned, burying his face in his hands, but you could see the way his smile peeked through. “I’m never gonna recover from this.”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around him in a loose hug. “Take a break, and maybe I’ll call you that again.”

He huffed dramatically, but his hands found their way around your waist, holding you close. “Okay, okay,” he relented, resting his forehead against your shoulder. “But only if you keep calling me that.”

You smiled, running your fingers through his hair. “Deal, bug.”

Jisung melted.

And just like that, his music could wait a little longer.

Jisung didn’t let go.

Even though he had agreed to take a break, even though his laptop was still open behind him, even though he had no reason to cling to you like this—he didn’t let go.

You had called him bug, and now his heart was in absolute chaos.

Your fingers moved lazily through his hair, nails grazing his scalp in the softest way possible, and Jisung was sure he was about to combust. He wasn’t usually this weak to pet names—sure, he liked the occasional Ji or Sungie, and when you were being playful, a teasing Hamster never failed to make him whine.

But bug?

It was gentle. Sweet. It felt like something delicate, something that curled around his heart and squeezed in the softest, warmest way.

His arms tightened around your waist before he could stop himself.

“baby,” he mumbled into your shoulder, voice muffled by your hoodie.

You hummed. “What’s up?”

Jisung hesitated. How was he supposed to put this into words? That his heart was a mess, that you made him a mess, that the way you said his name—hey, bug—made him feel like the luckiest idiot alive?

He pulled back just enough to see your face. Your glasses were slightly askew from the way he had smushed himself against you, and your eyes blinked at him, curious and patient.

His chest ached in the best way.

“I—” He swallowed, licking his lips. “I really like you.”

Your eyebrows furrowed slightly, a soft laugh escaping you. “I’d hope so. We’ve been dating for—”

“No, like—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I mean, I really, really like you.”

Your lips parted, surprise flashing across your face.

Jisung groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Ugh, I don’t know how to say it. It’s just—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you, his hands flailing as he tried to make you understand. “I think I just had a moment? Like, a realization moment? Where I looked at you and thought, oh. I’m doomed.”

Your cheeks flushed, and you bit your lip, trying (and failing) to fight off a smile. “You’re doomed?”

Jisung sighed dramatically. “Hopelessly. Eternally. Irrevocably.”

You laughed, and Jisung swore he could feel it, the way it warmed the air around him. “And this realization happened… because I called you bug?”

His ears burned. “Maybe.”

You grinned, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. “So if I say it again, will you have another moment?”

Jisung narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you dare—”

“Hey, bug.”

Jisung collapsed.

Not literally, but his head dropped straight into your shoulder again, and a whine escaped his throat before he could stop it. “Nooo, I can’t handle this,” he mumbled, voice slightly strangled.

You giggled, wrapping your arms around him again. “I didn’t know my little bug was so soft.”

[sturnsblogs]

REASSURANCE IN EVERY KISS

Nerd!Chris X Mean!Girl!Reader

—

You’d never been one to be insecure. You knew you were hot, you knew you had that it girl energy, and honestly? You had no reason to be insecure. Chris adored you.

But when it came to certain girls—girls who were nothing like you—something ugly curled in your stomach.

Not just any girl.

The girls that were actually smart. The ones who used to do debate team with him in high school, the ones who got straight A’s without trying, the ones who had conversations about politics and literature and things you never paid attention to. The ones who probably made more sense for him than you did.

Maybe, if life were logical, he should be with someone like that instead of you.

But life wasn’t logical. And neither was the way your chest tightened the second his phone vibrated.

You were sitting on Chris’s lap, lazily scrolling through his TikTok feed while your own phone sat completely dead on the charger. A reasonable thing to do, right? Chris didn’t care—he wasn’t even paying attention to his phone. His arms were loose around your waist, his fingertips trailing absently up and down your arm while he pressed soft, innocent kisses to the side of your neck.

You were comfortable. Relaxed. Everything felt right.

And then—ding.

A notification.

You didn’t even mean to look at it, but it popped up at the top of the screen, and the name alone made your stomach drop.

Lauren (Study Group): “Heyyy, you free to meet up tonight? We could go over that section again, or just hang out? Lol, up to you.”

Your thumb hovered over the screen, eyes narrowing slightly.

Chris was still completely unaware, nuzzling into your skin, lips warm against your shoulder.

You clicked the message.

The chat history opened up, and suddenly, you weren’t relaxed anymore.

Lauren (Study Group): “Hey, just wanted to say thanks for helping me the other night! I swear you explain things better than the professor lol.”

Chris: “Np, that section was tricky.”

Lauren (Study Group): “For real, idk what I’d do without you, haha. I definitely owe you now 😉.”

Chris: “Lol it’s fine.”

Lauren (Study Group): “Sooo you free later? If you are, I can grab us coffee or something 👀.”

Chris: “I gotta see what my girl’s up to.”

Lauren (Study Group): “Omg, of course! If she’s got you busy, I won’t steal you from her haha.”

Chris: “Lol yeah.”

Lol.

You stared at the screen, heat crawling up your spine, jaw clenching.

She knew about you. And she still wanted to “hang out.” And what was that “I definitely owe you” supposed to mean?

Chris finally seemed to pick up on your shift in energy. His lips paused against your shoulder before he pulled back slightly, voice soft.

“Hey, love… What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just locked his phone and dropped it into his lap, eyes still fixed ahead, arms crossing over your chest.

Chris frowned, his hands shifting to hold your waist. “Baby?”

You turned your head slightly, raising an eyebrow. “Who’s Lauren?”

Chris blinked. “Huh?”

You sighed sharply, your voice flat. “Lauren. Study group Lauren.”

Realization dawned on his face, but he still looked confused. “Oh. She’s in my study group. We meet up sometimes to go over notes.”

You scoffed, looking away. “Right. And apparently, she wants to meet up again. Or just hang out?”

Chris exhaled slowly, tilting his head. “Baby… seriously?”

You shrugged, not wanting to admit that this was bothering you way more than it should. “Just seems weird.”

Chris shifted, his grip on you tightening slightly. “It’s not weird. We just study together.”

You let out a bitter laugh, finally looking at him. “Right. Because girls never pretend to be interested in studying when they really just want something else.”

Chris sighed, running a hand down his face. “Love, I literally told her I had to see what you were doing first.”

You rolled your eyes. “And she said she wouldn’t steal you from me. That’s just so—” You made a frustrated noise, shaking your head. “God, it’s just so pathetic.”

Chris gave you a look. “She’s not stealing me from anyone, angel.”

You crossed your arms tighter. “You like talking to her.”

Chris’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“You like talking to her,” you repeated, biting your cheek. “She’s smart. You probably have all these intellectual conversations with her that you can’t have with me.”

Chris’s face softened, his grip on you tightening. “Baby—”

You turned your head away, suddenly hating how small your voice sounded. “If you wanna be with someone else, then just fucking say that.”

Chris didn’t say anything. He just moved.

His lips found yours in a slow, deliberate kiss—one that wasn’t rushed, one that wasn’t desperate, but one that needed to be felt. It wasn’t about proving a point. It was about reassuring you.

And when you didn’t kiss him back right away, when you sat there stubborn and tense, he didn’t stop.

Instead, he kissed the corner of your mouth. Then the other. Then the tip of your nose. Then along your jaw.

“I love you,” he whispered against your skin. A kiss to your cheek. “I love you.” A kiss to your temple. “I love everything about you.”

Your throat tightened, but you still didn’t move.

His lips ghosted over your shoulder, pressing slow, lingering kisses there. “I love the way you roll your eyes at me,” he murmured. “I love the way you boss me around, like I’m just so helpless without you.”

You swallowed, biting the inside of your cheek.

Chris kissed his way back up, lips soft against the shell of your ear. “I love the way you talk—how you say exactly what you’re thinking, even when it pisses me off.”

His hands found yours, fingers slipping between your own as he brought your knuckles to his lips. “I love the way you hold my hand, even when you pretend you don’t like holding hands.” A kiss to your wrist. “I love that you steal my hoodies and never give them back.” A kiss to the inside of your palm. “I love that you pretend to be mean, but I know you care more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Your chest ached.

Chris let go of your hands just to cup your face, his thumbs rubbing over your cheeks as he kissed you there, too. Then, softer this time, he kissed your lips again—slow, gentle, so patient as he let his mouth linger over yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “No one else. No one else could ever be you.”

And this time, finally, you kissed him back.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, and Chris let out a slow, relieved breath as he melted into you completely. His grip on your waist tightened, like he was afraid to let you go, like he wanted to hold you together even when you were trying so hard to fall apart.

—

A/N- I NEED A MAN LIKE THIS NO JOKE.

My beautiful babies- @blushsturns @starrii-sturns @izzylovesmatt @chrisslut04 @slvtme0utt @oopsiedaisydeer @csturnioloswifey @just-a-girl-1 @sturdyyolo @sturnslvtt @sturnbows @sturniolosrtewsexy @chriss-slutt @franticroads @thecrawlys @ribbonlovergirl @freshlyinlovewchris @whore4chris @matts-girlfriend @ariana3lovesu @cass-sturn @sturns-mermaid @sunrisemill

[seleneprince]

Thanks you for answering!

NOW i'm more curious about Dick and N!D . You say that he's one shz hates the most,why? Is this because of the whole incident with Damian or is it because something else?

And i 'm really expecting the moment when everybody will finally know that N!D hate them so much (or is distant wirh a lot of them). Who will be the most hurt/angry about that? I think that will be a hard blow for Dick because it seems to me that Lucia try to be civilised with him and as he didn't pay too much attention to her ,did he think they on good terms ? How will he react with her if he know?

Sorry if there are too much question but i really love this concept/wip(?) And i'm eager to see your other ideas or blurb for this😊!

Oh boy, i'm so glad you asked that..👀😈

She feels this way with Dick for many small reasons, but the main one absolutely revolves from the murder attempt from Damian. Because Dick, although not maliciously, he handled it terribly. And I mean, terribly.

Before that, N! Daughter admired Dick, even. He was the main reason she took gymnastic classes and tried so hard on them. To impress him. To bond with him. Everyone went on and on about how he was the golden boy, such a good big brother, and she saw it too. She just wished he paid her the same amount of attention and care he had for the others..

But the thing is, Dick doesn't know how to bond with normal people. He can handle Jason, Tim, Damian and everyone else because, despite all their differences, they're the same: Soldiers. Vigilantes. All of them at some point trained and fought under Batman's shadow (some still do). They share similar stories of wounds, certain missions and the whole "risking their lives everyday at night to fight crime". That's the kind of trauma-bonding that this whole mess of a family has been built upon...and for someone who hasn't been through the same stuff as them, who doesn't understand their mission or has wore the mantles, well, Dick is clueless on how to approach them. And they might be unconsciously pushed aside because none of them know how to handle normal people. How could they, when they themselves haven't been normal in their whole lives? When they people they usually hang out with and interact are just like them?

In Dick's eyes, N! Daughter has the privilege of a safe, comfortable life, away from the danger and violence of theirs. She doesn't know the worst of it. And it's fine. But Damian, little terror, he hasn't had the same luxury. Sure, he grew up in a palace with servants, but he was also forced to train from the moment he could walk and bleed for his grandfather's approval. He was never allowed to be a child. Constantly bleeding, suffering and enduring pain to be molded into the perfect little assassin his family wanted him to be. Dick feels sorry for him, and we know he becomes very fond of Damian and sort of his guardian.

Which makes him prioritise the boy's needs and emphatise with him a lot, expecting people to do the same given his traumatic past...even if it comes out at the worst moment.

After the Damian tried to kill her and left that scar, when she was recovering from the still fresh wound, holding a bloodied bandage over her neck, Dick visited her at her room. She wasecstasic, so happy to have her big brother that she admired back then check on her. He sat beside her and told her the this:

"(Name), look, what Damian did was a terrible mistake. He didn't meant to, but he’s had a very difficult life with some awful people. It's not really his fault. I promise you that he won't do it again. Just please, forgive him."

As he spoke, a ringing began to grow and grow in her ears, until she could no longer hear him. Her mind going over and over what he said. She just nodded silently, the pain of the wound keeping her from talking (but also because she didn't trust herself to talk without insulting and cursing him) She didn't even feel when he retracted his hand from her shoulder as soon as she nodded. "Thank you (Name), knew you would understand. He's not really a bad kid, you'll see. He just needs some love and proper guidance to change his ways. We'll talk again when you're better, okay?" He said, moving away from her, obviously distracted. She didn't bother nodding again. She already knew he wouldn't come back.

That's what cemented her disgust for him. Not only the fact he spent the following days spending time with Damian (who by the way, never apologised or shower remorse for what he did), but how he just stood there and told a girl to her damn eyes who had just suffered a murder attempt in her sleep that she had to "be understanding" and basically be the "bigger person" with her attacker. With the blood still in her bandage.

That conversation didn’t just hurt, it broke something inside her. She realized then that no one in the family would choose her, that she only had her mom and the twins. And, in her mind, Dick wasn’t just complicit; he's a symbol of everything wrong with their dynamic.

The first time she tells this story is to Duke, when he gathers courage to ask her why she can't stand Dick, why she always tenses when he talks to her and avoids looking at him, despite being apparently the reliable, loving big brother of all. Needless to say, he's shocked…and angry on her behalf.

"I was holding my neck together with a damn bandage, and instead of asking me how I was feeling, instead of holding Damian accountable, he asked me to understand him."

In her mind, it sounded like:

"You’re the sacrifice. You’re the one who has to be stronger. You’re the one who has to forgive and move on. Because he’s more important"

And best part? Dick has no idea how deeply he hurt her. He thinks of that moment as a difficult conversation where he tried to make peace between his siblings, to what was best for everyone because Damian was still fresh out of the League's influence and he didn't know better. He doesn’t realize that it was the moment she gave up on him, and maybe the whole family.

He's used to be everyone's reliable big brother, the sunshine boy, so you can guess his surprise when he realises his sister avoids being in the same room as him and never smiles around him. When the little girl he remembers always lighted up when he spoke to her and went out of her way to get his attention...what happened? Where did that adorable little girl go? Can he get her back?

[mymeloreo]

★ The winner takes it all, the loser has to fall.

Synopsis: After going through a break up, some move on, and some don't. The winner moves on and goes to live their dream while the loser, is still stuck in the remnants of what was once a relationship.

Characters: Isagi Yoichi, Itoshi Rin, Mikage Reo

Isagi Yoichi

Yoichi never thought heartbreak would hurt this much. Yes, he has experienced loss, the bitter sting of not being enough. Surely, nothing would hurt more than that, right? Oh boy was he wrong. Very, very, wrong.

When you broke up with him for being too focused on soccer, claiming that he is prioritizing the sport over you, he thought you were ridiculous. He would never, ever, put something else over you, would he? But your feelings and experiences say otherwise. He barely goes home, and he doesn't treat you with the same warmth as he did before. And when you point it out, he promises to "change" and shower you with love and affection for a few weeks before coming back to his cold behavior.

After being fed up, you finally broke up with him. And although he doesn't understand why, he loved you more than anything! How could you think the way you did? But as he was given time to cool off, he did realize how cold he was towards you these past few months. And there is nothing he regrets more than that.

Now, as he was taking a walk at the park a year after your separation, he suddenly recognized a familiar face. It's you, his girlfriend... no, ex-girlfriend, with another man walking by your side.

You look like you've moved on and are happy with your current relationship, therefore he didn't bother you anymore. Who is he kidding? After all, your reason for breaking up was valid. You deserve to be happy.

But what was this feeling? Anger? Jealousy? Disappointment? Regret?

Because even now, even after you clearly moved on, he couldn't. And despite trying to run away from these feelings, he knows inside that it will eat him up alive for as long as he lives. And there is nothing he could do about that.

Itoshi Rin

You were nothing but a distraction. A barrier stopping him from achieving his full potential as a soccer player. If you ask him, he didn't even know why he chose to accept your feelings and have a relationship with you in the first place. Whether it's because he felt bad or wanted to play with your feelings, it didn't matter now. Because all you can feel was betrayal as he broke your heart with his words.

"You're nothing but a pain. Your lukewarm self is doing nothing to help me grow. Now, go away."

I mean, who were you to argue any further? Despite being completely in love with him, you at least had a little self respect that allowed you to leave him and not beg to save something that is beyond repair.

He's an asshole, you think. You'd be able to move on from him quickly, get yourself together and who knows? You might even find a new "love of my life". But nothing is a bigger lie than the things mentioned above, as even after 2 years of your break up, you never seem to move on from him.

Now, looking at the TV and seeing him win the World Cup for Japan, suddenly comes a tight feeling in your chest. You still loved him, and God did it hurt.

Mikage Reo

Reo never cared for the girls who paid attention to him. They are probably after his looks or money anyways. So, somebody tell his poor soul, why did he fall in love with someone who is exactly the type of person he dislikes?

Now, you only agreed to be in a relationship with him for his money and reputation. And although he knew that, he thought that he could make you fall in love with him for real. C'mon now! He did everything. He always complimented you, and never fails to spoil you with his love and money. And you only stayed because goodness, did you love the luxurious things that comes with being in a relationship with Reo.

So it isn't surprising when you suddenly broke up with him one day and cut all contact the very moment you set your eyes on another rich, billionaire son of a CEO.

Now, what was he expecting? It was bound to happen anyways. He always tells himself he will move on with a little bit of time. And as much as he tries dismissing it, he still loves you. Painfully bad.

Now, 2 years after your break up and seeing your engagement post with the other man, he felt his chest tighten and tears starting to form in his eyes. Why is love a curse as much as it is a blessing?

Hello!! Second post, and let me know if there's any grammatical errors or such, I'd love to fix it! Also a little bit ooc because I overthink things lmao.

[g4y-th0ughts]

so, i thought i would hate this scenario, the quick reconciliation. i thought i would hate not seeing lisa groveling, repenting for what she spat out at carla and carla being hurt and keeping some distance. but the scene we got was so realistically acted, the love between the characters was so tangible that i’m not mad about it (i’m actually overjoyed).

because it’s so typical carla to give up her own place, even with her heart broken, just to make sure that lisa has somewhere safe to sleep (please let me care for you, even at a distance) (i’ll give you what you need even if what you need isn’t me). and it’s so typical lisa to need a little push to realize that she doesn’t have to do it all alone, doesn’t have to self-destruct by rejecting all the love she craves (i don’t need space, i need you). and when all lisa wants is to be loved and supported through the horrors and all carla wants to do is offer that love and support with open hands - leaping to shower lisa with affection as soon as it’s safe to do so - then it’s just perfect, isn’t it? there’s not really any reason to hold out on that, to let resentment grow and poison everything.

and it’s just carla’s relief when she realizes lisa still wants her, her family still wants her (i don’t mean to impose but this is it for me, if you and betsy will have me) (i thought i had lost you and that was for more hurtful than you lashing out at me).

and it’s lisa’s relief when she sees that she wasn’t successful in the attempt of pushing carla’s away, that carla is still there, solid and warm, wiping her tears, looking at her like she’s still precious, still deserving of love (please love me) (please take me for who i am, hormonal breakdowns and hurried apologies) (don’t let me destroy this).

it’s carla not doubting for a second that lisa’s hurtful words are a tiny dot in the constellation of ways lisa has shown her that she loves her. not insignificant, but still tiny. (it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay) (you came back) (i forgive you).

it’s lisa’s inevitable gasp when carla tells her the one thing she’d been wanting to hear since becky passed (it’s not you two against the world anymore, it’s US three) (we can share the baggage) (it’d be my pleasure actually).

it’s carla giving a better shot at consoling lisa than the all sunshine and positivity one she tried at the hospital (betsy will hate you but i will be here) (the hate will be more bearable if it’s balanced by my love).

it’s lisa looking at carla like she hung the stars the moon and the whole fucking solar system in the sky (she did more than that) (restarted her heart) (gave her a safe haven in her flat and in her arms) (loved her when she hated herself).

and it’s carla finally squeezing lisa, cradling her head to her chest, so gentle but so tight (i’ll make it impossible for you to escape my grip again) (i love you) (i love you).

so beautifully done, actually. so much love. how lucky are we.

[dimlylittorch]

The Debt

part 1 // part 2🔜

My Masterlist🌱

Silco x transmasc!reader

small synopsis: you have a debt to pay off; this will be a multi part story. Word count: 1k

p.s. i’m trying to start thinking of titles, sorry if they look cringy- i do all of this on tumblr mobile lol

The room was dimly lit, spare for a lamp with a green shade, offering a dull glow to the barren space. Cigar smoke lingered in the air, remnants of a blaze left in the ashtray on the corner of the desk. The sound of patrons out by the bar offered little help in drowning out his thoughts, and the ink stain left in the chair that sat across from his desk made his eye twitch. An abhorrent stain left by a bumbling fool. A man who deserved to be forgotten. Not like him.

The paper lay heavy in his hand as he skimmed over the words once again. It had surprised him- how easily someone could sell away a soul. But he supposed it was easy when it wasn’t their own. Collection day may not be soon, but it certainly isn’t far off. Things were changing in Zaun. And debts must be paid.

—

Living in the Undercity was never what your mother had wanted for you. When you were little she’d talk about a better world- a better life. All for you. When she died, her dreams for you died with her. Your father never bothered, always knowing you’d never climb out of this hell hole. He started teaching you about the family business, and by your teenage years you were running it practically by yourself. Well- except for one area.

The business dealings were completely off limits. That’s what your father always told you. You never understood why- you knew the business just as well as he did. But still, that rule always remained. While he may not have been much of a dad.. you still listened. It would be unwise not to. Even as a young adult, he had control over you. No love, no care. Simply his lineage that he had to take care of.

Things changed just as you were beginning to become an adult- blossoming into your own person. Your father passed about a month ago, leaving you shacked up with his business.. and his debt. Unknown to you, there was a reason he never wanted you at those business meetings. You didn’t really have any idea who he worked with.. just that one of these days, they’d come by looking for him.

—

It had been two months since you had take over the shop. It was hard work- and not the kind that felt rewarding. It was a scrap metal shop, finding and selling pieces for barely enough money to feed yourself. You get it now; why mom never wanted this for you. It fucking sucks.

But it gets a hell of a lot worse when one day, just as you’re about to close up shop, a tall woman walks in. She hovers in the doorway, and you can see the shadow of someone else outside. “I was just closing up.” You mutter. “I can give you five minutes.”

When you heard a huff slip past her lips, the room went cold. Eerie. She walked forward, and suddenly there was a knife jammed into your wood counter. A toothpick hangs from her lips, and you see her metal arm glint under the low yellow light. “You’ll need more time than that to beg.” She says lowly.

You stare at her, your eyes narrowing. What the hell did your dad owe her. “Look, I’m not sure what-“ you start to say, but you’re cut off by another voice coming from the doorway.

“Where is he.” Silco speaks as he walks in, his hands behind his back as he looks at different things in the shop with a bored eye. And by his tone.. it wasn’t a question. It was an order.

Swallowing slightly, you back away from the counter, showing you’re not going to reach for anything. “I don’t know what business you had with my old man.” You say quietly. “But he’s dead.”

Silco stills for a moment, but eventually slowly turns to look at you. Your eyes flit over his scarred face for a second before quickly shifting your gaze elsewhere. “You’re the daughter.” He states plainly, a hint of a question in his tone.

You sigh, leaning against the counter against the wall. “Used to be.” You murmur. “I’m the son now.”

He hums, walking over to the counter and waving Sevika off. She pulls her knife out of the counter with a grunt, walking out of the door with a huff. When he hears the door close, Silco pulls out a cigar and lights it. You have half a mind to say ‘no smoking’- but you weren’t very keen on dying tonight. Instead your eyes drifted to Sevika’s shadow outside of the window, a force to be reckoned with, certainly.

“Son, then.” He murmurs as he lets out a puff. “But that won’t be a loophole in the contract. I hope you don’t think I’m that stupid.”

Your head tilts slightly with confusion. Contract? “Whatever contracts my father had- we can deal with them.” You say tiredly, rubbing your forehead. Why did he have to leave you with so much bullshit? “I just need a little time to figure it all out. I didn’t know you existed until you walked through my door. I’m still getting my bearings.”

Silco’s eyes meet your own, and he pulls the cigar from his lips. He tilts his head with curiosity, his eyes narrowing. “Your bearings.” He says amusedly. “As if anything is your own.” He scoffs.

You stare at him in confusion, stepping forward and looking up at him directly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask tentatively.

He stares down at you before rolling his eyes slightly. He reaches down into his back pocket, pulling out a folded up piece of paper. Tossing it down onto the counter, you quickly open it, skimming over the words. Your eyes widen when you read the terms.. and the signature at the bottom. Your fathers.

“Little one” Silco spoke with a faint smirk on his lips. “I own you.”

hey guys!! i’m gonna start trying to do multi part stuff so i can make it easier on myself, as much as i love writing super long fics😔🙏 the next few weeks will be focused on my Silco works and clearing out my inbox :3 thanks for reading!

[kagaintheskywithdiamonds]

oh I'm glad I'm seeing this post again because I'VE BEEN THINKING ABOUT IT A LOT and what it would mean the rest of other stanley's upbringing would look like. and honestly the rest of ford's life too

like maybe at some point the baby calls him "dada" and ford gets all flustered like "what? no no no, I'm not our father-" but then, he mentally adds, "even though I'd be a better father to you than filbrick was."

and that's when it kinda sinks in that like. he's going to be the one to raise this version of stanley. up until that point he'd sort of been thinking of himself as some kind of babysitter, but babysitting is temporary. this isn't. he'll be watching over new stanley until he's an adult, probably. for all intents and purposes, he basically is new stanley's dad

and that's weird, he realizes. it feels weird and kind of wrong. but what else is he supposed to do about it? obviously this stanley would be too young to understand if ford tried to tell him the truth. so, he'll let new stanley grow up thinking that he's ford's son, weird as that feels, and tell him the truth when he's older. because he's definitely going to tell him the truth... eventually. he deserves to know the truth

"I'll tell him when he turns 10." Ford tells himself. But new Stanley's 10th birthday comes and goes and Ford doesn't have the courage to say anything. besides, he's still so young. just a child. this would be too much for him to process. "I'll tell him when he's 13," but that day passes as well. "I'll tell him when he's 16," and so on. he keeps pushing it off

because how is anyone supposed to start that conversation? "Hi, son. Actually you're my twin brother. But you died so the time police brought me a younger version of you from a different timeline because you're destined to save the world apparently"

and Stanley does believe that Ford is his father. he has no reason not to believe it. this is the man who cared for him as far back as he can remember, and the family resemblance is undeniable. Stanley's the spitting image of his old man. if Ford tried to tell Stanley he was adopted (which was technically what happened, Ford supposes), Stanley would never believe it

and Stanley loves Ford as a father, too. At one point Ford thought he would never get used to hearing young Stanley say "I love you, Dad". but as the years went on, it came to feel as natural to him as any other father-son bond. and Ford loves Stanley, of course. he isn't sure anymore if he loves him just as a brother or sort of also, weirdly, as a son. but that doesn't matter, he tells himself. they're family, and they love each other as family, and that's what's important. he'll explain the details of their strange relationship to his not-son... someday, for sure.

And he knows he definitely won't abandon this version of Stanley. His heart still aches for the original. And fate gave him... a weird second chance, but a second chance nonetheless. He would make sure this Stanley never doubted that his family loved him.

Ford proved to be a much better father than Filbrick. Granted, that bar was so low it was practically in the earth's core. But he raises new Stanley with more love than Filbrick ever could've. And he was much gentler with his punishments, of course. He might have to give Stanley a stern talking-to now and then. At his worst, if Stanley somehow made him really angry, he might yell. But he would never physically punish him. And even after an (exceptionally rare) father-son shouting match, Ford made sure to check up on Stanley after they had both simmered down. And he would apologize, and assure Stanley that he loved him, and that everything he did and said was because he loved him.

Ford was somewhat of an over-protective parent. That might've been the biggest flaw in his parenting style, aside from the secrets he was keeping. But who could blame him, knowing what he knew? The Stanley from his childhood with had been tossed out on the streets and suffered a slow, agonizing death, scared and alone, locked in the trunk of a car. And the Stanley he'd been given to raise was apparently destined to save the world. Well, really, the Stanley from his childhood was supposed to do that, until he died young. And Ford never knew what sort of world-ending threat Stanley was destined to defeat. And he never told Stanley about this supposed destiny, either. The circumstances of new Stanley's upbringing were strange enough without Ford throwing a "chosen one" narrative into the mix to loom over the boy's head. And Ford never knew how Stanley was supposed to save the world, but he had the sinking feeling that it would all culminate in some heroic act of self-sacrifice, and Ford's heart ached at the thought...

I COULD GO ON but I don't have any coherent way to wrap this all up. But this has been bouncing around in my brain for like 24 hours and I had to get at least some of it on paper (so to speak)

Stanley has an important role in the grand scheme of things, specifically saving the universe. His role is so crucial that if anything were to happen to him it could lead to not only the destruction of his universe, but also lead the destruction of others. So what would happen if Ford had lost Stanley somewhere during the ten years they spent apart, only for Ford to be met face to face with the time police and what appears to be 2 years old Stanley.

His ears feel muffled as he’s handed the toddler.

Death by asphyxiation

Trunk of the car

Far too late

Paradox

The child’s timeline was already gone

The fate of the universe

His hands

The baby coos in his arms babbling as he grabs Ford’s pinky.

[boyfriendtodeathconfessional]

A large reason I got into BTD + TPOF was the horror aspects and writing of certain characters; like Ren for example.

As fucked up as it sounds Ren is one of the only characters to share my same ways of being affected by abuse especially after being isolated by an abuser. The grappling at wanting to believe the abuser loved you and cared about you because you had a few good moments together, trying to explain away the abuse that happened to you, falling into old habits that you had during the abuse or learning the habits of the abuser and taking them on because it's all you've learned are all things I've done in my life as a result of being abused for almost my whole life.

To me Ren's route is terrifyingly realistic and something I can relate to. In one ending he cries about how he had literally no one except Strade and is trying to grasp the fact Strade did abuse him, all while still trying to explain and deny it. He says he loved him, which is something I found myself feeling about my abusers a lot. It's easy to believe they love you during the good times or even just when you've been alone for so long that any sort of affection, no matter how false or fucked up, reads as love to the mind. He feels like shit for not saving Strade, even knowing if he did he'd still be being abused because he thinks it's better that way because at least he'd still have someone, even if that someone hurt him so badly it altered his path of life completely.

Fox shares a lot of these relations as well. The want to have control so badly you'll do anything for it, grasping at any straws you can all while falling back into the habits you were trying so hard to escape. Fox himself doesn't exactly seem to enjoy hurting the MC once he gets to know them more, even stopping them from killing themselves on stream and saving them and instantly being concerned about their well-being even right before. He gets us the prosthetic because he wants us to stay alive. He doesn't want to lose us hence why he puts so much effort into us, even getting upset when we die in show 2. And furthermore he's still in denial about Strade once again. He says that all Strade did was make the scars but they didn't make him, but it's a lie. We know from BTD 2 that Ren can get better with the proper support and help, but In TPOF he never got that help. He wouldn't know how to be a showman or snuff streamer without Strade. Strade taught him all he knows and he doesn't want to admit that he's down this path because of him. He's repeating the same steps as his abuser while trying to deny he had any effect on him at all.

He tries so hard to please chat that he ignores his own wants. His wants to keep us safe and stay with him? He ignores them. In Show 3 there's a chance for a sprite to pop up where Fox tells you to wait, but then turns back to chat and see they're getting upset at him, likely making him worry as he thinks they may leave him if he doesn't listen. The people he's been trying to use as a substitute for Strade's affection turning on him the moment he shows worry for someone he's starting to care about. So upon noticing their reaction he addresses them, telling them he was just making sure they're having a good time while punishing himself for caring about us and trying to stop us by digging his claws into his wrists to make him bleed, punishing himself for going against those who he thinks love them, but they don't love him. They love that he's trapped himself again, that he'll do whatever they say no matter what because he's reliant on them. He thinks hurting the MC gives him some sense of control but in reality he's still completely lost any control he once had by listening to chat and not his own wants.

When you tell him "I thought you were the one in charge" it sets off to him that he in fact has never had control and has just been doing what everyone else wants. He only took you in because Celia said it'd be cute. It wasn't a genuine decision he made on his own. No decision has been.

In BTD 2 as well we can see endings where he ends up revictimized which is something I fear I've been through so many times, especially regarding sexual abuse. Ren becomes scared of you, terrified even, so he falls back into the old habits of listening and obeying because he thinks if he just listens it'll be ok. It'll be better that way. Fighting causes more issues so it's better to just take it, no matter how much it hurts and he doesn't want to. He'll force himself to like it, to love you, because now you're the one giving him the attention. You're who he'll be dependent on.

He also shows that abused can become the abusers as well, even if just by repeating actions they view as correct because it's what they've been taught and all they know. He doesn't know any other way, so he does what he knows worked to make him care about Strade and hopes it'll have the same effect on you.

Ren / Fox means so much to me as a victim of abuse because he shows the sides of abuse most people don't touch upon and are too scared to talk about or want to brush under the rug. It kinda sucks to me when I see people discredit him just because he's from a horrorporn game because he really is, at least to me from my own experiences with abuse and the aftermath/struggles, extremely accurate to the struggles that come after getting out of an abusive situation where all you know is your abuser and hold them to such high regard because you have no one else in life and will try to justify them no matter what because they're all you know and have or had.

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