#I... One of the things that mildly annoys me sometimes is how fandoms seem to diminish Akutagawa's being a powerful ability user a lot.

[sskk-manifesto]

Furthermore, it's interesting to note how it's been stated multiple times that in the sskk partnership Akutagawa is supposed to take precisely the role of defense. As long as he was in the mafia, working alone, Akutagawa employed exclusively an aggressive attack technique, which he excelled in; but with someone like Atsushi to complete him, he's most efficient by offering cover from behind. I've talked before about how Akutagawa accepting the role of support is an exceptional indicator of his character growth as a way for him to renounce to his obsession of proving himself in order to collaborate with someone else, as well as disavowing blind violence for a role of aid.

... The best part is that, we now know that sskk actually got there :')

The worst part of them all is that it's explicitly stated that Akutagawa only killed the one Mimic soldier in order to protect the other mafia operatives. He says “So I decided to take care of it”: “so”, as a direct consequence of the soldier attacking the others, a form of protection. Because Akutagawa has always been protective: when he defended as best as he could his family in the slums, when he protected Higuchi even at the cost of failing his mission, when he shielded his pm companions from Kajii's bombs, when he repeatedly saved his partner / rival's life for no apparent reason. His character arc culmination and pivotal character development moment frames him dying to protect someone else. His protectiveness is the one characteristic that stuck to him even in his darkest pm days, when nothing human seemed to be left in him. And it's quite tragic how Akutagawa's only compassionate trait, his only sign of humanity gets him reprimanded and beaten up by the person he admires and idolizes the most, who seems hell-bent on crushing every hint of humanity in him.

It's also bitter how later Dazai tells Akutagawa “Cutting open unfortunate hostages isn't the only thing you're good for. You should be able to use your powers for defense, too.”, when defending was exactly what Akutagawa was doing in the first place, if only by the sole modality he knew, that is retaliating tenfold.

[qprstobin]

So I agree with most of your fanon complaints but tbh I sometimes will still read fics with mildly annoying habits and just like, compartmentalize the parts that annoy me. I do it with the show too but I'm better at compartmentalizing with fanfic lol. Part of it is I follow a few really really good thoughtful fanfic writers so I haven't seen all of the stuff you've talked about. However I have seen the hiding veggies in meals headcanon & tho i didn't find it appealing or cute, it didn't bother me bc I interpreted as like an idiosyncrasy. Everyone's got em yk. my sister's friend is a literal genius, responsible, hard worker but also chaotic and will have these random Things that might make her seem immature. Like she does eat vegetables but if I heard that her boyfriend had to sneak them in her meals I wouldn't bat an eye.

That's completely understandable! There are plenty of things I don't like in fandom (either in this one or other ones) where I'm able to be like "I don't like this but the rest of the fic is good enough to ignore it" or "I normally hate this trope but I really like how this author wrote it". (I live by the rule that for all my complaining that anything can be tolerable/make sense if it's done well enough.) I used to be able to do that in this fandom but my tolerance level has dropped a lot lmao. It's much easier for me to do in say the Star Wars fandom. (Now that's a fandom with a lot of infighting!)

A big part of the issue is that it never is just one person or one thing lol. Someone writing something with a character being a bit childish or idiosyncratic is fine on its own, but when it's paired with a bunch of other questionable tropes or it's just done soooo much is when I start scratching my head.

Like I think I've mentioned before unrelated to this, but I do actually think that Steve probably is someone who likes to clean, a lot of the Stobin gang see him as something of a neat freak. On its own, Steve doing most or all of the cleaning because he's that anal feels really in character. It's when you pile all of these things on top of each other to where Eddie is doing nothing and Steve is doing everything that I'm like hmm. Don't like that.

Wrt to the veggie thing specifically... idk I guess you could take it as a quirky thing, but hiding vegetables in food hoping the person doesn't notice is literally one of the biggest stereotypical parent things I feel like? And I think it's having Steve specifically do it and Eddie not noticing that makes me side eye it.

Like lol, that's always the cliché, a kid moves out (normally a son) and you find out they aren't eating vegetables and only eating junk, so the mom has to do something to get her son to eat better. Which like I get it I have to fight with myself to eat healthy sometimes, most vegetables have a gross texture to them but lol my body feels better when I'm eating them so! It's especially the hiding aspect too like man Steve can even talk to Eddie about eating healthier? Finding healthy foods Eddie does actually like if he's that concerned about his health? He has to hide it like Eddie is a five year old?

And maybe you're right and it is meant to be more idiosyncratic but like I said, when you pair it with all the other shit fandom is doing it ends up feeling like just another way people have been writing tradwife/caretaker Steve lol.

[gregoftom]

tom https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Characters/SuccessionTomWambsgans

greg under here https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Characters/SuccessionMainCharacters

ah ah okay! i found tom by scrolling down to his folder, but if you link directly to him/find his page via direct link/use what you sent, this is what comes up

but thank you so much for showing me where greg is! now i could find tom too 🥰

ahhhh… good old tvtropes who are again Wrong about characters i like… my favourite!

like. look. some of the tropes are correct i’m not gonna say all of it isn’t but some are just plain devoid of any nuance and some are completely ignoring other factors and some ARE wrong. i forgot how much tvtropes pisses me off in this manner lmao. starting with greg an example is this one.

oh yeah uhuh he looks really unhappy! he sure hates being praised and admired and rewarded for it!

that’s just one of them that are plain Incorrect lol. and it’s not only the stuff wrt tom completely ignoring the evolution of their relationship [one of the tropes says nobody likes him not even tom which. lmfao] but also some ableist bullshit, as well as incorrectly calling him a coward and such. like they do have “grew a spine” but that’s shittily worded as well and doesn’t really make sense since greg has literally the most audacity of anyone, he’s the only person who’s not scared of logan at the beginning! like?! who tf is putting these tropes to him lmfao bc it sure ain’t someone who paid attention to the show.

tom’s are much less annoying like, clearly there is some bias here lol, someone took more time and care and gave tom’s tropes and descriptions nuance and almost all of them make sense, i only got mildly irritated a couple of times. i don’t think any are flat out wrong. seems greg’s wasn’t given two fucks about but tom’s is much more attentive. how amusing.

it’s like. it’s just fucking irritating you know? lol. it’s one thing for greg to get overwhelming hatred in the fandom but another for a somewhat official and extremely well known site to not even bother giving his character a correct list of tropes or treat it with the same nuance as another. i haven’t looked at the siblings’ but i presume theirs are good too. but tom’s is largely fine. like what’s the deal?!

sorry this got long asf LMAO tvtropes just pisses me tf off sometimes

[outlanderfandomfollies]

Some Outlander fandom maxims don't hold up too well upon examination

There are a few maxims that are often used on certain Outlander blogs that make me want to grind my teeth when I see them. Unfortunately, they are used fairly often by certain bloggers whom I actually like.

But I think the maxims aren't helpful in the long run and only contribute to some of the tension in the fandom.

Here's a "generic" version of one maxim that is frequently used:

S doesn't need defenders/mommies.

Let's examine this one in detail, shall we?

The assertion that S doesn't need defenders/mommies has always bothered me because it seems a bit (perhaps unwittingly) hypocritical. This is because (at least from my perspective) if S doesn’t need “defenders”–he also doesn’t need “judges.”🤷🏻‍♀️

 And if S doesn’t need “mommies” who defend him, then he also doesn’t need a different kind of “mommy,” one who scolds him on social media.

And please, not all of us who sometimes defend S see him only in positive terms. Many of us, like myself, see some of his flaws. We just question whether it is any fan's place to frequently play judge and jury regarding S--especially as a way of having "fun."

However, I also agree with @bcacstuff that at times those who defend S (including myself) can go too far. For instance, it probably isn't helpful to use absolute terms like "always" in critiques (i.e., it is rare for any fan to "always" behave in any given way).

In addition, the word "hate," (as in "Sam hate") is probably a tad too strong.

The traditional meaning of "hate," when used as a noun is “intense dislike, extreme aversion or hostility.” I'm not sure that that level of intensity is what most fans mean when they refer to “Sam hate.”

In my experience, there are probably less than a handful of people in the fandom who genuinely seem to "hate" S. The majority who critique him frequently appear to be mildly annoyed by his behaviors or to mildly dislike him.

Perhaps better words than “hate” would be “dislike,” “annoyance,” or “skepticism” (of S’s motivations).🤷🏻‍♀️

But even if we are not talking about actual “hate,” there is a difference between  being annoyed occasionally with something that S does, and being annoyed by his behaviors and/or skeptical of his motives at least 90% of the time.😬

Although there are many fans who are balanced in their criticisms of S, on certain blogs, those whose comments skew negative dominate many posts, and negative opinions can often pile on each other.

I know that some bloggers don't think that talking about the general negativity of comments on any given post is offering an "opinion." But it seems to me that fans who do that believe they are offering “an opinion.” Their opinion is that much of the S criticism is petty, overblown, and based on individual biases, assumptions, and/or projections onto S, a man whom none of the “critics” knows personally.🤷🏻‍♀️

I can appreciate that certain bloggers don't want to see those kinds of "opinions" on their blogs, and they have a right to ban them if they want to.

But it is an "opinion" that many share in the fandom. Silencing it on a blog doesn't make it disappear.

Here's another, related maxim:

S is a big boy who can defend himself.

It’s true that S is a “big boy” but I'm not 100% sure he “can defend himself.”

First of all, we know that S is not going to come to any of our blogs to defend himself. (Thank goodness!😱)

But S has also learned from hard experience that whenever he tries to defend himself, it just makes the situation worse.

That’s a lesson lots of celebrities learn. 

For instance, back in July 2017, Robert Pattinson did an interview on The Howard Stern Show where he discussed how there was nothing that he personally could do to combat some of the nasty things that were said on social media about his fiancé at the time (FKA Twigs) or about himself. It appeared that Howard Stern agreed:

Rob: And it’s one of the most difficult things to know how to confront really. I mean, it’s a faceless enemy. If someone came up in the street and said it then it’s one thing, you’d know what to do, you’d know what to say. But when it’s literally just this kind of like this little random name on Instagram. Howard: Some asshole in his basement. Rob: And they are probably like in a different country somewhere. It’s just crazy. It might seem fake to them but it’s definitely, but like it’s real in your life. [...] Howard: I agree with you. I think it is the hardest thing. And as a guy I know we all try to fix things. I know if someone attacks my wife on Twitter or one of these things you get crazy because you want to go Fuck I’m gonna go protect you from this. And you can’t protect anybody from anything. You feel helpless. Rob: And then I feel like you’re feeding it afterwards as well. I don’t want to… I feel like it makes me feel like less powerful if you’re trying to attack… it’s like trying to attack a reflection in the water or something. You just look crazy. Whereas you think the only way to show some kind of strength is like, 'Oh, none of this shit touches me.'

So, in many ways, it isn't true that S or any celebrity can defend themselves without it potentially backfiring.

Here is a video of the Robert Pattinson interview for those who are interested.

One of the reasons some of us would like certain fans to be less quick to criticize S (or at least more balanced in their comments about S) is we know that certain other fans send S screencaps of what is said about him on various social media platforms--including tumblr.

And I do believe that the frequent criticisms of his behavior has had an effect on S's mental health. (I don't think he would have mentioned the effect the negative rumors had on his mental health in his 2020 rant if it had not been true. Mental health issues still have too much of a stigma, especially for men, for S to publicly mention that lightly.)

Furthermore, we know negative comments on social media take an emotional toll on celebrities, because so many have spoken up about it.

Robert Pattinson also spoke about how it isn't easy to ignore the negative comments, and how that interacts with one's self-esteem:

Rob: And even if you think oh you can turn it off or whatever. It’s still like just to know it’s THERE. It’s like if you know that there’s one room in your house where like if you like listen up against the wall, you hear everyone talking sh*t about you in the next room. Even if you don’t go to that room, if whenever you feel bad about yourself, you’re gonna go down there and like start listening to the whispers. [emphasis added]

I realize that everyone is free to set policies on their own blogs, but once in a while, it might be helpful for bloggers to pay attention to some of the criticism about the negativity, rather than just dismissing those criticisms as coming from "mommies," or "defenders."

And it might be helpful if those of us who choose to defend S from time to time were a little bit nicer in how we do so.

[edited]

________________ GIF SOURCES:  01*, 02*, 03*, 04*, 05*,06*, 07; gifs 08-10* were made from this video. *NOTE: These gifs were modified from their original sources. Credit to @louche-laid-back-glory for most of the Robert Pattinson interview transcript. 

[marisdisry]

Entry IX: 08.31.2024

I love my grandmother, she saw my wrist and immediately her first thought was, "are you in a frat?"

Time sure is interesting.

But the fact I have to regularly fund my own stress relief because p0rn addiction is too damaging is kind of annoying. It's pretty funny too, the fact that a nerve-ruining, mentally-shitting form of pain is less ruinous to the population than p0rn. Blades get rusty quickly so I do my best in always covering them properly and only slit once a week. Not like my schedule would give me more time, anyway.

It's also been a while since I last wrote, I finally got a twitter account so my small number of mutuals get the brunt of my thoughts. Which includes the usual depression and occasional fixation on webcomics I read. Most recent finished one was Oyasumi, Punpun.

There's too many feelings for me to cry properly in the end, but a chapter that hit me like a ten-wheeler does an unsespecting animal was the one where Midori violates him. She was the only relatively parental role in his life, but I doubt all his depression stems from that moment, maybe his sexual habits did though. I see myself in Aiko, devastating in the way she explained her thoughts on love and how she wishes to be saved. But worst of it all, I developed a crush on Punpun Onodera. It's pathetic, I'm all too aware.

I think it's the way he does a complete 360 once finally having Aiko in his grasp. But even before that, something about him triggers this need inside of me to care. To coddle his hurt feelings in my arms and pour every ounce of motherly warmth he never felt in all the years he has lived. Tell him, "you're not so bad. Even as worthless as you are, you could be my world if you let me." I don't care to improve his life, only to see him smile and relieve the thoughts that plague him into insanity.

I loved it. Although I understand how people reacted to the manga, saying things like it's the saddest piece of literature out there or that it changed their brain chemistry. Maybe I'm just dense, but I didn't get any of that, I don't relate to most of the fandom and it makes me feel moronic. I thought it was wonderfully written in showcasing how people change and how cruel the world can get when you're useless and damaged. How love is formed in every way, even damaging.

Maybe I'll write fanfiction about him, who knows? My fixations run deep sometimes.

It helps me out of the days where I think to just drown myself lol.

The reality that this is no longer just a teenage phase is starting to get... scary. What if I never recover? I try, no matter how rarely, I do try. But it seems everything just gets worse — from the eating, to the thoughts and the cutting. What's there to recover for anyway, though? I'm not even BMI 17, I haven't gotten beans, not even a single attempt. I need to get worse. I'll never be valid enough to fuck if I'm just mildly sad or the type to restrict 1k only to binge 3x a week. No.

It's either get so bad and die, or die trying.

This is still fucking stressful. But being with my grandmother helps relieve some of it. My oldest uncle died though, and my cousins are a mess. I'm strangely calm. And have eaten at least 3k calories. Why can't I just end it all.

[cha-melodius]

I feel bad for sending you this when you’re almost done catching up with your inbox requests, but I’m such a sucker for your Lokius whumps 😂Here are the prompts I really wanna see for Lokius if you don’t already have plans to write these for other fandoms: 17 hang by a threat or 20 it’s been a long day 🙇

(Congrats anon, you've unlocked a story I'd been meaning to write for a while: a whumpy time loop! Thanks so much for your support and enthusiasm, it means so much to me. This is chapter one of ??, posted now so I could hit the deadline for the 20th. So here you go: No. 20, "It's Been A Long Day".)

It's Been A Bad Day Lately

Read it on AO3 (T, 3.3k, 1/?)

“Up and at ‘em, sunshine!” someone nearly shouts at him, jolting Loki to alertness where he’d apparently fallen asleep on a table in the archives. Again. He looks toward the source of the voice and sees B-15 smirking at him from a short distance away, pruning baton in hand, already geared up for the operation. “Today’s the big day,” she continues, at a slightly more sedate volume now that she’s woken him, “and you’re sleeping on the job. Did you even go back to your room last night?”

“What’s the point?” Loki asks through a yawn. “This table is about as comfortable as the questionable piece of furniture you people insist on calling a bed.”

“You’ll have a lot bigger problems than that if today doesn’t go well,” she retorts, eyeing him with mistrust. Not any more than her usual amount, though. A normal level of suspicion, really. “I still think it’s too early for your first field operation.”

It’s been just over two weeks since he arrived at what seemed to be an alternate TVA to find that anyone he might have counted as a friend no longer knew him, and sometimes he forgets where he is. Or— when, maybe. It’s all very confusing. He’s still unsure whether the B-15 standing before him is the same person as the one he knew, or perhaps something else altogether. The only thing he’s pretty sure of is that they’re not variants of the people he knew, because he’s looked, extensively, there’s no sign that there’s another TVA out there somewhere in the multiverse. The people he’s surrounded by now are nearly identical, except when they are decidedly not, and pretty much all the ground he had gained in earning the trust of his former associates, he’d lost in an instant. It’s annoying, to put it mildly. Still, there are times like these when he wakes up and it feels as if maybe the whole Void thing was just a bad dream, until someone says something that snaps him back to reality.

“As I have informed you before, this is not my first mission with the TVA,” Loki says wearily. “Nor even my first mission with you.”

“Right. In that alternate TVA of yours,” she says, her tone making it clear that she doesn’t fully believe him. Even knowing who Nathaniel Richards is, even knowing what his variants have done and are still trying to do in the timelines, the idea that the TVA itself changed when He Who Remains was killed is beyond comprehension for most of them. Loki doesn’t fully blame them, honestly. Still—

“Mobius believes me.”

“Mobius has a soft spot for you.”

There are some things that make Loki hold onto the hope that the ‘original’ versions of his coworkers are still in there, those memories locked away. The fact that this Mobius seems awfully fond of him, even though he didn’t know who Loki was until he stumbled up to him in the archives, is certainly one of them. Everyone else is justifiably suspicious of him, and Mobius is, too—his Mobius always knew better than to immediately believe whatever Loki told him, after all—but he’s more likely to give Loki the chance to make his case.

Which is how he ended up here, about to go out in the field in pursuit of particularly wily Nathaniel Richards variant. It had taken Loki some time to convince the TVA to let him help, but everyone had frankly been at their wits end with this one. Most of the Richards variants are brilliant scientists, which is a big part of the problem, but this one, number 456, is somehow even worse than most. Once Loki finds out about him, he suspects he’s well on his way to becoming the next He Who Remains, and as much as multiversal war is a drag, he’s in no hurry to have some egomaniacal despot deciding every moment of his life again.

The thing that makes NR456 so troubling is that he always seems to know that they’re coming. At first, this meant he’d disappear not long before they arrived, but as things have gone on he’s started luring them into traps, trying to take out as many agents as possible. They had been sure they had a mole in the organization—which should have been expected, given the TVA’s history—but they’ve never been able to find one. The agents that are left, few though they might be, are loyal; everyone else is gone, disappeared into the fabric of the multiverse.

And so: enter Loki, stage left, full of new ideas based on what he knows about the man given his conversation with He Who Remains. He ends up spending late nights in the archives with Mobius, chasing down leads, and he aches with how very familiar it is but so very not at the same time. At least they don’t lock him in a cell during the night cycles in this TVA, though the small dormitory room they offered him in is hardly better.

“You ready for this?” Mobius asks as Loki takes his place next to him for the briefing.

They’re both wearing tactical vests under their jackets, while the hunters and minutemen around them are decked out in full gear, armed with their pruning batons. The batons are still the TVA’s only weapon, even though no one really knows what’s going on in the Void anymore with He Who Remains gone. Loki certainly hadn't been keen to check. Richards’ men, on the other hand, will be shooting at them with guns and rigging explosives. It hard feels like a fair fight, but Loki’s suggestions that they go get something with more oomph from a timeline have, frustratingly, fallen on deaf ears.

“Not really,” Loki answers honestly. “But I suppose I’ll have to be.”

“Remember, just stick close and follow the plan. If we can surprise him—”

“You can never surprise him.”

“—if we can surprise him,” Mobius repeats, more forcefully, “then we might have a chance.”

“Well, that is as true as it is unlikely,” Loki replies dryly. “Are you sure we can’t pop in somewhere for some real weapons?”

“We’ll be fine. This is how we planned it. It’s gonna work this time, I can feel it.”

They do get close. Closer, as far as Loki can tell from what he’s read about the previous operations, than they ever have before. Richards doesn’t seem to have been forewarned of their arrival, but the building where he’s set up his base of operations is, unfortunately, extremely well-defended regardless of that fact. Loki is exceedingly familiar with the costs of war, but even so, this is brutal. Richards’ men are far better armed and fight with the tenacity of true believers, willing to give their lives for the cause. Ironically, they have a chance to live, if they can survive in whatever’s left of the Void; the hunters and minutemen they shoot down have no such opportunity.

In the chaos, somehow he gets separated from Mobius. He doesn’t even realize it at first, which is disconcerting, because ever since Loki returned from the Void he’s been hyper-aware of where Mobius is at all times. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s not like he’s all that concerned, but he knows that Mobius was never much of a fighter, and he has no reason to suspect that he gained any expertise when he was reset or whatever in Hel’s name happened. Now, though, Loki has no idea where he is, and there’s a rising sense of something making his chest tight and shortening his breath—panic, it’s panic, and he doesn’t know what to do with this realization—and he’s so distracted that he almost gets gutted by a henchman with a knife.

Ok, it wasn’t that close. The panic is frankly far more distressing than his attacker had been. At least he got a knife out of it.

Henchman dispatched, and the others around him occupied, he takes off down the hallway, calling Mobius’s name. Where Mobius could have gotten to, he has no clue, but the longer he goes without finding that familiar silver hair among those still fighting in the hallways, the shakier he gets. Which is insane. This isn’t him, he doesn’t get like this. It’s just the adrenaline, is all.

Finally, finally, he nearly stumbles over Mobius another floor down in the compound, on the way to where they suspect Richards is hiding out, assuming he somehow hasn’t managed to escape already.

“Oh, thank the Norns,” he huffs, doubled over with his hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath. “What happened to you?” “Nothing, nothing,” Mobius says quickly.

Too quickly. Loki hadn’t really thought he’d have actually gotten into trouble, but now that he looks closer it appears that Mobius is kind of… listing to one side and pressing one hand to his abdomen. Loki makes a grab for him, ignoring Mobius’s squawk of protest, and pulls his hand away at the same time as he peels back the front of the jacket.

“Fuck, Mobius,” he says, horrified by the sheer amount of blood he finds staining Mobius’s clothes. There’s so much of it, and it seems to be everywhere but where it should be. “What happened?”

“It’s fine, ‘m ok,” Mobius insists, but he’s so, so pale, whiter even than his hair, and almost immediately afterward he staggers, knees buckling beneath him and sending him careening into Loki’s arms.

“We have to get you out of here,” Loki says. He’s already trying to hurry Mobius back down the hall, desperate to get out of the building so they can open a time door, but the other man puts up a surprising amount of resistance. 

“Loki, wait, wait—” Mobius heaves a huge, shuddery breath as he manages to drag them to a halt. “We can’t leave. You can’t leave. We’re so close. You should go— go after the variant.”

“What? You’re being ridiculous, Mobius, we need to get you help. We’ll get him another time.”

“We’ve n-never been so close. We c–can’t give up. Not now.”

“I’ll come back, then—” Loki tries.

“No!” Mobius shouts, startling him. He tugs Loki a little closer, until Loki has no choice but to meet his gaze, full of fear and pain but also hard, stubborn determination. “’M not gonna make it, Loki. ’M not.”

Loki opens his mouth and closes it again before he manages a weak, “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do,” Mobius sighs, “and so do you. Look at me. I’m toast.” He hiccups a laugh, then winces in pain. “Sorry we never figured out what happened to your TVA. Maybe— maybe you get to this Richards variant, and he can tell you how to fix it.”

What does it matter, if you’re not there with me? The question rises unbidden and unexpected to his lips, and it’s only by luck that he doesn’t actually speak it out loud. Loki is very aware that his feelings for the Midgardian are far from usual for him, that he might have grown a little attached, but for him to be indulging in this kind of sentiment… that takes him wholly by surprise.

“You’re a g— a good man, Loki,” Mobius says when Loki doesn’t respond, his words slurring together even more than they were before. He presses a hand weakly to Loki’s chest and leaves a bloody handprint behind on his vest. “Make this worth it.”

Something inside of Loki breaks at that. Maybe it should mean less, since Mobius doesn’t really know him anymore—doesn’t remember all his terrible history, though Loki has hinted at such more than once—but somehow, it doesn’t. Somehow, it’s just as shattering as when Mobius had stood before him and told him you can be whoever you want, even someone good. He’d watched Mobius die then, too, before they found out that pruning was less than permanent, and even though he hadn’t let himself acknowledge it at the time, revenge had driven him on after that just as much as anything else. History, it seems, as a way of repeating itself.

“I will,” he promises, squeezing Mobius’s hand in his own before he finally tears himself away.

Unfortunately, finding the Richards variant in the labyrinthine building is no easy task. This Richards may not have an Alioth but he certainly has tried to build the equivalent out of henchmen, and there’s no putting all of them to sleep at once. Even with full use of his magic, Loki is stretched thin, pushed to the very limit and only able to stay there thanks to the white-hot fury coursing through his veins. With the help of a few minutemen, he cuts his way through to the deepest level of the compound, where he finds the variant apparently just… waiting for them.

“Oh,” Richards says, looking slightly taken aback, when Loki bursts into his inner sanctum. He doesn’t, however, appear particularly worried, despite the fact that Loki has a gun taken off a henchmen trained on him. “You’re new. How intriguing.”

“That’s all you have to say?” Loki scoffs. “Intriguing?”

Richards just grins at him, leaning nonchalantly back in his chair, and Loki is briefly thrown back to the citadel at the end of time with He Who Remains before him. This Richards is less flamboyantly dressed, preferring instead a simple but well-cut suit and tie, but he has the same unhinged smile and the same confident insouciance. Loki can’t figure out how he could be so cavalier about being cornered like this, until Richards stretches his arms behind his head and he catches sight of some kind of watch-like device—that is nonetheless clearly not a watch—strapped to his wrist. A type of tempad, perhaps, like He Who Remains wore, which he no doubt intends to use to escape this situation.

“What more would you like?” Richards asks, quirking an eyebrow at him.

Richards wants to do casually threatening? Loki excels at casually threatening. He lowers the gun, just slightly, and pastes a cruel grin on his face as he takes a few steps forward. “How about some acknowledgement that the TVA finally caught up to you?” Loki counters. “That’s got to be pretty galling.”

“We-ell,” Richards says, drawing out the word and smirking like he’s in on some secret that Loki is not. “It’s not, strictly speaking, the first time this has happened.”

That… doesn’t make any sense. There’s nothing in the TVA’s files that indicates they’ve ever gotten this close. No reports of anyone even seeing this Richards variant before in person.

“In fact,” Richards continues, “it’s not even the tenth time. This one was more of a surprise than most, I’ll give you that. Too bad it won’t matter.”

“And why, pray tell, is that?” “Well I could tell you, since it won’t make any difference, but honestly explaining it has gotten tiresome. So let’s just have it over with, shall we?”

With that, Richards unfolds his hands from behind his head and stretches them out in front of him instead, then starts to adjust something on the device strapped to his wrist. His way out, which he certainly can’t be allowed to exploit, not after everything that’s happened today. Loki practically launches himself across the remaining distance and tackles Richards to the ground, spilling him out of the chair and onto his back. Conjuring the knife he took from the henchman, he pins Richards’ sleeve to the floor and presses the gun under his chin, and it is so, so tempting to end him right then and there. Norns know he deserves it, but something stays Loki’s hand. This Richards is probably his best bet at finding out what happened when the TVA was reset, and the lure of that knowledge is powerful.

Then there’s the way that Richards grins up at him, looking more than half-crazed, and goads, “Go on, take the shot. You know you want to. Do it.”

And that’s just fucking suspicious.

“A tempting offer,” Loki muses with a cold smile, before he slants his eyes toward Richards’ wrist. “But I’m more curious about this.” Then he grabs the device and yanks it off in one smooth motion, snapping the band easily. The way Richards’ expression flattens into utter terror is almost comical, and Loki’s smile sharpens further. “So it is your exit strategy, then. How does it work?”

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Richards tries, now struggling ineffectually underneath him. For how dangerous variants of this man can be, he’s still only a Midgardian, and no match for Loki’s strength. “You can’t—”

“Can’t what?”

Unfortunately, he doesn’t get to find out. Chaos erupts in the hallway again as more henchmen finally arrive to tangle with the minutemen who’d been guarding the exit, and Loki swears under his breath. His choices have now become get answers or get out, but before he can make up his mind on whether to leave Richards alive, one of the henchmen appears in the doorway and takes aim.

“No!” Richards screams, but it’s too late; a one of the rain of bullets finds its home in Loki’s neck, and quite abruptly, everything goes dark.

~~~~~

“Up and at ‘em, sunshine!”

Loki startles awake so hard he falls out of the chair. The chair in the archives at the TVA, where he’d been sleeping. Sleeping, not dead. He immediately lifts a hand to his neck and finds it whole and unmarked—he’s alive. Norns, it was all a terrible dream. Letting out a long, shaky breath, he looks up to find B-15 giving him a powerfully bemused look from where she stands a short distance away, pruning baton in hand, already geared up for the operation.

“Seem a bit on edge, there,” she says dryly, then continues: “Today’s the big day, and you’re sleeping on the job. Did you even go back to your room last night?”

Which is… odd. Loki is certainly not going to be the one to question the existence of premonitory dreams, but to his knowledge they are rarely so startlingly clear and painfully accurate. As the fog of sleep clears from his mind, he’s left with the unmistakable feeling that it wasn’t a dream at all, which is impossible. There’s no haziness to his memory, though, nor are the details slipping through his fingers the way that dreams do when you try to grasp them more fully. He can still remember exactly what he had answered.

“What’s the point?” he says carefully, watching B-15’s reaction. If there’s weird time stuff going on, safe to say that the TVA is probably involved. “This table is about as comfortable as the questionable piece of furniture you people insist on calling a bed.”

If she’s heard any of this before, she makes no sign of it. “You’ll have a lot bigger problems than that if today doesn’t go well,” she retorts, word for word, eyeing him with the same typical level of suspicion. “I still think it’s too early for your first field operation.”

That definitely seals it. Something is wrong. Maybe the Norns gifted him with an exceptionally detailed premonition of his future, but if they did, then what happens during the operation today… well, he doesn’t really want to think about it. Shaking his head, he tries to push himself off the ground, and it’s only then that he realizes that there’s something clutched in his hand. He hadn’t been holding anything when he went to sleep, nor had he woken with anything in his hand in the dream, so he doesn’t really know what to expect when he opens his fist. Certainly not what’s inside. He might forget how to breathe for a minute or ten.

Because there, cradled in his palm, is a watch that’s not quite a watch, its strap broken, and a splatter of dried blood on its face: the same exact device that he’d pulled off Nathaniel Richards’ wrist shortly before he’d been killed.

“You know,” he says absently, still staring at the device, “I think you may be right.”

[circus4apsycho8]

more than a hug. | the batter x reader

Fandom: OFF

Pairing: The Batter x Reader

Warnings: jealousy, cussing

It was no surprise to you that the Elsen were very cuddly creatures. Not only that, but they were very squishy, too. You absolutely loved hugging the cute little guys! Who wouldn’t? They were warm, soft, and sweet.

The first time you had hugged an Elsen was after Dedan had finished yelling at the one. You and your beloved Batter had stepped out of the barn before you found yourself rushing over to the pitiful thing. How could you not? The poor guy looked like he was about to cry.

You were quick to scoop him into your arms. “Hush now. He’s just a mean old man. You did nothing wrong.”

He accepted your hug and buried his face into the crook of your neck. You hear him sniffle a little bit. “Th-thank you…hhh…you’re too kind.”

“You’re welcome,” you mumbled, hugging him a little tighter. You heard your Puppet awkwardly shuffle around, causing a deep chuckle to emanate from your chest. A few seconds later, you set him down onto the ground. The little Elsen had a slight blush on his cheeks.

“Miss, th-thank you and your…uh…friend here for purifying the barns. Even if it didn’t get noticed by the Inspector, we appreciate it…” he teeters off when he notices Batter glaring at him. You smack the Batter’s shoulder and smile down at the Elsen.

“You’re very welcome! Take care of yourself, alright? I think it’s about time we got a move on.” Batter remains silent as you bid the Elsen goodbye.

“I will! Good luck with…whatever you’re doing!” the Elsen wishes before the Batter grabs your hand and drags you behind him.

“Thank you!” you yell, waving at him before turning back to your Puppet.

“Dude, chill. You can let me go now,” you comment. He reluctantly releases his grip on you.

“What was that about?” he demands, looking anywhere but at you.

“He was about to cry, Batter! He was scared! I couldn’t just leave him like that!” you retort, rolling your eyes.

“He would have gotten over it.”

You sigh. “Sometimes a little kindness goes a long way, Batter.”

…

The second time you were cuddly with an Elsen is when you and Batter got stuck in the shopping mall maze. Batter was getting extremely frustrated and you just wanted to get the hell out of that blue hellhole.

So, when you and Batter found a lone Elsen who had claimed to be lost, you declared it was time to take a break.

“I’m lost,” the Elsen said, “I could make a fire with the boxes...to ward off the ghosts...but...that would be too dangerous.”

You immediately began to answer, but Batter pulled you back outside for a moment.

“Don’t answer him.”

You roll your eyes, growing annoyed. He couldn’t just boss you around like that. “He’s lost, Batter. We need to help him get out of here!”

“He can find his way out by himself.”

“Batter. He’s scared. Can’t we bring him with us? It’s only temporary. I can do all the talking, too!” you push, trying to decipher how he’s feeling. Batter frowns at your words, and not for the first time, you wish you could see his eyes. “He might attract a Spectre.”

And it was then and there you knew there was something else wrong. Throughout all of your travels, Batter had strived to attract Spectres so he could Purify them. Hell, he’d even shouted out to them in the smoke mines! So why was he so worried about attracting them now? Especially since they were much weaker here, too?

“Since when are you worried about attracting Spectres?” you grill, folding your arms and narrowing your eyes.

He doesn’t answer for a moment, clearly caught off guard. Shaking your head, you look back up at him. “Look, what’s up with you, man? This isn’t like you.”

“I don’t want him to come with us,” he answers. You don’t buy it, but at the same time you know he’s not going to crack just yet.

With a sigh, you say: “I don’t think that’s all, but I know you won’t tell me. Can’t he just come with us? Who knows, he might be of help!”

He remains silent for a few more moments, then: “Fine.”

You grin before darting back into the room. The Elsen looks up at you hopefully.

“Come on, we can help you get out,” you coo, smiling.

“Wh-what about the ghosts?” he asks.

“We can protect you from them. Trust me,” you answer before offering your hand to him. He takes it gratefully before you pull him up.

“Thank you very much, ma’am,” he replies. You hear the Batter scoff quietly from behind you.

“You’re welcome,” you respond.

“Let’s go,” comes Batter’s voice as he nearly stomps out of the room. You roll your ryes. So much for taking a break.

“Ignore him. He’s always grumpy,” you inform, taking his small hand and pulling him behind you.

…

During your trek through the exasperating maze, you noticed Batter was considerably quieter and tenser. Eventually, you had decided that he would tell you about whatever was bothering whenever it suited him. He seemed to be angry too, if the way he was taking out whatever monstrosity showed itself. It was almost like he didn’t want to listen to you but did anyway. His stubbornness grew to the point where you just allowed him to do whatever he wanted with the battles, so you could comfort the Elsen.

And when, finally, you five reached the Judge, the Elsen quickly thanked you and scampered off while Batter spoke to the Judge. You waved at the unfortunate Elsen before turning back to the conversation at hand.

“Is not this publicity so effective and efficient whilst defying the basics of consumer marketing?” the Judge says once he sees you. The two of them are facing some kind of advertisement painted on the wall.

“For silkier hair: the meat fountains of Alma,” Batter reads, clearly unamused.

“Oh, you can read? Anyway, I am glad to have found you. Maybe you can help me unravel the mystery that fate has placed before me,” the Judge comments. He glances up at you and smiles before trotting over to you. You sit down cross-legged against the wall before he crawls onto your lap. Smiling, you pet his soft fur.

“It turns out that my brother has been living in this area for many years. He has a special affinity for colors of the cool kind. Unfortunately, I have so far failed to cross his path. I have tried to betake myself to the roof of the library, where he resides. However, I found the door closed. Even the long hours of intensive, repeated meowing and compulsive scratching did not do a thing.”

“Aw, I’m sorry Judge. Is there anything we can do to help?” you question, scratching him behind his ear. He mewls in response, flipping over onto his back in a silent request for tummy rubs.

“My request is as follows: if at the bend of a corridor you happen to see Valerie, give him my greetings.”

You nod. “Will do.”

“Okay,” The Batter agrees. “Puppeteer, I’m going to go speak to Zacharie for a moment. Do you mind waiting here while I do so?”

You’re mildly surprised, but you agree anyway. “Uh, no, go ahead.”

“Thank you.” He saunters away, trusty bat in hand with Alpha and Omega following him.

You blink. “That was weird.”

“Eccentric of the Batter indeed,” agrees The Judge, “what do you think is amiss?”

“He’s been acting very…out of character lately,” you muse, “I’m not entirely sure what’s going on.” Is he mad at you? Should you be doing something differently? If so, then why isn’t he just talking to you about it? “I wonder if he’s mad at me.”

“I highly doubt that. Your beloved Puppet could never be angry with you for long,” The Judge responds.

You shake your head, causing the Judge to glance up at you. “I don’t know, Judge. If I did something wrong, he just…he needs to speak up. I guess I should ask him about that, huh?”

The Judge nods. “If you truly believe so, then communication is the sole solution.”

“Alright, then,” you sigh, sifting your fingers through his soft fur.

A few minutes later, Batter reappears in the room, the Add Ons at his side. It was then you realized he didn’t buy anything because you were the one holding the credits.

“You good?” you question as the Judge reluctantly slides off of your lap.

“Yes. We should go,” he answers, although you catch a glimpse of his cheeks, which are…wait, is he blushing? You wonder what the odd merchant had said this time around.

Before you left, however, you approached the masked merchant standing idly behind the counter.

“Ah, buenos dias, dearest Puppeteer. How could I be of assistance?”

“Could I see what you have on you?” you ask. He chuckles.

“Of course, belle femme,” he replies, showing you his wares. You’d grown used to the odd nicknames he gave you.

You ended buying a few Fortune Tickets and some meat, placing all purchased items in your inventory before bidding Zacharie goodbye. Before you can move away, however, the merchant catches your hand in his. You freeze, watching as he lifts his mask ever-so-slightly before he brings the back of your hand to his lips.

“It’s always a pleasure to serve this little ragtag team of yours. Sois prudente, jolie fille.” Releasing your hand, he chuckles at your shocked expression, smirking as he glances at your stunned Puppet.

“Th-thank you,” you stutter before Batter places his hand behind your back and pushes you out of the door.

Once you’re outside, you blink a few times before you’re able to speak again. “Dude. What. The. Fuck?”

Batter shakes his head, probably both at your choice of language and recent events. “Language. I don’t know why he’s…” he sighs.

“He’s so weird. Wait…aren’t you fluent in French? What did he say?” you question.

Batter huffs. “The first nickname was ‘beautiful woman’. The second one was ‘Be safe, pretty girl’.”

Your cheeks grow even redder upon hearing the translation. “W-what? Really?”

He nods, remaining silent as the two of you continue to the park.

“Puppeteer…” he starts, voice soft.

“Yeah?” you ask, looking up at him. He avoids your gaze blatantly.

“I…” he trails off before continuing, “I think we should rest in Zone 0 before going to the park.”

You nod, the exhaustion of getting through the maze catching up with you. “Agreed.”

…

Once you two have reached the abandoned Zone, Batter hurriedly guides you past Zacharie, despite his greeting, and ushers to the upper levels.

“Which floor would you like to stay on?” he questions.

“Here’s fine,” you respond, sliding onto the floor. He hesitates before sitting next to you and dropping his bat onto the floor. You lean your head on his shoulder, causing him to tense up a bit before relaxing.

You hear him sigh again. “I’ve upset you, haven’t I?” His voice sounds uncharacteristically sullen for a man as stoic as he usually is.

“Kind of. I just wish you would talk to me. What’s going on with you, Batter? You’ve been acting weird lately.”

He heaves yet another sigh as you straighten your neck and shift. Batter looks up at you while you move. You end up straddling him with your hands on his shoulders. He stiffens at your gentle touches. From this angle, you can finally see his eyes.

You can’t tell exactly what color his eyes are, so you reach up before grasping the brim of his hat. He catches your wrist gently before you can pull it off all the way.

“Do you mind?” you whisper. “I really want to see your eyes.”

His grip on your wrist loosens before he removes it completely. “Go ahead.”

You smile at him in a silent thank-you before you remove it.

His eyes are a pretty shade of amber. They hold a kind of exhaustion that could only be obtained by fighting for something one couldn’t accomplish.

“Your eyes are beautiful,” you comment, smiling, “why didn’t you want me to see them?”

He bites his lip for a moment before looking away. “I am not entirely sure. I guess I just…don’t want you to see my…my real ones.”

“Your real ones?” you question, tilting your head slightly.

“Yes,” he confirms, placing a hand on your cheek. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“You won’t, Batter. Will you show me, please?” you ask, enjoying the feeling of his hands.

“Very well,” he says, “will you close your eyes for a moment?”

You obey quietly, pressing a hand against his. His hands are much bigger than yours as well as drier and calloused from using his bat so much.

“You may open your eyes now.”

Upon opening them, you find that his amber orbs have been replaced with four eyes. The irises are a deep shade of burgundy while the rest of the eye is a pretty crimson color.

“Whoa,” you breathe, removing your hand in order to trace the skin around his eyes. Even though it’s definitely unnatural for a human, he still looks handsome. “Those are even cooler!”

“You think so?” he questions, still unsure.

“Yes. I mean…I’ve never met anyone with red eyes before. I…I think they look even better than your other ones,” you confess, smiling shyly at him.

He studies your face for a moment before a teensy little smile lights up his face. “Thank you, Puppeteer. Thank you.”

You chuckle. “That’s what you get for having a pretty face. Now,” you lean back a little. “What’s been going on with you?”

His little blush is back, which almost makes you giggle. “Well…it has to do with what I talked to Zacharie about earlier.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I…whenever I saw you hugging the Elsen or just…being affectionate with someone else, it made me angry. I wasn’t sure what exactly why I was; after all, you were just trying to be comforting. I knew Zacharie would have an answer, and he did. He informed me that…I should tell you. I wasn’t sure how. Eventually, he told me that…I was…jealous.”

You chuckle. “If you wanted a hug you should’ve just asked,” you respond, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling yourself to him. Burying your face into the crook of his neck, you smile as you feel him return it with a relieved smile. He loosely wraps his strong arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

You note that he smells like…bubblegum? Not just any bubblegum, but the kind that’s sort of stringy? Like the baseball gum. You chuckle, inhaling his scent.

Suddenly, he slides his hands up to your neck and he gently pushes you back a little bit, rubbing the tips of his thumbs over your jawline. You move your hands to his chest, right over his heart. It steadily beat beneath your fingertips. After that, your gaze sinks down to see his lips: they’re dry and chapped, but still so, so kissable.

The Batter releases a grunt before he pulls you forward, and your lips collide. He’s gentle and slow at first, testing the waters. When the two of you break apart for a moment, you go in for another one again; this time around, it gets a little more heated.

His hands slide back down to your waist, where he pulls your torso to his. You find your hands tangled in his ivory white hair. You feel him running his hands along your curves, to the small of your back, then retreating to your waist again.

You’re pulled back by the need for air. As you gaze into his red eyes, you recollect just why you love this man. He had protected you, tried to help you when no one else would. Even when he did get a little snappy, it was because he wasn’t exactly sure what to make of both the situation and his own feelings. It was there when you were looking at him, you realized he felt the same way.

He breathes your name, brushing a hand against your cheek again. You can tell he’s at a lost for words.

“I had a feeling you wanted more than a hug.”

[autisticcassandracain]

I have many thoughts on the weird phenomena in the DC fandom and the Batfam fandom specifically where probably the majority of people just straight up. haven’t interacted with the source material. and almost all of those thoughts can be summarized as ‘lmao that’s weird and mildly concerning’.

and because I’m annoying I will list them all here right now <3

1. To preface this post, I mean, obviously, comics are inaccessible as all hell, both in the disability kind of way and the ‘you need to understand the concept of hypertime to fully comprehend the DC timeline’ kind of way. Because of this, even if you don’t have a disability that prevents you from reading comics, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to look at the amount of comics you need to read to have even a base understanding of a character and go ‘no thanks <3′ and just enjoy fanart and fanfic in a vacuum. Ultimately, this is fandom, this is supposed to be fun, it doesn’t really matter.

2. That said, it’s VERY weird to me that the majority of this fandom just straight up hasn’t interacted with the source material, and moreover, that it’s considered rude to tell people that they should do so. It’s especially weird considering the amount of fanon-only fans I’ve seen who straight up have a superiority complex over canon. The idea that it’s gatekeeping to tell fans of something to actually interact with canon is just. so weird, and a fundamental misunderstanding of what ‘gatekeeping’ actually entails. 

3. But honestly I’m less interested in discussing the ways in which canon and fanon fans should interact with each other (personally, I think it would be helpful to create separate tags of some kind, but that’d require quite a big overhaul of the current fandom state) than in figuring out how this actually happened in the first place. On the one hand, it’s obvious; long-running superhero comics the way DC writes them have made themselves so thoroughly inaccessible that most people are simply too daunted to even try. Most media has a cohesive beginning and end (or at least, a planned end somewhere). Comics just... don’t.

But I do think it says something that, even among people who are clearly interested in the characters (since they have, you know, entire blogs about them), the effort to get into comics just seems to be too much to even bother. This really doesn’t bode well for the future of DC Comics. Obviously, I am no expert on anything at all ever, but I’d personally be surprised if DC survives beyond the few decades, at least in its current form/without a big overhaul.

4. But on the other hand, I don’t think the confusing state of DC Comics is the only thing to blame here. Fandom has a well-known problem with reducing any character down to archetypes to more easily ship and write fic/make content with. This problem is particularly prominent in fanfic, which, if you read enough of it, you’ll eventually start seeing not just the same tropes and trends, but essentially the same fics over and over again. And not just within the same fandom; everywhere, or every large fandom, at least. 

Fanon Batfam is entirely built on a bunch of those tropes; insecure/depressed sadboy Tim, team mom with optional hidden trauma/emotional problems Dick, bad boy with a heart of gold + sadboy combo Jason, abused sadboy Damian/angry easily-villified-for-fic-reasons monster Damian, good dad Bruce for found family fic and bad dad Bruce for angst fic, etc. This all culminates in a found family dynamic that’s generic and malleable to whatever fic the writer wants to write.

(This isn’t getting into the ship fic, which I avoid like the plague because the vast majority of it is incest, but I’d bet real actual money that the tropes in those fics fall under what is often preferred by the Migratory Slash Fandom.)

By having a decent excuse not to get into canon (the inaccessibility of comics) and a, by now, well-established fanon fandom, many fans feel free to use the batfam fandom as essentially an excuse to write whatever fic with reduced archetypes and tropes they personally feel the itch to write, without having to bother with even consuming a canon. This is compounded by the fact that canon itself is often contradictory and frankly bad, meaning that whatever interpretation of a character you want/need to go for your fic is at least theoretically backed up by canon (for example, you can just as easily cast Bruce as an abusive shithole dad who his kids need to get away from as a loving father figure who cares deeply for his children), which you can always use as a defense if people question your characterization.

5. This focus on fandom trends and tropes over actual creativity or care for the characters is also visible in the way bigotry manifests in this fandom; namely, in literally the exact way you’d expect. The female characters and characters of colour are shuffled to the side, non-existent, vilified, and/or reduced to harmful stereotypes. 

Barbara is probably the one I saw the most often in fanfic, but usually just as ‘Dick’s girlfriend’, and even then, she was often vilified for Dick angst (especially in fics about examining Dick’s trauma from his canon sexual assault; Kori also often gets the short end of the stick in those). After that, probably Stephanie, who fanon fans don’t really seem to know what to do with, so she’s basically just there as comic relief waffle girl, most of the time, though sometimes she can be used to either further Tim angst or further vilify Tim, whatever the fic calls for. Cass has gotten included more in batfam fics as of late, likely in response to critiques of fandom racism for leaving her out, but again, it’s clear people don’t actually know what to do with her. She’s often reduced to a racist stereotype of a quite, stoic therapist for whatever guy du jour needs it. That, or she’s in Hong Kong and just not there. Duke especially gets left in the dust in fandom, usually just being non-existent, but when he’s there, he’s almost always nothing more than the straight man for the actual fun characters to play off of. Talia probably has it the worst, though, and almost universally gets vilified by fanon stans in order to write sadboy Damian.

All of this is extremely predictable behaviour and falls entirely in line with general fandom misogyny and racism; ignoring or vilifying women and characters of colour, or using them as very minor characters at best. The only two characters of colour who aren’t regularly left out of fic are Dick and Damian, who are both also conveniently the two characters most often drawn and written in a whitewashed manner. In addition, there’s a real trend of demonizing Damian in fanon fics where he isn’t written as an abused sadboy, which I’d argue is in no small part due to fandom racism, considering Damian’s behaviour is in no way as bad as Jason’s, who doesn’t get anywhere close to the same demonization and gets woobiefied instead. I also find it convenient that Damian is probably the batboy who receives the most vilification in fic, when he’s the most obviously non-white of the batboys they’re willing to acknowledge.

Fandom often cries for more diversity in canon, only to ignore the diversity already there and focus on the same generic white guys. The batfam fandom is a brilliant example of this.

Which is not to say that fandom racism and misogyny isn’t present in the canon parts of the fandom (and canon itself); it absolutely 100% is. But I’ve found that canon fans are also more likely to like and care about at least one of the characters I’ve listed as ignored/vilified, and are willing to create and consume content for them, whereas fanon fans... aren’t, really. I’ve never seen a fan of fanon Cass the way I’ve seen fans of fanon Dick, for example. Obviously, this could just be by coincidence, or I’ve just surrounded myself with people like that, but it’s been a trend I noticed. Racism and misogyny is present in every part of this fandom and should be addressed as such, but I feel like it manifests the most blatantly in the fanon parts of this fandom. 

(I’d also recommend the articles Migratory Slash Fandom’s Focus and Beige Blank Slates, which expand more on the type of fandom racism I think is especially prominent in the batfam fandom, as well as literally every article in the What Fandom Racism Looks Like series.)

6. All this leads me to conclude that the majority of fanon fans don’t actually like the characters all that much; they’re convenient excuses for them to participate in fandom. Which I also think is, in no small part, a reason why so many of them react so negatively to being told to pick up a comic; they came to this fandom specifically to consume it as a fandom, because they wanted the fandom experience without having to consume a canon. 

This is not a phenomena unique to the batfam fandom (again, see the Migratory Slash Fandom), but it does fascinate me. While fandom is often said to be an experience focusing on transformative art, I think it’s also safe to say that, especially as fandom has become more mainstream, an increasing amount of people are looking to it less as a way to engage with their favourite pieces of media, and more as a type of media in and of itself. I think the reasons for this are similar to the reasons mass media entertainment like the MCU are so popular; you gain a lot of enjoyment out of it with very little risk involved. 

By consuming the same fics of the same characters (or the same archetypes) over and over again, you are rarely at risk of being challenged or even disappointed. It’s often very clear right from the start whether or not a fic will appeal to you, and if it isn’t, it’s easy to just look for another one. It requires less emotional investment than most other types of media, even ‘popcorn media’ like the MCU - or, yes, DC Comics. It’s safe, it’s enjoyable, it’s comforting, like McDonalds, but just like McDonalds, it’s ultimately bland and unsubstantial. 

7, TL;DR. Ultimately, I don’t think it’s like, wrong to enjoy the fanon version of the batfam without wanting to engage with canon, and I certainly don’t think it’s okay to harrass people over it. But I do think it’s in large part based on a desire to interact with fandom rather than other pieces of media because people are scared of being let down by those pieces of media (or worse, just uninterested in actually thinking), which is mildly concerning. 

[woeisme-iamwoe]

an absolutely massive Haikyuu!! fic rec pt. 1

I went through my entire ao3 history because I’m insane, AND here’s my favorites. (There’s not a lot of aus because I’m not a huge fan of them, and there’s no sad endings. I’m a hopeless romantic leave me alone. There is angst though! Lots) 

Beginning with SakuAtsu (I’m a hoe for Atsumu): 

Hide and seek, by badreputation (10k. E. canonverse) 

It sure is a good thing Atsumu doesn't have a latex allergy 

It’s just a fleeting infatuation. As long as he pushes through it he’ll manage. So what if nowadays there isn’t a night where he doesn’t dream of Sakusa pinning him down on his own bed, in the shower or make Atsumu go down on his knees in the hallway? Those are just pesky details.

Some Memories, We May Keep, by mika60 (31k. T. canonverse) 

This is canon, fight me on it. 

The missing panels, the missing games, the missing moments.

The them we never saw.

*Now complete! :)*

 every action has an equal and opposite reaction, by akanemnida (10k. T. canonverse) 

Miya Atsumu gets a modeling contract with Calvin Klein, which sets Kiyoomi's heart in motion.

(Or: Sakusa Kiyoomi realizes that the rules governing the universe are absolute rubbish at explaining matters of the heart.)

 Ass-fingering as a prelude to relations of the emotional kind: a case study, by neverwere (2k. E. canonverse) 

Fucking hilarious, the imagery is absolutely hilarious. 

"Marry me, he thinks, as he comes around Sakusa's fingers and all over himself.

This. This is exactly why you don't let strangers or very attractive teammates finger you out of the blue.

Everyone knows that the ass is the shortest way to the heart."

Or

When it comes to sex, Atsumu has rules. Guidelines! SOPs! He swears they work, they've always worked.

Until they don't.

 parallax error: angle of inclination, by min_mintobe (10k. T. canonverse)

But now there's the one person Atsumu'd promised himself never to touch. His eyes leave Atsumu breathless with guilt at seventeen, and he spends the next six years safe in the satisfaction of making things right.

Feelings, of the physical kind, and one kiss.

ft. competitive spirit, childishness, and late night conversations.

Atsumu POV.

 autumn ends, but we remain, by wolfsbvne (5k. T. canonverse)

Author says in their ending notes that they're not an ‘author’, but methinks they should write more and pursue that career path because this was wonderful.  

atsumu stares at his ceiling at 2am. he stares until he can make out designs in his popcorn ceiling. a cat there, an onigiri here, and then something that suspiciously looks like a mop of hair, triangle eyebrows, and oh those two bumps are moles right above what atsumu just mapped out as an eye.

(or, atsumu is in kind of in love. sakusa is maybe in like.)

I left a taste in your mouth, by emso (26k. E. bodyguard au)

Because obviously 

Sakusa fixes him with a vague expression of something like distaste. There's a scathing edge to his tone when he speaks. "Contrary to what you seem to believe, not everyone who meets you is instantly dying to get into your pants, Miya."

"Lucky I don't really care right now what 'everyone' wants to do, then." Atsumu swivels his mug around on the tabletop a few times, and then brings it to his mouth to drain the last few dregs of his latte. Over the rim of his mug, he adds casually, "Just you."

Whoa hey Bodyguard Omi, I think Spoiled Rich Kid Tsumu might possibly have a teensy crush on you. 

 How do you know you're in love?, by spiritscript (12k. T. canonverse)

Pure art

“So, how did you know you were in love? How did it feel?” Atsumu felt nervous asking this, a slight wiggling in the pit of his stomach, unable to look at the man beside him who rolled his shoulders in an attempt to reset his posture. “I mean, you didn’t resonate with what I said, so, what is love to you Omi-kun?”

Atsumu thinks he must be in love with Hinata Shouyou and so asks the best person he knows to help him understand his feelings

 san'yo expressway, 6:17 pm, by yamabota (13k. T. canonverse)

Of violent forethoughts, and handheld car vacuums. 

Atsumu tilts his head to watch a slice of orange light bend over the impassive planes of Sakusa’s face. He is absolutely, ruthlessly beautiful. It makes Atsumu want to punch something—put his foot through the windshield—scream, maybe.

Kiss him again, maybe.

They have 344 kilometers to figure this one out. 

Different Kinds of Dysfunctional, by DeathBelle (Series, 5 works. T-E. Canonverse)

Honestly, I think this one is kind of famous amongst Sakuatsu readers but I can’t not include it. If I recall correctly, this is the fic that got me into Sakuastu, so thanks, DeathBelle. The characters are portrayed really well (i.e. Sakusa is disgusted and confused, and Atsumu is a little shit). You’ve got a good balance between conversations and descriptive thoughts and all-in-all it’s just a really good read. 

 Atsumu said into the heavy silence, “You can’t say you’ve never thought about it.”

"Thought about what?" said Sakusa.

Atsumu smiled to himself, smug. "You know."

"No, I don't."

"You know. Of course you’ve thought about it. There’s no reason to be ashamed, Omi-kun. I’m a real catch.”

Sakusa was appalled. "You're disgusting."

"You flatter me. I'm not judging you. I can't lie and say I haven't thought about it, too."

Sakusa shifted, slowly, to peer over his shoulder. He wasn’t scowling, but his expression was unreadable. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Atsumu wasn't joking, and he was about to get more than he bargained for.

i'll do anything you say (if you say it with your hands), by liliapocalypse (7k words. T. canonverse):

Oh, god. This one was so cute. Super fluffy. Loved the metaphors and symbolism. Sometimes you just can’t say things out loud. 

When a bad injury shocks the whole V. League, Sakusa finds himself paired with Atsumu for more rigorous assisted stretches before every training. Atsumu then finds himself writing random letters on Sakusa’s skin to soothe the spiker, forcing Sakusa to reevaluate how his touch aversion became an irresistible yearning for more, and how the boy with the annoying hair somehow brought that hunger to life.

Or, the fic where Atsumu mindlessly writes a confession on Sakusa’s back when he thought Sakusa wasn't paying attention. Sakusa always did.

 mortality is found is the flesh of your sins, by novrik (10k. M. canonverse)

This is literally my favorite fic of all time. Not just of Sakuatsu, not even of the Haikyuu fandom. Ever. Favorite fic ever. Listen, I’m an atheist, but this fic took me on a religious experience that I haven't come down from yet. The symbolism had me actually shivering, and I had to put my phone down quite a few times. Just, oh wow, just read it. I’d like to share my favorite line; ‘And if Sakusa is Eve, if he takes a bite, what then? Perhaps, he is a little afraid of the knowledge he will gain’. My god, author, if you ever see this, this is not only a plea for you to continue writing, but also an offer of marriage. Your hand, author?

 dickhead one, sakusa kiyoomi. dickhead two, miya atsumu. neither understand how to communicate.

Pray tell, why are you drawn to him?

Are you drawn to him in the way he looks beautiful even when crying?

When his eyes are red, shiny tears streaking down, lips quivering, is he beautiful?

 sakuatsu domesticity simulator, by pseudoanalytics (75 words. T. canonverse)

75 words because it's actually a digital art simulator. An interactive fic! How frickin’ cool is that? The art is so beautiful and I love the plotline and ugh, just everything. Please read, or watch, or click around, yes. Good. 

Update: artist created another interactive fic and of course it is wonderful. SunaOsa this time! https://newttxt.itch.io/cheesecake honestly just check out @newttxt their work is amazing and I love everything they do. 

a vaguely interactive mixture of fic, art, and html, where you too can experience the inherent romance of a big fat jerk and a too-blunt jerk attempting intimacy

***

(this is the result of letting the sakuatsu brainworms really get to you...)

 Pas De Deux, by hatsuna (19k words. T. Ballet/college au)

There's just something about prim, proper ballet Sakusa and human-benign-tumor Atsumu that makes my heart burst. Seriously gorgeous writing style, loved every second. By the same author who wrote ‘liminal spaces’ (which is also just perfect) so that should give you a good idea of the style. 

The mystery athlete gives Kiyoomi a once over in the mirror. “Yer pretty tall,” he observes. The twang of an accent rasps low in his throat. His brazen eyes drift to Kiyoomi’s legs, and something like exhilaration glints gold in his gaze. “Good quads, too. Ya ever played volleyball?”

 Ah. So it’s volleyball.

“I’m a dancer. Ballet and contemporary, mostly.”

 the affective presence of our black and white reruns, by kozumess (19k. E. canonverse)

Beautiful, classic misunderstandings, my heart actually physically ached at that one scene (you’ll know the scene when you come to it). Kiyoomi is so refreshingly relaxed(? Is that the right word to use? We all know Omi never truly relaxes). 

but the want, it's always there, constant like the static playing on every television channel, present even when the station disconnects.

 cut the conversation, just open your mouth, by meeksoo (E. 16k. canonverse)

Absolutely filthy...BUT WITH FEELINGS! Completely nails the Sakuatsu dynamic, and protective ‘Tsumu? Love it. 

Sakusa opens the door. He always does.

 They’re teammates first, barely even friends. But they hook up on the regular and it works. It’s simple, easy. But then a fan gets too close, Sakusa reacts, and Atsumu is swept up in how quickly things can get complicated.

__

As Atsumu palms himself over his briefs, still feeling off, he realizes it’s because he still wants it. Him. Sakusa. Even after already having him earlier.

He should probably feel self-conscious, mildly ashamed even, that he’s panting ‘Omi Omi’ into the dark beneath the steady thrum of the AC unit when Sakusa’s right down the hall, probably good for it if Atsumu ended up back at his door. Instead, he lays there, writhing and sweaty, alone in his hotel room bed thinking about Sakusa and touching himself.

Afterward, as cum begins to cool on his chest, Atsumu really can’t help but face the fact that things may be getting complicated.

 the hands that beckon me to come, by Ellieb3an (4k. E. canonverse)

So hot, what the fuck! 

The toss, the run, the spike-serve at the end of it all—Sakusa sees it happen in perfect clarity as if time has slowed and his vision narrows to the center where just Miya exists, all powerful muscle and extraordinary skill and that air of confidence.

Sakusa isn’t one of the best receivers in the league for no reason, so his body moves on muscle memory, forearms absorbing the sting of the hit. It’s not enough. But his eyes are still on Miya—on the way his shorts ride up his muscular thighs as he lands, on the bead of sweat dripping down his forehead, on the clench of his fist thrust into the air—when the ball ricochets out of bounds.

***

Atsumu stays late at practices to work on his new third serve, even when his frustration with it starts throwing off the rest of his game. Sakusa notices and starts hanging back to secretly watch him from the gym doors. He’s fascinated with Atsumu's determination... and more than a little turned on by it, too.

 you're the flame i use (when it gets dark), by starkartifices (55k. M. canonverse. Ongoing)

Everything is the same except the Sakusas are super rich. 

“Oh, if you want dear, you could bring a plus one. Though, I doubt you have a partner yet.”

“I do actually.”

“What was that, dear?”

"I do have a partner, I mean."

alt title: crazy rich sakusas 

 the inherent romance of classical conditioning (or; the fine art of emotional recognition), by pseudoanalytics (13k. E. canonverse)

Ah, yes. A Pavloved sex life. A Pavloved LOVE life?? 

It's stupid. Atsumu isn't a romantic, no matter how many times he's imagined laying Sakusa out and finally really touching him.

So there's no explanation for why Atsumu is constantly stuck thinking about brushing his fingertips against the meat of Sakusa's palms or the prominent tendons in his freaky wrists.

There's no explanation for why doing dishes sets off a warm burn in his ribcage, or why when he smells disinfectant he inhales like he's walking past a bakery.

Yer doin' this to me, he thinks furiously, as Sakusa derails his thoughts with kisses that come more and more frequently now. Yer conditionin' me, and I can't stop it.

 flutterbird (a collection of sakuatsu oneshots), by wordstruck (5 works. T-E. canonverse)

Works 1-3, I think follow a linear story, whereas the last two don't. 

All sakuatsu works are just the angstiest, most miscommunication filled pieces of absolute gold and this one is no exception. Wow. These men are assholes and they bring out the worst in each other, but I’ll be damned if they’re not soulmates. 

Collection of SakuAtsu fics. Several fics are loosely set in the same storyverse. Not necessarily directly connected and can all be read as standalones.

[littlestarofthewest]

*chants softly* Do it - write that modern AU uno fic that the fandom doesn't realise that they desperately need 👿😏😘

Remember this? This came up between Christmas and New Year’s 2019 xD And now I finally did it.

Pairing: Arthur x gn reader | Words: 2325 | Rating: mildly nsft | Tags: strip Uno (yes, you’re reading this right), modern AU

The party is in full swing around you, but you have no desire to join in. It's been a while since a new year made you hopeful, and all the happiness and well wishes for another promising year sound forced and wrong in your ears.

It's too loud, and it smells like alcohol and too many people in a small space. You can barely breathe, so you head along the corridor to the rooms that are off-limits to the other guests. You don't feel like crashing in John's and Abigail's bedroom, so you take the next room that's part office, part storage room. In the past, you sometimes crashed here for the night.

You close the door behind you with a sigh and are about to head for the couch, but then you spot someone sitting in front of it on the ground. He's hunched over a little and looks up when you stop dead in your tracks.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know somebody was in here."

"It's alright," the guy says, offering you a kind smile.

A little lamp next to the sofa throws a soft shadow on his face, and you recognize the beard and nice features. You've seen him many times in photos around the apartment.

"You're Arthur, right?" you ask. "John's friend slash brother?"

Arthur chuckles. "Yeah, I guess you could call me that."

"I'm Y/N, Abigail's friend."

Recognition shows in Arthur's face, and he nods. "Friend slash soul mate slash the only person who understands Abigail whenever John acts like … well, John."

"So you have heard of me."

"A little, here and there," Arthur says, "mostly good."

"Mostly?"

Arthur grins a little one-sided, and something warm rises up in your stomach. You always thought that Arthur was handsome based on the pictures. It's way worse in person.

"I didn't mean to crush your party-" you start, but Arthur interrupts you.

"It's alright. I understand the urge for some peace and quiet. Please stay."

"Thanks." You move closer and sit down on the ground, putting your first and only drink down on the table next to the lamp. "What you got there?"

"Uno cards, if you believe it," Arthur says, and you both look at each other and speak at the same time. "John."

Arthur laughs, and you take a sip from your drink, enjoying the view. You definitely prefer Arthur's company to all the fake happy people outside.

"You gonna shuffle those all night, or are you ready to lose?" you ask.

"Lose?" Arthur measures you with a raised brow. "Around here, nobody takes me on."

You wave your fingers at him. "Come on then. Deal."

Arthur shuffles the cards for real now before setting up the first game, and you try to figure out if you've ever had a stranger New Year's Eve. Sitting in a friend's apartment playing Uno with a stranger is not a plan you would have made.

About two minutes later, Arthur puts his last card on the pile. "See?" he teases, but you just shrug.

"Beginner's luck."

You go back and forth with dealing the cards, and although Arthur wins the first three games, you soon catch up, making you both even again.

"So, why are you in here?" you ask, sorting your cards.

"I only came because John and Abigail wanted to set me up, but she didn't show," Arthur says with a shrug. "Didn't feel like partying after that."

"That sucks. Did her plans change?"

"More her perspective, I guess," Arthur says, something defeated in his voice. "Saw my profile picture, and suddenly she changed her mind."

"Nah, that can't be it."

"Why not?"

"Because you're gorgeous."

"I- What?" Arthur stumbles.

"I'm telling you that you're a very attractive man," you say while watching your cards. "And Uno, by the way."

"Oh, well, thank you, I guess," Arthur says. He puts another card on the pile, his cheeks now sporting a red tinge. "You're very nice."

"Just honest. And I win."

You grin at Arthur as he collects the cards to shuffle again. "You really are a worthy foe. We should make this more interesting."

"What, like strip poker?" you joke and Arthur laughs.

"We only have Uno cards." He's about to deal, but then he looks at you with a mischievous spark in his eyes. "Although it doesn't make much difference, really."

You look at each other and there's a sudden tension as if both of you wait for the other to chicken out or laugh. You wish you could, but the idea of getting Arthur naked is too tempting, even if you might lose some of your clothes yourself.

"We should probably lock the door," you say as casually as you can.

"Yeah, that's a good idea."

You get up to lock the door, and when you come back, Arthur deals, both of you acting as if nothing changed, but you feel a constant wave of heat running up and down your body. Before, you didn't really care much for your cards, but now every move counts. 

Arthur's the first one to win, but the second he puts down the card, he looks like he'd rather take it back. "Look, you don't have to-"

You interrupt him by taking off one of your shoes. "You're just worried you're going to lose."

 "Fine, you're asking for it."

Arthur wins again, getting your second shoe, followed by you winning for the first time. Like you, Arthur loses his shoes first, and then you agree to count both socks as one item. That's how Arthur ends up shirtless pretty soon after. You tell yourself that a naked torso is really nothing special, but for some reason, you play your worst round.

"You seem to have a hard time concentrating," Arthur teases, and you hate that he actually noticed.

"Shut up," you grunt, focusing on the cards. Still, you can't help but peek at Arthur once in a while.

"How did you end up here then tonight?" Arthur asks.

"My ex is back in town and hung around in front of my apartment, so Abigail suggested I hang out here."

"Something to be concerned about?" Arthur asks, his voice making clear how he thinks about a stalker-y ex.

"It's not that bad, really. They're not dangerous or anything, just annoying," you explain. "It's probably just a desperate 'alone on New Year's Eve' thing. Like I'd do that again."

You roll your eyes, and Arthur chuckles. "One of those, huh? Just gotta wait them out then. And this is your shirt gone."

He puts down his last card, and you get to your feet. "I'll go with the pants first if you don't mind. I'm hot anyway."

"Suit yourself," Arthur says nonchalantly, but you can feel his eyes on you as you slide the fabric down your legs. 

Arthur looks away again when you sit, but your skin still prickles, and you wonder how much more of this you can take. Playing freaking Uno shouldn't be this hot.

Lucky for you, you get a good hand, and despite your lack of concentration, Arthur's the one who has to get rid of his pants next. You try your best not to stare at his junk but fail miserably. Suddenly you're very concerned about what could happen next. Arthur must think the same.

"Glad we locked the door," Arthur grunts, "I don't need strangers looking at my junk."

"I'm a stranger, too, aren't I?" 

"You called me gorgeous; you can do whatever you want," Arthur says.

You know he's joking, but that doesn't stop your brain from imagining things you could do to or with him. That very pleasing but also distracting train of thought loses you your shirt in the next round. Still, Arthur's the one who has to get rid of his underwear first.

This time, you have the decency to look away until he sits down again, and the red on Arthur's cheeks is back. 

"So, what now?" he asks. "Can't exactly take off more if I lose."

After what you just thought about, your brain seems to have lost all sensible ideas, and you blurt out the first thing on your mind. "Truth or dare."

Arthur chuckles. "Really? And next up is 'spin the bottle?'" 

"Hey, we're playing strip Uno," you huff, "you really want to get judgemental on me now?"

"Alright, alright, 'truth or dare' it is. Just deal."

You deal the cards with butterflies taking flight in your stomach. You don't even know what to ask or dare Arthur, but the alternative is to get naked yourself. Either way, you're in trouble.

The round goes on and on, both of you putting on more cards rather than losing them, but then the game turns in Arthur's favor until he forgets to say Uno. You have better luck then, finally winning the round. 

This time, it's you who tries to offer a way out. "Look, you don't have-"

"No, no, that's what we agreed on," Arthur says, waving his fingers at you. "Come on, ask."

"Alright, truth, or dare?"

Arthur studies you for a moment, his gaze so intense that a cold shiver runs down your spine. "Dare."

All kinds of stupid things run through your mind, but you don't want to make Arthur look foolish, especially in front of anybody else. You want to keep him all to yourself.

"I dare you not to move, no matter what."

Arthur raises his eyebrows in surprise but stays deliberately still. You take all your courage and crawl over to him, scattering the cards without a second thought. 

When you reach Arthur, you run your cheek along his one like a cat before placing soft kisses along his neck. You hear him take in a sharp breath, but he doesn't move. 

You look up to him, and he keeps still as you move closer, your lips hovering so close to his that you can feel his breath. It takes all your willpower not to kiss him, but you're still playing after all.

"Your turn," you say, looking right into Arthur's eyes. They're a nice shade of blue but with an almost golden circle in the middle.

"Truth or dare?" Arthur asks.

"Dare," you say way too fast.

Arthur's lip twitches into a smile, but he still doesn't move. "I dare you to come closer."

You crawl into Arthur's lap, very aware of the fact that only a tiny piece of fabric keeps you apart. With your arms around Arthur's neck, you make yourself comfortable, but your faces are still inches apart. 

"Truth or dare?" you ask.

"The truth is that I didn't say Uno on purpose," Arthur says. You believe him, which means that he wanted for this little game to start. 

"Trickery," you say, running your fingers through his hair, "how very naughty of you. I think that entitles me to dare you again."

"Sounds fair."

You move even closer, your fingers teasing Arthur's neck. "I dare you to touch me."

Arthur places his hands on your knees before running them up to your thighs. You get goosebumps all over your skin and can't help that you fidget a little. The friction takes its toll on Arthur. You can feel him pressing up against you while he runs his hands up along your body.

"Truth or dare?" he asks, his fingers dancing over your back.

"Truth. I want you to kiss me."

Arthur caresses your shoulders while he looks at you, his fingers climbing your neck in slow motion. The touch makes you shiver, but you stay right where you are, letting Arthur cup your face with his hands. Only when there's a barely-there pull, you move, finally closing the gap between you and Arthur.

You can't remember the last time someone kissed you this gently, and you melt against Arthur, promising yourself to stay in his lap for as long as you possibly can.

Arthur deepens the kiss, the taste, and warmth of him making you forget where you are until there's a harsh knock on the door.

"Hey, Y/N? You in there? It's me."

You feel like being doused with ice water, and your fingers dig harshly into Arthur's shoulders.

"Who's that?" he whispers, worry in his expression.

"My ex," you whisper back.

"Come on, let's talk," comes the voice from outside.

Arthur raises his eyebrows in question, and you immediately shake your head, so he tilts his head to face the door. "Do you mind? We're trying to hook up in here."

There's silence, and you bite your lip so you won't laugh. Sadly, your ex doesn't give up that easily. "Who is this?"

"It's Arthur; you might want to remember that name the next time you skulk around somebody's apartment."

It's silent again, then your ex clears their throat. "Just call me, okay? We can talk about this?"

You look at Arthur, slightly shaking your head, so you both stay quiet until you're sure your ex is gone. Arthur leans back with a sigh, resting his head against the couch. "That was not a turn on."

"I'm sorry," you say, running your fingers over his beard. "Like I said - annoying."

Arthur watches the ceiling for a bit before he takes your hands, threading your fingers together. "You know, I have an apartment, too. No exes hanging around that one."

You laugh. "Getting me naked here doesn't mean you can get me naked over there."

"I just borrow these cards, and we'll see what happens."

He kisses you again, and you have to admit to yourself that you'd rip your clothes off in an instant if he asked you to. You still act like you need to be persuaded. "Fine, you may take me there and try again. You might lose, though."

Arthur smiles. "I'll take that risk."

Getting dressed has never been such a thrill for you. Maybe the new year wasn't so bad after all.

[vivithefolle]

I get so protective over Ron that sometimes I worry I'm too intense about it

Nah you’re not too intense. If anything we’re not intense enough. TURN UP THE HEAT FIGHT THE POWER SLAY THE HATERS -

I kind of hate how as a big Ron fan I just can't like Molly as much as the rest of the fandom does. I don't hate her, but the way that Ron is very obviously her least favourite child for NO REASON WHATSOEVER is super annoying to me. 

I honestly don’t mind Molly, I understand that being a mother is super taxing (my own mother had problems with us, and there’s only three of us). She just couldn’t pay as much attention to Ron as he needed her to, because she had the hellion twins to reel in.

The issue is also with the way she seems to believe in “tough love”, for a definition of tough love anyway. For some kids, tough love works (as in, “yeah ok since you insist on trying to do that mildly dangerous thing go on, do it. Ah, you fell and got an ouchie? Yep, turns out I knew what I was talking about, next time you’ll know that when I’m trying to stop you from doing a thing it’s usually for a good reason.”, not “YEAH I WILL ABUSE YOU AND HURT YOU AND HURL INSULTS AT YOU BUT IT’S TOUGH LOVE YOU WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND GET OFF MAH PROPERTY”), but other kids need a more gentle approach.

Ron is one of those kids who needs things told to him. He needs verbal affirmation, verbal validation, and that means a bit more attention. But Molly is often spread very thin between her kids and tending to the house... and maybe unconsciously, she has a bias against Ron, maybe resented him a bit at times, because no mother can be an infinite well of patience and love, and Ron would be good enough with emotions to pick up on such a moment of resentment and spiral into overthinking about it.

Molly did her best and I like her. I like her more than Harry or Hermione frankly. I like her more than Fred and George too, whom I mainly like because of nostalgia, because it’s true they made me laugh a lot when I was little and I liked that very much. But growing up, I realize they were awful big brothers to Ron - and awful brothers to Percy too - and it just hurts. It’s like that for pretty much everyone who isn’t Ron, or Luna/Neville/Percy: I want to like them, because Ron likes them, but the way they treat Ron at times leaves a taste in my mouth that’s too bitter to be entirely washed off.

[mad-hats]

starred wars. full reign. all of starring wars.

Oh god… where do I even start do you realize how many characters are in Star Wars? How many blorbos and glup shittos fit in there?? This will be very long I apologize in advance.

Blorbo: honestly I have quite a few favorites I think. Probably Boba Fett mostly as of late though if not just because bobf has been eating at my brain. I am obsessed with his characterization like they took a random fucking guy the Fanboys™️ clung to and made him such an interesting character. Ahsoka is a blorbo too just because there is so much to think abt with her…. Oh and Omega I think of her way too much but I’ll discuss that more in poor little meow meows.

Scrunkly: hm. You know this is actually kind of hard. I’m just gonna say Din though my tin can man I admit he’s not actually scrunkly or baby but he is shaped and sometimes I want to throw a slice of cheese at his helmet because I think his confused reaction would be funny. Oh Echo is also shaped and my special guy. Not rlly scrunkly or a baby again but I think being an armored cyborg is perhaps one of the most shaped things you can do. He’s cute though I want to completely redesign his ugly whitewashed design and give him a gun attachment for his arm he deserves it <3

Scrimblo Bimblo: Max fucking Rebo my blue little guy rip j*zz legend you will be missed😔BUT MOST IMPORTANTLY Finn and Rose they were sidelined so hard and Star Wars has a nasty habit of doing this with their compelling poc characters my god they deserved such better writing and screen time and literally Everything. Oh also K-2SO? He was iconic in Rogue One literally one of my favorite droids and I think Rogue One should be discussed more in general but I just thought K-2was neat :]

Glup Shitto: That hot turquoise twi’lek guy from bobf. He doesn’t have a name but he is trans and he seems nice :]. Literally any handmaiden. They had to deal with So much. Basically any minor character from tcw because no one else knows who they are but I would freak out if they were mentioned. Bossk was in the originals too but if boba so much mentions him in the new content I will Talk Extensively about it.

Poor Little Meow Meow: Maul lol. He’s very popular he’s just such a weird evil fucked up terrifying but also kind of pathetic little guy. Uhhhh also Omega! She’s fine she’s just mildly controversial because the tbb writing was lacking to say the least and a lot of people thought she was annoying and doesnt make sense in the big picture and I get that but I can fix her. Oh and Commander Fox! He’s not pathetic or anything and didn’t even have much of an appearance but he is kinda controversial. A good chunk of the tcw fandom Hates him because killed Fives but I will defend him anyway, like I love Fives so so much but Fox did what he thought he had to do it’s all very nuanced you can learn more by sending me Star Wars sideblog asks someone please-

Horse Plinko: Tech and Crosshair in a fairly lighthearted way like they’re still clones so I’ll always support them to an extent but their designs are so so ugly and I like bullying them in discord servers. Less lighthearted with Cross though he’s kind of a dick. Obi-Wan in a lighthearted way too because he’s fun to see in pain. The Kryze sisters in a significantly less lighthearted way though they’re interesting but mass murder and irresponsible leadership is not inherently girlboss I’m sorry. I will also bully any Viszla for anything at any time.

Eeby Deeby: Palpatine lol he just sucks for obvious reasons. Oh and Kyle Ron. Kylo stannies dni I Do Not Care if he was redeemed I don’t care if his name is actually Ben and I don’t care about Reylo I simply Do Not Care For Him he’s so whiny and angsty and for what his backstory is not even THAT bad he gives incel vibes and idc if he’s a goth angsty sadboi Maul did it better and he did it with horns and cool tattoos.

[ineffable-snowman]

(apologies in advance to the people who followed me for Good Omens. I’m diving headfirst into a new fandom, so I’m afraid there’s going to be a lot of Sambucky in the next three weeks at least...)

I wrote a fic inspired by episode 3 of FATWS. Read it here or on AO3.

Trouble Man

“It is a masterpiece, James. Complete, comprehensive. It captures the African-American experience.”

What kind of passive-aggressive bullshit was that? It was annoying enough that Zemo insisted on calling him ‘James’ in that patronising way of his but now he tried to lecture him or rather tried to make him look stupid, uncultured and ignorant. Bucky wanted to laugh at Zemo’s comment that sounded more like he was quoting a Wikipedia article to appear sophisticated, but then Sam spoke up.

“He is out of line – but he is right.”

Fuck Zemo. Seriously, Bucky had enough reason to hate Zemo but this was on another level. This was personal. He made Bucky look stupid, uncultured and ignorant in front of Sam. And the thing was, he was mostly ignorant about Marvin Gaye. He had listened to some of the tracks from Trouble Man just because they were on Steve’s list, and had quickly decided that it was not his kind of music. Now he wished he had at least listened to the whole album so he could contribute more than a weak “I like Marvin Gaye”, which fooled absolutely no one. He had no idea how a simple conversation about music had escalated like this. It had seemed like perfectly normal banter, Sam making fun of him for being old-fashioned, and then Zemo had interfered with that comment and it was downhill from there.

For some reason Sam was very passionate about Marvin Gaye and Bucky was intent on finding out why. Also, he needed to find out how music could be “complete, comprehensive” and “capture the African-American experience.” In his experience, music was used for dancing and for fun and that’s all there was to it. He stared at the notebook. There was some really good advice in it, like Thai food or Star Wars. So far, Bucky had not seen the appeal of Marvin Gaye. But apparently Steve had. If Steve had adored the music so much, why had he just simply crossed it out in a neat line and not, for example, put an exclamation mark behind it? Bucky added two exclamation marks.

Right, how to do this? Not for the first time he regretted just getting a simple flip phone instead of one of those fancy smartphones. When the shop assistant had told him that he needed a phone for taking photos and listening to music, Bucky had almost laughed at him. Talking about stupid… He could really use Youtube or Google now.

“Do you have a computer with internet?” he asked Sharon.

She looked at him like he was stupid (it was becoming a theme) but showed him to a computer and even gave him earphones. Then he started to listen to Trouble Man and this time did not skip any tracks but listened to the whole songs. He also googled the lyrics but that did not leave him any the wiser. Doctor Raynor would probably tell him to use his goddamn mouth and just ask someone, for heaven’s sake. He would rather get frozen again than ask Zemo. But it also felt extremely wrong that Zemo, who was supposed to be one of the bad guys, seemed to know and understand Sam better than Bucky, who was supposed to be Sam’s…whatever. Were they friends? Bucky certainly considered Sam a friend (although he never would say it out oud), probably the only friend he had left. Someone who texted you and asked you how you were and invited you to lunch was a friend, right? Someone who even saved your ass and (repeatedly) broke the law for you was a very good friend. But did Sam consider someone his friend who did not text back, who repeatedly got him into trouble, kept things from him and had even tried to kill him? Bucky stared at the screen. It was a miracle Sam had not tried to kill him yet. It was even more of a miracle that he was still being nice (sometimes). He googled “Trouble Man” and “African-American experience”. To his disappointment, it was not a quote from a Wikipedia article. So Zemo knew what was going on and Bucky did not. He turned up the volume and tried to make sense of the lyrics (“Got me singin' – yeah, yeah – Hoo“).

“Finally doing some catching up on the good stuff?”

Bucky turned around so quickly that the earphones were ripped out of his ears. Sam had put up his hands in defence and was babbling something about attacking or not attacking or whatever.

“Jesus.” Bucky consciously unclenched his left fist. “Couldn’t you just knock?”

“I did. You didn’t answer.” Sam pointed at the screen where the Youtube video of Trouble Man was still running. “I knew it,” he said gleefully. “You have no idea who Marvin Gaye is.”

“I do!” Bucky protested but then trailed off because he may have heard some of Gaye’s songs but he still did not know who Marvin Gaye was.

“So.” Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you think? Honestly.”

Bucky looked from Sam to the screen to the dangling earphones. I like it was not an appropriate answer. Not an honest one. “I don’t get it,” he finally said.

“No appreciation for good music.” Sam sighed dramatically. “Hopeless. Stuck in the 40s forever.”

Bucky could have left it at that. They were on common ground again, bickering but not hurting each other, it felt familiar, safe. “No,” he said nevertheless. “I – how? How is this music – how does it…capture the African-American experience? Most of the songs don’t even have lyrics.”

“You don’t need lyrics for music to be meaningful.”

“How? Is it because people listen to it in certain situations or…?”

“Alright. Ready for a lesson on 20th century music? You better take notes.”

Bucky opened the notebook and took a pen. Then he noticed Sam’s grin. Right, he hadn’t meant it literally. But now Bucky had already opened the notebook and he was determined to go through with it. So he wrote down all the names Sam dropped, the musical genres and important songs. It was a lot and, as a lot of things, it confused Bucky but he just rolled with it. So some bands destroyed instruments on stage and certain music apparently had a soul? Great. Speaking of souls, this was probably the right time for some soul-gazing to show Sam that he was actively listening. (Doctor Raynor would be so proud of him.) Sam kept bringing up the soul thing several more times until finally Bucky could not keep quiet any longer.

“What’s with this soul music? Is it, like…music for funerals?”

Sam stared at him. Bucky stared back.

“Okay, scoot over.” Sam squeezed on the chair next to Bucky so Bucky almost fell over on the other side. Then he reached over Bucky to grab the mouse, opened another tab and chose a Youtube video for Bucky to listen to. “This is soul music.”

It was highly uncomfortable because the chair was not made for two people and they both weren’t exactly small but Bucky was resolved to stay on the chair, at least with one thigh. Sam chose video after video, pointed out characteristic musical features, quoted parts of the lyrics and talked about the history or the significance the songs. It was still a lot and Bucky still did not get everything but he dutifully took notes to look up some things in detail later. When he had filled the sixth page in his notebook, Sam stopped the music lesson.

“So, 40s music. Any recommendations?”

Bucky turned to face him. They were awfully close. Sam’s eyes were somehow very soft, there was the hint of a smile on his lips and he looked very huggable in that thin turtleneck – and he looked genuinely interested in Bucky’s answer. Bucky felt hot shame flooding him. Sam could be aggravating and an outright asshole but he was too kind for this world. Too kind to Bucky.

“Nah,” he mumbled. “Music in the 40s was just for dancing, for fun. Not…not important like your music.”

“Oh, you can dance just fine to my music,” Sam said in mock outrage. “Come on.” He elbowed Bucky out of the chair and chose another Youtube video, then stood up, too.

“Soul music?” Bucky guessed when the first chords of an electric guitar could be heard.

“Funk. Close enough.”

Sam started to move to the music. It should be ridiculous, the weird moves he was doing, because that certainly wasn’t proper dancing, not the dancing Bucky knew anyway – no rehearsed dancing steps, more like a spontaneous swaying to the music and some of the moves were definitely ridiculous but Sam made them look, well, smooth.

“See, that’s dance music, too,” Sam said and came to stand in front of Bucky.

Bucky had no idea why it was even called dancing but he wasn’t going to say that because he did not want to offend Sam again.

But of course Sam had to nag him. “Spit it out.”

“What?”

“I can see the cyborg gears turning. What’s wrong with dancing?”

“Nothing. Just not what I’m used to.”

“You can choose the next song. For now – get those hips moving.” He nudged Bucky, and how could Bucky say no? After Sam had spent all that time educating him and only mildly making fun of him for his ignorance, he owed it to him.

“This is ridiculous, I feel ridiculous,” Bucky complained when he tried to copy some of Sam’s moves.

“You’re doing great,” Sam said but he was grinning, clearly enjoying how Bucky was making a fool of himself. “Maybe tone down the staring a bit.”

Well, if it made Sam happy… Bucky decided to give it his all and moved wildly to the rhythm, not caring if it could be called “dancing” or not. Nonetheless, he was a little relieved when the song was over.

“Your turn.” Sam indicated the computer.

Bucky had no idea which song to pick. He tentatively typed “Billie Holiday” into the search bar.

“Seriously?” Sam came up behind him. “You know Billie Holiday and say you don’t understand how music can capture the African-American experience?”

It was like a punch in the face. A well-deserved punch probably. “I mostly saw her as the singer of love songs, for slow dancing,” he admitted. “Never really…thought much about it.”

“So what, you’re going to slow dance with me, Barnes?” It wasn’t the usual good-natured banter but sounded more like an accusation.

“Look, Sam, I…” Bucky rubbed his temples. “Let’s head downstairs to that party to…” hopefully not dance. Whatever. Get out of this situation where, he feared, he was breaking rule #2 again.

“No, let’s do this.” Sam clicked on the first link and a swing tune started to play, Me, Myself and I. “Let’s slow dance if that’s what you do.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

It was certainly the most aggressive ask for a dance he had ever received. And he had never been this stiff during a dance before. He used to be a good dancer back in the days but now he felt clumsy when he placed his hand on Sam’s back while trying to keep as much distance between them as possible.

They had not even made eight uncoordinated steps when Sam started to speak. “Would it hurt you to use that brain of yours once in a while? It’s supposed to be working properly again, isn’t it? That’s what I heard at least.”

Doctor Raynor’s words came back to him, that he was free. To do what? Certainly to do better than hurt the man who had always had his back without Bucky ever having done anything to deserve that kind of loyalty.

“I’m sorry,” he said, unconsciously tightening his grip on Sam’s back.

“What for?”

Everything. “For being…kind of… thoughtless, I guess.”

Being so close, he could actually feel Sam exhale. “That’s the understatement of the century.”

“For being a huge dick,” Bucky offered.

“Better,” Sam grumbled. “Now, was that so hard?”

Bucky took a step back to gauge Sam’s reaction. He was relieved to find no traces of hurt or betrayal in Sam’s eyes, just the usual exasperation he put on when looking at Bucky. “Yes. Physically painful,” he tentatively tested the water. It was like a dance, back and forth, seeing how far you could get.

Sam rolled his eyes. “I hate you. And please stop staring.”

Bucky shrugged and pulled Sam close again, in fact, so close that he did not have to look into Sam’s eyes anymore but was now staring at his left shoulder. Sam was visibly relaxing in Bucky’s arms and wasn’t that a miracle, that he was still in Bucky’s arms, still allowed Bucky to hold him?

“Thank you,” Bucky mumbled into Sam’s shoulder.

“What for?”

Everything. Bucky tightened his hold on Sam (and silently thanked the autoplay function that started the next song because he was in no way ready to let go of Sam yet). “I’m a mess and you don’t deserve all that shit I throw at you.”

“Mm. You’re welcome.” Sam squeezed his shoulder, like a reassurance that he would continue to put up with all of Bucky’s bullshit. Too damn kind for this world. Good thing he had Bucky on his side who was going to beat up everyone who so much as tried to exploit Sam’s kindness. (Yes, he knew he was being hypocritical and should technically start with beating up himself.)

“Sharon was wrong,” Bucky said. “I’m not obsessed with the whole stars and stripes stuff. I didn’t follow Steve because he had that shield. And I’m – well, you might’ve noticed I’m here and not following that – that asshole. Sam, I think you should take the shield but, with or without the shield, I’ll follow you. Just so you know.”

Sam was silent for quite some time, they were just swaying gently to the music, until Bucky heard close to his ear, “That a threat, Buck?” He could almost sense the smile against his cheek.

“Just a fact. And I hate you too, by the way.”

[omegawolverine]

I know you posted it days ago but you said something about wanting to rant about either karl or his fanbase and its been itching at my brain. Ive no clue whats happening or what is happening at all cause no one seems to be making clear points?? Or explaining anything?

Obviously you do NOT have to talk about it im sure it might be a sore point to rant because people can get SO needlessly rude to others over it. But if you want to idk explain? Just rant? Im definetly curious what it was over or about.

The "you dont need to talk about this" is amplified by the fact i am DAYS late and you are probably over it by now.

okay hi yes im happy to talk about this but i think i should preface with two things:

1) even tho it may seem like im biased towards him or being very defensive of him im actually a super casual karl viewer and the only reason i am super defensive of him sometimes is bc we act a lot alike irl and that is mainly because of our neurodivegency. when i say a lot i mean we share traits like "annoying" stimming (jumping around, making loud noises, repeating the same phrases until everyone is sick of hearing them), the difficulty reading situations, the very obvious issues with volume control and not just bouncing from subject to subject to subject as we fucking please. basically anything you've seen karl do on stream that is Very Neurodivergent ive done the same in my own way which is why i get defensive when i see people calling him annoying or saying they dont like him, usually for these types of reasons. that being said, when i say im a very casual karl viewer, i fucking mean it. i usually only watch him when he's streaming with other ccs i like or when he's doing chill alt streams bc even with the annoying donos, he's pretty relaxing and comforting when he's just fucking around by himself and he isnt trying to get as hype as he would on a main channel stream. so yeah, it may seem like im biased and sure, i guess i am on some level, but it's not coming from a place of me hyperfixating on him or me even loving him as a cc, it's coming from me being a neurodivergent who likes him just enough to get upset when i see people basically being casually ableist towards him.

2) i dont have all the facts or even a great understanding on what the fuck has been happening recently with his "drama"...mostly bc he talked about it on his priv, which im not on, and people are gatekeeping the tweets, as they always do, and basically making you "dm to see them" (which is already a problem in and of itself bc apparently in these tweets he said he didnt want them being ss and shared, yet they are being shared thru dms over and over and over again like. at that point just stop withholding the information and post the fucking shit, you clearly dont care that he said "dont share"). additionally, most of the threads ive seen on this situation havent actually explained the initial issue, just talked about his apology (a lot of people have said "it's bad" but havent said why and with no screenshots ((i havent asked for someone to dm me them and i still havent seen them posted, which is mildly surprising, but incredibly frustrating at this point)), i only have a few basic details i can actually assess it on) or they talked about the initial issue in very vague details so um. excuse me trying to explain this now, but ill try and make it make sense with how little ive actually pieced together.

(oh, also, here's my first rant about the ableism in this fandom which is way more broad. this is a pretty different rant from that one, but they're both pretty big reasons why i hate this fandoms treatment of karl)

so basically the problems started with mr beast being apart of a charity stream that donated either to autism speaks or to a similar company, im unsure on that part. im also unsure on if the people participating in the stream actually knew of this or not bc, from what i remember, the money was being donated to a separate organization that was like. under the bad company or some shit like that, idk how stuff like that works and also i read about this shit months ago bc this originally happened months ago and just sorta came to a head recently.

anyways, i think karl was supposed to be apart of this stream but pulled out of it right before (that or these were two separate streams and karl was supposed to participate in the first but pulled out while mr beast did both?? idk. regardless karl did not actually participate, just mr beast). from there people started doing the guilt from association bullshit they always do, this was also doubled by the fact that the chris being racist stuff came out sometime around then and basically he got dragged all over twitter for "being ableist" and "supporting racists" and i cant remember if he actually apologized when this originally happened or not. i vaguely remember him apologizing about something back then but i genuinely dont know if it was this or something else.

basically that died down eventually, a good chunk of people unstanned him but him and honktwt didnt end up getting the lovely lil technotwt treatment and they still havent yet, surprisingly. good for them honestly ajsksk

but now we get to the past few weeks and apparently something happened with him "laughing at someone saying the r slur" (it was mizkif, i believe), specifically when it was directed at other people, which is a big yikes, obviously, but when karl was called out for this a lot of people kind of. made this into a situation that it wasnt bc um. basically karl didnt laugh at it, he gave a few nervous giggles, as people often do when in a situation like that (and karl specifically said he does this in the one part of his apology tweet which i did stumble upon, although it wasnt the important part of the apology thread bc why would it be) and people fucking crucified him for it. they quite literally dragged a neurodivergent man for supposedly "laughing at the r slur" when he can literally reclaim it and also he was just nervous laughing.

and this is where the situation just gets really bad because they. basically forced him to admit that he was autistic on his priv to apologize for this. i havent seen the screenshots of him saying this, but i saw people discussing it and i am frankly so fucking pissed about this because sure, it was a bad situation, and i understand people wanting an explanation, but an apology? for a neurodivergent man nervous laughing at a slur he can reclaim? and then forcing the man to admit something he literally said in that tweet he didnt want people to know which is why people were being so gatekeepy about it while also LOUDLY discussing the situation, as if that wouldnt drive MORE PEOPLE to look for screenshots and ways to get ahold of this information? and then people had the audacity to call it a "bad apology" when they had quite literally just violated his privacy by forcing him to admit something that he shouldnt have needed to share in the first place if he didnt want to, which he didnt.

and this is why im so pissed off. karl is already constantly picked at and made fun of and called annoying for his neurodivergent traits, things which he literally cant help, things which are generally harmless, and now he was forced into a situation where he can now be further picked at and made fun of and called annoying bc they forced him to admit something private instead of just understanding and accepting that he had been nervous laughing at someone using a slur he has definetly been called for his neurodivergency.

tldr of my thoughts: yes i think karl needed to address this situation, it definetly looked bad, but twitter stans have this sense of entitlement with their ccs and because of that, they consistently take it way too far and harm the people they claim to care about so dearly. we've seen it happen time and time again with dream, but this is the first time ive seen them basically force someone to out themselves to make their apology "valid" and most of them still seem to not want to accept it anyways, which just makes me feel bad for him bc now that info is out their and people are just disregarding it to continue "holding him accountable".

anyways, i think that's all i can really say on this topic rn tbh, if anyone else knows this situation better please feel free to lmk clarifications and ill add them in since, like i said, i know fuck all thanks to twitter being so goddamn hush hush about the important details while simultaneously being the loudest mfers about how much they hate karl now instead of just fucking unfollowing and moving on.

thanks for the ask and im sorry if this is confusing!! i just think this is one of those weird situations where like. i think karl deserved some criticism for what happened and how he handled it or at least he shouldve been asked to address it but that just. isnt what happened, at all. he was harrassed. karl got harrassed and because of that he handled this situation even more sloppily than he probably wouldve and exposed private info about himself that he didnt feel comfortable doing and it just. fucking sucks tbh.

[southsidestory]

Caged

RATING: Explicit

FANDOM: Hunger Games

SHIP: Odesta

WARNINGS: Rape/non-con, drug use, forced sex work

SUMMARY: Annie’s Victory Tour brings her to the Capitol, with Finnick at her side. He did his job as her mentor when he got her out of the arena, but he can’t look after her anymore. All he can do is play the part Snow has given him. It’s almost simple now, posing for the cameras and obeying his patrons, all with a smile on his face. Pretending is so easy that he can’t tell what’s real and what’s not anymore. But Annie might be able to remind him. 

Read on AO3

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With his lips closed, Dionysus looks plain by Capitol standards. Pasty skin, undyed and free of tattoos. Short brown hair, black shoes, dark suit. Colorless, except for the trio of yellow tablets in his palm. My throat itches to swallow down the promise they hold, but I have two questions that need answering.

First: “Will I be able to fuck?”

The dealer laughs, revealing a mouth full of gold and gems. “Like a damn rabbit,” Dionysus says.

Second: “I want to feel nothing, but a good nothing. Can this do that?”

Sapphires flash on his eye teeth. “You’ll see nirvana,” he promises.

I don’t know what that is, or where it might be, but any place would be better than this one.

.

.

Red. That’s all I see, at first. Waves and folds of the color spilling down the length of Annie’s skirt. Six feet of fabric fans out behind her, but the top of the dress is spare, sheer wisps that cling to her breasts and shoulders and throat.

“Inspired,” says Sabina. “Her stylist has an eye for drama.”

Her stylist will be lucky to have eyes at all when I’m done with him.

I take a flute of turquoise champagne from a passing Avox’s tray. It tastes like turpentine and sugar, the medicine that District Four mothers force down their children’s sore throats. I drink three glasses in ten minutes. Red still bleeds along the edges of my vision, and no matter where I turn, there’s Annie. Trussed up for Capitol appetites, tribute all over again. When I reach for another glass Sabina touches her too-long nails to my wrist. Tap, tap: bad dog. She kisses me, tongue sour blue slick, and I imagine what a senator’s wife might look like if three weeping mouths opened in the middle of her chest.

Something tugs at my shirt sleeve, jealous but gentle. Annie, drowning in all that District One silk.

“I need you,” she says. Splattered droplets dot her left cheek, a constellation of freckles that shine crimson-wet in the low light.

“Everyone needs me tonight.”

Sabina laughs and Annie pulls away, so I know I've said the wrong thing. That’s what happens when I put pills in my mouth; nothing but mistakes come out.

I say, “Teenage girls,” and give my date a knowing smile. Let her read what she wants into that.

Sabina twines her fingers around my arm and leans in close, smug and conspiratorial. “My daughter’s at that age now. It’s all me, me, me! And they want everything immediately. Nothing pleases them…”

How this is any different from the rest of the Capitol I can’t guess, but I let her go on, nodding and humming my sympathy where appropriate. Oh yes, they’re selfish little brats. Ungrateful, never satisfied. When Sabina pauses to sample a canapé I say how much I hate to leave her for even a moment, but I am Annie’s mentor. Duty calls and all that.

Sabina frowns prettily. “I hope you're this dedicated in all of your pursuits.”

She should know the answer to that already. This isn’t our first date. Still, I feed her a stock innuendo about finishing the things I start.

“Go on then, but be back soon!”

I find my tribute talking to the light crew. A woman with tattooed vines climbing the side of her shaved head shows Annie how to hold a sheet of foil. It’s a clever way to hide from the cameras and I wish I’d thought of it first. Too late for that, because Annie turns her silver shield, and then there’s a lens blinking closer to my well-lit face.

“Perfect,” says Vines. “You’re a natural.”

Annie shakes her head. “No. He’s just an easy target.”

I duck into the bright circle of the light crew’s equipment before the cameras can focus. The heat feels artificial, claustrophobic, like the solar beds my stylist makes me visit. Annie returns the foil to Vines and thanks her for the lesson. I can’t breathe again until there’s ten feet between me and the clicking insect sound of mechanical eyes.

“I thought you were busy,” Annie says. Her voice is so light and casual that, if I didn’t know her, I’d have no idea that she’s annoyed.

“I shouldn't have said that. I didn’t mean it.”

Annie shrugs. “You never mean anything you say in the Capitol.”

Sometimes I forget how much she sees, this girl who’s turned my world upside down in six months. “Where are your tokens?”

Annie grasps at the place over her heart where two sea glass pendants always rest. She looks mildly surprised to catch only empty air between her fingers. “Vibius wouldn’t let me wear them. Said the colors...” She shakes her head, the way you would to get water out of your ears after swimming. “I’m hungry.”

But when I follow her to a banquet table she doesn’t eat a bite. Instead, she stacks gingerbread cubes around a pink chocolate fountain.

“Who’s your date?” she asks.

“Senator Wexler’s wife,” I say.

Annie never looks up, too busy skewering blueberries on toothpicks. She sticks them in the topmost layer of her curtain wall, like heads on neighboring spikes. Two by two by two. Then she says, “Doesn’t the senator mind?”

“Only that he couldn’t come with us.”

Annie tips over the fountain, and chocolate bursts through her gingerbread dam. It creeps along the aisle of white cloth and drips onto the floor. Part of me wants to scold her, because some Avox will have to clean all this up after the party. I don’t, though, because I know how everything shifts after the Games. You might leave the arena, but it comes with you all the same. Alliances replace friendships. Sleep never really comes easy again, because too many things are still awake in the dark. Survival is tangled up with fighting, hurting, killing, and sometimes you need small destructions just to breathe.

“Dance with me,” Annie says.

The train on that fucking dress is longer than she is. “How could I, with you in that?”

I laugh. Everything and nothing seems funny at the same time. Annie jumps a little when I finger one of the slivers of silk covering her chest. Vibius didn’t leave much to the imagination, so I can see the shape of her. Small teardrop breasts, narrow shoulders, long waist. Her nipples peak beneath the fabric.

Somewhere in my periphery a camera flashes.

“Stop,” Annie says, and I want to shake her. That word doesn’t mean anything in this city. A victor should understand the rules by now.

I trace her collarbone. We’re too far away for Sabina to see us, but even if she does it won’t matter. This is what they want me to be.

The preps painted Annie’s lips too, and it makes her look like a working girl. Ripe apple mouth ready to be plucked. If I could I’d spit on a napkin and wipe it all away, same as my mother used to do to get dirt off my face.

She leans into my touch and asks, “Why are you with that woman?”

“Because she can afford my company.”

Annie’s red, red mouth frowns, but I simply smile and step away, tell her to eat something and enjoy the party.

Sabina welcomes me with a soft hello peck to my cheek. I turn it into more, the kind of wet, deep kiss that decent folk back home wouldn’t dream of doing in public. But that’s how I like it, even if I can hear the cameras snapping behind and beside and in front of me. Pretending is so easy that I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not anymore.

.

.

These sounds are almost lost beneath the snap of handcuffs closing: footsteps, a full skirt whispering across the floor, the creak of hinges.

The manacles lock around my wrists, pulling my arms taut, stretching until my shoulders lift from the bed and I can feel the blades angling outward. Like clipped wings opening, Sabina said, the first time she bought me. A caged bird poised to take flight. Now she leans forward and bites my neck, just hard enough to mark. It’s always hard enough to mark with Sabina, whether she uses teeth or nails or the back of her hand.

I hear feather-light fabric brushing the carpet, then see something in the gap between door and frame. The briefest flash of red silk. There, then gone.

Sabina strikes me hard on the cheek. Pain vibrates through my jaw and up the side of my face. Stars burst behind my eyes, then in front of them, but I don’t feel distant or dizzy. Everything becomes sharper, brighter. Needles made of sunlight prick my vision, highlighting it all with stinging intensity. If I ever come down I’m going to kill Dionysus for selling me those three little pills the color of daffodils. He promised oblivion but gave me this instead. With every blow the room grows brighter, until all I see is Sabina, haloed in white.

Her mouth closes over me, warm and soft, drawing out all the things I don’t want to give. Then she’s straddling my lap, hands clutching my shoulders, nails digging into my skin. Ten welts spring beneath her touch, bright as pink ribbons down my chest. It’s winter everywhere but between her legs, and there she’s fever hot. Cold snakes down my throat, chokes and burrows inside me until it’s snowing under my skin.

“Finnick,” she hisses. I grip the bedposts and snap my hips up to meet her. I’m shaking from the chill air, the pleasure where a warm body takes mine in and the pain everywhere else. I don’t stop, not until she arches and trembles, mouth open on a whiny cry.

One beat, two, and she climbs off. Leaves me aching, tied up, and filthy while she saunters to the bathroom to refresh herself.

The haze clears, unfreezes, and I remember where I’ve seen red silk tonight.

.

.

I scrub until the scratch marks on my chest reopen and the water blushes down the drain, washing away smudged makeup and sweat, fresh blood and Sabina’s come. Not mine, and even though I’m half-hard, I’m mostly thankful. Dates are always worse when a client makes me finish. Steam fills the shower stall, wet and suffocating. Flash-bulbs go off behind my closed eyelids and all I can hear is the endless snapping of camera shutters. I sit on the tile floor, head between my knees, until the water grows cold.

After I get out of the shower and dry off, I pull on the tight blue pants from my date with Sabina and go to Annie’s room. I don’t knock, and when I step inside she jumps. Her dress is curled up in the corner, wilting. All those red folds remind me of a rose, so I turn away. Free of make-up, Annie’s face shines brown and clean. Dark waves fall limply around her cheeks, weighted and damp. By the way she holds the robe over her breasts I can tell she’s not wearing much underneath.

Good. I hope she feels naked. Exposed and vulnerable, like I do.

“You watched us.”

Annie sits on the edge of the bed, legs drawn up close to her body. She whispers an apology I can’t stand to hear.

“Don’t,” I say. She flinches and grasps the sea glass tokens around her neck. Her eyes dart away, focusing on some point along the baseboard.

“Look at me.” I kneel on the floor before her, too close to be ignored. “You didn’t have any trouble looking before.”

The only small mercy I can find is that Annie left before Sabina actually fucked me. But she saw me handcuffed to the bed, and that’s bad enough.

Annie bites her bottom lip, and for a moment all I can see is this same skittish girl, more innocent and less broken, on a different train, blushing under my hands.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “When I saw you leaving with that woman—I didn’t really think, I just wanted to know what was so special about her. So I followed you.”

I thought she wanted to see me, and I don’t know why I’m so disappointed. It’s a good thing that she didn’t want a peep show, that she ran off before she saw the main event. A good thing—but it still pisses me off.

I wrap my hands around her calves and slide down, thumbs grazing the soft skin of her inner ankles.

“Finnick?” Her lips linger on the sound, not quite closing over the question she’s made of my name.

“Open your legs,” I tell her. Because whatever she’s asking, this is the only answer I have to give.

Annie’s breath hitches. She trembles all the way down to her toes, but she’s warm, my girl. I brought her home and that makes Annie mine. She belongs to me in the same way I belong to my sponsors.

When she doesn’t move, I kiss the inside of her right knee, flicking my tongue over a new scar there—a pretty pink thing that’s cropped up since her Games—until her legs shake and unlock. Just as she falls open and willing below the waist, Annie clutches the collar of her robe even more tightly, keeping it closed to me.

Eighteen isn’t so young, I remind myself. Not here, not in this place.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers, and that’s all I need.

Beads of moisture cling to the dark curls between her legs. She smells like the Capitol, flowers and spun sugar, but when I put my mouth there all I taste is salt and wet and girl. Her hands scramble for purchase, first on the covers, then in my hair, and she pulls with more strength than I expected. Not as sharply as Sabina, but enough to smart. That’s been done to me so many times that I know it means more and now and harder—though by the way Annie’s thumb brushes over my cheek, I think it might also mean please.

No, eighteen isn’t too young for this, but I might be.

I can feel her looking: eyes on me, on my body, on the things I’m doing. Just like before, when she peeked into that bedroom and watched Sabina getting her money’s worth, and it stirs something ugly and angry in the pit of my stomach. So I pull away, let my mouth part from her with a goodbye kiss cruel enough to make her whine and tug on my hair, to say my name again. No question this time, just a soft plea.

I’m sick of being on my knees, and really, there’s no reason I can’t do what I want. No reason at all. When I stand, Annie’s eyes go to my chest, flickering across the stripes Sabina’s fingernails left behind. I strip off my pants, and her gaze lowers, lingers.

Beneath the robe I find her pliant and panting. Skin damp, nipples hard, breath coming fast and shallow. Greedy, grasping, her touch falls with selfish hunger, and in this Annie isn’t unlike my other lovers. Long legs wrap around my waist, anchoring me to her. She’s warm and wet, whimpering in a way that might sound pitiful if it wasn’t making me so hard. I press against her, teasing. Those little mewling noises grow stronger, tighten together into a full-throated moan.

“Have you ever done this before?” I ask.

Annie shakes her head, then says, “Almost, once, but…”

Her eyes go distant, and she’s about to slip away from me. Retreat to some inner place where her district partner still lives and loves, but I’m not going to let her mind wander, not now when our bodies are tangled up together. I kiss her, our first, and that’s so backwards that I almost laugh.

Beneath my mouth Annie takes a deep, gasping breath. Then she peppers kisses everywhere she can reach. My brow, both cheeks, the tip of my nose. My lips, again and again. The curve from shoulder to neck and the hollow between my collarbones. When her quick tongue darts out to trace the shell of my ear, I shudder. The drugs must have finally worn off, because I feel myself warming for the first time tonight. “Finnick,” she whispers. “I love you—”

I can’t stand to hear that, not from Annie. So I kiss her quiet, slip a hand between her thighs, and slide two fingers inside of her.

“You’re wetter than home,” I say, and it’s true. More so when I curl my fingers, beckoning her forward—closer to me, closer to coming. “Were you like this in the ballroom, when I touched you?”

“Yes?” It comes out a question, eager but unsure. Annie’s not fluent in pillow talk, and something about that sends a jolt through me. All at once I want her, need to fuck her like I’ll die if I don’t. Under me she’s subtle curves and rocking warmth. Open legs, cradling my hips as I push inside—and then I feel her. Tight, slick heat, stretched around my cock, gripping me, pulling me in.

Annie whimpers, but whether that sound is pained or pleased I’m not sure, can’t tell and barely care. “Yes,” she says, even though I never asked. Why didn’t I ask?

In the beginning I go gentle and steady. Then I slow our rhythm, stretch out the slide of skin on skin, and tell her to beg. Love me becomes have me, you can have me becomes fuck me.

For a moment all I can feel are handcuffs snapping closed, grabbing fingers and greedy cunt. I’m angry all over again but still aching, and Annie knows, because her hands untangle from my hair and dart down to cover her ears. But I catch her wrists, drag them over her head and let my weight do the rest.

I spread her arms apart, wide as they’ll go. Pinned, she’s a butterfly behind glass, pretty and splayed. Annie must like being caged better than I do, because soon she shivers beneath me, coming and crying at once. Back arched, small breasts thrust forward, toes curled and legs taut; she’s lovely like this and so tight it almost hurts.

On the low tide of our touch she says those three unwanted words, passes them from her mouth to mine like a hard candy secret.

“Don’t,” I say.

The camera loves me too. I’m sick to death of love.

But then my climax creeps up on me, sharp and sweet, and I can’t think anymore. There’s nothing but Annie beneath me, her body tight and wet around mine.

In the soft moment right after, I feel something new. A warmth, quiet and gentle, as Annie looks up at me with heavy-lidded green eyes. That love she promised is raw and open as a wound.

It’s terrifying. And tempting, which is the scariest part of all.

The knot around her throat unties easily, and I take a green sea glass token with me when I go. It’s all she has left of the boy who loved her, who died at her side. Stealing it is cruel, but I don’t do it out of spite or jealousy. The reason is simple: my patrons always pay, and Annie is no exception.

.

.

[azure7539arts]

Beacon

Pairing: Q/James Bond (00Q)

Prompt(s): Blaze + Reverse a common trope

Warning: Angst, hurt/comfort, canon typical violence, possession, idiots

Summary: One day, perhaps people will forget that a Flame Alchemist has ever existed, but the same can never be said of his subordinates. And today is not that day anyway.

Or: 00Q but Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood AU

A/N: this was supposed to be a drabble… And here we are. Again. If you find this intro familiar, thanks for reading Sword! If you have no idea what Sword is and just know my penchant for biting off more than I can chew, please refer to my previous post. Thanks!

Also, look, @solarmorrigan​, pyrokinesis! And @opalescentgold​, because you know the fandom and may appreciate some references. Damn, I have been dying for a FMA AU for. so. long. And now I’ve managed to somehow realize it into fruition. Jeez. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this!

-

Q couldn’t stand. The rush of adrenaline and sheer agony were urging his heart into overdrive, as if in beating a punishing pace right then, it would somehow make up for the gaping hole wedged in his side.

He bit back a sharp cry, alchemy flaring as bright as the pulsing pain invading his system. In what was either an eternity or no time at all, the wound was cauterized in a fit of smoke and sizzling burnt flesh, effectively staunching the intolerable amount of blood loss in a matter of seconds. His head spun.

(For as long as he’d lived, Q had wished for a lot of things. Right then, though, there was only one thought that kept repeating itself in the confines of his mind—)

Footsteps were approaching. Q scrambled to get to his feet with whatever remaining strength he had left and snapped his fingers again. Vicious ropes of flames sprang forth like spiteful cobras, eliciting an intense wall of fire that stood guard between him and his would-be captor.

One steel arm shot out from among the blaze and seized him by the throat.

Q choked.

The rest of that body stepped through quickly enough, like an emerging monster materializing from the depths of hellfire.

“Ultimate shield, remember?”

Q clawed uselessly at the still squeezing hand around his throat. “L–Lieutenant—” he wheezed, bitter reluctance warring with his struggling will to survive. “Bond—”

“Hm?” The steel receded, and Bond looked back at him now, head tilting to the side. “What, the old owner of this body?” He tutted, visibly frustrated despite the good humor gleaming in those too sharp eyes. “I told you: He’s gone—he’s become one with the stone. I’m the one in charge now, and the name is Greed.”

He grinned, and Q’s guts twisted at the sight, eyes watering from the lack of oxygen. (He could still hear the sound of Bond’s screams piercing all the way down the long corridors. The way his body had writhed and bucked in violent pain as it died and regenerated again and again, rejecting the philosopher’s stone that had been wrongfully injected into it. The way he had suddenly gone lax while Q had done his best to burn through the literal living wall of obstacles out of existence to get to him.)

He gathered all his strength to curl up his legs and kick Bond in the stomach.

No, not Bond. (But that was still his face.)

Not anymore. (Still his eyes, his voice, the low gravel of his laughter, chest-deep and oh so warm.)

Just Greed.

(What if he was still in there?)

The momentum of that kick thrusted Q out of the vice-like grip as he landed onto the ground with a dull thud. A twang of stabbing pain in his side knocked the air out of his lungs, distracting him from the stings of having steel claws dug long strips into either side of his throat.

(The thing was that: if he really was still in there…)

“Damn it,” Bond—Greed—hissed, staggering back before steadying himself with an annoyed huff of breath.

Like this, Q recognized that whoever was in front of him then, despite appearing and sounding exactly like him, didn’t have the firm stance that Bond had always maintained, edged into his bones from all the arduous training he’d put himself through.

The red Ouroboros tattoo on the back of his left hand seared into Q’s vision like a brand, as though sealing a death sentence.

(... If he really was still in there, Bond wouldn’t have willingly punched a hole straight through Q.)

Once the thought sank in, Q’s stomach plummeted.

“Could you stop being such a nuisance?” Greed clicked his tongue.

When he tried to reach out again, molten fire engulfed the room at another snap of the fingers.

And in the roaring flames, Q screamed.

-

He wakes with a startled gasp, cold sweat breaking all over.

It takes a moment, but the familiar ceiling of his office finally shifts into focus once more, and Q lets out a shuddered sigh. The documents he was looking at lie strewn across the littered desk surface right where he left them, and at this very moment, the phone rings, shattering the disquiet that has settled over his foggy mind.

He doesn’t notice the long overcoat that’s, apparently, been laid over his person while he slept until he reaches over to make a grab for the handset. It slides down from over his shoulders and pools in the middle of his lap with a rustling of fabric.

Q purses his lips and picks up, free hand settling over his now healed side to ease the aching phantom pain.

“Yes.”

“Brigadier General, sir,” the operator greets. “Major General Moneypenny is on the line for you.”

“Put her through.”

The line clicks after a final ‘yes, sir,’ and instantly, Eve’s voice filters through from the other side. “Why am I not surprised that you’re still there despite the atrocious hours.” It isn’t a question, and he smiles.

“Hypocrite,” he replies without heat, thumb smoothing along the raised ridges of those scars that he can still feel even through the thick layers of his uniform. “How has Briggs been welcoming you back?”

“Oh, you know, the usual warmth and sunshine,” she says, a joking lilt to her tone, and Q winces just from imagining the howling gales of a normal Briggs snowstorm that must be sweeping through the barracks even as they speak. “Now, enough of your diversion scheme. How are things on your side?”

Q thinks he’s too tired to do much of anything else and chooses the easy way out. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” Eve hums, entirely unconvinced, but doesn’t point out that his answer isn’t all that she asked. She knows him too well by now to press. “Sometimes, though, I do wonder if you should’ve just retired and gone to Rush Valley to do whatever it is that you automail enthusiasts do.”

The sentiment sends a soft snort through his nose. Not that he doesn’t wish to be a simple automail mechanic from time to time, especially when the price paid doesn’t seem equivalent to subsequent results, but in life, simple wants and actual needs are two different things.

They’ve all learnt this the hard way.

Even so, Q appreciates Eve looking out for him. Thousands of miles away, she’s still one of the few people who truly know and understand him. One of the few whom he trusts with his life. “Oh, definitely—once I find someone suitable to man the post for me, that is,” he muses, only half-serious. “No promises otherwise.”

There’s a knock on the door. “Sir.”

“Come in,” he calls and straightens up, popping the crick in his neck. “Gotta go now. Send my regards to Captain Tanner, would you? God knows the length that man’s gone to to keep up with you.”

Eve laughs, and he smiles, too, just as Bond walks in and closes the door behind him.

(There’s no Ouroboros tattoo on his hand, Q notes and subconsciously relaxes.)

(He shouldn’t feel bad for it—but he does anyway. Just the same as Bond, who didn’t mean to lose control long enough for Greed to hurt Q the way he did.

Emotions are fickle things.)

Eve has gone quiet for a long second as well, probably considering her words. In a way, Q feels he already knows what they are going to be, and grim satisfaction paints his tongue when what she says next is precisely just that, “How’s First Lieutenant Bond?”

How are things between you two, goes unsaid, but he hears it loud and clear nonetheless.

Bond is patiently waiting for him—hands tucked behind his back, perfect military posture, too proper and formal to bear—and Q squeezes the coat that remains in his lap.

(He misses the casual dynamics, easy tandem they used to have. One not laden with guilt and second-guessing.

It’s just one more hurdle for them to work through, he supposes.

Together.)

“We’re… getting there,” he replies, mildly surprised by his own honesty. “Talk to you later. Goodbye, Major General.”

He hangs up, and Bond has gotten closer, despite maintaining a minimum distance of three steps.

Q crosses his arms in front of his chest and waits, eyes expectant.

Eventually, Bond can’t but break the silence. “Was that Major General Moneypenny, sir?”

Q suppresses a sigh and nods. “Yes. Just one of her usual check-ins.” He pauses. “She did ask about you, about us, and how we were doing. And I said we were getting there—you heard.”

When Bond doesn’t reply, Q narrows his eyes, shrewd. “So, are we, Lieutenant? Getting there?” Most likely, he’s coming off much harsher than he originally planned, but Q doesn’t give a damn about that. Not right now. “You said you were following me to the top. Is this how you intend on doing it? By pretending to be a good little model soldier while keeping me at arm’s length?”

At this, Bond seems to further straighten, if that’s still physically possible. There’s steel in his eyes, but not the lost, abandoned kind given into avarice like that of Greed.

It’s all just sheer solid nerve and hardened integrity. It’s all Bond and so much more.

“I will do whatever it takes to protect and help you reach your goal—”

“Don’t you get it? You can’t protect me for damn if you’re always three steps away from me! That only means we’re no longer the team you seem to think we are.” Q’s mouth twists into a snarl. “Do you understand what I’m getting at, Bond?”

Bond turns his head away, staring out into the endless expanse of the night through the large panel of Q’s windows. Bond has never liked them, these ‘uselessly big windows that Central Command seems to prefer for their offices.’ Makes his job harder than it already is, he said.

Q tears himself away from the sudden memory.

“My only mission is to protect you,” Bond grinds out, hands that have fallen to his sides clenching into fists.

“And you have not failed.” Q’s voice has somewhat softened as he stands and clears his throat. “What happened, back then. It just means that we need to update our measures of counterattacks.”

They stare at each other now, mutual challenge shining in their eyes like a beacon to safety in the middle of a raging storm.

(“Q. I’m sorry.” Bond said, desperation ripping his voice raw and vulnerable. Q had never heard him like this. “I–I’m so sorry. Please, forgive me.”

“James, there’s nothing to forgive.”)

“We can discuss that tomorrow, then.” Bond bends down to pick up Q’s coat from the floor and gives it a few perfunctory pats before handing it back over, a tentative smirk on his lips. “Are you ready to go home for the night, sir?”

Q scoffs and takes it, not hiding his own smile. “Just about.”

It’s a long road ahead, but they’re getting there all right.

-

-

Bonus art: