#but there SHOULD be wiggle room. people are complicated

[radioroxx]

anyway i think the overcomplication of queer labels has really done a disservice to younger (or newly discovered) queer folks trying to figure themselves out. you dont need to know every aspect and detail or your sexuality, gender, preference, etc. sometimes you just gotta let things happen and you’ll figure it out as you go. you may never have a word for it and that’s okay.

[save-the-villainous-cat]

"Listen." The villain grabbed the hero's arm. "I'm on a tight leash here."

The hero's mouth curled into a smile. "You mind repeating that?"

But the villain was quite serious, although their grip around the hero's forearm loosened.

"They will kill me if anything happens to you, you know that," the villain said.

"Womp womp."

The villain laughed hollowly and stared at the hero in disbelief.

"You're unbelievable."

Their nemesis had always been an incredibly unserious person - and an annoying one - but ever since the villain had been captured and assigned to protect them, it had gotten worse. Somehow, the villain couldn't blame them. The hero was, after all, a secretive person who didn't need any type of surveillance.

"I don't need a bodyguard," the hero said. They bobbed their head confidently. "I am not the best ranked hero in the entire city for nothing."

"Come on, don't be cocky now. I wouldn't be here if the agency actually believed that," the villain said and they meant every word. It was a kind of community service that was meant to reform the villain. Protecting people, watching the hero work - they assumed that was the goal of this entire operation.

However, the hero made it very easy to dislike heroes in general. They had a big mouth, viewed themselves as some kind of saint and (arguably) the worst thing above all: they also looked good while doing it.

The hero let out a big sigh and started stretching, followed by a yawn and a bored expression. It was clear that the hero wanted to fall into the bed of the shared hotel room and sleep until the afternoon.

"Little piece of advice?" They sat down on the bed. "Don't read too much into it. I doubt they know what they are doing themselves."

"They are in charge of internal security, they should know what they are doing."

"You think it's smart to put two nemeses in a hotel room with only one bed?" the hero asked. They wiggled with their eyebrows and all the villain could do was roll their eyes. "This agency is a real shit show and everyone smart enough should stay as far away from them as possible."

"I have no choice in that matter. You die, I die too. They will find a way to blame me. I'm supposed to jump in front of you when people shoot at you. I am nothing more than a human shield."

"Gorgeous human shield."

"I'm flattered," the villain said flatly. They took in a deep breath and let themselves fall next to the hero on the bed. They put their head in their hands and rubbed their face. If the hero continued to be reckless, if they continued to be so stupidly bold, the villain would start to feel the consequences pretty quickly.

"Don't be. I'm merely observing objective beauty."

"Ugh. Fuck off." The villain squeezed their eyes shut. They needed to think. If the agency was experimenting on them, the villain was meant to be the test subject which meant the agency wanted to control them.

The villain knew they had implanted a chip in them which tracked heartbeat and location. The only question now was: how was the agency going to kill them? Was the chip responsible? Was it something else?

"You're worrying so much, no wonder you are always so grumpy." The villain raised their head and before they could answer, the hero's hand was already on their back, delicate fingertips digging into sensitive spots. The villain bit back a moan and pulled back gently.

"Let's not...complicate things."

"Of course not," the hero said. "But honestly, don't break that head of yours trying to figure out their next plan. They won't kill you until absolutely necessary and I am very good at taking care of myself. So unless you are very incompetent - which you are not - you are good for now."

"For now," the villain echoed. They had to admit, the hero's fingertips had felt good on their back. They had never expected the hero to be capable of being serious enough to try comforting the villain. If it even was what they had tried to achieve.

As the villain looked at them, they couldn't help but concentrate on their jawline. On the darker colours of their eyes. Their fingers. Those damn fingers.

The villain hadn't recovered from that quite yet and they started to regret their words. They knew the hero flirted often, but they weren't sure how much of it was boredom and how much was real.

And even if something was to happen tonight, the agency would know about an increased heartbeat in the middle of the night in the shared hotel room.

Which in the worst case, they would interpret as a fight.

But it was more likely that they wouldn't.

The villain bit the inside of their cheek. Shit, they needed to concentrate. The hero always threw them off their game.

"Did they chip you?" the villain asked.

The hero pulled up their sleeve and very suddenly the villain realised that they had never seen this arm naked. And they understood why - the entire forearm was covered in scar tissue.

"The better question is: how many times did they try?" the hero said. They covered their arm quickly again and cocked their head. "The agency learns pretty slowly but they realised eventually I wasn't willing to play any games. When dumb people get a fraction of power, no matter how small, they will abuse it."

The hero had never been this serious before. Not with the villain. And the villain could do nothing but stare as the hero casually told them how much the agency truly sucked.

"It's inevitable. But when it comes down to it, who is stronger? Some written words on a paper or a true superhero? These people are just people and I was sick of listening to someone tell me where to go or what to wear or what to say or whom not to save. I wanted to save as many people as possible. And that's exactly what I am doing now. Without someone monitoring my body or actions."

"And yet, you're with the agency," the villain pointed out.

"I made a deal with them. I will play nice with them in public and in return...they are keeping someone safe for me."

"A lover?"

"I wouldn't share this bed with you if I had a lover. And I wouldn't say the things I say to you," the hero said. They stared at their own hands and the villain saw little scars all over them. Like a messily woven rug. "It's my sibling. Outside of the country, I didn't want them to grow up here. But...yeah. They write me every week."

The hero smiled but they didn't seem to be happy.

"I'm not allowed to write back. Ever. I know it's better that way, but...I know they will forget me eventually."

The villain didn't say anything. They had never thought the hero would tell them something like this. And they had never expected them to go beyond their cocky persona. It was a little more than strange to hear this from someone whose main priority was flirting during battle.

"Maybe it's hypocritical of me. To say all of this and yet I am working with them to protect my sibling and pretend to be on good terms with them, but for my family, I am gladly the sinner. I would become the enemy to protect them."

"That's very admirable," the villain said. And it was. It was impressive. It was horribly understandable, too. "You're very special, I hope you're aware of that. You're a good person."

And now, the villain couldn't really hate them anymore. They couldn't even find a reason to. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

They took in another deep breath and tried for the last time today to think clearly.

"I appreciate that you told me this. But I think it’s late and we both need some res-"

"I know, I know, darling. Take good care of my secret, though. Or I’m afraid I’ll have to kill your pretty ass," the hero said. They pursed their lips.

"You're welcome to try." The villain had to grin.

"Hm, tempting…not right now, though.” They leaned over and traced the villain's collarbone with their index finger. "Or the poor agency will think we are doing worse things than fighting. Those chips are scarily precise when it comes to counting beats per minute."

Great minds and all.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Man 1

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Lloyd Hansen

Summary: a demanding customer complicates more than your work life.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You stand behind the counter, ready to serve the next customer that comes through the door. If you thought the rush was bad, the lulls are worse. The time drags by as the clock seems to taunt you. You sigh again as you hear Bre clattering around in the back room. You’d rather be back there folding up empty boxes and scouring trays.

You yawn and waver on your feet. The small local cafe doesn’t have the consistent traffic of the franchised kiosk just down the block but there are still hectic rushes. The mornings just after nine, then at noon when the office workers run out for a refresh espresso or a lunchtime sweet, but the afternoons usually deliver no more than the errant college student on their laptop or a few friends in between visits to boutiques.

The door opens and you glance over at the man who walks through the door. He strikes you as out-of-place as he struts across the cafe, hitting a table with his thigh, and sneering at it as if it insulted his mother. He’s tall with broad shoulders, and his hair is slicked back while the sides of his head are buzzed. He wears a black turtle neck under and open jacket and a pair of matching slacks that show off his ankles. His loafers are a rippling grey and black snakeskin print with a shining silver buckle.

You grip the sides of the till as he approaches but he doesn’t look at you. You stare, a little put off by his lack of acknowledgement as he peers up at the menu. He steps forward, tapping his fingers on the counter as he blows out between his lips. A golden signet ring flashes on his pinkie. You’re still not sure he’s in the right place.

“Hello, sir, can I get you--”

“Shh,” he hisses and holds up his finger. You snap your mouth shut and blink. He squints at the menu. He hums, clucking as he gives a thoughtful look to the hand-painted letters. Alright?

You wiggle your foot impatiently, biting your tongue. You’re not an inherently rude person but some customers make you wish you were. You watch him and he finally lowers his chin.

“Oat latte. Half blonde espresso, half regular, with the toffee nut syrup and a sprinkle of cinnamon.”

You nod as you punch in his order. It’s quite the drink. Sometimes you think people just pile on to see how far they can push service workers. They can’t just have a simple drink. Some even request the temperature to the digit.

“Alright, got it, it’s fifty cents for the syrup, is that okay?”

“Fifty cents?” He echoes haughtily, “no, that’s not okay.”

“Um, okay, well, it’s uh, on the menu,” you crane to look behind you, “fifty cents for a flavour shot, twenty-five for whipped cream.”

“I didn’t ask about goddamn whipped cream. They don't charge me here, doll. Get me the goddamn drink,” he demands.

You reel. Admittedly, you’re new. You’re learning but your first lesson was simple; customers are awful.

“I can just take the syrup off, I guess,” you hit the x and the whole order disappears.

“Didn’t you hear me? No charge, honey. It’s on the house.”

You purse your lips and look at him. You raise a brow. Alright, this is a new one.

“Um, if you’d just hold on, I think... uh, I should ask--”

“Yeah, you better fucking ask,” he sneers as swipes at a stack of paper cups and sends them flying. You flinch out of the way and spin to burst through the door to the kitchen.

“Uh, Bre,” you say, “there’s a really angry dude out there and he wants a free latte so uh, what do I do about that?”

She looks over at you as she puts a tray of cookies on a cooling rack. She frowns and her forehead stitches. She pulls of her oven mitt and checks her fitbit.

“Shit, it’s Thursday,” she mutters as if it’s the end of time.

“Yeah, it is, so uh--”

She waves away your words with the mitt and tosses both on the counter as she hurries past you. Confused, you turn to follow her through the swinging door. You stay behind her as she goes to the till.

“Mr. Hansen, so lovely to see you, what were we getting today?” She chimes, more lively than you’ve ever heard you. At any other time, she’s dulcet, almost monotone, completely over the cafe lifestyle.

He scoffs and his eyes drift from her to you. He pokes his tongue into his cheek, “oat, toffee nut, half blond, half regular, cinnamon on top,” he notes each element tersely, “and how about you teach this one some goddamn manners.”

He glares at you and you give a wide-eyed look. You shrug at Bre as she glances over at you. She shakes her head subtly. You take a step back.

You grab a cup and she quickly takes it out of your hands, “I got it, stay out of the way.”

You put your hands up and back away. You don’t know what you did wrong. Who is this man? He smirks and hovers on the other side of the counter as he crosses his arms over his puffed chest. Bre brews a fresh espresso and steams the oat milk.

“I’m waiting, sweet lips,” he cups a hand to his ear, his other arm still over his chest.

You look back and forth.

“Apologise,” he demands.

Bre clears her throat and you glance over, your mouth falling open dumbly.

“Oh, uh,” you face the man again, “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know--”

“Well, now you fucking do,” he sneers as Bre places a cup down before him and a paper bag.

“Mr. Hansen, there’s a cinnamon bun for you too. We just took em out of the oven.”

“You’re such a dear, Bre Bear,” he cooes, sending you a venomous snarl.

You cringe as he spins and strides out with his fare. You watch after him, still thoroughly perplexed. Bre wipes the counter with a cloth.

“The next time he comes in, give him whatever he wants,” she says quietly.

“Oh, I didn’t... who is he?” You garble.

“Better you don’t know. Just think of him as the boss,” she sends you a desperate look, her eyes gleaming, “if you know what’s good for you, you’ll smile and listen.”

She brushes you with her shoulder as she goes back into the kitchen. You furrow your brow and glance towards the door. The man’s just outside the windowed walls, watching you. He winks before he disappears beyond the next facade

[seresinhangmanjake]

Daddy Knows Best

Dad!Jake “Hangman” Seresin x female reader

Summary: Jake is very much against having his daughter in daycare, but his baby saying her first word might just make it a little better. (sorry to those of you who read the title and thought this would be smut 😁)

Notes: Suggested by a couple of people. / Part of the Oh, Baby Universe.

**This is a jump forward; Eve is nine months old. It's not the next part in the main series or anything. There's technically still a lot more to happen there first before the events of this fic. It's just a little add on**

Warnings: none, I think. 

Words: 1200

---

Jake hated dropping his little girl off at daycare. Hated. It. But after you went back to work at the bar four days a week, there’d been no other choice. The schedules didn’t allow it. For those four days, you got home at three a.m. and he was up at the crack of dawn. He got done with work at four, and you were off for your shift at six. It was complicated. It required some difficult rearranging of the perfect system you’d developed during the first months of your little family coming together. 

But Jake could accept that part. He could accept that Eve was getting a bit older and you wanted to go back to work. You wanted your independence and asked for Jake's support and he gave it. The daycare element, though, despite you mentioning it in the past, was the one piece he still struggled with. He couldn’t stand leaving Eve to mingle with germy rugrats and strange adults. In a room full of toddlers whining for attention, it was impossible for his daughter to be a priority to the women who worked at the center, and as far as Jake was concerned, that was unacceptable. He’d never speak it aloud, but his girl was the princess among those tiny commoners, and that was that. How you had no issue with letting her in such an environment he refused to understand.

Every morning it was a debate in his head as he took Eve from her car seat and walked her to the door of the daycare. Should he take her and run back to his truck? Decide to introduce the concept of ‘bring your daughter to work day’ to his superiors and team? He created a lot of possibilities, but then he’d remember that you would arrive to pick her up at two and he'd face an inevitable scolding if you found out she was never dropped off. 

He really didn’t want to upset you. You didn’t let him so much as kiss you when you were irritated with him and that was not his idea of a good time. But even having that motivation in the back of his mind didn’t ease the pain of letting Eve go. If she would just give him a sign, something to prove she wanted to stay with him that he could relay back to you, he’d feel significantly better when arguing his case.

But no such luck. 

—

"Baby girl, you don't want to go to daycare, do you?" 

Jake shook his head in answer for his daughter. He didn't care that she didn't understand him—that she could only stare up at him with her big green eyes—he knew what was best for her and daycare wasn't it. Plain and simple. He had no alternative solution to present, but he figured that was a problem best saved for later. 

"No, you don't," he continued as he carried her through the front door of the building. "You want to stay with Daddy. I've told your Mama but she refuses to listen. And I love her, baby girl, you know I do, but she can be so stubborn."

Walking down the cream-colored hallway toward the third door on the left, Jake heard the noises of small children babbling. But they were quickly drowned out by a shrill shriek of excitement once he stepped into the room.

"There's our favorite girl!" the source of the ear-splitting sound said.

Jake frowned. Eve was his girl. His and yours. 

She cuddled closer to him as a young woman jogged over and reached out to try to pull the girl from his arms. When Eve made no move to wiggle free from her father, the woman made a pretend face of disappointment. 

She put her hands on her hips. "Now, Evie—"

Evie? Jake's brow furrowed. When the fuck did his daughter's name change?

"Don't you want to play with your friends?"

Jake glanced at Eve. Like the many similar features of their faces, they shared matching frowns, hers just a tad more pouty from the fuller lips you'd passed down.

"Someone's a bit grumpy this morning," the woman teased, poking at the girl's little arm. "Did we not get a good night's sleep?"

"She slept just fine," Jake said.

The woman looked up at him and blushed under his stony stare. 

"Of course," she replied, bubbly nature still intact. "Well, we're going to have a fun day together, sweetheart." Her hands reached towards him again. "Ready?"

Eve's eyes peered up at Jake and he sighed, shoulders sagging. "Alright, baby girl. Daddy's gotta go now."

She made a little noise that he swore was in protest, but he handed her over nonetheless. Each day he approached it like ripping off a band-aid—an industrial strength band-aid. Quick and, well…extremely painful. But even after months, it was the only way he knew how to do it. 

Reluctantly, Jake gave a wave and turned for the exit. 

"Say goodbye to Dada," he heard. 

Then, "Da–Da."

He stopped in his tracks, bracing himself with a hand on the frame of the door. 

"Oh, how sweet!" the woman squealed as Jake whipped around.

He paused for a moment, replaying in his head what he thought he heard, but when he decided he wasn't in need of a hearing check, he chuckled and walked back over. 

"Ok, give her back," he ordered despite the smile on his face.

"Wha–"

Eve was pulled away and returned to her father's arms before the woman could finish. 

"What did you just say? Did you say Daddy?" He asked as he bounced her once on his hip.

"Da–Da," she repeated, clear and loud and completely unmistakable in her beautiful little voice.

"Oh my god." He kissed her on her forehead and ran his knuckle down her plush cheek. "You are so perfect, baby girl. Do you want to stay with me?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Jake could see the woman start to fidget where she stood. "Um, Mr. Seresin, your wife said that if Eve isn't in daycare to call her. Should we—"

"I'll take care of it," he said, refusing to take his eyes off his daughter. "Have a good day."

He hurried out of the building to his truck and strapped Eve in her car seat. She stared up at him as he worked on cinching the belt just right. 

"Don't look at me like that, baby girl. Mama will forgive Daddy…I think," he said. "Either way, she's going to be so proud of you when we tell her."

He hopped in the front seat and as he started up the truck, he was hit with the realization that, one, he was about to wake his very exhausted wife, and two, he was still expected to work for a living.

"Daddy's gonna have to come up with an excuse to miss work today, too," he mumbled to himself and shifted the gear in reverse. "That'll be fun." 

But he didn’t care. He had to tell you what happened, and there was no way he was taking his baby girl back to daycare.

[fairytsuk1]

bachata baby | (s)

apart of the meet cute: gone wrong series, click here for more!

pairing: shigaraki tomura x reader

words: 8.7k

prompt: "getting paired up at a dance class"

warnings: enemies to lovers, cunnilingus, dom!shigaraki, sensual dancing, tit play, fingering, hand kink, doggystyle, protected sex, alcohol, frat party, complicated relationship

  You’d absolutely lost the class registration lottery. After days, even weeks of agonizing over what classes filled which requirements and yet still gave you enough wiggle room to have your off days, you were exhausted. Everything was planned to a tee, and your dismayed face was evident as you told your roommate the dreadful news.

“I have to take a dance class! A partner dancing class! I might as well drop out,” you cry forlornly, looking at Nejire’s baby blue rug in frustration.

“It can’t be that bad! I mean, at least the professor’s good, right? Nemuri Kayama, I think. She’s one of the best; you’re in good hands,” your friend pets your head softly before leaping onto her plush bed, “maybe you’ll even dance with someone cute! You should keep your head high.”

“...Well, I guess. If I’m with a creep, I’m gonna be so annoyed! How are you so positive?”

Nejire seems to think over her answer before giving you a teasing grin, “because I got the schedule I wanted.”

“Nejire!”

She’d reassured you she was just joking, but it was true. If you were in her position, you’re sure you’d be glad to have everything work out how you want it to. Sucking it up, you were determined not to let a stupid class ruin your well-earned GPA. You don your best comfy clothes and arrive ten minutes early at the studio. 

A couple of people are hanging out in the studio, and there’s a pleasant buzz of chatter while you sit. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. People continued trickling in, and before you could realize it, your professor clapped her hands.

“Good morning, everyone!”

Your face burns a bit hot, was she supposed to wear such tight (and revealing!) clothing? She quickly introduces herself even with all the muttering, “I hope today goes as well for you as it does for me, and I want you to all know that this class will excite you, will make you feel, and most importantly is a lot of fun!”

Everyone around you seems to be either drinking in your professor’s appearance or wondering if they should drop the class; you’re thinking the latter, too, until she drops a bomb on the students.

“You’re all too uptight! You know what? Partner up!”

It feels like you’re about to faint. Looking left, people are making eyes and nodding at each other. Looking right, it’s the same thing, and your heart stops at the realization that you don’t have a partner. There’s so much chatter and commotion as people enter the room to find a clear spot for this cruel icebreaker. 

“Does anyone not have a partner?”

You almost don’t raise your hand, but you have to. Red-hot shame is coursing through your veins. Could this get any worse?

Thankfully, a lanky and pale arm shoots into the sky alongside yours. Before you know it, Nemuri pushes you two toward each other and moves on to the assignment.

“First, say hello. These will be your partners for the rest of the semester, so make sure you like them! I know some of you are gonna date outside of class, and don’t get handsy over there!”

He’s very tall. You have to actually look up at his grumpy face to see him. His hair falls flat, looks damaged, and your cheek twitches. He’s not ugly! If he cared for his hair and maybe got more sleep… dare you say it, he could be cute.

Shigaraki towers over you easily, eyes raking your form (noting that he can see your perky tits in your bra from this advantage.) You look alright, but he’s getting the feeling that you think he’s weird, “you can stop looking at me like an animal.”

“I wasn’t! I really wasn’t,” you offer your hand and introduce yourself, “I really like your skull necklace!”

It feels like a ruse, and Shigaraki reluctantly takes your hand with a bored face, “I’m Shigaraki. Thanks.”

While others seemed to be faring better with their partners, it feels off-putting that he won’t even try to converse with you. If he’s going to have his hands on you, how could he act so cold!?

“Well, jeez. Don’t try to say it all at once,” you mumble sourly, to which your partner scoffs.

“It’s just a class. It’s not even important.”

“It’s important to me,” and you don’t like this guy.

“Then maybe you should find a different partner.”

You look like a kicked puppy when he says that, but he doesn’t take it back and mentally stews in his harshness. Maybe he should make a better effort… you were cute, he supposed. You had great tits, and you complimented his necklace.

Turning back to Nemuri, you can’t think of anything to say to that. Even though you don’t know him, it still stings a bit and your confidence leaks. Were you really that down on your luck?

Nemuri begins, telling each duo to get in a typical slow-dance pose for fun and to “get to know each other more.” It’s starting to get a little creepy, but you wind your arms around Shigaraki’s shoulders anyways. He rests his hands casually on your waist but doesn’t hold you like others. 

“Aren’t you supposed to hold my waist?”

He snickers, “do you want me to?”

Trying to talk to this man is pointless, but you almost smile at his response anyway.

“Just don’t be weird!”

“No promises,” and he’s glad to see you smile at his pervertedness.

Shigaraki decides to be nicer right then and there, in his own way.

Nemuri instructs you to casually slow dance and continue conversing; she even adds music to jazz up the class, which surprisingly works. Your nerves are melting away like butter, and Shigaraki seems to have mildly warmed up to you.

“So… Do you like to dance?”

“Fuck no.”

His bluntness makes you giggle, “yeah, me either. Except at, like, parties. But I wouldn’t really call it dancing!”

“You go to parties?”

“Sometimes! I have a lot of friends who go, so it’s like an outing every time! Do you go to parties?”

It feels kind of dumb to ask that question. No offense to him, but you’re already suspecting his answer before he gives it. He twirls you, and you feel a rush of butterflies.

“Not really. People don’t want a zombie dude at their parties,” his voice is gravelly but smooth, “but I’ve been to a few.”

“They’re fun!”

Before you can continue finding common ground, Nemuri is hollering about reading the syllabus and upcoming material you’ll cover. Shigaraki quickly gets his hands off you, and your heart aches.

“Hey, do you want to exchange social media?”

He’s already got his bag halfway on your shoulder, giving you an unimpressed look.

“I don’t use social media,” and he shuffles even closer to the parade of students exiting the lecture hall.

“Oh. Well, your number?”

You feel yourself grow hot when all he does is smirk and input your digits into his phone.

“There, do you need anything else?”

What happened to the Shigaraki from a few minutes ago? He seems to be in a rush, but you can’t help but feel hurt by his mood swings. Was he always going to be this irritable? Was he going to be someone you could count on in this class?

“...I guess not. Bye.”

He’s out of the room before you realize it, gingerly grabbing your stuff and worrying your lip. This class would be a piece of work, and you couldn’t find your footing so far. Maybe you should just drop it? But you really need that humanities credit and…

“It’s Nejire! Pick up the phone!” 

Nejire’s self-imposed ringtone is heard through your AirPods. The stress is already leaking out of your body just hearing her voice. If you had a girlfriend, she’d be it. You answer cheerily, “hey!”

“Hey! Are you coming back from class right now?”

“Yeah, I just got out. You have to hear about this; my partner sucks!”

Well… you’re embellishing. He doesn’t suck, but he’s not great.

“Aw man, really? I can’t believe it! I thought for sure it was gonna go okay….”

“It’s whatever! I’m over it,” you weren’t. “Why’d you call?”

“Oh! If you’re up for it, Phi Psi is having a party tonight! Do you wanna go?”

Hmm, ironic since you were just talking about parties. Maybe it’d be nice, and perhaps it’d be good to let loose for a couple of hours. The memory of Shigaraki telling you that he goes to some parties replays in your mind, but you try to ignore it.

“Sure! We can go. What’s the theme?”

Pajamas, she’d said. You know that your silk sleep set is more lingerie than anything else, but your nerves are buzzing with pre-gamed shots of vodka and the promise of attractive people buttering you up. Looking around, it’s a typical college party, and you’re already feeling warm from how guys eye you like you’re the hottest thing there.

Shigaraki thinks so and turns the corner, missing your flushed wandering eyes.

“We needa dance!”

Nejire babbles excitedly, Mirio accompanying her while she clutches your bicep.

“Mhm, mhm! Let me get another drink first!”

Mirio keeps Nejire’s legs from buckling and smiles, “we’ll be right here!”

You weave in and out of people, vision getting hazier and every touch feeling electric. A man starts pouring your drink, giving you a dazzling smile. He opens his mouth to talk, but you’re suddenly caged against the fence and face to face with Shigaraki’s chest.

“Wha?”

“Hey.”

He watches you search his eyes for a minute, teetering slightly as you sip the mix of alcohol and punch. Then, there’s remembrance, and you’re leaping joyfully into his chest. It feels… nice, and he gingerly pats your back before steadying you on the balls of your feet.

“Hey! I didn’t know you were going to be here. My friends are over there,” you point past his shoulder, and he sees a guy chasing a girl around, “hiii, Nejire!”

You’re pretty cute when you’re drunk, elongating words and joy coming out of you like a waterfall. A dainty hand grabs a bony one, and you’re about to drag Shigaraki toward your friends to “meet them!”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” harsher than he meant to, he rips his hand away, “how drunk are you?”

You give an offended huff, “I’m not drunk! I only had a c-oop! A couple of shots! And this drink! It’s not even a lot….”

Shigaraki feels tempted to be childish and poke fun at you. Boop your nose and pull your hair, but you’re suddenly lost in thought and fascinated with your slippers.

“You look drunk.”

“Well, ’m not. I don’t even know why I’m talking to you right now,” and you’re suddenly invigorated and wanting to seek out your friends, but the first step sends you wobbling right into Shigaraki.

The boy yelps, hands gripping your shoulders and steadying you, “watch it!”

“Let go of me!”

Some onlookers look on, peering eyes, and boys puffing their chests out in case they need to step in. Shigaraki’s mind goes blank, and all he can think of is that you’re so fucking annoying, and why does he still want to help you?

Why did he think of you while fucking his fist in bed last night? He shushes you and crosses his arms.

“Do you want to walk home by yourself?”

You look like a child, happily saying” yes” and nodding proudly. Unfortunately, Shigaraki’s plan failed; you were too happy to wander off alone. He’s reminded of a time when people used to call him creepy when he was smaller and more bug-eyed.

“Oh, okay. Sure, get murdered. See if I care.”

This makes you react like you’re actually thinking about the consequences now. Mulling it over, you chew the inside of your lip and let your head roll back against the fence.

“...Well, I don’t wanna be murdered….”

“Then let me take you home.”

“Since when are you nice?!”

It may sting a bit, but he shows no emotion. He takes a calm breath and blows the air out through his nostrils. There are no words at first, and you’re looking at him with a glint in your eye, and he wonders what you look like when you laugh. When you cry or when you get really excited.

“You don’t even care about me.”

“... You’re my dance partner.”

He’s sure his heart overrode his brain. There’s no way he could say something so cheesy. It makes your heart pound; what did he mean by that? Your drunk brain couldn’t decipher how he presented his feelings, but then he was offering you a hand like a prince.

You never thought you’d call Shigaraki prince-like, and you’re worried that this might spiral out of control soon. Letting him lead you away, you figure that that’s definitely what will happen.

“Who’s room is…?”

Shigaraki has no idea and frankly can’t be bothered to care that he’s stumbling into a random frat guy’s room, “don’t know. Don’t really care?”

He tries to take your shoes off at least, but you’re unceremoniously dropping yourself onto the bed like a fish out of water. Shigaraki feels his cheek twitch in annoyance, and then you’re turning your head with a jutted lip.

“Are you gonna lie?”

“Am I going to what?”

He assures himself you’re too drunk to understand what you’re saying. There’s no reason for you to ask that other than the need to not be alone. You’d never ask that because you genuinely wanted, no, trusted Shigaraki to stay with you. He’d never believe it, but his feet carried him to the edge of the bed, and then he sank into the soft mattress.

It’s quiet, maybe too quiet. The music’s bass thrums through the floors, but all Shigaraki can hear is your soft breath. He doesn’t even realize you’re looking at him in the dimness of his room until he turns his head. His breath catches in his throat. Have you always been so pretty?

The alcohol makes you too sleepy too fast, and it feels like this moment is slipping away from you like you’re trying to cup water in your hands. It’s leaking out of you, and then his red eyes lock onto yours. 

“Why don’t you like me?”

“What do you mean,” and it comes out almost wounded.

“I-hic. I mean, like, when you suddenly act so… mean.”

For the first time in a long time, Shigaraki feels rendered speechless. He wants to jump up and run out of the room like the child he once was, but he can’t find the strength to pull away from your gaze.

“...I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“I just don’t,” and he finally breaks eye contact to look through the window behind you, “you don’t have to pity me, then.”

“I don’t!” 

The end of your words slurs, and you know you’ll lose yourself to the intoxicating feelings of sleep soon.

“I just… I want to like you.”

“Like me?”

You smile widely before you lean forward and press a kiss to his nose. He even goes cross-eyed to try and follow your movements.

“You’re kinda… cute. But, you’re mean. So just be nice! Okay?”

He’s not even sure why he goes along with it.

“Okay.”

Your eyes close, and for a second, he thinks he’s finally free from this impromptu analysis of… well, him. But, you beat him to the chase and whisper quietly.

“I meant it.”

“What?”

“That you’re cute.”

One eye peeks open when he doesn’t respond, and the embarrassment that should be there is only replaced with pure elatedness. His eyes sparkled a bit more. It makes you think that you should compliment him more. You shut your eyes.

“You’re going to be embarrassed tomorrow.”

Maybe he waited too long, but all he knows is that your soft snores escape you quickly, and his heart warms at the sound. It shouldn’t, but it does. He falls asleep shortly after and dreams of a faceless girl who dances with him all night. The girl always keeps smiling at him no matter how stiff he is.

It’s a beautiful dream.

-

Shigaraki’s kind enough to shake you awake just past dawn, and the splitting headache doesn’t make the visual of him leaning over you with a gentle hand easier to see. 

“Hey. Wake up. Some frat dude is gonna yell at you.”

The idea of someone barging in makes you move to sit up and groan, “do you have any water?”

“No. Get up, hurry,” and he’s tugging you off the bed.

It was a bad idea, your sleep-addled brain lagging and causing you to flop directly into a firm chest, “watch out!”

“I’m sorry! I’m barely awake,” and it comes out like a whine, “can we get water?”

You almost think he’ll say no, tell you to fuck off and get water yourself. But, he makes a move you would’ve never expected, calmly lacing his hand with yours and steadying you on your feet.

“Fine, let’s just get going already.”

Was this the Shigaraki you’d met? Had he been replaced by a clone that happened to be identical to the tone of voice? The feeling of a bony hand in yours is unreal. You can hardly take your eyes off the entanglement while Shigaraki urges you to come down the stairs faster than you are.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Did I say something weird last night?”

It comes out in a whisper, and Shigaraki feels like going to college was a huge mistake when he pulls his hand away and holds it close to himself like you’re injured. Like he injured you.

So, be nice! Okay?

“Shigaraki?”

“You said I was cute.”

He’s blushing as he blurts it out like it’s a defense mechanism to keep you from getting closer. You rack your brain for the precise wording, but you can only remember bits and pieces of lying down to look at each other.

Did you really call him cute? You gnaw on your lip and look away, but as you glance at him again, you know you definitely did say that. Your lips turn upwards, the hilarity of you having to double-check while sober if you meant what you’d said...

Shigaraki was even hot now that you really looked at him, even with the tsundere thing going on.

“Well… well! I was drunk! Besides, you can’t tell me you didn’t like hearing it.”

“No, I didn’t. You’re mistaken.”

“What’s that, huh? Why do you look like a tomato, hm?”

He wants to throttle you, wagging your finger in his face and poking his cheek like he’s a zoo animal. 

“I should’ve just left you up there, let you get eaten by wolves.”

“But you didn’t.”

You’re right. Somehow in the mix of pushing you away and being pulled closer, he still stayed there the whole night to keep you safe. He still woke you early enough to escape the wolves lurking in the nearly destroyed frat house. He could’ve let you be eaten by wolves, but he didn’t.

“...Well, whatever. Let’s go.”

“Mkay.”

It’s surprising how you decide to drop the subject. This strange attraction thrummed in your bones, urging you to do something about this little… crush. You let him guide you out the door and towards his car, a beat-up little Toyota. It’s red, too, like his eyes. Maybe it was on purpose.

“You’re okay to drive?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

Shigaraki drives recklessly, you note. The way his hands grip the wheel, tires screeching as he swerves out into the abandoned street and takes off. It should make you scared, want to yell, and demand he let you out. Only he gives you a quick glance and smirks. 

You really should talk to Nejire before you decide to fuck him. His music taste blares out of old speakers, a mix of rock and metal that wakes you like a good cup of coffee. You’re about to lose yourself to the Foo Fighters song, but then he snaps the knob down to zero and clears his throat. 

“You owe me.”

“I owe you what? I don’t owe you,” you even cross your arms for effect.

How cute.

“For taking care of you, ruined my night,” he’s lying, and he knows he’s lying, but he can’t help but take a chance.

Take a chance and see if you really mean it, if he’s not just making things up because you want to be nice. The part that runs deep in his blood tells him it can’t be true, and he hopes that, for once, he’s wrong.

“Psh, ruined. You love being around me. That’s why you get like that,” you push it even further, “you just don’t know how to tell me you want me.”

He doesn’t know what to say, and you’re carelessly whistling a tune while picking at your nails. 

“We have to practice our dance for class,” smooth, peaceful transition.

“Right! Tomorrow evening, in one of the practice rooms, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for walking me home.”

Shigaraki repeats his reply, and you note that he seems distracted. You wonder if you also seem distracted; you had a lot to think about!...

And all Shigaraki could think about was holding your waist in his hands. It made his heart thump in his chest. God.

The walk to the practice room was cold, and you were thankful for your quick thinking of wearing leg warmers like a ballerina. You’re unsure if Shigaraki is already there, but you’re shaking off the cold as quickly as possible while storming into the building.

He is there! His phone’s hooked up to a small speaker, and the pale blue walls make him shine even in dark clothing. His hair shakes when he gives you a blithe wave, “hey. Took you long enough.”

“Hey! I came as fast as I could. Is that your speaker?”

“Mm, no. My roommate’s, uh… Dabi? You don’t know him.”

Oh, you’ve heard of him. Frankly, this should be an even bigger red flag, but you pay it no mind and shrug, “I might’ve heard of him.”

He chuckles at that. So you have heard of him.

“Well, anyway. He never uses it, so I took it.”

“Wow, evil.”

You drop your bag next to his, a frumpy black backpack with suspicious stains. You sidle close to him, peering at his Spotify while he scrolls for the correct song.

“You should show me your Spotify account!”

“God no, you’ll never see it. C’mon, we need to get this over with.”

“Whaaaat? You don’t want to hang out and stall practicing with me?”

He’s gotten warmer since your first meeting, lips quirked up as he drops his phone and crosses his lazy arms, “nope.”

“Fine! We can practice, and maybe later, I can steal your phone for your Spotify.”

“Yeah, yeah,” his voice dips a bit lower, “c’mere.”

Something inside of you ignites, but you force yourself to ignore it while wrapping your arms around his shoulders; he slumps a bit to accommodate you, making the fire even hotter. You melt like butter into him. The two of you fit perfectly. You could feel it.

The melody is something from an old movie, gentle and sweet with a romantic vibe. It’s causing tension between you and Shigaraki.

It’s making you want to kiss him.

“You stepped on my foot,” he whispers while twirling you in a half-circle.

Squeaking a quiet apology, he rolls his eyes and dips you a tad, “you seem distracted.”

You can hardly hear him over “Easy Lovers” playing in the background. It’s consuming you whole like you might not ever breathe again.

“Do I?”

“Maybe I just don’t know you that well enough,” and you twirl again.

It’s just practicing for class, for a dumb class that wouldn’t even matter in four years. But you didn’t think of anything at that moment, just that you were pressing soft lips against chapped ones with a feeling of passion behind it. Even if he lacked lip balm, the sensation of him gripping your shirt made everything seem so much hotter. Sweeter.

He even has the gall to swipe his tongue over your lip like he’s the one who took the leap and kissed you first. You know that Shigaraki was too shy to kiss you first. 

“...”

It’s dead silent, his Spotify queue echoing automatically and filling the room with music you don’t think you’ve ever heard. Shigaraki nearly shivers at the confused gleam in your eyes.

“It’s called shoegaze.”

“Shoegaze?”

“Yeah,” and he’s barely finishing the word before taking your cheek in hand and bringing you back to him.

Your breath hitches and you want to get so close the two of you nearly fuse together. Dainty hands tangled in his hair, all raggedy and muted like his skin or clothes. Something about how his bony fingers dig into the curve of your waist keeps your head spinning, and you don’t even realize he owns you by pressing you against the wall and licking the inside of your mouth.

“Sh-aah.”

The moan wasn’t too loud, but it echoed in his head. Shigaraki has never been the type to be so openly carnal and animalistic, and yet it was coming out with every kiss he dotted on the skin of your neck. He could fuck you here if he was so pleased, and briefly, he worried when he felt his cock stir in his pants.

You bring him back to you, grasping like a lifeline and laving over the slickness of his mouth and how he was strong enough to carry you just off the ground. It was stupidly hot; when did he get all this power? It’s like it overtook him, and the two of you part; neither of you wanted to.

“We need to stop.”

“But can’t we–”

“No. Not here,” he mulls over his following words with an annoyed look, “and I don’t have a condom.”

You nearly burst out laughing in his face, dry heaving and keeling over. But it’ll upset him, and that’s the last thing you want. “Oh, well, I’m on birth control?”

“Stop.”

He seems firm in his decision, but you can’t help but wiggle your hips toward him enticingly. Maybe he’ll cave, let you give him a handjob or something. I mean, that’s not that bad, right?

“Please?”

Shigaraki would usually feel irritation rise quickly and overwhelm him, but his eyes flicker down to your wandering hands and wiggling hips. Well, he was serious about not wanting to fuck here, but…

“I’m only doing this so you’ll be quiet!”

He sinks to his knees. You salivate at sight, brimming with joy and confidence. His thumbs hook in your belt loops, and he tenderly runs his hands over your thighs, “grab onto the ballet bar.”

You don’t think you’ll collapse to your knees, but you’re shaking in anticipation because he looks like he knows what he’s doing. The way he swiftly tugs your leggings and panties down in one go, you can feel your arousal smearing your thighs; you were already horny just from kissing him.

Finally, he looks relaxed, parting your puffy lips and admiring your dripping hole.

“It’s cute.”

“Shut up,” you’re breathless already with how you can feel his breath right where you need him.

Then, he’s licking from your clenching hole to the nub of your clit, the glide slick with spit as he gets to work.

“Shigaraki!”

You nearly scream, legs angling in too close, but his surprisingly firm grip keeps you how he wants you. Your hands wrench around the ballet bar as he licks every fold so he can taste as much of you as possible. 

It’s wonderful, and you know now that he does in fact, know what he’s doing, especially with how his nose and cheeks are beginning to shine with arousal. He’s eating you like a man starved like he can’t get enough from fucking you on his tongue; he needs more and more. He licks into your hole, savoring every drop with a clench on your ass that’ll leave bruises for days.

He sucks your clit between his lips before pulling away with a pop, “you’re such a fucking brat.”

“I know, I know, and I’m sorry! Just keep,” and you tilt your hips towards his shiny lips again, “please? Feels so good….”

It’s rewarding how he flattens his tongue to grind up your slit, devouring you like he had too much time to practice. The way he toys with your pussy; makes your legs shake and your back arch off the mirror displaying your debauchedness.

Shigaraki mumbles something, but you’re too busy tilting your hips into his face and making him nearly unable to breathe as you tremble on his tongue. He tonguefucks you, digging deep with obscene slurping noises echoing around you, “oh, fuuuuck.”

Your hands entangle in his white strands, grounding you while you speed towards your orgasm like a rocket setting into space. Shigaraki seems to sense your quickened breaths and gyrating hips; his hands grip your ass cheeks to pull you closer as he makes you creamy. He holds you in place, forcing you to feel his tongue grinding flat circles over your clit before dipping down to lap over your pussy. He acts as if it’s a dessert. Like it’s a real treat to eat you out.

He pulls away, mildly huffing out of breath, “stop moving.”

Soft pecks are placed on your inner thighs as he lets you grow needier and needier through pussy neglect, “Shigaraki, please.”

“Please, what? You’re so selfish,” and he gives a hard suck to your clit, “I should just leave you here.”

 “No! No, don’t!” 

His rough treatment of you makes you jump, but he doesn’t leave you like he threatened. Instead, he kissed the mound of soft curls in the apex of your thighs, nose curving down the slope of your thigh as his breath barely ghosted over your slick lips.

“I want you to be the one that makes me feel good,” maybe if you lay it on thick, he’ll be forced to listen to you!

Instead, all he rewards you with is an unreadable look, but then he’s diving back in between your legs, and you can’t focus on what that look means because Shigaraki will make you cum.

“Yes, yes! Keep going, hah… your tongue’s so deep!”

The wet sounds make you flush, and his intensity makes you jump to your tip-toes and tilt away from the warm, wet mouth that chases you no matter how you tilt your hips.

Your legs are shaking, threatening to close, and the stretched coil snap could happen anytime you’re barely saying, “feel like I’m gonna, gonna c-ungh. Gonna cum…!”

He keeps going. Determined and sloppy with how he’s not even taking a second to breathe. You’re nearly there, humping his face with moans of his name that turn his ears pink. A hand snakes up your leg, and there’s a wet squelch as he easily slips two fingers inside. The stretch is delicious torture, and you cum while crying out.

“Shigaraki!”

His fingers help you ride out your orgasm, the remnants glistening on his fingers as your cream sticks to them lewdly before he sucks the essence off. He stands once you’ve regained yourself. 

“Pretty good,” and he gives his hand one last lick; he can’t even stop the snark from appearing.

“Shut up! You’re so embarrassing.”

“Yeah, yeah, didn’t I just make you cum? All whiny, ‘ah, ah! Shigaraki mmph!’ right?”

“No! Not even right at all,” and he casually leans over you with his hands on the ballet bar as if you two were dating as if he was actually your boyfriend, “...but thank you.”

“Thank you?”

“Well, well, I mean! Thank you for… indulging me.”

You had trailed off, not even realizing how close he was to your ear until he whispered a gravelly, “you’re so very welcome for making you cum, if that’s what you mean.”

Neither of you speaks. You can’t help but look down and notice the bulge in his pants. He seems unbothered, but leaving him high and dry feels unfair.

“Do you want me to…?”

He gives a quick glance down but shakes his head, “Nah. We should just wrap all of this up, though.” 

“Right,” and yet you don’t stop thinking about it while both of you make the practice room look neat again.

Even while walking you back home, his second time, Shigaraki knows that there’s something secretive on your mind.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing! Just tired.”

“...Right.”

He stares at you for too long before you head into your dorm. You know what’s coming but don’t make the first move. He’s quick about it, but he does kiss you. It’s so fast, sweet, and low stakes that you smile warmly at him.

“Goodnight, Shigaraki.”

The boy nods, pulling up his hoodie, “night.”

You can’t wait to tell Nejire all about it.

“You what?! You had sex with Shigaraki?!”

Nejire’s in disbelief, nearly falling off her bed as she bolts towards your side of the room, “you really did?”

“Other people can probably hear you! But, well, yeah. It wasn’t like we went all the way or anything! He just went down on me,” the pink in your cheeks is evident while you begin to unravel the story.

“Wait, where was this again?”

“Oh. The, well, the practice room?”

“The practice room?!.”

She suddenly bursts into laughter, and you feel your cheeks twitching as you squeeze her hands, “c’mon, it’s not funny!”

“No, no, it’s not. I didn’t think Shigaraki would eat pussy in the practice room!”

Sometimes you regret telling your roommate anything, but it took the edge off thinking about how he hadn’t texted you. Should you expect a text? You figured it would be something lighthearted, but he just went radio-silent. Just like that, it hurt, you had to admit. But, you weren’t gonna let him get away with it. You’ll get your payback soon, finally get him to realize what he’s really feeling.

You hope it’s the same as what you’re really feeling.

Then, the day of your presentation is like the sunrise. Knowing everyone would be watching you didn’t ease your nerves. Considering Shigaraki had been ignoring your texts since the last time you met, it felt like he was contributing to your anxiety just as much as the actual dance! You could hardly get dressed, shrugging on your comfiest yet presentable clothes. 

Maybe he thought it was a mistake, and your fingers were itching to send a text. Nejire had advised you to send something short and sweet before leaving for the day, and you finally cave while brushing your teeth.

[Dance Partner]: Do you want to meet up before class?

Shigaraki lay in bed, still in pajamas and debating whether to drop out. His heartbeat spikes at the message, and it feels so dumb to get excited over a mere text. He’d been practicing, unbeknownst to you, spending so much time in the bathroom with the door locked to practice his footwork that he’d gotten an angry text from his roommate.

[Shigaraki]: I think it’s fine

Part of you wonders if he’ll show up at all.

[Dance Partner]: I’m nervous.

He doesn’t reply, but he feels the same. Eventually, he meandered his way to his closet to pick his outfit. Yeah, he was nervous too. 

You spot him first, and part of you wants to wave him over but he seems to hardly look up. This was all fruitless. You should’ve never done anything in that practice room. Tears prickle your vision at the sudden emotion of it, a test, and knowing a guy wants nothing to do with you? It sucks much more than you thought it would.

“Hey.”

He’s calm, voice smooth and honeyed as he sits next to you. Hopefully, he doesn’t notice your glassy eyes.

“Hey.”

The silence passes between you as more people file in, and Nemuri sets up the class materials. 

“I don’t think you should be nervous,” he pauses to side-eye you, “I’ve been practicing.”

“You have?”

“Yeah. I don’t want to give you a bad grade, and I need to pass.”

He put you first, and maybe it’s dumb to analyze his order of priorities, but it makes you feel special, “I think we’ll do well.”

You finally turn to look at him, and he’s already looking at you.

“Stop acting weird.”

“I-I’m not! I’m just nervous!”

“Yeah, right,” and a gentle hand settles on your knee, “I know what you’re thinking. About the practice room.”

“You’re the one that didn’t text me back.”

He doesn’t reply right away, but you know he feels terrible. The way he swallows and clenches his free fist, the regret is a bit palpable.

“...I know, and I’m sorry.”

He squeezes your knee for emphasis, “genuinely.”

You suppose it’s okay, mumbling that you forgive him and relishing in the burn that his hand leaves on your leg. Nejire clears her throat, and you listen to her instructions. His hand doesn’t leave your knee.

She calls your names about halfway into class, and suddenly the lights seem too bright once you’re on stage. You can feel your leg shaking as you stand interlocked with Shigaraki. He looks calm and collected. If anything, he seems to be more worried about you. 

Indeed he can feel your anxiety shakes, and then his thumb rubs the space between your collarbones. It suddenly feels like everything will be alright.

“Are you two ready?”

You squeak out a “yes!” and Shigaraki merely nods; the music follows, and you retreat into your mind to remember every step.

“Don’t be nervous,” he whispers softly, and you feel like you could do anything.

The two of you dance to the same song in the practice room while you swim across the floor with grace, the type of grace that’s only there because you have a connection. It comes effortlessly, Shigaraki leading with you following as he steadily guides you by your waist. 

You remember to make eye contact, and your breath is stolen because your biggest fears have been confirmed. You like Shigaraki. You want him carnally. More than anything in the world, you move like two souls on the same plane. Everything about it is perfect.

He stops the momentum, your upper half steadily supported by a hand that shows so much tenderness between your shoulder blades. The two of you were breathing softly, near exhaustion with the way your bodies swirled together into one.

“Excellent! Very nice. Any critiques?”

The spell is broken, and you’re collecting your breath while smoothing your clothes. Whew, that was something. Your eyes track toward Shigaraki’s, and he’s looking at you again.

“I thought you guys looked very clean,” said a meek girl desperate to escape the room’s silence.

You offer a “thanks” and note the critique of better posture, among other surface criticism. Nemuri writes on her clipboard, smiling and nodding, “excellent, thank you, you two.”

“I have to go, excuse me.”

He leaves you alone on the stage to race up the stairs to collect his backpack. You’re knocked out of a trance and thrown into deep waters, and Nemuri begins to call the next names.

“Hiroshi, is your partner not here? Oh, and,” she turns back to you, “you can take a seat now.”

You do.

It’s time to settle this, Shigaraki decides. There’s a three-day break coming up, and his mind has been looping back to it every passing class. He couldn’t keep running away from you anymore after you were assigned different partners for the next dance. If he doesn’t act, he’ll completely lose you.

And for the record, Nemuri was a liar. Could she not see the connection between you two? Even he could see it, and he wished he couldn’t.

It felt like you were slipping away, partnered with someone else, and Shigaraki had been conversing with you sparsely. It was torture, Hell on Earth if he had to imagine it. You’re getting lost in the waves, and he’s losing his grip.

Meanwhile, you’ve been getting on top of your classwork and contacting your new dance partner, Eijirou. It doesn’t feel the same of course, not when you can feel Shigaraki’s eyes on you every time you’re in the arms of the redhead.

You don’t expect anything from him anymore; you pretend not to. The ding sounds from your phone, and you just know.

[Shigaraki]: hey

It makes your heart race, and you can feel your pulse thrumming in your neck.

[Her]: Hey

[Shigaraki]: wyd

[Her]: I’m not doing this

[Shigaraki]: come over

[Her]: No

[Shigaraki]: i wanna see you

You want to slap yourself. Tell him there’s no way you can deal with his hot and cold nature. That even if you like him, he’s not good for you. You can’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t, won’t.

[Her]: Come to my dorm and walk with me, it’s too dark and cold

[Shigaraki]: omw

Waiting feels painful. You spend a minute making sure you are moisturized and smelling good, and then eventually, he’s at the sliding door of the dorm. You’re wearing a simple long-sleeve, and you’re keen to pick up on the fact that he really brought you a coat.

“Hey,” you smile and eagerly embrace him the tiniest bit.

“Hey, take it. ‘M tired of holding it,” and your hands are brushing when you take the black hoodie to slip over your head.

The walk is quiet, and you can feel anticipation climbing up your spine as the two of you grow closer and closer. The cold is nonexistent, not with the warmth you feel because of the boy beside you.

“Is your roommate home?”

He shakes his head, hand steady as he slips the key into the lock and brings you into his space. The lights flicker on, and you’re smiling at his side of the room. Dark, a bit punk, and he’s totally unashamed of it. He drops the keys in the bowl, turning his head first before fully facing you.

“So–”

You’re rushing to jump into his arms, connecting your lips effortlessly in a kiss that soothes all aches you’d ever had about him. You knew he would catch you, and you fit like the sun and moon. The connection makes you heave into the kisses, leaning into the slickness of saliva coating your lips while he pushes you against the nearest wall. 

It feels like dancing, the way your tongues slide against each other with a fierceness while he shrugs off his jacket. You’re already wet, impossibly wet, and the mewls come out despite you trying to swallow them. The need for him is so strong you’re dropping your legs to move things along.

“You’re so fucking hot,” pressing his forehead against yours, “holy shit.”

“You wanna see more?”

Peeling off the sweatshirt to catch your curves worn under the fitted long-sleeve. His hand circles your lower back, eyes locked onto how your tits nearly spill out of its v-neck. They’re so easy to hold; his hand is already sliding up your side to the underside of your breasts. 

“Can I?”

“Of course,” you whisper while tugging his hand to squeeze your tits, sighing at the contact.

“No bra?”

“What, you, ah! You want it to get in the way?”

“God, no,” His other hand meets your other tit, fully groping you, and his eyes nearly crimson with need.

His hardness is apparent, the bulge nudging against your thigh while his knee applies delicious pressure to your aching clit; you can’t stop your hips from grinding up against his leg.

“Kiss me,” and he’s quick to shut you up, hands raking under your shirt to feel skin on skin.

“Shigaraki!”

He could listen to you say that all day, but he can’t stand how the two of you are still so tightly clothed. Your shirt comes up, and you’re quick to immediately tug it off and grind on his leg again. It’s sticky, hot, and heady as the two of you dry-hump against the only space on the wall. 

“Wait, we should…we should move to the bed,” and he doesn’t seem to hear you with how he lurches forward to lick into your mouth, “Sh-Shigaraki.”

The kisses only stop for a moment, but then he’s pushing away from the wall and guiding you by the hands to the bed. He slips off his sweatpants, leaving his boxers on, and you mirror him. It almost feels too intimate when he stares at you once settled on top of you, and you can’t take it.

His hand circles your nipple slowly, making you arch at the feeling of him toying with your chest, “mm!”

Resting on his left hand, you watch as the bony hand travels downwards, swooping under your tit to glide past your belly button and reach the black band of your panties, “may I?”

You’ve never been so turned on, and you’re sure it’ll be smeared all over your thighs by the end of this tryst. Lifting your hips, he tosses the panties onto the floor, and your face burns with how your wetness immediately soaks his fingers when he runs them through your slit.

“You’re so wet, you’re that needy?”

“I just need you to touch me…!”

He gives a low hum, digits circling your clit so slowly that your legs jump closed, “keep them open.”

You’re getting desperate, eager to feel him slip his fingers inside and crook them up, but he’s so calm and attentive. Taking his time, he looks at every inch of your pussy with fire in his eyes. You’re dripping, and the slick sounds when he just barely slips his middle finger into your hole nearly echo.

Finally, he indulges you by slipping it in deep and rubbing your clit with his thumb. You can hardly breathe, toes curling as you hold his wrist to keep fingering you, “fuck, feels so good!”

He can only chuckle, curling his fingers and hitting that gooey spongy spot that arches your back and leaves muffled cries spilling through your fingers. It feels so good, too good, and you’re soaring as he finally starts to thrust his hand.

“Come on, let me hear what you have to say. Do you like it? Do you want more?”

“I wan, I want…!”

He forces his hand, adjusting to a steady rhythm that you can practically hear yourself getting close from the stimulation of being finger-fucked. Looking down at you, he’s keyed into every movement. Every noise and body twitch. It’s like he’s been possessed to make you cum, and you’re nearly there.

“Gonna cum, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” you grappled for your tit like a lifeline, and it was like a show with how he watched you tug at your chest.

It’s so desperate, and it feels perfect to finally be connected and feel the heat of his breath while he makes you cream on his hand. You’re at his mercy, and he knows it, “go on and cum. Wanna fuck you.”

You nearly black out, the tension snapping like a rubber band as you gyrate your hips. It’s debauched, but you hardly care when Shigaraki rubs a tight circle on your clit, “heh.”

“You’re,” you’re still panting, and he grins.

“I’m what?”

He’s shrugging his boxers off while you recover, and your clit throbs once he exposes his cock, lean and long like his fingers. 

“Nothing!”

“Cat got your tongue?”

You circle closer to him, watching eagerly as he slips the condom on with ease. Your mouth’s watering and you want to go down on him badly, but he has other plans. 

“Wanna do doggy?”

“Yeah,” and it’s the hottest sight he’s ever seen when you bend over, exposing your clenching hole waiting to be filled. Your ass is up in the air, and you look perfectly spread out for him. 

The slap on your ass makes you jump, but Shigaraki seems happy with the way he kneads the fat of your ass. His cock bumps into your pussy as he maneuvers himself, and the slickness of it sliding between your folds and bumping your clit makes you shake.

“God, I could fuckin’ tease you forever,” and he grips the base of his cock with a groan, “I don’t know why I waited so long.”

“I know! Why don’t you–”

He slides home, he’s not too girthy, but the length makes your arms shake while supporting your body, “oh god.”

“Yeah, fuckkk, yeah.”

It’s a slow rhythm, clearly reveling in the wet warmth and tightness of your hole; he’s got a death grip on your hip as he shallowly thrusts into you, “amazing pussy.”

You can only moan a “thanks” as he moves a bit more, cockhead dragging against your walls and then filling you back up till you feel like you can’t breathe. The bed creaks, and he starts pounding you so hard it cries. Jolting you forward, you can’t even lean away from how he plows himself into you, balls slapping against your clit, giving you aftershocks.

It’s messy, and he’s barely holding his rhythm because you’re squeezing around him so tight and he feels like he might shoot his load any second. He slows down for a mere second to rub your clit, lean body resting on yours as he moves his hips in tandem with yours.

He’s panting and is too stuck on your eyes rolling back to notice he’s inching closer and closer to his orgasm. The coil is hot in his tummy as he ravages you and makes you take all of him. The connection drives you wild, and soon you’re pushed face-first into the pillows as he fucks you like a fleshlight. 

“Fuck, fuck, oh my god,” and he fucking whimpers inside of you.

It sends your head spinning as he reaches his peak, a hand slapping your ass as the two of you move together. Your ass smacks against his lower abs, and the slick that coats the top of the hair around his base makes him heave, “I’m gonna cum. Fuck, gonna milk this sweet pussy.”

You barely crane your head to catch a view, and he looks heavenly, and his eyes draw shut. He’s barely even thrusting, just mashing into you deeper and harder. He opens his eyes, and the red in them turns nearly burgundy as he grunts.

“Shiga-Shigaraki…!”

One, two, and then he’s pinning you down with his body weight as his hips jerk up into you. You know he’s wearing a condom, but part of you wants to imagine the heat filling your insides and breeding you. The thought of it makes you squeeze around him, and his fingers leave bruises on tender parts of your flesh.

It takes a minute for your breath to calm. The feeling of satiation with Shigaraki still buried to the hilt in you feels so comforting that you could fall asleep. You’re barely there, thoroughly fucked and floating in space. He has enough strength to interlock your hands on top of you, and the two of you bask in the post-coital glow.

“You gonna get off me any time soon?”

He offers a steady deep breath before replying.

“Nope. It’s my reward for looking after you at that party.”

“Really? You’re still on that?”

Sidelining you again, you remember why he frustrates you so much once again. But it doesn’t hurt this time; it just feels good.

“Go on a date with me.”

“You can’t just change the subject like that!”

“Then go on a date with me, and I won’t have to.”

Your mouth flattens into a straight line, “you’re lame.”

Small kisses dot the curve of your neck as he finally pulls himself out of you. You leave in a flash to use the bathroom and return to the covers being pulled up just for you.

The two of you settle on meeting up next Monday.

[Shigaraki]: See you at the ice skating rink

You never knew Shigaraki would be one to skate between you two? He didn’t, either. He supposed you just bring out that side of him.

The side that likes dancing, ice skating, and you.

[presidentbungus]

Um, It's Kind of a Lot

demo/scout, demo&eyelander - 30k words

Read on Ao3

Lonely men find each other in a place that collects failures like baseball cards. Things don't take long to get complicated. The 600-year-old haunted sword is NOT happy about it Written with care for the 2024 TF2 Big Bang, with illustrations from toasty and George Henry

in other words: demoscoutheads come get yah mutual pining juice!! ignore the ancient cursed sword she is nice and will cause no problems or angst or anything of the sort

Excerpt under the readmore :)

Boy, Jeremy shoulda picked the pool table. About half the party's grouped around it, shooting shots, yukking it up, and he's over at the side of the room, standing alone with an empty cup in one hand and a bunch of darts in the other, like a dipshit. Staring at a bunch of old guys with huge axe-murderer scars wiggle their asses and speak in faintly European-sounding tongues. Like a dipshit. He’s not even good at darts.

This whole settling-in thing’s been kind of a wet fart, actually. He was hoping this job’d be something better than sitting in a jail cell and looking at contraband porno mags but then he got on the bus over, and the cabin was full of about two toddlers worth of scar tissue and more stupid accents than he’s ever heard come out of an improv class, and the only reason he survived the trip was at least now he knows he’s getting paid something. Every time he’d try and speak up he’d get eight chilling glares and then everybody would get back to beating on each other, and the time he really tried he ended up sprawled across the floor, with the dried blood and the gum wrappers, and with a shiner the size of fucking Alaska.

It’d hurt worse if he hadn’t had at least a dozen on this eye before. Maybe it’s a good thing no one’s come over here to talk to him yet, because he probably looks like a fucking dipshit just standing here, sweating through his pants, black eye, empty cup, darts, no friends, no money, no future.

Feels just like home. God dammit.

Eventually somebody finally taps him on the shoulder, and he spins around and two darts fall out of his hand and he does a slightly embarrassing please-don’t-stab-through-my-big-toe shuffle, and it’s Heav… De… the eyepatch guy. With two cups of shitty beer from the keg on the other side of the room, one in each hand. And he’s smiling, and his teeth are disgusting, and while Jeremy’s staring all wide-eyed (like a dipshit) it takes him a very long time to realize that the eyepatch guy is trying to hand him one of the full cups, and he mostly notices because he eventually gives up and just slots it into his empty one.

Then he cracks another, slightly different smile. “I cannae be that ugly, can I?”

Jesus christ, he sounds like a goddamn leprechaun. Jeremy chokes out a laugh into his newly-refilled beer cup, and unceremoniously dumps the darts onto a weird side table that’s just kind of sitting there in the middle of the room, like most of the furniture in here is kind of doing. “No, I just—sorry, pal. This place is throwing me all off.”

“Mm, sure it is,” with a glint in his eye that seems to instantly settle into the back of his skull. There’s just the faintest trace of a slur in his voice—it would definitely track if he’s already kind of drunk.

Honestly, Jeremy’s not flying the straightest right now either, and he wonders if that’s why eyepatch guy’s staring at his cup of beer—just watching, waving his own around like he’s not gonna drink from it until—oh wait.

“And thanks for the refill, pal.”

“Ah, love to hear it.” He pulls out a third version of the same smirk and Jeremy wonders what his face looks like right now, and decides it’s probably something really stupid. “You looked like a kicked bloody puppy all alone over here. Thought it was the least I could do.”

Jeremy laughs at this. It’s not funny. He figures maybe he should shake a hand or something, whatever people do at this kind of thing, but his palms feel really sweaty and he feels like he’s done enough to ruin this first impression anyway. “I’m, uh. I’m Jeremy.” Wait. “Wait. I don’t think we’re supposed to say our names. Wait, pretend I didn’t say that.”

And he just watches. Beer to his lips. Smirk number four. Jesus christ, just bring out some popcorn at this point.

“Um, I’m Scout, is what I meant to say. And I’m… gonna do that, I guess. Scout, I mean.”

“Name’s Tavish,” he says, and he sure lets that one sit for a while. “But I’m the Demolitions Man. Demoman for short, and some of the lads over there already started callin’ me Demo.”

“So… like, bombs ‘n shit?”

“Aye. Pretty much.”

“Cool.” And then what the fuck else is there to say? “So… what’s up?”

Good one, Jer, top-notch. Hall of fame performance. Jesus christ.

Smirk number five, and it finally tapers out as Demo thinks for a second, and eventually comes up with: “Darts?”

God, he was hoping he wouldn’t ask that. “Hell yeah, brother.”

… Demoman stares at him. He places three darts in his hand… then awkwardly lowers himself to the ground, picks up another couple, and adds those to the stack.

Smooth. Suave. Good thing he doesn’t look like a fucking idiot or anything, because that would be really embarrassing.

They awkwardly stare at each other for a couple more seconds before Demoman says, slowly: “You start?” in a way that definitely says ‘I have no fucking idea how to play darts’, and that’s okay, because this game sucks anyway. Scout nods and mumbles something stupid, and he goes and leans against the back of the couch and squinches one eye shut even though he know that probably makes his aim a lot worse—and he fires three stinkers, right in a row, two of which land in the wall above and below the board, and one perfectly strikes just the rim.

At least Demo follows his lead, and he sucks too. That makes him feel a little better.

On his way back the second time, Scout takes a little longer to pick up his darts and says: “Why’d you come over here?”

“What?”

“Well, you guys seemed like you were having a great time in that little jerkoff circle around the pool table.”

“Someone’s jealous.” Demo waits for a response, and Jeremy doesn’t give him one, because he doesn’t want to. “I like to mingle. Get around, get to know.” He throws a 4 and a 3, and the third dart misses the board and embeds itself in the wall underneath—he’s real bad. “And ye looked so sad moping over here with your empty cup and your… you know.”

He brushes the black eye and instantly regrets it, and Tav… Demoman nods. “I bruise easy,” he mumbles.

No response. What’s this guy’s goddamn deal?

God, Jeremy fucking hates that sense of… what’s the word? Guilt? Feeling bad-ness? Radiating off him. “If you’d given me a couple more minutes, I woulda gotten this party goin’.” God. Dipshit. He misses the bullseye three times, one after the other, gets like a 9 or something, he doesn’t really give a shit. “Brother, I swear to god, I’m all off my game tonight.”

Game as in game, but maybe it’s less embarrassing if he’s talking about darts.

“I believe ye.”

“I dunno. Somethin’ about this place, man. It’s killin’ me.” Pauses to see if he’s gonna get interrupted, and gets nothing, so he goes on. “Like, I kept tryin’ to say hi to some of the loonies during the meet-‘n-greet earlier—couldn’t get out ten words to most of ‘em before they started turning around, like, I’m-gonna-crush-your-face-with-my-bare-hands fuckin’ death stare, like brother, what do you want from me?” Demo’s squinting, his tongue barely poking out over his bottom lip, and Jeremy watches three darts in a row sail directly into the wall. “You suck at this, man.”

“I have one eye,” he says, without missing a beat, and oh yeah, that’s kind of awkward.

“Oh, yeah… your death perception, or somethin’?”

“Close enough.”

“Anyway.” Just go ahead and skate past that one. “So we kinda moved things in here—miserable excuse for a rec room by the way, the one I had when I went to juvie had more to do—and I kind of assumed, like, there’d be some people around the pool table, a couple guys throwin’ darts, and—you know, whatever else… people do.” He dries up the last few drops in his cup and grimaces. “But I forgot,” he says, “that old guys just frickin’—just love pool. And the old guys that don’t, love leaving fun places and going to do something boring in their rooms instead.”

“Why didn’t you just go over?” he interrupts, and frankly Jeremy is shocked he’s still listening at this point, and he can almost feel his voice rattling around in his head, and gee maybe it’s best he doesn’t get another refill.

Pity. That’s the word. It’s pity.

“‘Cause—‘cause I’d already staked my territory, y’know? And I didn’t wanna be this little pussy showin’ up after everybody’s already settled in, just… crawling back.”

“So your solution was to stand sadly in the corner and look—“

“Like a dipshit.” He crosses his arms and leans against the wall, since it looks like they’re not really playing darts anymore. “I know.”

Out comes the ugliest snort Jeremy’s ever heard in his entire life. “Well, I would’ve been nicer, but sure.” Then a few shaky steps forward, then a really, really warm-and-sweaty palm lands on Jeremy’s shoulder, and their fingers brush on the way down. “At least ye got me now.”

He starts to wonder if Demoman’s really doing him that big of a favor, and realizes yes, yes he is. “… Yeah.” Then weakly raising his stack of empty cups: “Cheers, man. To the worst job ever.”

“I dunno if I’d say that.” He pinches his lips together. “To a pretty bad job.”

And they knock their cups together, and Demoman drinks on it. Jeremy pretends to. It sucks.

READ THE REST ON AO3!!!

[nunalastor]

Buckshot Anon here! At long last, it is time to talk about Alastor’s recovery period after the events of the Spawn of Evil AU (for all those who don’t know what that AU is, it basically involves Alastor suffering an ectopic pregnancy by Roo, and Lucifer helping to keep him alive. I got asked its logistics a while back, and now that's a constant).

The recovery on this is interesting because it is simultaneously pretty simple and complicated. The best place to start is with the surgery itself, because delivery would not be able to happen in a natural way, and would need to be done through surgery, though not a cesarean in the traditional way. Because the part of the small intestine the parasite child latched onto would be incredibly damaged by virtue of the warping necessary for the child to grow (which would have caused a rupture unless angelic blood has medicinal properties), the procedure would be treated as an intestinal resection surgery, where the effected area of the small intestine would be outright removed. Specifically an open surgery, making a cut of about 6-8 inches in the stomach. A cesarean would have 4-6 inches normally, so if you’re going with a happy medium, an incision of 6 inches. After the damaged area and the child are removed, the healthy parts of the small intestine on either end would be stitched or stapled together. This whole procedure would probably not take more than two hours, but could go upwards of four hours if there is damage in the surrounding areas of the intestines and other organs.

Once the surgery was finished, Alastor would on average stay in the hospital for a week, both to recover and make sure there had been no complications or damage to other organs. Some people can go home within three days, but due to the nature of the situation, he would be asked to stay longer. He would need to receive nutrition through an IV for a period of time before being allowed to go on a liquid diet. I will elaborate on that more in a minute, but there are some other things that should be brought up.

After being discharged from the hospital, Alastor would not be allowed to continue work at the hotel for another 4-6 weeks. There is some wiggle room in this, he may be able to return to work within 2-3 weeks provided that work is strictly paperwork, but anything physical he would need to wait a while to avoid reopening the stitching on his intestines and the incision area, or causing a hernia. He will also be encouraged to walk regularly every day, for reasons including:

Boosting blood flow, which helps to prevent blood clots.

Lessening his chances of illness.

Preventing a buildup of excessive abdominal scar tissue that could hinder movement and cause more blockages in the intestines. Scar tissue is something that will happen and in itself isn’t a problem, but scar tissue can and will become excessive if given the chance, and being sedentary while it is building up can make that worse.

Regaining muscle mass he would have lost from months on bedrest.

Avoiding constipation. Awkward to talk about but that is an important reason.  

Alastor also would not be allowed to have sex for 2-6 weeks. I doubt he would be heartbroken by this information. 

If angel blood truly does have a medicinal property that could heal him, he can mostly skip this part, and go straight into the complicated part.

Remember when I said I would elaborate more on the nutrition IV and the liquid diet? That’s where this comes into play. Alastor ate minimally if at all for the majority of the estimated 7.5 months (30 weeks, give or take) of pregnancy, and that makes the situation more complicated than it traditionally would be. Being generous and saying he was able to eat solids for the first 6 weeks, after which the blockage would make that very painful, and another 2 weeks would make even a liquid diet technically doable but difficult, Alastor would be living off of angel blood and nutrition IVs, specifically Total Parenteral Nutrition (TPN). 

That in itself is doable. People can be TPN-dependent for upwards of three years and still have a 65-80% survival rate. It can replace eating for as long as necessary. However, there is a caveat to that. Surviving TPN-dependent is one thing, but once someone is taken off it and needs to adjust to eating again, they can be at high risk of what is called refeeding syndrome. 

Refeeding syndrome is an interesting topic with a lot of complicated factors, but the main thing to know is the body adapts quickly to having little to no food. Metabolism drastically changes, and certain organs will begin to function differently as a result. Alastor can’t immediately begin to eat like he did before all of this because his body is no longer equipped to do so. If he were to try binge-eating or even just eating something normal after being discharged from the hospital, the symptoms he would suffer vary but consistent ones tend to be seizures and coma, sometimes even cardiac arrest or respiratory failure that result in death. 

To get around this, the best way to go about it is to very gradually reintroduce food into his diet over the course of 2 weeks, starting by eating about 14-28% of the calories he would normally need, and building upwards over those few weeks. Reteaching his body how to digest food and restore a healthy intestinal tract can usually happen within 2 weeks, but when accounting for how long he wasn’t eating solid food and the damage he needs to heal from, he might be recommended to do this for 3 weeks to be on the safe side. His best bet would be light soups and maybe yogurt.

Most of this would be handled in the hospital, the process of weaning him off the TPN, by the second or third day reintroducing liquids, then soft foods. Doctors would still want to keep tabs on him for this process once discharged, and would be able to make a better judgement call with his situation specifically on when he can return to eating normally. Normally, as in a reasonable meal, not eating multiple people or even one person in one sitting, that would have to wait the 4-6 weeks after discharge.

He would need to have multiple check-ins with his primary doctor for various reasons to make sure everything is going smoothly, make sure his physical therapy and regaining of muscle mass is going well, and that he is eating properly and healing. Doctors would also be searching for any signs of stress and psychological distress that may negatively impact Alastor’s health and cause thoughts of harming the child, which would result in a postpartum depression screening and/or a post-traumatic stress disorder screening. Debates on if Alastor would even consider the child as one aside, that does not change the need to carefully monitor his mental state and try to improve his quality of life as well as prevent any loss of life or actions he may regret.  

In summary: Alastor would have an open intestinal resection surgery, spending his first week in the hospital and after that point focusing on resting while recovering muscle mass, as well as slowly reintroducing his body to food after being taken off the IV. He should be able to eat regularly (in moderation, don't eat a person) within 2-3 weeks, with the rest of his healing taking somewhere between 4-6 weeks. He would not make a full recovery for a few months, but provided his recovery goes smoothly while monitored, he could return to his daily life with minimal issue within 6 weeks. 

(Note: The stress and trauma of the whole experience could hinder recovery severely because an increase in stress causes wounds to heal significantly slower and weakens the immune system. If this happened, it would increase Alastor’s recovery time by roughly 25%, but could be increased by up to 60% depending on the severity of that stress. Prioritizing a stress-free environment would be crucial to his recovery.)

(Another note: The pregnancy duration was estimated at give or take 30 weeks, the reason for that is pregnancy weeks are weird. It’s calculated from the date of the last menstrual period, not the date of conception. Alastor does not have the equipment for having it traced the normal way, that’s half the problem, so it would be based on the objective weeks since conception. Unlike the average pregnancy where it’s a gamble if the mother knows the conception date, Alastor would undoubtedly know.)

👀

[nanisburner]

Our Story

Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and your wife reminisce about your life together

Warnings: Character death, violence, blood, weapon use (it’s like 98% fluff i promise)

A/n: favorite Wanda fic of mine / enjoy :)

When people asked about how you and Wanda came to be, you would tell them that it’s a long, complicated story, and you were never one to lie. To others, your story would seem to lie on the brink of impossibility, but to the two of you, it was your everyday lives. Your life was full of crazy alien invasions, evil robots, bad organizations, and family. A family that neither of you grew up with, but learned to love nonetheless. You smiled just thinking about it.

“What’s going on in that cute little head of yours?” A small smile formed on your lips at the sound of your lover’s voice.

You continued to stare at the four-month-old baby girl in your arms who was sleeping soundly.

“About us. Everything.” You finally looked up to see Wanda with a large smile, her eyes full of love and adoration as she watched you hold your guy's daughter. She was leaning in the doorway to the baby’s room before walking in and kneeling in front of the chair you were sitting in.

“Hmm.” She hummed as one hand cradled the baby’s head while the other settled on your knee. “And what about us? Good things I hope?” She joked, and you smiled down at your daughter.

“It’s only ever good things.” The two of you sat in a comfortable silence, and Wanda’s eyes studied your features as if it was the first time she was seeing you. Her eyes strayed to the scar on your neck. “I was actually thinking about our story.”

Wanda broke out of her daze at your words. “Our story? What do you mean?”

“You know… How we met, how we fell in love. Who this little one got named after.” You wiggled your daughter’s hand that was gripping your finger tightly.

“Everything that brought us here to today.” You looked at Wanda lovingly. “It was a lot, wasn’t it?”

“It was.” Wanda breathed out. The emotion in your eyes always threw her off, no matter how many times she looked into them. She supposed it was because of her never ending, and ever growing feelings for you.

The baby started to fuss and woke up, crying a bit as she nuzzled her face into your chest. You laughed and held her out to Wanda.

“She’s hungry, hold her real quick?”

“Come here, little one.” Wanda said as she held the crying baby in her arms. She stood up and bounced her gently up and down as you freed your breasts and got comfortable.

“Here Wands.” You held your hands out, and she placed the baby in them. You hissed as she latched onto you, and Wanda looked at you, concerned.

“Are you okay? I can get her a bottle instead. I know you’ve been sore, so maybe you should take a break-"

“Wanda! I’m okay. She just bit me. I’m fine, she doesn’t even have teeth.” You laughed, shaking your head at her antics. “Your mommy is just so paranoid, isn’t she?” You whispered towards the baby and smirked at Wanda when you heard her scoff.

“God forbid I worry about my wife.” You crinkled your nose at her and looked away from her. “What?” She asked with a tilted head.

“Nothing. I just love it when you call me that.”

“What? My wife?” You nodded and hummed. “Then it’s a good thing I’ll never stop.”

“And I’ll never let you.” You gave her a playfully stern look before moving the baby away from your chest since she was done. “Can you take her again, please? I need to clean up since she missed some milk.” You giggled and passed the baby back to your grinning wife.

“Of course. I’ll lay her down. Wanna wait for me in the bedroom?” She wiggled her eyebrows at you and you rolled your eyes before leaning up to peck her lips.

“Always.”

Wanda watched as you walked out of the room, absolutely in love with you. And she wasn’t so scared of that fact now, not that she was before, she knew you harbored the same exact feelings. She smiled down at her baby, kissing her forehead before laying her in the crib. Wanda tucked her in and spoke to her softly.

“I love you so much, radost moya.” She kissed her forehead. She stayed staring down at the sleeping baby. “I’m not paranoid, am I?” she mumbled.

“No, your mama is just very, very accident prone. And she has been since the day we met.” Wanda didn’t know whether to smile or cry at the memory. Sometimes, she did both.

— Eleven years ago —

“Are we sure that we want to fight superhuman twins and… an army of robots?” Your nervous voice traveled through the jet full of Avengers.

“I mean, the girl Wanda? Already kind of messed us up pretty bad…” you mumbled when you received a disapproving look from Natasha.

You slumped in your seat when she looked at you like that. You didn’t want to let her down since she was the one who recruited you, and your closest friend out of the Avengers.

“Y/n, you’ve been training with us for almost a year. You’re more than ready to take this on.”

“Yeah, kid. As long as you stay with Natasha you’ll be fine.” Tony said.

“We won’t let anything happen to you, but we need you Y/n.” Steve chimed in. You looked at everyone who nodded their head in agreement and you took a deep breath.

You would be fine.

Turns out you were not fine.

The second you guys stepped into Sokovia, Ultron’s robots came full power at you guys, and you found yourself following Steve instead of Natasha. She went off to who knows where, and you were too busy trying not to die to look. So Steve cleared a path for the two of you and you took out whatever you could, but you couldn’t keep up with a super soldier.

You were surrounded, you were slicing, and taking down as many robots as you could, but you were also getting hit. And you were getting tired. You silently thanked Tony for the vibranium sword he had made you, or else you wouldn’t have lasted this long.

“Guys!” You heard Clint over the comms. “Hey, the twins. They’re with us now.”

“Has anyone seen Y/n?!” Natasha yelled and you would have answered were it not for the robot that hit you into the nearest building’s wall. The team heard you groan into their earpieces.

“Y/n?!”

“Answer us kid, where are you?”

You blinked the dizziness away and tried to raise yourself up to your feet, only to stumble backwards into the wall again.

“Can you hear us? Y/n!”

The voices of the team were muffled and you could barely concentrate. Your sword long gone from your hands.

The robots were coming closer, and you tried your best to get into a stance. Before a move was made, your vision went black. The last thing you remember seeing was a robot wrapped in red mist.

“I- I found her!” Wanda called out, using her magic to keep you from collapsing harshly onto the ground.

Natasha then ran past her, followed by Steve and Thor. She hesitantly trailed after the three Avengers towards your body. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of you. She thought you were beautiful.

Yeah, you were bruised up here and there, and yeah, maybe it was weird for Wanda to think about how attractive an unconscious girl was, but she couldn’t help it. And she found herself wanting to always protect you like she did today.

When they had finally destroyed the falling country of Sokovia, the Avengers took the twins in and settled you into the medical wing at the Avenger’s tower. Wanda surprised herself by asking to stay by your side, which Natasha was a little wary about at first, but she saw the determined glint in Wanda’s eyes and allowed it.

“If you hurt her…” Natasha warned Wanda, who cowered only slightly before gaining the confidence to speak.

“I won’t.” She gave the spy a definite nod.

“We’ll be watching you.” Natasha said, pointing at the security camera in the corner of the medical bay. When Wanda looked back to where Natasha was standing, she was gone. She let out a long breath and took the seat beside your hospital bed.

She finally studied all of your features for the first time up close. The oxygen mask covered your nose and mouth. There were bruises on your cheekbones, neck and Wanda could only assume that there were more on the rest of your covered body. The thought made Wanda feel upset. She didn’t know why she felt so drawn to you, but she did and she couldn’t find it in herself to mind.

It took you five hours to wake up. The twitching of your muscles alerted Wanda, and she sat up fully in her seat, waiting for you to open your eyes.

You winced at the harsh light of the medical bay, and Wanda rushed to dim them for your comfort. You looked around and when you saw Wanda you freaked out, causing the heart monitor to start speeding up.

In your hazy mind you couldn’t remember anything that happened in Sokovia. After you lost Steve, it was all a blur for you.

Wanda reached over to stop your hands from grabbing at the mask, and you flinched and backed away from her, almost falling off of the bed.

“S-stay away f-from me.” You choked out, your words muffled by the oxygen mask. Wanda frowned and tilted her head.

“I’m on your side. You don’t have to be scared.” Her accent prominent, and it sent shivers down your spine.

You tried to wrack your brain up for any memories of Wanda helping you out, and that’s when you looked around to see you were safe and sound in the Avenger’s tower. Your anxiety slowly going away, but you were still weary.

“Where’s Nat? I want to see Natasha.” You said while looking around still.

“She had paperwork.” The witch lied, not wanting to leave the you alone. “But she is watching us if you’re worried.” She pointed at the security camera that was pointed out to her earlier, trying to ignore the relieved feeling in her chest when you visibly relaxed.

“So, what? You’re good now?”

“I am. I…” She hesitated when you looked into her eyes. It’s like she could see the conflict in them, fear mixed with gratitude for… her? “I wanted to say I was sorry. For fighting you guys at first.” She bowed her head in shame, causing you to feel bad for her.

“It’s…” You wanted to yell at her and get her away from you, but she genuinely looked so distraught at the fact that she was an enemy before now. So you softened up a bit.

“It’s fine. I’m sorry too.” She whipped her head up at you.

“Why- Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything wrong.” You tilted your head at her.

“I’m assuming you’re only here because you have nowhere else to go? And your brother is here too?” She nodded, confused as to where you were going with this.

“Well then I’m sorry for your country, Wanda.” You said softly. “I’m sorry for your home.”

“Thank you.” She said quietly.

And on that day, two promises were made in that room. Wanda had promised to always protect you, and you promised to always make Wanda feel at home. The two of you just never knew that until years later.

— Nine Years Ago —

“Tony, are you sure this is the right warehouse? There is nothing here.” Wanda said over comms. Tony had found a still standing HYDRA base, and so Fury sent Tony, Steve, Wanda, you, Sam, and Natasha to scope the place out.

Sure HYDRA was destroyed for a couple of years now, but Fury wanted you guys to check up on some of their old hideouts here and there just in case. So now here the six of you were spread out in duos to walk around. You were with Wanda, Natasha with Sam, and Steve with Tony.

“Have I ever been wrong, witchy?”

A combination of “Yes you have” and “all the time” rang throughout the comms and Tony rolled his eyes.

“Funny. Yes, I’m sure this is the right place.”

You and Wanda were on the bottom floor, walking down what looked like an old prison hallway. There were closed and open cell doors, lights flickering off and on.

You were lingering close to Wanda since she was using her powers as a light when you guys heard muffled voices from the door at the end of the hall.

It was a thick metal with a small window at the top. Wanda pushed you behind her and gestured for you to be quiet. You nodded and quietly slipped your sword from its sheath, and followed Wanda.

“We hear someone down here. Bottom floor.” Wanda whispered into the comms, and you heard Steve and Natasha tell you guys to wait until they were down there.

“It doesn’t sound like a lot of p-" Wanda covered your mouth with her hand and pulled you into the nearest cell, causing you to drop your sword. Wanda was pressing your body against the wall so you two were hidden. You heard the metal door opening and Wanda stared into your eyes with a pleading look.

“Be quiet, detka.” She spoke into your mind and you nodded, looking right back into her eyes. Your heart was pounding in your chest, and you didn’t know if it was from the pressure of Wanda’s body against yours or the fear of your situation.

Honestly, a bit of both.

“We’ll be okay.” She said in your mind once more and you could only nod… again. The voices and footsteps from the people who walked out of the door were getting closer, and you could hear their conversations better.

“I swear, when we get our hands on that precious technology of Stark’s, no one will ever know what’s coming.” A man said.

“And that onesie wearing team of freaks is going down.” A woman said, her voice dark and full of hate. You would have laughed at her insult for you guys were it not for the situation.

“Save that anger for when we face them head on, friend.” Another man spoke up as he patted the woman on her shoulder. They were right outside the cell you were in now.

“You already know I am. They reall-" Her words were cut off when her foot kicked into your sword, sliding it a few feet away. They all stopped, and you felt Wanda press into you more, her hand still tightly covering your mouth.

“Someone’s here.” The woman hissed out, and you heard guns being drawn.

“There’s no point in hiding now.” They laughed.

“Just come out, and we’ll make your deaths… painless.” Wanda drew out a breath before speaking into your mind again.

“I’ll take their guns out while you stay here.” You went to protest in your mind.

“But Wands-"

“You don’t leave this spot until I tell you to, understand?” Sighing, you nodded. You knew that Wanda always got her way in times like this. She slowly let go of your mouth and stepped away from you, holding eye contact the whole time.

You grabbed her hand and squeezed.

“Be safe.” You mouthed out, and she squeezed back in reassurance. Wanda watched as the three agents walked past her cell, and she threw the two men against the wall with her powers.

“Hey!” the woman yelled and started shooting at Wanda, which she deflected pretty easily. She forced the gun out of her hands and she charged towards the woman.

You watched as Wanda and the woman exchanged punches, and you finally decided to make a move when you saw one of the men getting up. You ran for your sword and grabbed it, turning around only to be met with a gun to your face.

The man smiled at you with a dark glint in his eyes. “Didn’t you hear? Never bring a knife to a gun fight.”

“Are you- This isn’t a knife.” You said exasperated, and he was almost thrown off by how unfazed you seemed to be, even with a gun pointing at your head.

“It’s actually a vibranium sword, you know. Stark’s technology that you and your buddies want, oh so badly.” You mocked with a smug grin and swung at his gun, cutting it in half. His eyes went wide, and he lunged at your legs, knocking the wind out of you when you landed harshly on your back.

The man got up and straddled you, swinging the back of his hand against your face. “You little shit, you’re going to get what’s coming to you.” He swung again.

You got a grip on your sword and plunged it into the man’s leg, causing him to cry out and fall off of you. You dug it deeper until you were sure he was down and looked up in time to see the woman fly down the hallway with a red mist attached to her ankles.

You and Wanda locked eyes and smiled, relieved that you were both okay. The moment of ease was only short lived.

“Y/n!” Wanda exclaimed, and you were grabbed from behind. One arm was holding yours, bringing the sword up to your neck while the other one held your free arm behind your back.

You struggled against the man holding you, but he was bigger and stronger, and when you tried to twist out of his grip, the sword pressed onto your neck and you hissed in pain.

“Let her go!” You looked at Wanda and her eyes shone red, the mist surrounding her hands. You cried out when the man pressed the blade harder onto your neck, causing Wanda to freeze in her place, dread filling her body.

“You make one freak move and she’s dead!” The man yelled while stepping backwards. You saw the conflicted look in Wanda’s eyes when the red hue disappeared and you nodded at her.

“I’ll be fine, Wanda.” You repeated her words from earlier. The man was almost to the metal door when Sam’s redwing flew full speed at towards you and the man.

You tilted your head to the side right before it crashed into his head, causing him to go limp. The sword cut you a little more, and you fell right with him.

“Y/n!” Wanda practically flew to your side, Sam and Natasha following close behind.

“Did you all see that?! Now that’s how you do it!” Sam kicked the man to see if he was really knocked out and nodded.

Natasha and Wanda raised you to your feet, and Wanda shakily placed her hand against your throat using her powers to stop the bleeding.

“You need to stay awake, okay Y/n?” You heard Natasha speak, feeling barely able to mutter out a response.

“I-I don’t want t-to.” You whimpered as Wanda’s magic pressed into your wound more.

“I know, detka. We know, but you have to stay awake. Can you do that for us?”

You nodded and laid your head on her shoulder, squeezing your eyes shut when you all walked out of the warehouse building, Steve and Tony standing outside by the jet.

The six of you were on your way to the compound now. Wanda kept having to shock you now and then to keep you awake.

“Ow! Wanda stop.” You whined in your mind, not being able to speak out loud properly. She shook her head and did it again. You weakly slapped at her hand.

“I need to keep you awake until we can get Dr. Cho to look at you.”

Soon enough, you were once again in the medical bay, at the compound this time. Wanda and Natasha were both sitting by your bedside.

“You seriously don’t want Helen to heal the scar?” Wanda asked. You shook your head.

“If I ever get to tell this story to my kids, I would want proof.” Natasha scoffed.

“Proof of what? How you got your ass kicked?” You covered your mouth and laughed.

“No!” You giggled and traced around the bandage on your neck. “Proof that I survived.”

— Present —

“Are you telling our daughter lies about me?” You teased from the doorway of the room. Wanda laughed and turned to look at you.

“No, I’m just justifying my paranoia when it comes to you.” She said, watching as you rolled your eyes and walked closer to her.

“Well sorry for making you worry so much.” She smiled when you tucked yourself under her arm, wrapping your arms around her waist.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I worry about you, too. You know?” You confessed quietly. “All the time.”

“I know.” Wanda pulled you closer to her side. The two of you stood in comfortable silence, watching over your baby until Wanda spoke up again.

“Bedtime?” You looked up at her and leaned up for a quick but loving kiss.

“Bedtime.” You dragged her off to the bedroom after having set up the baby monitor, and now you and Wanda were both in the bathroom doing your nightly routine.

“You know, you forgot to tell the baby about all the dates I was planning on getting with the scar.” You smirked when Wanda rolled her eyes.

“And how did that work out for you?” She deadpanned.

“Oh, I got the date.” You said cheekily. “And with the only one I have ever wanted."

— Nine Years Ago —

It’s been four months since your last mission. Natasha, Steve and Tony have refused to let you on anymore until Tony finished your new suit. A new suit that would have a neck covering on it.

You complained about it to Wanda only to have her agree with them. You groaned and fell onto her bed.

“Traitor.” You mumbled out.

“Yeah, I’m so bad for wanting you safe.” She mocked and your heart skipped a beat at her words. “Now come on, get up. We need to get ready for the party tonight.”

You whined. “I don’t even want to go. Can we stay in, please?” You pouted at her and Wanda’s breath caught in her throat at how cute you were before shaking her head, looking away from you.

“It’s mandatory. Come on, don’t you want to show off your scar? Get a date?” She said through clenched teeth and you bit your bottom lip at her suddenly upset state. You decided to mess with her a bit.

“Why? Jealous? You know jealousy doesn’t really suit you, Wan.” She whipped her head around and crossed her arms. She glared at the smirk on your face.

“I’m anything but jealous. I couldn’t care less about any of those pathetic dates you want.”

Okay, that hurt and it must have showed because Wanda softened up before mumbling an apology. She turned around to her closet again.

Your brain was scrambling for something to say. Should you say sorry? Press her even further? Leave? Cry? Tell her that you’re in love with her??

Wanda froze. Oops. You might have thought that a little too loudly. Did she just-

“Wanda…” You sat up to talk, but she turned around before you could finish.

“Did you mean that?” Her face was blank, and you wanted to cry at how unreadable she was, especially after she had just heard your most vulnerable thought. “You really-"

“Yes.” You choked out, and suddenly you couldn’t hold the tears that had built up in your eyes. Wanda just stared at you with her mouth agape.

“I do. I-Is that okay? I don’t-" A sob cut you off and you turned away from Wanda to get ahold of yourself. This was definitely not how you wanted this to go. You really would have preferred if it didn’t “go” at all.

You felt the bed behind you shift and you waited for the “I love you but not in that way” speech you always imagined you’d get from Wanda when this day came.

Instead, you got a soft hand on your shoulder, and you stiffened at the contact.

“Y/n…” Wanda pulled at your shoulder and you reluctantly turned around and sat with your knees to your chest in front of her. You stared down at the space between you guys, sniffling and roughly wiping at your tears with the sleeves of your shirt.

“Look at me, please?” You childishly turned your head away as if to tell her you weren’t going to look at her. She sighed and concealed a smile at your stubbornness.

“Detka,” You almost caved when the nickname rolled so sweetly off of her tongue. “I want you to look at me when I tell you I love you, too.” Your eyes went wide as they landed on Wanda before they lowered again.

“L-like how I love you?” You asked timidly, scared she was just trying to let you down gently. “I don’t love you like how I love Natasha or Sam. I love you like-"

“I’m in love with you, Y/n.” She rushed out and gave you a soft smile. “I think since we’ve met.” Wanda grabbed your hands and sat closer to you.

“I remember that day like it was yesterday because it was the day my life changed for the better. I saved you, and I remember thinking that that was something I wanted to do forever. Protecting you.” You laughed.

“Really? I seemed that fragile to you?” Wanda playfully rolled her eyes and tried to keep the smile that was forming off of her face.

“No. I don’t know why, but I just felt this need to get to know you, to be there for you. And so I did, and I fell in love. Fast, but I didn’t mind.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was you. You just brought me this never ending comfort that made me feel safe when falling for you, you know?”

You started crying again. “Wanda…” You whined, and she laughed. “You’re making me cry. I mean, how am I ever going to top that speech?” She rolled her eyes playfully and smiled.

“I can think of a few ways.” Her eyes darted to your lips and your face burned when you realized what she wanted. You shifted, so you were in front of her on your knees and you held her face in her hands.

“I don’t have a lot of experience.” You mumbled.

“Then let me guide you.” She said before pulling your lips down to hers.

Your eyes instinctively fluttered shut as you surrendered to her control. She pulled you into her lap without breaking the kiss and her tongue swiped at your bottom lip. You gasped at her squeezing your hips and she slipped her tongue in your mouth.

You moaned when she deepened the kiss and pulled you flush against her. You tried conveying just how much you felt about the witch, since words had failed you before. You followed her movements and pulled her even closer, wanting nothing more than for her to invade all of your senses completely.

Your hands tangled in her hair, not at all caring when you started to feel lightheaded from the loss of air. But then Wanda slowly pulled away from you and your eyes stayed closed, too blissed out to even think straight.

Her giggling pulled you back to reality, and you looked at her with a toothy grin. “How was that?” She asked.

“Good.” Wanda quirked an eyebrow at you, her hands raising to your sides.

“Just good?” Before you could answer, she started tickling you and pushed you backwards to the bed to keep you in place. You threw your head back and squealed, trying to push her off.

“Wanda! S-stop.” A loud laugh cut you off. “I-It was better t-than good! It was am-” You almost yelled when she didn’t stop. “Amazing!” She finally gave you a break and held herself up by her arms as you laid there panting.

“That’s what I thought.” Your eyes bore into hers and you couldn’t keep the smile off of your face. You wrapped your arms around her neck and pulled her down to you, kissing her until you were both breathless again.

The party you guys had to attend was long forgotten by the end of the night.

— Present —

“Remember when we told Nat about us?” You sighed as you pulled Wanda down to the bed.

“Yes, you were a bit dramatic, weren’t you?” You pushed her away from you.

“Don’t even. I was overwhelmed with all of my emotions.” Wanda barked out a laugh before pulling you back into her.

— Nine Years Ago —

“We just wanted to tell you that we’ve been dating for a couple of weeks now.”

Natasha just looked between the two of you with no expression.

“You guys are… kidding, right?” You furrowed your eyebrows as your mind went to the worst place.

Did she not accept that? Was she mad? You hated making Natasha mad. She was like your best friend mixed with an older sister and you didn’t want to lose her in any way. Wanda noticed you weren’t going to say anything, so she did.

“No, why? Is there something wrong with that?” She crossed her arms out of defense for the two of you, and Natasha softened up.

“No, I just thought you guys have been dating. For like, years now.”

“Nat, we’ve only known each other for two.”

“Exactly!” She laughed. “How have you guys not gotten together sooner?”

“You’re not mad?” They both focused on you. Your nervous habits not going unnoticed by the two of them. Fingers fiddling in your lap, leg bouncing up and down as you avoided eye contact. Wanda put her hand on yours to calm you down, and you looked at Natasha. Your nerves instantly easing at the sight of her comforting smile.

“Of course not. I’m happy for you guys, really.”

You jumped forward and gave her a hug.

“Thank you.” You breathed out. She looked at Wanda confused before wrapping her arms around you.

“For what?” She asked, and you pulled away to look at her.

“For accepting me.”

“Y/n you don’t have to thank me-"

“I do.” You cut her off. “I have to thank you for everything. For recruiting me, giving me this home instead of sending me to off to some kind of jail, for being my friend, and for being my mentor in not only training but in life.”

She was taken aback by your sudden admission of how much you appreciated her. And Natasha, the woman who doesn’t do well with emotional talks, didn’t know what to say.

“Uhm… O-of course, Y/n.” She wanted to tell you how much she appreciated you too, but she didn’t know how.

You gave her one last hug before sitting back down by Wanda’s side. You looked sheepishly at the two before lowering your gaze.

“Sorry. Your opinion just really matters to me.” You said, and Natasha straightened up her posture, all the vulnerability making her feel weird. Nice, but weird.

“Good, at least I know you listen to me then.” You rolled your eyes and Natasha looked towards Wanda.

“If you hurt her, Maximoff…” Your girlfriend had a case of deja vu when Natasha gave her that same threatening look from two years ago.

“You know I won’t.” Wanda knew Natasha thought back to the same day by the look on her face, and they both shared a knowing smile.

— Present —

“Huh.” You took in Wanda’s words. “So that’s why you guys had that weird look on your faces.” You shifted on the bed so you could rest your head on your hand, looking at Wanda.

“You know…” You trailed your fingers lightly over her collarbone. “You never did hurt me.”

“I did make a promise not to. I wasn’t the only one who always wanted to protect you.” You smiled sadly while trying to stop the tears that were forming in your eyes.

“I know.” You whispered before laying back down by Wanda, the tears finally falling. “I miss her.”

You choked out a sob and Wanda pulled you into her arms where you always felt safe enough to just let go.

— Three Years Ago —

“Let go, Y/n.”

“Nat, no! We can find another way, please.” You cried out when Natasha’s hand started slipping from your tight hold.

When you first became friends with Natasha, you were sure she was going to be the godmother to your child. Your bridesmaid at your wedding, the neighbor to your first home with your wife.

But of course, as an Avenger those types of things are never guaranteed.

Which is why you were now sobbing for her to hold on while she was doing everything she could to let go. To sacrifice herself for the world, for her family, for Wanda.

It had been five years without Wanda. without half of the universe. Although you would do anything to bring them all back, you didn’t think having to lose your best friend was on the list of those things.

But it was.

“There isn’t one, Y/n. It’ll be okay.” She nodded when you shook your head. A single tear fell down her face, and it only made your chest ache even more. You’ve never seen her cry before. Not once.

“I can’t lose you too, Nat. Please.” Natasha gave you a sad smile.

“I’m sorry, I love you.” She said before kicking herself away from the cliff, effectively pulling her hand out of your grasp causing her to fall towards the ground. You don’t even remember if you screamed her name or if you just went numb when it happened. You can only recall that one second you were staring at your best friend’s lifeless body, and the next you were alone with the Soul Stone in hand.

And you returned home with a heavy heart.

— Present —

“Shh… You’re okay, detka. I’ve got you.” Wanda had now maneuvered the two of you so she was leaning against the headboard with you on her lap. You were calming down now, but still let quiet sobs out while you clutched onto Wanda’s shirt.

“She- I didn’t even get to say ‘I love you’ back.” You buried yourself further into your wife while she held you.

“I know, baby. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” It hurt Wanda to see you like this. She knew a lot about losing someone close to you. How it felt to lose your family, and it was a pain she wouldn’t wish on her own enemies. So seeing you like this tore her apart.

“If it helps, I know that Natasha knows how much you love her too. I mean, we did name our daughter after her.” Your lips curled up into a smile. You let out a sound between a laugh and a sob before sitting up in Wanda’s lap to look into her eyes.

Her hands came up to wipe your tears away, thumbs brushing your cheekbones lightly.

“I wish Talia could meet her.” You sniffled and Wanda nodded. “She would have really liked her I think.”

“I think she would have loved her, just like she loved you.” You smiled and leaned in to give her a long, soft kiss, your hands moving to rest on her shoulders. She responded to it immediately, and her hands moved down to your waist. She hummed as you pulled away.

“What was that for?” Your hands lightly brushed against her neck and you shrugged.

“For everything. A thank you for always being so understanding and patient with me, for always knowing what to say. I love you.” She blushed, and you smiled.

“You don’t have to thank me for those things, my love. It’s easy to be so patient and understanding when you do the same for me. When you love me like how I love you.”

“That I do.”

The two of you sat in silence for a while, just enjoying the other’s company and touch. You had your head on Wanda’s shoulder now, you placed gentle kisses on her neck here and there, to which she would respond with a kiss on your head.

She was humming a song now, and you smiled when you realized it was the song you guys had danced to at your wedding.

You loved these moments with Wanda. No words were said, but you both knew exactly what the other was feeling just by the emotions you poured into our affections. It was your favorite thing about being in love, and married to her. That, and the daughter the two of you now had together, and the home you three shared. The home where your long, complicated story would continue to go on.

[din-miller]

Hey, I humbly ask for the bad batch x femreader (separately) who has muscles? Like she's super insecure about them because she feels like she can't wear anything nice because she looks to bulky?

Fluff or smut it's up to you!

❤️

Ooohhh that’s a cool ask. I’ve never really had toned muscles so this was a challenge to do in a sense that I don’t have those insecurities about my body. Hopefully for those badasses who do, I didn’t completely fumble this ask.

Insecurities Get Us All, Just Thought You Should Know

Pairing: The Bad Batch x Female Reader

Words: all together is 3.8k

Warnings: 18+, implications to sexy times, Crosshair’s is spicy, insecurity, female reader, talks about how women should be soft and feminine for male pleasure, ugh, our boys will step on those men

A/N: unfortunately after spending two days thinking about how to do Echo’s part, I gave up. He will be missed. Crosshairs part is maybe (?) a little rough around the edges but I really struggle with his character. Tech loses the ability to speak with big words because you know, women with muscles leave us speechless. Dividers by @saradika

WRECKER

You stare at the dress in your hand – if you can even call it such – and wonder if you could get away with murder; more specifically the murder of one trandoshan.

While you tend to hate the missions she sends you and the Batch on, this one definitely is on top of the hatred list. You turn the dress around, eyes taking in all the straps that make up a complicated crisscross pattern, a poor excuse for a back. The dress is floor length, more elegant than daring, looser than fitting but it’s sleeveless.

It’s not ugly, the deep shade of purple is stunning to be honest. It’s just that, well it highlights the part of yourself that you keep hidden under baggy clothes. Your arms have always been an issue for you. Out of all the boys only Hunter and Wrecker’s arms are bigger than yours. The former just barely.

You were admittedly scared at first when the boys saw your bare arms. You had expected them to judge you, make fun of you, but instead they asked about your workout routine. It mostly involves saving their asses and a hundred pushups before bed.

They let you feel free to unapologetically be yourself, muscles and all. But this isn’t a hot afternoon or a Sunday swim. This is a stupid mission to a sneezy cantina.

A knock at the ‘fresher door startled you. Cid had allowed you to use her private fresher to change. The only people who’d be knocking is her, Omega, or the boys.

“One second.” You call out realising that you’re still standing naked in the room save for your undergarments.

You get to work changing, slipping the dress over your head before realising that was a mistake and you’re now stuck tangled up in the fabric. You try wiggling your body, shifting your arms as much as you can but nothing proved helpful. You’re one hundred percent stuck.

You must have made a noise because the knocking is back followed by a concerned voice, “Everything okay in there?”

Wrecker.

Sweat, loving, Wrecker.

Wrecker who playfully challenges you to arm wrestling matches despite knowing he’ll win every time. Never once making a stupid comment like if you were a man you’d be able to beat him. Wrecker, who has never made any negative or cruel comments about your appearance.

Wrecker, the man you’re oh so helplessly in love with.

The man who has never seen you in a dress, who has never once seen anything bare except your arms. That’s about to change now ‘cause there is no way you’re going to be able to get unstuck without ripping the dress. So, you swallow your pride; “I think I need help-,”

“Help? Are you hurt? Wait there, I’ll go get Tech-,”

“No, I’m not hurt. Well maybe my pride is a little,” You grunt, trying to free yourself because honestly this is not how you imagined Wrecker helping you with your clothing. No, he’d be taking them off, not putting them on, “I’m stuck.”

“Oh,” Wrecker clears his throat, sounding lost, “Do you want me to come in?”

“You can, but I’m sorta…” You frown, trying to figure out the best word, “Indecent.”

Wrecker cleared his throat again, this time a little louder, “Oh, you’re naked. I can go get Cid.”

“No! You send her in here and she’ll be coming back out in a body bag,” You warn him, completely truthful, “And I’m not naked, I have underwear on. Look it’s okay, I can get one of the other boys-,”

“Yeah, that’s not happenin’.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m going to unlock the door. Is anyone else out there?” You ask, unlocking the door for him, a little awkwardly as you can’t move your arms without your entire upper body going with. You had to bend at the waist and blindly find the doorknob.

You hear shuffling from the other side, footsteps coming closer until they stop just shy of the door. You can see the silhouette of Wrecker’s boots, “No, just me. ‘sides I wouldn’t let anyone see ya half dressed. Bad enough some besom is going to eyein’ you all night like you’re some slab of meat.”

Your stomach turns unpleasantly at the thought of being subjected to lust gazes all night long, so you push away all thoughts about the mission and the foal men before they can consume you. One fear at a time.

You relax your arms, making sure you don’t flex. Good practice for tonight you think bitterly and move away from the door to let him in. He was quick, door closing hot on his heels. You avoid his gaze, not wanting to see the look of disgust as he takes in your muscular body. Thankfully nothing private is showing, leaving you with some modesty.

Your hands are stuck in the air, trapped by fabric and straps, the gown part of the dress is bunched up around your waist, leaving just enough fabric to cover your private part.

You keep your eyes on the wall in front of you as you try to ease the awkward tension in the air, “Didn’t Hunter ban you from using such foal words?”

“Only in front of Omega.” He replies, stepping in close and his fingers trail down your arm, from your elbow to your shoulder where the straps all twist together.

The first brush of his fingertips against your shoulder blade has your knees going weak. His breath is hot against your neck as he asks, “Got a reference to how this is ‘posed to go?”

“Oh, yeah I think the package had one actually,” You half-blindly search for the package before handing it to him, “Here.”

Wrecker studies the picture for a few seconds before giving a small ‘aha’, “I think I understand.”

His hands are back on you, warm and welcoming as he works in silence, occasionally grunting when a finger gets tangled up in the straps. In those moments you snort and he gently pinches your side in response.

Either the dress is more complicated than you originally thought or Wrecker is going at a snails pace – almost like he’s milking the closeness and skin on skin contact for all its worth. You hope it’s the latter and you’re not hopelessly reading into the way his fingers are caressing your skin even though the task at hand doesn’t call for such loving touches.

“There, all done.”

“Thank you.” You give an experimental wiggle of your shoulders to make sure the straps stay in place for tonight before rewarding Wrecker with a kiss on the cheek before thinking better of it.

Realising what you had just done, you hastily turn away, missing the dorky awestruck expression on his face, and in your turn you catch your reflection and oh.

Your arms, well, they’re not hard to miss. Your eyes are drawn to them, impossible not to see. You don’t necessarily hate your muscles, they’re what have kept you alive. You don’t survive a war ridden galaxy by having noodle arms. It’s just seeing them on display like this, for people to see and judge you, mock you, it’s too much.

If it wasn’t for your arms you’d actually consider yourself attractive in this entire – or at least attractive in the eyes of men.

The rest of the dress is flowy, with a little support for your breast, but other than your arms it highlights no other muscular features your body has. Still you try to make yourself appear smaller, more feminine, but it’s not working and your stomach is starting to turn again unforgivingly.

In the mirror you catch Wrecker taking small steps towards you, “Any chance you’ll let me know what’s going on in your head, mesh’la?”

You give a deep sigh, “Cid picked the wrong person for the job. Slap some lipstick on Crosshair and he’d get more attention than I would. How am I supposed to seduce anyone when I look like a hairless lasat? The moment I step foot in the cantina all eyes will be on me but none of them will see me, you know?”

The corner of Wrecker’s lips tilt down, sadness brief in his eyes before he shakes his head and pulls you back into his embrace, taking you by surprise but you melt against his chest all the same.

“You know what I see?” His arms come to wrap around you, hands locking together over your stomach, “I see strength. Arms that are strong to carry your kin to safety. I see warmth and comfort; a safe place to rest, to be held. I see a strong beautiful woman. I see you.”

You gasp, eyes wide and locking onto Wrecker’s for a split second before turning in his arms and pulling his head down to catch his plush lips in your own. Wrecker lets out a startled noise before moaning softly against your lips, arms wrapping around you to pull you in closer to his body.

His mouth separate from yours for a brief second and mirth colours his next few words, “If you need help taking off your dress-,”

“Oh, I will.”

HUNTER

You flop yourself in bed, body aching in every sense possible. You hadn’t even done much. A simple supply run, nothing too demanding of your body but lo and behold your leg decided to cramp up and you did the entire walk back to the ship trying your best to mask the limp you took with every step. If Omega had seen you struggling she’d immediately call Hunter and Hunter would get Tech, who would tell Wrecker to carry you back to the ship, where Crosshair would be waiting seemingly indifferent about your pain but he’d hover over you nonetheless.

It would be an absolute shit show.

So you hid the pain until you got back to your private bunk, or the small storage room that has been rearranged to house you, you should say. Your plan for the night is to sulk away and hope the cramp eases up through the night.

The worst part is that in your hurry to get back to the ship and lay down, you forgot to stop and restock the ship’s supply of heat packs. Something that would most certainly come in handy right about now.

A knock comes from the door and you groan. The last thing you want right now is company. Knowing that shooing whoever it is away would only result in the entirety of the Batch piling into your room to make sure you're okay, you have no choice but yell for them to come in.

Hunter – of course it’s Hunter – peeks his head through the door before stepping all the way in, “Hey, can I come in?”

“It’s your ship.” You point out, straightening yourself to sit up properly on your bed.

“We both know it’s Tech,” He laughs, stepping into your room, face turning serious for a moment, “Omega said you were walking funny earlier. Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You should know by now that you can’t hide anything from me. You also should know that I don’t like it when you try too. We’re an allit, which means we take care of each other.”

“Even if that person in dumb and forgot to get supplies that could actually help them manage the pain?” You ask, self blaming as you start massaging your leg. No point in hiding the cramps now.

“Especially then,” Hunter states before dropping down beside you. He shifts himself until his back is against the wall, sitting himself upright before laying your legs on his lap, “Crosshair gets really bad cramps. I learned a long time ago how to rub the knots out. Allow me?”

Hyper aware he can feel your muscles under his fingertips you hold your breath waiting for a comment that never comes. His fingers tuck themselves under the hem of your sweats, rolling them up the slightest as he asks, “May I? It’ll help if I roll your pant leg up so I can see the knots clearer.”

You swallow around the lump forming in the back of your throat. May he? Could you push away your fear of judgement to receive help? Your legs are the most muscular part of your body for you were raised in a small village, no public transport, everything was in appropriate walking distance from your house. And now running with the Batch you’re on your feet more than ever. Always trying to stay one foot ahead of imperials. It’s no wonder why your leg is throbbing.

“I’m sorry,” Hunter's hands leave your leg, “I obviously overstepped.”

“It’s fine,” You say meekly, willing your body to relax in his embrace. He gives you a look and you sigh, “Truthfully, my legs are seen as unattractive in some beauty cultures and I don’t feel like hearing snide comments right now.”

“Unattractive?” He repeats, brows drawn together as he takes a second to sort his thoughts. His lips eventually purse together briefly before nodding slightly, “You are incredibly well built, it’s something I find admirable about you. You’re fast, saved our asses a few times in battle because of these muscles in your legs, and that’s not to be taken lightly. I don’t know what ‘beauty standards’ you were raised with but I find your body to be very attractive, mesh’la.”

You study him for a minute, “You’re being honest.” It’s not a question, more of an observation and you are a bit taken back, “It truly doesn’t bother you that I’m built like a lasat?”

“A lasat? I wasn’t aware you only have four toes.” The amusement in his tone has you rolling your eyes. His hands return to your leg and he gives a reassuring squeeze, “If you allow me to continue, once I’ve got all the knots out, I’d love to take you out for dinner and maybe afterwards I could show you just how attractive you truly are.”

You grin, laying your head down in the crook of his neck as you watch his hand slide your pants up, “I’d love nothing more.”

TECH

“You should not have done that,” Tech scowls at you, arranging the necessary medical tools, “It was reckless and could have been avoidable.”

You’d wave his scowling off if the action didn’t cause your body to scream in protest. He’s right, you could have totally avoided showing off your impressive speaker skills – or at least not fail at jumping that ramp.

It could have been worse. The scanner picked up no broken bones, just a deep laceration on your stomach and some small ones paired with bruises that’ll bloom into some nasty colours. You had shredded your pants in the crash too, the fabric now hanging loosely in some places.

Tech sets his jaw and orders you to lift up your shirt, “I need to flush your wounds before applying any bacta.”

Panic floods your body, “No.”

Tech brows rose ever so slightly, just visible above his goggles, “No? What do you mean by no?”

“No, I will not lift my shirt up.” You will not allow him to see your less than feminine body. Will not face the hard truth that the man you’re crushing on is repulsed by your body. You would not survive it.

Tech, oblivious to your inward panic plainly states, “You do realise that in order for me to stop the bleeding and clean the cut so it doesn’t get infected, I need access to the wound?”

Honestly, bleeding out is better than Tech seeing your stomach. You don’t necessarily have abs, not like Hunter. You’re built more like Wrecker; big bodied. Far from soft and delicate. Never feminine like the girls in the holo movies.

Tech gently lays his hand on your arm, tilting your head up with his other, eyes holding yours hard like his next words are the most important he’ll ever say, “If you’re afraid I may try to take advantage of you in your undress state, I can call one of the boys-,”

“No!” You yell, desperately needing him to know that’s not true, not even close, “That didn’t even cross my mind. I trust you, Tech.”

His body relaxes at your words, “Then I see no reason for me not to clean the wound.”

You draw your bottom lip between your teeth and admit defeat. You pull your shirt up enough for the wound to be visible but not high enough for Tech to see your chest band. Your body is tense, awaiting an insult that normally comes by now. But instead Tech makes a noise at the back of his throat, an audible swallowing sound followed with a quiet ‘oh’.

You don’t dare to look at his face.

“I’m sorry.”

Tech doesn’t try to gain eye contact this time. He gently wipes away the dry blood flaked on your skin, “For pulling the stunt or getting hurt?”

“For worrying you,” You softly say, tone apologetic, “And for you having to stare at my stomach. I’m sure you could be spending your time fixing the ship or watching holo videos of twi’lek.”

Tech blushes at the last part, “I don’t indulge in such videos. And while I do find twi’leks’ pleasing to the eye, my ‘taste’ is, well,” His eyes linger in your bare skin, darkening a little when you flex your stomach, “You. Not just your body, but your mind, your personality. You’re beautiful, strong, caring. Any man would be lucky to have you as a partner.”

“Any man?” You ask, lips turning up, finally meeting his eyes. You lean in close to his body, taking the medical equipment from his hands and set them aside, “Does that include you?”

Tech adjusts his goggles, lips holding a shy smile, “Most definitely.”

There’s a dull ache in your stomach when you lean up to kiss him but you don’t care. The softness of his lips and the way he draws in a sharp inhale makes it worth it.

CROSSHAIR

“You have to be kriffing kidding me!” You huff, kicking the side of the dryer, “Echo said he fixed this blasted machine.”

Behind you came a snort, “He did. That’s him fixing it.”

You raise a brow at Crosshair, “Not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying too,” He quips, toothpick switching from one side of his mouth to the other, “You could borrow one of our shirts. Wrecker’s would be too big for you and Tech is very picky about his clothing.”

“And Echo’s are specially designed to regulate his body temperature. I’d sweat to death in the first hour.” You sigh, that leaves you with two options: Hunter’s or–

“Take one of mine for the day,” Crosshair says, deciding for you as one of his shirts hits you straight in the face, “Oops, I was aiming for your chest.”

“Sharpshooter my ass.” You grumble under your breath and wait for Crosshair to turn away. The clone raises a brow, smirk on his lips as he cocks his head, gesturing for you to start changing. You give him the middle finger as he finally turns away from you, mumbling something under his breath about missing a good show.

Bastard.

You take off the shirt you’re currently wearing, nose scrunching up at the stench soaked into the fabric. You easily manage to slip your head through the neck hole but as you insert your arm into the sleeve you realise it’s much tighter than your baggier clothing, leaving you with a challenge. You eventually get both arms through but when you pull your shoulders forward a loud rip sounds through the small corner of the ship.

Crosshair’s ears twitch and his head turns a fraction to the side, not fully able to see you, “Did you just rip my shirt, cyar’ika?”

That’s a question you’re afraid to find the answer to. Nonetheless you slowly lift your arm up and wince at the slight breeze you feel on your skin. You bite down on your lip, eyes shifting to the hanger door and you wonder if you could escape without Crosshair catching you.

“Don’t even attempt it,” Crosshair huffs, “I’m going to turn around now.”

You stand frozen, holding your breath waiting for him to snap at you or worse, make a snide comment about how a ladies arms should never be bigger than a mans.

Crosshair's face holds no telltale sign of what he’s thinking as he take in the ripped fabric and the places where the hems are starting to come apart at the seams as your muscles threaten to rip the fabric even more.

His eyes go dark and he starts walking towards you, following as you take steps back until your back presses against the wall behind you. You swallow audibly, unsure of how this is going to turn out, “Crosshair? You have every right to be mad-,”

His left hand slams against the wall beside your head, palm flat on the wood whilst the other hand comes to your arm and squeezes the muscles over your shirt.

“If you wanted me to look at your arms you could have just told me and saved a good shirt from being ripped,” He chided, hand slowly trailing down your arm, “I see fear in your eyes, none of that, cyar’ika. I’m not like those osi’kovid who feel threatened by the strength of a woman.”

His legs nudge yours apart, leg slipping into the gap he created and presses his thigh against your core. His fingers slip under the bottom of your shirt – his shirt – to pull it over your head but the fabric doesn’t bunch, seemingly glued to your muscles. With an annoyed grunt Crosshair tears the shirt down the middle, no longer caring about seeing if it’s salvageable.

“A woman like you should be worshipped,” He whispers into your ear, teeth grazing against the flesh, pulling a whimper from you. He pulls back, a cocky smirk on his face before he’s dropping to his knees, “Allow me to taste you, to feel your strong thighs squeezing around my head as I bring you pleasure a true man could only hope to achieve.”

Your head is spinning; everything is happening so fast, your pussy begins gathering arousal between your folds as Crosshair breaths promises against your clothed sex. His words are unlike him, different from anything you’ve heard before. No snappish tone, only plain lust.

Of course, Crosshair is Crosshair, and the next second his eyes dance with mirth as his fingers slip under the band of your pants, “Don’t worry, I’ll be fucking that shock look off your face soon enough. Bend you over all surfaces until you're drunk on my cock, begging for more.”

[writingquestionsanswered]

Hey, I have a question about backstoires, like- for oc's in a story or a roleplay. My question is: What do you do when you feel like you have too much going on in your backstory, but it's still not enough to represent your theme and your character's origin?

Really need help on this, and I love this blog, so please help me if you can!!!

Too Much Going on In Back Story

I just want to start by clarifying that "OC" means "original character" and is only used to differentiate author-created characters from canon characters. So, we only use the term "OC" when talking about fan-fiction, roleplay, literary spin-offs, or sometimes in historical fiction. Otherwise, if a story contains no canon characters (meaning no characters belonging to source material), all the characters are presumably original, so we instead use just characters, main characters, etc.

In fan-fiction and roleplay, since you are working with an original character who is playing against canon characters, you do want to be careful about overdoing the backstory. We want our OCs to be supah speshul so they shine alongside the canon characters--or stand out against the OCs of other roleplayers--but the temptation is usually to go really overboard, and that's a problem because we actually don't want our OCs to overpower canon characters or other roleplayer characters. People are complicated, sure, but we're not that complicated. The important things about your character should be able to be boiled down into a backstory that's not overblown and inflated. So, look at everything you have so far and be honest with yourself about what really needs to be there. For every element, ask, "If I take this away, will readers still understand this character?" For anything where the answer isn't a resounding "yes," you can probably ditch it.

In original fiction, we have a little more wiggle room to have bigger back stories, but we still need to make sure another character's back story doesn't outshine the protagonist's back story. And we still need to make sure most of what's there needs to be there. Once again, you can ask yourself "does this need to be here in order for the reader to understand the story?" Or, in other words, if you take the element away, is there anything in the story that won't make sense? If not, you can generally ditch it.

I hope that helps!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[gffa]

I know this has been talked about many times before, but I still don't know what we are supposed to think of Padmé's actions when she comforts Anakin after he confesses to murder in cold blood. He feels guilty and all, but he continues his shitty behavior even before he became Darth Vader, and then does it again. It's just hard for me to see Padmé as some sort of saint in that scene. And are we even supposed to see it that way anyway? There's no official answer, which makes it all the more mind boggling to me. When people say she forgave and did the right thing, it's seems unjustified because he still did it, he regretted it, but he also said "I hate them". Idk I'm sorry if this is too long. I just have a lot of thoughts on this scene.

Hi! For me, I've settled into a balance between "there's no hard narrative intention here, so I just have to let it go" and "here's my best guess at a look into what little has been said about her" and "here's what makes sense to me as someone speculating about her character on my own". I think it comes down to two things: 1) Natalie Portman's comment about how Padme thinks she can save Anakin as a motivation for her character and 2) that as complicated as it can be in some ways, the Tuskens were written in an extremely racist way, especially in that their deaths do not register with Lucas the same way other races/cultures would. Which means that while this should be a point-of-no-return moment for Anakin's character, while it should be recognize that he's murdering children here (and I do think that's meant to have weight, that the dialogue specifies he knows he's killing innocent lives), I don't think the narrative fully does so, and instead treats it as his "first step" onto the path of darkness, one that he can come back from. And I do think a lot of that comes from Lucas, much as I applaud him for being progressive in other ways and genuinely seems like someone who was trying to do better, does portray real world elements in a racist way in the movie, they're treated as less than human here. (I will say that Padme also is willing to take Anakin back even after he murders the Jedi younglings, so there's a little wiggle room here, in the way she reacts, but the racism is pretty undeniable and a big motivation here.) But because the narrative and the author don't treat his murder of the Tuskens as a point of no return, Padme can't treat his murder of them as a point of no return, so instead her reactions are based on the idea that, yes, this was bad, but it was something that still left good in him and she's trying to reach out to that good, she's trying to save him. As much fun as it is to examine these characters from a more realistic lens, so much of Star Wars makes a lot more sense when you consider what Lucas was going for on a thematic level--in a lot of ways, Padme isn't written for herself, she's written as a baromter of where Anakin is at. When she comforts him, it's because we're meant to see Anakin in a place of emotional turmoil. When she backs away from him on Mustafar, we're meant to see him as having crossed a line, unwilling to come back. When she says, "There's still good in him." on Polis Massa, we're meant to understand there's a glimmer of hope for the far-off future. I don't think it's really about Padme's character at all, I think she's written--as SO MANY of the elements of Star Wars are--to be an extension of Anakin's character, because the story of Star Wars is the story of Anakin Skywalker. I love love love some of the excellent meta that examines these scenes through the lens of what Padme is thinking and feeling and what her character arc is about. And I may be being uncharitable to the writing for her, but it's largely where I've settled just so I can stop itching over it. For me, I don't think Padme was "right" or "wrong" on Tatooine, I don't think we're meant to see Padme as any kind of saint. I think she's balanced between "Padme thinks she can save Anakin, but ultimately she cannot, Anakin has to be the one to choose to come back himself" and "Padme is basically a symbolic dark side meter, as so many of the characters in SW are symbolic of various aspects of Anakin".

[frogwiththephatahh]

I don't like Murder Drones...but I can't stop watching it

Okay, OBJECTIVELY...Murder Drones is bad. Like on a fundamental level. It's lore is too complicated and doesn't get explained well in the show itself, the characters are bland and most of them are unlikable, the voice direction can be a hit or miss, and overall it's written very poorly.

If you're just watching the show for the first time, going in completely blind, it is impossible to understand. Because the show wants to "show, don't tell" and honestly THAT'S GOOD! The issue is...this lore is too complicated to NOT tell. Hiding extremely important details in dimly lit backgrounds was a poor choice. I would be forgiving if lighting or camera direction brought attention to certain details, but the entire show is usually pretty dark and there's nothing eye catching about them that makes it clear "this element is important and I should look at it." The first time I watched Murder Drones all the way through, I then had to go watch like two hours of theory and explanation videos made by people who either 1. stay caught up on outside sources (interviews, forums, team social media, etc.) or 2. went through the entire series and meticulously analyzed every background to get the full story.

Don't get me wrong, it is perfectly acceptable to hide secrets and details in your backgrounds and environments. But not key information necessary for understanding the core elements of the show.

Also, a lot of important context is left out of episodes. I was so confused when I finished episode two, came back to episode three, and Uzi had superpowers. Important decisions and conversations characters have are done off screen. I understand this is probably because of budget and time constraints, but I also understand that Glitch gives their creators a LOT of creative freedoms to tell the story they need to tell in the amount of time they need to tell it. And Murder Drones is a series that definitely needed the wiggle room to explore its own ideas.

Now, the thing that REALLY made me almost turn this show off entirely...the characters. The writing of the characters is bad. Like...infuriatingly bad. This is because the show wants to "tell, don't show" with their characters. Which you should never do. ESPECIALLY with your main characters.

I do not need to be told three times an episode that Uzi is an "angsty teen." I got that when in her very first scene she brings a gun to her school. I do not need to be told how cute and nice N is. I got that when he mistakes Uzi for another disassembly drone and immediately starts acting chipper around her. I probably would have enjoyed Uzi's character a lot more if the show wasn't insistent on making her only notable trait "troubled kid."

And yes, I understand that Uzi refers to herself as an angsty teen because it's how she wants to be perceived. It is still very annoying. And she is not the only character that essentially walks up to the camera, says "hello, this is my name, and this is my character trait," and then walks away.

And all the characters who aren't Uzi or N fall into three catagories: Mean, Stupid, or Forgettable. And a lot of them are in more than one! You could not pay me to care about J, Uzi's dad, or really any of the other robots in the colony. And the show doesn't care about them!

Episode 4: Cabin Fever is the worst instance of this. (Vague Spoilers ahead) A vast majority of Uzi's classmates are killed off in this episode. In pretty gruesome ways. BY UZI. And the show passes it off as a lighthearted compilation of Monster!Uzi showing off her powers. Now, I know these are nothing characters. Most of them don't even have names. But they are still Uzi's CLASSMATES. People she grew up with. And yeah, she didn't get along with them, but we saw before this episode that, despite how much she claims not to, Uzi cares for others. She has a sense of morality. It's out of character and honestly pretty jarring to see her...not give a shit about murdering her own classmates.

It's a strange trait to give a character whose main goal is stopping the end of the world, is what I'm trying to say.

Clearly, I have a lot of problems with this show. Problems I don't have time to name here, or problems I just forgot about because there are so many of them.

So why do I love this show??

It has a saving grace. I can forgive the bad writing, the shitty characters, the nonsensical lore...because the art direction is just that good.

This show is gorgeous. It has amazing backgrounds and sets, appealing character designs, camera direction that's so good it should be in a cinema...it's a nice show to look at.

Despite having mostly the same base builds, every character (except V and J but that just might be me idk I can never tell them apart) looks entirely different and can be picked easily out of a crowd. The monster designs ESPECIALLY are what kept me coming back over and over again.

Despite everything I've just said, I do think Liam Vickers is extremely talented when it comes to animation and art. He was a storyboard artist before becoming a show runner for Glitch and Murder Drones SHOWS THAT. There were shots in MD that literally took my breath away. His character designs are also amazing. I especially loved the elements he brought over from Cliffside and gave to Cyn/Absolute Solver.

Having robot characters with LED screens for eyes that they can use to emote or even write messages for one another is genius. Having the main antagonist kill her human master and WEAR HER SKIN is crazy and I love it. Giving the robots a virus that can pass on genetically is also a really cool concept for humanized androids.

Although scenes are often darkly lit, because the characters have parts on them that literally glow, it's easier to pick them out.

The action scenes are phenominal as well, and have so much thought put into them. Characters like Uzi, Cyn, and uhhh the russian one I don't remember her name oh god being able to pick up and throw objects in their environment makes for really interesting and creative fight scenes. The anatomy of the disassembly drones also seem purposefully tailored for fight scenes. With hands that can shift into weapons, tails with poisoned barbs on the end, and huge, sharp wings, the murder drones have a LOT of different tactics they can use in a fight.

In conclusions: Murder Drones can best be enjoyed by turning your brain off and watching the pretty colors. And somehow it works.

[ladysomething]

not the same anon and i agree that Charles shouldn't be GROVELLING.. but like.. he isn't completely faultless either is he..? poor Max. traumatised beyond repair by his own father and no matter how hard he has tried to unlearn everything so far, it has not amounted to much. he has to still beg for forgiveness for essentially wanting to protect the person he loves even when said person ripped his heart apart because he was never taught how to love the right way.

god i love how deliciously complicated all of this is. cannot wait for the next arc of this story to unfold !

He’s definitely not faultless! Charles has a couple things to apologise for, absolutely.

Max just … has more to apologise for than Charles, even though his intentions were good.

The way I kind of think about it is like … if we take the fact that it’s MAX out of it … would anybody expect Charles to apologise for what he’s done if it was to, say, Mattia? If Mattia had done what Max did to Charles, people would want him drawn and quartered.

But, of course, this is a romance and not a treatise on abuse, so there’s wiggle room, right?

And Max DOES have good intentions, even if he executed them so, so poorly. So he deserves some understanding.

Ultimately, in my opinion, this is not about either of them grovelling. This is about them finding their way to meet in the middle.

Max needs to apologise for what he did, but more importantly he needs to actually learn and understand why it was wrong, and what he should do in the future.

Charles needs to apologise for crossing the line, but more importantly he needs to actually understand how much danger he’s in and listen to what Max is trying to tell him.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Don't Speak 34

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, stalking, manipulation, reclusive behaviour, disordered eating, dissociation, allusions to abuse, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader is a reclusive loner who ventures down to the library on a simple mission. Her task is complicated by the man she meets there. (f!short!reader)

Character: librarian!Andy Barber

Note: this guy, again.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

You hear the air go out of Amber as she croaks. You can’t stop squeezing her. You almost don’t believe she’s actually there. That she’s real!

She touches your side gently and gives another wheeze. You make yourself release her and pull back, beaming a bright smile at her. Your cheeks hurt and your eyes are glossy. You latch onto her hand and bounce on your heels.

“It’s cold out here, you should get inside,” Andy girds from behind you, “you’ll catch cold.”

“She’s fine,” Amber squeezes your hand back.

“Please, come in,” you tug on her, “do you…” your voice catches, “do you wanna help me cook?”

“Sure, bubbie,” she smiles, “I was planning on banana pudding. You still like that, right?”

You laugh, so giddy you feel delirious, “I love it! You know I’m so lost in the kitchen.”

“You’re a better cook than you think,” she assures you, a slight tremble in her voice.

You turn, keeping your grasp on her and find only a narrow space between Andy and the door frame. He glowers down at you, past you at Amber. You wince but keep going, pulling her inside. She shoulders past him and steps onto the mat.

“Brought some wine too,” Steve announces as he enters just behind her, “everything we need for the pudding and my own treat. That’s still a surprise.”

“Hurry up,” you beg Amber.

“Please,” she chuckles, “I can’t get my coat off with you hanging onto me.”

“Oh, sorry,” you retract your hand and clasp your wrist against your chest.

You stand back and watch her. Andy comes to stand beside you, a puff through his nostrils brush down to your sleeve. You peek up at him. He grimaces at Amber as Steve takes her coat to hang for her. Those two seem to get along.

“Let me just get this into the kitchen,” Steve picks up the box again, “let me guess, football?”

He struts into the front room without invitation. Andy doesn’t respond or budge. You follow Steve as Amber reclaims your hand, your arms swinging between you.

“This is a nice place,” she says as the floor groans and Andy finally follows suit. “Wow.”

“Thanks,” he grumbles. 

“It’s pretty big,” you admit. “The kitchen too.”

You pass through the archway as Steve puts the box on the counter. Your mess awaits you, a meal half-finished. You chew your lip as he smiles at you across the island. 

“Well, I’ll let you girls get caught up but if you need an extra pair of hands,” he wiggles his fingers at you, “I’m at your service.”

“Thank you, Dr. Kemp,” you chime and sense Amber peek over at you.

He finally leaves, his timbre following him into the front room as he calls to Andy. The TV continues its blare and swallows up their conversation. You face Amber.

You both stare speechless at each other. You don’t know where to start. It feels like forever and no time at all. You don’t realise until that moment how much your missed your sister.

“How do you know Dr. Kemp?” You’re the first to break.

“I… I got a phone call a few nights ago. You know, your mailing address is still mine,” she explains, “at first, I was not sure but I’d do anything to see you again. To find you.”

Your heart falls, “oh, Amb, I’m… sorry.”

She’s quiet as she looks down, crestfallen, “you’re an adult, you’re allowed to leave but… why did you have to go like that?”

“I’m sorry. I was afraid– No, it was mean. I’m sorry. I’m a bad person, Amb, I see that now.”

“Bad?” She lifts her eyes, “is that what he tells you?”

“Who?”

“Andrew,” she clucks, “that you’re a bad person.”

“N-no, no. But… I see things now that I didn’t before. Dr. Kemp is helping me fix myself.”

She sighs and glances away, “you’re not broken.” Her eyes drift back in your direction, “I’m glad you’re getting help. Steve seems like a smart man and I’m sorry I could never afford to get you what you need.”

“That’s not true. You did so much. I just took it all and gave nothing–”

“I never wanted anything but my sister,” she lets go of your hand and at once, you’re in another hug, this one has you trapped. “I’m just glad you’re safe.” She parts and holds you at arm’s length, “and happy, right?”

Your mouth falls open. Your eyes skitter around; the large kitchen shines around you as her voice reverberates in your head. Her amazement, her happiness, she always wants to believe the best of you. You don’t want to let her down again, you’ve hurt her enough.

“I am,” you lie, “Dr. Kemp helps and… I should show you my painting! It’s almost done.”

“That’s wonderful,” she smiles and looks over her shoulder, “but maybe we should figure out dinner first?”

🕊️

You pull on the hem of your skirt, happy for the shield of the apron as the dress rides up with each move. You set out buns on a platter, adding them to the dishes set to go out to the dining room. As you wiggle awkwardly against the short dress, you sense Amber watching you.

You give a sheepish smile as she wrinkles her brow funnily, “what even are you wearing?”

You look down, “you don’t like it?”

“It’s cute. Looks nice on you but… it isn’t you, is it?”

You bat your lashes, “I don’t know, what… erm, the dress is nice.”

“I like it. But… you don’t really wear dresses. Or didn’t”

“I know but I’m trying new things.”

“And that’s good. I guess,” she pushes her shoulders up, “I just don’t know the new you. I liked the old you.”

“Oh,” you murmur glumly.

“Old or new, you know I love you, bub,” she hums.

“Love you too,” you force a smile.

“Hey, girls,” Steve startles you as he struts through the door, “mmm-mm, it smells delicious in here. Anything I can help with?”

“Lots,” Amber answers dryly, “but we’ll settle for setting the table.”

“Oh, I’ll help,” you offer and grab a stack of plates. Steve meets you at the end of the counter, clutching the sides beside your hands, “um, here.”

You let him take them and turn to take the napkins and utensils waiting to be set out. He thanks you and turns on his heel. You notice how Amber watches him. She grins at his back. You’re happy she likes him as much as you.

You follow him into the dining room. He places the four plates out neatly as you put down a fork, knife, and spoon beside the first one. He looks up at you as he keeps his head inclined. His eyes are so bright and warm. You feel like it’s been ages since you’ve seen him. Just like everything else, it feels so unusual. As if those days spent in that bedroom were a whole other planet.

“Here, let me show you a trick,” he comes around, gathering up the utensils you just put out.

He pinches the corner of a napkin still in your hand and pulls it free. You let him and watch as he puts all three pieces of cutlery against the napkin, resting them against the table as he expertly rolls them up into a tidy pocket. He moves them beside the plate and drags his hand away.

“That’s pretty,” you say.

“Like you,” he says, “I really like that dress.”

“You do?” you look at him in the face. That act alone makes you want to melt. His eyes blaze back at you.

“You always look nice,” he says, “I thought… before I got here, I thought maybe you were mad at me.”

“Mad?” You frown.

“You haven’t been answering me so…”

“Um,” you suck in your lip as your eyes flit away from him, “I’ve been taking a break.”

“That’s a good idea. Blue light can really mess with your circadian rhythm and there’s nothing wrong with putting yourself first.”

“Okay, but I’m sorry. For not answering. I hope you’re not mad.”

“Not at all,” he assures you, “sweetheart,” he steps closer, “are you okay?”

“What?” You breathe.

“You look faint. Do you need to sit down?”

You shake your head and pout your lips. You can smell his cologne. It’s citrusy and rich. You could just bask in the scent. You resist the urge to bury your nose in his woolly sweater for a better sniff.

“I’m okay,” you sigh, “all that cooking.”

“Yeah, gets pretty hot standing in front of a stove,” he agrees and lays his hand on your shoulder, rubbing his thumb into it, “you’re not… you’re happy I brought Amber?”

You see the doubt in his eyes. You can’t believe it but you think he’s actually nervous. Does he really care so much about what you think?

“I’m so happy. Thank you,” you sway, nearly hugging him like you did Amber. You stop yourself and give a nervous giggle. “I really missed her.”

“I could tell. I… know you don’t like to talk about her but it’s Thanksgiving. It’s about family, right?”

“Yeah,” you smile and look down at your handful, jangling around the cutlery, “um, I guess… can you show me how to do that thing again?”

“Sure,” he puts his hands around yours and eases the cutler and napkins away. “So, you just put down the napkin,” he sets it all on the table and puts a napkin flat. He moves it diagonally so it’s a diamond and you watch his thick fingers move. Something about his hands makes you tingly, “then your cutlery,” he pushes up the bottom corner, “tuck and roll. Voila.”

He takes another napkin and places it in front of you, “you try,” he says as he hands you cutlery.

You shakily place the three pieces on the napkin. You're much slower than him, trying to get it perfect, pushing up the point and rolling tight. When you finish, you feel a tickle along your back.

“Good job, sweetie,” he leans in to whisper in your ear.

You smile as your cheeks round hotly, “thank you.”

“Go ahead, do the last one,” his voice grits as he flutters his fingers up your spine, “I’ll go get some glasses for the wine.”

🕊️

Amber sits at the seat next to you. Andy comes in with a sense of reluctance, hands in his pocket as his eyes focus dully on nothing. He looks almost pale as he shuffles along the opposite side of the table. He turns to face you and meets your gaze before glancing towards your sister.

His hand grips the chair and he slowly pulls it out, scraping the floor with the legs. He clears his  throat and sits, heaving a sigh as he peers up and down the table. Amber shifts beside you.

“Um, Andrew,” she begins tenderly. “I didn’t get a chance to say thank you.”

His eyes flick up as his brows arch, “thank you?”

“For having me. You have a lovely house and I’m so thankful to be able to spend today with my sister. I know… we didn’t get off to a great start so maybe this is our chance to start again.”

“Maybe,” he mutters and scans the table again, “where is the green bean casserole?”

Your eyes widen. You don’t remember making it. You’ve been so distracted with having Amber there that the details all blend together.

“Oh, my bad, I forgot to bring those out,” Amber stands, “be right back.”

She gets up and sweeps out of the room. You swallow as you watch Andy, waiting for him to look at you. Dreading what he’ll say.

His nostrils flare as his eyes pinpoint on you, “you’re happy to see your sister.”

It doesn’t really sound like a question but you nod. His forehead wrinkles as he runs his fingers around his mouth and narrows his eyes. He lets the tension drain from his features and sits back.

“So it’s a good thing I let her stay, huh, dove?” He says.

You swallow, “thank you, Andy.”

He smirks, tight-lipped as he drops his hand onto the armrest. He grips it and fixes his posture, his eyes returning to the chair next to you. Maybe he’d wanted to sit beside you.

“Here we are,” Amber returns and puts down the glass pan of beans, “well, I don’t think anyone will go hungry.”

Andy hums monotonously as she reclaims her chair. There’s a thick silence as you peer back and forth between them. Amber folds her hands on the table then sits back and pulls them over her stomach. She watches Andy, almost expectantly.

“Ah, can’t forget the wine,” Steve enters with a bottle in hand, “sorry to keep you waiting.”

Andy coughs and squares his shoulders. Steve approaches the empty chair next to your host and twists off the cap of the wine bottle. He reaches to you, beckoning for your glass. Amber takes it and hands it over. He pours it and she trades it for her own. 

“I know you’re more a beer connoisseur, Andy, but there’s lots to go around,” Steve offers.

“No thanks,” Andy sniffs, “still got some Stella.”

He reaches for the green bottle with the white label. You know when he drinks, it won’t be a happy night. Especially after the unexpected company. Despite his attempts at niceties, you can hear the razor edge in his tone.

“You snooze you lose,” Steve chimes as he sits and pours himself a glass. He lifts it by the stem, “cheers.”

You pull your glass close and look into the golden depths. You sniff it, it’s almost sweet but tickles your throat. You look over at Amber as she holds out her glass to clink. She never really drank and you didn’t either. But it’s a special occasion.

“Cheers,” she says.

“Dove,” Andy undercuts, “I don’t think you like wine, remember?”

“Huh?” Amber tilts her head towards him, “she can make up her own mind.”

“I’m not saying she can’t, I just wouldn’t want her to be sick. We haven’t even eaten. She shouldn’t be drinking on an empty stomach,” he argues.

“She’s about to eat,” Amber counters.

“It’s fine, Andy,” Steve intones, “it’s all just good fun. It’s Thanksgiving, live a little.”

He clinks his glass against Andy’s bottle then raises it again. You pick your glass up and tap it against Amber’s. You mimic her as she brings the brim to her lips and you drink in unison, slightly unsure of yourself. It’s not bad, almost sour but in a pleasant way.

Amber pulls the glass away and puts it down gently, “you like it, bub?”

“Um, yes, it’s… different,” you say as you examine the glass, the wine swishing as you twirl it, “I like it.” You take another taste, a bigger gulp than the last, “thank you, Dr. Kemp.”

“Yes, thank you, Steve,” Amber adds, “you’ve made this day so special.”

Andy inhales and his nostrils flare, “yeah, thanks, Steve.”

[iraprince]

Heyo! Any advice on struggling to get your art seen in the world? I feel like no matter how much I post, or what I post, people never see it or seem to like it. I love art and am pursuing it as a career (hence why Im getting a degree in it currently lmao) but its kind of disheartening to work really hard on something, post it, and no one sees it.

oh, man. i'm afraid for this one i don't feel like i have a lot of solid advice. having a large-ish following online feels like something that kind of just, like, Happened to me, mostly on accident/in ways outside of my control, and even if i had some ideas on how to potentially replicate those gains i don't think they'd work consistently. (also, a lot of my large jumps in follower count came from mental health related work going viral bc it's #relatable; this is something i have complicated feelings about and it's absolutely not a viable, like, "strategy" or something that i would recommend, in the way that ppl can say like, "fanart gets attention!" or stuff like that.)

so, i don't have advice for how to actually GET those eyes on your art; i can maybe help with making ppl more likely to STAY once they do find you, and how to build a following that will actually help you maintain a living from your work -- bc i have TONS of peers w a following a fraction of the size of mine who get more jobs than me, are doing cooler/more "professional" stuff than me, etc! (heads up that most of my experience is on twitter; i know less than nothing about places like instagram + tiktok, and while tumblr functions very differently from twitter i feel like i handle things mostly the same here, aside from doing less personal posting/being less talkative and not 'networking' or following many people).

SCROLLING BACK UP TO ADD A SPOILER ALERT: AS ALWAYS I HAVE SAID "HAHA IDK I DON'T REALLY HAVE ANY ADVICE" AND THEN PROCEEDED TO TYPE A FULL ESSAY. IF YOU ARE ON DESKTOP YOU CAN HIT THE 'J' KEY TO SKIP THIS POST. IF YOU'RE ON MOBILE, I'M SORRY

a very important thing, especially professionally: it HAS to be easy to see what you do. (this is easier here on tumblr, where u can have a designated art tag etc, than on twitter, which is an awful website that sucks. <- guy who makes all his money on twitter) this means, like -- if i see something from you and get curious and click your profile, it should only take one more click to quickly see at least SOME of your art. on a professional account, it's probably best for your icon to be your own work, something snappy and memorable and eye-catching that reads well at a small size; people shouldn't have to dig for 20 minutes before they can start browsing your art. on twitter, this means TRY not to gunk up your media tab with a ton of reaction images/screencaps of your gacha pulls/etc; on here, it means make your art tag easy to find; on any website, a portfolio link, prominently displayed, is the best bet. (i am still working on that one myself lmao and i've been working professionally full time for a few years now so like, there are outliers and wiggle room on all of this).

next! it's great when your audience finds you, but you have to find them, too. find artists who do similar stuff to you and get into their stuff -- sincerely, not just as "networking." (like only do this with ppl whose stuff you actually think is cool, not just trying to get in mutuals with everyone you see in hopes of a bump, obviously.) get interested in other indie artists, find the people who are working/publishing in the spaces that are exciting and aspirational for you, and support them! i don't want it to sound cynical when i say there's a kind of give-and-take built into this; the point is not "well, if i reblog/retweet a bunch of YOUR stuff, maybe you'll feel obligated to boost mine in return," but that when you find other artists/creatives who are on the same wavelength as you, you will naturally stumble into pools of people who want to support art like yours, and you and your newfound peers will help each other when you hype each other's stuff up and direct followers to each other! (again re: things going differently on dif websites: this is twitter-specific for me, bc i use my tumblr as a gallery/portfolio. that doesn't mean it doesn't happen here tho! it can and does happen everywhere!)

it is really not a competition. i know that SOMETIMES it is in like, a really nitty-gritty numbers sense; people only have so much money to spare, they will make choices about whose patreon they can afford/what comic to buy/etc, that's true. but to me that's not competition. people who are sincerely into your stuff will hang on until they can afford it; maybe that means someone follows you for two whole years before the planets align and they have the budget/opportunity to commission you. by hanging out in similar circles you are not taking potential business or opportunities away from anyone else, nor are you risking leading your own audience to Someone They'll Like Better; you're just offering more options, and the internet is VAST and endless, and EVENTUALLY people will show up who are into YOUR STUFF, SPECIFICALLY. helping each other is never going to stifle or delay that!!

and my final chunk of advice is the one i give constantly that everyone is probably super sick of hearing but i just seriously seriously believe in it, even tho i know it's slow to pay off and hard to follow: keep doing exactly what you want to. keep doing it!!! you have to!!! yes, i mean the stuff that's getting like, 2 likes and 0 reblogs! the stuff that 'nobody likes!'

earlier i mentioned i have gotten big follower bumps from like adhd comics and stuff like that going viral. the thing is that, from a professional standpoint: my follower count has like, more than quintupled from where it was at a few years ago; my patreon income has absolutely NOT quintupled lmfao. it has less than doubled, over that same period of like... i wanna say over 4 years. that's still good, i'm grateful for it, and i owe a lot of it to the sheer numbers game (the more ppl see ur work, the more likely it is you'll reach someone who decides to support you), but there is absolutely not an actual direct correlation between numbers and career success/stability.

where there IS a direct correlation is between "people who give a shit about the art i really truly love making" and "people who like my art enough to support me professionally." HUGE chunks of the followers i get any time something goes viral slough off over time; there's nothing wrong with that, they just follow me bc something was funny/interesting and end up realizing my work's not actually their thing. but the ppl who follow me bc they're into all the stuff i post most consistently, the stuff i care about and am passionate about, stick around. and i would not have found them if i wasn't posting the shit i care about!

out there there are people who will be 100% crazy about the stuff that is 100% what you want to make. it's like actually statistically impossible for there not to be. the more niche your thing is, the longer it will take to find them, but they absolutely exist. but if you give up before you find them -- if you start saying, "well, i'll put in 50% of this idea that i love, but the other 50% is too weird and nobody's gonna like it and it'll flop" -- well, in that case, you can only ever find the ppl who are 50% into what you do. don't fuck yourself like that!! you cannot deny yourself the possibility (the INEVITABILITY!!! IMO!!!!!) of finding the people who will 100% get what you're doing.

so: on a pragmatic level, i'm sure there will be ppl who disagree with me on this, and who think it's absolutely mandatory to do fanart as a crowd draw or learn about algorithms and posting times and get on tiktok and do the visibility grind and everything and that it's stupid and irresponsible to tell people not to. i'm sure it's also easy to point out that i'm speaking from a place where i now have more eyes on my stuff than i know what to fucking do with so maybe i'm just totally out of touch and being naive or something. but for me the most important part of doing art now, ESPECIALLY as a career, is to keep loving it and to believe in what i'm doing and to build an audience that cares about the same things i do. and i think it is really really vital to make that your top priority. bc if you don't, then even if you DO crack the code to suddenly getting tons of notes on everything etc -- will you even keep wanting to do it?

this job is hard. it's lonely, in my experience; i spend so much time sitting in front of my computer alone. it's unstable, which is stressful and can be frightening. it's emotionally taxing, for me, because art is so important to me that it's hard to set boundaries and separate my identity from it and actually treat it like a job. it has taken me a long time to find success doing this; maybe i could have gotten there faster if i had tried to find ways to draw an audience specifically, but i think if i had somehow managed to get a big patreon following/tons of commissioners/etc by doing something formulaic or doing stuff that specifically gets tons of attention, but isn't what's natural for me -- i don't think i would have lasted very long that way. this is already hard and complicated enough; i don't think it's sustainable to give up any unnecessary ground on doing exactly what you're passionate about, bc at least in my case, that's mandatory for this even being a livable career for me. i would burn out and decide to do something else very quickly if the only way to succeed was to chase numbers/engagement.

doing it this way is very slow. if i hadn't been able to lean on family/my wife while starting up, i would have had to have a day job for much longer (like, years, probably) while saving up and preparing to go full time; for as long as you struggle to get traction, it may mean going full time has to be on the backburner. but the thing is that there's nothing wrong with that, it's the reality for the vast majority of us (from what i've seen) -- and you'll eventually build a career that can last way longer, i think.

okay oh my god i'm done. sorry about that. like i said this job is pretty lonely and i sit here all day and think about this stuff and then generally do not talk about it with anyone until somebody asks me about it and then i repeat myself at length again. like i did here. anyway have a good night sincerely and i hope some part of this was helpful!!!

[azrielgreen]

Hi! I really hope that this doesn't come across wrong, because you're my favorite author of all time, but I am curious about how and why you write pairings with Billy? I mean, he's a violent and awful racist who tried to kill a kid. I'm just curious about Billy shippers, and I wanted to know what you think about all that! You really are my #1 author, and I really, really hope this doesn't come across as mean!

I debated answering this at all because I really don't involve myself in anything remotely related to fandom unpleasantness or the kind of immaturity that leads to "ship wars" and outright bullying, but I can tell your question was asked in good faith so this will probably be the one time I answer anything like this.

I write for myself. I write characters that interest me. I'm interested in complex characters. They have the most wiggle room for expression and interpretation of angst and growth and suffering within my kind of creative narrative. I fully appreciate that the Stranger Things fandom is where I gained traction, but I've been in fandom for a decade and I've written for Hannibal, Supernatural, Vampire Chronicles, Dragon Age among many others that I usually orphan because writing for myself is essential. I don't write to appease or instruct or create a moral guideline for how to be or how to love.

I won't reel off a list of reasons "why" i write pairings with Billy because I don't need to justify anything to anyone. I don't endorse what I write. I explore complicated characters and I feel things through them and I write and follow my creative instincts where a story might lead. I don't write to be popular, I never have, and I never will and if I thought for a second that the only reason my fics gained traction in this fandom was because anyone saw me as some kind of Anti-Billy Flag-waver, I'd delete every single thing I wrote including my AO3 username. Luckily, I know that's not the case and those who like my writing and stories enjoy them because they're smart enough to select what they like and leave what they don't.

I think there's a stunning level of dissonance between people who are insecure and fandom and those who are secure. It's fanfiction. It's literally transformative works. I can transform whatever I like and I write what I'm drawn to and I am drawn, always, to complicated characters with the potential for growth and evolution from low places. I've written so much for so many fandoms and some of what I've written has been pure, ice cold horror, straight up. The idea that I'm supposed to be someone who only ever writes Fandom Stamp-Approved Characters is hilarious to me. I write about murderers, people who kill, soldiers, assassins and even serial killers. I could spend time and energy explaining why I'm drawn to writing darker elements and giving them a bright, hopeful growth arc but I shouldn't have to explain ANYTHING and I don't, so I won't and please, anyone else reading, do not ever feel like you have to explain or justify what you write. That path leads nowhere good. No one should regulate what people write. NO ONE has the right to bully someone out of a fandom because they disagree with what they're writing about. No one.

I have always tried to be very open and supportive about encouraging people to feel safe exploring their interests, be it kink, trauma, whatever. I'll fight fiercely to defend people's right to enjoy literally whatever the fuck they want because life is hard, time is short, real life is disappointing and AO3 at the end of a long day can be comforting as fuck. The idea that some people are handwringing because people write about a "violent awful racist who tried to kill a kid" is so ridiculous to me it makes me laugh every single time. It's not real. It's a story. It's a TV show. I can explore whatever I want and so can everyone else.

Here's the very closest you'll come to hearing me give reasons why and I'm only doing it because I want other people who feel belittled and bullied and shamed for exploring what they're drawn to, to see this. The person I was at 17 years old is nothing like the person I am now and I cannot emphasise that strongly enough. I come from an abusive home. The girl I was at 17, 18, 19 and even 20... if I met her now, I wouldn't know her and she absolutely wouldn't know me. I lost who I was as a child because I was abused and it's only in the last ten years I had enough experience, distance and self-exploration to rediscover myself and really grow. Nothing excuses racism or violence. Me writing these characters is not excusing it. Writing domestic violence is not endorsing domestic violence. People need to understand this because it's a massive problem in the queer publishing community; this idea that all queer media needs to be morally squeaky clean, to be flawless and sexless and adhere to the perfect cis-heteronormative outline in order to be "acceptable" and not cast a pall on queers overall. I believe people can change. I believe people can see themselves in a piece of media and WANT to be better. I know because it happened to me. People can change. I like to think there are circumstances in which Billy could change. In which there was an intervention point, the possibility for redemption.

Fanfiction isn't real life. I would be so happy if people could understand this. Fiction is FICTION. It's exploration, it's themes, it's freedom of expression, it's art, it's for fun. It's not for everyone. No single thing is for everyone and it never, ever should be. My writing isn't for everyone. That makes me really happy because it means those who might resonate with what I write, will find it and have their own space to enjoy it. I'm a person with finite energy and time who dedicates a lot of that energy and time to this corner of fandom where I reasonably expect to be able to write whatever the hell I like however I like and if anyone has a different opinion of that, they'll be sorely disappointed. Complex, flawed characters whose experiences mirror my own will always be compelling to me and I will always be drawn to exploring redemptive narratives for them. If people don't like it, they don't have to read. If they get upset that I'm writing something they disagree with, that's on them and if they feel the need to draw attention to their discomfort, that's far less to do with the person they're complaining about and more an indication they need to do some serious shadow work.

Thank you for your question, no harm was inferred and I wish you all the best. Az. 💜💜💜