#too tired to figure out appropriate tags right now

[senselessalchemist]

semi-final roleswap au beheaded concept (aka 'the merchant'). this took a stupidly long time. (also i had Plans to do a very sketchy comic but my hand is killing me so not today)

readmore for very vague ideas and game spoilers

something something the king working more directly/intimately with the alchemist. ostensibly trying to help find a cure/treatment/whatnot but also trying to find a way to save himself/loved ones. ends up going too far and getting... well... beheaded-ified. unsure if homunculi-fied or not.

something something before that point the alchemist (in this universe, more principled and less "ends justify the means") refuses to continue various lines of research on moral grounds and stops working with the king, who decides to go ahead anyway because desperation and etc.

but doesn't have the knowledge/training to address the problem he's created, and the alchemist will not aide him (sacrifice too great, innocent people hurt, maybe is pursuing something he considers promising) and things fall apart.

timeline/events fuzzy but basically i think the idea is that cells are the answer/an answer -> the person who has the know-how to actually do the thing is the alchemist -> the king does something to affect the alchemist's memories -> alchemist ends up in similarly "dumped into events of game" situation -> runs into a friendly merchant whose goals are A) cells and B) to befriend the alchemist (in order to obtain his help) -> [various game events, also finding own journals/etc., start to piece together some stuff, maybe start to mistrust the merchant, info from bosses, etc.] -> final boss fight where the merchant requests help, alchemist probably refuses based on gathered info (or maybe a choice? iunno) and something like "if you won't help me then i'll just kill you"

and there could be some fun angst re: "we used to be friends or at least circumstances forced us to work closely together in an extremely stressful situation and we know a lot about each other and also we maybe became friends a second time throughout this journey but then i found out you caused my problems in the first place and just wanted to use me for my knowledge and that's a lot to deal with and now i'm fuckin' pissed and i really kind of want to kill you" from the alchemist and "we used to be friends or at least you helped me but then you refused when it mattered most (and i probably don't deal well with rejection) and i had to do all of this shit for the possibility of your help and you still won't just fucking help me even now and if that's the case you might as well just die (but also i probably feel conflicted because even though it was on false pretenses we did become friends)" from the king and then they kiss

problem is of course you probably don't want to cause memory issues for the one person who has the knowledge that you need but maybe it's a "i have no other choice" kind of situation for the king (maybe alchemist threatened something drastic?) and it was that or nothing.

obviously there's issues with this in a gameplay sense as well but then there's issues in regular vanilla dead cells as well going from 5bc to anything else so fuck it, who cares. narrative and gameplay don't necessarily match up well. (i really don't know why i'm structuring this around gameplay when it's an au and i could just do whatever but i guess that's just how it be in my brain.)

speaking of gameplay. while it could be restrictive compared to the range of weapons you get normally i do like the idea of roleswap au!collector's moveset being based on his boss moveset, but with some expansions. so you'd start off with super basic like syringe 3-hit light-light-heavy attack pattern and maybe the ability to throw fireballs or something. you would upgrade the syringe using cells (maybe could do like one of three paths mimicking the brutality/tactics/survival split) and also your magic skills, allowing the laser attack, summoning mobs, etc. also might could change the element of the magic, have fire as the default but also have options to switch to poison or electric or ice or something. also i'd limit it to 2 of the however many "magic" things he can do (lumping everything that's not basically "stab with the syringe" into one category here), so you could do like fireballs and mob summoning but not laser, or whatever.

completely ??? about how the respawn mechanic would work. very rough ideas include some sort of memory collection (of course injected into a body -- new body? -- via syringe because that would be thematically appropriate and i have been listening to the new season of dungeons and daddies, but otherwise i got nothin'. except that maybe the tutorial knight would be the one to resurrect you each time.

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

(apparently i spent roughly 45 minutes writing this up, good lord, why did it take so long)

[mwahkazu]

୨୧ synopsis: — you wake up to find your phone flooded with messages from your close friends, all of whom are seeking to the spend the day hanging out with you! how and who will you decided to spend your day with?

꒰ characters: ꒱ wanderer, kazuha, heizou, venti, xiao

꒰ tags: ꒱ gn reader, intended as platonic relationships but is free for interpretation, wanderer is referred to as kunikusuzhi (kuni), college setting

꒰ note: ꒱ a stealing the spotlight special to celebrate this blog reaching 100 followers! as usual i have tagged those from the series to this post encase they’d be interested. thank you all sm again for the endless support <33

golden threads of sunlight filter through the curtains, painting your stilled room in soft orange and yellow hues. a mellow summer breeze sneaks its way in through the small opening of your window, one you had mistakenly left open from the previous night’s endeavors of sneaking out onto the fire escape to get some fresh air after hours of being cooped up in your room studying.

the distant sound of traffic noise and passing metro trains reaches your ears, making you stir in bed as you gradually start to wake up from your deep sleep. at first, you’re thinking it’s still too early for you to be waking up. after all, your alarm hadn’t even gone off yet, so surely you’ve still got another hour or so of sleep left.

but just as you let your head fall back down into your pillow, that cursed sound of your phone’s alarm blares all throughout your room within the next second. so much for getting more sleep.

restraining yourself from throwing your phone against the wall, you shut off the alarm and begrudgingly pull yourself out of bed. once your feet meet the floor, something soft begins to tickle at your skin, the sudden sensation enough to startle you awake as you look down to see the source.

“rosseland?” the cat simply meows in response, affectionately rubbing itself against your legs and emitting soft purrs. a small smile finds its way to your lips. “decided to stick around for a bit longer? well, let’s hope whoever your owner is isn’t freaking out right now…”

you crouch down to give the small feline a few gentle pets on it’s back before beckoning him to follow you into the kitchen for breakfast.

most of the time you find yourself skipping breakfast in the mornings, usually due to the fact that you end up sleeping past your alarm and thus end up in a hurry out the door in order to get to your classes on time. today seemed to be your lucky day though, as not only did you actually manage to get out of bed at the appropriate time, but you got to indulge in a full and gratifying breakfast—cereal.

after serving rosseland a small portion of cat food into his bowl, you walk over to the fridge, grabbing the carton of milk out to pour into your own bowl of cereal. just as you do so, your phone buzzes on the countertop behind you. probably just a random notification from an app you don’t even use.

after a minute, it buzzes again. and again. and again? archons, what in the world is going on?

heaving out a sigh, you walk over to grab your phone. on the homescreen, you’re greeted with several messages, all from five different individuals whom you know all too well. how strange that they all decided to text you separately. there is a group chat with everyone in it so why not text through there?

feeling too tired to question such behavior, you decided to just brush it off and begin going through each person’s messages one by one.

━ ꒰ MSG FROM: KUNIKUZUSHI ꒱

━ ꒰ MSG FROM: HEIZOU ꒱

━ ꒰ MSG FROM: KAZUHA ꒱

━ ꒰ MSG FROM: XIAO ꒱

━ ꒰ MSG FROM: VENTI ꒱

welcome to the 100 followers special for stealing the spotlight !

this is no ordinary event, but one that i have exclusively planned to center around the characters from my smau series that has and continues to receive constant support from all you lovely readers~

therefore, i figured it was only fair to make a special event in which you the audience can have some power in how the story goes. engagement in this event is quite simple.

after reviewing the text messages you received from each character, your job is to accept one character’s offer and then name an activity you’d want to do for the day. once you’ve made your decision, you will submit your choices to my inbox where i will then write out a little headcanon piece for you based on your choice and how i think that will play out :3

IMPORTANT: this event only has 5 slots available, one for each character. there is no guarantee that i will pick your submission as due to time constraints, i can only stick to doing five. once i’ve made the selection, i will compile all five pieces into one post. on there i will be tagging the user that requested, announcing the activity they wrote for said character and then the written headcanons i came up with.

SUBMISSION DEADLINE: march 26 2023

taglist (open 29/30) ; ━ this taglist is dedicated to my smau only! if you are interested in being added to the taglist for the smau, you can either comment on the masterlist post or send to my inbox!

@peaceindreams , @miwafei , @whipped-for-fictionals , @blissfullyapillow , @yotraumainthebuilding , @reixtsu , @almond-t0fu , @quacking-simp , @kika-a , @kookiibun , @silentmissinghallucination , @sleepyeri , @xiaossocksniffer , @14-paradise , @kaitfae , @cupid-spams , @semi-orangeapple , @scarletttcroww , @sl-vega , @ethiy , @swivy123 , @ceneid , @kunikuzushis-darling , @beasalmeh , @enjisthings , @lloovvv , @sn1perz , @dreamyysouls , @glxssmemories

[m4g3114n1c]

You have my attention. Don’t waste it.

Midas (Fortnite) x Fem!Reader

tags: NSFW!, explicit, pretty raunchy 🥰, AFAB Reader, Established Relationship, Smut, Aftercare, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Backshots, WHO WANT BACKSH💔TS??, Porn With Plot, slight plot, Creampie, degradation kink, Spanking, Midas is kinda sadistic, Mild BDSM themes, Unsafe Sex, Light Sadism, Dom/sub Undertones, CROSS-POSTED

im back also im writing a smut prequel to all this bs with slight plot into what the reader and Midas’ relationship was, so next thing I write is going to be intern reader x boss/ceo Midas

jus a warning he’s not going to be like he is now and is strictly about sex and no feelings he’s kinda cold guys 😞 but leaning more about sub/dom next part

You and Midas knew it felt appropriate to separate yourselves from each other for now. He needed to focus on this, you weren’t really helping him focus. As smart and useful as you were, it was far too difficult for him to have you in the room with him.

An apt Midas was working away on the monitor already on the desk, and trying to keep himself focused with contacting his team properly after being gone for so long.

Every now and then, he’d spare a quick glance to the side where the large window had displayed you outside. You were relaxing with a two piece bikini on, with no motivations to even dip in the water.

He figured you were just sunbathing. His suspicions did grow, however, on what your true intentions were with wearing that because you sat right next to the window where he’d be.

You sat on the sofa instead of the area where the group of beach chairs were, designed for that kind of thing. He considered that, possibly, you liked how more cushioned and comfortable it was.

In spite of all his conjecture, he knew you wanted him to be tempted. Beguiled, he might say to your successful attempts at making him shy his attention away from his work.

Now, you might as well be in the same room as him right now because he absolutely could not keep his eyes off.

After a few failed attempts at working, he blankly stared ahead. His eye caught the bed, which was now tidy and made, prior to the events yesterday. Well shit. The peaceful and clean bed only made him think about you pleading for more under you the other day. That didn’t help with progressing more in his work.

Midas glanced outside again, to which you had now placed your sunglasses on. You leaned over as you were sat up on the sofa, thoroughly spreading what seemed to be sunscreen. He felt like he was eyeing his prize if he got to finish his work.

Sitting outside, you could feel just how Midas’ gaze was locked in on you while still separated from the thick glass; his stare making the glass separating you both deemed useless.

He looked pissed in a way, his eyebrows furrowed, and his mouth tightly pressed in a tight line; the thought of him pissed at you turned you on a bit.

It was amusing seeing somebody who is usually locked in on his work a lot of the time get distracted by something tiny like his girlfriend wearing a bikini.

While you smeared sunscreen on yourself, your legs, your arms, the sun immediately caught against it which in turn made Midas look at you like pure gold, his most prized treasure.

You placed the sunscreen back on the table, picking up your book and reading where you left off. The sound of the waves helped you settle yourself into a calmer environment, than if you were inside it’d feel way too quiet.

Birds flew past obnoxiously just as you thought that. You grumbled, trying to get back to your book, to which you were literally gripping at.

Soon your relaxing environment was now beginning to piss you off, the waves sounded repetitive and was driving you crazy, the sun felt too hot right now and the wind wasn’t even blowing in the right direction.

You sounded so bitchy and whiny, getting tired of everything outside, but you had the right to, you’ve been out here for at least two hours.

Wait.

You halted in your tracks when you began to pack up your book, your sunscreen, your phone, and your water bottle.

He would probably think you were trying to distract him from his work if you came back inside. Even if not in the same room as him, just knowing that you were in the interior of the yacht might’ve tempted him.

Another side of you wanted to go, because who cares? The other side told you to sit your ass down and deal with more of it until he was done his work.

The Gods answered your prayer, because as soon as when you packed up, Midas seemed to be finished. He looked like it. His body language was more open, body more relaxed, and he wasn’t staring at the monitor anymore.

He was absentmindedly pushing the chair around slightly. You shrugged to yourself, thinking this was the best time.

When you got inside of the room, placing your things at your designated table, Midas was staring at you. Although he didn’t want to overdo it at the point you felt uncomfortable.

“You finished?” You asked warily, not to piss him off. Midas caught on that quickly, raising an eyebrow that was one of confusion but he nodded. “Yes, sent the alerts out, might take them a while to find us though.” He leaned back in his chair, quite relaxed that he was finished.

You took the chance to go behind his chair, hands working at his tense muscles connecting his neck and his shoulder. You remember when you first pointed out how tense his shoulders were.

It still felt like yesterday when Midas still saw you as his intern, whom he didn’t trust much. He thought you were way too happy go-lucky to be a real person, nobody is sunshine and rainbows.

The fact is, he needed somebody like you in his life to balance out just how shitty he is. You knew you were working for a villain, yet you were still sitting around in his building, supporting him as if he were the best man alive.

Without your outgoing personality, he probably wouldn’t have managed to approach you in the first place and ask you out for dinner that cost way more than your pay check.

Your attitude was beginning to rub off on him.

Your thumbs pressed harshly, but it was working. Midas sighed out of relief, needing you to come do this for so long.

“Is this alright?”

His breath hitched, the immediate moment your mouth was near his ear. The feeling of you so close was alluring him.

“That’s—yes, it’s alright.” He said under his breath in a tone that hinted that he was ready for what you were about to do next.

Heat bloomed on his face, blood rising up to cover his cheeks in chagrin. Still massaging him, you experimentally pressed your lips on his neck. He kept himself composed, not daring to make a sound.

He didn’t protest to stop so you continued, sucking hard, completely stopping the massage. Midas groaned under his breath, cursing.

Before he could even process it, you were now straddling his lap. In all of your bathing suit glory, he could already feel himself getting hard. He could tell you were impatient, just by how you clung to him.

You cupped his face, eyes closing as you kiss him slowly. The long drag of the kiss was passionate. Midas hand came down to squeeze your ass, pulling you flush against him.

Just by doing that, the immediate feeling of his cock growing harder, trapped in his slacks had you moan during the kiss. He smelt like aftershave, and his body-wash that you had no idea what the brand was but knew it was expensive.

The kiss then turned more eager, before you knew it, Midas’ tongue was already exploring your mouth, pressing itself against the roof of your tongue or sucking your tongue.

He had a bad habit of always kissing so rough. You felt him nip hard enough to break the thin barrier of skin of your lip. He pulled away, eyes wandering brazenly onto your kiss-bruised lips. He definitely had some sadistic tendencies. Midas chased your lips once more, making you moan when he pushed back against your tongue.

You rubbed yourself against him, the only thing separating you and him were your bikinis and his stupid fucking slacks. You wanted to rip off his clothes and you were so sure, he wanted to do the same.

Midas pulled away, eyes were low-lidded, stare intense and it felt like he was stripping you with just his eyes.

“I wanna fuck you so hard right now,”

“What’s stopping you?”

That set him off. The moment you said that, it was over. You stood up from your position, only for Midas to turn you around, roughly bending you over the table.

You wish nobody was cruising around in the ocean today. There was no space where there was a solid wall was obscuring the view, the room was just all full body windows. The thrill of being so out in the open did make you grow even more embarrassingly wet.

“Remember when I fucked you the first time like this in my office?” He basked in the view of you bent over, and so easy to access. You remembered just how rough he was with your intern-self. Your relationship back then was complicated, and he didn’t even know if he wanted a relationship with you.

It was a strict sexual relationship, if that made sense, which then slowly eased into an actual relationship. Which then included all of the feelings, and all the softness of his heart that you found so hard to believe actually existed to come to light.

“Yes, I remember,” You fared to say, voice shaky. Midas pressed his clothed erection against your half bare ass.

His fingers he then placed in front of your mouth. The sun glinted on his golden hands, he brought his fingers closer.

“Suck.” He pressed himself firmer, leaning forward to say in your ear. The fullness of his voice slightly startled you but you obeyed his commands. You came forward to take his fingers into your mouth yet he still coaxed you to practically push them farther.

You hummed, withdrawing his fingers before pulling them back in again, tongue dragging across the underside and the pads of his fingers. The hot wet feeling of your saliva covering his fingers had him breathing more intense than usual.

“Just like that,”

Midas breathed out, rolling his hips against your ass again as if imagining he was fucking you already. The way he was getting impatient made you moan around his fingers.

He withdrew them, pushing the fabric of your bikini, slowly, he stretched you out with one finger. Then his second finger, pumping them in and out with a steady pace. Midas’ eyes were glued at how wet you were and how you tightened at every movement of his fingers.

You began whining, not being able to do anything with your hands due to the fact Midas left hand was pinning them behind your back.

“You’re so wet, and we haven’t even done anything,” He laughed softly, not out of complaint but out of shock. The shock of pleasure made you jolt, as he curled his fingers in your cunt, the tip of his fingers pressing against your spot.

He continued, the squelching of your pussy had him quickly unbuckling his belt with the hand he was pinning your wrists behind your back with. At such an awkward angle, you turned around to meet his eyes for a split second. He was still fully clothed and you were in half a bikini.

The soft clinking of metal made you moan even more desperately, wanting him to hurry up and fucking put it in already. He pulled his fingers out, sucking and licking his fingers clean of your arousal.

“Let’s see if you feel just as good as you taste, yeah?” His voice was dripping with a tantalizing and warm tone.

The sound of Midas spitting on his palm and stroking his cock filled the room.

“Hands on the desk,”

You followed, resting your palms against the edge of the desk.

“Fucking take that off,” He shortly huffed, but not having the heart to not help you. He tugged down your bottom piece of your bikini, throwing it and leaving it on the floor.

He prodded his tip at your soaked pussy, before purposefully missing to part your labia; his slick length just brushing up against your clit to give a small amount of friction. You whined.

“Sorry, baby,” He laughed softly, even though he definitely did that on purpose.

That was definitely a first. He’s never called you baby. Never in the relationship he’s ever called you nicknames, especially something as simple as that. Only you’ve called him nicknames, not him. It made you feel special, because shit, who the hell is just casually getting called baby by Midas? Nobody. Ever.

Maybe he called his past wife that.

You didn’t really care when he was so close to being inches deep in you.

“Tap my thigh if it’s too much, alright?”

He didn’t even have to slowly go in when your cunt was soaked. You gasped out his name when, hearing him groan behind you. He bottomed himself out, balls deep with just one movement. Whenever he prepared you with his fingers, it never really prepared you due to the fucking size of him.

“You’re so tight,” He sighed sharply, not stopping to wait anymore.

He pulled himself out until he was fully out of you, before slamming back in. His momentum continued, settling on a neutral pace, keeping you on a level to not immediately cum. With every drag of his cock, a moan pushed itself out of you both.

“Come on,” Midas rasped out.

“Tell me, has anybody fucked you as hard as I do?”

You sometimes forgot how conceited he was about that. You remembered the first time you walked through his building and spotted his statue of himself made out of gold. You thought, wow, he must really love himself.

Well, you know you got your assumptions right.

He had every right to be that goddamn egocentric, he was hot, smart as hell and also knew how to fight. He got out of the underworld for Christ’s sake, of course his ego would be inflated.

You found it extremely attractive that he found himself this capable during sex, because he was right. Nobody has ever done it like he does.

A sharp pain on your rear end had made you instinctively whine.

Did he just slap your ass?

Your assumptions about him being sadistic were now proven to be true. His hand that slapped your ass was still on it, rubbing the swollen skin to alleviate some of the pain. His gentleness paired with his perverted dispositions had you feeling confused. You liked it.

“Are you having trouble hearing?” He kept his strokes to a steadying momentum as if to try and teach you a lesson.

His hand made sharp contact with the same spot again. You leaned more forward on the desk, elbows resting on the actual desk.

“I’m sorry—I, nobody has. Only you, Midas.”You were practically drooling, getting fucked out of your mind like this by your own boss was something you thought you’d never get to do. It was still something else working under him while being your boyfriend.

If there was a photo for the word, “cock drunk,” you’d be on the front page.

“I better be,” Midas found that answer particularly pleasing so his strokes picked up its pace. “Yes, don’t stop—please,” You gasped out, the sounds of skin smacking against skin filling the room.

Midas’ hand gripped on your waist, hard enough to bruise, guiding you with his pace. His free hand managed to snake its way to your clit, his large fingers pressing and rubbing circles against it. The pain but also pleasure tore another moan out of you.

The extra stimulation had you feeling like your legs were about to collapse beneath you. His pace picked itself up even further, his cock unforgiving and ruthless. Your breaths were now staccatos, short and cut off with every thrust of his hips.

“I’m close, Midas—God, I need it.”

“Fuck, yeah. You need to cum? Say it.” He sternly spat out in between breaths.

“I need to cum, please Midas. Let me—“ He smacked your ass one last time, and the feeling had you on the brink of cumming.

“I’m gonna fill you up and you’re gonna take it, alright?” He leaned forward to brush his lips against the shell of your ear, his voice hardly audible. “Yes, I’ll take it. Please. Just let me cum.”

His finger kept rubbing against your clit, yet he came first. He filled you with his hot cum to the hilt, groaning as he continued to give you your orgasm. “Shit,” He hissed, feeling you come and follow shortly with mewl. You tightened around his still semi-hard cock, and he had to pull himself out with ease.

You almost felt the weight of your legs take you down to the floor but Midas’ strong arm caught you, leading you to the bed and gently lying you down face up. Your chest heaved heavily, forehead damp with sweat, feeling the cool air hit your skin. Midas’ hair was slicked back awkwardly because of the sweat as well.

“Are you alright?” He worried, eyebrows knitted as his eyes wandered to your hips which were bruised.

“Were you trying to kill me?”

He breathed out a short laugh.

He said your name with a sigh. “That was one round,” His tone seemed to be about how he does go harder when it’s more than one round. He does, you know, you haven’t forgotten when you went specifically four rounds non-stop and you got sick the day after. He felt bad that morning.

You laughed at the ticklish feeling, feeling his nose nuzzling into your neck. “Okay, yeah, yeah,” You said with a smile and he pulled away.

His libido works differently and oddly enough, he never seems to get tired.

“Whatever,” You rolled your eyes playfully, standing up and giving him a chaste kiss on the lips.

“Where are you going?” He asked, raising an eyebrow at your sudden departure.

“The washroom, I need to pee your cum out, idiot,” You said, now farther away, but he still could hear.

“You want me to get a UTI?” You scoffed, shutting the bathroom door with a click.

“Of course not,” Midas laughed softly, scratching the back of his neck.

[prettyboybuckley]

wip wednesday

i know i never do any of these things despite all the wonderful people tagging me (i'm always tired and never know what to post) and then i suddenly come out of nowhere with a snippet this size but shhhh For part 3 of the ace kink fic 💕 Buck is on a trip and Christopher came with the "are you and Buck dating" question 😅😂 He had a valid reason, which you can read in the whole scene when it's posted 🤭 Wordcount for this installment is already at 13.3k and i am Not Done yet 😅 (It also focuses a lot on Eddie's sexuality like the first part since this is the first time it's from Eddie's pov)

"Because you don't like boys? It'd be okay if you liked boys. Buck likes boys." 

The question, surprisingly, startles a laugh out of Eddie, mostly because of how matter-of-factly his son says it. 

For a moment, Eddie considers his answer. He's admitted his sexuality to himself, has admitted it to Buck, but that is where it ends. No one else knows that he, Eddie Diaz, is asexual.

Eddie wants to be open with his son, though, so he's trying to figure out the right words to explain this to an eleven-year-old.

That, and-

"I don't know if I like boys," he says, and that's true. At this point, he doesn't think he can outright write it off as impossible, because he still hasn't figured out all of his feelings. "I, uhm- do you know how when adults like someone, it's usually also important to them if they want to... do adult stuff with them?"

"You mean sex?" Christopher asks him in a deadpan tone.

Ah, yeah, Eddie forgot again for a moment that his son is growing up, and he actually knows what sex is. Which Eddie had a hand in, since he had a thorough age-appropriate conversations with his kid about that as well.

"Yeah, yeah, exactly. But- but sometimes people don't want that with anyone. They may like boys or girls or both, but only romantically, so to date and to marry and maybe to kiss, but nothing more. And a little while ago, I realized that's how I feel. So when I like someone, it's only romantically, but it can be hard to figure out where the line is between wanting to date someone and wanting to be friends with them."

He knows that it's more complicated that how he explains it right now, he's been over that with Buck. Being asexual doesn't always equal not wanting sex, but he thinks that explaining sexual attraction itself to his eleven-year-old might be a bit too ambitious when he still has a hard time wrapping his head around it himself.

Eddie waits with his heart in his throat for his son to process his words and say something. Or ask something, which is more likely.

This is not how he thought this morning would go.

"So how do you know, then?"

"Well," Eddie says, letting out a sigh. "Your mom, I think she was maybe kind of the exception? With her, I think I maybe did like her that way, but I don't know for sure. But I do know that I loved her very much. With Ms. Flores, I got the butterflies, you know, the ones you told me about yesterday? But then the butterflies didn't become anything more, and that happens sometimes. So I guess I'll just have to follow the butterflies."

"And you've only had butterflies for girls?"

Eddie chuckles, and he takes a moment to think about it.

"I think so, yeah. And hey, I may not be dating Buck, but I'm also not planning on dating anyone else, and Buck isn't going anywhere, okay?"

"Good," Christopher says with a pleased nod. "You're grumpy when he's not here."

tagging @rogerzsteven @holdmygum @honestlydarkprincess @monsterrae1 @buddierights @heartbeatdiaz @alyxmastershipper @littlebitofdiaz @princessfbi @bigfootsmom @elvensorceress @mooshkat ♥️

[clairelsonao3]

Since I've been on Tumblr for about a month now, I've decided it was time to compile a list — for anyone who's curious — of things you'll find in my writing, and things I look for in others' writing. And here it is, subject to change, of course.

My things:

Types of whump:

I'll give just about anything a try once, but I largely gravitate toward:

Prison/captivity whump

Slavery

Pet whump (BBU not so much, though)

Historical whump, with or without fantasy elements

Modern/contemporary whump

Any corollaries of the above.

Alongside the whump:

All the hurt followed by all the comfort. A short whump story doesn’t necessarily have to contain comfort for me to read it, but if I’m going to get invested in something longer, it usually does. 

NSFW, including sexy/spicy scenes, sexual references, and sexually suggestive dialogue (always earned and plot- and character-appropriate, never porn without plot).

Romance. The more forbidden and/or seemingly impossible the better. I'll read any type of pairing, but I write M/F almost exclusively. Romance-related tropes I like include enemies to lovers, strangers to lovers, medium and slow burn, mutual pining, forced proximity, (un)resolved sexual tension, flirtatious banter, etc. etc.

Mystery/thriller elements. Probably my favorite genre other than romance. In fact, I would say if I were to describe my ideal fictional story, it would have whump, romance, and mystery in almost equal measure.

Implements and techniques:

Shackles and restraints of pretty much every type, size, and description. This includes both old-timey, rusty shackles/manacles or newfangled law enforcement-style handcuffs/chains, etc.

Collars and leashes, although I usually don't write about them because I just find them too complicated to figure out (not literally, but you know what I mean). I tend to like collars as accessories/symbols of subjugation rather than performing a function, such as shocking the whumpee or controlling their behavior somehow. 

In general, whumpees forced to wear accessories, clothing, or other outward symbols of their subjugation/servitude/inferiority.

Chains of every size and kind, attaching whumpees to walls, ceilings, floors, each other, etc.

Physical and emotional torture of all kinds; really, I'm not particular, but it's preferably done while fucking with the whumpee psychologically and preying upon their deepest fears, traumas, and insecurities.

Hands and especially injuries to the hands. Hands are my favorite body parts, so it totally makes sense that I enjoy seeing them maimed and disfigured, right?

Cages and cells, preferably with actual bars and solid steel everything, the harder, more brutal, utilitarian, and uncomfortable the better. 

Some types of involuntary body modification.

Tropes and motifs:

Humiliation and degradation of most kinds, whether it's physical, verbal, or emotional (but see the exception below under squicks).

Dehumanization, and even better, REhumanization. Breaking down is good, but building back up is better. Someone who has been thoroughly and consistently dehumanized suddenly or gradually coming to be viewed as a person by others (or by themselves) 

Whumpees who compliantly allow themselves to be placed in cuffs or shackles, either because they're just too tired and/or broken or if it's part of a grand master plan to fight back later.

Whumpee being forced to watch another whumpee being tortured.

Whumpee being forced to do menial/humiliating chores and/or hard physical labor (bonus if they're in chains at the same time). This is such an underused trope and I don't understand why because it's a fantastic one! If anyone were to write a story heavily featuring this and tag me in it I would love you forever.

Interesting power dynamics, even ones that shift back and forth within the course of a scene.

Struggles and differences related to social class, money, and wealth.

Character traits:

Male and female whumpees. I'll read and write both, but the way I handle them is sometimes different.

Defiant whumpees. Whumpees can break down as far as it's possible to break, but if there isn't that spark of life or defiance left in there (or even a chance of it coming back) I won’t be particularly interested.

Male and female whumpers.

Creepy/intimate whumpers, whumpers who are just plain assholes, or whumpers who are sympathetic/morally gray/have interesting motivations/backstories. I'm pretty open when it comes to whumpers, actually. 

Caretakers who are or become romantic partners.

Carewhumpers and bad caretakers, to a certain extent. This is a new thing for me that I'm exploring and I'm still puzzling out how I feel and how I handle it. Stay tuned.

Other random things:

Humor, wit, and banter, even in extremely dark situations.

Nerdy, oblique references to things I'm passionate about, especially music, theatre, and literature.

Not (really) my things:

These are things I'll generally shy away from, but aren't enough to make me stop reading something I otherwise like:

Hard BDSM. I have and do feature some light bondage and d/s in some of my work, but it's rarely the focus.

Excessive focus on rape/noncon and/or recovery from it. I'll definitely read about rape/noncon as long as it's not portrayed as romantic or positive in any way, but I find myself generally reluctant to portray onscreen noncon, especially of female characters. Noncon in backstories, though, absolutely.

Gags, blindfolds, hoods, and anything that covers most of the face. I do have a thing for muzzles, however, especially when you can see the whumpee's entire face through it. (My characters are pretty, I want to see them!)

Whumpees gagged and bound head to toe with rope, and other heavy bondage-type stuff.

The more ridiculous aspects of the BBU (drugging, memory erasure, sex slaves called "romantics," boys literally shipped in boxes, etc.).

Excessive gore/body horror, especially evisceration and similar.

Vampires/werewolves/angels/fairies/monsters/nonhumans, including superheroes/villains (I'll never say never, but in general, I prefer good old humans)

Pure sexual slavery, when that's the slave's one and only function. (See above).

Totally passive whumpees who are just swept along by the narrative and/or are completely dependent on others for help/rescue.

Conditioned whumpees who never become unconditioned, or slaves portrayed as happy or content that way (again, see above).

Whumpees who stutter, speak robotically and/or in the third person, or behave as if they have the mental age of a preschooler.

Unhappy endings to longer works, although I'm fine with short pieces with ambiguous/unresolved endings or no endings.

Squicks:

Honestly, not many.

Noncon, abuse, and/or toxicity portrayed as romantic. (In general, this stuff is fine). It's the big one because it shows up in a LOT of slavefic, which is my preferred genre of whump. I think many people have the idea that all slavefic glorifies and/or romanticizes abusive master/slave relationships, and that's simply not the case. And harassment and censorship aren't cool, especially when you haven't read the story in question. Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

A/B/O dynamics and/or mpreg.

Forced cross-dressing, feminization, or any similar humiliation tactic related to gender.

Humiliation tactics involving exchange of bodily fluids (see above). (Not including NSFW).

Anything foot-related. As much as I love hands and doing things to hands, feet are the opposite. (But ankles are okay, otherwise, we couldn't have shackles!)

Some of the more out-there sexual kinks, which I'll spare you from having to see described here. You can probably guess what they are.

Onscreen harm to very young children and/or animals (threatened harm or as backstory is ok)

If something doesn't appear on this list anywhere (or even if it does), you can probably assume I'm at least open to it!

And of course, obligatory promo for my current WIP, Good Slaves Never Break the Rules, where — if you happen to share any of my things — you can find most if not all of them.

[saetoru]

no tumblr’s tagging system is so busted like if there’s a tag that contains the sequence of letters “male reader” it shows in the male reader tags even if there’s more there. so tags like “female reader” show up in the tag because it shows the phrase it’s so dumb😭😭

like i have “male reader” blocked on my blog bc there’s some authors who are uncomfortable with fem readers interacting w male reader or gn fics which i completely get so i just blocked it so i wouldn’t accidentally see and interact with it but now everything with “female reader” is blocked too it’s so annoying and soooo frustrating bc authors get blamed for tagging stuff incorrectly when they tagged everything the right way tumblr’s code is just shitty🫠

this is exactly what happens to me all the time like i do believe to the best of my knowledge i tag everything appropriately but if my stuff shows in "x male reader" tag i genuinely have nothing i can do bc i did not use that tag but ppl get mad at me for it and im like 😭 i do think that last anon was just being genuinely curious and not rude or accusatory but i just am rly tired of the whole topic as a whole bc it usually results in ppl yelling at me sjhjdgf so my only and best advice is just that if u see my content in the tags and cant understand why its there just block me and save us both the trouble of figuring out why its there

but yeah tumblr has a rly broke ass tag system bc if u type in the tags "i was writing a gojo x reader fic" like as a casual statement, it shows in the gojo x reader tags bc it has "gojo x reader" which i think is rly quite silly bc i think the tags should show only posts w precisely that specific set of words ONLY but idk. idk 😭 its rly annoying and i think we all deal w it no matter what content we look for so the best bet is to just remove ppl u constantly see in the tags who do not give content u are looking for instead of going to them directly ab it as tho they can help what the tags show

[builder051]

Hi! I’m sorry to hear you haven’t been feeling well. I did have a prompt if you’re up for it - would you be interested in writing something for Whoa Bessie where Bucky has a bad experience at the doctor and starts flashing back to the traumatic experiences of being in the hospital after losing his arm? Maybe Steve has to figure out what’s going on and help him?

Hope you continue to feel better!

I apologize for the length and delay of this; it completely ran away from me. I don't know if I tagged appropriately, but expect the usual with just a touch more graphic content than usual (Bucky's memories of war/event/injury...)

____________________

James has a bad feeling as soon as they enter the hospital.  It’s the same old VA, just a medical office instead of a therapy room. 

But’s cloudy outside.  Forecast says it’ll be raining within the hour.  James doesn’t like it.

“Hey.”  Steve nudges James’s knee, and James closes the weather app on his phone.  “It’s ok.  It’ll be ok.”

James nods once.  He tries shrugging to loosen up his shoulders, but everything stays tight and locked.

The MA calls James’s name. 

They do most of the talkdown in the hallway, pause briefly for the scale, though James knows his weight down to the tenth of a kilogram, and file into an exam room.

The not-rightness creeps as a shiver starting somewhere around James’s lumbar spine and trails upward into his back, his neck, under his hair.  The crown of James’s head seems like a good stopping spot, but the feeling doesn’t release.

The MA smiles, but she looks tired.  Maybe she has kids.  Maybe she’s getting shift differential after already working an overnight, bothering patients for their blood pressure at two in the morning.

The exam table is reclined, and, covered in its crisp white sanitary layer, looks more like a bed than a place to sit.  It’s narrow, though.  High.  More like a gurney.  The cot with rails and wheels that ferries people in and out of surgery.

Steve must feel his tension, because it’s his light touch that guides James into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs opposite the exam table.

“Oh,” James murmurs.  “Yeah.”  He sits, then tries taking a deep, steadying breath.  “What’s this again?” he whispers at Steve.

“Neuro.”  Steve sits beside him. 

James knows he’s flashing his discomfort like a beacon, but he’ll take his chances and hold it together, for the MA at least.

Her hair’s in a bun, perfectly aligned at the back of her head.  If she’s working a double shift, she must have extra strength hairspray.  Maybe the MA has a military background.  But, eh, she looks too young to be in and out of service and gone through community college in that amount of time.  An honorable discharge, perhaps?  Or maybe she takes ballet class at the community center for personal time away from her yet-imaginary family and work schedule.

She’s not even looking in James’s direction, but her presence is threatening.  He tries estimating her height, slouched as she is in front of the rolling computer cart.  In a fistfight, he’d win in an instant, even though sometimes his reaction speed is delayed.  He’s not as strong as he used to be.  But the last time he socked Steve in the middle of a night terror, it had left a bruise.

“Mr. Barnes?”  Now the MA is looking in his direction. 

James is completely lost.  “Mm?”

“She’s asking about your symptoms,” Steve says.

“Um.”  James takes the redirection, but it’s not enough to completely un-lose his thoughts.  Change paths.  Make words.

James examines the linoleum floor as he struggles to string together a meaningful vocalization.  Every time he gets a sentence to the tip of his tongue, he pulls back.  He’s wrong.  He’s in pain.  He isn’t understanding, and nobody is explaining in the first place.

The bottom corner of the exam table has a wheel.  More akin to a swivel chair than, say, an actual hospital bed, but… that doesn’t make it ok.

James stands up.  His knee pops, and phantom pain blisters from his stump arm.  Some morbid, bloodsucking jellyfish is suctioned to his body, tentacles stinging around his back and up his chest.  He cries out in pain, and Steve is up and supporting him in no time at all.

“Buck?” Steve asks.  “Tell me.  It’s ok.”

James looks at his stump arm, expecting bandages stained with blood, if not a surgical knife or twelve cutting into already-desiccated flesh that looks more like raw hamburger than human.

There’s nothing.  Just a shirt sleeve.  When did he start wearing shirts?  Where are the telltale snaps of the hospital gown?

“It hurts,” James manages to say.  “I-I-I cant.  This-this.”  He moves his eyes to the window quickly enough to white out his peripheral vision.  Everything is blurry.  No, it’s raining.  Fuck.

“Can we not?” James grunts toward Steve’s ear.

“It’s just a talking appointment.  Just Neurology,” Steve tries to explain, but James shakes his head until he feels like he might vomit.  Anesthesia does that.  He half expects someone to come rushing in with a syringe of Zofran dissolved in water, hurrying to inject it into the med port on his NG tube.

He doesn’t have an NG.  James’s throat hurts from pain and terrible feelings he usually shoves away, but they’re now forcing themselves out in sickly panic. 

There’s no beeping pump on a pole, tied to him with yards and yards of tubing.  Nutrition.  Oxygen.  IV hydration through the PICC line that added a substantial scar to his good arm.

The other arm was bad?  Is that why they took it away?  He may have been in and out of consciousness during the event, the rescue.  James remains grateful to the PJ who drugged to the nines as soon as they closed the helicopter door.  But he knows.  He smelled his own flesh burning over the overwhelming fumes of smoke and gasoline.  He’s pretty sure he saw the inside of somebody else’s brain, and James hopes to god and the army that the casualty has been appropriately bagged, transported, and buried.  Somewhere peaceful now.  Like heaven.  Arlington, probably.

“I need to go.”  He can’t be in here.  Not anymore.  Not with the simple nervous system poster on the wall, practically a drawing of  what’s-his-name post-explosion.  He was in James’s unit.  He ought to at least know his name.  More than a few buddies sent him cards and letters while he was inpatient.  James can’t find even one with the feeling of a personal connection.  Strangers.  Like meeting friends, yet in reverse.  

“Can we--?”  There’s more spit around James’s lower teeth than seems otherwise appropriate.  He shakes his head again.  “Go?”

“Is it a bad one?” Steve seems to finally have caught on.  He increases the pressure of his hand on James’s back, so now it’s grounding as well as stabilizing. 

“Mm.”

“I can get you a drink of water,” the MA offers.  “Or if you want to go back to the waiting room…”

“We have to go.”  It comes out abruptly, spoken through James’s teeth as he tries not to acknowledge the taste of things long-since-digested.  It’s already risen past his chest.  He can feel the tang at the back of his throat.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Steve tries to clarify.  “Or reschedule.”

James grips Steve’s arm.  “I’m—probably—“ He feels breathless.  Almost weightless.  “Might throw up.”

“Ok.”  Steve has them out of the exam room before James has time to blink. 

The MA shouts and points them toward the accessible bathroom.  The first door to the left.  Wasn’t that a game show?  Hospital television.  Always on HGTV or Game Show Network so it’s appropriate or all ages, creeds, and levels of inattention. 

“Call to reschedule?” The MA asks.  “Or do you want an appointment this afternoon.  We have a cancellation spot.”

It’s a game show.  It’s a game.  Get to the place as fast as you can to do the thing, take care of the problem. Move the tank on the offensive.  Point an AK-37 at a couple Hijabis in the street market.  Run the course in basic, not letting the tires catch the toes of his barely broken in boots.  It keeps going back.  Football in high school.  Fucking PE class in grade school.  He didn’t know Steve then, but James would’ve still picked him for his team.

“We’ll call,” Steve says, confirming what’s probably obvious.  James is fried.  A bundle of sizzling nerve endings encased in a lumbering body.  Like he’s been electrocuted.  But electroshock therapy is generally frowned upon.  They didn’t leave him literally frying on South Asian sand just to cook him in the hospital all over again.

The MA nods and waves them on.  Steve opens the restroom door and pushes James toward the toilet, where he’s more than happy to kneel and, well, not pray.

Steve stands between the toilet and sink, prepared to help, but yet to take action.  “Ok to touch?” he asks.

“N-no,” James murmurs into the toilet bowl.  He’s in so much pain he’s almost numb, at least at the scarred tissue of his stump arm and the opposite occipital lobe.  He should probably do something with his hair.  Steve usually does that.  But not when the back of his head is exploding—no.  No.  Not with an IED.  Not with a neurologist.

“Tell me when you’re ready?”

James focuses on Steve’s voice.  Melodic.  Deepened, over the years.  Aging well, and pleasant, like slow cello music, or a bottle of whiskey.  And not the kind from the gas station.

They’ve been doing this shit since they were stupid teenagers.  Scramming before the clerk noticed the bottle shoved into the waist of Steve’s pants.  Always on the brink of trouble, though back then there was nothing to be afraid of.  Who cares if you’re caught by the dorm monitor?  Forgetting to return a borrowed textbook.  Smoking a little weed.  Maybe more than a little.

The amount needed for personal use, not intent to sell.  Just to loosen up.  To feel good.  To get over the awkward of sex.  To learn what it means to be in love.  To be less afraid of the future.

It is the future.  James has a hard time seeing it all in the same lifeline.  There’s too much.  It’s too broken up. 

But there are constants.  And things James knows he can’t change.  The weather.  The rain.  Steve.

James lets his chest heave as his body pulls in the air it needs.  His heart hammers, working to circulate his blood.  Oxygenate it.  He knows how to do this.

James tries to spit delicately, but then breaks form and accidentally wipes his mouth on his stump shoulder.  He stops.  Rides out a wave of fresh pain. 

The best thing about Steve is that James doesn’t have to hide from him.  Or in front of him.  One of James’s eyes starts to stream, but he knows Steve is there, listening, as he shakily puts shirttail to eyeball.

“Mm-hm,” James hums.  There’s a beat’s pause as he finds his next words.  “I’ll tell you.”

[thewrittenart]

Monday, Nov. 6 2023

Woke up around 6:40AM feeling a bit tired. But it was already somewhat bright outside, so I felt like I should get up to let Charlie, my cat, outside in order to maximize his "outside time," especially with the recent time change (Fall back, so the sun sets an hour earlier around 4:30PM).

I get up but wasn't feeling energetic at all. So I mosey on, and I don't even know what I actually do. I do remember putting on a YouTube video (Alfie Deyes's latest vlog upload -- I love watching or having in the background daily vlogs!); his sponsor was BetterHelp. This prompted me to check out how much it costs. (I've known of BetterHelp prior but have never tried it -- heck, I've never been to therapy, but I have been thinking about going since some time in the beginning of this year.) With Alfie's link, it was ~$60/week, which is a bit tight for me right now financially. But they had a link after I filled out the questionnaire that said something like "I can't afford this right now." So I clicked it, and it asked me more questions about my situation. After I was awarded financial aid! That was so amazing! It lowered the price to ~$50/week, which is not so much of a difference but the fact that I got aid and that that is even a thing they offer just made me get on board. It's like I already feel like they really care about you. (I do some dog-walking for pocket money, so I just told myself that what I earn from that, for now, will go first to paying for therapy, at least for a couple months. I want to try it out until the end of the year.) I got really excited after signing up and even got matched within a few hours! I haven't set up an appointment though... I have trouble committing to a time constraint for some reason. It kind of makes me anxious. Maybe I can talk to my therapist about it haha!

Anyways, around noon, I was still feeling tired, so I lied down and napped. (Charlie joined me too!) Woke up after 20-30 minutes feeling somewhat energized. (My psychology teacher said 20 minutes is the magic number for naps.) I felt better after that.

Around 3PM, I realized that, since the sun sets around 4PM, my cat will have to be inside at that time for the rest of the night. Then I thought: wow, 4PM is still pretty early for working in the evenings. So I decided to go into the office to work! I figured work until 8 or 9PM -- that's 3-4 hours of work! And I work really well in my office, better than at home... Hate to admit it. I do really like working there; it's just that Charlie is so happy outside. I need to be home to let him in and out. And I only let him go outside during the daylight hours, given the weather is appropriate. So, I guess on the bright side, bad weather days have an advantage that: I don't have an excuse to not go into the office [especially since it's becoming winter]. So yeah, I did enjoy going into the office. I felt very proud of myself for being able to work 4-5 hours, and I didn't really feel like I was dragging myself through the mud to be productive, which has been happening a lot (part of the reason I signed up for therapy). And when I got home, I did not feel any obligation to work or even think about work. I just started my bedtime routine. I like going to bed after a good work session [and doing some me-time in the morning after waking up]... I might actually prefer it.

I slept so well that night: no wake-ups at all, felt well-rested and not groggy when I woke up, woke up around 6:30AM before my alarm. It felt so natural. Honestly, it felt like the best wake-up I've ever had -- at least, the best one I've had in a long time!

I think I'm going to try and employ a day rating scale: great > good > okay > meh > bad.

[Today] This was a great day.

Note to self: Tag journal posts with the year, the month, journal, and day rating.

[fozmeadows]

race & culture in fandom

For the past decade, English language fanwriting culture post the days of LiveJournal and Strikethrough has been hugely shaped by a handful of megafandoms that exploded across AO3 and tumblr – I’m talking Supernatural, Teen Wolf, Dr Who, the MCU, Harry Potter, Star Wars, BBC Sherlock – which have all been overwhelmingly white. I don’t mean in terms of the fans themselves, although whiteness also figures prominently in said fandoms: I mean that the source materials themselves feature very few POC, and the ones who are there tended to be done dirty by the creators.

Periodically, this has led POC in fandom to point out, extremely reasonably, that even where non-white characters do get central roles in various media properties, they’re often overlooked by fandom at large, such that the popular focus stays primarily on the white characters. Sometimes this happened (it was argued) because the POC characters were secondary to begin with and as such attracted less fan devotion (although this has never stopped fandoms from picking a random white gremlin from the background cast and elevating them to the status of Fave); at other times, however, there has been a clear trend of sidelining POC leads in favour of white alternatives (as per Finn, Poe and Rose Tico being edged out in Star Wars shipping by Hux, Kylo and Rey). I mention this, not to demonize individuals whose preferred ships happen to involve white characters, but to point out the collective impact these trends can have on POC in fandom spaces: it’s not bad to ship what you ship, but that doesn’t mean there’s no utility in analysing what’s popular and why through a racial lens.

All this being so, it feels increasingly salient that fanwriting culture as exists right now developed under the influence and in the shadow of these white-dominated fandoms – specifically, the taboo against criticizing or critiquing fics for any reason. Certainly, there’s a hell of a lot of value to Don’t Like, Don’t Read as a general policy, especially when it comes to the darker, kinkier side of ficwriting, and whether the context is professional or recreational, offering someone direct, unsolicited feedback on their writing style is a dick move. But on the flipside, the anti-criticism culture in fanwriting has consistently worked against fans of colour who speak out about racist tropes, fan ignorance and hurtful portrayals of living cultures. Voicing anything negative about works created for free is seen as violating a core rule of ficwriting culture – but as that culture has been foundationally shaped by white fandoms, white characters and, overwhelmingly, white ideas about what’s allowed and what isn’t, we ought to consider that all critical contexts are not created equal.

Right now, the rise of C-drama (and K-drama, and J-drama) fandoms is seeing a surge of white creators – myself included – writing fics for fandoms in which no white people exist, and where the cultural context which informs the canon is different to western norms. Which isn’t to say that no popular fandoms focused on POC have existed before now – K-pop RPF and anime fandoms, for example, have been big for a while. But with the success of The Untamed, more western fans are investing in stories whose plots, references, characterization and settings are so fundamentally rooted in real Chinese history and living Chinese culture that it’s not really possible to write around it. And yet, inevitably, too many in fandom are trying to do just that, treating respect for Chinese culture or an attempt to understand it as optional extras – because surely, fandom shouldn’t feel like work. If you’re writing something for free, on your own time, for your own pleasure, why should anyone else get to demand that you research the subject matter first?

Because it matters, is the short answer. Because race and culture are not made-up things like lightsabers and werewolves that you can alter, mock or misunderstand without the risk of hurting or marginalizing actual real people – and because, quite frankly, we already know that fandom is capable of drawing lines in the sand where it chooses. When Brony culture first reared its head (hah), the online fandom for My Little Pony – which, like the other fandoms we’re discussing here, is overwhelmingly female – was initially welcoming. It felt like progress, that so many straight men could identify with such a feminine show; a potential sign that maybe, we were finally leaving the era of mainstream hypermasculine fandom bullshit behind, at least in this one arena. And then, in pretty much the blink of an eye, things got overwhelmingly bad. Artists drawing hardcorn porn didn’t tag their works as adult, leading to those images flooding the public search results for a children’s show. Women were edged out of their own spaces. Bronies got aggressive, posting harsh, ugly criticism of artists whose gijinka interpretations of the Mane Six as humans were deemed insufficiently fuckable.

The resulting fandom conflict was deeply unpleasant, but in the end, the verdict was laid down loud and clear: if you cannot comport yourself like a decent fucking person – if your base mode of engagement within a fandom is to coopt it from the original audience and declare it newly cool only because you’re into it now; if you do not, at the very least, attempt to understand and respect the original context so as to engage appropriately (in this case, by acknowledging that the media you’re consuming was foundational to many women who were there before you and is still consumed by minors, and tagging your goddamn porn) – then the rest of fandom will treat you like a social biohazard, and rightly so.

Here’s the thing, fellow white people: when it comes to C-drama fandoms and other non-white, non-western properties? We are the Bronies.

Not, I hasten to add, in terms of toxic fuckery – though if we don’t get our collective shit together, I’m not taking that darkest timeline off the table. What I mean is that, by virtue of the whiteminding which, both consciously and unconsciously, has shaped current fan culture, particularly in terms of ficwriting conventions, we’re collectively acting as though we’re the primary audience for narratives that weren’t actually made with us in mind, being hostile dicks to Chinese and Chinese diaspora fans when they take the time to point out what we’re getting wrong. We’re bristling because we’ve conceived of ficwriting as a place wherein No Criticism Occurs without questioning how this culture, while valuable in some respects, also serves to uphold, excuse and perpetuate microaggresions and other forms of racism, lashing out or falling back on passive aggression when POC, quite understandably, talk about how they’re sick and tired of our bullshit.

An analogy: one of the most helpful and important tags on AO3 is the one for homophobia, not just because it allows readers to brace for or opt out of reading content they might find distressing, but because it lets the reader know that the writer knows what homophobia is, and is employing it deliberately. When this concept is tagged, I – like many others – often feel more able to read about it than I do when it crops up in untagged works of commercial fiction, film or TV, because I don’t have to worry that the author thinks what they’re depicting is okay. I can say definitively, “yes, the author knows this is messed up, but has elected to tell a messed up story, a fact that will be obvious to anyone who reads this,” instead of worrying that someone will see a fucked up story blind and think “oh, I guess that’s fine.” The contextual framing matters, is the point – which is why it’s so jarring and unpleasant on those rare occasions when I do stumble on a fic whose author has legitimately mistaken homophobic microaggressions for cute banter. This is why, in a ficwriting culture that otherwise aggressively dislikes criticism, the request to tag for a certain thing – while still sometimes fraught – is generally permitted: it helps everyone to have a good time and to curate their fan experience appropriately.

But when white and/or western fans fail to educate ourselves about race, culture and the history of other countries and proceed to deploy that ignorance in our writing, we’re not tagging for racism as a thing we’ve explored deliberately; we’re just being ignorant at best and hateful at worst, which means fans of colour don’t know to avoid or brace for the content of those works until they get hit in the face with microaggresions and/or outright racism. Instead, the burden is placed on them to navigate a minefield not of their creation: which fans can be trusted to write respectfully? Who, if they make an error, will listen and apologise if the error is explained? Who, if lived experience, personal translations or cultural insights are shared, can be counted on to acknowledge those contributions rather than taking sole credit? Too often, fans of colour are being made to feel like guests in their own house, while white fans act like a tone-policing HOA.

Point being: fandom and ficwriting cultures as they currently exist badly need to confront the implicit acceptance of racism and cultural bias that underlies a lot of community rules about engagement and criticism, and that needs to start with white and western fans. We don’t want to be the new Bronies, guys. We need to do better.  

[minho-hoho]

ENHYPEN's reaction to: when you wear their clothes - 5Yearz

jakehoon ver.

⛦ 𝕘𝕖𝕟𝕣𝕖 ► Fluff, established relationship

⛦ 𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 ► BF!ENHYPEN × GN!Reader

⛦ 𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘 ► None! (kissing??)

⛦ 𝕣𝕖𝕢𝕦𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕕 ► Yes (jesus sorry for this)

⛦ 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕥 ► 0.658k

A/N: man I'm so tired wtf is up with those half assed reactions

MASTERLIST

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊Lee Heeseung ¦ 이 희승˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

You arrived at home a bit later than usual, you were exhausted and drained by your work day, all you wanted to do was to take a shower and fall asleep in your boyfriend arms.

You opened the door and greeted Heeseung with a small tired smile and immediately went to your bathroom. When it was time for you to pick out clothes to wear, you didn't want to take time to think about to wear and just to took the first thing you saw, which was an oversized tee-shirt. You didn't even bother to know who it belonged to and went directly to the living room where you boyfriend was seated on the couch.

When Heeseung saw your slumped figure lazily hovering him, with a tee-shirt way to big for you making you look tiny and adorable, he felt his heart melt, and a smile couldn't help but form on his face.

He opened his arms to you and you crashed onto him and buried your head in his chest. He hugged you tightly while kissing the top of your head with a smitten expression that you couldn't see.

“You're so cute when you're like that, you know” He kissed your head another time as you hummed to him as a response.

“And even more when you wear my clothes” You lifted your head to face him.

“Oh, so that's yours?” he chuckled.

“How many sizes too big is that for you?” You shrugged and dived back into his chest. He chuckled another time.

“Wear my clothes more often, you look lovelier in them” he kissed you one more time.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊Park Jay ¦ 박 제이˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

You were cooking lunch at home as you knew your boyfriend was coming over to eat with you. You were doing your best in cooking an exquisite and savoury dish for the both of you to eat. And you managed to do so quite well. You were proud of yourself, but before you even had the time to change yourself inro more appropriate clothes to welcome Jay, you heard your bell ring.

You were startled by the loud and piercing sound and checked the clock. It showed 12:05. Your eyes widened and you rushed to open the door to see a handsome smiling man holding beautiful flowers in his hands.

You couldn't help but smile before hugging him tightly.

You both made your way in the dining room.

“Wait a second here. I'm just going to set the table and all.” A small smile appeared on the corner of your lips.

“I can help you if you want, you know” Jay reminded you as he held your hand in his.

“I know. But you always do, so I'll do it myself.” You reassured him before going to your kitchen.

Jay watched your every move closely and passionately as you took plates and put them on the table. He was enthralled and mesmerised by the way you were swiftly spinning and turning around to take anything you needed.

As you were trying to prepare everything quickly, Jay noticed the hoodie you were wearing looked familiar, and was particularly too big for you. Making you look absolutely adorable. A grin creeped up on his face as he sat up and went to hug your waist from behind. He laid his head on your shoulder and talked lowly in your ear.

“Where did you find this sweater, hm?” He hummed.

“Oh, it's yours right? I'm sorry, just grabbed the first thing I saw.” You answered him calmly as you put food on the plates.

“Don't apologise. I love when you wear my clothes. Only wear mine from now on, okay?”

His sweet way of speaking, the warm tone of his voice, his welcoming embrace could have melted you on the spot. And a loving smile was on your lips as you hummed back to him. He kissed your neck and pulled back a little.

“Good” He said as you chuckled.

TAG LIST! : @axartia, @echantedrose, @leeknowbuttsmasher, @nikipedia07, @sh1mzu, @stacey-stonem

[luveline]

you know, I'm coming right back [Fred Weasley x Reader]

summary: you're a lonely artist and Fred is your adoring model

word count: 2.4k

tags: reader insert, lonely reader, artist reader, seventh year, kids in love, first kiss, getting together, pining, fluff, friends-to-lovers

It was easy for you, usually, to act fine. To feel fine. Any loneliness that clouded your life was pushed firmly into the depths of your thoughts. You tried to focus on the things that mattered, essays and charms and your art.

You loved to draw. You had sketchbooks filled to the brim with sketches, some half finished, others coloured and lined. You drew everything, though you struggled to bring anything from your memory. Everything you drew had to be done right there, right then, with unsuspecting models. You sketched students eating their dinner, scribbled side profiles when you managed a spare minute in class. But you're most impressive artwork was done in the library, where nothing moved. Everyone was silent. You had pages and pages of bored, tired looking students. When exams approached, you hurriedly copied down the expressions of people on the edge of depression and panic.

You had friends, ish. You knew people. You'd had intense friendships that somehow always ended in awkward drifting aparts. Well, you thought. There must be something wrong with me. They liked me before they didn't, so the fault must've been mine.

You huffed out a sigh, pressing your face deep into the textured page of your sketch book, breathing in the smell of charcoal. You were sketching the illusive Fred Weasley, who you'd never truly drawn before. Maybe you had scraps from your second or third year when you'd still attempted to draw moving objects before getting comfortable and accepting that still life was your forte.

He was maddeningly good lucking when his eyebrows puckered in concentration. He seemed to actually be studying for once, sat at a table with his brother, George, and housemates Angelina Johnson and Alicia Spinnet.

You were sat by yourself, and couldn't help listening to his lilting voice as he bantered with his friends. They were talking about Umbridge (the current victim of the Hogwarts' student body hate train), and quidditch, and their recent ban from quidditch. You'd never played.

"Watch out, dolly fell asleep," said one of the girls.

You bit your lip. You'd been nicknamed dolly by the girls in your dorm because of your porcelain doll you'd had since childhood. Even though this year was your last, you still hadn't felt the need to hide her away. She made you feel much less anxious and alone.

The whole school knew, naturally.

"Don't get any funny ideas," said Angelina,  to the twins.

"Come on Angie, you think so little of us?" said George.

"Yesterday I watched you trick a group of forth years into taking puking pastilles." Angelina said.

"It was hardly a trick. We told them they were multi-faceted," said George.

You could hear your heartbeat if you focused. It was in your ears. It bump, bump, bumped.

Bump bump. You flinched, a hand settled on your shoulder quickly moved.

"Wake up, dolly. Library's closing."

You squinted up into Fred's face, head halo'd by candlelight. Lifting your head from the wooden table, you stretched your neck to the left. It clicked.

"Uh..."

"Hmm?" You prompted him, smoothing your hair behind your ears.

"You have - dirt. On your face. Here-" He said, reaching forward. You closed your eyes as he gently wiped the skin above your eyebrow.

"It's charcoal."

"What?"

"It's not dirt," you said, peaking at him through your eyelashes. "It's charcoal."

He looked mildly surprised. You shifted, hoping to cover your sketch before he caught sight of it.

It didn't matter.

"It's me. My gorgeous dolly, you've created quite the masterpiece right there, haven't you? I look vexingly handsome, of course. Thought if that's a consequence of your skill or my handsomeness is anyones guess."

You were lost for words. "Uh, quite."

"Yes, yes, quite. Say, could I keep it?"

"... You want the drawing?"

"I'd love it, if that's okay."

"I," you quickly dug your thumbnail into the paper, tearing carefully at the centre. The paper came away a little ragged and smudged. "Of course. It's yours."

He handled it with care.

The librarian jingled her little bell again.

"Thank you. So, see you?"

"Yep," you agreed.

He nodded his head and bowed out with his friends. You tried not to feel paranoid at their laughter.

-

You were curled up in a hidden alcove, though it was hardly hidden. Most students knew where to seek privacy in the castle. You just so happened to get there first that evening.

You were trying to sketch Fred again. It felt weird to be missing a page from your book, and weirder still that you couldn't remember his face when he wasn't right in front of you. You tried, but it kept going wrong.

When you finally managed one you liked well enough, you had accidentally ruined it with a heavy hand and the wrong shade of brown.

He looked much too brunette.

You carefully rolled your coloured pencils back up, securing the leather ties tightly so as to keep every pencil confined.

Sighing morosely, you flipped to a new page. Things got so complicated sometimes, it made you agitated. You doodled a little sad face in the corner of your page. When the one thing that you enjoyed in life started to go wrong, it set off your whole mood.

Your birthday was coming up. It had been on your mind a lot lately. You'd spend it alone. That's what you figured. Nobody would know it was your birthday, or if they did, you weren't friends now, so...

You began with an arching circle, bisecting the lines appropriately. Feeling out the familiar lines of your own face came easy, the slight upper tilt of your brows, your hair and your pursed mouth. You always looked sad in the mirror, and it showed, dotted here and there when the only thing to draw was your own face.

The rudimentary outline of a birthday cake took form. The candles were unlit.

In a fit of unhappiness, you scratched out your mouth. It was never smiling.

"What did that piece of paper ever do to you?" said a voice.

You jumped. Fred was peering down at you curiously, wringing his hands. You put your pencil between the soft cover and smashed it flat, closed.

"Hi, dolly."

"Weasley."

"Oh, not even a first name?"

"You neglected mine first," you reasoned, rolling the words. He smiled at your joking tone.

"How rude of me. Hi, Y/N," he corrected himself.

"Hi, Weasley."

He smirked.

"Anymore of me in that blessed vessel?"

"Nah. You never stand still."

"If I pose for it?" He asked. You patted the ground in front of you.

He was a lovely model. He stayed infinitely still, more still than you imagined possible for him. He sat at a 3/4ths angle, chin up but not too far, mouth tilted and eyes open.

His eyes were the one thing he couldn't keep still. You tried not to flame in the cheeks everything you'd catch his gaze on you.

You sketched fast, choosing to hatch rather than render, big swooping lines to give the illusion of a depth that wasn't really there. You would've loved to do a full render, maybe even a colour portrait, but he was beginning to look a little antsy.

You set the book on the floor to face him and pushed it into his eyesight softlt. He turned. He looked nice like that, face bent, hair falling into his eyes.

After a moment, he began scrounging through his robe pockets. He set down a box, a lighter, a pair of gloves.

Finally, he set a galleon onto the floor close to your crossed legs.

"For you," he said, smiling at your inquisitive look. "For the drawing."

"Oh, I can't accept that. And I'd like to keep this one, if it's alright."

Fred thought for a moment. "Alright, you keep it. And the galleon, too, for the one you gave me the other day."

You bit back a smile. "I can't take your money, Fred."

"I can't keep having you draw me for free. It's as valuable a service as anything else. Plus, I'm not sure if you know, but I run a lucrative business these days."

You picked up the coin, rubbing your thumb against the engravings thoughtfully. "It's hardly a service."

"A talent, then. A skill. You're very good."

You're neck almost snapped as you looked into his face, wanting to assess his expression for genuineness. He looked earnest, and kind. You blinked away the gathering heat behind your eyes.

"Thank you."

He waved a hand at you. "Think nothing of it."

"Really-" you cleared your throat, "-you're doing me a favour. I'm not good at drawing things that move."

"I'm sure you're better than you think," he said.

You shook your head, smiling smiling smiling.

"What's in the box?"

"Oh, this old thing?" Fred weighed the box in his hands. It was soft at the corners, like a simple jewelry box that you had in your trunk. He offered it to you. You opened it carefully, the lid sliding free with a shhhhh sound. Inside was an evil looking fruit pastille, a match stick and a dried up flower petal.

It felt like a very private thing to see, suddenly. Such an eclectic collection of items couldn't be random.

"The first puking pastille George and I made. Or rather, the second - the first was forcibly fed to Lee Jordan in our third year. The match stick is from my Uncle's matchbox. I never met him. And the flower was from Ginny, when she was 9." He sounded nervous.

"It's a memory box."

"I- yes. It is. Things are sometimes so miserable now, with Umbridge and you-know-who. Scary, even. I look at them when I feel like it won't ever end."

You took them in for a little while longer and then placed the lid onto the box with nimble fingers. You scratched the lid with a fingernail.

"It's nice. You're right. Things are so awful right now, it's good to have reminders of why we keep going."

"Exaclty. Dolly, can I interest you in a fruit pastille?"

"Not on your life."

"They're perfectly edible!"

"Sure, Fred."

-

The honest conversation you'd shared with Fred was a catalyst between you. He often came to find you, each time whining and nagging you to just sit in the library like most people do.

"What, so your housemates can throw paper balls at me?"

"They thought you were sleeping!"

A likely story, you thought. He sometimes asked you to draw him, posing with the elegance of a natural born model. It was great for you personally, you felt that you were really getting a feel for his face. Eventually, you were able to draw his face from memory, the details of his nose coming to your fingers as easily as a first year spell.

It became about capturing emotion. You could capture his likeness now without a second thought, but his emotions were much more complicated. How would you show his veiled frustration the day Umbridge kicked him off the quidditch team? Through the clenching of his jaw? The shy veins in his forehead? How did you showcase the fear when he'd come back to Hogwarts after Christmas break, through his eyes, downturned and squinting just a little?

Today, it was poorly hidden elation. "How come you're so happy?" You asked, pencil between your teeth. He grinned. You measured his face with your thumb in the air, forming an L.

"Is it a prank?"

"You're thinking too small."

"A new product?"

"Still need to go bigger!"

"Hmmm," you hummed. Measure twice, cut once. Or in your case, sketch once.

"George and I, we're gonna open a shop."

"A section at Zonko's isn't enough for you?" You asked, casually, though you were very very happy for him.

"It's going to be amazing. We're going to run it, just the two of us, and you won't catch me in these scrappy long sleeves anymore. The next time you see me, I'll be in a full suit and tie."

"The next time? Is that not tomorrow?"

Fred closed his mouth, realising his mistake. He had revealed something he hadn't intended to. "We're leaving," he confessed. "We were going to wait for our NEWTs but... Well, we won't need them. This is going to work."

"So. You're leaving today?" You asked, crestfallen.

"Hey," Fred said, rubbing a placating hand over the curve of your shoulder. "Tomorrow. During the DADA OWL. We have a plan."

"This is goodbye?"

"No! No. Not if you don't want it to be. Actually, I've been meaning to ask you something, and maybe now isn't the best time, I had this whole letter planned and I didn't want to distract you from your exams and-"

"What do you want to ask me?"

Fred straightened. "I wanted to ask - will you go out with me? Not, you don't have to be my girlfriend if it's too soon, I'd love to take you for food someplace, I was going to ask you to Hogsmeade, but when the shop officially became ours, the plans changed so fast and I didn't know if you'd still want-" you cut off his rambling.

"I'll be your girlfriend," you said.

"You will?"

"Sure, if you'll be my boyfriend," you murmured.

Fred moved the arm that had been on your shoulder to the nape of your neck. "That's a dealbreaker," he said, leaning in.

He kissed you chastely on the lips first and then pulled back to look into your face. You chased him, a moment of bravery, and opened your mouth to taste him. He was sweet, like sugar. Your sketch pad crinkled beneath you both as he pressed forward. Your chests touched, heaving.

"You're not gonna be my boyfriend?" You asked against his mouth, breathing hard.

"I'm gonna be much more than that, dolly," he said heatedly.

Your mouth was tingling. "Kiss me again?"

You gasped at the force of him, laughing. He laughed too against your lips, and the sound tickled. He gave you a multitude of short and sweet kisses before pulling away again.

He wiped the wetness from your lip with his pinky finger. "Godric, you're cute. Look how flushed you are! You're insane."

Something churned in your stomach. The butterflies had acquired a trampoline. You felt happier than you had in a very long time. "You're not half-bad yourself, Weasley."

[tsukishumai]

pairing: tsukishima kei x f!reader wc; 2.2k tags; fluff, coworkers to lovers? a/n: quick fic for my bby lol happy birthday tsukki <33

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Tsukishima Kei was tired.

Stepping out into the cold, autumn evening, he rubs his hands together in an attempt to warm his frozen fingers. He thinks the blister he feels forming on his pinky toe was a sign for him to get a new pair of shoes, and this fact was solidified by the ache in his arch with each step he took towards the bus stop.

The day had been longer than most. Maybe if he hadn’t let his brother drag him to the gym and play pick-up games last night, then perhaps his body wouldn’t have felt so sore this morning. And if his body hadn’t been so sore in the morning, then he might have had the energy to grab coffee before work, possibly even pack himself a quick lunch. His mood would have presumably been at least mildly better throughout the day, and he had no doubt that he would have been able to continue on with his work swiftly, and efficiently.

But Tsukishima had learned at a young age that things don’t always work out for him the way he wants them to.

He wasn’t trying to be rude when you came to ask him about his tour schedule, but did you have to burst through his office door so loudly? He felt bad for 2.3 seconds as he watched your smile slowly melt into a frown, but he was way too irked when you rolled your eyes at him when he asked you to knock.

And it wasn’t his fault that he bought the last tuna onigiri from the food stand outside the museum. He forgot to pack lunch, and he was hungry, too. He probably shouldn’t have unwrapped and eaten it right in front of your face, but he doesn’t appreciate getting dirty looks for ordering a meal.

You’re newer to the museum, he knows that. As someone with seniority, he should be a little more helpful, and he could probably work on improving his sociability just a tiny bit, but his patience could only run so thin. It’s not like you ever listened to him anyway.

Should he have told you to figure out the volunteer’s schedule on your own because ‘even a monkey with a banana could do it on their own’? Okay, maybe not.

But did you have to snap at him to ‘keep the stick up his own ass and leave yours alone’ when he warned your tours took too long, and you’d end up leaving late? No, and that’s the last time Tsukishima will ever try to offer advice to a newbie.

Tsukishima sighed. He was tired.

His stomach growled out loud as he pressed the button for the crosswalk, slowly moving to rub his palm along his belly. He’s wondering if he has anything he could make at his apartment. When an image of a rotting bunch of scallions and moldy tomatoes dying in his refrigerator drawer comes to mind, he thinks he’s probably better off grabbing a bento from the convenience store down the street.

The light switches from red to green, and just before Tsukishima steps down from the curb, he feels an arm delicately wrap around his own.

“Hey, babe,” a familiar, annoyingly cheery voice greets him, and he has to stop himself from grimacing when he looks down and his eyes meet yours.

Tsukishima doesn’t think you’ve ever touched him once — not in the last six months since you’ve become his coworker. He had bowed when you were first introduced, and Tsukishima had never been one to hand out hugs or high fives.

He attributes the deep blush that spread across his cheeks to this fact, and not to the feeling of your chest pressed tightly against his side.

“What the —“

“You almost left without me,” you pouted, and Tsukishima nearly tripped over his feet when you swing your body around to switch positions with him, “You’re so silly!”

“Uh,” Tsukishima stammers at the situation at hand, but he stills when he feels your grip tighten painfully around his bicep, and your eyes narrow and widen.

From behind your shoulder, Tsukishima sees it.

The streets were not too crowded, but they weren’t empty. From both sides of the sidewalk, Tsukishima watched as people silently walked past each other in a valiant effort to get home.

This was why Tsukishima almost didn’t notice the man standing beside the lamp post just fifteen feet back, his face half covered by a mask, hoodie pulled all the way over his head with the bill of a black hat just peeking out.

Tsukishima’s blood ran cold when he realized the man is watching you clutch onto him, and Tsukishima does not react when he can feel your nails dig through the material of his sweater.

A look of panic briefly flashes in your eyes when Tsukishima places his hand on top of yours and gently pulls your grip off his sleeve.

“You’re going to ruin my sweater,” Tsukishima mumbles as he drags his hand down the length of your arm and intertwines his fingers with yours. Your mouth drops open in shock when he gives your hand a tight squeeze, “Sweetie.”

He doesn’t wait for you to regain your composure before he drags you across the street. As soon as Tsukishima’s foot lands on the other curb, he glances back at the direction from which you came.

The capped-man was now slowly walking forward, reaching the crosswalk just as the light turned red once more.

Tsukishima quickened his pace down the silent sidewalk, globes of orange light shining down each lamp post you walked past. You said nothing of the sweat that accumulated between both of your nervous palms, still gripping onto Tsukishima’s hand tightly. The size of it nearly engulfs your own, and your hold on him was the only thing allowing you to somewhat keep up with the pace of his strides.

“My bus stop is right over there,” you mumble quietly, and Tsukishima silently thanked the gods you were going the same direction.

He could feel your fingers trembling against his, and Tsukishima gives you a light squeeze.

He wasn’t sure what to do. He was never one to comfort another, and he had never really been in a situation before. But something akin to an ember of rage had been stoked within him as soon as he saw some strange man’s greedy little eyes stuck on you.

The bus arrived just five minutes later, and Tsukishima stayed close behind as you climbed inside. You were lucky enough to find two vacant seats, and you slid into the one beside the window. Tsukishima occupies the aisle seat, stretching his legs out slightly as he watches the stream of people entering and leaving the bus.

It was after an old woman carrying groceries clambered into a seat behind the bus driver did Tsukishima notice him.

He sat by the very front while the two of you occupied seats in the back. A pair of sunglasses now completely masked all of his features, but Tsukishima didn’t need to see his eyes to know who they were trained on.

When you look up at him, dazed and slightly terrified, he gives you a tight-lipped smile. He lets go of your hand, and his heart breaks a little when he sees your eyes dart around in panic. Wordlessly, he reaches over and wraps his arms around your shoulders, pulling you close into his side.

You had always been so hot-headed — loud, and passionate, and animated about everything that you do. Tsukishima had known you were trouble from the moment you rearranged one of his displays without even thinking about consulting him, and you had honestly been a headache ever since. You challenged him at every turn, corrected him when he didn’t ask for it, and it was obvious to Tsukishima that you were much too big for him to handle.

But at the moment, feeling so small as you trembled tucked beneath his arm, Tsukishima could only think that he never wanted to see you like this ever again.

His heart crumbles a little when you rest your head against his shoulder.

“So,” Tsukishima’s voice vibrated against your cheek, “The tours ran a bit too long today, didn’t they?”

Tsukishima bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing when you turn your head to face him, an incredulous expression decorating your features.

“Is now really an appropriate time for an ‘I told you so’,” You hissed, “You never miss a chance, do you?”

Now, a smug smile has fully settled onto his lips, “Never have, never will.”

You land a punch on Tsukishima’s wide open ribs, and he flinches to the side with a slight ‘oof’. But he tightens his arm around you even more. Swirls of pine and citrus began to calm your nerves, and it took you too long to realize you were inhaling Tsukishima’s cologne. He smelled as clean as he looked, and even after a full day of work, not a single hair of his was out of place.

Your stop was four after Tsukishima’s. He carried your bag from your shoulders as you climbed out of your seat. He stepped aside to allow you to lead the way, but Tsukishima’s chest was nearly pressed against your back with how closely he followed behind.

You hadn’t expected Tsukishima to follow you this far, and as you walked a few steps towards the direction of your apartment, you turned to thank Tsukishima for his aid.

You whip your head side to side when you find that he was no longer walking behind you, curious to see that he was waiting two feet away from the bus’ exit.

You briefly wondered what he was waiting for, and your heart shattered down to the ground when you see the familiar stranger that had been following you since you exited your office building slowly step out.

You didn’t even notice him climb onto the bus. Had he really been there the entire time? Oh god, was he planning to follow you all the way home? Your head begins to spin at the dangerous possibilities that could have unfolded.

“Are you lost?” Tsukishima’s voice was cold and stern, and you could hear it clearly from where you stood.

You watched as the hooded man jolted, clearly shocked at the question directed to him. His face still remained perfectly hidden, but you could tell from his body language that he was not expecting to be addressed.

Tsukishima towered over him, but his six foot five stature had towered nearly everyone. The eyes behind his dark-rimmed glasses were narrowed in a glare, and Tsukishima stayed planted in front of your intruder.

“Oh — uh, i— no, just —“

“It’s that way,” Tsukishima didn’t wait for the man to finish his stammering, pointing a long finger towards the opposite direction of your home.

The man didn’t need to be told twice. He twirled on his heels, looking over his shoulders only to see Tsukishima watch as he walked away into the night.

You were frozen, mouth hung so wide open, you were pretty sure bugs had flown in. Tsukishima makes his way back to you, stopping to wrap his arms around your shoulders once again. He tilts his head down at you, looking softly as he asks, “Which way?”

You were at a loss for words, choosing instead to simply lead the way. Tsukishima remained draped over you, like a blanket of protection warding off all evil.

The silence that engulfed the two of you felt comfortable, and on any other day, you might have been appalled to be in such close contact with Tsukishima Kei.

But today, you felt safe. You felt comfort, and relief, and you relax against him, perfectly protected under Tsukishima’s wing.

You sneak a glance up at him, biting your lip as you turn the words you want to say over in your head.

“Tsukishima,” you start, chewing on your lips, “Thank yo—“

“My last tour is usually at 4:45,” he interrupts you, squeezing his hand on your shoulder, “I try to catch up on some paperwork before leaving but…”

He trails off, and you stay silent in fear of ruining what he’s trying to tell you.

He shifts his head away from you as he says, “If you wait for me, I could walk you home.”

You stop in your tracks, looking up at him with a smile. Tsukishima pointedly avoids your gaze, but it’s difficult when he’s keeping you pinned beside him.

“I’d like that,” you mumble before pointing back at the apartment building he hadn’t noticed, “This is my place.”

Tsukishima finally deigns to let you go, stepping back and brushing his fingers through his hair.

“Shorten your tours,” he grumbles out, turning his body back the direction from where he came, “And don’t forget to itemize each piece that comes in for the Date Masumane exhibit tomorrow.”

You stare at him dumbfounded before bursting out in giggles, bringing your hand up in a mock salute.

“I owe you one,” you call out, watching him retreat back from where he came.

He waves you off.

“I like black coffee,” he calls back over his shoulder, “Do what you will with that information.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

rbs v appreciated <33

[marauderundercover]

Taking Chances Chapter Five: Paris Revealed (Stories/Memories)

Prev

AO3

Marinette flinches back as the room erupts in shouting. The younger boy, who was definitely younger than her and yet almost (if not definitely) taller than her, was fiercely glaring while he screamed at Mr. Wayne in….was that Arabic? The man that walked in with him was waving around the knife in his hand while Dick yelled at Mr. Wayne, his face filled with confusion instead of fury. Glancing around for a way out, Marinette makes eye contact with Alfred who nods behind him. Sneaking away from the group of angry men, Marinette follows Alfred into the kitchen and instantly feels at home. And much calmer.

“I’m sorry.” She mumbles, breathing deeply to avoid spiraling again. Alfred simply hands her a cookie before turning around and putting water in a kettle.

“There is no need to apologize, Miss Marinette. It seems Master Bruce has forgotten all sense today and is instead insistent on acting like a fool. It was wrong of him to announce you like that, without preparing you or the boys beforehand. I do hope that his atrocious display of proper manners doesn’t make you want to leave.” Alfred says, and Marinette’s eyebrows shoot upwards. Was he? Was Alfred actually blaming this situation on Mr. Wayne? Was it Mr. Wayne’s fault? Did he not actually hate her? Did he just make a mistake?

“I- what?” Marinette says, unsure of herself.

“You, my dear, are not at fault. Your father didn’t tell any of his sons that you were coming to the manor today, or that you existed in general. And judging by your face, you weren’t prepared for the boys to be here either.” Alfred clarifies.

“Oh. No, I wasn’t. Mr. Wayne just said that he wanted to get to know me, and he knew I wanted to get to know him. I- my birth mother passed away. But my Maman knew her, so I can find out from her how I’m similar to Bridgette. But neither of my parents knew Mr. Wayne, and I just wanted to know if I was like him, I guess. I didn’t even know who he was until two days ago.” Marinette admits.

“As in you found out Bruce Wayne was your birth father two days ago or-” Alfred trails off, waiting for her to clarify.

“Oh no. I found out the name of my birth father awhile ago. It’s just- I really don’t pay attention to celebrities. The only ones I really know are designers. So I didn’t put two and two together, and I didn’t even know about Bruce Wayne and Wayne Enterprises until a few days ago. My friend Adrien made me google him and that’s when I found out about...the boys.” She says, stopping herself from saying her brothers as she was still unsure if Mr. Wayne actually wanted her like he wanted the others.

“Well I’m certain that things will start to calm down shortly. In the meantime, would you care for some tea?” Alfred asks, holding up the kettle. Marinette nods gratefully, trying hard to stop her inner spiral from drowning her.

---

“What do you mean daughter?” Damian snarls, finally switching to English. Bruce blinks at the boy before sighing.

“I mean, you have a biological sister.” He says, tired and wishing he had been able to convince Marinette to go somewhere else. Not that he didn’t want her to meet her siblings. But it definitely wasn’t the laid back first meeting that he wanted.

“You mean half-sister.” Damian spits out, crossing his arms and sticking his nose into the air.

“Shut up, Demon Spawn. She’s our sister, get over it. Where’d the kid come from? Her mom drop her off?” Jason asks, obviously trying to actually understand the situation.

“No. I first met her at the Museum and had my suspicions. She’s in Gotham on a class trip, and before you ask, yes. We had a DNA test done and yes, I am her father.” Bruce says, frowning when he sees Dick’s hurt expression morph into one of excitement.

“Wait, wait, wait! Was she the girl who was sassing the Joker?” He asks quietly, practically buzzing with excitement. When Bruce nods, Dick cheers and runs from the room. Okay then.

“Wait, she met the Joker?” Jason asks, his expression turning dark. Bruce watches his son’s face morph into one of disgust when he puts it together. “She’s the French kid he had at gunpoint, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Which is one of the reasons why we both thought the manor would be a more appropriate meeting place rather than somewhere public.” Bruce says, sighing as Damian once again starts screaming. This was not what he had planned.

---

After just a few minutes with Alfred, Marinette already felt calmer. Calm enough to giggle at another story about something that one of the boys- one of her brothers- did. Calm enough to let her guard down. And mess up.

“If you wanna see something ridiculous, you should look up the 26th time Monsieur Ramier was akumatized into Monsieur Pigeon. He made all the buildings turn into bird cages and all the food turned into bird seed. Luckily it didn’t last long, but seeing the Mayor of Paris stuck inside a giant bird cage was kind of hilarious.” Marinette rambles, giggling at the memory. It was definitely a needed akuma, situated right between two super destructive akumas. Monsieur Pigeon was, while a nuisance, always a breath of fresh air. His akumatized form was brought on by his fierce protectiveness of the pigeons, which luckily never led to death for civilians.

“Pardon me, Miss Marinette, but could I ask what you mean by ‘akumatized’?” Alfred asks, his posture suddenly stiff. Marinette’s eyes widen as she realizes what she just did. She told someone outside of Paris about the situation happening in Paris. Well crap. Normal Parisians didn’t know about the media block that she had set up with the help of the Mayor and Max. But after her calls to the Justice League were ignored, and she realized how disastrous it would be for a member of the League to be akumatized, the media block was the best choice. Time to act clueless.

“Akumatized, as in, a person is possessed by an akuma? Surely you’ve heard of it. It’s been happening in Paris for almost two years.” She says, hoping he doesn’t ask to see any evidence. This isn’t good, this is awful, this-

“And what is an akuma?” Alfred asks. Okay, this isn’t too bad.

“It’s an evil butterfly sent out by the villain, Hawkmoth.” Marinette says, giving out more information than she’s really comfortable with. Okay, time to change the subject, no more questions about heroes or villains or-

“Marinette!” A new voice calls, sliding into the kitchen, almost immediately falling over.

“Master Dick, have you forgotten about your ban on the kitchen?” Alfred asks, his lips quirking up in amusement.

“Awww, Alfred, I just wanted to talk to Marinette. I feel bad for all of us overwhelming her back there.” Dick says with a pout that somehow doesn’t look ridiculous on him. Despite obviously being at least ten years older than her.

“Don’t feel bad. It was just...a lot all at once.” Marinette says with a small smile.

“So I have to ask, are you the one who sassed the Joker at the Museum the other day?” He asks, a wide grin on his face as he sits on one of the stools. Marinette’s eyes widen and she blinks. How?

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess. It wasn’t a big deal though. He thought I was a Wayne- well, I guess he figured it out before I did- but I think he just wanted to scare my class.” She says, waving her hand to brush off the topic. She really didn’t want to talk about the Joker. Because she was sure it would turn into-

“I apologize for asking, but have you been caught up in the villain attacks in Paris before?” Alfred asks, Marinette instantly panicking. Sure, she’d been caught up in almost every single akuma battle as Ladybug. But there were a few on record where she was targeted as Marinette, and even a few battles that she assisted as Marinette. And then there was Kwami Buster…

“Well, a few. But basically everyone in Paris has dealt with it at some point. That’s just what happens when there’s an attack so often, you know? And my school seems to be a hotspot but that makes sense because teenagers are full of negative emotions and-” Marinette cuts off her rambling, cursing herself on the inside. Great job, Mari. Now they’re going to be worried or they’re going to think you’re a freak or-

“What do you mean negative emotions? Why would that matter?” Dick asks, his previous cheerful smile replaced with a look that clearly meant business.

“That’s how the villain chooses his targets. Negative emotion. If someone is having a bad enough day, he can take control of them and give them powers and basically destroy the city trying to get to Ladybug and Chat Noir, who are our heroes. I only know what’s been posted on official sites like the Ladyblog or miraculousparis.org.” Marinette says, smiling apologetically and hoping that this conversation can be over.

“Have you ever been akumatized?” Dick asks, tension suddenly filling the room.

“No, thankfully. I’ve found ways to manage my negative emotions so that they can’t take me over. I don’t blame anyone who has been akumatized, it’s hard not to be. But, I also don’t think I’d be able to forgive myself if I was akumatized.” Because then her family would be a target. Because Hawkmoth would know her identity. And if Hawkmoth’s insistence on her being akumatized was anything to go on, she’d be a devastating akuma. And if Ladybug wasn’t fighting in the battle….would the cure even work?

“That is a lot of pressure, Miss Marinette.” Alfred says softly after a moment of tense silence. Marinette grins brightly.

“I can handle it, don’t worry!” She says, hoping no one can tell how hard it actually is. How hard it is constantly being strong. Never truly feeling a negative emotion.

---

Bruce winces at the faux cheerfulness in his daughter’s voice. He had only found out about the Paris situation a few days ago, but he was determined to fix it. Find a solution. Do something to help the city and by extension, his daughter. She’d be going back there soon. Back to a city that was being held hostage by an emotional terrorist. Bruce would fix this. He had to.

Next

Tag list: @maribat-bdbwm @vixen-uchiha @stainedglassm @liquid-luck-00 @jayjayspixiepop @jjmjjktth @mizzy-pop @trippingovermyfeet @queenz-z @thepaceperson @iloontjeboontje @waiting247 @laurcad123 @toodaloo-kangaroo @ritacrow-blog @deathssilentapproach-blog @kittenmywaythrulife @imarivers8 @when-no-wings-do-broomsticks 

[httpoiks]

the one

pairing: ushijima wakatoshi x gn!reader

tags: post timeskip, past relationship, hurt/no comfort

warnings: past relationship, neglect, unrequited love (?)

word count: 0.7k

author’s note: im not dead! this is crazy! i write for haikyuu one (1) time and drop off the face of the earth lol! anyway this was based off of “the 1″ by taylor swift because i felt it was quite appropriate considering ushijima’s very,,, singular,,,, character

masterlist

He’s on the television again. His face in blinding gymnasium lights, all sweat and seriousness. You scoff as you always do and turn to face your roommate. 

“Hey, Satsuki? Can we change the channel?” You hope she doesn’t notice the quiver in your voice or the desperation behind your eyes. Your fingers drum a familiar beat on your thigh subconsciously and once you realize, you make fists from your hands.

She turns to pout at you from the opposite end of the couch. “Y/n, come on! He’s the hottest guy on the national team! Don’t you want to watch his interview? Be a little patriotic!” She gestures wildly towards the television, but you refuse to spare him another look.

“You know how I feel about volleyball-” You start, but she scoffs loudly in return. 

“All because of some ex-boyfriend? It’s not like he’s a pro now--so what are the chances of you seeing him again! Just chill and ogle this hunk with me, please?”

It takes everything in you not to tell her that the chances of you seeing him again were much higher than she thought and, in fact, you’re seeing him right now. 

Ushijima Wakatoshi, the cannon of Japan. He stands alone in the frame, the interviewer just behind the camera. He’s much bigger now, bulkier, you notice. His hair is shorter--he must have taken your advice and gotten a haircut--and his eyes gleam with a light you only see anymore in your dreams. He’s happy there, in love with his new life, with his new ambitions.

Maybe if you’d been different he would still be in love with you, your mind whispers, ever your greatest foe. Maybe if you were enough he would’ve taken you with him.

Satsuki stares at the television, clearly enthralled with your ex-boyfriend. You relax your hands, straightening your fingers out of a tight fist, and push yourself off the couch. She looks up, startled. “Where are you going?”

“I’m headed to bed.” You state, rounding the couch and heading into the kitchen. 

“But it’s like, super early-”

“I’m just really tired and work was a bitch today, y’know?” She simply nods sagely in understanding before returning her attention to his pixelated picture, eyes fixated upon his figure. “Night, ‘suki.”

“Night!”

You stumble into your room with a glass full of tap water from the sink, closing the door behind you to block out the fiendish sound of his familiar voice. Oh, how you wish you could tell her--how your wish you could tell anyone! Certainly she’d rush to turn off the program and coddle you for hours, profusely apologizing for shoving your ex in your face. Certainly she’d shelter you from any news regarding professional volleyball and the national team, squealing and covering your eyes at every promotional curry ad. Surely, she would do all of these things to keep you safe if you could tell her, but you can’t.

Even now, you still haven’t broken a single promise you made to him.

You remember that night, the low-burning candles and a dinner too cold to bear. Anniversaries forgotten had gone by, and this was just another to add to the list. A dinner you’d cooked, a movie you’d recorded, a smile you’d painted on your face for his seventh chance to make things right, all forgotten for an extra hour of practice. 

Beloved volleyball, beloved victory, beloved sweat and seriousness and stretching out to reach your goals, each one more important than you. Maybe if you were a better partner, better at romance, better at affection, better at love, he would have shown up. But you weren’t and he didn’t, so what was the point? 

Your nice dinner goes into tupperware for his lunch tomorrow. The candles are blown out and the recording is deleted. Pretty smiles and clothes are shed and you crawl into a cold, lonely bed one more time. 

You’re not sure how much longer you can handle it.

He crawls into bed that night, stoic and silent, unaware of the night’s fragile awakenings. The knowledge you gained, knowing that you would never be enough--that nothing would ever be enough, if it were not his beloved volleyball. 

As his breathing slows and he drifts off into sleep, you make up your mind to leave. 

The break-up is hard, the dependence you had in that longstanding relationship shattering down around you. Even now, empty promises you made to him, promising to never discloses the details of your “fleeting” relationship (as if any love you ever had for him could be fleeting). You never broke that promise.

Just like the night you made up your mind to leave, you go to sleep, cold, lonely, and by yourself. 

[silversatoru]

Hello! I wanted to request for a chubby reader x Levi oneshot. I feel like there aren’t many stories that have chubby readers ): As for the storyline, I’m not sure if it falls in the angst or hurt/comfort category. It would be the reader feeling insecure about themselves because they have a harder time training than the others (them blaming it on their own weight) and seeing how everyone is much thinner than them, they start avoiding food. To not make it look suspicious, they’d go into the kitchen alone and put the food away along with the left overs. The reader would act normal with Levi and he doesn’t suspect anything at first. Later on, the reader would push themselves harder to the point where they’d train on their own whenever they had to chance so they can lose weight and improve their training. At this point, Levi starts noticing the reader looking paler than usual and the slight difference in their weight. One day during training, the reader ends up fainting from exhaustion and dehydration. They wake up on Levis’s bed with him looking over them. He asks what happened and the reader lies by saying they didn’t drink enough water. Levi calls it bs and ask if they think he’s stupid and goes on to tell them about how they noticed the reader sneaking off into the kitchen with a plate and coming out without it. He didn’t think anything of it at first, but he started putting the pieces together. They end up telling Levi the truth, the way they feel towards themself and how they don’t like the fact that they’re bigger than Levi. He comforts the reader and lets them know that they’re an idiot for thinking that way, etc. Thank you! I’m so sorry if it sounds so cheesy!

hello dear!! i dont think your idea was cheesy at all, i love it actually. these kind of issues live very close to my heart, so writing about them is always really fun for me. that being said,, this fic definitely got very dark and very real, and i would advise everyone to read the warnings before deciding to read this <33

empty

levi ackerman x gn!reader

synopsis: levi catches you skipping meals and does what he can to help

tags/warnings: eating disorder, skipping meals, hurt/comfort, but it does have a happy ending! 

word count: 2.2k 

Throbbing headaches and hollow, gnawing pains in your stomach — they’ve quickly become your new normal. You see everything through a hazy fog these days, nothing feels real and everything hurts but it’s worth it — that’s what you keep saying to yourself. You’re tired of lacking the same agility, momentum, and grace that your thinner counterparts have. 

Your weight was always something that ate away at the back of your head, but joining the scout regiment multiplied it tenfold. You were constantly working twice as hard as your fellow scouts, and it seemed like it was never enough. Everyone around you was not only ridiculously athletic, but so fucking thin. You didn’t hate your comrades for their bodies and the way they were born, but you made up for it by inflicting all of the hate onto yourself.

You wonder if anyone notices your zombie eyes or the abnormal paleness to your face — god, you hope they don’t. The last thing you want to do is have to confront your feelings and admit what you’ve been doing lately. Every night you shamefully sneak back into the kitchen and pour your plate of food into the large pot of leftovers. You pick at food here and there when your friends are watching, but behind closed doors you haven’t eaten much of anything lately. Your body is running on empty, and it’s only a matter of time before it fully catches up to you. 

You hear your last name echo from across the training fields, slowly turning around to see an angry captain sulking towards you. His face was twisted into an unpleasant grimace, his eyebrows knitted together into what almost looked like concern. 

“I’m excusing you from the remainder of training, leave,” his words were flat, but there was a subtle emotional edge. 

“Sorry, what?” you gave him a confused look — Captain Levi never excused anyone from training, not unless they were practically on their deathbed. 

“Go home, and eat a big dinner tonight, your energy has been less than adequate lately,” his face softened slightly, “I expect you to be back to normal by tomorrow. Your skills and abilities are needed here, so go get some rest and be better tomorrow, yeah?”

“But, I-,” you stammered, trying to come up with some kind of valid excuse. 

“That’s an order, cadet”. 

His words surprised you, and before you could even rack your brain for an appropriate way to respond, he was turned on his heels and walking away. You swallowed thickly, your throat dry and stuffed full with anxiety. 

Reluctantly, you followed his orders and made your way back to the Scout’s base early. You grabbed a stack of fresh clothing from your room before heading to the showers and scrubbing yourself free of all the sweat and grime from training. You were careful to avoid mirrors when you navigated bathrooms, and tonight was no exception, your eyes glued to the tiled floor. After showering, you hesitantly walked to the kitchen, preparing a plate of food and bringing it back to your room.

That food stared you in the eyes for hours, taunting you and teasing you and making intense nausea creep up your spine.  Tears were stinging the backs of your eyes and your lungs were shaking with heavy, anxiety-filled breaths. You couldn't do it, and you were overwhelmed with shame and guilt. If you couldn’t do it for Levi, you were hopeless that you’d be able to do it for anyone, never mind for yourself. 

After making countless pitiful attempts to take a bite of your untouched meal, you decided it was going back into the leftover pot — just like everything else. The other scouts should have returned and been sleeping by now anyway, you’d just silently creep down the hallway, dump the food, and creep back, no harm no foul. 

Except for that a certain short, dark-haired captain was standing at the end of the hallway — you didn't notice him, but he certainly noticed you. A boiling anger rippled up inside him as he felt an overwhelming disappointment in your actions. He’d been suspecting this kind of behavior for a while now, but watching you tip-toe down the hall and into the kitchen with an uneaten plate of food confirmed all of his suspicions. 

You could barely crawl out of bed the next morning, your ribs aching and your head pounding with a dull pain. You grasped at your tall dresser, catching your balance as you dangerously swayed back and forth for a few seconds. After regaining consciousness and stability you carefully changed into your uniform, having to stop and take breaks every few seconds because you were running out of breath. Your body felt utterly devoid of any kind of energy, and you wondered — when was the last time I actually ate something? 

It was far enough back that you couldn’t quite remember, maybe a few days at this point, you really weren’t sure anymore. You’d have to suck it up for training though, because the last thing you wanted was to be confronted by the captain again. 

You chugged back a full glass of water before lacing up your boots and throwing on a convincing facade. People don’t seem to notice something is wrong as long as you're smiling, laughing, and going along with what they say — it’s easy enough to fly under the radar of your fellow scouts. 

Levi’s radar is a little sharper though, and he keeps a close eye on you from the second you walk up to the training grounds. He’s disappointed in your hand to hand combat — it’s sloppy, slow, predictable. Your hands look shaky too, and maybe it's the light playing tricks on him but it looks like the color is draining from your face. 

Things are feeling deplorable on your side — you can barely stand anymore, never mind throw punches or avoid the oncoming attacks. Your vision was starting to tunnel, foggy black surrounding your periphery as you began to lose feeling in your fingertips. You tried desperately to cling onto whatever semblance of consciousness you had left, but failed miserably, your body collapsing to the hard earth beneath you. 

The soft glow of warm candles illuminated the walls around you when you finally woke up from the earlier incident. This wasn’t your room, where the hell were you? You uncomfortably shifted to the side and flinched when you saw your captain sitting in a chair in front of you. His arms were crossed and one of his legs was propped on top of the other, an icey look in his eyes.

“What happened today?” His words were very short and his tone was flooded with irritation — he didn’t even give you a chance to take in your surroundings.

“Ah- I didn’t sleep well last night,” you lied, “And maybe I haven’t been drinking enough water or something”. 

“I’m offended that you think I would fall for such a pitiful lie,” He clicked his tongue off the roof of his mouth, “I saw you sneak into the kitchen last night, how long have you been doing that?” 

Your eyes grew wide with anxiety, your heart abruptly dropping to the floor — you made sure to go extra late last night, why the hell was he still up?

You stayed quiet for a moment, pondering over how honest you should be with Levi right now. The two of you had always been a little closer than he was with the other scouts, but unfortunately there was no room for things like love in this world. You also assumed that maybe he never reciprocated your feelings because of your weight — but that was just more toxic fuel to the fire blossoming in your head. 

“Pretty long,” you sighed, ultimately deciding to be fully honest with him, because knowing Levi, he’d continue to see right through your lies anyway. 

“I figured,” He grumbled, uncrossing his legs and leaning back into his chair, “Why?” 

“Everyone around me is thin, I stick out. And, I’m not as agile or flexible as the other scouts either. I just thought that maybe...,” you bit down hard on your bottom lip, rolling onto your back so you wouldn’t have to look at him, “I thought my weight bothered you too, and also that I’d be more useful to the scouts if I was skinnier”. 

“You think I’d like you better if you were dead?” Levi was leaning closer now, heat boiling in his eyes, “Because that’s where you’re headed right now. If you truly think you’ll be more helpful to the scouts when you’re six feet under, you’re delusional. And who the hell gave you the idea that your weight bothered me?”

His harsh words were cold slap in the face, your eyes burning and threatening to spill over with tears. You didn’t want to die, not really, you just didn’t want to hate yourself anymore. 

“No one! I don’t know, I just thought, maybe because I was bigger than you-,” You continued to stammer over your words, tears beginning to leak down your cheeks. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he waved you off, not wanting to push the issue further, “You’re wrong, and I’m hurt that you’d even think that. I’ve never once thought that you were anything other than the way you should be”.

“I’m sorry,” your voice was weak and shaky, but your heart was pounding against your chest at his words. 

“I’m not the person you should be apologizing to, that’s something you owe to yourself” he shook his head and stood up to retrieve two small bowls of food from a nearby table, “I brought you something to eat”.

You watched him intently, pondering over his words about apologizing to yourself.

“It’s only a bowl of soup, so you can start small, yeah?” He offered one of the bowls to you, which you hesitantly took into your hands as you sat up. 

He sat down again across from you again, leaning back and taking a sip of broth from his bowl. You were grateful that he was here, that he was eating with you — it made things a little easier. You grasped the spoon in your hands and scooped up some brothy vegetables before lifting them into your mouth. 

“Good, finish the bowl,” nodded at you, giving you a reassuring look and lifting his own bowl to his lips again. 

The two of you ate in silence until you were finished, and then he sat the bowls back on his nightstand before finding a seat next to you on his bed. 

“Stay here tonight,” he stared at you with his signature tired eyes, but there were hints of concern laced through them now, “We’ll have breakfast together in the morning”. 

“Okay,” you gave him a weak nod, trying desperately to bottle up your growing emotions, but they were becoming too much to bear. 

Small sobs began to rack through your body, your chest tightening and your stomach lurching with anxiety. You were experiencing so many feelings tonight — eating for the first time in days and being here with Levi, it was overwhelming to say the least. 

You could barely see the captain through your blurry vision, but you could feel his arms maneuver themselves around you and pull you against his chest. You stayed like that for a while, Levi’s arms delicately holding you in place while quiet sobs worked their way out of your lips. 

“You’ve dug yourself into a deep hole, I won’t lie to you,” you heard him let out a tired sigh, “And it’s gonna take time and effort for you to dig your way out, but you’ll get there. We’ll start by having breakfast and dinner together every night, how does that sound? Just you and me, no one else has to watch”. 

You nuzzled a tiny nod into his chest, your tears finally running dry. It was a terrifying thought, eating normal again, but you were starting to feel hopeful that you might actually be able to do it. 

And so the two of you met every morning and every evening for your scheduled meals, and day by day things began to get easier. You even found yourself staying over in Levi’s room after dinner and into the morning for breakfast sometimes. Spending so much time together was definitely pushing the two of you to address the feelings you’d been hiding for so long. 

But not everything was perfect, it would be irrational to think it would be. You still have bad nights, where eating is so hard you break down into tears, and where you want nothing more than to rid yourself of the food in your system. It’s a draining process, but Levi works hard to make sure you stay on track with your progress. 

It’s slow, but eventually your face starts to glow again, your skin gets smooth and soft, and the aching pains in your body start to fade. Your war with your body is far from over, but you’re doing what you can, and you’re healing yourself one day at a time.

thank u for reading this, and now i would like to give you a gentle reminder to do something nice for your body today. eating disorders and mental illnesses are huge mountains to climb over, but taking things one day at a time makes it a little easier. try and eat a meal today (even if it’s small), go to sleep early and get some rest, take a shower and rub lotion all over your legs so they feel nice against your blankets when you lay in bed. baby steps are better than no steps at all, so be patient with yourself. n go drink some water, ur body loves that shit

[hoodieofholland]

Professor Tom Holland and student reader. Maybe where the reader is a cheerleader and one day she’s walking home from practise and he sees her an offers her a ride home and he compliments her and ends in fluff! Please ❤️

A/n: heeey, im back again, this was pure fluff and i like the idea, gonna make an entire tag for professor holland cause it's probably my fav trope lol, hope you like it!!

Warnings: none, just fluff stuff :)

You pull the bag's strap over your shoulder once again, wincing at the sharp pain on your skin under the thin shirt you wore to walk back to your dorm.

Usually, you never walked home by yourself, there was always a friend who would nicely drive you after cheerleading practice, but today - unconventionally, a day with such a terrible weather - your friend got sick and missed the training.

Looking up to the sky, you notice the clouds turning even more grey, so you quickened your steps, worried that the eventual rain got you on your way. Sighing, you let your shoulders drop at the realization that your dorm was still far enough for you to reach before it started soaking you wet with raindrops.

And that's when the sound of a car passing by the empty street, besides the sidewalk you were passing through, caught your attention. The vehicle would slow down and get you worried at first, as it was only a few steps away from you. You considered walking further in the sidewalk, so you could create some distance from the car, but as soon as the dark window rolled down, revealing a not so unfamiliar face, you felt relief filling your tired nerves.

"Miss y/l/n", Professor Holland smiled warmly at you, frowning a little at the sight of your figure, bent to the side to be able to accommodate the weight of your practice bag. "You alright?"

Stopping on your tracks, you blink a few times at the man in front of you. Mr. Holland was known as the most beautiful man in his department - probably, the most beautiful man in the whole University. He was also a lovely teacher, always so committed with his classes and students.

A little more committed with you, if you were being honest.

In a very respectful way, Mr. Holland clearly had his favorite student in class, always praising you for your works, presentations and correct answers. 'You're a very talented woman, Miss y/l/n', he would say after offering you to tutor his class for a couple of students, which you quickly accepted to get more credits. At least, that was the reason you told yourself, but deep down you knew you just appreciated any chances you got to spend more time with your favorite professor.

"Oh, hi, Mr. Holland", you feel your cheeks blushing, eyes averting from his gaze and sweet smile to you. He was very intimidating, not in a bad way, but you couldn't help yourself when he stared at you like that. "Yeah, I was just... uh, walking back to my dorm".

You feel embarrassed for explaining this, also for not being better dressed in front of him. You were pretty sure your hair looked messy after practice and that your skin was glistening from a light sweat after walking so much with a heavy bag on your shoulder.

"Do you want a ride?", he asked, not letting the smile fade from his lips. "I think it's gonna be raining in a few".

His confidence and the comfort with his words impressed you. You wouldn't ever think your professor would worry enough about one of his students walking in the rain to offer a ride home. But there was Mr. Holland, with his beautiful and soft brown curls, the pretty crinkle on his eyes whenever he smiled, the way his strong british accent would make your legs tremble-

"Miss y/l/n?"

You blink a few times to get yourself back together, face hot with embarrassment for start daydreaming about his appearance right in front of him.

You ponder about it for a few seconds. It wouldn't sound very nice that your professor drove you home. You were sure that there might be a specific rule about students and professors getting so intimate about each other, but in that very moment, you couldn't bring yourself to care about it.

Mr. Holland, a walking God, was offering to drop you to your dorm, and you wouldn't miss the chance.

"You sure I won't bother you, Mr. Holland?", you ask, bitting your lips and praying he won't say otherwise. He simply smiles sheepishly and shakes his head.

"How could you? C'mon, let me help you".

You smile, lowering your head as you cross the car to get to the other side, opening the door as you enter Mr. Holland's car.

It was warm inside, much better than the cold air, hitting your face and making you struggle to hold your things and still curl into your own body to get yourself warmer.

The drive is filled with small talk, but not after a long silence between the two of you. It wasn't like you hadn't anything in common to say, but you felt really intimidated beside him. No topic seemed appropriated enough to discuss with such a brilliant mind, but Mr. Holland, somehow, proved to be not only one of the most intelligent professors you've ever had, but also a kind and nice guy. He waved off all the stress that was consuming you, and soon enough you found yourself laughing at his jokes and giggling at some wise comments.

"So, I think we're here", he said with a small grin as he parked in front of your building. The rain was pouring outside and you were getting yourself prepared to face that before stepping out of the warm car. "You- uh, do you want to just wait here? You're probably gonna get soaked if you go right now. I mean, you surely don't want to be stuck with your professor here, but..."

He lost his words, too embarrassed for his own words to keep going, and waited until you answered. You give him a sweet smile.

"I'm not stuck here, Mr. Holland. If anything, I'm grateful. You literally saved my ass- I mean, you saved me from, uh, walking in this rain" you bite your lip, trying to contain the giggle from the realization of your manners in front of him.

Mr. Holland's lips lifted a little, the tip of his tongue discretely wetting it.

"Yeah, I'm glad that we bumped into each other too", he said, eyes never leaving yours. And suddenly, it wasn't like your professor was there anymore. You could see a young man, a handsome one, talking to you. "It was lovely talking to you, Miss y/l/n"

You smile at his kindness.

"Same, Mr. Holland", you put your hand on the car's handle before stepping out. "I should go now, got an exam tomorrow morning. Heard the professor is really severe with his tests".

Mr. Holland laughed, shaking his head. "I'm pretty sure you can handle any of my exams, darling. You're my best student".

You feel yourself blushing again, and look down before heading out of the car, the rain getting your hair wet.

"See you tomorrow" you say, watching as his eyes twinkle with joy. But before you can get away from his car, you shout:

"By the way, you can call me Y/N!"