#there are no diminishing returns with this fandom

[t4tgb]

unfortunately i’m starting to feel pretty isolated in fandom and discouraged in making fan content even though i have a ton of ofmd projects i want to finish :( the only platform i’ve gotten a sizeable following on (tiktok) flags most of my posts now and tumblr isn’t great for video content especially considering i don’t have many followers on this blog. not really sure how to go forward or if i want to keep creating to diminishing returns idk

#al.txt #vent post. sorry

[tyrantisterror]

I think one of the things that gets lost in the big, endless internet conversation about whether or not heroes should kill their villains is the fact that killing villains off robs you of a lot of story-telling potential. The Joker died at the end of his debut story in Batman - imagine what Batman would be if he stayed dead. No Joker in Batman 66, no The Killing Joke which means no Barbara Gordon as Oracle and no The Dark Knight, no Mark Hamill Joker episodes of BTAS (so many of them were based on his comic appearances, after all - the laughing fish is a direct adaptation of a comic), which means no Harley Quinn and no Return of the Joker, on and on it goes.

Like, you can argue the morality of heroes sparing their villains till you turn blue - god knows this site does it at least a thousand times a day - but on a purely pragmatic story-telling level, the minute you kill ANY character, you kill all the story potential they had. And yeah, it's fiction, you can bring them back from the dead if you really need them, but that's a pretty hard story beat to pull off without hurting your story. You don't want to fill your tale with "Somehow, Palpatine has returned" moments.

And you can just make new villains, sure, but again you have a problem with that - a new villain has to establish themselves and has to stand out from who came before, which means you can't go directly to the storylines you could have had with a villain who stuck around AFTER their introduction. A recurring villain is capable of doing things that one-off villains can't.

I'm going to illustrate this with a character from a fandom I'm not even a part of - I never played the Ratchet and Clank series and am only vaguely aware of it, but one day I saw a supercut of scenes starring one of its recurring villains, Dr. Nefarious, on twitter, and I was like "Oh shit, that's the guy who plays Quark on Deep Space Nine, isn't? This guys a hoot, let's see if we can find more clips on youtube." Which brought me to this hefty video here from one of the more recent games in the series.

And, like, as a person who "doesn't even go here," it's obvious this goofy little fucker has a history. His opening scenes have him ranting about how much it sucks to lose repeatedly - a lampshade on the "flaw" of a recurring villain, i.e. that their threat diminishes the more they come back because, by the nature of their role in the story, it means they've suffered a lot of losses. So how cool is it that as this supercut chugs along you can clearly see this is a theme of the game - that this is a story about the virtue of losing, a story that is enriched by having an antagonist who fans of the series know has lost a LOT?

The true antagonist is an alternate version of Dr. Nefarious who's won every fight in his life so far, apparently with little effort, and I love how they differ on a design aspect. They're both technically mad scientists, but notably, Emperor Nefarious, the winner, has a more imposing and "heroic" build, but a smaller brain-dome for his robot brains. Because winning may make him look strong, but if a mad scientist's real power is their mind, well, which Nefarious is really the strong one here then?

Dr. Nefarious gets this juicy arc about realizing the virtue in his repeated failures that corresponds with the heroic characters struggling to find a way to win against a seemingly invincible opponent, as well as contrasts the true villain, Dr. Nefarious's explicit counterpart and foil Emperor Nefarious, who has never once lost and is a total piece of shit for it. Again, not my fandom, I don't go here, not an expert on Ratchet and Clank, but even as a relative stranger to it who's just watching a big supercut, I fucking love this. This is an excellent story.

And it's one you can only tell with a recurring villain. Without Dr. Nefarious, this story works significantly less. You need a villain with a history the audience has seen to really sell this.

Anyway, I made this post because, ironically enough, I saw another tweet talking about how some fans think Dr. Nefarious should have been killed off in his first appearance, and, like... that's just fucking baffling to me, as a person outside this fandom looking in. Recurring villains deserve more love, man, they give us so much.

#Youtube

[leportraitducadavre]

You know there’s a weird connection between the fandom’s perceived idea of “good writing” and their personal feelings about specific characters. “I like this character, therefore, they’re well written” and viceversa, “I dislike this character, therefore, they’re badly written” –I’ve seen this in many fandoms and with different characters, but there’s no fandom where this is more noticeable than in the “anti Sakura” portion of the audience.

Before we start, let me be clear on something: I don’t personally like Sakura, I don’t consider myself a fan of hers (or her stans, which are just as annoying as Hinata’s), nor I believe she’s the “heroine” of a story that has no room for a character with such status (I’ve said this before, Naruto is the hero and Sasuke is the antagonist -there’s no necessity nor space for anyone else as Sakura is merely the female character with most panel time, yet she doesn’t move the plot forward and she isn’t relevant to the development of other key characters, as most of them completely ignore her existence).

“Likeability” isn’t a determining factor when it comes to labelling a character “well” or “badly” written, such notion relies on subjective factors which makes it impossible to objectively determine the overall value of a character inside a story.

The most important factor to label a character “goodly written” has more to do with how well they represent their theological narrative. For instance, Danzo -who I genuinely despise, is amazingly written, as he spot on tackles the subject of extreme-nationalistic world view, while Itachi -on the other hand, is sort-of all over the place as he subscribes to Danzo’s ideology and defends it with the same actions, yet Kishimoto desperately wanted to keep him inside the “good guys” group, which ultimately failed and took down anything Itachi might have had going for him (besides other inconsistencies as he’s presented as a genius who made nothing but mistake after mistake). There’s a reason why the antagonists are often the ones with the best characterizations, as they aren’t tied to been “morally correct” or “likeable” in order to reflect their thematic plot, which is why the better characters in Naruto happen to be Uchiha (Sasuke, Obito, Madara).

Sakura has no weight inside the plot, as she is mostly used for support of either Naruto and (to a lesser extent) Sasuke, she stands narratively in the same spectrum as most “good” characters of the show, so she’s thematically not much more relevant than the rest of K-11; yet she’s given more depth than many other characters, as she’s a layered character of whom we see both her strengths and flaws, something we can’t say for other characters, such as Hinata.

In the Hyüga princess™’s case, her personality is mostly one dimensional as she is a thematic piece used to deepen Neji’s character. In case you haven’t noticed, she was constructed in opposition to him: She needs to be shy in order for Naruto to take pity on her when Neji insults her (as Neji is mostly arrogant and outspoken), she’s comically bad because Neji is a prodigy, she’s “a freak” (said by Naruto himself) because Neji isn't, she’s a slave owner because Neji is her slave, and so on –the only thing she has that wasn’t built in order to oppose her cousin was her infatuation with Naruto, something she makes a priority.

Everything we “know” about Hinata was mostly fandom-made, Hinata is shy and soft spoken, why is she considered “nice”? We never saw her worrying about anyone but Naruto: She was glad Kiba lost his match and offered Naruto the ointment to treat his wounds, she diminished her cousin’s trauma and endorsed the oppressive system of her clan, we never see her visiting Kiba after he returned from his mission to bring Sasuke back to Konoha (something we see Ino and Sakura do with their respective teammates, and while Hinata was recovering from Neji’s attack, she had enough strength to train and go see the Chünin Exams final stage, at no point is mentioned she was bed-ridden, as Sasuke had enough time to recover from Gaara’s attack before escaping the village), she thought about Naruto’s warm hand seconds after her cousin died and she was the only character not shown to be glad about Shikamaru being alive as we saw her pouting and thinking about how much she wanted to be beside Naruto. Furthermore, is there any scene in which she appears where she’s not thinking or talking about Naruto or where he is not the main focus?

How come a character designed to be nothing more than support (for Neji and Naruto, as her infatuation with him was built in order to have some oppositional force to the idea of “nobody likes him”, as Naruto has an unrequited love for Sakura during the whole duration of the manga) is “better written” than Sakura, who despite herself being also support she has far more thematically ground to move around (Kishimoto explores through her different themes, even if they aren’t relevant to the plot itself, such as romantical obsession, low self-esteem and the decisions/characteristics that are driven by it, female friendship, and few others).

Honest question: It’s her sad background reason enough to like Hinata? Do you truly need a “compelling” backstory in order to claim a character is “better written” than others? Sakura was bullied because she was shy, Hinata -being the Hyüga heir, wasn’t shown to suffer the same fate at the hands of her classmates. Think about it this way, while Sakura was being bullied and had to be helped by Ino, Hinata was being trained by her father and witnessing Hiashi torture her uncle while Neji cried, helpless! –and just a few years later, she used that exact knowledge to insult him! So she’s not really that nice after all!

What is it with the obsession of both fandoms with the idea of “potential” and how, apparently, they were “robbed of it” (what “potential”? When did Hinata even hint at improving her fighting techniques? She was defeated every single time! When did Sakura, who canonically has a smaller chakra pool than both Sasuke and Naruto, have the possibility of surpass literally Ashura and Indra’s reincarnations? Them having more panel time will mean absolutely nothing as we’ll see them doing the exact same thing we already see them do only twice as much. “Potential” is about exploring a latent ability of them, Hinata has none and Sakura’s chakra flux control was properly exploited!).

There’s more to say about this, but I’m honestly tired at this point…

#anti hinata #anti hinata hyuga #anti hinata hyuuga #anti hinata fandom #anti hinata stans #anti nh #anti naruhina #anti naruhina fandom #anti sakura #anti sakura haruno #anti sakura fandom #anti sakura stans

[spotsandsocks]

Something Worth Staying For

🥳Happy Birthday to the wonderful creative supportive @cowboy-buddie who makes this fandom so much fun for me. Love ya Kels Please accept this little gift, my attempt at an enemies to friends to lovers AU. 5 chapters 1 coming at you everyday (so I have time to finish the last chapter🤣)

Chapter 1 2.4K Read on AO3

Living in a small town wasn’t for everyone but Eddie liked it. When he and Chris had settled here he hadn’t been sure but slowly the place had gotten under his skin and now he was as good as a local. Well almost, Chim still called him cowboy sometimes, but Eddie had decided ignoring that was the best plan and it had mostly worked. Chim only called him that these days when he wanted to be particularly annoying. Not that he doesn’t love Chim, the man has become like his brother. In fact he’s built a small family for himself and Chris here. It turns out taking a job at a small town newspaper was the best idea he’s had in years. He’s never quite gotten over the surprise of his new boss, the paper’s editor waiting for him with his wife outside Eddie’s new front door on the day they arrived.

Bobby and Athena had been there from the start ready with a home cooked meal for their first night in town, helping them unpack, and essentially making him and Chris feel more welcome than Eddie had ever expected when he’d nervously said yes to a fresh start  and moved himself and his son halfway across the country after his divorce was finalized. 

Now he’s made a home here and has an extended family he loves dearly. It’s almost perfect. Except, he does get a little lonely sometimes, Chris is getting older and  when he’s busy and Eddie’s all alone in his house he sometimes wishes that he had someone to share his life with, he’d dated a few of the women in town but nothing had clicked. Not that he was especially bothered by the failure, he hadn’t actually really liked any of them but it would be nice to have someone special.

He’s been here almost three years now and it seems pretty unlikely that he’s going to find his dream partner, after all what are the chances of the  perfect person just turning up in Eagle Creek one day and being interested in a thirty year old single dad holding down a quiet job writing local news stories for a small town paper. 

“Eddie?”

Eddie looks up and takes a breath. 

Whatever he’d been expecting when Bobby said his name it wasn’t to see the man standing next to him. He’s tall, well built to say the least, with sandy hair which might have been blonde or brown depending on the light, and extremely blue eyes. There’s a mark of some kind over his left eye and he wonders if it’s a bruise or something more permanent. It doesn’t diminish the man’s good looks in fact in Eddie’s opinion it enhances them. Frankly he’s gorgeous. Eddie knows he finds men as attractive if not more attractive at times than women but he’s never particularly felt the urge to investigate where those thoughts could take him. He’s not a casual kind of guy and the trouble with gorgeous people is they so very often know it and in his personal (and relatively limited) experience that does very little for their personality. 

This  guy is so pretty he’s probably a complete jerk. 

Despite those warning bells as they  look at each other the stranger smiles and Eddie can’t help how his eyes flick down then back up again almost immediately, it's a nice smile. A little shy, almost sweet even. The guy isn’t giving off any particularly arrogant jackass vibes. Eddie wants to but he doesn’t let himself look again, turning his head to focus on Bobby instead.  Actually the new guy looks a lot like Bobby, maybe he’s his nephew or something, just visiting. 

Eddie returns his boss and friend’s smile, feeling strangely apprehensive for some reason. Maybe it’s because Bobby looks guilty. Eddie recognises the slightly shifty expression on the older man’s face. What has he done?

He finds out quickly.

“Eddie this is um, Buck. He’s uh…  he’s going to be working here.” Bobby won’t look at him and is rubbing his hand across his chin nervously. 

Well that’s unexpected. Eddie can’t help the sudden sharp furrow of surprise and suspicion on his brow. Bobby hadn’t mentioned anything about someone new. Do they really need someone new? Eddie hadn’t thought so in fact he’s mildly irritated by the news. Why hadn’t he been told? He looks at this ‘Buck’ person again with fresh eyes. Maybe he does look like a bit of a jerk after all. 

Jerk or not he’s still ridiculously good looking and Eddie can just imagine the stir someone who looks like Buck is going to cause in town. Nightmare, he can expect a stream of people asking him for the new guy at the paper’s number. Urgh... Just what he needs.

Bobby’s still talking, “so Buck is gonna be helping with some stuff, improvements I guess you could call it.”

Blue eyes sparkle and the man beams.  What kind of name is Buck anyway?   And really who needs to be that handsome, it’s just excessive. And wait did Eddie just hear Bobby say improvements? A sinking feeling hits him, oh no,  he didn’t actually do it did he? Bobby’s been threatening to do something about the computers since before Eddie arrived, surely he hasn’t finally done it has he?

The scowl on Eddie’s face deepens and he fails to notice the smile slipping from his new colleague’s face.

“Buck and his sister have just moved here, Maddie’s a nurse and Buck here is…” Bobby pauses and Eddie’s suspicions grow. Bobby can’t quite meet his eye. Yeah he has a bad feeling about this, there can only be one reason Bobby’s springing this on him now. Only one thing this guy is here to do. 

Still looking anywhere than at him, Bobby takes a breath and reveals Buck’s role  at the paper.

“Well Buck here, he’s well, he’s a bit of a computer whizz and kind of a social media consultant.” He says those three words quickly and moves on. “He’s going to upgrade our IT, get us online and run the “socials.” Bobby  glances  proudly at Buck for getting the word right. 

Eddie doesn’t register the responding shy and pleased smile from the younger man all he notices are the air quotes dropping in around ‘Socials’ 

The word is unfamiliar and unwelcome on Bobby's lips. Frankly he feels a little betrayed, why hasn’t he been told? He bets Karen knew  which means Hen knew and that means Chimney does as well. They’ve all probably been very  amused about how badly he’ll take it. He also thought Bobby felt the same way about the perils of the internet as he did. It’s not that he can’t use it. He has a smart phone, he can download apps just fine thank you and while it’s a running joke around here that Eddie doesn’t ‘do’ technology he’s not actually an idiot. If he wants to, he can use computers just fine, he’ll accept that the internet is vaguely useful and if he wanted to have ‘socials’ he would. He just doesn’t choose to because it stupid and pointless and you can’t really trust the internet,  no one's ever been able to convince him his phone isn’t listening to him.

Buck draws his attention back from Bobby when he speaks for the first time with what Eddie considers an unnecessarily smug quirk of his mouth,  “I’m here to drag you all into the 21st century.”

“I’m fine where I am, thank you.” His voice sounds cold even to himself.

Despite glaring at new guy he catches Bobby's wince out of the corner of his eye. He knows he sounds positively hostile but he’s annoyed. The newest member of the team obviously recognises that too because the smile vanishes.

Eddie doesn’t feel bad for being unwelcoming. Not even a little bit.

Bobby sighs wearily, “This is why I didn’t tell you. You know we need to modernize. It’ll be good for us. We can reach more people, be faster, it’ll make things easier for everyone.”

Bobby pauses obviously hoping for something back. He doesn’t get it so he just shrugs, “It’s going to happen Eddie .”

“You’re the boss Bobby.” There that was neutral, mostly.

Eddie stands, avoiding eye contact with both men. “I’m going out to get lunch.” 

He doesn’t offer to get anything for anyone, which he knows is rude but he doesn’t care much right now..

Eddie lets the door behind him slam on his way out.

Bobby sighs dramatically next to him as  Buck keeps his expression as blank as he can; that did not go well. That went very badly indeed.

“That was actually ok, I was worried he’d take it worse.” 

Buck turns slowly to stare at his new boss a little incredulously. Bobby thinks that went well? Shit how bad does this Eddie guy get?

When they’d walked in Buck had been taken aback by the man sitting behind the desk. His dark hair and soft brown eyes had looked inviting for a moment. He’d smiled softly and something had tripped and fluttered in his chest. He was a damn attractive man and then when he’d started scowling at him well Buck’s always liked a challenge but he’s not stupid. He knows instant dislike when he sees it.

It’s too bad he would have liked to have made a friend. At least he has Maddie to keep him company.

“He’s not particularly friendly is he?” 

Bobby chuckles dryly,  “He is, once you get to know him. He’s a really great guy.  I think you too could be good friends.” Another sigh as Bobby looks towards the door,  “It’s my fault, I did surprise him. I’ve been putting off telling him about you. it’s just  he really does hate computers.”

Buck arches an eyebrow at the door the hot angry man had just walked out of.

“I can tell.”

“Whoah man! Mind my door.”

Chimney looks up from behind the counter where he’s just finished pouring a coffee. 

“What’s got you all twisty.”

Eddie glowers at him, “Nothing, just come for my lunch. Is that a crime?”

“Delightful mood I see?”  Karen’s voice floats over from where she’s working on her laptop at one of Chimney’s tables.

He turns, as expected she’s staring  at him, unimpressed. She fixes him with a penetrating stare which he avoids. He’s very aware he’s in a bad mood and she should know why,  after all everyone else has been told. 

He can’t help the snap in his voice, “So why aren’t you in the office to greet our new colleague.”

Karen’s eyebrows lift eloquently. He knows she knows but will she admit it?  God he’s annoyed. He doesn’t really know why he’s so upset either. Except maybe there was a moment when he looked into blue eyes that he’d felt something only to have it washed away by Bobby’s words and his rush of irritation.

Karen sips her latte coolly, “I’m a free spirit Diaz, I go wherever I want and right now I want to be here because I like it here, I get to see my wife and she brings me coffee and I get to eat Chimney’s pastries. 

She pauses and looks at him with far too much insight.

“So he’s here then.”

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Chim retreat.  

He knew, she knew! Everyone but him, his irritation rises again, he can just imagine it don’t tell Eddie, he’ll freak out! He’ll make a fuss.

He ignores the tiny voice inside him saying 'and were they wrong? You’re not exactly winning employee of the month right now are you?' He ignores that and  lets the comforting haze of indignation wash over him. 

“So you did know! Charming.” Karen’s admission really does nothing to improve his mood.

Karen rolls her eyes at  him. “Oooh you really are in a snit aren’t you? Poor guy can’t have upset you already. He’s not even been here a day.”

“And…” she says with a waggle of her finger “you can’t blame Bobby for putting it off. Every time he’s so much as mentioned going online you pull a face.” She nods at him, “Yeah that one.”

 He quickly wipes the expression away,  “and you sulk for at least a day.”

“I do not.”

Another voice joins in, “You do.”

Chimney’s contribution is as unwelcome as this ‘Buck’ back at his office is.

However Chimney is as resistant to his glaring as Karen is. 

“Ok so maybe I do a bit,” he admits it reluctantly “But we don’t need to go online and we certainly don’t need that guy.”

“I’ve heard he is very good at his job annnnnd…” Karen adds nonchalantly, getting somewhere close to the hidden heart of his discomfort  “I’ve seen his picture, online , “ he throws her yet another narrow eyed glare for that jibe “and if I wasn’t a happily married lesbian I’d say he’s hot. He’s going to be a popular boy round here!” 

She laughs at the noise he makes.

“He’s not that good looking” he lies because he can, “and I don’t have to like him.”

Karen stands up folding her laptop as she does. She looks more serious, teasing gone. 

“No you don’t but you do have to work with him. And the poor guy’s not done anything wrong.”

He hangs onto his resentment justified or not, he’s no longer so sure, and answers with a single surly word and sits down.

“Yet.” 

“Eddie,” Karen sighs his name, “You’re being unreasonable and you know it.”

“Perhaps I like being unreasonable.” He leans back in his chair and folds his arms then unfolds them because it looks too defensive and he doesn’t want to prove her right.

Karen shakes her head, “Go play nice with the new kid or Bobby will put you in time out.”

Eddie ignores her. He’s not sure why but this Buck guy is already under his skin. 

Karen moves towards the door, “I’m going to go meet him, you’ll be back soon right?” 

He mutters “Sure” and accepts the warning look he gets from his friend. “I’ll be polite, promise.”

He can be polite to this new guy, he is  a professional  after all and it’ll be fine. He probably won’t have  too much to do with him anyway. 

Eddie waits for his order and wonders how annoying can one guy be? 

#buddie #911 fox #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie fic #happy birthday kels #911 on fox #911fic #911 fic #buddie au #enemies to lovers

[13thdoctorposts]

Interrupting the arguments and discourse to say I caught up on interviews and it really did my heart good to see Jodie smile and talk about how she will always be the Doctor and always be someone's favourite, "they cant kick me out". I'm glad that's something she's internalised and finds joy in.

Jodie’s love for the role is one of the most purest things, I know a lot of the other actors got back lash when cast, as the fandom likes to remind us when the backlash to Jodie’s announcement is brought up, but please no other Doctor got that level of backlash, the BBC have to release a press statement backing her casting!

That’s not to diminish the others but to show from the beginning she already had a much higher hill to climb and she has done it with such grace and joy and clearly had the time of her life. She’s already ready to go back to play the Doctor again it took Matt years to be interested and he doesn’t do his Doctor in big finish and just recently said he would be interested in going back.

Peter (Capaldi) very clearly recently said he has no interest in returning and also clearly had no interest in continuing in big finish so the fact that her Doctor has received the level of unhinged hate she has and Jodie still finds the Joy and would love to return is really a testament of resilience, and it’s wonderful to see when as a fan it’s always been such an mission to just like her era without people trying to drag you down. Her joy is infectious.

#13th doctor #thirteenth doctor #thirteen #13

[not-goldy]

I'm a little surprised Jikook haven't come on live to explain away their enlistment. I kinda been expecting it, cause they know all eyes are on them considering their sus behavior over the years and what this means for them. Then again, I hope they don't even speak on it, cause they earned this big fuck you to the world and shouldn't have to explain shit. I would love that Jikook live before they leave. I don't even need to see them flirt. I just wanna see them happy before leaving. I'm gonna miss them so much, but especially Jimin. I'm sorry, but he owns my heart and I am petrified for him. Yes, I'm relieved he will have JK, but I am still petrified and throwing up over this. I am really scared for him. Like really scared. I can sleep easy knowing Jikook have each other, but I also can't sleep cause I am terrified for them and the day is getting closer. I'm not ready.

I also suspect Tae will probably leave Tkk with some crumbs and do something since they've been demolished and taking reality hit after reality hit all year and he probably wanna make sure he has his delusional fanbase to come back too. They begged him while Jikook was in Japan and he did. I imagine he will again. If it were me tho, I'd let them miserable fucks rot and not give them shit the entire time I am gone, after they harassed my GF for an entire year. I wouldn't want to return to same group of nasty fucking toxic disgusting people. All they've done is tarnish his and Jk's name and reputation. Tae being the mentally abused tortured soul and Jk being the abusive, possessive, manipulating, cheating, fanservice king breaking Tae's heart. I saw a lot of tkk saying they were leaving if Jikook go through with enlisting cause they can't explain away Jikook being together by choice for 18 months, when they had other options. Lets hope they keep their word. Taek down your leaders who gaslit you, you'll feel better. That's my advice.

I know Jimin wanna throw hands but I'm waiting to see his bald head🥲

Until then I'm gonna pretend he's not going and we are gonna get his 10/13 birthday live as scheduled on my calendar 😔

They probably have their reasons for choosing to do this together. Reality is they could have done it with any member they wanted. I personally would have loved if Vmin had gone together 🤧

It wouldn't be so surprising if the best friends soul mates went. Chingus doing chingu things- we have no choice but to look away.

However Jikook, the entire Fandom think you hate eachother and spend a lot of time trying to ridicule and diminish your bond. 18 months is Ike 1000 years a day in hell for someone who hates Jimin at his core.

He hates Jimin so much he can't wait to follow him to military to hate him some more.

Never underestimate the power of hate.

It's such a strong emotion.

And ooooh will Jimin burn under his hateful gaze as he fires hateful beams out of his eyes while Jimin jumps around camp bald head with his gun pressed against his chest.

He's been practicing his mini hateful hugs too

He can't wait to hatefully spoon him till he's begging for mercy

[obitohno]

his redemption | 01

bakugo katsuki x reader

synopsis ⤸

after unknowingly moving in next door to a renown gang-leader, you are thrust into a foreign world tainted by the scars of his past. will you be able to help him redeem his sins before they finally catch up to him?

chapters ⤸

៚ contents

next ᝰ

themes ⤸

fem! reader, 18+, gang au, gang-leader! bakugo, doctor! reader, dark fic, one night stands, friends with benefits, unrequited feelings, mutual pining, smut, graphic depictions of violence, kidnappings, mentions of blood, dubcon

word count ⤸

5.1k

a/n ⤸

this is yet another story that originated for a different fandom, but i love this story so much, n i really want to finish it one day, so i’ve decided to rework it for bakugo. pls note that this’ll be on the darker side, so pls check the tags before you read (i’ll be updating them as i write). pls, pls let me know what you think!

reblogs are appreciated ~

one:

bakugo katsuki is no stranger to women, much to your dismay. 

this is a fact that you learn just a few days after moving into your new apartment block. on the first morning of your arrival, you’d exchanged introductions with the rest of your neighbours, only the angry red eyed man with the blonde ‘fro—as new neighbour denki had described him—hadn’t answered your polite knock, despite the fact that the man’s apartment is situated just a wall away from your own. you’d left with the promise to return the next day. 

come the second morning, and you had been so sure that you’d seen a man of denki’s exact description, standing out on the shared balcony, a cigarette in hand. however, by the time you’d made your way down the hall and stepped out onto the concrete, said figure had disappeared from sight, and once again, there was no answer at number 34. 

by the end of the third day, you were beginning to wonder if he existed at all. 

however, by nightfall, you are made all too aware of his presence. 

after yet another tiresome day of unpacking your belongings, you’d been rudely awoken by the sound of loud, chaotic laughter in the early hours of the morning. at first, you had  thought that you’d imagined it, considering the apartment next door had been seemingly vacant since the day you’d moved in. but when you hear the noise again, followed by the sound of a low, gruff voice—a man’s voice, you realise—you can only heave a heavy sigh. you try to give them the benefit of the doubt, hoping that they’ll be quick to go to sleep, only for your hopes to diminish into thin air when you then hear a breathy moan. 

the man’s voice follows, evidently deeper than his female company, and in turn, you roll over in bed, holding the plush cotton of your pillow over your head. you aren’t sure what time it is, but you suspect that you have just a few hours to get some rest before you have to be up for work. 

however, despite your prayers—and much to both your annoyance and horror—the red eyed man with the blonde ‘fro proceeds to keep you awake until six o’clock in the morning. when you are then forced to haul yourself from the comfort of your bed, it is with an exhausted sigh, your eyelids drooping heavily. rubbing a finger under your eyes, you go about your morning routine, readying yourself to start the day with a much needed cup of coffee. 

exactly forty-seven minutes later, you are leaving the apartment, pausing to ensure that the door is locked tight behind you. but just as you step out into the hall, the door to number 34 quietly creaks open.

you glance up to see a scarcely dressed woman exiting the apartment, attempting to tip-toe into the hallway as she swings the door shut. light brown hair messily dragged into a bun, she carries her heels in one hand, purse in the other, her clothes haphazard as if she’d rushed to get dressed. she wears a scowl that matches your own, and you conclude that the brunette has indeed become the victim of a rude awakening. you watch her, a brow rising as she then turns and lets out an admirably high-pitched shriek at the sight of you stood before her, arms crossed over your chest. 

‘o-oh god,’ she all but exclaims. ‘you sure scared the crap out of me, lady!’ 

you don’t bother to apologise. 

you eye the woman with a look of disapproval, your head tilting to the left at the sound of the door to number 34 swinging open once again. 

denki had been right, you think to yourself as you take in the wild mess of blonde hair that hangs across his forehead, tousled and unkempt. and his eyes are a strikingly angry shade of crimson, you’re surprised to see that that fact is also true, your own boring into where there’s a scar that cuts through his left brow. he’s tall. much taller than you’d imagined, clad in what you guess to be a makeshift set of pyjamas—a loose tank-top and a pair of jogging bottoms, the waistband hanging dangerously low on his hips. 

you blink up at him, immediately tensing as you realise that he’s caught you staring, those scarlet coloured orbs focused on you. awkwardly clearing your throat, you attempt to save face by taking a small step forward, thrusting your hand in front of his face. 

‘h-hi,’ you grimace at how your voice stutters. clearing your throat, you offer your name before forcing a small, but polite, smile, ‘i just moved in next—’

‘i know.’ 

he completely ignores the brunette as if she’s not stood right before him, and this only causes her scowl to deepen. 

your outstretched hand falls to your side, quickly realising that he’s not going to return the handshake. ‘oh... well i tried to—’

‘i know,’ he interrupts again, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest. the movement has the lines of his biceps tensing, and you belatedly chide yourself for allowing your eyes to dart to the offending muscle, glaring at his skin. the man looks at you, expression bored, ‘heard you knockin’.’

‘oh,’ involuntarily, your shoulders slump, before your brows pinch together, barely concealing your annoyance. you fail to do so, it seems, as the man before you makes a little noise at the back of his throat before the reds of his eyes languidly drag down the length of your body, before trickling upwards. you grip your handbag a little tighter, teeth clenching together. ‘well, as i said, i’m—’

‘new neighbour,’ he cuts you off once more, voice now lilting upon a tone of amusement when you don’t bother to mask the glare that now mars your features, ‘i know.’ and then, to your surprise, he leans forward, offering his hand. ‘bakugo,’ is all he says as you reluctantly accept his handshake. his hand is warm, his grip burning into your skin, the length of his fingers much longer than your own. you almost relish the touch of his palm until you remember just what he had been doing that had kept you awake all night, and instead, you all but snatch your hand away. 

‘and i’m camie,’ the brunette snaps from your right. 

bakugo’s eyes flicker to glance at her, somehow appearing to have completely forgotten that she’s been stood beside you. expression bored, he hums, ‘camie? thought your name was—?’

‘wow,’ it is you who interrupts him this time. 

camie scoffs loudly. she almost looks as if she wants to cry and you can’t help but feel a little sorry for her, glaring at him on behalf of the other woman, who—without saying another word—rushes down the hallway as best she can without shoes on. you gawk after her, wincing when the main door slams shut, listening as the noise ricochets down the hall, an echo following in its wake. 

‘tsk,’ bakugo tuts, as if disapproving of the noise. a frown is pulling at the space between his brows when you look at him, his eyes darting to bore into yours, his expression lacking any form of remorse. 

you stare back, incredulous. and because you simply can’t help yourself, you sneer, ‘is that how you treat all women?’

bakugo doesn’t appear to appreciate your curt tone, his spine straightening until he’s standing a little taller, gaze sterner. 

‘she got what she came for.’ 

as if you could forget the way that he'd kept you awake all night. your frown deepens, ‘i’m sure.’ 

he looks as if he doesn’t know how to reply. or maybe his unnerving silence is purposely aimed your way because you’ve managed to hit a nerve. you’re not sure. 

but once you check the time on your watch, you realise that you have just twenty minutes to make your way to work. ‘shit,’ you curse softly, rushing to turn away without another look in his direction. yet when your hand curls around the handle of the entrance door, he calls out to you again. 

‘see you ‘round,’ he says lowly. your neck cranes to glance at him from over your shoulder, fighting back the urge to shudder once you catch sight of the scowl he aims at you. within the blink of an eye, he’s smirking, the whites of his teeth gleaming as the corners of his mouth stretch. unnerved, you stumble enough to lose your footing, just managing to catch your balance on the doorframe. bakugo’s eyes squint down at you, ‘you be careful there,’ he mocks, waving a hand, ‘... neighbour.’

you all but run out of the apartment block, exhaling with relief once the door slams shut. 

and all the way to work, you dawdle. 

the introduction to your new neighbour wasn’t what you’d planned at all. you’d hoped that the two of you would exchange pleasantries, maybe occasionally share cups of sugar, if needed. but after just one meeting, you already regret being so eager to meet him. 

and new neighbour denki certainly hadn’t warned you about how annoying the red eyed man is. how rude he is.  

how frustratingly hot he is. 

as soon as that thought enters your head, you shake it free. 

you remain lost in thought until the moment you reach the clinic, almost walking face-first into the glass door. huffing down your embarrassment, you hope that no one notices the way that you stumble your way through the reception and towards your office, barely remembering to breathe a morning greeting to ochaco, who waits for you at the front desk. 

the dark-haired woman scuttles after you, closing the office door as you busy yourself with discarding your coat and bag onto the two seater couch before heavily slumping in the chair at your desk. ochaco places a file onto the desk, offering an apologetic look as she watches the way that you warily eye the folder. 

‘he’s new,’ she tells you, soft spoken and smiling sweetly when you glance up at her. ‘he signed up last—’ 

she’s interrupted by the sound of the door flying open so violently that it roughly smacks back onto the wall behind. mina bounds into the room, clapping her hands excitedly, beaming. she wraps a strong arm around ochaco’s shoulder—who squeaks with surprise when she almost topples over—and squeezes. ‘did you tell her? did you, did you?’ 

ochaco points at the file on the desk, ‘i was just—’

‘oh my god!’ mina exclaims, interrupting. ‘you have got to see this new patient—i begged nemuri to let me have him, but she said some shit about professionalism—that stone-faced bitch. i mean, how the hell am i not professional?’ 

you stifle a laugh, leaning back in your chair. 

mina’s hands are snatching up the file before you can take a peek. ‘god,’ she groans, dropping the file back down so that it smacks against the surface of the desk. ‘it’s so unfair.’ 

‘i’m sure,’ you hum, ochaco giggling behind her hand. 

‘just wait until you see him. i can’t believe nemuri is letting you have him.’ 

you let the comment slide, reaching for the file and flicking the first page open. but as soon as your eyes fixate onto the photograph that is paper clipped to the information sheet, you bolt upright, slack jawed. 

mina calls your name, frowning at your reaction, and when you don’t reply, her grown deepens. ‘okay, i know he’s hot but—’

‘i know him,’ you snap at her, glowering. 

‘you do?’ mina asks, dubious. 

you drop the file to the desk, head in your hands as you groan loudly, ‘he’s my new neighbour. i met him this morning.’

the curl of mina’s grin is now mischievous, ‘oh?’ 

you grimace, ‘don’t look at me like that. he’s not hot at all. he’s such a... a... whore.’ ochaco’s eyes widen at the insult, cheeks red. you elaborate, jabbing your index finger at the file, ‘i bumped into his one night stand this morning... he didn’t even remember her name. asshole.’ 

mina snorts, ‘just your type then,’ she laughs at your annoyed expression, ochaco’s one of concern. 

‘i can’t believe this,’ you groan again, head tilted back as you peer up at the ceiling. this is just your luck. of all people, of course it had to be you to be assigned as his doctor. 

‘maybe you could ask nemuri if someone else—’ ochaco starts, words dying on the tip of her tongue at the sound of mina clearing her throat. the brunette woman swallows, stuttering as she corrects, ‘o-or maybe you could recommend that mina—?’ 

‘yes,’ the pinkette cuts her off, hand forming a fist as she grins, eyes gleaming with glee, ‘this is perfect.’ 

you lift your head to look at her, bewildered, ‘it is?’ 

‘uh, duh?’ mina looks at you as if you’ve suddenly sprouted a second head. ‘i get him as free eye candy, and you get to fuck him without getting into trouble. you know, conflict of interest and all that crap.’ 

‘i’m not going to f—’ you clear your throat at the poor choice of wording, ‘i’m not going to sleep with him, mina.’ 

she almost looks offended, ‘come on. he’s hot. and he lives next door, so you know, no walks of shame.’ 

you run a hand over your face, ‘sometimes, i honestly... really question why we’re friends.’ 

ochaco titters at this and mina pretends to have not heard you. 

‘i’ll ask nemuri if i can hand him over,’ you relent. ‘if you want to deal with him, then be my guest. rather you than me.’ 

mina completely ignores the bitter bite to your tone, sighing dreamily as she stares down at the folder, the first page flipped open to show his picture. the three of you peer down at the photograph with mixed expressions of curiosity and distaste. 

‘he’s not bad looking,’ ochaco offers. 

you huff, ‘don’t encourage her. please.’ 

her smile is gentle, ‘i just think it wouldn’t be too bad if you... had some fun.’ 

‘see?’ mina’s arm is wrapped around poor ochaco’s shoulders once more, ‘she gets it.’ 

‘okay, i’m not listening anymore,’ you stand from your seat, shutting the folder with a flick of your hand and then ushering your friends to the door, ignoring mina’s exaggerated protests. you gently push them out of the office, pausing to grab at the white lab coat from the stand by the door. ‘i’m not sleeping with him and i don’t need to have fun—don’t give me that look, ochaco, you’re just as bad as—’

‘ladies,’ the three of you look to the left to see your senior practitioner standing with a scowl slanting across her forehead, heeled foot tapping against the linoleum flooring. ‘we must not be busy enough if you have time to be chit-chatting in my clinic.’

mina’s lips purse. it is no secret that both she and nemuri have a love-hate relationship, their constant bickering often subject to many jokes shared amongst the staff body. nemuri’s temper, matched with mina’s childish stubbornness is no fight that any of them particularly enjoy witnessing, especially after the time nemuri swung for mina’s head when cleaner-boy-turned-prankster sero had convinced the pinkette to jokingly lace nemuri’s alcohol with laxatives during an after-work party. luckily, she hadn’t consumed the liquid, but she had been angry enough to leave a mark on mina’s cheek for a week afterwards. 

you, on the other hand, as well as ochaco, much prefer to remain on nemuri’s good side. the woman does sign off your pay-checks, after all. 

‘actually,’ you start, faltering when narrowed sky-blue eyes glide over to you, unimpressed by your attire. heeding the unspoken warning, you quickly swing the lab coat over your shoulders, shoving your arms through the respective holes. the palms of your hands are flattening down the fabric as you dare to ask, ‘could i have a word?’ 

nemuri eyes you, a dark brow quirking upwards. 

‘please?’ you urge. 

nemuri glances at the other two women who stand behind you, and whilst you can’t see their expressions, you can already picture the annoyance on mina’s face. ‘do you not have work to do, ashido?’ nemuri barks, and ochaco is already shuffling away before the older woman’s anger can be aimed at her. 

smart. 

you hear mina click her tongue, but she doesn’t argue back, and you listen to the clacking of her heels until they quieten behind the slam of a door. nemuri’s gaze lingers on you for a second longer, and then she’s turning away, leading the way to her office. once inside, nemuri takes a seat behind her desk, the woodwork cluttered with paperwork. she points a manicured fingertip at the chair opposite, and without question, you follow the instruction. lowered into the comfortable seat, you wait for the older woman’s attention to focus on you, watching as she searches the pockets of her own lab coat. when she can’t find what she’s looking for, she grumbles under her breath, quickly giving up. 

settling back in her chair, her stare fixates onto you. 

‘now,’ she drawls, teeth bared as she smiles. ‘what can i do for my favourite student?’ 

๑

it is dark when you arrive home, soaked through from the rain that had poured from the heavens when you were just minutes away from your apartment building. 

you’re not sure of the time, but you suspect that it’s well past midnight, kicking your sodden shoes off at the door, barely remembering to shove the key through the lock. dumping your purse on the small dining table, you shrug off your coat, shoving the damp material into the washing machine, along with your stockings. a trail of water follows you to the bathroom, your fingers snatching a clean towel from the radiator. however, you don’t get the chance to dry your hair, as a loud knocking at the front door has your spine stiffening. 

exhaustion has you debating on ignoring whoever is at the door, but when they knock again, the loud thumping is now desperate and repetitive. 

‘alright, alright!’

you’re unlocking the front door, yanking it open, ready to reprimand the visitor for making such a racket. but as you pull open the door—only for a heavy weight to suddenly slump against you, enticing a winded oof! from your lips—the words die on the tip of your tongue. 

‘what the—?’ 

staggering under the extra weight, you struggle to remain upright. recognising the flash of blonde hair that tickles your cheek, you heave the man up into a standing position. 

‘bakugo? what on earth are you—?’ 

he grasps at your arms, using your shoulder to balance himself as he hauls his body to lean against the doorframe with a strained wheeze. his face is unhealthily pale and you notice the beads of sweat that have collected upon his forehead, threatening to trickle down the curve of his cheek. heavily lidded eyes blink down at you and his voice rasps as he says, ‘need help.’ 

you see it then; how he’s clutching at his ribs, his body trembling as the length of his spine presses against the doorframe. your eyes widen at the startling amount of blood that soaks a crimson stain through the fabric of his light-coloured t-shirt, the thick liquid smeared along the bumps of his swollen knuckles. your rain-soaked skin is forgotten, the towel closing over the back of his hand, adding pressure.  

‘w-what happened?’ 

‘you. you’re... a doctor... ain’t you?’ his eyes are squeezed shut, his breath wetly rattling from between his lips, the lower one split. 

you stare at him, ‘how do you—?’ 

‘help me,’ bakugo hisses, gaze smouldering as he grunts in pain when you press harder. ‘please,’ he adds reluctantly, the word forced out between gritted teeth. 

pausing to kick the door shut, you guide him into your small apartment, carefully supporting his weight as you walk him toward the bedroom, lowering him to the mattress as gently as you can. he strains out a groan of pain, eyes screwing shut, and you easily forget any form of annoyance that you’d harboured towards him, grimacing as you gently nudge his hand out of the way to peel his shirt back. 

unsurprisingly, the wound is fresh, deep enough that it’s still weeping, but not so deep that you can see fat. it’s a relief and you allow the emotion to sag your shoulders, a breath escaping you. you slide the towel over his skin once more, pressing hard. 

‘keep pressure on it,’ you order. fingers shaking, he does as you say, clamping down onto the towel that has already begun to morph into a brilliant shade of red. the sight is a concern, and you rush to grab the first-aid kit from the bathroom before returning to kneel beside him, pausing to look over his prone form. he appears to have formed a fever, so you decide on opening the window, allowing a trickle of cool air to flow into the room, chilled by the rain outside. 

suppressing a shudder, you hope that it’s enough to ease his fever, your hand moving his aside to check the wound once more. it’s a few inches long, the cut clean. you can sew him up—you’re more than skilled enough to do so—but you’d much rather him be checked out at a hospital. you voice this opinion to him, only to be shut down almost immediately. 

‘no,’ he manages to gasp around a tense moan. ‘no hospital.’ 

‘but—’

‘i said,’ he hisses, head raising from the mattress to glare at you, ‘no fuckin’ hospital.’ 

you bite back a retort. it’s no use arguing with him, especially when he’s bleeding out onto your brand new bedsheets. ‘fine,’ you relent, tone brash and eyes hard. ‘i need your shirt off.’ 

he eyes you dubiously, warily. 

‘it’ll give me more space to work,’ you clarify. ‘plus, it’ll be much cleaner. it’ll decrease the risk of—’

‘yeah, yeah,’ he grunts, making a move to sit upright, his abdominal muscles tensing. only, he collapses straight back down, quickly followed by a pained wheeze. ‘i-i can’t...’ he suddenly forms a fist, slamming it down on the mattress beneath him with a frustrated curse, ‘fuck!’  

your hand closes around his, ‘it’s fine,’ you try to calm him, slightly panicked by his small outburst. you don’t think that he’ll hurt you—or at least, that’s what you hope—but the clenching of his fist and the welling of his darkening orbs has your stomach knotting with nerves. lest you allow it show, though, your expression is forcibly neutral, ‘don’t move. i’ll just use scissors.’ 

he huffs a noise of disapproval but doesn’t move, so you open up the first-aid box, throwing the lid open so harshly that it almost snaps from the hinges. grabbing the scissors, you make quick work of slicing through his t-shirt, his brows pulling together at the sound of the fabric tearing until you tug it from under his back, throwing it to the ground. he grunts as you accidentally jostle him, but you pay no mind, already reaching for the anti-septic wipes. 

‘this is going to sting,’ is the only warning you spare him. 

‘just hurry the fuck up,’ he snaps, only for the expanse of his chest to vibrate with a pained growl when you smooth the first wipe over the wound. his hips jerk upwards, head falling back against the bed. 

‘hold still,’ you snap, elbow roughly digging into the soft tissue of his hip in order to keep him still. he mumbles something under his breath but you aren’t listening, cleaning his wound with a practiced pace. as you work, you are privy to the sight of the family of scars that litter his torso. there’s one, long and jagged, that traces from his right hipbone to his navel, the edges uneven. you dread to imagine what could have caused it. there are a few smaller scars that encircle his left collarbone, splattered down to his nipple, another large one that expands across his ribs, disappearing as it curves around to his back.

you know that you shouldn’t be staring. 

he’s a patient. 

but that doesn’t stop you from admiring him. because despite the scars that taint the golden kiss of his tanned skin, and despite the fact that the heat of his blood  warms your hands as you work, congealing in a way that makes your nose crinkle, you can’t help but agree with mina. 

he really is a sight to admire. 

the blood-flow ceased, you ensure that the wound is thoroughly cleaned before proceeding to select a sterile needle, ripping open the packaging with your teeth. squinting with one eye closed, you guide the thread through the loop, shuffling closer on your knees. 

‘’kay,’ you breathe. ‘gonna close you up now.’ 

when you receive no reply, you look up, only to see that the pain has rendered him unconscious. it’s probably for the best, you conclude, pushing the needle through his skin and forming the first stitch. with practiced ease, the stitching is neatly formed in short timing, cleaned and bandaged with careful precision. 

after, you pack away the first-aid kit, careful to not wake him when you move from the bed to discard the used wipes and the bloodied needle. in the bathroom, you scrub your hands clean, drying them before returning to the bedroom to gently remove the stained towel from his curled fist. you discard the fabric of his ruined t-shirt into the bin, setting the washing machine to cycle after shoving the towel in to join your coat. 

closing the bedroom window and switching the light off, you collapse into the chair by the vanity table. tiredly, you eye his sleeping form, his skin illuminated by the dim light emitted from the lamp in the living room. a thin sheet of sweat coats his forehead, blonde hair now appearing a light brown as it is dampened. his lungs expand and deflate at a slow, but even pace, and you know that he’s out of danger, despite the pool of blood that has crusted the bedsheets. you’ll have to replace them. 

for now, exhaustion catches up to you now that your adrenaline has settled, and it only takes seconds for your eyes to droop closed. 

๑

it feels as if just minutes have passed when your eyes snap open to the sound of someone swearing loudly. 

bleary eyed, you jolt upright, double taking when you remember that you’re not alone. bakugo is now sat up, much to your surprise, however, you aren’t able to get a good look at him when he turns his head towards you. 

because there’s now another person in the room. 

hair as crimson as the blood that his friend had shed, with the red of his eyes to match, eijiro kirishima looms over his friend. he’s also tall, maybe even taller than the blonde haired man hunched over on your bed, his body equally as fit, biceps bulging as he hooks an arm under bakugo’s armpit, yanking him to his feet as if he weighs nothing. 

you are on your feet in seconds, hands reaching with the intention to push the man with the blonde ‘fro back to the mattress. but before your fingertips can even touch him, kirishima is unkindly shoving you backwards, glowering as he gives you a once-over, jaw ticking. 

‘move it, lady.’ 

‘he’s in no fit state to move,’ you protest. 

kirishima barks out a laugh, easily balancing bakugo on one arm as he rudely jabs his index finger in your face. ‘trust me, he’s had worse.’ he waves his hand, indicating that you move, ‘now be a sweetheart and move over, i need to get him outta here.’ 

you stare up at him, eyes narrowing as his frame towering over yours as he takes a threatening step closer. 

‘listen, lady,’ he seethes. ‘soon, this place���ll be swarmin’ and i need’ta get him outta here before they get here. he can’t fight like this.’ bakugo makes a noise, appearing on the brink of unconsciousness once more, head lolling against kirishima’s shoulder. you aren’t even sure how the redhead managed to break into your apartment in the first place, but you don’t need to question the mild panic that he allows to pass over his features, clearly concerned for his friend. he doesn’t wait for your reply, barging past as he hauls bakugo from the bedroom. 

you follow after them, protesting. 

‘you could re-open his wound!’ 

kirishima uses his spare hand to pull the front door open, ‘like i said, he’s had worse.’ he makes to pull his friend out of the apartment, but you halt him with a hand on his clothed shoulder. 

‘w-wait!’ 

much to your relief, he does, watching as you disappear into the kitchen, noisily fumbling around in one of the cupboards. on rushed feet, you return, pressing a bottle of pain-killers into the palm of his hand. ‘at least make sure he takes these. they’ll help him,’ you plead. kirishima eyes you, expressionless eyes critical as he silently regards you. you’re not sure what he’s looking for, but he seems to approve, nodding once as he shoves the pills into the back pocket of his jeans. 

just as kirishima is hauling him over the threshold, bakugo manages to lift his head, eyes barely open as he looks at you. 

‘i owe you,’ he’s barely able to exhale, features twisting in pain as he clutches at his bandaged side. and then before you reply, they’re gone, disappearing out of your line of sight as the door to the apartment block closes, announcing their departure. 

for a long time after, you stand in the doorway, waiting. 

waiting for what, you do not know.

eventually, you lock the door before returning to the bedroom. the apartment is now eerily quiet as you listen to the sound of police sirens shrieking in the distance. slumping back into your chair, you rest your elbows on your thighs, pressing your face into the palms of your hands. you inhale, breath shaking as you wait until the sirens have faded into silence.

the entire encounter feels like a damned dream, but the blood-stained bedsheets are the only evidence of bakugo’s lingering presence. 

and with a chest-heaving sigh, you suspect that this won’t be the last you’ll see of him. 

© obitohno. all rights reserved. do not repost my works.

#♡ jordy is writing ♡ #mha x reader #bnha x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo x you #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #mha bakugou #bakugou #bakugou katsuki

[mercurial-cool]

💜Ambrosia Progress Update 💜

Hello lovely Bloodweave community! Since my last post was me nearly four months ago saying that a new Ambrosia chapter would likely be coming by the end of the year (lol), I just thought I'd pop back in here to give a quick little "proof of life" post and reassure anyone still wondering that, at least in theory, it still has not been abandoned -- I just took a little time away from working on it for various reasons.

[That's the important part of what I wanted to share, but I'm inserting a cut below for some additional self-indulgent rambling for anyone who wants a bit more context.]

One reason for the hiatus was that my job got crazy towards the end of the year, which both took away from my writing time and also my BG3-playing time, making it harder to jump back in and capture the characters' voices as accurately as I felt I could when I was playing more regularly. And the other, more recent and much sillier reason is that I accidentally and unexpectedly stumbled into an obsession with Formula 1 and had some writing ideas for that fandom that my brain demanded that I act on immediately... so, if you subscribed to me for Ambrosia updates and get a notification soon that I've de-anoned 45k words of (AO3 member-locked) Formula 1 RPF, I am so sorry for the possible bait-and-switch lmao. (But congratulations to the, like, three other people who might exist with me at the center of the Venn diagram of those two fandoms haha... I'd love to know if you're out there!)

I'll admit that I've felt guilty for doing that other writing while Ambrosia was still unfinished. I've never had anything I've written come anywhere close to the level of popularity that Ambrosia has reached, and it was something I've truthfully found a little overwhelming at times. At the very least, it's prompted me to feel quite a bit more anxious and perfectionistic about whether any new chapters I put out "live up to" the bar that's been set by how much people have enjoyed the previous chapters. None of that is to diminish how unbelievably appreciative I am of the people who have taken the time to read and comment on Ambrosia -- I still read and am grateful for every single comment that comes through, even though I've done a shit job of responding to them lately (another source of no small amount of guilt).

But I think I needed to take some time to do some writing that didn't have the self-imposed pressure of quite so many eyes. And now that I've done that, I'm excited to return to Ambrosia refreshed and with a healthier perspective. I know better than to actually try and give a timeline this time around for when the next chapter might be out, but just know that I'm once again actively working on it, and I'm very excited about some of the writing that I've already completed. :)

Thank you (and/or I'm sorry) to anyone who bothered to read this far, and hope you're all doing well. <3

#bg3 #and also‚ randomly‚ formula 1 #bloodweave #ambrosia #self-indulgent longpost

[shedontlovehuhself]

Misha always respected destiel and advocate for queer Castiel and his romantic declaration to Dean. In return he gets labeled a queerbaiter by the spn fandom, his words and love for Castiel diminished by his own fans, and associated with spn's bury your gays trope. A book named Bury Your Gays is written with the main character named Misha. And the author of said book sent a copy to Misha (boundaries be damned, I guess) and now Misha will be expected to say something about it. And y'all are going to harass him about it, too(cause it's what y'all do). And people who claim to be Misha fans are fine with it. Yet if anyone were to do this towards Jensen y'all would have a fit all across social media and go after the author. But again, double standards in this fandom truly runs deep.

#Meanwhile Jensen can't even say queer and Dean in the same sentence #and has yet to acknowledge Castiel is indeed queer and in love with Dean #seeing people who claim to be misha fans yet don't actually respect what he says about castiel and destiel #misha collins #castiel #destiel

[rqgnarok]

orange juice - tommy miller (ii)

fandom: the last of us (tv show & video game)

wc: 7,664

warnings: mentions of alcoholism, ptsd, death and gore as seen on the show and games. no pronouns for reader.

summary: a surprising turn of events brings tommy back to your life and he won't let sleeping dogs lie.

sequel to dial drunk and loosely inspired in noah kahan's orange juice

masterlist / ao3 / ko-fi

“He’s looking at you again.”

“Let him,” you tell Maria, picking at your pancakes with your fork. It’s almost 10 PM and she took you out to eat breakfast for dinner, but it was enough incentive to get you out of the house after two weeks of no human interaction. That, and the fact that she’s paying. “He can stare all he wants, it’s not a crime.”

“Feels like one,” she shrugs, eyesight momentarily stuck to the corner of her eye where you know she’s scouting her target, her lips a tight, displeased line. “And your shoulders say otherwise, all up against your ears. You look like you’re waiting for the electric chair.”

You roll your eyes so hard it brings back to life the headache you’ve been nursing for the last couple of days. It had gently placed itself as a quiet dull in the back of your head and returns full force now. 

The diner is half-empty– not an unusual occasion at this time of night, but the voices and laughter from fellow Jackson citizens only worsen the ache of the giant bruise that is your body right now. 

“It would be a kinder fate, I think.”

Maria stands her ground, grimacing. “God, who even is this guy? When you said there was some bad history I thought you meant, like, a nasty ex. That man is looking like a cloud belongs permanently above his head.”

Who even is Tommy Miller? It’s a good enough question, one you never thought you’d have to answer in your life after the world ended.

You’d been in New York when the infected spread like wildfire across the country. There was barely enough time while running for your life to think about what might’ve happened to the Miller boys.

You hoped. By God, you hoped like you rarely dared these days that Joel, Tommy, and Sarah made it out safely. Guilt swallowed you whole the second you thought about it for too long. 

You relinquished any rights you had on them when you abandoned them. You ran out of Austin with your tail between your legs and cut off all contact with them, one last futile attempt to put Tommy’s life back together. 

Why are you being so fucking difficult?

I’m done watching you wreck your life, Tommy. I’m not picking up again tonight, or ever. Call Joel. 

The first time you saw Tommy Miller again after two decades you were too in the throes of a panic attack to believe he was real. 

It wouldn’t be the first time you confused the sight of a stranger for your long-lost friend. Freckles on fair skin, cow eyes so brown they could be black and broad shoulders under jean jackets; they’re more common than you’d think. 

But they always turn around and the illusion always breaks. It’s your designed personal penitence, to chase after the man that knew how to hurt you better than anyone in your life, and that you let because you loved him. Love, still. Time and distance and the fucking apocalypse weren’t enough to diminish what you’ve always felt for Tommy Miller. 

You loved him even when you left him. It’s why you left him, even if it killed you in the process. 

But this time it was him. Along with a group of newcomers, he stumbled across Jackson and you found yourself trying to blink away the sight of a ghost in the town square to no avail. His expression was tight and distrustful, so Joel it created a vacuum of longing in your belly even through the panic. 

And fuck, man, Joel. The last time you talked to Tommy was the last time you talked to his brother, too. A call right after you hung up on the youngest Miller that had him using all the curses available in his vocabulary on his brother’s name.

How many times has he done this to you?

Too many. 

Fucking dumbass. Hope you keep ‘im in the doghouse a little longer this time. 

I’m serious, Joel, I’m not picking after him again. 

Joel had tried to convince you otherwise, but you both knew his heart wasn’t in it. You’d both witnessed Tommy’s mishaps once too many times and he knew dropping Tommy wasn’t a decision you’d make lightly. 

Because it meant dropping him as well, and Sarah. It meant giving up on the realest family you had, most likely for good.

He’s gonna hate this. I think that boy would rather lose an arm than lose you.

He can live without me, Joel.

No, he’d said, oddly solemn, like he knew something you didn’t. No, he can’t. 

But he’d been wrong. Here Tommy was, stumbling into your life as if he hadn’t left it at all. He'd locked eyes with you across town like the sea of curious citizens peering at the dirty strangers from outside town didn’t exist. 

Even if it hadn’t been him those thousand times you thought you saw him, in your mind Tommy was everywhere: dead in some shallow common grave in Austin, turned and without any control over his body with a bite scar on his arm, running for his life with a gun in his hand and Joel by his side, hiding behind the alcohol like he’d been doing the last time you saw him.

The possibilities were endless and terrible, but they hadn’t killed you yet. 

The way Tommy’s face fell in realization almost did. You’d rubbed at your eyes and strained your eyesight as best you could, but the hallucination refused to fade. He was still there, standing tall, weary and tired and hopeful.

He’d opened his mouth, the shape of your name already on his lips when you turned around and ran for your life back into your house. Your lungs didn’t fill with a full breath until you turned all the locks and leaned against the door, heart hammering against your ribs and nausea crawling up your throat.

As if Tommy would chase after you, knocking on your door and demanding something from you, or maybe just to be mean about the same things he’s always held against you. 

But he hadn’t. Hiding worked. You didn’t hear anything from him or about him from Maria, so you stood your ground. You didn’t even throw a fit when she came to force you into the shower so you could have dinner together, only to avoid more questions you couldn’t answer.

Who is he? You looked like the Grim Reaper was walking into town, do you know him? Did he hurt you? I swear to God, if he did he’s not staying, hon, I promise–

An old friend, was the explanation you’d settled on, the biggest understatement of your life. We grew up together and went our separate ways way before the outbreak. Wasn’t really a clean break. 

Maria took it, albeit hesitantly, and the worried glances she’d been sending your way in the diner grew tenfold when Tommy walked in. He sat at the bar and ordered a drink with a piece of pecan pie. Something in your heart clenched when the waiter put a colorful drink in front of him and Tommy poured it down without even blinking.

So what if he’s drinking, still? It’s why you walked away from him, isn’t it? If your ultimatum meant nothing to him then that’s not your problem, even if it makes something sorrowful and ugly bloom in your belly.

You look away just as he turns his head towards your booth so he doesn’t catch you looking. Instead, you catch him more than a handful of times, his gaze hot and piercing. 

It’s always been unnerving, being under his careful eye. 

“I don’t think he’s gonna stop.”

Fuck, you think. “Then I will,” you sigh in mourning for your nice evening and hit the table lightly with your fist as you stand. Maria hisses your name and goes to grab your arm but you’re already walking towards Tommy. The next time he sneaks a look he finds you closer than expected. 

You would laugh at the look on his face if this were funny at all.

It’s not funny. Whatever bravado you might’ve put on in front of Maria is fake and gone by the time you reach Tommy’s side. He annoyingly smells of cologne, somehow a charming like hell scent even in a post-apocalyptic world. 

“You’re staring,” is your opener, less annoyed than you intended and a little bit too breathless, but a truth all the same.

The asshole has the decency to look amused, eyes glinting, and that terrible mustache he’s acquired since he got here moves in a way that indicates he’s smiling and trying to hide it.

“Hello to you, too,” he says, and the roughness of his voice sends thrills of warmth down your belly. He both did and didn’t speak like this twenty years ago, a harsher edge to his tone that you credit to the terrible decades spent between then and now. But underneath it all there’s something so indescribably Tommy that leaves you incredibly out of your depth for this moment. 

“Hey, Miller,” you say with a roll of your eyes at his sarcasm, but the greeting comes out too soft, too honest. You feel like the knots of anxiety inside of you are about to snap from how tightly they are woven. “You’re staring. It’s freaking Maria out.”

“Sorry to Maria,” he says without sounding even merely apologetic, and your heckles rise so quickly you’re practically blindsided. It starts with a few cute quips and ends with him calling you to pick him up from the bar fight he’s lost this time, breath reeking of tequila. “You look good.”

He checks you out slowly, brown eyes full of intent and lacking subtlety. It feels like you’re facing a shooting battalion, waiting for them to deem you guilty. 

There’s nothing suggestive or mean about it. It’s almost kind– wistful in a way you don’t remember him being. You're just having a casual conversation, even if there’s nothing casual about this encounter.

“So do you,” you say for lack of anything else, his honesty catching you off guard. His eyes fly to your face and scrutinize you like he’s trying to make sure you mean it. Whatever conclusion he reaches makes his smile widen, even if just by a little. “Can’t say I’m not surprised, though. Thought you would’ve moved on from Jackson by now.”

He shrugs, turning back to stare at his empty glass, still angling his body toward you where he’s sitting on a worn-out stool. “You don’t find this a lot these days.”

“Civilization?”

“Community,” his eyes twinkle, and, really, Jesus Christ, what’s up with the lights in this place? The man looks like a live-action Disney prince, all combed hair and bright eyes. “Reminds me of home, almost. And, well.”

He doesn’t say it, and you’ve long stopped trying to figure out what he keeps to himself, but you know what you want it to be. You’re too familiar with the way he stops himself from saying stuff he means– especially if it's kind. He’s saving himself the bashful blush that comes after but you desperately wish to hear it anyway.

And, well. You’re here, too. 

He clears his throat when you only nod in response, silence stretching between you painfully. “Can I buy you a drink?”

It’s your turn to bite back your words. A firm, offended fuck no rests on your tongue, and swallowing it back down feels like gravel against your throat. 

He’s trying, you guess. 

You wordlessly sit on the stool next to him, careful not to touch him even on accident. Nodding at the waiter, you say, “I’ll have whatever he’s having,” intertwining your hands nervously and feeling somewhat victorious for getting anything out.

The waiter nods, tilting his head in question. “Non-alcoholic alright?”

You blink, once again losing the slight footing you’d found just now. You don’t turn towards Tommy, but you feel him shift in his seat, silent.

“I- yeah, sure.”

He nods and walks away, and you and Tommy sit in silence until he comes back to place a glass in front of you. You reach for it only to busy your hands but don’t drink from it. Anything you might take is only gonna come back up eventually out of sheer nervousness.

Tommy speaks after a beat. The anxiety in your belly keeps pushing further. “You could’ve ordered something else if you wanted. Maybe with a little more kick?”

“I don’t mind,” you promise dryly. “I, uh. I don’t drink, really. Like, at all.”

“Me either, if you can believe it,” it surprises you enough that your head turns to him in disbelief. Tommy’s already looking at you with an expression you can’t name but unsettles you all the same. He smiles at whatever he sees in your expression, gently amused. “I know. Joel made the same face when I told him I wanted to quit.”

The mention of the eldest Miller would bring you to your knees had you been standing up. “Joel. Is he…?”

You trail off but Tommy catches your meaning and his amusement dissolves.

“Alright,” Tommy confirms with a nod, taking a sip of his drink and running his tongue over his lips after, chasing the flavor. He looks suddenly stricken, but like he’s had enough of that emotion that his features have grown accustomed to it. “As much as he can be, I guess. We... lost Sarah the day all hell broke loose.”

Whatever relief had filled you is immediately displaced by nausea. Closing your eyes tightly doesn’t stop the tears from burning or the wave of grief from washing over you.

“Fuck,” you say through feelings that are now stopping you from breathing freely. “Fuck, Tommy, I’m so sorry.”

“I am, too,” he says, quiet and thoughtful and familiar. Fuck, so fucking familiar that it both soothes and shakes you even further. You feel him move again, and open your eyes to find his hand closer to yours on the counter than it was a second ago, not touching you but offering some weird sort of comfort nevertheless. “I know you loved her. She loved you, too. So much.”

Love is an understatement. You’d been the fourth person to ever hold her after her parents and her uncle, and she had you wrapped around your finger the second she held it tightly in her tiny, baby fist. You watched her first steps and her first words, went to her first soccer game and gossiped about her first crush. Nursed her first heartbreak when the men in her life were too out of depth to really help.

She’d been your family as much as Joel and Tommy had been. Any issue you had with Tommy had nothing to do with his niece or his brother. You’d hoped; stupidly, blindly, selfishly, that she’d made it even if this was never the world you wanted her to grow up in.

“God, all this time…” you cut yourself off and fight the urge to reach for his hand and intertwine your fingers. You’ve never missed him from this close. “I mean– it was always a long shot, but I thought. I hoped… If anyone…”

“I know,” he acknowledges, fingers twitching. He lets a moment pass before he says, tentatively– “I hoped for you, too.”

It would’ve hurt you less if he had insulted you. At least it would’ve been expected.

“Tommy–”

He calls your name as he finally puts his hand on top of yours, pleading. It’s too warm, sweaty, and firm on your skin, and you pull it off the counter swiftly before he can do anything stupid like squeeze it. You stand, distraught, and Tommy follows suit.

“Sweets, please–”

“Don’t,” you snap, harsher and louder than you mean to, earning yourself unwanted attention from a few curious eyes in the diner. Maria, on the other side of the room, is standing and eyeing you worriedly.

Her eyes say blink twice and I’ll kick his balls but even her support is too much. The world blurs around you and Tommy’s words from forever ago echo along with the blood pumping in your ears.

Don’t be like that, sweets. You can act all high and mighty next time, alright?

God, you can’t do this. You left a small town once to avoid this exact confrontation. Maybe it’s finally time to leave Jackson and this is God laughing in your face, screaming at you to go. 

“This isn’t what I came for,” you say to the universe, to Maria, to Tommy, to whoever’s listening and is kind enough to get you out of your misery. “Just– stop it with the staring, alright? You can have my drink if you want.”

Tommy looks desperate and more unkept than he had a minute ago. His hair’s a mess even if he hasn’t even reached out to touch it, and the twinkle in his eye is made out of urgency rather than charm. 

“Sweets–”

“Fuck off,” you bite, eyesight blurry with unshed tears of frustration. Tommy reels back a little. He wasn’t expecting any aggression from you. “I don’t want you to call me that.”

“I’ve always called you that,” Tommy’s brow furrows in honest confusion. 

“Yes,” you say, because to you it’s as clear as glass cutting into your skin. “Yeah, that’s the fucking problem, Tommy.”

You can’t bear to look at him. How dare he be hurt about this after what he did? After breaking your heart, using your feelings against you, and then holding a grudge for two decades when you decided you weren’t gonna let him do that shit to you?

You leave the diner with those words, ignoring both Tommy and Maria calling after you. Only one of them tries to follow but you’re not in the mood to entertain either of them, even if Maria has nothing but good intentions. 

God, those free pancakes weren’t even worth it.

You hide at home again.

You hate that this is what its come to. Even if Jackson has become your home you’re the one who has to hide away because Tommy decided to parade in without a fucking care in the world.

It’s weird, you spent years trying to live with your guilt over ending your friendship the way you did, even if it was for the better, but now that he’s back you feel nothing but anger.

Anger over him putting you in a position like that. Anger about his own anger and inability to see how badly you were trying to put his safety over your friendship. Anger about ending up here anyway: breaking yourself in two for his sake.

Some things never change, apparently.

The weekend comes and goes after your valiant escape from the diner and this time there’s nothing Maria can say or do to get you to go out again. She leaves some groceries at your doorstep because she’s a fantastic friend, but after blatantly refusing to answer her questions about Tommy she leaves you alone, wearing a disappointed mother-like frown.

You’re trying and failing to read a book one of your neighbors lent you when there’s a knock at the door. Believing it to be Maria you stay rooted in your spot on the couch, knowing she’ll give up eventually.

Except the knocking doesn’t stop. 

It doesn’t grow more insistent or lose its intensity, but rather keeps its steady rhythm; three knocks, a moment or two of silence, and then repeat. It gets on your nerves sooner than later and you’re jumping off the couch to make it stop, clad in your pajamas and fuzzy socks that almost got you shot when you were bargaining for them half a decade ago. 

By the time you reach the door, you’re about to pull your hair out. Maria’s name is on your lips when you come face to face with Tommy, his fist still raised mid-knock.

“Don’t close the door,” he rushes to say, hand settling on the frame just in case you decide to do it anyway. “I just want to talk, please.”

“What the fuck,” you answer out of mere surprise, body coiled tight as you try to keep your body language to a minimum. Any sudden movements and he’ll invite himself in, and then you really won’t be able to keep the line drawn between your past and your life here. “There’s nothing to talk about, Tommy.”

“Like hell, there isn’t,” he says with enough annoyance that you blink, reeling back a little. Finally, a taste of the Tommy you were expecting, short and mean and careless with your heart.

It’s almost a relief– the sweet facade was too good to be true and you didn’t believe it for a second. “We were friends once, or did you forget? And now you can’t even be in the same room as me for more than twenty minutes. I’m sure we’ve both got more than enough to get off our chests, sweets.”

“Don’t–”

“Don’t call you that, yeah, sorry,” he mimics your outcry from the other night, but he shrinks a little at the reminder, shoulders to his ears. It’s an honest enough apology that you refrain another biting comment from leaving your mouth. “See, I’d get a chance to understand why you hate it so much if you just talked to me–”

“I don’t want to fight with you, Tommy,” you say, more honestly than you mean to. He keeps pulling the truth out of you despite your best tries to give him as little insight into yourself as possible.

It comes out tired– reminiscent of the resignation you used to pick up the phone with whenever Tommy called late at night. 

“And I’m not here for that,” the way he’s meeting your gaze leaves you unable to look away. You automatically preen under the warm, molten brown of his eyes. “But I– you owe me some kind of explanation–”

“Jesus,” you laugh, the sound loaded with incredulity. Just when you think you know what to expect from him… “That’s really fucking rich, Tom, really, so much for not fighting–”

“You’re the one who insists on making everything a godforsaken argument–”

“Listen to what you’re saying to me!” you exclaim a little too loudly, catching the attention of some of your neighbors and shit.

Motherfucking shit, you have no other choice but to grab Tommy’s stupid flannel in your fist and pull him inside your home away from prying eyes. You close the door behind you and turn back to him, fire at your tongue. “Fucking listen to yourself, Tommy! What the fuck would I owe you after everything–” 

“Listen, just because you don’t like me anymore–”

“I don’t like you?” you say incredulously, stopping mid-path to the kitchen and trying to come to terms with Tommy standing in your home looking like he’s meant to be here. “Tommy, I mean this with the most respect I am capable of mustering for you right now, but are you high?”

It’s the sort of thing you would’ve told him when you were younger, unapologetically calling him out on his shit in the most picturesque way possible. Tommy’s eyes brighten with something– not quite glee, not quite fury– and he leans closer to you almost automatically, muscle memory pulling at strained, rusted pieces of him that are now awakening in your presence. 

“Fuck off,” he snaps, but there’s something resigned about it. He presses at his temples with his thumb and index finger, hand calloused and steady and too familiar for you not to ache for his touch. 

“You’re the one who dropped me like it was nothing,” he accuses. All the fight leaks out of him, leaving him curved inwards and small. “Like you weren’t my best fucking friend, like I– like I was always just– pulling you down, or some shit. Like you were just waiting for the right excuse to get rid of me.”

The words are a gut punch on their own but the way he says them– like he’s been thinking them to be true ever since you left– almost floors you completely. 

You say, “Tommy,” and you can’t help it. Some instinctive part inside of you has come back to life and doesn’t know anything other than his name. “Tommy, are you being serious right now?”

“Do you know why I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in over a decade?” he demands, looking straight into your fucking soul as he waves his hands around, trying to make a point. “Because after the world went to shit all I could think about was you. I thought of you, dead and mad at me, and I wanted to be wrong about that more than I wanted to drink.”

Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ.  

“You left me behind,” he says, an accusation, but it comes out too quiet for it to really be angry.  “And you just… moved on. Moved away. It felt like everything we went through meant nothing to you.”

You gape. The silence echoes in your ears along with the rapid beat of your heart and your blood rushing to your brain as you make sense of what he's saying.

“It meant everything to me,” you admit eventually, the weight of your decision still making your shoulders ache after all these years. “Jesus, Tommy, don’t you get it? That’s why I had to leave. It killed me to watch you fade away like that. And to think I was… aiding and abetting, somehow–”

Tommy shakes his head, stubborn. “The drinking wasn’t your fault–”

“You called me every fucking time,” you interrupt, voice hard. 

There’s little softness about the whole thing. He was your friend and you failed him by cutting him off and not being there when he needed you, but he wasn’t exactly pulling his weight. It was you on your own trying to maintain a friendship he wasn’t interested in saving.

“At one point I only heard from you when you needed me to bail you out. I got to know more about the sheriff on guard than about your own life. It wasn’t fucking fair, Tom. To either of us.”

Tommy doesn’t have an answer for that, arms crossed and glaring at your kitchen floor. His jaw quivers with emotion but his fluttering brows tell you it’s not anger. You know what he looks like when he’s trying not to cry. 

“I was a reminder of everything wrong with your life,” you continue, quieter, softened by his lack of retort and the absence of any fight. “I was stopping you from moving on by coming every time you called. As long as I came to get you you’d keep getting shitfaced. Driving drunk, getting into fights, hurting the people you loved. I couldn’t keep doing that to you.”

“Hurting you,” Tommy says, meeting your eye. There’s only a table between you now, but you’ve never felt further apart from him, and that’s saying something. “All that time, I was hurting you.”

You look away in embarrassment, even though there’s nothing about the statement that warrants it. “And Joel and Sarah. Your mom. But yeah. Yeah, you were hurting me.”

Tommy sighs. He’s looking every one of his years and reaching for one of your chairs, sitting like his body can’t hold him up anymore, his vices calling to charge their fees. 

You ask, curious, grief-stricken: “What happened to you, Tommy?”

“I don’t know,” he says, lost, the sound of his voice bordering on a break. He’s crying now, you realize, not shedding tears but trying to keep himself together and failing. “I don’t know, I was just so… angry. About everything. After I was discharged everywhere I saw, it was all red.”

You close your eyes at the mention of 22-year-old Tommy, some baby fat still clinging to his changing face that was hardened by his experience overseas. You’d gone with his family to pick him up from the airport, and he’d clung just as tightly to you as you did him when you ran to meet him on the tarmac. Your lungs had finally, finally filled with a full breath now that he was back home with you, but something was off and you knew it the second you saw him. 

His shoulders remained tense all throughout your embrace and the ride home. He was quiet during the welcome party in his mom’s house, and later you spent hours on his porch until the sun came back up again. Whatever it was, he hadn’t wanted to talk about it.

You don’t want to hear about all that, he’d promised, arms around his legs and cheek laying on his knee, gaze on you and far away at the same time. Trust me, sweets, I’d take this fucking heat and some Willie Nelson over army shit every time. 

“I don’t know when I realized drinking made it easier,” he goes on, and you wonder if he’s stuck in the same memory as you. “I could be as angry as I wanted to and still not feel a damn thing. And I didn’t care who paid the price of it. I didn’t care about anything.”

“That night, though,” he says, expression turning wary as if expecting you to make a run for it. You’ve tried to the last two times you came face to face with him, but you’re too tired now. You’ve picked too much at this scar to do anything other than let it bleed. “When you hung up on me, it all came rushing back. Everything I’d been tryin’ to avoid just crashed into me. Hurt a hell of a lot worse than the broken nose did.”

Your surprise bypasses your quiet grief. “You broke your nose?”

“It got broken,” he pulls a sour face that almost makes you smile. He rubs the crooked slope with his index finger, thoughtful. “Not that I didn’t deserve it, but I’m pretty sure Collins had had it against me since high school.”

You snort. You remember who he’s talking about– one of the officers you had to befriend in the hope he’d let Tommy go with a warning a few dozen times. He’d been a skinny kid with braces and a hero-like worship for the younger Miller before he graduated and signed up for the Academy. 

“I’m not angry anymore,” he admits, and you don’t realize how much that statement means to you until your next breath comes a little too easy, fills your chest the way air hasn’t for twenty whole years. “After the world ended, being mad about something like this felt…”

You try to help when he trails off. “Insignificant?”

Tommy’s smile is small but real, fond. “I was gonna say ‘stupid’, but yeah.” He nods at you, wistful. “Yeah, you’ve always been better at words than me. Better in every sense, really.”

You soften again against your will. “Tommy.”

“Sorry,” he shakes his head, wiping some stray tears neither of you realized had fallen. He’s not gentle about it, and you itch to reach for his hands and do it yourself, remind him that the world has punished you both for long enough to have him be so rough on himself.

“It’s different now. Being sober,” he continues, nervous. He’s tapping the table, bouncing his knee, biting his cheek– a checklist for anxious tics. “Trying to get through the end of the world without booze was shitty as hell.”

He continues, ashamed– “I, uh, I fell off the wagon more times than I’d like. Definitely more than I can excuse, even with everything that’s happened.”

Guilt swells inside you and you’re unable to dial it back. You left him. He was in trouble without a way out and your response to that was to leave him. 

Even if you’d been right to do it, even if you indirectly saved his life, you’ve always been honest with yourself about how much it haunted you. It’s a small, worthless comfort, how the right choices usually don't feel so. 

“You kept calling me,” it escapes your mind without your consent, but now that you’ve put it out there you can’t stop thinking about it. “I didn’t pick up, but you kept calling at first. Always after midnight, always drunk. Always in trouble.”

You meant what you said when he first came in, you don’t want to fight, but you’ve spared his feelings at your expense for too long now, and you need to know. You never thought you’d get the chance to ask, so you have to. Even if Tommy hangs his head like he’s preparing for the guillotine, you need to lay this to rest now. For your sake.

“I know,” he says, soft and regretful.

“And then you stopped,” you recall, the hurt so vivid it’s still present, still clutching at your heart after all this time. “When you realized I was of no use to you, that I wouldn’t come to bail you out–”

He says your name painfully.

“I never stopped liking you, Tommy,” you tell him, a secret to apparently no one but him. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. It wasn’t me who stopped caring.”

“Me either,” he says, suddenly firm, looking up at you with a gaze made of steel that doesn’t leave any room for argument. You wrap your arms tighter around yourself as you lean against the counter, its edge jamming almost painfully against your back. “Please tell me you know that. I was a dick and I’m owning up to that but God, please tell me you know how much you mean to me.”

Mean, he says, your mind stuck like a broken record on the present tense as if you hadn’t told him you still loved him just a moment ago. Still, still, still. 

You open your mouth but nothing comes out, literally having been rendered speechless. Tommy’s expression shatters.

“Sweets,” it’s a small, tender thing, but he corrects himself immediately even if you don’t complain this time. You’re too stricken by the turns of this conversation to do anything about it. He says your name and you pretend it doesn’t kill you, laughing to himself with every loaded emotion except humor. “God, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I fucked everything up, didn’t I?”

Your answer gets stuck in your throat. You don’t like any of the possibilities, saying either yes or no would be a lie. There are no absolutes in this, nothing crystal clear about this thing between you.

He reads your hesitation and watches you sit opposite to him like he’s exchanging words with a haunting, distrusting and hopeful all the same. 

“We were– we were good, though,” he says, like a question, voice dry. He sounds so different from the last time he asked something of you, and the dichotomy is a little too much for you to handle. “Weren’t we? For a while there, before we– I… we were good, right?”

You do the unimaginable and reach out your arm, palm up. Tommy looks at it and you back and forth, like he expects you to laugh in his face, but eventually he meets you halfway and intertwines your fingers together.

Your tears clog your throat. There are so many things you wish had happened differently. “Yeah, Tom,” you say, benevolent. “We were really good.”

His smile is sad and fleeting but his hand is tight around yours. You sit in silence on your kitchen table as the light drains from the sky, but neither of you make a move to leave or turn on the light.

Your life goes on. Surprisingly, with Tommy in it. 

It’s an adjustment, for sure. After your heart-to-heart, he promises he’ll stick around in Jackson indefinitely, but it’s still a shock every time he comes by to pick you up for lunch. With his hands behind his back and bouncing nervously on his tippy toes, he looks like he’s about to ask your mom if you can come out to play after you finish your homework. 

It freaks you out. The first time he walks you home after an awkward, stilted late morning at the diner your mind bombards you with worse-case scenarios:

Tommy leaving town without telling you, Tommy relapsing after two consecutive hours in your company, Tommy avoiding you around town for the rest of your days as if you hadn’t talked things out at all. 

But he comes back. Two days later and then the week after that and so on. Both your social skills slowly but surely begin to defrost and before you know it, you’re seeing each other almost daily for periods of time too long for mere acquaintances. 

You’re friends again. Still, he insists as he puts his jacket around your shoulders because a fifteen-minute walk before dinner became a three-hour talk about your years apart. We’re friends, still. I missed you every second I wasn’t with you whether I realized it or not. You were what was missing, sweets. 

Today, Tommy stares at you from the other side of the room, gaze clever and unashamed, and something inside you is filled to the brim, satisfied and content.

“He’s looking at you again.”

“Let him,” you say to Maria through the rim of your glass. 

She rolls her eyes in good nature and locks her arm around yours. Thus begins the slow walk around the room that inevitably ends, as everything in your life seems to, at Tommy’s side. 

She’d been the one who told you to invite him. It was her party, her choice, a private but grander-than-usual affair under the excuse that not many folks get to turn 40 these days. You knew Tommy knew about it because everyone in town did, but he didn’t talk about it until you brought it up yourself after a night together.

Sunlight had been streaming gently through the curtains that swayed with the spring air coming through the window. You’d blindly picked up the closest garment of clothing you found on the floor before you went down to make breakfast.

Tommy had taken one look at you in his shirt and intercepted your path before you could leave the bedroom, hand pulling you back into bed and, consequentially, into his lap.

He’d smiled as you wrapped your arms around his neck and it was like the years vanished between you. You were young again and at the receiving end of Tommy Miller’s honest, boyish charm. Mornin', sweets.

Except you never had this before. Getting Tommy back as a best friend had been one thing, but venturing into this new chapter meant jumping in blind with only his hand in yours to guide you. 

He kissed you for the first time– since last time, of course– one early morning after patrol. He settled into the routine of it quite nicely, and he became your partner for it without complaints from, anyone, really. 

Stop me if you don’t want to, he’d said, close enough that his eyes were turning from side to side to stare into yours, half-lidded. It was such a callback to the last time that you had to blink several times just to check it wasn’t a dream. But when he finally cut the distance between you you realized it couldn’t be– your dreams never ended like this. 

Your dreams ended, but this didn’t. Tommy cupped your head tenderly yet with an intensity that hadn’t been there three decades ago. He licked into your mouth the second you shuddered and clung to the back of his jean jacket, heart hammering inside your chest. 

He’d kept his eyes tightly closed after you pulled away, out of breath and high on giddiness, his hands protecting your face from the biting, winter wind. 

You good in there, handsome?

Don’t wanna find out you aren’t real. I’ve dreamt about this, I’ll have you know. 

You started the kiss then just for that, the thought of Tommy yearning after you like you did him during your time apart driving you a little too crazy. 

So it’d been so easy, in the end, to let things progress the way you hadn’t had a chance to after high school. Within the year he was waking up at your place most mornings, coming over for dinner, and sinking into you when you wrapped your arms around him from behind, your temple against his back. 

What does a guy gotta do to get you to come home early tonight?

You know you’re invited, right? You can come with me instead of moping around. Maria said so and everything.

I don’t know. I don’t think she likes me that much still–

Bullshit–

–and I wouldn’t wanna embarrass myself askin’ for water all night. He’d rubbed your back tenderly, slowly, up and down strokes while you tangled a strand of his hair around your finger, meaningless touches full of meanings. You go have fun, baby, alright? I’ll stick around for the night and see you after. 

You understood and trusted him fully about it, of course. But you still couldn’t help yourself and dialed your home number during the party, hoping to catch him before he fell asleep waiting for you. 

You can swing by if you want, you said into the phone, smiling at the sound of Tommy’s voice through the receiver and feeling a little too hot under the collar. Party’s practically over.

Am I gonna be peer pressure’d into party activities? Or do they know about my… situation?

It was a joke, but you could recognize the undertones of tension from miles away.

Yeah, honey, they know you’re sober, you soothed. I mean it, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, alright? But if you change your mind I’ve got some orange juice with your name on it. And Jamie’s kids’, but still. We’d be glad to see your face.

And so here you are. Maria giving you off to Tommy like one would deliver a bride at a wedding, stepping into his open arms and feeling something settle inside of you that’s been restless for over half your life. This love, this domesticity, you never thought you’d get to experience it, let alone with Tommy. 

You never thought you’d ever be this happy.

“I’m watching you, Miller,” Maria says fake menacingly as she points two fingers to her eyes and then at Tommy as a warning. “Both of you, hands above the waist, please. Keep it PG for the kiddos, would you?”

You wave her away with a loud, “Thanks, Maria. Bye, Maria,” that has her cackling with laughter all the way to her next conversation.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Tommy jokes, and any undernotes of nervousness left are washed away when you glue yourself to him, your sides touching. “You enjoyin’ yourself, sweetheart?”

You hum an affirmative, leaning your head on his shoulder. “More now that you’re here.”

Tommy grins down at you. “Aren’t you a charmer?”

 You smile back slyly. “I learned from the best. You alright?”

The sigh he lets out is big but honest, looking around the room with curiosity rather than like a caged animal looking for ways out. “It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. Everyone’s actually really nice.”

“Told you,” you quip.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re always right,” he rolls his eyes in good nature, shifting so he’s got his arm wrapped around you. “Last time we were at a party together I had to be the jealous boyfriend.”

“I remember,” you do, Tommy twenty-five years younger with his arm around you just like this, a tad more possessive. It's been getting progressively easier to talk about the past and not be overwhelmed by it, and you're glad. It wasn't all bad. “Gotta be honest, honey, I like the real thing a whole lot better.”

You’d never seen him smile so much when you were younger. These days it’s weird to find him without his lips turned upward, like right now when he presses his smiling mouth to your temple. “That makes two of us.”

You fall into a lull of silence, the party going on around you, disturbed only by your content hum. Tommy nudges his nose against your temple, asking quietly. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, daring yourself to meet Tommy’s eyes even if there’s no judgment in his gaze, only warmth. You reach for the hand on your shoulder and he intertwines your fingers immediately, his hand warm and a little sweaty. “Just… it feels like I’ve been waiting for this forever.”

“This?”

“For you,” you shrug, squeezing his hand. “To come home. I didn’t think there was even a home to come back to, let alone a chance that we would. And now we’re here.”

He has to kiss you for that, rearranging your positions so he can cup your face in his hands and ignore Maria’s advice from earlier. He sneaks in a little tongue and kisses you with such force you have to hold onto him when you feel your knees go weak. 

You break apart when breathing becomes imminent, and he exhales against your mouth, freckled face flushed and pleased. “Now we’re here.”

He draws you back into his embrace and talks nonsense as he draws mindless shapes against your back. About what he did today and what he plans on cooking for dinner tomorrow after patrol as long as he finds the right ingredients. 

It’s so incredibly mundane that you can hardly believe it, but time ticks by and Tommy stays by your side, solid and real. He sips on his orange juice and life keeps on happening, your best friend lodged back into place after years and years of flying adrift. 

it's here and it's yours!!!!

thank you all for your patience! i've been so busy with college lately but i was adamant to get this one out before august ended and here we are! i hope y'all like it, i love writing for tlou and tommy!

idk when i'll be able to post next, BUT! commissions are open right now for anyone who's interested, info about it here!

thank you so much for reading and any kind words you might have for me <3

tags: @spideysimpossiblegirl

#tlou fic #the last of us #tommy miller #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #gabriel luna #joel miller #sarah miller #maria tlou

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

Hey! I’m just curious, do you think the everlark fandom is getting smaller?

That's a really difficult thing to judge, Anon. I've been here a long time and I've seen the fandom go through swells and lulls multiple times over the years. There's so many factors that contribute to the size and amount of activity in a fandom. People leave for other fandoms, some of them return, some don't. Some spilt their attention and efforts between mulitple fandoms. Some people just need to take breaks from how often they create, post, and interact... and that can create the momentary feeling of a shrinking fandom, even if it's not real.

For my part, I've been around so long that sometimes it feels like no one is saying anything about the books and movies and Everlark in general that I haven't already heard, but that attitude is super unfair towards the people who are newer to the fandom. It's ridiculous to expect them to go through over a decades worth of old posts, fics, artwork, etc, and get all the history of the fandom that those of us who've been here a long time already have. Especially since, if you pay attention to A LOT of the newcomers, these are kids who read the books/saw the first four movies as teens and have returned to the material with new appreciation and some seriously deep takes on the material.

So to me, part of the reason it feels smaller is because in many ways, I've retreated into my corner and don't interact as much. I leave the analysis and fangirl posting and furious ask sending to the fresh eyes and young blood. They deserve the chance to fully enjoy their enthusiasm and to build what remains of the fandom into their own community.

Also, I've been through enough fandom wank and infighting at this point that I'm so tired, Katniss. Just let me sit in my rocking chair on the porch and nap, occasionally waking up long enough to spout off a story and be told, "Okay, Grandma."

I guess my point is, no there might not be the same heightened level of activity as ten/twelve years ago. Creators may be sharing their work at a slower rate, fans and readers might not be interacting as much, but that should not diminish the passion and enjoyment of those who are here and fully active. I don't want people to come here and see asks like this and think "Oh... well I guess no one's home..."

I don't want that deterrent to those who come here seeking others to discuss and freak out over thg and Everlark. And I hope you don't either. Becasue even if it is "shrinking," there are still people here and there are still newcomers arriving all the time. Small but mighty, my friend.

<3 kdnfb

#anonymous #look at that ask #for the record #i'm old enough to be y'alls mom #not your grandma #but i'm making a point here lol

[nancydrewwouldnever]

I’m with you Nancy. I’m sad, but I’m moving on. Congrats to him on officially coming out as a completely trashy person and killing the fandom for good.

I think killing the fandom for good has been his aim for a while, to be honest. Well, hope he enjoys those diminishing box office returns and viewership numbers leading to diminished paychecks.

#ask

[gentlebeardsbarngrill]

Aren't you worried that another billboard will result in even more people harassing fans which will cause a significant decrease in people engaging with the fandom. I think you guys are shooting yourselves in the foot here in terms of morale and you should probably stop and just refund the money. I don't want an influx of people in my inbox again and I think that is the general consensus among fans. the first billboard was a pr nightmare the second one will have even more diminishing returns. Please if you are involved in the save ofmd crew reconsider your plans and if not reconsider shilling for them

Hi Anon! I appreciate you writing in! As I've mentioned in my previous post, I'm mostly here for supporting the renewal effort by spreading information. I realize it probably looks like because I'm forwarding information from saveofmd that I'm a decision maker. The SaveOFMD team does vote on various initiatives (for example I'm currently on a Taika Appreciation project, and helping suggest charities to support) so it's not just the billboard going on in there. They are one of the initiatives going on in the SaveOFMD Crew. To address your question:

"Aren't you worried that another billboard will result in even more people harassing fans which will cause a significant decrease in people engaging with the fandom"

To be honest, I'm not, but that's just me. If that's something you're concerned about, that's entirely valid. For me, what I've found is that, nothing I do online, in any fandom is going to be accepted by every person. I choose to continue discussing things with people who are willing to be positive, or at least have constructive and are willing to work through things (like I try to). The way that I like to look at it personally is, there are always going to be people who harass us. Being a queer woman, I've had that problem my whole life. What matters is how we as a fandom, or individual deals with it. If I go out on the street in mens clothes because they're comfortable, and I get made fun of by someone, or called a slur (which has happened many a time) does that mean I stop doing what I'm doing? For some people, they choose yes, for me, I don't. If someone is harassing you friend, 1. I would recommend looking for support in your other fans. 2. Block them if they aren't willing to compromise, or you don't have enough spoons to deal with them. No matter what we do, someone is not going to like us, that's just the way the world works.

In regards to:

"I think you guys are shooting yourselves in the foot here in terms of morale and you should probably stop and just refund the money."

I'm happy to pass on this suggestion to the billboard team (again, I'm on the server for other purposes so I don't usually get involved in that) but I'm more than happy to recommend it for you on your behalf.

In regards to:

"I don't want an influx of people in my inbox again and I think that is the general consensus among fans"

I 100% understand the want for not having your inbox flooded. Might I recommend you set some boundaries on your blog? (This is coming from a place of love, I promise I'm not being sarcastic). If you don't want people talking to you about this, or continuing to ask, I'd just recommend stating that in a pinned post (and/or turning anons off-- I've had to do this before to set a boundary) To the second part of your statement: "I think that is the general consensus among fans". I would have to respectfully disagree. I've heard much more excitement than I've heard hate regarding it (and I have heard some negative feedback for sure, but I'd say it's 10% concern and 90% for that I've run into), but perhaps I'm not following the right people (so it could be a bias on my part). If you'd like to send in another anon request and forward me to some places where I could find more people who are upset, I'd be more than happy to read through to see what the concerns are.

I try to be sort of a liaison between the fandom and the various renewal efforts going on (including save ofmd crew), so I'm more than happy to pass on information and provide the concerns to people who are headlining that particular initiative.

In regards to:

"the first billboard was a pr nightmare the second one will have even more diminishing returns."

Can you please provide me with a little more information regarding this? From what I saw in every platform online, the billboard was a PR success in terms of getting noticed by studios and media. There was some backlash among fans / other efforts around the world that thought "the billboard was a waste of money" but the specific purpose was to raise awareness and did get us (the fandom) recommendations from David Jenkins on where to focus efforts. And that's not to say that bad PR didn't happen. Specifically I know a lot of people were upset because "why pay for a billboard when you can help palestine". I will continue to repeat myself in this particular situation because I think it's important. 1. We are allowed to have things we love (everyone in the world is) 2. We are allowed to fight for those things if we feel the need/ability to do so. 3. Just because a fan supports a billboard, doesn't mean they aren't supporting Palestine, or any other efforts going on around the world. 3.5: Many of us don't show what we donate to for privacy reasons, and because we don't feel the need. The purpose of donating to Palestine for example is very different than the purpose of donating to a billboard (the billboard is meant to get attention) and Palestine is too, but my/anyones donating to help people in Palestine doesn't get attention because the attention is already there. The problem is in the leadership in all our countries literally not doing anything to stop the genocide happening there, despite constant reminders. --- BUT THATS A DIFFERENT STORY FOR ANOTHER DAY. 4. We are allowed to have silly little things that make us happy because otherwise life isn't worth living. <TW: Death/Trauma>: I grew up in VA during 9/11 the DC sniper all within my high school years (and one of my friends parents were murdered by the dc sniper). </end TW: Death/Trauma> I say this not for pity, but to point out that I've lived through enough trauma in my life, and gone through enough to know I have to have my silly little things in my life that make me smile, and WE ALL NEED THOSE for our mental health. If someone else doesn't like that, that's their problem, not ours. Please don't let their inability to cope affect your ability to do so.

"Please if you are involved in the save ofmd crew reconsider your plans and if not reconsider shilling for them"

I made a post earlier tonight regarding this situation. Here's the post so I don't have to repeat it again (and other people dont have to read it again here!) Just like any fundraiser, or watch party, or really anything in this fandom, if people choose to be a part of something, that doesn't mean you or anyone else has to. There are people who put money towards cameos, and I know some people think that's wasteful, but that's not up to them, it's up to the people who want to put in for cameos. I'm not a huge fan of EdIzzy fanart (I know, gasp) but if I see it on my tumblr I just scroll through it. I don't tell people not to make it, or make them uncomfortable for doing it. If I may, I would suggest, since the billboard is something that you dont support (and anyone who feels this way)-- 1. feel free to provide feedback, which you have, and I'll forward that on for you, and then 2. move forward and scroll past. The Save OFMD Crew, just like anyone asking for people to join on cameos isn't demanding you help, it's offering it in case you want to join in-- the answer to that can totally be, "No".

Alright anon, thank you again for the feedback. I appreciate you reaching out, and I'll bring these concerns up with the team in the A.M. (for me). Hope you have a good night and things end up being a little calmer for you in your inbox. To others: I will probably get more asks tonight (I already see the numbers going up in my inbox lol) but I'm gonna wait til tomorrow to answer them because I still have to finish the recap AND do another hour work (and its already 10 PM here) so if I don't get back to you tonight---please know it's not because I don't want to talk, it's just cause I'm running out of hours in the day :)

#ofmd #save ofmd crew #save ofmd #anon asks #anon #hoist the ads

[duchessdepolignaca03]

WIP Wednesday - A Most Self-Indulgent WIP

Getting an early jump on WIP Wednesday (GASP). I think I am coming to terms with the fact that I have a very specific wheelhouse that I like to play in. And it's not going to be something that 99.9% of the fandom will care for, but my God am I going to write my self-indulgent bullshit. But still, I'd be interested to know if there's any interest at all in this BS :D

So I bring my latest WIP, currently titled: Horny Trophy Wife!Henry Committing Adultery with Alex in a Vaguely Historical European Setting, feat. not-Baron Zemo.

Warnings: Mpreg of the hand wavy variety, Forced Marriage, Infidelity/Adultery.

Read under the cut. Tags also under the cut!

Henry looks over at his husband across the table, and barely conceals the grimace that wishes to peek through his wide, placating smile. Five years of his life he has given this man, five years of wearing the mask of a happy, content spouse. It’s true that the Baron is handsome in his own right, unimaginably wealthy and educated and refined despite his humble origin, and on paper ought to be an ideal husband. But the Baron’s stubborn nature and Henry’s tempestuous fury make for a sorry, wretched match. 

Yet Henry cannot say their marriage has been unproductive. Four little angels he has given the Baron, all four with strawberry-hued yellow hair and eyes as blue and fearsome as his own. They are Henry’s creatures, clinging to him like barnacles even as they grew out of infancy. His little angels serve as balms to his unrelenting loneliness, the ache of foreignness and not-belonging that will never dissipate from where it has settled down into his bones like the bitter cold air of this unforgiving land.

Henry craves the excitement he has been denied his whole life. First, because he was a threat to his older brother, who was pale and sickly yet ambitious, a stark contrast to Henry’s vigour, fertility and frivolity. Henry’s circumscribed upbringing was intended to diminish him in the eyes of the world, lest the unparalleled beauty and grace of the spare cause him to rise above the anointed heir. The match with the Baron was therefore ideal: the marriage brought England wealth and a mighty ally, and Henry would vanish out of sight and out of mind. 

Then, because he was dutiful and sweet, he was with child within weeks of his wedding night. His fertile belly had scarcely been empty since, a consequence of his temper flaring up at his husband, making them both concupiscent despite the lack of affection for one another in their hearts. As each one came into the world, the Baron jested that Henry was birthing his own army to rival the Baron’s own. Henry demurely denied his allegations, instead dreaming of more illustrious futures for his babes than to become lords and ladies of desolate lands rich only in the treasures that could be hewn from the rocks. 

But there is little promise of excitement in his life, besides the happiness the children bring. Occasionally, his heart will race – like when there is little news days after the end of one of the Baron’s military campaigns, and he can briefly fantasize about a merry widowhood. Then news arrives and his hopes are dashed and his husband returns and he finds himself once again with child even though the last one is barely out of swaddling clothes. 

A visit by emissaries of a young nation sets the court abuzz. The new nation had been born out of the ashes of a rival empire the Baron had helped set aflame, and so the visitors were to be honoured with days of dazzling amusement. But Henry is in a melancholy mood, and cannot bring himself to pretend to look forward to the long, agonising hours of politicking he will have to attend at his husband’s side. 

There is a silver lining, however. A quite literal one. The Baron, in all of his wisdom and quest to show off his dearest prize, had commissioned an elegant gown for Henry to wear to the ball celebrating the emissaries’ arrival, inspired by the suits of armour from the ancient days of chivalry. And bashful as he might play, Henry is a creature of vanity, excited by the notion of being observed and desired as an ethereal, untouchable beauty: the Baron’s angel of war and mother to his nation.

Tagging: @sparklepocalypse @orchidscript @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @priincebutt, @piratefalls, @onthewaytosomewhere @nocoastposts, @magicandarchery,, @zwiazdziarka, @taste-thewaste and ANYONE because I need more friends.

#my wips #rwrb wips #wip wednesday #henry and alex #firstprince au #my most self indulgent wip yet #seriously who would want this #mpreg fic #rwrb au #red white and royal blue #rwrb fanfic #firstprince #my fic

[leportraitducadavre]

Obito did nothing wrong!

I just became acquainted with a portion of Obito’s fandom that, in their passionate worship of one of the best characters written by Kishimoto, becomes obtuse to hold him accountable for his actions, choosing instead to blame Madara’s manipulation or Zetsu’s, while some others –far more rabid, rest his decisions upon his emotions, for which he had no control of.

I won’t dedicate this as much time as I probably could, as I hold no interest in dedicating this idea more than it deserves, so pardon me for the hastiness of this post.

I am, or rather I always considered myself, also quite enthusiastic when it comes to Obito, for whom I have a soft spot in lieu of everything he endured from a young age, however, detaching him from every action he performed (whilst painting him as a mere puppet and not the mastermind he became from the tender age of thirteen) is a disservice to his character, and the idea that we can’t hold accountable a twenty-nine-year-old man for his decisions it’s something both dangerous and that I personally find annoying.

Madara and Zetsu did, as some point out, lured Obito to specific decisions when modifying/manipulating events so Rin would die while he watched –as Madara wanted to guarantee Obito wouldn’t return to Konoha and would, instead, seek changes within a military system that did nothing but warrant their soldiers' expendability; something Madara had nothing to do with, as the war and mindset for which the shinobi system uphold itself were established prior to his intervention. Shortly after these events, Madara died, leaving Obito to his own devices and a sketched plan that, even stated by Madara himself, was not followed as planned. 

Obito was told to harvest the tailed beasts, he could’ve easily taken Kurama once he released him, yet he consciously chose to summon it upon Rin’s grave and break havoc in the village, for which the Uchiha clan was blamed. He also chose to kill an entire portion of his kin alongside Itachi and showed no remorse, as he considered it was a sacrifice made in lieu of ever-lasting peace (the fact that the clan was doomed regardless as the government already chose its destiny doesn’t modify the fact that he assisted in their destruction and warranted Konoha’s success). He controlled, without having to as he could’ve taken the three tails and sealed it upon the statue, Kirigakure’s Mizukage, deepening the gravity of the Kekkei Genkai cleansing (which basis where already there but it doesn’t diminish his performance) occurring in such village.

Many think that the seal placed on his heart by Madara was controlling Obito’s emotions and actions, however, the seal “Kinkoju no Fuda” that was placed both in Obito and Rin (and was twice removed by Kakashi’s Chidori –which is so incredibly poetic I can’t believe some of you would strip such moment from the relevance it has), was to guarantee that none of them would kill themselves -and while there was control intended upon it (x) Madara was nowhere around it to perform such task. Obito chose to remove that seal willingly (he knew of its existence, which defies the purpose of an ever-controlling seal even when the sealer is dead) by using Kakashi’s technique in order to become the Ten-Tails Jinchuuriki (x), as he never trusted nor liked the older Uchiha and wanted to be in control of Tsukuyomi.

He also was the one who bonded with the Ten-Tails and chose to kill Shukaku and Inoichi, he had absolute control of his actions and emotions at that point as he even threatened Madara to put everything in jeopardy, which makes the whole “Madara controlled him as he wanted” idea nonsensical (x). 

Madara even admits that he created such circumstances in order to draw Obito to darkness (x) and make him seek Tsukuyomi as an outcome –as he saw himself in hell, he’ll look for a reality that he could control. Why would he take such lengths to convince someone of doing his binding if he could control it even beyond the grave?

The seal was placed in order to control Obito once Madara was revived and in case Obito went “rogue”. If that seal had already been working, Obito would never have had the chance to even plan to take it out through Kakashi's Chidori, as it would have been controlled much earlier and the whole “taking out the seal” would’ve been on accident, at most. He defied Madara’s manipulation in order to become the Ten-Tails Jinchuuriki (x), allowed Kakashi to pierce through the seal (so no more “manipulation”), tamed the Ten-Tails and still continued to attack and repeat the same mindset he did prior to the seal’s destruction (x, x).

He even admits that the path he followed is one chosen by him (x) and he has no regrets (x) –how can his “fandom” deny him of the agency he claims for himself?

It’s true that you are what the environment makes of you, something for which Madara and Zetsu were responsible for (as Zetsu also manipulated Madara, so if we place blame upon a subject then we need to keep doing it to infinitum, and such practice holds no one responsible in the end), but once that happens, everything that comes after is of your own choosing. The environment shapes you and offers you choices, and it’s the decision that you make between such choices that, in the end, makes you:

You can't expect someone in a war-torn area to have the luxury of choices awarded to the those that live in times of peace; and you can't expect the poor, who struggle just to survive, to have as many choices as the middle-class exercises. In this regard, there's little difference between the fate you were born into and the destiny you make; as the less luck you have, the closer your destiny is to your fate; the more luck you have, the wider the gap. Then all of them become less about moral dilemmas and more about survival dilemmas: violence becomes right if your survival is at stake. And to drag the context back to the military, it becomes about the ethics of the state-created solider itself: what is a solider; why is it righteous; why is an anti-solider actor (an irony that provokes) against an illustrious solider villainous? State, too, is a choice maker, but the position of power awards it a greater liberty of what choices and how many choices people can have: the Uchiha didn't have any; Hyuga main branch had plenty; Leaf's sympathizers also had innumerable. You can't expect the receiver of few choices not to pick the ones that grant them clemency, freedom, and more future options in the face of oppression.

If the idea that “emotions are so strong they have no choice but to satisfy it until completion” it’s enough of an explanation (and I particularly detest such ideology as it relies mostly on Tobirama’s idea of Uchiha, which is absolutely preposterous), then it can easily be used as a defense for anyone that committed any sort of crime in order not to be held accountable: Murder might cause the killer excitement, so they acted upon that necessity to placate their emotion, if in anger, one can very easily assault someone and be understood, as they’re simply controlled by their imperative need to release such feeling.

In the overall context of the narrative, Obito was fuelled by feelings of love, anger, and frustration like most other characters, as Naruto’s constant pursuit of Sasuke was also fuelled by emotions –the difference between both of them is that Obito looked for a solution that pushed him to move outside the shinobi bureaucratic system, which threatened Konoha’s stability, while Naruto’s quest was made inside such political and military structure, which ensured the village’s survival.

Regardless of this apparent idea that emotions are what made him act like that, thus, he has no control over his performance (and I’m tempted to say I prefer Obito’s detractors or, simply put, haters, rather than this sort of fandom), Obito is to be held accountable by characters affected by him, such as Naruto (who lost both his parents when he attacked), Sasuke (who was another victim of Obito’s manipulation and the UCM), Ino and Shikamaru, and basically anyone that directly or indirectly suffered from his actions. Just because Naruto “brought him to the light” and forgave him, that doesn’t make him any less guilty or gives any other of his victims equal closure.

“But Obito always cared what others thought of him, which is why Naruto was able to influence him.”

Not exactly, kid Obito yes, definitely, as his wish was to become Hokage he admired and wanted to be admired also, paying special attention to others and how Rin specifically, saw him. Adult Obito? He cared for no one specifically nor anything, he killed his kin, helped the cleansing of hundreds of people on another land, and killed thoushands during the war, amongst many other things he did in lieu of his plan, why would he care what anyone thinks of him at this point? It’s specifically shown during Obito’s final moments as an antagonist, as his adult self is confronted with his younger one, who claims the one Rin cared for was not the “current him” but “Uchiha Obito” (x, x)

There’s a gap between Obito from the past and this one, who detached himself from his emotions –at this moment, when Naruto (a reflection of his former self, which is why he’s able to relate and get influenced by him) takes his hand, he finally reconnects with such part of himself (thus, also his feelings), and the allied forces are able to extract the tailed beasts' chakra from him. In short, it was a revival of past Obito, not the unearth of feelings hidden deep beneath him, as it took Naruto connecting to him through their chakra and “bringing back” kid Obito by representing him (as when Naruto himself spoke himself with the adult version, Obito still choose his path; x, x). Even if their claim is to be believed as truthful, it changes absolutely nothing around his mindset or actions, having such “positive” feelings “hidden within him” doesn’t make him any less guilty nor unredeemable.

It’s perfectly fine to want to explore Obito’s “positive traits” rather than his dark ones, as such elements were beautifully done by the canon work itself through Kishimoto’s writing; yet to claim such things are more “canonically relevant” aspects of him than the rest when Kishimoto made him a paragon of a morally good individual that the environment transformed onto one of its darkest consequences (and well prior to Madara’s intervention as he claimed he would crush the “so called shinobi” shall he need to), it’s fallacious. I found most of these claims made by shippers that refuse to see their “romantical” dynamic of choosing under any other light but the one that masks Konoha’s actual contributions to Obito’s “creation” and puts the weight of his shift under his “Uchiha nature” (COH) or Madara’s manipulation. Therefore given their pro-WoF character the status of “hero” that helps Obito overcome his dark path with the power of their love; basically skipping upon everything Obito actually represents inside the narrative that took such long time to construct him.

However, for those that want to: if such “positive” exploration is to be done, then it needs to be performed through the study of kid obito onwards, giving him either other circumstances or changing specific decisions upon Rin’s death –everything after it’s, in my personal opinion, a disservice to his wonderfully constructed character. 

#obito #obito uchiha #uchiha obito #kishimoto #naruto #naruto meta #uchiha clan #pro uchiha clan #anti konoha #anti shinobi system #anti naruto fandom #anti obito fandom #surprisingly

[alaynestone]

You don’t have to post this if you don’t want. I just wanted to say I was one of those curious, openminded fans willing to entertain the idea of samjohn (mostly bc deanjohn feels so congruent with canon + there’s so much interesting meta on it that managed to convert me + incestuous households usually affect all of it’s members) but just like you said I was immediately put off by the blatant character assassination that pervades everything from fics to edits to the propaganda in that incest poll lmao.

I guess that’s the major difference - deanjohn requires little to no stretching of imagination bc it already fits seamlessly into canon, whereas samjohn almost demands ooc shenanigans to work.

I also just found the way fans talk about it nauseating for some reason, though that’s likely more of a reflection of my own personal triggers. I love digesting incest narratives, but the fetishistic angle of that blog really makes my stomach turn. That’s not a moral judgement on anyone else’s enjoyment btw! Just another reason why this ship didn’t resonate with me.

thank you for sending me this. it's clear that a lot of people feel the same way.

when i first joined fandom, the few j/s fics were straightforward evil!john non-con. not my thing, but i understood why it was written that way. then came the inexplicably popular fandom creation of "sexkitten sam" which continues to pollute the entire sam/dean fandom and of course extends to other ships too. i'm not even gonna get started on why that's "problematic" because that's not the point, it's not remotely in character. even as an exaggeration sam is not the kind of person to attempt to find agency in outward submission or objectification. he's very vocally not compromising his identity to please his family and especially john. dean is more like that so when you have sam acting like a fetishized pinterest aesthetic moodboard version of dean and dean acting like an old man from wattpad i'm understandably left squinting at the screen. then it's genderswapping sam and using that as a personality eraser because women are automatically submissive and naive and trad?

who is being converted by all this when it has nothing to do with sam, john or even dean? where is dean in all this actually? a core aspect of their family is that dean is closest to both sam and john who rarely had much opportunity to bond without him. there was a distance between sam and john throughout sam's childhood and adolescence. most of his parental needs were being fulfilled by dean even if that was never enough. their situation with their father wasn't the average one where they were simply 2 kids fighting for his attention.

for the most part j/s appears to be about "envying" dean's position in the family. it's about diminishing or straight up erasing dean and more notably about feminizing sam. either directly or otherwise. people generally seem to have big issues with the fact that sam is a man and confidently so. most of the annoying tropes in wincest fandom have this at their core. and of course in order for sam to be "the woman" dean needs to genuinely and authentically be the most stereotypical of cishet men. it's very transparent because right from the start the show poked holes at dean's performance of masculinity. it was very much the point. dean's gender issues could fill a book yet any alternative interpretation of sam and gender seeks to cast dean as the oppressive bigot who would never get it? stopping here before i get off topic but to make myself clear: in theory i respect headcanons i don't understand, but not when they spitefully exist to deny dean's depth in every possible way.

to return to my point about dean's pseudo spouse and mother position being enviable, it misses the point of how harmful john's parenting was to both of them. it's no coincidence that they both view themselves as the unfavorite. dean believes he's taken for granted, only valued for what he can give, how well he can perform his roles, how successfully he could play at being an adult even before he hit double digits. dean can't just exist and be himself while sam is uncompromisingly himself. because of that he believes john doesn't like him, never liked him, rejected him, didn't have time for him, didn't trust him enough with the family secrets, even when those secrets directly concerned him. as of season 1 he still has contempt for dean for what he views as unquestioning obedience to john and letting himself be molded by john. dean had to fight for every scrap of approval and affection and sam refused to do the same if it meant sacrificing his own needs and identity. not everyone reacts to abuse the same way and both characters are very much shaped by their different reactions to their environment. and any j/s shipper argument that is built on the idea that sam was the one john loved more is not only gleefully mocking dean's parentification but ignoring that sam being comparatively sheltered and treated like a son is yet another reason why john would not cross such a line with him. dean "gets it", dean lost mary too, dean is his partner and his confidant, dean can handle adult responsibilities, dean is loving and supportive, dean isn't making him confront his parenting failures, dean can't say no to him. like you said, it doesn't at all stretch the imagination to make j/d fit into dean's backstory. "you are not a child" - "i never was".

as i have been saying, any remotely ic exploration of j/s would have to follow both j/d and s/d. i can't believe in a universe where j/s is the only incest that happens in the family. i think a theoretical plausible j/s fic would have to not only accept but embrace its adjacency to the 2 ships that are compliant with the canon. but whether sam knows for a fact about j/d or not, there's no way he isn't severely impacted by the proximity to that relationship in a number of ways and that's a very compelling dynamic in its own right.

tldr i agree with you anon. people can read and write whatever they want but there's a big difference between incest subtext that is believable and just saying things in a way that's meant to provoke.

#but i think most baffling of all is the trend of j/s being paired up with pro john rhetoric #''john loved sam too that's his boy!! so obviously he was molesting him too'' #whaat #incest////