#I wrote fanfic all the time and nothing else for a year

[encasedinobsidian]

smalltown shit

Charlie Swan x fem!reader [explicit, 18+]

Summary: "You’re a little young, aren’t you?” he asks, and it isn’t with a scowl but it’s something of the sort, a narrowing of his eyes and a dryness to his voice. It’s no better than a scowl anyway, his skepticism like a concrete wall between the two of you under the dim lights of the bar where Charlie is stuck with you, just where you want him. Warnings: 3.4k ish words. Porn with minimal plot, implied age gap, unprotected PIV, oral sex, truck sex, alcohol, pining, no use of y/n. This was written a bit fast lmfao A/N: This is my first ever Charlie Swan fic! It started as a joke (just like they all do), but I thought it might be fun to do something different. In case you enjoy my writing and want to see more, here are links to my ao3 and to a heavily Charlie inspired Narcos fanfic I wrote recently :)

Wearing a man down takes a while. It takes patience, a steady effort, bit by bit, like the thick clouds covering the sky above the evergreens only letting down a single drop of rain at a time. Charlie doesn’t notice them at first — the little droplets of water he’s too used to from living in Forks, rain that might let up for a little while in July but comes back every time, like something he can count on if nothing else in this world.

They land on his jacket, on his badges, on his nametag — C. Swan in yellow lettering — on the black strands of his hair. One by one, they seep in, quickly forgotten, followed by more until the windshield wipers on his police cruiser push away the onslaught of rain that’s inevitable at this time of year, on a foggy, hazy October evening when the headlights of the car light the way to his house, and he’s already drenched when he makes his way inside and changes out of his uniform.

They land on the thick flannel of a jacket that always hangs in his hallway, the house empty when he locks the door behind him and runs to his truck. The rain gets on his jeans, on his hair, it gets on the Mariners sweater underneath his jacket. The lettering across his chest reveals itself when he takes off the flannel and hangs it over the back of the chair he sits down on, nodding towards his friend at the bar. 

His eyes scan the room from corner to corner, lazily combing through the other patrons of the bar until he spots you and you lock eyes. And you’re frozen, your friends’ voices becoming a buzzing murmur next to you as you try not to move, try not to startle the man whose attention you’ve pathetically yearned for, for so long, longer than you’ll ever admit to the girls at your table, or even to yourself. 

You have it now, for a moment that stretches like a ring in your ear, long enough for your lips to part, for you to swallow tightly around the fizzy, sweet sip in your mouth, to lick the drop that slides down your bottom lip. His gaze is as intense as it is dark, piercing through the crowd of people in a small bar in a place that nobody can place on a map, where you think it must just be a hallucination or that he’s looking at someone behind you. 

But behind you is a window, and behind the window is nothing but a cover of trees, and his eyes flash open for a split second before they narrow, then trace down, only a quick glance at your torso before they slide back up. He clears his throat, swallows, and averts his eyes, attention caught by the beer set down in front of him. He nods and says something, then takes a sip, a little hastily, inhaling deeply before he leans back. 

And then, there is nothing to do but to look and to wait. 

Nothing to do but wait until he begins to feel those drops of attention, of glances and gazes from your end of the room. He’s not chief Swan under this roof — he’s Charlie, he’s a man in his early forties, he’s a single dad whose daughter came to stay with him recently. He’s a man with dark eyes and dark eyebrows, with a thick mustache and a gorgeous smile you know he hides. Maybe it’s rude to spy, but you’ve had no other real option — a chronically good girl from the start, never acknowledged by any of the Forks PD officers, scurrying away from house parties at the first flash of a blue light, out through the yard and home to your parents’ house. 

You haven’t gotten any attention from him since returning to your hometown either, coming back after nearly a decade away, still a goody two shoes through and through who doesn’t leave the house after darkness settles in the streets. So all you have is random encounters, one-sided as they’ve all been, random sightings in bars and across the street, at a restaurant next to his daughter. And he’s always quiet, always observing his environment without interaction. 

Until now, when it all seems to shatter in an instant, and his usual, calm demeanor is replaced by something flustered, maybe even nervous if you dare to think so. He takes to laughter a little too quickly, he smiles too much, nods along too enthusiastically when Billy speaks to him on his left.  

You can’t hear anything, regretfully — the rain drums on the window beside you and slides down to obscure the view of the forest that the bar is situated on the outskirts of. Your friends talk about something, something about nothing about guys or work or God knows what it is this time. Your elbows rest on the table and the top of a plastic straw sits between your lips as you slowly sip your drink. 

Sometimes he looks over, following the same routine every time as the hour passes; a lull in the conversation, a polite smile, his eyes sliding down to the table, a glance up, and then his head turning slightly, eyes shifting in your direction until they meet yours and he quickly dodges the attention, straightening his back and clearing his throat. 

Once, and only once, he lingers. 

He lets his eyes narrow, focusing on you while you pretend to look away. And he shouldn’t fall for little tricks like this, silly little girl tricks meant to dupe men much younger and dumber than himself, but he’s only a man, isn’t he? 

So it shouldn’t be surprising that, when his friends excuse themselves to go outside for a smoke or to the bar for another round, he leans back and remains seated. And there is no other time but the present, so without excusing yourself, you suck down the rest of your drink, let the bottom of the glass slam against the tabletop, stand up and walk over to him. 

You take a seat across from him and hold out your hand, your name the first thing out of your mouth and a firm handshake given when he reaches out. 

“Charlie,” he says, and the nervousness you saw earlier must be nothing but an illusion. 

“Charlie,” you repeat, a little softer and a little sweeter, “How’s your night going?” 

“It’s alright.” God, he’s dry. If you were drunk, you’d make a joke about how wet it makes you. “And yours?” he asks. 

“Pretty good. Better now.” 

He breathes a laugh and looks around, presumably trying to figure out where you came from, but there are no answers in a bar full of people looking the other way. 

“Haven’t seen you around,” he says, “Are you from out of town?” 

“Nope, from here. I was gone for, say, eight years getting my degrees, though.”

“Oh?” he raises an eyebrow, and you indulge him for a little while, answering questions you can’t tell if he’s asking as a father or a man, questions that come from the same place anyway, things he’d ask a young lady as you bet he’d say, to make small talk when he’s forced to. 

It’s not very interesting, but you can’t scare him off either, can’t plop down into his lap and touch his hair and beg for it. It’s a slow process with a man like him, one that takes patience, and little droplets of attention, a splash of flirting here and there, every question back and forth, about school and work and yada yada smalltown shit. It’s like the raindrops seeping into the fabric of his jacket, unnoticeable until it reaches his skin and he’s soaked, a humidity that clings to him, and fog he disappears in. 

You glance up at the door and see his friends at a different table. 

Time ticks by, and Charlie is dry as ever, regardless of how pathetically you try to squeeze your chest together and lean onto the table between you, regardless of how you try to nudge him with the glossy, heeled boot on your foot. He doesn’t budge, he might offer you a smile in response to a fun story but it’s not getting you anywhere. 

It’s time to be aggressive, and when there’s a lull between you, when the bar is still buzzing with chit chat and the lights are still low, you pounce. 

“Are you seeing anyone these days?” you ask. 

The man looks like he wants to laugh. “Uh—” he clears his throat, “No, not right now.”

“Interesting,” you purr, tilting your head to the side and flashing him a smile. “Best news I’ve gotten all day.”

He huffs. “You’re a little young, aren’t you?” he asks, and it isn’t with a scowl but it’s something of the sort, a narrowing of his eyes and a dryness to his voice. It’s no better than a scowl anyway, his skepticism like a concrete wall between the two of you under the dim lights of the bar, and Charlie is stuck with you, just where you want him. 

So you shrug one shoulder and smile, pushing your lips together before they separate, and his eyes are on them so fast that it’s not even funny. “I wouldn’t say so,” you say as you shake your head. 

He almost seems humored, huffing a laugh as he looks around the room and shakes his head. “What about your friends?” he asks, “They don’t miss ya?” 

“Probably not,” you whisper, scrunching your nose at him. “Does it look like they do?” 

You nod towards the table by the windows and his eyes follow, a quick look over at a group of girls all leaning in towards each other in conversation. 

“Guess not,” he says, in the same flat tone of voice. 

He clears his throat again, and his rejection is imminent, you think, so you try again, one last time. 

“You’re very handsome, Charlie.” Your chin rests on your knuckles, head tilted, eyes sweeping over his face like you have nothing to lose, and he might be able to hide his thoughts, but he can’t hide his fluster. 

“Thanks,” he mutters and averts his eyes, looking at nothing in the corner of the room. “You’re not, uh—” He looks up and spins his mostly-empty glass around, “Not too bad yourself.” 

It’s a little bit like pulling teeth. 

“Thank you,” you say, then chew on the inside of your cheek while you try to think up a way to get him out of where he’s stuck, unwilling to make a move. “Could you— could you give me a ride home?”

He rolls his eyes and nods, downing the last of his beer, and he absolutely thinks he has you figured out. His expression seems to default to a scowl, and it’s only then that you realize how cheerful he looked a moment ago. “Alright,” he groans, then mutters something under his breath while he grabs his jacket. “Let’s go.” 

“Thank you, officer,” you beam, jumping up and following him through the bar, heading towards the exit. 

He opens the door and lifts up his jacket to hold it above you, shielding you from the onslaught of rain pouring down when you step away from the awning outside the bar. Golden light shines out from the stained glass window in the door, bathing him in it as he waits for you to take the step you don’t take. 

“I don’t actually need a ride home,” you admit shyly, looking up at him, “I’m just messing with you.” 

He blinks a few times and his eyes shift around as he breathes. “Alright, why did you get me out here then?” 

A laugh breaks out of you as you ask, “It’s not obvious?”

His brows pull together and he begins to shake his head when you roll your eyes, grab the back of his neck and pull him into a kiss. And it could be a mistake, but it doesn’t quite feel like it when his hand finds your hip and he pulls you a little closer, reciprocating the kiss and carefully giving you his tongue. 

He pulls back quickly, looking side to side, “Let’s—” 

“Your truck?”

“Sure, yeah,” he mumbles, and you hurry towards the only red vehicle at the far end of the lot, with Charlie on your heels and the rain beating down on his jacket above you, on his hair and his shoulders, soaking him by the time he steps in front of you and pulls open the passenger door. 

He barely gets inside before you grab the collar of his sweater and pull him in, spit smearing and groans swallowed as you climb onto his lap. He’s hard already, you can feel the thick of his zipper pushing up between your legs, before he even gets his hands on the bunched up fabric of your skirt piled onto your hips, kissing you again. And he lets his palms slide down over it, onto your ass, giving you a tentative squeeze with firm hands, while he grows thicker, harder, little grunts slipping out of him when you roll your hips over that firm bulk, every pass over it smearing wetness into your panties.

Until it’s too much, and the truck is too hot, too humid. You throw off your jacket, toss it into the passenger seat and pull away from him, climbing back into your seat, only on your knees, and begin to work at his belt.

You feel a hand at your shoulder, pushing gently. “You don’t—” he inhales deeply as he shakes his head, “You don’t have to do—” 

Your hands pause at the top of his pants and you peer up at him with a pout. “But I want to,” you say, “Can I?” 

His head hits the back of his seat with a sigh, his eyes closing as he breathes in again and nods. “Yeah,” he whispers, “Yeah.”

He helps you with his belt then, undoing it with unsteady hands and lifting his hips when you pull the bunch of his pants and boxers down to reveal his cock, to see the thick length of it, the hair at his base and below his navel. You take it into your hand before he has the chance to say much of anything, and you feel his hand at the back of your neck, brushing your hair away — nothing obstructing his view as you drag the flat of your tongue up his shaft, all the way up to the tip where a bead of precome spills onto your lips. 

He groans then, pushes down the top of his pants a little more and lets you take him into your mouth, his cockhead sliding into the back of your throat while he curses under his breath. Your spit smears over his crown and runs down his length, into the curve of your hand to let you stroke him, and every lick, every pull of your lips, makes him sigh and groan, makes more of his precome seep out onto your tongue for you to taste it, for you to swallow and let the soft wet of your mouth massage him. 

And you think it must have been a while, because you suck and stroke his cock slowly for only a little while before he begins to mumble. “I’m getting, uh— I’m pretty close,” he says, and you pull off of him, still slipping your hand up and down his wet cock while you raise up and kiss the side of his neck. 

He groans then too, grimacing a little. 

“You want to fuck me, Charlie?” you purr, “You want me to ride you?”

He huffs a laugh like he’s surprised. “I don’t have any condoms on me,” he says, his voice flat and dry as it ever was, but a little deeper, raspier, rougher-edged. 

“You could just pull out?” you suggest, licking a stripe up his neck just to feel the goosebumps chasing your tongue on his skin, “I could just swallow it instead.” 

“Jesus,” he breathes, “Yeah... Alright.” 

You pull off one boot and begin to yank at the waistband of your leggings, but he pats his thigh and pulls you back onto his lap. 

“Let me,” he says, pushing his thumb under the soft fabric and the strap of your panties, pulling them down over your leg, only bothering with one and not the other, while the rain hammers down on the windshield and it’s silent for a moment, his hands steady and his gaze focused. His cock is still hard too, heavy as it lays against his stomach. 

You stabilize above him, hovering over where he grabs the root of himself and glides his tip through your folds until he reaches your opening. 

“Down,” he says, and you do as he tells you to, sinking onto his cock with a deep breath, pressing your lips to his so that your sigh is shared, letting the whole thing split you open, taking more and more until your hips are flush with his and he grunts, his cock pulses, you lean back and carefully lift up, then roll back down, slowly riding him, half kissing, half panting into him. 

It’s all slow, deep, squeezing around him, letting him slide out until only his tip stays within, and then taking him back inside and he pushes into your cervix, sure to leave you sore tomorrow. Everything is wet between you, smeared warm and sticky over your inner thighs, his groin, dripping down his shaft and over his balls, soaking into the top of his jeans. 

His cock pushes into the most sensitive, soft part inside of you, over and over, rubbing over it while you reach down to massage your clit, still swapping spit like you’re teenagers and he doesn’t have a decade on you. He twitches inside when you moan for him, groans low and rough when you begin to come and you ride him a little harder, faster.

He grabs your ass, lifts you just enough to get leverage, and starts to fuck you, pushing his face into the side of your neck and grunting into your skin, hot and sweaty at the roots of his hair when your run your fingers through it, trying to find something to hold onto, to stabilize when he hits just the right spot and you feel seconds away from unraveling. And the truck must be shaking, the sounds of your moans are only stifled by the sound of the rain tapping on the roof and sliding down the windows, the dark surroundings of a wet parking lot, the two of you tucked away at the very back while you feel every inch of him filling you, rubbing you, making you come once more. 

Until he grunts a little louder, until he pants, “Fuck, I’m about to come—”

You let your orgasm wane with a few slow rolls, savoring them, so few drags of his length inside that you can count them on one hand, and you lift off, climb over on shaking legs, sticking your bare ass up towards the foggy window and slip his wet cock into your mouth. A firm hand around his base, your tongue licking over his head, you suck him until his breath stutters and he releases hot spurts of come that you swallow while you stroke and tease and take every drop he gives you. 

He’s quiet after that, a careful hand on your back while you lick up the last smears of his orgasm and lay your cheek on his thigh, looking up at him. 

“Did you like it?” you ask. 

“Of course I liked it. Did you like it?” 

“Yeah.” 

He looks out of the window, his cock softening against him while he runs a hand over your hair. “Let me take you to dinner or something,” he says after a minute, “Make me feel less… I don’t know, sleazy?” 

You bite your lip and smile. "Will you drive me home after?”

He rolls his eyes and takes in a deep breath, catching your gaze with a smirk on his lips and something a little softer in his expression. "I was gonna do that anyway."

[dazais-guardian-angel]

Dazai Osamu and the Dark Era: the visual novel (a fan project)

On a whim, I've decided to finally just publicly release this project that I've had laying around for two years at this point, for Dazai's birthday today. It was originally made for my very dear friend @letmereachforthestars , when I first introduced her to the series and wanted her to be able to read my favorite BSD light novel in an easier-to-read format. You need a computer to be able to play. The details and links are under the cut:

If you've never played a visual novel before, it's basically a novel in the form of a video game. Text will appear line by line, one a time on the screen, and it will be accompanied by relevant background visuals, music, and sound effects, to make the reading experience more immersive, and more stimulating than just reading from a book. Some visual novels have actual gameplay elements to them, and some are just books and nothing else (oftentimes dating sims/choose-your-own-adventure novels), the latter of which this is. If you've played the mobile game Bungou Tales/Mayoi, the story sections of that game are basically mini visual novels.

This game was made with screenshots and music from the anime, sound effects from the anime and Bungou Tales and free sound effect online sources, as well as graphics and fonts and other assets from Bungou Tales and other official BSD art (particularly the official anime soundtrack cd covers). The script is taken entirely from the official Yen Press translation of Dark Era, with the exception of about two or three iconic lines that I used different translations of because I felt like they had more impact. Additionally, at the very, very end, I added on the original ending scene from the Dark Era stage play and wrote a few fanfic lines of my own to accompany it you can tell because they are very cringe and don't match Asagiri's writing style.

Before playing the game, there are a few very important things to keep in mind; PLEASE read all this:

I am not a professional in the slightest. I took some coding classes in high school, and have some photoshop skills (when it comes to the design elements of the menus), but for the most part the former wasn't much help here; this was my very first time ever using the Renpy engine, and I made this entirely from scratch. I used my knowledge of playing other visual novels to emulate the kinds of effects and timing that is typical for these games, and I think it turned out pretty well all things considered, but it's still very amateur. This is most evident in the sound effects. The sound effects have no volume consistency between them, and some of them, particularly the gun/battle sfx, can come on very suddenly and be loud. I highly, HIGHLY encourage going into the settings and turning down the sound effects volume (the music should be fine), so that you're not startled by certain sounds when they happen, and for a lengthy time. I wouldn't blame you if you decide to turn the sfx off entirely if's too distracting, honestly 🫠 I am no expert in sound files equalizing and making sound files loop seamlessly, so this was by far the most tedious and frustrating part of the process of making this for me. Hopefully it doesn't ruin the game or break immersion too much if you decide to leave them on (I hope you do, for the rain and clock sounds at least, but again I wouldn't blame you if you can't).

Dark Era is the most faithful light novel adaptation in the anime, but there are still a handful of scenes, mostly fight scenes, that got shaved down significantly. Because of this, there are numerous occasions where I had to simply linger on a black screen or the same screenshot for a long period of time, while tons and tons of narration happens, because there's simply nothing I can show to accompany said narration. This is not ideal, but unfortunately I didn't have much else of a choice in those instances, so I hope it's not too distracting. There are also a few instances of straight-up inconsistencies between the novel and the anime (ex. the fight between Oda and Akutagawa happens in the woods in the novel, but in the anime it's still right outside the art museum), so sometimes what you're reading won't quite match the screenshots I use. Fortunately it's never anything major, but it does happen.

There will sometimes be long, unchanging black screens. Don't worry, the game isn't broken; just wait long enough and it will continue.

Sometimes, a character will get cut off when speaking, and when that happens the dialogue will auto-force to the next line. If you didn't get a chance to see what was said before, check the text backlog/history (in the menu or the H key).

Last but not least, this game was made with the default text speed in mind. Meaning, that when it comes to certain specific scenes, the mood/tone of them, made up of the timing of music, transitions, sound effects, etc, all of it was arranged around the speed at which things progress when using the default text speed. I completely understand if you can't, but if at all possible, please try not to change the text to go too much faster or slower, especially faster, because certain scenes will lose a lot of impact otherwise. If you already know Dark Era, you probably have an idea of some of the scenes I'm referring to. At the very least, during the more high-stakes/intense scenes, please try to play through those all at once without stopping, for the greatest impact based on how I designed the game, and only pause/quit during the slower scenes. There are specific moments that I'm really proud of how they came out, and I'd like for them to have the maximum impact that I intended :') (also note that if you make the text appear instantly, the cut-off dialogue mentioned above simply will not appear at all, and you won't even know to look back for them, so please refrain from making the text instant at the very least)

Ignore the cringe sappy final message

...I think that's everything. With all that out of the way, here are the links for both PC and Mac:

Download the PC version

Download the Mac version

This was a passion project for me for a good many months back in 2022. It started out just as a gift for my friend, but in the end I was really satisfied with how it turned out, despite how tedious and frustrating it was to work on. I've been hesitant to share it with the fandom for all this time because I kinda doubt anyone would really be interested in something like this especially since it's not stormbringer or beast, but someone on discord who tried it told me that I should share it, so here it is. I'm sharing it not just because I'm proud of my work, but because Dark Era is a truly amazing light novel — underrated, in my opinion (yes, I said what I said) — and far better than the anime adaptation, as good as that is, and I want more people to read it. If reading the books is hard for you and you've never read Dark Era before, if I can help just one more person to read it with this, I'll be happy, and consider my job done. 💖

I so desperately want to make more of these visual novels for the other light novels, but sadly, some of them simply aren't possible thanks to how many scenes are missing from the anime, like with Entrance Exam in particular. I've also been waiting with vain, thin hope that Bungou Tales will eventually reach seasons 3 and 4, so I can use their Fifteen and Untold Origins title screens like I did here, if those ever exist. However, I'm also held back thinking about certain scenes that would require some redrawing/drawing additional details to match what's written in the novels. If anyone has any ideas on things I could do to possibly get around these issues, or just thoughts in general about how the other light novels might be tackled, or if you're an artist who can recreate the anime's style and takes commissions/knows someone who does, I'd absolutely love to hear from you! As well as any advice/help on how I can smooth out/improve this project here!

Anyway, sorry for the long wall of text. Thank you for reading all this, if you did, and if you do try the game, please let me know your thoughts; I crave any and all feedback. 💙✨

[algae-tm]

KILL BILL P.10

Charles Leclerc x ex! Reader, Oscar Piastri x Reader

Author’s note : So I don’t write narrative or rather I don’t write fanfic narrative, but there’s so much I want to say in this fic that feels clunky putting in like a text message. So here y’all go. I’m not 100% satisfied with the Oscar bit but also I started writing at 2 and it’s now 3:30 am so I’m gunna go to bed and then probably write some more in the coming days, do not worry we will get more in depth Oscar lore! - Algae 🌱

••••

Despite almost being 20 years old, Charles had been just a boy when you met him. A boy with a chip on his shoulder and the world at his feet—a dangerous combination that should’ve sent you running but had the opposite effect. When you first saw him, you could practically see the gears turning in his head. He paid you no attention, probably didn’t even realise you were loitering on the outskirts of his garage, watching the mechanics run around in a dazed frenzy, but you were enthralled by him.

He stood steadfastly in front of his car, with a pinched look adorning his face, forehead creased, and eyebrows drawn together. Anyone else would’ve written him off as confused, overwhelmed, not fit to have signed a contract saying he’d be battling in F1 alongside the greats—they still wrote him off as an emotionally unstable boy. But even before you had ever spoken to him, you understood what hardly anyone else did. You understood that, while Charles Leclerc was still a boy, he was more calculating than confused. And in the years of knowing him that followed, as you’d watched him progress to f1, as you’d watched him win races, that statement would prove to be true time and time again.

As the memories of your early encounters with Charles flooded your mind, you couldn't help but feel a pang of nostalgia. He had been so young, so full of ambition and determination. You had admired him from afar, drawn to his intensity and drive to succeed. Despite the chaos of the racing world swirling around him, he had always seemed to have a clear vision of where he was going.

But somewhere along the way, things had changed. The pressures of fame and success had taken their toll, turning him into a shell of the boy you’d met. The boy with the fire in his eyes had become a man weighed down by expectations and responsibilities. And in the process, he had pushed you away, convinced that you didn't understand the sacrifices he had to make. Convinced that he held you captive in a life you weren’t ready to lead.

Charles may have told you some bullshit excuse about children and the future but you had always been able to see through him and despite this separation nothing had changed. From the arguments in the months leading to the breakup you knew he was putting an unnecessary amount of pressure on himself, putting all his hopes and aspirations on Ferrari, despite how often that had proven to be a mistake. Yes, the stupid misunderstanding of your future together was a large part of the reason you broke up, but you had a incessant feeling that Charles had felt trapped in his life, in his racing, and had attributed that trapped feeling to you.

You did not want to forgive him. You were going to forgive him. You didn’t want to forgive him. You were going to forgive him. Those were the thoughts that plagued your mind on the 8 hour flight from JFK to Nice, and as you drove down to Monaco you couldn’t help but think about your parents. You had grown up with parents who had no business staying together, yet just couldn’t leave each others orbits. And no matter how much you cursed this dynamic as a child, you were worried that it was something you were bound to repeat. As you pulled in to the hotel you had decided to meet Charles at - nice neutral territory, you realised even if you didn’t get back together, you were going to forgive him. And it would be the easiest thing you had ever done. You checked in. Getting the key from the concierge as they told you someone had already checked in earlier.

You spotted him immediately. He was sitting at a small table near the window, a glass of something amber in front of him. He looked up as you approached, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. There he was, the man you had loved for so long, the man who had been your everything. He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. You sat down opposite him, your heart in your throat.

"Charlie," you said, your voice barely more than a whisper.

"Hi," he replied, his eyes searching yours. "You look good."

"Thanks. You too."

There was an awkward silence, both of you unsure of how to begin. Finally, Charles took a deep breath. "I'm glad you came," he said. "I wasn't sure if you would."

"I needed to see you," you admitted. "I needed to know if... if there's still something here."

He nodded, his expression unreadable. "I've missed you," he said quietly. "It's been strange, not having you around."

"I've missed you too," you replied, your voice cracking slightly. "But I don't know if missing each other is enough."

Charles looked down at his glass, his fingers tracing the rim. "I know," he said softly. "I've been thinking a lot about us, about what went wrong. And I realise now that I wasn't fair to you. I was so focused on my career, that I had built a different reality in my head, and that I didn't see what it was doing to us. I'm sorry."

His words hit you hard, the sincerity in his voice bringing tears to your eyes. "I'm sorry too," you said. He opened his mouth to speak, probably to say you had nothing to be sorry for, but you continued, eyes downcast "I wasn't always patient, I didn’t like that I couldn’t get a read on you. I just - I wanted us to be happy.”

"I wanted that too," he said, finally looking up at you. "And maybe we can be, but we need to be honest with each other. We need to figure out what we really want."

You nodded, wiping away a tear. "I don't know if I can go back to how things were," you said. "It hurt too much."

Charles reached across the table, taking your hand in his. "I don't want to go back," he said. "I want to move forward. I want us to be better."

His touch was familiar, comforting, but it also reminded you of the pain you had endured. You pulled your hand away gently, needing to keep some distance. "I'm seeing someone else," you said, the words hanging heavy in the air.

Charles looked taken aback, his eyes widening slightly. "Oscar," he said, more a statement than a question, “so you’re actually seeing him?”

You nodded, feeling a pang of guilt. "It’s still new, fuck it’s really new, and it wasn't planned," you said quickly. "It just... happened. After we broke up, he was there for me. He wanted me, and it started off as this petty way to make you jealous but I feel something more for him."

Charles was silent for a moment, processing this new information. "Do you love him?" he asked finally, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"No," you admitted. You could practically feel a weight lift of Charles’ shoulders "I do care about him. A lot."

He nodded slowly, his expression pained. "I understand," he said. "I can't expect you to wait for me, to put your life on hold. But I still love you, and I think we could have a future together, if we both want it."

He held out his hand to you, and maybe you were going to regret it in the future but you took it.

INSTA

carlossainz55 posted on his story

(Image 1 caption : summer with friends. Image 2 caption : reunited )

seen by yourusername, oscarpiastri, and 2,344,234 others

User31 : brother what?

Used42 : oh my god please tell me they’re back together!!!

charles_leclerc : y/n isn’t going to like this. delete it now for your health

lewishamilton : so that’s where she is… tell her to message me

y/bff/n : oh brother this guy STINKS.

user32 : bop

yourusername : delete this now

carlossainz55 has deleted his story

••••

You hadn’t been ignoring Oscar, okay maybe you had just slightly. But spending the short break with Charles was, okay you don’t know what it was. You were confused. Really fucking confused. Being around Charles had encompassed you, like it always did. The week and a bit you had spent with him was a whirlwind of emotions. You spent time with Charles, talking about everything and nothing, rediscovering the things that had brought you together in the first place. You laughed together, reminisced about the good times, and shared your hopes and fears. It was comforting, but it also made you realise how much you had both changed.

But Oscar Piastri was something new. Not just new something novel, he brought fresh perspectives, and the way he made you feel was so different from how you felt with Charles, and something in you said you had to give him a chance. So you guess you had been ignoring him, but only due to the fear that he’d want answers you wouldn’t be able to give. The weeks after your ‘not date’ had been filled with constant phone calls, and texts, and despite the constant feeling to remind him that you weren’t dating you both knew that wasn’t true, you both knew there was something there. So you couldn’t blame Oscar for his eagerness, in fact you relished in it, you knew Oscar was playing it up to make you laugh, make you open up more and it was working. He deserved much better than you.

••••

TAGLIST

@forevercaffeinated-lee

@callsignwidow

@a-beaverhausen

@emryb

@c0deincrazy

@dontworryaboutitokie

@c-losur3

@chuxk-lerclerk

@silkenthusiasts

@ietss

@sp1rl

[writingficsanddaydreams]

Worried Thoughts

Mihawk x gn!reader

Summary: he thinks you’re afraid of him, but really you feel more comfortable here than anywhere else. If only you could figure out how to explain that.

Content: fluffy cozy piece. Just a hint of romance. Reader is autistic.

Warnings: reader is somewhat insecure about their autistic traits.

A/N: Couldn’t get this idea out of my head, so I’m sharing with all of you. It’s been a long time since I wrote any fanfic so I might do more, I might not, we’ll see. Story is based on live action Mihawk with some inspiration from the little bit I know about the anime. Enjoy!

—————

He’s frustrated with you.

He doesn’t let it show. Mihawk is too controlled for that, too stoic. Besides, you’ve come to learn the look of casual disdain he wears is for everyone, not just you.

But he’s still frustrated with you.

You can see it in the little things. The slight furrow of his brow. The way he watches you over his book. The long, drawn out sips of wine.

It’s the things you’ve learned to look for after a lifetime of having to watch and analyze and try so hard to fit in. A lifetime of trying to be normal.

Around Mihawk though? You don’t feel that need so much.

It’s why you let your eyes drift away from his intense, piercing gaze. It’s why, though you’re still afraid to let yourself stim too much or let too much excitement shine through when a special interest topic comes up, you do let yourself chew on your lip. And sometimes, when you catch yourself rocking because the silence is just a little too much, you don’t make yourself stop.

But still, he doesn’t quite understand it. He thinks you’re afraid of him.

You should be. Honestly you’re not sure why you aren’t. He’s the worlds greatest swordsman. He’s probably the most powerful person in all the seas. He wears that power like a cloak, holds himself in a way that warns people to step away. Step back.

You saw it in the village last week, when he had you sail with him to a nearby island so you could help pick up supplies. Folk recognized him and feared him.

To be honest, you thought he would leave you behind there. After all, he has no reason to keep sheltering you. It’s been a month since you washed up on the beach of his own gloomy island, a month since you barely evaded the monsters that live there and found your way to his door.

He let you stay, and you figured it was because of how pathetic you looked at the moment. A shipwrecked survivor on the brink of death, looking more like a drowned rat than a human.

It’s not that you’re actually pathetic. You’re not weak. Or at least not too much so. Honestly, you can hold your own against most folk back home, and you know how to sail a small ship just fine. Or at least, you thought you did.

That storm wounded your pride and has you questioning your seafaring skills.

The point is, you can take care of yourself overall. Though, you quickly learned after you first set sail a few years back that being the best in your village means nothing when so many folk out there are as powerful as gods. Competent or not, you’re nothing compared to the great warlord.

So why did he let you stay? Why was it, when you were getting ready to turn and walk away after setting foot on the village island, he handed you a small crate of supplies and said to not fall behind? Why was it he let you get back on his ship and sail all the way back here with him? 

You haven’t asked him yet, because you’re a little afraid that maybe he’ll change his mind. You’ve come to like your life on this isolated island.

But you’re getting away from yourself again. Letting your thoughts drift. It’s been a week since that village visit and now you still sit within Mihawk’s vast and rather chilly castle, hyperaware of his piercing gaze digging into your head.

“You don’t need to be so afraid of me.”

His voice makes you jump, and you realize that you’ve been rocking where you sit as you stare at the book in your lap.

“I’m not,” you manage. “I…”

Your eyes latch onto the book. You’ve been reading it for a couple of days, but you’re having trouble focusing today. Whenever you look at the words, it makes you think about how yesterday you launched into a long analysis of the adventure genre and how it really is such a shame that people don’t appreciate this book as much, since even though it was one of the first of its type there’s been so many books that have built on it since that now it seems almost predictable.

Mihawk didn’t seem bothered at the time, but now you look back at it and you’re sure he must’ve been annoyed, or at the very least bored. You’re still kicking yourself for not taking the time to check his expression when you went on that endless monologue.

“You act afraid.”

You take a quick peek out the corner of your eye, watching as he casually sips from his wine glass. Firelight flickers across his face, lighting up those vivid eyes and casting a golden hue across his dark hair. He’s not looking at you anymore, but you know that he’s still aware of everything you do.

When you find your attention catching on his chiseled chest, you quickly force your gaze away.

“You are a warlord,” you say, trying to be teasing.

“An astute observation.”

“I’m not afraid of you though.” You close your book and with it close your eyes, trying to find the right words. Trying to get them all untangled. “I… I just don’t like eye contact. With anyone.”

“I see. That is reasonable.”

It’s not the response you expected. You’re used to people judging you when they learn how are you are. You’re used to people underestimating you and assuming the worst.

You glance back up at Mihawk, then quickly away to the fireplace instead. “I’m not very good with people,” you continue, “It’s not that I don’t like them, but I don’t always understand the rules of society and stuff. And I don’t always do things the way other folk do.”

When you peek back, he’s lifted a single eyebrow. You blush. Surely he’s already noticed that. Surely you’re being silly as you explain the obvious.

“The rules of society do tend to be rather boring.”

The way he says it, so straightforward as if it makes all the sense in the world… you feel relieved giggle bubble out of you.

“I suppose you really aren’t afraid of me then,” he says, just the slightest twitch forming a smile at the corners of his lips. He tilts his head slightly, then adds. “I was thinking about your theory yesterday. It was… Intriguing.”

Something flutters in your chest. A feeling that you never really thought you’d have for somebody so dangerous. Joy. Excitement. Perhaps even some infatuation, if you’re being honest with yourself.

His castle might be vast and chilly, but it’s also comfortable. And you’ve come to truly enjoy these times where you sit together in front of the fireplace, simply existing near each other. You’ve come to enjoy just being around him. 

“Would… would you like to talk about it more?” You can’t help the hope that creeps into your tone.

“That would be pleasant.”

And so, you finally let that wall down just a little further. You let yourself start talking without holding back, let yourself feel comfortable.

When he rises from his chair and walks to stand closer to your own, his hand just barely brushing your shoulder, you let yourself feel a little bit at home.

[olderthannetfic]

I always see people who have never been antis, talking about/questioning how some antis even ARE antis when you look at their taste in media - ie the ever famous joke of "Hannigram is #problematique" "but it's a show where he eats people" or whatever.

I thought I'd weigh in as someone who could, hypothetically, be called an ex-anti (which, thankfully, nothing ever really came out of it - it was just very 2014 keyboardwarrior-esque behavior of me being a chronically online young adult who would share posts in a group chat making fun of certain shippers, or reblog posts about how 50shades is The Most Problematic Media Ever to exist -- basically I was an anti with anti-lines of thoughts, but i never, like, a ran a Shipping Discourse Blog or whatever)

For me, personally, it was a few different things. I can now see how it's incredibly hypocritical that teenaged me shipped Light/L, while still thinking that Dramione was Bad And Abusive. It ultimately boiled down to a) being pretentious, and b) just not understanding media or what proshippers REALLY believed, with a side of c) not realizing that nuance exists. like i was pretty late to join tumblr, I think I immigrated here during PEAK "yourfaveisproblematic" era which definitely did have an impact on my opinions and my tastes.

to elaborate, a.) being pretentious. i mean this one just kinda goes without saying. "I engage in media in a way more intellectual way than you do, don't you know that? You're a filthy and disgusting person who writes Snape/Hermione because you're an actually disgusting pedophile IRL who would probably date your own student that you're abusing if you could. Meanwhile, I'm a very smart, good, and pure person. When I read Uncle Vernon/Harry, I'm doing it in a G-d honoring whump way that clearly condemns abuse, incest, and rape. Unlike YOU who only writes harmful stuff as a way to get people off :/"

(as an aside, i think this line of thinking will ALWAYS be present in fandom and popculture in some way, sadly. ie the recent trend of people hating on booktok bc the books are 'trashy' and how these porn addicts should read real classic literature instead.)

as for b.), not understanding media - i cannot emphasize enough that i was GENUINELY stupid and disconnected enough to think that proshippers REALLY WERE pro-All Of The Degenerate Dead Doves That They Wrote.

why did i feel this way? why did i understand that Lolita clearly isnt pro-pedophilia, but for some reason i thought that someone shipping weecest was? well, first of all, i think that fanfiction is (generally) seen as Less Serious than classic literature, and fandom is a fun place, so i guess i somehow thought that every fanfic/fanartist who wrote Problematic Things, especially Problematic Things that they portrayed as Sexy, really DID enjoy the thought of that Actually Happening To Real People.

and i think THIS is the bulk of why antis ARE antis. i'm not calling them all stupid - i do think BEING an anti is stupid, but at the same time, there are people who are truly smart and good-intended people who just have some really off color opinions about, like, homestuck ships or whatever. Lawlight is okay because notebooks that kill people don't exist so it's IMPOSSIBLE for the Harmful Aspects of Light/L to be romanticized! but schoolyard prejudiced bullies DO exist and are a REAL problem so Drarry is BAD (*truly completely unaware of the fact that there's 'realistic' aspects of the Light/L dynamic and 'unrealistic' aspects of Drarry - such as, for example, Hogwarts arguably being even MORE of a fantasy setting than DN is.*) I know that media literacy is the hot buzzword of the year to throw around in 2024, but, like, i really did not have media literacy.

as for c.), not realizing nuance exists - ok "nuance" might not be the best word here, but i dont know how else to describe it. like, each time ive typed the word "problematic" out in this ask, i've done so in a very tongue in cheek/ironic/retroactive way, but, like, those posts about how Everything Is Problematic, Including Your Fave ARE true. and i didn't like the fact that my favorite media or favorite person might've Made A Mistake! i need to Talk About Its Issues Because I'm So Betrayed That My Dear Sweet Comfort Media Would Do This To Me. I Need To Prove I Clearly Condemn It.

like, i legit morally could not justify reblogging a twilight post without adding in the tags '#this is my guilty pleasure it sucks that the books were so racist though' or whatever. Most people were lucky enough to avoid that line of thinking, but there was an actual group of people who felt a genuine need to virtue signal all the time, partly bc, hey, they WERE passionate about talking abt #issues in media, but also bc of a subconscious fear of If You Reblog A Singular Piece Of Hetalia Fanart, You're Literally A Nazi And Will Get A Callout Post Written About You.

and during all of this i was at the tail end of my high school experience (yes i know im younger than most of your audience, ha). i was going through A Lot emotionally, going through a lot of life changes, and lived in a very . . . interesting household/place where i couldn't do ACTUAL good in the world that i was passionate about. so to make up for the fact that i was genuinely in no place to do legit activism, clearly i had to save the gay community by arguing about johnlock queerbaiting or whatever.

^ and honestly i do think that is the position of most antis. theyre isolated and cant seem to do Enough in the Real Scary World so they have to resort to talking about how bad of a person someone is for "shipping abuse", bc theyre not in a situation where they could, for example, ACTUALLY fight the good fight to end abuse or raise awareness for it.

There was way more to it and way more that I could say, if I wanted to, but this post is long enough as it is and probably doesn't make much sense.

I feel bad for antis, honestly, or at least the ones who are antis in the way I used to be.

--

Oh yes, passionate young fools who think they can at least fix the internet if not their lives make up most of the cannon fodder. Some of the ringleaders are just mini dictators and wannabe cult leaders, but most anti-leaning types are just traumatized or clueless, even a lot of the ones who do serious damage and don't just mock shit in private with their friends.

[todoroki-sweetheart]

“Minors dni” [writes nsfw about minors]

Okay, so normally I wouldn’t address stuff like this, but it’s come to my attention that a lot of fanfic writers are having to deal with this.

And let me tell you this, I started writing fanfiction when I was 17 years old. When I started, all the characters I wrote for were age-appropriate or older than me.

Now, let me remind you that every single character I have written about is canonically now grown up. In Attack On Titan, Haikyuu!!, and My Hero Academia mangas they are now beyond LEGAL ages!!

Not to mention that in all of my fics they are aged up anyways, so here is also your daily reminder:

It is not the authors fault that we outgrow the people we write about. You can be the same age as these characters and write about them, but the difference is that you will grow up, they will not!! They will forever be the age that their author writes them to be (which in my case, is still LEGAL!), and there is nothing we can do about that even if at one point we were the same age. Real life will move on and most of the time authors will age these characters up as they age. It is not our fault they are frozen in time because everything we write for is strictly FICTION, meaning it is NOT REAL, nonnie. These people don’t exist, and all we’re trying to do is have fun and supply content to others who love these fandoms as much as we do.

So please, if you wouldn’t mind, get your head out of your fucking ass and save these dumbass comments for someone else. Or better yet, just stop harassing people that are only trying to have fun and love their favorite characters.

Thanks 🙂

(I’m adding tags so other people that have concerns/a similar mindset about this can see it)

[angelpuns]

Kid Leo Au: Fanfic

| Here's the old fic I promised <3 I don't like the way I wrote it so it won't be posted on ao3, but I figured it'd be a fun supplementary reading for the comic! |

CW: Almost death/dying, uh some crying.

Leo couldn't hear or see Krang Prime anymore. A fact that was both comforting and terrifying. 

His body ached, the lack of a distraction making his wounds throb in time with his heartbeat. He tried to mentally note his injuries, to think of how he would have treated them if he ever got home. 

Something in him told him he wouldn't be going home, though. 

And as much as he had been prepared for that….it still made his chest ache.  

He squeezed the picture of his family a little tighter, letting his tears dissolve into space. 

The thought almost made him want to laugh. He hadn't cried like this in so long, who knew all it took was having the shit beat out of him and being left alone in another dimension? That wasn't a good joke. He was pretty sure it wasn't a joke at all, actually. 

That made the internal laughter die off pretty quick. 

It was so..cold. Not cold, but…there was an absence of warmth. If anything, it felt like…nothing. Like he was floating through nothing. 

The silence pierced his ears, the impenetrable ringing making him shake his head - an attempt to make some sort of sound that wasn't swallowed up by the black hole around him. He did it again and again, unable to get rid of the all-consuming silence around him. His ears rang with it - the effect a lot like being trapped in a soundproof room. 

Hell, he preferred the krang shouting at him and beating him into the ground over the silence. At least he didn't feel like he was losing his mind. If he concentrated just so, he could hear his heartbeat. He shivered involuntarily, shaking his head again to try and focus on something - anything, else. 

The silence droned on for several minutes, Leo trying to distract himself from it by reminding himself what it was all for. Who it was all for. He stole a glance at the picture through bleary eyes. It was a good picture. They all looked so happy. 

Leo stifled the remainder of his tears and let out a long sigh. 

He could handle the choking, stifling quiet.  

He could take a little silence before Kraang Prime inevitably wiped him off the face of the Earth. Or -since they weren't exactly on Earth - blipped him out of existence. 

The thought made him feel nauseous, though that could be from the sensation of weightlessness. Like he was falling through the air in slow motion - never to hit the ground again. 

More tears fell. 

Who was he kidding - he wasn't meant to be alone like this. He'd never been alone before. He'd always..he'd always had someone. 

Leo's sniffles were the only thing that broke the silence, and even that didn't last long. 

Years of silently crying in his room were not being his friend right now. He wished he'd been a screamer. He wished he'd thrown tantrums and screamed along with his music and wailed at the top of his lungs. 

At least then it wouldn't be so painfully quiet. 

The ringing continued, Leo finally managing to zone out a little when a sort of 'fizzle-pop' sound started up somewhere behind him. 

Warmth spread on his shell, a faint glow peeking out from behind him. A crackling sound filled the air, Leo rolling over in the big open space to see what it was. His heart raced at the thought that it was the kraang again, just waiting for him to turn around before striking him to the ground again. 

A bright orange light flooded his vision. Was this what everyone talked about? The light? He'd never really believed in that stuff, but he imagined this is what it might be like. Good to know everyone else was right - he couldn't help but feel a little bitter about being so wrong. 

The light grew, Leo squinting against it. It was warm, taking up his entire vision. It almost looked as if the very sky had broken open. But it was so warm, it must have been that light. The one that you weren't supposed to go into. and yet he wanted so badly to go into it. 

Leo reached for it, wanting nothing more than to be cradled in that light, for the crackling sound to invade his senses and get rid of that horrible ringing. Even if it was the end, it was a hell of a lot nicer than the silence. 

He squinted, eyes adjusting to the light as it grew larger and larger. As it did, he recognized it for what it was. 

A portal. 

His brothers took shape beyond the light, grinning at him with shining eyes. Like they were waiting for him, just behind that opening. He thought it might be a hallucination at first, but that didn't stop him from dropping a solid one-liner. 

He winced at the effort, but grinned nonetheless, " took you guys long enough". 

Nice One, Leo.

Even if this was some hallucination right before he died, he could still get a joke or two in. 

To his surprise, Raph activated his ninpo and reached out with one of his large, red hands, grasping Leo's in it. 

It was warm. It shouldn't have been warm, but it was to him. Leo could sob from the feeling. More tears bubbled up from his chest and he grinned up at his brothers, hurrying to blink them away before they saw. He couldn't be caught crying now, after all that had happened. 

 Raph tugged hard, pulling him closer and closer to the portal. 

If he had the energy, he'd make a joke about how this was way better than floating in a wasteland. Leo wanted nothing more than to hear them laugh, even if it was fake. Even if he made the world's worst pun. 

The feeling vanished almost immediately when the rush of air and the screech of the kraang came from just under him. He chanced a glance back, the giant red eye staring back at him. Even if it was just armor, it felt like it stared right through him. 

Metal claws surrounded him, and Leo almost pulled his arm back - out of Raph's grasp. He wouldn't let the krang win - he couldn't let them win. 

He glanced back again, his chest seizing a little at how close he was already. But then Donnie shouted from the portal and Leo turned his attention back on his brothers. He didn't want the last thing he saw to be that red eye. 

If he made it out of this alive, he'd have to tell Donnie how badass he looked just then. The thought passed so quickly it almost made him laugh - even if he was so sure the kraang was gonna grab him. 

The drill went flying past Leo and into the kraang's face, Raph dragging him to the portal with all the force he could. Leo went flying, the breeze as the smells and the sounds of New York hitting him all at once. He landed hard on Raph's plastron, groaning when he was deposited on the ground instead. 

Now that he had gravity back, everything hurt even worse. 

 "gu-guys!?"

Leo winced, but sat up a bit and looked at his younger brother. 

Mikey was trembling all over, a faint orange glow still emitting from his shaking limbs. He held his hands out in front of him, staring down as they crackled, pieces flecking off and floating away in the breeze. He dropped to his knees, Raph and Donnie rushing to his side. The portal had zipped out of existence, but Mikey was still crumbling. 

Leo rolled onto his knees, his wounds screaming for him to stop. 

No, no, he wouldn't lose Mikey like this. He wouldn't let his little brother die. Not like this, not for him. 

Leo crawled over on shaky limbs, holding back groans of pain. He had to do something. There had to be something he could do. His ribs ached with each breath, but Leo grabbed for his brother, already pulling him close - as if he had any clue what to do for him. 

" Le-leo!" Mikey was staring at him, his arms starting to fleck away from the fingertips down. Leo could only stare for a moment, eyes already burning with tears again. 

To his credit, Mikey gave him a tearful grin. Like he was glad to have done it. 

But Leo would never forgive himself. 

" No, no, c'Mon Mikey-" Leo winced, squeezing Mikey a little in his arms. He didn't know what to do. His thoughts were zipping by, all the medical knowledge in the world doing him no good. He didn't know anything about this. 

Donnie put a hand on his shoulder, Raph taking up the other side. They each squeezed, hands trembling where they touched him. There had to be something…anything they could do.  

Leo couldn't help it. He let out a sob. He did seem to be crying a lot lately, huh? 

Mikey was still shaking, his eyes squeezed shut. Leo hated it - he could feel how scared Mikey was. How terrified he was to be dying. 

There had to be something- anything!

Leo squeezed him tighter, trying to hold his brother together like glue - keep him here just a little longer while he thought of a plan. 

Think, Leo! Think! You're supposed to be the leader- 

Leo begged for something - for any kind of plan. He thought back to everything they knew about their ninpo- maybe his powers? 

Something. Anything. 

" I WO-WON'T LET YOU GO, MIKEY!" he sobbed, curling into his brother and just hoping for something to happen. Raph choked back a sob next to him, gripping his shoulder a little too hard. 

Something in him broke free with that, his powers crackling at his fingertips. He felt lighter suddenly, as blue lightning crackled down his arms and into his younger brother's form. 

Leo shut his eyes, feeling nauseous, but he couldn't stop! Mikey needed him- 

He could feel it, he could feel the power flowing through him and into Mikey - like a current of a river rushing and rushing and rushing towards his brother. 

And it was working. 

Leo chanced a glance at Mikey - his eyes had shut, but he was reforming. Blue light filled in the cracks, Mikey's arms slowly taking shape once again. 

Leo grinned, tears slipping down his cheeks. He closed his eyes and squeezed tighter, sobbing into the embrace. He felt like something was being ripped from his very being, but it'd be worth it. It'd be worth it to keep Mikey safe. 

The current continued. He willed it to continue until Mikey was fixed, until he was better and every piece of him was back in place. The ground swayed beneath him with each pulse of energy that left his body, but he had to keep going. He had to fix his brother. 

Something was changing for him, too, but he couldn't place it. 

It didn't matter. 

He couldn't stop until Mikey was back together again. 

He rode out the feeling of nausea. He could do this. 

He could do it. 

" I got you, little brother, " He murmured, letting the feeling take over. The blue light consumed him - he felt himself slipping away and checked once more to be sure it had worked before letting himself succumb to the blue light of his own powers. Everything was hazy and blue and he felt lighter than air. His heart was racing, his breath coming out in ragged pants. 

He felt himself fall into Raph's side, someone saying something. He couldn't hear them. 

Mikey was safe. Mikey was safe and he had done all he could. 

As long as Mikey was safe, he could rest. 

He could finally rest. 

Donnie was not a fan of all this mystic stuff. Even if he had somewhat mastered his own powers, his brothers' powers still eluded him. Especially now that Mikey had mystic hands or whatever. Raph's clone thing was somewhat more tangible ( literally ), but Leo and Mikey's abilities still felt too unreal to explain. He'd tried once to take a scientific approach with Leo's portals and met a wall. 

He couldn't even begin to explain what seemed to be a literal demon living in Mikey's weapon - not to mention the whole chain and fire business - it was all too much for him to comprehend. He was somewhat relieved when he'd gotten his nunchucks back - at least there wasn't some sort of creature living in them. He hoped. 

But this took it to a new level. 

It was one thing for Mikey to open an interdimensional portal, it was another to watch Leo use his powers to fix Mikey's dissolving form. 

And then to watch him shrink into blue light and become a small child. He felt the same as when Mikey had opened the portal, Leo's powers seeping into his arm and pulling something from him - pulling his energy from him. His skin had crackled and lit up just like Mikey's, but with a brilliant blue light shining through it. And he didn't dissolve into nothingness like Mikey had been doing. 

His first thought was time travel, but his second thought was what if this Leo had sustained the same injuries? 

He could worry about the why's and how's later, for now they all needed immediate medical attention. He couldn't see anything outwardly, but it was hard to tell when Leo was entangled within his wraps and sash, the pieces of fabric too large for him now. 

" Raph, call April, Papa and Casey Jr. And tell them to meet us at the lair, " He informed, taking a deep breath so he could keep it together. He'd had a lot of ups and downs for the past few minutes, but he could keep it together to play family doctor for a bit. 

Mikey was awake, at least, and was no longer dissolving into thin air. He sat up, staring in surprise at the literal child that had replaced Leo. Or, was Leo. Was Leo - but was also a child. Ugh, it was too much to think about right now. He'd have to file the time travel nonsense away for now. 

" did…did everyone else see that?" Mikey stammered out, his eyes moving from his arms to Leo, " I'm - he healed me!" 

" yes, and probably not without major consequences - oh would you look at that, major consequences, " he motioned to Leo. Or tot Leo. Little Leo. He wasn't sure What to call him. Hopefully it wouldn't be a problem for too long. 

Raph had broken from his own shocked stare to do as Donnie had asked, currently on the phone with April - if Donnie had to guess from the over exaggerated shouting on the other end. He wondered if she and their father were okay. If Casey was okay. If anyone had been majorly injured. 

Donnie caught himself beginning to zone out and shook himself out of it. Right. Act now, shutdown later. 

He pulled Leo into his arms, the kid squirming a little at the touch. 

" Stop- stop moving, " He hissed, keeping Leo close to his chest. The slider didn't seem to acknowledge him. He seemed to be just as out of it as Donnie felt. 

Donnie's mind supplied a concerning amount of reasons why, and he found himself hurrying to stand and start for the lair. They had to get home and check him for injuries fast. He mentally checked off what he remembered about concussions - pizza supreme, what if Leo had accidentally fried his brain? Was that even possible? Could mystic powers do that? 

" Donnie?" Mikey was following him. Good, they needed to get a move on. 

" We've got to hurry- if 'child Leo' has sustained the same injuries, we're working on borrowed time. We'll have to deduce why this happened later, " He rambled out, letting his feet carry him in the direction of what he hoped was the right way home. He glanced at his wrist-tech, the crack in the screen making it difficult to read. " I assume its something to do with his powers, but I don't have- I can't make a clear enough hypothesis just yet" 

He knew he was being snippy, even for him, but talking hurt. 

Opening his mouth and forming words felt like the worst thing in the world, but he willed himself to hold it together.

 Hold it together for Leo.

Kid Leo Masterpost

[captainfern]

hiii, how are you?? :)

so, I saw that your request is open and I would like to place an order if possible and especially if you like the idea!!

price x femreader, they met because of the friendship between reader and gaz/laswell (or whatever character you prefer!!!) and you know they fall in love but eventually john ends things because he thinks he's putting reader in danger. anyway they end up meeting again at a party/bar/club or some IDK social event and then they end up coming back!!! fluffy, smut and a little bit of angst.

I ended up thinking about it while listening to love song and california by lana del rey + attention by charlie puth lol lolol

ps: I just want to say that I love your writing and your fanfics!! you are one of my favorite call of duty blogs!!!!!!! 💗

ps²: sorry if what i wrote was confusing to read, english it's not my first language

I hope your week is great and full of good things!!! bye bye 💞💗💘💓💕💖💝

Come As You Are

Captain John Price x fem!reader

[“Come As You Are” by Nirvana]

[18+]

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• summary - your captain ends your relationship after thinking he’s putting you in danger. a year later, you meet again, and he shows you how much he regrets his original decision lol. • rating - 18+ • wordcount - 2.4k • warnings - fem!reader, unprotected piv, some sub!price, praise, oral [f!receiving], cum eating??? ugh idk, implied age gap, strong language, i tried to make it a bit fluffy but my whore brain blinds me 😔🤚, a smidge of angst but not really cause i just can’t write angst 😭

✿ thank you you’re too sweet !! i love the idea <3 i’ve altered it a bit for the smut storyline but i hope it’s ok !!

•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•

Your relationship with Captain John Price had been nothing short of tumultuous.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but the entirety of your relationship— both platonic and romantic— was much different to others your age.

You had met Price on a whim— Gaz, your best friend since childhood, introduced you to the idea of joining the military. You did, and he eventually got you the opportunity of a life time, working in an actual task force.

You had been ecstatic. You were a good shot, a machine with a gun, and you knew your skills were unmatched. You had walked into your first day on the task force thinking you were more than just a rookie.

One meeting with Captain Price changed that.

He made sure you knew you had to work for it. You had to work as a part of the team, pull your weight, and ensure that everyone else got to the same point as you did. He put you through your paces, he pushed you to your limits, and eventually, it all came to a head.

You fired up at him. Why was he picking on you? Why was he singling you out? You were just as capable as Ghost and Soap and Gaz. Why did he insist on making your rookie year a living hell?

His answer caught you by surprise— a deep grunt, a jerk of his hand on your shirt, and the slamming of his mouth to yours.

And that’s how it started.

Much similar to how it ended.

[Flashback]:

“I can’t keep putting you in danger like this.” Price said, as you lay on a hospital stretcher, blood marring your face and a deep wound to your stomach, wrapped in gauze.

“It’s not your fault, captain.” You breathed, the lights of the hospital room giving you a headache.

He grimaced. “It’s is my fault. And… the thought of losing you… bloody hell, sarge, it’s tearing me apart.”

You blinked at him, raising a weak hand to place on his, rubbing his knuckles. “You’re not going to lose me, Price.”

He nodded slowly, eyes glistening. “Yeah… I won’t lose you, love. Because you’re being discharged.”

You were confused. “From the hospital?”

Price cleared his throat, emotion choking him. “No, love. From the task force.”

You stared at him, thousands of different emotions brewing inside you, bubbling in the cauldron of your mind. The final product was tears, unexpectedly, streaming down your face. He looked at you, flooded with guilt, shifting his hand so he could grip yours tight.

“Price…”

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispered. “I’ve lost too many people in this profession. I can’t lose you too.”

“That’s not your choice to make.” Your voice broke.

Price just nodded. “It is. Captain’s orders.”

Then, he kissed you— gentle, slow, an apology. Your face was wet with tears, shining in his facial hair. He put every bit of emotion he had into that kiss, before he stood up, squeezed your hand one last time, and walked out of the room.

•°•

A year later, you sat at the bar of the most popular night club in the area. The music pulsed around you, bright lights flashing through the darkness, painting the walls neon.

After leaving the military— a gunshot scar on your stomach as a souvenir— you pursued what you always wanted to do. Morphing back into civilian life after spending a couple of years in the military was difficult, but you made it work.

You especially made it work when you finally had the freedom to go out and get absolutely wasted.

But tonight was different.

You sat at the bar, swirling your drink in its glass, pouting into space. Today was the one year anniversary of you being discharged. Despite having knocked back several drinks, your appetite for alcohol had soured, and you suddenly just wanted to go home.

You exited the club and were met by the crisp night air. Shivering, you wrapped your arms around you and prepared to call yourself a taxi.

“All alone?” A random man approached you, around your age, and smiled.

How the literal fuck did he want you to reply to that question? Does it look like you’re standing with a bunch of people?

“Oh, uh, no. I’m just waiting for my… boyfriend.” You stammered, hugging your arms around you tighter as you tried to pull out your phone with shaking hands.

“Well, you want some company while you wait?” The man asked, and you shook your head, trying to be as polite as possible.

“No thank you, I’m fine,” you were trying to think of something to say to get him to leave. “My, uh, my boyfriend doesn’t like me talking to other guys.”

The man hummed, getting closer to you. “Sounds like a prick, your boyfriend. How about I buy you a drink then?”

Was this guy dumb?

“No, thank you.” You said, taking a large step away from him.

He went to follow, but suddenly, he was yanked backwards by the collar of his shirt, and he made a distressed sound from the back of his throat as he stumbled.

You did poorly to hide your shock as Price, in all his glory, stood on the pavement, grabbing the random man by the scruff of his neck.

“She said no, did she not?” Price growled. “So fuck off.”

The man scrambled to regain his footing, before he was hurrying away. You took a deep breath, body suddenly hot as Price approached you, a solemn look on his face.

“Love…”

“Look, thanks for that, but I should really get going—” You rambled, turning away, but he caught your wrist.

He pulled you closer to him, the warmth of his body comforting in the midnight chill. His eyes scanned your face, soft. He brought his free hand up to the side of your head, running his thumb along your cheekbone.

“What are you doing here, Price?” You forced yourself to ask, voice quiet.

He didn’t reply straight away. He just cradled your face after bringing his other hand up from your wrist, cupping your other cheek. He stared at you, like he was memorising your features, eyes suddenly glossy and a small smile quirking at the corners of his mouth.

“Just out for a drink.” Price answered, and you could smell the faint aroma of tobacco, whiskey and mint on him. “You?”

“Same.” You replied, relishing in his large hands around your face.

He thumbed your cheekbones, sighing softly to himself. “I’ve… I’ve missed you, love.”

You were trying not to cry now.

“Think about you every day,” Price breathed. “I… I made a mistake. I’m so sorry I let you go.”

You felt paralysed by his words, pinned beneath his gaze. Your body was hot and cold at the same time, your hands clammy but goosebumps still rippled along your bare arms.

“I’m such an idiot. I should never… I should never have let you go the way I did,” Price said. “I was just so scared of losing you that, in reality, I did lose you, didn’t I?”

You nodded slowly, tears stinging in your eyes. “Yeah…”

Price held your face tighter, but still gently. “Jesus, love, I’m so sorry. Will you let me make it up to you? I… I have so much to say. So much to apologise for.”

You felt yourself nod again. “Let’s go back to mine.”

•°•

“I’m sorry, love—”

When you went back to your place, you had every intention of talking it through with Price. After all, it had been a year since you had last spoken to each other.

“I’m so sorry, my love. I missed you so much—”

You had a feeling deep in your stomach that you’d forgive him, that you’d give in to his charm. So you accepted his apology. Of course you did. You loved him.

“Missed you so much— should never have made you go— I’m so sorry—”

You loved Captain John Price.

“Ah, fuck, love, missed this, missed you—”

Which is why the two of you were fucking on your couch.

“Missed this pretty cunt— ah, fuck.” He gripped your hips as you rode him, moving back and forth, up and down on his lap.

He was panting and whining beneath you, your hands on his shoulders, keeping you grounded. He watched the way you sucked him in; where his cock slipped in and out of your dripping heat. Each bounce you made on his cock, each squeeze of your gummy walls, made him spew out even more rambles, throwing his head back and huffing loudly into your living room.

“So good, s’good as I remember,” he groaned as you ground yourself against him. “Missed this wet cunt. Missed you, love.”

A broken record, he was. But it was playing the most beautiful of symphonies.

“I know, Price, I know,” you said. “Missed… ha… missed you too.”

He looked at you, and that’s when you noticed his eyes were brimming with tears. He moved his hands from your hips to your waist, gripping you comfortingly as you worked your cunt around his cock, moving in tandem with the small thrusts of his hips.

You felt your heart melt. Leaning in, you sealed his mouth in a warm kiss. He moaned into it, tongue licking against yours, chest flushed to your bare tits. The coarse hair made you squirm in his lap.

“So good, love, so good, fucking hell,” Price mumbled as you pulled out of the kiss. He ducked his head to suck at your neck, and you could feel a slightly cold wetness. Tears? “Love you so much, my love.”

You were relishing in the way he whined into your neck, holding you as if you’d fly away at any moment. His thrusts were becoming more desperate, you noticed, and your thighs began to ache in your attempts to keep up.

“I love you too.” You whispered, legs shaking.

Usually, it’d be you reaching your peak first. But, just as that burning sensation began to build in your lower tummy, Price was letting out a guttural moan from the crook of your neck.

He was thrusting into you in mismatched rhythm, teeth skimming against the soft skin of your neck.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry— fuck, I can’t—” Price moaned, shooting his load inside you.

You hummed a moan, mouth parting as his motions stilled. You stopped your movements as well, cunt aching with the need for release. You were so close—

Price held your flushed body to him, whimpering softly into the curve of your neck. His semi-hard cock plugged his seed into the depths of your cunt, which throbbed around him in tandem with your racing heart. You could feel slight droplets of his cum and your arousal begin to seep out of you.

“‘M sorry,” he whispered, sucking at your neck. “Couldn’t wait. Felt so good ‘round me. So wet and tight.”

Your stomach fluttered, body tight and tingling and your core was almost aching. You let out a shaky exhale. Price could feel the way you were twitching around his cock, and he suddenly felt even more guilty.

But an idea came to mind.

Carefully— with whatever remaining strength he had after coming the hardest he had in over a year— he lifted you off of his cock. He moved you from his lap so that you were laying on your back across the couch.

You stared at him as he massaged his hands up your bare legs. His eyes trailed along your dripping cunt, watching his cum leak out. He gripped his cock, stroking it a few times, before groaning and releasing it. He instead grabbed hold of your thighs as he positioned himself along the couch also.

He placed your thighs on either side of his head, the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs tickled by his beard. You writhed against the couch as his warm breath fanned against your dripping core.

“Price?” You voiced.

“Yeah, love?”

“What’re you doing?”

His hands tightened around the fat of your thighs. He grunted, “Apologising.”

Then, his mouth came into contact with your heat. You jerked, eyes rolling in your skull, hips pushing against his face. He probed your abused hole with his tongue; thick and warm, making you moan loudly.

The sounds were obscene. He was literally lapping his own cum out of your cunt, mixed with your arousal; a lustrous elixir that continued to pool down the slope of your arse, smearing across his face.

His tongue moved in and out of you. With each movement, he was grunting and releasing guttural sounds from the back of his throat. He massaged your thighs, kneading the soft flesh with large, calloused fingers.

Price’s nose nudged your clit repeatedly; the enflamed nerves hyper-sensitive. You moaned his name, shooting a hand down to clamp into his hair. You tugged, pulling his face further into your cunt, and he hummed, satisfied.

He traced his tongue up and down your folds, circling around your clit before applying suction and drawing it into his mouth. You wanted to scream as the pressure built, before he was dragging his mouth back around your hole, stuffing his tongue back inside with an embarrassing squelch.

“Price, oh my god, Price,” you groaned, grinding yourself onto his face. “So close, ‘m so close.”

Price spurred you on, redoubling his movements, fucking his tongue into you faster. Your stomach was growing tight with pleasure, your legs shaking against his head, breath coming in pants.

“Hngh,,, oh, fuck, Price—!” You moaned as your orgasm slammed into you.

You felt yourself gush into Price’s mouth as he continued his ministrations, tongue stroking you through your release. His happily lapped up every last milky droplet of you release, humming contentedly against you.

You whined, tugging his head away from your core, urging him to kiss you. He complied, his face wet, the taste of you on his lips.

“Missed you so much, my love,” he whispered, kissing you again. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again. I promise.”

You giggled. “Well, I am going to have to go to the bathroom.”

“Guess you’ll have an audience.” Price said jokingly, and you laughed again.

“I didn’t take you for a voyeur, Price,” you winked. “I also didn’t think you had a piss kink. Damn. The more you know.”

Price rolled his eyes. “Don’t even start, love.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lower face tacky and still rather wet. But you didn’t care.

“I love you, Captain.”

“I love you more, my darling.”

•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•º•

[ninadove]

For any fandom(s): 12, 15, 16, 19, 23! 💌

As always, you spoil me! 💌

12. Compliment someone else in your fandom

GOD I HAVE TOO MANY FRIENDS TO COMPLIMENT

@beezonia comes up with the coolest AUs and designs. I’m always blown away by their Pokémon team compositions — they’re spot on to the point I consider it its own form of character analysis!

@purplecatghostposts is the genius who showed up out of the blue and took us all by surprise with their amazing prose. Soap, reminder that the reference to Copycat in consider the spare legally binds you to pay for my therapy.

@trishacollins is single-handedly remediating to the lack of platonic bedsharing between the cousins and I can’t thank her enough! She’s also one of the chillest and most approachable people I know.

@luckychatons is our favourite entrepunpurr and constantly lifts our mood with the cutest, most joy-filled sketches! Patting her OCs on the back because they sure need it.

@graythegreyt is such an awesome artist you’d almost forget they’re also one hell of a poet who wields mythological references like Odysseus wields his bow. Did you know they wrote me a poem inspired by God Games? I think everyone should know they wrote me a poem inspired by God Games.

@hartwign is a talented translator and draws hair like no one else. Seriously. I want to run my hands through the cousins’ hair and nestle in there forever.

@phieillydinyia is the picture of dedication! Can’t recommend Candle In The Wind enough, it’s a roleswap rewrite of the Miraculous movie that includes the songs. How cool is that. Thank you for your regular comments on my fics, they always make my day!

@alexandriaellisart words cannot express how much I love your depiction of Feligami. Your writing has made me tear up so many times! AND YOUR ART LOOKS SO SOFT AND COLOURFUL. What a double threat!

@faiirygrahamdevanily we need more fics about the Sentiplot as a metaphor for othering experiences and you’re doing God’s… I mean, Duusu’s work with yours!

@bbutterflies did you know your piece for Sentitwin Week is the best characterisation I’ve ever seen of Felix? This is what people mean when they say a picture is worth a thousand words. And of course your Adrino is always brilliant!

@bittersweetresilience not only are you an extraordinary writer, but you’re constantly looking for new ways to express your love. Always GIFing and weaving and canonising tags and making AMVs and running zines… I can’t wait to see what you do next!

And there’s so many more people I’m forgetting! To say nothing of my friends outside the Miraculous bubble! People are amazing!!! 💖

15. The character that always makes you smile

At the end of the day, it’s all about Clive. He’s been my muse for nearly 15 years! 💙🕊️

16 was answered here! 💖

19. Your current fandom(s)

Professor Layton, forever and always. I can’t wait to share my Big Bang fic and the amazing art that I was blessed with! 💙💛

RWBY, even if I’m lurking more than participating… I love love love love RWBY, yet it doesn’t strike my creative and analytical chords the way Miraculous does. Sometimes you just need to let yourself be swept into a story, you know? Although, it did teach me a couple of writing tricks I’ve used for other fandoms!

EPIC! Wisdom Saga coming soon! 🩵🦉 It makes my little mythology nerd heart supremely happy. The music is a banger and you can feel the knowledge and passion of all the people involved in this project. Jorge in particular is always so excited to share his progress, engaging with creators, explaining his musical choices in a fun and pedagogical way… And the lyrics! It’s free real estate for a fanfic author looking for inspiration and/or titles!

I’d love to start Monte-Cristoposting like I’ve been Cyranoposting and Draculaposting, but I’m afraid of spoilers so for now I’m just screaming in your DMs. As you know. I’m also slowly getting into Honkai: Star Rail, and I’d like to pick up Pokémon Black and White again because a N character study would look great on my AO3 resume.

And of course, Miraculous! 💚💜❤️ It’s the most creative I’ve been in years and it’s all thanks to these sad beautiful silly genius kids. Heart emoji, peacock emoji, sob emoji, etc.

23 was answered here!

Thanks for the ask! 🖤🪶

[heyitschartic]

I've seen a lot of people complain on tumblr about how Worm fanfic is nothing but altpower Taylors. It's not a complaint without merit, I've been hearing it since 2017. Hell, it's something I complain about a lot too. It's true, the fandom is filled with crappy altpowers that really add nothing. But to an extent, I always feel I should push back a little against it.

Even if I do advocate for just writing your own thing, there's a really good reason so few people do. There are a good amount of Worm fanfics out there that use original characters, niche characters, or do a wild take on the premise. Not a ton, not the majority, but a good amount.

But nobody reads them.

Rank is probably one of the best stories in the fandom. Long, filled with original charscter's, and with an interesting focus on a PRT officer working in San Fransisco. It's got an amazing scope, working from when Leviathan attacked Kyushu all the way to Gold Morning and has so many brilliant setpieces and bits of world building. It's earned its spot as one of the best, if not the best, story in the fandom.

It pulled in a paltry amount of comments and likes over the years it was being posted.

I remember when I first entered the fandom, there were already people warning new writers that, while it would be cooler if you wrote about someone other than Taylor, that you'd be getting a fraction of the views. And it sucks yeah, but it's the truth. I've seen a lot of writers over the years get discouraged because stories they love and put a lot of time into just get ten likes and maybe one comment an update. A good friend of mine will only pre-write her OC stories because the absolute lack of interest is so disheartening its caused her to just give up in the past.

And it's not like people who critique Worm Fanfics for being filled with shitty altpowers even really read this stuff. Say what you will about the Cauldron discord, but it's one of the few places I've seen people push HARD for others to read this niche weird stories, and even then there's pusback or luke warm reception. It's sad to see people talk shit about altpowers, but just not really check anything else out but that in the first place. It's just as bad as if you were only reading them.

Check out stories trying something original! Luz Mala, Rank, Agent of Cauldron, City of Bones and Teeth, Diary of a Professional Knock-off, Fault, Lend Me Your Ears, Mouse Trap, Sunspot, Nightcrawler, Raccoon Knight; and those are just the ones I can name off the top of my head! There are a lot out there waiting for you to find!!!!

And how to fix it? Well, I'm not sure if there is a fix. If anything is going to work though, at least be the change. If you aren't someone whose actively reading and commenting on new fics about OC's or similar, well, what incentive is there for people to write them? Sure, a love of just creating something might push you to post, but if you feels like you're just shouting into a void, it might feel better to just not shout at all.

If you want people to write good stories, give them a reason to actually do it.

[topazadine]

On Fandom Entitlement

It seems every week, there's a new spate of ungrateful fanfic readers complaining about fanfic, whether that's whining that their favorite story hasn't updated or that the work isn't of the same caliber as they would expect from a book they paid for.

"This hobbyist wrote horrible dialogue! Pillory them!"

"Oh no, fic writers use this as catharsis! How horrible!"

I believe this stems from a fundamental misunderstanding of who they are as a reader and what fanfic is as a whole.

Entitled fanfic readers like this have a specific problem: they think they are consumers rather than fellow hobbyists.

Consumers are allowed to expect a certain level of quality from the item or experience that they purchased. (Note well the purchasing aspect.) They have protections under law, are encouraged to leave feedback for the benefit of other consumers, and can demand a refund if necessary.

With fanfic, no money is changing hands - in fact, no money CAN legally change hands, because the writer is dabbling in someone else's intellectual property.

Readers didn't purchase anything, have no legal protections, and can't take recourse if they're dissatisfied, because they willingly chose to engage with the work without any expectation of quality. The reader lost nothing whatsoever by opening that fic other than some of their free time. (Note well the "free" time aspect.)

Many people use this analogy, and I completely agree: reading fanfic is like getting a free meal from a family member or friend. It's not going to be restaurant quality; you wouldn't expect it to be, even if that person is a great cook or professional chef. If you didn't like it, you don't demand they make you something better or refund you, because that'd be insane. You eat it, thank the person who graciously made you something, and keep your opinions to yourself unless they ask you for feedback.

And if you act like an asshole and tell them to their face that their cooking is awful, you shouldn't expect them to make you anything else. Same as fanfic writers often leave their fandoms because entitled readers complain about their work and demand tailor-made fic for free.

Some complain that they'll just read professional work from now on because fanfics are so awful, a la this gem:

What they don't seem to understand is that every writer needs to practice, and fanfic is one of the best ways to do so because there are no consequences.

No one springs from the womb as a literary genius; you need to spend years honing your talents. I've been writing for well over 15 years now, but I only started to become really confident in my skills after writing over 1 million words of fanfiction as practice. I wouldn't have bothered creating my own OCs and writing a trilogy if I hadn't gotten so much positive feedback from readers of my Touken Ranbu fics.

When you're a bitch to fanfic writers and castigate them for imperfections, you are directly limiting the professional literature you'll have in the future. You're telling people that unless they're perfect, they might as well not try at all, and then they don't reach that level. You expect free, professional-grade work that matches your current special interest, then wonder why your stock of new fics to enjoy is dwindling.

YOU are the problem when you waltz into AO3 with a consumer mindset. Not the fanfic writers providing you with free content. YOU.

And frankly, I wish someone would take your internet away until you take a course in fandom etiquette. Get out.

[helpallthenamesaretakensblog]

so :D i wrote my first ever fanfic because i was intrigued and want to know if i could do it. i hope you like it :)) i nerded out way too much on this one so spare me pls be kind!

description: set during the battle of manhattan, tlo. slightly canon divergent. lot of percy angst. tw: su!cidal thoughts. percys pov. percabeth being cute. based on the poem 'stopping by the woods on a snowy evening' by robert frost :)

Miles to Go Before I Sleep- A PJO Fanfiction

I couldn't sleep that night. I paced the room for two hours until late night as if there was something terrible was going to happen. I was worried sick--about Annabeth, about the war, about everything. At midnight, moonlight streamed through the hotel window as I sat, almost lifelessly on the bed, staring into nothing. Suddenly, I heard a creak in the door, and I was about to snatch riptide before I heard a whisper, "Percy? You awake?"

In the shadows, I saw the familiar figure of Grover, tired after a long day of attending to the satyrs. He sat down next to me on the bed, and we both stared at the wall in comfortable silence. For a moment, I could almost close my eyes and imagine that we were 12 year olds at Yancy again. "The Apollo kids are seeing you through the hotel surveillance cameras. They sent me to ask you to sleep" "Since you're the only one right now who I'll listen to?" ".....yep"

While Grover rambled something about him being my unofficial mom right now, I looked at my bedside table, and there it was. Pandora's Jar. Man, I wished the stupid thing would stop following me around, and right now, it wasn't the best time for me to want to resist opening it. Unfortunately, Grover read my emotions. "You want to open it, don't you?"

The question, which had always been on the back of my mind, really stung now that it was said out loud. I think Grover could see I was breaking down a little on the inside, and wrapped me in an awkward hug. "I-I do," it came spilling out of my mouth, my voice cracking. "It just feels like the Fates are giving me an opportunity instead of a challenge. I feel like everything around me is falling apart. I'm not good at handling war. If I give up to Kronos, he'd kill me, as long as I'd make him promise he wouldn't hurt you guys. It's just easier. It's better for everyone else" My eyes felt wet, and I pulled away quickly. Grover looked so lost, I immediately felt bad for making him worry about me. "Go to sleep, Percy," he said in a painful tone, as if I was a delusional grandpa who had gotten loose from the nursing home bed. Before I could say anything, he pulled out his reedpipes. Before I could protest, he started playing soft, sweet music and before I knew it, I was asleep.

In my dream, I was sitting with Annabeth in the strawberry field, while she had a book in her lap. Annabeth was smiling, her hair glinting in the sunlight. She was okay. We were okay. It was a sunny day and all the campers were having fun. I remembered this day; this conversation had happened two months before the war. Woah. That felt so far away.

"I finally found the greek version of this poem!" she said excited, her eyes sparkling, which gave me butterflies. "This poem is really famous for the last four lines, wait-wait, I'll read it out to you" She picked it up. "So the English version of these lines are: "The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep" I bumped her shoulder with mine. "Ok, nerd...what's the point?"

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. "It basically means that the poet wanted to die and found death a beautiful easy way out, but he realised he still had a duty in his life and that he still had a long way before his time to go, isn't that so poetic?" "I guess. You're better at this than me"

This didn't happen that day, but she opened her arms, as if about to hug me, probably due to Grover's magical reedpipe music, and for a second I felt elated that life felt livable again, before the ground opened up before she could, and I fell into endless darkness.

I woke up, shaking. I felt like I had been given a sweater in the cold before it got snatched away, leaving me back in the freezing winter. Grover was gone. I wanted to go back to sleep. I wanted things to be alright again. I wanted to see Annabeth happy and nerdy as usual and hug her. But sunlight streamed in through the window, and I forced myself out of the bed and went up the stairs to where Annabeth was.

When I walked up to her in the chair, my heart broke again. She looked so different from the dream. Her eyes were weakly staring at the view, she was shivering and her face was still a little gray. "Hey" she said. I checked up on her, talking to her about her health, which was slowly getting better, thankfully, but it didn't stop me from feeling guilty.

As I stared at her hopelessly, Pandora's Jar appeared on the table next to her. Annabeth studied my face. "We should put it in a place where it stays there"

I nodded my head in agreement. I took the jar gingerly in my hands. I looked out into the view from above. The whole city was in my sight. I saw demigods rebuilding the mortal's homes, some of which were damaged after the day's fight. I saw Nico rejoining a skeleton from his army's bones, with Will hovering curiously from a distance. "Is that a coccyx ?" "Gesundheit" If I died, he'd be the prophecy kid. I saw two tired aphrodite girls staring at a broken mirror, as if wondering where their life (and skin) started to break. I needed to keep them going. I needed to survive, I couldn't let them down. I needed to give them what they were fighting for. They were fighting for me. All my depression would have to wait for another day.

"It must be annoying," Annabeth said. "Don't you ever just want to open it?"

"Nah," I gave her my bravest smile, as I carried the jar to the door, where I would give it to be locked in a storage locker in the hotel. "I have promises to keep; and miles to go before I sleep"

[naffeclipse]

Hey I just wanted to thank you for writing and sharing your ideas with the world. There’s a long list of reasons why you and your work are so great, most of which people have already voiced better than I ever could at this point. However, for me personally, it’s literally changed the entire direction of my life.

I was really close to calling a quits on art as a whole when I initially stumbled across your work because I thought I’d hit my limit and the thief of comparison had turned everything stale. Then I started reading fanfic again as a last ditch effort to shake the dirt off my wings, and Sleuth Jesters might as well have been the universe strapping me down to the top of a car and running me through a wash. It inspired me so much I was literally up at night day dreaming what the next chapter would be about. Then it ended and still radiated like sun baked concrete. Nothing had come close in a long time, and I was ready to accept that once the heat faded I’d probably just have to call it- a truely breathtaking last hurrah for my dying hobby.

Then you just… kept going! Everything was better than the last, and while not everything threatened to turn me into a freshly microwaved hot pocket the worlds were diverse, well thought out, and immersive enough to inspire drawing in ways I’d just never bothered trying before because I’d just never had a reason. The images, angels, poses, scenery- never manifested for me till you wrote them down in ways that painted pictures on the back of my eyelids and lingered like hauntings.

So thank you! I appreciate having my hobby back, and I owe all the improvements I’ve made over the last year or so to you, because I would’ve thrown in the towel otherwise.

Also sorry if this is a repeat? I’m getting a sense of déjà vu but I’m like, 85% sure this is the first time I’ve at least hit send!

You have no idea how much this means to me. I know that feeling of wanting to give up on a hobby because of comparing it to others or not feeling good enough and like no one cares what you've worked on, but I'm really glad you didn't give it up. I'm also really happy that my works could inspire and do some good. I really want my work to be a comfort and to do something nice for someone else, and reading this really makes my heart soar. I feel like my work matters because of beautiful comments like these and I will always appreciate them. Thank you so much, babe <3

[lizardsfromspace]

Ben Chatham was too niche to ever become known outside one forum but it's the My Immortal of Doctor Who. It was a series starring the writer's self-insert companion, Ben Chatham, and I guess it started with his fanfic version of series 2 (not sure if it's still online anywhere, but there's a summary), where Jackie dies of cancer bc the author thought chavs shouldn't be allowed on Doctor Who & the Doctor murders a hamster. His stories are full of random grim moments, and no one is ever heroic, since everyone just dies until UNIT can save the day. Ben Chatham is gay and a military-loving Tory. He reintroduced Adam and Jack over the course of the season bc he didn't like writing women doing or saying things and bc he felt Rose was too lower class to be allowed on television

I think I first learned about him when he posted his pitch for Matt Smith's first story:

"Martha Jones is walking down the cobbled street of the Cornish village of Little Bampton towards the local Inn, pondering why UNIT had sent her to investigate the strange sightings nearby and disappearances. Since entering into full time investigative work for UNIT in the UK following the events of Journey’s End she had never been so bored by a case. Nothing has happened in the three weeks that she had been in the village and she found the locals distasteful and she suspected some of the older ones were rather prejudiced.

Suddenly there is a familiar sound and she sees the TARDIS materialise in front of her. She grins excitedly as the door is flung open: “DOCTOR……….OH” she shouts as instead of the Doctor, a slip youth with floppy hair emerges, dressed in jeans and a casual jacket. “Who are you? Wheres the Doctor” she exclaims. “Hey babe, I’m like the Doctor. I’ve regenerated like. Wow its great to see you again. Wicked!”Martha is perturbed:

“But you’re so….. So much younger.” “Yay its great to be a kid again. I’m like so gonna get a myspace page. You look great in that jacket babe, I’ve like SO got the hots for you. Hows about we get up close and personal on the TARDIS double bed.” The Doctor coyly lets his floppy hair descend over his eyes."

There's a lot going on here, but my fave parts are picturing Matt Smith saying "Hey babe, I'm like the Doctor" and the fact that Martha internally refers to the events of Journey's End as the events of Journey's End. I've accepted ever since that Martha Jones can sense episode titles; she was just out there living her life until she suddenly sees a vortex and the words "THE STOLEN EARTH" floating in the air and groans at having to do this again

Also, in the Chatham canon, Martha hates going on adventures and loves to whine and do nothing. Just like everyone else. Meanwhile the Eleventh Doctor is a horny freak who wants to fuck and post to MySpace. Both of them despise poor people

This story also features the Russian mob whose leader, named Ivan, has henchmen named Ivan, bc he could only think of one Russian name.

Was the writer of this serious or a troll? We will never know. Certainly he was surrounded by trolls. He got an entire subforum quarantining promoting his stories, and there were fanfics of his fanfic, made by trolls whose sincerity was also, for many years, in doubt (they were trolls)

What we do know is that the writer repeatedly insisted it was canon, and wrote a letter to Doctor Who Magazine demanding more coverage of his OC. They sent him a lengthier letter he posted on forum but in the magazine all they said was

"Er…who?"

Which just about sums it up

[hannyoontify]

requested by anon

[13:39] lying on your shared couch with minghao, you're reminded once again why you love him so much as the two of you lazily bask in the early afternoon sunlight that streams through the window.

your head is resting on his lap with your nose buried into a book recommended by your lovely boyfriend. minghao's leaning back against the couch as he scrolled through his phone with one hand–a rare sight to see, he always preferred books over devices–and the other hand mindlessly playing with the tresses of your hair–a much more common sight to see. you enjoyed these moments. quiet, intimate moments where all you can hear is your breath and the occasional crumpling of the pages of the book you had in hand.

minghao let out a quiet grunt, and you forced your eyes away from the pages of the book to look up at him. he had a concentrated look on his face as he stared down the screen in his hand.

'hao, what's wrong?' your soft voice broke the comfortable silence. you reached up and smoothed out his bunched up eyebrows with your thumb. 'you'll get wrinkles, love'

'nothing, i js found a headcanon on tumblr about what kind of boyfriend our team would be and seungcheol's was kinda accurate' your boyfriend mumbled and took your hand that was resting on his face in his own. his long, slender fingers felt cool against your warm palm and you felt heat rising up to your cheeks.

'y-yeah? how so?'

'like they mentioned an inside joke only the team and our staff members plus you know about... like how did they know about that?' minghao questioned as he absentmindedly pressed his lips against your fingertips. he was obviously engrossed in whatever else was on his phone, so you left it at that.

you could only pray that what he was reading was not your post that you wrote literally 2 days ago in the dead of night when minghao came home a little later than usual from practice. unbeknownst to your lovely boyfriend of almost 2 years, you were actually an avid fanfic connoisseur with quite a big fanbase on tumblr. for, you guessed it, your boyfriend's team, seventeen.

you first started writing as a way to deal with your delulu-ness when you first developed a crush on minghao. you were just an office worker at hybe who got assigned to work with seventeen for a couple months as they prepared for their next comeback, and you had fallen head over heels for their lucky number 8. and when the two of you started dating, you published recreations of dates and little scenarios as a way to remember and relive all the smaller, intimate moments that brought you so much joy.

you were now regretting that choice.

you watched in horror as minghao's concentrated eyebrows furrowed into each other even more, his eyes pointing sharply towards his phone screen. you noticed how his thumbs began to scroll faster, and you caught a glimpse of his phone screen blurring past through the reflection of his glasses, which meant that he was scrolling down to look for his specific headcanon.

'hey, hao, isn't today laundry day-' you sat up briskly, trying to distract your boyfriend from his phone, but he gently pressed your head back down into his lap while quietly shushing you.

your book was now long forgotten and you ran your hands against your face, mentally preparing yourself for the worst. you covered your eyes with your hands and waited for minghao to say something. you don't know how much time passed but you were sure at this point, he had finished reading your entire masterlist.

he even chuckled under his breath at some point, and you could feel the vibrations of his low laughs throughout his body.

'[name], love, have you been writing about me?' your sweet boyfriend asked you in a soft voice as he gently removed your hands from your eyes.

you groaned in embarrassment and rolled to your side, hiding your face in his abdomen. 'i swear it's not what it looks like' you mumbled into the fabric of his soft shirt. you could still smell a trace of the fabric softener, and that helped you calm your heart rate a bit.

'yes, i started writing because i had a crush on you but then after we started dating, i thought this could be a cute way of keeping record of all of our dates and our more smaller, intimate moments that we might forget in a couple months, i swear i wasn't being creepy' you whined. 'please don't hate me... i can take down the account if you're uncomfortable'

minghao helped you sit up and held your burning face in his hands. 'my [name], my sweet, sweet [name]. why would i hate you? first and foremost, you can never do anything to make me hate you, and second of all, i think it's cute. do you have a lot of followers?'

your lips jutted out into a pout and brought up hand dejectedly, showing him how many followers you had with your fingers.

'4 followers? wow i'm so proud of you [name]- ow!' that earned him a smack on his arm.

'for your information, xu minghao, i have over 4k followers so don't even' you wagged a sassy finger in his face and he broke out into a boyish grin.

'ooo someone's famous'

'shut up you literally have 8 million followers on instagram'

minghao laughed and pulled you in for a tight hug. you wrapped your arms around his torso and leaned into his touch, feeling welcomed by the familiar scent of his fabric softener and his own scent you could never put your finger on.

'i love you, [name]. i can't wait for your collection to grow so we can read through them together once we grow gray and old'

you hummed into his shirt. 'i love you too. i hope the collection never stops growing'

minghao pulled away from the hug to look into your eyes, your chin resting between his thumb and index finger. he dropped down and pressed a quick kiss to your lips before pulling away and you immediately noticed the left corner of his lip tugging into a small, teasing smirk.

'me too'

a/n: a special thank you to @etherealyoungk for beta reading(?) some parts thank you skye 😭

[olderthannetfic]

I had an incredibly odd moment last night at an event night for my dorm. Basically this girl and I were the last people left painting after everyone else had finished, the conversation was going well, and then she mentioned fanfic and how cringy and bad it was. Confused by my fellow nerdy type disliking a core part of nerdery, I admitted that I wrote fanfic, that I loved canon-divergent AUs and I wasn't sure what was wrong. "It's equally fictional either way," I said, which she did seem to pause and think about before acknowledging that was true.

Then she clarified the problem was Boku No Hero Academia. (For full transparency, I have not watched it. Confused, I said, "Isn't that just some shounen series? What's wrong with that? I like shounen." So then she hits me with, "The fandom is gross. That write things that shouldn't be depicted or portrayed." I stared at her, confused. "Like pedophilia."

I admitted, because I felt comfortable with her, that I had written fanfic about CSA and a survivor finding hope for the future, a therapist, true love and his abuser eventually getting his comeuppance. She looked at the painting and not at me. I couldn't tell if she was mad or not. So I added that, over the course of the year and a half of writing it, nine people had told me that reading it had helped them either decide to seek out therapy or helped them realize what happened to them was abuse and that it mattered. And I think it's worth it to make something that makes someone uncomfortable if it helps other people out, and also, the back button is right there. No one has to read something.

Looking upset but affect flat, she said that BNHA fans write things that "glorify" pedophilia. And I, because I am a dick with no social skills, went, "Well, don't read it." She clarified it shouldn't be allowed to exist because it "does harm to people". I said that abusers are responsible for abuse they commit, and nothing they read makes them do it. Psychologists, I reminded her, since several people in her family are psychologists, study and witness things much more horrible than we can imagine, which abusers often say are necessary, justified and sometimes kinda cool, and they don't do any of it. Stephen King didn't commit any murders as a run-up to writing about murder.

She went back to staring at the paint and said I didn't understand the harm it was doing, because it was normalizing it. So I pointed out that no amount of movies where killing the bad guy is a cool, glorious, badass thing to do has made murder socially acceptable in society. "But that's killing," was the objection. "Which is violence," I said in return, "just not sexual violence. But if a hundred years of killing the person who wronged you in cinema didn't make people fine with murder, I don't think a fanfic is going to make it that way." She scoffed and looked away. In a gentler tone, I finished with, "I don't think all of the socialization someone goes through in life and everything they've been told in their entire life can be undone by some anime characters."

She did not say anything to me for the rest of the painting time. She left without a word. I thought for sure she was angry with me and we weren't going to take anymore.

Today, she smiled and waved at me on campus like everything is fine and nothing uncomfy happened.

I don't understand. I am, however, neurodivergent, and therefore bad at social signals, so I may be missing something, here. She was never visibly angry at me when we talked, nor did she raise her voice, so I don't think that I was awful, here. However, not saying anything to me for a full forty minutes or even looking at me indicates to me I had said something that made her upset.

Neurotypicals, please advise. What is going on, here?

--

Well... probably she just had her dumb assumptions challenged and wasn't sure how to feel about it in the moment.