#It's so embarrassing seeing them all in one list..

[starmaidengarden]

Hiii!! May I request housewarden finding out their insomniac s/o easily falls asleep when he hugs them, rubs their back or hears his voice? The activities he does its up to you, no need to be what i list, thank youu >v<

— housewarden x gn!reader. no cw/tw. established relationship. dividers: uzmacchiato.

Riddle Rosehearts ༉⋆｡˚

When you admit that you’ve been struggling with insomnia—but mysteriously fall asleep whenever you’re in his arms or hear his voice—Riddle stares at you, wide-eyed. He takes a moment to process what you’ve said. Then he remembers the times you dozed off in the middle of his lengthy rule explanations or the way you clung to him for comfort during naps, finally finding some peace.

His face turns bright red. “If it helps… I suppose I can make an exception,” he replies, flustered yet secretly pleased by the idea. That night, he sits by your bed with a book in hand, reading aloud from a magical theory textbook in his softest voice. You curl into his arms, your breathing gradually evening out with each page turn. He finds himself gently rubbing calming circles on your back, whispering, “Sleep well, my rose…”

Leona Kingscholar ༉⋆｡˚

The first time he discovers it is by accident. You're lying beside him in the botanical gardens, tossing and turning. But the moment he wraps an arm around your waist, and mutters, “Just go to sleep already,” you go still—and then he hears your soft, steady breathing. Leona blinks, confused. “Oi… did you just fall asleep?” He scoffs, but a quiet smirk plays on his lips.

He pretends it’s a hassle. “You’re so needy, herbivore,” he grumbles as he stretches out and makes room for you in his bed later that night. But truthfully, he finds it comforting. He starts wrapping his arms around you instinctively, drawing lazy circles on your back with his finger, his deep, gravelly voice mumbling stories from the Sunset Savanna or simply humming against your ear.

Azul Ashengrotto ༉⋆｡˚

Azul is flustered beyond belief. He fidgets with his glasses, his face a bright red. “My… voice?” he repeats. His insecurities bubble up instantly. Is it pity? Some trick? But when he sees how sincere—and embarrassed—you are, his heart softens.

It’s awkward at first. He’s never seen himself as someone comforting, but he begins tentatively offering to stay while you fall asleep. One evening, you ask him to talk about his latest Mostro Lounge plans, and he starts rambling—only for you to fall asleep against his shoulder. After that, he makes it a nightly habit lying beside you, stroking your back gently, talking about everything from business to the sea.

Kalim Al-Asim ༉⋆｡˚

Kalim lights up. “Really?! Just me hugging you or talking can help you sleep?!” He’s genuinely thrilled. No hesitation. “Then I’ll do it every night!” He starts treating it like a sacred duty. Every night, He’ll drag you to his room with a pile of pillows and blankets, enthusiastically throwing himself into bed next to you, wrapping you up in his arms like a burrito, telling you silly stories about his childhood, humming little desert lullabies, or rubbing your back with his hands as he wishes you the sweetest dreams.

If you're anxious or restless, he’ll rub your back in soothing circles and tell stories about his travels until your eyelids droop. When you fall asleep mid-sentence or smile sleepily as you curl into him, Kalim whispers, “Sleep well, sunshine,” and holds you close, absolutely glowing from understanding that his love helps you rest.

Vil Schoenheit ༉⋆｡˚

When Vil first discovers that your insomnia disappears only when you’re being touched, he pauses mid-movement. You immediately started to fall asleep while he tried a new skincare mask on you. When you quietly confess your insomnia and how only his presence or voice soothes you, he gazes at you with something unreadable—then lets out a slow sigh. “Of all the things to be dependent on…” he mutters, brushing a hand through your hair, “...you choose me.” It sounds haughty, but there's a quiet vulnerability underneath.

He takes it seriously, creating a serene nighttime atmosphere for you. Lavender oil diffusing, silk sheets, his gentle voice discussing skincare or reciting poetry—Vil makes sure your nights are beautiful and restful. He won’t say it aloud, but knowing he brings you peace moves him.

Idia Shroud ༉⋆｡˚

Idia nearly malfunctions the first time he realizes you only fall asleep when he’s talking. You’re lying on his bed, surrounded by neon screens, and he’s nervously explaining the backstory of some obscure anime villain when you fall asleep—while he’s still talking. “D-did I bore you to sleep?!” he frets. But then he sees your peaceful expression.

You later tell him that it’s not boredom—it’s comfort. He blushes harder than he ever has in his life. After that, Idia gets weirdly good at helping you sleep. He sets up mood lighting, plays soft lo-fi playlists, and starts recording rambling voice memos about his favorite games and theories.

Malleus Draconia ༉⋆｡˚

Malleus is incredibly moved. “My presence soothes your mind?” he asks, awed. To be your sanctuary is something that touches his heart deeply. He holds you with reverence, humming ancient lullabies from Briar Valley or simply speaking of his day. The fact that you relax in his arms, trusting him completely, is a treasure he guards fiercely. He’ll be there each night without fail—your guardian in both dreams and wakefulness.

If you're tossing and turning, he wraps you in his arms and gently rubs your back. He’ll speak slowly—each word a gentle stone building your pathway to sleep. He looks down at you, sleeping peacefully in his arms, and whispers to the stars above, “Even in your dreams, you trust me.” He begins taking your rest as a personal responsibility. He will hold you each night, humming low melodies from his homeland, ancient lullabies in a language only the fae know. His voice is deep and resonant—just enough to calm your restless thoughts.

[piastriprincess]

fell  in  love  at  the  orange  show  speedway ⸻  oscar  piastri  x  reader .

featuring  oscar  piastri  ,  driver!reader  ,  she  fell  first  he  fell  harder  . word  count  2k author’s  note  wow  wow  wow  we’re  finally  here  !  this  is  the  culmination  of  my  birthday  build - a - fic  event  .  thank  you  so  much  again  for  all  the  love  on  the  event  ,  i  was  so  happy  that  everyone  was  interested  !!  it  still  blows  my  mind  that  so  many  of  you  are  excited  about  my  work  and  i  am  so  so  grateful  .  i  had  so  much  fun  going  on  this  journey  with  yall  and  i  really  really  hope  you  love  the  result  !  depending  on  when  i  hit  my  next  follower  count  milestone  another  event  may  be  coming  very  soon  lol  …  as  always  PLEASE  come  tell  me  what  you  think  and  lmk  if  you  want  more  of  this  reader  and  osc  <3  title  is  from  orange  show  speedway  by  lizzy  mcalpine  !

The email shines up at you like a spotlight, the kind that always makes you wince and look away.

F1 Rising Stars promotional photoshoot. Thursday, 12 PM, at the paddock. Hair & makeup will be provided; race attire required. And just below that, in the participants list: Oscar Piastri is attending.

You’ve read it so many times the words have begun to blur together, except for his name, which has remained annoyingly clear in your mind every time you close your eyes. You didn’t know it was possible to have a crush on the shape of someone’s name in your phone, but you suppose when it comes to your feelings for Oscar, you should stop being so surprised. 

The worst part is, it didn’t take much. It started last year, when you were new to the grid, the first woman driver in fifty years. A heavy legacy to carry on your shoulders, and an even worse one to carry alone. You were never much for the spotlight anyway, but when you got to F1 it felt like every eye was on you: not just to watch your performance, but to pass judgment about every single woman in motorsport if you put a foot wrong. The other drivers were polite but distant, like their reps had forced them to memorize the HR handbook before they were allowed to talk to you. Except Oscar, who walked you to the media pen when you got lost with a friendly smile, who gave you a fist bump and an “impressive drive” when you dragged the Racing Bulls tractor to Q3 in your first ever quali. That was it — since then, you’ve been disgustingly down bad, wearing your heart on your sleeve for him like it’s the team’s newest sponsor. 

Everyone can see it. Isack clocked it within five minutes of becoming your teammate. There’s a running bet in your garage about whether you’ll ever say more than six words to him at a time without blushing. Through it all, Oscar’s remained his lovely, friendly self. You don’t know if he knows, and you definitely don’t want to find out. You’re not sure what would be more humiliating: him being completely oblivious, or him knowing and politely pretending not to.

“Hey,” your performance coach says gently as she hands you a water bottle, evidently getting tired of you fidgeting with your phone for the better part of ten minutes during what is supposed to be a training session. “Don’t overthink it. It’s just a photoshoot.”

Just a photoshoot. Alone. With Oscar Piastri. The boy who makes you forget how to string sentences together when he smiles at you during driver briefings, all bunny teeth and big brown eyes. The boy you’ve been harboring the world’s most embarrassing crush on for months. With a camera shoved in your face, documenting your every move. 

“Right,” you sigh, shoving your phone into your bag and taking a long swig from the bottle like it will cool your flushed cheeks. “Just a photoshoot.”

You’re early on Thursday, of course. You’re always early when you’re nervous, and over the past few days the anxious buzz in your stomach has transformed into full-on nauseous butterflies. You’re nearly hyperventilating by the time you get to hair and makeup, picturing photos with your hair teased, siren makeup, and suit unzipped in the sultry way you know in your bones you could absolutely never pull off. But thankfully, they let you wear your hair the same way you always do, just smoothing a few flyaways and dabbing a bit of highlighter over your cheeks. “Natural beauty,” the stylist calls it with a proud smile. “Just like you.”

You’ve never been good at accepting compliments, and today is no exception, mumbling a thank you and ducking your head so they can’t see the blush on your cheeks. But you do look pretty, you think — at least, you look like you, just… a more confident version. 

The confidence goes out the window the minute you step onto the set. You’d thought your punctuality might buy you a bit of time, but Oscar’s already there, leaning against the prop car like a teen idol pin-up and talking to the photographer about camera angles, or lighting, or something equally important you should probably be paying attention to. You’re not listening. Instead, you’re cataloguing the way his race suit stretches over his broad shoulders, the way his hair falls in the perfect swoop over his forehead. Drinking in the details of his face so carefully that you forget to look where you’re walking, promptly trip over a lighting cord, and nearly go sprawling to the ground. 

Oscar turns at the noise, smiling at you in a way that makes your chest go tight. “Quite an entrance,” he says, and there’s a laugh in his voice. It’s not unkind, just amused, but your face feels hot enough that someone should probably pull a fire alarm. “You ready to be rising stars?”

You take a deep breath and straighten up, manage what you hope sounds like a normal laugh in return. “A-As ready as I’ll ever be, I think.”

The photographer introduces herself. She’s almost aggressively cheerful, treats you and Oscar both like old friends. It doesn’t put you at ease, exactly, but it soothes some of the anxiety in your stomach. “How about we start with some individual shots, get you both warmed up,” she says kindly, gesturing toward the backdrop. 

Your solo session is… fine. You’re not comfortable, exactly, but you know how to smile on command, how to look confident even when your palms are sweating and your fireproofs feel tight around your neck. Oscar, of course, looks completely calm in front of the cameras when it’s his turn, like he’s done it a thousand times (he probably has — you can hardly forget the Vogue photoshoot you pored over a few months ago). You can’t help but steal glances at him as he laughs with the photographer, at ease in this world in a way you’ve never quite mastered. 

“Let’s get some shots together,” the photographer calls, ushering you back to the car to stand next to Oscar. The first few poses are easy enough — standing side by side, crossing your arms, holding out your helmets to the camera. It’s awkward, though. Your chest feels tight, and you’re hyperaware of your body, of Oscar’s closeness. Every time his shoulder brushes against yours, your heart flutters completely unprofessionally against your ribs.

“Are you okay? You’re standing like you’re being held hostage,” Oscar mutters out of the corner of his mouth as the shutter clicks.

The dry humor takes you so by surprise that you forget to be nervous, giggling lightly. “Stop. I’m trying to be photogenic, Oscar.”

“Maybe just relax a little,” he says softly, eyes bright. “You don’t have to try so hard.”

The sincerity in his voice is evident, and now your heart is doing something indescribably stupid in your chest. You don’t say another word, but he keeps making those dry little observations about the poses, the overzealous assistant with the reflector, the way the wind keeps sweeping at his hair, and despite the camera flashing in your face it somehow makes it a little easier to breathe. 

“Let’s do something a little less formal,” the photographer says. “Oscar, can you sit on the back wheel there? Perfect. And you, darling,” she says, turning to you, “sit next to him, but angle towards him slightly. Like you’re having a conversation.”

You settle beside him, taking slow, deep breaths. You can smell his cologne from here, something clean and comforting that makes it very hard for you to think straight. 

“You really are nervous,” Oscar says quietly, in a voice reserved just for you, as the photographer adjusts her camera. 

You exhale slightly. “Terrified,” you say before you can stop yourself. 

He turns to look at you properly, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Never would’ve guessed, honestly. You’re usually so… composed.” 

“They have me well trained,” you say dryly, and he laughs like he wasn’t expecting it — wasn’t expecting you. 

“Well, they did well,” he replies, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re pretty brilliant at it.”

Your cheeks flush, fingers curling tight around the edge of your sleeve. But you don’t look away. “Thanks,” you say, and mean it. “But I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t think the spotlight’s really for me. I’ve been here a year and I still always feel a bit out of place.” You wish you could take back the words as soon as you say them. You don’t know why you’re being so honest. Something about the way he’s looking at you, maybe. Like in this photoshoot with what feels like a million people roaming around, you’re the only person he sees. 

“You’re not out of place,” he says quickly. “Not to me.” Then his mouth snaps shut, and he blinks those big brown eyes at you like he hadn’t even expected the words to come out of his mouth. 

You don’t know what to say in response. It’s nicer than you could have imagined, something you wouldn’t have even dared to hope for in the secret moments when you close your eyes at night and picture what it might be like to have Oscar’s lips against yours. 

“Whatever you’re talking about, keep it up!” the photographer calls. “The chemistry is beautiful.”

Oscar flushes, eyes darting to the ground like he's only just realized what he said. You glance down too, pretending to smooth a wrinkle in your sleeve, the edges of your mouth betraying you with the start of a smile. Your hands feel too warm. Everything does.

You don’t look at him, not yet. You’re afraid that if you do, it’ll be written all over your face.

The sun is low in the sky by the time you’re finished, the photographer loudly declaring you two the easiest couple she’s ever worked with. You can’t meet Oscar’s eyes after you hear the word couple, settling for watching him rub at the back of his neck nervously out of the corner of your gaze. The two of you split up after that, heading back to the trailers. You change out of your race suit, and start packing up your things.

As you start walking back down the track towards the garages, you’re expecting that to be the end of it. Until you hear Oscar calling your name from somewhere behind you. 

For a moment, you’re expecting him to be holding something you forgot — your gloves, or a spare helmet, or something. But when you turn to face him, he’s empty-handed, standing a little awkwardly with one toe turned inward, the late afternoon light making his skin glow. 

“Hey,” he says, and it’s almost shy, like he’s gone over it in his mind a couple times the way you do when you’re trying really hard to sound nonchalant. “D’you wanna walk back together?”

“Sure,” you say softly, falling into step beside him. The sunset makes the paddock look like something magical, all golden and glittering. Your shadows stretch long across the asphalt, so close together they look like they might fold into one being. 

Neither of you say much, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just quiet. Easy. He walks you all the way to the Racing Bulls garage, even though you pass McLaren on the way there. 

“Thanks for walking with me,” you say somewhat reluctantly when you arrive. You’re not in any hurry to leave, but surprisingly it doesn’t seem like Oscar is, either. He’s dragging his toe against the gravel like it’ll keep him tethered to the spot. 

“Yeah, of course,” he says, and you can hear the hesitation in his voice. Like he’s on the edge of doing something he’s not quite sure of. You wait for just a moment, heart in your throat, but he doesn’t move. And then, just as you sigh and turn to go, he speaks.

“You know, I meant what I said earlier. You didn’t even have to try, and it was hard not to look at you.”

You’re only frozen for a moment before you whirl around, but it’s enough. He’s already walking away, but you can see even in the setting sun that he’s pink up to his ears. 

You smile to yourself, pulse thrumming wildly in your ears. All of a sudden, you don’t feel so out of place anymore. 

[starryeyed-apple]

everything you need

summary: Due to your period pain, you have to cancel a date with Xavier. He stays by your side and comforts you throughout it.

★pairing: Xavier x Reader ★wc: 2.8k ★content: Reader has menstrual cycles (no mention of gender), description of periods (cramps, nausea, brief mentions of blood, taking medication for pain/nausea). Hurt/comfort, very soft, teeny bit of angst. Xavier takes care of Reader during their period, is generally supportive and the sweetest boyfriend. Xavier calls Reader Starlight, sweetheart, baby. Xavier's phone nickname is bunbun bf. References to Horizon’s Pulse. ★a/n: I finally played Horizon’s Pulse and cried. And then I wanted to write my first Xavier fic as a little follow-up to it, but it turned into a totally self-indulgent period comfort fic? But I love it, and hope it's comforting to others too <3 (I haven't played Feverish Attempts yet, so there's no spoilers for that in here) masterlist ★ read on ao3

Periods had always knocked you the fuck out.

It was something you had to gently make Xavier aware of once your relationship really progressed into something serious. Something that meant nights spent at each other’s place, which could bring with it issues if his apartment wasn't well-stocked for your monthly needs.

He hadn’t even blinked when you first brought it up. He only asked you what types of products you preferred, nodding intently when you listed off your favorite brands along with the other necessities—painkillers (most of his were unopened and expired, as he neglected his occasional injures and “never got sick”) and a heating pad (again, old, as in it's like he’s had the thing for decades old, just like the one Gran had back home).

“I can get bad cramps,” you reply, a bit awkwardly as you notice his brows furrow, light eyelashes fluttering with a look of concern. You weren’t embarrassed—you just didn’t want to worry him. You were used to it, but he wasn’t. “Like, really bad. Back in high school I’d miss classes, or full days. All I could do was lie down in the bathroom until it passed.”

“Does it still get that bad?” His voice is soft, his eyes pained. There’s something that flashes through them too quick, but the only evidence of the fleeting, haunted expression is how he reaches for your hand and holds on tight.

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

He stares down at your hand in his, tracing his thumb down over your veins. It rubs over your pulse point, and he’s so quiet for a moment, you wonder if he’s counting the beats.

Why, though, you’re not sure.

“I won’t die from cramps, Xavier,” you laugh, and his face pinches again, turning downwards until all you can see is his fluffy hair.

He presses a kiss to where your heart races underneath his lips, then peers up at you through his long, elegant lashes. You stroke your free hand over his cheek, gazing into those pools of serene blue. He nuzzles into your hand, getting as lost in you.

“Promise?” he mumbles quietly, and you fail to stifle a snort at his cuteness.

“Mhm.” You nod, giggling again at his petulant pout towards your noncommittal answer. “Promise.”

He walks to your favorite convenience store a few blocks away that night, picking out all the things you’d listed, and more. There’s electrolyte drinks and little cookies, and three heating pads in the bags he brings back. They all have different cloths and settings, and he insists you try out each to decide which one helps best.

A couple mornings later is when the cramps hit. It’s a lighter period, pain and flow wise, and you’re grateful he doesn’t have to see it so bad that first time.

Xavier wasn’t exactly the type to hover—even if he got clingy, he knew you were capable. But maybe that was the reason why your menstrual cycle always seemed to stress him out a bit. He just didn’t seem to like the idea of your own body taking you out of commission.

Curled around your favorite heating pad on the couch—one with a cute little star pattern on the fabric, you were happy at the coincidence since you liked its heat settings the most—you sip at one of the juice boxes he’d gotten for you, while he gently massages your feet in his lap.

For a moment, he seems to hesitate. Then he asks, softly, the words almost lost in the calm air of the moment, “Do you want me to track it?”

You blink, glancing at him. “Track it?”

“Yeah.” Xavier shifts, pressing his thumb into your heel in pleasant circles before meeting your eyes. “If that would help you be prepared for when it comes. Only if you’re comfortable with it, though.”

You smile, heart swelling with affection for this man who’d stumbled into your life—or maybe you’d stumbled into his.

Or maybe everything had been leading you to each other all along.

You’d agreed, and that was that. Xavier tracked your cycle alongside you with your consent, gently reminding you of its possible effects on you when your emotions were too high, and realization may slip.

Somehow, those moments didn’t frustrate you. Maybe it was just the gentle ease with which Xavier spoke, his boundless patience and genuine grace, especially when it came to you.

So you weren’t really sure how you both managed to miss it this time.

You were glad it had fallen on the weekend, at least, so you didn’t have to either waste a sick day or be forced to tough it out, going into fighting Wanderers while already bleeding. But you were also pissed as hell that your cramps kept you bedridden for both your days off.

Worse, you had to cancel your day trip with Xavier out to a popular new hotpot restaurant on the farther edge of the city.

Even worse than that, he knew right away that something was wrong.

Xavier was never one to be upset over canceled plans. He was just as happy curling up on the couch with you, enjoying some favorite takeout with a cheesy movie on in the background.

You usually weren’t so upset at waylaid plans either. You could be as much a homebody as your cozy boyfriend, especially considering just how cozy he could be when you were all snuggled up.

(Recently, you even had to make a rule to keep him in another room as you were getting ready to go out, so you wouldn’t be pulled into a cuddle session that ended up in missed dinner reservations.)

But this date, you had been looking forward to. You’d set reminders on both your phones, and a heart nestled next to a star on the old-fashioned calendar hanging in his living room.

The food had sounded so good for the week leading up to it, and maybe that strong craving should’ve been a hint to check your own calendar system, in hindsight. But there hadn't been a mark for it on his, either. It had slipped both your minds this time around.

The pinching, throbbing pain in your abdomen waking you up on the Saturday you were set for your date let you know the gravity of your mistake.

“Fuck,” you hissed, clutching at your stomach as you pulled yourself up and into the bathroom, doubled over from the added nausea the pain brought with it.

It was a good thing you were sleeping in your own apartments that morning. Better not to scare Xavier with the potential of blood on his spotless white sheets or, worse, give him a heart attack if he woke up to find you curled up on the bathroom floor.

You don’t know how long your forehead was pressed to the cool tile, until you were able to pull yourself up enough to force down some pain reliever from the medicine cabinet. Stumbling back to bed with a cold washcloth pressed over the back of your neck, you grabbed for your phone to send him a quick text.

You blinked in surprise to find he had already sent two messages about an hour ago.

Morning, Starlight. Can I come over early Can't wait to see U

Your phone pings again, and you rub your eyes.

bunbun bf poked you R U awake

You poise your fingers to type a reply, pondering your excuses, but stop when another message bubble pops up from him.

It says read. U feeling okay

You sigh, rubbing your forehead. How does he already know?

I'm okay. Hey, think we can do our hotpot date another day? Just feeling tired. I think yesterday's mission wore me out more than I realized.

Mid-typing another response, your phone pings again.

Liar I'm coming over now

You groan, wondering if you wanted to push back on this, before tossing your phone to the side.

Maybe he could grab your soda crackers from the kitchen. You were still nauseous, and you didn’t have the strength to go crawling for them right now.

What felt like only a few seconds later had Xavier knocking on your front door, even before he used his thumbprint to let himself in. You wonder if he teleported down here.

“Sweetheart?”

His footprints lead straight to your bedroom, and you hear his breath catch the moment he sees you from the doorway.

Now you really wonder if he teleported, because he’s by your side in an instant, hand pressed to your forehead, gently turning your face so he can see you.

“What’s wrong?” His voice is hushed, sweet and gentle as ever. But you hear the undercurrent of worry that rushes his words just a bit, even quicker with panic the more he talks. “Are you sick? Are you in pain? Did you get injured yesterday? I didn’t notice anything.”

You shake your head, and his assessment scans down your body. He gently nudges away the sheets curled around your sweaty, clammy skin.

“Oh, Starlight,” he whispers, rubbing his warm palms around where you clutch at your abdomen. “I’m sorry, I must’ve forgotten to note it down. Shit.”

You manage to arch an eyebrow. Sure, Xavier could have quite the dirty mouth on him when the mood struck—especially when a certain mood struck—but something about this felt especially frustrated. An irritation turned inwards.

“Hey,” you murmur, nudging his thigh with your knee once you get it free of the sheets. “Don’t be mad at yourself. It must’ve come early. Or late, who knows. It happens.”

He sighs, focusing back in on you. His eyes are big and caring, blond hair shining with a golden sheen in the morning light that peeks through your curtains.

“What can I do for you?”

You just about melt at that, smiling weakly up at him.

“Can you get my crackers?”

He’s nodding, already moving towards the door. “Nauseous? Do you have your—”

“No, I’m out,” you sigh, pinching your nose as you remember you’d put off refilling your anti nausea medication. “Can you check for—”

“Gatorade, yeah, if there isn’t any I’ll order some,” he calls softly from rustling around in the kitchen, a place where you’d usually dread Xavier spending time in.

You don’t need to ask to know he’ll pay for rushed delivery if there isn’t any of your favorite flavor in your fridge. You also don’t need to tell him you’ll pay him back for it, knowing he’ll frown deeper and deeper at you until you relent.

Unfortunately, it’s a period that knocks you out. You’re out of commission for most the day, and that general feeling of malaise lingers into night.

Xavier refuses to leave your side. It lets him see firsthand how much you droop the closer you get to when your dinner reservation was, now canceled. Like a flower without sunlight, curling in on itself to drop all its petals, one by one.

He rubs his hand down your back or massages across your abdomen when you want it, and pulls back to give you space when you don’t. He plays your favorite music on his phone when you sniffle in the silence, and continues to hum the songs when his phone runs out of battery.

Xavier doesn’t comment when you turn over, just silently sets his book aside to hold you when you curl up on his chest. He doesn’t complain when the warmth of the heating pad begins to sear between you, doesn’t pull back when your tears stain his favorite white hoodie.

“Are you sad?” He asks quietly when your crying begins to ease. It may seem a silly question, but you know he wants to hear it from you, if there's anything in particular upsetting you.

You sniff. “No,” you mumble into his chest.

His thumbs massages circles into a tense muscle on your hip, and you sink into him. “Really?” He hums.

You stiffen, then sigh. “No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You shake your head. Then, a moment later, you confess anyway, feeling like you'll explode if you don't, “I just…I was looking forward to our date.”

“I know, baby,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “We can always go another time.”

You feel the tears brimming again. “I know. But I—I wanted to go today.”

“I know,” he murmurs again, soothing and unbothered by your jumbled feelings.

“I wanted to go so bad and I’m just so mad—I hate when this happens, I hate how it just knocks me out.”

Xavier continues to run his soothing touch along your back in circles, letting you talk until you start to make sense out of your emotions.

“It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not,” you confirm his gentle reassurance, sniffling again. “It still sucks, though.”

“It does,” he reaffirms. “It’s not fair.” Then, quieter, “I hate seeing you unwell.”

You hold him tighter. “I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” He hooks his finger under your chin, lifting your face for a gentle kiss. It’s chaste, a familiar, unhurried gesture of affection. “I just wish I could help more.”

“You do more than enough.”

Xavier just hums again, stroking your back and humming your favorite songs until you fall asleep.

In the morning, you wake to find him gone.

You frown, confused and more than a little sad at the empty side of the bed. At least the cramps have eased enough that you can actually pull yourself out of it.

After changing your product in the bathroom, you stumble out into the living room only to find you weren’t so alone after all.

On the counter sits a little flower pot, and Xavier fusses around it, trimming bits of yellowing leaves and gently drizzling a glass of water over it.

“Xavier?”

The water sloshes a bit at your sleepy voice, and he sets the glass down, turning to you with a smile.

“Hey,” he calls, reaching his hand out to you. “Morning.”

“Morning.” You take his hand, letting him tug you closer, returning his quick kiss of greeting. “What’s this?”

“Oh.” He turns back towards the flower, scratching the back of his head. His hair was still a bit messy with sleep, even if he must have gone out to see Jeremiah for this flower, because you don’t recognize it from his apartment’s collection. “It’s a surprise. So, uh…surprise?”

You smile up at him, curiously stroking at the plant’s leaves. “What kind is it?”

“You.”

You blink at him, tilting your head.

“Well, it looks like you. The flower you were on the planet.”

Oh, you think, turning back toward the flower, now seeing its little closed bud. The exhibition.

“I showed Jeremiah the picture book a little while ago, to try and get an accurate version.” Xavier places his hands on your hips, resting his chin on your shoulder. “It hasn’t bloomed yet, but I wanted to cheer you up.”

His grip on you tightens, and his hands slide forward to hug you fully from behind.

“I don’t like it when you’re sick,” he whispers, and your heart aches. But he's gotten better at openly expressing his emotions to you, and you're so proud of that.

“It’s just—”

“I know,” he murmurs, hiding his face into your neck. “Still, I hate seeing you like that. I hate seeing you in pain. It…”

He falls quiet for a moment, and your hands find his, holding them as tightly as he holds you.

“It scares me,” he whispers, breath shaking.

You turn in his arms, palms cupping his cheeks. Xavier tries to look away, and you gently nudge his face back to you, waiting patiently until he looks into your eyes.

“I just want you to get everything you need to bloom, and be healthy.” His eyes flicker away briefly, then back again. There’s something shy in his gaze, and you get to witness it shifting into a confident determination. “I want to give you everything you need.”

Your eyes begin to water, and you try to blink the emotion away. You remember that planet that never existed, how he had given you his own light to bloom under. How he asked you to come with him when you called for him with all your soul, how his own soul answered.

“Well.” You clear your throat, trying to get rid of the tear-choked knot in there. “Good.”

Your fingers trace his face, and you stare at him with so much adoration until he begins to faintly glow. You keep staring, until his light burns into your retinas. Until you can see him in the dark. Until he's all that you can see.

“It’s good, then,” you say again, smiling at him, and feeling like a flower that's finally blossomed when he smiles back. “That you’re everything I need.”

[azzishands]

Fan of a fan - Chapter three

Paige x Azzi

Word count: 5.1k

Warnings: sexual content

---

The party was being held at some club downtown. The entire club was rented by some C-list celebrity Aubrey was close with and they all were able to skip the whole line because of that. The whole ride to the club, Paige was making conversation with the actresses. Azzi quickly learned how good Paige was at making people feel included. 

“What you girls drinking?” Paige asks over the loud music in the club once they were inside. 

“I’ll probably have a GT,” Zendaya answers. 

“And let me guess, tequila for you?” Paige turns to Azzi with a playful smile. 

Azzi groans and buries her head in her hands in embarrassment. 

“Please forget about that night,” she says. 

“I’d rather not,” Paige just states. “But for real, what can I get you?”

“Let me follow you,” Azzi says, but before she does, she turns to her friend. “You wanna come get drinks with us?”

“Nah, I think I’ll stay here with KK and the girls for a while,” Zendaya answers, then leans in to whisper something in Azzi’s ear. “I don’t want to interrupt your game.”

“Z-”

“Now go,” the co-star just smirks and pushes Azzi away from her. 

Paige looks at Azzi with her eyebrows raised, quietly asking if she’s ready to go to the bar. The actress nods, and Paige puts her hand out in front of her, offering to lead the way. Azzi’s stomach flips at the gesture and takes it. 

The crowd is thick and Azzi has to hold Paige’s hand firmly to keep up and not get lost. At last, they reach the bar, and Paige has to pull Azzi’s hand a little to get her through to the counter. 

“You know what you want?” Paige asks Azzi.

“You don’t have to order for me,” the actress tells her. “Why don’t you let me buy us the first round?”

“Azzi, you don’t have to-”

“Please,” Azzi looks Paige in the eyes with such a tender look that it makes Paige's knees go weak. 

“Fine,” Paige bites her lip. “I’ll have a dirty shirley.”

“Can I get a dirty shirley, a gin and tonic and a vodka cranberry please?” Azzi leans a bit over the counter to make the bartender hear her. 

“Let’s sit here,” Paige says and takes a seat by the bar. Azzi sits down next to her, waiting for their drinks. 

Azzi is wearing a crop top with some jeans, and Paige has been trying to not stare at her abs this whole time. Azzi on the other hand, has been wondering how someone can look so hot in a Nike tracksuit? No one looks this hot in a Nike tracksuit for crying out loud. Paige Bueckers seems to live in this world with other rules written for her. 

“I have to be honest,” Azzi speaks up. “I don’t remember everything from last weekend.” 

Paige can feel her heart drop for a millisecond, wondering if Azzi doesn’t remember the moment they almost had kissed, wondering if it truly was something that only happened because of the tequila.

“What do you remember?” she asks carefully. Their drinks are done and handed to them. 

“I remember taking shots with you in my room, and that’s pretty much it. And I know that I threw up, but I don’t have any memories from that either,” Azzi says ashamed. “I really hope you weren’t there for that.” 

Paige takes a sip from her drink, contemplating how much she should tell the actress. Azzi takes a sip as well, and she can see the cogs turning in Paige’s head. 

“Were you there?” she hesitantly asks, as she understands that Paige is trying to figure out what to say. 

“Nah, I came into the bathroom when you were done,” she answers honestly. “You don’t have anything to worry about. It was a great night, I had a great time with you.” 

“Ice told me you carried me to bed,” Azzi reveals. “Is that true?”

“Well, yeah,” Paige shrugs. “Is that okay?”

Azzi can only let out a chuckle. 

“Of course it is,” she smiles gently. “That’s very sweet of you. Thank you, Paige.”

“That’s nothing. I’m sorry your night ended the way it did.”

“I’m not,” Azzi quickly objects. “Or well, I could’ve lived without the memory loss and hangover, but I’m glad the night was spent with you.” 

This makes Paige smile. There was something so secure with the actress’ way of being. The way she carried herself and spoke made it seem like she had never doubted herself ever, while still being so down to earth and humble. Paige really appreciated that about her. Her words felt genuine.

“How’s filming going?” Paige asks.

“It’s going alright. We’ll be done shooting in like a month, and then we’re headed out for a press tour, so it’s really starting to hit me that it’s over soon,” Azzi tells her with a somewhat sad smile. 

“You know what you gonna do next?” 

“No, I haven't been looking for the next project yet,” the actress reveals. “I’m hoping to go on vacation a little bit during the summer at least, before I start working again.” 

“Sounds good,” Paige nods. 

"What about you? How’s the tour?”

“It’s going well. I’m extremely grateful for the opportunity and so blessed to be doing what I love like this,” Paige smiles widely, and her words make Azzi smile as well. 

The actress thinks back to some years ago when she saw a headline about the singer with a picture taken by a paparazzi on the cover of the magazine with Paige with her arm around some girl. The headline had said ‘Paige Buecker’s can’t seem to get enough girls on her arm”. Azzi remembers thinking Paige must have known how desirable she was and used it to her advantage. But sitting next to her right now, she can’t help but think the opposite. This girl doesn’t know just how desirable she is.  

This girl was humble, grateful and really down to earth. Azzi couldn’t say the same about other celebrities she had met. 

“What do you like to do when you’re not touring?” Azzi asks curiously.

“Hmm,” Paige hums. “I really enjoy watching movies. Like yours, for example.”

Azzi looks at her surprised. She doesn’t really know why though, as she recalls Paige saying she was a movie fan on the balcony the night they first met. 

“Really?” it just slips out.

“Yeah,” Paige nods. “Now I know you’re not a director or anything, but your filmography is really impressive and I like the kind of movies you’re doing. I feel like you’ve made conscious choices about what films to be a part of, and those choices have really made a cool and unique range and collection of art. I like that.”

The actress just looks at the singer in awe. It felt like Paige had seen through her in a way she had never been seen before, and it felt scary and exciting all at once. It wasn’t even anything personal at all, just an observation about her work - still it felt like Paige suddenly exposed herself for having the ability to see Azzi’s intentions without having to tell them. 

“Wow, thank you, that’s genuinely the most validating thing anyone has ever told me,” Azzi says, shaking her head a little in disbelief. 

“I’m just stating facts,” Paige smiles. “You don’t seem like the person to take on just any role for the sake of working. I feel like you do it for the art aspect of it all. And I personally think it translates really well into your acting, like everything seems so natural, the way you make acting so… beautiful.”

“Oh my God stop,” Azzi doesn’t even know what to say, she’s just blushing profusely. Her heart is beating so hard against her ribcage, and she doesn’t really know what to say, so she tries to joke to not show how much that meant to her. “Now you’re just buttering up to me.” 

“Is it working?” Paige smirks charmingly. 

Azzi just rolls her eyes with the biggest smile and gives Paige a small shove on her arm. Of course it was working. She would’ve never thought that Paige Buecker’s most attractive attribute was the way she could talk to you. Not even flirting, just talking. Okay maybe a little bit of flirting, but Azzi couldn’t really tell if that’s what was happening or not.

“Should we join the other’s and give Z her GT?” the singer asks. 

“If we have to,” Azzi answers back without thinking. 

“What, you don’t wanna be with your friend?” Paige asks playfully.

“No,” Azzi deadpans. 

The blonde laughs. “Alright, what do you wanna do then?” 

Azzi swallows hard, wondering how venturous she dares to be, how honest she could be without making it weird. But all she wanted to do was go home with Paige, sit in a quiet room with her and talk all night. The thought of saying that she only wants to be with Paige makes Azzi cringe inside. That would just sound like a needy kid, or worse - a crazy obsessive fangirl. 

Paige sees the way Azzi is thinking, and it doesn’t go unnoticed the way she’s looking at her lips as if she’s contemplating on something. The tension between them has been subtle, but it has crystallized throughout the night. That’s why before Azzi even can answer, Paige speaks up again.

“Wanna leave?” she suggests. 

Azzi nods slowly with a grin. “Jackpot.” And all doubt leaves Paige’s body with that answer. 

They drink up the rest of their drinks and Azzi takes the gin and tonic in her hand. Trying her best to not spill anything while moving through the crowd, they eventually make it to the back of the club where they last saw the other girls. 

“Here’s your GT,” Azzi hands it to Zendaya who’s been hanging out with the rest of the band. 

“Took you long enough,” she winks. “Did something happen or?”

“No,” Azzi shakes her head with a smile. “But we’re gonna take off though. Is that okay with you? You wanna come with?”

“Girl no, I don’t want to third-wheel with y’all,” Zendaya scoffs. “I’m having a great time with the band. You go have fun, but take it easy with the tequila, alright?” She says and gives Azzi another wink. 

Paige on the other hand is having a much more non-chill reaction from the girls when she tells them her and Azzi are about to leave.

“DUDE, YOU’RE SO GONNA SC-”

“SHUT UP BRO!” Paige puts her hand on KK’s mouth fast and looks behind her where the two actresses are standing to see if anyone heard. 

“But you are though,” Aubrey grins.

“Why do y’all have to be like that,” Paige sighs. “I don’t even know if she likes me like that. We barely know each other.”

“You don’t have to know each other to fuck,” Sarah suddenly says.

“WHO GAVE THIS GIRL ALCOHOL,” Paige exclaims, defeated that all three of her bandmates are thinking the same thing. “You’ve had enough of that,” she continues and takes the glass in Sarah’s hand. 

“I’m not even tipsy,” Sarah protests and snatches it back. 

“Yo Azzi, be nice to Paige, she’s a little uptight tonight,” KK suddenly says to the actress. 

“Bruh, what the fuck,” the singer says annoyed. “We’re out of here.”

And with that, Paige grabs Azzi’s wrist and walks out, managing to say a quick goodbye to Zendaya while fleeing the scene. 

“Our driver’s just around the corner,” Paige says, still holding onto Azzi’s wrist.

But before they could make the corner, flashes are suddenly blinding them from all directions. 

“PAIGE, OVER HERE!”

“AZZI, AZZI, IS IT TRUE YOU CAN’T STAND ZENDAYA?”

Before they know it, a crowd of people are coming towards them. Phones recording, cameras flashing. Were the paparazzi waiting outside the club this whole time?

“Fuck, come on,” Paige says and starts jogging away from the unexpected audience, shielding her eyes from the constant flashes.

The two girls hurries to the black car Paige is leading them to, and enters. The whole time Paige never let go of Azzi’s wrist. 

“We’ll just go to the hotel, please,” Paige instructs her driver, and Azzi’s stomach flips at the thought of going to Paige’s hotel room. 

“You don’t have your own place here in LA?” Azzi asks. 

“Nah, I only have one home,” she says. “Or well, three technically, since my parents are divorced, but only one of my own.”

“Where do you live?” 

“In Minnesota. That’s where I’m from.” 

“Really? That’s unexpected,” Azzi says, surprised to hear that it’s not on the west nor the east coast. 

“Why?” Paige lets out a chuckle. 

“I thought it’d be like New York or something,” Azzi confesses. “I’ve never been to Minnesota. What’s it like?”

“You’ve never been to Minnesota!?” Paige repeats flabbergasted. “Bro, you gotta come visit.”

Azzi blushes immediately at the invitation to visit Paige Bueckers at her home in Minnesota. 

“If you’re there, I will,” she replies, and in return, Paige can feel her heart stop for a second. 

The only thing they can hear is the faint sound of the radio that the driver is listening to, but no words exchanges between them, only looks. And the tension in the car is quite palpable.

Paige swallows hard. Azzi’s eyes on her is making it really hard to play it cool. 

“You know, I’ve been to one of your concerts before,” Azzi breaks the silence. 

“You have?” Paige asks, surprised. 

“Yeah, years ago. It was before your Grammy win, and you had just released your first album. I went to the LA show. You played in like an older amphitheatre.”

“That’s crazy,” the singer says. “You should’ve dm'd me that you were gonna be there”

“I was unknown at that time, I would’ve been just another one of your fangirls in your dm's,” Azzi laughs a little. 

“You were not unknown,” Paige protests. “You were in a Wes Anderson movie around that time, I’m pretty sure.”

Now it was Azzi’s turn to yet again be surprised by the singer. 

“How do you know that?” Azzi asks, totally astonished. “I was in that movie for a total of thirty seconds, and I didn’t even have a line? I was an extra in the background.”

Paige’s eyes widen, not having been aware of how much she would expose herself as a fan when she had said that. 

“I just… know,” she drawls out an answer. “Movie fan, remember?”

Azzi doesn’t know what to say. She just looks at Paige with an open mouth. But she doesn’t have to say anything, because the car suddenly stops and they have arrived at Paige’s hotel.

They ride up the elevator to the top floor and enter Paige’s hotel suite. The suite is big, although not presidential style. There’s a massive window in front of the bed that has a view over the city of angel’s nightlife, and Azzi immediately goes over to it to admire the streetlights in the distance.

“Wow, look at this view,” Azzi says, amazed.

“I actually don’t know why I chose a room on the top floor, I’m afraid of heights,” Paige tells her, and sits down on the edge of her bed, clearly not wanting to join Azzi by the window. She takes up her phone and puts on some music - Brent Faiyaz. 

“But you gotta come see this view,” the actress turns around and bites her lip, waving her over. 

“Nah I’m good, I can see it from here,” the blonde says. 

Azzi just raises her eyebrows and extends her hand for the singer to take. Paige gives out a soft scoff and shakes her head with a smile, reluctantly rises up from the bed and takes Azzi’s hand. The singer can hear her bandmates in her head, how they would call her whipped and a simp. But how can you not take Azzi Fudd’s hand when she offers it?

“Oh man,” Paige breathes, trying to not freak out as she’s standing right by the window. Azzi gives her hand a little squeeze, looking at her intently while Paige is closing her eyes. She studies her face, the curve of her nose, her high cheekbones and sharp jaw, and her lips. God, her lips. 

Azzi doesn’t think much when she moves her other hand to Paige’s cheek. The singer’s eyes shoot open and stare at her brown one’s. 

“You have too beautiful eyes to have them closed,” Azzi whispers with a smile. 

Paige may have gotten light headed by looking out the window, but no fear of heights can be compared to the vertigo she is feeling right now looking into Azzi’s brown eyes, being this close to the girl, feeling her hand on her cheek and hearing those words. 

The tension is thick in the hotel suite, and it doesn’t help that Brent Faiyaz is playing in the background. The actress sees Paige swallow as they’re just looking at each other. It is somehow comforting to see the singer look a bit nervous, compared to her confident exterior she usually displays. It makes Azzi realize that Paige is after all only a girl. 

And so Azzi finally leans in and kisses her. 

Paige could have might as well been falling out the window, because that’s what it feels like to kiss Azzi Fudd - free falling. 

The singer is too caught up in the feeling of Azzi’s lips on hers to even register what her hands are doing, as they instinctively find their way to the actress' waist. Azzi’s hand is still on Paige’s cheek, while the other one moves up her arm, over her shoulder and onto the back of her head, curling her fingers and softly grabs onto Paige’s blonde hair.

Azzi lightly pulls on it and Paige lets out a breath of surprise with her head slightly tilted back, which the actress takes advantage of and deepens the kiss with her tongue. 

Paige, not used to letting others take control like that, guides Azzi backwards towards the bed, while having their bodies entangled and tongues dancing. The singer then reluctantly breaks the kiss and looks at Azzi with awe, and is met with the same look back. She takes it as a sign and gently pushes Azzi down onto the bed. 

She hovers over the actress, taking in the sight of having Azzi Fudd beneath her. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” she breathes and reattaches her lips onto the actress’. She pins Azzi’s wrists down onto the bed and places one of her knees between the actress’ legs. Feeling the pressure from Paige’s knee, Azzi lets out a sigh of pleasure.

The actress lets her hands roam Paige’s body, but there’s too many layers between her fingers and the singer’s skin. Azzi grabs the zipper of Paige’s Nike fleece and drags it down. She pushes the fleece off Paige’s shoulder, and the singer lets it fall off and throws it off the bed somewhere. 

In return, Paige sits up with her fingers at the hem of Azzi’s crop top. Azzi follows up, raising her arms in the air, letting the singer take it off with ease. Paige’s eyes widen at the discovery that Azzi was not wearing a bra underneath. 

“Fuck,” she mutters and swallows hard while looking at Azzi’s chest. Azzi grabs Paige’s head and pulls her down again to meet her lips once more. The singer’s hands gently caress Azzi’s breasts and Azzi groans as a response. 

Paige bites down on Azzi’s lower lip and kisses down her jawline, down to her neck, giving open mouthed kisses and letting her tongue taste her skin. 

Azzi’s breathing is getting heavier and uneven at this point, feeling like everything is going too fast and too slow at the same time. She wants Paige to touch her where she needs her the most, while also wanting to enjoy every single second she’s just touching her everywhere.

“Oh God,” Azzi moans when Paige is sucking on her pulse point. Azzi places her hands on Paige’s shoulders, gently pushing her down, becoming more and more impatient even though it’s really just begun.

“Take these off,” Paige says and grabs the hem of Azzi’s jeans. The actress lifts her butt from the bed while Paige smoothly takes them off. 

“Take off yours too,” it’s more of a demand than a request from Azzi. She just wants to feel Paige’s skin on hers. And luckily for Azzi, Paige stands up from the bed and takes off her pants.

Azzi sits up on the bed, watching as Paige tosses her pants somewhere on the floor. She’s taking in the sight of Paige Buecker’s standing in front of her in nothing but a bra and some boxers, with a window over Hollywood in the back. It could be a painting really, how beautiful it all looks. 

“You’re unreal,” Azzi says and scoots down on the bed so she’s sitting on the edge of it. “Come here.”

Paige sits down on her lap, looking intently into Azzi’s eyes. 

“Actually,” Paige smiles, and stands up again. Azzi looks at her questioning, but intrigued. “I think I’d rather be sitting down here,” she continues and kneels down in front of Azzi, while pushing Azzi’s legs apart. 

Azzi lets out a sharp breath and bites her bottom lip to stop herself from moaning just by the sight of Paige Buecker’s on her knees before her. Paige places her hands on Azzi’s butt and scoots her forward, making Azzi lean back on her elbows. 

The singer kisses the actress’ inner thighs, caressing her legs, while keeping intense eye contact through it all. 

Azzi has never felt so captivated by someone else’s eyes like this. The way Paige is looking at her feels like she’s a steak in front of a tiger. 

“Fuck,” Azzi moans and throws her head back at the sudden feeling of Paige’s tongue on her hipbone just above her panties. Her hand finds the blonde’s head and gently pushes it down between her legs.

“So impatient,” Paige mumbles amused. She kisses the fabric of Azzi’s panties right on the clit, and Azzi’s hips twitch in response with a soft moan. 

“Take it off,” Azzi groans, lifting her butt to make it easier. But Paige just pushes her hips down again onto the mattress. 

“Nah uh,” Paige says with a smirk. “I want you just like this.”

“You’re driving me insane,” Azzi says in frustration. Paige only smiles devilishly in response, giving a long swipe of her tongue over her folds, feeling how wet the actress is through her panties. Azzi arches her back, pushing Paige’s head towards her center with her hand. 

Paige pushes the fabric of Azzi’s panties to the side, exposing her wet pussy. Deciding that the impatient actress has been waiting long enough, Paige sticks out her tongue and lets it feel all of Azzi.

Azzi moans loudly, finally getting touched where she’s been aching this whole time. She holds Paige’s head firmly, not wanting Paige to move away any time soon. The singer is obedient and licks her without holding back. Feeling how wet Azzi was for her made her head spin of excitement, and Paige could feel her own wetness making itself visible through her boxers. 

“I want you inside,” Azzi groans, and Paige almost lets out a moan herself just from hearing those words. She complies and brings her fingers to Azzi’s hole, teasing her yet again by just placing them there, not moving.

“Paige,” the actress sighs. 

“Yes?” Paige lifts her head and looks at the actress, knowing exactly what she’s doing to her.

“Don’t stop,” Azzi exclaims desperately and forcefully pushes the singer’s head back to her aching center. 

Paige lets her tongue press flatly against Azzi’s bundle of nerves, licking up and down with firm pressure. Azzi’s moaning loudly now, but she seems to become speechless the second Paige finally enters her with two fingers. She just hears shallow uneven breaths from the actress. Paige is slowly pumping in and out of her, doing that upward motion with her fingers, hitting that perfect spot. It doesn’t take long for Azzi to find her voice again, the element of surprise having washed over her.

“Mhm, fuck,” she moans. 

“You look so sexy like this,” Paige praises her, caressing the actress’ stomach with her free hand. Azzi grinds herself against Paige’s face and fingers, chasing her own high. 

Paige can feel that Azzi is close by how her hips are moving with no rhythm, clearly desperate for release. She sucks on her clit and fucks her a little harder, which seems to do the trick because Azzi’s lets out a loud moan and her eyes roll back from pleasure. 

The singer fucks her through her high, feeling Azzi’s walls clenching on her fingers. 

“So fucking pretty,” she mumbles, as she slows down her fingers. 

Azzi’s breathing slows down and she’s just laying there with her eyes closed. She opens them and looks down at Paige. The singer takes out her fingers and doesn’t hesitate on licking them clean. She climbs on top of Azzi and leans down to give her a sweet kiss. 

“We’re not done yet,” Azzi whispers as they break the kiss. “I wanna taste you.” 

Paige looks down at her in surprise. And before she knows it, Azzi has flipped them over. 

“And for future reference, just know that what you do to me, I’ll do it back a hundred times worse,” Azzi half-jokingly threatens, referring to the way Paige had teased her. 

“It’s not my fault you’re impatient,” Paige replies with a smirk, but her heart was beating out of her chest. Azzi Fudd straddling her, looking down at her with that look, threatening to make her pay for her teasing. Being at Azzi’s mercy was a new level of arousal Paige had never felt before.

“Oh but it is,” Azzi says and leans down and gives Paige’s neck a long swipe of her tongue. Paige gasps from the sensation. 

Azzi french kisses Paige’s ear, making her eyes roll back. Paige bucks her hips upwards, trying to get some friction, and Azzi starts to grind down on her slowly. She places one of her legs between the singer’s, and starts gently riding her leg, while simultaneously pressing her knee on Paige’s center. 

“Mhm,” Paige groans when she feels Azzi’s wetness through her panties that Paige had refused to take off earlier. 

Azzi kisses her way down Paige’s chest, pushes up her sports bra and takes Paige’s nipple in her mouth, grazing with her teeth before giving it a proper swipe with her tongue. She looks at Paige, while slowly licking her other nipple. Paige is just staring at her with an open mouth. Nothing could’ve prepared her for this, for Azzi Fudd. The actress’ hands are on Paige’s sides, giving her the tingles with her soft touch going up and down. At last they land on her hips, playing with the hem of her boxer shorts. 

Azzi’s mouth is moving more south, teasingly licking around Paige’s bellybutton, then slowly licking down even further til she reaches her boxer shorts. She takes the fabric into her mouth and uses her teeth to gently drag them downwards, but not down completely. Azzi’s hands are caressing Paige’s legs, and Paige lifts her hips to make it easier for the actress to take off her boxer shorts. But Azzi doesn’t take them off. She just smirks and licks along the hem of them til she reaches Paige’s left hip bone. 

“My God,” Paige breathes and settles down onto the mattress again, going insane by the feeling of Azzi’s tongue on her hip bone. 

Paige’s hands grab onto the back of Azzi’s head, gently tugging her hair, starting to become a little bit desperate for the touch. Azzi finally settles between her legs, giving her boxer shorts a swipe of her tongue right where she wants it.

“Please,” Paige blurts out before she can even register what she’s saying. 

“Please what?” Azzi asks sweetly, getting incredibly aroused by Paige’s plea and the wetness she felt on her tongue just now.

Paige looks down on Azzi, swallowing hard, knowing she has to answer, but not really wanting to. Azzi just tilts her head questioningly at her, waiting for her to say something. Paige is breathing hard now. Just the sight of Azzi between her legs makes her even more wet.

“What do you need Paige?” Azzi asks once again, with a low tone, caressing her inner thigh with her hand so close to where she wants it, but not quite there.

“Take them off,” Paige whispers. 

Azzi gives out a low chuckle. “No,” she shakes her head and pushes Paige’s legs apart even further and moves the boxer shorts to the side and gives the singer’s clit a small flick with her tongue.

Paige throws her head back with a moan, grabbing Azzi’s head hard. Not wanting to give it all too fast, Azzi fights against Paige’s attempts to push her closer, continuing to give small licks with her tongue, focusing on not being too close with her head to tease.

“You’re a menace,” Paige mutters between breaths. 

Deciding that she’s punished the girl enough, Azzi finally presses her whole tongue and face against Paige’s pussy, licking her from her hole to her clit. She gets rewarded immediately with another loud moan from the blonde. Azzi suddenly sits up and grabs Paige’s boxer shorts, pulling them off in one swift move. 

“Fine,” she mumbles and quickly dives right in towards the bare pussy. This time she doesn’t fight back when Paige pulls her face closer.

The actress gives long and hard strokes, driving the singer insane. Paige grinds against Azzi’s face faster, starting to feel something build up in her lower abdomen. Azzi hears the blonde’s breaths getting more shallow and uneven, with occasional “Oh my God” coming out from her mouth. 

Paige closes her legs around Azzi’s head, feeling pure bliss hit her hard, as she throws her head back.

“Fuck,” she moans. Azzi’s trying her best to keep going, almost getting crushed by Paige’s legs, but wanting to let her ride it out completely before she detaches her tongue. 

“You look so sexy when you cum,” the actress smiles so sweetly and crawls up to Paige, lying down on top of her, resting her head on her chest. Paige instinctively places her arms around her, caressing her back. 

“I always look sexy,” she replies, and Azzi laughs on her chest. 

“That’s true,” she mumbles. 

“But you’re like on a whole ‘nother level, Azzi Fudd,” Paige whispers. 

Yes, Paige might be afraid of heights. But she would gladly feel the feeling of falling again, because Azzi Fudd caught her so well.

—

[lovejongseob]

Jongseob's Kinks

Broad, general things that turn Jongseob on:

Dominance

It starts with him being naturally submissive because of inexperience, anxiety, and too many things for him to explain without feeling embarrassed. He was just so nervous, he didn't want to make you uncomfortable or hurt you, so he felt more at ease with you in control.

He's more confident with sexual stuff now, and he's extremely happy being more bold, however, he realizes pretty soon.. He just thinks it's hot. He hit a wall with logically explaining why he enjoyed it so much, something about it just did it for him and that was that. It's what he enjoys, and hes comfortable with it.

Praise

He wouldn't understand why it makes him feel so heavy at first. He knows how to take a compliment, sure, it's normal to get a little shy, but why does he feel so hot ? It's like you've already been thinking about all of this, and have just carefully calculated which order saying it will wreck him the most.

Hold his head in your hands, make him look you in the eyes while you list things you love about him, and hes hard. Let him know how attractive you think he is, especially when he gets so easily turned on. Praise his performance or the noises he makes and he's going insane.

Not too uncommon, but a little more specific:

Marking

Jongseob is a huge fan of giving and receiving. He would accidentally leave a mark on you while trying to quiet himself, and would instantly get turned on again after seeing it. He thinks they look really pretty on you, and likes being the only one to do this to you. It feeds a feeling of mutual possession, he likes it when you both show how much you want the other. He likes feeling like hes yours, and the marks you leave are perfect for that.

Edging

He thinks the way you so easily control his orgasms is really attractive, and he has to constantly try not to come. It feels so good too, and you're so sweet to him, he wants the moment to last as long as possible. Starts begging you to let him come, but he really wants to see how much he can take before it just comes out. Bonus points if you overstimulate him after, because "That's what you asked for, right ?"

Possibly uncommon or unusual kinks Jongseob has:

Scratching

It's a little similar to marking, but the slight pain adds to the pleasure. Probably started with scratching his back during sex, he felt really nice to know that he made you feel good as well. Now, even just scratching at his head is getting him turned on.

Hands

Loves it when you rest your thumb on his lip, or push your fingers slightly into his mouth. Caressing his face, tracing down his neck and chest, holding his waist, giving him a hand job while making out.. He really loves it all. Even when you're just fidgeting with your own hands, playing a video game, or typing something, his eyes are on your hands, head on all the things they can do.

Secret kinks, ideas he gets off to when you aren't there, but would never tell you about:

Bondage

He thinks you'd look really pretty tied up, but even more so, he wants to know what you'd do to him while hes tied up. Staying in that one place, letting you give him everything he wants without his body thrashing around in pleasure, instead he'd just squirm and be so much louder. Wants you both to be tied up somehow, hes thinking of the logistics.

Cream pie

Gets so quiet if it's ever brought up, he thinks the idea is so hot, but knows it's irresponsible so he wouldn't say anything. But fuck, he comes so much more when he lets himself just think about it. How you'd feel around him without any rubber, how it would drip out, how deep inside hed come, it wrecks him.

worried that turn on and kink hcs are too similar, but in my head they're different. hopefully i made them both individually fun to read ! im sorry if it just seemed repetitive 😭

[jjwolves]

WHERE IS MY MIND ⨯ ୭ ⨯ ୭ ⨯ ୭ ⨯ ୭ ⨯ ୭

What: 5 Headcanons of Taski Maiden X Reader

Who: Taski Maiden from ENA Dream BBQ (By Joel G)

How Much: ~1200 Words, ~7 mins

Credits: Image Banner → Joel G

Warnings: None

You were friends with Taski first. Most entities didn’t pay any mind to the imp-thing so long as she didn’t hex them with a prank, but your schedule was always open and your door was always unlocked (she’d come through the window if it wasn’t) for whatever shenanigans she had planned for the day. Most days, she has a list of things she’s really excited to do with you that’s scribbled on a discarded notebook she plucked out of the trash or the corpse of a really flat, pale worm she scraped off of a tree. It’s common to see little pictures scribbled in the free space, portraying things like you and Taski sneaking into the Needle Course Casino, digging up fossils and tying big snails’ eyestalks together (it’s funnier when they trip up than when they trip down, according to her). You once asked Taski why she makes a list at all. She kept matching your stride, smile unwavering as she turned her head to look up at you. “To maximize, babeh. We only gotz so much time before you wanna go home or sumthin’ boring-slash-dumb like that. And once you’re gone, it’s not as fun. So. Maximizing.” You weren’t sure what to say. Didn’t she have fun on her own?

It’s an odd thing for a tricky vagabond like her, but you think that she’s started to develop a degree of separation anxiety. There are days where you can’t go out and flip the world upside down looking for treasure with Taski. Sometimes you need to spend the in-between at Doctor to remove the balloons that came out of you before they lift you into the sky, or you need to go to the Inquiry to to convince the entities there that they should take pineapple taxes instead of watermelon ones (watermelons are harder to get, of course, but it’s a whole thing that I’ll spare you the details of). You know. Professional stuff. When you get back home you find rings, perfect little crop circles, of strange padded footprints whose feet had spent the day pacing in the yard and on the roof, somehow, in agitation. Stewing. You had a good guess as to who it was. And when you see Taski again? She’s mad. Not too many of these disruptions happen before she turns to shadow and teeth and legs that endlessly wade through Hell. “ADMIT ITTT! YOU’RE T1RED OF MEEE!!! I KN0CKED AND KNOKKED AND KNOKCED AND PASED ALL DAY!!1 POO!” Confused and a little defensive, try to explain that there are certain obligations that were serious business. Why is she so upset about this? It’s not like she would have wanted to come along with you to such dry places. “SHUT UP!1 START TALKING! THATZ NOT TRUE!! You never even said anything or asked me or nuthin!! I woulda gone!!” You ask… why. “BECAUSE I JUST WOULDA! You’ll be bringing me with you next time, and DON’T FORGETI OR YOU'LL REGRETI, CHUMP!”

Taski insists that she goes with you whenever you have day plans, and when she insists, it doubles as a secret promise. You don’t necessarily mind having her come along with you, but you expect her to get bored pretty quickly and start causing chaos if she doesn’t have some sort of distraction. When you have to go to Inspection Plaza, Taski is already at your side and babbling about her lifetime ocean ban. A plan to keep her distracted begins rolling around in your head and your body spits out a subconscious gesture as a solution: an open hand extended to Taski. You hear a small gasp, and before you even realize what you’re doing, her hand is already grasping yours as tightly as it can, three digits clumsily interlocking with yours. Your mind catches up to the situation and you regain the mental faculties needed to be embarrassed, but as you go to withdraw, Taski holds on tighter. “NO! IT’S MINE!! NO BACK-TAKESIES!”

From then on, it is always time for handholding, and while touchiness isn’t something new coming from Taski, the small, tender gestures she starts adopting are. She starts gently pulling on your clothes to lead you in a direction or get your attention. She locks your arm between hers and lets you drag her around. Sometimes, when she’s particularly excited, she climbs up your torso and wraps her hands around your back, awkwardly hanging off of you like a front-facing backpack. You think you like her more than you first thought, and you find yourself unbothered by the new tendencies you seem to have unlocked in her. That is, until Taski decides that, as her favorite person, she doesn’t even want to part from you at the end of a skybox cycle well-spent. Normally she walks you all the way to your house and stands still at the doorway, hair slowly writhing around as she stares vacantly forwards. This time, though, she walks right on through with you and makes herself at home, moving past you and further into the house to properly inspect it. Her red eye rolls around excitedly as she fidgets with the front of her dress. “Ooh! You gotta house! I mean I know you gotta house but it has insidez!” You have no idea what she’s doing, and you don’t think she does either. You decide not to say anything; despite how weird it is, something tells you that it’s good to have her here. That night, it’s dark so you don’t see her—only hear her—crawl under your bed and sleep there. You pick up on a purr which modulates in pitch between a low rumble and a high-pitched droning, like a bug is buzzing around your head.

Things resume as normal—as normal as they get, anyway. You spend a LOT of time with Taski, skipping stones over rivers of liquid amber and having her cling to you at any other time. You think she might have a thing for you, and it’s pretty obvious in retrospect, but not as obvious as it is now. Smugly, albeit with a decidedly inhuman, dark gray blush, she gives you a challenge. “I got an epic challenge for you!! You gotsta look DEEEEEP into my cursed eye. NO BLINKING OR STINKING! And don look away or you LOSE!1! And to dump sugar in the dealio…” She fishes some sort of rainbow-colored ball of yarn out of her pocket(?). “Your epic challenge’s epicer prize!!” You accept—you know that she probably stole that or fished it out of a lake, but you don’t care. “Begin!!” And just like that your intense ¾ staring match began. You realized that her “cursed” red eye had little flickering images in the pupil the longer you looked—something resembling little feet walking in circles—but it was too tiny to see. You got closer and closer to see better, breath hitching when you realized you were, like, centimeters away from her face. Taski blushed furiously as she took advantage of the situation, grabbing the back of your head and forcing your lips together. She obviously didn’t know how to kiss, really, but that was superseded by her enthusiasm. It was like she was trying to eat you alive and sew your soul into desert flowers. When you separated, she was excited, shaking you back and forth. “WE RE4LLY! WE RE4LLY! I wanted to do that for so long!! Pleaze PLEAS CAN I BE YOUR FAVORITE THINGIE?! I CANT WAIT ANYMOR3!” But she was already your favorite thingie, and she always would be.

A/N #1: It is hard to write for Taski, but she's my favorite character so it's worth it. She misspells things and uses phrases incorrectly, sometimes mixing them, and that goes against my writer-instincts incredibly hard. (Ex: Instead of "sweeten the deal", she forgets the phrase and says "dump sugar in the dealio", similar to how she gets the order wrong for "cheater cheater pumpkin eater" and calls you a "pumpkin eater cheater" in-game. Little stuff like that is what matters.)

A/N #2: I don't think Taski "courts" normally. (Not that any ENA character does.) I think she just gets closer and closer and closer and one day you're married or some ENA-world equivalent before you even realized it. She just glides right into the relationship because that's pretty much her entire lifestyle and she's kind of feral.

[callingitquits]

Johan Details Headcanons

This is more of a forensic headcanon dump than a ‘romantic’ one…. just a list of little habits, physical traits, etc. that I think he’d have. Some of this comes from how I write him myself, just stuff I’ve built up along the way. I didn’t really set out to catalog him like this, it just kind of happened. A lot of it isn’t even necessarily insert-specific, more general headcanon, but I’ll still tag it accordingly. Figured I’d list it all out for everyone else. Jumping off a bridge.

Physical Details

A faint, almost invisible crease beneath his left eye that only appears when he’s genuinely amused, not when he’s faking a smile. It’s not a wrinkle exactly—more like a soft shadow that folds very slightly, giving away that rare flicker of sincerity. You picked up on it after months of watching him closely, knowing the difference between the masks he wears and the rare moments when something real slips through.

His eyes are just slightly downturned at the corners. Not enough to be obvious at first glance, but enough that, when he’s tired or simply watching you without speaking, they make him look almost mournful. You didn’t notice it right away. It only struck you later, during a moment when the light hit just right and he wasn’t wearing any expression at all. It made him seem younger. Or maybe just human. Sometimes you catch yourself staring at that faint curve, wondering if it was always there or if life etched it into him.

(While the shape of his eyes clearly comes from his mother, the heaviness in their expression—that weary, half-lidded gaze—is undeniably his father’s.)

His lashes are so pale they disappear from a distance. But up close, you can see every one. Long, pretty, curling toward his brow in a way that doesn’t match his stillness. You catch yourself staring in one of those rare moments he’s actually asleep. It feels intrusive, but you don’t stop.

His hair is finer than you expected. Silky, soft, the kind that slips through your fingers if you try to hold it. When he leans close, you notice the way it picks up light. Platinum, not white. You think it should feel colder than it does.

His scent is subtle—you don’t notice it at first. But when you lean in, especially near his collarbone or just behind his jaw, it’s warm and quiet, like skin after rain. Not the kind of warmth that lingers… more like something left behind by someone who’s already gone.

A single mole on the right side of his ribcage, high enough that it’s usually hidden even if his shirt rides up. You noticed it the first time he let you see him undressed—not with lust, but with curiosity and disbelief that someone like him could have such an ordinary, almost sweet detail.

There’s a faint ridge where his wrist bones sit—delicate and angular. You traced them once while pretending not to. It struck you how breakable he felt up close, as if the entire illusion of control was just a thin shell over a fragile frame.

Reactions

A spot on his spine—between his shoulder blades—that’s unusually sensitive. You brushed it once by accident while he was sitting in front of you, and he flinched.. just barely. It wasn’t pain, more like something involuntary. He never commented, but you clocked it. After that, you sometimes touch there on purpose, just to remind yourself that he can still react like anyone else.

His breath catches, just slightly, when someone touches the back of his neck. Not fear, not arousal—awareness. Alertness. You brushed that spot once when helping him with his coat, and he went very still. It told you more than any conversation you’d ever had.

When he’s exhausted or emotionally unraveling, he touches his forehead scar without realizing. Just the pad of a finger brushing it absentmindedly, like tracing a thought he won’t say. It’s the most vulnerable tell he has, and you only see it usually after something’s cracked in him or both of you.

Subconscious Tells

The tips of his ears go pink when he’s embarrassed or caught off guard, but it happens so subtly (and rarely) that most people would never notice. You caught it once when you said something unexpectedly kind—without irony or bitterness—and he didn’t know how to respond. His eyes stayed cold, but his ears betrayed him.

The nails on his left hand are always just a touch shorter than the right—as if he trims them differently, or one hand fidgets more. You caught him absently tapping or scratching with that hand sometimes, and you started watching for it.

When he’s actually laughing—rare, genuine—his shoulders shake first. Not his face. Not his mouth. His shoulders. Like his body is trying to laugh before his brain lets it happen. You saw it once when you said something sarcastic and unexpected that actually caught him off guard. The sound that followed was real. It scared you.

His voice gets hoarser late at night, even if he hasn’t spoken much. It’s a soft rasp that only shows up when he’s finally run out of performance. You treasure it secretly—the sound of his real voice, the one that leaks out when he’s too tired to control it.

Behavioral Patterns

He blinks slower when he’s lying. Not a twitch, not avoidance—slower. Measured. Like he’s thinking too hard about seeming calm. Most people miss it, but you don’t. You’ve learned: the quieter the lie, the heavier his lashes.

He holds his breath when he’s listening too closely. During arguments, or when you say something unexpected. something that cuts too deep—he’ll go completely still, even his breathing. As if exhaling might give something away. You’ve weaponized that silence before.

He lowers his gaze—not in shame, but like he’s choosing a weapon. His voice stays gentle. His posture doesn’t shift. But his eyes drop for half a second, and you know it’s coming. You see it now. You brace for it. It’s always right before the worst thing leaves his mouth.

His hands hold tension, like they’re waiting for something to happen. You’ve seen his hand hover near a surface—table, wall, your back—and pause, almost as if it’s about to press down. But it never does. It’s like he’s always on the verge of touching something, then deciding not to.

He rarely fidgets, but when he does, it’s surgical. Adjusts the cuff of his sleeve exactly once. Tilts a glass until the light refracts just right. Smooths out a folded page in a book with one thumb. It’s all so quiet you don’t realize it’s happening until it already has.

He has a habit of standing too still. Not in a peaceful way. In a way that makes the room feel off-balance. Like you forgot something. Like your body wants to move just because his won’t.

Presence

His presence silences background noise. Not literally—but when he walks into a room, conversations seem to slow. The air feels thick, and people hesitate. You don’t notice it until he’s gone, and everything resumes with a jolt, like coming up for air.

His posture is perfect, but not stiff. He holds himself like someone always ready to disappear—elegant, upright, and light on his feet. You imagine he could vanish without sound if he wanted to. Maybe he already has.

Intimate Knowledge

His heartbeat is slower than yours. The first time you laid your head on his chest, you noticed. It was unnervingly steady—like everything in him moved on a delay. Cold and patient. But sometimes, when you say certain things, it picks up just enough that you can feel the change, even if his face doesn’t move.

His handwriting unsettled you the first time you saw it. Rounded, too careful, like a child trying to write like an adult. It felt wrong in a way you couldn’t name—sweet and eerie all at once. You kept the note anyway, fingers brushing the letters like they might tell you what part of him was real.

Neurological

He gets migraines and light sensitivity—something he never complains about, but quietly manages. Maybe he avoids overly bright rooms or blinks more often under fluorescent lighting, as if adjusting to something only he can feel.

Sleep disturbances and vivid nightmares aren’t things he acknowledges, but they surface in the way he sleeps. Neurological trauma, even if healed, often interferes with sleep. His insomnia could partly stem from this. Not just emotional disturbance, but physical remnants of his trauma.

He has tinnitus—constant, low-level ringing that he never mentions. It’s easy to miss, but sometimes he pauses in the middle of silence, like he’s waiting for the noise to settle. If you ask, he’ll brush it off. But once you notice the slight wince at sharp sounds, the way he sometimes tunes out mid-conversation, it’s hard to unsee.

He has occasional visual disturbances—a ghosting effect in one eye or trouble tracking quick movement. His gaze sometimes slips past you when you’re close. He pauses before fast motion, always aware, but not quite following. It starts to feel instinctive to slow yourself around him—turn your head before your body, speak before you shift. Not out of caution, but adaptation, like falling into step with a force that moves on its own clock.

He might be mildly autistic…. It’s something I’m willing to entertain, and I do have my reasons…. but I won’t go all the way into it here.

[wayfinderships]

Good morning gamers!! Hope you all have a great day today! :D as for me, sometimes I'm tempted to have a Crush List but then immediately abstain from it bc I feel like it would be just as long as my f/o list-akfnskfkd

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

did every hero really follow endeavor's plan during the jail break? I've never watched bnha, but I always figured there were more heros then Japan knew what do with. Was endeavor really just that worried about how the fight again AFO would go? and did AFO have the league with him? or other prison escapees? Given eraserhead was so entrenched?

As a preliminary matter--yes, it was way more than AfO. The League basically did what they did during the USJ arc and subcontracted their violent attacks. They needed a big force to first get AfO and everyone else out of Tartarus, and then they made it very clear (via loudspeaker and also fucking tweet) that they would all be very peacefully retreating while all those criminally insane and violent motherfuckers went that other direction. Ball's in your court as to how you want to tackle it.

AfO was the biggest threat, by fucking far, but it was far from isolated to him. It was the entire League of Villains + Their Very Special Friends. It was the kind of force that would be required to make the entirety of Tartarus fall for the first time in history. So the heroes had plenty to keep them busy.

And as to whether Endeavor was that scared about the next fight with AfO... Yeah.

I think bnha does a good job at establishing that All Might and AfO just exist at entirely different levels than every other person alive. Their fight leveled a decent chunk of Kamino. And I think that's kind of power and devastation is hard to conceptualize as like, people in a world where we don't have to worry about superhero fights. (as a side note--Sukuna's Big Fight in the Shibuya arc from JJK did better than any other fight in media to really capture the sheer cosmic horror of being caught as a bystander in one of those fights).

But endeavor saw it. He was there for AfO’s and All Might’s last fight. The gods were fighting. Everyone else was just an ant.

He is facing the villain that ultimately took down All Might. All Might won Kamino, sure. But he didn't get up again after. He was permanently and irreversibly taken out of play. And Endeavor has spent the last year feeling like he was struggling to be even half of what All Might was with two hours of productivity a day. He was so consistently voted to not be able to compare to All Might that he bought a wife and had four kids about it, all of whom hate him actively.

He does not think he is winning this fight. He is Japan's number one hero. The responsibility is going to fall to Midoriya Izuku to him. He is the best they have left, and the fight that would be coming was one that already nearly killed All Might, the one guy he has never ever been able to compare to. And when he really looked himself in the mirror and asked if he could stop AfO, the answer was no.

And it wouldn't just be AfO if he came back to power. It would be his followers--and he was liable to get more than just the current League of Villains roster. It would mean more Nomus. They could barely handle one Nomu--how could they possibly handle the Nomus, and the LoV, and AfO?

And the answer that he came to was that they couldn't. Not without All Might.

He thought he was sacrificing Yokohama for every single other city AfO was going to level if he had time to grow in strength again. He thought that if they threw absolutely everything they had at him while he was weak, then maybe they could contain him and the League before entire cities fell.

So. That's why he came to that decision. Why did every hero fall into line?

So what’s key to what happened here was it was this complete structural breakdown at exactly the wrong time.

Structural Flaw #1: Transportation

Was it every hero in Japan that responded to Endeavor’s order? No. But not every hero in Japan was available. Any heroes out of the immediate area were too far away to do shit.

But it's a massive crisis. Heroes would commute from all over if they could--but it's not about desire, it's about time and resources. With how imminently emergent the threat was, a lot of far-away heroes would need something like a jet to even conceivably get there in time.

Who is sending the jet?

Let's pin down what heroes could, conceivably, get there in time. Very few heroes are in walking distance. How do heroes typically get from Point A to Point B?

Hero society in bnha is an agency model. There is no communal pool of resources--you have what your agency has. You have a jet to transport you if your agency has the money for one, and I’m pretty sure only all might had that (he has since had it dismantled and the parts repurposed for the sake of the environment. He only had it to begin with so he could quickly respond to imminent threats. All Might thinks there's more than one way to save the world and saving the environment is part of it). Like. We even saw Endeavor flying fucking commercial.

But let's just assume, arguendo, that some agencies have jets. It would have to be the very top agencies to possibly afford it.

All of whom are shown in canon to mostly operate out of the same area. So they're going to have to send the jet somewhere else to get more heroes. Now any travel time is doubled. If they do send it out, how many people are they realistically getting? Are these heroes in multiple different cities? That's more travel time then. Maybe we just land the plane in Kyoto and whoever gets on in the twenty minute period while they're refueling is who is coming back. We'll hand them parachutes and kick them out the plane door over Yokohama. Okay. Good plan. Go team.

Who is sending the jet?

Like, who is physically making the call to send the jet? Who do they call? Do they just start ringing around their buddies and seeing if they have other plans? The city is on fucking fire and we need people fighting now, so the big name heroes don't have time to organize transport with other agencies. They’re not even thinking of that right now. Make it a sidekick's job.

They are all on fucking strike.

Fuck it. Fine. Make it an admin's job. There has to be some kind of office staff who can work a telephone who's available.

Who is thinking to send the jet?

Admins are not making strategic calls about where the company jets go. There would have to be some kind of protocol in place or someone with the authority to send the jet would have to think of it in the moment. And I guarantee you this would not be the case.

Because this is a society where they have canonically semi-privatized public safety and put people in direct competition with each other over it.

ASIDE: The Economic Structure of Heroics and Why It Sucks

I have an economic structure. You must listen to it. I promise it is relevant. This is why it takes me forever to do things it's because i get too deep into the weeds and have to explain the fucking economic structures underpinning the analysis for my nonsense to make sense.

How the fuck do heroes get paid?

I have no idea if canon ever tells us because to be so for real with you guys I have not watched this show in years. I haven’t cared about canon since the Shie Hassaikai arc. The fucking YouTuber arc broke me. I literally never watched it again. If they ever explain to us how heroes get paid I do not know and I do not care. I refuse to go back to canon. Everything I found out about canon after the Shie Hassaikai arc, I learned against my will. The ending to this story was so fucking stupid and I only have a scattered knowledge of the details but I’m still right. If canon ever tries to explain it then please do not tell me, I refuse to learn more things about this show.

But I still like poking around the potential economic structures based on the part of canon that doesn’t cause me psychic damage. So here’s the thought process for the economic underpinnings of hero society in the pez universe.

From canon, we know it can be an enormously lucrative profession, we know that it involves some degree of private interests (re: merch lines), and we know that there are some people who cannot have merch lines (Underground Heroes, e.g. Eraserhead), so there also must be some kind of public funding aspect to it as well. So. Who the fuck signs your paycheck?

Sources of Funding

a. Public Funding

There must be some kind of official governmental budget for heroics. Like. They are very much a public service. There would be no way to have a fully private heroics force without government funding. What else are you supposed to do, fucking Venmo heroes after they save you? Do they put your kitten back in the tree if you don’t have enough.

In my mind, there's public funds allocated to heroes as part of a city's budget. That funding is allotted based on the number of employees in a given entity balanced against the confirmed acts of heroics of that same given entity. There’s a base salary level and that can be increased based on how successful you are, but salary isn’t exclusively what this fund is for. The heroic entity (an individual hero or an Agency) is effectively receiving grant money from the government to run their agency. You put it into salaries, gear, office space, everything. The government is basically investing in heroes, and it’s investing more in heroes who are shown to have a greater positive impact on society.

It involves overly complex calculations regarding the scaled difficulty of a given bust/rescue/act and ranking of the villain (if there is one) and the overall public benefit for the service rendered. You get bonuses for having a lower average property damage, for contributing to community building projects, that kind of thing. It is Complex. There is a lot of paperwork that has to be submitted to strange and vaguely threatening government accountants. When Mirio and Izuku start their agency, they will burst into tears multiple times trying to figure it out once filing season rolls around, bundle all the paperwork in a Massive Tears And Shame Package, mail it off to the shadowy powers at be, and then get a perfunctory notice that they are getting a ludicrous amount of the city budget allotted to their dinky little agency for the upcoming fiscal year because they are Big Fucking Heroes and enormously good at what they do and it reflects in their stats. They will then lay on the ground of their haunted fucking office and stare at the ceiling for a very long period of time.

But this puts the heroes in competition with each other. Your public funding is chained to your stats under this model. There's only so many criminals out there--you've got to get the right numbers or it cuts into how much of a slush fund the agency is working with.

It's sort of an insane model for a public servant position, but I think it matches with what canon shows us. Imagine having firefighters pitted against each other. like, having a competitive model for public safety raises extreme concerns about how it incentivizes public servants to act.

But this isn't canon's model. It's my guess as to how canon works based on the hints i can remember and my own mental illness. So why do I think canon suggests a model like this?

It's because 1) canon does establish that heroes are in competition with one another and 2) this kind of model would likely be necessary due to the level of autonomy that heroes have.

The literal first fight we see involves heroes in competition with each other. Kamui Woods is doing a big Ultimate Move, and Mount Lady rushes in and steals the show. Like. that is crazy behavior if we are looking at this through the lens of a typical public servant. Imagine you're trying to get directions from a park ranger and a different park ranger kick flips in with a map and a desperate need for you to get your directions from them instead. You call poison control and they’re beating each other in the head over who gets to tell you you’re dying.

Still, on its own, the competition isn’t dispositive, because the private income streams (we'll get there) would incentivize competition even if public funding wasn't based on it. But the level of autonomy that hero offices exhibit also suggest some kind of competition model.

Heroics agencies are not run like a typical police force or fire station. With most entities that function as first responders, they respond to some kind of centralized force (like 911 call centers) and they have highly regulated resource distribution. Like, police forces are restricted to a specific jurisdiction. Within that jurisdiction they have multiple districts and officers typically stay in their district. They're not going to a different fucking city because they think the crime is cooler there.

But Endeavor does exactly that. He's like "hello, son who hates me. Let's go to Hosu because I want to fuck with the hero killer for street cred. won't you come along. It is non-optional" and todoroki says "i hate you father and will abandon you on our father son trip to set a serial killer on fire with my mind. it will be for mildly gay reasons."

These agencies aren't a centralized public service. They are all just off doing their own thing. They're not responding to specific areas as allotted to them by the city--they just fuck off and do whatever. Like, there's probably some coordination between agencies as to who is covering what patrol, but it likely would be more out of courtesy than formal requirement. People wouldn't step on each other's toes nearly as much if there was more of a structure to this.

Typical public agencies who receive funding in accordance with staffing and budgetary needs have more structure and formality than is exhibited in canon. Heroics Agencies act like they're all independent contractors. They probably function like grant money recipients, where they're all fighting for the same pool of funds. You have to write in and show why you deserve that money when that's the case. They're in competition with each other.

Like, is this definitively the structure in canon? No, of course not. I have no fucking idea what, if anything, canon has going on. But it definitely fits with canon.

b. Private Income Streams

We know from canon that it can't just be public funding. Izuku alone probably paid for the Mighty Agency private jet with how much fucking all might merch he bought. Canonically, heroes have merchandise lines, branding deals, commercials, everything. All Might had fucking movies made about him. Those are all extremely lucrative income streams--and likely where the richest heroes get the biggest brunt of their income.

In order to get this kind of income, you are necessarily in competition with your fellow hero.

Public attention, spending money, screen time, all of it--it's a limited resource. You have to be the person who gets to the fight first, who does the big move, who saves the day. If it's someone else? Then that's another kid buying their action figure instead of yours. Heroics is heavily commoditized in canon, and that inherently invites competition.

2. Distribution of Funds

So now that we have a theory as to where the money comes from, how does it get paid out? Based on canon, it comes down to a structure of (a) Independent/Underground Heroes and (b) Agencies.

a. Independent/Underground Heroes

I can't actually remember if the word "independent" is said in canon or if I came up with it, but I think canon implies its existence. It's basically the same thing as being an underground hero, but you're still a Spotlight hero. I also cannot remember if the underground/spotlight thing is canon or fanon or what I’m sorry I haven’t watched this show in years.

Independents are spotlight heroes without the backing of an agency. They just go out every day with the clothes on their back and a dream. They have no support staff, no back up, and no one to help them if things go sideways.

It is not a popular employment option.

Part of it is because it's that much harder to fund being an independent. Like. Say you're just out of high school and you decide to strike out on your own as independent. You're still spotlight, so you can have a merchandise line, and that'd be a nice income stream while you're just starting out.

How the fuck do you start your own t-shirt line?

How do you make contracts with the manufacturers? How do you make and copyright the design? how do you sell the stupid things? Do you try and get them in Walmart? Do you start an Etsy? Your own website? do you call your mom and cry when you have 500 ugly t-shirts with your face on them that no one wants to buy and they're taking up all the space in your studio apartment.

Agencies have preexisting structures in place to help launch these kinds of options, which is one of the reasons why they're so attractive for baby heroes just starting out. The only reason why Mirio has merchandise is because he decided that he didn't care and didn't need to make merch and Izuku came after him with feverish crack addict energy because he cared and he needed Lemillion merch like. yesterday. All Might ended up getting his agency to start a lemillion line. Mirio gets the profits with a reasonable fee to the Mighty Agency. To this day he suspects that Izuku is 70% of his sales but Izuku denies this fervently, like a liar (he actually has a small but very devoted fanbase who rabidly support him and buy all of his merch. he would cry if he knew this. Still. Izuku is his biggest fan and buys literally every single piece of new merch in triplicate.).

Underground heroes are in the same boat as independents but they don't even have the option of a merch line. They exclusively get public funding unless they're backed by an agency, which none of them are because agencies have a tendency to fuck them and their busts for the sake of the spotlight. All underground heroes are bitter and culturally opposed to agencies.

On that note:

b. Agencies.

This is where by far the most heroes would end up. But an agency is like thirty dudes with the same joint bank account. How does the money get there and get distributed out?

i. Public Funding in an Agency Context

Take the above model. How do you attribute public funds based on personal statistics if there's no single person? Does everyone get their own check? But that wouldn't make sense--this isn't just for salaries, it's for funding the actual heroics itself.

Everyone under the same agency would be counted together for the purposes of funding allotment. If Sidekick A managed 300 busts last year and Sidekick B man managed 350 busts, then congratulations, The Big Hero Hero Agency made 650 busts last year, here's a check made out to the agency, figure out what you want to do with it.

But what about incidents that involve multiple heroes from the same agency? Let's say that The Big Hero Hero Agency is involved in a big bust. It is Sidekick A's baby. They have spent months doing this. This has been blood, sweat, and tears. When the day comes, they are joined by Sidekick B, Sidekick C, and Big Hero himself. Sidekick B has been helping Sidekick A for the past three weeks on this case. Sidekick C got called in the day-of to help.

Big Hero showed up for the last twenty minutes of the fight when they were mostly done with everything.

So. You're filling out the post-arrest paperwork. For funding and for public statistics, you need to make sure to properly account for who gets credit for the bust. It has to be one person--if you had everyone individually credit themselves for the bust, then it looks like you've resolved four incidents instead of one under this financial model. it's artificially inflating your numbers for public funding. that's fraud. Who should get the credit: Sidekick A, Sidekick B, Sidekick C, or Big Hero?

Well, there's nothing stopping Big Hero from writing their own name. So let's go with Big Hero. He helped.

This was one of the big sources of the sidekick strikes: a lot of agencies had an absolute policy of attributing successes to the name hero if they touched the case at all, because there was no rule against it. It was better for the agency, after all--unrealistically high numbers on the biggest name meant the agency as a whole appeared more successful.

So there were a lot of heroes artificially inflating their stats with things that were more properly credited to their sidekicks. Which made it all the harder for sidekicks to leave because their stats were shit because their boss was taking credit for their work.

ii. Private Funding in an Agency Context

But that’s just public funding. How would agencies distribute private income streams?

Big Hero Agency is proud to announce its newest line of Big Hero Action Figures, featuring the Entire Big Hero Team, now retailing for $39.99. Get it now from a store near you.

So. An agency is selling an action figure line featuring Sidekicks A, B, and C, as well as Big Hero himself. We’ll round up to an even $40. How do we split up the cash?

You can’t give everyone each $10. You have to first pay the suppliers, the advertisers, the trucks that shipped the toys to the store, etc. Then you have to pay back into the agency to fund miscellaneous expenses—the stationary, the insurance, the coffee in the fucking break room. Everything. By the end, there’s only $4 of profit left over. Not great, but hey—they’re selling a lot of toys. So if they each get a $1, then it should add up quick.

Right. But. If you think about it, people are only really buying it for Big Hero. He’s the best hero of all of them—his name is on the agency, and just look at how much higher his stats are. So it’s only fair that he gets $3.70 a toy and the rest of them can get $.10 apiece. Don’t worry, it’ll add up quick.

Not all agencies would have been like this. But a lot of them would be. Money is a hell if an incentive to screw people.

END OF ASIDE.

With all that in mind—why would they feasibly have a structure to fly in help from other heroes far away? That’s their fucking competition. Sure, we have team ups, but they’re all either well in advance or in the heat of a moment. If they are in the heat of a moment, half the time the heroes resent it because they just stole their fight. They’re gonna what—pay the exorbitant jet fees to fly in someone who’s just going to steal their hard work in the eyes of the public?

Okay, but what about situations like this? Massive emergencies where you need more people?

Those haven’t ever happened before. They had All Might.

So. The heroes on the ground calling in help are out. What about the heroes who are close enough to make it there by ground transport? No one calls them, they just show up out of public need. How are they getting there?

Trains are out. All the trains into the area are shut the fuck down. We are not giving the freshly escaped villains a bullet train to the rest of the country. Same thing for buses. No fucking bus driver is making their regular route into a fucking battleground.

Private transportation it is. Anything more than a few hours out of the area is completely out of the question. Like, good ol’ Manuel from Hosu City and all his buddies? Not making it. The wild wild pussycats? Watched this on TV from their mountain home. Gran Torino? On FaceTime with All Might, who is watching the fight with Midoriya Inko’s hand gripped in his left and Bakugou Mitsuki’s hand gripped in his right. Gang Orca? Twelve hours away and on a fucking island so he needs a boat AND a car to get there. Or he just fucking swims.

But there has to be at least some hero that saw this happening and heroically climbed in their Mazda sedan to make the three hour car trip. Why didn’t they go to the fight in Yokohama instead of the one against AfO?

Frankly at that point those literal children were visibly doing way better than the actual heroes were faring and any heroes showing up went where they were most needed and uh. It wasn’t by the kids.

If we have the agency model as given to us by canon, then that means there is a decentralization of resources. If you want to utilize your public defense force in the case of emergencies, then you need a way to fucking get them to the emergency. Canon does not have that. This is a huge structural failing that only wasn’t a disaster sooner because most emergencies required one guy and he had his own private jet. So most heroes in the country never had to even consider if they would listen to Endeavor’s order because they were completely cut off and useless at the time.

So. Now the analysis has been narrowed from all of Japan’s heroes to just the ones in the immediate vicinity of the fight. That’s still a fuck ton of heroes. This is a heavily populated area with a bunch of heroes around. You can’t go outside without tripping over a hero.

Most of those guys were on fucking strike.

Structural Flaw #2: Over-Reliance on and Abuse of Sidekicks.

The vast majority of the workforce had to be sidekicks. Like, just from a business model perspective. Even the smallest agencies we saw had 2-3 sidekicks. Endeavor’s agency had at least double digits, and I think Idaten was at over a hundred or something. We were probably looking at, conservatively, a 1:10 ratio of heroes to sidekicks.

All those guys are on strike.

Okay. But not all of them, right? Idaten already settled and got their sidekicks back. That’s like a hundred guys.

Except the Strike was not isolated to the Tokyo/Mustufasa/Yokohama area. Idaten sent out a lot of their sidekicks to other regions to help alleviate some of the strains of the strike. (As a note, this was not the Idaten sidekicks crossing the picket line. Them picking up the slack for other sidekicks still striking would have helped minimize effects on the public. However, the agencies of the striking sidekicks would have reaped no benefit from this under the compensation structure outlined above. Idaten would have gotten the credit for everything their sidekicks did, so the other agencies would still be bleeding from this while risk to the public was slightly alleviated. Idaten’s entire function in this strike was to set an example for quick settlement and minimize public harm. There’s this entire sub-analysis on Idaten’s internal culture and how it intersects with broader heroics standards that I won’t get into now this is already way too long.)

Idaten is at 1/10 capacity. It has like, ten guys, all of whom have been working say, thirteen hour shifts (voluntarily—again, it was a decision made to try and minimize the public safety risks of the strike while still allowing their colleagues their best chance at improved conditions) daily for the past month.

All of those ten guys responded to Tartarus before Endeavor made the call.

To understand the exact nature of the breakdown, you really have to see the chaos of how exactly this unfolded.

The LoV and their merry band of criminals hit Tartarus. The heroes do not realize at this time that they intend to let everyone out, give them transportation, and point them straight towards the mainland. They think that they’re just there for AfO. That’s still a huge crisis that needs to be shut down immediately, so they call out all of their best. Endeavor responds. Hawks responds. Eraserhead responds. Mt. Lady, Kamui Woods, Miruko—everyone in the vicinity who could conceivably respond show up. For a second, it looks like it’s going to end here.

Once the LoV get AfO out of his cell, the entire tide of the battle turns against the heroes. Now everyone’s out. All of those horrible, terrible villains. Tartarus has fallen. They have to make hard decisions. The high ranking, very powerful heroes who are most likely to break the line on Endeavor’s decision? They’re already at the fight by the time he has to make it. It is chaos and something they cannot easily leave.

The LoV’s picked right now because they knew that the heroes were operating at less than a tenth of their regular capacity. They picked right now because they knew the system had structural faults, and if they hit them just right, it would all come down on the heroes’ heads.

But the sidekicks broke strike lines to respond, right? Why do they all go to endeavor’s side?

For one thing, it wasn’t all of them who showed up—maybe a third of them were not even in the area any more. It wasn’t malicious, or intentional, or anything like that—they were off visiting their families for the first time in a long time or taking vacation. All of them had spent the past few years being completely overworked and abused by their jobs. They just weren’t there.

So now we’re down to 2/3rds of them who can even try to show up.

A lot of it wasn’t actually made as a reasoned choice. For many of them, they ended up where they did because of all the chaos.

So you’re a sidekick. You’re on strike. The entire world has gone to shit. How do you normally find out about the world going to shit?

This is a competition model streamed through individual entities. There’s no central command structure. Your agency calls you.

Well, your agency either fucking fired you or they cut you off completely during strike negotiations. This time, you find out through the news when the story breaks. Now what?

You frantically try to get in touch with your (ex) agency. Who is picking up the phones?

No one. That was your fucking job before you went on strike.

I used to work at a government public-service type deal, and let me tell you, they abuse the fuck out of non-unionized workers. You are doing everyone’s job. No one ask why we don’t get more support staff because they have unions. Like. I had a law degree. I was hired to be a lawyer in that office. They had us all doing the jobs of four people, and by that I mean it would be the literal entire job description of another fucking position in that office and we were all expected to just do it too.

Unions incentivize treating workers right. The absence of them opens the door to the opposite.

Why the fuck would agencies hire more people to lighten the load on the sidekicks and let them focus on actual heroics? Just make the sidekicks do everything. What are they going do, complain? They’re a dime a dozen. Hire more of those fresh faced kids with no standards just out of school.

You know when you had a job where you’re like. This fucking place is going to fall apart without me. But they treat you as disposable and easily replaceable and you’re like “okay bet” and so you leave and you find out from the people left behind that it actually fucking fell apart without you and you’re just like :o

Yeah. So that happened.

There has been a massive break down in the function of heroics offices for the past month and change because the sidekicks were not there. They were the ones who actually did most of the day to day handling of the office. They were the ones coordinating transport and figuring out the actual mechanics of who would be deployed where in a crisis. All those things that would be super helpful now? Yeah, those guys aren’t there, and they’re locked out of the fucking offices and can’t get in to un-strike for the sake of societal crisis.

But they know where the fight is. It’s on the news. Why don’t they just show up?

Where’s their gear?

Who owns it?

Heroics support gear must be an enormously expensive thing. It would have to be provided by the agency itself. Literally the only reason why Mirio has gear is because 1) all might would NEVER let his pseudo step son run around without proper support so the man would have bankrolled it himself if needs must and 2) the UA support class has a stipend each year where they can make support gear for active heroes and those heroes get it for free in exchange for free advertising for the students trying to kick start their careers, so he is decked out in THE most experimental bullshit from Hatsume Mei Industries (I have this entire side plot where the support class this class year low key became a sort of religious cult haha not really it’s just a joke it’s not really a joke and power loader is afraid every single day when he comes to work he is afraid under the iron clad rule of Hatsume Mei’s weird girl energy and they all decided Mirio was the Tabula Rasa, a figure of prophecy, and I just cannot get into that right now it’s too long it’s too long already. But it’s so fun).

All those sidekicks on strike lost valuable time trying to get back into their agencies so they weren’t showing up to an S-class villain fight in their fucking jammies. Then, when some poor admins figured out what was going on and let some of them in, everyone was frantically gearing up and getting in whatever transport van they were pointed at. Some of them didn’t know they werent reporting to Yokohama until they were already at the other fight. There’s was so much chaos and confusion that very few people had a clear idea of what was happening.

With the sidekicks, some of them never made it, some of them just got in a van and went wherever it took them, and some of them chose to obey Endeavor’s orders. Some agreed with the decision. Some disagreed but deferred to his experience. With how the Sidekick Strike had left their infrastructure, very few sidekicks were able to respond fast enough to make any real difference.

Now for the last possible demographic: the heroes that weren’t on strike and weren’t initially deployed to the Tartarus Prison Break. Why didn’t any of them go to Yokohama?

Structural Flaw #3: All Might was that one kid doing the entire group project for like forty years and some of these people are having to be heroes for the very first time and realizing that they don’t actually want to risk their lives to save people they just sort of liked the idea of this job.

It may be a bit too specific to be a structural flaw but I’m counting it anyway.

So, just to give a bit of a recap: We consider every hero alive in Japan as a candidate for Endeavor’s order. The vast majority of them are too far away to do shit, and there’s no centralized transport network to get them there faster. Toss in those who are dealing with personal medical issues or are away on vacation or just can’t come for some reason or another, and you’ve lost most of the heroes in Japan as respondents. Probably ~80% of potential heroes are culled from this alone.

So we have, generously, 20% of Japan’s heroes left as potential people to respond. ~90% of those are sidekicks on strike. They’ve got hours before they make it to any fight, because of the aforementioned structural breakdowns.

Now we’re down to 2% of Japan’s total heroes.

Some of that 2% were first responders to the initial Tartarus prison break. All the big name heroes in the area. But there can’t be that many top heroes—so let’s say 0.2% of them were at the initial fight.

Now we only have the remaining 1.8% of heroes to analyze.

There have to be a percentage of those who agreed with Endeavor’s call as a tactical decision. If they show up to any fight, they’re going to be obeying his order.

So we only have the ones who disagreed with his call left to look at.

These are small-time heroes. All of the big names are already at the fight. So they are less likely to have flashy Quirks, be especially talented, or consider themselves to have an especially large effect in the grand scheme of things. They have likely spent their entire careers living in a world with All Might.

It has never actually been down to them.

Think of Uwabami. Momo did her work study with her.

Her hero outfit is a fucking evening gown. She spent the entire work study doing commercials and meeting with her fans. She explicitly invited the young heroes that she did because she thought they were cute enough to be in commercials with her.

Now, she’s had some good if minor moments helping rescue civilians. It’s not that she’s never saved anyone.

But all of the top heroes are already committed to the fight against AfO. The current Number One Hero just ordered all her colleagues to report there. And Yokohama has a lot of S-Class villains en route.

And what the fuck is she going to do to stop them? It’s just her. Half of those villains took All Might to stop the first time. She is not fucking all might.

Is this a hero likely to go to Yokohama completely on her own to fight *checks notes* literally the entire prison population minus one guy? The worst guy, albeit. But one guy.

These are all heroes who have never had to be the actual thing standing between society and destruction. There has always been someone more powerful or capable or heroic nearby. Until recently, there has always been all might.

This isn’t to malign them. A decent percentage of them are legitimately well meaning about being a hero. They do good. But when it came to the big, blowout fights, they have always, always, always been the heroes evacuating civilians in the background or performing rescue in the aftermath. It has never been them who had to stand up and do the fight itself.

Every single one of those villains represent a big, blowout fight. And this hero trying to decide if he’s going to obey Endeavor’s order? They are one guy. And they’re not sure if they could even beat one of those villains alone, let alone all.

The reason why no one disobeyed Endeavor’s order was because, frankly, at the end of the day, they did not want to die.

Endeavor’s order signaled to everyone that there was no guarantee anyone would show up to Yokohama. It actually put good odds to the opposite. If you decided “fuck that, I’m going to Yokohama” then you’d likely be doing it alone.

What Class 2-A did was considered a death sentence. People who didn’t know them and their bullshit were shocked that they all made it out alive. These were the worst villains their society had ever faced and it was all of them at once (minus that one guy).

The heroes who were in a position to disobey endeavor didn’t actually think it’d make a difference if they did. They’d just… lose.

Most if not all of these heroes made the decision to become heroes during all mights era of peace. Everything just had lower stakes. Crime was less frequent and less serious. The big fights always had someone there who could handle them, because All Might was there. They’d fight the odd mugger or purse snatcher and help put out fires and go home at the end of the night. They’re heroes. That doesn’t mean they’ve ever truly had to grapple with a life or death fight.

If they went to Yokohoma, they thought they’d die. So they might as well respond to a fight that has a chance. Even if they feel ashamed as they do it. Even if they think Endeavor made the wrong call and wanted to go to Yokohama instead. All Might wasn’t there anymore. And they were afraid.

But there is one thing that Class 2-A had going for them that gave them an advantage over these heroes. And that was the fact that they are all medically insane.

It’s that they were together.

It’s a decentralized heroics structure. If you have a large agency, you are necessarily a top hero because no one else would be able to get that many people to agree to work under them. So you’re already at Tartarus and this isn’t a decision you had to make.

Maybe you’re independent. Maybe you have a small agency with 2-3 people. There is no preexisting centralized line that you can use to try and gather more people to go to Yokohama with you. You’re stuck with your immediate colleagues and maybe a few other heroes you’re close enough with to have their number. You really don’t have time to try and ask around to see if anyone else wants to go to Yokohama instead—you need to pick a battle and get there yesterday.

What good is 2-3 people going to do in Yokohama? You’ll just get massacred and it won’t have made a difference. At least if you go to stop AfO, you’ll have a chance at doing something that mattered.

Maybe you disagree with Endeavor but you defer to his training and experience.

Maybe you don’t go at any fight at all. Maybe you’re afraid. Maybe you became a hero in a time where you had a symbol of peace, and you realize you can’t keep doing it in a time without one.

I think there’s a small subsection of heroes that quit in the aftermath of Yokohama. Because they wanted to disobey endeavor’s order, and they thought they’d just die and it wouldn’t matter, and then dawn came and a bunch of school kids had managed what they were too big of a coward to do. I think the fact that they fell into line when their hearts told them they shouldn’t made them seriously doubt whether they were good enough to be a hero.

But they were alone when Endeavor made the call. And it felt like certain death. And—yeah, it sort of felt that way to Class 2-A when they made the decision to respond. But they weren’t alone when they did it.

They were together. And they always felt braver when they were together. Together, they could make miracles happen.

[triglycercule]

oh yeah before i forget cute mttpoly headcanon because i said so: when killer finds out (through SOME way of means. he has his ways) that dust and horror like something then at every chance he can he goes and finds that thing for them :3 because I SAID SO AND IT'S CUTE ‼️‼️ (something something killer has no idea how to properly show affection and appreciation after believing his whole life was meant to cause pain and suffering to those close to him and now that he's trying he does silly goofy stuff like this hehe,,,,,,, dust is DROWNING in piles of fluffy blankets and books. horror cannot keep up with eating the amount of snacks killer keeps stealing for him 😞😞😞)

[needyraincandy-u]

That's right. It's not like Ame has told Harley about her past, like, at all. At least not in depth.

People could've learnt from her streams that she stopped going to school, implying that sometimes she cuts or goes a little too far with her meds. There have been small layers about her own person that slipped in KAngel's streams if she went to any of them high or, if she had a breakdown.

Yet…unless it's someone that knew her from High School or Kabukicho, Ame didn't really share her story with the internet.

It crossed her mind before, the idea of wanting to share some not-so-fun facts about her life with her girlfriend, the same way Harley has confided past of her past with her, too.

There was also P̴̧̢̡̛̘͍̰̫͓̮̞̠̝̋̃̄̓̉͐́̚͝-̸̡͇̠̼͖͔̲̻͙͐̀͆͊̾č̶̛̰͈̤̱͙̋̆̀̿̈̀̀̂̀͆͋̄͘̚͝ḩ̵̢̢̣͇̥̹̘̳̼͚͇̫̰̀̆̄̀̎͛͐̈́̀͠á̵̛̪͇̘̿̇̾̏͐̈̽͘ñ̴̢͙̬͕̤̑̆̅̌̎̈́̕͜'s thing, but Harley never asked. No one ever asked. And it's almost as if Ame forgot completely about their e̷̹̪̗̥̰̗͆̌̃͐͊̅͂̓̉̽̎͛x̵̡̰̭̟̭̹̣͖̜̟͔̳̓̀̀̐̈̀̉̀́̽͒̎̊͐̀͘i̵̡͔̻̭͇͖͖̠̭̦̦͉̳̥͕̿͑̿̓̓͑͗͐s̸̩̦̹͙̟͙̲̥̏́̄͊͋̔̓̀̽̽̀̊t̷̛̛͖͑̂̍͂̃̀͗͒̕͜e̴̼̮̭̻̮̞̠̋͊́̚ņ̷̛̖̯͖̱͇̻̻̯̿̈́̃͊͒́͋̀̑̕̕͝c̷̢̞̮̤̝͙̗̲̝̖͓͕̻̑͋́̈̉͐̆̅̈́͗ͅe̶̡̨̡̠͍͚̺̫͂͌́͐́̿̊̿̐̈́́̅̔͊̅̉̓ͅ the moment she cheated on them with Harley and just got herself a new girlfriend.

"I…hey, it's kinda embarrassing to have people hear me, so I mean…makes sense. I only tend to sing while in the shower or, for karaoke games."

A small smile comes to her when Harley squeezes her hand. Partially getting infected with her lover's enthusiasm and pushing her to the idea that she really wanted to sing alongside her now.

Oh, she was going to look so so stupid. Or so she thought.

"If you continue giving me so many names or making those puns, I'm gonna get a list longer than the Kanto Pokédex." Teasing, Ame actually leaned closer to place a brief kiss on her girlfriend's forehead, before she hummed softly and found herself released.

It seems Harley spotted all the Kirby crane machines, but could she really blame her for getting excited? One of the few good things about the country is that, merch like this was so stupidly common that it was everywhere.

The bad thing about there being so much merch, however, is that one usually wanted it all with how well made it was or, how cute it could be.

"I recognize a true Kirby fan when I see them." Stepping closer to be near her lover, Ame would look around herself and all the options they had, before she crossed her arms and tilted her head just slightly.

"But there are many options and these damned machines can be dangerous if you don't-" Her hands were taken by an excited Harley, but that just made Ame's smile to widen, still hesitant and frowning softly while she stared back at the machines.

"It's a dangerous yen-sucker if we're not careful, but okaaaaaay. Let's try to win at least two, one for each. Maybe we can aim higher with a bit of luck."

Harley picks up on the implications right away, eyes widening before she lets out a laugh.

"Ahahaha! So that's how Ame-chan managed to master rhythm games, huh? Acting aaaaall high and mighty when you're just as bored as the rest of us!" She grins, letting Ame drag her away to another section.

Ah, that was always the fun part of being with Ame. The more Harley learns about her, the more interesting Ame becomes. A new facet of a diamond she'd get to see, a different side with its own hue, all coming together to form the woman she loved.

Getting to experience that thrilling sensation of falling head over heels over and over, her mental image of Ame becoming more clear and precise. Sharpening, like the finishing details of a colorful, stained glass portrait she'd see in churches.

When Ame brings up the idea of singing karaoke as herself, Harley's eyes light up. She bounces forward, speeding up to be side by side with Ame, instead of behind her.

"Wait, you've never sung for anyone before?! Now I really wanna hear you even more! The louder, the better!" She squeezes her hand, already imagining the two of them dueting in her living room together. It's another small, cheesy dream she's had, ever since she first got her karaoke equipment set up for streams.

"Besides, if it's Meemee singing, I already know she's gonna blow us all away! Instead of Tsukimi-chan, you could be Tsunami-chan! Or Tsun-ame-chan!"

She knows she'll have to tell Ame her troubles at some point, but it's moments like these that make it easy to forget that she even had any worries to begin with.

Whether it was because she was trying to ignore them intentionally, or because she had other things that demanded her attention at the time, it would end with her feelings fading as quickly as they came.

Her memory wasn't known for being reliable, nor was she the best with emotions, but maybe this was what her friends meant by "burning the candle at both ends."

After all, her weekdays were taken up by her programming work, while weekends were just an extra load on top of that. Relying on her natural high energy to just power through could only get her so far.

But spending quality time with Ame like this, knowing Ame truly treasures her enough to let her in like this... Harley needs this as much as Ame does. It's why she notices the KAngel plushies first, but doesn't mention them.

Once Harley spots the Kirby cranes, however, any thought she had prior flies out of her head. She gasps loudly, practically charging towards the nearest game that was free. Moving close to the glass, much like a kid in a candy store.

"Holy shit, they have the limited edition Bandana Waddle Dees and the Strawberry Kirby! I've wanted these for forever! Oooh, they have the one with the donuts and- wait, oh my god, the Headphones Kirby is so cuuuuute!!" She squeals, flapping her hands with glee.

Her eyes are sparkling as she looks over at Ame, taking her hands and jumping up and down.

"I know it's your birthday and I promise I have more planned after this, but can we please try to win at least two from this game? Please, please, pleeeeeeease?"

[foldingfittedsheets]

When I was working at the sex shop I was pulling poverty wages. I loved my job but I was on food stamps and still barely getting by. When they hired the stores first male employee and he started at my pay rate after I’d been there for three years I quit.

I was initially really nervous when I saw the post for the mattress job. It listed a pay scale that I couldn’t even conceptualize and I appeared qualified. When I got an interview I was over the moon but also petrified. Reactions to my line of work often varied but most people were very embarrassed or skeptical. I worried about how I’d address it in the actual interview.

I lived far to the north of their headquarters and drove almost two hours to get there. When I finally arrived it was in the nicest thrift store clothes I could find, but I shrank inside to see a room full of older white men in nice suits waiting to be interviewed for the same job.

Why did I bother? I was decades younger than anyone else in the room, shabbily dressed, and I suspected I was the only afab person in the entire building. I stewed in my insecurities until I was called in.

The second I met my interviewer I was instantly put at ease. The man had the energy of a therapy dog, he was abound with positive, good natured energy. He was also incredibly beautiful. I grinned back at his welcoming smile as we said our pleasantries. But still. This very beautiful polished man seemed very innocent. How would the sex shop question go?

“I see here you worked at STORE?”

“Yes,” I said hesitantly.

“And that was sales? Or you just rang people up.”

“No, it was sales. I’d help people find products, we were encouraged to upsell, there was sales spiffs, and most importantly we educated customers on products to help them find what they liked best.”

He grinned approvingly and asked, “Can you give me an example of a time you successfully upsold a customer?”

I paused, wringing my hands before I asked, “How vague would you like me to be…?”

“Not at all!” He assured me. “Go for it!”

“Well. A man came in looking for something to make his fingers vibrate so when he was touching his wife it would enhance that sensation. We had cheap $10 cockrings that I showed him first. But we had a rechargeable waterproof one made of nicer material, and after I showed him a demo he bought that one.”

“How much was that one?”

“$110”

“Wow! You had an upsell of 100% from what he came in looking for! That’s incredible!”

He was so truly genuinely stoked and not at all embarrassed that for the first time I saw a tiny glimmer of a future where I didn’t have ramen and peanut butter tiding me over between paychecks.

He asked me to wait then came back to tell me he liked me so much that he wanted to send me right into another interview, if that was okay. He didn’t want me to have to drive back later, it was terribly considerate and exciting. I beamed and told him it would be lovely.

I then had the second worst interview I’ve ever had. The worst goes to the time I applied to be a store manager for a pet food place years later. The district and store manager interviewing me passed notes and texted while I was speaking. When the district manager called to inform me I didn’t get the job I told him I’d never have accepted anyway because I’d never had such a disrespectful interview.

The new man sitting behind the desk radiated an aura of a brick wall. As someone with anxiety I’m highly keyed into the emotional states of people I’m talking to. To receive no feedback at all was my personal hell. After a perfunctory greeting he asked me with no inflection to sell him a pen.

I gathered the shreds of my courage and attempted the Herculean task he’d set me. Through my whole improvised spiel he resisted all attempts at engaging him, regarding me with a cold apathy as I touted the benefits of my fictitious pen.

Halfway through I broke into a cold sweat. My smile didn’t waver but it grew strained as I projected friendliness and warmth into the black hole of his heart. My thoughts scattered and my sales pitch grew redundant in the face of his nothingness. I finally concluded with a hard close and he simply nodded.

He glanced at my resume and commented, “You didn’t ask me to touch or hold it. Though I suppose I can understand from your previous line of work why you wouldn’t.” I shriveled and died inside knowing that I encouraged people to touch dildos all day long and had been too frazzled to offer him the pen.

He bid me a cool farewell. I made it to my car before I started sobbing. I had never been so rattled. I couldn’t understand what I’d done to make him so unfriendly or if my threadbare clothes were what had made him treat me like dirt. I drove an hour and a half to get home, weeping intermittently.

I was therefore taken by complete surprise to receive a call the next day inviting me on board for their five week training program. The first man who’d interviewed me gushed on the phone about how the second guy had loved me and that I was going to be fantastic.

I was in shock. When I showed up to training the second interviewer was charming my new classmates, beaming and laughing. He was an utterly different person. To my dismay I learned he was the trainer for my district and would be my point of contact if I made it through training.

He joked with me later that his interview facade was just a tactic to see how people held up under pressure and I filed him into a category of my deepest enmity. I never forgave him for how small he made me feel that day, but I never showed him the depths of my fury.

I aced every test and went on to be valedictorian of the eight people who had survived the rigorous training process to earn a sales position. When I got my first paycheck I bought myself new clothes, the first non-thrifted things I’d owned in years.

[missdynamighttt]

acidentally snooping on bf! katsuki's phone and seeing something... kinky.

you were just on katsuki’s phone, playing subway surfers. you honestly didn’t even remember because the moment you accidentally swiped to his notes app, your eyes landed on a particular note titled “shit to try w/ her” and curiosity got the best of you.

at first, you thought it was something mundane—maybe new date ideas, training routines, or even a new recipes. but as soon as you opened it, your face went hot.

because it was a list. a very detailed list of all the filthy things katsuki wanted to do to you. some of it was stuff you’d already done—rougher, filthier things that had you squeezing your thighs together just remembering them. but then there were the others. the things he clearly hadn’t brought up yet.

shit to try w/ her

- overstimulating her (worse than usual. she looks so pretty when she cries on my dick)

- mirror sex while making her watch (want her to see how fuckin’ pretty she looks fallin’ apart.)

- recording it (for us only).

- thigh riding while i just sit back and watch (bet she'd whine so fuckin pretty too)

- more praise. (she likes that. she gets all shy. cute as fuck.)

- see how many times i can make her come in a single night.

your eyes widened at that last one. oh.

you kept scrolling, your thighs pressing together involuntarily. you knew katsuki was a freak, but seeing it written out like this, with all the little notes and thoughts he’d clearly been holding onto—made your breath hitch.

this was… a lot. not that you were opposed to most of it, but the fact that katsuki was sitting on this list, keeping it to himself, planning? that was almost hotter than the list itself.

you were still staring at the screen when you heard the bathroom door open. before you could react, a shadow loomed over you.

“the fuck you doin’?” katsuki’s voice was gruff, but he sounded relaxed—like he was toweling off his hair as he walked into the room.

you scrambled to lock his phone, but it was too late. the second he saw the look on your face, the way you were gripping his phone like you’d just uncovered a government secret, his eyes narrowed.

“…what did you see?” his voice was cautious now, tinged with suspicion.

you slowly turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “me? what are you doing making a list of all the filthy things you wanna do to me?”

katsuki froze .a slow, deep flush crept up his neck, spreading to his ears. his jaw clenched, his hands twitching at his sides like he wasn’t sure if he should snatch his phone away or act like nothing happened.

“…you weren’t supposed to see that.”

your smirk widened. “oh? and when was i supposed to?”

he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “dunno. when i fuckin’ brought it up.”

you leaned in, voice teasing. “well, damn. didn’t know you had all these filthy little fantasies about me.”

“shut up,” katsuki sputtered, face burning, his hand swiping for the phone. he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “fuckin’ kill me.”

you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “y’know, all you had to do was ask, baby.”

his fingers dug into your waist, his jaw clenching. “don’t—”

“i can’t believe you wrote it all down,” you teased breathlessly. “you’re so cute when you’re embarrassed.”

katsuki groaned, muffled against your neck. “i’m gonna kill you. you keep runnin’ that mouth, and i’ll start checkin’ shit off that list right now."

you bit your lip, feeling bolder. “you know… we could. cross something off the list.”

his eyes snapped to yours, darkening in an instant.

“…get on the bed.”

and then, without another word, he crushed his lips against yours and, well—you did end up checking something off that list that night. particularly, the last one.

you lost count somewhere after the third orgasm, but katsuki didn’t. oh no, he kept track. every time your body seized up, every time you sobbed his name, every time you gasped that you couldn’t take anymore—he whispered the number into your ear like a reminder.

“four,” he’d growled, dragging his thumb over your swollen clit. “look at you, fuckin’ cryin’ for me.”

“five,” he rasped later, his grip on your thighs tightening when you tried to squirm away. “told ya you could give me more.”

by the last one, your body was boneless, your voice gone, and your mind a hazy blur of pleasure. katsuki finally relented, collapsing beside you and pulling you into his chest.

you felt his lips press against your temple, his breathing uneven as he whispered, “fuckin’ champ.”

the morning after, you were sprawled across katsuki’s chest, his arm draped lazily around your waist as the sun peeked through the curtains. your entire body ached in the best way possible.

you groaned softly, shifting to get more comfortable, and his chest rumbled with a low chuckle, his fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare back. "you alive?"

"barely," you mumbled into his chest. "my legs hate you."

he chuckled, the sound vibrating beneath your cheek. "told ya you could take it."

you huffed a laugh, tilting your head up to meet his gaze. his crimson eyes were soft in the morning light, the usual sharpness replaced with warmth—and just a hint of smug pride.

“well, i didn’t know you were gonna go for the damn world record,” you teased. “how many times was it?”

his smirk deepened. “seven.”

your jaw dropped. “seven?”

“mhm,” he squeezed your waist. “you were real fuckin’ cute, too. cryin’, beggin’, squeezin’ me like that. thought you were gonna pass out on number six.”

your cheeks burned. “oh my god, stop.”

“why? can’t handle hearin’ how fuckin’ pretty you were last night?”

you covered your face with your hands, groaning. but katsuki was having none of it—he pried your hands away and pinned them to the mattress, leaning down until his lips brushed yours.

“seven,” he repeated against your mouth, grinning when you squirmed beneath him. “and next time? we’re goin’ for eight.”

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

[gumii-bearr]

thinking about the first time megumi calls you a pet name.

you’d been dating for a while, a few months at that point, but he was always reluctant to use a pet name for you.

he preferred to call you by your name or the nickname everyone gives you.

but maybe it’s yuji that changes his mind.

“wait— fushiguro, you don’t call her baby? or sweetie? pookie maybe?? just y/n?”

“…that’s her name.”

but the thought lingers for weeks and he starts thinking about all the things that you call him.

“hey, gumi!”

“hi, baby,” before pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“oh my god, gumi you have to see this!”

“thank you, sweet boy—“

since when did you start giving him pet names? perhaps it’s because it sounds so natural coming from you. you say cute pet names with such confidence behind them that he barely registers that you’re the only one who calls him those things.

there are a few failed attempts where the cute pet name he totally didn’t spend hours thinking about in his dorm last night, gets stuck in his throat and he just ends up hiding his red face in the collar of his jacket.

pet names don’t come naturally to megumi. before he met you, he thought pet names were sort of cringey and lame, that they sounded stupid.

but he feels so fuzzy when you say them, your smile bright and beaming, your sparkly eyes making him weak at the knees and the adorable pet name sending a jab right through his chest.

so there’s a second attempt.

and a third,

and a fourth,

before he gets it out without stuttering over his words and wishing the floor would swallow him whole because you didn’t hear him or it came out as a choked cough rather than an actual word—

“hi baby! i picked us up some pizza… i thought we could catch up on our watch list tonight.”

and megumi gulps back the lump in his throat, clammy hands clutching the material of his sweats—

“sounds good… babe.”

and you pause, a smile beaming across your face and you slowly turn to him.

“what was that—?”

“nothing.”

“no, what did you call me?”

“forget it.”

“wait, don’t be embarrassed, gumi!”

“too late, i’m going to ask shoko for her strongest shit so i can forget what just happened—“

and you giggle, tugging on his sleeve as he attempts to writhe away from you on the bed, pressing his face into the nearest pillow as you clamber over him with a cheeky smile.

“did you call me a pet name mr. fushiguro?”

“and i’ll regret it til i die.”

“oh, boo.”

safe to say he tends to stick with calling you your name or your offical nickname, but there are some rarer occasions where it slips out.

like when he’s unbelievably tired and sore from a day of sparring and missions, and he sneaks into your dorm and crawls into bed with you.

“long day, hm?”

“mm, i feel better now though.”

and you stroke his hair, “get some sleep then, ‘kay?”

“mhm… thank you, baby.”

and you just smile against his hair, he doesn’t realise what he’s said and it’s better that way, because it makes it a little more special.

[caelum-in-the-avatarverse]

Fandom can do a little gatekeeping. As a treat.

So I finally decided to archive-lock my fics on AO3 last night. I’ve been considering it since the AI scrape last year, but the tipping point was this whole lore.fm debacle, coupled with some thoughts I’ve been thinking regarding Fandom These Days in general and Fandom As A Community in particular. So I wanna explain why I waited so long, why I locked my stuff up now, and why I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m a-okay with making it harder for people to see my stories.

Lurkers really are great, tho

I’m a chronic lurker, and have been since I started hanging out on the internet as a teen in the 00s. These days it’s just cuz I don’t feel a need to socialize very often, but back then it was because I was shy and knew I was socially awkward. Even if I made an account, I’d spend months lurking on message boards or forums or Livejournals, watching other people interact and getting a feel for that particular community’s culture and etiquette before I finally started interacting myself. And y’know, that approach saved me a lot of embarrassment. Over the course of my lurking on any site, there was always some other person who’d clearly joined up five minutes after learning the place existed, barged in without a care for their behavior, and committed so many social faux pas that all the other users were immediately annoyed with them at best. I learned a lot observing those incidents. Lurk More is Rule 33 of the internet for very good reason.

Lurking isn’t bad or weird or creepy. It’s perfectly normal. I love lurking. It’s hard for me to not lurk - socializing takes a lot of energy out of me, even via text. (Heck it took 12 hours for me to write this post, I wish I was kidding--) Occasionally I’ll manage longer bouts of interaction - a few weeks posting here, almost a year chatting in a discord there - but I’m always gonna end up going radio silent for months at some point. I used to feel bad about it, but I’ve long since made peace with the fact that it’s just the way my brain works. I’m a chronic lurker, and in the long term nothing is going to change that.

The thing with being a chronic lurker is that you have to accept that you are not actually seen as part of the community you are lurking in. That’s not to say that lurkers are unimportant - lurkers actually are important, and they make up a large proportion of any online community - but it’s simple cause and effect. You may think of it as “your community”, but if you’ve never said a word, how is the community supposed to know you exist? If I lurked on someone’s LJ, and then that person suddenly friendslocked their blog, I knew that I had two choices: Either accept that I would never be able to read their posts again, or reach out to them and ask if I could be added to their friends list with the full understanding that I was a rando they might not decide to trust. I usually went with the first option, because my invisibility as a lurker was more important to me than talking to strangers on the internet.

Lurking is like sitting on a park bench, quietly people-watching and eavesdropping on the conversations other people are having around you. You’re in the park, but you’re not actively participating in anything happening there. You can see and hear things that you become very interested in! But if you don’t introduce yourself and become part of the conversation, you won’t be able to keep listening to it when those people walk away. When fandom migrated away from Livejournal, people moved to new platforms alongside their friends, but lurkers were often left behind. No one knew they existed, so they weren’t told where everyone else was going. To be seen as part of a fandom community, you need to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known, etc. etc.

There’s nothing wrong with lurking. There can actually be benefits to lurking, both for the lurkers and the communities they lurk in. It’s just another way to be in a fandom. But if that is how you exist in fandom--and remember, I say this as someone who often does exist that way in fandom--you need to remember that you’re on the outside looking in, and the curtains can always close.

I’ve always been super sympathetic to lurkers, because I am one. I know there’s a lot of people like me who just don’t socialize often. I know there’s plenty of reasons why someone might not make an account on the internet - maybe they’re nervous, maybe they’re young and their parents don’t allow them to, maybe they’re in a bad situation where someone is monitoring their activity, maybe they can only access the internet from public computer terminals. Heck, I’ve never even logged into AO3 on my phone--if I’m away from my computer I just read what’s publicly available. 

I know I have people lurking on my fics. I know my fics probably mean a lot to someone I don’t even know exists. I know this because there are plenty of fics I love whose writers don’t know I exist.

I love my commenters personally; I love my lurkers as an abstract concept. I know they’re there and I wish them well, and if they ever de-lurk I love them all the more.

So up until last year I never considered archive-locking my fic, because I get it. The AI scraping was upsetting, but I still hesitated because I was thinking of lurkers and guests and remembering what it felt like to be 15 and wondering if it’d be worth letting a stranger on the internet know I existed and asking to be added to their friends list just so I could reread a funny post they made once.

But the internet has changed a lot since the 00s, and fandom has changed with it. I’ve read some things and been doing some thinking about fandom-as-community over the last few years, and reading through the lore.fm drama made me decide that it’s time for me to set some boundaries.

I still love my lurkers, and I feel bad about leaving any guest commenters behind, especially if they’re in a situation where they can’t make an account for some reason. But from here on out, even my lurkers are going to have to do the bare minimum to read my fics--make an AO3 account.

Should we gatekeep fandom?

I’ve seen a few people ask this question, usually rhetorically, sometimes as a joke, always with a bit of seriousness. And I think…yeah, maybe we should. Except wait, no, not like that--

A decade ago, when people talked about fandom gatekeeping and why it was bad to do, it intersected with a lot of other things, mainly feminism and classism. The prevalent image of fandom gatekeeping was, like, a man learning that a woman likes Star Wars and haughtily demanding, “Oh, yeah? Well if you’re REALLY a fan, name ten EU novels” to belittle and dismiss her, expecting that a “real fan” would have the money and time to be familiar with the EU, and ignoring the fact that male movie-only fans were still considered fans. The thing being gatekept was the very definition of “being a fan” and people’s right to describe themselves as one.

That’s not what I mean when I say maybe fandom should gatekeep more. Anyone can call themselves a fan if they like something, that’s fine. But when it comes to the ability to enjoy the fanworks produced by the fandom community…that might be something worth gatekeeping.

See, back in the 00s, it was perfectly common for people to just…not go on the internet. Surfing the web was a thing, but it was just, like, a fun pastime. Not everyone did it. It wasn’t until the rise of social media that going online became a thing everyone and their grandmother did every day. Back then, going on the internet was just…a hobby.

So one of the first gates online fandom ever had was the simple fact that the entire world wasn’t here yet.

The entire world is here now. That gate has been demolished.

And it’s a lot easier to find us now. Even scattered across platforms, fandom is so centralized these days. It isn’t a network of dedicated webshrines and forums that you can only find via webrings anymore, it’s right there on all the big social media sites. AO3 didn’t set out to be the main fanfic website, but that’s definitely what it’s become. It’s easy for people to find us--and that includes people who don’t care about the community, and just want “content.”

Transformative fandom doesn’t like it when people see our fanworks as “content”. “Content” is a pretty broad term, but when fandom uses it we’re usually referring to creative works that are churned out by content creators to be consumed by an audience as quickly as possible as often as possible so that the content creator can generate revenue. This not-so-new normal has caused a massive shift in how people who are new to fandom view fanworks--instead of seeing fic or art as something a fellow fan made and shared with you, they see fanworks as products to be consumed.

Transformative fandom has, in general, always been a gift economy. We put time and effort into creating fanworks that we share with our fellow fans for free. We do this so we don’t get sued, but fandom as a whole actually gets a lot out of the gift economy. Offer your community a story, and in return you can get comments, build friendships, or inspire other people to write things that you might want to read. Readers are given the gift of free stories to read and enjoy, and while lurking is fine, they have the choice to engage with the writer and other readers by leaving comments or making reclists to help build the community.

And look, don’t get me wrong. People have never engaged with fanfic as much as fan writers wish they would. There has always been “no one comments anymore” wank. There have always been people who only comment to say “MORE!” or otherwise demand or guilt trip writers into posting the next chapter. But fandom has always agreed that those commenters are rude and annoying, and as those commenters navigate fandom they have the chance to learn proper community etiquette.

However, now it seems that a lot of the people who are consuming fanworks aren’t actually in the community. 

I won’t say “they aren’t real fans” because that’s silly; there’s lots of ways to be a fan. But there seem to be a lot of fans now who have no interest in fandom as a community, or in adhering to community etiquette, or in respecting the gift economy. They consume our fics, but they don’t appreciate fan labor. They want our “content”, but they don’t respect our control over our creations.

And even worse--they see us as a resource. We share our work for free, as a gift, but all they see is an open-source content farm waiting to be tapped into. We shared it for free, so clearly they can do whatever they want with it. Why should we care if they feed our work into AI training datasets, or copy/paste our unfinished stories into ChatGPT to get an ending, or charge people for an unnecessary third-party AO3 app, or sell fanbindings on etsy for a profit without the author’s permission, or turn our stories into poor imitations of podfics to be posted on other platforms without giving us credit or asking our consent, while also using it to lure in people they can datascrape for their Forbes 30 Under 30 company? 

And sure, people have been doing shady things with other people’s fanworks since forever. Art theft and reposting has always been a big problem. Fanfic is harder to flat-out repost, but I’ve heard of unauthorized fic translations getting posted without crediting the original author. Once in…I think the 2010s? I read a post by a woman who had gone to some sort of local bookselling event, only to find that the man selling “his” novel had actually self-published her fanfic. (Wish I could find that one again, I don’t even remember where I read it.)

But aside from that third example, the thing is…as awful as fanart/writing theft is, back in the day, the main thing a thief would gain from it was clout. Clout that should rightfully go to the creators who gifted their work in the first place, yeah, but still. Just clout. People will do a lot of hurtful things for clout, but fandom clout means nothing outside of fandom. Fandom clout is not enough to incentivize the sort of wide-scale pillaging we’re seeing from community outsiders today.

Money, on the other hand… Well, fandom’s just a giant, untapped content farm, isn’t it? Think of how much revenue all that content could generate.

Lurkers are a normal and even beneficial part of any online community. Maybe one day they’ll de-lurk and easily slide into place beside their fellow fans because they already know the etiquette. Maybe they’re active in another community, and they can spread information from the community they lurk in to the community they’re active in. At the very least, they silently observe, and even if they’re not active community members, they understand the community.

Fans who see fanworks as “content” don’t belong in the same category as lurkers. They’re tourists. 

While reading through the initial Reddit thread on the lore.fm situation, I found this comment:

[ID: Reddit User Cabbitowo says: ... So in anime fandoms we have a word called tourist and essentially it means a fan of a few anime and doesn't care about anime tropes and actively criticizes them. This is kind of how fandoms on tiktok feel. They're touring fanfics and fanart and actively criticizes tropes that have been in the fandom since the 60s. They want to be in a fandom but they don't want to engage in fandom 

OP totallymandy responds: Just entered back into Reddit after a long day to see this most recent reply. And as a fellow anime fan this making me laugh so much since it’s true! But it sorta hurts too when the reality sets in. Modern fandom is so entitled and bratty and you’d think it’s the minors only but that’s not even true, my age-mates and older seem to be like that. They want to eat their cake and complain all whilst bringing nothing to the potluck… :/ END ID]

-

“Tourist” is an apt name for this sort of fan. They don’t want to be part of our community, and they don’t have to be in order to come into our spaces and consume our work. Even if they don’t steal our work themselves, they feel so entitled to it that they’re fine with ignoring our wishes and letting other people take it to make AI “podfics” for them to listen to (there are a lot of comments on lore.fm’s shutdown announcement video from people telling them to just ignore the writers and do it anyway). They’ll use AI to generate an ending to an unfinished fic because they don’t care about seeing “the ending this writer would have given to the story they were telling”, they just want “an ending”. For these tourist fans, the ends justify the means, and their end goal is content for them to consume, with no care for the community that created it for them in the first place.

I don’t think this is confined to a specific age group. This isn’t “13-year-olds on Wattpad” or “Zoomers on TikTok” or whatever pointless generation war we’re in now. This is coming from people who are new to fandom, whose main experience with creative works on the internet is this new content culture and who don’t understand fandom as a community. That description can be true of someone from any age group.

It’s so easy to find fandom these days. It is, in fact, too easy. Newcomers face no hurdles or challenges that would encourage them to lurk and observe a bit before engaging, and it’s easy for people who would otherwise move on and leave us alone to start making trouble. From tourist fans to content entrepreneurs to random people who just want to gawk, it’s so easy for people who don’t care about the fandom community to reap all of its fruits. 

So when I say maybe fandom should start gatekeeping a bit, I’m referring to the fact that we barely even have a gate anymore. Everyone is on the internet now; the entire world can find us, and they don’t need to bother learning community etiquette when they do. Before, we were protected by the fact that fandom was considered weird and most people didn’t look at it twice. Now, fandom is pretty mainstream. People who never would’ve bothered with it before are now comfortable strolling in like they own the place. They have no regard for the fandom community, they don’t understand it, and they don’t want to. They want to treat it just like the rest of the content they consume online.

And then they’re surprised when those of us who understand fandom culture get upset. Fanworks have existed far longer than the algorithmic internet’s content. Fanworks existed long before the internet. We’ve lived like this for ages and we like it.

So if someone can’t be bothered to respect fandom as a community, I don’t see why I should give them easy access to my fics.

Think of it like a garden gate

When I interact with commenters on my fic, I have this sense of hospitality.

The comment section is my front porch. The fic is my garden. I created my garden because I really wanted to, and I’m proud of it, and I’m happy to share it with other people. 

Lots of people enjoy looking at my garden. Many walk through without saying anything. Some stop to leave kudos. Some recommend my garden to their friends. And some people take the time to stop by my front porch and let me know what a beautiful garden it is and how much they’ve enjoyed it. 

Any fic writer can tell you that getting comments is an incredible feeling. I always try to answer all my comments. I don’t always manage it, but my fics’ comment sections are the one place that I manage to consistently socialize in fandom. When I respond to a comment, it feels like I’m pouring out a glass of lemonade to share with this lovely commenter on my front porch, a thank you for their thank you. We take a moment to admire my garden together, and then I see them out. The next time they drop by, I recognize them and am happy to pour another glass of lemonade.

My garden has always been open and easy to access. No fences, no walls. You just have to know where to find it. Fandom in general was once protected by its own obscurity, an out-of-the-way town that showed up on maps but was usually ignored.

But now there’s a highway that makes it easy to get to, and we have all these out-of-towner tourists coming in to gawk and steal our lawn ornaments and wonder if they can use the place to make themselves some money.

I don’t care to have those types trampling over my garden and eating all my vegetables and digging up my flowers to repot and sell, so I’ve put up a wall. It has a gate that visitors can get through if they just take the time to open it.

Admittedly, it’s a small obstacle. But when I share my fics, I share them as a gift with my fellow fans, the ones who understand that fandom is a community, even if they’re lurkers. As for tourist fans and entrepreneurs who see fic as content, who have no qualms ignoring the writer’s wishes, who refuse to respect or understand the fandom community…well, they’re not the people I mean to share my fic with, so I have no issues locking them out. If they want access to my stories, they’ll have to do the bare minimum to become a community member and join the AO3 invite queue.

And y’know, I’ve said a lot about fandom and community here, and I just want to say, I hope it’s not intimidating. When I was younger, talk about The Fandom Community made me feel insecure, and I didn’t think I’d ever manage to be active enough in fandom spaces to be counted as A Member Of The Community. But you don’t have to be a social butterfly to participate in fandom. I’ll always and forever be a chronic lurker, I reblog more than I post, I rarely manage to comment on fic, and I go radio silent for months at a time--but I write and post fanfiction. That’s my contribution.

Do you write, draw, vid, gif, or otherwise create? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you leave comments? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you curate reclists? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you maintain a fandom blog or fuckyeah blog? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you provide a space for other fans to convene in? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you regularly send asks (off anon so people know who you are)? Congrats, you're a community member.

Do you have fandom friends who you interact with? Congrats, you're a community member.

There’s lots of ways to be a fan. Just make sure to respect and appreciate your fellow fans and the work they put in for you to enjoy and the gift economy fandom culture that keeps this community going.

[esote-rika]

Red is Your Color | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!bau!reader

Category: smut 18+ MDNI

Summary: You just committed perhaps the most atrocious wrongly sent message ever. By some trick of nature, your coworker is more than willing to play along. (This is from @imagining-in-the-margins Wrong Recipient prompt list. Character receives scandalous selfies from a coworker; check out her prompts, they're really fun!)

Content: softdom!spencer, fingering, multiple orgasms (female receiving), p in v, creampie, reader is on the pill, Spencer calls reader a naughty girl and pretty girl, tenderness and lots of checking in, vaguely Christmas themed. 

Word count:  3.1k

A/N: I read something really poetic and profound yesterday and it inspired me to write, but my mind was in the gutter, so this happened. lmfao happy holidays. UNEDITED, I wrote this at 2 in the morning T.T

Do you think Santa would bend me over and punish me?

Spencer Reid was almost too scared to even open the following messages—he’d already made the mistake of opening this one. And there was a barrage of them, sent a few minutes after the very first one, in quick succession, one right after the other. His phone buzzed and buzzed, matching the distracting hum in his brain at the moment. He should probably read the next messages, because surely, surely those contain the explanation to this one.

Unfortunately, his eyes were glued on this first one—it seemed like it was the only one that contained a picture, after all, and what was that they said about a picture saying a thousand words?

What could it mean then, this picture his coworker had sent to him? What did it mean that he can’t seem to tear his eyes away from it? (What did it imply if he didn’t want to? That he liked the picture? That it made his pants uncomfortably tighter?)

He stared at the picture, his eyes greedily taking every inch of smooth skin exposed by the short, strapless sexy Santa dress his coworker was wearing. It wasn’t explicit—she was fully dressed, after all, but the caption, paired with the way she had been posed… Sitting on what he presumed was her bathroom counter, her legs artfully crossed, the fabric of the dress hiked up to reveal long, luscious thighs. With her pursed lips painted crimson, it was obvious what the message was meant to imply and Spencer felt his mouth grow dry. He shifted on his seat, both hands gripping his phone because he didn’t trust them not to wander down, to give himself relief.

No, he should not be jerking off to his coworker. He shouldn’t even be fucking looking at this photo. He should delete it, call Penelope and ask her to rewire his cloud or memory or data or whatever it was called. Just to get rid of it from his phone. That would be the decent thing to do, and Spencer had always prided himself on being a gentleman. 

He knew that would be futile; knew his mind would be treacherous and have the image of her with those supple thighs, and red mouth in his dreams, his nightmares, in every fantasy—

His phone was ringing.

He stared at it, wondering how she was sending so many messages so quickly, before he realized that she wasn’t texting anymore.

She was calling.

His thumb found the answer button without his consent. The next thing he knew, her voice was pouring from his phone’s speaker. Soft. Contrite. Embarrassed. He frowned. What on earth was she embarrassed about, he wondered. She, who looked stunning, who looked good enough to be worshipped—

“—Please say something, Spence.” she was saying, pleading, and something in his gut clenched. That nickname, coming from her lips. That nickname, coming from her lips, while she was wearing that dress.

“Spence—”

“It’s all right,” his voice was strangled. He cleared his throat, “It’s all right. I’ve deleted it.” Lie, what a liar, she deserved better than hastily told lies.

“Okay,” she sighed, relief palpable even without seeing her face to face, “I just didn’t want to get in trouble with HR, on top of everything.”

HR. He almost laughed. They wouldn’t care (unless someone blabbed, like what happened with Derek and Penelope, but he would never do that to her, not in a million years.)

“You wouldn’t, I promise… it wasn’t even that explicit, if I’m being honest.” he heard himself say. He rubbed his eyes in frustration—why did he have to add that?

Her laughter floats from the phone, nervous and low. “I guess not. I wasn’t about to send a complete nude to my friends.”

He straightened up, confused. “Your friends?”

“Yeah,” she replied, her voice still wavering nervously, “Like I said in my texts, it was wrongly sent to you, I was talking to my friends.”

In other words, it wasn’t for him. He would have known that, had he opened her texts, had he not been too busy ogling the picture she had mistakenly sent, the picture that wasn’t even for him. Something unpleasant burned in his chest, but he ignored it in favor of the curiosity that lingered.

“You send explicit pictures to your friends?”

“I thought you said it wasn’t that explicit,” she chuckled, “But, uh, yeah I do… I dunno, maybe that’s weird, but we were joking around.”

That was something new he learned today. That friends could casually send sexually charged photos to each other. The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them. “So you don’t actually want to be bent over and punished?”

Dear heavens, sometimes he understood why his teammates gave him weird looks. If he had a mirror, he would give himself a weird look. Still, he held his breath for her answer, surprised by the wave of disappointment at the thought of her saying no, it was just a silly text.

The pause grew between them, and Spencer was almost about to apologize, when she spoke again.

“I mean, if someone were willing to do it…”

He swallowed. His pants felt tight once again, and he had to force himself to take deep breaths. This was not an invitation, he thought, she had not asked him, she was not saying if you wanted to do it (which, he does, desperately so.)

“Right.” he managed to croak. Another pause, as if she was contemplating. 

“Spencer,” she was whispering now, “Do you want to?”

“Yes.”

“How fast can you get here?”

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

You’re not sure what possessed you into inviting your coworker over, but you did. And now, you’re sitting in your living room, in that blasted sexy Santa dress, panic texting your friends about it. He had said fifteen minutes. Eight minutes had gone by, and you knew he would fulfill his promise. He would be here in seven minutes.

Perhaps you weren’t expecting him to agree. Your perception of Spencer Reid has always been of a sweet genius, wholly brilliant and too preoccupied with academics to even give a second thought to sex and romance. He was a germaphobe, for crying out loud, you had thought it would make him have some sort of aversion to the inevitable sticky, sweaty mess of two bodies coming together. 

But you’d heard it in his voice. Strained, low, and riddled with desire. 

So you had mustered enough courage to ask. And now—

Your doorbell cut through your thoughts. Taking a deep breath, you shoved your phone into a drawer, not wanting to see the offensive piece of technology for the rest of the night. You looked out through the peephole, and there he was, still in his office clothes. Tall, and slender, and dishevelled and yours for the night.

You pulled the door open, ignoring the heavy thump in your chest. 

He smiled. “Hi.”

“You’re early.” You teased, standing aside to let him in. His eyes were glued to you, pupils dilating as he took you in.

“You’re still wearing the dress.”

Right. Once you had realized you sent the text to Spencer instead of your friends, you had spent the next several minutes in agonizing anxiety, sending text after text to Spencer in an effort to explain. In your utter mortification, you had forgotten to change out of it.

He seemed to like that. It gave you enough confidence to surge forward, blindly, recklessly.

“I am.” You said, red lips tugging into a smile you reserved for handsome strangers at a bar. You lowered your voice, just enough for the next words to come out breathless, “Honestly, it’s a little itchy.” 

“Is it?” He stepped forward, crowding you into the door. It creaks as it moves with your weight, the knob clicking in place. He reached forward, and you held your breath, anticipating his hands on you, gently running over your skin, but instead they closed over the doorknob, locking it. He didn’t miss your reaction, though, his eyes a glittering night sky of sweet, utter want. “Maybe I can help you with it.”

You nodded, mouth parted in silence, whatever words you wanted to say have died in your throat.

He brought his hand up, caressing your jaw, and you marvelled at how large his hands are, long fingers reaching the nape of your neck. “Red is your color.” he murmured, before leaning in to capture your lips.

His lips were cold and chapped, and you returned his kiss eagerly in an attempt to warm them. Your mouth opens at one swipe of his tongue, moaning as he leans his whole body into you, pushing you harder against the door. Tonight, you learned that Spencer Reid, the sweet, unassuming genius, kisses like he wants to crawl into you. It’s a sloppy mess of tongue and teeth, and a whimper escaped your mouth as he bit your lower lip.

“Too much?” he asked, pulling away for a moment. 

As an answer, you wrapped your hands around his neck, and returned the fervor of his kisses. You heard him chuckle, felt it on your own tongue as it happened and it made your knees buckle from sheer want. 

His arms wrapped around your waist, hoisting you up into his embrace. You felt him move, stumbling across your apartment before setting you down again. The blunt edge of a drawer hit your lower back, just as he pulled away. 

A whine left your lips. You didn’t know if it was from the pain, or the loss of his kiss.

“Turn around, darling.” he murmured, but your brain was so damn distracted you just stared at him blankly. He grinned, hands at your hips gently maneuvering you to face away from him. “You said you wanted to be bent over.” 

Chills went down your spine as he pushed you forward, elbows landing on the smooth, wooden desk. 

“Y-yeah, I did say that.” you managed to reply. This time, the breathless quality in your voice was not an affectation. You felt his nose on your neck, pushing away the stray locks of hair, before his mouth landed over the skin, open and wet, traversing the expanse of your flesh with reckless ardor. You moaned, craning your head back in a wordless plea for more.

You felt teeth, the sting of it clamping over your flesh. You didn’t even realize you’d yelped until he stopped.

“Sorry,” he whispered, soothing the bite with his kisses.

“It’s okay,” You replied, one hand reaching up, running through his hair. “Do it again.”

The rumble of his laughter made your stomach warm. He sunk his teeth into your neck again, sucked at the spot he bit, and you would have face planted into the desk had it not been for his hands holding you up. 

“You’re a naughty girl,” he purred against your skin, “Aren’t you? Sending that picture to me, I bet it wasn’t even an accident.”

“It was,” you protested, but then he grinds his crotch into your ass and any indignation was stifled by the feeling of how damn hard he was. “It was - I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t mean to make me this hard?” he asked, rolling his hips against you, “I think you knew exactly what you were doing, naughty girl.” Before you could answer, you felt something digging into your ass. He was tugging at your panties. To the side, as if he couldn’t even be bothered to strip it off of you. 

It was hot as all hell.

“My god, you’re absolutely soaked for me.” he groaned into your ear, and you gasped as the rough pads of his fingers ran through your cunt. Somehow, his fingers have remained cold, and the sensation sent a shudder down your spine.

“S-Spencer,” you whined, knuckles finding leverage at the edge of the desk you’ve been sprawled over.

“Mhm? What is it, darling?”

“M-more.”

His laughter filled the room once again, “And I thought I was being needy.” he said, but he obliged your request easily, slipping two fingers into your pussy. His breath fanned over the overheated skin of your neck as he buried his face against your shoulder, “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” you moved your hips against his hand, chasing the rhythm of his fingers. You’d never enjoyed this by yourself; your own fingers were thin, too short to cause any sort of pleasure when you touched yourself. But Spencer’s hands were large, his fingers long and elegant and perfect. They curled inside you, hitting a spot you’ve never been able to with your own hands, and you cried “Oh, fuck yes!”

It was everything. Quite literally. His arm was holding you against him, his body a solid, lean mass behind you, pressing into the slopes of your own, digging in wherever your softness yields to his hard angles. You moaned and moaned again, as his fingers quickened, as his thumb found your clit and rubbed fast circles until your arms gave out and your entire upper half was splayed on the desk. 

He didn’t stop, cooing soft words into your ear, his tongue and lips and teeth a whole other dangerous territory of its own. You knew you would have hickeys tomorrow. You knew the team would ask questions. You didn’t particularly care.

“Can you take more?” he asked, and you nodded, eager to take whatever he was going to give. A third finger slid into your dripping cunt, stretching you in ways you haven’t felt in a long time and you groaned, head buried in your arms. He paused, his other hand rubbing circles on your hip, “Are you all right, darling?”

“Yes.” you sobbed, and you knew he wouldn’t believe you because you sounded sad, and everything that Spencer has done up until this point proved that, despite it all, he cared. 

“You can tell me if it’s too much, you know.” he murmured. His lips laved featherlight kisses along your shoulder.

“I’m fine,” you insisted, bucking your hips. The idea of being slightly incoherent from the pleasure he’s been giving you was a little too enticing, and you were in no mood to stop, “Please.”

“Okay,” he resumed his ministrations, slower this time, dragging his fingers in and out of you with a precise rhythm, now that he’s figured out your weak spots. “You are so pretty like this, darling. Dress hiked up, your lipstick smudged.”

A mewl came out of your throat, and you would have been embarrassed if you still had the presence of mind to feel an ounce of shame. He coaxed a second orgasm from you, and you marveled at the fact that he could elicit responses like these with just his fingers. It seemed unfair, but a large part of you reveled in it.

“That’s it,” he whispered, slowly pulling his fingers out, “That’s my pretty girl.”

You lifted your head from your arms. The sight that welcomes you is a blurry one, impeded by the clumpy eyelashes and messy tears that had gathered in your eyes. You knew you looked a mess, far from the pretty girl he kept repeating, but you ate up the praise all the same.

As if by their own accord, your hips move back, grinding into his erection. You wanted more. You wanted him to be in the same daze you were in right now, wanted to be one. “Spencer,” you whined, and he laughed, and you wondered if it was possible to get drunk off of a sound.

“You’re insatiable, aren’t you?” he replied, playfully chastising, but the sound of his belt buckle reached your ears and you grinned.

“Just wanna make sure you get something too.” you mumbled.

“Is this a bad time to tell you that I had forgotten a condom?”

Now it was your turn to laugh, bracing yourself on your elbows again, and looking over his shoulder.

“Wow, isn’t your whole thing the complete opposite of forgetting?”

“I was a little distracted.” he said, his smile sheepish.

“I don’t mind,” you replied, “I’m on the pill.” 

“You’re sure?”

“Mhm-hmm.” You nodded, one arm moving and blindly grasping for the zipper of your Santa dress. His hand gently encircled your wrist, placing it back on the desk.

“It stays on,” he said, as the blunt tip of his cock pushed past your pussy, “I told you, red is your color.”

Your mouth dropped open as he sheathed himself inside you in one thrust, and wordless expression of pleasure. He had spent a large chunk of time fucking you with his fingers, and the necessity of it dawned upon you now.

He was big.

The stretch made you groan, eyes squeezing shut as your pussy fluttered around him. He pressed his body over yours, pushing you into the desk as he began to rock, in and out of you. Involuntarily, you clenched around him, earning a sharp hiss.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, holding you tightly around the waist with one arm. The other went to the desk, steadying himself as he found a rhythm that made you writhe beneath him, “Oh god, yes.”

You couldn’t even respond, your body moving on autopilot, meeting his every thrust with your hips. The sounds your bodies made were obscene, wet, sloppy noises of flesh meeting flesh. It filled your head, made you dizzy with pleasure. 

“Spencer,” at this point, you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve repeated his name. The world has anchored all meaning to that one sound, and you said it, over and over again, “Spencer.”

“Mhm,” he responded by snapping his hips, pushing his cock so deep into your toes curl, “That’s it, darling, say my name.”

“Spencer,” you said in your broken voice, every repetition turning higher and higher in pitch, and it seemed like the higher your voice went, the harder he fucked you. Your desk banged against the wall from his rough thrusts, joining the cacophony of sounds from your coupling. 

His pace grew rougher, faster, his grip on you reaching the point of painful and bruising, but it made your head spin in the most delicious way possible. You clenched around him, squeezing his cock in an attempt to find your peak, and instead initiating his.

“Fuck—” he groaned, as his load exploded inside you, somehow filling you even more, and you dropped your head to the desk again as your own body shuddered with release. 

Panting, and exhausted, you both stayed there, bent over the desk half upright, like a tower about to topple. He kissed the back of your neck as you fought to catch your breath. Looking over your shoulder, the sight of him fills your vision, hair tousled and sticking to his forehead, his lips smudged with your lipstick, and you couldn’t help but think that red is his color too.