#each time i occasionally check this blog i regret it

[lunarw0rks]

Hello! I just found your blog and I just started reading everything I saw 😅. Can I request 141 + König + Alejandro with a pregnant reader? They don't know yet and when the reader will break the news they are really stressed with work and end up taking it out on the reader, they end up getting into an argument and saying they hate the reader and that their life would be so much better without the reader in it (😈). The reader takes this seriously and leaves when they are asleep... Months later they meet again when the reader is on her way to the hospital to give birth (😈). Angst to fluff pls. If you don't feel good about writing or it's too big, that's fine. Have a nice day and thank you so much for all the time you spend writing to us.

The Things We Say // 141 Drabble

Summary: You're expecting, but it's not good news. To him, at least. Your relationship takes a hit, but once he meets your child, he's swallowed with regret for how he treated you.

Warning(s): angst to fluff, hurt/comfort, pregnancy, childbirth, mentions of premature birth/complications, mild injury/blood, strong language, established relationship, fem!Reader, no use of y/n

A/N: I was hurting my own feelings---but, there's fluff after the angst, so don't get too upset besties<3 Hope you don't mind anon, I took some creative liberty because I didn't want them all to have the same plotline. | Word Count: 5.9k

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ 141 MASTERLIST // have a request? ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ ao3 ver.

SYNOPSIS; he had been in the thick of it lately, sometimes more overwrought when at home with you than in active combat, it seemed. Conversations were either abrupt, crude, or nonexistent—often just building on top of the tension building between the two of you. Relationships were supposed to be fifty-fifty, but you felt you were carrying the burden of the whole percentage. That’s why the news couldn’t have come at a worse time—you, staring at the two lines instead of one. No matter how long you stared, double-checked the diagram, the answer was the same. Pregnant. So, now you knew two things for certain, you were expecting, and most heartbreaking—the other one responsible was at his worst. To break the news to him, it took every fiber of your being.

⋘ » ☆ « ⋙

AFTERMATH; nine months of hell. That’s how you would answer if someone asked. Few people did though, even at work or out on the street. There was the occasional boy or girl, how are you feeling. But they were being polite, or taking pity on the pregnant woman without a ring on her finger. The pregnant woman with bags under her eyes, the one who winces with each step because she’s ready to pop. None of it meant anything to you, because the other half of this responsibility had been left in the dark, and not for much longer. You weren’t raising this child alone, no matter how irate he was going to be when you contacted him.

Price

One of John’s many talents; stewing on his feelings, keeping them suppressed for an unnatural amount of time.

Often so long that he forgot about the source of his anger once he had time to catch up to them. That is… Until his work was involved. Then he was an entirely different man, often spending his time deep in a bottle and with a nose deep in paperwork, with little regard for anyone else around him.

His control, it was typically so consistent, that he knew not to bring his professional problems home. But lately? It’s been anything but typical. He wasn’t what you would call mean, but there was definitely a negative word to describe it. Cold? Apathetic? Perhaps even unwelcoming?

The bickering, if you could call it that, had droned on for several minutes now. Though, it was mostly you venting your frustrations to an uninterested Price. ❝I know it’s not good timing, John. Why the fuck do you think I’m in here trying to reason with you? Are we just supposed to ignore this until we can’t anymore?❞ You hissed, tempted to rip the paperwork from his grip to get him to pay attention.

He always wanted children, but not right now. Naturally, that’s when it happened. He felt like he was drowning, at first only professionally, but now personally too. The funds weren’t a problem, the kid had two parents, but… you and him—nothing was working.

❝Sweetheart, I’m in the thick of it right now. Please.❞ He didn’t need to raise his voice for you to see how irritated he was. Perhaps at the baby, you, himself, or all the above. ❝I have a meeting.❞ He stood up from his workspace, steaming coffee in hand.

John walked away from you like you were a pestering soldier, not the mother of his child. Enough was enough.

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He thought he was slick, only giving you physical checks to see your face, to ensure that you were indeed alright. It was often the coffee shop within equal walking distance of your two separate homes. John would always slide the amount you needed across the table, a look of remorse on his face. Each monthly meeting, your stomach would grow in size, as did your drained expression.

But you wouldn’t talk to him. You would only text him the amount, nod when he asked questions. It was the worst torture you could put a man like John through—one that needed the approval of his loved ones. It just couldn’t happen, not yet. The wounds of how he treated you, they were too fresh, even after nine months of this routine.

To be truthful, you debated on even calling him when you went into labor. You could do it alone, right? With just the support of the delivery nurses, and most of all your baby girl as the reward? Perhaps you could wait until after, give him the respect to at least meet his daughter. For someone not carrying a child, he looked just as beat; sunken eyes, less tidy facial hair than usual, and somehow even more tobacco on his breath.

John was clawing himself from the inside out, begging for something other than a “yes” or “no” from your lips.

—

❝I can’t do this,❞ you repeated it about fifty times, tears streaming down your cheeks from both the pain and the distraught feelings. That plan you had to not call him, it was falling through quite quickly. This level of agony? You needed someone other than a doctor. You needed the father, as much as it pained you to admit.

❝Yes, you can dear, women have babies everyday.❞ Bless the nurse, she was trying her best to keep you calm, but it didn’t work.

What if something went wrong? If somehow you didn’t make it but your baby girl did, she would be alone until he got here… That couldn’t, no—wouldn’t happen. He needed to be there, right beside this bed to hold her in case you couldn’t.

In between your pained grunts, you finally spit out what you’d been trying to tell her, finding a split second of sensibility during all this distress. ❝Call… John. Please, call him!❞

—

The doors swung open faster than any of the personnel, his gaze softening when he saw you breathing in a patterned fashion. The nurse beside you gave him a nod, freeing your hand for him to take her place. John wasn’t going to miss this, and frankly, he was irked that he almost did. But he wasn’t irked at you; he was irked at himself for taking this for granted.

His soothing voice talks you through each contraction, a soothing hand dabbing away the sweat and tears streaming down your face.

❝I got you, sweetheart. You’re almost done pushing.❞ Though he looked gruff on the outside, inside he was distraught. You had maintained the cold shoulder throughout the pregnancy, but you still called him here? You were more than he deserved in his eyes.

The last round of pushing, and they were close together now. You had about thirty seconds to say this, before you were screaming again.❝I’m glad you’re here.❞ Despite all the pain you were in, you gave his hand a squeeze, staring at him with a glossy expression.

His eyes nearly watered; the first sentence you had uttered to him in months, and it was clear you meant every bit of it. You needed him and so did your daughter, right here right now. He pressed a kiss to your temple, a soothing massaging your shoulder.

John kept his tone firm on purpose, to emphasize how deeply he cared for you right now. ❝I’ll always be here for you, love. Always.❞ 

Simon

Simon loved deep; hated even deeper.

It was one of the features that drew you to him in the first place, how blunt he could be, how his broodiness contrasted your personality in more ways than one. His cynical behavior could be humorous, could be reassuring, but most of all—bitter. To add stress to the equation, to bring it home? He was an explosive disaster waiting to happen.

❝Simon,❞ you approached from behind, holding the test in your hands, because you knew the first question he would ask when you told him; is if you took one. Well, if he wasn’t actively cursing under his breath, he would’ve.

Instead, he merely flicked his eyes over for a brief moment, as if you were a stranger on the street that said excuse me. ❝Simon.❞ Your tone grew firmer, clutching the stick with more apprehension.

❝Bloody Christ, what?❞ He shifted in his seat, bloodshot and hooded eyes that only twisted the knife further. You couldn’t tell him now, not with the pressure of being on the spot. The right words just wouldn’t come out, prompting you to put the stick behind your back. ❝Goddamn nuisance.❞ He muttered under his breath as if it was only supposed to be an internal thought. 

Though, he didn’t look all that remorseful about it—at least on the outside.

He had never said anything like that before, at least not to your face. It seemed, all the weeks of tension and cold shoulder, it was enough. You were done and out the door the second he’d dozed.

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Simon made a few futile attempts to reach out, but his own stubbornness prevented him from ever being face-to-face. He beat himself up so badly, and from his side of things—he’d only lost one person, not two.

It pained you to ask the delivery nurse to call him. You wanted to shove the crowning newborn right back inside and hold off, to go find him yourself and smack sense into him for putting you through this agony. But you couldn’t. Quite literally couldn’t get up, and didn’t want to. Resulting in pettiness and venom would make you worse than him because you would be using this child as a pawn.

He said nothing, but his eyes said enough. The nurses put a sterile drape over his shoulders, but he paid them no mind. His amber eyes remained on you; a bulging belly and an expression of pure agony. Had he missed something, a crucial chapter of your new life post-breakup? Most of all, why did you call him?

❝Hold my hand.❞ Simon found the side of your bed, allowing you to dig your fingernails into his forearm until there were imprints. He had few words, but the countenance of concern and guilt said it all. If this wasn’t his… you would’ve done this alone, or the father would be here. Then it dawned on him; it was his.

—

Hours passed, and he still hadn’t mentioned the obvious. Nine months without his support—financial or moral. You needed rest, as did the baby girl—so you were getting it, first and foremost. The adult matters would be better talked about when you weren’t still freshly recovering.

Simon tapped his foot against the tile, sitting in the chair beside the bed. He was unsure of who to keep an eye on more; the newborn swaddled in her own crib, or you, exhaustedly sleeping in your hospital bed. Though he’d held the girl, it felt forbidden, like he was only a placeholder until your body recovered enough to do it yourself. It was shock preventing him from feeling, not cruelty.

You stirred awake, a sigh of contempt when you laid eyes on him. The labor was a blur your mind had already shut out, and you truly didn’t recall the nurses contacting him. Your eyes were glossy with dark circles underneath them. ❝I’m…❞ It was like the night you tried to tell him but couldn’t, the words wouldn’t come out.

Simon saw that look in your eyes; the fear that he would explode, or storm out and leave you with the child forever—but he wasn’t. All the years of trying to not relieve the same mistakes his own father made, it would be useless if he did that. And he couldn’t, seeing that look of desperation on your face, how you looked as if you were going to burst into tears at the sight of him. That look, it was the same one that gnawed at him during those months apart, how he found you and your belongings gone.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. ❝Shh… Don’t apologize. Ever.❞ He was hovering now, a kiss pressed to your forehead. Whatever you decided when you were healed enough, he would take it like a man, because he had the audacity to speak to you like a man who wronged him.

Soap

Soap was… a complicated man to say the least. Usually, he was sweet, charming, with the right amount of cockiness. His ability to make you laugh drew you into him in the first place. But it was dwindling—at least during the past few weeks. Now, all that remained was smugness and bitter mutters under the breath.

❝Don’t be a child about this, we’ll figure it out,❞ He says, slamming his car door behind you. The first time you two had been out to dinner together in weeks, spoiled because you finally broke the news to him. You teared up in the restaurant because his reaction was anything but accepting, and frankly, he found it embarrassing.

He hadn’t meant it that way—that’s just how it came out.

He truly did want to figure this baby thing out, but it was the worst possible timing; an all-time high of stress at work, bickering with you constantly. And now, a third added to the dynamic with only months to prepare? It was too much. ❝Oh, I’m acting like a child?❞ You walked into the house, taking off the jewelry you had on to look nice for him.

The bickering that ensued—it was nothing nice, nothing you’d care to remember.

❝I don’t want you to go, lass. Don’t do this.❞ You had already made up your mind. Perhaps it was your emotions clouding your judgment, that instinct you felt being a few weeks along… It didn’t matter, you couldn’t be here. Not with him, not right now.

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You were about to pop, literally any day now. You knew that meant you would have to talk to the father, and interact with him for about eighteen years—at least be civil. But the rationality of it, how you would have to co-parent with him, didn’t ease your anxieties. Of course, he was adamant about checking up on you and being more of a parasite than the fetus taking half your energy.

You closed the car door with your hip, a slow waddle up the pavement. Where the hell your keys were, that was another story—something you would deal with once you rolled yourself up to the door.

❝What the hell are you doin’?❞ The voice nearly made you drop all the grocery bags in your grasp, a jumpy shriek coming out. When you whipped around, it was Soap, a look of upset on his very expressive face.

Once you started to recover from the scare of a lifetime, an unintentional one at that, a scowl formed on your face. It was like he had a sense of the absolute worst time to show up and annoy you, especially now that you were swollen and extra agitated. ❝A phone call would’ve worked, Johnny. Or, I don’t know, maybe a ‘hey I’m right behind you, lady’!❞ You attempted to mock his accent out of pure frustration, but he didn’t find the humor in it, at least not right away.

He yanked the bags out of your grip, stomping up the steps of your porch. ❝You shouldn’t be carryin’ these.❞ You really should not be doing that, he was right, but the thought of him being your grocery boy—showing up even more? ❝Keys.❞ He held out his free hand, the other one swimming in bags. It was ridiculous, apparently, you weren’t allowed to twist a key now, either.

You shove past him once he’s turned the key, squeezing past and joining him in the kitchen. Without a word, he starts putting away anything and everything you bought. Some are nutritious, others purely to feed your cravings. ❝Don’t start.❞ You pointed a finger at him when he picked up a family-sized bag of candy, a smart-ass comment daring to escape his lips.

❝God, I can’t believe you, Johnny. Sneaking up on me like that, I could’ve fallen.❞ You put an instinctive hand on your stomach, still irked by his presence.

❝No, you would’ve fallen carrying all those bags yourself. I have a right to be worried, it’s my bloody kid too.❞ He retorts, a hand on his hip. He’s done all he’s obligated to now; carrying and putting away your groceries.

You tighten your lips into a line, fighting the urge to start a full-blown argument. ❝Yeah, you remind me every day, so thanks for tha— Shit.❞ It seemed, raising your voice counted as exerting yourself because there was a sudden cramp in your stomach, a trickle down your pant leg.

Soap’s eyes widened, seeing you go from scolding him to hunched over and holding your stomach. You had forced yourself into labor, now standing on knees about to buckle. ❝I’ve got you, now get going woman, before I put you over my shoulder.❞ He felt he had never moved faster, a tight fist around your forearm to keep you standing as he led you through the door you had just walked in.

—

It seemed there was little time between being admitted to actively pushing. This kid wanted out, and right this second. You let out a shriek as the back of your head slammed against the pillow, sweat trickling down your brow as you cursed and wailed. ❝I know it hurts, love, but you got this.❞ He allowed you to clamp down on his hand, to dig your fingertips until they drew blood.

❝Oh, you know do you?!❞ You snapped at him, finding it hard to be nice when you felt like you were being ripped in half.

❝If I wasn’t,❞ you grunted in between words, face scrunched and labored breathing, ❝stuck in this damn bed, I would so… hurt you right now, Johnny.❞ He fought the urge to snicker just a little bit, masking it with his concern for you. Seeing you in agony, even when you were actively snapping at him, it didn’t please him one bit.

Well, you were arguing with him, so he knew you weren’t actively dying.

If you used enough of that anger, it would help you literally push through the pain, just like how it caused the kid to want to come out right this second. For once, his pestering and sarcasm were actually helping.

With one final wave of it, your back arched off the bed and finally, the loud cry of an infant filled the white-walled room. Soap nearly fainted, if he was being honest—he was awfully squeamish for someone who dealt with blood daily. But it was your blood and… fluids, things that made him shiver when he pictured how painful that could’ve been.

The doctors were speedy, cleaning off and checking vitals. All he could do was stare at the newborn—his baby boy. And then he looked at you, choked up and stared in awe at the baby set on your chest. ❝Jesus…❞ he leaned down, placing a gentle hand on yours as it held the child’s head.

All the fighting, all the bickering, even the late-night candy runs—they were well worth it. He had a second chance now, to make things right with you, and to be a decent father.

Gaz

Gaz could be hotheaded, sometimes downright blunt, especially when he’s passionate about something to do with his work. The night you were going to break the news, nothing was going right. He came home in a huff, not bothering to take off his boots before plopping on the sofa. Kyle had a right to be stressed; look at what he does all day. But he didn’t have a right to be cruel to you because of it.

You took a seat beside him and set the positive test down on his thigh. A silence followed by a scowl, and then he finally spoke. ❝You can’t be serious.❞ It nearly gutted you right then and there. His leg began to bounce anxiously the longer he glanced at the life-changing test results. 

❝Kyle, I—❞ you weren’t even sure what you were trying to say either, not that he gave you a chance. ❝I don’t have time for this, babe. I really can’t do this right now.❞ He put his head in his hands, a flustered groan escaping his lips.

❝Are you saying you don’t want this? That we shouldn’t have done this?❞ You were suddenly standing, eyes wide and watering. You felt like you had just been dumped on the street, despite his unclear tone.

He peered up, lips in a blunt line. ❝Maybe we shouldn’t have.❞ You could’ve crawled into a hole and died right then and there, but you merely nodded. Nodded and then left the room, leaving him to his moodiness. No, it wasn’t the best timing, but that didn’t give him the right to brush you off, to treat you like a distasteful afterthought.

It wasn’t just you anymore, it was you and the baby.

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It was one of his few days off—though he wasn’t feeling much relaxation. You were still hot and cold with him, now about halfway through your third trimester; thirty-two weeks to be exact. It was nearing that point, where he had prepared a spare room for the baby, began coordinating plans for labor, etc… 

But he still didn’t feel ready, or like he deserved you after how cruel he was that night. Kyle was only helping you to help you and the baby.

His phone buzzed, right when he had begun relaxing for the evening. 10:32 PM; and it was your number. The second he heard the voice of a nurse on the other line, not yours, his feet were halfway out the front door.

—

❝I’m fine, Kyle. I’m fine…❞ It seemed no matter how many times you repeated it, he didn’t seem to believe it. From the minute he entered your hospital room to now, he had at least one hand on you, a thumb grazing the cuts and bruises on your body. You had been in a car accident—mild for you, life-threatening for a preemie. ❝You’re not fine.❞ he said firmly, eyes darting towards your clothes bagged in the corner—bloodied and with windshield pieces still embedded.

Kyle was more worried about you at first, but you were solely concerned about your baby—left alone in the NICU being poked and prodded by personnel. You had to be induced, otherwise he wouldn’t have made it past the front doors. Now, he was too weak to be visited, too small and vulnerable to be held by his own mother yet. It was gut-wrenching; hours without a solid answer, because his chances depended solely on him making it through the night.

Now, there was nothing to do but wait, perhaps see your baby through a glass box if you got lucky.

—

❝He’s perfect,❞ Kyle peered down at the preemie in his hands, a baggy blue cap on his head. There were small babies, and he was somehow smaller. What once was the scare of a lifetime, it was now a passing memory to remind Gaz of what he could’ve lost. He would never make the mistake of talking to you like that again, even if the two events didn’t correlate.

What if the night you left, you got into an accident then, and it was much worse? He wouldn’t be able to live with himself, plain and simple. ❝It’s cheesy but, he does have your eyes.❞ You whispered from the nursing chair you were sitting in, still healing and fatigued from the ordeal. The picture in front of you; Kyle looking at your son with such love—it was irreplaceable and forever stuck in your memories.

❝Correct. But he has your scowl, babe.❞ Gaz flicked his eyes upwards, feeling you gently nudge his shin at the sound of the comment.

It didn’t matter the things he said months ago, as long as he cherished this new life with you as much as you planned to.

Alejandro

Alejandro always had passion for the things he cherished; you and his work, nothing else mattered more. Passion led to intense feelings, intense feelings turned into misplaced bitterness. It wasn’t your fault that you were expecting, no more than it was his, at least. He knew that and had he just taken a breath and thought more carefully about his phrasing, this whole mess could’ve been avoided.

❝Do you think I wanted to interrupt you, Alejandro?❞ You hissed, standing in the doorway of his office with the positive test in your hands. He had just looked at you with such distaste as if you were the root cause of his stress and not his work.

What better way to stir the pot, than to match his wrath? Well, it certainly did that, though seeing him rage was the last sight you wanted to see. Alejandro always had trouble with his anger, often finding himself with all these feelings he had no clue how to control.

❝You always do what you want!❞ There it was, him blowing his fuse. He’d thrown his hands in the air, face tightened into a scowl. He couldn’t leave it at that, either, not when his rage came in such intense waves. ❝You’ll do what you always do—bleed me dry!❞

You couldn’t speak, despite how vicious you felt only seconds before. It seemed too truthful for your liking like he had been waiting for an excuse to spill his guts. ❝As long as you have enough to amuse yourself, I’m nothing to you, right?❞ He wasn’t yelling anymore, but his mocking tone was enough to tear at your heartstrings.

Had he seriously played that card with you—the man always insistent on taking care of you, financially, physically, emotionally? Now, of all times? The argument ended with you slamming the front door behind you, something he would’ve done.

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You spent weeks ignoring him, and throughout the pregnancy, it was dry texts or brief calls. His only sign that you were even alive was the notification that you had used his account to purchase necessities. The irony of it made Alejandro nauseous, how awful he made it sound that you were doing what he told you to; to let him take care of you. The fact that you didn’t drain the funds, only bought what you needed, spoke volumes.

❝I’m not upset at you, amor—I wasn’t upset with you.❞

Alejandro reached a hand across the picnic table, a firm but loving grip on your forearm. You looked beat; hair a different length than before, exhausted eyes that were brimming with tears, and most of all a growing stomach. It was all his fault; the reason you didn’t want to face him like this, in fear that he would cut you and the baby off for good. Only, he was there to see your face, not for confrontation or another spat.

It didn’t matter what you said, if you screamed at him right now, or said nothing. Alejandro had made up his mind the night you left. ❝I’ll come to every appointment, parenting class, anything.❞

—

Of all the nights for you to be in labor, it had to be during a wicked storm. You had gone over to his house to make civil conversation over dinner, to at least attempt at repairing things. He had slaved over the stove, cooking his favorite for you. For most of the meal, things were… surprisingly tranquil; even romantic.

You were heavily pregnant, were you supposed to refuse a warm meal? Not a chance. You were too full, too swollen to get up out of the dining chair once the meal finished. And looking out the window? There was no way in hell Alejandro was going to let you drive home in this; droplets whipped down, trees and waste bins flew away from the force of it, and the rain was icy. Well, you were exhausted, and he had a bed he was willing to give up. Your back and feet practically sighed in relief when you laid back in his bed, the one you two once shared. It was a nice feeling, being there again and knowing Alejandro was trying his hardest to plead forgiveness.

About an hour into your much needed-slumber, you felt a pool in the sheets. Instinctually, you figured it was the fetus pressing on your bladder—a downright embarrassing thing you’d have to wake up and explain to him. But… it was clear it wasn’t that. You were in labor and stuck here.

The shriek you let out when you got a violent contraction; Alejandro dashed quicker than he ever did when dodging bullets. His fumbling fingers dialed 911, yanking the comforter off the bed to get a better view of your dilation. Fortunately, he was trained on how to deliver a baby when stranded, or in a country without medical support. But this was his baby and your life was in his hands. If he didn’t do this correctly, if something went wrong, he would never forgive himself.

The ambulance wouldn’t be there for an hour—you didn’t have an hour to spare, this baby was coming now. ❝You can do this, amor, we’re doing this together.❞ One hand clenched yours, the other kept an eye on the crowning baby. Just how you hadn’t woken up sooner, neither of you knew. Perhaps you had gotten so used to cramps and pains, that you thought it was just another sleepless night courtesy of the little one.

—

The moment your wails went silent as his baby girl finally came, Alejandro felt his heart drop. He had to make the worst decision; focusing on the newborn first. He wrapped her in one of his shirts, wiping the fluid and blood from her small face. As he cradled her, a quick hand fingered for a pulse, a loud sigh escaping his lips when he felt one. You had only passed out from the pain—probably doing you a service, considering he didn’t have the proper medication to numb your pain.

Your eyes fluttered open at the sound of the wailing child, still with gritted teeth. But your baby was there—and her lungs were very clearly working. Alejandro set her down on your chest, allowing you to hold your daughter for the first time. ❝You did so well, cariño. Look at her.❞ He was merely distracting you with the baby on your chest, to not divert your attention towards the state your body was in as he cleaned you up.

Somehow, he had pulled this off with both his girls safe, soon to be checked out properly at a hospital. When you first broke the news, he thought he knew the meaning of being so suddenly thrust into fatherhood, but that took on a whole new meaning after tonight.

König

There had once been a line he didn’t cross, but he did that night. König never yelled at you. He saved that stern side of him for his work because it was acceptable there. But in the weeks that his work had bled onto you, spoiling the relationship, his values seemed to loosen. Though he was a complicated man, a man uncertain of himself and his appearance, he maintained a hardness about him. Ruthless in the field and immensely protective of anyone that had come to love him. 

You approached him as he worked, placing the test on the desk he was sitting at. ❝König, I need to tell you something.❞

With his head facing the paperwork, he merely shrugged at you. Until he saw what you’d placed there, his eyes going wide. But it wasn’t shock or excitement; it was disdain for the fact that this baby was just another interruption—you were just another interruption. ❝I have no time for this, Schatz, you know that.❞

He didn’t need to raise his voice for his words to sting, his bitter tone was more than enough. But he surely hadn’t meant it like that, right? He’d meant he didn’t have time for this right now… right?

❝Why don’t you go rest, then?❞ He asks, picking up the folder that he was reading previously. It wasn’t a request made out of concern, König was patronizing you. His glare was typically enough to make a soldier scramble, but you just stood there for a few seconds, biting back the urge to choke.

How you left that night, it wasn’t dramatic or emotional, it was dry. König tells you to think clearly about this, to sleep on it. But you couldn’t—and you weren’t going to be a verbal punching bag.

➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶➴➵➶

König only called you weekly for appointment updates, or to let you know he had sent you a check. Other than that, words dripped with tension and the urge to say so much more. But you were too stubborn for your own good, and so was he. You were more concerned with hosting life than playing games with a father who treated you like a wimp.

He’d only seen you once, during the second trimester when he showed up at your apartment. You protested, but he showed up anyway, saying he needed “proof” that you and the fetus were safe. The voice on the phone wasn’t enough, in his eyes.

Of course, when you needed him most, screaming and keeling over in the kitchen, he wasn’t there. It was a neighbor that called an ambulance for you because they knew they had a pregnant tenant next door. In fact, it was such a close call, you nearly didn’t make it to the delivery room before the newborn came out wailing.

The only plus side? While the paramedics were deterring you from pushing, you’d sent a text—probably unintelligible—but a text, nonetheless. He knew your due date, how today was only a few days off, and he was in his car before he could grasp the severity of this new life stage.

—

❝I’m here, schätzchen. I’m not going to hurt you again, or him.❞ He hunched over the bed, eyes in a perpetual state of disbelief as he watched you soothe the whining newborn. Clarity hit him like a truck when he heard your screams during delivery, and then he was all in. Not that he had a choice, this was his doing too.

He had given you the financial support to get proper nutrition for you and the baby, to pay for the appointments, but that wasn’t enough—not in König’s eyes. He needed to snap out of his self-pity and be a support system. Whether you wanted to co-parent or work on repairing the relationship, you were not under any circumstances taking care of this newborn alone, at your apartment.

He placed a hand in your hair, threading his fingers through the strands. ❝We can clear out the spare room, hm? There’s more than enough room for the two of you.❞ He was already picturing it, how he was going to pull an all-nighter and get to work on the room, going to your apartment and moving the baby supplies from yours to his.

König didn’t need to state the obvious, that you weren’t bound to any type of relationship besides the one concerning the child. Whether you wanted to move out once the baby hit a certain age or not, he was going to keep an eye on the two of you.

Two of you, not just the newborn you were rocking. It was either both of you, or neither, and he was intent on it being the first option.

If you made it this far - THANK YOU!

[harmonysanreads]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ One Year Commemoration Post↬Sumeru Love Hexagon

-; ੈ♡˳ BEHIND THE HEXAGON

☆ The primary inspirations behind this AU are Alhaitham's Demo and this Fan Musical that debuted on Spring HoyoFair 2023!

Alhaitham's Demo no doubt gave many writers and daydreamers heavy brainrot and I happen to be one of them lol. But it was not until the fan musical that I had a concrete enough idea. I was charmed by the amount of tavern shenanigans this concept had the potential to bring, which is something that I really wanted to write at the moment :>

☆ Originally, Scaramouche or, Wanderer wasn't even supposed to be part of the AU!

Mainly because I didn't see many inclusion of him in the Sumeru Crew (at that time) and was unsure how it'd be taken D: But then, I remembered the v3.6 trailer where he was duking it out with the others and I was like 'why not?'. From that point on, he's come a long way and has even become the Best Boy of the Hexagon! :D

☆ Scaramouche's 'innocent in front of reader and the opposite behind their back' act is a tribute to his very first in-game appearance in the v1.1 Unreconciled Stars event!

This is something I'm humbly proud of, so to say. I still occasionally go back and admire the writing from that event. I think it's absolutely criminal for such a lore-rich and well-done in terms of character introduction event to be limited but oh well. Scaramouche, in my opinion, can be an excellent actor when he needs to be and if you watch the story from this event, you'll understand. Combining this with his mental state from after the Interlude Quest creates quite a messy situation though and, I kept it that way intentionally :>

☆ In the initial draft, Alhaitham was written as a very jealous character!

The cause of it being reader's infinite care for Kaveh. But obviously, I scraped it and wrote a much more toned down version and I sometimes wonder if I should've gone with my initial thoughts. Admittedly, I was playing it safe due to some reality checks regarding his character so I don't regret it a whole lot. But if it was up to the present me, I would be down to writing jealous Alhaitham immediately lol

-; ੈ♡˳ QUESTIONNAIRE

Does the Reader have White Knight Syndrome?

Well, I didn't originally write them with this particular condition in mind, however, upon further reflection I can see that they definitely show some symptoms of it. And considering the situation they're in, it's very easy for them to fall into the condition itself. I'm not at all qualified to diagnose someone with a mental condition so, my answer will have to a soft no. However, if anyone wants to imagine them as such, they're of course free to do so.

Is there any character you'd want to write differently if given the chance?

I already mentioned Alhaitham to a degree but, I really really wish I had been more considerate of Cyno. We're entering debatable territory here but the Hoyo writers putting so much emphasis on Cyno's TCG addiction and jokes while handling his actual lore whimsically made me lose interest in his character at that time. Though, I hope his upcoming Story Quest will fix this and do his character justice <3

Who is your favorite among the boys?

If you've lingered around my blog for a while, I know you thought I was going to say Alhaitham but, within the confines of the AU, it's actually Kaveh! He's like the initial spark that kindled the actual fire, as such, he's the first one you read about. I felt immense empathy for him after I learned about his lore through leaks, which is reflected onto the reader as well. Had this been a different timeline, Kaveh and Reader's relationship would be pure wholesomeness.

Who among the five is the endgame?

Ohohohoho.. place your bets because it can be literally anyone :) Even someone outside the hexagon in the off-chance they end up slaughtering each other lol. Kind of out of topic but, I think the Wanderer route would be genuinely heartbreaking unless he does something about Reader's mortality. He'd have to watch the one person who truly loved him decay slowly, while he remains afloat his raft of artificiality, safe from the clutches of death temporarily. Thinking about the endings make me feel quite sad honestly, it's a reminder that even the lighthearted shenanigans of the Hexagon will end at some point.

-; ੈ♡˳ ENDING NOTES

I could've easily done a writing event to celebrate the anniversary but I just really, really wanted to talk about these little tidbits. Many many kudos to you if you've made it this far, I hope I didn't bore you :')

Memories are fragile things, so I'd like to think of this as a memorial of sorts that I can look back to after a few years and not think of myself as a total failure lol. I wrote this AU at a rather difficult period of my life, which is why this is more lighthearted despite falling into the Yandere genre.

I don't really know how to express my gratitude without sounding overly sappy, but I'll forever remember every interaction, comment, ask etc regarding the Hexagon fondly. I even remember someone saying they're binge reading this late at night instead of studying for an exam or something which is.. wow, I hope you're doing well nowadays my fellow night owl! I appreciate every each one of you for even taking some of your time to read my silly ramblings <3

This is not at all the end of the Hexagon AU, just to clarify! I'll still answer any asks regarding the five losers (affectionate) because, despite the limitations placed by reality, in fiction, we have the power to imagine and write infinite tavern shenanigans.

Just before I posted the original concept, I thought to myself, 'If even one person smiles because of this, I'll consider it a success.' and now, looking back to the amount of people that enjoyed the Sumeru Love Hexagon (very silly name but I digress) I just feel so, so happy.

Thank you, everyone, sincerely <3

[infinite-ticking-clock37]

Help why is Silved mpreg a new thing on this app- like what started this help me

OH BOY how the fuck do I explain this shit

Ok so basically back in very early January I decided to draw Silver Spoon.. but pregnant. AS A JOKE-

Then my gf (@humanaltarr) posted the pic, and a few of my moots on Tumblr saw it, and at first I was like "Welp this is the end of my Tumblr career" and I think just a few hours later one of my moots (@spiritmander13) wrote the first Silver Spoon mpreg fic called "Silver Suffers With Morning Sickness" with 6 chapters (technically 7 but the 7th isn't involved with the story)

Then Silver Spoon mpreg became a big joke mostly on the oscc discord I believe (I joined it for a few days but left) and then for a while it was quiet, until I started an ask blog called @askthe-iii-shipchildren, on April 5th, and on April 30th I got an ask by an anonymous person where they wanted Candelabra to put Silver Spoon in a maid dress, and I ended up drawing Silver in a maid dress

Now here's were the second Silver mpreg era began. I made a joke with Candle saying "If Silver stays in that for much longer Candelabra is gonna have a little sibling soon" cuz I thought it would be funny (had no idea what it would cause)

Then @spiritmander13 reblogged it and said something like "CANDLE NO-" and I replied back saying "Silver Spoon mpreg part 2 /j" AS A JOKE. She told me not to start it again, and I said "Aw shucks" but in the tags of that reblog, I said "Time to draw Silver pregnant in a maid dress" and that's where I messed up since Spiritmander said they were intimidated.

Suddenly, I got tagged in a post by Spiritmander, and it seemed to be a screenshot of them saying "Don't tell Infinite, my sins shall stay hidden until it is the right time (I scrolled for like 20 minutes on their blog to find that fucking hell)

Then I got a little spooked cuz yk it's not everyday shit like this happens. I then screenshotted it and went into her inbox with the screenshot and asked "WHAT IS RHIS, WHAT DOES THIS MEAN" and she replied with another screenshot and it said "*Casually steals Tumblr mutuals fankid for the story*" and that's when I knew what was happening.

Soon, Spiritmander posted another Silver Spoon mpreg fic called "Little Moth"

Then it was a little quiet after that, with me making an occasional joke about it, always ending it with Spirit saying "HEY YOU STARTED IT!"

There is also this whole thing with "Bab Incest" Spirit did but I wasn't involved with that

Later in to May, me, @spiritmander13 and @mxmc13 formed the "Silver Spoon simp trio" cause apparently we all saw each other as friends so why not

Then the (sort of) mpreg era 3 started again. I'll put this part simply and say that me and a few other people on osc Tumblr got asks in our inboxes by "Anon~Chan" that were basically like a shitty Wattpad story but with II characters, and I personally got a Silverloon mpreg thing.. so fun..

And the most recent thing that happened. There was a Two x Jax post, and me, Mc, and Spirit were basically joking more about Silver Spoon mpreg in the reblogs, until Spirit came along and said "Silver Spoon simp trio canceled." And me and Mc were absolutely DEVASTATED and then Spirit said that me and Mc had to write Silver Spoon mpreg as well, for me as punishment for drawing it and confusing the original poster, and for Mc.. dunno..

And that's what's currently happening, I am working on my Silver mpreg and so is @mxmc13 ..

And yeah that's the whole story pretty much, this was a VERY long post and probably not even was the asker really wanted but meh

Anyways I imma end this off with saying.. I do not regret first drawing the Silver Spoon mpreg, since this is all genuinely fun and it even got me some friends on this site (Spiritmander and Mxmx and their great) so yeah =]

(also this is NO hate to anyone mentioned in this, and the fics that Spirit wrote are actually really good so I recommend checking them out)

[wandering-doves]

16.04.2024

i asked a guy i've been interacting with on tumblr for like the last 8 months, if he wanted my number and boy do i regret it [but not for the reasons you may think]

so, as i mentioned we've been getting to know each other and messaging for like 8 months. i remember the first time he messaged me... it was completely random. he'd liked a couple of posts/reblogs and followed me before reaching out and sending a simple greeting. i was naturally very suspicious as it had been years since anyone had messaged me on tumblr and since it was so out of the blue, i was very cagey and cold. he persevered another 2 days before caging up himself when i asked for his name. then he dropped off for about a month. when he returned again, it was to apologise for clamming up. i told him not to worry as he was entitled to his privacy. and then he did something that really surprised me. he gave me his name and a little snippet of his story. he told me that he was feeling lonely and wanting to make friends and that he was going to try chatting to people on here again and sort of freaked out. i let him know that i understood, as i was also being cagey. once we both were on the same page, things were okay. we would checking in every now and then, ask basic getting to know you questions and chat about our day. i got more and more comfortable with the idea of him as a friend and opened myself up to him little by little. sometimes i would reach out to him and not receive a message back for months, bc he would take breaks from tumblr [i'm assuming for his mental health, which is understandable]. he would reply when he next came online and we would chat more. he ended up seeing what i looked like through my side blog and began complimenting me on my looks. occasionally, he would ask a sexual question and i would answer it as honestly as i could. [normally, i wouldn't tolerate that shit, but i was starting to like him.] his line of questioning got more personal as time went on and it felt like maybe we were connecting. so as the months progressed, naturally, i thought maybe i wasn't delusional and that he liked me for me [i sent him a full body pic and it was received relatively well, i think] so i thought that maybe he would be interested in continuing this outside of the confines of this website and decided to work up the courage to ask him if he wanted my number. this is where it goes wrong. he meets my question with a question and i start to think that this is already a bad start and maybe i misread the situation. am i wrong for thinking that a man who's called me pretty and cute and hot would want my number? am i? well apparently, because he never ended up saying yes. this felt as good as rejection and immediately the walls came up and i started being short with him. I even wrote "i'll take that as a no then" to which he replied some bullshit like "i twasn't a no at all" and all i could think was "yeah but it wasn't a yes either", which is as good as imo. he wanted an explanation for why i wanted this bc he always assumed he was bugging me [which btw is another thing i want to touch on. in the past, he has mentioned feeling like he bugs me quite often and i thought i'd been doing enough to let him know that that was simply not the case but ofc that was his reasoning this time too] and i explained that i liked talking to him and wanted to respect the time he takes off from tumblr bc ik it can be disruptive and it was met with an "im sorry if..." and that shit makes my blood boil so i havent responded back to him. it's been over 24 hours since he replied to me. i spent that afternoon absolutely bawling my eyes out. then i spent the evening upset too. i was having big feelings, for sure and couldn't deal with them. i feel maybe i was too harsh but he was too.

anyway, i've been listening to sad music and crying abt anything and everything lmao...

[closetgreaser]

dont argue with me and then block me shithead.

1. “Maybe as a bromance but I cannot see the two like doing anything sexual” yeah because gay relationships are always about sex because were perverted deviants who dont have feelings

2. harry and louis are real people and thinking theyre closeted is way fucking different than having theories about a book. the fact that you call yourself a larry stylinson shipper and not a larrie is a really good indicator that you ship them in the sense that you read fanfics about them and fantasize about their sex life instead of, yknow, being concerned for their well being. people were using homophobia and the fact that being gay in the 60s would very often result in violence as a reason why we shouldnt ship jally. gay love and intimacy is beautiful and wholesome and its straight peoples fault that it isnt seen that way.

3. leave it to the internet to see a grown ass adult arguing with teenagers over twitter and praise her for being savage

3. “And So what if they’re all straight? That means more for us!“ im a guy.

[mysterytickingnoise]

Someday

Pairing: Merlin x Reader

Genre: Bittersweet Angst

Word Count: 2,058

Summary: After getting caught and accused of doing witchcraft, and failing to prove your innocence to Uther, you have to take desperate measures to flea the kingdom. Unfortunately your escape plan works a little too well, and without your knowledge the people close to you end up mourning you.

Request from @joyismycenter : "If you’re asking, I’d love some bbc Merlin x reader where he though the reader was dead but she/they turn out not to be. Love me that happy angst"

Authors Note: Thank you so much for sending in the first request for this blog! Fair warning I'm doing all my writing on my phone at the moment and I couldn't really get the ending to flow how I wanted it to so it's not perfect, but I really hope everyone likes it!

[Image Description: A gif of Merlin (from the BBC Show Merlin played by Colin Morgan) looking over his shoulder. End description]

It was such a silly mistake.

You trusted someone too soon, tried to help them.

Next thing you knew you were being accused of witchcraft. It was true but considering your accuser had no real evidence you thought perhaps you could argue your way out of it. You called them crazy, demanded proof, spouted off any alternative explanation for what had happened to no avail. Uther didn't give a damn about proof, the moment the word magic was held against you it was up to you to prove you hadn't used it.

Even if you hadn't, how do you prove a thing like that?

Pleading your case was useless, and the one person who could help you had left with Arthur and the knights before any of this had begun. Even if they somehow showed up before the execution, you wouldn't want Merlin's help.

He couldn't be caught helping you, not with his destiny. You weren't worth the risk, though he certainly would've argued otherwise if he'd had the chance.

No, you only had one choice left in your small cell. You would have to find an opportunity to use something that you saved for a situation such as this. When an old friend came to visit, to say goodbye, that was your opportunity.

You asked them to come back with the blue vial tucked in the back of your armoire. "It's a poison," You had told them. "I don't want to give Uther the satisfaction."

Tearfully, they obliged. In the middle of the night you chugged it down, and not one hour later your 'body' was wrapped in a sheet and wheeled out of the dungeons 'To be buried in the morning.' But the enchantment on the potion wore off before then, and you woke up alone and free.

You crept out of Camelot at the break of dawn with nothing but the clothes on your back, making it to the treeline before your will broke down and you turned back to look at the old castle peeking out over the tall walls.

Your home was behind those walls, your friends lived there, and the man you had surely fallen for. Tears stung your eyes as you thought about him, the fact you never got to say goodbye, how long it would be until you would see him again.

You could risk waiting for him to return, but if someone outside of Arthur's party were to catch you...you would be forced to do something you'd regret. You'd have to cross the line of no return and goodbye at that point would surely be permanent.

'Someday,' You thought, 'Until then, he'll understand, he might even come find me.'

Little did you know the guard who discovered the empty cloth had no intention of telling the king that the body of a prisoner had gone missing on his watch. No, he had a family to tend to, he wasn't losing his position because of some witch. It didn't even cross his mind that you might not be dead.

There was an empty grave in the pauper's field the next morning, and any questions on your whereabouts were contained in the mind of one underpaid guardsman for two years.

Meanwhile, Merlin had been devastated when he heard the news, even confused. Gaius told him the whole story, what he knew of it anyway, but he could never wrap his mind around it. It didn't make sense. He had spoken to you only a few days before, you smiled and hugged him and told him to come home safe. And just like that you were gone? The irrational fear of someone you tried to help, and the blind tyranny of Uther, that's all it took and now nobody would ever see that smile again. No, it didn't make any sense at all.

He eventually did what he had to do, put on a brave face and got back to work. And yes, a while after that night things got somewhat close to normal again. But there were always moments where he'd think to himself that he'd have to tell you about his day or a joke he heard, and then he'd remember. In other moments, he'd see Uther laughing at dinner or be forced to hear one of his speeches and his jaw would clench just a little tighter than it had before. And when he found himself awake in the middle of the night, when the world was dead silent and the only light in his room came from the moon, it was because he had found himself caught up in the memories you had together.

You had those nights too.

You had been dead on your feet by the time you stumbled into the small, reclusive village you'd learn to call your home. You'd been told that nobody really ever passed through on purpose, and they liked it that way. You told them that you could use a life like that, and then asked if they had need a physician. They did.

Sure, a reclusive person probably would've loved the little life you built for yourself. You had a small but cozy spot to live on the edge of the village, not long after you showed up you began to tend to minor wounds and ailments, making a few friends along the way. Occasionally two farmers would ride into the city to barter off crops for supplies and other things, eventually they began to bring you back a book or a small trinket each time to thank you for your work. It was nice.

But still loneliness tugged at your heart, more than you imagined it would when you took that last look at your home. On the most random days, doing the most random things, you'd find yourself thinking about everyone again and crying for up to an hour before you could pull yourself together again. Those moments became more rare over time, but they never hurt any less. You were never quite back to normal.

Finally, you were wrapping a farmers broken finger, speaking about the state of the kingdom and how you were surprised Uther had felt the need to improve anything it all, when you heard the news.

"Oh, no. The king died months ago, Arthur's in charge now."

You knew you must've gone pale, as the next thing the man said to you was a question of your health. You were quick to respond with a growing smile, "Why didn't you say something earlier?"

He shrugged at you, "I'm not all that concerned with politics. These men, they're all the same to us out here, you know?"

But you knew the difference.

Your life depended on it.

You finished his treatment and sent him away without much else to say on the matter. You had to pack, after all. Later on that day you pleaded with a neighbor to let you borrow her horse, and your friends gathered around as they overheard you say you needed to go to the capitol. You honestly felt a bit bad leaving in such a rush, but after you relayed a safe version of your story, why you came here and why you had to leave, they all seemed to understand.

With many promises from you that they could send for you if they ever needed to, and many words of encouragement from them, you took off. Even when you stopped in the night to allow the horse some rest, you never got any yourself, too excited and nervous and overwhelmed all at once. You spent hours contemplating what to say to everyone, but nothing seemed right.

Another days journey, and you were home.

The response you got to your return wasn't what you expected. Your first stop was to check on the friend who got the potion to you in the first place, and strangely they let out a short shriek before slamming the door in your face. You knocked again, speaking through the door. "It's me...I'm back?"

"Go away!"

You furrowed your brow at them, hurt and confused. But ultimately you walked away, thinking a reaction like that might be deserved considering what you must've put them through that night. As you continued down the street there were a few people who recognized you and proceeded to clear out of your way with gasps and whispers, pulling along anyone they were walking with.

Last time you were here you had been accused of witchcraft, and two decades of fear don't just disappear with a new king, so you simply accepted that as the reasoning and started to make your way up through the lower towns.

On the other end of the city, Merlin had just reached the end of an extremely long day. It had dragged on so long that it felt as though the walk from the armoury to his room took another hour. He didn't even bother to get something to eat, he just wanted to sleep. So naturally when he had just layed down in bed when someone decided to knock on the front door, he didn't know any better than to be annoyed.

At first he thought Gaius would take care of it, then he remembered that he wasn't home.

Maybe they'll just go away.

Whoever it was knocked again and he pulled the pillow over his head.

Please go away.

The front door creaked open and he heard a familiar voice call out. "Hello...Gaius? Merlin?"

He sat up, a heavy feeling settling into his gut as he realized where he had heard that voice before.

But...it couldn't be. Could it?

He shook his head, leaving his bedroom to shoo out the person who couldn't have been you.

But there you were, flipping through an old book that had been sitting on the table since the day before. When you noticed he was standing there you looked up with a sad smile, saying the only thing that you could think of; "Hi..."

"Hi?"

"I uh- I know it's been a long time," You started, crossing your arms over your chest in an awkward stance. "I wish I didn't have to leave like I did but..."

"Leave??" He repeated what you said once more. Finally you registered how strangely he was looking at you, not angry or upset but bewildered, and maybe even scared. What he said next confused you even more. "How are you alive?"

"I thought you might've had more faith in me than that." You joked, but he wasn't amused. "Am I missing something?"

He was hesitant to approach you, unsure of how he was supposed to say it but he tried. "They told me you were gone, that you'd poisoned yourself. I mean...Gaius saw you."

"It was meant to look like that, but it was a trick." You said. "I left when I awoke, they didn't tell people I escaped?"

He shook his head no, tears starting to stream down his face. "...I can't believe this."

As the reality of the situation hit you, you couldn't help but cry as well. All you were guilty about, what you thought you put your loved ones through, it had actually been so much worse. "I am so sorry, if I had any idea I would've- well I don't know what I would've done. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I'm just, I'm so happy that you're here, and you're okay." Striding over with a grin, he pulled you into his arms. "I've missed you."

"And I, you. More than I could ever put into words." With a laugh you continued. "Things got so boring without you."

"I'm sure they did, you won't believe some of things I have to tell you."

And that was all it took, you both sat down at a table as you filled each other in on everything that had happened in the last two years. It took hours, there were multiple times you had to stop and collect yourselves as certain stories had you laughing until your stomachs ached. Gaius came home and after another tearful welcome back he made you all something to eat and had plenty of his own twists on things that had happened.

As if no time had passed at all, the world felt normal again. You were back where you belonged.

You were home.

[needleanddead]

remember when i was like ‘i will probably use this blog to write some horrible reader-insert fanfiction too’? yeah. 

knife-edge, strade x reader, 3.2k

trigger warnings: not sfw, non-con, blood, violence, gore, references to torture/snuff films, honestly i figure you probably know what you’re getting into if you’re seeing this. reader uses no pronouns/neutral pronouns but is vaguely implied to be afab. 

cross-posted to ao3

You do not know how you still have it in you to scream, and cry, and beg.

Well.

That’s a lie, really; you have it in you to scream, and cry, and beg, because you know that the moment you stop – the moment you let yourself truly succumb to that pit of nothingness that lies heavy and waiting in your chest – he will lose interest in you completely, and you will meet the same fate as all of the rest of them do.

Despite the shock collar that lies heavy around your throat; the proof that he had seen some value in you beyond what you might feel like if he tore you into pieces and let you rot, you know that any peace you have here is temporary. He’ll get bored. He’ll lose control. He’ll--

Sometimes you wonder if those things might be better. The idea of death hovers at the edges of your vision like a spectre, waiting for you – and you are a coward and you run from it, whimpering and sensitive with tears rolling down your cheeks whenever he takes you back down the creaking basement stairs and wraps rope around already rubbed-raw wrists.

You don’t think you’d recognise the sight of your own wrists without the rope burn any more. It seems so long since you’ve been anything other than captive. You’re not sure you even know who you are unless you have a blade half-buried in your thigh or thick fingers digging and reopening wounds or pliers too close to vulnerable flesh.

You think he likes that, too – that you don’t seem to exist unless you’re hurting. Delights that he’s broken you without breaking the part of you that he really likes; the one with the trembling lip and the gasping and the tears beading in your eyes. You beg less now; you have learnt that he’s always able to turn a ‘please, please don’t, not that--’ into something that’s somehow worse. But when you’d first woken up all rope-burnt and disoriented with your arms wrapped around a pole in a basement that smelt like copper and oil, you had begged until your throat was sore.

What you had gotten for your troubles was your own hand wrapped around the knife handle as you sliced into too soft, too giving flesh and stared in horror at bubbling rivulets of blood with the dim thought in the back of your mind; I did this to myself.

It’s a dangerous knife-edge that you’re walking; don’t fight too much, but don’t give in too much. Don’t break, but don’t entirely yield. If he gets bored of you, or if you push him too far – then the collar around your neck will be carefully unlocked and you’ll regret everything. You’ll meet the fate that you so narrowly avoided, bleeding and broken and disoriented as your life slips away to the tune of Strade’s fingers wrapped too hard about your throat.

Or worse, you’ll meet the fate you’ve seen some of the ones who have broken too early become acquainted with; bandana wrapped around his mouth and camera painstakingly readjusted to perfectly centre a sobbing, terrified face. You have been far too close to the ones who end up that way; brought down to the basement and given a nail gun as you’re shoved onto your knees in front of a girl who might once have been pretty but is a little too matted with blood and bruises to be called the same any more.

“I thought they might like to see someone else hurt her this time, schatzi,” his smile had not dimmed a watt. When you had first met him, that smile had put you at ease; his eyes had reminded you of honey, and you’d been so flattered, so warmed, to have the attention of someone who oozed easy charm--

You know now his eyes are not the soft amber of honey but the sharp yellow-orange of a hawk; a predator. When he had smiled at you, he had not been thinking of the kindness of making someone feel comfortable – he had merely been imagining how prettily you would break. Which, as he had not failed to tell you after you’d sobbed out every plea you could and had jagged stitches and broken bones and blood crusted on your face to prove it, had been even more lovely than he had imagined.

The nail gun had been too heavy in your hand; the trigger sweaty, because Strade himself was over-excited and flushed dark pink under tanned skin and excitement beading at his brow. Your fingers had slipped all over it as he’d murmured;

“They want you to put a pretty pattern in her up her shins to her knees. Start at the . . . haa, start at the ankle--”

You’d felt something inside of you snap as if it was very far away as you stared at her legs; already cut up a little and stitched messily, as Strade is so wont to do to make sure his captives last longer. You hesitate too long, because suddenly thick, strong fingers are gripping your jaw and squeezing too hard as they turn your face towards the camera like a rabbit caught in headlights.

His fingers will bruise your face, you know – and he will see it tomorrow, and dig them harder, make the bruises deeper until you can barely open your jaw--

“Ah, they think you’re cute, mäuschen,” Strade says, an uncomfortable lilt in his voice that sets your teeth on edge. “They’d be happy to see you as the star instead – and I’m sure our other guest would much prefer it too.”

(The girl in the chair leans forward, babbling words that don’t make sense; bubbling drool slips from her lips, tinged pink, and you think that this one must have talked too much and Strade has done something to her tongue).

“Now,” his tone is endlessly patient. “You know I want to keep you, ja? You’re very sweet. I like you a lot - so be good and do what the audience want, and I won’t have to do something I don’t want to, will I?”

He is hard to read. Cheerful to angry in moments; snapping and bouncing from side to side with a laugh and a wild light in his eyes that you don’t understand. He does like you – insofar as you think Strade is capable of really feeling for other people – but you can’t wager your life on him bluffing. The girl looks at you with agonised eyes and you pull the trigger, the nose of the gun pressed against her ankle.

You hear her scream – wet, through a throat clogged with blood, the sound mixing with the disgusting crunch-squelch of the nail being driven into her skin too close to the bone – and it echoes far longer in your head than it actually lasts. You feel far away as you trail the gun further up her leg, pulling the trigger, your marks on her surprisingly straight considering how much the both of you are trembling – but you know you’re crying because you can hear Strade breathing a little heavy, see the bulge in his pants (level with your face) from the corner of your eye as you finish the first leg and move to the second.

It’s not the last time he makes you hurt someone on stream. Sometimes, he checks the stream whilst you’re there and whichever poor soul he’s got taped to a chair whimpers and squirms, whistling cheerily through his teeth as if the situation is perfectly normal. You see the comments as they scroll by; asking you to do horrible things, the ping of donations, the occasional plea to dig a screwdriver into your eye socket and make you scream or pull out your teeth with pliers or slash a heavy knife through your ribcage and fuck the wound he leaves there--

You think he lets you see them on purpose, as a reminder of what he could do to you. He always makes sure the stream sees your face perfectly clearly, too – and you never fail to think; ‘he is making me an accessory to his murders’.

(It is not just you; you find out that Ren is subjected to this same treatment, this same reminder that Strade’s moods are volatile and he loses self-control too quickly and there’s every chance that one day, he will go too far. You do not share your thoughts with Ren that even if, by some miracle, the two of you found yourself outside of Strade’s control, your face is probably plastered all over the darkest shadows of the deep web. You never talk about what might happen. You do not quite trust each other beyond sharing in patching up each other’s wounds, occasionally seeking one another out for company, trembling in the night. There is a kind of tension between you; fear that the other is the favourite. That Strade perhaps isn’t capable of keeping both of you long-term.

It makes Strade himself laugh when he sees that you’re on edge around each other and he leans forward to rest elbows on knees and tells you with a wicked glint in his eye that he just wants the both of you to get along. Perhaps you two need to share something very special, like what he shares with the both of you.

When he tells you to hurt one another, Ren has the advantage of animal nature. It’s clear to you where you stand in the pecking order of predators. You think, too, that Strade prefers you there. Master, fox, mouse.)

You never hear anything from the room designated as yours; it doesn’t escape notice that there is no other bedroom, aside from Ren’s domain and the one that Strade himself barely uses. Nowhere for someone else, if Strade were to take it into his head that another captive would be an interesting pet to keep--

It has been long enough that there are some things you have asked for, tremulous and whimpering, decorating surfaces and scattered about the room. There are also reminders of Strade, too; a hammer and nails on a chest of drawers, a knife in the bedside cabinet, too many things that could be used as weapons at the same time as being summarily excused as simply the detritus of a man doing home improvements.

You’d woken up that morning (you know it is morning because early fingers of dawn have penetrated even through the curtains you keep closed) to see Strade silhouetted in the doorway, smile on his face, shirt spattered with dark red and brown. You know that expression. You sit up, letting the covers fall, and he keeps smiling as he closes the door behind him and approaches you like a wolf approaches a frightened rabbit.

“Last night was disappointing,” he says, his tone light. You’d heard a thump in the middle of the night; assumed it to be Strade dragging a body down to the basement, and had resolutely buried your face into your pillow and pretended you heard nothing.

It’s easier to think of Strade’s other victims – the ones not so lucky as you or Ren – as faceless, foolish creatures. Food. Sustenance. Not people.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice quiet, cracking. Strade reaches across and chucks your chin, too fondly, bright smile and bright eyes.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. He’s pleased with the apology. He likes it when you’re polite. “It just means that I’m feeling a little . . . ahh. Restless. You’ll help me with that, won’t you?”

“Of c-course I will.” The stutter; he likes that, you know. He shifts as he sits on the bed.

A chuckle.

“You’re always so well-behaved,” he tells you. “sehr süß.”

The knife-edge you walk; the tight-rope. Well-behaved, but not broken. Responsive, but not troublesome. You’ve gotten it down to a fine art.

He’s on top of you before you can respond, knees shoved between your legs, your hand shoved hard against the bedside table so it knocks uncomfortably against hard wood and you flinch at the shock of pain.

The brief pain, though, is nothing to the anxiety that crawls up your throat as you realise he grabbed the hammer and nails as he walked in.

He chuckles as he sees your eyes widen in fear, cooing softly to you;

“That expression. So hübsch. Stay still for me.”

Your wrist is shaking as Strade carefully places a nail right in the centre of your hand; testing the angle, the positioning. His breath is uneven and panting in excitement at what he’s going to do – and excitement, too, that he knows you won’t pull away. Because you know if you do, it will not merely be a nail through one hand, but perhaps through your other and your knees and your feet, perhaps a knife slicing through you like butter, perhaps the feel of chisels and needles and sharper and more painful objects (knife, pliers, screwdriver, chisel, bradawl, drill--).

He lifts the hammer. He watches intently. His eyes are lit with bright excitement, chest heaving, sweat-soaked and greasy. You taste copper and realise you’ve bitten through your lip.

You’ve grown used to the smell of copper and motor oil and meat. If it weren’t for the flood of blood across your tongue you doubt you’d have noticed.

Crack. The first blow. The pain is blinding.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Every single hit of the hammer sends a new shock of pain through you that echoes through the inside of your arm through to the bone marrow, shaking you. It’s not the most painful thing you’ve felt at Strade’s hands; but you are still partly asleep, still not quite aware, and you are simply looking at your hand with the crunch of fractured bones (twenty seven bones in the human hand; is that your capitate, that’s been splintered through?) and the sick wet noise of blood and muscle and you can’t think.

You stare, unblinking, at where your hand is nailed to the bedside table - the gore and blood that oozes from the wound as he uses the clawed end of the hammer to drag it out again. Strade’s smile is beatific, eyes wide and bright, sweat dampening his collar and his cheeks flushed and ruddy.

You’re unable to process anything for another long, agonising second; relief flooding you when finally, you respond. The whimper a delayed reaction, the tears that roll fat and hot down your own face taking a beat longer than usual.

You fear that you’ve broken for the moment you’re staring in horror; that he has finally, well and truly snapped you in half. Because if you’re broken, that means he’ll lose interest, and that means the basement and the fear of death finally catching up with you.

Occasionally the thought flits across your mind that death perhaps would be preferable; but you are a coward, and you have hurt people (even if it was on Strade’s command), and you do not want to know what awaits you on the other side of a non-beating heart and the light in a tunnel.

Strade chuckles, affectionately rubbing his nose against the line of your jaw, teeth digging just a little too hard into the flesh of your neck.

“You had me worried for a second, mäuschen,” he practically purrs. “I thought I’d heard the last of your squeaking.” Big fingers, tugging at your thighs, guiding you to wrap them around his hips. Despite the softness of his body, the proof that he enjoys lazing around and cheap beer and meat a little too much, there’s raw muscle beneath the chub. Even his hands on you are a reminder of how strong he is.

(Strong enough to drag dead bodies across floors, to lift them into kilns, to hold down unwilling, screaming captives and make them regret they ever laid eyes on him.)

“Unzip,” he tells you. One of your hands is free; unpierced, though scarred from being pressed against stove burned and soldering irons and heat guns, from grabbing the blade of a knife when he’s told you to fuck yourself with the handle, from sanders applied to formerly soft skin. You do not use that hand.

You force yourself to move the one dripping in your own blood, the ruined hand pierced straight through. The movement of your fingers burns, sending shock waves of pain all through you; but you tug at the zip of his pants nonetheless. You get blood all over his clothes but he just chuckles low and dangerous, as you reach into his underwear too and squeeze your eyes shut when you feel how hot and hard and heavy his cock is in your grip.

“Eyes on me,” he reminds you, soft, and you force yourself to open them. He drinks in the expression on your face like he’s a starved man and it’s his first meal.

There’s a bloody handprint on his shaft when your fingers and wrist finally give out and your hand falls onto the sheets and pillows beneath you, staining them too, and you think that Strade is going to drive more nails through your hand just to prove a point about not doing as he says.

But his cock presses hot and needy against your inner thigh, smearing blood and pre-come on your scarred skin, and he’s panting and practically drooling as he murmurs;

“You know you’re not going to break, schatz. You want to live too much.” He leans his face further down. He does not kiss you so much as take control of you; worry teeth into your bottom lip, transfer his own saliva into your mouth, conquer the cavern behind your lips and teeth (one of them is loose; from being hit and squeezed. He pushes his tongue just a little too hard against that one and your body contracts, a whimper transferred from your throat to his mouth, and he swallows it up like your protests are a fine steak). “Ah. That’s what I like about you.”

Are you going to break? The push of him pressing inside of you makes your toes curl, a soft noise that might be a moan escape; Strade laughs, again, the sound too hearty and friendly to come out of the monster that you know he is.

“You like it,” he presses, as his thumbs come to your hips and dig into wounds that have been stitched together; you hear the stitches pop, feel him re-open barely healed gashes. “You like being special to me. You like this.”

You don’t think you do.

You don’t think you like any of this; his body on top of yours, the pain, the mistrust, the fear that prickles hot and sharp and sour in your throat whenever you hear the door (the one you can’t go near) open. But you also know that saying that is the wrong answer. Hitting and screaming like a wildcat is the wrong answer. Saying nothing at all is the wrong answer.

So instead, you open your mouth, you shiver and shudder as his thumb presses deeper into the re-opened wound, and you manage to choke out a mouse-squeak of;

“Pl-please—”

It’s the right answer. His face does not soften; but his smile widens, his hips tilting until you’re so full you can barely move and you ache everywhere, and Strade simply smiles down at you as whatever passes for affection for him leaks into his tone and he coos;

“Don’t worry, mäuschen. I’ll give you exactly what you want. For as long as you need.”

[german translation dictionary;  schatzi - sweetheart/dear/darling/treasure mäuschen - little mouse sehr süß - very sweet/very cute so hübsch - so pretty idk how accurate these are i am just using google translate always]

[liyuesbian]

✧ 101 dalmatians!au [ayaka]

notes: ........this is actually an updated (not rly) version of my 101 dalmatians!au with seulgi on my kpop gg writing blog..... sorryyyy i'm not being lazy i promise!! i've just got back from holiday and am working on a ningguang x reader but it might take a while (i rly wanna perfect it) so this is a placeholder for now :p

you would occasionally spot kamisato ayaka in the park walking her dalmatian. she's well-known around the local area because of her older brother: the mayor of the city. in fact, you also have a dog of the same breed, which is what drew you to her in the first place—minus her eye-catchingly extravagant outfits and cute facial features.

your own dalmatian is wonderful. when you were ten years old, your christmas wish was to get a puppy. much to your younger self’s disappointment, santa claus had gifted you with a rather large—and older—"puppy" than you had imagined in your head. nevertheless, you treated the newly named pongo with as much love as you could give him.

fast forward about ten years later and here is the same pongo eagerly trying to gain your attention as you sit in front of your piano. you’re thinking of how best to go about composing the last few bars of a song you’re working on.

unbeknownst to you, the dalmatian had sneakily altered the time of the clock and is now motioning to the door, howling. you double-check the time on your wristwatch but despite the inconsistency, you decide to go for the daily walk and attach a leash to his collar. it seems like you have no other choice: pongo has your hat between his teeth and is scratching at the door handle. you laugh as you give in to your dog’s contagious enthusiasm, taking your fedora from his mouth.

with the leash in one hand and a ball in the other, you are manhandled—or should i say doghandled—as pongo drags you all the way to the park. he appears to be looking for something, but you dismiss it. you attempt to undo the clasp of the leash, failing when pongo suddenly dashes off.

“slow down, pongo!” you yelp. this kind of high-energy behaviour isn’t new to you but it certainly catches you off-guard. in the end, you let your dog indulge himself in his antics and you’re led to the edge of the lake where you take a seat and gasp for breath. goodness, you don’t think you’ve ever done so much running in your life.

exhausted, you fan yourself with your fedora and loosen the top button on your dress shirt. the grass underneath you feels nice to rest on compared to the wooden chair you’d been sitting on for the whole morning.

it takes you a second to notice your companion gazing at a certain animal behind you. turning around, you recognise the dalmatian who’s seized pongo’s eyes from her pink collar and apprehensively look up to the owner. she’s perched on a bench next to the dog with her signature fan and a book in her hands. in shock, you jerk your head forward and blink a few times.

should we move somewhere else?

as if sensing your uneasiness, pongo barks and jumps to grab your hat. you sigh but grin at his mischievous face.

“come on, pongo. give it back.” taking her eyes off the pages of her book, ayaka glances at you and your dog, the ends of her mouth curving up ever so slightly to form a smile which stays hidden behind the upright fan. you throw the ball lightly in an attempt to get him to drop your hat.

it doesn't quite work and instead, rolls in the direction of the occupied bench. perdita, ayaka's dalmatian, glimpses at it, trying to withhold the urge to play with the bouncy toy. ayaka chuckles which causes you to cease your glaring at pongo to face her. the ringing of her laugh is pleasant and something you haven’t noticed before.

if only i could hear it every day. gently, you hit your cheeks to awaken yourself from your thoughts.

pongo is now frolicking in circles with the captured hat, vying for the attention of ayaka's dog. while you’re battling a two-way argument in your head and one with your dalmatian, you feel a soft nudge on your thigh. perdita has given you the ball back, and you could hear pongo whimpering sadly. impressed, you pet perdita who reacts with a delightful pant. the female dalmatian glances at pongo and apathetically walks back to her owner, who attaches a leash. they start to walk away.

pongo yaps in surprise. quickly, he abandons your hat and is about to take off when you tell him to stay, which he does obediently. you could tell your dog is planning to go after perdita, but you don’t want him running around aimlessly so you fasten his leash.

as soon as you do though, you’re being hauled once again towards kamisato ayaka. the hyperactive dalmatian follows the blue-haired woman and playfully circles her, earning a giggle from the subject of interest. unfortunately for the both of you, your legs have gotten tied to hers.

“oh my, i'm very sorry about this!” you blush. of course, you’ve never been in such close quarters with her before making it all the more embarrassing but you don’t entirely regret this moment either… until you realise that with the both of you frantically trying to get out of the awkward position and your dog pulling at the leash, the result would be all three of you tethering on the edge of the lake and perdita helplessly grabbing onto her owner to prevent the fall.

“oh no.” a splash is heard throughout the park.

clothes damp, you sit in the shallow water in cold shock, finding yourself no longer tangled around the dog leash. next to you, ayaka stands up to try searching for her hat and fan which pongo finds and gives to you with an almost apologetic expression.

“it seems i've lost my belongings,” she says worriedly.

“don’t worry, i have the things you're looking for right here.” you hand her her possessions and fix her hair but to no avail.

“ah, thank you.” you brush her wet bangs to the side so she could see.

“i'm truly very sorry! i don’t know how we ended up in the lake of all things.” you apologise profusely to the bewildered lady and attempt to make things better by removing the plants from her clothes. meanwhile, pongo has shaken himself dry and is relaxing next to perdita.

gosh, what kind of situation have i gotten myself into?

“no, it’s alright, i'll just dry myself off for now.” you see ayaka fetching a… soaked handkerchief from her purse.

“hold on, i usually carry one in my pocket.” however, yours too, is also drenched. “oh—"

ayaka begins to giggle. dumbfounded, you laugh with her. both of your dogs glance at each other and back at the pair of you, cocking their heads. you thought the pleasant sound and amicable smile were the only things about her laughter that could make your heart swell but now, with ayaka right in front of you, you notice things you would’ve never been able to before. you witness how her eyes crinkle and close shut and how her cheeks balloon revealing an even more charming side to her. you wonder what it would be like if you could make her this happy all the time.

after helping ayaka out of the pond, you feel it wouldn’t be right to leave her to go home all doused in water.

“would it be possible to invite you to our house? we live close by so it would be no trouble at all if you want to dry off there. it would probably be very uncomfortable to journey home in this state and i can't bear to watch you attempt to.” shyly, you meet her eyes after your impromptu offer to see ayaka grinning.

“i think i'd like to accept that offer. i suppose it is your fault too!” she quips and jokingly nudges your shoulder.

you smile back and turn to face your dalmatian who you will whisper many thank yous to later in life.

[writingssummit]

𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐤𝐲𝐮𝐮 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 !

dancing headcannons !

content: fluff, that’s really it lol 

characters: sugawara, terushima, tendou, yamaguchi, oikawa.

a/n: not me listening to a haikyuu playlist and getting inspo from it- totally didn’t stay up all night to finish season 3 either wha t ? idk what you’re talking about.

i noticed my bnha post didn’t do so well, so i’ll stick with the haikyuu guys (and girls maybe? ooo) for now <3 hope you enjoy some silly fluff with them !

sugawara !

2nd most wholesome on this list.

Suga and you are just cleaning up the gym after practice one day.

You’re not exactly glad to be doing it, but you had offered to help your boyfriend out earlier,so there was no turning back now.

You had decided to play some music at some point, opting for an upbeat playlist to help you.

With motivation, of course! Upbeat music got you in that mood. Plus, the sound was cool inside the gym.

You hear Sugawara humming along every so often, the way you two moved around each other as you cleaned was almost like it’s own kind of dance, and you couldn’t help but smile.

“Sugar, come here.”

He takes your hands in his, pulling you away from the task at hand all of a sudden

You protest a little, but you give in and just stay put.

He’s grinning at you, tugging you a little closer.

“What’s this?” You cock an eyebrow at him.

“Just a little dance, c’mon! The clean up can wait a bit longer. Your face will get wrinkles with how much you’ve been pouting.”

Okay backhanded remark aside, you couldn’t just say no

You laugh as he sways back an forth with you to the beat, occasionally stepping on each other.

“Guess we both have two left feet, Y/N.” He jokes, spinning you around as the song changed to a slower one.

Any dances with him are just lighthearted and fun, neither of you really minding the fact that it was so offbeat.

Get dance lessons smh 

He’d add in twirls here and there

Eventually you’d settle down from all the laughs and goofing off and just sway back and forth slowly, you head resting on his chest, his hands on your waist.

Please omg I want this :’)

You guys get so caught up in it that somebody ends up coming back and then catching you both (yes, it was daichi, and yes he left awkwardly).

terushima !

This mans tries to be suave when he dances

You aren’t fooling anybody okay

stick with the sprinkler or something -

If anything, his dancing can be described as chaotic and random.

Sure, he has some moves but sir you aren’t michael jackson or something- 

One night in particular though, it’s a bit different. 

He kept bugging you to check something out with him that night, and so you just agreed instead of arguing about it at 2am.

He shows up at your window and he climbs inside your room.

Yes, yes he did and I do not regret that 

“Y/N! Check it out!”

You have to shush him because wtf it’s 3AM SIR

He’s quick to apologize, and just shoves one of the earbuds to his phone at you, and you of course pop it into your ear

And then you’re being pulled close and away gently, and his tongue is sticking out in slight concentration. cute :’)

i honestly forgot what this was called so uh my bad but it’s really fun trust me

“Somebody’s been practicing.” Tease him, please LOL

“It’s fun, right??”

So he CAN dance, if he actually tries. B)

Yeah don’t forget that he literally snuck into your house, because I sure haven’t

Your parents woke up not soon after you both started to laugh and giggle, but you didn’t hear the footsteps because you both were to wrapped up in the music and each other

Let’s just say he was banned from the house for a month or so 

Worth it though

tendou !

At this point it’s common knowledge that he breaks out into little dances randomly 

He isn’t even confined to any actual type of dance, he just goes for whatever he feels like doing in the moment, whatever feels right

So whenever you dance with him, it’s always really entertaining to watch him

But

He’ll tug you into a dance literally anywhere without a care in the world.

Which is cute omg, but social anxiety could never

This time just happened to be on the sidewalk, because there was a musician, and in Tendou’s words; “We can’t just let their music go to waste~”

So yeah, he’s dancing with you on the sidewalk in front of literal strangers and you’re embarrassed to say the least dw i would be too T^T

Like sir please why here

He’s reassuring you over and over that you’re just fine, let the people stare, etc etc. After all, you’re just having fun together, and that’s no crime

True, y’all could be robbing the pet store of hamsters if you really wanted to. yes i imagine he would do that and I’ll say it again smh

You end up loosening up eventually, he was just too happy and c’mon, this is Tendou. :’)

Y’all may have started a public dance floor

And it’s awesome as hell when you think about it

He twirls you dramatically, waving his free hand around as he hummed along to the song.

“Y/N, see what happens when you have just a liiiittle bit of fun? Hm~?”

Okay fine you see his point there

Literally sounds so fun to do this, so he gets 100/10 

yamaguchi !

Here’s the most wholesome one imo. unless that was tendou, idk-

Yams is so sweet with you, to the way he holds your hand, how he talks to you, all of it.

Dancing with you is no exception here.

He and you were sitting in the living room, all snuggled up on the couch together because it was a rainy day. 

Rainy days were always so calm and nice with him, just watching tv or napping together.

Yams asked you if you wanted to dance this time, rather bashfully though

And then you had an amazing idea

“What if we did it outside? Like in the movies?”

“H-Huh?”

Baby is blushing :’)

But he’s totally up for the idea, he’s nodding and agreeing right away.

Which is how you guys ended up outside in the pouring rain. 

You both were not prepared for the feeling of wet clothes sticking to your skin, it was mildly uncomfortable to say the least-

But you guys were just barefoot on the driveway and you both were holding each other close, just enjoying being there together that it kind of outweighed the initial discomfort

You settled for gentle, slow swying as your head rested against him, his hand reaching up to stroke your cheek every once and awhile

Yes his head is resting on top of yours, or at least his chin is resting on your shoulder

He makes a joke about how it’s weird to dance with no music

And then you end up just humming together and making your own. :’)

By the time you guys are done, you both vow to do it again, it was actually really calming

But of course y’all are soaking wet so it’s dry off time

Expect many cuddles after :D

oikawa !

Okay as much as he’s not my favorite of all time

I can appreciate the idea that he’d be the most knowledgeable dancer on this list

Like mans can serve and set like nobody’s business

But he can also dance.

He’s honestly proud of his dance skills, and takes it upon himself to teach you.

He’s a a bad teacher tho -

You guys are at your house during a holiday with your family, and he of course said his present to you this year is to teach you how to dance

Your family finds it funny because they know you can’t dance for your life.

But they’re egging Oikawa on

“Please no, end my suffering”

“So dramatic, tsk tsk. C’mon, Y/N-chan, it’ll be fun! I’m a great teacher.”

No you aren’t but go off LMAO

The first 15 minutes is awkward because you literally don’t know where to put your feet or hands.

Oikawa is smirking at you, because he finds it adorable 

After a bit of teaching you have some of it down, so now it’s just you both waltzing around the living room, trying not to bump into furniture

Your family is clapping and hooting because that’s what parents do apparently

You smack his arm lightly when he leans down to peck at your jaw real quick

Sir please

He gets a A+ for actually knowing an actual dance dance, but a B because

I know he would suck at teaching.

thanks for reading this ! i hope these were decent, i had fun writing tendou’s and suga’s, it gave me serotonin LOL - 

asks/requests are open ! check yay’s and nay’s in basics for this blog !

[cyllaeth]

do i wanna know

Hi! This fic is heavily inspired by this post (i love you!) and wonderful @on-maars who agreed to beta-read this (she writes too! sooo go visit her blog and ao3 and show her some love!) Enjoy! ❤

Find it on ao3.

Itʼs a very boring, slow shift. Theyʼve been on a few ordinary calls, no dramas this time. Oh, theyʼre not complaining—actually itʼs nice and refreshing that LA for once seems to be careful. It doesnʼt happen often so the 118 really is grateful for this peaceful and sleepy evening. The station is silent. Theyʼd eaten Bobbyʼs macʼnʼcheese earlier (it tasted like heaven) and then most of the team decided to take a nap. Bobbyʼs sitting in the kitchen, talking quietly with Athena on the phone. Theyʼre planning another Grant-Nash family dinner because Athenaʼs complaining that David is working way too much and deserves to fully rest. And she wants to make sure heʼll be able to do it. Chimʼs sitting by the table, focused on his baby book; he takes his dad role very seriously and he wants to be as much prepared as he can. Heʼs still a little nervous because what if he will be a bad parent?, but most of the time he manages to shush these thoughts and focus on the bright side. Henʼs also deeply concentrated on her medical book although sheʼs sprawled on the armchair in a very odd position—she should probably get up and stretch her legs but she doesnʼt have the energy to do it and sheʼll probably regret it soon. She repeats quietly some words from time to time; it helps her remember things. Buckʼs on another armchair; heʼs spread out in  an entirely different—and definitely more comfortable—position. Whatʼs maybe surprising for some people, he also has a book in his hands. Heʼs reading about love languages and it seems like itʼs a very engrossing lecture because thereʼs a wrinkle between his brows and he occasionally chuckles at something.

Eddieʼs nowhere in sight. That heavy, drowsy atmosphere at the station got to him very quickly and he went to sleep. It didnʼt go that well, though. He slept maybe for like 20 minutes but then he woke up and kept shifting positions. Itʼs like his brain just couldnʼt shut up. Lying in the bunk doesnʼt make sense anymore so he gets up and goes to the kitchen. Heʼs not surprised to see  his closest coworkers sitting there. They barely notice him when he decides to take a bottle of water from the fridge. He comes closer and stands across the armchair Buckʼs sitting on. He knows his friend is aware of his presence but he still doesnʼt pay attention to him.

Eddie takes a sip from the bottle and then he clears his throat.

“I have this urge to do something stupid”, he says casually because he hopes his friends would understand.

“Iʼm stupid, do me.”

Thereʼs a sudden change of atmosphere. Itʼs no longer sleepy—itʼs almost cracking with electricity. Four sets of eyes are looking in Buckʼs direction. 

Oh, shit. Has Buck really said those words out loud? Panic starts to creep up in his chest because he didnʼt plan to blurt something like this while his friends are here. Or never. Heʼs convinced he just fucked up the most important relationship in his life. But Eddie is not looking at him with disgust, but with disbelief and uncertainty—as if heʼs not quite sure Buckʼs serious or if heʼs just joking. His gaze is piercing, like heʼs trying to read Buckʼs mind.

Chim slams his book on the table and looks very exasperated.

“Really? In front of my baby book?”

He surely sounds irritated but his face is betraying him. Heʼs been waiting for so long for something like this to happen— maybe not this stupid — but something thatʼd push those two idiots to resolve this sexual tension between them.

Hen, on the other hand, looks very cheerful.

“Iʼm gonna be a hundred dollar richer”, she grins widely.

Bobby doesnʼt say much; heʼs completely fine with only being an observer. Heʼs perfected his poker face through the years so the expression on his face is unreadable. Deep down, he hopes that his boys will talk about whatʼs going on between them and they will get together. He doesnʼt even mind if he loses a little bit of money. As long as Buck and Eddie pull their heads out of their asses.

“Wait, why are you gonna be richer?”, asks Buck and he looks at Hen very suspiciously. He prays Eddie would say something and maybe stop looking at him like this because it makes him nervous and more embarrassed. Heʼs sure that his friend noticed already that his cheeks are probably red by now.

“Oh my sweet, clueless Buckaroo”, says Hen, looking at him with a  rather fond expression. “Weʼve had a—”

The bell rings.

Buck has never hated the bell more.

— • —

The call—itʼs not bad. Itʼs not difficult, nothing that they couldnʼt handle. Just a couple of dumbasses at a party doing stupid challenges. They work almost as well as usually—synchronised, effortlessly, quickly—but the tension between Buck and Eddie is even more noticeable, less bearable  than normally. Bobby decides to separate them; Eddie goes with Hen and Buck works with Chim. It doesnʼt help too much. Hen catches Eddie staring at Buckʼs ass and rolls her eyes. Chim claims that Buckley is the obvious one but he clearly hasnʼt seen the way Eddie looks at Buck now. And itʼs definitely not platonic. Hen may be the one who wears glasses but she definitely sees how they look at each other. She nudges Eddie softly to bring him back to reality and to finish their tasks. When theyʼre officially done with helping there, they go back to the firetruck. Buck sits across Eddie, their knees bumping from time to time but they donʼt share a word. They just... Let themselves  glance at each other quickly only to look away just as fast every time their eyes actually meet. Chimʼs jealous of Bobby because he at least doesnʼt have to witness this awkwardness. He doesnʼt try to bring a topic to talk about even if Henʼs silently encouraging him to do so. They spend the rest of the drive in complete silence. Both Chim and Hen pretend to be asleep; Hen opens one eye a few times to check if either Buck or Eddie made some movements, maybe moved closer or, at least, looked at each other but no. They sit still as if someone froze them. Locking them in a closet is a very tempting idea (it was actually Maddie who came up with it) because all of the 118 and their friends are already so done with them dancing around each other for two years. Eventually, they arrive at the station. Buckʼs not in a hurry to leave the firetruck; heʼs nervous and he bites his lip quite hard, wondering if he should bring the topic.

“Eddie?”, he asks with some hesitation in his voice. Eddie finally looks at him and he only nods.

“Guys, can you—”, Bobby wants to hurry them up but heʼs quickly shushed by Hen. 

“Leave them, Cap. Let them do each other.”

Bobby looks horrified at the thought. He eyes both Buck and Eddie very suspiciously and he points the finger at them.

“You two, no making out in the firetruck! And no sex either!”

Buck nearly chokes on his own saliva. This isnʼt something heʼd expected to hear. Especially from Bobby. He tries to explain itʼs not like that, itʼs not like theyʼre going to kiss each other. Buck only wants to apologize to Eddie for saying something this stupid and hopes itʼs gonna be enough for him. But Bobby doesnʼt stay, heʼs already going to the kitchen, Hen and Chim following his steps.

Theyʼre left alone and Buck finally turns around to face Eddie. His friend has a very weird expression on his face and Buckʼs not sure if heʼs able to read it right.

“Having sex with you in the firetruck  wasnʼt my first thought when I said I wanted to do something stupid”, Eddie confesses and he starts to grin. He hasnʼt moved yet but Buck feels like heʼs so close to him heʼs taking his breath away. Okay, this is something he hasnʼt expected either.

“Then what were you thinking about?”, Buck asks. His voice is shaky, unsure but Eddieʼs smile is contagious.

“Iʼm not really sure. I didnʼt have anything particular in mind I think. But you really caught me off guard and I canʼt stop thinking about it since.”

As he says it, heʼs finally moving towards Buck. He stops when thereʼs barely any space between them. They donʼt break eye contact even for a second; Eddie gently cups Buckʼs face in his hands. He strokes the stubble on his friendʼs jaw with his thumb. They let their breaths mingle, their lips maybe an inch away from each other but none of them moves first.

Buckʼs mind is still trying to process what Eddie has said but itʼs hard to form any coherent thought when he can feel the other manʼs body heat and, holy shit, is Eddie hard because of him?

“If youʼre still thinking about doing me, I think it requires at least a little bit of kissing”, manages to say Buck. Heʼs still not sure if itʼs all real or itʼs just his imagination but he doesnʼt care. He retrieved his usual cocky attitude and he knows Eddie likes it.

“Smartass”, Eddie chuckles but then he captures his lips with his own.

Itʼs far from chaste, sweet or innocent. Itʼs very heated, rushed; the kind of  kiss that makes your blood boil. Buck moans softly when Eddie tugs him closer by the belt and he rolls his hips over him. He hears the belt unbuckling and a Spanish curse when Eddieʼs struggling with unzipping his pants. His mindʼs all fuzzy because of all the touches, the kisses, the heated stares. Because, apparently, itʼs all very real and—

Thereʼs a loud bang on the window.

“I told you, no making out in the firetruck”, they hear Bobbyʼs voice but he doesnʼt sound angry or annoyed. Itʼs more amused than anything. And then, they hear footsteps growing quieter which means theyʼre alone again.

“I need to remind Bobby that no making out rule should apply to everybody, not only me”, Buck scowls.

“Wait, you saw something I havenʼt seen and you haven’t told me?”

“I once caught Cap and Athena kissing here. It was gross, theyʼre like my parents”, Buck exclaims, making a very disgusted expression.

Eddie laughs.

“I think we made sure nobody will try to kiss here again. So... What do you think about the showers?”

Buckʼs only response is to lead him to the bathroom.

[saeyoungs-sunflower]

Strike a Chord (Gavin x MC)

Summary: Gavin learns to face the music.

Prompt: First time they saw each other cry.

Notes: This was part of @belovedstill ‘s New Fandom February event :) so it’s my first fic for MLQC and my fav Gavvy boi (just in time lol) <33 The prompt was also provided by @stehkotori ‘s collaborative writing event ‘Our Firsts’! (Both from discord). Also, do yourself a favour and PLEASE go check out these lovely ladies’ blogs, they are extremely talented and hardworking and I weep a little thinking about it hahah, I promise you won’t regret it!!!💛

Word count: ~2000

(Psst, if you wanna have an idea of what the piece MC plays in this sounds like, I imagined something like this: youtube / spotify) 

***

Another day, another pair of knuckles striking another face, painting another cheekbone red, another eye stained purple.

Gavin stepped out of the teacher’s office, clicking the door shut and sighing as he dragged his feet away. He studied his red and bloodied knuckles as he wandered through the hallways, grimacing as he ran his fingers along a particularly nasty cut.

There was a slight tremor in his hand, the effect of the pure adrenaline that had coursed through his body finally catching up with him. He heavily fell against a locker for a moment, surveying the golden-dipped leaves that whirled around the tattered bench across the path from him. The inevitable crash hit him, like waves against rocks on the shore. He should be going back to class now, he thought, and he almost entertained the idea until piano music began to fill the hollow hallway. The ethereal echo sang to him, calling for him in his temporary haze. A siren in a sea storm.

His budding curiosity got the better of him as his unsteady legs carried him towards the music. It wasn’t unusual to hear students practising during school hours, yet it often wasn’t as pleasant on the ear as it was now.

Gavin wandered past each practise room, only offering a quick glance into each one. All were empty except for one, and his stomach flipped as he did a double take.

It was her. Of course. How had that not been his first thought when the music started playing? Only her music had the power to captivate him so completely.

Rose brushed his cheeks as he found himself staring, yet he was physically incapable of breaking the gaze that focussed in on her hands, as long but delicate fingers danced tenderly across the keys.

It took Gavin a minute longer than it maybe should have to pick up on the subtle glisten that rolled down her cheek and the occasional jerk of her shoulders. She was crying, and the tears continued to run with every second that Gavin remained on the other side of the glass, helpless.

Except he wasn’t, not really. He could walk in there right now and comfort her. It would take no more than ten steps and he would be there for her, just like she was for him the last time she played. How could it be that something which had saved him before was now tormenting her?

Gavin pondered as reached for the door handle, the cool metal against his palm bringing a prominent reality to what he was about to do, and he started to question himself. Whether she would really want him in a vulnerable moment like this, whether he would actually be able to comfort her in the way she needs.

In a rare moment of weakness, Gavin decided he didn’t want to know.

So he walked away from her song, heavy with guilt but heavier with doubt. He would watch over her, like he silently promised her he would, but it was better for both of them this way. He didn’t need to be personally involved to look out for her, and she needn’t bother herself with him.

After all, she was a girl whose hands left subtle fingerprints on keys, whilst his left bruises on skin.

***

She defeatedly slid down the wall and swiped the back of her hand against her brow, wiping away the sweat from her efforts.

Gavin followed close behind, three boxes stacked high in his arms and not even a glisten on his face. His eyes tracked down to find hers, a chuckle escaping his lips at the state he found her in, “Done already? We’ve not even brought up the kitchen stuff.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

Gavin couldn’t help but laugh again when she completely sank to the floor, her hand pathetically waving an imaginary white flag in mock surrender. He placed the boxes down, “Okay, I hear you. We’ll take a break before we bring up the rest.”

“You always know what to say to make my heart flutter, Officer.”

Gavin rolled his eyes, but the curving of his lips followed swiftly after. He managed to pull her up to her feet, wrapping her arms around his waist before moving the damp wisps of hair out of her face, “Actually, I have something to show you.”

“Oh?”

He smiled, “Mhm. Come on, let’s have a look round.”

He laced his fingers with hers as they wandered through each room, mentally placing each piece of furniture. The vase that she had bought from the market on one of their first dates would look best on the windowsill, and the lucky elephant figurine that Minor got them as a housewarming gift would beautifully compliment the books on the shelf, standing proudly above the fireplace. The pair couldn’t restrain the smiles that crept up their faces or the occasional squeeze of their intertwined hands. Little pieces of them started to fill the space before they were even out of the boxes, their future unfolding before them.

Gavin stopped her before the conservatory, the curtains drawn and the door locked.

She raised an eyebrow, “Gavin?”

He said nothing, he simply unlocked the door and led her into the bright room. Her eyes took a second to adjust, but when they did her jaw fell slack, her eyes widening.

Standing there splendidly in the centre of the room was a sleek grand piano. There was not a fingerprint or smudge to be seen on its surface, completely untainted, as if it had always been there. Untouched, waiting patiently for her melody.

She looked to Gavin then, unable to formulate words as tears pricked her eyes. She stumbled over a few words of disbelief before Gavin chuckled, taking mercy on the girl, “Somebody owed me a favour, managed to settle on this. Isn’t she a beauty?”

She nodded, her smile reaching her eyes as she lunged towards Gavin, practically leaping into his arms. He caught her, he always did. Enveloping her in his arms, he held her closer, nuzzling into her neck as she spewed her gratitudes.

“Anything for you,” he said, pulling back and looking into her eyes before pressing his lips against her forehead, “Play me something?”

She nodded enthusiastically, plonking herself onto the seat. Gavin slid up next to her, noticing the instant shift in her energy as she admired the keys. She became serene, focussed, pondering over what song she should play for him. With the slight curve of her lips and a glint in her eye, her fingers began to move.

Within the first few seconds, Gavin felt his heart drop.

It was the song.

Not the song that had saved him all those years ago; not the one that had pushed him over the edge, but the one that he heard as he fell for the second time -- fell deeper in love with her. The first real snippet of her that he got; the first time he wanted to hold her, protect her from whatever caused her tears to run. It showed her vulnerability, an intimate moment formed between them unbeknownst to her.

He was so lost in her song that he only registered the tear long after it had fallen. One perfect drop, sliding down his cheekbone to lay rest at the point of his chin, before falling into his shirt. He tried to blink away the remaining moisture in his eyes, but only when he saw the glisten of droplets on her eyelashes did he stop himself.

Here she was, emotionally bare before him, unguarded and unafraid. A piece of music so personal played so freely, for him. The simple idea that he was trusted enough, that she felt safe enough, to be this vulnerable with him and let him into this sanctuary she had created made his eyes burn more, but now he didn’t care. They were on a path to a deeper, more vulnerable place in their relationship with this song, and he would meet her half way.

When her fingers seized, they finally looked at each other, sparkling pool staring into sparkling pool. There was a tender, warm silence shared between them before they erupted in giggles, palms wiping away the aftermath of their shared emotion.

She softly brushed the hair that obstructed the gold of his eyes and cupped his cheek, guiding his gaze to fall on hers, “I know why I’m crying, but what’s got you all upset, hm? You never let me see you cry.”

Gavin placed his hand over hers, leaning into her touch, “I’ll only tell you if you go first.”

She told him it was a song her grandfather had composed - for her. It told the story of her childhood, her growing up. She would often hear snippets of it when she visited, always in the background, the soundtrack of her youth. The first time she heard it in full was after he had passed, having left her the score to do with what she pleased. The first time she had heard it in full, was the same time Gavin had heard it in full. Completely unknowingly, by chance, an act of fate.

He could hear it now. The piece was absolutely riddled with her. Everything she was, and everything she became. This song, it was her.

Perhaps that was what pulled him in all those years ago in the barren school hallway. In fact, he was certain that was it. That song was what tied the knot in the rope they held between them, pulling him to shore every time he drifted away.

It was the second time he had been saved by her song, and he was saved every moment after.

“Would you believe me if I told you I’ve heard this song before? The day you played it in the music room?” he asked, her eyes widening at his confession. He continued, “I saw you, and nearly came in but...I was too much of a coward to go to you. I should have-”

He stopped when she threw her arms around him, burying her face into the crook of his neck and taking in his clean, fresh scent. He was so silly sometimes.

“You know, after I finished playing that day, I felt a huge wave of relief and...comfort. I thought it must have been the release from all the crying, but from that day I couldn’t help but feel that someone was watching out for me, protecting me. I assumed it was my grandfather looking down, but that never felt right. It didn’t feel like him,” she pulled back, meeting his eyes once again, “But I know now. It was you, wasn’t it? You didn’t need to come in, I felt it. I knew you were there, and that was the greatest comfort I have ever felt. You have a way of doing that, you know,” she rested her head on his shoulder, “Making people feel safe.”

Gavin could hardly keep it together, but he held on long enough to wrap an arm over her and pull her close, planting a long kiss on the top of her head. He focussed on the feeling of her against him, reminding himself that she was there, that he had truly found his way back to her. That, after all his years of doubt and bitter regret, he had never actually failed her.

That was his new favourite song. Not because it saved him, but because it saved her -- saving them.

***

Thank you so much for reading!! Have a lovely day <33

[thisdancingheart]

Remember YFIP?

My Year of Grief and Cancellation

What was I trying to accomplish with my anonymous Tumblr?

By Liat Kaplan Feb. 25, 2021, 5:00 a.m. ET https://www.nytimes.com/2021/02/25/style/your-fave-is-problematic-tumblr.html

If you were on Tumblr in the early 2010s, you may remember a blog called Your Fave Is Problematic. If not, its content should still sound familiar to you. The posts contained long lists of celebrities’ regrettable (racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic, ethnophobic, ableist and so on) statements and actions — the stuff that gets people canceled these days.

That blog was my blog. I spent hours researching each post; as you can probably imagine, my search history was pretty ugly.

Your Fave Is Problematic had around 50,000 followers at its peak, in 2014, when I was a high school senior, but its influence was outsized. I got in a feud with a prominent young adult fiction author over his inclusion. One actor submitted himself, perhaps as a dare (or a plea) to dig up his worst. “Problematic fave” became a well-worn meme; even after I stopped posting, my blog was cited in books, articles, podcasts and think pieces. Through it all, my identity stayed private.

The blog started, as so many anonymous online projects do, as vengeful public shaming masquerading as social criticism. I was fine-tuning my moral compass and coming into my own as a feminist. So when I noticed classmates making sexist jokes on Facebook, including some about me, I started taking screenshots to post on a Tumblr called Calling Out Sexists. My policy was that I would take down a post only if its author publicly apologized.

A group of students brought the blog to the attention of our school’s administrators, who threatened to take legal action if I continued to write about them. Meanwhile, other Tumblr users had begun submitting screenshots featuring statements from minor celebrities. With graduation hanging in the balance, I shifted my focus away from my peers and toward public figures. I rebranded. Money and fame had protected them since time immemorial. What harm could my little blog do?

So I posted photos of Lady Gaga in V magazine with her skin bronzed to an unnatural brown. I pulled out troubling quotes from an essay Lena Dunham had written about a trip to Japan. I noted Taylor Swift’s since-changed homophobic lyric in “Picture to Burn.” My most popular posts tended to be about women — which makes sense, because the celebrity press tends to be more critical of them.

As it turned out, I had bigger things to worry about than dissecting the careers of celebrities I’d never met. On a winter morning, I woke up to the news that my older sister, Tamar, who was studying in Bolivia, had been in a bus crash, and the outlook was not good. I pored over research to escape from what felt like an impossible situation: my sister slowly dying of treatable injuries in a rural area thousands of miles away.

We held a public memorial service for Tamar in our hometown. Some of my classmates showed up, including a few who had written nasty things about me online. I found their shows of kindness insulting now, during what was quickly becoming the worst year of my life.

I tried going back to school after a few weeks, but I found myself picking frequent arguments with classmates and teachers. The school made an arrangement with my parents: I would be placed on “medical leave” for the remainder of the semester. I would graduate on time, but I wouldn’t return to campus.

Stuck at home, I devoted myself to Tumblr. What was I trying to accomplish? Mostly, I was interested in knocking people off their pedestals. I also enjoyed being popular, controversial, discussed. When a comedian I had posted about name-checked my blog on Twitter, I was giddy.

Then I started receiving threats. Someone sent me a screenshot of a house from Google Maps, claiming to have found my IP address. It wasn’t my house, but still. I realized that for every person on Tumblr who looked up to my blog, there were many more, online and offline, who hated it — and me. I started posting less and, eventually, stopped posting at all.

In the years since, I’ve looked back on my blog with shame and regret — about my pettiness, my motivating rage, my hard-and-fast assumptions that people were either good or bad. Who was I to lump together known misogynists with people who got tattoos in languages they didn’t speak? I just wanted to see someone face consequences; no one who’d hurt me ever had.

There’s something almost quaint about it all now: teenage me, teaching myself about social justice on Tumblr while also posturing as an authority on that very subject, thinking I was making a difference while engaging in a bit of schadenfreude. Meanwhile, other movements — local, global, unified in their purposes and rooted in progressive philosophies — were organizing for actual justice. Looking back, I was more of a cop than a social justice warrior, as people on Tumblr had come to think of me.

These days, there’s no shortage of online accountability efforts, the large part of them anonymously run. Some accounts post typically anodyne but occasionally explosive celebrity gossip. Others are explicitly aimed at naming, shaming and punishing people for all kinds of actions and missteps. My own work fell somewhere in the middle, I think; the information I posted was out in the open, but I was cataloging it to make a case against the veneration of the rich and famous.

As many have noted, the coronavirus pandemic has pronounced the distance between celebrities and the rest of us. And their actions have been subject to greater scrutiny — the vacations they’ve gone on, the parties they’ve held, the access they’ve had to testing and care during a health crisis that has taken millions of lives.

But celebrity culture began to crumble long before Covid-19. Mounting accusations of many kinds, whispered between industry professionals, had become too loud to ignore. Social media, which gave celebrities more control over their images and influence over their fans, also opened them up to new kinds of criticism. People have lost jobs and entire careers because of the kinds of errors my blog cited. Others have apologized for work and behavior that, re-examined in a contemporary context, just doesn’t hold up.

For years, I’ve regretted the spotlight I put on other people’s mistakes, as if one day I wouldn’t make plenty of my own. There can be an unsparing purity to growing into one’s social conscience that is often overbroad.

My brain wasn’t ready for nuance. I was angered by hypocrisy and cruelty; what I did about it was apply a level of scrutiny that left no room for error. I’m not saying that I should be canceled for my teenage blog. (Please don't!) I just know what we all should know by now: that no one who has lived publicly, online or off, has a spotless record.

For these reasons, I’ve thought about deleting my Tumblr. But doing that would mean erasing my own errors of judgment. I almost feel like I need to leave it up to punish myself for having made it in the first place. That, and I know someone could (and probably would) just pull it up on Wayback Machine. The internet, after all, never forgets.

~~~~~~~

[wlwloverwrites]

tag game!

ahhhh i’m so flattered i got tagged in my first tag game thank you @artisancowbells ! anyone is more than welcome to tag me in other games or continue the chain :)

1 - Why did you choose your url?

well… i’m woman who loves women so there’s that. i’m a woman lover that writes so…. wlwloverwrites

2 - Any side blogs?

yup! they match up with this blog too. @wlwloversblog @wlwloversreads @wlwlovernsfw 18+ only

3 - How long have you been on Tumblr?

i believe a little over a year? i think last august was the first time i logged on. it didn’t take long to make my first post maybe a month.

5 - Why did you start your blog in the first place?

i love reading fanfics and actually wanted to start posting my own. so far it’s been pretty good :)

6 - Why did you choose your icon/pfp

i wanted the red and black theme. and i meannnnn come on. atomic blonde is iconic. so is that kiss. very gay for me.

7 - Why did you choose your header?

again, i wanted the back and with theme. almost i see myself as more of a city girl so yeah.

8 - What’s your post with the most notes?

this nasty thang with natasha

9 - How many mutuals do you have?

oh gosh, i love them all. i think i have about 30

10 - How many followers do you have?

2,755 woah.

11 - How many people do you follow?

not enough. 140 😬

12 - Have you ever made a shitpost?

do tags count? cause if they do then i shitpost religiously. but i do occasionally shitpost and i don’t regret it.

13 - How often do you use Tumblr each day?

shit, i’m scared to check. ummmm do you have to know? i think sometimes… things are left better as they are.

14 - Did you have a fight/argument with another blog once?

uh, no, but i have been block by some people. one of them i have no idea why? to this day it bothers me cause they asked a question but then blocked me before i could answer. it was a normal question too! and the other one cause i called them out for plagiarism… yay😐

15 - How do you feel about “you need to reblog this” posts?

i dont get many of those, so i decide whether i want to reblog them or not. depends on what it is mostly.

16 - Do you like tag games?

yup! this was fun!

17 - Do you like ask games?

yes i do! i’ve tried those but didn’t get many asks lol. whenever i see them i always response and send an ask!

18 - Which of your mutuals do you think is Tumblr famous?

oh gosh….. i’m fangirling ok? @jarofstyles @haroldloverboy @givemesomeboobies @nermalina @shurisneakers

19 - Do you have a crush on a mutual?

yes. two of them. i’m actively loving them through my screen rn.

tagging: @uno-x-uno @twilight-99-tm @kissme-imgayy @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @spooky-goob and anyone else who would like to join!

[barbasbodaciousbeard]

The Iowa Caucus Happened

A job offer slides into Rafael’s DMs as he waits to find out if it’ll be a new start or prison on February 8.

Accidental Feminist Icon

Delete the Twitter app, Mr. Barba

“Mister Barba?”

Rafael didn’t like hearing his name from the young woman behind him, especially not given what he’d done. He’d texted Carmen on the first day of the trial, and she’d agreed to look into the offers from attorneys he knew, and some he didn’t, while he sat beside Dworkin and emotionally prepared himself to testify. The ones he’d looked at the night before came from people he didn’t like or were last resorts. He’d moved from his visceral response to finding law to back his actions. Applying logic could let him detangle himself from his conflicted emotions. Catholic guilt wrestled his humanity. That said, he also found himself desperate to introduce Ollie to music as Carmen worked from his apartment that first afternoon, not caring for once as the toddler drooled or sneezed or spilled all over him.

“Yes?” he asked, taking his coffee from the cart. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“We haven’t. I follow you on Twitter.”

“Ah,” he said, shifting awkwardly. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss-”

“Rachel Sullivan. I have, like, a reading Twitter.”

“I’ve seen that! Read with Rachel? Your icon is a copy of Howl?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, chuckling. “I just- listen, I know it’s bad what’s going on and a lot of people are really hurt and going after you. Do I get it? No. But, I think you didn’t get a good choice, and you did what’s right for you. When it seems impossible, it’s not my place to judge something I can’t fathom. And a lot of people feel the same. A bunch of us have a group chat and we hope everything goes well and you get to start again.”

It was a stark contrast to his interaction with mami or emails from church ladies. There was an acknowledgement of disagreement, but he needed more people to respect that they weren’t there like she did. He also remembered watching his father die, and while he didn’t like the man, he regretted not ending that pain. It only drew out hurt for everyone. 

“Thank you, Rachel. That really means the world to me.”

“Good luck today,” she said, giving him a wave when she took her coffee and left. By the end of the day, Rafael hated Peter Stone for being a damn good prosecutor, and he wondered if there were any cases he’d tried, especially the ones before SVU that he was wrong on. He made his way into a new bar, definitely not his usual during all of this, and he sat and drafted his resignation. It took longer than he cared to admit, and he restarted and reread it time and time again. By the time he was drunk, he’d written something he could proofread the next morning and ignored calls from Olivia, Carmen, and mami. 

He decided it was time to do what he had been dreading, logging into Twitter. Since Carmen had cleaned it up, more people had found him, and he was able to easily ignore anything hateful by skimming for murder or murderer in the body of the tweet. He skipped those, and Rafael was surprised to see some apathy, sympathy, or respect for his reasoning. Lazily, he scrolled his direct messages. A select few of the people who knew him contacted him with revulsion, but his filtered messages were filled with vitriol. He found Rachel’s account again, following her back and deciding he could break his unspoken rule of only following people he knew or the occasional blog/podcast/museum/celebrity. If anyone contacted him with kindness, he was now more open to the reciprocity of Twitter; no one would be asking him to prosecute their case soon.  

He saw a message from Tripp Greene. In Harvard, they’d had an unspoken alliance as the two scholarship kids in their cohort, a silent allegiance that continued into law school. There were very few people Rafael respected personally from Harvard, but Tripp had remained kind, even if he worked in something as ruthless as politics. They’d been reunited by Rafael’s uptick in Twitter popularity. He was more proud than he should be by the potential presidential candidates that had followed him. Rafael should have known Tripp would reach out; he was ever the silent cheerleader and had watched a sibling die on life support when he was at Harvard. They’d discussed the morality of pulling plugs and the selfish desire to keep people alive, though most of it had been Tripp talking and Rafael listening.

While moving to Iowa seemed extreme, he was acutely aware that he would end up haunting the DA’s office and Manhattan SVU like some ghost of ADAs past instead of moving forward. His mother had a boyfriend and looming retirement that seemed likely to take the pair to Miami, where she could play grandma to his grandchildren. There was nothing left for him here but Carmen, and while a great friend, she was not enough to erase the last twenty-one years of his life. When Carmen called for the fifth time that night, he ignored it, but it was quickly followed by Answer the phone or I tell Olivia I haven’t heard from you. With a groan, he answered when Carmen called again sixty seconds later.

“I’m fine. I don’t want to delve back into a play by play of my day.”

“That’s why you’re drunk at seven o’clock,” she said, her tone thick with sarcasm as she pretended that solved everything.

“It’s only been two hours?”

“You’re not at Forlini’s.”

“I’m not hanging out with Stone.”

“Send me your location. I just picked Ollie up from mom’s.”

“Take your son home, Carmen. I’ll be fine.”

“But we could talk about how much I also hate Stone. I’ll even stop and let you grab take out from that Cuban place you like.”

“Deal,” he acquiesced, motioning he wanted to close his tab. “Call me when you’re close.”

“Deal. ETA is about fifteen minutes.”

He polished off his scotch, signing the check and tipping well before taking his briefcase and leaning against the wall as he waited for Carmen’s SUV. She waved at him out the window, and he hurried into her passenger seat. Though he always knew that she was a great secretary and assistant, Carmen was proving to be the friend he needed right now. Olivia, in the few phone calls they had, was unwilling to discuss anything but the case. She was in cop mode, and she talked to him like she could swoop in and fix what he had done. While she thought he didn’t know, she’d talked to McCoy, talked to Stone, talked to anyone who would listen. But what she didn’t understand is that he’d accepted going to prison was a possibility, but it was one he felt was worth it.

“Barba!” he heard from the backseat, smiling softly to see Ollie more awake than he’d expected. He’d seen the boy periodically, mostly during evening handoffs when Carmen’s mother would drop him off so Carmen could take him home. There were a lot of single mothers in his life, and all were exceptional. The last few days, Carmen and Ollie both had spent a lot of time with him. He kept introducing Ollie to music and movies and foods like he could make up for everything Drew wouldn’t experience by making sure Ollie did.

“Oliver!” he smiled, twisting around to smile at him. The boy kicked his leg, and the blue stripe on the rubber of his sneakers lit up. “I like your shoes.”’

“Thanks,” he giggled, kicking again. 

“You’re good with him,” Carmen smiled, the navigation now leading her to get his take out. 

“He’s a good kid. Noah made me better with kids. Liv said I held him like a sack of flour at first.”

“You’ll be ready by the time you have your own.”

“I work too much.”

“That can change.”

“I don’t deserve to have a child,” he shrugged, and he could see Carmen purse her lips. “I don’t. I wouldn’t be good at it anyway. Wouldn’t be fair. Besides, I might end up like dad. No kid deserves that shit.”

“Bad word!” Ollie scolded, tablet in hand as he watched a movie.

“Sorry, Ollie. Stuff.”

“You’ve never told me what he did.”

“He wanted heterosexual, toxic machismo and got a swarmy, emotional bisexual.”

“You’re not that emotional.”

“He took care of that,” he said darkly. “I used to cry when he went after mami. That turned his attention to me.”

Carmen knew there was nothing she could say, so instead she silently took his hand, squeezing softly. He was taken aback at first, but he kept her hand loosely in his as his head lulled against the headrest. It was strangely grounding, the physical affection. He’d felt like he was swimming the last few days as memories of his father, his father’s death, his childhood, and each case he tried bubbled up. That wasn’t including the vision of baby drew and Maggie in the hospital room that lingered everywhere. 

The conflicting guilt and conviction he’d done the right thing also broke a damn and the feelings he’d suppressed- loneliness, guilt, abandonment, distrust- were all bubbling to the surface. He’d spent so much of his life trying not to process them so he could focus on a conviction rate and moving forward that he didn’t have the tools everyone else did sometimes. Right now, Carmen felt like an anchor, and he was grateful for her. 

He got out of the car when Carmen parked, ordering enough food for three adults, one take out container containing whatever he thought a toddler could handle. Soon enough, they were settled in his living room and eating, though Ollie had minimal interest in the pork, beans, and rice in front of him. The thought crossed his mind that when he took one of the out of state jobs, he wouldn’t have Carmen there like this. He was sure this friendship would be short lived; when he didn’t need her anymore, she’d leave him. That’s what usually happened, wasn’t it? She just felt bad for him.

“I’m moving to Iowa,” he blurted out before he was able to spiral into the self loathing he’d recently discovered.

“That’s far,” she said, and he thought he could detect sadness in her voice.

“There’s FaceTime.”

“Not quite the same, but I’ll take it.”

“Tripp understands,” he said, sobering up as the food hit his stomach. “He lost a sister. Watched someone dying like with my dad except she’d been born that way. It was years, Carmen.”

“That’s a lot. I’m going to miss you, Rafael. Ollie will too.”

“Come visit. If the tickets are bad, I’ll pay. Or cover renting a car.”

“You’re drunk,” she chuckled. 

“Sorry. Best friend. It’s the rules.”

“We’ll come. But I can afford tickets.” 

“Promise if it’ll make things tight, you’ll let me. You’re raising a kid. No kids means I can afford to get my friend the occasional plane ticket.”

“Deal.”

“Next week, will it be Des Moines or prison? Who knows! I’ll probably grow a beard either way. Think they’d recognize me in prison if I grow a beard?” 

“I’ve never seen you with a beard. Stop shaving and we’ll find out.”

She could see Rafael getting tired, head leaning back against the couch and closing his eyes. She preferred when he joked about all of this. They were stuck waiting, and this time the next night they’d probably know. Ollie climbed between them on the couch, and she realized her boss wasn’t the only one almost asleep. 

“You two can stay,” Rafael yawned, hand smoothing Ollie’s curls back. 

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah. It’ll be nice not being alone in the morning. And you can stay here to work. We didn’t talk about it, but I know you hate Stone. He’s a good attorney. Doing his job.”

“His job is wrong.”

“That isn’t his fault. If another ADA had done what I did? I’d be prosecuting them.”

“Go get ready for bed,” she chuckled, rolling her eyes. As she scooped Ollie up, she kissed the top of Rafael’s head. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Carmen?” She turned in the doorframe. “Thank you. For all of this.”

“I’m glad to, Raf. Promise you’ll actually sleep.”

“I promise.”

“Night, Barba,” Ollie yawned, waving over his mom’s shoulder as they entered his guest room. Maybe Iowa was going to be too far if he didn’t go to prison. He was getting quite fond of having Carmen around quite quickly. He wasn’t going to be her superior anymore, so this friendship could be something he maintained. 

Olivia would be a given; even if they were primarily united around work, she was also one of his closest friends and maybe not working together would make him relax. Hell, maybe the end of his life in the city would do it. Rafael couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t felt he was chasing an upward trajectory in New York City. Even at Harvard, the plan had been to return. Maybe coming into Des Moines established would let him feel comfortable just existing. 

He liked cooking and reading in the park and going out dancing on occasion. He rarely had time for two options, and the latter made his cheeks red with embarrassment at the prospect of a colleague seeing him during the outing. In Iowa, maybe he could go dancing and take up a new hobby and wear jeans without feeling like something was out of his control. 

He woke up before Carmen, excited to be able to cook for her. He appreciated the fact she was happy to help him, but she had paused her own life for the last few days. Their friendship was relegated to offices and dinners by the office. He’d come to her baby shower and birthday parties and even a holiday party, but that was it and that had other colleagues present. Except maybe the baby shower, but he was determined to buy up whatever was left on her registry when the day came, using mami, abuelita, and the older women at church as pseudonyms to pretend he’d just let family know. 

“You can cook?”

“I just never had time,” he shrugged, tray coming out of the oven.

“You made pastries?” 

“Pastelitos de guayaba.” Carmen didn’t miss how proud he looked as he admired them. They were something he’d always made with family. “They aren’t hard, but abuelita used to make them for me all the time. Puff pastry, sweetened cream cheese and guava paste. Cafe con leche on the way.”

“You couldn’t sleep?” He shook his head, pouring the espresso and adding the milk before placing mugs at the breakfast counter. His mouth was set in a line now, the corners sucked in as he focused on the countertop. Her hand rested on his, giving a squeeze and he rewarded her with a soft smile. “We’ll be helping you pack for Iowa in no time.”

“I hope,” he nodded, biting into a pastry. Ollie came out, eyeing the countertop. “Want one, Oliver?”

“What are they?”

“Delicious,” Carmen groaned, having torn into her own. That was enough for Ollie, who accepted a pastry from Rafael with a soft Thank you before biting into it carefully.

“Wow! It is good!”

“I’m glad you like it.”

It felt a somber affair, despite the pastries, when Carmen saw him off to court. She chose to wait in his apartment, ringer on high and news coverage on. Ollie was easily entertained by the toys she had in the car, and the phones were forwarded to be answerable on her cell phone. By the end of the day, she’d put dinner in his slow cooker and cleaned most everything at least once. And then her phone rang with his ringer. She’d picked one of the other presets for him long ago, and she watched Ollie with his blocks as she answered.

“Rafael?”

“Not guilty,” he exhaled, still unable to believe it as he surveyed his office to begin packing. Her desk was empty, and he didn’t mind today because if she had been here, McCoy would’ve had her helping Stone. Carmen was his assistant, his friend, and it was bad enough to know Stone would probably take his place at work.

“Thank God,” she whispered. “Did you turn the letter in?”

“I put it on Jack’s desk. I’m hoping to be gone buy his return. I think three heavy boxes will cover it. Plus anything I hung, but other than diplomas most of it came with the place.”

“I put dinner on. Ollie and I ran to the store and picked up short ribs and potatoes and carrots. I needed something to do.”

“Nervous you’d be visiting me in prison?”

“You know damn well juries can be swayed. You’ve done it.”

“And I’m safe. I’ll be there in a couple of hours, okay?”

“Okay,” she said softly. “I’m really glad you get to go to Iowa.”

[addierose444]

Spring 2021: One Month Update

We are now just over a month into the spring semester. This is a bit strange as mid-march normally coincides with spring break. Well, normal just isn’t the norm right now and hasn’t been for a while. Like seriously, it has been a whole year since Smith sent us home last spring. Here is a blog post from a year ago about my final week on campus. That was a stressful time, but I was also so naïve about what was to come. In some ways, it’s hard to believe that a whole year has passed; at the same time, it has felt like an eternity. This post is primarily about my current courses and other life updates, but it also felt incomplete without acknowledging the passage of time. Last semester, I wrote a few update posts. I started them because I literally didn’t know what else to write about. However, I found them to be an effective post style that is worthwhile to continue using. 

There does finally seem to be a bit of light at the end of the tunnel. Namely, I have received my first dose of the Moderna COVID vaccine! I was eligible thanks to my job in ResLife. I will be getting the second dose in two-weeks time. I feel very fortunate to be getting vaccinated so early. I’ll also be honest in saying that it was really stressful taking the bus to UMass and navigating through the vaccination center. Another exciting update is that I have secured a summer internship at Microsoft! You can read about my application process here. 

I am currently living on-campus in Parsons House. We are fortunately still operating in Green Mode which is our least restrictive operating mode. This still includes masks, social distancing, and testing three times a week. We are also still ordering most meals on the Grubhub app. However, there is now some limited seating in the dining halls and we have transitioned to using some reusable food containers. Furthermore, Chuckett (our name for Chase and Duckett) is open for true grab and go. The best part about going to Chuckett is that they have yogurt, ice cream, and snacks. Classes and house events continue to be primarily over Zoom so that we can practice social distancing and include those not living on campus. 

As for my classes, it’s been a very busy semester. I am in class less than in past semesters but have had more work outside of class. With that said, this is in part because one of my classes is asynchronous with synchronous labs. To check out all of my past courses, click here. 

PHY 210 has been more interesting than I expected. It’s not an easy class, but it hasn’t been the nightmare I was worried it would be. The class has so-called pre-class check-ins (PCCIs) which are short exercises due at the start of each class (Monday, Wednesday, and Friday). We still have a full homework set due each Wednesday, but I enjoy having the PCCIs as it’s more similar to the high school homework model (short more frequent assignments that don’t have to be 100% perfect). I now have a much better understanding of complex numbers and why they are useful. Other topics we have studied thus far include differential equations and the Taylor series (both topics were briefly introduced in past calculus classes). We have also been learning the basics of Mathematica and are currently studying integrals in two or more dimensions. Last semester in MTH 212, all of the exams could be taken over multiple days (unlimited time) so it’s not the easiest transition back to timed math exams. 

PHI 220 is a great complement to my four STEM classes. Specifically, it’s reading and discussion-based and doesn’t have problem sets! While there is absolutely value in courses unrelated to my majors, I really love learning concepts that come up in computer science but from a different perspective. Over the course of the semester, we have been working our way through Gödel, Escher, Bach: an Eternal Golden Braid. We have been learning about formal systems and been gaining an understanding of Gödel's incompleteness theorems. Later in the course, we will be delving into the study of Turing machines. Each class starts with five minutes of breathing and stretching. The first day I thought it was really weird, but have now gained an appreciation for it.  

EGR 220 has been my most time-consuming class, but I have also really enjoyed the course content. I am glad that I took PHY 118 last spring as it gave me a good primer for some of the circuit theories. This is particularly useful as circuits is a fast-paced course. Labs have been frustrating at times due to technical difficulties, but having a hands-on component definitely helps my understanding and makes things more engaging. As long as we stay in Green Mode, we will have a few small-group in-person labs! We have also had and will continue to have occasional full class in-person outdoor demonstrations. (All of my other classes have been and will continue to be fully remote). In terms of course content, we have learned about passive components like resistors, capacitors, and inductors and circuit analysis techniques like nodal analysis and mesh analysis.

CSC 250 has generally been enjoyable as I have an awesome professor. I don’t dislike the course material, but I definitely prefer programming and systems to theory. Also, theoretical computer science requires writing lots of proofs which is not my favorite. I am glad that I took discrete math (MTH 153) last semester as it introduced me to proof writing. MTH 153 an unenforced prerequisite of CSC 250, which I was originally going to take concurrently due to schedule conflicts. In the course, we have been learning about regular expressions, finite automata, context-free grammars, push-down automata, and most recently Turing machines. (See what I mean about the overlap with PHI 220!)

COMPSCI 230 is my UMass computer systems class. You can read more about Five College registration here. The course is asynchronous which has its advantages and disadvantages. It’s nice being able to self-schedule my coursework, but it’s strange not really interacting with my classmates. As the UMass semester started two weeks before Smith’s, I am just about halfway through the course which is honestly sort of crazy. In the course, we have learned about data representation, von Neumann Architecture, caches, and virtual memory. 

I am not taking guitar this semester and unfortunately have hardly played my guitar. Last year I had set a daily practice goal that I did a really good job of sticking to. That said, I regret having set that goal as it made playing feel more like a chore. The issue is that when the year ended I was justified in taking a few days off from playing. However, as I was really busying during Interterm it was just too easy to dive into my coursework and other responsibilities. Playing guitar is something that I love, so I am trying to incorporate it back into my life in the right way. You can read about my musical history here. Another music update, that’s really just for me to look back on is that my current favorite song is The Story (written by Phil Hanseroth and performed by Brandi Carlile). I have been listening to a lot of Brandi Carlile’s music over the past few days and absolutely love it. As for 2020 goals, like many people, mine weren’t the biggest success. I originally set out to write four original songs but only wrote two (one of which I had started in August of 2019). I was successful in my reading goal so that was at least one win. You can read about my 2020 in books here. 

[freddieofhearts]

Bye bye, dears (for now!)

I know there have been a lot of rumours and some posts about me leaving, so here I am to set the record straight and say a quick ‘au revoir’. This post is long, and I don’t expect everyone to read the whole thing—if you just want information on how to keep in touch, or about access to my removed fics, scroll to the bottom. ⬇️

*

Why are you leaving?

Firstly, of course I’m not leaving Freddie. This is just an ongoing hiatus from the social side of fandom, because while I have some incredible friends here, who have done all they can to support me and have made this experience wonderful in lots of ways—it’s also true that the social space has become more and more toxic for me.

I get a wild amount of hate. Despite never having my ask box enabled on here, people create new accounts just to message me and tell me all the problems in this fandom are my fault, that I’m faking being sick, that I should kill myself, that I’m fat, etc. I also very regularly get hateful comments on AO3.

Obviously I realise that I’m not the only one who receives these cruel attacks, but it’s become increasingly hard to handle them—especially as some people (‘real’ accounts, not faceless anons) do continue to blame me for wider problems in the fandom. It makes me feel consistently sad, anxious, and paranoid, so that I can’t focus on anything Queen-related that I enjoy.

More pressingly, it’s affected my mental health, which is—imperfect at the best of times. As I’ve occasionally alluded to in older posts on this blog, I have a history of anorexia, OCD, PTSD, and some other overlapping issues. Most people who know me in the fandom are also aware that I’m ‘clinically extremely vulnerable’ to Covid-19, significantly immunocompromised, and have been isolating at home for eleven months.

The combination of all of these things + the constant toxic messages has really been triggering me, and leading to an uptick in disordered behaviours, which my body cannot sustain. Every new instance of hate from an anon—every time there’s another indication of groups in the fandom wanting to ostracise me further—my reaction is deeply self-punitive and unhealthy. Ultimately I need to be out of this environment for, at least, a protracted period. My therapist, my partner and my close friends in the fandom support this decision.

*

So, what went wrong?

In 2019, I expected to be an absolutely tiny blog in the Queen Tumblr landscape. The fandom was already well-established, and I have never worked to ‘build a following’ on here—I think I’ve linked my own fic a maximum of three or four times!—in fact, more or less the opposite. As I mentioned above: ya girl is nutty as a fruitcake. As a result, I often avoid extremely niche things in daily life which cause severe anxiety for me, Relevant examples here: I never look at my timeline. I never intentionally look at my follower number. Yup, it’s strange, I fully admit it, but it’s best for me to go with these things—usually. In Queen fandom, however, this avoidance both of analytic stats and of most direct engagement led to some problems... My followers grew without me realising, and way more people were reading my blog than I was aware of. I was still in a—“Wow, this fandom is very frustrating, and rife with ableism, racism, etc., so how do we fix this???”—mindset, and I wanted to share my opinions, sure! but I also thought I was sharing them with 15-20 like-minded people.

Now, intent is not impact, and I recognise that I was brusque, didn’t phrase things particularly sensitively, and absolutely did hurt some people by criticising the fandom so freely. I still regret this—and I regret just as much the fact that some assholes have used my criticising the fandom on my own blog as implicit justification for attacking authors. I have said on here many times that I don’t condone that behaviour—but I also think there’s some truth in the presumption that these anonymous malcontents felt my critiques somehow ‘permitted’ them to engage in abuse. For the first few months, though, I genuinely had no idea there was a link at all—and so I was initially slow to condemn this abusive behaviour in public, because I was taking it for granted all authors agreed it was shitty. It took someone directly telling me (shoutout to @a-froger-epic) that people had identified a connection between my posts and the anons, before everything fell into place.

I would like to offer my apologies to the fandom at large for not being more quick on the uptake about this, because I feel that had I realised sooner that these people were taking ‘inspiration’ in some way from me, it might have been easier to put a stop to it. It does seem that there is still a lot of confusion about whether I support them and which of their views I agree with. Let’s be 100% clear on this: I do not support the anonymous commenters on AO3. At times there is some, limited overlap between parts of their views and parts of mine, but even that is less than you may think—I often see anonymous comments from so-called ‘Freddie fans’ that I substantially disagree with.

Perhaps even more importantly: I do not support anyone who sends anonymous hate on Tumblr.

*

What’s all this about ‘overlap’ with the anons?

Let’s do a mini-summary of the myths vs. the truth. There are views I hold which are genuinely unpopular in the fandom—but which I own up to completely, and have never tried to hide in any way. I’ve never needed to use anonymous to share my opinions because I’m completely open about them! What people who don’t know me tend to have ‘heard’ about me, though, is usually a drastic distortion of my real opinions.

What people think I think:

- Freddie should never top.

- It’s okay to send anon hate if someone writes Freddie ‘wrong’.

- It’s more important to correct ‘wrong’ portrayals than to respect other writers.

- It’s inherently wrong to be more interested in band pairings than canon pairings.

- Freddie should be overtly written as a r*pe survivor/victim (and not doing this is wrong).

- Freddie should be overtly written as having an eating disorder (and not doing this is wrong).

- Kink fics are wrong.

What I actually think:

- I believe Freddie did have a strongly defined sexual identity with marked preferences, but I don’t think Jim Hutton lied when he said that Freddie topped. I believe Freddie did top, but this isn’t the time or place to get into my thoughts on why/when/how much. I do believe that my analysis of the sources relevant to this subject is as historically accurate as one can reasonably be in matters of sex (where historical accuracy will always be particularly limited and imperfect)—but I don’t think it’s morally wrong to write Freddie as topping more than he probably did.

- I don’t believe there’s only one ‘right’ version of Freddie (all others being ‘wrong’). I do believe it is possible to be more right or less right—but I’m also conscious of the fact that this scale of value is not one by which everyone measures fanfiction. As a result, then, I don’t think that any perceptions surrounding ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ justify sending anonymous, non-constructive criticism, or outright hate.

- I do believe constructive criticism is a good thing. I welcome and appreciate it myself; I have received it on my fics in Queen fandom, and it has made them better. I have been in writing workshops which included very forceful criticisms, and the value of such feedback has been intimately and immediately part of my life as a writer for years. However: in this case, I have accepted that my opinion differs from the general community preference, and so I no longer offer any constructive criticism (outside private beta-reading). I haven’t changed my view, but I’ve changed my practice to align with community norms.

- I do not think any single, individual writer has a personal responsibility to write about Freddie Mercury in any given way. That ranges from including the more distressing topics to which I’ve devoted attention (such as trauma)—to concentrating on ‘canon’ pairings like Jimercury—to, even, focusing on Freddie at all.

“Now, that doesn’t sound like you, @freddieofhearts,” you might be thinking. And I know it doesn’t; I think something I’ve done a poor job of articulating is the difference between how I view each individual fan—namely, as free to shape their creative experience at will, even in ways that I might find distressing or offensive; even in ways that you might find distressing or offensive—and the way I view the Collective. I think people have interpreted some of my critiques of ‘Queen Fandom’ as meaning something like: “You-in-particular, a specific Queen fan, are doing it wrong and should change everything about how you do it; also you don’t really care about Freddie.”

And—that’s not it. What any given fan, as an individual, does, isn’t a problem. And that can be true alongside—concurrently with—a multivalent critique of how the fandom is lacking in representation of Freddie’s life, with all that that (wonderful, deservedly celebrated, but also profoundly traumatic) life entailed. I still hold that view; I still have myriad problems with ‘the fandom’ (structurally, collectively, historically and presently—from the 1990s to the 2020s). Some of what I want to work on (away from the social life of fandom) is expressing those critiques with greater nuance, in ways that can’t be misinterpreted as shading any particular fanfiction author or subgenre of story.

In brief: I haven’t changed my mind, but I think Tumblr is an untenable environment in which to discuss the things I want to analyse, especially as there is an ever-present danger of hurting someone.

*

Can we keep in touch? Where is the fic?

I will drop by this account periodically to check out posts that friends have sent me, so you can always sent me a private message to ask for my contact details on the other app that I’m using now for fandom friends. Multiple Freddie conversations and projects are going on over there, off-Tumblr, with a much ‘gentler’ environment and no bad actors—I personally love it!

All my fic has been downloaded and saved. I don’t want to deal with constant harassment on AO3, but I’m happy to share a copy with anyone who missed it and wants to read/re-read something. I also saved everyone’s lovely comments and thoughtful con-crit, so none of that has been lost or erased.

Thank you to everyone who welcomed me to the fandom, made me think, taught me, shared with me, sent me into fits of the giggles, collaborated with me creatively, and otherwise made this one hell of a ride! Love you all. ❤️