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As a diagnosed autistic, I can say with certainty that y’all are giving autism hcs to the Wrong Motherfuckers. Robert Robertson is quite literally the most confident, skillfully sarcastic, socially savvy mf in the whole game. He is NOT autistic. And yeah I do 100% agree with autistic Waterboy—just look at him—but cmon he ain’t the only one.
Instead, I raise you:
Flat affect, completely monotone even when she feels warmly towards the person she’s speaking to. Honestly smiling looks kinda unnatural on her too lmao.
Speaks plainly, professionally, and matter-of-factly even in mostly casual conversations/settings (like when she talks about her book).
Extremely dedicated to her work, almost to a fault. A complete perfectionist. This isn’t like a bona fide autistic trait or anything but keeping a track record of successful kills as an assassin gives autistic to me.
Often described by people around her as strange and off-putting. “Evil,” even—as Blonde Blazer puts it.
She’s just kind of a weirdo freak (in the best way). Like who tf dresses their shitty fast food crunchy tacos with their own blood? I love her.
I found out there’s like 30 minutes of cut content where Faith and Bigby are acting like a couple. I had to act immediately. I will never be the same. Storyboard wip
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Hello my tumblings. Because I like you guys you’re allowed to see these horrifically messy and ugly storyboards for a quick faithby shitpost I wanted to make
Rusty picking up a trans runaway on the side of the road
Took this in a more platonic/familial way I hope you don’t mind! I was simply inspired :P
Notes: FTM!reader, Teen!reader and Parental!slasher, transphobia mentioned but not explicit, some religious trauma stuff, technically kidnapping? Justified though! Totally SFW!
Dad Distribution System
It was a mistake to order the binder to your house, and one that you were now paying for. You should’ve gotten it delivered to your friend’s house like she had offered, but you declined. Naively, you’d thought that, as controlling as your mom was, surely she wouldn’t open your mail. Stupid, you thought angrily to yourself now as you trudge along the empty stretch of road.
The sun had set, and the temperature in the arid, Nevada landscape had dropped with it. Wind whipped at your face, stinging your cheeks red at the same time your eyes stung with tears you refused to let fall. You bundle your hoodie tighter around you in an attempt to ward off the chill, but a shudder wracks through you regardless as you stumble along. Miserable, that’s what this is, but anything is better than being in that house.
You’d gotten home from school to a house whose tension hit you like a palpable wall when you stepped through the door. Your mother was sitting at the table with your father, home from work early, and in front of them was that package. The wall of crosses behind them glared angrily at you, as if even the carved wood knew what you were and condemned it. The stilted, cold words from your parents felt like a whip’s lashes, and the final phrase landed like a crown of thorns against your brow: homeschooling. No place to escape. No place to breathe free air. No place to live and be. Only walls that felt too small and a name that isn’t yours are the itching, bone deep wrongness under your skin.
You stumbled out of the door as if in a trance, deaf to them calling your name- not your name- and thinking nothing past keep moving, keep going, run run run. You propel yourself forward now with the same thought, even as the wind beats against you and chills you to your bones.
Then, headlights behind you, and you glance up to see one of the biggest rigs you’ve ever seen come rumbling past you. It kicks up dust from the road and you cough, covering your mouth with your trembling hand to try and shield yourself from the dirt cloud. You keep walking, trying to wave the dust away with your other hand, even as the truck grounds to a halt just ahead of you. You look up into the window as you slowly approach, trying to get a glimpse of who could be inside. The window rolls down as you get closer, and a plume of smoke drifts out.
“You okay, kid?” The trucker inside calls through the window, and though you can’t quite make out his face through the shadows of the truck’s cab, you can practically hear his brow furrow. You know you must look a mess- hair tangled by the wind, eyes watery and face red, with limbs shaking from emotion and cold.
“I’m fine,” you lie, wincing at how weak and wobbly your voice sounds, even to your own ears. He makes a tsking noise, unimpressed by your dishonesty, and tosses his cigarette out his window onto the dusty asphalt. He doesn’t know what it is, but something about you is making his corroded heart break a little. You just look so young. So sad. It makes something in his heart twist.
“Liar,” he grumbles, “Get in, you’re shaking like a chihuahua.” He leans over the console to open the door, and you take a step back, unsure. Stranger Danger, your mind helpfully supplies, but you really are cold, and what do you have left to lose? You shift from foot to foot, worrying your lip as you consider it. He scoffs softly when you hesitate. “Kid, you’ll catch your death out here. Let me get you to the greyhound station.”
The offer seems genuine enough, and you hesitate for only a minute more before nodding shakily and gingerly climbing up into the truck. Desperate times, you suppose. He hums in approval when you clamber into the cab and plop into the passenger’s seat, and he pulls back onto the road once you’ve buckled in. One scarred hand reaches to turn the heat up, and you’re both silent as you defrost.
“Thanks,” you manage at last, curled in on yourself in the seat as if trying to take up as little space as possible. He waves away the thanks with a dismissive hand.
“Wasn’t gonna let you freeze out there,” he says, before giving you a sidelong glance. His stare burns into you, and you shiver from something other than cold: vulnerability. “What are you runnin’ from, anyway?”
You don’t want to answer, at first. You don’t know this man, he’s just some guy taking you to the bus station. You don’t owe him an explanation, especially not when the answer makes you feel ill. But, goddamnit, you’re tired of feeling alone with all this. You’re tired of having no one to talk to about how hard it’s been to exist in a house filled with vindictive, oppressive air.
So you break, and you tell the trucker everything. He just listens, not saying anything as you vent until you’re nearly breathless with the emotion pouring out of you.
“So I’m leaving Nevada. I’ll head to California, or somewhere far away,” you finish, feeling vaguely like you’ve just run a marathon. It’s silent in the truck for a long moment, the only noise the rumbling of big tires against asphalt. Then:
“You’re gonna let those fools run you out of the state?” He scoffs. “Christ, you kids are so dramatic.” You open your mouth to defend yourself- who the hell is this guy to judge you? He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t know your life. How dare he call you dramatic when you’re just trying to live freely! How dare he condescend to you just because you’re in highschool! Being in highschool is hard! Navigating your identity on top of all the other highschool shit is hard! Being trans in a world that refuses to show you empathy is really fuckin hard!
Before you can say any of that, though, he ruffles your hair with a scarred hand, and the strength behind his big mitt nearly tips your head forward. “C’mon, kiddo, you’re stickin’ with me and we’re getting ice cream.” His tone holds something close to fondness- almost as if he’s talking to a particularly stubborn dog- and before you can even think about arguing, the truck is rumbling on toward the closest Baskin’ Robbins.
Rusty, privately, considers what the consequences would be of roadhauling those “parents” of yours.
You seem like a good enough kid, and his house has been feeling empty without the pitter patter of little feet he’d been fruitlessly dreaming of. He’s starting to seriously consider emptying out one of the old rooms in his place so you don’t have to scurry away like a sad little mouse.
He’ll take care of you, he decides as the truck hisses down the road. He’ll keep you. A chip off the ol’ block. A son. Ice cream, first, and then home. A home he’ll guarantee is safe, where you can breathe free air.
It’s only later, when you’re absentmindedly licking a double scoop on a waffle cone, that a question occurs to you: did you just get kidnapped, or adopted?
summary: a long day at work leaves you and bigby exhausted. what better way to spend that time then some last minute decisions and cuddles?
warnings: very mild smut!
tags: fluff, comfort, oral (m!receiving), mild smut, very mild, they stop halfway thru, impulsive decisions, bigby too tired to keep gooning 💔 reader and bigby are to sleepy to goon. reader doesnt like being ignored…
w/c: 1,687
a/n: first public post ever… im sorry if it sucks…☹️ (NOT BETAREAD!!!!)
The rare times Bigby gets to be home are the best, because it means he gets to sit back for what feels like the first time in forever and de-stress— if such a thing even exists…
But tonight was different because he’s exhausted. So much so, he doesn't even bother with a beer from the fridge. All he does is slump on the couch and exhale a breath so heavy you'd think he'd been holding it in since the 70's. He can hardly keep his eyes open, so lidded they might as well just be closed.
His head is tipped back against the couch cushions, ignoring the way his sweat-dampened shirt clings to him almost suffocatingly; or the way his slacks have been chafing him for the last four hours— or the fact he reeks of cigarettes (the brand everyone hates, ofcourse) and sweat so much it’s maddening. He's tired, and it shows.
He can't even muster up the energy to kick off his shoes, even with the way the heat conjured from wearing them so long makes his feet ache. He's miserable and just wants to forget about it all, even if he can’t because his clothes are too tight and his head is pounding like hoofbeats and—
and then you walk in through the front door. Bigby being so tired he didn’t even hear your spare key unlocking it— You push it open with your shoulder, backpack slung off of one shoulder. You had a long day of finals and last-minute changes— so much responsibility put onto your shoulders; you’re miserable too.
But despite that, Bigby can't bring himself to even crane his neck in your direction. The couch-cushion made a nice spot for his head, no way he was getting up now (unless you begged real nicely, but even you were too tired to initiate anything more than just slumping over his lap).
But at least you had enough fight left in you to shove your shoes off your feet, leaving them displaced from the front door. Ignorantly letting your backpack thud to the ground, and with no words— collapsing on the couch next to Bigby.
He doesn’t even say hello, which yes you understand he’s tired— but it makes you annoyed anyway.
You whine softly, just enough to get his attention and make him aware you want him to acknowledge you. Huffing when he still has no reaction, you decide to use the little strength you have left and rest your head on his shoulder, exhaling in a way that almost makes you seem like an annoyed dog.
He only grunts, not necessarily to give you the satisfaction of a reaction, but because your head is laying directly on the sorest part of his shoulder. He grumbled, raising a hand to lightly swat at you to get you to move. He earned his rest. Which– you would've allowed him to enjoy, if it weren't the fact you at least just wanted a hi.
Now you were motivated to bother him until he couldn't ignore you.
You got up, although not happily— and stood in front of him, hands lazily perched atop your hips. Bigby lets out a soft sigh, semi-amused, mostly exhaustion, before finally lifting his head enough to gaze up at you.
“You gonna ignore me all day?” You huffed, brows pinning in such a way it wants him to give you the whole world so you can smile instead.
“I’m tired.” He rasped, tone quiet and face blank. He’s focusing on not looking like he hates you by forcing his eyelids open.
“I’m sure you are.”
“What do you want?”
“Hi.”
“What?”
“Hi.”
Bigby was silent for a few moments, squinting up at you with confusion. “What do you want?” He repeated, brows furrowing.
You groaned, arms falling to your sides as you leaned above him. “I want you to say hi to me, Bigby.”
Oh.
He was still silent for a few longer moments, before snorting and relaxing under your glare. “Hi.”
You smiled softly, which made him smile too.
“Can I nap now?”
“No.”
“Well why the hell not?” He argued, brows furrowing. Now he was getting frustrated—
“Because you stink.” You sighed, kicking lightly at his foot. Bigby groaned, head tipping back against the cushions again. You giggled, leaning down just enough to grab the collar of his shirt and tug him up.
“C’mon, Bigby,” you murmured, “quit being a big baby.” He grumbled, turning his head away. You gave up after a few seconds of him ignoring you, finally letting his eyes close. Oh well. You scoffed and walked off to the bedroom, already unzipping your jeans before getting to the room.
Your shared bed, which even after a year was something Bigby still wasn’t used to calling it— was a comfortable and heavenly embrace to your sore body. You never thought a bed could ever be so sleep-inducing before; it was euphoric almost.
Dozing off, you hear the shower run in the other room, smiling to yourself. At least he’s cleaning up.
You’re woken up from your very short yet very peaceful nap when Bigby clambers into bed next to you. He’s damp, only wearing his shirt and boxers— his brows are furrowed with the strain in his arms as he holds himself up above you, his hair plastered to his forehead.
You mumble something incoherently; you don't even remember— but he’s sighing and leaning down over you, ignoring the aching pain shooting through his knees and arms.
He pressed his lips to the side of your neck, not a kiss, more like an embrace. You hum, eyes fluttering lightly as your hips hitch up by a subtle inch.
Bigby lets out a shaky curse, his brows furrowing. His hands are dragging up your sides, pushing your shirt up marginally.. You whine softly, nuzzling further into the pillow to try and distract yourself from the touch— too tired to reciprocate more than just lightly presenting your hips upward for him. How kind of you…
“Fuck,” he exhaled, his breath hot against your neck. His nose nudges against you, sniffing you softly, like he was basking in your scent.
His hips lower down, just enough to press them against yours, his pelvis resting against your ass.
His hands skimmed against your spine, a low growl in his throat. “Unfair,” he exhaled, rolling his hips softly, “how you’re so pretty…so fucking unfair.” He growled, nipping at your ear.
You huffed softly, thighs pressing together, a whine building in your throat.
“Aw,” he chuckled, a hand pressing to the back of your neck, “Don’t go pouting on me.”
Your groan was muffled by the pillow, “Go to bed, Wolf.” You muttered, a little annoyed but not entirely against it.
He huffed, a low growl. “What’re you gonna do if I don’t?” He smiled against your neck, teeth grazing the juncture of your shoulder to neck.
You hummed softly. “You’re gonna be tired and miserable tomorrow.”
“This’ll relax me.”
“Maybe now you think that.”
“I know that.” He barked, a grimace on his face, regretting his yell.
You turned your head to glare at him over your shoulder, letting your hips fall back against the bed, making him whine softly. “Shit...”
“Lay down.”
“[...]—“
“Lay down.”
Reluctantly, he listened.
Laying down next to you on the bed, his shoulders tense and brows furrowed. He looked so exhausted.
You sat up, shifting on the bed to place yourself between his thighs, nudging them aside from another. He looked down at you.
“The fuck’r you doing?” He mumbled, eyes narrowing.
You only huffed, tugging his boxers down.
And you made him a mess— your tongue dragging over his slit, hot breath fanning over his pelvis. His head thudded against the bedframe— ow— but fuck you felt too good to even register it.
He felt the coil tightening low in his gut, a string about to snap. How long had it been since you both just took time to enjoy each other? How long had it been since he just got to look at you like this, all adoration and love and—
His thoughts are cut off when he suddenly remembers the mountains of files waiting for him. How he had work early in the morning (or whenever he was needed, really), the way his eyelids drooped once more; a blur between pleasure and sleep he can’t really care to focus on you.
And you notice, because of course you do.
“Bigby?” Your voice is so soft to his ears, he feels ashamed that he’s the one that gets to listen to it.
He doesn’t respond, but you’re pulling away from him— he wants to protest the action, but something weighs him down. He can’t argue back— not when his chest feels heavy and so overwhelmed even if he was just fine a minute ago.
“What’s wrong?” You murmur, sitting up beside his laying form. He feels belittled, as selfish as that is. He can’t help the feeling he gets, especially when all he can do is look up at you with half lidded eyes, almost pleading.
Your brows knit, the same expression he hates to see you wear— so he sits up on his elbows and tugs you down onto his lap.
He ignores the heat between your bodies when his lips press against yours, softer than you’d ever kissed. He can’t help but deepen it. It’s just who he is.
“You’re too kind for your own good,” he mutters against your lips. “Gonna get you hurt one day…” He huffed, leaning back from you, admiring the way your face flushed, your hips bracket his.
“Yeah? You think so?” you mumble, leaning over him when he lays back down. He scoffs.
He pulls you down atop of him, and you let out a squeak— he only wraps his arms around you tightly, not letting you go when you squirm.
“Ah— hey!- Bigby!” You struggle in his grip, but he just chuckles, nuzzling into the temple of your head with his chin. Maybe tonight he just wanted some rest, and you did too.
a/n: i apologize if this isnt good…i am very nervous to be posting this since yes ive posted before on tumblr, but never my writings 😓 alot of these are very much self indulgent, but i’ll try my hardest to make them more open to everyone to read. i hope you guys like this nonetheless, and please let me know what i can do to improve anything :) -beaver
had a cute idea with him and reader (whos on the younger side, much more playful and energetic when it comes to things) celebrating with him
and they get a cupcake, just to celebrate. its going good until reader smashes the cupcake against his nose and mouth, giggling and cackling when he kind of just sits there like “fr 😐”
IDK i thought itd be cute
happy valentines day i hope its amazing and well 💝 mwah mwah
hiii happy valentine’s day to you too!! thanks for sending this in (im excited to write the silly wolf man, i’ve been obsessed with TWAU lately lol & i hope he’s not too out of character in this). i hope you enjoy<3
★ w/c: 600 words
★ cw: nothing ! just fluff :)
peachy's valentine's event<3
─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──
Bigby never really understood the mundy tradition of Valentine’s day. He’d see them giving flowers and treats to their loved ones, exchanging gifts and cards. There were even a handful of fables (namely Beauty and Beast) that got into the spirit, but he never really was one of them…that is until meeting you.
That’s why when you thought of getting some sweets and spending the day together, he didn’t hesitate to agree.
“Does anything strike your fancy?” You ask him in a playfully joking tone, glancing through the window as he opens the door to the bakery.
“I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve had anything sweet, really,” he replies.
The two of you walk into the building and he looks over the display. The case is filled with an assortment of cakes, brownies, chocolates, and pastries, and the building smells like pure sugar and delight. Your eyes light up as you look over each and every option.
It makes him smile a bit at how you look at the desserts with such childlike glee. Then, your head careens around to smile at him.
“I’m thinking cupcakes. You?”
“If you want cupcakes. We’ll get cupcakes.”
Bigby pays at the counter with a couple bills and you two take a taxi back to the Woodlands.
— ★ —
Bigby’s apartment is always a bit cluttered, but you don’t mind. You know he doesn’t have a lot of time on his hands to tidy up considering he practically lives in his office, but in all honesty it’s sort of nice to see the familiar chaos. Sometimes you think the arrangement is a nice look into the way his mind works.
The two of you settle into the couch together and set the bakery box onto the coffee table. He lets out a soft sigh beside you, happy to unwind for once and focus on something other than cases.
In no time, you’re taking out the sweets, and you hold out one to Bigby.
“Thanks,” he notices the treat and goes to take it from you– but is quickly met with a faceful of frosting as you push the cupcake straight into his nose.
You immediately cackle, practically doubled over with glee at the success of your small joke.
Beaming, you continue to laugh. “I think you’ve got something on your face, Sheriff.”
Confused as all hell, Bigby blinks at first and then stares at you. He growls lightly, in a way that you know is just playful, and licks the frosting off as best he can.
“Oh you’re really asking for it now…” He grumbles, starting to get up from the couch. You squeal a small giggle as he lunges at you and pins you down to the soft cushions.
You don’t give much of a struggle. Grinning widely, you glance back up into his eyes, seeing that any possible frustration is gone (not that there was any to begin with). His eyes meet yours and his playful frown turns into a soft smile. The type of smile that’s only reserved for you.
“You’re lucky, I like you.” He mutters as he stays leaned over you, arms keeping you boxed in.
You pull him down gently by the tie and plant your lips on his. Bigby gives no protest and immediately melts. A second later you pull away, just enough to speak, lips still hovering over his.
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