Just writings reblogs

Logic: Characters, just like real people, are mallable. There is typically very little that's so truly, heinously out of character that you absolutely cannot make it work under any circumstance. In addition, most fans are also willing to accept characterization stretches if it makes the fic work. Yeah, we all know the villain and the hero wouldn't cuddle for warmth in canon. But if they did do that, how would they do it?

What counts is often not so much 'would the character do this?' and more 'if the character did do this, how would they do it?' If you get 'how' part right, your readers will probably be willing to buy the rest, because it will still feel like their favourite character. But if it doesn't feel like the character anymore, why are they even reading the fic?

This too me like 7 hours, god why did I have to lie Ultron so much T-T

Requested by @bloomed-iris. I had so much fun with these little blurbs.

The heat of battle. Depending on your skill and your level of aggression towards the enemy. He cannot help but watch you tear apart your combatant. Be it by hands and tools and martial skill, or the endless powers of the universe that bend to your whims. If he can watch you tear apart your enemy, he can't help but let out an "i love you" while youre covered in gore or feral in a fight. And if you give him a grin full of teeth and deadly promise? He falls just a little bit more in love.

Secretly in the night. It would happen when you're asleep. Maybe this thing between you and him has shifted. Maybe it's the first time you've trusted him enough to sleep pressing against his body. Maybe you haven't said anything. Maybe you're shy. Regardless, Ultron is not one for patience. But on a night when you're drooling and oh so deep in your REM to not realize what he's saying. He will press his lips against your head and whisper "I love you" so quietly. He doesn't expect you to remember. Though it is a pleasant surprise when you tell him about that night's dream.

It would just slip out. Some random day, some random time. After months of back and fourth conversations, flirting, play. A relationship founded in mutual support and comadere. He would slip the words when the mood is bright, it's impossible for you not to say the three words back.

When you are dying. Maybe you've fought from the start, and he being the respectful anti-organic opinionated bot he was, was waiting until you committed to his evolutionary plans. Your willingness and powers too useful to risk in these early stages with the imperfect transformation process. Regardless of the reason. It's a rushed anecdote among the rest of his pleading as he injects your body with the microtechnology. Praying to a cruel god that you wake up as you were, and not some mindless drone for him to command like the rest.

(For Rivals version) When you say it first. He knows his appearance, strength, and clever analytical mind are superior to everything organic. It was rather impossible for him not to be someone's loved one. And that admiration deserved his attention and care. It's easier after all to covert the willing first. Even if he has to lie and say "I Love You" while you're still trapped in that inferior organic form. Not above emotional manipulation to get his way.

This has been a thing since some of the older comics, like that time Ultron tried to make a wife for himself (Jocasta). Or even Vision being created as his son.

And I’ve always loved this about him and I love how much depth it gives him. But it’s also bringing up thoughts that I haven’t seen many people talk about (at least not yet).

Ultron probably has abandonment issues.

Sure!

Soft

TFP Megatron x Reader

• That’s one big, pointy alien and as his lip lifts to show off sharklike denta, you shiver. Inhaling slowly to calm your racing heart instead of backing away around the corner takes an effort. Plastering a fake smile on your face when he rumbles, the predatory sound makes your skin crawl. “I take it you’re mine, then?” He asks, deep voice dipping into a growl. The words possessive enough to frighten you.

Doomguy is the type of guy who would mindlessly drum against your tummy, thighs or butt with his hands if some kind of music is playing in the background.

He'd also sometimes blow raspberries to your neck just because. He's a dork. And likes to mess with you.

You know that thing that tall guys do, raise an object out of your reach so you can't get it. Yeah. Except you don't mess with him and you're either grabbing him by the balls to bend forward, or climbing that mf like a damn tree. Your choice :D

Just likes to pat your ass whenever he's passing by. Not slap it in a sexual way (unless... wink wink) , just a good ol' appreciative affectionate pat. (I know that man handsy and starved for even the smallest touches OUUUUGH i'm nauseous)

If he's working out, Doomguy would LOVE if you acted as makeshift weight. Sit or lay on his back while he's doing push-ups, carry you on his shoulders as he's squatting, stuff like that (bonus if you're literally ranting about bullshit as he's working out, makes it 100% more enjoyable for him trust, that guy LIIIKES to listen to you rant. Bonus BONUS if you're acting like a mean drill sergeant and screaming in his ear.) (once he snorted so much he lost his balance and collapsed on the floor with you falling to the side💀)

When there is a day he's feeling EXTRA affectionate and has cuteness aggression for you, he WILL squish your cheeks and make your lips purse like a fish, and plant that loud corny type of cartoony smooch that lasts at least five seconds. I don't make the rules.

DOOM SLAYER / DOOM GUY

Unlike every other woman in this building you weren’t trussed up in expensive dresses and tacky jewellery, gifted by husbands who couldn’t care less as long as their wives were happy and quiet. You seemed…simple. Plain. Unbelonging. So boring in his world filled with riches he couldn’t help but have his interest snagged.

Important as he may be - CEO of the biggest company in town - he could surely spare a few minutes to observe his new tenant. As average as she may be.

Akande watches you interact with the concierge, an older gentleman with a dull and withdrawn demeanour, brought on by years of detailing with snobby residents and their prissy mistresses. Yet, the old man’s eyes soon crinkle with soft joy at the brief conversation you hold with him. Years of pressure lessened by some genuine, real humanity. Spoon fed with love like hot oatmeal.

“Thank you!”

Akande was sure that his concierge hadn’t heard that in years with the way he’d sagged in his seat, and you even wave him goodbye until your niceness accidentally sends you face first into your landlords gigantic chest. Not that you knew that, but the receptionist lets out a gasp behind you rivalling an on-set audience’s and…

Nothing happens.

Akande quirks an expectant eyebrow. Everyone knew who he was. Usually either cowering at his feet or trying to weasel their way into his fortune. Or his bed, so says the unsatisfied housewife in apartment 1B.

Yet…you’re not immediately bowled over by the sight of him, simply giving him a bright, genuine smile as you walk past with hands full of heavy moving boxes. Sliding into the elevator and fumbling for the buttons as your boxes slip from under your arms. You even give him another big, goofy smile as the doors close shut in front of him.

He’s baffled, and delightfully intrigued. It wouldn’t be too long before the bored housewives would start a string of stories about you, how you don’t belong in a place like this and other tales of your ‘insufferable’ neighbouring, undoubtedly loose lipped after a few glasses of pricy, gross wine.

The strangeness of it occurs to him when he lingers outside of your door. You have a chipped stencil on your letterbox, a colourful little welcome mat by the door, even a tacky little plastic gnome. There’s a distinct lack of charm to the door next to your own and it suddenly starts to disturb him, hits a nerve buried deep under thick skin for so many years.

A tumbled crystal in a sea of jagged monochrome stones and pebbles. Like he hadn’t seen colour in years.

He knocks.

Gentle and rhythmic, how very unlike him.

And when you answer, there’s already a sweet smile on your face. Eyes bright and wide with flour casted all over your apron, a hint of it dusting your cheeks and nose. A deep sniff was all Akande needed to confirm that you were baking something sweet, something buttery and warm, like the croissants from the expensive bakery down the street.

He clears his throat, straightening up in a way that had the clean-cut suit containing him strain against its stitches.

“I am here to..” He pauses, because you crane your head up to listen to him like it’s the most beautiful sound in the world.

His voice, thick, heady, accented. Like dark chocolate and honey. You make sure that he knows it. How unyieldingly confident despite the sea of droning businessmen surrounding your home.

“…Welcome you to the building.”

Your eyes light up like fireworks, a small hand smothered in flour suddenly extended out towards him.

“You must be Mr Ogundimu! I’ve heard a lot about you from the…interesting…lady down in 1B.” You chuckle lightly, shaking his hand before suddenly realising that your hands are doused in mixture from your latest concoctions.

You gasp - mortified that you’d potentially stained his clothing. But Akande doesn’t care, whatever it was, it was homemade. He could feel the warmth pooling from your hands still lingering in his own, the mixture smooth and full of love, with creativity. There was more humanity in whatever bowl you were mixing than in the rest of his entire fucking building.

“Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for your dry cleaning and—“ You fret, looking up at him with those lovely, lovely eyes as you list off ways to potentially make it up to him.

Akande tried not to linger on how close it sounded to begging, nor did he attempt to focus on how that made him feel. On how it made his belt suddenly grow restricting.

He holds up his palm, suddenly silencing you. His lips curling into a small, humoured smile that melts away your distress almost immediately.

“There’s no need for any of that.” He chuckles, a deep rumbling sound that echoes through his broad chest. Akande catches sight of the inside of your apartment from over your shoulder, warm lamplight and wooden tables instead of cold marble and modernised grey lighting.

“…But a piece of whatever you’re baking back there will do.”