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i love non-sexual intimacy and astarion having no bloody idea how to handle it, so of course i couldn't resist writing 3000+ words about it. enjoy!
let the pulses run (astarion x gender neutral!reader, baldur's gate 3)
Astarion waits for it. Expects it.
A beseeching glance, a teasing smile, a flirtatious remark. Hells, even an outright proposition - he can’t quite imagine you pulling it off, but at least it would be something familiar.
And yet - nothing.
Well, he amends as you settle beside him before the campfire, perhaps not nothing.
“How is it?” you ask, a solemn slope to your brow as you take in the wound on his arm. A lucky shot from a rather unlucky goblin, who’d received your rapier to the gut for his troubles.
“Oh, this?” He raises his arm, nonchalant. The wound had stopped bleeding, but it wasn’t a pretty sight. “Barely a scratch, darling.”
Your brows furrow. Liar, they say.
“You’ll need blood.” You take a second glance at his arm and grimace. The scent of iron clings to the air. “A lot of it.”
Astarion tilts his head, allows a few silver curls to fall artfully across his brow. You track the movement, though your gaze is quick to dart back to his own. He fights a smirk and loses. “Astute, aren’t you? Yes, I’m afraid I’ll need to do more than my usual share of feeding tonight to fix this mess.”
You say nothing in response, not at first. He wonders if you’ll actually say it, or if you’ll hem and haw yourself to death trying to free the words from your tongue.
“If you truly have need of it,” you begin, reaching up to touch your fingertips to your throat. The mark from his first feeding had long since faded, but you remembered where his fangs had struck.
“How generous!” Astarion exclaims, a little touched despite himself. It took a certain amount of fortitude to offer yourself to a hungry vampire, after all. “If you’re certain - “
You don’t answer with words, merely tilting your head and baring your throat to him. Astarion longs to draw out the suspense, tease you with the anticipation of his bite, but that furrow hasn’t left your brow and he finds himself unwilling to add to your worries. Besides, his body cries out for the meal you’ve so graciously offered, practically rejoicing as he lowers his mouth to your throat.
There’s a certain… intimacy to be had during the act of feeding, he’s learned. Not so much in the bite itself, but in the aftermath: the pull of precious blood, the quickening of a pulse, the flush of warm, living flesh.
Astarion has never felt the like, not until he first drew blood from you. To know that this is what he had been missing for all the centuries he’d spent feeding on vermin makes his hatred for Cazador climb higher, though he pushes thoughts of his former master far from his mind before they can truly take root. He will not think of his tormentor here, not with you.
You draw in a breath; it sticks in your throat, your pulse beating like a drum in the back of Astarion’s brain. He can smell your skin, the sweat and blood from your latest battle mingling with the scent of sweetgrass and rainwater, the scent of you, light and sweet against the back of his tongue.
He can smell more than that. Unease and pain cling to you like a film while he feeds, but beneath that, clinging to your flesh like a limpet, he finds what he’s been searching for - the familiar musk of arousal.
Well, then, he thinks victoriously, feeling a shiver work down his spine as your blood coats the back of his tongue. There’s all the proof I need.
He had wondered if your lack of amorous advances had been due to disinterest, but no. The body doesn’t lie, and yours was basically singing, crying out its need with increasing frequency the longer his fangs remained buried in your throat.
So then why? Why did you flit away from his advances like a rabbit evading a predator? He knew what you wanted and had no qualms about giving it to you. It would cement your trust in him, bolster your growing bond. Your union would be advantageous to you both.
He’s so consumed by his thoughts that he doesn’t notice your hand moving until it’s braced against the back of his neck, your palm warm against his skin. He waits for your signal to move away, hungrily swallowing another mouthful of your sweet blood in case it happens to be his last, but all you do is reach for the riot of curls at his nape and pass your fingers gently through them. Once, twice more, until you’ve built up a steady rhythm.
It feels… well, it feels rather nice, actually. It’s far from the first time someone has ever run their fingers through his hair, and yet your touch feels… lighter in comparison, unweighted by sensual delight or a precursor for greedy lust. You’re not touching him in anticipation for more - you’re just… touching him.
It confuses him so greatly that Astarion finds himself pulling away before he’d truly wished to, feeling more than a little bereft when your fingers slip from his hair and land, half-curled still, in your lap.
“That will do, darling,” he mumbles, pushing himself to his feet. It’s a good thing the blood loss has dazed you somewhat, or else your eagle eyes would have quickly taken notice of the bewildered expression upon his face. “A boar or two will more than suffice for the rest. You should sleep, while you’re able.” His nose wrinkles, and he can’t help himself from adding, “But perhaps bathe first.”
Your eyes narrow at the thinly-veiled insult, but you push yourself clumsily to your feet and head for the river flowing near camp. “Keep your eyes about you while you hunt,” you call to him over your shoulder. “There may still be goblins about.”
He doesn’t know how to tell you that goblins - and hunting, for that matter - are among the last things on his mind. He merely watches you walk away, his fingers creeping to the thatch of curls you had so gently carded through, and wonders what the hell he’s supposed to do with you now.
Your growing affection for him remains more than apparent as the days pass. You’re devoted to finding a cure for the parasites that writhe within your minds and playing savior for everyone you meet along the way, but in the moments between - slivers of time carved out for rest and respite - you gravitate toward Astarion, leaving the vampire torn between petty satisfaction and growing confusion, because you simply refuse to acknowledge his increasingly thinly-veiled offers to fuck you.
It’s ridiculous. Madness, really. The number of conquests under his belt had grown too numerous for Astarion to recall, his expertise in the art of seduction unmatched, and yet you remained unmoved by his every attempt. Oh, you would flush, your eyes would flit about as though you couldn’t bear to meet his gaze, your body itself would sway towards his like a tree bough rocked by the wind, but still you would play at ambivalency.
Astarion might be inclined to believe himself incorrect - a rarity, to be sure, but stranger things have happened; that your reaction to his bite was merely a result of the intimacy of the act rather than any true desire you might hold for him, and yet your behavior afterwards serves to lay that theory quite soundly to rest.
You’ve become quite… tactile, with him, as of late. A bracing hand on his shoulder whenever an enemy’s attack knocks him off his guard, elbows brushing whenever you’re gathered near the campfire, even a rather memorable moment where you’d brushed his curls free of his brow late in the night, your hand hovering in the air between you and a bewildered expression writ across your face, as though shocked that you’d actually done it.
It’s driving Astarion mad, wondering what could possibly be going on inside that skull of yours. The thought of tapping in to the tadpole’s power just to catch a glimpse passes swiftly through his mind, but to his eternal chagrin, knowing somehow feels more daunting.
Besides, he’s… curious. Curious as to what you’ll do next and how he may react to it, and so he doesn’t ask you to stop. You would, if only he were to indicate a dislike of your touch, and yet to do so would prove the vampire a liar, for he finds that he actually quite enjoys the fleeting brush of your fingertips across his brow, or the firm, comforting weight of your shoulder against his.
Gods, what has he gotten himself into?
He ponders his plight late into the night, until his eyes slip closed and he’s confronted by another new pressing issue - nightmares of his former life and dear old master, memories of previous torments and casual cruelties assaulting his mind from every front.
Astarion twists upon his bedroll, fingers spasming atop his chest as Cazador flits through his mind like a phantom. Sweat beads on his temples, leaving his curls damp. Fear bubbles through his blood like some molten creature.
“Astarion.”
He awakens with a shout, his dreams clinging to his mind for another awful moment before their claws finally release him. You’re the first thing he notices as soon as he’s set himself to rights, kneeling by his bedside with a discomfited expression upon your face. It had been your voice, then - yours, not Cazador’s - that had called out to him, broken him free of his agony.
His lips try to twist into their customary smirk, but fall short of the goal and tremble instead. He presses them into a firm line. “Apologies, my love,” he murmurs, grimacing at the drying sweat along his brow. “Did I wake you?”
You shake your head. “I had first watch,” you explain. Your hand twitches at your side. You want to touch him, he realizes. Reassure him. By the gods, with the way he’s feeling right now, Astarion might actually let you do it. “Are you alright?”
“Wonderful,” he bites out, reaching up to push sweaty curls free of his brow only to find that you've beaten him to it, your fingertips callused and blessedly cool against his skin. The urge to swoon like a damned maiden is nearly overwhelming, and yet Astarion resists, only allowing himself the luxury of closing his eyes and indulging in your touch for a few brief moments.
“Nightmare?” Your voice is low, dreadfully soothing. Keep talking, he thinks, pushing his brow into your palm. Don’t make me do it.
He hums in the affirmative. Your fingers drift to the crown of his head, smooth through the flattened curls at the base of his skull, and rest there, holding him.
“Cazador?” The name sounds like a curse on your lips, and might as well be for all the vitriol you spew it with.
Astarion’s lips twitch. It shouldn’t thrill him, the ire you hold for a man you’ve never met, but he knows it’s there simply because its bearer has caused him harm. You’re protective of those you hold dear.
“The one and the same,” he mutters into the curve of your shoulder, having allowed his chin to rest there while your fingers curled around the back of his neck. You smelled of embers from the fire and the sweetness of the cool night air, and Astarion breathed deep, soothed by the scent.
“What do you need?” It’s a gentle query against one pointed ear, and for a moment Astarion stares beyond your shoulder, beyond the camp, all the way to Baldur’s Gate and Cazador’s cold, cruel gaze, waiting for his return. You’re silent, patient for his response, and in that moment Astarion is certain that you would give him anything, if only he would ask.
He could ask for you - for the distraction that your body would provide this night, and you would give it to him. You would trust him with it.
He can see it so clearly, the rapture of it driving the echoes of Cazador’s voice from his head. But he can see the aftermath, too, and your disappointment when you realize that it’s all he can truly give you, and only because he knows of no other way to be.
“I don’t know,” he murmurs into your shoulder, and it’s the truth, for all the good that does him.
He feels you nodding, feels your cheek resting against his hair, feels more than hears you say, “Let me know, whenever you figure it out,” and listens to the faint beat of your pulse until his dreams seem like nothing more than misshapen fragments, unimportant, without teeth.
Something shifts between you then, or perhaps it’s more appropriate to say that something settles. His machinations cease, insomuch as he stops trying to manipulate you into bed, though teasing you with ill-concealed innuendo remains a habit he can’t quite shake.
You’ve promised to help break Cazador’s hold upon him, and judging by the sharpness in your eyes whenever the subject is pressed, you’re determined to uphold it.
You care about him; of that, Astarion is more than certain. He sees it in the way you look at him, feels it in the touches you bestow. He hears it, your pulse as clear to him as the warmth of the blood in your veins. He’s earned your trust, your affection, your protection. And you’ve earned his.
How could he keep it from you, when you’ve not only unearthed his past but vowed to help him escape it? How could he guard himself against you when he’s seen that fire in your eyes, watched you wield it against that vile drow who’d called him a thing and urged you to allow him to bite her?
Astarion shudders at the reminder. If it had been Cazador in your place, he would have taken the offer without thought, without care for Astarion’s comfort. But not you.
It had angered you - not just the drow’s request, but her flippant disregard of Astarion’s autonomy.
“Astarion is his own person,” you had said, practically spitting the words through gritted teeth. “And he said no.”
You were still angry, by the looks of it, if your gritted teeth and flashing eyes were anything to go by.
“Are we going into battle?” he calls out, catching you as you’re about to stomp by.
You jerk to a halt and give him a look, completely confused. He bites back a laugh.
“It certainly seems so, judging by your face.”
“My face?” You reach up as though to check, and this time Astarion does laugh, a soft huff that seems to startle you, but also leave you looking incredibly, undeniably… fond. It’s… well. It’s a nice look on you.
“You’re angry,” he explains, reaching over to rub the furrow from your brows. You go cross-eyed trying to watch him, and another laugh bubbles from his throat before he can stop it.
And ah, there’s that fondness again upon your face. He feels warm beneath that look, full, as if he’s freshly fed.
“I am angry,” you murmur, drawing closer. “Her ignorance, her arrogance - it infuriated me.”
“Obviously,” Astarion quips, lips twitching as your mouth twists in annoyance. He allows the humor to drain from his tone before he continues, a touch more solemnly, “Thank you. I appreciated that.”
Your head tilts. “What did I do?”
Astarion huffs a breath, astounded by your obliviousness. “I spent two-hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back to my Master. What I wanted, how I felt about what I was doing, it never mattered.” The memories, though old, are fresh, and he does his best to shake them free of his mind. This isn’t about that. This is about you. “You could have asked me to do the same, but you didn’t. And I’m grateful.”
“I never would,” you return, and your words are firm. Resolute. You need him to believe them. “It wouldn’t have been right, forcing you to do something you didn’t want to do.”
“You’re the first to think so,” Astarion murmurs. “The first not to make me feel like something to be used and discarded.” He had still been living as though he was exactly that, he realizes. Still a puppet, a pawn to be ordered about at his master’s whim. But that wasn’t who he was, anymore, and he would never be that way again. You would aid him in making sure of it, and not simply because he’d seduced and manipulated you into doing so. You would do it because you wanted to. Because you cared.
Because you were his friend.
“Thank you,” he repeated, a lightness to his shoulders that he hasn’t felt in centuries.
You stare at him, throat working for a moment as if you don’t know what to say in return, and he smiles. Silly thing.
But then you’re stepping forward, a determined glint to your eye, and Astarion is left with no other recourse than to gawk over your shoulder as you wrap both arms around him. Your cheek comes to rest against his shoulder, your chest settling warmly against his, and Astarion -
Astarion crumbles. His arms come up to wrap around you, gingerly at first, until he hears your sigh - a soft thing, sweet, happy - and then he’s squeezing you against him, brow falling to your shoulder.
Gods, when was the last time someone had embraced him like this? He wracks his mind and still fails to recall a single moment where he was gathered so close without an ulterior motive to facilitate it.
He doesn’t want to let you go. It’s an intimidating thought. A terrifying thought. And yet the terror doesn’t make it any less true. For the first time in centuries, he wants - he actually wants something, just for him, just because.
He wants you.
It would be easy for the fear to consume him, then, fear that this will crumble to dust beneath his hands like so much else, and yet you won’t allow that terror to seep through. It can’t, not with your arms curled so sweetly around his waist, your smile tucked against his shoulder, your pulse a soothing beat in his ears, assuring him without words that he had been right all along.
You want him, too.
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HE DIDN'T WANT TO LET GO HE DIDN'T WANT TO LET GO HE DIDN'T WANT TO LET GO!!! -screams-
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The Queens of Baldur’s Gate
I've been wanting to make a fanart of Bow'ee and Asra for the longest time and I finally managed it.
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Would I ever hurt you?
Day 12: Feast Baldur's Gate 3: Astarion x Fem Virgin Reader Warnings/Genre: smut, pet names, blood sucking, oral (f receiving), piv sex, not proof read Word count: 1.6k Summary: You let Astarion drink your blood, but his feast quickly turns into something else. AN: first time posting a full on smut please be gentle ALSO happy new year!
Read on AO3
Letting Astarion drink your blood had become a regular occurrence, one that developed its own routine. He’d let you get comfortable on your bedroll, crawling over your tense body with his sweet touch and even sweeter words encouraging you to relax. Then his fangs puncture the sensitive skin on your neck, pain coursing through your veins as your blood leaves your body. Astarion strokes your hair, runs his hands gently through it, bringing you back to the mortal fold. But you want more.
You want to feel his arms graze your bare skin. You want to feel his fangs on other parts of your body, his tongue lapping at more tender areas… You blink fast as if that would banish such thoughts. It’s scarier, somehow scarier than trusting a vampire to not drink you dry, so you leave it.
Yet Astarion seems to be able to read your mind, for his hands move from your hair to your waist, tracing the outline of your body, they travel first down to your hips and back up to the sides of your breasts. Something ignites within you and you lean into his touch, satiating that yearning in your belly. Then you place a hand on his chest and gently push him away, careful not to use so much force that he might rip your throat out.
Astarion releases you and pushes himself back onto his knees. He’s towering over you, kneeling between your legs, but his eyes are soft, free from their usual malice or glint of mischief. He sucks in a breath before he speaks, “It seems I’ve crossed a boundary…” he sighs, “I apologise.”
He shifts his weight, moves to stand up, but you sit up with such speed that you nearly knock your forehead against his. Your vision splinters, scattered with sparks and stars as your heart works to pump more blood around your body. Astarion holds you up by the shoulders, taken aback by your foolish and sudden movement, “What are you doing?”
“You didn’t- I, uh, I-” pausing at the mess of words streaming from your mouth, you look down and frown. Why was this so difficult? You bite your tongue, think it through, and look at him again with determination. His eyes, blood red, flicker in the nearby firelight. They’re searching your face for an answer, and you nearly choke on your words again at their beauty, but you push through, “I-I want to, but, you know,” your cheeks were uncomfortably hot now but you refuse to let your eyes wander, “I’ve never done it before.”
Astarion’s eyebrows jump, his eyes blown wide and reflecting your face clearly back at you, “You haven’t?!”
“Um…” This was definitely not the reaction you were expecting, “...No?”
He smiles. A genuine smile; it’s faint and small and disappears in an instant, but it was there. “My darling, you are so beautiful, I thought you would have used it much to your advantage, but…” Astarion leans forward, threatening to push you back into the bedroll if it weren’t for one strong arm wrapped around your back and holding you in place. Your heart stutters at how close his face is to yours now. He continues, “I don’t think I deserve it, but the thought of being your first is exciting. To hear what vulgar sounds might come from your mouth, or how you might react if I touched you elsewhere.”
They were only words, but you could feel his touch already, his cold hands setting your body on fire. You needed him tonight, you were ready, “You do deserve it, but…” there was one small problem, “I’m just, I don’t know, scared?”
“You? Of pain?” he chuckles, his free hand brushing against the fresh wound on your neck still dribbling blood. Astarion brings his now bloodied fingers to his mouth, sucking up the remainders of his feast without breaking eye contact. Then he pulls his fingers away with a pop and says, “Would I ever hurt you, dear?”
When you shake your head - no, you could never hurt me, truly - he pushes you the rest of the way into the bedroll and adjusts the flat pillow behind you, making sure you’re comfortable.
And then his hands slip under your shirt, his ice cold touch sending shivers through your body as he travels further up. One finger traces a circle around your nipple, the other hand cups your breast and plays with it gently. You’re unsure what to do with your hands at first, so you place one at the back of Astarion’s neck and pull him close, kissing him gently.
His hands travel even further up, wrapping around your back and lifting you off the ground for a moment, breaking your kiss to pull your shirt over your head. Before the fabric is even on the ground, your lips are crashing against his again and your tongue is begging to go deeper. Astarion lets you in, and you’re so lost in your kiss that you don’t have time to shy your now bare torso from him.
When Astarion breaks away again, he makes up for it by leaving a scattered trail of kisses, bruises, and shallow bites down your neck and then your chest. He’s planted his knees either side of one of your legs now, and when he latches onto your nipple with his mouth, he pushes his thigh into you at the same time. You let out a weak groan, but with each swish of his tongue against your tit, Astarion has you whimpering.
He wants to hear you more, so he drags his tongue further down, his lips meeting the band of your trousers. When he looks up at you through dishevelled white locks, you don’t hesitate to nod your approval. He’s pulling your pants and underwear off in an instant, peeling them from your legs and letting you kick them off your ankles. You freeze up for a moment when you realise that you’re now fully naked and powerless before him, while he remains fully clothed. But there’s nothing you can do or say before he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, pushing the other to the side as he descends upon your needy clit.
You immediately feel a pressure building in your core, only much more intense than anything you’ve experienced before. You decide you want more and roll your hips forward in an attempt to feel more of him on you. Astarion obliges, parting your already sick folds as he pushes his tongue into you. The feeling is budding, it threatens to spill, wash over you and drown you. Astarion pulls away.
Cool air taunts your aching core, the pleasure you were chasing now regrettably subsiding. You grab at the fabric of Astarion’s shirt in a feeble attempt to pull him closer, and whine “Please…”. But he just smirks at you.
“You were so nervous just moments ago,” he teases, “but you’ve forgotten it all from just a few flicks of my tongue,” he’s toying with you, but he still pulls his shirt over his head and finally reveals himself to you. You get busy roaming his skin with your hands, exploring as much as possible, while he continues to taunt you, “You’re so beautiful when you writhe around underneath me like that.”
His lips are on yours again, his tongue fighting and beating yours in a futile game of dominance. Your face burns even hotter when you realise you can taste yourself on him, but you’re distracted again when you feel Astarion tugging at the drawstrings of his pants and pulling them down just enough that his already hard member springs free. He bites your lower lip playfully and drags it out as he breaks the kiss, shifting his weight to line up his dick with your entrance. It takes all your self-control not to push yourself onto him.
“Are you ready, my love?” he asks.
You nod. Astarion holds himself up with his arms either side of your face, eyes trained only on you as he pushes himself into you. You wrap your arms around his neck for support while he watches in admiration as your face twists in pain and pleasure. He stops when you let out a sharp gasp, watching you bite at your lip so hard you taste blood. Astarion stays completely still inside you, giving you time to adjust as he leans down and laps at the traces of blood pooling in your lower lip.
When you finally relax a little - welcoming him - he slips in further, groaning into your ear as he bottoms out in you. And when he begins to move, the feeling is strange at first: the pain of his cock stretching you open sets you on fire and leaves you wanting more, melting into tasteful pleasure. Everytime he pulls out, you moan into his lips, not wanting to lose him from you.
Sounds tumble from your mouth, spurring Astarion to move faster and harder with each whisper of his name. You feel that tight pressure returning to your stomach, your walls clenching around him and drawing a grunt from him as he continues to thrust into you. He’s chasing his own high still as every part of you crescendos, pleasure crashing through your body in waves. Your body falls limp as you feel Astarion finish, too, inside of you, his cock twitching once, twice, three times in your cunt.
Astarion makes no effort to move, collapsing on top of you and burying his face in your shoulder. After a few moments of silence, punctured only by the dying fireplace and your harmonising and desperate pants, he mumbles into your ear, “You feel amazing.”
@12daysofchristmas
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I just love Martin Li in this sequel so much. The long hair? Gorgeouss. The facial hair? Incredible. The actual guilt and remorse of his actions? God damn.
And then he goes and finds out that he killed Miles' father. Martin Li's whole motivation was to kill the man who murdered his parents and then he went and murdered MIles' dad.
And just that realization? When it hits him that Miles experienced something so similar and became a hero.
Martin Li coming in clutch when he did is just so great. The character development of all the reformed villains is just such a lovely and incredible thing.
But damn, Martin Li really stole a big part of the show -- as he should. What a great character arc.
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Thinking about Peter's absolute cry of anguish after the final boss battle when he finds Harry unresponsive. Thinking about how all he can say is I'm sorry. Thinking about the fact that in Peter's head it was him at May's side sobbing I'm sorry. Thinking about how "with great power comes great responsibility" can never be separated from the guilt Peter feels. Thinking about how that guilt extends to May. How it extends to Ben. How it cripples Peter so much that he tells Miles that he can't do this again. Thinking about Peter's voice as he'd begged Harry to fight - pleaded with him to not make him do this. Thinking about how when consumed with the symbiote Peter had screeched out I'm the hero, I don't get saved! Thinking about how that's not just pride, how that's not just responsibility, how it's guilt. How it's always been Peter and the weight of the world, the life of his loved ones, and their blood on his hands. And now it's Harry's and Peter just breaks. Always the hero, he's done the right thing, but this time it's the last straw. His best friend. The last sacrifice Peter Parker can take...
...and it's then... that Miles saves him.
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It is so buckwild to me what Insomniac did with Harry Osborn and Venom.
In the vast majority of Spider-Media, Venom's defining character trait is his hatred of Spider-Man, and at first, it looks like Insomniac might be going that route. They give Harry ample reason to be absolutely furious with Peter, to resent him, resent the life he gets to live, a beloved superhero with a girlfriend, healthy and strong, a genius of such caliber that even his own father seems to prefer him to Harry. His supposed "best friend" who seems to be withholding lifesaving medical treatment just because he likes how it feels on him, because it's not enough that he be better and stronger and smarter than poor, sickly, doomed Harry, no, he has to be stronger than himself, stronger than the old Spider-Man could ever hope to be. It's not enough for Peter to have his own powers, he has to have Harry's as well, and if that comes at the cost of Harry's life? Well, that's just the cost of doing business. As long as it makes him a better Spider-Man, that's all that matters, right?
It seems like they are going down the route where Harry gives into his anger and resentment, the symbiote whispering in his ear and exacerbating his worst aspects until there is nothing left of the sweet boy that Emily Osborn raised to be so deeply good, only a supervillain hellbent on revenge and world domination.
But that's not what happens.
Instead, almost everything Harry does after the Venom symbiote takes over is framed as helping. As a genuine, if twisted belief that the world he is making is a better world. Instead of seeking revenge against Peter, Harry/Venom wants to convert him. Wants him to stand beside him as they "heal the world" together. And the odd thing is, this only becomes more true with time. At first, Harry/Venom seems almost indifferent to Peter, and angers quickly when Peter calls them a "thing." But we see that the idea of Peter doing this with him, the need for his best friend to be beside him at the end of all things, eventually becomes so important to him that it is ultimately a weakness the heroes exploit.
Think about that; Harry Osborn's love for Peter Parker is so powerful that it almost seems to be corrupting the Venom symbiote, infecting it and twisting its mind as surely as it twisted Peter's, but in the opposite direction. It's so wild to watch the scenes at the end of the game and hear Tony Todd, in his deep-ass Venom voice, read lines like "Thanks for coming, Pete 😊" with the same casual inflection and tone as Harry would. Saying "This is where we became best friends. Now it's where we become brothers!" and sounding so pleased and excited that you'd think he was talking about Pete's mom marrying his dad and not infecting him with alien mind goop.
It's so incredible to me that the defining trait of Insomniac's Venom isn't hate; it's love. A twisted, warped love that doesn't fully understand itself, but a sincere and true love nonetheless, one that holds to the very end.
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we became team peeta and anti team gale when peeta said "it's not fair to hold you for the things you said in the games. you said them to survive. you saved us."
that is the difference between peeta and gale. peeta went through them with her, and understands it was to keep them both alive. gale may not have seen it, but he basically refused that katniss said it was an act.
you picked the right man, good job katniss.
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girlhood is staying up late to read the top posts in an x reader tag
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today, september 14th, is the anniversary of the publication of The Hunger Games. thank you for everything, suzanne collins, you changed my life! <3
here's my favorite scene from the first book:
my babies ):
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You are going to laugh until your stomach hurts again. You're going to be in awe of a sunset. Watch your favorite show while you eat your favorite food. Find money on the street. Discover a great band you haven't heard of before. You will find your way back.
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Readers/film makers: omg Katniss didn’t care for Peeta at all before the games, or at all in book one. ALL of the romance was an act.
Literally Katniss in book one:
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