#BC SHE LOVES MYTHOS .

[rosykims]

do i make ashara more devoted to mythal post trespasser or do i alienate her from the evanuris entirely. is she immune to propaganda by virtue of how badly solas damaged her ability to believe in anything or is she especially vulnerable to it now bc she still WANTS to believe in anything. is she sporting subtle mythal details in her costume design or is she not

[happyk44]

Me for the longest while: Hera is super meticulous and organized and is the person gently tapping a portrait until it's perfectly aligned and/or gutting the entire wall to rebuild it because they've realized it's why the pictures keep getting off tilt by less than a degree. She very much is a perfectionist, and likes everything to be spotless and flawless, from her home to her children to the entirety of Olympus, and blessings on anyone who threatens her immaculate tranquility.

Me for the last couple years or so: Zeus is also super organized but in an orderly, autistic, "everything has its place and must be in that right place, and if it is not I will not handle it in a healthy way at all because I have been more or less catered to my entire life and therefore have terrible coping mechanisms" and "gets weird about the right names and uses for things, and will get even weirder, for example, if you use a mug for cold water because it's supposed to be for hot beverages" kind of way

Me:

Me: This is definitely an area they fight and have weird sex about.

[fandom-hoarder-official]

Cringetober Day 18, Fandom AU

[juspeczyk]

every day the temptation to make a peebles tav in bg3 gets stronger. but i have one roadblock. who tf do i make her dream guardian. do i make it jonathan?? that feels like it would be fun for me but there is much greater potential for emotional oomf i think if i do someone else. first thought was tommy but i want him in the party. second thought was duela but i want her in the party. third thought was jason but i want him in th

[lesbiianboyfriend]

feeling Hestia several times today but having an ear infection so I cant hear her sucks. let me talk w my Lady please lord

[eclipsecrowned]

witnessed a probably easily disprovable theory about how people try to figure out if freyja is a mistranslation/another title for frigg that also posits freyr is a creation of later mythology and all that he is, freyja had dominion over instead.

feels all of that ooze out of my brain to instead consider genderfluid freyja.

[noblehcart]

not me speculating on how very educated rook is for the time period/culture and that her family was comfortably wealthy with probs some drops of royalty in their fam. how maybe her family's wealth accumulated due to business in trade and furthered rook's interest in the world and learning more.

[dollfat]

im still struggling to pay attention to all this world building but once it gets thru i really appreciate it

[natandacat]

@claudia-de-lioncourt No no speak up, you're right and you should say it. Gabrielle de lioncourt is in the room with us right now and she might have some words too lol

@black-market-wd4o ah but dont forget... Marius thinks of himself as "sharing the wealth"! He's just helping civilization and art along by harnessing the talent of wasted youth! Amadeo is once again not very impressed.

@platoapproved You're 100% correct and let us not forget why Marius (cough Anne Rice cough) is so racist towards Armand! Let's see why ukraine keeps being depicted as less european and more backward than the rest of eastern europe throughout the book -Marius tells us right here, dimissing Amadeo's all in all quite reasonable lack of faith in the society that enslaved and abused him:

Ah. The Mongol invasions. Right. Thats when it became a dark and savage land. Gotcha. Hey quickly Marius what are your opinions on Fortress Europe.

Like look at this

"See Amadeo I care about REAL working men... bankers and merchants" bdjwjdkfbfjf

Also the absolute clownery of saying that last line to the boy he bought from a brothel. I don't care that he ends up wanting to send him to university or whatever, he admits himself that amadeo was not supposed to have any options but to be his to mold. No shit Armand feels discouraged.

[ven0moir]

tw; rant. Once again here to remind everyone that byler not being endgame is, at best, negligent queerbaiting

this is the show where one of the producers said "the UD mythos is important but the heart of the show are its characters and their interconnectedness/family dynamics" or something along those lines AND also said that "very few things are coincidences in this show."

i'd have been ( and i bet a lot of other bylers too ) COMPLETELY FINE without byler even being a possible card on the table. i'd HAVE STILL BEEN A FAN OF THE SHOW without byler! in fact, i WAS--i cared more about el and hopper's rs than i did mike and will's. it wasn't until S4 that i REALLY got invested in the show bc of the promise of will's arc, WHICH INCLUDES MIKE. the way they handled the painting arc, if byler isn't endgame, is literally the most underwhelming thing i've seen.

the only difference that byler makes in my case is that if it hadn't come across as a real possibility, then i would've remained a casual viewer and not think about the show again until it came out, like yknow, most people. so this whole "will they won't they" thing going on makes it feel like a marketing technique to keep people who enjoy byler hooked at the promise of something significant developing there.

this isn't about "oh your ship didn't become canon? tough luck" it's legit that they would ruin their show for me FOR. NO. REASONNNNNN. I WAS ALREADY A FAN!!! I HAD NO BYLER EXPECTATIONS!!! not to mention how shitty it is on the lgbt community. and also, the mass hate bylers would get.

and before you say "its ur own fault for being delusional, they didn't queerbait--" I'm sorry but what Noah is doing IS QUEERBAIT even if he doesn't mean to and the duffers should tell him to stop hinting at byler until post s5 or whatever

im not even going to talk about the show IMPLYING BYLER for ages. for example; dustin telling lucas that he saw him and max holding hands and that meant there were feelings between them even if lucas denied it/said she was just scared vs mike holding will's hand AN EPISODE PRIOR

or the song "on the bus" playing during a lumax scene where they connected vs it playing on a byler scene in s4 using very similar phrasing it's like they're subtly winking at the audience.

the shitty way that mileven finally got their 'i love you' like im sorry it feels so rushed and awkward if this was supposed to be the culmination of mike's arc

i could literally go on and on and on and other bylers could as well so yeah. ugh im sorry for the negativity in the tag but i just REALLY need that to be very clear that byler vs mileven isn't an argument that is ocurring on equal ground and that byler isn't 'just a ship that people analyze too much'

if it was never going to be canon, THERE WAS NO NEED TO HINT AT IT **AT ALL** and THAT is what really grinds my gears. most bylers would still love ST bc our favorite character is WILL. we would've been fine if will's whole thing was telling his best friend he was gay and that's it. like, the bar is on the FLOOR ... me personally? i'll be satisfied with will getting a completed arc in the supernatural and having his moment to shine and bringing the story full circle like WE WERE PROMISED ( unless yknow, people want to call us stupid and delusional for expecting will to be important at all )

what i will NOT tolerate is people being mean to bylers for being upset about byler not being endgame in the end bc WE HAVE A RIGHT TO BE. and if you're one of those people sincerely: FUCK YOU. i wish you get exactly what you deserve. thank you for reading and that's it from me

[necrotic-nephilim]

bro come back we need your commentary more than ever. Jayhelena canon event

AHAHAHA I'VE BEEN LOSING MY MIND FOR DAYS ANON HOW'D YOU KNOW. perfect moment to show off the shitty meme i made based off a random message i sent in a discord server a couple of weeks ago.

jokes aside: i do have a LOT of thoughts on all of this, and even more thoughts on the reaction to it so ty for giving me the chance to rant.

as far as the comic itself goes: i am? cautiously optimistic, personally? hopes are high but expectations are grounded. Gretchen Felker-Martin is a *fantastic* trans horror writer (i highly rec her novel, Manhunt) but she's pretty new to the comics scene. she's written a single issue with Jason, a Beast World story that's pretty polarizing. most fans i know dislike it, my personal opinions on it are... it's a bit lackluster? i think some parts of it miss the mark on Jason's psyche, but the overall theme it's trying to convey about cycles of violence enacted on victims like Jason and police brutality are interesting. while it's not a great start for GFM with Jason, the Beast World event was so shit overall, and the whole concept of all these characters being "not themselves" mentally, i'm willing to overlook it. (idk if there are any good BW stories but all the ones i've read are shite... Helena's BW story has her literally being beaten by Cass using a laser pointer on her so... i will take *anything* over that personally lmao at least GFM seems genuinely interested in exploring Jason's inner workings, yk) it could go really well, or really poorly. i don't think we have enough info on GFM's writing to know how she'll handle an ongoing with these two, but my fingers are desperately crossed.

the main concerns i have about the comic are firstly the plot itself: which is described as Jason tracking down a cop-killer, and how that could so easily become copaganda. however, the Beast World issue GFM wrote was incredibly anti-cop. (and she even said on her bluesky that ppl shouldn't be worried about this run being pro-cop) so, i do think there's hope there. my other worry is the history of these characters GFM can't control- this story is happening right after H2SH which is frankly, a fucking disaster for Jason. and Helena's biggest Rebirth feature was Batgirl & the Birds of Prey, which was an even bigger disaster for her mythos. neither of these characters are standing on great foundations, and i haven't cared for either of their current characterizations for the past decade or so. it's an uphill battle for even a fantastic writer to try to meld good characterization with the current state of these two, and i could see it screwing GFM over, which rlly sucks she's not getting as fair of a shot as she could be.

all that said, the aesthetics look fantastic (tho, i'm not personally the biggest fan of either suit redesign) and i do love getting Helena and Jason out of Gotham, bc it means we won't have the everlooming Bat presence hanging over their actions. and as for the romance? i'm CACKLING. i've *always* suspected that if we ever were lucky enough for a Jason/Helena team-up, they were bound to end up fucking, and i'm DELIGHTED to be vindicated. this ship is one i do adore in concept (mostly as a hatefuck sort of thing) but could see go horribly. i trust GFM to write women, so i don't think Helena's going to get sidelined as a one-dimensional love interest, which is the biggest fear i've seen expressed. it's not *entirely* unlikely she'll be OOC (i don't think we know enough to comment either way atp, given GFM has never written her) but i do think she's going to be dynamic in this run. and honestly? with the shit content Jason has been getting recently (Robin Lives, the current fuckass Jaybin comic) and Helena having her backstory mutiliated and getting sidelined to hell as current comics don't seem to know what to do with her, i want this to go well *so* badly. i'm rlly hoping it will! and i do think the romance can absolutely work in a fun and interesting way. wouldn't be my top canon pick for either character, but i love the intrigue of it and how these two could (and hopefully are going to) challenge each other and find solidarity in their respective victimhoods.

that said, i certainly don't begrudge Helena fans for being pessimistic about this comic, or disliking the concept in principle. i'd far prefer Helena be getting a solo than be a supporting cast/love interest for a man's run. that said, i think calling this run a "power fantasy" and "wank content" (takes i have seen) is absolutely asinine. we don't have it in our hands yet, we literally can't say until it's out. (and tbfh- these takes are transphobic against GFM, even if unintentionally.) but at this point, i think anything is something for Helena, and i am not going to insult the concept until i've seen the story. if Helena fans don't want to read this bc they don't like Jason or just don't want to see her sidelined, i get that entirely.

beyond that, the take i am *not* a fan of is that this is bad bc Helena has been Dick's love interest. anyone who says *that* loses all validity to their argument for me. Helena has been a dynamic character long before she met Dick and to *only* view her as an extension of Dick and thus define every future relationship she has through Dick is the most ass backwards misogyny i've seen. also. it's comics, man. everyone's going to team up with everyone and fuck everyone. it's just the nature of these characters getting used over and over and over. it's so wildly degrading to Helena to pretend you're protecting her dignity and honor by not wanting her around Jason, or by treating her as just "Dick's love interest". (when she and Dick never properly even *dated* and have never been right for each other. that was sort of the whole point. but i digress.) i also think some takes from Helena stans about Jason are made in incredibly bad faith, just because some Helena stans find some sort of superiority complex in liking her and hating him. it has always read incredibly performative to me.

in summary: i have been deserpate for *years* for these two to interact, and i'm genuinely looking forward to reading this comic. i have reasons to be a little doubtful of some issues that *might* come up, but GFM is a great novelist and i hope that translates to her ability to write a great ongoing. did i ever *actually* want this ship to go canon? no, but under a queer woman whose pretty solid at exploring intersectionality and leftist politics in her works, i'm willing to hear it out.

and just so we're clear: the *second* this comic is out i'm putting the Robles variant cover where Jason and Helena are almost kissing straight on my wall. even if the comic is shit. i'm forever immortalizing it as a giant win for me personally, one of the few ppl capable of liking Jason Todd and Helena Bertinelli at the same time and being cool with the idea of them kissing, lol.

[ladyloveandjustice]

okay I actually have much deeper thoughts on the parallels between Princess Tutu and Utena after this rewatch and there's gonna probably be a whole long ass post about it I DON'T HAVE TIME TO WRITE.

But both shows say a prince is supposed to be loved by everyone (or every girl in Utena's case) and love everyone and that's ultimately not sustainable and will tear you to shreds. Both show how easily that can lead to the prince being ENTITLED to love (the love of women specifically in both cases actually, bc Raven!Mytho only ever targets girls).

Both take a storybook archetype used to represent the "wrong" kind of femininity that gets contrasted with the pure heroine (the witch in Anthy's case, the black swan in Rue's case, which is really just a subtype of the witch archetype as portrayed in Utena) and says "you know what that's bullshit she deserves love too".

But what are the differences that lead to for example, Princess Tutu's far more sympathetic and hopeful take on the prince? Well, i'll talk about that in my long ass post...this is foreshadowing.

[specialgradefckr]

In lion society, the female is the hunter, the caregiver, but also the one stuck in a tough position. She doesn’t choose who mates with her, and she can’t leave the pride. She’s bred over and over again, and her worth is measured by how many cubs she can produce. The pride is made up of a core group of related females who stay for life, creating a strong family bond. But the throne, the leadership, is always male and always up for grabs. Male coalitions invade prides, kill the resident males, and take control of the females. Once they win, they kill any cubs that aren’t theirs, even the youngest ones, so the females can mate again. Sometimes, a dominant male will have a favorite lioness he mates with more often and shows more care for, but it’s never truly loyal he still mates with the others when needed.

I can definitely see that kind of twisted Yandere SatoSugu dynamic playing out in a lion-pride-inspired setup. Suguru would probably be the main strategist—the one who plans the invasions and orders the pride takeovers—while Satoru’s the one out there actually doing it, powerful and unstoppable. They’d have other lionesses, sure, and they’d mate with them too, but the reader would be the favorite—the one they always come back to.

Even then, their love would be possessive, dark, and controlling. If the reader had cubs, especially ones not strong enough or born at the wrong time, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill them—just to get her back into heat and mate with her again. It’s not out of cruelty, but out of obsession. She’s theirs, and they don’t want anything in the way of that bond.

They might allow a few male cubs to live, though especially the strong ones not to pass on a legacy, but as backup. Even if no one could ever defeat Satoru or Suguru (not even at the end), they’re too smart to ignore the long game. Still, they’d never keep any of the reader’s sons too close, because if those sons stayed in the group, she wouldn’t be able to mate with them and Suguru and Satoru aren’t about to let anyone else touch what they see as theirs.

if the reader were to die early, and she had a daughter, there’s no way Satoru or Suguru would ever let that daughter leave the pride. She’s a living piece of her the one they loved, and even if they’d never admit it, they’d cling to that protect her, keep her close, maybe even raise her to be…

That’s enough for now. I ended up creating an entire mythos today a very cringe one to.

bestie this is so cool! hybrid aus are fun, but i almost always do it in the context of hybrids being pets - hybrids in the wild? hybrids following non-human social structures in animal-kingdom approved (and thus super fucked up) ways? absolutely fascinating as a concept!

this is pretty long, and it's got a lot to it! there's parts that are a bigger hit with me, and parts i'm not huge on. i like cheating as long as it's contained to reader-satoru-suguru, but outright non-monogamy really only works for me when characters are going through a fwb phase or something.

the breeding you over and over, though, and potentially killing your offspring to breed you again - that's really delicious, and dark, and i could see it being truly bleak and heartbreaking if the plot point were to be really taken seriously.

imagine having this litter of cute cubs who nurse from you, and learn to play and walk and purr and cuddle, and they try to play with their fathers only to be batted around... or worse (this does happen with real lions).

always watching in anxiety while your cubs interact with satoru or suguru; maybe whoever's not "playing" with the cub is sitting next to you, holding you in place, nipping and laughing and asking you what you're so worried about...

better play nice with them if you want this litter to last. they're always torn from you too soon, too... hearing your child's cries for their mom as you're forced to leave them behind bc otherwise their fathers will kill them :(

you could also have satoru and suguru who tolerate each other... but they can't tolerate each other's children, and that's why they keep killing your children. the only way any of them survive is if you correctly guess who the father is, and distract the other one with your body so your children have a chance to grow up before you can get them away...

anyways! really fun concept here! i don't think the lion/pride setting is my thing, but you've got a great take on it here! thank you for sharing <3

[palevcr]

as its the 4th of july, aka steve’s birthday (at least mcu wise)… i have a request IF THATS OKAY ML 😔🫶

steves been avoiding the compound bc its always where tony has this big teasing session with a cake. its leveled down to JUST the avengers after steves embarrassed and shy face, humble as usual. so hes around brooklyn, early in the morning—DROVE THERE (wtf ik, but it gives him some peace amidst the storm that is his overly exerted mind) last night bc he wanted to escape the constant eyes.

reader, ever so observant and curious—bc reader has this bond with steve ofc, took a subway (like normal??) and was just quiet with him. and when it was time to go back to nyc and face the team, there was a moment. just a second, where they saw one another and crossed friendship’s edge. do what you will with that, but soft intimacy makes my heart melt—whether or not sex included doesnt matter to me.

anyway, bye queen love you 🫂🖤

YES OMG I don’t know if I interpreted that request correctly which I’m most certain that I probably did not BUT ITS FIIINE ha ha it’s fine. 😄

── FOURTH OF JULY

SUMMARY: When Steve slips out before Tony’s fireworks show can turn his birthday into a circus, he doesn’t expect anyone to come looking for him — least of all her. But she finds him anyway, tucked away in an old park with his vintage car and all his ghosts for company. Armed with a single cupcake, a cheap candle, and words she knows he needs more than he’ll ever say, she turns his runaway moment into something soft and real — something just for him. Between stolen wishes, shy confessions, and the hush of Brooklyn on a summer night, Steve remembers what it feels like to be just a man — not a symbol, not a myth. And maybe, just maybe, a single stolen kiss under a canopy of fireworks is exactly the kind of freedom he’s always needed.

genre: nostalgic fluff, soft birthday moment, runaway birthday, comfort, gentle romance

pairing: Steve Rogers x reader

tw: soft intimacy, mild suggestive content but nothing too explicit, emotional vulnerability, affectionate banter, shy kisses, tender wish-making, nostalgia, Brooklyn at night, vintage car vibes, found comfort, implied mutual pining, a little size difference softness, lingering touches, small but meaningful birthday gestures, Steve being impossibly gentle and real

authors note: This was cutesy and I love this. Happy Fourth of July to the Americans even though it’s currently 3am on the fifth of July in Germany so um🥰 we love that

The Fourth of July — America’s grand, blazing testament to its own mythos — had arrived in a fanfare of cheap fireworks and overpriced sparklers, flags fluttering from porch rails and lampposts alike, every street corner draped in the same shades of red, white, and blue. If ever there was a day made for a man called Captain America, it was this one — his day, twice over. Independence and birth all wrapped into a single date on the calendar, every firework a belated candle for a cake he’d never asked for.

Yet Steve Rogers, that walking relic of wartime posters and morale-boosting slogans, had never found much comfort in the noise of it. If anything, the pageantry made him restless, like a ghost pressed too close to the glass of his own legend. He’d tried — Lord knew he’d tried — to play along in the early years, to stand still and smile politely while Tony Stark orchestrated parades of excess in his honor. But the older he got — which, ironically, he barely did — the more the spectacle chafed at him.

This year was no different. Slipping through the maze of the compound’s corridors like a soldier on a covert op, Steve caught sight of the monstrosity Tony had commissioned this time: a colossal cake, so garishly frosted in swirls of scarlet, navy, and purest white that it looked more like a circus tent than something meant to be eaten. It took three catering staff just to maneuver it through the doorway, their arms trembling under its weight while Tony barked orders from behind them, brimming with that uncontainable Stark enthusiasm that made subtlety seem like a foreign language.

Suppressing a sigh that threatened to slip free, Steve pressed on before anyone could spot him, weaving through side halls until he reached the garage. There, waiting in the hush of the dimly lit space, sat the car — his car — an old classic Tony had restored years ago, part apology, part vanity project, and part attempt to tether Steve to the modern world by wrapping the past in chrome and fresh paint. The metal gleamed faintly under the garage lights, all curved fenders and polished trim, a quiet promise of escape.

Sliding behind the wheel, Steve took a moment just to breathe — to let the scent of old leather and motor oil settle something deep in his chest. The engine rumbled to life under his hand with a soft, reassuring growl, like an old friend clearing its throat. He pulled out of the compound as unobtrusively as a six-foot-two super soldier in a vintage car could manage, the road unfurling ahead of him in long ribbons of cracked asphalt and flickering streetlights.

Brooklyn called to him the way it always did — not the Brooklyn of condos and glass towers that had risen like weeds in the decades he’d been gone, but the shadows of it that still clung to the corners if you knew where to look. He drove with the window cracked open, the warm summer air spilling in, carrying faint traces of barbecue smoke and distant fireworks already testing the dusk. On the tinny radio, an old swing tune crackled through the static, the same songs that had once drifted from dance halls and war bond rallies, ghost notes threading the gap between then and now.

And for a while, with his hands steady on the wheel and the city lights flickering like fireflies on the horizon, Steve let himself believe — just for tonight — that maybe not everything good had been left behind in the pages of history books and sepia photographs. Maybe, if he drove far enough into Brooklyn’s sleeping streets, he might find a fragment of it waiting for him still.

It was later into the day, the sky burnished with that quiet gold only summer evenings could conjure, when Y/N first noticed Steve’s absence. The party had begun to spill out of the main common area into the hallways and terraces, laughter punctuated by the occasional whoosh of sparklers and distant echo of firecrackers from the city below. Yet the space he’d left behind seemed unmistakable now: a silent, oddly shaped vacancy only Steve could fill.

Pushing through the low hum of conversation, Y/N made her way toward where Natasha Romanoff had settled herself — perched on the arm of a couch, watching Clint and Wanda argue over a battered deck of cards, her gaze as amused as it was unreadable. “Have you seen Steve?” Y/N asked, her voice softer than she’d intended, almost as if she were hoping the question might answer itself.

Nat lifted her coffee cup, the steam curling in lazy spirals, and tilted her head in thought. “Hmm,” she hummed, the sound curling into a faint smirk. “Pretty sure he dipped a few hours ago.” She took a slow sip, her eyes following Y/N’s reaction.

“Oh.” The word slipped out smaller than she’d meant, her lips tugging into a frown that betrayed more than she liked. Turning on her heel, she walked toward the door, snatching her jacket from the back of a chair with a practiced flick of her wrist.

“Where you going?” Nat’s voice called after her, a knowing edge threaded through the casual question.

“I’ll be back,” Y/N tossed over her shoulder, pulling her jacket on. “Leave me a sparkler so I can blow it out in Tony’s office.”

Nat barked out a low laugh, genuine and brief. “Hell yeah.”

Outside, the air had grown cooler, the heat of midday retreating into pockets of warm concrete and drifting smoke from neighborhood barbecues. Y/N tugged her jacket closer around her frame as she walked down the path away from the compound, the echo of her boots muffled by gravel and grass.

She made her first stop at a small corner bakery she’d stumbled into weeks before, a place that still smelled of sugar-dusted nostalgia and fresh bread. The bell above the door gave a soft jangle as she stepped in, choosing a cupcake whose frosting swirled like a careless, hopeful wish. The baker wrapped it carefully, paper rustling, and Y/N thanked them with a distracted smile, already planning her next stop.

A few blocks away, she ducked into a narrow general store lit by buzzing fluorescent tubes that hummed overhead. The aisles smelled faintly of floor polish and old wood, the shelves crowded with everything from cheap toys to dusty tins of soup. She found a pack of slim white candles and a small, folded card printed with a plain navy border — nothing loud or festive, nothing that screamed celebration, just something simple, honest.

Back outside, the sky had deepened to a dusky violet, streaked with rose-gold where the last of the sun clung stubbornly to the horizon. Streetlights blinked to life in quiet succession, and a warm breeze teased stray strands of hair across her face. She walked with purpose now, her boots tapping out a steady rhythm on cracked sidewalks as she descended the steps into the subway station, the stale underground air rushing up to greet her.

The platform was half-empty, the muted chatter of waiting passengers broken only by the squeal and clatter of an arriving train. She stepped inside and found an empty seat near the back, the vinyl sticky from summer heat, and settled the plastic bag in her lap.

Digging through its contents, she pulled out the card and a slim black pen she’d tossed in earlier. For a moment she hesitated, pen hovering, the words gathering in her mind but refusing to fall into place. The sway and shudder of the train seemed to nudge them free, and slowly, deliberately, she began to write — her careful cursive curling across the blank card, each letter a quiet offering meant for a man who never quite learned how to celebrate himself.

Beyond the window, the city blurred past in streaks of rust and concrete, neon signs flickering to life one by one as night finally claimed the sky. And for the first time that evening, Y/N let herself hope that wherever Steve had gone to be alone, she might still be able to find him there.

Steve had drifted somewhere between waking and sleep, the steady chorus of cicadas and the distant pop of fireworks dissolving into a lullaby against the hum of his idling car. He’d found this old park by sheer muscle memory, a place that felt half-remembered even when he was wide awake — a sliver of green tucked between apartment blocks and cracked sidewalks, where the world slowed just enough for him to feel like a man again instead of a symbol.

His seat was pushed back as far as it would go, the leather warm against his shoulders. Through the windshield, the sky was a velvet sprawl of deepening indigo, stars peeking out in shy, scattered freckles above the sleepy treetops. He’d counted a handful before his eyelids grew too heavy to keep track.

The soft, polite tap on the passenger-side window startled him back to himself. He blinked, brow furrowing until his eyes adjusted, then softened immediately when he saw her — Y/N, bundled in that too-big jacket she always shrugged into when she wanted to disappear into herself. She stood there under the halo of a flickering streetlamp, her breath fogging the glass just slightly, her smile shy but certain.

Something unspooled in his chest — something warm and grateful and heavy with the kind of affection he never quite found the words for. Without thinking, he reached across the console and popped the lock. The door gave a soft click as she opened it and slipped inside, careful not to bump the cupcake box she’d balanced in her arms. Steve leaned over, tugging the door shut behind her, the old hinges creaking in protest.

“You’re not that hard to find, you know,” she teased, her voice soft in the hush of the car, her grin tucked into the corner of her mouth like a secret. She smelled faintly of frosting and city air, a gentle contrast to the scent of old leather and the faint cologne that clung to his shirt collar.

He huffed out a laugh, the sound rumbling in his chest as he shifted to face her more fully, his seat squeaking as it moved. “I wasn’t trying to hide,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well. Not good hiding, at least.” He let the quiet confession hang between them like an apology he knew she’d never ask him to make.

She just shook her head, pulling her knees up onto the seat and turning to face him properly. The overhead light caught the curve of her cheek, the tiny flecks of glitter from some stray sparkler still clinging to her hair. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice softer now, the edges of his smile curling around his words as if he were trying to hold onto the moment and keep it from slipping away.

She lifted the small bakery box between them like an offering, her grin blooming wider. “Birthday rescue mission,” she said. “I figured you’d rather blow out a candle in the middle of Brooklyn than let Tony set off an entire pyrotechnic display in your honor.”

Steve let out a breathy chuckle, warm and full of something he couldn’t quite name but didn’t bother to hide. His eyes flicked from the box to her face and back again, a tender gratitude settling into the lines of his expression. “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured, but the truth of it was written all over his features — how much he needed exactly this: something small, something kind, something real that reminded him he was still Steve, not just the man they’d plastered across history books.

Y/N shrugged, brushing an invisible crumb from her knee. “I know,” she said, voice hushed, softening the night. “But I wanted to.” She rummaged in her bag for the candles and the little card, the cheap plastic lighter rattling somewhere at the bottom. Outside, a distant boom of fireworks painted the car interior with quick flashes of red and gold, brief enough to feel like borrowed magic.

Steve watched her, the corner of his mouth lifted in that gentle, lopsided smile she’d always loved — the one that made him look like the boy he used to be, before the shield, before the war, before the world decided who he was supposed to be. And for a moment, under the hush of old trees and the crackle of sparklers in the distance, he let himself believe that maybe — just maybe — this was enough.

She unwrapped the cupcake with delicate care, setting it gently on the center console between them as though it were something precious and breakable. The frosting had smudged a little from the ride over, but it still looked charming in its imperfection — a swirl of soft white peaks dusted with a few scattered sprinkles that had shifted to one side.

Then came the card — small enough to tuck into a back pocket, its navy border neat against the off-white paper. Steve let out an unguarded snort, the sound low and fond, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Don’t laugh,” she shot back quickly, her words bubbling out with more warmth than annoyance. “It’s small, yes, but it still counts.” She held it out to him, her brows raised in mock severity, though the faint curve at the corner of her lips betrayed her amusement.

“Oh, most definitely,” Steve deadpanned, tilting his head slightly as he took the card from her hand. “I barely even noticed the size,” he added, voice dipped into a teasing solemnity that didn’t quite reach the grin tugging at his mouth. The paper felt warm where her fingers had held it, the edges slightly bent from the subway ride. Yet he didn’t open it right away — instead, he balanced it carefully on his knee, content to just watch her finish whatever quiet ritual she’d conjured for him.

She rummaged again through the rustling plastic bag, her forehead creased in concentration as she produced a pack of thin white candles. Choosing one, she gently twisted it into the cupcake’s frosting, the wax wobbling a little before it found its balance. The empty bag she tossed into the backseat with a careless flick of her wrist.

“Shoot,” she murmured under her breath, her eyes lifting to his with a small, rueful pout. “I don’t have a lighter.”

Steve felt his smile widen into something helplessly soft, something that tugged at old, half-healed places inside him. Wordlessly, he reached into the front pocket of his jeans, his fingertips brushing the worn metal of the lighter he’d lifted from Bucky months back — more out of habit than necessity. He held it out to her between two fingers, the brushed steel catching the soft glow from the dashboard lights.

Her answering grin bloomed like a spark itself, quick and bright, as she took it from him. “Thanks,” she murmured. The lighter felt heavy in her palm, and it took a few flicks — the first ones sputtering out in stubborn sparks — before the small, steady flame finally caught.

She leaned in slightly, shielding the tiny candle with her hand from the ghost of a breeze sneaking through the cracked windows. In that moment, Steve couldn’t help but watch her: the quiet concentration in her eyes, the soft press of her bottom lip between her teeth, the way the flame briefly illuminated the delicate line of her jaw and the faint freckles across her cheekbones.

When the wick finally took, the single flame wavered, sending a thin ribbon of warm light dancing over the car’s interior. Outside, another distant firework broke against the sky, its echo rolling through the night like a slow heartbeat.

“There,” she said softly, voice almost reverent, as if they were in a chapel built of steel and summer air. “Make a wish, birthday boy.”

Steve let out a quiet breath, his gaze caught between the candle’s gentle flicker and the even softer warmth in her eyes. For once, the wish came easily, unspoken and simple. Something small. Something real. Something that felt, for this moment, like home.

Steve leaned forward, drawing in a slow breath to blow out the flickering flame, but before he could, her palm pressed firmly over his mouth. He froze, eyes flicking up to meet hers, eyebrows arching just a little in mock affront. Her hand was warm against his skin, her fingers soft where they brushed the edge of his stubble.

“You have to close your eyes for it to come true,” she said, her tone dipped somewhere between patient and teasing, a conspiratorial glimmer in her eyes that made her look a little younger, a little more reckless than the world usually allowed her to be.

Steve huffed out a sigh against her palm, his breath warm on her skin. “Since when?” he mumbled, words muffled, his eyes narrowing as if he didn’t quite buy it but loved hearing her say it anyway.

“Since forever,” she shot back, fingers slipping away as she straightened, giving him just enough space to breathe. “Do you want your wish to come true? Yes. You do. So close your eyes, Captain.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound vibrating in the small space between them, his shoulders relaxing as the last traces of weariness seemed to roll off him like an old coat. “Bossy tonight, aren’t we?” he teased, but obediently let his lashes drift down, the weight of the day pulling him into that small darkness where he could wish without feeling foolish.

“Good,” she murmured, satisfaction flickering across her features as she leaned in a fraction closer, the scent of frosting and summer air and the faintest trace of his cologne mixing between them. “You have your wish, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, the words soft and slightly sheepish, like a promise made under blanket forts or whispered on creaking front porches in the middle of the night.

“Now blow,” she said, her voice gentler than before, the mischief fading just enough to make room for something tenderer, something more real.

Steve lingered for a heartbeat longer, as if tucking the wish deeper into his chest where the world couldn’t touch it. Then he leaned forward and with one quiet breath, snuffed the tiny flame out of existence. Smoke curled up from the wick in a thin, silvery ribbon that drifted out the open window, carrying his secret with it into the bruised dusk beyond.

When he opened his eyes again, she was watching him, her grin softened into something almost shy. She reached over, brushing an invisible crumb from the corner of his mouth with her thumb. “You can eat your cupcake now,” she whispered, her words so close they skimmed his lips like a promise.

He huffed out a small laugh and carefully lifted the cupcake from its nest on the console, its frosting now slightly dented where the candle had been. With the same deliberate gentleness he used for everything that mattered, he split it neatly in half, crumbs tumbling onto the faded leather seat between them.

He held out the bigger piece to her without a second’s thought — as if there had never been any question. Just like every other time. Just like when they sat cross-legged on the floor at two in the morning sharing the last slice of blueberry pie Nat had stashed behind the milk. Or when he’d torn his sandwich in half during a layover in some nowhere airstrip, the two of them perched on duffel bags under flickering fluorescent lights. Or the countless missions when a single bar of chocolate had to be split between bruises and exhaustion and the comfort of knowing neither of them would ever have to finish alone.

She took it from his hand, their fingers brushing in that quick, unspoken gratitude that said more than any speech could. For a moment, neither of them moved to eat. They just sat there, knees knocking gently together in the quiet cocoon of the car, the soft echo of fireworks rolling through the dark like distant thunder, Brooklyn alive and breathing all around them.

And there, between a half-eaten cupcake and an old lighter borrowed from an equally old friend, Steve Rogers allowed himself to feel, for the briefest flicker of time, that maybe this — this small, human, stubborn piece of normal — was the best wish he’d ever made.

“Did you read your card?” she asked around a mouthful of cupcake, her voice muffled but bright, as if she half hoped to distract herself from the fact that they were here, tucked away in this bubble of warm air and soft secrets. Crumbs clung to the corner of her lip, a smear of frosting trailing up her cheek in a way that made her look almost impossibly young, carefree in a way neither of them got to be very often.

Steve let out a quiet huff of laughter, the kind that curled at the edges and settled somewhere warm in his chest. Without thinking — and perhaps because thinking would have made him hesitate — he reached across the narrow console, brushing the pad of his thumb against her cheek to collect the stray bit of frosting. He didn’t pause, didn’t second-guess it — just brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it clean, an absent, intimate gesture that made something soft stutter in her chest.

She looked away so quickly her hair slipped over her shoulder, hiding the heat that bloomed in her cheeks. But Steve didn’t seem to notice the way her breath caught or the sudden flutter in her pulse. He was already shaking his head, reaching for the small card she’d slipped into his hand earlier — that simple piece of folded paper that now felt like it weighed more than the shield ever did.

He opened it carefully, his broad fingers gentle on the fragile crease, eyes scanning the familiar slant of her handwriting. He didn’t speak, not at first — just sat there with the card balanced between his fingertips like it might vanish if he held it too tight. His thumb traced over the lines of ink, slow and thoughtful, like he could feel the warmth she’d tucked into every curve of every letter.

When he finally looked up at her, really looked, the weight of him settled in the small space between them like a heartbeat. His gaze, steady and impossibly gentle, carried the same quiet gravity that had once held battle lines and broken men together — but here, now, it was stripped of all that armor. Just him. Just Steve. Just this.

“Thank you,” he said, and his voice was so soft it barely rose above the hum of the idling engine and the distant thump of fireworks echoing through Brooklyn’s summer air. Two simple words, but somehow they held more truth than all the speeches ever written in his name. He pressed the card briefly to his chest — a gesture so unselfconscious, so instinctive, that it almost made her heart ache — before folding it closed again, tucking it carefully into his pocket like an anchor, a promise, a small relic of something deeply, stubbornly human.

“You’re welcome,” she breathed, her voice a hush of warmth, the word threading the tiny space between them like a secret only they knew how to keep.

For a moment neither of them moved. The car around them felt impossibly still, the world beyond reduced to muffled pops of distant celebration and the faint rustle of leaves in the warm night air. Steve’s eyes flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes, and for once he didn’t look away. He just leaned in, slow and deliberate, the faint squeak of old leather under his shifting weight the only sound between them.

She mirrored him without thinking, a soft pull guiding her forward until they were both hovering over the center console, knees brushing, shoulders almost touching. There was no rush, no fireworks needed — just the quiet promise of breath and heartbeat and the gravity of two people who had spent so long learning how to stay steady in a world that never was.

When his nose brushed hers, she let out a soft, surprised exhale — a sound that made Steve smile against her skin, a fleeting curve of his mouth that she could feel before she ever tasted it. And then, finally, like the quiet closing of a door on the rest of the world, he closed the space between them and kissed her — slow and careful, but certain in a way that said this was always going to happen.

Outside, somewhere beyond the worn steel and old leather, fireworks bloomed against the dark like fleeting, burning stars — but here, in the hush of an old car parked in a corner of Brooklyn that still remembered who they used to be, the only spark that mattered was the one flickering to life in the soft press of his lips against hers.

They lingered in that first kiss like they had all the time in the world, like nothing outside the old car could touch them if they just stayed right here, lips brushing, breath mingling in the hush of an empty street corner in Brooklyn. When Steve finally pulled back, it was only by a fraction — just enough to catch the soft, involuntary sound of protest she let slip, a tiny, unguarded whimper that slipped through the space between them like a secret she hadn’t meant to give away.

The sound made him smile — a quiet, helpless thing that tugged at the edges of his mouth and reached all the way into his eyes. Without a word, he dipped forward again, catching her lips with his like a promise renewed, his palm coming up to cradle her cheek. His thumb traced the line of her jaw, slow and reverent, tilting her face just enough to deepen the kiss, to taste the sweetness of frosting lingering at the corner of her mouth.

Outside, the sky cracked itself open again — a low, distant boom that rattled the windows and spilled invisible color through the warm dark. Neither of them turned to look; it was enough to feel it rumbling through the metal frame, enough to know the world was still spinning, still burning bright, while they pressed pause on the small, stubborn piece of it they’d claimed for themselves.

In the cramped cocoon of the car, where the air smelled faintly of old leather and vanilla icing and the ghost of gasoline, they clung to each other as if the night might change its mind at any second. Steve kissed her like he could hold back the morning with just his mouth, like each brush of his lips might anchor him here, now, in a heartbeat that belonged to no one but her.

He kissed her with a patience that only made it worse — worse in that wonderful, helpless way that made her hands fist in the soft cotton of his shirt, her breath catching every time he pulled back just enough to make her chase him for more. When his tongue brushed hers, gentle but certain, she melted into him, soft and pliant and impossibly alive in his hands.

Her arms slipped around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, and he hummed into the kiss — a low, contented sound that rumbled through his chest and reverberated against her palms. He pulled back just far enough to breathe a word into her mouth, so quiet it barely qualified as sound at all.

“Come here,” he whispered, a plea wrapped in a command, his breath warm and unsteady where it kissed her lips.

She didn’t hesitate — didn’t stop to think how ridiculous they probably looked, tangled up in an old car parked beneath the sleepy branches of an ancient oak, fireworks unseen but felt in the tremor of the world beyond the glass. She braced one hand on the console, the other on his shoulder, and with a soft laugh that caught in her throat, climbed over the divide between them.

Her knees pressed into the worn leather seat on either side of his hips, the hem of her jacket slipping down her arms as she settled into his lap. Steve’s hands found her hips without thought, wide palms warm and steady as they skimmed over the curve of her waist, grounding her, grounding him, holding them both right there in that fragile, stolen moment.

She leaned in, one hand threading into the short hair at the nape of his neck, tugging him back into her orbit as if she couldn’t stand the few inches of air that still dared to separate them. When their mouths met again, there was nothing patient left in it — just the soft, breathless urgency of two people who had spent too many nights pretending they didn’t want exactly this.

Outside, the world kept exploding in color they didn’t need to see. Inside, she tasted like vanilla and firework smoke and something Steve had been chasing his whole life without knowing the name for — something small, real, and just for him. Just for her. Just for tonight, with the old leather creaking under their weight and his hands firm at her hips, holding her like the world couldn’t touch them so long as they held each other first.

They lost themselves in the kiss the way people lose themselves in half-forgotten songs — slow at first, then with a momentum that built quietly, insistently, until there was nothing but the heat of mouths meeting and parting, the soft hitch of breath and the sound of skin against skin where his hands squeezed gently at her hips. The old car rocked ever so slightly beneath them, the smell of summer air and leftover frosting curling sweet and heavy in the cramped space.

Time blurred around the edges. It could have been minutes, it could have been an hour — the only things that mattered were her fingers sliding through the short hair at the base of his neck, his thumb brushing lazy circles under the hem of her shirt where her spine curved, the small noises she made when he deepened the kiss, the quiet rumble of his laugh when she nipped at his bottom lip just to hear him breathe her name into the dark.

And then — as if the universe had grown jealous of what they were making here in the hush of the parked car — Steve’s phone buzzed insistently from the pocket of his jeans. The sharp vibration startled them apart by a fraction, but before he could so much as catch his breath, she was already peppering soft, open-mouthed kisses down the side of his jaw, her mouth trailing a path to the warm stretch of skin where his neck met his shoulder.

Steve let out a breathless chuckle, his head tipping back to rest against the seat, exposing more of his throat to her searching mouth. “Okay, well—” he rasped, his voice a low, wrecked murmur threaded with laughter. “Glad to know you’re eager.”

“Mhm.” She hummed her agreement against his pulse point, her lips grazing the steady thrum of his heartbeat like she could memorize it with her mouth. Her hands slipped lower, bold now, fingers pushing under the hem of his T-shirt. She flattened her palms over the hard planes of his stomach, tracing the warmth of him with her fingertips, feeling the subtle twitch of muscle under her touch.

Steve sucked in a sharp breath, his ribs expanding under her wandering hands. He opened his mouth to say something — maybe to tease her back, maybe to remind her that they were still half-balanced in a car parked on a side street with the windows fogging up — but his phone buzzed again, more insistent this time.

He let out a groan that was equal parts frustration and helpless amusement, fishing the device from his pocket without pushing her away. She didn’t stop — if anything, she pressed closer, her lips dragging lower over the curve of his neck, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below his ear in a way that made his breath stutter.

“It’s Tony,” Steve said, his voice breaking a little when her nails scraped lightly over his ribs. He cleared his throat, trying and failing to keep the smile out of his voice.

She made a soft, questioning sound against his neck, her words muffled by the warm skin her lips refused to abandon. “What’d he say?” she murmured, the vibration of her voice against his throat sending a fresh shiver down his spine.

Steve huffed out a laugh, squinting at the glaring light of the screen. “‘Okay, uh — Steve, where are you? And where’s Y/N? Are you guys out in some shady—’ okay, I’m not reading the rest of that.” He cut himself off, his grin wide and uncontainable as he dropped the phone to the console, letting it slip from his fingers entirely when she giggled against his skin.

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her cheeks warm and flushed, her lips pink and slightly swollen from all the kisses. Her eyes sparkled with mischief and something softer underneath, the kind of fondness that made him feel like the world outside this car could knock for hours and they still wouldn’t bother to answer.

“What did he say?” she pressed, her laughter bubbling up as she tugged lightly at the collar of his shirt, teasing him for his half-read censorship.

Steve just shook his head, his hands sliding from her hips up to the small of her back, pressing her closer until there was nothing between them but shared warmth and the echo of their stolen breath. “Trust me,” he murmured, dipping his head to brush his mouth over hers again — once, twice, soft, like a promise. “You really don’t wanna know.”

And this time, when she laughed, the sound got lost in his mouth as he kissed her again — the car, the fireworks, the world beyond the window dissolving into nothing but the feel of her smile under his lips and the steady thrum of her heartbeat where his hands held her tight against him, refusing, for one more stolen moment, to let her go.

— all rights reserved © PALEVCR all fanfics belong to me, do not copy, translate nor repost as yours.

[vendettapandav]

im hoping that the Doom: The Dark Ages DLC features us getting to explore the Cosmic Realm in pursuit of Ulsamir. Probably in pursuit of her to make sure she's dead dead and prevent something like the alliance she had with Hell from ever happening again. Just as Ahzrak couldnt be killed properly until he was sent back into Hell, her codex entry implies that Ulsamir can't be killed unless it's done within the confines of the Cosmic Realm -- her form we see in game is supposedly a delicate projection of herself that can be seen and understood bc her true form would be too maddening for the common mind to fathom (which sound p in line with the cthulhu mythos as i understand it)

but in general, I would LOVE to get to know more about her species, their culture, and where her particular cult stands in relation to everything else in her realm and in the DOOM universe as a whole <3

[anna-scribbles]

I need you to know that 'do you ever wonder what it's like to be the dead wife before she's dead' is one of those one line poems that's going be etched into my soul forever. bc you're so right and so many fics I've read either directly or indirectly try to work through that,

because god what kind of existence must that have been? what's it like to have someone break their promise to let death part you? what's it like to have someone revere you in image and in concept but not in practice and in life? what's it like to have your own lifetime overshadowed by the mythos one man has created around you? what's it like to not even get the dignity of being the dead wife because he refuses to let you rest/die? what is it like to be the center of an obsession?

and thats all assuming we have an accurate understanding of how Gabe showed her love when she was alive!! even more, equally tragic questions abound if he is/was in fact capable of a more healthy expression of love previously

TUMBLR USER PHIN-AND-FROB YOU GET ME YOURE GETTING ME SO MUCH RN "what's it like to have someone break their promise to let death part you" is CRAAZY that one's gonna be etched into MY soul forever. something something what is it like to have your life overshadowed by your death before you've even died. what's it like to have your death cast aside in favor of an obsession with your life. what's it like to be something transient, etched into the mythos of your family's ruin before it even happens. how long can one person live as the star at the center of a system knowing they're going to burn out? what's it like to be the dead wife before she's dead? do you think she practiced? until she was perfect?