#i can only justify and excuse him acting like that if he's in his mid to early 20s. like 25 at MOST but even then

[lesbianmarrow]

augh. rewatched btvs 5x22 scene where spike & buffy go to buffy's house to get weapons before the big showdown. them having to retrieve weapons is such an amusingly flimsy excuse to have them go to her house so we can have the scene where she invites him in + he promises to protect dawn + "i know you'll never love me" speech. i love a paper-thin excuse to put 2 characters in a room together. especially when those characters are buffy and spike!!!!!!!!!!!!

it really is so striking the way spike refrains from asking buffy to let him in even though he would be perfectly justified in doing so as it's obvious that buffy has forgotten he's not allowed in. i think part of it is that he wants to make it clear that he will respect the boundaries she has set with him. but i also think part of it is that he doesn't wanna feel the pain of being rejected again, because that fucking hurt. if he doesn't ask then he doesn't have to hear her say no again. it shows how head over heels he is for her and how much he has changed since the beginning of the season, when he was challenging her boundaries so much.

spike's expression when he's walking thru the doorway......it's so endearing and some really great acting from james marsters. first surprise and disbelief, then glee which spike is trying very hard to restrain because these are grave times. and yet he can't help feeling so joyous that buffy trusts him. he glances as the doorway like he's thinking "ah yes what a nice house" which makes me laugh because it's so stupid but also sweet. i think it's him trying to play it cool and doing a not so good job of it. there's such a lightness to him - it reminds me of the feeling when you think you did something to upset your friend a few days ago and you're anxious that they've been angry with you all this time and you finally gain the courage to ask them about you and it turns out they were never angry or upset at all. the giddy relief you feel.

and then there's that little moment of tension where they're standing so close together and you think something might happen but then spike breaks off and goes to the weapons chest and starts rambling about what they should take. it's so notable that it's him who gets nervous and moves away. so different from the way he behaved with her in fool for love, getting up in her space and trying to make her admit she had feelings for him. he's accepted that she'll never love him back, and moments like this where it feels like maybe there could be something between them are too painful, so he disrupts the moment. moves away.

jumping to the end of the scene - i love that buffy is on the stairs when spike does his little speech. she's physically above him. "you're beneath me." not only that, she's ascending, just as she ascends at the end of the episode, accessing a level of heroism that spike will never be able to meet. rewatching this part, spike's expression really surprised me. when he says "i know you'll never love me," he doesn't look at all bitter or resentful. his face is open, understanding, compassionate, and thankful. because that's what this speech is - he's thanking her for treating him better than he deserves. he's so grateful for the respect and trust she has given him. it has been truly transformative, as we've seen. only he doesn't get to the actual thanking part, because he cuts himself off, saying he'll wait for her down here. i think he cuts himself off because he realizes that this isn't what buffy needs to hear right now. she's got an enormous battle to prepare for, and a sister to save, and spike's feelings simply aren't important. so he stops mid-sentence for her sake. i think we're meant to understand that the only reason he started to say this at all is that he really thinks he might die tonight and it could be his last chance to let her know what it has meant to him to be treated like a person capable of doing good.

i've focused on what's going thru spike's head in this post bc i think buffy is a lot harder to read here. which is interesting bc sarah michelle gellar as buffy is so expressive that usually you can always tell exactly what buffy is thinking. but when she's with spike in these episodes toward the end of season 5 it's difficult to tell how she regards him. i think a lot of the time even she doesn't really understand how she feels about him. their relationship is so paradoxical. she relies on him but she reviles him. she wants him around but she finds him intolerable. i might rewatch the scene again and make another post about what might be going thru buffy's head, but for now i'll leave it at saying that i kind of love how spike's feelings for buffy are crystal clear to us and buffy's feelings for spike are much murkier. spike started out as this cool mysterious antagonist, whereas buffy has always been the protagonist and we're constantly seeing things from her point of view and being made to understand how she feels. so it's kind of fun to see that flipped a little bit. and it also rings really true for me how buffy in this moment is like, i have 5 billion things to be worrying about right now, i cannot even begin to process whatever feelings i may or may not have regarding spike. and with all of that said........there really is a softness to the way she treats him in this scene. and it's nice.

anyway. these two ✌️ gonna go jump off a tall tall tower

[bairdthereader]

Some Heartstopper body language appreciation for your day.

The arcade conversation is easily one of my all-time favorite Narlie moments. Putting aside the fact that they're both beautiful in it, Kit and Joe's particular acting strengths are perfectly matched to the script throughout the entire interaction. Here's just one little example out of many in this scene (if I wrote about the body language in the whole scene it would be a novella, because Joe and Kit give a masterclass here).

---

We'd all like to assume that, even without the push (we could call it a shove) of overhearing Tao's angry accusations and justifiable distress at knowing Nick said yes to a date with Imogen, Nick would have chosen to tell Charlie about the potential date of his own accord. It's hard to imagine Nick keeping something like this from Charlie, but the fact is that he does, up until he knows Charlie is aware of the date. At that point, Nick's sense of honor overrides his fear, confusion, and hesitancy at trying to explain something that is causing him so much internal struggle. He couldn't let Charlie continue to feel that hurt, so he attempts to fix it. You can see him working up the nerve to start.

A misunderstanding, lie, or even omission here could have had disastrous consequences for Charlie's trust in Nick, especially when you consider everything Charlie has been through with Ben. He saw Ben with a girl and confronted him, only to be met with scorn, cruelty, and Ben's attempt to deny that Charlie had a right to be upset. He has to be seeing some parallels with Nick and Imogen, which would immediately put him on guard. But Nick, in contrast to Ben, valiantly attempts to do all he can to put Charlie's fears to rest, even though this conversation heads into incredibly tricky, uncharted waters, especially for Nick.

This is the first time Nick and Charlie have (at least on screen) tiptoed up to the edge of figuring out exactly what they are to each other. And Charlie is the one to bravely step over that edge.

This single line of dialogue ⬇️ represents an incredible depth of courage for Charlie. His only prior experience asking someone to be in a real relationship was with Ben, who instantly, emphatically, and mercilessly smacked Charlie back down. Ben took Charlie's moment of determination and hope and turned it into one of shame, shattering his confidence. Yet, here this boy is, trying again with someone he cares about even more, where the risk is exponentially higher.

This is Joe's magic at work, because all of this background and nuance is right there on Charlie's face and in his careful pauses and tone of his voice. After Nick apologizes again, saying "I've actually done something bad," Charlie's initial instinct is to comfort and reassure Nick, even though Charlie has to be at least somewhat upset in this moment. He puts down an arm, opening himself up just a bit, leans in just slightly, and starts with "Well..." He's about to give Nick a bit of an out, to soothe his agitation, because that's always Charlie's first self-sacrificing response in situations like this. At the beginning of this line, Charlie is essentially intending to tell Nick that he's free to do what he wants because Charlie has no official claim on him. But, contrary to Charlie's previous experiences in this kind of conversation, Nick has not asked for or indicated by any means that he wants an out or an excuse. Charlie stands just a tad bit taller here as he continues "it's not like we're . . ." Mid-sentence, he's deciding he does indeed want a claim on Nick, he wants to name their relationship. His eyes meet and hold Nick's for a moment, a moment when he decides that this statement is now a question, a question he has the right to ask. But as always with Charlie, he's still fighting his own demons of insecurity and learned sublimation of self and considering how this ask will affect a still very confused Nick. He breaks eye contact, losing just a bit of nerve, looking away when the words "officially dating," two words that they have not yet said to each other, are spoken aloud. There's a little bit of a head shake, like Charlie can't believe he just shone a light on this, that he just opened himself up to rejection again. There's a long pause... then, "or anything." It's almost a self admonishment, a diminishment of what he's asking. But Charlie is nothing if not brave, and this is Nick he's talking to, so he looks back up, resuming eye contact, afraid but hopeful, searching Nick's face for an answer.

And here's Kit's brilliance, because we see Nick have a whole conversation with himself without uttering a word out loud, and it's a complex one. First, Nick recognizes the request, maybe even slight challenge, that Charlie is issuing, and it scares him just a little bit at first. He's realizing what Charlie ultimately wants and recognizing that he wants it, too, even if he's frightened--those wide eyes, filled with hope and trepidation. He's acknowledging, again, the pain that Charlie is feeling (despite his assurances otherwise) at keeping things between them secret and casual--the look down, turning inward, feeling his own culpability in Charlie's pain. Nick wants to do something about it, to create a path forward for them, but is still too unsure in his new identity to commit just yet, and he's unwilling to make promises to Charlie that he's not sure he can keep--the frown, the depth of confusion mixed with determination. So Nick searches for the thing he can do in this moment while remaining true to his own current feelings and emotional capacity. When he finds that thing, you can see on his face that he is resolved and sure, intent--the barest hint of a nod to himself, the working jaw, the tightened mouth. Breaking it off with Imogen is the next concrete step in his journey away from his old self and toward Charlie, which is what he now knows he wants. So that is what he'll do.

This mini moment within this larger scene is such a challenging one for both boys, but they courageously persist. The reward? This:

Maybe they haven't "made it official," but the equal and reciprocal nature of their feelings is now clear to both of them. Bliss.

[nofomogirl]

Introductions in opening scenes from Good Omens S1 and S2

It's time to revisit the walls of Eden scene after all the new info from the new season (part 1? nor promising, but maybe it's just part 1)

Warning: This post contains very minor spoilers for season 2. Mostly, as the title suggests, from the opening scene. But if you haven't seen the show yet and don't know what the opening scene is, I suggest you come back after watching because it's OMG.

In Good Omens the book the very first line of dialogue is "I'm sorry, what was it you were saying?" strongly implying that we've started listening to Aziraphale and Crowley mid-conversation. They are introduced to us, the readers, in the narrative bits, but the names are never used in actual dialogue.

Maybe they had introduced themselves earlier, maybe they didn't. Maybe they didn't need an introduction, maybe they did. We don't know and it doesn't matter. The authors wanted us to focus on the conversation at hand, not on their relationship. An angel and a demon on the walls of Eden are just an excuse to discuss certain ideas.

The show changes the scene a little and makes some things more explicit. We now know for sure that what we saw was the entire conversation because we were shown how it started. We now know for sure that (1) Aziraphale never gave his name, (2) Crowley never asked for it, (3) Crowley gave his name (4) but only after Aziraphale gently pressed him to.

After season 1 I was mostly looking at it from a practical perspective, probably because I like comparing how different kinds of media can convey information, and I mostly focused on how the book was translated into the show.

From that perspective, it was okay to cut the information that the angel's name was Aziraphale from that first scene, because we were going to learn it soon enough anyway, and there was no point in disrupting the flow of the conversation to include it. However, we needed to know that the serpent's name was Crawly because it was going to change and changes in Crowley's name are important. So it was justified to take this information from the narration and squeeze it into the dialogue. But in the most unintrusive way possible.

Of course, that doesn't mean I have never considered the in-universe significance of their introduction/lack of introduction in Eden. However, my headcanon was that the S01E01 opening was their very first meeting, and season 2 proved me wrong, so I will skip my old theories here.

Instead, let's look at S02E01 and S01E01 side by side.

S01E01 Aziraphale never gave his name / S02E01 Crowley never gave his name

We now know that Aziraphale hasn't introduced himself in Eden because they had met before.

But why has Crowley done the same among the stars? It couldn't be that they had already met even earlier, because if that was the case why would Aziraphale introduce himself then?

I believe one of the main reasons is that we're not supposed to know Crowley's angelic name. At least not yet, maybe not ever (I hope we will never learn it, since it is his dead name).

But that again is not an in-universe explanation.

Have you noticed how throughout season 2 two characters expected Crowley to know them, but he didn't? Sure, there's always memory manipulation theory, but honestly, I'm beginning to believe that he simply doesn't pay attention to people around him. And the way he acted towards Aziraphale seems to confirm it. He called out to a passing angel simply because he needed a hand. He wasn't looking for company and would be perfectly happy if Aziraphale left immediately after, leaving Crowley to enjoy his creation alone. It takes considerable effort on Aziraphale's side to engage Crowley in the conversation.

S01E01 Crowley never asked for Aziraphale's name / S02E01 Aziraphale never asked Crowley for his name

Again, because they had already met before Eden.

Right?

It is a valid explanation, obviously, but I'm not entirely sure that's the case. I think it's quite possible, that Crowley didn't remember Aziraphale just like he didn't remember Saraqael or Furfur. I know we wish to think Aziraphale was special and must have left an impression but I see no evidence of that in pre-Fall Crowley's behaviour. Quite the opposite.

I think the reason Crowley didn't ask Aziraphale for his name might have been because, as usual, he didn't care.

Unless, of course, they met before the Fall more than just this once and got to know each other better.

Ok, so why Aziraphale didn't ask Crowley for his name among the stars? I think we can rule out not being interested. Perhaps it was a sign of social awkwardness and insecurity; after he introduced himself and Crowley failed to reciprocate, he got discouraged? Not impossible, but it's not speaking to me.

My (veRy oRigINal) theory is that Aziraphale didn't ask because he already knew. It was the first time they were speaking face to face, but he was aware of Crowley before. Maybe because Crowley was a high-ranking angel and everybody knew who he was. Or maybe he personally caught Aziraphale's interest for some reason, hmm?

S01E01 Crowley gave his name / S02E01 Aziraphale gave his name

Now this is where things get really interesting.

Remember the "Crowley fell first" theory? It was neat, wasn't it? Unfortunately, it's going out the window now, because it couldn't have been any more obvious that Aziraphale had a massive crush on pre-Fall Crowley and in the creation scene he was bending over backward to flirt with him and extend their interaction. What's more, Crowley wasn't particularly interested!

Aziraphale introduces himself completely unprompted and seems so incredibly happy that he can. Crowley's reaction is a "nice meeting you", that sounds an awful lot like "whatever, bye".

After that, I will never be able to see Crowley's reaction to "I gave it away" and not think about how in season 2 he says "it is always too late"...

Ok, now let's have a look at the moment Crowley introduces himself in Eden.

He doesn't do it on his own. He only responds when Aziraphale shows interest.

Aziraphale doesn't explicitly ask Crowley for his name. He just talks to him, reaches a point when it would be natural to address him by his name, and suspends his voice. Crowley gets the hint and fills his name in. Aziraphale repeats it, Crowley gives him a little nod, and the conversation continues smoothly.

Before season 2, I just thought that it was a courteous gesture proving that Aziraphale sees Crowley as a person.

Season 2 makes it a little more complicated.

When Aziraphale stops mid-sentence at the point where Crowley's name should be, was it fully conscious? Was he going to use Crowley's old name and realize last moment, that he shouldn't? If so, what was his reason? Was it out of respect for Crowley, who might not identify with that name anymore, or was it because he believed a demon had no right to an angelic name? Or maybe it would be simply too painful for Aziraphale himself?

I'm going to stop here, but honestly. After you're done crying after the S2 finale, I strongly suggest watching the S2 opening scene, and then the S1 Eden scene. A new perspective really adds to it!

Then watch S2 opening again followed by the rest of S2 because we want to create numbers and make S3 happen.

[fullofsunsetwhispers]

I think the reason the monks turned into such jerks to Jack including Omi was because of Omi town I don't even like Omi and I wanted to beat Jack butt for it. Because it was such a slap in the face to. Omi who tried to help Jack so many times gave Jack the benefit of the doubt was kind to him and believe Jack could be good when no one else did or would have

I understand your frustration, anon. It can be classified as 'one of the most jerkish things Jack has ever done in the series'.

However, (looks at my imaginary list titled 'Jack Spicer did some things wrong but these jerkish acts are justified)

No, don't get me wrong, I am in Jack's protection squad but I am capable of seeing his flaws. Yes, that's a horrible thing to do to the only person that tried to help you (see mainly the Apprentice but more examples could be found throughout the series). Even for a little kid!me that was something unbelievable to happen but now I blame the poor writing of the 3rd season for it. (I gotta cope somehow ok)

I would like to move on to 'Let's justify Jack' part. Maybe 'justify' is a strong word. He took part in that manipulation so it should not be excused BUT I'd point out something that intrigues me a little bit.

In Omi Town after defeating Omi's Mother, monks realize she's in fact a robot. Omi makes a face and everyone rush at Spicer with anger evident on their own faces.

What's Jack's immediate reaction when he gets circled by dragons in training?

He curls up in fear and exclaims: 'THEY MADE ME DO IT!'

Then, he proceeds to tell everyone gathered how that village was made in the first place and we got a short flashback with HB making jackbots look like Omi's relatives of some sort.

Tbh It struck me HOW Jack delivered that story. Usually, (especially in s1 and mid-s2) Jack boasts about his evil plans. He makes sure his enemies KNOW what steps were made to fool them because Jack this way wants to show them how his mind is superior in comparison to theirs. He's proud of each evil deed committed throughout the process (presumably because it builds up his self-esteem which is already in shambles)

Anywho, mind that during his story about the origins of the 'Village of Omi's robotic clones', he's serious. No evil laugh, no belittling Omi for falling for that.

Does that look like a face of a proud evildoer to you? No. He's being honest, and frankly to say, even sad.

The last sentence he utters after the flashback makes me even more convinced about his honesty.

He bends down to be more on Omi's level. He looks straight into his eyes, his brows furrowed worryingly. It almost looks as if Jack felt sorry for the Cheeseball.

'We figured if we break up the dream team, we can take all the wu!'

for Jack it's simple logic, mind you. Additionally, no one among the Heylins even considered Omi might come back to the temple. Jack was more than certain Omi would stay with the fake parents. He never meant to hurt Omi directly. Who knows? Maybe after robbing the temple vault, he would re-program the parent bots to change their minds and let Omi be the monk again (but these are my speculations)

Let's settle on what the overall message sounded like.

'They made me do it'

'They made me build other robots'

'Hannibal bean then used Moby Morpher to make MY robots look like your relatives. If you had any.'

There is more accusation of Wuya and HB in Jack's voice. As I mentioned earlier Jack takes pride in whatever evil he's up to. He's building the brand, or whatever, so it is vital to him to give credit to himself (and optional partners in crime of course). Here we see/hear he DOESN'T WANT TO BE ASSOCIATED WITH THAT PLAN. By constantly repeating 'not me. they made me do ---something-' he withdraws himself, which has never happened earlier in the series. (ok maybe that time with the evil snowman but whatever - you get my point)

Was he trying to save his own butt by putting the blame on Wuya and Roy? Oh, yes, he's a coward. But I dare to assume deep down he wasn't feeling ok with that scheme 100%. The way I see it, Jack went into 'survival mode', that is, he decided to act what other Heylins expect him to do so they won't hurt him in any other way. (Mind you he got a black eye at the beginning of the episode and got slammed against furniture by Wuya and HB and Wuya directly threatened him) Was he laughing with other baddies and taunting Omi during his showdown? Yes, but in a more ' I'm in a bad position so I can have a little fun with them' kinda way. Raiding the temple is one of jack's fav activities (lol) and he feels ok with it so his partners -Wuya and HB no longer were the same oppressors but more like a means that would help him get safely to the wu vault.

If we take into consideration the statement 'Jack from season 3 is a laughing stock and everyone seems to push him around' - this one applies here too. I'm of the opinion Jack was against Wuya and HB's intentions toward Omi but ultimately Jack yielded to their persuasions. Why? He was afraid. Out of fear, we tend to agree to things we would NOT normally agree to. Wuya even without her powers wrecked the boy good so she could've broken some of his bones as well. And with HB's help, they could do even far worse things to Jack. Let's not accuse Jack on the basis he wanted to protect himself - Wuya and HB are more to blame in this one.

Jack was simply USED in that scheme and robbed of resources (robots). More importantly, he built the whole village himself - I bet Wuya and HB didn't help him in these preparations. Jack was valuable to them in that very episode only because he was more like a useful tool rather than an ally, which is sad. (but tbh these little smiles Wuya and Jack exchanged were kinda cute)

To sum up, Jack is not entirely responsible for playing with Omi's feelings. He was the pawn, who in fact did the majority of the dirty work BECAUSE he was being threatened. That sort of manipulation Omi was the victim of was totally unfair especially if we consider that Jack-Omi bond from the series as a whole. However, in that very scene, we see glimpses of regret in Jack's mannerisms.

As a side note, I would like to point out, even if 'Omi Town' hurts me very much for Jack's betrayal of Omi's trust, I would like to see this being expanded on. For example, they should have a one-on-one talk in which they have a little quarrel, mentioning all the bad things they did to each other so they could just... talk this through and find some katharsis in their shared pain or sth.

[leothetraveler]

Coin and Crown AU

Fate Worse Than Death

I don’t know why I was summoned here. I am no follower of the lamb. They a just a customer…just a customer.

            Yet here I am with their cultists, crucified. Forced to bear witness to what was going to be their execution but is now Narinder’s. Heh, if anyone else called the cat by his given name, he would throw a fit. Though I am probably the only one outside the bishops who remember it.

            “Damned Lamb!” Oh, speak of the devil. “I am at your mercy… are you to be a vengeful false idol, or a merciful coward? No longer can you blame your vile acts on me.” Strange choice of words, provoking the lamb with ‘merciful coward’ while his life is on the line. I can barely see the lamb by craning my head over my shoulder. Lamb hesitates, before turning to look at me. Their eyes, at first uncertain, fill with rage at the sight of me. Do I really mean so much to them?

The Lamb turned back to face the still cowering Narinder. “You…took EVERYTHING from me…before I was even born. My family and race were sacrificed. Because. Of. You. You and your damned family. Even so, I had hoped you would fix your mistake. That for my service, my people would be restored, that I would get to see my mother again! Fool that I was, hoping for mercy…fool that you are, expecting the same.” Lamb’s choice was clear. But instead of using the crown’s power, they turned their crown into an axe. They weren’t simply going to kill him. Infront of everyone, they were going to sacrifice him. Execute him as the lamb been. Those who faced better towards the lamb relayed to the others what was happening. Terrified whispers and whimpers of fear echoed as Narinder gave a weak laugh. “So, we are the same after all. You have become as I-”

“Lamb,” I interjected. “don’t let him taunt.” I still couldn’t see well, but it seems I had stopped them mid-swing. “While you are justified and this cat is a two-faced snake, he does speak true in one part.” I turned my head away from Lamb to the other cultists around me, whose attention was also on me. I continued, raising my voice to be heard behind me. “Killing him changes nothing. The world will fear you just as it feared the bishops. You would just be another in a long line of vengeful gods.”

Lamb walked over to my cross, a mixture of fury and grief in their teary eyes as they looked up at me. “Then what do you suggest, Leon. Just forgive him? Show him mercy, after all he has done? Just…walk away?” Narinder laughed from behind my sight. A pained but hearty, mocking laugh. “Yes, listen to the coward of Darkwood. He has been doing nothing but running and hiding for centuries!” I rolled my eyes at his jab. It is almost like he wanted to die. Knowing him, he may just prefer it. “Death is a mercy. You want him to suffer? Let him live.”

Another laugh from the bastard cat. “By all means, do. I will reclaim what’s mine in time. That crown belongs to ME, by divine right!” Now it was my turn to laugh at the fool. He sits there, at the mercy of the lamb and acts like he is still a god. How delusional must one be? How big can one’s ego get? “Ah, I haven’t heard a joke that good is months. You? Take the crown from lamb? They just stripped you of all divine might. The crown is theirs. And without one of your own, you could never hope to oppose them. You, Narinder, will be mortal for the rest of your days. However many that will be.” I looked back at the sorry excuse of a former god. “It will be your punishment. Just as you punished me with the same, 473 years ago. To quote your family, it is ‘a fate worse than death, to watch the world rot around you.’” The fear on Narinder’s face as he realized the truth of my words brought a smile to my face. Karma is a bitch. “Besides, Lamb. If there is a way to bring your people back, we need him to tell us.” Lamb visibly considered my words and then walked back to Narinder, silently sending him to the cult grounds. The crosses then lowered back down, finally releasing me and the others. The cultists immediately sprang into cheers for the lamb’s victory and praises of their mercifulness. I walked over to them as they continued to stare at the spot where they had banished Narinder. “Lamb, I…you need a hug? This one’s on the house.” I spread my arms openly, giving a weak smile at my own joke.

The lamb didn’t move. “…the bishops killed my people. I never met my father. Can’t remember my mother. I thought…maybe he would…” I didn’t wait for them to finish before pulling them into a hug. They had been through so much in such a short time. They froze for a moment, before weakly returning the hug as they held back tears. I sighed, “I understand what you mean.” Lamb looked up at me, their sorrow paused by confusion. I smiled weakly. “I can’t remember my family either. I don’t even know where they were buried. Or how many of us there were. But I remember they were hated for my actions. That they suffered because of me. Because of the bishops cursing me and making my name known to all. I know what it’s like, being all alone because of them.” It was more personal than I got with most customers, but I could tell my past gave them some comfort. The moment was broken up when a cultist approached the lamb and they had to return to being their leader. Their god. While they calmed their fears and shaped their faith, my mind was on Narinder. While he could be of use to the lamb, and such was the worst punishment we could do to him, I couldn’t help but wonder how the lamb would ever be able to get them to cooperate.

NEXT >>

[redladydeath]

I've only recently begun to think about her as a character rather than just a force that does things to Vox, so I've only got a handful of traits for her so far:

Was a loving mother and devoted wife when alive. However, her husband was abusive both verbally/emotionally and physically. Might be in Hell for killing him, but that feels a little too obvious.

Has a deep resentment of entitled men who think they can treat the women and children in their lives like trash.

Doesn't feel like she deserves to be in Hell for whatever she did. Decided to do a 180 and give in to all her worst impulses since apparently this is what you get for being "good". Eventually gains the mindset of "Well, if I'm stuck here, I might as well torment those who actually deserve Hell." She believes her cruelty is justified, but in reality it's mostly just an excuse to take out her directionless anger on others.

Became an overlord after Alastor's initial purge, so some time in the mid-late 1930s or 1940s.

Has a preconceived notion of the type of man Vox is/was (arrogant, condescending, cruel to those around him). It's accurate, but it's mostly guesswork. In her mind, she can do whatever she wants to him and it will always be justified– men like him deserve to feel like they're nothing. She's his punishment, and he's her toy.

Arrogant. Thinks she can tell the type of person someone is just by looking at them. Likes to play mind games.

Beautiful and glamorous. Hides her more demonic traits in order to lure people in better.

Miiiiiiiight start to buy her own bullshit about Vox loving her towards the end or think she's broken him, not realizing he's just gotten really good at keeping up the act.

Vox miiiiiiiight have somehow instigated Alastor coming to kill her. He wanted OUT.

The vibes of the picture you included are fitting, even if the fur is a bit much. She treats Vox like a purse dog, so "glamorous rich woman" is probably the right aesthetic for her. WAIT I JUST REALIZED. INSECTS+SICKLY SWEET+HIDING A DARKER NATURE: SHE HAS OTHER MOTHER VIBES.

Not sure about her industry. I feel like it has to be something significantly monetizable, but I'm not sure what. Could have something to do with entertainment and that's why Vox went to her specifically, thinking that he was going to get a normal job, but idk.

Making Proto Vox’s Overlord praying mantis theme is a great idea! They’re freaky:

You could give her a secondary flower theme so she can be an orchid mantis:

Here’s some really cool humanized mantis art I’ve seen on Pinterest:

Yeah, I like the idea of her being an orchid mantis. It fits her whole "sweet on the outside, dangerous on the inside" thing. Mantises don't do this, but I have this mental image of her face being smooth and human-looking, but being able to unfold to reveal her mandibles+more alarming features when angered. Also, the gender dynamics work well given her resentment of entitled men and how small males of that species are compared to females.

Between this lady, Helen/Queenie, and Valentino, Vox just has a knack for getting into toxic/abusive "relationships" with insect demons.

[apoapsis]

@tlacehualli said, "Really? You think so little of me that you think I'd do that?"

             It really is his own fault, sometimes– and no matter what she does to help, SIGMA often finds himself leaning into that sense of security he finds in vulnerability. It’s just easier to shed any form of accountability for his actions  [ OR LACK THEREOF ] when he can claim to be subject to forces outside of his control. It’s so much easier to blame everyone but himself, isn’t it? That’s why he won’t stop doing it– not really. What lesson is there for him to learn? TALON praises him for playing pretend– it streamlined things, even if his inability to take accountability for his own actions only served to frustrate his alleged saviors. 

But this is different.

             Sombra didn’t have to help him slip out of the facility, didn’t have to do everything in her capability to allow him to get in and out of the compound at his relative leisure without TALON being any the wiser as to what he was getting up to in his spare time. It was more or less a charity of her time and effort, catering to his whimsical need to venture out into the world.

So why is he getting so worked up at her? 

             Her question throws him off mid-bluster, a momentary look of frustration crossing his features before a secondary, more lasting, flash of realization follows thereafter. It isn’t really the words she uses that make him crumple– it’s the tone she uses and the alarmingly genuine reproachfulness in her eyes. 

He’s gone too far– it was inconceivably selfish of him to demand so much of her time and effort for such a continuous favor she freely granted him with no identifiable “catch”. She helps him simply because she wants to… and he acts like this? “-- I– you didn’t a-answer–” It’s reflexive, cycling through each excuse even though his anxious stuttering prevents any completion of statement. “-- It isn’t like th– I did not mean it in that way–” He stammers, now beginning to recoil somewhat as the shame begins to build.

            But were there many ways one could interpret “how could you lock me out”?

It wasn’t as if it was some snide remark from his counterpart– it is entirely his own phrasing and intention. He, himself, is being hurtful right now– and what, exactly, is there to justify it with? What kind of "friend" would do any of that...?

            “-- That was cruel of me, wasn’t it…? I– I am sorry.”

“... Would you like me to leave you alone, Miss Sombra…? I, ah… I understand if you no longer have any interest in our… a-arrangement… That was uncalled for….”

[evenmywordsare]

how to make sans 10000x more creepy and gross than necessary: headcanon him as a 30-40 year old man

[theteasetwrites]

Ink

❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader ❧ Era: Season 9/10 interim (The Beginning Is the End Is the Beginning series) ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: none! ❧ Word Count: 3.2k

❧ Summary: Daryl hasn't been acting quite like himself recently. Perhaps it's a mid-life crisis, and perhaps he's got an itch to get some new ink.

❧ A/N: The story of how Daryl got his rabbit tattoo in The Beginning series! Once again, this is a oneshot that takes place in the canon of my Daryl x Reader series, The Beginning Is the End Is the Beginning, so I recommend reading that too (if you want, it's really long so no pressure—you can still read this by itself and understand what's going on). Also, this does differ a bit from the canon of the actual show because I am pretty sure we don't see Daryl with his rabbit tattoo until late season 10, but I couldn't figure out a way to justify why Daryl got himself a tattoo literally in the middle of the battle with the Whisperers (lol, thanks for ruining the continuity of the show Norman) so I had him get the tattoo in the period between season 9 and season 10 when they aren't quite yet in the war with the Whisperers. Hope that makes sense! Enjoy.

Daryl had told you each and every story behind each and every tattoo adorning his body. When you met him, he’d had about six. They weren’t particularly big or flashy. Most of the time they were covered by his clothes, but you had the distinct privilege of knowing each one intimately, of tracing the lines of faded black ink embedded in his tanned, worn skin. 

The image of two demons taking flight on his back was your favorite. He apparently barely remembered getting it, as he was plastered drunk when he stumbled into some grungy, dimly-lit tattoo parlor in Atlanta when he was only twenty-five years old. 

“Did it hurt?” you had once asked him, in all your innocence. It must’ve been years ago, certainly before Robin was born.

“Nah,” he had said, though you didn’t believe him. How couldn’t it hurt? A sharp, tiny needle threading ink into your skin’s dermis for hours on end? Surely, it would’ve been torturous. “Only stings a little, then you get used to it till it’s over.”

“God, I could never,” you replied. “I would be crying.”

He had looked at you with that mischievous raised eyebrow, the kind of look he rarely gave anyone else. Everyone else usually either got a look of ambivalence, or a look of disdain—there was no in between.

“You’d look good with one on your back,” he said, eliciting a scoff from you. “One right above your ass.”

“Excuse me?” you laughed. “You mean a tramp stamp?”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head, a crooked smile tearing beautifully into his face. “You said it, not me.”

Now that Daryl was spending more time at home, as winter still had a faint, but potent, grasp on the outside world, allowing a slow and steady transition into spring, you’d found him often looking at the bare skin of his right forearm, as if longing for something other than the olive-toned, work-worn flesh of a forty-seven-year-old man. 

It wasn’t lost on you, either, that Daryl had begun experiencing what you liked to call his mid-life crisis, though he just liked to think he was more worried than usual—worried about the Whisperers, about the food situation, about fortifying Alexandria in case Alpha and her herd just decided to storm the gates on a whim. 

Just earlier that morning you had watched him rise from his slumber, sitting on the edge of the bed and lazily tracing his left index finger over that same spot on his right forearm, where you now wondered if he was planning something.

Despite the fact that the world as he and you had known it was gone, Daryl still clung to one part of his life from before that he just couldn’t shake: those little tattoos. 

He’d nearly perfected the art of stick-and-poke, having inked on the back of his right hand the doodle of a cartoon skull he’d once drawn on a yellow lined legal pad just about a year before Robin was born. You remembered watching in abject horror for the first few minutes he was jabbing himself with that little ink-drenched needle, how you couldn’t believe he had not even winced at the feeling. 

Ink fever hadn’t forsaken him after that, it had only stoked a fire. He tattooed a few little X’s between his knuckles, and even one near his collarbone. He filled his pores with black ink just under his right wrist with a stylized “50,” as if a reminder of almost how long he’d been walking around on this God-forsaken rock we call Earth. 

You didn’t mind these little etchings, so long as Daryl didn’t hurt himself in his midlife crisis-induced tattoo spree, and so far, he hadn’t. You figured it was a good way for him to express himself, and you could appreciate the artistic ability that went into those quirky little doodles he gave himself on occasion. Still, that blank space on his forearm worried you. 

The other tattoos he’d done on a whim, without much thought and with a whole lot of that famous Dixon impulse that could either get him killed or keep him alive. Either way, he was impulsive at times, reckless, even, but this time, that wasn’t what worried you: it was the way he pondered that untouched piece of skin, the way he had been studying the space for months now. 

It worried you because you couldn’t figure out what he was planning, and you knew from that look, that slight quirk of his lips, that deep furrow in his brow, that he was planning something, and when it came to tattoos, he had always been so spontaneous, so whatever it was, it had consumed him.

While five-year-old Robin busied herself by stomping around in a rain puddle, you pruned the dead buds off the rose bush in front of your home. All the while you were sure to cut the most beautiful specimens for your vase on the dining room table. It was a typical mid-March morning, giving way to afternoon as the sun routinely made an appearance whenever the fluffy grey rain clouds decided to let it shine before engulfing it once again.

Daryl had left early that morning. To where, you weren’t entirely sure. It wasn’t like him not to leave a note, but he hadn’t been completely acting like himself lately, mostly due to the stress of the lingering threat of the Whisperers, so you figured you’d cut him some slack just this once, though you were worried, as usual.

“It’s sprinkling!” cried Robin, who, when you turned to look at her, was facing the sky and hanging her tongue out to catch the tiny raindrops. 

Lightweight beads of water soon turned into globs that pelted the ground, and though Robin was dressed head-to-toe in her matching yellow raincoat, hat, and boots ensemble, you couldn’t help but cry out to her with motherly concern.

“Come on,” you said, making your way up the steps of the porch. “Inside before you catch a cold.”

“But Mommy—”

“No ‘but Mommy’s’,” you said sternly, holding your hand out to her. Surely, you weren’t always the pushover, lenient parent. That was usually Daryl, and even he was terrified of your precious child catching a cold in this weather. “Come on.”

She splashed through a few more puddles on her way to the porch, then reluctantly took your hand as you guided her short legs up the stairs. “Wait,” she said. “Where’s Dog?”

You both looked around, suddenly aware of the lack of the loyal family canine’s presence. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere,” you said. “He’ll come in the doggy door, chipmunk. Let’s get inside.”

Dog made himself known when his bark rang out amongst the harsh pitter patter of rain. Looking up from Robin’s hand in yours, you saw the black and brown animal bolting towards the house, and Daryl not too far behind, struggling to keep up with him.

“Hi, Daddy!” squeaked Robin eagerly. 

“Hi, sweetheart,” he panted.

Under the porch, both Dog and Daryl shook out their shaggy, drenched hair in a strange kind of unison, stray explosions of water splashing you and Robin as you laughed. 

“You’re soaking,” you said, watching him trudge into the house, stumbling around as he took off his muddy boots all the while.

“‘M fine,” he huffed. 

“Mhm,” you mumbled sarcastically, closing the front door behind yourself, Robin, and Dog, whose fur was also soaking wet. You quickly retrieved a towel from the closet beneath the stairs, and rushed over to throw it over his head. 

“Goddamnit, woman.”

“Stop fussing,” you said. “I’m not having you ruin the wood floor.”

Robin followed suit, running with a spring in her step to the closet and pulling out another towel to dry off Dog. “I got Dog, Mommy,” she called out, and you giggled to yourself at her sense of responsibility, which she surely inherited from you. 

After massaging your hands over the towel on his head, sufficiently drying his hair, you lifted the fabric to reveal Daryl’s scrunched up face. At least it was clean, you supposed, not covered in dirt as it often was. 

“There,” you said, tucking chunks of his damp bangs behind his ears. “Now change your clothes. I’ll hang them up to dry.”

He scoffed as he headed up the stairs, though he couldn’t deny the sense of order you provided him in his life, even if you were a little bossy at times. He knew it was for his own good. “Yes, ma’am.”

For the remaining few hours of that rainy morning, Robin had decided to spend her time inside with Lydia, who had reluctantly agreed to play Barbies with her. You checked on them in her room just before crossing over to your own bedroom, where you found Daryl’s back facing the door, his shirt removed and his head hanging low as he seemed to be examining something.

You raised an eyebrow, since he hardly seemed to even notice your presence before you cleared your throat. It wasn’t like him at all to be so unobservant, so you were sure he was hiding something from you.

He looked your way before bending over to pick up his clean button-up shirt from the bed, his back still facing you. When he spoke, there was a quiver in his voice, though he tried to hide it with that deep, guttural grunting of his. “I, uh… Ahem, I jus’ left the wet clothes in the bathroom.”

You tilted your head, as if to get a look at whatever he kept looking at. “Everything all right?”

“Mhm,” he grunted with a nod of his head. “Jus’ fine.” He hurriedly began to put on his shirt, though he struggled with the sleeves as he tried to unbutton them in an attempt to let the fabric conceal his forearm. “Damnit.”

You laughed and shook your head as he fumbled with the tiny button between his thick, bulky fingers. “Let me help, honey.”

“N-no,” he said, stepping away from you. “I got it.”

You huffed in slight annoyance now. He always let you help him with his shirts, and suddenly he wasn’t? Something must’ve been really wrong. “What has gotten into you?”

He peeked his face over his shoulder to glance your way, a strange look of guilt in his eyes. He hated keeping things from you, even such comparatively little things like this. “‘M sorry,” he said, all the grit in his voice turning to mush underneath your gentle gaze. Indeed, you, too, couldn’t help but melt when he looked at you that way, when his voice broke and he let you see his more vulnerable side. He was always more like a rose than a thorn, you thought, even if others saw him differently.

“Don’t be sorry,” you sighed, stepping closer until you could rest your hand upon his shoulder. “Just talk to me, hon. I feel like you’ve been so… lost in your head lately. Is there something on your mind?”

For your part, you always had this lingering insecurity, this feeling that Daryl would leave you for another woman, or that he was already seeing someone else, but in the depths of your soul, where he’d planted that undying seed of loyalty in the fertile soil of your heart, you knew he’d never do such a thing. It wasn’t in his nature—he was too loyal to his loved ones, his family. Still, there was something on his mind. That much you knew.

He huffed and turned slowly to face you, his shirt hanging loosely unbuttoned over his torso. “Guess I can’t hide it from you for long,” he said. “Wanted to wait till it healed to show ya, but…”

He held out his right arm, revealing a large strip of sheer plastic wrap, covering his raw, reddened skin, and a new tattoo: a rabbit in mid hop, clear as day.

Your eyes widened, feeling somewhere between surprised and not surprised at all. While you had suspected he’d been thinking about another tattoo, you had no idea it would look like this. It was different from anything else he had given himself. In fact, you were sure he couldn’t have done this one himself, since it was much too detailed to have been a stick-and-poke, and much too neat to have been done with his non-dominant left hand. 

You found yourself entranced by the intricate shading, the attention to detail that made the rabbit so realistic, so lifelike. The style was unique, too, with a pattern of overlapping circles making up the lower half of the rabbit’s body, and one circle drawn around the creature’s head, almost akin to a halo. You became so fascinated by it that you took his hand in yours and stepped closer to study it.

“You mad?”

His words awoke you from your trance. “Um, no,” you said. “N-no, I’m just confused. How did you get this done?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Syd used to be a tattoo artist,” he said. “Been talkin’ about doin’ somethin’ there for a while. He finally got this tattoo gun workin’, wanted to try it out on me… Sorry, I shoulda told ya.”

You smiled and shook your head. “It’s fine,” you said. “He did a good job. It’s beautiful. I love these little details with the circles. But… Why a rabbit?”

He lowered his head bashfully, hoping to hide the slight blush on his cheeks as he thought about what the tattoo meant to him, about why he refused to tell Syd the meaning behind it, even if it was quite simple. It was still special to him, more special than anything else he had permanently painted on his body.

“Well, uh… Ya know, ‘cause… ‘Cause you and Robin like rabbits.”

You beamed at him, though he couldn’t see your smile as he still hung his head, looking at his new tattoo and studying it himself as he rambled on. “So I guess it’s like a, uh, I—I dunno. It’s sorta… for you and her. And neither of you ever eat my rabbits I bring home, and Robin’s got ‘er little white bunny she likes to sleep with. And you’re always talkin’ about that rabbit you used to have, how much you loved it. So it’s for you and Robin.”

If anyone could make you break out into a deliriously happy cry, it was Daryl. He could never quite wrap his head around the concept, but you had the art of the happy cry down to an exact science by now, and of course, this was the perfect occasion to break down in euphoric tears. 

No one had ever dedicated something so beautiful to you, no one had ever injected ink into their skin to immortalize you for as long as his heart pumped blood to that arm to keep the flesh alive, no one had ever shown how much they loved you with such a grand gesture.

“Oh, Daryl,” you laughed through your tears. His head lifted when he heard the shaking in your voice, and he immediately thumbed at your tears as they began to fall. He might’ve been immune to the pain of a needle embedding ink into his skin, but he certainly wasn’t strong enough to see you cry, no matter how happy you were. “You dedicated a tattoo to me?”

“Well, yeah,” he answered, as if it was obvious he would do such a thing. “You and Robin, you’re everything to me… My girls. I’d do anything for you. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” you cried, gently wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him close to you. He carefully wrapped his left arm around your back, keeping his right arm outstretched so as not to disturb the sensitive, newly-tattooed flesh. You felt his lips on your neck, leaving a sweet kiss there. “And I love your tattoo. It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

You pressed a firm kiss to his lips before pulling away to look at his arm once more, the redness and swelling slightly worrying you, even though you knew it was only normal. “Does it hurt?” you asked. “Do you need anything, sweetheart? Some aspirin or something? Or, um… ice? I still don’t know how tattoos work.”

He shook his head in amusement. “Nah, jus’ some Vaseline will be fine. I can put it on myself.” You tilted your head at that, narrowing your eyes at him as if to protest such a thing. “Or you can do it.”

That made the smile return to your face. “Good. Let me take care of you.”

Indeed, you did take care of him. Probably more than he needed, but the rain continued on for the rest of the day, shutting you all inside without much else to do but dote on Daryl, whose new tattoo quickly became the talk of the Dixon household. Robin begged once again for a real rabbit, despite Daryl’s insistence that his tattoo was about as close as your family would get to having a pet bunny, and Lydia asked a myriad of questions about the experience of being tattooed. Even Dog seemed to notice the change, sniffing Daryl’s forearm much more than he usually did.

When it was time for bed, you took a glob of Vaseline and rubbed it gently into his skin above the new ink, much to his amusement as he watched you nurse him. 

“What?” you asked, feeling his gaze on. 

“Nothin’,” he chuckled under his breath. “You’re jus’ real cute when you take care of me.”

“Well, I must always be cute then, since I’m always taking care of you, mister.” You turned to place the tub of Vaseline on the bedside table, and dimmed the lantern before tucking yourself into bed next to him.

“Mm, you are always cute.” He wrapped his arm around your shoulders, tugging your body closer until you rested your head upon his chest, as was routine now. Nearly ten years of falling asleep to the steady beat of his heart, and it still never got old. You knew it never would. “Be cute with a tattoo above your ass, too. I’d take care of it for ya.”

You rolled your eyes and raised your hand to flick his nose, your way of playfully punishing his slightly lewd comment. “Oh, and Syd would do my tramp stamp, I’m assuming?”

A sudden wave of realization washed over him, and he instinctively clutched you tighter as his muscles strained at the thought of his neighbor getting his hands on your lower back. “Nah,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

“Oh, really?” you laughed. “And what exactly should I get on my lower back? Maybe a butterfly? Or a flower? Hm, maybe I’ll just get your name, huh? Daryl just above my butt in pretty cursive font.”

He smiled to himself, eyes closed as he sunk further into his pillow. “Sounds good to me. Or maybe you could get my name right here.” He traced his finger over the slope of your breast on the outside of your pajamas. 

You huffed and swatted his hand away. Playfully, of course. “Don’t push it.”

~

Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and comments of any kind are always appreciated!

Masterlist

[blackstarising]

coming back to this post i made again to elaborate - especially as the ted lasso fandom is discussing sam/rebecca and fandom racism in general. there are takes that are important to make that i had failed to previously, but there's also a growing amount of takes that i have to, As A Black Person™, respectfully disagree with.

tl;dr for the essay below sam being infantilized and the sam/rebecca relationship are not the same issue and discussing the former one doesn't mean excusing the latter. and we've reached the glen of the Dark Forest where we sit down and talk about fandom racism.

i should have elaborated this in my last post about sam/rebecca, but i didn't. i'll say it now - i personally don't support sam and rebecca getting together for real. i believe what people are saying is entirely correct, even though sam is an adult legally, he and rebecca are, at the very least, two wildly different stages of life. for americans, he's at the equivalent of being a junior in college. there are things he hasn't gotten the chance to experience and there are areas he needs to grow in. when i was younger, i didn't understand the significance of these age gaps, i just thought it would be fine if it was legal, but as someone who is now a little older than sam in universe, i understand fully. we can't downplay this. whether or not you think sam works for rebecca or not, even despite the gender inversion of the Older Man Younger Woman trope, whether or not he is a legal adult, i don't think at this point in time, their relationship would work. i think it's an interesting narrative device, but i don't want to see it play out in reality.

that being said!

what's worrying me is that two discussions are being conflated here that shouldn't be. sam having agency and being a little more grown™ than he's perceived to be does not suddenly make his relationship with rebecca justified. i had decided to bring it up because sam was being brought into the spotlight again and i was starting to realizing that his infantilization was more common than i felt comfortable with.

sam's infantilization (and i will continue to call it that), is a microaggression. it's is in the range of microaggressions that i would categorize as 'fandom overcompensation'. we have a prominent character of color that exhibits traits that aren't stereotypical, and we don't want to appear racist or stereotypical, so we lean hard in the other direction. they're not aggressive, they're a Sweet Baby, they're not world weary, they're now a little naive. they're not cold and distant, they're so nice and sweet that there's no one that wouldn't want approach them, and yeah, on their face, these new traits are a departure and, on their face, they seem they look really good.

but at a certain point, it reaches an inflection point, and, like the aftertaste of a diet coke, that alleged sweetness veers into something a lot less sweet. it veers into a lack of agency for the character. it veers into an innocence that appears to indicate that the person can't even take care of themselves. it veers into a one-dimensional characterization that doesn't allow for any depth or negative emotion.

it's not kind anymore. it's not a nice departure from negative stereotypes. it's not compensating for anything.

it's patronizing.

it is important that we emphasize that characters of color are more than the toxic stereotypes we lay on them, yes, but we make a mistake in thinking that the solution is overcorrection. for one thing, people of color can usually tell. don't get it twisted, it's actually pretty obvious. for another, it just shifts from one dimension to another. people of color are still supposed to be Only One Character Trait while white people can contain multitudes. ted, who is pretty much as pollyanna as they come, can be at once innocent and naive and deep and troubled and funny and scared. jamie can be a prick and sexy and also lonely and also a victim of abuse. sam, however, even though he was bullied (by jamie, no less), is thousands of miles away from home, and has led a protest on his team, is usually just characterized as human sunshine with much less acknowledgement of any other traits beyond that.

and that's why i cringe when fandom calls sam a Sweet Baby Boy without any sense of irony. is that all we're taking away? after all this time? even for a comedy, sam has received a substantive of screen time over two whole seasons, and we've seen a range of emotions from him. so as a black person it's hurtful that it's boiled down to Sweet Baby Boy.

that's the problem. we need to subvert stereotypes, but more importantly, we need to understand that people of color are not props, or pieces of cardboard for their white counterparts. they are full and actualized and have agency in their own right and they can have other emotions than Angry and Mean or Sweet and Bubbly without any nuance between the two. i think the show actually does a relatively good job of giving sam depth (relatively, always room for improvement, mind you), especially holding it in tension with his youth, but the fandom, i worry, does not.

it's the same reason why finn from star wars started out as the next male protagonist in the sequel trilogy but by the third movie was just running around yelling for REY!! it's the same reason why when people make Phase 4 Is the Phase For Therapy gifsets for the mcu and show wanda maximoff, loki, and bucky barnes crying and being sad but purposefully exclude sam wilson who had an entire show to tell us how difficult his life is, because people find out if pee oh sees are also complex, they'll tell the church.

and the reason why i picked up on this very early on is because i am an organic, certified fresh, 100% homegrown, non-gmo, a little ashy, indigenous sub saharan African black person. the ghanaian tribes i'm descended from have told me so, my black ass parents have told me so, and the nurses at the hospital in [insert asian country here] that started freaking out about how curly my hair was as my mother was mid pushing me out told me so!

and this stuff has real life implications. listen: being patronized as a black person sucks. do you know how many times i was patted on the back for doing quite honestly, the bare minimum in school? do you know how many times i was told how 'well spoken' or 'eloquent' i was because i just happen to have a white accent or use three syllable words? do you know how many times i've been cooed over by white women who couldn't get over how sweet i was just because i wasn't confrontational or rude like they wrongly expected me to be?

that's why they're called microaggressions. it's not a cross on your lawn or having the n-word spat in your face, but it cuts you down little by little until you're completely drained.

so that's the nuance. that's the subversion. the overcompensation is not a good thing. and people of color (and i suspect, even white people) have picked up on, in general, the different ways fandom treats sam and dani and even nate. what all of these discussions are converging on is fandom racism, which is not the diet form of racism, but another place for racism to reveal itself. and yeah, it's uncomfortable. it can seem out of left field. you may want to defend yourself. you may want to explain it away. but let me tap the sign on the proverbial bus:

if you are a white person, or a person of color who is not part of that racial group, even, you do not get to decide what is not racist for someone. full stop. there are no exceptions. there is no exit clause for you. there is no 'but, actually-'. that right wasn't even yours to cede or waive.

(it's also important to note that people of color also have the right to disagree on whether something is racist, but that doesn't necessarily negate the racism - it just means there's more to discuss and they can still leave with different interpretations)

people don't just whip out accusations of racism like a blue eyes white dragon in a yu-gi-oh duel. it's not fun for us. it's not something we like to do to muzzle people we don't want to engage with. and we're not concerned with making someone feel bad or ashamed. we're exposing something painful that we have to live with and, even worse, process literally everything we experience through. we can't turn it off. we can't be 'less sensitive' or 'less nitpicky'. we are literally the primary resources, we are the proverbial wikipedia articles with 3,000 sources when it comes to racism. who else would know more than us?

what 2020 has shown us very clearly is that racism is systemic. it's not always a bunch of Evil White Men rubbing their hands together in a dark room wondering how they're going to use the 'n-word' today. it's systemic. it's the way you call that one neighborhood 'sketchy'. it's how you use 'ratchet' and 'ghetto' when describing something bad. it's how you implicitly the assume the intelligence of your friend of color. it's the way you turned up your nose and your friend's food and bullied them for it in middle school but go to restaurants run by white people who have 'uplifted' it with inauthentic ingredients. it's telling someone how Well Spoken and Eloquent they are even though you've both gone to the same schools and work at the same workplace. it's the way you look down at some people of color for having a different body type than you because they've been redlined to neighborhoods where certain foods and resources are inaccessible, and yet mock up the racial features that appeal to you either through makeup or plastic surgery.

it's how when a person of color behaves badly, they're irredeemable, but a white person performing the same act or something similar is 'having a bad day' or 'isn't normally like this' or 'has room to grow' and we can't 'wait for their redemption arc', and yes, i'm not going to cover it in detail in this post but yes this is very much about nate. other people have also brought up the nuances in his arc and compared them to other white characters so i won't do it here.

these behaviors and reactions aren't planned. they aren't orchestrated. they're quite literally unconscious because they've been lovingly baked into western society for centuries. you can't wake up and be rid of it. whether you intended it or not, it can still be racist.

and it's actually quite hurtful and unfair to imply that concerns about racism in the TL fandom are unfounded or lacking any depth or simply meant to be sensational because you simply don't agree with it. i wish it was different, but it doesn't work that way. i'm not raising this up to 'call out' or shame people, but i'm adding to this discussion because, through how we talk about sam, and even dani and nate, i'm yet again seeing a pattern that has shortchanged people of color and made them feel unwelcome in fandom for far too long.

coach beard said it best: we need to do better.

[trelaundry]

arthur morgan crush headcanons!

How he realises he’s fallen for you:

-he’ll just start randomly drawing you in his journal. like you won’t even be there and he’ll just mindlessly doodle you. -it’s only when someone points out how long he’s just been sat in camp scribbling away that he’ll look down and oh my god what has he done -an entire two pages dedicated to you. your eyes, your hair, your smile, even you just walking around doing chores or talking to someone. he realises he’s been looking at you for the last few days and has just committed the sight of you to memory without even realising he was doing it. -that evening you come back to camp after a long day, and the first thing you wanna do is eat your dinner with arthur like you always do, only today he’s been weirdly silent, his hat covering half his face to hide his blush from being so close to you and his eyes as they observe your every motion. -he just cant believe that after all this time not feeling this way, and after all the time he’s spent lamenting over mary and how he will never love anyone the same way, you just materialise in front of him. the person he will spend the rest of his life loving has been under his nose this entire time. -you’ll put your hand on his shoulder to snap him out of his thoughts and he’ll try to stifle a gasp by clearing his throat. “‘m sorry, what were you saying?” he’ll mumble sheepishly, even loving the way you roll your eyes at him and repeat what you had said. How he acts around his crush:

-you swear you’ve never seen a man look so flustered when you look him in the eyes while you’re talking to him. -he’ll try his hardest to hold your gaze but he can barely get a word out, instead resorting to nods and hums to respond for him -he will follow you around like a needy puppy. any heavy lifting or chores around camp? nope he’ll handle it for you. oh, you’re going out on a job? well, you need some protection, it ain’t safe out there nowadays. you heading clothes shopping in town? he’ll escort you there and pay for your drinks at the saloon as well as a room at the hotel. oh, there’s only one bed? aw shucks. guess we’ll have to share it. it’s cold outside, so i think for your safety you should lie closer to me so i can keep you warm. what do you mean it’s mid july???????? i don’t want you getting sick, alright?! -he actually shows you his drawings of you now. if you drew him it would make him blush outside and do a little happy dance internally. he would keep the drawing with him wherever he went no matter its quality. -he doesn’t have a way with words, so his love language is definitely physical touch. whenever he talks to you he’s holding your arm or your hand or has his hand on your shoulder. any excuse to give you a hug is immediately given, and he’ll even kiss the top of your head before immediately denying it and/or pretending to be called to the other side of camp to avoid having to justify himself -he’ll leave you pressed flowers underneath your bedroll: its turned into a habit whenever he sees a pretty flower on his travels he binds it in his journal and hides it in your belongings for you to find -whenever you get in an argument with someone, whether its miss grimshaw berating you over your attitude or sean getting just a little too handsy with you he will immediately rush to your aid. he’ll resolve the situation one way or another, whether that’s justifying your hotheadedness with your hard work outside of camp or breaking sean’s nose. he’ll ask you afterwards if you’re okay and whether you want him to tell dutch or keep it between you and them. he’ll constantly throw dirty looks at whoever’s wronged you until you tell him to drop it. -he takes you on jobs all the time, but he tells you that he’ll do the shooting since he doesn’t want you to get roughed up. you fight anyway, which only makes him admire you more. he loves the sight of you holding a gun more than he wishes to admit

How he confesses: -now arthur is a patient man, but after a few weeks of this infatuation he’ll lose his composure entirely and just kiss you -it doesn’t matter where you guys are. in camp, on a job, after a gunfight, in the middle of a conversation. he’s not that into pda but this is one of the occasions where all rules are out of the window. he just has to feel you. -it’ll only be a short chaste kiss in case you don’t reciprocate but if you do.... oh boy. -he lets you set the pace and the depth, whether that means wrapping your legs around his waist and taking you back to his tent or keeping you in his embrace for hours. he doesn’t mind at all, heaven is heaven. he immediately gets a huge confidence boost which is why he doesn’t feel self conscious about where this happens -it’ll only be when you break away that he’ll actually tell you how he feels. bashful as all hell, but he’ll hold your gaze as he confesses. he has to be holding some part of you as he speaks, whether his hands are on your waist or cupping your face. he has to have the confirmation all of this is real and he isn’t dreaming. -that’s pretty much the rule going forward: one hand on you at all times ;)

right, that’s set this blog up for a good start! requests are open for pretty much every character from rdr2 so if you’re randomly stumbling upon this feel free to give me some work to do lmao i’m just so in love with this game

[elftwink]

no thoughts only taakitz superhero/villain coffeeshop au. taako’s power is shapeshifting but he has a cool gun from lup. kravitz’s power is Big Fuckin Scythe With Unspecified Abilities. also there was no time to get into it but fantasy starbucks isn’t a real starbucks it’s a borderline illegal unaffiliated bootleg starbucks that taako and lup own. like dumb starbucks was.

By all rights, it should have been a fairly routine night for the Reaper. Go out, stop some crimes, arrive just in time to prevent whatever scheme the Mongoose had cooked up this week, exchange some one liners, make some threats that essentially amounted to ‘same time next week?’, the works. A regular Tuesday as a superhero in Neverwinter.

But Kravitz is tired, and more than a little distracted, so he’s not doing so hot on the one liners, and the Mongoose’s attacks are a little closer than they would normally be. He doesn’t even have a good excuse, it’s not like he’s injured, or that he has anything pressing to think of.

It was just— this morning his barista (who he may or may not have been harbouring a small crush on) had mentioned offhand that he thought the Reaper was ‘probably hot under the stupid all-black getup’, and Kravitz didn’t really know what the protocol was for someone complimenting your alter-ego was.

“I think if you were gonna go for the strong silent type, you had to start doing it months ago. Now it’s just acting like an asshole. Are you mad at me?” the Mongoose cuts into his thoughts, firing off another few missiles from his stupid umbrella gun (Umbrastaff, he called it, although it was a gun and not a staff so Kravitz had no idea why he insisted on calling it that).

“We are literally fighting as we speak,” says Kravitz, playing up the cockney accent, spinning his scythe to deflect the missiles off the blade, sending them ricocheting around the room. He’d said something like ‘how can you tell’ to Taako— the barista (well, they’d been on a first name basis for a few weeks, so, Taako), and he’d said ‘I can just tell’ which was not at all helpful in getting Kravitz through the conversation without saying or doing something to give himself away.

He’d almost given Taako his number, but how was he going to justify that? Hey, it’s me under the all black getup. Do you want to go out sometime? As if.

“You can have fights without being fuckin’ rude,” says the Mongoose, firing off another few rounds, which Kravitz deflects again, advancing on him.

“You’re right, sorry. I’m a bit scattered. Not exactly my A game.” As if to prove his point, the Mongoose easily dodges his next couple swings with the scythe, not even bothering to leave his range.

“Clearly. I mean, normally you’re at least close enough that I can feel the breeze from your sword.”

“It’s not a sword, and you know that.” Kravitz brings down the scythe in the space where the Mongoose was only seconds before, having already backflipped out of the way and landed a few metres back. Show off. Not that Kravitz had room to complain about that. The Mongoose spins to face him again, at least this time seemingly aware of what a close call that was. He’s tense, and his hair, which Kravitz supposes has thus far been hidden underneath his costume, has come somewhat unravelled, black braid falling to the middle of his back.

It seems... familiar?

He doesn’t have time for that right now. Kravitz draws back the scythe, feeling the hum of energy under his fingers, swinging again, and—

“Wait! Time out!” the Mongoose puts up a hand and Kravitz, for who knows what reason, stops his scythe mid-swing. The familiarity sticks, so it’s not just a trick of the light. It takes him a second to place, but the hairstyle... it looks a lot like a certain barista he’d been spending all night thinking about.

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. It’s because he has Taako on the brain, is all. Besides, he has other things to worry about besides seeing his crush in his enemy. Namely the fight currently happening with said enemy. “What? You can’t call a time out.”

“I just did,” says the Mongoose, fishing through his pockets and pulling out several bobby pins, sticking them in his mouth so he can use both hands to fix his hair. Kravitz blinks, still trying to shake off the sense of deja vu, but it won’t quit nagging him. “It’s a whole safety issue to leave long hair down.”

“It’s still in a braid,” retorts Kravitz.

“Somebody never took Foodsafe.” the Mongoose gives him a lopsided grin that Kravitz fucking knows he’s seen before, and suddenly it’s more than just passing familiarity, and how could he possibly have not noticed before, and— the Mongoose finishes putting up his hair, raising an eyebrow at Kravitz and his private crisis. “Alright. Ready—”

“You work at Fantasy Starbucks,” blurts Kravitz, without even thinking about it. The Mongoose stops dead in his tracks, and Kravitz can see his eyes widen even behind the mask. He splutters for a moment, and then seems to find his footing, already ready with a snarky remark.

“Yeah, well— your accent is fake.”

Shit. He’d forgotten. At the only time so far that having it would have been useful too. Still, he pushes it out of his mind; the Mongoose hadn’t denied it. And, well, he’s already solidly derailed this fight, so he might as well get some real confirmation out of it.

“...Taako? It is you, isn’t it?”

“Just who the fuck are y—” The Mongoose— Taako— levels the Umbrastaff at him, and then stops again. “...Kravitz?”

Well. Shit. Again. Kravitz doesn’t bother to affirm that; his silence is more than enough confirmation. One of them has to say or do something, but the seconds stretch on.

“You’re telling me I said all that shit to your face this morning?” says Taako.

“That’s what you’re worried about right now?”

“Uh, yeah—” Taako is backing up now, and they’ve fought enough times that Kravitz knows when the Mongoose is looking for an escape route; Kravitz’s feet still feel glued to the floor, even when Taako reaches the window, fingers already turning to talons around the Umbrastaff. Taako breaks the glass (because of course he does, even though the windows aren’t even fucking locked), breaking eye contact with Kravitz in order to swing his legs through the window before his form changes too much. “Look, this is like, a lot right now, and I— I’m getting the fuck out of here,” he says, and then drops. Whatever had been keeping Kravitz in place, slack jawed, ends as soon as Taako leaves his sight, and he’s moving before he has time to think about it.

“Wait—!” Kravitz runs for the window, but by the time he gets there, the bird clutching the Umbrastaff is nearly out of sight.

Well. That could have gone better.

***

Kravitz doesn’t go for his coffee the next day. Or the next day, either, although the day after that he’s sick of making his own coffee. And frankly, he misses chatting with Taako. Even if the guy was trying to kill him like once a week. He couldn’t just avoid this forever.

Still, the fact that Taako is working cash when he comes in makes him want to turn tail and run back home. He conjures up the memory of yesterday’s shitty coffee and pushes onward. The shop is mostly empty still, so there’s no line.

“The usual?” says Taako, like nothing abnormal has happened.

“Please,” says Kravitz, and then, before he can chicken out entirely, adds, “Uhm, do you have a few minutes?”

“My shift isn’t over until—”

“I’ll cover you,” comes Lup’s voice from the back room; she pokes her head out and gives Taako a look that is clearly significant, but that Kravitz can’t quite puzzle out. “Take five minutes after you’re done making his coffee.”

Taako scowls at her, and she smiles brightly before heading to the back again.

“Okay. I guess I have five minutes. Talk to you after I make your coffee.”

Kravitz nods, and goes to hover around the pickup counter, pretending to be interested in things on his phone. Taako makes his coffee in a ceramic mug, which at least means he doesn’t want Kravitz to get the fuck out as soon as possible, so that’s... something.

Taako slides the finished coffee across the counter, circling around to join Kravitz on the customer side as Kravitz grabs the mug.

“Lup!” he hollers, and then starts walking towards one of the corner booths without checking to see if his sister is headed to cash or if Kravitz is following. Kravitz does, though, sliding himself into the seat opposite Taako, hands wrapped tightly around the mug.

Taako speaks first. “To be honest, I kinda thought you would rat me out.”

“That would be shitty of me, to just sic authorities on your place of work without so much as a warning.”

“So is this the warning?”

“No,” says Kravitz, taking a sip of his coffee, “I... can’t really make coffee without burning it. And this is the only place for miles with tolerable muffins.”

Taako cracks a grin, like Kravitz knew he would. “Flattery will get you nowhere.” His smile falls, and he crosses his arms and leans back. “So. Reaper. Why didn’t you rat me out?”

Why indeed. Kravitz takes another sip of his coffee and thinks for a second, not even sure himself what his explanation will be once he starts talking.

“It didn’t seem... fair. You’re less of a villain and more of a pain in my ass—” Kravitz ignores Taako’s indignant noise and keeps talking, “—and while we always have cause to fight when on the clock, you’re not doing anything that I feel needs to leave the bounds of those... work hours, I guess.”

Taako is trying to pick him apart with his gaze; it’s something he’s been subjected to several times, although normally in costume, and in retrospect it’s difficult to imagine how he spent so long not noticing the Mongoose in Taako.

Whatever Taako is looking for, he must find it, because he relaxes a bit, and shoots him a lazy grin. “Plus, Mongoose related insurance just got rolling and it would be fuckin’ rude to take me out of commission before anyone got to use theirs.”

Kravitz laughs. “Sure.” He’s silent for a second, before adding, “You aren’t planning on revealing my secret identity, are you? Awfully rude of you to double cross me like that.”

“Wha— You didn’t even give me a chance to respond! Maybe I wasn’t!”

“Were you?”

“I was,” admits Taako, not even pretending to look sheepish. Kravitz raises his eyebrows, and Taako shrugs. “Oh, like you didn’t think about revealing my secret identity? And could you imagine the hype if I unmasked the Reaper? I was tempted.” He sighs. “But I figured then you’d have no reason to keep my identity a secret. No way am I risking a backfire like that.”

It sounds callous, but Kravitz has been talking to Taako almost daily for months; at this point, he can pretty reliably pick up on when Taako isn’t being entirely truthful about something.

“Hmm. Then I suppose it’d be in my best interest not to tell you that I wouldn’t reveal your identity even if you revealed mine?”

Taako narrows his eyes. “Why not?”

Kravitz makes a face. “It’s just in poor taste. I just think we all go through all the trouble to hide who we are and use these powers for good— or whatever it is you do— that it’s always going to be such a low blow to reveal who we are. There might be times where it’s necessary, but petty revenge is not one of them.”

Taako’s expression hasn’t changed; if anything, he’s narrowed his eyes more. “God, you are like— fuckin’ irritatingly nice. Fine. I wasn’t going to reveal your identity. That would be fuckin’ annoying to deal with. Plus I’m having fun.”

“Fun?”

“Oh don’t— don’t fucking lie to me. I know you’re having fun out there too. With your stupid accent and one liners and shit.”

“Alright, alright,” says Kravitz, rolling his eyes. “But I’m not supposed to be having fun, so keep it quiet.”

“See, that’s why I market myself as a villain. No dumb rules.” He puts an elbow on the table and leans on his hand. “Why do you have a fake accent anyway?”

Heat rises to Kravitz’s face, and he’s hoping he looks less embarrassed than he feels. “It’s my— I do it so people don’t recognize my voice.”

Taako laughs. “Well, it doesn’t really do that if you immediately stop using it when you realize you might know someone.”

“I was caught off guard!” defends Kravitz. “It’s not every day you find out your nemesis is your barista.”

“Nemesis, huh?” Taako grins. “Didn’t realize it was that serious to you. You know I have other heroes to fight.”

Kravitz rolls his eyes again. “I don’t see how you have the time, considering how often you’re causing trouble for me.”

Taako laughs, and it’s so contagious and the whole conversation is so surreal Kravitz can’t help but laugh too, before they both lapse into a comfortable, if drawn out, silence.

“So, uh,” says Taako eventually, “what now?”

“Well,” says Kravitz, “I want to keep coming in for coffee in the mornings. And I assume the Mongoose will continue with... whatever chaos it is you currently have planned.”

“It’s not chaos,” insists Taako, “I have plans. But yeah. And I assume the Reaper is gonna show up and throw a wrench in those plans?”

“Yes, probably. So we’ll just be enemies by night...” Kravitz trails off, not entirely sure how to refer to their by day relationship. Friends? Potential love interests? Acquaintances? There’s a few seconds of awkward silence before Kravitz gives up entirely.

Taako pulls and pen and a napkin out of his pocket, jotting something down and pushing it towards Kravitz.

“Here’s, uh, here’s my number. If you give me a heads up five minutes before you get here, we can have your coffee ready by the time you walk in. If you’re nice to me out there.”

“I don’t take bribes,” says Kravitz, grabbing the napkin and pulling out his phone to type in the number.

“That wasn’t a bribe, it was a threat. You don’t even wanna know what I’ll do to your coffee if you fuck me up.”

Kravitz doesn’t bother to point out that neither of them have ever caused any extreme bodily harm to one another and instead says, “So you’re asking me to go easy on you? I thought you were having fun.” He sends Taako a ‘hey it’s kravitz’ text before he has time to second guess himself.

“Could you stop poking holes in my threats? You’re harshing my fuckin’ vibe, Krav.” He sounds irritated, but Kravitz can see the smile tugging at his lips as he texts Kravitz a couple of skull emojis. “I should get back to work before my sister kicks my ass,” he says, standing back up. “I’ll see you tonight, nemesis.” Then he turns on his heels and heads back to the counter, saying something to Lup as he walks by. Kravitz watches him disappear into the back room.

Tonight.

Kravitz had better make sure he had hung his cloak up to dry.

[saphirered]

Hopefully, this is not too vague... I was wondering if you could do fluff with Molly; his nickname for the reader is 'princess'. (I have had a rough couple weeks, found out some bad news regarding my dad's health, and am just wanting a little pick-me-up. You are literally my favorite writer of the lavender tiefling trio.)

A load of fluff with some hinted spice coming right up. Sorry about your dad, sweetie and hope things take a more positive turn. Either way, I hope this is the pick-me-up you're looking for. 😘

-

You’re no stranger to waking up alone but never does it stop you from reaching out to the spot next to you. When you’re not met with a soft groan or arms wrapping around you, pulling you close begging for another five minutes of peace you know your lavender tiefling has begun his day before you. Rolling over onto your back you stretch taking in a deep breath. Time to get ready for the day, maybe find some breakfast? Breakfast sounds nice.

Mollymauk walks down the beaten path, a skip in his step and a small bouquet of wild roses clasped in his hand. He’s been up and about for a good hour now and like the good carney he is he’s working on quite the show in his mind; a show that requires the aid of a pretty face, charming smile and honeyed words he alone cannot provide. No he needs assistance and if he plans on getting this assistance he better work for it. Okay, maybe it’s not his plan. Maybe this is all just the result of a major fuck up on his end but still, it will make for some good fun… if all goes well… and you agree… The fact he gets to pamper you is a huge bonus. It’s been a while since he’s gotten the chance to show you just how much you mean to him.

Could Molly just ask for your help? Of course he could. And would you agree to join him on this endeavour? How could you refuse that devilishly handsome man? But where’s the fun in that. Let’s keep things interesting. Raise the stakes a little bit and see where his charm will get him. Or perhaps more, see how long it takes you to catch on tp the mess he made and pray to the Moonweaver you’ll be merciful. A test of his charm perhaps? Whatever excuse best justifies his actions and desires to spoil you rotten.

Stretching your arms with one final yawn you leave your tent. It’s too early to be up but you best keep an eye on your tiefling before he gets himself thrown into jail and you have to break him out… again. Wandering the camp the other members of the Fletching and Moondrop Carnival of Curiosities are waking up and going about their morning business at their own paces. You search for Molly but when you don’t find him you take to the road, following it towards the town. If he’s caused any trouble there you’d find out soon enough.

A lovely melody reaches Molly’s ears. He knows exactly who it belongs to and hears you before he sees you. All he needs to do is follow your song. Curving over the elevation of the path he spots you, lost in thought. Smile on his face he approaches you, flowers behind his back, and joins in whistling along to the melody. The way your eyes light up at the realisation of his presence are enough to make his heart melt knowing that one creature could look upon him with such unconditional love.

“Good morning, your royal highness.” Mollymauk takes a bow befitting of greeting royalty if not a little exaggerated and offers you the flowers. While he tries to keep his gaze on the ground you catch him peaking for your response as you take the flowers from his grasp breathing in their scent.

“Good morning to you too. And thank you, I should say? What’s the occasion?” You ask, not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth but you can’t help feel a little suspicious at Molly’s very deliberate theatrics.

“Can a most loyal servant not present his beloved princess with flowers?” Molly rises and you get the slightest flash of fang from the smile he offers you.

“You know I am never one to deny your gifts and gestures of affection. What I’m referring to are your apparent needs for theatrics.” You speak with eloquence feeling yourself slipping into the same act he’s putting on. Dammit Mollymauk, for playing into your actor side and letting you slip up into the role he’s setting you up for. You know damn well he’s aware of what he’s doing.

“I am merely your humble servant. A humble servant with impeccable manners.” You snort as Molly offers you his arm. You lace yours through his and he begins leading you back the way you came.

“Impeccable manners you say? Because I recall not but two nights ago copious amounts of drinks, illegal gambling and theft were involved. And let’s not even mention the… desecration of the fountain within the gaze of the Platinum Dragon’s statue.”

“You say that as if those of noble birth do not partake in such activities, princess.” Molly counters. Touché. As you’re about to take a step to the right fork of the road Molly gently pulls you into the left direction instead. Confused you give him another suspicious look but he hushes you leading you down the path.

You find yourself retreating within your thoughts trying to pinpoint whatever shenanigans Molly is up to, planning or has been up to and why the need to be secretive instead of just telling you. Molly couldn’t hope for a better moment for you to stop your interrogation for he fears any more prodding around for answers and he will spill the beans and come clean. He can’t hide a single thing from you when you’re determined and he knows it.

The path slowly turns from trodden earth to more fine sand until it fades into the beach. The sound of waves and a seagull or two make for a pleasant setting. You see just far enough away from the shoreline as to not become victim to the tides, is a basket set on top of a blanket. Molly leads you over, guides you to sit upon the blanket gracefully before plopping down himself with much less show. Within the basket you spot several packed goods. Molly takes a few out and sets them down upon the blanket, unwrapping them as he goes. Some bread, a selection of fine jams, some cheese and delicious sugary sweet pastries.

“Okay, time to drop the act. While I appreciate all this, what did you do and how bad is it?” Molly takes out a bottle of what looks like expensive champagne along with two glasses and pours them, handing one to you.

“What makes you say that?” Molly takes a sip playing it cool and innocent.

“The top shelf bottle of champagne that is very much above our collective pay grades. Where did you even get this?” You take a sip. It’s not bad but not the greatest you’ve ever had either. A weird taste that can only be suitable for some upscale party or the nobility passes out to their guests to impress them simply because of the associated name and or price tag. What can you say? Rich people.

Molly hesitates but drops the innocent act. Best he comes clean now. You’ve caught on fully. Game over. But that definitely doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy this delicious breakfast with him, can you? Mollymauk takes a slice of the fresh bread, adding a nice layer of strawberry jam and takes a bite. At least the expensive jam was worth the money. Then again, it wasn’t his money that paid for it. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t money well spent.

“Now, I need you to promise me one thing first, love. Promise me you’ll let me tell you the whole thing before you judge my poor decision making.”

“I can do that.” You lean back and relax taking one of the pastries and taking a bite. Bearclaws with cinnamon? Delicious. Let’s hope for Molly’s sake it will keep your judgement somewhat at bay.

“When we were doing our usual rounds and you were off on your own I may or may not have let it slip to someone who happens to be part of the local nobility, several someones to be more precise, that you may or may not be a princess in hiding. And I may or may not have played a little bit too deeply into the story…”

“Okay, that’s not actually that bad?” Just wait for the second part. It gets worse. On second thought. He may be regretting telling you and not just convincing you to hide away for the next few days in town until you’re back on the road.

“And these poor suckers may have fact checked it finding some evidence of a princess from another continent who supposedly is traveling in disguise. They came to see the show and I want you to remember they left a most generous donation along with an invitation for you to attend a ball held in your honour.” Molly awaits your response as you stop mid bite.

“So they left an invitation for a princess? What about it? Just don’t show up and done.”

“That would work if the local lord did not gently hinted at exposing said princess and sending the guards to return them to their family as they ran away and the good favour of either side of that royal family should greatly benefit this town. I’m sorry, princess but your presence has been demanded.”

Okay… This is bad. You do not feel like being hunted by the guards and it’s not like you can make an inconspicuous escape now people might look at you as royalty. You set down the pastry clasp your hands together closing your eyes. You inhale and exhale deeply as Molly briefly fears for his life.

“You… really need to learn to hold that tongue of yours, Molly. It’s getting you in all sorts of trouble.” He bites back a comment about using that tongue of his for plenty of other good things. He’s having trouble reading where you stand on this all and doesn’t know wether you’re upset with him or disappointed or if he has to be the one running for his life soon.

“Let’s talk to Orna and get some appropriate dress for the occasion ready and wearable even if that means she’ll have to sew us into our garments.” You sigh.

“Us?” He questions and he does not like the mischievous look on your face. Whatever you’re plotting, he hopes you have mercy on his soul.

“Oh, I will not be attending on my own. No, a princess does not go anywhere without their loyal servant. A princess needs their escort to attend to their every whim.” You hold your chin high as you move to sitting on your knees pushing your palm flush against his chest exercising a little pressure to push him to lean back onto his elbows.

“Every whim you say?” Molly asks with a devilish grin as you swing one leg over him gently keeping him in place with your body and wrapping your arms around his neck playing with the short hairs at the back of his neck. Maybe the turnout isn’t so bad.

“‘Every whim you say, princess’.” You correct mimicking his grin and leaning in closer. Molly goes to close the distance but you raise your index finger to his chin. “Ah-ah.”

“May I not kiss you now, ‘princess’?” He mocks and you give him a stern look.

“It’s unbecoming of a mere servant to make such a bold move.” You pull on his hair when Molly tries to land a kiss on your cheek rather enjoying the turn of events this morning.

“Yet you appear to be the one in full control.”

“He knows his place. Good boy.” You praise with a pat to his cheek and you guide his face to yours, your lips meeting in a deep kiss, the food forgotten. Molly’s hands dance over from your hips to your lower back pulling you closer to him. You earn an unsatisfied grumble when you pull away a moment too soon.

“Must you torture me so with your touch, princess?” Molly laughs fully aware what direction this is going, raising a hand to caress your cheek fondly.

“Will you finally learn how to behave?” You trace the peacock feathers curving up the side of his neck and jaw. You don’t get a verbal reply but instead Molly’s lips find their way to your neck leaving a trail of kisses and little bites as he goes enough to make you giggle and squeal in surprise whenever he finds just the right spot, taking your mind far away from the details of the fuck up that lead you here in the first place. Not that you mind anymore. If this is the treatment you get for being dragged into one of Mollymauk’s lies gone south you’ll gladly take it a thousand times over.

[ragingbookdragon]

Each Word Gets Lost In The Echo PT. 1

Roy Harper x Batbrother!Reader

Word Count: 2.9K Warnings: Explicit Language, Mature Themes

Author's Note: I had way too much fun with this but PT. 2 is going to be angsty and y'all are gonna hate me for it. >:) Enjoy! -Thorne

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So, are you planning on getting us together soon?

He hummed in response, pulling out the pan and spatula. “I dunno. With Gutierrez’s wife giving birth, I want Esmeralda to have some time with her daughter before we pull out again. I know her Samantha wants her home.”

Understood, but…what’s happening in Syria…it’s not going to get better on its own.

“I know it won’t, Nadeen. But until we get a mission from somebody overseas, we can’t exactly go out.” He pulled a few eggs from the refrigerator, cracking them on the rim of the pan, watching the yellow yolks fall in. “Besides, it’s the first week of a three-month leave.” He smirked. “Don’t tell me you’re already bored.”

Are you kidding me? Um and Ab have grounded me from flying. I’m stuck here, (Y/N).

“How is your family by the way? Wasn’t your sister attending the Cairo University?” he asked.

Yeah, and Um is so proud of her.

(Y/N) chuckled, whisking the eggs in the pan. “Someone’s jealous.”

Well, I can’t exactly tell my parents I work for an illegal black ops squad. Kinda puts dampers in relationships.

“Nadeen, we’re not an illegal squad. We’re government sanctioned.”

The fuck we are. They just don’t bother us because they know they can’t kill us all.

Grabbing the pepper, he ground some into the pan. “Jesus, take a vacation, Nadeen. Go to France or something.”

Fuck France. I’ll go to Saint Petersburg first. Oh shit, speaking of SP, have you spoken to Vitsina yet?

(Y/N) frowned, setting down the pepper grinder. “Why? Is something wrong?”

What? No. I was just wondering if you had. She really needs to get a hobby. Hey, maybe I can get her and Walker to come hang out with me at home.

“You’re not going to get Walker out of his flat, Nadeen. You know how he is when he gets on leave.”

And what about Nakamoto?

“You know they’re both paranoid. Remember to—” something clanged down the hallway and he stopped, mid-sentence, going silent.

Hello? (Y/N)? Captain, you alright?

He frowned and turned off the stove, opening a drawer at the far end of the counter. Pulling out the Glock, he cocked it and murmured, “Asghar, lemme call you back.”

Ten-four, Captain. Be careful.

The line went dead, and he crept to the edge of the doorway and paused, inhaling sharply before he peeked around the corner, gun ready. Nothing. (Y/N)’s frown only deepened as he moved down the hallway, quiet and breathless. He got to the first room in the hall, his study and he shifted against the wall, listening for movement. When he heard nothing, he moved slightly, gun pointed into the door as he swept the room. Empty.

Exhaling deeply, he started to move when he heard the noise again and he peeked out the door to his bedroom. There. (Y/N) crept along the wall again until he was at the doorway and he leaned against the frame, listening carefully. Something was in there. Something or someone, he didn’t know what, but he did know.

(Y/N) waited until the noise got closer then turned the doorway and moved in. Someone’s hand shot out, grabbing the gun and he grunted, throwing up his elbow into their jaw. The intruder cried and with their free hand, grabbed (Y/N)’s shirt and yanked; they went tumbling to the ground, the gun falling away, but he didn’t waste his chance, scrambling atop the stranger as he went for the Strider he had in his back pocket.

He flicked it out and brought it down when the person beneath him grabbed it with one hand, the other ripping off the hood he wore. “(Y/N)! It’s me!”

“Roy?”

The archer sighed and went slack beneath him. “God, yes, it’s me!”

(Y/N) relaxed and tossed the knife to the side, hanging his head down. “Jesus Fuck Roy, I thought you were an assassin.”

“Get those often?” he shot back and (Y/N) glowered at him.

“Yeah, I do actually.” He rolled off Roy and got to his feet, holding out his hand for him to take.

“God, remind me not to sneak up on you again.” He let himself be tugged up and rubbed his jaw. “I thought you dislocated my jaw for a second.”

(Y/N) shoved a finger in his face. “You’re lucky you managed to grab the gun because I almost shot your ass.” He bent down and picked up his Glock and knife, putting the latter back in his pocket after he’d flicked it shut. “Are you some kind of idiot? Why the fuck didn’t you just knock on the door? What possibly justified sneaking into a mercenary’s bedroom through the window?”

Roy shrugged. “I thought you weren’t home yet.”

He opened his mouth to retort, then shut it and nodded. “Alright, that’s actually not a terrible excuse.” Sighing, he shoved past Roy and walked down the hall into the kitchen, the archer following him. “But don’t do it again.”

“Why? Worried you were gonna shoot your boyfriend?” Roy teased, wrapping his arms around (Y/N)’s waist, nuzzling into his neck.

“Yeah, I was.” He put the gun back in the drawer and lugged the archer towards the stove where he flicked the burner back on. “Next time just text me and ask if I’m home.”

Roy hummed, pressing a kiss just above the mercenary’s collar. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Well,surprise me you did,” (Y/N) griped. “I seriously thought I was about to have a firefight in my own damn apartment.” He paused, seeming to remember something and said, “I live in a penthouse.” Glancing at Roy, he questioned, “How the fuck did you get up here?”

“I’ve got skills, babe,” Roy grinned, waggling his brows and (Y/N) rolled his eyes before tapping the Bluetooth headset at his ear.

“Call Nadeen.” It pinged for a few moments.

Captain, you’re back. Everything good?

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Roy was in the apartment.”

You live in a penthouse? How’d he get up there?

“His ‘skills’ apparently.”

Nice. He still going around with your brother?

(Y/N) nodded forgetting she wasn’t in front of him and reclined into Roy as the eggs started cooking. “Yeah. Got a new gig as Red Hood and Arsenal.”

Roy blinked. “Wait, does your squad know…about you know…”

He waved and (Y/N) completed, “That my family and friends are vigilantes? Yeah. Why?”

“Isn’t that a breach of security?”

He snorted. “You act like my squad is friends with every government in the world, baby.” He shook his head. “I trust my team with everything. And in return they trust me with theirs.”

Aww, Captain you do care.

“Does your dad know that they know?”

(Y/N) shrugged. “Probably. But he doesn’t tell me how to live my life and I don’t tell him how to live his.” He scrambled the eggs. “Nadeen, go hang out with Vitsina for a week or two if you’re really that bored.”

She’s back in Russia right now, isn’t she?

“I think so. Said she had a loose end to tie up with Antonovich.”

Oh shit, she’s gonna fucking kill that guy. She might need air support then.

“Hence why I said go hang out with her.”

Wanna come along? You could bring your boy-toy?

“Did she just call me a boy-toy?” Roy blurted. “Excuse you, I am not a boy-toy. I am a boy-man.”

Well, from the pictures Captain’s showed us, you are in fact a boy-toy, Roy.

He blinked and looked at (Y/N). “What pictures did you show them?”

“Nothing,” he coughed. “Nadeen, shut up.”

The ones with the red lace and matching heels.

“You didn’t.” Roy breathed. “You showed them the pin-up photos?!”

(Y/N)’s mouth fell open and closed as he vaguely gestured around. “I didn’t directly show them. Nakamoto hacked my phone like the nosy asshole he is and found ‘em.”

“So that means you still showed them because you apparently didn’t stop them from seeing!”

Oh, look at that, Captain, Ab is calling me. Talk later!

She hung up on him and (Y/N) huffed a laugh, pulling the device from his ear. He set it aside and shrugged out of Roy’s arms, pulling two plates out of the cabinet beside them. He plated the food, smirking at the flush across Roy’s cheeks. “Oh, don’t tell me you’re embarrassed, baby?”

“You showed my nudes to your black ops squad. It’s hot. Ridiculously hot. But also embarrassing.”

“If it makes you feel any better, they were very impressed with them.”

Roy tried and failed horribly to hide the grin coming over his lips. “…They were?”

(Y/N) set down the plates and got up in Roy’s personal space and flirted, “Oh absolutely baby. They were so stunned at how pretty you looked all dolled up in that red teddy, your lips painted crimson.” He gripped Roy’s hips and pulled them flush together, and while Roy was about five-eleven, (Y/N) had a couple inches on him. He smirked when he felt the definition in Roy’s jeans. “Wanna know what my favorite picture is?”

Roy swallowed thickly, one hand coming to grab at the island behind him, the other grabbing (Y/N)’s shoulder. “Which—which one?”

He pressed a kiss to the underside of the archer’s jaw, trailing his lips to his ear where he breathed, “The one where you’re bent down on the bed…” he reached up behind Roy’s back and tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck. “Your ass is up in the air and...”

“Uh huh, what else?” Roy begged, hips canting forward.

“God, you’ve got that pretty red flush across your cheeks.” (Y/N) whispered. “You looked incredibly ravishing.” He breathed in Roy’s ear. “We were on that mission in Kazakhstan for two whole months and all I could think about was getting back home and drilling you into the mattress until you couldn’t walk.”

“(Y/N)…” the archer groaned shamelessly. “Babe, please.”

He smirked, pressing a kiss to Roy’s cheek. “I didn’t show them that one though,” he said, pulling away without a second thought, picking up the plates. “I kept that one to myself. It’s still in my wallet if you wanna go check. I look at it a lot.”

(Y/N) wandered towards the living room and plopped down on the couch, propping his legs up on the coffee table. He snorted when he heard Roy’s moan of frustration followed by the man stomping into the living room with the other plate in his hand, the free one adjusting the front of his jeans.

“I hate you.” He scowled, sitting on the other end of the couch. “I hate you so fucking much it’s not funny.”

(Y/N) shrugged and picked up the remote, switching the channels until he found a football game to watch. “You snuck into my penthouse and almost made me shoot you point blank.” He shot Roy a grin. “I guess we’re both doing things to each other we don’t like.”

“I thought you weren’t home!”

“Mhm. Punishment is still a punishment, baby.” He turned up the volume and dug into his eggs. “Jason know you’re in Gotham City?”

Roy swallowed the food in his mouth, answering, “Told him I was in the area.”

“You know he’s gonna wanna see you.” (Y/N) replied. “If not to hang out, to make sure you’re not into trouble.”

“Are you saying I’m trouble, babe?” Roy retorted and he chuckled.

“You’re my kind of trouble.”

The archer went silent, and his cheeks flushed. “…That was a low blow.”

(Y/N) winked. “Uh huh.” His side vibrated and he reached down, pulling his phone out.

“Who is it?” Roy asked.

“Alfred.” He slid his thumb along the bottom and put it to his ear. “Hello, you’ve reached the answering machine of your favorite grandson. How may I assist you today, grandpa?”

You’re absolutely hysterical, Master (Y/N). You should go into comedy.

“I would but it doesn’t pay that well unlike merc missions.”

Hmm…how are you today, Master (Y/N)?

He smiled. “Not too bad Alfie. Could’ve eaten a perfect parfait with fresh fruit and granola, but beggars can’t be choosers, huh?”

You did miss an excellent breakfast if I do say so myself. Nevertheless, it is Sunday morning. Shall I expect you later tonight for dinner?

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Alfie.” (Y/N) agreed.

Wonderful. I shall set out an extra plate in case you decide to invite Master Harper. Have a good day. Until tonight, sir.

The line clicked and (Y/N) pulled the phone from his ear, staring at it in confusion. “Babe? What’s wrong?” Roy questioned.

He shook his head. “Alfred knew you were here.”

“What? He did?”

He looked up at Roy. “Yeah…said he was going to set out an extra plate for you tonight at dinner in case you wanted to come.”

“I get to come to the Wayne Family Sunday Night Dinner? Really?” he seemed awfully excited.

“Dude, it’s just dinner.”

“That you guys do every Sunday night and don’t allow anybody to tread on,” Roy retorted with a glare. “This is special.”

(Y/N) rolled his eyes. “Are you that eager to be introduced to the family?” he dodged the pillow Roy threw at him. “But…if you wanna come, you’re free to.”

“Really?” Roy doubted. “You want me to come over? I thought you wanted to keep this quiet?”

He sighed and pulled his legs from the table, setting the plate on it. “It’s not that I want it to stay a secret. It’s just…I worry about it.”

Roy set his plate down on the coffee table and scooted close. “What about?”

“I don’t know, Roy. I’m just worried that the more people that know about us the more danger I put you in.”

“Babe…” Roy started, placing a hand on the other side of (Y/N)’s cheek so he could turn his face to the archer’s. “We both live dangerous lives. There’s always going to be danger surrounding us.”

“I know,” (Y/N) sighed, leaning into Roy’s hand. “I still worry though. About you…about us.” He met those evergreen eyes. “I’m just worried that every time I leave, it’s going to be the last time we see each other.”

Roy chuckled. “Afraid I’m going to get offed?”

“No,” he murmured, turning his lips into Roy’s palm. “That I will.”

The archer gaped at him. “(Y/N)…why haven’t you told me about this?”

“Because I’m a super soldier who was trained to keep my emotions under control by an anal retentive, over glorified kitchen scale of a father.” (Y/N) deadpanned, then heaved an even bigger sigh and rested his forehead against Roy’s shoulder. “You’ve got enough on your plate.”

“Yeah, Jaybird keeps me pretty busy with missions.”

He chuckled. “Gonna have to tell my little brother to let my boyfriend have a break.”

“Break smeak.” Roy quipped, pressing a kiss to (Y/N)’s temple. “Listen to me, you’re a strong man, (Y/N). You’re probably the best out of your family. Smart and skilled off the charts.” He ran his calloused fingers down his lover’s neck. “If anyone is going to get out alive on a mission, it’ll always be you. Always.”

He sighed, turning his nose into Roy’s neck as he whispered. “You think so?”

Roy smiled, gripping his chin lightly to pull his head up. “I don’t think so, babe. I know so.” He leaned forward and pressed his lips to (Y/N)’s. “I love you,” he murmured against the soldier’s lips. “So much.”

(Y/N) hummed and pressed a hand to Roy’s chest, shoving him backwards onto the couch and he crawled atop him. “I love you more,” he replied and pulled his shirt off his body before pressing his hand to Roy’s chest, except the archer hissed and he let up. “What’s wrong?” he worried, and he shook his head.

“Nothing.”

“Roy.” He warned, cocking a brow. “Where are you hurt?” he asked, pressing the same spot again.

“Ow! Stop that!” Roy grunted. “It’s tender.”

“What’s tender?” (Y/N) inquired and Roy sighed.

“I got a new tattoo.”

He narrowed his eyes and gazed down at him. “Of?”

“Nothing.” The archer muttered, though pink was coming across his cheeks and he sighed.

“C’mon Roy. Talk or I’ll tease it out of you.” He shot him a glare. “And you know I will.”

They stared one another down for a minute then Roy sighed and pulled his shirt off and (Y/N) peeled away the bandage. His eyes went wide when he saw the silver spartan helmet atop the black shield, the gold lettering underneath.

“Is this…”

“Your squad designation?” Roy offered. “Yeah…thought it seemed right.”

(Y/N) traced the raised flesh, eyes flashing to Roy’s when he shivered from the calloused touch. “I can’t believe you got my squads symbol tattooed on your chest.”

“You don’t like it?” he sounded hurt.

“I love it,” (Y/N) huffed, gesturing to his own tattoo on his ribs. “We match now…though you forgot to put your name inside the shield.”

“Well, I’m not technically a Spectre, (Y/N).” Roy said.

“Maybe not, but that’s still where your name goes.” He retorted and smiled. “It’s awesome, baby.”

Roy’s thumb brushed his hipbone. “So does the tattoo get me out of punishment for sneaking in?”

(Y/N) smirked down at him. “It just might.” He reached down and tugged the front of Roy’s pants. “Why don’t you show me how sorry you are for it? I just might decide to forgive you before subjecting you to dinner with my family.”

A multitude of emotions flashed through Roy’s eyes. Arousal, desire, need, and then surprise. “Oh shit, I forgot about dinner.”

“Seriously?” (Y/N) blinked, unsurprised. “God you’re such a man.” He crawled out of Roy’s lap much to the archer’s dismay and groaning.

“Where are you going?”

He paused and looked back at him. “I’m not fucking you on my couch, Roy.” He started towards his bedroom. “Hurry up or I’ll start without you.”

Roy rolled off the couch and to his feet as fast as he could.

[jolynej]

I’m Not in Love

Summary: You and Prosciutto, both determined to keep things casual, are sent out on a mission to eliminate a target, but something goes wrong and you end up hurt, forcing Prosciutto to come to terms with his feelings

A/N: I started this weeks ago, but have been so busy that I haven’t had time to properly finish it until now! I’m a very slow writer, and I struggle with creating longer fics that exceed 1k words, so this was a huge labor of love! I hope that y’all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Warnings: heavily implied nsft, violence, guns, minor character death, blood, Prosciutto being a bit of an asshole, fainting

You both told each other when you made this arrangement that it was strictly physical and that you were only doing this out of convenience and carnal desire. Sure, he’s very attractive, and you’d be lying if you hadn’t thought about lingering in bed and pretending that you’re still asleep if only to savor his body heat and the weight of his arm across your torso for a few more minutes. But you couldn’t possibly cross that line.

The lives that both you led didn’t allow for the luxury of developing and maintaining romantic — or any, really — relationships that were outside of your work. You’d lost friends and family members to the steady passage of time and lack of communication. It came with the territory of the job, and though you’d tried to justify your drifting relationships by assuring yourself that it was done to protect those you used to hold close, you knew that was just an excuse you told yourself so that you could sleep at night.

The initial adjustment to your new job was tough in that aspect, but Prosciutto, aside from being your mentor, slowly became a comfort and a confidant for your bouts of anxiety and late night regrets of leaving your old life behind. You’d joined him outside at night on the balcony of the hideout plenty of times. He would self-soothe with cigarettes, exhaling out his demons in the shape of a puff of smoke whilst he listened to you reminisce on your happier, less bloody days.

“It’s a damn shame you’re so good at you job,” he’d told you one particular night, when the orange and white city lights below cast a bright glow over his sharp features; yet simultaneously, it accentuated the dark circles under his eyes, and the shadows beneath those jagged angles of his cheekbones and jawline made him look far older than he was. Prosciutto looked beautiful as he did horrible.

You just shook your head and smirked, inquiring, “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Kid, there were many different paths that you could’ve picked from,” He stops briefly to take a drag of his cigarette. “But this is what you opted for.” The blond flicked his cigarette and snuffed it with the toe of his oxfords, answering with, “All I’m saying is that you had your whole life ahead of you, and instead of getting a normal, decent job, you decided that this was worth the Louboutins and those diamond earrings of yours.”

“It’s good that it ended up working out for you.”

His compliments were usually pretty backhanded, but you could tell that this wasn’t just because of his usual condescending behavior. He seemed almost... sad and guilty, but then again, it could just be from the shadows on his face exaggerating his features.

“I’m glad you’re damn good at your job, too,” you remarked, leaning against the railing, savoring in the feeling of the warm, summer night wind caressing your face.

Soon, you found the touch against your cheeks was replaced by his calloused fingers and then his lips, giving birth to a routine that would continue every-so-often: you’d join him outside at night and would wake up in bed next to him in a tangle of limbs and satin sheets.

Maybe it was only natural that you and him would end up growing closer and more intimate.

—

This little arrangement between the two of you continues, and with each time you bare yourself to him, you struggle with your developing feelings. After you had slept together that first night — before you had a real chance to give yourself a proper chance to evaluate your own feelings — he assured you that the prior night’s events had meant nothing to him, that it was a mistake. He apologized, confessing that the rendezvous had stemmed from a place of pent up arousal and convenience and that it wouldn’t happen again.

That’s what he’d said the second, and third, time too. But by the fourth time, you’d both decided to become ‘coworkers with benefits’ as you’d so eloquently put it. It’s purely out of physical need and mutual trust and nothing else. There’s no time for romance.

—

The following spring, you were sent out together to a job on the coast, and were given a shared room at a hotel near the warehouse where your target was supposedly going to be tonight. The assignment had worked in your favor, you’d both arrive mid-morning, have time to scout out the location, go back to the room for a quick fuck, then proceed to the location, clean up, and spend the night between the sheets until you both passed out from sheer exhaustion.

“The target should be on location this evening,” he informs you casually as he’s sliding on his trousers, as if he hadn’t just fucked you into the mattress. He gives his watch a quick glance before speaking again. “Which gives us approximately an hour before we need to head out.”

You nod, reaching for your clothes — his hand stops you, grasping your wrist. “Let me clean you up first,” he says, briefly locking eyes with you, before averting his gaze just as quickly. “If you’re going out you should at least be comfortable.”

While Prosciutto walks off to the bathroom to retrieve a glass of water and a washcloth, you look down at your naked body. Your combined releases dribble down your thighs, and you’re suddenly hyperaware of the sticky, wet sensation on your lower body.

He’s back approximately a minute later, the glass is set upon the nightstand, and he’s kneeling, still shirtless, at your feet with the wet washcloth in hand. He cleans you up in relative silence, and the intimacy and vulnerability in this situation is not lost on either of you. It hangs around like a heavy fog that both of you desperately try to ignore, hoping that it’ll dissipate.

Under different circumstances, you’d love to be able to cradle his chin in your hand and confess every single romantic thought that you’d ever held for him, and in turn, he’d press tender kisses up your thighs, and trade the rag for his tongue, cleaning you up with a few slow licks. Instead, you give him a curt, ‘thank you’ and get dressed.

Your little trysts were littered with subtle, more domestic moments like this one where you wanted to push the boundary between what is and isn’t appropriate when you’re in a friends-with-benefits situation with your coworker. Even without the romance that you so desperately craved, there was still a strong sense of intimacy and familiarity with each ‘Was I too rough?’ or ‘You can sleep in here tonight’ that could only stem from a certain level of trust and comfort.

The rest of the time leading up to your assignment was spent going over your plan of attack and working out any loose ends or confusion on either side, and as he spoke, you couldn’t help but allow your eyes to travel down to his plush lips and the exposed patch of skin from his half-buttoned blouse that, when he shifted at a certain angle, allowed for you to catch a glimpse of a dark red bruise where your lips had been.

You were passing the threshold, the imaginary line. You’d stepped on it, gotten it stuck to your feet, and try as you may to deny its presence and scrub it clean from your skin — you could scrub it raw, until you bled — it wasn’t something you could erase.

As he’s stepping out of the hotel room, you glance back to ask him if he’s ready, but you’re caught off guard by the buttons of his shirt. They’re all closed completely save for a lone button rendering the bruise no longer visible. Inquisitively, the blond quirks up an eyebrow, silently asking if there’s a problem.

“I’m just ready to get this over with,” you sigh, matching your stride with his as you both exit the hotel and journey to the warehouse.

The target doesn’t show as planned, much to your and Prosciutto's dismay and annoyance. You had both searched the large building and its surroundings as thoroughly as possible but still the target hasn’t made an appearance. There aren’t even any hidden clues as to where he’s run off to. As pissed as you both felt in that moment — you were cursing to yourself and your partner was leaning against a metal structure with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth — Risotto was going to be absolutely furious.

Unlike most contracts where you were paid after the deed or half before and half after, the client had paid a hefty sum up front and with a dark leer he was insistent that the job be completed as soon as possible. Something deep within you knew that he would not be the type of man whose bad side you’d like to be on.

Defeated and angry, you both decided to bite the bullet and head back to the hotel to inform your superior of the unfortunate situation. Just outside of the hotel, Prosciutto glances over at a payphone on the street corner.

“Go on inside and shower and eat, kid, I’ll talk to Risotto.”

“Are you sure? We can speak to him together, or I can just sp—“ He cut you off with a hand patting your cheek, gently thumbing your skin. He was stressed and so were you.

“Don’t make me change my mind,” he manages a tiny half-smile. “I’ve got it.”

Yeah, you are stressed as all hell, but at least you didn’t have to be at the receiving end of Risotto’s wrath — for tonight anyway. Thinking about Prosciutto opting to do so in your stead and acting out of concern for you sends a cacophony of butterflies fluttering around in your stomach. He has always looked out for you ever since you’d joined, but this was something more than just him looking out for a junior member of his team. There was no way that he’d touch Formaggio or even Pesci like that, with such a pure tenderness that leaves your skin tingling from where his fingers were.

Making your way up the stairs to your shared room, the sensation of butterflies immediately flees from your stomach and instead, an eerie, insidious feeling begins to tiptoe up your spine, and you get the sense that something is very, very wrong.

One of the hall lights has gone out, and the other is flickering in random spasms as it emits a faint buzz. With each step towards your door, the broken light fixture seems to dim and buzz louder until it makes one final loud screech and dies completely the moment that you touch the door handle, and as soon as your fingers gripped the metal handle, an overpowering jolt of electricity fizzles throughout your entire body, sending you doubling over in pain, desperately croaking out for your stand as you fall to the dingy carpet.

The world around you seemed to morph into blackness and little snippets of sounds — you weren’t sure if you were still awake or if you’d lost consciousness — but you clung onto what you could decipher to the best of your ability. Static, the plodding footfall of someone running on carpet with urgency, the unmistakable click of a gun, a heavy thud, then silence.

You crane your head and espy a familiar pair of oxfords, and with a sigh of relief you feel your eyes grow heavy.

—

You come-to in the backseat of a car, and if it weren’t for the intensity of the events before you passed out, you would’ve happily shut your eyes to the steady thrum of the car speeding down the road. A bubble of panic rises up your throat, throwing your senses in overdrive as you carefully assess your surroundings. You find that a suit jacket has been draped over you like a makeshift blanket, and the familiar scent of cologne, tobacco, and cigarette-smoke is an instant relief.

Looking up, you find Prosciutto is in the driver’s seat of the car with a plain, white tank top in the place of his button-up. The bones of his knuckles are prominent due to the strain and force of his grip on the steering wheel, and they’re dotted with specks of red that extend up to his forearms.

There’s an evident scowl on his lips, which are scabbed and bloody from worrying teeth marks and not from — what you can safely assume given the sound you’d heard earlier — a gunshot to the man that had been in your hotel room.

“The target was dealt with,” he says upon seeing you awake, and he disguises it with a cough, but his entire face softens with a relieved sigh. The visible tension in his bulging veins on his forearms eases along with the death-grip that he has on the steering wheel; Prosciutto settles one hand on his thigh, splaying his fingers out on the fabric of his trousers, feeling for something in his pocket — cigarettes most likely. He’s still antsy and tense, alternating between his hands on the wheel to search his other pocket.

You have a myriad of questions wreaking havoc on your brain, which is still a bit fuzzy from the electricity and has brought on a dull headache. With the blazer clenched tightly to your chest, you fiddle around until you find a pack of his smokes and pull them out, holding them in the air with a dopey, lopsided grin that says ‘lookee here!’. It earns a playful eye roll and a smirk from Prosciutto who brings his hand back to take them from you.

When you offer the box up, your fingers brush, and you swear that he leaves his hand extended towards you a moment longer than necessary. The sensation sends a full-body chill through your veins.

“Put the coat on, kid, I don’t want you freezing up and getting sick in the car.” He’s staring straight out at the road, but you know the sentiment is there, beneath the layer of sweat and blood there’s worry. “Go back to sleep,” he orders in that gravelly, stern but caring tone of his that he uses on you when he gives you orders, and only you. In a way, it’s not that much different from how he talks in bed, and the familiarity has you warm all over. God, you’re in love with this man.

“I’ll wake you up in about an or two, capisce?”

—

You’re awoken by Prosciutto opening the door of the backseat and calling your name. You can barely see him, he’s almost a dark, looming figure in the night. The sky in the countryside is worlds away from the city skyline that you’re accustomed to. Behind him, there’s a sea of twinkling stars, and the bright crescent moon hangs proudly behind his head like a half-halo, and he appears to you like a fallen angel, still clinging on desperately to something good and holy that someone like him does not deserve. In his right hand, he holds a shovel, and his arms and face and tank top are caked in the weight of his sins, blood and dirt and sweat; you surmise that the closer you get to him, the less the moon resembles a halo and moreso a pair of horns. Again, the night is playing tricks on you.

“I’ve buried the remains,” he explains. “I decided it would be easiest to just take care of it myself until we can get you checked out. We don’t know the full extent of the damage that you’ve received or what effects that my stand could have on you in this state.” It’s a poor excuse, and you both know it, but it’s easier for him to lie to you when his facial expressions are harder to see.

Still, you don’t know if it’s from the adrenaline in your blood, your feelings for him, or some leftover electricity that’s done something to your brain, but you decide to call him out.

Sitting upright, you say, “I still could’ve helped, Prosci, otherwise there would be no point for me to come on this mission with you. You’ve done more than enough to help me, and I… I really appreciate everything that you’ve done to help me, but I have to work to earn my share of the payment!

“I can’t just lie back and let you treat me like some doll or damsel in distress!” You spout, wadding up his blazer and tossing it at him. He catches it with a growl, and the shovel clatters to the ground with a resounding clang.

He’s crawling across the backseat, hovering over you like a mangy beast; truthfully, you don’t think that you’ve ever seen him look so unhinged and disheveled. His scent bears no resemblance to the comforting aroma of his suit-jacket, and instead, he emits a pungent odor of grime and sweat, evident by the damp, dirty stray pieces of hair that encircle his face and the thin layer of earth that stains his skin with splotches of gray and brown. He looks like he can hurt you, and for a second you make the mistake of thinking that he will.

“Kid, you need to listen to me! I—“ he huffs, but upon seeing your face up close, all scared and doe-like, he kisses you. It’s emotional and hurried and needy and far unlike any previous kiss that you’d shared. It’s not spurred on by wanting or lust but by love and a great fear of loss.

“I love you,” he whispers like a gasp when he pulls apart from you. “I love you,” he says once more, softer, sweeter. “I love you.”

In his eyes, you can see every word that he leaves unsaid, his confession of how afraid he was that he’d never see you again, how he panicked and saw red and shot the man on sight, how he carried you to the car with a metaphorical knife stabbing at his heart, and how he almost cried from relief when he saw you open your eyes.

“I love you, too,” you say back, smiling, kissing him again with that same passion as before.

[brawltogethernow]

So, I don't think I've ever asked you this... what IS the whole point of the Spider-Sense? It really seems like something that only exists for writers to ignore or work around when they want to inject Legit Tension into a story.

I’ve thought about this power so much, but never with an eye to defend its right to exist, so I needed to think about this. The results could be more concise.

Ironically, given the question, I have to say its main purpose is to ramp up tension. But it’s also a highly variable multitool that a skilled creative team can use for...pretty much anything. It does everything the writer wants it to, while for its wielder always falls just short of doing enough.

I went looking through my photos for a really generic, classic-looking example to use as an image to head this topic, but then I ran into the time Peter absolutely did not reimburse this man for his stolen McDonald’s, so have that instead.

A Scare Chord, But You Can Draw It

That one post that says the spider-sense is just super-anxiety isn’t, like, wrong. It’s a very anxious, dramatic storytelling tool originally designed for a very anxious, dramatic protagonist. I find it speaks to the overall tone of the franchise that some characters are functionally psychics, but with a psychic ability that only points out problems.

Spidey sense pinging? There’s danger, be stressed! Broken? Now the lead won’t even KNOW when there’s a problem, scary! Single character is immune to it? That’s an invisible knife in the dark oh my god what the fuck what the fU--

Like its counterpart in garden variety anxiety, the only time the spider-sense reduces tension is in the middle of a crisis. But in the wish fulfillmenty way that you want in an adventure story to justify exaggerated action sequences, the same way enhanced strength or durability does. Also like those, it would theoretically make someone much safer to have it, but it exists in the story to let your character navigate into and weather more dangerous situations.

For its basic role in a story, a danger sense is a snappy way to rile up both the reader and the protagonist that doesn’t offer much information beyond that it’s time to sit smart because shit is about to go down.

Spidey comic canon is all over the board in quality and genre, and it started needing to subvert its formulas before the creators got a handle on what those formulas even were, and basically no one has read anything approaching most of it at this point, so for consistent examples of a really bare bones use of this power in storytelling, I’d point to the property that’s done the best job yet of boiling down the mechanics of Spider-Man to their absolute most basic essentials for adaptation to a compelling monster of the week TV series.

Or as you probably know it, Danny Phantom. DON’T BOO, I’M RIGHT.

DP is Spider-Man with about 2/3 of the serial numbers filed off and no death (ironically), and Danny’s ghost sense is the most proof in the formula example of what the spidey sense is for: It’s a big sign held up for the viewer that says, “Something is wrong! Pay attention!” Effectively a visual scare chord. It’s about That Drama. And it works, which won it a consistent place in the show’s formula. We’re talking several times an episode here.

So why does it work?

It’s a little counterintuitive, but it’s strong storytelling to tell your audience that something bad is going to happen before it does. A vague, punchy spoiler transforms the ignorant calm before a conflict into a tense moment of anticipation. ...And it makes sure people don’t fail to absorb the beginning of said conflict because they weren’t prepared to shift gears when the scene did. Shock is a valuable tool, too, but treating it like a staple is how you burn out your audience instead of keeping them engaged. Not to go after an easy target, but you need to know how to manage your audience’s alarm if you don’t want to end up like Game of Thrones.

The limits of the spider-sense also keep you on your toes when handled by a smart writer. It tells Peter (everyone’s is a little different, so I’m going to cite the og) about threats to his person, but it doesn’t elaborate with any details when it’s not already obvious why, what kind, and from what. And it doesn’t warn him about anything else-- Which is a pretty critical gap when you zoom out and look at his hero career’s successes and failures and conclude that it’s definitely why he’s lived as long as he has acting the way he does, but was useless as he failed to save a string of people he’d have much rather had live on than him.

(Any long-running superhero mythos has these incidents, but with Peter they’re important to the core themes.)

And since this power is by plot for plot (or because it’s roughly agreed it only really blares about threats that check at least two boxes of being major, immediate, or physical), it always kicks in enough to register when the danger is bearing down...when it’s too late to actually do anything about it if “anything” is a more complex action than “dodge”.

Really? Not until the elevator doors started to open?

That Distinctive, Crunchy Spider Flavor

The spider-sense and its little pen squiggles go hand in hand with wallcrawling (and its unique and instantly identifiable associated body language) to make the Spider-Person powerset enduringly iconic and elevate characters with it from being generic mid-level super-bricks. Visually, but also in how it shapes the story.

I said it can share a narrative role with super strength. But when you end a fight and go home, super strength continues to make your character feel powerful, probably safer than they’d be otherwise, maybe dangerous.

The spider-sense just keeps blaring, “Something’s wrong! Something’s wrong! God, why aren’t you doing something about this!?”

Pretty morose thing to live with, for a safety net! Kind of a double edged sword you have there! Could be constantly being hyperattuned to problems would prime you for a negative outlook on life. Kind of seems like a power that would make it impossible for a moral person to take a day off, leading them into a beleaguered and resentful yet dutiful attitude about the whole superhero gig! Might build up to some of the core traits of this mythos, maybe! Might lead to a lot of fifteen minute retirement stories, or something. Might even be a built in ‘great responsibility’ alarm that gets you a main character who as a rule is not going to stop fighting until he physically cannot fight anymore.

Certainly not apropos of anything, just throwing this short lived barely-a-joke tagline up for fun.

One of my personal favorite things about stories with superpowers is keeping in mind how they cause the people who have them to act in unusual ways outside of fights, so when you tell me that these people have an entire extra sense that tells them when the gas in their house is leaking through a barely useful hot/cold warning system that never turns off, I’m like, eyes emojis, popcorn out, notebook open, listening intently, spectacles on, the whole deal.

It also contributes to Peter Parker’s personality in a way I really enjoy: It allows him to act like an irrational maniac. When you know exactly when a situation becomes dangerous and how much, normal levels of caution go out the window and absolutely nothing you do makes sense from an exterior standpoint anymore. That’s the good shit. I would like to see more exploration of how the non-Parker characters experiencing the world in this incredibly altered way bounce in response.

It’s also one of many tools in this franchise hauling the reader into relating more closely with the main character. The backbone of classic Spidey is probably being in on secrets only Peter and the reader know which completely reframe how one views the situation on the page. It’s just a big irony mine for the whole first decade. A convenient way to inform the reader and the lead that something is bad news that’s not perceivable to any other characters is youth-with-a-big-exciting-secret catnip.

Another point for tension, there, in that being aware of danger is not synonymous with being able to act on it. If there’s no visible reason for you to be acting strange, well...you’re just going to have to sit tight and sweat, aren’t you? Some gratuitous head wiggles never hurt when setting up that type of conflict.

Have I mentioned that they look cool? Simultaneously punchy and distinctive, with a respectable amount of leeway for artists to get creative with and still coming up with something easily recognizable? And pretty easy to intuit the meaning of even without the long-winded explanations common in the days when people wrote comics with the intent that someone could come in cold on any random issue and follow along okay, I think, although the mechanic has been deeply ingrained in popular culture for so long that I can’t really say for sure.

It was also useful back in the day when no artists drew the eyes on the Spider-Man mask as emoting and were conveying the lead’s expressions entirely through body language and panel composition. If you wiggle enough squiggles, you don’t need eyebrows.

Take This Handwave and Never Ask Me a Logistical Question Again

This ability patches plot holes faster than people can pick them open AND it can act as an excuse to get any plot rolling you can think of if paired with one meddling protagonist who doesn’t know how to mind their own business. Buy it now for only $19.99 (in four installments; that’s four installments of $19.99).

Why can a teenager win a six on one fight against other superhumans? Well, the spider-sense is the ultimate edge in combat, duh.

Why can Peter websling? Why doesn’t everyone websling? Well, the spider-sense is keeping him from eating flagpole when he violently flings himself across New York in a way neither man nor spider was ever meant to move.

How are we supposed to get him involved with the plot this week???? Well, that crate FELT dangerous, so he’s going to investigate it. Oh, dip, it was full of guns and radioactive snakes! Probably shouldn’t have opened that!

Yeah, okay, but why isn’t it fixing everything, then? Isn’t it supposed to be why Peter has never accidentally unmasked in front of somebody? ('Nother entry for this section, take a shot.) That’s crazy sensitive! How does he still have any problems!? Is everything bad that’s ever happened to characters with this powerset bad writing!? --Listen, I think as people with uncanny senses that can tell us whether we are in danger with accuracy that varies from incredible to approximate (I am talking about the five senses that most people have), we should all know better than to underestimate our ability to tune them out or interpret them wrong and fuck ourselves up anyway. I honestly find this part completely realistic.

*SLAPS ROOF OF SPIDER-SENSE* YOU CAN FIT SO MANY STORIES IN THIS THING

The spider-sense is a clean branch into...whatever. There is the exact right balance of structure and wishy-washiness to build off of. A sample selection of whatevers that have been built:

It’s sci-fi and spy gadgets when Peter builds technology that can interface with it.

It’s quasi-mystical when Kaine and Annie-May get stronger versions of it that give them literal psychic visions, or when you want to get mythological and start talking about all the spider-characters being part of a grand web of fate.

Kaine loses his and it becomes symbolic of a future newly unbound by constraints, entangled thematically with the improved physical health he picked up at the same time -- a loss presented as a gain.

Peter loses his and almost dies 782 times in one afternoon because that didn’t make the people he provoked when he had it stop trying to kill him, and also because he isn’t about to start “””taking the subway’’””’ “‘’“”to work”””’’” like some kind of loser who doesn’t get a heads up when he’s about to hit a pigeon at 50mph.

Peter’s starts tuning into his wife’s anxiety and it’s a tool in a relationship study.

It starts pinging whenever Peter’s near his boss who’s secretly been replaced by a shapeshifter and he IGNORES IT because his boss is enough of an asshole that that doesn’t strike him as weird; now it’s a comedy/irony tool.

Into the Spider-Verse made it this beautiful poetic thing connecting all the spider-heroes in the multiverse and stacked up a story on it about instant connection, loss, and incredibly unlikely strangers becoming a found family. It was also aesthetic as FUCK. Remember the scene where Miles just hears barely intelligible whispering that’s all lines people say later in the film and then his own voice very clearly says “look out” and then the room explodes?? Fuck!!!!

Venom becomes immune to it after hitchhiking to Earth in Peter’s bone juice and it makes him a unique threat while telling a more-homoerotic-than-I-assume-was-originally-intended story about violation and how close relationships can be dangerous when they go sour.

It doesn’t work on people you trust for maximum soap opera energy. Love the innate tragedy of this feature coming up.

IN CONCLUSION I don’t have much patience for writers who don’t take advantage of it, never mind feel they need to write around it.