#i forgot how to tag but then i remembered!

[freakinator]

im so curious how many ppl actually use lifesteal spoilers as a liveblog tag cause like. thats not what its for lmao

lifesteal spoilers as a tag exists cause lsblr became acutely aware of the fact that ccs are actually here and have accounts, that theyre not just lurkers that come here every now and then to find fanart in their tag but that they actually follow us and see our posts and even interact sometimes

what this means is that lifesteal spoilers includes liveblogging yes cause we dont want them to see those but also means that it contains thoughts and opinions that we would rather the ccs not see so if you use lifesteal spoilers as a way to catch up with streams.... well. you better be ready to see some negative shit that comes naturally with having a personal blog where you state your thoughts and opinions rather than just posting art and writing every now and then cause thats gonna happen whether you like it or not and theres nothing you can do about it

[gingerteafairy]

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐮𝐦𝐞 (𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

A small session of Dean spoiling you like a princess (and evolving a little scent kink)

tags: fluff, scent kink, f!reader, est. relationship, tickles bc he's a tease, praises. word count: 744.

The door creaks open with the turn of the key, letting you into the familiar comfort of home. The couch, a bit saggy from so many nights spent lounging there, welcomes you. The smell of sweat from a long day sticks around, and the scratchy fabric of your work uniform feels like it’s suffocating you. But you’re so drained, you figure you’ll just stay put for now. Until you remember.

Dean was gonna meet you here right after work. That gives you exactly 10 minutes to get ready, and you know how he is—always on time when it comes to you.

You rush to the bathroom, jumping into a quick shower. Deodorant, a basic T-shirt, and some comfy pajama shorts. The bare minimum to open the door and see your hot boyfriend standing there with that smile that could make anything seem perfect.

"Italian.” he grins, stepping inside and holding up a bag that smells amazing.

Then, you catch that woody, herbal scent of whatever’s in the bag mixed with the mouthwatering pasta. Oh no. You totally forgot to put on perfume.

"Oh, thanks, honey." You flash him a weak smile and kiss his cheek. "I haven’t eaten in, like, six hours."

"I know you too well," he shakes his head, putting the bag on the table. "Knew you'd be so wrapped up in work you’d forget to eat." He adds, "So I brought you your favorite juice, and I even got you that cupcake from Heavenpiece for dessert."

"Oh, Dean. I don’t deserve you." You pout, lazily wrapping your arms around his neck, getting lost in those green eyes that always do it for you.

"You deserve way more than this, doll." He smiles sweetly and pecks your lips.

"You spoil me so much... I’m gonna get so used to this," you laugh, feeling a hundred little kisses rain down on your face until he rests his head on your neck.

"You can get spoiled all you want... Hold up, what is that smell?" He pulls back, his eyes wide as he sniffs the air like he’s just smelled something amazing. You freeze, feeling him sniffing your neck like a bloodhound.

"Sorry, I didn’t put on perfume. I probably smell weird, I—"

"Weird?" He cuts you off, looking at you like you just said the dumbest thing. He buries his nose in your neck again, inhaling deeply. "That’s the best smell I’ve ever breathed in. That’s your smell."

"Oh, come on. It’s probably just the new soap," you roll your eyes, trying to hide the flush on your cheeks from his compliments.

"Nope." He shakes his head, grinning as he takes another deep breath. "That’s the smell of a woman."

"God, you’re so weird," you chuckle, but then he starts sniffing short, fast breaths, making you squirm and giggle. "Dean, stop. Stop! Deaaann."

"Nope. I’m memorizing this smell." He chuckled, his fingers skimming under your shirt to tickle you, making you laugh even harder. "It’s so, so fucking good. You've been hiding it from me. You're a very bad girl, you hear me? Get your punishment, pretty baby."

"Deaaan, stop!" You laugh, grabbing his hands to pull them away and locking your fingers with his. “Finally!”

"Alright, alright. But only if you let me sniff you all night. Deal?" He grins, and how can you say no to that face?

"Deal. Just for the record, you smell pretty damn good. New perfume?" You ask, leaning in to sniff him, smiling when you feel him shiver.

"It’s the one you gave me for Valentine’s Day," he says, wrapping his strong hand around the back of your neck, pulling you closer. "But you? You don’t even need perfume. You’re so perfect, princess."

"Maybe the hunting affected you waaaay too much." You laugh, letting yourself fall into the warmth of his touch.

"Okay, but before we start this ‘appreciation session,’ you’re eating. No way I’m letting my girl starve while I’m having all the fun." He says, stepping back to unwrap the bags while you head to the kitchen to grab the plates.

He pulls out a chair for you, and you smile, sitting down to eat. He leans in one last time to sniff the back of your neck before sitting across from you, looking like he’s already counting down the minutes until he can taste you. The fastest dinner Dean Winchester’s ever eaten—because he’s already totally lost in the idea of tasting you, completely.

[rin-solo]

You are absolutely correct to point this out. Tagging @glisten-inthedark because this feels like something you'll enjoy. The whole "7 years aren't as long for a god as for a human" thing aside, this just beautifully shows how differently they view each other.

To Odysseus, Poseidon was never more than just another obstacle to getting home. A much more competent, dangerous obstacle than any other, but still just an obstacle that he had no particular or special feelings toward beyond, "I have to avoid this guy." Then he spends 7 years at Calypso's and naturally forgets all about Poseidon because he just doesn't assume that Poseidon would care about him that much either.

... But Poseidon does. And that's the beautiful irony of it all ... To Poseidon, Odysseus is so much more than just a mortal who blinded his son that one time; if the Vengeance saga proves anything, it's this. Think about it—he doesn't mention Polyphemus at all anymore in this saga. Instead, he admits straight out that he's avenging "his reputation"—a fancy way of saying, "I'm hunting you for myself and my own reasons now."

And he does. He waited for him—not because of his son but because of himself. Because he does feel something for Odysseus as a person, be it hatred, indignation, or something entirely else. Whatever it is, it's personal for him, and for him alone.

He cares so much about being the one to kill him that he waits for a decade (even if that's only akin to, like, 10 weeks or something for a god, that's still 10 weeks of camping in front of someone's house to get their attention!) I don't think anyone would shame or fault him for letting Odysseus live anymore either, like I've seen some people say, especially since it was Zeus' decree that Odysseus be released.

No, Poseidon waited for Odysseus because Poseidon wanted to wait for him. Poseidon remembered Odysseus because he was "something" to him, as opposed to Odysseus, who just straight up forgot or assumed he got bored and/or had better things to do with his immortal life (a very fair assumption, honestly.) The fact that Poseidon didn't get bored and didn't have better things to do with his life tells us so much about his character that I could write a whole essay on it ... I've covered parts of it in my Get In The Water analysis and also this lil thing, but I might write a full essay on this someday.

And that's the beautiful, poetic, almost ... tragedy of it all since it's so clearly one-sided: Odysseus feels nothing—no hatred, no attachment, not even enough to consider he might still be after him—whereas Poseidon feels ... everything? A lot, at least.

It's literally a case of "the opposite of love isn't hate (or the other way around, either work); it's indifference." Odysseus is indifferent. But what you, dear god of tides, have is a very serious case of obsession. You might want to—oh, no, he can't hear me; he's passed out on some rock shore, bleeding profusely. We can only hope that being defeated, humiliated, and confronted with his vulnerability in this manner didn't only deepen his obsession. Why do I have a bad, bad feeling about this though ...

My favorite thing in Epic that we don't talk enough about is that during the Circe and Thunder sagas, Odysseus was pretty much aware that Poseidon was after him. But in Vengeance saga, considering his reaction at Poseidon's appearance in "Get in the Water", he kinda thought that Poseidon must've forgotten and let go until that time. BUT HE DIDN'T. THE MAN WAS OBSESSED WITH ODYSSEUS FOR SEVEN YEARS

[sufferu]

Holy heck PLEASE tell me if Subaru’s insecurities are blinding him at LEAST a little bit

There’s NO WAY the others are messing up this BADLY, tell me a lie if you have to there’s no way they’re messing this up so much

How bad are they messing up? 😭😭 Surely not that bad right??? Right???

(This is about BTZ btw)

I DID tag that fic as “Unreliable Narrator” for a reason lol. The misunderstandings that the story hinges on are very much due in part to everyone else just — constantly rolling critical fails, but they’re also due to a whole spell of bad luck that means everything just has the worst possible timing, and also due to Subaru being both incredibly insecure and completely unwilling to let on to the fact that he’s actually feeling very hurt right now.

But — for some examples about how badly this disconnect is going…

Julius: Julius is fully under the impression that he and Subaru are buds. He did try to apologize at first, and pull back a bit, and when Wilhelm roped him into training as a way to try and scare Subaru away from the idea of being a swordsman he immediately protested out of concern for Subaru’s mental well-being — but then Subaru insisted on fighting him and that he totally wasn’t emotionally affected and also Julius is ugly and stupid and he’s totally gonna win this time. Julius genuinely came away from this interaction thinking that 1) Subaru just wants to move on already and trying to be apologetic about it would just be insulting, and 2) Subaru is not just unafraid, but is actively looking to roughhouse with him — an impression that completely falls in line with his memory of old-timeline!Subaru having been a massive masochist.

From here on, Julius feels that he’s constantly being encouraged to be rougher and rougher with Subaru due to Subaru not just never backing down, but also actively escalating situations in an effort to prove just how not-scared he is. He’s genuinely just following Subaru’s lead. But because Subaru is lying about his true feelings and what he actually wants, this arrangement is actively making Subaru’s mental health worse.

Things Julius does in service of this massive miscommunication:

Teases him almost constantly. It’s a lot meaner than he would be with anyone else, but this is SUBARU. He remembers damn well how disappointed and sulky Subaru would get in the old timeline if he didn’t bait him a little now and then. And this current Subaru gets riled up in much the same way, so it must be the same scenario.

Spars with him regularly. He’s terrible at losing on purpose, and also he’s a total show-off who likes taking Subaru by surprise — ie. bring out his spirits for a flashy new move in an eager desire to see Subaru’s reaction to something he has legitimately never witnessed before in his life. He thinks this is all in good fun and that Subaru is having just as good a time as he is (or even that Subaru is having even MORE fun than Julius, because a large part of why Julius likes this is specifically because he believes he is showing Subaru a good time).

Sneaks up behind him after a long shift patrolling in the cold and announces his presence by pressing his freezing hand against the back of his neck to make him scream.

Tries to instruct Subaru about good etiquette in the midst of “lighthearted banter.” He doesn’t realize that Subaru thinks he’s threatening him.

Sits on him at one point. See the Sparring Practice ficlet.

(The BTZ III reveal that Subaru was legitimately terrified of him this entire time HURTS, because it recontextualizes everything that the knight believed had been his way of showing Subaru affection and camaraderie. Julius never, ever wanted to make him feel this bad.)

Wilhelm: Subaru is now Wilhelm’s grandson. Wilhelm forgot to tell Subaru about this. —Well, it’s more accurate to say that he’s trying to prove his worth as a potential grandfather first by eliminating the Witch Cult, but because of this Subaru has no fucking clue that Wilhelm sees him as anything more than an unwelcome pest. This means that a lot of Wilhelm’s attempts to bond with him outside of dueling practice are interpreted…differently.

Wilhelm and Subaru go out for tea at a high-end establishment. Wilhelm spends so much time getting Subaru dressed properly in a suit and tries to use the opportunity as a way to teach him how to conduct himself in formal settings in an environment that is low-stakes and ultimately very much just for fun. Subaru does not understand what is happening and is so caught up in his impression of “Wilhelm hates me” that he interprets all of this in the most hostile light imaginable.

(Did not help that Wilhelm initially suggested that Subaru wear a dress. Wilhelm was just trying to coax out that interest in crossdressing that he already knows is a genuine part of Subaru’s identity. Subaru thought it was an insult about how badly he was failing as a prospective knight.)

He’s not the only one in charge of this, but Wilhelm spends a lot of time teaching Subaru how to read. He tries to be more lax and friendly here than he is during those swordsmanship lessons he wishes Subaru would stop insisting on. Subaru either does not notice or is so on-edge that he thinks Wilhelm is just being subtler, now that he doesn’t have a ready-made excuse to whack him over the head.

Wilhelm initially asked Julius to spar with Subaru in his stead in yet another attempt to scare Subaru off from the sport, but this quickly turned into him ALLOWING them to spar together because he thought Subaru genuinely liked sparring with Julius and caved at the idea of Subaru being able to actually play with a trusted knight in a controlled environment. Subaru interprets his motivations VERY differently here.

Wilhelm is gonna learn that Subaru thinks he despises him and die a little inside. He put off adopting him because he thought he had to prove himself first, but in doing so he may have just destroyed their relationship entirely. He wants to go back and kick himself.

Crusch: I haven’t spoken about Crusch a lot, but her role is fairly important here, even if she might not show up a WHOLE lot. Crusch’s relationship with Subaru is somewhat distant when compared to characters like Wilhelm, Ferris, Julius, and Reinhard — who interact with him almost constantly — but she’s technically the one “in charge” of him at the moment, and she’s prepared to take on that role up until the point Wilhelm finally formally adopts him into his household. This outcome is one that everyone BUT Subaru has accepted as an inevitability.

Crusch believes that her job is to make sure that Subaru has a stable, structured environment that can not just keep him safe, but also serve to instruct him on how to behave himself properly in this new world, because he was INFAMOUS for not being able to conduct himself in what would have been considered an appropriate manner in the old timeline. The only reason he got away with it was because of his many spectacular feats, and everyone knows that they absolutely cannot allow him to put himself in a position where he can accomplish feats like that again — but that also means he’s not going to have an excuse if he screws up and paints himself as a weirdo who should be avoided at best or a jerk who needs the shit kicked out of him at worst. Crusch is very much using a carrot-and-stick approach to try and train him up as a model citizen who won’t get himself in trouble quite so much — but she ends up using the carrot pretty rarely, and when she does he’s often not in a place where he can recognize that that’s what she’s doing.

Also, she’s straight up Not Around a lot of the time because she’s busy as both a Royal Candidate and one of the top leaders of the new Witch Cult Elimination Force. Otherwise…maybe her Divine Protection would clue her into what’s going on a little sooner than it does.

Reinhard: Subaru is now Reinhard’s little brother. Reinhard genuinely completely forgot to tell Subaru this.

Reinhard is now so insanely overprotective of Subaru because he just saw Subaru die…a LOT. And he was almost never there. He will NEVER not be there again, not if he has anything to say about it. And — and he’s going to be a good role model who can teach Subaru not to charge into dangerous situations, and to avoid assassins and mabeasts and archbishops, and to not do stupid stuff like leaping out of dragon carriages while they’re in motion —

Subaru thinks that Reinhard now sees him as a prisoner, or a future crook, or just some untrustworthy fuck who needs constant supervision. Every time Reinhard tries to do fun things like go out for lunch or visit the local gardens or play games in the courtyard, his overprotectiveness makes everything blow up in their faces and paints him as some sort of correctional officer — and Reinhard doesn’t have the emotional intelligence necessary to realize that he’s failing that hard in the first place.

[emsprovisions]

❄️ Day 19 - The Perfect Gift ❄️

🎁 Today's fic is dedicated to @henrygrass!

Summary: Carlos goes Christmas shopping with his mom.

Word count: 980

24 Days of Tarlos Masterpost

Carlos really doesn’t want to be here. But when his mother caught wind that it’s his day off, she showed up at the loft ten minutes faster than he knows it should’ve taken her to get there. 

“Do I need to write you a speeding ticket, mamá?” Carlos jokes, kissing his mom on the cheek before rolling the loft door closed behind her. 

Andrea clucks her tongue and rolls her eyes. 

“Between my husband and my son, you think I don’t know my way around traffic cops?” She winks at him. “I was already in the area. Where’s TK?”

That twists the knife still plunged in Carlos’s heart, just when he almost forgot for two whole seconds that there’s a gaping chasm in his chest that’s TK-shaped. 

“At work,” Carlos supplies lamely. 

He’s never been good at lying, but he’s not great with the truth either. And anyways he has good enough reason to assume TK probably is at work. It’s a safe bet. Safer than to assume he’s at the gym, or on a date, or somewhere else where other men could look at him and try and get with him and TK could let them because he’s single. 

Carlos pushes the thought from his mind and shakes himself out of it as he realizes his mom just asked him something. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I asked if you’ve bought him anything for Christmas yet?” Andrea repeats herself. 

More pain and guilt just roil together in Carlos’s stomach. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want to tell her he and TK are no longer an item, it’s just that saying it aloud will make it real, and also, he really doesn’t want to tell her. His parents finally were so accepting and supportive of who Carlos is, and who Carlos wants to date. They love TK. He worries it might break their hearts irreparably to find out how big of a failure their son really is. He already couldn’t keep a wife. Now he can’t keep the most perfect man either.

“No,” he says, trying to keep his voice level despite the turbulent emotions inside of him right now. “I just haven’t had the time.”

“Ah, well you’ve both been busy with work and furnishing the loft I’m sure,” Andrea waves her hands in the air. “We’ll just have to do it while we’re out today!”

This is how Carlos has found himself shopping at the Domain outdoor mall in Austin with his mother, feeling not unlike he’s fifteen again as he follows her around and is tasked with carrying her shopping. 

They go into store after store, Andrea prattling off what she wants to get for Carlos’s sisters, and Carlos’s father, and her friends from church and the other various clubs she’s a part of. 

“What do you think of this for TK?” She asks. 

Carlos realizes they’re in the men’s section at Dillard’s and Andrea is showing Carlos a really nice cashmere sweater. Carlos blinks at the sweater. It really is something TK would love, it’s a nice blue color with a cable knit pattern. He glances at the price tag, and shakes his head. 

“He’s already got some like that,” Carlos explains. 

Also not entirely a lie. Carlos bought TK some very nice sweaters when they had to replace their wardrobes after the fire. He remembers the way TK’s face lit up when Carlos surprised him with a few cashmere sweaters.

“Carlos!” He’d said with a big grin on his face. “We’re here to replace hoodies, baby. Not so you can buy me fancy sweaters.”

“You deserve it,” Carlos told him, with a soft kiss to the cheek. And he did deserve it. TK always deserved to feel special.

Carlos thinks he misses being TK’s baby most of all.

Carlos keeps finding excuses for everything Andrea shows him that could be for TK. It just isn’t right, or they’re out of his size, or he already has something similar.

“Enough, mijo!” Andrea finally huffs. “What is all this? You want to buy your boyfriend the perfect gift?”

Carlos just shrugs, a tiny, “Something like that,” slipping out.

Andrea smiles and shakes her head in exasperation at her son. “Perfect doesn’t exist, Carlitos. Heaven knows how much I tried finding the perfect gift for the first few years your father and I were together. What did you get him last year?”

“It was still the pandemic last year, and we were new, I got him a hoodie and some things for him to keep at my place,” Carlos explains. “This year just feels different, you know?”

Andrea nods. “You’re more serious now, living together, owning a place together. You want the gift to be more grownup, too.”

Carlos shrugs again with a vague, “Yeah.”

“I have just the thing,” Andrea grabs Carlos by the wrist and hauls him to the jewelry and accessories department of the store. “You get him a nice watch, and a nice cologne, and pair it with one of those cashmere sweaters we passed earlier. I know you wanted it for him, if the money’s an issue, I can buy it.”

Carlos frowns, “No, mamá, the money isn’t an issue…wait, he really wanted this one.”

Carlos spots a nice, silver watch that had been too expensive for TK to treat himself to when they’d been shopping to replace their things. But now it’s on sale and Carlos doesn’t know why he grabs it to buy for his ex-boyfriend other than to say he’s bought something that will appease his mother. 

“You should get that for him then,” Andrea smiles encouragingly, her eyes bright and happy, as if she’s imagining TK’s surprise when Carlos presents him with the gift he wanted.

“I think I will,” Carlos stares at the watch before looking up at his mom and offering her a tiny smile. “Thanks, ma.”

[xoxoavenger]

could i request a barista au charles xavier x reader fic?? 🤭 with him being all flirty every time the reader orders something 🫣 love ur writing!!

ahh thank you! this was so much fun to write I hope you like it <3

Early Morning Coffee Date

pairing: Charles Xavier x Fem!Reader

word count: 1618

warnings: none

12 Days of Christmas masterlist main masterlist

"What can I get started for ya?"

Y/N looks up from her purse to see who's talking to her. Yes, she was in line for her local coffee shop, but she knew all the baristas that worked at 7:30 AM on weekdays. And she would definitely remember this man, with his British accent and bright eyes.

"You're new?" She asks, and then wants to hit herself. Why can't she just order?

"Yes." He laughs, his accent making her heart skip a small beat. Small. "But don't worry, I worked at Starbucks before this, so I promise I can make whatever crazy concoction you think of." He smiles, and she wishes today was a good day so she could order something crazy, just to tease him.

"Well, I totally would put your knowledge to the test, but I forgot my wallet." She says with a grimace, because of course the day she meets a cute barista she forgets her goddamn money. She doesn't have time to go back to her house before work, so she'll just have to hope that she doesn't need it again today. She's lucky she can walk to work and doesn't have to take the Subway, like most New Yorkers.

"If you order something easy, it's on the house." He says, and she smiles, mouth widening in shock.

"I can't let you do that." She says, looking at the line forming behind her. "I'll just have to survive with the break room coffee." She said it without a shudder, but the barista clearly knew the break room coffee tasted a little like mold no matter how much she washed the pot.

"I cannot let you do that." He says, shaking his head. "Please, miss, there's a line now. If you don't tell me what you want to order, I will be forced to make you something random that you may not want." He says it with a smirk and shrug, and she feels her heart pick up agin.

"Fine," She says, fighting to keep the smile away. She gives him her usual order, and he takes it down on a cup.

"And what's the name for that order?" He asks, giving her a look that lets her know that he is asking for more than just the order.

"Y/N." She answers, searching for the barista's name tag. "I'm sorry, but you don't seem to have a name tag." She informs him, and he just smirks.

"You'll have to come back tomorrow, I guess." He says with a wink. "I will personally make your drink, Y/N. And I'd love to hear any criticism, as it seems you come here a lot." He says as he moves away from the register, despite the line that is still very much there.

"Charles!" Cass, one of Y/N's barista regulars yells. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Get back on register." She rolls her eyes, and Y/N smiles as Charles' cheeks heat.

"Charles," She repeats, and the barista nods. "Well, now I have no reason to come back." She jests, even though she knows the people behind her must absolutely hate her.

"You still haven't tried my drink. And I know you want to." She cannot deny the way her heart is racing now, especially with how she can feel her cheeks heating up.

"You're right." She gives in, knowing she needs to say goodbye. "Thank you, Charles. Hopefully I'll see you soon." He winks at her as she leaves, and she can't help but widen her eyes as she turns away.

Was that hot barista just flirting with her?

~

"Cass, good morning." Y/N greets the next day. She can see Charles working the espresso machine, and even though she does want to try his drink she also really wanted to talk to him again. She wants to be angry about the crush she's already developed on him, but seeing him working makes her realize that it's basically hopeless. He's hot and nice, which is high expectations in the world they live in.

"Y/N!" Cass greets, seemingly more excited than she's ever been that Y/N's here. "Charles, your customer." Cass turns, and Charles pauses everything to turn and see Y/N. She forgets all about the 'your customer' part of Cass' sentence, which she had been meaning to revisit.

"Hey!" He sounds so excited, and Y/N's surprised by this. "You came back."

"She comes every-"

"I needed to taste your drink." Y/N cuts Cass off, because she wants Charles to feel special. She would have come today anyway, yes, but she also really wanted to try his concoction.

"Yes!" Charles calls, starting to pull a shot. "Cass, don't put this one in. I'm making a special one." He winks before going to work. Y/N immediately shakes her head.

"No, no, please, let me pay." Y/N pulls out her wallet.

"You heard him." Cass shrugs. "Now, please step aside. There's a line." She smiles, and Y/N thanks them before moving away. She doesn't have to wait long by the counter before Charles is there, on her side, holding a hot drink.

"What are you doing?" She asks, looking over to the espresso machine. Someone else is working it in his place, and Y/N turns back at him with a smile.

"I was hoping you had ten minutes? I'm on my break." She's so shocked, because how is this cute guy asking her to talk on his break? "Or maybe you have work, which is fine. I should have figured." He sounds dejected, and as he turns Y/N grabs his arm.

"Don't walk away with my coffee." She says with a small smile. "You got my drink out so fast, I think I have a couple minutes to spare." Charles' face lifts, and she feels her heart skip.

She's so whipped.

~

Of course, Y/N gets sick the next day.

They had talked about everything, from what brought them to the city to what their favorite color was to their favorite childhood tv shows. Y/N was late for work, which she blamed on a headache, and then somehow she manifested it into actually having a headache which she hoped taking a nap at home would cure. The next morning, she woke up with a stuffy nose and a sore throat.

She debated going into the coffee shop, but decided against it, as she didn't want to get anyone sick. So she sits at home for two days, reads her book and watches an entire season of her show while she tries not to think about the coffee shop - about Charles.

It's a weekend when she finally goes in - late, because she couldn't bring herself to wake up early on a weekend even if it meant seeing Charles. She walks into the shop as quick as she can without trying to look like she's rushing and then looks at the people behind the counter as she gets in the long line.

No Charles.

She thinks about leaving, heart falling traitorously. But she talks herself out of it before the idea fully forms, because it sounds stupid. Maybe he's on a break. But by the time she makes it to the front of the line, she realizes that he's still not here.

"Hey, Y/N!" Erik, the cashier today, says, and Y/N smiles, because it's nice that people know her. "Do you want your usual?" He asks with a smirk, and Y/N is just about to answer when someone comes up next to Erik and slightly pushes him out of the way.

"I've got this handled." Charles sends a glare to Erik, so fast Y/N barely registers it, before he smiles at Y/N. "I know what you like. You're good to go." He winks, and Y/N can feel her cheeks start to heat.

"You can't keep giving me free drinks." She says with a small smile, biting her lip to keep it small.

"Multiple offenses? Charles!" Erik says, sounding scandalized, and Y/N feels the heat spread to her neck.

"Go ahead and take someone else's order, Erik." Charles says, before smiling once more at Y/N and walking back to the espresso machine to make the drink.

"You're one special gal." Erik tells her with a smirk. "Have a good day, Y/N." She bids him the same as she walks away, knowing the line needs to continue moving. She goes over to the side of the counter and watches Charles work, waiting for her drink, which clearly has been moved to the front of the line by the way Charles is already done and walking over to her with a smile stretched across his face.

"I was worried when you didn't show up the past few days." He tells her as he leans over the counter to talk. She takes a sip of her drink, which somehow tastes better than the first time.

"I was sick." She says, heart fluttering.

"And here I was thinking your boyfriend found out about our long talk." He smirks, and her stomach did a flip.

"I don't have a boyfriend." She said, taking another sip of her drink.

"Hm," Charles looks down, then grabs her free hand. "Would you want one?" He looks up at her, and her mouth went dry.

He's asking her out. She needs respond because he's asking her out.

"Possibly," She finally says, taking his hand. "If the right man were to ask." She can't help but tease him.

"Well, what are you doing tomorrow?" He asks, and she smiles.

"Probably going out with my boyfriend." She puts her coffee down and leans against the counter, close enough to put the ball in his court.

"Perfect." He smiles back, and then leans in to kiss her across the counter.

//

tags: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187  @one-sweet-gubler @theoraekenslover @thefandomplace @mcueveryday @icequeen1371 @kenzi-woycehoski @multifandom-boss-bitch

[aestas---estas]

Working hands

MDNI 18+ | Part 1 | Part 2 | Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader | ~4,6k words | fem!reader, assistant!reader, reader described as shorter than Simon, suspend your disbelief for how long it is inbetween missions, basically all fluff | if I forgot a tag/tw please tell me | divider by @cafekitsune | Read on AO3

It's early Saturday morning and you get woken up by a strong fist incessantly knocking on your front door. It's pointed and regular, military in its consistency. While Price knows where you live — it's on your paperwork after all — and you have no doubt in your mind that both Johnny and Kyle could've easily found out, you know in your bones that it's Simon.

“Coming!” You call out, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you quickly find a pair of sweatpants to throw on; it would probably be in bad form to open the door in only a washed-out shirt and underwear. You stop in front of the bathroom mirror to quickly fix your bed hair as much as possible, splashing some cold water on your face in an attempt to look more awake than you feel. Simon’s still knocking intermittently and you can practically hear the irritation he’s starting to feel through the door — the man does not like to be ignored or left to wait.

“Good morning,” you say as you finally fling your door open, annoyance at having been so rudely interrupted clear in your voice despite the amicable words. He’s standing with his fist raised, ready to knock once more, a tool kit gripped in his other hand and you eye it curiously. “What-?”

You don’t really know how to end the sentence — what is he doing here? What’s with the tool kit? What makes him think he can wake you at 7:30 in the morning on your day off? — but you’re cut off before you manage to get another word past your lips, as he’s already made his way into your flat and toward the bathroom.

In confusion you close the front door and follow behind, your bare feet padding against the cool wooden floor, making you wish — not for the first time — that your landlord allowed heated floors. Simon’s courteous enough to have already toed off his boots by your shoe rack, so at least you don’t have to clean up dirt and grime, but the barging his way inside your space only worked to further annoy and confuse you.

“Simon, it’s not even 8,” you say as you lean against the doorframe of your bathroom, watching as he gets down on his knees in front of the broken washing machine you still hadn’t had a chance to look at. The annoyance seeps out of you as you remember the conversation you had that Monday; about how you wanted to return his jacket washed, but hadn’t been able to do your laundry. It’s a thoughtful gesture, one you can’t help but smile in appreciation at.

“I’m an early riser,” is all Simon says in return, not even glancing your way. He’s already busy with turning the machine on and off, looking at all the hoses and pipes, to try and discern what the issue might be.

For a moment, you just stay there, watching him quietly. He’s not wearing the skull mask or printed balaclava that had become synonymous with his alias, but rather a more simple black surgical mask. You don’t really know what you expected Simon to look like; you knew he was blonde, something Johnny had once shared with you to tease his Lieutenant, yet the sight of the surprisingly well groomed tresses on his head make something inside of you stir. His hair is just long enough for you to be able to card your fingers through it, and his left eyebrow is cleaved in half from a faded scar. You can’t see his jaw or chin properly, and the only time you remember him ever lifting his mask in your presence was to drink his beer in the pub all those weeks ago before he walked you home. You’d been drunk back then, hadn’t had the sense of mind to memorise his visage, and you mentally kick yourself about it now.

“It’s the water,” you supply, wanting to be helpful and hopefully distract yourself from thoughts of how it would feel to pet his hair and trace his scars, and Simon turns his head to glance at you. “It doesn’t drain properly, overflows about half the time too.”

Simon nods before turning back to the washing machine, pulling it away from the wall with little effort. “Sounds like the hose, or maybe the drainpipe. Could also be the lint trap. If there is one.” He’s mumbling more to himself than to you at this point, craning his neck to look at the backside of the machine all while nodding or shaking his head, making mental notes of possible solutions.

“Might be a while, love. Why don’t you go make us some tea?” It’s the out you didn’t know you wanted, but the second the suggestion leaves Simon’s lips you pounce on it, leaving the bathroom for the kitchen with no words or fuss.

You make two cups of some berry blend one of your friends got you as a birthday present — the mugs are white, bland, a little too boring for your liking, but they get the job done. And besides, you have more important things to spend your money on than crockery.

When you return to the bathroom, two steaming mugs in hand, you can’t help but stare at Simon for a moment before making yourself known. While the hoodie he’s wearing doesn’t provide you with much, his jeans are tight fitting around those muscular thighs of his, especially with the way he keeps crouching and kneeling. God, he’s got an ass too. The thought makes heat race to your face and you pull your eyes away from the enticing view of his rear.

“One cup for you,” you say, placing the tea down on top of the washing machine for whenever he feels like taking a sip. He sends you an appreciative look before focusing back on the task at hand; you’re both relieved and disappointed that he didn’t remove the face mask to have a taste of the drink right then and there. But then again, if he did, you’re more than sure that his uncovered visage would haunt your dreams in the best way possible.

“I’ll, uh, leave you to it then,” you say when he makes no move to speak again. 

It’s odd having Simon in your space like this. Sure, he spent the night on the couch that night after the pub. But you had been drunk then, had thought of nothing but the soft embrace of your bed that awaited you. Now you’re both sober, both clear minded and both all too aware of whatever it is that’s been growing between the two of you. 

Usually on your days off you would sleep in, would take a long shower so hot the fog on the mirror wouldn’t disappear for over an hour afterwards, would even make a proper breakfast if you had the energy for it. But Simon was currently occupying your bathroom, so a shower was out of the question, and while a short nap as he worked didn’t sound so bad it felt almost rude to go back to sleep as long as he was still there. He was doing something sweet for you; fixing something you hadn’t had the time or money to fix yet yourself.

So instead of your usual routine, you plant yourself under a blanket on the sofa with a new book you’d been meaning to read but haven’t had the chance to just yet and turn on some music. You can hear Simon in the bathroom, the clattering of tools and humming of the washing machine as he starts and stops new cycles every so often. The whole thing feels almost domestic, and it tugs on your heart in a way you don’t want to look too deep into.

---

“Can I ask you something?” you question and Simon grunts in that affirmative way he always does when you knock on his office door in the mornings. He had felt you coming back into the bathroom five minutes ago, leaning against the door frame, watching him with inquisitive eyes; but he had kept his attention on the washing machine. “Why do you wear that mask?”

If you hadn’t been studying him so intensely, you might’ve not noticed the way his shoulders and back tensed for half a second; it’s gone before you even have a chance to ponder about his reaction.

“Anonymity,” he answers at length, but you can tell there is more to it. Most of the other operators don't wear facial coverings — and if they do, it’s only while in active combat.

You understood wanting to keep his identity anonymous in the field, not letting the enemies know his name or face, it was dangerous work what he did after all, yet you couldn’t help but press. “Everyone on base already knows your name. And besides, there’s no one around but me right now.” Who are you hiding from? is what goes unasked, but the question still makes the air around you both feel heavy.

“They know what I want them to know,” he supplies, as if that would be a satisfactory answer. And it is, you suppose, at least somewhat. It doesn’t answer why exactly he keeps himself closed off, why no one — not even the men he fights beside — knows what he looks like. But it does tell you that he’s deeply paranoid and near obsessive with personal security. It tells you that he’s willing to show more of himself to the few he deems worthy; god, you want to be worthy.

“When’s the last time you took it off?” It’s a gamble of a question, but you know if Simon wants to leave the conversation he’ll let you know it in no uncertain terms.

“Last night.” You roll your eyes at that, because of course he doesn’t sleep with a stupid balaclava or face mask — maybe in the field, but you don’t know what goes on during their missions if it’s not in the reports.

“I meant with someone else in the room, Simon,” you tell him and cross your arms over your chest.

It’s quiet for a few moments, seconds stretching into minutes as Simon gives no indication of giving you a reply. Just as you let out a sigh, ready to give up on the conversation and walk back to your living room, he speaks. “It’s been… a while. Years.”

You don’t feel sorry for him, you have a feeling Simon wouldn't take kindly to pity, but empathy courses through your veins at the pain evident in his voice. He puts down the tool in his hand, turning his head just enough to make you appear in his vision, but makes no move to stand up. You realise he’s studying you, your reactions, your body language, every micro expression you don’t have the education to hide like he does.

“That sounds lonely,” you eventually say, taking the few steps from the doorway to where he’s kneeling beside the washing machine, lowering yourself until you’re eye-to-eye. “If you ever…” you hesitate for a second, but the fact that Simon has yet to end the conversation makes you power through. “I’ll be here, if you ever want to show someone.”

It’s not a demand or a manipulative tactic to get him to feel secure before ripping the rug out from under him; you genuinely want to be there for him, face or no face, want him to not go through his life with that crushing loneliness that’s been making it hard to breathe freely for years. Your eyes shine with open honesty and it’s almost too much for Simon to bear. He nearly tells you everything then; about his past, his family, Roba, everything. But you seem so innocent, untouched by the cruel reality of the world. And although he’s destroyed more uncorrupted and pure lives than yours, he wants you to keep living in the bubble of life is worth living for as long as possible.

“It’s not pretty,” is what he says instead. It — his life, him. A sad smile passes your lips as you nod your understanding.

“I’ll be here,” you repeat, giving his shoulder a quick squeeze before standing and leaving him alone in the bathroom to work.

Simon stays there for another half hour before packing everything up and making his way towards the door. Truth be told he had figured out the issue after only ten minutes, had fixed the problem — a clog in the drain pipe — as slow as possible just to be in your presence for a few minutes longer. He knew he had disrupted your morning, had woken you up too early on your day off just to selfishly indulge his own need for your warmth, and now you were offering him unadulterated support without demanding anything in return. He didn’t deserve your kindness, had used your predicament to satisfy his own wants. It made him feel low, dirty, unworthy. 

“It works now,” Simon tells you as he walks past your spot on the couch, heading towards the front door without a second glance back.

Quickly you scramble from the couch and follow behind him, the blanket once more wrapped around your form. “Thank you,” you say, your eyes tracking his movements as he pulls on his jacket. “I’ll get your jacket back as soon as it’s washed.”

Simon shakes his head. “Told you, love, keep it.” There it is again; love. Before that weekend he had never called you that, and in the moment you had assumed the nickname had slipped from his lips the same way you had called him baby — simply to sell the illusion of a relationship so the creepy guy at the club would leave you alone. But now you couldn’t be so sure.

“At least let me buy you lunch or something as a thank you,” you insist, catching him by the wrist as he reaches for the door handle, grasping at straws for anything that would allow him to stay in your life. You had always done a good job at keeping your private and professional lives separate; but that was before Simon.

Simon’s eyes flicker down to where your fingers envelop his wrist, but he does not shift out of your grasp nor tell you to let go; so you don’t. “It doesn’t have to mean anything other than thanks,” you say, hoping the reassurance will help him decide.

Something indescribable passes through his eyes before he gives a firm nod. “I’m not much of a restaurant guy, but… a lunch sounds nice.”

“Great!” You beam, something akin to butterflies fluttering around inside your chest. “We can order in if that makes you more comfortable.”

Simon nods and it feels like he wants to say something, but no words leave his lips before he’s out the door.

---

As the hours of the day tick by, you find yourself glancing over to the hook where Simon’s jacket hangs. He said you could keep it, that it looks better on you. It feels wrong both to keep it — like you're owed something when you're not — and to give it back — like you don't appreciate his gesture of friendship.

It's a tightrope, one you can't navigate properly, one that wobbles and every step threatens to topple you over. It's anxiety inducing yet the most excited you've been in a while.

Deciding to bite the bullet, you send him a text.

Hope I didn’t scare you away with the invite to lunch.

You chew nervously on your bottom lip, already dreading his reply, but before your inevitable anxiety can spin out of control, your phone buzzes in your hand and the screen lights up with a new message.

You have plans tomorrow?

You don’t, actually, and tell him as much. It’s a few, short back and forths after that — Simon is concise even in text — but you have an official game plan that involves takeaway from the Indian place down the street and Simon showing up at your place around noon.

---

Simon had left the ordering up to you, having no idea what was good at the chosen restaurant — but he trusted you to guide him. He shows up just as you hang up on the Indian place, a can of WD-40 in hand, and you raise an eyebrow in question.

“Heard the god awful squeaking of the hinges on your bathroom door yesterday,” he explains with a shrug before making his way over to it without invitation.

You follow behind with a soft smile on your face, watching with more fascination than really necessary as he sprays the hinges and moves the door back and forth a few times until satisfied.

“Thank you. You didn't have to,” you say, giving his bicep a quick squeeze in gratitude. You'd lived with those squeaking hinges for months now, it had annoyed you in the beginning but it quickly fell into the background and it just became a noise you now ignored. 

“The food should be here in fifteen minutes,” you add.

“Alright.” Simon gives you a short nod, not quite meeting your eyes. If you hadn't known him, you would've thought he was uncomfortable or seeking an escape — but you did know him, knew that he would just up and leave if that was his prerogative. But he was here. He brought lubricant for your door without prompting. He entrusted you to pick the restaurant and the food. 

“Do you wanna sit?” you ask, gesturing to the couch; a fluffy blanket was draped over one of the armrests, embarrassing really how many times you folded the damn thing while cleaning up to make everything look presentable.

You were nervous, buzzing with both excitement and anxiety. You had hung out with Simon one-on-one before, a few times where he had walked you home from the pub, that time you called him after being ditched by your friends at the club, every single morning when you brought him a cup of tea in the office, and just yesterday when he had showed up unannounced to play handyman. But it had never been anything preplanned, you had never had time to rethink your decor and spend hours meticulously vacuuming and dusting and rearranging everything. And the realisation from the day before, about how kind and strong and capable and downright attractive he was, did not help.

You knew you wanted this to be a date, but there had been no clear confirmation from either side whether it was or wasn’t. Maybe he just saw this as lunch between co-workers, or as some sort of indebted meal because he fixed a problem that was entirely yours to sort.

It comes as no surprise when Simon spreads his legs wide on the couch when taking a seat, one arm on the armrest, the other slung lazily across the back. You knew if you sat down next to him, his knee would press against yours and his hand would be dangerously close to falling around your shoulders.

It was an easy choice, really, to plop yourself down beside him.

The conversation flowed easily, one topic blended into the next, Simon relaxed fully in his seat and you found yourself smiling enough to make your cheeks ache. It wasn’t until after you had thanked the delivery driver for the food and was starting to unload the various dishes you had ordered onto the coffee table, that his previous visible trepidation came back.

“I may have gone a little overboard,” you explain nervously, eyes downcast as you organise and open the boxes of food. They smelled delicious, and steam was rising from all of them; it nearly made your mouth water. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered a little of everything.”

It’s good to have left-overs, your brain chimed in in defence of your own actions.

“‘S not that,” Simon replies, reaching for one of the dishes. You study his movements from the corner of your eye and as he stops his hand mid-air to his face you realise what the problem is — the mask.

“I can… turn around or something,” you supply, hoping to be helpful, to ease his nerves. But Simon just shakes his head and pulls the band away from behind his ear, letting the mask dangle for just a moment before unhooking the other side too.

You try not to stare — it’s obviously a big step, something significant that he chose to do with you — but it’s hard to tear your eyes away when the image in your head of what he looked like was actively being shattered and reformed.

There’s a raised, jagged line across his right cheek, a bump that makes his nose just a little crooked from where it hadn’t set properly after being broken, another smaller scar down the left side of his jaw. But the one mark that rocks you the most is the Glasgow smile. It’s only one side, but it’s clear as day that it wasn’t just someone getting a little too close with a knife in the field; it’s meticulous, sharp, someone with a steady hand had held his face still enough to carve it slowly. Not a battlescar, but rather one from torture.

You shake your head slightly, forcing yourself out of the spiral you’re otherwise likely to go down, and grab one of the boxes at random. “Let’s eat.” You hope your voice doesn’t shake, but when Simon raises an eyebrow you know you’ve failed.

“It’s okay to say it. It’s ugly. Told you it was.” He doesn’t sound mad about it, more exhaustedly used to it. Like it was an inevitability you would find him unattractive once he showed you everything.

As if instinctual, your hand shoots out to cup his knee. You can’t give him reassuring words, because the scars are awful, and you know Simon would see right through you if you try to lie and say you barely noticed. But they don’t take away from his attractiveness; rather, they make you sad at everything he’s gone through and angry at every person that’s inflicted pain upon him and forced him into the hard shell he now hides behind.

For a split second, Simon freezes, the unexpected touch sending adrenaline coursing through his veins as his body gets ready for a fight that never comes. He’s unaccustomed to friendly and harmless touching, at least the kind that lingers. The occasional congratulatory pat on his shoulder from his captain and teammates, but never one from someone like you.

“Let’s eat,” you repeat, giving his knee a quick squeeze before resituating yourself on the couch and digging into your food.

---

It becomes a form of routine after that; Simon showing up at your place the weekends he has off. More often than not he’s got a toolbox in hand, fixing small things around your flat that he grumbles that your lazy landlord should’ve already fixed ages ago. You always say it’s not his job, that you’re used to the leaky tap and squeaking hinges and uneven shelves, and then thank him with the offer of lunch, trying a new restaurant every week; he seems particularly fond of the various noodle dishes they provide so you order those more than anything else.

Eventually he starts placing the black KN95 on your entryway table when the front door closes behind him. You never mention it, and neither does Simon. And even when there’s nothing left to fix (apart from completely ripping the floorboards up and installing heating, but you vehemently refuse to let him do that in fear of being kicked out), he still shows up for lunch and just a conversation. Most of the time he lets you ramble on about whatever you please, chiming in with hums of acknowledgements and one-worded replies — if he was being honest with himself he could listen to you talk for hours and be satiated.

You kiss his cheek goodbye every time before he shrouds his features again with the mask; your lips are soft and reverent, right over the scar that gives him a perpetually lopsided smile. It takes Simon four goodbyes to let his hands rest, warm and heavy with intent, on your waist, and it makes butterflies flutter to life in your stomach.

It’s a simple gesture, inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, but it’s also a big step. While you haven’t shied away from physical intimacy — a hand squeeze here, a bumping of shoulders there, all the cheek kisses — it was the first time Simon allowed himself to reciprocate.

It takes him two more goodbyes to finally angle his face enough to let your kiss catch the corner of his lips.

“Sorry,” you mumble and try to take a step back, but Simon’s grip tightens and keeps you firmly in place.

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

Oh.

Oh.

Carefully you raise your arms to wrap around his neck, going slow enough that even just a twitch from Simon would stop you in your tracks. But he stays still as a statue, eyes flickering between yours before settling at your lips.

“Is this okay?” you ask, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails gently scratching his scalp.

“More than,” Simon replies, his breath washing over your face as he dips down, letting his lips hover over yours, his every exhale intermingling with yours.

You press yourself closer and in turn his hands slide from your sides and around your back, holding you in place firmly against him, his touch leaving a scorching trail on your skin despite the fabric that separates you.

You don’t know who moves first, who closes the small distance between you, but suddenly his lips are on yours and the butterflies in your stomach metamorphosize into fireworks and you can feel your heart race against your ribcage. His lips are warm, softer than you'd imagined, and you can still taste the cigarette he smoked before entering the building. Your fingers tug gently at his curls, angling his face to your liking so you can easier slot your lips over his.

A broken moan leaves your throat as Simon’s tongue finds yours and it’s all he can do to not push you up against the wall and fuck you right then and there. God knows he’s fantasised about it enough, fisted his cock to mental images of how you’d sound as he punched the air out of you with every thrust, how you’d look with his cum dripping down your thighs, how your eyes would roll to the back of your skull as he wrings out another orgasm from your already spent body. But he knows that’s not the way to go about this, not if he wants to keep you.

He licks into your mouth, exploring and teasing all at once, indulging in the sounds you let slip from your lips. His hands twitch, eager to wander over your body, but settles on curling his fingers in your shirt, pulling you impossibly closer.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you trying to kill me?” Simon rasps when you eventually break to catch your breaths and your teeth nip at his lower lip.

“No,” you hum and trail a hand down his face and neck, smoothing your thumb over every risen scar in a show of unadulterated affection that makes him preen under your touch. “Quite like you alive. Like you a lot actually.”

Simon surges forward again, captures your lips in another bruising kiss because, fuck, if that doesn’t make his heart soar.

He doesn’t know what the future holds, how this will affect both his and your work, neither of you do. But he knows he’d rather be right here, with you in his arms, kissing you senseless, than anywhere else in the world.

--- Masterlist

[tempikotee]

vera i love u so much vera hi vera

[attractthecrows]

let it also be said that I love the Mahariel + Lavellan worldstate. It's so haunted. You are Dalish, you are not a part of human culture, but by happenstance you're dragged into it and to the forefront of hell to save a world that hates and fears your people. You have no choice. You can never return to your home, to the familiar, to anything you've ever known. You will be an echo; Mahariel echoing Garahel, Lavellan echoing Mahariel. You're so proud of your Dalish heritage, but your identity doesn't matter at all. Doomed to be a martyr for a people that do not respect you and cannot understand you, while your clan mourns, lamenting that they cannot bury you, no life-tree to stand as your memory. You're a hero. You're already dead. You died the moment you left your clan.

[heartorbit]

the star you've longed for

[when-sanpape-arts]

the most reluctant man to ever become a yakuza chairperson

[housederiva]

Before you vote on any of the polls please keep in mind that a blorbo isn't necessarily your favorite romance option!

It's been a month shy of two years since the first time I hosted the original version of this and now with the release of VeiIguard, think it's a great time to do it again!

Want to see absolutely none of this on your dash or in tags? Filter out Bioware Blorbo Beatdown as everything I post about it will have that tag included xx A link to this post will also be added to the top of my pinned post!

In Round 1 characters that are companions or equivalent will be sectioned off into groups of 4 while other NPC's will be sectioned off in groups of 5 from their respective franchises. The two highest answers from each poll will move on to Round 2 which will change to 1V1. From Round 3 onwards all characters will be merged together. That will continue per franchise until there's a winner for Mass Effect and a winner from Dragon Age which will then go against one another

Will Garrus keep the Mass Effect crown only for the title of Ultimate BioWare Blorbo to be snatched by .5 of a percent by the man the myth the elf, Zevran two beatdowns running? Only time and (your vote) can tell!

Links of the active polls are below in descending order of when they're posted! (As this post will go past the allotted word limit if all past polls are listed, they can be seen by searching BioWare Borbo Beatdown on my blog)

ROUND 1 - ME

- Tali'Zorah vas Normandy / Garrus Vakarian / Liara T'Soni / Ashley Willams - Richard L. Jenkins / EDI / Jeff 'Joker' Moreau / Kaidan Alenko - Urdnot Wrex / Kasumi Goto / Thane Krios / Zaeed Massani - Jack / Legion / Jacob Taylor / Javik - Miranda Lawson / Mordin Solus / Samara / James Vega - Cora Harper / Nakmor Drack / Jaal Ama Darav / Urdnot Grunt - Liam Kosta / Pelessaria 'Peebee' B'Sayle / Vetra Nyx / Comatose Ryder Twin

- Aria T'Loak / Saren Arterius / Matriarch Benezia / Kal'Reegar / Kai Leng - Nyreen Kandros / Sovereign / The Illusive Man / Conrad Verner / Charles Pressly - Doctor Karin Chakwas / Captain David Anderson / Admiral Steven Hackett / SAM / Major Kirrahe - Steve Cortez / Gabby Daniels / Kenneth Donnelly / Kelly Chambers / Samantha Traynor

ROUND 2 - DA

- Dorian Pavus / Zevran Arianai - Alistair Theirin / Anders - Sten / Cole - Sigrun / Shale - Vivienne de Fer / Bethany Hawke - Josephine Montilyet / Cassandra Pentaghast - Carver Hawke / Nathaniel Howe - Varric Tethras / Fenris - Bellara Lutare / Dagna - Felix Alexius / Calpernia - Felassan / Briala - Flemeth / The Arishok - Xeon the Aniquarian / Ghilan'nain - Emmrich Volkarin / Johanna Hezenkoss - Andarateia 'Teia' Cantori / Viago de Riva - Kieran / Sandal Feddic - Maevaris Tilani / Vorgoth - Antoine / Duncan - Shianni / Anora Theirin Mac Tir - Lucanis Dellamorte / Spite

[a2zillustration]

Gale and I had the exact same reaction when we opened that door.

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[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

[[ All Croissant Adventures (app) ]]

[hair-dice]

I wonder how goddamn hot it must be inside AM. Y'know? That's a computer they're inside. Knowing my own laptop, they must be boiling! Pains me to even think about the state of the rest of the world, not that there's anything left to inhabit it.

Can you imagine burying your hands through the sharp rocks and gravel, feeling past the frequently disturbed soil, down to the metal casing below? Your hands start to feel warmer and warmer the deeper they dig, until you're shocked by a sudden burning sensation on your fingertips.

You'd be warm the whole time, no matter where you stood. It's a wonder how there's even ice still on the planet-- if it's even real. If you left your hands on the metal shell, you'd feel the burn first. As the nerves in your palms slowly died yet again, the flesh sizzling, you'd begin to feel the vibrations of the machinery inside.

Millions and millions of miles of raw technological power, and you at the heart of it. Lay your cheek on the steel. Press yourself against it. Feel the stinging pain. Tomorrow, you'd feel it again. Then the next day, you'd feel it again. Then again, and again, until one day you'd have nothing left to burn for the Mastercomputer's sick enjoyment. It burns, no less than real love ever would.

[varilien]

pine barrens by jakey THEEE existential personhood horrors song ever.... applies to the stans uncomfortably well tbh (╥﹏╥)

Palestine: Funds | Action | eSims | Info Sudan Resources | Congo Resources | Lebanese Red Cross

[lotus-lamps]

like father like son

hes just toji but smol