#just a little quick one to try and recalibrate!

[peachesofteal]

I know Azriel has amassed a ton of wealth over centuries from doing the dirtiest work, and rarely spends it. He's never really had a need to. Of course, he buys gifts for his family, covers tabs at Rita's, buys himself things, essentials, etc but when it comes to spending for enjoyment or spending to indulge, it just doesn't happen.

He's not looking for reasons, either, until he literally stumbles into one.

You trip and fall into him in the Palace of Thread and Jewels. Trip over something on the ground, get twisted up, and flail forward, right into his path. You're rose and pink pepper, floral, sharp, sweet in a way he cannot fathom, and he doesn't think before stopping your fall. He just reacts, grabbing you around the arms and pulling you upright, holding you steady as you recalibrate your balance, looking up into his face, eyes shining bright like the stars. They're brilliant, full of life, but lined with an undercurrent of stress, of worry, he does not understand.

You're fumbling over an apology as he studies you, scrutinizing every detail on your face, down to the chap of your lips.

He's never seen a High Fae look so... off before, and they're not known to be clumsy.

"Are you alright?" It's polite to inquire, he assures himself, it's the right thing to do.

"I'm fine," you smile but it doesn't touch your eyes, "thanks. Sorry about that. I wasn't watching where I was going." He's unsure what to say next but before he can come up with something, you're giving him a quick thank you, and then disappearing into market.

He thinks about you that night. Wonders about you, as he stares at the bedroom ceiling. You obviously weren't well. Maybe he should have done more. It's his duty, isn't it? To Velaris? To care for it and its citizens, to protect them. Or at least, you. Do something to care for you, protect you.

He's not sure what to do, so he pushes the lingering questions from his mind.

And then the following week, he sees you at Rita's.

You're waiting tables, waltzing across the floor delivering drinks with a smile, the same one that slips away as soon as you're out of sight. Your shoulders slump as you stand at the corner of the bar, covering your mouth with your palm, yawning into it again and again.

Maybe he should do something, maybe you need a healer, maybe he could help-

No. He shouldn't. You probably wouldn't want him to, anyway. Right?

He shakes it off, tries to shake you off but can't stop himself from watching every step you take, trying to diagnose the problem.

It takes too long for it to click.

You're not sick, or clumsy.

You're exhausted, and it makes him irrationally angry, fills him with a need to drag you away from Rita's and tuck you up into a house somewhere, a place you'll never have to lift a finger again if you so choose. A place where you could be taken care of-

maybe even by him.

It takes him very little time to find the ramshackle duplex you live in on the outskirts of town, the roof too sloped, the wooden steps too rotted, the siding too loose.

It makes him uneasy, makes his skin crawl. Why are you here, in a place like this? Who has allowed this?

Why does a place like this even exist when Velaris has such wealth?

He begins to play a game, and at first, he tells himself it's to make himself feel better, that he's doing it for selfish reasons.

It's winter, and you don't have gloves, so he buys a pair and the shadows deposit them on your front step, and it makes the sick feeling in his stomach go away. For a few days.

When it returns, he buys you a hat, and this time, he delivers it himself, eager to see your reaction.

He doesn't expect to see the gloves still sitting on the porch, and he frowns. Did you not see them? Did you not like them? He leaves the hat at their side and lurks on the roof of the house across from yours, hiding in shadow, in wait.

The sun is still rising when you leave for your first job of the day, and you stop short at the sight of the hat. He perks up, expecting to see you relax with relief, or happiness, but is left confused when you hold the hat in your hands for a moment, reverently tracing the stitching, before dropping it back next to the gloves.

Why? You need these things. They're being given anonymously, alleviating some of awkwardness of accepting gifts, and he had hoped it would spare you from feelings of obligation or embarrassment. Perhaps you are too proud, he wonders, but shadows echo a different sentiment, one of distrust, of wariness.

The gifts scare you.

The guilt churns the bile in his stomach, and he flexes his fingers into fists before flying away, cursing himself the whole way home.

Idiot.

You're very surprised when he approaches you on your walk from the Palace to Rita's, so much so that you jerk to a dead stop, staring at him with your mouth dropped open as he tries to explain he has something to give you.

Yes, he knows you don't know him. Yes, he's aware how strange this is.

Yes, you will be taking this scarf whether you like it or not.

"I'm sorry?"

"This is for you." He extends the scarf towards you, holding his breath. Your eyes narrow.

"Have you been leaving things on my porch?"

"Yes." There's no point in lying. He's standing here trying to gift you a scarf, for Cauldron's sake.

"Why?" Your voice is tight, anxious, and he wishes there was a way he could reassure you without frightening you further.

"You needed them." It comes off as arrogant, but he doesn't care. He's getting to the point where he's past caring, where he's past watching you freeze and work yourself to the bone. His jaw is clenched so tight the muscles are straining, and it takes effort to steady his voice. "You're freezing."

"I-"

"I want you to have this." Just take it. The shadows skitter around him, trawling across the brick to where you stand, and you glance at them briefly, surprisingly unafraid, before looking back at him. He expects a fight, some kind of resistance, but it's all been bled dry. The only thing he sees is defeat, and it stings. You're suffering, you're suffering and he's got everything he could ever want, material wise, and then some. "Please," he murmurs, stepping forward, and you shake your head.

"I shouldn't."

"It's just a gift, I don't expect anything in return."

"You say that now." Your voice trembles. Anger cracks like lightning through his veins. Is this what you fear? A transaction? An exchange for help? There are only so many things one could want in a situation like this, and all of the them fill him with rage.

"I promise you," his voice is steel, firm and unrelenting, "I want nothing in return."

"You promise." It's not a question, and you won't meet his gaze, but he pushes on.

"I do." You reach for it hesitantly and wrap it around your neck, tucking your chin into the softly spun wool, cheeks lifting in a very small, shy smile. Good girl.

He chose perfectly. It complements your skin, your eyes, illuminates your already striking beauty.

"I... thank you. This is really nice. It's lovely." The shadows hum, and he secretly preens, the warmth in his chest spreading as you tell him your name.

"I'm Azriel," he says in return, and you nod.

"I know." You sigh, and look past him, down the street to where he knows your work awaits. "I have to go."

Or he could take you. It's tempting, so, so tempting. It's wicked, and rotten, but satisfying at the same time, and it soothes the reckless pieces of him calling out to you.

No. He shouldn't. He settles on a different course instead.

"I'll see you soon." Your brow furrows.

"You will?" He nods, spreading his wings, preparing to launch into the sky, pleased by how you marvel at them.

"And you'll wear both the gloves and hat when you're outside from now on." Your lips part with surprise. "Yes?" It takes a beat, and then two-

"Yes."

[avocado-writing]

Companions reacting to Tav telling them they love them right in the middle(or after) a fight?? Like Tav is just so in awe of seeing em in action<3

oh! So sweet! Absolutely, here you go anon - writing as if you’ve seen them do something magnificent in battle & are so overcome with love that you have no choice but to blurt it out! (some stuff under a cut for being a bit NSFW LMAO) plus mentions of blood & violence

Astarion

stabs someone attacking you from out of the darkness with such efficiency they’re dead before they hit the ground

you’re blown away by the bloodlust and fury in his eyes - how DARE someone try to hurt you?

”I love you,” you choke out, wide-eyed and trembling from fear and emotion.

he’s shocked, but reaches over to give you a quick and bloody kiss before stabbing someone approaching behind you and urging you to get back to the fight

tells you later it was very silly to be distracting yourselves like that… but he does appreciate it nonetheless 😌

Wyll

we’ve seen the way he’s introduced in game, we know he’s a fan of some showmanship

you see him deal with three opponents at once, Eldritch Blasts in one hand and rapier in the other, and shout that you love him almost instinctively

when he finishes seeing them off he leaps across the battlefield, spins you, and gives you a fiery kiss before darting back up to block another sword

you feel like you’ve had the air stolen from your lungs but quickly manage to recalibrate yourself - you have a fight to win!

you can’t help stealing glances at his fine form for the rest of the battle though ����

Gale

we know canonically he gets turned on from watching you fight.

you yell out that you love him after seeing him sling the coolest Fireball? he’s putty in your hands afterwards.

so desperate, kissing you, begging for your hands to be all over him

“you are so wonderful, my heart… to see you in battle… it set every inch of me aflame…”

gets you into a routine of quickies after battle bc the two of you are fired up. neither of you mind delaying your adventure to fuck rough and fast. the rest of the party… could do without that.

Karlach

is busy raging and does NOT hear you lol

roars in response but that could just be a normal battle roar when it comes to her tbf

she finds you afterwards though, a little sheepish, and is like “oh erm did you say you loved me mid-battle?”

”yes! you looked so cool cleaving that dude in half karlach, I was a bit swept up…”

her face goes bright(er) red and she actually giggles before pulling you into a kiss

“things like that make this all worthwhile, solider. I love you too.”

Shadowheart

you’re dying. she floods you with a cure wounds so powerful it starts your heart again and also cures, like, an unrelated ache in your hip too, lol

you look up at her, bathed in the blood of battle, and she is like an angel sent from the heavens

“I love you” you manage to croak out from cracked lips

“I know,” she says, utterly unfazed, and then pushes you to your feet to keep on fighting

does give you a sweet smooch after battle though, to let you know she appreciated it 😌

Lae’zel

“tsk’va! there is a time and a place for this!”

she swings her sword and cuts a man’s head clean off, showering you both in a rain of warm blood, and you’re enchanted with her.

has to fight people off from wounding you because you’re so distracted oops

afterwards tells you that you cannot afford to be so absent-minded in battle… but does hold you close and rest her forehead to yours, allowing a moment of connected closeness between you ❤️

Halsin

you confess it when you see him bear out and start ripping people into pieces.

he is just… incredible. all raw power and brilliance.

you shout your love over to him and the bear roars before taking the head off of a zombie in one bite

always fights nearby you anyway, but will make an effort to get closer so he can hear your words of affection better!

plods over to you in wildshape afterwards and nuzzles into you, huffing happily when you bury your hands in his fur and give him a scratch 💕

Minthara

her blade is full of the might of her god, and she is going to use it to sunder her opponents.

you’re dazzled, in utter awe when she kills a fiend with a single blow from her sword

you can’t help the words falling from your lips.

she lifts her shield to block a blow from falling on you, and in its shade she gives you a kiss and says one word:

”good.”

[goldfades]

that one clip of Melo cheesing talking ab an interviewers accent when he was asking him a question but with reader 😛😛😛

You clear your throat as you glance down at the lineup of questions scribbled in your notebook, the stadium lights overhead casting a golden hue over the polished hardwood. It’s late—postgame energy still crackling in the air, the smell of sweat and Gatorade lingering.

LaMelo Ball stands a few feet in front of you, all easy posture and loose limbs, towel draped around his shoulders like he barely remembers it’s there. He’s still riding the high of a win, that much is obvious. Grinning, relaxed, adrenaline humming under his skin.

You raise the mic a little. "LaMelo, another strong performance from you tonight—"

Before you can even get to the rest of your question, he tilts his head, brows raising. A slow, lopsided smile starts tugging at his lips, and then—

"Nah, hold up," he says, shifting his weight, dimples pressing deep into his cheeks. "Your voice—yo, where you from?"

It takes you a second to process. "Uh—"

"'Cause I ain't gon’ lie, you sound official," he continues, ignoring the camera, the noise, all of it. His eyes are locked on you, pure amusement swimming behind them. "Like, real professional. Like you're on ESPN or some."

Your grip tightens on the mic, suddenly hyper-aware of yourself, of him. The way he's watching you, head slightly tilted, studying you with a kind of casual intensity that makes your pulse tick up.

You clear your throat, trying to steer this back on track. "I mean, that is the goal, but—"

"Nah, nah. It’s fire. Like, you got that… what’s the word? Articulate. Sound smooth as hell," he muses, rubbing his chin. "Like, if I ain't see you right now, I’d think I was listenin’ to one of them all-time greats on commentary. Real polished."

You blink. Your mouth opens, then closes. You’ve interviewed plenty of players before, dealt with plenty of personalities—some stoic, some playful—but this? This is unfiltered, no-holds-barred, pure LaMelo Ball charm, and it’s aimed directly at you.

"You tryna make me forget my questions, huh?" you manage, trying (and failing) to bite back a smile.

He laughs at that, a low, rich sound, nodding. "Yeah, somethin’ like that."

You take a breath, recalibrating, trying to remember the very professional, very well-crafted question you had planned before LaMelo decided to turn this interview into his own personal game of Who Can Fluster the Sideline Reporter First.

"Okay," you say, voice steady—mostly. "Let's try this again."

He nods, amused, like he’s indulging you. “Let’s.”

You glance at your notes, refocusing. "Twenty-two points, ten assists, five boards—"

"Mmm." He hums, nodding, but his eyes haven’t left you.

You push on. "—shot efficiently, really controlled the tempo. Walk me through what was clicking for you tonight?"

There. Professional. Composed. Nothing to be distracted by.

But LaMelo? He doesn’t even pretend to take this seriously. Instead of answering right away, he tilts his head again, studying you like you’re the more interesting subject here. His tongue peeks out slightly, running over his bottom lip, like he’s deciding whether he should keep this going or let you off the hook.

Spoiler: he’s absolutely keeping this going.

"You know," he starts, dragging the words out slow, easy, "I was gon’ answer that, but now I’m thinkin’ about how good you sound sayin’ my stats like that."

Your fingers flex around the mic. "LaMelo—"

"Nah, for real." He grins, dimples deep and boyish, eyes full of mischief. "Say 'em again real quick."

You shake your head, exhaling a sharp breath through your nose. "You are unbelievable."

"I mean, you don't have to say all of 'em," he muses, ignoring your exasperation. "Maybe just the twenty-two points part. Just real smooth, one more time for me."

He’s teasing, but there’s something about the way he’s looking at you—something both playful and annoyingly confident—that makes your stomach do an embarrassing little flip.

You adjust your grip on the mic. "LaMelo Ball, if I say it again, will you actually answer the question?"

"Cross my heart." He makes an exaggerated motion over his chest, but the sparkle in his eye tells you he’s fully enjoying this little back-and-forth too much to stop.

You hesitate. This is ridiculous. He’s ridiculous. But if saying his stats one more time is what it takes to get this interview back on track…

Fine.

You inhale, leveling him with your best unimpressed look. Then, slow and deliberate, you repeat, "Twenty-two points."

The moment it leaves your mouth, LaMelo bites his lip, nodding like he just heard the smoothest lyric in a song.

"Aye, yeah. That’s tough."

Oh, for the love of—

You let your head drop for a second, closing your eyes like you’re searching for patience, but you can hear him laughing, low and satisfied, like he just won something. When you look back up, he’s still grinning, looking at you like you’re the highlight of his night—not the win, not the stat line. Just you.

"Can I get my answer now?" you ask, arching a brow.

"My bad, my bad," he says, hands up like he’s surrendering. But the glint in his eye? That tells you he’s far from done with this. "Yeah, uh—game felt good. We was movin’ the ball well, lotta good looks, tryna keep the pace up. You know how it go."

Finally. A proper answer. You nod, mentally jotting down his response. "And with the way you guys have been gelling lately, do you feel like—"

"You got a boyfriend?"

You blink.

Your lips part slightly. The question lands out of nowhere, cutting through your train of thought like a buzzer-beater shot you weren’t ready for.

"LaMelo." You say his name carefully, like you’re making sure you heard him right.

He just shrugs, like it’s the most natural follow-up in the world. "What? It’s a valid question."

"In what way is that related to tonight’s game?" you ask, narrowing your eyes.

"Its not," he admits easily, flashing you that same lazy grin. "But it’s related to me tryna figure out if I got a shot."

Oh.

Your breath catches, just for a second. It’s one thing to deal with a little postgame flirting, a little playful banter—that’s part of the job sometimes. But this? This is something else entirely. Because LaMelo isn’t just being charming. He’s being bold.

And worse? He’s waiting. Watching you. Like he actually wants an answer.

You shift slightly, gripping the mic tighter, feeling the heat creep up your neck. "I—I don’t think that’s part of the interview," you manage.

"Okay, cool, cool," he nods, pretending to be serious. "So, off the record then."

"LaMelo."

"You dodgin’ the question."

"You ambushed me with the question."

"And?" He leans in slightly, grin widening. "That mean you got somebody, or you just tryna keep me in suspense?"

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "You are something else."

He nods, satisfied. "So I been told."

You’re not sure what’s worse—the fact that this conversation has gone completely off the rails, or the fact that you’re kind of enjoying it.

You don’t even have to turn around to know everyone in the background is eating this up. You can hear the chuckles from the PR guys, the muffled laughter from a couple of Melo’s teammates lingering in the tunnel, probably watching this unfold like it’s their new favorite postgame show. Even the camera guy, who’s supposed to be neutral, is shaking a little—probably trying to keep himself from outright wheezing on live TV.

Yeah. This interview is ruined, completely unsalvageable.

And maybe it’s the exhaustion from the long night, maybe it’s the sheer audacity of LaMelo Ball flirting with you like it’s his full-time job, or maybe it’s just the fact that you’ve already lost control—whatever it is, you suddenly decide: screw it.

You adjust your stance, shifting your weight to one leg, tilting your head slightly as you level him with a look that’s somewhere between amused and incredulous. "You know you’re supposed to be giving me the quotes, right?"

LaMelo grins like you just accepted his challenge. "I am givin’ you quotes. Just not about basketball."

"Right, because that’s what the people tuned in for. To hear you interrogate me about my dating life."

He shrugs, eyes glinting. "Hey, people wanna know. I wanna know."

You scoff lightly, shaking your head, but you don’t deny it. Which, of course, only makes him push further.

"So what’s up?" he presses, shifting closer by just an inch, all faux innocence. "You single, or I gotta fight somebody?"

A loud, exaggerated Oooooohhhh echoes from the peanut gallery behind you. You don’t even have to turn to know it’s his teammates instigating. Someone claps their hands. Someone else—probably one of the rookies—straight-up howls with laughter.

You take a deep breath, feeling your own composure slipping fast. "You are absolutely impossible."

"And yet—" He leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to make it worse. "You still ain’t answered me."

Your fingers tighten around the mic. You’re aware of the cameras, of the people watching, but you’re also aware of the way LaMelo is looking at you—like this isn’t just for show, like he’s actually waiting, actually interested. Like he doesn’t just flirt for fun but because he wants something from you.

Your pulse is a little too fast. Your face is a little too warm. And against your better judgment, against every single sideline-reporter instinct in your body, you hear yourself say—

"Off the record?"

The moment the words leave your mouth, LaMelo’s eyebrows shoot up like you just hit a game-winner at the buzzer. His whole face lights up, that cocky, boyish grin stretching wide, and the reactions from the background get ten times worse.

Somebody straight-up screams. There’s full-on chaos behind you—clapping, laughing, someone saying “Ohhh, she folded!” like this is a streetball match and not a professional interview.

Meanwhile, LaMelo? He looks way too pleased with himself. He nods, crossing his arms like he just won the whole damn NBA Finals.

"Off the record," he echoes, voice smug and sweet at the same time. "Yeah, lemme hear it."

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to fight the grin pulling at your lips. "You just wanna hear me say it, huh?"

"You know I do."

You exhale, shaking your head, pretending to deliberate like you don’t already know exactly what you’re about to say. And then, finally, slow and deliberate, you tilt the mic slightly away from your lips—just for show, just to make it dramatic—before saying,

"I’m single."

Absolute pandemonium.

The background noise explodes. Melo’s teammates lose their minds. One of them, probably Terry, full-on runs across the court like you just announced a trade. Someone else (PJ, you think) starts clapping like this is a live studio audience and they just heard the juiciest plot twist of all time.

And LaMelo? LaMelo has the nerve to bite his lip like this is the best news he’s gotten all week. He drags a hand down his chin, nodding like he’s considering his next move, like this just confirmed something for him.

"Aye, yeah. That’s real good to know," he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.

You shake your head, barely containing your laugh. "You are insane."

"And yet—" he grins, stepping back slightly, throwing his hands up in exaggerated victory, "I got my answer."

You exhale sharply, running a hand over your face. "Interview over."

The camera guy, finally recovering from his silent wheezing, gives you a thumbs-up before cutting the feed. The second the red light on the camera flickers off, you finally let yourself breathe.

You look up at LaMelo, who’s still grinning at you like he just pulled off the smoothest move of his career.

"You happy now?" you ask, raising a brow.

He tilts his head, considering. "Not yet."

You give him a look. "What more could you possibly want?"

"Your number."

And just like that, he’s got you flustered all over again.

[bravehyde]

Love your Tenna anatomy posts! If you could, could you explain what kind of circumstance would cause the classic 'bars of bright colors' sort of malfunction in a TV vs a screen full of static?

Of course! The easy answer is that neither of these are malfunctions, although we tend to think of them as such, and instead kind of like the "default" states of television. I'll do their purpose in general and then how we see them with Tenna.

Static (aka digital snow or white noise) is the shortest and easiest to explain. Your television gives this to you because whatever channel you picked doesn't have anything on it, but there is *something* being transmitted anyway that it can't make sense of. After all, not just television uses electromagnetic waves. So since there's no station playing something on the specific signal you tuned to, it's taking random signals from background radiation and trying its best to show it. This won't make a logical picture, though, so we get this random pattern of pixels and electronic noise.

Next, we have SMPTE Color Bars, or...just color bars. We don't need to say that it's the pattern standardized by the Society of Motion Picture and Television Engineers every time, after all. This was developed as a form of calibration for analog screens like Tenna, and nowadays is used to calibrate external monitors that we connect to cameras so multiple people can look at what's being recorded (such as the director and producers) without crowding around the camera operator. Every bar is a main color at 100% intensity, ordered in a specific way that makes sense if you go through every way to calibrate a screen and that is a lot to go over which I don't think is needed info, but you want it, looking for SMPTE calibration will get you where you're going. It also plays a really annoying sound that you may know as the censor noise, because you'll KNOW if it's too loud and adjust accordingly.

Also quick fun fact, the "technical difficulties" screen that Tenna flashes by is based on the old, black-and-white version of that. When we say technical difficulties with the color bars now, it's probably because your television is fine, but there's something wrong on the end of the people transmitting. If you're not calibrating the television and the colors pop up, it's an issue with the source signal.

Now, let's look at when this happens with Tenna. I found one major place where he has static, and one major place he has color bars.

In Tenna's final boss fight, he gets the static every time you select a minigame and he's using his own head as a transition to it. You could say that he's initially getting static because he's between channels, since that happens sometimes as little "blips" as you're changing them. It could also be that the signal he's turning to doesn't have anything broadcasted on it until he decides so by teleporting the gang into that area. I'm more of a fan of the latter, since that means that he has direct control over electronic signals, not just the ones he listens to, and that better explains how he transports the gang into the minigames: he transforms them into information that he decodes on his screen.

And of course, we have the prime example of him using the color bars...when he dies. I'd like to note that the stuff coming out of his arms looks a lot like static, although I don't have any reason for saying it other than I think it looks cool. So, this is often used as a modern "technical difficulties" screen, and it can easily just be that. It can also be Tenna trying to recalibrate himself. He realizes there's a problem and is running diagnostics instinctively. Obviously, there is nothing that checking color values can do for losing your arms, so this doesn't do anything to help him.

If he is theoretically both the receiver and transmitter of his own signal, this could also be him showing that he lost his source. Maybe his source signal is whatever keeps him alive as a Darkner, analogous to how we are kept alive by our hearts beating and electric activity in our brains? If he is making his own signal, that can also be how he physically moves the gang to the channel he broadcasts the minigames in, and him experiencing a large amount of pain/damage would be reason to conserve energy and not do it anymore.

[quinnophile]

I can request one shot with Fred Hechinger like one shot love at the first sight or cute date ♡

Of course! I really hope this does you justice as its my first request and sweet baby boi deserves all the love 🥲♡ Hope y'all enjoy and I'm open to new requests!

pairing. Fred Hechinger x reader

synopsis. You notice a stranger in distress at a train station

warnings. none, this is pure fluff ✨

word count. 1.7K

notes. this is my first oneshot, i hope you like it!

The first time you saw him, the world seemed to tilt just a little.

It was at the train station—one of those dreary, grey mornings where everything felt half-awake. The air was thick with the scent of rain and freshly brewed coffee, the sky a watercolour of soft blues and lingering mist. You had been fumbling with your bag and checking the time when suddenly, you noticed him a few feet away. He was shifting nervously on his feet, his hands jammed into his coat pockets. 

He looked lost. 

Not in a where’s-my-train kind of way, but in an I-didn’t-plan-for-this-moment way.

And then he looked at you.

It was quick, just a glance—but something about it sent a jolt through your body, like the static shock from a winter sweater. His blonde, slightly wavy hair framed his face, a few strands falling into his eyes, which were deep and unreadable. And when he smiled at you—uncertain, slightly lopsided—it was the kind of smile that made the world soften at the edges, like sunlight breaking through a storm.

A smile made its way to your face before you even realised it. “Everything okay?”

He blinked at you, clearly debating whether to play it cool or be honest. He went for a mix of both and failed miserably. “Uh—no. I mean, yes? Not really?” He huffed a small, nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I kinda missed my train. And I’m just waiting for my brain to work properly again.”

You bit back a grin. “Rough morning?”

“You have no idea.” He gestured vaguely to his coat. “I spilled coffee on myself five minutes ago. Which also meant when I tried to clean myself up I missed the last train I needed to catch…” His eyes drifted over your figure, a pink tint painting his cheeks. “And now I think I’ve just embarrassed myself in front of a stranger.”

You tilted your head, finding his nervousness quite endearing. “I wouldn’t say embarrassed.”

“Really?” Absentmindedly searching through your bag, you pull out a pack of tissues, pulling one out of its plastic wrapper before holding it out to him. He slowly extended his arm to reach out for it, his fingers grazing your own ever so slightly. It felt like your heart skipped a beat. 

“Well.” You started, feeling a heat creeping up your neck as you watched him try and wipe some of the coffee off of himself. “It depends on what you say next.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. He straightened up a little, clearing his throat, clearly trying to recalibrate. “Alright, let me recover. Uh—what’s the most ridiculous fact you know off the top of your head?”

You raised an eyebrow at the unexpected question but played along. “Octopuses have three hearts.”

His expression brightened. “Solid fact. And now I’m even more nervous, because that was a really good answer and I have to follow it up.”

You laughed. “No pressure.”

“Okay, okay—I’ve got one. Did you know that Scotland has over 400 words for ‘snow’?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

“Yep. ‘Sneesl’ means to start raining or snowing. ‘Feefle’ is a swirling snowstorm. And my personal favorite—‘skelf’—is a large snowflake.”

He struggled to keep his eyes on you, feeling his rambling was surely going to scare you off.  You instead stared at him for a second, a slow smile forming. “You just… had those ready?”

“I panic-learned them once for an audition. Never thought it’d come in handy, but here we are.” He was visibly more relaxed now, his earlier nerves melting into something boyish and warm upon realising you hadn’t tried to exit the conversation. “I’m Fred, by the way.”

You repeated the name in your head, testing how it felt. It suited him—soft around the edges, a little old-fashioned, but endearing.

Before you could respond, the announcement board dinged overhead, signalling the arrival of your train. You glanced at it, then back at him, hesitating. The moment felt too short—like a page turning before you had finished reading the sentence.

He must have felt it too because he quickly said, “Hey—uh—would you want to keep talking? Maybe sometime over coffee?” You hesitated, watching the train slowly come to a stop before you. “Or now… if you don’t have to catch it of course. I kinda need a new cup after spilling the last one.”

Although he was clearly nervous, you couldn’t help but melt at the confident toothy-grin he sent your way. You paused for only a moment before making a snap decision. “I could take the next one.”

He was instantly relieved. “Yeah?” He asked, almost in disbelief.

“Yeah.”

-

There was a small café inside the station, in which you both settled into a booth by the window. The rain had started again, painting the glass in soft, shimmering patterns, the station lights reflecting like constellations in a city sky. The conversation came easy, neither of you trying too hard, both still slightly aware of the way the universe had unexpectedly tossed you together. He was still a little nervous, but so were you. And that made it easier—meeting each other in the middle, both trying to act normal when really, something about this wasn’t normal at all.

Time slipped away unnoticed. You learned about Fred’s terrible luck with public transport and his impressive ability to remember useless trivia. He learned that you had a habit of taking detours just to see where they led. At some point, you casually mentioned that you were only heading into the city for the day, meeting a friend, but lived nearby.

You laughed with him as you exited the café, the announcement board once again reporting the arrival of the next train. Standing near the edge of the platform, you almost hesitated boarding it.

“Would it be okay if I asked to meet you again?” Fred asked, his voice soft yet hopeful.

You nodded, the fluttering sensation you had felt in your stomach intensifying as he held his hand out to help you step up onto the train. “I think I would like that.”

A shout from the security guard broke through the calm atmosphere, a sign the train was about to depart. Fred’s face suddenly fell.

“We never exchanged numbers.”

You froze, eyes widening. “Oh no.”

A beeping sound screeched through the calm atmosphere, a sign the doors were about to shut. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, with a frantic scramble, Fred fumbled for his phone while you tried to pull yours from your bag. But the moment was against the both of you—Fred had barely unlocked his screen when the doors began to close.

Panic flashed across his face. “Wait—”

The doors shut.

Your breath caught as you watched him, helplessly standing on the platform, his expression mirroring your own horror. Then, in a completely hopeless, dramatic move, he jogged after the train for a few feet, waving his arms before stopping with a defeated groan.

Moving to an empty seat, you laid back into it, pressing a hand to your forehead. That did not just happen.

Your day dragged after that. You met your friend, a little later than planned, but nothing felt as exciting as your unexpected morning. Your friend had asked what had happened, and you relived the wonderful morning as you tried to remember every detail. Upon the conclusion to your story, however, your friend took one look at your dazed expression, raised a brow and deadpanned.

“So let me get this straight… you met the love of your life at a train station, spent hours flirting over coffee, then both forgot to exchange number, and now he’s just - what - gone?” You cringed at this, hiding your head in your hands as the reality of it all hit you like a slap across the face. “Congrats! You’re officially the main character in a tragic rom-com.”

-

After that, as much as you tried, no conversation sparked the same kind of warmth. No moment felt as alive. The whole time, you kept replaying that missed opportunity in your mind, wondering how you had let it slip away.

Hours later, exhausted and disappointed, you boarded the train home. Slumping into a seat, you stared out at the dimming sky, still kicking yourself for not just stepping off of the train when you had the chance. The journey wasn’t long, and soon you were nearing the station, adjusting the strap on your shoulder to secure your bag.

And that’s when you saw him.

Fred was sitting on one of the old wooden benches, hands in his pockets, bouncing his knee as if he had been anxiously waiting a long time.

You blinked, not quite believing it. But then he looked up, spotted you through the train window, and grinned—the biggest, most relieved smile you had ever seen. His blonde hair was a little messier than before, as if he had run his hands through it a hundred times while waiting.

As you finally stepped onto the platform, he stood quickly, stuffing his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “I figured you’d have to come back here eventually,” he admitted, slightly breathless, like he couldn’t believe you were actually standing there. “Didn’t want to take any chances.”

Your chest felt light, a ridiculous, giddy warmth bubbling up inside. “Fred,” you said, shaking your head with a laugh. You were lost for words as you stared up into his shimmering green eyes. 

“I hoped it didn’t come across as creepy.” He laughed, looking down at his feet with that familiar pink tinge tainting his cheeks again. 

In a moment of boldness, you took a step closer to him. You could hear his sharp intake of breath as you stood up on your tip-toes, then gave him a soft kiss on his cheek.

“That might have been the most absurdly romantic thing anyone has ever done.” You smiled, setting yourself back down. You could almost feel the heat radiating off of him as his cheeks became redder. 

He rocked back on his heels, giving a small, nervous chuckle. “So… I guess I get a second chance to ask for your number now?”

You grinned, already pulling out your phone. “You absolutely do.”

[typewritingyip]

The Arcturus Missions

Part Sixteen - Explosive Consequences

Part Fifteen

———

Humans can withstand so much force, whether its g-force in which trained pilots can withstand 9g’s for a handful of seconds without passing out, or the potential six thousand pounds of compressive force that parts of the body can withstand.

Yet, they are organic in nature. They don’t particularly crush or break in the same manner as mechanicals.

There are dozens of ways to kill an organics, lack of force or excessive force. One in which can freeze the body, turning things that are liquid into solid, and other turning solid into liquid or hardly anything at all. It’s gruesome but true. Organics pop under excessive force and freeze under too little. Being in a properly pressurized space is hardly convenient but necessary. Such as a space shuttle, airplane, or mech suit.

—

All the gunfire was concussive, Breakdown’s shoulder cannon was super heated and made his cockpit unbearably hot, but they almost had the ship disabled. If Prowl’s predictions were correct, it would crash on the far side of base camp. Hound was to his right, kneeling now with the end of his converted long gun propped up and blasting off shots with ease, his gun fire joining two others in the field. With a bit of struggle, Breakdown grabs hold of a water pouch and drinks it down to the best of his ability, trying to keep the cannon from being disabled. The ship was on fire and descending fast.

Hound was still kneeling when it happened, at first, he thought that the ship had exploded or crashed but it was still taking fire from the others. He was disorientated and his ears were ringing, his gun crushed under the weight of the suit. For the moment his comms were out and static was filling his already ringing ears, so he turned on his external speakers, “Breakdown, you alright?” Hound turned and almost froze but instead got to his feet. Breakdown’s arm was a few yards away, along with what remained of the cannon and his shoulder components, it was leaking oil and coolant. It took Hound several long seconds and a strangled yell to remember that the suit wasn’t Breakdown’s actual body, that the suit was equipped with a equipment rejection feature, and that the suit wasn’t Breakdown’s body.

The inside of his cockpit was hot and his visual feed was exploding with error codes, Breakdown was hanging from his piloting apparatus and struggled to remove his helmet, “Damnit.” His head was pounding but he quickly got the front of the suit to open and let in cool air, it was a bit of a miracle that this would happen on a planet where they could breath the atmosphere. Hound was there, leaning over him, “Breakdown, you alive?” Very typical pilot, he struggled but flipped his external speakers back on, which screamed lightly for a second before turning on, “Yeah, mostly.” Hound sighed with relief and was quick to start spraying down the heated metal, bringing down the temperature of the suit so it would function again, “What happened?” “Cannon overheated, the repairs we did did not last. Melted in my last shot and my suit rejected the arm, very abruptly.” Struggling some, he pulled his helmet back on and went about the basic reboots for his suit, recalibrating it to register the lost appendiage.

Hound was shaking as he was able to bring the temperature of Breakdown’s suit back down, watching uneasily as Breakdown sealed himself back up in the cockpit, just as several others came running over. The chaos of the enemy ship now in the distance and the snipers nearby could no longer assist, “What happened?” Bluestreak was there first, staring with wide eyes as Hound helped Breakdown up, pulling his only arm across his shoulder, Mirage was right behind him though and stared, “How is he not unconscious?” Bluestreak almost opened his mouth but spared a look to Hound first before moving over to grab the lost arm, “We need to get him to Knockout.” Breakdown shook his head, “No, this will just worry the medic.” Both cybertronians stopped and stared like the mech had grown another head or sprouted winds, “Breakdown, I mean this with the utmost sincerity, but you are missing an arm. This is no longer a repair your team can handle.” Hound stopped and nodded, “Mirage is right, we have to ask Knockout for help.” Then he switched to comms, “At least to get the suit to stop leaking, once that’s handled we can get the arm properly reattached back in Iacon when you’ll have space to work, but I also can see it in your face Oleksknder, that concussion is going to have you on base duty.” Breakdown swore.

The ship crashed in the distance, shaking the ground and almost making all four of them lose balance.

—

It took them a while to get back to camp, Bluestreak was uncharacteristically quiet while carrying Breakdown’s severed arm and Mirage was speaking over comms to Prowl. Hound was walking with Breakdown and trying to keep the suit upright, they were talking quietly over a private comm channel, Hound mostly trying to keep Breakdown awake, “Once we get to camp and into the medical tent, I’ll say that I’m going to put you under for the maintenance and request Knockout leave for privacy. We’ll load you into my control bay, you can rest up on the cot.” He wasn’t sure if it was the best idea to remove Breakdown from his suit but it was better than him falling asleep without someone watching him, “I think it would still be the better move for me to just engage all my internal camera so that you and Jazz can monitor me from there,” Hound swears, “Damnit Breakdown, if you pass out or anything goes wrong,” he squeezed Hound’s shoulder, “Even if I was in your bay, there wouldn’t be anything you or the others could do. If my tech fails or my body does, then that’s it. We knew this when we signed up for this mission and I’m comfortable with my choice.” Hound fell silent, still holding Breakdown up as they limped into camp.

With the ship crashed, most of the others had moved in to attempt to handle the situation, only a few mechs were around and they all seemed to have minor injuries. Knockout was working on one with a nasty cut down part of his chest, “If you just came to the medical tent, it would go by a lot faster.” The mech shrugged a bit, “It’s fine.” He was clearly bored and glanced over, his jaw falling open, “Uh, I think you’ve got bigger things to worry about than my nanites doc.” Knockout, still grumbling, looks up then makes a strangled noise.

Bluestreak almost dropped Breakdown’s arm as the medic ran at them, “What happened?” Knockout gestured towards the medical tent, so Hound followed, “His cannon overheated, by design it’s supposed to disconnect but uh, it didn’t.” Breakdown chuckled slightly, leaning against Hound heavily, “It exploded and my programs thought my arm was the problem.” The look almost made both grown, military men, freeze, “Your programming? What kind of backward planet did you come from?” He was shrieking, then pulled out a medical bed and paused, “If I activate the field on this will that disturb your systems?” Hound glanced at it and nodded, “Yes.” He had to bite his tongue to not go into detail how it would crash the systems and potentially the reactor’s cooling system which would just be all bad. Bluestreak sets the arm down then glances over his shoulder, “I’m going to go help the others with Mirage, um, I’ll be back later to check on you Breakdown, okay?” Nodding a bit, Breakdown is eased into the deactivated slab, “Thanks.” Blue ran out of there as fast as he could, he looked ready to throw up. Hound shifted to stand slightly in front of the door as Knockout picked up the detached arm, “Are you in pain?” His voice was far softer than either of them expected from a medic. When compared to the medical team back on Earth who carried around very heavy tools for when they were annoyed.

Breakdown cleared his throat a bit and shook his head again, “Uh, no, sir. My head hurts but that’s all.” As if saying it reminded him, he activated his internal camera for Hound. He looked like shit, and Hound’s stomach turned over. Knockout stares, then looks down at the arm before looking to Breakdown again, “You’re bleeding and in shock.” He moved up to Breakdown and started to seal the few leaking lines at his shoulder, looking more and more horrified, even whispering, “What do you all run on?” Glancing up, Knockout glared at Hound, “If you’re just going to stand there, leave. If you want to be useful, get him a cover for the shock.” Hound blinked once then twice before he went over to a cabinet and pulled out what looked like an oversized tarp, there were several of these around Jazz’s apartment in Iacon. Supposedly Prowl’s door-wings got cold easily.

Snatching it from Hound, Knockout covered the parts of Breakdown he wasn’t working on, “Now get out.” Opening his mouth, Hound had every intention to protest before a chunk of Sharpel was thrown for his visor. Ducking quickly, he left, switching to the private comm, “Breakdown, keep me updated on this and keep your damn camera on.” In the corner of his visual feed, Breakdown chuckled and nodded some, switching to the private comm, “I have had my fair share of concussions, it will be alright.” Hound grit his teeth, “Once we ship back to Cybertron you’re going on rest. Our mission is too far from being over for you to be out for the rest of it.” Then he cut the line, it was reckless and stupid. Now a medic was working on their technology as if he were treating a patient and not fixing a suit. Sitting down heavily near the familiar heater, Hound put his head in his hands. Taking several deep breaths before the sounds of gunfire drew closer again. Sighing slowly, he looked up and walked over to one of the injured mechs, “Mind if I borrow your gun?” Since his was laying destroyed in the battle field of twenty minutes ago, the mech nodded and offered it, “It’s got a pit of a kick.” Hound took it and turned it on, it hummed deeply, “That’s fine. Better ours than theirs.” Before he ran towards where he could see familiar red and yellow cutting through a group of Quintessons, the gun coming up and firing as he ran.

—

Splattered with energon, Quintesson guts, and what he could only describe as muck, Hound’s suit was slow. Maybe it was more so he was exhausted and slow, but the layer of grime on the suit was not helping. Though to be fair all the frontliners looked like that right now, the ship was half sunk in the marsh behind them and far enough away from the energy farms they won't disturb the planet's production.

This feeling honestly reminded him of the last time he’d fought in the ocean, the sand clutching at the feet of his suit, slow and drained. Clearly the others felt very similarly as even Sunstreaker couldn’t be bothered with dragging himself to the wash racks, instead sitting down heavily in their usual spot. Sideswipe sat next to him, as close as he possibly could get before resting his elbows on his knees and face in his hands, “Ugh, if this was bad how are we going to take on their whole planet?” Hound bit his lip before sitting down, stretching his back the best he could, “Hopefully not on our own, maybe with help.” It wasn’t something to think about now.

Jazz sank to the ground, missing the seat entirely and leaning his head back against it, “Breakdown’s vitals seem to be normal, he’s resting now, took some Tylenol from his med-kit so it’ll probably need restock eventually.” Sideswipe looks up, “What happened with the old man?” Hound and Jazz shared a brief look before Hound signed, “His cannon overheated, his suit thought it was the arm malfunctioning,” “His arm came off?” Sunstreaker no longer seemed so tired, sitting up quickly, yelling through the comm causing the other three to wince, “Yes, but Knockout has it reattached, he’s just in medical getting some rest. Turned off most of his systems so he can rest in the dark.” Nodding slowly, Sunstreaker shoved off the ground, “Alright, well I’m going to rinse this crap off then check on him.” Everyone waved slightly and settled down, too tired to join him. Jazz and Hound kept an eye on Breakdown in the corner of their visual feeds, his cockpit dark and he was just visible on his makeshift cot.

All the others wanted to do was eat and try to get some sleep, Prowl had already agreed to monitor Breakdown through the night.

—

This time around, it was Hound who woke up in the middle of the night, jolting upright and coughing violently. He felt sick, hitting the lights for the cockpit. He tried to catch his breath, of course after what happened to Breakdown today he’d dream about that. Swearing, he got out of bed and started to pull on the assistance suit, there was no point in trying to go back to bed. Grabbing his water pouch, Hound poured some onto his hand and dragged it down his face before pulling on his helmet. Adjusting the visor just a bit. Taking several more breaths, it took all the power he had to climb into his piloting chair and turn his systems back on.

It was dark and it was cold, but the heater was turned on and softly glowing in front of him.

Turning up the brightness of his visor some, Hound took a second to take in the surroundings he was starting to familiarize himself with. Most of the mechs were hanging around their own heaters, talking and laughing together, most probably would need to sleep for another few hours. It took him a second to push off the ground and start towards command, not wanting to disturb the others' sleep. His footsteps were surprisingly quiet in the late hour, stepping over one of the benches before going towards command. Waving to those who waved and nodding at those who shouted, Cybertronian’s were fairly friendly and seemed to just get friendlier. There were only a few mechs in command, talking casually, one laughed.

Knocking lightly on the makeshift frame, Hound leaned around into the space, “I’m sorry to disturb,” “Hound, you’re not disturbing us. Come on in.” Mirage smiles, holding a cube that was much more vibrant than typical energon, something called high grade. Nodding a bit, Hound moves into the room and takes up the empty chair, “Thank you.” Megatron hums, sipping his own cube, “We’d off you a drink, but your systems don’t take energon?” It was phrased more as a question and Hound cleared his throat a bit, “Uh, yes, sir. It’s toxic according to our systems, uh, sorry. Thank you for the offer though.” He nodded a bit and sat back, Megatron returned the nod and went back to sipping his drink. Red Alert shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “Hound, I’m afraid I have a question for you that you might not like.” Hound waved a hand, “No Red, it’s fine. Go ahead.” The mech nodded for a second before shifting in his seat, “What happened between Sideswipe and Bluestreak? They don’t appear to be speaking to one another and several mecha stated seeing a fight last night.” Hound sighed, “They got into an altercation about Sunstreaker.” Mirage laughed, “See, I told you! You owe me ten shanix.” Hound opened his mouth when Red Alert nodded and handed over the credits, “A deal is a deal, I had just assumed it was for more than flirting.” Hound shut his mouth.

Megatron chuckled slightly, finishing off his drink, then pouring another cube for himself, “I doubt Hound wants to hear about your bets, besides, the mech is normally in recharge at this hour. What brought you to us?” Hound swore sometimes it was like the mech knew what he was thinking, clearing his throat again Hound shifted slightly, “The lighting to be perfectly honest. The heaters only provide so much light and it’s significantly easier to stay awake in a bright space.” It also kept the memories at bay, even if just for a little while, Megatron hummed deeply, “Then what awoke you?” Hound’s mouth went dry and he wished he hadn’t left the water pouch on his bed, worrying his lip for a moment he sighed, “Old memories from home.” He didn’t expect the response though.

Mirage nodded heavily, staring at the floor, Red Alert glanced up at the makeshift roof, smiling sadly, and Megatron downed the second drink, “Good memories or the bad?” “Can’t it be both?” Hound smiled painfully even though they could see it, somehow they all always knew, Mirage reached over and brushed a hand over his shoulder, “It can, it truly can.” Looking at him, Hound tilted his head though not in question, simply in response before looking down, “The bad is what woke me up, the good is why I needed to get away.” They were all understanding, humming softly and letting him sit in silence for a moment more, “Your people, they are very different from us.” Megatron’s voice was almost casual, but the typical edge was still there, “But you are also different from them, the so-called compatibility testing I hear so much about.” Hound chuckled lightly, nodding, “Yes, the test to see if you’re capable of fighting Quintessons.” That was certainly one way of phrasing it.

“Why did you get tested, if you don’t mind me asking? I understand you and Breakdown were military, the twins were facing the stockade and Jazz was, well he was Jazz.” Red Alert effectively snorted, covering his face, Hound glanced over but shrugged lightly, “The pay was good. I told you about the whole cost of living thing on Earth.” Megatron nodded, but shifted, his fingers flexing angrily, “Yes, I recall that conversation but was there a more specific reason?” Hound took a moment to think, sighing, “I was military and they needed us, it was my duty.” Megatron scowled, “I hate that word.” Chuckling lightly, Hound shook his head, “Why?” “Because in all of your cases, it was less of a moral obligation than a mandated one.” All Hound could do was shrug a bit, “It happens and I know you don’t like that, but it’s true.” Mirage almost sank in his seat, and Red Alert scooted his chair back some, “Did the others in your unit feel the same sense of this false duty?” Hound suppressed a wince, “Well, yeah, otherwise we wouldn’t be all the way out here. Would we?” That brought Megatron some pause and Mirage sighed a bit.

He was clearly thinking, even Hound could see it on the mech's face, “Do you truly intend to die for your planet?” Mirage had a rather abrupt reaction, choking and coughing on his drink and Red Alert stared widely, “Well, our lives aren’t as long as yours, so in a way yes. Either way, I’ll have died. If I can save the people I care about back home, then I’d do so happily.” Setting down his own glass now, Mirage leans forward, “What do you mean, aren’t as long as ours?” Hound sighed and sat back, “Well, I’ve been a pilot for just shy of ten years and that’s ten years of program updates, compatibility tests, and the war. It takes a toll.” His hand came up and brushed over the numbers on his chest, “There were 1,123 pilots before me. I think Jazz and a few others are the only ones still in commission.” The cybertronians were quiet and Hound shifts on the seat, “Just cause we’re designed to fight the Quintessons doesn’t mean we always survive the fight. Like Breakdown today, had his cannon exploded while it was still attached to him that would have been fatal.” He lets out a slow sigh, checking Breakdown’s feed for a moment before glancing back around the room.

They all were staring at him and he shifts uneasily, clearing his throat a bit, “I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to bring down the mood.” Mirage took his hand quickly, “Don’t apologize, your planet is horrific and all humans deserve better.” Red Alert and Megatron nod, and Hound swears for a moment that they also swap shanix, “My planet, Earth, is not perfect, but we don’t expect it to be because we aren’t.” Slowly, he pulls his hand away from Mirage and sits back, “Tell me, how did your war with the Quintessons start?” The reaction was not one he expected, Megatron groaned, Red Alert perked up, and Mirage sank in his seat again, taking his glass. Megatron nodded lightly, “Forgive me, my conjunx tells the story better than I.” He clears his throat a bit, “This is our second or third war with the Quintessons, it started a vorn or so after the Decepticons and Autobots agreed to a peace treaty.” Hound sat forward, his foot shifting slightly to almost be touching Mirage’s as he tried to get comfortable in his piloting seat. Raptured with Megatron’s history lesson.

———

A/N

It had to happen, I have been wanting to get Megatron and Hound to talk for a minute.

So much more is coming down the line for this story for me, it’s been so fun.

Tags!

@lunarlei68 @whirlywhirlygig @loop-hole-319 @pixillandjester @alek-the-witch @not-a-moose-in-disguise @goddessofwind8water @neurologicalglitch @dersereblogger @pixel-transformers @mrcrayonofdoom @wireplaces @twilightfreefaller @original-blog-name-2 @devilangel657 @robbin-u @childofprimus @miniartistme @starwold @tea-enthusiasm @valeexpris606 @celticdoggo @bird599 @agentsquirrelsgotrobots @aquaioart @dimencreasatlas @thatwandercat @artdagz @seisha974 @starscreamloverfr @halenhusky309 @leethepiper @cat-cassette

And once again thank you to @keferon for this amazing AU

[spikedblanket]

hikaru ga shinda natsu s1 wincest au where sam disappears on a hunting trip:

dean, after days of searching in the woods screaming himself raw, finally returns to the motel room. sam hasn't ever gone missing like that, not since he was a kid and didn't want to be found. they're past all of that now, they're finally okay, which means that sam's in deep shit and it's dean's fault.

they left the television on while leaving in such a hurry, and it's blaring commercials for local contractors, diners. sam's clothes are still folded neatly in the drawers, even though they'd only planned to stay three days at most.

dean goes to the front desk to buy another week in the room. too shaken to realize that he looks fucking insane, covered in dirt and his own blood, though the latter's dried enough to blend with the first. the smell hanging around him gives him away - sharp, metallic, wrong. the front desk clerk eyes him weird. hands him a new set of towels.

dean showers, totally numb, the water either too hot or too cold to register as any kind of pain. just lets it slough over him until it runs semi-clear and stumbles into bed. the wet leaches from him into the sheets. his last thought before sleep is that the bed feels like a tract of sweating skin.

he bolts awake at four in the morning. blinking into the neon-red gash of the numbers on the alarm clock, he decides that five hours of sleep is enough, more than enough, and gets dressed to go back outside. he hesitates before reaching into sam's drawer, pulls out the khaki jacket - one of two that sam has. his own is out of commission for now, anyways.

he puts it on, thinks about how big it is - at least as big as their father's jacket is on him. he thinks about what that means - clothes and the fact that the right people aren't there to wear them. vestigial bits of his family lying limp across the backs of chairs, hanging quietly in closets. reanimated by him and him alone.

he's got a hand on the doorknob when he hears something scratching on the other side. like it doesn't know you're supposed to knock.

he takes a step back. he's not stupid enough to let hope be the thing that gets him killed, so he stays quiet. the scratching stops after a little while, like the thing is recalibrating, and starts thumping at the door with the flat of its hand. hey, it calls. hey, it's me.

if it were a shapeshifter, the transition'd be too smooth. it'd already be trying to worm its way under dean's skin using sam's memories, mannerisms, like an actor that's so good they start running through their lines a little too quick. but something else is obviously off.

dean grabs the holy water, the salt, the works, and arms himself with a silver knife. he opens the door quick, pulls the thing inside, slams it into a wall.

it's "sam".

staring wide-eyed at dean, looking about as good as dean did when he got back, which is to say, like total shit. the holy water rinses some mud away from his face so dean gets a better look at him when he pries his mouth open to shove salt inside. he hooks his thumbs underneath "sam"'s lip to reveal those familiar, blunt fangs, the throat struggling to close, gagging on the dissolving salt. "sam" lets him.

he also lets him cut a line into his forearm. dean watches his face for any of those telltale, out-of-the-ordinary pain reactions and gets nothing. sam can take it. apparently, "sam" can too.

it's me, he says again. dean wants it to be. he's run the gamut of monster-tests, so it must be, and he pulls him in close, relief drowning out the alarm bells ringing in his head.

what happened to you? dean asks. where were you?

we were chasing that thing, "sam" says, and i - i fell. i fell and hit my head. i must have rolled under something, somewhere where you couldn't see me.

dean combed those woods. he knows that isn't true. but he pulls away from "sam", and "sam" looks at him, his face closer than normal. holding on for longer than he usually does. a calculated look in his eyes like he doesn't know what he and dean are to one another. running through a limited understanding of the permutations of human relationships, the ways he can test the waters.

a sickening possibility presents itself to dean. an opportunity.

there's no time before recognition clicks into place and shutters it off, forever, so dean acts on instinct. presses his knee a half inch further between "sam"'s legs before he knows what he's doing.

they stay like that for a minute, dean's hand on "sam"'s shoulder and his forearm on the wall behind his head, slanting himself in closer. pressing one side of his body flush against his. maybe an outsider who's seen them fighting before wouldn't know the difference. dean does.

"sam" smiles like he's got the right answer.

dean can't meet his eyes, so he lets up and pushes him towards the bathroom. he listens to the water running and tries his best not to shoot himself before "sam" comes out, because what the fuck is he thinking?

what is that thing?

dean watches him fall asleep. doesn't sleep himself. makes the decision to keep them both in this town until he can find out what's happened to the real sam. chalks up his freak behavior to keeping track of the difference between the two.

but "sam" makes that difference plain. in the morning, dean watches him try to scrape mud off of their father's jacket before giving up and putting it on. what are you doing? he asks, numb.

"sam" stops, his arms going still in sleeves that hit right at the wrists. like they're supposed to.

dean sits through some lame excuse about wanting to switch things up and doesn't miss the way his eyes wander over to the khaki jacket, logging away new information for later. they trade clothes.

when they head out to the impala, "sam" lags behind like he doesn't know which car is theirs instead of beelining for shotgun, the two of them splitting off like the prongs of a wishbone, an easy, fine-tuned movement carved into every space they've been in together.

dean doesn't need a map to head back to the woods, but tells "sam" to open one up anyway. sam leans over to point out the turns, brushes against dean's hand, leans lightly into his arm. laughs big and bright at the jokes he manages to make, stares hard at dean's profile in a way that makes him sweat.

he doesn't have to tell "sam" what they're looking for. being back in those woods seems to unlock this instinctive, territorial side to him. one that doesn't want to go back. one that wants to stay here, with dean.

so he pulls out all the stops. lays a casual hand on dean's thigh when they're breaking for a lunch of slim jims and skittles, licks the melted sugar from his lips slow and leaves them parted so dean can just make out the red of his dyed tongue. looks at dean like he wants something from him. dean can only imagine what his own face is saying. it's probably some mix of hunger and agony, please personified.

they do that for ten days straight: dean searching, getting nowhere. "sam" working his way to the core of him.

and whenever dean looks unsettled, whenever dean starts itching for more answers, more time under those trees looking for a piece of the real sam that explains any of this, "sam" will learn how to distract him.

he flatters dean. slides his fingers into the hidden places dad's jacket normally covers up - the insides of his wrists, the seam where his jaw and ear meet, the side of his neck. convinces him to skip town, i hear wyoming's beautiful in november, flashing those pretty teeth in smiles that almost look right. acts like the next town over is hawaii when dean finally agrees to take them someplace else.

but it's not far enough. something in that forest wants him back.

and dean would give him to it. scrap this entire project, torch the evidence - he's scared of "sam," scared of himself - but each passing day eclipses the idea that anyone else is waiting for him in the ashes. there's no hand reaching back. no little brother that isn't good but tries to be, for him. For once.

"sam" is offering. all dean needs to do is take.

when the time comes, it'll be so easy. that's what makes it sick.

they head west. a perfect corpse in the passenger seat and a shitty memorialist at the wheel.

[brandwhorestarscream]

Ah :⁠-⁠\

I mean, I don't deny that a TFP x SG TFP can be good, i guess

I don't know where to start with, although

I gotchu fam. Transcribed from discord

TFP, during the hunt for the relics. The ones they've found are split pretty evenly between the bots and cons, and there's been yet another located. It's unclear exactly what it does, the discovered data corrupted, but if the previous ones are any indication, it's surely important. Both teams are in the same scene, vying for control of their new find and desperate to make off with it to secure the upper hand. Its a pretty balanced battle until someone, idk who, lands a blaster shot way too close to the relic and it promptly goes nuclear. Massive explosion of sound and impossibly bright light, shockwaves travelling out in a ring and throwing everyone back. It stuns pretty much everyone, with the smaller mecha (vehicons, Arcee, maybe Starscream) being more heavily effected.

Imagine their surprise as they're peeling themselves off the ground, audials ringing and internals rattling... and there's suddenly double the amount of bodies as before. We'll focus on Arcee for the sake of clarity: she sits up with all sensors trying to recalibrate and groans, muttering to herself, "What the slag was that?"

Another voice, her voice, utters it at exactly the same time and she sobers up quick, finding herself nose-to-nose with a perfect, carbon copy. They're perfect mirrors of each other, each leaping up with weapons primed in a defensive stance in perfectly identical movements, and flinching back in surprise when they find their doppelganger doing the same thing. Everything, doen to the tiniest detail, even when they blink, it's the same.

It's not just Arcee either, it's everyone. Two Bumblebees, two Arcees, two Soundwave, two Starscreams, two of everyone! The relic is nowhere to be seen, none of their sensors can pick up on it, and everyone is so caught up in the confusion of sudden doppelgangers the battlefield disperses. They all evcuate back to their respective bases

The only autobot not at the fight was Ratchet, and he has no idea what to make of it. They appear to be perfect clones, similar to the Starscream incident. That's his leading theory until Arcee, one of the Arcees, mentions that she is not a clone, thank you very much, and even if she was there's no way she'd wear blue and pink paint. The newcomers insist that they're not copies, and this is definitely not where they're supposed to be.

They're from another dimension >:3

Without the relic there's no way to reverse engineer what happened to them, and the most the team here has ever done with different realities is the bit with the shadow zone. But this is much more advanced than that, and trying to return them is, uhhhh. Not gonna be easy.

Things seem ok for the first few hours. The new autobots keep to themselves, clustering around their Prime and speaking in hushed whispers. The native bots try to give them privacy--they've just been through a crazy, impossible situation and are stranded in another dimension. It makes sense they'd be stressed, and if the way hands are waving and faces are frowning while they argue quietly in the corner is any indication, they're not too happy about being stuck here.

They try to make the newcomers feel welcome, and Bumblebee + Smokescreen are especially delighted. Smokey declared that he's, "Always wanted to have a twin!" and promptly invites them to go for a joyride. Offering to let them come pick up the kids from school, they'll lose their minds when they see!

To which the new BB and SS look at them completely befuddled. They have sparklings here?

To which they're told no, definitely not! Our human children, silly. Every single new autobot turns to look at them so fast it's a little uncanny, expressions ranging from unreadable to downright shocked.

"...human children?" The new Prime asks, his tone quizzical, optics slightly narrow as if he's suspicious of their claim. "You employ human children?"

"Wha- no no no, they don't work for us!" They wouldn't use child labor, after all! They explain that the kids, mostly, just hang out with them. They're more for companionship than anything, and the new Optimus looks even more baffled.

"You... keep them as... pets?"

No, definitely not!!

As it turns out, these autobots don't have human companions. At all. No kiddos to look after, no government contacts, nothing. It's a bit odd, but hey, they come from another dimension, and if Jack hadn't gotten handsy with Arcee on that random afternoon, they likely wouldn't have humans around, either. Other-Arcee just wasn't at the right place at the right time, that's all.

New Prime doesn't say anything further, just kind of nods and goes back to quietly conversing with Ultra Magnus.

It's weird, when the kids arrive, the new autobots almost seem skittish of them. Reluctant to touch them, giving them a wide berth and taking comically large steps over them. Poor things must be afraid of hurting them 🤭

The trio is very excited to meet the newcomers, as predicted. They try to make friends but they really aren't interested. The closest they get to being even acquaintances is an offer of paint to make them easier to distinguish, and the newcomers are aaall over it. Other Arcee paints herself deep purple and silver, Bumblebee is now silver and green, Optimus himself is purple and black.

There's little tells that seem a bit odd--when the new Prime walks into a room, his soldiers don't stand at attention but instead fold their servos and lower their helms. They seem vaguely put off by human squishiness, thinly veiled distaste. And they're very eager to fight decepticons, moreso than usual, but wartime grudges can make anyone a little overly enthusiastic, right? Nothing that really strikes them as wrong, though. Not yet. Lord Prime's orders are to maintain cover until they can get their Ratchet to produce a means to travel home--then, wipe all life off the face of this planet and conquer it in the name of the Dynasty of Optronix Prime

They manage to keep their cover right up until Optronix lays eyes on this universe's Megatron 🤭

[verdemoun]

imagine Micah latched onto Hosea instead of Dutch

honestly it could work

Hot take: Dutch doesn't make people change. Even Arthur believes Dutch is the one that makes people change, but it's always been Hosea.

we know from lenny that hosea isn't usually very quick to warm up to new gang members. and can be downright cruel and kind of a dick to people he sees as threats to the gang. which is understandable because a) there are some unpleasant people in the gang that dutch insists on keeping because of their usefulness b) he's protecting the gang members he sees as family.

imagine Micah being used to that level of disinterest and abuse because of his own father and immediately making that connection, latching onto Hosea because Hosea being a dick feels more like a paternal bond to him than Dutch's praise.

Hosea aggressively reminding Micah of the rules of the gang actually sticking. Micah learning he's bottom of the food chain instead of being elevated to Arthur's rank due to his connection with Dutch. Micah angry and frustrated but respectful out of fear. No heinous comments about the women of camp.

Telling Hosea about robbing the O'Driscoll stage and Hosea giving a scoffed almost sarcastic thank you but Micah actually chuckling a little because he got some validation.

Hosea would have a similar relationship to Micah that he has with Bill where he still thinks Micah is a brute but recognizes that Micah just wants approval and has almost no self-worth of his own. When he softens up enough to joke around with Micah, Micah has to recalibrate his brain and learn that having a paternal figure doesn't actual mean he's in constant physical danger.

Not that Micah would ever admit that he was always subservient to his father and lived with the constant anxiety of knowing his father might turn around and try to kill him the same way he had tried to kill Amos at any time, but he can admit not having that thought in the back of his mind is nice.

Hosea teaching Micah dominoes because he's bored but it actually becoming a mindfulness activity for Micah when he's angry or twitchy bored and just wants to go on a job despite being told no he can play dominoes instead.

Also Hosea learning to acknowledge Micah is actually pretty intelligent? Being able to talk to Micah about jobs and Micah is open to criticism but learning to collaborate because Hosea actually gives him a smidge of validation for a good plan and it means a lot more from Hosea.

Micah becomes more tame, still stubborn and loud and generally obnoxious but more focused. He has a place in the gang and stability and he's found happiness. Hosea says they don't need the Blackwater money, so it's banished from his mind.

[tonystarktogo]

PLEASE continue As Subtle As Cognitive Recalibration. I’m missing 2012 avengers with 2023 shenanigans so bad

Natasha would like to say that she notices something is off immediately—and if anyone asks that is what she will claim and good luck trying to prove otherwise—but the truth is it’s not until a good five minutes after Clint has woken up, heavily concussed and beat up but himself, in the back of their not-quite-stolen getaway car that she realizes it.

Which is a solid two hours after Stark catches on. Stark.

Granted, Natasha has had other things on her mind. Like the alien capable of mind-control getting a hold of the one person she might actually one day admit to count as a real friend without lying, should the stars align and the confession suit her purpose. Or the invading army that followed on said alien’s heels.

But that is no excuse to discard the many, many inconsistencies she’s observed but ignored or brushed off instead of questioned like her instincts have insisted with increasing alarm ever since she has watched Rogers and Banner hover over Stark like he might disappear the second they take their eyes off of him.

There’d been speculation in Rogers file that he might be positively inclined towards Stark on the grounds of his familiarity with Howard Stark but even if SHIELD’s attempt to discourage a connection with such a volatile asset had failed that still wouldn’t explain the depth of Roger’s emotional reaction to Stark.

Don’t even get her started on Banner.

Stark stands for everything Bruce Banner has done his best to avoid since he got his monstrous green personality addition. The way he has actively sought Tony Stark at his most sarcastic out makes no sense whatsoever. Nor does the tension between Banner and Rogers, that screams of frustration born out of long-held disagreements stretched out over years, not a twenty minutes long acquaintance.

And all that doesn’t touch on the fact that the Asgardian crown prince Thor has treated all of them—Stark and Natasha included—like long lost friends.

Not just in the way he’s greeted Stark with an actual hug either. Big, boisterous statements are easier to fake, though what aim such a pretense would serve Natasha doesn’t know, but it’s the little things that made her pause, almost succeeded in distracting her from her primary goal of getting Clint back.

The loaded glances. The unfinished sentences that were understood nonetheless. They way they stepped into formation reflexively the moment the explosion shook the helicarrier, like they knew where everyone else would stand. Like they’d been in that position before.

She set it aside because she needed to focus on Clint. So that is what she did.

Natasha doesn’t regret that because Clint needed her and now he’s alright. Bloodied and fucked-up but himself.

But she does regret letting all those hints go, just a little, because Clint may be himself but it only takes her five minutes in his company to know for sure that he’s not the same.

He tackles her in a hug that almost gets them killed the moment he regains consciousness—which is actually the most in-character thing she has seen him do so far—but he doesn’t tap their agreed upon all-clear signal out against her shoulder. He doesn’t flinch or tense when he catches sight of Loki—and yeah, the guy might be a victim too, but how would Clint know that? And even if he does, that still doesn’t mean no reaction to his presence at all.

Most damning though is that moment in Stark’s elevator, just before the doors open and they step out onto the roof and it’s a lightening quick motion someone else might have missed but Natasha is watching for it and she knows exactly what she’s seeing. Mere seconds before stepping into a potentially life-threatening situation, Clint doesn’t look to her. Instead his gaze flicks to Rogers, to Banner, to Thor, and he takes his cue from them.

He’s subtle about it and he does clock her and Stark too, as is only expected, but that first reflex doesn’t lie.

So while it might have taken Natasha longer to catch on than she’d prefer, she knows. The question now is what she’s going to do with that knowledge.

Natasha leans back in her seat, a position that reinforces the relaxed air she’s been so carefully feigning ever since they’ve stepped into this slightly run-down local restaurant whose staff has been handling their unexpected and strange customers surprisingly well so far, lets her gaze roam over their curious group—takes in the way Thor pushes more food onto Loki’s plate every time their wannabe conqueror finishes, how Clint keeps shooting looks at her, not so much like he’s trying to communicate and more like he’s checking if she’s still there, while Rogers and Banner throw unexpectedly cutting barbs at each other when they aren’t trying to pull Stark into a conversation—and does what she does best: she plots.

Let's be real, nothing good can come from this.

[gem-femmes]

Help a student girlie out - How to deal with a lethargic lack of focus? My discipline is there, I wake up early I go to the library and I start work, but then my brain just switches off for the rest of the day. I spend hours reading just one article and I don’t even remember it in the end, when usually I read it in 20 minutes and remember a lot and I’m at least moderately productive. It’s been like this for a few months now and I feel like my brain has switched off :(

First off, big hug. Feeling like your brain isn’t cooperating, especially when you’re putting in the work, is frustrating and exhausting. It’s like running a race but constantly tripping on invisible hurdles.

That being said, let’s troubleshoot together:

Tone Down the Dopamine Overload Our brains are little dopamine junkies and the world is full of cheap, fast hits. Social media, notifications and even constantly refreshing for new emails or messages train us to crave instant stimulation. This creates a “novelty hangover,” making it harder to focus on slower, less flashy tasks like studying.

Try scheduling set phone breaks instead of having it on hand while studying. (You could even leave it in another room if you’re feeling bold.)

Consider a 24-hour dopamine detox: no TikTok, YouTube, Instagram or even high-stimulation shows like fast-paced dramas. It sounds extreme, but it can help recalibrate your brain.

Switch Up Your Environment If your brain associates the library with slogging through unproductive hours, it might be time to rewire that association. Try working somewhere different like a cozy café, a park or a different room in your home.

Work With, Not Against Your Brain's Rhythms Your brain has natural ebbs and flows of energy. Instead of forcing productivity, lean into your peaks:

Divide your day into “focus sprints” (e.g. the Pomodoro technique: 25 minutes of work, 5 minutes of rest).

Use the breaks to get away from screens. Walk around, stretch, or drink water.

Feed the Brain, Literally If your diet hasn’t been great lately, it could be contributing to the mental fog. Focus on meals with whole grains, lean protein, healthy fats and plenty of fruits and veggies (boring, but it really works!) A big sugary breakfast might give a quick boost but cause a midday crash.

Address the Elephant in the Room: Burnout If this has been happening for months, you might be dealing with burnout. No amount of discipline can override the need for true rest.

Give yourself permission to take a day (or even a week) off from academic work. Rest is productive when you’re recovering.

Use that time to do things you genuinely enjoy, recharge and feel human again.

Don't Forget the Basics

Are you sleeping at least 8 hours? Lack of sleep can turn even the most productive person into a zombie.

Are you staying hydrated and moving your body? A 10-minute walk outside can sometimes do more for your focus than another hour at the desk.

Ultimately, be kind to yourself. Brains are complicated, and discipline alone isn’t always the answer. If this continues despite trying these steps, it might be worth reaching out to a professional (a therapist or even a doctor) to rule out things like ADHD, depression or other medical causes of focus issues.

Good luck! 🧚‍♀️🌸

[spacecadet-ticklesinspace]

if prompts are still open but I was wondering if you could do a fic about Peter 2’s Harry and him getting tickled because they wanna see his dimples for his dimples the ler can be Peter 3 or Norman ❤️

Dimples

Summary: See prompt above :)

(Okay, I had to do a Norman and Peter 2 team up on Harry with some Otto teases thrown in ❤️😅 It's just such a cute idea! ❤️😁 Hope you enjoy Anon ❤️ :))

"It's almost ready . . . Just a little more and---."

Norman opened the door. "Harry I---."

"Look out!"

The older man ducked as one of Otto's actuators grabbed the projectile out of air.

"You two okay?"

Norman felt a squeeze to his shoulder before Otto responded. "A little startled Peter, but we'll live."

Meanwhile, Norman straightened back up. "A little?"

"Okahay." Otto's actuator set the projectile onto one of the desks. "Maybe more than a littlehel."

Harry moved closer to the older scientists. "Sorry about that dahad."

Norman noted the comical spray of soot across his son's face. "What were you two even doing?"

"Trying to make a launcher for pumpkin bombs."

"Why those?"

"They're still some leftover." Harry flicked a piece of soot off of his shoulder. "Might as well put them to actual good use."

Peter waved. "We just need to recalibrate something."

"Obviously," Norman teased.

Harry playfully rolled his eyes before rejoining Peter. "Yeah yeah."

"Maybe we should add a delay start to the bombs?" Peter offered. "That way it has more time to exit before it goes off."

"Might want to shorten the launch tube too. Gives it less space inside."

Norman smiled at the two. The sight brought back memories from when the boys were younger and would glue themselves at the hip to create all sorts of crazy contraptions that were sure to revolutionize the world.

Norman was brought out of his thoughts when Otto stepped closer. "Just please don't destroy the lab with whatever you two create."

"Aww, come on Otto." Harry flashed him a grin. "That's half the fun!"

One of Otto's actuators squealed.

"Of course he's joking Flo. He wouldn't actually blow us up."

The grin on the younger man's face grew even more. "Don't hohold yohour breheath."

And that's when the first dimple popped up.

Peter noticed it and he gave Harry's cheek a quick poke. "Yeah, yohou cahan tell he's teasing because his dimple's poking ohout."

In response, Harry playfully shoved him. "Shut up!"

Otto immediately turned. "You have dimples?"

"Yeah?"

"That's adorable!"

The younger man rolled his eyes. "Not that big of a dealAH---!"

Peter grinned as he poked Harry's side again. "You can really see thehem when he gets tickleheled."

"Knock ihit ohoff!" Harry poked him back. "Or I'll tickle you bahack!"

Meanwhile, Norman moved a little closer. "Peter's not wrohong. Aha few tickles and both of them just pop out."

Harry groaned into his hands. "Dad!"

Otto chuckled. "Oh doho thehey now?"

"Yeheah!" Peter also slipped in a tickle to his friend's side. "And they're adorablehel!"

While Harry fought off Peter's hand, Norman slipped in another tickle to his other side. "The cutehest."

Harry kept one hand directed towards Peter while the other whipped around to his Dad's. "No!"

By now, one full dimple was already on display for the group.

Otto cooed. "I've got to see thihis."

"No you dohoOON'T! OTTO!"

"Yes I do." Otto's actuators grabbed Harry's wrists and lifted them above his head. "This ihis tohoo cute! You're usually so cocky Ihi wahant to see the other side!"

The younger man squirmed. "C-come on Otto! Put me doOWN!"

Norman wiggled his fingers into his son's ribs. "There was a spot somewhere up here that had him grinning like crazy."

"Hey hehey hehehey!"

"Reallyhy?" Peter wiggled his fingers into Harry's side. "I thought it wahas dohown here."

"Eep! Jeherks!"

"Noho no no Peter, Ihi think wehere both wrohong." Norman then moved down to spider into Harry's stomach. "I think it was hehere."

"Ah! Noho!" Harry snorted.

Peter chuckled. "No way! Yohou found the snort switch Misteher Ohosbohorne!"

Otto even had to grin. "Awww, he looks absolutely adorable."

By now, the second dimple on Harry's face was already starting to peep out as he blushed darkly. He tried to pull his elbows in to hide the betraying features.

"Hehey!" Peter spidered into his armpits. "No hidihing."

Harry jumped and cackled at the attack.

Otto's actuators pulled Harry's arms a little farther apart so he couldn't hide as easily. "Awww, hihis armpihits ahare almost as bad as yohours Pete."

Peter blushed this time. "Nu-uh!"

"Oh Otto, if you think his armpits are bad." Norman spidered his hands down to Harry's hips. "Watch this!"

When Norman dug into his son's hips, Harry immediately squealed and squirmed.

"Aww, look at thahat." One of the actuators pinched Harry's cheek again. "Thohose dimplehels are soho precious.

"SHUT UHUP!"

The second dimple on Harry's face was already showing as clearly as the first, but Norman thought it could be even more clear. "Hey Peter."

Peter peeked up at Norman. "Yehes?"

"Grab his ankles for me."

"Dohont yohou dahare!"

Peter sat cross legged on the floor so he could wrap his arms around Harry's legs. "Are hihis feet bahad?"

Norman started. "You mean you don't know?"

Peter shook his head. "I've never gotten past his thighs."

Harry tried to kick his legs. "For gohood reasohon!"

Norman knelt down beside Peter. "His toes used to be a big hot spot."

"Dad!"

The older man continued removing his son's shoe. "He does kick quite a bit so you have to hold his legs pretty good or you risk getting kicked in the face."

"Dahad!"

Norman started tickling along Harry's foot. "Hold him tight Pete."

"NahAH! NAhat thehERE!"

"Then if you tickle right here." Norman moved up to tickle under Harry's toes. "He really goes crazy!"

The squeal that left Harry's mouth could rival MJ or Gwen and would definitely be used for teasing material in the future.

"Wohow." Peter had to readjust his hold to keep Harry's legs in place. "Ihi didn't know he could mahake thahat noise."

"Keeping secrets from your best friend Harry?" Norman scratched under his son's big toe. "Ahand afteher you found all of his tickle spots?"

"Yeah!" Peter added. "Fohor shahame."

Harry tried to respond, but everything he tried kept getting swallowed up by laughter.

Then Norman wiggled one of his toes. "This little piggy went to market."

"NO!"

"This little piggy stayed home."

"DAHAD!"

"This little piggy had roast beef."

"KNOCK IHIT OHOFF!"

"This little piggy had none."

"PLEASE!"

Norman paused on the smallest toe. "And this little piggy---."

"SQUEE!" Harry started thrashing again. "DOHOHN'T."

"He went---."

"DAHAD!"

Then Norman scribbled across his son's foot. "Wee! Wee! Wee! All the way home!"

"NAEEEEEH!"

It was rare to see this playful side of the great Norman Osborne. He normally kept it reserved for Peter and Otto, but it was very sweet to see him use it as a bonding experience with his son.

Especially now with both dimples beaming on his bright red face.

Otto cooed. "Who knew soho muhuch cuteness could be trapped with so much sarcasm."

Norman chuckled as he eased up on the tickling. "The sarcasm ihis juhust aha cover up."

Harry collapsed into residual giggles. "Sh-shut uhup!"

"Hey." Peter reached up to poke his side. "You never said stohop."

Harry playfully kicked his friend before Otto gently lowered him back to the ground. "You tahalk tohoo muhuch."

Norman chuckled. "Hehe's nohot wrong."

Harry growled and jumped on top of his dad's back sending both of them to the ground. "Fihight me old mahan!"

Norman immediately joined in on the play fighting. "You're on!"

However, as the two continued rolling across the floor, the dimples never left Harry's face.

And after missing them for so many years, Norman hoped they never did.

[megidonitram]

Everyone's Running From Something (ch.3)

A Baldur's Gate 3 University Professor AU

Rating: M

Quick Summary: Astarion and Gale are two University English professors precariously mentoring a troubled 19-year-old and falling in love.

💖Main Pairing : BloodWeave,(Astarion/Gale) 💕Side Pairings: Shadowheart/Nocturne, Karlach/Dammon, Wyll/The Dark Urge, Tav/Tav 💔Past Pairings: Gale/Mystra, Astarion/Sebastian, Astarion/Tav

<=Previous Chapter | Master List | Ao3 | Next Chapter =>

**Please see Master List Entry for Full Content Warnings**

⏰Chapter Warning⏰ None

Astarion took a lap around the building to cool off before returning to his office- The last thing he needed was Gale asking him how he was doing after that little shit-show. Korrilla had also given him something of a runaround after he left Raphael’s office. She accidentally printed his requested forms on legal-size paper (because she forgot that she didn’t restock the printer before break) and then wasn’t sure if being in the wrong formatting would invalidate the paperwork, so Astarion had to wait for her to go get a fresh package of printer paper from the supply closet in the basement, which made him feel like a dick because she had to climb four flights of stairs to do that.

The problem with Korrilla was that Astarion never knew if she was in on Raphael’s torment or if she was just making a series of human mistakes because he made her nervous- though neither answer made the interaction any less annoying.

When Astarion got back to his office, Gale was still there. He was flipping through a heavily marked-up handbook on technical writing for business communications, staring at the pages as if he were either heavily engrossed by the reading -unlikely- or trying to light the damn thing on fire. It only made sense once he stepped into the room and saw Xenia posted up in the corner on her phone.

“Ah, Miss Bellona. Exactly who I was hoping to run into.” Astarion said, snapping the tension in the room like a loose thread. Gale nearly jumped out of his skin. “You look terrible.”

Xenia looked up at him with narrowed eyes, chewing one of her nails on her good hand. “I’ve had a rough few months.” She replied in that flat, desperately-trying-not-to-care tone that made her so fun to tease.

“I’ve heard. What do you need help with?” He slapped down his stack of paperwork on his desk and sat at his computer. Astarion saw Gale watching him wide-eyed, and he wondered how much Gale had pried while he was gone.

“I wanted to get the assignment sheets for my missing work from Survey of Gothic Literature,” Xenia said. Gale casually turned in his chair and pretended to rearrange the books on his shelf, giving them the courtesy of at least pretending to check-out of their conversation. “I thought I should get started on finishing that before the rest of my classes start…”

“Of course, you dropped off around Project… 4, was it? I think I kept a folder with your missing assignments somewhere.” With a few keystrokes, Astarion’s computer lurched back to life, fan buzzing as the machine recalibrated after being shut off for a month straight.

“I think the last thing I turned in was the 2nd character study…” Xenia replied. “…or maybe I just finished it- do you recall reading a paper from me about Miss Jessel?”

“I don’t, but I’ve read nearly a thousand bad-to-mediocre composition papers since then, so it’s likely I just forgot.” Astarion clicked through the expired Canvas shell to skim the grade book and determine which assignments he needed to pull.

“Oh, so my writing's mediocre?”

“I’m sorry, your 1200-word sophomore-level essay demonstrated a pure mastery of your craft. How foolish of me to forget when the beauty of your words brought me to tears.”  Astarion scoffed. He found the file folder he was looking for and printed it off. “Gale, I know you’re terribly busy, but could you grab those papers from the 2nd floor breakroom?”

“Absolutely!” Gale was on his feet and heading for before the request had fully left Astarion’s mouth. He gave Xenia a friendly smile. “Back in a flash!”

“Take your time.” The comment came out a lot more passive-aggressive than Astarion meant it. He watched Gale leave the room and listened for the stairwell door to open and close. Astarion turned back to Xenia. “What did you say to him?”

Xenia shrugged. “He asked about my dad, and I told him that I stabbed him to death.”

“Did you happen to… elaborate on that?”

“No, he didn’t ask.”

Astarion sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know, if you want people to stop treating you like a freak, you’ll have to stop acting like one.”

Xenia crossed her good arm in front of herself and pouted. “It’s not like someone wouldn’t have told him anyways.”

“Probably, but even a complete stranger would make you seem at least a little saner,” Astarion replied.

Xenia went quiet for a moment, her lips twisting into a disgruntled snarl. Her eyes drifted to the water-stained ceiling tiles. Astarion sort of understood her twisted logic. There were a lot of people on campus who treated her like a ticking time bomb, regardless of whether they knew her exact circumstances or not. If people would be convinced that she was a monster regardless, perhaps it was better if she was the one doing the convincing- at least then she was in control. It hurts less to meet someone's rotten expectations than to try your hardest and fail to prove them wrong.

“I suppose you want to know what happened last semester?” she muttered.

“Tell me or don’t.” Astarion shrugged. “I could not care less.”

Xenia rolled her eyes. “You’re such a dick.”

“What I am is a mandatory reporter, so think carefully about what you want to tell me- unless you like filling out copious amounts of paperwork,” Astarion said. “Do you need the reading materials? I could just lend you my anthology since you’re the only one left in the class.”

“I’ve still got my book from last year…” Xenia replied, mind still very clearly elsewhere. “…Do you have siblings?”

Astarion paused. “Yes. 6 of them. Why?”

“How do you refer to them… like in your mind? Do you call them your siblings?”

“I don’t think of the much anymore, honestly. But I suppose when I do, I think of them as their first names.” Astarion sighed. “Is there something you actually wanted to talk to me about?”

“I’m having trouble figuring out how to think of my sister,” Xenia admitted. “I guess she was never really my sister, and she was never really to blame, but…”

“You’re allowed to be angry at her,” Astarion replied. “I think you should be, frankly.”

Xenia mulled over his words for a moment, and Astarion could see her run her tongue along the inside of her cheek, absent-mindedly tracing the contours of her scar. She opened her mouth to say something, but the door in the stairwell creaked open, and she clamed up, wary of being overheard.

***

Gale felt horribly selfish for wanting to bolt out of the office as badly as he did. He wanted Xenia to feel comfortable and safe around him -the poor thing seemed like she’d been through enough- but he’d locked up. It wasn’t difficult for Gale to surmise that she probably didn’t commit patricide for the fun of it- those kinds of actions are usually born out of extreme desperation. However, whenever he thought about trying to relate to her or lift the mood, the impulse was killed by some strange insistence that he was being too personal, too forthcoming, too intimate.

He envied the ease with which Astarion had struck up a rapport with her- it seemed that despite his posturing, Astarion did, in fact, have a few soft spots. Gale told himself that it was because Astarion had leagues more experience in these departments than he did, but still, he worried. This was the first time he’d been on a college campus purely as a professional, and it felt a lot more daunting than he’d ever imagined.

It took Gale a hot minute of wandering around on the wrong floor to figure out Astarion meant “second floor” in the standard British English sense of the phrase, and the break room was actually located on the third floor. He collected the small stack of orphaned papers from the tray next to the copier and returned to Astarion’s -his- office.

Xenia was still there, Idle chatting about the books she’d read while in involuntary hold. “Do you teach V.C. Andrews? She’d gothic lit, isn’t she?”

“I’m not much of an Americanist,” Astarion replied. “If I’m forced to teach Southern Gothic authors, I tend to gravitate towards Falkner.”

“Not Poe?”

Astarion gave her a derisive look, but Gale handed the stack of papers before he could respond. He flipped through to ensure everything was in order and handed them over to Xenia. “You’ve got two more plot summaries, a thematic analysis, and a comparative essay for the final. Work on them at your leisure.”  

Xenia took the papers and tossed them in the tattered messenger bag she’d brought without a second glance. “Thanks!” She said. “Is there anything else I need?”

Astarion put a hand on the paperwork he’d brought in with him, thumbing over the corner before he shot a scrutinizing look over at Gale. “Yes… but we’ll talk about it later.” He said.

“Alight, see you around then.” Xenia shrugged and slung her bag over her good shoulder but didn’t quite get it, and the strap slid down her arm, catching hard in the crook of her elbow. She let out a frustrated groan.

“Here, allow me.” Gale stepped forward and looped the strap comfortably over her shoulder.

Xenia cocked her head and gave Gale a thoughtful look, her dark eyes piercing right through him. “Thank you…” she muttered before she turned and hurried out of the office.

“She seems…” Gale trailed off. He wasn’t sure what Xenia seemed like; he’d never met a murderer before- at least not to his knowledge.

“Shorter than you’d thought she’d be?” Astarion asked flippantly, reclining in his chair. That was fair; Gale had a hard time imagining how someone as little and frail as Xenia could overpower a full-grown man, boxcutter or no.

“Did she really-”

“Self-defense,” Astarion answered several questions ahead. “I don’t suggest asking her anything else about it. She didn’t have a particularly pleasant home life.”

“I’d imagine not,” Gale replied, sitting back down at his desk. He tried his credentials again- still nothing. “-do you know how long it should take for me to be put in the university’s system?”

“Surely you should be in by now…” Astarion replied. He moved to look over Gale’s shoulder. He was so close Gale could feel his breath tickling the back of his neck- he had to suppress a shiver.

Astarion said something, pointing at the computer screen. He had such striking eyes, such a warm brown that they were almost red.

Gale completely missed what. “Sorry?”

“Try logging in without the server address,” Astarion repeated a slight edge in his voice. “Everything after the ‘at’ symbol.”

“Right.” Gale deleted the back half of his username and tried again. The computer loaded and loaded and loaded.

“That’s typically a good sign. Computers on campus take forever to log you on the first time.” Astarion said. He picked up the picture of Yenna and examined it dispassionately. “Cute kid, is she yours?”

“Ah, no… that’s my niece.” Gale felt suddenly and incredibly self-conscious. “I’ve always wanted my own, but it wasn’t in the cards, I’m afraid.”

The admission shocked him slightly, but he supposed it was true. Mystra had never wanted kids, and Gale wanted to keep her pleased, so he went along with that. But Gale had always loved kids. He’d been so excited when Yenna was born that he could hardly put her down. Still, when people asked him and Mystra if they were planning on having kids, he’d just nod dutifully while she explained that he was too focused on his career to think about kids.

“Shame,” Astarion said, setting the picture frame back down.

Gale’s computer screen went black, and then an empty Windows desktop appeared. Success!

“Just in time to log out for the all-hands meeting!” Astarion exclaimed looking at his watch.

“Naturally…” Gale sighed.

[seemsdykely]

@biomechanicaltomato

so as we know i do not think in like--words, so trying to write my mental image of someone down always takes a second at least of stalled out processing time. half-breath of recalibration, pulling the whole picture-impression to mind as best i can for rotating, as the kids say.

which is easy enough. but then the teasing out of bits and odds to serve as some sort of piecemeal summary--then the hard part. it's always going to be more implication and association than anything, you know? the better i know someone the worse (the better; the more delicious) it is. the more stuff makes them up in my head the less able i am to set it all down and baby, you're a multimedia collage.

my brain doesn't work in sound much but so much of our friendship has revolved around voice chat that i guess it isn't surprising that that's the easiest thread to tease out and follow. so, so mellow-sweet when Leia was worried about getting in trouble for throwing up. so high and delighted, arching up and filling out into bombast when something is exasperating you so much that you're opting for amused critique because the other option is screaming about the sheer stupidity.

the two different flavors of affection when you're calling dylan and emma honey. clear inoffensive chiding amusement when a dog is benignly misbehaving. and yeah i know some of it's regional but i visited you in that region and no one else had your. i don't know the right terms. tonal musicality and quickness with phrases. not the ability to articulate a thought completely but the ability to do it in a way that makes listening to you feel--i don't know. conversation with you is rewarding, and it's half because you're smarter than i am in many areas but also it's a little like reading poetry i can understand the bones of even if i don't get the meaning yet. i know there's rightness there even if it isn't mine and i know you'll let me worry at it until i understand the shape of it.

i know a lot of sensitive people and i know a lot of artistic people and i know a lot of science-minded people. i don't know a lot of people who can marry those things together and maypole-weave them around a core of moral intensity and fierce stubbornness the way you do. i know a lot of people who let themselves be hamstrung by one or the other in excess--but you are so measured, so careful and thoughtful. someone called something that i thought was just listening to my instincts proof of my objectivity today. you feel like that to me. you ensure your humors are balanced, if you will. the thinking and feeling of life all bullied into line by your refusal to let either have undue sway over the other.

you're just the most delicious listening-hearted analytically-minded clever-tongued filthy-mouthed flavor of person and if we were on a road trip with no radio i could listen to you talk about things i understand and things i don't as the fancy took you for hours without drifting or being bored. i'm very grateful that we met over the best mmorpg ever. you're a glass of shockingly cold water when i didn't realize i was thirsty. you're a delight. you improve me by permitting this proximity, baby.

i legit started this to bat my eyelashes about your collarbones and soft skin and be ridiculous and flirty and stuff but hey, here we are. love you, sweetspark!

[quiet-compassion]

OFMD Fluffvember Day 8: Sunset

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51585355

By the time he heads outside, Stede’s ready to drop. He can’t remember ever being this tired in his life, which, contrary to what one might assume, is saying a lot. The grueling labor and long hours that have gone into taking their property from “technically a house” to “functional inn” have been exhausting. 

But it’s also been wonderful. He and Ed. Ed and him. Amidst all the hard work they’ve been having so much fun. They laugh a lot and pitch each other crazy ideas. They talk, not just about the silly things but the big things too. It’s just the two of them and that means they can just be. Be entirely, genuinely themselves.

…Up until last night when their first-ever guest had shown up. Stede supposes he shouldn��t have been so surprised. They’re innkeepers after all. This is what all the hard work has been for. And they’ve been putting out the “Vacancy” sign for a fortnight now. 

But.

Damn it all if his first response when a man had walked through their front door, bag in hand, inquiring after a room hadn’t been one of supreme annoyance at having their little haven intruded upon. Of course, he’d immediately recalibrated, putting on his cheery “customer service” voice and welcoming the man, Charles apparently, to their establishment.

They’ve been going all out, he and Ed, trying to ensure that their guest had the best possible stay. Now, supper done and dusted, he’s anxious for a taste of his usual routine and makes his way past the porch and onto the beach to enjoy the sunset. After a minute or two he hears the front door open and shut followed by the tell-tale sound of Ed’s footsteps as his partner comes to join him for their evening ritual. 

Ed sits down next to him in the sand, instinctually throwing an arm around Stede’s shoulders as he does so. “This might sound weird,” he says, foregoing any greeting or preamble, “but I get the sense Charles isn’t enjoying his stay.”

Stede frowns. “What? Really? What makes you say that?”

Ed shrugs. “Just a vibe, I guess. Like, for starters, I invited him out to come watch the sunset and he said no.”

“Did you tell him how good the view was?” Stede asks, turning to look back over his shoulder at the inn. “Did you mention that it would be extra colorful tonight after the storm?”

“Course I did!” Ed nods emphatically. “It didn’t sway him. Said he just wanted to lie down for a bit.”

Stede snaps his head back around to Ed, eyes wide in disbelief. “Lie down? But, surely he’s not turning in for the night! We haven’t had storytime yet!”

Ed grimaces. “I know, mate. I think he’s passing on storytime too.”

“But I was in such good form last night! I pulled out all the stops to be sure to impress him on his first night here. It must have been half a dozen voices I was juggling!”

“It was bloody impressive, babe. Maybe your best storytime ever,” Ed assures him, giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze. “That bit where the witch revealed she’d been the queen all along? What a twist!”

Stede gives a nod of agreement, “High drama for sure.” Shoulders slumping in disappointment he asks, “Doesn’t he even want to know how it ends?”

“Ungrateful guy, if you ask me,” Ed sighs. “Doesn’t appreciate storytime, misses the sunset, didn’t finish the cake I made for dessert.”

“It really was a fine cake, Edward. Lots of icing.”

“I know. Plus I added loads of extra sugar, so you know it was gonna be good.”

They fall into silence for a while, watching the sky burn with color before slowly beginning to darken into night. Eventually, Stede shoots a quick glance at Ed’s face from the corner of his eye.

“You know, it felt weird today. Having him here.”

Ed gives an inquisitive sound which Stede understands to mean go on.

“I mean that’s the goal obviously, to have guests at our inn. But, I’ve gotten used to it being just us. I like it being just us. I’d forgotten how exhausting it is to be around someone else. Someone I’m not fully comfortable with.” Stede lets out a little sigh. “I feel a bit like I’ve been performing all day.”

Ed blows out a big breath. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Plus, I hated not being able to joke around like we usually do. We had to be all professional and shit,” he grumbles.

Stede lets out a sympathetic hum. There’s another beat of silence until Stede smiles coyly. “It was strange not being able to kiss you.”

Ed snorts out a laugh and leans his head onto Stede’s shoulder. “Babe, you can kiss me anytime you want.”

“Not in front of the guests,” he pouts.

“Guest.” Ed corrects teasingly. “Well, would you look at that? There’s no guests around right now.”

Stede looks down at Ed with a smile before leaning in to give him a kiss. When they pull back from each other Stede returns Ed’s head to its resting place on his shoulder, hand lightly combing through his silvery hair. 

“Are we cut out to be innkeepers, do you think? If we resent the people who show up at the inn?” he ponders.

“Maybe we’re a new kind of innkeeper,” Ed suggests. “I mean, you turned piracy on its head with your steady wages and safe space ship. Stands to reason that with our combined lunacy we could revolutionize the hospitality industry.”

Stede chuckles at that. “Seriously though, Ed.”

Ed sighs. “Seriously, this is our first go. It’s bound to take a little practice. Maybe we get better. But. If not…then we close up shop. Take the vacancy sign down. Leave the extra rooms until the crew comes to visit. If we want, it can just be us.”

The moon’s high in the sky now, the sunset long since passed. They sit quietly together for a little longer, basking in its glow. 

“Well, I suppose we ought to turn in then,” Stede whispers reluctant to shatter the stillness of the moment. “Since there’s no storytime.”

“Oh fuck that!” Ed exclaims. “If Charles is too stupid to appreciate storytime, that’s his loss. I want to know what happens to the prince!”

Stede smiles, getting to his feet and grabbing Ed’s hand to pull him up too. “Of course, of course. It was quite a cliffhanger last night, wasn’t it?”

They walk hand in hand the short way back to the house. The front room is warm and glowing as the fireplace burns bright. Their guest is, sure enough, nowhere to be seen.

“You know what I think? You should do the voices extra loud tonight. Let Charlie hear what he’s missing and maybe then he’ll come join us.”

Stede shakes his head calmly, crossing the room to pick up the book from the table he’d left it on before plopping himself down on the couch next to Ed. “That’s alright, darling. As you say, it’s his loss. Besides, I’m perfectly happy with just the two of us.”

[themculibrary]

Outside POV (Avenger Fics) Masterlist

As Subtle As Cognitive Recalibration (ao3) - petroltogo T, 8k

Summary: “Your sole job as Director of SHIELD is to keep track of global threats and you’ve narrowed down the whereabouts of the mad god with mind-control Jedi tricks to the planet Earth,” Tony summarizes flatly. “What’s the plan? We wait till he blows up another super secret facility whose mysteriously undocumented existence doesn’t make me suspicious at all?”

“Germany!” Rogers blurts out, interrupting Tony’s epic stare-down with Fury.

In which the surviving Post-Endgame Avengers find themselves back in 2012, trying to stop Loki from invading the Earth. Without tipping their not-in-the-know team members off. Things go— sideways.

At Home With Captain America (ao3) - WhiteRoseCottage sam/bucky G, 7k

Summary: “What can you tell me about how you got to know the Winter Soldier?”

Wilson chuckles. “The first time I met Buck—Sergeant Barnes—he ripped the steering wheel out of the car I was driving on the freeway. He got on the roof, punched through the windshield, pulled the steering wheel off. Just like that.” He mimes with his hands as he describes it.

This doesn’t sound like an auspicious beginning to me, but Wilson is laughing.

Avengers Ameliorated (ao3) - whitchry9 T, 25k

Summary: a·mel·io·rate (verb)- to make or become better, more bearable, or more satisfactory; improve

Miranda thought she was done with dealing with ridiculous patients after Sherlock Holmes died. But apparently word of her medical prowess has spread, even across the ocean. And when Fury shows up in her flat one night, basically telling her that she is going to New York to be the go-to medical person for The Avengers, she figures they can't be too much worse, right? Hint- she's wrong.

Big Secrets, And Other Things To Talk To Your Therapist About (ao3) - Aimael pepper/tony N/R, 9k

Summary: How Dr Lauren McKinley, psychologist, randomly acquired not one, but two new clients of the superhero kind, because she was a little too curious to say no.

Everyone he knew is dead;And other realizations about Steve Rogers (ao3) - PerplexinglyParadoxialPerson steve/bucky G, 32k

Summary: Tumblr users are tenacious, pulling up every scrap of knowledge about their favorite shows and celebrities, and posting the information for the world to see. However, when said tumblr users start posting about, and looking into Captain America, they realize that Captain America could really use a hug.

Exclusive (ao3) - copperbadge pepper/tony T, 30k

Summary: Heroes In Manhattan: From Captain America’s Hidden Talents To The Truth About The Hulk, We Debunk The Myths And Expose The Daily Lives Of The Avengers.

Heroes (ao3) - Dharz_135 G, 312

Summary: When news comes out that Tony Stark is barely holding onto life millions gather together.

A general POV of why Tony Stark is a better hero than Steve Rogers

How do you solve a problem like Maria? (ao3) - orphan_account steve/bucky G, 26k

Summary: Maria knows that the Winter Soldier was a ghost story, and nothing more.

it's up to you, new york (ao3) - JBS_Forever G, 3k

Summary: “Um, what am I –?” Peter starts, but doesn’t need to go on, because it's clear now what he’s meant to be looking at. There’s a live feed of Twitter posts already pulled up, videos and pictures and text flashing by, each one with the hashtag “WeAreSpiderMan” and moving too quick for him to process.

He blinks, confused. “What – what is this?”

Beside him, Happy breathes out a laugh. “That?” he says, and there’s an amused undercurrent in his voice, knowing and fond, “That’s New York.”

- - -

Or: after Spider-Man's identity is revealed, New York City steps up to support one of their own.

Maisie Makes a Deal (ao3) - antistar_e (kaikamahine) steve/bucky G, 5k

Summary: Maisie’s pretty sure her grandmother’s new neighbors are spies.

Papa Hawk's Collectibles (ao3) - anarchycox clint/phil G, 27k

Summary: Tommy likes the memorabilia shop that opened a few months ago and he really likes the grumpy owners who love to bicker with each other. Clint and Phil are such dorks. He just wonders how they have such cool Avengers collectibles in amid the baseballs and jerseys.

Reasonable Suspicion (ao3) - Laimelde clint/phil T, 8k

Summary: Clint's new neighbours are a friendly bunch, and enjoy having him and Phil over for drinks on occasion. But pretty soon they notice that Clint often comes home with bruises, and start to worry.

spider-man day (ao3) - turtle_bean T, 2k

Summary: “You’re joking. You better be joking.”

“I...”

“Peter. Jesus. Are you trying to be, like, quirky or something? Because Spider-Man is an objectively good person.”

--

or, sally just wants to celebrate the hero who's saved her more times than she can count.

That Kind Of Day (ao3) - Neery G, 5k

Summary: Carolyn Brown’s having one of those days. Her truck’s been stolen, she’s about to lose her job, and now a crazy Hydra assassin has broken into her apartment to ambush Captain America.

The Public Perception Game (ao3) - Amerna background darcy/steve T, 2k

Summary: Bucky Barnes' return from the dead and the Winter Soldier revelation could have quickly unraveled into a PR disaster for the Avengers. But thankfully they have Darcy Lewis on their team to play press and public like a fiddle.

The Scoop (ao3) - hollimichele G, 5k

Summary: The week after I moved to New York City, aliens invaded. Which is pretty much typical.