#nobody would think spot's (powers) are great

[furiouskettle]

losers

[an-ruraiocht]

90% of the time when i see reviews and posts saying "this book needed editing" i don't think the reader have any idea what editing actually entails. usually this is actually code for one of several "problems" with the book:

it's too long, or it's slower paced than this reader's preference. they believe "editing" would mean making it shorter

it has a heavily descriptive style, which the reader doesn't like. they believe "editing" means paring every sentence down to hemingway-style prose with no adverbs

it doesn't follow the very rigid "save the cat" style 3-act story structure, disrupting the reader's sense of narrative tension. an editor, they believe, would've made sure it did

there were a few typos or formatting errors, and they believe it's the editor's job to catch these (it's not, it's typically the proofreader and the typesetter who have responsibility for that kind of thing)

and finally, most often:

the author had different narrative priorities than the reader, who thinks an editor would have made the author change their priorities.

the thing is, there are actually issues with editors in trad publishing being overworked to the point where things aren't getting the thorough, thoughtful editing that they need to be the best version of themselves. there are plenty of badly-structured, poorly-researched, and clumsily written books out there. moreover copyediting is typically freelance and perhaps because of that, this is the area where i see the largest number of issues: continuity issues, grammar issues, factual errors etc that someone should've spotted and didn't.

but this is not typically what people's "this needed an editor" reviews are focusing on. most often it just means they didn't like the book and they've decided editing is an all-powerful force that would have transformed it into a book they liked. but that's not how it works. and disproportionately what this comment means is that the book doesn't match what current fashions have decided is The Correct Style to write in

"this book needed an editor" if it's traditionally published, it had one. like. by definition. it was an editor who bought the book. that doesn't mean the editor did a great job but they definitely existed. there were probably at least two (acquiring editor who does the dev edits; copyeditor who does copyedits), and the proofreader, and a bunch of other people besides.

also i think people think editors are the ones who like. implement the changes. but they don't. they give comments and recommendations and ask questions and the author is the one to act on them. the editor will not rewrite the book. they will not fix the problems themselves, they will highlight the problem and the author will figure out a fix for it, or they will decide they don't agree that it's a problem and leave it as it. and a lot of the sentence-level style stuff is entirely on the author so if they don't have an ear for the rhythm then nobody's going to fix that for them. editors do a lot less than people seem to imagine they do, tbh

anyway

for reference—

structural/developmental edits: is this chapter in the right place and does the plot make sense and is the characterisation consistent and effective

line edits: is this sentence in the right place and is it as stylish as it could be

copy edits: is this sentence grammatically correct and consistent/factually correct within the story/its world and do the spellings follow the publisher's stylesheet

proofreading: are there any typos in this sentence and was the formatting preserved correctly when it was typeset

[lunamugetsu]

The CIA is trying to kill Danny

Now hear me out.

I stumbled upon this prompt idea where somebody wrote that they want to see a story where the CIA is trying to kill Clark Kent (not Superman, reporter Clark Kent), the reason is because that Clark Kent is a very good reporter. And everybody knows that a mark of a good reporter is that they die of natural causes, with bullets in their head. So that story would have centered around the CIA trying to kill Clark Kent and having no idea on how Clark Kent is still alive after the multiple attempts on his life.

Now this got me thinking.

In an AU where Danny is interning or working at the Daily Planet, probably under Clark or Lois.(you choose) And Danny is a really good reporter, his ghost powers help him gather information undetected. He's exposing corporations left and right, all ranging from either illegal animal experimentation, environmental pollution, horrible working conditions, toss in a couple of sleazy terrible rich people. So while all of his stuff is getting published and the govt is going, "we gotta stop that reporter." And proceed to constantly try to end this kid's life with no result. They try to poison food, Danny grew up eating radioactive food, if anything the poison is just added seasoning. They try to set up his place on fire, Danny's just conveniently not there. They try to have people tail him but they can't because Danny just disappears whenever he turns a corner.

And layers could be added to this, like Danny's just talking to Clark at work (y'know water cooler talk) and when Danny brings up all of these strange things happening to him like "people following him, the elevator at his place just conveniently broke down and crashed into the ground around the time he would have left for work, or how his usual food orders look a bit different than what they normally look like and they taste slightly different." And Clark is hearing all of this and is going "wait a minute!" and there's a scene of Clark walking with Danny as the kid is waiting for his uber and when the car pulls up. Clark uses his x-ray vision and spots the driver sporting guns, knives, poison gas (whatever CIA agents use for assassinations, I don't know) and just goes "Hey Danny did I ever take you to my favorite diner. No? GREAT! Let's go now!" and he just immediately drags Danny away from the murder car. And from that point on, Clark is taken it upon himself to stop all of the assassination attempts on Danny because he believes that Danny is a fragile young human being.

OR

This could be set in Gotham

And Danny is just exposing all of elites of Gotham, including Gotham's rogues and all of that song and dance. Which then leads him to be targeted by the Court of OWLS! Danny in this scenario would be friends with Tim, because they go to the same coffee shop and order the espresso on steroids drink. Danny tells him all of the stuff that's been happening to him and Tim goes "oh shit." In which he then tells the batsiblings. They all band together to protect Danny because he is a normal human being. (said nobody ever) So Danny becomes unofficially adopted by them. They don't tell Bruce about this because then they'll have to come to terms that they are just like him because they just took in a black haired blue eyed kid into their family.

[sebastianswallows]

Nobody's Darling — 1. The Road

— PAIRING: Benny Cross x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: Benny comes across a girl walking alone in the middle of nowhere and offers her a ride to the nearest town. They stop at a motel.

— WARNINGS: none

— WORDCOUNT: 3.1k

— A/N: Hello, my dears! So yeah, I saw The Bikeriders because of Austin (and Tom Hardy) and of course I had to write something for it 😂 I've been labouring at it for the past two weeks lol This was meant to be a one-shot but it kept growing and I decided to split it into chapters. The plot is partly based on something that happened to me, namely I missed my stop and the bus drove me way out of the city before I realised what had happened 💀 Anyway, hope you enjoy it! 😘💕✨

Grey clouds floated across the sky. Fields of yellow and burnt grass rolled along like waves. A string of birds cut through the far horizon. The fading light of the sun seeped softly through the glass and warmed her cheek but she was happy to keep sleeping, caught in that special spot between awake and dreaming when her thoughts were peaceful, settled, and she could weave from them a pretty fantasy. The chill of a November evening didn’t quite make it into the bus but the windows were already fogging and the seats grew cold.

She woke up with a start when the wheels struck a hole in the ground and everything jolted.

“Where am I?” she groaned, squinting at the window. Her reflection frowned back but beyond it, she could see… nothing. She was in the middle of nowhere with only naked fields and swaying power lines around her. She checked her watch and her heart stopped.

“I should’ve been home by now. Oh no, I did not sleep through my stop,” she whispered to herself — but she did. “Wait! Driver!”

She got up and ran to the front, scrambling past all those empty seats, her jacket in one hand and purse flailing in the other. The driver gave her a bored expression as she leaned panting against the divider.

“Wait, please, I need to get off! Where are we?”

The man looked at her with all the serenity of an overworked drone in a dead-end job. He didn’t seem particularly alarmed to see her there, nor did he seem to care about her predicament.

“Halfway to the next town,” he mumbled as he started to slow down. “There’s another stop ‘bout a mile back.”

“Great…”

“Next bus comes tomorrow ‘round seven thirty.”

“Oh.”

She looked around again as if she could see something different from up here but it was all the same. The vastness of it frightened her and she half-wished she’d never woken up.

The driver pulled over at the side of the road and tilted the cap on his bald head, his teeth tight around a toothpick.

“You’ll be alright?”

“Yeah…” she said automatically. “Sure.”

He opened the door and her whole body began to tremble, the situation suddenly completely real. She gathered all her nerves and put one step in front of the other, and as soon as her feet were on the ground the bus started to move again, driving away.

The sun was dipping into a pool of pink and the birds that circled overhead were growing louder. She was alone in a darkening field with nothing in front of and behind her except for lamplight spilling yellow and pale over an empty road and dead grass all around. If she regretted getting off that bus, it was too late now.

“At least it was warm inside,” she muttered. “But I could never make it back in time for work tomorrow from the next town… Damn it.”

There was nothing left to do. She sighed to herself and started walking back. In her head, she tried to calculate how late it would be by the time she made it home but each result only scared her further.

“Best not to think about it,” she said. “Just keep walking…”

She hadn’t gone on such a hike since she was a little girl, and never far outside of town. She’d only walked through fields and meadows and the forest that stretched east. There was certainly no time for it since getting hired at the local newspaper, and she liked it that way. Her days were measured and predictable, her clothes were always clean, and nothing ever hurt her — except her back if she sat down writing for too long. She was scared now not just because she was alone and in the dark but because she’d never done a thing like this before. Her heels were unsteady on the crumbling tar and her purse felt heavy on her shoulder. Insects were singing in the grass and creatures rustled through it that she dared not think about. Were there snakes around here? Rats? She pulled her jacket tighter around herself.

After half an hour she came across the bus stop that the driver mentioned. The sign for it was half-chewed off and the wooden bench was worn and stained a sickly yellow beneath a flickering light. She considered for a moment sleeping there until the morning but then the ignominy hit her: to sleep on a dirty wooden bench under the flutter of moths and mosquitoes. To come home unwashed and stinky with her hair a mess and her stockings torn. And if any of the neighbours saw her… No. She walked past that bus stop and didn’t look back, and soon found herself surrounded by darkness again.

“You deserve it,” she muttered as she wrapped her arms around herself, her body ambling forward with none of the grace and poise she had half an hour before. “How could you fall asleep? You weren’t even that tired, and the bus ride is so noisy. You couldn’t wait another ten minutes to get home? Idiot, idiot…”

The walk back to the city was taking longer than she thought it would, and by eight o’clock she was still out there. The sky was sprinkled with stars and the wind was flitting gently through her hair and the creatures in the bushes were growing ever louder. If she weren’t so cold and terrified she might have felt exhausted. Her feet hurt and her back was bent under the weight of her purse and she hadn’t eaten since noon. But suddenly, in the distance, she saw a glint of something made of glass and metal — it was a phone booth. The joy that rushed through her wiped all her pain away and she hurried to reach it, nearly tripping. She felt halfway home as soon as she stepped inside its murky walls.

“Please work, please work, please please please.”

She picked up the receiver and held it on her shoulder as she opened the phone book and started leafing through for the nearest police station. They would be obliged to come and pick her up — that is if she could only explain where she was…

“Hello? Operator?” But no voice came from the other side. The tone was dead. “Operator?” she tried again, her voice growing shaky. “Hello? Anyone?”

As she kept tapping on the phone hook, desperate to reach someone, a bright light came peeking over the horizon from the direction she had just come from. It couldn’t have belonged to a car but whatever it was that approached her was fast and loud as all hell. She held her breath as she watched it getting bigger, brighter, closer. This was the only driver she’d seen the whole night and she was equal parts hopeful and horrified of just what it could be. After all, what kind of person would be out driving at this hour on a weekday?

She forgot about the telephone as she followed this strange light until it was close enough to blot out all the darkness. It blinded her for a moment but that thunderous rumble soon settled to a pur and it stopped on the other side of the road from her. When her eyes adjusted to the brightness she realised it was a motorcycle, thin and lean and silver.

Its rider propped himself against the ground on one long leg clad in blue jeans and reached into his pocket. He was tall and slender, his figure swathed in shadows, his motions simple but relaxed and almost elegant.

“It doesn’t work,” he said as he lit a cigarette. “Been broken for a while now.”

The flash of flame from his zippo lighter gave her a hint of his face. He was young, perhaps even younger than her, with full pink lips and a slight stubble, soft blue eyes, and a sprinkle of dirt like freckles on his face. There was a wildness to him and an air of gentleness as well, but his jacket was a dark denim and thick with patches, symbols that probably meant something to him — he must’ve belonged to some sort of “club”. She didn’t know much about bikers aside from what she read about them in the papers, but they’d always seemed to be a bunch of layabouts. Aside from drinking far too much and smoking she knew they got into trouble with the law, had fights, caused accidents, and were generally dangerous to be around.

“I’m… just trying to get to town,” she said in a wary voice.

“Well, I’m headed that way.”

She said nothing, her hand still frozen on the telephone.

“Want a ride?”

It was a tempting offer but one that made her shiver. She’d never been around a man like that, never even exchanged words with one, and everything that she expected from his kind — rudeness, lewdness, and a bad attitude — was suspiciously absent from him. He looked at her with those soft eyes, his long leg braced against the road, and waited. She should have accepted his offer, she should have just gotten on his bike and wrapped her arms around him, but… she couldn’t.

“No, thank you.”

He kept on smoking quietly and looked her up and down much as she’d done with him. She wondered what he saw… She was probably a pathetic sight and a strange kind of person to come across in such a place. When his eyes finally left her figure they strayed across the wilderness. There was nothing around them for miles, they both knew that, and other cars wouldn’t be around that road for hours.

“You know how far away you are?” he asked, rolling the cigarette between his fingers.

“I’ll be fine.”

“It’s a long walk.”

“I don’t want to…” She was about to say she didn’t want to ride all the way back with a stranger but instead said, “trouble you.”

He didn’t react at first, keeping that air of stillness about him that made her wonder what he thought. But after a few moments, he nodded and dropped the cigarette, crushed it underneath his boot, and with a leisurely motion mounted his bike once more and revved the engine up. Before she could say another word he’d already sped into the distance and left only a cloud of dust behind.

She almost felt sorry to see him go. Almost felt guilty too… She didn’t want her distrust of him to be so apparent or to cause offence, no matter what kind of a person he was. But she told herself he must’ve been a dangerous man and that she was better off alone than riding back to town with him. Well, she wouldn’t be riding back with anybody now… The telephone line was dead, just as he’d said. The wire must’ve been disconnected somewhere.

She wanted to cry. Instead, she began to walk once more, trudging through the dark.

The sky was as black as a curtain cast across a silent stage and against it lit from below the pale lights of interspersed lamps. The roaring of the bike got slowly lost in the road that lay before her and soon only her steps echoed to remind her of how alone she was. She watched the small light of the rider fade and hugged herself against the cold, holding the purse to her chest as if it could protect her. Her feet were hurting so much she worried they were bleeding and she considered taking them off until she looked down at the road and its uneven dirty tar. She closed her eyes even as she kept on walking, too tired to gaze out at the same old nothingness again.

But then she heard a roar floating on the wind and felt a tremble in her chest as if an earthquake was approaching, and when she opened her eyes again she saw that lone light making its way back to her. He seemed to ride back faster than he did as he was leaving and he reached her in no time at all. She slowed down to a stop and so did he, parking right beside her.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck in an awkward, boyish way. “Look, I’m sorry if I scared you earlier. But I can’t just leave you out here. You sure you don’t want to —”

“Alright,” she said, her voice already weak and weary. She was hungry and cold and scared that she’d never make it back to town that night. Too scared to refuse his help a second time. “Just… just get me to the edge of town. I can make my own way home from there.”

If he was surprised at how quickly she accepted now, he didn’t show it. He simply moved closer to the front of his seat and made space for her behind him.

She took a deep breath and approached him carefully as if he rode a beast, not something made of metal. It looked solid and precariously thin at once and yet he straddled it confidently. The saddle looked just big enough for two. She hopped on as best she could and tried to keep her legs together but when he looked at her over his shoulder he shook his head and laughed.

“Legs on either side,” he said. “You’ll fall off if you ride like that.”

“But, my skirt…”

He looked up and down her legs and she tried not to read too much into the way his eyes had darkened.

“Roll it up,” he said in a low and soothing voice. “Don’t worry. I won’t look.”

She held her breath as she rolled her skirt up high enough so that she could throw her other leg over the side. He waited while she settled into the position and planted her feet firmly.

“Ready? Hang on,” he said as he revved the engine up. “I’ll go real slow, alright?”

“A-alright…” she said as she placed her hands timidly around his waist.

But he didn’t go slow, at least not by her standards.

It was completely different to riding in a car, more visceral and real with no windows to protect her. She let out a little scream and clung to his body more tightly than she meant to, eyes falling shut, legs tightening around his bike. He smelled of gasoline and metal and several days’ worth of sweat cooled down by the chilly autumn night but he felt so solid in her arms, so firm and steady, even as the world flashed by. Eventually, she was brave enough to rest her cheek against his back and opened her eyes to look at the vacant countryside. It was a little frightening, as she expected, but peaceful too. As she fisted her hands in his jacket, right over his heart, she tried to peek over his shoulder but could just see the side of his face, focused and relaxed, and the white circle of the headlight. Somehow, that was enough for her. His hair tickled her forehead, feeling softer than it had any right to be, and she found herself smiling. There was something base and ancient in the way he smelled, the way he spoke, even in the way he moved. It was as if he had in him the blood-memory of an ancient Knight on armoured steed galloping alone and steadfast through the fields and woods of untamed lands.

The outskirts of town were much tamer than that, however, and before long they could see the faint lights of the outermost buildings, squalid flats, and blinking advertisements. When he started slowing down she felt herself breathe a sigh of relief. It must’ve tickled the back of his neck because he bent his head forward as if to get away — or to ask for more.

“Where are we?” she asked once the noise of the motorcycle died down.

“Marshal Avenue,” he said, easing the bike to the side of the road.

She didn’t know exactly where that was, but she guessed they were on the other side of town from where she lived. All along the street were boarded-up shops, derelict flats, and liquor stores. Across from where he parked was a building that looked to be about a hundred years old. She could hardly fathom walking home at that hour, especially through a neighbourhood like that, but it was better than being in the middle of nowhere.

“Well, thank you. For the ride.”

He lit another cigarette and dismounted the bike, rolling his broad shoulders to unwind. She got off quickly, scrambling to cover her legs in the crumpled skirt before he turned around and saw her. He gave her a look over his shoulder when he heard her fussing and slowly turned around.

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?”

“Yeah, I… I can walk from here.”

He looked at her and stayed quiet but there was something in his eyes behind that veil of smoke that made her curious about what he had to say. He simply nodded and turned toward that old building behind him. She hugged herself and looked up and down the street, waiting for him to say anything — to ask for money, to make fun of her for thinking she could make it home, to make a pass at her…

“Well, good night,” she said.

And as soon as she started walking away he spoke to her again.

“Hey, it’s kinda late. They got rooms upstairs.”

“What?” she asked, turning on her heels a bit unsteadily.

“Owner knows me,” he shrugged, crushing the cigarette beneath his boot and immediately lighting up another. “Could get you one for cheap.”

She shifted her weight from one foot to another and looked around pretending to think… but her eyes kept coming back to him. He puffed quietly away and gazed at her with no design behind those clear blue eyes, looking just as uncertain and awkward as she felt standing in the middle of the street. She didn’t want to trust him but a part of her responded in the same way that she did when she saw a homeless puppy.

“You mean, a room of my own?”

“Yeah.”

She looked from him to the large building again.

He could probably tell that she was torn because he helpfully supplied, “They got food too. Hungry?”

She was. It had been over twelve hours since she’d eaten or had anything to drink.

“I kind of am.”

“Me too,” he said. “Come on.”

[s9fti3]

‘Think it took it too far, when I sold you my heart.’- Draco Malfoy @riu-riu

“Wait, what?” Their question was so random from the conversation you were just having, it caught you off guard. “Draco. Do you like him?” Your friend had asked again, this time peering up from their plate for a few moments before looking back down and stabbing a piece of food before taking a bite.

You had paused, calculating their question and how to respond. It was true, you had. But nobody had known, love wasn’t a topic that had been commonly discussed. Well, not until the ball’s, the dances and the holidays had been coming up. Picking up your glass, taking a sip and setting it down, you had answered.

“I think he is a good person. Quite charming but has flaws.” You say, poking something on your plate with your fork, but never bringing it to your lips. “I have a few classes with him, and he’s really smart.” You trail off, never noticing the small smile that was plastered on your face. “Sometimes him and his friends will risk their futures in this school to make the class laugh! Or how he’ll score a goal in quidditch like nothing!” You had went on and on, talking only about his charming qualities, never his flaws.

Your friends had made eye contact with each other, smiling ear to ear. “Huh. You’ve got a crush on Malfoy.” Your brunette friend had spoken, seemingly in a mocking tone. She had giggled, though you had only seen it as a gesture of excitement. You were wrong.

That giggle wasn’t out of excitement, but out of power. Your little confession had been passed around Hogwarts like wild fire. Every house, year, teacher, anything you could’ve thought of had known. Even worse, Draco. He had went from never looking in your direction or acknowledging you to dirty glares across the class room or great hall.

His eyes would piece through you, as if you had placed a spell on him and had cursed his family for years. His friends would do the same. Glares, mocking, laughing, pointing, teasing.

A few weeks had passed and the joking and mocking had went down. Finally your life went back to normal, or you thought. The sound of glass clinking loudly and boys and girls cheering is what caught your attention. Draco, standing on a clear spot on the table, looking as if he was preparing a speech. You friends had laughed and looked at you, smiling. They might have known your crush on Draco, but not what was planned.

“Excuse me for a moment. As many of you have heard about the certain someone who had taken a liking to me, I’d like to say a few things.” He says, looking at you and your friend group. “Me and this girl are not dating and as a matter of fact, I would never date this girl. She is ugly, disgusting, stupid and frankly nothing any guy would look for in a woman.”

He finishes off with his last statement. “And if one ever catches me with a women like her, you have my full permission to slap everything and anything out of me.” He was done, stepping down as everyone had laughed and clapped, cheering on his name as they clapped and slammed on the tables like a ritual.

Frozen you were, still as a statue. Your friends had stared with blank expressions, their faces going one shade lighter after his speech. There was nothing you could feel. Embarrassment, sadness, anger, shame, guilt. Nothing, it was a open, white canvas.

[bi-panicatthedisco]

Twst first year incorrect quotes: ver 2

Yuu: Sebek is forbidden from monologuing, especially about malleus.

Sebek: did someoNE SAY MALLEUS?!

Jack: What is wrong with you?

Ace: Loaded question. Elaborate.

Deuce: Everyone has a toxic trait. Except Yuu, they’re perfect.

Yuu: Wrong! My toxic trait is how badly I want to domesticate a raccoon.

Yuu: I’ve been sleeping so little the past few nights that when I go to the alarm app, I click on the “power nap” button. I don’t set up alarms, I set up timers.

Deuce: Can you be quiet?! I'm trying to think.

Ace: Don't worry. Doing anything for the first time is difficult.

Epel: Screw lactose intolerance! I will consume as much dairy as I want!

Epel 2 hours later, crying on the floor: WHY DOES IT HURT SO MUCH?!

Jack: You want some leftovers?

Grim : What are those?

Jack: You've never had leftovers before?

Grim : No, ‘cause I’m not a quitter.

Deuce: I’m afraid of clowns. There, I said it.

Epel: Deuce, if you don't like clowns, why are you hanging with Yuu?

Yuu: Did you just call me a shrimp, you asshole?! I'm still growing, dammit!

Epel: Get in, loser, we’re committing vehicular manslaughter!

Yuu: *on the phone* Just snap his kneecaps and he’ll talk, I’m at a parent teacher conference.

Yuu: Anyways, you said Grim is enjoying finger painting! That's great.

Grim: *Kicks the door open, looking panicked*

Sebek: What did you do?!

Grim: NOBODY DIED!

Sebek: WHAT KIND OF ANSWER IS THAT?!

Jack: Don’t weep for the stupid. You’ll be crying all day.

Epel: Accidentally indulged in too much ‘free time’, turns out I’ve been reported missing for over six months and presumed dead by most local and national authorities.

Yuu: So, everyone, what does a story NEED?

Deuce: A character!

Ortho: A setting!

Epel, a gleam in their eyes, in a near-whisper: REVENGE.

Yuu: You gave me up, you let me down, you turned around, and deserted me.

Ace: But did I make you cry?

Yuu: *cries on the spot*

Ace: ...Shit.

Grim, with their hands cupped over each other: I found a cool spider!

Epel: Oh? Lemme see!

Grim, opening their hands to see nothing there: …hm.

Deuce: …where’s the spider.

Grim: *looks troubled and stares at their hands*

Ace: Oh no.

Sebek: GRIM, WHERE’S THE SPIDER?!

Epel: If it pleases the court I would like to say that my opponent is TALKING SHIT!

Yuu: ...

[comicaurora]

What are your thoughts on guardians vol.3? (If you have watched it) I went into it, expecting it went to the garbage like the rest of the mcu, but I was pleasantly surprised by its creativity, trope subversion, and how it wrapped up the previously unresolved arks of its characters.

That's what I've heard!

The thing is, Guardians 3 could be the most transcendent work of cinema ever made, and I'd probably still feel little to no motivation to watch it at this point. It's not Guardians's fault - it's just suffering from the same problem that superhero comics have been struggling with for decades: no matter how good an individual arc or run is, absolutely nothing good lasts or matters in the long term, and the stories are shaped in such a way that "the long term" is the only thing anyone gets to build towards.

Whenever I complain about the MCU I get a handful of people loudly complaining about my complaining, with the general thesis that if I don't like it I shouldn't watch it or talk about it - if I'm not having fun, just stop engaging with it. And the thing is, I have. I am intellectually interested in why this massive franchise is fumbling the bag so hard, which is why I still check in on it sometimes, but I've long since stopped turning to the MCU for uncritical entertainment. And even the good movies or shows with a lot of interesting ideas - good character arcs, fun concepts, interesting planting for future payoff - don't draw me in anymore, because they're hooked into a massive moneymaking machine that will scrap and squander anything if they think it'll make them more in the quarter. It doesn't matter how good the writing is, because the writers are not allowed to tell a complete, finished story, and they have no control over what happens to their characters outside of their own script.

Captain America's arc was set up from literally minute one to answer one burning question at the core of his character: does a world without a war still need Captain America? After that incredibly basic tee-up at the end of First Avenger, half a dozen movies failed to come up with a reason to say "yes," and now Steve is retired for good after getting fumbled through four different storylines that couldn't even pretend that they needed him (the unused Chekhov's Phone from the end of Civil War still haunts me). The foundational arc of his entire character never happened because nobody bothered to keep track of it past a single movie.

Taika did something interesting with Thor in Ragnarok - take away Mjolnir, force him to recognize what it means to be the god of thunder, give him a very Odin-y missing eye - and the very next movie undid all of it. Just kidding, never mind, here's an eye and a new weapon and also his old weapon again, and in one more movie we're even gonna give him his hair back, probably as an apology for all the completely unironic fatphobia we're gonna slather him in for two and a half hours. I'm not even surprised Love And Thunder was such an overblown mess that barely took itself seriously - why would Taika bother trying to give Thor another arc when the powers that be will just roll it back in six months anyway?

I hear Rocket Raccoon has a fantastic arc in this movie. That's great, and demonstrates that he's being written by a writer that deeply cares about him. But he's part of the MCU, and the MCU doesn't let anything end, so if current patterns hold, Rocket is going to continue to serve as quippy plushie-bait for the next dozen movies and none of that depth is going to come through in the long term. Hell, since they're making Kang noises for the Next Big Threat and Kang's entire gimmick is rewriting timelines, literally none of this is guaranteed to matter. By next year, it might not have even happened anymore.

The MCU has successfully shaped itself into a paradigm where the bright spots of good writing are overridden and lost as soon as the writers room turns over, and that makes it really hard for me to muster up the enthusiasm to watch even a really good movie that's locked into the exact same grist mill as everything else. I'm glad people liked it, I hope it gets to stay good this time - I just have no desire to watch it.

[headkiss]

single thread

part 1, part 2, part 3

pairing: spider-man!steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: steve has a big secret and convinces himself he needs to stay away from you to keep you safe. that’s tough to do when you’re his neighbour.

word count: 8.2k

warnings: spider-man!steve au, some violence (r is attacked and a pocket knife is mentioned but nothing major happens), blood/injuries, strangers/sort of friends to lovers (ish?)

a/n: i really liked writing this one and i hope u guys like it too!!! spidey!steve is something i’ve wanted to try for a while and here it is!!!! he’s my baby <3

/ᐠ(๏‸๏)ᐟ\

When Steve moved to Indianapolis, not once did he think he’d get bit by some radioactive spider and gain super powers. Yet, here he is, swinging through the city like something out of some comic book. Sometimes he doesn’t even believe it’s real, and it’s his life.

On his way home, he spots his building easily, the route embedded in his head. The corners to turn, the spots to shoot his webs.

Stuck to the wall beside his window, he tries to open it and realizes he left it locked. “Idiot,” he grumbles to himself.

With a groan he jumps down, landing in the alley. He throws his clothes over his suit and makes sure nobody’s around before slipping the mask off and into his bag. For once, he uses the actual door to enter the building.

He opts for the stairs and when he makes it to his floor he sees you in the hallway. He resists the urge to go back down and wait a couple of minutes.

His door is across from yours, and when he walks over, you’re quick to send him a smile and a ‘hello.’ He nods at you and faces his door, unlocking it quickly and going inside.

It’s not that he doesn’t like you, it’s that he doesn’t want to involve people in his life when it’s gotten so complicated. He has Robin in the city and that’s about it. And he already worries enough about her. If he’d met you pre-bite, things would be much different.

He’d return your kind smiles and greetings, he’d tell you when he likes your outfit or thinks your hair looks really nice (which is pretty much every time he sees you, even when you think it’s awful).

He’d rather not put you in any danger, though, so he doesn’t. He just thinks you’re pretty and keeps it to himself.

You don’t know any of that, however, so you’re convinced that Steve doesn’t like you and you have no idea why. Every time his only response is a nod or a limp wave, you wait until he’s out of sight to frown, to scrunch your eyebrows.

You try to think about what you might’ve done.

You first met Steve when you moved into the building, your hair held away from your face with a clip, baby hairs sticking to your damp forehead, and your sweatshirt hanging off your shoulder. Not your best look.

He must’ve heard the thump of boxes hitting the ground, the mumbled curses you kept uttering. Knuckling at his tired eyes, he opened his door and peeked his head into the hallway.

“What the-”

He shut right up when you turned around, smiling (almost wincing) at him.

“Hi,” you introduced yourself, and he repeated your name so quietly you didn’t even hear it. “Sorry about the noise. I have a lot of stuff.”

He nodded, looking at the few boxes in the hall, “you’re moving in?”

“Yeah.”

“You need some help?”

“Seriously?” He half nodded, half shrugged. “That would be great. Thank you so much.”

“Sure. ‘M Steve, by the way.”

Steve. He’s pretty, you thought. Brown, fluffy hair and soft eyes, a mouth you think must look even better when he smiles.

He carried the heavier boxes without complaint or breaking a sweat. His arms flexed with the actions, but his face was completely unaffected. You were amazed. And probably stared at him too much.

When every box was inside your apartment, you’d thanked him, and he’d brushed it off saying it was no problem and went back inside his own place.

No problem, like he didn’t carry box after box for you because you couldn’t afford movers.

Now, with your back against the inside of your door after seeing him in the hallway, you replay that meeting once again. You can’t figure out what you did. Worse, you think, maybe you didn’t do anything at all and you’re just someone who’s easy to dislike.

Maybe it wouldn’t matter so much if he wasn’t so good looking. If he didn’t make you nervous whenever his eyes glanced over you, if you had actual friends to occupy your time, if you didn’t want him to like you so bad.

If, if, if.

You try to stop thinking about it and pick up the book you’d left on your coffee table. You have to reread passages, distracted and unfocused.

-

The bookstore’s been slow today.

You’ve been keeping yourself as busy as possible, even with an empty store. Dusting shelves, re-organizing sections that looked fine before, switching displays around. Eventually you gave in and sat behind the counter with a book, watching people pass by the front windows.

The sun set at some point, sinking behind buildings and leaving the city lit by streetlights and warm glows seeping through windows.

As boring as it can be, you wouldn’t be doing much different if you were at home. Finding things to do to pass time, sitting around aimlessly. At least here, you get paid for doing it.

When it’s time to close up you’re not sure if your sigh is from relief or disappointment. You’re lonely often, but it’s harder to ignore it when you’re all alone at home, no people around at all, even if they’re mostly just passing by on the sidewalk.

You go through the list, sweeping, setting the alarm, shutting off the lights, and locking the door.

The night air is cool, light wind blowing at your cheeks, ruffling your hair. The usual sounds surround you. Honking horns and tires rolling against pavement, indistinguishable voices and the click of the bookstore door locking.

You keep your keys in your hand while you walk home, one of them sticking up between your knuckles. Just in case.

One foot in front of the other, again and again, you walk along the sidewalk. Your footsteps a steady rhythm, hands tucked in your pockets to keep them warm, head bent to avoid making eye contact with any other pedestrians.

Only a couple of minutes from your place, you can hear someone walking along behind you. You shake your head, telling yourself they’re probably just headed in the same direction.

That reassurance disappears when the stranger whistles at you.

You don’t look up, you don’t turn around, you just keep your head down and walk faster, your heartbeat speeding in your chest. You’ve seen stories of what can happen to someone walking home alone. You never thought you’d have one of your own.

“Hey, cupcake! Where you going?” His voice is scratchy and scary. You pick up your pace even more.

At your ignorance, the man speaks again, “I’m talking to you.” His hand grabs your sleeve when he says it.

More afraid than you’ve ever been, you jerk your arm from his grasp and stupidly turn down an alleyway as a shortcut. It’s a horrible decision, but when you’re scared like that, it’s really hard to think straight.

You feel bad for being annoyed with people in horror movies. You get it now.

You’re almost jogging now, but it doesn’t deter the man. No, he catches up and grabs your wrist, twisting you around and pushing your back roughly into the brick wall of the building behind you.

Your wrist is slammed against it where he grabbed you, no doubt scratching your skin and making you flinch, your keys falling from your grasp.

This is it, you think. I’m gonna die here. Alone.

Your eyes water, a tear drips down your cheek and the man laughs in your face. You try to break away from his hold but he doesn’t let up. The only thing you manage is to knee him in the thigh, but it doesn’t do much.

“Nice try, cupcake. I’ve got you now.” he says. That’s when you notice the glint of a pocket knife in his hand.

“Please. Don’t,” is all you can say, trying and trying to get your arms out of the man’s tight hold. Tight enough to bruise.

Steve’s hair stands at the back of his neck, on his arms. Until now, his patrolling had been quiet. Easy fixes like an elderly woman not crossing the street quick enough or a man who’d locked his keys in his car.

Now, his instincts tell him this thing isn’t so small.

Without a second thought, he jumps from where he’d been perched at the ledge of a building and swings in the direction his senses take him. In your direction.

One second, you’re squeezing your eyes shut, thinking it’s the end, and the next, there’s the sound of someone landing in the alley and the thwip of a web.

The man is pulled off of you so fast you can barely keep up. There’s a flash of blue and red, hints of webbing being shot, and just like that, your attacker is knocked out and stuck to the opposite wall.

Your chest heaves and your back slides down the wall, landing on your bum on the pavement.

Steve turns around now that the man’s been dealt with and he thinks his heart stops for a second. He hadn’t realized it’d been you. You and your sweet smile, now turned to tears streaking your cheeks.

He thought, without him, you’d be better off. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he should’ve been keeping an eye on you. For now, he’s sort of glad he hasn’t spoken to you much, only because there’s a better chance you won’t recognize his voice.

Steve moves to crouch in front of you, “are you okay? Did he hurt you?” His hands hover by the sides of your face, like he’s holding himself back from touching you. Restraining himself.

Spider-man is in front of you. Spider-man with his suit and white-eyed mask who just saved your life is right there in front of you. So much for a slow day.

You shake your head and wipe your cheeks with your palms, “no. No, just- um, just my wrist, I think.”

“Can I look?”

You hold out your arm for him to see, and he moves his hands down, one tugging back your sleeve and the other holding your wrist gently. The fabric of his gloves brushes against your skin lightly, careful not to touch you where you’re hurt.

“Doesn’t look sprained. Just scraped,” he says. He looks up from your arm to your face, the eyes on his mask narrowing ever so slightly. “You’re sure you aren’t hurt anywhere else?”

He sounds genuinely worried. Like, you can hear it in his voice. It makes you want to cry all over again. You’d always thought that when Spider-man dealt with the bad guys, he’d just move on. Now, you can see that he cares a lot more than that.

You shake your head, “I’m fine.”

As fine as you can be after what just happened.

He nods and stands, offering you his hands to help you up. You pick up your keys and accept, slipping your hands into his. He pulls you up and squeezes your fingers before letting go.

“Will you let me take you home?” He asks.

You’re sort of in shock, and you’d rather not walk anymore. So, you agree.

He opens his arms for you, picking you up easily with a single arm wrapped around your waist. Your own arms go around his neck, legs tentatively wrapping around his waist.

“Ready?”

“Yeah,” you almost whisper.

He hears you loud and clear, your mouth close to his ear, his senses seemingly even more heightened than usual with you around.

“Hold on,” he says.

Then, you hear the whip of his webs and you’re in the air. Your limbs tighten around him.

“Oh my god. Oh my god.”

The wind rushes all around you. In your ears, your hair, your jacket. The city does, too, lights flickering by and buildings growing distant over his shoulder. You squeeze your eyes shut.

“You okay?” He asks over the wind.

“Maybe!”

You can feel his chest rumble with a chuckle. You wish you could’ve heard it, too.

He swings you towards your building when he remembers he’s not supposed to know where you live, “where to?”

You tell him, yelling over the noise not realizing he can hear you just fine normally. You don’t know about those superpowers, focused on the ones that have him transporting you home.

He gets you there quickly, landing just outside the front entrance. You stay wrapped around him for a second before you realize you’ve stopped moving. You remove yourself from him so quickly he has to steady you with hands on your upper arms so you don’t fall.

“You okay from here?” He checks, his head lowering to catch your gaze.

“Yeah. Thank you for…” Saving my life, making sure I’m okay, taking me home. Everything since you landed in the alley.

“Just doing my job.”

“Right. Thanks again,” you turn to head inside.

“Goodnight. And take care of your wrist!”

“Goodnight, Spider-man.”

-

Steve sees you more often after that night. He thinks the universe might be punishing him. Making him see you more, making him work harder to keep his distance.

He tossed and turned the entire night after bringing you home. He wondered if you were actually okay, trying to listen in case you were crying or having a nightmare. He worried so much more than he would have if it had been any other person and he hated it.

He saw you the next morning. You were checking your mail at the same time as him. Your sleeve had ridden up, exposing the scratches on your wrist from the brick wall, the faint bruises of fingerprints, your eyes tired.

“Are you okay?” He couldn’t help but ask, gesturing limply at your hand. Maybe if you give him a convincing yes, he can finally stop thinking about you so much.

You look down at your arm when he asks, quickly tugging your sleeve back down to cover it up. “Oh. It’s nothing.”

It’s not nothing. He knows it isn’t because he was there and he saw at least a part of what happened to you. He can’t let you know that, so he just nods and turns to his mailbox, listening to your footsteps as you walk out of the mailroom and back up to your apartment. His fingers twitch by his side.

Steve’s used to feeling protective over people, that’s not new, but to feel so protective over someone he barely knows hasn’t happened before. That night haunts him. Your tear-streaked face, the blooming bruises on your arm. He never wants to see you hurting again.

Maybe that’s why he starts returning your greetings in the halls, actually pausing to ask how you are, to smile back at you (they’re tight-lipped smiles, but it’s something).

He’s trying to be kind without getting any closer. No matter how much he wants to know you.

One day, as Steve’s heading out for the late shift, you’re just getting home from your own job, it seems. The clip in your hair has loosened since you put it in, strands falling freely around your face. For a second, Steve has the urge to tuck them behind your ears.

He pushes that down.

“Hi,” he says, his door shut behind him.

“Hi, Steve.”

“How are you?”

“Okay, thanks. Tired,” you fiddle with the frayed hem of your knitted sweater. “Had the opening shift today.”

“Ah. Any plans?”

“Probably just gonna take a nap.”

He nods. For a second you think he might’ve asked because he wanted to do something with you. It’s a stupid thought and you push it away.

“Have a good nap, then,” he gives you the close-mouthed smile that’s become more common between you, and heads towards the stairs.

The shift in his behavior towards you hasn’t been huge, but it’s been enough for you to notice it. He talks to you sometimes—always briefly, but still—he doesn’t turn away from you as soon as he gets the chance like he used to.

It’s confusing, but you’re happy about it anyway. Maybe he just needed some time to warm up to you a bit. Maybe he doesn’t hate you after all.

Inside your apartment, you change into sweats and practically collapse onto your couch, playing something mindless on the TV and pulling a blanket over yourself.

You really are tired, but it’s not only from working early. Lately, your dreams have been haunted by rough hands, dark alleys, and flashes of blue and red. You constantly feel like there are eyes on you, and when you walk home from closing shifts, you always search for a certain superhero at the tops of buildings.

You fall asleep at some point, and by the time you wake up, it’s dark outside.

-

Days seem to blur together. Repetitive and tiring all the same. The only thing you have to look forward to lately is your short conversations with Steve in the halls.

You’re not sure how many days later it is when you fall asleep on your couch again. This time, you’re woken up by noises coming from the hallway, right by your door. You get up slowly, feet hitting the cool floors as you walk over to your door.

You don’t know what time it is, but from the darkness of your apartment and the random game show that plays on your TV, you know it’s late.

Peeking through your peephole, you see Steve, fumbling with his keys and almost limping. You open the door.

“Steve?”

He shuts his eyes when he hears your voice, all sleepy and worried.

Like an idiot, he’d left his window locked again and had to use the door after a night of patrolling. A worse night than usual.

You gasp when he spins to face you, one of his eyes swollen shut, a cut on his eyebrow, his nose bleeding, and another cut on his lip.

“Oh my god,” you step forward a little, leaving your door open. “What happened?”

“I’m fine. Sorry for waking you.”

“You’re bleeding,” you say. “Come on. Let me help you.”

You grasp his arm lightly in both of your hands, and when he doesn’t protest, lead him into your apartment.

Steve’s suit feels tighter now, scratching his skin where it sits because he worries you’ll see it despite his layers on top of it. Still, he could use some help. And he can’t bring himself to be upset that you’re the one helping him.

“You don’t have to,” his voice is scratchy.

“I want to help you, okay?”

You bring him into your bathroom, making him sit on the toilet lid. You leave him there for a bit, coming back with some ice in a dish cloth.

“Here, for your eye.” He takes it from you and sucks in a breath when he presses it against his swollen skin.

“Thank you for doing this.”

“‘Course.”

You pull out your first-aid kit from under your sink, setting it on the counter and taking out what you need. You grab another cloth, wetting it in the sink.

“Here,” you stand between his legs, using a bent finger to tilt his chin up towards you. You wipe the dried blood from his skin in silence, Steve’s eyes shut, yours running all over his face.

You’re surprised he trusts you enough to let you do this. You wonder if this is why he’s so closed-off. If maybe he’s involved in something that gets him hurt. Often.

An underground boxing ring, debt with bad people, so many possibilities cross your mind, not a single one being the truth.

Once his face is as clean as it can be, you move on to disinfecting the cuts by his eyebrow and lip. “This might sting a little.”

“S’okay.”

His face pinches a little bit when you dab away at his cuts, but he doesn’t make any noise. All you can hear is his deep breaths and the small sound of his leg bouncing.

His nose hasn’t bled anymore since you cleaned it, and he keeps the ice over his eye the entire time. The cut by his lip looks much smaller when there’s no blood surrounding it.

Only his eyebrow needs a small bandage, which you grab and unwrap. “Last step.”

He feels you press the bandage on, your fingers lightly pushing the sides onto his skin to make sure it’s stuck. The process, he finds, hurts much less when you do it.

He misses your warmth when you step away from him. “Thank you.”

“Are you in trouble, or something? What happened to you?”

“It’s not a big deal. I swear.”

He hates lying to you, but he convinces himself it’s better this way. For your own good.

You don’t look convinced but you drop it. “Okay.”

“I should go,” he stands from where he’d been sitting and waivers a little, leaning on the counter.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“I’m fine, just got dizzy.”

“You can take the couch, if you want. It’s not a problem, really.”

“I live across the hall, I’m sure I’ll be fine.” He steps towards the doorway and has to pause again. “Or maybe I’ll stay. If you’re sure.”

“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t.”

You walk him to the couch, letting him lean on you whenever he needs to along the way. He sits down, and you go to get him a pillow and blankets.

This is the longest amount of time you’ve ever spent with Steve, and it pinches at your heart that he’s hurt during it. That he only needed help, not company. Even so, you fight a smile when you come back to the living room and find him laying down, already half asleep.

You spread the blankets over him. You take the pillow you’d brought him and guide him to lift his head. You’re convinced he’s asleep, so you let yourself push the hair off his forehead just once.

When you turn to go to your room, he catches your hand in his.

“Thank you, honey.”

Honey. That’s new.

-

Steve was already gone when you got up the next day. The only evidence of his visit the blankets he’d left folded up on your couch and the washcloth stained with his blood you used to clean him up.

Every time you pass his door you think about knocking and checking on him. About making sure he’s okay.

You’ve been worrying a lot more ever since the night you were attacked and saved by Spider-man, and that goes for more than just yourself. You worry about every person you see walking alone, about Steve being hurt again, about noises you might be imagining at night.

You probably look over your shoulder fifty times on your way home from the grocery store, your hands too full with your bags to be able to defend yourself if anything happens.

You breathe out when you make it in front of your door. You’re safe, you’re fine, you have to tell yourself.

In your rush to get your keys from your pocket, you drop two of your bags. “Shit.” Boxes and cans thump against the floor.

Steve hears everything, all of the time. He hears you curse and the sound of your stuff hitting the ground. He blames the fact that he heads to the door on boredom and nothing more.

“Need some help?” His voice startles you.

“Oh! Hey, Steve. It’s fine, just dropped some stuff.”

You set the rest of your bags down, kneeling to pick up things that fell out of the ones you dropped. Embarrassed, you keep your head ducked.

Steve can sense it, the way your pulse jumps a little around him. He doesn’t know whether to be glad or worried that he makes you nervous. Either way, he bends down beside you, helping you pick things up.

A bag of apples, a can of soup.

You both reach for the bags at the same time, fingers brushing before pulling away. Like there was a shock, a little spark where your skin met for the briefest second.

Before you can, Steve picks up the bags. “I got ‘em. You get the door.”

“I- Okay.”

You turn around and fumble with the lock, opening your door and walking inside. Steve follows you and puts your bags on your kitchen counter.

“Good?” He checks.

“Yeah. Thank you, Steve.”

“No problem, honey. Think of it as payback for you patching me up.”

Honey. Last time he said it, you chalked it up to his tired state. That excuse can’t be used this time, and the term warms you.

“Right,” you look him over. His injuries are almost gone and it’s only been a couple of days. At least, you think it has. “You’re feeling better?”

“You did a good job,” he says.

“I’m glad.”

He nods, rocks back onto his heels once, “so, um, I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah. Thanks again.”

He nods again and heads out, shutting your door behind him. With every conversation you have, Steve seems to warm up around you just a bit more. You don’t want to hope too much, so you push your hair from your face and turn to put your groceries away.

That evening, when you’re getting ready to cook dinner—a simple spaghetti and meatballs—you realize you’ve never seen Steve bring groceries into his apartment. Not once.

He must eat, you know that, but you wonder if he eats well, or enough. You cook for two without realizing until it’s finished. There’s extra of everything.

It’s probably stupid, maybe weird, but you make a bowl and head out into the hall. You knock on Steve’s door, three little taps of your knuckles against the wood.

He hears the knocks right away, listens closer to hear your voice mumbling to yourself. He knows your voice well. Sometimes, he can hear you humming to yourself in your apartment. He doesn’t try to listen in on you, but it’s like his ears subconsciously seek you out.

Steve opens the door and sees you in the same clothes as earlier, a shy smile on your face, and a bowl of spaghetti in your hands.

“Hey. What are you…?”

“I accidentally made too much food, and I thought maybe you’d want some?”

Actually, you made too much food for him, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Oh,” his heart does a stupid jump in his chest. You’re so kind and you don’t even seem to be trying. If anything, you seem to be embarrassed about it, like it’s a fault. “That’s really nice.”

“It’s just pasta. You want it?”

“Sure,” he takes the bowl from you. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And I promise it’s not, like, poisoned or anything.” You wince at yourself, “I don’t know why I said that.”

“Well, I’m glad it’s not poisoned.”

You laugh awkwardly. “Okay. Um, enjoy.”

He stands in his doorway while you go back inside, his smile spreading as soon as your back is turned to him. He heads inside after you do, kicking his door shut.

He’s never smiled at a fucking bowl of pasta the way he does. It’s getting harder and harder to make himself avoid you, avoid that light in his chest that seems to brighten when he sees you.

He’s in trouble.

-

You bring him dinner often. At least twice a week, on days you don’t work or when you’re pretty sure he’s home.

He thanks you every time with a close-mouthed smile and brings back your dishes the next day, perfectly clean.

It feels like, over time, with every dish you bring him, a chip falls away from the walls he’s built up around himself. You can tell there’s a lot of them, and that they’re tall, but you don’t mind waiting for them to lower piece by piece. He’s worth that wait, you think.

You’re happy to cook for him—you’re cooking for yourself already anyway—and you’ve grown closer because of it. Something like friends, almost. The conversations seem to grow longer each time you see him.

Sometimes, on good days, he even invites you inside to eat with him.

You aren’t very close, but right now, he’s the only friend you have (besides your coworkers, who really only hang out with you because they have to). You’d think the way you get excited to see him would be sad if it weren’t for how nice he is, for how he makes you feel.

He listens to you when you speak, his eyes don’t stray, either. He always tells you he likes your cooking when you know it isn’t all that great. He even hugged you before you left his place once, his arms around your waist, hands running over your skin delicately before he pulled away.

“Thank you for dinner,” he’d said. “Again.”

“I like making it for you. Makes me feel useful.”

“Still. Thank you, honey,” he’d surprised you with it, moving close before you could really process it.

“Oh,” you’d stupidly let your arms hang limp for a second before wrapping them shyly around his neck. “I don’t think my cooking is this good.”

“It’s not just your cooking,” he’d told you.

He pulled away after that, leaving your body warm and your smile difficult to suppress.

You’re well aware you have a crush on him, but you don’t want to let it ruin the beginnings of the friendship you’ve built.

Steve’s not sure what the pull he feels towards you is, like one of his webs is tethered to you even though he can’t see it. It’s something his senses can’t tell him, no matter how much he focuses on them.

He thinks you’re the sweetest person and you don’t even try, all shy smiles and soft gestures. He likes how when you talk, he can really hear how you feel about something in your voice. He trusts you, despite not knowing you too well.

He also thinks you’re really pretty, but that’s not important.

Steve had another rough night patrolling. Some guy decided to play Wolverine—he’d made gloves with blades and everything—and scratched Steve pretty good on his upper arm. It hurts like a bitch, even though it’ll heal quickly. And he’ll have to sew up his suit.

He got the guy, which is something, at least.

Luckily, he actually remembered to unlock the window this time, so he’s able to sneak into his place with ease. He stripped out of his suit and took a shower before anything. Maybe not the smartest decision while actively bleeding, but he felt gross.

Afterwards, clad in plaid pajama pants and a plain cotton t-shirt, he searches his bathroom for his first-aid kit while keeping a towel pressed to his arm. A dark stain blooms on the fabric the longer he keeps it against his wound.

“Yes,” he cheers to himself when he finds the small white box.

He sits on the tile floors, back against his sink cabinets, and the kit in his lap. He opens it with one hand, the other too busy trying to slow the bleeding. When he gets it open, he’s disappointed with what he finds.

“Fuck,” he says. There’s barely anything left. A roll of gauze, a box of bandaids, and one tiny alcohol wipe. That’s it. He really needs to remember to refill this stuff.

He pushes himself to stand, winces when he has to use his injured arm.

There’s only one person close by that he knows for sure has a first-aid kit that has what he needs, because he’s seen it pretty recently. That person is you.

He hates that he’s dragging you into this again, that he’s gonna ask a favor of you that he really shouldn’t. One he doesn’t even think he deserves. He needs the help, though, so he walks to his door, into the hallway, and a few steps to your place across from his.

He knocks, his towel more red than its original color by now.

The sound doesn’t exactly wake you up. It’s late, and you’d been in bed, but you’d been having a hard time falling asleep. You were tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling.

You sit up, push your hair out of your face, and head to the door. You should, but you don’t even look to see who it is before opening it, keeping your body behind the door and peeking your head around. You certainly weren’t expecting this.

Steve stands in front of you, his hair damp and a mess, falling over his forehead. His face is pale and, when your eyes flicker down, you find that his arm is bleeding. A lot.

“Holy shit. What happened to you?”

He ignores your question. “Can you help me?”

You move away from the door. The cold air from the hallway combined with the way Steve’s eyes look down before quickly looking back at your face remind you of your attire. A sleep shirt and underwear.

“Fuck! Sorry,” you go to shut the door but remember that he’s literally bleeding. “Come in, you know where the bathroom is. I’ll just- um. Let me put some pants on.”

He’d laugh at the way you pretty much sprint into your room if he wasn’t so focused on the pain of his arm. He’d also be thinking a lot about the way your legs looked just then.

You meet him in the bathroom, legs now covered in a baggy pair of sweatpants. Steve’s sitting on the shut toilet just like he did the first time you helped him. You haven’t touched your first-aid kit since then, finding it exactly where you left it then.

“Sorry about that,” you tuck your hair behind your ears quickly before opening up the box, turning to him afterward. “Can I see?”

“Yeah.”

You take the towel from Steve’s hand, slowly moving it away from his wound to see how bad it is. Steve’s hands twitch where they sit atop his thighs. He’s holding himself back from touching you.

Three gashes break his skin. The outside of his arm, just below his shoulder.

“Do these need stitches?” You ask, the concern is clear in your voice, in how it shakes a bit. “Maybe you should go to the hospital-”

“No. Please. No hospital.”

“I don’t know how to do stitches, Steve. I don’t know if I can help you.”

“I don’t need stitches, I swear,” the look on your face makes him feel awful. The sadness in your eyes, the small frown you try to hide. “I ran out of bandages. That’s all I need.”

“Are you sure?”

He can’t tell you that his skin will mend on its own, that he’ll be fine in just a couple of days. “Positive.”

You nod and grab a different towel than the one he’d been using, pressing it against his arm to make sure the bleeding stops. He groans quietly when you do. “Sorry,” you whisper.

“I’m alright.”

When you’re almost 100% sure that the bleeding is done, you pull the towel away. You hold it under the sink, wetting a part of it that didn’t soak up his blood. You use it to clean away the dried blood on his arm, apologizing every time he sucks in a breath through his teeth, hissing at the pull on his cuts.

One of your hands holds his arm up, the other occupied with the towel. You’re bent close, stood between his legs, your loose hair tickling his skin.

“Steve?” You whisper, still focused on his gashed arm.

“Mm?” He hums, watching you help him with the most careful touch he’s ever felt.

“Who’s hurting you?”

“It’s nothing.” He says it in a way that tells you it really isn’t nothing. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Maybe you don’t need to worry about him, but you do. You worry constantly. Anytime there’s a bandaid or scrape on his skin you wonder if it’s the same people that gave him that black eye and split lip weeks ago.

You worry because he’s so good. He’s a soft person under the invisible armor he protects himself with and he doesn’t deserve to be hurt. His skin is too delicate for it, his face too pretty.

You pull away and grab the roll of bandages you have in your kit. When you look at him again, his eyes are set on you, scanning your face.

“Please don’t worry about me,” his voice is quiet, and you hate the way it breaks on the first word.

He hates it, too.

“I’ll try my best,” you force a small smile at him, trying to lighten things as much as you can given the situation. You look back at his arm, wrapping it slowly. “Is that good?”

He looks at his arm, his wounds now covered with white wrappings. He looks back at you, “thank you, honey.”

“It’s not too tight?”

He shakes his head, standing when you step back to give him the space. You stand toe-to-toe, his head bent down to look at you, yours titled up.

“It’s perfect.”

Your breaths mingle in the air between you, growing thicker. Before you let yourself hope for something you shouldn’t, you move to the counter and grab the rest of the bandages you have.

“Here,” you hold them out to him, “for when you need to switch it.”

“You won’t need it?” He asks instead of telling you that by the time it needs switching, it won't be an open wound anymore.

“The most I use from that kit is the regular bandaids. I’ll survive without it.”

He takes the bandages from you, his hand brushing yours.

“I’m sorry for showing up the way I did.”

“I’d rather that than have you bleeding out in your apartment,” your eyes flick over to the bloody towels on your floor, your heart pinching in your chest. “If you need to talk to someone, or anything, I’m here.”

He leans closer, pushes a gentle peck into your cheek, and speaks with his lips still brushing your skin. “I don’t deserve your sweetness.”

He drops his head into your shoulder, just for a second, before moving away from you.

“Wha-”

“Bye, honey. Thank you,” he says, walking out of your bathroom.

You stand there, a hand lifting to press against your cheek in the spot his lips did. You pull it away and look at your fingertips, like you’d been expecting to see a physical residue of the kiss. Flecks of glitter, or the soft pink of the sky at sunrise.

You just see your skin, painfully normal.

-

After thinking and thinking and thinking, you determine that maybe Steve likes you more than you thought he did.

The way he calls you ‘honey’ in that voice of his, the softness of his eyes that he can’t hide no matter how cold he tries to keep his exterior, the way he kissed your cheek and let his lips linger when he spoke.

All of those things make you hope that maybe he likes you at least a little bit in the way that you like him, but if not, at the very least, he likes you more than you thought.

You think he tries to hold himself back from getting close to you at all, and you really don’t know why. All you know is that his shoulders were slightly slumped when he forced himself to leave after you'd bandaged his arm, after he told you he doesn’t deserve you.

There’s something in his life that makes him think that way and as much as you wanna know what it is, you hope that the best you can do is prove him wrong.

That’s one of the reasons you’re cooking dinner for two once again tonight. You also feel like, since this is sort of what brought you closer, the dinners are a tradition for you and Steve. Something completely yours.

It’s nice to have something like that with another person. You knew you were lonely, but you never noticed how much until you started talking to him more. With each meeting, the string between you both shortens.

You’ve never cooked this meal before. You’re extra attentive with it, tasting it to make sure it’s right, keeping your eyes on things closely to avoid burning it at all.

When everything’s done, Steve’s meal packed up nicely and your ponytail now a loose mess, you head to the bathroom to look at yourself in the mirror. The most you do is fix your hair before feeling silly for caring so much about your appearance.

He’s seen you tired-eyed and pantless. This is better than that, at least.

You haven’t brought Steve a meal since you patched him up and he thanked you with a kiss on the cheek and possibly, maybe, loaded words. You’ve seen him, yes, but this is different than a two minute conversation in a hallway or the mailroom.

It’s your way of checking on him.

Your door shuts with a click behind you, his meal in your hand as you step into the hall. You knock on Steve’s door in quick, small taps. You’re not sure why you’re nervous to be doing it this time.

The doorknob twists and you’re met with Steve’s smiling face. Like actually, fully smiling. You don’t think you’ve ever seen that from him before. Not like this. It’s like a beaming ray of sunshine, warm and beautiful.

You’d like to be the one to make him smile like that.

“Hi, honey,” he says. It’s then you notice his cheeks are slightly flushed, little pink blooms on his skin.

“Hey. I made you dinner again,” you hold the container up awkwardly to show him.

“You don’t have to keep making me dinner.”

“I like doing it.”

He nods. Steve knows that you do it as an excuse to see him, and if he were braver, or less concerned about involving you in his impossible life, he’d tell you that you don’t need to have food to knock on his door.

He’d tell you that you could knock whenever you wanted, that he’d happily open the door for you.

“Steve!” A voice—a female voice—calls from inside the apartment. “Who’s at the door?”

Fuck. Okay, he has a girlfriend. You probably interrupted something, you think, looking at his flushed cheeks, thinking about the smile he wore that most definitely was not for you.

You’re embarrassed for even thinking that he could like you, embarrassed for having read everything wrong, for hoping too much.

“Oh. You have company. I’ll just-” you pivot on your heel to leave and realize you’re still holding his dinner. You turn back around and hand it to him, awkwardly turning towards your door again and heading inside.

Steve stares at your door for a couple of seconds before going back inside. He sets his food on the counter and sits back on the couch.

“So, who was that?” Robin asks.

Robin, his best friend and the only person in the world who knows pretty much everything about him. Spider-man and all.

“My neighbor. She was bringing me dinner.”

“It was her? And you didn’t let me say hi!”

Yeah, Robin knows all about you. She knows that you make Steve dinner, that you’ve taken care of him without digging too deep for answers, that Steve thinks you’re the ‘prettiest girl ever.’ His words.

“She left pretty fast after you yelled.”

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“Nooo. I scared her off!” Steve is clearly very confused, so Robin huffs and continues, “she heard a girl’s voice in your apartment.”

“And?”

“God, you’re such a boy sometimes, it’s insane. She thought I was your girlfriend!”

“Why would that scare her off?”

“I know you don’t get out much, dingus, but seriously?” She literally facepalms. “She likes you! Why else would she be making you dinner and shit? She likes you and thinks you’re dating someone.”

“Oh. Oh. No, she doesn’t like me. Not like that.”

“You’re an actual dingus.”

Steve doesn’t want to think about that possibility because it’ll make it much, much harder to keep you at arms length. Though, even now, that arm is mostly bent, losing resistance.

“So what if she does like me? I can’t do anything with her.”

“Why not.”

“Because I’m Spider-”

“Spider-man, yes, I know. Who cares? You can't live your whole life ignoring every single romantic feeling you have because of that.”

“I don’t wanna drag her into this.”

“Did you ever consider that maybe she would want to be dragged into this?”

“I guess not.”

He goes quiet after that, and Robin, knowing him so well, drops the subject.

-

Steve thinks about what Robin said even after she leaves.

It’s hard for him to believe that you’d like him enough to worry that Robin was his girlfriend. You, a dream girl, liking him, with his unexplained injuries and past grumpiness towards you. There was no way.

But, on the slightest chance that it did matter to you, Steve decided he wanted to explain.

His crush on you isn’t something he should explore, isn’t something he wants to let grow because, despite what Robin says, his life is dangerous and you already worry about him enough without knowing that.

Still, the thought of you being upset because you think he isn’t single is enough to make him head across the hall.

While Steve wondered what he’d say, you stewed in your embarrassment. You’d sat on your couch in your sweats and tried to forget the girl's voice or the smile on Steve’s face. You were unsuccessful.

The knocks on your door have become a familiar sound—there’s only one person who actually comes to your apartment.

You walk over and muster up a smile that you hope looks genuine, “Steve, hey.”

He scratches the back of his neck and looks at you, “can I come in?”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

You move aside as he walks in, shutting the door behind him. The apartment feels smaller with him in it, you think. His presence takes up space for you, it draws your focus.

“Thanks again for dinner,” he says.

“You’re welcome-”

“That wasn’t my girlfriend, by the way. The voice you heard,” he cuts you off because he worries that if he doesn’t say it now, he never will. “I mean, she’s my friend, and a girl, but we’re not dating. Her name’s Robin, she’s my best friend, that’s it. Promise.”

You’re not sure whether to be even more embarrassed at how obvious you were with your concern, or to be relieved that he’s not taken like you thought. You settle for a bit of both.

“You don’t have to- I know I was weird earlier but you don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you tell him, tugging at the ends of your sleeves with your fingers.

“I wanted to make sure you knew.”

There could be a lot of weight in that sentence, if you let yourself look hard enough.

Rather than reply you confess, “you know, I used to think you hated me. Or, didn’t like me. Before we talked and stuff.”

Steve’s standing really close to you. Has he always been this close? You can smell his soap and feel the light puffs of air leaving his lips. It’s almost dizzying—like, if someone poked your shoulder, you might fall over.

You notice a lot about him from this close, especially when there’s no blood on his face. He has the lightest dusting of freckles over his nose, his eyelashes are dark, framing his brown eyes.

Steve reaches out with a hand to link his fingers with yours, loosely and slowly, like he doesn’t want to startle you. They fit together easily. His other hand brushes his knuckles against your cheek before cupping it gently in his palm.

His touch is so gentle, so much less guarded than his usual actions. You blink up at him and without even thinking, you push yourself into his touch, just a little.

“I never hated you,” he says. A murmur between your mouths.

“Oh,” is all you can say.

Steve’s strong, inhumanely so, but he isn’t strong enough to stop himself from kissing you.

The first brush of his lips on yours is so light that you think you might be dreaming. When you don’t pull away, he kisses you more firmly, his lips a little bit chapped but still soft as they land on yours.

You haven’t kissed a lot of people but you’ve never felt one like this. One that you’ve been dancing around for longer than you ever realized.

Steve’s hand squeezes yours, his thumb running back and forth against your cheek, his mouth moving with yours like a dance. He probably shouldn’t have let himself kiss you, because there’s no way he can fight whatever this is after feeling your lips on his.

He pecks you once, and twice, before pulling away. If he kept kissing you, the single thread left holding him back from you would’ve snapped. A clean break.

He leans his forehead against yours, and whispers so quietly you would’ve missed it had he not been so close to you. You could almost feel the words being spoken, lips still a breath apart.

“Never hated you.”

/ᐠ(๏‸๏)ᐟ\

if you enjoyed, please reblog and/or let me know what you thought!!! it would mean a whole bunch <3

[myrskytuuli]

I've seen few dreamling Star Trek AUs, but I keep thinking about canon dreamling in the Starfleet era future.

The moment humanity makes first contact, Hob Gadling obvioulsy makes it his next goal to get up there and start exploring as soon as possible. New Frontiers! New species! New experiences!

Which great. He's good enough at being just the most normal (surprisingly lucky and durable) red shirt, just there, doing his job. Nothing weird to see here, no sir. Too bad that he managed to get a job at the Enterprise, the galaxy's most ridiculous incident prone ship. And as the Enterprise incidents(TM) keep happening, so does the niggling feeling that there's something fucking funky going on with Ensign Gadling. he has....a very surprising range of skills and knowledge. And that boyfriend of his...is always there when they have shore-leave, no matter how implausible it would be for him to travel the distances with the speed he does with Federation spacecraft. Nobody can sus out what his job is, but it has to be some very high level federation one for his and Gadling's shore-leave's always to align.

But the most disturbing thing about the boyfriend(TM) is how the first glimpse any of the crew gets of him is always always just a bit fucked up.

For a second, before he blinks and realises that that is just Gadling and his partner sitting down on a spaceport café, Spock could have sworn that sitting across the man was Run S'haile made flesh, appearance just like the statues now gathering dust in Vulcan ancient history museums. And the andorian officer could have sworn that for a blink there she saw the Sparkling King of All Fantasies walking hand in hand with Ensign Gadling, before the image settled to two humans walking side by side. And one calm night a tellarite engineer spots ensign Gadling snuggling and star-gazing by one of the ship windows with The Great Nightmare Beast of Sleeping Terrors and decides to get the fuck back to her own quarters and try to never think of it again.

And it really doesn't help that while your average sentients aren't anymore impressed by Gadling than the agressively boring and normal man warrants, it has been more than once that the Cosmic Entity With Unimaginable Powers of the week has gotten suspiciously polite when Gadling enters the scene.

In a normal Starfleet ship Gadling might be able to fly under radar, but USS Enterprise is not a normal ship and the crew is starting to get the heebie jeebies...

[colourstreakgryffin]

Nezuko!reader × Alastor please🙏

Haha! Awww! I am not sure it’s platonic or romantic but I’ll go with what I’m thinking. I think Alastor would have lots of fun with a Nezuko!

Alastor- Bamboo Binds

You’re one of the weirdest demons he’s ever seen. You don’t want to eat demons? What’s the point of being in Hell then if you don’t sin. That’s how Alastor feels and that’s how he thinks as he watches you with the sharpest eye a deer like him can at your entrance to the Hotel

As soon as Charlie checked you in to the Hotel, she begun introducing you around and trying to have you befriend everybody but yet, you somehow clicked the most with Alastor. Nobody can explain it, you just did

Alastor can’t help but view you as an attached kitten, following him around, your off yet cute bamboo muzzle, light pink kimono and long haori covering your body well, light pink slit eyes. You’re so cute, like a child. He can’t help but view you as a child… a naive, easily manipulated little one

Alastor eventually ‘adopts’ you after pretending he doesn’t even acknowledge your presence around him for quite some time. He finds you way too perfect for his own purpose to just ignore your existence further so he goes from ignoring to openly addressing you

Alastor just drags you around when he needs you. He has a tab on you so he can teleport you from place to place with his voodoo magic. He nicknames you ‘Kitten’ so his voodoo entities know the target but he won’t ever explain how he managed to spread his magic onto you

Alastor isn’t the biggest fan of your bamboo muzzle since it’s restricting your ability to communicate so the only way he knows your answer is based on nonsense muffles and your gestures. At least, you’re naive enough for this to work

Alastor isn’t entirely sure what to call you. You’re not necessarily a younger sibling or a child figure to him but he also doesn’t feel comfortable with calling you a servant. You’re just some type of thing he favours and appreciates but also needs for his own selfish reasons

Alastor may pretend he doesn’t truly care for you but he does. He’ll put on your muzzle for you, he’ll crate a shade for you so you can walk in the sun of the Pride Ring without being burnt and he’ll give you a corner for you to sleep in. He does care… in his own way

Alastor also does express that he isn’t a fan of your style but is of your preferences. You’re from the Tashio Era, around his time on Earth so you view technology like him and it makes him feel more appreciative that you get him. You’re his best tool ally after all, he didn’t suspect anything else from you

Alastor is surprised by how sweet and compassionate you are to him, even him where everybody else kinda makes sense. He isn’t a nice man at all, he may believe he deserves a number of things but does he deserve kindness from people like you or Charlie? Not really. He doesn’t want it but once more, he doesn’t care much

Alastor is actually quite impressed and interested in how you’ve basically been brainwashed… through whatever, maybe some old guy, into believing he is your family so you defend him, just viewing your lost siblings through him. He finds it cute how you rely on kickboxing to fight or even argue, he finds you cute. Like a little fawn

Alastor believes you’re a powerful useful tool-ally to him. You keep his threats away, you serve him. It’s a give to and give back relationship you two share. You give him something, he gives you something back as to keep you under his thumb

But really… he’s grown to have a bit of a soft spot for you so he will tolerate giving you and your pretty blank pink eyes a bit more benefits than he would normally dare to

That shrinking power of yours is great at infiltrating Vees Tower and squeezing through hidden areas easier, and whilst Alastor does leave you to do those type of missions solo as a ‘favour’ in exchange for a ‘favour’ back, he likes you too much to let the Vees lay a hand on you so he swoops in when he needs to

Alastor has seen your Awakened Form before. The first time he’s ever been intimidated in his list, triggered during the Exterminator Battle for the Hazbin Hotel. You were kicking around angels viciously, setting them ablaze, almost targeting your own allies out of immense hunger, but Alastor had to restrain you to stop you from going too far and it… was amazing for all that he even stepped in, despite the danger you opposed in this state

Your strength and your healing fire touch makes you become a further valuable item to Alastor, more and more everyday, so it makes him protective and possessive over you. A demon with your power and capabilities must be under his servitude but also being treated like a pampered kitten by him and only him

Alastor legit gets so pissed if anybody dares to put you outside in the sunlight with no protection, even when they don’t mean to hurt you! It doesn’t matter to him!

“Oh. My darling little kitten, are you tired? Come. In this box, where you’ll be in my tower with me as I work. High up, away from the sun and from your belly rumbles. Does that sound good?”

[radioapplerevue]

See a lot of questions scattered about regarding "Why do people even ship Lucifer or Alastor? They hate each other/Lucifer's married/Alastor's ace etc etc etc." And while I doubt most people are asking in good faith, I figured I'd give my answer anyway! In part because these two in conjunction with each other fascinate me and I want to talk about it.

First off, you have Alastor, this character whose whole shtick is trying to convince everyone around him all the time that he's the most mysterious and most dangerous person around. And... he's not. We know he's not. Hell, he's not even in tier 3 of "dangerous people in Hell." But it's very important to him that he is perceived that way, and he goes to great lengths to manufacture and maintain that image.

Then you have Lucifer, who is the most dangerous person in Hell, power-wise, by far. But he doesn't seem to give a shit about that at all. His power means little to him, he didn't want the throne, he doesn't do anything with this position that Alastor would do everything to have. Lucifer is a deeply broken individual whose only concern is his family, and he's not intimidated by Alastor in any way, and never will be.

So he was pretty much tailor-made for Alastor to hate. This guy who has everything Alastor wants, but doesn't give a shit about having it, who he can't scare. Ever. The only way he can get under Lucifer's skin is by digging into his emotional sore spots, and boy howdy does Lucifer have a lot of those. And here's the fun thing! Or one of the fun things, anyway. Most people, even in Hell, would never dare to try and upset Lucifer. Upset the King of Hell? That's suicide, right?

But Alastor knows it's not, because he sees two things right off the bat: one, Lucifer wouldn't do anything to hurt Charlie, and hurting Alastor would do that -- and two, it's just not in Lucifer's nature to do so. Surprising for the King of Hell, but nonetheless true. Lucifer's a showy guy, but he's not a violent guy -- even against Adam, he only toyed with him until Adam made the mistake of going directly for Charlie a second time. Needless to say, it takes a lot to make Lucifer get violent, and it's unlikely to be anything that only targets himself.

And thus sets the stage for what is already a really fun and interesting dynamic, and one that can become even more so with time. Because these are two characters who treat each other in a way that nobody else can or will. Alastor can poke and prod and peel back Lucifer's scars and peer directly at his insecurities. Lucifer can give as good as he gets and challenge Alastor and there's nothing Alastor can do to scare him off. In short, they can make each other confront things that right now just aren't likely for other people.

I like to think eventually, once they get over the initial "how dare he, this isn't allowed, I hate everything about this" stage, they begin to actually... enjoy it. Enjoy the back and forth, enjoy hitting the ball to each other's court, enjoy having someone around who won't back down. And Lucifer is, at his core, sweet. How unsettling it must be for Alastor, to see this extremely powerful man who is also just. Good. How over ten millennia of pain haven't changed that, even as they crumbled his heart into little pieces.

I think Lucifer would fascinate Alastor. And I think Alastor, with all his idiosyncrasies, and his ballsy manner of never backing down from a challenge, would fascinate Lucifer too. And there are so, so many ways you could go from there. Darker ways, softer ways. But there's so much potential, and I am finding it an absolute blast to explore.

As for the ace thing, hello, hi! I'm aroace. And on the sex repulsed side, even! I shouldn't have to reveal this in order for people to get off my back, but hey, there you have it. Now please stop expecting people to volunteer their sexual orientations just so you can be sure they have the... what? Right? To ship things? I enjoy this ship in all flavors. A lot of people have been taking the time to explore asexuality in their fanworks with Alastor, and it's been a delight to see! But in the end, fandom is a sandbox, and I don't care how you are smashing your dolls together as long as you're having fun. And if seeing them in a particular configuration is uncomfortable for you, there's nothing wrong with that, either... just back out, and move on to things more pleasant.

And goodness, don't go after real actual people in defense of fictional ones.

[lost-in-fandoms]

maxiel horse ranch summer holidays where max is sent to the ranch because he can’t focus in school or something and hot ranch hand daniel tells him that he’ll never tame rb19… it just can’t be done… but max and rb19 have a BOND and max goes into rb19’s paddock with daniel running after him but gently touches rb19’s nose and there are sparks and then they win the county fair. daniel kisses max and puts the wreathe over his head. mostly joking but also somehow not?

disclaimer: i never was a horse girl, I don't know much about horse behavior, so I'm just winging this

inspired by this post

Max slides into the stables, looking over his shoulder to make sure Daniel hasn't spotted him. He knows, technically, that he is allowed in here, but he also knows that the one horse he wants to see is the one Daniel told him to stay away from.

Rb19 looks up when Max approaches, stomping a little, tail swishing from side to side nervously. His coat is beautiful, black and shiny, only a white spot around his nostrils.

"Rb19 is such a stupid name," Max says, walking even closer. If he raised his hand right now he could touch him. "They are all so stupid, especially Daniel," he adds after a second.

The horse is looking intently at him, ears slightly pulled back, but he snorts at Max's words.

"Yeah, I know you of course would agree." He takes another miniscule step forward. If Rb19 was to lash out now and try to bite him, he would probably manage to get Max's face.

The horse doesn't look keen to kill Max though, not yet. He's still visibly nervous, but not aggressive.

"They don't know anything," Max says, thinking about Daniel telling him he wasn't ready to take care of the horses alone yet, as if Max was incompetent, or a child. He knows what he can do, he knows he is probably even better than Daniel himself.

Slowly, he raises a hand, holding it in front of Rb19's nose, not pulling it back when he snorts again.

Distantly, he can hear Daniel calling his name. All his attention is focused on the horse though, on the way he can see his nostrils flaring, his ears shifting, his tail cutting through the air, now with a little less power than before.

"You are not what they say, I know it," Max whispers, inching his hand forward. Rb19 doesn't move away. His fingers land on the side of his head, then slowly soothe down his neck.

"Max!" Rb19 flinches at the sound of Daniel's voice at the entrance of the stables, but Max doesn't move, pushing his hand back into his mane and patting him firmly. "What the fuck do you think you're..."

Daniel doesn't finish his sentence. Max can feel his eyes on him, and he almost feels like smiling, happiness and smugness mixing in a bubbly cocktail in his stomach.

"You are such a beautiful boy," he says instead, not ever looking away from the horse, "so well behaved."

"Max..." Daniel is whispering now too, but he doesn't step closer. Max knows, because Daniel told him, that he had never even managed to touch Rb19 without having to restrain him. And yet Max is here, petting him.

"They gave you such a stupid name," he repeats, slightly louder, bringing up his other hand too to scratch along his jaw, up to his ear. "Why 19? Nobody has ever been like you."

The horse seems to agree, lowering his head a little, moving closer to Max. His heart is beating so fast in his chest he's afraid even Daniel will hear it. He's never felt this kind of connection to a horse before. He knows they are destined to be together.

"Good boy," he murmurs.

He wants to unlatch the door, get closer, saddle him and ride away, show everyone how they are meant for each other, but he doesn't want to overwhelm him too soon. He contents himself with more pats. Daniel's eyes are still heavy on him.

"Good boy, Rocky, good boy," he repeats. The horse blinks at him, shaking his beautiful head for a moment before settling back. Max smiles. Yes, they'll be great together.

[nina-renmen]

Just wanted to pop in and say that I love your writing ✨ it makes my day when you post!

Also whenever you have time and the motivation, would it be okay to have another part to the polar bear reader?

Thank you! Hopefully I’ll be able to keep making these stories!

Part 1

Warnings: Minimum nsfw themes and a bit of fluff, I kinda rushed this so please let me know if there are any mistakes. Constructive criticism is welcomed

Price wasn’t sneaky. At least with you he wasn’t. Your monster form was more adapted to the wild than his. You were younger, faster. Even though he was undoubtedly stronger than you he wouldn’t be able to use it if you could always outrun him. Your jaws were more powerful than his and yet you surrounded yourself with him.

Sometimes the older male wondered why. If he were you he wouldn’t even spare himself a glance. He’d try to find someone stronger than himself.

“Stop thinking so hard about it.” Y/n’s voice snapped Price out of his thoughts. She laid on the snowy ground, chewing on a bloodied bone from a human she’d hunted.

“Hard not to when spring is coming around.” Price said in a gruff voice. That’s right, mating season was coming quickly. The more he looked at you the more he found himself looking at your hips. Thinking about the way they’d hold his cubs nicely. He wondered if you’re stomach would show or if you’re body would keep his children hidden.

When y/n stood up that snapped him out of his thoughts once more. A growl ripped from her throat causing the male to stand up as well. His muscles tense until he spotted one of his men.

“He’s friendly.” Price put his hand on y/n’s shoulder.

“Looks like you found yourself a new pet Captin. Isn’t this the one that slashed Gaz’s face?” His voice was gruff, almost like Price’s.

“Gaz got his punishment for provoking her. End of discussion Ghost.” Price argued, standing in front of you.

“First soap now you….great.” The unknown man said sarcastically.

“What do you mean by that?” Price questioned, getting more defensive over you. “Nothing! He means nothing.” Another male voice pipped up. It was the man that gave you back your food. Price turned around, looking at soap suspiciously. “What do you two have going on?”

“Spring is coming up.” Ghost said.

“And? You don’t necessarily have a mating season.” Price retorted. Folding his arms over his chest. “But Soap does. I owe him one for saving my ass the other night.”

Price pulled you behind him. “Nobody’s touching her.”

“Oh com’on Captin.” Soap interjected, taking a step toward you. His hands reaching out, letting y/n lean into the warmth of his hands. “You see the way her legs clench whenever she’s around you or me. It’s obvious the little thing-“

“You back the fuck off.” Price grabbed your arm, pulling you away from him. “She’s mine-“

“I’m not anyones!” Y/n exclaimed, tearing herself away from Price’s grasp. “You all need to leave…go back where you came from. Obviously the cold isn’t good for any of you.” Y/n spoke in an urgent voice.

“Y/n wait I didn’t mean-“ Price trailed off seeing your back turn towards him. Leaving the premises.

It wasn’t like team 141 could just get up and go. They were to be stationed there for quite some time. You were going to run into them again. It was inevitable. It snowed one last time just before spring would come by. Y/n was in the cold attic waters, a fish in between her locked jaws as she made her way back to her den. The sound of twigs snapping caught her attention. Turning around quickly the person behind her put their hands up in surrender.

It was that damn bird hybrid.

Y/n narrowed her eyes at Gaz. Her distrustful gaze locked onto him. “I-I’m friendly.” He stuttered. “What do you want?” Y/n muttered as she began walking away, giving Gaz the choice to follow her. To which he did.

“To apologize.” He spoke up above the snow that was slowly growing heavier. “I thought you were a panda or-“

“I get it.” Y/n grumbled as she walked towards her den. “So….you’re not mad?” Gaz asked. Crouching down by your den but not going inside. “I’m not one to hold grudges.” Y/n said as she curled up in her den. The snow had picked up. The winds growing harsher. Y/n looked over at Gaz sensing his unease with that harsh weather. The poor bird didn’t even have any feathers to keep him warm. “Come on…you can lay with me until the storm moves out.” Y/n said, switching into her monster form, moving to her right in other to give the harpy some space.

The man was hesitant. Rightfully so. But nevertheless he entered the den. Sitting a safe distance away from y/n. But as the minutes passed by the den soon began getting cold. And within an hour the two were practically snowed in.

The bear hybrid woke up. She looked over seeing Gaz huddled in a corner. Trying to collect as much warmth as possible. “Are you just going to freeze to death or are you going to come over here?” Y/n asked, motioning the male to come closer to which he did.

His cold body coming in contact with y/n’s warmth. She was like a warm blanket to him. Within minutes Gaz was asleep, his soft snores filling up the den. Lulling y/n to sleep as well.

“Captin…have you seen Gaz?” Soap questioned. “I’ve been looking for the lad everywhere but I can’t find him.” Price only shrugged his shoulders. To which Ghost spoke up. “He left for the forest by the creek.”

Soap glanced worriedly at the Lieutenant. “Isn’t that where y/n lives?” He asked. “Shit…..you’re right.” Price stood up. Grabbing his jacket. “You just let him go?!” Soap exclaimed turning towards Ghost to which he only shrugged. “I’m not his father.”

Johnny scoffed. Following his captain out the building. Who knows what could be happening as of now. You could be mawing the harpy’s face off now. And with the spring rolling by who knows how out of wack your emotions could be.

He just hopped he wasn’t too late.

[chaoticbardlady99]

Nobody’s Fool Part 2 (Astarion x GN! Reader)

Synopsis: Astarion surprises you at the dock and an impromptu sleepover occurs. You and Astarion talk about why you worship Selune and your history.

Content warning: Deceased parents, work camp, Dead dove, mentions of attempted SA

Author note: thank you so much for all the love! This will probably have a few more parts so I hope you enjoy! Also I am writing him as super awkward on purpose

Not my pic- if it is your, please let me know so I can tag you! @casualya

 You sit and skip rocks across the murky water- the rest of your companions are in their respective spots inside the dilapidated buildings. You usually spend time with Karlach, but, for whatever reason, Shadowheart seems to enjoy taking whatever company you have. Thankfully Karlach is actually your best friend and loves you, but it still hurts. 

 You know you could ask the others- you are sure one of them would want to spend time with you. Hells, Gale even commented on the Beach being a fun place and you didn’t think to invite him. Maybe it’s because the last time went so catastrophically that you don’t want to put yourself in that position again.

 Or because it would never be the date you had envisioned with Astarion. You had your blanket packed up next to your tent with a bottle of wine- you had a pouch to collect shells. You thought it might be fun for him to have something from a different place and shells are always so fun to find- at least from what you remember before the Mine. Your parents used to take you all the time and you would collect seashells together. 

 It’s the last time you truly, truly felt loved outside of praying to your Goddess. You don’t feel like you fit in with the other Selunite Clerics, you try your best, but there is always someone more desirable, more interesting, and you are just eh.

 There is always a Shadowheart that stands out in the crowd- deservedly so- she is a rare gem. You are just like any other gem Astarion has seen over the last two hundred years. 

 Sure people liked you, but it was never the people you liked. It was always the ones who were overbearing, hell bent on settling down and having a housewife. That isn’t what you want, but the men who want adventure and to be best friends, lovers, etc. want the more exciting individuals 

  The tears fall without your permission and you release a sigh of despair. You let your shoulders shake and your heart ache- it is better to release the pain in your chest than power through it. It will be better to get it out now while no one is around and you don’t have to be so wildly embarrassed about being emotional. 

 It’s not that you are still hung up on Astarion- you actually find it’s easier to keep boundaries if you don’t talk to him for tooo long. Just long enough to not make him feel left out, but not too long that he feels like he is special to you. 

 Of course, it hurts you to do that. You feel like he deserves to be special to someone- it just wasn’t meant to be you and you need to hold onto all of that specialness for the person you are meant to be with. 

 But what if you don’t want to be with anyone else ever again? This is your first big big crush, ever! What if you are never capable of developing feelings like this again!?

 You skip another rock pitifully across the water and watch as a fish jumps out to get it- only to be eaten by a bigger fish right after. 

 Typical, you sigh, my rock was given to someone just for someone else to receive the benefits. 

 It’s probably a good thing you are by yourself- you are quite the bummer today.

 “There you are- I have been looking for you just about everywhere, Darling,” a familiar voice says from behind you. 

 Oh great, you think, trying to collect yourself enough that it’s not obvious you are crying, he probably wants advice on how to make things right with Shadowheart. He never comes over and this is the first night Karlach is-

“I bought this for you,” he says awkwardly as he sits down next to you on the dock, “I thought it might help while uh fighting- so you don’t have to use up all of your magic like you did the other day.”

 You had felt like shit and slept through a whole day- you had overextended yourself with healing the day before and it had really taken a toll on you. You began feeling better today, but Shadowheart still took over the healing matters which you appreciated. 

 You look at Astarion’s hands and you are shocked to see an Amulet of Restoration. You have always wanted one, but they are ridiculously expensive. You had been eyeing this one while you were visiting the Myconoid Colony- you didn’t think anyone noticed. 

“I- I don’t know what to say.”

“I think the typical response is, ‘Thank you’, but I would like to request a very kind adjective at the end.”

 Astarion wiggles his eyebrows at you and you snort, shaking your head. 

“Thank you, beautiful,” you tease and notice how his face becomes slightly more lively and the tips of his ears grow pink.

 How silly- he probably gets that descriptor all the time. 

 You put the necklace on, it’s warm against your skin and it helps to heal the cracks in your chest. A sigh of relief leaves you as the weight of the world seems to lift ever so slightly. 

 You both sit there in silence- you are unable to come up with any topics of conversation. Your brain just feels icky and tired. You also wouldn’t even know what to say anymore. You haven’t really talked in a while- a whole week to be exact. Time seems to move differently on this journey- a week feels like months. 

You mostly expect him to get up and leave, but he never does.

“So- uh- the water is… dark.” 

 You don’t know what surprises you more- that Astarion attempted to start a conversation first or that his small talk is truly truly terrible.

 Either way, you may need to use this necklace sooner rather than later so you don’t die of shock.

“It’s exceptionally dark,” you add, “I bet there are all kinds of beasties down there.” 

Astarion’s feet get a little further away from the edge of the dock and he chuckles nervously. The water is quite unsettling and you hope you didn’t scare him too much. You don’t think you are ready for him to leave yet. 

“Oh, you think so? Like what?” 

 This is… odd. He wants to keep talking? You feel like you are usually dragging the conversation along and now that you have had time to thoroughly analyze all of your previous interactions- you still don’t know how you had been so blind.

 This is not within the norm.

“Well- I heard,” you look left and right before making eye contact again, “a Kraken may live down there.”

 Astarion groans and you laugh heartily- Gale has been talking about Kraken’s all day and Astarion had looked so annoyed by the end of the journey to the Decrepit Village that everyone steered clear of him. No one wanted a piercing insult on their psyche that evening.

“Not you too!”

“Did you know-“

“Please- no!” He says in exasperation, “any more fun Kraken facts and I may let myself become one’s meal.”

 You shake your head and play with your hands- trying to find some way to keep the conversation going. It’s pathetic, but you don’t want to stop talking to him. That tiny piece of hope doesn’t want to. 

“What do you think it’s blood tastes like?” You ask, “the Kraken, I mean.”

 You don’t necessarily know why that particular thought seems to interest you, but you look at the water and think. You don’t look at his face, mostly worried you might have offended him by even asking. Is that something you can ask a Vampire?

“Would it be more mammal or fish-like?”

 Astarion looks equally as curious regarding this line of thought.

“Well, I tried a fish when we were near the Grove- it was atrocious, truly,” Astarion shudders, “I can’t imagine a Kraken is going to taste that much better.” 

 “Fish really tastes that bad?”

 Astarion nods with a scowl, “it’s not nearly as bad as the bugs and rats Cazador fed me, but I still have no desire to indulge in that again.”

 You blink a few times, unsure if you heard him right.

 “Rats and bugs?” You ask, “I thought you always fed off of people.”

 Astarion throws his head back with a cynical laugh.

“That was a good one, Darling.”

 “I wasn’t joking.”

  Astarion looks perplexed and then seems to be immediately flooded with shame- beginning to get back up and make his leave.

“On that note-”

“Wait,” you get up quickly, “we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, okay? But there is no judgment from me- ever. I promise.”

 You both stand there, staring at each other, and he is searching your eyes for any sign of deception. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until he sat back down. 

 You aren’t sure how close you should sit next to him, so you give yourself and him a relatively decent-friend sized gap. 

 You can still be his friend- that you can do.

“Cazador would have me bring the prettiest souls in all of Baldur’s Gate,” he scowls, “he would ask me if I wanted to dine with him and if I said no, he would flay me. If I said yes, he would sooo ‘generously’ give me a putrid, dead, rotting rat.

“You are the first thinking creature I have…”

  You aren’t really sure what you are supposed to say in this situation. You have never been a Vampire Spawn before and you certainly haven’t had to drink putrid blood. Rotten food and such, sure, but you have a feeling expressing empathy and your own experience would not be perceived well. 

“I am really sorry you had to do that.” 

“It doesn’t matter- I will never have to do that again.”

“True.”

 You both sit there quietly and just enjoy the silence- the sound of gentle waves flowing through the air is soothing and it’s calming. You enjoy his company- immensely. You will let yourself soak into it for a moment.

“I made a mistake,” Astarion breaks the silence, “going with Shadowheart the night of the party.”

 You are frozen and entirely unsure of how to respond to that. Does he mean he should have accepted your offer or does he just want to talk about it?

“Oh- I’m sorry it wasn’t enjoyable for you.”

  He stares down into the murky water and doesn’t say a word. The silence is heavy between both of you and you don’t want to ask the question that is weighing heavily on your mind because you honestly don’t think you want to know the answer. 

 It was probably just that the sex was bad or they didn’t end up having as much chemistry as they thought.

 “He said your name in the middle of the act itself!”

  You feel the tips of your ears heat up and your heart begins to hammer in your chest when Karlach’s words resurface.

 No- it was probably an accident.

 “When you asked me to walk on the beach that night,” he whispers, “what were your intentions?”

 You feel like a stone has dropped on your chest again with his words and you really have no desire to answer them, but you probably should.

“My intentions,” you say meekly, “were to take you on a date. Don’t worry- it won’t happen again.”

“You,” he sounds stunned, “you didn’t invite me to go to the beach with you for sex?”

  You hadn’t even thought about sex if you are being entirely honest. You have never been intimate with anyone before- some stupid chastity thing you had felt was important as a youth and now you are picky.

“Oh- no that was very far from my mind,” you say sheepishly, “I had other activities in mind, sex was not one of them.” 

“Like what?”

 You feel embarrassment course through your veins- you really shouldn’t be talking about this with him. Maybe they are all in on this big joke and when you share what you were going to do, they will all laugh around the campfire. 

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” you say with a pinched smile, meeting his unreadable expression, “come on- we should head back to camp.”

 You don’t catch the frown on his face as you get up to walk away. 

    *************************************************

  You are going cross eyed as you try to read and continue to zone out.

 Why did Astarion ask you so much about your date plans three days ago? Why has he been unusually atune to your recent needs? Why does he consistently keep your favorite alcohol on hand lately? 

 A lot has changed within a few days. You still spend an exceptional amount of time with Karlach, but Astarion has begun finding times to get your undivided attention too. It is as if he is helping Shadowheart with developing her relationship with Karlach.

Maybe he feels guilty for things not working out between them and is “taking one for the team”. It is likely that- there really isn’t any other reason for him to be spending time with you and you refuse to believe he has just suddenly developed feelings for you.

Have more bizarre things happened in your life? Certainly- there is even a tadpole in your head to prove it. Astarion having feelings for you is never going to be one of those bizarre things and you would be a fool to suddenly have hope now- even with the Amulet of Restoration warming your skin. 

 KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

 You are jolted from your thoughts when an incessant knocking pulls you back to reality. You blink a couple times and rub your eyes- yawning while telling the other individual to come in. You are hoping it is Karlach- she had been spending time with Shadowheart and she seems to be quite smitten. It is not Shadowheart’s fault that she is beautiful and wonderful nor was it her fault that Astarion was more attracted to her- you just want Shadowheart to be happy.

“You sound awfully tired, Darling,” stunning ruby eyes are peering at you from the shadows of your tent, “I can leave you be for the night if you would prefer.”

 It would probably be for the best, but the ghost of tears on his cheeks makes you think otherwise. He needs someone right now and in spite of your efforts, you still adore him. There is a book in his slightly shaking hand.

“Oh, no! That’s alright- you are welcome to sit and stay here as long as you need.”

 He smiles softly- something you have never seen before- and he sits down next to you. Both of your knees touch as you get back to your book and he begins to read his own. You are struggling to read your page even more now. 

  His cologne consumes you inside of your tent and you feels like you could begin to cry- you want to cuddle into him. You want to melt into his arms and know what it means to fall in love, be in love, and be loved in return. However, he does not want you. He needs you and that is wildly different than wanting.

“What are you reading?”

  Your mind goes blank all of a sudden.

 What are you reading?

 You turn the book over in your hand to look at its cover- how are you going to explain not knowing the cover of your own book?

“Shar’s Teachings of Loss.”

Astarion looks bewildered by your choice of literature and you snort with a roll of your eyes.

“Shadowheart gave it to me and I told her I would give it a try.”

“Why?”

“Because it can help me understand her better,” you say with a shrug, “and maybe I can help her see that there is more to life than darkness and suffering.”

 The silence in the air is thick and unsettling- not in a dangerous way, but as if you opened a Pandora’s box for Astarion.

“Why do you care?” His voice sounds sharp and judgmental, “she would rather slit her own throat than bother to read Selune’s doctrine.”

 You sit and think for a moment- why do you care?

“I guess I realized that Shadowheart fell into Shar’s lap because she was a victim of circumstance,” you say slowly, “and I suppose if I had been in her shoes- I would have fallen into Shar’s Doctrine as well. I was just lucky enough to be found by Selune first.” 

 The silence continues and you try to go back to reading your book, but it’s no use. Your brain is entirely distracted by his presence in your atmosphere.

“Why did you begin worshipping Selune?”

 You hate to admit how giddy you feel that he is asking you questions about yourself. You are so used to being the one to keep conversations going between both of you that you honestly are still surprised when he makes an effort instead. 

“My parents had died in the mine we were being forced to live in by some Ravengers,” your voice is barely a whisper, “they became really sick and then they were just gone.

“I ended up getting sick a few weeks later. I was hallucinating and I was in so much pain. I knew I was dying and I was… I was okay with that. I wanted to be free and with my parents again.

“But then a girl who was only a little older than me began taking care of me and praying to Selune every night that I would live. 

“A week later, when I was on my deathbed, Paladins and Clerics of Selune freed us from the mine and I lived.”

“And you have worshipped Selune ever since?”

“Gods no,” you laugh, “when I turned 22, I left the church and I was very angry. I couldn’t understand why I lived and my parents didn’t. I couldn’t understand why we had ever been put in that mine in the first place when Selune had been capable of saving us. I joined a local thieves and assassins guild in Althkalta for about five years. 

“I was laying in bed one night with the leader of the guild- he had drugged me and… well I remember looking up and seeing the moon. Right as he was about to, uh, enter me?” You chuckle nervously, “he was burned alive by the moon. I had abandoned her, but she never abandoned me. I realized I had become someone I wasn’t.  I left and returned to the church after that. I have been there ever since.” 

“Darling,” Astarion gasps, “you have been holding out on me. I can’t even begin to imagine the amount of luxuries we could have stolen together by now.”

You smile awkwardly, “Oh I am not sure about that- I was quite miserable doing that, unfortunately. I am a bit lame.”

“Well- if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.”

 It’s back to being entirely silent and it remains that way long enough for you to finally finish three pages of the book. 

This is so depressing- the book. No wonder Shadowheart is so guarded and paranoid 80 percent of the time. You would be too if you were brought up to believe this nonsense.

“I can’t see you being a very good thief or assassin,” Astarion says awkwardly, “for what it’s worth.”

 You blink a couple times and look at him for a moment. You begin to laugh like a mad man- his expression is so serious and he certainly isn’t wrong. You were terrible at it and you still aren’t sure how you are going to bring back Nere’s head. 

“You would be correct! I was horrendous! Most of my targets remained alive- some I even warned beforehand because I didn’t feel like the contract was fair.”

 Astarion snorts, “what do you mean fair? I don’t think any part of that work revolves around being ‘fair’.” 

“It most certainly does not,” you sigh, “one time a guy tricked me into thinking he was a good person and then he went on to kill eight people. You could probably imagine how great that felt.”

 Much to your surprise, Astarion continues to ask you about your misadventures- both as a cleric and as a horrible excuse for a rogue. It leads the way for some of his own stories to bleed in- snatching a beautiful necklace from someone for Gold so he can buy the nicer wine one night and other shenanigans like that. 

 You tell him that you are rather terrified to have to decapitate Nere and it isn’t something you really want to do. Astarion offers to do it for you so that you can A. Not embarrass yourself and B. Not have to do something you really do not want to do. You would be remiss if you said it didn’t make your heart beat with joy. It is very white knightish of him and you are still a person who adores a good fairytale at the end of the day.

 At some point you fell asleep, but you barely remember telling Astarion he doesn’t have to go. However, waking up with his arms wrapped around you and his habitual breath fanning across your face is not a bad way to start your day. 

 His body is cool against yours, a welcome change in this excruciatingly warm environment. Your entire tent smells like him and you silently pray that it will remain this way. You honestly aren’t sure how you will feel when you walk into it later today and his cologne is gone. 

 And what if he regrets staying? What if he regrets cuddling with you or he felt like he had to? You really don’t want to regress in your friendship and go back to square one. He has been much kinder and agreeable lately. Astarion has really begun taking his mask off and you aren’t ready to see it go back on. 

“Stop overthinking, Darling” a grumble from near your ear makes you jolt ever so slightly, “your body is so tense I can practically hear your thoughts.” 

“I-sorry.”

 Astarion hums before asking, “unless you are tense because you want me to stop touching you- then you can say something, obviously.”

“That’s not it,” you say much faster than you wanted to, “this is… nice.”

 A pleased hum comes from your companion’s lips and you feel him begin to relax against you again. Your heartbeat eventually calms along with your thoughts and you allow yourself to indulge for however much longer he will allow you to. 

 It’s possible that he does have feelings for you- this is something you have refused to entertain up until now, but Astarion’s love languages would be buying something at full price, decapitating someone, and cuddling you. He doesn’t like to be touched, doing things for others, or paying for something when he can just as easily steal it. 

 He could also be afraid and feel like he needs to be close with someone for safety. That is a feeling you understand all too well with your own history. You suppose that is why you are struggling to believe that this is truly happening in the first place. 

 You know actions speak louder than words and his actions are telling the story of a scared individual who is fighting for his freedom. 

 Maybe Selune has answered his prayers- you can be here for his comfort and as his friend because that is what he needs from this journey. It’s why you met each other. One day you may have to watch him fall in love and you will also find someone else in spite of the pain, but that’s okay. 

  That’s what friends are for.

Tag list: @preciouslittlebhaalbae @xxgrimripp3rxx @alice4wonderland2812 @therobishow @m1ster1e @tragicdruid @katsutoria @aristenfromwarsaw @avabjorna36 @frankie-mercury

[yourlocalsaiko]

I have more Victoria Neuman Observations.

Okay so 1st i wanna talk about her Bisexuality. I believe Victoria is bisexual with her preference for submissive nerdy men being strong, it’s stereotypical Bi behavior. I attached to this because of her relationship with Hughie and her relationship with Samir which i will touch on now.

Victoria is a secret nerd we established this through her war-games comment. Her platonic or potentially romantic relationship with Hughie was cute it was whatever (i dont personally ship it) but pivoting to Samir. We learn alot in Season 4 episode 5 just from the dialogue exchanged between Edgar and Victoria. Specifically when Edgar is still at least slightly mad at Samir for “deflowering” Victoria. Victoria then responds by saying she was thoroughly deflowered at 20.

Going off what i said in my last post once again A: Vic was a Hoe. Cool great more power too her. B: Edgar had never caught her until she ended up pregnant with Zoe. and C: She most definitely seduced Samir and based off Edgar’s relationship and interactions with Vic i could and would go onto say she probably did that to get under Edgar’s skin.

Edgar has a soft spot for Victoria and thats seen when The Boys mention Victoria’s betrayal of him with him saying something along the lines of “And i taught her exactly how to do it” which to me indicates he is at least a little proud of her. I think Edgar has a soft spot for Vic. Its not an obvious one at all but he has a fuzzy area where Victoria is concerned and that would explain why he immediately jumped to blaming Samir and maybe not noticing and/or believing any of the other sexual encounters shes had in the past. With him only truly rationalizing it when she ends up pregnant and then he immediately blames Samir who you can see has little to no back bone.

Moving on i wanna talk more about Victoria and the Female Gaze. I love Victoria on the boys because she is the hardest to straight up sexualize. Like they mentioned how she gained fame from a dancing video (i think they dancing like an Egyptian? Which i hate for racial reasons) and thats when i realized….i couldn’t imagine Victoria dancing, or more so how she would dance. I never had a good enough grasp on her body type because of the outfits she wears. I had to look at the actress herself which led me to realize. Victoria is LEAN like very lean muscle. Its very subtle which i think could explain her durability and she could possibly be a decent bit stronger than we think. And its in her arms even in the blue dress we see briefly you can see how lean she is. But shes still healthy she isnt quite skinny. Like she could quite possibly have subtle abs.

And thats what leads me here. the subtle masculinity of Victoria and the quote “Gay accent”. The way Victoria presents herself she crosses her legs and she sways slightly and wears heels yes but she spreads her arms when she sits in certain/most scenes. She takes up space and kinda “hugs” the back of a chair in one scene. Also her voice, did you know there is actually a lesbian accent? Its a lower inflection its more masculine and thats why most people don’t notice the “lesbian accent” but thats my thing with Victoria her voice is almost always pitched down. Even when she’s excited its enthusiastic and but always stays in her lower range. And unironically that could be another reason why she’s able to sway or gain so many voters as she acts more subtly masculine. Nobody can call her emotional but shes still charismatic. She’s stern but she still smiles. Its really good if you think campaign sway.

And yea thats it so far these are my observations of Victoria Neuman. I wanna do one of Cate Dunlap next but that might be a little bit i gotta analyze Gen V a bit more.

[luimagines]

Hear me out...

Reader who knows about the "someone will die" from the Sheikah Slate.

Reader who ran the numbers, and realized Legend and Warriors were the only ones who had nothing left to guarantee, or even hint that they survived, unlike Time, who has to have Twilight, Wild who has TotK, Sky and Wind who both have to found Hyrule.

Reader who also knows about the grey area, the ones that should survive this journey, but only based on flimsy evidence or who will meet a terrible fate soon enough. Hyrule, and only his game guide stating he is destined to become a great king, Four and the Palace of the Four Sword.

Whether they know this through playing the games, reading the comic and being isekaied, or having some sort of gift of prophecy, they know about this.

And they're determined not to let it happen.

If the heroes die, game over. Reader isn't the protagonist. They're a sidekick with all the death flags raised.

A Reader who is determined to take the place of whoever will die on this journey, because they can't let it be any of the boys. The world is better off if it's them, and not the boys, right?

And if they were isekaied as a human, a Chain of Links blaming themselves. For not seeing the courage hidden in a human. For not having the wisdom to see beyond the surface. For not having the power to stop this. For allowing their prejudices to get in the way of seeing the signs.

And on top of that, a Reader who plays into the prejudices. Who acts like a "big, scary, greedy, traitorous human", because maybe they can soften the blow of grief if they make themselves somebody nobody would grieve over. Reader whose words will conflict with their actions, saying "I don't like kids", then raging at a monster for going near one. Maybe Reader wasn't even ready to die. They're still scared to the end, but so determined. They still have family back home, they still had plans for the future. But, they're probably assumed dead anyway. What does changing a false into a truth even do? They notice these thoughts, and go through sleepiness nights so their brain won't even have the energy to think them...

Anyway, remember to get 8 hours of sleep and drink some water as well, dehydration is bad for you.

I've actually thought of that idea before of a character with the "nothing to lose if I die" attitude because if the the Hero dies, it's game over.

However, I think that Link (any of them would do) would be able to see through their act because they're perceptive power combined would be too high for Reader to hide all their intentions and lies.

And I had to say one thing, I think Reader would still pay attention with Time as well. Because it's heavily implied that he died young and we know that he died with regrets. The fact that Twilight exists isn't necessarily enough to stop that. In fact, it might be the very thing that could cause it.

Meaning, Reader has to do double the effort to not only keep the Old Man alive, but to also focus on any of the other boy's blind spots as well.