#tagging this is like hitting a hornets nest but...

[vault--of--amber]

Hello fandom artist. In front of you is a male character, who presents himself in a somewhat flamboyant and excitable manner and actively flirts with many characters of different genders. You have an infinite amount of time to draw this character without making him a hazbin hotel style twink. If you fail every single surface in your house will be plastered over with thousands of copies of Hot Yaoi Base, the eye colour of the smaller man adjusted accordingly to the character in question. You may begin.

[ryebreadedd]

Some of you guys act like you have to fulfill a yaoi quota every time you engage with something

[geneticdriftwood]

i’m having thoughts about batman vs green arrow, and how the central characters shape the stories their supporting casts are allowed

like, in batman comics, bruce’s story is about being permanently shaped by a grief he can never move on from (his parent’s deaths, and later jason’s death). the premise of batman, bruce’s unyielding dedication to his mission, requires that bruce always be living in the shadow of his formative trauma, always responding to it. structurally, he can never be allowed to heal (because a happy bruce wayne isn’t batman), which means he can’t really grow. his supporting cast can develop and grow in their own right, but they can’t leave (bc they’re batman characters), so they stay stuck in the same unhealthy dynamics with bruce. this creates a narrative paradigm where positive change rarely sticks, cycles aren’t broken, and the easiest story to tell is a tragedy. bruce isn’t allowed a happy ending, so nobody who loves him gets one either.

now compare this with green arrow, where ollie’s stories are so often about having the humility, courage, and determination to take accountability for your mistakes and change for the better. transformative change is his whole deal! it’s the point of the island! and his relationships with his supporting cast reflect this. ollie messes up, he learns from it, and his relationships with other characters develop and improve accordingly. the point of the story is that ollie changes, making change possible for everyone. and so green arrow books present a paradigm where characters are allowed to grow in ways that stick, where harm can be learned from instead of brushed aside, and where happy endings aren’t guaranteed but do largely feel possible. yk?

[youhavethewrong]

do you guys remember when Attack On Titan had a fucking Looney Tunes Babies style spin off where all the characters were in junior high and the titans were just bullies and eren was mad at them because they ate his hamburg steak and it was legitimately better than the original

[defira85]

"so glad that trans Falin headcanons are normalising fat trans representation!" besties I'm gonna be real with you, that is not a fat body. That is not fat representation. I love Falin but please, I'm begging you, for the love of god

[giantchasm]

Kirbtober Day 2, fashionably late: revenge!

I told ya’ll this one would go hard. Or at least I hope it does. There are still some things I’m unhappy with, but if I work on this a second longer I’m going to gnaw my own arm off.

I knew from the moment I saw this prompt I wanted to do something fun with it. You see, there’s an… interesting dynamic amongst a group of people in my personal Kirbyverse.

Like many people, I interpret DMK as having had some part in Sectonia’s corruption . I simply think it makes him a more interesting person and actually ties him to the story of modern Kirby. He did not orchestrate the corruption, but helped Dark Mind carry it out: a subservient underling to an evil master he’s too loyal to to betray.

But unlike some people, I interpret Taranza as… uh, also not having been the best person during Sectonia’s reign. Of his own volition, he served her willingly, helping her rule the county with an iron fist, solely because he was a loyal servant to her. He didn’t care who he hurt. She came first.

…Which… uh- makes him not much better than Dark Meta Knight? He hurt just as many people as the mirror worlder he loathes, if not more.

Enter Persephone: a character I made to showcase some of the hurt he and Sectonia caused. A devoted servant to the wasp Sectonia possessed, Persephone also lost a partner and best friend… except at Taranza and Sectonia’s hands. Needless to say, she’s a little bit… uh, mad about this, and actually makes an attempt on Taranza’s life several times after Sectonia is overthrown.

…Something Taranza can’t entirely fault her for. How could he?

So- yeah! That’s what this piece is about. It’s about the cycle of hurt between Dark Meta Knight and Dark Mind, Taranza and Sectonia, and Persephone and her lady— leading to a lot of attempts at “revenge” and very little actually finding closure.

(I’d best make my Day 3 drawing simple, otherwise I’m going to keel over dead.)

[thatswhatsushesaid]

i think most of my wwx opinions are unpopular outside of my little patch in this fandom, but i genuinely do believe that post-canon wwx and jc are just better off being out of each other’s lives as much as possible, crossing paths only out of necessity for jin ling.

sometimes when the wounds cut deeply enough, even if none of those wounds were inflicted intentionally or maliciously, it doesn’t matter how much you loved your family member, how much you sacrificed for them, or how much they sacrificed for you. your presence in each other’s lives just aggravates those injuries and prevents them from healing, and maybe the kindest thing you can do for each other is to just leave each other alone.

[holydramon]

I will say I really hope if anyone gets eebie deebied into legends-za it’s not emmet because I literally could not care less about the sub.mas brothers

[elvesofnoldor]

.

[starfruit-baby]

if i had a nickel for every time a piece of media pit a woman of color to either be shipped with a white woman or a man of color where it gathers fandom hatred towards the man of color in the name of "heterophobia" id have two nickles, which isnt much but its weird that it's happened twice

[lipglossanon]

Gloom

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Serial Killer!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader <one shot>

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, troubled reader, violent/dark thoughts, flirting, Leon abusing his bartender privileges 😆, for once no smut!

not proofread; this has been languishing in my drafts and I’m tired of looking at it—don’t know if I’ll add to it or not

title from Gloom by Djo

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Clawing anger stirs in your chest, pricking you like the briar bushes outside your granny’s house. It feels like you’ve tumbled face first into the thorny tendrils, pointed tips digging into your skin, blood dripping like sweat across your skin. Shaking off the phantom sensations, you peer back out across the dance floor. 

You smile, pretending to be happy, mask firmly in place. Good people grin and bear it, don’tcha know? Eyes landing on the table full of people you’d rather never see again, almost without conscious thought, makes your skin itch. The feeling of unfairness fizzes in your blood like carbon bubbles. You hate them. Hate these feelings all stirred up like a kicked hornets nest. 

You hope they get hit by a truck, shanked in an alley, acid thrown in their eyes. It’s hateful and spiteful but you can’t stop the thoughts once they start. Maybe they’ll fall down the stairs and break their leg, bleed out a slow death all alone. Or pushed off the roof of a building, not so tall they have a heart attack before splattering across the cement. Maybe they’ll trip holding a pair of scissors, the pointed end puncturing their eye—

“You need another drink?”

The voice pulls you away from staring across the room to the bartender standing behind the counter. 

“No,” you shake your head, eyes dropping to your glass, water still near the rim. 

“You seem a bit perturbed,” he offers, propping his hip against the drink station, arms crossing and showcasing his thick biceps.

“It’s nothing,” your airy response only makes his eyebrows raise in amusement.

“I’m sure that group over at the table would love to hear how they’re nothing,” he grins when you glare at him.

“What do you care..” your eyes glance at his name tag, “Leon?”

“I don’t,” he shrugs easily, “but you do and I hate to see a pretty lady in distress.”

You snort, eyes rolling, “I’ll bet you say that to anyone with tits.”

His grin widens, “True, but I always mean what I say.”

Someone on the other end flags his attention and Leon leaves you to your intrusive thoughts and untouched water. Your lip curls in a sneer as someone gets up from the table he mentioned and walks over to the bar. They flirt with Leon who you notice gives you a quick side eye before making a round of drinks. 

Once he’s finished up, he walks back over to you with a smarmy little swagger. 

“Miss me?” 

You shake your head, gaze still zeroed in on the bitch taking the handful of drinks he just made back to the table. More people come up to the bar and Leon slips away, busy for several long minutes. While he’s mixing whatever cocktail an older lady and her friend ordered, your eyes widen in surprise to see a few people at that specific table suddenly make their departure towards the restroom. 

“It didn’t kick in as fast as I thought,” Leon muses next to you— a little put upon sigh slipping out for good measure, “they’ll definitely be calling it a night once they’re not puking their guts out.”

Delightful vindictiveness makes you smile broadly at him; it must surprise him because he only looks at you stupidly as you thank him. 

“Didn’t I tell you I hate seeing a pretty lady in distress,” he recovers quickly enough, a pleased smile making him seem boyish and sweet, “besides they seem like stuck up cunts. And not the fun kind.”

You watch with a sort of childlike awe as he goes about the rest of his shift, chatting up customers and making drinks. The table of cunts, as he so politely put, cleared out once the others returned looking sick. 

“I’m off work in ten minutes,” he appears next to you, making you jump. 

“And?”

He drums his fingers on the side of your glass, “Might wanna get your last call in before I walk you home for the night.”

He slips away before you can argue and ten minutes later, he’s helping you with your coat and holding open the door. Once you’re a comfortable distance away from the bar, you turn to him. 

“What did you use?”

“Ah,” he taps the side of his nose with a grin, “that would be telling.”

Your eyes narrow and he laughs. 

“Just a little something I like to keep on me,” he ducks to the side to whisper in your ear, “it’s not the worst thing I’ve used on someone.”

He pulls away, looking pleased as punch, and it makes your heart flutter in excitement. 

“Thanks,” you offer, looking back to the sidewalk in front of you, “it was nice.”

“Oh my absolute pleasure,” he sighs happily, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, “do they come in every week?”

“Yes,” you bite your lip in thought, “usually at the same time.”

“Shall I give them something a bit stronger then?” He murmurs quietly, eyes glittering when you pause to look back at him. 

“There’s something wrong with me.”

You didn’t mean to blurt that out, but it is what it is; he shrugs, total nonchalance, that makes you frown. 

“I want them to hurt. I want them to feel awful. I wouldn’t mind if they died.”

His smile’s a sharp brittle knife, “I can help with that last one.”

Your heart flutters again, and you twist to face him fully. 

“You mean that?” Your eyes stare into his calm blue gaze, “you don’t even know me.”

“Does it matter?” He grins playfully, “besides you seem like the kind of girl who would appreciate it.”

Those intrusive thoughts come back, flashing the various ways you’ve pictured those same people being hurt. Your hands reach up to curl your fingers in the collar of his jacket.

“Do you want help?”

He laughs delightedly, his own hands gripping your hips before sliding up to pet your ribs. He slides your noses together, before hovering his lips over your mouth. 

“How do you want to help me, sweetheart?”

[preciouslandmermaid]

🕸🕷 my heart is a hornet's nest 🕸🕷

Pairing: Insomniac Peter Parker/Spider-Man x Fem!Reader (code name: “Huntress” + she is Kraven’s daughter)

Rating: T

Summary:  It's been thirteen months since Kraven was killed by Venom. Despite everything, you're still in the city and helping a nerd - named Peter - in his garage try and save the world. It's hard to ascertain where your old life as a hunter ends and your new life begins. Somedays you can't even tell if you're moving forward or not. But, the pull you feel towards Peter is magnetic. And it's bound to end in catastrophe if you pursue him.

Even as part-time Spider-Man, Peter knows his relationships with others puts them at risk. He doesn’t want to throw you back into the carnage, into the fray, to the wolves you claim to be so comfortable around. He can't risk it. He can't risk you. And the long nights in his garage are really, really starting to wear at him.

Prompt: "Are you afraid of me?" / "Do I look afraid?"

tags: enemies to Lovers/enemies to friends to lovers, no use of y/n, secret identity, unresolved romantic tension, first kiss, light angst, slow burn, mutual pining !!

🕷🕷 ( read on ao3 ) 🕷🕷

Kraven snaps your name like a whip.

“You’ll oversee this one, huntress.” he says without looking away from the screen.

A mixture of pride and trepidation curdles beneath your skin. Kraven is trusting you, but he trusts plenty of his hunters. You lick your lips. The transfer of Martin Li. You promise Kraven that you’ll put the team together and leave before the hour.

No one questions Kraven’s decision. You don’t get special treatment purely because you’re his blood. In fact, if you look closely (which you won’t), you’d say that Kraven treats you worse than his other hunters. He expects—he demands – more of you.

There will be a target on your back when Kraven completes his hunt and finds a worthy enough predator to kill him. But that’s nothing new. You’ve had a target on your back since you were young enough to understand the way of the world; predator and prey, hunter and hunted, kill or be killed.

You lift your arm-- THUNK!—the throwing knife hits its bullseye.

“Huntress,” a hunter named Erik approached you, “you want five VTOLs?”

THUNK! This one is a little off-center and you blame Erik for distracting you. You exhale, balancing your weight, and lining up your shot. Erik is bold. Kraven named you the leader of Li’s abduction. He shouldn’t be asking questions. Your eyes narrow.

You pivot on your heel, fast as a viper’s strike, and flashing silver spins through the air. It’s beautiful.

Erik makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

Your throwing knife wobbles from where its pinned Erik’s hood to the wall. His eyes flick to the blade. He’s lucky you didn’t miss. Otherwise the blade would’ve sank into his throat or he would lack an ear for the mission ahead.

“That’s what I said,” you yank the knife from the wood, freeing him, “wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Erik says, voice tight and clipped, and his eyes darken. You know he is loyal to Kraven, not you. If he managed to kill you – Kraven would be disappointed, but he wouldn’t mourn you. Nature is cruel and so is your father. You sheath your throwing knives while keeping one eye on the hunter.

Erik hasn’t left which means he could be planning his next move. You tense and wait for the inevitable blow. Come on, you think, try it. You’d be happy to fight off your frazzled, nervous energy. You should probably conserve your strength in case things with Martin Li go bad.

Erik nods, “huntress,” and leaves.

You roll your shoulders and return to the weapons cache. I’ll bring Martin Li to Kraven and he’ll have his wonderful fight. He’ll achieve his dream.

Nothing will go wrong. Nothing could. You’ve been planning this for months.

******

Peter wobbles to his feet, his head ringing. Whoever these guys are—they’re serious. The tech they’re using is insane. Invisible drones. Laser swords. What’s next? A few giant mecha-robots intent on crushing Harlem? He shouldn’t think about it – he doesn’t want to jinx it.

He stares into the face of the capable, dangerous stranger with smoke burning his nostrils and scalding his throat.

Dark soot clings to your clothes, your expression venomous and focused, furrowed and tight. The light frames you, bouncing off the east river in sparks, and refracting over the small throwing knives clutched between your knuckles. She’s fast, like really fast. Fast enough that he’s concerned you have a spider-sense of your own. Who the hell are these guys? Miles kicks a drone in mid-air and metal-on-metal crunches together like a compacted soda can.

Peter jumps before the blade can slice through him. It whistles through the air, hits and – literally bounces! -- off a metal pole. His lenses widen. He twists his body. His nerves ignite with impending danger, but he’s in the already dodging the first blade.

He’s Spider-Man.

He can’t stop physics.

Your second blade cuts through the air and burns when it cuts his shoulder. He lands on his feet, a sharp inhale drawn through his teeth, and resists the urge to check the injury. She can’t have that many knives on her!

Your lips quirk, “are you afraid of me?”

“Do I look afraid?”

“Hard to say,” you make a gesture around your face, “with the mask and all.”

“Where’s yours?” he propels through the air with his webs slung behind him, “I thought--” you deflect his punch, “most bad guys—” you stumble backward when he kicks your chest, but recover quickly, “want to keep their identities a secret.”

“I have no shame in who I am,” your leg swings over his head.

“So uhhh...who are you?” he quips. His palms land flat on the cold, metal surface and his spine curves, his body moving like a question mark, and avoiding the onslaught of your assault.

“Serious question!” he says a little louder this time while your silver knife dances through the light as it carves his webs into flimsy pieces.

A burst of green flares flash against the gray smoke. His heart flips. The raft jolts to the side. They’re going to drag the ship underwater! The heavy-duty spears punch through the metal as if it was made of tissue paper.

“We gotta get this ship free!”

Peter spares a final glance over his shoulder and you leap from the other side. Are you landing on another boat? A life raft? Are you going to swim away? He has no clue. He can’t spare any further brain cells on it though. He slides down the tilted raft toward the giant spears that function like fish-hooks into the industrial, military transport raft.

***

It’s been approximately thirteen months since Kraven met his end.

You’ve found that keeping count provides some strange, twisted comfort. You wake up, check your calendar, and strike another tally mark into the wall. It feels good to carve the line into the sheet-rock, little flecks of white catching on your thumb and falling like cremated remains onto the hardwood floor and clinging to your socks.

Sometimes you run into old hunters, vying for territory, and hoping to claim some scraps that Kraven left behind. Many, however, fled to Kraven’s homeland to play out the tragedy of a power vacuum and continue Kraven’s legacy.

None of them have impressed you. Not the ones that have sought you out, hoping to kill Kraven’s kin, and earn glory. And definitely not the ones who you’ve run into accidentally. Those are the worst. They’re cowards. They’re mice. You stumble upon them, trying to eat the crumbs off Kraven’s table, and your retribution is swift and bloody and a pain in the ass to clean up.

You wonder what Peter Parker would say if he knew. You pull your sweater over your head. Peter, the nerd running a research foundation out of his garage, happens to be your only...well, friend is the wrong word...but he’s your only something in this city.

You aren’t supposed to have ‘somethings’. Attachments, as Kraven would call them. Attachments made you weak. You thought it was hypocritical for your father preach this advice when he had a wife and multiple children. Not anymore though, you finish lacing up your boots, everyone’s dead now except for me.

The cassette clicks with a satisfying ‘CLUNK’ into the player and you slide your headphones over your ears. The player was a gift from Peter. No. Gift is the wrong word. It’s on a loan.

“What’s this?” You cradled the cassette player, “it looks ancient.” You twisted the sharp-grooved circles. They remind you of strange teeth. You click the play and pause button. It’s clunky. It’s right-angles and lackluster chrome and the buttons make noise.

It’s the antithesis of the technology you grew up with around Kraven.

You love it.

Peter rolls his chair over to you, “it’s not ancient. Maybe vintage. God, do we call it vintage?” he sounds so baffled that you almost smile, “you know, record players and vinyl are making a big comeback so it’s only a matter of time before Walkman do too.”

He doesn’t wait for you to respond, “do you want it?”

“Huh?”

“I’m not using it obviously.” He smiles, “I think I have a few cassettes lying around and there’s no shortage of music shops in Brooklyn.”

Your fingers tighten around the device. The wild part of you, the part that Kraven nurtured through violence and toxic loyalty, wants to throw the device on the ground. See how sturdy it is and compare it to the tactical, military-grade equipment you grew up with. How many pieces will it break into? A dozen?

You gaze into Peter’s earnest face. His eyes are warm, light mahogany. There are soft lines that kiss the corners of his eyes. You think when he is old, he will have many wrinkles around his eyes, and it takes a second longer than normal for your lungs to refill.

“I’ll borrow it,” you say, unable to accept his random kindness, “and return it before our work is done.”

“Great!” Peter coughs, rubbing the back of his neck, “I mean, that sounds good.”

The cassette clicks, whirring warm in your palm, and switching the song. The subway rushes past in a gust of tepid, moist air that smells both stale and greasy. You scan the crowd. The citizens range from individuals wearing jean jackets with sewn patches, to baggy street wear, to plastic bags on shoes, to gym athletics and smart watches.

Someone gets on the train wearing a camouflage parka. Your spine stiffens. Your fingers twitch to the weapons hidden inside your coat. Do I know your face? You shift your body and peer at the subway windows, allowing the ghostly transparent reflection to reveal the stranger’s face.

As you wait for the right angle, the right lighting, you consider your options. Tail them out of the train—could be a trap, but their numbers are never that high. Get close, press the blade to the artery in their thigh, let them see your face before you sink the blade in and leave on the next stop. The timing would be tricky, but not impossible. Not for you. Bail on Pete and spend the next several days tracking the stranger until you’ve found and confirmed their hideout. An ambush. Quick and silent.

The stranger coughs into their sleeve and your fingers fall away from your knife.

You’re glad Pete isn’t here. You’ve never traveled together and you likely never will. It’s safer that way. It keeps him out of your personal life.

“That’s the problem with attachments,” you mumble to yourself, “you start wondering what they might say if they knew you.”

*****

Pete rubs his eyes with his fists, “do you hear birds or is that just in my head?”

You don’t lift your head from the microscope, “it’s birds.”

He yawns. There have been plenty of late nights in his garage shared with you, but this one feels different.

Maybe it’s because of the mercurial light flickering along the planes of your face.

Maybe it’s the notes by your hands, the edges of your fingers smeared black from ink.

Maybe it’s the unplugged headphone wire dangling from your throat and brushing ever-so-often against your exposed collarbones.

Shit. He blinks, looking away. He can’t get mixed up. He’s grateful to you. You donated the notes first, but then pieces of Kraven’s equipment, and then...you came around more and more. You wanted to see what he was doing, wanted to see his progress, or ‘see how helpful your notes are.’ He likes it. He likes having you around.

But, even as part-time Spider-Man, Peter knows his relationships with others puts them at risk. He doesn’t want to risk you too. And it’s not because you can’t fight. To him, you’re finding your place outside of Kraven’s shadow and he doesn’t want to mess that up. He doesn’t want to throw you back into the carnage, into the fray, to the wolves you claim to be so comfortable around.

The sequences before him blur into gibberish. He peeks up through his hair back to you.

Your name is the first word out of his mouth, followed shortly by “you’re bleeding!”

“I tried to catch the sample,” your voice is laced with frustration, “I can’t believe I dropped it.”

“It’s fine,” he opens the first-aid kit that’s stowed beneath the desk, “let me see.”

***

You blink at Peter. Earnest, helpful, kind Peter. You cradle your hand to your chest. It stings, but you’ve faced hornets stronger than this. The tiny shards of glass bounce colorful reflections from the holiday lights strung around Peter’s garage. The wild voice tells you to dig the shards out with your nails.

The blood is starting to stain the hem of your sweater.

Peter doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch away. His offered hand holding the gauze doesn’t shake.

You swallow. Why isn’t he shying away from the woman made of shrapnel? Doesn’t he know you’re lethal?

“What?” his eyebrows lift, “are you afraid of me? Or is it medical care in general?” soft humor folds into his brown eyes, “I promise my co-pays are reasonable.”

His words shatter the stiffness of your muscles.

You say, “do I look afraid?” you extend your bloody hand to him.

His fingers curl lightly and gently around your wrist. He flushes the wounds with water before plucking the glass out with a pair of tweezers. His brow furrows in concentration. Your neck prickles and a tingling sensation travels down your spine.

You’ve seen his furrowed brow a hundred times. However, you’ve never experienced it as the subject. Peter holds an antiseptic wipe between his long fingers. His touch is unbearably gentle and you wish you had something to compare it to.

“This might hurt a bit,” the soft, low rumble of his voice is strangely intimate.

The words fall out of your mouth, “I’m used to it.”

“Are we going to unpack that?” He slides the wipe across your angry, throbbing skin.

“No,” your lips twitch, “unless you have a psychology degree I’m unaware of.”

You’re fascinated by the way his fingers move along yours, light and precise, carefully wiping away the blood and wrapping your hand in gauze.

He says, “maybe it’s time for a career change.”

You smile. “What career?”

Peter chuckles, “okay, I walked into that one.”

His eyes lift to yours and his jaw slackens, like he’s finally caught the creature stalking him in the woods, and his fingers twitch on your wrist. The charged moment hangs undisturbed in the air, sending signals through the ether and rearranging the flow of blood in your veins.

His cheeks flush rosy and sweet. The pink hue reminds you of that pivotal morning a few months ago when Spider-Man gave you a sunrise and Pete’s number and a hope for a different future. Your fingers curl into his. And the carefully wrapped gauze prevents you from feeling the warmth of his palm. The wild voice tells you to rip the bandages off and run home. Your knees bump into his.

There’s always so little distance between you.

It’s a small garage, after all.

You tilt forward and hear Pete’s sharp inhale. There isn’t a moment of hesitation. Not for you. You know when to strike, when to move, and when to hide. It’s been drilled into you since birth. Hesitation is a lack of courage, in confidence, and you’ve never lacked either of those.

Peter’s mouth collides with yours.

Your ever-present and paranoid guard slips and you close your eyes to savor it—savor him.

The pliant softness of his lips melds into yours and your exhale shudders between your lips. His hand slides from your throat and holds your cheek, his thumb pressed into your cheekbone, and your hip bumps into the side of his workbench when you stand.

Peter remains on the stool, his neck arched, and his lithe legs part for you to enter the space between them. The thrill illuminates your chest like a red flare against a black sky. His lips play against yours, eager and a little clumsy, and you clutch the front of his wrinkled cotton shirt.

He mumbles your name.

“Shh,” you nose skims along his, recapturing his lips, because you think words might ruin it. The hanging lights flash their merry little dance. There’s fragments of glass under your boots. Ink stains your fingers, blood stains your sweater, and Peter’s tongue stains your lips.

You’ve experienced blood lust. You’ve felt it pounding through your ears and sharpening your focus into razor-thin virulence. You’re familiar with the excitement of a good hunt, a worthy opponent, a well-matched fight. Spider-Man, you think, I’ve felt this with him. But those were mixed with violence, and blood, and bruises.

This – this moment with Peter – is wholly different. Your heart pumps the same blood, pushing it through arteries and valves, but your hands move to caress, to clutch, and stroke through the fine strands of his hair. Your lungs tremble, not in pain, but in elation. The passion rolls through you in waves of syrup and brushes your skin like branches of fir.

Peter’s phone buzzes – loud and incessant – and he groans before tearing his mouth from yours. His cheeks are ruddy, eyes bright, and his chest heaves with hungry gulps of air. You’re glad to know you aren’t the only one affected by the strong pull of – whatever this is – between you.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta--” he lifts the phone from the table, “hello?”

You watch Peter’s face while he talks on the phone. He’s too expressive. He’d make a terrible hunter. And probably a bad poker player, too. You want to kiss him again just for the hell of it. And feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your palms, feel his breath mingling with yours, his tongue and the blunt force of his teeth.

“I have to go out, um, do you want to come with?” he tilts his chin toward the garage door, “we could – uh – get something to eat along the way?”

You hands twitch at your sides. Your coat, draped on the desk chair, is laden with hidden pockets for knives and darts and small vials of poison. An arsenal for protection, an arsenal for vengeance, the truth of your soul. A soul that Peter cannot – should not – bear witness to.

“Can’t.”

His expression deflates, but he recovers with an easy-going smile.

He shakes his head, “that’s cool,” and says, “another time then.”

You make a noncommittal sound.

***

You finish setting up the tripwire at your apartment door and wipe your palms on your sweatpants. The windowpanes glisten with raindrops, painting the empty corners dark blue, and blurring the myriad of ever-changing traffic lights.

You scratch beneath your ear, upsetting your headphones, and flop onto the couch. The cassette whirs like a little hamster running through its wheel as the song fills your head and blocks out the honking below. You’ve grown to like the city of noise, the city that never sleeps. It’s a concrete jungle. A unique hunting ground.

Tap, tap, tap --

You jerk upright and your head whirls to the noise. Spider-Man perches on the ledge of your window, his red and blue suit shiny and dripping. You cautiously close the distance and begin to disarm the trap before unlatching it. It creaks noisily as it slides open and old paint chips cling to the windowsill.

The cool wet air is tinged with the scent of exhaust fumes.

“Weird time to visit,” you say.

“I was in the neighborhood.” He slips through the window like a salmon and lands soundlessly on the hardwood floor.

You’re going to have to move. You don’t want Spider-Man keeping tabs on you.

“But this isn’t a social call,” he continues, “I need your help with something.”

You lift one eyebrow, “I’m not a mercenary,” then you add, “and even if I was, I doubt you could afford me.”

Spider-Man laughs. “It’s nothing like that!”

You fold your arms across your chest. Spider-Man gives you the vague details of a criminal that he’s had trouble tracking down, could use your expertise, and fighting skills, and so and so forth. It’s a good pitch, you’ll give him partial credit for effort, but you’re not interested in becoming a vigilante – or a hero.

“So, what do you say? We’ve teamed up before.”

Against the symbiote. But, your motivations were selfish. You weren’t helping Spider-Man or trying to save the city. You were weakening Venom.

“No thanks.”

“What?” His lenses widen, “seriously? After my whole speech and everything?”

“Try a power point next time.” You shrug, “I’m retired. No more fighting for me.”

Spider-Man glances around your apartment and there’s evidence of your hypocrisy across every surface. A case of black, tactical arrowheads sits on your coffee table. There’s several target posters hanging on the wall across from your couch with pockmarks embedded into the paper. There’s unfinished gadgets and an open toolbox on the floor near the kitchen where you like to eat breakfast and tinker.

“You’re a bad liar,” there’s a smile in his voice, “just this once, huntress, that’s all. For old times sake.”

You muster the energy to glare at him, but it lacks true heat. “You mean the old times when I was actively trying to kill you?”

Spider-Man shrugs languidly, “we all have bad days.”

That wildness, the hunter that lives inside you, under your skin and in the marrow of your bones is grinding its teeth and trashing into your ribs. It’s hard to determine where you begin and the hunter ends or if they’re destined to forever be intertwined.

You’re a wildcat, unable to be truly domesticated and all your attempts have been in vain.

But, then you remember the warmth of Peter’s lips, his gentle hands, and genuine laughter. You tell yourself, there is room for softness inside of me, for even tigers can purr.

You tell Spider-Man to wait while you get dressed.

“One time,” you hold up a finger, “that’s it.”

“One time.” he agrees with a nod.

Together, you rush into the monotone rain-soaked evening for your first hunt since Kraven’s death.

[thcscus]

fic author q&a <3

tagged (kinda but i wanted to join bc it looked fun lol) by @zannolin the beloved

why do you write fanfic?

because it's so so so much fun. because i think about the characters too much to just not Do anything with them, you know?

but mostly, it's a case of, "I'm writing this because I want to read this."

which of your posted stories do you think of the most even though the story is "finished"?

i mean, technically, passerine because I have a copy of it sitting above my study desk so every time I look up I think "oh damn yeah i wrote that. insane"

but, creatively, i think about the challengers series a lot because i feel like i have one more story out of me for it but i just don't know What yet

if you could give yourself fic advice from when you first started writing fic, what would that advice be?

hmmmm i don't think i have any because my relationship with fic writing now is the same as my relationship to fic writing then. it's all just fun :)

what's your relationship to fic stats?

eh i don't really care about them. i generally don't look at kudos and hits. but comments and the little notes people put on bookmarks? now Those i will refresh for every time

is there a pairing or scenario or friendship that you miss writing? if so, why? if not, why not?

how do i answer this without kicking at a hornet's nest. i guess if you know, you know. That Era really was a great time to be alive as a genfic writer. unfortunately, *waves vaguely*

what motivates you to write?

the fact that when you finish writing, you get to read it. and it's tailor-made for you, with everything you want from a fic, because YOU put it all there!! it's like serving yourself a plate of eggs done just how you like them

also, i look forward to comments every time just to know i'm not the only one going insane over it lol

why do you write for the fandom(s) you write for?

no other reason than i want to, i guess. i love the story. i want to expand on it. and that's how the insanity starts, baby

if you're stuck writing a WIP, what do you do?

just put it down. inspiration will find me eventually. i'm not in any rush :)

what do you wish people knew about comments?

when you quote the exact lines that made you feel something. THAT. that could be your entire comment and i'd still be twirling my feet kicking my hair. genuinely when people quote my lines in their comments AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA <- me going crazy

maybe there's a question you wish had been on here. what's that question (and answer)?

The line you're most proud of.

"... to be able to love something enough to also love what grew from its ruins," is still so beloved by me because it was genuinely something i'd felt in my personal life for so long but could only put into words when i was writing it for the fic. it was a lightning bolt of an epiphany that wouldn't have been possible if i hadn't been writing. writing fic saves lives, folks!

tagging literally anyone who sees this because i want to pick at everyone's brain

[trykefag]

Hi.... :] before we get into this I wanna say one (1) thing: I'm pro-Palestine AND (shocker) pro-Israel. I'm hitting a hornets nest tagging this with pro-Palestine when how I view being for Palestine is so drastic to others' views.

Any sort of harassment or antisemitism will be reported and you will be blocked. We don't hate Jews or Israelis here. Also, if you tag this post with "to the river to the sea Palestine will be free" you're ignorant and dunno what the fuck you're saying.

This post is lengthy (imo) and just my personal spew on stuff, it's nothing like...revolutionary lol. I just need to get shit out somehow.

I don't get the anti-Israel crowed like....they know nothing and its so baffling they'll just say shit they don't understand the concept or history of. You can be pro-Israel and hate the Israeli government, you can be pro-Palestine while also realizing that the history is very convoluted and if you did a simple YouTube search about history on Palestine and Israel you'd be more educated. You can be both pro-Israel and pro-Palestine...shocker I know!

I've learned more from YouTube than in history class. I've also learned that antisemitism is very easy to fall into, which is something I knew but didn't understand. Pro-Palestinians I don't doubt actually care, I'd love to think most Pro-Palestinians actually give a fuck about the murders that're happening! The downside is that they're falling and repeating shit the fucking Nazis would say in the name of activism and see NO ISSUE. (Saying "gas the Jews" and holding up Nazi flags is, even in the name of activism, antisemetic.)

I try and not be cynical, but like there's literal dog whistles and antisemetic shit being spoken about and there's signs being put up that says "No Jews" and there's even fucking Tumblr blogs with "Jews DNI" on them. (I've seen them, they're very much real. Most of them have "Zionists DNI" which is usually just a dog whistle to Jews, but I digress.)

Don't get me started on fucking Zionism actually, no one knows what the fuck that is and they claim they do when they don't. It's so brain numbing!

"Go back to where you came from!" that'd be Israel....which you wanna get rid of. That's also what Zionism is btw. Jews are from Israel...please Google things before you open your yapper.

I can only find solace in the Jumblr tag (& similar ones) because they have knowledge about what the fuck is going on and I won't get called a "Zionist Nazi"!

In the face of chaos I will say that studying and my plans to convert one day is the best decision I've ever made; you can't get rid of Jews, no matter how much you want us gone. Reading the Torah, researching about Israel, learning the culture, the food, the language, etc. It's healing and I'm glad to be coming home slowly but surely. Am yisrael chai.

[sunriseverse]

sorry this is not a writing q but it's honestly so fun to see your fanfic vent posts!! i just finished reading this extremely popular fic that ppl have made multiple artworks for, and the writing is mid ... (admittedly i am very picky) like too many italics too much telling and redundancy etc. like yes fanfic is a labour of love etc and i'm never going to be a hater where the author could see but goddd. this is made more infuriating by the recent posts about ppl only looking for fic through kudos/hits like you guys are missing out on so much good fic!!

anyway i want to make an edit of the sometimes things that are expensive are worse meme except it's sometimes fics that have more kudos are worse. except it feels too mean lol

if you can count on one thing it’s me not holding back my haterism :salute:

anyway, that’s part of why i do it! for so long i was someone who let my thoughts simmer away and fester beneath my ribs, and all it did was make me frustrated and lonely and miserable. i can fully admit that my tastes are very very picky in comparison to other peoples’, but it stems from a frustration towards the trends that have been around for ages—why should i force myself to praise something that i find to be, at best, middling, and at worst, straight up bad? who does that serve? fandom shouldn’t be a place where a single opinion dominates—that’s a recipe for some very, very unhealthy dynamics. i would much rather enjoy what i enjoy and complain about what i don’t—as long as i’m not directing these complaints in a space where the authors (or fans) are guaranteed to see it (their comments section, their inbox, etc), i’m not only not hurting anyone, i’m acting in a way i wish i had seen more people act when i was younger. and anything that i feel is “too mean” to post on my blog goes into my friends’ dms—truly, nothing is more freeing than having someone let you be a right bastard.

as for the kudos/hits thing—it frankly feels like an annoying outgrowth of people trying to categorise fanfic the way tv shows are; if it doesn’t get above x ratings, no one wants to watch it, because it’s no good! except that’s not true—the only thing hits and kudos tell you is 1. how well connected the author is in the fandom, and how well they cater to popular tastes, and 2. how many times people click onto the work, for any reason, which, when it comes to massive multi chapter fics that are heralded as The Fandom Standard, can be massively overblown. in the end, you’ll be happier reading things that speak to you (via tag, summary, title, friendly recommendation, etc) than following the opinions of the fandom.

(i could go on a whole ramble about why i think so much fanfic (or at least, POPULAR fanfic) is badly written (in terms of characterisation especially) but i think that would be hitting a hornet’s nest with a bat and inviting people to go “well how come YOUR opinion is the right one???” lol)

[space-mermaid-writing]

The Vamp and the Were [IronStrange]

Summary: Tony would mark the day he met a vampire that did not immediately jump at his throat. Just for once – that would be a nice change.

Relationship: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange

Tags: IronStrange, Vampire Stephen Strange, Werewolf Tony Stark, hurt/comfort, idiots in love, angst, urban fantasy au

Ko-fi | Read it on AO3 | Masterlist | Word count: 1.3k | Previous | Next

Chapter 2: Two

Getting into a vampire nest wasn't the problem. If you knew what you were looking for, the entrance was easy to find – in this case the nest was the abandoned basement of a building that had been waiting for demolition for several years. It was cordoned off with a construction fence, and signs indicated that this was private property – no trespassing.

Still, the upper floors were often used by homeless people or runaway teenagers. The kinds of people who were a perfect snack source for the basement dwellers.

Of course they had some security measures in the form of modern technology, but those posed no challenge to the sorcerer.

As said, getting in wasn't the problem.

But it was like hitting a hornet's nest with a baseball bat; once you opened it, there was no escape. There were only two options: hunt, or be hunted.

The sorcerer of the Mystic Arts consisted of both humans and vampires. But those Vamps couldn't be more different than the vampires they were fighting. They were like two different species.

Stephen used one of his red magic whips to yank a vampire off his feet and hurled her against the wall. He knew it would hurt his opponent, but it wouldn’t be fatal. Only fire or beheading was effective. Or sunlight, if you had enough time.

Tearing a vampire into tiny little pieces so they couldn't regenerate was also an option, but one that took a lot of effort.

Another sorcerer threw a golden spell disc at the vampire Stephen had just thrown against the wall, separating her head from the body.

Although they were no longer human, it hurt Stephen to take their lives. Not because he was of the same species – he felt little affiliation to these beings – but because they, like him, had once been human. But now they were a danger to the world. 

And Stephen had sworn to protect the world. He didn’t differentiate between humans and vampires or any other species that was.

The individuals here had lost almost everything that had once made them human. Unfortunately, that happened a lot of times when they got turned, and nobody took care of them or taught them to be something else than angry and hungry beings."

Stephen had been lucky – if you could call it that – that the sorcerers of Kamar-Taj had found him when he had been at that point.

The sorcerers fought as a team, covered for each other, taking advantage of their years of training together.

The unfriendly vampires moved on instinct. Survival was the only drive they knew. The sorcerers fought as a unit and with tactics, and thus were superior to their opponents. They only had to be careful not to get too close to the pointy teeth.

Stephen used another red whip to pull a vampire away from Wong’s neck.

Suddenly there was a loud crash when part of the wall to their right collapsed. Surprised by this unexpected destruction, the human sorcerers coughed in the dust cloud.

Loud footsteps stepped over the rubble and the outline of the Iron Man suit could be made out in the semi-darkness, along with several other members of the Avengers.

Stark raised a hand and used a repulsor blast to knock one of the enemy vampires, who was trying to use the chaos to pounce on one of the sorcerers, off his feet.

Stephen only allowed himself to be distracted for a moment. He still had his hands full with the vampire on the other end of his whip. At least, until that one too was hit by a blast.

Stark appeared next to him, his faceplate open. "Thanks for the tip with the coven. It wasn't difficult to find after a little bit of research."

Stephen could have slapped himself for telling Stark about it. That meant this little incident here was his fault.

"We had everything under control," he replied through clenched teeth.

“Well, can’t sue me for wanting insurance, doc.” There was a press smile plastered on the hunter’s face.

Tony Stark was unarguably the most famous werewolf in the world. Just as his father had been before him. Tony was probably even more famous, because he had the advantage of social media and globalization.

He used to be seen as the specimen of a Were in a suit – a popular term for a tough businessman.

Stark’s world got turned around after he had been captured by vampires in Afghanistan.

How he survived that without even being turned… It was a miracle. Iron Man was born, who later became a member of the Avengers; a bunch of people of different species with various skills, who hunted undead and protected people from them.

Like they did right now, interfering with the work of the Masters of the Mystic Arts. Stephen was just glad that they always took precautionary security measures so that those who were not human beings still appeared as such. He just hoped those measures were enough. 

Well, no time like the present to find out.

The last of the hostile vampires had been killed and Steve Rogers approached him. Probably to speak to Stark, who was still standing next to him, eyeing him curiously, as if he was a riddle to solve.

Ironically, Steve Rogers was one of the projects Howard Stark was most known for. An experiment. He had taken his own werewolf DNA, made a serum and injected it into a human.

The result was surprisingly good looking. Rogers became strong like a Were, having the muscles while his physiology remained mostly human.

Not quite all of it. His hair was a bit too shaggy whenever he didn’t tame it with styling products. His teeth were a bit too sharp, and his voice was commanding in a way that made him sound as if he was barking when giving orders.

Still, America loved him.

“We cleared the basement," Rogers informed Stark before he turned to Stephen, clearly taking the opportunity to seize him up.

Stephen made a subtle gesture to Wong that he and the other sorcerers should leave. There was no need to expose them longer to the Avengers than necessary.

He met the Captain’s eyes and saw the exact moment he flared his nostrils and failed to get any scent from Strange. Good.

Rogers covered his irritation professionally. “Are you the wizard that gave Tony the tip about this nest?” he asked. “Doctor Strange?”

Stephen nodded. “I prefer the term ‘sorcerer’. And yes, I did. Even though it hadn’t been meant as an invitation.” He turned his head to Stark for that last part.

The Were looked back amused, almost challenging. But he was actively following the conversation as if he was still trying to analyze the sorcerer. If he was in his wolf form he would probably have his ears up and his tail at attention.

Then Rogers spoke up again and demanded Stephen’s focus. “Well, the job is done. It’s what we do.”

“And since that is the case, there is no further need for me to stay here.” Stephen raised his hand to create a portal but the Captain was faster.

“Wait,” he commanded, his voice shifting into something more serious. “We’ve got some questions for you.”

The sorcerer considered it for a moment. “Make it brief.”

“Do you fight vampires on a regular basis, doctor? Tony mentioned you two met over that last time.”

Stephen wondered if Stark also told his teammates that he had saved his ass. Probably not by the looks of his face right now.

“If they act as a threat, we do.”

“Who is ‘we’?” It was Stark who raised that question. “How many of you wizards are there?”

“I’m afraid that’s classified.” Stephen moved his hand in a circle and created a portal above him. “And to answer your next question: no. We don’t want to join your hunting club.”

“But what about–…”

Stephen didn’t hear the rest of Roger’s sentence. The cloak had already carried him upwards and the portal closed under his feet before anyone could follow him.

_________________________________

Tag list: @jekyllhydetrash @goopierthenyou Tell me if you wanna be added/removed