#s talks fic

[travelling-on-the-octopath]

How would you have written Edelgard out of curiosity if you could change Three Houses' script? Assuming that all 4 of the routes are still a thing and you only side with her on CF. The fic answers some of that but I'm curious on how you'd have written CF specifically.

Honestly? It's a lot less to do with her than I may imply.

This ties back into my beef that FE3H has a severity problem, in that it's very, very reluctant to paint the horrors of war with the brush it requires. In regards to EdeIgard, my biggest problem is that she's so rarely called out on her shit. I wanted more pushback and call-outs like Dimitri's; "Must you continue to conquer?" "This future of yours is built on a foundation of corpses and tears." Buzz words that speak to the depravity of her actions. She's an imperialist who doesn't bat an eye at violence, and yet, whenever her more abrasive characteristics come up, it's either completely glossed over by the narrative, or forgotten soon after. But I've noticed something: a lot of times, when they come up, she's alone with Byleth. Calling the people who occupied the ruins inhuman; saying that she would sacrifice her citizens just like Lonato, etc; when she gives her take on Crests, and mentions that they help people rule the world, the foreign students are simply . . . nowhere to be found to mention that, hey, Crests are a thing exclusive to Fódlan, you should be careful about what you say. Conversely, though, Edelgard will appear in Claude's version of this cutscene to give her two cents on what he should and shouldn't share about himself, which I'm not mad about at all, but it says a lot.

Now, that isn't to say it's the only instance; when she's talking to Gilbert, really she's talking at him, because Gilbert is never given the chance by either her or the narrative to contradict what she says about Miklan. Gilbert would have shit to say about that, as the brother of a Crestless baron (a family descending from the Elites too, mind) and personal trainer to the crown; both stations one through noble ties, not Crests, which is her main beef here. She also talks smack about the goddess, which--well. Mr. "Repenting in a holy place for letting my king die and bringing shame to my family" wouldn't take too well to that.

Back to the point, though: All I really changed in Princes, which you rightly cite as my take on a rewritten Edelgard, is that I have people around when she says things, and have them realistically bite back. A lot of what I've had her say so far is directly inspired by what she says in game, just in a different setting.

Bear with me:

“The Empire has been broken down since its founding,” Edelgard said. “What we have now is a land of great inner turmoil.”

Claude cut his gaze to Edelgard without facing her. “Which can be overcome with determination and a kind hand.”

“That’s a rather optimistic outlook on things.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve ever been called.”

frankly i was downright charitable with that one, because she would have had the entire dining hall turn against her if she said that shit in this scene

“I am cutting away rot,” Edelgard insisted, making a too-large swing for Dimitri’s head. The battle was wearing on her as well, then. “Too long has this country been divided by vile liars—too long have the people of this land been led to ruin without a care for their safety.”

“This country?” Dimitri repeated, seething without the help of his illusions. “You would do well to hold your damned tongue, Edelgard, before I see fit to cut it out.”

I'll admit I went a little hammy on her nationalistic beliefs, but seeing as this happens far, far down the line in the fic, there's realistic build-up to it in the fic itself; that, and I took a little bit of creative liberty with exactly what nationalistic bullshit she was fed by her father.

It's less that I rewrote her character, and more than I rewrote her circumstances to allow abrasive qualities to actually brush up against something--to know they're abrasive in-story. That's what I'd change about FE3H.

As for CF? Crank it up to 11. Have one of your missions for the month be putting down rebels that are tired of being starved for the sake of her war effort; have Byleth blatantly worsen mentally and emotionally for heading toward a future where they no longer help people, but kill them; have little to no recruits because of how little Edelgard respects the autonomy of the countries she's trying to conquer; have Byleth's powers fizzle out toward the end (an idea I expand upon in my current CF fic, wherein Edelgard loses) because of Sothis trying to retract the powers she'd gifted them. I mentioned this before, but have the actual history of the Nabateans crop up to contradict her bullshit; paint her with the "eyes wide shut" brush she's more than earned. It's compelling, and it's infuriating, and if you're going to aid the warmonger with a saviour complex, that's the combination you want.

It's less that Edelgard doesn't own up to her shit in the game (though she still has insufferable moments of "must I wade through so much blood :(" but I chalk that up to her certain brand of a lack of self-awareness), and more that the story doesn't allow people to push back. People have used the phrase "kid gloves" to refer to how the story treats her, and honestly? I completely agree. So the gloves would come off, and to the people of this story--the ones getting invaded, killed, the ones whose homes are not respected and who shared air for a year with someone who was planning on trampling over them the whole time--would outright hate her for what she's done, what she's doing, what she has no shame over. She believes in her cause totally and completely; good. Have people hold total and complete contempt for her because of it.

#i'm gonna be honest i saw the hubert pfp and a mention of edeI and i thought my days in this fandom were numbered dflkfgjdfg #ughgdlfgj i don't want to tag the critical tags but I think i gotta #edelgard critical #anti edelgard #s responds #i won't put this in actual main tags #s talks fic #princes of silver and gold #if i get a single ask defending her i think i'll blow a gasket so #to the masses: please don't lol #block me if you must #rengor1997

[strangersteddierthings]

Shovel Talk(s) Final Part

Part One 🦇Part Two🦇Part Three🦇Part Four

Steve starts with Dustin. Not for any particular reason. Dustin is just the first person he ends up seeing after an entire weekend spent at Eddie's house. They'd redone their date in Indy on Saturday, getting back into Hawkins late, so Steve stayed the night. He had a morning shift at Family Video but it was Robin's day off so he didn't see her.

Dustin called at 11:00am on Monday to ask for Steve's assistance with his bike's flat tire. He needs a ride to Melvald's for a new tire tube and pump, and since Steve's shift doesn't start until 2:00pm he agrees.

Steve picks him up and listens to him ramble about his weekend and how he the tube got a hole in it. He stays in the car while Dustin runs inside to make his purchases, and then they're back at Dustin's house. Dustin knows how to change out the tube on his bike; he's been raised by a single mother for longer than Steve's known him so he's pretty self-sufficient, but Steve still offers to do it and Dustin lets him.

It's little moments like these that really let Steve feel like Dustin's brother. Which is what makes it easier for Steve to say, as he is peeling the tube from inside the tire out, "hey, do you remember a week or so ago, when you said we were happy for Eddie and me?"

"Yeah," Dustin says as he's ripping open the package the new tube is in.

"You also told me to not hurt him. I- why'd you say that?" Steve halts his progress on peeling the tube out to look up at Dustin.

He watches as Dustin turns sheepish, "I. Well, mostly I said it so that when I talk to Eddie, I might feel less bad about threatening him."

"What? Why did you threaten him?"

Dustin finishes freeing the new tube from its prison before finally looking back at Steve, "I haven't yet. Mike was talking about how Nancy gave you a shovel talk a while ago, as Eddie's 'best friend'," he makes air quotes around the words, "and I'm your best friend, so I have to give Eddie one. But Eddie's also my friend, so I had to say something to you, too."

"That's so-" Steve cuts off, because he was going to say that's so childish but Dustin should be allowed to be childish just a little longer. Part of his childhood was stolen by monsters and Steve can give him a little bit back, "that's a nice thought but please don't shovel talk Eddie. Besides, Erica beat you to it."

"Shit!"

"Language."

"Well, since Erica did it there's really no point in me doing it. She's terrifying when she wants to be."

Steve laughs because Erica can be terrifying. "Give me the tube, or do you want to finish this?"

"No, continue," Dustin thrusts the tube at Steve, who takes it with a grin and gets back to work.

Robin and he are closing on a Wednesday night, so it's been slow all day, and while Steve wants to talk to Robin, he doesn't want to be interrupted. So, they go about their shift like normal and it's only once he's locked the door and flipped the open sign to closed that he seeks out Robin in the back room, where she's counting down the till.

"Can you pause after that? I need to talk," Steve says and feels his stomach churn. He's never.... he and Robin have never had a fight, never really had any issues that required a talk. Not about anything between them anyway. Robin's always just understood him, in the same way he's understood Robin. They've never been the source of each other's pains until now.

"Yeah, of course," Robin finished the coins, marking down the amounts on a piece of paper before shifting to give Steve her full attention. "Are you ready to talk about it?"

"It?"

"Whatever's hurting you," she says. "I don't know what it is, but I knew you'd come to me when you were ready."

"It's been heard to try and talk about," Steve confesses, "because it's never. It was never you that I've been- I still don't know what to say but I know I don't want to be..." he trails off, waving his hands as he grapples for the words he wants.

"Oh," Robin whispers, standing from the desk to approach. "I hurt you. Tell me what I did, so I can properly apologize."

"When you told me to be careful with Eddie," Steve says, "after I told you about our first date. I don't understand why you'd say that me."

Robin looks pained and swallows before she says, "I'm so sorry, Steve. I shouldn't have said that. And I don't- I don't even have a good reason why I did. I know you'd never hurt Eddie. I know you and what I said wasn't even about you. Not the real you, anyway."

"So, why'd you say it, then?"

Robin frowns and looks away from him, shuffling her feet before she says to a point at the wall, "I was friends, or friendly, with a lot of the girls you were with in high school. A lot of one and done dates that I had to hear about, while they cried in the bathroom or on their bedroom floors, wondering what they'd done wrong, why you didn't stay or-" Steve winces as the reminder of who he'd been in high school comes easily out of Robin, but not for the usual reason he winces. It's not because Robin's reminding him he used to be a douche; she's reminding him of all the people he hurt and never cared that he'd done it. He never apologized, and now it's far too late even if all those girls deserve to hear it.

Robin is still speaking, "or whatever. But that doesn't matter now. You aren't that guy anymore; haven't been the entire time I've actually known you and it wasn't fair for me to say what I said. I just- you took Eddie out, and the part of me that spent years of high school consoling friends who felt used by you just spoke. I-I need to work on filtering the words that come out of my mouth, because if I'd waited like, four more seconds to process your words and settle in the fact you went on a date we both thought you'd never be brave enough to ask for, then I never would have said it. I'm so sorry, Steve. I know you and I should have known better."

Steve swallows thickly, because it hurt to hear but he also knows she's sorry and that's enough. He steps forward and sweeps her into a hug, crushing her against him. She squeezes back just as hard.

Steve has never felt really hurt about Wayne's shovel talk. It was the first, and the only one he'd say he deserved. Not because Steve deserved to have a shovel talk given to him, but because Wayne should get to have the honor of giving one. Eddie's never had a boyfriend before, and Wayne had spent so long worried about how this town would treat Eddie if they knew he was gay.

So, when Steve sees Wayne again, he just smiles at the man, and gets a genuine smile back. He and Wayne are ok.

He and Jeff apologize to each other next time they cross paths on a Hellfire night. Steve apologizes for being snappy and rude. Jeff apologizes for automatically assuming the worst of Steve. They agree to a truce and a start over.

Steve's convinced he can win over Eddie's friends eventually.

Steve can't talk to Nancy. There's too much left unsaid between them for him to feel comfortable with telling her she hurt him. But it's okay. He and Nancy aren't close friends, and she's leaving for Boston in a few weeks for college. He's sure that the distance, and not seeing her weekly for Lunch Date Day, will help.

So, he's a bit surprised to answer the knocking on his front door to see Nancy. It's an exact recreation of the day she shovel talked him and immediately Steve tenses.

"Uh, hi," he says.

Nancy takes a deep breath and says, "I'm sorry. I thought I was being funny when I gave you that shovel talk, but I- someone made it clear to me that we aren't friends enough to be able to make jokes like that. That's my fault, too. For everything I've done and never apologized for. So, I want to say that I'm sorry."

Steve's a little stumped, a bit perplexed even, so he speaks on autopilot, "It's fine, Nance. We're good."

Nancy squares her jaw and narrows her eyes and says, "no."

"No?"

"No. Don't forgive me. Not yet. Make me earn it."

Steve don't respond right away. He wants to just forgive Nancy, but when he thinks about it, he just wants to do that so Nancy will quit looking so defensive. He's not sure he does forgive her. "You're right. I- we'll work on that, then. Being friends one day."

"Good. Good," Nancy nods. "I'll see you are Lunch Date day, yeah? Or... or would you like me to stop coming?"

He shakes his head. "No, please keep coming. There's, what, three more before you're off to college? We can work towards friends in that time, yeah?"

"Yeah," Nancy gives him a small smile, "see you then, Steve."

"See you," Steve replies and shuts the door as she heads down the walkway back towards her car.

He wants to know if Eddie or Robin gave her the dressing down that brought her here to say sorry.

(It wasn't Robin or Eddie. It was Mike, learning what Nancy had done and telling her it wasn't her place to do that.)

There is one final shovel talk for the remainder of their relationship.

It's the final day in Steve's room at his parents house. He's moving in with Eddie and Wayne, at least until the kid's all graduate. Then he and Eddie might go off somewhere on their own.

He's finished packing up his things from the bathroom, and looks up in the mirror. He sees himself, and almost doesn't recognize the reflection staring back. He looks happy. Actually, really happy.

Eddie appears behind him in the mirror, leaning himself against the doorjam, smiling softly at Steve through the mirror.

"All done, sweetheart?"

"Yeah, babe," Steve says. "Just one more thing."

"Oh?"

Steve slides his eyes away from Eddie in the mirror, back to himself. He lifts a finger and points one accusingly finger at himself and says, "if you fuck this up, Harrington, I'll kick your ass myself."

Eddie's full belly laughter rings loudly in the bathroom and Steve just smiles.

#shovel talk(s) #steddie #my fic #SURPRISE! Bet ya didnt think id ever finish this fic #but neither did i so here we are‚ surprised together #i was talkin' with the besties about this and fell asleep thinking about it and decided i needed to finish it or it will haunt me forever #sometimes an apology doesnt need to be an apology. sometimes the explanation is enough #sometimes you need to apologize for a thing you said even if the reason you said it has solid logic behind it #and sometimes you just need to admit you were wrong and say sorry with no explanation

[kamikazeworld-art]

Something I feel a lot of people seem to forget about the relationship between the peak lords and bingqiu is that, at the end, Yue Qingyuan quietly gave Shen Qingqiu his approval and support. He was the one who urged him forward towards Binghe with a smile, letting him know he always had a home there, so he should do what makes him happy right now. He saw the love his shidi and most special person held for Binghe even in the wake of all the pain and destruction, and said in his own way "I support you".

Whatever feelings there are about their past, whatever the shape of his affection for Shen Qingqiu, it is canon that Shen Qingqiu has his FULL unconditional support in his relationship with Luo Binghe. And honestly? I love that so much.

#svsss #scum villian self saving system #scumbag system #scum villain #bingqiu #yue qingyuan #shen qingqiu #shen yuan #luo binghe #I'm actually trying to write a fic where yqy and lbh talk after lbh first wakes up post maigu ridge #where he sees just how torn up and regretful and horrified lbh is at what happened and the idea of having hurt sqq #and basically decides to give them his blessing upon seeing that his feelings are sincere even if he went about it disastrously #I love yqy and I love his and sqq(sy)'s relationship so so so much #it's so soft and warm and supportive

[geekygumiho]

Daniel Jackson

@frostysfrenzy @stargaterevival @i-am-morrigans-apprentice

#hi sg fam im alive but in uni lol #one day my s/i fic will be updated and i’ll write that y/n piece ellie and i talked about and i’ll make sg1 they/them pt. 2 lol #but the foreseeable future is not the day lolll #saw this on ig and knew i had to tag my staniel fam :)) #daniel jackson #stargate #stargate sg-1

[anonymous-dentist]

Part Five of the Catboy in the Village AU

Parts: One | Two | Three | Four

-

Before Cellbit can start any kind of investigation, he passes out from hunger. (Four days without eating will do that, he supposes...)

It's sort of just... quick. He's sitting up in bed so Roier can braid his hair, and then his head and eyes are all fuzzy, and then he's in a different bed with no Roier and with an absolutely killer migraine.

He groans and rolls onto his side and pulls his blanket over his head, because he knows that there's somebody watching him. He can feel their (her) eyes on him, and they're making him feel even more sick than he already feels.

"You're an idiot," the queen declares.

Cellbit just hisses at her. She doesn't deserve his words.

He can practically hear her eye roll. Wood creaks from next to his bed, footsteps clicking against the cold stone floor, and then a light 'creeeeak' as a cabinet is opened on the far side of the room. Grumbling from the queen- insults, mostly. Clinks and clatters as she searches for something.

Cellbit's stomach twists and groans from hunger. Gods, what he'd give to be in his kitchen right now with Roier making dinner less than an arm's length away from him. Smoke in Cellbit's lungs, flavor already burning his tongue, fresh bread from the bakery across the street in front of him as an appetizer.

"There's soup on the table next to you," the queen says.

But it isn't Roier's soup, is the thing. It's probably poisoned. Or, worse, it's gross. Not enough meat, probably. Possibly even vegan, eugh.

How would the queen react if Cellbit told her that he only eats dishes with human flesh cooked into them? Would that be enough for her to send him home?

...Probably not, considering she seemed more upset about him being bad at escaping prison than him actually being in prison in the first place. That opens a whole bag of worms in itself, because how in the world does the queen know about Alcatraz when Cellbit's own in-laws don't? How long has she been stalking him for?

"If you need something lighter, I can have the kitchens send up some bread or crackers," the queen continues.

"I'm not hungry," Cellbit grumbles.

He's gone for longer than four days without food. During the war, it wasn't until Bad picked him up and taught him what his claws and fangs were good for that Cellbit started having dinner more than once a week. When he was put in solitary confinement in prison, he wasn't given food at all, and he was in that cell for at least five days at a time.

He's gone for longer than four days, so it has to be something in the castle that has made Cellbit so weak. Maybe it's something in the air, some kind of magic the queen is employing to try and break him down. The bed sheets might be laced with sickness runes. The guards constantly following Cellbit and Roier around might be warlocks in league with whatever demon is haunting the castle.

"Right," the queen sarcastically says. "You're not hungry. You just passed out after not eating for four days for no reason."

Cellbit bristles so literally that his ears tent the blanket above his head. He grits his teeth together and, not for the first time, he wishes that he still had his claws.

"Exactly," he grits out. He flexes his fingers, pretending the air he's scratching is the queen's stupid (identical) face. "So. Leave."

"I'm good, actually," the queen lightly responds. She sounds beyond pissed off, but she also sounds as calm as can be expected of royalty. Ugh. "I'm going to order some bread for you in just a moment."

Cellbit's ear twitches. "No."

"You're an alchemist, yes? You know what happens when you take a potion on an empty stomach. This might be the healer's quarters, but I will not have you throwing up all over her floor."

Cellbit pulls a bit of his blanket over and away from one of his eyes so he can glare at the queen properly.

"I'm not going to throw up," he scoffs. Who does she think he is?

Now that he can see the queen, he's even more annoyed. More than that, though, he's confused because... why? Why is she here? What kind of warden pays this much attention to their prisoner?

She's rooting through a large wooden cupboard filled with things Cellbit recognizes from his own supplies back home: healing potions, powdered unicorn's horn, phoenix feather, faerie dust.

"When you passed out, you hit your head pretty hard on one of your bedposts," the queen explains, ignoring him entirely. "Your husband has requested that you be given something to help with your pain, and you know that you can't take that without something in your stomach. Stop being stubborn."

"I'm not being stubborn," Cellbit huffs. "And I'm not in pain. So."

He isn't lying; he feels just fine. The only thing hurting is his stomach, and that's normal with starvation. He's more than used to the feeling by now.

"So you're going to take one dose of this potion to make your husband happy."

Oh, and now she's blackmailing him with Roier's emotions. Great.

Unfortunately for the queen, Cellbit knows his husband well enough to know that, if Roier wanted him to take a potion, he would be in the room force-feeding it to him himself. He wouldn't have Cellbit's current number one worst enemy try and do it, he isn't that cruel.

...Now that Cellbit thinks of it, where is Roier?

A bolt of panic grips Cellbit around his heart and he sits up in a flash, blanket flying off of him as his entire body tenses. His ears stick up on end, straining for any sign of Roier. Nothing.

"Where is he?" Cellbit demands.

He looks around the room and sees absolutely nothing that he can use as a weapon. Great. It's fine. It's fine! He can just-

Cellbit's vision swims, and he feels himself tipping to the side and off of the bed. The queen shouts, but he can't hear whatever she says over the sound of nothingness as he loses consciousness for the second time that day.

It takes much less time for him to wake up this time. He's up and trying to get to his feet within seconds of hitting the floor, his ears flat against his head and his eyes wide with panic as he fully decides that the queen may have, in fact, killed Roier. She had Cellbit drugged and she had Roier killed and now she's going to keep Cellbit in a much worse cell and she's going to torture him until he agrees that he's her brother and-

He's shocked back to reality as a blanket is dropped over his head from above. What?

"Roier is fine," the queen gently says. She's above him now, too- on the bed, probably, why? Is she trying to smother him? "He's the one who brought you here. He and the healer went to get some ice from the kitchens. She was going to go by herself, but he wanted to make sure she wouldn't try and poison you."

What a hero. Of course Roier would worry about the ice being poisoned, he and Cellbit both know a hundred ways to poison someone. It's hard not to know how to poison people in the potion business.

...But she's lying. The queen is lying. She hasn't told Cellbit the truth once since she first barged into his store.

...But the blanket over Cellbit's head is really heavy. Was it this heavy before? No, right?

Cellbit kneads his fingers into the knees of his trousers. He twists his wedding ring around his finger. His nose twitches. His lungs hurt.

"Still works," the queen mutters. What does that mean?

A few short, yet excruciatingly-long, moments of blanket and panic later, the door to the room slams open, and a pair of beautifully-familiar boots thud towards Cellbit. A second later, the blanket is ripped off of his head, and there's Roier holding a bowl of ice and looking so handsomely concerned.

"Gatinho..." he breathes.

And then he scowls and plops onto the ground in front of Cellbit, cross-legged. He puts the bowl down on his lap, leans forward, and grabs Cellbit by the face with both hands and squishes his cheeks together.

"I fucking told you to eat!" he shouts, only halfway angry. He squishes Cellbit's cheeks harder. "And now you are on the floor. Why are you on the floor, eh?"

"He fell," the queen responds. She's still on the bed, cross-legged herself, with her chin resting against her fist. "He wanted to search for you."

Roier 'awww's once before gently shaking Cellbit's head back and forth.

"What have I told you?" he scolds. "I'll always come back for you. Even when I die, I'll just haunt you as a sexy ghost. I'm not letting any stupid queen get rid of me?"

"Hey!" the queen protests.

Cellbit smiles, though, and he reaches up to place his hands over Roier's.

"Desculpe, guapito," he says.

Roier smiles back, his anger slowly fading from his face.

"Your forehead is all purple," he tells Cellbit. "Come here..."

He takes the blanket off of the floor and wraps it around a handful of ice cubes. It's a lumpy cold mess, but it's sweet, so Cellbit doesn't complain too much as Roier softly presses the makeshift ice pack against Cellbit's forehead.

Cellbit leans into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. He bites back a happy little purr. (Not in front of the queen...!)

Someone else walks into the room, but Cellbit couldn't care less about them. They have to be the healer, but there's nothing wrong with him. Nothing he can't fix himself with the right ingredients, anyway.

He cracks an eye open and glares up at the queen, who looks... thoughtful. Uh-oh.

"I'm not taking the potion," he tells her. "I don't drink anything I don't make myself."

The queen shrugs. "That's fine, then. There's a cauldron on the other side of the room. Right, Niki?"

She looks over her shoulder, and Cellbit can just barely make out a head of pink hair. Must be 'Niki', then. The healer.

"That's right!" the healer agrees. "You can use what you want! It's all in here somewhere!"

Roier leans in close and whispers, "That's Niki. She talks a lot about empanadas."

Cellbit's stomach grumbles at the mention of food, and he groans.

"Please don't mention food right now," he sighs, voice low.

"Mmm, or I can, and you'll eat something and we can go back to our room," Roier hums. He tenderly strokes Cellbit's cheek. "I'm in the mood for empanadas right now, actually. Ah, or mixiotes... or gorditas..."

Cellbit slumps forward against Roier's shoulder, bringing the ice with him.

"Guapito, please..." he whines.

"If you're hungry, I can have any of that made for you," the queen offers.

A growl bubbles up from Cellbit's throat, but Roier covers it up with a loud, "Ah! But how do we know you won't put poison in it, hmm?"

"Because I wouldn't poison my brother or my brother-in-law? That would be ridiculous!"

"Mhmm. But how can we be sure?"

"Let Roier cook for the both of us," Cellbit says. "That way, we know for sure that it'll be safe."

A beat. And then:

"Are you being serious right now?" the queen demands. "That was why you wouldn't eat? Because your husband wasn't cooking it for you?"

Cellbit turns his head to glare up at her. "You would starve yourself, too, if you had to go from his cooking to someone else's. His food is perfect. He could be a professional, you know."

The queen looks absolutely shocked. Positively bewildered. Confused beyond all belief. Angry, too. Annoyed.

"You are. Ridiculous," she stammers out. "But... fine. Yes! You should have just asked from the beginning! Oh my gods! You should have asked!"

She continues ranting about how silly Cellbit is for not trusting her despite them literally being family, which is absolutely ridiculous because, A, they aren't family, and, B, she literally knocked him out and kidnapped him and his husband and is holding them both captive.

But Cellbit doesn't listen. Instead, he thinks. Once he's back on his feet, he can actually start investigating. And then? He and Roier can go.

His stomach grumbles again; Roier giggles and pokes at Cellbit's belly and starts listing out potential dinner options in order of Cellbit's favorites to his least favorites.

...But first, dinner.

Finally.

#a.d.'s fics i suppose #a.d.'s fics i suppose. #catboy in the village au #was gonna write something else but then i decided i wanted them to Talk a little #fun fact: ba gi knows the blanket trick because it used to calm cell down when he was a kid #and it still works now #even though he himself doesn't know how or why it works #because he hasn't done it since he was a kid and he doesn't remember being a kid

[gophergal]

Honestly one of my favorite ship dynamics that I never see folks talk about is where they're just... Orbiting each other like satellites. A deep closeness, but not quite something explicitly romantic. Everyone around them has conflicting opinions on their relationship, but they never label it. Heartfelt declarations of trust, love, and friendship are non negotiable

#gopher rambles #ship dynamics #so many ships fit this imo #superbat #k/s #or if you'd rather call it #spirk #and i personally see #subscorp #that way. feel free to talk about your own faves like this #because its great. it always makes me feel so good. theres something about that deep affection and fondness #that trumps any regular 'falling in love' fics. more than friends but not in a romance centric way #they're best friends your honor. they are of one soul your honor. their love is deeper and more complex than you could understand your honor

[ajcrowlor]

It's so clear now that you are all that I have I have no fear cos you are all that I have

so i decided i wasn't actually all that happy with the background of this piece and redid it haha :'D

again, this is from a post-series Empty rescue plotbunny, it's yet another image of Dean and Cas in freefall (which is probs from watching too much Eureka Seven in hs), and have the soundtrack that is both inspired by this scene and acted as inspiration to draw this (mostly Snow Patrol's You're All I Have and Signal Fire being blasted on repeat):

(also how the FUCK do yall size your procreate shit for tumblr? i feel like everything i post looks like a pic i took with my first slide phone circa 2008... it makes potato quality look good *sobbing*)

#destiel #deancas #Supernatural #Supernatural art #Supernatural fanart #Tay art #Tay digital art #Tay SPN art #by god i will force my obsession with 90's power ballads on you all if it's the last thing i do #(yes i know some of these songs are from the 00's/10's hush the bands are best known for 90's power ballads so it still counts !!!) #woe orchestral string instruments be upon ye's rock music #will i ever write this fic ??? #:))) #(unfortunately rn my brain is very much Echoes/Inner Demons soup so that's the main bnuuy that's been eating away at me) #(ah yes. Echoes/Inner Demons. which i have. talked at length about. yes yes we all know about [REDACTED] how could we not?) #(this is comedy i have yet to talk abt it bc it's my baby and concept i have seen. 2. other ppl do.) #(and one of those fics was the spark for Echoes while DtA was the gasoline lol) #Taylor's plotbunnies #Spotify

[rhimestonetalks]

White Raven

Warnings: Dark content, spit kink, creepy behavior, non-con, cumming like everywhere, overall shitty Leon, mentions of stalking, he's rough with it, mentions of previous non-con, mentions of kidnapping (only at the end), breaking n entering, borderline somnophilia, abuse

A/N: I've shared this idea with someone b4 but now i'm going into FULL description bc yummm icky Leon

For the past two weeks, you've been waking up every morning with drool leaking from the corners of your mouth. You assumed you just had a habit to drool a lot in your sleep so you started leaving tissues on your bedside table so you can wipe that drool away when you wake up. It became a recurring thing that you just got used to. You saw nothing wrong with how much drool there was when you woke up, it seemed normal to you. It became normal to you. Unfortunately, it was anything but normal. The truth was much more sickening that you could possibly imagine, more sickening than anyone could imagine, and you were about to find out that truth in the worst way possible. At 3:00AM, the time typically associated with demons. They aren't far off on their assumptions honestly.

You barely awoke to the sound of your bedroom door creaking open. You were only half awake, your eyes still closed but your ears listening to the sounds in the room. Think of it as a defense mechanism, a safety protocol your body had set in place. Not like it would ever help you. It was only when whatever was in here started walking towards you did your eyes open just a little. All you could see in the darkness was a figure slowly starting to creep onto your bed.

You closed your eyes again, assuming it was just some sleep paralysis demon your brain conjured up to scare you. You've experienced this once or twice before and you knew you could ignore it to make it leave so of course you'd close your eyes and silently prayed it would leave. It didn't go away though. It wasn't going to go away. Not yet, not now, and probably ever. It's hand gripped your jaw and forced your mouth open. Why could you feel it? They've never touched you before and you really didn't expect it to be this realistic. In fact, it was unnerving. Your heart rate picked up and you tried not to breathe. You were sure it would disappear if you displayed no reaction.

but it didn't. It didn't go away. and now you were terrified. In a panic, you opened your eyes only to see a man. This wasn't sleep paralysis. Someone had broke into your house and was now on top of you. Out of nowhere, he spat into your mouth which he held open with his rough hand and suddenly everything clicked. You haven't been uncontrollably drooling for the past two weeks. This man had been entering your house and spitting over and over into your mouth.

Now your brain was in fight or flight mode. You weren't just going to sit back and let him do this because what the fuck? You were quick to try push him off but, unfortunately for you, this guy had a quick reaction time and he was incredibly strong. You didn't even have time to react by the time he had your arms pinned down with just one hand. You kept trying to struggle free, not wanting to see what happens next.

"Stop fucking struggling, it'll hurt more," he says with anger evident in his tone. You recognized that voice. Where did you recognize it from? Who knows. Who cares, frankly, he's clearly a sicko. "Get off of me!" you yell out and all you get in response is punched and fuck it stung. It dazed you for a few short seconds and all you could feel was blood slowly falling from your nose.

The daze didn't last long because you snapped back to reality when he started pulling your pants down. Oh fuck no. You started struggling again and, in response, he wrapped his hand around your throat, choking you. It wasn't long before both his and your pants were off and you knew that meant only one thing.

"It's your fault for struggling, if you had just sat there and taken it like a good girl we wouldn't be here," he says but you're too dazed to process what he's saying, you're just trying to breathe. He wasn't gentle at all. He had no respect, no moral, no fucks to give. He had been through hell and he believed he deserved all the gifts in the world, including you.

He thrusted in without any prep and, god, it hurt like hell. He was rough, and cruel, and he only cared about his own pleasure. His hips were ramming against yours and you were incredibly overwhelmed. Maybe you should've listened to him, maybe you should've just sat there and taken it. At least then he wouldn't do this and you could've just moved countries the next day. Oh god, now you were being manipulated into blaming yourself. You couldn't help it, not when all you could feel was him fucking you with no remorse while choking you to the brink of passing out. Could this count as torture? It should.

"I'm gonna make a fucking mess of you," he spoke through grunts while keeping his fast pace. You were sure you were about to cum but that was short lived when he pulled out and stroked his cock a few times before cumming all over you. Fucking.. gross. "I hope you didn't think you'd get to cum, you've been nothing but a bitch to me," he spoke again while looking down at you. Maybe he was a sleep paralysis demon, he certainly was a monster.

He spat again, right on your face and even had the audacity to use his hand and rub it around. You felt disgusted, humiliated, and worthless but, at least it was over, right? Wrong, his hand around your neck suddenly tightened and you started seeing black dots in your vision.

"I'm gonna keep you locked away with me so I can use that tight little pussy everyday," he said and the last thing on your mind was how absolutely fucked you were before you felt him thrust right back in.

Link to my profile :3

#leon kennedy #resident evil #smut #leon kennedy smut #leon s kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy x you #leon x reader #leon kennedy imagine #leon kennedy fanfic #resident evil smut #leon s kennedy #re6 leon #re6 smut #dead dove #nasty fic #rhimestone talks

[bongo-clash]

Peacock Au Part 2

Okay so!!! Part two of this post about the DPxDC eldritch Danny fic that I'm now calling the peacock au lmao!!!!

(Chapter two of the fic under the cut) (Edit: You can now find part 3 Here!!!)

-

When the feeling of being just slightly dispersed settles onto the outer layer of his skin while he’s lying in bed, Danny knows what’s about to happen.

The thing is, he’s in his pyjamas. Sure, he could just stay in his human form for the summoning- because he’s done it before and it went fine- but he never knows who it’s going to be, and being spirited away to some college students’ dorm in his pyjamas is embarrassing. And sure, having something appear in the circle in the first place is probably enough that they’re not paying attention to what he’s wearing either way, but he refuses to bank on that. So, with a sigh, he allows himself the transformation, his human appearance falling easily away. 

It always feels more natural to be a ghost during rituals, probably because they’re summoning a ghost and not a human, but still, it’s different. He feels that little bit looser, maybe even a little more himself, though he guesses being a bit more glow-y is just nice generally, and the space decals that tend pop up as part of his whole light-show-summons are a homely touch. On the other hand, it does make it harder to take stock of his surroundings when he finally fades into view wherever he is. He can make out vague grey walls and floors, but that’s about it. 

Well, that and the man in front of him. Blond, taller than him if he wasn’t in the air, somewhere past his forties, wearing a beige trenchcoat and looking oddly terrified. Danny can see his hands shaking just a little. Does he know this guy from somewhere?

“Uh, dude?” Danny calls, going for something light. It’s annoying being dragged from the comfort of his own home, definitely, but this guy doesn’t look like some cult member, and if he’s alone and this scared it might mean he really needs the help. Danny can sympathise with doing stupid things in stupid situations. “You good? You’re not looking too hot there.”

He knows he’s using ghost speak, but it feels weird to use English in a summoning like this, and fortunately, Danny spies a translation sigil wrapped around the inner centre of the circle, so he knows it should be translating right back to the guy in front of him. Very handy for language barriers, he’ll admit- and it’s working, too, if the reply is any indication. 

“I was told you could- you could help with the pits?”

His voice is gravelly, and he can’t tell if it’s because he’s nervous, doesn’t speak much, a smoker, or all three. Either way, probably not Danny’s business, and right now he’s just curious about what the man’s talking about. “Pits? That’s kinda vague, man. What pits?”

“The Lazarus pits to, uh, to be specific. There’s a huge one cropping up under Gotham that’s not supposed to be there, and the local- I mean, the locals are getting antsy about it. I… heard you could take care of ‘em.”

Lazarus Pits. He’s heard of those, Clockwork’s mentioned them a couple of times. They’re natural portals that open when enough energy is built up, and end up stabilising into the ground instead of collapsing to help seep ambient ectoplasm into the air. They don’t work as actual portals after that, but it’s vital to keep at least a few around no matter how corrupted they can get through human interference, because it keeps the balance of both realms steady. Having too many around isn’t a good thing, though, and especially not in populated areas. It can cause ecto-contamination, which is a lot more dangerous when you haven’t been around it since birth (or if you aren’t from Amity). 

Speaking of which, it certainly is stinking up the place, now that he’s aware of it. Or maybe that’s just Gotham, he’s heard a lot about-

Hang on. Gotham. Weird potentially magic dude. He knew he recognised him! That’s John Constantine! Danny’s heard of John Constantine! Sam’s got her fingers in enough credible occult spaces that they’re at least vaguely aware of some of his endeavours, but if he’s in Gotham then that probably means he’s doing something for the Batman and, wow, Danny totally would’ve tried to go more professional for this if he knew this was going to be his first encounter with the Justice League,of all things. 

Well, he guesses it’s too late now. At least the guy’s not being too weird about it or anything. “Man, yeah, I’ve totally got the smell stuck up my nose now that you mention it. Do you get that as well? Since, y’know, you’ve probably dealt with a couple ghosts.”

“Uh… no, I don’t think so. But can you fix it?”

Dang, the guy seems stressed about this. Maybe he just doesn’t like being in Gotham territory? He’s pretty sure he’s heard of Batman having a thing about magic. “Sure I can.”

“…Will you fix it?”

Danny figures that if they already know about his status through his Zone maintenance duties, and he’s going to be helping the Justice League, he might as well show off a little bit. Assenting with a hum and trying not to grin, he puts his hands to the floor, and lets his ectoplasm reach out to the source of the smell, sending a flash of light across the ground as it goes through. When it twinges back a response, he closes his eyes, and his energy curls around it, threading through like needles to seams, and pushes it shut with a gentle nudge. Luckily, it hadn’t been around for too long- barely fully formed and not even corrupted by human contact yet- it would’ve be a lot more difficult if it had. 

He lets his hands rise up again after a long moment, looking to Constantine for a reaction. He can’t quite gauge what the man is thinking. “Alrighty, that should’ve done it.”

“Uh… cheers?”

He’s about to say something along the lines of ‘no problem’ or ‘you’re welcome’, but then he remembers he should probably warn him about the aftermath so he doesn’t freak. “The pit shouldn’t come back again, but just as like, a PSA: you might see more shades than usual hovering around for the next while. It shouldn’t be too big a deal so long as you leave ‘em alone, though, so don’t worry about it.”

For all that Danny’s trying to be considerate here, Constantine doesn’t look very considerated. “Can I- uh, yeah, great advice. ‘Appreciate it. But, can I ask just, y’know, what you are? Or not.”

“…Dude, what d’you think I am?”He replies, thoroughly bemused. Isn’t this guy supposed to be one of the League’s paranormal experts or something? He really should be able to recognise a ghost by now. “I keep your Lazarus Pits in check. You know, the pits of the dead?”

Okay, maybe a little rude on his side, but he thinks Constantine’s expression is a bit of an overreaction; he can see the sheen of sweat across the man’s forehead reflecting the light of the sigils. “Fair enough! Forget I asked- cheers for sorting out that pit, though. Uh, don’t suppose you’ll just let me go on my way or anything now.”

“Well, I mean, this was a favour for Batman, right?” He asks blithely, pointedly not paying attention to the way the man’s face keeps contorting. He swears Sam said he was more stoic than this. “I’m gonna go- ‘cause I’ve got things to do- but I guess if something comes up I’ll come to you? Or Batman, since this is his city and all. Don’t worry, I’ll let you know.”

Figuring there’s nothing left to be said, Danny lets the return sigil on the edge of the circle activate and punt him back home, wheezing a half-sigh and arching his back once the wispy image of wherever they’d been recedes. He probably looks exhausted after all that- no matter how recently formed the pit was, it still takes a little strain, and he’d just been about to sleep before he got summoned- but looking in the mirror on his wall for confirmation, he doesn’t find his usual face. Something twinges against where his spine should be, confirming its own previously unnoticed presence in the mortal plane. 

…He didn’t go ghost when Constantine summoned him, he used his true form. That must be why he looked so nervous that whole time! And, man, ghostspeak never translates over quite right in this form, either- the Ancients use a different dialect to original ghostspeak- the man probably wasn’t hearing what Danny thought he was at all. What if the only reason he wasn’t attacking was because he was terrified? What must Constantine have thought of him? 

Crap. He has to fix this. How is he going to find him?

#Peppered in some of my own worldbuilding about ectoplasm/the pits in DC there but Still- #I just thought it'd be Really Funny if Danny had absolutely no clue what he was saying was coming across so terrifying #Like- sure he Can say that kind of ominous stuff on his own- but I think it'd be really great #If no one knew when it was a translation error or if he meant it #If there's any mistakes in the please be kind I forget how to read when I'm editing- #Chapter 3's already done so I should be posting that either tomorrow or the day after!! #It'll pretty much be the conclusion to this whole thing but I've been talking to Bones and she's got So Many cool ideas #That I really want to make a part 4 for because they're really fun!!! #Either way this has been really nice to do!!! #dp au #danny phantom au #dp fic #danny phantom fanfiction #dpxdc #danny fenton #danny phantom #Bongo's Aus!!! #Bongo's Writing!!! #peacock au

[johnnystorms]

avengers twilight!steve, on regrets, memories and tony stark. written post-avengers twilight #002. stevetony.

Steve has a lot of regrets. Tony—not the real one, the best friend he lost on the day he lost everything, but the one he keeps in his head, his mind’s best attempt at a ghost of the person he misses most—says that’s inevitable, living as long as Steve has.

C’mon, Cap, he says, smiling that way his Tony used to: eyes as bright as the future he was always talking about, everything in him shining. Or maybe that’s just how he looked to Steve, young enough back then to not yet have blinked the stars from his eyes. You live long enough, you run the risk of anything outweighing the good memories. His smile fades, not enough to disappear, but to become something smaller, quieter. Tinged with something requiring care. Do me a favour, handsome. Try not to let that happen to you.

Steve doesn’t like disappointing Tony Stark, not even the one dreamed up inside his head, but he thinks it might be too late on that front.

If someone asked for a list of regrets, he’d have to give that wry, hoarse laugh that makes him sound as old as he feels, and say, Nobody has time to listen to all that. If someone had asked Tony, he’d have a breathtakingly clever quip or an outpouring of guilt, depending on his mood, and who had asked. If it had been Steve, maybe both. Matt would have thought about it, long and hard, and disappeared to a confession booth. Peter – Jessica – Logan – Carol – all of them, he thinks, would have their own laundry list of hauntings, justified or otherwise.

That’s the name of the game, he thinks. You have to take the wins for what they are, but it doesn’t make the losses any lighter to bear. Steve’s posture isn’t what it used to be, even with the Defenders’ replicated super soldier serum in his veins, but his shoulders were shaking under the crushing weight of all his mistakes long before his age caught up to his body.

Janet isn’t here anymore to ask, but he doesn’t know what she’d say. It’s not that he thinks she has no regrets—even outside of the hero business, that’s a tall order for anyone—so much as that’s not how he remembers her. When he thinks of Janet van Dyne, he thinks of her deft fingers readjusting the lapel of the suit she designed and Tony cajoled him into; he thinks of her tinkling laugh almost being swallowed up by Thor’s booming one, the two of them bent double at the disgruntled expression Clint was shooting their way one golden night back when the world knew what heroes were meant to be; and he thinks of her clever, smiling mouth, and the way nobody could ever resist smiling right back. Steve had been no exception.

He misses it so fiercely it burns. Jan’s smile and Thor’s relentless steadiness and even Peter’s terrible jokes as he chased the Human Torch around the city. Carol’s quick fists and Jessica’s quick thinking and Natasha’s quick draw, and the time the three of them had a punch-up contest with the Thing that ended in an exasperated Tony footing the bill to the city and Johnny cackling as Sue dressed down Ben for his part in it. Luke’s laughter as he slung his arm over Danny’s shoulder and Jessica Jones taking photos of the two of them and Logan and Bobbi in the corner, trading tales of Hawkeye’s Greatest Hits: Indecent Exposure edition.

And Tony—always, always Tony. The press of him against Steve’s side, a reassuring line of heat, like, hey, you’re not alone anymore. You’re not cold anymore. You have a team. You have me. His tired eyes and easy smile and razor-sharp wit, even half-dead on his feet. The late nights where Steve coaxed him out of his lab with a hot drink and the promise of conversation, the early mornings where Steve would wear a worried frown and say, you should really sleep more, Tony, and Tony would grin at him and say, and give up these early mornings where you bring me coffee and those big blue eyes of yours? Never, and Steve would sigh, but there would be something fond tugging at the corner of his lips, and Tony would look all pleased with himself, animated in a way no caffeine fix could ever cause, and Steve would want—

Steve swallows.

You’re drifting, baby. It’s Jan’s voice, that classic combination of fond amusement and concern that Clint used to perk up at being addressed with and Tony used to call the van Dyne special, all those years ago. God, Steve misses them all. He aches with wanting. You’re drifting. Bring it back home, Steve. Start with the most important bit. Let’s take it from the top.

There isn’t a team to report to anymore. It is not a new fact, a new thought, but every time, it hits him like a concrete block to the ribs.

There isn’t a team to report to anymore, but Steve Rogers breathes in, and thinks about it anyway. Take it from the top. The most important things.

How the tables turn, Tony says. He’s the only one Steve keeps. All his other ghosts flit in and out of his head, coming and going like the tides, but Tony is the forever haunting. The only one his mind holds onto on a permanent basis. D’you remember, oh, all the way back near the start -- one time you asked me if it got exhausting, thinking so much.

Steve remembers. Steve has never forgotten anything Tony Stark gave him, be it physical or a vow or just the smallest memory that wasn’t intended as a secret but became one in Steve’s desperate hands. The world has taken so much from him, from all of them, ever since H-day. He can’t talk about Tony, because what if the world takes that from him too?

How the tables turn, Tony says again, soft in that way most people didn’t believe Tony Stark could be. Steve knew, though. Steve’s always known. You look exhausted, Steve. Don’t let it be so big. Just -- right now, right at this moment. What’s the call, Cap?

That was what Tony had said that day, Steve remembers. The world was on fire, and about to become a whole lot colder, and they didn’t know that, didn’t know anything about what was to come, just that this was it, this was the moment, this was the do or die, and Tony had stood at his shoulder, the armour a familiar comfort against Steve’s side, and asked, What’s the call, Cap?

An itemised list of all of Steve Rogers’ regrets would take too long, and a ranked list of all time would be impossible to decide upon when Steve has such a long memory and even longer history.

So, in its stead, Steve thinks, he’ll give Tony the right now.

STEVE ROGERS’ TOP THREE REGRETS RIGHT AT THIS VERY MOMENT, 0142HRS, DEC 31 20XX, COUNTING DOWN:

3. Rosa. He’d deserved the slap. He’d deserved a lot of things, really. He’d had good years with Rosa; years of her no-nonsense love, of her careful hands, of the way she looked at him in the quiet of the night with all the warmth their little home could hold, like she still saw something worth believing in him. Maybe she did. He thinks she probably did. His wife was a lot of things, most of them good, but above all else, she was never a liar.

He’s sorry he blew up her life. He’s sorrier about that than the fact he blew up their life together, but that’s always the way it goes with him, isn’t it? There’s nothing he’s felt he had to keep more than the shield. It’s not that they matter less to him—God help him, but it’s not about the love. There’s never been a lack of love—but to his bones, to his core, he’s always been the guy who wants to stand up and help. If the fight needs to be had, he’s going to stand there, fists up, no matter who he is, no matter how old he is. No matter how super he is.

He knew that about himself a long time ago. Maybe if he’d stopped pretending that had changed, Rosa wouldn’t be stuck here now.

2. It’s a little one, in the scheme of things, but it also feels more important than almost anything else at this moment. He wishes he’d touched Matt, that last time they saw each other. Gone are the days where Steve would clasp his friends by the hand, something lost to time and loneliness and gradually brittled bones, but he wishes desperately that he’d clasped his hand to Matt’s shoulder one last time. Just a moment. Just enough for some phantom warmth on his palms, a tangible ghost of Daredevil, not just something dreamed up by his mind in the moments when losing almost everyone he’s ever trusted is insurmountable.

1. He doesn’t know where to begin with this one. H-day. The way it went down. Peter bleeding out in front of him. James Stark growing up without his parents, the best of them both twisted into something Steve can’t look at directly without feeling hopeless, helpless. Clint’s arrow snapped in half, a crater where the Thing should be. His last sight of Reed Richards, stretching further than he’d ever seen before as he reached out desperately towards his wife. Tony’s voice in his ear: what’s the call, Cap?

And that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? His biggest regret. This one, he suspects wouldn’t change even if it was an all-time list. Tony Stark, the vibrant, blaring truth of him. Something Steve misses so desperately that when the world forced him to live without him, he made up a version of him to keep in his head forever.

It’s more similar to #2 than he thought. He has so many regrets, and so many of them are about Tony Stark—about that day, about missing people, about loving people and losing them because of the fight, whether they were lost in the fight or he left them behind to join it—but more than anything, he thinks he misses the feeling of Tony’s hand in his, pulling him in close, arm going around Steve’s shoulder to draw him into a hug.

I’m not half as good at anything as I am when I’m doing it next to you, Tony says, years ago, so far away from this moment that it might as well have been another world, and Steve, old and jaded and lonely and tired and missing the person he loves best so fiercely it aches in his lungs, thinks, You and me both, Tony. You and me both.

You and me. You and me. You and me.

-

(When the dossier falls open in front of him, with a blueprint of a tank and photos of him—photos of Tony, and even Tony in pieces makes Steve ache with something he thought had long been buried—spill out, let’s get it from the world’s smartest man, Tony Stark echoing in his ears—

Steve, for a moment, wants to throw up.

Then his jaw sets.

All right, Tony, he thinks. He doesn’t know if he’s addressing the ghost in his head, or the one in the tank, or some nebulous third thing, a Hail Mary thrown to the universe, some last passage of faith he thought he’d forgotten. What’s the call? You and me. That’s the call. I’m getting you out of there.

I’m bringing you home.)

#stevetony #steve rogers #tony stark #avengers twilight #stony fic #read av twilight 2. talked to 616 s/t server abt it. wrote this on and off at work that day bc i keep thinking abt steve in it lol #can't wait for this to all be jossed in issue 3 LMAO #jane writes sometimes #you gave me a home #apparently this is 1.9k which is probably excessive for a tumblr ficlet but in my defence this was just meant to be the list

[travelling-on-the-octopath]

“It was made of someone, wasn’t it?”

MOSS?? MOSS!!!! MOSS??*)8$3(#02

All right I literally just woke up so excuse me if I'm incoherent but this is also the literal best way to wake up. You. You. His expression, the minimal light/exposure, thE WAY FAILNAUGHT LOOKS LIKE ANTLERS ON HIM......MOSS!!!! 😭😭😭😭💕💕💕💕💕💕 Ugh I'm literally fucking obsessed I can't stop looking at it. I can't thank you enough for this 🥺🥺🥺💕💕💕

The fic that inspired this lovely lovely art is Ossification (Hung Stag, Hanged Stag); feel free to poke your nose around if you want something a little dark and very miserable.

#i wanna hang this on my wall #no pun intended fkdhdksksl #thank you again moss 🥺🥺 honestly genuinely this means the world. it's gorgeous. #s responds #s talks fic #wild-moss-art #claude von riegan #the way you brought Ossification to life fkdbsks I'm gonna be thinking about this all day #fe #fe3h (the remix)

[mamawasatesttube]

no you know what? fuck you *untims your kons*

#is this anything #rimi talks #maybe this is about how most of the tag doesnt deserve kon 😩😩😩😩 #but also MAN. today im gonna actually figure out how to start the oneshot rotating in my mind the past few days Or Else !!!!! #i gotta. i gotta!!! tim needs to get beat up so kon can be scary about it :) #we need more fics in the world about ttk being fucking op and im doing my part #lord. my memory is so bad. ''fuck you. *un[x]s your [y]s*'' is how the meme goes right

[paul-situations-matthews]

Listen I need I need I need Artemis and Paul Schue-Horyn from Wayward Guide to investigate Hatchetfield like can you IMAGINE

#list of fics I’ll probably never write :( #theres 2 Pauls running around and one of them is a werewolf and Artemis is all up in Solomon Lauter’s business #Paul S just accidentally wanders into the church of the starry children doing something in the witchwood and gets double cursed #while he was trying to do something completely different #everyone in hatchetfield knows what a podcast is but they’re all physically incapable of talking into the mic when being interviewed #nightmare time #hatchetfield series #team starkid #tin can bros #wayward guide #wayward guide for the untrained eye #hatchetfield

[avisisisis]

Something I love about ATLA is that it doesn't force the "forgive the villain" on all the characters. It's been left clear that Ozai is a bad person, and there's no chance of redemption; the only reason he's not dead yet is because Aang is a pacifist

The one episode where a character is supposed to forgive someone who has hurt them in the past is the one where Katara is off to kill a man (which, fair) and Zuko helps. In that episode, even if Aang is telling her to let go, she doesn't forgive him. She never will. But she spares him. Not because she thinks he doesn't deserve death (he does), but because she's not willing to continue the cycle of violence

Killing someone can have a very important impact in your entire being, mostly depending on who you are as a person. Aang would've never recovered from killing Ozai. Katara wouldn't be who she is now, had she taken her revenge on the man that killed her mother

And the best part of it is that Ozai doesn't deserve to die. Not in a "I'm defending him" way (ew), but in a "he deserves worse that than" way

Taking away his bending was the perfect punishment for him. He believed bending made you superior and he never cared enough to train something besides his bending. What a loser. Zuko and Azula wouldn't be restrained by something like that

He's alive. Nobody has forgiven him. Nobody ever will

#on a “ozai deserves smth worse than death” mood #which is. my everyday mood but we're not talking about that #read a fic where ppl were mad ozai was still alive #zuko clarified that he's still alive not only bc that's what aang wanted but bc death would be a mercy for him #that's the man who ruined everybody's life(s). you can't tell me we can just let him die like that #and they're not even torturing him. he's just in prison #but he's so fucking weak that not having his bending = torture #pathetic #honestly what did he even do? his entire family was better than him #zuko was better at any kind of fighting and he learned firebending from the fucking dragons #azula is. azula! she bends blue fire and is the best at lighting n stuff #iroh created a whole new bending technique and broke out of prison w no bending #ursa killed the fucking fire lord #i mean sure ozai can shoot lighting out of his hands. but so can iroh! so can azula! #his 14 year old daughter is better than him #she could kick his ass if she wanted #but that's her dad right there and the obssession she has w pleasing him is straight up unhealthy #man. poor azula #anyways back to the point: ozai is pathetic #loserlord indeed #atla #avatar the last airbender #fire lord ozai #zuko #aang #katara #azula #uncle iroh #avis' post #avis talks

[puppy-steve]

if you're a steddie writer who writes bottom/sub steve only can you please interact with this post? i need to follow more of yall bc tumblr isn't actually that fun when you have to scroll past filtered post after filtered post :(

#cj talks #im glad s*beddie week was fun for some of yall but it really isn't my cup of tea 😔 #i need to fill my dash more with tropes that i personally enjoy and make me happy #steddie #bottom steve harrington #sub steve harrington #steddie fic writer #steddie fic

[powderblueblood]

STEVE HARRINGTON X MILLION DOLLAR MAN !!!!

( idk if that’s what you meant 😭 pls delete if it’s not <3 )

send me 🎵+ character name and i’ll write a lil blurb inspired by a song from their playlist (you can also request songs and i will do my level best. god is a dj and i'm god)

▶ MILLION DOLLAR MAN - LANA DEL REY

you've got the world, but baby at what price? or how falling in love with notorious conman steve harrington began your career as a fence of stolen jewelry.

an: @stveharringtn cherry how the fuck did you know that i've been sitting on a conman!steve au for what feels like a hundred thousand years. PERFECT SONG PERFECT CHOICE lets begin i hope you like it

warnings: my blatant obsession with the oceans eleven cinematic universe and pathological need to create a heist au out of EVERYTHING. and CUSSING IS IN THIS TOO.

word count: 2.5k

MIAMI BEACH, 1990

“Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned safe?”

“I don’t trust a safe. I don’t trust me, I don’t trust you, and I most definitely don’t trust a safe.”

Dustin Henderson dangerously toes the edge of squawking, but he doesn’t know any better. At this point in his career as a thief, he doesn’t understand that when Steve Harrington says he doesn’t trust anyone, it’s not dismissive. It’s simply a missive, a fact of life. Everyone’s got knives, everyone’s got backs. Stands to reason that someone’s going to thrust and someone is going to get stabbed. 

Steve likes to take all the necessary precautions. 

He doesn’t trust anyone. 

“But her you trust?” 

Robin Buckley’s tone is hard. Robin Buckley is the only person that Steve could imagine himself trusting, and even so, they keep each other at an imperceptible arm’s length. To the outside world, they’re bosom buddies, best friends eating dirt together. But they both understand the business that they’re in. 

They keep their knives sharp.

They take all the necessary precautions. 

So why the fuck is Steve bringing an outsider into the ring. 

“I never said that.” Steve grabs a coaster and pointedly puts it where Robin might next aim her beer bottle, dripping with incriminating condensation. All over his agarwood coffee table. 

“It was inferred.” Robin pointedly puts the bottle down– to the far left of the coaster. Fuck you.

“I don’t see how that’s my problem.” Fuck you right back. 

“I know why he’s not using a safe,” Eddie Munson crows from the near background, wiping ash from his face. Eddie Munson, munitions expert. Eddie Munson, expert in blowing up any conversation within a three mile radius. Detonation test, by the way, that’s why his face is covered in shit. 

Steve holds out a hand–stop right where you are–before he can reach the agarwood table. 

“Because he’s–” and proceeds to make that finger in hole gesture that doesn’t crack a single smile in the room. Not even Dustin Henderson’s, mostly due to the fact that it’s happening behind his head. “Because he’s fucking her.” 

“It’s not that,” Steve and Robin say in unison, with Steve’s eyes narrowed on Eddie and Robin’s eyes trained unmercifully on Steve. 

It’s not that. They’re right. It’s worse. 

-

There’s something psychosexual about the game of tennis. The grunting, the tiny little skirts, the whacking of balls. The amount of money rich people love to spend on it. There’s something evil here, and you’ve committed yourself to a summer of trying to figure it out. 

Well, half-committed. Your real commitment is making enough tips to make a dent in your looming student loans. Post-graduation, a friend had given you a hot tip about private tennis clubs in Miami. They use hundos like napkins there, girl. Go get your piece. 

Your nana lives in Miami. Lived. She’s dead now, three months. You’re living in her condo now– technically in a seniors complex, assisted living type of thing, but it’s okay. It’s quiet. The people chat and force you to play bocce ball sometimes, the only sport you understand. 

Tennis, you don’t understand, other than the fact that these people have more money than they know what to do with and they’re all too repressed to grunt in the privacy of their own homes. 

After a time or two taking drink orders and bringing their rackets for in-house repair, they all blend into the same amorphous blob– the white outfits-on-white people effect does not help. They tip you in enormous digits, confident that you’ll remember them and treat them right, but you don’t have that skill. Some of your co-workers do, but you don’t. 

So, you notice when someone stands out. 

You smell him before you see him, and you know how that sounds, but bare with– 

The thickening, insistent incense smell of patchouli. Rainwater. Dust. Lemon.

When you turn from your place behind the bar, fetching your eighth double vodka soda in what seems like as many minutes for another bleach-blond man in his mid-forties, he’s leaning with one elegant elbow propped on the marble top. Sunglasses push over a shock of brown hair, streaked with blonde from the Florida sunshine. 

“Macallan, buddy. Up.” But he’s not talking to you. He’s talking to the bartender, Trent, the picture of incompetence. Trent nods to him, smiling broadly, but that flattens into a hard line as he turns toward the bar. 

This guy politely turns his head, eyes glossing right over you. But you are just staring a bullet hole right though him, and you can’t help it. He’s magnetic. He’s dressed in a light blue linen suit, a far cry from the tennis uniforms or the hollering Versace shirts every other man in the place seems to be wearing. The slope of his shoulders suggest something… provincial. 

He’s not a city boy– man. This is a man. 

You hear a clatter to your immediate right and see Trent pouring a finger of Chivas into a tumbler. 

“Oh, Trent, that’s not–” 

He passes it off to the linen gentleman, this Miami cowboy, with a serene smile. Most people wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a Chivas and a Macallan, but you would. 

And you bet he would too. 

He departs in a cloud of the same heavenly scent he’d arrived in, heading courtside to watch trust fund kids fumble over backhands. 

“Trent,” you say, reaching for the correct bottle and a fresh tumbler. “Meet Macallan. For next time, okay?” 

The blond kid just shrugs at you. “All that shit tastes the same to me.” 

To you. 

You linger near the arm of his chair before speaking, suddenly able to hear your pulse in your ears. Up close, you can see moles dotting the hand holding the errant glass of Chivas. A big hand too, it seems to dwarf the crystal. 

“Excuse me,” you say, as steady as you can manage. It’s not very steady. You wish you would’ve thought to check your makeup before you made a beeline out here, but time, you couldn’t help but feel, was of the essence. 

He looks up at you over his sunglasses and you think your knees might buckle. 

Eyes like a dark wood. Inviting you in. The kind of eyes that don’t look through you. 

Christ, people had been looking through you all summer, but it didn’t matter now. 

“Is that the Macallan?” he mumbles conspiratorially. 

You just– nod, uniform-required ponytail bouncing. 

“I’ll trade you,” he says, about to pass off the glass of Chivas, but then he pauses. Takes you in, surveying you in a way that makes you blush, “if you can finish this one with me.” 

“Um…”

“Is that allowed?” he asks, “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

Trouble be damned. The hell with trouble. Not only is your reputation as a little worker bee here untarnished, you can’t not sit with him. 

“I’m due a break, actually.”

“So I’ll trade you. Sit down, get comfortable. Give me the scoop on these tennis brats.”

He leans in to take the glass of Macallan from you, to pass off the glass of Chivas, and he brushes your hand. You experience the full entirely of a cliche, feeling electricity thrum under your skin– but then he passes a fingertip over the ring finger of your right hand. 

“That’s a pretty piece,” he hums, “Princess, right?”

For a second, you falter. Princess? Me? But it’s the ring he’s referring to– the yellow diamond engagement ring that once belonged to your nana. 

“Close!” you say, twisting the band on your finger in an act of self-consciousness. “Carré cut. Less pricey than a princess.”

“But just as pretty.” 

“And more rare, actually.” 

“Huh,” he says, and you smooth your skirt out with one hand, taking the seat nearest him. Enveloping yourself in the cloud of him. “Rarer than a princess.” 

From the court, a headband-wearing pre-teen in dazzling whites hollers fuck you, Mommy! Fuck you and your fucking bullshit topspin! I fucking hate this place!

“I’ll drink to that.” 

-

NEW YORK CITY, 1995

The car door slams behind Dustin Henderson, raindrops rolling from the brim of his baseball cap. It’s late November and a freezing rain has descended upon the Diamond District. 

Steve had at least hoped he might see sunshine when he got out of the joint. 

From the wheel, he cranes his neck to the back seat where Dustin sits, wiping the dripping water from the hat’s beak. His Thinking Cap. He’s had that thing since he was a kid and has somehow managed to keep it in immaculate condition. Dustin loves details. Dustin also loves risk. Which is why he’s the only man for this recon job. 

“Tell me,” Steve says, tone as level as he can possibly keep it. 

“She is way hotter than I remember.”

“Dustin.”

“Miami always makes people less hot. I think it’s the heat,” the kid chuckles, an obvious attempt at lightening a tense mood. See, they weren’t supposed to be here. They weren’t supposed to be looking for you. Robin hadn’t said don’t go looking for her, but that more or less should have been in the terms of Steve’s release from Sing Sing. 

“Dustin.” 

“She’s in there, just like you said she’d be in there. It’s a white room and it’s got every kind of goddamn sparkler you could think of. Three layers of security. Three. What kind of jewelry store you ever been to that’s got three layers of security?” 

A detail like that would make a less accomplished thief sweat. But Dustin and Steve share a knowing smile. 

“A jewelry store selling stolen jewelry.” 

“Exactly,” Dustin nods. “I thought she’d be front-of-house, but she’s got her own office. Tucked away in the corner. Appointment only.” 

“Any availability?”

The younger man smirks. “For me or for you?” 

-

Buddy’s is the last place in midtown you can get a decent drink and not be surrounded by throngs of yuppies. 

You know this, because you tend to date the yuppies in the throng. 

This is the one place that seems to be universally avoided by the trader set– it’s too dark and wooden in here, no brutalist architecture to make them feel at home while they rail lines of coke off their girlfriend’s compact mirrors. 

At Buddy’s, there’s a pianist that’s been propping up the corner for the last half century, minimum. A carpet that’s never been shampooed spreads across the floor and the mahogany is dented in all the places the light doesn’t hit. You can smoke indoors. Everything Happens to Me by Chet Baker will play, and everything feels like it’s going to be alright. At least until happy hour ends. 

You have a regular seat by the bar, a vantage point for people-watching. A gin martini, hold the vermouth, sits waiting for you by the time you arrive. On an average Thursday, you spend a couple of hours drinking three of these in an act of decompression from the violent fluorescent lighting of your workplace. From peering through a looking glass, examining the way light refracts through gemstones. 

From moving cargo that isn’t yours to move. 

This Thursday has been no different. 

You drag a finger along the condensation of your martini glass, it’s perfect conical shape a welcome weight in your hand. 

Your hair is piled up on top of your head, and you wear your reading glasses, and though you are beautiful, no one bothers you. Nothing bothers you. 

Until you hear a sound you haven’t heard in years. 

Tapping, against the bartop. One, one. Two, two. Three, three. Nerves. It was the only time you could ever tell that he was nervous. 

“Macallan, buddy. Up.”

Fucker.

-

He knew you by every single detail about you, let’s get that straight. 

He is entirely sure that in a room of a thousand clones of you, he would be able to pick out the real one, just from your minute sigh. From the way your one shoulder always slopes. From curl at the base of your neck. 

From the way you play with your grandmother’s Carré cut diamond, still sitting pretty on your right hand. 

He positions himself a number of seats away from you, from the seat that he’s been watching you sit at for a couple of nights in a row now. He does not approach you directly. 

Partially to see if you’ll still remember him. 

Steve is still vain, in his ways. He wants a spotlight shone on him. 

He only ever remembers the warmth of yours. 

He orders the same drink he ordered that day you met at the tennis club, the same way. He even hopes the bartender will mistake the Chivas for the Macallan and you’ll have to climb over the bar and charmingly correct him. But Antoine, as he’s heard you call him, has been behind this bar longer than Saint Peter at the pearly gates, so there’s no fear of that. 

You don’t react right away, and he doesn’t expect you to. He savors it, in fact, the opportunity to slyly watch you. Even if you’re seething. Even if you’re seething, you’re seething like a goddess might seethe. Horrifying and beautiful, all at once. The definite end of him. 

Then, the lack of attention you’re showing him stretches on a beat too long. 

“Excuse me,” he says from his spots a couple of seats down, “Can you do me a favor?”

You don’t respond. This doesn’t stop him. Never has.

“You mind tasting this for me?” Steve pushes the glass toward you, sending it sliding down the bar. You catch it with your right hand, yellow diamond catching in the light. A cut like that has never sparkled until you’ve worn it. “You think that’s Macallan or Chivas? Be honest.”

Steve’s fingers flex unconsciously as you lift the glass. Tilt it toward your lips. Still making no eye contact. But you don’t sip. 

“I think you should be in prison,” you say into the crystal tumbler and place it back on the bar top. “Why the fuck are you not in prison.” 

Steve closes the space between you, taking in that powdery perfume you’re still wearing after all this time. Candied violets. He settles into the beside you and props his palm under his chin. 

“Why are you selling stolen jewelry.”

He sees you tense for a brief moment, then release. Like you knew he’d say that, like you should have seen that coming. Because you know him, and you always see him coming. Other than Robin, you’re the only one that ever has. 

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

“So that when some bastard in a bad linen suit asks me to hold on to some stolen jewelry, I’ll at least know how much it’s worth.”

A beat. You stare Steve down with such naked disdain that his heart twists in his chest. You hate him, and he sees that, and with all the evidence stacked up against you, he should hate you too. But that wasn’t what bit him.

“That suit wasn’t bad, Princess.”

#powder room talk #stveharringtn #s. harrington by powder #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x f!reader #heist au #conman!steve you will live forever unlike danny ocean who is apparently dead. #stranger things fic #published by powder #blurbs #clear cut