#fire metaphors and such my beloved

[tangents-within-tangents]

Exactly!

Like there are seriously people on threads rn dead set that it is "just headcanon." I've seen them quote her, going "She said 'I'm not anything' but that doesn't prove anything, she could be lesbian!" 😑

Honey

1 No that's not what lesbians say??

2 If you look at literally the EXACT SAME speech bubble, you will see that what Yelena actually says is: "No I'm not a lesbian, I'm not... anything"!!

It's really not that hard to just let us have representation for once

Male character: I'm not attracted to women.

Fandom: Oh, he's gay.

Female character: I'm not attracted to men.

Fandom: Oh, she's a lesbian.

Any character: I'm not attracted to anybody.

Fandom: Well, we don't know that they're ace/aro/aroace. It's open for interpretation. They're not canonically ace/aro/aroace unless they specifically say they are.

Hmmmm. I wonder why we're so frustrated in fandom spaces. I wonder if there's a reason.

[tortoisesshells]

29.

[harmonysanreads]

I NEED MORE PUPPY PHAINON, imagine that his beloved was offended by him, and he literally walks on his knees after her, asking for forgiveness, lol

Can be read as a continuation to this piece.

Phainon has become more partial to hating silence in his recent years.

It wasn't always this way though and in certain conditions, he finds himself craving a particular flavor of silence. But in the other, majority of cases, that deafening vacancy of noise reminds him of memories he’d rather forget. To placate that discomfort, he embellishes the void with sound no matter how small, or with his own voice.

Still, the ache is manageable, not voracious enough to make him dramatically restless. Where this faint modicum of control fails as well is when you, in all your cruelty, cast that curse of silence upon him as a direct consequence of anger.

In the name of the Titans, he prays you’d scream at him, hit him couple of times, destroy his house and belongings — anything, anything besides this nonverbal torture he can withstand. But he's not one to dwell in unfair complaints. Especially when your downturn gaze, pressed lips and crossed arms affirm so loudly that he's messed up.

By now, he’s exhausted almost every tactic in his arsenal to get you to acknowledge him again — apologizing, pinching his ears, making funny faces, wrestling a titankin and two whole repeats of that cycle. But you didn't let this opportunity go to waste in showcasing how good you’ve gotten in keeping a blank face in truly tumultuous situations, much to his chagrin in this instance.

It's only when you, most likely fed up with his antics, started to walk away that he scrambled to try again.

“My sun, my moon, my star, my light — please, please please please, look at me? Just once?” you're halted by a tug at your sleeve. A twinge of something softens your resolve as you realize how Phainon remembered, wrestling with his desires to not touch you until he's earned it again.

You can feel the weight of his eyes on your back, you pray that he didn't notice you waver. You steel yourself and stubbornly keep the act steadfast, conflicted before dropping the charade in favor of melting into his arms and forgetting altogether. But you can't, you’ve already promised to wring the confession on the errors of his ways this time.

You glare at the splinters in the earth, “Haven’t I told you once? If you keep calling me things that will never be yours, I might just become the same.” it takes everything to keep your voice even.

You don't need to look to picture Phainon's sure dumbfounded blinks, the churning and turning of metaphorical cogs as they shift in his head, neurons firing and synapses piecing together the implication of your cold comment.

You make the mistake of expecting only a gust of wind and are hit instead with a fully powered storm, in the form of a dull thud that you recognize as the hero’s knees hitting the ground when you're forced to spin as his arms find refuge in clinging to your thighs.

“I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry — I am so SO sorry. I promise I won't do it again, I swear on the Flame-Chase — no, I swear on Aedes Elysiae that I will never do it again! If I do, may I face a fate worse than death itself. Just… just please, forgive me.”

There's an ache in your heart, sudden, quick and flighty. Kephale's light cradles you both, the corners of Phainon's eyes shine with something. By instinct, you try to escape the painful grasp of the hero, try to. Stumbling a few steps in what you intended would create space, resulting in Phainon getting dragged alongside your movements — sans a care in the Deliverer’s countenance.

“Phainon, I'm going to fall if you don't —” you try to bargain and fall, you do.

One ghost of a touch against the pavement is all you recall, so faint it can be disregarded completely. Your gasp gets muffled in something soft and firm, a mix of the perfume you recognize as yours and something else too convoluted to remember in the heat of the moment canopies your senses.

When the brief storm settles, a sigh slips past your lips. You don't even need to look up to know where you ended up landing.

But an insistent grasp angles your gaze against your wishes upward, you don't offer further resistance as pity grips your heart, “My dearest, beloved, my love, honeycakes with whipped cream on top, my life… won't you show me mercy?”

You calmly maintain Phainon's gaze, searching his face for any trace of dishonesty. The glossy blues of atonement prompts you to be petty one last time, “You don't care much about your life though.”

At this, Phainon completely deflates, collapsing in your arms. “Oh come on! Will you just say yes?”

At the faintest chime of the giggle you fail to quieten, he burrows further in the crook of your neck, arms coiling with a force you're no stranger to by now. Phainon shifts to adjust your position on his lap and changes tactics at the last moment, seizing your momentary lack of guard to launch an aimless attack of kisses.

You can only thank the barren side of Okhema city you two had chosen now, you do not want to think of what you’d have to do to get him off of you had this been a crowded place. The agony that came with the thirty something minutes of deprivation Phainon tolerated is much prominent, a burn lingers around your cheeks and neck. He refrains from completely leaning towards your lips though, still mindful that you haven't yet affirmed in words.

“Okay okay! You're forgiven, good heavens.” you heave, Phainon's exclamation of joy gets lodged in his throat prematurely, “But, you'll be sleeping on the couch today.”

You regret uttering that almost instantly, it's as if every particle of the hero’s life force has been drained mercilessly, appearing as though he might really cry this time.

You avert your eyes, forcing a sigh, “Ah, well, nevermind. You can sleep next to me — but I'll still be keeping a pillow barrier in the middle! Don't forget I'm still… still mad at you.”

As if on cue, Phainon springs back to life once more. Perhaps it's just your enervated eyes, but apparitions of what you can only assume to be puppy ears flick to and fro on top of his head. Caught in a trance, you reach out to ruffle those snow-white tresses and your lover melts.

You know your imposed punishment won’t last for more than ten minutes into the slumber and you’ll be coaxed with these antics again and again. But for this moment, you suppose it won't hurt to allow yourself to indulge and believe, that everything is okay.

[doodle-pops]

Sweets and Treat

Fingon x modern human!reader

A/N: I have arrived with my beloved Fingon and another modern reader fic (*^▽^)/★*☆♪

Warnings: none, absolutely fluff and sweetness, modern human reader

Words: 3.7k

Synopsis: An attempt to bake your favourite treat, ends in burns, bandages and a sweet confession.

Masterlist | Navigation

The soft scent of crushed athelas and lavender hung in the warm air of the apothecary, mingling with the crisp breeze that filtered in through the open windows of Elrond’s homestead in Valinor, where ivy clung lazily to carved stone archways and light fell like gold through the treetops. There you stood elbow-deep in mortar and pestle duties, sleeves rolled to your forearms as you worked with slow deliberation to grind dried herbs into a fine powder after a long morning of bandaging over-eager hunting injuries and tending to minor wounds.

The healing house was quieter now since the earlier flurry of activity had dwindled to a few murmured conversations and the occasional bark of laughter from the ward beyond. Not too long ago, you had just begun to sort a small pile of freshly laundered bandages when you heard the sound of familiar footsteps, accompanied by the subtle rustle of robes and the telltale clink of vials in a tray.

“Is it safe to enter,” came a teasing voice from the threshold, “or will I be assaulted with flying gauze and foul language again?”

Looking up and arching a brow at Calwen, a fellow healer whose wry smile always hinted at mischief, and had taken to delight in troubling you at any available opportunity.

“Depends,” you replied, brushing a strand from your forehead with the back of your wrist. “Are you bringing news of another poor soul who mistook a sword for a walking stick?”

“Worse,” she said with a grin that immediately set your internal alarm bells ringing. “We’ve got a new patient in the east wing. Rather urgent, or so he says. Requested you specifically.”

That alone prompted you to frown. “Is it that reckless idiot who tried to cauterise his own arm last week?”

Tilting her head while her lips twitched, she bore a ‘clueless’ expression. “Couldn’t say. Though I do recall a certain someone promising to throw the next fool who lit themselves on fire into the nearest fountain.”

“Glad you’re keeping track of my threats.”

“Always. They bring such flavour to the place.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why do I feel like I’m walking into a trap?”

There was no reply, only a suspiciously bright smile as she handed you a rolled up parchment of paper and turned sharply on her sandals before disappearing around the doorway with the flounce of someone who knew far more than she was willing to say. You didn’t know what else to possible say or do. Being around a class of people in a league entirely above you, left you exhausted as you tried to understand their love for being poetical, theoretical, hypothetical and metaphorical. You didn’t have time for such a brainrot moment.

Keeping the last of your two brain cells sane, were your jot and comfort in this foreign land.

Sighing, you set aside your tasks, you wiped your hands on a cloth, and snatched up the parchment as you moved out of the back room and into the airy corridor that connected the treatment wards. The moment you stepped through, the lingering scent of sweet herbs gave way to a subtle waft of chocolate and something else…something suspiciously like burnt flour. It made you wrinkle your nose.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath as you stalked toward the east wing, muttering to yourself as though you were gearing up for war. Maybe you were because dealing with people who lived like ‘you only live once’ didn’t exist since they were allowed to have second chances. “If this is that same overconfident fool who thought boiling salve didn’t need gloves, I swear I’m going to light him on fire. One more elf walks in with a burn injury and I’m submitting a formal request to ban anything fire from existing.”

Protesting like a lunatic to yourself as you marched through the hallway, your footfalls echoed faintly along the marbled floor. That glimmer of the halls glowing with that ever-present soft illumination that Valinor seemed to bestow on everything it touched, but you paid it little mind, too preoccupied with rehearsing a scolding worthy of the ages.

“I’m starting to regret opening my mouth and go “Hey, I know medicine!” the minute I dropped out the sky to save my ass. I should have let them throw me into the ocean or something.”

Rounding the corner with the intention of storming in, expecting the worst—probably someone trying to show off for one of the fair-haired maidens in the training courts again—and flung open the door, ready to unleash hell. But alas, it wasn’t some arrogant warrior sprawled dramatically on the healing cot.

It was him.

Fingon.

His dark hair was half-loose, braids falling lazily over his shoulders, the ends tied with a golden ribbons that looked slightly singed. From your angle, his cheeks appeared flushed, and fingers emerged in cool spring water which, from the look of it, had been mercifully given to him by someone with enough grace to buy him time but not much more. And then there were his robes, ever finely embroidered, were singed at the sleeve, and in his uninjured hand he held a covered dish carefully balanced on a folded towel.

For a long moment, you just stood there, the words you’d been crafting, caught somewhere between your brain and your throat.

Sheepishly he looked up, but hopeful, as though he wasn’t entirely certain whether you’d laugh at him or throw him out. “…Hello,” he said, with a slow dimpled smile that would do dangerous things to anyone’s composure. “I seem to have run afoul of the culinary arts.”

You blinked, dumbfounded. “You…cooked?”

Gently he lifted the dish. “I tried.”

There was a beat of silence passing before you exhaled, letting your shoulders drop with a quiet sigh of disbelief as you closed the door behind you. “Ah, uh, what, how, um—What did you do, throw yourself into the oven to see if it was warm enough?”

“Not at all,” he cheerily beamed, holding back a laugh, “just the tray. Though in hindsight, I do wonder if it had it out for me.”

Stepping forward, already reaching for the bandages and ointments, your eyes flicked toward the dish he held with curiosity now tinged with concern.

“Is that the dish? What did you whip up?”

There was a small puzzled expression crossing his face, resembling a puppy, before recognition. “A peace offering,” he replied shakily, as though all his confidence vanished at his pre-confession. “Brownies. I followed Glorfindel’s instructions. Mostly.”

There was a sudden pause as you looked him over, teetering on the edge of disbelief. “Glorfindel taught you to bake?”

Fingon nodded with utmost seriousness. “He claimed it was the quickest path to someone’s heart. Though he failed to mention how hazardous the process would be.”

And in spite of yourself, you laughed softly, like a bubbling spring because the image of the fierce and golden-haired Balrog-slayer teaching Fingon, High Prince of the Noldor, to bake brownies for the sake of wooing someone was so utterly absurd and endearing that you couldn’t help it.

Turning to set down your supplies, you shook your head. “Well, I suppose we should take a look at the damage. Your hand, I mean. I’ll see about the brownies after. Hopefully they’re still alive.”

“It isn’t burnt that terribly,” he whispered depreciated, feeling as though you might view his attempt as failure if you deem it needing ‘saving.’

As you began to gently unwrap the compress, your fingers working with the familiarity born of long hours spent in this house, you caught the way his gaze lingered on you with the an observational reverence of someone who saw more than what you showed to others.

It was the same look he always wore when he visited under the guise of wishing to see Elrond and learn more stories about Middle Earth through the ages.

Shaking your head at the notion, you drifted your focus to the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers—warmer than usual, reddened and delicate where it had come into contact with the offending tray. You handled his hand with practiced care, gently dabbing the cool salve along the burn in slow, even strokes, watching his knuckles twitch ever so slightly under the cooling touch. Callouses had decorated his broad hand from years of training, strong and sure in ways you had always noticed and tried not to dwell on.

The silence in the room shifted into something softer, the kind that always stretched between you and Fingon whenever he visited—full of things unsaid. It was filled with his quiet, steady gaze and the careful way he spoke around you, never too forward, always leaving space for you to step toward or away. His gesture always made you flustered and you hated how your heartbeat sped up at his nearness, how his mere presence made the room feel smaller, warmer. More intimate.

“You really burned yourself baking brownies?” you asked again, anything to resist awkwardness settling, though your voice had lost its earlier sharpness. “That’s a new low, even for you.”

There was a faint tilt of his head, and a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, his gaze never leaving your face. “It is a rather undignified wound, is it not? Shall I conjure a better tale? One involving a great hunting tale, perhaps?”

“I might believe it more,” you airily chuckled, smoothing a salve-covered thumb across the edge of the burn. “You’d look more at home hunting than in a kitchen.”

“Then it pleases me you’re tending to me now. You’re far gentler than Glorfindel was with his ‘lessons.’”

That led to a soft snort. “I’m surprised he didn’t teach you with a sword in one hand and a spatula in the other.”

“You are quite the seer. That is close to how he appeared,” Fingon beamed with all the solemnity of someone recounting a great personal trial. “It was chaos. I nearly lost an eyebrow.”

You couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your lips, though you kept your head ducked slightly to focus on his hand. “Well, I suppose it’s commendable you’re still alive. And you made it all the way here without dropping the brownie, so really, you should be proud.”

“I am,” he whispered quieter, almost thoughtful. “Though I might be prouder if you agreed to share it with me later.”

That made you looked up slowly, your eyes meeting his, and there it was again—that look. As if he were studying something he didn’t quite understand but very much wanted to. As if the room contained only you, and nothing else in Valinor could possibly matter. You held his gaze for a moment too long before you cleared your throat and gently set his bandaged hand aside to retrieve fresh gauze.

“I’ll wrap this,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “It’s not severe, but you’ll want to avoid using that hand for a few days.”

A silence fell over you two once again as he watched you work without flinching, unmoving, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, softer, almost hesitant.

“You know,” he murmured, “when I asked Glorfindel to teach me, it wasn’t only for the brownie.”

You paused, not looking up. “Really?”

“No,” he reassured, and now his voice carried a note of quiet conviction, the kind that unnerved you more than a storm ever could. “It was for the question I intended to ask you when I brought it.”

A pregnant stillness lingered in the air, forcing you to halt, fingers hovering above the bandage, your breath catching before you forced yourself to resume wrapping, slower now. “What kind of question?” you asked, though you felt like you knew, though you felt the answer humming under your skin already.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he flexed his uninjured hand slightly in his lap, his expression unreadable.

“You’re not from here,” he spoke up at last. “You’re not of Arda. Not even of the race of Men that my people once knew. And yet…you are here. Amongst us. Amongst me. And I find myself thinking of you more often than I ought.”

You swallowed, fingers tightening just slightly as you secured the gauze and fastened it in place.

“That’s not an answer,” you said softly, unable to stop the tremor in your voice.

He leaned forward, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you could smell the hint of chocolate still clinging to his robes, enough that his gaze became inescapable.

“I wanted to ask if I might court you,” he announced, simply. No fanfare, no embellishment—just quiet honesty. “Properly. Despite what separates us.”

You froze, fingers resting lightly against his wrist, your heart hammering as your mind tried and failed to conjure the right thing to say. There wasn’t a time when you had imagined this moment in foolish, lonely hours—always dismissing it as impossible, as something out of place and time. Because he was Fingon. High Prince of the Noldor. Reborn from the halls of Mandos, a song made flesh, heir to a house that shaped the fate of kingdoms.

And you were just…you. A human, displaced and strange, a creature of science and sarcasm, stitching wounds and fetching herbs in a world that still felt too luminous, too vast for your understanding.

Looking up at him slowly, words suffocating somewhere behind your teeth but refusing to come out. And he saw it—your hesitation, your disbelief. So he did what Fingon always did best.

He smiled.

“I know it is much to ask,” he said gently. “And I know our paths were never meant to cross. But they have. And I would not ignore that.”

You breathed out shakily, forcing yourself to step back and busy yourself with cleaning up the used bandages, because if you stood still any longer, you feared you might say something you weren’t ready to understand.

“Fingon,” you began, then faltered, eyes on your hands.

“I am not asking you to decide now,” he corrected quickly and earnestly. “Only that you think on it. That you know it is not a jest, nor some fleeting interest.”

Dared not to glance back at him, but you did and saw the sincerity etched in every line of his face, every soft curve of his lips, and something ached inside you, deep and old.

He didn’t press.

He only stood, slowly, cradling the brownies with his good hand and offering you the faintest of bows.

“I will return once the hand has healed,” he said, though something in his voice hinted he would return far sooner than that. “You may decide then whether to eat this with me…or scold me further.” And with that, he turned and left, leaving behind a strange warmth in his absence, and the faint scent of cocoa and burnt flour lingering in the air.

The healing house had grown quiet by the time the sun dipped low beyond the pearl-white trees and into the soft gold veil of twilight. Most of the other aides had long since gone home, leaving only a hush behind—the kind that settled thick over stone corridors and turned idle thoughts into wandering ghosts. You remained at your corner station, but your hands had grown still, unmoving for a while now, your mind elsewhere entirely.

You hadn’t been able to shake Fingon’s voice from your ears. The way he had said it—I find myself thinking of you more often than I ought. So simple, and yet spoken with the same conviction you imagined he might’ve once used before galloping into battle. No elf had ever spoken to you like that before, and certainly no prince. Not with intention. And definitely not after burning his hand trying to impress you with dessert.

A short, unwilling laugh escaped you at the memory.

He had really done that. The valiant, golden and hearty son of the House of Fingolfin had burned himself making brownies. For you.

When the door to the healer’s quarters creaked open, you were certain it was one of the senior healers come to check on late records. You didn’t glance up right away. But the moment you did, you found Fingon standing there again—cloaked now, though still informal, the hood pushed back to reveal the soft unbraided tumble of his dark hair, loose in a way that made him appear younger, more relaxed.

He held the same small covered dish in one hand. The other, the burnt one, was still wrapped in your handiwork. And you stared at him, stunned.

“You were meant to be resting,” you said dumbly.

“I did rest,” he replied, stepping inside. “Long enough to convince myself that if I waited until morning, the courage might drain right out of me. And then you’d be left with half a brownie and a full silence.”

You blinked. “Sooooo, you came back tonight?”

“I had hoped,” he said, a little more carefully now, “that you might be willing to share it with me. Now. If it’s not too bold.”

That should have been your cue to send him home. You should’ve told him you were tired, that it had been a long day, that patients were exhausting, that you needed to sleep and think and breathe—but you didn’t say any of those things. Instead, you stared at the hearty dish in his hands, the scent of sweet chocolate wafting from it as he stepped closer.

“Are you sure it is edible?” you asked warily.

“That depends,” he chuckled with a slight smirk. “Will you eat it even if it’s not?”

Your expression twitched. “If I die, Elrond will kill you.”

“Then it’s fortunate you are the healer,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “I assume you know how to revive yourself.”

You huffed, unable to help the small laugh that escaped as you shook your head and moved to the table near the corner hearth. Fingon followed, settling across from you as if it were the most natural thing in the world—as though he had done it a thousand times before and would again, for years still to come.

Producing two forks from the drawer, you slid one across the table toward him. He uncovered the dish with a flourish that would’ve been comical had it not smelled absolutely heavenly. You blinked at the warm, brown crust, bubbling edges, and faint caramelised glaze across the top.

“Well fuck me,” you muttered. “You actually pulled it off.”

“I am capable of more than I appear,” he proudly boasted with mock gravity, lifting a fork with the grace of someone raised to dine beside kings. “Though I dare say the presentation is Glorfindel’s doing. I only barely avoided burning it twice.”

Humming at his words, you took your own bite, and to your immense surprise, it wasn’t just edible—it was good. Warm and bright and syrupy with melted chocolate. You made a soft, delighted noise despite yourself. That response made Fingon’s eyes lit immediately. “That sound,” he said, too quickly, “—forgive me—it pleased me.”

Your fork paused halfway back to the bowl, and you looked at him across the modest firelight and shadows of the stone walls, feeling suddenly shy in a way that annoyed you.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you reminded him. “I still haven’t agreed to anything.”

“I know.” He didn’t flinch. “I said I would wait.”

And he meant it. It showed in the steady way he looked at you, never pressing, never insisting, only offering his presence—his real presence—as if to say, Here I am. If you want me.

It had been a long time since anyone had made you feel like the choice was yours.

“I don’t know how it would work,” you admitted finally, the words barely above a whisper. “I’m not from this world. I say strange things, do stranger things. I don’t have kin here. No lineage. No...destiny. And human-elven relationships…” You trailed off, glancing away. “They never end well. You know that. You’re ancient, Fingon. I’m a blink.”

He didn’t reply right away. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, spoon still resting untouched in his bowl.

“And yet, for all my age, I have never met another like you,” he whispered quietly. “Not in all my days of fire and war, nor in all the years I have wandered since. You carry strangeness like a torch. You shine in ways that make my kind curious, and sometimes confused, but never unmoved. You remind me of the world we nearly lost—the one we fought for.”

You blinked fast, your throat tightening at the rawness in his voice. Then he placed his fork down, looking suddenly uncertain, hesitant.

“I do not ask for forever,” he said. “Only…for a beginning.”

And it was then—only then—you understood. It wasn’t just affection he was offering, it wasn’t about courtship the way your world understood it. He wanted to build something with you. Whatever shape it could take. He wasn’t afraid of the human-elf barrier because to him, the time he had now meant more than the memory of what time had taken.

You didn’t speak for a moment, only reached for his hand again—the one you’d wrapped in bandages earlier—and rested your fingers lightly over his wrist.

The gentle touch of your hand upon his, he looked down at the contact, then back up at you with a quiet, surprised hope.

“I’m not promising anything eternal,” you reminded, a smile tugging weakly at your lips. “But…we can start with brownies.”

Just hearing your response, accustomed to your playfulness, his laugher echoed softly, yet disbelieving, eyes shining in the firelight.

“I would’ve burned both hands for that,” he proudly stated. “And I’m ready to try another sweet.”

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[rayshippouuchiha]

Juuuust stopping in to say? Your 9/10ths AU? Legit was my Yandere Aizawa awakening! Never knew how WELL it fit until that moment but holy sh*t! :D so much red! All of it flags! Delightful~☆!

I legit can not WAIT for that precinct to fall apart? They are so sh*t to Izuku and yet rely so heavily on him? Have come to expect and take for granted a truely EXCEPTIONAL level of Analysis that honestly? At their level they would never be able to afford for even a FRACTION of the cases they get him to do it for.

He is a blessing from the gods. Ten thousand winning lotteries. Should be their best kept secret and most beloved staff member. But WHERE is he? A dusty closet.

Aizawa is gonna watch them fall apart and laugh. Oh boo hoo, reap what you sow. Izuku is his now. Good luck finding another analyst willing to take the same literally insulting, bordering on illegal, pay you had Izuku on! No one will take it!

NO ONE. Not even amateurs. Your budgets is f*cked, your case load just got countless times more dangerous and difficult, and? Words gotten out through a VERY unhappy Grand Torino (and Scheming Nedzu n Aizawa, but really can you PROVE that?) to the older and retired generations of Heros that you are "unreasonable bastards" who are "impossible to work with".

You know! The parents, grandparents, mentors, and bosses of all those promising young Heros you want to work with you! Huh. Wonder why they suddenly don't want to return your calls. Won't pool resources and Intel.

Gasp! If it isn't the consequences of our own actions! >:Dc

Just? Izuku merrily scribbling away back at the apartment. Finally full and freshly... rested. Having the first peaceful afternoon he's had in YEARS. All while his old workplace metaphorically burns to the GROUND. Aizawa brought Marshmallows. Isn't even gonna eat them. Just wants these f*ckers to know who started the fires.

BURN.

Like? Izuku thinks Aizawa just want out on lovely lil patrol. How peaceful! New apartment, freshly laundered clothes, dinner prepped and ready to go, music playing, the weather's nice~ mmmmm. Yes. He should look up cat toys for their future cat!

Smash cut to "I am the wrathful fist of god" Aizawa. Nedzu is cackling.

As always I am thrilled to be a gateway for you darling!

Ohh the precinct! It is going to be a major case of "don't know what you've got until it's gone" for that entire building only so so much worse because Aizawa and Nedzu are both going to end up involved.

Because yeah, they're never going to find someone of Izuku's skill level to replace him, and especially not with the pay/hours/abuse he tends to put up with. So, like you said, workload/budget/etc all that would have to take a hit to replace him.

And that's before Nedzu puts a black mark on them as a whole and then Gran finds out just how bad shit is because you called it, he's also gonna be pissed.

Like, RIP Tsukauchi and Sansa, you both might want to straight up move.

Once Aizawa is able to get Izuku home with him? Oh Izuku is gonna settle into this new domesticity (with some anxiety but full enthusiasm) meanwhile Aizawa has a kill list and no regrets.

[eeniey-past-bedtime]

Headcanons: The Vampire

A/N: My sisters, misters and kissers i am under an INSANE ammount of pressure for my classes... so naturally who's up for some headcanons?-

I don't have alot of time to sit down and write so how about some lovely bits here about him i've collected over the past 3 days, if you guys like these lemme know and i'd happily do my other monsters. This is gender neutral of course-

Wanna tip me and buy my next coffee?

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..

🕯️ Domestic Headcanons

- He's always trailing after you like a very elegant, affectionate shadow. You're never really alone in the house. Whether you're watering the greenhouse, folding laundry, or making tea, he's never far behind—occasionally pretending to be extremely helpful by handing you one sock or standing with his arms crossed as if supervising a royal affair.

- He insists on reading aloud in the evenings. Curled up in front of the fire or in bed, he reads in that smooth voice of his. He’ll occasionally pause to whisper a line against your skin instead of continuing, especially if it's particularly romantic.

- He makes the bed every evening rather than morning. He believes in creating a ritual of comfort: smoothing the sheets, fluffing the pillows, folding his wings carefully to curl up beside you. He doesn't sleep—but he cherishes lying beside you in the dark, listening to your breathing.

- He leaves notes when he goes out at night. Written in flowing, almost calligraphic handwriting—some dramatic "Gone to haunt the moon, return before dawn", some mundane "Found a raccoon in the greenhouse again. Will resolve.", and some terribly sweet "You are my eternity. Drink water. Wear socks. Love you always."

- He tends to your garden when you're not looking. Not because he knows what he’s doing, but because he likes pretending he's helping. (He once tried to “gently encourage” a plant to grow by whispering poetry to it at midnight.)

💞 Soft & Romantic Headcanons

- He only ever calls you by pet names. "Darling," "my flame," "beloved," "little heart," "my light in the woods." He says your name like it's a secret prayer, but the nicknames are endless and chosen with affection every time.

- He kisses your wrist when you hand him something. Every time. Even a spoon. It’s reflexive, reverent, and without a hint of irony.

- He still gets overwhelmed with love at the strangest moments. You’ll be sweeping or humming to yourself, and he’ll just stand in the doorway, watching you with this look of pure awe, like he can’t believe you’re real.

- He loves brushing your hair. Whether long, short, curly, or coiled, he handles it like a sacred ritual—fingertips reverent, quiet praise spilling from his lips about how soft and beautiful you are.

- He keeps something of yours in his coat pocket when he goes out. A ribbon, a button, a tiny sketch you doodled on a receipt—he carries it like a talisman.

💋 Teasing & Playful Headcanons

- He acts scandalized every time you see him shirtless. Despite being centuries old and completely unbothered by blood and death, if you walk in while he’s changing, he’ll gasp, wrap his wings around himself dramatically, and say things like, “My love, please, avert your eyes! Such indecency… unless you mean to ravish me?” (ayo?-)

- He tries to sneak up behind you just to make you laugh. Not to scare you—he’d never—but to gently drape himself around your shoulders and murmur “Caught you…” before smothering you in affection and kisses.

- He’s deeply offended when you don’t kiss him goodnight. He’ll hover at the foot of the bed, all hurt and wing-sagging until you realize what you forgot. “You wound me, dearest. This may be my final hour.”

- He flirts with you like it’s 1784. Yes i'm being specific. Endless poetic metaphors, over-the-top comparisons, and sonnet-worthy compliments. You could sneeze and he’d say, “Oh, to be the breeze that dares to kiss your lips!”

- He steals your clothes but pretends they’re gifts. “This sweater? Yours? I thought you gave it to me—to remember your warmth!”

..

.

[raayllum]

Was originally going to do a screencaps post but then it was getting a little unwieldy so here's a short meta post about Callum's story to Ezran in 7x09, specifically how it pertains to Callum's broader character arc in arc 2 and the show's narrative as a whole.

So we start out with an easily accessible, likely drawn from life sibling scenario. (I too, for example, had a beloved toy accidentally adjacently broken by a sibling.) This also ties us into 4 important things, however:

The game and toy motif, primarily present surrounding Aaravos and the key, as well as other objects of note this season (i.e. Ezran holding onto the elf toy from 1x04 at his angriest in 7x03 and 7x09).

Reaffirmation of Callum's tendency to get fixated on / emotionally attached to objects (old meta on it here).

In the scenario, while we don't whether Ezran was 'at fault' (he was a Baby lmao) the harm caused was. This parallels Rayla's absence and return in S4, as Callum states, "And she messed [things] up" with himself being the party not at fault ("I was so mad" in 4x05 & 7x09)

The concept / theme, to varying literal degrees, of something being broken, whether in people, relationships, or the continent itself (bigger meta on that here):

This is reaffirmed further in what Aanya says to Ezran on the bridge in 7x03:

I know it hurts right now, Ezran. But you need to know that you and Callum are not broken. The both of you will heal one day. You’re brothers. It’s okay to be angry, and it’s okay to be sad.

However, the toy isn't really a metaphor for their relationship. Callum doesn't say that it was mended, or if it even could be. He moves on instead to what their mother told him, which likewise echoes what Aanya says:

Again, there's a reaffirmation of needing to feel, and letting yourself feel, the bad emotions. Anger is not inherently bad and sometimes we need to be angry, even or especially at our siblings. Like Aanya, Callum, and Sarai say, it's okay to be angry and to be sad. But — as we see Karim and Janai are unable to come back from ("all you do is look at me with contempt!") — you can't let the feelings stick. You have to let them go.

Harrow's heart burned with anger (3x06); Ezran has fire in his eyes as he hears Runaan out; and Aaravos wants to set the world on fire. But anger cannot — or should not — last forever... because what is left for you afterwards?

The other implicit message is Callum and Sarai knowing, and now communicating to Ezran, that however much he loved that toy "more than anything in the world," it ultimately meant nothing in comparison to his brother.

CALLUM: You're my brother, and you mean everything to me. (2x06)

CALLUM: I'm sorry, Ezran. I can't be your High Mage anymore... but I'll always be your brother. (7x02)

This is also, in many ways, how Callum frames his relationship with Rayla once he learns to forgive her as well. He knows that he needs her (implicitly) and that they're a team; he reaffirms "it was always her" much the same way he knows he will "always be [Ezran's] brother". His bonds of love are strong and can weather any storm; he still wants them in his life, and will always want them and need them.

This raises an interesting concept to Aaravos, who is deeply hurt and angry at his family (the other First Elves), referring to himself as "their dark brother" (TDP shorts, Patience). He wants them to suffer, and he wants them to hurt... but is there any other way forward? Is there any hope of forgiveness, or reconciliation? He clearly believes that they can never change unless through force... but what if they could? What if they could be brothers again, the same way that Callum ("there is great affinity between your brother and I [...] he understands the need for compromise") and Ezran are?

It'd also tie into Claudia and Soren's sibling dynamic, as their mother counselled a similar message to Sarai: "that my brother and I needed each other."

If Callum and Ezran coming together can represent the continent, and Aaravos + the Cosmic Council, and Soren and Claudia one day coming back together, too.

[synchodai]

Explaining the appeal of Brokeback Winterfell

Alternative title: The Inherent Homoeroticism of Jacaerys Velaryon and Cregan Stark's Relationship that Has Taken Residence in The Deepest Recesses of My Hyperfixated Brain

Let me establish these characters before everything else.

Jacaerys Velaryon. His deal in the books is ambiguous but it's pretty clear in the show — he knows his claim to the throne is built on a lie, so he overcompensates for this by trying to be the perfect prince. He is dutiful to a fault, severely self-conscious and self-critical, and protective of his mother and brothers. He knows his uncles, his rivals to the throne, with their bigger dragons and silver hair have more claim to Valyrian heritage than he ever will. This all manifests in him striving to become this idealized image of the perfect Targaryen prince that he knows he can never achieve.

Cregan Stark. If Jace is supposed to be the perfect Targaryen prince, Cregan is talked about like the second coming of the old Kings of Winter. He is formidable swordsman and a stern ruler who doesn't hesitate meting harsh punishment. He is the idealized image of a Stark lord — stoic yet fierce in battle, someone who keeps to his oaths and the law.

However, what most characters in the books (and people in the fandom) seem to forget is that Cregan, at least in the dance, is very young — that's why I personally love the fact that HBO made him clean-shaven on the show. He's still a gruff northener, but it emphasizes his youth. He's 21-23 during the time of the dance, and he is ruling over Winterfell as someone who had to depose his uncle when he was a teen.

Mind you, northerners have tighter-knit families compared to most everyone else in Westeros. To quote the books: When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Cregan had to make himself a lone wolf in order to assert his lordship over Winterfell — which to a northern lad who already lost his father and younger brother must have been a difficult choice to make. Add to that his childhood friend/wife dying in childbirth and leaving him a single father, Cregan must be a very lonely wolf indeed.

But despite his loneliness, he does not let anyone in — or rather, he believes that he can't afford to because he knows there are people who will take advantage of his youth and his affections. It's shown in the Hour of Wolf that he is unforgiving, guarded, and does not trust anyone. This is understandable given that his uncle who raised him as a boy committed treason against him. But he seems to have a soft spot for those who are fierce and free-spirited and people who appeal to his sense of duty — these give him "acceptable" avenues to put down the northern masculine mask and be less rigid. Both tie back to a yearning for family.

Okay, so you got these two fellows: Prince Perfect Not-so-Valyrian Heir and Lord Stoic Northman Who Is Actually Deeply Lonely. Both of them have molded themselves to fit this mask of ideal masculinity because they believe it is their duty to their families and the only way to protect themselves in the arena of feudal politics.

Now put them together and what do you get? Chemistry. They see themselves in each other which leads to identification which leads to empathy which leads to curiousity which leads to dissection which leads to vulnerability which leads to intimacy. Jace sees the authority and respect Cregan commands and Cregan sees Jace's attachment and support from his immediate family, and they both desire something the other has, not fully realizing that they are forced into situations where they could not have both. It's juicy, it's rife with tension, it's the pact of ice and fire, baby.

Anyway, this is all to say...Sara Snow is a metaphor for the feminine vulnerability and yearning these two shared. That she is both a bastard and beloved sister is a combined manifestation of the two men's most deeply held desire — for Cregan, his yearning for close family who has no political claims that will get between their relationship, and for Jace, his need to be acknowledged and accepted as a bastard child.

They trained and hunted and drank together — things regular young men do, but that the crown prince or Lord of Winterfell wouldn't have much opportunity to when one is studying Valyrian/dragonriding while the latter is making sure his paramountcy doesn't go into famine come winter. It's easy to imagine them bonding over the honor and burdens of their stations, their lost childhoods, their grief over losing loved ones, how their uncles who they grew up with betrayed them — just finding so much in common that it allows them to finally lower that meticulously crafted persona they use as their strength and shield.

And you wonder then, have they found someone who sees not as a fearsome wolf or powerful dragon, but just as...a handsome dude who they love to hang out with? Cause that would be sweet, bro, no homo. (But maybe some homo if you're okay with it.)

And the actors just really play into all of that with how they look at each other. Ugh, beautiful.

(Shameless plug: This is all why I wrote a fic about them.)

[dancethroughthethunder]

Bobby From High School Chapter Six: Goodness, Gracious, Great Balls of Fire!

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Reader

Word Count: 5.0k

Previous Chapters: Chapter 1 Of All the Gin Joints, Chapter 2 Two Coffees, Chapter 3 It’s Not Prom, Chapter 4 If Life Were a Musical, Chapter 5 I've Got You

Summary: The very first Friday night back since the Uranium mission finds the Dagger Squad back at the Hard Deck, as expected. With everyone in a celebratory mood, you and the team spend the night drinking and having fun. In all of your fun, you can't stop to think how lucky you are to have been brought into this group, and to get to love Bobby.

Author’s Note: We did it! The final chapter of BFHS, my beloved old friends to new friends to lovers story. I think I say this about everything I write but BFHS really has a special place in my heart. I just really want a night out with the Daggers at the Hard Deck. It's a little over the top but that's just their dynamic tbh. That's it for Tiger and Bobby (for now at least). Thanks for everyone who has come along for the ride! xoxoxo

Divider credit: @/saradika

tw: mention of alcohol/being drunk

It's the first Friday night since the uranium mission, and the Dagger Squad has all agreed to meet at the Hard Deck. Nobody has said it outright but there’s a clear agreement that everyone’s ready to celebrate with plenty of alcohol. Everyone’s excited about the success of the mission, and to be back home safely. 

Bob is excited to see you. You met him at base when he first got back late Monday night, but he’s been so busy with after action reports, debriefs, and mandatory medical check-ins that you haven’t seen much of each other since. You should be there soon, having texted him that you were calling your uber a little while ago. 

Bob is trying to focus on watching his friends play pool instead of keeping his eyes on the door, eagerly awaiting your arrival. Shifting his attention from Hangman, across the pool table to Rooster, the light catches his glasses just right and he notices a smudge on his right lens. He lifts up a few inches from his seat to grab his glass cloth out of his back pocket and takes his glasses off to clean them. 

“Hi, I’m so sorry this sounds like such a cheap pick up line but do we know each other? You look so familiar.” 

Bob looks up from his glasses to find a beautiful woman with a drink in her hand, standing there talking to him. He doesn’t need his glasses to recognize her, he’d know her anywhere. He laughs and shakes his head while he finishes cleaning his glasses, sliding them back on his face before leaning up to meet you for a kiss.

“Holy shit, Bobby Floyd!” You say with a smile.

“You’re ridiculous.” Bob laughs. “Hi darlin’.” 

“Hi, Bobby.” You steal another kiss. “It was the perfect timing, I couldn’t resist.” You shrug, and Bob can’t help but think how lucky he was the first time you approached him like that, to have reconnected with you after all these years and now, getting to be your boyfriend. 

“Tiger!” Hangman greets you, equally excited by your arrival as he is by the shot he just sunk to defeat Rooster. Ever since your interaction at the hospital after the bird strike, you and Jake have continued to be close. It baffles and delights the rest of the team, who can’t understand (but appreciate) the way that your friendship seems to balance him out from time to time.

“Jake.” You nod and greet the rest of the team. When Rooster just gives you a halfhearted wave instead of a normal greeting, you bite back a laugh at the look of defeat on his face before looking back to the shit-eating grin from Hangman.

Before you can pull up a seat next to Bob, Phoenix comes over to steal you away to the bar to get drinks. Bob takes the time to check you out. You’re wearing the same little ribbon in your hair that you wore when the two of you went to get coffee at Java’s. That first time you wore it, Bob tried his hardest not to think about untying that ribbon as a metaphor for unwrapping you, getting to know what’s underneath your clothes. This time, as your boyfriend, he gets a little more leeway in checking you out. This time, he knows exactly what you look like under those denim shorts, knows that the flattering cut of your shirt doesn’t do justice to your silhouette, to the way you look in his bed. You’re leaning forward, elbows on the bar just chatting casually with Penny and Nat and it’s a testament to Bob’s strength that he doesn’t drop everything to take you home right now. 

He’s still a gentleman though, so he gives himself just one more second to stare before looking away, not wanting to leer at you in public.

“Damn, Bob. Look at Tiger. You’ve got a good one.” Fanboy slides up next to Bob, looking at you appreciatively. “Respectfully, I mean.” He adds after a second.

Bob turns to look at Fanboy, and chooses to be grateful that at least Fanboy is being polite about it, even if he was completely checking out your ass. Plus, he’s right, you are hot. In typical Bob fashion he blushes a little as he nods, and agrees with Fanboy, “the luckiest”. 

Mickey slaps him on the shoulder in a proud bro manner before changing the subject entirely. “So, what do you think about getting everyone together for a Star Trek marathon one weekend?”

While Mickey and Bob are discussing the potential for a team movie marathon, hopefully Star Trek, you’re leaning against the bar chatting with Penny and Natasha while Penny pours your drinks. 

“Alright, one rum and coke for you,” Penny says, sliding you your drink, “and an ale for you,” she says to Nat. “Let me grab your shots.” 

“Thanks, Pen.” 

Penny grabs two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila and fills them for you while you continue to chat. 

“Now whose tab do you want them on?” Penny reaches over to grab two lime slices to go with the shots she’s placing in front of you.

Before Nat can object, you slide your credit card over to Penny as fast as you can. “Mine. Can you start one for me please and thanks?” You had been ready to go, getting your credit card out of your wallet and in your hand while talking so you could beat Nat to the chase.

Penny laughs at your urgency, “you’ve got it.” She says, taking your credit card down to the register to start your tab for the night.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Nat looks exasperated, “but thank you. Next one’s on me though.” She smiles.

“It’s been a long week for y’all. Consider it a token of my appreciation for dealing with them, a welcome home present, and a thank you for being Bobby’s front-seater.” You start out light hearted but by the end of your sentence, you’re looking right into Nat’s eyes, conveying your sincere gratitude and care for her and the team. 

“That’s my job.” She says, kindly, pulling you in for a hug. “I’m so glad he has you.” You squeeze her a little tighter.

Pulling away, you turn towards the bar with a mischievous smile on your face. “Alright, you ready?” You pick up both shots of tequila, handing one to Nat.

“Let’s do this.” She laughs, knocking her glass into yours before you both toss them back. You make more of a face than Nat does as you simultaneously bite into your limes.

“One of these days I’m going to talk you into doing coconut rum shots with me instead.” You laugh, face still scrunched up.”

“But it’s so sweet!” Nat sticks her tongue out in mock disgust.

“Yes, and so much more palatable. I could knock that back like it’s nothing.” You sigh wistfully, trying not to laugh.

“Well, it’s still early. Maybe tonight’s the night.” Nat grabs her beer and you grab your cocktail and the two of you head back over towards the boys.

“Bobby told me he thinks everyone’s planning on getting pretty drunk tonight?”

“Oh without a doubt.” Nat confirms.

“I look forward to seeing what exactly that means for this group of hooligans.” You say, nodding in Hangman and Rooster’s direction. 

“Oh, you and me both.” Nat says. 

“I know, I’m just saying I think we can get everyone together, but I don’t know if we can get them to agree to watch them all at once.” Bob says to Mickey as you and Nat walk up.

“Watch what?” You ask.

“Mickey wants to get everyone together for a Star Trek marathon.” Bob says, sliding a hand around your waist.

“Oh. Hmm. You could start with the new ones? I feel like you can get the guys to agree to that. There’s something for everyone and it feels a little less dated.” You shrug.

“Bro, your girlfriend is a genius.” Mickey tells Bob before reaching over to give you a fist bump. “Thanks, Tiger!” He calls over his shoulder as he races over towards Javy and Reuben, already rambling about his idea for a movie night. 

“What a doofus.” You laugh.

After a few minutes of chatting with both of you, Nat looks over at the pool table. You try not to smirk while you watch her eyes linger on Rooster.

“I’m going to go see how badly Hangman is kicking Rooster’s ass.” She says, pointedly ignoring the look you’re giving her as she walks away.

“Oh I bet she is.” You murmur to Bob, turning to face him directly. When you lock eyes with him, you suddenly look more serious than you did watching Nat walk away. “I’m glad you’re home, by the way. I know I’ve said it, but I want to say it again.”

“Thank you, honey. I’m glad I am too.” Bob’s hand is still on your waist, and his grip tightens now that it’s just the two of you in your own world.

“I know it’s your job and you’re capable but I like it a lot better when you’re home safe with me.” 

You feel guilty saying it, but it’s true. It’s not like you’re asking him to give it up, or confessing a deep hatred, you’re just admitting that you prefer it when he’s here. Which he understands, he also likes being home safe with you. You both know it, in lieu of answering Bob just leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead. Neither of you move for a moment, you just sit there leaning against him with Bobby’s lips pressed to your forehead. 

In the background, you hear Hangman cheer again, but your focus is fully on Bob. You’re just breathing him in, feeling him against you. You’re in the middle of a loud, crowded bar but as far as you’re concerned it’s just you and Bobby. 

Well, it is until you’re interrupted.

“Alright, lovebirds. Time for some shots!” Hangman claps a hand on each of your shoulders.

“Isn’t it a little early in the night?” Bob raises one eyebrow in Hangman’s direction. 

“Didn’t I just do one with Nat?” You ask at the same time.

“Exactly.” Jake nods. 

“I don’t even know what that means.” Rooster says as he walks up.

“That’s alright bird boy, you don’t have to understand. You just have to buy them.” Jake says with a wicked smile.

Coyote comes up behind them, and claps a hand on Rooster’s shoulder, ready to steer him up towards the bar. 

“It could be worse, you could owe everyone two rounds of shots?” You shrug.

“Oh, now Tiger, that’s more like it.” Jake whoops and you cringe, immediately, watching him take your words as an invitation.

“Two rounds of shots on Rooster!” Coyote says triumphantly while you cringe and mouth the word sorry to Bradley.

“Wow, what a man.” Nat teases. 

“Yeah, yeah. I hate you all.” Bradley groans. 

“I want to be offended, but I deserve that this time.” You lean over to Bob and Nat while Coyote and Jake practically manhandle Rooster in the direction of the bar. It’s entirely unnecessary given the lack of resistance Rooster puts up, but you’re pretty sure that it’s half the fun for them. 

The guys return a few minutes later, and true to their word have two trays filled with enough shots for each of you to have two. You’re pretty impressed that they’ve managed to make their way through the crowd in one piece, with all shots as full as they were when Penny poured them.

“Tequila time!” Fanboy announces, setting down his own tray that’s filled entirely with salt and limes.

“Oh my god, are we making an entire production of this?” You ask Nat.

“It’s like you’ve never met them before. Of course we’re making a production of this.” She replies. 

“Alright is it salt, shot, lime, salt, shot, lime?” Fanboy asks.

“No way dude, it’s salt, shot, shot then lime. Back to back, get them over with.” Payback insists while he passes shots out from his tray. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think Payback has a point. Get them both over with.” Bob says with a sigh. “After that first lime, you won’t want to do the second shot.”

“Atta boy, Bob.” Hangman cheers. 

Somehow it’s agreed. In quick succession you’re each going to take a bit of salt, then two shots of tequila, and then you’ll bite into your limes. 

“I was going to ask if you wanted to go to the Farmers Market tomorrow morning but now I’m thinking we’re going to want to spend the day in bed.” You tell Bob as you reach over to get your lime ready.

“What are we drinking to?” Coyote asks.

“How about to a successful mission and getting home safe?” You offer. “No? Too sentimental?” You read the faces around you and see slight smiles but nobody looks enthused by your idea. “How about to being the best of the best?” You try again. This time, everyone’s faces light up.

“To being the best!” The team cheers unironically, some of you holding your first shot and some holding both up in the air. In practiced unison, everyone takes their first shot though everyone falls out of sync for the second. 

You have to admit, Bob and Reuben were right. It’s definitely much better to get through both shots and then have your lime instead of forcing yourself back to the tequila after the lime. Just like before, you screw up your face in reaction to the tequila going down your throat as you bite into your tequila. 

Looking over at Bob, he’s got a little bit of lime on his face. 

“Oh honey, you’ve got something right there.” You tell him.

“Oh, where?” He asks, bringing his hand up towards his face right as you lean in and press a messy, loud kiss to his lips. 

“Right there.” You giggle.

“Get it, Bob.” Someone cheers behind you.

“Alright you freaks, what’s next?” 

“Darts?” Coyote suggests, and you and Fanboy offer to bring the trays back to Penny and grab another round before meeting everyone back over by the dart boards. 

“So I’ve been thinking some more,” you say as you set the trays down on the bar and grab a cup of peanuts for Bob, “I think you get everyone to agree for a movie night at your house or Bob’s and then when they get there, just put Trek on. If you ask them in advance, they’re going to whine about it but once it’s on they’ll enjoy it. So don’t give them the option.” 

“Dude, you really are a genius.” Fanboy says appreciatively while the two of you balance everyone’s drinks.

“Someone’s gotta be the brains around here.” You joke, making your way back towards the team where everyone seems to be arguing about the teams for darts. Everyone, but Bob, that is. He’s claimed a seat off to the side and is just watching everyone with an amused smile on his face. Always ready for a rescue, Nat steps in to help you and Fanboy pass out drinks and soon you’re left with just yours and Bob’s.

“Do I even want to know?” You ask, sliding up to him as you hand him the cup of peanuts and a beer.

“I’ve been here the whole time and I’m not even sure I know.” He shakes his head, amused. 

“Well, they’re your team.” You shrug, taking a sip.

“Exactly, I got assigned to them. You chose this.” He says, as if choosing to be around this group is the craziest thing he’s ever heard.

“You got me there.” 

Bob holds out a shelled peanut at the exact second you go to reach for one out of his cup. Sometimes romance is fresh flowers at the market and sometimes it’s a shelled peanut at a Navy bar at the exact second you want it, and as long as it’s with Bob, you couldn’t ask for anything more. 

You hook your foot around the leg of Bob’s chair and in one swift movement, pull him closer to you. He’s clearly not expecting it and nearly topples into you, not ready to brace himself and laughing from the shock. But you were ready, so you just maneuver yourself even closer in a move that was somehow a lot smoother than it should have been.

“Hi, Bobby.” You smile up at him, laying your head on his shoulder.

“Hi, beautiful.” Bob smiles as you reach a hand up to brush aside a piece of hair that’s fallen onto his forehead. 

“Wanna know something?” You ask brightly.

“What’s that, darlin’?” His eyes scrunch just a little bit, trying to figure out what you’re going to say.

“I love you.” You say, like it’s your first time: smile wide, and face a little flushed.

“I love you, too.” Somehow your smile gets even wider before you kiss him again. 

For two people who aren’t the biggest proponents of PDA, the few kisses you’ve exchanged tonight are practically scandalous. Whether it’s fueled by the tequila in your system, the joy and adrenaline of being reunited post-mission, or the infectious energy the entire team is giving off, you’re not sure. Hell, it’s probably some combination of the three. 

Still, for most couples out on a Friday night, it’s tame. You’ve exchanged a grand total of five kisses all night (one to the forehead), and Bobby’s hand has a respectful grasp on your waist. You’re an affectionate drunk, and you’re both comfortable in your little corner by your friends. Besides, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t seen Jake do much worse over the few months you’ve been coming to the bar with everyone. 

Eventually, the two of you turn your attention back towards the rest of the team, watching the game of darts. Bob tries to explain it to you, until Hangman notices you watching. Always one to put on a show for an audience, Hangman and Coyote start implementing all kinds of tricks to their throws while Phoenix and Rooster groan and boo them each time. 

Finally, you’re not quite sure why, maybe it’s the look of annoyance on Rooster’s face, maybe it’s the overexaggerated drawl that Hangman is using, but you eventually burst into laughter. And it’s loud. The type of laughter where trying to stop to explain what you think is so funny only makes you laugh harder. For a brief second, everyone looks at Bob expecting him to be able to clue them in. But when Bob just shrugs his shoulders, it sets off a ripple effect through the rest of the team. After you, Fanboy bursts into laughter, which prompts Payback and Coyote. This makes Bob laugh, which finally gets Natasha and despite their best efforts not to give in, soon Rooster and Hangman do too and the entire group is laughing without knowing why. 

Eventually the laughter dies down and you suddenly realize how badly you need to pee, which isn’t all that surprising given how many drinks you’ve had. You stand up from your seat next to Bob and wordlessly make your way over to Nat where you grab her hand and take off towards the bathroom. Nat seems to know exactly what’s on your mind as she silently follows you, hand in hand.

“Where are they going?” Fanboy asks.

“Who knows.” Hangman replies. 

Meanwhile, you and Nat are making your way through the crowd to the bathroom, her hand still tucked into yours while you weave through people. There’s a pretty large group in khaki who clearly preferred to come right to the bar instead of change, though you think that part of it might also be guys who want to fit in with the crowd in hopes of drawing the attention of a woman who loves a uniform. 

“Thank god there’s never a line here.” You tell Nat as you push the door open.

“One perk of being a woman in and around the Navy - no bathroom lines.” 

“To the patriarchy!” You say with a sarcastic salute. Nat snort laughs as you make your way into a stall. The second you sit down, you feel the world spin for just a second, just enough to realize exactly how much alcohol is coursing through your bloodstream. You’ve never understood the phenomenon of realizing how drunk you are in the bathroom, especially since you were recently sitting with Bobby so it’s not like your first time sitting. But as always it still applies to you. 

Meeting Nat back out by the sinks, you wobble for a second looking in the mirror, you two of you bursting out in laughter again. 

“Please tell me you’re as drunk as I am.” You giggle, washing your hands.

“Yes ma’am.” This time it’s Nat’s turn to salute jokingly, the movement so ingrained in her that despite her best effort, the form is still perfect. Watching her in the mirror, your jaw drops. 

“Nat. We have to take a mirror selfie.” You say, as though it’s the most important idea you’ve ever had.

“Oh my god, yes.” She replies, with the same amount of importance.

The two of you continue laughing, taking selfies together, just enjoying having a moment of girlhood - the experience of laughing with another woman, drunk in a bathroom. 

“Okay, okay, we should get the guys to take a picture with us, to commemorate or what the fuck ever.” You say, nodding along with your own idea. 

“You get to be the one to tell the boys.” 

If you didn’t already know you were drunk, your reaction now would make it clear. Instead of groaning at the prospect of trying to wrangle the team into one, nice photo, you light up, excited by the idea and grab Nat’s hand again as you practically run out of the bathroom and back to the team. As soon as you can be spotted through the crowd of people, Bob tilts his head curiously, seeing the excitement and speed with which you’re approaching. You’re so set on your mission that you don’t notice Fanboy walking a few steps behind you and Nat.

“Darlin?”  Bob asks, once you’re in hearing range. 

“We’ve had –” Nat bumps you with her hip, “– I’ve had the best idea. We’re taking a group photo.” You declare.

Unsurprisingly, you’re met with blank faces, and a lack of excitement.

“Come on, chop chop.” You say, undeterred by the silence. “Alright, all of you get together like you like each other. I want one nice one of the team first.” You say as you tug on Mickey’s sleeve to pull him closer to Bob. You’re flitting around, a woman on a mission, as you move and guide each aviator exactly where you want them, before taking a couple steps back and fishing your phone out of your pocket.

Everyone is together in a row, smiles on their faces and arms around each other. 

“Come on, put your arms around each other, it won’t kill ya.” You say, snapping photos all the while.

“What are you, our mom? Is this the first day of school?” Hangman jokes.

“You’ve got it, kiddo, now smile nice and pretty.” You retort, taking what ends up being one of your favorite photos of the night. The whole team is smiling and laughing together, arms around each other, except for the few hands that still have a beer in them. It’s a great photo, almost shockingly good, given how drunk you all are. 

“Alright,” you say, lowering the phone, “one more.”

“Oh come on, Tiger.” Hangman whines.

“Bob, can’t you stop her? She’s your girl.” Payback jokes.

“No way, I’m smarter than that. Just give her another minute.” Bob tells them while you grab the nearest person with both hands free. You give the girl your phone before darting into the group, determined to make it nice and quick. 

Unfortunately, the combination of speed and tequila-driven lack of balance doesn’t do you any favors. On any other night, it wouldn’t have been noticeable but with all eyes on you from the team, waiting for your presence to take a photo and get back with it, everyone’s eyes go wide as you stumble, losing your balance just enough. But Bob’s got you. Always on the lookout, always anticipating your needs, Bob reaches out to steady you before you can actually fall, and tugs you into his side for the photos. On the other end of the group, Hangman makes some characteristically snarky comment and once again you’re all laughing.

This one becomes your second favorite photo, in a few months you’ll end up printing and framing a copy for each aviator, ignoring the teasing comments about how sappy you are. It’s clear how much you all mean to each other. Even more so than the team photo earlier, everyone is laughing and smiling at each other, the joy shining clearly in your faces. But your favorite one is the one taken seconds before, where everything is the same except you and Bobby are turned to look at each other, smiles wide, in the aftermath of your near-fall. 

But for now, you all smile while the stranger you grabbed takes one last photo before you tell the guys they’re free. While they make overexaggerated comments about the horror you put them through for a photo, you thank the girl and take your phone back, not even bothering to check the photos out before sliding it in your pocket. 

You all go back to standing around, telling stories and swapping jokes until a familiar song starts playing on the jukebox. It’s the same Shania Twain ballad that you and Bobby danced to the night before your first date.

Immediately, you turn to look over at Rooster who shrugs. 

“This one wasn’t me, Tiger.” 

Before you can interrogate the rest of the team, Bob’s hand moves from around your waist to hold your hand. 

“Whaddya say darlin’, wanna dance?” This time, Bob doesn’t need the encouragement from the team to get him to ask you.

“As if I’d ever say no to you.” You say sweetly, following your boyfriend to the dance floor. Like last time, Bob pulls you into him and you rest your head on his chest. This time, Bob’s grip is a little bit lower, and a little bit tighter around your waist. Over your head, Bob shoots Nat a wink and mouths a thank you to Mickey for having gone to queue the song for him right before you and Nat got back from the bathroom. The two of you spend the rest of the ballad swaying together before, exactly like before, Bob spins you into a dip again. You’re still giggling when you right yourself and lean up to press a sweet kiss to his lips. Your giggles are contagious and it makes an almost sickeningly sweet image, the two of you in the middle of the dance floor, drunkenly giggling through your kiss. 

Shockingly, Nat manages to hold the rest of the team back just long enough for you to pull away from the kiss before they all swarm you.

“Piano time!” Coyote announces.

“Piano time?” You ask.

“Oh, Tiger, I hate to admit it but you’re really in for a treat.” Hangman says, with a nod towards the piano where you see Rooster taking a seat. Rooster makes a show of sitting up nice and straight before nodding at Payback who unplugs the jukebox. You expect an outrage, and while there’s some definite confusion, most everyone turns their attention right to the piano. Clearly, this isn’t the first time this has happened, you think.

“C’mon darlin’.” Bob says, as he and Nat lead you through everyone else in the bar to circle Rooster with the rest of the team. 

You’re all definitely causing a scene the way you hoot and holler along to the opening notes of the familiar song. It might be your first time witnessing this, but you fit in perfectly, squeezed in between Bob and Nat, cheering Rooster on. You spend the rest of the song dancing, more high energy than you might expect as you all sing exaggeratedly to one another. 

On the first kiss me baby you lean in and kiss Bob, as expected. You’re still aware that this is more PDA than the team has probably ever seen from you, but you’re all drunk enough and you and Bob are sweet enough about it that nobody seems to mind. Plus, the song practically demands it. The second time the lyrics come around, you shock everyone by pressing a kiss right to Nat’s cheek before she delivers an incredibly dramatic ooh that feels good that has you laughing so hard you have to lean your weight on Bob so as to not fall over.

It’s entirely possible you’ve never had a night exactly like this one, nor have you ever known anyone like this group. You don’t think you could be full of more love or joy if you tried. Not that you go out often, but when you do, you’re always a loving, cuddly drunk. So while Rooster plays, you look around at this team, and then at Bob, feeling so lucky. 

You’ve been lucky to know this man as long as you have, and by god are you lucky to get to love him the way you do. You’re so glad everyone is home safe from their mission, and while you’re likely to be exhausted tomorrow, you’re having the time of your life dancing and laughing with your friends. With one final burst of energy, you all yell out the last line of the song, goodness gracious, great balls of fire! You make quite the picture, the way you’re all centered around Rooster, this ridiculously handsome group of people that has turned into a family, and right behind the piano bench, are you and Bobby, arms around each other and big smiles, just the way it’s always been meant to be.

[goodd4yss]

snirius fic

for my beloveds

sirius black was doing just fine—until professor mcgonagall read aloud the very dramatic (and very accidental- maybe) love poem he wrote about severa snape. now he's spiraling. and she's acting like absolutely nothing happened. kind of.

from my hogwarts au fic, poetic justice — a slow-burnish, funny, slightly unhinged sirius/fem!snape one shot. no voldemort. just yearning, bad poetry, and a gryffindor meltdown in real time.

“She knows,” Sirius hissed for the sixth time that afternoon.

“She might know,” Remus said, not looking up from his book. “Or she might’ve decided it’s too pathetic to address.”

“Comforting,” Sirius muttered. He was draped across the Gryffindor common room couch like someone who’d been emotionally assassinated.

“She’s doing that thing again,” Peter whispered, nodding toward the fire.

Sirius looked—there she was. Severa Snape, seated cross-legged by the fire with Lily and Marlene. Her long black hair was pinned carelessly back, and she was flipping through a battered library book like she wasn’t the very reason Sirius had become a disaster.

And then—she looked up.

One second. Two.

Their eyes met.

She raised an eyebrow—barely—and dipped her head in the smallest of acknowledgments.

Then she turned the page.

Sirius immediately grabbed a pillow and screamed into it.

James snorted into his butterbeer. “This is tragic.”

“She knows,” Sirius groaned into the fabric. “She looked into my soul.”

“She looked at you,” Remus offered, unhelpfully.

“She looked through me,” Sirius corrected. “Like I was the ghost of my own embarrassing metaphors. Do you know what it’s like to haunt yourself?”

“You did this to yourself,” James said cheerfully.

“I can’t even talk to her,” Sirius moaned. “She’ll smell the shame on me.”

“You could try asking a normal question,” Peter suggested. “Like, ‘Want some toast?’”

“I can’t say ‘toast’ to her,” Sirius whispered. “She’d make it sound like a metaphor.”

[genesiseven]

𝐅𝐒𝐌,

𝑨 𝒉𝒆𝒅𝒈𝒆𝒉𝒐𝒈'𝒔 𝒅𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒎𝒎𝒂 - or sometimes the porcupine dilemma, is a metaphor about the challenges of human intimacy. It describes a situation in which a group of hedgehogs seek to move close to one another to share heat during cold weather. They must remain apart, however, as they cannot avoid hurting one another with their sharp spines. Though they all share the intention of a close reciprocal relationship, this cannot occur, for unavoidable reasons.

My love, how far you have drifted away. You have left me in this cold, and yet, here you are, lying in the same bed as me.

My love, your cold scorns me. You have turned your back on me, in all ways than just one, here you are, lying in the same bed as me with your back turned and refusing to even look at me in the eye as if I was no more than a lipstick wearing pig.

My love, have I grown ugly in your eyes? Or has your love for me wilted that familiarity has finally bred contempt?

My love, O, my love. Please, turn your back on me no longer. Please, lay your love on me once more. If not, I only ask you to look at me. Speak no words, for I will see what you truly see of me in the way your eyes shine or dull. Let me live in this paracosm in which you loved me the way you did before—if not more—and grant me relief from this endless torment of my own mind driving me mad with possibilities.

My love, please reach out to me once more. Tell me of what I've done, and I will spend lifetimes healing what I've possibly done wrong. If not, please just hold my hand—even my right promise finger is enough.

My love, please leave no more. I can no longer bear going hours without seeing you, just for you to come back to sit in the same room as me, eating silently without even breathing in my direction — and lie in the same bed as me with your back turned, as if you're avoiding danger, as if you're avoiding love.

My love, raise your voice at me longer. For I only wish to know of my wrongdoings—if there is any. I only wish to know of what you drown in, so I can drown with you, or pull you out, but as far as time has accompanied us both, it's no secret to time or death himself knows that I drown with you always, on my accord.

My love, I can touch you no longer without you flinching or yelling at me like a war cry. What has happened to us, my love? What have I done to walk on eggshells around you? Have we become acquaintances with nothing but contempt for eachother?

My love, O, my love.. wander back to me. Burn me in your fire, even if a part of us dies in the same place.

My love.. o.. my dearest, most tragic love. I write these letters in hopes that one day soon, you read them and confide in me or rather, tear apart this letter much like you tear into me — and for once, I may not be the object of your wrath.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ …Beloved, my beloved, do not put an end to your part in my story so fast. It ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤhasn't been 24 chapters yet, don't make me write ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ drafts and letters much like this one so soon, ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ beloved, my beloved.

Michael Kaiser, Rensuke Kunigami, Grimmjow Jaegerjacquez, Mayuri Kurotsuchi, Sousuke Aizen, Heimdall Odinnson.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤcopyright © @genesiseven

[kinascum]

GUILTY AS SIN? - M. STURNIOLO

WARNINGS: RELIGIOUS METAPHORS, edging, male masturbation, sub!matt, use of, goddess/mistress, don’t like don't read xoxo

A/N:this is one of my favorite works, I'm fucking so happy that it's my 500 FOLLOWER fic, thank you so much everyone, I love you all.

"my bedsheets are ablaze, i screamed his name..."

Matt's skin prickled with anticipation as he approached the altar. The air was thick with the smell of incense and candle wax, and the flickering flames cast shadows on the walls. He laid down and closed his eyes, feeling the heat of her breath on his face as she asked him to say the prayers she usually says. As he began to pray, he felt a surge of energy coursing through his body, a heat that traveled all across his bed like a fire. But just as quickly, his hand was pulled away and the feeling was gone, replaced by a deep sense of longing and frustration. He knew he could never attain the ultimate release he craved, not while he worshipped his goddess. Agony ripped through his throat as he screamed out the name of his goddess with all his might, his voice pleading for mercy and release from the unrelenting punishment that he was enduring.

The searing pain in his throat was almost unbearable, but he kept on shouting, hoping that his cries would reach the divine ears of his beloved deity and she would take pity on him

."...building up like waves, crashing over my grave..."

Matt had been yearning for a release from his agony for what seemed like an eternity. His mistress had been subjecting him to unbearable suffering, and he had been pleading with her to let him let go. He had been praying fervently, hoping to be heard by his higher power. Every moment felt like a lifetime, and he whispered to himself that his pleas would eventually reach his deity, and he would be granted the relief he so desperately craved.

As he stood there, gazing up at his mistress, he suddenly heard her voice. It was like nothing he had ever heard before - beautiful, yet ominous at the same time. It was as if a pure, divine creature was singing to him. The sound flowed through him, filling him with a sense of relief that he had never experienced before. He felt his chest heave with emotion as he finally let go of all his held-back tears and agony, as he began to chant his gratitudes to the sky - to the goddess that he knew was watching over him from above. It was a moment of pure bliss, a moment that he would never forget.

"...Without ever touching his skin, how can I be Guilty as Sin?"

The sensation of her touch lingered like a ghost, but he could never quite feel it. He yearned for his goddess to appear and envelop him in her embrace, amplifying the euphoria he felt. He begged and pleaded for her to reveal herself, to let her hands glide over his skin and intensify his state of bliss. However, despite his fervent prayers, she remained elusive, leaving Matt with only the memory of her touch.

Matthew found himself in a state of inner turmoil, wondering if the situation he was in was a form of punishment for his past wrongdoings. His hands were clenched tightly around his bedsheets as he struggled to maintain his composure in front of the divine figure before him, who seemed to possess an all-seeing gaze. He couldn't help but wonder how he could be held accountable for sins he had not committed, and how he could be considered guilty without ever having laid a hand on his goddess' golden, sun-kissed skin.

THANK YOU FOR 500 FOLLOWERS

[padawan-snack-packer]

hi! who's your top 5 favorite clones? i must know

Consider this my welcome back post from exam hell LMAO!!!🎓🔥 (and being emotionally roundhouse-kicked by a Certain Bish™, you know who you are ladyof the internet 🙃). I emerge from the ashes wielding a stylus, five brain cells, and a lot of clone opinions!!!

Top 5 favorite clones?? That's like asking me to pick five brain cells from the same chaotic found family BUT IF I MUST-

1. Captain Rex My man. My guy. My emotionally constipated boyfriend figure with the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders and the worst work-life balance imaginable. He’s out here babysitting Jedi toddlers, dragging Anakin out of closets (literal and metaphorical), and somehow STILL has the patience to go, “You good?” when someone breathes weird. I’d die for him. I’d also force him to take a nap.

2. Commander Fox FOXY. My beloved war crime administrator. No one is more “I'm fine :)” while actively bleeding from fourteen metaphorical wounds. He’s got that tired civil servant energy like “Yes, Senator, I know you think your pet loth-cat counts as a diplomatic guest but it cannot pee on the Chancellor’s rug again.” I want to give him a juice box and tell him it’s okay to cry. The GFFA’s most stressed-out cat.

3. Wrecker A GIFT. A HUG. A CANNONBALL OF JOY. He could bench-press a rancor (and me, sorry-) and would cry at a drawing you made for him. He’s the human equivalent of a golden retriever wearing battle armor and I love him. I bet he gives the best hugs. He’d rip a tank in half and then cry at the sunset. Iconic. Deserves all the smoochies.

4. Hardcase You cannot convince me this man hasn’t licked a lightsaber just to see what would happen. He radiates “guy in your friend group who would high-five you mid-fight” energy. Lives on caf and adrenaline. (Probably) ADHD king. Loyal, loud, slightly singed around the edges. Golden Retriever. If you gave him a kazoo, he’d figure out how to use it as a weapon. Deserves the galaxy and at least one seatbelt.

5. Fives (bonus slot because I MAKE THE RULES) Absolute menace. Somehow both the voice of reason and the reason the fire alarm went off. Conspiracy theorist king with a heart of gold. If he’d been born in the modern world, he’d have a million followers and a Tumblr tag warning system. The clones’ most dramatic little meow-meow.

I LOVE ALL OF THEM. Every single one. Even the ones who show up for five seconds and die tragically. This fandom is my emotional support barracks and I’m back in it. 🫡💙 Let’s gooo!!!!

[arcadiabaytornado]

The parallels between Amberprice and Pricefield in these two scenes are so good.

In both scenes, Chloe and her love interest discuss leaving Arcadia Bay before something starts to fall from the sky.

In Amberprice's case, ash rains down on them from a fire Rachel started. In Pricefield's case, snow rains down on them as a consequence of Max starting the storm.

In Amberprice's case, the ash is taken as a sign that they should leave Arcadia Bay. In Pricefield's case, the snow is taken as a sign that the bay's destruction on the horizon.

In Amberprice's case, this scene takes place under a street lamp. In Pricefield's case, this scene takes place under the lighthouse.

And those three similarities aren't where the parallels stop, either!

There's an obvious contrast between ash and snow. It's the difference between fire and ice, hot and cold. But what ash and snow do have in common is that they symbolize a relationship between Chloe and her love interest.

Ash easily represents fire, the element that could be an entire metaphor for Chloe and Rachel's fast-paced, passionate, and reckless, romance. But snow could just as easily be a metaphor for Chloe and Max. Snow tends to represent innocence. This is relevant when we consider that Max and Chloe are childhood best friends. They knew each other in the most innocent part of their lives. Long before Chloe was so traumatized or Max experienced hell-week.

It's also worth noting that the Rachel/Chloe scene takes place at night, when the Max/Chloe takes place during the day. This is probably a design choice meant to add contrast to the two scenes, but I think it's neat to interpret it as: "Rachel and Chloe's scene takes place at night because Rachel and Chloe's hope that they can escape is dim, while Max and Chloe's scene takes place during the day because the knowledge that a storm is coming is clear and obvious to their eyes."

This post got super long, but it was worth writing given how much I love this parallel. Pricefield and Amberprice having comprehensions and contrasts my beloved.

[thetrialsandtribulationsofeb]

some things that were said:

thinking about how, if tim wanted to prepare the audience for bobby’s death, he could’ve used captain banner’s death as the perfect foreshadowing

he would die in the show, and i don’t think we as viewers would catch it the first time, because brad and the “hotshots” storyline was kind of irrelevant to the main plot, and everyone overlooked it

but then we’d rewatch that episode and be like, “oh, so he did warn us. we should’ve seen it coming or at least started thinking about it”, ‘cause captain banner died, and bobby did too

instead, brad’s character was magically brought back to life in the show because fans loved him too much

what kind of message does that send? either this is the cruelest way to send off a beloved main character and tim and abc are sick in the head and lack any empathy,

or… this is a fake death used to shake up the audience and play with our emotions before bringing bobby back (and possibly making buddie canon, which is why tim needed this distraction to keep everyone on their toes + we knew that everyone will be fine with all the previous NDEs, but this time he actually made us worry, which is exactly what he wanted)

which is still a very cruel thing to do, but i think they can predict that if they resurrect bobby and make buddie canon, the audience will forgive them

i think they let tim kill bobby and were testing out people’s reactions with all the leaks, and the finale depended on that, which is why they were shooting for so long. maybe there were some scenes they changed

all i’m saying is, there’s hope that even if it wasn’t planned from the beginning to bring bobby back, they saw the backlash and tried to fix the mistake

also, the water/juice talk, bucktommy breakup, and buddie ending happened in the episode called “confessions”

the god/jesus metaphors with bobby and his mother, the woman being buried alive and showing her dead husband in an OPEN bag, and the first heavy hints at buddie canon happened in the episode called “holy mother of god”

ryliver buzzfeed news and angela saying to “keep hope alive” at the met gala happened at the same time

why is it that the alobby reveal and buddie canon go hand in hand in my head?

like, they’re gonna happen at the same time, and tim planned it this way from the beginning because he wanted the fandom to lose its mind

he’s playing god, and he loves it

(or maybe he’s the one who actually lost his mind and they should fire him)

[oddmawd]

THE ART OF QUEEN SACRIFICE - A Dark Doflamingo Romance

SUMMARY: In chess, a player commits “queen sacrifice” by intentionally giving up their queen to gain a significant strategic or material advantage upon the board. But life is not a game of chess, and such strategies are easier prescribed than practiced — a lesson the princess of Mary Geoise will personally learn when she offers her hand in marriage to the infamous pirate warlord Doflamingo in order to spare her beloved kingdom from his wrath. [Pirate!Doflamingo x Princess!OC. Unnamed/undescribed OC for x-reader fans.] [Pirate AU. Yes, a pirate AU for One Piece. It makes sense in context, promise.]

TAGS & CONTENT WARNINGS

AO3 Link - This fic is hosted in its entirety exclusively on AO3

FANDOM: One Piece

PAIRINGS: Doflamingo x OC (can be read as Doffy x Reader)

RATING: E(xplicit)

WORD COUNT: 8 chapters total, 75k+ words

GENRE: Dark Romance

TAGS: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Stalking, Manipulation, Emotional Manipulation, Intrigue, Corruption, Chess, Chess Metaphors, Strategy & Tactics, Yandere, Yandere Donquixote Doflamingo, Pirates, Princes & Princesses, Eventual S m u t, Romance, Dark Fantasy, Non-Linear Narrative, Fairy tale vibes, Cis Female Reader, Cis Female OC

WARNINGS: Canon-typical violence, s m u t in chapters 6-8, Doflamingo is a manipulative bastard

CHAPTER 1 - EXCERPT

The princess of Mary Geoise stood upon the balcony to watch her beloved kingdom burn.

She dressed plainly for the occasion. No finery, no frills, no fuss. That night she wore but a simple gown and plain shoes, bare of all regalia but the bauble she never took from around her pretty neck. She clutched this necklace in her shaking hands for comfort. Most days she hid it beneath her clothes, tucked under modest necklines and away from the prying eyes of her maids and watching father, but the time for such caution had passed.

They were almost at the end, now. Her father could levy no punishments graver than what awaited her come dawn.

“My lady.”

The third and newly appointed general of her father’s armies — for their enemies had slain the first and his replacement alike — bowed upon the flagstones at her feet. Distant fire reflected in the depths of his worried eyes. The princess could not remember his name, though she recalled the black tattoos upon his hands well enough. She bade him stand with a nod, gaze returning to the tableau of destruction playing out before her. Fire had not yet touched the noble quarter, but sparks rose to the stars at the city’s edge, spreading inward through the other districts in a sullen, rust-red ring.

“What news?” she asked with the taste of ash upon her tongue.

“Our blockade has fallen. Pirate forces breached the city walls.”

She closed her eyes. “How many?”

“A-all of them.” The general swallowed. “The Pirate Warlord sent them all.”

From his rightful place atop the conquered throne, her weary father murmured, “Don’t…don’t call him that.”

The wan-faced king sat slumped, mouth slick with wine, fingers clasped around the neck of the seventh bottle he’d downed since news broke of the pirates reaching his kingdom’s shore. He did not look like a king that night. Tonight, he was just a man, the dignity of his station crumbling in the face of imminent defeat.

And like a diamond that had lost its luster, he was ignored. “Pirate ships block the harbor,” said the general. He answered to her, now — a princess in name but the kingdom’s queen in practice.  Especially after the secrets that had recently come to light. “There can be no escape. Not anymore.”

He needn’t have said it. The princess already knew. A game of Monarchic Chess sat behind her, half complete, tiles of the board arranged in the shape of her kingdom, the game of this attack splayed out upon them in perfect, miniature detail. But although the game was not yet finished, she could already predict the outcome. The number of ships, the element of surprise, the pirate warlord’s tactics…her forces were outgunned, and with no warning to aid them, they were outmaneuvered, too. The blockade had been naught but a desperate, last-ditch effort to repel his forces, her final attempt to save them — to save not only herself and the monarchy, but to save the people she had vowed to protect. Her people were the ones who truly mattered in this scenario. She had known her efforts would fail from the outset, and that she acted on their behalf in vain, but hope compelled her try for one last chance at victory.

A chance now slipping through her fingers, as impossible to grasp as hope itself.

“Thank you, General.” She turned from him, and from her father, and returned her attention to the kingdom she had failed. “You are dismissed.”

But he did not leave. Instead he said: “There’s more.”

Bitter laughter charred her throat. “What more could there possibly be?”

“Messengers from the Pirate Warlord — from the enemy.” He corrected himself with a sideways glance at her father. “They came to tell us citizens have been taken hostage.”

Her blood ran cold. “How many?”

“Hundreds. Our operatives have confirmed it. They are gathered in groups, held at gunpoint.”

She considered this for a time. “And the Warlord’s demands in return for their safe release?”

“He…” The general looked as stunned as she felt. “He hasn’t made any.”

“So far,” the princess murmured. “There is still time yet.”

And so she waited. The general left. In his absence, advisors slinked from their hiding places in the shadows of the throne room to stand about like carrion, black-cloaked and beady-eyed, waiting for the corpse to pick clean with their sharp beaks. They wrung their hands, watching her. Whispered in her father’s ear, though he was too drunk to heed them. Many though they numbered, and brilliant in their own right, they were no help to the princess. They never had been, she ruefully mused. She alone had been their savior for many years, unknowing all the while, fighting their battles for them atop the Monarchic Chessboard. But now, even with eyes at last open to the truth, she was helpless to deliver them from this hell on earth.

It was over. It was well and truly over.

High in her tower above the city, the princess’s eyes burned as she gazed at the burning kingdom, lids heavy and thick in their struggle to remain open. So many sleepless nights. So many games played. So many tears spilled that evening, and in the many evenings before the Pirate Warlord attacked her borders outright. But all had been for naught, and now he marched upon her shores. Her enemy, her foe, her villain — he would be here soon. Soon, she would look the devil in the eye, and fall.

Unable to resist, she allowed her tired eyes to close. Smoke and ash rose from the burning city. Wind caressed her cheeks, her throat, even her hands as they clutched the necklace she loved so much. But the cold comfort of the jewel on her palm could not guard against the distant screams of her people as they were menaced by the pirates who had laid her father’s armies to waste. There could be no comfort for the princess as the noose prepared to pull tight around her throat. There could be no stopping the ring of fire sweeping toward her.

Closing her eyes was an insult to the citizens she had failed to protect. They did not have the luxury of awaiting their fate from the impersonal height of a palace tower. 

Thus, she opened them again to stare into the heart of her burning, beloved capital…but to her surprise, the image before her did not match the horrors in her head. The fiery horizon had not moved. The ring of fire had not closed. No, it somehow held steady, a constant halo of destruction that had moved not an inch deeper into the capital city and the palace waiting at its heart. The onslaught had been held at bay by…she knew not what. Had the invasion halted? But why?

What was the pirate warlord waiting for?

Her hands left the stone parapet along the balcony as she whirled to face the throne room.

“You there,” she asked, but the advisors scattered like crows under the stone of her gaze. She turned instead to the guard at the door. “Where is the general?”

“I can find him, Princess,” the guard said, scrambling. “I can — ”

He vanished through the huge oak doors. She returned her stare to the line of fire. Her knees ached from standing on the cold flagstones for hours on end. The princess had not moved since they received word of the unified pirate army’s invasion of the capital, but she refused to sink into despair alongside her wilting father. The bauble in her hand gave her strength. Oh, that beloved pink jewel she wore on its delicate chain — it gave her courage even when weariness clawed her eyes and dug sharp teeth into her psyche. She rolled it through her fingers, weighing it on her palm and giving the sparkling gem the smallest kiss when she thought no one was looking. The diamond held more than mere glitter or monetary value. It held the very core of her dreams in its facets, glinting back at her with a thousand possibilities and all the lives she might have lived had the unthinkable not occurred.

But the unthinkable had occurred. The war had been lost. The pirates had won. She would never be able to tell the person who had given her the gem how much his words had haunted her since their parting. She would never be able to tell him she wanted to reconsider the offer she had rejected. She would never be able to take his hand and say yes as she so longed to. That possibility had gone dark the moment the fires lit. If only she had met him in some other life, perhaps — 

The door opened, and the general said: “He has stopped advancing, Princess.”

She spun in a tangle of skirts. Once again the general knelt upon the stones behind her. Her father moaned atop the throne, but she hardly heard his cry of despair.

“Have our forces rallied?” she asked, but there was no hope in her heart. “I did not think they would be capable — ”

“No. They are not capable.” He passed a tattooed hand over his weary face. “He could press forward again at any time. He has the forces to destroy us in an instant.” But here he paused. “And yet.”

“And yet he has not.” Her hands fisted, fingernails scraping soft skin. “Why has that monster — ?” She shook her head. “He is just a man.”

“Princess?” asked her general.

“Never mind.” She dropped her hands and turned, head held high, tired eyes unyielding as they dragged her scattered advisors from the shadows. “Tell me again. Tell me everything you know about him.”

“We have told you everything already, Princess,” they whispered.

“Then tell me again,” demanded the princess, “about the Pirate Warlord Doflamingo.”

READ THE REST OF CHAPTER 1 ON AO3. CLICK HERE!