#I don't know genres

[the-starlit-authoress]

"You hesitated. You always hesitate. Why?" Hero stared down at the Villain pinned under their blade.

"You're imagining things." Villian huffed.

"You could have killed me a few minutes ago and you didn't. You clearly don't want to fight me, so why are you?"

"As if I'd tell you anything." Villian took advantage of Hero's lowered guard to get out of the hold and get away, leaving Hero with just as many questions and no answers.

~

The next time Hero saw Villain they fell to their knees a few minutes into the fight, clutching their side.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Stay out of it." Villain winced as they pushed themself up. "Stop standing there and fight me."

"I'm not going to fight someone who can barely stand."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

"Fight me."

"No."

"You have to."

"Why?" Hero asked, desperate for a real answer this time. "Why do you insist on fighting me when you're injured? Why are you forcing yourself to attack me?"

"Because I don't have a choice!" Villain shouted, clenching their fist. Their eyes widened slightly when they realized their accidental confession. "Shit."

"What do you mean? Why don't you have a choice?"

Villain glared. "Why do you care?"

"Because I want to help you."

They laughed. It was sad and empty. "Yeah, right. You just want me to let my guard down so you can lock me up."

Hero took a careful few steps towards their enemy. They're not sure if they should be calling them that anymore. "I swear I just want to help. Please. Let me help."

"You heroes are so desperate to help everyone. Have you ever considered there are things you have no place helping with? Or do you just not care as long as you get the credit?"

"No, I-"

"Save it. You can't help me." with that Villain ran from another unfinished fight, aware of the consequences but not caring as long as it ended this conversation.

~

Villain let out a breath as they stepped into their home (If they could even call it that) but quickly tensed when they heard a voice from the doorway.

"You're back early. Again. You better tell me it's because you won this time." Supervillain did not look impressed.

"...No. They got away." Villian muttered, eyes downcast.

"You've been losing a lot lately." Supervillain stepped around behind them. "I thought yesterday's training would have helped strengthen your resolve." they placed their hands on Villian's shoulders and leaned in. "Maybe you need another round. Or perhaps it's time to start training your little brother instead."

Villian felt themself tense even more. "No. Leave him alone. I'll do it."

Supervillain smiled. "I knew I raised a smart kid."

[ryllen]

no, but pinecones is really beautiful isn't it ?

[laundrybiscuits]

(ETA: now edited and up on AO3)

Look. Eddie knows he can be a little uptight about these things, but. There are rules. If you become a vampire, you don’t need to go full gothic Count Von Dickhead or whatever, but you absolutely cannot just wander around in a puffy vest and light-wash jeans. 

“Why not?” says Steve. He’s leaning back in an armchair, sipping on a bloodbag like it’s a goddamn juicebox. “What, are the vampire police going to arrest me?” 

He pauses. “Wait. There aren’t vampire police, are there?”

“No,” says Eddie. “Probably not. I don’t know. But there are standards which you are refusing to uphold, Steven.”

“Thought you were all about hating conformity, Edward,” Steve says. He’s got an obnoxiously cocky little smirk, the smug undead fucker. 

Eddie grimaces. “Don’t call me that, asswipe. Don’t you feel, like—the call of the night? The siren song of life coursing through fragile human veins? A hunger for destruction that those paltry plastic bags of blood can never truly slake?”

“The bloodbags aren’t so bad,” says Steve, around the straw. “Better than protein shakes.”

“I actually hate you,” Eddie tells him. “Vampirism is wasted on you.”

Steve noisily slurps the last of the blood out of the bottom of the bag. “Come on, you can’t really picture me in some Dracula getup, can you?”

The problem, of course, is that Eddie really, really can. When Robin had read him in on the whole situation, obviously he’d been horrified and concerned—but also, a whole wing of his brain had immediately been cordoned off to work overtime imagining Steve in elaborate Dark Prince regalia, maybe leaning elegantly out of a castle window on the moors, gazing into the foggy dusk. Velvet might’ve been involved.

“...guess not,” says Eddie. It doesn’t sound incredibly convincing to his own ears, but Steve just shrugs and gets up to throw the bloodbag away. 

“There you go, man,” he says, clapping Eddie on the shoulder as he passes. “It’s the 80s. Vampires can be whatever we wanna be.”

———

It gets way too easy to forget about Steve’s condition, until Eddie ends up having to haul him out of a bar in Indy before they get banned for life.  

“Simmer down, buddy,” Eddie says, pulling him into the shadow of the van. “Let’s get those fangs packed away before any of the nice villagers wander by with torches and pitchforks.”

“I’m good,” pants Steve. “It’s all good. Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”

Eddie lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. “Sure, that’s why your eyes are glowing red and you’re, like, fully vamped out. Which, by the way, looks extremely dumb with the whole clean-cut vibe you decided to rock tonight.”

“Fuck you, I look great,” says Steve, pushing a hand through his hair. He’s not wrong, it’s just not relevant to how he also looks extremely dumb like this, wearing a pristine henley with fangs hanging out in the parking lot for anyone to see.

“So what the hell happened in there, man? I was finally starting to get somewhere with Todd, and…” Eddie trails off in dawning realization.

“Holy shit, am I—I’m like your territory, aren’t I? Your stupid vampire brain got all screwy and decided to loop me in with Robin and the kids as part of your freaky human coven.”

“Uh,” says Steve. He looks unhappy in a shifty kind of way. “Something like that, maybe.”

“Wait, so, are Nancy and Jonathan—are you okay with them because they’re both already in the vamp pack? Is Vickie gonna have to be inaugurated before she and Robin can bone down?” Eddie perks up. “Shit, is there a ceremony? We could totally do a ceremony.” He bets he can get the kids to liberate some velour curtains from the drama club. With a few candles, they could get some serious atmosphere going.

“No, shut up, nobody’s doing a damn ceremony,” Steve groans. “Vickie’s fine.” 

“Okay,” says Eddie. “So…you gonna tell me what all that was about, then? Do I have to start running guys past you first so your vamp instincts don’t wig out? Or…hm, maybe Argyle’d be down to mess around sometime.”

Steve lets out an actual snarl with weird animal echoes, then claps a hand over his mouth.

“Sorry,” he says, muffled. The shadows around them seem darker somehow. 

“So I’m just not allowed to get laid ever again,” says Eddie slowly. “For vampire reasons.”

“Do whatever you want, man.” Steve’s still got his hand pressed tight over his mouth. 

“And it’s…just me?” Eddie peers at the tightness around Steve’s eyes; the way he’s scowling stubbornly at his feet. “Huh. Kind of…possessive, Harrington.”

“It’s—weird,” says Steve miserably, dropping his hand at last. “I know it’s fucking weird.”

“Maybe.” Eddie shrugs, biting down on the grin he can feel tugging at his mouth. “Lucky for you, I’m into that shit.”

“What?” Steve frowns. “You’re…”

“Always wanted a vampire boyfriend,” says Eddie. “Like, are you kidding? I would’ve sold my fucking soul at 15 for something like that.”

“I’m starting to feel a little objectified here,” says Steve, but he’s smiling, and he reaches out to snag Eddie’s belt loop and tug him stumbling closer. “Just in it for the fangs, huh?”

“Well, you’re kind of a shitty vampire, actually.” Eddie drapes his arms over Steve’s shoulders. “So I guess I must just be in it for you.”

Steve hesitates, searching Eddie’s face. Stray red lights are still sparking like embers in Steve’s irises. “Okay, but—you’re in it? Right?”

“Couldn’t get rid of me if you tried, Bunnicula. I’ll send the vampire police after you, just watch me,” says Eddie, and kisses him.

[sun-snatcher]

That Kitsch!Gambit is so steamy LORD PLEASE write a Channing!Gambit version. I know you don't write smut but. Just a taste. Please. You'd be doing the Channing girlies a service.

♧ |  own sweet time  ;  ‘24!Gambit

summ.  A supply run goes sour. You and Remy pass time in the Void the only way you know how.  pairing.  Void!Gambit x f!Void!reader a/n.  A blurb. Allusions to smut but really it's just heavy-petting and a make out. Anyway. Don’t look at ME. You people asked for this!

The Void is vast.

Vast usually means quiet.

Which, really, is a double-edged sword for your situation at the moment. It all depends— but logistics is honestly the last thing you’re caring about in this seedy, rundown 80’s Diner that you and Remy have temporarily camped in for the night after that tragedy of a supply run, no—

Not when you’re purring under his heaty touch, and he’s sweeping you off your feet to corner you against the counter with his eyes half-mast, and that damn smirk across his face.

He always likes to play with his food.

“Foldin’ your cards already, chèr?” 

Your hands roam uselessly across the armour over his chest, finding purchase at the thick muscles of his arms caging you in.

“Mh. You’re a cheater,” you volley, dragging him close by his coat and tip-toeing to meet him in a quick there-and-away kiss.

A dimpled smile. “S’only one thing I play dirty at, chèr.”

You roll your eyes, but your huff of laughter betrays you. “You talk too much.”

“That so?” he hums, cutting.

You can’t even answer.

The taunt is enough to have him dipping down, snaking his hand loose around your neck like a collar, and devouring you like his life depended on it. Raw hunger. It sends your world careening; body unravelling. You want to reach out incase you fall apart— you want to be touched and surrounded and kissed.

“Up,” he instructs, voice like roughstone; and when you obliged obediently, let him hike you up around his hips and keep you from falling with nothing but a single arm wrapped around you, he croons out the approval that makes your head swim; 

“Attagirl.”

Some strangled sound— a wanton plea, probably— escapes you. It’s hard to miss his smile against your lips; Likes when you preen for him, the smug bastard. 

He settles you fluidly on a booth table, and you barely have the time to catch your breath until he’s leaning his tousled-head down again, tilting your chin up with his fingers, and nosing a bruising kiss over your lips and to the tender pulse beneath your jawline.

“Remy,” you manage, half-whined and half-croaked. “Please.”

He shushes you. Three consecutive tuts, almost. Chiding. It stirs something in you. 

This— arrangement— has been routine enough for him to know exactly what makes you tick; know what disarms you; lets him have his way. You hardly remember when it all started. Time doesn’t matter in the Void. Somewhere between his suggestive banter, and your wandering gazes, and both of your lingering, purposeful touches— you and he found comfort burying in each other with this make-shift intimacy.

Casual, you remind yourself. This is… casual.

He grazes tongue and teeth against your collar. Canine-sharp. 

Christ. The whole Devil thing makes sense, doesn't it?

And Gambit runs hot. Smouldering to the touch— warm and kindling and as searing as brimstone. You wonder, idly, if it has something to do with all the kinetic energy coursing through him; if it’s ever intentional. An exposed livewire that singes and thrums throughout your body as he mouths at the thin skin of your flesh.

“Remy.” You arch, helpless, trying to get impossibly closer to him.

He slides his palms up, rough and excited, working your body firmly where and how he wants you, back down the cold metal of the table.

It’s enough force that you thud the back of your head.

You barely notice it, too distracted with the pressure of him, but Remy does— and then he’s quickly pulling away from a wet kiss at the hollow of your throat.

“Y’alright?” he withdraws, slowing considerably. Irises fade bright fuschia to sea-green. The roughness in his touch quickly melts away. "M’sorry, chèr."

His powers bleed through sometimes whenever he’s kickstarted with adrenaline; tends to give way and have him end up using more force than necessary. His thumb sits at your bottom lip, breath curling with yours as he checks you over with a flickering gaze.

“It's okay,” you murmur, already pulling him forward. (You forget just how much that Cajun accent of his does it for you.) "Didn't hurt me, sweetheart."

He seals you into a talisman of a kiss. Another apology; a promise. Gambit didn’t mean to, chèr, it translates. 'Lemme make it up to you.

Gentleman at heart. Always. You love it about him.

Gambit may have learned how to make himself a hard read from his years being a thieving, gambling, cheat; but Remy’s touch— sleight, dextrous hands borne from mastered legerdemain— never fails to give everything about him away. 

Everything devolves into something more tender, now. Like he’s making up for his harshness. You can feel his fingers slide from your jaw and run through your hair to cradle the crown of your head— quiet precaution from hitting it again as he latches onto your mouth. 

Subtle awareness; Not only a turn-on, but also sickeningly sweet of him.

Too much, truthfully, for this to be just a casual thing between you both.

Sweeter than whatever had been in the air that day Elektra had sent you both out on a recon that turned sour, and he came away with bruises on his chest so dark he looked like a walking contusion— and you took care of him afterwards in the only way you knew how: 

Sitting astride on his lap, and letting him mould you into his blissful distraction; have him forget the pain; disassemble the raw dread in his marrows after such a close call.

He shifts you carefully to the table edge, nudges your knees wide so he can stand bracketed between your legs. The skirting coat he shoulders slowly slips off.

...God. You’re going to leave half-crescents around his biceps by the time he’s done with you.

“Easy, chèr,” he laughs, when you entwine your fingers with his, anticipatory. It's a cigarette-burn of a voice; drowned in hazy, saccharine affection. “Gambit ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Too sweet, you want to scold him—

But then he’s pressing against you, looming above you like a shadow, and every single thought dissolves into eager pleasure as he curls another hand under your shirt and drags up, up, up.

Too sweet. Sweet, and takin’ his own sweet time.

Laissez les bons temps rouler, or whatever it is he says.

[excali8ur]

I wonder what kind of music Mona would like

[pirateyang]

a comparative analysis of shows in my favorite genre: the girls are stranded!!

[fictionadventurer]

You guys know "Christian fiction" is not a dirty word, right?

Yes, it's stereotyped as fluffy romances or hit-you-over-the-head allegories, but the genre is growing beyond that. Like any other type of book, it can be done well or done poorly, and I'd say there's a similar ratio of good fiction to dreck as there is in any other genre--Christian fiction just gets a much more critical lens applied to it by people who think any mention of faith is cringe.

There's nothing wrong with writing for an audience that mostly shares your beliefs--it can let you get more specific and realistic about what a life of faith is like and dig deeper into the details for people who are already on-board with the basics.

There's a wide range of what "Christian fiction" can do. Sometimes it tries to preach the Gospel to an audience that's already converted. But sometimes it incorporates Christian themes into a good story. Sometimes it features characters who are practicing Christians and whose faith affects how they approach the world. It can dig in to the questions and complications that come with living out ideals in an imperfect world. Someone looking for "Christian fiction" could be looking for any of those things, might just want to have a conversation with someone who shares their worldview. There's nothing wrong with that.

We shouldn't be afraid of the label. The marketing category that has come to define "Christian fiction" is not the limit of what Christian fiction can do. Don't write it off based on the stereotypes--and don't be afraid to add to the genre!

[kaasiand]

doing gamedev stuff rn because i think my brain struck gold :3

(you can't tell what the game's hook will be from this just yet and no i'm not telling you yet either. it's gonna be good trust me)

[wawapichi]

My newly arrived hyperfixation on Welcome Home inspired me to create this

[janederscore]

my favorite part of discussing transmisogyny is that no matter how eloquent or brief your point is the notes will be rife with people who haven't read the post, don't care to read the post, and need to make sure the op and any passers-by know exactly how little they think of the entire exercise to begin with

[tricoufamily]

workshopping a guy. he's a pyromaniac

[poisonouspastels]

I wish more people would weigh out the demand of how "realistic" something is regarding horror media thats supposed to be around a certain time era or within certain limitations with the fact that if it WERE 100% accurate to what it's trying to represent, it'd probably be lame as hell.

[senselessalchemist]

Bow problems (+ other nonsense)

[snackugaki]

surprise my other hobbies are window shopping and fashion

[tc-doherty]

the hardest part about writing was me sitting on the couch this morning trying to think of a word but not even able to come up with the name for the type of word I was looking for just going "what genre of word is this even? what do I even look for?"