#change in script bob

[michaelscorneroftheinternet]

for smg3: would you rather kiss smg4 or get your search history leaked to the internet?

(hehehe I’m so evil😈)

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...1 Ask Remaining...

[blondwolfart]

I made a gift for @michealscorneroftheinternet I read their story "Change in script" and I got really into it so I decided to make a art gift for them I hope you like it.

[hide-your-bugs-away]

A Dont Look Back edit I recall making three years ago amidst a migraine episode... COMFORT MOVIE!!! FAVORITE MOVIE!!! 🥹

Song: "Joe Blazey" by Dominic Fike

[arwenkenobi48]

Wish Upon A Star: Plot Breakdown (Wish Rewrite Project)

It starts out practically the same as the original, except Asha is telling the origin story of Rosas to Valentino, who is her familiar, as she’s already Magnifico’s apprentice. (Asha has the rare ability to talk to animals.)

Welcome To Rosas is sung from the citizens’ POV and is generally very upbeat, with them all singing the praises of Magnifico and Amaya. It becomes a little sad towards the end, as Asha gets her own verse about how she feels like her magical powers make her an outcast and even though she has the privilege of being Magnifico’s successor, she still longs to fit in with everyone else.

Magnifico is introduced, rushing about and getting everything ready for the ceremony, with a number of well-meaning but clumsy servants providing a little comic relief.

When Amaya is introduced, along with her pet Sphinx cat (haven’t thought of a name for him yet), she’s shown to be a vain and jealous woman, envious of all the positive attention her husband receives from the kingdom. She always pretends to be innocent whenever Magnifico or Asha is around, although Valentino can sense something off about her, frequently getting into scuffles with the cat. (Haven’t figured out what sort of animal familiar Magnifico will have yet.)

Asha is incredibly excited, as this is the first time she’ll be partaking in the wish-granting ceremony. Magnifico also lets her see the wishes for the very first time, reminding her that she’ll soon be responsible for all of them.

Much like in the original, Asha and Magnifico argue about their different viewpoints on granting all of the wishes vs only granting some of them.

Asha, in an act of defiance, decides to grant a wish that Magnifico didn’t approve of at the ceremony and it predictably ends in disaster. Asha feels deeply ashamed of what she’s done and the fact that she let down her mentor and her future kingdom.

She runs away in the middle of the night, with Valentino by her side. Singing This Wish, Asha looks up at the stars, recalling the days when she was younger, when Magnifico used to tell her all sorts of wonderful stories about them and the ancient magic they hold. She basically prays for guidance, for someone to understand her and to help make amends.

In a blaze of light, a star descends from the sky. The people of Rosas are amazed and excited. Magnifico, on the other hand, is terrified of the blinding light, as it triggers a flashback to when his home was destroyed. Even in such a vulnerable state, he still worries about Asha.

Asha finds herself face to face with a handsome young man with bright eyes and glowing golden hair. They’re both fascinated by one another and when Asha asks him who he is, he explains that he’s a star. Both Asha and Star are, well, starstruck, even more so when Asha finds out that Star can understand Valentino. She thought she was the only one and as they travel through the forest, Asha feels comforted, knowing that she’s not alone.

Meanwhile, Queen Amaya is secretly delighting in all the chaos that’s been happening. She sees this as the perfect opportunity to steal the limelight from both Magnifico and Asha. She conspires to essentially poison Magnifico against his apprentice, wanting all his attention to be on her and nobody else, even though it’s already been established that Magnifico loves her deeply and hasn’t been neglecting her at all.

Amaya’s evil monologue is interrupted by Magnifico, who confides in her about how worried he is and how he feels like he’s losing control of the situation. “I can’t find an answer in any of my books!” “Well, there is one you haven’t tried…yet.” Amaya refers to the grimoire. Magnifico is horrified at the prospect of using it, but Amaya just laughs it off as a joke, pretending that she’d never consider using it. Magnifico decides to take his best knights with him to the forest to find out what’s going on and bring Asha home.

Meanwhile, in the forest. Asha and Star are learning more about one another, with Star being incredibly curious about the human world in the same way that Ariel is in The Little Mermaid. When Asha speaks so highly of Rosas, Star wants to travel to the kingdom and see it for himself, but Asha sadly explains how she messed things up at the ceremony and how she feels like she can’t go back. Star comforts her and assures her that everyone makes mistakes and the important thing is that she learned from it. They dance around the forest and sing At All Costs. Their magic combines and spreads throughout the forest, making everything beautifully vibrant and colourful and giving humans and animals the ability to understand each other.

Magnifico and his knights come across the beams of magic and are initially frightened, with Magnifico trying not to panic, but the talking animals assure him that they won’t hurt him. They can tell he’s got a lot weighing on his mind and sing I’m A Star to cheer him up. Magnifico calms down and feels safe, realising that he doesn’t need to be afraid of something he doesn’t understand.

Meanwhile, back at Rosas, trouble is stirring. Queen Amaya, after going through her villainous plan with her cat and Dahlia (who has been her long-suffering maid for most of the story) in the form of This Is The Thanks I Get?, has decided to address the people and is using the dark magic from her grimoire to corrupt the citizens, turning them against Magnifico and Asha.

Admittedly I got a bit stuck here, but essentially Magnifico is forced to return to Rosas, only to find the people up in arms and determined to dethrone him. He turns to Amaya for help and she lies to him, telling him that Asha was the cause of the anarchy, that the people never loved or trusted him. When he asks her if she does, the evil queen simply laughs in his face, breaking his heart. Magnifico tries to stand his ground, but Amaya targets all of his insecurities, including the fact that he never had his wish granted (his wish for a child). Magnifico falls into despair and Amaya has him possessed by the grimoire.

Asha, Star and Valentino return to Rosas, determined to set things right, only to be greeted with a sight of ruin and despair. Dahlia, who has managed to sneak away from Amaya, hides the trio in a secret room, where she explains what’s happening and they all resolve to save Magnifico and the citizens from Amaya, while singing Knowing What I Know Now.

Dahlia briefly mentions that the evil spell Magnifico’s trapped in can only be broken by true love. At first, all seems to be lost, but then Asha realises something; it doesn’t have to be romantics love that breaks the spell. It can be familial love, too. She basically has an epiphany, realising that not only is Magnifico the father she always needed, but that she’s also basically his daughter. In other words, his wish was granted without him even realising it. This revelation gives her and her companions a new burst of courage.

Star uses his shapeshifting abilities to confuse/distract the castle guards as the heroes try to locate Magnifico and Amaya. They are unfortunately captured and taken to the tower, where the final battle takes place.

The possessed Magnifico attacks Asha, who fends him off with Star’s help and tries to get through to him. Amaya traps Star inside the mirror-topped magic staff. Just when all seems to be lost, Asha sings a reprise of This Wish, as she explains to Magnifico that his wish was granted. Amaya’s arrogance crumbles as she sees the spell weakening. Magnifico breaks free from Amaya’s control, Star is released from the mirror and Amaya is pulled into it, vanishing forever.

The people of Rosas are freed and everyone rejoices. Magnifico and Asha reconcile, admitting they were wrong and accepting that they’ve both still got a lot to learn from one another. Asha and Star embrace, while Magnifico has a proud dad moment.

At the very end, Star is asked what he could possibly wish for and he replies that he wishes to be human. He’d rather spend a finite life with Asha than be immortal and alone. Magnifico grants Star’s wish, then passes the mantle of Wish Granter to Asha. Star and Asha kiss and Magnifico concludes the narration that opened the film, saying: “And we all lived happily, ever after.”

[br1ghtestlight]

im still not 100% sure when season 14 of bob's burgers is going to release like they SAY episode one will allegedly premiere on october 1st but beyond that im just imagining a 6 month hiatus bcuz both the writers AND the voice actors of the show are striking and they couldn't have got that far into production honestly

[kizo2703]

i have been revisiting a bunch of bellarke fan videos from season 6 and wow that season was LOUD. of course bellarke is loud in every season, but season 6 is the first one where it would have made actual sense for them to get together in the finale (or at the very least by the premiere of the following season). think about it. in the season 1 finale, it's just too early and also, there was a lot of shit going on and bellarke were separated and there was the finn of it all. in the season 2 finale...after finn and lexa and the GENOCIDE....yeah i think that would have been too much. in the season 3 finale, lexa was too fresh (with the way they went about writing that story). in the season 4 finale, okay i could have seen them realistically getting together here and then being ripped apart. that's the only other time other than season 6 that i see it making sense. in the season 5 finale, it feels too soon. but by the season 6 finale?? my GOD they have always been the center of the show, but season 6 took that to a whole new level along with the romantic development. it's just WILD. in my head after the season 6 finale, the only thing that makes sense is them getting together. whereas with every other season, it makes sense why they're not together yet. of course they could have made slight changes to the story and had them get together sooner and i would have been ALLL about it, but with season 6, there are no deviations required. from start to end, that season was constructed with the goal of them getting together, and that makes season 7 all the more jarring.

[blindmagdalena]

You Let Me Complicate You

18+ 4k homelander x f!reader. bickering, post-breakup sex, dubcon/coercion, angst, jealousy, emotional manipulation, implied murder, stalking, boundary smashing, breaking and entering, cunnilingus, penetrative sex. read on AO3. written as a follow-up to the breakup, but can be read as a standalone. gif credit.

Breaking up with Homelander is... complicated. After all, it is a god that loves you.

"What do I taste like?" You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over. "Love," he said at last. "Like you love me." You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you. If that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier.

Homelander is an aberration.

Stronger than a hundred men, faster than a bullet and sharp as a tack all paired with a teaspoon’s depth of emotional maturity. He’s volatile, twisted, broken in ways no amount of therapy could ever hope to duct tape back together. He’s no better off than a dog that bites to kill. No matter how he got to this point, the best thing for him–for the world–would be to put him down by any means necessary.

Too bad you can’t seem to stop fucking him.

It’s late when you hear the front door open with a distinct crack. You’re sprawled out on the couch in the living room, one leg draped lazily over the armrest. What comes next is no surprise to you–a shock of primary colors filling the narrow doorway, a handsome face made ghoulish by the haunting light of the television in an otherwise dark room.

“You nailed the door shut,” Homelander says, the inflection of his voice somewhere between a question and a statement.

“Because you broke it,” you throw back, a stale Twizzler balanced between your lips. It had tasted good enough when you started eating it, but now–in his presence–the sweetness of it has turned sour.

“You changed the locks,” he says with a light shrug, cape swaying as he meanders towards you. “My key didn’t work.”

“Your key? Stealing a key to my house does not make it your key,” you say tersely, lifting your foot to press it firmly to his thigh, stopping him in his tracks. 

He glances down, a mirthless smile tugging at the corner of his mouth before he catches your ankle in his gloved hand, yanking you down the couch so suddenly you lose your Twizzler to the floor with a gasp. It’s one thing to know that Homelander has strength enough to throw cars like frisbees. It’s another to feel it. It sends a rush of adrenaline through you like a jolt, followed swiftly by something hotter low in your naval.

“Y’know, I’ve been thinking,” he begins, dropping your ankle. He lifts his knee and slots it between your legs, his opposite boot on the floor, his hand braced on the back of the couch, pinning you in place.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” you cut in dryly, moving to shift up the couch, away from him. He snatches your shoulder, halting you with ease. His thumb strokes your skin idly, goosebumps erupting beneath his touch.

“And I’ve realized that this whole… thing between you and I, this ‘will they, won’t they,’ ” he says, bobbing his head side to side. “It’s getting stale. Don’t you think it’s about time we progressed the plot?” He asks, leaning in close.

You brace your hand against his chest, holding him in place as ineffectually as you did earlier. You both know it’s all a game. It’s all pretense. There had been fondness between you once–love, even–but you’re done with that now. You have to be done with it, or Homelander will swallow you whole. He’s a black pit, a murderer, and his need knows no end. He’ll destroy you and everything you know and love if he thinks it’ll satiate that need.

You’ve lost enough. You can’t afford to lose any more of yourself to him.

“Jesus Christ, you even think in TV script,” you say, pushing on his chest. He leans back, but not by much. It sends a terrible little chill down your spine. “I’m starting to think the only thing that might actually kill you is an original thought.”

His eyes narrow and his bright white teeth flash predatorily in the darkness. “You’re lucky I haven’t broken your neck,” he says, hand slipping from your shoulder to your throat. The sharp press of his thumb into your windpipe steals your breath, makes your thighs tighten on either side of his leg snug between yours. His lips split into an unkind grin. “Or maybe not. You’d probably like that.”

“You’re disgusting,” you spit, gripping his wrist with your other hand. Your pulse is starting to throb against the leather of his glove. He moves his thumb from your windpipe to your jaw and turns your head away, leaning in with a deep, pointed inhale along your neck.

“Is that why your hormones are going haywire? Because I disgust you?” He asks, grinding his thigh between your legs in a way that makes you gasp. “Y’know, given how full of it you are, I was sure I’d smell the bullshit on you. But all I smell… is how fucking wet you are.”

He grabs your hip and the memories come to you like muscle memory. How good it feels to be gripped and fucked and loved by someone beyond your comprehension. To feel as if you’ve stopped the world turning and called the sun itself to shine on you alone.

You twist your chin out of his grip and level him with a heated stare. “I hate you,” you hiss, grasping for the knife you know will twist the deepest. 

It works for a second, his smug expression faltering, but only for an instant. His jaw sets, and his lips curl into that same unkind smile. “C’mon, babe,” he coos, the intimate familiarity woven into that pet name making your skin crawl. “We both know that I can always tell when you’re lying.”

He kisses you like he always has. Like you belong to him. In a way, you suppose you always will. There’s nothing you can do to pry your throat from Homelander’s jaws. Nowhere you can run that he won’t eventually find you. Like quicksand, the more you fight, the tighter he clamps down. Truth be told, though, that isn’t the worst of it. The worst of it is that the tighter he grips you, the less you want to fight him.

His tongue slithers into your mouth like a serpent into the garden and you bite down hard. While pliant between your teeth, the flesh doesn’t yield. It never will. He never will. Instead he moans a little chuckle that fades into a rumble against your lips.

“That how it’s gonna be?” He asks, the words rasped into your mouth. “Y’wanna bite and claw? Play hard to get?” He laughs, the sound of it reedy and light, like it’s all a silly little game of make-believe. “I can do that.”

He reeks of his own desperation for what he says to be true. More than anything, he wants to dress up his desires as yours. He wants to believe he’s giving you what you want. That way, he can trick himself into believing you need him.

He bites the middle tip of his glove and tugs it off with his teeth, tossing it aside. His bare thumb brushes your lip, smearing his spit and yours. “I saw you with that fucking loser,” he says, the airiness suddenly gone from his voice.

Your stomach drops. Two days ago you’d been with a man. You’d been so desperate to forget him that night that anyone would have done the job. You stumbled out with some nobody from the bar who’d been good enough for a sloppy makeout session in the back of his truck, but not good enough to bring home. It hadn’t ended well.

How close of an eye is Homelander keeping on you?

“I’d be angry if it hadn’t been so fuckin’ pathetic,” he says through his teeth.

“Liar,” you say tightly. You feel his fury in the tension of his body. He’s pissed that you’d seek this out anywhere else. As if he still has a claim over your body. Your pleasure.

His eyes flash up to yours. He sneers, pushing his thumb between your lips. “I watched you bite his lip until he bled. I watched him slap you,” he says, dragging the pad of his thumb along the ridges of your bottom teeth. The memories come to you as he speaks them, every moment of it made bleary by alcohol. “You wanted it rough, but he couldn’t handle you, could he? Because you’re used to something better. You’re used to a god.”

You sneer right back at him, yanking your head to the side, his thumb slipping from between your lips. “Could you be any more in love with yourself? Go fuck yours-”

“I still had to kill him, of course,” he continues nonchalantly, grinding your thoughts to a screeching halt. He laughs humorlessly. “For kissing you. And, well–for everything else, obviously. Slapping you,” he says, brushing his knuckles down your cheek. The same one the man had struck. “Humping your leg like a fucking dog.”

“Why are you doing this?” You ask, throat tight. Bile burns at the back of it. All you wanted was to get away from this. The blood, the horror of it. Yet no matter what you do to dissuade him, he brings death to your doorstep. “You have everything. You could have anyone. Why are you–”

“Because I want you,” he hisses, words so sharp his sharp teeth snap together. “Because I love you, and that’s what you do when you love someone,” he says. You can feel the accusation building in his words. “You don’t give up on them. And if that means cleaning up every dirty little mistake you make,” he says softly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “So be it.” 

A cold shiver rolls down your spine. You stare woundedly at him, lips parted, brows pinched together, the misery of it all etched into every line of your face. He stares at you in turn, and after a beat, his own hard expression softens.

“Hey, hey,” he says, the heat of his breath a ghostly kiss on your lips. “It’s okay,” he says, brushing the tip of your nose with his. “I forgive you.”

He kisses you again, more tender now. Your eyes prickle with tears. His gentleness hurts so much more than his violence. It disarms you, carries you to a time when things were simpler between you. Sweeter and warmer. 

Homelander makes the world feel wonderful and dangerous, like standing in the middle of an electric storm. Being loved by him is the feeling of having your ribs cracked open, your heart cradled in his bare hands, possessive and bloody. What had been thrilling grew stifling, a feeling you realize now never truly went away.

He’s inescapable, literally and figuratively. Even when he isn’t inviting himself into your home or lurking in the periphery of your vision, Vought’s hero is plastered on every billboard and screen in the city. You haven't been able to breathe without inhaling the thick miasma of him.

Tears roll down to your temples as you kiss him back, both hands fisted in his soft hair, tugging. He makes a pleased little sound against your lips, teeth grazing your bottom lip. He’s always kissed like a man possessed–like every brush of your lips is a drop of salvation–but the hunger he’s developed since you tried to leave him is unparalleled. He kisses you like he means to devour you whole.

You bite back a sob, but the hiccuped noise of it catches his attention nonetheless. He breaks from you, looking down at you with a feverish mix of yearning, impatience and something that almost resembles pity, which might be the closest thing he knows to sympathy.

“Hey,” he coos, dusting your jaw with feather light kisses. “Don’t cry.”

“It’s awful,” you choke out.

“What is?”

“Your love.”

“I know,” he says after a prolonged pause. “It’s all I know.”

You look at him, the image of him bleary through your tears. There’s a morose resignation in his ocean-storm eyes, a distance that makes him seem far, far away from you, even as you taste the heat of his breath on your lips.

Focus returns to his gaze, and suddenly he’s present again. “It’s all I know,” he says again, his tone made of wood, stiff and splintering.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you lift your palm to his cheek, hovering just shy of touching. He’s pulled to it like a magnet, nuzzling into your palm, eyes closing. His hand slides down the familiar slopes of your body, settling at your hip, where his fingertips sink in like claws, the pressure of them shy. For as vicious as things have gotten between you, he’s never hurt you. A fact he lords over you as if he should be applauded for it.

I love you more than anything. You know that, right? That I would never do anything to hurt you? He’d asked you during that first fight. When everything went wrong. 

You’d only been able to nod then, trapped with a man you didn’t recognize wearing the face of the man you loved.

That’s right. Of course you do. Because if I wanted to hurt you, I would have. It would have been easy, huh?

Despite how desperately you’ve tried to fortify yourself against him, it’s still so easy.

Homelander is an aberration, but so too is he a man, and there was a time when the man was all that you saw. When the monster at the core of him reared its head, bloody and unrepentant, that became all you could see in him. Now, the two are so irrevocably tangled in the sinew of the other, you’re never sure which you’re looking at.

“I miss you,” you confess to the man in him, voice so soft only his ears possibly could have discerned the words. As if you can hide the words from the monster lurking behind if you speak them quietly enough. 

He looks as confused as your own aching heart. “I’m here,” he says, everything in his tone willing you to believe it. He doesn’t understand that you miss who he was before you knew what he was.

A mournful noise swells in your chest, but he kisses you before it can escape. “I’m here,” he says again, the hand at your hip turning into a fist in the fabric of your clothes, tearing them at the seams. “I’ll make you feel better,” he says between presses of his lips, hungry and rushing, like he can outspeed your miserable grief. “Let me make you feel good.”

Sex has always been an avenue of redemption for Homelander. Whether he’s frustrated, anxious, wounded or a combination of them all, he’s sought to remedy it through a good orgasm. He treats you as though the notion should hold true for you: the fight doesn’t count so long as he makes you come.

Yet again, you’re left stricken by him. As you have a dozen times before, all you can do is nod. Deep in your core, you know he’s right. He can make you forget this horrible ache in yourself, the grief and the fear. He can take you away to the dream you’d lived before you met the beast in his shadow. 

Coherent thought turns to water slipping between the cracks of your mind as Homelander’s bare fingers brush your inner thigh. You suck in a sharp breath that leaves you as a shudder and you clutch at his collar, twisting the fabric, unsure if you mean to push him away or pull him closer.

Homelander makes the choice for you, closing the distance and kissing you too gently, too sweetly. You spur him with your teeth, needing it faster, harder. Needing it to hurt just enough to not feel entirely right. He ignores your prompt, focused wholly on tasting you, on sliding his fingers up into the waiting warmth between your thighs. He presses the pad of his middle finger to your clit, deft and familiar.

You sigh, closing your eyes, ready to lose yourself to the feel of something good. He slides serpentine down your body, kissing you through your shirt, nipping at your skin through the fabric for the way it makes you jump. His lips trail down until they pass the hem of your shirt, finding where he’s stripped you. His mouth is unbearably warm, breath hot huffs on your bare skin, goosebumps erupting everywhere.

He mouths at your hip, sucks the skin dark before trailing further down, leaving a constellation with his lips. The scorching wet heat of his tongue feels like a brand on your clit, replacing his hand with his mouth. 

You thread your fingers into his hair, widening the spread of your legs to allow for the way he shoulders under and between them, lifting your lower half. He nuzzles into the nectary sweetness of you, moaning unabashedly for your familiar taste.

What do I taste like? You asked him once, drunk on pleasure and those early honeymoon days of loving him. Everything about him fascinated you; did his super smell lend itself to super taste? Could he pick out each note of you, dissect your profile into sections?

He’d been slow to answer, thinking it over.

Love, he said at last. Like you love me.

You wonder if that holds true. If he can still taste love in you, if that’s why he’s so eager to devour you, or if the absence of it has made him even hungrier. If he plunges his tongue to the core of you in the hopes he might discover lingering shreds of what the two of you once had.

A moan escapes you. His fingers bite into your thighs, tongue coaxing more. Restraint dissipating, you tighten your grip on his hair and tug, grinding hard against his mouth. He knows the stepping stones of your pleasure as well as you know yourself, knowing just when to suck, when to lick. He’s more relentless than any other man could hope to be, never needing to stop for breath, never succumbing to aching muscles. He maintains a pace that sends you careening so viciously towards release, you give a choking gasp when it hits you, your head thrown back against the couch as euphoric relief rolls through you in waves.

Homelander shrugs out from under your trembling thighs, his mouth slick and shining, eyes predator wide. You’re both panting, silently gauging the other. You’re first to break the standoff, his hunger infectious. You climb onto your knees and grab his shoulders, pushing his back to the couch, straddling him. He keens when you kiss him, an addictive sound that gives you a deceptive sense of power.

He murmurs your name in fervent repetition, dragging his mouth along your skin, inhaling you like a drug. You unbuckle his belt with the ease of experience, unzip his pants and slip your hand inside. Curling your fingers around his cock, you find it already hard and dripping in anticipation.

“Anything you want,” he breathes, the words coming between the prayer-like recitation of your name. “Money, diamonds, anything, I’ll make you a queen,” he says, eyelids fluttering at your touch. He pledges these things like an act of devotion, but you recognize this Faustian bargain for what it is. It will cost you your heart and soul.

“I’ll make you a god,” he moans at a particularly deft twist of your wrist.

Making you come will have to be enough for now.

“Fuck me,” you tell him breathlessly. “The way I like it.”

Like flipping a switch, the dazed pleasure in his eyes sharpens. The corners of his mouth tug, his upper lip twitches, eager tension slipping into his touch as his hands slide up your thighs, grasping your hips. His fingers sink in tight enough to bruise, despite the gentleness of his touch. The immeasurable power lurking within his unassuming frame is a novelty that never wears off, a thrill that shocks you to your core no matter how many times you experience it.

Like a vicious storm, he’s beautiful and terrible in equal measure. Caught in the eye of his maelstrom, the only thing left for you to do is weather him.

He guides you down onto his cock in one slow, agonizing pull. Even with his spit and your orgasm easing the way, it’s too much all at once. Relishing the aching burn of being split apart by him, you make a noise that gives him pause. You don’t let him stop. You brace your hands on his shoulders and lift off of him almost entirely before sinking back down deeper than you had before, wringing a moan from him in turn.

Homelander’s fingers dig securely into your back as your bodies slot together and find an old, familiar rhythm. By now he knows exactly the angle to take to best pleasure you. You let out a shaky sigh at the warmth that spreads through you, the pressure of your climax building, his heat sinking into you like the light of the sun itself.

You’re used to a god.

You cup his face and kiss him. You bite his lip until you should taste blood. You dig your nails into his skin so hard your knuckles ache. If he notices it, he’s only pleased by it.

“I’d move heaven and hell for you,” he swears between kisses, ripping the shirt from your body. The cool air hits your damp, hot skin like a shock. 

“I don’t want them,” you say, voice catching on one of his sharp and sudden thrusts. He’s close. You can feel it in the tightness of his muscles, in the erratic, merciless way he drives into you.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, voice reedy, tight. He kisses down your chest, scrapes his teeth over the swell of your breasts. “They’re yours. It’s all yours. I’m yours.”

Those words should hit you like a prison sentence, but they don’t.

They make you come.

Homelander holds you tightly as he, too, breaks into pieces, filling you with light and heat. He chokes more promises against your skin, kisses the salt from your skin and licks it greedily from his lips. You spin in place in his arms, dizzy on your own orgasm, riding out the aftershocks with his cock throbbing against the quiver of your cunt.

For a long while there’s nothing but the sound of your breaths and the distant din of the television. The tremors wracking your body gradually fade, and the chill of the open air begins to set in.

Homelander holds you tight as the sweat on your skin cools. He kisses a trail from your neck to your shoulder, nuzzling there before he rests his head down, face tucked into the crook of your neck. You feel wrung dry, eyelids heavy. You card your fingers absently through his hair, body boneless against his. Your eyes ache from crying, but you don’t mind it. Strung out like this, the aches left in the wake of pain and pleasure both feel equally good.

“It’s late,” he says warmly, a smile in his tone. He sounds lovesick, the way you both did once upon a time. Back then, you thought you knew every dark corner of his insatiable heart. “We should sleep.”

“Okay,” you agree, voice frayed. He lifts you gingerly from his lap, adjusting to cradle your naked body to his chest. Despite how Homelander unspools himself before you, you’re always the one left reduced. Bare and vulnerable both physically and emotionally. You slip your arms around his neck as he stands, resting your head on his shoulder.

“I could take you to the tower,” he whispers, sending a chill down your spine. “My bed’s bigger.”

“No,” you say, remembering a door you cannot reach, no matter how many times you grasp for it, and the god’s hands that sent you spinning. He’s already so capable of turning your home into a prison. You’re not sure you’d ever escape his penthouse. “I want mine.”

Perhaps the most terrible fact of all is that Homelander is neither a god nor a monster. 

He is simply a man without limitation.

“Sure,” he says, kissing your cheek. The touch lingers, dripping with his adoration. “Anything you want.”

So long as it includes him.

[dduane]

Hello! I have been a long-time fan of your work in Star Trek, and then while watching Transformers G1 I was startled to see your name appear on the title screen of Webworld. Most of the episodes of G1 are a little all over the place, but Webworld GOT me. It’s so fascinating to see Cyclonus essentially bring Galvatron (against his will) to a mental health clinic?! My question is, how did you get involved to help write an episode of Transformers? What was it like? Thank you so much for all the amazing work that you do!

You're very welcome!

About my work on Transformers G1: Developmentally speaking it's kind of a complicated story, so bear with me here while I set the scene.

In 1985 I was a pretty busy girl. The Door Into Shadow had just published. Deep Wizardry had gone to press for publication in Delacorte's fall-'85 schedule. My first computer game, Star Trek: The Kobayashi Alternative, launched (in the Rainbow Room on top of 30 Rock...) in the summer of '85. I was then scripting my first comics work for DC (the "Double Blind" two-parter and "The Last Word"). And after taking a brief breathing space from four or five years' worth of animation work across a number of shows (scroll down here for details), I'd just turned in an episode of My Little Pony.

In memory all this work tends to get tangled together somewhat (which is probably no surprise). One thread that shows persistently through the tangle, though, is how much time I was spending in New York at a time when I was living in Philadelphia.

A surprising amount of that has to do with the research surrounding Deep Wizardry, which required specialized materials not readily available anywhere else. Because I had a contract for that book, in early 1984 I applied for (and was granted) access to the Frederick Lewis Allen Memorial Room at the main branch of the New York Public Library. As a result, for the guts of a year I was "up in town" at least every other week or so, sometimes for two or three days at a time—taking notes from the Woods Hole oceanographic resources there, drawing copies of them (like this one) when xerography wasn't available or when otherwise necessary, and—when there was time—writing.

But on those stay-overs my evenings were my own, and fortunately there were some really nice people to meet up with, every so often. Back when 666 5th Avenue (now 660) was DC Comics' home, a lot of the writing and editorial talent had a habit of heading down to street level and around the corner on Friday nights, to meet up and relax at the bar in a local steakhouse on the E. 52nd Street side (IIRC: that neighborhood's much changed now). That's almost certainly where I first met Len Wein—most likely introduced to him by my editor on the Trek comics at DC, Bob Greenberger—and we quickly got to be friends. Each of us was interested in the writing (and kinds of writing) the other was doing, so we had lots to chat about.

Now during this period I'd recently finished work on that My Little Pony script. A production company called Sunbow was then handling the screen side of the property, along with shows based on various other IPs. To this day I can't remember who it was over there who said to me, "So listen, now that you're done with that, we've got some slots unfilled on another show—would you be interested in doing a Transformers?" My answer was naturally "Sure, why not?"*

So shortly I was talking story, in a general way, with my new story editor over there, Steve Gerber. The thought of doing something a bit personal, and getting into some of the characters' heads a bit, was as usual on my mind. The idea of getting Galvatron some psychiatric care had already crossed my mind at that point... though I had on first impulse pushed that (for the time being) onto the back burner due to possibly being a little too "on the nose."

At some point pretty early on in this process, though, a different idea hit me as it had hit me before. Len was plainly perfectly cut out for animation storytelling (as other comics writers have also been: but the fit has rarely seemed quite so perfect, to me at least). And he'd have a party with this, I thought. Why not invite him along for the ride and let him get a feel for how it's done?

So I did. To my great pleasure Len promptly said "Yes!" And having cleared this with Steve Gerber, we dove in as co-writers.

Collaboration can sometimes be a rocky road, but I've always been lucky in mine, and that lucky streak held true with Len. I have rarely had a co-writer who right out of the starting gate was more willing to stretch hard to get things right, and one who was more effortlessly funny... even when the humor turned dark (as it repeatedly did in this episode). He unquestionably brought things to that script that I wouldn't have thought to try, or would have been nervous about my ability to pull off, solo.

...So after a couple/few weeks we turned "Webworld" in, the checks cleared, and we both went on to other things. But that episode keeps coming up as many people's favorite... and I can't say that I mind a bit. :) (If you want to look at it, the whole episode's online: just follow the link.)

BTW, because people do ask "Why does Len's name appear first on the credits screen?", the answer's simple: Because I insisted. He was the newbie here, after all. I thought it only right that the junior partner in this medium should be put in pride of place on that credit, his first time out. (I routinely do the same with @petermorwood, for anyone who's watching. Collaborator of thirty-plus years he may be, but he's still newer at this than I am. Heh heh.)

In any case, I wear that particular joint credit with great pride. It's an honor to be associated with someone who went on to become—entirely separate from his already-stellar career in comics—one of the strongest and most prolific animation writers of the last few decades.

...So that's how it happened. (And as for the story of how Bob G. and I dragged Len out of that restaurant one night and made him buy his first computer [an early Macintosh]: that's true too.) :)

*Also, after this they asked me the same question again, but this time about a show called GloFriends. Same result, due to the house rule: "If someone offers you work, take it!" :)

[the-unidentified-author]

To Love Is to Antagonize | LT. Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd | Top Gun: Maverick

Warnings/ Tags: SMUT[NSFW], teasing, slow build, slow burn?, sly glances, shy Bob, not so shy Bob, rough, loving, talks you through it, reader wears a bikini, no descriptions of the readers body, horny bob, frustrated bob, shirtless bob, unprotected p in v, you have to keep quiet, hand over mouth, bob knows what hes doing, bobs hand on readers body, truth or dare, mention of boobs, breeding kink? consensual!

Summary: A camping trip with the squad is the perfect opportunity for you to get to know Bob a little better. But, of course things can't ever be easy. Nat decides that the best way for you to finally get to jump, Bobs bones is if you antagonize him until the shy, polite part of him gives way to the feral, dirty minded freak he really is.

A/n: I had to split this into individual parts as editing a huge chunk of text actually almost fried my brain. Only the first chapters are posted here because this fic is LONG. There is a link HERE, and at the bottom of this post to the completed fic on AO3. Enjoy!

This fic is inspired by the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd by @geminiwritten, I couldn't stop thinking about it, I think it changed my brain chemistry. Give it a read! If you haven't already!!!

Word Count: 29,075

Not my gif, if its yours and you would like me to remove it just ask <3

I think this is one of the longest, fully completed fics that I have ever written. I don’t even care if there are mistakes and if it’s shit. I had so much fun writing it and I am fucking proud that I finished it!!!

Chapter 1:

The late afternoon sun slanted through the half-open blinds, painting the cluttered room with warm, golden light. You were sitting cross-legged on the scuffed hardwood floor, your backpack propped open beside you like a hungry mouth, methodically sorting through the piles of camping gear strewn around you.

Phoenix, your roommate and perennial mischief-maker, lounged on the mussed bed, idly tossing a balled-up sock in the air and catching it with a flourish. Their dark eyes danced with suppressed laughter, and you could practically see the gears turning in their head.

"Hey," Phoenix said suddenly, a grin spreading across her face like a slow sunrise. "You notice how Bob's been acting around you lately?"

You looked up from your packing, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. "What do you mean?"

Phoenix snorted, rolling her eyes with exaggerated patience. "Come on, don't play dumb. He's been all flustered and tongue-tied, tripping over himself whenever you're nearby. It's adorable, really."

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress a smile as you turned back to your gear. "He does not."

"Does too!" Phoenix retorted, sitting up with a smirk. "I bet he's got a massive crush on you. He's just too shy to make a move."

You scoffed, reaching for a rolled-up sleeping bag and tucking it into your backpack with a little more force than necessary. "You're imagining things. Bob's just… Bob. He's like that with everyone."

"Nope. I know what I see," Phoenix insisted, leaning forward with a conspiratorial wink. "Mark my words, something's gonna happen on this trip. All those long, moonlit walks in the woods? The romantic campfire stories? It's the perfect setup."

You crossed your arms, giving Phoenix a skeptical look. “Hardly romantic—the whole squad's going to be there. Plus, Bob’s just shy. He’s like that with everyone.”

Phoenix grinned, leaning back on her elbows, unshaken. “Exactly. That’s what makes it even more adorable. Shy guys are always the most intense when they finally get the guts to make a move. And trust me, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It’s not just friendly.”

You rolled your eyes, stuffing a few more socks into your pack. “He’s probably just nervous. It’s a big trip, big group—don’t overthink it.”

Phoenix snorted softly, eyes narrowing playfully. “Nope. I think he's got it bad—secretly scripting long walks, staring at your profile while pretending to be lost in thought. Trust me, I’ve seen those little glances—you’re not that oblivious, right?”

You let out an exasperated breath, shaking your head. “Please. It’s all in your head. Bob’s a nice guy, but I think you’re reading way too much into it.”

Phoenix sat up, her expression turning playful but insistent. “You’re missing the signs. Those subtle hints? The way he fidgets around you, trying to hide how much he’s staring? That’s crush 101. And I’m telling you, something’s gonna happen—probably accidental, probably sweet. But definitely happening.”

You sighed, feeling a mixture of amusement and awkwardness. “You’re impossible.”

Phoenix grinned wider, crossing her arms exaggeratedly. “Hey, I’m just saying—if I were him, I’d be too nervous to say anything directly.”

You blinked, caught between amusement and a little flutter of nerves. “You’ve got enough confidence for both of us.”

Phoenix leaned in slightly, a sly smile curling her lips. “Maybe. Or perhaps I just know how these things work. The subtle signals, the waiting game. Trust me, this trip’s going to turn into something pretty interesting.”

You sighed, shaking your head. “Even if you’re right, it doesn’t matter. Bob’s far too shy to admit anything, even if he’s got a crush. He’s polite and nervous—he wouldn’t make a move, not even if I practically waved it in his face.”

Phoenix’s eyes sparkled with mischief, a grin tugging at her lips. “That’s precisely where you come in. You just need to drive him absolutely insane—that’s how you’ll get his attention.”

You looked at her, skeptical. “What? How?”

Phoenix sat forward, excitement laced her words. “Listen—I’m talking about just enough teasing, a little flirtation. Show him a little more of that smile, a little suggestive glance now and then. And the best way? Giving him glimpses of your cleavage—nothing crazy, just enough to make his head spin. Make him realise what he’s been missing.”

You felt your cheeks flush but tried to stay nonchalant. “You want me to flirt with him?”

Phoenix winked, eyes glinting with scheming amusement. “Exactly. You’re gorgeous—what’s the worst that could happen? Just enough teasing that he starts second-guessing everything, wondering if you’re interested. When he finally gets it—trust me, the guy’s a man, manners can only hold him back for so long.” She grinned wider. “You’re the one who’s got the power in this game. Just give him enough glimpses, enough softly spoken hints, and watch him unravel. He won’t be able to resist eventually.”

You raised an eyebrow, struggling not to smile. “You want me to blue-ball, poor Bob?”

Phoenix snorted, batting you lightly with the balled-up sock. “Please, it’s not about torturing him. This might be the only way to get him to actually admit he likes you.” She paused, eyes sparkling. “Shy boys never just come out and say it. You have to make it so obvious they can’t help themselves. But honestly, isn’t that half the fun?”

You snorted, cheeks warming. “So I just flirt him into a confession?”

She grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “Exactly! Shy boys are always so much fun—every glance, every accidental brush, it drives them wild. It’s adorable. Besides, you like a chase too, don’t you?”

You shrugged, not trusting yourself to meet her gaze, though you felt that flutter of anticipation. “Maybe. Just a little.”

Phoenix nudged your leg with her foot, her grin impossibly wide. “Trust me. If you want him to make a move, this is the way. It’ll be fun for both of you.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now. “You’re dangerous, Phoenix.”

She winked. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Just start with a few smiles and a little less hoodie—he won’t know what hit him.”

Chapter 2:

The gravel crunched beneath your boots as the squad clustered in the busy car park, vehicles parked haphazardly, gear spilling out. The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow, shadows stretching long as everyone prepared to head into the woods.

Jake sparred with Bradley, both bouncing on their toes, fists raised. Jake’s grin was wide, teasing as he threw quick jabs, while Bradley’s smirk matched his playful aggression, both clearly enjoying themselves.

Reuben was doubled over, roaring with laughter, while Mickey stared at the map, eyebrows raising as he took in the scene. “Wait, wait—what? So, we’re hiking before setting up camp? I thought we just show up, pitch tents, and chill,” Mickey said, shaking his head with a weird mix of surprise and annoyance.

Reuben chuckled, smacking Mickey on the back. “Dude, you seriously thought they were just gonna drive us here and call it a day? Nah, buddy. You gotta earn your s'mores.”

Mickey looked genuinely puzzled, crossing his arms. “Nah, I just thought—y’know, a chill weekend. I didn’t expect a full hike before we even set up.” He shrugged, a wide grin curling his lips. “But, hey, I’ll survive. Just didn’t plan on breaking a sweat today, that’s all.”

Phoenix leaned casually against a van, arms crossed, enjoying the scene with her usual mischievous smile. She shot you a quick glance, clearly amused. “Well, Mickey, think of it as pre-camping cardio. Nothing like a good hike to kick off the weekend, right?”

Meanwhile, standing near the back, Bob was perfectly still. His backpack was already on, buckled tight, everything arranged with military precision—every strap and pocket exactly in place. His gear was spotless, each item meticulously packed, as if he had just stepped out of uniform instead of the chaos of the car park.

He watched quietly, calm and composed, like he’d seen it all before—the sparring, the teasing, the group’s playful fuss. His gaze flicked over Jake and Bradley still going at it, Mickey’s reaction, everyone joking around, but his posture remained steady, as if ready for whatever unfolded next.

You caught his eye for a split second, and he offered you a shy smile before awkwardly shifting his focus back to your teammates. His demeanour was as sharp and precise as his gear—completely at ease, almost military in how ready he seemed to face whatever came.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm amber glow over the busy car park. Vehicles scattered in every direction, gear spilling out like a jumble of chaos. The smell of fresh pine and earth drifted in the air as everyone started to gather their packs.

Natasha, or Nat as everyone called her, pushed off from the van with a confident grin. "Alright, folks, let's get moving before the sun dips too low. No dilly-dallying—get those boots clicking."

She glanced around at the excited crowd, her eyes twinkling. “You all good on your gear? No forgotten snacks or emergency marshmallows?” she added with a mischievous wink.

Jake clapped Bob on the back, a friendly, almost teasing gesture that made Bob straighten his glasses and adjust his already pristine gear with practiced precision. He let himself be led by the group, his posture steady and military-precise, ready for whatever was coming next.

The others grabbed their packs, slinging bags over shoulders and exchanging quick, energetic glances. With a collective nod, they turned toward the trail leading into the woods, footsteps crunching on gravel as they began their trek.

Natasha’s eyes shifted from the group to you. She sidled up quietly, lowering her voice so just you could hear. “Hey, have you packed everything we agreed on for Operation Flirt with bob until he breaks and jumps your bones?”

Your eyes flicked to her, and she grinned mischievously. Without missing a beat, she leaned in close, whispering with a conspiratorial wink, “You know… the whole mission to make Bob think he’s missing out on the best thing that’s ever happened to him’”

She gave you a playful nudge. “Think you’re ready for it?”

"As I will ever be." you replied with a shake of your head and a soft smile.

The trail narrowed as you followed the group into the shade of the pines, leaves crunching beneath your boots. When you’d packed with Nat, she’d settled on your hiking outfit with gleeful precision: tight black cycling shorts that clung to your thighs and left nothing for the imagination, paired with a slick, supportive sports bra—probably the most engineering you’d ever worn under your clothes. You’d thrown a zip-up hoodie on top, tugged just low enough to almost hide the curve of your breasts, though not quite.

Nat had eyed you critically before you left, giving a brisk nod of approval. “Perfect. Athletic, strategic, and just distracting enough. Plenty for him to think about while pretending he’s focused on the route.”

Now, as the hike stretched on, bits of sunlight filtered down through the branches, occasionally catching on the bare length of your legs or the hint of your silhouette beneath the hoodie. Each time the trail bent, or you adjusted your straps, you felt eyes on you—Bob’s eyes, in particular. He tried valiantly to keep his gaze front and centre, but every few minutes, he’d look your way, glasses glinting, cheeks suspiciously warm, quickly shifting his focus back to his boots.

You feigned obliviousness, letting your conversation drift loosely around Nat, Mickey, and the others ahead. A casual laugh, a stretch overhead to fix your backpack strap, revealing just a sliver more skin. Bob, walking beside you, never said a word about it. But the hush in his throat, the way he fumbled with his water bottle, the uncharacteristic distraction in his step—all gave him away.

His composure stayed in place by sheer force of will, but every so often he'd fidget with his gear, or awkwardly clear his throat, and you couldn’t help but smile to yourself.

The trees finally opened onto the edge of a small lake, sunlight flickering silver and gold across the rippling surface. The campsite itself was tucked beneath a tall stand of pines, the ground carpeted with needles and moss so soft it muted every step. Birdsong drifted down from somewhere high in the branches, and the water lapped gently against the stones lining the shore. To one side, a weathered fire pit marked the heart of the clearing, already circled by flat-topped logs and half-buried stones for makeshift seating. Across the water, a distant ridge glazed in late-afternoon light promised privacy and peace—your group the only intruders on a scene so still it almost felt untouched.

Mickey shrugged off his pack with a huff, bending from the waist and letting it fall with an exaggerated grunt. “Honestly, that was at least twice the walk it looked on the map,” he groaned, but his complaints trailed off as he turned to the water, unable to hide a wide, genuine smile. “This is gorgeous, though. Totally, worth it.”

The others scattered, Jake and Bradley immediately making a beeline for the fire pit, clapping each other on the back as they poked at the charred logs and debated how best to arrange things. Reuben was already eyeing the shoreline, calculating the best spot to drop his gear and maybe sneak in a stone-skimming contest before dark. Bob, immaculate as ever, had set down his pack and was surveying the perimeter—probably cataloguing landmarks and escape routes, you thought, amused.

As you stretched your arms and let your muscles relax, Natasha sidled up, her face bright with playful intent. She nudged your side, voice low and brimming with delight. “So,” she whispered, not even glancing at the lake, “did you see the way Bob couldn’t take his eyes off you the whole hike up here? He’s lucky he didn’t walk straight into a tree.”

You shot Natasha a sly look, unable to keep the smile off your face. “How long do you think it’ll take before he finally snaps and says something?”

Natasha grinned, eyes sparkling as she surveyed the group’s bustling chaos. “That depends. If you’re planning to keep up the subtle torture, I’d give it another day. But if you really want to push him over the edge…” She arched a brow in your direction. “You did bring that absolutely scandalous bikini, didn’t you?”

Heat crept into your cheeks—part nerves, part excitement. “Maybe. Though I might need a bodyguard if I actually walk out in it. It’s barely more than a couple of strings.”

Natasha barked a quiet laugh. “Perfect. Honestly, after the day we’ve had, a dip in the lake is non-negotiable tomorrow morning. I want to see if Bradley and Jake can actually swim, or if they just flex near the shore.”

You nudged her side, lowering your voice. “You’re just hoping Bob short-circuits.”

“I’m hoping everyone short-circuits,” she shot back, grinning. “We’ll swim, you will act normal, and I will watch Bob for a reaction. Tomorrow?” She glanced up at the fading sun. “I’m thinking coffee by the lake at sunrise. Possibly an early swim—just the two of us. That’ll set the mood for the whole day.”

You spun an innocent look her way. “You mean, Operation break bob, phase two?”

Natasha’s grin grew wicked. “Exactly. Tonight campfire, stories, and just enough flirting that Bob can’t sleep. Tomorrow, bikini entrance and a whole new level of distraction. Ready for it?”

You looked out at the water, sunlight gleaming off the small ripples, feeling anticipation buzz along your skin. “Absolutely. Let’s make this a trip to remember.”

Chapter 3:

The path down by the lake rippled with the gold of the lowering sun. You tugged your hoodie back on, leaving your pack behind for the short walk, and Bob fell into step beside you. Before you’d even left the rough mossy boundary of the campsite, he paused and crouched beside his pack—already arranged in a neat, regulation-perfect stack. With practiced ease, he unzipped a small pocket and pulled out a slim foldable saw, testing the hinge before stashing it in his back pocket.

You blinked, caught somewhere between admiration and amusement. Of course, Bob came prepared for everything, but it still surprised you—the rest of you just grabbed sticks and hoped for the best, but Bob had clearly thought this through.

He glanced at the tree line with a quiet sort of certainty. “Best place for dry wood’s usually up by the rocks,” he said, as the two of you stepped out into the deepening green. “It stays out of the wind and the ground drains faster. Less likely to be rotted.”

You shot him a sidelong smile, letting the admiration show just a little. “No wonder Nat keeps you as her back seater,” you teased, falling into step beside him as you followed the trail toward the rocks. “You’re like a human survival manual—she’ll never let you out of her sight with skills like that.”

A faint flush crept up Bob’s neck. He ducked his head, but not before you caught the ghost of a proud, shy smile flickering across his face. “Well, she likes things to run smooth,” he mumbled, adjusting his grip on the saw. “It’s easier to be prepared. I like making sure nothing gets missed.”

You nudged him lightly, grinning. “And here I thought you just wanted an excuse to show off all your special gear. Very impressive.”

He laughed softly, the sound low and genuine, glasses slipping a fraction down his nose. “Trust me—if I was showing off, I’d have brought the portable espresso machine.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Next trip, then?”

This time, he glanced over, braver somehow. “Deal.”

The rocks tumbled in mossy clusters, and Bob scanned the ground until he found a branch that looked promising. He appraised a fallen pine, then knelt, rolling up his sleeves with a practiced flick. The muscles in his forearms flexed beneath golden skin as he braced the saw and set to work.

You let your gaze linger, indulging for just a moment—the slice of his jaw in profile, the almost methodical way he worked, each motion deliberate. There was a quiet concentration to him, the steady back-and-forth of the saw and the way the light caught on his dampening hairline. If Phoenix could see you now, she’d be snickering in the underbrush.

Bob paused, breath shallow, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “This wood is stubborn,” he said, not quite meeting your eyes, chest rising and falling with the effort.

You offered him a teasing smile, stepping closer but not quite taking over. “I’m impressed. Honestly, I thought you were all brains and field manuals—but you’re not so bad with your hands, either.”

He glanced at you then, startled, and for a beat you let your gaze drop—lingering, suggestive—before you grinned and bent to begin gathering the cut branches. Bob coughed, looking suddenly desperate to concentrate solely on the saw, but you didn’t miss the flush creeping up his neck again.

Your mind wandered wickedly: there was something undeniably hot about Bob like this, strips of sunlight freckling his arms, intent on the task, something less shy and more commanding taking over as he worked. If this was what a camping trip could offer, you’d gladly volunteer for wood-gathering duty every time.

You let your fingers graze his as you reached for a branch, close enough that he’d feel it—a quiet spark under the guise of teamwork. He flinched slightly, then immediately pulled his hand back, cheeks flushed.

“S-sorry, that was—my fault,” he stammered, though you both knew it wasn’t. He looked at the ground as if willing it to swallow him.

You fought the urge to smile, a quiet satisfaction blooming in your chest. Phoenix would have a field day if she could see him now.

He collected himself and cleared his throat, not quite meeting your eyes. “I think we’ve got enough,” he managed, stacking the freshly cut branches at his feet. “We should, um… gather it up and head back.”

You nodded, biting back a smirk. If your goal was to gently rattle him, you were definitely on the right track. Without another word, you stooped to gather the wood—close enough that your shoulders touched for just a heartbeat longer than necessary. As you straightened, you caught the brief hesitation in his peripheral gaze, his eyes lingering at the edge of your hoodie for a moment too long. You pretended not to notice, busying yourself with the smooth rhythm of stacking branches.

Then you started back toward camp, feeling the heat of his stolen glances still trailing after you all the way through the dappled light.

A Link to the COMPLETE FIC ON AO3

A Link to My Complete Inventory

[cozy-the-overlord]

Something small I really liked in Thunderbolts is how when John starts calling Bob “Bobby,” it’s clear that Bob does not like it but he doesn’t make a big deal out of it or protest it too much - you see that once John starts doing it he just accepts that it’s going to happen and suppresses any feelings about it, and it’s not something that the movie focuses on very much at all. Then, at the end, the reveal comes that his abusive father called him Bobby, and again, the film does not linger on that very much and it’s not brought up again, but John noticeably stops calling him Bobby — he refers to him only as “Bob” for the rest of the movie.

And I just really appreciate how in the background that thread is allowed to be? A lot of films would have probably tried to beat the audience over the head with it, because subtlety and mainstream film haven’t been getting along very much these days and a lot of scripts feel that if they don’t directly state what they’re trying to say out loud to the camera, the viewers won’t get it. I can easily imagine a version where after that reveal a character goes “is that why you don’t like being called Bobby?” because the film is too insecure to let the moment speak for itself, and then that completely takes away the impact of the reveal because you lose John’s immediate silent understanding and choice to change on his own. I know it’s a really small thing, but still. It was refreshing to see filmmakers trust their story to speak for itself.

[michaelscorneroftheinternet]

This is an urgent message to SMG4: Mr. Puzzles has taken SMG3 hostage and forced him to open his Guardian Pod!!

...(Part 1/2)....

....0 Asks Remaining....

[o-sn4pple]

“Neuvi, I need you to approve this for me.”

Neuvillette barely looks up from his papers, nearly signing off on the form until he reads the neat script printed at the top. “A���marriage license? Why would you need this?”

“I need this to scare someone off,” you say with a shrug. “I’ll shred it later, but for now-”

“Why shred it?” Neuvillette casually signs the fine line and returns to his own work. “We’ve been married for quite some time now. Having it in print would be useful for tax returns-”

“What?” 

Neuvillette dabs his pen into the bottle of ink beside him. “It would make filing for taxes easier-”

“No, I mean-” You step around his desk, bending over to stare the Iudex in the eye. “What do you mean we’re married? ” 

Neuvillette hesitates, glancing at the handmade necklace dangling from your throat. The shell is clasped shut, but he knows quite well that the romaritime petals and lone pearl are still nestled within. “You are still wearing the necklace.”

“Yeah, I always do.”

“I gave that to you.”

“Yes, you did.”

Neuvillette stalls again, this time looking at the marriage form he’d so casually approved. After a moment, he says, “You are wearing the necklace that I put on you. That is how a dragon courts its mates.”

Finally, your own expression falls, brows pinched and eyes darting to and fro. The longer you think, the worse your expression seems to grow. 

Neuvillette is no better. He sits up straighter and sinks his ink pen into its stand. “Is that not how marriage works?”

Your mouth parts, but no sound comes out. It closes, then opens, then closes again, each time accompanied by a vastly different expression. He’s seen this before. You had done the same thing when he asked about human breeding seasons. 

(That had been a fascinating lesson in its own right. To think humans were so embarrassed by their natural instincts…)

Eventually, you sigh and massage your face, setting the paper aside. “ No, Monsieur Neuvillette. That isn’t how marriage works.” You give your temples one final knead before opening your eyes. The genuine curiosity is expected at this point, but it still eases the storm clouds building outside of the window. “Have you never seen a marriage proposal before?”

“None that I recall,” he says. “Though I’ve presided over many trials regarding divorce.”

“Ah, yeah. Makes sense.” You clear your throat and lean against his desk, the same posture you’ve always done whenever his ignorance rears its head. “So, marriage doesn’t exactly count if the person you’re marrying is unaware that you’re marrying them. You can’t just lay claim to them and expect other people to know…not other humans , at least.” 

Neuvillette nods, a trickle of amusement in his thoughts. So, you must have been aware enough to notice the Melusines’ sudden change in addressing after you’d donned the necklace. Good. “But if the other party is aware?”

Your throat bobs, shifting the necklace resting so openly against your skin. “Then sure, that’s marriage. In the court of law, though, it wouldn’t be recognized without the proper paperwork. Also, that would be very…uh…dehumanizing.”

“How so?” 

“People have the right to choose who they’re marrying. It isn’t exactly a union of two people if one of them didn’t even know they’re being married. That’s like marrying a fish.”

“...I see.” Neuvillette rises from his seat, stepping forward to remove the necklace. Outside, the storm clouds seem to thicken at an alarming pace. “Forgive me, then-”

You casually slap his hand away and cover the necklace with your own. “What? No, I’m still keeping this.”

Neuvillette hesitates once more, hands awkwardly returning to his side. He…didn’t exactly ask you if you wished to be his mate. You had readily accepted his offered gift, even allowed him to drape the chain around your neck when you claimed you wouldn’t be able to clasp it. If all of what you said is true (which it is, he’s figured long ago you aren’t one for lying), then you still aren’t ‘married’ by your standards. What is he to do, then?

You clear your throat, and the storm clouds nearly rupture as he watches you remove the necklace. Then you grip his wrist, dump the necklace in his waiting palm, and say, “Just ask me if I would like to be your mate” 

“Would you like to be my mate?” Neuvillette repeats automatically. It feels silly, having to verbalize such primal instincts, but your amused smile makes it worth it.

“Why, yes, silly dragon, I would love to be your mate!” you tease before turning your back to him. “Would you do me the honor  of putting it on yourself?”

Sunlight bursts through the dark clouds beyond the window as Neuvillette loops the necklace around your throat. A flick of his thumb locks the chain in place, and you give it an experimental tug before turning back to him with an equally warm smile.

“There,” you say. “Any other questions?”

Neuvillette glances at your necklace and shakes his head, the last of the gathering storm vanishing entirely. “None, my love.”

[angel-fruitcake]

I can understand why someone watching the show would think the confession was platonic because the story is more neat that way. It’s a full developed arc. It doesn’t impact my interpretation or enjoyment that other people interact with spn in a different way and it shouldn’t change yours either. Sometimes people just don’t like a ship and choose other interpretations because that’s more interesting to them. Does not mean they missed a thing. But calling them “no critical thinking or literary understanding” when spn is written like dogshit most seasons is lame and rude af.

mmmkay. lmao there's a lot to unpack here, but let's start with this:

you claim that the story is more 'neat' by interpreting castiel's confession as platonic... neat to who? who thinks that that's more neat than a romantic confession and why do they think that? please provide examples.

it's true that people are allowed to interpret things in any way they want to. that being said, it's also true that certain interpretations can be proven factually incorrect. this is one of those instances.

if you believe the power of friendship is what really matters, great! wonderful! i'm so glad that you think that way... but that's not what's happening here in this specific scene/show, and if you don't understand that, then you are not using media literacy or critical thinking skills. i'm not being rude by saying that. i'm stating a fact, and i will prove it to you in just a second.

on top of that, you're blatantly ignoring the people who actively worked very hard to get this romantic love confession into the show— namely, bob berens and misha collins. they have both been openly telling us for years that castiel's confession was Not Platonic. so do you believe you know more than them, the individuals who were actually involved in writing the script, or are you calling them liars?

you say i'm being lame and rude for claiming destiel deniers aren't using critical thinking skills. ok! so let's think critically for a second here, anon. answer me this genuine question:

why would cas say "because the one thing i want... it's something i know i can't have," if all he wanted was dean's friendship, or to be apart of dean's family?... he already had that. they were best friends, they were family. now let's skip to the end: "i love you." think about those 2 lines in regards to each other. cas was saying that what he wanted from dean was more. he wanted dean to love him in the same way that he loved dean— romantically. by those 2 lines of dialogue alone, the correct conclusion to be drawn is that cas had romantic feelings for dean. if you don't come to that conclusion, then you aren't thinking critically and you are missing things. point blank. end of story.

so! go ahead and tell me exactly how the people who choose to interpret castiel's love confession as platonic rather than romantic are using critical thinking skills. quickly!

[ang31ixx]

Byler Endgame

Disclaimer: I don’t hate Mileven or Mike and El’s relationship. I genuinely love both characters and everything they’ve been through together. This isn’t about bashing ships or invalidating their bond—it’s about exploring the quiet, unresolved emotions between Mike and Will. Sometimes people outgrow each other or hurt each other without meaning to, and that doesn’t make either of them villains. It just makes them human.

There’s something about the way the show frames Mike and Will's relationship that feels different from anything else in the series. It isn't loud or overtly romantic, but it has this unspoken intensity, a quiet weight that builds across seasons. In contrast to Mike and Eleven, who are written with clear, verbal expressions of love and more conventional romantic beats, Mike and Will’s dynamic is laced with silences, hesitation, and layered meaning—hallmarks of a relationship built on something unsaid.

Take the painting in Season 4, for instance. It’s not just that Will paints Mike as the heart of the party, it's that he uses the language of fantasy—something they both bonded over as kids—to express his feelings. It’s coded, both for Mike and for the audience. He attributes the painting to El, masking his own emotions in a gesture of protection, but when he starts explaining it, you can see him coming undone. He talks about how Mike makes El feel safe, needed, not like a mistake—but the camera lingers not on Mike reacting to El, but on Will, visibly trembling, struggling to hold back tears. He’s not just talking about El. He’s trying to say everything he’s carried alone for years. That speech is a confession disguised as encouragement. And Mike looks at him in that moment with a softness that isn’t confused, but deeply conflicted.

Will has been positioned from the very beginning as different—not just in terms of his connection to the Upside Down, but in how the people around him perceive him. Joyce calls him "sensitive," Lonnie tries to push him into traditional masculinity, and Mike has always protected him with a kind of fierce loyalty that borders on something deeper. That "different" isn't just about his trauma or his powers—it’s about his identity. The show is gradually unfolding a queer coming-of-age story through Will, and his feelings for Mike are central to that arc.

There’s also the way Mike behaves around Will that’s subtly but significantly different from how he is with anyone else. In Season 2, when Will is being tormented by visions, Mike is constantly by his side, almost obsessively so. There’s a moment when Joyce says “he’s not going to get better if you’re hovering over him like this,” and Mike responds almost angrily. That level of concern and protectiveness is more than just friendship. It feels personal. When Bob takes a supportive role in Will’s life, Mike becomes jealous and withdrawn. It’s not framed comedically. It reads like someone being edged out of a space that means more to him than he’s ready to admit.

Then there's the infamous Season 3 line: “It’s not my fault you don’t like girls.” This line alone changed everything for a lot of viewers. The line isn’t dismissed, and Mike doesn’t deny it. He just freezes. The moment is so raw and real—it doesn’t feel like a scripted jab in a teenage argument. It feels like the kind of accidental truth that slips out when emotions are high. And the fact that the show never revisits that moment directly makes it feel all the more intentional. The silence that follows is heavy with meaning.

When we look at Mike’s relationship with El in contrast, it begins to feel performative, especially in Season 4. He struggles to say "I love you" until he’s almost forced to, and even then, the delivery is hesitant. His interactions with her often feel emotionally distant, as though he's trying to convince himself that this is what love is supposed to feel like. Compare that to the way he looks at Will, especially in the van scene. The tension in that moment isn’t just about Will crying. It’s about Mike watching him fall apart and being unable—or unwilling—to truly acknowledge the reason why.

All of this comes together to form a slow-burn narrative that’s rooted in repression, longing, and emotional depth. The Duffer Brothers don’t write in a way that hands everything to the audience on a platter. They’ve said they want Season 5 to resolve the emotional arcs that have been building since the beginning. And among those, few are as rich or as quietly devastating as Mike and Will’s.

It’s not about whether they kiss on-screen or even say “I love you.” It’s about what’s been brewing beneath the surface. The way Will looks at Mike. The way Mike looks back, like he’s seeing something he can’t quite name. The way the story has always kept them circling each other, unable to connect fully, because the world isn’t ready—or maybe because they’re not ready. But when the story ends, it feels inevitable that they’ll have to confront the truth. Because if Stranger Things is about anything, it’s about confronting what’s been hiding in the dark.

And Mike and Will? They’ve been hiding in plain sight all along.

[shangrila11]

Silver lining // Brant (Wuwa) x Reader

(Congrats to those for who pulled for this gorgeous man! For those who haven't, may all Brant wanters be Brant havers! :D)

(CW: Mention of alcohol towards the end)

Splash!

The cold ocean water enveloped you as you sunk. You frantically swam up to the surface. With your head bobbing above water, you looked around for anything to cling onto. Fortunately, there was a driftwood floating not too far away from you. You swam towards it and struggled to hold onto it for dear life against the turbulent waters. You shivered, feeling your eyelids drooping but you tried to stay awake.

Just then, you spotted a ship. In a hoarse voice, you called for help but you weren't sure if the people on board could hear you over the howl of the wind. Your eyes slowly shut, exhaustion finally getting the best of you, and everything went dark...

xxx xxx

" -- alright?"

"I can feel a pulse so hopefully they are. Hey, can you hear me?"

You slowly opened your eyes. Two figures looked at you in concern. One was a male with short teal hair, purple eyes and a feathered hat and the other was a female with long, two-toned hair tied in bunches and heterochromia. The two of them heaved a sigh of relief seeing you had regained consciousness.

"You're awake! How are you feeling?" the male asked, smiling.

"W--what happened?" you mumbled, disorientated. You combed through your memories, trying to remember what had happened before you lost consciousness. When you finally remembered, you asked if they were the ones who rescued you.

"That's right. Lady Luck smiled upon you. You were suffering from hypothermia. If we came any later -- "

It was then that you realised that you were covered in layers of blankets and was wearing a new change of clothes. They must had done that to alleviate your hypothermia. A warm feeling coursed through you at the thought. The male shook his head, his smile fading for a brief moment before returning. "Anyway, we've made some soup for you. I'll go get it. While I'm at it, is there anything else you need?" You shook your head.

"No, I'm good. Thank you --?"

"Ah, yes. Where are my manners?" the male took off his hat and bowed. "I'm Brant, captain of the Troupe of Fools. And she's Roccia, my First Mate." Roccia shyly nodded her head in greeting which you reciprocated.

"Thank you, captain," you smiled weakly. You introduced yourself to him and Roccia.

"A pleasure to meet you, (Y/N)," Brant grinned. "I'll go now. Rest well. If you need anything, Roccia will be here." You watched as he exited the room, leaving just you and Roccia. An awkward silence filled the air. You hesitantly asked about the well-being of the people who had boarded the same ship as you. Roccia informed you that they had rescued a few people who might be them, much to your relief. You were, of course, devastated that some could not be found but at least there were survivors. The two of you moved on to other topics and you even got to meet the adorable Pero.

Brant eventually came back with the soup. You gratefully took the bowl and had some of the soup. You nodded your head in approval.

"It's delicious," you remarked, having some more of it.

"Glad you like it," Brant smiled. His face turned serious. "I assume you and your crewmates were sent on a pilgrimage by the Order?" You nodded silently, hanging your head.

"I figure as much. Only those going on the Pilgrim's Sail would pass through there," the captain sighed. The corners of his lips curled into a grin. "Since you're already dubbed a Fool by the Order, why don't you join our Troupe?" You pondered for a moment. It wasn't like you had anywhere else to go anyway since you were essentially an exile. Besides, Brant seemed genuine. You nodded your head. The male's grin widened.

"Welcome aboard, (Y/N). I look forward to seeing your performance, both on stage and off stage."

xxx xxx

"What do you think, captain?"

"Impressive. You have a talent for script writing," Brant grinned, giving you a friendly pat on the back. "With that said, it could use a little tweaking to make the dialogue flow more naturally."

"Thank you. I'll keep that in mind as I edit the script," you smiled bashfully, your heart fluttering.

"Splendid," the captain nodded, a twinkle in his eyes. "By the way, how is life with us so far?"

"It's been great so far. There's always something interesting going on and the people here are very welcoming. It helps that a few of my crewmates are here as well."

"Good, good," Brant smiled, his expression softening. "That reminds me -- " He snapped his fingers. In a burst of purple flames, a mask materialised. He handed it to you.

"For you, my friend. Roccia and I came up with the design and we think this best suits you. Now you're officially part of the troupe!" he grins. You took the mask from him, thanking him and remarking how gorgeous it looked. You attached it to your belt.

"My pleasure," the male bowed. "Come on. Let's go have lunch. All this work as captain has worked me up an appetite!" Taking your hand, the two of you headed to the dining area.

xxx xxx

"I'm sorry, you want me to what?"

"You heard me! I want you to play the lead role in our upcoming play," Brant beamed.

"B--but I've never done this before. What if I mess up?"

"That, my dear (Y/N), is what rehearsals are for!" the captain assured you. He looked at you sincerely. "I can't think of anyone more suitable for the role than you. Besides, don't you wanna act out the script you worked so hard on?"

"Well..." you considered for a moment before nodding. "Alright. I'll give it a go."

"That's the spirit!" Brant ruffled your hair. "Don't worry, I'll be here with you every step of the way." He winked. You smiled a little, anticipation bubbling inside you despite still having a little reservations.

"Aye, captain."

xxx xxx

You peaked out from the backstage. The audience was abuzz with excitement, chattering away. Your heart thudded wildly against your chest and your hands felt clammy with sweat.

"Is nerves getting to you, dear (Y/N)?"

You whipped your head around to see the captain, his usual easygoing grin on his face. You nodded.

"There are a lot of people out there. The last thing I want is to disappoint them and the troupe. What if they don't like my performance? What if I say the wrong lines? What if I --?"

Before you could continue, a familiar-looking hat was placed on top of your head. Surprised, your attention found its way back to the now hatless Brant. He gave you a gentle smile.

"Look. You've been doing wonderfully during rehearsals. Also, do you remember what we stand for?"

"Freedom and bringing laughter through tales."

"Mmmhmm. And to get the audience to enjoy themselves, we ourselves have to enjoy performing. So relax and have fun. You got this!" he winked. You smiled a little, feeling the tension in you loosening.

"You're right. I can do this. Thank you, Brant," you said softly. Brant took his hat from you and grinned.

"Then let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

xxx xxx

"To yet a successful show!"

The clinking of glasses resounded through the dining hall as everyone made a toast. Everyone was in high spirits, you could pratically feel it in the air. A broad smile crossed Brant's face. He lifted his glass once again.

"All of you did great tonight, from the actors to the backstage crew. It's because of everyone's efforts that the show was a success. Let's keep this up and may our future performances be just as spectacular or even more than this one! Cheers!"

Everyone raised their glasses, cheering. After taking a sip of his drink, the teal-haired male walked towards you.

"Amazing job earlier. Told ya you can do it!" he grinned, wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

"Thank you. You did great as well," you beamed. It had still rather been nerve-wrecking at first but heeding Brant's advice helped. There were, of course, still areas of improvement such as your line delivery needing to be more smooth and expressive. With that said, you hadn't done too bad for your first performance if you did say so yourself. Overall, you were just delighted and relieved that your hard work had bore fruit.

"Glad that you like my performance!" Brant laughed heartily. His expression turned sincere. "Seriously though. I applaud you for being able to get over your nerves rather quickly."

"Haha. You flatter me," you laughed sheepishly, your cheeks flushing.

"But I mean it and it isn't the alcohol talking," the captain chuckled. The two of you then happily talked about other things, taking sips of your drinks in between.

"Nothing beats a good drink and good company on this fine, celebratory night," Brant remarked, swirling his drink. You nodded, sipping your drink.

"Yeah. I look forward to more of this," you beamed. Brant returned your smile.

"Same here," he agreed. Hearing Tina calling his name, he excused himself and told you to enjoy the rest of the celebrations. You assured him that you would. You smiled, watching him leave. Despite having the misfortune of becoming an exile, a couple of good things came out if it: meeting the captain and finding a group of people whom you could call family.

[yiangchen]

it's still so fascinating to me that bellarke was supposed to happen in 6x10/6x11, bob was informed of this, but then he received the script and it didn't happen. that's just so sketch. truly what was going on behind the scenes. it's just so WEIRD the more you think about it. also makes me wonder if that was the first time that had happened. i mean, we already know that there were changes to the 1x08 script to get rid of the line where bellamy asks clarke to run away with him, so i don't think it's that far outside the realm of possibility to think that there were other romantic lines/scenes that were cut throughout the series. i honestly think every season they probably toyed with the idea of them happening, wrote a first kiss or a confession or maybe an almost kiss, decided against it and thought hey actually let's push this to next season, drag it out a little longer.