People hold hands a lot in LOTR and it’s really nice? It’s not just Frodo and Sam, but I never noticed before this reread. Pippin just now took Gandalf’s hand, and earlier he’d taken I think Bergil’s, a kid (ten, so old enough to walk around without help) he just met, as they walked around the city. So it’s apparently not weird, it’s just a Normal Thing.
Vaguely of relevance as well is the fact that Frodo says “he is very dear to me” of Aragorn after, what, about a fortnight of knowing him. I’m not saying he doesn’t have cause; it was a very crowded and busy fortnight. I too would probably call someone very dear to me if they had saved me from dying from stabbery and guided my friends safely through the wilderness.
It’s just all those ‘my dear Sam’ and ‘I love him’ that he and Sam do, even though they’re a product of extreme circumstances, aren’t even out of line with the culture they live in. They’re still just as meaningful, and I don’t think their power is decreased by that. I just think it’s notable that this isn’t even beyond the bounds of “propriety” for really close friends in high stress situations.
This isn’t where I meant this post to go, but I think this is why this story resonated with me so hard specifically as an aro and why I still don’t ship anything romantically in the Tolkienverse, because the world of Middle Earth is one where loving your close platonic friends and companions to the point of being physically and verbally affectionate is a normal occurrence. It’s just how things are. There’s a lot to be said about the cultural implications of that vs here and now, but I’m not really in a position to say it. But I think even before I knew How I Was, I knew that friends were much more important to me than romance seemed to be. And I feel, with the preponderance of love interests in most adult fiction, like Lord of the Rings was the first Grown Up Story where I saw that aspect of myself reflected.
I really need some like, otayuri fluff in my life rn?? Like pls
•At the beach and Otabek cant swim so Yuri tries to teach him how to swim
•it turns into a giant mess tho because Yuri is apparently a really shitty teacher
•Otabek kisses his frustrations away and instead they make sand castles
•Otabek can draw?? What?? So Yuri lays down on the couch in the LEAST sexy pose and says “draw me like one of your french girls”
•Beka takes a whopping 5 minutes on it, coloring and all, and they laugh at it for 10 minutes
•Later when Yuri falls asleep during the movie at the other end of the couch, Otabek sneaks down and actually does a very nice portrait of Yuri asleep
•Yuri has them both framed in his apartment next to each other
•Yuri constantly buys shit for Beka because he has like no impluse control
•Guys this boy has like a $1,000 backpack okay dont talk to me
•Anyways one day he buys Beka this leather jacket that looks like it belongs in a Lady Gaga music video. Its a crop top jacket with studs and fringe EVERYWHERE and Yuri LOVES IT
•After mails it, like, a week later, Otabek posts a pic on instagram of him, leaning against his bike, in leather skinny jeans and the jacket with ray bands on and it goes like, viral over night. Yuri is s h o o k. Otabek texts him later like, “Oh, by the way, thanks for the jacket Babe”
Give me the boys being silly and stupid and in love p l e a s e
Hey Rachel got a question for ya. Do you think Stiles would feel inadequate compared to all the buff sexy werewolves and push himself to the breaking point trying to look like he belongs? Cause I have this headcanon where he decides to work out to make himself look like he belongs beside the wolves but it doesn't work out to well and he winds up doing more harm than good. Which upsets Derek when he finds out (because he loves the idiot but he won't admit it)
Aw I can absolutely see this. Stiles, already prone to insecurity and the feeling of not being good enough, slowly being worn down by that itching knowledge in his skull of being that he’s not as strong as any of his friends, not as attractive as any of his friends, and sure as hell not as useful as any of them, right? Sure, he’s smart. He knows that. But what the hell use is that in battle? He can’t dive in front of a bullet to keep the others from hurting, can’t stand beside the others and fight at anything close to their level.
And no matter how much he smirks at enemies’ jibes and plays off as enjoying being the group’s token human (”means I get to leave all the heavy lifting to you guys, right?”) it’s a feeling that would keep building up over time, pushing at the back of his skull every time the pack insists he be left behind on a certain mission, that he should stay where he’s safe, or gets offhandedly told he’ll just slow the others down. Every time they go running out in the preserve and he gets to sit behind and watch the car. Every time he goes out with the group and finds himself wondering what he looks like in everyone else’s eyes: this circle of beautiful beyond belief, supernaturally perfect people and then… him.
He couldn’t share his worries with the others –– Scott would get that worried look in his eyes and insist Stiles is perfect the way he is. Lydia might not share the same speed and strength as the others but she’s always been supernaturally beautiful, and she’s got her own banshee tricks to help out in a fight. So he keeps it inside, bottles it up… and he starts to push himself. Stays after school lifting weights until his limbs are wrecked from it, goes out running until his legs are shaking under him. Thinking one more lift, one more mile, one step closer to belonging.
And it starts working, too. He’s able to keep up with the pack sometimes, on their more casual runs. He’s gaining muscle, losing any last hints of baby fat. But there are hollowed shadows under his eyes too and he’s not eating enough, probably, but that’s fine. It’s fine when he wrestles with Liam and ends up with a purpled bruise blooming out across his ribs from a too-hard tackle. It’s fine that he can’t really sleep anymore because his muscles are always burning. It’s fine because he’s started looking at pictures of the group after pack events and almost seeing a group of people who fit together, not a handful of perfect people around a lanky, awkward him. Who the hell wouldn’t sacrifice a little comfort and the ability to lift his arms above his head for that?
Derek’s the one who notices first, because of course he is. Drops in through the bedroom window one night like the supernatural stalking creeper he used to be, and finds Stiles collapsed to an exhausted heap against the side of his bed. Too tired and too sore to have stripped off his sweat-stained shirt or make it the extra step to lay down on it. He forces a smile when he spots Derek, but it’s more pained than it should be. Wavers at the edges. Derek ignores his opening jibe, doesn’t comment on the way Stiles tries to push himself up on unsteady palms and falters, a spasm of motion that starts and dies just as fast. Just moves silent, sits down next to him on the floor at the foot of the bed. There’s a world of words in his silence, a disapproving air Stiles can feel deep in his bones, and he finds himself saying “I’m fine,” low and head ducked, like it’s a lie.
It’s not a lie. But it’s not exactly true either, is it?
Derek’s eyes are on Stiles’ face now, flicking down his damp shirt, over his faintly trembling limbs, and it’s like he’s seeing too much suddenly, seeing through walls Stiles is too tired to pull up. People aren’t supposed to see him at this point in the day; they’re supposed to see him in the morning when he has the energy to grin and bounce and keep up with the rest of them like it’s effortless. They’re not supposed to see the tired bruises under his eyes or the way he shakes from hours of trying to hold himself at a werewolf’s level.
He wets his lips, a flash of frustration burning bitter through him.
“Look, I’m not strong like you guys.” It’s not news. It’s been a constant refrain for the past two years of his life, ever since Scott was bit and turned into a superhero sports star girl magnet and left Stiles standing awkwardly in his dust. Stiles couldn’t ask for the bite, Scott wouldn’t understand. And he doesn’t think he wants it either, not really. He doesn’t want the claws or the anchors or the pulls to the moon. He just wants to be able to keep up with them. Wants to not be the funny one in a group of supermodels. Doesn’t want to be the weak one in a group of heroes. Doesn’t want to be the one holding them back.
He bites over a frustrated sound, frowns at Derek’s faintly pinched brows, manages to lift one bone-dead arm and snaps out even more harshly: “I’m not… hot.”
It’s not the whole issue, it barely touches the issue, but it’s too much already and he scowls after he says it, daring Derek to snort or mock him or roll his eyes and agree, obviously, but that searching look only seems to sink deeper and Derek murmurs, “You’re wrong.”
Which is just… it’s worse than laughing. Because Stiles could handle people dismissing him, mocking him. He’s used to that. What he can’t take is Derek fucking Hale feeling so goddamned bad about his patheticness that he’s reduced to lying to try and comfort him.
“Oh, right, sure. I’m hot. You guys are all freaking Greek gods with all the muscle and the… faces.” He snorts, falling back against an overworked spine that protests the pressure. “You can’t even talk. You’ve always been the hottest person ever. You’ve got no idea what it’s like to be the one no one ever wants.”
Derek’s eyes flick down Stiles again, reassessing, and Stiles winces over the realization that Derek’s trying to find something, anything likable on his wiry frame.
“Don’t––” He starts, because he physically cannot handle that, but Derek’s saying “You’re wrong,” again, and it’s soft and warm in a way that doesn’t sound like pity.
But Stiles doesn’t let himself feel it. The “oh yeah?” he shoots back is sure and challenging, almost smug in its confidence because maybe he’s not beautiful beyond all reason like the man next to him, maybe he’s not strong and desirable and wanted but at least he’s smart enough to realize that.
Derek lets out a growl of frustration and turns where he’s sitting, crowds in close with palms pressed to either side of Stiles’ thigh, and Stiles is on the edge of rolling his eyes because does Derek seriously think he can intimidate Stiles into changing his mind about himself, but then “you’re wrong” falls out a third time, a too-warm growl of a whisper, and Derek closes the space between their lips.
Stiles loses his conviction in the contact.
Derek’s hands move over him while they kiss, dragging soothing tips and scolding pinches over his wrecked muscles in ways that leave him groaning, touches sinking you’re beautiful and you’re wanted under his skin in ways the best words probably never could. Hands trail down to play across Stiles’ fingers, silently praising the cleverness of them. Beard-rough lips drift up to kiss across his temple and a warmth of admiration seems to melt into him with each press. And Stiles can barely move, arms aching protest as he lifts them to thread into Derek’s hair, body quivering in ways that shift between exhaustion and want.
When Derek finally leans back Stiles whimpers, wanting more but too worn down to chase him. But Derek’s watching him from inches away in the dark room, and there’s no reflected flaws in those dark eyes now. Just you’re beautiful, you’re wanted. You’re important.
Stiles runs light thumbs down Derek’s beard, lets out a light laugh he barely recognizes.
“Guess I believe you,”
(And from now on, on nights when the pack goes out running, Stiles and Derek find a more interesting way to occupy themselves by the cars.)
I suddenly really want a Voltron bodyguard AU where Lance is some important hotshot and Keith is his bodyguard. It would be so great– perfect for a slow burn.
Keith could start off hating Lance and being annoyed when Lance does things that risk his safety, but after a while, Keith’s annoyance shifts towards concern. After a while, he doesn’t seem to mind when Lance rambles about his day for hours on end. After a while, he starts to find Lance’s terrible jokes not so terrible. After a while, he starts to fall in love.
I’m not that good with mecha or Ultimate digis ‘cuz they have lots of details orz so here have WereLazulimon! also when I was mid doing this I realized I missread the thing, sorry if you were expecting a human Laz with her partner OTL
I can't think of headcanons myself, but how would their first kiss go? :D
*digs hands into cliche solangelo headcanon box*
@bailci asked for headcanons and instead i delievered a fanfiction in bullet point omfg im so sorry
fight me all you want on this, but their relationship for sure started with a ‘first kiss’ because they’re cheesy like that
so lets give a bit of background shall we ??
i like to think that they really became friends—actual friends–after those three days in the infirmary and they obviously had *those* moments
you know what im talking about.
like when things got a bit too quiet during their walks and both had the urge to just reach out and hold the others hand
or when they one of them were caught by the other stealing glances here and there during meetings because literally who cares about what chiron’s saying when there’s a cute boy in the room
but besides those little moments, i’d say they were pretty comfortable with each other
nico would voluntarily hang out with will at the infirmary and “help him out” and “bring him a snack”
anyway let me actually answer this before i go on rambling about their cute friendship days:
maybe things got pretty bad one night. i’d presume nico had some really bad nightmares and he woke up and took a walk to clear his mind
and maybe he just happened to walk over to the path that lead him to the apollo cabin—half because he hated the dark and half because the glowing warmth of the cabin gave him comfort and solace
and of course, will would just be leaning there, maybe trying to get his own thoughts out of his head and when he saw nico, he’d just smile and gesture him to come closer.
they’d take a walk together around camp, just talking about normal things until will asked him what he was doing up and walking around at twelve in the morning
“you’re literally the child of the sun solace the better question is what are you doing at twelve in the morning”
will would probably just shrug and say how he was just couldn’t sleep cause he was thinking about his brothers
and then—uh oh—it’s awkward and quiet suddenly and will doesn’t knows why until nico starts talking about how he was thinking of bianca and oh
and because will solace is a Literal Sunshine he’d probably just ask him to elaborate and talk about his sister and his time at italy and all of a sudden nico is flailing his arms and his eyes are sparkling and will is biting his lip to stop himself from smiling too much
eventually the conversation fades away comfortably, maybe laughing at something nico said, but either way the silence that follows after is finally a comfortable one
nico breaks it by looking over at will with the calmest expression will has ever seen and he thanks him—for listening, for being there, for letting him rant on and [insert bumbling flustered nico here]
“he’s really cute but oh god he won’t shut up and i’m pretty sure he doesn’t even know what’s he’s saying anymore”
so will decides to shut him up and calm him down by leaning in closer and pressing his lips against nico’s in a chaste, gentle way. his lips are warm—they’re unbelievably smooth and the happy warmth bubbling inside his chest is a bit too much and for a second will doesn’t realize that nico’s become tense against him
and just as he’s about to pull back, nico relaxes slowly and presses closer in a super nervous and unsure type of way because he’s 14 okay and he can’t even handle will smiling at him and you’re talking kissing
will feels a rush of happiness and he puts his hand on top of nico’s trembling one (he also learns that kissing, contrary to popular belief, does not calm people down)
and they part, not because they want to, but because breathing is a thing and they kind of forgot how to do that in the last few seconds.
now all of a sudden they’re looking at each other with wide eyes that dart to the other’s lips awkwardly and faces that are too red to be healthy and they just start laughing because their shocked and also nervous but most of all happy and “oh my god did we just…”
they spend the rest of the night unable to sleep but because of a good reason this time: just thinking about how the others lips felt and each little sensation and smiling into their pillows and oh my god is that the sun?
And there he stood, Harry the Heir himself; tall, handsome, scowling. “Lady Alayne. May I partner you in this dance?”
She considered for a moment. “No. I don’t think so.” Color rose to his cheeks. “I was unforgiveably rude to you in the yard. You must forgive me.”
“Must?” She tossed her hair, took a sip of wine, made him wait. “How can you forgive someone who is unforgiveably rude? Will you explain that to me, ser?”
Ser Harrold looked confused. “Please. One dance.”.