#and he feels sickly vindicated

[dacrekayd]

someone make a fic about eddie not trusting that steve is actually a good guy who wants to be friends (and more) and keeps being a dick to steve out of self preservation and no one noticing how much steve is hurting and how he’s slowly pulling away from them and retreating into himself bc he knew it he knew he wasn’t good enough he knew he’d never be good enough for anyone not his parents not nancy not his stupid high school friends and definitely not eddie fucking munson who looks at steve like he’s the scum at the bottom of his boot and calls him King Steve, and Your Highness in the most derogatory way he can manage but it’s never Just Steve and it makes steve feel so so small and he’s just so tired and emotionally rung bc he really liked eddie and he really thought they could’ve had something amazing and soft and sweet and he’s just so heartbroken that this amazing man hates him so goddamn much

[turtle-paced]

I feel so dumb, but I don’t understand why did Tyrion send his men to kidnap Tommen in ACOK. What was he thinking?

Here we go:

"No. I want him taken on to the castle." Removing the boy from the city was one of his sister's better notions, Tyrion had decided. At Rosby, Tommen would be safe from the mob, and keeping him apart from his brother also made things more difficult for Stannis; even if he took King's Landing and executed Joffrey, he'd still have a Lannister claimant to contend with. "Lord Gyles is too sickly to run and too craven to fight. He'll command his castellan to open the gates." Tyrion X, ACoK

Tyrion's concern that Cersei sent Tommen off with inadequate security is vindicated spectacularly when the following happens.

Ser Boros had been escorting Tommen and Lord Gyles when Ser Jacelyn Bywater and his gold cloaks had surprised them, and had yielded up his charge with an alacrity that would have enraged old Ser Barristan Selmy as much as it did Cersei; a knight of the Kingsguard was supposed to die in defense of the king and royal family. Tyrion XI, ACoK

While Cersei had the right idea, Tyrion saw the execution was lacking. Cersei's also not going to be receptive to suggestions that the execution was lacking. Tyrion stepped in more directly, in Tommen's best interests.

[tj-dragonblade]

Hi! I'd like to hear something about the fishbowl therapy fic, please!

Ah, this is probably my favorite year-old idea that I really want to write but haven't quite gotten around to. I like the concept, I like the visuals that I've got in head, but so much of the necessary conversations just fizzle when I try to flesh them out. I'm sure I can get it right if I focus on it long enough, though. The long rambly synopsis with a tiny snippet of drafting included:

Sometime after their 2022 reunion, with more frequent meetings etc, Dream finally tells Hob why he missed their 1989 meeting. And Hob is very much Not Okay about it. He has so many feelings - the horror of his friend having been held captive that long, rage on Dream's behalf, self-recrimination that he didn't know, he could have done something if he'd known, and a crushing guilt over every unkind thought he had after 1989 (never mind that he got over them, he still thought them in the first place and his friend was stuck in a glass cage while Hob was wallowing in self-pity and uncharitable assumptions).

But Hob stuffs all his feelings about this down inside, because what kind of friend would he be to make Dream's trauma-sharing all about his own reaction? So he tries very hard to keep his own feelings out of the conversation, aside from some commiserative vindication when Dream confirms that everyone who held him is either dead or dealt with.

But he is Extremely Upset about it all evening, and ends up dreaming about it. Dream catches awareness of his distress, visits the dream. He didn't give Hob specifics in their conversation, 'a glass cage' and 'basement' were the key details and Hob has dreamed up something akin to a zoo exhibit - the cage is rectangular, three glass walls attached to a fourth stone wall, roomy enough to pace about in, a proper semblance of a bed in one corner. Dream watches as Hob stands on the outside, talking to the dream-version of Dream inside the cell - a Dream who still has his clothes, he had not shared that detail with Hob either - and makes himself known after only a moment. Hob is apologetic, he's so sorry he's making this all about himself, but Dream is…pleased, by his distress. 'Pleased' is not quite the word, but it is comforting to know that someone is so upset on his behalf. He takes the place of his dream-self within the cell, urges Hob to continue, to tell him everything he's held back. It's easy to be detached from the memory when the setting is wrong, and he is warmed despite everything at how vehemently Hob insists he would have come, how sorry he is for thinking Dream had chosen to stay away, etc etc. Eventually they are talking about how Dream is coping with it, is he healing from his trauma, and of course he says it does not bother him, but Hob is like 'If I'd spent more than a hundred years cooped up in this -' gesturing at the spacious cage he's envisioned '- I'd be - I'd be something. I wouldn't just be okay about it.' And Dream, feeling peevish and daring, decides to push.

"It was not like this," he says. "You dream it too kind."

Hob blinks at him. "…What?"

"You dream it too kind," Dream repeats. "Shall I show you the truth of it?"

"I…okay," Hob agrees, foreboding and unease in his tone, and Dream shifts the basement around them. With less than a thought he is naked in the suspended glass orb again, the painted stars mocking him from above and the the binding circle a sickly glow beneath him, the dank reaches of the underbelly of Fawney Rig stretching into infinity in every direction. Hob stumbles back a step with a shocked cry, horror flooding his features; he nearly flails backwards into the moat and steps forward again, stumbles to his knees, staring up at Dream with tears flooding his eyes.

"What the fuck—god, Dream—!"

And while he's processing all over again the full depth of the horror that was done to his friend, Dream is feeling something akin to panic creeping over him now that he's here again. He is less okay than he thought he was, the memory is pressing in again, and he focuses on Hob's distress to mitigate his own. There's gotta be a moment of both of them pressing hands to the glass; they get to a point where Hob just sort of spirals into a frenzy of 'gotta get you out, gotta get you out' that feeds Dream's own latent panic that he's definitly not giving in to, never mind that he can't stop repeating 'Free me, Hob, free me' (?) over and over. Hob's scrabbling about for anything that might help him break the glass and shortly dreams up a crowbar; he scrambles to his feet and starts swinging. It's thick glass, and magical etc, and it takes Hob whaling on it quite a lot before it begins to crack, and plenty more hits before it shatters. Whereupon Dream drops to the floor, free, unbothered by the broken glass all around. Hob suddenly has a jacket so that he can take it off and wrap it around Dream, and somewhere in the surging relief of the re-enacted rescue Hob just flings his arms around Dream and kisses him. Dream is taken by surprise, but things are definitely falling into place for him and he kisses back. Hob jerks back, doing a full 'oh shit I kissed him my secret's out I've ruined everything' kind of take; Dream just grabs the front of his shirt and yanks him back down, kisses him again.

There is a little more conversation here in the dream as heat and realization build; then Dream, 'weary of this wretched basement' and wanting Hob to remember all of this, ends the dream and manifests in Hob's bed as Hob wakes. There is sex and conversation to finish it out, Dream finally voicing out loud how much it means that there is someone who would have come for him, who will come to his defense no matter how unnecessary, who thinks he's worth the effort of rescuing.

Like I said, I stumble over the conversations somewhat and that makes it easy to let this one languish in the depths of the wip file. All that Hob-pov exposition at the beginning isn't really part of it either, since this will be Dream's pov, but I've got to convey all that via Hob talking to dream-Dream and then actual-Dream in the dream itself. I'll get it all ironed out one day. Hopefully.

[thecameronchronicles]

A Dinner on Figure Eight

TW: Smut. Language. 

SUMMARY: You prove to Pope you want only him, despite your family’s objections. 

WORD COUNT: 1600

REQUESTED:

hii! can you do a pope x kook!reader smut where they visit her family for the holidays (like in the pilot where john b says that some kooks visit the island for the summer, so they go off island) where the parents don’t really like pope and try to set her up with another rich guy and reader and pope sneak off and have sex (maybe in a car? idk lol)

A Dinner on Figure Eight

"Are you sure the tie isn't too much?" He asked nervously while standing on the steps of your childhood home. Your fingers adjusted the creases made in his dress shirt from his inability to remain still as you smirked. 

"You look perfect, Pope." 

"No." He corrected, his hands magnetized to your hips. 

"YOU look perfect...damn..." He shook his head. "Do you think it's too late to take advantage of the fact you're wearing a skirt?" He asked with his forehead pressed softly into yours while his fingers contrasted this in eagerness at your waist. In the same vindication, you pulled that very tie loose in bringing him closer to you before teasing his lips with the ghosting of your own gliding across his. 

"Your gift today is in here..." You explained while tapping his jacket, still worn over his arm. He offered a quizzical look before pulling your panties to view. 

"Babe-" 

"Just something to make you a bit less nervous..." 

"Now all I'm going to be able to think about is getting my hands under this skirt-" You smirked. The sudden clearing of your father's throat having sent Pope to turn sickly in appearance as you smoothed over what you could. 

"I hope you haven't had all the champagne yet..." You offered as you pulled Pope behind you, as your family greeted you with love. But in this example, you were separated from Pope, who held his own through the strongest confidence he could have before you were allowed to join him again. 

"You remember Topper?" Your mother asked. "It's been some time since you two spent some time together-" 

"Mom-" 

"Just friends catching up. Topper has actually decided to come to a school closer to home." He nodded, broadcasting a smile that paled against Pope's,  that you hadn't seen since you crossed over to Figure Eight. 

"Nothing wrong with weighing your options..." Your father spoke to Topper, with a side glance that made you well aware his words were more directed to you. 

"I don't know. Seems like Topper was completely content where he was. Unless it was the pressure of his family that made him switch. Then he isn't doing it for himself...which he should because they should just want him to be happy..." 

"And I'm sure one day HE will understand that everything they've done was to give the best life." 

"And what if your idea of the best isn't what they want?" Your eyes narrowed, your conversation silencing all others as Pope cleared his throat. 

"I can go if-" 

"No. We're staying. Can you pass the gravy?" You asked your father, a rather lackluster conversation holding nobody's attention as Pope lowered his voice to you. 

"Baby, I don't want to be a reason anything is tense, I can wait outside." To this, you clenched your jaw at the thought. Ever since Pope and you had begun dating, he made you feel precious at every second at his side. And in those you were apart, whether it had been because of school or work, a sweet, sometimes sultry, text would remind you that you were on his mind. But all your family saw as a collective had been his lack of self sustainability. 

"Actually..." You turned to face Pope, teasing that same tie left loose from your former moment. 

"I want you to fuck me." He choked on his drink, the hand at rest over your crossed legs having tightened as he turned into you. 

"Baby-" 

"I want to feel you inside of me while I tell you how good it is..." His eyes fluttered in a fight to stay open. "I want you to make me come as hard as you always do...but then I want you to kiss me..." You brought two fingers to his jaw to turn him to face you. His eyes locked onto yours. "And then I want you to do it again..." 

Your name was spoken as a scold as you turned to face your mom. 

"Don't be rude..." 

"I'm talking to my boyfriend." You corrected as Pope was still drowning in your request to pay much attention to your family. Even Topper’s presence faded at the thought of your words. 

"Who spent the entire last five paychecks on your gifts by the way....ones you don't deserve-" 

"We can just-" 

"But he does. Every single thing I'm going to let him do to me in about five minutes-" 

"Enough!" Your father spat. 

"Oh..." You reached into Pope's pocket. "There you go, Top...that's the closest you're gonna get..." You glared at your family before pulling Pope by his hand and leading him back outside. 

"Baby-" 

"I'm tired of them doing this. Im sorry if I embarrassed you, Pope, I just can't stand that they don't see in you what I do, it's-" He silenced you with a kiss to your lips. A palm on either cheek ran to your hair, made loose by this grip. Those loose eaves at a natural rest on the back of either shoulder as you were pinned against the car. 

"I love you." 

"Show me how much." You challenged as he moved to pull open the passenger side of the car before you moved past him and opened the back. 

"How are you going to take me from behind and slap my ass with such little room?" You challenged as he clenched his jaw, catching your arm just before you climbed over the seat. 

"I wanted to get you home...to a bed...somewhere I can tie you down because you're being particularly coquettish..." 

"I can't wait. I won't. " you turned to face him, playing with his tie before sliding it off of his neck, "But you can still tie me down if you want...You might want to because I don't think I can keep my hands still..." You offered a pout as he moved to kiss you, you retracting at the very last moment, before he followed you into the backseat. 

"You really want to do this here?" He asked as you slipped up your skirt enough to reveal the validation of those bare hips, now accentuated with your dripping sex. With a cocked brow, he lowered himself to the floor of the back and angled you quickly until his tongue was at those folds. 

"Oh my God!" 

"Mmm...mmmhmmm..." He moaned into you as your body began to move against him. 

"Pope!" The windows were quick to condensate. 

"I wanna feel you inside me! I wanna feel you fuck me!" 

He undressed, leaving his dress shirt in a part and his pants gathered at his ankles in impatience, before bringing you back into the kneeling of his legs. 

"Oh shit!" He grunted, his grasp holding tightly onto the fabric of your dress at your stomach as the other hand moved to your breast, countering this cover. 

"I need to feel all of you-" 

"Im yours to touch...yours ro fuck, Pope...so fuck me..." You whimpered as he tightened you further into him. 

"I love hearing you say that...But I love making it true..." He thrusted into you, your hands projecting from his wrists and to the door in front of you, forcing a handprint evidential to the window. 

"I love you!" You belted as he quickened. 

"I love you, baby..." He groaned into your shoulder, grunting and moaning as he built to his own edge. 

"Pope! I need to come, you feel too good..." 

"I want you to do it..." You faced him. 

"While I'm inside of you, baby...let me feel you touch yourself for me..." 

"Mmm..." You began immediately, quick to bring yourself to tremors as his depth made this possible. 

"Oh my God..." 

"I need you!" You announced as he nodded, exchanging your hand for his own. 

"Nobody has ever felt like you, Pope!" 

"Nobody will. Because nobody will take care of you like this..." 

"No...nobody!" You validated as he nodded. 

"Good...so good-shit! Baby!" 

"Come for me, Pope-" But instead, he retracted, pulling you to sit normally on the seat. A hand to the back of your neck brought you to eye him as his dominant hand moved in attack to your sex. Pistoning fingers forcing your mouth to part. 

"Fuck! Are you trying to make me squirt?!" 

"Wouldn't be the first time..." He smirked. "Not like you have panties in the way..." 

"Pope!" You gripped his wrist. 

"It's too much!" 

"I can't hear you baby...you're coming too loudly-" 

"Oh my God! Oh my GOD!" You gasped, that river of pulsating pleasure making you unabashed to your body's flexing against him. Wild hips and quick moans leaving you desperate and manic. 

"Fuck..." He smirked, reaching to suck his fingers as you straddled him. 

"I said twice..." You reminded. 

"You did, didn't you?" He grinned as you brought him back inside of you. 

"It isn't too much?" 

"It always is with you...but I love it." You confirmed as you rode him into his own orgasm. Your name, a song on his lips as you grinned widely to the victory in what your body brought to him. His grip and his moaning validating this as he shot into you. 

"Let's get you home..." Pope explained as you paused with a hand to his chest. 

"I am." You kissed him sweetly as he reciprocated deeply. He reminded you of both love and lust with his touch. Soft but passionate. The perfect combination of everything. And that was what he was to you. 

Everything. 

Taglist: @hopebaker @iovdrew @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271 @maybankslover @slut4starkey @slvtherinseeker @obxiskewl @bluesongbird @slut-era @ailee-celeste @camilynn @sweetestdesire @onmykneesforrafe @drews1love

MASTERLIST

CHRISTMAS MASTERLIST

[cigarettesandinevitablebetrayal]

Alright, so as I clear out my writing folder for fics that just aren't going to get finished for one reason or another, I thought I'd do something I've never done before and post them.

So, this is The Monsters We Made, which was written fresh off my first run with Mateo back in February of 2023. He was pretty different back then. His character was still being workshopped and he had just gotten the selfstuck Sedated By Mortum ending. I felt a lot about that ending and so, like I always do, I went off writing about it.

This is an unfinished fic and, as such, has a jarring "ending" and is not edited. It is very much a rough draft and you'll notice that it has information based on the books rather than what's been revealing in the Patreon documents, such as Mortum being Haitian rather than simply speaking French (they'd likely speak Haitian Creole, though they might be fluent in French as well, depending on their background). This, along with Mateo's characterization and ending changing and his puppet being altered, means that I will likely never finish this piece. So, it can go here. Hope you enjoy!

Mortum had been expecting a lot of things when he decided to sedate Mateo de la Cruz. He had been expecting Mateo to put up more of a fight. He had been expecting to feel some level of vindication at seeing him fall. What he had not been prepared for in the slightest was exactly how Mateo responded to the sedation. 

Fingers gripping his, not with intent but as if looking for stability. The expression of sheer terror that had flashed across his had felt like a bucket of ice water thrown at Mortum. One hand on his as he pulled out the syringe, one on his lapel, clinging for dear life. A flash of betrayal in his brown eyes. "Cariño…." He had winced at the endearment. Martín had called him that. It was supposed to be easy. It wasn't supposed to hurt so much.

He stares down at Mateo, studying his face for some sort of sign, some tangible proof that he did the right thing and that they are, in fact, enemies. Merde, he looks too much like Martín. He isn't as delicate-featured. There is no regal posturing the way Martín has. Scars mark Mateo's face where Martin's is bare and smooth. But they have the same nose, same warm eyes, same curve to their lips. Even their hair is styled in the same shoulder-length locs with gold cuffs.

Martín is sleeping, sprawled under the bedsheets with a soft smile on his face, despite his legs being in casts. Mortum would normally be sleeping beside him. If he's honest with himself, he wants nothing more than to crawl into bed next to Martín and hold him in his arms for a week straight. But there's something wrong with Martín. He can feel it.

He doesn't carry himself with the same certainty. When Mortum kisses him, he feels Martín holding back. His smiles don't quite meet his eyes anymore. He speaks with a slightly different cadence. It's like watching his boyfriend through a funhouse mirror. Any passing mention of it is met with a laugh and a wave of his hand. He has a different excuse each time.

So Mortum finds himself back here on nights when sleep evades him, in what is now Mateo's personal infirmary. He's been spending too much time here these days. Ever so gently, he lifts the hem of Mateo's shirt up. Just as he'd said at La Cantina weeks ago, his body is marked with re-gene tattoos. They are a slick and sickly orange like the skin of a poison frog. A warning sign to stay away.

He wishes he could heed them. He wishes he could leave Mateo out in some back street to rot. But he looks too much like Martín. And Martín feels less and less like himself with each passing day.

Was Mortum wrong? He wonders, not for the first time, if Mateo was telling the truth. That the nights of microwaved pizza and expensive scotch and wanting and being wanted in return were never a mask or a front, but always just Mateo. Perhaps the mask of Martín was more liberating than his own.

Other than this particular, I have never lied to you and I never will. Mortum winces as the words play over in his head. They’d sounded desperate, but Mortum had only been able to feel their bitter taste.

It all made more sense in the ambulance, when Martín had woken up. There was real fear in his eyes. Fear of Mateo. Or so he had said. Had he been played that night? Manipulated by whatever was now riding in Martín's skin? It is starting to feel more and more likely.

That's why tonight, Mortum skipped Mateo's scheduled sedation.

He's already taken numbers. The headache and dry mouth have been building for the last hour, but it's worth the precautions. He doesn't want to take any chances with a telepath.

Mateo is beginning to stir. He opens his eyes with a slow sort of bleariness. He blinks once, twice, and then Mortum sees the telltale sign of a stomach turning. He just barely gets the trash can over in time for Mateo to almost pitch himself over the side of the bed and vomit. As he retches, his back shuddering from trying to suck in breaths, Mortum can't stop himself from rubbing small circles between Mateo's shoulder blades.

Mateo pushes himself back up with shaking hands, his dark eyes narrowing on Mortum's face. Mortum gently holds his dreads back from his face. He’s surprised when Mateo doesn’t bat his hand away. "You drugged me." There is no bite to Mateo's words. Just a blank statement of a fact.

"I did, mon chéri." There's no point in denying it. "It seemed like the best course of action at the time."

Mateo's eyes scan over the surroundings. Always perceptive, despite the grogginess. It was like this talking to Martín about his projects, too. Martín was not particularly knowledgeable in technological fields, but he always hung onto every word Mortum said. Always asking questions, always learning, always paying keen attention.

"This isn't the Farm or a hospital." There's a familiar sort of distance in his voice when he speaks. It's gone when he continues. "Where are we?"

"One of my labs.” Mortum shrugs, holding his arms against his chest. He tries to swallow down the guilt. “I had nowhere else to take you."

"Why didn't you kill me?"

The question catches Mortum off guard. He takes a step back. An old habit, as if he's trying to get a wider view of Mateo's intentions, to see the bigger picture.

As if reading his mind despite the numbers, Mateo shrugs his shoulders in a noncommittal sort of way. "It's what I would have done in your shoes. Especially after Martín."

Mortum's blood runs cold. He clenches his fists, counts to ten, and lets them relax again. "How do you know about Martín?"

"I caught a sense of him, right before you opened the door," he says, his voice carefully modulated. His expression is guarded, so unlike how open he’d been as Martín."He didn't feel like you. Or much like anything I'd felt before."

At least Mortum isn't alone in the sense of alienation he gets from Martín these days. Even with the tension of their situation, he feels himself sinking back into the familiar pace of their conversation. It’s a balm as compared to the past few days. He isn't allowed that peace of mind for long.

"You never answered my question."

He really is quite like Martín, hyper-focused and direct almost to a fault. Mortum allows himself a small grimace. In his attempts to get his thoughts on the matter in order, Mateo presses on.

"You seem to know what I am and how dangerous I can be, villainous career aside." Mortum wishes just once, Martín - Mateo, he mentally chastises himself - would be less matter-of-fact about the whole ordeal. "And I know I hurt you. I've hurt you in ways I never intended. I don't understand why I'm still here; why I'm talking to you now."

He says it so earnestly. Not an ounce of cruelty there, despite how much it hurts Mortum. Should he be honest? God knows, Mateo and Martín both were. On the verge of brutality sometimes. Perhaps he owes Mateo that much.

"I entertained the idea," Mortum admits. He turns his eyes away from Mateo, looking down at his hands instead. He's not restrained - a perhaps foolish choice on Mortum's part, but he couldn't bring himself to do it - but he also hasn't moved. He seems content to let Mortum speak in peace. "You are right that it would have been a wiser decision, but I couldn't."

"Is it because I look like him? Martín?"

Mortum flinches. "Why should you have this power over me?" he mutters in French.

"Because you hold the same power over me."

Mortum's eyes snap up to Mateo's face. The French is a surprise. He hadn't known Mateo was multilingual. More tricks up his sleeves. But he looks at Mortum with a tenderness that makes his chest ache all the way down to the marrow of his bones.

Mateo reaches out, then stops, and asks in English, "May I touch you, mi amor?"

He should say no. He should keep that tentative space between them. Mateo is as dangerous as open flame and will burn him if he gets too close. He's already burned once. But Mateo worries at his lip the same way Martín always did and Mortum finds himself too weak to not take Mateo's hand.

"I won't apologize again." Mateo kisses Mortum's knuckles ever so gently. "There is no amount of apologizing that will fix this. But I will thank you for sparing my life."

Mortum swears again, wishing desperately that he had better self control. It's never been a problem before. He clings to Mateo's hands like they're the only shelter from the storm in his mind. Mateo gently pulls one hand free. He reaches up, brushing the back of his fingers against Mortum's cheek. He thumbs away a tear that Mortum hadn't noticed.

Giving up the last of his reserves, Mortum turns his head into the touch, pressing a kiss against Mateo's palm. His hands are rougher than Martín's, calloused and scarred and the nails chewed brutally short. But they still touch him the same way. Something bruised and angry and soft claws its way into Mortum's throat, but he keeps it locked behind his teeth.

[souryogurt64]

aw man why was the arctic monkeys concert…like that?

the main thing was that i literally just thought it sounded really bad, both the band and the venues sound. i felt like the vocals were really bad and i couldnt hear the bass at all which was compounded by the fact i felt like the guitar work wasnt very good. there was a lot of feedback at one point during the show (i think multiple tbh) which i feel vindicated that i wasnt crazy. idk how but i somehow felt like i couldnt hear anything (never felt like that at a concert before) and like it was hurting my ears.

this is not really about the show itself but the lineup procedure was very bad, drawn out and disorganized and there was a lot of cutting for something that took 2 hours and a ton of screaming to do “fairly”. i also felt like the people there were kind of awful, usually theres like a sense of at least fake camraderie when youre in line for hours but there was none of that, plus i was next to this group of girls who were shit talking their friend who had headphones in and couldnt hear them.

also it was the most invasive and over the top bag policy ive ever experienced. venue was also fugly and was also not in an awesome location in terms of transportation, what was around, and safety. there also wasnt enough staff around at all given what they were asking of us

ive also never considered myself to be sensitive to flashing before but the strobing during the show hurt. there was also basically no set design, props, or confetti/inflatables, creative lighting, fog, water, anything. most big rock acts ive seen (weezer, mcr, green day, fob, panic, etc) have used almost all of them plus pyro/fireworks/other sfx so i was pretty surprised. i wasnt super close to the stage but i feel like i wouldve noticed if they had. they also abruptly cut the walkout music mid-song after only about 90 seconds or so and turned the lights up to full blast (ow) which was also really jarring and then they turned the music back on after maybe 20 seconds which i felt (like the mic feedback) vindicated that i wasnt crazy and whoever running sound was kind of clueless

opener also wasnt good. there was only one opener which i was glad for given how bad it was but i felt like the wait times between sets were a bit much— i feel like other big rock shows ive seen have managed to do a lot more in the same or not much more time, like somehow squeezed in 3-5 bands. the opener was also a pretty small band, which was fine but all in all it felt like kind of ripoff given how much it cost-- the most important thing is how the headlining band sounds but that was. also real bad.

finally alex also seemed like a very uncharismatic and uncomfortable performer to a degree that was offputting, he also didnt look so hot in general -- not like attractiveness, i mean as slang for sickly haha.

i dont want to be a hater but no one goes into a rock concert of one of their all-time top streamed artists they paid hundreds and *wants* to feel like they need to cover their ears during the show lol.

i know i was pitching a fit about the fob wrigley show but it wasnt actually bad, i was just mad i couldnt hear the bass at all during headfirst slide, they played 3 covers and i didnt like my 8ball song . otherwise it was fine. but this was like legit for real unpleasant. ive gone to over like 60 concerts including seeing the arctic monkeys a really long time ago so i feel like i have a good metric for what concerts are like normally haha

[carverl]

If I'm being 100% honest with myself, this opening is perhaps the greatest achievement of the I Expect You To Die franchise in my opinion. I am constantly blown away by how incredible the whole thing is; the song itself by Puddles Pity Party is one of my favourite songs of all time, I listen to it constantly whether I'm at college, out on a walk or just shopping I've got this thing on repeat.

The way it's from the perspective of John Juniper, the main villain of the second game, who you'll be facing off against gives it this feeling of having a personal beef with Juniper before you've even met him. Like a rivalry is born between you, the player, and the villain right away just by how vindicate and snide the lyrics are and how they're directed at you. The first opening had a similar type beat with an unseen antagonist berating you, but in that case it was (and still kind of is) a little vague as to who was actually singing. In this case it's undeniable who you're meant to defeat and just how effortlessly it sets up the central gimmick of Juniper and his sadistic narcissism it's just so good.

It's especially interesting how Juniper seems to want Pheonix to act as their co-star in a way, talking about their battle of wits like it's a production they're playing their respective roles in; that being the hero and the villain. (Curious how Juniper seems to view himself as a villain, at least he's semi self aware, I guess) It acts in contrast to the first game's song in which it's clear the singer thinks nothing of you, here Juniper really seems to want to share the spotlight with Pheonix.

The visuals are incredibly memorable, where the first game used red, black, and white as its three colour atheistic this game uses green, gold, and black and I love how both tell you something about the villains; red used in the context of Zoraxis is a violent and sinister colour with connotations of blood whereas green and gold bring to mind wealth and privilege. Green also has a sickly connotation, like while Juniper is incredibly well off, he's also unwell and has a toxic relationship to his own status and sense of ego.

I also love the use of classic symbols associated with film and the theatre all throughout this opening, it almost feels like each of these title sequences step into the mind of the villain and you get to see their perspective of you and of the world. For Juniper, that's a world of adoring fans who are blind to his true intentions, all except for you. It almost feels like a classic "We're not so different) kind of thing except a bit more subtle. My favourite visual in the whole thing has to be the nukes flying towards Earth that's just so unbelievably cool.

I just absolutely adore this opening, and while I think the opening to Cog in the Machine has improved visuals, this game has a banger of a song that will go down as one of the all time greats in spy media. It's amazing how they took arguably the best part of the first game and made it 100× better in every way. It evokes images of classic spy films like Goldfinger and the whole vibe is impeccable.

10/10 absolute classic

[badpancakelol]

The second time they truly meet — because, yes, while Eddie had seen Steve during high school, they hadn’t really talked, per se. Eddie had looked on, had watched from primary school to middle school to high school, had seen how the person who he thought would have called him a friend, turn into something horrible.

It was… well. He didn’t know how to describe it. A fall from grace — no. Had he ever truly been graceful? 

(Eddie likes to think so. Likes to think that the Steve who helped him up from his bike, had made sure that he was okay, hadn’t always been scathing and turbulent; a bottled storm that was destroying everything with an air of apathy and detachedness).

So, the second time that they truly meet, because Eddie does not count hallway glances, questioning upticks of an eyebrow that say who are you?, as real meetings, he doesn’t realise how much Steve has changed.

Harrington’s already waiting at the clearing in the forrest. It was an easy enough place to find if you knew how to get there, and it had been serving Eddie well for the past couple of years. As he hears the crunch of the leaves against his boots, wet from the morning dew, he vaguely hopes the spot keeps being faithful.

Eddie slows his pace, and he looks, really looks at Harrington in detail. His shoulders are drawn together, and when Steve turns his face slightly, there’s the red-blue-purpleness of a fresh bruise. Not quite the sickly yellow-green, yet. There’s a horrible scabbing on his upper lip and across his nose, but out of everything that he sees, out of all the hurt that is so very apparent on his face, the most striking thing to Eddie is how tired he looks.

“Harrington.”

He perks up in a way that could be seen as a flinch, turns his body in a careful and smooth way that almost hides his discomfort. But Eddie knows better. Has heard through the grapevine about what happened between Steve Harrington and Jonathan Byers. He had heard all about the fight in the alleyway, rumours spreading like wildfire about a relationship scandal, or something or other, but it doesn’t fully explain how Harrington is looking right now.

There’s a puppy-like sadness to his eyes as he meets Eddie head on. It almost makes him feel a bit sympathetic, if not even a bit sorry.

“Sorry, I know Tommy’s normally the one to buy but—”

Ah. Tommy and Carol who Steve isn’t friends with anymore, if rumours can be trusted. Eddie knows that they can’t, but sometimes it’s nice to indulge in the drama. When he had first heard it whisper through the hallways, he had felt a bitter bit of vindication. It seemed as if the four of them were never meant to be.

“You don’t remember me?”

-- -- --

part three of my little timeloop series is up B) and, as a treat, here's a little section from Chapter 2: SECOND WIND

[wishing4nuclearwinter]

You Won’t See Me in the Harbor Lights

Whumptober 19: Enough is Enough (ft. Varmint)

[warnings: implied child abuse]

ao3 link

The wind and waves lap as one, breaking against towers of jagged stone that mark the shoreline. Heidi’s thrumming heart drowns in the sea’s violent cacophony, but fifteen wasted years on this beach have rendered it white noise.

They press the toe of their worn out sneaker against the heel of the other and unceremoniously peel each off in turn. Dirt and wet gravel immediately cling to the soles of their feet as they step closer to the cliff’s edge. 

The once blue ocean is rendered black under dark rolling clouds and memories of rain. Unsafe waters for ships; deadly for swimmers.

But Heidi is neither.

Poseidon’s children belong to the sea as much as any finned creature. Heidi carefully pulls their shirt over their head only to blindly toss it to the side as a crumpled ball. Someone will find their abandoned clothes eventually, but will they know? Heidi has carried out this routine for years. It’s not just expected— it’s obligatory. Their duty to their people to hunt and provide them with the sea’s bounty.

But they know better than to treat their threadbare belongings with such carelessness as to leave them in a dirty heap outside. It’s a message that will doubtlessly be lost in translation. 

Their jeans join their shirt, frigid wind gnawing at their exposed skin like it means to meticulously strip them down to bone. Generations of radiation-induced adaptations have them shaking off the sensation readily, but they can’t soothe the dull pulsing ache beneath their right eye with the same ease. 

Good for nothing varmint. 

Heidi grinds their teeth as they brush a thumb across their father’s parting gift. Of course, he won’t get to stew in his short lived guilt when it bruises and stains muddled shades of purples and sickly greens. Not this time at least. 

No, they’ll wash up on some southern shore soon and they’ll scrape themself together with their own two hands; they’ll make something of themself. 

And if they don’t? If they bleed out in a dank back alley of a foreign town as their parents always warned? Well, Heidi can only hope they’ll be able to hear the laughter six feet below.

Despite everything, they wield the unyielding hubris of any young teen ready to spit in God’s eye. They cannot see the other side of this blade pointed at their own soft belly.

From behind them, a raspy meow calls out, closer to the screech of some abomination than a house cat’s kindly greeting.

Guppy headbutts their calf affectionately before wrapping her slim frame around it, tail flicking curiously. Her patchy fur is damp, though Heidi is unsure if it’s from rain or sea water.

They offer her a thin smile. 

“I’m leaving.” The words feel strange on their tongue. “You’ll follow me, won’t you?”

Guppy’s enormous black eyes stare up at them and the inky void is unreadable, but the third yellow, recognizably feline, eye scours their face before blinking slowly. The vestigial fourth remains unseeing. 

A sliver of tension slides from Heidi’s shoulders. They won’t be alone. Guppy is not a creature of water despite her best efforts— she could never make that swim— but she’ll find them by land. She always does. 

As they reach down to pet her, Guppy wraps a prehensile tail around their wrist and squeezes briefly like a person might grab their hand in reassurance. They scritch behind her ear in like. 

“I’ll see you soon, Admiral.”

Guppy puffs up as she pads to the edge of the cliff as if vindicated by that silly title Heidi gave her so many years ago. She stretches languidly and settles to see them off. 

They return their attention to their task and the choppy waves below. 

With one hand, they untuck the end of the stolen bandage from under their armpit and allow it to unravel. It spills like ribbon around their feet, a puddle of beige attesting to the sheer grief of inhabiting the figure it hid. Swiping a new roll will be priority one when they crawl back on land, but with any luck— and a packful of caps they don’t yet have— they won’t need them much longer. 

They suck in a breath and it feels like the first one they’ve ever taken. Their ribs ache with the fullness of it, though they so often do these days. Even on dry land the gills running down their torso sing praises of relief, no longer smothered and suffocated.

Stripped down to only ratty underwear, they step up to the ledge until the uneven ends of the stone dig into their feet.

Finally, finally, they are here. They roll their shoulders back, crack their neck, uncurl long fingers. They tell themself the buzzing in their limbs is giddiness and not terror. Glancing back one last time at the dreary village that has caged them for so long, Heidi can’t help themself. 

They raise a middle finger and jump.

[always-outsider]

I really hope Vindicator Odin gets awakened

Welcome to my shitpost at midnight because I can't sleep.

Please keep scrolling. Don't waste your time on this post. I'm not in the right frame of mind. Insomnia is killing me. I'm making a mistake.

It has been bugging me from day one, and I cannot contain myself any longer:

I really hope they make Vindicator Odin awaken.

And why am I hoping for that? Well, just look at him—I mean, his character art. What do you see?

Too many wrinkles? No, that's not it. I'm not complaining about the wrinkles. Not at all. I'm complaining about his complexion. The combination of dark green, neon green, white, and gray has made for a very pale, dull, and feeble complexion. In other words, a very unhealthy aura. Often, when I look at my phone screen during Connect battles, his dull and sickly-looking avatar stands out so much that I can't help but notice. When I think in another language, such as Japanese, words like [暗い！] or [薄い！] frequently come to mind.

Another point I'd like to bring up is… his arms. It looks so thin!? Somehow?? Is it just me? Is it because of the wide sleeves of his robe? Or are they playing realism here? A skinny old man… Really Ateam? Muscle atrophy? Sarcopenia much? I look at his thin arms, and I want to cry. My heart aches, and my soul weeps. I feel so so sad for no reason. I'm getting crazy. This obsession is getting out of hand. It's beyond rationality.

I really hope he gets awakened just for the change in character art. I do not ask much; I only ask for a brighter complexion. （；へ：）At this point, he looks too sick and feeble; my heart can't take it.

Maybe I shouldn't whine about all this. I got lucky enough to be able to summon him. I should not ask for more.

[deepwebheatwave]

>> FIRST KILL

rating • M (violence)

warnings • gore, violence

vague attempt at rewriting don mitchell's murder. enjoy ^_^

ao3 link, if you prefer

tonight is the night that this shit-filled hypocrite dies.

after the meticulous planning phase was finally over, after all of the research and effort, it was happening. after tonight, the phony conman would lie dead in a pool of his own blood and puke and edward nashton would finally cease to exist. there would be no more edward - only the riddler, above the flaws and eccentricities of a simple man, would exist, and people would love him or fear him or at very least know he was alive. this was for the greater good, but it was for him, too. selfishly he wanted to be the one to fulfill his own prophecy. uncovering corruption was not enough.

he had to be the one to crush it. to feel its entrails pop under the unforgiving weight of his boots.

the fucking idiot didn't even notice him, even though edward was sure his breathing was deafeningly loud. it was cold outdoors, but the rich fuck must have had quite the heating system, because under his layers edward could feel itchy trickles of sweat running down his neck and torso.

what luxury. nights like this, edward remembered lying curled up on the cold floor of the orphanage, feeling his muscles and skin sting and burn. all he could do was plead to whatever god did or didn't exist to please just kill him already.

it's good to know that rich fuckwits like him were cozy and safe during all of that.

he clenches the carpet tucker in his hand so hard that the joints in his knuckles feel like they might snap and break apart.

don mitchell continued to watch the screen, so preoccupied with staying on his throne of shit and sin.

edward thinks of how in a few moments, this repugnant man will have much bigger issues than winning an election. he barely can contain how giddy that makes him feel. all because of him.

the television quiets. don mitchell stands there, unaware of how soon his avaricious life will come to an end.

such a perfect night.

edward lunges forward, unable to contain the guttural shriek that rips out of him. he can feel his vocal cords burn and sting. before he knows it, they're both on the floor. edward lands hard on his shoulder. winded, he writhes and crawls back on top of the jarred man. adrenaline pulses through his veins. he can feel his jugular pounding as if it might pop open.

now now now now now now now now now now

his thoughts repeat like a broken record. the riddler grips the carpet tucker tight, swinging his arm back so hard it crackles, before slamming the solid metal into the man's cranium. the sound is wet and crunchy at once, a sickly sound like stomping on an egg. it only invigorates the riddler even more.

now that he has no reason to hide his presence, the riddler grunts and yells and gasps with exertion, animalistic whines of exhaustion as he continues to viciously bludgeon the tool against the dented head of the man. he only stops when he slams his sore arm down once again and hits a new, unbroken part of skull and the force sends his tool flying across the room. it rolls and clatters, leaving staccato imprints of blood where it bounced off of the fancy hardwood floor.

as the riddler stands on trembling legs, high off of the iron stench of blood and vindication, he wants to smash his foot down on this scumbag's skull and flatten it completely. yet, he's tired and the adrenaline is starting to wear off. he's starting to realize that his metamorphosis has completed. no longer was he the helpless worm. he had burnt away his larval form and been created anew.

it almost felt holy.

the riddler walks with purpose, standing over his fresh kill. unexperienced and too impatient to wait and see, he cannot tell if this son of a bitch is dead or just unconscious. no matter how much blood there was or how many times he slammed metal into his skull, there were no massive open fractures or huge dents that he could see. no matter. a man like this deserved to die slow and in pain anyway. edward might not have had a sadistic streak, but the riddler did, and he planned on nurturing it when it came to judgmental, controlling, heartless men who never left the lap of luxury.

the riddler straddles his kill and lets out a pleasured sigh, cocking his head back and taking in the feeling of being born anew.

however, he couldn't just bask in this feeling forever. he had a purpose, after all.

so, the riddler peels off a long strip of duct tape and gets to work.

[thefossilwhale]

signed the saw

mind blind. button x kent, 1.8k words. inspired by this ask about the ROs helping button manage a panic attack (so, cw for depiction of a panic attack/extreme anxiety). sabrina wiseman is unsurprised to find that undercover work is stressful.

The ceiling is dotted at long intervals by waning light bulbs, whose dim halos have a way of blurring the hall’s few distinctive features. Sabrina’s eyes have trouble focusing, anyway. There is grey, and there is brown, and there is the black shape of Kent’s shoulder half a stride ahead, leading her around the next corner.

This stretch of hallway was the biggest obstacle when planning the mission. Relatively deserted, with little chance of interruption, but it was at least a few minutes’ trek between point A and point B, and they needed every second.

Right now, they happen to be perfectly on schedule, and Sabrina is grateful for the dead air. She just needs a moment to collect herself, to align her breathing with Kent’s brisk pace down the hallway. One breath for every four steps, following his lead, and she’ll be back to herself by the time they round the next corner—which is coming up now, she realizes, as Kent takes an abrupt left. That’s okay. One more breath, and she’ll be fine.

She steps through the doorway, which she hadn’t noticed Kent opening, and forces herself back to alertness. The room is small. It’s as sparse and poorly lit as the hallway, with no visible evidence of the files that Kim had emphasized were mission critical. Swallowing another spike of panic, Sabrina opens her mouth, but Kent is faster.

“This isn’t the room,” he tells her.

“Okay.” She presses into the wall at her back and takes another breath. “So why are we stopping?”

The tremor in her voice is answer enough, and Kent is kind enough not to acknowledge it as he turns to close the door. “We can do our job in five minutes, if we have to. We can’t do it if you’re not at your best.”

If it were anyone else, she’d bristle at the suggestion and stride back into the hallway at double the pace. But Kent weights practicality at least as heavily as his concern. From his mouth, the words are simple fact: neither of them can afford her distraction, but they’re a good enough team to manage a detour.

Kent meets her eyes briefly, a small smile teasing the corner of his mouth that she can see. She barely registers it before his focus snaps back to the doorway.

His diverted attention is appeasement enough for Sabrina’s pride, and she lets herself sink. Not to the floor, just the few inches it takes for her neck to fall back between her shoulders, cradling the crown of her head against the wall. Her hands, clasped behind her crumpled back, feel cold and sickly on its lukewarm surface. Her eyes are pointed at the ceiling, but they scan aimlessly without seeing. She screws them shut and waits.

This place needs a makeover, says Nick, who had for several minutes been indistinguishable from the thousand other nervous hums in the back of her mind. How many ceiling tiles do you think aren’t stained? Twenty bucks says it’s five or less.

If there were any windows, she knows he would ask her about the weather instead. But his impression of the space is only as good as her own hazy, stuttering glances, and though he tries, there is little among the blank walls and shadows to latch onto. Still, she opens her eyes and looks up.

He must feel her unease resurging as she takes in the room once again, because his next words come in a rush of thought faster than he could ever speak them aloud: Wait, no, I can already tell that won’t help. Don’t humor me, okay? If I’m not helping, I’ll be quiet.

Nick is, of course, physically incapable of producing any noise in his current state, so he does technically keep that promise. But in the past week, Sabrina has come to understand what it means when someone calls her mind “loud.” Her own anxiety is familiar to her, slowly building and fuzzing the edges of her perception, but Nick’s mind has never felt so foreign. It is deafening in its wrongness, its intrusion. He is terrified.

It doesn’t matter whether he voices it; Nick is worried someone will find his sister having a panic attack somewhere they’d kill her for trespassing, and she would be lucky to die on the ugly floor of that boring hallway because it would mean she at least made it out of this room, whose shadows are growing thicker and more tangible until they seem to press against her throat. Her body falters under the weight of two consciousnesses as their respective panics converge. The wall at her back is painful with its rigidness, its press against her spine, its wrinkled and uneven paint.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Sabrina is struck by a sick inevitability. Of course she couldn’t do this, after Nick warned her, after she insisted. Of course her worst mistake would be to play at field agent, and of course she would bring her brother and Kent down with her. If she could think or breathe, she might wonder if Nick felt vindicated by her failure.

“Sabrina?”

Kent’s voice is closer than it should be. She feels him at her right side, between her and the door he’s supposed to be watching.

A hand comes down on her shoulder, gentle as the voice that follows. “Sabrina, look at me.”

She shakes her head, but the scrape of her scalp against the wall is unbearable. She winces and lurches forward. The shaking motion grows tighter, jerking her chin to either side in frantic protest. I can’t open my eyes right now because any visual input will be the straw to break the camel’s brain, and then I’ll really be inconsolable and we’ll either die here, or worse, make it out as failures, is what she wants to tell him, but the words won’t form even in her mind. She screws her eyes shut tighter and finally halts the motion of her chin, holding it angled away from him. Please please please understand.

“Should I not…” He trails off, removing his hand—but it doesn’t go far. When he clears his throat and tries again, she can still feel it just barely hovering above her shoulder. “Is it okay to touch you? Yes or no.”

Sabrina tries to hum her assent, but the flat “hmm” that leaves her nose communicates little. Instead, her left hand escapes from behind her back and reaches for Kent’s wrist. She presses his hand once, firmly, back to her shoulder, where it offers a comforting squeeze, so brief she nearly misses it, before sliding to her forearm. His free hand follows suit, and he pulls her forward off the wall. She only catches herself when her head meets his shoulder.

The darkness as his body shields her eyes is a relief, and the first thought she has in its clarity is to wonder how much of her weight he would bear, if she stopped holding herself upright. Her arms, folded across her stomach, form an awkward barrier between them—one already crossed by the steadying hand he has placed lightly at each elbow, the tilt of her face towards his neck. Leaning against him, with his nose at her ear, she feels the rhythm of his breath, deep and deliberate. It takes a few moments for her own body to match it. After three full breaths shared between them, her mind quiets enough for Nick to resurface.

Okay, Button? His relief is tangible, though she’s not sure how much of it is her own.

She nods—a motion that, in the crook of Kent’s neck, feels embarrassingly like a nuzzle—then answers aloud. “Fine now.”

Mumbled weakly as they were against Kent’s shirt, the words must have been barely audible. Still, his nose dips to her cheek as he nods in acknowledgment, and he takes one step back. Sabrina’s arms slide out of his loose grip to hang at her sides. Studiously avoiding his gaze, she can’t tell what he’s looking at as she turns towards the door.

Kent doesn’t move. She waits, scanning for shadows, before calling softly over her shoulder. “Time to go?”

“If you’re ready,” he says evenly. “We can afford two more minutes, I would guess. It hasn’t been long.”

She hums noncommittally, and Kent steps beside her. Their arms don’t touch, but the space between them is so slight that she would barely have to move if she wanted them to.

Nick?

Don’t you dare, he warns, managing to sound both cheerful and stern. If you try to apologize for what just happened, I’ll start singing the Ghostbusters theme again, and I won’t stop until you’ve thwacked yourself on the head a few times for me.

Apologizing is one thing, Nick, she says. Self-flagellation is a bit harsh.

I agree! So don’t apologize, and I won’t enforce it.

Nick can’t hide a thing from her anymore, and though she knows his lighter mood is genuine, it’s clear how shaken he is. Does he always get that worried, when she has an attack? These circumstances were admittedly exceptional, but how much of that helplessness was her own?

I’m just glad Kent was here, says Nick, nudging those questions into some hidden corner of her mind. He’s all right.

Yes, he is. He’s looking at her, too. She won’t return his gaze, but she feels it on her and thinks he must be gauging whether she’s really recovered. But there is no tension, no intent in the small space between them. Kent is just… looking. Trusting her to watch the door. Thinking something that she’s sure she could never even begin to guess.

“I’m ready,” she tells him, and grabs his hand—knowing that he won’t outwardly react (it’s Kent), but still not looking, just in case. With one tug on his arm, she leads him forward and poises her free hand over the doorknob, waiting on his confirmation.

“Good,” comes his always inscrutable voice in reply. “Let’s go.”

Kent takes the lead again when they return to the hallway, and Sabrina slackens her grip on his hand, slowing her pace just enough that she’ll drop it as he pulls ahead. When his arm stretches uncomfortably behind him, he doesn’t slow down. Instead, he pulls on her hand, with just enough strength that she has to scramble to avoid tripping over her feet. The momentum carries her back to his side.

“Let’s go,” he repeats. His tone is neutral, but he squeezes her hand once as she matches his pace.

A light bulb flickers above them, scattering the shadows. For a moment, the hallway is as indistinct and menacing as when she’d retreated into that room. Kent’s hand is in hers, though, and he doesn’t miss a step. His outline is clear even in the waning light.

They round the next corner.

[barnesafterglow]

a random fact for a ship :D

i hate hate hate grape juice 😐

akdfjhnerdk what is wrong with you!! jk grape juice is mid at best

for some reason my first thought is steve?? like i feel like grape juice was a luxury back in the 30s and 40s and even if they could afford it that sickly boy couldn't have tasted it anyways.

so when he comes out of the ice and he's trying to be an actual human again, that's probably one of the things he's excited to try so he hypes himself up and buys an expensive bottle of it (just bc he can) and he takes a sip and is like 🥴

so finding out you also hate grape juice would make him feel so vindicated and the two of you weirdos would bond over it

join my first sleepover!!

[aobawilliams]

About the Vigilant Yagi Au (Toshi with friends? Sign me the fuck up!), how does everyone react when they learned that sweet (maybe a little feral) Yagi is actually All Might?? (As in, those who don't actually know) Love your au!

Thank you!

Vigilante Yagi AU

So Izuku (and Inko) learn about it around one year or so of their acquaintance with Yagi, still not sure whether he accidentally spills the beans or he actually tells them though. Izuku goes into Error 404 mode. He just stop functionning for a bit while his brain register Favourite Vigilante/Mentor Yagi is also Favourite Best Hero All Might. While there is still some hero worship around the fact he’s All Might, since he has known Yagi for longer they fairly quickly get back to their regular dynamics but with Izuku asking for more All Might stories/fact, and the hero worship kind of disappear (as in, Yagi/All Might is still his favourite hero, but now he knows the person behind more than he knows the hero). (When he remembers Yagi has seen his room at least once and, oh, that’s why he reacted like that, Izuku goes into another internal crisis.)

Most of everyone else learns of it at Kamino though. That One Conspiracy Theorist Officer (and Shouto) feels so vindicated to be right and earns a lot of bet money. They keep being like “told you I was right”.

Meanwhile most of the police force just lose their mind because, Holy Shit I Arrested All Might. I berated All Might on taking care of himself. I gave food to All Might. Some goes into mini-breakdown and re-evaluate every interaction they had with Yagi. A lot of them are also like “yeah actually that makes sense, I can kinda see the ressemblance between the twos”.

And then once the shock settle, they remember everything that is suddenly so much funnier when you know the truth. Tsukauchi’s sudden bout of laughter or Yagi’s reaction whenever the detective bring up All Might. Yagi being punished by filling up All Might’s paperwork. All those times All Might left and Yagi suddenly appeared. That one time Midoriya went on a 30min rant about All Might latest appearance and how Yagi looked like he was dying on the inside. All Might getting a job at UA and Yagi appearing less at the station during the days.

(They also remember that Yagi has been around them for years, has been old and sickly and still kept pushing himself. They remember all those discussions when he isn’t around, about how he should stop doing this, stop hurting himself further, how to get into his head that he isn’t the only one who can stop crime. And they realise that All Might has been fighting by himself all this time, they took him for granted and didn’t realise, didn’t fathom the thought that he could be hurt.)

But the best part is. Once he’s healed up from Kamino.

Because of course this man won’t stop vigilanting.

The first time someone brought Yagi-All Might back to the station because he “got caught” vigilanting, there’s very mixed reactions. But there is a lot of hero worship because oh my god this is All Might. So they’re a bit on their tiptoe like, can we even do that? Can we legally bring All Might to a police station for vigilante work?

And then he does something so utterly Yagi that they realise. Oh. He’s still Yagi, even if he has a secret identity as All Might, he is still Yagi. And they go back to how they used to act with him, but with a lot more teasing about him being All Might. (And there is a group that berate him about pushing himself too far and, really Yagi you should have planned for retirement for years by now, you shouldn’t have pushed yourself that hard.)

As for the world at large, Yagi the Vigilante isn’t a very well-known figure (because he’s not interesting for the media so they never really report on him besides maybe local news) so the media doesn’t really know/speak about “All Might secret job as a vigilante”. But the people who got saved by him as Yagi knows and there’s a lot of well-wishes on the internet, stories about how they got saved by Yagi, some send cards and everything for him to the police station (because they know he regularly ends up there), forums goes wild about it too. There’s speculation about why Yagi was “quirkless” if he’s All Might (there is at least one theory that Yagi the vigilante isn’t All Might but is actually All Might’s secret quirkless twin, this thread later devolve into the craziest theories about Yagi and All Might), about why he would suddenly turn to vigilantism if he was a well-known hero, and lots of debate like that.

But basically, everyone who knew Yagi first treat All Might a lot more like the human being he is and less like the symbol he was.