#but no...he had to impractical and petty

[randomheros]

You know, Lara-Su is actually a really neat character when written right. (aka, not Ken Penders) Like she'd be a fun daughter of Knuckles and Rouge, she's got his headstrong personality, but Rouge's more careful and practical mentality. and her chaos control could make for some great niece-uncle bonding with Shadow.

[pankowcrumbs]

Got That Out of Your System, Princess? x Harry Styles

MasterList

Harry Styles Masterlist

I’d like to think that I’m not the type of person who holds a grudge.

But when Harry and I had a petty little argument one of those stupid ones where neither of us could remember what we were even actually arguing about I found myself feeling a little... spiteful.

Not in a serious way. Just in a maybe I’ll cause a little chaos way.

Harry was overseas doing press interviews, and I was back home, stewing in my own irrational irritation. It wasn’t even a real fight. Something about whether or not he should’ve texted me or called me when he arrived at the hotel. I had been worried when I hadn't heard back but he was tired and It was stupid.

But still, my pride wouldn’t let me drop it.

So, I did the most ridiculous, over-the-top thing I could think of I took his credit card he gave me for emergencies and went on a spending spree from hell.

If he was going to make me feel petty, I was going to make him pay for it. Literally.

First, I strolled into a high-end boutique, the kind where the employees give you a once-over to decide whether you belong there. I had Harry Styles’ black Amex in my hand I belonged.

£50,000 later, I had bags full of entirely unnecessary designer clothes.

Then, I wandered into a car dealership and test-drove the most obnoxious luxury vehicle I could find. Sleek, fast, completely impractical.

“Would you like to discuss financing?” the salesman asked, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

I smiled sweetly. “Oh, no need. I’ll pay in full.”

That was another £100,000.

And finally, the pièce de résistance I bought a horse.

A real-life horse.

Do I know how to ride a horse? No.

Do I own any land or a stable? Also, no.

Did that stop me from dropping £10,000 on the most majestic looking stallion I could find? Absolutely not.

Petty? Yes.

Justified? Also yes.

By the time I got home, I was buzzing with the thrill of my absolutely ridiculous spending spree.

I had no idea how Harry was going to react. Maybe he’d be mad. Maybe he’d be so confused that he’d forget he was supposed to be annoyed at me.

Either way, I felt very pleased with myself.

Meanwhile…

Harry was finishing up an interview when his phone started vibrating relentlessly in his pocket.

He ignored it at first, but when he checked his notifications and saw five missed calls from his accountant, he knew something was up.

As soon as he was out of the studio, he called back, bracing himself for whatever financial catastrophe was awaiting him.

“Harry, mate, I have to ask are you okay?” his accountant’s voice was practically breathless with panic.

Harry frowned. “Yeah? Why?”

“Because there are outrageous charges on your account! Did you buy a £100,000 car today?”

Harry blinked. “...No.”

“Right. Did you spend £50,000 on clothes?”

Harry smirked, already catching on. “Nope.”

There was a long, exhausted sigh on the other end of the line. “And please, for the love of God, tell me you did not order a purebred racing horse.”

At that, Harry let out a loud, full-bodied laugh.

“Ahh,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “That’ll be my future wife throwing a tantrum.”

The accountant spluttered. “Harry, she bought a horse.”

He laughed again, running a hand through his curls. “Yeah, she’s a dramatic little thing, isn’t she?”

There was a beat of silence before the accountant sighed again, utterly defeated.

“So, what do you want me to do?”

Harry grinned. “Let her charge whatever she wants.”

“You do realise she spent a ridiculous amount of money, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said, still thoroughly amused. “Actually, could you sort out a stable for that damn horse while you’re at it?”

His accountant made a noise like he was about to quit on the spot.

Harry was still chuckling as he hung up and immediately dialled my number.

When my phone rang and I saw Harry’s name, I hesitated for a split second.

Then I answered.

“Got that out of your system, princess?”

I winced slightly. “You, um... noticed?”

Harry barked out a laugh. “Oh, I noticed. My accountant nearly had a heart attack.”

I bit my lip, feeling a little guilty. “I may have gone... slightly overboard.”

“Oh, slightly, yeah?” he teased, still entirely unbothered. “You spent six figures just to prove a point, love.”

I groaned, flopping onto the bed. “I was just being stubborn! You know I never spend your money, and I...I just wanted to be petty!”

“I know,” he said, warmth in his voice. “And honestly? It was hilarious.”

I blinked. “Wait... you’re not mad?”

Harry snorted. “Mad? Sweetheart, you just threw the most expensive tantrum I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s iconic.”

I let out a breathy laugh, feeling my tension ease. “I am sorry, though.”

“I know you are.”

I hesitated. “You really don’t care?”

“Not in the slightest,” he promised. “You could’ve bought ten horses and I’d still just be here thinking about how much I love you.”

My heart fluttered at that. “I love you too.”

“Good,” he said softly. “Now, about this horse...”

I groaned. “Yeah... about that...”

“Darling, where are you even planning to keep it?”

I bit my lip. “Is your accountant’s handling that?.”

Harry laughed again, long and hard. “Of course he is.”

There was a pause before he added, “You do realise this means you’re coming horse-riding with me now, right?”

My eyes widened. “Wait, what?”

Harry smirked. “Oh, you think you can just buy a horse and not ride it? Nah, love, we’re gonna be equestrian professionals by the end of this.”

I groaned, but I was smiling like an idiot. “You’re impossible.”

“And you are the most dramatic, expensive little menace I’ve ever had the pleasure of loving.”

I laughed. “That’s me.”

He chuckled again, voice low and affectionate. “Go to sleep, my love. I’ll be home soon.”

And just like that, everything was right again.

I sighed happily. “Goodnight, Harry.”

“Goodnight, my insanely expensive princess.”

Two weeks later, I found myself at a stable, standing in front of my very expensive, very large, very real horse.

Harry stood beside me, grinning from ear to ear.

“So,” he said, nudging me. “Shall we go for a ride?”

I turned to him, utterly deadpan. “I hate you.”

He just laughed, pressed a kiss to my forehead, and whispered, “Love you too, sweetheart.”

[alexanderlightweight]

Your writing is awesome as always! Hope you are enjoying writing it as much as I am reading it - Because its a hell of a lot! Also prompt for you if you like! SfW or NSfW is fine - Alec writing all sorts of lists about Magnus so he remembers things - Things he wants to do with Magnus, ideas to run past him, things to ask him, ideas for gifts, things to thank Magnus for, etc. Possibly with Magnus finding and annotating the lists?

thank you so much!!!

also this is, kind of a mishmash of this prompt I hope? I think? I feel like i'm writing fine but when I try to communicate today my words go all wonky.

but also yes I am enjoying it very much and if you're enjoying it as much as I am than that is a very extreme amount and i'm glad to share the joy! because I seriously thrive more when I write malec and while I do have those moments of being tired and stuck and staring at the laptop wondering which fic I have the spoons to navigate (without forgetting the dozens of plot points I have for different fics or mix them up) before i start writing, but I never stop wishing I could just write constantly. it's very frustrating that life keeps going without constant writing breaks ^_^

I hope you enjoy this too <3

lumine

-

to wish upon a list

It starts because Alec is frustratingly busy, his phone is probably monitored by the clave more than he’d like to admit and also, he likes the intimacy of it.

Oh he has dozens upon dozens of lists in his head that he keeps very careful track of, but memories and minds can be altered or affected. 

So it soothes something in him, to write them down as well.

The current list he’s going over is what exactly to get Magnus next.

Alec tends to go for the more simpler aspects.  

Magnus has many things, centuries of collections and gifts and what Alec can give him is rarely something he hasn’t already seen, hard, already once owned, or doesn’t like enough to consider.

But that’s only with fancy things, things that everyone knows Magnus likes and have overused.

So Alec stays simple, but meaningful.

The omamori was a good start, and it showed him where to go with things.

The list he’s currently working on is half crossed out and out of the two dozen gifts he’s already given, he’s pretty sure he finally has a better understanding of what Magnus likes.

It’s been a process of both trial and error.

The omamori, a huge hit.

A pot of flowers that Alec had carefully grown from an illegal cutting from Idris, Magnus almost smothered the plant with how he tried to gratefully kiss Alec while he was still holding it.

... giving Magnus a necklace made with the arrowhead that almost killed Alec had apparently been a mistake. The arrowhead was well received — apparently Magnus could melt it down and create a protective spell with it. However the idea of wearing something that almost killed Alec had him furious.

Doing Magnus’ nails wasn’t exactly a gift, but it had been an idea. The years that Alec spent painting Izzy’s nail and also the time he’s recently consumed on the mundane youtube internet have been helpful.

True, perhaps he went a little overkill in carving small, priceless gems to be used as decorations in Magnus’ latest nail design, but if he couldn’t spoil Magnus a little then what was the point of any of his skills?

Alec’s spare time at the Institute is spent trying to get ahead of paperwork, not carving gems as he practiced during his childhood.

Izzy uses her talents for a plethora of things but even she would find the nail art bit ridiculous.

Alec knows she will.

If only out of pettiness because he once glared at her till she left the room when she said she wanted to use real stones and gold on her nails. For Izzy, it’s ridiculous with how much she uses her hands.

She trains every day, doesn’t have magical protection for her nails, constantly has to get ichor on her, or is elbow deep in a corpse. It’s not just impractical, it’s a hazard to her job and makes her a liability to her own health and qualifications.

But for Magnus? 

His hands were created to be adored and for a few gemstones to be the background to his elegance, well Alec doesn’t find that wasteful at all.

Even if Magnus did spend almost an hour gleefully cackling and sending fire messages and texts as he admired his nails from Alec’s lap between kisses.

The rest of them have been a small series of successes, each better and better as Alec betters learns who Magnus is and just what it is that he values.

—-

“Darling, what on earth are these?” Magnus finds himself beyond bewildered when he finds a small stack of papers on the kitchen table alongside newly set out dishes. Since they’ve decided to eat breakfast together before going to bed.

Alexander looks over from the kitchen, smile on his face as he sleepily nods to Magnus before turning his back to finish cooking.

Without answering.

With a little laugh, Magnus leaves the papers till they eat and goes to make sure his beloved doesn’t try to lift the hot pans without precautions while this tired.

“You, my lovely shadowhunter should not be cooking when this exhausted.” Magnus is trying to be strict but Alexander has fallen into his hug, chin hooking over Magnus’ shoulder and spatula drooping.

Thankfully, Alexander’s attempts were less cooking and more reheating and Magnus glides the food to the table so he can make sure Alexander doesn’t fall over on the way there.

“Potion?” Magnus asks gently and Alexander presses a grateful kiss to his hair and a moment later Magnus upends the potion into his own mouth before pressing his lips to Alexander’s.

His darling drinks it softly and then sighs, parting only to swallow and then he kisses Magnus again, licking the remnants of the potion before pulling back with a wistful smile.

“Thank you.” 

Magnus hardly needs the thanks, when it ensures Alexander will be awake enough to enjoy eating with him, but he always appreciates the gesture all the same.

“The papers darling?”

Alexander blinks at him and then at the stack, as if he never heard the question earlier at all and perhaps, he didn’t.

“Oh, I made lists of some different dishes I thought we could try to make together. Or I could experiment with.  They’re arranged by difficulty and then by what we like the most or sounds more interesting. Also I found some restaurants with the dishes that you mentioned you wanted to try, most of them are overseas but I didn't think you'd mind that."

Alexander is watching him — now that he’s alert enough to do so. There’s a calculated casualness to his demeanor that means he’s very interested in what Magnus thinks.

And what Magnus thinks is that it’s absolutely adorable.

“I think it’s a lovely thought, my darling.” Magnus leans over to press a kiss to Alexander’s cheek and spears a berry with his fork to offer as an apology for when his lips must leave. “You never cease charming me. Now, shall we start now? Or when we're fresh after sleep?” 

-

AN:

Alec's thoughts: okay, so this is good. step one is working. we will slowly introduce the lists.

Magnus' thoughts : this is adorable, I need to know how far he goes with these little lists of his. I could build him an entire office for his thoughts.

Magnus outloud: how charming.

Alec's thoughts: ... would he think that if he saw the lists both in my mind and the two file cabinets in my personal safe at the institute?

[littlevices]

What is this man!? Or: Me Overthinking Reigen's Fighting Ability, lol

Reigen Arataka. 28 years old. Used to be a normal salaryman. Runs Spirits and Such Consultations and is the self-proclaimed "Greatest Psychic of the Twenty-First Century.

Where did he learn to dropkick a bitch?

No, seriously. Where did he learn half the shit he does. Sure, you can explain his punches as something he can learn with his green belt, but not the fact that not only did he dropkick someone, he rebounded and landed on his feet. That is almost some Dimple level acrobatics for someone without any supernatural abilities or enhancements.

Sure, we can chalk it up to anime logic all we want, but that's not as fun, so I'm going to ramble and overthink instead. (As I do.)

Disclaimer: Some spoilers for later events in the show.

Okay, so. Reigen has a surprisingly large repertoire of skills. Some of this I can chalk up to his family life.

His father is apparently a local politician/civil servant, his mother a housewife, and his sister a bank employee.

Clearly Reigen gets his speech skills from his father, and maybe some of his other tricks, like using rice as glue, may even be from his mother. Granted I'm probably stretching that a bit. He could have just as easily learned that from trying to save money, lol.

We also know he didn't fit in while in school, which, as we all know, can lead to instances of bullying. Whether that bullying is physical or not, who knows. All I've seen looking around is that he apparently got skipped over when it came to games and stuff, but there could have been more to it.

Where am I going with this? You'll see.

So, the green belt. We know from season one that Reigen specifically says he has a green belt in shorinji kenpo. Now, I will be the first to admit I don't know much of anything about martial arts on a deep level. I can, however, do some quick research *cough* google *cough* (Do you think Reigen would be proud of me, lol).

According to what I've found, a green belt in a number of martial arts can be anywhere from beginner to a beginner-intermediate or even intermediate level. It depends on the martial art of course, but I think also the school. The same seems to apply to what I could find on shorinji kenpo. Or Kempo, because that's what I keep finding, someone please correct me if need be. I think people have also called it Xiaolin Martial Arts, which I also took a brief look at, but the concept appears similar there as well. Now, let's give Reigen the benefit of the doubt considering what we've seen him actually do, and assume the man went to a pretty decent school. A green belt is clearly not a master level or even a high level belt. If anything, though, this means the man can handle a regular petty thug just fine, and we've seen that. The seance scene in season 1 by itself proves that easily.

However, it's the other stuff that makes me wonder.

Again, this man drop kicked a dude, an esper that was currently using his power by the way, then rebounded off him to land on his feet. Beyond the dropkick itself, which from what I understand is impractical in a fight, he also rebounded. Rebounding can be hard to do off a stationary object, let alone a person. Yet here Reigen is, doing it causally off an esper that controls gravity.

His punches are also pretty damn devastating. Again, he can knock people out. He did this during the seance, but then tried it on Muraki. While he didn't knock him out, he definitely did some damage.

Not only would he need to be strong to do this, he'd also need to be fast. He's also fast enough that someone like Suzuki had to make a clone of himself to dodge Reigen's fist, rather than block or just dodge it normally. Either Suzuki was feeling extra that day (much to Sho's chagrin) or Reigen caught him off guard enough he actually had to use his powers.

This brings me to the next point.

Reigen knows how to hold a gun.

No, no. Wait, hear me out. Yes, I know it's a toy gun, but it is still a toy gun supped up on psychic energy. Not only does Reigen hold it nice and steady, he's got some damn good aim. That shot went for Suzuki's face or at least his throat.

Now, granted, I hear airsoft is a popular past time in Japan, so maybe that's where some of it comes from, which is still pretty neat.

He also didn't hesitate to shoot. One look at Mob and he pulled the trigger. Suzuki got one warning before that, and he didn't even get the chance to defy it before Reigen shot. Now, Reigen is a smart man, he probably figured the gun wouldn't work, but damn if he didn't try. Honestly, he was probably panicking and kicking himself on the inside, but he certainly didn't show it.

There's also the fact that, when you look, Reigen almost always instinctively knows to protect his head and neck when he gets thrown around. It's probably the most obvious in the Mogami fight when he gets picked up and slammed, but you can see it in the final episode as well when getting flung around by ???'s tornado.

This man has either gotten enough sparring that he knows to do this on instinct, or he's been in enough scraps that he's had no choice but to learn or get concussed. Also, in the Mogami arc, Reigen tries to stop Mogami (in Minor's body) by kicking him in the head. Mogami was moving very fast, but Reigen's kick did land.

Too bad it was Mogami and not any one else because it might have worked.

He also knows a couple knee strikes, which again was used on a moving target.

Now, let's step back and bring up Reigen's family again. There's always the possibility that Reigen got his green belt young due to his father's occupation. Now, that might only apply if his father was a rather important one, but still something to consider. It could have also been in self-defense if the bullying he faced in school got physical. I personally think Reigen got his green belt at an older age, earliest highschool, but obviously there's nothing to back that up. It also makes me wonder just how many of his clients have gotten violent, because while he did flinch at the knife during the seance, he also didn't hesitate to deck the dude.

This doesn't even bring up the fact that Reigen knows all kinds of massage techniques (I heard that his family wanted him to be a massage therapist, but I don't know if it was said where that information came from), psychology, his ability to cold read people, and everything else this man does.

Granted, a lot of his effectiveness comes from him being smart and charismatic. This man is a manipulator and thank god he's got morals because holy hell the damage he could do being able to manipulate Mob.

Or the damage Mob could do if anything serious happened to Reigen. >.>;

All in all, I think Reigen has gotten into way more scraps than is suggested. I feel as if he might have had a rougher life at school than what little hints we've gotten. That whole thing with the Separation Arc felt kind of like him projecting onto Mob, but I could be wrong. Personally, I headcanon Reigen as being something of a truant and/or delinquent (or at least a gremlin) when he was younger, but that's just me, lol. I do think he's had a rougher go of it than he likes to tell, though.

I know I didn't cover absolutely everything here, like Shimazaki, and that there's probably more context or something in the manga, but this post was already long enough and I haven't read the manga in full yet so apologies if there is missing context.. If you made it to the end of this post, I want to both thank you, but also apologize for my long winded rambling, lol. I just - Have no idea what to make of Reigen and all that he does. It doesn't help that a lot of his backstory is fairly non-existent. We only know tidbits about this conman, but I guess that's part of what makes him interesting.

Well, hopefully you had fun reading this post as much as I had making it. I know most of this can probably be just anime logic, but I had looking into it at least! If this wasn't a world of espers, Reigen would probably fairly formidable in a fight, on a physical level anyway. He's already like that on several others already, lol. This sweaty rat just always seems to grab my attention. . .

[onefellsloop]

WIP Wednesday (this is a thing, right?)

From my Brigid Maturin WIP - in which Brigid discovers Capitalism, and admires a Spleen

She had always assumed that she and her father were very poor, for they lived in their uncle’s house, and her father never bought new clothes. The one thing that they did seem to have in abundance was books; from this she concluded that books were distributed free of charge by charitably-minded printers, a belief that persisted until she was almost taken up for petty larceny by an irate stationer. The source of the books remained a mystery until the day she rowed with Aunt Sophie about another of her silly rules.

‘Brigid, we have been through this. You cannot come to Dorchester if you will not wear your shoes.’

‘I hate my shoes. They make my feet feel horrible.’

‘Well, that is hardly a wonder, my dear: they must be two years old if they are a day. If you had allowed Mr Bellamy to measure your feet –'

‘I don’t want new shoes.’

‘Yes, you have made that very clear. But sweetheart, your old shoes are much too small; it is no wonder that they hurt your poor feet. Why don’t you put them on now, and we can go to Mr –’

‘I don’t want new shoes!’

‘But whyever not?’ cried Aunt Sophie, and she said, trembling with wounded pride, ‘Because my Papa cannot afford them.’

Aunt Sophie very incredulously gave her to believe that her father could afford to buy out all of the cordwainers in England, if only he would think of doing such a thing, and spoke rather severely about the impractical minds of men.

She did not like this way of speaking about her father; still, she went up to his rooms and found him bent over his desk, spectacles quivering on the end of his nose. ‘Brigid,’ he said, ‘you are the very one I was wishing for. Would you blow into this tube, now.’

She blew obediently, and he wrote something down. Then she said, ‘Papa, do we have a great deal of money?’

‘A sight too much, I am sorry to say. Why, only last week I put up two hundred pounds towards a chair in zoology; I went to my bed with a great sense of lightness, and in the morning I found that, like the dreadful Hydra, some infernal government bond had spawned three hundred pounds of its own. I have very little idea what to do: perhaps if we tried to make money, it would eventually leave us alone. To be sure, it has worked for your uncle.’

During his speech the tube had somehow become tied around his neck, and she digested this news while he untangled himself. Then she said, very hesitantly, ‘Ought I buy some new shoes?’

‘Shoes?’ he said, as if he had never heard of such a thing. ‘I suppose that I have known young ladies to have shoes. But Brigid, have you not been putting a dent into our reserves? Have you been leaving me to deal with the vile stuff alone? What good is it to possess a daughter if she is not helping to rid me of my capital?’

‘I am sorry, Papa; I did not know. But I will certainly buy some new shoes now.’

‘And stockings,’ he said eagerly. ‘And fripperies, my dear; you must surround yourself with fripperies.’

‘What are fripperies?’

He frowned at her and said, ‘They are the feathers that ladies wear in their hats. As for your shoes, there is some money in the press, I believe, along with’ – he brightened considerably – ‘the spleen of a right whale, which I have plans to dissect this evening. Should you like to join me?’

‘It is a lovely spleen.’ It was sitting plumply on a silver tray, which teetered atop a large and untidy pile of coins, banknotes and a few gold ingots.

‘I doubt that it will keep until the morning; already I believe I observe the slightest of olfactory disturbances: you had not noted it? No, I supposed not; but your aunt becomes unhappy when I let the organs linger. Now, if only we had a walrus spleen, you would find the comparison most instructive. I will look out my old notes, and you may read them over dinner.’

[takaraphoenix]

Change in Leadership

Tags: m/m, falling in love, courting, god Percy

Main Pairing: Zeus/Percy

@polympians-event Prompt: Percy accepts godhood

This fic on FFNet | This fic on AO3

Summary: After the Giant War, Percy accepted godhood, to change Olympus, and Zeus. Hera gets punished for her actions during the war. And Percy takes the empty spot on the Olympian council.

--

Change in Leadership

When all was said and done and the Giant War was won, Percy knew something had to change. He'd though, naively, that he would be able to change things, after the Titan War. And it hadn't. Sure, the gods now claimed their demigodly children earlier… to still use them like pawns in their petty wars. And they still failed to keep all their promises, like setting Calypso free.

Forcing the gods to make promises wasn't going to change anything. He wouldn't be able to change anything from the outside. Change only happened on the inside. And so he decided to claim what had been offered to him before. Godhood. Because even in one lifetime of pestering the gods, he would not be able to change enough. Godhood meant being on the inside, and having the time.

And one of the first things he pushed for was a punishment for Hera. Zeus had wanted to punish Apollo for what had happened, like he was responsible for the prophecies or something, who knew what that guy was thinking. Hera, on the other hand, had actively worked against the gods' wishes – which, on its own, wouldn't bother Percy so much, but she had also actively worked against them all. Stealing Jason and Percy and memory-wiping them, rendering them useless and vulnerable for too long. Her intentions, of making Greeks and Romans work together, might have been the right impulse, but the way she went about it was revolting, impractical and wasted time.

Not to mention the personal hurt feelings he had about having months of his life stolen and nearly dying multiple times on his way to New Rome, going on a quest without his memories and also being forced to lose his Achilles curse because of that woman. Yes, this was personal.

After presenting his arguments to the council, he could sway enough people. Because the gods were petty, the gods did not like to be manipulated – and that was what Hera had done. So she was stripped of her godhood and powers and sent to the mortal world, to earn it back. Alone. There was a sick sense of vindication and glee that Percy felt at that, because it wasn't that different from how she had stripped him of everything and sent him to the Romans. A punishment fitting the crime.

With Hera on her little mortal vacation, there was a vacant spot on the council. Honestly, Percy had expected Hades to take it – the Fates knew the god deserved it – but with a cryptic smile, Hades had shook his head and declined, saying there was a reason he stayed away from Olympus. All the drama, he told Percy. He also told Percy that he should take the seat, because he'd actually do something with it, instead of squabbling over petty family feuds.

That hadn't been as surprising as it should have been though. He'd seen what Hades was capable of and where his stand was, in all of this. So Percy had simply returned that cryptic smile and obliged.

And that was how Percy Jackson became the god of rain and member of the Olympian council. Which still sounded and felt so surreal to Percy, even after three months. Olympus was so overwhelming, beautiful but strange. And having to put up with the gods was exhausting. Sure, it wasn't all bad, he hung out a lot with Apollo, played cards with Hermes, learned all the juiciest gossip from Aphrodite. He was getting to know the gods on a personal level, and as equals. It was good. He… liked it. He liked being here, liked hanging out with most of them, liked his duties.

"Perseus," Zeus' voice was an annoyed grumble.

Smiling a little, Percy turned toward Zeus. Over the past months, Percy had actually learned to read Zeus pretty well and distinguish between the various grunts and glares. This one, it was annoyed – but not at Percy. At something that Percy was supposed to solve. So Percy remained seated at the edge of the giant pool that Olympus had, his feet dangling in the water, regarding the king. Waiting. Because part of his little 'Olympus has to change' project was to change the king.

Once Zeus realized Percy wasn't just going to come running, he grunted again, more annoyed this time, and crossed his arms over his chest. "The… nymphs are fighting, again."

"How's that my problem?" Percy raised an eyebrow, unimpressed and uninterested.

"Demeter is egging on the dryads, Ares just wants them all to fight, and one of them actually picked a personal fight over Aphrodite about… make-up?" Zeus looked so uncomfortable. "They keep yelling for me like they are children. I am the king of Olympus, I'm not dealing with their petty squabbles I have more important business to attend."

"Oh, and I don't?" Percy now raised his other eyebrow too. "Not my circus, not my monkeys."

"But they like you," Zeus unfolded his arms and gestured in agitation. "You can… deal with them. They listen to you! You are a member of the Olympian council, you will-"

"Oh, no," Percy interrupted him, shaking his head. "I'm not a demigod you can smite anymore, I am not going to take that tone from you, I am a member of the Olympian council, as you just pointed out, and I demand some respect too, from my king."

Zeus actually growled at that – always a sign that his patience was wearing thin, not that that bothered Percy all that much, he'd always lacked self-preservation, according to… everybody who ever met him. Percy pushed off the edge of the pool and dove into the water, swimming to the other end of the pool without resurfacing once, then turning and pushing off the wall. Only when he was in front of Zeus again did he emerge, hoping that was enough time to cool Zeus' temper.

"Join me," Percy offered after a moment.

"...What," Zeus stared at him incredulously. "There are three Olympians, fighting, right now-"

"And they'll get bored by it in no time," Percy shrugged. "If there's one thing I learned since moving here it's that you guys have an attention-span that is flat-out worse than mine. Aphrodite is gonna drop it once she gets horny, which consequently will also make Ares drop it because getting into Aphy's panties is more fun than egging on any fight, at which point Demeter and the dryads can just go back to whatever they were doing before this escalated. Now, join me."

"You are insolent and insubordinate," Zeus muttered beneath his breath.

Despite the muttering, he still went to climb into the pool. Percy smirked victoriously. The gods were all about manipulation – it was just about being more sneaky than what Hera had done by forcing the gods' hands during the war. Percy, despite what most his old teachers would claim, was actually a quick study. When it came to the important things in life. He'd learned to adapt to Olympus and godhood in his own way and he thought he was doing pretty well.

"I am the king of Olympus," Zeus huffed slightly. "I have responsibilities, I don't have time to… swim in the pool with you on a whim, while other gods are fighting."

"Again," Percy sighed. "It will resolve itself. Okay, here's a compromise: You stay in this pool with me for twenty minutes. And after that, I come check on your squabbling gods and take care of it in case it's still going on. Besides, you are the king. You get to do what you want. Swim with me."

He took Zeus' hands and then swam backward, pulling the king with him. Part of changing Zeus meant making him ease up and maybe take that stick out of his ass. So, Percy tried to actually get to know Zeus – which was harder than with the other gods – and tried to get the guy to relax. Coincidentally, he was kind of actually having fun during all of this. Which, unexpected.

The two drifted in the water for what felt like eternity but was only about ten minutes. Percy could visibly see how Zeus relaxed. Not necessarily open and soft, but… there was something there, something mesmerizing that Percy knew was dangerous, for himself. They drifted closer.

"The twenty minutes are up," Zeus cleared his throat, heading out.

Heaving a sigh, Percy climbed out after Zeus, following him to where the commotion supposedly was. There was nothing there. Peace, quiet and some frolicking dryads. Percy grinned and hip-checked Zeus, who grunted and stumbled a little, glaring at him.

"See. The king of Olympus takes twenty minutes self-care time and Olympus has, in fact, not crumbled into pieces," Percy's grin turned more teasing. "You are welcome."

"You… didn't even do anything this time, it resolved itself."

"Ye—ep. And you didn't have to deal with it and instead had a nice swim. You're welcome."

/break\

So the major flaw in Percy's plan was that he was basically Beauty-and-the-Beast-ing Zeus. Trying to make him more approachable, kinder, more… human. Which, was the good part. The bad part was where he was putting himself into the position of Belle, who oh so famously fell in love with the Beast. And that was the major flaw. He had not accounted for that to happen, in no way could he have predicted that he could develop actual feelings for Zeus. A god, yes, that was to be expected, now that he was a god himself, but the king of gods?

But with every time he hung out with Zeus, getting closer to him and learning more about him, Percy grew more attached. He couldn't even pinpoint when exactly he had fallen in love with Zeus, but it was roughly six months into his stay on Olympus that he realized, when he looked at Zeus and just seeing the king laugh and have a good time with Dionysus at a party made Percy smile. And oh no, he was happy just to see Zeus happy, he was having serious… feelings.

For a couple weeks, he fully hid it out, managed to avoid Zeus with everything else going on, but then he started to hear that Zeus was reverting back to how things used to be. Multiple gods had approached Percy and told him to 'get it together' and go deal with Zeus because apparently, he was the only one capable of doing something. Which was startling to hear too. The others had caught on with what he was doing, and that it was working. Okay. That was what he had to do, then.

"Zeus," Percy grunted, glowering just a little. "Stop terrorizing the muses, they are annoyed."

"I'm not terrorizing, I am simply requesting them to do their work," Zeus glared at him, and it was the hard glare, the serious one, the one Percy hadn't seen in months. "What do you care."

Oh. Even Zeus had caught on with the part where Percy had been avoiding him. Flushing just a little in embarrassment, Percy went to sit next to the king, motioning for the muses to leave. They did with no reluctance. Zeus looked like a petulant child, causing Percy to roll his eyes and reached out to rest a hand on Zeus', giving it an ever so gentle squeeze, startling the god.

"So, I like you," Percy whispered. "And I didn't… deal with it, on account of your history of being, well, you. But… Things are different. I'm not a demigod anymore, I'm a god too. And I know what I'm signing up for. But you would have to… make a genuine effort. Can you do that?"

He didn't even question if Zeus liked him back, he knew. Zeus nodded sharply and leaned in, eager. Percy grinned against the king's lips as they kissed for the first time. He could handle Zeus.

~*~ The End ~*~

[tieflingfingers]

What and who: Astarion tries to prove he's an asset via archery and needs healing. Thomasin and Wyll use their intimidation checks. Summary: Astarion insists on shooting from the rooftops of Moonhaven, later discovering there's an ambush of goblins. Thomasin decides to lean into acting like a raider drow to get through alive. She patches up the pale elf's bruises whilst they help Wyll search for Karlach. Warning/Content: A little more fluff, humor, and questionable archery. Mild sexual content/descriptions. Blighted Village gore, Act 1. Part of campaign remix, but can also be read as one-off. Word Count: 3, 949 Ao3 Link

Self-preservation weaves itself through the synapses of a young developing brain. Its concept wakes one morning. Fully formed, robust, yet subtle in its transition. Paranoia becomes natural. A requisite with age. Childhood cautionary tales elucidate and transform. Heroics and foes are no longer mere life lessons. They’re stepping stones. Breeds hypervigilance. Biology launches you from the nest, though the world’s grassy gnolls sting. 

By age nineteen, Thomasin honed panic spellcasting. Every illusionary spell she could conjure bought time. But, warbling minds was mentally taxing. Impractical. Her travels became unplanned and scattered across the map in search of solace. Little did she know, solace was in people. Damsels of the soft trade and grizzled syndicates. 

Generations of open skirts dried Thomasin’s tears upon their bosom. Turncoins. Glimmersheaths. Willing-arms. The “names” of those who gifted a young half-elf tools of survival. They mentored on how to identify worrying social cues. What certain clientele preferred and the nuances of their sexual advances. How fluid the identity could be.

It was an art. 

Speech. De-escalation. Sycophantic coercion. Enchantments.

But, in an odd way, Thomasin also grew to appreciate her time in hostile environments. Harder trade. Syndication introduced her to hardened women. Swinging mauls was as much a power play as their word. Although these women spoke with no honeysuckle. Only thistle. Lethal like the black beady-eyed fruits of belladonna.

Yet, even under calluses, they recognized Thomasin’s place. She was one of few women in a den. Sure, she took part in the operation, but there was no denying the bright livelihood of a woman just newly blossomed.

It was as though her presence smoothened their coarse edges. Some innate desire for solidarity. She often watched in disbelief as women with murals of black ink tattoos sprawled across their bodies defended her. 

Thomasin’s authorities mocked her docile demeanor. Belittled her servility, despite their hierarchies fostering such behavior. But their contempt didn’t last long. It was silly to grant her bosses power when they struggled to form sentences through a bloodied broken jaw. From that day on, the young woman realized violence could be an answer.

-

In hindsight, being thrown into the wilderness wasn’t life-shattering. Unfortunate, but second nature.  Nature she wished wore comforts of the city. She welcomed the softened and hardened feminine, even if they clashed. Probably depended on them, as did Astarion, even if neither consciously realized it. They gave him space to exist, so he reluctantly did the same. 

Thomasin awoke early that morning to a vision of Astarion basking in the sun. Their day’s velvet illumination had barely crept in to warm the chapel’s deity. He leeched the statue’s warmth with a firm press of his back against stone.

Aside from rotating the kinks out of his shoulders, he seemed pleasant. Hopeful, perhaps. Although his tendency to blanket discomfort with criticism and jokes could make it hard to decipher at times. Thomasin didn’t mind. He voiced the petty little thoughts most suppressed. 

It made the idea of adventuring fathomable. Tolerable. Their belongings tucked back into bags, satchels, and belt loop hooks. Thomasin smeared golden pigment across her eyelids and wiped what was left to glitter down her collar bone. Although their outfits weren’t suited for battle, their leather hand-me-downs were appreciated. Pauldrons and leather-covered kneecaps were better than nothing.

Arriving back at the grove’s gate, Thomasin caught Astarion’s habit of objectification.

An approving coo flit from his lips. His shoulders loosened in the presence of Wyll, as though to contrast the young man’s broad build. To become milder than Wyll’s leathers clinking audibly with fortified metal rings. A blade sheathed atop a warlock’s back and the oil seeping into his locs from maintenance lent a faint shimmer. 

Thomasin nudged Astarion to behave. Wyll was too young for her taste, but she recognized the appeal. The fruits of charisma and drive. His probable leanings towards lawfulness did raise concern though. She hoped he was just naive. Easy to manipulate, if need be.

The young man handed over a handkerchief bundled with breakfast and dug out a map. Amatuer in design but guided them well toward the east. It was a collaboration amongst the tieflings using vine charcoal ground in parchment, sketching out a legend and branching routes. Drops of wine highlighted landmarks: Purple bridges, maroon rivers, and pink territories of goblin activity.

Starting their journey around sunrise lent blooms of pastels across the woodlands. The sky diffused into candied orange and dripped like the bread rolls Wyll brought. Three honey-soaked centers delightful enough to offset stale crumb, even if their stickiness made fingers hard to pry apart. Like giggling children, they found an icy stream to plunge their hands into.

Astarion took a bit of convincing to join. His breakfast was picked at before being tucked away. It wasn't a matter of being particularly upset by the meal. He was fine. Simply not hungry. A fact he insisted when Thomasin flicked droplets at his face. 

Wyll settled into the role of guide as they walked along, despite being dropped back into Faerun not long before them. When he wasn’t scouring the map, the young man recounted his mightiest foes slain in humble anecdotes and modest laughter. Whether the details were fact or fiction was irrelevant to Thomasin. A good story provided the essentials when straight from the valiant mouth. Beast slayers weren’t always grand storytellers but storytellers were always slayed grand beasts.

The quick responses. The picturesque memory of the most minute moments. It all made her wonder how often Wyll harkened back to scripts. Even when Astarion prodded about his moonstone eye or joked about the self-serious title of ‘Blade of Frontiers’, Wyll took it in stride. He saw the upside of their downturned fates. Existing within dichotomy meant there was always an infallible answer. Stories need to end with the townsfolk saved and a bounty of roasted fresh fish to celebrate. 

Nothing could bite through idealistic visions like the present, however.

As the morning sun settled high above, they encroached on a bridge near a midway point upon the map. Splotches of pink made them assume they’d fall upon a clan staking camp, but were met with a village. Its exterior was wrapped in high stone walls blemished with age. An arched entrance greeted the travelers, providing a window that shone the true abandoned intrells awaiting their visit. The same stagnation baked into the expressions of corpses outside the village’s perimeter. The scent of sanguine caked their flesh.

The trail was littered with bashed carts they made careful steps to avoid, but one thing was certain. This killing wasn’t part of forgotten history. There was still suppleness in a few of their cheeks. Smashed fruit hadn’t devolved into necrotic mush. Although their hallowing was already well underway.

One body propped against the archway upright, sustaining the position by support of stray twigs. It was an attempt at humor. Jokes as blackened as the dead nerves in their fingertips. Beside him was a sign made of dark wood whose bolts and nails were engulfed in thick orange rust. 

“‘Moonhaven’... Poor fools,” Thomasin said, letting her hands run over tactile etched letters.

Astarion looked up from his lifted foot. Decaying melon had the audacity of seeping onto a pair of embroidered boots. What a travesty.

“Augh. Don’t knock it, dear.  I hear death is the ultimate vacation. The final destination to–”

As much as the elf reveled in tasteless levity, his hand suddenly rose. It was a signal of silence. The points of his ears twitched. They’d picked up on a noise the others couldn’t register.

Wyll and Thomasin narrowed their focus, but birds simply chirped where bugs hissed. Until something familiar cut through. Cackles.

Astarion sprung into a predatory stance. His knees lowered his body to a crouch before venturing into neighboring brush in search of potential access points. Literal and figurative cracks in the wall’s foundation. Each step crossed over another. How one dissolved their mass as instantaneous as it was created was jarring, but an asset nonetheless.

“You wait here,” Astarion whispered.

Thomasin furrowed her brow. “You’re going alone?”

“You have qualms now ? Why waste a good shot? I go high, you go low.”

Wyll and Thomasin exchanged looks of uncertainty that couldn’t shake tenacious spirit. The elf’s bow had been lovingly patched and reinforced by tieflings. Tree bark chips were shaven, exposing light wood where blades made hasty cuts and created new planes. It bent with much more confidence and, in return, so did he. 

Astarion wasn’t to waste his spotlight. 

Some street musician and a glorified body guard needed him.

The elf used protruding boulders as stepping stones. His hands gripped onto interlocking vines, making the gradual ascent toward a fracture in the village wall, inch by inch. He slipped his way in, shifted his balance, and landed atop a roof on the other side. A fact only solidified by the sound of loose shingles falling where his feet disturbed.

His disappearance prompted Thomasin to peek inside. She moved with her skirt gripped and hoisted to hover the fabric over bodies, paying them respects even if they were avoided like mud puddles.

Through the archway, the town reeked of remnants. Traces of a past raid that left ghosts in its debris. Homes and meager businesses still stood as though expecting the common folks to continue their routines. They lingered, unwilling to acknowledge they were vestiges. Relics of their former selves. Rooftops no longer sheltered from rain. Windows were mere suggestions where walls collapsed in full.

“Is he a sharpshooter?” Wyll whispered. His eyes seeked reassurance from her body language, despite it remaining deathly still.

“Gods if I know, truly. He was quite capable yesterday, but…”

“Let us hope, for his sake, his balance isn’t overtaken by the sheer weight of ego.”

“May Eilistraee save him from his britches if they get too big.”

Two smiles grew, born of ambivalence.

With her body pressed up against the cold pitted archway, a goblin came into view. Multiple. Short, crass beings rifling through barrels and making conversation they couldn’t decide were jovial or argumentative. Those patrolling walked in lazy formations that left timing difficult to predict, so Thomasin began taking mental notes. Advantageous points. Ladders, trees, wide wooden pillars to hide behind.

But, sneaking into Moonhaven wouldn’t be that simple.

“Eh, surround ‘em! Found some lil’ chickens waitin’ for the slaughta’!” a voice, shrill and high-pitched, rang.

“Fuck,” Thomasin cursed.

The half-elf abided by the carrier and slowly eased a couple steps inside. Wyll muttered under his breath. Something of reassurance lost upon her rigid condition. The feeling of him right beside her provided relief, at least.

They turned their heads to the right, where a goblin guard berated them from the second floor of a derelict home. The guard’s body clinked with ill-fitting armor. Tarnished chainmail rustled. Her laughs, scornful, stretched a tender triangular brand seared into her neck. 

Once the village was alert, the guard drove a spike into a wooden bannister at her feet, using it to scale down to ground level. Heads of compatriot grunts peeked from hiding spots and looted crates. They existed as a grumbling hive mind and picked tough cuts of meat from their teeth. Readied for entertainment. Something eventful, finally. Something not weather-wrought. Someone breathing. 

“C’mon now. I’d like to think I’m more than sinewy chicken guts to you,” Thomasin said as the guard approached, although a crack in her voice betrayed any jest. One of her hands rose. Each fingertip, a lily of the valley. Gentle in their bend and asserting fragility. Whether those stems were poisonous was buried into her clutched skirt. “We do not wish for trouble. Simply passing through.”

“Yeah, yeah!  And we simply wishin’ t’--”

Cutting through the foible, a few feet behind Thomasin, was a solid thunk. One of heft. One that turned out to have impeccable timing as Astarion laid in a small cloud of dust. His shots had revealed his position and, not anticipating the sheer number lurking in the shadows, target practice commenced. Tears in his twilled quiver revealed he had been struck. Whilst not wounded, his roguish prowess was thrown off balance. 

“How the mighty have fallen,” Wyll uttered.

While the elf’s companions held their tongues, those in the vicinity erupted into laughter. Enough of an upheaval that spared Thomasin a few seconds to look over Astarion from afar. He was intact. Enough. Limbs attached. Hair disheveled. Fingers twitched ever so slightly. It was best to let him enjoy his slumber.

Wyll nudged Thomasin’s shoulder to return her attention to the guard, who was squinting at her. Studying her as though on the verge of recognizing an acquaintance.

“Yer’ kind’s operation’s up in the temple, yeah?”

The half-elf figured it was her silver tint. She’d grown up knowing drow fled their burrows when the Underdark couldn’t satisfy their desires. Textbook pillaging behavior. Untainted topsoil begged to be aerated by poisonous blades. Although sparing goblins in their expedition wasn’t usual, from her knowledge. 

For now, that was of no concern. These vague details could be dug into. They could create a facade as long as her bite sustained. Believing one's own false narrative long enough to let its canines clamp on the guards’ sense of authority. For now, she was confident. Competent. So competent, others refrained from asking further questions in fear their skulls would appear too thick.

“So you do own some common sense,” Thomasin taunted, her eye contact lingering for an uncomfortable length. “Yet you don’t know any common decency or respect. Imagine the repercussions. You being the reason for my absence. Making them wait hours for information, only to find out you’re responsible for my death?”

“Wha- No, no- Wait. Uh… that bloke yers?”

The guard realigned her bones, using every ounce of will to suppress tears of merriment. They sat along her lashes, frightened to fall and the repercussions that could follow. It was all light fun. Who didn’t appreciate an odd sacrifice here and there? For comradery? The last thing she anticipated was being blamed for ending powerful elven lineages. 

“What he lacks in grace, he makes up for in… other feats, do not take him lightly,” Wyll commented. It wasn’t long until he caught the sight of hands grabbing the unconscious man. Grunts poured in to collectively lift Astarion for all he was worth. “Or literally, for that matter! Drop him. Now.”

“I know this ain’t t’way I’m dyin’ today. I’m goin’ back to party, fuckin’ hell,” one grunt protested. They all let go at once, leaving him to hit the floor once more. 

Astarion groaned. Eyes flickering in disorientation, he felt Wyll scoop him up like an angelic savior. With an arm tucked under the crook of his knees, Astarion rested against his chest. No verbal jabs. Simply a cheek squished against the young man’s beating heart. 

“What plans we have out east are confidential to your leaders…” Wyll continued. “But it’s not our only task. We are on the hunt for a devil walking this plane and, let it be known, it’s pertinent you give us any information you know. If you’ve seen her. Skin as red as the unnatural flames of the hells that manifest from her body. A single horn curls from her head, the other broken from the ruthlessness of war.”

Such a poetic depiction charmed the guard, whose own prose were abrasive at best. “That who ran through here? Looked spicy, but thought she’d- uh… die before she hit water. The way she was steamin’.” She pursed her lips. “ Never knew a’ drow partnerin’ with devils. No wonder the temple’s been blazing hot these days… I oughta be takin’ notes from yer’ sort.” 

Wyll eyes lit up.

“Where? Where did you see her?”

“Ran through ‘ere like a bull on fire. Out the north exit o’town– Ahhh, wait. Drama ‘appening?”

“We’ll handle the beast. Nothing a bit of lambasting won’t fix, but this will be on our own terms. None of you will perish at the hands of your authorities as long as you stand down.”

Out of homes and tucked away corners, goblins let out guttural whines. Their weapons flew to the wayside. Participating in ghost town raids didn’t have the particular horrific flair the drow promised. Now they wouldn’t even get to see a devil slain. Life wasn’t fair. The only thing keeping them afloat was dreams of rotting fruits fermenting back at camp.

The guard’s mace smacked against the ground. 

“Fine. Jus’ tell Minthara that ol’ Bhelx helped y’find the runaway, will ya? Bhelx Tut. Sounds fancy if y’say it in full. She’ll like all that.”

“Bhelx Tut,” Thomasin said, ruminating on the syllables. Each given special care to suggest she, too, found the title profound. “A pleasure. I’ll keep you in mind, but do carry on. I don’t wish to witness all your failures today.”

Bhelx’s face dropped. No matter the effort, it seemed her alliship still left her stuck low on the totem. She grit her teeth and walked off, yelling obscenities at her underlings, as though she were struggling to keep her position in their hierarchy.

Now left alone, the three could take in a town once quaint. Stables and blacksmiths quarters sat as headstones of economy. The scent of herbs intermingled with flourishing weeds and wafted from an apothecary storefront. Children’s toys made depressions in the dirt, where rain softened earth and clung to its inhabitants. Lines of hopscotch fading into the suggestions of color, pale from constant sunshine.

Even in an unkempt state, Wyll noticed an anomaly amongst the grass. Patches of singed greenery and gravel. Marks left were too benign to consider them part of the “raid”. Too scattered, but still resembled footsteps smashing their weight under infernal iron boots.

As he followed their path, Wyll watched Thomasin tend to Astarion in his arms. She gently traced her fingers along his scalp until the elf’s head was nestled within her palm. Bands of rings peeked through his locks. They traversed his fussy curl pattern whose shade of white made her silver tarnish more pronounced. 

Gradually, Thomasin’s caress began to glow a pulsing shade of lavender that splashed against the point of his ears. As though the weave illuminated on an unheard beat, she caught its rhythm and began to hum. 

“Wha…” Astarion murmured. They watched his eyes dissect their silhouettes until he could identify the angels hovering over him. “How did I get the best seat in the house?”

Thomain snickered. “Good morning to you too. One of the goblins knocked you off the roof.”

“And you’ve already made quick work of them? I’d say I’m flattered… Impressed, even. The–”

Astarion lifted his head to discover the clan was still very much alive. It filled him with ennui that made him pinch the bridge of his nose.

“I can’t say I had faith in being this outnumbered,” Wyll said, humored by him. “For now, at least.”

“Nonsense. And now they’re still mucking up the air. You saw what they did- I’m hurt. Emotionally. Might as well be physical- Put me down.”

The elf tapped Wyll’s arm and he obliged, lowering him to allow an airing of grievances. Astarion went to busy himself, twisting and stretching as though awoken from a grave slumber. He patted at his hips, his shirt, his sleeves, and then cuffed them smooth. Twirled hairs between pale knuckles in muscle memory swirls.

“We’ll be sure to destroy the next person that mistreats you,” Thomasin said, placing a hand on his back to keep their momentum forward. “The next person to look at you wrong….” She, then, proceeded to mimic slicing her neck with her thumb.

Astarion sighed and dragged his feet.

“Good. I’ll hold you to that promise.”

Up a slight incline, they passed by drunken bugbears with opaque green bottles in hand. Their birth and existence earned them a sneer from the elf. They were enemies by association. Swiping what little belongings they had set atop tables and pouches was necessary. Not even a choice.

Thomasin scouted the area. Local plants and weather patterns could provide mild answers, but it was all they had to figure out exactly where they were on the Sword Coast. How far the nautiloid carried them from the Gate. Native flora grew from the soil. Brightly speckled where flames had not eaten at its edges. She pointed toward a patch that followed another. An obvious pattern led the three north, up and around a barn.

Unlike the stillness plaguing Moonhaven, it seemed the building was alive and well. Thumps and subsequent bangs covered muffled voices in its own brand of staccato. But, it didn’t take a millennia of wisdom to figure out what was inside. She placed her ear against the barn’s siding and listened in.

Before she could mention anything, Astarion was already utilizing a peephole he discovered. 

“Gods, that’s disgusting!” he yelled with the tact of a crass teenage boy. The same jubilance a mother would try to dissuade. Without thought, Astarion grabbed Thomasin by the wrist, pulling her toward the peephole so she, too, could witness such debauchery. The irony wasn’t lost on her, either. Two weathered adults feeding into arrested development. Wyll was twenty-four and already understood how this crossed boundaries. He wasn’t enthused.

Thomasin caged those concerns for another day and peeked at the scene inside. An ogre damsel, surely five times the size of her bugbear partner, bucked wildly. No flair, but itchy hay and scattered flesh. The simple things in life needed only simple luxuries.

“This is the sort of romance novel folks in Baldur’s Gate would be pining for. Niche smut. Imagine the book clubs. Huh.”

“Get out your pad and ink. Lighting never strikes twice for a reason, darling. Unless you cast it yourself, of course,” he added with a giggle.

Thomasin snorted and let her mind wander. Not to sensual heartwarming ogre storylines, but seeing how the two navigated their size differences. In her line of work, she’d seen it all. Partners much larger than her. Much smaller. They required adjustments, communication, yet the two operated with a brutish grace. 

“Aye! Someone there? Gettin’ a free show?” the bugbear growled. “Leave us be or it’ll be your head!”

“Oh!” Thomasin yelped. “Tempting, but just wanted to compliment your form! Enjoy your head!”

Astarion had to be ripped from his selfish voyeurism with a shove. Although he didn’t mind. His body shook with indulgent chuckling. Grin was toothy. Wyll, already making some distance up the hill, had completely eluded him. 

“Did that make you feel better?” Thomasin asked.

“I-Only a little,” he replied, hesitant to admit it. His feet kept their shuffling forward. “Do give me the honors of reading the first draft of that book. You know my patience is thin.”

Despite their foolish bouts bandaging their hardships, the truth was hard to avoid. The further they left the village center, the closer they got to open trails, the more death they saw. The scent of blood hung like a sheet, heavy atop its clothesline. Overturned wagons, fully tossed, were left next to their misfortune drivers. Death was native to nature. Part of its cycle. But, that didn’t mean those remaining didn’t quiver at the reminder.

At a high point atop a hill, Wyll’s visage shined as his heroic title implied. A man of frontiers. It seemed he was peering down a cliffside, surveying exactly where a trail winding down to the water ended. Then, he turned to face them, hand hovered over his brow to shield from the sun. The volume in his voice lowered. 

“I think I see something. Her.”

[autobotmedic]

🖤 BLACK HEART

IC Questions

🖤 BLACK HEART — what would you say is the darkest thought you've ever experienced? what do you think caused you to have that thought? have you ever planned on or fantasized about acting on it?

"..." It would be horrid to imply that he had to try to choose from a list, so he remained silent at first. Silence could always be taken various ways.

"Pain and desperation make a foundation for the desire to inflict the same suffering endured back onto others. I will not pretend I haven't felt those temptations, such as wanting to crush Megatron's own voicebox so he could experience how that feels himself... But it would unnecessarily impractical and petty over efficient forms of offlining."

[trashcatsnark]

Ngl, despite how absolutely fluffy my oneshot was and how eventually soft they will be- I cannot help but make Petra (my tav) and Gale's dynamic like 20-30 percent more hostile and bickering than canon, because A) I love hostile bickering couples and B) I think larian really fucking missed out on the dynamic of having the tav/durge custom pc be a rogue and non-magic user and being gale's like opposite Like, they did a great job leaning into the variation in dynamic with him if they're a different kind of spell caster- sorcerer, bard, and fellow wizard, but like in the dev notes about Gale griping everytime you make him sneak, steal, or do any rogueish behavior- it literally states he thinks those things are beneath him. Like it's not even just about his old man knees, he genuinely is like *really petty crime??? that's what you're reducing me to?* and we're shown over and over that Gale can be petty and patronizing why wouldn't he have a few more snide remarks for a rogue pc early on, let Gale be meaner to me.

And then if we could have more flavor text and options to rp a character who isn't really into magic, not actively hostile or mean but instead of a non-spellcaster being played as a complete blank slate wide-eyed over it- a character who just doesn't find much need for it, sees it as impractical, is more of a who needs a healing spell when you have a needle and thread sort of person- with Gale??? Ah, the banter, the bickering, playful ribbing and jabbing insults, snarking to each other about it- "Oh, did you wound not heal well? Ah, if only there had been someway to properly remend the flesh without suture, perhaps as if by magic..."

A part of Gale kind of being hurt because so much of his worth and value is defined by magic, so a part of him feels if someone can't see the value in magic- they can't see value in him, but then they do want him around, they do keep him around, and even let him show them some magic and he thinks he's worn them down, they're starting to see the value of the weave and by extension him. Not quite clocking that it's the other way around. That they're taking an interest and doing his magic lessons because- it's clearly something he's passionate about, he loves, and that gives it more value to them. And the idea that the weave's worth could be seen as secondary to his instead of the reverse is just- insane to him.

And as the romance progresses and he reveals more and more his ideas of how his worth is connected to his utility, his talent, the promises of "I could do more, I can be more, don't you need me to be more" because of course they want more, everyone does, he's not enough- he needs to be more powerful, more talented, more magical, more capable, more useful, and they know now what he can do, what he used to be able to do, and if he makes the right choices- how much more he could. And they let him know in no uncertain terms, they fell for him before they ever did his magic, that the things he conjures and casts are beautiful and they love them but only because they are done by his hand, and he's what gives that magic it's meaning- not the other way around. And if he never conjured stars to the sky again, that's okay- they return every night all on their own and all they wish is to see them with him.

This is so long and rambly, but I just- ugh, the opposites attract angle feels soooo slept on in game and out and I get why but god I wish we had more options to rp a pc who just wasn't super into magic unless it's through the filter of someone they love and their love for it and what that'd do to Gale's everything

[amorphouzz]

WE ARE THE VOLATILE CHILDREN! p1.

A BIT OF CONTEXT! This piece was originally a piece of writing I did to reignite my love for creating stories. The central character of this is named Waco Harte, a twenty year old around 1995 forced to confront long buried family history. With the slew of different emotions in this, it may be hard to read and that's because it's partially edited. I didn't bother much until recently to even reread it while I'm making part two LOL.

Anger and Grief.

A hand laid on Waco Harte's broad shoulder, fingers curling inward to tug him back. The weight of his brother's hand forced him to stay in place, losing all sense to fight or even move. Was it his lack of will? Truth be told, he didn't have a clue what it was. Harte just knew that he had been muzzled like a bad dog, a crazed beast stricken with some disease. As if his caustic saliva will be used to choke the truth from his father's throat in vomit and acid-filled passages. What did his brother want to spare him from—anger? What good would it do to be the one to lay hands on the man who intended to cause them impractical aching? What this said aching if not just longing for it all to be over? It wasn't anger, but rather insurmountable grief. Perhaps their father wanted to ask for pardon and kindness. He knelt before the two of them, like a petty thief with a grudge against another—he had never been an honest man.

The boy's hands reached into his chest, ripping the heartstrings tied by his mother. He had always wanted her blood, not his father's. He couldn't deny that a part of him was in Waco, so he looked at his brother, who stood with a dull glint in his hazel eyes. Stern and disgusted by their father's acts, he cried out for a God who turned his back on him. He shifted his gaze to his father, pulling his shoulder free from his brother's grip, and stepped away. Just like God and everyone else, he couldn't forgive him. Each stride is open and properly spaced, meticulous and accurate. Waco was no longer the damned beggar's kid, and his heart stopped beating for him long ago. Never again would that man come near him, he swore by it and would keep it. If that fucker even tried, there would be bloodied faces and bruised knuckles. A lesson would be taught, he best beg for the mercy of his God for he would not be the one to give it.

[sirmontague48]

I hope you don’t mind me telling more of my ttte Duck headcanons. I know I already submitted some.

-everyone is allowed to make jokes about Duck’s name except for Diesel.

-in my human AU, everyone got so fed up over Duck and Diesel’s fighting that they were made to couple their engines together for a twenty four hour period. Another time they were forced to hold hands for an hour. (Thomas has video footage of this including the part where Diesel kicked Duck in the shins and Duck responded by jabbing him in the eye with his crutch)

-if Duck were to ever meet my OC, Casey (who’s from a completely different railroad) he would immediately jump at the opportunity to teach Casey The Great Western Way ™. But would get flustered very quickly at Casey’s antics (Casey is only 12 after all)

-Duck would find Casey’s “superstitious rituals” very weird, impractical, unnecessary and borderline annoying (these include pouring a can of beer outside of the shed every morning, holding in your smoke when you go through a scrap yard so the spirits don’t possess you, sprinkling ash in a line across the shed every night, and sleeping facing backwards so the chupacabras don’t get you)

-Duck is not superstitious or does he believe in any ghosts stories, nor is he that religious, he’s not an atheist, but doesn’t hold any religious beliefs. He would probably try and reason with Casey ( e.g “if you close your eyes and go to sleep, then you won’t see the Chupacabras”, “how does creating a line of ash stop the spirits? It’s just burnt wood”) but then would get creeped out about Casey’s weird paranormal encounters he had back home (even though in reality, the skinwalker he encountered was just a naked crackhead)

-he’s a very Black and White thinker with no grey area.

-it’s not uncommon for the engines to receive fan mail. Duck has received some fan mail including a custom mug that someone made with the “there’s only two ways of doing things, The Great Western Way ™, and the wrong way.”

-he also has received Duck x Diesel smut ship fan fiction as a joke once, and as per tradition with all the engines when they received fan fiction, they have to do a dramatic reading of it. Duck had to request that people stop sending him fanfics after being made to read it.

There is no limit to submitting headcanons. You can send as many as you'd like.

I agree with the first one. When people make jokes about his name, he just chuckles and rolls his eyes. However, when Diesel does it, he gives him the death stare. It tends to work. Duck has a knack for unsettling anyone that he doesn't like.

Duck would blatantly refuse to hold hands with Diesel, for he wouldn't want oil and other revolting things on his hands. As for the engines being coupled together, it would be debated, but due to Duck being a reliable worker and The Fat Controller not wanting everything to descend into chaos, he decided to keep the two separate instead. I think that Diesel instigates Duck until he snaps, which is a while since Duck also has a knack for ignoring people and their petty idiosyncrasies.

Duck would try to teach anyone the Great Western way, which he has adapted to become more "Duck's way". I have just looked at who Casey is, I really like his design, especially the funnel and reason for his eye. Anyway, Duck gets flustered at any sort of chaos, so it would make sense for him to get flustered with Casey.

I don't really have headcanons about religion or superstitions (aside from very general things like ghosts) due to the fact that it is a very broad subject that can sometimes become personal. Therefore, I don't have much of an opinion about this headcanon. That is just my opinion though, that doesn't mean that your headcanon is bad.

As said previously, I don't bring religion or superstitions into my headcanons, so I don't have much of an opinion on this headcanon either. I do think that Duck finds ghost stories interesting for the history behind them and why people have written them.

Duck is absolutely a black and white thinker. I headcanon him as autistic so that is one of the reasons for me.

I agree with this headcanon, he has lots of GWR mugs, and most of them have been sent in by fans.

I don't bring NSFW topics into my headcanons, so I don't have much of an opinion on this one. I do think that Duck would chastise the individual for sending in such inappropriate and immodest material. He is a very proper individual, and prefers not to talk about such subjects (he is not stigmatised, he is just very private).

These are all just my opinion. I like how original your headcanons are.

[jestericulating]

OC Introduction - Isana

BASICS

| Full Name: Isana ???

| Nickname(s): Bloods (Karlach)

| Pronouns: She / her

| Sexuality: Bisexual (female preference)

| Occupation and Titles: Isana is an experienced fighter with a proficiency for intimidation. Previously known as the Child or Chosen of Bhaal pre-tadpole.

| Birthday & Age: 12 Eleasis ???? DR - Mid 20s (Due to Isana’s amnesia and therefore lack thereof birth date, Gale suggested she chose the day Withers revived her to signify the beginning of her new life)

| Physical description: Broad shoulders in a lean frame. More obvious muscle definition in arms from primarily wielding a longsword. Slight toning in legs, moreso sleeper build.

| Clothing style: For adventuring, Isana’s armour tends to both emphasise broad shoulders and feature a high collar around the neck. Hands and arms are always covered. In more relaxed settings she opts for comfort over fashion, choosing loosely tied tunics and relaxed trousers. Blacks, greys and golds are her usual accents of choice. Her clothing choices are most heavily influenced by the environment’s threat level; post-game Isana learns to experiment with more impractical clothing now that the threat is gone. Fond of bones as jewellery.

BACKGROUND

Isana is a redeemed Bhaalspawn. Not because she's a good person -- not by a long shot -- but because the thought of being a vessel for a God's petty whims for the rest of her life felt like a fate worse than death. She had found friends, a lover, and Bhaal wanted her to leave them all behind for -- what? A little bit of power? Power of which wouldn't even be hers, but just an extension of what he decides to grant her? He obviously underestimated the will of something with his own blood.

So Isana rejected him, was subjected to the full extent of his fury, and then felt her body stitching itself back together as Withers fished her soul out of the Fugue Plane. She thanked him, though she wasn't sure her voice carried far enough to hear, and then sat for some time staring blankly at the centrepiece of Bhaal etched into the wall. It was only when Minthara approached to gently shake her out of her daze that Isana cracked and began to hysterically cry. The weight of Bhaal, the Urges, everything that had plagued her for the entirety of their journey up until right now -- they were gone. An overwhelming dread lifted from her chest.

Isana then proceeded to clear out what remained of the Bhaalists in a fit of grief-induced rage.

She is now settled rather comfortably in a lavish, overly indulgent manor in the Upper City with her darling, Minthara. Now with full autonomy over herself Isana can spend her days doing the things that really matter: scamming the rich, stealing from the rich, and getting richer than the rich. She doesn't care for money -- she just doesn't want them to have it. Otherwise in her quest of self-discovery Isana has been heavily dabbling into the arts; she writes, she reads, and she can even play the lyre. She still regularly sees Gale, and goes out drinking with Shadowheart and Astarion. Lae'zel has visited only a handful of times, but she's busy changing the trajectory of her own race so all Isana can be is happy for her. She's starting to see Karlach and Wyll more, what with Karlach's engine looking a little more mended each day. It's a quaint life, really. Rather boring. Except for the inbetween moments where she and Minthara are working their charms in sync to be owed as many favours from as many powerful people as possible. That's quite exhilarating.

After all, who else is going to run the city when it inevitably falls again?

COMBAT STYLE

| Preferred fighting style: Two-handed Battle Master with an emphasis on strategy and strength to get her through every encounter.

| Favourite weapon(s): Longswords and mauls. Anything heavy with a high damage output.

| Special skills: Nothing in particular outside of her ability to maneouvre the tides of battle to better favour her, tough skin, and hyperawareness of her surroundings.

RELATIONSHIPS

| Family: Bhaal (Father - disowned), Orin (Sister - dead)

| Love interest: Astarion (Act 1 - Act 2), Minthara (Act 2 - Post-game)

| Best friend(s): Shadowheart, Gale Dekarios, Astarion (rebuilding)

PERSONALITY

| Positive traits: Observant, confident, strategical

| Negative traits: Rebellious, vindictive, unpredictable

| Likes: Collecting bones to fashion into jewellery, quiet nights, a good fight

| Dislikes: Authority, the cold, being alone

| Fears: Herself, losing all she’s worked for

| Guilty pleasures: Power. When unavailable, an indulgent bath

| Hobbies: Isana bounces between a lot of hobbies during the course of the game and post-Netherbrain in an attempt to rediscover who she is outside of her Urges. She tries reading, music, sewing, practicing swordfighting with companions, and cooking. Surprisingly, she settles on writing and poetry as a result of Gale's influence. She also learns how to play Minthara's lyre later on.

[anothercrisis]

SOAPGHOST SHARING FEARS

Soap had a fear of heights.

He knew how impractical it was—knew petty fears didn’t mix well with his line of work. But no matter what he did, no matter what he told himself, his stomach always flipped and his skin always got sweatier when he was positioned somewhere high up.

Usually nobody noticed. Over the years, he’d gotten pretty good at keeping the fact that he was uncomfortable unnoticeable when he was in situations where his fear sparked to life.

But Ghost, being as observant as he was, noticed something was off with his sergeant one day on the way back to base. Soap was sitting a little stiffly on the helo, his face looking a little paler than it should.

The reason Soap was having a hard time hiding was because the mission they’d just finished had required him to be fifty plus stories above the ground. At one point, he’d been on the outside of the building, scaling the windows with only a rappel keeping him from falling to his death.

(He evidently wasn’t taking it very well, even in the aftermath.)

When the helo finally landed, Soap was one of the first people off, all too eager to get his feet back on solid ground.

Ghost grew more concerned due to his sergeant’s eagerness to be off the helo, to be away from their comrades.

(He was misreading the situation; he thought Soap was hiding an injury.)

Soap wasted no time beelining for his bunk, desperate to be somewhere where he could relax and breathe the way his body was begging him to.

He’d almost made it, but before he could open the door, his lieutenant spoke up from behind him.

(He’d been so focused on getting away that he hadn’t noticed Ghost following him.)

“What’s wrong, Sergeant?”

Soap tried making excuses, tried leading his lieutenant down the wrong paths, but Ghost was patient. He waited for Soap to crack.

Which he did, after a few minutes; he wanted to appease Ghost so he could resume his cooldown.

Soap scanned the hall to make sure they were alone before he admitted, “I’m not a fan of heights, sir.”

(Soap had never told anyone that before.)

That wasn’t what Ghost was expecting. He unconsciously eased up, relieved to know Soap wasn’t seriously hurt and hiding it.

But Ghost didn’t know how to deal with this kind of vulnerability. The only thing he could think to do was offer Soap his in return.

Before he could change his mind, he said, “S’alright, Johnny. I’m claustrophobic.”

(Ghost had never told anyone that before.)

That wasn’t what Soap was expecting. But it was somehow exactly what he needed; it comforted him perfectly. The pressure in his chest eased and he grinned at the skull-faced Lieutenant.

“Ordinary man under the mask after all, aye?”

Ghost only rolled his eyes.

(They didn’t have to promise each other that they wouldn’t speak of this to anyone else—that they wouldn’t use it against each other. It went without saying. They had this strange way of communicating without speaking, and it came in handy in times like this.)

[atlaculture]

Cultural Weapons: Fire Nation Swords Pt. 2

Zuko’s Broadswords

The broadswords that Zuko uses are niuweidao (牛尾刀) or "oxtail sabers". Niuweidao are characterized by their flat and wide blades, flared tips, rounded cutting sections, and noticeably bent hilt; all characteristics present in Zuko’s swords.

The niuweidao actually has a rather unique history compared to other Chinese weapons. Whereas most Chinese weapons were adapted to be used by the imperial troops, the niuweidao was created and used exclusively by civilians. The primary reason for this was that their design was optimized to efficiently cut through flesh rather than harder surfaces; making them impractical for slashing through armored soldiers on the battlefield but perfect for petty robbery and common street violence. Unsurprisingly, these 19th-century swords came to be associated with rebels and criminals.

That Zuko chooses to wield niuweidao as the Blue Spirit is yet another example of his intelligence. After all, no one would expect the Prince of the Fire Nation, with a ship full of military-grade tools at his disposal, to utilize a weapon wielded by the lowest levels of society.

The niuweidao being the weapon of thugs also explains why that one Earth Kingdom jerk had a pair on him as well. In fact, you’ll notice that Zuko only ever uses his broadswords when he’s behaving criminally or rebelliously. Even his dual-wielding breaks from typical sword-fighting convention. The swords are the embodiment of his innate brashness.

This also provides a unique foil to Sokka and his sword. Sokka is often dismissed as a “peasant” and many characters simply write him off as dimwitted goofball. Yet his sword, the jian, is an ancient weapon dating back to 500 BC and is considered to be the weapon of scholars and gentlemen. Sokka’s sword embodies all of his most overlooked qualities: His intelligence, creativity, and honorable nature.

Zuko, by contrast, was seen as the elitist prince obsessed with honor and maintaining the Fire Nation’s imperial legacy. Yet his swords of choice, the niuweidao, are a relatively new kind of weapon from the fringes of society. Their entire purpose is to undermine the established power structure. Zuko’s swords embodies all of his most overlooked qualities: His boldness, his cunning, and his willingness to break from tradition.

Like what I’m doing? Tips always appreciated, never expected. ^_^

https://ko-fi.com/atlaculture

[aniron48]

How about "home" for 00q - or if someone already claimed that, "hug"?

Thank you so much for the ask, friend! I needed something tender, today, and this was the perfect excuse to get this out of my head and onto the page. Without further ado, “Hug” is below, and up on ao3. (And for those curious about “Home,” you can find that one here.)

“Bloody buggering fucking shit!” Q cries out, shaking his hand against the pain shooting through his thumb.

“Q?” Bond walks into Q Branch, freshly returned from his mission to Rome. He looks tired, Q thinks—all he has time to think before James drops the bag he was carrying over his shoulder and takes Q’s hand in his own.

“What happened here?” Bond asks, bringing Q’s injured thumb to his lips.

“Smashed it in the bloody drawer,” Q said. He closes his eyes against the tears starting in them. He’s managed to keep it together, over the last two days, and somehow this is what sends him over: James Bond cradling his hand as if it’s something precious, and the simple promise of care.

Bond notices, because of course he does. “And what else?” He asks, releasing Q’s hand to wipe the drops collecting in the corners of his eyes.

Q shakes his head. “It’s nothing, really. Just a hard few days.”

“Tell me.”

“I’d much rather hear how your trip home went.”

Bond just waits.

Q sighs. “It’s just everything at once, I suppose. I got a flat tire on my bike halfway through my commute, yesterday morning, and I haven’t had time to get it fixed, so I’ve had to take the Tube. I’ve spilled at least three cups of tea in the last 48 hours, one on my personal laptop, mind, and the other on my jacket right before my meeting with the Foreign Minister. R got distracted in the lab, and accidentally blew up the new drone prototype, and now she’s beside herself. I’ve had to send her home to recover. And then there was—“ Q stops himself, and he thinks it’s in time, but the fug of bad luck that’s been hovering over him these last few days won’t be dispersed that easily.

“And then there was Rome,” Bond finishes for him.

The woman in Rome, to be precise; the neglected wife of the mission’s primary target. Bond’s type, if ever he had one, a pretty brunette with guarded eyes and impractical shoes.

“I’m sorry—” Bond begins, but Q cuts him off.

“Not for this,” Q says. “Don’t apologize for doing what you have to do to stay alive.”

“I keep hoping each one will be the last,” Bond admits, and Q’s stomach twists. He’s been horribly selfish, caught up in his own petty jealousies, when it must be so much harder for Bond, forced by circumstance and duty to country into bed with people he doesn’t want. “I can’t think of you, when I’m with them. I won’t let myself. I don’t want—“

I don’t want to taint my memories of you with them, Bond had said, after the first time they’d kissed. Q had expected they would fall into bed, after, or couch, or even wall. But instead they’d had an unexpectedly earnest conversation at Q’s kitchen table, one in which Bond had asked him if they could wait for anything more until after his retirement from the field in five weeks’ time. I know I don’t own you. You’re not my possession. I don’t mean it like that. But I want something that’s wholly mine.

“But I think of you, once they’re gone,” Bond says. “At night, when I’m alone again.” He pauses, takes Q’s injured hand in his again. Q had forgotten, quite frankly, to notice that it hurt. “Have I been selfish, asking for this?”

“No,” Q says. “No, you haven’t.” He thinks of Austria, of a sleek Aston Martin pulling out of the garage in Q Branch, and the sound of Bond gunning the engine. In addition to his almost casual heroism, James Bond is also capable of extraordinary acts of selfishness. Q is familiar enough with them to know that this isn’t one.

“Are you going to tell me what you think about, once you’re alone?” Q asks, and he means it to dispel the mood, to move the conversation somewhere lighter, but it doesn’t quite work.

“Everything,” Bond says, and it sounds almost wistful. “Everything you can imagine. And then all the way home, all I could think about was this.”

Bond pulls Q into a hug, then, slow and impossibly tender. He slides a hand to the middle of Q’s lower back, presses the other between Q’s shoulders to guide him closer, and Q surrenders to it, wrapping his arms around Bond’s waist and turning his face into the crook of Bond’s neck. Q can breathe, like this, for what feels like the first time in days.

“Three more weeks,” Bond says, and the date of his impending retirement sounds like a promise, and a prayer. “Maybe sooner. I need to check how much leave I have coming, see if I can shave any time off of the end.”

Q just nods, and for a long moment, they just hold each other, the only sound the slow tick of the clock on the wall, time moving relentlessly onward. Q can feel the beat of Bond’s heart against his, the warm puffs of breath against his face. Bond smells faintly of cologne and of the winter air outside, and Q lets it anchor him, a port in a buffeting sea. He would know that scent anywhere, he thinks. He’s known it for years.

“You know, don’t you,” Bond says, his lips against Q’s hair. “What you have of mine that they don’t.”

Q swallows, and Bond’s arms tighten around him. “Tell me anyway,” Q says.

Bond leans in, impossibly close, and whispers the words in Q’s ear.

[bunnymoon-phase]

I really wanna talk about @doofnoof 's tags on this because they touched on a LOT of the intention I had when writing this!! Wyervan described Sun and Moon's relationship as toxically co-dependant, so I wanted the potential consequences for Moon be the first thing Sun mentions, the first thing he thought of. Wyervan and I have also talked a bit about the deep level of intrigue we have for characters who are unarguably kind, and also immensely violent, so Sun's concerns with the morality of dating an employee, and then someone who's partner you murdered, is the second thing he mentions. The jealousy was the focus for a lot of people, but I breezed past it because it's the lowest priority on Sun's list: he HAS thought about it all, sat and deeply considered the pros and cons of all of it, and put it in a box of impractical fantasies that could never be reality and tucked it away into a closet in his mind. Moon commenting on it was hitting below the belt, but not unearthing something he was putting any real effort into hiding—the divine rage was partially from the jealousy of Moon sleeping with ther person he liked, and partially from Moon insinuating that any/all of what Sun had just said was him talking out of his ass out of jealousy. In the end, Sun relents—literally tells Moon to do whatever he wants, and reassures him in a roundabout way that he's going to be there for him if/when it all goes sideways.

This was an element of my own that Wyervan ended up confirming was part of what they imagine for their Moon, but Moon is impulsive and a bit hedonistic. He's also not totally in touch with his emotions—Wyervan said they imagined Moon to be the type to not realize he liked someone, and so I played with that. When Esther asks Moon to kiss her, he agrees because he thinks it'll be fun to rile Sun up by telling he he kissed the person he liked; when he actually kisses Esther, he realizes he doesn't want to stop. So when Esther invites him up to their apartment, he goes without a second thought. He hasn't given a thought to the consequences or repercussions, and even if he had thought of them he'd ignore them—Esther's more of a friend than an employee, and killing Harrison is no different in his mind than if Harrison were disappeared by someone else—he didn't kill Harrison to have a chance with Esther, he killed him so Esther would have a chance.

The line about worrying he and Sun were going to get into a "real" fight is meant to imply that the argument is the opposite, petty squabbling and bitching at each other. And it is; Sun immediately relents to let Moon have his way. If he were really opposed he'd push harder, shout louder. This is their equivalent of an old married couple arguing just to argue, and Moon knows it—if they had a real fight, Moon would re-evaluate. But as it stands, he IS giddy—the person he likes likes him back, and they want to see him again. There's no real guilt over hurting Sun, because Sun isn't going to be that hurt. Their relationship is unharmed.

(Of course, as the relationship progresses, the continuous sight of Sun's other half and the person Sun likes flagrantly flirting and hanging out constantly behind to grate on Sun. He likes Esther too much to feel like they're getting between him and Moon, abs he likes Moon too much to be jealous of him over Esther's feelings, so he's generally envious with the situation as a whole with no target and no outlet until he bursts—but that's for later.)

Esther (featuring minimally but regardless important) likes them both—but Moon's particular brand of relentless teasing strikes them as flirtation (which it isn't, not intentionally, not until after they sleep together) whereas Sun's... everything, seems to them like the actions of a friend. Esther likes them both, but thinks Sun doesn't like them back and Moon does, so he's the one they shoot their shot with. It's pure luck that they hit a bullseye—though they're never going to be able to fully put away their feelings for Sun.

(When they confess this to Moon, he doesn't seem to mind. This is because he doesn't—he's not going to help the two of them get together, though. Not out of jealousy! He just thinks watching them tiptoe tensely around each other is fucking hilarious.)

More for @wyervan 's slasher au! They wondered about the conversation Sun and Moon would have about "dating" one of their targets' partners and my brain kicked into turbo mode.

No warnings except conversations about violence, I think? And suggestive implications?

***

Sun’s there when Moon opens the door to their apartment, standing sharply and marching over to him like a jealous wife. He completes the association by crossing his arms, tapping his toes impatiently. “Where were you?”

Moon doesn’t look at him. He brushes past him, taking off his coat and tossing it over the back of the couch. The distraction doesn’t work; Sun just scowls at the offending piece of clothing as Moon replies. “Walking Star home.”

Sun makes a noise in the back of his throat, high-pitched and laugh-reminiscent. “It’s been hours. It doesn’t usually take hours to walk them seven blocks, Moon.”

He trails him as Moon moves through the dining room and into the kitchen, opening the fridge. Moon hesitates before he confesses. “I kissed them.”

There’s a beat of silence. Sun gives a half-laugh, deadly calm. “You what?”

Moon closes the fridge and stands, leaning against it. “I kissed Esther.”

The idea hasn’t fully settled in yet. Sun blinks at him with those long eyelashes, wide close-lipped smile on his face, giving him an almost manic look. “Why?”

“Thought it’d be funny.”

The anger sets in, then, coloring Sun’s face scarlet as he starts breathing faster, deeper. His smile disappears and he gestures wildly with his arms. “You thought it’d be funny?!”

Moon doesn’t respond. Sun only waits a moment longer. “Was it?!”

He rolls his neck, more for an excuse not to look Sun in the eye when he replies than to pop the joints.

“No,” Moon finally admits.

“Oh! Oh!” Sun’s at the stage of anger where everything is funny to him. “Oh, it wasn’t funny to kiss your employee, Moon?! What a surprise! What a shock! What was it instead?”

His response is quiet, the ghost of sweet lips crushing against his on his mind. “It was addicting.”

Sun makes a violent gesture in the corner of his eye, too apoplectic to speak, and finally takes a deep breath. “That’s the worst response you could have had!”

“I know.”

Sun bends at the side to force himself into Moon’s line of sight, bracing himself on the counter with an arm. “Harrison’s been dead barely a month, Moon!”

“I know.”

“This is going to cast suspicion on you if the cops find out!”

“I know.”

“Wh—I—Moon, you killed her boyfriend!”

“And I’d do it again,” Moon meets Sun’s gaze for a moment, then turns and walks out of the kitchen. Sun follows after him instantly.

“But you understand why you can’t date them—they don’t know, Moon! Despite everything, she loved him—”

“No she didn’t, they told you theirself she was relieved he was gone—”

“—and you’re the one who took him away from her!”

“Oh, and you had no role in the incident?” Moon shot sarcastically.

Sun scoffed. “I’m not the one kissing her out of nowhere!”

“It wasn’t out of nowhere.” Moon crossed his arms. “She asked me to.”

Sun pinched his nose, then gestured emphatically towards him. “That makes it worse!”

Moon shrugged. There was a beat of silence that hung heavy between them, but Sun’s anger seemed to drain. He took a deep breath, sighed heavily, and leaned against the table. “So what, you were just kissing them for four hours?”

Moon cocked his head to the side and leveled his gaze at Sun like a weapon. Sun stared back for a moment, clueless, and Moon raised an eyebrow.

Comprehension dawned. “No.”

Moon dropped his gaze to the floor. Despite himself, he smiled.

Sun’s hands shot into his line of sight, balling into the front of his shirt and yanking him foreward before he realized what was happening. Nose to nose, Sun shook him, and shook him again for good measure. “Are you out of your mind?”

Moon shoved Sun back, and the other man stumbled but didn’t fall. He didn’t grab Moon again but instead advanced on him until he’d cornered him against the wall, intense and whispering. “You’re deceiving them, Moonie.”

Moon sneered. “No I’m not.”

“You’re lying by omission. For all you know, she’d hate you for what we did to Harrison.” Sun’s gaze doesn’t waver. “By pretending you had no hand in his disappearance, you’re giving her the impression you’re someone you’re not. They don’t know who they’re really getting involved with.”

Moon doesn’t answer. Sun takes a step back to give him room to breathe. When he tries to put a hand on his shoulder, Moon smacks it away, and Sun’s face hardens again.

“This can’t happen again, Moon.”

The silence lingers, but it doesn’t feel right. Eventually, Sun steps to the side, and Moon slinks past him. He gets all the way to the living room before he stops again.

“Are you really that concerned about lying to them, or are you just jealous?”

That manic grin spreads over Sun’s face again, joyless. “I beg your pardon?”

Moon crosses his arms again, leaning against the back of the couch. “For all your repression, you don’t hide it well when you’ve got a crush. You just want to keep our little Star all for yourself.”

Sun scoffed, but the laugh had more venom than it usually did, and his ears were turning red. “Even if that were true, it doesn’t change anything. You don’t see me seducing them barely a month after their boyfriend went missing.”

Moon smirked. “Yeah, they didn’t ask you.”

For a brief second, incandescent rage lit Sun up from the inside, like some vision of holy wrath, and Moon worried they were about to get into a real fight—an actual one, instead of petty squabbling and bitching. But just as quickly as the moment came it was gone, and Sun made a disgusted noise as he threw his hands up.

“I’m going to bed,” he announced. Moon didn’t look away from him the whole walk down the hall; Sun stopped in the doorway of his bedroom. “Do whatever you want, Moonie. Just remember that the consequences of your actions always have a second person to reap them.”

The door slammed. Moon gave it a moment before he released the breath he’d been holding. He picked his hoodie up from the couch and fished his phone out of the pocket, checking to see the message he’d been expecting.

Starlight: Are you walking me home again tomorrow?

Despite himself, he smiled.

Dont’t I always?

Starlight: Maybe you could stay a little longer then, too?

The smile broadened.

Maybe.

***