#i wouldn’t hate him as much if he wasn’t recognized by the fandom so much

[oblisker]

stop shipping lesley and roy lesley is way too good for his ass. start shipping roy and shrignold

[rowenablade]

A word about Izzy’s grave.

I’ve seen a lot of people upset that Izzy wasn’t buried at sea, or that he wasn’t buried with his leg and ring, and I want to offer an alternative explanation in case it can bring some comfort. Maybe I’m just deluding myself, but I can’t function if I feel nothing but pain about this, so here I am trying to turn…well, you know.

First, the choice to bury Izzy on land. For that, I want to talk about the swallow tattoo.

In a traditional nautical context, a swallow tattoo has a few meanings. The one that I think this whole fandom knows by now is that it represents 5000 nautical miles sailed. Totally makes sense for Izzy to have this tattoo- it’s practical, it allows him to subtly brag about his skills, and the fact that it’s on one of the few pieces of skin he generally shows bears that out. Izzy has sailed at least 5000 nautical miles, and he wants anyone he meets to know that.

But there’s a couple other meanings too.

A swallow is migratory. It travels great distances, and returns to the place it makes its nest. By getting a swallow tattoo, a sailor is essentially praying that they, too, will be like a swallow. That they will travel far across the sea, but ultimately return safely home.

And failing that, if a sailor drowns, the swallow will fly their soul up to heaven.

You notice the theme in both these prayers? That they don’t end with the swallow in the ocean.

All birds, even sea birds, need a solid place to make their nests. The type of bird that never touches ground, that’s born in the air and never once touches the land? That’s not a type of bird that can actually exist, captain.

I go back and forth on whether I think Izzy, sentimental bastard that he is, knew about or considered these meanings when he got that swallow tattoo. But however you consider it, the swallow represents the sailor’s journey. And a successful sailor’s journey doesn’t end with the sailor at the bottom of the ocean. It ends with them at home.

Izzy is buried at Ed and Stede’s nest, because his sailor’s journey is over. He was a sailor, but he’s not anymore. He’s retired.

Second, the grave itself. I’ve seen people upset that they took off Izzy’s effects rather than bury him with them. Now, I’m sure my own perceptions color this. I’m fairly unsentimental when it comes to the actual, physical handling of the dead. I don’t believe the dead care what is done with their bodies. Obviously you’re going to feel differently based on your own experience and culture, and I respect that.

But here’s what I think the crew were thinking.

You notice something about the grave? No headstone. And honestly, why would there be? Most pirates can’t read. You put a traditional headstone on that grave, and nine out of ten people who have reason to care about the person buried there won’t know what it says. But an unmarked grave doesn’t feel right, nor does an anonymous cross. I challenge anyone who’s upset about the way Izzy was buried to tell me that an unmarked grave would have made them feel one whit better.

Pirates recognize Izzy. They know who he is. The sword, the ring, the wooden leg- this is how you write “Here lies Israel Hands,” in a language every pirate can understand.

Look. I don’t by any means think the show handled this death perfectly. And for those of you who are enraged to the point of hating the show now, I don’t expect this to make you feel better. But I suspect a burial at sea, or an unadorned cross, wouldn’t have made it any better either.

This is how I try to feel better. Because I can’t just be heartbroken. I can’t do it. And honestly the part of this that hurts the most is watching people who shared in my joy of this show say they hate it now. I’m sure I’m giving the writers and showrunners too much credit- I think the death looked and felt the way it did because they were pressed for time and took the quickest routes they could. But I need to be something other than angry about it, so here’s how I try to do that. I hope it helps someone else.

[hughiecampbelle]

I Loved You, What A Tragedy (M.M. Oneshot)

((THE BOYS S4 FINALE SPOILERS))

Character/s: M.M.

Word Count: 1,629

Requested: Hiya! Can I request prompts 6. Fragile and 7. “You have nothing to worry about” with M.M.? Thank you! I really love your writing! - anon

A/N: INSPIRATION STRUCK!!! Omg my loves I have hated everything I've been writing when it comes to fics, but I am so happy to say ya gurl might be back!!! M.M. definitely needs more attention from the fandom, I love him and I am so lucky to be contributing to it! I really hope you like it!! Thank you for requesting my love!!!! Feedback is always appreciated! 💜💜💜💜

I’m okay, I’ll be okay. The more you say it though, the less he believes you. His arms wrap tighter around you, compressing you, your ribs kissing. I’m, I’m okay, you say again, your words shaking. Collapsing in like a star. Imploding. You have nothing to worry about, you try again, your voice is stronger this time. Stable. Concrete. Please M, I’m fine, you laugh, it bubbles up like vomit. He has no choice but to believe you. And yet, when he takes a step back, the tears that run down your face crush him. Shame and rage bloom in the middle of his chest, cracking his breastbone to sharp pieces, knife-like. Each penetrated his skin, his muscles, tearing him apart from the inside out. He places his hands on your shoulders, making sure you’re looking him in the eye. You call me the second you get there, I mean it. You just nod. No, he needs to hear you say it. I promise. I promise. You wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand, trying to laugh it off, feeling silly. Sensitive. You were pathetic. Everyone else had said their goodbyes, apologies and frustrations and self-blame wrapped up in hugs, in kisses on the cheek, in sorrowful looks across the parking lot. This was it. This was the end. They drove away with a wave, paired together out of love, out of necessity. You couldn’t make the same commitment. It wouldn’t be right. Go see Janine. This time you are all smiles. It hurts, though. The corners of your mouth are so heavy, so hard to lift, but this isn’t for you. It’s for him, his family. This is what’s right. Anything else, anything more, would be impossibly selfish. 

Something about your relationship had become incommunicable. Complicated. There was a certain neediness you didn’t recognize in yourself, in him, born and bred from the countless nights you spent together. At the office, doing surveillance in the van, merely keeping one another company. It wasn’t sexual, but it also wasn’t familial. It tiptoed the line between appropriate and inappropriate, platonic affection and something more, fascination and disgust, admiration and arrogance. Something would happen. Something would make you step over that line into unknown territory. Sometimes you stayed, made yourself comfortable. Other times alarm bells rang in your head, pulling you back to reality, flinching away in the process. Either one of you would retreat, lick your wounds, come back just a little more jaded. A little more careful. Wave the white flag until your arm grew tired, until you grew lonely, the cycle would repeat again. You and Marvin were undefinable. Outside of language. It only grew more estranged, more complicated the more time that passed. The more time you spent together. 

You flex your hands around the steering wheel, eyes facing forward. Beside you a backpack and passport burn their way into the passenger seat. Taking anything else, anything more, would have been greedy. You don’t look back no matter how much you want to. You picture his face, so much thinner these days, remorseful, stonelike. You imagine what he must be thinking, who he must be thinking about. Instead you listen: to the tires across the gravel, to the horn pressed twice. A final goodbye. A wish. Everything neither of you were willing to say emitted into two particular sounds. Every ounce of rage and humiliation and fear and joy, you experienced it together. Falling asleep beside him early in the morning. The countless conversations you share silently through your eyes, unable to speak or move. The despair, the distrust, when your friends would disappear or, worse, go rogue. The exhaustion. Collapsing onto the ground, bloody and pulsing. He was there, by your side, hushing your cries. He was there, taking off your shirt, gently wiping the cuts and bruises, his voice so soft, so sweet, so as not to cause more harm. He was there, through it all. Laughing until tears fell down your face, struggling to breathe. Grabbing your hand as you fled, afraid you’d fall behind. Sticking up for you against the group when your abilities were questioned. Like a music box being abruptly shut, slammed, the song you’d been hearing stops in the middle of its tune. That isn’t an ending, is it? It can’t be over that easily, right? Where was the rest? 

The road is empty and cold, fog pooling through the stretch of emptiness. You cracked the windows open hoping the cool air would wake you up, jolt you out of this mood. It doesn’t. It drags back memories, stories you tried to suffocate. He kissed you, that much you can still recall, still feel, still remember with certainty. Everything else felt too obscure, too uncertain. Uncontained. He kissed you. You can feel heat rising in your cheeks at the very thought. You were drunk, the both of you. Celebrating a miniscule win. Just the two of you. Your words start to slur. It’s hazy, you feel like a teenager again, unable to handle your liquor. He’s beside you, a smile spreading across his face. He says something, but you’re not listening. And then, suddenly, he leans across, filling the gap. He stops, pulling back, waiting for a reaction. You hold his face in your hands, holding your breaths before you kiss him. Needy, drunkenly, you climb on his lap. Every so often a laugh will escape one of you. Sober enough to understand the absurdity. You know what happens next and it’s devastating every time you relive it. He apologizes. He’s sorry. Sorry for doing that, for giving you the wrong idea, for making you think. . . Oh. You pull yourself together long enough to mutter something breathless before grabbing your things and leaving. He calls after you, begging, but you can’t go back. Not like this. When you see him again he tries to talk to you, explain himself, but you can’t. You can’t listen. You can’t hear all the ways you two would never work. It was nice, for a while, to pretend. Sooner or later you’d have to step back into reality, you should have realized. 

He wasn’t with Monique. He didn’t have a ring or a place back in her home, but they had Janine, they had to think about their family. To think you ever had a chance was foolish. He had two options and in the end it was you who’d made his decision for him. You printed up his plane ticket. Have that drink for me, on a beach far away from here. You mustered up a smile, tucking it into his passport. He tried to object, but you turned your back on him. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. He had people to think about, people to take care of. You and him, you signed up for this life. They didn’t. You’d been on your own a long time before them, before him, you could do it again. You could manage. It would get easier as time went on. You didn’t have a plan. Beaches and sunshine sounded nice, but you had to disappear. You had to die. Start anew. You hoped, someday, you’d see your friends again. In passing, across a busy intersection. Cars and crowds would pass, but you would stand still. You’d smirk and nod and share this unsaid understanding. You wouldn’t hug or cry, that would be too revealing. Even this hesitation would put you in danger. You’d linger a moment longer before carrying on with your journey. They too would resume their path. In a new country, under a new name, you would hold on to that image, but in the end, that’s all you’d be allotted. Your friends would move on with their loves, their partners, you must do the same. Find someone unassuming, someone ignorant of the world you faced, the harm, the danger. Someone, perhaps, like him. Enough of him to satisfy your cravings. Enough of him to never have to say goodbye. 

It happens so quickly. Chest aching, heart racing, pounding so loud in your head. Pain in your sternum, in your neck. Blood on the deflated airbag, dribbling down your forehead. The front of the car, the windshield, everything is mangled. Obliterated. Crushed. Tires screech. Smoke rises from what’s left of your car. Something metallic and solid dropped in the middle of the road. Quite literally thrown. You weren’t fast enough, you weren’t paying attention. You wheeze, gasp for air, trying to make sense of the last few seconds. Men in black vests with large guns surround you, trying to pull open the doors. The driver's seat is caved in. You can’t move. There’s yelling and threats, but you don’t understand. You’re stuck in limbo. You can’t move or speak. Everything happens painfully slowly. They fight with the door, grabbing at you, your limp body. Hands grab, guns point, but you have no control. You want to let out a great, bloody laugh. You do. Red splatters outward. You’re missing a couple teeth, your tongue prodding the empty sockets. Your face swells by the second, most likely bruised, but you can’t help it. You’re hysterical. This is it. You had a good run. You had a great run, even. You thought, in your last moments of consciousness, about the drink he would get. Fruity, punchy, tart. Marvin on the beach, Monique beside him, Janine in the water. There would be a paper umbrella and a curvy, swirly stem to his glass. You wouldn’t call him. You wouldn’t tell him you got there safely. There was too much damage. Too much adrenaline. You couldn’t feel most of your injuries. This was it. You were wrong: he should have been worried after all.

[sturnioloisland]

Happier | M.S.

Hello everyone :) this is very much my first time posting on tumblr, and I quite literally have no clue what I am doing.

I’m also making this post from my phone, so if it’s messed up just ignore it. Let me know if y’all like this or hate it. Either one is fine.

Pairing: Matt x Fem!Reader

Warnings: None

A/N: I posted something similar to this on ao3 many a years ago when I was part of a different fandom.

Matt walked down the sidewalk heading towards his favorite coffee shop he used to frequently visit. Within the last month, he seemed to be living in a constant nightmare. He’d wake up everyday alone without her body next to him. He no longer got to see that warm and beautiful smile first thing when he woke up.

Every night was a battle to fall asleep and every morning was a struggle to get out of bed. He regretted his decision, and if he could take back everything he said, he would in a heartbeat. It was just a stupid fight because of his own insecurities. 

Matt remembers the look on her face after he spewed those hateful words. He remembers the tears in her eyes when he said he didn’t love her anymore. He didn’t mean to say it, but he did, and he struggles living with the consequences of his words.

The cold wind nipped at his nose as he approached the coffee shop. It had been a while since Matt had been there. This was the place where they had their first few dates. Melancholy was set deep in his heart, and he couldn’t shake that feeling away. What he would do to go back in time and change the happenings of that night.

He finally reached the shop and quickly entered, the warmth inside immediately thawing his shivering limbs. Matt was always cold, but the girl he once loved - still loved - was always warm, and Matt used to always melt into her embrace.

The line was rather short with only a few people in front of him. Matt already had his order in mind. It was the same thing he got every time. Soon enough he reached the register, immediately recognizing the barista as someone who used to work all the time when he came in with her.

“Hey,” He said with a warm smile, “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you in here. You used to come in all the time.”

Matt smiled timidly and gazed down at his feet. “Yeah, yeah it has been a while, but I plan on coming back more. I sure do miss the muffins you guys sell here.” 

The barista chuckled, “So I take it that you’ll be having your usual order then?”

Matt nodded.

“Okay, I’ll get right to it. It was good to see you again. You disappeared for a few months, so I hope you’re doing well.”

Matt once again flashed him a fake smile, “It was good to see you too.” He finished paying for his order and stepped to the side - secretly grateful he wasn’t asked about why he was there without her.

He messed around on his phone looking through messages from friends who were still checking up on him. He felt guilty for never responding to them, but he didn’t know how. All of them asked how he was or if he was okay or even if he needed anything from them. The one thing he wanted was something that they couldn’t give him.

He scrolled through his camera roll looking at old pictures, the guilt slowly creeping back into him as he looked at the old photos he never bothered to delete. Matt felt that familiar burning sensation behind his eyes and quickly closed the camera roll on his phone. He wouldn’t cry in public. No, he wouldn’t cry at all. He’s done too much of that.

“Matt?” A barista called out as his order was finished. He walked to the counter, grabbed his coffee and warm muffin and thanked the barista before turning to head out, pausing only to grab a few napkins.

On the way out, he saw a familiar head of hair that was styled in a way that he remembered seeing it. He stopped dead in his tracks as he came to realize who it was. The girl whose heart he shattered into a million pieces was standing in line just about four feet away from him. 

She looked as beautiful as San remembered her being. Her beautiful eyes, the small mole under them, her hair, and most importantly her smile. She was smiling brightly, and Matt felt the glass around his heart shatter because she wasn’t alone. No, she was holding hands with another man. A man that wasn’t him.

Matt was staring and he was sure the girl felt his eyes burning into her, for when the latter turned her head to face Matt, that enchanting smile faltered. They both stared at each other, both in disbelief of seeing the other. It was she who broke the silence between them.

“Hi Matt.” Her tone was bitter, and Matt didn’t blame her at all. He broke her heart into a million pieces and left verbal wounds that he knew he could never take back no matter how much he wanted to. He broke the girl’s heart, and Matt was in disbelief that she even acknowledged him.

He hesitated. He hadn’t said her name in so long, and he was trying not to choke on his words. It was a name he used to say full of love and passion. A name that was now just reduced to a memory of something good he once had, something good that he ruined. “Hi y/n.”

A/n again: sorry if this sucks. It was quite literally the one and only thing I have ever written.

[lawsend]

Murder at Vista Heights Chapter 6

Series: Law’s End

Episode 1: Murder at Vista Heights

Fandom: The Royal Romance (loosely, there’s not much canon in here).

Pairings: None yet

Word Count: 2,500

Rating: MA

A/N: This counts as @karahalloway ask from my 1500 followers celebration post on my main account @angelasscribbles.

Warnings for series: adult themes, any given chapter may contain murder, violence, language, drinking, drug use, etc.

My other stuff can be found on my main blog @angelasscribbles here is the Master List.

The homicide division of the seventh precinct had been plunged into chaos. All three interrogation rooms were in use, leaving a person of interest cooling his heels in the waiting area.

Riley was trying to get comments from anyone that would talk to her. Max had narrowly evaded being tossed out of the station when he had attempted to get photos of William Sloan as he was brought in for questioning.

The mayor was livid at being called late in the evening by one of her biggest campaign contributors. “I don’t care what fucking time it is or how many hours you already worked today!” Madeleine was yelling at a lithe redhead with her hair pinned immaculately in place despite her protestations over the lateness of the hour.

Olivia Nevrakis narrowed her eyes at her boss. “And I don’t care how much money Sloan Enterprises has donated to your re-election campaign. If he’s a suspect, he has to be questioned, just like everyone else!”

“William Sloan most certainly did not murder Trent Hayes! Are you out of your mind?”

Olivia doubled down. “If there wasn’t some reason to suspect him, Liam wouldn’t have brought him in for questioning!”

While the mayor and the DA were having their showdown, Drake Walker was pacing the floor, waiting for his turn in interrogation.

He was a person of interest. Presumably, because someone had ratted him out to the police about his business relationship with William Sloan. His eyes scoured the open office area until he spotted her.

Riley saw him coming and made a strategic exit to the woman’s room. She almost ran over the sketch artist from earlier. “Oof! Sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Lillith assured her. “Who are you hiding from?”

“What makes you think I’m hiding from anyone?”

“I recognize the panic.”

“Wait. Who are you hiding from?”

“My sister.”

Riley’s brain spun to catch up. Then realization washed over her. She should have made the connection before. Nevrakis was not a common name. “The DA is your sister?”

Lilith flinched a little. “Half-sister. She hates me.”

“Why?”

Lilith shrugged. “Something about my whore of a mother breaking her mother’s heart.”

“Oh….” Riley was rarely struck speechless, but she had no idea how to respond to that.

“Sorry!” Lilith dropped her face into her hands. “That was TMI and now I’ve made things awkward!”

“No, no, you’re fine!” Riley assured her. “Trust me. As a reporter, I’ve heard every damn thing. That’s not even in the top ten for most awkward.”

Lilith smiled wanly. “I’d like to hear that top ten list then.”

“Sure. We should get drinks sometime.”

“Really?” The sketch artist searched her face to see if she was joking.

“Yeah, why not?”

“Okay, yeah, I’d like that.” This time, the smile was bigger, brighter. Lilith didn’t have a lot of friends, tended to be socially awkward, and was used to being somewhat of a pariah in certain upper society circles because of her status as the bastard child of an extramarital affair.

Riley eased the door open to peer through the crack. “Unless you have any information about the case you’re willing to give me, I need to get back out there.”

Meanwhile, in Interrogation Room One…

“I get it.” Flynn eyed the man sitting across the table from him. “Beautiful woman. Rich, powerful husband. You don’t want to get sidewise with him, so when Trent started blackmailing her, threatening her—”

“I told you I know nothing about that!” Dean yanked on the chains holding him to the table, making the hard metal slam against the wood with a satisfying clang.

“You didn’t know he was blackmailing her?”

“No!”

“Did you know he found out about the affair?”

“No!”

“So, you don’t deny the affair?”

“What?” Dean looked up at him with a defeated expression. “No.”

“Okay, good. We’re getting somewhere. So, you were sleeping with her and—”

“I love her!”

“Okay, okay.” Flynn held his hands up in surrender. “You’re in love. And this man threatened her—”

Dean heaved a sigh and slumped back in his seat. “How many times do I have to tell you that I knew nothing about that?”

Interrogation Room Two….

“Here you go, buddy.” Liam sat a bottle of ice-cold water on the table and slid it across to the CEO of Sloan Enterprises. “Sorry about all this. But we have evidence your wife is having an affair and was being blackmailed by the victim. You understand how that gives you motive, right?”

William fixed the detective with a steely glare, remaining silent.

“So, how did it go down? She missed a payment? He called you up and told you? When confronted with proof of the affair, you snapped, shot the messenger so to speak? It’s understandable. Heat of the moment. The sooner you tell me what happened, the sooner I can help you.”

William leaned forward and pushed the water bottle back across the table. “I want my lawyer. Now!”

Interrogation Room Three….

Bertrand stood in the doorway of the room in his somehow perfectly pressed suit and tapped a file folder against the palm of his other hand as he regarded the woman in front of him. “Did you do it yourself, or did you have someone else shoot him? Leo Rys, maybe?”

Katie sniffed as she lifted an imperious gaze to the man across from her. “I had nothing to do with Trent’s death, but I would certainly like to thank whoever did. He was the worst kind of pond scum, and he won’t be missed.”

“Not exactly the type of sentiments that will exonerate you, Mrs. Sloan.”

She gave him a coy smile. “Please. Call me Katie.”

Bertrand’s dour expression never changed. “I don’t think you grasp the gravity of the situation, Mrs. Sloan.”

A mirthful laugh bubbled out of her. “I’m not worried because I didn’t do it.”

“Who else had more of a motive than you?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you talk to that psycho he cheated on me with?” Her face lit up with clear hatred.

Bertrand languidly raised an eyebrow. “And that would be?”

“Sabrina Simmons!”

“Are they still an item?”

“If they are, he’s cheating on her, I guarantee it, and you know what they say about a woman scorned. Besides, she has a history of stalking behavior. She’s fucking crazy!”

Bertrand made a noncommittal sound in his throat as he jotted the name down on his notepad.

Back in the main office area…

Riley was trying to sweet talk a crime scene investigator when Drake caught up with her. “Rashad. That’s a beautiful name.”

“Thanks.” Even with his dark complexion, the blush that spread across his features was noticeable.

“There you are!” Drake’s voice boomed out as he grasped her upper arm firmly and pulled her away from Rashad. “I think we’re overdue for a conversation.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what—”

Rashad was suddenly serious. “Hey! Is everything okay?”

Riley’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men, noting the tension in both sets of shoulders. Diffusing the situation was preferable to escalating it, so she smiled sweetly at Rashad. “It’s fine. He’s right. We have a previous…. agreement we need to discuss.”

“Oh.” The other man looked disappointed, but excused himself with a regretful glance back at the reporter.

“Did you rat me out to the cops, Riley?” Drake asked as he pulled her to the side of the room for a private conversation.

“Absolutely not.”

“Then why have I been brought in for questioning? Why is my client in an interrogation room right now?”

“Your client is in an interrogation room because his wife got busted with her lover tonight by the lead detective on the case.” Riley pulled her arm out of his grasp, but moved her body closer to his. “As for figuring out he hired you as a PI, I’m assuming that was their own detective work because I did not rat you out!”

He wanted to believe her. All CCPD had to do to find him was to run Sloan’s financials. Or Max’s. “Hm. Why do I have a feeling you’re going to be a giant pain in my ass? Tell me this, who pointed them in the Sloan’s direction in the first place?”

“A private citizen who witnessed—”

Drake’s lips pressed into a thin line as he shook his head. “Maxwell Beaumont was not a private citizen when he took those photographs!”

A scathing voice cut through their conversation. “Did she sleep with you for information, too?”

They both turned to find Liam approaching, with Max hot on his heels.

Drake took a step back in confusion. “What? We haven’t slept together!”

“Yet,” Max mumbled under his breath. His eyes widened when he realized Liam might have heard him. He cleared his throat and began to fiddle with his camera, pretending to ignore the conversation.

Riley shot a murderous expression at Liam. “For the last time, Liam, that’s not what happened!”

Drake blinked as he processed the insinuation. Moving his attention back to Riley, he asked, “You slept with him for information?”

“No, I did not.” She replied through gritted teeth.

“Come on, Walker.” Liam gestured toward the interrogation room. “We need to have a discussion about what services you provided for William Sloan.”

Drake turned his head to watch Riley over his shoulder as he followed the detective, mumbling the whole time about client privacy.

As Liam and Drake walked down the hall toward the interrogation rooms, they passed William Sloan and his lawyer, Sadie McGraw, on their way out.

The moment Madeleine saw William and Sadie, she scurried after them, apologizing profusely for the misunderstanding.

Bertrand and Flynn walked into the open office area deep in conversation, comparing notes about their respective interrogations. Olivia approached them before they could make it to Bertrand’s office, a dark haired young man trailing behind her. She wasted no time demanding answers about the investigation.

Bertrand ushered everyone into his office, where the DA was given all the latest updates on the case.

When the detectives were finished talking, Olivia nodded her head. “Between Trent’s bank account showing deposits from Katie and Dean’s confession of the affair, I think Kiara will sign off on a search warrant for the Sloan properties and bank accounts.” She turned to bark at the law intern who had been shadowing her for weeks. “Anton! Get Judge Theron on the phone!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Anton squeaked as he fumbled for his phone.

Thirty minutes later, the CCPD had a search warrant, Drake was released from interrogation and Bertrand was yelling at Riley and Max to get out of his station house.

“What are you doing at my desk?”

Riley looked up into Liam’s stormy expression as she closed the lid of her laptop. “Updating my story. I promise I didn’t look through your files!”

“This time.”

“That’s what I said.” She gave him a disarming smile as she rose and started stuffing the computer, notepads, and pens into her taupe, Saffiano leather Kate Spade laptop tote. “I didn’t read any of your files this time.”

It had been a long day; he was tired; he was irritated; he was ready for a break in this case… and yet something about her infectious grin and the teasing lilt in her voice pulled a begrudging smile from him. He shook his head in wonderment. How did she keep getting under his skin?

He called out to her as she walked away. “Hey, Riley!”

She turned back to face him. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. Your intel was actually helpful tonight.”

Her grin broadened into a full fledged smile, lighting up her whole face. “You’re welcome, detective. See you around.”

She found Drake and Max both waiting for her at the homicide office door. She directed her attention to Drake. “What are you still doing here?”

“Just got out of interrogation, thanks to someone who doesn’t understand confidentiality.” There was no accusation in his tone, just a simple statement of fact.

“It’s not my fault your client was implicated in a homicide.”

“Oh, I’m not blaming you.” He replied as he looked past her to shoot daggers at Max.

Max blinked. “What did I do?”

Drake shook his head as he pushed off the wall he’d been leaning against. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. She’s with me.” Max flushed a deep shade of crimson. “We’re both in my car, I mean!”

“Then I’ll walk you both out. Can’t be too careful. It’s late, and this is Cordonia City.”

“I’m perfectly capable of protecting her.”

Drake’s eyes ran quickly and dismissively over the younger man. “Sure you are, kid.”

The three stepped out into the dimly lit, air-conditioned hallway as Liam watched them leave with curiosity, regret, and annoyance mingling in his expression.

The ancient, decrepit elevator dinged as it rocked to a stop on the first floor and the doors slid creakily open.

Neville VanCouer was arguing with the front desk sergeant. “I heard suspects were brought in for questioning. I just want to get a statement—”

“Heard? Or read it in my story?” Riley gloated.

Neville looked like his head was about to explode. “Why were they allowed in?”

The desk sergeant’s bored expression never changed as he shrugged. “Came in with a homicide detective.”

“How?”

Another shrug from the sergeant.

Neville spun on Riley. “The updates you’ve been posting…someone is giving you insider information!”

She gave him a saccharine sweet smile. “Or I’m just a better reporter than you.”

Neville took a step toward her, but Drake moved quickly, inserting himself between Riley and the other reporter. “Why don’t you go harass someone else?”

Neville glared at Drake, but he stepped back. The showdown was broken by Neville’s photograph, who had just reappeared from the men’s room. “Hey! That’s the guy that told me there was a door open around back!”

Max lifted a shoulder innocently. “There was when I was back there.”

The other man’s eyes narrowed. “Then why haven’t any crime scene photos been published anywhere?”

“Ah…. technical difficulties.”

The photographer looked skeptically between Max and Neville, as if trying to decide if Max was lying.

Neville shook his head, “It’s not worth it, Tariq. Come on, let’s go.”

“See?” Drake was almost gloating. “You needed me.”

Riley rolled her eyes. “Neville is annoying and slimy, but he’s not dangerous.”

“Yeah,” Max chimed in, “And we’re standing in a police station.”

“Listen.” Riley decided to get the elephant in the room out of the way. “I know you think I threw you under the bus with Liam. I’ll understand if you want to cancel our dinner plans.”

“Oh, we’re still going to dinner.”

Riley’s brows furrowed in confusion. “But I thought you said—”

“I said you were going to be a giant pain in my ass.” His eyes tracked across her face. “But something tells me you’re worth all the trouble.”

[goodluckdetective]

FIC: FIVE HOURS (Tumblr Edition)

Ship: Durge/Astarion but this is a fic about Astarion

Fandom: BG3

Warnings: Astarion backstory is referenced in passing

Rating: PG-13

AO3

Summary: 

Being controlled by one’s dark urge is hard, but watching someone you care for lose themselves might be harder. Or Astarion and five hours spent watching over someone he can no longer recognize. (How do you keep hating yourself as a monster when you've started to fall for one?)

Notes:

Hello, I took one look at vampire man and Durge and went “ah yes, the drama of falling in love with someone who sees themselves as a monster.” This fic does have a custom dark urge/durge because I don’t think it hits as hard otherwise, but it’s very much a fic about Astarion. Rune in this piece is me holding up a mirror and going “if you’re gonna to see the humanity in this person, then why do you refuse to do it for yourself” while Astarion hisses like a cat. Sorry bud, get perceived. All you need to know about Rune is that they’re a NB human wild magic sorcerer (they/them) A big thanks to @dykezambo and Rose for being my beta readers. I salute you.

Fic is below the cut

HOUR ONE:

Astarion thinks it might still be some sort of sick prank until Rune Tavernus’ eyes roll up into the back of their head and they collapse to the ground in a heap.

A prank would make more sense than this, Astarion thinks, as he scrambles onto his feet and towards the unconscious sorcerer. Rune wasn’t much of a prankster, but they did have some wit and a streak of dark humor to match. What the point would be of a prank like this was beyond Astarion, but in his head he can manufacture a bizarre scenario where Rune thinks it would be funny to give Astarion a taste of his own medicine with a sinister wake-up call. And yes, the whole explanation of “killing the one they cared most for” didn't fit the prank theory, Rune wouldn’t play with his feelings so brazenly, but when one's occasional bedmate starts rambling about being forced to kill you, a cruel trick tends to be a kinder explanation. 

And then Rune passed out and that idea had gone out the metaphorical window.

“Shit,” Astarion says, pressing his palm to their forehead. Rune runs warm to Astarion, almost everyone does, but they feel clammy to the touch. Their short white hair is almost damp with sweat and sticks to their forehead. He shakes them, once, then twice, calling their name with increasing volume, but they don’t stir. That in itself is alarming; Rune is not a deep sleeper. In fact, they’re known for sleeping poorly, waking up from unremembered dreams with a choked-off scream. Every morning they chug whatever caffeinated beverage Halsin brews as soon as it’s cool enough not to burn their tongue. 

Rune doesn’t rouse even after a minute of shaking. Astarion considers waking Shadowheart, but the whole business with Alfira gives him enough pause to instead first go for the rope in his pack. Rune had been back to normal by morning when she was slain; if this is similar, then Astarion would just have to wait until dawn for a full explanation. With a great deal of effort on his part, he drags Rune to an open bedroll closest to the fire and binds their arms together as well as their legs, feeling somewhat like out of body. 

(He tries hard to not think of a pig prepared for slaughter. He tries harder to not think about how Cazador might have tied up the people he brought home the very same way.) 

“You know, this was not the situation I was envisioning when the idea of you and rope came to mind,” he says, because making a flirty joke is familiar and Gods knows he needs something familiar right now. This is a situation he can handle better as Astarion the rake, who lets nothing get too close, who brushes off mortal peril with a quick comment and a fake grin. When he’s sure the ropes are tight, he walks over to his bedroll, and grabs a blanket to sit on, a light scroll, a book, and after some hesitation, his daggers. 

(He’s not going to need them, he isn’t. Rune gave him these daggers and told him to “keep them as sharp as your fangs” should he choose to use them.)

(He desperately hopes he’s not going to need them).

Once his supplies are grabbed and organized, he places the blanket on the ground and sits on it. He casts light on a nearby wilted plant, and sits back. He looks at the sorcerer he has bedded in a gambit for security and thinks about how said gambit turned on its head when he found he actually rather liked the person who offered to cast him minor illusion to see his own reflection and provided their blood in a land of shadows because “you shouldn’t starve.”

“I will admit this isn’t how I wanted to spend my evening, but I suppose I’ll survive.” He reaches for his book and opens it, even though he doubts he’s going to be able to focus enough to read a word. “Hopefully, this is all a false alarm, and I can simply catch up on this chapter. Do you think the Count will actually manage to make any progress in his grand plan, or is he going to keep dithering about Waterdeep for another thirty pages?”

(The book was also a gift from Rune, though it was not the first one the sorcerer gave him. A day after reaching the Blighted Village, Astarion had sneaked back from his midnight meal to find the human grumbling over a slightly burnt text near the fire. Hoping to distract them from the fact he was awake in the first place, Astarion had inquired about the books’ contents, only to find himself the audience for a tirade about overly complicated murder plots. Apparently, Rune had strong opinions on the accuracy of snakes climbing ropes. From that point on, Astarion had found himself part of the world’s strangest murder mystery book club, where the pair both tried to guess how the murder took place and then endlessly complained about how overcomplicated it was when stabbing them in an alley would work just fine). 

Rune does not reply. Astarion doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not. Instead of debating it further, he instead tries to turn his attention to the text in front of him, and hopes that Rune is wrong and the only thing that will occur this night is Astarion getting some reading in and Rune waking up with some neck pain.

HOUR TWO: 

Rune wakes up around ten minutes after the first hour mark. 

That isn’t quite correct. Something wakes up around the ten minute mark. It is not Rune.

Astarion knows it before they even open their mouth. From the moment they wake up, they struggle against their own bindings, jerking much like a wounded animal caught in a trap. When their eyes open, there are none of the emotions he’s used to seeing in their expression, instead an empty raw look that reminds Astarion of a starving hound. Before he can say a word, they snarl at him.

“I see my rope is sadly going to good use,” Astarion says, putting the book aside and getting on his knees in case he needs to stand and get away. He doubts it, those knots should hold and Rune doesn’t seem to be capable of casting spells at the moment, but it's best to be cautious. 

“I will rip out your tongue and swallow it whole,” Rune says in a voice that does not sound like Rune at all. It’s a whole octave lower, and there’s a throaty edge to it, like the human has inhaled smoke.

“I know I tease quite a bit, but ripping out my tongue is rather excessive, don’t you think?” The banter doesn’t land, it’s almost like Rune can’t even hear him. Astarion wonders if they will even remember this in the morning. 

He hopes not. He can remember watching his body follow Cazador’s every order as he tried desperately to claw back control. It is a fate he would not wish on any of his companions. 

It occurs to him that this could be like a possession. It would make the most sense, and the impulse to wake up Shadowheart returns. Rune hisses and snaps forward, trying to bite one of his hands and Astarion steps back. He can see drool and blood from their now broken lip fall onto the bedroll. 

( He can see himself in a coffin, snapping at the rat Cazador is holding out for him with a wicked smile .)

No, he won’t wake her. Not yet at least, not unless morning comes without a respite. Instead he shakes his head, tries to keep his voice light. 

“Ah, ah, ah, we ask before we bite.”

Rune snaps at him again, struggling at the bindings and Astarion can smell the blood from broken skin on their wrists and lip. His own mouth waters and he ignores it.

If there is one thing he learned in Cazador’s halls, it was how to be hungry. 

HOUR THREE:

After an hour, the thing that has taken Rune’s face stops threatening to murder him and starts growling instead. Despite it being off-putting, Astarion is thankful for the respite, as all the comments about ways to display his internal organs were getting old. 

“You’re cute, you know.,” he says, too tired to think through what he’s saying. “In another life we might have been friends.”

It’s an odd thought that comes to mind, the concept of him meeting whatever this is back when he was under Cazador’s boot. What would he make of someone like this, who growled murderous insults and clawed at the ground as if the dirt could draw blood? Interesting perhaps? Maybe pitiful? An asset against Cazador?

(He knows what he would have done. He would have dragged them back to the manor and not had a second thought as soon as Cazador had them in his clutches. He would have gone back to the rooms and thought nothing more of a human with white hair, a lanky build and a soft smile. He would have continued on and not known that should he have met that same human during the day, they would ask him about the embroidery on his sleeves and tease him that magistrates were actually in contact with the hells. He would not even know the human’s name when the sun rose to a world they no longer occupied).

(He cannot think about this. He refuses). 

He feels like he’s going to be sick. 

“On second thought,” he says, looking away from Rune. The shadow lands around them seem darker at night. He finds himself desperate for the sun. “It’s probably for the best that we didn't meet at all.”

The thing that is not Rune growls again, with more energy this time. 

“Growl all you want but it won’t stop the dawn. This will be over soon.”

HOUR FOUR:

Whatever is controlling Rune goes back to insults eventually, though their voice frayed from all the growling. Astarion ignores most of them, until one in particular captures his attention.

“I will wed you with a delicate veil of blood blooming over your white curls.”

Astarion stares at Rune, or whatever is possessing them, with a rather shocked expression. It says something about his life, or undeath, he supposes, that the word “wed” is the one that caught him off guard in that sentence, not the rest of it. Marriage is not a concept he has thought about in relationship to himself for at least a century. When he was younger it had its allure, Astarion was serious when he said Wyll was the type of man he dreamed of marrying when he was thirteen, but now? He’s a spawn, for Gods sake. Creatures like him either die or become vampire lords: there are no other endings. 

He does not say any of this out loud. Instead he goes for a quip. 

“Marriage? Darling, I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, we’re not even-“

He cuts off. They’re not even what? More than bedmates? That’s not right: he hasn’t bedded Rune since they entered the shadowlands and Rune has made no complaint about it at all. Not even friends? That didn’t seem right either. He’s not sure how to label how he feels about this human, but when one offers to draw your scars in the dirt so you can see them and you actually let them, you were probably at least friends.  Exclusive? No, that also doesn’t fit. Astarion hasn’t bothered to lie with anyone else in camp and Rune hasn’t either, even when Astarion made it clear he didn’t mind. And it wasn’t like Rune didn’t have options to pick from: Lae’Zel’s proposal had been quite direct and Astarion had bit the inside of his cheek to not laugh as their usually composed sorcerer flushed peach pink. Gale had made an attempt as well, though Rune didn’t tell him about that one until afterwards. 

“I’ve spoiled you too much for even the lover of a Goddess. How flattering!” They were in Rune’s tent at the time, a mage light cast upon a blue crystal Rune kept around for decor. It was one of the few pieces of decoration they kept around consistently, as the human tended to switch things out, trying to figure out what they liked and what they didn’t from the ruins of their memory. Rune had returned from a talk with Gale with a moderate flush and after a glass of terrible wine and some cajoling, Astarion had gotten the whole story out of them.

Rune tilted their head and shook it slightly. Their hair was rumpled from a day of casting electricity magic, and Astarion resisted the urge to curl his fingers into one of the white cowlicks. Something about the lack of polish Astarion found endearing.  

“No, no, not that,” they said. “It’s just, well for one, I don’t like him like that. And even if I did, well-” Rune took a sip of their wine, finishing off the glass. “His last relationship wasn’t good for him-”

“Darling, you cannot kill the Goddess of magic,” Astarion said, noticing a hard glint in their eyes. It wasn’t like Astarion was on board with the idea as a concept, the Goddess sounded dreadful, but he rather liked existing and fighting Gods was a speedy way to die. He didn’t mind Rune’s more violent tendencies, but he’d rather they not get themselves smited. 

“Anyway-” Rune continued, ignoring him. “He’s a sweet man but, well.” They placed the glass on a wooden stump Rune used as a side table and tangled their fingers together. It was something they did when they were being thoughtful. “Gale seems to admire me too much for his own good. I’d ruin him.” 

That was not the answer Astarion was expecting. He sat up on his own bedroll, a feeling of apprehension coming over him.

“And what, you think I’m-” Already ruined? That stung more than Astarion cared to admit, even if it wasn’t surprising. He didn’t finish his sentence. He couldn’t. Saying it out loud made it seem too concrete, too physical, too noticeable. 

"What! No!” Rune’s eyes grew large and they shook their head violently. They tore their left hand from their right to gesture with and for a moment, Astarion feared for the fate of the wine glass on the table should they accidentally knock it off. With their right hand, they reached out and grabbed Astarion’s hand tightly, while their left reached out for his jaw, pausing a moment so he could turn away should the touch be unwanted. Astarion didn’t protest, and Rune’s hand touched his chin briefly to tilt his head up so he’d meet their eyes. “No, absolutely not. Shit, I could have phrased that better. Gods, no, Astarion, I didn’t mean it that way.”

"And in what way could you mean it?” The sneer in Astarion’s voice wasn’t intentional, but it was better than sounding hurt. 

Rune bit their lower lip, which was something Astarion often found adorable when he was in a better mood. They looked away from him, took a steadying breath, then looked back. “I’d ruin Gale because he’s a hopeless romantic. He’s sweet, but he has a nasty habit of hubris; if faced with an unstoppable problem, he’d burn himself alive to fix it. I’m not saying you’re not smart, or romantic-“

“Or beautiful, don’t forget beautiful.”

Rune chuckled, some tension leaving their shoulders. “That too, as well as quite vain.” Astarion pouted at the addendum but let the sorcerer finish. “I’m saying you’re smart enough to run away.” 

Astarion considered that for a moment. It was certainly better than what he’d originally thought, but he wasn’t quite sure if it was a compliment. What was that supposed to mean? “Are you calling me a coward now?”

Rune smiled, a little sad, and rubbed their thumb across the back of his hand. It was unfamiliar but nice. “No, no, more realistic .” They leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, something they’d previously only done after sex. “I just know you’ll be safe, that’s all. That you wouldn’t hurt yourself for a hopeless cause.” 

Rune jerks again in their sleep, snapping Astarion out of the memory. Thinks of resignation in the sorcerer's eyes that night, how something about it ached. How familiar the sentiment felt.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Astarion says as the sorcerer spits out another cruel insult.

He’s shocked to find that he means it. 

HOUR FIVE

Astarion has spent much of life afraid, but he has never been so frightened when the dawn is an hour away and Rune has not stopped twitching.

He thought he was done with this, the idea of caring for others. After the year in the darkness, he’d swore to never care about anyone again except himself because caring was a luxury and he couldn’t even afford to buy new clothes. The tadpole has given him more freedom than he’s had in centuries but as long as Cazador was alive, caring was supposed to be off the table. 

And yet. And yet. 

Astarion intended for Rune to be a means to an end. Someone to wind around his finger like an armor against the world. But Astarion does not find himself panicking when his armor is dented or bruised. Astarion does not spend more time with his armor than necessary so it will not be lonely. Astarion does not worry that should his armor learn it was initially a means to an end of keeping him safe, it will never trust him again.

(This metaphor is rubbish, this Astarion knows. Watching someone you care for deeply scrape their wrists raw makes one less adept in turns of phrases).

For the first time all night, Rune whimpers, a small soft noise that would have frozen Astarion’s heart if it was still beating. Rune doesn’t whimper (well, not unless it was in the fun sort of way). They’re  reluctant to show weakness or accept the comfort they so freely give to others. For them to sound like this-

Astarion reaches forward and when the human doesn't try to bite him, he pushes their white hair back and out of their eyes. They were drenched in sweat, and still clammy. Before he can pull away, they lean into his hand with a sigh, seeking comfort from frozen hands, and Astarion feels his throat tighten.

“This thing can’t have you,” he says, running his thumb against their forehead wrinkles and a faded scar just over their right eyebrow. They are so covered in scars, and each day they risk gaining even more. “It won’t win.”

Rune doesn’t respond to his statement, instead breathing softly. They must have finally worn themselves out to fall asleep. Astarion considers pulling his hand back, he probably should given the threat were they to wake up again, but he finds himself reluctant to do so, instead continuing to gently stroke the sorcerer’s brow with his thumb. 

“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” He whisperes. The birds were starting to chirp now, singing their song in anticipation of the sunrise. “Come back to yourself, and I’ll consider telling you. I think that’s a fair bargain.”

DAYBREAK:

Day comes and Rune returns with it. 

They don’t open their eyes right away, tense and still. Astarion can see them rub their hands together and they stiffen further when the sorcerer’s thumb runs across some dried blood on their palm. He doesn’t understand why until the corner of their eyes tighten and they suck in a short breath, a whisper of a sob on the precipice. 

Rune told the entire camp that when Alfira died, they’d woken up in the morning with their hands covered in blood. For them to wake up and find the same sensation present-

“It’s your own blood, darling,” Astarion says, reaching forward to place his hand on their shoulder. Their eyes open wide, and they take him in with a look that Astarion feels like he might be able to name if he lived a kinder existence. “You rubbed your wrists raw enough to bleed, I’m afraid.”

“Astarion,” they said, lips parting, some tension melting from their frame. “You’re alright.” Then, they flinch, pain crossing their features. “Ow, my neck.”

Astarion almost wants to cry at the complaint. “You might have strained it trying to bite me. Do you remember that?”

Given the sudden look of horror on Rune’s expression, they do now. 

Rune explains what they can after Astarion unties them. Most of it are things Astarion already knows; Alfira, the urges, the loss of sleep. The insight about Isobel and the butler is a new one, and he thinks back to the cape in his tent that Rune had shoved onto him like they couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. At the time, Astarion thought the gift was an attempt to curry his favor. He’s not sure how to view the gift with this new context.

“I was wondering why you didn’t want to spend much time enjoying Harper's hospitality,” Astarion muses. He watches as Rune rubs their wrists with their palms, trying to massage out the aches. They will need to see a healer for certain; Astarion knows they’ve been dabbling in the bardic arts but not enough to heal injuries. 

“I thought I couldn’t risk it,” Rune says, moving to pick up the rope. Astarion watches as they cast mending and then pull at each end. When the rope holds firm, they hand it back to Astarion. “I thought the less time I spent around there, the less likely I might slip up.”

“If you’d shared that earlier, I would have grumbled less about the horrors of the great outdoors.”

Rune shoots him an apologetic frown. “I thought telling Isobel would be enough. I never thought-“ They close their eyes briefly and sigh. “I should have considered it a possibility. I’m sorry.” When they open their eyes again, Astarion does not miss how they take a step away from him. They look towards the other tents, avoiding his gaze.

“I should tell the others.”

Astarion reaches forward and grabs their wrist. They pull back for a moment and Astarion loosens his grip to make it clear that’s an option, if they want it. But after a second passes and they don’t pull away, he pulls their hand up to inspect the rope burns and cuts. Their wrists are going to bruise a sickening greenish-yellow. 

“You don’t have to tell them if you don’t want.” Astarion says, dropping their wrist. He forces a smile, makes sure his fangs are visible. “I can keep a secret.”

Rune’s hand reaches forward and up, like they are going to touch Astarions face, then stops, dropping arruptly. Astarion finds himself disappointed by the lack of contact. How strange. 

“I know you can,” they said. “But they deserve to know that there’s a danger. I can’t hide a monster from everyone.” And with that they head off towards Lae’Zel’s tent, to start gathering everyone for an unpleasant announcement.

It takes Astarion a moment to realize the “monster” they’re talking about is Rune themselves. 

*******************

Rune tells everyone about the night once everyone is up, gathering everyone around the remains of the fire. For someone who might not have slept more than an hour last night, they’re relatively composed as they tell the story, though they don’t look anyone in the eye as is their usual habit. As the tale begins to wind down, Astarion is reluctant to look at their companions either. 

It occurs to Astarion halfway through Rune’s tale something that he should have realized much earlier: he might be content to camp with a sleeping murderer, but other people might object. In fact, most people might protest to such a situation, and he can feel himself grow colder as he realizes a grave mistake.

When Rune woke him last night, Astarion saw someone who needed their help. He’d held off from grabbing anyone else for the sake of Rune’s privacy. But he never considered they might see something else: a monster needing to be exorcized. 

He steps closer to Rune and is very glad they are wearing their gear.  Astarion doesn’t think most of the camp will attack Rune, it would be foolhardy given the prism’s like of their resident sorcerer, but fear makes people foolish and he is not betting Rune’s life. The sorcerer doesn’t appear to be paying much attention to their crowd at all, a rarity for them, speaking of an urge to maim and kill as they stare down at their raw wrists. When they bring their story to a close, their voice is a whisper from overuse.

“And that’s it,” they say, rubbing a thumb over a red mark on their left hand. “I wasn’t trying to keep it a secret, you know that, I just-it escalated so fast. I thought-no I hoped, Alfira was a one off and when I realized otherwise, well-“ A half hearted shrug. “I’m sorry for not saying anything earlier but that’s all I know.” They look up, exhausted. “I can’t promise it won’t happen again. I’m terrified it will happen again.”

Rune is looking at Astarion when he says the last part. Astarion knows what they’re trying to say, besides the obvious. The statement is one part apology and one part resignation. Permission for him to run away as fast as possible and not look back.

He should run away, that’s the thing. Or at least consider it. Astarion has spent two centuries desperately wishing for the power to just run away, and now that he has it, he should be taking it as far away from this ruinous sorcerer as possible.

He doesn’t want to. It’s ridiculous, and ludicrous and absurd, but he doesn’t want to. Not because this group offers him the closest thing he has to protection against Cazador, not because the prism might not work if he runs too far, but because the person who is now the greatest threat to his person was also the one who offered him blood when he was starving, who stole him gently used clothes because he had none, who treated him not with pity or condemnation but as a person. 

Astarion has so little he could call his own. But whatever relationship lies between him and Rune mocking poorly painted portraits and trying to solve mystery novels three chapters in was his. He will not throw it away so easily. 

Karlach speaks first. “So, how are we doing this then? I’m thinking about shifts so no one gets too tired?”

“What?” Rune sounds entirely lost and Astarion finds he doesn’t follow either. He watches as Karlach counts everyone in camp off on her fingers.

“Well, there are seven of us total, so we could probably each pick a different day and then rotate who has two shifts each tenday.”

“Do you think one of us would be suitable alone, or should we do pairs,” Lae’Zel adds, looking equally contemplative. A smile starts to spread across Astarion’s face as he realizes what they’re discussing. “Though if Astarion could hand it by himself, pairs might be a wasteful use of manpower.”

“Hey-“ Astarion says but before he can speak further, Wyll chimes in. 

“I can take tonight: I rested earlier last night anyway.”

“Are you guys offering to watch me sleep?” Rune says, staring at everyone with their mouth slightly open. It would be cute if they weren’t so incredulous. 

“Ew, that makes it sound creepy,” Karlach says. “We’re watching you in case you get all stabby again.”

“Do they even know how to properly wield a blade?” Lae’Zel eyes Rune’s arms and raises an eyebrow. “They couldn’t even open a door two days ago.”

For the first time since they’ve woken, Rune sounds something other than exhausted. “That door was solid stone-“

“Rune can wield a blade just fine,” Astarion purrs, trying to hide the relief that this is the result of this conversation. Everyone groans, Rune included.

They hash out the specifics of the rotation after that. No one mentions when Rune rubs at their eyes and takes a shuddering breath, nor do they point out how they cling to Karlach when she pulls them into a hug. Shadowheart offers to take a look at her religious texts to see if this malady might be divine in nature, while Gale offers in turn to message Tara and inquire about some texts he has back in Waterdeep. By the time Astarion and Rune are left alone, there is a full schedule set for watching the sorcerer for fits, with Astarion free to steal any extra should he wish to monopolize their time for himself without watching eyes. Rune looks an odd mix of fond and overwhelmed.

Astarion’s heart twists at that. Was that how he looked, when Rune offered him blood upon being rudely awoken? Was that how Astarion looked the next morning when everyone else learned of his affliction and no one began sharpening a stick?

Gratitude should not hurt so much. 

“I know you said it’s worth the peril but I did mean it, you know. When I said you could run. I won’t take it personally.” Rune says after a moment. They’re looking him in the eye, a sharp contrast to earlier when they were speaking about their urges. 

“You did mention it, yes. You know, you told me it wasn’t an insult but I find myself rather insulted. Do you truly expect me to cut and run?”

Rune’s chin tilts up, their face stoic, but Astarion can hear the hint of a tremble in their voice. “You should.”

Astarion thinks to last night. How Rune had woken him up and in a shaky voice told him that his life was in danger solely due to the sorcerer’s care. A care Rune apparently doesn’t expect to be returned in light of this recent revelation.

Astarion will have to remedy that. Come clean about his whole botched scheme really, which he’s frankly dreading, but some tasks are worth doing despite the mess. Now isn’t the best time but soon. He’s hoping he’ll find the right words soon enough, words that are actually his instead of automatic cloying phrases used over two centuries of hell. To stop feeling like he needs to put on an act.

“I’ve been doing quite a few things I shouldn’t do recently; walking in the sun, leaving the city, snacking on nearby sorcerers,” He turns to Rune and quirks one eyebrow. “I might as well keep at it with such excellent results.”

Rune blushes and chuckles. Their hand is right there, should Astarion wish to take it, but it doesn’t feel right, not until he tells them the entire truth at least. Hopefully it will still be there once the dust has settled.

It might be nice, he thinks, to lace his fingers between theirs and know that he’s doing so solely because he wants to. 

[liver-ology]

The Inevitably Divisive Nature of Billy Hargrove

I really understand where Billy antis are coming from. He’s terrible, objectively. But the one thing that’s not letting me dislike him is the scene when he’s flayed and he tells Karen Wheeler to stay away from him. There’s something genuine in him that knows he’s going to hurt someone and desperately doesn’t want to. So I see a path to redemption. A common argument against Billy is that if Dacre Montgomery wasn’t so attractive, people wouldn’t be looking so hard for a way to redeem him. This is undoubtedly true, but he played Billy with so much nuance that it’s impossible not to want to explore that. The character may have been racist and abusive, but he also breeds brainrot. How did he get that way? Why is he such a dick? Can he be saved? Should we want him to be? Every post I see about why people shouldn’t engage with Billy in fandom just digs him deeper into my mind, makes me ask more questions.

Pre-flaying, Billy is obviously racist and abusive and terrible. He has almost no redemptive qualities other than the fact that his abusive tendencies are clearly continuing a cycle perpetrated by Neil’s own abusive parenting, which isn’t much of a redemption. But putting characters in Situations reveals their inner nature, and a scared, caring guy comes out when he tries to resist the Mind Flayer. This leads me to believe that the hateful things he says and does aren’t really his beliefs but reflections of what he’s been taught. This thought is definitely influenced by Dacre being exceptionally hot in a wig, but the underlying point would still stand even if Billy looked like Gollum. But because he doesn’t, a problem I see a lot is the willingness to overlook everything bad Billy has done. People who believe Billy is redeemable tend not to even attempt to redeem him, choosing instead to make him an entirely different character that isn’t nearly as deeply entrenched in the fucked-up mindset that canon Billy inarguably is. I think this is where the issues arise for Billy antis, with the excusal of all the bad shit Billy’s done. I think this approach is lazy and boring, but finding fanworks of Billy where he actually sucks and goes through the long, difficult process of change and real redemption is damn near impossible. If you find one, drop the link.

The root of his divisiveness is within the conflict between the character as a whole and his script. In the script, Billy was originally supposed to say the n word, but Dacre Montgomery refused. The Duffers wrote him as a one-dimensional evil douchebag, but Dacre turned him into a real, nuanced character with more to him than Racist Abused Abuser That Gets Evil-ified. I think this is why he’s so divisive. Billy antis can’t look past the way he was written, and his supporters can’t let go of all his little nuances. Both sides have merit, and I think this is where it’s important to recognize that the Duffers do this all the time. Steve was originally supposed to be a Billy-esque character that was only there to be a douchebag plot device that died in the first season, and then Joe Keery played him so likeably and with so much more complexity than what was written that he stayed on for the whole run of the show. In subsequent seasons, Steve grew and changed and became a better person than he was in season 1. I think there was an avenue for this same thing to happen with Billy, had he been given the time. Some people don’t agree, and I see why. Either way, the takeaway from this is that everything wrong with anything ever is the fault of the Duffer Bros. Thank you for reading this egregiously long post, and have a lovely rest of your day.

[thesingingrevolution]

the way winwin carefully scheduled his year around the wayv comeback but sm suddenly switched the comeback dates up on him and he ended up not being able to participate ... and THEN he cant make it to the versache event cus he has to talk all of this out w the company.

yunquis r so strong... i would not be able to deal fr. how do u do it???

first of all thanks for your message 🙇🏻‍♀️💌

personally, i felt so upset and disappointed when the news broke :( it was bad enough it was gonna be an ot5 comeback, but when it was revealed it was because sm changed their pre planned schedule it made me angry. i understand that winwin has other important activities and if it was his own choice to sit this one out, i would have respected his decision and happily supported the other five members. but the fact that he went out of his way to ensure his schedule would align and they couldn’t even respect that.. it made me really sad. as far as we know, there is no reason this comeback had to me moved up. they just did it. and i’ve never seen anything like it, how can a company not respect their artist in this incredibly basic way? it’s heartbreaking.

i wish winwin stays in nct because i truly love him and i love his friendships in the group and his contributions etc etc but stuff like this makes me wish more and more than he only does what he needs to do for his career and happiness, regardless of how we feel. these transgressions are too serious in my opinion, to the point that when wayv were promoting on my youth during the last few months of 2023 as a proper group it almost felt like a fever dream. a full group promoting a comeback together should not be a rare occurrence. it’s so so so sad and wayv as a whole deserve so much better. the fact that i felt absolutely no excitement over this cb and haven’t even looked at concept pics or listened to any songs says so much. i will eventually, but it hurts right now :( i will need some time to get over this. not the fault of any of the members, of course!!! will always love and wish then the best.

moreover i hate that this feeds into the idea that winwin doesn’t care about his group. it’s such a common sentiment in the (toxic/misinformed/immature) parts of the fandom. if anything, winwin’s actions and deliberate desire to partake in the cb tells us the EXACT OPPOSITE. if he didn’t care, he clearly wouldn’t have gone through the trouble. like you’ve said, it’s causing more issues for him. so why would he do it if he didn’t care? i’m glad some clarifying posts went semi viral, and there was a decent amount of outrage. rightfully so.

as for how i do it….. my friend,, it’s not easy. to be honest, i have had periods where it wasn’t good for me (last summer, for example, i had so much free time to dedicate to kpop and it started affecting my mental health when i saw my fav neglected and disrespected all the time). thankfully i am better now and have been for a long time, it’s really embarrassing to admit kpop can mess one up like that lol but i hope people can be honest about how they feel since it’s very real in my experience. i try not too think about it too much and keep busy with other things, i took a huge step back from stan twitter and i only follow a few yunqi accs who post updates/positivity and don’t engage in fanwars and spread aggression across the internet. as for his company, it’s a bit more complicated. i feel as though his potential has never been fully realized, which is sad for a seasoned idol so many years into his career. but it also gives him so much space to grow, every now and then i am so surprised by his incredible work in other areas, because he was held back so much. i am so glad there are people who recognize his potential <3

i also try to remember that even though i love nct and its a huge part of my life, it’s just music and no matter what happens things will be alright. we will always have the good times and memories and that makes me feel better when i get upset. lastly, i learned to primarily focus on my own friends and my own thoughts. just last night, i told a friend i love winwin the most and she said she likes him and that he suits me as a bias. all my irl kpop stan friends have been nothing but supportive and sweet. and in my own head, winwin is the best, i dont have to think about his company and random people online to hold that opinion, and at the end of the day my thoughts are the only ones that really matter when it comes to this.

i’m sorry this is so long hahahha, but hopefully it explains a little about how i feel about all this!! once again thank you for your message 💖

[frogbrainedfool]

Okay so here’s my UNORGANIZED THOUGHTS ON LEGENDS: DARKSTALKER AFTER STAYING UP READING IT LAST NIGHT! TM

SPOILER WARNING

I would read an entire book about just Clearsight, she’s so freaking interesting. The timelines and how they affected her relationships, it was just so fascinating.

I imagined her as this wise adult when I read the prelude to book 11, but now I’m like dang she was just some kid who ran away from home.

Fathom is pretty much Turtle, part 2, Not Annoying This Time! And tbh I don’t mind that at all. His refusal to use his animus magic felt a lot more justified.

I sort of understand why people would like Darkstalker now, but I myself still hate him. The whole statue thing, the spell to make Clearsight unable to see negative futures. Dude.

I kept on anticipating Indigo to get her own chapters but it was just the three protagonists.

I’m stuck between finding Indigo annoying and knowing her paranoia was entirely justified.

I really wanted to like Whiteout but she just wasn’t that endearing to me. I didn’t even dislike her, she just was sort of “meh”. I kinda wanna crack her brain open like an egg and examine what’s going on in there, if that makes sense.

I expected Arctic to be worse. Really setting a high bar when he literally schemed to kill his own son and puppet around his daughter and I still thought he was gonna be worse-

TBH I thought Indigo was going to die at some point. Glad she didn’t.

I wish the scene where Clearsight put the bracelet on Darkstalker was a little more dramatic.

Similarly, “The Scene With Arctic” kinda fell flat for me but that’s probably because the fandom built it up so much.

Darkstalkers chapters in general felt kinda underwhelming. The downfall of Jerboa the first felt a lot more impactful. It just felt pretty lame, as though Darkstalker wasn’t becoming more rotten but his good parts were just gradually removed. I suppose we’re supposed to assume his corruption spills over into arc 2.

I find the relationship between Darkstalker and Clearsight rather interesting. They just.. Knew they’d be together. What a bizarre thought, knowing the names of your nonexistent children before you even spoke.

From what little I knew of Albatross before reading, I always imagined him as this creepy skeletal old man dragon. Like he’d always been a little off or something along those lines. Seeing him described as a jovial, wise, grandpa-ish sort of guy did catch me by surprise.

Blob is love. Blob is life.

I wonder what’s up with Pearl. Like is she cool? She okay? Probably not, and I wanna know more about that.

It was fun recognizing scenes from MAPs, like the wooden figure or Albatross’s description of his first spell. Speaking of, it’ll be fun to watch the MAPs I’d avoided so long due to spoilers.

It was kind of jarring watching Arctic and Foeslayer jump from star crossed lovers, all sparkly eyed and fuzzy and excited, to screaming matches in the kitchen. It makes me want to learn more about them.

So are all dragonets relatively intelligent when they hatch or is Darkstalker just a special little guy? We do see from Moon’s hatching that she understands hiding, and she picks up the word “Mom” pretty quick, so is this just normal? Or maybe it’s like a nightwing thing? And is it affected if you’re moonborn? Ah, questions upon questions…

Why didn’t Fathom just enchant away his magic? Like, cast a final spell with his vow to make sure he’d never be able to use his magic? Bam, his paranoia problem is solved! But then I guess the bracelet plan wouldn’t work.

Kind of hilarious how Darkstalker is like “Nothing will ever go wrong with my animus magic because I’m really cool and powerful and always make good choices! How do I know that? Because I have animus magic on my side, of course!”

Overall, I did enjoy the book! Really wish I could read more about Clearsight, she was definitely my favorite character.

[lotusthewriter]

What I've Done - Chapter 1

Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist (2003)

Rating: T

Relationships: Alphonse (Wrath) & Edward

Characters: Alphonse Elric (Wrath), Edward Elric, Sloth, Dante, Envy; other characters to be added

Summary: "As soon as the homunculus decides to shove these feelings down his throat and take the alchemist to Dante for once and for all, his troubled opponent finally dares to say something that stops the world from going.

“... Al?”

It paralyzes Wrath."

A Homunculus Alphonse Elric AU.

Word count: TBA

AO3

A/N: I thought of this AU back in 2021 and it changed a lot since then, but I was at least able to write the first chapter and hopefully the second will be up soon. The rest of the AU is mostly loose concepts and I'm not sure if I'm really going to finish this story concisely, I was still excited to introduce this AU in writing form.

I will be adding the trigger warnings for the whole AU, not this chapter necessarily. Please read them and try to look after yourself if you can.

TRIGGER WARNINGS - death, repressed trauma, child abuse, physical and emotional abuse, emotional neglect, canon-typical violence, self-sacrifice, suicidal thoughts, blood and injury and loss of limbs. (More might be added)

P/roship DNI.

--

“It’s time.”

Someone like him could easily be spotted and not recognized as a human. Pale skin, purple eyes, purely long, black hair… and in his case, two limbs that don’t belong to this body. Whoever it must belong to, Wrath is not aware.

Everyone else already got to meet the young alchemist that seeks the Philosopher’s Stone. Wrath, however, has never actually left Dante’s mansion until now. When she wasn’t teaching him alchemy, Wrath would be alone in his room, bored out of his mind, but knowing he couldn’t leave or do anything about it.

This is the very first time the homunculus goes on a mission. He’s all on his own. Well, even if he wanted help, he wouldn’t get it: either because they don’t care about him, or they outright hate him. So, he’s not entirely disappointed by being alone. If anything, Wrath has gotten used to it.

He only has one mission: bring the alchemist back to the homunculi, alive. They failed in the first try, but Dante rests assured that Wrath will change the course of fate.

The boy is driven by his want to impress Dante and the other homunculi, so they would finally see that Wrath is worth something. He’s trained a lot to be part of their battles, and he needs to prove himself useful if they want him around.

Thus, Wrath is hidden behind the endless green of the forest, moving slowly, not making a single sound. While Dante receives her former student, he hunts down the alchemist in the wild, knowing he stormed off outside.

“You know what to do.”

It’s simple.

It doesn’t actually take too long to find a presence in the wild, not much far from the mansion. Wrath, already camouflaged, takes a peek where the light touches. Immediately, he detects braided hair, blond like gold, and overall black clothes. From this angle, the alchemist looks… short. He’s young but that was the only detail Wrath was informed of.

The teen appears to be thinking, hands inside his pockets. He’s rather quiet, looking up at the sky. Judging by his low shoulders, the prodigy seems… sad.

Wrath will definitely be detected.

So, he waits.

Observes.

For someone with such lively colors, the alchemist doesn’t reflect on them at all. He’s seeking the Philosopher’s Stone, like every other alchemist who tried, so he must be trying to bring someone back, right?

Before Wrath can even wonder, the homunculus shakes his head to focus instead on his enemy’s movements and noises, to advance in the perfect moment.

After a couple more minutes of nothing, Wrath is a bit surprised when the other boy takes something in his hand. The former can’t see it very well from here, but he hears an opening noise, kind of metallic.

“... Don’t forget…”

Wrath is able to leave the tree, slowly, as the blond’s attention is entirely on whatever is in his hand. The former’s arm has already been transmuted into a blade made of stone, so he can threaten the alchemist with it. If he’s fast enough, that is.

His purple eyes remain focused, whereas the other doesn’t seem to care about the world around him at all. Just this one object.

“... I won’t.”

Wrath does not make a sound.

The perfect spot.

“I promise,” the tired voice speaks out to the above, “I’ll make it up to you…”

Now.

Yet whatever name the alchemist was going to say, is never known.

Because he’s quick to also use a blade of metal out of his right arm, defending himself from Wrath’s attack.

But the homunculus is not going to give up so easily. He’ll do whatever it takes, for everyone’s sake.

The human alchemist is thrown off, panting, eyes wide. Eventually, he seems to calm down as he processes what has just happened, analyzing Wrath and frowning in confusion.

“You’re… a kid,” he notes. “But… you’re just like them , aren’t you?”

Wrath doesn’t reply.

“Wait, your arm is”– the other gasps in realization –“you can do alchemy?!”

Again, the prodigy gets no answers.

Only another fast attack, so the blond can only dodge and even throw Wrath away, but not taking off the latter’s stance. He can barely breathe.

“You don’t talk too much, do ya?” The alchemist tries to joke. “Not even a sad backstory?”

Wrath doesn’t show any emotion, not even annoyance or hatred. He just attacks.

That leads the blond to use the ground to create walls behind walls, only for them to be destroyed by Wrath’s own alchemy. The purple-eyed boy can also create spikes, shields, pretty much everything the other is using to fight. It’s like Wrath knows his enemy from the palm of his hand, despite the fact they’ve never met before.

For most of the fight, the human prodigy is stuck in the defense, never given one second to rest as Wrath is intent on immobilizing him. The alchemist is growing increasingly tired; after all, he’s just a human teenager, doomed by his physical limitations.

In the middle, Wrath realizes that his opponent’s right arm and left leg are made of metal. For one, the latter can transform his arm into a blade like Wrath does. But mostly he could tell by the strength and hardness of said limbs. The homunculus is his very opposite, bearing human limbs in a pale, soulless body, but it’s still the right arm and left leg, too. Wrath never quite understood where his human parts came from. His memories are a haze, he can only remember quick flashes of different moments, unsure if they were from the human he was supposed to be, or his existence as a cursed creature of Earth.

Wrath’s body is mostly hidden by his clothes; after all, he wouldn’t want to be spotted and captured. When he finally has the chance, he uses his shirt to trap his enemy. The latter defects most of the containing shreds, only for two of them to grab his metal arm, and his exhaustion only catches up with him. For the first time in the battle, Wrath smirks, even if subtly. The prodigy has no way out.

As Wrath starts closing the distance between them, the alchemist rages as a last resort. He pulls the other with full force, aiming his metal blade at Wrath’s head, giving the homunculus little time to dodge. Thankfully, Wrath doesn’t actually get hurt, but he stumbles and almost trips as he and the human boy go separate again.

Only this time, Wrath is the one who’s shocked. Maybe because this is his first real fight, and even if he’s a homunculus, getting sliced in the head sounds far from a pleasant experience.

He feels like something was taken from him. He feels… incomplete.

His human and artificial hands have black hair strands in them.

Then it clicks.

Most of Wrath’s hair was forcibly cut. Even just turning around a bit, he can spot the black mess lying in the grass. And for some reason, his enemy just… stands there. He doesn’t try to attack Wrath, even when the latter is now vulnerable.

Wrath feels something intense. Anger.

He knows he’s not supposed to be impulsive. He needs to focus his anger on the right things, and fight for the greater cause. Yet it’s like something boils inside him the more he stares at the lost black hair. Wrath consciously chose to let his hair grow, to be his own person, to be accepted by Dante and the homunculi.

This part of him was taken away from him, like everything else.

Tightening his fists, Wrath seethes and attacks again, but not calculatedly. After remaining silent the entire fight, he growls and yells, except he gets no reaction from the other end, therefore he traps the stubborn alchemist against a tree, left arm trapping him while his right prepares to punch his enemy in the face.

However, Wrath doesn’t hit him just yet.

Not with the way the blond is staring at him.

Golden eyes staring at him with a look so pained that Wrath has never seen in his life. The alchemist’s lips quiver in the same way his human body shakes. Regardless, he isn’t afraid. He’s horrified but… in a guilty way. Mournful, even.

It’s like… he knows Wrath.

As soon as the homunculus decides to shove these feelings down his throat and take the alchemist to Dante for once and for all, his troubled opponent finally dares to say something that stops the world from going.

“... Al?”

It paralyzes Wrath.

His fist is no longer firm.

Something resurfaces.

Yelling.

…

“Al?”

The voice sounds far away.

“Al, can you hear me?”

It’s cold.

“C-Come on, Al, say something.”

Dark.

“Please. Please, Al.”

Metal.

“No…” the voice sobs. “No, no, no!”

It sounds painful.

“I gave up my arm! Give him back! GIVE HIM BACK!!”

The pounding against metal is loud, scary even, especially the inside.

Instead of more angry yelling, there’s only mourning sobs and sniffs, until it quiets down.

“He’s my little brother… please…”

The tears aren’t felt or seen, but heard.

“Al… come back…”

As there’s no other answer, the pounding returns, and the voice growls in frustration.

“No! Al! AL!”

“AL!!!!”

…

Wrath unconsciously stumbles back, far away from the alchemist, this time the one wanting to escape from his painful, grasping look.

… his name is Ed, isn’t it?

The same voice…

Despite Ed’s shock, he still approaches Wrath slowly. He might as well cry.

“Al…”

That.

That name.

It brings more memories.

Learning alchemy, bonding, trusting…

It hurts.

When Ed dares to reach out a hand, Wrath slaps it away and runs away.

“Al!” He hears from afar.

The boy finally yells, “MY NAME IS NOT AL!”

Wrath merges with the forest once again, soon out of the other’s sight. Even if he’s quick to return to the mansion, he can still hear Ed yelling that name far away…

Somehow, Dante’s disappointment is the least of his concerns right now. Instead, it’s that lonely nightmare and those yells of grief, so intense… and so full of love.

--

Next chapter

[pa-stella]

super soft intimacy omg......... can i have kuujyu (ofc) with the pressing kisses on shoulders? 🥺🥺💜 thank you 💕💕💕

Title: Fight and Flight Fandom: Hypnosis Mic Pairing: KuuJyu Prompt: Pressing kisses on shoulders Content: Yokai AU, Tengu!Jyushi, not so hidden hitojaku mention because I'm insane.

Loud excited laughter echoed in the silent forest as the two teenagers walked down the mountain path. Attentive blue eyes followed every step they took, every move they made. Jyushi was still a young yokai, but he knew his duty already: protect the hidden village. If the couple ended up on the wrong path, he knew he would have to wear his mask and spread his black wings to scare them away. He also knew the chances for that to happen were pretty low. 

Jyushi had observed the two for some time now, understanding they had come to the mountain to collect some herbs and… to be alone apparently. Safely out of sight, he had seen the small kisses and kind hugs they had exchanged between childish giggles. Tiny tokens of affection, exchanges of love that had left him just a little curious.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen those gestures before. Yokai weren’t that subtle when expressing or showing their feelings. Even his mentor, who tended to be more uptight, melted when his uwabami friend was around.

He gave the couple one last look while they were heading in the opposite direction from the hidden village and decided it was time to go find the only human he knew. 

It was almost funny how Kuko, that was his name, was the first person to appear in his mind when thinking about more intimate and romantic things. It wasn’t like the monk was kinder or gentler than the rest of his acquaintances, but he was able to capture Jyushi’s attention whenever they were together.

Jumping from a tree to another, the young spirit reached a small open area at the base of the mountain. There, right next to a waterfall and a natural pool, he recognized the figure of Kuko. He was sitting on a smooth rock, his robe lowered to let the chest exposed. He was meditating, as Jyushi had expected. In the few years they had known each other, Jyushi had learnt the monk hated to be disturbed while meditating, so he just sat down next to him, careful not to bother the man with his presence.

Kuko was unique. He didn’t look like any other human or yokai Jyushi had ever seen. His hair was as red as the spider lilies that covered the highland beneath the mountain. His eyes were the same color of the resin he found on many trees in the forest. Jyushi could spend his entire existence thinking about what made Kuko so different and… endearing.

He ended up observing the monk’s face more. With his eyes closed, he looked both calm and concentrated. His face was completely relaxed. Not even a crease ruined his fair skin. As he was thinking about how Kuko’s cheeks were still kind of chubby even if he had aged in the last few years, he also wondered what it would feel like to touch them. With his own hands or… with his lips, like the couple he had seen that same morning.

No, no. He shook his head. He could never do that. He would disturb him.

He lowered his eyes in shame, just to let them fall on the exposed skin of Kuko’s shoulder. Jyushi wanted only to know what it felt like, nothing more. Maybe… maybe that spot wouldn’t bother him that much. 

Gathering up his courage, he moved a little to place his lips on the other’s shoulder. He could feel the natural warmth coming from his skin and he would be lying to himself if he said that was enough. No. He wanted to feel more, to touch more. Jyushi closed his eyes and left a few more kisses, trying to satisfy the unusual hunger growing in his stomach.

“Jyushi?”

It was as if somebody had thrown cold water at him and set his clothes on fire at the same time. He froze on the spot, lips still touching Kuko’s body. He felt his face getting warmer.

“Jyus-”

Before the monk could finish, the tengu spirit got up and opened his wings. With a small jump, he took flight, leaving only a few dark feathers behind.

[softlyapocalytpic]

Having lots of thoughts on Steelheart at the moment and decided to share some here-

I’ve really struggled a long time with posting any of my work onto the internet. For a lot of reasons, but one of them being that the stories I wanna write and tell for Fallout specifically are ones I know that very few will be interested in.

I work in social media at the moment and just being in fandom as a writer and looking at the numbers means that I know ahead of time what will “do well” on tungle dot hell or on ao3. I know what’s popular!

If I wrote Steelheart from Butch’s perspective and focused on their romance and made it more about him I know it would be at least slightly more popular- and its made me really insecure. Is the story I’m writing worth writing? Is it interesting? Would it be better to do just that?

(Please note that I do love stories that do all that as well, and this by no means a critique or shitting on them. If anything, the fact I love them so much makes me more insecure about my own writing choices.)

But, Steelheart isn’t Butch’s story. He’s the love interest, and won’t even become a perspective character until the latter half. He’s so important to the story and it wouldn’t be the same without him! But this is Amy’s story. It always has been, but I struggle constantly with whether or not it’s worth telling.

And I have to remind myself constantly of why I’m writing it. Amy’s story is just a piece of a bigger hole. Her story sets up Leo, gives context for his existence, because down the line he’s going to become a major character with entirely his own plot and story! Her story sets up Sunshine, in ways that I’ve been cagey about, but would be remarkably obvious (I think???) if anyone just. Looked at the random shit I’ve posted about them both.

And I COULD’VE told her story through flashbacks, through the stories that other people tell about her. In some ways, thematically, that would’ve been more impactful. The Lone Wanderer is a myth, a legend, a hero who very few truly knew and understood, but her story is already so heartbreaking and tragic. The hand she gets dealt is so DUMB unfair and it felt... bad? To make her just a footnote? Just a stepping stone to other heroes rise?

Because she means a lot to me- she’s the character whom is probably most reflective of my internal feelings. She’s a protector, a caretaker, even if she isn’t the same kind I am, and she struggles with feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders. When I’m in a bad spot writing out Amy’s own bad internal feelings lets me vent it out, and I have the knowledge that she always gets better. Even if her fate is ultimately a tragedy, it’s always been one that’s supposed to be marked by hope.

And yeah, numbers shouldn’t matter. Working in social media has made me almost too aware of how to get the good numbers and I hate it. I wish I wasn’t. I wish I could just write my stories because they make me happy, but it just... isn’t the reality.

Because writing and art doesn’t exist in a vaccuum! If no one stops to go “hey this is neat” it fucking hurts! And I don’t really blame people it’s just-

It hurts and is frustrating. Because I know what would make people pay attention, but I refuse to compromise my vision! I’ve been working on this world and these characters stories since fucking summer of 2017. Steelheart is one part in at least a four part series that explores so much of the world of Fallout because I ADORE this world. I have barely stopped thinking about since I got into the fandom and I just hope-

I just hope one day my love for these stories gets reflected back at me? I’ll probably have to learn to live without that but. It’d be neat. It’d be cool. It’d be chill.

I recognize that this might sound whiney or “hey come look at my fanfic because you pity me” but its really not supposed to. I kinda just, wanna voice this on my blog because its my own space. I don’t wanna just hold my thoughts to myself just because other people would take a lot of this in the wrong way.

TLDR; I really love Steelheart being fromy Amy's perspective and focusing on her journey as a person, but I'm super insecure about it because I think everyone would rather just here about her love story with Butch!! Which is super important to her growth as her person (and I really love romance as well), but I also I hope people like the other parts of it too ;;

[thekadster]

cliquetober day 24: letter (a twenty one pilots drabble)

Fandom: Twenty One Pilots

Word Count: 628

Trigger Warnings: Mentions of death (implied, nothing explicit)

Author’s Notes: I think this is the saddest Cliquetober writing I've done so far oops

❝ Every Bandito knew about Clancy.

His writing continued, until one day, he disappeared.

Still, the rebels waited. Until the letter came.❞

also read it on ao3!

Every Bandito knew about Clancy.

He was by no means the first of the rebels, but many recognized him as their figurehead. Those who knew him would tell you that, although he was just as afraid as everyone else, he had courage. There was so much he didn’t understand about the world around him, but he pressed on anyway. They needed that in a leader, especially in a place as precarious as Trench.

He was known for his letters, though no one had ever read them. He always kept them close to his chest, safely tucked away in a journal. They told of the dull monotony of DEMA, and the journey he took to escape it. It held his stories of the outside, among the endless mountains and his newfound friends.

His writing continued, until one day, he disappeared. No one had seen him go, not even those of his own camp. Whether he wandered too far or he lost his way, it was safe to say that he got recaptured. People seldom ever willingly left their camps for good.

Nevertheless, the Banditos held out hope. Although they knew that the Bishops wouldn’t be too kind on him, they knew that Clancy was too important to lose. He was the leader of the heathens who dared to defy them. For whatever reason – no matter how twisted – they would want to keep him around.

And so, they waited. Until the letter came.

Vultures arrived at a number of camps one morning. The rebels would sometimes use them to send messages, so it wasn’t surprising when they were carrying scrolls of paper. But nothing could’ve prepared them for what was written inside.

It was a letter from Clancy. They were overjoyed upon first seeing it; many had long feared that the Bishops had gotten the better of him. It was a sign of hope that their old friend was finally writing back to them, but more importantly, that he was alive.

Well, it would’ve been, if not for what he had to say.

Scrawled in his own handwriting were words that confirmed their fears. He said he’d given up on the Banditos, that he’d been wrong about DEMA this whole time. He’d been beaten down so much that he questioned if the journey through Trench was even worth it. The terrain was exhausting and the food was often scarce. Their trek had gone on for so long that he began to doubt if the continent’s horizon had an end, if Slowtown even existed.

In his resignation, he would be devoting himself to vialism. He was too tired, too sick of the ruthless world outside, and would rather have the familiarity of the city. He didn’t want anyone to come for him.

It caused an uproar among the Banditos. Many screamed betrayal; but they’d known Clancy for long enough to know that he would never give in, let alone encourage others to do the same. Many also didn’t believe the letter was real; but he was human, and humans weren’t meant to last under so much weight. They were fragile, fickle, prone to error.

Conflict came between them and rescue missions were organized, but that wouldn’t change a thing. Clancy would never be able to express his true feelings, that he was doomed from the start. The Bishops granted him at least one freedom – to write – but even that was controlled. His own letters would eventually be used to renounce the thing he’d hated for so long. That he would live and die by his weapon of choice.

By the time the Banditos got to the city, it was too late. Other rebels came running back over the hillside, relaying the sickening truth from within the city walls: Clancy was dead.

[yandere-sins]

Property

I couldn’t resist from writing for Pantalone again... Soon we’ll have Dottore, so that’s a start but I am yearning for this man especially (’:

Fandom: Genshin Impact Pairings: Yandere!Pantalone x GN!Reader Warnings: Yandere, Violence (Mention of Whipping/Bruises), Manipulation, Gaslighting, Degradation, Verbal Abuse, Arranged Marriage

Prompt: @sintember Possession - To belong to someone, to have them wash over you, erasing you, becoming you. Did you ask for this? Does it matter?

»»———————— ♡ ————————««    

Being a possession meant being nothing and everything at the same time.

You were nothing in the sense that you didn’t exist on your own. A nobody. A caged bird adorned in velvet, jewels, and gold, never to fly from your cage that was Pantalone. His hand on your shoulder and his arm around your waist made it seem like you were locked to his side. You had to follow the softly spoken order to link your arm with his, lest you’d be punished for disobedience. If he wasn’t next to you, no one would know who you are. No matter how pretty and extravagant you looked, they wouldn’t be able to recognize you as anyone of importance. A nobody in the masses of the rich and famous. Not like Pantalone ever left you alone in the first place, but it was still an unsettling feeling to not have a name to yourself.

But at the same time, you were everything because people could yearn to be you. Watch after you as you traveled the world and got to attend every luxurious banquet with him while never having to endure hardships or discomforts. You were being envied for having everything, for being able to live a life in the lap of luxury your husband provided. The top-class ring on your finger was a sign of love just as much as its presence on you ended your independent existence and any chance of reclaiming being someone other than Pantalone’s spouse. Even though everyone seemed to know you, greeted you, talked to you as if you were friends—and Pantalone pinching you to humor them and keep up a good facade—they never saw the turmoil and pain you were going through. They never saw you.

No one ever recognized the bags under your eyes as signs of having cried all night. Your hands were always clothed in lace or satin gloves to hide the nails you regularly chewed off because of the constant anxiety you were under. Hickies under your collar, bruises beneath designer clothes. The marks of last night’s whipping on your ass burned when you sat down, especially on the terrible bony lap of his. But who could see any of that when they were so beautifully covered by his gifts? Who’d ever notice anything about the abuse you endured just because he chose you?

Pantalone hated it when you interrupted his work. And yet, he never allowed you to be further away than an arm’s length from him. There was nothing else to do than sink into your depressive thoughts and play with the button and adornments on his clothes while he worked. The thin borders between sanity and madness were so finely manipulated by him that you had a hard time discerning his concerned, “I don’t want anything to happen to you just because you are too far away to protect you,” as something bad when he made it sound so genuinely caring.

So you latched on to his chest while he flipped through his reports, one hand on the small of your back while the other worked. Even if you wanted to say something, he’d have an excuse as to why not to do what you wished for. “I want to leave you.”

“And then what?” he murmured, not giving you any more attention than his cold touch at the small of your back. He wasn’t annoyed yet. You could dig some more. “I’d live somewhere that’s warm… the beach. With dogs.”

“Mhm,” he hummed dismissively, clearly just humoring you with his responses.

With a deep sigh, Pantalone threw the report back on the table after a moment of silence, gripping your hand instead and prying it from his shirt, pulling you to sit upright on his lap. “Darling,” he spoke, his voice cold like the snow outside his office’s window, unlike the affectionate nickname. “You’re not even capable of choosing whether you want to have roast or vegetables for dinner. How would you ever choose a place you want to live? And how would you pay for it? Should I pay for it even though you are leaving me?”

Sitting downcast, you stared at the buttons on his shirt. Pantalone shook his head, disappointed at you for not thinking ahead before saying something—in his opinion—stupid. It had begun. He started to clean his glasses as annoyance was building. But it was too late to back out now. “Any…” you whispered, taking a deep breath to build courage. “Any place away from you is good. And I could work!”

Raising an eyebrow, Pantalone huffed, one corner of his lips jerking upwards. Finishing wiping off his glasses, he grabbed one hand of yours, bringing it up to your face. “With those hands? Do you think anyone would want someone so sheltered? They’ll think you are too weak for physical jobs and too proper to do finer ones. No one wants someone like you working for them. Besides, you’re not especially talented in anything. What could you even do for a living when you don’t even have the basic skills?”

Pantalone sighed as you felt your expression falter, tears filling your eyes. He was wrong—of course, someone would take you! And you’d work hard to earn your place! But… what if he was right? He knew so much about the world, and you went from being a child to being a spouse. You had been so happy when he asked for your hand in marriage. But you realized now that this union forced you to never learn about the world outside his reach.

Bringing your hand to his lips, he gave it a long, thoughtful kiss of dedication. “Am I not giving you enough? I am trying so hard to make you feel loved and happy. Why must you always hurt me so, Love? I wish you’d stop speaking about things that don’t matter.”

“It does-” Hiccups interrupted your words as you quickly reached up to wipe the tears from your eyes. Pantalone hated tears. Each tear was a second of strangulation you’d have to pay after. And he was always the one counting. “It does matter. To me.”

“You matter to me, too,” he countered, no hesitation delaying his answer. “You matter so much, so…”

Letting his shoulders sack, he closed his eyes. Now he was annoyed. Hidden behind an expression of worry and hurt, you knew him well enough to know he was upset about your actions. “Please don’t say these silly things anymore, okay? I have to work now, but we can look for beach-side properties afterwards.”

Pushing you gently back into his chest, you sunk into his body, tears rolling down your cheeks and seeping into his expensive fur coat. Pantalone huffed, bucking his legs warningly. “And stop your crying. You know I hate you staining my papers. There’s not even a reason for you to cry. Yet. Really, you should be relieved I love you so much. Who’d want a crybaby like you?”

Was he wrong? Was he right? Would anyone want someone like you, with your anxiety, tears, and wishes to be far, far away from your husband and this ugly, cold land of ice and snow? Could there be someone whose confession of love didn’t make you feel worse than when Pantalone said it?

You never asked to be married to him. It had always been his idea and his money paying to make it a reality. And even when you thought you were happy, there was never really a day that his position, name, presence, and the very same money that bought you, hung over your head as a suppressing force. Losing the chance to be your own person and never experience life outside the one he decided to have, only sounded good in Pantalone’s ears.

Would there ever be a chance that you could be anything or anyone other than his property?

“And the dogs?” you muttered quietly, whispering the words into the fur, the only warm thing about this man.

“If they make you happy, Darling.”

You nodded, and Pantalone sighed, relieved to be over with the topic. It would not spare you the punishment later between silk sheets and cracking whips, but he decided to be done with it, so it was. Resting his hand on the small of your back again, he left it there as a silent reminder as he returned to work after dealing with you.

A reminder that you were his.

And deep down, you knew better than to wish for a change that would never come.

[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

The Bet

Fandom: Top Gun, Top Gun: Maverick, Top Gun Gang, f!reader (Bob x reader if you squint)

Word Count: 2404

TW: Teasing, Mocking, Bets/Gambling, Flashing

Top Gun Masterlist

Everyone had their own opinion about Rooster's mustache. Some people hated it, some people loved it, and some people were indifferent towards it. But everyone knew well enough to keep their opinions to themselves. Everyone that was, except for Hangman.

The cocky pilot never missed an opportunity to tease Rooster mercilessly about his choice of facial hair. Whether it was his go-tos of calling it a pornstache or saying he was a 70's wannabe, or going for the more rude and hurtful jabs when he was in a particularly nasty mood, Hangman never failed to make a comment.

As with anything that came out of Hangman's mouth, Rooster brushed it off and tried to ignore it. However, you and Bob seemed to be the only ones who saw the truth behind his cool facade. It bothered him, possibly more than Rooster would even admit to himself. But it wasn’t until Bob and you happened to stumble across an old article about a Top Gun RIO's tragic death years ago, that it all made sense.

As soon as you had seen the multiple photos in the article everything had become clear as day. Even before you had read the man’s name, you recognized him immediately. Rooster and his father looked strikingly similar, and it wouldn’t come as a shock if you learned that a few of Rooster's favorite Hawaiian shirts had also belonged to his late father. It seemed as though Rooster had clung to these few small characteristics of his dad as a way to keep him closer to him.

However, this meant that anytime Hangman was teasing Rooster about his mustache, it meant he was really also making fun of his deceased father. No wonder he always seemed so upset! You wanted to go confront Hangman about the situation right then and there, but Bob managed to talk you out of it. It was Rooster’s choice to share the truth and until he decided to do so, it wasn’t your place to step in. And you knew he was right. So, you both agreed to keep Rooster’s secret.

But it was much easier said than done. With this new information in mind, the next time Hangman started teasing Rooster about his mustache, you snapped. Leaping from your chair, you began storming over to finally shut Hangman up once and for all when Bob grabbed your arm, halting your charge. 

As he pulled you in close, he murmured, "Don't. Remember, there's a reason Rooster has never mentioned his dad no matter how bad the taunts get. He doesn't want people to know and if you reveal it in front of everyone, you're doing just as much harm as Hangman."

You glanced towards the pool table where Hangman was sneering at the other pilot while Rooster's jaw clenched, and his nostrils flared. As much as you wanted to come to your friend's defense, Bob was right. If Rooster revealed he wore the mustache because of his dead dad, not even Hangman would dare make fun of him for it. But he had always remained silent on the matter which meant he didn’t want people to know. Which also meant you had no right to share that fact.

You turned to Bob. "Well, what do we do? We can't just keep watching Hangman torment him over this day after day."

Bob shot you a small smile. "I have a plan, but I'll need your help…."

When Hangman walked into The Hard Deck the next night, Bob and you were already there. With your hands on the pool cue and Bob's hands on yours, he had his arms wrapped around you as you both leaned across the pool table. 

Hangman chuckled as he approached, "Well, well, well, what do we have here? Is Bob finally making a move on Sparky? It's about time you manned up and went for it." 

You rolled your eyes. "For your information, Bob is just giving me some pointers on improving my game, not that it's any of your business."

"Oh, wow, Bob, I didn't know you were good at pool," Hangman smirked sarcastically.

You straightened up and crossed your arms over your chest. "That's because you always hog the table or steal the cue from him anytime he wants to play."

"Sparky, it's okay. He's not worth it," Bob muttered as he tried to drag you away from the table, but you jerked your arm away. 

"No! I'm sick of this douchebag thinking he can get away with anything he wants! The way he treats you, the way he lords over the bar, the way he teases Rooster, I've had enough!"

"Sparks…" Bob tried again but now it was Hangman's turn to speak up. 

"You have a problem with how I act, then maybe you should do something about it."

"Maybe I will," you sneered back.

 "Yeah? What?"

You linked your arm through Bob's. "We challenge you to a game of pool."

"We do?" Bob asked in surprise.

You nodded. "We do." 

Hangman chuckled. "Only one problem with that, princess. This is a two-player game."

You deflated for a moment before perking back up. "Fine. Then Bob challenges you to a game of pool."

"I what?" Bob asked, even more taken aback than before. 

"Bob? You're placing all of your hopes of showing me up on Bob?" Hangman asked with a scoff.

Bob started to protest, but you quickly silenced him. "Yes."

Hangman shrugged. "Alright, it's your funeral. So, what are we playing for?"

You thought it over for a moment. "How about a demand? Nothing sexual and nothing permanent, so no tattoos or anything like that. But the winner can demand the loser do something. It can be something physical like dyeing their hair or shaving their eyebrows, or it can be an action like buying their beers from now on or doing all their grunt work for the next month."

Grinning, Hangman nodded. "I like it. But, since this is as much of your challenge as it is Bob's, if he loses, I get a demand from each of you."

Once again, Bob tried to object but you cut him off. "Fine. But if he wins, both of us get our own demands."

"Fine. We have a deal." Hangman thrust out his hand and you took it, squeezing it harder than necessary. He grinned and said, "Let's rack 'em up!"

The game began pretty much as you and Bob expected. Hangman started out extremely confident, even staring directly at you and winking as he took the break shot. You rolled your eyes, but he just chuckled and went on to sink two balls before it was Bob’s turn. But what Hangman didn’t realize was that you hadn’t been exaggerating about Bob’s skills. His dad had bought a pool table when he was seven and he had taught Bob how to play. Since then, Bob had spent hours upon hours playing since, as a shy kid, it was something he could do on his own. Which was why he had suggested this plan to you the day before. 

You both knew no matter what you said or how you praised Bob’s skills, Hangman would underestimate the WSO’s pool playing abilities and he would jump at the chance to show the two of you up. So, you had charged ahead, egging him on like you were known to do, while Bob had pretended to be hesitant about the idea. All had gone exactly as Bob had predicted. 

And as he stepped up to the table and perfectly sunk his first ball, you watched the smile on Hangman’s face flicker slightly. And by Bob’s third ball, his smile had dropped into a scowl. He glanced over at where you were leaning against one of the tables and you shot him a satisfied smirk. His eyes narrowed as he took his place at the table for his next turn, all the playfulness and swagger from before now gone. With total concentration, he sunk two more of his balls.

The game moved back and forth, ball after ball landing in the side pockets until the only two remaining on the table were the cue ball and the eight ball. And unfortunately, it was Hangman’s turn.

If he managed to sink the eight ball, it was all over. Not only would he continue to torment Rooster, but he would also be able to force both you and Bob to give him some unimaginable demand. And that was not an option. So, as he leaned over to line up his shot, you lifted up your shirt. 

Hangman almost didn’t notice what you were doing until he pulled back the cue to shoot. But at the last second, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, and he glanced up to see you flashing him. A coy smile spread across your face as you saw Hangman's slack-jawed expression. You were wearing your sheer lace push-up bra and you were sure he had a perfect view of everything (after years of military service, you had lost any sense of modesty or embarrassment with others seeing your body so you didn’t care). You glanced over Hangman's shoulder to see Bob staring holes into the floor as his face and neck glowed a deep red. He might not have thought of this part of the plan, but you knew he wouldn't be able to deny its effectiveness.

Hangman leaned forward, his eyes still glued to your chest. However, when he did, it caused the pool cue to bump into the cue ball and send it lazily rolling, ending up nowhere near the eight ball. With a satisfied grin on your face, you lowered your shirt. 

Hangman blinked then looked back at the table to see the ball slowly come to a stop. His head jerked back up as he glared at you. “Hey! That was cheating!”

You chuckled. “Oh, grow up, Hangman. You’re a fighter pilot. You should be able to ignore a distraction…. Or two.” You winked at him before saying, “I believe it’s Bob’s turn.”

He continued to glare at you, but he moved aside to let Bob shoot. And with perfect aim, Bob sank the eight ball, winning the game. You hurried over and threw your arms around his neck. He stiffened immediately under your embrace, and you knew he was still thinking about what you had done to help him win. But after a moment, he hugged you back.

The sound of Hangman throwing his pool cue across the room quickly made you break apart. Turning to the fuming pilot, you smirked. “Hey! Bob won fair and square! I never made a sound or touched you or the table.”

Hangman sighed loudly. “Fine. So, what do you two want?”

You and Bob exchanged a gleeful smile.

Rooster and Phoenix had been away on an assignment and extra training for the past week, and as they walked into The Hard Deck on their first night back, Rooster couldn't figure out why everyone was staring and pointing at him. Yet, it didn't look like it was out of mocking or cruelty, but more out of excitement or anticipation. 

As they headed over to the pool table, they saw you and Bob in the middle of a game, which was strange since Hangman usually laid claim to the table every night. But now that Rooster thought about it, he didn't see Hangman anywhere. 

Both of you lit up as you saw the pair approaching and you put down your cues as you said, "Welcome back guys! We thought you had another two days before you returned."

Phoenix shook her head. "We were able to complete training a little early, so they moved up the assignment date. What have you guys been up to?"

You and Bob exchanged sly looks before you said, "Oh, not much. Just a little fun and games. But, we mustache you a question."

Rooster froze. He was used to Hangman picking on him for his mustache, but he never imagined you or Bob would ever stoop that low. But instead of getting mad, he slowly asked, "What?"

"Have you seen Bagman yet?" Bob asked.

Phoenix looked around for the blond before saying, "No. Where is he?"

You pointed to the far corner of the bar and Rooster and Phoenix turned to look. It took them a moment, but finally they noticed him hunched over in the back booth, his hands wrapped around his beer and his dour expression partially hidden behind a mustache that looked exactly like Rooster's. 

Both returning pilots stared at him in disbelief before Rooster finally managed to stutter, "Wh-what the hell is that about?"

You grinned. "He lost a bet against Bob and me, so he has to have that for a month. Plus, we made sure he isn't allowed to say anything to you about yours anymore." 

Rooster stared at you stunned. "How?" 

You threw your arm around Bob's shoulder and drew him in close to your side. "Thanks to Bob's genius plan and a little 'flash' of improvisation on my part." 

Rooster saw Bob's face instantly flush dark red, as he quickly looked at the floor at your choice of words and Rooster could tell there was more to the story than you were saying. However, instead of prying, he just smiled at the two of you. “I don’t know what you did but thank you. It’ll be a relief to not hear his constant comments about it. It was starting to get on my nerves.”

Bob and you exchanged a knowing glance but didn’t say anything about it. Instead, you offered out the pool cue. “Do you guys want to play two-on-two? I will warn you, Bob is really good.”

Phoenix smiled. “Really? I didn’t know that. But, no offense, I’m a pro at pool. I doubt you can beat me.”

You elbowed Bob playfully. “Wanna bet?”

Before she could answer, Rooster interrupted with a grin. “Before we agree to something I have a feeling we will come to regret, I’m gonna go empty the tank.” He headed towards the bathrooms in the back of the bar, shaking his head as he heard the three of you arguing about potential wagers.

As he passed by the table Hangman was sitting at, Rooster nodded at the other man. “Hey, Hangman. You look good."

"Fuck you, Bradshaw."

Taglist: @nik2write, @valoraxx, @m3laniehearts, @autumnleaves1991-blog, @rule107, @vintageleather, @impossiblebagelcowboyfreak, @slutforadambanks, @americaarse, @reneki, @ynbutbetter, @sugarcoated-lame, @imagineadream, @sadpetalsstuff, @salty-thembo, @rachelizabethgraham, @duckandrobin, @queenbbarnes, @chouricojr, @king-of-milf-lovers, @high-fidelities, @shaded-echoes-recs, @dempy, @jamesbuckyburns, @a-sweet-little-fangirl

(Sorry if I tagged you incorrectly but since this was sort of about the whole gang, I didn't want to leave anyone out 💖)

[a-reader-and-a-writer]

The Bet

Fandom: Top Gun, Top Gun: Maverick, Top Gun Gang, f!reader (Bob x reader if you squint)

Word Count: 2404

TW: Teasing, Mocking, Bets/Gambling, Flashing

Notes: Thank you to @green-socks for the conversation about the initial idea and for beta reading for me! 🥰

Top Gun Masterlist

Everyone had their own opinion about Rooster's mustache. Some people hated it, some people loved it, and some people were indifferent towards it. But everyone knew well enough to keep their opinions to themselves. Everyone that was, except for Hangman.

The cocky pilot never missed an opportunity to tease Rooster mercilessly about his choice of facial hair. Whether it was his go-tos of calling it a pornstache or saying he was a 70's wannabe, or going for the more rude and hurtful jabs when he was in a particularly nasty mood, Hangman never failed to make a comment.

As with anything that came out of Hangman's mouth, Rooster brushed it off and tried to ignore it. However, you and Bob seemed to be the only ones who saw the truth behind his cool facade. It bothered him, possibly more than Rooster would even admit to himself. But it wasn’t until Bob and you happened to stumble across an old article about a Top Gun RIO's tragic death years ago, that it all made sense.

As soon as you had seen the multiple photos in the article everything had become clear as day. Even before you had read the man’s name, you recognized him immediately. Rooster and his father looked strikingly similar, and it wouldn’t come as a shock if you learned that a few of Rooster's favorite Hawaiian shirts had also belonged to his late father. It seemed as though Rooster had clung to these few small characteristics of his dad as a way to keep him closer to him.

However, this meant that anytime Hangman was teasing Rooster about his mustache, it meant he was really also making fun of his deceased father. No wonder he always seemed so upset! You wanted to go confront Hangman about the situation right then and there, but Bob managed to talk you out of it. It was Rooster’s choice to share the truth and until he decided to do so, it wasn’t your place to step in. And you knew he was right. So, you both agreed to keep Rooster’s secret.

But it was much easier said than done. With this new information in mind, the next time Hangman started teasing Rooster about his mustache, you snapped. Leaping from your chair, you began storming over to finally shut Hangman up once and for all when Bob grabbed your arm, halting your charge. 

As he pulled you in close, he murmured, "Don't. Remember, there's a reason Rooster has never mentioned his dad no matter how bad the taunts get. He doesn't want people to know and if you reveal it in front of everyone, you're doing just as much harm as Hangman."

You glanced towards the pool table where Hangman was sneering at the other pilot while Rooster's jaw clenched, and his nostrils flared. As much as you wanted to come to your friend's defense, Bob was right. If Rooster revealed he wore the mustache because of his dead dad, not even Hangman would dare make fun of him for it. But he had always remained silent on the matter which meant he didn’t want people to know. Which also meant you had no right to share that fact.

You turned to Bob. "Well, what do we do? We can't just keep watching Hangman torment him over this day after day."

Bob shot you a small smile. "I have a plan, but I'll need your help…."

When Hangman walked into The Hard Deck the next night, Bob and you were already there. With your hands on the pool cue and Bob's hands on yours, he had his arms wrapped around you as you both leaned across the pool table. 

Hangman chuckled as he approached, "Well, well, well, what do we have here? Is Bob finally making a move on Sparky? It's about time you manned up and went for it." 

You rolled your eyes. "For your information, Bob is just giving me some pointers on improving my game, not that it's any of your business."

 "Oh, wow, Bob, I didn't know you were good at pool," Hangman smirked sarcastically.

You straightened up and crossed your arms over your chest. "That's because you always hog the table or steal the cue from him anytime he wants to play."

"Sparky, it's okay. He's not worth it," Bob muttered as he tried to drag you away from the table, but you jerked your arm away. 

"No! I'm sick of this douchebag thinking he can get away with anything he wants! The way he treats you, the way he lords over the bar, the way he teases Rooster, I've had enough!"

"Sparks…" Bob tried again but now it was Hangman's turn to speak up. 

"You have a problem with how I act, then maybe you should do something about it."

"Maybe I will," you sneered back.

 "Yeah? What?"

You linked your arm through Bob's. "We challenge you to a game of pool."

"We do?" Bob asked in surprise.

You nodded. "We do." 

Hangman chuckled. "Only one problem with that, princess. This is a two-player game."

You deflated for a moment before perking back up. "Fine. Then Bob challenges you to a game of pool."

"I what?" Bob asked, even more taken aback than before. 

"Bob? You're placing all of your hopes of showing me up on Bob?" Hangman asked with a scoff.

Bob started to protest, but you quickly silenced him. "Yes."

Hangman shrugged. "Alright, it's your funeral. So, what are we playing for?"

You thought it over for a moment. "How about a demand? Nothing sexual and nothing permanent, so no tattoos or anything like that. But the winner can demand the loser do something. It can be something physical like dyeing their hair or shaving their eyebrows, or it can be an action like buying their beers from now on or doing all their grunt work for the next month."

Grinning, Hangman nodded. "I like it. But, since this is as much of your challenge as it is Bob's, if he loses, I get a demand from each of you."

Once again, Bob tried to object but you cut him off. "Fine. But if he wins, both of us get our own demands."

"Fine. We have a deal." Hangman thrust out his hand and you took it, squeezing it harder than necessary. He grinned and said, "Let's rack 'em up!"

The game began pretty much as you and Bob expected. Hangman started out extremely confident, even staring directly at you and winking as he took the break shot. You rolled your eyes, but he just chuckled and went on to sink two balls before it was Bob’s turn. But what Hangman didn’t realize was that you hadn’t been exaggerating about Bob’s skills. His dad had bought a pool table when he was seven and he had taught Bob how to play. Since then, Bob had spent hours upon hours playing since, as a shy kid, it was something he could do on his own. Which is why he had suggested this plan to you the day before. 

You both knew no matter what you said or how you praised Bob’s skills, Hangman would underestimate the WSO’s pool playing abilities and he would jump at the chance to show the two of you up. So, you had charged ahead, egging him on like you were known to do, while Bob had pretended to be hesitant about the idea. All had gone exactly as Bob had predicted. 

And as he stepped up to the table and perfectly sunk his first ball, you watched the smile on Hangman’s face flicker slightly. And by Bob’s third ball, his smile had dropped into a scowl. He glanced over at where you were leaning against one of the tables and you shot him a satisfied smirk. His eyes narrowed as he took his place at the table for his next turn, all the playfulness and swagger from before now gone. With total concentration, he sunk two more of his balls.

The game moved back and forth, ball after ball landing in the side pockets until the only two remaining on the table were the cue ball and the eight ball. And unfortunately, it was Hangman’s turn.

If he managed to sink the eight ball, it was all over. Not only would he continue to torment Rooster, but he would also be able to force both you and Bob to give him some unimaginable demand. And that was not an option. So, as he leaned over to line up his shot, you lifted up your shirt. 

Hangman almost didn’t notice what you were doing until he pulled back the cue to shoot. But at the last second, something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye, and he glanced up to see you flashing him. A coy smile spread across your face as you saw Hangman's slack-jawed expression. You were wearing your sheer lace push-up bra and you were sure he had a perfect view of everything (after years of military service, you had lost any sense of modesty or embarrassment with others seeing your body so you didn’t care). You glanced over Hangman's shoulder to see Bob staring holes into the floor as his face and neck glowed a deep red. He might not have thought of this part of the plan, but you knew he wouldn't be able to deny its effectiveness.

Hangman leaned forward, his eyes still glued to your chest. However, when he did, it caused the pool cue to bump into the cue ball and send it lazily rolling, ending up nowhere near the eight ball. With a satisfied grin on your face, you lowered your shirt. 

Hangman blinked then looked back at the table to see the ball slowly come to a stop. His head jerked back up as he glared at you. “Hey! That was cheating!”

You chuckled. “Oh, grow up, Hangman. You’re a fighter pilot. You should be able to ignore a distraction…. Or two.” You winked at him before saying, “I believe it’s Bob’s turn.”

He continued to glare at you, but he moved aside to let Bob shoot. And with perfect aim, Bob sank the eight ball, winning the game. You hurried over and threw your arms around his neck. He stiffened immediately under your embrace, and you knew he was still thinking about what you had done to help him win. But after a moment, he hugged you back.

The sound of Hangman throwing his pool cue across the room quickly made you break apart. Turning to the fuming pilot, you smirked. “Hey! Bob won fair and square! I never made a sound or touched you or the table.”

Hangman sighed loudly. “Fine. So, what do you two want?”

You and Bob exchanged a gleeful smile.

Rooster and Phoenix had been away on an assignment and extra training for the past week, and as they walked into The Hard Deck on their first night back, Rooster couldn't figure out why everyone was staring and pointing at him. Yet, it didn't look like it was out of mocking or cruelty, but more out of excitement or anticipation. 

As they headed over to the pool table, they saw you and Bob in the middle of a game, which was strange since Hangman usually laid claim to the table every night. But now that Rooster thought about it, he didn't see Hangman anywhere. 

Both of you lit up as you saw the pair approaching and you put down your cues as you said, "Welcome back guys! We thought you had another two days before you returned."

Phoenix shook her head. "We were able to complete training a little early, so they moved up the assignment date. What have you guys been up to?"

You and Bob exchanged sly looks before you said, "Oh, not much. Just a little fun and games. But, we mustache you a question."

Rooster froze. He was used to Hangman picking on him for his mustache, but he never imagined you or Bob would ever stoop that low. But instead of getting mad, he slowly asked, "What?"

"Have you seen Bagman yet?" Bob asked.

Phoenix looked around for the blond before saying, "No. Where is he?"

You pointed to the far corner of the bar and Rooster and Phoenix turned to look. It took them a moment, but finally they noticed him hunched over in the back booth, his hands wrapped around his beer and his dour expression partially hidden behind a mustache that looked exactly like Rooster's. 

Both returning pilots stared at him in disbelief before Rooster finally managed to stutter, "Wh-what the hell is that about?"

You grinned. "He lost a bet against Bob and me, so he has to have that for a month. Plus, we made sure he isn't allowed to say anything to you about yours anymore." 

Rooster stared at you stunned. "How?" 

You threw your arm around Bob's shoulder and drew him in close to your side. "Thanks to Bob's genius plan and a little 'flash' of improvisation on my part." 

Rooster saw Bob's face instantly flush dark red, as he quickly looked at the floor at your choice of words and Rooster could tell there was more to the story than you were saying. However, instead of prying, he just smiled at the two of you. “I don’t know what you did but thank you. It’ll be a relief to not hear his constant comments about it. It was starting to get on my nerves.”

Bob and you exchanged a knowing glance but didn’t say anything about it. Instead, you offered out the pool cue. “Do you guys want to play two-on-two? I will warn you, Bob is really good.”

Phoenix smiled. “Really? I didn’t know that. But, no offense, I’m a pro at pool. I doubt you can beat me.”

You elbowed Bob playfully. “Wanna bet?”

Before she could answer, Rooster interrupted with a grin. “Before we agree to something I have a feeling we will come to regret, I’m gonna go empty the tank.” He headed towards the bathrooms in the back of the bar, shaking his head as he heard the three of you arguing about potential wagers.

As he passed by the table Hangman was sitting at, Rooster nodded at the other man. “Hey, Hangman. You look good."

"Fuck you, Bradshaw."

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