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the-authoress-writes · 6 months ago

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Up Where We Belong Part Two

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell x Writer!reader

Up Where We Belong Masterlist

Synopsis: When a writer experiencing horrible writer’s block goes to the Apple Valley Airshow for inspiration, she meets a certain older, daring naval aviator, leading to maybe a little more than just inspiration.

Warnings: Age gap (reader is in their late thirties to early forties), some to-be-expected cursing, depiction of the beginnings of a panic attack (it doesn’t become a full blown one).

But really, this is just fluff.

Author’s Note: I intended this to be a two part story, but as always, it didn’t turn out that way (my brain is like a mushroom farm at this point), and the third part of this (fingers crossed), is going to be the final part.

I’m choosing to look on the bright side and I’m telling myself I’m more than halfway done with this.

*sighs in frustrated writer*

This part is a little more MavDad than shippy, but it’s where this wanted to go, so…

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Again, I name a story after a song, from another movie about the Navy, funnily enough.

(Only three of my stories on my masterlist are not named after songs)

I can’t stop, apparently.

So here we go!

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell had been expecting a normal day when he met her.

Or, well, as normal as a day could get for him.

It was a bright and sunny weekend at the Apple Valley Airshow, where Mav had just flown an aerobatic sequence for the gathered crowds in Bianca, his beloved P-51, and Bradley had not taken much convincing to come out for a day with his dad and the chance to see planes, despite the fact that he was already around them Monday to Friday.

Most aviators were plane nerds after all, and airshows like these were heaven for aviators like him and Bradley.

“You okay back there, Baby Goose?” Mav asked through the comms, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the engine of the P-51.

“Yeah—yeah, I’m fine,” Bradley breathlessly replied from the backseat, his exhale turning into a weak chuckle. “You’re crazy, you know that, right, Dad?”

“Your father and uncles might have mentioned that a few times,” Mav grinned.

He gracefully looped the venerable Mustang around and brought her smoothly onto the runway, mindful of the P-51’s unstrengthened landing gear, gently flaring the aircraft so she caressed the tarmac, unlike the unflared, hard landing he instinctively would have done in any Navy aircraft.

After an uneventful taxi back to the flight line, he pushed the canopy back and climbed out of the cockpit, Bradley a second behind him.

“At least we didn’t have anyone shooting at us this time around,” Mav half-joked, patting his boy on the back, once he’d also jumped down from the wing.

“Thank Heaven for small mercies,” the younger man muttered.

“Come on, you can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that, Brads.”

Bradley chewed the inside of his cheek, before amusement shone in his eyes, and he cracked a smile. “Okay, yeah, it was pretty cool.”

“She’s still got moves, huh?”

His son looked affectionately at the P-51. “Yeah, she does.

But it’s not the plane, it’s the pilot, isn’t it?”

“I’m willing to share when it’s this girl,” Mav grinned, patting her sun-warm silver fuselage.

After the two of them had stacked their parachutes and harnesses between the landing gear, Mav was busy putting the chocks on the wheels, when he heard a smooth female voice say, “Excuse me?”

“Yes?” Bradley replied.

“Is this the P-51 which flew a few minutes ago?

She is a P-51, right?”

“That’d be a yes to both questions, ma’am.”

A low, rich chuckle. “Are you the owner?”

Bradley scoffed amusedly. “Nah, that’ll be my dad.

Hey Dad, someone wants to talk to you!”

Mav ducked out from beneath the undercarriage and under a propeller, coming face to face with a very unexpected, but not unwelcome sight.

The first thing he noticed about the woman standing before him was her air of extreme competence, which immediately had him wanting to know more about her.

(He was decidedly ignoring the memory of Halo saying he had a competency kink after he’d told some stories from when he was in relationships at a Dagger Squad get together [non-explicit; the Daggers, especially Bradley, didn’t need to hear… intimate details of his life, after all].)

A quick appraisal had him estimating her to be older than Bradley, but younger than him.

She was beautiful, with lips glossed just right, shining, lush hair that he could already imagine running his hand through, a smile he could look at forever, and a figure that ticked all his proverbial boxes, visible even with her long, loose brown cardigan and cream button-down shirt over black jeans.

But what hit him like Mach 10 (and he would know) was the spark in her eyes, keen and intelligent, and they held a warmth and passion that called to him.

“Hi,” he began, extending his hand, ignoring the fact that he was stunned by this woman so he could attempt to be his usual self.

He’d been delighted to show her around Bianca, and he even went so far as to let her sit in the old girl.

Mav had not been expecting what she said about the book she was writing—her granduncle’s story hit home on practically every level possible.

He was absolutely honest with her when he said he wanted to help, but… he’d absolutely be lying if he said he didn’t give it with the hope that she’d call him in the first place.

It’d been years since he’d felt like this about someone, and he tried to stifle a smile as he recalled how they’d collided on Bianca’s wing, his quick reflexes preventing them from falling off the wing with a snapped-out right hand on the cockpit edge, his left instinctually protectively pressing her against him.

He’d never forget the way his heart raced as he realized their proximity, his battle-honed wits prompting him to swiftly move his hand before she could register his touch, though he kept his arm close enough to catch her if she began to slip off the trailing edge.

“What’s with that look, Dad?”

Bradley’s voice brought Mav back to the present, where he sat on his favorite chair in his hangar, Bianca’s flight log book in his right hand, pen in his left. “What look?”

Bradley shut the locker for the safety gear, the last thing on the P-51’s post-flight checklist, and strode over to the couch opposite. “You look sappy.”

“I’m just happy I had a great day flying in my girl, and with my Baby Goose, no less.” It was not a lie at all, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

Any other person would have probably bought that excuse, but Bradley was one of the very few people he’d ever met in his life who could read him like a book in every situation, a skill unfortunately inherited from his father. “Uh-huh, sure, I think you’re just thinking about __,” his son incisively replied.

Mav absently bit his lip, “…That obvious, kid?”

“…It’s about as obvious as an F-14 in cloudless sky at 2,000 feet.”

“So, pretty damn obvious,” he squinted speculatively.

“Yeah.

You guys were like something out of a romcom, honestly.

Was that thing on the wing on purpose?” Bradley grinned.

“No, it wasn’t,” he smiled.

“Because you know, if you were any shorter, you might’ve ended up kissing her.”

Mav felt himself turn a little red, but was still amused despite himself. “Shut up.”

Heedless, Bradley continued, “You would have liked that, I’m sure.”

“You’re just as bad as your father,” he sighed.

His gosling’s grin turned sentimental. “Learned it from both of them.”

Bradley had openly called him “Dad” for years before, and again after their reconciliation, but statements like that never failed to warm his heart.

Helpless, Mav stood, and, going over to his son, stooped slightly to place a hand on his shoulder and a kiss at his temple. “Love you, Baby Goose.”

Before he could pull away, Bradley wrapped both arms tightly around him. “Love you too, Dad.

Mav was more than content to let the moment sit, the two of them still making up for almost twenty years of no hugs from the other.

Bradley eventually broke the silence with, “I’ll go heat up that pizza we got from the grocery last night, Dad, how about that?”

He frowned, pulling back, “I can do that, B,—”

“I’ll do it, Dad, you just sit and relax,” Bradley said, already walking towards the Airstream, and just as he was about to step inside the silver trailer, the kid fired off, “Think about your writer!”

Mav spluttered, looking incredulously at the Airstream’s door.

Bradley was really too much like Goose and him, he chuckled silently to himself.

The weekend’s end saw the two of them return to the duplex he and Bradley had bought together last year, sitting about fifteen minutes drive in the Bronco (about half that on the Ninja, at full Mav power) away from TOPGUN, where they were both posted as instructors; Mav himself permanently, Bradley, for a three-year period before his next deployment cycle.

Monday dawned, and he found himself glancing at the screen of his phone every time it dinged, so much so, that said son repeatedly glanced between him and the cellphone laid out on the Officer’s Mess Hall table over lunch.

“What?” Mav asked, confused at the younger man’s consterned expression.

“Who are you, and what have you done with my Dad?

You have not looked away from your phone since we sat down, Mav.

You used to have no idea what TikTok was, and now you look like Hangman after he posts a new photo on Insta, and I would know—God, he was insufferable that time in Sigonella.”

“…I’m guessing Insta is Instagraph?”

Bradley made a noise quite like his callsign. “l—you don’t even—Instagram, Mav, Instagram.

It’s like you’re expecting a call or so—” brown eyes excitedly widened as dots were abruptly connected, “—ohh shit; you gave her your number, didn’t you, your writer?”

Mav rolled his eyes, “She’s not my writer, Brads, but I… I did give her my number just in case she needed more help with—research.”

“Oh, research, sure, Mav; I bet you’d love to help her with her research,” the younger man chortled.

“You sound like your Uncle Slider.”

“Uh-huh—” Bradley brushed off, “we’re getting off topic here, did she say she’d call you or something?”

“No, she didn’t.

I told her to call if she needed me.” He wondered if, instead of being subtle, he should have just out and asked her to call him—or even just asked her out directly; the Maverick of over thirty years ago would have.

His son’s eyes comically widened. “Please, for the love of God, tell me you did not say it like that—that is as bad as you serenading that ex of yours with, of all the songs, “Abracadabra” by The Steve Miller Band.”

“Hey, that’s a good song!” Mav protested.

“It’s also creepy as hell—‘I wanna reach out and grab ya’?

Tell me you hear that?!”

Well, when the lyrics were said like that… “In hindsight, I hear it, no, I did not say it like that, and now who’s getting off topic, Roo?”

“Fine—so you were playing subtle, huh?” Bradley wrinkled his nose, tilting his head from side to side. “Well, we’ll just have to see if the subtle play works, because the Maverick charm was on max power, so you likely made an impression—”

“Thanks, kid?”

“—so I’d say… there’s a sixty-five percent chance she’ll call you,” was the determination.

Mav paused and raised an eyebrow. “Only sixty-five?”

“I’m taking into account the variable that she might not go for… people like you, you know.”

“…No.”

Mav could see both himself and Nick in Bradley’s shit-eating grin. “Old men.”

“An old man, huh?

Well, this is an old man who can still kick the asses of people less than half his age, and you too, Brads, six ways to Sunday, in the air or on the mats.”

A fork promptly got brandished daringly. “I almost had you when we did that demo on the death spiral two weeks ago, Dad, and if you hadn’t slipped my headlock on Wednesday, I’d have gotten you to tap out.”

Mav reached over and affectionately ruffled his son’s brown curls. “Almost only works with grenades, Baby Goose; now eat your shitty mashed potatoes.”

The week ticked by, and after every hop, he tried not to make it too obvious to Bradley, whose locker was right next to his in the Instructor’s Locker Room, that his phone was the first thing he checked.

By Wednesday evening, he was starting to lose what hope he had, and he ignored his son’s sad look as he surreptitiously looked at his phone.

On Thursday evening, Bradley slung an arm around his shoulder as they walked together to the parking lot. “I know I give you shit about being old, Dad, but you’ve still got more than enough charm and looks for women to be attracted to you.

I mean, you should have heard the stuff Phoe and Halo were saying about you during the detachment training—ugh, especially after Dogfight Football.

The thirst was real.”

At his confused look, Bradley continued, “Long story short, they said you were—bleh—hot.

I’m not repeating exactly what they said, even though I can, it’s all seared into my memory, unfortunately,” he finished, shuddering.

Mav laughed, “I’m sorry for the trauma, but, what, uh, brought this train of thought on, Baby Goose?”

He was pressed closer into a Hawaiian shirt-clad side. “I know you’re sad about not getting called by your writer.”

Knowing it was useless to deny it, he shook his head, “I won’t lie and say it doesn’t sting, because I really thought we had a connection, but it’s probably for the best, because I’m… well, you know.”

“No, I don’t,” his son adamantly stated. “Because you’re… kind and loving, with a heart about a billion sizes too big for his body, who gives so much of himself in literally everything—except maybe following orders; any woman would be happy with you.”

Mav reached and gave the vague vicinity of a shoulder a loving pat. “You give me too much credit.”

“No, Dad, you would make someone very happy—I want to see you happy,” Bradley squeezed a Nomex jacketed arm.

“I am happy, kiddo;” he cheerfully stated, “I can fly, I have the rest of the Flyboys, the Daggers, Bianca, and most importantly, I have you, my not-so little boy, who’s become a better man than I could have hoped.”

Bradley halted in his tracks, and tugged him into a hug with a laugh that could have been a sob. “Fuck, Dad, how do you just say shit like that?”

“Like what, that I’m so proud of you?” Mav beamed.

His son’s heatless “Shut up, will you, old man?” sounded suspiciously wobbly, but Mav chose not to remark on it, and hugged back before they continued walking after a moment.

“But back to my point,” the younger man pointed, “unless there’s something you’re not telling me about your relationship with Bianca, she doesn’t count as a woman in your life.

I know you have me, the Daggers, and the Flyboys, but it’s different from being in love and getting that love back.” Bradley suddenly snapped his fingers, “I know, I should start you a dating app profile!”

“Oh no, I’ve heard horror stories about dating apps, and I’m not desperate, Baby Goose.”

Bradley threw both hands up, “It’s not about desperation, Hangman has—okay, that’s not a good example—but you know, you need to put yourself out there more.

Meet someone.

Come on, Dad, please?”

The kid looked so hopeful, he couldn’t outright say no. “I’ll think about it.”

“Yes!

It’s not a no, I’ll take it.

I’ll look through the photos at the hangar tomorrow night—we gotta pick the right one—that can make or break things!

Maybe one of you in the dress whites or blues—or hey, ladies love the flight suit, and it’ll be even better if you’re in front of your F-18…”

At Bradley’s musing, Mav had a smile on his face all the way to his Kawasaki, and the whole way home, trailing in the Bronco’s wake.

After work early Friday evening, both men began the preparations for their weekly getaway to the hangar, packing their respective bags with whatever they deemed necessary for a two-day stay in the Mojave.

Mav was busying himself with checking his duffel before he hopped in the shower, when he heard clattering from his kitchen, and immediately, a dismayed “Damn it!” rang through the house.

“You okay, kiddo?” he called out.

“Yeah, I just—we’re out of Doritos!”

As amusing as it sounded, that did constitute a little bit of an emergency—the triangular chips were Bradley’s go-to snack, ever since he was a child, and he’d be bemoaning the lack of them the whole two days at the hangar if they really were out. “Did you check your kitchen?”

“I looked there first—we can’t leave without Doritos, Dad!”

A soft chuckle escaped him. “You still have time to go grab some if you want, I still have to take a shower, Brads,” he offered.

“Good idea, I’ll just go to the store and grab some, be right back!”

“Okay, drive safe!”

“Always!”

Mav waited to hear his front door shut before turning for his bathroom and starting the shower, tossing his shirt in the hamper on the way.

A few minutes later, he’d just begun to rinse off when he heard a faint noise from downstairs; his phone was ringing, he realized.

He initially paid it no mind—he’d been getting scam calls the last few days, which always ended up disappointing him—but then… it kept ringing.

And ringing.

Hope suddenly bloomed in his chest, and he hurried to get out of the shower.

He nearly faceplanted on his own bathroom floor in his haste, stumbling when his lunge for his towel missed, but he was able to keep himself upright and the second attempt had the fabric in his hand, then around his waist.

Mav dashed out the bathroom and down the stairs, tapping the green “accept call” button.

“Pete Mitchell,” he spoke into his phone, trying not to sound like he’d just run a marathon while his chest heaved.

A slight pause later, a hesitant “Hi,” came over the phone, and his heart leapt. “I don’t know if you remember me, we met at the Apple Valley Airshow—”

She had to be joking if she thought she was that easily forgettable. “__, right?

The writer,” he replied, pushing the dripping strands of his hair out of his face.

“Yeah, that’s me, you said I could call if I had any questions.”

“Uh-huh.

I’m guessing you have one,” he smiled.

The following invite to the hangar was twofold; he’d be able to help her without the hassle of dealing with emails or something like that, and he’d be able to gauge if she was actually interested in him.

He remembered the way she’d slightly frozen, when he stepped out from under Bianca, how she’d glanced at his hand when he’d extended it for a handshake.

But he’d been wrong about a great many things before, and he didn’t want to immediately assume she was interested, because everyone knew what the first three letters of assume were, and for all he knew, she really just needed help.

Regardless, he smiled while they bantered as easily as breathing; it was invigorating, and… maybe a little bit of a turn-on, if he was honest.

(Maybe Halo was right.)

Shortly after they said goodbye, Mav sent the address of the hangar with a “How does 3:30 sound to you?” to her number, and three beats after it registered delivered, a “That’s perfect—see you tomorrow 😊” message came in, which had him sigh like a teenager as he leaned against the counter for a moment, before he pushed off to get dressed.

By the time Bradley came back with four grocery bags full of Doritos, from two different groceries, Mav was already dressed in his usual t-shirt and jeans, ready to go. “You got enough Doritos there, Baby Goose?” he gawked at the sheer amount of chips.

“I’m restocking us, Dad, it’s not all for the weekend,” the younger man replied, emptying one grocery bag and a half into Mav’s snack cabinet. “I just need to put another bag and this half at mine, and the rest I’m taking.”

He bit down on his laughter and watched as his son dashed next door to stock his own snack cabinet, before returning in time to catch him staring at the “That’s perfect—see you tomorrow 😊” message on his phone.

“You’re looking sappy again,” Bradley squinted suspiciously at him. “It’s almost like you got a call from your writer.”

Mav tried to keep his face neutral, but as always, it was pointless with his gosling.

The kid’s eyes widened, “Holy shit, she did call you, didn’t she?!

Fuck, you still got it, Dad.”

He waved off, “There’s no guarantee she actually is interested in me like that, and she called me because she needs my help.”

“Oh, your help, of course,” Bradley grinned. “Well?

What’s the profile?”

Mav rolled his eyes. “She wrote a dogfight scene she can’t cut, and she wants to make sure the tactics are sound.

So I invited her to the hangar tomorrow so we don’t have to do any emails and stuff.”

The younger man whistled, impressed. “That was smooth as hell, Dad.

You have an idea of when she’s coming over?”

“1530ish.”

Bradley planted his hands on his hips with a sigh. “Well, that’s a good amount of time, but we’ll still have some work to do.”

“Work—what are you planning, Baby Goose?”

“We have to make the hangar a little neater than usual—make you seem like a responsible adult,” his son replied, as if it were the most obvious thing.

Mav burst into laughter while picking up his duffel. “If your father, your uncles, and nearly forty years in the Navy couldn’t do that, what makes you think spiffing up the hangar could?”

“Worth a shot, you never know—she might be fooled,” Bradley muttered, locking Mav’s front door behind them both.

“I heard that!”

When the afternoon set over the hangar the next day, now the neatest it’d been in a long time (admittedly, it wasn’t that bad, Mav just had a particular system, which didn’t much look like one in the first place), Bradley clapped his hands, “Now, I’m going to head into town, Dad.”

“What for?”

“Dad, your writer is coming in about ten minutes, and the last thing you need is me cramping your style, so I’m going to head into town, I’ll be back at around… let’s call it 2345–please don’t be naked when I come back—”

“Bradley!” Mav exclaimed, a little bit scandalized, though they were both hardly virginal.

“—and, and, prior notice of if I shouldn’t come back would be greatly appreciated.”

“Bradley!”

“What?

I’m just covering the bases.”

“There’s no bases to cover here, I’m just going to review her scene,” he replied.

“Annnd?” the younger man deadpanned.

“And then… we’ll see what happens.

But all I know is I’m not about to—whatever you’re thinking is going to happen.” Mav sighed, picking up a screwdriver that had fallen off the maintenance cart next to Bianca, and placed it back in the toolbox. “And I don’t… this probably isn’t going to go anywhere, because—I’m pushing sixty, kiddo, and really… I don’t think I have casual—anything—left in me anymore.”

Bradley slowly nodded, a proud look on his face. “Good for you, Dad.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm,” he replied, nodding, mustache quirking up. “I’m happy you know what you want.

But you gotta be more optimistic than this, because who knows, this could lead to your more-than casual something.” Bradley slapped him on the arm, “Come on, where’s the ‘I’m going anyway’ Maverick Mitchell who proved he could fly a suicide mission on a crazy profile, with fifteen seconds to spare?”

Mav scoffed self-deprecatingly, “Doing crazy pilot shit; that makes sense to me, Baby Goose, but… relationships—I’ve always FUBAR-ed them.

Oh God, I don’t actually know what I was thinking, giving her my number—this was a mistake,” he muttered, thoughts beginning to spiral as his breathing picked up.

Bradley grabbed both his arms, squeezing them to ground him. “Hey—hey, Dad, look at me—look at me.

Take a breath.

You did not make a mistake, you made a connection with someone, you offered to help them, and she took you up on the offer.

At the least, you help someone in need, and you come out the other side with a friend; if everything goes well, maybe you get more than friendship.

But like you said, you’re just checking the scene she’s having trouble with, like she asked.

Don’t put pressure on yourself—just see what happens.

You got this, Dad.”

“I got this,” Mav murmured, partly confirming his son’s statement, partly reassuring himself, and partly asking if he did, indeed “got” it.

“You got this; come here.” Bradley pulled him into a tight hug, one to which Mav clung, while he got ahold of himself.

When he pulled back from his son’s embrace and repeated “I got this,” a minute or so later, it was still slightly shaky, but held some of the classic Maverick confidence.

“That’s the spirit.” The younger man checked his watch, wincing. “I don’t want to cramp your style, and I’m cutting it close, but I don’t want to leave you if you’re going to spiral again.

You good, Dad?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?” Bradley frowned.

“Yeah, I’ll just check on Bianca a little while I’m waiting.”

His son exhaled heavily. “You do that, alright?

Don’t get in your head—don’t think, just do, remember?”

“I remember,” Mav smirked.

“Okay.

I’m gonna go now.” Bradley cautiously backed out of the hangar, as if ready to pull him into another hug if he showed the slightest tell of another mental spiral. “Call me if I shouldn’t come back, and remember, 2345!

Please don’t be naked!!”

“Go!!” Mav chuckled, feeling mostly like himself again, if not slightly nervous.

“Love you!”

“Love you more, kiddo!”

Soon, the sound of the Bronco’s engine rumbled through the dry air before it faded, leaving the air still and silent except for the distant sounds of the Mojave.

Before his and Bradley’s reconciliation, he was used to the stillness and silence, a consequence of choosing to make the hangar his home a few years ago, upon his assignment as a test pilot at NAWS China Lake, despite the long commute; he’d never liked base housing, and avoided it like the plague.

He’d even found the stillness and quiet comforting in a sadistic way, thought it was maybe something he deserved in cynical moments.

But now, the hangar which Hondo had once referred to as his “Fortress of Solitude”, was a place of life, love, and joy, the old silence and stillness now the strange one.

Before he could think too much about his relationship with silence, he went to Bianca and started some busywork with her engine, allowing his mind to get lost—and more importantly, his body to relax—in the process.

He’d gotten so absorbed in his beloved plane’s maintenance that he almost missed the sound of an unfamiliar car pulling up to the hangar.

Immediately, his heart started racing again, but he’d accepted that for better or worse, this whole thing was going to play out as it would; if that involved him fucking something up, he just prayed he could fix it.

Moment of truth; the car door opened.

“Ghostrider, up and ready,” he muttered to himself.

“Hello?” she uncertainly called.

“In here,” he replied.

Mav swallowed thickly upon seeing her; he liked to think he had a decent memory, but his memory did no justice to her.

The desert afternoon light streaming in through the open hangar door haloed her in an otherworldly way, only making her even more beautiful to him, the breeze blowing her hair around and billowing her loose blouse.

His eyes were drawn to the little smile at the corner of her lips, and it was only because he’d been looking there, that he realized she was speaking.

“Hey, glad you could make it,” he brightly said, hoping that that wasn’t too out of left field from what she’d said, because he’d completely missed it.

Her smile widened, “Not going to miss it—for all I know, this is a one time opportunity.”

The replies that immediately came to mind sounded creepy, stupid, or worse, so he settled for, “Who said it was?”

She chuckled, lighting up her already sparkling gaze, biting her lip briefly before looking around the hangar, her eyes soon landing on Bianca. “Great place you’ve got here; must’ve been hard to get, though, with it being Navy land.”

“Not that hard when you’re got friends in high places.” Mav recalled the moment Ice and the Flyboys gave him the title to the hangar for his fortieth birthday, which they were celebrating along with his promotion to Commander.

She tilted her head slightly, and he realized that she probably heard the somber tone in his voice—remembering Ice was still hard, but it was getting better.

“Anyway, uh,” he clapped his hands, pushing forward, “you had a scene that needs checking?”

She blinked as if clearing her head, and raised the leather messenger bag on her shoulder. “I have my laptop right here.”

Mav gestured to his couch, and as they moved towards it, he prayed that he wouldn’t somehow make a fool of himself today.

To be continued…

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Because the P-51 was an Air Force aircraft, her landing gear was not designed for hard, unflared Navy-style landings, which are flown in that manner for carrier operations.

However, even if naval aviators land on a full-length runway, carrier habits die hard, and if you watch planespotting streams, such as my favorite, L.A FLIGHTS, you can make reasonable guesses as to who was former Navy, as the landings will tend to have a shallower flare at landing.

Chocks

The Apple Valley Airshow takes place every year in the town of Apple Valley, located in San Bernardino, California.

(I considered setting this story at the annual Miramar Airshow, which takes place at MCAS (formerly NAS) Miramar, but I imagine that Mav would probably want to avoid going to MCAS Miramar for obvious reasons.)

The trailing edge of a wing is its back edge, the edge closer to the tail—its opposite is the leading edge, the edge closer to the nose.

The chair I write as Mav’s favorite chair is the one he sits down in in the opening scene of TG:M.

As Mav is a Maverick in most aspects of his life, I thought it was perfect for Mav to be left-handed—and as Tom himself is left-handed, it couldn’t get more perfect.

The F-14 is notable as being quite large as fighter jets go, and she is practically impossible to miss in the sky, once within visual range; and she is sometimes called the Flying Tennis Court, a nickname she shares with the McDonnell Douglas/Boeing F-15 Eagle.

Bradley and Mav living in what is essentially the same house, having bought a duplex together, is something I can see them doing after they reconcile, because to me, these two are basically orange cats with separation anxiety, and I feel like they would be the epitome of healthy codependency, if that’s possible.

Mav power is a play on words/reference to the engine throttle conditions of fighter jets; Max power is the maximum engine power with afterburner (wet power), and MIL (which stands for Military) power is the maximum engine power without afterburner (dry power)

Do not quote me on this, but as I understand it, in the Navy, you don’t deploy all the time.

There are years you are given a land-based assignment, like Bradley being assigned to TOPGUN, before you are put back on ship deployments for a similar amount of years.

TL;DR: Deployment cycles in the Navy have you rotating between ship-based assignments and land-based assignments every few years.

NAS Sigonella

“Abracadabra” by The Steve Miller Band

I chose this song because of this piece of art by @woodsywarbler, and “Abracadabra” is my favorite song by The Steve Miller Band, despite the really creepy lyrics.

A death spiral is this little bit of crazy pilot shit, as shown in TG:M. (Timestamp 7:34)

Nomex is the flame-resistant material which flight suits are made of, and it’s also what Mav’s green jacket is made of.

Doritos came out in 1964, plenty of time for Bradley, ‘80s baby that he is, to develop a yen for them.

(Flight) Profile: a graphical timeline of the operational characteristics, configurations, and speeds of an aircraft along a flight path in a specific phase of flight or maneuver.

FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition (or Repair, people argue which word the last letter is)

Fortress of Solitude

Ghostrider was Mav and Merlin’s operational callsign during the Layton Mission, and again, do not quote me on this, but you get to keep the operational callsigns you received during notable missions, a detail alluded to in the TG:M screenplay, so Mav uses it here to psych himself up.

Taglist

@ohtobemare

@callsign-skydancer

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

@tadomikiku

@malindacath

@aviatorobsessed

@lynnevanss

@djs8891

If you’d like to join my taglist, just send me an ask!

#not me 👀 at men literally old enough to be my father #top gun: maverick #top gun maverick #top gun: maverick fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun: maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun: maverick fic #top gun maverick fic #pete maverick mitchell x reader #pete mitchell x reader #pete maverick mitchell #pete mitchell #tom cruise

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materassassino · 6 months ago

Note

Ooh, prompts. ^⁠_⁠^ C, SangCheng or NieLan, please!

Ok so, it's more preslash than an actual shippy thing, and it's more the lead-in to respite than actual respite, but... I think it works. Post-canon, anyway.

Minific prompts!

---

C - A moment’s respite

“Working yourself to the bone, as usual.”

Jiang Cheng’s head snaps up from his work, his eye twitching. He glares at the doorway. Nie Huaisang merely waves his fan, slow, almost mocking. The silence lengthens, and Jiang Cheng then realises how much the shadows have also lengthened: the sun is low, the lamps should be lit soon. How long has he been bent over his desk, squinting at accounts and inventories and other banalities of daily sect rule?

Loath as he is to admit weakness in front of Nie Huaisang, he has to rub his eyes. They ache now, freed from their work, and he scowls at the chuckle that elicits from across the room.

“What are you even doing here?” he asks, waspish as always. Nie Huaisang snaps his fan shut and bizarrely takes that as some sort of invitation. He flounces across the room and arrays himself decadently on the cushion opposite as if he belongs there, smiling some enigmatic smile that grates on Jiang Cheng’s nerves.

“Can a sect leader not visit a friend?” he asks innocently.

There’s nothing innocent about this man, Jiang Cheng knows now, and that knowledge is cacophonous at the front of his mind. He watches Nie Huaisang like a bird in the nest watches a snake, waiting.

Nie Huaisang stares right back, frowns at what he apparently sees, and sighs. “Jin Ling sent me. He knew you wouldn’t listen to him and he couldn’t think of anyone else who could convince you to cease working yourself to death. He asked me with a politeness I’d never have expected from his before, it was a delight to see. Having friends has done him good.”

Jiang Cheng’s jaw tightens, the fist that bears Zidian clenching on the desk. He doesn’t know where to start with that. He couldn’t think of anyone else? Jiang Cheng can think of someone else, but that is precisely a someone he does not want to see, or even acknowledge. He will have to, at some point. But not now, because the thought makes him sick.

Nie Huaisang continues to study him, and his face softens from something distant to concern. Jiang Cheng abhors it, because he doesn’t know whether it is genuine or some bitter act Nie Huaisang plasters on, like everything else was.

“You will drive yourself to qi deviation if you continue like this,” he says, and he sounds imminently practical. Jiang Cheng scoffs.

“What would you care?” he asks, sneering.

He is shocked when, instead of some snivelling platitudes, Nie Huaisang’s face hardens into a disapproving scowl.

“Because you are my friend,” he says. He pauses, tapping his fan on the table. “You are free to distrust me. I fooled you all for a very long time. But if my actions were not sincere would I have travelled all the way from Qinghe to Yunmeng, at the request of a child? What possible ulterior motive would I have?” He leans forward, staring right into Jiang Cheng’s eyes with a gaze that is piercing to the core, sharp and observant. “You are a smart man, Jiang Cheng, but sometimes you can be blisteringly stupid.”

Jiang Cheng’s first instinct is the righteous flare of anger. It makes him pound his fist on the table and half-rise from his seat, expletives crowding in his throat, the crackle of Zidian along his fingers. Nie Huaisang has not even flinched. On the contrary, he looks thoroughly unimpressed. This, Jiang Cheng suddenly realises, is the actual Nie Huaisang. He is being offered the unvarnished truth, no grovelling playact, no feigned ignorance. This is the cunning, no-nonsense Nie Huaisang, the thing he was formed into by loss and betrayal. This is… an offering. It is the same vulnerability Nie Huaisang is asking him to show himself

The air is very still.

Then Nie Huaisang smacks his fan into the palm of his other hand and gets to his feet.

“Come, we shall eat, and drink, and perhaps even enjoy some music if you feel space in your heart for it. Otherwise, we shall simply talk.”

“Music?” Jiang Cheng asks, unconvinced. Still, he’s gotten to his feet, adjusting his robes and brushing off invisible dust. He feels almost… compelled to follow, when he knows perfectly well he should throw Nie Huaisang out and get back to work. But if he looks down at the ledger, he can feel all inclination to continue seep from him, leaving him hollow.

“There is a very accomplished travelling guqin player currently here in Yunmeng. I have heard her skill rivals that of the Lans – no cultivation involved, obviously, just pure musical skill, but I want to hear her for myself.”

Jiang Cheng snorts, something inelegant but somehow sincere. He almost surprises himself.

“There’s your ulterior motive,” he says, trying for accusatory. It comes out, to his own bewilderment, as a joke. Nie Huaisang’s fan snaps open, and he hides a smile behind it. The smile, Jiang Cheng thinks, might actually meet his eyes, and not be a trick of the dying light.

“One can accomplish more than one task at once, Jiang-zongzhu,” he says airily, and leads the way out of Jiang Cheng’s study.

#mo dao zu shi #sangcheng #jiang cheng #nie huaisang #pixie writes #minific prompts

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beaconfeels · 1 month ago

Note

Alpha Werewolf Chris Argent

Thoughts? 👀

(Also yes I'm throwing stuff at you that's kinda gnawing on my mind rn 😂

Also also yes I'm writing most of these ideas myself - or at least intend to 😂)

I’ve not spent a lot of time thinking about Chris being turned, and even less about him being an alpha werewolf, but there is certainly plenty to think about!

One of the things I think about right away is the fact that Chris wasn’t raised to be a leader, he was raised to be a soldier. He was raised to answer orders without question, to believe in the mission, to ignore anything he sees that doesn’t fit the narrative he’s been given. So it’s interesting to think about him as an alpha wolf with those alpha urges to build a pack.

I feel like I can’t fully trust myself in how I view Chris, because he’s probably the character I project onto the most. I grew up in a cult, so I tend to think about the aspect of him being raised in a certain belief system and then having that turned on its head. So this could be me projecting, but I do think that Chris thought he was doing the right thing, or at the very least, he did a pretty good job of convincing himself that he did. He learned early and often that asking questions and having doubts was frowned upon, if not deadly, so he refused to see anything that made him unsure of the black and white world he’d accepted as truth.

It’s interesting to think about the ways him being turned would flip that even faster and more intensely maybe. I also think whether or not he got turned before Victoria died would make a big difference. If she was alive, would she have convinced him to end his life like she did her own? Would she have even given him a choice?

If she was already dead, I have zero doubt that he would have done everything in his power to stay alive for Allison. Personally, I’m most interested in thinking about the idea in my head where his dad and sister are hellbent on killing him, so he ends up having to rely on the ragtag McCall/Hale pack to save him. Good lord. I’d have way too much fun tormenting…basically everyone in that scenario 😂 (one could also do all kinds of shippy things with it, if they so desired)

Anyway, I feel like there are so many directions someone could go with alpha Chris, and thank you for making me think about it more! It’s fun to put the blorbos on the spin cycle and just rattle them around for awhile sometimes.

#alpha!Chris #teen wolf #asks #I tend not to think about these types of things as much #because I know they’re gonna lead to plotty fic ideas #and my god I struggle with writing plotty fics #I know that means I just need to work at building the skill #but I don’t wanna :P #I definitely am the poster child for kid who got straight A’s and now doesn’t want to do anything she might not be perfect at immediately #not that my non-plotty writing is perfect by any stretch of the imagination #but at least I don’t worry as much that someone will read it and think I’m an idiot 😂

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olderthannetfic · 1 year ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/729708592592306176/how-about-a-different-discourse-death-of-the

What this ask is missing, a bit, is that Death of the Author *does* mean that the author’s take on things is no more or less valid than anyone else’s. It’s about decentering authorial intent in analyses of media. Barthes is pretty clear and quite pointed about it in the original essay.

What bothers me about misuses of it and what I think this anon means to say is when people start decentering the actual *text*. The idea behind Death of the Author is also that the text stands alone. You don’t need to look at any extra shit to understand it. As you said, it was a response to a mode of analysis that obsessed over plumbing through author biographies.

The issue with what people do in fandom is they ignore the text. “I don’t like this element of canon, so it doesn’t exist.” (Which is different from arguing that it’s there but it sucks because of XYZ reasons, so I’m going to consciously ignore it in my fan works. This is when people just act like it isn’t there in the text in the first place.) “You have to take my bizarro world out-of-nowhere headcanon that is based on nothing except that I want it to be true, that I love this character and I wish they were XYZ therefore they are” and take it just as seriously as headcanons that actually engage with what’s in the show/video game/book/movie/whatever and use that as their basis (like building off something that is subtextual in the original work).

Granted we all do this to some degree, we all come to a text with our own biases and you can’t *always* easily separate those out, and that can affect, for instance, your interpretation of what the subtext is, but I think the irritating fandom behavior is when this kind of ignoring-the-text-to-substitute-your-own-reality is this very deliberate sort of laziness. The annoying thing in my current fandom is people who are fans of this one ship that they insist is the most progressive and other people just don’t see the scintillating “subtext” of because we are bigots or whatever, between two characters who don’t interact that much for two MCs and when they do it’s not at all shippy (but these characters both have very shippy subtext with different characters), but where these people think the ship *should* exist because of their identities. And their “evidence” for the ship is always gifsets taken way out of context and not including the dialogue that makes the non-shippy context for that scene very clear (including that it might actually be shippy for conflicting pairings). It’s like this bizarre version of “close reading” that strips out the largely context *deliberately* in order to make a particular conclusion seem more compelling than it actually is.

Anyway, all that ignoring-the-text stuff is STILL bad analysis per DOTA. Since the point of DOTA is to go based on the text, if you’re obscuring the text you’re kind of just installing yourself as a new author.

This is why DOTA doesn’t mean “anything goes.” It just means “authorial intent is just one interpretation that doesn’t have to matter.” It doesn’t mean other stuff we use in analysis doesn’t matter, and if anything the point is to make it even more text-centric than the older author-centric analyses were. People can still disagree about what the text says, of course, but they should both be going back to it in how they construct those arguments, and not, like those shippers, deliberately ignoring chunks of the text that weaken their arguments.

I don't think all of them are consciously throwing out actual canon, but they are often throwing out all context that would help evaluate subtext.

Like... if you're analyzing a Marvel movie, you might ignore what the director said in an interview, but you probably shouldn't entirely ignore the fact that it is a Marvel movie and apply assumptions that make sense for some arthouse film.

And, yes, if you're arguing for shippy subtext, even unintentional on the part of creators, "I like this ship because..." needs very little, but "This ship has more support than this other ship" requires going back to the actual text and looking at it in its totality.

There's a lot of faux-intellectualism around garbage like TJLC where people try to make themselves feel smart by using the language of close reading while having the media literacy of a bucket of rotting fish.

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mothman-can-write · 10 months ago

Note

hi !!! i saw u said you were open for prompts, i mean this is kinda less of a prompt really, but like i loved that blackhill mission transcript thing you did a while ago and would be really cool to see some more stuff in the same vein ig ! but also maybe something like a kinda blackhill first meeting kinda thing idk !! i just love your work tho ! you really have the ability to make me feel all the emotions

OOOOO i just thought of this whilst writing this but maybe something like with clint teasing nat ab having like feelings for maria or something ?? idk i just love ur writing ! sorry these are kinda shitty hahah

NGL I took this prompt and mangled it in my hands. I heard first meeting and my brain was immediately like well that could go seventeen thousand different ways, so I sorta mashed in Clint's teasing to go along with it and made it a little more suggestive than outright shippy. Realistically, I think if Natasha is only meeting Maria for the first time, she's probably still in a place where she's not totally open to such self indulgent things as having a crush

Also, this isn't a mission transcript but I'd love to do more of them that one was really fun! I just don't really have any good ideas for the sort of things they'd have to talk about in the field besides dying haha

ANYWAY enough rambling, though you're all familiar with my inability to shut up these days. ~3k under the cut of Clint being a ballache and nat being sceptical but gay

The only person that doesn’t treat Natasha like she’s a project – or a live wire – is Clint. He’d had his fair share of looking at her with those careful eyes, something behind them that made her teeth itch in her gums like some trained dog. He doesn’t do that so much anymore, not unless she’s in a particular state and doing a very bad job at hiding it. She likes him, she thinks. He might be one of the first people in her entire life that she can truly say she likes.

Naturally, she finds herself in his quarters more often than her own. She lays on his bed as he works on something probably explosive enough to kill them both if he sneezes, and she ignores the pip of her emails as she braids a small strip of hair under her ear. She’s bored, if she’s honest, but she doesn’t want to waste her first free morning of the past fortnight on something so trivial as emails. Or helping Clint.

“You not gonna answer her?” he says without looking up from his work. He holds it close to his face, something far too small in his tweezers.

Natasha’s fingers pause in untangling her braid. “How do you know who it is?”

He still doesn’t turn in his seat, matter of fact when he speaks. “You have a different tone for Hill.”

“How did you figure that out?” She tries not to scowl at him, but she still isn’t used to feeling so see-through. Quite frankly, she’d like to be as opaque as possible, but she seems to have grown rather attached to someone with x-ray vision.

Clint puts his miniature contraption down and turns to her at last. She’s not fond of the smile on his face as he leans over the back of his chair. “You’re not the only spy on the ship. Also, you weren’t trying very hard to hide it.”

“Her emails are usually more important,” Natasha argues, not quite sure why she feels the need to defend herself on it.

Clint grins ever wider. “I never asked why. I just thought you had a massive crush on her.”

Natasha scowls fully this time. “I’ve never met her.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know what’s in those emails.”

“Shut up.”

She reaches for her phone anyway and pointedly ignores the way Clint watches her. The email is much the same as they always are, telling her about meetings and progress and such. She’s overtly professional in every one, but now that she’s thinking about it, Natasha likes the words she uses – just slightly like she enjoyed reading dictionaries as a child. Very, very rarely, Maria will let something slip in her emails that is almost like humour, and Natasha doesn’t tell Clint that she actually does enjoy receiving emails from her just for the fact that she feels a little special when that happens. She’s heard the rumours; she knows not to expect giggles and grins when it comes to the Assistant Director.

In the end, she doesn’t bother to respond to the email anyway and Clint has already turned back to his work. “Not in the mood to sext her back?”

She scowls at the back of his head. “It sounds like Laura needs to watch her back.”

“Oh, god,” he laughs. “Gross. Absolutely not. Not my type.”

“What makes you think she’s mine?”

“You need someone to match your weirdness.”

Natasha wishes she had something to throw at him. She won’t admit that she intrigues her in small ways. She doubts she’s any different from every other CEO and government lead in the world, but some small part of her feels thankful to her faceless emails. She could’ve easily overridden Clint’s choice, could’ve had her put down before she could even think to beg for forgiveness. But she’d given her a chance, and she’d kept in contact despite her supposed overbooked schedule every day since. Maria held her life in her hands at one point, and she’d given her another shot at it.

Despite everything, Natasha still doesn’t sleep well. Or, rather, because of everything, she supposes. One good month doesn’t erase a lifetime of bad – and she’s really a little hesitant to say that this month has even been good in many senses of the word. She wonders if the nights will ever get easier on her with time, or if she’s stuck with these hours of restlessness and sweat for the rest of her life. It’s not a nice thing to think about, and it doesn’t really do all that much to distract her from the shadows that still play behind her eyelids or the way the shapes of the room still seem to swim around the edges. So, she swings her legs over the side of her bed and scrubs at her face with her hands. She can appreciate, at the very least, that she isn’t handcuffed to her bed here. Somehow, that had been a hard thing to get used to. She still sleeps with one arm by the headboard.

There aren't many things to do at this hour. Clint has told her countless times that she’s perfectly welcome to pester him at any time of the night if it would make her feel even minutely better. He says he understands, and she believes him enough from the way his past lines his own face, but it doesn’t make it any easier to put into practice.

She doesn’t have a plan as she steps out into the corridors. She dresses like she’s going to the gym on the off chance that she might be able to sneak into it and punch something until she’s sweaty for reasons more tangible. She wishes the firing range was usable at this hour, but she’s sure that’s much less subtle. Still, there are some nightmares you can only really feel better by shooting at. Maybe she’ll bat her eyelashes into an hour or so at the targets tomorrow.

She passes the odd agent as she trails around the corridors and considers that the ship never really sleeps entirely. There’s always someone on the night shift, always someone pottering around with something. She thinks it would be nice to work when it’s so quiet. Maybe she should ask about changing her hours. It might be a little soon.

The gym isn’t so far from her quarters, and by the time she reaches it her shirt still feels sticky at her back and her stomach still feels like it’s alive in her ribcage. Her hopes are low enough to limbo as she presses her hand to the door, and she could almost sigh with relief when the door opens easily. She’s not against breaking in, but she likes to think she’s been doing a pretty good job of building a better reputation lately. Maybe not socially, but Maria’s emails haven’t managed to sound short lately – not since the last time she’d bypassed what she maintains was a criminally simple encryption on one of Clint’s jobs.

The gym is utterly silent at this time of the morning, which is entirely unsurprising. She doubts anyone else sensible gets out of bed for another hour or two, let alone starts their training regime. Generally, agents are allowed the privilege of breakfast before they’re worked to the bone. Natasha’s never been a fan of food so early in the morning.

She doesn’t really know when she fell out of the habit of scanning each room on this ship like someone will be waiting to haul her out of it, and she blames it firmly on her lack of sleep and nightmare slurred thoughts when she doesn’t notice the other body in the gym until it’s too late.

“I did wonder,” someone says, and Natasha’s attention snaps to one of the benches on the far side, half covered from the entrance.

It takes Natasha an almost embarrassingly drawn out moment to place her features, and she’s sure she only half succeeds in hiding her surprise into an intrigued eyebrow. The Assistant Director didn’t really strike her as the type to be in the gym when everyone is supposed to be sleeping.

“Wonder what?” she asks instead of every other question that gnaws at her head. She stays firmly planted in the middle of the room.

“Who would come in at this time.”

Oh. She’s not wondering about Natasha. She doesn’t really know what that feels a mote disappointing. She hates it when Clint asks how she’s sleeping. Maybe she just doesn’t like lying to him.

“I thought it would be empty.”

Maria places her water bottle beside her on the bench and makes absolutely no move to stand up yet. Somehow, Natasha finds it unnerving, even if she’s taller here. “It usually is,” she says simply.

Her eyes bore into her in a way that makes the back of her neck crawl. Something about her says that she’s calculating, that she’s looking at Natasha and breaking her down into little bite sized pieces. Natasha has never liked being dissected. Maria’s eyes are very blue.

“Do you usually spend your mornings here?” she asks, if only to stop Maria from burning holes into her skull and reading her thoughts directly.

It works, in the way that her gaze flicks away for the briefest moment before pinning her again in that same cool tone. “I guess you could call this morning.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Maria’s eyes soften ever so slightly around the corners, and Natasha would almost call it a squint. “I’ve made a bit of a habit at this point, yes.”

She almost seems reluctant to admit it, and Natasha can’t help the way she wants to pick this woman apart. She has always liked puzzles, and people are just some of the more complex the world has to offer. She thinks she understands the rumours a little more now, even through this uncanny meeting. She wonders if Maria feels her own searching gaze as intently.

Maria stands at last, and Natasha had almost forgotten how tall she is. She thinks she preferred it when she was sitting. “Don’t let me stop you,” she says, and Natasha is silently thankful for the way that answers her question. Again, not that she wouldn’t break the rules. It’s just much harder to make an excuse when the Assistant Director is the one who catches you.

“I would’ve expected the AD to send me back to my quarters,” she notes, as forward as ever when it gets her information. She’ll admit this woman seems to be intriguing. She’s curious as to just why she’s indulging her so far.

Maria’s expressions are all very small, mere suggestions of emotions that only make Natasha want to pick her apart. “That would make me more of a hypocrite than I already am,” she says simply, almost smiling. “Are you getting on okay?” she asks instead , and her eyes are on her like she’s deciphering her again. She’s closer now, making direct eye contact, and Natasha holds it like a game. “Besides the obvious, of course.”

Natasha tries not to scowl. God, does she hate when people pretend like they know her. “What’s the obvious?”

Maria raises one eyebrow ever so slightly, her expression caught somewhere to amusement. “Did the Red Room have you in the routine of training at four in the morning?”

“Sometimes.” They both know that’s not the reason that she’s here, as much as Natasha wishes Maria didn’t.

Her eyes are almost soft. Almost like she truly cares about her. Natasha doesn’t like to let herself believe the sort of things that might cost her later. “Half of the people on this ship struggle with it, Romanoff,” she says, nearly gentle in the silence around them. “You don’t have to be ashamed of it.”

She can almost imagine her setting a heavy hand on her shoulder as she says it, though Maria remains in her own space. She’s still slightly too close for what Natasha is used to however, and it’s the first time she realises the darkness under her eyes. Her face is lined, something bone deep that she doubts ever goes away. It lends her a certain sort of…imperfection that makes her seem a whole lot more human. For everything she’s heard, though she knows to take gossip with a healthy grain of salt, she could almost imagine Hill to be some sort of robot, some living excel sheet.

Standing in front of her, she sort of just looks like a woman who could do with some sleep. She looks like a woman who has spent the last who-knows-how-many hours beating out her own past the same way Natasha intends to. She won’t call it affection. It doesn’t mean Natasha likes the way she looks straight through her any more.

“You have any tips?” she says, aiming for something playful. She really, really just wants her to stop looking at her like she can figure her out right here in the middle of the room. Maybe if she seems better than she is, she’ll leave her alone. She’d rather her conduct a genuine vivisection out on the boxing ring floor if she’s going to continue to examine her.

She’s certain Maria almost smiles at that, a tug at the corner of her lips that is almost sad, almost conspirational. She shrugs ever so slightly. “Shooting things usually helps.”

Natasha tries not to scowl like a child. As if she wouldn’t be there right now if she could get away with it. “I’m on supervised arms training.”

This time, Maria does smile, though Natasha thinks she’d have missed it if she blinked. “Not from tomorrow,” she says plainly, and Natasha can only watch her walk away without another word.

The door closes behind her, and Natasha lets herself furrow her eyebrows as deeply as she likes. She is overtly aware that she is not being let off of supervised training tomorrow. She’s aware that she has been seen as a weapon and an explosive since the moment Clint forgot that he was meant to shoot her. Somehow, she doesn’t think that Maria is one to tease.

It makes it very hard to punch things as effectively as she’d like to when she can only think after Maria. She wonders what keeps her up at night. She wonders what else she does to get rid of the shadows. She wonders why on earth she would let her off of the hook so early. For all they know, Natasha might decide to defect back. She might’ve been biding her time until she could get a hand on one of those guns outside of the range. She’d never even dream of it, of course. She’d rather be supervised for every split second a gun is in her hands for the rest of her life than have to go back to her life before. She wonders just how deep Maria managed to dig. She wonders if she really is all that transparent after all.

She finds herself in Clint’s quarters again as thoughtlessly as breathing. Every spare minute in her schedule that lines up with his, she’ll spend hiding from the rest of the world. This time, she’s sitting in his chair, her knees resting against the edge of his desk so that she can spin it slightly from side to side. Clint is behind her in his bunk, his arms tucked up behind his head and his eyes closed. It’s only 2pm. Natasha wishes she could have a nap too.

“Is she always like that?” she says on a whim, her thoughts still stuck on tired eyes and snap decisions.

“Like what?” Clint asks, completely brushing over her lack of context.

“So…intense.”

“Ah, we’re back on Hill. Yes.” He falls silent again, and Natasha listens to his breath. “Hold on.” His eyes open and his head turns on his pillow to face her. “Did you meet her? When?”

“This morning.”

“You were at the range this morning.”

“Before that.”

“You were asleep before that.” She doesn’t answer, and that tells him everything in as little effort as possible. “Natasha.”

She doesn’t meet his eye. “It’s better than moping.”

“You don’t need to mope. You can come wake me up.”

“But then you don’t sleep.”

“Tasha, do you really think I’m sleeping well either half the time?”

She stays silent again, staring intently at the dimples Clint’s chair has made in the carpet.

“How did you even find her?” he asks eventually, giving up the argument for the countless time. “She’s practically booked to the minute.”

“She was in the gym when I got there.”

“I’m going to skip over the fact that you’d rather punch something until you bleed than come and bug me. Was it worth it? Was she all sweaty and hot? Did you two finally canoodle in person?”

She doesn’t dignify his jokes with a response, her thoughts plain in her expression. “I don’t think she sleeps well either. She looked tired.”

Clint grins a little. “You paying attention to her face?”

Natasha scowls at him. “It’s normal to look someone in the eye.”

“Mhm…” He retucks his arms under his head, settling back against his pillow. “It’s for sure normal to think about them all morning.”

“She took me off of probation,” she says, almost in a rush, like maybe this will change the subject – maybe a little bit like she’s admitting something.

“Oh you definitely have a crush on her. It’s like she’s trying to get in your pants. Remind me never to read your emails.”

Natasha only squints at him, wishing once again that she had something appropriate to throw. The urge distracts her enough that she never does reject the notion. And when she finds herself imagining Maria’s secret little smile in those few and far casual emails, she decides that Clint doesn’t need to know. She’s not been given many chances in her life, and she thinks she could make space in her life for two instead of one. She wonders if Maria would ever want a gym buddy on long nights and promptly decides not to think any deeper into it.

#words #tumblr exclusive #prompts #blackhill #natasha romanoff #maria hill #clint barton

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cr-noble-writes · 10 months ago

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WIP Whenever

I was tagged like two weeks ago by @otemporanerys but I didn't have anything from WIPs that I could actually share at the time. But I do now!

Anyway, outside of exchange and bang fics, Baldur's Gate 3, The Dark Urge, and Durgetash kind of have me by the throat at the moment.

Light Act 3 spoilers, The Dark Urge spoilers, Gortash POV. Nothing shippy or explicit at this point, just a Durge trying to figure out who Gortash was to him

Gortash relaxes only incrementally after reaching the confines of his Upper City villa. Having the rumors that his old partner does, in fact, live confirmed put him in a better mood than he’s been in in some time. It is, however, tempered by the knowledge that Calamity has neither memory of himself nor memories of their prior association. He’d seemed different in a way Gortash can’t quite identify. Perhaps it’s the company Calamity has taken to keeping. Or perhaps Orin truly had destroyed him as thoroughly as she believes. He doesn’t bother with candles as he enters his bedchamber. He could pace the room blinded and in his sleep if necessary. Gortash has a meticulous catalogue of the placement of furniture, soft gold silks, and heavy black velvets that adorn the room in his mind. Even the hints of crimson that remain as a testament to Calamity’s influence before Orin dug her claws into things that did not belong to her are burned into his memory. His nascent anger is harder than usual to tamp down as he shucks the Cloth of Authority and drapes it over the back of the chair at his desk.

“What a suitably gaudy home you’ve made for yourself, Archduke.” Gortash’s fingers tighten over the top of the chair, but he otherwise has the sense not to show how much the familiar voice startles him. “Nearly as meretricious as the title itself.” Gortash ignores the fear that curls in his stomach, instead allowing the slow spread of a smile across his mouth as he turns to face his uninvited guest. The tiefling lounges like a lion, lazy from the hunt, in a plush chair near the window. A sliver of moonlight glints off the purplish-black scales that mark the draconic blood that runs in his veins, and glowing yellow eyes stare with an intensity so familiar as to be nearly unbearable. Perhaps he has not changed so much as Gortash initially believed. “However did you manage to find yourself here, my dear assassin?” “For all your apparent paranoia,” Calamity begins with a graceful shrug of his broad shoulders. He flicks his wrist, and the candles on a nearby candelabra burst into flame, casting a dim orange glow across his blue skin. “You’ve forgotten to defend against the simplest of illusions. Your tin army cannot see invisible things.” An oversight Gortash will have to correct poste haste. It is difficult to maintain his composure. The man he knew would have pressed his advantage rather than reveal himself so quickly. He crosses his arms over his chest and arches a brow, projecting far more confidence into his voice than he feels. “If you are here to kill me, darling, I feel duty bound to inform you that I am not so easily slain.” Calamity’s mouth widens into a vicious grin. Gortash can see the white of his sharp teeth in the candlelight. “If I were here to kill you, I would already bathe in your blood.” “Enlighten me, then.” Gortash suppresses the shiver the words send crawling up his spine. “Why have you come?” His expression is as inscrutable as ever, an unnerving level of perfect calm. Even the enchantment woven into Gortash’s cloak had never quite matched him with the extremity of Calamity’s control of his emotions. Most of them, at least. It’s a surprise when the calm falters, breaking to a brow furrowed in confusion. “What am I to you?”

Like and subscribe if you want to follow my descent into madness lmaooooooo (sorry its early and I haven't even finished my first cup of coffee yet)

Anyway, no pressure tags: @imbiowaresbitch @nickelkeep @bleuzombie @rowanisawriter and @rotschopf-thedrow

#WIP whenever #Baldur's Gate 3 #Enver Gortash #The Dark Urge #Durge #Durgetash #Act 3 Spoilers #Dark Urge Spoilers #cr noble writes

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thetarttfuldickhead · 2 years ago

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Ive got this image of Roy kissing Jamie on the head and idk if my brain wants it to be shippy or big brother, little brother kinds way, but in whatever case I Need That

Hey, nonny, do you have spyware installed in my brain? I’ve literally been thinking about this exact scenario for the past few days, trying to hash out what it might look like and what precedes it and what sort of kiss it is.

I have severaly vague ideas that are none of them fully realized and all of them more fluffy wish-fulfillment than anything else. Thought I might get around to ficcing one of them properly one day, but that’s unlikely to ever happen, so have three roughly sketched snapshots of head kisses from my fevered imagination:

I. Hurt/Comfort

Eventually there comes a day when Jamie snaps and channels the Jamie of yore and just goes for everbody’s throats with bared teeeth. Roy misses the dust-up but arrives for the aftermath with the entire team and Ted looking a little shell-shocked.

“What the fuck happened here?” Roy demands. Ted explains, and hastens to add that clearly something must be wrong for Jamie to behave like that and could Roy please go check on him?

Roy finds Jamie in the storage room and the moment he enters Jamie whirls on him, terrible smirk plastered over his face.

“Oh, what a fucking surprise, Timid Ted sent Roy Kent to do his shouting for him, that’s a real—“

Roy ignores the drawling venom (and ignores the way it makes his stomach drop and twist with the memories of oh so many other confrontations between the two of them, back when they truly did loathe one another). He stops in the middle of the room and fixes Jamie with a carefully neutral look.

“Jamie,” he asks, very calmly, “do you need a fucking hug?”

For a moment, nothing. Then Jamie laughs, and it’s an ugly thing filled with scorn and jagged edges. “Oh, you’d fucking like that, wouldn’t you, big man Roy Kent, riding in on your white horse, going to— ”

And still Roy doesn’t raise to the bait. He takes a step closer. No aggression to the move, just determination: the unmoveable object to Jamie’s irresistable force. “No. Jamie, do you need a fucking hug?”

So close, he’s standing. So steady, his voice. In the face of that resolute peace Jamie’s rage can’t help but dwindle and wither. He closes his eyes. Jerks his head once for yes.

And Roy wraps his arms around him and holds him, and holds him, and holds him until the tension starts to bleed out of Jamie’s body and he rests his head on Roy’s shoulder. They stay like that for a little longer, but then Roy gently moves his hand to Jamie’s shoulders, pushing him back slightly so that he can look at him. “Feeling better?”

“Yeah.” And, with a quick glance to Roy’s face, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not really me you need to apologize to.”

“No, yeah, I know. I will.”

Roy looks at him for another moment, just looks. Sighs, maybe; eventually gives a little nod.

“Good lad,” he says, briefly pulling Jamie in again to place a kiss on his forehead, before putting a hand on his back to guide him back out into the world. “Don’t fucking let your father make you think any different.”

If Will is huddling in the corner for this one? Your call, gentle reader.

II. Affection

Say that Roy and Keeley are in Jamie’s childhood bedroom because they want to check on him. I’m thinking that Something Has Happened that concerns Jamie – probably something to do with his dad at the next Man City match – but the immediate situation has resolved itself and Roy and Keeley are just getting back together and had this whole fancy dinner planned and Jamie said he was fine so they head out for their big date.

And it’s lovely, really it is, only they’re both preoccupied throughout the meal and eventually one of the just blurts sorry, I’m really excited to be here with you but I can’t stop thinking about Jamie – yeah, me too – we should go check on him – and so they’re off to his mum, and maybe Jamie’s out buying milk and for some reason his mum has Keeley and Roy wait in Jamie’s old bedroom and when Jamie finally does show up he is understandably surprised to see them.

“I though you went on a date,” he says, closing the door behind him.

And they explain that they were, they are, but they were worried about him and just wanted to make sure he’s okay.

Jamie is okay. Scored two goals against City, and wasn’t nearly as bothered by his dad’s antics as he’d thought he be, he’s just dandy.

Having eventually convinced them of that, he pauses and cocks his head. Does that quizzical little face with his lips pursed. “It’s a bit weird, you two coming to check on me in the middle of your date, innit?”

Keeley shakes her head. “Jamie, it’s not weird. We care about you.”

Jamie raises his eyebrows at this, throwing a teasing look Roy’s way. “Yeah? You care about me, Roy?”

And Roy rolls his eyes and shakes his head, scoffing the way only Jamie can make him scoff, because of course Jamie would fucking ask.

“Come here, you fucking twat,” he says and Jamie grins at that as he crosses the floor because Roy is smiling through the bark, and Roy still has one hand in Keeley’s but his free arm he slings around Jamie’s shoulders to give him a tight hug while pressing a firm kiss to the top of Jamie’s blonde hair. “’Course I fucking care.”

(This one’s not unsimiliar to another [shippy] scenario I sketched recently. I tend to ponder all sorts of minor variations of the same theme, though usually I settle for just one to inflict upon the rest of the world.)

III. And a Shippy One to See Us Off

The boys are celebrating something – not winning a game, I don’t think, because they’re not on the pitch, they’re somewhere off alone. In the locker room after everyone’s left, maybe, or out during an early-mornings training session? Doesn’t really matter. They’re alone.

Jamie’s phone goes off, he picks it up, listens for a bit, nods and yeahs and goes “thanks, man, that’s fucking great” and when he puts his phone away he doesn’t say anything at all at first. Looks a bit dazed, and after a minute of that (well, more like a second, ‘cause Roy Kent is not a patient man) Roy demands to know the fuck’s going on.

“I’ve been called up for England,” Jamie says, and he sounds dazed too, like he can’t quite believe it. Sneaks a glance at Roy, as if checking is this real, is this happening?

For a moment, Roy says nothing. Then he says “fuck”, and then they’re both screaming and jumping up and down and holding each other and somewhere in all that Roy just pulls Jamie close and smacks a kiss on the top of his head.

It’s completely unthinking, but it immediately gives them both pause – and it takes them by surprise how it actually makes them go still. If you’d asked them before, neither would have thought a silly little peck on the head would be anything to take notice off; they’re footballers, yeah? They’re tactile. But still they go, and they glance at each other and both of them find their eyes drawn to the other’s lips.

“Oh,” Roy says. Bless his heart, would you believe he’s just figuring it out? But to be fair, so’s Jamie.

A moment, teethering, each of them holding their breath, waiting to see what happens next.

Roy swallows. Jamie tilts his head to the side and slowly, slowly – giving Roy all the time in the world to punch him or run off or go back to jumping up and down like nothing’s happened – he reaches out to put a hand on Roy’s neck.

Roy doesn’t punch Jamie. Roy doesn’t run off. Roy doesn’t go back to jumping up and down. He leans in, ever so slightly, lips parting.

“Yeah?” Jamie asks, just to be sure.

Roys nods, once, sharply. “Yeah.”

Jamie kisses him.

---

Yeah, nonny, I need that. You need that. Everybody needs that! I mean, Jamie and Roy certainly fucking does.

#bless you for this ask nonny #roy kent #jamie tartt #roy x jamie #ficlet #kinda #ted lasso #keeley jones #squint for ot3 goodness in the second one #my stuff

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projectilestardust · 2 years ago

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Whatever you do, don’t think about Tyler and Thornhill

Whatever you do don’t think about the first time Tyler met Thornhill. There in the back of the cafe with a kind smile, unlike his other customers, she didn’t kick and scream when the coffee machine broke down, instead she offered nothing but patient. He wished there were more people like her.

Whatever you do, don’t think about how soon Tyler looked forward to her morning visit. (Not in the weird shippy way) but he looked forward to a visit from the one adult who asked him how his day was going, how he was feeling, if he needed any help with homework. Looking back, he should have seen how creepy that was but it had been years since an adult had cared that much.

Whatever you do, don’t think of the first time he admitted to her that he wasn’t ok. That at home, when his dad wasn’t blatantly ignoring the existence of him or his mother, they were fighting. How he’d sit in the bathtub until the water turned frigid because it required too much energy to get out. How at night he’d lay just staring at the ceiling, the terrifying thought of is this even worth it anymore? Will anyone miss me when I’m gone? Circling his head. All he wanted was for his dad to care, just enough to keep him going till the end of the day. But apparently that was too much to ask for.

Whatever you do, don’t think about how Tyler sat up slightly straighter when Thornhill asked about his mother. His sweet sweet mother whose memory was collecting dust. He told her of her kind smile and gentle hands in his hair. He told her that she made the best pancakes every Saturday and the small family would sit around their dining table and Tyler remembered simply being happy. Then he tells her of the bad days, of the days when she’d drop a plate and her world would shatter. How she’d start off screaming then sobbing, even once trying to take a swing at him before she broke down, begging for his forgiveness. That was the first time Tyler had been scared of his mother.

Whatever you do, don’t think about the day Thornhill set her plan in motion. Concern creasing her forehead as she lured Tyler into her car, a folder in hand. The way his face pales as he reads the papers. “I’m so sorry honey, but your mother was a monster, she wasn’t who you thought she was.” She wasn’t kind smiles and gentle hands, she wasn’t the person who baked the best pancakes and make dad smile as if there was no tomorrow. “And you’re one too, but don’t worry, I can help you.”

Whatever you do, don’t think about how Tyler blindly followed her for a cure he never needed. So grateful that a person like her was willing to be around a diseased monster like him.

Whatever you do, don’t think of the day that all the trust that Thornhill had built up in his mind crumbled. She had brought him out into the woods, he didn’t mind her too tight grip on his shirt collar as she half dragged him to a tiny, hobbit looking hole in the middle of nowhere. He did, however mind when she tried to shackle him to the cave wall. Yanking himself away as he yelled, “N-no! You’re crazy if you think you’re shackling me to a fucking wall!”

Whatever you do, don’t think about how her next words stuck with Tyler forever. “You, Tyler Galpin, are a freak. Other than me, if anyone found out what you were, they’d kill you, it's what they did to your poor old mother, I am trying to help you. Be grateful I can even stand in the same room as you. Tears roll down his cheek as he slumps in defeat.

Whatever you do, don’t think about how he used to cry for help. Scream to the heavens, hoping someone, anyone, would hear his pleas. As whips cracked down, and knives slashed his skin, he screamed and sobbed, begging for death to just take him already. “No one’s coming, Tyler. You are alone.” He doesn’t call for help after that, he just lets the tears fall.

Whatever you do, don’t think about how his hands shake so badly, the number of burns he’s received during work is just not ok. How the bell on the door of the cafe makes him flinch and the colour red makes him sick to his stomach.

Whatever you do, don’t think about how Tyler wants to break down when his dad asks him if he’s ok. Comments about the bags under his eyes and asks if he’s sleeping enough. How badly Tyler wants to just tell him all of it. What a disgusting monster he is, and how he should want to get rid of it, he should look forward to Thornhill’s secret visits but he doesn’t. He’s scared and hurt and angry at the world for making him this, for making his mother this, for making his hurt.

Whatever you do, don’t think about how Tyler would pace his bedroom, then up and down the hallway, unable to sleep; because when he closed his eyes- all he could see was that fucking cave imprinted in his brain. How he used to wake up screaming in a cold sweat before he threw up whatever he had managed to eat that day. How his dad would worry but couldn’t say anything as he sweet sweet baby boy surcame to a shell of his former self.

Whatever you do, don’t think about the day Tyler breaks. The day Thornhill no longer needs the shackles to stay still, the day he turns Hyde, the day he truly becomes Thornhill Laurel Gate’s slave.

#wednesday #wednesday addams #nevermore #tyler galpin #thornhill #tyler #marylin thornhill #tyler is the hyde #angst #headcanons #hc #fanfic #whatever you do don't think about

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heavencasteel420 · 2 months ago

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Shipping negativity (slight, I think) below:

I’m pretty inclined to multiship, but one of the things that has made it impossible for me to get into basically any St4ncy and a lot of R0nance is the tendency to act like Jonathan is 100% in the wrong and responsible for Jancy’s S4 relationship problems. I do have some issues with how those problems are written—the characterization is too broad sometimes and the writing is sometimes confusing—but there is a real conflict there, and it’s not “poor, long-suffering Nancy, her boyfriend is just randomly smoking weed and lying to her for no reason.” She is written as being kind of clueless and defensive about his worries about money and family! That doesn’t make her a bad person, just a normal teenager with a limited perspective, and she still deserves honesty, but his reluctance to be open with her about his concerns doesn’t come out of nowhere.

And it’s pretty unremarkable for a shippy fic to treat Character A’s existing love interest as totally lacking in ways that Character B will never be. But, even if Jonathan weren’t my favorite, I think I would find this kind of fic boring at best and callous at worst. Because it can go one of two ways:

The story creates a situation where Nancy is better off dating Steve or Robin in part because they are not as burdened as Jonathan. Which is fine—you cannot always stay in a relationship with someone who is struggling like that, especially if you are both teenagers dealing with your own stuff—but the author doesn’t realize that they have created this situation. They act like Steve or Robin are just better people who care about her more. So it’s just like wow this story is really mean to an eighteen-year-old with really complicated, serious problems.

The story just kind of ignores that anyone that Nancy would date would bring their own struggles to the table, and that she would either have to deal with that somehow or create a strain in the relationship. Which is just so boring and unrealistic to me.

Nancy antis take it too far in the other direction and act like she’s the only one at fault in any relationship and shouldn’t be in one until she “works on herself.” Which is also really boring and harsh IMO.

#Nancy rare pairs don’t tend to have this issue #so I like them more #like I get the fantasy but it’s kind of juiceless

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potetosaradas · 1 year ago

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OKay so like...I know they released the s7 episode titles and everything, so do you have any ideas about what some of the episodes could be about? Or like what you'd hope out of an episode based solely off the title and description

Honestly Anon, LOL i have no idea for several reasons because 1. I am infinitely rubbish with american pop culture references AND ram continually surprises me LMAO ALTHOUGH I MUST SAY

I currently have my eye on Thats Amorte

According to a source:

The news that Rick and Morty season 7 plans to ignore Roiland’s recasting and continue as if its title characters haven’t changed is reinforced by the title of episode 4, “That’s Amorte.” This is the first of the outing’s episodes that is a pun on Rick or Morty’s name, proving that the series won’t be radically shifting its focus for the entirety of season 7. The title is based on Dean Martin’s perennially popular hit song “That’s Amore.” Unlike the titles that parody famous movies, this doesn’t give away anything about the plot of the episode.

This is the episode thats featured on billboards, AND i see Prime in the background (for both the billboard AND this poster) I CAN ONLY HOPE FOR WHAT WE MAY SEE IN THIS EPISODE. BUT I DO HOPE WE SEE PRIME. BIG HIGH CHANCE FOR THIS.

Again i know im being baited with the word amore, BUT I LITERALLY CANT HELP MYSELF. SHOVES MY PRICKCEST GLASSES FURTHER UP MY NOSE. honestly IM SO SCARED FOR THIS EPISODE ESPECIALLY SINCE THE TITLE DOESNT GIVE AWAY THE CONTENT OF THE EPISODE unlike other ram titles…

I dont expect to see shippy content, but i am excited to possibly see c137 and Prime interact. WHAT IS WITH THE SPAGHETTI. THEY TEASED THAT TOO AS ONE OF THE FIRST PIECES OF CONTENT THAT THEY RELEASED ABOUT THE SEASON!! So it must be quite an important episode…

November 5th will be a day to remember LMAO

#anon #ask #TJANK YOU FOR ASKING #AND SORRY FOR INCOHERENT RAMNLINGS

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another-corpo-rat · 2 years ago

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Not a shippy one this time – but the idea fit the prompt so I ran with it.

Prompts: All Comes Crashing No warnings apply Summary: Jackie Welles has a dead rockerboy in his head, is dying himself, and now a fancy-pressed suit he used to know is looking at him like he’s a damn fool.

Jackie knows Victoria. He saved her ass a few years back, during an op in Mexico that went tits up real quick. Kept an eye on her when she had to deep-dive in a shitty bathtub in a shitty hotel with no AC, the room still steaming from overheated tech and the heavy weight of the air despite the open window and bath that was more ice than water.

And she got what they needed to save the day and get the hell outta dodge. Credit went to her, of course. The Arasaka agent, not the nameless merc who kept her ass alive through it all.

‘Typical glory-hogs,’ Johnny huffs, voice taking that hard, bitter edge it always got when Arasaka was involved, ‘you spill your blood, they take the credit and you get to consider yourself lucky if they don’t spit in your face afterwards.’

Nah, he thinks. Not Vic. At least not entirely. She made sure his ass got some praise for it, paid him back enough that he didn’t have to worry about his too-many open tabs for a solid eight months. Even offered to wrangle him a place straight into Arasaka’s security training.

“It’s a simple enough job.” She said, tapping her cigarette into the ashtray. “Pays well, and your dear mother won’t have to worry about you coming home dead in a taxi.” And she knew what she was doing, plucking at his heart like that. Playing on the worry he knows his mama lives with, has lived with since he threw his lot in with the Valentinos as a kid.

He considered it, for all of a moment.

“Nah chica,” her eye twitched at the word, “I mean, ma’am- thanks but corpo life wouldn’t really be my thing, y’know?”

“Oh, of course. Who has ever become a legend in Night City by working as a security guard?” He nodded, she sighed, and that was that.

Last he saw her was their conversation in the plaza, below the giant fish, before the heist. She called him an idiot but wished him well. He didn’t expect to see her again.

Not here at least.

Victoria stands out like a sore thumb on the derelict Ebunike, white suit impossibly spotless against the grime. Yet she sits as comfortably as she might do on an office chair, legs crossed, tilted back just enough to appear comfortable. Watching him with a tight, judging expression. Like he was a fool.

He feels like one, that pit in his stomach a familiar thing – has been for a while now, since he watched Saburo get murked by his own son, since he heard T-Bug’s scream in his ear. He should’ve scoped the place out longer, waited for Rogue to get back in touch. Or just take a second to wonder if Smasher might have some extra, discreet security on his super-secret hideout beyond Maelstrom. Like a netrunner.

Sometimes it was hard to tell if the impatience was his own or Johnny’s.

He’d bet his leg on it being Johnny’s right now.

Guy was pacing in a small circle, sneering at the back of Victoria’s head. Somehow getting himself wound up at her lack of reaction, as if she was deliberately ignoring him.

“So, you have the engram of Johnny Silverhand in your head, brain leaking out of your ears, and you both decided that ending a grudge with Smasher would be a good use of your increasingly limited time?”

“Heh. Makes me sound like an idiot when you put it like that, Chica.” Her eye twitches.

“Because you are.” She stares at him hard, eyes narrowed. Used to be that look made him anxious, got him squirming. Now it was as easy to shake off as Rogue’s quiet disapproval. “You’re taking the word of a narcissistic terrorist as truth, for one.”

“I’m not taking his word—” he sits forward, Victoria straightens, eyes flashing in a subtle warning.

‘Easy Jacks, she’s got her finger on the trigger.’ And not of a gun, they both know. A decent netrunner doesn’t need one – and Victoria has long since bragged that she’s beyond decent. He knows himself how hard her quickhacks bite. ‘We do this, you gotta be quick and not so goddamn obvious.’

Right, right.

He relaxes himself back, too forced for it to even appear natural. She doesn’t ease. At all. “I’m not taking his word. Let’s be real, we both know that ain’t worth shit. But I- I’ve lived his memories. I was there when he stormed the tower, when he planted that nuke.” Something changes in her then, a brief raise of her brow, a sharpening in her eyes. “When Smasher pulled the trigger…”

“Then Silverhand lies to himself as much as he does you.”

‘Yeah, I’ve changed my mind. Just pop that bullet into her skull now.’

‘Careful Johnny. You’re making me think she’s got a point.’

‘Her point is to waste our time. Smasher’s not here, we oughta delta, regroup with Rogue and rethink our approach. If you’re gonna puss out on killing her, then at least knock her out.’

‘I’m not—’

“Welles.” Her sharper voice pulls him back, eyes focusing on her. “Do you know what a black-box is? For conversion frames, specifically.”

‘And here she goes, wasting more of our time.’

He ignores the engram, shaking his head in response to the question. She makes a soft little sound and finally lets herself ease back. He can’t tell if she’s really relaxed, or if she’s just better at pretending than he is.

“It’s a recorder. Always on, catching what they do at all times. And largely unalterable, unless they upload it elsewhere for a BD-editor to scroll through, but even then the source footage is still in their records, untouched.”

Something spikes in his head, right where the relic is fixed into his broken slot. A pulse of irritation and dread in a sickening mix that flows to sit heavy in his stomach. And it must show in his face – something in Victoria’s expression has changed, a slight but there lifting of her features. The smile on her lips isn’t pleasant.

“Unlike the worm you have writhing about in your head, Smasher can’t lie about the events of that night – not to himself, and not to anyone else who has seen that footage from its source.”

‘Are you really believing this shit Jacks? Shoot her, draw the bastard out and ask him yourself if you really wanna know-’ A desperate press to Johnny’s voice betrays him, the pause in his pacing, the draw of his brow and the pinch of the cigarette. All telling.

Victoria’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, a quick thing. A snake scenting the air.

“Do you want to see the truth of that night? Or are you going to let a dead man pull you into the grave with him, Welles?”

A buzz rises in his ears, a pull in his gut like a weight threatening to claw up and out. It deafens him to Johnny’s ranting – something he can see as the man returns to pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, arms in the air when he’s not gesturing wildly to the city, to Victoria, to his head.

They’re both liars, Johnny and Victoria. One for pride, the other for fun.

His fingers twitch, jaw clenched to keep that uncomfortable thing in him down.

He just about manages to ground out;

“Show me.”

(In the midst of a raw BD, where his steps are heavier and his voice mechanised, he doesn’t see her eyes aglow with an outgoing call.)

#cyberhanami23 #cyberpunk 2077 #Jackie Welles #johnny silverhand #hello boys #my first time writing either of them #idk how people manage Johnny #it felt like i was having him react too much but not enough at the same time #Victoria Crane #fic tag #my writing

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pokemoncenter · 2 years ago

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You can call me Sophora. I work at a Pokemon veterinary clinic in Unova. I’m here to vent, give unsolicited advice, and tell you people to take care of your Pokemon. Everyone I talk about will have their name changed, including myself. Just because you have Rotom phones now doesn’t mean you should forget basic internet security.

Also, if you take your Pokemon to the Center when it needs a vet, I hate you, personally. Remember: Centers are for injury and battle-related issues, vets are where you go for regular checkups, health conditions, and if your Lilipup eats all your chocolate cookies because you were ignoring it again, Maple.

((OOC info below))

Player hasn’t done RP on tumblr before. Not really interested in the RPing real stuff, the blogging angle is the appeal here.

Player is 21+. Not interested in shippy or explicit stuff.

All posts will be tagged with ‘pkmn irl’ and ‘unreality’.

Intend to post mostly about things like Pokemon care, pokemon biology, and a few comments on other miscellaneous subjects as they come to mind.

This is one of the blogs with the premise of 'post as if pokemon are real'.

Not interested in really interacting with sapient/talking Pokemon, Sophora will assume they're kids making stuff up.

Sophora's pronouns are she/her, she's a grumpy vet working in Unova, and a former Team Plasma grunt. That part is secret, though.

#pokeblogging #pkmn irl #unreality

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nehswritesstuffs · 6 months ago

Text

Over

So I’ve been going through the series again (this time doing a thorough watch of the anime, as my anime intake has been spotty until now, making me a majorly manga-only) and I was reminded of a niche ship I really enjoy the concept of but hardly ever see, and since I’m now a member of the One Piece Rare Pears Discord server I would be absolutely remiss if I didn’t dust these two off for the first time since… erm… *checks notes* …oh… 2007. Before the English names were solidified by releasing the official manga translations. Well… fuck.

1827 words; Skypiea is one of the best arcs/sagas in the series and you can fight me (and probably also Vegapunk) on this; just a shippy minor rewrite; contains mild descriptions of wounds so if you ain’t cool with that then hey you were warned; I am very excited for when this arc/saga is going to whip back around in the mainline series because it’s high time it does considering most everything else has lol; one of these days I’ll write something big and AUish for them but for now have this; this month also marks twenty years for me on FFN, which is when I started posting fan fiction online, and dang I’ve come a long way lol

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

He truly doesn’t remember much when he first wakes up. It’s mostly bits and pieces, but enough to parse together what happened in Upper Yard with the Blue Sea dwellers and Gan Fall. Enough to even be confused when he wakes up to find the former Skypiean god sitting with the chief and an Angel Islander with her arm stretched out towards him, as though readying to change his compress.

“Oh!” the Angel Islander gasped, her hand jerking back. “You’re awake!”

“We were worried,” Gan Fall said. “The Reject Dial did a number on your body…”

“That’s my business, old man,” Wyper spat. He tried to sit up, only for the Angel Islander to push his shoulders back down. “Don’t touch me.”

“You can’t get up now,” she said, her voice softer than her words required. “If you don’t, then you won’t get better.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted.

“You are not,” the chief corrected. “If she can keep you pinned like that, you’re nowhere near fine.” Wyper watched as blush crept across the Angel Islander’s cheeks. “Keep your head, Wyper. It’s over.”

Over.

“Stay there until I send for you,” the chief ordered. “These old men need more pumpkin juice. We will be back soon.” Wyper could barely see as the chief left, the former god headed with him. From what he could tell, neither man was walking steadily, which meant that neither of them were getting just pumpkin juice in those mugs.

Over.

How was it over? Why share drinks with the man they fought against for so long that Wyper couldn’t remember? It couldn’t be over… not like this...

Part of him didn’t know what to think; none of them knew anything else. All any of the warriors, the elders and knowledge-keepers, the children… war was the only thing they knew. How could it just be over? Like that? So simply? He did not believe it…

He reached his goals, and yet he felt so empty.

It was over.

“Thank you.” He glanced over and saw the Angel Islander staring at him. Her entire face was red in embarrassment; good. He felt no empathy for her shame. “You freed us.”

“I freed my people,” he scoffed. “You benefited from us. Again.”

“That is why I must thank you, and apologize,” the Angel Islander replied. “You’ve suffered so much due to us. If we had only learned to cooperate from the beginning…”

“Shut up,” he growled. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“We’ve done enough ignoring one another, don’t you think?” she snapped back. There was a ferocity in her voice that took Wyper by surprise—he didn’t take her as one with guts. She then realized what her tone must have been and shrank back again. “I think… I think we need to get on the right foot now, or else we will regret it later.”

“I don’t even know which foot is the right one if this is supposed to be done with,” he admitted sourly. “All I want to do is take my revenge for my people’s suffering by yours.”

“…and if you feel that way when you’re better, then go ahead,” the Angel Islander said, “but until then, I’m the one who is going to help take care of you. I insist.”

Wyper didn’t like it—not one bit. He didn’t like it any more than he liked working alongside the Blue Seas pirates. Even with all that, he couldn’t deny how much he ached from every muscle in his body. Not a single training session or skirmish with Eneru’s forces had prepared him for this type of pain or how deep it went. Part of him believed that Calgara himself felt it, his ancestor’s spirit finally able to rest.

Silently, the Angel Islander went back to her duties while Wyper watched. She took the now-fallen compress from the floor and wet it in a basin and placed it back on his forehead. It was cool to the touch and helped soothe at least the throbbing of his head. After she checked the bandages on his torso and arms to make sure they weren’t disturbed, she moved down towards his legs. He felt the bandages on his left leg get gently pulled away and the air hit his skin. Flexing his muscles brought a stinging sensation as varied scabs and cuts threatened to break open.

“Don’t do that; you’ll make it worse,” the Angel Islander chided, no force behind her words. She procured another cloth from the basin and used it to wipe off the fresh blood from his leg. Once that was done, she began to place a cool salve over the wounds, one that he recognized soon as he could smell it.

“Where did you get that?” he wondered. She looked at him and saw that he was staring at the ceiling, refusing to make eye contact with her.

“Raki made it for me,” she replied. “She was here until about an hour ago… they needed her help making a stew.”

That sounded about right, Wyper thought. Although Raki was as proud and strong a warrior as any of them, she had a gift for cooking. Braham too, if his fuzzy brain was remembering things correctly… but Raki was the only one of them who was ever really encouraged. With the medicine going straight to his head, he wondered why that was… hmm…

“What am I going to do?” he wondered aloud. “This has been going on for so long…”

“We’re all going to need to figure that out,” the Angel Islander said. Did she sound… sad…? “There is nothing left but the vearth.”

He furrowed his brow. “Then… who survived…?”

“Everyone,” she claimed. “I was able to warn Angel Island in time, and they were able to get the word to the Shandians. The only ones who died were the ones who g—Eneru and his priests killed directly.”

“You saved your own people first?”

“They were the ones who needed more convincing.”

That much he could not argue—trying to change an Angel Islander’s mind was like trying to change the weather. It was why he had never trusted Gan Fall’s acts of supposed peace, as they had all been burned before. The Angel Islander in front of him, however, seemed… there was an air about her that had been unlike the old god back then. What was it?

“Where did you learn to dress wounds?” he wondered. She shrugged.

“We learn it in school.” She held up a small jar that Wyper immediately recognized—it contained the salve she was using. “This medicine is a lot like something we have on Angel Island…” Blush crossed her face and she looked away again. “Had; we had medicine like this. Do your people have any records of someone sharing information between us when the vearth was first brought here?”

“No—far as I know, it is a Shandian medicine going back to before the war.” He then turned his head and saw two Burn Bazookas sitting along the wall. One was his and the other… “Where did that come from?”

“Hmm…?” The Angel Islander turned away from replacing his other leg’s bandages to see where his attention was. “Yours; the other one I found.”

“You do not look like a warrior.”

“…which is why I brought it with me when I went to convince Angel Island to evacuate. They knew I wasn’t joking when I showed up with it, though it did take a bit to realize that it was not because I went insane.”

“I see.”

Not a warrior? Yet she used a Burn Bazooka to convince her people to flee. She knew how to care for wounds and knew of a traditional medicine, seemingly holding it in at least some regard. He had never thought in his wildest dreams that he would ever be having this kind of conversation with an Angel Islander… let alone one like her… as she cared for his wounds…

Now it was Wyper’s turn to blush, glad his tanned skin hid it well. He never would have let this woman near him under normal circumstances… she never would have approached him under normal circumstances…

Maybe… it truly was over.

“What will we do now…?” he wondered. The Angel Islander took the compress and replaced it again, this one feeling colder.

“Your chief told me that all the warriors have had reasons for fighting until now,” she replied, “but maybe it might be time to think about what else you want to do? What did you never have time for because you were so busy training and practicing?”

He thought about that for a moment before replying, “I had been hoping that one day I could become a knowledge-keeper.”

“…a… historian…?”

“No, much more than that.” Wyper lifted his hand towards the sky, staring at the bandages covering his skin. “I never thought I’d live to see that day before now. Children that haven’t been born need to learn the stories of their people… need to know why we grow pumpkins and go to war…”

“…then it’s a good thing that no one here wants war anymore,” the Angel Islander said. She took the compress off his forehead and sat him up. “Do you think you can stand?” He nodded and allowed her to help him to his feet. She slung his arm over her shoulders and he accepted her help as she led him wobbling through the forest.

Eventually, Wyper heard far-off shouting and could see a distant glow. The Angel Islander brought him through the ruins of Old Shandora to where a large bonfire was taking place. Other Angel Islanders were there dancing and drinking with the others from his village. The pirates from the Blue Seas were there as well, enjoying a party so infectious that even the animals were dancing.

“We can build a new nation together, one where we both have vearth beneath our feet,” the Angel Islander said. “Eneru is gone. His priests are gone. We are free to do as we wish.” The sight of the former god and the village chief sharing spiked pumpkin juice caught the injured warrior’s attention; it was almost like a dream. “My name is Conis, by the way. What’s yours?”

“Uh… I…” He cleared his throat, having forgotten how they were standing. “I am Wyper, Heir of Calgara.”

“Wyper…” she repeated, trying out the name on her tongue. Was it still the medicinal salve, or did her saying his name truly sound that wonderful? “It’s nice to meet you. I wish the circumstances were better.”

“Better than this?”

“Something that involved a lot fewer near-death experiences.” She offered him a smile that was bright against the light of both the moon and bonfire. “I hope we can at least be friends after all this.”

Friends. Yeah. He thought that he could possibly be friends.

Now that it was all over.

#One Piece #One Piece fan fiction #Conis #Conis (One Piece)#Wyper #Wyper (One Piece)#Wyper x Conis #Conis x Wyper #they're cute alright just fucking sue me #I knew back in the day I was doomed for a weird life when I shipped these two based on two panels of interaction #I apparently work with the school administrator from hell so sorry that's why I've been so silent lately #I'm trying to get done some gay stuff for Pride Month so watch this space

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