#abestache

[urdadsceilingfan]

Thinking about them again

[marksandrec]

Marks and Rec: Misc #2543

A fucking duel, not a fucking duel. (Dialogue from Our Flag Means Death, partly.)

[sp8ce-queen]

i am so normal abt them (ill probably turn this into a full piece eventually)

[craftartz67]

Abe has two hands. One a chaotic mustache man and the other a emo demon :)

[mosthomoeroticenemies]

[best-fictional-detective]

ROUND 1

(@bwobgames since Oliver is your boy)

[abestache]

Old but good

[boobookiss]

Personally I just feel like Wilford and Abe being hard masc x hyperfem is everything.. Full stop.

I know Wilford dresses like a 1920s carnival barker most of the time but you sit here and tell me he wouldn't also rock up to that detective in some 2 inch gaudy open toed heels, no glue no borax

[lostcybertronian]

Do you hate me with Wilford and Abe or I'm just looking out for you with Yancy and Murdock would be cool if you're down

Prompt: “Do you hate me?”

Now that Abe wasn’t actively trying to find him, Wilford seemed to appear everywhere: already draped over his office chair when he came into work, the door still locked and seemingly untampered with; in the background of his favorite noir film, a flash of neon pink in the gray;  at the bar he frequented on gloomy, lonely nights, mixing up brightly-colored cocktails.

“We’re friends now, and friends hang out.” He said, answering a question Abe didn’t ask. Then he placed onto the bar the most intricate drink Abe had ever seen– Abe would taste it a few minutes later, when Wilford turned his back, and it’d be the best cocktail he’d ever had, a welcome reprieve to whiskey straight– and stepping back to scrutinize him, his thick, dark brows furrowing. “Unless you hate me.” A pause. “Do you hate me?”

Abe sat back, genuinely unsure. He’d never thought past their roles of hunter and prey, detective and criminal. William Jackson Barnum was a murderer, nothing more, nothing less. 

In the decades he’d spent immersing himself in the case and living its facts, it had never occurred to him that William might’ve been a victim, too.

He looked at Wilford, who had visibly wilted in the time it had taken him to answer, for what felt like the very first time. “No,” he said reluctantly. “I don’t hate you.”

Wilford brightened, a childishly happy grin spreading across his face. “Best friends, then!” He declared, spinning on one pink high heel with a flourish and heading back toward the bar. He stopped once to cast a glance over his shoulder that made Abe blush from his head to his toes. "Enjoy your drink," he said with a wink, "it's on the house."

[thats-rather-rude]

upon finding out that abestache is a rarepair u know that ya boy is gonna massss post abt them… that is when i learn how to draw abe lmao

Here are just 3 mark ego doodles i made headcanons for so far

andddd drew Derick (persona sorta) as Wilford lmaooo

[4tariz]

me, staring into the eyes of fanfiction writers on ao3 and here trying to hypnotize them: oooo you wanna write soft domestic abestache so baaaaaad oooooo you wanna write them being soft boyfriends doinf silly soft things oooooooooo please i will do literally anything oooooo you wanna write them being soft and warm oooooo PLEASE you wanna write them SO BAD PLEASE I BEG

[abe-the-detective-blog]

Wilford has two hands. One for his emo husband and the other for his detective husband.

[pxppet]

Big post of the ego ship playlists I've made so far! These pertain specifically to my 'lore' and headcanons surrounding them.

(more below the cut)

[sp8ce-queen]

Went back to an old piece for some quick painting practice between my bigger pieces. Please enjoy <3

I know y'all enjoyed the original sketch so if I was gonna paint over any, it should be that one.

[coolmayordamien]

Some sweet, angsty Abestache for my beloved @willywarfy

"Don't wanna live a life that is comprehensive; cause seeing clear would be a bad idea."

Being with Wilford is an experience. Usually a good one, sometimes a frightening one, and frequently a painful one. But Abe would rather take a bullet to the heart than spend another moment without him.

He knows which one hurts more, trust him.

Again, it's usually good. Great, even. The happiest that he's ever been in his life, probably. Wilford is, in many ways, perfect for him.

Sometimes Abe will be sitting at his desk, pouring over case files with a glass of whiskey, and he'll look up to see his lover stretched out on the sofa (three guesses on who had decided that his office needed a sofa) with his hands behind his head and a shit-eating grin plastered all over his face. It always takes the detective off-guard when Wil just appears out of nowhere, even after all of this time.

"I was thinking about you," he'll explain, and Abe will realize that he is a goner. Because Wilford can (and sometimes does) spend the whole day stepping out from around corners or out of closets (and on one memorable occasion, falling out of the fridge) and right into his detective's arms, simply because he can't stop thinking about Abe.

It's a nice feeling, knowing just how often he crosses this man's mind. The detective has spent years, although he could not say precisely how many, consumed by thoughts of Wilford Warfstache, in one form or another. Obsessing over him, hunting him, desperate to force him to explain his actions. Cross-referencing alibies, keeping tabs on every single person who had managed to survive those awful events-

Getting too caught up in the details, focusing on the minutae of it all.

-devoting every moment of his life to this one man.

Things aren't so different now that they're an item, as a matter of fact. Abe still spends most of his time tracking his mustachioed maverick down, trying to get useful information out of him. And obsessing over Wil, of course. It's just a healthier, more enjoyable obsession now.

But it's not all fun and games. They're not a pair of springtime lovers, sound of mind and body, cured of their every imperfection by the miracle of love.

They're people. Flawed, damaged, traumatized people. And they share a lot of history together.

Sometimes when Wilford appears out of thin air, it doesn't just startle Abe; it terrifies him. He'll feel his heart begin to pound and will remember how it felt to drown in his own blood. He'll choke, tears streaming down his face as he fumbles for the gun, and it is not Wilford who is reaching to steady him but a wild-eyed Colonel with a 357 Magnum and his partner is right there he can't let them die not this time not again-

Sometimes Wil remembers things that he is supposed to forget, and forgets things that he is supposed to remember. Every so often he'll sort of...wake up. He'll stop whatever he's doing, his beautiful eyes losing their usual intensity as they scan the room, unfocused and afraid. Abe knows what he is looking for.

"They're not here, Wil," he'll say softly. The man with the pink mustache will startle, his face twisting up suspiciously. If Abe is lucky, Wilford will not recognize him.

"Where are they, detective?" William demands angrily on days that Abe is not lucky. "Where's Celine? Where's Damien? Where are my friends?"

"They're- they're not here," he stammers, because he promised that he would never lie to his lover, even when the truth only hurts him.

Once, Abe had lost his temper. Wil had been frightening him, had cornered him by the doorway and it was too much like what had happened before. He had snapped, grabbing him by the shoulders and shouting, "They're dead! They're gone and they are NEVER COMING BACK, no matter how many times we do this!"

Wil had shot him. Again.

That was...a very bad night indeed. Abe doesn't like thinking about it, remembering the pain of the bullet and the pain of the betrayal, knowing that he couldn't really die again but not being able to stop himself from crying out as his blood dripped onto the floor, as William became Wilford once again and screamed in horror at what he had done, crying and laughing and shaking as he pressed his bare hands against Abe's wound to staunch the bleeding that had never really begun, because it had never really stopped.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Wil rambled, his hands and sleeves turning pink with blood. "I didn't mean- I'm so sorry, I didn't know that it was loaded-"

Abe wonders who Wilford sees when he's like that. The District Attorney, maybe. It can't be Abe himself. William had absolutely meant to kill him.

Sometimes Abe looks at the man he loves and thinks, 'Murderer. You're in love with a murderer, you filthy traitor, what would everyone think? Are you crazy?'

Wilford always hears him when he wonders if he's crazy. Abe has just about given up on trying to figure out how he does it. But it's alright, because he only takes Abe in his arms, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead, his cheek, his mouth.

"Don't ever let anyone tell you that you're crazy," Wilford says strongly, a beautiful, mad grin on his face. "Not even yourself. I think that you might be in need of a little fun, sweetheart."

As they dance together on the stage, lights flashing, music blaring, Abe knows that everything is going to be alright. He's got what he needs; a man who can bring a little color into his world, a little madness into his life. A little bit of pain as well, true, but that just makes these few perfect moments all the sweeter.

"I love you," Abe says suddenly, and the joy on Wilford's motherlovin' face at those words--he would be happy if he could make Wil smile like that every day for the rest of time.

So he does.

[mosthomoeroticenemies]