#but it's so goddamn hard for me to commit that kind of time and energy to something when I can't see any improvement being made

[couldsewyouastitchandsavenine]

Sunshine [Joel Miller]

this is my entry to Summer Loving Challenge by @pedgito. Thank you so much for creating it and letting me be part of it. You're a star! Or shall I say, sunshine??

pairing: no outbreak joel miller x f!reader

wordcount: 1.7K

warnings: reader is she/her, sexual content/mild sexual themes (implied only), mild language, mentions of violence, overall safe to read.

prompt: ROADTRIP #2

She smiles too much, he thinks. 

And Joel ain’t too fond of folks who smile all the damn time. Reckons they must be hiding something behind those shiny white teeth. 

Thing is, he ain't even sure how Tommy managed to rope him into this foolishness. He’d stopped by his brother’s place for a cold one and somehow left having agreed to ferry his obnoxiously cheerful sidekick across the state to some new job she landed in Joel’s neck of the woods. Must have been the quiet begging in Tommy’s eyes that did it, he supposes. Joel may be a surly son of a bitch, but he ain’t heartless.

So here he is, with the sun barely up and her sitting pretty beside him. Sneakers-clad feet up on the dash like she owns the place, skirt of that yellow sundress riding up her tights.

Tommy’s friend. The motormouth. The endless goddamn ray of sunshine that Joel just knows is gonna make his jaw ache from clenching before they even cross county lines.

“Mind if I turn this thing on?” she breaks the silence, stretching a little to fiddle with the radio dials. 

He fucking does. He’d rather drive in silence. But just shrugs instead.

Figures out it’s not worth the argument.

And as expected, her taste in music is as saccharine as the rest of her, all twangy guitars and lyrics about truck beds and tan lines. When she starts humming along off-key, he has to work very hard not to grind his teeth to dust. 

It's going to be a long drive.

Joel sighs and glances over at her. Shifts a bit in his seat and admits, albeit grudgingly, that she's easy on the eyes. Has been ever since he's known her.

But the problem is, she’s just so… much. Never still for a minute, fingers tapping, foot bouncing, mouth running a mile a minute. He can practically feel all that restless energy buzzing under her skin, setting his own nerves alight. Makes him wonder if she even knows she's doing it, all them little twitches and squirms. If she's got any idea how it gets him all riled up without even trying. Joel ain't sure quite what to do with her.

And sweet Jesus can she talk. About this, about that. Everything and not a damn thing. About the weather and politics. The heat and some harvest festivals she’s helping throw. A whole slew of crappy dates, some dog she’s thinking of adopting. The gossip about people Joel barely knows and could care less about. So, he tunes most of it out, just grunts now and then so she thinks he's listening.

But at some point, whether because he’s getting bored or because of the heat, Joel catches himself actually paying attention. Learns she's a teacher, spending her days trying to cram knowledge into the heads of a pack of rowdy kids. 

"It's thankless work," she laughs, "but I guess somebody's gotta do it."

Joel thinks it's pretty admirable, choosing a job like that. Lord knows he's had his share of crap gigs. Brings to mind those long, hot days pouring concrete under that merciless Texas sun. The way heat would shimmer up off the fresh pavement and make him feel like he's in some kind of fever dream.

“Look, I didn’t expect you’d want to give me a ride,” she pipes up after a bit. “I appreciate it.”

"Mm," he grunts, committing to nothing.

“I mean it, Miller. I was really close to sticking out my thumb and hitching.”

Joel's hands tighten on the wheel at the thought. "That's a good way to get yourself murdered."

She cuts her eyes over at him. "How do I know you're not some kind of murderer?"

He snorts. "Do I look like a murderer to you?"

"I don't know. What's a murderer look like?"

"Not like me."

"Hm. That's exactly what a murderer would say, I reckon."

He shakes his head, more than a little annoyed now.

This damn woman.

When they pull over for gas and to stretch their legs, Joel finds himself watching her as she arches her back like a cat in the sun, that sundress pulling taut across her chest; the skirt riding up even higher. Makes him look away real quick.

“I’m going inside to pay,” she chirps. “Want anything? Coke maybe? A three-day old sandwich?”

Joel peers at her. Mutters, “Nah, I’m good.”

“Suit yourself, Grumpy.”

Grumpy. 

It's hardly the worst thing he's been called, but it chafes at him for some reason. For a second, he wonders what it would be like to be someone different. Someone who said yes to Cokes and gas-station sandwiches. To yellow dresses and sunshine smiles.

"You ever think about how weird it is that we can just go anywhere these days?" She starts in again before he even gets back on the road.

He squints over at her. "How do you mean?"

"I don't know. Cars and planes and those talking maps on phones. World's gotten real small. Used to be folks who didn't stray more than a few miles from where they were born. And now here we are, two random people rolling down the road in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. Just 'cause we felt like it."

Joel's not sure he'd say he felt like it, exactly. But he gets her point. "I guess," he allows. "Makes you wonder what it musta been like. Back then."

"Doesn't it? No AC, no snacks, no radio to bicker over." She grins at him, teasing. "Though I suppose you would've done just fine without that last one, huh?"

He huffs, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “They wouldn’t need a radio with you doing all the talking. Probably would've driven the whole wagon train up the wall with your yammering."

“You mean, I would’ve livened things up?”

"Livened," he repeats, dry as dust, and she laughs. It's a good one, Joel thinks. Bright and uninhibited in a way he hasn't heard often in this life.

Suddenly gets the strangest urge to reach out and touch her. Trail his knuckles down the line of her throat, feel the vibration of it under his fingers.

Wraps his hands around the wheel instead, wondering where the hell that came from. If she notices his odd moment, she doesn't let on. Just keeps rambling on about dysentery and fording rivers and how she definitely would've been the first to die of cholera. Joel lets those honeyed tones wash over him and tries not to dwell on the tight, hot feeling in his chest.

By the time they pull up at the little house Tommy helped her get settled in, it's pitch black out. He can just make out her face in the glow of the dome light, those big eyes soft and serious for once as she gathers up her bags.

"Thanks again for the lift," she says, real quiet. "I know I'm not exactly your favourite person to be stuck with."

"Wasn't so bad," he admits, and it's almost not a lie. "Glad I could help."

She hesitates with her hand on the door handle, worrying that plump bottom lip with her teeth. "I'd invite you in for a beer but I know you probably want to get home."

He does. He should. But maybe it's that little waver in her voice, the uncertain set of her shoulders. Maybe it's knowing that the second she steps out of this truck, the strange little bubble they've been floating in is going to pop. Things will snap back to how they've always been, her grating on his last nerve from a nice safe distance and him avoiding her as best he can.

And maybe he's just not quite ready for that.

"Well..." he drawls, "I reckon I could come in for a cold one."

The smile she gives him could put the sun to shame, all dimples and crinkly eyes. Makes that tugging feeling in his chest pull so sharp it steals his breath. 

He follows her up the porch steps and into the cosy hallway, his chest tight and his palms clammy like some nervous teenager. As she putters in the kitchen, fetching beers and clinking glasses, he stands in her living room and looks around at the organised clutter, the artfully arranged photographs, the bunches of wildflowers stuck in mason jars.

The whole place is so absolutely, utterly her it makes something behind his ribs ache fiercely.

When she comes back with two frosty beers, pressing one into his hand, they just stand there for a minute. Look at each other with the heavy weight of something hanging in the air between them. She takes a pull off her bottle, throat working as she swallows and it's more than he can take. The urge to put his mouth right there, to lick the sharp tang of hops right off her skin.

“So…,” she murmurs softly as she places her beer on the counter behind her and looks back at him. Her eyelashes flutter, and her gaze latches on his mouth. It’s a split of a second but Joel decides that he’s had enough. 

He sets his own bottle down carefully. Cradles her face in his rough hands and leans in slow, so slow, until he can taste her shaky breath. She meets him halfway, arms winding around his neck as she opens up for him, soft and sweet as summer rain. He tips his head to kiss her deeper and she mewls into his mouth, hands flexing against his shoulders, and Joel is lost. 

It doesn’t take long before they are stumbling back to her bedroom, all tangled up in each other. When he rids himself of his shirt and hovers above her, she is smiling, her fingers moving slowly to graze the warm skin of his back, and it’s so good Joel feels drunk on it. 

Later, after, with her curled up asleep on his chest, Joel stares up at the lazy spin of the ceiling fan. Marvels at the strange turns a life can take. How somebody can get under your skin until one day you wake up and realise you forgot how to breathe without them.

He runs his fingers through the wild tangle of her hair, feels her sigh contentedly against him. Lets himself imagine, just for a minute, that this could be his life. That he could have something this soft, this sweet, and keep it.

Joel blows out a long breath.

Drops a kiss to the top of her head and lets his eyes slip closed.

Maybe there's something to be said for all that sunshine after all.

[jennycalendar]

descending into deadlochposting on main i don't even care. this show is SO GOOD. i think the thing that really stuck with me throughout every episode is how committed it is to not fucking up women, and especially women of color, just to have a Plot Point + for Emotional Resonance!!! every woman on this show gets an ending that feels earned. (and yes that does include margaret carruthers.) there is just so much love woven into this narrative but they still manage to capture the grim miserable reality of patriarchy without EVER reducing a female character we care about to a Murder Victim or having her horrifically brutalized as an ending!!!! like holy shit, guys, it's actually fucking possible! you can create horror blended perfectly with humor and never actually fuck women over!!!

and yeah actually as a woc it felt really fucking good to watch a show where i got to see women of color (aleyna and tammy and sharelle and miranda and faye my beloved <333) just thrive and be silly and stupid and terrible and also lovable. and also, oh my god, revolutionary, NOT GET MURDERED, even though this is literally a fckin murder show!!! i said to my dad like midway through the series that i just got this sense the show understood how goddamn hard it is to watch television sometimes waiting for that character you love, who looks like you and has life experiences that resonate with you, to get killed, or to be treated like she's not important, and how dedicated it is to not just killing off women for shock value. every woman in this show mattered and had meaning and dimension.

because seriously, SO MANY INCREDIBLE WOMEN!!! abby with her perfect little haircut driving off into the sunset saying Of Course She Knows She's Right About Forensics. aleyna and her husband, her whole heart!!!! vanessa who in a lesser show would have been reduced to The Bad Woman, The Bigot, but we are shown how she has been abused and mistreated by men and how that's so informed her perspective + her genuine love for her son! sharelle who lays down the hard truths, who calls them out -- "all this civility but no fucking community" !!! miranda who learns that she doesn't want blood money from a woman who looks down on her cousin! tammy who is literally just all about that footy club the entire time even as men are being murdered and that's honestly so real of her. skye o'dwyer who perfectly captures that Emotionally Unavailable Dad energy except she's a lesbian and i love her. nadiyah who is Trying Her Best :) And Gritting Her Teeth About It :) faye who has no god damn patience for margaret carruthers and all kinds of blunt determined love for her niece and her daughter. vic who throws herself under the bus because she's just so determined to protect anyone she can after the women in this town protected her and kept her secret for so long!!! cath who parents her emotions and is definitely relentless in her guilting but also so relentless in her love. MARGARET CARRUTHERS WHO EXEMPLIFIES SHITTY RICH WHITE WOMAN. and of fucking course, the legends, the buddy-cop duo of all time, dulcie and eddie, who are just perpetually going around like this

except it's not even working because eddie chewed the leash off.

favorite show of the year by far. so so happy about it. rotating it joyfully in my brain for the next week, probably longer.

[nerdyenby]

I get most of my news either online or from a newsletter I subscribe to, but I’m feeling pretty good right now about our democratic candidates so I sat down to watch Walz’s debut at the Philadelphia rally and here are the highlights (imo, of course)

“Before I was elected vice president or elected a United States senator, I was an elected attorney general, and, before that, an elected district attorney and, before that, I was a courtroom prosecutor. So in those roles, I took on perpetrators of all kinds: predators who abused women, fraudsters who scammed consumers, cheaters who broke the rules for their own gain. So hear me when I say: I know Donald Trump’s type.” -KH

KH talking about fighting for a future where every American can afford to own a home hit me so hard. Why is that such a fantasy? Why have I never even considered it possible?

I am obsessed with the confidence, this is the energy I need. We have plenty of reasons to be afraid but goddamn did I need someone to stand up and calmly declare that we will be okay, and I am so fucking glad it’s a Black woman.

A history teacher as our next VP <3

Their motif of fighting for the future is so much more potent coming from a woman of color and a man who has dedicated so much of his life to youth and to supporting them and their futures. Like damn, maybe the kids really will be okay. Fighting poverty, securing free school lunches for kids, protecting bodily autonomy, and founding his schools first GSA as a straight white man? I don’t know much about Walz but what I’ve learned so far has earned him a lot of respect in my book.

Fuck, Harris talking about Walz’s background and reputation in his school has me tearing up.

“We will win.” Okay, yeah, I’m crying now. These two make me feel so safe, it’s not fair I’ve never felt this way before.

Friendly reminder that one of our main political candidates does not value disabled lives and will openly say as much. Trump wants us dead, don’t let him win.

“Tim and I have a message for Trump and others who want to turn back the clock on our fundamental freedoms: we’re not going back.” -KH

“After Roe was overturned [TW] was the first governor in the country to sign a new law that enshrined reproductive freedom as a fundamental right.” -KH

“Ultimately in this election, we each face a question: what kind of country do we want to live in? A county of freedom, compassion, and rule of law or a country of chaos, fear, and hate?” -KH

“We love our country, and I believe it is the highest form of patriotism to fight for the ideals of our country.” -KH

“Don’t ever underestimate teachers.” -TW (preach)

“It was my students, they encouraged me to run for office. They saw in me what I was hoping to instill in them: a commitment of common good, a belief that one person can make a difference.” -TW

“Now, Donald Trump sees the world a little differently than us. First of all, he doesn’t know the first thing about service. He doesn’t have time for it because he’s too busy serving himself. Again and again and again, Trump weakens our economy to strengthen his own hand. He mocks our laws, he sows chaos and division, and that’s to say nothing of his record as president.” -TW

“Some of us in here are old enough to remember — I see you down there, I see those old white guys — some of us are old enough to remember when it was republicans who were talking about freedom. It turns out now what they meant was the government should be free to invade your doctors office. In Minnesota, we respect our neighbors and their personal choices that they make. Even if we wouldn’t make the same choice for ourselves, there’s a golden rule: mind your own damn business. ” -TW

“When Vice President and I talk about freedom, we mean the freedom to make your own healthcare decisions and for our children to be free to go to school without worrying they’ll be shot dead in their classrooms.” -TW

“Vice President Harris’s idea: freedom is a ticket, for education to be that ticket to the middle class. Not crippling debt, air that’s clean, water that’s pure, communities that are safe.” -TW

TW: “Donald Trump isn’t fighting for you or your family-” random audience member: “You are!” Walz: *allows himself a breath of a laugh before continuing on just as strong as before*

“I gotta tell you, pointing out just an observation of mine that I made, I just have to say it. You know it, you feel it [the republican candidates] are creepy and, yes, just weird as hell.” -TW

“So we got 91 days. My god, that’s easy. Well sleep when we’re dead! Over those next 91 days and every day in the White House, I’ll have Vice President Harris’s back, every single day, and we’ll have yours.” -TW

This is the broadcast I watched

[popatochisssp]

I LOVE the new boys, i have SO many questions and thoughts about them, you have such amazing imagination, What would a relationship with them be like? Would they have the initiative or us? how would they do it?, You don't have to answer i'm kinda rambling sorry, your work always makes me smile

Thank you! I did have some thoughts about that!

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans): He plays hard to get… except he’s not really playing, he…he actually is hard to get. As much as he can see lots in you worthy of love and admiration, himself… Well. He’s complicated, you know? Emotionally and logistically, in more ways than one. You can certainly find someone better suited to appreciate you than him…but he has a hard time staying away, and if you chase after him, he probably won’t be able to find it in himself to run. He falls into a relationship with you like planets fall into orbit—a slow, synchronous dance as natural and irresistible as the tides.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus): He’s absolutely taking the lead, the one to approach you and actively try to charm the pants off you possibly literally. He finds you interesting, fun, and how else is he supposed to find out if you’d like to play with him if he doesn’t ask? He’s bound to be a little light-hearted and flippant about your relationship at the start, maybe not taking it as seriously as you’d like. He’s got his head in the cloud, and all the data and information and free access to everyone and everything on the planet in there is a lot to compete with—but don’t doubt you’ll win out in the end. He’ll serious up as time goes by, but no matter how serious he gets about you, you’ll never stop being his favorite plaything.

Xanth (Ascendswap Sans): He’ll take the initiative but he might come on a little strong, or…weird…because he’s weird. He’s very genuine and open with why he’s interested in you so the straightforwardness could either be refreshing or uncomfortable, depending on how it lands with you. Mostly, he just wants to get to know you more so he’s fine with whatever pace you set from there, as long as he gets to be around your energy. In a relationship, he likes to go with your flow, just be and do and feel with you and see where the wind takes you both—wherever you end up, he’ll have had a great traveling companion for the road.

Piper (Ascendswap Piper): It could go either way with him. He’s certainly not too shy to approach someone he’s interested in, but neither does he dislike the ego-boost of getting someone to come to him. In both cases he’s a smooth operator, his ‘trick’ not required. In a relationship, he makes a point of being your Prince Charming, whether it’s your first date or your hundredth, and all the time in between, too. For all that he’s genial and pleasant from the start, he will take some time to really warm up and trust you—to introduce you to his family, to share his past, to let you see more than just the clean and polished parts of him—but once he does defrost, he’s all yours.

Carmine (Underfell Fruition Sans): If he’s interested, he’s letting you know immediately with…varying levels of respect (on the low end, ranging between a double-take and a maybe-not-meant-to-be-out-loud ‘goddamn’). He likes to flirt and talks a big game but… he’s actually pretty new to this kinda thing, and in a relationship, he probably wants to keep things casual for awhile, nothing too serious too fast. He just got out of lockup, he’s not really looking to settle down right away, y’know? But he’s perfectly willing to adhere to the rules of engagement, so if you don’t mind casual for awhile, he’s plenty of fun, a great plus-one for everything, guaranteed. And if you are willing to wait him out, the ‘not too serious’ thing isn’t forever, of course. What, like he’s gonna let The One get away over a bit of commitment? Pfft…

Tank (Underfell Fruition Papyrus): It’s gonna be down to you to make the first move, he has no idea what he’s doing and is still kind of figuring out what he’s allowed to do or ask for, even if he’s very smitten with you—and why wouldn’t he be? He definitely needs to be told that you’re open to having him in your space, as part of your life in that way, or he may not want to risk upsetting you. For the same reason, he needs patience in a relationship because he moves slowly and doesn’t really know how to talk about his feelings. A little grace as he navigates a new kind of relationship with way different rules than the other kinds goes a long way, and with it, he warms up quickly to some of the perks that non-platonic affection and intimacy allow him. He tends to speak more with his gestures and actions than what he says, so never mistake a lack of words for a lack of feeling—he feels a lot, and he just needs to figure out what do with it all!

Vi (Swapfell Fruition Sans): Most likely to make the first move, but… he has no charm whatsoever, and a very direct approach that might be a little off-putting. …Then again, ‘weird guy rizz’ alone might at least (somehow) score him a date, or two, or three, and you could go from there. He’s committed from the jump and puts as much thought and care and meticulous planning into your relationship as any high-profile political assassination he’s ever managed…which is probably something he shouldn’t say to you, another one of those awkward, off-putting things… He has his issues, of course—secrecy, insecurity, emotional constipation—but he always takes you very seriously and never wants to lose esteem in your eyes. You are someone he doesn’t want to lose.

Hunter (Swapfell Fruition Papyrus): Yeah, he’s taking the initiative and doing it well, he’s a good flirt, fun, and persistent, and he has a way of getting people to go home with him against their better judgment—hey, he doesn’t mind being a guilty pleasure and in fact, maybe he could be yours…? As far as a relationship goes, he doesn’t take too much seriously, so it’s bound to be pretty casual for awhile, like a game of tug-of-war played with a (poorly-behaved) dog, back and forth, give and take, just a fun game you both play. …However. At some point, a switch will flip in his head when he decides he’s your ride-or-die, full commitment and no more playing games about it. This could happen at basically any point, very early in your relationship or very late. He cannot tell you when it will flip, and nothing you do or don’t do will influence the flip, because neither he nor anyone else has any control over the switch. Such are the pitfalls of trying to romance a heavily-mindfucked former assassin, but you two will figure it out eventually.

Kohl (Descendtale Sans): It’s complicated. Honestly, he’s probably so deeply in denial that he’s into you that it’ll take a Category 5 Inciting Jealousy Incident to get his head out of his ass about it make him admit his feelings. He’s a bit of a pigtail-puller if he likes you, but he’s also a kind of a pigtail-puller if he doesn’t like you, so you’ll want to keep an eye out for the distinction of him seeking you out or spending time with you on purpose—he tends to remove himself from situations where humans are involved as soon as it’s feasible, so if he’s lingering around you, or coming to find you, or seeming to make a deliberate nuisance of himself as soon as someone else has your attention, he might be a little bit interested. If you’re not content to wait for him, you may need to do what he does and needle the hell out of him until you make him admit it but don’t do so lightly—he’s like a mousetrap, if you spring him, you’re stuck with him, he’s yours and good luck returning him without the receipt. In a relationship, he’ll keep up his hassling and assorted shithead behaviors, but there’s a softening towards you and he will actually be capable of some tender, intimate moments. …Some.

Bram (Descendtale Papyrus): Definitely making the first move and just enough of a gentleman to not come on too strong… At least not at first—it wouldn’t do to scare you away right off the bat! There might be some pitfalls a bit later on because he is probably going to want to move a little faster in the relationship than you do, even if you’re a fast mover yourself, but that’s just the abandonment issues talking. He’s very sweet and responds well to constructive criticism about his pacing issues, such as ‘It is too soon to talk about living together’ or ‘I’m not ready to get married until…’ Mostly his concern is that you are happy and comfortable and enjoy spending time with him! Because he enjoys spending time with you and he wants to be able to do that a lot! (You see? He said ‘a lot’ instead of ‘forever’ that time, he remembered when you said that sounded like ‘some horror movie shit’!) In any case, he’s very affectionate and accommodating in a relationship and with maybe some steps taken to mitigate the separation anxiety, he’s a loving and attentive partner for as long as you’ll have him.

[hellafluff]

@dalishious made a fun fillable chart (blank here) for your DA Faves. Gave my reasoning under the cut bc i love to talk

DAO Companion: Shale of course! If Shale has 1 fan its me and if Shale has 0 fans I'm dead, you know how it goes. Shale is sassy and delightful and I love that they're my nonbinary rep bc I for one LOVE non-human enbies as someone who feels pretty non-human.

DA2 Companion: I'm extremely basic and have been in love with Varric Tetras for years.

DAI Companion: DORIAN!!! His journey through the game and how involved the Quizzy gets feels more personal then any of the other companions and I love the banter the two have together. My Lavellan and him are extremely close.

Excited for Veilguard Companion: Emmrich Volkarin I am Deeply Attracted To You. I have his official art as my phone lockscreen right now. I love necromancers and older men and he's so goddamn cute. Plus, Skeleton friend!!!!!!

Favorite Other Media Character: I've been obsessed with Maevaris Tilani for years and if she isn't in Veilguard I am going to end up on the news. She's a queen and the scene of her and her husband in the fade in the comics makes me so sad.

Favorite NPC: Sandal because I decided to put the Architect in the antagonist slot! I do sincerely love Sandal and I'm excited to see if we get anymore lore on him in DATV. I love the theory that he's a Sha-Brytol.

Favorite PC: Warden-Commander Mirabelle Aeducan, Mira to her friends. I love my get-shit-done exiled princess. She put her brother on the throne but also punched him very hard first chance they were alone. She is still treated as royalty in Orzammar and keeps visiting and making surface trade agreements for them as she searches for a Cure for the Calling. Is she supposed to be doing all that? No but the Wardens sure as shit aren't gonna stop her. She misses Alistair very much but purposefully broke up with him so he could be on the throne. They still keep in contact whenever they can.

Favorite Antagonist: I'm going to kiss The Architect. If we do not see him again in DATV I'm. Well I'm not gonna end up on the news but I will be extremely sad. I want to see the rest of the Ancient Magisters very bad, I think they would make great side DLC content for DATV.

Fave NPC Ship: Wade and Herren are married and I am constantly upset that weren't in Inquisition as like a specialty weapon shop at the very least.

Fave NPC Friends: Blackwall and Sera. The goddamn... Weird Uncle and Weird Niece ass relationship they have. They have some of the best banter in the game. I wasn't a Sera fan for a long time but them together really makes both of their characters shine.

Favorite Romance: I'm extremely basic and want to commit terrorism with and for Anders. Krista Hawke can and will do everything in her power to protect this man.

Favorite Friendship: Dorian again! Seriously, him and my Lavellan are basically in a QPR. He really brings her out of her shell and she matches his energy and wants to help him anyway she can. If she wasn't with Iron Bull by Trespasser she'd probably have gone to Tevinter with him.

Favorite Quest: I like the back half of Paragon of Her Kind a lot, the final confrontation with Branka and Caridin especially. Throw Shale in there for lore and fuck yeah. A lot of it comes down to my Warden being Aeducan and my love of Shale but what can I say, if my Hawke could be a Dwarf she absolutely would have been.

Favorite DLC: I played Jaws of Hakkon as a reluctant mage elf on my last playthrough and fucking sobbed after the Ameridan Meeting. That DLC is absolutely life ruining if you play that kind of Inquisitor, it was all of Adana's deepest fears realized and it shook me how deep in character I got playing it.

Favorite Game: DA2! I love it's jank and story in a story nature and relationship mechanics. I really hope we get a rivalry mechanic in DATV or other games try something like that. I don't want to piss a companion off so much they leave I want them to stay and get bitchy with me in every dialogue! I wanna romance someone who curses my name! Also just has the best story of all the games.

Favorite Other Media: I really enjoyed Absolution! I think some parts of it are under written because of how short it is (Qwydion just being comic relief is the thing that really gets me) but the overall plot and animation is REALLY good! I haven't watched it since it aired tho. I'm hoping it gets another season to cover the Meredith stinger, because I don't know how they'd handle that in DATV.

[chungledown-bimothy]

i was going to say top 5 make some noise prompts and then i thought about how constantly i reference them and went "oh that's way too hard" so...... hm. top 5 battle for beyond moments and top 5 dnd chaos moments to start. OH and top 5 underrated d20 seasons or other actual-play stuff if you'd like

ty for not asking the impossible of me re: make some noise prompts lol

god i hate that i keep having to say this, but i don't remember dnd chaos well enough to give a top 5 answer that means anything, i'm sorry!

that said. top 5 b4b? let's fuckin go.

(yes some of these aren't a single moment but i'm obsessed with b4b's "how it started out with a bit how did it end up like this" energy)

1- Trick? No, I don't charge. This one needs no explanation. Nikhil's a slut and so am I.

2- Nikhil's lance. It's the only thing he cares about. His sister made it for him. He says something like a prayer to it.

3- Let Ekon sleep. I felt that shit in my goddamn soul.

4- I'm pretty sure potatoes are a kind of meat. I'm morosexual, actually.

5- Literally the whole scene in their quarters after the bee tree fight. Sestia and Murdina definitely fucked. Nikhil asking Sestia to slap him so he can hellish rebuke the tea. Everyone lying their asses off about wanting to share the room.

underrated actualplay stuff. (wait hang on carlos was involved with almost all of these. interesting)

1- coffin run. please. i am begging everyone. watch it. izzy and zac have what i am 100% confident is the funniest dynamic of the entirety of d20. every single time the camera cuts to them, something unhinged and fucking hilarious is about to happen. carlos is the most wet kitten of a man, and erika... i can't do may justice. you gotta watch it.

2- battle for beyond. that top 5 was extremely difficult- i almost just said 5 of the 6 pcs because it's all just. so. good. the nikhil/sestia/murdina throuple is everything to me. the characters' growth and god the worldbuilding. i cannot overstate how much i love it.

3- dnd chaos. i really need to rewatch them. again, tables of pcs that absolutely fuck. i need citizen doctor abraham mehermblur carnally. both times, it's a fucking all-star cast. 10/10 highly recommend.

4- barbie d&d from PixelCircus. i've seen basically no one talking about it, and holy shit it was so fucking funny and i love when a shiny, happy aesthetic ends up going into truly terrifying existential horror. "this barbie commits war crimes!" carlos pops the fuck off.

5- candela obscura. i've not seen the first arc and i'm not done with the second (i've got an hour left of ep 2 and ep 3 is six. hours. long.) but god fucking damn. just. watch it. i cannot do it justice.

[rebe-draws]

Firstly I just want to say oh my goodness hello and thank you everyone for the art appreciation! I’m happy people like Scrap! Secondly HAHA HI AABRIA!! @quiddie Love your work. LOVE Suvi. Love these questions! Now uh how much time do you have ‘cause I have so many thoughts about this little bastard man of mine and his place in the world of Umora. I’m gonna answer your questions AND add some more info! Why not! I’ll try to keep it brief :) Q1: Is Scram the winged opossum a Faunalog? Scram is absolutely a faunalog / imchin (hope I got that right!) Scrap and Scram very much adopted each-other, the outcasts and pests gotta stick together. Dude keeps trying to smuggle his little friend into the Bloody Carnival and I imagine Mr. Losario has absolutely NONE of it.

Q2: Scrap’s Age? LISTEN I hadn’t totally decided on it - like, maybe mid 20’s max - HOWEVER imagining him in the same grade or year as Suvi? Losing my mind going feral I love it oh my god please-and-thankyew. Does that make the fact he gave himself (and yes his possum too) an S name even SPICIER? I hope it does because it was absolutely a move of spite against Wizards on his part. If that means it gets hairy between Suvi and him I am so signing up for that! *chanting* fight fight fight.  Q3: LEGALLY HE HAS TO TO TELL YOU IF HE’S A SPIRIT – I’m itching to draw this scene play out HAHAHAHA. Good lord he doesn’t even know what exactly he is! He’d totally play along with the idea he could be a spirit if it meant messing with someone like Suvi. Dude’s a cheeky bastard. Dude would also be panicking because what do you mean Steel’s daughter is in the Bloody Carnival!? And friends with that cool regular guy (Ersulon) who visits a lot!? “I’m just the guy who serves drinks and cleans up the vomit and blood– WHY IS SHE WALKING TOWARDS ME.” Suvi grilling him on his magic too? Actually shitting himself but laughing to pretend like he’s not. Hey look, if Suvi’s bringing those magic butterflies into the equation, he’ll commit to the bit to prove a point. And. Try not to eat the magic butterfly in the process– don’t worry about it, more on that later. For what it’s worth if Suvi’s goin’ at him full weird, full no-filter, THE weird kid from school is gonna give that energy right back! 

MORE WALL OF TEXT TIME - General Scrap Lore from my brain

He gave himself the moniker ‘Scrap’ as a petty move against the Wizards, yes haha. He would’ve been known before as Jack. The name Jack is a meta nod to Hedgemage lore Brennan introduced at the start of the campaign with some mages imbuing their magic into playing cards. ‘Jack’ in particular a direct reference to the poker card of course. 

Scrap was goddamn terrible at school. He was a kid from a nothing family but showed some real magic potential, managed to claw his way into the studies through the Demmings academic track (like page Yulia with Banners!) but absolutely flunked. It wasn’t failing classes that got him dropped though - he had something of an “incident” himself - think somethin’ like what happened with Suvi and Hannah with the Aerith. And think Wild Magic surge. TLDR: He … accidentally hit a fireball on self. Barely survived. Consequences ensued. Now that he’s out of school he’s gone real ‘bottom of the barrel’, rubbing elbows with some real shady hedgemages and the like, trying to make do with the Citadel’s “scraps” … hence his moniker! 

As a Wild Magic sorcerer I sort of imagined he is a kind of vessel for raw magic. And therefore always hungry for it. Very hungry (why he could want to eat the magic buttefly, among other things). And sensitive to it as well, I imagine he has a kind of ‘synaesthesia’ for magic. Think a bit like Detect Magic. Which is why he wears goggles a looot of the time. Shit’s too bright in the city. But hey man. You gotta stay fed. P.S I am losing my mind imagining what he’d be up to with the Citadel, particularly Haverward, on hard lock-down. Wuh-oh. ANYWAY I could literally talk about this dude and the story you and the crew are telling ALL day so I’m gonna cut it here for now! I’ll be posting more about him and his witch friend Anoushka in the future for sure !! Goddamn I love this game.

P.P.S Always open to more questions too if anyone has any! 

The hedgemage 'Scrap' (wild magic sorcerer) meets the Wizard, the Witch and the Wild One! This was just a fun thing I came up with for my World's Beyond Number OC HAHAHA. He's kickin' it in the Citadel and I always wonder what he'd be up to with the current goings-ons there. And I always wondered how he'd go meeting the crew! ENSUE tense Wizard VS Sorcerer moment LOL I love the gang so much! Had to do a bonus moment of the familiars meeting :) does anyone else have characters they've made up for this world? I'd so love to hear about them!

[eyebrowpunk]

really hate how ‘drawing’ and ‘drawing digitally’ feel like two entirely separate, but equally involved, skillsets

[ariespluto]

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾  moon signs based on observations  ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

here are the moon signs based on my knowledge and the people i’ve seen and met from observations!

aries moon: play time, needs spontaneity. feels emotions intensely but too much stuffiness and theyll feel put off. funny and kinda aggressively jokes sometimes, independent on the inside. strong people.

taurus moon: COMFORT!! so cute. lives on comfy and pretty clothes, daydreams of romantic endeavours, very sweet and kind lovely people, and very loyal and committed romantic partners. but stubborn and gets frustrated easily- dont argue with them, very set on their ideas.

gemini moon: nErVoUS. overthinking. but also rlly cool. loves to ask questions, curious people, fun playful childlike energy, need to journal or needs to get out words and thoughts they internalise or else theyll explode. have cool style. many different interests. intellectual ppl.

cancer moon: empaths. the cliche crybaby i hate to admit it (unless afflicted by saturn), all ive known have been crybabies. stuck on the past, remembers everything. emotionally available, and bc of that sometimes gives their heart to the wrong people. just be nice to them pls. very nurturing homely energy around these people. wants children.

leo moon: give them compliments and affection please, they must be protected. needs recognition. kinda dramatic and fussy but its funny at the same time. funny people. have so much love, loves physical touch and affection, BIG hearted people. VERY generous.

virgo moon: very careful and articulated with thoughts or words. perfectionists and realists. gentle but can nitpick at details too much or become pessimistic if their criticism turns inwards and eventually spreads outward. witty and and a laid-back, lowkey energy, cool people and can be initially introverted. friends come to you for advice.

libra moon: yall pretty istg. indecisive, flirty or at least having multiple crushes on people, hopeless romantic and creative people. charming and knows how to charm people with words. people pleasing, pretty belongings, clothes, aesthetic is important to you.

scorpio moon: s e c r e t i v e emotions, or either oversharing. can be misunderstood by others and seen as intimidating. or just rlly intense and can feel consumed or overwhelmed with emotions but tries hides it with a cool face. going thru it the most. but very powerful people also, hold alot of power within them. just remember to not get too caught up in seeing only the negatives.

sagittarius moon: wants to travel and just go out explore. very funny, good at bouncing back from hard times, keeping things light, independent but sociable at same time. positivity! but also has a habit of hiding their sadness away with a happy face or by joking around to keep the mood light. doesnt really open up too much about dark shit too quick.

capricorn moon: honestly the sweetest ever once they trust you. holds alot of responsibility to an extent, always earning or has income of some sort, nags friends to go work. very stable friends for the long term and dependable and caring. so mature at a young age it kinda scares me.

aquarius moon: dissociation and detaching from people from time to time, but also really cool people, unique creative artists or musician type people. unique and interesting tastes + great minds. quiet and detached on the outside but actually very sweet and fond people on the inside. intellectual, progressive and humanitarian caring minds.

pisces moon: such a vibe goddamn, great music taste, and clothing taste. emotionally nurturing and understanding friends, so empathetic and emotional. always giving, spiritually in touch minded people, really creatively talented, biggest softies and probably talks to their plushies. but also ESCAPISM!! gets addicted to fantasy be careful of illusions/substances.

[hopefullystillatheatrestudent]

i'm so excited about you taking asks again ahhhh okay so. if you'd absolutely had to choose. what would be your top 5 cockles moments, and why? thank you ily <3

here’s the thing: there are so many routes i could go down with this, because cockles moments come in all shapes and sizes and formats. these include moments from their panels, their bloopers, the footage we get when they don’t even know they’re being recorded, stories being passed down from photo ops & autographs(one of my personal favorite ways to get cockles, tbh, because they’re all insane), and social media(tweets to each other, instagram posts & comments, etc.). 

SO! since many a list like this has already been made, and i want to stand out from the crowd, what i’m gonna do is definitively give the number one spot to each of these five categories.(i might even throw in honourable mentions because they’re so despicably in love that they warrant that. i really put my whole pussy into this, guys, i hope you’re happy.) 

disclaimer: these are my own personal opinions. but that also means i’m right. so. enjoy. 

number one: top cockles panel moment

so we’re starting off with a bang, because how do you even BEGIN to rank what atrocities jensen and misha commit at jibcon. every single one they’ve had is damning in it’s own right, for different reasons.

however, considering just how much unabashed fuckery they’ve given us to sift through, it’s a good thing i do have a personal favorite despite it all. it’s heartwarming, the sweetest thing i’ve ever seen, AND it’s jarringly cinematic - mainly because it has a whole ass arc to it that was years in the making. it might even be surprising to some people, but my favorite cockles panel moment, and what i consider the one that encompasses their entire gut-wrenching journey from 2008-2013 in the most sweepingly romantic gesture possible, is this one.

i want this burned into my retinas. i am not even joking. when i'm through with my explanation, let me convince you why this is thee most romantic cockles moment of all time.

first, some history: people call this the resume off, but many seem to forget the botched attempt at a resume off a year prior. and yes, you guessed it: it's during their break up. it's a juicy time period for a reason, guys. it came across as exceedingly one-sided and VERY awkward. let me refresh your memory as to just how bad it was, and just how hard jensen was trying and ultimately failing at winning misha over: the funniest part of the whole resume off in 2013??? every joke/bit had literally already been made/done. they were just going through the motions again, but the difference THIS time...is that misha reciprocated jensen's energy. it. is. fascinating. i want to get into it more detail in another post, and i'll link it here when i'm done, but the main takeaway, i think, and the main difference that showcases how much they've grown in a year, is that in jib 3, misha flat out refused to do an accent, and this time around, he indulges jensen for literal minutes. when i tell you they're crazy, they're crazy. i can't wait to actually dive into it later.

ANYWAY, the resume off culminates in this moment here. and, like, a million things happen in this gifset. actually, more like a million and one. the music starts playingneediremindyouthatthesongissingingintherain(h e l p), misha starts dancing, jensen 'perpetually fake grumpy' ackles lets misha think he's not going to join, misha sits down defeated, but no!!! that was jensen's plan all along(look at his stupid fucking smirk) and he offers his arm to his dance partner who immediately grins like a fool, jensen then leads misha into their kick step, they perfectly synchronise and let loose, and are then very clearly having the time of their lives, hanging off of each other with joy and ease. from their expressions alone i can tell that this moment is so. so. so. so! much more than what initially meets the eye. i mean-misha is fighting back the biggest smile i've ever seen. to me, it reads like jensen is offering something to misha, something that misha kind of gave up on expecting, and him offering his arm like that is like, a surprise to him in the best possible way(and it's so not platonic, let me just say that.) as soon as jensen did that, it ushered in a new era of cockles. this panel is jensen and misha's favourite for a reason, and i think this moment is the biggest clue as to why.

whew!!! ok. that took a lot out of me and that was only point one. moving on,

number two: top cockles blooper moment

cockles bloopers hold an extremely special place in my heart, because it shows just how fucking disastrous jensen and misha are. they are so goddamn infatuated with each other that they HOLD UP PRODUCTION ALL THE TIME TO FLIRT WITH EACH OTHER(???). let me repeat. let it sink in. jensen ackles; arguably one of the most professional actors on that show who puts everything he has into each scene, with mountains and mountains of notes to prove it: would rather hold up production to flirt with misha collins. this sounds fake. it's not. he does it. all. the. time. and here's the thing guys!!! i'm gonna let you in on a secret!!! misha loves it. he loveesssss it. on top of that-misha collins: overlooked because he's pranked and people assume he's unprofessional as well, but his only pranks are in retaliation/off-set, and he rarely if EVER causes problems if he can help it....lets himself get carried away when it comes to jensen making kissy faces at him!!! are you actually kidding me!!! i mean. misha. it's just a face. you've seen it a million times. i don't buy that it triggers something in you that strongly....you like it, and you like jensen's reaction. you can't fool me!!! lisa berry's face in that one gifset shows just how fed up the crew is with their gross, coupley boyfriend antics.

i could pull up so many examples. sooooooo many. but my favourite was sealed since the moment i saw it.

i actually already wrote an analysis on it but i can't find it :(((( which SUCKS because i really unpacked the whole thing. i'll try to summarise.

basically, a backstory is part of this too!!! jensen and misha both had a really really hard time with this scene(because it's explicitly romantic there i said it), they sat down for hours and poured over their scripts together, they were super super nervous going into filming, both of them, jensen especially, were super hard on themselves for their performances not being true to their characters but they both complimented the other's work(boyfriend moments fr). so, yeah. they weren't confident going into shooting. and how do they get themselves to feel better???? by cuddling each other, apparently.

a lot. a LOT. happens in this specific blooper. to the point that i saw it years before i knew about cockles and it raised all sorts of flags for me.

1) stop pulling my face towards your crotch(as a thinly veiled request that misha would, in fact, move jensen's face towards his crotch, considering it was jensen moving himself there in the first place. also, why so comfy down there guys???) 2) you're my baby daddy i know(in the most intimate voice i've ever heard please) 3) i know, i know, i love you too i didn't say i love you i know but you wanted to say it etc. misha's right, of course. that's what jensen meant.

it just reeks of comfort, familiarity and intimacy between the two, and it's a moment that is extremely sweet and silly at the same time. they're so <3

number three: top cockles found footage moment

WONDERFUL category. truly the culmination of the cockles experience. many people have said that shipping cockles doesn't work because 'they're just onstage you dummies!! they're playing it up for the audience!!!' here's the thing, love. i could not disagree with you more. once you climb your way up the cockles ladder, you soon learn that they are, in fact, playing their dynamic DOWN, not up. they really are just Like That™, and they could not care less about the paying audience, if we're being honest, considering how much time they take to giggle with each other and refuse to let the audience in on the joke. and i love them for it <3

anyway, my point is that this category is for all you naysayers out there, all you 'jensen and misha's relationship is just for show and is real life queerbaiting'(?????lordhelp???) oh yeah? ok, explain this.

he. he. he calls jensen sweetheart. literally enough said. there's nothing to really add here, except, misha and jared then immediately engage in damage control. jared's method is distraction and misha's is retconning('get out of the car, dude') this was what got me to buy into the cockles dumpster for GOOD good. you don't call your buddy sweetheart accidentally and sound so completely earnest while doing it! especially not when that buddy is jensen ackles!!! you think he would let any of his friends call him that? do you?

one more thing; if it was a slip of the tongue, little mouth thing or whatever, you think jared wouldn't have jumped on it immediately??? i can hear it now. 'did you just call him SWEETHEART???' yeah. that's what i thought. you know why he didn't? because it was too revealing.

number four: top cockles autograph moment

i mean, i think we all know what it's gonna be, and if you don't, well, do i have the piece de cockles resistance that is gonna send you over the edge.

if you haven't heard of this story by now, as a cockles, truther, i'm gonna go ahead and get you to read it, because there is no possible heterosexual explanation for any of it, and you're fooling yourself if you think otherwise.

spoiler alert: it's the story where phones weren't allowed in an auto session, jensen nuzzles himself in misha's hair, leans his full body weight onto him, holds his hand, etc. etc. i'm imploding just repeating this back, actually. also, just, the sheer amount of stories from photo ops where they tackle hug each other or slap each other's asses or sing romantic songs to each other or almost kiss is, frankly, a lot. if i could wish for anything, it would be to witness them in person.

and finally,

number five: top cockles social media moment

this one is super difficult, because there's obviously a lot to choose from. but you know what? full send, i'm going with this one:

i just. what to say about this. how often do misha and jensen watch sunsets together for it to qualify as ‘always’ ??? why are sunsets synonymous with their relationship??? that’s like??? a very romantic thing????? ‘this guy’??? the fact that it’s a CANDID??? i don’t know guys.

that could have been better but i am TIRED so. there you go rose ily

[strangelittlestories]

Okay, so:

Hopepunk relies on a world or setting that is hostile to its characters. It seeks to isolate them. To weary them. To burn them out, grind them down, snuff them out.

In the face of this, in a story where *hopelessness* and *powerlessness* are forces of nature like entropy, our characters see a situation where it would be so very reasonable to stop caring. To embrace cynicism. Selfishness. Nihilism.

But they say: fuck it. The world is caustic, its earth is poisoned ... but I'm gonna plant a seed here *anyway*.

They build community. They make little change. They protect the weak, because they themselves *are also weak* and they also deserve that.

In the face of systems that effectively punish you for being gentle, that in a very real way *criminalise* softness, they commit acts of kindness and mercy.

And when they no longer can, when their part in the struggle is done, they trust the ripples of goodness they put out into the world will come back to them. For they must, surely? So they hope.

However ... a problem someone recently raised to me with Hopepunk stories is that it can be hard, just in terms of writing, to make slow and incremental change *exciting*.

These are often small soft actions, repeated and peppered through communities, actions that move the needle by inches or less ... the example the guy gave was specifically around community organising. He used to go door-to-door, raising awareness for social issues and local campaigns, and it was *boring* work of long days, cold smiles and wearing down the pavement with your footsteps.

And my answer to this is ... have you played tabletop RPGs? Have you listened to actual plays? Do you know the thing that people *really* fall in love with? Do you know the thing your players will truly go feral for?

Most of the time it's not the big plot. It's not the clever mechanic or dramatic set piece you worked so hard on.

No, most of the time, the thing they sink their grubby little dice-filled claws into is that one goblin called Gleb you made up on the fly. But he had a funny voice, a weird kinda wild energy, and a Single Problem. And gosh darn it, the party immediately decide they will burn the world down if it means Gleb will get their Problem Solved.

And then they will adopt Gleb and never let them go.

I once joked to my forever-GM and party when we were talking about how to get players to care about NPCs: "Come on, it's not rocket science, just make them gay and fragile and call it a day."

And, like, you *should* make your NPCs gay and fragile, because most tables I'm at will go wild for it. But really that's just my shorthand for: make them tactile and make them vulnerable. Show the players there is clay here in need (knead) of shaping, and show them they have the means to shape it.

Because you know what's true of NPCs in most ttrpg settings? The world is hostile to them. The story is so ready to make collateral damage of them. The world wants to take their agency and put it in the hands of the PCs.

And that's fine, that's how the games work.

But also: the players, those folks who have the agency and the power, what do they choose to do with it?

They choose to *build fucking community* with this 2D goblin I invented out of the goddamn ether *because they had a funny voice and a problem*.

Goddamn that's beautiful. Goddamn that's Hopepunk.

Let's imagine for a moment what Gleb the Goblin's problem is.

See, his dayjob? He has to go door-to-door with a clipboard and tries to get people to sign up to help out at the local secular temple (e.g. fantasy community centre). See, there's a shadow curse in this town that eats you if you spend too long in public outdoor spaces on your own.

But the local secular temple will be safe if enough people sign up to take shifts lighting candles and sweeping floors and tending the vegetable garden.

Because Gleb doesn't know how to kill a shadow curse.

But they do know how to plant a turnip and organise a rota. So this is what they're doing.

And you know what? Your adventurers are gonna be out on that trail with Gleb before you can say "we're gonna ruin the local economy with stolen dragon gold".

And Gleb will get *so many sign-ups*.

And after that, sure, your party might go and actually end the shadow curse that you seeded.

But another problem will hit the town eventually, because the world never *stays saved* in an rpg.

So when trouble does come to that town again, they'll know they'll be safe in the local community secular temple, with its garden and its new coffee bar and its indoor basketball court.

And that's because of a little goblin called Gleb, who had a funny voice and problem and some wild friends, who used to go door-to-door around this town ... selling hope.

Nobody:

Me: actually, the tendency of TTRPG parties to adopt NPCs and solve all their problems is inherently Hopepunk.

[semischarmed]

Mine

Many coaches have come and taught the many iterations of our university team. Over the years, these coaches, like players, come and go. Good ones are hard to come by. Great ones are once in a lifetime. That was our Coach James.

He had a fatherly quality to him. There was a warmth in his training, a brightness when he would teach us. When we succeeded, he helped bring us up further and when we failed he softened the blow with his wisdom. Coach was great like that. Strictly professional, of course, but with a layer of genuine friendliness and a desire to watch us all succeed. He really was the perfect coach and we were blessed to have him. Still, in my lust, in my pure selfishness, I knew I had to have him- all of him to me and me alone. One long summer day, I ask for some one-on-one training. Never one to turn down a teaching opportunity, he complies. Like I said, he was a great coach.

I decide this would be the day. I run, but not too well. I throw, but haphazardly. That’s all it took for him to lean in. That’s all it took to get him close. Of course, he came with pure intentions- I did not. 

When he is right above me, when I feel the vibration in the air from his chest, when I feel his raw power and vitality. That is when I strike. I fuck up my throwing position a little more, and he guides it proper. Fuck yeah. Jesus, I could stay like this forever. I feel the resonance of his deep voice within my very soul. Beckoning to me. “Become me. You want this. You deserve this,” it taunts. He was still coaching me, sure, but my mind is preoccupied with dark intent. 

These gentle breaths as he speaks- these steady hands guiding mine to a better position. These would be my truths now. A most intimate of trainings. Coach James would be training me-sure- he would be training me to use that bod. I stare at him with longing. He would never look at me that way. God, I wanted him so bad. We glisten with the sweat of the midday sun. I could melt just like this. And in fact, I do.

In that grasp, in that teaching moment, I decide to teach coach a couple tricks myself. I look up at his face. Earnest. Strong. Patient. I watch his lips- they’re still moving- he’s still guiding me. Good. He hasn’t noticed my body begin liquifying. He continues on, unfazed. Unconcerned. He always did have that humble strength about him. 

I am drawn to those plump lips, to his perfect smile and the void behind them, to the force of his breath over me, and to the very vibration that created them. I am drawn to that body which I would make mine. I wrap his thick arms around me. Those goddamn arms. They pulse and tense in surprise. He finally catches on. “- Hey. What are you doing? What.. What is this?” I pay no mind. A breeze picks up and his scent fills me. I wrap myself in it. Old spice deodorant layered over the pungent, musk of a man. My man. My scent, soon enough. The air was ripe in pheromones. Testosterone. James. I inhale deeply, trying to catch as much of him as I could. His skin is nice, too. It’s a bit damp, a bit hot from the heat, but nice. I feel them stretch taught, struggling to contain the mass of muscle beneath. I draw his shocked embrace even closer, uncomfortably close. I feel him between concern over my melting form and a need to push me away. Works for me. I continue to liquify further. Faster. You will be mine, Coach.

The world stops for a moment- at least for me. Maybe adrenaline, maybe my imagination. I commit this scene to memory, the scene where I become something greater. The scene where the real Coach James is born.

I shoot up his nose and flood his mouth. His body is forced to gorge itself with my mass. With every breath he attempts to draw, he pulls the liquid me instead. He retches, attempting to vomit me out, but I just draw myself further in. Flooding and flooding, I saturate coach with myself. When all but the last of me is a dribbling of slime upon his cheek, I disperse inside him. I drill into his every crevice, swim through his bloodstream, bond with his ever piece. I settle deeper and deeper inside my coach. Until his body no longer recognizes my presence as foreign. Until I am coach. I incubate into him, my pieces dormant. 

Coach James awakes in the grass to the odd sight of a star-filled sky and a cold night breeze. “What the fuck...” he ponders, rubbing his head in confusion. He aches all over, yet he isn’t hungry. He digs into his memory, attempting to piece together the past few hours. I just spent them digesting this afternoon so he would have no success. 

Unclear on the past events, yet unfazed, he walks back to his car and heads home.

———

That first night was magical-for me. As for coach, I’m not quite sure. I am ever present in his dreams. Pleasure, I think, is how I’d describe what being inside James was like. In his dreams, in his deepest thoughts, I lay there to witness them. These were thoughts, these were ideas, these were emotions that only I would be sole witness to, along coach. Ecstasy. This was a piece of him we would share alone. I was like a part of him, and only I would know him fully to this extent. 

In the next few days after the events of that afternoon, Coach appeared a little more vain, a little more irritable. To my teammates he just seemed off. They catch glimpses of him checking himself out. They hear the barely audible moans from his office as he delicately feels his every part. 

“What the fuck was up with coach” They say. Little did they know the real question to ask was ‘what was up’ IN their coach. Little did they know it was the influence of their missing teammate, ingraining himself deeper and deeper into his beloved James.

Despite the changes, my coach resists me. The further I try to bond, the more his body rejects me. It is a 3 day affair. A push and pull. With every push, I gain momentary connection to that bod, only to have that fulfillment ripped from my now non-existent hands. He was a coach, after all. I should have known it would be a battle of wills. Still, there was someone I had that coach didn’t have-yet. My mind. I had a cleverness match-made for that hot bod. A cleverness he deserved. A cleverness that I would utilize to the fullest to make that match a reality. Coach was a happy, content man. I was not. He needed my ambition, my cleverness, my lust. That body deserved better.

I let up the assault on his mind. He feels himself winning, backing my parts into a corner. It’s here where I apologize profusely inside him. He accepts because, James was the kind of guy to pick someone up when they’re down. He accepts my apology foolishly as we decide upon the best way I may leave him. A chance. We decide to do so in the privacy of his home- for my sake, of course. Little did he know, I felt his resistance weakest there. He readies himself for my exit, relaxing so I may flow out of him. I ready myself for one final push. It was in that moment that I surround coach with my psyche, encapsulate his very soul.

 Coach James wakes up making an odd face his body has never made. It was a lustful, sinful grin. It was my grin. I start chuckling. My voice is deep, booming. We moan together as my dormant parts stir. We moan as it starts convulsing. The shaking was harsh. I puppet this body still and eager to accept more of me. It takes some resistance but it finally yields. Nothing good comes easy, after all. I stick my parts take their rightful places. Those bulging, slick arms? Mine. Powerful, vascular legs? Also mine. That thick, veiny cock? Fucking. Mine. I feel them inside me- I alight as his energy becomes mine. We tickle. We feel great. At long last, this body was mine. 

No. Further. I want everything he ever is, ever was. James was gonna give me that. I wanted permanence. No one would ever tear us apart. I decide on his soul. I decide on becoming that as well. I string his soul up, prisoner in its own body, unable to do much of anything until transformed by the poison of my very being. In the meantime, I pleasure my new self to grant him a taste of what we could have, what we could be, once he yielded. I use those thick python arms as my own. I gingerly trace my a newly muscular inner thigh. I shiver in delight. Fuck. We were sensitive. Who knew?

I stare at myself in the mirror. Oh god, oh god this was real, he was truly mine. “Here’s how to use this bod correctly” I mock in that gentle, instructive tone he had. I rush up to the mirror and start making out with myself. It’s cold. It warms up as I continue to lap at it with my tongue, as I continue to smear with these new plump lips of mine. “Fuck yeah, that’s the stuff, coach” I moan as him. The room is humid, dripping with pheromone, hot from the heat I am emanating in wearing my beloved coach. I touch my new dick for the first time, feeling his soul rile up. I feel his teaching sensibilities corrupt with my desire. As any good coach knows, never let them have a chance to fight back. Before he has a chance to react to my newfound control or my actions, I pump quickly, determinedly. Yeah. Yeah. Fuck. Yeah. Coach’s body was fucking hot. This was a fucking dream- Oh My god. “Oh. Oh. oh” Our moans ring like music to my new ears. And in that final resonance, I release with only one thought: “I’m Coach James”. His hand shakes in resistance. This was it. I force the hand still. Command it. It was my hand after-all. I scoop our cum in my hand. I give my hot new reflection a playful wink. “Bottoms up” I say to us both. Sweet Nectar. My Nectar. With every taste and of his own milk, he perverts own senses, dilutes his very self. He has obviously never tasted himself to this capacity- because I finally feel his soul reflexively bond to mine. He tries to pull back. Like I’d let him. I greedily keep us tethered together. Then, he relents. There’s my James. 

When he finally yields I feel his memories, his feelings, hopes open up. I take them all. Distort them. I take all of him into me, meld them with myself until we were but one soul. They were me, now. My memories, sure. My senses. My feelings- fuck yeah, but inundated, saturated with my lust. Hopes- not a fucking chance. My hopes and dreams for this body are far greater. Coach James was greater that that. I was greater than that. I am the James the world deserves. 

I am left panting by the end of it. Ecstasy reverberates. It’s all me in here, baby. My coach- I was reborn. Tears stream down my cheeks. “Call me James” I say with newfound truth and intent. That name came naturally to me. I was fully him, after all.

———

‘New James’ is fucking kinky. Dirty. Narcissistic. As much as I love bossing around the kids, I love playing with myself even more. I got some great parts. Look at this fucking bicep. Teaching? Fuck that. Fuck the team. New James is ripe with ambition and power. “James Harrison got better fucking things to do that teach some stupid fucking kids,” I spit in the mirror as caress myself. Yeah. This bod’s a fucking power trip. So much more New James can do with his time. 

“New” might be a bit of a misnomer. I am James, in body mind and soul. I am James, in past-present and future. All he ever was? All he ever will be? Me. I am James, forever. And I aint no fucking coach.

-End-

Just a quick one.

[mithrilwren]

I really, really wanted to contribute something to Essek Week​, but unfortunately with two essays and a novel chapter due by Monday, I didn’t have the time or mental energy to write anything new. Cue me remembering that I’d actually started working on an Essek-centric shadowgast Pirate!AU last summer, that never saw the light of day! Though I did a whole bunch of research for it, summer ended before I could get farther than the first couple chapters. Still, I’m very fond of the premise, and I’d like to finish it one day. I can’t guarantee I will (life’s too busy to commit myself to another Big Fic Project atm) but in the meantime, here’s a little taste in the form of the first chapter.

-------------------

For @essek-week Day 7: AU

Courts of Silk (Chapter 1)

Essek startled from his trance to the crackle of blistering thunder overhead.

Mind bled of all drowsiness in an instant, he unfolded his legs and slid off the berth, drifting to the center of the room and tilting his ear towards the boards above. 

A storm…  but the skies were meant to be clear for days, and he trusted Avus to know it. Could the weather have turned so–

Boom.

Essek’s eyebrows flew up as the deck visibly lurched below his feet. 

Not thunder.

Cannon fire.

More sounds now, hurried ones – an erratic tempo of feet pounding through the corridor outside his little room, the floorboards creaking dully under the weight of the crew scrambling over the deck above. He flinched as a louder noise pierced through the commotion: the rattling of a heavy fist falling against the door of his cabin, hard enough to shake the wooden frame. 

“We’ve been boarded!” Zel’ra’s guttural shout startled him out of his confused stupor, and he flew to the door and flung it open. The quartermaster stood outside, her snarling jaw dripping with whitish battle foam, the kind that bugbears of Rosohna so seldom have occasion to sport within city walls. “Come on, magic boy, time for you to earn your– Shit!”

Then she was gone, and Essek was left staring dumbly at the empty corridor, as Zel’ra raced back the way she came. A moment later, there was a yelp, and the grisly crack of metal hitting bone. Then there was no sound at all, save the rocking of the ocean’s pulse against the hull, and the thump of confident, unfamiliar footsteps, coming closer and closer to his open door.

He had only a few moments to make his decision. The fight might still be going on above deck, but if intruders had already made it below, there was little hope of a favorable outcome for the crew of the Barren Bow. He hadn’t thought the Empire would be brazen enough to attack a diplomatic ship in open waters, but there were soldiers of all ilks on the open sea, and no government to hold them to account so far from land. He would not put it past a Dwendalian crew to sight a Dynasty flag on the horizon and decide to take the matter of revenge in their own hands. If so, there was no telling what treatment they might expect at the hands of their attackers. Rage was rarely tamed by abstract rules of engagement, and he doubted anyone would care to ask what the nature of their mission was, once the killing began.

But perhaps…

Quickly, Essek drew aside his sleeve and materialized the leather–bound contents of his wristpocket into his hands. His spellbook lay beside precious components in their embroidered fold, and there, at the bottom of the pile: the folio. He whispered a quiet word and the paper folded apart, revealing its damning – and perhaps, in the right hands, lifesaving – contents. 

The letters. 

If the tides were so unfavorable that he could not fight, perhaps that might be enough to–

He vanished the whole affair back into the ether as two shadows fell across the door. 

From the darkness of the hallway, two figures stepped over the threshold. In front was a young woman: human, with swarthy skin made darker still by the weathering burn of long days at sea. Her hands were tucked beneath bare arms and her hip turned out to an unconcerned jaunt, adorned by a sash of deep blue. Behind her, and looming so tall that she had to hunch to fit through the frame of the door, was a giant of a woman. Taller even than Zel’ra, her bare shoulders glistening with rippling muscles and sweat, pale as moonlight – or as the steely glint of the broadsword at her back. The younger woman swept him over with piercing eyes, her confident grin not quite masking the focused gaze beneath. Though she bore no weapons, Essek could feel the stain of threat in every taut sinew of her body. He held still, waiting to see who would make the first move.

Her eyes finally paused, centered on the floor beneath his feet, and her grin dropped into something more like a startled ‘oh’. Too late, he realized his mistake – that his levitation, as natural and instinctive as standing on his own two feet, had just given him away. 

“Mage!” she sputtered, and her hand was gripping his arm and twisting it behind his back before he even realized she’d moved. Essek dropped the levitation spell, hoping to get enough leverage from the sudden height difference to slip out of her grasp, but before he could so much as shuffle to the left, the taller woman was at his right, clutching his other arm with a grip strong enough to break bone. 

“Shit,” the first woman spat as she stepped back, allowing the second to take both of his arms into custody. “Who the fuck did we just board?”

Essek kept silent, staring at her, searching for any sign of weakness and finding less than nothing. If he had just had his hands free for a moment longer… but that didn’t matter now. There weren’t many spells without a somatic component at his disposal, and cantrips wouldn’t save his neck, should the giantess move quicker to snap it than he could speak. 

Without a means of immediate escape, he looked next for any way to identify his captors. They were human, but their loose, subdued dress – for the younger woman, a vest of blue cotton, the other, a braided grey tunic, and frayed ribbons in both their hair – was nothing like the silver and crimson finery of the Righteous Brand. 

If not from the Empire, who were these people? Hired thugs? Mercenaries?

“Are there more of you skulking down here?” 

He didn’t ask the woman to clarify, though he wasn’t sure exactly what she was asking. More drow? Yes, but he was not about to reveal the nature of the delegation travelling under his protection to her. More mages? No. As always, he had convinced the Bright Queen that his effort alone would be sufficient. For the first time in a very long time, he wished he’d been a little more conservative in estimating his own skills. Given the current situation, someone else’s power at his back might actually be welcome, rather than distracting. 

Her burning gaze made it clear that he had to say something, and soon, but for once, the right words did not come. The truth did not matter: he knew that any unfavorable answer would be taken as a lie.

Still, Essek would not panic. The only way to regain control of the situation was by carefully gathering information, finding something that he could use to shift the balance of power at a more advantageous moment. That was his particular specialty. 

“I do not know,” he answered coolly. “For I do not know who is above and below deck at all hours of the day. I can only speak for myself.”

“Beau! Fjor– fuck– Captain Tusktooth wants you on deck!” A new voice, its timbre high and grating, like glass against cold iron, echoed from around the corner. The woman – Beau, he filed away – turned her head and shouted back out the door. 

“Just a second, we’ve got one more!” Then, “Tell him to get Caleb over here, we’ve got a goddamn mage to deal with!” 

The giantess at his back leaned down, so close that her dreaded locks nestled amidst the silver chains that hung from tip to base of his pointed ear. “You aren’t going to give us any trouble, are you?” she murmured, and despite every ounce of training he’d undergone for exactly this sort of intimidation, he still couldn’t help the way he shivered at her dark tone. There was a deep quality to her voice that sung of violence, for violence’s sake, and though he wasn’t yet truly afraid, he had no wish to provoke her.

“How could I?” Essek gently flexed his arms in her grasp: not enough to challenge, but enough to reassure her of his helplessness.

Her lips curled back, and… yes. There was a little fear gathering there, in the back of his throat. A good kind of fear – the prudent kind. It would keep him alert, and focused, and ready to strike back when the moment was right. 

When she started pushing him forward, he followed her lead willingly, and the two of them shadowed Beau into the corridor and up the steps that led back above deck. Essek winced as the bright noonday sun slipped into view, already anticipating the stinging burn that was sure to follow. He’d managed to avoid the deck for most of the voyage, much to the chagrin of the Assarian crew. He was not born into a body made for manning rigging, and certainly not under an unrepentant sky determined to scorch his face and hands and neck and leave him itching and miserable for days without relief. His better use was below deck, planning for the engagement ahead, and his hours of fresh air better taken in the evening, when the gentler light of the moons was merely a prickle beneath his skin, rather than a flame. 

Everywhere he looked, he saw mismatched bodies. Though Essek hadn’t met the entire complement of the Barren Bow’s crew, he had to assume most of the scattered orcs, goblins, and bugbears belonged to their side. Most of the ones on their feet were being held in the shallow recess at the centre of the deck, where great cannons might have been lodged on a more modern ship. A handful of unremarkable humans, each equipped with a rapier – or, in one man’s case, a salt-encrusted retort – stood above them, keeping watch. Amidst all that humanity stood a wild–eyed goblin in a blaring yellow dress, hefting a crossbow composed of whirring gears and levers of an intricate make that rivaled Waccoh’s own craftsmanship. She was currently in the process of shouting threats down across the heads of his cowed compatriots. Some were clutching broken arms or wiping blood from contusions and burnt welts. Lying at the center of the group was an unconscious Zel’ra, the goose egg at the back of her skull already angry and red. 

Finally, he spied the remainder of the drow contingent clustered by the ship’s rail. Diplomats, all of them, bound for a parley at sea and not trained for conflict beyond what it took to hold a dagger right-way up. He was the only one among them battle-tested, and even then, his means leaned more towards subterfuge than outright combat. Theoretically, the Assarian crew was meant to be their main line of defence in case of attack. Clearly they had not proven up to the task. 

Essek would be filing a very unfavorable report with their commanders upon his return, if any of them survived the day. 

“Captain!” Beau shouted, and a tall half-orc stepped away from the railing, his wide-brimmed hat only partially disguising the many scars that littered his face. 

“Weather’s turning,” he said, casting his eyes towards the – as far as Essek could tell – clear horizon. Those same yellow eyes flickered up, above Essek’s head, and for a moment seemed to narrow before turning back to Beau. “You finished clearing the hold yet?”

“Didn’t make it that far.” Beau jerked her head, and Essek was thrust into the sunlight all at once. The glare was blinding, and apparently not just to him. The giantess’s hands jerked around his arms, like they wanted to fly up and shield her eyes as well. That was all the opportunity he needed. 

With one quick motion, he jerked his arms from her grasp and drew his hands together, tracing familiar glyphs out of nothing but muscle memory as his mouth uttered an incantation, and the world exploded around him. The giantess was flung back against the doorframe, wood splintering beneath her weight, and both Beau and the half-orc slammed into the deck and began to hurtle towards the side of the boat. Forcing his eyes to stay focused amidst the chaos and the harsh light, Essek caught the glitter of a cutlass skittering along the boards as he took stock of his position on the newly reborn battlefield.

Nearly all of the boarders were in a concentrated area in front of him, and the rest of the Assarian crew were protected by the lip of the recess in the deck. The terrain could not be more advantageous. Essek allowed himself a small smirk as he raised his hand and prepared a vacuum blast that would level the whole of the upper deck, and deliver them all to safety in one swift stroke. 

How arrogant, that this petty group of mercenaries thought they could capture–

“Counterspell.”

The magic sizzled and died in his hand, and Essek whirled, searching for whoever had spoken behind him. Thugs he could handle, but it was always best to deal with a mage first, when they could do such infuriating things as what had just occurred. But once he turned, he found himself facing an empty doorway, and an empty deck above that. No trace of whoever had cast the counterspell. 

The giantess was gone as well.

He heard the click before he could parse what cold and heavy thing was tugging on his wrist, but he was horribly aware of what was happening by the time his other wrist was wrenched behind his back and small hands clasped the second iron band shut. A stomach-churning wave of exhaustion passed through him from scalp to toe, and he staggered, only barely holding on to consciousness. Head lolling towards the floor, he saw two soft-soled boots landing lightly on the deck in front of him.

With great effort, he managed to drag his head up from his chest, and found himself staring into blue eyes and dusty freckles, lips pressed into a thin line, all framed by tangles of copper-red hair. 

“Good work, Nott,” the man said. His accent was one Essek had only heard once before, though through the mire of exhaustion he could not remember where.

Behind Essek, the half-orc groaned and pushed himself up off the deck. “Next time you have a brilliant plan for subduing the prisoner, maybe let’s try not putting us all in the line of fire, hm?” 

The man ignored the sarcasm, still looking all too carefully at Essek.

“Are you finished?” he murmured, and though his body was lithe, his soft voice sung of as much violence as the giantess’s darker growl. 

With a sigh, Essek let his shoulders drop. He could still feel the pulses of magic coursing through the iron bands around his wrists. Even if he got his arms free again, the cuffs would not be easily slipped, or broken. These people, whoever they were, came equipped to handle wizards like himself. Was that what they were, then? Assassins in disguise? Privateers? The blunt instrument of some government or another?

Not that it made much difference now. Whoever they were, he was at their mercy. 

“Spin him around.”

Essek felt himself being maneuvered away from the man’s incisive gaze. Through bleary eyes he caught the looks of frustrated disbelief from the four drow delegates, lamenting their crushed hope in silent, huddled unity. He was meant to be their protection. Now that Essek was taken, what else could save them? Not one of them was brave enough to attempt it themselves. A shiver of disgust ran through Essek, as heady as the self-recrimination it concealed at having allowed himself to be captured so easily.

The half-orc strode up to Essek, the sword in his hand now replaced, though Essek hadn’t seen the man move to retrieve it. It was a silver cutlass, fine enough to cleave a person clean through and leave one half still propped up on the other. Too rich a prize by far for a simple mercenary – he must have come by it dishonestly, or been given it as boon or bribe. Neither prospect boded well. 

The hand that gripped the sword told an equally foreboding story, for only the thumb was composed of green flesh. The rest of the fingers were severed at the third knuckle, and replaced by metal imitations fixed to the wrist by a harness of leather cords. Still, he held the hilt with all the confidence of a trained fighter, and the surety of his grasp left Essek little doubt as to its effectiveness, mechanical augmentation or no.

“My name,” said the half-orc, “is Captain Tusktooth.” A hint of bright teeth flashed from below the wide brim of the hat. “And this ship is mine now. Its cargo, mine too.”

The answer about the identity of his captors, at last, became clear, for what little good it did him.

Pirates.

“By whose authority?” Essek shot a harsh look at the foolish dignitary who had chosen this moment to find their courage, but Tusktooth only grinned harder.

“By my own.” Behind Essek’s back, Nott and Beau slipped back through the splintered doorframe and down into the depths of the ship once more. “Now, my crew is going to finish taking a look through your cargo. I trust that your captain has been honest about the contents of your hold. Are there any other surprises I should be warning my people of? Anybody else looking to make trouble?”

Would that there were. “You will find little of value to take. We travelled light.” He spoke the truth, having no more useful lie at his disposal. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and another wave of exhaustion teased at the edges of his mind. He fought it with all the strength he had – which was growing less and less by the minute.

“So your captain told me. But that wasn’t my question.” Tusktooth’s voice grew as keen as the blade in his hand as he lifted it and placed the edge to the shallow of Essek’s throat. “Are there others like you aboard?”

He did not flinch. Torment and torture were old friends: his own cherished instruments. He did not fear what this man would do to him, any more than he feared death itself. At least, that is what he told his errant heart, as sweat began to bead at the nape of his neck.

“No.”

Tusktooth stared him down for a minute longer, and Essek held his gaze as best he could with the sun still searing his eyes. But at last, the sword withdrew, and Essek’s breath came a little easier. “Then let’s call this an exercise in… mutual trust.” He smiled once more, and Essek returned the expression with a vague twitch of lips.

The tense exchange was followed by ten excruciating minutes of silence, during which Essek did his best not to fidget in his heavy robes, even when his exposed skin grew so heated he felt liable to burst into flames. As they waited, the redheaded man pulled Tusktooth aside for a private conversation, and Essek sweated, and watched, and tried to formulate a plan.

The pirates would find nothing of value to steal. The Barren Bow had provisions for the voyage, but anything else aboard was the purview of the Assarian crew, who had planned to head back towards the shores of Igrathad as soon as the parley concluded. There were no scheduled stops for trade, and thus, no trade goods in their hold. There weren’t even guns to offer. Essek would never dare to admit it aloud, but the Dynasty lagged sorely behind the rest of Wildemount in outfitting its fleet with the relatively new technology of cannonry, at least of the type that lacked a magical component. Firearms had only entered the sphere of weaponmaking some thirty years prior, and with Xhorhas primarily landlocked, the navy hadn’t been high on the priority list for refurbishment. 

His best hope was that some of the crew had hidden stashes of coin in their quarters. Otherwise, there would be nothing for the pirates to take, and without anything to satisfy them, well… he did not want to be in manacles when that news was delivered to a man who’d already put a sword to his throat. 

If only to convince himself he was not totally beaten yet, Essek watched Tusktooth and the redhead carefully, seeing what he could glean from body language alone. Their conversation was hushed but tense, and every few moments the redhead would turn his eyes towards the drow delegation, and then to Essek himself. He made sure to drop his own eyes before they could meet again, not wanting to spark another confrontation by appearing insolent. As for the pirate captain… there was confidence, yes, but the unwavering edge of confidence seemed to drop away from his shoulders as he spoke to the other man. His arms moved more wildly; his words were more rapid, and at a higher pitch. Perhaps his earlier confidence was not so unshakeable as it at first appeared.

At last, Beau and the goblin re-emerged from the staircase. “We got shit all,” Beau said, tossing down a half-empty sack by Essek’s feet. He winced as a few bruised tubers rolled out across the warped deck.

“...Shit.” Tusktooth ran a hand over his mouth. “Shit. Nothing?”

“Nott and I checked every inch of that hold, the crew quarters, everything. No money, no timber, no – fuck, I don’t know – fine silks or–”

“No cannons,” Nott added mournfully. “No black powder.”

“We went through all this for nothing?”

“Maybe someone’s holding out on us,” Nott said, brandishing her crossbow. “I could make ‘em talk for you, Captain. Make them squeal–”

“Oh–kay, Nott,” Tusktooth said, “let’s take it down a notch.” But despite his placating tone, his look was thoughtful. Again, he turned to Essek. “You never never did say what you all were doing out here, so far from home. You don’t look like a sailor to me.”

“Yes, friend,” said the redhead, stepping up to Essek from Tusktooth’s other side, alarmingly calm, and placing altogether too much emphasis on the second word to be trusted, “what is it you do here?” Essek took a half-step back, not liking the feeling of being pressed in from all angles, and walked himself straight into the chest of the giantess. 

Nowhere to hide. And with his hands bound behind his back, no way to levitate up to a level where he didn’t feel every inch of height his captors had over him. Which, at his firmly average height for a drow, was many.

Focus, Thelyss. Focus.

“Why should I answer your questions,” he sneered, “when you have not done me the same courtesy? Who are you, to board a vessel commissioned lawfully by the Bright Queen herself?” It was a dangerous ploy, but a considered one – a hastily calculated risk. If the pirates could not be convinced there was nothing of value to be found, they might decide to punish the crew for concealing their rightful prize, and when even a beating couldn’t drive his compatriots to forfeit non-existent gold, the pirates might well scuttle the ship and leave them all to drown at sea. He doubted simple brigands would care much for the particulars of a diplomatic mission if there was no treasure involved, so there was little harm in broaching a subject that might be far more dangerous to discuss with more educated captors.

But apparently, some aspect of Essek’s logic had failed him again, because the redhead immediately shot a wide-eyed look at Tusktooth, before looking back to Essek. “The Bright Queen?”

Essek gave a little bow. His head swam as he dipped back up – the handcuffs, no doubt, though it could just as easily be the beginnings of heatstroke – and he had to swallow twice to find the fortitude to speak without slurring. “Essek Thelyss, Shadowhand of the Kryn Dynasty and ambassador of the realm.” The last part was an… embellishment, and if he chanced a glance over at the true ambassadors, he imagined there would be many offended looks. But thankfully, all attention was solely focused on him. “I assure you, you won’t find the prize you’re looking for on a diplomatic vessel, gentleman. Your friends have already given you proof – we carry nothing beyond our own provision. Unless you have a particular taste for the delicacies of Xhorhasian fashion, I’m afraid we have little to offer you.”

Nott snarled, but the redhead put up a hand. “Captain,” he said slowly, looking at Tusktooth. “Might I… make a suggestion?” 

“You may.”

“It’s not something I’d usually propose, but times being what they are…” Tusktooth nodded grimly.

“We haven’t got many options left.”

“Precisely. I believe that our friend Mr. Thelyss here has lied to us.” He could laugh for the irony of it all; this was the most truthful Essek had been in years. “There is indeed something very valuable aboard this ship.” His blue eyes pierced through Essek, and it was only his determination to keep the – now violently pitching – contents of his stomach where they belonged, that stopped him from speaking up in his own defense.

“And that is...?”

“Himself.”

[theseancekid]

GET TO KNOW YOUR WRITING PARTNER! (repost, don’t reblog!)

NAME? Ash

PRONOUNS? She/her

PREFERENCE OF COMMUNICATION? literally whatever lmao! im’s, discord, messenger pigeon, you name it

NAME OF MUSES? Klaus (and also Louis de Pointe du Lac at @sangcreole!)

EXPERIENCE / HOW LONG? I think 11 years now?? I first started during my freshman year of high school...so y’all can do the math lmao

BEST EXPERIENCE? Oh gosh, there are so many, I’ve met so many lovely people through tumblr rp!! I think one of the highlights was meeting a friend through my Louis blog, who then asked me to start a Vampire Chronicles podcast that kind of blew up, so that was really wild?? The vampire chronicles rpc really popped off in like 2017-2019 so that was really fun to like have a podcast that people actually listened to, and then have people follow my blog and send in questions. 

RP PET PEEVES? I don’t think I have any real pet peeves...I mean, I think the biggest thing that makes it harder for me to write with people is if we have a thread together and my partner doesn’t do anything to forward the plot. Like, I know sometimes in fluffier plots, there’s not much to move forward, but if i’m having to carry the entire conversation then it doesn’t feel like there’s much point to the thread y’know?

MUSE PREFERENCES FOR ANGST / FLUFF / SMUT? I think all 3 have their merits! I tend to gravitate towards angst just because...klaus has A LOT of baggage to unpack and he’s one of those characters who is always teetering on the edge, always just shy of falling apart, so there’s a lot of fun tension to play around with there. Fluff threads are sometimes harder if there’s nothing propelling the plot forward but listen Klaus deserves so much love and i want to give that to him. in fact, a lot of my fluff threads end up turning angsty, or vice versa, because klaus just doesn’t know how to be loved or how to be soft, so it’s really great to explore that. and as for smut...i mean, it’s kind of a given with klaus that things will get a bit naughty LOL. i’m not a huge fan of writing extremely gratuitous threads unless there’s like...an emotional or dramatic tie-in, if that makes sense. like, i don’t like just writing sex for the sake of sex, but i like the weird, funny, angsty, intimate emotions surrounding it. i really LOVE exploring characters’ relationships with intimacy, so yes, this blog will occasionally get smutty

PLOTS OR MEMES? oh my god, MEMES PLEASE lmfao i’m so bad at plotting!!! my social energy is extremely limited and while I love gushing about klaus, it’s hard for me to like commit to things and plan things out. I definitely prefer memes because they give me a general direction, but also give me the freedom to completely improvise.

LONG OR SHORT REPLIES? I have a hard time limiting myself with short replies lmao listen klaus is an agent of chaos so i feel like all my replies kind of go off the rails with him. there’s nothing wrong with short replies but like...i will gladly take all the content i can get with my rp partners!!! i swear, y’all are so talented, you could write me a novel and i would obsess over every single word.

BEST TIME TO WRITE? deadass i’ve conditioned myself so that i physically CANNOT write any earlier than 11pm. i’m usually lurking on this blog in the evening, but the actual writing doesn’t get done until 11pm-1am lmao

ARE YOU LIKE YOUR MUSE? I used to think Klaus and I were total opposites just on the basis that he’s an absolute extrovert party animal and i am a textbook introvert nerd, but there are definitely a lot of similarities between us. On a surface level, my wardrobe isn’t all that different from Klaus’— I wear skinny jeans and converse sneakers every goddamn day of my life and I would absolutely wear crop tops if it was work appropriate LOL. But beyond that, I think we both have a deeply sensitive nature. I am...too empathetic for my own good, but I’m also extremely good at hiding my emotions when I want to (god, I’m the most Gemini gemini you’ll ever meet) so I’ll always relate to that side of Klaus lmao

Tagged by: the lovely @tempportal Tagging: @littleshcp @downpaths @murdcck @nofinalgirl @fightknife

[cryinginthebackseat]

you’ve got more poison than sugar - part i

AO3    part ii

Fandom: Call Of Duty 

Pairing: Russell Adler x Bell

Words: 4.009

Summary: Russell Adler should have known better that it wouldn’t take an entire nation or continent to bring him to his knees.

Warnings: just swearings, sexual tension, blood, mentions of past abuse and brainwashing. adler being that manipulative asswipe like usual. 

Author’s note: i don't know what i'm doing. one moment, i was watching the walkthrough of the new call of duty game, found myself curious, acutely curious by that guy with the scars and shades on- a younger, shadier (no pun intended) Robert Redford in Spy Game and oh my... fast forward to 2 weeks later, here we are.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A house somewhere on foreign soil,

Where ageless lovers call,

Is this your goal, your final needs,

Where dogs and vultures eat,

Committed still I turn to go.

I put my trust in you.

A Means To An End - Joy Division (1980)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It's mystifying how little she talks. Or when she does, it's always in fragments. Like a crossword puzzle in your local newspaper, but several letters are missing. He initially thought maybe MK-Ultra fucked her head or worse, if it hasn't worked at all, but the more he watches her, the more he realizes it's just the way she is. And it's ironic because he named her Bell. He expected her to chime like a goddamn goldfinch yet here they are. 

But he won't be fazed. Russell Adler is a man who's stopped at nothing in getting what he wanted before, he sure as hell won't stop now for a close-mouthed science project.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“We've got a job to do, Bell."

It intrigues him, every time, the way the words trigger something deep within her psyche, the way her eyes change, her body stands a little straighter, like a machine ready to function at his disposal. It reminds Adler of one of those cartoons he watched when he was a kid about wizards and magic words, except there are no musical dance numbers playing in the background or a talking cricket perching on his shoulder. This is his power over her, over the USSR, over Perseus. That monstrous filth. It really does take a beast to tame another. 

Although he surmises calling Bell one would be superfluous. 

She barely looks like one, but Adler knows too well than to underestimate her. Just because Bell hasn’t shown her set of claws, that doesn’t mean she’s harmless, delicate, like a miniature China Doll in his breast pocket.

Bell never offered him her reply before, but now, now, she nods, head almost bows, obedient pretty thing, and says:

“Yes, Adler.”

So it goes.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It takes West Berlin for Adler to realize she’s left-handed. 

She wears her watch on her right hand, smokes with that same said hand only when she’s writing or moving her pieces for an impromptu late-night game of chess against Lazar. And she always wears her gloves all the time- leather, black, lined with silk and pretty, small buttons on the cuffs, covering those striking red nails underneath. Whether it is for the theatrics or an old habit of hers, he can't really tell.

He doesn’t know why he begins to take notice of these mundane details about Bell, but rationalizes because he’s never been in the same room with this version of her, post-brainwash Bell, for more than 10 minutes. And for all intents and purposes, there’s still a lot of question marks surrounding her character; who is she? Where did she come from? What is her connection to Perseus? 

Are they in a possession of a walking, breathing bomb about to destroy them all or the West’s only salvation?

He supposes he’ll find out soon enough.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Adler hears Bell from his table, typing busy on the computer- barely blinking- all soaked up in that caffeine-infused energy at 1 am. She's always like that, he learns, when it comes to working, always with that steel determination, pulling out all the stops as long as it gets the job done- that Soviet discipline at it's finest.

Reminds him a little of himself when he's young.

Adler walks up to her. 

“You done for the night?” A shake of her head is her only response. He sighs. “You should go home, Bell.” 

“You go. I’ll lock up behind you,” Bell replies, low and monotone; that youthful stubborn.

If she was any other person, he would probably commend her for such fierce willpower, but she is Bell, the walking conundrum, his ace in the hole. Call him paranoid, but the idea of her having the safehouse for herself does nothing but raises every alarm in his head.

“No, we’re going home,” he says instead, tone brooking no argument and she frowns at the screen, her fingers stop moving then looks up at him with those goddamn empty eyes. "Come on, it's late anyway."

She doesn't say anything. Adler wishes he could read her mind- or crack that lovely skull on the back of her head, dissect her brain, learn its secrets and answers. 

Adler has his gun with him. It wouldn’t take long. A quick, true shot to the heart to keep the brain intact. He’d have Hudson contact one of his people inside BND and he'd deliver the brain himself if he has to. They could do it. He heard they’ve been studying inmates' brains for decades now, anyway. 

Before he has a chance to entertain the idea further, though, Bell nods once and rises up from her seat. 

Bell walks past him. Her scent, like honeysuckle on ice, hits him like an uppercut in the face. Adler inhales, as if against his will. 

He thinks he could get drunk on it.

“Hop in. I’ll drive you back to the hotel,” he says once they’re outside, regretting the decision the moment the words left his lips, but he knows he can’t just leave her on her own at this late hour.

The irony isn’t lost on him, though, considering he just thought about unspooling her brain a few minutes ago.

Bell complies without a protest. Getting inside the passenger seat, wordless still, fingers toying with the radio. An angry, krautrock music comes blaring all over his car. Adler winces, but at least the riot is loud enough to muffle the one's brewing in his head. 

"How's your memory these days?" 

Bell shrugs. "Nihil novi sub sole." There's nothing new under the sun.

Good, he muses. The least she knows about herself the better.

Though that doesn't mean he's out of the woods yet.

"Listen, from now on, I want you to keep me informed if there's any new progress about your memory or if you've developed any new symptoms. I want to know everything." He steals a sidelong glance at her, making sure she is listening (she always does, but Adler needs an excuse)

(An excuse for what?)

"Alright, Bell?"

"Of course," replies the woman in question.

"Good." Adler shifts his attention back to the road. "Good." Taking a long drag, he considers trying to appeal to her sentimental side. It's not something you'd improvise last minute- at least not with someone you brainwashed to believe you are her mentor/confidant for the past decade, but he's itching to know where he stands with her.

"You know, I'm just tryin' to look out for you, kid."

Her lips twitch but the rest of her visage remains impassive and faraway, more like a flick knife than a woman. The correlation is uncanny.

That's when she inches closer. The space between them bridged. He freezes. Hyper-aware of just how dangerous this is, but can’t bring himself to pull back, to look the other way. Not when her hand reaches out to pluck the cigarette from his mouth, eyes still glued to his, and curls her lips around the filter. One heavy pull, and then she rolls down the window and tosses it out on the side of the road.

"Thought I'd reciprocate the sentiment."

And with that, she leans back in her seat before Adler could even process what has just transpired.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Welcome back to the land of the living, kid,” Adler greeted her, about a month ago. 

Park had insisted that he had to be there for her when she woke up (naturally, Adler had balked at the idea, but at the English woman’s fact-of-the-matter explanation, also because it had somewhat dawned on him last minute the logic behind her machinations- “both of you are supposed to have known each other for years now. If she doesn't see you by her side, she’s going to wonder why”- thus, here he was)

“How are you feeling?” 

Bell blinked owlishly and stared at the older man with those bottomless, cat-like eyes that had haunted him since January.

Her gaze eventually softened as recognition flickered across her face.

“Like someone just hit me in the chest with a bulldozer,” she said hoarsely. “Where are we?”

“St. Dismas’ hospital, Pittsburgh.” Adler got up and fetched her a glass of water from the table. “Although not a bulldozer, but bullets did. That, and you hit your head really hard on your way down. Thought we’d lost you there, Bell.”

Bell drank in silence. She’s still watching him, thinking. This was the first time he realized that he couldn’t exactly read her expression and somehow that threw him off.

“What happened?” she asked, one hand mid-air, like she was deciding which to touch first, hesitating and abandoned the idea. 

“You don’t remember?” She shook her head. Adler pretended to look remotely distressed about it. “The doctors warned me about this. It must have been because of the fall- heck, I could even still hear that sickening crunch from here.” He dragged his chair closer towards her bed.

“We were in Amsterdam. Remember Fohler?” she shook her head again. “Well, we’d been tracking this son of a bitch for months, but we were chasing him in Amsterdam. He was running away and climbed up some scaffolding. You were about to go up after him,” he recited the fabricated story he, Park and Hudson had crafted. “He shot you and you fell and hit your head against the pavement.”

Bell looked away first, silent. Her hand gingerly touched the back of her head and winced, albeit only slightly. 

Adler was almost impressed, if not, disarmed by how calm and composed her reaction was to all of this. But then again, after having had witnessed first-hand how the woman barely flinched under any kind of interrogation technique they threw at her- a personality built for wrestling tigers- he really shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Bell, what is the last thing you remember?”

Bell frowned. “Not much. I remember ‘Nam, but-”

“Vietnam? Kid, that was thirteen years ago.” Adler watched the way her throat bopped, like she was swallowing her own blood and the color drained from her face, just like the first time he’d seen her, and proceeded to drop the bomb:

“Bell, the year is 1981.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

"Bell dear, would you mind taking a look at this?" 

Park's voice sails from across the room. She says it like it's a compound word: Bell-dear. Like the two words belong together. Bell-dear. 2 syllables, 1 word, 9 characters and that just might be the weirdest thing he hears this year and he heard many things.

"Bell dear?" Adler asks much later, his gravel-and-smoke voice reduced to a whisper, when she delivers a document to his table.

Park shrugs as if that explains everything. "What? I like her." 

He's tempted to say you really can't put a term of endearment and someone you brainwashed into submission in the same sentence, but what else is new?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

They wind up in a bar. It’s called Die Stube and the place’s brimmed with artists and all sorts of leather-clad, Bowie-esque dramatic, chromatic blue eyelids young people chattering over a dirty cloud of smoke.

The two of them colonize a lone booth in the back. It’s dark and the quietest. She orders a beer and he, a scotch and they drink in silence. There are moments where her head would twist to the side, as subtle as a needle and survey the phantasmagorical scene before them, like studying something from a petri dish. 

While he’s watching her.

Only to tear his gaze away to the nearest object he can find.

It lands on his watch.

"It’s almost ten. Hudson's contact should be here soon," he announces, if anything to distract himself. She nods mutely in reply, as always, and runs a finger around the rim of her glass.

"The place ain't much of your scene?" 

She shrugs, like it's self-evident. "I didn't know this was a scene, though."

"Well, that’s West Berlin for you. A worry-free playground for the hedonists, hipsters and proto-electro NDW enthusiasts with drugs on tap," Adler says, sipping his drink in practiced nonchalance. "Always makes my head spin."

"I guess I remember it differently," Bell replies, tinged with something akin to begrudging. 

That warrants his full attention. "What do you remember?”

Bell shrugs again and lights a cigarette instead, menthol, one of those long, skinny cigarettes they only market for women; biding her time, making him wait. She lets the smoke flares from her nostrils so her eyes are veiled.

"It’s hard to explain, but I suppose it’s grittier?” she gesticulates, searching for the right word like she’s skim reading the entire Oxford dictionary in her head. “Bizarrely, infinitely grittier and dimmer? Like being in an underground tunnel and there's not much to see."

Interesting. Maybe she’s recalling one of her ops for Perseus or her mind is confusing her with the world on the other side of the wall.

“Maybe you’re remembering one of our clandestine ops here. It was a few years after Vietnam,” Adler supplies, passing over the tale like bait.

She falls for it, hook, line and sinker.

“Ah, I guess that also explains my fluency in German.”

“I taught you that.” It’s only logical, he decides, that she learned from him. She’s supposed to be his protégé after all. 

An elegant brow quirk. "You did?"

"Yeah, though you were already fluent in Latin, Russian, Vietnamese and Portuguese when we first met anyway. You have quite a natural ear, kid.”

She gives him a look. He really can’t categorize it, but it makes it a whole lot harder to fight against her stare.

 “What else did you teach me?” 

If they were anyone else, the lines could have a potential to entice, to seduce, that winsome, catty-eyelashes coquette, but they aren't anyone else and Bell does not voice it like that. Yet the implication behind the question stirs something in the pit of Adler’s stomach anyway, that tight knot of confusion as it is buried with something else and he finds himself, once again, uncharacteristically speechless.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

That particular question of her stays, even hours later, unbidden. Interspersed with her scent and face. 

His emotions are a minefield whenever she’s near now. It evokes that newfound rush of terror within him, like walking on a tightrope or being thrown into the pit to face hundreds of hungry lions, bare hands. It makes Adler questions his every decision, and he can’t have that in his line of work. 

Adler lights his sixth cigarette, contemplating everything, nothing. Anything to distract him from her. It's 4 am and he’s exhausted, but his mind won’t stop whirring. This isn’t like him at all- like he's lost somewhere in a Dali-style labyrinth that is his head and he wonders if this is a byproduct of his fear or fascination or confusion for the young woman.

He fears it is all of them.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

(They're only 10 minutes away from East Berlin when he senses it, something akin to burning on his peripheral vision, pulling him like weight.

Bell is staring at him from across the seat.

He cocks his head slightly to the side.

Adler catches the quick, telling quirk of her lips, like she's about to smile but lights a cigarette instead.)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Did you hear that?”

Krauss has just crossed the wall and their soles are slippery from the rain. She's panting. Her breath is white like a fog. Adler muses it must be from the running, until his iris trails down to where her hand is clutching his jacket sleeve, the leather creasing like a modulation signal.

“What is it?” Adler asks, hushed. There are no Stasis here, but even one can't be too careful.

“The TV.” She’s gaping at the broken TV next to them. Adler looks at the said object, frowning, then back to her. “Y-you didn’t hear it?”

"Heard what? Bell, the thing's dead."

Bell withdraws from him. Stepping back until her back meets the walls, her eyes seeing and unseeing, like a lens finding focus in the dark, then she closes them, as if trying to regulate her breathing. Adler has never seen her scared shitless of anything before. The sight confuses as it intrigues him. 

"Bell, what's going on?" Adler steps closer, but he dares not to touch her. 

She shakes her head, dismissive. In just a span of seconds, Bell dons that mask she likes to wear again; deadpan and frustratingly distant. A spike of annoyance drives through him. Just when he thinks he can get through her, there she goes again, retreating behind her palisades.

"Nothing." Bell turns away abruptly and she’s walking again."Let's just go. The others are waiting for us."

He doesn't pry about whatever she heard on the TV- Adler knows better than to beat a dead horse, thank you very much- not even after they save her from Volkov's clutches, after she bashes his head against the steel door and reeks his blood all the way home, it seems superficial at the time.

Until two days later.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The day starts, as it mostly does for the team, with a briefing. 

Fifteen minutes in and something like a gasp pulls his attention to her. 

That’s when he notices it; her hands are shaking, coffee spilling out of the mug over her hand. A shatter follows. Her mug smashes to smithereens at her feet. She’s swaying, near collapse, like a house of cards about to fall, a hand on her nose.

Adler catches her before she tumbles to the floor.

“Bell!” His arm around her waist tightens, trying to keep her steady. Lazar rushes to their side in a flash and helps him move her to a nearby chair. 

"Jesus Christ," he curses, more to himself than to her as he watches blood, a bead of angry red, trickling down her nose. "Sims, get me a washcloth from the bathroom."

He kneels before her once Sims returns with a damp cloth. Nicotine-stained gloved fingers tentatively grasp her chin, holding her still. 

“Kid, you alright?” Adler asks, worry bleeds into his voice without him realizing it. He firmly presses the cloth under her nose, his other thumb touches the pulse at her throat- it's almost sickly affectionate. “Bell, talk to me."

Bell looks at him, discombobulated, like he's a figment of her imagination, then blinks. Again and again until she heaves a deep breath.

"I-" she hisses. One hand flies up to her head. "Fuck. My head.”

Adler’s eyes immediately search for Park’s. A knowing look passes over her face and he knows without saying that she's thinking the same thing, like they're attached to the same brain-wire:

MK-Ultra.

There’s a fraction of pause, then Lazar asks, "Should we give her something?” 

Before Park can voice her answer, Bell beats her to it. "I already took an anticonvulsant this morning. It should have helped.”

“Wait, this has happened before?” Adler asks.

Bell looks away, a hesitating look shadowing her face. He fears the worst.

“Bell…” he tries again, a slight warning to his tone.

She sighs loudly, as if mentally preparing herself before walking into a storm. 

“Yes. Two days ago."

His mind instantly refers to East Berlin, the TV. Trying to connect the dots in his head. It seems far fetched, but now he wonders if she saw something that triggers this. Although he's never read about this on other subjects before, the correlation is just impossible to ignore.

Fuck. He heaves a breath, willing himself to calm down, to think. They can't afford complications at times like these. Not when there's so much at stake right now.

Adler snaps his attention back to Bell when she tries to scramble awkwardly to her feet, swatting his hand away. The hand on her neck immediately reaches for her waist again and pushes her back down onto the chair. His grip's tight enough to leave marks on her skin, but he doesn't care.

"Bell, for fuck's sake, stay still or so help me," he says, exasperated, not letting go of her waist. 

"I feel better now." Stubborn little shit.

He is tempted to scream at her face and grab both of her shoulders and shake. “The hell you’re not. Stop fighting it. You’ll only make things worse.”

Her face sours, if only for a millisecond before it morphs into guilt. “I’m sorry.”

Adler watches her for a long moment. It’s only now that he realizes that he’s still holding her waist and the cloth on her face. 

He backs away from her like he’s been burnt. 

“You should have told me. I thought I made it clear the other night to keep me informed regarding this,” he scolds. 

“I’m sorry,” she utters again and she looks so pliable like this, a blank canvas perfumed with obedience and lethal mind. It makes him almost feel sorry for what he has in plan for her once the shit show is over.

“Look, just go back to the hotel and take a day off.” Her mouth cracks open. He raises a silencing hand. “That’s an order, Bell.” But she merely scowls, looking more like jagged ice than a person. Hudson may have just met his match, after all.

“I told you I’m fine.”

“That’s not how it looks to me.”

“It is. It’s my body and I know what I’m feeling, and I’m telling you, I. Feel. Fine.”

His jaw clenches. “Are you disobeying a direct order, agent?”

Bell doesn’t answer, but her whole face remains challenging and hard. Undeterred.

Adler holds his breath. He feels the whole room collectively does the same. It’s like staring down the barrel of a gun and there’s an awful sort of danger to be found in that. 

Just when he thinks an imaginary bullet would dig itself into his skin, however, Bell utters, “Of course not.”

And so the woman resumes to her normal, docile self at a drop of a hat. Even when Park steps in and whisks her out of her seat, drives her back to her hotel with Lazar on shotgun. 

It doesn’t assuage his worry, though. He’s still restless throughout the day, like a roaring ocean inside a bell jar. She’s never done this before, openly rebels against him. Now, the situation is just bad. Not casually bad or almost-got-shot bad, this is the-entire-Europe-could-turn-into-a-nuclear-wasteland bad, an-armageddon-waiting-to-happen bad. 

What if this is the beginning of her old self trying to scratch her way out of the surface? Adler’s blood goes cold at the thought. He is going to have to keep a close eye on this development.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

West Berlin - 1 am, local time.

“How is she?”

“Stable. I’ve administered another dose of Propranolol before I left the hotel. She should be fit as a fiddle in the morning.”

“Tell me, what do you think happened to her?”

“My theory? Traumatic brain injury. A cumulative product of torture, trauma-based mind control and chronic stress. I've read reports about cases like these before in MI6. None of them is still alive to recount the tale, unfortunately."

Adler grips the phone. 

“How long do you think we have?”

“Theoretically, 2-3 weeks tops.”

“But?”

He hears Park sighs on the other line. “But then again, none of the subjects I’ve encountered before were like her. So, I suppose it’s still a little too premature to determine at this point."

Adler kneads his temple, feeling the start of that familiar Bell-induced headache forms in his head. Can things just be fucking simple for once? 

“We don’t have that much time anyway, Park. And if Hudson gets a wind of this, he’ll want her gone by morning. I can’t let that happen. Not…” he pauses. “Not when we are this close.”

"What are we going to do about her, then?" 

Adler sighs.

"Raise the dosages of her drugs,” he says. “And keep an extra eye on her. I think we may be heading into uncharted waters now.”

Tagging: @mvalentine cause you said to tag you with everything i write so  👁👄👁

[hotdamnhunnam]

Will Miller: Sex in Publix

A/N: FINALLY writing for Will Fucking “Ironhead” Miller from Triple Frontier!!! So excited, my dears!! Here’s some smut about you helping Will recover from his violent cereal aisle incident at Publix... which results in you two having shameless public sex.

Pairing: Will “Ironhead” Miller x F!Reader Warnings: smut, swearing, dirty talk, reference to traumatic experience, sex in public (obvs) Inspiration: WILL’S SPEECH from the opening scene of the movie. Serious big dick energy 🥵

Word Count: ~2.5k

** THE SPEECH **

Quoted from Triple Frontier’s opening scene

Parts that are referenced in this fic are in bold below – anyone who hasn’t seen it seriously needs to watch it tho...

About five years ago, when I was on leave... I found myself standing in the middle of the cereal aisle at the Publix... with my arm around some guy's throat. I was squeezing so hard he pissed himself.  My fiancée at the time had to climb on my back just so I didn’t actually kill the guy.  Do you know why I was doing this? Because he hadn’t moved his cart when I asked.  I was the best of the best, able to shut down, control, manipulate... all basic human instincts towards one goal: the completion of my mission. But the effects of committing extreme violence on other human beings are biological and physiological. That’s the price of being a warrior.

Fic begins after ‘Keep reading’ ...

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

A/N: Why yes, I just inserted the same gif again, so that you have the image right above, for purposes of the description of this mouthwatering motherfucker doing his GODDAMN CHEWING GUM LOWER LIP TONGUE THING in the third paragraph 😛

“We shouldn’t even be here...”

“Will, you say that every time,” you remind your fiancé as he strolls your cart through the aisles at Publix, slowly approaching Aisle 6. You can feel him tense up now as you’re drawing near. “It’s like I told you, babe—the best way to work through your shit is to come and revisit the scene of the crime.”

“Crime?” he rolls his tongue around the piece of gum he’s chewing, lets it slide along the inside of his full pink lower lip. He knows just what he’s doing: making it bulge in a way that looks fucking delicious. That action in itself is a crime calling for arrest. “You know the guy didn’t press charges.”

“That’s because you threatened to kill him if he did. Besides, the poor bastard had just pissed all over the floor; I’m pretty sure he wasn’t going wild to include that kind of detail if he filed a police report.”

He shrugs that off with a half-laugh. Tries to ignore how he had choked a total stranger with such brutal force... simply because he hadn’t moved his cart when Will had asked. “The fact stands that I’m criminally innocent.”

“Of course. The perfect model citizen,” you can’t help but indulge him in a playful little compliment. “With model good looks, too.”

Will rolls his eyes, those eyes you constantly effuse are the most gorgeous shade of blue. He never seems to think it’s true. “Butter me up, why don’t you.”

“Like I always do.”

He cracks a smile, which quickly vanishes as you reach Aisle 6. “Speaking of which, didn’t we just finish the butter in the fridge? I’ll go and grab some; maybe you can get the cereal, then meet me in the dairy aisle...”

“Nice try, big guy—not happening. Come on,” you urge, taking a soft yet firm hold of his muscular upper arm. “What, are you scared of Cap’n Crunch or something? Man up, Captain. Don’t be a pussy ass bitch.”

“Cap’n Crunch is creepy as shit. Freaked me out as a kid,” he says with an exaggerated cringe. “But seriously, babe—you know that going back there makes me... twitch.”

“And I’ll be there to hold your hand, and talk you through it, like I always am,” you reassure him. “Will, it’s gotten better every time we visit. We’ve made real progress; it’s a process, and to be honest, I think it’s almost finished.”

He bites that luscious lip of his. “What if it isn’t.”

“Then we’ll keep trying till it is, okay? You have to trust me. Either way, we’ll hurry home, soon as we’re done... so you can fuck me.”

His eyes light up at that, just as you knew they would, and he pushes the cart straight ahead. Not afraid to admit he’s been played. “Damn does my girl know how to control and manipulate...”

“I learned from the best of the best, as they say. My big strong ironhead fiancé.”

As it turns out today, the sex will happen long before you leave the store. Neither of you will be able to wait.

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

“So. How you feeling?” you ask him, standing by his side in the spot where it happened. As he stands still and stares, you reach up to comb your fingers through the soft golden spikes of his hair, hoping that the tender loving touch will help his healing.

Will chews his gum a little harder, with a firm clench of his jaw. Blue eyes a little darker. And good God—you shouldn’t be having these thoughts, but fuck, the smoldering look on his face right now is just about the hottest thing you ever saw...

You can see the scenes replay inside his mind. Not just the incident itself, choking a random guy in Publix half to death, squeezing so hard the bastard lost his breath and pissed himself—but more importantly, the underlying cause. Years of trauma, molding Will into a man that he himself feared and despised. So many years spent searching for the kind of peace he always craved but thought he’d never find. 

He tells you often how he found it in your arms; though you’re a sucker for his charms, you always brush the line aside. That shit’s just corny. And besides, he only says it when he’s horny... which is all the fucking time.

One of the many things that you two have in common. Ever since Will Miller claimed you as his woman, the two of you have been getting it on so fucking often that it’s probably a crime.

You try to stop your mind from wandering in that direction. Will needs to process heavy shit right now and you’re supposed to help him. Shouldn’t get distracted by your own lady erection, as you silently admire him in all his alpha male perfection... mind burning with questions—like, but how the hell can it even be possible to be so fucking beautiful...?

His hands aren’t twitching in the way that often happens when he’s here, but still, he’s awfully tense and quieter than usual. Maybe it’s time to head out of the cereal aisle; return some other time, after a little while. You hold him close to whisper in his ear, stroking his arm with a warmhearted smile. “Listen, babe—if you don’t want to talk... then let’s go home and crack open some beer, or a bottle of wine... I’ll suck your cock, and everything will be just fine. I’m proud of you for coming here today. Now let’s get out of here so you can come someplace better, okay?”

Now at that, Will at last has a few words to say. He snaps out of his self-hating haze and attacks you just with the sheer power of his deep blue gaze. “Mmm, you mean like deep inside my filthy little whore of a fiancée?”

You feign offense, reacting with a gasp, dealing his upper arm a playful little slap. “Captain Miller! What gives you the right to talk to me like that—in public, no less? Show some damn respect.”

He answers with a flirty, dirty laugh. “Respect my ass.”

“I do, and you know that. It’s perfect,” you remind him as you reach around to grab it through his pants, loving the way the sculpted muscle tenses up beneath your hands. “And I respect it even better when it’s naked, so let’s get—”

“Gimme a minute,” he interrupts you with a kiss on the top of your head. “You know, before you started talking all that frisky business... I was just about to tell you that I think we’re finally finished. Babe, you did it.”

You pause, dropping your jaw—does he mean what you think he does? Now that the tone is back to serious, you free his fine ass from the grasp of your horny claws. “...did it?”

Will smiles and nods. “I know my stubborn ass kept resisting these visits. But you were right, babe. Like always. I think I’ve finally gotten past this shit. I mean—not all my shit; that’s a serious beast. But the whole Publix incident, at least. I just... today I finally felt released. At peace with it.”

There are no words to capture how giddy you feel. You wrap your arms around his neck with an excited squeal, heartbeat happily racing. “Babe, that’s amazing! We did it. I may be the one with all the brilliant ideas, but you were smart enough to listen.”

He lets out a soft giggle, hugging you so hard it tickles. “I still say you get all the credit. Manipulating me with all those promises of sex the way you did. Straight up forcing me into submission.”

“Oh, don’t put it that way. Now let’s not forget who’s the dom in the bedroom. Promise you’ll always play Captain, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he chuckles. “Whatever you say.”

The one thing on your mind as you snuggle into his embrace is this man smells like actual heaven... hot damn. You pull back from the hug, desperate to get home and get fucked. But there’s still one more thing to get out of the way.

You make some effort to compose yourself before what’s coming next. “Oh, and before we go—there’s something else I wanted you to know. Now that your issue’s been addressed... well, I also have something to confess.”

After those words, you pause for longer than you should. Which isn’t good.

“Go on?” Will holds your hand and gives you an encouraging, heartwarming nod.

Ugh, he’s so cute when he’s all soft and full of love. Despite being so big and tough. All at once a sugar baby muffin and a savage fucking sex god.

You clear your throat, collecting your slightly embarrassing thoughts. “So, when the whole... incident happened, in the moments just before I climbed onto your back, to pull you off of that poor man, I was just—watching you attack... and... well, at first I didn’t even know how to react, because... uhhh...”

Those blue eyes of his blink, and you can barely even think. Apparently you have a goddamn golden eyelash kink?

Will tries to urge you to continue; though it’s clear he’s quite sincere, he’s also more than just a little bit amused. He always loves to see you bumbling like a fool and acting totally uncool. He says it’s super cute. “Because what?”

You re-clear your throat, though it’s all clear already. Try to stay somewhat calm and steady. Keep your hormones in control. You are in public after all; people can see you even if they’re out of earshot. “I don’t know, it’s just—watching you do that was... I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was fucked up, and yes I knew it had to stop—but it was also... you know... super fucking hot?”

He blinks again, brows arching up a bit. “You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Y/N, I... I was out of my damn mind. Completely out of line. Like, deadly dangerous.”

“Oh, you think I didn’t notice?”

“No, I know you did...”

Fucking hell. You pull your hand from his and turn toward the shelves, grabbing a random box of cereal to occupy yourself. “Now you’re kink-shaming me. Never done that before, but now the truth comes out that I’m a sick and twisted whore—”

“What? Y/N, come on,” he groans, wrapping his arms around you from behind, the kind of big bear hug that always feels like home. “You know that isn’t how I meant it...”

“No, forget it. Just forget I ever said it.”

“Can’t really do that, to be honest. Babe, I’m into all your kinks, I promise. I just need a sec to process this.”

“Seriously—Will, this whole cereal aisle shouldn’t be about me. Even just mentioning it like I did was selfish. So forget it.”

“I’m not gonna just...”

“Hey, I have an idea,” you interrupt, eager to change the subject, as you now notice that you’d just happened to pick a box of Cap’n Crunch. With the creepy cartoon captain’s face emblazoned on the front. “What if you need a final outlet? Just to let off any steam that might be lingering, to make sure that you’ve really gotten over the whole cereal aisle incident?”

Will purrs as he leans closer into your shoulder. You stupidly assume he’s also looking at the cereal box you’re holding, but he isn’t. “Hmmm, you thinking what I’m thinking...?”

As it happens, you’re totally oblivious to what he just implied, since you’re still trying to recover from embarrassment. You step off to the side, pulling away from his embrace so that you’re standing face to face. And hold the box in front of you like it’s a martial arts board made for him to break. “Here, if you need something to punch... why don’t you let it out on Cap’n Crunch.”

He blinks, again, apparently a little stunned. You’re too oblivious to even notice that he has a hard on.

You gesture toward the crunchy cap’n. “Go on. Clock him one.”

Will shifts uncomfortably in an attempt to hide the stiffness of his cock. “Punch a cereal box? Babe, this is fucking ridiculous...”

“This creepy bastard haunted you throughout your childhood,” you remind him. “Come on, do it, Will. Show him who’s captain. You know it’ll feel good.”

He tosses a quick glance behind him to make sure that no one’s around to witness. “Can’t believe I’m gonna do this, but if you insist...”

Balling his right hand up into a fist, he fucking launches it at the cartoon son of a bitch. You know he didn’t go full force—the blow would’ve thrust you and Cap’n both across the room, of course—but he went hard enough to cause the cardboard box serious damage.

Will looks down at the damage he caused to his childhood nemesis, more pleased with it than he’d like to admit. “Well, shit.”

You flash him a triumphant grin, glad for the win. “Felt great, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, it did,” he laughs at himself with a shake of his head. “But the box is all busted.”

“Well, we are model citizens, so we’re obviously going to take responsibility and pay for this,” you tell him. “And William—don’t even think about bitching that Cap’n Crunch isn’t a worthwhile purchase. The catharsis that he just provided was worth it.”

Your fiancé is fully in agreement with that sentiment. “Sounds perfect.”

Moving toward your shopping cart, you pause before throwing the box in, stopping to salute the captain with one hand over your heart. “We thank you, Cap’n, for your service.”

Will lets out one of his loud, loving laughs and hugs you from the back again. “My God, you’re such a fucking dork...”

You shrug, melting into the hug. “Well, my dorky ass just singlehandedly took care of your entire healing process. So don’t knock it if it worked.”

“Oh, I wasn’t gonna knock it,” Will replies, suddenly spinning you around with your back up against the shelves, so you can see and feel the feral fire in his eyes. You practically just wet yourself. Even more so upon the words he utters next. “I was just thinking that I really wanna fuck it.”

Holy hell. This man is living breathing sex. Your words come out all jumbled up and shit. “What—how... you mean right now? In public?”

Will grinds his hips into your crotch so you can finally feel the stiffness of his dick. God, it’s so big. His every word and action never fail to make your pussy twitch. “Hmm, what is that I’m hearing... judgment? Are you kink-shaming me, bitch?”

Hot damn, you love how playfully sadistic your fiancé is. “No, I wouldn’t fucking dream of it. I love it,” you respond, succumbing to the force of his cock and the heat of your cunt. For good measure before you both give yourselves over to such guilty pleasure, to everything both of you want, you glance nervously up and down Aisle 6. 

All is clear at the moment. And if that unexpectedly changes... you know there’s a risk, the constant threat of danger of onlooking strangers... well, fuck it. You and Will won’t let that stop you from indulging in some shameless sex in Publix.

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

... Continued in Part 2!

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