#copper-wannabe

[yeyinde]

hoooooo boy. m!mc anon here - your response was extremely interesting and i am a little obsessed with your brain (i’d like to study it, you truly come up with the most delicious ideas)

but i also have to say that out of all of tf 141, that idea for soap was actually so delicious that i had to physically put my phone down for a while. respectfully, that is the hottest thing i’ve probably ever read. even more feral soap?? forcefem?? phew. amen.

thank you for giving me more material to zone out to in the middle of the day (praying hands emoji)

ahhh thanks!!! i started to drag on more about m!Reader and Johnny, but. this happened lmao. so here is some nasty Johnny picking up m!Reader in a bar.

forced!fem. switch Johnny. m!reader is described as being very masculine presenting. but in the flavour of Will Graham's whole aesthetic

All things considered, it's a little clichè.

Older man (—ish, you amend mentally, remembering the birth year on his driver's license when you chanced a peek over his forearm as he rifled through his wallet: 1982—millenial) hits on a younger man in a crowded sports bar. Opens the conversation with haven't seen you around here before, and let's the defined chisel in his jawline do the heavy lifting in place of a personality. Adds a wink to that line, too.

Thighs pressed tight against each other on the stool. Arms brushing. Speaks purposefully when it gets rowdy so he has to lean in close, stubbled jaw grazing your cheek as he mock whispers his lacklustre response to a question you didn't ask. Buys you beer. The expensive kind, too. Laughs when you ask what he's drinking and orders something that makes him seem like he's more of a man than you are.

For a brief period between intermissions—when it gets quieter and he conveniently sneaks off to the washroom—you debate picking up the heavy innuendos he's trying to put down. It could be worse, you think, staring at the only other potential lay you've been entertaining over the last two weeks.

You could be getting mediocre sex from a guy who keeps sending you unasked for pictures of his cock and hole. One you keep dodging by adding an appropriately enthused wow, all this and it's only 10am on a Tuesday to every "yep, that's a dick" image he sends in place of a real conversation.

The sarcasm gifting you yet another unasked for picture of his hand around his cock. Sure is, baby. But—

"be better if ye were 'ere wit' me."

You startle, phone cracking off the edge of the counter. "Shit—"

The person over your shoulder peels away for a moment. "Ah, sorry. Ack—is yer phone alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," you breathe, tapping on the screen. It flicks on. You're graced with another picture of his ballsack. The caption—

"need yer cock s'fuckin' bad—"

You cut him a sharp glance over your shoulder. It's rude. You're a little annoyed at having your travesty of a sex life aired out for every obnoxious wannabe cowboy to overhear, but the irritation is stemmed by the fill of liquid hazel—and flecks of blue, you think; a pretty blue ring around oxidizing copper.

Larimar. Marbled with umber. Framed around glossy white streaked with small rivers of red. Tinged slightly yellow—undoubtedly from the pack of cigarettes you find stuffed into the breast pocket of his red, gingham button down when you tear your eyes away from him. The look too intense. Too much.

Taking stock of everything else about him is just as flustering. The gingham draped loosely over him. Wrinkled sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Collar opened until the last few buttons around his navel. He's wearing a black shirt beneath that glues to his skin, pulling taut around his sternum and collarbones. A gold chain with a thick, heavy cross sits in the valley between, swinging when he rocks back on his heels.

Thick thighs stuffed into jeans that stretch to fit. The bottoms tucked half-heartedly into a pir of black, leather boots.

The shirt shifts when he moves, pulling tight around his broad shoulders as he lifts the last swig of a beer bottle to his lips. Beneath the coarse, black hair that dusts over the pale, peachy skin of his forearms, the back of his hands, his knuckles (Jesus Christ), his muscles flex. Bunching tight under veined flesh.

It makes sense to follow the trail to those sucking lips, but you catch a flash of pale pink, the sweep of a blood-red tongue through the hazy brown of the translucent rim of the bottle and feel your heart lurch in your chest.

You try to swallow but your throat is dry.

He makes a noise as he drinks. A sucking slurp, the plop of his lips unglueing from of the mouth of the bottle. A quiet, groaning ahh whispered under his breath.

It pulls your eyes up, forcing you to fill in the rest of this puzzle, and you know, even before the same dense cropping of hair that covers his arms (hands, fingers) starts to show at the black hem of his Henley that you made a mistake. A grievous one. He's handsome.

Defined jaw. Implish lips. An angular nose. Thick, full brows. The same pale, peachy skin sloping up his neck, chin, cheeks, and forehead before disappear into dark brown, almost black, hair. An untrimmed mohawk. A scar on the side of his head, cutting clean along his temple and stretching back to his ear. The hair around it is sparse. Shaved. The gorge of his scar a dark pink inside. Healed, but—

Raw.

A little like the rest of him. Rougish, in a way. Fractured.

His hair is matted down on top. Toussed along the unblemished, overgrown side, but flat on his crown.

The mystery, however, is solved when he flicks a ballcap onto the table beside you with a crooked quirk of his mouth. All teeth. White, sharp.

The man slips into the stool your date was occupying with a sniff, the smooth ridge of his nose bunching up. Displeasure drapes itself over his expression, a little rumple in his brow. "Screamin' Jesus. Dunno wha's thicker. His cologne or his come-ons."

The barb is unexpected. You try to hide your snort behind a grimace, rubbing the tip of your nose with a rough finger. He catches it, though. The pinch in his brow smoothing out as he grins wide, vicious.

Your heart lunches. Stutters uncomfortably in your chest. "You watchin' me or something?"

He turns in the seat, knee bumping into your thigh. Crowding you easily as he folds over the tabletop, elbow dropping to the table with a muted thud. His cheek slides into his palm, head tilting as he considers your words. The implication.

And then he grins wider. "Or somethin'."

Cocky. You scoff, but it just makes him look more amused.

"Tha' yer type?"

"Hmm?"

He motions to the nearly untouched glass of whiskey in front of him. Then to your phone.

"All talk," he enunciates each word, letting his accent pull taut around the syllables. "An' no action."

"No action? You don't think buying me beer and sending dick pics, begging for a fuck, is no action?"

"Aye—" he reaches for the beer he placed down beside his cap, and takes a generous swallow as you pretend the shift in his throat isn't making you a little light headed. He peels away with a grunt. "Ah do."

"Yeah?" You scoff, bringing the nozzle to your mouth to quench the ache in your throat. The soft preen coiling in your chest. Stupid words like, so what about it, pretty boy? wanna take me home. "What would you do instead?"

"I'd split yer pussy open on my cock in the loo. Let everyone in this bar hear ye moanin' fer me—"

You choke, barely have time to put the bottle down before you're haccking into your fist. He has the decency to pat your back as you wheeze.

"Ain't got a pussy," is what you settle for after a beat, voice hoarse. Wrecked. The way he shudders at the sound is unmistakable. Your neck feels hot. Itchy.

"Oh, sure ye do," he leans in close, warm breath fanning over your cheek. "A nice, tight little pussy fer me to fuck—"

"I'm a man." You feel a little stupid saying it. As if any part of you could be mistaken for slight. For soft. Feminine. You work with your hands. Grew up in the backcountry. Fishing before you could talk. Chewing tobacco before you hit puberty. Your old man made sure to pound that notion into your head before you even know what it meant to be a child. "I don't know what kinda games you're playing, but—"

"ahm no' playin' games," he shrugs, leaning back. It gives the idea of space. Distance. But his hand finds its way your denim-clad thigh, nails skimming the inside seam of your jeans wear the material is softer, worn down from friction. Too high to be appropriate.

You should move. Snap at him to take it off. Growl the words out if you have to do.

(Punch him, maybe. But he looks like the sort who would like that too much, you think. Rough. Dirty. Not afraid to fight back with his teeth if he needs to.

come on, baby, hit me harder—)

Your knee jerks. His grip tightens. "I got a cock. Not a pussy."

He makes a face at that. His full bottom lip juts out, angling to the side in confusion. "Ah ken? Ahm plannin' on ridin' that cock tonight, aye. The one yer little date is so desperate fer—"

"Jesus—" you wheeze, cock thickening in your jeans. Men aren't—

They're not usually so forward with you. It's nudging innuendos. Beer. A whispered wanna get outta here when the bar is about close and no one else is around to see it. You know what you look like. And it's not—

Soft.

"Easy," he taunts, grinning. "Don't choke so soon. 'aven't even go' ma cock out—"

You're not entertaining this. Absolutely not. He's—

Well. You're not sure what he is, but he's not normal. Not right. And you're not that desperate.

(maybe)

But the words die in your throat when his bright eyes glance down at your empty bottle, a frown forming over his pretty, pink lips like you not having anything to drink right away was somehow the most inconvenient thing to him.

"Get ye a drink?"

"Sure," you say, nodding. Then: "thanks."

It's softer. Gritty. The word scrapes over your throat in a way that almost hurts.

You blame it on the beer you drank before. Sloshing around your empty stomach and making you feel wildly off-kilter. Tipsy, maybe. Too drunk. Vulnerable to kindness (however threadbare it might be) when you usually get lewd pictures and beer you didn't ask for.

He flags the bartender down with a flick of his wrist. Keeps his eyes listed toward you as he leans over the counter, whispering something in his ear that you can't hear. Unease knots in your stomach. Cold fingers linking together, pressing frigid knuckles to your soft lining.

You look away when he drops back into his seat, hand finding its way back to your thigh. Gripping tight. Possessive. It curls around you. His warmth, his touch. The smell of him—sweet wheat, lemongrass; something earthy, like the damp, wet scent of mid-autumn; maple leaves stuck to the pavement after a late night rain shower—and you breathe slowly through your nose, both eager for the smell and sick of it. Sweet maple. Tart pumpkin. Your fingers twitch. You fold them into fists, glancing down at the spread of his hand on you.

His knuckles are red. Blotchy. Raw. The skin on his middle finger is cut across the wrinkled folds of his joint. The knick is deep. Almost a circle if not for the way it tears on the side, streaking outward. The outer edges of the crater are white. The inside pink before it turns to a deep red in the middle. Clotting already.

Your tongue feels like lead in your mouth. Unhinging your jaw takes more effort than you can expend, and you pant, a little, when your mouth finally pries apart. The words thicken on your tongue.

What happened—

The bartender comes back, his shadow falling over the counter. You jerk your head up, blinking at him as he places something down in front of you.

Something pink.

You swallow again. "Uh, what's this?"

"Sex on the Beach," the man answers, waving the bartender off. "Pretty drink fer pretty little thing."

"You wanna get punched? Because this is how you get your teeth knocked out—"

"Oh, baby," he purrs, accent rolling over the words in a way that goes straight to your cock. "If that's what yer intae, ah don't mind gettin' a little bloody fer ye. Might make suckin' yer pretty little cock easier."

Little. Your throat aches. Your mouth is dry. The beer is gone, cleaned empty bottles cleaned up by the bartender. Trying to swallow only makes the sting in your throat more prominent and does little to relieve the burn.

In front of you, the pink drink sits mockingly. Beads of condensation drip down the glass.

It's not even the stupid implication of a man drinking a cocktail that keeps you from reaching for it, but the fact that he ordered it for you with that in mind. Pretty drink fer a pretty—

Your throat clicks. Flesh glueing together when you swallow. Peeling away painful when you breathe.

Fuck it, you think. It doesn't mean anything. Not to you. Not at all.

When you reach for it, his head jerks over to you. Staring, unabashedly, as you bring it your lips and take a sip.

He groans. The hand on your thigh tightens. "Good girl."

It heats you up. Buzzes in the back of your head. You should get out of here. Leave. Go home and sink your head into your pillow, squeeze your eyes shut until all these terrifying feelings are snuffed out. Smothered. Tucked back into a box you didn't realise you had—

"Wanna come home wit' me? Let me fuck yer pretty pussy until I cum?"

The swell of anticipation in your chest makes you flinch. "I told you—"

"Ye want it, don't ye?" His hand moves higher up your leg, bleeding warmth through the denim. "Want me to make fuck ye. Make ye cum around ma cock. Bet ye have th' sweetest little cunt—"

"Fuck—" you shiver. His word wrap around your hindbrain, a soft touch that makes you feel hot. Itchy. Your heart pounds. You wonder if he can hear it. "I don't—"

"Gonnae let me taste it. Sit tha' pretty arse on ma face, aren't ye? Ride me until ye cum."

"I can't—" you force the words out of your throat, feeling the scrape against the soft tissue inside until it hurts. "I don't know what you're trying to do, but—"

"ahm tryin' tae take a pretty girl home—" girl. Girl. You shudder, feeling sick. Nauseous. "'ave her spread her pretty legs fer me..." he leans in, lips brushing your warm cheeks. "Let me ride that pretty cock until she cums—"

"Stop it—"

His hand finds your cock, thick in your jeans. Pressing tight against the zipper. "Gonnae fuck me so good, aren't ye? Not gonnae let ye cum unless it's inside me—"

"You're—ah, fuck—" his hand rubs over your bulge, eyes hooded, heavy, as you twitch. A wet spot grows, dark and unmistakable against the cool blue denim. "A—anyone ever tell you that you're kind of a freak?"

"an' yer a messy girl—" another pulse. The patch grows. It shouldn't turn you on. This sort of talk—it's not something you've ever been interested in before. Ever tried. Outside of porn—big, barrel chested men crushing another in their arms, growling about how they're gonna knock them up—it never surfaced. Never reared. "Gonnae let me clean ye up?"

You should say no.

It's on the tip of your tongue. No, leave me alone. Get the fuck off of me. Say that shit to me every again, and I'll—

His hand slides up, fingers curling over your clothed cock in a way that knocks the thoughts from your head, leaving nothing behind but an empty space. An ache. An itch. Something that needs to be filled.

Your phone chimes. Another text. You don't have to look down to know what it is, but his hand slides over, fingers dropping to the sleek, black surface. He pulls it to him with the pads of his index and middle finger. You should stop him. Grab it back. Leave—

"Need yer thick cock inside o'me," he narrates, mouth ticking up in a terrifying smirk. All teeth. A dogtoothed grin. "Now, there's a thought."

He dips his chin, tongue poking out from between his lips as he types something back in response. You can't see what it is from this angle, but the pinch in his brow, the glimmer in his eyes—you're sure this guy, potential candidate; looming mediocre lay, will have you blocked in five minutes. When he glances back, a tendril of something darkly satisfied brimming in the amber of his eyes, you amend it to right now.

You huff. "Shouldn't take things that don't belong to you."

The man stares at you for a moment, the corners of his eyes creasing in that same soot-stained amusement he had when he ruined your chances with the too-pink tip of his tongue hanging out. Satisfied dog. It's unnerving.

You think it scares you.

Or—

It should.

Whatever he finds as he fossicks through the fragments of your shattering composure, it seems to make him purr. His pupils expand. His nostrils flare. He leans in again, and you taste ash on your tongue. "M'ready tae leave."

It's not a question. The with you rings out like a gunshot in the back of your head.

You should say no. It's been on the tip of your tongue this whole time. No. No. Leave me alone. Go away—

But each time you try to pry apart your clenched jaws to say it, the look in his eyes make you think dogs and their bones.

You swallow this rancid thing in the back of your throat down. Make a jerking movement with your shoulder—a shrug, maybe. The twitch of your aching cock gives you away.

"C'mon, wannae fuck tha' little pussy o'yers," he rasps, words a tangled growl in the thick of his throat. Accent eliding. Slurring together. "Or ah'll have tae drag ye back tae the bathroom. Fuck ye in the shall. Make yer pussy cum on ma cock—"

You shiver. It's disgust. It's anger. It's—

His hand peels away from your thigh, reaches for your phone. He leans toward, and shoves it into the back of his pocket.

"what ahm I gonnae do tae ye?"

You know what he asking for. Feel the heat smoulder inside of your veins, burning up your neck. Be a man, you think. Be a man. Tell him to fuck off. Punch him. There's nothing soft about you. Nothing delicate. He's crazy. You're not—

His stare is paralyzing. You feel dread thicken in your stomach.

(dread, you think; your cock jerks. The front of your jeans are damp. The sticky drag of them on your groin calls you a liar.)

"Ahm no' askin' again, hen."

Your jaw unlocks easy this time. Opening with a quivering sigh that makes him groan low under his voice, eyes fixed on you. Drilling holes into your head. Needling his warped desire into your mind.

"You're gonna," your voice shakes. Heat sears your skin. It feels you're going to melt. "You're gonna fuck my—my pussy—"

The noise he makes is sinful. Liquid. Rich. A groan that breaks into a thrilling moan. Your stomach knots. Churns. You'd be sick if you had more to drink.

"C'mon—" he jerks his head toward the door, eyes blazing. "Gonnae ye exactly what ye need."

You go. Stand when he does, chin dropping to your chest in humiliation when your cock jerks at the idea. Sliding your jacket off your shoulders, holding it in your trembling fists as it covers your pelvis. The unmistakable need there for everyone to see.

Fuck yer pussy so good, he growls, ripping his wallet open and shoving a fistful of neat, straight notes on the counter. "Ain't gonnae need anythin' else when ahm done wit' ye. Gonnae be beggin' fer my cock inside ye—"

You should run. And when he steps back, motioning for you to move first, it feels like he's giving you the perfect opportunity to escape. To flee. You want to. You should.

But you don't. Something holds you back. Makes your teeth sink into your tongue. Jaw hinging shut. Snuffing out the words rotting in the back of your throat with a swallow.

You follow him quietly as he paws at you, rutting his cock against your thigh, whispering in your ear about all the terrible things he's doing to do. A better, more sensible man would've run, something holds you back.

The same thing that makes you ignore the reason why you haven't asked about his bloodied knuckles or wondered where your date is.

You know the answer already, don't you?

"Ahm gonnae fuck ye so good, hen. Won't be thinkin' about anyone else when ahm done wit' ye—"

It's what you've been looking for since the beginning.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Fuhgeddaboudit! Mafia wife wannabe decorated this 1960 (looks nothing like a mid-century modern) home in Brooklyn, New York City, NY. It has 5bds, 4ba, and they're asking $2.399M. It already has a pending sale. Check this out- it's not just the decor, it's the matching architecture, too.

Clearly, the open stairs indicate that at one time this looked like a mid-century modern design, but it was given fancy schmancy railings and a tile floor. (Why would they leave it open like that, they look odd.)

Check out the ceilings and arches.

What a horror.

Note the gold lines in the tile.

So, what do we have here, 2 sitting areas. Note the coffered ceiling strip going around the tray ceiling.

A pony wall separates the dining room from the sitting areas.

Wow, look at the kitchen. I like dark cabinets, they seem timeless, but look at the green island and exhaust hood. It has a pot filler b/c every mafia wife needs one for the pasta. I'm half Italian and my dream kitchen would have a pot filler.

The kitchen has an opening to the seating areas. What is that pipe coming out of the ceiling?

Tile backsplash and copper undermount sink. I love my undermount sink- no farm sink for me.

Tiled guest powder room.

Coming up the stairs.

Large primary bedroom has a wall of closets.

The bathroom has mosaic tiles. Look at all the towels piled up on the bathtub step.

No matter how much they fancy it up, this is still a mid-century build and it doesn't have huge bedrooms, nor does it have big closets, so they have clothing racks for the overflow. Remember, someone is buying this for $2.4M.

This bedroom has an en-suite shower room. Not bad.

Down to the rec room.

No kitchenette, but they have a fridge down here.

I thought that was a bar, but it's just a dining table on the right.

The 5th bd. is down here, too.

I don't see a bathroom down here, but there's a laundry room and storage.

There's a nice yard. The home is just on a standard subdivision lot.

It's about 2 blocks from Jamaica Bay, so you can keep a boat there.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/208-Mayfair-Dr-N-Brooklyn-NY-11234/30788177_zpid/

[srnaju]

PROM NIGHT - comic

J goes to prom! And she hates it there.

Uzi: Hi

J: Kys you stupid hot topic wannabe.

This is a Au called ‘At The Mercy Of Dogs’ where Uzi decides to spare J from being blasted by her railgun. J, N and Uzi V now try to face the troubles of copper-9.

J’s prom design here

[eastern-lights]

Many thanks to @mist-the-wannabe-linguist for infecting me with the Temeraire brainrot, I now have my skull full of Heahengel, he hereditary Bright Copper of the House of Wessex.

May or may not have been inspired by the golden dragon depicted on the Bayeux Tapestry, the West Saxon heraldry and the fact that medieval chroniclers claimed that bright wings appeared behind Alfred in the Battle of Ethandun.

[rizatouchesthewalls]

Gotta Catch Em’ All!

trainer!hobie brown x gn!trainer!reader

text that is small is an optional detail!

pls give advice on hobies accent

fluff, headcanons + mini scenarios, pokémon-au

POKEDEX: HOBART BROWN

Name — Hobie Brown

ID No. — XXXXXX

Britain Pokedex — Earth-136

Money — Thief!

Battle Points — 947283

He’s a menace to say the least. Not in a quirky but in a way where he’s actually a national problem.

He likes Fairy and Ghost types. He feels like people aim for physical and elementally strong Pokémon because they’re known to be efficient; but who said that he couldn’t beat them? Snap out of it!

He found Mimikyu one day behind a brush in the woods

Love at first sight fr

He gave it a spiked collar and a spiked-mohawk-headband

He doesn’t use Pokéballs unless Mimikyu is seriously injured and there’s no where to rest at the moment

“It’s just controllin to keep em in there.”

No doubt about it he’s one of the greatest trainers you’ve ever seen

Him being pretty helps too ig

“A-and he just stole from my mansion—!” The exasperated man shouted at you. “Aren’t you trainers worth any good? Use your Pokémon to stop him!”

“Yeah yeah old man, I got you!” You lazily scanned the area and went around the back of the mansion.

Everything’s normal so far until you see a large picture on the porcelain white walls of the mansion.

There was a large “mural” in black, dark blue, and red. In huge letters it wrote: PUNK-MON WINS! Noticing that the thief was still finishing the painting you turned the corner and walked towards him. He had a mask on and held a spray can in his hand.

“Yo—!”

“Ki-ki-ki-kyu!!!” You felt something slash at your leg, causing you to crash to the ground.

“What on earth is that?! Your scary Pokémon just bit me or something!”

The tall boy picked it up. Speaking of which, what was that thing? It looked like a wannabe Pikachu with spikes attached on it’s head. “Good little Mimikyu, beatin’ up stalkers whereva you see ‘em.”

“Stalkers? Huh—hey you mean me! I’m not a stalker!”

He helped you up. “You betta not be a copper.”

You glared at him. How are you gonna trip someone and then accuse them of trying to arrest you? Who is this loser?

He removed his mask.

Suddenly you’re not mad anymore.

“Aha, um… I see we got off on the wrong foot.” You batted your eyes. “Emphasis on foot… what is that thing?”

“This TING!!! Is my baby. My punk bunny. Mimikyu say hi!” The little creature garbled and babbled away.

“Was that ‘hi’ or possessed screeches?”

“Ion even know m’self to be honest.” He looked a little disturbed by Mimikyu, but then smiled. “My name’s Obie Brown, and I’m the number one criminal of rich-heads like this around town.”

“Very cool Hobie Brown. Only problem is that rich-head thinks Pokémon are the cause of all this vandalism and he’s trying to take down all the gyms in this area.”

“Oh!”

“Oh.”

“Right then. WE’RE GOIN TA KILL A RICH GUY!”

“Ki-kyu-ki-ki-ki-kyu!” Mimikyu excitedly garbled.

“WE’RE GOING TO WHAT?! HEY WAIT I WANNA JOIN IN!”

You couldn’t believe you were robbing the house of guy you promised to help. At least it’s not like he needs said money anyway—he has a whole nother vault on a separate island. The goal was to strip the old man of everything he owned in this mansion.

You wedged the metal bar Hobie had lended you inti the crack of the safe’s opening. “Darn. [Poke!Name], a little help here?”

Your Pokémon croaked a little noise and threw an attack at the metal door, which surprisingly made a big enough dent to pull at.

The doors hinges dropped and inside revealed a tomb of gold and stacks of money. Including golden Pokéballs.

“Woah…”

Alright! No more marveling. Here was the hard part of the mission—getting all of the things into the cheap school bags you had stolen bought and throwing them out the window.

Needless to say, it was a rather taxing job. You were constantly on your toes watching out for a stray maid or butler to come in.

“Okay! [Poke!Name], we’re finished. And no thanks to you… You’re lucky I love you.” The moment you slightly pushed the vault door open an alarm blasted. You winced as the painful ringing echoed in your ears. “It must’ve not been triggered when we blasted through it, but opening it does.”

You managed to hurl some bags at the window. But your own escape was more difficult—and you could heart the rapid footsteps coming down the hall.

“Darn—!”

“DOWN HEYAH!”

That familiar British voice! You stuck your head at the window and saw Hobie with outstretched arms.

“JUMP DOWN! I’LL CATCH YA!”

“ARE YOU COOCOO FOR COCOPUFFS?”

“TRUST!”

You anxiously rubbed your arms as you heard the servants working on the entrance door. Who would win: your fear of heights or your fear of jail?

“Open up!”

Darn, darn, darn, darn—

Your Pokémon pushed you out the window. WHAT?

You were falling—you were falling—you were going to meet your death—

“Ya not fallin anymore you damsel in distress.”

You blushed out of embarrassment and got out of Hobie’s arms. “Ahem, thank you.”

He suddenly grabbed your hand tightly and started running away from the mansion. “So, what’s the name? I never caught it!”

You sighed. You really got yourself into some sort of mess. “[Name]. Your new partner in crime.”

“That’s the spirit!”

“I WAS BEING SARCASTIC.”

[bethmelrhodon]

Desert Rains

Drizzles of rain pattered down to the ground, the dark clouds groaning with the weight of their bounty. A streak of lightning broke through the gray haze, and a rumble of thunder followed a couple seconds after. Lizards wiggled out from their hiding places and skittered across the copper-toned sands in search of new ones that weren’t as damp. Coyote howls pierced the afternoon air.

Susanne leaned back. She listened as the rain drummed onto the canvas tent stretched above her. Her gaze shifted, and she found herself staring at her guide as he walked around the makeshift camp. The older man moved around with a limp, and his right hand never strayed from his hip as he checked on the firepit and the horses, which were grazing on sparse bits of grass underneath a surprisingly flourishing ironwood tree.

“You know, Mister Calhoun, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were nervous,” Susanne remarked with a smirk.

“You’d be wary and watchful too, if’n you respected all the rumors that sprang up about the valley past those ridges,” Calhoun answered. He pointed a crooked finger toward a copper, tan, and green-tinged hoodoo in the distance. “There’s a town near that valley. A town that is the center for all those rumors.”

Susanne smiled. “That’s why I’m out here. You see, I’m a journalist –”

“An’ yer writing for some fancy newspaper back East,” Calhoun interrupted. “I heard yuh, girl. Plenty o’ times. Been talking non-stop since yuh hired me several towns back. Though … I figured yuh woulda turned back by now. Yer an odd one, Miss Rosewater. Well, if’n yuh want to end up dead, at least I’ll be paid before yuh hit your grave headfirst.”

Susanne laughed. “Oh really? Is that what you think? Surely, you don’t believe all these so-called ‘rumors,’ do you? The town has a mystery; that’s for certain. I heard about it back East and had to take this opportunity. I’m not some ‘wannabe journalist.’ No, sir. I am a journalist, and a fine one at that. I’ll be writing about this town’s origins and its history, and how all this scuttlebutt about its secrets got started. It’ll make an interesting read once printed in the paper back in New York. You’ll have to get a copy. In fact, I’ll send a lot here to the town.”

Calhoun made a harrumph noise.

Susanne dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “Trust me, Serpent Rot will welcome the attention. It’ll get a lot of visitors and increase revenue. I’ll make it famous.”

Calhoun snorted. “Whatever yuh say, girl.” He tilted his head up, raindrops sprinkling onto his weathered skin. “Yuh know what they say ‘bout desert rains?”

“No. What do they say?”

“Heaven is crying ‘cause of the sorrow that’s happening down on the earth below.”

[alectoperdita]

Put That Guy in a Situation Ask Meme/Prompt

41. Panic Attacks

54. Kidnapping

58. Crying

I cannot decide which of these to pick so do whichever you're feeling, if any, (or combine if you want) but I think something with Jou and Hirutani could be cool. And Kaiba or Yugi is of course welcome to show up. Idk I just feel like there's a lot of missed angst potential between Jou and Hirutani

From Put That Guy in a Situation(TM) Ask Game

54. Kidnapping

Sorry, this took me so long.

That manga chapter lives rent-free in my head forever. There's established joukai in the background of this one, but Kaiba is only mentioned and doesn't appear. The main focus of the fic is on Jounouchi and Hirutani's interactions as requested. I hope I was able to do them justice in your mind. It's pretty ambiguous overall but feel free to imagine their past relationship as more than a wannabe gang boss and his lieutenant.

content warning: beating, non-graphic blunt force trauma, homophobic language, implied torture, open/ambiguous ending

---

Clink. Clink CLANG.

It was no use. There was zero give when he tugged, virtually swinging in the breeze like a fish hooked on a line. It accomplished nothing other than straining his already numb arms.

The chains were thick and heavy. They were the industrial kind used on construction sites and heavy machinery; not the sort that Katsuya could break with his bare hands, not unless he developed some new superpower in the next ten seconds. It'd simply tire him out and leave him even more vulnerable than he already was.

Shirtless, barefooted, arms extended over his head, wrists bound in metal and winched on a hook hanging from an exposed steel beam, hoisted until his shoulders pulled at their sockets and his tiptoes treading the concrete floor. This already seemed like it was as bad as this could get.

Or so he thought, until a door creaked open and someone stepped into the cavernous space. He came alone, and while the cheeks were more sunken than before, little else about the face had changed since they rancorously parted ways as young teenagers.

"You," he growled.

Hirutani meandered toward him slowly. His clothing still marked him as a thug, low rent despite the gaudy gold chains and piercings. He didn't stop when he finally reached Katsuya, instead circling around as if to inspect him like a piece of meat. Katsuya stiffened as soon as he left his line of sight, and try as he might, he couldn't twist enough to keep an eye on his captor.

After an interminable length of time, Hirutani stopped in front of him. "Howya doin', Joujou?" he greeted as if they were old friends.

Katsuya saw the move coming from miles away. Hirutani made no attempts to hide his intention. But there wasn't much Katsuya could do except slacken his jaw and neck and roll with the punch.

Copper exploded on his tongue. The sickening crunch echoed. His head snapped backward, and he was left rearing and swinging from the force. It knocked him off his toes, which meant his shoulders screamed as they threatened to dislocate under his own body weight.

Even as his feet scrambled to regain their footing, Katsuya made no sound, though. He wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

His breath wheezed out of him. Warm droplets splattered his chilly chest. His nose was definitely broken. Lips were probably busted, too. At least he managed to keep his teeth.

"You just had to go for the face first, you sonuvabitch," he spat, expelling a mix of saliva and blood on the concrete just centimeters shy of Hirutani's shoes. 

"It was pissing me off. You always looked better with a bit of blood on ya."

Katsuya bared his teeth. The lower half of his face ran slick, and a long-dormant sensation stirred within his ribcage. Its claws raked his insides. "Yeah? I could say the same about you. Lemme go and I'll show ya."

Hirutani merely hummed. After a beat, he pressed his scorching palm against Katsuya's sternum and pushed. Once again, he was knocked off his feet, flailing wildly as he tried not to rip his arms from their sockets.

Hirutani's laughter echoed through the abandoned warehouse. "Still putting on the tough guy act when I gotcha like this. It's good to know some things don't change."

"Yeah, neither has your ugly ass mug."

In a burst of strength, he clasped the chain overhead and hoisted himself upward, leveraging the momentum to take a swinging kick. His right foot connected with Hirutani's stomach, a solid hit that sent him wheeling back several steps.

It also left Katsuya wide open.

With a shout, Hirutani lunged forward and caught his ankle in his meaty hands. Panic surged through Katsuya's system, but he couldn't free himself in time. Hirutani gave a cruel twist, and an agonized cry clawed out of Katsuya's throat. Abruptly, Hirutani dropped him. Katsuya's foot barely twitched, and white-hot pain seared his leg.

Fuck, he couldn't put weight on his right leg anymore.

Hirutani wasn't done with him either. Blows pelted him. Each knocked the air from his lungs and sent him helplessly swinging in the wind. His shoulders creaked with the chains.

He became a human punching bag.

(Or a yo-yo. He would've laughed if someone was trying to beat the shit out of him.)

By the time Hirutani let up, the other man was breathing harshly. Sweat dripped from his furrowed brows and landed on Katsuya's neck when he wrenched his head back. "This would go a lot easier if you learned your place."

"Fuck you," he gasped, ears ringing.

The world spun. Faster than a tilt-a-whirl. God, he wanted to puke.

The rough hand fell away from his hair. He lolled his head forward, jutting his bloodied chin out. Their eyes locked. Katsuya refused to look away, though his eyes watered from the pain.

A sleazy grin wormed across Hirutani's face. "I'll give you some time to calm down and consider your situation. When I come back, we can have a nice, friendly chat. Like old times."

Katsuya could only fume while Hirutani exited. The sound of clicking heels retreated into the distance until there was only silence and his own labored breathing.

****

The worst thing about being kidnapped—and Katsuya had been captured enough times to say this with relative confidence—was the boredom. Because eventually, his mind numbed like his arms. Just like the rest of his body when the cold settled into his bones. Then, he was left with nothing to do except stare at the same four walls.

Should he be plotting his escape? Absolutely.

For all the good that'd do for him, because he wouldn't get far on that ankle...

Every time he forgot to support himself and leaned too heavily on his right ankle, a searing pain reminded him how momentously he'd screwed up. He was not only a sitting duck. He was a lame one, too.

More uncontrolled shivers wracked his body. The warehouse was neither well-insulated nor heated. Maybe if he was lucky, he'd succumb to hypothermia before whatever sick plans Hirutani had in mind.

There was another reason mind-numbing boredom was preferable. The only other options were his racing thoughts.

How long had he been here? How long had he been knocked out cold beforehand? Would anyone notice him missing? Maybe his co-workers would. Shit, what about Scapegoat? Who was going to feed him? His poor cat didn't deserve to suffer because he was stuck here. And Seto—

A slamming door reverberated off the walls with the volume of thunder. It yanked Jounouchi from the miasma of his dangerous spiraling.

As promised, Hirutani returned.

Katsuya stared long and hard as he approached.

"What's wrong? Didja miss me?" the thug arched his eyebrow.

"Yeah, like foot fungus," Katsuya deadpanned.

"Joujou,"—the old nickname alone made Katsuya want to hurl—"is that any way to talk to an old friend?"

"You got the old part right. Yeesh, ya ever heard of moisturizer? But I guess nothing ages ya like being a useless piece of sh—"

The blow to his stomach left him reeling and dry-heaving.

Shut up, shut up. He could hear Seto's voice hissing in his head.

He was doing everything wrong. He knew he was.

Years ago, when his "boyfriend" status was freshly minted in the public eye, Seto made him sit through a lecture from the head of corporate security about how to act if he was ever kidnapped. The hour-long lecture could be distilled down to three main points: don't make eye contact with the captor and give them the impression you could be a threat; try to foster a personal connection and appeal to their humanity; and make them want to help you.

It was safe to say Katsuya had done the exact opposite.

But this was no random kidnapper. This was Hirutani, and they had a "personal connection" and history neither could erase.

"There you go running that mouth of yours again. I admit it used to be cute when we were kids. Like a yapping dog. At least you had the bite to go with the bark."

Choosing to focus on the floor, Katsuya took several fortifying breaths before he replied, "Cut the crap. Whaddya want with me? If it's money, I ain't got much. You'd get more knocking over a liquor store."

Dirt-splattered shoes edged forward. "I dunno. There's probably someone willing to pay out the nose for ya."

Goosebumps erupted across Katsuya's clammy skin, but he refused to react. Did Hirutani intend to use him to blackmail Seto? Or sell him to a third party for one purpose or another?

"But first, you and I are gonna catch up. Reminisce about the good old days."

Katsuya's breath hitched, but he raised his head to meet Hirutani's gaze dead-on. "There was nothing 'good' 'bout it. The lying, the bullying, the thieving, the fights—it was all a shitshow."

"Doesn't change the fact that you owe me. I took care of ya and ya betrayed me."

"I don't owe ya jack shit! The only one you ever cared about was yourself!" A barking laugh tore out of him. "That's what this is about, ain't it? You're in some kinda trouble and in over your head, so you've decided to use me as an ATM/punching bag combo?"

Hirutani's expression darkened. He had no immediate retort.

Something jagged as shrapnel rattled in Katsuya's chest. "Shit, Hiru, don't tell me I gotcha number there. That's lame, dude."

"Do you think you'd be here today if it wasn't for me? You'd be nothing without me."

"I outgrew you," spat Katsuya. "Moved onto bigger and better things instead of rolling around in the mud you're clearly still stuck in."

Hirutani narrowed his eyes, invaded the scant bubble of personal space Katsuya had in such a situation, and grabbed his jaw in a bruising iron grip. His tar-ridden breath washed over Katsuya's face as he laughed, "Bigger and better, huh? Is that what ya call taking that rich boy's limp dick up your ass? Being Kaiba's pampered little bitch gotta have its perks somewhere."

He bristled. He couldn't say what raised his rankles more: the insinuations about his sex life, which wasn't Hirutani's and anyone else's business, or the casual denigration of his almost decade-long relationship.

"Keep his name out of your mouth," he snarled and bared his teeth.

"Tell me I'm wrong, Jounouchi, cuz it looks to me like you've gone soft."

Hirutani released his chin, only to pinch his midsection. Katsuya resisted squeaking, but he felt the skin distend. His body was different from what it used to be, from what Hirutani remembered from their youth. He was now flabbier and his belly carried a soft curve. Security, stability, and love furnished him with more than skin, bone, and the scrappy muscle needed for survival in between.

Which was not an easy notion for Katsuya to accept, but he had been trying to in recent times. It was not a bad thing. It was not a failing, as Hirutani seemed to suggest with his venomous tone.

Katsuya was more than the beaten dog others had treated him as. He deserved more than scraps.

Hirutani continued, hissing with a seething rage, "You used to be a fighter. You used crack jaws and skulls like peanuts. Now look at you."

If only Hirutani came a tad closer, he could bite the bastard's nose right off.

Instead, Hirutani reeled back, followed by a hocking sound emanating from his throat. Something warm and slimy landed on Katsuya's cheek. It left a gooey trail as it dripped down his chin. He froze, caught between disgust and rage. His fingers curled into fists around the chain he couldn't break.

The sonuvabitch spat on him.

"Pathetic." Hirutani sneered and flashed his yellow-stained teeth. "What? You think your fag boyfriend's coming to your rescue?"

Not anytime soon, unfortunately. Seto was abroad for another week, swamped with business. It might be a day or two before he noticed anything awry. For the first time, he regretted not taking Seto on his offer to accompany him to the tech conference. Las Vegas must be heaven compared to this.

Not that he'd tell Hirutani any of that.

"That's up to you. Y'know Kaiba's a scorched earth kinda guy, right?" He stared down the length of his broken nose at the other man. "If you let me go now, he might kill ya fast. Not me, though. I'd make it last."

Threatening his kidnapper probably topped the list of things he shouldn't do. But Katsuya was too angry to care.

"You act like you and your boy toy are the only ones that can hold a grudge. I got one, too, y'know. And it's with you. You'll be begging me to put you down like a dog before I'm done." Hirutani's eyes gleamed with malice as he peeled something from his waistband.

At first, Katsuya thought it was a gun. But then he recognized it as something that made the pit of his stomach drop. He broke into a cold sweat when he saw the electricity that arced between two metal prongs. Air whooshed out of his lungs, and it didn't come back.

His mind blanked before the taser ever touched his skin. The screams, however, arose loudly and involuntarily.

Read other prompt fill ficlets here

If you wanna read another fic where Hirutani kidnaps both Kaiba and Jounouchi, I highly recommend @chesacakeripper's About to Break. Please let them know how awesome and amazing their fic is.

[jomiddlemarch]

Writing Patterns

Tagged by @iamstartraveller776 Thank you! 💜

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

Hermione took a deep breath. 

“Thank you for agreeing to see me. You’re the only person I can ask,” Draco said.

Rose stood before her, drooping, her braids coming undone, shoes scuffed, a new rip in her overalls, giving Hermione a look of absolute incredulity when faced with the undeniable truth: Hermione had forgotten to pack snacks.

It was not that he was waiting for her as much as that he was most often in the faculty sitting room at this hour and so was she and the staff knew to leave out a full tea service and also a magically chilled bottle of very dry amontillado, the color of her eyes. 

“I Owled Molly,” Hermione said, tossing the words over her shoulder while she fussed with the copper teakettle.

“Beltane, sex magic, and a botanical aphrodisiac,” Hermione said.

Taking in-house on-call at St. Mungo’s on Imbolc wasn’t the absolute worst, as far as Hermione was concerned.

“Be honest—”

“There used to be offices. Actual fucking offices, doors, windows, generic black and white landscape photography in a black frame because they wanted to be a little edgy, architect-school-wannabes,” Nina announced at the water cooler, which had been moved out of what was nominally the kitchen-slash-lounge, so that it was less appealing to stand around and chat.

It took a lot to shut them down in Jackson, but getting two feet of snow dumped over the course of a short winter’s night followed by plummeting temperatures effectively did the trick.

I think what I notice is I tend to start with someone talking OR a very long sentence. I occasionally mix that up for myself by starting with something very short. I also nearly always start with a main character vs. the setting.

Tagging @orlissa @trulybetty @nervousladytraveler @tortoisesshells @aquitainequeen @ladamedusoif and anyone else who wants to navel-gaze.

[atsadi-shenanigans]

Feeding Alligators 33 - Dream Date

You run into a whole mess of problems. Nothing in Faerun is what it seems and everybody's a goddamn liar.

On AO3.

A woman stands over you. Short hair, more copper than scarlet, ears loaded with piercings, two barbels glinting on the bridge of her nose. The face is a bit off, and some of the piercings are in the wrong location. But she still looks so much like—

“Sasha?” you say.

Not-Sasha kneels, her hands glowing, fucking eyes glowing. Her voice is urgent, the timbre too low.

“You are transforming,” she says.

Trans…? You’re even more crushingly exhausted than you were before you went to bed. And it’s not just the guilt and turmoil of killing someone and then everything else that happened. Your skin is covered in a sheen of sweat. Your tunic clings to you. Your teeth ache and your bones feel like they’re splintering into shards.

“What?” you say. To your horror, your mouth feels mushy.

Not-Shasha’s hands move. Her face pinches in worry.

That woman on the butthole ship, her face ripped open as tentacles spilled out. They said you melted from the inside, oh god, oh god no, it’s—

But Not-Sasha’s hands are cool as she palms your cheek, runs that palm over your face. The blue glow of what you assume is magic soaks into you. Your entire body seems to settle; tissue firms up. Your teeth reattach their roots back into your jaw and your tongue remembers its shape.

“Who,” you say and sit up. Your body is yours, again. “Oh god. I was…I almost…”

“I came just in time,” Not-Sasha says. “Don’t worry. You won’t become a mindflayer. Not while I’m around.”

And who the fuck is she?

She offers a hand. You hesitate, but take it and let her pull you to your feet.

She’s taller than Sasha—not a difficult accomplishment—but scrawnier. And where Sasha’s eyes are bright, sky blue, this knockoff wannabe’s are sort of hazel.

Thing is, she’s also familiar in her own way. The echo of her voice reverberates in your ears.

The butthole ship. You almost catch the ghost of a memory, a specter out of the corner of your eye. The ship breaking up, spilling out into emptiness. Your mind blanked in sheer terror. You’d screamed, screamed until your air ran out, then sucked in a breath against hurricane winds to scream more. You do not have a visual memory; brain had spooked like a new horse and blanked that right out.

You’d stopped. That part finally surfaces all hazy in the back of your mind. Something had caught you right before you went splat all over the landscape. Kept your skull from smashing like a watermelon.

“I saved you before,” Not-Sasha says. “And I’m here to save you again. I’ll protect you from the tadpole, block the transformation.”

What the fuck how the fuck, you want to say. But Not-Sasha listens to something in the distance, and her face is grim.

“Listen carefully,” she says. “We don’t have time.”

You follow her over to a jumble of rocks, where she pulls a Yoda on and mindwhammies them off into space with a wave of her hand. Revealing a giant fucking skull with flashing lights and some kind of forcefield and a lot of warped screaming.

“There’s a fight for Faerun occurring even now,” she says. “And we are losing.”

Phantoms in space fizzle out of existence. There’s a lot more of them, fighting what looks like a shrinking group of others. Her group?

“But you might be able to change all that,” Not-Sasha says. And then explains.

Something about potential, about the parasite, about its power. Specifically, learning to use its power. Which makes your guts go all hinky like when you see tarantula legs sticking out of the shoe you were two seconds from jamming your foot into. It’s all a bit convenient. And interesting that she would wait until your bones were fucking dissolving to make this little speech at you.

And why the fuck does she look so much like Sasha. That’s the part that skeeves you out the worst.

Something explodes over at the skull. Not-Sasha’s lips press thin (Sasha had a lip ring; this…thing does not).

“The enemy comes,” Not-Sasha says. “You must return. Use the power. It’s the only way.”

And then she does a Jedi hand fling and smacks you right off into space. For the second time in a week, you slam back into your body. Bolt upright and stare at the dark fabric of your tent. The night is quiet, save for the soft sound of canvas flapping gently in the wind.

“Ghaik!” Lae’zel shouts.

***

From what you gather, y’all had the same dream. Seems to be differing opinions, generally landing in camp “GHAIK!” and camp “Astarion looks entirely too thoughtful.” You ain’t sure of the specifics, because the goddamn potion ran the fuck out. You’re reduced to hovering next to the rekindled campfire while half the crew keeps Lae’zel from going full rabies on all y’all.

Gale hands you a mug of tea. You sip that and watch the fuckery, and wish it was a mocha.

Astarion says something and he’s got that goblin grin, and it’s kind of nice to see somebody else take Lae’zel’s cold glare off’a you. Not that Astarion even notices.

All said and done, it’s mid-morning once everybody is all packed up and ready to go. The grove is quiet in the low, morning mist. Dew glints on long grass and the fur of a slumbering bear. No dead bodies, so apparently nobody started revenge killing in the night. Hopefully it stays that way.

You wonder how that’s going to go if the old auntie really is as good as her word. These people and their political clusterfuck, the missing druid, the goblins. What Not-Sasha will do with whatever propaganda Amway bullshit she was trying to sell you.

You’ll still be stuck here, still helpless, and this group will one hundred percent break apart.

You don’t think Wyll will abandon the tieflings here, even after he kills that demon woman. Maybe he’ll let you tag along and, like, wash his clothes or something? Or you can go with the tieflings (though none of them know you at all). Or someone will rescue this Halsin guy and the druids will let you sleep on their metaphorical couch (because they’ve been so welcoming to refugees).

Fuck. Fuck McFuckity fuck.

Still. Better than tentacle-face, regardless of phantom dream douche promises of protection.

What’s gonna happen is gonna happen. You can’t stop it. You can only control your reactions (lying in the mud accomplishes nothing). So you stand by as Gale does his mojo shit. As a purple portal flares open. As Wyll volunteers himself to go through first. And when he doesn’t stumble back, turned to hamburger or screaming with shredded lungs, the others follow.

Until it’s your turn. Gale—Astarion lurking just over his shoulder because he’s waiting for everyone else, isn’t he—gives you a smile and a nod. At least he’s put your dissolved ring to good use.

You step through.

It feels weird. It feels like nothing. Like you just stop. No pulse, no breathing, no thoughts. No you. Then a flash and you have legs and a spleen again. You stumble. Your foot catches something almost squishy and you barely catch yourself from tripping into murky stink water. Turn to see what you stepped on and those are human bodies.

You stare. The others have drawn close, weapons out. Astarion emerges, spots the bodies, and does a kind of hop-skip right over them. Makes a guttural “er?” sound in his throat.

Then Gale’s through—he stops before the bodies—and the portal disappears and y’all are in that fucking swamp with two freshly dead guys who have been torn open and pulled inside out like someone digging impatiently through a coin purse.

This isn’t like the bodies those redcaps left. This is much worse, much more savage. Plus there’s no viscera. These guys got filleted open and somebody scooped out their organs and those organs are nowhere to be seen.

You look at the swamp. Look at the others. Pull out your map and see that yep, you sure are right near the teahouse.

Old Auntie Ethel with her potions and cures. Gandrel coming here for information. Witches and body parts.

Auntie Ethel is the fucking swamp hag, ain’t she.

“Ethel bad,” you say.

Gale’s lips press thin. Then, you assume, “Ethel very bad.”

***

Ethel is, indeed, the hag. And she was, indeed, extremely fucking scary. Especially after she’d given you another dirt potion and then her skin split, spilling queasy, green light and she turned into a fucking swamp monster.

All she wanted for a tadpole extraction was your eye. You didn’t give her so much of a strand of your hair, because that shit is how you pick up fucking familial curses.

There was no sign of Gandrel (or his parts) (you hoped), but there was a miserable looking girl, heavily pregnant, face streaked with cried-over eyeliner.

Y’all should have let it be. But Wyll didn’t get that memo, and honestly? He was right not to. Not that you had any room to judge as your entire contribution to the clusterfuck that followed was whacking a masked guy over the head until he fell, and then systematically breaking both his kneecaps.

The corpse, once she was finally dead, looks smaller than it did in life. Less a big monster, more a collection of dried sticks and moss and swamp grass. You keep your distance (bitch was throwing poison the entire time).

Y’all are battered, bruised, bleeding, or fucking poisoned. And the girl y’all did this for is too busy screaming insults to mind a flock of fucking witch crows (you want to clock her in the mouth so bad, just once).

A crow caws. You think nothing of it until another answers. Then another. More and more, and y’all are now surrounded by a murder of them, standing, staring, and cawing at y’all. Then one launches itself into the air in a burst of black wings and the murder moves.

There’s shouting and flailing (that part from you). And through it all, you notice one crow land on the hag’s head. Hop along her face. There’s something wrong with that bird. Weirdly skinny. Its wing is broken—

Oh.

Oh, nope. Not broken. just rotted halfway off. Feathers missing in clumps to reveal slimy, brown bone beneath. And where its eyes should be are two, empty sockets.

“Oh my god,” you say.

The crow ducks down. Its black beak catches something and it tugs once, twice. Pops something free and lifts…

It’s got one of Ethel’s eyeballs, optical nerve trailing down like a diseased worm. The eyeless crow looks right at you. Cocks its head first one way, then the other, and then throws itself back into the air.

As one, the murder coalesces. Forms a swirling, clacking, coughing cloud that rises like a column of smoke to disappear back the way y’all came. When you look down again, the body is picked clean. You’d only seen the one bird, but somehow, the carcass is stripped down to nothing but bones and rags.

“We should leave right now,” you say.

No one argues.

Previous - Index - Next Chapter

[deusexlachina]

Wannabe Warden Part 12: Really regret my choice of transition goals

In which Aveline Hawke realizes she might have fucked up when she was named after the one most invincible woman she ever knew. (Even besides Other Aveline being still alive)

Other Aveline has an important mission for me, so I dutifully report to her. What is it this time, Other Aveline? Tevinter slavers? Demon summoners? Sister Petrice, the Priestess of Meanness (yet again)? No, this is much easier. I just have to deliver a box to her subordinate. No questions asked.

I nod and wink, understanding that this is clearly a bribe to cover up my numerous very very illegal activities. But Donnic opens it up right in front of me, and it's flowers. Made of copper. Is that a thing in Kirkwall? Apparently not, since Donnic doesn't know what they're for. He thinks they're trash, but they sure as hell aren't because I've personally collected every other piece of trash in Kirkwall and none of them are copper flowers.

While I'm wondering where Other Aveline got this strange artifact, Donnic shoes me away, saying that we both have various things to do...of varying import. He's got better things to do, like get attacked so Other Aveline can save him. (It's an excellent PR racket). To add insult to injury, he takes a page from Sister Petrice and calls me Serah.

Other Aveline then gives her direct subordinate the Hightown patrol, which she explains is a nice easy job, though only because I've killed the small army of powerful assassins fatally stabbing anyone in sight. Unfortunately, Donnic wrongly assumes this is an undeserved punishment instead of flagrant corruption and sexual harrassment in the police force.

At this point, Other Aveline decides she needs to send her direct subordinate a dowry of a goat and wheat (the "Settlers-of-Catan Special"). Merrill, doesn't follow, because she's autistic, from another culture, and also what Other Aveline is doing frankly just beggars belief regardless of how socially adept you are.

Other Aveline finds Merrill's innocence embarrassing. Honestly, Merrill. She's just trying to unilaterally marry her direct subordinate by sending him livestock and a unique but entirely worthless artifact. What part of that is hard to understand.

I ask her why she's trying to seduce her direct subordinate, and she explains that Donnic may not be the most attractive, richest, or even the best cook, but. Uh. He's. Something. And he's better than the other members of the Kirkwall guard, which, given that this is far and away the smallest scandal plaguing the force, is an extremely low bar. THE COMPHET IS REAL GUYS

I tell her I would rather not be complicit in this unethical and quite probably illegal scheme. This would piss her off significantly, but I have a way around that - the perfect gift, the shield of the one true Ser Aveline! (As an item it is called the "Shield of the Knight Herself," since it would be just silly to have three Avelines).

She receives this gift rather rudely, sniffing that she has a shield - Wesley's shield. This is because I equipped her with it to remind her it still exists. Otherwise she would get mad at me for selling Ser Wesley's shield, even though it's tucked away safe in my Storage along with all companions' starting weapons, which is more care than I give to most of my own keepsakes. She doesn't want this new one. When I ask her why her namesake wouldn't have a special connection to her, she says she didn't choose the name Aveline.

Because I sweet-talk her into actually keeping the shield, she's my Bestest Friend Forever and thus I can safely talk her into deciding to drop the stuff with Donnic. In a rare moment of my choices actually mattering, if you don't set up Other Aveline and Donnic, they really don't get together, which is good because I don't ship it.

Even without this shameless abuse of her post, Other Aveline is not doing a very good job keeping the city safe. She shows up at my house to tell me about a job investigating a lead from the templar Ser Emeric about a suspected blood mage serial killer. It's really just to stop people complaining. It's probably nothing. After all, her guard searched the place, and surely they would have found something if there was anything to find.

I then check the house myself, and as soon as I open the door we are accosted by numerous demons, which infest every room in the house. Other Aveline sheepishly mumbles that her guards probably hadn't "met that particular reception." I wonder whether her guards actually stepped through the door.

We also find now-redundant evidence that someone's been doing demon magic here - highly incriminating notes, vials of blood, the works. It's all over the place. It doesn't even look like the killer bothered to hide it. Aside from the dozens of demons infesting the house, there are exactly two people here, one of whom is a woman screaming on the ground and one of whom is a blood mage, Gascard Dupuis, who just forcibly took some of her blood. He says he's just trying to save his sister, which is one of few occasions in the series that someone outright lies to you yet bothers to make up a half-believable cover story. But the survivor, and all the evidence, say he's an evil wizard who tortures women, so I tell him I don't believe him, whereupon he summons even more demons at the drop of his favourite hat, which I loot off his corpse.

As soon as I report back to the templars, I learn that Ser Emeric has been lured away and, when I track him down, murdered. Dupuis had an accomplice, and an extremely fast-acting one, too, because I've done all the other main quests up to this point. As soon as I get home, my mom's missing. Other Aveline says her guards are on it, which, knowing her guards by now, means it's all down to me.

Fortunately, there's an extremely obvious trail of blood leading to a foundry. Other Aveline recognizes this as the place we investigated previously, back in Act 1. Well, Other Aveline. That was three years ago. And in those three years, none of her guards discovered a not-very-secret hatch into an evil blood mage laboratory where a serial killer is making women into patchwork monsters. "We should've known there was something else here," indeed.

We make short work of the blood mage and his minions, but it's too late. Mom's already just a head stuck onto a body made of numerous other women. Despite the fact that none of the numerous things you can do about this situation will save her, I find this part somewhat refreshing, just because it's the first time poor Aveline Hawke comes across as really distraught. Even Glib!Hawke is quipping only to try and comfort herself and her mom, and it's far from the usual Standup Routine voice.

Mom's dead. I grieve along with Uncle Gamlen. Two of my friends comfort me - Isabela, because she's my girlfriend now, and Other Aveline, because she was a family friend and partly responsible for the flagrant negligence that got my mom killed. The others give their consolations in ambient party banters.

We're truly orphaned, now. The only other surviving Hawke is Bethany, and each day she faces grave danger fighting darkspawn. More than ever, I need to join her. I need to become a Grey Warden.

[mildkleptomania]

What are some important Figures in the Tomes setting? Legendary, Myths, still living ones.

(Asking questions is the one thing I am good at, you don't need to answer mine in order of them being sent but as you feel like would make sense)

Mythologically, the Firesmith is one of the more important figures in the setting; being a volcanic blacksmithing god, and credited with sending its servitors to teach early mortals both how to use pyromancy and how to work copper, thus making it directly responsible for both the copper age (and all metalwork that followed it) as well as the first discipline of magic (and all disciplines of magic that followed it)

Despite its alleged immense impact on history, the Firesmith does not seem currently active in the setting, and presumably either died, left into space, or left into another plane of existence; that said, it is (or at least was) definitely real, because the now-dormant volcano it once dwelt in still has the empty, discarded exoskeletal shells of its many enormous limbs sprawled across it

(the Firesmith is also credited with creating several new materials to better suit its needs, most prominently the setting's version of adamantine)

The Makers are the setting's obligatory Ancient Advanced Precursor Civilization; unfortunately for them, this also means that their civilization exploded in a cataclysmic event, but since the reason it exploded was the fact a superweapon they were attempting to use backfired on them, at least some of them might've deserved it

The Makers didn't call themselves that; they called their civilization Kyria, which lends its name to the region their empire was founded in, as well as the Kyrian language group descended from the language they once spoke

The reason they're known as Makers is because of all the things that they created; unlike many fantasy settings, where the ancient precursors have robots that stuck around all this time, most of what they created that survived to the modern era was various species of plant and animal, now called Makerbeasts, which have permeated the ecosystem to the point that a significant number of modern creatures have some Makerbeast ancestry

(also of note, while the Makers themselves were mostly elves, and elves were one of the groups descended from the common ancestor of most of the setting's sapient species, the Makers did directly create the most common exception)

Most of the characters I've put into the Tomes setting have been adventurer types or random minor antagonists; while the former group eventually become important after they, like, kill a wannabe god and save the world or whatever, I don't think they really count

That said, there are a number of major political figures; the two I'm going to focus on are the Queen-Regent of Kayendell and the current Baroness Darkmire (of Darkmire), mostly for the contrast

Both have been ruling their respective countries for generations; but the Queen-Regent's however-many greats grandmother got queenship by overthrowing a tyrant ruling a powerful country, and has begun sliding more and more into tyrannical imperialism herself after forgetting the lessons her ancestors learnt, while the earlier Barons Darkmire blew enough of the treasury on first hedonism and then trying in vain to uncurse themselves that Darkmire has fallen into relative poverty on top of being built in a swamp, and the current Baroness, while also suffering the curse that plagues her citizens and lineage, is doing her damned best to make Darkmire a marginally better place to live with her comparatively minimal resources

[gamerbearmira]

Maybe Dolores could sponges absorbs sond

You know I had an idea?? Similar to that. Dolores is made of the same metal that Bella are made from (copper+tin). She can absorb sound and if you hit her with something, or she just simply runs into something too hard, it’ll go off, and it’s this loud ringing sound. It doesn’t really hurt Dolores so much as it does other people, because her gift doesn’t seem to work that well on herself (or other bells).

She does get rather shaken up and she has to stand still for a minute to catch herself. And she’s a little prone to headaches if she rings too loud, cause if hit too hard, it’ll rattle her brain, literally (not very much, but still enough to make her head hurt). She moves pretty carefully because of this. Another funny thing is she is the biggest conductor when it comes to her parents 😭

I’m a wannabe Junji Ito, because that’s where a big inspiration of this AU came from 💀💀 It wasn’t just the Law of Equivalent Exchange from FMA. Like realistically, they’re exchanges are much more horrifying, and it similar to FMA in a way as well. Not Tucker horrifying, but like. Edward and Alphonse trying to bring their mother back horrifying. Their exchanges have a lot of set backs, even with the ones without gifts like Agustín, Felíx, Mirabel and Alma. Sometimes they can’t even go out because they might hurt the villagers on accident, or the villagers are just plain scared and will refuse help, but that’s pretty rare.

[seashellsandteacups]

A Brother Named Gethsemane

Naked blue boy put down your pipe. They found your shoes in the meadow. Mom’s and Dad’s hearts are overripe.

Pluck that crimson orb rusted package from the branches mother’s arms our tree you’ve chopped away at for too long with your mouth-bright ax pretty-teethed boy. Chop chop-ping. No stopping this Lost-boy-of-our-wilting-garden. Peter Pan wannabe. Peter be wanna pan. Oh don’t grow up now. Don’t turn away from the gapings on Mama’s trunk. Watch them glow with us electric gashes wounds like hurt-lanterns you’ve lit. Sit Indian-legged under this moon. Hurtling shiny bullet. Hungry boy. Licking your ruby-crusted lips. Fingerpicking father’s red-swelled eyes from where he cowers. A beat bush smoldering with shame. Old men should be allowed to sob in privacy. Turn up the radio. Tune in to the border stations those pirate Mexican heroin melodies. We’ve got to got to got to get back to that stinking garden.

Flyblown figs shimmer at you my bug-eyed boy. The glitzy-bodied flies boogie-woogie to your static grin numbing you while sexy screwworms empty you like a black hole. Ecstasy that must look pretty from inside—to core not just an apple but the entire orchard the family even the dog. Leave the shells to the crows. A field of red lampshades in the dark Garden of Myiasis. This is no cultivated haven. This is the earth riddled with a brother. The furrows are mountains. Waves of sand and we are ships wrecked. What’s left of a fleet of one hundred shadows shattered and bleached. A crop gone to sticks. The honeysuckle sags with bright sour powder. We have followed the flames followed him here where all the black birds in the world have fallen like a shotgun blast to the faded ground. The vines have hardened to worms baking in the desert heat. We are at the gate shaking the gate climbing the gate clanging our cups against the gate. This is no garden. This is my brother and I need a shovel to love him.

From WHEN MY BROTHER WAS AN AZTEC (Copper Canyon Press, 2012)

[harudnae]

I marked Copper, Silver and Gold as complete but inspiration came back so here's more!

CW: character death, skip the last paragraph after the very last horizontal line if you want to avoid bad feelings.

Also posted on AO3 on 2024.02.19

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Roger x Rayleigh x Gaban

Summary: Their story is a funny story too, a tale full of laughter.

Content warnings: major character death (off-screen, at the very end of the fic), spoilers for Wano, idiots in love, fluff, feels, polyamory, heavy drinking, shanks x buggy kiss, rated M for nudity and mentions of sex

Word count: 3k

✨ Waraibanashi

Rayleigh laughs at the young wannabe-pirate telling him their meeting is fate.

Roger laughs too, and invites himself aboard his stolen ship.

He who laughs last, laughs best.

Roger is big, he's loud, he's proud and stubborn. And against all odds, his presence aboard the ship and into Rayleigh's life has become comfortable and familiar irritatingly fast.

Rayleigh can't wrap his mind about the undeniable fact that he now truly enjoys Roger's company, that he even finds himself looking forward to the next unlikely adventure he'd drag them into. The worst thing? He even laughs about it.

Roger brought him unpredictability, along with the audacity of someone who doesn't give a single fuck and simply lives.

Rayleigh just had to adapt and improvise, had to get out of his carefully constructed comfort zone so he could follow Roger. He's still asking himself why, because of course he's still wondering, Roger might have impacted the way he acts but he remains the same deep inside.

But it doesn't matter, there's no comfort zone anymore, or rather, Roger is his comfort zone. As long as they're together, Rayleigh's confident they can go through anything.

And Roger's right here, laughing his heart out on the deck under the storm that threatens to capsize their tiny ship.

And Rayleigh stares at him, thinking that his life is absolutely absurd. And then he laughs, because he wouldn't want it any other way.

Rayleigh ponders the mysteries of life. More precisely, he wonders how he developed such a huge crush on Roger.

It definitely started with Roger's comfortable presence in his life.

The way Rayleigh missed the familiar warmth by his side on the rare occasion when Roger woke up and got out of bed before him, the way Rayleigh knew he'd have a good day just because they would spend it together... He should have had a hint then, but it became clearer much later.

Then Roger wanted to explore the East Blue, and dragged him out of his comfort zone, always pushing him forward with unwavering trust that they'd get through anything together.

Rayleigh thought it was trust, and in a way, it is. But it's so blind, so solid and most importantly, it was there right away. Unlike trust, that would build over time after learning to know each other, something that just was from the instant they met. It was faith. And faith is something Rayleigh never had an interest in, until he started feeling something just close enough to it for Roger, too.

On the occasion when Rayleigh gets hurt in a fight, Roger goes berserk against the whole lot of their foes – these are the very, very rare moments where Rayleigh is slightly scared of Roger, but mostly proud and glad to be fighting by his side instead of against him – and afterwards, Roger always takes care of Rayleigh like he's the most precious thing in the world.

Slightly annoyed to be treated like he's made of glass, Rayleigh often complains then, but with time, he lets Roger tear down his barriers one by one, until he allows him to pamper him and give him all the affection he can.

Roger tells him then, "You always take such good care of me. You teach me stuff and cook good food. For once, I can take good care of you, too."

And only then it hits Rayleigh like a brick in the face. It's not trust, it's not faith, it's endless devotion, and it's mutual. He huffs a surprised laugh. "Okay. I can go with that." And for a while, he does, until something new starts bothering him.

Roger is a man. A very manly man.

Rayleigh has always been a ladies' man. Well... Rayleigh was a ladies' man, since apparently he's attracted to Roger too, now.

Roger. Big, loud, stubborn, affectionate, devoted Roger. Stupidly handsome, obnoxiously beefy, effortlessly charming Roger. A heart as big as the sun and hands twice as warm.

Rayleigh huffs a startled laugh when his dangerous train of thoughts derail.

Roger glances at him, smiling, then resumes peeling his share of potatoes. His skin is glistening with sweat under the sunlight filtering from the clouds.

Rayleigh's gaze travels up Roger's arm and follows the curve of his shoulder. His thoughts drift back to the warmth of Roger's skin, and Rayleigh feels the increasingly urgent need to feel it against his own. He wants to taste it. He shouldn't think about it too much, but it's so tempting.

Roger exhales a low chuckle. "I can feel your stare, you know."

Damn Observation Haki. Rayleigh tilts his head up and his gaze finds Roger's mouth stretched in a smile. He stares a little, wondering what these lips taste like, and by the time he finally meets Roger's gaze he thinks he's an idiot and he's probably just about to mess something up between them.

But Roger only smiles. "I can hear your gears turning from here."

Rayleigh exhales a surprised laugh. "Yeah, sorry."

"Say what you want", Roger invitingly says. After a quiet while, he adds, "I'd give you anything, you know."

Rayleigh's eyes open wide at that, and he just knows that he'd do the same, he's known for a while how devoted to each other they've been and– "I love you", he blurts out before his brain catches up.

Roger instantly lightens up, and he all but throws himself in for a searing kiss.

When they finally break apart, Rayleigh is positively out of breath and he has an uncontrollable fit of laughter at the absurdity of the situation, and the way Roger defused any worried he might have had like he always does.

Roger laughs too, eyes shining with mirth and want. "I love you, too."

Roger's been talking about recruiting more people for a couple of years now.

Rayleigh knows that eventually they'll need to do so since they want to head to the Grand Line soon, but he doesn't know where to start.

Does Roger have any idea how hard it is to find people they would want to travel the world with?

Eventually, they laugh with Gaban on the day they meet him, and they laugh again, all together aboard their small ship, at night after he agrees to sail with them.

It's absurd, the way he joins them, but Rayleigh doesn't mind half as much as he thought he would.

Rayleigh swears he was a ladies' man at some point in his life. And now he fears Roger might have twisted his preferences forever, because he thinks Gaban is very, very handsome.

Roger eventually solves the problem by revealing he's got a crush on him too, and from then on they all kind of, just, are together.

Rayleigh doesn't understand how it works, but it just does. He laughs at the absurdity of it all, and marvels at Roger's stubborn attitude that got him aboard that fateful day. He can't imagine his life without either of them now, and he's glad Roger insisted.

Gaban filled whatever space was left aboard their ship and in their hearts.

Now they feel complete, at last, ready to take the world by storm and mark history.

(As well as each other's skins, too, but that's another story.)

The day they take turns marrying themselves to one another gives them yet another collection of stories to retell and laugh about.

First, Roger is so impatient to get married to Rayleigh that he all but rushes the ceremony so that he can finally slide a gold ring on Rayleigh's finger and, most importantly, eat his face in front of everyone, smiling like an idiot.

Gaban rolls his eyes but doesn't really fare better when Rayleigh replaces him and takes his sweet time before they actually get to the point. He's antsy and seems just about to burst from anticipation alone when finally, Rayleigh calls for the rings.

And then Gaban can't find his.

It takes him all of ten frantic minutes to throw everything in his cabin upside down before he finally finds the two copper rings he just fucking forgot to take with him after days of preparation.

He's back flushed from embarrassment, under the roaring laughter of the whole crew.

Roger is more impatient than ever, and before the ring slides to his last knuckle, he pulls Gaban in for a fierce kiss.

Rayleigh joins the hollers and subsequent collective fit of laughter.

(They're idiots, but they're his idiots, and he loves them to the sun and back.)

Once copper and silver shine on his hand, Roger's eagerness turns a little softer, and he very seriously holds the last office of the day. He tears up a little when he gets to the rings, and he gives Rayleigh and Gaban a moment together before hauling both of them up for a tight hug. Their feet aren't back on the deck yet that Roger is already calling for the party.

They eat to their hearts content around the feast with their whole crew cheering for them all. They get stupid drunk and party until dawn, happy with their decision to get married at sea because the their ship is their home first and foremost, but also because no land could have possibly endured the ruckus they make that night.

And they're slurring and swaying, and they're clumsy once they drank the whole lot of their crewmates under the table, but they're stupidly in love and stupidly happy and also maybe, just a little, stupidly horny.

So they make their way over their drunken nakama sleeping on the decks, occasionally bumping on a leg or an arm, slurring half-baked excuses while their hands are busy doing anything else than steadying themselves.

They all have their coats and shirts off, they have been discarded for a good part of the night already, but they're all clearly intending to remove more layers of clothes and get all over each other.

Rayleigh clings onto Roger, fully taking advantage of his drunken state as an excuse to run his hands across Roger's heated skin.

(As if he ever needed an excuse. As if Roger wasn't enjoying the situation, too.)

Gaban isn't faring much better, shamelessly groping Rayleigh's ass while his mouth leans in, dangerously close to his neck and ear, warm breath fanning over pale skin. He bumps into another couple of their nakama before they finally reach Roger's cabin.

They stumble into the room and knee each other in their drunken haze, but they manage to undress and eventually find themselves together on the bed, looking at each other like animals in heat.

Rayleigh breaks the silence first, cheeks dusted with a light blush. "Will you both take me?"

Roger laughs loudly, earning a frown from Rayleigh.

Gaban doubles over, and he wears a smug grin when his laughter subsides. "Oh, yeah. We kinda had a bet on that."

Rayleigh glares at them, mock-offended. "Then what are you waiting for?" He cracks a smile then, and laughs with them.

Under Roger's guidance, Gaban steers the ship to the ends of the New World, to the island at the end of the Log Pose.

Rayleigh approaches Gaban when he remarks that the Log Pose needles are spinning aimlessly.

Roger grins, and exhales an excited hum.

Gaban cracks a smile of his own, and exchanges a knowing glance with Rayleigh before they both turn their attention to Roger.

"There must be another island. And we'll find it."

"We'll just have to follow, won't we?" Gaban exhales an exaggerated sigh.

"What a bummer", Rayleigh gently teases.

Roger laughs, shortly followed by his lovers and the rest of his crew.

Rayleigh's love for his partners is boundless. And he didn't know he could love even more.

And then they found a baby in a chest.

Rayleigh never really thought about being a father, then Roger didn't give anyone a choice, and now here they are.

Shanks giggles in the brand new cradle Gaban just finished.

Roger runs a hand across red hair, earning a happy squeak.

Rayleigh nudges his shoulder against Gaban's arm, then he nods towards their Captain, lover, husband, who somehow turned into an absolutely love-struck father. "He's such a softie."

Gaban adjusts his position against the railing and glances in Roger's direction, then he looks at Rayleigh from over his glasses. He deadpans, "Says who?"

Rayleigh gives him an unimpressed stare. "Don't make this a contest, you're no better."

"Says mama hen always careful that the baby eats properly."

"Who built that cradle?", Rayleigh counters before pointing at Roger, "And I'm not the one cooing either!"

Roger turns to them then, flashing them a bright smile. "Come, come", he eagerly says, motioning for them to approach.

Rayleigh exchanges a knowing look with Gaban and strides to the cradle around which they all gather.

Gaban's gaze softens when it falls on Shanks, comfortably installed and peacefully sleeping. He runs his hand across the blanket wrapped around the baby, absentmindedly checking if he's correctly tucked in.

Rayleigh exhales a quiet hum, and a soft smile grows on his face. He leans onto Roger, snuggling against his side, looking at the baby like it's the most precious thing in the world.

(Maybe it is.)

Roger suddenly laughs. "I'm with Gaban. If we're softies, you're sappy."

Rayleigh leans back and glares, slightly grimacing.

Gaban comes closer and leans onto him, effectively trapping Rayleigh between him and Roger as he starts laughing too.

Smothered between his lovers, Rayleigh has little other choice but to just endure his terrible predicament.

(Who is he even trying to lie to? Stuck between his lovers, a terrible predicament? He'll gladly spend his life here if he can.)

Eventually, Rayleigh draws the conclusion that they're assorted bastards, softies at heart with endless loyalty and love to each other.

It's stupid, but it's simple and it works, and most important: it's them.

And that makes him laugh too.

Gaban does his best to keep the ship steady under the raging storm.

Rayleigh, unfazed, studies the copy of the Poneglyph they got while they wandered on Linlin's turf. "This one was red. I bet it's more important than the others."

Roger dangerously smiles. "Great. That makes it even more interesting!" He glances behind and laughs his ass off when Linlin's ship capsizes a little further away. "Wahahahaha! Serves her well!"

Shanks and Buggy are inseparable, often bickering but never far from one another, even more often all over each other, whether during chores, training, exploring or keeping watch in the lookout.

Rayleigh wonders if there's more to their friendship that meets the eye, if there's something deeper. They're still kids to him, but they're teenagers already, so he wonders.

He wonders, until he finds the boys hidden in the pantry, their lips messily slotted together, Shanks' ears as red as his hair while Buggy's hands tightly grip his collar.

Rayleigh quietly retreats to the upper deck, and tells Gaban when he meet him on his way there.

Gaban exhales an awkward chuckle. "Oh, yeah, we must have given great examples."

Rayleigh half-heartedly glares.

Gaban shrugs. "What? They love each other, either way. Let them kiss, we'll give them the talk soon."

Rayleigh cringes a little.

Gaban raises a threatening finger. "Don't. No complaining or I'll ask Roger instead."

Rayleigh barks a laugh at that. "Yeah... No, thanks."

They meet with Tom in Water 7, following Nozdon's recommendation when they're looking to buy a bigger ship.

Tom agrees to build them a fancy new one so they can reach their dream destination.

Rayleigh laughs along with his lovers, when they learn of The Fish-Man's idea of building a sea train to travel between islands.

(The world is full of crazy people, but their friends are always the good kind of crazy.)

Rayleigh smiles when he watches over the gift exchange following their battle against the Whitebeard Pirates.

When Oden joins them, they throw yet another party where everyone eats and drinks and laughs to their heart content.

Then they embark for the last leg of their incredible journey, singing an old shanty about drinks and dreams and laughter.

On the final island, Roger laughs.

Gaban doubles over and falls over Rayleigh.

Rayleigh wraps an arm around Gaban's shoulder for support, and only laughs louder, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

It had to be absurd, it had to be magnificent, and it had to make them smile and laugh. It had to be just like Roger, and it's perfect.

(Rayleigh wishes their kids were here. He hopes they come back when they're older, as they promised.)

Roger names the island, and it rings truer than any name this forsaken island could have ever had.

It sounds like them, too, and that's something Rayleigh will treasure forever.

About a year later, Roger has the last laugh and sends the world in an uproar, completely fulfilling the promise he made to Rayleigh on the day they first met.

Rayleigh laughs again, even as his tears soak his smile.

(He knows that somewhere on the other side of the world, Gaban is doing just the same.)

He laughs to honor Roger's memory, crying for his loss but no less proud to have been by his side for such an important part of his incredible adventure. And he laughs, and he cries, and he drinks and laughs again. And when his tears have dried, he patiently waits for his time to shine again. He waits for the man Roger wishes he could have met and for the one yet to come, for the man from the young mermaid's prophecy.

He waits for the one who will bring laughter to the world again.

Copper, Silver and Gold: 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - [6] - 7

[40-years-of-robin-ii]

✨✨DAY THREE!✨✨  

Check out the amazing works and de sure to leave kudos and comments for our lovely, awesome participants! 🎁🎉

1. Discovered for a_posteriori [Fic - Gift, Explicit, Major Character Death]

Relationships:  Roy Harper/Jason Todd, Eddie Bloomberg/Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd/Rose Wilson, Roman Sionis/Jason Todd

Tags:   Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Civilian Jason Todd, Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Unrequited Lust, Trans Jason Todd, American Regency, Alternate Universe - Regency, Regency Romance, Hurt Jason Todd, Angst with a Happy Ending, Transphobia, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Roman Sionis Dies, Jason Todd Lives, Opium, Navajo Roy Harper

Summary:  Jason finds himself planted right in the middle of the country side at a boarding school at the end of the 1810's. With a plethora of people to meet and subjects in which to fall in love with, Jason faces a dilemma of identity.

2. We all need some loving for safelycapricious [Fic - Gift, Mature, Creator Chose Not To Warn, No Archive Warnings Apply]

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Jason Todd, Natasha Romanov (Marvel)/Jason Todd, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov

Tags:  Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason Todd Deserves Better, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Natasha Romanov (Marvel)Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Damian Wayne is Robin, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, sweats and hoodies are a super hero best friend, very comfy, Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent

Summary:   Jason and Gotham don't always mix, luckily he's got two people he can rely on after all is said and done.

3. In Virtue for itsmeyaboi_redacted1 [Fic - Gift, Mature, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death]

Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd

Tags:  Implied/Referenced Torture, Blood and Injury, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Good Sibling Dick Grayson

Summary:    ‘For a long moment Dick just stands there, gun pointed at what’s left of the Joker’s face, chest heaving, soot-blackened features twisted with fury.’For the prompt ‘Red Hood succeeds in killing the Joker, although he did not expect Nightwing to be such a team player.’

4. Today in Space Adventures for CaptainDeadShips [Fic - Gift, Mature, No Archive Warnings Apply]

Relationships: Roy Harper & Koriand’r & Jason Todd

Tags:  Minor Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent, Minor Roy Harper/Koriand'r/Jason Todd, Angst, Arguing, Friendship, Space Pirates, Outer Space, Mutant Trafficking, Missions Gone Wrong, Tim Drake is a Menace, Brothers, Collars, Restraints, Aliens, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Mentioned Lian Harper, Off-World

Summary: An Off World Investigation goes horribly wrong when Starfire crashes into a moon.

5. in the presence of absolute evil when you only have a juice box in your arsenal for the_grande_dame [Fic - Gift, Teen, No Archive Warnings Apply]

Relationships: Batfamily Members & Jason Todd

Tags: All-Blades (DCU), Humor, Chemical Soup - Freeform, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Stephanie Brown & Cassandra Cain are The Batgirls, juice boxes as weapons, Batfamily (DCU)

Summary: Soon-to-be-publicly-resurrected Jason Todd has a trick (glowing copper blades that are on fire and do his crime lord intimidation for him) up his sleeve. Also, isn't it a little too strong to call a wannabe Black Mask "absolute evil"?

[chevvy-yates]

Ooohhhh from the WIP game, can we get sth from or about "Corpo Gala" please? 👀

okayse.

I would like to include Arki here so since this hasn't been converted into a fic form yet for a better reading flow. You will have first a part by @nervouswizardcycle, then my answer.

Ry and V attend a Corpo Gala for a Job, they meet Arki per coincidence, he will assist them on the job.

—

When Vijay and Ryder returned, he had a small book, no bigger than his palm open,  red eyes on ginger again, free hand reached to hold his, guide closer, while he shared the page's content in a softer tone. "Consider my body a canvas, your tongue a brush. You know how I feel about  blank pages, open spaces.  Emptiness is there for you to fill it. You have a lot of catching up to do." Book closed and back into an inner pocket in one motion, red-haired finally gives his attention to Ryder, reaching for a handshake. "Ryder. A pleasure to finally meet face to face." You can get corporate out of a suit, but can't get the suit out of corporate. "My, my, suits barely hide both of you, so all over the place. Good that guests don't give a fuck. My name's Arki." And not a dete more. When introductions are done, he finally takes the cigarette out of his mouth, breathing out red smoke, holding his copper divine's waist with the gentleness of a lover, even if there is nobody around to play pair. Ryders' visible hostile position was not only ignored but even amusing. But, Arki was looking at him, every detail, mark, scar. Studied, and calculated, strengths, weaknesses, and capabilities. Red glow, looking into him like he is a poem book. And only intention in that gaze is to learn. He smiles usually softly, gesturing at the party in front. "I hope you took time to enjoy this gathering of hideous wannabe bigshots with pure shit they see for fashion. Observing this disgrace does lift the mood. Drinks are tolerable at least. Have you decided to brief me in, cutie? If so, now is a good time. I was about to leave after the fireworks, like anyone else with self-respect."

— Once the two arrive back Vijay immediately feels heat rising to his face as he hears the words that were obviously addressing him whereas Ryder just watches the scene in silence and is busy with holding his mood at bay. V is impressed by Arki’s spontaneous little declamation. “What a surprise! Turns out my fiancé is a poet.” He says with a true surprise in his voice doesn’t think twice and immediately falls back into his role as well, letting Arki lay a hand around his waist and starts gesturing between the both men to make a proper introduction. “Sorry for the interruption. Arki— this is Ryder. He’s part of my small merc team.”  Ryder,back in his arms crossed position, unable to stand entirely still, watches every single move of the redhead and isn’t delighted about the reach for Steyr’s waist. V’s already way too comfortable with this guy. What did you not tell me? Ryder doesn’t like it when someone he doesn’t know gets this close to his best friend. He can’t turn off his protectiveness about Vijay even if he wanted to. Then the redhead offers his hand to shake. Ryder decides not to accept. Sure it’s not quite the etiquette in this place to do, but since he knows now that this man is the same person Vijay talked to in the Afterlife, the same masked guy who saved them on the gig that went wrong Ryder is not keen to shake hands with him for a second time – now less than ever since he sensed a true Corpo in him. So all Arki receives is a derogative gaze from him, upper lip slightly twitching like a watchdog is about to bear its ivories. Scharfenberg feels the red gaze on him, knows the guy tries to read him too. He doesn’t know if the man has a scanner or not but he sure won’t find any info about Ryder this way, thanks to V’s exquisite deletion of all data connected to Ry’ past. Arki will only see the data for Richard von Reineck for as long as they are here.Arkis' question about the gala however lets Ryder find his voice again. “I would rather be at another party right now than having to endure this poor sense of fashion walking around. All I see is hideous snakes, loan sharks and wannabes corporats. If this info on our target wasn’t of such an importance and V didn’t beg me to come with I’d have not set a foot in here. This dinky joint of a bar there doesn’t even serve any beer!” Ryder ends with a huge disappointment in his tone.

About the fiancé thing: V needed to escape an escort doll not to blow his cover as he's too much of a streetkiddo for talking like a corpo. He sees Arki attends the gala as well and quickly decides to play being a pair with him as he cannot see Ryder near (who will join a few min later). So, they are not engaged at all (neither together but something is already between them) and this is just part of the job now but they enjoy it.